I’m hardly a student of prison design, but even my relatively limited knowledge is enough to be aware that Avernus is anything but a conventional carceral facility. It faces the same challenges as other holding facilities that primarily deal with metahumans, in that each prisoner has to be contained in a way that prevents the use of their unique abilities. However, given the Council’s considerable resources and the breadth of talent to be found among its members, constructing specific cells for individual prisoners isn’t much of an issue. Nor is every person in residence at the facility being held against their will. Many of them are here by choice, because their abilities pose a danger to the rest of the world, and only we have the necessary resources to keep them contained and relatively comfortable.
Moreover, the facility itself is not easily located- in fact, it should be virtually impossible to find if you aren’t already aware of its existence. Even the prisoners themselves should have no way of knowing where the prison actually is. That raises some questions about how the individuals currently assailing Avernus found out, but I have my suspicions as to that. Most likely, the Vitruvian was able to send out some sort of homing beacon that bypassed our security measures. Perhaps he was even able to send a message to his would-be rescuers, which would explain how they possess knowledge of our membership and operations.
Answers to those questions will have to wait, however. For the moment, preventing a prison break is our primary concern. The incursion took place directly above the hall outside the Vitruvian’s cell, which is an impressive feat on its own, as there are several feet of solid rock between the facility and the surface. As soon as the facility was breached, the security team would have been deployed- namely, a number of combat-enhancile bodies controlled by Network. That would have been when the memetic attack took place. In the intervening time before the rest of the Council arrived, it seems the Vitruvian’s savior managed to batter down the reinforced door outside the scientist-hero’s cell. Before they could abscond, however, Evrimci and Adamant arrived.
The sound alone is enough to tell me that the confrontation is ongoing. Automatic gunfire suggests the security system is attempting to serve its function as well. When Zero and I round the corner, however, we get our first sight of the enemy.
If the Vitruvian is the sun, Atlas is the moon. Each represents what the other does not. The Vitruvian stood as a beacon of progress and human potential. Idealism given flesh. His gift was to create. In contrast, the main talent that Atlas possesses is destruction. He represents cynicism, the crushing burden of responsibility- as the name suggests, the weight of the world on his shoulders. Where the Vitruvian wears golden armor, Atlas once wore silver- now gunmetal grey. He’s a living archetype, even down to his abilities. Superior strength and durability, impressive speed, and a total disregard for the theory of gravity.
Adamant is, in a sense, part of that archetype. But while she lacks the gift of flight, she may well exceed Atlas when it comes to imperviousness. The two of them are trading blows, and each one must register somewhere on the Richter scale. Atlas may be more maneuverable in theory, but there isn’t much room for him to fly in this hallway, so he’s forced to swoop in for an attack and retreat. As I watch, Haley propels herself forward like a bullet and connects a fist with his face, sending him tumbling through the air. Capitalizing on the opportunity, Ishtar strikes at him with her seizure sword, and he writhes in agony, but recovers with frightening speed and backhands her into a wall. If she didn’t possess a greater degree of natural durability than the average human, I suspect she’d have broken her back.
The others are engaging the Vitruvian, or at least attempting to do so. Tahir looks to be trapped in some sort of amber-like substance, affixing him to the wall. His arms are free, however, and he’s adapted blades that are chipping off large chunks of whatever it is that’s containing him. Hawkshaw, on the other hand, is firing at the Vitruvian himself, who’s erected a force-bubble around himself. It’s doing an adequate job of stopping the bullets from the prison’s sentry guns, but I’d expect Kellan’s ammunition to be a different story, considering he carries Koppel bullets with him at all times.
One hypothesis is that Kellan is holding back, because he doesn’t want to have a hero’s death on his conscience. The other is potentially more concerning. What makes me suspect that an alternate scenario is in play is that the bullets aren’t simply bouncing off of the Vitruvian’s shield, they’re being caught in it. That suggests that it may be affixing incoming projectiles in space- relative to the motion of the Earth, of course. Though I’m unaware of any other instances actually taking place, it’s one of the few defensive options that could theoretically protect one against a Koppel bullet.
There’s very little either Zero or I could do to help Adamant defeat Atlas, so we focus our attention on the Vitruvian instead. He seems unconcerned with the battle itself, instead tinkering with some kind of device inside of his bubble.
“None of this is necessary. We aren’t the enemy!”
It’s really the sound of the battle that forces me to shout, though I am beginning to feel rather agitated. Even if Network woke up within the next five minutes, his brief unconsciousness would still take years to deal with.
“I’m afraid I have to disagree. You’re the ones who locked me away, remember?”
Kellan is the one to reply, taking a break from shooting.
“You forced our hand! We could have worked together!”
Looking unimpressed, the Vitruvian glances up at him.
“‘They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin.’”
Rather than answer, Kellan snarls and fires three more rounds. They lock in place just like all the others, but I can imagine where they would have gone. Two to the center of mass, and one right between the eyes.
Zero whispers in my ear.
“I think I can disrupt that shield. Just keep him talking.”
I respond by shouting over the din once again.
“Whatever our differences, this can’t be the best way to resolve them! You’re endangering the entire world!”
Without pausing his work; the Vitruvian fires back a response.
“No, I’m saving the world. From you.”
Somehow, his voice carries just fine, despite remaining perfectly level.
“Come now,” I reply, trying to project my voice without shouting. “Doesn’t that sound like something my father would say?”
That gives him pause. He looks up at me, something close to regret showing on his face.
“Conrad, I—”
There’s a pulse of light from a device in Zero’s hands, and then his shield winks out, all the bullets it caught dropping to the ground in an instant. Then a number of things happen.
First, the auto-sentries continue to fire. The bullets bounce off of his armor harmlessly, somehow failing to strike his head even once. Perhaps some sort of attraction field- but I don’t have time to speculate any further than that. I pull my plasma shotgun from the armory, but before there’s a chance to fire, Tahir tears himself free of the pseudo-amber and launches himself at the Vitruvian ferociously. His claws seem to do at least some superficial damage to the armor; and the auto-sentries cease firing the second they detect a friendly in close proximity to their target. Kellan keeps his gun trained on the Vitruvian as well, but doesn’t hold his fire entirely. Instead, he chooses his moment carefully, and puts a bullet through the Vitruvian’s thigh. Hawkshaw’s aim is impeccable, naturally- his skills only get better with practice, and he’s had a lot of practice with this one in particular.
If the Vitruvian felt any pain from that, he gives no indication. Instead, he blasts Tahir away with a beam of golden light, and shouts for his ally.
“Atlas! Now!”
A second later, Adamant slams into Kellan like a bowling ball. As she’s picking herself up, the Vitruvian fires a device from one of his gauntlets, which affixes itself to her. Then he fires several more in rapid succession, before any of us have a chance to react. Each one targets a different Council member. I reach for mine, intent on removing it, but the moment before I can, the world around me disappears.
----------------------------------------
A moment later, I’m somewhere else. The device fizzles and falls to the ground, spent. Only after the fact do I put together what it was- a one-time translocator beacon. The same kind we used to transport the Vitruvian to Avernus. He must have copied the design and used his suit to make more.
Looking around, I find myself in what looks like an empty courtyard. There are a number of apartment buildings, a single street that seems to lead to a busy road, and an aging tree casting shade over me. On the other side of the tree is Kellan, who seems to be just as disoriented by the sudden change in setting as I am.
“Hawkshaw!”
He turns, weapon already in hand, but lowers it when he realizes it’s me. A moment later, he raises it again, and I heft the plasma shotgun in kind.
“Keyring.”
“Uranium.”
“Swan.”
“Atlatl.”
He keeps the gun trained on me for another few seconds, then holsters it. Neither of us quite breathe a sigh of relief, but the tension in the air dissipates.
“Atlatl? Really?”
“It’s what came to mind.”
Kellan chuckles darkly and looks around again.
“Looks like their plan is to divide and conquer.”
Before answering, I activate my implant and try to access the translocation network. As expected, it’s down- must be jammers nearby.
“Or maybe just scatter us. We can’t jump out of here, and I’d wager comms are down as well.”
There’s a pause, as Kellan confirms my theory.
“Yep. But if that was the goal, why put the two of us together?”
Neither of us get a chance to put a theory forth. Instead, a brick wall emerges from the ground with a rumble, dividing the two of us in an instant. I’m still for a moment, shotgun trained on the wall, half expecting an imminent attack. When none comes, I approach cautiously, first tapping the wall to make certain it’s real, then hitting it harder. It certainly feels solid enough, but when I retrieve the Superdensity Slugger and take a swing, it rebounds off the wall without doing any visible damage whatsoever. The wall is high enough that I can’t tell how thick it is, much less scale it, but the notion that a solid hit like that wouldn’t even leave a scratch is absurd.
Clearly, the wall isn’t everything that it appears to be. That leaves me with a few options. I could try to bring it down with some other form of weaponry, but if it’s totally impervious, that would be a waste of resources. On the other hand, if the wall isn’t really there, but rather some sort of semisolid illusion, firing blindly at it would risk hitting Kellan on the other side. Either way, getting back to him doesn’t look like it’s on the table at the moment.
“Hawkshaw! If you can hear me, we meet at Rally Point Aleph!”
I somehow doubt he can hear me, but it’s worth making an attempt regardless. Turning away from the wall, I run a brief diagnostic on my implant and other systems. Access to the armory is unimpeded, but that isn’t particularly useful- I can’t create a portal there large enough to fit inside, nor do I have any helicopters stashed away inside. Checking the others’ vitals indicates that they’re all still alive, though it’s possible that function has been subverted somehow as well. No translocation, no comms, and no GPS, meaning I have no idea where I am. At a guess, London, but it’s entirely possible everything around me is illusory. In fact, before I do anything else, I ought to investigate that possibility.
Approaching one of the apartment buildings, I try the door and find it locked. Attempting to batter it down with the bat yields the same results as before, and a burst of plasma from my shotgun evaporates on contact. More evidence towards my hypothesis, I suppose. Stepping away, I run a quick environment test. The temperature is slightly lower, and the wind speed slightly higher, than what I’d expect of London at this time of year, but that doesn’t prove anything one way or another.
With all of that done, my list of available options has narrowed down to two. First, I can refuse to play the game, and sit here until someone comes to kill me. Second, I can take the path out of the courtyard, and follow whatever course has been set out for me. It’s not exactly ideal, but between taking action and waiting to die, I’ll always choose the former. Stowing my weapons for now, I head down the small street that exits the cul de sac. The tall buildings on either side cast it in shadow, but it’s a sunny day, or at least appears to be. If the circumstances were different, this might be a pleasant place to take a stroll.
It takes a little while before I realize something is wrong. I’m still walking, but the end of the street doesn’t appear to be getting any closer. Turning back, I try to head into the courtyard, but find the same effect in place. It’s as if there’s a treadmill beneath me, except for the fact that when I stand still, the ground beneath me doesn’t move. When I turn back again, in the direction I was initially facing, I find a different horizon. Instead of an empty metropolitan street, it’s a bustling interstate highway, with an eighteen-wheeler hurtling past every few seconds, in each of the six lanes. This time, I’m allowed to get closer, right up until the edge of the road.
Looking left and right, I find that this road stretches off into the horizon, seemingly infinitely. The message is fairly clear- no way forward but to cross. A few brief moments of observation reveals that there’s a clear gap in the traffic, occurring at around the same time every minute or so. The cars themselves are moving in a pattern- watch long enough, and it becomes clear that they’re repeating. Not an especially high-fidelity illusion, all things considered. But I have a feeling that getting run over by one of those cars would result in some very real injuries. And even if not, I’m not foolish enough to take that risk.
Of course, trusting my unknown captor would be foolish. Trying to race across, through the passage provided, would be courting death. Either a truck would strike me out of nowhere, or there’d be a hidden pitfall beneath the road, or some other horrid trap would claim my life. Instead, I activate my Bounce Boots. Backpedaling a few paces, I take a deep breath in, exhale, and then run. Before charging into the road, I leap into the air, boosters in my soles propelling me high into the sky. I sail above the traffic swiftly, and land as lightly as a feather. I’d been half expecting to run into an invisible wall of some sort, but no such impediments presented themselves. When I turn around, I find the traffic gone, the road empty, and the cacophony of horns and tires suddenly silent. Perhaps a way of indicating I successfully completed the first trial, or simply a conservation of resources. In any case, I have no intention of backtracking.
Before me is a path girded by wooden fences, on the other side of which are fields of wheat. Were I to deviate from the path, I suspect running into an invisible barrier would be the best possible outcome. For all I know, there are pits full of spikes on either side of me. Though if the goal was merely to kill me, I suspect they’d have dropped me into one such pit already. Gauging the enemies’ motives is proving difficult. Clearly, they’re unafraid of bloodshed, as the death of Ulysses proves. But that doesn’t fit with the Vitruvian’s methods or ethos at all. Atlas, on the other hand, would have little issue with it. That leaves one question- which of the two is behind this? Atlas doesn’t seem the type to go for something so complex, but how could the Vitruvian have set all this up from his cell? It suggests unknown collaborators, which is even more of a concern. Known quantities, I can deal with. Total mysteries are more difficult.
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After fifteen minutes or so, the trail begins to trend downwards. Rounding a bend, I see a set of stairs that looks to be leading into an underground tunnel, or perhaps a mine shaft. No other options available, I head down. The tunnel is lit by yellowed bulbs, spaced out just enough to leave patches of deep shadow. I keep a hand on my holster, just in case. Invisible attackers seem unlikely, however complex this illusion is. My mask can detect thermal signatures, and I suspect suppressing those would be outside the scope of the illusionist, whoever they are. Regrettably, I’m not equipped with sonar, which might allow me to get a good idea of what the world ‘underneath’ this artifice looks like.
While I’m contemplating that, there’s a far-off rumble. Dust and stone drops from the tunnel’s ceiling, and I pick up the pace. A wise decision, as it turns out- because the cave behind me begins to collapse. Even while I start running, I can’t help but wonder if it’s real or not. Perhaps I look like a fool, fleeing a fiction. But I’d rather look ridiculous than risk even an outside chance of being crushed to death by several tons of dirt and rock.
Mercifully, the end of the tunnel appears not much later. But as I make a break for it, it begins to recede, just as before. A quick glance behind me indicates that the collapse of the tunnel, on the other hand, isn’t slowing down in the slightest. Dust billows around my feet, and I keep running, seemingly in vain, before the exit finally starts getting closer again. A second after I hurl myself out of the tunnel, it seals itself off. I pull my mask off and wipe the sweat from my brow, silently cursing whoever is behind this.
Rather than emerging back into open air, I find myself inside of what looks like a child’s nursery. Checking back on the tunnel, I instead find what looks to be a trap door, which doesn’t budge when I try to open it. The entire situation is starting to make me feel like Lemuel Gulliver, though everything has been sized proportional to my body so far. Maybe Alice in Wonderland would be a better comparison, if somewhat trite.
I don’t have long to investigate my surroundings- gaudy floral wallpaper and cheap child-sized plastic furniture -before something starts ticking. Whatever it is, it seems to be inside of the cradle, and I don’t stay long enough to find out more. Instead, I rush out the door, finding myself inside of a moderately-sized suburban home. Rather than take the stairs, I vault over the railing and land in the foyer, right as a dull boom sounds off above me. In the next room, an archetypical 1950s nuclear family sits around a dining table, eating like automatons. None of them stir in the slightest at my presence, nor does the explosion seem to bother them. Most likely more illusions, meant to unnerve me or some such. I ignore them, and kick open the front door.
Outside is a black void, empty of even stars. The windows still show an idyllic suburban neighborhood, but that doesn’t appear to align with reality. Less of an actual hazard, I suspect, and more of an indication that I should seek another path. The house seems to be the same when I turn around, but as the door slams shut of its own volition, the nuclear family sets down their utensils and stands up simultaneously. Their heads snap around to face me, in a manner I suppose would be frightening for a small child, and they approach in a lockstep gait.
Even if Atlas is more willing to get his hands dirty than the Vitruvian, I can’t see him trying to trick me into killing an innocent person. Still, using unrestrained lethal force against these things seems unwise. Instead, I draw my stun-sword out from the armory, and level it at them.
“En garde.”
In response to my challenge, the nuclear family breaks ranks, spreading out to surround me in a semicircle. Their posture becomes less mechanical, though not quite the stance of an expert fighter. Then they attack.
‘Dad’ strikes first, a meaty fist nearly connecting with my face. I dance out of the way, and flick the blade across his thigh. The stun-sword is sharp enough to be perfectly lethal, but even a shallow gash like that is enough to take down an opponent, as a powerful electric current runs through the blade.
Whatever these things really are, they’re organic enough to bleed, or at least appear to be. Dad stumbles and falls to the ground, convulsing violently. Next come Sis and Bro, attacking in unison. I kick the male one back, and it smacks against the wall, swiftly picking itself back up. The female delivers a surprisingly strong gut-punch, but doesn’t get a chance to go any further before I deliver a slice across the arm. Before Sis can collapse completely, however, Bro uses it as a springboard, vaulting up in an attempt to tackle me to the ground. Instead, it finds itself impaled on my blade- through the shoulder, which would undoubtedly be painful, but not necessarily lethal. The current renders it unconscious, and I dump it unceremoniously on top of its sibling. Their behavior makes me suspect they’re combat bots of some sort, but I’m still not about to start cutting throats on a mere suspicion.
In a shocking display of bad parenting, Mom throws Baby at me like a grenade. I catch it by the throat, and it immediately starts attempting to gnaw at my fingers. The damned thing is too small to risk cutting, even if there’s almost no chance it’s a real baby. I’d still rather not have to see a convincing illusion of a dead infant today, or indeed any other day. Grimacing, I make the smallest cut possible on the underside of its foot, and then let it drop to the ground. Being electrocuted and then dropped on its head wouldn’t do wonders for a real child, but I suppose it’s preferable to being run through.
Before I can ruminate any further on how my life came to this point, Mom makes its move. It launches a flying kick, with the intent of driving a high heel straight into my throat. Shifting out of the way at the last second, I let it careen into the wall. Instead, it kicks off, sending a family portrait tumbling to the ground, and manages to wrap its shapely legs around my neck. Under different circumstances, this might not be especially distressing, but I force myself to banish any such distracting thoughts. The angle makes it awkward, but I manage to drag the stun-sword’s edge along its back, and a moment later Mom drops to the ground.
Surveying the unconscious family, I notice that while blood from their superficial wounds seems to be staining the carpet, there isn’t a drop on my blade. Another hint towards the nature of the illusion. Perhaps directly manipulating a real person or their paraphernalia isn’t possible, only their surroundings? I return the stun-sword to the armory, and continue into the sitting room of the house. There’s a glass sliding door leading outside. A freshly-mowed back lawn is visible through the glass, but when I open the door itself, it reveals a blasted, war-torn hellscape instead. Not especially inviting, but less of an obvious dead end than the void beyond the front door. I step through, and the acrid stench of blood and death fills my lungs. It’s vivid enough to make me suspect this is real, but if such a place currently exists on Earth, I have no knowledge of it.
The battlefield is lit by a blood-red sun, without a hint of life anywhere. The few remaining trees are scorched and dead. Massive craters dot the landscape, many of which seem to be filled with corpses in various states of decay. And straight down the middle is a trail of fresh blood. My path through the nightmare, I suppose.
As I begin following the trail, the thought occurs that if these illusions include false sensory inputs like smell, it would be easy to deploy an airborne toxin that would kill me before I realized it was even there, by masking any distinctive scent with a stronger false one. Fortunately, my mask filters out any such substances, but someone less prepared would be in serious trouble. But then again, if simply killing me was the intention, there would have been easier ways to do it. Instead, I’ve been corralled in a very specific direction. There could be an invisible prison cell at the end of this road for all I know. That would hardly be an ideal outcome, but it’s better than death.
No sooner have I finished that thought, however, does something happen to make me reconsider my conclusions. Specifically, the mound of corpses in the nearest crater begins to stir. There must be hundreds of bodies within, and most remain motionless, but a sizeable contingent claws their way out of the heap of rotting flesh and bone, before making their way up the crater’s edge towards me. Naturally, I don’t hang around to investigate whether they’re friendly, instead hurrying along the path at a reasonable clip. In keeping with tradition, my undead pursuers don’t seem to be capable of reaching speeds above a shamble. However, the ones behind me aren’t the only concern. Another horde is dead ahead, and closing in quicker than I’d like.
Accessing the armory isn’t necessary this time. I’ve got the perfect tool for the situation sitting in my utility belt. It’s a small silver orb with a single button- the detonator. I thumb it, and hurl the device into the oncoming crowd. It lands amidst them, and sends out a pulse. A moment later, the entire crowd is pulled towards the orb, as its gravitational pull, ordinarily miniscule, is amplified a hundredfold. Then another pulse, and the horde is scattered in every direction, as the pull is inverted into a push. One of the corpses very nearly hits me, and skids against the ground behind me, scraping off the remainder of its charred flesh. Without slowing down, I scoop up the gravity grenade and stick it back in my belt, where it’ll slowly recharge for another use in about an hour or so. The components necessary to build them don’t exactly grow on trees.
“I sincerely hope those weren’t real people,” I mutter aloud. Talking to myself isn’t something I make a habit of, but in this case I have a feeling the individual behind the illusion can probably hear me. It would be hard to create something this vast without being aware of everything within your domain. Either that, or I’ve been walking in place this entire time without realizing it, and haven’t moved an inch since I arrived.
Someone, somewhere, laughs. The sound echoes all around me, with no obvious origin.
“Killing innocents for the greater good? That would be your job, Mister Winters.”
Despite parroting his rhetoric, it’s not the Vitruvian’s voice. Instead, it sounds like a woman- though I suppose given the circumstances, I have no way of knowing if they really are or not. No matter who they are, I have no interest in debating them right now.
“Go to hell.”
Another laugh, this time colder.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Conrad, you’re already there. And that would make me the devil.”
As she finishes speaking, some of the grey fog on the horizon clears, revealing a massive mountain of corpses, piled higher than a skyscraper. Rather than horrify me, however, it mostly serves to break my immersion. The bodies piled amongst craters are one thing, but for such a structure to exist, someone would have had to pile them all up like that deliberately. However, I don’t get a chance to offer them any criticism, because the mountain bursts apart a moment later, revealing a massive behemoth of flesh. It looks as if it’s made from raw meat, with a swarm of maggots circling it that’s so vast I can see them even from nearly a mile away. The creature has no discernible facial features, but clearly knows precisely where I am, and begins lumbering towards me- first at the same speed as the smaller revenants, but then faster and faster. I’m still not certain how real any of this is, but if my fight with the nuclear family was any indication, they’re more than capable of hurting me if I give them half a chance.
To make matters worse, the horde behind me is still in pursuit. I don’t slow down, even though it means getting closer to the giant. Once I’ve put a little more distance between me and them, I stop, turn, and pull the Monsoon from my armory. Changing the settings to wide-bore, I charge it, and unleash a blade of air that scythes through the crowd. They don’t get back up, which means I can devote my full attention to the behemoth.
By now it’s gotten close enough that I can feel the earth rumble with each of its footfalls. The Monsoon isn’t going to do more than scratch it, so I return it to the armory and begin backpedaling, wracking my brain for a weapon that might fell this beast before it crushes me like an insect. Ideally, I’d just paint it with a targeting laser and wait for an airstrike, but that’s not really on the table at the moment, considering I don’t know where I truly am. Eventually, I decide to go with the obvious option, and retrieve a high-powered grenade launcher. The smart-sights take a moment to adjust for the distance, then I squeeze the trigger and launch an incendiary. It sails through the air and strikes my foe dead center, erupting into searing flame. But before the fire can spread far, the creature digs its fingers into its own chest and tears away the flesh, casting it aside. Then, to my horror, the wound begins to regenerate with frightening speed.
Clearly, this thing won’t go down as easily as the other enemies I’ve faced. I replace the grenade launcher and start running in the other direction, only to be greeted with a canyon that I’m completely certain wasn’t there before. A veritable river of corpses awaits in the ravine, and I have no doubt that if I fall in, I’ll become another drop in the bucket. The message is clear. Here, I’ll be making my stand, whether I like it or not.
Looking at the horrid, desiccated flesh, however, gives me an idea. I take another weapon, this one much smaller, and deceptively less dangerous-looking. It’s a dart gun, of sorts. But it doesn’t carry an ordinary payload. The range isn’t incredible, so I approach the giant, quelling my nerves, before I fire. It doesn’t seem to notice at all, until the bacteria begins to spread. It’s my own design, albeit inspired by some of Andrew Donovan’s notes. A flesh-eating strain designed to be almost instantly lethal to any organic life. It’s also got a very short lifespan, dying within mere minutes of exposure to oxygen, which prevents it from potentially exterminating all life on Earth. That’s long enough to deal with most things, however, and the behemoth seems to be no exception. It claws and scratches at the infected area, but only succeeds at transferring the bacteria to its limbs, which begin to be eaten away at as well.
In response to its imminent demise, the monstrosity picks up the pace, clearly intent on taking me with it. Having nowhere else to go, I run closer, and begin charging my Bounce Boots. Just as it raises a foot to stomp on me, I leap into the air, and sail beneath its legs, grateful beyond all words that it lacks any genitalia whatsoever. Before landing, I turn and fire two more darts into its back for good measure. With that additional coup de grace, the behemoth begins to collapse, the structural integrity of its legs compromised. Once I’m back on the ground, I turn and watch it struggle dispassionately, never relaxing my guard until every last scrap of its flesh has been consumed. After that, I wait until the bacteria itself dies off. My own skin isn’t at risk, as my uniform protects me, but it never hurts to be cautious.
Felling the beast, however, reveals something unexpected. There seems to have been someone inside the whole time. A black-clad figure I recognize instantly. Hawkshaw. It’s the precise situation I tried to avoid- an ally disguised as an enemy. Luckily, he appears unharmed by the bacteria. I rush over, but he remains collapsed on the ground, looking up at me and extending an arm weakly.
“Conrad...”
I don’t hesitate, drawing my plasma shotgun and pointing it straight at his chest. There’s a lot his armor will protect against, but a burst of superheated plasma will burn straight through.
“Keyring.”
“Fluorine,” he wheezes.
“Raccoon.”
“A-antelope.”
As he gasps out the last syllable, I fire the shotgun, doing my best to ignore the scream.
“For the record,” I intone, doing my best to sound utterly unbothered by the sight of my close friend’s corpse, “an atlatl is a weapon, not an animal. You were probably thinking of an axolotl, which is completely different. Besides, we never use the same keyring more than once. Especially not when someone might be listening in.”
Once more my captor’s voice echoes all around me, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
“Thanks for the lesson, Mister Winters. Now it’s time for one of my own.”
Her next words come from Kellan’s mouth, in Kellan’s voice.
“You’re in my world now. And I make the rules.”
The wound in his chest doesn’t heal, per se. Rather, it inverts, the liquefied armor and charred flesh flowing backwards as if time itself is reversing, until Hawkshaw is whole once more. He stands up, all traces of false weakness discarded, and assumes a combat stance.
“Please,” I scoff. “I’ve fought the genuine article before. Do you really think your pale imitation is going to impress me?”
“Maybe not,” the Kellan clone replies. “But I can cheat.”
As I’m still processing that, he strikes with impossible speed, smacking the shotgun out of my hands in an instant.
“I’m going to enjoy watching your friend take you apart.”
My options here are limited. On one hand, she’s probably not aware of every defensive option in Hawkshaw’s armor. On the other hand, considering she controls the illusion, it may well be possible for her to simply ignore attacks outright. Or, if that’s not possible, simply seal the false Hawkshaw’s ears when I try to employ a sonic attack. That means I’m stuck with cruder, more physical methods- and ones that don’t leave any time for the construct to regenerate. All while dealing with the fact that it seems unbound by the same restrictions I labor under, as far as physics go.
As if to underscore the point, the construct strikes me again, three times in quick succession. Each punch connects before I can even blink, and each one feels like getting hit by a truck. Thrown backwards, I don’t bother getting to my feet, instead reaching for my chemical sprayer and firing a stream of acid powerful enough to eat right through Kellan’s armor. He throws up his hard-light shield just in time, and the corrosive substance sloughs right off, splashing to the ground and beginning to burn its way through the dirt.
Kellan’s copy surges forward, and plants a boot on my chest. I do my best to dislodge it, but to no avail- it doesn’t budge in the slightest. But rather than strike me down, the construct remains motionless. Instead, the ground begins to rumble, and behind him, a structure begins to emerge. After a moment, its function becomes clear- it’s a throne. And there’s already a figure sitting atop it. A woman with scarlet hair, tied back in a ponytail, wearing a faded denim jacket. Her legs are crossed, and she rests her head on one fist, propped against the armrest of the throne. Behind her is another Hawkshaw, maybe even the real one, held captive by sturdy tendrils of flesh that suspend him in the air. His head is slumped, body limp, and with his armor still on, it’s impossible to tell if he’s still breathing.
“Have I caught you at a bad time, Mister Winters?”
Her voice is the same as before, though the echo is gone now. Seeing me trapped beneath Hawkshaw’s boot clearly amuses her.
“No,” I reply, voice slightly strained by the pressure currently being put upon my lungs. “But you do seem to have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I have no idea who you are.”
As I speak, I’m reaching down to the holster at my hip. Her eyes flicker over, making clear she’s noticed, but she makes no effort to stop me.
“You can call me Reign,” she replies imperiously. “I’m an associate of Atlas.”
“And he sent you here to kill me?”
“No,” she laughs. “Just to keep you busy while he dismantles your little operation. After that, I imagine there’ll be a tribunal of some sort.”
“How optimistic,” I reply. “But you haven’t got me beat quite yet.”
“How’s that? You’re completely at my mercy, Mister Winters.”
“Actually, you’re at mine.”
As I speak, I draw my sidearm and train it on her head, the laser sight holding steady between her eyes.
“Please. You think I’d expose myself like that? This is an apparition, Winters. Nothing more.”
To emphasize the point, she makes the construct of herself vanish and reappear five feet to the left, now looking more bored than amused.
“Of course. That’s why I’m using heat-seeking bullets. My suit masks my thermal signature, as does Hawkshaw’s. Which means the only target around is you.”
Reign raises an eyebrow.
“And how do you know I’m not a hundred miles away?”
“Simple. I figured out how your powers work.”
Even through an illusion, the expression of which she can presumably control, her surprise is evident.
“Is that so?”
“It is. Earlier, I observed that your constructs followed a pattern, like the traffic or the tunnel collapse. All you could do was push over the first domino, and let the rest fall as they may. But as I progressed further, you demonstrated greater fine control over your illusions. That suggests their complexity increases with proximity to your physical form- culminating in this charming fellow here.”
I gesture to the false Hawkshaw, still preventing me from further movement. Reign is silent for a moment. Then she begins to laugh.
“Atlas warned me you’d be clever. Yes, you’re right. My control weakens the further away from me that you are. But for everybody within a few feet of me, I’m god. And you can’t beat a god quite so easily.”
Just as I begin to squeeze the trigger, the ground beneath me goes from solid to liquid. I sink in swiftly, and it returns to a solid state just as fast, with everything but my head trapped beneath. There’s no indication that I managed to get a shot off. The false Hawkshaw disappears, and Reign’s avatar descends from her throne, looking down on me with a cruel smile.
“Now, please don’t try anything else. If you do, I’ll start carving up your friend as punishment.”
To emphasize the point, she lowers the real Kellan’s form closer to me. Of course, it could very well be an illusion too, but it’s quite possible she does have his real body, here or elsewhere. And I don’t doubt she’d follow through with that threat. Particularly if she’s the one who killed Ulysses. A power like hers might well be strong enough to have beaten him, if she managed to get close enough without him realizing. Hell, maybe the entire power plant was under one of her illusions the whole time we were there.
Behind Reign, I see Kellan make a subtle gesture with his hand. It could easily be mistaken for a muscle spasm, but I recognize it. He’s signaling for me to stall. Unless she’s also telepathic, I don’t think Reign would know what the gesture means, which tells me that’s really Hawkshaw. More importantly, it tells me he has a plan. That’s good, because as of right now, I’m fresh out.
“Very well. I surrender.” Before she can gloat or interrupt, I continue speaking, doing my best to keep any hint of desperation or hope out of my voice. “But I need to know who I’m surrendering to. How can I have never heard of a metahuman so powerful?”
“That’s privileged information,” Reign replies flatly.
“Who am I going to tell?” She doesn’t respond. “Fine. I’ll figure it out myself. I may not possess Hawkshaw’s deductive skills, but I’ve picked up a few things from watching me work. Let’s see here...”
Looking unimpressed, Reign returns to her throne and makes a detailed study of her own nails, as if pointedly ignoring me in my helpless state.
“You claim to be associated with Atlas, but don’t fit the profile of any known allies. Your abilities bear some semblance to those of Neutrino... perhaps a child? Fathered while he was institutionalized? The timeline doesn’t match up with your age, but you could be much younger than you appear... or much older, for that matter.”
Neutrino, one of the original members of the Vanguard, possessed a potent ability- molecular manipulation. He could turn any substance into any other substance, organics excluded. What held him back from being the strongest member of the team was his own insecurity and psychological troubles, which landed him in a mental hospital not long after the team disbanded. They pumped him full of power-suppressant drugs, but it’s not inconceivable that he could have had a child, whether he knew about it or not. Such abuses are far from uncommon, and were doubtlessly even more so in the eighties. I can easily imagine some nurse taking advantage of an addled former hero under those circumstances. If such an implication bothers Reign, she doesn’t let it show.
“Bzzt. Wrong. Keep trying, though.”
“In that case... perhaps you made his acquaintance while he was doing classified government work after the Vanguard disbanded.”
On one hand, it seems likely we’d have known about her existence if she was ever affiliated with the government, considering the Council controls virtually every major branch, particularly those concerned with national defense and metahuman affairs. But this would have been a decade or more before the Council was formed, and it’s not absurd to suggest certain files were destroyed or hidden away. Especially if they involved a hero like Atlas doing the government’s dirty work.
“Am I on the right track?”
Reign opens her mouth to answer, but before she can do so, she disappears. As does the throne, and the tendrils holding Hawkshaw aloft. I find myself standing on solid ground, no longer trapped beneath it. For obvious reasons, I don’t drop my guard for a moment, even as the battlefield itself disappears, replaced with what looks like an empty airplane hangar. It’s certainly large enough to have housed the entire illusion, especially if Reign had me walking in circles without realizing. But it’s also very possible this is another illusion, perhaps meant to trick me into divulging certain information.
I don’t get a chance to investigate, as there’s an ear-piercing sound of rending metal behind me. I whirl around, sidearm still in hand, and find a shipping container being torn open by the blade of a katana, the edge burning red-hot. When a sufficiently large opening has been created, a figure steps through, holding Reign’s limp form by the neck. It appears to be a samurai, easily eight feet tall, with glowing red eyes and clear mechanical components under its traditional armor. It sheathes the blade and bows, not to me, but to Kellan.
Already back on his feet, Hawkshaw inclines his head to the samurai-bot, and then turns to me, clearly aware of what I’m about to ask.
“Keyring. Now.”
“Clarinet.”
“Inanna.”
“Apple.”
We both relax fractionally, but don’t drop our guard completely. Just because the two of us are real, doesn’t mean this whole thing is. Personally, I’m still rather wary of our mysterious savior, but Hawkshaw doesn’t seem to share the sentiment.
“Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”
“Of course. Conrad, this is the Demon Armor. Demon Armor, this is Conrad.” He pauses for a moment, and I can picture the smug grin under his mask. ”What, you didn’t think you were the only one allowed to make contingency plans, did you?”