Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Siberian stood in front of the PRT headquarters, staring absently at the golden letters emblazoned high on the glass facade. They shined merrily into the darkening evening, the glow throwing shadows against the smooth wall beneath and highlighting the burnished steel frames around large exterior windows.

Droplets of water pooled and collected on the edges of the sign, slowly trickling down towards the pavement below. Individual drops merged together to speed down the sign before bleeding to a stop, leaving a glistening trail behind.

The rain had been stopping and starting as afternoon drifted into evening, but was now no more than a gentle mist falling with barely a sound. It formed an aura around the nearby light posts and streetlights, and surrounded the letters with a hazy glow that seemed to expand and contract like the breath of an enormous creature. Distorted reflections dotted the street, wavering in pools of water that collected in potholes and the edges of sewer grates whose iron bars stood out mutely against the deeper darkness they covered.

An astute observer may have noticed how the rain seemed to avoid the figure standing in front of the building, who remained dry in casual defiance of the oppressive weather. Indeed the water seemed to slide off the long white cloak and hood, refusing to even darken the edges dragging on the ground. Inside the hood a crude oval mask glinting pale grey revealed none of its wearer's thoughts. Thick gloves completed the ensemble, leaving not a single scrap of skin visible.

Minutes passed quietly as she stared up at the building, thoughts flickering back and forth. It had been only hours since she arrived in the city, most of the time spent wandering in the fading daylight. In the past she would have crossed the distance in moments, propelling herself with a single leap and brushing aside the tug of gravity as it failed to find purchase on her body. The image of her form tearing through the air had been the last sight of many a hero.

She was different now. Something had irrevocably changed on the day of her creation. And creation was the word. As awareness bloomed out of the void she had known from the very beginning that whatever she was, it wasn’t human. Perhaps it had never been. More importantly, however, she was free.

In retrospect, perhaps it had been Manton who had finally liberated her. He was her father and yet simultaneously something else, something darker. A short life’s worth of memories had warred with a blurred collection of impressions on the day of her genesis. Impressions of shackles stretched taut between herself and Manton, black and white and crimson. Far, far too much crimson. Even now her flawless fingers twitched as she itched to scrub them raw. A part of her wondered if he realized, in the end, when his own memories condemned him. How could they not, when his daughter looked out at him once more and saw what he had become?

There had undoubtedly been a connection between herself and Manton, but she was still unsure of its exact nature. Years worth of memories had placed him as her father without question, but the uncertainty lay elsewhere, in the memories themselves. As encompassing as they were, they weren’t hers. No matter how they appeared, she could feel the faint certainty in her core. Besides, they were incomplete. More than the shimmering mirage of forgetfulness or uncertainty, the edges felt sanded down. Pieces had been removed to create whatever she was now.

Her new self was quiet now, calm. There would be no more massacres, no more visions of crimson as unstoppable force cleaved through vulnerable flesh. And unstoppable it was. Even in the midst of her muddled mind and scattered thoughts, the certainty at her core had revealed its nature as a reflection of her own power. She knew that detail beyond a doubt, at least. She was a weeping hole upon reality. An inexorable force, an utterly immovable object. Yet it was a small comfort compared to knowledge of what she had done. Amongst the murky depths a single recollection stood out brightest, the horror all the worse for it. A memory of fingers plunging through flesh, a glistening orb in her palm as it withdrew.

Moving forward she would be different. Obscurity would be her greatest ally, the ability to get lost in a city full of capes with an unremarkable power. Her strength would still stand out, but it could be downplayed. Hits that had previously shattered across her unmoving form would be allowed to knock her around, build the image of just another brute. With any luck, the facsimile of humanity would hold.

It was amusing, in a sort of macabre way. A monster, a projection, all pretending to be human. The trick would only work once; if she was revealed the heroes wouldn't fall for it again.

Her nonexistent stomach churned at the thought. The unease was a new feeling, one of many since her transformation and subsequent independence from Manton. Her scattered impressions from before had been almost clinical, but her new memories had filled the gap immediately, providing no lack of reaction. Now she loved and hated them in equal measure. Pride and satisfaction had filled her with warmth on brief occasions, but guilt had been her real companion. It gnawed at her incessantly, rising and retreating like the tides. As bad as it was now, it had been far, far worse in the beginning.

To be identified now would pare away her freedom like a giant pair of shears. She hated the very idea, dreaded being reduced to an animal scrabbling in the dark. She couldn't even blame the heroes, knowing she deserved nothing less. Justice demanded her death, but her conscience refused to let her go without making the effort to do better. To be better.

Best to let them think the Siberian had died with the rest.

Her gaze drifted down to the double doors framing the entrance of the building, and with slow but sure footsteps she moved forwards to pull open the door. She moved steadily into the interior, head tracking side to side as she scanned the lobby. In the corners PRT officers stared with blank faceplates, covering the entire room with overlapping fields of view.

They stiffened as they noticed her, no doubt prompted to alertness by an unknown parahuman entering the building. Heads tilted almost imperceptibly as three of the officers glanced towards the fourth, presumably the one giving orders. She couldn't hear anything from beneath their sealed helmets, but when they failed to take any further action she raised a palm slowly, gesturing towards the front desk. After a moment the fourth officer nodded in acknowledgement and they all seemed to relax slightly, returning to the attentive scanning that had been only briefly interrupted.

The remainder of the lobby was mostly empty, a few office workers talking in the corners or shuffling papers back and forth. On one side of the room the entrance to a gift shop beckoned, a riot of color showing off the latest merchandise of the local Protectorate and Wards teams. It was relatively quiet now at the end of the day, the buzzing of fluorescent lighting occasionally audible when conversation lapsed. Finally, in the center of the room near the back wall stood the receptionist's station, manned by a tired-looking young man standing behind the tall desk.

The Siberian approached with measured steps as the receptionist spoke without looking up. "I'm sorry, our hours for the tours are already over if you'd like to come back..." he trailed off in surprise, apparently not expecting to see anyone other than the usual visitors.

"Ah, apologies. PRT ENE Headquarters, what can I help you with?" he recited, straightening up and raising his head. If the hooded and masked figure concerned him he gave no sign of it, evidently used to seeing capes regularly.

She stood uncomfortably in front of the receptionist, trying to project an image of confidence that she didn't feel. Then with a reflexive and entirely unnecessary breath she spoke, voice soft but echoing hollowly.

"My name is Disjoint, and I'd like to register as an independent hero."

Chapter Text

She left the building a little less than two hours later. Night had fully fallen while she was preoccupied, the clouds casting the city into a murky darkness and obscuring any moonlight that might have otherwise trickled down upon the streets. Instead the sparse light posts provided intermittent oases of color against the looming bricks and concrete. Near the PRT building the tall poles remained in good condition, though a few blocks away she could see the occasional gap in the illuminated chain due to vandalism or simple neglect.

The registration process hadn't been what she expected. In all fairness she didn't have much of an expectation to begin with, but the breadth of options had surprised her. She hadn't thought there was much room for independent heroes, expecting a hard push to join the Protectorate. The encouragement was there, but after her initial refusal the woman in charge of the process had smoothly turned to discussing the level of independence she was looking for. There were options from near-vigilantes to the local family group New Wave, or famous freelance heroes working on commission.

The PRT liaison had gone out of the way to caution her on the realism of the last option. Plenty of new heroes signed on with dreams of glory, visualizing themselves as the next Alexandria or Legend. The harsh truth was that while no power was useless, the playing field was far from even. Ingenuity and teamwork could provide a dramatic boost to a hero’s capability, but at the end of the day some powers were simply better than others. Heroes who attempted to pick up too much responsibility without the capacity to back it up usually resulted in a cautionary tale told to the remainder.

Disjoint's eyes turned down behind her mask, struck by a wave of melancholy. How many of those stories ended with her, she wondered morbidly. A promising hero rising through the ranks, supported by friends and allies, before being cut down with a flick of her wrist or a single tear of her jaws. Only scattered flashes of memory remained, the remnants of an uncertain list of casualties. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the rest.

Sensing the mood, the liaison had trailed off after a moment, letting her collect herself before continuing. The woman didn't press, and Disjoint was grateful, not knowing what she would have said if asked.

The conversation had moved to her own powers after that, and she was glad for the distraction. She was careful to undersell her ability, but much of it could be passed off as uncertainty rather than intentional concealment. The liaison mentioned access to complimentary power testing, but she had declined, unwilling to risk details emerging that she couldn't wave away. Perhaps it was suspicious, but they both knew parahumans were notoriously protective about the limits of their capabilities.

Still, the woman had seemed excited when she revealed her enhanced strength and durability, making several notes on some of the papers spread out beside her. It seemed her natural toughness was relatively rare amongst the local heroes, with only Glory Girl of New Wave having something similar. Then again perhaps the PRT were happy they wouldn't be dealing with anything more complex. She hadn't missed the dual piles of paperwork in the corner stamped with the 'Master’ and ‘Stranger' headings.

Once that was finished, they had talked for another half-hour about minor details including availability and ways to get in contact. After signing the papers Disjoint had accepted the disposable phone from PRT before she left, walking out through the double doors and into the night before her.

Currently her highest official priority was finding a place to live, but honestly she found it hard to care. Her body was closer to a statue than a real person. Even her mind would churn along unceasingly, as implacable as the rest of her. She would not eat, would not drink, would not sleep unless she went out of her way, and even then it was a facsimile of the real thing. Why bother, when her senses of touch and taste were as nonexistent as the body she mimicked? Although, remembering her previous habits she didn't complain too deeply about being unable to taste.

No, finding a place to live wasn't really that important. She would still do it, but not out of any pressing desire. Instead her actual priority was something she had been refusing to consider before the meeting. The reminder had come over her at the end of their talk like jagged clumps of ice growing on her insides, highlighting a gaping emptiness. When the time had come to sign the papers, she had looked down and felt it hit.

She still didn't have a name.

It seemed sadly, laughably obvious in hindsight. Immediately after her awakening she hadn't given it a thought, too preoccupied with her new forced perspective and the subsequent flurry of action. It wasn’t until the dust had settled and she committed herself to working as a hero that the choice of identity had laid before her. Her memories as Manton’s daughter had moved to fill the gap, but she rejected them. Even without the details she knew enough of what she had done, and it was clear she was not the person that the name once belonged to. She was unworthy, and her own rejection had hurt. Now it had once again been brutally shoved to the forefront of her mind, and her still-developing sense of self ached at the wound.

Picking an alias hadn’t been easy, but by its very nature it was divorced enough from her actual self to avoid most of the emotional connection. She had settled on Disjoint as an acknowledgement of her unique nature; she knew there was something different about her, be it in mind or body. There had been a vague hope that her alias would be enough, but even then she had known she was fooling herself. A name was far more personal.

She drifted to the side of the street, leaning her shoulder against the rough brick wall as she instinctively sought to prop herself up. It was ridiculous, she thought dazedly. Her form was infinitely more durable than any mundane structure, but the new parts of her didn't care. She remembered the placid feelings of support and certainty, and habit drove the rest.

Moments passed as she stared blankly down the street, before steadying herself. The lack of a name was painful in a way that was completely new, but even as scattered as she was it was obvious she was in no state to even approach the problem. She would push it aside for now and walk, walk until her mind settled and the ache faded.

~~~~ ~~~~

She began by wandering north, heading towards the edges of the city and the train yards that made up its border. It was an easy target, peeking out between the skyscrapers as an expanse of low-lying shadows whenever she crested a hill. The closer she got the more it stretched out before her, a significant chunk of the northern edge of the city. Abandoned rail cars squatted silently on their tracks, coated in alternating layers of paint, rust, and dirt. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark she could pick out lines of tracks and trains crossing each other haphazardly, giant bones half-buried in an enormous graveyard.

With a tiny push of her legs she leapt onto the roof of the nearest car, landing with a gentle puff that sent a cloud of dust spiraling away from the impact before slowly drifting back down to the ground. She stood on some kind of box car, the corrugated metal roof weathered away until great holes had dotted its surface. It would have collapsed under any significant pressure, but that didn't stop her from drifting along the surface, boots beneath the cloak tapping the steel as she passed. It took a bit of effort to keep her power flowing through the clothing, preventing even its light weight from landing on the tendrils of rust.

Hours passed by as she explored the yards. There was no real purpose to it, no great wisdom to be gained from the masses of steel that had been left to rot. Instead she merely enjoyed the peace it brought, as the coldness inside her became a little less pronounced. By the time she finished the darkest hours of the night had arrived, long past when even the troublemakers would be out prowling the streets.

Once or twice during the impulsive expedition her thoughts drifted back towards her absent name, and the ache inside grew more pronounced. The oppressive need to address it had never truly gone away, but each time she found something to distract herself. There was always another train to glide over, another curving series of tracks to follow.

With a sigh she began picking her way back towards the edge of the train yards and the rest of the city. Sometime during her exploration the clouds had departed, and stars glimmered faintly overhead. With a last look at the expanse behind her she trudged back towards the artificial lights ahead, mirroring the twinkling above.

The walk back south was uneventful. She could tell she was passing through gang territories, tags generously applied to alleyways or even the occasional shopfront. Despite that the streets were deserted. Evidently even the criminals had ended their nightly activities, no doubt spurred on by the cold winter weather. It was decidedly odd, she thought, to know that it was cold but never feel it as the wind billowed along the edges of her mask underneath the hood.

Dawn had finally risen by the time she ended up near the address the PRT had provided to look for housing. She had stopped at a few of the city parks on the way to kill time, sitting on the frost-laden grass and watching the first tendrils of sunlight burn away the morning mist. Now she stood in front of a plain wooden door, a small placard marking the office to the apartment complex. Just from her brief look around it seemed like a decent place, nicer than the blocks of apartments she had passed during the night.

Signing the agreement was quick; the receptionist had either been notified by the PRT beforehand or was just that good. She didn't seem to mind dealing with an obvious cape, and twenty minutes later Disjoint clutched a key in hand, having parted with a fraction of the cash on her. The money had come from soon after her awakening, as she looked beyond Manton to take in a horrible, familiar visage. Her new memories and old impressions had united in that terrible moment, and she was in motion before conscious thought could begin to catch up. Afterwards, the former owners had no use for it anymore.

Opening the door to the apartment revealed a plain living room with a small offset bedroom. It wasn't much, but it was more than sufficient. She had nothing to move in, so after a brief look around she sat down on the plain-looking couch and brought out her phone, sending a message to the PRT with her new address.

Back when she had been discussing housing arrangements with the PRT liaison the previous evening they had gone over a few different options with varying levels of privacy. There was nothing stopping her from finding a place to live on her own, but since she informed them she would be renting under her cape persona they had offered to aid her in the search and promised to keep the information under the same confidential and secure protections as the official heroes. Wanting the process to be over as soon as possible, she had seen no reason to refuse.

Her official business was done for the day and it wasn't even noon. Striding back and forth across her new apartment, she contemplated what to do. Thinking about her incomplete identity was still too painful, so she hesitantly decided to postpone dealing with it. The delay ached, but the alternative was even worse, at least for now. In the meantime she longed for something to do, a way to help even in some small manner. The reminder that she hadn't accomplished anything was troubling, even as she rationalized that she had been in the city for barely a day.

The drive to go out and do something was overpowering, and she was halfway to the door before her thoughts caught up. She continued outside, a quick glance around revealed an unsurprising lack of emergencies in need of intervention. Still, now that she was out of the apartment she was loath to just turn around and go back in. Perhaps she should take the opportunity to learn more of the city, besides which streets led where. For all of her walking the previous night, she couldn't say she had truly gained any important information.

Some kind of internet access would be necessary, vital even. She didn't know how much information the PRT would be willing to share, but the public record would surely cover the basic powers that made their home in the city. Already her aimless walk through the streets hours ago seemed faintly ridiculous in hindsight. There was nothing wrong with it per se, but she wouldn't be able to make a difference that way. Not when she had the ability to do so much more.

Resolved to purchase a laptop and personal phone as soon as possible, she almost missed the buzz of activity coming from the PRT-issued device. She spent a moment fumbling with the phone's controls before accepting the incoming call.

There was only one group that knew her number, so it wasn't a surprise to hear the caller identify himself as a PRT officer. What was more of a surprise was what he said next.

"I.. I'm sorry, can you repeat that?" she questioned.

"We would like to invite you on a joint patrol with a Protectorate member today, to help you acclimate to the city and give you someone to talk to about being a hero," the man repeated.

It was a welcome invitation, and one she had no trouble accepting. To meet with the Protectorate heroes so soon was more than she had hoped for, and a small part of her screamed that it was a trap. That they had found out, and she would be walking into an army of heroes throwing themselves at her like they had done so many times before. But she banished that voice of paranoia, reassuring herself that it was just a regular patrol. She already knew that this city was full of parahumans, so it only stood to reason that the heroes would be more active than usual. For them it was more likely an opportunity to talk to a new hero as soon as possible.

The details were hashed out quickly over the phone, and she was given a time and place to meet. The location wasn't far, further up the coast in the nicer part of town. An area called the Boardwalk, according to the officer. The meeting time was relatively soon as well, lending further credence to her theory of how busy the local heroes were. Soon after the call ended she began walking, eager to see who exactly she would be with for her first official patrol.

Chapter Text

Disjoint arrived at the Boardwalk a few minutes before the agreed-upon meeting time. The area was teeming with activity, with bustling shops lining the sides of the streets. Steam poured out of the roofs of cafes and restaurants, billowing into clouds of vapor in the crisp winter air. The sun was out, beams of light scattering through the air to reflect off bright storefronts and illuminate block after block. Even the alleyways nestled between buildings were drawn out of the shadows, appearing almost cozy.

She moved to a bench facing the ocean, letting her legs stretch out before her. The thick fabric of her costume bunched along her back as she slid down a few inches, settling further into the contour of the seat. The crowd was thinner here, and they parted around her in a bubble, sensibly keeping distant from the unfamiliar cape. Luckily it seemed the pale color of her outfit and her casual posture reassured most of them that she wasn't going to be causing any trouble. Still, she nervously wondered whether or not she'd have to deal with inquisitive passersby before the Protectorate arrived.

As if summoned by her thoughts, the background noise seemed to swell at the edge of the block and she caught a flash of blue in between pedestrians reaching for their phones. Through the gaps in the crowd a young woman in a skintight white and grey bodysuit emerged, highlighted in electric blue lines that had caught her eye.

The newcomer approached calmly, sunlight glinting off her visor. A few inches shorter than Disjoint herself, the hero seemed undaunted as Disjoint hurriedly stood, wearing a small smile and introducing herself.

"Good afternoon! I'm Battery, you must be Disjoint?" She trailed off at the end, turning it into a question.
"Yes, uh, I am. It's a pleasure to meet you." The words felt a little stiff, but Battery only smiled reassuringly.
"Likewise." She seemed to ponder for a moment, looking at the crowds mingling nearby. "It's a bit crowded here, do you want to walk while we talk?"
Disjoint nodded. "Please, if you don't mind."

Battery gestured away from the beachfront and the two of them fell into step, leaving behind the dense thoroughfare and moving further into the shopping district. As they began moving, Battery was quick to strike up conversation again.

"First of all, I'd like to thank you for coming forward to register as a hero with the PRT. I know the paperwork is never fun, but there are already enough capes running around out there. Especially around here. The last thing we need is an accident with an unidentified cape who was just trying to help." She paused for a moment as the storefront doors in front of them opened, a stream of people surging out. 

"I'm assuming this is your first time going on patrol?" Battery spoke again as the doors finally swung shut, leaving Disjoint momentarily confused before she realized what the hero seemed to be hinting at.
"Yes, I'm a new hero. Brand new, I guess," she responded carefully. It was technically true, after all.
"Honestly, that's a relief." Battery sighed. "Don't get me wrong, rogues and vigilantes are far better than villains, but most of them run into trouble sooner or later. Around here the gangs are too large. Solo work is fine against common criminals, but when the capes come out you need backup. Best to get affiliated quickly. This way you can at least call for backup."

The concern was obvious in her tone, and Disjoint immediately felt uncomfortable for assuming the young woman had been trying to dig into her past. Still, better safe than sorry. She knew the Protectorate hero had probably been told to learn as much as she could, as nice as she was.

"It sounds like the gangs are quite the problem," she stated neutrally, as the Protectorate hero let out an uncharacteristic laugh. 

"Now I know you aren't from around here. 'Quite the problem.' Yeah, that's one way to put it." Her lips turned down, and her tone grew heated. "They're everywhere, and any time we finally manage to catch one of their capes they inevitably get broken out. It's infuriating."

Battery cut herself off, turning to Disjoint. "I'm sorry, I'm going off-track. I'm supposed to be guiding you through your first patrol, and instead you get to listen to me vent. Don't worry too much about the gangs; we've dealt with them before, and we'll do it again."

"I don't mind; it's a nice change of pace. I'm happy to actually talk to a member of the Protectorate, your brochures only cover so much." Disjoint replied, rifling through her pocket to display one of the pamphlets that she had picked up in the PRT office, to the amusement of the hero beside her. The crumpled piece of paper proved more useful in death, banishing the last bit of solemn air.

The conversation relaxed for a while after that, the two of them moving further into the city. Here and there Battery would chime in with advice or point out notable landmarks, but for the most part they simply walked, commenting on the sights before them. It was almost relaxing, though she noticed that Battery's attention never drifted far, always keeping an eye on the streets around the pair. No doubt habits born from years in the city, it did show the difference between the two of them. Disjoint was wary of many things, but physical threats were very far down on the list. The moments after her creation had assured her of such, even if she hadn’t felt the thread of certainty in her core.

It was hard to reconcile the memories she had gained with the impressions that refused to leave. They felt disconnected, the fresh memories chronologically behind the old impressions. Still, she could ruminate later, as Battery had started talking again.

"I have to say, your costume is pretty good for someone just starting out. It's plain, but looks well-made. Did you do that yourself?"

Ah, there was another question about her background, as polite as it was. She could hardly tell the truth, that it was taken from one of the Nine’s stashes. The tinker of the group had been obsessive about hiding capsules of gear like a squirrel burying acorns, littered across the United States. Luckily he had never cared about branding, as evidenced by her simple white cloak and mask. The outfit wasn't exactly his normal style, but even he needed to appear inconspicuous on occasion.

"Mmm, I had some help from someone I knew," she replied noncommittally. She didn't want to lie to the hero, but couldn't see much of an alternative. Besides, making up blatant lies would get her caught out eventually, so instead she kept it vague.

"It's a lot better than mine was starting out," Battery continued. "Back then I only had a black bodysuit and a domino mask. I was actually kind of broke at the time. I was so eager to go out that I didn't wait and save up for a better one."

"Sounds like you had quite the motivation to be a hero?" Disjoint inquired lightly. Perhaps it was a little bit presumptuous, but it wasn't like the Protectorate hadn't been asking tricky questions. Turnabout was fair play, and all that. Battery didn't seem offended at the question though, if anything she grew even more animated.

"Oh it's no secret, my first appearance is all public record. I was trying to stop a villainous cape on a spree of prison breaks. Every time the local heroes managed to make an arrest, the villains got sprung out again. After witnessing it so many times, I couldn't stand seeing them evade justice," Battery finished firmly.

Just like that the woman had plunged a metaphorical knife into Disjoint's gut. Here she was, standing right in front of an actual hero, listening as the woman dissected her without even knowing. How could she even argue with that, when everything the hero said was the truth? Battery stood there condemning those who would escape their due, while she did exactly that not a half-dozen feet away. The hero, still oblivious to her inner turmoil, seemed to tower over Disjoint despite the difference in their actual statures.

Still, something in her refused to cede without argument. She turned to fully face the Protectorate member and Battery came to a stop as well, sensing the change pass over Disjoint's form. "What if the villains wanted to reform and become heroes?" she asked as steadily as possible, trying her best to project a casual air and not entirely succeeding. In return Battery seemed to still in surprise, ceasing all movement as the two stared at each other like matching statues.

"Do you—" Battery started before cutting herself off. "You certainly aren't afraid to go for the hard questions, are you?" Even as she spoke her stance softened, and she exhaled, sounding suddenly tired. "It's a complicated topic. I, well I don't like it, but I can accept it. It's not common knowledge, but every once in a while a villain will go for a plea deal, re-brand in exchange for avoiding sitting in a cell somewhere. We can certainly use the extra bodies, if nothing else." 

Battery’s eyes were inscrutable behind her visor, but the hero seemed to be lost in thought. Thankfully it seemed more introspective than suspicious, though that raised all kinds of other questions. Overall Disjoint was just relieved the hero didn't seem to find the question too unusual.

After a moment Battery spoke again, "Don't concern yourself too much with it. As nice as the idea of talking down a villain is, most of the encounters around here are going to start violently and only get worse from there. I'm not saying you shouldn't try to negotiate first, but be prepared."

"Now, have any other great philosophical questions you need answered?” Battery asked amusedly. When Disjoint didn't move, she groaned in exasperation. "That was supposed to be a joke..." Nevertheless she continued, "No, out with it. Now that I know it's just going to be awkward if you don't say it."

She debated begging off, waving away the hero's questioning. However, she hadn't had a chance to really talk to someone in well, ever. For the first time she could actually voice the thoughts bouncing around in her head, with a hero no less. Despite the risk of revealing too much, she couldn't help but speak out.

"What about people who didn't have a choice? Or the ones who didn't know any better?"

They had long since left the Boardwalk behind, and she gestured to one of the run-down buildings that decorated the street, windows either smashed out or boarded over with plywood. Bits of debris were scattered in front of the house, and chunks of the masonry were obviously missing. Even the paint was faded and weathered, worn down by decades of exposure to the elements.

"Out here, tucked away with the gangs, the poor, the homeless. Surrounded every day by villains, until that's all they see. Until that's all they know to do, and they join them." She had started out as calmly as possible, but even holding back she had felt her tone shift near the end. Before she had finished speaking Battery was opening her mouth to respond.

"That's just an excuse. Anyone who says otherwise is lying to themselves," the woman replied, shaking her head. "Every action has its consequences. Maybe there are extenuating circumstances, maybe they never meant to go that far. It doesn't matter. If they really want to be better, the first step is owning what they did, fully and completely. Even if it's just to themselves."

Again the hero's words had dropped with the certainty of a guillotine blade slamming home. There was burning iron in her voice, condemnation radiating outwards like a visceral force. Even though she wasn't the target Disjoint couldn't help but feel struck, the next round of justifications dying on her lips. Battery seemed to realize how thoroughly she shattered the conversation and began walking again, and Disjoint followed a moment later.

~~~~ ~~~~

The next few minutes passed quietly, the atmosphere not quite uncomfortable but certainly heavier than before. Eventually Battery slipped back into the familiar role of acting as a glorified tour guide, and she accepted it without comment. The halfway point of the patrol passed quietly, and they turned around, working their way down towards the center of the city. Occasionally the Protectorate hero would pause for a moment to listen to her earpiece, but there didn't seem to be anything happening at the moment.

The peace lasted for another twenty-odd minutes until it was dashed to pieces, a piercing groan echoing off the buildings, followed by a deep rumble and cacophony of crashing. Off to their right and half-dozen blocks behind them, and an enormous cloud of dust rose upwards. It hung there malevolently, particles drifting outwards through the air.

Battery immediately began speaking to the Protectorate headquarters, responding with a rapid-fire list of observations and a rough estimate of location. Seconds later she finished and looked at Disjoint, opening her mouth to speak. No doubt to placate her, offer her an option not to jump right in on her first patrol, but she interrupted the woman before she could speak.

"Let's go." Disjoint said, and they were off.

She watched as Battery held herself still for a handful of seconds, before tearing forward with eye-blurring speed. It was a peculiar form of travel, alternating between such extremes, but nevertheless effective. In return she pushed off the ground, launching herself forward in a long, flowing gait and matching the woman's speed. It was a technique that anyone with abundant strength and durability could use, one of the first she had mastered. Her reflexes were good enough, though evidently nowhere near Battery's as the hero seemed to flow around obstacles even at full speed.

She arrived at the same time as the Protectorate member, moving forward and placing herself a step ahead. If there was an ambush it would be far safer to spring it on herself than her new companion. However, the scene was oddly quiet for the amount of damage on display. They had arrived only a minute or two after the noise thundered past, but there was a distinct lack of activity. In front of the two lay a towering pile of rubble, chunks of concrete a half-dozen feet on a side piled haphazardly. Bits of rebar and wood jutted out of the mountain at crazy angles, snapped and splintered ends pointed to the sky.

The rest of the street was just as empty, but more intact. There weren't any passersby to be seen, though it was impossible to tell if they had wisely chosen to flee or had never been there to begin with. The area didn't look like it saw much use though, buildings dark all the way to the corner.

In front of the central pile lay a spray of masonry dozens of feet long, nearly crossing the street. Something, or someone, had presumably torn through the base of the building in an impressive display of strength. From there gravity had run its course, sending the rest of the structure crumbling inwards. Along with the spray were deep gouges carved into the pavement, bits of silver shining at the bottom.

Battery began to circle around the heap and Disjoint didn't hesitate, striding quickly towards the pieces nearest the edge. The rest of the block looked abandoned, and with any luck this building would be too, but she needed to be sure. Starting at the outermost layer she began tossing slabs to the side, steadily forming a pile at the corner of the dust-covered lot. As quickly as she worked she still had the presence of mind to shatter the larger pieces into chunks before tossing them behind her. She refused to let someone die because she handicapped herself, but the additional motion didn't affect the speed at which the pile was shrinking.

Soon afterwards Battery joined her, shifting the rubble a piece or two at a time during her intermediate bursts of speed. The two of them worked in silence, the rhythmic thumping of moving concrete only broken by distant sirens partly through the excavation. However, the sirens were still a ways off when a new sound disturbed the monotony. A dry, wracking cough drifted out from beneath the side of the pile, not far from the area they had been digging.

Disjoint felt fire flood her veins as she heard the noise, dashing over to the nearest unoccupied patch of ground and tearing frantically down through the pile of debris blocking the way. There was someone under there, someone still alive. Any thoughts of care fled as power flowed into her gloves, hand plunging to the wrist into the concrete and ripping outwards, tossing pieces aside with contemptuous ease. Dust and chips of stone billowed outward, and she didn't realize Battery was trying to get her attention until she had already brushed past the hero's arms twice.

The woman was practically yelling over the sudden avalanche of rubble. "Wait! Wait. You need to slow down, we don't want to shift it onto whoever is down there."

She froze, horrified. The Protectorate hero was right, she had been working with abandon, heedless of the shifting and groaning all around her. She hadn't been wrong to go to the rescue, but she needed to do it the right way. Sloppiness wasn't a luxury she could afford. Mentally she cursed her carelessness.

The hero seemed to pick up on her thoughts, and spoke reassuringly. "You had the right idea, you're just new to all this. Now, let's do it properly. Start from the top and work down, avoid the pieces that are partially buried. When we get to those I'll pull, and you brace the area above. Got it?" At her nod the woman moved to her side, reaching out towards the slab directly in front her.

Chunk after chunk was safely extracted by the two of them before they paused. The wheezing breath was close, easily audible now. Battery took the opportunity to call out, but only the dry breathing answered. The hero grimaced in concern before reaching back down.

Before them lay what was likely the final piece, an unassuming piece of concrete a few feet across. It wasn't even close to the largest Disjoint had moved so far, and yet knowing what lay behind it lent it a weight that was more than physical. It lay on its side, angled against the larger pile with the top propping up yet more stone. She took up position by the end, reaching below the overhanging area. With a final nod to Battery, the hero wedged her fingers near the edge, then stilled.

With a huff the woman exploded into motion, pulling the rubble away as smoothly as she could during her brief burst of strength. As soon as it began to move Disjoint slipped under the natural archway, spreading her arms as far as possible and planting herself absolutely unmoving above the prone figure before her. With a groan the wall behind her collapsed, rebar screaming in tortured fury as it crashed into her and found itself utterly inadequate. Here she stood, and it would go no further.

The dust settled as she straightened upright, a few fist-sized chunks rolling off her back and onto the ground behind her. Battery was immediately kneeling before her, inspecting the figure, the man on the ground in front of her. Already he was coughing, eyes fluttering back to wakefulness. A large gash on the top of his head bled heavily through long matted hair, but didn't appear life-threatening. Still, Battery efficiently tore a strip of cloth from the patchwork jumble he was wearing, bandaging it expertly around his head.

As the man stirred she took a few steps back, but took a closer look at him. At a glance he was clearly homeless, or at least living in abject poverty. His long hair and patchy beard framed a vaguely Asian face, obscured by layers of wrinkles. Further down, the long patchwork she had mistaken for a coat was actually a blanket wrapped around his body, covering a stained and threadbare shirt. The rest of his outfit was much the same.

He was barely awake before Battery was speaking, slowly but with an underlying sense of urgency.

"Sir, I know you're disoriented but I need to know, were you alone in that building? Was there anyone else with you?" Disjoint's eyes widened but the man was already shaking his head side to side.

"Please, try to keep your head still. The ambulance is on the way, I need you to lie here until they arrive, okay? I'll be right here with you." Even as Battery continued to talk to the man Disjoint could see the tension seep out of her form. As soon as she finished stabilizing him the hero stood, making her way over to where Disjoint stood.

"So," she asked with a tired smile. "How does it feel to be a hero?"

Chapter Text

The emergency response arrived a few minutes later; a loud, echoing siren heralded their presence as the fire and rescue truck rumbled around the corner. Just behind it was an ambulance, its higher wail cutting off abruptly as it rolled to a stop. As the rescue crew began blocking off the road the paramedics loaded the prone civilian onto a stretcher with practiced movements. Battery moved to direct the rescue crew and Disjoint followed, curious.

In the middle of the street Battery was pointing out the deep gouges in the road, gesturing from the main pile of rubble outwards along the tracks. In response the firemen stood clear of the area, moving around it as they shuttled back and forth. Shortly afterwards a van rounded the corner, bearing the PRT logo. Upon reaching its destination the doors swung outwards, disgorging a pair of PRT officers and what appeared to be a technician bearing an elaborate camera and tripod. The group began circling the scene, documenting the evidence and collecting bits of the metallic substance she had noticed in the cracks earlier.

The various crews fell into a rhythm quickly, and Disjoint and Battery were relegated to the sidelines. Soon afterwards the PRT officers nodded at Battery, who motioned to Disjoint as she began walking away from the scene.

"Let’s keep moving. They don't need us anymore, so we can finish up," the hero spoke over her shoulder. "It's a good idea to stick around until the police or PRT arrive, make sure everything is safe. Afterwards, though, it's back to work." Disjoint responded affirmatively and the two departed, quickly leaving the scene behind them.

The remainder of the patrol passed uneventfully, streets washing by in a uniform haze as the pair completed the large circle back towards the Boardwalk. Finally, as the city blocks began to visibly brighten up, Battery came to a stop.

"Well, that's all for today. A little more active than I would have hoped for your first patrol, but you did well. Did you get a phone from the PRT office when you signed on?" the Protectorate hero inquired.

Disjoint nodded, fishing it out of an inside pocket and glancing down at the rugged front. It wasn't anything fancy, but it did look quite durable.

"Excellent. Here, when you get a chance add my number," the woman continued as she held out a small business card. It was styled in the same white and grey as her suit, with the letters picked out in electric blue. They shimmered faintly as Disjoint took the card, rocking it back and forth and watching the letters catch the light.

"Oh yeah, the PR guys loved that one," Battery added, snorting in amusement at the display. "Quite recognizable.

"But seriously. You did well out there, especially for a new hero. I'm sure the PRT will reach out to you again for another patrol, but if you have any more questions or just want to talk, you've got my number. Don't hesitate to call."

Disjoint nodded again, a bright feeling in her chest. The woman was right, they had done well. Even without capturing any villains or getting into a fight, they had made a difference. It was surprisingly reassuring, such a small act. Without realizing it, she had been weighed down by little worms of doubt, whispering that she wouldn't be able to do anything. She had only noticed now that they were gone, and the sky felt brighter because of it. She had shown that she could do good. It was a start.

Battery departed soon after, bidding her final goodbyes as she moved off towards the Protectorate headquarters floating out in the middle of the bay. Disjoint began walking too, heading back towards her apartment. Half an hour later, she was just rounding the corner when the sight of her door sparked her memory, and she huffed in annoyance. She had never gotten a chance to purchase a laptop or cell phone, the entire reason she had left the apartment in the first place.

She smiled wryly in amusement. The call from the PRT had completely derailed her plans for the day, though not in a bad way.

Still, it was only late afternoon. Long beams of sunlight were highlighting the city in a deep orange glow, but there was plenty of time left before it started getting truly dark and stores began closing their doors. If she remembered correctly from her stroll this morning there was a department store that wasn't even that far from her.

Well, she might as well start walking. Even if her memory was wrong, she was in a good mood. The view was pleasant as well, shadows beginning to grow at the bases of houses and trees but remaining out-shined by the stubborn sun. There was a surprising amount of wildlife out, braving the cold to chatter and chirp loudly at one another. In front of her a pair of squirrels darted left and right, dancing across bare branches high in the trees.

It was peaceful, in a way that the train yard had failed to capture. Her previous nighttime expedition had been desolate, the blackness and silence giving off an uncaring, bleak feel. She had found calm in the empty depths, but not peace. Now, in this idyllic afternoon, she embraced a moment of tranquility. The warmth in her chest spread and her figure relaxed as she strode down the street.

~~~~ ~~~~

The cozy feeling lasted throughout the entire trip, even the brief foray into the store failing to disperse it. She returned to her new home with a backpack slung over one shoulder, a spur-of-the-moment purchase to carry her recently-acquired belongings. As she unlocked her front door she took one last contemplative look back at the lengthening shadows before heading into the apartment.

Sitting down she opened her laptop and debated what to do first. The decision lay between the short- and long-term, whether to focus on the here and now or work towards the future. Towards discovering who she really was. The two choices were appealing for different reasons, and she would get to both in time, but she needed to start somewhere.

Thinking about the long-term brought up another concern, or a facet of an old one. She had noticed it immediately on the day of her transformation, when her memories had felt incomplete. Specifically, they grew worse and worse the closer they got to the end. She remembered Manton being there, but the rest was a smear of lights and colors. It was impossible to know at the moment, but she had a premonition that it was significant. Nevertheless, she had a sinking feeling as to what she would find. The memories that felt out of place, the missing pieces, the distorted final moments. None of the evidence pointed to a happy ending.

Perhaps most damning were the dates that she remembered clearly. As 'new' as the memories felt, the most recent ones before her awakening were a decade old. From there onward her vague impressions filled the gaps, bits and pieces of voices talking, with Manton featured most prominently. Throughout it all was the sensation of time passing inexorably by.

It was a small mercy, in a sense. For all that she wished to be rid of the terrible recollections, waking up with a decade missing would have been an incredible blow.

That somber line of thought settled the decision of what she would research first. She would start with the local cape scene, and if anything jogged her vague memories it would be an unexpected bonus.

The heroes were the easiest to learn about, each with an official description provided by the PRT. Furthermore, the various costumes and powers had been fanatically documented by legions of unofficial supporters, filling in many of the details from the intentionally-sparse government publication.

It was a careful reminder for Disjoint herself. Once she started taking action in the public eye there would be no shortage of people keeping track of her actions, or more dangerously, the powers that she demonstrated. She didn't intend to make a public debut, but the first time she openly acted would set the tone for expectations that came later. Best to make sure everything was exactly in line when that day came.

Along with the long list of appearances by Protectorate heroes was an accompanying list for the Wards. It too was significantly long, to the point where it concerned her. All of the official information portrayed the Wards as a much less involved group that the data suggested. The fact that they had been recorded in so many fights with the local villains painted the picture of an organization that was desperately treading water, doing whatever it could to stay afloat. She didn’t know if it was a problem with the area in particular, or just an unpleasant fact of life, but it was depressing to see.

She consoled herself with the thought that every fight she responded to was one less the rest of the heroes would have to face. Perhaps it was a bit presumptuous, but if she could ease their burden even slightly, especially the Wards, she would be glad to do it.

As she finished with the Protectorate heroes she continued, looking at the array of forces in the area. There were an enormous number of other parahumans in the city, especially considering its size. There was the unaffiliated hero group New Wave, two large gangs, and a mercenary group that made their home in the confines of Brockton Bay. The last one in particular caught her attention as she idly browsed down the list.

The most notable detail about the group was the presence of multiple Case 53s. The fact that there were several of them on a single team was notable in and of itself — as far as she knew they were exceptionally rare. More importantly, they were infamous for being amnesiac. Her own memory wasn't missing per se, but the link was there. It was tempting to reach out, the potential to learn more beckoning her eagerly.

She stopped scrolling as she trailed off in thought. Faultline's Crew was an interesting group to consider, to wonder what might have been. If she had awoken without any memories at all, as a blank slate like the Case 53s, would she have joined them? The possibility seemed large. As she was now she couldn't accept anything other than becoming a hero, but the freedom of the mercenary group was an attractive proposition. It was no more than an idle fantasy, but the life she pictured could have been a pleasant one, in a different way. Shaking her head, she refocused on the screen, eyes mechanically traveling over the same paragraph.

As she stared at the page describing the characteristics of Case 53s, she felt a twinge reading the description again. For a moment there was an echo, a voice speaking the same words that sat before her on the page. It was a man's voice. Not just any man, Manton's voice. It played in her head, filled with emotion. He was distraught, yet also nervous, paranoid. He was warning her about... something related to Case 53s. Warning her about... transforming?

The last bit of fog cleared from her memory of his voice, and it was like the final gear had slid into place on a vast machine. She swore she could almost hear the noise as a dozen fragments fell into place, crashing together as her mind spun, churning. The voice, Manton, the Case 53s. He had been warning her of turning into an 'inhuman' cape. It was a potential side-effect of being granted powers. Powers not gained naturally, but gifted by... something. The words had been accompanied by an object, a vacant hole in her recollection.

The new information flowing back up to the surface of her mind only served to highlight the areas that remained missing. Still, it was an enormous leap, and a confirmation of what she had suspected from the beginning. Her existence was no accident. Now more than ever she was committed to meeting the local Case 53s. One way or another she would dredge up the remainder of that memory, and they were the best place to start.

~~~~ ~~~~

Addendum Battery

She sat at her office, papers spread out in front of her. The incident report was almost complete, dense lines of text blurring together as she squinted intimidatingly at it. It remained unimpressed, promising further suffering as she idly flicked through the remaining blank pages. The writing felt like drudgery, but it was necessary. Headquarters wanted to know whenever the heroes encountered something atypical on patrol, and a brand-new pile of rubble certainly qualified. Currently Hookwolf was the primary suspect, judging from the marks left around the collapsed structure. Once the techs finished analyzing the scene and confirmed it, the villain would earn another half-dozen entries on the top of the pile that represented his crimes so far. Destruction of property was the least of his concerns should he ever get caught, but it paid to have everything in order.

The other order of business for the evening was meandering down the hallway, if the grating whistling was anything to go by. Ethan had been eager to hear about her patrol with the 'rookie,' and for once the interruption might actually be welcome. Anything to get away from all this writing.

With a sigh she got up from the desk and swung the door out into the hallway. Sure enough he stood in the middle of the hallway, studying the wall with mock-intensity. A moment later his gaze slid towards the open door and he performed an exaggerated double-take, looking back with eyes comically wide. In response she only stared harder, a single eyebrow raised in exasperation.

"Alright, get in here you big idiot," she finally broke, turning back towards the room to hide a smile. Assault strolled into the room behind her, falling into the chair at the other end of her desk as she retook her seat.

"So, how did it go? We finally going to catch a break with the new hero, Disjoint was it?" he asked as soon as she sat down. "Oh come on," he continued at her gesture towards the separate stack of paper in the corner. "Don't make me read that, it's torture. Give me the summary."

Well, she couldn't blame him for that one. "It went well, actually. Very well. Disjoint handled herself quite capably, all things considered. She was clearly new to the scene, but she seemed to have the basics well in hand," she replied.

"What's she like? Please don't tell me we've got another Armsmaster on our hands. I can barely deal with one of him."

Battery shook her head, eyes gazing off into the distance. "No, not at all. She mostly came across as nervous to tell the truth, but I suspect that was just inexperience talking. She seemed eager, mostly. Even that's hard to say. She's got the full costume, hood and all. Not a scrap of skin visible."

"Hm. Fan of Eidolon, maybe?" Ethan suggested, and she shrugged.

"Actually she reminded me of you a bit," Battery said, head inclining slightly at Assault's knowing look. "I don't suppose you've had any... former acquaintances reach out recently?"

His brow furrowed as a moment of solemnity stole over his face. "No, I haven't heard anything. And besides, they would know to stay away from the area." The serious mood was gone in an instant as she felt the smugness radiate off of him. "Besides, I'm a changed man now. Or so a certain someone keeps telling me."

"Uh huh. I'll believe it when I see it," she replied, but there wasn't any heat in it. "Well, I could be mistaken. She was pretty interested in villains though, even if she tried to hide it. Maybe she grew up around one? Wouldn't be the first hero to break away from the 'family business,' so to speak."

"All the better to her, if that is the case," Assault finished the thought for her.

"Well, besides that, what are we looking at powers-wise? With the Lung and Purity out there, aren't we overdue a good turn?" At Battery's glare he held up his hands placatingly. "I know, I know. Respect the person, not the powers. But we really could use a lucky break."

She nodded in concession. It was the truth, after all. The Protectorate simply didn't have the advantage in raw strength in Brockton Bay. They made up for it with the wider resources of the government and superior training, but it still stung.

"She's strong. Very strong. The report goes into more detail, but when we got to the scene she was moving concrete slabs with ease. It's definitely more than enhanced biology. Some kind of dedicated power, for sure." Battery rubbed her wrist absentmindedly. "Not just any old power, though. When she was excavating the victim from under the rubble, she panicked and was going too fast at first. Looked like she might bring the whole thing down."

Assault nodded in sympathy. It wasn't uncommon for new heroes, lacking in training, to try to help and only make a situation worse. Especially those with enhanced strength.

"When I noticed what was going on I ran over, tried to stop her," Battery continued, and Ethan leaned forwards, curious. He of all people knew exactly how strong she was. Once she got going, even he hadn't been able to match her blow for blow.

"Nothing. She literally didn't even notice." Battery shivered. The experience had been humbling. It reminded her of the first time her powered form had run out, the abrupt lurch as she went from superhuman back to... normal. "In the end I had to yell her name a couple of times before she realized what was going on and stopped."

"Well, damn. Wish granted, I suppose. Hope it turns out to be for the best," Assault finished.

The new hero showed promise, that was for sure. She would finish her reports to inform the rest of the Protectorate about Disjoint, and she wished that things would go smoothly for the newest addition to Brockton Bay’s cape scene. The city was unforgiving, and hopefully Disjoint would stay safe despite its cold embrace.

Chapter Text

The past week had gone by quietly. The city had been hit by a spell of harsh winter weather, temperatures plummeting as a rolling blanket of clouds shrouded the sky. Their undersides bowed, full of snow that broke free on occasion to fall across the landscape. As the fat flakes drifted towards the ground visibility dropped and sounds grew muffled, smothered by the blanket of white. The combination lent the city an unearthly air as Disjoint walked down the streets and drifted across rooftops. The crunch of her boots on the snow and swish of her cloak were the only sounds, resonating softly through the sky before fading into the foggy distance. After a while she discarded even that, the ethereal feeling that followed well worth the minuscule effort of pushing her power through the fabric.

It must have painted an inhuman image, she mused. A specter garbed in white, drifting soundlessly through the thickly falling snow. The entire city had been leached of color, a mirror of her swirling skin beneath the cloak.

In response to the onset of worsening weather the level of local crime had plummeted as well. Nobody wanted to be outside for long. She had watched as gang members moved from building to building, piling into available cars, or ducking their heads and walking quickly if there weren't any. Here and there a few of the tougher or more disciplined remained outside, but the combination of low numbers and even lower visibility meant that she never encountered anything blatantly illegal. It was a little surprising, especially after her first patrol, but she wouldn't complain about a lack of crime. She did stop to memorize the address the most recent group had vanished into, though. It wasn't the first time a group of people had made the trek to the building, and there were always a few men milling around outside of the doors. It was hardly evidence, but it was suspicious enough that she'd visit again in the future to try to learn more.

All in all she had begun to settle into a routine, as early as it was. Patrolling took up most of her time, but she could only do so much of it. Boredom was the true limiter, her body never slowing or faltering. In response she had begun going out of her way to be at the edges of the city for the sunrise and sunset. When the clouds were heavy in the sky there wasn't much to be seen, but so far she had gotten a glimpse one clear morning; the sun had risen over the bay slowly, shedding rays of light across the water's surface as it ascended. She had stared unblinking as it rose, eyes unable to pierce the corona of light but undaunted by the burning rays.

This morning she had received a pleasant surprise as well, though not of the same variety. The PRT had reached out to her again, notifying her that she had materials to pick up from their offices. Confusion mounted until the officer elaborated further, describing the small bag of supplies that had been prepared for her. The gesture had been unexpected, and she wasn't sure if it was standard preparedness for registered heroes, or something Battery had gone out of her way to set up. Either way, she would have to thank the woman in person next time she had the chance.

The bag had resembled a survivalist’s pack, containing a few simple but useful items: zip ties, a heavy metal flashlight, handheld flares, and best of all, a small, black earpiece. The earpiece wasn't anything special but it readily connected to the PRT-issued phone, freeing up the use of her hands if she ever needed to make a call. All together the gear would only help, and she had accepted it gratefully.

Currently she was perched on a rooftop at the corner of the street, gear tucked away across her body as she stared down the length of the road. She had chosen the industrial building for its unobstructed view in all four directions, peeking out above the low-lying buildings that surrounded it. It was still early into the night, the busiest time for the city's underbelly. During the day most people were occupied with work of the legitimate or semi-legitimate variety; it wasn't until the normal business hours were over that the gangs truly came out in force. The Protectorate was active as well, patrols doubling up in the hours immediately after the sun dropped below the horizon. She had yet to make contact with any more of the local heroes, but she had caught sight of them in the distance a handful of times.

Back on the rooftop she remained motionless at the edge of the building, head slowly panning back and forth down the street. Today she had begun modifying her traditional pattern, focusing on picking areas with sufficient view and spending most of the patrol stationary, only moving to the next spot every half-hour or so. In return for losing some of her previous unpredictability and constant motion she gained the opportunity to keep an eye on an area for more than the minute or two it took to walk down the street. She could only be in one place at a time after all, so it seemed smarter to keep as much of the city in sight as she could. Time would tell if her new idea was any more successful, not that she had much of a baseline to compare it to.

Off in the distance her eyes picked out a smear of darkness moving slowly through the air, traversing the city at an unhurried pace. As the shape grew closer the blur resolved into two figures, blue light springing into existence around the trailing one and highlighting the pale outfits the pair were wearing. She rotated in place on the edge of the roof, turning back to face the incoming heroes.

Her first thought was one of surprise at the age of the newcomers. She had known intellectually that both the Wards and the local hero teams contained teenagers, but seeing it in person was still vaguely upsetting. It felt wrong to see such young faces out on patrol, powers or not.

The two teenage heroes trailed to a stop a few dozen feet away, and she got her first good look at them. They fell into the latter category of underage heroes, members of New Wave. Shielder was the boy in blue if she remembered correctly, making the older girl in front of him Glory Girl. She didn't recall too many details about the team's members; they were a family group, so these two would have to be siblings or cousins.

From what she had read, the family of heroes were relatively unique in advocating for unmasking and removing the separation between cape and civilian lives, to the point of publicly revealing their own identities soon after founding. It was an uncomfortable reminder of her own status, hiding behind a new hero identity to distance herself from her past actions. As a result she had been uneasy with the idea of meeting the group, though it seemed like that plan had failed.

Now she watched in silence as they touched down, coming to rest on the roof with a simple step downwards akin to reaching the end of a staircase. The ease spoke to long hours of practice; it took a surprising amount of effort to make the switch between flight and walking so casually. In front of her the heroine murmured to the boy beside her without turning her head, and she could just barely make out the words.

"Oh man, Ames is going to be thrilled that there's another cape with her terrible fashion sense," the heroine whispered quietly, and Disjoint suppressed a scowl. Her identity as Disjoint was supposed to be a clean slate, and now she had been immediately compared to another hero, one she hadn’t even met. Better than a villain, to be fair, but it still stung. 

"A pleasure to meet you too," she said, letting a bit of irritation color her tone. A stab of satisfaction went through her as the heroine stumbled, missing a step in surprise. Glory Girl had the grace to look embarrassed at least, face darkening slightly under the pale blue glow from her companion.

“Sorry, you just reminded me a lot of my sister,” the teen heroine replied. “The whole long, white robes thing you two have going on. It stood out. You’re the new hero, Disjoint?”

Disjoint sighed tiredly. It really wasn’t that big of a deal, certainly not worth starting an argument over. “Yeah, that’s me. You must be Glory Girl and… Shielder?” She still wasn’t positive on the second one, but Glory Girl nodded so it must have been correct.

“Yeah, we’re a part of New Wave. Have you heard of us?” The two of them had stopped a half-dozen feet away, Glory Girl placing herself in front with Shielder at her shoulder.

“Mhm. I got the highlights online. Spent some time recently looking into the local cape scene,” she answered. Honestly she would have had to go out of her way to miss the family team. With eight active heroes they were comparable to the nearby Protectorate in numbers alone, if not in resources.

"So, are you two out on patrol, or just flying around?" It seemed a safe enough topic; she was obviously on patrol herself, the rooftop wasn't exactly a place for people to be hanging out. Especially in this weather.

Midway through her question Glory Girl’s phone buzzed, the heroine fishing it out and excusing herself as she strode away across the rooftop. To Disjoint’s surprise Shielder didn’t follow, instead moving up to the lip of the building she was sitting on and joining her, legs dangling and heels tapping idly on the concrete.

The young teen nodded, some of the nervousness leaving his face. "Yeah, we usually fly around for an hour or two in the evenings, before it gets too late. We were wrapping up, but well, flying is a lot of fun." He reached up to run a hand through his hair, messy from the wind. It was medium-length, and upon closer examination she realized the blue color wasn’t just from his namesake shields — he had dyed his hair to match.

The conversation eased into a more relaxed fashion as he spoke, Disjoint content to let him lead. Despite his age Shielder proved to be surprisingly informed about the city, growing more talkative as time went on. The information was useful as well as interesting; New Wave had an enormous amount of experience with the villains of the city, and knew many of the common pairings and tricks they employed. Before long Glory Girl returned as well, though she seemed content to let Shielder talk, focused more on her phone than the two of them. Only occasionally would she glance up before returning to typing. 

Eventually she rejoined the conversation, and Disjoint found herself betrayed once again by her own expectations. Reading about the heroine online had been misleading in retrospect, nothing like meeting her in person. She had been described as a hurricane or a force of nature, and while it wasn’t wrong it wasn’t right either.

Glory Girl was a hurricane, but it was one of personality. She flowed into the conversation and uplifted it, filling in the gaps between topics and shifting aside to let Shielder speak when he grew excited, recounting the first time he had flown across the city skyline. As the minutes passed by Disjoint grew more comfortable, the cold winter banished around the bubble of conversation the three of them had formed on this little out-of-the-way rooftop. It wasn’t until a half-hour later that they were interrupted by a series of long buzzes from Glory Girl’s phone.

The heroine withdrew the phone again, and after a particularly furious bout of texting slipped the phone back into her pocket and moved forwards, getting to her feet next to Shielder as he drew to the end of his most recent story. She looked a little irritated, but mostly resigned.

"Time to go. Family's getting impatient," she interjected. Shielder only sighed in response, but didn't protest. Getting to his feet he joined her, giving a goodbye as the two began to float into the air. Glory Girl bid her an easy farewell a moment later before turning towards the sky.

"It was nice to meet you!" Shielder half-shouted as the two drifted sideways through the air, gradually picking up speed as they departed over the city.

~~~~ ~~~~

As the two heroes vanished into the distance Disjoint thought over the admittedly brief meeting. Even second-hand through Shielder's recounting, New Wave's message had come across strongly; the family was famous for their focus on accountability. To her, it was a reminder of some of the things she had been avoiding. Information that she could have known, but choose not to. Namely, her actions as the Siberian.

Up until now she had avoided any mention of her former alias, a nauseating reminder of her time with Manton. Hiding from the problem wouldn't allow her to move forward; she would remain stuck on it until she finally worked up the courage to see for herself. So it was with mechanical movements that she withdrew her personal phone from deep inside her cloak.

Navigating to the Protectorate's page on the Siberian was the work of a moment, but it felt much longer. At the top was a grainy photo, displaying her form striding down the street. It looked like it had been taken from a cell phone at a vantage point high above, the owner lucky or insignificant enough to escape notice.

Below the photo was the opening paragraph, displaying an emphatic warning in bold letters and surrounded by a glaring red box: Member of the Slaughterhouse Nine. Do not approach. Notify the Protectorate immediately if sighted. The words were no less upsetting for their clinical tone. It was an unassuming line of text that precluded a decade-spanning list of terror.

Truthfully, she was surprised that the Protectorate hadn't found the remains of her final work. True, it still hadn't been a full week since she awoke, but so far they had always seemed competent. Overworked perhaps, but still competent. The penny would have to drop soon, especially without Shatterbird tearing inquisitive drones out of the sky. She hadn't even gone out of her way to clean up the evidence, as limited as it was. There was nothing to tie her to the scene.

Again she realized she was distracting herself, and had to make the effort to break the previous line of thought and refocus on the screen in front of her. If she had the capacity to breathe she would have felt it catch in her throat, as the list of casualties rose into view, line after line of text sitting dispassionately before her. A particular name stood out near the top of the list, and within her gut a ball of ice congealed, a compliment to the view around her. 'Hero,' the innocuous word read, as plain and unremarkable as the surrounding letters.

That had been one of the fragments she remembered.

Scrolling further, she reached the next section and the ball of ice shattered, fragments plummeting into the void. There was a break in the list, a header with only two words: 'Slaughterhouse Nine.' Past this point the names of civilians stopped. Instead, the descriptions of towns took their place.

Her fingers locked around the phone, quivering in place as her empty hand clenched around the edge of the roof. Concrete sprayed with an ear-splitting crack, chips launched into the distance on screaming horizontal trajectories by the force. The rest of her body remained completely and utterly frozen, oblivious to the havoc wreaked beside her.

Time passed slowly, moments dripping by like tar as she sat there, watching the long, long list move by. Here and there the names of heroes and villains alike were interspersed between the towns and cities. Slowly the frozen cold inside her warmed, then passed warmth into flames. She was incandescent, furious at Manton for the atrocities he'd wrought with her hands. Furious at herself for letting it happen. Furious at whatever had created her awakening, that it had waited so long that the chains around her were wrapped so tight she could hardly see a glimpse of light.

The bright flare of her anger couldn't last for long, burning high before guttering out and leaving her feeling spent, even emptier than before. She slumped in place, cradling her head in her hands. In the absence she found a semblance of clarity. A part of her that had been missing, exposed again by the rage of emotion and reminder of her past. Her empty name ached, but this time she saw a way forward.

Reading the list in reverse was no less painful the second time, but she moved with purpose back to the top, to the first victim. The entry was short, a woman with nothing but a name and estimated date. She was the shadow of a shadow even in Disjoint's impressions, merely the first of many. An innocent bystander, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unremarkable in every way except as the herald of something more to come.

Perhaps it was presumptuous of her, perhaps it was disrespectful. She didn't think so. It was a reminder of how she had begun, and now that she had the chance to start again it was an opportunity to be something greater.

She would honor this woman, Eve, the only way she could.

Chapter Text

By the time Disjoint returned home she was ready for a break. She wasn't tired exactly; her thoughts still twisted around without slowing. However, the clarity was lacking, and focusing on even the simplest things took more effort than it should have. It was a decidedly odd feeling. Not particularly unpleasant, but something that she still preferred to avoid. Thankfully, it wasn't too much of a hindrance.

She did regret missing out on the opportunity to take another look at the suspected gang house. Her original plan had been to pass by it on the way home, but after the toil of her earlier revelations she couldn't bring herself to make the effort.

It wouldn't be a very good idea to go into the situation with such an avoidable handicap. Even without having to worry for her own safety, the rest of the city's inhabitants weren't so lucky. A moment of carelessness on her part could cause untold damage; she was loath to let innocents get caught in the crossfire. Just encountering potential gang members would require her to hold back immensely to avoid killing them. Beyond that, she had to be cognizant of every encounter. Her impressions of violence may have faded, but there were a decade of them. Instinct drove her towards lethality and the rejection was always delayed, a moment behind. It was a constant struggle as conscious thoughts and memories pushed down the vague impressions.

Furthermore, she wasn't the only one at risk of causing devastation. The ABB cape population numbered only two, but they had managed to carve out a section of the city in spite of a powerful rival gang and the Protectorate. Neither of the villains would be a particularly simple fight, especially if they were on their guard. Responding to a perceived attack on their territory, there was no doubt they would be cautious enough to avoid a surprise attack.

The second-in-command of the gang was the inscrutable Oni Lee. He was widely regarded as less of a threat than the gang's leader Lung, though they were equally incapable of causing her any harm. More importantly, Lee was a knife fighter, his signature weapons unremarkable in every way. When it came to collateral damage, he posed far less risk.

Instead it was his mobility that drew her attention. Oni Lee's teleportation was a significant counter to her own greatest strength, able to carry him out of melee range and beyond her sphere of influence. Catching him would be no trivial task, which placed the two of them into an imbalanced stalemate. Regardless, he would need to get close to attack her, risking himself each time. The odds tilted further in her favor the longer they fought, so any potential encounter would depend on keeping her capabilities concealed and convincing the villain that he was making progress.

Contrary to most of the other capes in the city, she was actually more confident in her chances of a successful capture if she ran into Lung. For all his vast strength he was still utterly outclassed. The gang leader undoubtedly had other tricks up his sleeve to have made it this long in his position, but at the end of the day he was the kind of cape that only knew how to fight via applications of force. Once his raw strength was taken off the table, his options plummeted.

They were actually somewhat similar in that regard, Disjoint mused. Admittedly she had additional facets of her power that she had avoided blatantly using so far, but the two of them still fit into roughly the same categories. Unfortunately for him, the strength of muscle and tendon could only carry one so far. The distance between them would remain an insurmountable gap.

Truly, her power was a curse and a blessing. It was a puzzle, the simple implacability of her form. A single idea distilled into its purest expression. Even now within her nestled the feeling of permanence, that there wasn't a single thing in existence that could do more than delay her. Nothing would stop her body from reaching her eventual goal, and she only hoped that she could capture a fraction of that in her drive to do better. It was an impossible ideal, but that didn't make it any less worthy to strive for.

Ideally, she would make the infiltration without ever being detected. Subtlety had been something of a foreign concept to her until very recently, but it wasn't an impossible task. She could travel in true silence, lacking even the faintest sounds of breathing. That alone was a significant benefit, and it wasn't the only advantage she had. If she fully committed to remaining unseen gravity was no more than a suggestion. The risk of revealing herself increased, but the actual chance of it occurring dropped commensurably.

In the end, moving quickly and quietly was going to be paramount, and that required clear thoughts. Rushing in unprepared wouldn't necessarily prevent her from succeeding, but it drew the risk of engulfing the streets in an unnecessary fight. It was something she desperately wanted to avoid.

For now she would relax and let her mind settle. Sleep wasn't possible, but there were other actions she could take. Over the past few days she had taken the opportunity to continue her research, but it was more time-consuming than truly relaxing. Instead, she found far more success listening to music. It hadn't been her original idea; it was something she had happened upon while exploring the Case 53s. One of the more prominent members had caught her eye, a Ward in Boston by the name of Weld. He had given dozens of speeches, acting as a public face for the 'monstrous capes,' but more notably shared her quirk of a body devoid of sensation. It had come up once or twice in the interviews he gave, and he had enthusiastically described his interest in music.

Disjoint stared out the window, letting the sound wash over her. Her costume lay folded on the small bed next to her boots, the pile of cloth topped with the ceramic mask facing the ceiling. Underneath she wore a plain black shirt and military-style pants, the scrunched hem resting on her bare feet. She couldn't actually feel the air rushing over her arms and through her hair, but it still helped her relax. A mental quirk, the product of her memories in a normal body.

Technically speaking it was an unnecessary risk, revealing even a hint of her vibrant stripes to the world. It was one she had avoided until now, but the gesture felt comfortable. Here in the privacy of her room there wasn't anything to hide from.

~~~~ ~~~~

The morning sun rose on her masked face, costume recently secured in preparation. The plan for the day was simple – she would return to the aborted stakeout and finish investigating, before moving in. With any luck she could destroy whatever she found, and if that wasn't the case the PRT could be notified instead. All together it was far more of a guideline than some kind of true tactical plan, but that suited her perfectly. Scheming wasn't one of her strengths.

Arriving at the scene revealed a view that was almost identical to the day before: the same pair of men lounging out front, deep tire tracks layered over one another around them in the crushed snow. There weren't any cars present, but Disjoint doubted today would be any different than before.

At the edge of the building there was an alleyway, an unremarkable gap between the thick stone walls. Every few minutes one of the guards would wander over, ducking out of the wind and warming his hands in the limited shelter it provided. She peered down it from above, moving slowly to stay out of sight. The only thing of note was an industrial-looking door, steel panels covered in a veneer of rust and bound with a thick chain and lock. The reinforcement wouldn't prove much of an obstacle, but it was bound to cause a commotion should she force it open. The squeal of metal on metal was hardly subtle.

Continuing around to the rear of the building only revealed more of the same. What had once been a loading dock was boarded over, large sheets of plywood covering even the metal shutters. Above, the first row of windows peeked out from the facade, metallic mesh covering the glass. It was impossible to tell if the security had been added by the gangs, or was just a typical precaution for the area. Either way it was inconvenient.

As a final check Disjoint moved upwards, peering over the edge to check for onlookers before vaulting upwards to the roof. The building was only three stories tall, with a flat, industrial roof. It looked like it had been an old hotel or apartment complex at one point, if the numerous windows were anything to go by. Any signage it may have had was long since gone, however.

Landing on the gravelly surface, she cast her gaze back and forth. A squat heating unit sat in one corner, its low hum audible now that she was so close to it. Around it lay a section of clear roof, the snow melted away by the head radiating outwards. Across the rooftop, closer to the center, jutted a thick brick chimney, and Disjoint paused as the thought of clambering down it like some kind of demonic Santa passed through her head. It was ridiculous, but the humor broke some of the tension that had been gathering during her methodical exploration. Besides, judging by the slow wisps of smoke drifting out the top, climbing down would be an awkward proposition.

Past the chimney at the far end of the roof lay the maintenance access – a small square of concrete capped in a metal lid. The yellow and black safety paint around it was almost entirely faded, only showing as a few splotches of color. There was no exterior lock and she reached for the handle, exerting a fraction of strength. It didn't budge, and after a moment the realization hit that obviously there wouldn't be a lock on the outside, when there was nothing but inaccessible rooftop around. Regardless, the roof hatch remained the most likely candidate for getting in unnoticed.

The front door was unlocked, but the pair of men standing guard complicated things. Even if she surprised them there was no safe way to take them out of the picture. She knew from experience that knocking someone unconscious wasn't the harmless nap it was often portrayed as. A lack of consciousness was brought about by damaging the brain; it was dangerous at best and could prove fatal frightfully easily. She wasn't above violence, but to inflict that level of damage on two unpowered, suspected gang members wasn't the kind of hero she wanted to be. No, acting hastily wouldn't get her anywhere.

The door nestled in the alley was the other alternative, but it too offered significant downsides. Unlike the roof the alleyway was far closer to the entrance than she was willing to risk; a screech of metal there would be unmistakable. In the end, the rooftop still seemed like the best option.

Approaching the hatch again, she peered down at the gap between the lid and the metal lip surrounding it. The narrow crevice prevented her from seeing the latch directly, but logic dictated it would be centered on the plate, in line with the handle on the outside. Kneeling down and reaching forward she removed a single glove, wedging the tip of a fingernail between the two pieces of metal.

Pulling towards herself slowly, Disjoint watched as the outer section peeled forwards, surprisingly quiet for the amount of force being exerted on it. Only a quiet groan heralded the chunk of metal buckling, falling sideways onto the ground in front of her. Beneath it, gleaming in the early morning sun, was the shiny metal tab of the latch. Exactly where she had expected it to be.

Snapping the tab off was the work of a moment, and she was inside seconds later, pausing only to replace her glove. Beneath the hatch was darkness, which slowly resolved into a shadow-filled supply closet as sunlight managed to reach it for the first time in what was likely years.

A thick layer of dust covered every visible surface, motes filling the air and highlighting the sparse beams of light as they were disturbed by the rush of air. On the wall tall shelves loomed, covered in an assortment of supplies. Paint cans were the most common, stacked nearly to the low ceiling, but joining them were a mismatched jumble of other items. A spare section of ductwork, an old tool set, and dozens of boxes of screws littered the small room. On the far wall, the only clear spot was the outline of a wooden interior door. No light seeped through the cracks, a good sign.

The door was unsurprisingly locked as well, but its flimsy nature proved even less of a challenge than the roof hatch. She tore out a section of the wood-paneled door frame with a quiet crunch, the handful of splinters revealing that it was lacking even a metal locking plate, and the door freely inched towards her without ever touching the knob.

Disjoint hesitated, pausing silently in front of the door. Beyond her silence stretched outwards, encompassing the space past the door in a bubble. As far as she could tell, her invasion had gone unnoticed. A moment later she eased open the door, peering through the crack that formed and into the hallway beyond.

It was, surprisingly enough, completely and utterly empty.

The supply room door opened near one end of a long hallway, lit intermittently by dim overhead lighting encrusted in dust and grime. Faded carpet covered the floor completely, and interior doors dotted the length of the hallway in pairs. The dingy plaques beside them confirmed her original suspicion, that the building must have been a hotel at one point. Now it seemed to have been taken over by the local gangs.

There were two sets of stairwells, one located just beside the supply closet and another at the far end of the hall. Faded exit signs shined softly above them, casting a red glow all the more prominent for the weak hallway lighting. At the entrance to each stairwell was another series of closed doors, blocking her sight of the stairs themselves.

The entire floor looked abandoned, and Disjoint was tempted to keep moving downwards, but she wanted to be thorough. Approaching the first bedroom revealed that it wasn't even locked, and she swung the door open slowly to peer inside. Beyond lay a vacant room, the only noteworthy feature its utter emptiness. At some point in the past the space had been stripped bare, scavenged down to the carpet for furniture. It did make her search easier though.

The remainder of the rooms on the third floor were the same, containing nothing but dust and faded paint. Whatever use they had served was long past, abandoned along with the entire level. If she was lucky her goal would be found on the floor below, but it was more likely it would be at ground level, along with a heavy contingent of gang members. Perhaps not the most optimistic thought, but the dreary rooms didn't do much to encourage her mood.

Upon reaching the stairs at the end of the corridor she was met with the now-familiar sight of a closed door. Pushing through into the stairwell she could now hear the faint sound of voices below her. The echoes of the bare concrete made it hard to determine much about the speakers, but judging from how quiet they were the ground level was looking more and more likely. Regardless, it wouldn't do to miss anything out of impatience. Descending the flight of stairs slowly, she kept an eye further down until she ducked into the new hallway.

At first glance the corridor was a mirror image of the one above, but it lacked the signs of disuse that were so prevalent prior. Instead the carpet was actually relatively clean, and all of the lights were turned on. Evidently someone came through semi-regularly to clean the place up, though it was hard to picture the gang members wandering around with a vacuum. The quiet still enveloped the area, but now it was a fragile sort of silence, one that threatened to be broken should feet sound on the stairwell behind her.

The new rooms were obviously different, furniture sparse but still present. Working methodically down the hallway continued the trend of vacancies, now interspersed with the occasional personal object decorating the rooms. None of them contained much more variation than the color of the couches or curtains, but it was something.

As she traveled the length of the corridor she moved slower than before, ears searching for any advance warning of an incoming disturbance. Twice she paused as threads of conversation trickled up through the floor, but each time they died away naturally. The walk passed by far slower than on the floor above; she made sure to never lose track of the stairwell doors at either end for more than a moment.

She ended her search directly below the supply closet that had served as her original entrance, having doubled back the entire length of the building. The top two floors had failed to reveal anything of note, but there was still one to go. There would undoubtedly be gang members present though, which meant she would have to be as focused as possible.

Slipping into the stairwell once again teased her hearing with the faint trickle of sound. It was too faint to make out individual words, but by the cadence it didn't sound like English, so listening in wouldn't do her much good. Perhaps she should start learning other languages; she wasn't exactly lacking free time. Regardless, that was a thought for a less critical location.

Cracking the door at the ground floor saw a light stream through the gap, even more than the halls above. She held the door open a fraction with a thumb and peered through, taking in the room beyond.

In front of her the previous narrow corridors were missing, instead replaced by a wide lobby. Chairs and sofas littered one side of the room, gathered around a large television mounted high above. Across from her a large fireplace was set in the rear wall of the lobby, flames already roaring up the chimney. Past the bricks a smaller hallway beckoned, likely leading to what at some point had been the hotel's offices.

For the first time inside the building she caught sight of another person, a short head of hair peeking over the couch, facing away from her and at the television. The TV wasn't actually turned on, so either the man enjoyed staring at blank walls, or – more likely given the still-early time of day – was asleep. Regardless, judging by the noise there were quite a few people down the hallway who weren't. As if summoned by her thoughts one appeared around the corner, ambling towards the common room.

The man passed through her field of view, vanishing to the final side of the room that she couldn't see. A moment later the sound of running water was audible, along with a general rummaging. As the man returned to her sight she could see the difference, his arms now full of cheap cartons of fast food. That answered the question of what was over there, at least. Without a second glance the man disappeared back in the direction he had come.

From here onward it seemed that she would have to adjust her plan. So far she had gotten extraordinarily lucky that there hadn't been a single person wandering around upstairs. The empty third floor gave the impression that this location was less used now than in the past; perhaps the shifting gang territories had reduced the ABB presence in the area. Alternatively, a part of it may have been the early hour or simply the lack of significant things to keep an eye on above. Either way it was clear she had gotten as far as she could on stealth alone. Perhaps if her powers were different she could have waltzed right past the men and been in and out with nobody the wiser, but she was reaching the limit of her capabilities. Well, these particular capabilities.

She would simply have to focus on speed now, blitzing through the rooms before any kind of coherent response could form. Now that she had seen the floor plan above she felt more confident; there couldn't be that many rooms past the lobby. The building was big, but not that big. It would only take minutes to find whatever drugs or guns were stashed away, and then she would be long gone. The gang members were a secondary concern at best. If they tried to stop her she wouldn't hesitate to remove them, but chasing them down wasn't the goal.

Pushing forwards she finished opening the door in front of her, ignoring the hiss it gave as she darted through. She launched off the doorframe and shrugged off the influence of gravity, skimming across the lobby as a pale blur flashing through the background. As she approached the walls of the corridor she reached outwards, fingers tapping as she sailed past to add minute corrections to her trajectory down the hall. At the end she came to an instantaneous stop as her outstretched palm collided with the corner in front of her. The hall turned to the left for a short distance before returning straight again, and there was an empty doorway in the center of the far wall.

Speeding through the opening revealed a small office, filing cabinets stacked high and papers scattered throughout the room, almost completely covering the large wooden desk in the center. The documents may have been important, but she wouldn't know what to look for and didn't have the time. Instead, she made a mental note to grab a few on the way out if by some miracle she hadn't been detected.

A moment later she was back in the hallway, approaching the second corner. Peering around it, the hall continued for a short distance before turning again, back to the right as it formed a fishhook around the room she had just been in. The voices had grown louder and clearer, not in response to anything she had done but simply as the distance between them shrank. Judging by the volume they were still a little ways off, or perhaps inside one of the rooms further up.

Rounding the next corner revealed an unpleasant surprise. The voices may have been out of sight, but the two men silently standing part of the way down the hall clearly weren't. The three of them stared at each other in shock for a heartbeat before she broke the stalemate, tearing forwards towards the pair in a blur of action.

The shorter figure on the right got out the beginning half of a shout before her fist was buried in his gut, knocking the wind out of him and sending his wheezing form sliding down the hallway to crash against the wall at the end. His partner joined him a moment later as her other hand struck out in a mirror of the first, tumbling backwards to form a pile of limbs as the two collided.

Voices immediately rose in agitation from further down as the commotion echoed through the building, her stealth breaking at last. The longer she waited the more people would arrive, so she couldn't afford any more breaks to plan. Luckily the next course of action lay right before her.

The reason for the guards placement had become apparent when she reached the spot they had been standing – recessed into the wall a foot or so was a thick steel door. Unlike the wooden ones that made up the rest of the interior this looked like it would have been more at home on a ship. Thick rivets ran down one edge, and even the frame was reinforced with steel.

A small smile worked its way onto her face as she paused for a second to take it in. Beyond the obvious security benefits it was clearly meant to look imposing, but whoever had lugged that door here might as well have placed a giant bullseye on it while they were at it; the dramatic security was practically shouting at her that this was her destination. Extending an arm she pressed down on the handle, only mildly amused when it snapped immediately, refusing to open. It was a good design choice, to break at the handle instead of the locking mechanism, but not good enough.

Her fingers flexed, tearing into the steel with casual ease as the squeal of tortured metal filled the hallway. Pulling back she discarded a handful of twisted scrap, the remains of the lock, and wretched open the door, spinning quickly to slam it shut behind her. Only then did she look up, and her smile froze on her face.

To tell the truth she hadn't really considered what exactly she would find inside the gang house. Weapons had seemed like the obvious answer, or perhaps drugs or even cartoonish piles of money. Guns would have been ideal; they were easy to twist into useless garbage and she could even leave the scraps at the scene. For the other two she would have had to scatter or destroy them in some way, but it still wouldn't have been that complicated.

Instead, the last traces of humor vanished as she was struck into a terrible silence, taking in the room. Intellectually she had known the gangs were a plague on the city, but a week of failing to encounter even a mugging had lowered her guard. Even after New Wave's heated condemnation the knowledge of their evils had stayed surface-level, but now she felt it sink in as a wave of fury rose up to meet it.

Bedrolls were scattered across the open space, covering the floor in a sea of ragged fabric. Piles of clothing lay tossed about haphazardly, and along the far edges of the room exhausted figures huddled miserably, shying away from her violent entrance. Malnourished and bruised, the women looked anywhere but directly at her, trying valiantly to vanish into the background and remain unnoticed. Approaching, she almost missed a step when she caught sight of one of the girls in the back who couldn't have been more than thirteen. A faint scraping rose into her hearing, and it took a moment to realize that it was her own teeth, grinding together with pulverizing force.

She would get every last one of them free, and the first step was to secure the exit. Any ounce of hesitation had been crushed in a vice; restraint fleeing as buried recollections of violence lent their weight once again.

Spinning in place she strode coldly towards the door, footsteps heralding a countdown that fell on deaf ears. She could hear voices shouting loudly but indistinctly just on the other side, a call to action partially muffled by the thick door. Staring at it, her thoughts crystallized in jagged points, and she raised a single boot.

The titanic piece of metal was torn from its anchor with the sound of a cannon firing, blasting through the room full of papers and back towards the lobby in a twisted mass. It jackknifed as she drove it forwards, folding in half around the impact of her foot as the structural integrity failed in the face of such an overwhelming assault. In the wake a beat of utter silence descended, followed by absolute pandemonium.

Standing in the now-empty doorway she stared at the crowd that had formed in the hall. As the quiet broke they were spurred into action, the closest ones throwing themselves away in an instinctive scrabble for survival, subconsciously recognizing the danger before their minds had caught up. Behind them, a few of the dumber or braver gang members opened fire, brandishing a disorganized collection of pistols and sending a hail of lead towards her.

Brushing aside the gunfire with contemptuous ease she darted forwards, ears overwhelmed by the torrent of noise. Fortunately the horizontal rain of bullets started further down the hall, the rounds that missed continuing into the far wall instead of the room behind her. She aimed herself towards them, rushing to silence the gunfire before a stray round ricocheted somewhere unfortunate.

The slightest of concessions kept her from tearing their heads clean off their shoulders, settling for bowling through them like a train and launching bodies with a crunch of breaking bone. Directly in front of her she caught the wide eyes of a terrified gun-wielder, her own narrowing in anger as she saw his gaze flicker to the now-empty doorway behind her. In response her hand closed around his throat, lifting him bodily off the floor and tossing him through the gaping hole in the wall she had made a moment prior. Sailing through the air he spun through the shattered remains of the fireplace, dashing burning wood and embers across the carpet.

As smoke began to billow through the lobby the last few upright gang members fled, common sense prevailing long enough to carry them as far away as possible. Disjoint watched them leave, torn, before returning to the room she had just left. The captives were the priority, and now that the coast was clear it was time to go. Before the building burnt down around them.

Upon reentering the room she slowed, moving softly towards the confused and terrified women. Hopefully at least one of them spoke English; it would make this a little bit easier. But even as she went to open her mouth one of the captives looked up, holding her hands to her own ears and wincing.

Ah, of course. The door and gunfire had been loud to her, but didn't leave any permanent marks. For these ordinary people, that torrent of sound in such a confined space would be deafening. Even if any of them could speak English, they wouldn't be able to hear a thing for minutes at least.

Instead she beckoned towards the door, trying to appear as gentle and non-threatening as possible. Even as terrified as they were she could see the spark of hope ignite as the bolder among them stood, hobbling on stiff legs to the entryway. When Disjoint made no move to stop her another rose, followed by a few more, until the whole dozen-plus crowd were on their feet.

Peering down the hallway to verify it was still empty, Disjoint ushered them out of the room, away from the rapidly-spreading fire consuming one end of the building. A few limp forms lay scattered in the dust, and she watched silently as a smattering of furious kicks lashed out at the prone figures. At the end of the hallway the exit sign glared through the expanding layer of smoke, and her hand pushed through the locked door, chain snapping and sending thick links rattling through the handle and onto the ground.

The small crowd piled through the doors, blinking and shivering in the cold winter air. She herded them forwards and away from the building, clearing the street to gather on the opposite sidewalk. Only once the last members had rejoined the crowd did she turn back towards the hotel currently engulfed in flames. Her mind returned to the gang members they had passed on the way out, lying half-conscious in the hallway besides the exit. A moment later she deliberately discarded the thought, face motionless as she watched the fire burn higher.

~~~~ ~~~~

Around the edges of her vision she could see furtive movement, the single-minded purpose of the crowd dispersing now that they had escaped the building. A handful of figures were taking the opportunity to slip away, darting into the alleys and streets behind her. Hopefully they had friends or family in the city to return to; she couldn't blame them for wanting to leave as soon as possible. Still, the remaining ten-odd women seemed content to wait with her, or perhaps they were just too overwhelmed to do anything else at the moment.

None of them had come forward to talk to her, for which a part of her was grateful. Freeing them had been easy, but she didn't even know where to begin when it came to figuring out where to go from there. Luckily she wouldn't have to wait much longer. At the edge of the street a red figure blurred into view before coming to a halt, still a half-block away. Another blur and he was besides her, staring in confusion at her cloaked figure and the impromptu gathering.

She was relieved to see the hero, not sure if they would have bothered to send anyone after her admittedly terse call to the PRT a few minutes prior. Apparently they had, and Velocity was either already nearby or simply fast enough to get there first.

The Protectorate hero looked at her, following her gaze as it landed on the small group of destitute-looking women, and his face hardened. Stepping forward he called out haltingly in a foreign language, presumably Chinese. A few faces brightened, and the previously quiet conversation grew to a babble of words, none of which she recognized. Velocity looked quite overwhelmed as well, but apparently caught enough of the words to get the gist; she could tell when his expression grew to match hers, hard and flat.

Another minute of dialogue passed by, the hero asking intermittent questions and a couple of the more vocal women chiming in to answer him. Finally he stopped and left the group, picking his way back over to her.

"Disjoint? I'm Velocity. I wish we could have met under better circumstances," the hero spoke. He looked grim, eyes roving between herself, the crowd, and the building cheerfully burning further down the street. A few minutes prior she and the women had been forced to move further away as the flames roared hotter, the building well and truly lost.

"I think I got the summary from the civilians over there, but can you tell me what happened?" The hero seemed to be asking in order for her to elaborate rather than out of doubt, and she didn't blame him for following procedure.

"I investigated the hotel. I found those women in there, and then I got them out." It wasn't the most polite or helpful summary she could have given, and she felt bad immediately after speaking, but just thinking back stoked the anger that had been coursing through her since discovering what was behind the door. Velocity, understandingly, waited a moment and she continued talking.

"Sorry. I'd been watching the building for the past few days – knew it was a spot the gangs were using but thought it was weapons, or drugs, or… something else. So I went in, made it to the vault in the middle, only to find…" she trailed off, glancing at the group behind her and Velocity nodded.

"What happened to the gang members inside?" the hero ventured calmly, staring at her and she met his eyes without hesitation.

"Some of them fled, I guess. Once I cleared a path I escorted the women out before the flames grew any worse, and then…" She gestured broadly at the inferno. A stab of vengeful satisfaction went through her at the sight, and perhaps more importantly she failed to feel anything else. There was no regret, staring at the pillar of red and orange.

"Did you start the fire?" he asked quietly, and she was mildly surprised at his boldness.

"No, I didn't. There was a fireplace inside, already lit. It spread during the fighting. But I'm not sad to see the building go," she stated, perhaps harsher than intended.

"I am," Velocity said slowly, and she twitched, taking a closer look at his face. The grim tightness from before was still there, but there was something else as well, something somber beneath the surface.

"You're a new hero, aren't you?" he continued, and she nodded a second later, curious where he was going. If he was trying to give her a speech on property damage after what she had just seen she was going to leave, paperwork and protocol be damned.

"Do you know what this is?" Velocity waved his arm at the burning building even as the familiar-growing sound of sirens edged into the background of her hearing. She forced herself to wait another moment, to let him finish his thought before she stormed off in disgust. Instead, her head cocked to the side as his next words registered, departing from the assumed script.

"This right here? It's simple. It's clean. It's the easy way out. And as a hero, it's everything you need to avoid."

He continued, noticing her abrupt attention, "Being a hero is… complicated. I'm sure you've seen that much already. You're supposed to be a soldier, fighting off the gangs. You're supposed to be a rescue worker, saving people in need. The media divides it up cleanly, heroes and villains. Good and bad. A 'hero' is shown as some combinations of roles, wearing a different hat for each occasion. But they're wrong. A hero is about helping people.

"Being a hero isn't about doing the right thing when it's easy. It's not about helping those who deserve it. It's about doing the right thing every time. It's helping everyone, even the ones who might not necessarily deserve it. Even the ones who you know don't." His words fell on a metronome beat as he stared at her expressionless mask. Finally he broke away, looking back towards the blazing hotel.

"It's never easy, no matter what you stumble upon. You got a bad one, and I only wish one of us had been here to do it instead. The gangs are rotten, and there's no easy answer. At least, no correct one." Beckoning, he turned and began making his way towards the flames at a slow pace.

"Let's get the area clear, I can hear the trucks getting closer," he spoke, and Disjoint found herself staring at his back, turning his words over methodically in her mind. Even after his brusque words she failed to find a shred of regret, but neither could she disagree with what he had said. The dissonance sparked in her thoughts, and a moment later she followed after him, still turning it over and over in her head.

Chapter Text

Disjoint joined Velocity at the scene, going through the motions absentmindedly as she pondered his words. They were full of strength; he didn't seem to be saying them out of some token effort or rattling off a prepared script. The sincerity only served to fuel the anger and confusion that coursed through her. He had been so emphatic about the undeserving, about giving them a chance, and it wasn't until she had fully formed the sentence in her head that she realized why she was so fixated on it.

Velocity's lack of condemnation against the gang members that had infuriated her so badly was exactly what she had hoped for with regards to her own eventual reveal, so why was she so against it? Even now her mind hadn't changed – she still felt an utter absence of guilt in the wake of the gang member's fates. And yet her own hypocrisy had been dragged out by Velocity's words.

Why had she been so quick to condemn them to their fate inside that building when a decade's worth of horror and blood had built up beneath her fingernails? As transient as they felt, the echos were still there; she knew full well what her striped visage had inspired. She sought to convince the world, convince herself that she wasn't that figure of terror. Despite that, she hadn't hesitated to pass down her own personal, final judgement.

In the end, now that she had been brought face to face with it, she simply hadn't been acting the way the Protectorate hero was so emphatic to describe. It was a painful ache, the feeling of failure as she scrutinized her own beliefs. In the wake of the realization was a sort of emptiness, the soft notion that she had noticed something too late and could now only watch it pass by, unable to take a single step forward. At the conclusion of that thought lay the shadowed nightmare that plagued her – the fear of rejection. That when her true nature was revealed, terror and hatred would be the only response.

She was broken out of her reverie by Velocity's urging – the PRT van had arrived as the ambulances were departing. In the background the fire still raged, the rescue crews focused on preventing its spread more than any vain hope at dousing the prodigious flames. The report was given in a blur; she spent most of the time eyeing the other hero from the corner of her vision. It wasn't until after they were done that she caught up to him, pulling him aside as he began moving away back down the street.

"Velocity… About what you said earlier. When it comes to those who you know don't deserve it." Her voice was faint as she struggled to give voice to her thoughts. "How do you… How can you give them another chance, knowing they'll be back on the street, sooner or later, taking advantage of your trust?" The hero turned to her, pausing in his walk.

"The only thing I give them is an opportunity. Most of them ignore it, serving their time and learning nothing, or being packed away knowing they'll spend the rest of their lives behind bars. But every once a long while, one of them will realize. They'll come to recognize what they did, and emerge a better person. I wish there were more, that it wasn't such a bare fraction, but I will still give every one of them that opportunity."

"Even after seeing the victims?" she said, casting her mind back to the speech he had given minutes prior. She wanted to know more, know how he could hold his beliefs. "You spoke to them – you know what they went through probably even more than I do."

At her question Velocity's face twisted again, the same flash of sadness that had appeared earlier. This time when he spoke the calm surety was missing, quiet words flowing out slowly, painfully.

"It's easy for me to talk about what's right. Familiar, even. I've given some variation of that speech a dozen times, and heard it a dozen more. It's simple to fall back into the familiar rhythm.

"It's harder to follow through, to keep your word," the hero continued. By his side one hand flexed, picking at the tight fabric of his outfit. Compared to the composure he had demonstrated previously, it was practically a shout.

"Even after seeing what they've done, I have to believe in that tiny chance. The alternative – that there's no way back, that they'll never see the truth of the evil they've done – it's too terrible to consider." The depression was evident in his voice, as was the discomfort, and she could only nod in acquiescence.

"It was nice to meet you, Velocity." Disjoint broke away from the conversation stiffly, seeing the hint of relief as she moved past his words. "I'll… think about what you said."

She turned, picking up speed awkwardly to escape the scene as she departed for home. Behind her, the solitary hero stood alone in the middle of the quiet street.

~~~~ ~~~~

Quickly entering her apartment Disjoint made her way through the front door, spinning to press it shut and lock it as she did so. The windows were obscured; she had closed the curtains before she left, leaving the room in muted darkness. The solitary couch in the living room beckoned, and she approached, tossing aside gloves and boots before stretching out and staring at the ceiling in silence.

The day had barely even started, and she already felt crushed. The weight was oppressive, and lying unmoving on the cushions she exhaled slowly, a useless but comforting repetition. Beneath her the soft furniture offered no comfort; her unfeeling skin stripped away even that small luxury. Motivation had drained away in a titanic whirlpool, leaving behind an empty expanse that sat unfulfilled. Instead, distractions cluttered her head. Velocity's words echoed, now a backdrop to the conflict between what she felt was right, and the glaring hypocrisy that sat in the center of her actions.

Around her the darkness coiled, choking and constricting as the walls vanished into its murky depths. She had never before been afraid of the dark, but the visceral unpleasantness that rippled through the room was enough to prompt a fumbling stretch behind her head for the nearby lamp. The soft click that followed suffused the room with a pale but comforting glow.

The problem that lurked in the depths was a paralysis of indecision. It was a new feeling; until now she had faced concerns over what to do, but never this level of doubt. Now that the realization had struck, she couldn't move forward without addressing it, one way or another. Intellectually and idealistically she needed to change how to act, without following the instincts that had led her this far. Unfortunately, it was far easier said than done. Habit and her own convictions raged opposite, deep-seated and encompassing. That kind of shift was a monumental task, and each and every time she tried to quantify it, to lay down rules, it slipped away. A hundred little details fought a thousand loopholes, exceptions, and excuses, and were overwhelmed.

Time slipped by as she lay there distracted, mind drifting into tangents and edging away from the concerns that she had pushed so hard to fix. Even her usual escape, disappearing into the city streets, was unavailable to her. She couldn't trust herself, afraid of running into another situation where she would make the wrong move. Instead she was trapped in a paper-thin prison, too scared to break free.

It wasn't until a softly-blinking light next to her discarded gear caught her eye that she broke out of the futile spiral. In the corner of the room sat the sturdy phone issued to her by the PRT. Within its silicon depths lay a small thread of hope – Battery's phone number sitting innocuously and in solitude within her list of contacts.

The hero had made the offer to talk when she had handed it over, perhaps in formality but seeming sincere at the time. Disjoint didn't know if she would have the answers she was looking for, but that wasn't much of a concern. At the very least, it offered a break from the incessant repetition she found herself mired in. She needed to get out, to move, and a patrol with the woman offered just that.

Excited fingers found the contact entry quickly, and she dialed eagerly. It rang once, twice, before she heard Battery's voice on the other end, warm tones carrying through even over the tinny connection.

"Hello? Disjoint? How are you doing?" the hero spoke happily, and Disjoint found herself already grateful for making the call. Even after a single meeting she had formed a positive impression of Battery; she was openly earnest without losing her professionalism, holding a level of confidence that Disjoint envied.

"Hey Battery," she replied, pausing as she tried to get her thoughts in order. "I was wondering if you had some time to meet and talk soon…"

~~~~ ~~~~

The two heroes walked side by side down the street, picking their way carefully around piles of snow and ice. The plows had come through recently, leaving waist-high mounds dotting the edges of the road and spilling over onto the sidewalks. Luckily it didn't completely block the path, and the pair crunched over and around the stiff winter mix, adding a steady line of footsteps to the numerous marks around them.

Battery was quiet, eyes flicking to the ground as they strode over a particularly treacherous patch of ice but otherwise looking forwards. Beside her, Disjoint tried to dredge up the right words, unsure of how to start the conversation. Finally, she spoke.

"I met Velocity this morning…" she began, hesitating before forging onward. "He talked about some things while we waited for the PRT. About helping people. About helping everyone, I guess."

Disjoint wasn't sure exactly what she wanted to ask the other hero. Was there something wrong with her own morals, that she felt no grief over the deaths of those gang members? Was Velocity wrong in his assertion? What should she do, next time she was faced with a similar problem? Most of all, could she bring herself to help those she despised? Should she? The confusing tangle of questions were twisted together in a knot, unwilling to be eased apart.

"I heard about what happened from Velocity earlier today," the Protectorate hero replied. "Are you alright? The report says there were shots fired. I know you're tough, but please, let us know if you get hurt," she continued, concern evident in her voice.

Disjoint blinked in bemusement at the woman's tone. Her physical well-being was such a non-issue it didn't even cross her mind, but obviously nobody else knew exactly how strong she really was. It was comforting, not just to see her disguise working but to hear the sincerity in Battery's tone. Such a little thing, but it meant the world.

"Thank you. I'm okay," she reassured the hero. "Well, unhurt. That's kind of why I wanted to talk." The next sentence came out slower as she forced the words to fit together. "I assume you've gotten his speech, about how heroes are supposed to help everyone?" Battery nodded with a wry smile, and she continued.

"I… don't know how he does it. I don't know if I can do it, but I don't want to be the kind of person that can't," she finished quietly.

In the silence afterwards only the soft crunch of compacting snow could be heard, a quiet rhythm that had continued unabated through the length of their walk. Disjoint gazed down at her feet and let herself grow distracted by it as she waited for the other hero to speak.

"I think you've got the hardest part out of the way," Battery finally said, and Disjoint kept silent, listening to the words as they floated out. "If you can see that there's a way to improve – something you want to change – just being willing is already the first step. Nothing about it is easy, but getting started is the most important part.

"Velocity isn't wrong, but his views are… stronger than most. He came to the Protectorate from the army. Joined to help people, but he didn't find what he was looking for. Whatever it was though, it left him burnt out. I think this is his way of trying to balance the scales, for him to create whatever it was that he couldn't find.

"In the Protectorate, well, we don't want casualties. Heroes and civilians most of all, but villains too. We're supposed to be about culpability: fair trials and the rule of law. About keeping villains safely locked away. It's why I joined, after all," and Battery paused to flash her a smile of pride.

"In the end, though, sometimes there aren't any other options. You'd be hard pressed to find another hero around here with as strict a view as Velocity; the truth is that you get worn down. Dealing with villains so frequently – seeing the worst of the city day after day – it's exhausting. It makes people angry, disillusioned, bitter.

"Despite that, we all need to stay strong. Focus on the good, and keep working to be better. Don't feel like you've failed, for seeing something that could be improved. As long as you strive to surpass your old self, you're on the right track. Being a hero isn't just about what you're doing, it's about what you want to do. As long as you want to help, you're in the right place."

Battery finished speaking, trailing to a stop with a bit of an embarrassed look at her own impassioned speech. Disjoint joined her, moving idly to the side and out of the middle of the path.

The Protectorate hero's words had flowed over her in a wave, straightening her thoughts in its current. They unfurled easier now, and she could give voice to the notions that she had been unable to say before.

"What about the ones I don't want to help?" she admitted haltingly, watching and waiting for Battery to shy away in aversion. Instead the reaction never came, judgement abstained as the woman let her continue at her own pace. The admission left her unsteady, but she didn't stop.

"I see them, and all I want is for them to be punished," Disjoint professed. There was an additional clarity that came with her words, as if speaking them aloud had revealed the truth to both of them. On the heels of her revelation came Battery's response, the same encouraging tone that hadn't faltered in the wake of her disclosure.

"It's not wrong, to want them to face the consequences of their actions. But you can't do it yourself. Let them face the judges; we both know where they'll fall. I believe that when the time comes, you can step back and give them the ending they deserve, not just the one that feels right."

The vote of confidence was a warm thing, filling her with comfort when she hadn't been able to find any before. It was easier to see now in hindsight, how hard she had been on herself. She needed to look at her failure and see where it offered the chance to grow, past the sense of grasping futility that was so prevalent before. Now she had a place to begin, and like Battery had said, that was the most important part.

Chapter Text

The van rumbled noisily down the highway, the dull drone of the engine rising and falling it climbed the rolling hills of the New Hampshire countryside. Following behind, its twin accompanied it down the empty roads, the matching purple stripes standing out bright behind the official lettering.

In the rear of the van, hard metal benches stretched the length of the windowless sides, liberally adorned with safety harnesses to prevent passengers from being tossed about. None of them were in use at the moment; instead the space was filled with two squads of PRT officers, the ten men spread out amidst piles of their equipment. They had left Boston an hour and a half prior, and were idly checking gear or catching a few minutes of sleep before they were due to arrive.

Agent Clarke sat hunched over near the rear doors of the transport, papers spread precariously across his knees. As the corporal of his squad he would be directing the upcoming field expedition; the documents in front of him detailed what little information the department possessed.

Overall, it wasn’t much. A report had been filed the previous afternoon – a call to the local police, forwarded up the line to the Boston PRT. The caller had described an ominous white fog, filling the small valley he had been traveling through on a detour to get home. He had shown the rare sense to turn around immediately and report it, and the first investigative team had been dispatched that evening. Evidently they had deemed the surroundings safe enough to move to the next stage, and so his squad and the three others in their convoy were headed to the site.

It was unclear what exactly they would be expecting. There had only been resources for a single flyby that morning to judge the size of the cloud. The dense formation was clearly artificial, but it obscured any sight of the forest below. On the positive side it didn’t seem to be expanding; if anything, reports were trickling in that the edges were retreating slowly. Regardless, it stretched over a mile down the bottom of the valley, stubbornly clinging in place long after any regular fog would have been burnt away.

The goal of this upcoming expedition was to solve the glaring lack of information that surrounded the anomaly. The higher-ups had been clear on that front; the primary goal was to get in and get out quickly and safely. The resources of the Boston PRT might be divided amongst a number of tasks, but they could bring down the hammer should the need arise.

Until that need was found, however, they would be on their own.

Inside the van, the mood was more strained than it should have been for a reconnaissance mission. The cloud itself was relatively innocuous, but the Slaughterhouse Nine had last been identified only a few weeks ago, moving towards the Northeast. Nobody wanted to voice their suspicions aloud, but the nagging suspicion hung heavily over the group. 

Clarke busied himself back in the folders, flipping through a detailed map of the position they would be embarking from. Visibility was reportedly awful in the fog, so it was best for him to get familiar with the area as much as possible beforehand.

~~~~ ~~~~

The vans’ engines died with a cough as they pulled to a stop in front of an unadorned beige tent, the central location for the impromptu field command that had sprung up in response to the call. On one side a generator rhythmically chugged away, thick black cables snaking out the back to disappear underneath the canvas wall. Perimeter lights dotted the area a few dozen meters away, splayed outwards towards the opaque wall of mist that began another hundred meters further down.

Additional cables stretched out across the grassy clearing towards a second tent, this one braced with thick metal poles and surrounded in a double-layered wall. Strips of long plastic hung in the entryway, partially isolating the field laboratory from the outside. As Clarke and his squad began unloading and gearing up, motion stirred between the two tents, a lab technician striding towards the command post with papers clutched in one hand. The bald man spared a brief nod towards the new arrivals before continuing inwards, ducking under the entry flap and out of sight.

The technician hadn’t appeared too hurried, which was always a good sign. In his experience no news was the best kind of news; anything that got the lab boys excited usually resulted in trouble for the men and women sent to deal with it. If his team could get in and out without encountering anything out of the ordinary he would consider the expedition a rousing success.

On the other hand, excitement was still on the positive side of the spectrum when it came to some of the situations the PRT regularly found themselves in. One of his former teammates had likened the eccentric technicians to a bomb squad: when they started running, it was time to move. If you couldn’t, you had best hope that you were in a secure position.

Tangent aside, he had known ahead of time that there wouldn’t be any glaring problems on arrival. The mission wouldn’t have been cleared until the first tests had been completed, and the lack of information in the briefing was almost a relief in that regard. If there had been anything glaringly dangerous, it would have been discovered and highlighted in the report. It didn’t rule out problems further in, but it was reassuring nonetheless.

Checking in on the rest of his squad-mates revealed they were almost finished shrugging on the final pieces of gear that had been set aside during the long ride. Body armor was many things, but comfortable wasn’t one of them. Each man carried his service pistol and rifle, and two per squad were equipped with the PRT’s iconic containment foam launchers strapped tightly across their backs.

Clarke left them to finish, continuing forwards to the command tent and moving past the bored officer standing guard outside. The man must have been part of the first group; it was likely he hadn’t done anything but secure the site and keep an eye on the tents since then. Clarke didn’t envy the position; with any luck the unlucky officer would be freed up once they finished the expedition.

Inside, tables, desks, and chairs cluttering the decently-sized room. The two side walls were papered with printed maps and scribbled notes, while against the back wall laptops rested beneath a modest monitor mounted to a tall stand, stretching almost to the ceiling. Overhead, fluorescent bulbs dangled from hanging straps, cables taped flat and running down to the floor. In the middle a narrow aisle left barely enough room to maneuver down, and at the far end of the room was the bald technician he had seen a minute prior, speaking to another figure sitting next to a satellite phone.

As he approached the pair turned, welcoming him into the conversation.

Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t much information to be revealed. The area was safe, as far as any tests so far had shown. Over the past night the makeshift lab had been busy analyzing the white fog, subjecting it to a battery of tests, both mundane and tinker-designed. The group of techs had found the chemical substance fascinating, or so he gathered, but the important result was that for all its complicated structure it was an incredible sterilizing agent. Short-term exposure wasn’t a concern, and he tuned out a good portion of the remaining speech, letting the man before him ramble about the potential applications. It wasn’t until his second-in-command peered into the tent that he excused himself, exiting to face his full team. Final preparations had been completed, and with professional calm they moved towards the treeline at a brisk march.

Whether by happenstance or due to the sporadic winds, the bank of chemical fog had drifted to a stop just inside the edges of the woods. Within, towering pine trees crowded together, ice-coated needles overlapping to create a dense canopy even in the heart of winter. The pale white trunks of scattered birch trees broke up the dark pillars, peeling bark fading in and out of view. Alone the forest would have been intimidating; the addition of the thick fog lent it an unearthly air.

To call the path in front of Clarke and his team a road was generous. Twin dirt tracks peered out from the icy ground intermittently, splotches of uneven ground where the ice had partially melted. The only real difference between it and the rest of the forest was the lack of trees, but even that provided little aid. High above, branches twisted together like grasping fingers, forming a shroud that kept the road in the same gloomy twilight as the rest of the forest.

At Clarke’s prompting gesture the team split, each squad moving quietly and smoothly to spread out on either side of the rode. The four groups fell into a rough line, innermost two at the edges of the road while the outer teams trudged deeper into the woods. They didn’t stray far – maintaining line of sight in the current conditions limited their travel to only twenty or thirty meters further.

As the officers entered the darkened fog sound faded away, the wind failing to pierce the thick canopy. In its wake the silence echoed outwards, devouring the muffled footsteps before they could spread. The small sounds of movement were all that remained, a gentle shuffling of cloth that remained caught around each officer. The world seemed to shrink inwards, forming a moving oasis bordered by indistinct walls. Amongst the PRT, hands tightened around their weapons as fingers bounced anxiously on the sides of trigger guards.

The careful trek into the looming forest was interrupted minutes in. Ahead of the rightmost squad a low groan echoed out, loud enough to be clearly heard but impossible to pinpoint amidst the clouded vista. The two teams alongside the road moved forwards first as Clarke gestured to form a wedge, taking advantage of the comparatively easier path in the center.

The noise continued unabated as all four squads drew closer, an incessant creaking that grew in intensity moment by moment. Clarke could hear his pulse hammering in his ears, strained breath fogging the lower edges of his mask. It wasn’t until they had moved almost a full hundred meters further through the fog that their crawling pace stopped abruptly.

Ahead of the officers a dozen rapid-fire cracks rang out, resounding through the air, and they threw themselves to the ground, raising rifles as they peered desperately ahead. Before they could surge forward the mist churned and seethed in a giant whirl as the indistinct form of one of the titanic evergreens toppled slowly with a rumble. Brittle, ice-coated branches that stood in the way were obliterated with the same splintering cracks of wood that had echoed out previously. Even as his heartbeat jumped at the noise Clarke heard the muffled swear of his teammate next to him, exhaling in a rush.

As the adrenaline drained away squad members slowly regained their footing, the crackle of the radio sounding the all clear from each squad. The two central groups maintained position as the line reformed. With the thickening fog it didn’t stretch as wide as before, and nobody seemed in a hurry to remedy that.

Resuming movement towards the collapsed tree revealed an unpleasant surprise as the prone silhouette came into view. The splintered base stood out from the rest of the thick trunk, and surrounding the jagged and crushed mess a sickening substance glistened against the bark. Pale tendrils of discoloration wrapped upwards along the tree, the affected areas dripping like wax that had been softened and then re-hardened out of place.

Peering into the dimness beyond the fallen tree, Clarke took in the surrounding woods. From his current position onward, an invisible something had drifted through the base of the undergrowth. The smallest bits of foliage were dissolved completely, not that there had been that much to begin with in the dead of winter. However, the contamination didn’t stop there. Numerous low-hanging branches bore the same marks as the trunk in front of him, exaggerated to a frightening degree. Finally, a few of the larger pieces of wood suffered an identical affliction. At the moment the changes were intermittent, but he had an unfortunate suspicion about what lay ahead. Right now they were only on the outer edge; it would undoubtedly be worse the closer they got to whatever caused such unsettling phenomenon.

The unplanned stop didn’t last long, officers taking extra care to avoid the largest concentrations of twisted plant life as they continued forwards. The task grew more and more difficult as they progressed, clumps of strange and disturbing substance dotting the increasingly-eerie landscape. Off in the distance occasional splintering cracks could be heard, the sound reflecting around them without any discernible source.

Not far after the first sighting of contamination Clarke’s fears were confirmed, as the changes grew larger and more numerous. Most of the trees were still standing, but many were pitched in unsettling angles, sections of trunk making abrupt twists and turns up the length of the tree. The healthy trees were beginning to be outnumbered, and the pale sickness was joined by new infections: bubbles frozen in time atop the greatest concentrations of melted areas. It was impossible to tell if it was a separate issue or the next stage of what he had seen before. On the positive side, it was completely unmoving. Peering closer at the bubbles revealed one frozen in the process of popping, leaving a dimpled crater in the slurry beneath it. Even his amateur knowledge of chemistry indicated that whatever reaction had been ongoing didn’t seem to be active any longer.

Speaking curtly into the radio, he relayed a description of the unfamiliar changes back to the command tent. Shortly after he began the technician that he had spoken to before joined as well, prompting him to slow down as the sounds of hurried note-taking scratched by in the background. A minute passed after he finished, murmurs barely audible before the commander spoke again, bidding him to continue. Evidently something in his description had satisfied the technician.

Unfortunately, the good news failed to offset the growing tightness that gripped the team as they moved through the trees. Whoever was responsible for the perversion twisting through the woods had yet to be found. Nothing about the environment around them helped – the dwindling lines of sight were a tactician’s nightmare. They could be walking directly into an ambush and have no idea until the officers were practically on top of it.

His thoughts were interrupted by an unfamiliar sensation traveling through his sturdy boots as Clarke took another step forward. Until now there had been nothing but the occasional branch buried under the snow and ice at the edge of the road, but beneath his feet something had given way with a crisp crack, higher and lighter than the familiar sound of breaking wood. Waving for a halt, he glanced back and forth to confirm his squad mates were in position, before taking his eyes off the murky path ahead. Kneeling down, the packed snow at the bottom of his boot print revealed a flat shimmer as he dug through it. His hand rose with a razor-sharp shard of glass gripped precariously between gloved fingers.

The clearly artificial material was out of place amidst the dark forest and he paused, eyes roaming the forest floor. Now that he knew what to look for, scattered shards of glass peeked out intermittently from the snowy ground, the subtle reflections slightly different than the blank white backdrop. Unlike the ever-present organic growths the sharp fragments were clustered roughly ahead of him and slightly off the road. His eyes followed the vague path to the base of a large birch tree, bare branches weaving between the white, ice-coated pine needles before they vanished into the mist above. It was difficult to see any details, but as the mist swelled and faded Clarke could barely make out a lump high up in the branches. Slipping his finger around the trigger of his rifle, he raised the scope to his face.

It took an effort of will not to fire as details swam into view. Sightless eyes started back into his own, surrounded by frozen black flesh. The discoloration was severe enough that he couldn’t identify the body until the edges of a glass-coated dress shifted into view.

Would you look at that, he thought with vengeful satisfaction. Sprawled amidst the treetops lay Shatterbird, limbs splayed outwards and harshly broken against the unyielding tree. The presence of a dead member of the Nine only raised the stakes further, but it did nothing to dispel the vicious warmth that filled him. The middle-eastern woman had been the herald of the Nine for years, her city-wide destruction often announcing their presence in a terrifying display. The enormous number of casualties inflicted had cemented her place as one of the most dangerous members.

Her death did change things, however. Clarke’s previous assumption had the Nine stopping in place to terrorize one of the scattered homesteads or cabins dotting the region, out of sight of the main towns. Instead, Shatterbird’s corpse indicated something greater. Turnover amongst the murderous team was high; the body in front of him could be the mark of a new terror joining the ranks. Alternatively, a particularly brave or dumb cape might have tried their hand at culling the members themselves. He didn’t fancy their chances, but he’d raise a drink to their memory when he got back to base.

In the meantime, it still fell to him and his squad to figure out exactly what had happened. They wouldn’t get any answers from Shatterbird’s silent form, not that she would have been inclined to help had she been alive. Continuing further remained the clearest course of action, as unsettling as it was.

“Command, we have confirmation on the Nine. Eyes on Shatterbird’s body.”

He could practically feel the commander sit up straighter in the chair through the radio as his words registered. 

“Acknowledged. Continue forward but do not engage. If you see movement, you are to retreat immediately. I’m putting out the call, the Protectorate will be on standby. I repeat, do not engage,” the other man finished. Around him, nods passed back and forth as the officers took in the instructions.

The twisted and tortured plant life surrounding the team took on an increasingly sinister feel, knowing now that the Slaughterhouse Nine had been in the area. As if in response to their heightened attention the contamination worsened rapidly as the PRT officers trudged cautiously forward. Black fingers of ashy residue began to supplant the previous markings, spreading into the snow at the base of the trees in a dark stain. Branches lay thickly on the ground, dissolving into the same inky dust at the slightest touch. Disturbingly, the ash failed to mix with the snow in the slightest, flakes tumbling across the wet surface without sticking.

Ahead of his five-man squad, Clarke could make out a soft lightening of the mist, so faint that it took almost a full minute before he convinced himself that he wasn’t imagining it. There had been a solitary cabin marked on the map he’d reviewed before the mission; the change in lighting should be the clearing around the house. If that was the case they were moving slightly slower than he’d estimated. Regardless, the difference wasn’t enough to be significant.

He gestured for his squad and the other road-adjacent group on the right to pause, letting the two squads further into the woods shuffle forwards. The line had drifted out of shape due to the inevitable realities of woodland traversal, but if there was a treeline ahead they would need to approach it simultaneously. As they caught up the center pair resumed their march.

Halting at the edge of the trees, the officers gazed forward into the clearing. Each member within the group of five focused on their designated angle, eyes unwavering from the assigned positions as they silently scanned for movement. In front of them, the few remaining trees vanished as the forest opened up before them.

The clearing wasn’t terribly large, perhaps forty or fifty meters across. Within it, the lack of canopy showcased a bright blue hole to the sky, fog abruptly wisping away amidst the open space. Across the ground lay a thick carpet of snow, built up high without branches overhead to catch it. In the middle of the white tableau lay a sturdy wooden cabin, the picturesque view standing out in stark contrast to the ominous mist-shrouded woods that surrounded it.

By the side of the road two plain white vans were parked casually. They had evidently been there for some time, as large drifts of snow had gathered on the windward side of each vehicle. Oddly enough, the vehicles were completely unmarked by whatever plague had swept through the area. In comparison, at the base of the cabin a few of the logs bore faint markings, but even those resembled the lightest touches that he had seen along the outer edges of the forest, nothing even approaching the rampant desiccation that now almost covered the trees. Other than that the path to the cabin was completely open, the flat expanse shining faintly.

Clarke grimaced at the sight. They had made it this far without issue, but the terrain in front of him was perfect for anyone lurking inside the dark windows. He and his officers would have to cross the gap quickly, leaving them uncomfortably exposed.

“Eyes on the house. Bravo and Charlie, move to the vans on my mark.”

Counting down on an outstretched hand, the two center squads crouched in preparation for the rush towards what little concealment was offered. As his arm dropped they surged forwards out of the woods, shuffling through the knee-deep snow as fast as possible. Clarke felt the hairs on his neck raise, but no response came as they drew even with the tall vehicles, ducking behind the high sides and into the relatively clear pocket on the opposite side of the drifts.

His breathing slowed its frantic pace as the silence continued unabated, the utter stillness resuming as if it had never been interrupted. Shifting position towards the front of the van and back in the direction of the woods, he had barely taken a step before the deafening hammerblow of gunfire swept across him from behind. Muscle memory asserted itself instantaneously as he slammed himself into the side of the van, spinning to look at the other squad beside the second vehicle.

All five members had rifles raised, aiming down at a point in the snow just in front of them. The furthest officer had stumbled backwards, shock evident in his posture as he stared down into the snow at something out of view. The seconds dragged by like molasses as the barrel of his rifle remained locked on whatever lay buried, until it finally broke position, dropping to the man’s side. Stepping forward, Clarke watched as he reached downward, fingers tangling beneath the snow before rising, carrying with them a smooth, oblong object.

Not just any object, he realized as the other man spun it to face him. In his hand, the detached head of Mannequin stared forwards, blank faceplate scored by a single one of the rounds fired moments prior.

The realization seemed to trickle over Agent Clarke as he stared at the detached head of the infamous murderer, blinking rapidly. Once was a coincidence, twice was enemy action. This was big, he could feel it in his gut. Someone had been hunting the Slaughterhouse Nine, and more importantly, they were succeeding. It wasn’t until the chirp of the radio sounded that he startled, cursing himself for his own inattentiveness. Belatedly he confirmed their status, reassuring the two separated squads even as he peered back and forth between them and the cabin in front of him.

There wasn’t enough room behind the vans for all four squads, so he could only instruct the further pair to remain on guard as his group and the other collected themselves, moving back to the edges of the vehicles to peer around them at the cabin lying ahead. It looked innocuous enough; a small raised porch ran the length of the front, bordered by a waist-level railing piled high with additional drifts of snow. Behind it, a red door fit snugly centered beneath the eaves, the windows on either side unlit and empty.

Another countdown and they departed the shelter of the vans, slogging towards the cabin with eyes plastered to the windows and door. Reaching the base of the steps, he barely even paused as the sight registered: another two forms lay slumped against the inward side of the railings, one on each side of the gap formed by the doorway. Ragged dark brown hair framed the one on the left, hunched over in a small ball with her back pressed against the railing, searching for a final comfort. On the right, looping blonde curls were the only thing that could be seen amidst the heavy snow.

There weren’t any comments now, as the PRT officers fell back on staring silently in the wake of each successive revelation. Even Clarke could feel his focus drifting; the scene felt like some kind of fever dream, that it would vanish the second he looked away. He could only soldier on, reaching for the doorknob and finding it turning easily in his hands. Of course it was unlocked. Why not, after everything else that had happened.

Pushing open the door, light spilled in from the outside to reveal a spacious open room, hardwood floor covered in a thick carpet. A squat iron stove sat in one corner, grate closed and cold. Beyond the main room another entryway beckoned, the edge of a large table peeking out into view. More importantly, illumination shone weakly from the far room, a sight that drew the attention of every member of the team.

Clarke and the nine officers stormed forward, individuals peeling off to cover sections of the room until only his squad of five remained, rushing to pile through the doorway in a line. Rounding the corner, he took in the scene. In front of him, a figure was laid out on the large oak table, but his eyes skipped over it almost against his will, drawn irresistibly to the rear of the room.

At the end of the table, Jack Slash sat slumped in a chair, a gaping hole shining clear through his chest.

Chapter Text

Disjoint sat in her room, one foot tucked beneath the opposite leg as she stared at the laptop screen before her. The quiet that had pervaded Brockton Bay for the past few days had finally been displaced, but the storm that had drifted in wasn’t one of violence. Instead, it was a celebration.

The announcement detailing the fate of the Slaughterhouse Nine was short and to the point. The only image the PRT had released was a solitary shot of Jack Slash, slumped ignobly in the chair where she had left him. The accompanying publication carried its standard warnings of graphic content, but evidently the PRT had agreed the magnitude of the news easily outweighed the minuscule concerns of propriety. Along with the image was a short statement, describing the Boston PRT officers’ encounter of the devastated band.

Aside from the single image, additional details had been unexpectedly sparse. The PRT had been careful to couch their words on the subject, only commenting that more information would be released as they continued their investigation. Nevertheless, the silence told its own story. Without a claim of responsibility, there was an undercurrent of curiosity to the announcement. Public sentiment said the PRT and Protectorate would be crowing their achievement if they had been the ones to eliminate the infamous band of murderers; the fact that they didn’t only fueled further speculation. While a small percentage of the public feared a new villain, the vast majority celebrated whatever group had finally managed to pull it off.

The vagueness of the proclamation drew Disjoint’s curiosity. With her own two hands she had killed every member of the Slaughterhouse Nine, the bodies lying in that small forest. Unless the PRT had been unable to find the corpses they should know that as well, and publishing it would only have increased the boost to morale. The fact that they didn’t was puzzling, at least until she cast her mind back to the scene.

Manton’s presence must have been the culprit, the cause for so much uncertainty and investigation. The officers scouring the scene would have been looking for the Siberian – the final missing member – and discovered an unknown man instead. He was the epicenter of the carnage, and undoubtedly a puzzle for the men and women responsible for figuring out what had happened. Besides determining his purpose with the Nine, there was the chance that someone would identify him. Ten years was a long time, but she could remember Manton’s rising fame during his relatively short career. If that happened, it would raise an enormous host of new questions.

Evidently they would keep the situation under wraps until they learned more. Disjoint felt torn; the announcement was the first real opportunity to reveal herself, to stake her claim on a deed that nobody could see as anything but positive. However, not only did she lack definitive proof, but the Siberian was a known murderer, violent and inscrutable. Her killing of the Slaughterhouse Nine might appear as nothing more than a brutal flight of fancy, proclamations of innocence dismissed.

She would hold her peace for now, wait until she had spent enough time as a hero to give the claim sway. The impact of exterminating the Nine would diminish as time passed, but the credit itself wasn’t important, just a means to an end. The truth would be unveiled whenever she could finally come free, be that months or years.

The screen dimmed and she refocused, jostling it back to wakefulness. The announcement about the Nine hadn’t been her original reason for going online, merely a distraction from her goal of getting in contact with Faultline’s Crew. The mercenary group was known for its Case 53 members – monstrous capes, to the public. In her mind, Manton’s words echoed. He had known about the Case 53s, known that whatever he had given her might turn her into one of them. If Faultline knew more, she needed to find out as well.

Unfortunately, the difficulty was twofold. First and foremost, finding the group had proved easier said than done. They were no band of amateurs; there was barely any information publicly available. The most useful detail she had found was mention of a nightclub that they apparently frequented.

It proved little use to Disjoint. She needed to secure their cooperation, and ambushing them at what sounded like a place of relaxation would sour any working relationship before it began. She needed a way to reach out to them from a distance, giving them the opportunity to take the initiative. Allowing them to choose a time and place would help maintain the balance between herself and their team, as long as she could offer enough information and reassurance for them to meet in person.

That concern fed into her second issue: the matter of payment. Here she would have to take a gamble. Disjoint didn’t know the costs they usually charged, but it would undoubtedly be beyond her limited funds. Instead, she would have to try for an agreement, an exchange of information with the mercenary crew. It was here that she was making a bet, an assumption backed up only by the cravings she bore herself.

Since the very moment of her creation the gaps in her memory had poked at her, small as they were. She had avoided them, distracted herself from them, and in time begun the long process of facing them, but throughout every moment that craving for knowledge had never faded. Even now she maintained that desire to know more, to find out what had happened at the end of one mind and the beginning of another. In comparison, before her lay a team with members missing their entire lives. She didn’t know much, in the grand scheme of things, but if they were at all like her every little piece would be welcome.

In the end, however, it was still an indistinct impression.

Adding to the complications, she would have to go into any potential meeting as herself, the hero Disjoint. Trying to disguise herself further would be difficult enough, trying and failing would firmly end any chance at learning what they knew. Beyond that, the idea of further deception was uncomfortable. Her heroic identity was a lie borne of necessity; the subterfuge wasn’t something she enjoyed.

Sitting back, she sighed wearily. Her first instinct had been to show up at the nightclub in costume and ask for a meeting, but the more she had contemplated the further she saw her own error. The conclusion left her without a clear way forward, but it was still better than the alternative. Instead she would keep searching.

There was one additional method that had come to mind as she sat pondering how to contact Faultline. Her PRT-issued phone sat on the desk beside her, a reminder. Without a doubt, the PRT would have a way of contacting the mercenary group, simply on principle if nothing else. She felt confident that a call to Battery would get her what she needed in minutes.

The problem lay in what else she would inevitably get, namely the attention. As friendly and helpful as the Protectorate hero was, they had only known each other for less than two weeks. She would want to know why Disjoint was looking for Faultline. Disjoint could deflect, say it was a personal matter, but even if she respected Disjoint’s privacy enough not to press, the hero would undoubtedly report it. Increased attention from the Protectorate would be the inevitable result. Faultline’s Crew were mercenaries, suspected of taking on all manner of contracts. They had doubtless run afoul of the Protectorate in the past.

She hadn’t ruled it out entirely, but it wasn’t her first choice. She would keep looking on her own, at least a while longer.

Returning to her research, she continued scanning page after page, looking for any mention of the team and whatever details were contained within. Shadows lengthened through the curtains as she worked, and she intermittently stood up to pace back and forth across the room, tantalized by information just out of reach. The breaks grew more and more frequent as her focus drained, until she finally pushed away from the desk, head bowed. Nothing productive had been done in almost half an hour; she had to write this session off as a failure. Pulling on the outer pieces of her costume she made for the door.

~~~~ ~~~~

Almost exactly two hours later she returned, shrugging through the entryway as the sky dimmed behind her, sunset a half-hour past. It had been another unremarkable patrol, though here and there decorations had dotted the city. Most took the form of crushed beer cans and a surprising amount of confetti, but she was fairly certain she’d seen an effigy in the distance, burning atop a pile of garbage. A fitting remembrance.

Her walk had given her more time to think about Faultline’s Crew, planning out what she would do if and when she got a chance to meet. Payment was the most glaring issue; she had some leftover cash but doubted it would be nearly enough. Instead she would have to hope they could reach an agreement, exchange information for information.

Back in her chair the laptop beckoned, and she retook her seat. There was more work to be done.

It wasn’t until she was halfway through an obscure forum that opportunity beckoned. She wasn’t the first person looking to contact Faultline, and in the comments of another request was a phone number. The message was accompanied by a warning, the tone setting it aside from the rest. Most importantly, it was only a few months old.

Pausing, she looked at the time. It was getting late, but not that late. The sensible thing would have been to make the call in the morning, but she didn’t want to wait. Now that an opportunity had finally presented itself she needed to keep moving. Raising her personal phone, she dialed the number.

The shrill ringing sounded once, twice, before an audible click as the line activated. On the other end was silence, and she composed herself for a moment before speaking.

“I’m looking for Faultline’s Crew.”

A second later a voice came through the other end, words picked out low and careful with the hint of an accent.

“I do not know this number.”

It was a dispassionate statement, but more importantly, it wasn’t a denial. She had found them, or someone who worked for them. Now she only needed to convince the man to stay on the line.

“I want to meet, exchange information,” she began, moving straight to the point. She needed to get her proposal out quickly, before she could be dismissed out of hand. She had no recommendation, no connections, so she could only hope her proposal would catch the man’s attention.

“Faultline is the most likely to know what I’m looking for. I can’t pay in cash, but I have knowledge to offer. A trade.” It was a risk, announcing that in advance, but the question would come up eventually. Judging by the pause on the other end, he had been about to ask. Instead, a new set of words came out.

“You are offering information.” Again the words were slow and calm, barely a question. She could feel the focus from the other end, his attention weighing down the line. At the very least the man didn’t seem to be the type to hang up mid-call. He waited, and she spoke up once more.

“It’s connected to Case 53s. What I know, and what I’m trying to learn.” There was only silence from the other end, and she continued, “You see why I want to talk to Faultline.”

As she finished she waited, hoping it would be enough. She was calling out of the blue, ignoring the methodical layers of confirmations and assurances, and looking to meet in person. It was undoubtedly suspicious, but nothing she could say would change that. Instead, she could wait for a response.

Finally the voice on the other end came through. “I will pass on your message. Someone will contact you.” He sounded finished, but before he could hang up she interjected.

“Wait. There’s one more thing. My name is Disjoint. I’m… a hero. I’m not out to get you, but you deserve to know.” She anxiously waited for a reaction, but there was only that same quiet.

“Understood,” he said, and the line went dead.

Leaning back, she set down the phone and gazed towards the ceiling in contemplation. The most important part was done, she had made contact and they hadn’t rejected her on the spot. She had been worried throughout the entire conversation, as short as it was, but whoever was on the other end had given her a chance. Hopefully her promise of information would be enough to arrange a meeting. She could have offered more on the phone, but everything she revealed now would be one less piece to exchange in the future. It was a fine balance, and she could only hope not to sway too far in either direction.

That would change if and when they met in person. Even if they couldn’t deliver what she was looking for, she wouldn’t hold back her piece. The crushing pressure inside her was too strong to deny someone else their own respite, should it help them even the slightest.

For now she would wait for a response. There hadn’t been any indication of how long it would take, and even though she had hung up only a few minutes prior Disjoint was already waiting for the phone to light up again. It wasn’t much more than idle fantasy; she had spent hours reading up on Faultline’s Crew, and they would undoubtedly do something similar before agreeing to meet someone new. Especially an unknown hero. Realistically, it might be days before she heard back, as eager as she was.

In the meantime the night stretched out before her, clear of distraction. The soft sound of music spilled across the room as she shuffled through tracks, letting it pass by in the background. On one corner of the desk lay a sketchbook, a recent purchase.

As she had settled into routine her free time had expanded considerably, especially during the nights she wasn’t in the mood to patrol. In return she had begun to slowly return to her hobbies, a decade old. Drawing was the latest, the scratch of the pencil a soothing rhythm as she drew broad strokes across the page.

~~~~ ~~~~

She was halfway through yet another sketch, highlighted by the morning light, when her phone buzzed. It took Disjoint a moment to come to a stop, engrossed in the flow. Finally she set the pencil aside, blinking out of habit. Lifting the phone, she glanced at the message displayed.

A single line stared back at her, displaying an address and time.

The sender’s number wasn’t familiar, though that wasn’t much of a surprise. There was only one person that it could be. Faultline must have thought her information would be valuable; the response was far faster than she had expected. Not that she would complain.

Disjoint wasn’t familiar with the location that had been marked down, but that had been a common issue since she arrived in the city. Besides, she had the entire day to find it; the meeting time wasn’t until well into the night. Better yet, she would go on patrol in that general direction and get a chance to view the overall area. She doubted there would be any problems – Faultline seemed too professional for that – but it never hurt to be prepared. It would be one less thing to do when she returned at night.

Standing, she tucked in the chair and made for the door. There was plenty of work to be done.

~~~~ ~~~~

The sun had long since set by the time she reached the corner nearest the provided address. Above her, the moon shined down through a clear sky, giving a faint watery light to the rooftops without doing anything to banish the gloom below her.

At the end of the street she paused, glancing down towards the dark road below. Stepping off the edge she let gravity take hold, dropping towards the ground to impact in silence, cloak rippling gently around her. With one last look at the address on her phone she strode forwards down the street.

The door she was searching for was one of many, tucked under a green and white striped awning interspersed between a handful of other shops that formed tall brick walls on either side of the road. The lights had long since gone out, signs flipped over to ‘Closed’ as weary workers locked the doors and went home for the night. Instead illumination floated hazily around the light poles and traffic lights, background colors changing from red to green as she walked down the sidewalk.

Ahead of her, a solitary indistinct figure stood at attention next to the doorway, head shifting left and right slowly to unceasingly take in the street. Her clothes shined in the wake of a passing light and he nodded at her, still a ways off, before continuing his vigil.

As she arrived she took in the figure in front of her. A man, not so much tall as simply large, dressed surprisingly well. Perhaps her expectations had been lowered by the sight of so many gang members in loose sweatshirts and oversized coats, but the individual before her wore a collared shirt and slacks, black shoes shining against the dark concrete. It was a professional look, and a good reminder of the people she would be meeting.

With one last look down each side of the street the man turned around, a ring of keys in hand as he unlocked the door. A moment later he reached forwards and pulled, a bell chiming softly as he stepped smartly to the side and beckoned her into the dim interior. Tables and chairs filled the space, set aside by the closing crew, but at the back another entryway beckoned, light streaming out from around the corner. Behind her the door closed softly, and she heard slow footsteps as the man departed, his work complete.

Disjoint allowed her footsteps to sound out as she continued forward, the methodical thump announcing her arrival as she approached. Turning the corner, she was greeted by the sight of a large table in front of her, and the group of people spread out on the opposite side.

In the center of the team of five was a woman, long black hair partially obscured by a thick welding mask covering her face. She rose from her seat calmly, taking in Disjoint’s form for a moment before she spoke.

“I go by Faultline; this is my team. I heard you were looking for us.”

Chapter Text

Disjoint looked at the woman in front of her, the mercenary that she finally had a chance to meet. Faultline’s eyes were impossible to see beneath the mask, but her head remained fixed firmly on Disjoint as she approached. Gripping the table, the woman spread her arms wide as she leaned forwards, narrowing her attention to the newcomer. On the opposite side Disjoint let herself trail to a halt, standing behind the aluminum chair placed on its own along her side of the table.

“If you’re here to make an attempt at arresting us, you should know ahead of time that it isn’t worth it.”

Faultline’s warning was missing the arrogance and condescension she would have expected to accompany those words. Instead, Disjoint felt a flash of respect towards the other woman for her courteous tone; as unnecessary as it was, her sincerity was evident. She truly didn’t want to fight. In return, Disjoint could only offer her reassurance.

“I was telling the truth on the phone. I’m here looking for information – nothing more.”

At her words – or perhaps her lack of accompanying movement – Faultline leaned back upright, assuming a slightly more relaxed posture. However, she still didn’t look away. It was a disorienting feeling, watching the flat mask that fully obscured its wearer’s expression. Only now did Disjoint realize how the heroes must have felt, staring into her own vacant hood. The fact that they had managed to pick up on so much nuance was undoubtedly the product of years of practice, something she herself was suddenly wishing for. She could feel the mercenary judging her, looking for something that Faultline herself only knew.

Evidently she found what she was looking for, as the peace held, strained as it was. Faultline merely spoke again, transitioning towards a more conversational tone.

“You certainly seemed suspicious enough. A brand-new hero, calling us out of the blue, wanting to meet in person. Raises a lot of flags.”

“I am sorry about that,” Disjoint replied softly, with a helpless shrug. “Meeting you all was something I needed to do. In more ways than one.” Faultline twitched, and she hurried to clarify.

“Nothing like that. I meant what I said. I’m only here to talk. Please, don’t be afraid.”

Beside Faultline she heard a quiet sound of amusement, and the mercenary finally broke off her gaze, glancing at her teammates around her. The interruption seemed to act as a cue for Faultline to step back, gesturing at each of the four capes in turn.

“Well, now you’ve met us. This is my team: Gregor, Newter, Labyrinth, and Spitfire.”

At one end of the table the man identified as Gregor nodded to her tranquilly. He was an enormous figure, folds of flesh wrapped around his obese frame. Instead of hiding it, his upper torso was bare; organs and bones were visible beneath translucent flesh and a smattering of growths dotting his skin.

Next to him was a teenage boy with bright orange skin. Compared to Gregor he looked almost ordinary, but besides the odd coloring Disjoint could make out a number of differences. His hands were slightly elongated, and a long prehensile tail peeked in and out of view, curling idly behind him. In contrast to his skin, the teen’s eyes were solid blue, radiating outwards to fill the entire socket. As Faultline introduced him, he gave a casual wave with a smile.

On the opposite side of Faultline, the third member sat with her knees pulled up to her chest. Her outfit was similar to Disjoint’s own, featuring a long robe and full-face mask. Unlike the others, she wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings. Instead she stared down at the floor, ignoring the conversation around her.

Finally, at the end of the line was the shortest member. Their gender was impossible to determine, figure heavily obscured by a thick fireman’s suit, complete with gloves and a gas mask. Out of the entire team their outfit was the closest to Faultline’s, with various accessories attached at the hip. Under the sudden scrutiny they fidgeted slightly in place, head twitching between Faultline and Disjoint.

As Disjoint glanced back down the line, her eyes came to rest on Gregor again, noticing a mark on his left arm. Peeking out just above the crook of his elbow was a Greek omega, a dark stain against his otherwise-light skin. Beneath her mask she frowned in concentration, a nagging feeling rising briefly until the realization landed a second later.

She had seen the symbol before, in person. One of her final memories, of Manton and his manic warning. She remembered now, clutched in his hands, the vial. He had drawn it out frantically from an open briefcase laid haphazardly on the table between them, and along the underside of the lid that very emblem stared upwards. A phantom shiver ran through her hands as she recalled holding the cold glass tube, clutched tightly between her nervous fingers.

The confirmation was a heady feeling, seeing the connection right in front of her. She had sought out the Case 53s for any insights they might have about missing memories; now proof lay out in the open before her. Whether they knew it or not, there was something that they shared: a life irrevocably altered by that mysterious symbol.

Gregor’s head tilted sideways in curiosity and Disjoint realized she had been staring at him in silence for several seconds now.

“It is not a very nice sight, is it?” the man rumbled. He didn’t seem particularly offended, but Disjoint shook her head in denial of his words.

“Your tattoo… it’s familiar. Not something I expected, but relevant to why I’m here.”

She could feel the attention from Gregor and Faultline increase a notch as she admitted knowledge of the mark. Gregor in particular transitioned from his laid-back, impassive posture into something strained, brimming with contained energy. Even their distracted third member in green looked up for a moment, as if she could feel the change in the air.

“You’ve mentioned you had information about monstrous parahumans. About two of my teammates,” Faultine filled the silence. “What are you looking for, in exchange for that knowledge?” She had returned to her professional speech, but the heightened undercurrent persisted through the rote words.

“Case 53s – monstrous capes – all have amnesia, right?” The non-sequitur was in response to Faultline but she aimed it at Gregor and Newter, waiting for the confirming nod. Once it arrived she continued, bringing to light the reason she had sought them out.

“I’m looking for information myself, potentially related. Have you found, or do you know anyone who can manipulate memories? Remove them, bury them, add new ones?”

It was hard for her to say the words, to admit to something so personal. Even without details it was an intimate subject, and Gregor and Newter’s confirmation had helped, a reminder that she wasn’t alone. In return it seemed like her courage had paid off, as Faultline and Gregor exchanged a speculative look. Only, a second later, Gregor’s mouth turned down as he shook his head. Inside, the burgeoning hope stalled.

“There is… someone,” Faultline spoke, the grimace evident in her tone despite her covered mouth. “A group we investigated ourselves, recently. A cape who’s power involves manipulating memories. But as Gregor reminded me, they had nothing to do with the mon– the Case 53s. I’ll trade you the name if you want it, but I don’t think it is what you’re looking for.”

Disjoint let out a small sigh as the mercenary leader spoke, feeling the wash of disappointment as another lead faded out. It had been a long shot, hoping that Faultline’s crew had found any clues in the form of missing memories, but she already counted herself lucky to keep what she did. As hard as it was on her, it was likely far worse for the ones who remembered nothing before their awakening.

“I will pay you for whatever information you have,” Gregor cut into the conversation abruptly, and the entire room turned to look at him in surprise. Perhaps he could read the disappointment in her body and feared she would leave, but whatever the reason a previously-unseen urgency had filled the large man.

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I knew it was a long shot before I asked to meet; I wasn’t expecting much.”

“I would like to know,” he repeated.

“That’s not what I meant,” Disjoint replied. “I only held it back to try to learn more, but you don’t need to pay me. There is no reason not to share. I’m supposed to be a hero, aren’t I?” In front of her, Gregor’s eyes widened in surprise.

“There are two things I know, two things that you all deserve to hear as well.” In the room the air turned brittle with tension, an unavoidable consequence of the subject matter. Disjoint could only push through. The first was the most important, the knowledge she had suspected from Manton’s ramblings and had finally confirmed with the sight of the tattoo, cementing her previous speculation. Without the last piece of her memory she could have only offered guesswork, instead now it came out as a statement.

“Case 53s aren’t born. They’re made. A mistake, or a side-effect, or perhaps just bad luck, but whatever it is, it comes from a vial. A small glass vial out of a briefcase with the same mark that is on every single Case 53.”

Disjoint glanced around as the news settled in, laying across the group heavily. It was an extraordinary claim, she knew. However, Faultline was already drumming her fingers on the table in thought, slowly nodding to herself.

“That… not an impossible claim. They’re only rumors, but for as long as there have been parahumans there have been people with wealth and connections looking for a way to gain more power. There was never any concrete information, just vague whispers that would rise and fade every few years. I’d always assumed it was wishful thinking, but if what you say is true, someone out there has figured it out. How reliable is your source? Do you have any pictures, or the full description of the vials?” the other woman questioned, and Disjoint raised her hand to stop her.

“I held the vial in my own bare hands,” she stated, “and when the case sat open in front of me I saw the mark, shining on the underside.”

A riot of emotion crossed the faces in front of her at the admission. Confusion, suspicion, and an intensity so strong she could almost feel it physically rolling off of them.

“Where… How… What did you do, to get that vial? Who did you contact, who was it that’s responsible for all of this?”

Gregor was standing now, and Newter was beside him in a flash, and then they were all staring at her with tense eyes and clenched fists and expressions that mixed anger and hope and a thousand questions, all tangled together. The air shuddered, filling with a coppery scent as wood groaned underfoot. Before it all she came to a stop, movement ceasing as her power flowed out, a perfect, artificial stillness.

“I’m sorry,” she said sadly, cutting off the rising questions instantaneously. “I don’t have the answers you’re looking for. I didn’t reach out, I didn’t go looking, and I never found anyone. A man came to me, handed me a vial from his own hands. He warned me, about pain and death and the chance of becoming someone… different. And I took the risk, because I thought it would be worth it.”

Disjoint could see the question, rising on the lips of each face in front of her, and spoke before they could even form the words.

“His name was William Manton.”

A heartbeat passed; not hers, for she had no heart left to beat, but the memory of one instead, of a moment in time. With it her posture cracked, her robes whispered as they flowed again, and the men and women in front of her stopped, tension bleeding away into the air.

Faultline was the first to regain her composure, shifting backwards in concession as she chewed the words that had just been spoken. Turning, she tapped the orange teen on the shoulder, gesturing to her other side.

“Newter, take Spitfire and Labyrinth to the back, out of here. Keep an eye on her, we’ll join you once we’ve finished up.” Nodding, the young man moved quickly, wrapping his tail around the vacant girl’s wrist and pulling her gently. As the three departed, Faultline looked back at Disjoint, speaking again.

“Manton’s dead. He’s been dead for a decade now. Forget about a trail gone cold, there isn’t even a trail left at all.” She didn’t sound rejected, just resigned. Another dead end, another useless bit of information to file away and forget about.

“He was a researcher, a professor,” Disjoint spoke, feeling a twinge as she thought of him once again. “Every parahuman knows about his most famous ideas, but even his other works would have spread. In journals, amongst colleagues, or in his own notes.”

“You think that he would have written down and published an article about how he was turning people into amnesiac monsters?” Faultline asked rhetorically, but then stopped as she reconsidered her own words.

“No, but he wouldn’t need to. He couldn’t have worked alone. Any research he was doing might have overlapped, disguised as something else, something innocuous enough to share and collaborate on. Insights on regular powers that cause physical changes, or mind-altering powers in general, or something similar…” She was mumbling to herself now, putting together a list of possibilities, of potential.

Beside her, Gregor caught Disjoint’s eye.

“Thank you,” he stated. “You have given us an opportunity. Valuable information. I made a promise that I would pay you, and I will honor it. I do not have much cash at hand, but I will get more, and contact you.

Disjoint shook her head in response. “I told you before, I don’t want your money. I have no use for it anyways.

“However, there is one thing…” she trailed off as Faultline rejoined the conversation, eyeing her in curiosity at her next words.

“Whatever you find, however long it takes, I want to know. Anything you learn about Manton, anything you learn about Case 53s. I won’t demand it – it’s not the cost of what I’ve told you, but as a favor.”

“That’s all?” The words came from Faultline, a note of surprise in her voice, and the woman an amused huff. “You need to work on your negotiating skills,” she said, tone light but shifting to sincerity. “Of course we will. It’s nothing compared to the information you’ve given us.” Her mask dipped in a nod, and Gregor mirrored it a moment later.

“And to think I was worried about an ambush,” Faultline muttered, moving back towards the remainder of her team.

In the space that formed there was a quiet, stark contrast to the loud words and action that had threatened to erupt just minutes prior. Within, Disjoint took a moment to ponder.

Overall, the meeting had gone better than she anticipated. There weren’t any easy solutions to be found from Faultline’s crew, but instead she had secured something else: a promise for the future. Alone she could have searched for years without turning up a single shred of information, but the mercenaries had contacts, networks, and a reach that she did not. It might take time, but judging from the hunger she had seen she wasn’t the only one desperate for answers.

She turned to leave, looking back into the dark restaurant behind her, and Gregor called out her name. He had returned to his seat, staring at her with the same calm eyes that had greeted her when she had first entered the room. Within them was a question, lacking judgment, bearing only the feeling of someone seeking to understand.

“Disjoint. When you had the vial in your hands, you thought about the risk. I do not remember what I was like before. So tell me. In the end, was it worth it?”

The question was a surprise, a jarring transition from their previous conversation, and she could hear the vehemence in his words. It was the first time that he had displayed anything other than stoic attention, and it was far stronger than some idle curiosity. In front of his eyes he faced someone who remembered their normal life, and he wanted to know.

She thought back, to the blurry impressions of cruelty and death, moving through the world uncaring and impassive, inspiring terror with her very presence. She thought back to the recent days and weeks, of meeting the heroes, going on patrol, the people she had rescued as a hero. In the end…

“No.” The words slipped out quietly.

“It was not.”

Chapter Text

The following evening found Disjoint pacing down yet another empty street, itching for something to break the monotony. The daylight hours had passed by in a dreary blur; her rendezvous with Faultline in the depths of the night had bled into a morning patrol that revealed nothing more than homeless tucked away in the out-of-sight corners of the city. They were a different sort of problem, one that shrugged indifferently in the face of her strength.

Spending the time to personally walk the streets each day had begun to give her a feel for the moods of the Bay. Beneath the light of day a washed-out routine swallowed the streets, propping up a fragile peace that grew increasingly frayed as the sun began to set over the hills to the west. Doors shut and locked as the last trickle of light faded, and the gangs began to stir, stretching beyond their regular grounds in preparation for the night’s activities.

Her own preparations had increased as well. A map of the city joined her notebook within her deep pockets, decorated with an ever-increasing array of notes and colored markings. More than just a navigational tool, it served as documentation of the places she had visited so far, as well as holding whatever observations she deemed important enough to set down on paper.

The original goal for the night had been to form an outline of the primary gang territories. Disjoint had sought to refine her own patrols; borders between rival gangs sounded like one of the most effective places to visit. However, reality had turned out to be far less neat and organized than she had expected. The gangs were no rival nations with clearly-drawn borders, or warring armies fighting amidst the front lines. Instead there were areas influenced towards one group or another, interspersed with dozens of enclaves that could belong to a rival gang, a Protectorate-patrolled territory, or simply unclaimed ground. In truth, it had gone a fair way towards explaining the state of the city; the entire bay felt like a battleground of contested land. The fact that any balance existed was a testament to the struggle of the Protectorate, desperately trying to hold the crumbling pieces together.

While some areas might be busier than others, in the end it was likely that the gangs would be lurking no matter where she patrolled.

At the moment Disjoint was exploring the southern edge of the city, past the nicer downtown areas and into the hills, where nature had begun to encroach on the concrete jungle. Here the Empire Eighty Eight had bloated out relatively uncontested to claim the streets, twisting its members together with whispered promises of supremacy. Hatred and demonization shaped the gang, aiming their aggression out towards any scapegoats they could find. They never ceased their attempts to expand, initiating many of the attacks across the city.

The night-dwelling loiterers had changed to reflect the different gang, pale faces and shaved heads visible even amidst the cold. The men weren’t out in the open for long; apparently even they could show enough reason to duck out of sight of an obvious hero.

Beside the regular members, the odds of running into a powered villain had grown significantly compared to her previous venture through ABB territory. The Empire 88 possessed a disturbing number of capes that had crept into the city to follow Kaiser’s banner. So far she hadn’t run into a single one herself, but the clock was ticking down. Confrontation was inevitable; it was only a matter of time before she crossed someone’s path.

It was unlikely to happen this far out, however. Here at the edge of the city there was no opposing gang to war against, nothing to draw a villain’s attention. The only movement was a slow trickle of people departing apartments and alleys to head further into the city. It formed a twisted parody of the daytime commute, a subtle flow more akin to a swelling tide than a rushing river.

Had the gang members shown any signs of hurry Disjoint would have followed, hoping to track them to their destination. Instead she only paused to place another note on her map.

Ahead she could make out an opening amongst the lines of buildings, a gap where the ground dipped down and the brick walls vanished outwards into open space. Drawing closer the cause became apparent – a decently-sized pond stretched out before her, edges lined with trees whose branches trailed down into the water.

Along the ground in front of her ran a dirt path, curving away in both directions to vanish into the darkness, likely looping around to meet on the other side. Benches dotted the shore and she approached one that offered a clear view of the streets that she had just arrived from. It was a decent place to wait and watch for activity; the shadows beneath the trees obscured her form even as she gazed out on the gently sloping road.

Disjoint let her mind wander, waiting for a hint of motion that would bring her back to attention. Instead the minutes passed silently, gently swaying branches the only departure from the otherwise frozen vista. Finally her phone buzzed, a reminder to move on, and she smoothly stood. As she did, her phone buzzed again.

Frowning, she fished the device out of her inner pocket and flipped it open, scrutinizing the blinking screen. Routine transitioned to something more animated as she took in the words. Instead of her timer, a notice from the Protectorate sat highlighted upon the glass, calling out to any available heroes. An emergency call: a report of gangs colliding downtown and an eruption of violence. The location was printed at the bottom and she hurriedly unfolded her map, dragging a finger along the roads until she found the intersection. Over a mile away, but she could be there in minutes, provided she didn’t get lost.

Her previous lethargy vanished as she eyed the fastest route, noting the handful of turns. Dashing along the rooftops might have been more direct, but without a suitable landmark it would be too easy to wander hopelessly off course. The streets would do.

She launched herself up the street, heading north and feeling pavement blur past as she found her rhythm.

~~~~ ~~~~

Disjoint knew she was drawing close when, not long into her run, she heard the crack of distant gunfire. Her ears picked up a smattering of off-tempo echoes, before a staccato chattering lashed out in response. The burst of noise vanished as abruptly as it had come, and she redoubled her pace.

Whirling around the final corner Disjoint braced for action, but instead of a crowd of gang members the street was clear save for two costumed figures. They were hurrying down the road from the opposite end, moving quickly towards her, and she recognized Battery as the shining lines of her costume flashed under a passing light post. Beside her, another hero in red tore down the street. Disjoint thought for a moment that it was Velocity, but the profile was wrong, the costume a bit too bulky. Assault, then, if she remembered correctly.

The pair drew close, trailing to a stop in front of a dilapidated building, and she joined them. As she approached Battery flashed a smile, but immediately jumped straight to business.

“Disjoint, I didn’t know you were coming. Glad to see you. I don’t know if you heard the details, but there was a call about the Empire shooting up a bar.” The woman was faintly out of breath, but continued hurriedly. “I’m sure you heard the shots – they can’t have gone far. Assault and I will secure the area, would you be willing to search the nearby streets on your own?” Disjoint nodded, and Battery paused for a moment to breathe.

“Thank you. Let’s meet back here in a few minutes, or give me a call if you do find them.” The woman didn’t sound too hopeful about the odds, but Disjoint was determined regardless.

She turned, moving towards the maze of alleyways and side streets as she left the scene behind her. The gang members had a head start; it would be up to her to ensure that it wasn’t enough.

Passing by the edge of a building she reached out, letting her hand rest high on the brickwork for a moment before pulling down. Instead of cleaving through the exterior wall she soared into the air, wind rippling around her as she crested the crowded roofs and gazed out over the city. As she passed the peak of her vault and began to drop she spared only a moment to look down, trusting herself to land lightly atop the building.

Before her the streets unfolded, darkness claiming the edges but leaving what remained bare beneath her scrutiny. Her eyes flicked across the length of the road below, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, and she moved. Feet barely brushed the ground as she leapt from rooftop to rooftop, covering the distance to the next gap in silence.

Another open road, another empty street, and she moved on.

She let instinct guide her, familiarity rising as she hunted for a glimpse of movement, a hint of breath, a single footstep out of place. She did not stick to the shadows; instead she blazed forwards unceasingly overhead, the world flashing by below.

Finally there was a change, an interruption to the empty lines of concrete and asphalt before her. Slipping into view she saw a man emerge from between two buildings ahead, shaved head jerking back and forth nervously before he hurried across the street to vanish once again into the shadows. This time, however, she followed.

It was the work of moments to approach his useless cover, visible as day from her vantage staring down. The man had barely reached the end of the alley as she arrived, his breath coming in heavy pants as he paused, mumbling to himself. His arms pulled a leather jacket tight across his hunched shoulders, and she hesitated, contemplating.

It would be trivial to land beside him and reach out, zip-tie his hands together as he struggled futilely against her strength. However, precious minutes had passed since she embarked on her pursuit, and she had no idea where the additional gang members had vanished to. She could take her chances on her own, but before her lay an alternative.

There were decent odds that the gang members would reunite once they believed themselves safe, and she had her own unwitting guide below. Let him believe himself in the clear, and she would follow. Once they gathered, she would reveal herself, and secure the entire group at once. Besides, the man below wasn’t going to get away even should they fail to rendezvous.

With a nod to herself, Disjoint drew back from the edge of the roof.

A minute passed before the gang member began to move again. His steps were hurried, moving with purpose, and she waited. Only once the sound of his steps had continued down the street did she flow over the edge of the roof and onto the next. Before she had torn through the sky without regard, now she would have to do her best to remain undetected.

The two of them began to form a pattern, a game of cat and mouse with only one participant aware. She would hang back, letting the man build a block or so of distance, before creeping forwards to narrow the gap. The only change occurred when he turned down a side street, giving her a chance to approach just a bit faster than before. Even with her continuous care however, the man never doubled back. Perhaps he was inexperienced, or simply believed he was safe and free. Indeed, his steps began to slow as he continued across yet another block.

Counting down the seconds in her head Disjoint peered around the edge of the street, narrowing her eyes. Halfway down the dim and narrow path the gang member had slipped in the darkness, and now lay before her, facedown. As she watched in confusion he made no move to struggle back to his feet, remaining as still as the rough ground beneath him.

Suspicion dawned slowly as she took in the form, a sight that stirred up countless flashes of memory. Reminders of similar scenes, repeated over and over. All with the same unifying detail.

Dropping towards the ground she approached, finally picking out the slight sheen on the street beneath her boots. Invisible from a distance, it grew stronger the closer she got, until she stood beside the unmoving body. The corpse, for that’s what it truly was.

One shoe hooked under the man’s shoulder and rolled him over, arm dragging limply at his side. As his head came around, blank eyes stared upwards into the sky, his other hand still clasped tightly to his waist. Around it was a stain more black than red in the darkness, but nevertheless clear.

It was curiosity more than anything that drove her to continue looking, curiosity and a vague sense of dissatisfaction. The shift had thrown her – only moments ago she had been eagerly awaiting the chance to capture the man, and then suddenly the anticipation vanished. Failure wasn’t exactly the right word for what had replaced it, but it was something similar, an irritation. There had been no confrontation, no conclusion. The man had bled to death without even knowing she was there.

~~~~ ~~~~

The street was empty by the time she returned, but through the shattered windows she could see Battery moving about within the bar. Bits of debris crunched underfoot as she passed through the entryway, taking in the scene of devastation. She hadn’t gotten close enough to see previously, but it looked as if a whirlwind had passed through. Tables and chairs had been overturned, forming a waist-high barricade facing the street, spotted with splintered gouges and pockmarked bullet holes. Food and drink littered the floor amongst shards of broken dishes.

The room was almost entirely empty, with one notable exception. Besides the two Protectorate heroes, a casually-dressed man sat on the floor with his back to the large bar, hands busy winding a long strip of cloth around the bottom of his leg. A small stain was visible against the white, but it didn’t seem to be growing. A far less serious wound, compared to the body Disjoint had just seen. Even as she watched, it vanished under another professionally-applied layer. In front of her the man tied it off neatly, before looking up at the three heroes. His face was pale, but maintained a carefully blank expression in response to the inquisitive gazes.

Assault was the first to break the silence, leaning forwards to scrutinize the seated man. “Hey, pal. Looks like someone clipped you real good there. Tell you what, before you go running off, perhaps you could answer some questions for me.” As he spoke he reached to the side, rummaging behind one of the upturned tables. When his hands rose back into view, they were wrapped around a rifle.

Disjoint jerked in surprise but Assault only set the gun on the table, in clear sight of every person in the room. Turning back towards the increasingly-suspicious figure, she watched the seated man’s jaw tighten as he took in the sight. Despite the tension, the man was very careful to keep his arms at his sides.

“A little more than I usually see around here,” the hero continued. “This wouldn’t happen to belong to you, would it?” The words came casually, inviting the other man to respond. Against her expectations, he did.

“Yes, that weapon belongs to me. It is a legally owned firearm, and my license is on my person,” the man recited. The words sounded slightly awkward, rehearsed, but there wasn’t any hesitation. “If you’re done here, I need to visit the hospital.” He was doing an admirable job at working through it, but the pain was evident in his tone.

Assault waved away his concern before he even finished speaking. “Ah, not just yet. The ambulance is on the way, but we’ve got some time, and I’m a little curious. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind showing me that license while we wait.” In response to his words the seated figure pointed towards his pocket, reaching slowly to pull out his wallet and slide it across the floor. Assault snatched it up, flicking it open to look through the folds.

“Mr. Collins. Mm. Look a little less pale in your photo. Maybe you could help clear some things up for me, tell us what happened here? You decide to even up the score after losing a round of darts?” The man’s eyes narrowed as Assault continued to prod at him.

“It was self-defense,” Collins ground out, anger coloring his words. “Some Nazi goons came by and opened fire, and we – I chased them off. Saw all five of them run away scot-free, before you all even got here.”

“Four. At least one of them didn’t make it.” Disjoint interjected dispassionately, and the man swung his head to glance at her out of the corner of his eye, before snorting.

“Good riddance.”

“And you and your friends were just unlucky passersby, was it?” Assault took back hold of the conversation. “I can’t say I expected Empire goons to make good decisions, but it’s a bit odd they happened to hit the only bar packed full of men with rifles. Which, speaking of, I notice your friends left without you.” The questions had grown pointed, needling the injured man. As they continued he only shrugged up at the hero indifferently.

“Seems to me like your friends, or perhaps your boss doesn’t care about you too much. I don’t know how willing I’d be to work for someone like that.” Assault changed tack, tone shifting to grow conspiratorial. “With an injury like that you might be out for good. Perhaps it’s time to think about a career change.”

Silence was the only response, as the seated figure clammed up further. Whether due to loyalty or simple stubbornness it was obvious to Disjoint that he wouldn’t say anything more, and evidently Assault realized it as well, ending the barrage of questions.

“Something to keep in mind. Think it over, take your time. I’m sure the police will have some more questions for you once you’re done at the hospital. In the meanwhile, your rifle’s going into evidence. If you’re lucky you can pick it up once the investigation is done.” Tossing the wallet back, he picked up the aforementioned weapon and wandered over to the opposite side of the room, where Battery and Disjoint joined him.

“So, Brockton Bay’s newest hero, in the flesh. Want to keep me company while we wait?” Assault was suddenly all smiles, patting the seat beside him. Battery only sighed, and Disjoint eyed him, unimpressed, before moving to stand next to the other woman. Assault seemed to take it in stride, raising a hand to his chest in an exaggerated wince.

Disjoint turned to Battery, raising an eyebrow that the Protectorate hero couldn’t actually see behind her mask. Still, the tilt of her head was enough to clue her in, and the woman took a step back to introduce them.

“Assault, this is Disjoint, our recently-joined independent hero and newcomer to the city. Please, try to behave yourself,” she added wearily. “Disjoint, meet Assault, one of my coworkers in the Protectorate. Don’t hurt him too badly if he doesn’t.”

Assault shot her another despondent look, before returning to his wide smile as they exchanged greetings. Afterwards, Battery spoke up again, addressing Disjoint.

“I saw you came back empty-handed, but you mentioned you found one of the gang members?” she asked curiously.

At the reminder Disjoint glanced over at the injured man – the suspect – who hadn’t moved much. He had wriggled into a more comfortable position against the bar with his injured leg stretched out in front of him, waiting for the medics to arrive. Even as they talked he looked happy to ignore them, focusing on breathing slowly in and out. Turning back to Battery, she answered the question.

“Most likely. Running away from here on his own, shot in the stomach. He bled out shortly after I reached him,” she added quietly. “Someone else might be able to identify him for sure.”

Battery nodded. “We’ll send the ambulance to pick him up afterwards.” As Disjoint wrote the address down on a spare sheet of paper from her notebook, Battery continued, “It’s been getting busier this week. A lot of people out celebrating. You would think they’d be happy enough to leave each other alone, but instead the excitement causes even more problems. Not that I’m complaining, given the circumstances.”

“Celebrating? Still?” Disjoint wondered aloud, as both Assault and Battery looked at her curiously. 
“It’s only been what, three days?” Assault responded, sounding confused. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see this go on for a week. Even if nobody wants to say it, they know what the Nine being so close meant. There aren’t that many big cities around here.”

“February 5th, the final day of the Slaughterhouse Nine,” Battery added with a smile. “Well, something like that. I guess nobody knows the exact date.”

“I’ve never seen the Protectorate so stirred up,” Assault chuckled excitedly. “People have been running around nonstop, trying to figure out what happened. You should hear the theories they’re spouting in the office. Nothing has been revealed yet, so anything goes at this point. The only reason we’ve heard a thing is because they came by looking for some stuff from our branch to aid the Boston guys. Rumor has it the Triumvirate might even get involved.”

Disjoint couldn’t help the curiosity and apprehension that overcame her at the mention of the Protectorate’s investigation. The reasons behind her decision not to reveal herself so early remained, but the strain of waiting for an announcement was growing by the day. Perhaps it would have been the right choice, to come forward and describe her independence from Manton and resulting actions, but the thought still frightened her.

“What kind of theories?” she questioned softly, intrigued despite the dangerous line of conversation. Even as she spoke she strained to hold herself perfectly in place, unwilling to betray any hint in her body language beyond casual interest. Luckily, it seemed Assault was too engrossed in the wild tales to notice.

“Some people think it was another villain team. Take out the biggest group in town, wait a few days to get everyone talking, then come out for the reveal. Guaranteed to make a name for themselves. Others are talking about one of Bonesaw’s creations run amok, whispering to each other about strange sightings at the scene. Nothing confirmed, of course. Still more simply think they finally fell to infighting. So many monsters in one place, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”

Disjoint felt her polite smile hold firmly in place, frozen on her face beneath the mask, even as her heart sank at the notable exception to the list. She wasn’t sure what to do, whether to try to bring it up herself or simply leave it and accept the ache, but as she wrestled internally Battery weighed in.

“Or it could be a hero,” the woman spoke optimistically. “A group, or a lone cape, who got rid of them because it was the right thing to do. Who didn’t claim the credit because they didn’t care about the glory, just that the Nine were finally gone.” Assault began laughing lightly at her words, but her smile didn’t fade. “I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but there are decent people out there,” she added towards her companion, elbow tapping his side.

“I think I like that theory the best,” Disjoint finally replied as she let herself relax.

Chapter Text

True to Assault and Battery’s words, the following days were marked by a heightened sense of activity across the entire city – an undercurrent of excitement. During the day pedestrians and shoppers remained outdoors a little longer, storefronts bustled with just a bit more action, and the background chatter swelled almost imperceptibly. At night, on the other hand, the gangs strode ever more confidently through the streets.

The increased presence wasn’t the only detail Disjoint noticed within the various groups. From her first day in the Bay she had been particularly sensitive towards reactions to her presence, a necessary precaution as she strove to conceal any sight of her infamous form. Her sharpened attention meant that she watched the currents of each gang stir before her, shaped from her own interactions with their members.

Coil’s mercenaries remained the least known of the three. Except for the brief encounter with the suspected mercenary at the bar, she had made it the entire duration of her time in the Bay without running into them. They didn’t loiter on street corners or get caught breaking into houses, and as a result she never got a chance to watch the patterns that developed following her usual arrival to the scene.

The lack of information was notable itself, to the point where she had been growing suspicious that they knew something – that they were avoiding her on purpose. It wasn’t until the topic of their elusiveness had arisen with Battery that she received a measure of reassurance. The trio had continued to chat, waiting alongside the suspected mercenary, when Battery confirmed Disjoint’s observation of Coil’s less public nature. The Protectorate heroine had been in the city for years, and had still encountered the gang far less often than the others. They would primarily burst into view during short raids against the Empire, or to defend their own territory in the Downtown. Afterwards, they vanished back into the city just as quickly.

In Battery’s eyes, their fast and professional nature was a large part of their successful spread. More than driving away the other gangs, the very attitude of the city was shifted in their favor. The Empire and ABB might have their own dedicated supporters, but they created even more enemies. In comparison, the mercenaries laid low, slowly becoming tolerated by the regular citizens of the Bay. Part of that was by avoiding the heroes and fading into the background, and as a result they were considered less of a problem even within the Protectorate. Given the choice between the three gangs, Battery admitted, she would let them go to pursue the others.

The Empire, by contrast, was the complete opposite. They were perhaps the most public gang, and in turn Disjoint had the chance to encounter them multiple times whenever she patrolled the territory. Lone individuals and smaller groups would still vanish once they caught sight of her, but she had seen them reforming during the few occasions she had doubled back. Indeed, the larger groups hadn’t even bothered to leave, instead watching her aggressively as she crossed nearby rooftops. With the number of villains within the gang, she could understand the confidence among the rank and file. Misplaced confidence, but they hadn’t yet had a chance to discover that.

Things would likely come to a head soon, as she continued her patrols through Empire territory. There was an eagerness in the air, a hunger. It sparked the same feelings as a particular scrap of memory – the sight of Shatterbird, rising into the air over an unaware city. The sensation was the same, the sense of impending conflict. Her affiliation with the Protectorate and status as an official hero would only carry her so far; if and when she discovered something they didn’t want her to see it was almost certain the Empire capes would come out to fight.

Finally, there was the ABB. The first gang she had encountered in Brockton Bay, they were the only ones that she made any moves against so far. She had spent the most time in their territory, and was able to watch the subtle changes ripple through them after her furious response. In the days afterward, ABB members would hurriedly depart long before she got close enough to make out any details. On the single occasion that she silently tailed one unsuspecting member, she heard a man speaking rapidly into a phone once he believed himself safe. It was impossible for her to know what he was saying, but there were only so many things that could fit. Most likely, he was reporting her location.

She had gone out of her way to spend more time researching Lung, but there wasn’t much relevant information to be found. His powers were well-known, but they were less important to her than the man behind them, and details in that vein were far more scarce. Getting even a glimpse of how he would be likely to react was the most important piece, but the majority of discussion swirled around his intimidating abilities, including the handful of encounters with the local Protectorate.

Said encounters ended up being the best bit of insight into Lung’s mind that she could get. He had gone up against various heroes multiple times, but the most notable instance was the very first, when he had faced down the entire Protectorate and emerged victorious. Since then he had suffered a number of arguable defeats, but remained roaming free amidst the city.

The confidence or pride that had led him to that initial success changed things. Her strike within his territory changed the lives of those involved, but it was still a drop in the bucket that was the entire Bay. Most gangs would have shrugged off the loss as part of the risk behind their illicit activities. Lung, on the other hand, might take things personally. Should he choose to attack when she was unprepared, any number of people could be caught in the crossfire.

The thought of facing him down was an uneasy one. Not for the usual reasons – her confidence in an actual confrontation hadn’t changed from the first time she embarked on patrol. Instead it was a myriad of feelings that she had to sort through, until she could isolate the source of her concern.

Taking down another parahuman was a step that would elevate her to a new level in the public eye. The truth was that up until now, she hadn’t achieved any more than an ordinary person could. Her solitary destruction of the ABB brothel might have been on the upper end of the scale, but even that was well within the capabilities of the ordinary police force. Dealing with parahumans, however, was an entirely different step.

Even the traditionally ‘weaker’ villains received a much more serious response than an ordinary criminal. Capturing one of them would be notable enough, much less a titanic figure like Lung. The very idea of throwing herself into the spotlight in such a way was profoundly uncomfortable, but even worse, as she continued puzzling over her own fears came the realization of the restrictions she had been imposing on herself.

When she first decided to become a hero she had feared for her discovery, focusing on covering herself and hiding the extent of her abilities. However, even then she had made the decision that, should it come down to it, she wouldn’t hesitate to reveal herself to prevent an innocent death. Instead, at some point during the past weeks she had allowed that focus to slip away, content to wander the streets on patrol and stop petty criminals. She had never made a conscious choice, but the urge to remain concealed had drifted back to the fore, and it wasn’t until she truly looked at her own unease towards encountering Lung that she noticed the change.

Now that the problem lay clearly before her it was easy to reaffirm her first decision. There was no need to worry over the inevitable meeting with Brockton’s villains; she would deal with them as the opportunities arose, and face the consequences much the same. There was no dramatic change of heart – she wouldn’t charge through gang territories calling for war – but that longtime fear of discovery wouldn’t hamper her steps any longer. There would be no more hesitation.

Under this new clarity, her future encounters with the city’s parahuman gang members shifted. The danger hadn’t faded; Lung was a powerful villain who could devastate his surroundings, but she refused to allow that to happen. If they ended up fighting she would stop him from hurting anyone else. Permanently, if he forced her. Her concession to Velocity’s words only stretched so far.

The same thoughts applied to the rest of the villains within the Bay. Lung may or may not be actively seeking her, but the Empire’s raw numbers meant that encountering them could easily happen first. Should that be the case, she would deal with them much the same.

~~~~ ~~~~

The weekend arrived, and with it an unexpected but pleasant meeting. Disjoint had been readying herself for further contact with the gangs, but instead Saturday night found her staring up into the dark sky, watching a faint but recognizable white and gold-clad figure soar through the air towards her.

Disjoint extended an arm in a small wave as Glory Girl adjusted course, diving low and bleeding off momentum with a few long strides as she touched down on the grass. It was doubtlessly unnecessary, but obviously quite fun, and Disjoint found herself smiling at the sight. She missed the freedom that came with soaring through the sky, and it was clear Glory Girl felt the same joy, high up above.

Truth be told, she hadn’t expected the teen hero to see her. She had forgone her usual rooftop view for a bench within one of the Bay’s scattered parks, nestled at the edge of a small grove. She wasn’t likely to discover much while patrolling here, but it was a nice spot to spend some time away from the concrete maze. An unneeded but not unwelcome break.

As Glory Girl approached Disjoint couldn’t help but notice their mirrored solitude. The blue-costumed hero that had accompanied Glory Girl the previous time they met was nowhere to be found, nor was there another member to replace him. A curious choice, especially since she knew New Wave wasn’t lacking flying members.

“Hello, Glory Girl, it’s nice to see you,” she greeted the other hero. “How is everything? I don’t see Shielder here tonight.”

“Hey, Disjoint,” Glory Girl replied easily. “On my own tonight, wanted a chance to get some air. What about you, how have you been enjoying the city? Finding everything okay?”

“It can be a bit confusing,” Disjoint admitted, eyeing the narrow streets at the edge of the grass. “I’ve been managing alright so far though. What brings you out this way?” She was admittedly curious. The park wasn’t in the complete middle of nowhere, but it was certainly far from the center of the Bay. Definitely not the sort of place she would have gone out patrolling alone, were she at all worried for her own safety.

“Gangs have been busier than ever,” Glory Girl replied, straightening herself unconsciously. “The further out you go the worse it gets. They haven’t been taking any time off, so neither can we.” The determination in her voice that was clear.

Disjoint could only nod at the assertion. Evidently the Protectorate weren’t the only ones who had noticed the activity ticking upwards. Having New Wave available in the city to lend a hand was undoubtedly a great help.

“What about you?” Glory Girl returned her question back to her. “I didn’t know you patrolled this far out.”

“I’ve been trying to cover the entire city,” Disjoint admitted. “I can only be in one place at a time, but I want to visit most of the gang’s territories every day or two.” In front of her, Glory Girl’s head cocked as she gazed off into the distance, working through the mental math before she spoke a moment later, puzzled.

“How long are you spending out on patrol? It’s already pretty late…” she trailed off, before coming to a realization a moment later. “Oh! Are you a Noctis cape?” She stared at Disjoint questioningly, as the silence stretched out, then backpedaled. “Ah, sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”

“Noctis cape?” Disjoint questioned, unfamiliar with the term.

“Capes who don’t have to sleep, like Miss Militia,” Glory Girl clarified. “It’s the popular term for it, at least for people who are into cape stuff.” She seemed even more animated than usual. “The name’s from a vigilante who went by Noctis. He got known for never needing to sleep, so the name stuck. According to my professor it’s pretty rare, as far as powers go, but still pops up here and there. Some nights I wish I had gotten it as well,” she finished, stifling a yawn.

“Flying isn’t enough to keep you awake?” Disjoint asked wryly, and Glory Girl laughed.

“Yeah okay, that’s fair. I guess I can’t complain.” She twirled in the air, rising a foot of the ground before smashing back down with a bone-shaking thud. “Never gets old.”

Disjoint eyed the other hero slowly, debating with herself. There wasn’t much point in denying it; the Protectorate had probably already assumed she was a Noctis cape solely from the number of times they had crossed paths. More importantly, it wasn’t something that had ever been connected to the Siberian, as far as she knew.

“But yes, I guess I am a Noctis cape. It’s not something I’ve really spent much time thinking about,” Disjoint finally answered Glory Girl’s question. It was the truth; compared to everything else, her eternal wakefulness hadn’t been more than a footnote even to herself.

“Really? I couldn’t wait to start testing things out. I think I spent every afternoon for a week in the Protectorate’s lab, the whole place is incredible. They’ve got something for every little detail.”

Glory Girl’s enthusiastic words had the opposite effect on Disjoint, a reminder to avoid the shimmering, floating structure if at all possible. It was impossible to tell what kinds of sensors were packed away within the walls, and she had no idea how she would appear under them. It was likely that they would slide off her just like everything else, but as she had learned with Coil, a lack of information was just as noticeable as an alarm.

“Perhaps one of these days,” she deflected. “I don’t think there’s very much to test, I’m just a bit stronger and tougher than most.” It was the same half-truth that she had given the Protectorate liaison at her initial signing, and the furthest she hoped anyone would look. Contrary to her expectation, Glory Girl remained just as excited.

“Come on, don’t you want to know exactly how strong you are? It’s important information!” Under the stare of her blank mask the teen relented. “Okay, maybe not that important, but it’s really fun.”

Disjoint sighed, but didn’t fight the smile that appeared at the other hero’s words. The earnestness came across so clearly it may as well have been an aura of its own, one that could actually make it past her invulnerable skin. In response, she couldn’t help but poke back.

“Afraid you’ll lose your title of Bay’s strongest hero?” she chuckled, and Glory Girl smiled in response.

“Well, I will be losing it for a week or two,” she said with a mock sigh, brightening immediately afterwards. “I can’t believe Alexandria is going to be coming by to visit!”

The words took a moment to register.

Glory Girl must have mistook her stunned silence for interest, as she continued. “We’ll actually get a chance to meet her in person! I can’t wait.”

“Alexandria? Here?” Disjoint managed to squeeze out, her mind racing. She couldn’t think of anything she had done to reveal herself. None of the heroes had shown anything out of the ordinary, and she was always covered whenever she went outside. The only times she had taken the costume off was in the privacy of her apartment. Would the Protectorate go so far as to put cameras in the home of a new hero?

Oblivious to her thoughts, Glory Girl continued. “She’s visiting Boston this week, finishing up with the investigation into the Nine, but then she’ll be swinging by the Bay for a little while. It’s going to be awesome.”

Disjoint forced herself to loosen at the words, reason reasserting itself past her initial panic. Nobody was coming for her. Her secret was still safe. There was no need for an elaborate disguise or a made-up justification for Alexandria to visit. She of all people knew how fast the Triumvirate member was.

Her mind was still spinning as she finished the conversation with Glory Girl, another few short minutes of small talk before the other hero took to the skies, vanishing behind the tall buildings. Even after she had left, Disjoint remained fixed in place, gazing blankly into the distance as her thoughts danced in circles.

Chapter Text

Disjoint’s nerves were stretched thin by the time she received notice from Faultline. The offhand announcement unloaded by Glory Girl had remained at the back of her mind, lingering past the initial shock. Alexandria was supposed to be a distant worry, a looming tower far on the horizon, and instead had suddenly torn across the landscape to arrive before her. Indecision warred as she fought with herself on how to proceed.

Ever since she had recalled the sensation of her fingers digging through the Triumvirate member, remembered the expression of shock and pain on her marred face, Disjoint had known she would see the hero again. She needed the chance to face her, the source of perhaps her greatest regret. Whether she could offer an apology or an explanation, she didn’t know. However, the distance was something she had been counting on, time to sort out herself before she could begin to look at another. Instead the separation had vanished without warning, and a part of her wanted nothing more than to vanish into the city until Alexandria had long departed. Opposite there was another burning desire – to keep moving forward, to leap ahead and embrace the flickering chance, even if it should burn her in her haste. It was the smaller of the two, but grew brighter each day.

In the meantime, she would once again visit Faultline and see what the efficient woman had uncovered. The message had been short and to-the-point, but reading between the lines, they had met with at least some success. Enough to be worth discussing, apparently.

The lead-up to the meeting possessed the same smooth unobtrusiveness that had marked her first visit. Another unremarkable time and location, another quiet street and plain door. The only departure from the previous rhythm was the doorman, emerging from a darkened car parked along the street as she approached. Either the weather had been too uncomfortable for even him, or they simply didn’t feel the need to keep quite as vigilant as before. Regardless, she proceeded inside without incident, and without further ado found herself once again standing across from the thick welding mask that adorned Faultline’s face.

The mercenary was practically alone this time, only Gregor greeting her with a nod at her side. The two of them were gathered around a bulky black laptop, staring at the screen, and she moved around the table to join the pair, dragging a spare chair behind her.

As she approached Faultline glanced up towards her, before reaching along the edge of the laptop to disconnect a small usb drive, sliding it across the table to Disjoint’s waiting hands. She made room for Disjoint to sit with them in front of the laptop, and on it Disjoint saw a wall of text stretch out before her momentarily, until Faultline closed it to reveal the dozens of files behind. Turning, she addressed Disjoint without preamble.

“As you can see, we’ve had some initial success. There’s a lot of information out there that Manton worked on or contributed to, and most of the time so far has been spent collecting and digitizing it. None of us have had a chance to go through the entire thing, but what’s there so far is promising. It’s all included on the drive, but I can summarize what we’ve already read, if you’d like?” Faultline turned the ending into a question, and when Disjoint nodded, continued in her same bland tone.

“We’ve focused our efforts on his work regarding connections between capes and their powers, looking for some kind of explanation as to why certain capes appear so… different,” she conceded to Gregor’s presence. Continuing, a hint of exhaustion undercut her previously impassive words. “It hasn’t been very productive so far, but there’s a lot to dig through.” A momentary sigh, and then her previous composure was back.

“On the other hand, there’s a lot more available on his most well-known work, the so-called Manton effect. Besides outlining his theory itself, some of the less widely-published notes include his unconfirmed conjectures. Ideas on what exactly shapes the effect.

“Everything he illustrated points to some kind of intelligent design. Powers work too well otherwise, all the convenient little details that make them so natural to use. Built-in safety features, to keep a new parahuman from killing themselves. One of his most well-supported proposals is that they’re molded and fixed in place subconsciously, at the moment they first manifest. It explains why powers don’t ever change.” A hint of bitterness leaked into her words as she finished, fingers tapping the table in irritation.

“What about the vials, then?” Disjoint added. “You think there’s something different about them; they’re artificial, not shaped the same way?” At her words, Faultline nodded, fully abandoning her clinical tone.

“The vials. Exactly. They don’t fit with the same pattern,” she continued stubbornly. “If the power was part of you the entire time, it makes sense that they fit with your thoughts. But if that’s the case, none of the vials would work. It has to go both ways. The powers themselves aren’t just shaped, they listen. There’s something there, enough to react and adjust. And perhaps sometimes, they can’t adjust enough.”

“You think that’s what causes the Case 53s?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I need to spend more time looking through what we’ve collected,” Faultline finished wearily. “It still doesn’t explain the missing memories, but it’s a start.” Pushing her chair away from the table, she stood.

“I don’t expect we’ll need to meet like this again. If we find any more of Manton’s notes in the future we’ll pass it along, but otherwise I think our work here is done. Unless you have a problem with what we’ve provided?”

Disjoint shook her head before a thought struck her. With Faultline’s existing focus on Manton, the mercenary was already in position to discover one last detail. Information useless to them, but something that would provide another fragment of clarity to Disjoint herself. A possibility of her own origin, the fate of Manton’s daughter.

Even with the memories that she possessed, there was still that gap, the unsettling suspicion that there was more to it than what she knew herself. Did she truly want to find out what had become of the woman that she might have once been? Could she bear to discover exactly what misfortune had befallen her?

The real question was whether or not she could let that chance slip away. Weeks ago, fresh to the city, perhaps she would have been willing to forget it all, to distance herself as far as possible from the knowledge. Now, however, it wasn’t an option.

“There was something else,” she spoke, watching Faultline tilt her head curiously. “Not a problem, but a question, related to what you’ve already been researching. Do you know what happened to Manton’s daughter? I think there’s something there, something more than it appears.”

“Sorry, but that wasn’t part of our deal,” Faultline replied, not sounding very apologetic. “Our investigation was on his research, not his personal life. We’ve already got enough to stay occupied for the immediate future, and I think we both know you can’t afford to hire us again.” It was the truth; Disjoint hadn’t been able to pay the first time, and she had hardly come into any sudden excess of wealth or new information since then. As she sank back into the chair dejectedly, Gregor reached out to lay his hand on Faultline’s shoulder.

“Take it from my funds,” he stated, and both of the women looked at him in surprise. “I promised I would pay you back.” He nodded slowly at Disjoint. “Let me do this for you.”

“Thank you,” she squeezed out quietly, and Faultline shrugged, unfazed. 

“As long as someone is paying.” She eyed her teammate. “It shouldn’t take long, even if there is something odd about it. As before, you’ll be notified once we’re done.”

Not long after Disjoint departed the same way she arrived, a mirrored routine save for the small drive now nestled within her pocket.

~~~~ ~~~~

Traveling through the dark streets, she wondered about the answer to her final question. Even from the first moment of self-awareness, her creation had been a mystery. Faultline might lead her to a conclusion, but there was another option as well. Down the long highway, back to the first moment that she had truly been herself. The lone cabin, nestled in the woods.

She stared west, her mind’s gaze passing through the buildings to rest on the dark road heading out of town. Slowly, her feet altered course, away from her apartment. Now that she had finally begun to press forwards, she could hardly rein herself back in.

Disjoint didn’t know how long she ran for. She kept the highway beside her, tearing down the frozen, hard-packed dirt and grass on the side. Towering metal poles spilled their light onto the wide concrete, but failed to reach her flickering form. They passed faster and faster, flashing in strobing spits of brilliance as the dark grey wall on her opposite side smeared into a featureless blur. Eventually, it gave way to the pitch-black undergrowth beneath a line of tall trees, forming a natural barrier to replace the previous construction of metal and stone.

Her fugue state persisted throughout the run as she fell into a pattern, barely reacting as the surroundings changed. She launched herself across the ground and through the air, flowing up and down hills and over the deep shadows of gently flowing creeks. Finally, she began to slow. Before her lay the long-familiar sight: an innocuous dirt road stretching out into the depths of the woods.

There was nothing to set it aside from the others, save her own recollection and the deep tracks pressed into the earth. The night obscured many of the details, but it was clear that the Protectorate had packed up and departed.

The harsh yellow lights of the highway were long behind her now. Instead a pale glow suffused the trees, shining down on the plain dirt road that wound through the valley, until she reached the forest and the ice-covered needles that laced together overhead. The fog was gone, a part of her noted, as she drifted down the moonlit path.

Vivid memories billowed to the forefront of her mind unbidden as she faced the long corridor. The gloom obscured most of the details, but the sight was unmistakable. She could feel the faint echo, an impression of the riot of emotions that had been flowing through her that first time she had emerged from the trees. An escape from the chaos and darkness within, to arrive facing the clear sky and open fields. Now she traveled in reverse, pushing forwards down the path.

Her feet led her to the base of the tree where the last of the Nine had died. Disjoint stared up into the branches, gaze lingering on an empty crook. Shatterbird’s body was absent, a hollow of cracked and crumpled wood all that remained. A minute’s consideration, and then she moved on, winding backwards through her memory even as she continued down the path, towards the clearing.

She paid little attention as the surroundings grew stranger, warped and bubbling. Whatever Bonesaw had done in her final moments, she had provided the tools to undo. Disjoint didn’t know how many times over the years the Siberian had watched the macabre tinker prepare a new sample of her cleansing fog. Enough to remember, at least. Their containing vials hadn’t been very hard to find. A moment’s diversion as she had passed the van that chaotic day.

Like everything else, the walls of the forest eventually came to an end. Before her the open sky beckoned, illuminating the solitary cabin within its private domain. Here, staring at the modest home, she let something new come to the surface. An echo of repetition, as she walked the same steps once again. However, these lacked the clarity that came after her creation.

She remember pacing towards the door, falling into step with a man at her side. They moved as one, two extensions of one body, and in her head Mannequin eyed them warily, looking up from his tools in the back of the van. Approaching the stairs, they passed Burnscar without a second glance. She wasn’t the one they were there for.

Walking through the living room, she could hear in her mind the sound of two voices ahead, each sound registering twice without an echo. One, young, floated high and light through around the corner while the second slid smoothly below. The footsteps of the man beside her sounded out and the voices dropped away, curious but not alarmed.

As she walked around the corner she could see the two figures that she knew so well. Bright, bouncing curls and a patterned dress adjacent to the dark goatee and plain white shirt that decorated what might be the most terrifying people in the country. As the pair arrived, she saw the light behind Jack’s eyes spark, the perfect moment of realization as his smile stretched wide.

There were words in the air now, words that flowed past her without registering as she gazed at the increasingly-excited child and the man filled with a cold curiosity. It wasn’t until the person beside her lay down on the table that she broke away to look down, staring impassively at Manton’s feverish eyes. Behind him, stainless steel gleamed out in a shining line of instruments nestled within their soft leather loops.

She felt detached even within the memory, watching the first trickle of red appear. There was no disgust, no concern, nothing at all within her as her eyes remained locked in place. Minute by minute time dragged forward as the sense of focus filled the room, accompanied by only the soft clatter of tools picked up and set aside one after another. Finally there was a pause, and Bonesaw stepped back, wiping dark stains onto her dress as she gazed eagerly at the sight in between them.

Below her, Manton’s eyes focused, emerging from a haze to finally find her own, and pressure slammed down upon her mind, squeezing it in a vice. She had only the faint impression of vast quantities of information flowing, smashing through whatever had filled her previously, before it suddenly vanished as instantaneously as it had appeared. In its wake, clarity bloomed brighter than the sun.

She was someone, now. It was something that she hadn’t even the capacity to notice until it arrived, the sense of self, of distinction between her and the man that lay prone on the table, exhausted. Accompanying it came a wellspring of memory, years upon years of images and sounds. Memories of a normal childhood, spent with a mother and a father that had done their best to let her grow up happily. In the end there were words of anger and hate, tearing them apart, but they were a brief flicker amidst the rest, a taint that failed to contaminate the collection as a whole.

He looked up at her, and for the first time she saw him as William Manton, her father. At the same time, she saw what he had become. The Siberian. The monster. What evils he had wrought, ever-accompanied by the shell that she now filled.

She reached forwards, pulling his chest up to embrace him, and she saw the finality in his eyes. Felt the last threads of their connection vanish, even as his greatest wish was finally granted, and his final request echoed across the disappearing bond. There was a smile on his face and tears in his eyes as they closed.

She let her arms wrap around him. As a torrent of memories settled, a decade of vague glimpses flickered past, a parade of violence leading up to this moment, reinforced by one last urging request. Her eyes hardened, and then there was a quiet crack.

Moments passed as she held his body, before slowly lowering him back to the table. Silence filled the room as she felt a phantom itch around her eyes, the only indication of tears that would never come. Seconds later it was broken by a sharp inhalation of surprise, of fear, and her head jerked upright to take in Jack’s wide eyes. The surrounding crashed in, the Nine splayed out around her, and with a blur faster than she had ever been before, she moved.

~~~~ ~~~~

Back to herself, Disjoint stood in the empty room where her memory had carried her. The last shreds of imagery faded from the forefront of her mind, but she could still recall that rush of knowledge, the torrent that had poured through her head as she stood there unwittingly. In that moment she had felt herself become more than ever before, an empty facsimile that had been finally filled with humanity. The only remaining puzzle, then, was what she had been created from. Had her new nature existed within her the entire time, tamped down by Manton’s smothering unison of thought? Or had he instituted a final act of creation as he lay on that table, to close a decade of death and destruction?

She would wait to hear from Faultline, to hear what exactly had befallen the woman she might have once been. Only then would she know for sure.

Now she looked over the fateful room once again, and the only thing that came to mind was how plain it felt. After what had occurred within the small wooden walls a part of her had been expecting the gravitas of the moment to linger, an intangible presence in the air. Instead, it was just another ordinary house, another empty room.

Leaving it behind her, Disjoint strode back into the woods, towards the lonely highway.

~~~~ ~~~~

The first signs of false dawn were visible by the time she reached the city once more. It would still be another hour or so before the sun’s rays actually graced the horizon, but there was a subtle brightening of the eastern horizon, where the darkness gave way to something ever so slightly lighter. A hint of what to come, before the burning glow flashed across the water of the bay.

Ahead of her the interstate split, curving outwards to loop around the city, but Disjoint slowed as she noticed a solitary car, pulled off on the grassy median beside the road. Only the faint shine from the nearby light poles let her pick it out amidst the night, but as she drew closer a small light clicked on as the door opened. Rising to her feet, Battery stared back at Disjoint even as she drew to a halt.

It was hard to make out any details in the dim light, but the Protectorate hero looked tired. It was early in the morning, and Disjoint had no idea how long she had been out waiting. Waiting for her, it seemed.

“Disjoint!” the other woman called out, and she felt a shiver of unease at Battery’s tone. The usual warmth was diminished, the friendliness that had been ever-present until now. Any other time she might have passed over it, blamed the exhaustion of the hour, but this was different. Battery had been expecting her, and there was a wariness that she hadn’t heard before.

“Where have you been?” the hero asked quietly, and Disjoint stared back at her, mind churning.

“I received a call on the console recently,” Battery continued. “A notice about a figure traveling on foot down the highway. Moving fast, towards the city. Not normally worth pursuing, until I looked on the map where it was reported. There’s nothing out there, nothing except for one particular spot. So tell me. How did you find a location that only a handful of the Protectorate know about, and what were you doing there?” As she finished, Battery waited, looking at Disjoint carefully.

A dozen thoughts raced through Disjoint’s head, excuses and deflections and distractions, and then she stopped.

She was so tired, so exhausted of the incessant half-truths and mistrust. Tired of watching every word, of steering conversation away from anything that might cause her to misspeak. Battery had been nothing but kind to her, a friendly face amidst her own paranoia and uncertainty. She couldn’t bring herself to lie.

“I never had to find it,” she said softly, ever so slowly as the words came out. “I’ve always known where the Nine died. Ever since I killed them. One by one, through that ordinary log cabin and out into the woods.”

Battery’s half-visor gave Disjoint a clear view of the expressions that rolled across the other hero’s face. Her answer, arriving out of nowhere, and the shock was written as plain as day. With quiet expectancy she waited, saw the confusion and momentary disbelief that followed, before the final realization landed and Battery stopped utterly.

She had seen the hero still herself before, when she charged her power to burst forth in a blaze of speed and power. Compared to this moment, it was like she had been in motion her entire life, just now coming to a halt for the very first time. The seconds ticked down, and Disjoint took a step backwards.

The movement seemed to break the frozen statue that Battery had become. A twitch, a slight sway of her body, and she was back, mouth opening compulsively.

“You’re…” Battery started, then trailed off, looking torn. Disjoint could practically see the thoughts scramble to reorganize themselves, to make sense of everything she had seen. Every moment the two of them had worked together, everything she had said, and most importantly, everything she hadn’t.

“No,” Disjoint said sadly, shaking her head. “The Siberian was the first to die that day. When Bonesaw did something she shouldn’t have. Changed something she shouldn’t have. A mistake, or perhaps her greatest success. After that… it was all over quickly.”

“Who are you, then?” Battery asked, and Disjoint let her shoulders rise and fall tiredly.

“I don’t know. But I know who I want to be.”

Chapter Text

Disjoint stood stiffly, watching Battery’s mirrored posture as the conversation lapsed into silence. There was little to break the quiet; the long highway behind her devoid of rumbling cars, at least for the moment. Even the faint buzz of the overhead lights were a distant melody, barely filtering down from their perch high above. In the empty space, Disjoint watched and waited.

Finally, Battery broke the moment, coming to a decision as she tensed, straining ever so slightly.

“I have to tell the rest of the Protectorate,” the hero said, her words soft but no less resolute, and Disjoint could see the acceptance in her eyes as Battery readied herself. It was that little twitch, the expectation that hurt the most.

“Please,” she stood unmoving, unbreathing. “Please, don’t do this. You don’t have to tell them.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” Battery said emptily. “I can’t hide something this important. It’s too much.”

“I don’t want them to find out like this. I just wanted a chance. The chance to be a hero.” The words came out frantically, spilling forth in a torrent. “If they learn I’ve been hiding here, it’s all useless. You know what they’d think. What they would do, if they found me.”

The Protectorate member shifted as Disjoint’s pleading words echoed, hesitation written across her features and weighing her down, tying her in place.

“You’re right. I know what they’d do.” The words emerged, slowly relenting. “But if you want a chance, there’s only one option. You need to come forward. Don’t let them find out from me, be the one to tell them. The rest of the Protectorate needs to know. If the Siberian is truly gone, you need to be the one to show them.”

It wasn’t much of a choice, in the end. To flee now, to abandon the city and attempt a futile start anew was only a dream. A miracle had gotten her this far; there would be no second chance. Not once they knew she was out there.

Her future collapsed down to a single line.

“I’ll do it.”

“Do it soon.” Battery looked upset, saddened with herself even as she kept pressing on. “The response will only get worse, the longer you wait. It needs to be soon.”

There wasn’t much to be said, after that. Far off in the distance, beyond the pair of heroes, the bay spilled out like an inky black stain, and Disjoint could just barely make out the first reflection of nascent light, scattering off the shimmering field out in the dark, deep water. She stared at the structure, and for the first time since her arrival at the city she fled the coming dawn.

~~~~ ~~~~

The light hadn’t fully risen by the time she slipped through her apartment door, pushing the deadbolt home with a weary click. It had been an exhausting night, the successive hammer blows of her lonely revelation in the woods and the following confrontation with Battery. She felt thin and spent, thoughts tangling inwards and ready to collapse at the slightest breeze. Nevertheless, her determination stood apart, unaffected.

There had been no surge of confidence to accompany her decision, the ultimatum that Battery had issued. She was no more willing to approach that towering structure than before, to make her way over the cold waters and enter the gates of the iron island. Instead, she had her promise, and the steady reassurance of her decision. It was not one she had made lightly, and it wouldn’t be one she’d break.

Disjoint sank down onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as she slowly relaxed. Low strains of melody, fragments of a dozen songs drifted by as the night beyond her obscured window gradually came to an end.

The clock read mid-morning by the time she finally felt soothed, stirring from her patient stillness and shrugging upright. The last snares of weary confusion and worry slid off of her like everything else as she stood, stretching idly. The room was still dark, curtains drawn, but even the edges of the fabric failed to shine with their customary glow.

Once more masked and robed she moved to the window, pulling apart the heavy cloth as she gazed out through the cool glass. Beyond the fragile barrier dark clouds gathered, spilling over the city from horizon to horizon. It was no blanket of soft white but a twisted and churning sea of grey, so deep in parts it was almost black. Their underbellies were broken open, spilling down in a slow but incessant trickle. A cold and bleak rain, and Disjoint grimaced as she looked out into its depths.

The harsh current was nothing before her, as she already knew. Fat drops of water would slide off her without even leaving the memory of moisture, but the image of her form approaching the shining Protectorate Headquarters to emerge from the darkness and driving rain sent shivers down her spine. It was a petty excuse she knew, nothing but a small indulgence when faced with the weight of everything she desperately hoped for. Her promise was made, but she didn’t need to leave just this moment. Closing the curtains once more, she turned back to the room.

Her laptop was a prompt reminder, catching her eye as she became once again aware of the drive nestled within her pockets. Drawing it out she took a seat, waiting until the contents spread themselves across the screen.

She had seen the breadth of information Faultline had gathered the night before, even as the woman gave her the summary. It wasn’t until now, looking at it herself, that she finally realized just how much there really was.

The Manton of her memories had always been distant, always busy with research and work and a dozen other things that she had known about but never understood. Before her, she could see the fruits of his labor. As she gazed at page after page, the first thought was one of sadness. He had accomplished so much as a professor, as a researcher, and it was impossible to tell what heights he might have soared to had his work continued. Only that they would have been high ones indeed.

Instead she would work with what she had.

If she had been going in blind it would have been impossible. The sheer variety of topics was astounding, but here she actually found her task grew easier. Manton’s work stretched far and wide, but there were only so many papers. Every additional topic reduced the number of pages that were truly relevant, at the cost of a little bit of depth each time. She and Faultline had different priorities, and as a result there was a sizable portion she could discard almost immediately.

There was a singular topic on her mind, a section of the brief conversation with the mercenary that had kindled her interest and focused her attention. The method behind powers themselves, the influence that each parahuman had. The possibility dangled before her, and she couldn’t look away. What had Manton done there at the end? What had he known? Most importantly, how was it connected to her?

With a goal firmly in mind and Manton’s scribbles before her, it became a slow inevitability. Parts of the text went over her head, concepts too detailed and nuanced to make out clearly, but she persevered. An initial glance set many aside, and from there she began to dive deeper.

It was a frustrating task, and a slow one. Nothing was spelled out, written clearly for her to find. Instead hints and theories crept in amidst the corners, a paragraph here, a sentence there. Never the focus, but an essential part of so many different pieces. Even the most fundamental treatises, the foundations for what she knew would become the ubiquitous “Manton Effect,” spent little time addressing the possibilities directly. There was width, a quiet spread, but no depth. Never important enough to get a paper of their own.

Time passed in a blur, slipping forwards as she read through paper after paper. Some she could discard relatively quickly, twenty or thirty minutes of reading that devolved to glancing across paragraphs before they were set aside. Others lasted longer, hours drifting past as she dove into esoteric theories and concepts, doubling back again and again to tease out meaning from his words. Throughout it all the screen cast its glow out into the room unceasingly, and by the time she finished the list had been pared down to just over ten pieces. Selections from the entire span of Manton’s career, each one making some kind of suggestion about how powers were molded into shape.

Even without any initial success, Disjoint continued unabated. The room lay dark behind her, but she had eyes for only the puzzle upon the screen. She felt no discomfort, no hunger or thirst siphoning away her focus. There was barely a pause, and her second pass commenced, shorter than the first though only just. For all that she had trimmed away the unnecessary papers, the subsequent read was that much slower, the scrutiny even more intense. Unfortunately, it was equally useless.

There wasn’t a total absence of information. If anything, it was closer to the opposite. Manton had too many theories, too many different potential explanations, tossed out haphazardly through the documents. Without the focus that was afforded to the actual subject of the manuscript, they were often left incomplete.

Closing the documents, she prepared herself fresh for another search. This time she spent a moment beforehand to look for a different detail. Almost no effort at all and it lay before her: the oldest work from the collection. She would start at the beginning this time, and try her best to follow Manton’s elusive thoughts over the course of the years.

She could feel the time drag by, irritatingly slowly, as she jumped through the information once more. What she was reading and re-reading was never contiguous, appearing here and there with abandon, but she was growing familiar with the texts by now. The words were the same; she hadn’t missed anything directly stated.

It was near the end of her third pass that she began to feel the faintest hint, a sensation of pieces moving into place in the back of her mind. Not the words themselves, but the connections between them, a subtext that had only become evident after seeing all of the possibilities, in and out of order.

The detail was a quiet one, easy to miss. It wasn’t in the theories themselves, but how they appeared. When they appeared. Without ever confirming it directly, there was a change. At some point, Manton had figured it out, and yet he had never commented on it.

Near the end it became more obvious. When the multiple possibilities stopped appearing, stopped being questioned. Instead a singular explanation was the only one present in the final works. More damning, it was no longer a hypothesis. Reading between the lines, the suggestion of intelligence – of agency behind powers themselves – was no longer something in need of support. It had become the support, one of countless small details that made up the evidence of his later theories. Manton had somehow known it to be true, and it had slipped unconsciously into his research.

Such a tiny detail, to have so much impact.

She could see now, new context for that moment when Manton’s eyes had finally focused on hers as he lay prone on the table. There had been something deeper in his gaze, a request aimed at the thing that had stood there in her place. The Siberian. Not at her, for it hadn’t been her yet. It had been so fast she had missed it before, overwhelmed by the pressure that followed almost instantaneously. Pressure that rose from a deliberate choice, an agreement.

For a decade Manton and the Siberian had been one and the same, and yet she knew that in that instant he had called out to something other.

A small, disconnected part of her wondered if she should call Faultline back, to tell Gregor to save his money.

She had her answer now, despite all the questions that remained. What exactly he had said, what she – no, not she but it – had agreed to was unknown. But the result was clear. She, Eve, had been created. Just as Manton had known what would follow, so had the Siberian. That neither of them would remain, one way or another.

Something faded away as Eve stood there, staring down at her hands absentmindedly. A little trickle of vanishing pressure, so small that she hadn’t even noticed until it was gone. A sense of guilt, vanishing into the wind. The desire to be a hero remained just as bright as before, but it was no longer being squeezed by vague flashes from a decade’s worth of atrocities. She would become a hero because it was the right thing to do, not out of some push for atonement, because it wasn’t her failure. It had never been.

Raising her head, she felt the core of warmth within her as she strode for the door, exiting her apartment for what might be the last time.

~~~~ ~~~~

Daylight had almost vanished as she walked outside. Above, the clouds had cleared away to reveal a dark blue tapestry with hints of a deeper violet as it faded towards black. Frowning, Disjoint recalled the soft background noise of rain against the roof, at odds with the empty sky, before she realized. It had been more than just a few hours poring over the computer.

Emerging out onto the street, she turned towards the coast, and the glimmering shield that she knew stood stockily amidst the churning waters of the bay. This time the streets failed to flash by below as Disjoint walked unhurriedly, one foot placed down in front of the other. She kept to the ground, moving down the sidewalk and eating up the distance step by methodical step. It wasn’t long before the buildings pulled themselves skyward one last time, before vanishing as she reached the water’s edge.

The Protectorate Headquarters was visible now, still tucked away further to the north off the coast. The arches and spires under the dome ignored the fading light, bright with spotlights that threw splashes of color against the tall beams and out into the water around it. Even now it was impossible to miss.

Disjoint’s thoughts were broken away by a harsh buzz from her pocket. The PRT-issued phone, she recognized immediately with a slight frown. It wasn’t the time, and she dug through the folds of her costume to flick it to silence absentmindedly.

The phone buzzed again.

Her hand stilled, already half-removed from the pocket as the clamoring alert continued. Fingers dipped back down and reemerged with the phone tight in their grasp, before turning over to display the stark warning within.

“Endbringer,” it read. “Canberra, Australia. Simurgh.”

Three lines of text, stacked one atop the other above a harsh white background, washing away the normal colors and silhouettes of the screen. Even as she took in the words a sudden surge of motion caught her eye. In two locations – the PHQ and further up along the coast – billowing white light stretched out in flat, shaped tendrils, dimming a moment later to reveal a bridge of force suspended impossibly above the waves. At the far end, she could just barely make out the forcefield peeling back, shaped around an archway spanning the end of the construct. A beat later and blazing spotlights burst to life, illuminating the entrance.

The slow, ordinary walk from before vanished as Disjoint tore across the ground, reaching the edge of the water a half-second later and plowing forward uncaring. Weightless, each frantic lunge across the surface of the Bay left it unmarked behind her even as momentum stacked further and further, her speed barely hindered by air that dragged at flapping robes. A moment later they froze stiffly and ceased to offer any resistance whatsoever.

As she drew closer Disjoint could make out indistinct figures ahead, quickly crossing the bridge of light to disappear into the tall spires and stacked walls beyond the entrance. Even at her speed they were gone before she arrived, and she could only follow, unwilling to spare even a moment to stop and take in the remarkable scene.

As the titanic pillars of the retrofitted oil rig loomed above Disjoint gave a final push, letting the water drop away beneath her as she rose to meet the entrance. No more than a split-second’s wait for the right moment and gravity reasserted itself as she dropped back down, landing on the edge of the shimmering bridge and dashing through the entrance.

Directly past the archway the sides of tall buildings loomed, sharp metal catwalks running along the outsides and spiraling up between floors. Ahead there was a gap, a tight corridor formed by the space between opposing walls, covered overhead by a glass-enclosed bridge. Disjoint darted down it, towards the opening beyond and the voices she could hear murmuring tensely.

As she emerged the space opened up into the semblance of a courtyard, a gap between the buildings ringed with windows along the second story that looked down on the small collection of capes within. Stumbling to a halt, she glanced rapidly across the gathering of Protectorate members. Perhaps three-quarters of the local heroes were present, but her eyes failed to locate a distinctive black cloak.

Her arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed, as masks and visors turned to take the new arrival. As Disjoint paused for a moment, deciding how to proceed, Battery broke away from the loose circle to stride quickly across the open space.

“What are you doing here?” the Protectorate hero questioned tersely, and Disjoint let her confusion and impatience pull ahead, leaking into her words.

“What do you mean? The alert, the Endbringer. I’m going to help.”

She could see Battery bite back words, clenching her jaw before she spoke. “You aren’t cleared for fights against the Simurgh, and even if you were…” she trailed off, and Disjoint could hear the unspoken words. The silent fear at the thought of Disjoint dancing on the Simurgh’s strings. Understandable, but wrong. Her thoughts were hers alone, now and forever more.

“It wouldn’t matter,” Disjoint addressed the unspoken fear. “The song doesn’t affect me.” However, Battery only shrugged helplessly.

“You can’t prove that; there’s a reason the Protectorate requires so much vetting. You need months at minimum—”

“Battery,” Disjoint interrupted, not harshly but ever so steadily. “I will not sit by. Not for this.” She stared at the Protectorate hero, waiting, willing her to concede. Finally, Battery’s gaze slid to the side.

“I’m not the one you need to convince,” the hero responded evasively. “Alexandria is inside, preparing with Armsmaster and the footage from the scene.” She gestured towards the double doors behind them, on the other side of the courtyard. “You need to talk to her. But Disjoint?” Battery straightened, staring back at her. “No holding back. Not even if it means you won’t be able to go. Tell Alexandria everything.”

“I will.”

Striding past Battery, Disjoint pushed through the doors, into the harshly lit hallway beyond. The white light stood out against the dim courtyard, highlighting the smooth walls and empty corridor. Ahead, a single door stood propped open, the dark wood jutting into the hall and carving through the flat expanse.

As she drew closer Disjoint felt herself not slow but speed up, still staring ahead at the entryway, the invitation. Her feet carried her as it grew closer and closer, and then suddenly, without fanfare, she was there.

Her eyes closed briefly, hands tensed tightly and relaxed, and then she stepped forwards, turning through the entryway and into the room.

Directly ahead of her a figure in black stood facing the opposite direction, staring up at a bank of screens that took up most of the far wall. Besides her, a man in dark blue power armor was hunched over half-turned, looking back towards the doorway. As she entered he straightened to face her.

“Disjoint. You came to participate?” His voice had an undercurrent of urgency as he glanced back at the screens, the woman standing beside them. “I’ve heard you’ve done well in the city so far. It’s unfortunate we couldn’t meet at a better time.” His head cocked, staring off at a point only he could see, then he refocused. “You aren’t registered for this fight.” There was a question behind the statement.

“I know,” Disjoint replied honestly, even as her head twitched towards the room’s final occupant. “That’s what I’m here to talk to Alexandria about.” At her name, the Triumvirate member finally broke away from the display, turning to the conversation.

Alexandria faced her, and Disjoint stared into a pair of brown eyes behind a full steel helm and froze. In her mind the mask vanished, clattering to the ground to reveal a face screwed with agony, jagged gouges stretching across one eye as blood poured down the ruin of her face.

She was shaking, Disjoint realized, hands twitching almost invisibly, and she forced herself to stop, to let the stillness flow down into her extremities until she resembled nothing more than a statue. In front of her there was no reaction, but she knew that Alexandria had noticed. She could feel the attention.

Armsmaster was saying something to the Triumvirate member, a sentence she only caught the second half of, something about a few more minutes until Strider arrived. Turning back to Disjoint, his mouth was tight beneath the visor.

“There isn’t much time,” he stated, painfully neutral, and she jerked a nod in acknowledgement.

“Could I talk to you in private for a moment, Alexandria?” she asked faintly, and the other woman looked at her curiously, gaze sharp.

“We don’t have enough time for a lengthy discussion,” Alexandria spoke, not unkindly. “If you have anything to say about your participation go ahead, but the rules are in place for a reason. You wouldn’t be the first to find them cumbersome.”

“I’m immune to her song.” Disjoint hesitated, before stating simply, pushing out the words and watching as Armsmaster tilted his head in surprise and then shifting to confusion a moment later at something else. Ignoring him, she continued. “What’s more, I can help. I can keep people safe, or I can hurt her. Help drive her away.”

“That’s not something we can verify,” Armsmaster mirrored Battery’s earlier words, irritation clouding his voice, though she got the sense that it wasn’t directed at her.

“I can prove it.” Disjoint kept watching Alexandria as she spoke. “She’ll know,” she added, and her voice dropped lower, catching uncertainly. “It’s just…

“I’m sorry. Sorry that it took so long. Sorry that it couldn’t have been me back then.” Her hands rose, fumbling, and she could see Alexandria freeze. The same stillness that she had so often fallen back into, as the Triumvirate member arrived at the realization a moment before Disjoint pushed her mask upwards. It caught at the hood of her cloak and she continued, a cascade of black and white spilling out.

A pair of golden eyes stared uncovered out into the room, and Armsmaster jerked backwards like he had touched a burning iron. A split-second later his halberd was in his hands, appearing as if by magic, and the blade flared a spitting white as it crashed into the side of her neck.

It screamed aside, baffled, and Alexandria snapped out a hand a moment too late, catching his arm as the pair tensed, coiled and brimming with barely restrained energy. Disjoint stared at the two Protectorate heroes, and she could feel the strain, the clawing, suffocating pressure. A single moment away from tipping the scales and exploding into motion.

“Siberian.” Alexandria spat out, and Disjoint shook her head ever so slowly.

“No. Not anymore,” she replied word by word, as she stared into Alexandria’s eyes and willed her to listen. To give her a single chance, one that she knew should have gutted out so long ago. A suicidal leap of faith from any angle, that much more so for the woman that had been so wronged. And yet all she could do was hope.

She stared into her eyes and waited, even as Alexandria rose inch by inch into the air, even as Armsmaster’s gauntlets tightened around the haft of his halberd, and then Alexandria spoke.

“Explain yourself.” 

And for all the fury, the tightly-bundled anger and wariness and confusion, they were the kindest words she had ever heard.