30.4
She didn’t break eye contact with Dragon, muscles aching. A memory surfaced - a sleepover dare, staring at their reflections, repeating a monstrous woman’s name. The reflection distorted, a result of the mind’s idleness, filling gaps with guesses. The mind, amazing but with limits. Dragon spoke, insistent, concerned. A shrug, an exaggerated gesture. Focusing on Dragon was like staring into the mirror, details bleeding. Was it the entity, tapping into memories? Or was she losing her mind? I’m running out of time.
A gesture towards the Birdcage, a portal opened. Dragon flooded the room with containment foam. A declaration of intent, a line drawn. A need for a physical connection, but no openings. Lava through a portal, touching Dragon. She moved, retaliating with lightning. Defensive portals, lightning striking Scion. The guns changed, a spray of containment foam. A portal, halfway across the world, Istanbul. Then, an attack. Ranged attacks through portals, obliterating Dragon’s ship.
Dragon deployed drones, a war, not a typical fight. Decentralized, no single point of attack. She’d have to destroy everything, if Dragon didn’t give up. Don’t destroy my army. The fight against Scion ongoing, no splitting attention. Drones closing in, thinkers gauging the approach. Shén Yù informed her of Dragon’s attack, indistinct lines, a feeling, labels. Infantry, cavalry. Dragon aiming to strike her. Seventeen utility craft deployed, weak points, distant objectives. An army base, a munitions depot, a data center, annihilated.
I’m sorry. Dragon’s reaction, drones unmanaged, focusing elsewhere. A skeleton crew at a data management firm, paranoid, discreet. Control, direct action, heat, a damaged freezer. Dragon’s craft arrived, damage done. I’m sorry. Dials shifted, numbers rising, gauges filling. Ranged attacks, a satellite, feedback, an explosion. Dragon speaking to Defiant, tensing, still. Please stop. The attack intensified, nonviolent means, a second wave. Drones too large, jettisoning shells, accelerating. A third wave, a siege weapon, deliberate, devastating, indirect. Forcefields, portals opening, drones entering.
Shén Yù, Teacher’s device, doors closing. Dragon’s path shut. Meters and gauges, each attack pushing closer to capacity. Another facility, ranged attacks, horror. Meters in the red, gauges at maximum, bars filled, characters going nuts. Monitors blank, server banks spinning down, grids of lights winking out. A daze, machines still, hot. Drones dropping, a flinch. I’m sorry, a memory, not her thought. A chaotic mess, a lump in her throat. Vomit, half-numb, distant. A miscalculation? Vulnerability, something else, did it matter? An ally, a friend. A scream, a yell, a plea, conflicting ideas.
Anchors, Tattletale, Rachel, Imp, Grue’s cabin. A mess of portals, external clues, emotional turmoil. Pulling the grid back together. Reaching for anchors, her mom, her old house. A mess of streets, indistinguishable rubble, no landmarks. An idea, a word, a symbol, unclarified. Don’t panic, rushed, sloppy, hard and fast breathing, pacing heartbeat. Don’t panic, repetition, good, helping. Her passenger? A normal lapse, stressful situation, right word. Perfectly normal. A wheezing pant. Stop Scion. A portal, not her order. The drones moved. Defiant? Saint? Blitzing Shén Yù. Focused on Scion. Erecting portals, shooting drones, defending. Thinkers, understanding, divining the controller.
Easier when active, in conflict. This was her, thriving in chaos, madness. No, not always. Taylor, minus powers, avoiding conflict, just getting by. Does that mean this is you, passenger? No reply. Drones kept coming, a battle line. Drones shifting, a ‘u’ turn, circling, redistributing. Portals open, lights off, remote control. The lights are off, but they’re still running. A laugh, abrupt, alien. Fucking Dragon. A reality check, catching her off guard. Systems into hibernation, a bare minimum. A detonation, portals distorting, winking out. In the midst of an army, no longer controlled. Fucking tinkers, strangely overjoyed, fucked over, but happy.
Capes at the edge, looking around in a daze. Drones, a perimeter. Capes, lost, shell-shocked. Laughter stopped, a sound, half-roar, half-scream, channeling rage, despair. Attacking drones, a universal sound, going with the crowd. Dealing with Dragon, stopping her from the source. Fuck you for fucking with my head. Not malice, feelings confused, relieved, disoriented, muddled. One task at a time. Stopping Dragon. Suits kicking back into action. Fought Endbringers together, the Guild, Dragon taken out of action. A.I.? Main suit taken out of action…
Deploying suits, which was she keeping safest? One in the thick of things, forcefields, mitigating damage. Two more on the fray, long-range fire. One above the clouds, long-ranged laser beams. Drones making headway, unstable capes. Doormaker recovering, slow. An instinct to regain control, reconsideration. No time to feel guilty, no time to think. Portals, firing through, seizing control. More ranged attacks, Dragon flying out of the way, a damaged ship. A wreck plummeting, a change in behavior, drones dropping. Not a feint.
Portals into the Birdcage, no containment foam. Fifty or sixty disabled, seven hundred and forty-three added. Nonlethal measures wearing off, a step forward. A passenger sorting them out, reinforcing. One obstacle removed, time to reboot. Not ideal, but better than murdering her. Turning attention to the world, recruiting capes. A dead end, worlds bleeding together, worse. Forcing herself to clarify, to tell herself it didn’t make sense. Excruciating minutes, convincing herself Scion wasn’t tearing reality. An exhalation, a shudder, a sore throat.
Slow going, picking up, a passenger handling more. Capes in hiding, rogues, deserters, no costume, barely used powers. Retirees, wounded, dropped out, rusty. The insane, disabled by powers, a small few. Glory Girl, a newly built wing. Slaughterhouse Nine members, clones, hiding. Mannequin, two Damsels, Night Hag-Nyx, Crawler-Breed. Looking to other universes. Capes in Earth Aleph, barely C-list. Sundancer, Genesis, Ballistic, civilian clothes, retired, lavish penthouse. Portals, control, leaving Oliver behind. Other Earths, a small handful, contamination, ten capes at most, case fifty-threes.
Monster. A shake of the head, blinking. Another Earth, beautiful people, global power, a single flag, a gauntlet emblem. A blue costume, white fur, a heavy cape. Attempting control, resistance, a loss of control. Twenty capes, negligible, but not settling. A compromise, requiring more. A portal, ensnaring Canary, rescuing the wounded. Setting down the wounded, passing through. A song, fast tempo, severe clip, long high notes, not English, not muddled, power expressed.
Close enough for the Yàngbǎn’s power enhancer, awareness, safety. Trying again, foreign capes, a blue-costumed woman ruling the world, portals feeding song. Reasserting control, an attack from two directions, resistant, not immune. Understanding her power, a point-blank trump, tuning abilities, defenses, long-ranged telekinesis, a compulsion, a personal power battery. Where the hell had she come from? No powers amazing against Scion, but an asset. Not weak, nothing gamebreaking, but not weak.
Sleeper, on a lawn chair, reading aloud. More trouble than he was worth. Bringing the collected to the battlefield, prisoners, brainwashed, lunatics, cowards, monsters, broken. Assembling in groups, in between, front, behind, above, below. Canary’s song, slower, working with the wind and waves. More doors, more collected. Teacher, Cauldron’s base, a PRT-issue phone, communication, Protectorate, Guild. Contessa, waking up. Shaking, tension, wanting to sit down, but not able. Anchors, a mantle of portals, Tattletale, Rachel, Imp, Grue.
The old house eluding her, a sinking feeling. Reaching for a replacement, not home, a dad’s workplace, something family. A quaint old house on a hill, rose bushes, a grandmother, not her Gram, a memory of something read. Unsettling, the seeming reality, nostalgia, a wrong thing to keep identity intact. Lost in thought, stepping onto the battlefield, unplanned, a bad idea. Miss Militia, Exalt, responding to Teacher. A threat. People throughout the crowd, Protectorate, Wards, tense.
A voice, recognized quality, not words, Glaistig Uaine, welcoming her back. Crooning, pleased, on a mountaintop, three ghost-capes. A small army, a formidable force, three thousand strong, thirty layers of portals. Teacher, Tattletale replying, not looking happy. So many voices, so many things to focus on. Momentarily lost, a large army, strong enough to kill everyone here- Stopping herself. Why had I thought that? Glaistig Uaine crooning, not her, thinkers would have warned. Shaking her head.
A large army, powerful, the next big step, unsure how. Chess, moves with gravity, nuance, one move at a time. What to do first, what wouldn’t open her up for retaliation? Better if she wasn’t here, turning to leave, backing through a portal. Tattletale, stepping outside, gazing at the army, looking straight at her. Eyes wide, a little freaked out. I don’t- I can’t… Thoughts stuttering. Tat- Clutching images, objects, tethers. I t’s too soo- Too soon. Running out of time.
Had to move, had to act, easier in the thick of it. Glaistig Uaine, the real threat, first. Not liking the look of her ghosts, a vulgar woman, warped, twisted, costume and body one. Not recognizing her, but one of the crazy ones. A guy, built like a football player, muscle, armor, spikes, a helmet covering eyes. Sitting at Glaistig Uaine’s feet, tall, her eyes barely looking over his head. A thin woman, barely there, exaggerated, passing on messages, like Screamer.
Preparing to move, a danger sense, twelve capes. Alerting the ghost in armor, lurching to his feet, speaking. Glaistig Uaine, a single, hard word. A precog, a defensive cape. Anticipating an attack. The thin woman, a current of wind, a battering ram, homing in. Moving through a portal, the column following, hitting her like a truck. Tumbling, a lack of control, helping, panting, not tensing up, a reflex not there. Limp, better than tearing something.
The Faerie Queen anticipating, knowing what she’d been doing, how she was operating. If she used her power… What did the vulgar woman do? Another column of wind. Barriers, force fields, crystal, fire. Passing between, closing the portal, changing course, heading for the nearest member. Shifting grip, a young man’s wrist, grabbing hers, a surer grip. Compressing, passing through a foot-wide portal, hitting her, not as hard, but still hurt. The Faerie Queen speaking, imperious, echoing, indignant, a bite of anger.
Others reacting, not rallying against Glaistig Uaine. Tattletale murmuring, her name? The Faerie Queen banishing her wind-witch, another spirit. Capitalizing, a gravity pulse, a bullet imploding. The man in armor, a circle of rippling air, the sender imploding, blood showering. Something indirect, a portal, Canary’s song. Keeping the field up, pain, choking, coughing up blood. A power counterer, a precog, Eidolon. If she’d used a portal, what would have happened? To Doormaker, her, both?
Not stable on her feet, climbing to standing, an army, losing them in an instant. Hitting her with something that broke the rules, not Foil, not willing to risk her. Alexandria, instead, Pretender. Legend, two foreign capes, Moord Nag. Running interference, buying time. Positioning them, lining up the shot. Taking the bait, shooting, moving everyone out of the way. Glaistig Uaine’s pets, a shield raised in time.
Smoke off Scion, a reflective effect. Smoke clearing around the Faerie Queen, panting, ghosts tattered, standing straighter, banishing, replacing. A distraction, a portal planted. Passing through, re-entering Earth Gimel. Miss Militia, a sniper rifle, catching her before she could fire. Capturing the rest, resisting, predicting, a foregone conclusion. Enough soldiers, tools, nothing standing in her way. More portals, no space, shrinking, reorganizing. Tapping other worlds, bugs.
Bugs swirling around captives, not obscuring the view. Compound vision, five thousand pairs of eyes, collecting more. Breathing with five thousand mouths. Adrift in a sea. Eyes falling on Tattletale, Panacea behind her. Shaking her head, between her and Panacea. Reaching out, trembling. Flopping down. Need her as an anchor more than I need her power. Anchors… Her mom’s grave, Brockton Bay, right? Brockton Bay, a minute to find, keeping capes out of Scion’s way.
Couldn’t find the grave, no time. What else? The mantle of power. Yes. Tattletale. And… Reaching out, trying to find others, failing. It would have to do. Finally, everyone working together.