#110
Discord - 1.06
The moment I feel the wheels sheer off the side of our van, I reach into myself and fire off specific sets of neurons. Baiters have far greater control over a Beastie than our own bodies, even those without my unique conditions. The random flows of adrenaline and hormones that govern the human body are far too unpredictable for our fast-paced fights, and conventionally available hormones wouldn't have enough time to go into effect. Our bodies are masterpieces of compartmentalisation, capable of closing off whole arteries in an instant, to prevent blood loss, and traced through with redundant nerves and muscle groups to prevent even the most minor paralysis.
Most of these functions are handled automatically, biological computers taking the place of human instinct and chemical reactions, but bioware processors allow us to overwrite those artificial instincts, enforcing our will upon our bodies in the way that even the most zen spiritualist can only dream of. With a thought, I send a signal shooting through the cluster of artificial grey matter that regulates a certain set of glands, dispersed throughout my body. These glands have no analogues in nature, and generate chemical concoctions never before seen on this world.
With a thought, I trigger the release of the geneered hormones produced by just one of these organs; a stimulant cocktail that races through my nervous system like fire. Ice cold heat fills my synapses, firing them off a fraction faster than they would naturally. The stimulant cocktail this gland generates is a Class-A drug called Slo-Mo, and illegal for humans to possess, but lower-budget Baiter teams often made use of it to bring their Beastie's nervous system up to the same speed as their human one. It's not possession if it's generated biologically and used within the same body.
Time doesn't slow as the drug courses through me, but my brain accelerates, identifying and coordinating information at a much faster rate. Withdrawal will hit me hard, and this time I can't divert my attention to a second body, but the benefits are immediately apparent. Rather than panicking, nature's own feeble attempt at achieving the same result, my thought become clear and rational. When the van is suddenly jerked by a second impact, beginning to flip uncontrollably, I am not shocked. Instead I loosen my muscles and watch the Crew react.
Gregor simply chooses not to move, fighting to keep the vehicle under control until the end and trusting in his parahuman body to take the brunt of the impact. It is a display of near-superhuman courage. Newter leaps out of the passenger window as it passes over his head, diving through a shower of shattered glass. At first it seems like cowardice, but somebody needs to be steady on their feet and if he hit any of the other passengers then they'd be out for the count.
Faultline anchors herself amongst the passenger seats, but I can see her attention is split between herself and Labyrinth. The kisa is still staring straight ahead, completely zoned out, and her seatbelt isn't on. My mind moves faster than I can think, and I propel myself across the miniscule distance between me and the girl, using the roll of the van to guide my leap. I scoop her up in my arms and cocoon her against my chest, wrapping my tail around her to cushion the blow even at the cost of my own safety.
The van collides against something, catching the vehicle on the roof which crumples and tears. My back takes most of the blow, but my internal and external skeleton hold steady. Beastie fights are slash-and-tear affairs precisely because we're very good at taking a regular pummelling. The rear doors of the van were blown off in the crash, and I can see the sunny light of the afternoon through the open door. Clutching my precious burden close to my chest, I stagger out of the van as my body burns away the last of the stimulant, and set my precious burden down.
"Well, well, well. What do we have h…"
Whatever he was about to say dies in his throat as he sees the sweet little kisa lying on the street. The kisa they might have killed. I can't see if her eyes are open, useless bloody masks, so I put a hand against her chest, as gently as I can manage. I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding in as I feel the slight resistance of her rising chest against my hand. I can see Faultline step into my peripheral vision, looking none the worse for wear in spite of our little tumble, closely followed by Gregor and Newter. As Labyrinth moves up to sit cross-legged on the pavement, I allow my head to drift up to our enemy.
Two men, one standing and one flying. The standing man is one I recognise, thanks to Faultline talking me through the local colour, as Chevalier, Bobby big-dick of the local Protectorate. Or maybe not; the massive meat-cleaver in his arms has to be compensating for something, after all. He's dressed from head to toe in armour that looks like some sci-fi knight, and he's holding a sword so large it looks like it must weigh as much as him. That he's holding it in one hand only further cements my belief that parahumans are all cheating bastards.
The other fellow I don't know. He's pretty much the exact opposite of the cyber-knight, dressed in brown robes and sporting a beard. By the way he's standing in mid-air like it was solid ground, I assume that he's yet another flying prick like the guy from the rooftops.
"Myrrdin," Faultline whispers in my ear as she steps up to the head of our crew, "ranged attacks. Can banish opponents."
The fuck does that mean? Even if I could voice my question there'd be no time; Faultine's already moved past me. I shift my weight in front of Labyrinth, shielding her from the trigger-happy hero. In all fairness to them, they do look a bit regretful over how they almost killed a kid. Chevalier's face is hidden, but his posture is a bit more slumped now. Myrrdin's face is deep in shadow, but his jaw is clenched tightly. Part of me wonders why we haven't started fighting yet, but then I remember that the capes have made the whole world their arena, and this is just a bit of pre-match posturing.
"Faultline," Chevalier seemed to come back to his senses, "so nice of you to return. I missed your last visit to my fair city. What's wrong? Wasn't one kidnapping enough?"
He's glaring at Labyrinth through his armour, and his grip is tightening on his sword. Faultline laughed, an easy, confident sound aimed to show contempt for her foe.
"Kidnapping? Labyrinth asked to come with us, and I was all-too happy to oblige. They were using her as a tool to keep Burnscar under control, Chevalier. Little miss Slaughterhouse herself."
The flying man, Myrrdin, speaks up for the first time, in a calm and level voice.
"Young lady," at first I think he's looking at me, but then I realise that at his height he can look over me to Labyrinth, "I know it must have been difficult in the asylum, but they really did want to help you. You don't have to stay on the run."
Faultline's silent, and I'm happy to follow her lead. I had been wondering how Labyrinth joined up with this crew of misfits, and I'm not about to stop her if she wants to leave. The first rule of fighting is to never take your eyes off the enemy, but I can't stop myself from turning my head to look at the waif of a girl, still sitting cross-legged on the tarmac. Her face is unreadable behind the ballistic mask, but I suspect her real face would have been just as blank. There's an indescribably tension in the air as both sides wait for her word. If she wants out, and Faultline says no, then I need to be ready to fight.
When she does speak, her voice is so quiet that for a moment I think nobody except me could have heard it.
"I'm happy here. I have a family."
My heart breaks all over again as she echoes the thoughts I didn't know I'd been having. I had loved the Predators, and I know they loved me back, but they'd never really understood me. They saw me as a tragedy, growing remote and distant, and thought the way around that was to live even harder. They were living, really living, while I was just stuck in a shell, looking out at the world through an affinity neuron symbiont they dragged along for the ride. They'd cheer as I pulled some bird for the night, bring me in to boozers for shot after shot after shot, but they never understood that I wasn't really in there anymore. I was in the back of our lorry.
It wasn't anyone's fault, but it was true all the same.
Faultline's Crew don't know that side of me. They never knew Sonnie, never had to scoop her brains off the floor or splice them into a gene-engineered body, gambling everything on creating the impossible. I don't have to pretend with them, don't have to act like everything's still the way it used to be. They know I'm out of place, they just have the wrong cause. Labyrinth's made her choice, and so have I.
"I understand, but I hope you understand the consequences of your decision."
Chevalier speaks up again, and his grip tightens on his fuckoff sword as he gets ready to attack. We don't give them that chance. Gregor's stomach has been whirling and churning throughout our conversation, and his skin suddenly erupts with a cloud of thick, acrid smoke that fills the street as Faultline shouts "go!"
I scoop up Labyrinth in my arms again and run off to the right, following the bright flash of orange skin as Newter passes me by. It feels strange, running on two legs, but I don't split my tail to support myself like I would have in the arena. Best to keep that sort of thing under wraps until it can be most effective. As we duck into the alleys of Philadelphia, I can hear successive cracks of concussive force as Myrrdin blasts apart our smoke cloud, but the cracks sound too light to have been the shot that hit our van. That must have been Chevalier then, him and his bullshit sword-cannon.
There's no way we can take them on an open field, but Philadelphia is a far more varied arena than I'm used to. In some ways it's worse, the two heavy hitters completely outmatch us as combatants, but there are many ways we can turn this to our advantage. Ducking into the alleyways is one of them, Chevalier and Myrrdin are cocky as all hell, and won't think twice about pursuing us. I can hear them casually chatting on their way in, as Faultline silently directs us into position.
"Well, my friend, I'm a guest in your fair city. So, who are these ne'r do wells?"
That must be Myrrdin. He's really getting a kick out of this wizard thing.
"They're not mine, fortunately enough. Faultline's a roving mercenary, she'll do anything for a bit of cash."
He's baiting an attack, the two of them striding down the middle of the alleyway like they owned the bloody place.
"Don't let the orange one touch you, his skin induces unconsciousness. The fat one can generate chemicals in his stomach, but it'll take him a while to brew up a new batch after that smoke. The lizard isn't a parahuman. I think it might be one of Blasto's creations; he's probably footing the bill."
"You're sure about that?" Myrrdin sounded surprised. I began to listen intently from my perch on the rooftops, a couple of stories above where the wizard wannabee was looking down at his friend.
"You know I have my ways. It doesn't have any powers at all."
Nice to finally get confirmation on that, and it just validates my belief that parahumans are all bullshit cheaters. People had to work for this body, it wasn't just handed to me on a silver fucking platter. We should have attacked by now; I can only assume Faultine was more interested in hearing what they had to say than in fighting. I can't say I blame her. She's hiding in the alleyway a few metres ahead of Chevalier, her hand resting on the wall of an abandoned building. On the other side of the street, Newter is waiting to give her a hand signal when everything's in position.
A line of brick dust crashes out of the façade of the abandoned building, as Faultine carves a great diagonal slash through its length. The brickwork crumbles and slides as the entire building pours itself into the small alleyway. Chevalier is caught by surprise, and raises his blade as if to parry the collapsing masonry. He moves in microseconds, and the sword extends to eight feet in length. Still, the sheer mass of masonry begins to overwhelm him. His armour will protect him, but it will slow him down.
Myrrdin hadn't been caught in the brickslide, which definitely wasn't according to plan, and he begins to rocket upwards at tremendous speed. Acting on pure instinct, I leap off the roof and into the open gap of the alleyway, slamming myself into the wizard as he climbs. He's stunned by the impact, but that still leaves us falling six stories to the ground. My tail swings left, catching the building beside us before embedding itself into a load-bearing pillar. We swing left, and I hold out the wizard in front of me as we slam into the fragile brickwork of the building. On the floor above us, my tail shears out of the pillar as I pull a muscle, noting with detached calm as the tendons tear and others tighten to take up the slack. Khanivore is a masterwork of redundant systems, but it can't hold up indefinitely.
Somehow, the wizard has managed to keep his grip on his staff and, as the force of our landing sends me rolling across the floor, his own descent stops completely, rendering him entirely stationary as he had been when flying. I end up on my back, looking down the length of my body at him, before rolling right as he draws a sigil in the air, sending forward a blast of concussive force that scatters brick dust and detritus into whirling spirals before blowing out the windows on the other side of the empty floor.
Another blast is sent, and again I barely avoid it, before a third sigil is drawn right in front of my path. The blast catches me head on and I am hurled backwards, my exoskeleton developing hairline fractures with the force used. Blunt force will never damage a beastie as much as bladed edges, but successive strikes will eventually shatter through the densely engineered bone. I am hurled backwards, crashing through a wall and sliding to a stop right before the sudden drop to the road below, surrounded by the sounds of bricks clattering into oblivion.
It would be a matter of seconds for me to roll back onto my feet, but those are seconds I don't have. Instead, my tail separates beneath me and finds purchase on the ceiling above. I launch myself forwards, driving my claws in and out of the ceiling to move along, with my legs held out before me, bare talons poised to slice the wizard to ribbons. I quickly close the ten metres between us, but I'm not fast enough. He levels his staff towards me, and his jaw clenches in a steely grimace as he cries out a single word.
"Banish!"
Nothing happens, and I see his mouth drop open in shock as I drive my legs into him, breaking his concentration and sending him sprawling to the floor. I part my legs as we slide to a halt until I'm left straddling his waist in some monstrous parody of the cowgirl. My tendrils pin his limbs down, preventing him from drawing his sigils, and coil around his staff until it snaps under the pressure while I place my enormous hands over his face. I press down on his mouth and nose with the tenderness of a lover and simply wait, feeling his body jerking beneath me in a desperate attempt to free himself.
It takes longer than you'd think to suffocate a man, and he's still kicking when the orange blur of Newter zips up the side of the building only to come to a shocked stop by my side. I move my hands slightly to the right, exposing Myrrdin's cheek to Newters touch. Within seconds he's out of it, lost in his own little world. I hope it's a bad trip. I stagger to my feet, breathing heavily in spite of my biology, my lungs drawing in huge gulps of air to soothe my nerves. Some distant part of me remarked that the wizard had trouble performing under pressure, a dark joke to distract myself from how close I had come to losing everything.
I have put my body through the wringer, losing tendons in my tail and legs, and nearly fracturing my external ribcage. In less than an hour, the adrenaline will dissolve and I will begin to go through withdrawal, as the suppression of Slo-Mo's aftereffects ends, and I spend a few hours as an insensible, shivering wreck. But I've won. I have taken everything this world could throw at me and emerged victorious. My immediate future looks like it will be full of miserable agony as my body knits itself back together as best it can without the suspension tank, but for now I'm high on victory, the sweetest drug of all, and I descend down the side of the building like a conquering hero, coming to rest before Faultline and the others.
Chevalier is on the floor, partially buried beneath the brickwork, fast asleep. A minute chunk had been torn from his armour, just barely large enough for Newter to get his hands onto the exposed skin beneath. None of us speak as I descend, we're all still running off the adrenaline high, and none of us are willing to believe it was over quite yet. We run off into the alleys of Philadelphia, with Gregor the Snail carrying Labyrinth on his shoulder.
There are three events attributed to Faultine's crew in canon, before their first appearance at Somer's Rock. The first is the raid on the Parahuman Asylum, during which they freed Labyrinth while pursuing another objective. The second is a fight against Chevalier and Myrrdin, during which Faultline dropped a building on the heroes. The third is the recruitment of Spitfire.
As I was reading Myrrdin's wiki entry, I stumbled across a wonderful little titbit of information; his powers don't work properly on materials that have recently moved between dimensions. Like, say, a twelve foot tall Beastie dumped out of Cauldron less than 48 hours ago. That's the reason for his 'performance issues'.