I killed Lung! That was the first thought that flashed through my mind. Stop, don't rush, who knows what's actually true here? Some girl in a skintight costume says it—doesn't mean it's fact. First rule of crisis management: don't panic. Verify the source. How could she possibly know?
Sure, my bugs had registered her at the scene—back when everything went down—but I'd pegged her as a non-combatant. Just another terrified civilian, like a dozen or so hidden in the darkness—people reeking of fear, desperate to stay unnoticed. Some must've been local residents shaken awake, others just unfortunate vagrants in the wrong place at the wrong time. I hadn't noticed her outfit; she didn't stand out. But she was watching. And somehow, she knows it's me controlling the bugs.
Doesn't matter. Decision time. Fight or flight. Realistically, eliminate the Undersiders on the spot, just like Lung. That way none of this mess could be traced back to me, right? After all, when Lung went up in flames, he probably took most of his gang with him—thirty or more, all at once. If he's really dead, I'm the one left to take the blame. The living shoulder the guilt; the dead don't face trial.
Killing that many people—especially a supervillain—earns you a one-way trip to the Birdcage. Fast track to a kill order. Great job, Taylor. What a wonderful evening stroll. Who asked you to get involved?
"How do you know?" I ask, standing and tugging my hood over my face. Doesn't matter if they hear my voice or catch a glimpse now. The threat has to be dealt with. My bugs are in position, ready to bury the Undersiders beneath a tidal wave of centipedes, cockroaches, ants—even woodlice. But the real knockout would come from the "Medici doubles," my poison-ant queens. Plenty enough to kill four people.
The real variables? The monstrous dogs. How much venom would it take to bring one down? Would it even work on such unnatural creatures? Considering how bizarre parahuman abilities are, for all I know, those things aren't really alive—they could be constructs, projections, clones… If that's the case, I might take them out with bugs, but they could tear me apart first. And if just one makes it to me, I get bitten in two. Of course, no trees, no fire escapes nearby—nowhere to climb up and wait them out. I'm vulnerable.
"Hey, I'm not your enemy. Enemy of my enemy, right? You look new—new to all this cape bullsh*t. I could help you. A few allies never hurt in this cold world, huh?" The girl's voice is flippant, careless. She stands in her violet bodysuit like she can't be touched. I grit my teeth. My bugs could chew right through her costume; plenty of exposed skin—the hands, jaw, throat. I imagine giving the order. My swarm twitches in anticipation.
"Hey! No need for that! I'm leaving! Look—your money's right there, and I left a card with my number. Call if you need anything…"
She jumps as she speaks, and I realize she's somehow picked up on my intentions. A precog? No, a Thinker. Undersiders' Tattletale. Damn, I can't remember her powers exactly—never cared much for the parahuman forums.
So this is how the pitcher breaks on its final trip to the well. All that secret-identity paranoia—and now it's just a single Thinker in the wrong place at the wrong time and it all unravels. If the PRT finds out who I am anyway, does it even matter? My only chance at going back to normal life is to erase the evidence—including witnesses.
I hesitate. If she were alone, I'd already have given the word for my bugs to dismantle her—and hidden the body after. Millions of insects can make a body vanish, if you organize them right. But there's four of them, plus the dogs. The dogs really mess with my planning.
Maybe I should play along. If they have a safehouse, get them somewhere private, then strike when the time is right. Take them all out at once.
"Wait." I stop the girl in her tracks. "Hold up."
"What?" she says as I step out from behind a dumpster, hood down. I don't fool myself—it barely hides my face. I'd only managed to wrap a scarf around the lower half and stash my glasses. At this point, it's probably pointless. If you've been kidnapped and your captors aren't hiding their faces, you're probably not getting out alive.
I stand before them, but most of my information still comes through the swarm—fruit flies perched on their skin telling me who's tense, who's breathing fast, who's breaking a sweat. I see and hear everything—normal spectrum, thermal, even a kind of echolocation.
I know, for example, that the girl with the white half-mask in the back is about to start her period; the gaunt boy with a scepter has dental issues; the muscled one is drenched in sweat, trying hard to look calm. The violet-clad girl—Tattletale—shudders every time our eyes meet.
"Please, don't… We could be useful to you," she says.
"What?" I ask, stalling for time, realizing I might've made a mistake. Stepping out, trying to bluff a Thinker? Stupid. She already figured out my hiding spot, guessed my gender without even seeing me. How much can she figure out once she gets a good look, even with my face half-covered?
"No! I'm not lying! I know what you can do—I get it! I just… I want to be useful—to you. We all do!"
"You're a Thinker, right?" I study her: a blonde, stunning even behind the mask. Taylor hates pretty blondes, but I'm not Taylor. She's dangerous, smart, but her posture tells me she's scared. That's the only thing that keeps me from unleashing hell—a split second from order to attack.
"Y-yeah. I'm Tattletale." She lowers her head, almost overacting. Suddenly, I feel like some Disney villain.
"Tattletale, what the hell?" mutters the skinny scepter guy.
"Alec! Don't." Tattletale snaps, and he freezes. She used his real name. Capes take exposing their civilian ID very, very seriously.
"Don't even think about it," Tattletale hisses. "She killed Lung. Thirty-seven ABB, all gone, and our lives are hanging by a thread right now. She was about to sic those bugs on us!"
"Whoa," Alec pales. The muscled one tenses, jaw locked.
"So what's the plan?" he asks, careful. "Let's not forget, Tattletale, this little errand was your idea."
"…Ladybug," she says to me, still kneeling. "Let us take you to our base. If you still think it's a good idea, you can kill us there—more convenient, more isolated. Nobody would hear. Cleaner for everyone."
"Like hell I'm letting you hurt my dogs!" barks the tough girl in back, dogs growling in chorus.
"Alright, you read me like a book. Get up—enough drama," I say.
"Yes!" Tattletale jumps up, grinning. "She's not going to kill us after all! Isn't that great?"
"Don't get too comfortable," I mutter, reaching for the bag of cash. "Where'd you get this?"
"Um… honestly, we robbed a casino. Owned by Lung. He took it personally, even though we left a note—'nothing personal, just business.' Guess reading's not his strong suit." Tattletale shrugs, edging back. "Told you—sides are drawn. We're with you. Brought you money today—help or info tomorrow. Just please don't kill us. Regent's bad enough when alive; dead, he'd stink up the city for years."
"Money… and your phone number?" I open the bag, find a white business card among the stacks.
"Yep. Figured you don't have a phone. Why's that? Something traumatic? Sorry, never mind. I can give you one of mine—got a spare." Tattletale offers.
I raise a hand and the poison-ant queens crawl over, forming a living glove—after a moment's thought, I send them up into my hair: gives some extra bulk and keeps them hidden. It tickles.
"Oh god, I'm gonna puke," says Regent, turning away. "I can't deal…"
"You're weird," says the girl in the white mask—the one with the dogs.
"Tattletale," the muscled one says, not taking his eyes off me. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"I'm absolutely not sure!" Tattletale beams, all white teeth in the streetlamp's glow, "But all the other ideas are way worse, trust me."
I watch her. The fruit flies tell me she's still shaking. She knows I know. She straightens her back, trying to be brave. Fine. She might be useful—there's no honor in killing out of fear. You kill witnesses out of fear. That's not me. I'll do the right thing, come what may.
"Oh god, I love Marcus Aurelius," Tattletale whispers, and I smirk.
"I've always had a soft spot for smart girls," I reply. "Especially cute blondes in tight suits."
"Jackpot for you, then!" Regent can't hold back. "You could— kkh!—" He coughs, bending over.
"Regent, mind your mouth," Tattletale warns. "And— how're those flies taste?"
"Ugh! I give up! I'll shut up! Not my place to stand in love's way—bleh!"
"Hey, you hear that?" the muscleman raises a finger. "Sirens."
"Yup, time to go. Quick intros: you know me, muscle mountain here is Grue, the fly-eater is Regent, the quiet one is Bitch. Yeah, really—she insists on it. And these are her dogs. Don't mess with them; touchy subject."
"No one touches my dogs," Bitch growls.
"Exactly. We can give you a ride—unless you want to swing by our place? Regent'll let you try his awesome console." The flies tell me she's still trembling, but it's less now.
"Thanks, but I'll make my own way," I answer. No way am I getting close to those monsters. I'm a glass cannon—wipe out armies, but I go down to a single bullet. Like the Glock 17 in Tattletale's open holster—another Thinker giveaway. Never hurts. I should get one too, maybe? Extra insurance… but do I even need a gun?
Either way, I'll walk home myself. Not risking these monsters throwing me off, or biting me in two. They're all on edge anyway—and so am I. Not that I'd tell them.
"We're out," Grue signals. "See you, Ladybug."
"That's not her name—she hasn't picked one yet," Tattletale corrects him. "But it works for now. Ciao!" She waves and the dogs charge off. In a blink, they're gone.
I exhale and slump against the wall. The tracer bugs tell me the Undersiders don't pause—they keep right on running, out of my range in no time. Before my bugs lose track, I command a few to drop into hibernation. If their base is anywhere near my home, I'll know.
I look around. Same dark alley. One working yellow streetlamp, one shattered. In my hand—a bag of cash. Fifty thousand dollars. More than enough for a new phone, a laptop, anything I want. Heck, a new car—if I had a license, or could explain that kind of money to Dad. Among the bills: a plain white card, just a phone number. No name, no alias, nothing.
I memorize the number. It'll bring me a lot of trouble, I know. I should just toss it, forget any of this happened—but too late. Either kill them all or… stay home tonight, don't go out. Sleep safe in my own bed. Damn, and school tomorrow—and Sophia Hess's kneecaps are still intact. Maybe I should fake sick? At least then I could stay home…