New facets of my abilities are opening up. I can't make the Butcher in my head shut up, but I can dedicate more attention to my insects, denying him access to them. After brief drama, Edward agreed to cooperate with me—a former hero, a cape with what's called "danger sense." He was the first hero who killed the Butcher, became Butcher Three himself, and held on for almost three and a half weeks. At the end of that time, going mad from the voices in his head, he rushed into a suicidal attack on the Teeth's camp, where he was killed by a girl who can cause festering wounds through force of will. What was her name? I decided on principle that I wouldn't call them by their cape names or nicknames. That would remind them of who they are in their cape personas. Right now I need to reach the human core. So either by names—ordinary human names—or by numbers.
So for me, the who killed Butcher Three is simply Fourth. That's it. She's as aggressive as the original Butcher himself, so I don't listen to either her or First anymore. In turn, I gave Edward a personal tablet, entrusted him with two ants, and barely controlled him at all. I couldn't completely ignore what was happening there—after all, it's my power—but I tried not to pay attention. Actually, this wasn't transferring control; no one could control insects without me. It was more like if I put a child on my lap while driving a car and placed his hands on the steering wheel, while still driving myself but taking his movements into account.
Edward's first action was typing the names of his relatives and loved ones into search engines. Fortunately, modern social networks allowed him to find his family, their photos and videos. I tried not to look, or rather—not to pay attention or focus on it, but apparently he succeeded on the first try. He looked at their photos and videos. At first there weren't many, but then his daughter entered Boston College, got a good phone with a camera, and discovered social media. And there were lots of photos and videos. Sweet photos on campus with girlfriends and some kitten. Alarming photos from parties where she was hugging some guy, photos from home where she came for Christmas, videos of participating in some carnival (didn't know they held those in Boston), and here's kayaking trips on North American rivers and lakes, camping in tents. The first heartbroken post about relationships. A breakup. Black and white photos showing the night sky and "if dad were alive"... no, stop, what am I doing? I can't peek over his shoulder—Edward should have at least the illusion of privacy. I already promised him I wouldn't spy. And I won't. That's it, back to gold extraction, selective breeding of Japanese hornets from vicious and terribly poisonous creatures into even more vicious and more poisonous ones. I'll call them "Stingers." Additionally increasing the possible volume for grenade ants. They showed themselves in the best light during the battle with the Butcher—specifically, they didn't interfere anywhere, and when left without my control, they simply found a safe place and went into hibernation. Good job. After all, the instincts of barrel ants, storage ants, and ant queens are originally different. "Medicis" and "Kunoichis" are attacking creatures—they don't think before pulling the trigger, but barrel ants were created for storage, not attack, and making them give everything at once requires a special command. Not to mention that a burst barrel ant dies. So everything's perfect—bring on more such ants.
Incidentally, what happened made me reconsider my concept of "let's have more violence and escalation" and try developing two new lines of grenade ants: the first filled with capsaicin—analogous to pepper spray—and the second with a sticky but quick-hardening substance. Of course, you don't wave your fists after the fight, but you must learn from your own defeats. Yes, each specific barrel ant doesn't contain much sticky substance supplied by spiders at my underground sewing factory named after Clara Zetkin, but I have the advantage of using any chemical substances, from poison and acid to capsaicin and webbing. I can deliver everything very precisely. Poisons and capsaicin—into specific nostrils or air filter holes. Acid—onto the thinnest surfaces closest to skin. Webbing—joints, soles, weapon safeties, seal ammunition fasteners, and of course glasses or helmet visors. Those who get information only through their own senses will be neutralized quite quickly. Even Glory Girl, that Mini-Alexandria, won't be able to attack if she can't see anything.
And it's my fault I didn't foresee this, didn't think in time, focused on the most lethal options instead of at least thinking about flexibility of approach. It's all because of fear. I felt vulnerable in a world of capes where monsters like Lung or the Siberian walk around. What am I saying about Lung—practically every one of Empire Eighty-Eight's mask lineup could either cut me to ribbons or do something else. However, to make hamburger out of Taylor's scrawny body, there wasn't even a need to be a cape. It was enough to be a strong man... or three girls. And all my insects wouldn't have saved me from an accurate shot or even a thrown stone. From a knife or fist strike.
And this scared me—my own vulnerability. That's why I reacted so sharply to events, breeding myself the most lethal weapons, and ultimately it turned against me. I have three weeks, and if I don't go insane during this time, then... what? Well, fine, I'll last four weeks, five weeks... so what? If at the end of the sixth week the Butcher still takes control of the body—what's the point? Set a record? To later brag in this hell of foreign personalities, like "I lasted longer than all of you"? No, wrong. Completely wrong. This isn't a sprint, it's a marathon, Taylor. I don't need to just last several weeks, months, or years. I need to learn to live with them in my head and maintain calm, remain myself, and even enjoy life.
And I have an advantage over all previous personalities—my terrifying multitasking. Yes, if you constantly drip water on someone's head, they'll go insane. But what if you constantly change the head? If I can divide attention, then I can alternate it like chambers in a revolver, not letting myself go completely insane. Can I, based on my multitasking, create sub-personalities within myself? Probably. That's actually called schizophrenia. Wait, stop. Right now—am I alone breeding queens, conducting wasp selection, pulling a column of cockroaches to the anthill under the house for slaughter, collecting gold grains deep in the mine, and reading PHO forums simultaneously? No, no, I couldn't do it myself. Someone or something takes on the management function, helping me feel millions of insects at once. But importantly—I don't control them like in computer strategies, simply selecting them and directing them at enemies, no. I feel and control each (!) insect individually. As if my ability sliced my personality into millions of sub-personalities and gave me the opportunity to simultaneously be all of them. And...
I exhale. I turn my mental gaze inward. I bite my lip. That's right, I feel everything—smells, tastes, numerous pictures in the most varied spectrums of visibility, tingling on antennae, swollen bellies of grenade ants, angry buzzing of killer wasps from the newly created "Stingers" squad. I see through their eyes, feel their bodies—I'm everywhere and nowhere. As if a huge quantum computer capable of anything was connected to my ordinary human brain. I can hardly even imagine the volume of information simultaneously passing through my perception. Billions of terabytes, no, more. There it is, the true power of Taylor Hebert!
Among all the information flow, I simultaneously feel Edward, who's watching his daughter's graduation video and... crying? Ants don't have tear ducts, but the ants he controls have curled up and barely move, dying. Some part of me is surprised that insects can feel human grief; another part cynically notes they're simply executing a self-destruct command, that same suicide Edward wanted so much when he went on that suicidal attack on the Teeth camp. Except he can't die... now he's welded into the Butchers' collective, like all of us.
And also—somewhere among all this information are the other Butchers. They're arguing, shouting, begging... but it's so little. The information flow from the Butchers is negligible compared to the rest, and I sigh with relief. I can't shut them up, can't move their personalities into insects, but I can cut off their access to these information streams. Unfortunately, they'll still remain in my head, but... I have an idea.
"Edward?" I address the parahuman frozen in grief, the first hero who killed the Butcher and the Third Butcher. "Are you alright?"
"No..." he answers after some time. "No, and never will be." His voice sounds... tired?
"Thank you, Taylor," he says. "I always wanted to know exactly... how exactly... what's happening with them now. But no one gave me the opportunity."
"You can write to them," I say. "Create social media accounts, write to them. This is a rare opportunity, Edward. Few are given the chance to talk to loved ones after death."
"What's the point?" There's bitter laughter in his voice. "I'm already gone. And never will be again. And they have a different life. If Sheila finds out... she'll be upset. And I've already caused them all enough trouble. If only then..."
"Well, whether there's a point or not is for you to decide," I reply. "I'm giving you this tablet permanently when we're home. And I'm allocating ants for him to control. Round the clock. Do whatever you want."
"Those bastards won't let me peacefully..." he begins, then suddenly falls silent.
"Silence..." he says, stunned. "Silence... what did you do to them?"
"Nothing," I mentally shrug. "Nothing. You're just focused on controlling insects right now—human abilities are limited. There's something called Ukhtomsky's dominant. When you're busy defecating, you don't react even to electric shocks."
"What?!"
"There was this wonderful scientist, Ukhtomsky. Alexei Alexeevich. A prince, by the way. And a monk. But mainly—a scientist. He proposed the theory of dominance. Simultaneously in a dog's, human's, any brain—only one thing can dominate. The wonderful scientist shocked a dog, and it reacted as proper for a dog being shocked—whined and jerked. But at some point, the dog needed to defecate. And at that very moment it got shocked. But the dog didn't react, though it received the electric shock. Our brains are limited, Edward. You can only do one thing at a time. And controlling insects is a completely new experience, and when I allocate ants to you—you stop noticing the Butcher. It's very simple here—you've been in a situation for quite a while where you have no hands, no legs, no vision of your own. When you constantly hear voices. Let's be honest—you went insane long ago, and I'd never release you to the world without therapy. But no one's releasing you to the world. I'm simply giving you the opportunity to remain in silence, alone. With a tablet and internet access."
"Wait. And... if you leave home and lose connection with these specific ants—can you transfer control of others to me? Not necessarily ants! Flies, butterflies, even rats!" he begins, stumbling over words, hurriedly, rushing before being interrupted. "I don't want to go back to... them! Better silence! Complete silence!"
"I promise to think about it," I nod. A plan is forming in my head. As the ancients said—divide et impera.
Of course, I won't trust Edward with "Medicis" or "Kunoichis," but fruit flies or ordinary flies—why not? After all, the main thing he wants is silence and peace. Ray Bradbury had a story about a man who wanted silence most of all. Put earplugs in his ears and enjoy complete silence. Rest. Edward hasn't had such luxury for the past several years. He existed in hell—existed, because you can't call it life. If hell is other people, then I hold the keys to paradise. How many Butchers would refuse the luxury of choosing their own conversation partner and communication time? They didn't even notice how they turned into a flock of crows who can only scream, caw, and dump all the nastiness inside them on a person. Because that's all they can do. Because it's their only way to somehow influence what's happening. Powerlessness and enclosed space with those you hate but can do nothing about... terrible afterlife. And really, complete silence is better.
"How about this?" I guide three more ants to the tablet to replace the dead ones. "And try to handle them carefully. Otherwise there won't be enough ants for you..." I'm joking, and he knows it. Simultaneously in the anthill, hundreds of ants die per minute—some from old age, some from accidents, so three ants in two hours is nothing to me. Evolution proceeds over corpses, yes.
"Thank you, Taylor," he replies, carefully taking control. "I... I don't even know how to thank you. I haven't had the opportunity to sit in silence for so long."
"If you tell me exactly how all this happened to you, you'll help me greatly," I admit. "I don't want to end up like all of us—a crazy bitch with a machine gun and thirst for destruction. I have a father and... perhaps even friends. A girlfriend. And I have pretty big plans for life. Normal life."
"Well, you're certainly getting ahead of yourself with normal life," Edward chuckles, and for the first time I hear a smile in his voice.
"I already figured that out," I reply dryly. "From the very first time."
"Yeah. Shouldn't have killed Lung. When Quarrel heard about it, something just snapped in her head—immediately jumped in a car. Beat up all her Teeth gang members so hard there was smoke. And that's it." He paused and continued. "Somehow I can't even believe it. My head feels unusual, like fog has cleared. Everything felt like a nightmare. I... I think I'll go sit in silence a bit more, okay?"
"Of course," I say. I need information about the Butcher, details of his psychological impact, exactly how all this "and now I'm the new Butcher, ahaha, die, bitches!" happens. And about the Teeth—where their camp is, since I didn't destroy everyone. They're surely somewhere in the city, lying low, waiting for Butcher Fifteen to manifest so they can pledge loyalty, poor bastards. But... the patient's mental health is most important. If Edward is really able to recover from all this nightmare—it will mean very, very much.
So I won't insist now. He's earned peace. And incidentally—this will already cause a split in the Butchers' ranks. Oh yes, divide and conquer—nothing causes as much rage as privileges among status equals. He's just like us, but he has the opportunity to use internet access and most importantly—privacy! The ability to close the door behind him and exhale.
"And also. Pay attention to Muramasa and Quarrel," Edward says. "They may not be heroes, but Quarrel got into a fight with the Butcher protecting civilians. And Muramasa is noble by nature. Maybe also Shock. He's a Tinker and his moral compass just isn't calibrated—violence isn't that interesting to him. He cares about tinkering. I'm sure he'd sell his own mother for access to ants, a notebook, and materials."
"Thank you, Edward. Good night. Enjoy the silence."