"Hold on a second." I raise my finger just as Glory Girl gets into a fighting stance, raising her clenched fists. Never before would I have dared to duel with Mini-Alexandria, Collateral Damage Barbie, Victoria Dallon, known as Glory Girl. The city didn't take Glory Girl seriously—her appearance and deliberately casual behavior, her hotheadedness and hasty actions, plus the simple fact that she was a high schooler... all this affected how people saw her. And of course—the fact that she was a hero. Citizens didn't understand this, but hero status immediately made a parahuman seem less dangerous. It was comfortable around heroes—heroes were bound by rules and regulations, heroes were meant to protect, heroes didn't kill people or maim them... and even criminals had the right to be read their Miranda rights and handed over to police, or the PRT if the criminal was a parahuman.
Actually, any parahuman is dangerous regardless of whether they're hero or villain—the former just have better PR. But people didn't understand this, so they looked down on Glory Girl slightly. No, they admired her, rejoiced seeing her fly through the sky and happily took autographs, but at the same time she was... a nice girl trying to be a hero. Even her nickname indicated this—a villain who destroyed buildings and structures on the same scale would be called Devastator, Destroyer, Crusher, or something similar. But she was Collateral Damage Barbie.
Nevertheless—she shouldn't be underestimated. There's a reason she has a second nickname—Alexandria-lite. Mini-Alexandria. Alexandria Junior. With a punch she can break through a brick wall, can throw a car at me or tie a telephone pole around herself. All the actions classic Superman is capable of, except maybe laser eyes. Thank God for that. Strength, invulnerability, flight—never before would I have dared challenge her. And even now I have a chance to leave—just block her view with my Swarm and duck into an alley, ditch the hoodie and let the pink unicorn t-shirt out of my jeans, put my hair in a ponytail... and calmly go about my business. Unwritten rules, damn them. Starting with the fact that recognizing me as the terrifying Swarm would be unlikely... and even if so, I'd deny everything.
And even if I do fight—I have almost a thousand "Medicis" nearby, I have "Kunoichis" on my face and in my hair, my Omega squad, the last line of defense. "Stingers" hang in the air above us—modified Japanese killer hornets. Glory Girl has no chance. She breathes, I can see that, she's vulnerable at least through pulmonary alveoli. I have ant-bombs with botulinum toxin type A, with strong binary acid, with anything. Today I did all my homework. I'm ready for battle and only one command separates Glory Girl from writhing on the asphalt, poisoned and devoured from within. I don't know exactly how her invulnerability works, but internal mucous membranes should be vulnerable—how else does she get oxygen, how does she eat?
And if that's not enough—I'm still Butcher Fifteen. Pain impulses, festering wounds, ability to form blades from anything (limitation—can't grow blades from organic matter), explosive teleportation, ability to always hit the target... lots of options.
But I tear a black bandana from my belt and tie it behind my head, covering half my face. I tighten the knot and remove the "Kunoichis" from my facial skin. Why? I have a feeling I'm about to get punched in the face, and my "Kunoichis'" neurotoxin isn't exactly the substance you'd want smeared on your skin, I assure you. With the bandana on my face, my anonymity is at least somewhat preserved.
"You're an idiot," Glory Girl says. "You just blindfolded yourself, dummy. Or are you surrendering? Then turn your back to me and clasp your hands behind your head. Slowly."
"You know, Glory Girl, I never particularly liked you..." I say, tilting my head to one side, then the other, warming up my neck. I crack my knuckles, squeezing one fist with the other hand. I bounce in place. Move easily from side to side, as if dancing. My body obeys me like a perfectly tuned mechanism, like an expensive sports car on a race track. Strength fills me. Enough hiding! Enough holding back! If there's anywhere I can fully realize myself, give it my all, let myself loose—it's in a duel with Glory Girl! She's invulnerable, I'm almost so. She's strong, but I'm no slouch either. And today there won't be clever tricks, backstabs, poison in the air, or traps on the ground. Just a duel, a fight. God, how I've missed this...
"You really do have something wrong with your head, weirdo," Glory raises her hands. "I'm going to beat you so bad you'll forget your own name."
"I have just one request, blondie." I turn my head toward her and see through my insects' eyes how eerie this looks—I'm all in black with a blindfold, but move as if I can see everything. And I can see. From all sides. Plus my fruit flies are already sitting on her costume. For some reason the tracker worms can't penetrate under her skin (invulnerability?), but they stick to clothing. And I know exactly where her knees are, where her elbows are, where her wrists are, and where her head is. Because a couple of flies have settled on her tiara.
"A request?" mockery sounds in Glory's voice. "Like a last wish? You're a creepy girl, Weirdo. Give me your request, then I'll put you to sleep, wrap you up and send you to the PRT. You're Bakuda's partner, right? I saw how you two were chatting nicely. Plus that bitch from the Undersiders was with you. So you won't fool me—you're a villain. New one?"
"New one," I nod. The thought flickers that this is where I should pout—after all, so much has already been written about me on PHO, they gave me the stupid name Poison Ivy and threat rating eight, but Glory Girl didn't even recognize me when we met. This is probably how rock stars and actors feel when someone says "you remind me of someone, can't remember who."
"And already a villain. So what did you want to tell me, girl, before you wake up in a comfortable PRT cell?" GG descends to the ground and moves easily from place to place—her footwork commands respect. So she's not just a cardboard fighter, she did her homework too.
"My request is very simple, Glory Girl —please, don't hold back. I'm tough," I say, launching into attack. Glory Girl blocks the first strike, deflecting it aside. And immediately flies sideways, her body demolishing some kiosk and crashing into a house wall. Of course, the first strike was a feint. She bought it.
"Argh!" Scattering debris from the breach in the wall, Glory Girl flies out like a rocket—crashes into my stomach and throws me back! The world flips and darkens! Crash!
"Tsk!" I find myself practically embedded in a house wall, push off with my elbows, getting out. I find Glory with my gaze. She hovers above the asphalt literally five centimeters up, her face radiating furious joy.
"Fine." I rush at her. Strike, strike, strike! Left, left, hook, sweep, block, grab, push—she doesn't yield, raises her knee and pressing from above, breaks the hold, then without wind-up delivers a short elbow to the face. I barely manage to get my forearm up! But it's a strong hit! Something crunches in my arm, but I don't feel pain, though the arm hangs limp. Not giving her a chance to use this—I headbutt her nose, step on her foot and push with my hip! She staggers back and I roll aside. The arm is back in action—I flex my fingers, feeling strength in every movement.
I glance at Glory Girl. She squints in my direction. She's smiling. I have something to think about. During our exchange there was a moment when my flies managed to touch her body and I managed to implant a tracker. But this suggests her invulnerability is temporary. She recovers almost immediately, but she can be overloaded, spammed with damage. Hmm.
I watch how she dances easily, shifting her body weight from leg to leg. I see a dirty spot on her side where I managed to break through her defense and land a kick to the liver. Despite the breached protection, Glory didn't even wince. She's light on her feet, fast and technical. Whoever her trainer is, he earns his keep.
She can't see my eyes, but I can see her, and she's looking at me. At some point time seems to stop for both of us—in her eyes I see challenge and gladly accept it! A split second and her hand is already flying at my head, changing direction and cutting diagonally through the air, opening into a "shuto"—sword-hand! Hard block on crossed forearms, and I feel the pavement crack beneath me! Powerful knee strike—and the world flashes and darkens in my eyes, I taste blood in my mouth, and the Butchers on the edge of consciousness rage and scream.
"Die, bitch!" Quarrel screams. "We need a hero!"
"Don't you dare lose to her, four-eyed... slut," Butcher First unexpectedly supports me. "That would be disgraceful! Hit her with a pain impulse!"
I ignore all these screaming maniacal cheerleaders in my head. I get up from the asphalt and wipe my mouth with my sleeve. Spit to the side. Crimson.
I put my foot forward, shift my body weight forward. Back. Bounce. Dance. Forward-back, side to side, not taking my eyes off Glory Girl. I'm still not going to attack her with insects or pain impulses—we're equal now, we have a duel. What could be more noble than a duel? In the end, one of us has to remain standing, but if I do it any way other than with fists—I won't respect myself. Or will I? Why do I want not just to fight, but to challenge myself? Doesn't matter. Adrenaline plays in my blood, the Butchers demand battle, my abilities demand battle... I want this fight myself!
"You're tough," Glory Girl gives me credit, rubbing her wrist and tilting her head. "But you still lost." She descends to the ground and dances, circling me without taking her eyes off me. She's like a big cat, her movements are so smooth and unhurried, but this is a deceptive impression—I know she can explode into attack at any moment.
"Well. GG herself complimented me," I reply, circling her in the other direction. I'm enjoying both this conversation and the pause and... I launch into attack! I sweep Glory Girl's leg with a low kick and as soon as she pays attention to this, I immediately unleash a hail of strikes—a precise combination, two punches to the head and a finishing elbow from bottom to top, falling forward like an elephant lifting an enemy on tusks, as Tony Jaa likes to do! Glory doesn't manage to block, her defense is overloaded, and she takes the hit right in the face! She flies backward, grabbing her face, and I plant my foot on the ground and take a stance.
There won't be rushing in our fight—I won't run forward trying to finish her, I'll give her a chance to get up and recover. After all, she let me get up, didn't she?
Glory Girl struggles heavily on the ground, gets up holding her nose, her face covered in blood. But when I see her eyes—I understand everything.
"Raaaah!" She tears off from the spot and I barely manage to cover from a kick to the head, then immediately fly sideways... how?! I can't see her strikes! She accelerates and unleashes a hail of blows—I can't dodge, can't block! I cover vital spots, curl up under this hail of strikes, bones crunch, my mouth fills with salty taste, I swallow something small and smooth... she knocked out my teeth! The world flips and I'm thrown aside, something crashes and... everything goes quiet.
I slowly realize I'm lying on my back, buried under debris—apparently the remains of the long-suffering hot dog stand.
"Shit! Overdid it again! Shit!" comes a voice from above. I see Glory Girl standing over me, her face battered, blood flowing from her nose, one eye swollen shut. She looks at me and her hands shake. "I hope I didn't kill her? Need to call Amy! Shit... shit..."
"Who the hell are you talking to?" I get up, throwing kiosk debris aside, and Glory takes a step back, her one unswollen eye widening.
I crack my shoulder back into place and roll my head, stretching. New teeth are cutting through my gums. They say orcs use teeth as currency—I'm like a goose laying golden eggs, knock them out and new ones grow. At this rate we'll have inflation.
"You!" Glory Girl exclaims. "You... it's like you weren't even hit! That's not fair."
"Look who's talking," I raise my hands. "Shall we continue, Glory Girl?"
"You're weird. But..." Glory Girl raises her hands and merry fury flashes in her eyes. "God, it's been so long since I let myself go! Finally I can stop holding back!"
"Likewise, Glory Girl. Well? Come here..." I lower my hand and gesture with my palm. Glory raises her clenched fist and... we hear a motorcycle roar.
"Armsmaster," Glory Girl says, and I hear disappointment in her voice. I look at her. Her nose is broken, one eye swollen, streams of blood run down her chin, but furious fire plays in her eyes. In that one eye that hasn't swollen shut. And I understand Glory. Just think—I've been in the Butcher's body for almost nothing, but I already want to show my heroic strength, stretch properly, let my arm swing, let my shoulder work. This feeling is familiar to everyone who's been strong and young—the desire to test yourself, give it your all, throw down a challenge and win.
And she—how many years has she lived with this? She's a hero and she can't maim and kill, she's trained to constantly control her strength. Yet she constantly loses control, that's why she's Collateral Damage Barbie—I think she's compensating for subconscious desire to straighten up and square her shoulders. And most importantly—if she doesn't hold back, then... who will give her the pure joy of close-quarters hand-to-hand combat? Who can withstand her blows? And who needs that? Glory isn't invulnerable at all—now I know this too. She can be killed. Two bullets from a high-caliber rifle—so one follows the other immediately. Poison. Probably radiation. And me—I can be killed too.
It's hard to explain, but suddenly I understand her. And I'm even a little sorry our duel will end now. The Protectorate will arrive—Armsmaster, Miss Militia and the rest. Fighting all of them isn't convenient—easier to leave. And that means the fun is over. Now I'll call clones and...
"Shame," Glory Girl says. "I liked it. A little more and I would have kicked your ass."
"Oh sure, easy to say when backup is about to arrive," I reply. "But are you up for one-on-one, girl to girl, as it should be?"
"Me with you? Anytime!" Glory Girl snorts, crossing her arms over her chest. Her white and gold uniform is stained with blood and covered in dirt and dust. "Whenever. Right now even. Let's move away. One on one?"
"Where?" I ask, understanding the idea is stupid but really wanting to finish the fight. Like in that fairy tale—"Be merciful, brothers! Let me fight just a little."
"The ship graveyard," Glory Girl suggests. "No civilians there, and we won't break anything... extra." She looks at the kiosk debris. Another trophy for Collateral Damage Barbie's greater glory.
"Let's do it!" I agree. "Just... I don't have a car. You saw, they left in it. And on foot I..." Actually I have the Butcher's teleportation, but I don't want to give myself away. At least not yet.
"I won't carry you," Glory Girl responds. "You're a villain! What about that moped?"
"It's smashed to pieces," I point out. "Besides, we'd be stealing it. What about private property rights, sacred since the Roman Empire?"
"Well... you're a villain," Glory Girl points out. "And besides, if they see me carrying you through the air, mom will kill me later. And Director Piggot will torture me."
"Whatever," I shrug. "Just say you chickened out. I can give my word I won't attack you in the air. Besides, you can always drop me from altitude—one splat and no need to fuss, pancake already."
"You're weird," Glory Girl points at me. The motorcycle roar is already very close.
"Aaah! Fine, grab my hand, we'll fly fast and low!" She extends her hand. "And no tricks!"