Glory Girl gently set me down gently and immediately flew back a few steps. We were at the Ship Graveyard, a place that spawned countless urban legends, where teenagers loved to hang out, and where parents absolutely forbade those same teenagers from going. They say this is where newly triggered capes come to train. But that's probably just another urban legend.
I looked at Glory Girl. The blood from her nose had stopped flowing, she'd wiped her face clean, and now she looked like any ordinary cheerleader who'd just taken a punch to the face. She looked almost comical—one eye swollen shut, her nose bridge puffy and bruised.
There are no small details in life, I thought. How she set me down mattered. We were enemies, but she didn't drop me, didn't release me from fifteen feet up and immediately attack. No. She carefully, gently, even exaggeratedly gently—set me on the ground. I have a theory that you never truly know someone until you fight them. Yes, only then. You can live next to someone for years and never know what they're capable of, how they'll act in any given situation, and labels like "hero" or "villain" have nothing to do with it.
What did Victoria Dallon's behavior tell me? That she's brave, that she's hot-headed, sometimes excessively so. That she won't take unfair advantage—she prefers to play fair, by the rules, even when it's disadvantageous. In combat... oh, in combat she gives herself completely to her passion. Paint her green and you'd have the Hulk ready to smash!
Tattletale was right—I like this type. Honest, sincere, straight as an arrow. Right. Probably because I'm not like that? In life, I'd always take the advantage. What could be better than a strike from behind, from the shadows, when the enemy doesn't expect it? So why am I acting differently with her? Why am I letting her—hit me? Am I toying with my prey? No, I don't see her as prey, even though I could still kill her in seconds. My combat capabilities are far broader than hers—she can only punch, kick, maybe throw a car. I could avoid close combat entirely. Break distance and attack with my Stingers—they're my fastest. Pop a dozen ant-grenades with botulinum toxin A right in her face. Make her rot alive. Hit her with a pain pulse. My head holds thousands of methods, hundreds of battle schemes and scenarios.
But—no. I'm fighting Glory Girl with fists. Why? Because I need this. To feel the fight, to stop hiding in shadows. Strength against strength, no tricks, no backstabs, no unfair advantages. We're in agreement on this—she didn't even try to drop me when we flew at treetop level to the Ship Graveyard, though she could have simply climbed higher and opened her fingers. Splat! No punch to the face compares to the kinetic energy of falling from three hundred feet. I would have survived—I would have teleported—but then I'd know for certain that Glory was capable of underhanded tactics.
Now, after the gentle landing, I know the Golden Girl isn't capable of that. And I... even though I'm cynical and capable of much for victory (as an acquaintance used to say—if you can't win fairly, just win), beside her I won't act that way either.
"Ready?" Glory Girl asks, rolling her neck, demonstratively rotating her head while keeping her eyes on me.
"We're missing referees. Or are the rules standard—last one standing wins?" I ask, smiling. When you don't know what to do—smile. Now I'm channeling Tattletale, who loves irritating her enemies. Though—what am I saying? She loves irritating allies too.
"The fight ends when I package you up and take you to the PRT," Glory Girl says firmly, raising her hands and taking her stance. "No other way. You're a villain and—"
"I'm actually fine with fighting," I reply, rubbing my wrist. "But what makes you think I'm a villain?"
"You associate with Bakuda and that bitch from the Undersiders who's getting too big for her britches. Tell me who your friends are and I'll tell you who you are," Glory responds. "Going to keep talking? Or?"
"Or? Just remind me to continue this conversation later. Personally, I don't consider myself a villain, though I'm no hero like you. I prefer life without labels. I'm ready." I step forward. In Eastern tradition—a bow. Fighters bow, folding their hands before them as a sign of respect for an equal. But Collateral Damage Barbie is a Western girl, so I extend my closed fist. After some hesitation, Glory Girl steps forward and bumps my fist with hers. The familiar greeting of boxers in the ring. Equal to equal. You're a fighter and I'm a fighter. I respect you for your strength, your ability to control your body. I know that like me, you know how to inflict pain, how to endure pain, that behind you are hundreds of training hours when you, just like now, raised your hands, taking your stance, until these movements became one with you. Wake you at night, knock you from bed with a strike, and you—like me—will roll over and even without understanding what's happening, will jump up and take this very stance. When the world around us crumbles and collapses into hell, when Satan himself crawls up from underground—you, like me, will simply raise your hands and step forward.
We're different. You're a bright blonde, cheerleader, popular girl, star—people smile when they look at you. I'm dark, with long black hair, thin, unremarkable—people don't notice me, turn away after barely glancing. But...
But we're alike. I don't know how, but I know this absolutely. Each of us has stood before mirrors more than once, raising our hands and taking our stance, clenching our fists. I don't know the reasons, but this feeling is familiar—the desire to become stronger. That's why there's more in common between me and this bright girl from New Wave's recruitment poster than between anyone else.
She lunges into attack, and I rush to meet her, diving into the frenzied rhythm of battle. I turn off TacTic's power, I don't listen to the Butchers' advice, I leave myself only the Swarm's strength, speed, and perception (which I can't turn off no matter how much I want to).
We circle each other, exchanging blows, smashing each other into rusted ship hulls, raising dust, flying aside, jumping to our feet and grappling again. At some point we enter a clinch and fall to the ground. Glory is strong, very strong! But... I roll on the ground, hook my leg, push off her head, grab her arm and... can't get an armbar—she releases me and twists away. Springs back.
I jump to my feet and rush at her, but she raises her hands and I stop. What?
"Your scarf came undone," she says, pointing at me. I look at myself from the side, through my swarm, and see Glory's right—while we wrestled on the ground, the scarf fell off. I spit to the side. Blood again.
"Don't care," I say, wiping my mouth. "We're big girls. Whatever I put on now will just get torn anyway. You hit like a sledgehammer."
"If you don't care, neither do I. Continue?" She raises her hands, taking her stance.
"Of course." And the world tears apart again, space and time cease being unified, time flows in bursts, sometimes slowing and I can examine Glory's fist at my face in full detail a split second before it throws me back and smashes me into a rusted ship hull—boom and crash! Darkness, flashes! Time compresses and now I'm unleashing a hail of blows, overloading Glory Girl's defense, and with a final kick to the hull I break through the wheelhouse of a small tugboat lying on its side. Glory Girl flies out of the debris, her face twisted in a grimace of rage. She grabs me by the throat and slams me into the ground! Crunch, salty taste in my mouth! Strike! She sits on top of me and... I barely manage to cover myself with crossed forearms! Strike! From above, with all her strength, all her mass, everything she has! Strike! I feel the earth crack beneath my back. Strike! With each new blow my bones crunch and break. She rises and chops down with forearms, fists, elbows—like a furious threshing machine, like a jackhammer, pounding me into the ground!
"Take that! Have it! Bitch! Cunt! Arrrrgh!" Glory Girl screams, and the world flashes before my eyes again. Got me...
Then—suddenly, without break, like someone flipped a switch—I'm sitting on top of Glory, hitting her with all my strength in what was once her delicate, doll-like face. I see my strikes landing and I growl—I can't speak, I can only growl. Take that, take that, take that! Never liked girls like you! Beautiful, popular, self-confident... girls like you turned Taylor's life into hell! Take that!
Darkness again. Flashes of pain. Crunch of bones. Somewhere far away—Glory Girl's scream. A scream of rage.
I'm lying on my back looking up. High above us in the sky, a plane flies by, leaving a white trail. There's a salty-metallic taste of blood in my mouth. Everything hurts... and they say Butchers don't feel pain, hah.
"Always dreamed of flying," I say, looking at the plane in the sky. "Wonder what it's like?"
"Pretty cool at first," Glory Girl responds, sitting nearby and looking at the sky with me. "But then... you get used to it. It's cold up there."
"Well, you wouldn't fly in a bodysuit—would be warmer," I say, lazily moving my tongue. "Tsk! You knocked out half my teeth again."
"They'll grow back," Glory Girl says, carefully touching her swollen nose bridge. "And you broke my nose."
"I tried really hard," I say, attempting to sound proud. Doesn't work very well. We're silent. Inside me—emptiness. But not the oppressive, strength-and-will over. Amy's going to freak out. And I'll catch hell from Mom."
"Nice when family's in the loop," I chuckle. "You guys have open identities, everyone knows you. Probably inconvenient, but at least no family questions. Where were you—at the Ship Graveyard, beating up a cape villain. Done, wash your hands, come to dinner. But I still have to make up where I was and why I need a new hoodie... because you tore this one to shreds..." I look down. I'm left wearing a torn pink t-shirt with a unicorn.
"I... actually wanted to ask—why that shirt?" Glory Girl looks away. "Doesn't seem your style."
"Well... uh... fine." I finally decide. "It's camouflage. See, I'm in civilian clothes, right? I could run from you, then—throw away the hoodie and stay in the shirt. No one would think gloomy me could wear pink, especially with a unicorn! What? Why are you laughing?!"
"Ahaha! Stop, I have broken ribs! Ahah..." Glory Girl grabs her stomach and slowly falls sideways. "I can't! Ahaha! Pink! It's... camouflage! Holy shit! Camouflage!!"
"Why are you laughing? This is the art of hiding. Unexpected, right? You didn't expect it, right? That's camouflage! In the wild you need to hide and be invisible, but in society, in the city—become like others, blend into the crowd and—"
"Ahaha! Have you seen your face in a mirror?!" Glory Girl slowly rolls on the ground laughing. "Ahah... damn, it hurts... ow... ow... ooh... ahaha! Stop!"
"I'm not doing anything! You're the one rolling around laughing like a horse! What's so funny, explain..." I cross my arms. My bones are healing, something's crunching in my back, and I'm starting to feel noticeably better. Really great ability, the Butcher's.
"With your grim face and that shirt, the moment you hit the streets people will stare at you!" Glory Girl says. "Yes, you need to blend into crowds, need to be like everyone else, but you can't put on a clown hat, red nose, and skis—you will draw too mutch attention. And you... oh god... ahaha... camouflage. Our invisible girl... fine. Get up. I'll carry you."
"Where to?"
"Where else? You're a villain, you lost. That's it, into a cell. Hands behind your head and all that. I won't read you your rights—don't remember them very well myself. Well, they'll read them to you there."
"Seriously?" I look at her with undisguised skepticism. She has broken ribs, a swollen nose bridge, she's dragging her leg—if not broken, then I certainly gave her thigh a good beating. Right now Glory was only capable of very slow flight, and not in the most graceful pose. Of course, Panacea, the most famous cape healer, is her sister, so I'm not worried Glory Girl will stay crippled. At the same time, right now Glory Girl is disabled, unable to take a step without "ow-ow." As it should be after a good fight. She should lie down, rest, take medicine and get fractures set, not throw herself back into battle. Especially since I'm already in shape, as if I hadn't fought at all. Too bad the Butcher doesn't have the ability to heal others.
"Actually, there is one," Edward says in my head. "First, it's the ability to control blood, and second—"
"Shut the fuck up! Shut up!" the Butcher snarls. "Shut up and that's it!"
"Saliva," Edward continues. "You'll laugh, but this ability—"
"Shut up, bitch! I'll kill you!"
"—is from the original Butcher."
"That's it, you're dead!"
"Why don't I know about it?" I ask Edward and feel the mental equivalent of a shrug.
"Probably because this ability works on others, not yourself," he logically suggests. "When has the Butcher ever wanted to heal someone else?"
"Fine! Damn, just perfect!" the Butcher rolls his eyes. "Four-eyes bitch! Don't you dare! The Butcher has a Legacy! The Butcher doesn't heal! The Butcher maims!"
"We agreed about the four-eyes thing..."
"I don't call you four-eyed whore anymore!"
"Oh god..."
"She's not four-eyed anymore," Quarrel interjects. "Doesn't wear glasses, are you stupid? And you, Taylor—you have a perfect opportunity..."
"What opportunity?"
"Heal your hero girlfriend. Just apply some of your saliva to the injured areas. Hmm... don't even know how... probably with your tongue? Interesting, do you need to lick her all over or is sticking your tongue down her throat enough?"
"Ew! That's it, I'm not listening to you..." I switch to other perception channels. I look at Glory. She looks back at me. She's a fighter and understands perfectly that right now she's no match for me. But she's not giving up and moreover—threatens to put me in a cell. Hmm.
"Hey, what's this you have here..." I distract her attention and before she can react—pull her phone from her pocket.
"That's useless..." she starts, but I quickly press her finger to the screen and jump aside.
"Hey! Give it back! You hear?! That's private property and—"
"Here you go..." I give her the phone back. "I just saved your number. And called for backup."
"Backup?"
"Well... you can't drag me to the PRT alone. Though I won't wait. But you should wait—they'll arrive in fifteen minutes. Otherwise if I leave you here, tomorrow the papers will write that I left you at the Ship Graveyard and you got lost and died of hunger. And thirst. They already make me out to be a bloodthirsty maniac..."
"Wait. Hold on... you're Poison Ivy?!"
"Stupid name if you ask me."
"You're Butcher Fifteen?!"
"Idiotic habit of calling people by numbers. Fifteenth. By the way, I have a name. I'm Taylor." I extend my hand for a handshake. Glory Girl automatically takes it.
"And you're Victoria Dallon, nice to meet you. However, since backup is coming and I don't want to end up in a comfortable PRT cell, I should probably go."
"Mom's going to kill me..." Glory Girl barely moves her dried lips. "I'm dead. And Panacea..."
"If you decide to run away from home—I texted you my number. And... if you want to fight. Our duel isn't finished."
"What?"
"Well, you said it yourself—the duel ends when you escort me to a PRT cell. Until then—nothing's finished. Okay, I really have to go, I have tons of things to do. You just wait, the PRT will come for you soon."
"Holy shit..." Glory draws out. "Damn. I... fought you, Butcher Fifteen, with fists?!"
"And showed yourself worthy! What a beating you gave me. Oh! Here." I place a small object in her hand.
"What is it?"
"My tooth. You knocked out dozens of them, they're scattered everywhere, but this one's for memory. I already took one for myself."
"I'd say you're crazy, but since you're Butcher Fifteen, that's obvious by default. And... how do you feel?" Glory Girl asks cautiously. "Voices in your head? Kill and rape everyone? Burn the city?"
"There's that," I nod. "But I'm managing so far. They don't even bother me. Though you should hear what they suggest doing to you."
"Oh. Really?"
"Yep. Quarrel suggests—"
"Whoa, stop. Don't want to hear." She raises her hand and groans in pain. "You know, if not for this fight, I probably would have gotten angry. Or scared. Or... I don't know what. But now my head's so empty... and for some reason I'm not the least bit surprised I'm talking to you. Kind of surreal, right?"
"Tell me about it. Same feeling," I nod. "And you're unexpectedly pleasant company, Glory, though I thought you were just a saccharine poster girl."
"Well. My right hook is the foundation of human communication," Glory smiles crookedly. "And... oh. Motorcycle again. You hear?"
"Armsmaster. Okay. I really should go... call, text... when you're better and want to test strength again..."
"You're silly. What's there... they'll lock me up at home for a week after this... Ugh."