By the time I got home, the street lights had already come on. As soon as I was within range, I immediately launched the process of further producing venomous creaturesting gold dust, and experimenting with increasing insect sizes. If I look at it rationally, I don't really need dog-sized ants or pigeon-sized wasps. Such insects would certainly terrify insectophobes, but they'd be easy to spot, easy to distinguish, and easy to target. Plus they simply wouldn't fit where their smaller brethren could go. Thus giant insects as combat units would lose all their advantages as small, omnipresent, and practically invulnerable to firearms or melee attacks drones, gaining only the ability to inspire terror in return. A bad trade. That's why I don't increase the size of entire insects. In the case of "Medici" queens or "Stinger" hornets, I strengthen and increase their ability to penetrate protective gear or thick clothing with their stingers. I also strengthen their mandibles—so they can tear through fabric. My origin trauma as a cape still makes itself known—before acquiring the wonderful collective of Butchers in my head, I was quite helpless against a squad of strong men in full chemical protection suits.
Now there doesn't seem to be any direct need to enhance insects like that, and most importantly, I'm approaching a critical threshold beyond which I won't be able to move my Swarm unnoticed. The number of active "Medici" exceeds ten thousand individuals, and together with the "Stingers" they represent quite a noticeable mass. While "Medici" don't make much noise when moving (though they don't fly as fast), "Stingers" buzz like a swarm of jet fighters taking off. It would be difficult not to notice the Swarm accompanying me at a distance. Earlier, when there weren't so many modified insects, I could disguise this as natural migration, but now... either I'll have to transport my Swarm in a van, or give away from far off that I'm approaching. Both options are bad. A van with the Swarm is a predetermined vulnerability—one hit from a rocket launcher with some vacuum round, or as the military calls it, a thermobaric warhead, and it's over. The Swarm's advantage is precisely that it's spread out in space, and by collecting it into a compact target I'd make my opponents' task easier.
And dragging a buzzing cloud of insects everywhere... well, I don't have illusions about the Unwritten Rules and I'm sure the government, the Protectorate, the PRT all know the identities of all capes perfectly well. However, these Unwritten Rules are needed. Ostensibly to protect the "civilian" identity and lives of capes, but actually... I have a couple of thoughts about that.
In any case, dragging a cloud of insects around means causing unhealthy agitation. Someday there might be a need to accompany every step with such a show, but not now. They might even hit me with a bomb.
And I, unlike previous Butchers, don't want to die. So far I'm managing to keep myself from neuroses and remain a sane person.
"I don't think so," Quarrel's voice pipes up. "I've been in your head quite recently and I've noticed that you—you pride yourself on your rationality. Such a cold and calculating creature. Through your ability to think logically and impartially—you put yourself above everyone. You look down not only on us, but on the system in general. Heroes, villains—you consider them idiots, and yourself smart."
"Four-eyes slut thinks she's a genius whore. I've seen so many like that..." the Butcher smirks. "Everyone thinks they're smarter... but what's the point. They all end up the same."
"I'm just curious—how many more synonyms for 'whore' do you have?" I wonder. "Seriously? It's almost childish."
"Hey. A deal is a deal. I don't call you 'four-eyed whore' anymore, and you give me tablet access. Or will you break your word?" the Butcher says, and an image of his crooked, yellow teeth flashes through my head as he grins, baring them in a smirk. And bad breath... surely he has bad breath.
"Okay. Enjoy." I give him access to one of three tablets that my insects mercilessly exploit. I distribute the remaining two between Edward and Tick-Tock. I'll need to buy new tech and install additional outlets in the basement. Thank God we now have Tick-Tock with us—even though he specializes in clockwork mechanisms, as a Tinker he can definitely handle an outlet. Especially since with termites' help I can run wiring inside walls, completely invisible from the outside.
"And this... listen, four-eyes..." the Butcher says before opening a browser tab with "busty schoolgirls." "That was decent. Not that I'm praising you, but we put the fear of God into those poor bastards. Keep doing that and we'll be good friends."
"Exactly," Quarrel sings mockingly in my head. "Do you understand, Taylor? No? And you consider yourself the smartest. You even look down on your friend, that stuck-up blonde, when she's a Thinker. You know what they say—a stupid bitch who realized she's a stupid bitch is no longer stupid. Still a bitch, yes, but not stupid anymore. So... you haven't realized this yet, have you?"
"Listen Quarrel, you have a name. I refuse to call you by codenames. At least inside myself I don't have to follow the Unwritten Rules. Your name is Alice, right?"
"Call me whatever you want," she shrugs metaphorically. "I don't care. Alice died long ago, you killed Quarrel. What are we now? Shadows and voices in the next Butcher's head? We have no ability to influence what happens—all we can do is talk. And think. And here's what I thought, Taylor. You would never in your life have gotten into a fight with Glory if you'd stayed the same as you were—calm, rational, cold and logical. Why do you need this—haven't you thought about it?"
"That seemed illogical to me too," Tactician's voice sounds in my head. Tactician's name is Richard and he has a rich, warm baritone—hearing his voice makes me want to wrap myself in a warm blanket and settle into a rocking chair by the fireplace, his voice so reminds me of an actor who reads fairy tales for audiobooks. Like the grandfather I never had.
"You have a large number of powers designed for ranged application," he says. "But you're like a space marine in a Paul Verhoeven film—running toward the enemy, closing distance. All your advantage at engagement range disappears in close combat. Do you know what the aimed range for armor-piercing shells from an 88-millimeter gun they called the 'acht-acht' during World War Two was? A kilometer and a half. That's the distance from which Tigers could penetrate Soviet T-34s during the Battle of Kursk, the largest tank battle in human history. A kilometer and a half. Do you know from what distance T-34s could hit a Tiger head-on? Three hundred meters. And what does Hitler do? Orders an attack. The Soviets camouflage their tanks and set up anti-tank defensive positions, while the Tigers drive themselves into engagement range, even between them. Exposing their flanks. There were many other reasons for the Germans' defeat by the Soviets, but the idiocy of such behavior should be clear. Especially to you. When we got into your head, I was initially happy seeing how you operate. Finally, I thought, finally at least someone with a rational mind in this collective of mad baboons. But no, you tear your shirt and rush to fight Glory with fists! With fists!!! Against a cape who's designed for hand-to-hand combat! Against a cape who can't do anything else! Against a cape who's only trained this her whole life! You're an idiot! I wanted to ask you for tablet access and propose an alliance, but you... you..." He falls silent, as if unable to find words.
"You don't understand," another voice. Muramasa, the Blade Master. His ability—making blades from anything and enhancing the edge so it cuts through everything. He sincerely considers himself a samurai, though he's not even Asian.
"Every person must be able to stand and raise a sword. One on one. Accept and offer a duel. Even if Buddha himself stands in your path—cut him down," he says. "I liked it. I haven't felt such a thing in a long time. Thank you, Taylor. My only comment—why didn't you use blades? Otherwise—everything was simply excellent. I thirst for new battles. Did you see how that blonde moves? She had a good trainer, her movements are refined, she dances like a warrior in the heat of battle. Such a girl cannot be let go."
"Wow!" a new voice whistles in my head. I don't know this girl—she's either the Ninth or Tenth. Super strength, can cause flashes of blinding rage in others, I think she was called the Nubian Lioness. She was silent before, but I know her real name is Rachel.
"Just think, our stern swordsman fell in love with a schoolgirl! Damn," she says mockingly. "Acted like a monk for so many years, but turns out he's got a thing for jailbait! Hey, Quarrel, you got yourself an ally!"
"Ally?" I frown, approaching my house. "What do you mean ally? What alliances and unions are you forming here?"
"We all hate you," the Nubian shares willingly. "After all, you're our overseer and tyrant. If I had power like yours, I'd give everyone the opportunity to do whatever they want. This is a chance to finally give us freedom! But you, you use it to oppress us! It's infuriating. It's simply unbearable. Before we didn't have such an opportunity, didn't have a chance—we were doomed to spend eternity together, but now, when you know it exists and you don't give us even a chance... of course we hate you. Not all of us. That doormat Edward, traitor and coward—he went into collaboration with the administration and has his own tablet and his own insects. Muramasa and Tick-Tock... well, that's understandable. But we all hate you, even those who cooperate. You're our overseer, tyrant and head bitch. Too bad I can't bite your throat out."
"I'm not a twenty-dollar bill to be liked by everyone. I'll survive," I reply, opening the door and carefully entering the house. Dad is sleeping on the couch with a beer bottle in his arms, the TV showing a Lakers game rerun. I close the door behind me, making sure the lock doesn't click.
"And about freedom of action... as soon as I buy more tablets and set up places in the basement, I'll provide access to everyone. Except those who actively cause me idiosyncrasy and cognitive dissonance. I just don't understand—you really got a chance and a person who can provide it for you, and the first thing you do is try to pick a fight with them?"
"You're just actually a tyrant. An overseer. You enjoy this, don't you?" the Nubian growls, and I roll my eyes.
"Oh yes. She likes it," Alice-Quarrel interjects. "She loves being the smartest in the room, revels in power and likes to hurt people, to dominate. But she needs a reason... and she invents it. Nubian... you're in the danger zone. She might well exile you to insects and start frying them over a slow fire—that's just like her."
"Don't listen to these hens," another voice I don't know yet appears. "Give me a couple hundred cockroaches and let's go outside. Where we passed—there's an underground ABB brothel... girls galore. Young ones. You're supposedly neither hero nor villain, and a brothel raid is just your modus operandi. I'll help you, and in return..."
"Shut up, pervert. She's still a schoolgirl and you're suggesting she send cockroaches into panties," Alice-Quarrel hisses at him. "I'm not talking about that. Taylor, you already understand, right? You're already not acting like usual. Your behavior, your thoughts, what you're doing—you think you're acting rationally, but... look at it from the outside. You're getting into fights, throwing aside caution and logic. Risking your life. What is this if not the Butcher's suicidal behavior patterns? You earned praise from the First Butcher himself... think about it, you're already behaving like the Butcher. No... you ARE the Butcher."
"Fuck off," I mutter. "Go into the mist, here's a cockroach for you, study the sewers. Analyze there. What's your name? Nubian? You get a cockroach to pair with your girlfriend. Who else hasn't gotten a cockroach?"
"See," Quarrel chuckles. "Before I would have said 'you're getting closer and closer to madness,' but what if it's not like that? What if you're already insane? You just don't notice it."
"Oh, enough." I switch perception channels, leaving Quarrel and the Nubian in cockroaches. Let them have fun.
Meanwhile, I take off my shoes and set them on the floor. I carefully go to the stairs, trying not to make noise. A floorboard creaks treacherously under my foot and I freeze.
"Taylor?" Danny lifts his head. "Is that you? Where were you?"
Damn, I think, caught. Where was I? Saying "Dad, a friend called me to a showdown, I recruited Bakuda and also fought Glory" isn't an option. But lying desperately isn't worth it either—someday he'll find out everything, and I'll feel awkward. Speak close to the truth? A friend asked for help, I helped her, and that's it. Or should I tell Danny I'm a cape? That would be a logically justified action—he'll find out sooner or later anyway, and it's better now from me than accidentally somewhere else. I could control the narrative, minimize damage from this news—just say "Dad, I'm a cape" and that's it. But... then there will be many more questions, and I'm not ready for that. And Danny isn't ready to learn that his daughter is a cape who killed Lung and thirty ABB members, and especially that she's Butcher Fifteen. I wouldn't be ready for such a turn.
Damn, I think, I absolutely need to tell him this story myself—that it was self-defense, that I wanted to protect people, that it happened accidentally... I can't tell him I just wanted to test neurotoxin and Lung happened to be handy, can I?
"Quarrel is wrong," Festering's voice sounds in my head—the girl who could cause festering wounds by thought. "You were always crazy. Interesting how you'll explain this to your daddy."
"Taylor?" Danny sits up on the couch, goes to the switch and turns on the light. He looks at me. I'm wearing a practically torn pink t-shirt, my jeans are also damaged—what did you expect, Glory Girl didn't hold back her punches, it's amazing anything survived at all, otherwise I'd be in a fine state... well, on the street I'd cover myself with insects, but at home?
"What's happening? Were you attacked?! Who?! Are they blackmailing you?"
"Calm down, Dad, I'll explain everything now." I raise my hand, not feeling calm at all. It would seem like a chance to finally explain everything, but for some reason I'm scared. Rationally I understand it's necessary, that you can't keep lying to someone close, the truth will come out anyway, but... an irrational fear that right now my familiar life next to him will end and a completely different one will begin grips me, and I swallow saliva. Come on, pull yourself together, Taylor, this is just your father, not the Butcher, not Lung, not Bakuda... this is much scarier. Much.
"Uh... a friend asked me to help, so I climbed out the window. She had problems with locals, we fought a little, but I'm fine!" I hastily babble, making everything up as I go and praying he'll believe it.
"A friend?" Danny gives me a suspicious look and shakes his head. "Taylor, Taylor. Little owl, don't you remember that I can perfectly see when you start lying to me?"
"What?!"
"You can lie to anyone, but not to me. And... this isn't easy for me to talk about. What were you thinking, hiding such a thing from me? Did you really think I'd judge you? That I wouldn't take my daughter's side? Even if the whole world turns against you, I'll still be on your side, Little Owl. Come here." He draws me to himself, and I bury my face in his chest and feel tears welling up in my eyes. This is family, I think, when they accept you as you are. I'm a cold-blooded and cynical killer, to strangers a complete maniac and sadist, a monster, but to Danny I'll always be his little Owl and that suits me completely. I realize with surprise that I'm sobbing.
"There, there..." he strokes my back. "Don't worry. I understand it was hard for you, but you're to blame yourself, honestly. You could have told me right away instead of hiding the truth until the last moment. I love you anyway and will continue to love you. Your sexual orientation means nothing to me..."
"What?!" I pull away from him, feeling the tears in my eyes immediately dry up. "What?!"
"Honey, tell me... you like girls, don't you? I'm not judging you, and you can talk to me about what happened. I'm not stupid, honey." Danny looks away and rubs his chin—he's clearly uncomfortable talking about this. "You climbed out the window yourself in the evening, came back in a torn shirt, but you have no bruises or injuries. Your friend... you know, first sexual experience can be traumatic, but you should understand it's not always like that. And..."
"WHAT?!!"