Wake-up Call – Chapter 50 – Empire

[Victor—Choice]

Anti-Master training is not what most people think it is. For one thing, you can't actually resist a Master's power, much like you can't resist being set on fire.

Though you can learn to stop, drop, and roll—useless as it turns out to be when you're being cooked alive by a hellish swarm that—

Training. Anti-Master training.

The thing is, except for the more immediate applications of an offensive Master power, you're usually given some leeway, some autonomy that is nudged along by the power so the aggressor doesn't have to constantly monitor you. It could be an implanted feeling, an idea, a shift in perception.

And you won't be able to stop that. If they want you to feel like you hate your wife to the point of wanting to strangle her just to see the life drain from her eyes as she claws at your arms in hopelessness and betrayal? You will.

You will [feel] that, I mean.

Because that's where the training comes in, and it basically amounts to… noticing.

You notice the unnatural intensity of the feeling, and you start asking yourself [why] are you feeling like that. Is it congruous with other feelings? When did it start? Is there a quality to the feeling that's different from your other emotions? Which, if any, of your circumstances would explain it?

And, if you're good enough, if you're aware enough, if you've practiced during years, you [may] be able to realize that, despite desperately wanting to murder your wife, you [shouldn't]. And so you don't.

Except all of that… It's not a simple set of techniques. It's not something you can cram into a week-long seminar. You need to work at it, constantly, not until you learn the techniques, but until you become the kind of person who thinks like that, whose mind works like that.

Except for me.

There are very few PRT agents who are certified for Human Master raids. The best of the best, the elite who have… well, [mastered] their minds as much as their bodies.

So it took Kaiser a few favors to get me a chance to… to learn from them.

It's dissociative. I have the skills, but they aren't skills, not at that level. They are personality traits, ways of thinking, of seeing the world and oneself. And so I can use them when I focus, always feeling them at my fingertips, but it's all too easy to realize a feeling is genuine and discard the insight that, genuine or not, it's still [fucking stupid].

And so I decided to take revenge on someone far, far more dangerous to me than most Masters.

"Hi there, did you have some time to cool down?" the [Social Thinker] cheerily greets me as she interrupts the moment where my meditation slipped into useless, self-deprecating, navel-gazing.

It obviously isn't an accident.

"What do you want, Lisa?" I ask her, trying to sound genial, inoffensive, submissive. Because she's far away from here, out of the reach of my power, but I am perfectly in reach of hers as long as she can talk.

"Your unconditional surrender and your help in getting your wife extracted from the racist cult of personality you both have been raised in."

Ah. So, just to throw my entire life away. Not much.

"You've retained me for hours in almost complete sensory deprivation. I think my surrender is redundant." She likes banter, doesn't she? Maybe because it gives her something to work with, but also because she enjoys showing her superiority… no, her wit? Her value? She obviously feels the need to cling to emotional attachments—

"I know! I'm impressed you haven't soiled yourself, by the way. Good job; I really didn't want to mop that up."

Crass.

So crass it can't be by accident. And I have replayed yesterday's conversation over and over in my mind, enough to realize that, no, it [isn't] on accident, that Lisa Wilbourn definitely wants to get a reaction out of me, that she thrives on my emotions being out of balance, and she can use that to further push me toward what she wants.

And [that's] why she's much more dangerous than a Master. Because those feelings she instills? Those thoughts she inspires?

They are [mine].

"Oh, Johnny, did you just realize that?" she says, mocking compassion on every syllable.

I freeze. Not to avoid giving her any further clues, just… just out of shock. Because if she really can do that, if she really can know what I'm thinking without any further clues than what my bound, blindfolded body can give her…

"Of course I can do that. And now you're wondering what the implications are as it slowly dawns on you with ever-growing horror that I've got you, Johnny, that you are my prisoner, and that I won't let you go until I'm sure you'll do exactly what I want you to do. And that could be because you're smart enough to [sincerely] agree to work with me or because you're suicidal enough to want to be replaced by a version of you I'll find more… amenable."

I don't move. At all.

My breathing follows a pattern I learned from a man who could steady his heart rate in seconds, no matter the environment or external distractions.

We tested him. Thoroughly.

Brad found it amusing.

I smiled, laughed.

And then threw up all over the bathroom floor.

"Johnny… if you're going to flee into your mind, I'm afraid I'll take that as your answer. And then I'll start [working]."

I've seen often enough what Hookwolf can do to a human body.

I don't want the same done to my mind.

"All right. What do you want?" I say, making sure to convey every iota of defeat and submission I'm feeling.

"Oh, Johnny, that's easy: I want [everything."]

I remember Brad's smile. His laugh.

His [tone].

I'm not reassured.

***

[Othala—Search]

He's gone.

My husband. Gone.

"We… Nobody has heard anything, Othala. We've searched [everywhere]—" the skinhead in front of me says, nervously pulling at the lower hem of his wifebeater.

I cut him off with a glare.

Johnny always says the eyepatch helps. Then he laughs and kisses me.

"You haven't searched everywhere, because my husband is still [gone]," I tell the sad excuse for a human being in front of me. The… dirty, [unwashed] man, barely above what I would expect from an [ape]—

"Sorry! Sorry, I'll tell the boys to look harder!" he says, waving his hands in front of himself, as if to ward away any of my terrible powers.

Stupid. Everybody knows I can only [give] them.

I glare harder, and he runs out of the alley and back into Merchants territory, where this particular group of incompetent goons is looking for any traces of my missing husband.

I hear cries of pain.

Good.

Either someone is about to give me what I want, or a moron will need my healing and has already suffered the price of failure.

Then my phone rings.

Unknown number.

I hurry to pick it up—

"Hey, honey, how are you doing?" the charming voice on the other end of the line makes my heart skip.

"You fucking bastard! I thought you were dead!"

"What a warm welcome," he chuckles.

"Johnny! For fuck's sake, where have you been!"

There's a pause, and I just know he's doing that thing with his eyes, looking around him as if trying to gather clues out of the air while his mind connects unused skills.

"Don't you lie to me, Johnny. Not after… tonight…" I tell him. And try not to choke.

"Hey. Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean… Look… Are you alone?"

Alarm bells ring.

"Mary, full of grace…" I trail off.

"Let us win the race," he chuckles. "It's me, really. But I'm glad you remembered to use the code."

"You made it rhyme," I dryly tell him. Or try to, because I'm still wracked by sheer relief.

That, and the horrible stress that doesn't quite fade away as he remains silent on the other end of the line.

"Johnny?" I finally ask him.

"You need to get out," he tells me.

I walk out of the alley, turning away in the opposite direction of the sounds of violence. My lent powers should fade away any minute now, and they'll look for me, so I have to be fast.

"Why? Where are we going?" I ask him, already short of breath.

"There's a traitor in the Empire, honey. I'll explain as soon as we meet, but, right now, you aren't safe."

"Kaiser—"

"No! Don't contact anyone; phones aren't safe. It took a lot to be able to make this call."

"Johnny, I—"

"I love you. I love you, Jane, and I need you to be safe."

I run.

He hangs up, and, a moment later, sends me a map with a circled area.

I'm worried. No, I'm terrified that he's caught up in something he can't handle.

But we have codes, ways for him to tell me whether or not it's safe to meet, whether or not he's being coerced, and he hasn't used them.

So, even in the worst case… I'll reach him.

I'll meet him.

And then I'll make him invulnerable, and everybody who has made him afraid [will pay.]

***

[Rune—Family]

Patrol this area, Rune. A bird's eye view should let you see anything suspicious going on, Rune. Do it for me, Rune.

Sure. No problem. It's not like I've got a life outside the Empire or anything, cuz. Also, what kind of fucked up family dynamic means you still call me by my codename when asking for a fucking favor—

My phone's ringing.

With a sigh, hoping for a distraction but expecting more orders, I pick it up without shifting from my seat on the piece of rubble I'm sitting on.

… I need to start carrying pillows.

"Yeah?" I ask the unknown number calling my cape phone, because that isn't suspicious at all, no sire…

"Hello, Tammi," a girl I don't know greets me.

Great.

"Is this a horror movie shtick? Are you gonna get me to turn around at the last moment?"

She giggles. Great. Nobody giggles in horror movies, much less unfamiliar voices coming from an unknown phone number.

… Fucking last time I watch The Ring, I swear to God. Damn creepy Japs.

"Relax, you're in no physical danger."

"That's not even weirdly specific. That's straight-out a threat."

"My, how refreshing it is to talk to someone able to keep up," she says before giggling yet again.

…

It's a pretty laugh.

"So, to what do I owe what I believe is the pleasure of being threatened by a Thinker?" I finally ask, trying to stamp down the gay thoughts. Because that's proven to be so effective so far…

"Well, I was just trying to see whether or not you'd be amenable to get out of a very toxic family environment and go somewhere that won't force you into conversion therapy when your dirty little secret comes out."

… Fuck. No pretty laugh can make up for this.

"I don't know what you're—"

"I know [everything], Tammi. I know what went on in juvie. I know her [name]."

"You listen here, you touch one goddamn hair of her head, and I'll tear your fucking spine out through your ribcage—"

"Relax, I won't do anything to Nadja, Tammi. Nothing at all."

"You better—"

"Your [family], though…"

She lets the words trail out, carried away by the wind rushing past me as I unconsciously bleed my stress through my power to a point that's [dangerous] because there's nothing keeping me on top of this slab of rock other than gravity, and I—

"You wouldn't," I say, just… just because I want to believe she [wouldn't].

"I would. I'm a competing supervillain in this city, and one of my best friends is a black guy with a chip on his shoulder. I want the Empire [gone], one way or another. Believe it or not, I'm giving you the [easy] way out."

"… Why?"

The silence stretches.

"Because I'm also a sucker for a pretty face, I guess. Take the deal, Tammi. Leave town and get to Boston today. Please."

And she hangs up.

After giving me a clue to what may have happened to Victor—to [Johnny].

I think about it. About calling Jane, telling her what may have happened to her husband.

And then I think about Nadja, trying to hide her busted lip from me, trying to break up with me without saying she was doing it to protect me from the people my family had told me to trust, the ones that should've been watching my back.

I think about hitting her. About my fist sinking into her belly as she bent forward, disbelief etched in her pretty, injured face.

I clench my teeth, look down at my phone…

And look for Boston's Protectorate HQ.

Damn it. Nothing good comes out of picking up unknown numbers.

… And I [really] need to start carrying pillows.

***

[Alabaster—Originality]

Immortality.

Some moron, upon learning how my power works, will always, invariably, gush about how I'm invincible.

Which shows not only a criminal lack of imagination, but a certain unawareness of the fact that [Endbringers exist].

How's [that] for invincible?

No, but really, I'm always precisely the same way I was seconds ago. Injuries don't remain, but neither does food, water, or exercise. I'm basically at the same level of fitness I was when I triggered, and I'll always be.

Kind of a good thing, all things considered, but knowing you're at your absolute peak and you'll never reach higher does… weird things to a man.

Especially after one has to give up jerking off, because that damn reset applies to [everything].

So, I have to look for other things to do. Other ways to… channel my impulses.

Which is why I was so damn happy to see the musclebound black guy with the leather jacket approaching [me].

Me!

A brawler, it was easy to see, but one with good form. He didn't even bother with insults; he just swung at me and fucking shattered my jaw.

Which… [whoa]. Kudos, big guy.

I mean, it's completely useless, but [kudos].

I told him as much, grinning from ear to ear as soon as my face could manage to, and then I swung back.

Parries, counters, and blocks. He had a hard time managing his instincts, because he had been trained well. Definitely had spent time at a boxing gym, going by his reactions.

Thing is, boxing? Those gloves they wear? They are there for a reason.

The reason being to avoid what's commonly called a boxer's fracture, but it's also referred to as 'Motherfucker! I just shattered my hand!'

See? One good thing about my body being in stasis? All that conditioning shit martial artists like to do so they can hit as hard as they want without losing the limb? I don't need it. I can shatter my wrist with every blow, can destroy my fingers with a spear hand and stab the guy with the broken bones, can do plenty of things that would make a veteran pit fighter puke.

Except Brad. That guy ain't right.

Anyway, this black guy? Built like a shit brickhouse, good reflexes, better instincts. He gets a grasp on my style after a few exchanges and then realizes my actually biggest advantage in a fight:

I don't tire.

I can go full tilt without having to bother with my breath or recovering. I can push myself to the limit from the first second to the last, and, by the end of it, I won't even be sweaty, because the reset also takes care of that.

So the black guy knows he's screwed, and that's when I [really] start having fun. I throw a haymaker at him, with the windup and everything, just to make it fun—

And he sidesteps and trips me.

… OK, not my finest hour. It happens. Being effectively immune to blows doesn't do shit against fancier tricks, but at least my nose stops being a mangled piece of cartilage in moments and—

And he sits on my lower back.

Can't do anything against that. I don't have the leverage. What I do have is a gun in my pocket, and, well, I guess even savages can be tool-users, but I hope to catch him by surprise when I—

When I have my elbow dislocated as he grabs me and cuffs my hands behind my back faster than I can reset.

After all, seconds, in a fight, may as well be a lifetime.

Yeah. That's the [other] thing the morons don't get.

So… Well, by this point, I'm angry. Not livid, because of obvious reasons, but quite pissed off.

Except that won't do me any favors, because if he was carrying a pair of cuffs before fighting me, that means he's one of those people who, at the very least, have thought things through [that much].

I try to negotiate, but the thing is that I can't offer him that much other than promising him the boys won't murder and rape his family after they find out what he's done to me. Not much of a bargaining chip, seeing as, well…

They are [the boys].

Promising not to burn, maim, and rape rings kind of hollow.

And that's when I find out that the black guy has thought not only through the first step, but also the second. And… there's not much more to think after that.

Which is why I'm currently submerged in slowly setting concrete.

Yeah. As I said, there's not much need for a third step. Immortality isn't that hard to beat, when one sits down to think about it.

***

[Cricket—Trust]

I hate Othala.

The prissy bitch lost an eye. She [knows] what it is to be scarred in battle. What it means to carry that reminder of what you survived, what you went through.

And she [still] keeps offering to heal me.

Bitch.

Phone's ringing. This better be urgent, because—

"Hello, Melody," Brad's calm voice greets me from the other end of the line.

Which isn't a good thing. Brad's calm voice usually means he's thinking about how to best destroy the one making him very much not calm.

"Brad," I answer through the crackling electrolarynx that always makes talking through the phone an ordeal.

I don't like having [both] hands occupied.

"Are you with Chris?"

I'm [always] with Chris.

"Yes," I answer.

"Good. He still doesn't know, then."

I stop walking.

"He in hearing range?" Brad asks yet again with that nerve-wracking voice of his. The one that reminds me of the metal beneath his skin.

"I… Maybe." Hard to say, given Chris's power, but I doubt he's pulling the sound of this conversation to him from two blocks ahead.

"Good enough. Listen, Melody, the bastard has betrayed us, some deal with the PRT, Kaiser just got hold of it—"

"He wouldn't—"

"He has. I've seen the evidence, Melody. You know what this means."

I don't want to believe it.

I don't want to, but my power… it knows this is Brad's voice. And that Brad's sure of this.

"I—"

"Kill him, Melody. I trust you. I still trust you," he says.

And hangs up.

A shiver runs down my spine at that last line, at the implied warning of what would happen if Brad stopped trusting me.

And so, I look ahead, at the broad back of the man who's been with Brad and me since the pits, since before powers, since before everything went to shit.

And I walk to him.

"Hey, you think Othala would freak if we—" he starts to say as I get in what we both know is perfect hearing distance for both of us.

And then I unleash my scream on him, take out my kamas.

And try my very best to kill my oldest friend.

***

[Purity—Chances]

Changing diapers is God's way of making sure the Earth doesn't get overpopulated. I don't care what Father Simon says; [this] is definite proof that contraceptives are a part of the divine plan.

Of course, seeing Aster happily pee on her new diaper right before I can finish putting it on is just proof that God [really] wants me to remember this lesson.

And having my phone ring as I'm frantically trying to wipe my piss-covered hands? All right, that may actually be the [Devil].

"Yes?" Please, be a telemarketer I can hang up on and not something job-related—

"Hello, Purity," a woman I don't know says from the speaker of the phone lying on my bathroom sink's counter.

I stop moving. Then I start breathing.

"You're breaking the rules," I tell her with the voice I've never used in front of Aster.

"Yup! And you'll be thanking me for it in the days to come."

I look at Aster kicking the air, half-naked on top of the white towel I'll need to throw in the washer as soon as I'm done putting a diaper on her that lasts long enough for me to breathe.

That is, if I can finish this talk without hyperventilating.

"I doubt it," I say to the dead woman on the other side of the line.

She laughs.

"Ah, Aster's there, isn't she? Theo not playing babysitter today? Shame, they always get along, those two. It's like he's trying to pour all his desperate need for a loving family into the one relative that can't tell him to his face he's not wanted—"

"How dare [you—"]

"I dare, [Purity], because you don't know who I am, have no way to learn it, and I'm trying to give you a chance I very much think you don't deserve."

I can't get out of here. I need to keep watching Aster on top of the marble counter so she doesn't fall, so she doesn't hurt herself, so she doesn't—

"Now, if you can stop throwing yourself a pity party for being a single parent—which, I mean, I would usually empathize with, but… [Kaiser?] Really? I would think you'd be celebrating every day since the ink on the divorce papers dried."

"You're crossing [a lot of lines—"]

"Funny you talk about lines, Kayden—you don't mind if I call you Kayden, do you? I feel like we've already gotten so much closer—"

"Enough! I don't have to—"

"If you hang up, you'll lose your daughter."

My hand stops right over the button on the screen of my phone.

A drop of water falls on it.

I remain still.

"Calmed down yet, Kayden? No? Ah, who am I kidding, of course you haven't! But what would life be without a bit of excitement now and then!"

"What do you want?"

"Oh, that's easy: I want you to do what you tell yourself you do."

My hands are at each side of the sink, and I'm looking at the beaten woman in the mirror in front of me.

I'm also looking at my daughter on the other side, trying to reach me with small, grabby hands.

"What does that mean?" I mutter.

And the woman sighs.

"You left the Empire, Kayden. You left your husband and his white supremacy cult. Because you wanted to be better for your daughter, because you didn't want her to grow up like Theo, beaten down by a man who can't understand empathy, the man you married."

"What's the point of all of this—"

"You wanted to be a [hero], Kayden. You wanted a better world for your daughter."

I stop and look at the woman with gritted teeth looking back at me. At the small woman, the one who was always intimidated when her husband stood tall in front of her and so easily made her feel belittled.

She hasn't changed that much.

"I am. I am [better]. I am a [hero]," I say, defiantly, proudly.

And the woman laughs.

"Oh, that's rich. You [almost] believe that. On your good days? You do. You remember saving someone from a couple of muggers and pat yourself on the back, because that's how good of a person you are, and how you're improving the world, one petty crime at a time."

"I… I do. I [am] making a difference—"

"It kinda pales with all the murder you turn a blind eye to, doesn't it?"

"I—"

"The Empire's initiation? Killing a minority? How many members of the Empire do you [personally] know, Kayden? How many of them have bragged to you about broken families who keep hoping a police report will tell them what happened to their missing Theos, or Asters—"

"Enough! I do my part! It's the heroes who have to deal with the Empire, not me—"

And Aster cries.

I turn to her, hug her to me, uncaring of this blue blouse being stained, uncaring of everything except calming down my daughter, because mommy isn't upset, Aster, it's nothing, see? Everything's fine, everything's—

"Nothing's fine, Kayden. Nothing will ever be. Not as long as you keep [playing] at being a hero instead of being one."

I try to answer, try to come up with an argument, proof that I am [a good person], that I'm really doing my best, that I deserve my daughter and to be happy with her—

"The Empire is falling today. I'll give you until midnight to turn yourself to the Protectorate and become a [real] hero. One who faces the consequences for her actions. One who [submits] to justice before enforcing it."

I… The Empire? Gone?

"Kayden… I hope you'll do it. I hope you'll manage. I hope you'll prove that anybody can become better than they were, that you can rise and become what you want your daughter to see you as. I really do.

"But if you don't… I'll leak your identity. I'll destroy your life. And I'll have Aster be raised by better parents."

She hangs up.

And I kneel on the cold marble floor of my bathroom, my back to the cabinets beneath my sink, my daughter against my chest.

And I can't lose her.

What feels like hours later, Theo walks in, his face filled with worry, and he kneels beside me.

"I just got a call," he says, with that anxious voice of his.

A voice that, for once, I find reassuring.

***

[Kaiser—Crown]

Everything's falling apart.

Scouts sent into Merchants territory keep being picked off. The former ABB is even more of a cesspool of violence than when Lung kept a lid on it, and the damn new cape keeps [destroying] patrols on our turf.

They say she's a ghost. That she can weave in and out of a group of veteran fighters without them noticing until the screams start. That she kills as easily as she walks.

I say she should be three fucking feet under, but she [never] fights capes, only the rank and file, and they are obviously not up to the task of killing the damn newcomer.

And now, Victor vanishes.

The one man I would turn to if I wanted to locate an elusive cape, and he disappears just when I decide that, yes, she's worth hunting down. Which would be bad enough.

Except that he's [Victor], and he has a hand on [everything].

I lean back on my leather chair and turn it around, away from my desk and to the tall window behind me, the one that makes it so my visitors have to see me in front of the skyline of this damn city I was on the verge of owning.

The ABB gone. Coil disappeared. The Merchants the same joke as they have always been.

If I ask for reinforcements, Gesellschaft will laugh in my face. And then kill me.

My phone rings.

"I know where Victor is," a young man says on the other end of the line.

"Who are you?" I ask. And don't bother to ask why are they telling me about Victor.

"You don't need to know that, Max. Can I call you Max,? Because you sound like the kind of person to tell me that Mr. Anders was your father—which he was, obviously, before you had him murdered—"

I hang up.

It sounds again. Unknown number.

I press a button on my desk.

"Sally? I'm about to pick up a call on my cellphone. Have it tracked."

"Of course, sir," she says. And gets to work.

Good help is hard to come by. And worth every penny.

"Rude," the young man says as soon as I pick up.

"I find the accusation highly ironic."

"Oh, yeah, that was the point. Do you need me to explain all of my jokes?"

I try not to clench my teeth and wait for the insufferable brat to say what he means to say. Blackmail, most likely.

"Ah, the strong, silent type. Yup, pretty sure that's not a sign of stunted emotional development—"

"Much like, I suppose, you imagine inappropriate humor to be the height of wit and the mark of a cultivated man."

"Hey, no need to get personal. That's hurtful."

I scoff.

"What do you want?"

"Three million dollars."

"Just—"

"Tomorrow. We'll see how that goes before I ask for a bit more. Maybe some stock options? Wait, no, those would have to go to my name… Damn it, Max, I would so dearly love it if you could get me my fortune in something easier to carry than literal tons of dollar bills…"

"How about a secret account in Switzerland? That's always popular."

"Wow, the Nazi suggesting using Switzerland to do dirty business? Could you get any more cliché?"

In spite of myself, I smile.

Mostly because I'm vividly picturing how I'll impale this cretin.

"I'll need proof of life before paying any ransom," I finally suggest

"Of course. It's always a pleasure to do business with a… [professional]."

"I'd imagine you say that to plenty of whores."

He barks out a laugh that makes my phone unpleasantly crackle against my ear, and I restrain myself from tearing into my chair's armrest.

Never let yourself outwardly lose control, no matter how alone you think you are. It's a bad habit to get out of.

The scars on my back say as much.

"Glad you see you're taking this with as much humor as I am, Maxie. I'll call you later to tell you the details."

"I'll wait with bated breath."

He hangs up.

I take a moment to compose myself, to pretend I don't want to scream until my throat goes hoarse, and then I press the button on my desk that often brings me relief in times of need.

"Sally? Any results?" I ask, hoping against hope.

"We know the call came from Salem, sir, but we don't have an exact location. He may have been driving around to spoof any attempts to track him."

"That sounds sensible, yes. Thank you, Sally. Please cancel any of my appointments for today."

"Of course, Mr. Anders," she says. Because I am Mr. Anders, and [not my father].

The scar running parallel to my spine itches as I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and I start to plan. But first…

I pick up my phone.

"Krieg? Cancel any ongoing searches. Victor's not in Brockton Bay."

May as well. Those were going to end up with half our rank and file murdered by the new cape.

***

[Rachel—Fight or Flight]

"Are you [sure] I can't talk you out of this?" Lisa says from the other end of the phone.

"You talk too much," I answer. Like always. Like usual.

Except not.

She laughs. Maybe mocking. Maybe not.

Like always. Like usual.

Except not.

"Rach… Power's giving me a migraine that barely lets me keep my eyes open, and Taylor is giving me one cold compress after another. I'm barely able to speak, and I certainly can't use Power to persuade you, so... please. If there's [anything] at all I can do to stop you from—"

"You can't," I tell her, not wasting as much time as she does.

There's a pause. Lisa laughs.

"All right. All right, Rach, I'll believe you, but… Please. Please don't get yourself killed. I love you, you know?"

I close my eyes. Think.

"I don't. But I'd like to believe you," I answer.

And hang up before the annoying screech of glee can become words.

"She really means that," Alec says from where he's leaning over the rooftop's railing.

"You don't know that," I answer, petting Brutus as he bumps his head against my leg.

"Oh, but I do! She's [awful] at hiding her real emotions, no matter how much she brags about being a Thinker. I mean, her reasons, her motivations? Yeah, that gets [Byzantine], but her feelings? Nope. If Lisa says she loves you, she does," the pretty boy says with a smile on his lips that shows just enough teeth not to make me nervous.

I consider his words. His speech. His explanation of Lisa.

"You talk too much," I tell him.

And he laughs.

And... he doesn't make me nervous.

One day, I'll ask him how he does it.

For now…

I extend my power, letting it flow from my fingertips, guiding Brutus to be… [more]. To grow, to become stronger, faster, tougher.

Better.

It takes time, time as I feel it trickling between muscle and bone, flowing through veins and sinew, turning him from a sweet, loving dog, to a sweet, loving monster.

Except he isn't. A monster.

Not to me. Never to me.

I feel his warm breath coming at me through fangs longer than my hand, the roughness of the bone plates as he carefully bumps his head against my chest, leaning down to do so, to ask me to pet him.

I smile.

I... I can only do it with them. With my dogs.

Lucky for me, there are [a lot of them].

The roof's filled with them. They are all muscular breeds, many of them have at least some pit bull in them.

Fighting dogs. Scarred. Inside and out.

Like me.

"Well, isn't this intimidating," Alec mutters as my dogs grow one by one, as the dogs I rescued are given strength, the one they needed to fight back.

And then, when I'm done…

I feel the need to slump, to lie down, to rest.

I mount Brutus, and I point at the warehouse on the other side of the street. The one that Lisa says Hookwolf is hiding in.

"Crash," I whisper, pointing down at it.

And we all jump.

I barely manage to keep holding on to the spike growing out of Brutus' spine, his leap so sudden it jars me, but I do hold it. I manage to keep riding him, and my other dogs are by our side, the air rushing in my ears as I try to keep my eyes open.

Zeus, the cheerful, energetic lab, lands on the road just ahead of us, and then snakes forward, tufts of golden hair poking out of what looks like scales and catching my eye right before he crashes through the brick wall of the building, a cloud of dust hiding him from me.

I suppress my anxiety. He's well. He's safe. I'll see him in a moment.

Brutus goes through the same hole. And I do.

I see Zeus.

He's in the middle of another fighting pit, one filled with people, not dogs.

But he can smell the blood, and he's getting nervous, looking around, trying to orient himself.

"What the—wasn't it enough to bust my dog rings, you crazy bitch?" the shirtless man wearing a metal mask says.

I look at him. Look at the people around the ring, around Zeus anxiously looking at them.

"Anyone who doesn't want to die, out," I tell them.

Some stare. Some scream too many words for me to catch at once.

Many run.

Good enough.

The shirtless man's growing, things rippling beneath his skin before they tear free, and he becomes a [mockery].

My pack's behind me.

I point. At the man—the [monster] who hurt so many of them.

"Kill," I say.

And they leap forward.

Brutus responds to my tugs on his spine, leaping aside just as Hookwolf turns to us, and I see many men get trampled by my dogs rushing to the one who caged them, the one who tortured them, the one who watched them [kill one another].

Some howl. Some bark. Many, I trained not to. To attack without warning, without giving anything away.

That's not what a guard dog should do. A guard dog should be noisy, warning their owner and scaring away the intruders.

These aren't guard dogs.

So they jump on top of the thing made of sharp metal, their weight enough to crush gleaming limbs before they're mended, and then I start calling names.

There no longer are any moving men in the building. No one who can shoot me while I focus on the fight, on managing my dogs.

A spear made of blades shoots at me, and I'm barely on time to have Brutus jump aside before Sara, a rottweiler scared of loud noises, snaps it in her jaws and crushes it.

I call Zeus back to me and command Jasper, a greyhound mix who should've never done anything but run through grasslands, to circle behind Hookwolf and jump on his back, to catch the attention of the monster.

And so, I start cycling my dogs.

Whenever one flags, starts to shrink, gets injured, I call them back to my side and refresh my power on them while their friends and mates fight for them. Brutus and I keep moving, dodging attack after attack, his wounds healing as soon as he gets them as I keep circulating my power through him, keeping him small enough to be more agile than his partners.

They need mass. They need strength, durability.

Brutus and I… we need not to get hit.

It works.

It's Lisa's plan, so of course it works, even if she didn't want me to do it. Even if she was happy with just Brian taking out Alabaster.

Unneeded. She said even that was unneeded, but that it would add to the chaos.

If taking out Alabaster would add to the chaos… taking out Hookwolf would be better, wouldn't it?

She agreed.

She didn't want to, but she agreed.

And so we worked it out. How many dogs I could use, how I should use them, how Hookwolf would react.

It works.

Until it doesn't.

I'm tired. Exhausted. Have trouble keeping my eyes open, and Brutus leaping from side to side is almost a relief, a way to stay awake.

And then Sara yelps, a spike of red steel going through her muzzle. Because I was distracted, tired, and didn't realize how much weaker she had gotten.

"Sara! Come!" I call her. Immediately.

Brutus jumps forward to meet her in the middle.

Zeus howls in pain, his right flank torn up, minced, the flesh and the blood pouring out of him.

"Zeus! Come!" I call, hoping it's not too late, the wound not too deep, that my power has been shield enough for him, even if I got distracted, even if I was too weak, even if I let him get hurt—

Jasper howls in pain. Then Judas. Then Angelica. Then Axel—

I scream.

My power bubbles up in me before pouring out, eating away at the last of my strength as I make it go farther, as I stretch it to cover the whole building , helping all my dogs at once, making them all stronger, tougher.

[Alive].

My head pounds, my eyes are heavy, my breath is coming in ragged gasps, and I can't even grasp the spike growing out of Brutus in front of me.

Hookwolf swirls, blades growing out of him and flowing around my leaping dogs, over snapping jaws, beneath clawing paws, between lean bodies.

Come on. Just a bit more. Just a bit more.

It's Lisa's plan.

It has to work.

A barbed spike almost reaches me, but Brutus is too quick and jumps back.

And I fall.

My limp body crashes to the soil below, the one that smells of spilled blood, the one that made my dogs nervous. Scared.

I'm not. I'm just angry.

But I can't move. I'm too weak to, almost too weak to breathe, and can't even turn my head aside so I can get more air, so my nose isn't mashed against the ground.

Then Brutus picks me up, delicately holding me between his jaws, and runs in circles around the pile of dogs trying to contain the swirling mass of blades that—

That suddenly stops.

"Well, wasn't that a bitch to do," Alec gasps from where he's leaning against the shattered wall.

I try to glare at him. I don't think I manage.

"Lisa was right, you know?" he says, walking toward me, his flowy shirt clinging to his sweating body in a way that makes my heart [almost] beat faster.

Almost. Too tired.

"See, when this piece of shit transforms, his body gets turned into a core of flesh. A very, [very small] core of flesh," he keeps talking, pointing at the stilled branches of sharp metal. Because he's a villain, and he has to monologue, he would say. "One that has very few exposed nerves, but… But that's all the nerves I need to fully control his metal.

"And it doesn't take that long, if somebody is willing to hold him down despite the smell, for me to do so."

He smirks. He smirks, and preens, and looks like he wants me to clap.

I, hanging from Brutus' jaws, groan.

And Alec rolls his eyes and tuts his tongue.

"I don't know why I bother. There's no pleasing this audience."

==================

This work is a repost of my most popular fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/wake-up-call-worm.15638/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 88 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).

Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Power's intrusions into Lisa's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance

Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Xalgeon, and aj0413. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and helping me keep writing snarky, useless lesbians, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!