26

Chapter Text

Doctor Mother stumped her way through the half-repaired hallways of the Cauldron base. For the hundredth time she cursed the Skinwalker under her breath. One single vulnerable moment, one lucky shot and the infuriating Rogue had set their work back by YEARS.

Dozens of case 53s had escaped; countless laboratories and Shard strains had been destroyed first by the rampaging kamikaze-bots and then by the escaped case 53s, hundreds of injuries among the staff…the Slug had been incapacitated, making standard memory-erasure impossible. Doormaker and the Clairvoyant's blind spots were growing, Contessa's Paths to Victory were becoming more uncertain, convoluted and often trailed off into dead ends-- it didn't help matters that Doctor Mother had a growing suspicion after consulting with all the other thinkers at her disposal and not a few more mundane mathematicians that this uncertainty was nothing new, that Contessa's Shard had been effectively faking its seeming omniscience-- giving Contessa just enough small-scale parlor tricks to convince everyone that she could plot out planet-spanning, decades-long Paths with mathematically impossible certainty--

She shook her head, dismissing the nagging suspicion. That way lay madness. Without the Path to Victory, Cauldron had nothing…

The most devastating loss had been the death of the Number Man. True the man had been a serial killer and a mass murderer and as amorally evil as they came, but he was useful, dammit. He was the pivotal key to all their financial endeavors… everything from the manipulation of the world stock markets to the financing and banking services for heroes, rogues and villains the world over all the way down to handling the payroll for the peons.

Now, without him, everything was coming apart at the seams. Companies they wanted to die in the stock market were prospering, while others were disintegrating like tissue paper; economic bubbles were bursting early; villains' bank accounts were hemorrhaging money, as were Cauldron's own; She'd read reports that thanks to some poorly timed investments a large number of the Elite's prominent members were starting to suffer serious financial setbacks and aggressive buyouts… the kind that resulted in cement shoes and rolling heads. Projections from thinkers and mundane economists had the Elite going the way of the East India Company within three years.

Well, clouds and silver linings and all that… Doctor Mother snorted to herself.

It didn't take much brains to track the trouble back to the source. Brockton Bay had become a vortex of trouble for cauldron; a gigantic swirling blind spot that could explode any day into a hurricane of chaos that would throw all of Cauldron's plans-- and the survival of the human race-- into ruin.

She shook her head, muttering to herself. She didn't give a damn if it made her look senile. They'd gotten far too used to casual omniscience. Path or no Path, if they were going to save anything they were going to have to take a shot in the dark.

She reached Contessa's office. It was probably more accurate to call it a workspace; the room was dominated by a desk with at least three of the latest model of desktop computer and half a dozen screens, some of them holographic. Contessa was behind the desk, working away frantically, fingers a blur over one keyboard then another as she plotted out who-knew-how-many of the thousands of steps, forks, and detours on the Path to Victory.

Doctor Mother had the unsettling realization that Contessa was looking… different. She no longer had the perfectly groomed, eternally calm and professional air Doctor Mother had always known her to have. Her hair was bound in a loose bun with more than a few hairs flying loose, her makeup was nonexistent, and her expression was strained.

She was probably pushed to her limit, Doctor Mother realized; after the Number Man's death Contessa had been forced to take up some of the slack, using her own power to keep his carefully constructed financial edifice from crashing down completely. The stress was showing. "Yes?" She said without looking away from her monitors.

"The Brockton Bay issue," Doctor Mother said without preamble. "We need to take initiative again. What resources do we have that we can send into the Blind Spot that could take out this Skinwalker and his Alliance?"

"Without a complete Path, the outcome of any intervention on our part is unpredictable," Contessa warned her. "There will be collateral damage."

"The outcome if we don't intervene is predictably bad," Doctor Mother retorted. "Regardless, we need to remove this Skinwalker and his allies from the board. The collateral we can cope with later."

Contessa nodded. She turned to one screen off to her right and began typing. Windows popped up and disappeared and were replaced with others… suddenly she froze.

"What?" Doctor Mother asked.

Contessa looked at her. "Events are already in motion," she said. "One of our peripheral resources is already headed toward Brockton Bay… along with an uncontrolled free agent. They've gone off the Path, Mother. They've-- consolidated."

The look in Contessa's eyes sent a chill down Doctor Mother's spine. "And they are?"

Contessa told her. Doctor Mother could swear she felt her heart stop beating for a second.

It used to be a shopping mall, set in the countryside way outside of any municipality, where shortsighted and jealous municipal boards tended to like them, slowly dying as the economy failed out from underneath it. Technically it still was, not that there was anyone around to debate the point. The owners and shopkeeps and customers had abandoned it in all due haste not two days ago, not even bothering to drag their purchases along with them. Those that had malingered… well… it was best not to reflect on their fates. The building with all its shops, its food court, its movie theatre and all its tens of thousands of square feet of floor space were now under new management. Said management had made itself quite comfortable enjoying the amenities available, and smashing whatever no longer amused them.

The anchor store had a rather large furniture section. Jack Slash sat sprawled in the largest recliner in the room, idly cleaning his fingernails with the point of a dagger. Changes, changes, he mused to himself, everything changes. This latest change was far beyond anything he'd expected. "You go looking for old playmates," he sighed to himself, "just for old times' sake. The next thing you know you're saddled with brand new responsibilities. Go figure."

Bonesaw went skipping past, a bucket of… something… in hand. "Hiya Uncle Jack," she singsonged as she galumphed past.

"How's your latest little project going, pumpkin?" Jack called over his shoulder. He was genuinely curious; this one had a subtle touch of true genius to it. Well, subtle as anything Bonesaw ever did.

"Almost done, Uncle Jack!" she called back. Jack heard the whine of something starting up, followed by a wet grinding noise. My word, it was amazing what the child could do with power tools. Black & Decker, never settle for second best. "I'm really really glad you let me have Mr. Chuckles and Mr. Hatchetface after that nasty ol' Butcher made them have their little accy-dent," she shouted over the sound of metal on gristle. "Mr. Hatchetface was a grouchy old poopyhead, but Mr. Chuckles was FUN." There was a noise that could only be described as grrrunch. "Wups."

"Problem, pet?"

"Naah, I got spare bits for that," Bonesaw said cheerily. "That Cherish bitch--"

"Language!"

"---That Cherish lady still had a lots of bits left after Mr. Hatchetface made her go splat."

"Ah, good."

KA-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Jack couldn't help staring in the direction of the sound. Was that a staple gun? …. No, he wouldn't go look. "Have you seen any of the others?"

"Umm, lemme think. Siberian is out visiting Mr. Manton. He's in his van in the parking lot. Mr. Mannequin is using the power tools in the other department store to do some fixy-uppy things for his body…. Miss Shatterbird's up on the roof making a sculpture out of some glass and a couple of the store clerks who didn't run fast enough. Crawler just finished eating all the corndogs in World-O-Corndogs… and the fryer… and the Corndog guy..."

"Huh. I thought he ran away."

"Oh that one did, but there was a delivery truuuuuck," Bonesaw giggled. An arc welder sizzled briefly.

"Ah. And Burnscar?"

"Oh, she's out in the parking lot, playing with her new friends," Bonesaw said. "Aaaand done! Here we cooome… be careful of your stitches, Mr. Chuckles…"

Jack looked up from his idle finger-cleaning at the sound of footsteps; one set light and skipping, one set heavy and dragging. He smiled as he saw the hulking, rasping thing that had resulted from the mad biotinker girl's work. "Oho, he's a masterpiece, pet," he said approvingly.

The hulking creature spoke. "Bonesaw's done fixing me now," it said. "When are we gonna go play?"

Jack tilted his head and listened. Even in here, the faint sound of rumbling engines could be heard coming from the parking lot. "Well the children are getting restless, so it might as well be now.

"How does Brockton Bay sound?"

"You gonna go up and knock?" Adrian said, looking over his shoulder at Greg. "They're going to see us sitting out here soon enough..."

Greg took a deep breath, fingers gripping at the seat. The burly boy looked more scared and nervous than Adrian had ever seen him, and Greg Veder almost had the corner lot on insecurity. "Yeah," he said. "Just gimme a second."

The Alliance had split up in a half-dozen different directions today. After all that had happened, the entire group had gotten a sense that the other shoe was very close to dropping. Adrian especially, with all his foreknowledge, was starting to feel like a bug looking up at the bottom of a boot. He'd tweaked a lot of powerful individuals' noses, and he couldn't believe they were going to bide their time much longer about dealing with him. At his urging, everyone was going out to try and bring everyone in from the cold-- friends, family, possible allies… and, hopefully, hunker down and bunker up a bit.

At the moment he was helping Greg make contact with his family. They'd taken the team bus (cleverly disguised as, tada, a renovated school bus. Which is what it was, which made it doubly cunning!) and were now parked in front of Greg Veder's house. It was a fairly nice little two-story, plunked down in the middle of a lower-to-middle class neighborhood.

He wasn't sure what he thought about the fact that Greg hadn't even let his parents know he was alive after his metamorphosis. On one side it seemed-- callous. But on the other hand, he had no idea what home life Greg had, and becoming a cape in this world came with so much baggage all on its own… it was unsettling how much anxiety Adrian saw in Greg's eyes. "You want me to come with you?" Adrian said.

Greg swallowed and shook his head. "I've gotta… I've gotta do this alone," he said. He started to get to his feet. "Bayleaf… My parents, they… My Mom tries to ignore things that upset her, pretend they don't exist. And my Dad-- he blows up at them. And neither of them like the cape scene too much..." His eyes were pleading. "what if they don't listen?"

Adrian chewed his lip and tried to think of an answer. "All we can do is try to persuade them, Greg," he said finally. "That's all anyone can do, in the end."

Greg took a deep breath and blew it out. "I'm going." He got to his feet and climbed down out of the bus. Adrian watched as he walked up the steps to the front door. He rang the bell. A moment later a brown-haired woman in an apron came to the door. She looked up in Greg's face and her hands flew to her mouth. She stammered out something; Greg replied, every line of his body tense with uncertainty.

Adrian didn't listen.

The woman threw her arms around Greg, sobbing. She called back inside; a stocky man with thinning blonde hair joined her at the door. The drama was repeated; at first the father obviously didn't believe it, but Greg finally said something that convinced him. More hugs and not a few tears were shed.

Adrian smiled to himself. That was one worry down at least. He saw Greg waving for him to come inside and sighed. "And here's where it gets interesting," he muttered to himself, getting out of the driver's seat.

…

Anna Veder didn't know what to do with herself. After so many weeks of anxiety and worry and hopelessness, here was her son, her baby boy, sitting on the couch next to her as if nothing had happened. Only now he was… there were no other words for it, he was a greek Adonis. He six feet tall at least-- he was taller than his father and he towered over her!-- and his arms and chest rippled with muscle.

And to think I worried about his health, she thought bemusedly. There was no question about that; the boy seemed to practically glow with health.

She didn't know what to do. She settled for sitting by her son and clinging to his arm.

If she was any judge her husband was having as much trouble wrapping his mind around things as she was. He was sitting in his chair, staring at Greg like he was some alien lifeform he'd just discovered. "So," he finally said. "You're-- a cape now?"

Greg started to stammer an answer, then just held up one hand. It began to glow. His father sucked in a breath. "Well shit on me--"

"Charles!" Anna said, almost out of habit.

The glow stopped and Greg dropped his hand back into his lap. Charles took a deep breath and looked at his son. "...How? Why? Where were you? Why did you run off?"

Greg started to say something, opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. "It's… really complicated..." he said. "I don't know where to begin without getting something backwards--"

Someone cleared their throat. Their guest, a black-haired young man about Greg's age sitting in the other living room chair, spoke up. "It is kind of complicated. Perhaps I can help summarize?" he said.

"You're.. Adrian, right?" Charles said. The young man nodded. He had a serious bearing about him, Anna noted to herself; he seemed far older than he looked. "You and your… gang? Group? Team?"

Adrian twitched a bit at the word 'gang' but otherwise ignored it. "We call ourselves the Alliance," Adrian said. The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "We'd basically be classified as 'rogues' by your PRT."

Charles nodded. "Well, you took in Greg, gave him a roof over his head – we owe you thanks for that much." Adrian bobbed his head in acknowledgment. "But now that he's home, we can take care of this properly-- get him registered with the PRT, enrolled in the Wards..."

To Anna's confusion this seemed to upset Greg. "Dad, no," he said, half-rising to his feet. "You can't do that--"

Anna held onto his arm. "Greg, please, the PRT know how to deal with this sort of thing, they're experts," she said. "It really would be for the best..."

"That would be highly inadvisable, Mr. Veder," Adrian said, raising his voice.

Charles got that stubborn, belligerent look Anna knew too well. "And why not?" he said, scowling.

"Because it could endanger his life," Adrian said, his eyes flashing. "And yours."

"...Are you threatening us?" Charles said, his voice dropping to a growl.

"Charles--" Anna said, trying to interject and make peace. But Adrian didn't move. He didn't blink. He riveted her husband's eyes with his own amber yellow ones and held his gaze for a breathless minute. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a DVD case.

"Got a DVD player?" he asked.

…

The video was surprisingly short. Its content was brutally utilitarian, breaking down the most essential facts about the Entities, the Endbringers, Cauldron and the conspiracy secretly running the PRT, the Triumvirate, and effectively the entire world from backstage. It detailed how Scion would eventually destroy the world as a brutal abortion of his own species' reproductive cycle, and how the Agents, through their Actors, were attempting to intervene and prevent the Apocalypse. It gave enough names, dates, and facts to crumble the resistance of the most stoic skeptic

It left the Veders gasping for air. Anna felt as if the world itself had rolled over top of her. "How… Greg, is this, is all this real??" she said.

"Of course it isn't real, Anne. This is ridiculous!" Greg's father wasn't in a very receptive mood. "This is all some sort of, some sort of doomsday cult for capes! Secret organizations running the PRT, the Triumvirate betraying the world, Scion is a some sort of cosmic planet-eating monster? It's all preposterous!"

Adrian cocked an eyebrow. "More preposterous than flying people in silly underoos punching each other in the face?" he said. " Or people who create technology centuries ahead of the curve, that is still somehow worse than useless? Or a prison system with revolving doors that lets supervillains out almost faster than they catch them?

"More to the point-- More preposterous than a gang of super-powered Nazis setting up shop in an American city… you know, the nation that curbstomped the Nazis in the 40s, and went through the Civil Rights movement to boot? More preposterous than a supervillain gang run by druggies so stoned they couldn't even find their own FEET? More preposterous than nine mass murderers running unimpeded across the countryside and the military NOT dropping a MOAB on their heads five minutes after their first murder spree? More preposterous than the Triumvirate-- three people with the authority of the government behind them and power to rival the greek gods, who still somehow can't quite manage to stop any of these monsters themselves?

"You've been living with the preposterous for so long, you don't even recognize it anymore." Charles' mouth flopped open, then snapped shut. For once the head of the Veder household had no retort.

"...Are we really in danger?" Anna said faintly.

"Mom, these guys-- Cauldron, the rest-- think entire cities are 'acceptable collateral damage,'" Greg said, squeezing her hand. "And we're the only people trying to stop them."

"There are others fighting them, too," Adrian corrected. "Though they don't know it yet. But yes, we're the ones in their crosshairs. We… I… managed to bloody their nose pretty bad a while back, and they've been on the back foot." He shook his head. "Our team thinker tells me that something I did utterly screwed up their financial backbone somehow; it's throwing ripples all through the black market and the underground cape scene… but they're going to get back on an even keel, probably sooner rather than later, and they're going to retaliate..."

He was interrupted by the sound of motors gunning outside. Motors and shouting. Startled, he got to his feet and went to the picture window, peeking out through the blinds. The explosion of whispered oaths from the polite dark-haired boy startled Anna. "The Teeth," Adrian said.

That had Greg up on his feet as well. He suddenly had an enormous hammer in one hand. Where had that come from? "The TEETH?" he said. "Are you sure?"

"Well it might be some OTHER biker gang that decorates everything they have in bones and skulls-- yes I'm sure, Greg," Adrian said sarcastically. There was more shouting outside, followed by the sound of glass breaking and a frightened scream. Adrian snarled silently.

"Why are they here?" Anna whispered, her heart in her throat. "They were run off ages ago..." she looked at her husband. "Wasn't it the Marquis who ran them off?"

Charles shook his head. "I heard it was the Slaughterhouse Nine," he half-whispered back. "Or something crazy like that--"

"The Marquis is in the Birdcage, Coil is dust, the Merchants have been wiped out, the ABB just lost Lung..." Adrian counted off. "It wouldn't take much to encourage the Butcher and the Teeth to try and re-take Brockton Bay."

"What about the Empire Eighty Eight?" Greg said.

"Between the Butcher and all the other psycho capes in the Teeth," Adrian said, "I wouldn't bet money either way on a throwdown between the two." He growled, actually growled, his teeth bared. "Someone wanted this to happen. Cauldron or Accord, flip a coin, either one loves operating through cat's paws..." He looked over at the Veders. "It's time for us to leave… take a minute, grab what you can carry. We'll be taking you to a safe house--"

"Now hold on," Charles started to protest. "We--" His further protest was interrupted by a muffled WHUMP from outside. Ruddy light bloomed through the blinds. Adrian looked back out and gawked, his eyes wide.

"My bus!" he yelped. "Those knob-suckers firebombed my bus!!" His expression of shock was almost comical.

Greg was standing next to him. The muscles in his arm flexed as he gripped the warhammer. "What now, Bayleaf?" he said.

"I just painted that thing..." Adrian seemed to shake things off for a moment. "Time's up. We gotta get your parents out of here. " He reached into the leather satchel hanging at his side and pulled something out. He tossed it underhand to Greg's father, who fumbled and caught it. "What--"

"Right," Greg said. He took something out of his own satchel and handed it to Anna. She turned it over in her hands; it was a smooth, bluish stone about the size of her clenched fist, with odd patterns carved in grooves all over it. It seemed to be glowing faintly.

"Greg, what is this?" she said. Then let out a scream as something crashed through the kitchen window. She saw flames licking across the floor through the doorway.

"Crap, they're flinging molotovs!" Adrian said. He spun about, pointing the staff in his hands (where had that come from?) at the flames. A spray of water erupted from the end and shot through the open kitchen door, dousing the fire. "Time to armor up, Greg. Equip!"

Suddenly, he began to… swell. His shoulders grew broader, his arms thickened, his legs swelled and twisted in odd ways. Black fur covered his limbs; his fingers stretched out into talons. His face stretched out, elongated into a wolfen muzzle as his ears grew long and pointed and both covered in dark fur.

Just as the seams of his clothes were about to burst he flipped open the top of his satchel. Thin streaks of light raced out of the mouth of the bag and wrapped around him, transforming into leather armor and a voluminous forest-green cloak. Instead of a young, dark haired man there now stood a gigantic, black-furred werewolf.

"Equip!" Greg's transformation was almost as startling. Light streamers raced out of his satchel and transformed his clothing, replacing it with a shining suit of plate armor, trimmed in gold and white. The warhammer in his right hand was now accompanied by a heavy triangular shield in his left. "Sorry, Mom, Dad," he said. "We'll talk more when Bayleaf and I get back."

The room seemed to fill with a hazy blue-green light. "Greg, what are you doing?"

"My job." Greg tugged on his helmet, setting it more firmly. "I'm a paladin, Mom. This is what I do!"

It was then that Anna realized the blue-greenish light that was beginning to fill the room was coming from her husband… and from her. Then everything vanished…

…

Skinwalker sighed in relief as the protesting married couple vanished. "Good, they're safe at the Workshop by now," he said. He peered around the windowframe and looked outside. "It looks like it's all ordinary goons," he said. "No sign of any of their capes-- not that I know what they look like, but nobody looks particularly important..." He growled as another crash echoed outside, along with more screams of panic. He looked over at Vindicator and gave him a fang-filled grin. "So whaddya say? You ready?"

Vindicator grinned back, even though his heart was hammering. "Yeah. Let's go kick in some Teeth!" and booted the door open.

They both just missed having their head taken off by a motorized grappling hook the size of a boat anchor. It smashed into the doorframe just over their heads, trailing a heavy chain behind it. They leapt in opposite directions.

At the other end of the chain was something that looked like a cartoon robot. It was made up of metal ovoids held together by cables for joints. Anyone who knew what it really was wouldn't be laughing: it was Mannequin, the cyborg tinker of the Slaughterhouse 9. It began reeling its murderous grappler back into its arm, preparing for another shot. Behind him stood a black, six legged dinosaur-like beast the size of a van covered with chitin-like armor, tentacles, thick segmented limbs and WAY too many eyes. "Hey Mannequin," it gargled. "You take the guy in the armor. I ain't never eaten a werewolf before!"

"Crap," breathed Greg. "And it was such a kickass one-liner too..."

Aisha slouched down in the busted out passenger seat as Brian puttered down the street. "Maaan, you think we coulda at least gotten a cool set of wheels for a rescue mission..."

Brian rolled his eyes. "There's nothing wrong with my car," he said.

"Nothing a car crusher couldn't fix."

"Hey, this thing's a classic..."

"So's the Pyramids!"

"Hey look," Brian said, aggrieved. "The guys in the Lost Workshop actually tuned her up, okay? New tires, new exhaust, fixed up the engine, patched the oil and radiator-- She's never run better!"

"Yeah, but how long will the chewing gum hold out?" Aisha sneered.

Brian rolled his eyes and said nothing.

The silence went on for a few seconds. "Do you think Dad will go with us?" Aisha asked. Her tone was a lot softer.

"We can only try, Aisha," Brian said. "I'd settle for talking him into leaving Brockton Bay for good, but--"

"Look out!" Aisha screamed.

Out of nowhere the street ahead had filled with bikers. Bikers who were decked out with bone necklaces, and had skulls-- animal and human-- mounted on their bike handlebars. Brian's heart iced over. The Teeth? The Teeth were back in Brockton Bay?? Brian hit the brakes, tried to pull into a u-turn.

One in the lead got off his bike. With a wrench that made Brian's eyes water he changed shape-- to an enormous quadruped thing. It crouched on all fours, opened its mouth and screamed.

Brian felt as much as heard the sound hit. His entire body spasmed with shock and he lost control of the car. The last thing he heard as he blacked out was Aisha's scream and the sound of smashing glass and steel.

"Dunno why I have to drive," Lok'tara grumbled. She turned the steering wheel stiffly, pulling the ice cream truck into a slow turn. Truck woofed a warning from the passenger seat at the pedestrians, who were doing their best to hustle out of the way of the vehicle.

"Because I'm too short to reach the pedals," Fennek replied. "Told you that already." He looked in the freezers in back wistfully. "Kinda wish this thing had a few popsicles or something," he said, closing the door and climbing back into his seat (they'd strapped a bar stool in place between the driver and passenger seats.) "I swear we get some funky vehicles in the Alliance..."

"It was on sale," Lok'tara grunted. "Junkyard cheap."

"Yeah, but it ain't exactly the Batmobile. Hey, this the place?"

Lok'tara nodded as they pulled in, the tires crunching in the remains of the gravel driveway. "Got about ten dogs here," she said. "A few pups. It'll be snug but they'll all fit aboard." The building was an abandoned garage. It was another sad reminder of the decline of the city, but it had served well as a kennel for Lok'tara's strays. Now though, with things heating up, it was too far away from the Workshop for it to be safe anymore. Lok'tara was going to bring her friends home where it was safe.

As they climbed down out of the truck, Truck suddenly stopped and growled. Fennek stopped too, sniffing the air. "You smell it too, huh boy," Fennek said to the oversized dog. "Fidget, Gidget-- stay here. Lok'tara, get your spear. This could be bad. Equip!" his haversack opened and light swirled around him. His hoodie and scruffy cutoff jeans were replaced with mailled leather armor and a dark cowl, a quiver full of arrows slung itself across his back and a dark wooden bow filled his hand.

Lok'tara scowled "What..." Then she sniffed. A low rumbling growl rose up in her chest. "Equip." Her own satchel opened and she was draped in chainmail and leathers as well. A spear long as she was tall sprang into existence in her hand.

When they opened the doors, it was clear something was very wrong. It was dead quiet; far too quiet for an empty steel building filled with a dozen dogs. They already knew that though. When they opened the door, the scent they'd only caught a whiff of now billowed out in their faces… the scent of blood.

Fennek swallowed, bile rising in his mouth. Blood was everywhere. Blood and… pieces of things. Dead animals, or at least pieces of them, everywhere---

Truck howled. Lok'tara let out an animal sound of anguish. "My dogs!" she screamed, eyes wild. "They killed my dogs!!"

A discordant giggle, deep and raspy, echoed from the depths of the unlit garage. They whipped their weapons up and leveled them at the noise. A hulking figure stepped out of the shadows, shuffling through the blood on the floor. All three of them snarled silently as it came into the light.

Fennek felt his mouth go dry. He recognized the creature. "It's Chuckles," he whispered. "It's Chuckles, from the Slaughterhouse Nine..."

Fennek recognized him easily: The spree-killing clown with super-speed in his legs, and super-strength in his upper torso. But Chuckles had changed. His fat body had swollen to nearly double its original size; his bald head, with its trademark rubber nose and red-and-white circled mouth full of gapped teeth, was misshapen and crisscrossed with horrific scars. It was perched off center on his hunched shoulders and topped with a teeny tiny flowered hat. He was swinging an enormous axe in one hand.

Fennek was briefly puzzled at that. Wasn't the axe Hatchet Face's thing…? Then he looked again and nearly choked. Chuckles was shirtless for whatever reason, and Fennek could see a second face growing on the hump on his back-- a badly scarred face, frozen in a wide-eyed, silent scream…

Oh gods. This was Bonesaw's work. She'd spliced Chuckles and Hatchet Face together.

And one of Hatchet Face's powers was that he could neutralize other capes' powers if he got in range.

"Chuckles got to play with the doggies," the creature said in a mockery of a child's voice. "But the doggies is all broken and won't play no more…

"Now Chuckles can play with YOU!"

And in a scene right out of a horror movie, Chuckles rushed towards them at super speed, cackling and flailing---

Vicky hovered in the air, her arms folded. Amy sat huddled on the roof of the office building next to her, legs dangling over the ledge. "Are you sure this is a good idea for 'neutral ground,' Vicky?" she asked her sister for the umpteenth time.

"It's as good a place as any," Vicky said.

"Which means any other place-- like, say, indoors at that cafe' down the street, with some lattes and cinnamon buns-- would have been just as good," Amy groused.

Vicky didn't look at her. She didn't want to explain herself. The truth was that she needed to be up here for this. Of all New Wave, Vicky was pretty much the best flier. She needed the psychological edge for the confrontation that was about to take place.

"Here they come," Amy said. Vicky looked up; it was the rest of New Wave, In their uniforms and flying in formation; Crystal and Eric carrying Uncle Neil, Aunt Sarah carrying her father, who was in turn carrying a glowing ball in his arms that had to be her mother. They settled on the roof of the building… making a point to give Amy plenty of space. The glowing ball bounced out of her father's arms and hit the roof, transforming into her mother, who stood there with her arms crossed.

Vicky didn't land. "Did you watch the DVD?" she asked.

"We did," Flashbang said. He seemed… more "there" than usual. He must've taken his medication, Vicky guessed. "Vicky.. Amy.. is this for real?"

"We wouldn't have told you if we hadn't thought so," Amy said. She folded her legs up underneath her robe.

Eric-- Shielder-- laughed nervously and ran his fingers through his hair. "You gotta admit, cuz," he said. "It's pretty wild stuff. Tinfoil hat time."

Amy and Vicky both bristled visibly. "Eric! Girls, please--" Aunt Sarah said, holding her hand out. "It's not that we don't believe you--"

"'It's just that we don't believe you,'" Amy snarked, lip curled in a less than amused grin.

"Amy..." Aunt Sarah said, aggrieved.

"Well?"

"It IS a lot to swallow, kiddo," Uncle Neil said apologetically.

"It's balderdash," Carol Dallon snapped. "Vicky, I don't know what Amy has done to… to manipulate you into this--"

"Point of order: it's VICKY that has the mind-altering brainwave power, not Amy," Shielder said, holding up a finger.

"ER-ric!"

"Hey, just saying..."

"Amy didn't manipulate me," Vicky growled. "Or brainwash me or, or fiddle with my brain juices or whatever it is you think she did! Amy didn't DO anything, Mother. It would be nice if you BELIEVED that once in a while!

"This stuff-- Cauldron, the PRT, the Triumvirate, the Endbringers, Scion, the Shards, all of it-- it's real! We're here trying to bring you in, get everyone working together to try and stop either Scion or Cauldron from causing the end of the world!"

"And what proof do you have?" Brandish burst out. "All we have is a, a, a recorded testimonial from a notorious Rogue, and your word it isn't some sort of scam--"

"It's not," another voice called out. Everyone turned in the direction of the speaker. Out from behind one of the roof air conditioning units stepped Gallant in his full armor. "Mrs… Brandish, I was with them. I've seen the evidence. It's all true." He paused and chuckled. "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe..."

Shielder snorted. "Very nice. Good movie, Harrison Ford is always a classic."

"ERIC!" This came from several directions at once. Shielder held up his hands in surrender and fell silent. The presence of the chivalrous young Ward had changed the formula. They KNEW Gallant; he was practically family. They knew that he was an honorable young man of the highest principles. If he said this was for rea... Several of the members of New Wave were starting to look seriously uncertain.

"The information Vicky and Amy gave you has been passed around to… a very select list of people inside the PRT and the Protectorate," he said. "Right now Piggot, Armsmaster and a handful of others are feeling their way around, trying to find who in either organization can be trusted." His voice dropped. "Not many, it looks like. And what little they may be able to muster from the inside may be too little too late."

"Bayleaf's dead certain that Cauldron will make their next move soon," Vicky said. "Mom, these guys think the Slaughterhouse Nine are a nifty resource. They'll stoop to anything. Please, just come with us," she begged. "We're too vulnerable like this. The Alliance is going to bunker down, regroup, put all our resources together--"

Anything further she might have said was interrupted by the sound of an explosion down in the streets below. Everyone present clustered to the ledge and looked down, trying to see what was going on; those with flight hovered out over the street.

What was going on was an incomprehensible spectacle. Down in the street were a handful of bikers who were all decked out in necklaces and ornaments made out of bone. They were surrounding a jeep that one of their number was driving. Tied down spreadeagled across the hood was a woman. She was wearing camo pants, a sleeveless tee, heavy work gloves and a full-face gas mask with goggles… she was barefoot for some reason, and even up on the roof of the office building they could hear her screaming profanities at her captors.

Aunt Sarah swore. "The Teeth! What are they doing back in town?"

"That's Reaver and Spree in the front seat of that jeep," Manpower growled. "Who's their prisoner?"

"Who cares?" Vicky said. "One rescue coming up! Let's kick some Teeth, people!" Glory Girl dropped out of the sky.

"Vicky, no-- Dammit!" Brandish yelled. "Oh hell, everyone after her!" Everyone who could, dove after the impetuous girl.

Glory Girl hit the pavement in a three point landing pose, hard enough that the nearest Teeth nearly toppled off their bikes. "Freeze, dirtbags!" she shouted. She strode forward even as the rest of her family swooped in or crashed down behind her.

The woman strapped to the jeep raised her head. "Aww @#$@," she said. Her voice sounded oddly robotic. "I'm getting rescued by a @#$%!! cape?-- and not just any Cape, it's F@#%ing Collateral Damage Barbie!"

Glory Girl's jaw dropped, her eyes bugging out in outrage. The Teeth howled with laughter. One of the ones in the jeep stood up. "Aw, come on, Barbie," he razzed. "Dontcha even recognize who you're rescuin'?" He leaned over and whipped the gas mask off the woman's face and held her head up by the hair, squeezing her cheeks. "This here is Ba-KUU-da, Lung's pet BOMB TINKER!"

"Thought she was too good to come out of her little rat hole and talk to us, so we went in and GOT her!" the other one in the jeep crowed. Bakuda let out another stream of profanity.

"… I was rescuing a Villain, from other Villains?" Glory Girl said in disbelief.

"Hey don't feel too bad for her, tootsie," the guy holding Bakuda's face said. He let her head drop back down with a clang, eliciting another swear word or three. "Bitch was in the middle of planting bombs in the heads of a bunch of women and children when we caught her. The slag would be no big loss if we fragged her with one of her own bombs."

"But she was SO nice to give us all her toys to play with," the other one said, holding up a box filled with metallic spheres. Vicky felt her heart in her throat. Even if those were nothing more than ordinary explosives, this was a bad scene. And if they were actual TINKER bombs…

"Regardless," Aunt Sarah said, hovering in overhead. "You're not going to be doing much playing where you're going."

"That so?" The guy behind the wheel said. "Well, we'll see!" And suddenly there were fifteen of him, spilling out into the street and rushing straight at them. Then thirty. Then forty five…

Vicky raised her fists and braced herself as a literal wave of bodies swept over them all--

Taylor pulled into the parking lot at the Dockworker's Union building. She dropped the kickstand on her moped and parked it, leaving the helmet hanging from the handlebars. She felt danged silly riding the puny thing around, but Bayleaf had built it for her out of a ten-speed and a two-stroke engine, and silly looking or not it got her where she was going. It certainly beat walking or riding the bus-- or running across rooftops.

Bayleaf had decided it was time to prepare for the worst. Taylor was of a mind to agree. They had poked the hornet's nest, big time. She shivered as she remembered her ghost blades piercing Alexandria's back. She remembered the threats Alexandria had made. No number of 'unwritten rules' would protect them, or their loved ones, from enemies like that.

The single most powerful secret organization in the world was plotting their demise, and here her father was, going to work as if nothing had changed. Enough was enough. She was going to go in and bend his ear-- maybe literally-- until he agreed to go underground with the rest of them.

She could understand his loyalty to this place… but dying here was no way to prove it. Maybe some of the people here could come with them-- Kurt and Lacey, they'd been family friends since forever….

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something round and metallic come soaring through the air from the direction of the road. Some unknowable instinct warned her. She turned and leaped away, metamorphing even as she sprung into the air. There was a sound somewhere between an enormous explosion and the shattering of an enormous chandelier. Shards of crystal blasted past her; she felt them nick her in several places before she hit the ground tumbling.

"Equip!" She got to all fours, her cape gear forming around her. She looked back the way she'd come. Where there had been cars, pavement, and a handful of people filing in and out of the building, there was now a twenty food wide circle of shattered glass. Even the asphalt beneath it seemed to be frosted white.

"What--" she said. Then the screams started. There were people on the edge of the bizarre eruption of glass. She saw several people sprawled on the pavement, clutching terrible wounds. One man was trying to crawl away from the circle of glass. He was crawling because his legs now ended in jagged glass stumps.

Taylor felt her gorge rise, as she realized now she could make out shapes like shattered glass statues among the shards.

"That was awesome! Throw another one!" Out in the street were two bikers. They were both female, and both they and their bikes were festooned with bones, claws, and skulls. One of them was bobbling a metallic sphere covered with odd bits and bobs in one hand.

Taylor snarled. The TEETH.

The one toying with the tinkertech device looked over and saw her. "Whoa! Cape!" She said, pointed. The other one looked.

"Go on-- frag her, Vex!" she urged.

The one with the tinker-bomb seemed to think it over. "Nah," she said finally, smirking. She dropped the grenade into her bike's saddlebag. "I think I wanna do this one hands-on." She thrust out her hand. Taylor flashstepped to the side, just barely evading the cloud of tiny, bladelike forcefields that appeared where she'd been standing.

"Hey, I'm up for that!" the other woman said. She got off her bike and cut gashes down her arms with her nails. Blood flowed, then sprang to life, forming three foot long, sickle like blades that jutted out of her forearms. Hemmorhagia, Taylor recalled. Limited telekinetic control of her own blood. Could make armor, bladed weapons and the like out of it. "Hem her in, Vex!" Hemmorhagia said, clashing her blades against one another. Vex obliged, filling the air around Hemlokk with more hovering micro-blades. Hemmorhagia leaped at her, blades slashing.

Hemlokk teleported right behind her-- and barely dodged a backswing that nearly took off her head. She rolled out of way at the last nanosecond, then leaped and stabbed for Vex's face, only to have her ghost blades clash against the wall of miniature forcefields that sprang into place. She teleported again, leaping backwards over the head of her foe. If she didn't put an end to this soon it was going to get ugly--

"Mom, Dad," Sparky pleaded to the couple sitting on the couch before him. "It's not safe here. I've got enemies now and they won't think a thing of coming after you..."

His pleas were interrupted by the drone of the TV set behind him suddenly changing. "Greetings, Brocktonites!"

Shar'Din turned around and felt his blood turn to ice water. Filling up the screen was a face every kid in the world had feature in their nightmares: Jack Slash. The camera panned back, revealing that Jack had taken over the newsdesk of the local channel 6. He was standing with one foot propped up on a slumped body.

"I'm sure you've all noticed by now an old favorite has returned to town," he went on, gesturing with the straightedge razor in his hand. The green screen behind him was filled with images of cyclists with leathers decorated with bones and skulls rolling down some unnamed city street. "Yes, indeed, the Teeth are back in Brockton Bay! They've gotten a lot of experience roaming this great land of ours, and they want to share all they've learned with the folks here in their old home town.

"But that's not all." His face filled the screen again. "You may be asking yourself: Jack, you rogueish handsome devil, then what are you doing here? I thought the Teeth and the Slaughterhouse Nine were on the outs. Especially after that last little fracas!" Well, I have news folks. Thanks to a late breaking development, we've had a MERGER!

"Yes, indeed. The Teeth are now under new management. Allow me to introduce..." the camera panned right. It stopped on a pale young woman with tangled red hair. The girl had two lines of cigarette burns up her face from the corners of her mouth, and was wearing the bone-adorned leathers of the Teeth. She had a gatling gun hanging from a strap over her shoulder and a bow made from steel cable and truck suspension springs strapped to her back. "The newest leader of the Teeth. You all know her as 'Burnscar,' but we all call her by her new name:

"Butcher XV!"

Shar'Din's mouth went dry. The Butcher was one of the nightmares that walked Earth Bet. The Butchar psychotic sadist and mass murderer with a grab-bag of horrific powers including superhuman strength and endurance, super-durable skin, the ability to cause mindless rage, excruciating pain, or festering wounds, flawless accuracy, and the ability to explosively teleport. That alone made him a terror, but what made it worse was that anyone who killed the Butcher BECAME the Butcher, gaining all the predecessor's powers… along with the voices of all the previous Butchers screaming in his head till he went insane.

And the Butcher package had just passed to Burnscar: a member of the Slaughterhouse Nine, a Pyrokinetic who could teleport anywhere flames burned, and who already became MORE insane the more she used her power. And since she was firmly under Jack Slash's thumb, that meant that the Butcher, the Teeth, and all their other monster Capes were now under the 'leadership' of the Slaughterhouse Nine.

"That's it," Shar'Din said. As Jack Slash continued to blithely mock the terrified viewers at home with his psychopathic banter, Shar'Din reached out and made a sweeping, ripping gesture with his hands. A portal back to the Lost Workshop opened under his half-dissipated parents and they fell through, couch and all. He let the portal close. "You'll be safe there," he said to the empty room. "I hope."

He turned back to the screen. Jack Slash was STILL talking, the freaking ego tripper. "….But now, let us begin the regular festivities with our traditional opening musical number," he said, gesturing grandly. The camera switched to a view of Shatterbird floating in the sky, surrounded by her wings of jagged glass.

Something outside twinkled. Shar'Din looked out the apartment window. Outside, high in the sky, a tiny humanoid figure glittered in the sun. Shar'Din swore and ran for his flying carpet.

Up in the sky, surrounded by a corona of glittering shards, Shatterbird opened her mouth and prepared to sing.