butcher 17
Chapter 1
Five minutes until the end of the lesson. I am sitting at my desk, waiting for the bell, continuing to ponder how wonderful it is to have a whole hour for lunch at school. To avoid drawing attention and arousing suspicions about a sudden change in character and behavior, I'm forced to go to school. Yes, what can you do when you suddenly find yourself in a place like hell – cramped, dark, painful, someone biting and stinging you, crawling over your body, and the smell, rather stench... My first thought was that this must be hell.
The next time I opened my eyes was in the hospital. And I had enough time to gather my thoughts - in the silence of the hospital room, amidst the rhythmic beeping of the heart rate monitor. Who am I? Taylor Hebert, a girl-victim, a ready target for bullying, tall, slender, always hunched over, either from growing too fast or in an attempt to protect herself, to become inconspicuous. Thin, unremarkable, awkward, with almost no coordination. It happens when teenagers grow too fast; they become clumsy. Why am I talking about Taylor Hebert in the third person? Because I'm not her. But who am I? I have no idea, no clear memories in my head, but I distinctly separate Taylor from myself. For starters, I wouldn't tolerate the antics of the "trio," three girls who bullied her. As I begin to think about it, a wave of cold rage rises in my chest. No one is allowed to bully me or those close to me.
In addition to this important distinction, there are hundreds of others - character traits, habits, problem-solving methods, ways of interacting with people, and tastes, ultimately. Taylor loved pepperoni pizza, but I was indifferent to it. Taylor never drank alcohol in her life, but I love dark bitter beer... or here's another thing: hair. Taylor is proud of her hair; perhaps it's the only thing she likes about her appearance, while I would gladly chop off all those black locks and exchange them for a short, convenient haircut. Such hair is a disadvantage, especially in hand-to-hand combat, or in any emergency situation...
Something is hitting me in the head. Something soft. A wad of paper. I turned around. Behind me is sitting Madison Clements, a doll-like face, a doll-like figure, and doll-like clothing, perhaps too revealing for this time of year, but would that stop her? She's a popular girl and can afford to wear a short denim skirt and a strapless top, at least she had enough figure to carry off such a top. Unlike me.
Clements saw that I was looking at her and smirked insolently. I sighed and turned away from her. Madison Clements, Sophia Hess, and Emma Barnes – these are the names of the three horsemen of the Apocalypse who terrified poor Taylor into horror and catatonic stupor. With my strength, with my newly acquired abilities, I could end all of this in seconds. But Taylor's memories spoke of a hunt for independent capes here, and with my power and it's amazing multitasking... it's better to keep incognito. First, I'll try to solve the problem with the help of good old violence. After all, it's just school bullying and three girls.
- "That's it for today," Mr. Gladly said, the syrupy teacher, clearly trying to make an impression as the "cool guy." Taylor had reasons not to trust this impression, and I support her in this. Just think, for almost half a year he's been watching as one girl is bullied right in front of him, practically not hiding it, and he just clapped his eyes. But then again, nothing surprising, this is new for Taylor, but I, the real one - from somewhere I know that this happens practically everywhere, from kindergarten to military special forces.
Mockery, jabs, instigation... but only in school can it escalate into bullying. Because teenagers don't know when to stop and don't understand what they're doing. Their latest trick with the locker – it almost cost Taylor her life and certainly would have caused psychological trauma – if it weren't for my appearance. Hmm, on the other hand, perhaps it can be said that it did cost her life because at that moment the real Taylor seemed to disappear, leaving only memories of her. In the place where her personality should have been - now there's me. So yes, these girls in fact killed her.
- "For the weekend assignment, think about capes and the impact they've had on the world around you. If you want, make a list, but it's not necessary. On Monday, we'll break into groups of four and see who did the best. Winners get a prize from the vending machine." There were a few cheerful cheers, after which the classroom was engulfed in the usual noisy chaos of the school. Notebooks and textbooks were closed, bags were fastened, chairs squeaked on the cheap floor covering, and the insistent noise of starting conversations gradually grew louder. Several of the most talkative students surrounded the teacher to chat.
As for me, I simply quietly put away my textbooks. There was practically nothing in my notes, just a few diagrams and numbers. Unlike Taylor, all this school activity, her school enemies, and other statistics didn't bother me in the slightest. I was worried about something else – my power. Its limits and possibilities. Most importantly - can power evolve, develop, or are its parameters set once and for all? Even if these powers and abilities cannot be developed, you can always learn to apply them flexibly, find unconventional ways and methods of solutions. Why? Because this world is on the brink of catastrophe, and survival here can only be achieved by being strong. In this world, there are certain Endbringers who destroy entire cities; in this world, there's the Son, who once destroyed all nuclear weapons, triggering a series of international conflicts. And as if that wasn't enough - in this world, there are plenty of so-called parahumans or capes, people who have superpowers. Eidolon, Alexandria, Legend – the triumvirate of the strongest, defenders of the nation, but there are others. Butcher, Slaughterhouse Nine, the Scourge Beast, the Three Blasphemers, Nilbog, and others, people with terrifying abilities. People? And this is on a global scale, but we, in the little town called Brockton Bay, have our own capes. And most of them are not heroes in flowing capes. The city is essentially divided among gangs; even in school, many wear the colors of these gangs, teachers prefer to turn a blind eye, and I understand them, who wants to get a knife in the ribs after work? In such conditions, it is simply necessary for me to become stronger.
The bell is ringing, and a stream of students rushed towards the door. Lunchtime. Usually, Taylor would grab her lunchbox with Alexandria's picture on it and quickly dash out of the classroom to lock herself in a bathroom stall. To eat in peace. And then sit there for a whole hour - until the next lesson begins. But that was before Taylor disappeared. Now, in her place, it's me. And I'm not going to eat my lunch in the bathroom, what nonsense. The best place is the schoolyard. But not the сanteen, no, it's crowded, there are too many people, and I don't feel like jostling for a place at the table on an empty stomach.
I stood up, grabbed my backpack, and walked leisurely towards the door. Just outside the door, I'm greeted by a foot from Madison Clements, and if I hadn't been careful, I would have surely tumbled head over heels. However, Madison is predictable, and I could bet my last money (a crumpled twenty in my pocket) that she would be waiting for me outside the classroom door. So, without hesitation, I used all my meager strength to step directly on the arch of Madison's cute doll-like foot, really gave it a good stomp, putting all my weight on the heel.
"Ow! What are you doing, Hebert!" she is trying to push me, but I've already lifted my foot and stepped aside. I didn't just step on her foot; at the last moment, I accelerated my foot, so it was a real heel strike to the arch, and the bones there are very fragile. No, I doubt that my current strength in this body would be enough to break a bone, but it definitely wasn't pleasant, seeing her clutching her foot.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Clements, I'm really sorry," I said in a dry voice. Just enough to leave no doubt that I don't feel sorry at all. That I could even step on her again.
"You! That's it, you're done, four-eyes! Sofia will bury you once she finds out!" Madison spitted at me. She's in pain and offended, her doll-like face contorted, she bended over and held onto her foot.
"Can't wait," I am brushing her off and walking past. Am I changing my character too much? Well, damn it, we're all teenagers here, and teenagers are impressionable. Watched a movie, read a book, and that's it, "Hermione has changed a lot over the summer." And I definitely have a reason to change after being locked in a locker, practically buried alive. You'd change too. And right now, I don't care about the trio of spoiled girls. My power works all the time, and at the same time as the confrontation with Madison, I felt all the insects within a radius of two blocks from the school, and there were very, very many of them. Millions of insects, ranging from common cockroaches and flies to wasps and bees, unexpectedly many ants, spiders and fruit flies, mosquitoes and millipedes, and some whose names I didn't even know.
Someone might scoff, saying, "What power is that, controlling insects, now that's power! Like Alexandria or Glory Girl – now that's power! Flying, being invulnerable, being able to hurl a car at an enemy and withstand a gunshot from a cannon – now that's something!" And here, insects... pfft...
No, of course, it would be nice to be invulnerable, words can't describe it, right now I feel very vulnerable, not just to a cannonball, but even to a simple slap. However, don't underestimate multitasking insect control. First of all, it's unparalleled opportunities for reconnaissance. True, first you need to get used to the peculiarities of vision and hearing in insects, after all, facet eyes are far from ideal, and they perceive sounds differently. But you can get used to it, just spend more time focusing on the sensations of the swarm. Right now, within the range of my insects' influence, I'm tracking several conversations, and one of them is from that Sofia Hess. She's secluded in an empty classroom and talking on the phone.
- ... what? Of course! – she said, and the sound of her voice is vibrating through the bodies of the fruit flies sitting on the windowsill: - I'll be at the base in the evening. Oh, stop it with your Miss Piggy, she can kiss my ass, after all, I'm not in the Wards to pander to her. Yeah, that's all. Bye. – she is hanging up the phone, and I have food for thought. I stretched out a couple of dozen wasps from a wasp nest under the school roof and moved them a little closer – just in case I need them. I sent a couple of fruit flies to Sofia Hess to constantly track her movements around the school. Sofia – the Ward? Well... that's interesting. I guess Taylor in my place would have already received emotional trauma. Emotional damage!
But I don't care. The only thing worth attention is that one of the trio is not just a high school student. She's a trained cape. The difference between public image and real character is great, but not surprising. I'm sure even the shining Triumvirate, Eidolon, Alexandria, and Legend, have their skeletons in the closet.
No, wait, I shouldn't think about that. If Sofia Hess is indeed the Ward, then the games the trio plays are not so harmless. Perhaps it will be necessary to use force, but suspicious incidents involving the Ward at school – that's exactly what will attract unnecessary attention to this school and to me in particular. What does this mean for me? Hmm... unless you count attacks on the Ward – nothing special. Or am I misreading the local cape laws? You can't reveal the civilian identity of a cape; there's something like personal life secrecy raised to the absolute. From this point of view, a person in a mask and a person without a mask are like two different personalities, but I suppose that in reality, those who can find out will find out anyway. They just don't talk about it loudly, that's all. I'm sure the government and the Cape Department (PRT) gathers all the information available to them. Otherwise, they wouldn't be the government. To believe that they play by the rules is foolish. It's the common practice of all governments; they play by their own rules and only as long as it benefits them. However, I'm such a negligible figure on their radars that without attracting anyone's attention, I can slowly "grow in the shadow of the eucalyptus." I hope. So far, I have too little information to declare myself to the world, especially with such a convenient power. After all, I don't need those masks and costumes; with this ability, I can sit in a café a block away from the main events, drink coffee and eat pastries, and no one can link me to the terrible ruler of the swarm of insects. Even here, in a world torn apart by the Endbringers, there is no concept of "martial law," and each case involving a cape is handled with all the necessary procedures. Accusation, defense, lawyer, prosecutor, arrest warrant, jailing, or in the most extreme cases – the infamous kill warrant. In any case, the evidence procedure here is the same as everywhere else – protocols, physical evidence, witness statements. To prove that I'm connected to the swarm of insects... well, good luck. If I don't wear idiotic costumes with masks and jump into the thick of battle – how can you prove the involvement of an ordinary civilian girl? And yes, I'm aware of the Thinker, but for the court, you need evidence more solid than "our guys think it's her." If it comes to that. Anyway, the less food for recognition and exposure as a cape I can give – the better.
The conclusion is very simple - dealing with the trio will have to be done without using my powers. Of course, a sting from a wasp or bee won't raise suspicions, but several stings in a row... hmm. There's a wasp nest under the school roof... nothing suspicious if a person who stepped on it gets several wasp stings, right?
I settled under the sprawling tree in the schoolyard and looked around. Winslow was never famous for its beautiful building or order; graffiti, gang signs, and curses adorned the school walls. But even so, having lunch in the yard was more pleasant than in the restroom or canteen. I opened my backpack and took out the lunchbox, a red metal one with Alexandria drawn on it. The superheroine and member of the Triumvirate was depicted flying, with a bent knee and an outstretched arm, in a typical superhero pose. The lunchbox was quite old, and the paint had worn off in places, especially on the protruding parts of Alexandria. Or did Taylor usually take for those spots?
Exploring my memory, I didn't find any particular fixation of Taylor on parts of Alexandria's body; she preferred Armsmaster, the shining pillar of the PRT in Brockton Bay.
Well, I thought, unfolding the parchment paper in which the sandwich was wrapped, to each their own, I'd rather prefer Alexandria to Armsmaster; he's just too upright. Meanwhile, my fruit flies, which marked the trio, gathered together. This means the trio has reunited. Unfortunately, fruit flies aren't very good at espionage and can't transmit sound waves as well as larger insects, and there were no others nearby right now. I couldn't make out exactly what the girls were talking about, but the overall emotional tone was clear from their intonations. Anger, rage, irritation.
Mentally estimating the distance between me and the trio, I brought the sandwich to my mouth and took a big bite. Delicious. Now to wash it down with grape juice from the vending machine. I have about ten minutes before they find me. Or maybe more. I wouldn't count on them not finding me at all – there are too many curious eyes around. Someone will surely report to the social hive queens that a certain Hebert has become too insolent.
However, I'm more than sure that they won't beat me in public; there are some limits to what they can do. Being cornered where no one can see – that's possible. Their style is to push Taylor without leaving obvious evidence. In turn, this means that they won't jump on me in the schoolyard; there will be insults and provocations here, and the rest will be left for more private places. Damn, what am I doing here? I have incredible powers, the opportunity to change my life for the better, and here I am fussing over these three girls. Sigh.
Hey, Hebert! – a loud shout ringed out. - What are you up to now?!
Well, I am thinking, carefully folding the parchment paper and closing the lunchbox, there you go, I've finished eating. These girls don't even suggest how lucky they are that in this body right now, it's me and not the original Taylor Hebert; she could have caused a full-on Carrie situation in this school, unleashing all the insects within a two-block radius on the students and teachers. You have no idea how many wasp nests there are in two blocks of urban development. There might be few bees, yes, but there are plenty of wasps. And they sting just as fiercely as bees. The other insects... they swarm into eyes, ears, nostrils, under clothes, biting, stinging, gnawing... it would be very unfortunate for the whole school, especially for this trio. But today is their lucky day; today, I'm Hebert Taylor. Let's see how lucky they are. I am drying my hands and turning towards the voice.
Girls? – I asked, tilting my head to the side. - Did you want something?"Remember, Hebert, in this world there are those who are predators and those who are prey. The fate of the latter is to hide and run in fear, do you understand?" Sofia pressed me with her Nietzschean philosophy. I looked at her directly. She is strong, a trained girl, muscles can be discerned under her clothes, she is confident, and she moves quite differently from the other girls. But even so, she is not a threat right now. Somewhere inside, I regret succumbing to all this "you need to pass exams, Taylor" and "it's useful for your future career." What kind of a career in a world where there is the Slaughterhouse Nine? People can get used to anything after all.
"It seems to me you've been holding your head up high lately, huh, Hebert?" Sofia slowly unscrewed the cap of the grape juice bottle. "It's time to put you in your place, isn't it?" In the next second, I am slightly leaning back, shifting my weight to my left leg and twisting my torso. It's clear what Sofia had in mind, and the pettiness of her plan struck me right in the heart. She wanted to douse me with juice! Simply douse me. Yes, no one would take this "attack" seriously, and she could always say "oops, slipped accidentally, and the bottle was open, so it spilled all over this Hebert's head," but! Trained to deal with criminals, thugs, and supervillains, one of the Wards, who has gone to the dark side, is pouring her victim with juice. Not with technical acid, not with a special foam that the PRT pour onto captured criminals, but with juice. It's ridiculous.
However, at the same time, it says a lot about Sofia herself, much more than she would like. I am going aside, controlling the stream of juice spilling from the bottle with a touch to Sofia's forearm, not letting her turn her wrist and pour me from head to toe. Sofia turned her forearm, escaping from the block and trying to pour me from above, but I ripped off her hand with my palm, the bottle of juice slips from her fingers and rolled on the ground.
"Hebert!" she is growling, her eyes turning bloodshot. Can she control herself? Oh, I'm absolutely sure of that. The fact that someone like Sofia, capable of murder (and this girl clearly can see Thestrals), limits herself to a bottle of spilled juice on the head, tells me everything I need to know about her. And before, even though the trio made Taylor's life at school unbearable, there was never anything clearly. No one beat her in a crowd, knocked her to the ground and kicked her, no one cut her with a razor or a knife, everything that happened was more like bullying at the level of "let's put some shit in her locker." The culmination was when they locked her in the locker, they pushed her in there with their hands. But even then - they didn't beat her. What does this say about our dear Sofia Hess, who turns out to be one of the Wards, and if a Ward - then a Shadow Stalker, there are no other options.
Taylor would say that this shows that there is no justice in the world and that Director Blackwood deliberately covers up all of Sofia's antics because she's a Ward. But to me, it says the opposite - Sofia Hess lives in a glass house. Yet, she continues to throw stones. It's all very simple - with her character, if she were really being covered up by the RPT, she would have long ago beaten Taylor to a bloody pulp, completely breaking her with physical violence. Just pushing, humiliating, or pouring juice on her isn't enough for her; if given the chance, she would be doling out punches and hits on a regular basis. Just because she loves violence, knows how to inflict pain. However, she doesn't do that. Why? Because the PRT wouldn't approve of such behavior, and they have ways to enforce their rules. Since she's a Ward, such behavior would be a significant PR blow to the PRT's reputation, and in this world, everyone is obsessed with their reputation. Even villains. So, summarizing all of the above - Sofia Hess is actually very, very vulnerable. More than anyone else in the school. It's one thing when a regular student commits a misdemeanor, and quite another when a Ward does it. I suspect that such a Ward will get a much harsher punishment than an ordinary student. Of course, the PRT will try to turn a blind eye to unfounded accusations, cover up the scandal, but if it comes out...
"Sofia, you dropped your juice. So clumsy, and you're supposed to be an athlete," I said, stepping back one step, creating distance between us. Not because I'm afraid of her, but to let everyone around see whose initiative it was to start the conflict and to avoid unnoticed jabs or strikes. Want to attack? Please do it in full view of everyone. I'm sure Sofia will keep herself in check.
"Well, Hebert, it's over for you! You'll pay for what you did! I told the teacher everything!" Madison Clements interjected.
"So, you couldn't handle it yourself and ran to complain?" I replied without turning my head to her. Right now, my main opponent is Hess, and although I'm sure she'll keep herself together in public, I can't let my guard down. She might still snap. Any of her actions now benefits me. If she keeps herself in check - well and good, we continue school life without incidents, with the help of the fruit flies planted on her, I can avoid encounters with her in the dark corridors of Winslow. If she loses control in front of everyone - that's also good, it will attract unnecessary attention to her. If she loses it to the point of revealing herself as a cape - even better. I don't know what punishment awaits her in the PRT, but it's guaranteed that she'll be transferred to another school right away. Otherwise, she'll have to go the way of the New Wave - walk around with an open face, admitting that she is the Shadow Stalker, and in a school full of young and hot members of the Protectorate and Empire 88, it's, at the very least, unsafe.
"It's you, ugly toad, Hebert, who always ran to cry to her mommy!" Emma Barnes, who is standing right there, blurted out, instantly losing another hundred points in my eyes. Even though she won't win my inner popularity contest, so to speak, she's at the bottom of the list. She used to be Taylor's best friend, what happened to the young Catherine de' Medici, who at least fought for life and power, and what about this one? And she told about my mother, it's a sore spot for Taylor, ever since her mom died, everything went downhill, her father distanced himself, there were no more friends, life turned into a dreary existence, and this one wants to push it further. Brilliant.
"Yes, I'm not the prettiest girl in school," I am nodding, agreeing, and Emma is frizzing, blinking in confusion. My behavior is different from the usual pattern. Even these words I am saying calmly and confidently.
"And you're beautiful. I've seen you in commercials," I am continuing. "However, even if I'm not the prettiest, at least I don't betray my friends to hang out with popular girls, or whatever is going on in your head. When I last read Dante, I learned that there's a special place in hell for people like you. I doubt beauty will help you much there."
"What are you…" - Emma lunged at me, and I crouched slightly, preparing to fend off the attack, but at that moment, Sofia grabbed her friend's hand. Everyone froze. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mr. Gladly, who has come out into the yard and is carefully pretending not to notice this scene.
"Later," - Sofia said firmly to Emma and released her hand. - "She's not going anywhere from us. Later."
"The voice of reason," - I couldn't keep my mouth shut - "Listen to your mistress, Emma."
"I understand what you're doing, Hebert," - Sofia said to me. - "Do you think you'll provoke me here and now? I won't give you that chance... but you'll get yours. Oh, you'll get yours. Beware, Hebert, from now on, I'll take you seriously. Walk, looking over your shoulder" - she grabbed Emma's hand and walked away with her. Madison Clements hurried after them, saying something nasty to me as a parting shot.
"Miss Hebert," - Mr. Gladly addressed me. - "You're summoned to the principal's office. Could you please follow me?"
"Gladly, Mr. Gladly," - I said and picked up my backpack from the bench. - "Gladly."
In the reception area of Principal Blackwood's office, I had to wait until the secretary let us into the office. Principal Blackwood's office was decorated in dark tones, exuding bureaucracy and cheapness. Cheap furniture, a cheap computer, a reproduction painting on the wall, Principal Blackwood herself in a strict office suit and glasses on her face. A bureaucrat man in a case, I thought, looking at her.
"Here, here's Hebert, as you requested," - Mr. Gladly said and then stepped aside, closing the door behind him. Before he closed the door, I clearly read relief on his face. The Moor has done his job, the Moor can leave, uh-huh. Meanwhile, I wonder if the city's sanitary and epidemiological services know that the principal's office is practically a breeding ground for ant nests? Tiny ants are everywhere, and from them, I know that in the bottom drawer of the principal's respected desk, there's a bag of weed and two rolled Kush - I understand, dealing with kids, especially in Brockton Bay, must be stressful. The principal needs to relax. Next to the baggie is lying a flat metal flask, the lid screwed tightly enough, but insects can smell strong alcohol a mile away. I don't judge, all normal people were alcoholics; Hitler was a teetotaller and a vegetarian in our world. But what bothers me is that next to the flat flask and the weed baggie lies a heavy metal object. And it smells of gunpowder. Judging by the shape, it's a short-barreled revolver. Well, the students of Winslow are not known for their law-abidingness, hell, half of the city's trash comes here, you can see the red-green colors of the Protectorate or the symbols of the Empire 88 around the school, and in the yard, you can stumble upon another pusher pushing the same weed.
Okay, I think, our principal turns out to be a normal person, there's weed, there's booze, even a revolver in the desk drawer... and fruit flies did a great job of catching and comparing pheromones, and from the index and middle fingers of Mrs. Blackwood's right hand is emanating the same smell as from the secretary's panties in the reception area. How interesting.
I am looking straight ahead and a heavy silence hanged in the office. An old trick, in such cases a person begins to make assumptions, make excuses and give himself away completely. It won't work on seasoned kids, but here are schoolchildren. A simple psychological trick works like a charm, the kids crack like walnuts. True, this trick won't work for me, I practically didn't notice this silence, my ants and fruit flies gave me so much information that the silence didn't bother me at all. For example, I am interested in a certain plastic cylinder that lies in a desk drawer next to a revolver and a flat flask. Fruit flies confirmed that the plastic cylinder actually smells of pheromones, which were previously found on Blackwood's fingers... and on the secretary's panties. It's getting more and more interesting, but our director is a living person, with her own cockroaches. On the other hand, who else can be seen as the head of a school that is not located in the most prosperous area? Where are the metal detectors located at the entrance? By the way, metal detectors do not work, so if one of the students wants to smuggle a pistol or shotgun into school, this will not interfere with him. Difficult teenagers is not even the right word. In Winslow there is such a vigorous cocktail of the offspring of hard workers from the outskirts, who partially joined gangs, and those who did not join are forced to constantly defend their rights; some children of crime bosses and ordinary kids from the street also study here and, as it turned out, even capes. And how can you manage all this without booze and weed? Blackwood has no actual power, the most she can do is expel from the school, but she will never do this, simply because the school receives funding depending on the number of students. But students can throw out anything - and, as a rule, nothing happens to them for it. Because kids. This guy is worth about eighty kilograms, covered in tattoos and with a revolver in his belt - he's a child.
"Hebert," Director Blackwood broke the silence, a hottie with a revolver and a vibrator in her desk drawer. The interesting thing is that in other drawers there are only papers or stationery, everything is folded neatly and in order. Apparently this particular box is responsible for the dark side of the school principal. Convenient.
"Director Blackwood," I nodded in response. For some reason this unsettled her, and she remained silent for some time.
"Hebert, there was a complaint about you," she said and pauses. "Yeah, we know the old trick. But the best defense is an attack."
"Really!" – I said: "I was leaving the class and accidentally stepped on Madison's foot!" I didn't want it at all, but it turned out so strong! I immediately offered to take her to the first-aid post, but she refused! I did not want! But please punish me for accidentally stepping on her foot, I'm so ashamed!"
"Um... yes. Clements said you kicked her."
"No no. I stepped on her foot, I'm very embarrassed, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry. Madison is right, it's my fault, I need to watch my step! It's just that she was standing right outside the door, and I was leaving the class, so I didn't notice! But... but I'm terribly ashamed! She has such small, doll-like feet, and I stepped on her! I hope it's nothing serious? I wanted to help her, bandage her or buy medicine, but she just swore at me!"
"That's... quite an understandable reaction," - the principal admitted. "Try to be more careful next time, Hebert! And you're punished – ten hours of work after classes! Starting today!"
"I'm very sorry! I deserved it!"- I said, observing Principal Blackwood's facial expressions. She relaxed. If I were to defend myself and protest, shifting the blame onto Madison, I wouldn't achieve anything. Blackwood already doesn't like me, all because of that incident with the locker; as a result, the school had to cover medical expenses, and the school's budget is tight, every cent counts. Of course, Taylor isn't at fault in the incident with the locker; it's more the school's fault for how they handle their responsibilities, but no one likes to admit their guilt. Blackwood believes that it's my lean ass that caused the school to pay for medical expenses to bring Taylor Hebert into relative order. Such framing of the issue would deeply upset Taylor herself. Not only is she not at fault, but she's also being sent to work, and there's so little time in a day.
But I took it calmly. I decided to quit school soon. Just not go anymore. I don't see the point in this education; socialization in Winslow ranges from "awful" to "HORRIBLE." With my current abilities, I can provide for myself financially for the rest of my life, and even have enough for my grandchildren. And pushing through with peers – increasing the chance of being exposed.
I said goodbye to the principal, left the office, and involuntarily glanced at the secretary. Hm... if she were to let her hair down at the back, take off those glasses, and remove that awful office jacket – she would be something. It's clear why Director Blackwood...
"Do you need something, Hebert?" - she asked without taking her eyes off the computer. I shrugged and picked up my backpack.
"Nothing," - I said. - "Goodbye" - and I left the reception. I have two hours of work after classes ahead of me. Usually, those who are left after classes to work quietly do their homework or just idle quietly. By the way, no one leaves kids after classes in red-green colors of the Protectorate or with the numbers 88 on their clothes. Discrimination.
But everything suits me. Two hours in silence, another opportunity to hone my control over my insects. Interestingly enough, under the term "control," everyone understands behavior modification, but this term is much deeper. Complete control. For example, the same fruit flies emit pheromones, attracting flies of the opposite gender. Genetic markers. However, when I take them under my control, they are able to attract other insects. So, I can make them change the composition of pheromones. Change genetic markers. And changing genetic markers, in turn, means complete control. What is complete control? It's the ability not only to change behavior, but also... for example, the body shape. Make it stronger, more enduring, change the composition of the venom injected by the sting... a lot of room for experiments. And I have only two hours...
Chapter 3
Experiment number fifty-three. Testing multitasking and attention allocation between complex processes. The first process is cooking dinner at home; soon, father will come back from work, so it's better if there's something to eat. He usually just heats up a ready meal in the microwave, opens a can of beer, and sits in front of the TV. No, we should eat well, especially since I bought groceries on the way home, fresh vegetables and spices. So here I am, standing at the kitchen table and preparing lasagna. Why not? It's better than supermarket pizza, which is essentially a pale pancake with remnants of cheese and scraps of cheap sausage, tasting like chewed-up paper.
The second process running parallel to the first is managing the ants, of which there are surprisingly many under the Heberts' house. An anthill is no joke; it's a strict hierarchical structure with its quirks. For example, each anthill has a supply of eggs, which don't just mature like chicken eggs, for example. No, ant eggs are controlled. They lie in the storage and lie there, nobody hatches or rushes anywhere. But as soon as there's a need for additional workers or soldiers, or a new queen is needed, the worker-nannies immediately extract the necessary eggs and awaken them from stasis. A couple of days later, they hatch. Ready soldiers or workers, or anyone else. Ants are great specialists in narrow fields. What about, for example, seamstress ants? Huge jaws designed to grab and stitch large leaves together, forming a home on a tree. Although, given their specialization, they should be called stapler ants; they punch holes in the leaves and hold them together, Indians even use them as staples to close wound edges - bring it to the wound, the ant snaps its jaws shut, and that's it. Just need to detach the body and fasten the entire wound like that.
And this evolutionary flexibility is in the ants' blood; ants are perhaps the most adaptable species. There are flying ants, bullet ants with a neurotoxin in their venom causing paralysis and numbness even in humans, and wandering African ants that devour everything in their path. Indeed, if 25 percent of all terrestrial animal biomass consists of ants! One species - a quarter of the weight of all animals! So, the presence of large ant masses under urban development was not unexpected.
The only thing that stopped the anthills from constantly growing in my attention field was the limitation of resources. Each anthill grew as much as it could get food, a common rule of the wild. However, unusual times have come for the anthills under our house. I opened access to the basement of our house for them, where I placed low troughs with sweet syrup, as glucose is the basis for energy metabolism. Also, large meat flies from the nearest waste dump were constantly delivered to the entrance of the anthills. Well, there were plenty of meat flies in the city. And now my anthill was busy actively consuming food and had already awakened eighty percent of all backup egg clutches. All available queens were also activated, hastily laying new eggs.
Why? I needed all the ants I could get. Firstly, worker ants no longer searched for food; there was more than enough food in the anthill. They worked in the lowest levels of the anthill, where it was the hardest to work... apparently, there used to be a river there, and layers of deposited soil remained, some grains of which were suspiciously heavy. After the initial samples that my ants brought to the surface, the decision was made to extract these heavy particles by all worker individuals. Now, in a glass test tube on my bookshelf, there were already about two hundred grams of golden sand. And this sand looked completely ordinary, as if it had been cleaned up in a river. If Taylor had the power of an Alchemist and made chemically pure gold, questions could have arisen at the pawnshop, but here... well, she cleaned it up and cleaned. Found a gold-bearing stream somewhere in the mountains, maybe not herself, but someone else, cleaned it up and brought it for sale. Considering the speed at which ants carried grains, one could relax about money for living expenses.
Of course, it won't be enough for serious spending, and it will already raise questions, but if you live modestly, without buying new houses, sports cars, and tinkertech, it's quite sufficient.
So, the second process - managing the ants, who were developing a nest with golden sand. The third process - the reason I opened all the ant egg clutches, namely - evolution. The best models for experiments in genetics and evolution have always been fruit flies, Drosophila. Because these flies live only twenty-four hours, so you can change seven generations in a week. Fixing particularly successful traits wasn't so successful for scientists; they had to either crudely intervene in the process at the level of genetic manipulations or create conditions to which the flies adapted.
But! I didn't have such problems. You take ants and they don't just get soldier ants, but soldier ants with the most terrifying venom. No, no, it was a dead-end project. You take queens - they can fly and have a bit of venom. The most venomous and enduring individuals are selected from them, and they immediately reproduce - as many eggs as possible. The eggs are immediately awakened, in accelerated mode. After a day, I already had several hundred of such aggressive and venomous queens... and the same thing happens with them. The most venomous, aggressive, and enduring are selected. They are given the task of reproduction... and so on in a circle until I get an ultra-strong and ultra-venomous individual that can also fly. So right now, I have such individuals; they are tens of times more venomous than regular ants with their formic acid, they have highly developed jaws and particularly strong chitin bodies, however, evolution continues. Hmm. Perhaps this should be called forced evolution, or evolution on steroids? What would have taken decades in ordinary life and required extremely specific external conditions - I achieved in two weeks. But this is not the limit! Nature is amazing, especially if you give it a specific and clear task. I wonder what the final result will be? Most likely, it will be a very strong but not very large individual, with neurotoxin, one dose of which will paralyze an adult man. Or kill him. And... it's better if this dose doesn't spread through a bite or sting, but is sprayed into the air, like bombardier ants - that's the best solution.
I already see the limitations and weaknesses of my power. On the one hand, I'm omnipresent and capable of stopping armies on the march and in attack, and on the other hand, just put on a beekeeper suit and that's it. Insects won't do anything with it. Even without such a suit, if my enemies know about my power, they'll just... dress properly. Gloves, jacket, thick jeans, boots, tape over the seams, a hat on the head, wrap the face with a scarf, and motorcycle goggles on the eyes. That's it, my cards are beaten. No matter when my insects eventually chew through a hole in the suit, they'll probably just beat the crap out of me. Or shoot me.
So, while simultaneously managing the ants in the golden mine, stimulating reproduction and egg laying, choosing the most venomous and resilient among the just hatched and putting lasagna in the oven - where did these thoughts come from? Am I really going to fight with the local capes? Why? I have money... there will be money. I can buy myself an apiary and supply such honey to the market that I'll earn billions in a few years. Why should I deal with capes? All I need I will have - money, a quiet life, I have everything, I'll even retire my dad, buy him a golf course, or whatever he likes? Baseball? I'll buy him his own team.
"No," a voice is echoing in my head, "it won't work. Can't you see what's happening in this country? That's exactly why thieves in capes or the Slaughterhouse Nine come to such billionaires. If you want to simply survive, let alone succeed, you need to become strong. Isn't that why you breed super-ants? And you directed two nests of wasps towards an accelerated evolution in the direction of neurotoxins too?"
Self-defense, I am shrugging, indeed I need all the strength to protect myself and those close to me... even though I have few of them now. And for that, I need super-ants with neurotoxin and killer wasps.
The insects on the street warned me that someone had arrived at our house. The smell of oil, the vibrations of the engine... it's Dad. I glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes and the lasagna will be ready. Just enough time to wash his hands and for sitting down at the table.
I dried my hands with a towel and turned to the door. Taylor's father is not my own - a strange person who has taken the place of his daughter. And Taylor herself treated him... coldly. Somewhere, she even blamed him for what happened – from her mother's death to the bullying at school. Subconsciously, but she blamed him. She considered him to be an adult, responsible for everything that happened – that's what she believed. But these were more unconscious feelings, reproaches that lay deep inside her. Such emotions needed to be experienced and let go, otherwise they could devour her personality. He, in turn, made every effort to distance himself from his daughter. He practically stopped talking to her, as if his soul froze with the death of his wife. The incident with the locker only exacerbated things; it was hard for him to acknowledge his own helplessness, and as a result, he felt ashamed to look her in the eye. But I am, in turn, making efforts to turn this family into a normal one, not a visual guide of how not to conduct family life.
"Welcome home, Dad!" I said as soon as Danny stepped over the threshold. He is looking tired; his face has became thin and darkened. He nodded silently and even made a brave attempt to smile, but his eyes gave him away.
"Dinner will be ready soon!" I informed him. "You can change and wash up while the lasagna finishes cooking."
"You didn't have to go through all this trouble, Owl," he is shaking his head. "You'd better focus on your studies. I have bought pizza from the market on the way."
"That pizza is just a piece of cardboard," I said, putting my hands on my hips. "There're hardly any nutrients in it. And besides – I tried my best, made lasagna. Can't let it go to waste, can I?"
"No, of course not," he is smiling, this time successfully. "I'll gladly try your cooking. You just didn't have to strain yourself. How are things at school, Owl?"
"Well, as usual. I sincerely believe it's a waste of my precious time," I replied. "And I'm planning to ditch it altogether. You know, at my age, I could already get a job as a waitress. There are cafes that could hire me. An extra dollar in the house wouldn't hurt."
"We've already talked about this, Taylor!" he shook his head. "As long as I'm able to earn money, you will study. Because..."
"It's useful for your career, yes," I sighed, knowing that I won't be able to persuade him otherwise. "I get it. I'll have to stick around in that school."
"But overall, how's... is anyone bothering you anymore?" he is looking away. Yes, traumatic memories for each of us in our family.
"No, in that sense, everything's fine," I replied, remembering Sofia Hess's distorted face. Perhaps I should be more careful; this psychopath could arrange a St. Bartholomew's Night or a Morning of the Archer's Execution for me. And... that's precisely what I'm going to do tonight – mete out justice and do good all over. As Jules Winnfield once said, 'And I will strike down upon them with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Master when I lay my vengeance upon thee.'
"Are you sure everything's okay?" Danny pressed a bit with his tone, and perhaps old Taylor would flare up with irritation at this moment, like saying, "Now, suddenly, there's a caring daddy; where have you been all these years?"
"Everything's fine," I reassured him. Being an adult is hard work, especially when you have a teenage daughter, and things turned out like this with your wife – and even more so. Danny is barely hanging on himself; for him, every new day is a trial, so it's not for me to judge him. Moreover, the lasagna is ready. And downstairs, in the warm chambers of my ant nest's birthing area, Catherine de' Medici, the mother of the fifth generation of aggressive and venomous creatures, which are hard to even call ants, has just hatched. Formicidae Taylor Poisonous – that's what I'll call them. Well, or more modestly, for example, God's Plague. Or there... how was locust called in the Bible? The Eighth Plague: Locusts? Hmm, not bad either; I have to admit the guys create fancy names. Here! If I become a hero or a supervillain, I'll wear tights and a cape with a half-mask – I'll take the name Eighth! Let them wonder what it means, as now half of the capes' names hint at their abilities, why's that? If you're Brutus, choose the name Spell Fairy, and then bam, a boot in the face! Still unexpected. Or if you're a flying creature like Purity – take the name Jawbreaker, so everyone thinks you're a close combat fighter. Although... it'll work only once, and then they'll laugh. But still fun.
"Lasagna's ready!" I announced, pulling on oven mitts to retrieve the hot tray. "Wash your hands and sit at the table, dad!"
"I'm coming!" Danny responded, humorously tiptoeing to the bathroom. I am dishing out the lasagna, simultaneously noting in my mind that the fifth generation of venomous queens has emerged somewhat sparse; half of them perished due to their own toxins. Well, I'll have to breed a specimen with immunity... for now, let's continue reproduction; the third generation should be better. It must be.
Tomorrow, I'll skip school; I'll go to the pawnshop instead, check the quality of the gold sand. I'm sure it's gold, but how many impurities are there? Well, I'll find out the price too, make some connections. Money won't hurt; I need a laptop, a cellphone, decent clothes, and... a lot of things. My ants eat like there's no tomorrow; I'll buy them a sack of sugar. Evolution sure is voracious. And I experiment with riders too; the idea seems quite interesting to me – laying eggs in humans. If done discreetly enough, while the larva is under the skin – the person can bathe in dichlorvos, but I'll know where they are. Moreover, it's not just a beacon larva or an indicator larva in the plan, but a larva that can start reproducing inside the human at the right moment, penetrating the organs and devouring them. Of course, it would be nice to create something like cordyceps for humans, to control them through nerve impulses and... wait! Where are these thoughts coming from? Why do I even want to control humans? A beacon larva will be enough... well, maybe with neurotoxin in a special organ, so if needed – just poison, not devour internal organs, starting to control consciousness... it's some kind of horror. If I do it once, the local Order on assassinations will immediately put out a hit on me... no, no, no.
Of course, I can start an experimental line of rider evolution in that direction... but I won't use it! Never! Why would I launch evolution towards a larva that, like the Alien, would devour humans from within, if I don't intend to use it? What about scientific interest? Is it even possible in principle? Here.
I am slicing the lasagna and kickstarting the evolution of the riders harbored by my anthill. Hmm. I need a human for experiments. Okay, stop. Again, where are these thoughts coming from?! No experiments on live humans! Hm... so does that mean it's okay on the dead ones? What is all this, where is it coming from? Okay, I clearly have a psychosis; thoughts are going somewhere dark and scary... or maybe devil may care?
"Dad!" I shouted. "The lasagna's getting cold! Do you want to drink tea with it?" It's a trick question because Danny doesn't usually drink tea in the evening. However, he doesn't have a choice now.
"With lemon and sugar, like in Doctor Zhivago!" he responded from the bathroom, and I smiled.
Chapter 4
There's a job out there – causing people pain. It's usually done by tough guys with busted ears and bull necks, thugs, muscle-heads. Typically, these guys are seen as dumb and strong slabs of meat. You know, like gorillas in suits. But in reality, you don't last long being dumb in this line of work. Sure, they can play dumb, but the streets of any city, especially where crime reigns, aren't a place for fools. These guys measure out violence very precisely in their work – sometimes they break a couple of fingers, other times - snap a neck, and sometimes just a simple threat will do. Too much violence attracts unwanted attention, and these guys still need to live and breathe around here. Besides, most of their job isn't about breaking fingers and crushing jaws. To break fingers, the first need to find their owner, and that's where the investigative work comes in.
How to find someone in a huge city? How can you be sure that they haven't slipped out the back of the bar while you're at the front? How do you track them on the street without being seen? Typically, for such tasks, you need a whole team, what's called external surveillance and escorting. There's the girl jogging, the old man reading a newspaper on the bench around the corner, then a couple in a parked car... but there's a better way. Bugs. And that's exactly the method I use. Before parting ways with the trio, I tagged Madison and Sophie with bugs, fruit flies, and instructed them to go into anabiosis and spread pheromones. In my experience, insects that are out of my attention range return to their usual activities unless I command them to sleep. Entering anabiosis is a common thing for any type of insect, so the insects obediently fall asleep, and when I return, it wake up. Otherwise, I wouldn't bother breeding poisonous ants in the basement of my own home. And now I was walking through the night city in search of my marks. Sophie must live not too far away; her area isn't the safest, but Madison Clements could well be hanging out in Arcadia. What the hell does she do in Winslow?
Why do I need to know where Sophie and Madison live? Because I already know where Emma lives; after all, we're "best friends." I know her dad and her mom, and I've visited her place several times. But I don't know the addresses of the other two trio members. Why do I need these addresses? Advantage. If I still go to school, I need to eliminate the threat from the trio and get some unclouded joy from delivering justice to the masses – that wouldn't hurt either. Taylor's body is filled with cortisol and adrenaline up to her ears because of these three, so I think it's time to close the circle. However, it needs to be done in a way that doesn't point to me, Taylor Hebert. And especially not to my abilities. No biting by super-poisonous spiders or wasps; if the cape ability to control insects ever comes to light later on, no one should link it to the accidents in Winslow. Because if they do, the name Taylor Hebert will be among the prime suspects in the case.
So, my plan is as simple as a sledgehammer blow. Shadow each of them on the street when they return from school and remind them firmly that "Kneecaps Are a Privilege," as people seem to have forgotten that lately. Why break a leg? Well, with a broken arm, you can still go to school. But with two, or even three, months of peaceful studying, I'll have time to spare. In Sofia Hess's case, it might be even longer; she's an athlete, after all. By the way, if she's really the Shadow Stalker, it might be tough, but ultimately, I'm confident. Let's start with the fact that she once fell while running on the track. And nothing, she didn't use her power, although she got a scrape. That means she's used to not reacting and will only activate her power consciously in extreme cases. Well, I won't give her that chance. If I will stand around the corner, and the fruit fly on her knee will a clear marker of when to strike – she won't stand a chance. And with a broken knee, she can slip into an altered state for as long as she wants. By the way, it's interesting; she takes her clothes with her, too, but what about the insects that might be in her clothes? It would be a pity if it fell off and messed up the tracking.
But Sofia Hess is Sofia Hess, and here I'll have to focus and be attentive, most likely – to run headlong right after the strike. With the other members of the trio, I don't foresee any problems; maybe I'll have to break some ankles or foot bones to avoid having too identical a calling card, but that's it. Or maybe deliberately break everyone's knees so they catch on. Spread the rumor that I have an ex-Marine uncle, a fierce thug... they won't find anyone, but they'll be scared. Any suspicions will remain suspicions, and no one will link these schoolyard scuffles to the new cape. No, I'm not going to fight with other capes and jump around the city in tight leggings, but still... I need to be more careful.
Interesting, but how exactly do I want to be careful when I'm currently staggering through not the safest city with just a pepper spray can and a folding knife in my pocket – my rational part asked me, and I actually stopped. And indeed...
No, wait a minute, I think to myself, giving the trio a piece of the shit is what I need to do first and foremost, otherwise, they won't leave Taylor in peace. Besides, it's part of what I owed the original Taylor Hebert – to punish her tormentors even just a little bit. Walking on crutches, they'll understand that "Kneecaps Are a Privilege" and become a bit more modest. After all, I'm not out to kill them... although it would be even easier and would solve the problem permanently, once and for all. With fruit fly markers on the victim, tracking them in real-time, I won't even need poisonous insects; I can do it all with a pipe wrench to the head – as usual in this city... and that's exactly what's happening right now.
The insects caught the scent of blood and urine... yes, someone is beating someone else up a couple of blocks away. I stopped. I have no reason to intervene, and I've assessed my own strengths quite soberly. Especially since it was completely unclear who was beating up whom. Maybe it's none of my business? Maybe it's what they deserve? Not my business, I won't interfere. Except out of curiosity... no, not even out of curiosity, but out of scientific interest – I'll hang up fruit flies and mosquitoes, they buzz less loudly than flies and won't attract attention. Just in case – I am releasing two hundred wasps here, they're noisy, but I'll keep them higher up. Just to have it on hand. And... I'll wake up, perhaps, my venomous queen ants of the seventh generation, the ones I called "Caterina de Medici Double Two," it's a good thing I haven't strayed far from home. The flight time is ten minutes, they're quite fast. As for me... I'll probably hide in the shadows and pull the hood over my head; although I'm far from the scene, still...
As soon as I've positioned enough of my insects around – I have seen a somewhat blurry but 3D picture – a group of armed people, one of them beaten up. In the center is standing a half-masked man naked to the waist. Something clicked in my memory. This is Lung, a Chinese cape of terrifying power. Or more accurately, a cape of Chinese origin? In any case, his name indicates just that. Lung is famous for once fighting Leviathan on equal terms in Japan, so maybe he's Chinese? It makes no difference to us, but it's significant for them. It's unlikely a Chinese person would fight to the death for the islands of Japan; they have such animosity that they can't even eat together.
"...just shoot the kids. Whoever the target is, just shoot them. You see someone already lying on the ground? Shoot the bastard a couple more times, just to be sure. We don't leave them any chances of luck, we don't allow them to show any cunning, understand?" Lung said. Interesting, so the beaten person – is a member of their own gang, the ABB, Asian Bad Boys. Beat your own so others are afraid? Well, it's clear here, serious guys have taken the field, it's better for someone like me to lay low and go home; next time, I'll find Sofia and Madison's home, tonight the city will be hot. That's it, I'm going home.
I am thinking. Children? No, nonsense, he wouldn't kill children. But teenagers? The ones who crossed boundaries and stepped on his toes? He's certainly capable of that. Where is the line drawn? Well, there isn't one; he's practically invulnerable, can do whatever he wants, and neither the PRT nor the Triumvirate can oppose him, except maybe if the Triumvirate will to fly in. Speaking of which, an interesting thought: it takes the Triumvirate two hours and five minutes to deal with Lung, including one hour to fly here and another hour to return. So why don't they do anything? Can't they spare two hours in their busy schedule? Well, no need to guess – they can't, so where do I go in? Although... interestingly, he hasn't grown up yet – he's just a human. How would his body react to, say, a paralytic neurotoxin – would he lose consciousness or perceive it as an attack and start growing? Hmm. The most important thing is – even if I were to launch an attack – he wouldn't know who exactly is attacking him and from where, right?
I am shaking my head desperately. Wrong! What are you getting yourself into?! Why? Children – that's understandable, it's sad for the children, of course, whoever they may be, but this Taylor herself is still a child! Isn't she pitiable? I mean, me? No, somehow I don't pity myself. Although that's understandable, when it's scary, then I'll pity myself, but for now, there's a strong desire coming from somewhere to confront Lung head-on. Especially now that even my venomous queen ants, my dear "Medici Double Two," have arrived and settled conveniently on the rooftops.
I am biting my lips. Why should I get involved in cape disputes? I have nearly three hundred grams of gold at home in a test tube, and even if it's of the crappiest quality, it's still worth no less than fifty thousand dollars. Tomorrow, I'll take it to the pawnshop, sell it all, buy myself a mobile phone and a laptop, maybe even a motorcycle or scooter, the kind that doesn't require a license. Go all to hell...
Thinking like this, I removed the venomous queen ants from the roofs, moved it closer, so that from the moment the command is given to the strike – only a few seconds remain; these venomous insects can be very fast. I also brought the wasps closer, all the ones I could find nearby. Of course, as always, in Brockton Bay, there are plenty of flies, cockroaches, crickets, earwigs, centipedes, and spiders. There are even a few praying mantises. It will all be needed during the attack – to distract attention, crawl into ears, nostrils, and mouths, block airways, interfere with orientation, inflict pain. Just one cockroach in the ear will disable even the most formidable thug, and I have hundreds of thousands of them here.
Stop, what am I doing? Why am I quarrelling with Lung? No, wait, said the sensible voice in my head, you're not quarrelling with him. He won't know anything about you. You will just deliver a blow, and if nothing comes of it – you'll calmly go home. And... who said nothing would come of it? At the very least, Lung is counting on his people to deal with the "kids," and I'll certainly disable his people. Hmm.
A car pulled up, and three more guys got out, dressed in gang colors, and joined the group. After a while, the group of about twenty to twenty-five people headed north.
I sighed. Oh, to hell with it, indeed, I can always leave; after all, I'm not showing myself to him. Attack!
It was already so dark that insects were not visible; I could only sense the swarm through my power. This meant that I wouldn't be able to understand what was happening if I didn't feel everything through the swarm. My brain received enormous amounts of information as I felt every bite, every stinger. I could feel thousands of insects surrounding the gang, both on the ground and in the air. I could almost see the figures of people, simply sensing the shape of the surface over which the insects crawled. I focused on controlling the swarm, ensuring that each of the thugs received a venomous sting from the medichi wasps.
At that moment, I felt heat! Fire! The observer insects, which remained hovering in the air, transmitted an image of Lung raising his hands and flames spreading in all directions and upwards!
Damn, I thought, the first attack on Lung failed; two medichi wasps weren't enough for him. Well... as soon as his flames subsided, I attacked him with all the remaining wasps and wasps, aiming for particularly vulnerable areas, such as the eyes, ears, groin, and armpits, where the skin is thinner and where there is an exit to the mucous membrane. I could feel the wasps injecting its venom and dying from his blows, as he screamed, spinning in place and breathing fire, while the medichi wasps stung him, orchestrating a carousel, trying not to get hit by blows or fire.
And then Lung exploded in flames all around! All the insects nearby died instantly. Even some of the insect observers, which were hanging too low above the battlefield, were blinded or lost coordination from the explosion of flames.
Damn it. Well, I thought, getting up and stepping out from behind the corner, I did what I could; all the ABB thugs were out of action for a long time, and Lung wasn't in the mood for hunting "kids" now. It's time for me to go home. And in general, this whole story only speaks to the fact that I've gone too far; all my fighting power was destroyed by Lung in a fraction of a second. That's it – time to go home, Taylor, hold my beer.
I scanned the surroundings once again with the observers and frowned. I hid behind a garbage container. Someone was approaching, and it was capes. Simply because they were seated on some huge living creatures, which only capes could do. There's unlikely to be mounted police in Brockton Bay, and these creatures don't look like horses, even though I perceive them through the insect sense.
I'll hide behind the containers and wait until they pass. Insects can be very useful as scouts. They don't even suspect that I'm sitting here, behind the metallic, foul-smelling walls of the container, while I'm able to track their every movement and every word.
- Are you sure we're going here? - I heard a voice, partly perceived through the swarm, and partly through my own ears.
- Sure. Into this alley, exactly here - a female voice responded. It sounded much closer now. Through the swarm, I saw several people entering the alley. Leading the way is a girl, followed by two guys, one bigger and more muscular, the other slender. Another girl is standing behind, and behind her are three huge creatures, unlike anything at all. What are those? And who are they?
- There's no one here, - the voice is speaking lazily, drawing out the words: - what are we doing here? Lung is looking for us, let's go home already.
- Lung is not looking for us anymore. He's not interested in us, - said the girl leading the way: - nor in any of his lackeys. And the reason for that is sitting behind that trash container, listening carefully to our conversation. Hey, hey, calm down! - she immediately raised her hands as soon as wasps, hornets, and regular flies started buzzing in the air, everything I found nearby.
Calm down. You can call off your legions, Ladybug. I'm not threatening you and I'm not going to interfere with your affairs. I know you can easily handle all of us if you want to... I just want to talk. Express gratitude. Well, and... girls sometimes need to chat, don't they?