Tun

Maybe. But at the end of the day, I was a greedy sonuvabitch, and the Catalog had been more than happy to oblige. When someone offers you wealth, power, and the multiverse, most consider it a poor choice to decline. That didn't mean I wouldn't miss my family and the scant friends I'd left behind in my old life, but…

Well, I'm unsure if any of them would have been able to refuse the offer I'd gotten when I'd gotten it. It was just that good.

Being in Muzan's body made me wonder why I could have ever been satisfied with my old one. The difference could not considered night and day because it implied they were still on the same planet regarding a frame of reference.

Demons were to big cats as humans were to domestic felines.

Seven hearts beat as one and five brains worked in concert as I breathed in the cool night air of Brockton Bay. My superhuman olfactory receptors picked up the smell of the sea, of urban decay, and the ever-persistent scent of humanity. Every movement was punctuated by a grace that no ordinary human could have dreamed of, and the blazing aura of countless humans around me lit up the foreign sense of ESP imbued in me.

The original owner of this body despised the concept of change. He preferred that things stay static and permanent, never changing from their original basis or form. It wasn't an opinion I much shared with him because, frankly, I loved the changes that my body had undergone. If anything, I was excited and interested in the changes it would undergo as I assimilated new traits, poisons, and structures to my new physique.

Such plans would have to wait for the future, though. As I walked through the doors of Palanquin and into the club itself, I had considerably more pressing matters here and now.

People with a more heroic bent would have had more significant priorities for their initial destinations, but I was thinking for the long game. I wanted to save the world, but I didn't come here to be much of a saint. Outright evil, no, but I was likely going to break a great many eggs, becoming the biggest crime boss on the face of the planet.

Defeating Scion was more of a footnote to my story.

That said, I still had a few things to put away before reaching the height of my foreseen power. Chief among them was making allies and getting the money I'd need to fund my future endeavors.

Palanquin was a nice nightclub, with flashing lights and the steady thump of music beats filling the air. In many ways, Earth Bet hadn't escaped the 00s yet when it came to design sensibilities, let alone musical tastes. It didn't stop me from feeling a crushing wave of nostalgia when I heard Party Rock Anthem blaring on the speakers.

On its own, I don't think it would have stood out from any other club in the city. However, it had one thing going for it, and that was the connection to Fauntline's Crew, no matter how rare it might have been to see the parahumans walking around. Heroes or Villains was a divide that didn't matter to your average person, because power was inherently intoxicating and exotic. Let alone the tangible power your average parahuman could throw around.

The fact that several of their members were so-called 'Monster Capes' did little to diminish that appeal. I'd argue that it might have even added to it. Initially, I worried that I might have faced a little bit of trouble getting into the club in the first place, but letting stupidly handsome men into your nightclub tended to be a no-brainer for most bouncers.

Mingling with the masses held an appeal, sure. The thing was, I didn't have the time. From checking my phone on the walk here, I was keenly aware of how many days away I was from things going irrevocably cattywampus. It didn't mean I would bend backward to let the queen of escalation run wild over my timeline, though. It just meant I had to be aware of myself to know when to take advantage of certain events.

Weaving my way through the crowds to the bar, I lazily drummed my long nails against the glass countertop, trying to get the bartender's attention. "Excuse me, sir," I spoke, reveling in the way my voice felt—layered with smooth, dulcet tones and the faintest Japanese accent. "Would you happen to be able to answer a few questions?"

The bartender, some bearded man in his late twenties, looked my way as he worked to polish off a glass, nodding along. "Sure, man. What do you need?"

"I was hoping you could put me into contact with Fautline's operation here." Shooting him a grin, I let flash one of my fangs and transformed my pupils into slits for a brief moment. "I'm not looking to cause any trouble, mind you, but I am looking to get into contact with them."

As expected, the man damn near dropped his glass, eyes widening as he saw my patently inhuman features. Glancing around briefly, he swallowed and gave me a shaky nod. "Y-Yes, sir! Are you good to wait here, or…?"

"I'm patient," I promised. "Just send someone to grab me when they're ready to meet."

"Right," he agreed readily, moving to whisper something to another bartender before running off. He was likely to communicate with Faultline or whoever was the go-between for her and the club's management. I knew her crew actually lived above the club, yet entering the private residences of Capes was bad form.

Better to start this business relationship with a silken glove. That made it easier to hide the mailed fist underneath.

My wait lasted for around fifteen minutes, during which I was given a complimentary drink. I took a glass of sake, feeling the part of me that was Muzan reverberate somewhat. It was in the middle of me sipping that drink when the original bartender came back.

"Fautline's ready to see you in the third VIP room."

"Thanks," I nodded, downing the rest of the drink in one go, and setting the glass back down. "I'll head right there."

It was a short walk to the back rooms of the club, where the more private VIP sections were held. I imagined that they were mostly used for their intended purpose, where clubbers could go for privacy away from the din. Other occasions, like now, I'm sure Faultine's Crew was thankful to have somewhere secluded to host their meetings.

Walking into the room, I wasn't that surprised to see nearly the entire operation present.

Fautline sat in a chair facing the door, clad in full regalia. It was a costume that blended riot cop sensibilities with martial arts gear, dark and giving her a distinctly militant look. If I had to guess, it was more out of practicality than anything else.

In my haste to reach the club on my first night in Brockton, I forgot that Spitfire was even a thing. Not that she didn't have a particularly good power, merely that she wasn't a tremendously notable character from my recollection of the story. Dressed in a red and black suit, it was finished off via her head covered in a modified gas mask, with some sort of nozzle configuration at the end.

That was where more sensible human appearances ended, though, and the more freakish began. Ironic, coming from someone like me.

Gregor and Newter had the advantage of being relatively humanoid in shape compared to most Case 53s. From a distance, you could probably even mistake them for being relatively normal. Up close and personal, though, it was a much different story, and I had to rely on Muzan's self-control to keep from flinching at their appearances.

Newter was easier on the eyes, even with his distinctly inhuman features. Orange skin and eyes with blue irises took up the entire space, showing no sclera. He even had rectangular, horizontal pupils. I had to fight down my curiosity and urge to assimilate a little bit of his genetics on the spot, since it had to be so distinctly alien from anything I'd ever seen before.

Trailing behind him was a long, curling tail with blue hair that wasn't natural. I could pick out the blonde roots if I focused my vision on the teen long enough. He wasn't standing on his two feet either, but rather crouched down on all fours, likely due to some interference from his tail.

All in all, he was distinctly warped by his power like so many of the Case 53s. In comparison to Gregor? I think he got off light since, at the very least, there'd be some woman out there who'd be into his looks.

Shamrock must have a heart of gold, because the big guy was pretty squarely in the unfuckable category in my head, and I was straight as an arrow.

Five feet, ten inches of morbidly obese bulk, and skin so pale to the point of translucence. Where I could see Newter's blonde roots, the 'shadows' of Gregor's organs were all the more defined to my senses. Hairless, top to bottom, like one of those sphinx cats, and there were these…nodules…covering his body. Hard, like keratin, or a really bad case of adult acne blown up to outrageous proportions.

His friend may have been a curiosity, but it was Gregor who exemplified the reason why people called Case 53's' Monster Capes.' If I weren't wearing the skin of a man by all means, one of the greatest monsters of his age, who'd experimented and committed atrocities by the dozen, my glance would have instead been a horrified stare.

"Faultline," I greeted as I stepped inside, helping myself to the chair across from her. There was a table between us, a mere buffer, yet I was under no presumptions of safety here. I was outnumbered and theoretically outgunned.

It shouldn't have been so easy to wear an easy, confident smile as I took off my hat, and rested it in my lap. "I'm happy that you accepted my offer. Apologies for the short notice on this meeting."

"It's no bother," she responded, voice slightly muffled from behind her mask. "I'm afraid you have me at something of a disadvantage, though."

"My name is Muzan Kibutsuji," crossing my legs lazily. "New to the area."

"And maskless."

"I've got a Changer rating that allows me to shapeshift," I explain. "This isn't my real face."

"Noted. So, do you have a proposition for us? I imagine that's the reason you chose such a…blunt way, to get my attention."

"Something like that…" Hmm. How to bring up this subject with tact…? "In addition to my Changer abilities, I was provided with a level of biokinesis on other living things, and scientific knowledge. Over the years, I've been experimenting, and keeping a rather low profile."

"...You're a wet-tinker?" There was something in her voice, caution, and a tenseness in her build that the rest of her crew subconsciously mirrored. I didn't think they even realized they were doing it.

Raising my hand and tilting it from side to side, I shook my head slowly. "Yes, and no. The brunt of my knowledge comes in the fields of biology and genetics, but it's predicated on me using my own cells as the basis for my workings. That's my limitation, and if I'm being honest, I have little interest in exceeding those limitations. Biotinkers are rarely looked upon kindly by the wider populace."

It is true that there might be a few who could maintain a decent reputation. But when your most well-known contemporaries are Blasto, Bonesaw, and Nilbog, it tends to cast aspersions on the bunch. All in all, the delineation was thoroughly useless, though. As Armsmaster proved with his cybernetics, most Tinkers with relevant specialties could dip into the biological if they did the research beforehand.

"I'm still not entirely seeing what your interest is in our little operation…?"

Clicking my tongue, I looked at Fautline with half-lidded eyes. "It's rather simple. Throughout my research, I've discovered a way to reverse the appearance of Case 53's and restore their memories."

I couldn't see Fautline or Spitfire's faces. That was fine because Gregor and Newter's knee-jerk reactions were all the more obvious.

"What?" Newter blurted out, blinking rapidly.

"You've managed to cure our conditions?" Gregor added, doubt in his voice, though I couldn't help but notice the tinge of hope. "Have you done it before?"

"I have tested this, yes, but not with any Case 53s that you'd know." I lied, like a liar. "To alleviate any fears you may have, allow me to explain the scientific methodology behind my workings.

"Tinker talk is rarely understandable to normal people, Muzan."

"That's why I'll endeavor to dumb it down as simple as possible." I'll also throw enough pseudoscience at you while lying and relying on centuries of built-in charisma.

Taking a breath, I closed my eyes, and began to speak. "People must understand that parahuman powers are not always perfectly suited to their wielders. In more situations than not, they make small modifications to their physiologies to begin with. Any sort of biological-based Brute, for example, has a great deal of changes under the hood to allow for their abilities to function in the first place."

"Aegis, Lung, and Alabaster come to mind. Alabaster, in particular, is an example from this city alone. For more neurological alterations, I can tell you that Hellhound of the Undersiders is functionally incapable of understanding human behavior. Her trigger event rewrote her brain exclusively for canine mannerisms."

Under her breath, I heard Spitfire mutter. "I'll say…"

"What my treatment does is redirect these changes and put them underneath your conscious control rather than being an automatically expressed outcome."

Faultline had a very good handle of her emotions and body language for a completely average human. Even still, the little tensing of her body language gave her away in ways she couldn't dream of. Likely she was choosing her next words carefully.

"What proof do we have that you're not selling snake oil?" She asked, tilting her head slightly to the side. "Coming in, promising the world to people you know want to take your cure?"

"Because, in the end, I'm also coming to you for your connections. This isn't a selfless act," I assured her, because altruism like that would be suspect at best in Earth Bet. "Ideally, you'll assist me in gathering a fake identity that can hold up to scrutiny and put me into contact with the Elite."

I paused, trying to think of anything else I might need in the short term. "...Throw in ten thousand dollars per cure, and we'll be set."

She nodded. If anything, I think she was put at ease by the knowledge that this wasn't a free lunch. "The first and the third are easy. I'll have to call in some favors for the second, though successful payment on all three requests is contingent on your treatment working."

"Wouldn't expect anything less."

"Did you bring your tools or your medical equipment for this…?" Faultline trailed off, glancing over my person briefly. Given that I didn't own a single thing in this world besides my suit, it was a fair question.

Reaching into my suit jacket, I 'pulled out' my stamp—my beautiful, delightful tool for world domination. "I'm imagining that we'll test out one usage tonight and the next upon the successful application of the treatment."

"That's it?" Newter asked, dubiously eyeing up the stamp. "It's a bit small, ain't it?"

I shrugged. "Big things come in small packages. Nanotechnology tends to be very, very understated as a rule."

If it was happening on a scale that someone could see, then that could be worrisome. Thankfully, the only threat of that magnitude on the planet was the Machine Army. Ellisburg, if you counted the risk of biological contagions on the same scale.

"All I have to do is press this to your skin, and the 72-hour process will kick off. It's not very interesting, either," I explained. "Until the end of the process, it won't appear as if much is happening. Then…you'll notice the difference, drastically so."

Gregor eyed it cautiously as if the little item was some kind of weapon. He wasn't chomping at the bit to get cured, which was a shame. I'd argue he needed it way more than Newter did.

On the flip side, the teen was nearly vibrating with anticipation. He glanced over at Faultline, his unspoken question clear as day. Missing it would have been impossible, given the sheer longing in his gaze as he looked at the stamp in my hands.

The leader of the crew looked back at me, giving me a long stare, before slowly nodding. "Newter's up first. But if this is some kind of trick, I promise that there'll be consequences for double-crossing us."

"Given what I need from you, it'd be ill-considered to do so." Newter was already approaching me as I raised the stamp, arm outstretched and eyes wide. "Stay still if you would. My biology is potent enough where I should resist your hallucinogenic body fluids, but I'd rather not test it."

Not yet, anyway. Once I got Body Defense, I was going to ask for a proper sample of his hallucinogenic compounds. I could generate some pretty gnarly poisons on my own, but nothing that was thoroughly nonlethal as Newter's.

Carefully, I pressed the stamp against his wrist for a few seconds. And then I was pulling it back, simple, straightforward, and to the point.

"...That's it?"

"That's it," I nodded at the teen. "You may experience some discomfort at the return of your memories and original body at the culmination of the changes. What I will say is that you should be very, very careful about whom you divulge your secrets."

He was young but not stupid, giving me a wary nod. "Got it."

Standing up from my seated position, I scrutinized Case 53 briefly before looking back at Fautline. "Now, before I leave, I would ask for a small advance on the money owed—roughly five hundred dollars—so I can afford lodgings for the next few days."

Once I'd run through the possible captures in Palanquin, Pocket Apartment was on my list of things to get. I didn't think I could get Spitfire or Fautline within the near future since I doubted they had issues I could easily solve via a stamp. But Gregor and Labyrinth were very different stories.

I was subject to another one of those stares before Fautline reached into one of her many, many pockets and pulled out a fat stack of bills. Counting them off carefully, before offering them out. "Don't spend it all in one place."

"Ah, I'll be judicious and get somewhere cheap to stay." I didn't need to sleep, eat, or drink, but having somewhere to retreat and some money to spend was never a bad thing. "I'll return in three nights. Till then, stay safe."

I didn't have any other business to offer the crew as a whole, given that I hadn't earned that trust yet. Reputation was everything to Capes, and I had none to speak of at the moment. That'd change in time, but for now, I had to be patient.

Leaving the club, it wasn't hard to find a nice and secluded space to move. I blurred out of anyone's possible sight, luxuriating in using my full speed for the first time, blitzing across the rooftops of Brockton Bay, eyes looking out on a new, foreign skyline. It was new and dangerous, filled with horrors and monsters, unlike anything I'd ever had to contend with in my old life. I'd have to fight for every inch, every gain, but even with that knowledge…

I couldn't wait to claim it all.

Even with the looming deadline of canon hanging over my head, I wasn't in much of a rush. It meant that I could take my time and leisurely do my research, especially regarding the state of affairs on Earth Bet. Presuming that the knowledge from the web serial was ironclad was a great way to make a fool of myself.

One pleasant surprise I'd discovered, was that organized crime has never been more organized. Trawling the threads of P.H.O. at the local library, diving through wiki articles and web searches, began to paint a picture for me.

Imagine you're the head of an organized crime family, syndicate, or whatever. You're making money hand over fist from arms smuggling, human trafficking, drug dealing—it doesn't matter. What does matter is that a not insignificant portion of your earnings have to go toward the process of getting your cash laundered, cleaned, and finally filtered into your bank accounts.

Except one day, you didn't have that worry. In fact, out of the blue comes some super-Thinker wunderkind, who promises you that your money is going to be safe, and clean, and no governmental agency is going to kick down your door for tax evasion. It was a dream come true for many criminals, almost too good to be true in the first place.

The Number Man gave criminals peace of mind, security, and investment growth. For Villains, that was invaluable, and it changed the landscape of crime and, broadly speaking, economics as a whole.

Yes, people still robbed banks and armored cars. The days of them being easy, or sensible marks though, were long over. Armored cars with large amounts of money had heroic overwatch, something even commented on by Tattletale in the original story, and bank heists were only notable for their notoriety more than anything else.

That was fine. I didn't think they were the type of crimes I'd like my nascent, theoretical organization to specialize in. Instead, there were far more practical ways for me to gain money.

In the short term, making it so that my ability to cure Case 53s was known far and wide would help. Charging a hundred thousand dollars for the treatment would be a bargain in the eyes of the worst of them, net me a steady flow of points, and keep me in the money. Failing more conventional payments, I'd take money in terms of service as well.

Most didn't have the most useful powers, though there were some real standouts. Trainwreck was a Tinker, and was on my list of more direct recruits, once news of my ability to heal Case 53s came into play. Mantellum was, at the very least, morally dubious enough to enjoy being covered in blood, with a power that allowed him to block Contessa's precognition. There were some rare gems in the rough, waiting to be found.

Moving beyond that, I had to get a bit tricky when making money.

There were organizations within the Bay I could conquer and dismantle the portions I found disdainful. For example, I didn't care for drug dealing at all. Anyone in the Bay dealing them would be excised from whatever organization I ran with extreme prejudice.

Mush and Skimark would have to go, of course. I could see uses for Squealer, a path to her becoming a truly feared Tinker. The other two, though, were stains, having thoroughly wasted their powers to the point of offending my sensibilities and the original Muzan's. I wouldn't kill them; I would merely stamp them and sell them off when the time came.

The ABB was much simpler as a proposition. Lung operated off relatively understandable principles of strength. If I beat and stamped him, he could wrangle the rest of the organization into compliance. Oni Lee barely had a personality or set of opinions worth speaking of, and Bakuda…

Bakuda was a problem and a possibility, in equal measure.

I suspect the possibility of maintaining control over the Empire's remnants in the event of a hostile takeover is slim at best. Capturing and selling them was likely to be the fate of the bunch, with Rune gaining a slight reprieve for her age. Everyone else was bound to be fodder for my points, so I didn't take much interest in their business practices.

Coil represented a pretty sizable chunk of funds if he was defeated promptly, and if Lisa could be convinced to work with me. Honestly, the Undersiders didn't have much juice as a faction. The Travelers were a bigger threat, and Palanquin was far more professional with weaker power.

That was my basic rundown of options, and when it came down to it, the Merchants were my ideal way to kill time until Newter was cured, clearing up whatever 'territory' they held for my endeavors in the process.

Time to bully some drug addicts.

Whatever the mangaka of Demon Slayers said in her interviews was a crock of shit. Because Muzan Kibutsuji was a fucking psychic. I'm not talking just about that prototypical, shonen battle sense that was par for the course in the genre, though he did have that too. No, this bastard had outright ESP, when it came to sensing people.

Yes, my physical senses of touch, taste, smell, and hearing were broken. But at least they had an analog in my normal, mundane human body from before. Yet now I was running around, my mind wide open for a new extrasensory ability.

I could manifest a menacing aura so terrifying it physically cracked glass, speak into the minds of those who had my blood, and many other feats besides.

Most important to my hunt for Merchants, the scant few that there may be, was that it allowed me to sense human auras. In a big city like Brockton, that was a problem, though I knew I could narrow down my search by looking for specific locations. For example, I couldn't imagine someone like Squealer being far from her Tinkertech.

Not out of any genuine love for the game, mind you. Just because her creations had to have outsized requirements to function, with how Tinkertech naturally degraded, or did that degradation scale for her, given her specialty was large-scale vehicle operation…?

Food for thought.

Needless to say, I won't bore you with the nitty-gritty. When you don't need to sleep, your need to eat is minimal, and you have an inhuman ability to focus on a task, you focus on whatever it is. By my count, I was jumping around the dilapidated part of the city, running at blistering speeds, for approximately five hours. If anyone noticed my presence, I didn't stick around long enough for them to get my attention.

Two false alarms occurred when I discovered garages that theoretically could have been the ones I sought. Those didn't pan out, much to my chagrin, whether because they were too small or didn't house my given target.

The city was only so large, however. There were only so many places I could look, and I was beginning to recognize that parahumans had a sort of…texture…to their aura patterns. In a crowd, I wouldn't be able to pick them out, but going on a building-by-building basis was a different story.

I almost passed the building by, because it was more like a small warehouse than a proper residence or garage complex. Right up until I felt it, that odd, queer feeling of a mind attached to something so much greater than itself. Yeah, not in a particular rush to poke that intelligence or test what it was like to be one of the few actual psychics on this planet.

Useful for sniffing out parahumans, though.

Getting inside might as well have been child's play to me. In the dead of the night, whatever flimsy locks and latches were present didn't much matter when I could merely manipulate my flesh in the shape of keys, as I pressed my finger against the door.

Fundamentally, demons were predators, and I was no different, I was the template from which all others sprung, hungry, stealthy, and designed exclusively for the swift and efficient butchering of my fellow man. Those traits were turned toward my objective, as I slunk into the repurposed warehouse.

Once, it might have been orderly, but now, it was a wide, open space with concrete floors stained with grease and dirt. The lights were weak, the bulbs needed replacement, and the air had the thick, acrid smell of carbon. Metal, oil, and stranger chemicals threatened to sting my nostrils just by inhaling the fumes.

Tools lay strewn around in a disorganized mess of cabinets and tables that made me twitch at the sight of them. Socket wrenches, screwdrivers, a welding rig, and more sprawled across the space, which made sense given the disorderly state of the vehicle being worked on.

There was not a subtle thing about the monstrous vehicle before me. More akin to an APC than anything sensible, it was a kludged-together steel mess, likely running more on Tinkertech principles than actual science. With an oversized engine and heavy treads, it felt more like a vehicle designed for warzones than the streets of modern America.

Tinkers ran in some typical cycles. In the beginning, you were making your technology and relying on your specialty to force it to work. It was an unwieldy, ungainly sort of progression.

Then, most Tinkers began to make the tools, to make the tools, to make their creations. This was about the mid-stage of a Tinker's lifecycle, and the prelude to the last. At that point, your average Tinker would figure out that relying on bizarre superscience for everything was a silly thing to do, and instead, leaning on regular science to fill in the gaps would have far better results.

Squealer never got to stage three. I don't think she even reached the second stage, just taking a guess based on what I'd see. Whether it be from a lack of money, a lack of inclination, or just drugs removing whatever potential she had, I didn't know. What I did understand, was that it made me angry.

Seeing her in the flesh made me angrier.

See, I was a vain man before I became Muzan Kibutsuji, and becoming him didn't much help. So when I saw someone who, by all rights, should have been attractive or successful, squandering their potential, I got upset. It reminded me of home.

My family could have been more successful in my old life. We were, at best, lower middle class. What ground my gears about it, though, wasn't even a lack of opportunity or ability but a lack of drive. My brother, my mother, my father- all of them had traits that I wish I had, but none of them put me on the right path. They let their potential just pass them by, without even trying, or even worse, betting on the wrong horse that any competent gambler could have seen a mile away.

Physically, I think you could have called her buxom in terms of her build. She'd hit the lottery there, with the type of natural hourglass proportions that most women would have murdered for, if a little more top-heavy than not. Long, dirty blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, brown eyes, and full, pouty lips.

Genuinely, she could have been a real knockout if it wasn't for the years of substance abuse, bad hygiene, and generally trashy taste that marred her appearance. I'm not sure if my blood pressure could even go up anymore, but Squealer was doing a pretty good job at testing it.

For the record, I despised drugs. I didn't like things that lowered my inhibitions or put me in altered mental states because my self-control was one of the few good traits that I enjoyed about myself. Drinking recreationally was fine, but rarely to the point of actually being drunk.

Drug addicts needled that part of my brain, that 'What if', by showing me someone who'd lost their self-control. Drug addiction took a toll on people, mentally, physiologically, and socially, however you wanted to cut it. Sherrel was no different.

Pockmarks at a few choice points where she'd been shooting up a needle, a slightly underweight build, the innate and potent cellular decay that came from years of wanton degeneracy. Did this sound like a bit much?

Maybe. Then again, with ESP, a demon could discern a human by their blood type, genes, congenital diseases, and more. Logically, I knew that, but I hadn't focused on someone with something wrong with them before.

It disgusted me.

Many of my past relationships failed because I had expectations of my partners. I wanted them to rise to the occasion and improve like I did in the past. Much of the time, though, the rubber met the road, and I'd found that most people were unwilling to do anything more than provide the barest lip service to the notion of actually improving themselves.

Now, I could drag people, kicking and screaming, into becoming better versions of themselves, whether they liked it or not.

My malevolence flared as my aura rippled out from my body, rippling through the air and suffusing the space around us. If the way she whipped around to face me was any sign, that was enough for Squealer to realize I was there at that point.

The expression she wore was unfamiliar to me, but Muzan could recognize it easily enough from centuries of experience. She had a sort of primal, twitchy animal terror on her face, visible even through her gaudy, caked-on makeup.

"W-What the fuck?!" Her voice was high-pitched but not nearly as bad as I thought. "Who the hell are you-"

Still, she was much too loud for my liking, especially at the moment. There were people elsewhere in the building, and I wasn't entirely sure if they were parahumans or just average idiots. Better to quiet her down.

"Silence."

One word, with my will and aura put behind it, was enough to make her mouth click closed.

That, and me closing the distance between us in a blink, one of my hands clamping over her lips. She went stock still, save for the fervent pounding of her terrified heart. I liked to believe it was an autonomic response, that human instinct to spot the uncanny recognizing a predator wearing the skin of a human.

Or maybe she was just a straightforward coward. If so, that was merely another flaw to be corrected in due time.

"Once upon a time, you broke," I spoke, mostly to the air, to myself, and to my audience of one that was entirely helpless to stop my monologuing. Always wanted to monologue, y'know? "You broke, and put yourself back together, with a power that has so much potential."

There was malice on my tongue with that last word, and I felt the blonde shiver in my iron grasp, as her weak hands reached up and tried to wrench me off of her. It didn't work, mind you, but I gave her an A for effort.

My other hand manifested my stamp, slowly coming in to press against the spot above her cleavage, in the middle of her sternum. All the while, I spoke, slitted eyes boring into her dilated ones. She smelled like adrenaline, flushing her brain of whatever caustic poison had been there before, and replacing it with something more useful in that moment.

"Left to your own devices, you'd continue to squander that power right up until your ignominious death." Killed, along with the rest of the Merchants, by a band of murderous hobos. Honestly, it'd be a waste for a thing like that to happen.

Callous of me as it was to say it, I'd rather capture and sell the lot of them before I let those points pass me by.

I leaned in close, boring into her gaze, flexing my hand against her jaw, feeling her strain against my grasp. However, I was also learning a few things about myself.

Knowing that I could be a bit of an asshole was one thing, but who knew how much fun it could be to bully the weak? Granted, someone could argue I was doing it for a good cause. Left to her own devices, who knew what'd happen to Sherrel?

"Rejoice," I hissed lowly. Whatever crossed over my face, bared fangs, and curved lips might be called a smile—theoretically, if you squinted. "I've come to save you from yourself."

Pulling away the stamp from her body, I felt it in my bones that it'd made a connection, though not a completed one. It'd take three days for it to settle into her, and after that, Sherrel and I would be having a…conversation—about a great many things, really. For now, I didn't have much in the way of use for her, as she was now, nor did I want to spend any longer in this mangy garage.

So, I released her, the woman all but nearly crumpled to the ground as she took a shaky, hyperventilated breath. Those dilated pupils watched me as she trembled, while I watched fear and hot, splotchy anger war in her eyes. She wanted to swear, to throw something at me, to try and fight back, even while she instinctively knew that it was a fruitless endeavor.

Thankfully, it seemed that there was some fire inside her. Building it up from scratch would have been tedious.

"Be seeing you, Sherrel," I smirked, even as she opened her mouth, lips contorting into a swear. And then I was gone, moving at the stupid speeds that I was capable of.

It was a shame I only caught the tail end of her swearing spree, blitzing out of the building the way I came.

After my confrontation with Sherrel, admittedly, I didn't do all that much.

Oh, sure, I knew the identities of many of the parahumans in the city, but it didn't provide actionable intel. Searching relevant names online like Max Anders or James Fleischer might yield civilian or ordinary social media addresses, yes. However, my research didn't provide addresses for me to pivot to, just some contact information for those in relevant positions of power at Medhall.

I wasn't quite ready to go scorched Earth on the nazis in the city yet, anyway. There was confidence in my ability to handle most of their roster. Hookwolf provided a challenge that ensured I'd need to alpha-strike him before he could transform unless I overestimated his physical capabilities. Purity had Night and Fog with her and was a Blaster on par with Legend, who could potentially outmaneuver me through flight.

The question wasn't whether I'd survive those possible straight-on fights—that thought didn't even pass through my mind. No, my concern was winning and still maintaining a good, potentially undefeated reputation. Being known as a terrifying figure who never loses could win a Cape more fights without needing to throw a punch.

Take Taylor, for example. The legend of Skitter, pre, and post becoming a Warlord in the ruins of Brockton Bay, was not a small one. I'm willing to bet she solved most of her problems on her own without really trying. She was just that fucking scary to your average crook or parahuman who didn't have powers that invalidated her own. Just because she had a reputation that made everyone stop, and pause to question if they wanted to cross her.

Cape society was worse than high school when it came to your street cred.

I didn't return to Palanquin until I knew that the points from Newter's capture had come in. The six points I got from him weren't much, as I set him as a Familiar on my phone, but it was a start. Briefly, I thought of picking up some more defenses, but in the end, I figured Information Defense and Trace Defense would do for now.

Walking into the club an hour after the changes had gone through, I wasn't surprised that the mood seemed fairly festive. People were drinking happily, and the one possibly doing the most of it was a blue-haired, normal-looking teenager partying it up in the public VIP space. He, in particular, was drinking like it was the end of the world.

Whoever he might have been before, Body Tune-Up turned Newter into his best possible self. It was a restoration and subsequent upgrade to peak physical health and fitness. Whether he was drinking to forget again or drinking just to celebrate was up in the air.

That didn't make this any less of a good deed, the kind that gave me the warm and fuzzies. You couldn't put a price tag on the way his eyes lit up when I approached, Gregor nearby as well, the teen all but shooting up to his feet.

"Muzan!"

"Newter," I greeted. "You're looking…"

"Like a fuckin' stud!"

"I would have used more tactful language," Gregor graveled. "But yes, the change is…good. The moment he could, he was out here trying to get a drink."

The younger man scoffed, shooting Gregor a look. "Bro, I couldn't even walk an hour ago. Crawling through a crowd was fuckin' agony too, since I had to be sure I didn't accidentally drug anyone on the way. Now?"

He reached, poking me in the neck, while I raised an eyebrow at his antics. "I can touch Muzan, I can get laid without it being date rape, this shit is bonkers!"

"Additional benefits come in the form of a pretty broad spectrum immunity to all sorts of Thinker powers," I added, and both men looked at me incredulously.

"Fuck, real shit?" Newter grinned. "Gregor, come on, this is the real deal. You still gonna sit on the sidelines, or you gonna try to get in on this too?"

Even as inhuman as Gregor was, some things were universal. There is a fundamental need for human contact and acceptance, for example. Everyone wanted and craved them to some degree, myself included. Some Case 53s could make peace with what they were, and a very, very lucky few like Engel even possessed aesthetically pleasing appearances.

But the vast majority hated what they were, what they'd woken up to without any memories. Their bodies warped, with no frame of reference they could mentally recall but the bone-deep surety that something was wrong. It may have been manipulative, relying on those instincts, but it was for Gregor's good.

"The process is painless, and truthfully, you still retain your powers. Merely as a Changer form, right?" I asked, glancing over at Newter.

The teenage boy nodded, grinning wide. "I'm not going to flex it here; I just got a secret identity, but he's right."

"And your memories?"

That instantly brought a more sour expression to his face as he closed his mouth, eyes staring ahead. "They're…complicated. I told Faultline what I could remember if you're interested."

To which I shook my head. "No, I already have a fairly good idea of the origins of your condition, and I have no intention of getting on the cooking club's radar yet."

Cauldron didn't like blindspots for Contessa, which I was. Either I would submit myself to their will or be destroyed. Honestly, getting involved in the whole kerfluffle seemed like such a hassle and not worth the trouble it'd inevitably bring. It was better to stay beneath notice until I made too many waves to be ignorable.

Gregor watched our back-and-forth with what passed for a pinched look on his face before grunting softly. "Fine. It is a simple procedure, yes?" He offered out his hand, and I didn't waste a moment bringing out my stamp.

"That's right," I confirmed, pressing it against his wrist for a few seconds, then pulling it back. "Easy. We're done."

He rolled out with a low, somewhat rueful chuckle. "Easy for you, maybe. For me…the idea of getting my whole life back is akin to a dream."

He got a shrug from me for his trouble. "I had the power to help, and it was simple. So I helped." Enlightened self-interest for the win.

"Simple, you call it. Doing what no other Tinker or Doctor could dream of…"

"I'm pretty sure a corgi in a lab coat could have done better than whoever did this to you." As a scientist, a chemist, and a biologist, the complete and total lack of progress from Cauldron offended me on a deep level.

Doctor Mother was a fraud, and their whole organization was poorly managed. Why didn't they have more Thinkers working for them, with whatever restrictions they needed to make them feel better? Going through the Menegele-esque testing routine for Case 53s to refine the vial process was…ill-thought at the very best.

"Now," I continued, glancing between the two men, "Is Faultline around? I have more business I'd like to discuss with her."

"I can take you," the slug confirmed, lifting his prodigious bulk off the couch. "It is Newter's night to celebrate, and I would not have him disrupt it."

"I love you too, big guy," Newter responded, chuckling as he took a swig of his beer. Stay safe out there, Doc. And if you ever need anything…hit me up. That's the least I could do for the man who gave me my life back."

I was led back down to the same room where I'd met much of the crew before, though there was a new addition this time: Labyrinth.

Oh, how I so deeply wanted to stamp her. Her power was fine, but the juicy, sweet reward for a T7 capture was lingering in the back of my mind. You might as well have waved a bloody steak in front of a junkyard dog.

"Faultline," I greeted with a nod. "I imagine you're pleased with the results of my work."

"More than pleased," she sighed, voice tinged with relief. "I'd assumed perhaps a reduction in their features, but an outright cure is far in excess of what I was dreaming of. You can do the same with Gregor, I hope?"

"He's already treated. You must merely wait the three days, and then he'll be doing his best jig around the club, too."

"Good," she decisively stated, snapping her fingers. At the sound, Spitfire approached me, a duffel bag in her arms. That's your payment, with a five-thousand-dollar bonus."

"I thought we'd settled on ten?"

"Trust me, you've earned the bonus."

Well, I won't sit here and argue with a woman who offers to pay me more money. Taking the bag from Spitfire, I immediately stowed it away in my pocket, making it disappear instantly.

Three Capes in the room flinched at the display, while Labyrinth was…off in la la land. I'm not sure if she even noticed or if she could even emote all that well.

"With our prior business concluded, I feel like I should give you all a warning concerning the cures."

"Side effects?" Gregor asked, unsure and glancing down at the mark I'd placed.

"Not quite," I quickly reassured him. "So much as the broader consequences of what you'll now be privy to. I'm not sure if Gregor and Newter's soon-to-be immunity to precognitive Thinker abilities will be able to protect you, given the breadth of the conspiracy at play."

Contessa might not notice those two chucklefucks, but she'd notice all their unprotected friends. I didn't know how that was going to shake out.

"They're going to have Thinker immunity?" Faultline asked, and I almost felt her eyebrows raised behind her mask. "What was in that little stamp?"

"Nanomachines. Nanomachines, and Tinker bullshit." It was even true for a relative value of the word. "It's why I'd like to offer the same to you all. The upgrade even comes with a total physical overhaul, removing any possible congenital health conditions and pushing you up to peak physical condition?"

"That's…a lot. There's a catch, isn't there?"

"Not really. If you count me possessing your medical data as a 'catch', and the five thousand dollars I'll charge everyone else for the privilege," I explained. "It's nothing that Panacea couldn't do if she were willing to put her powers to work on Villains."

Which was right about when Spitfire interjected. She'd been quiet this entire conversation, possibly out of her depth, but Panacea was a near-household name in the city for her healing. I wasn't surprised she'd have an opinion on the woman.

"Isn't Panacea just a healer?"

"Actually, no," I gleefully reported, clapping my hands together. "In reality, Panacea is an unrestricted biokinetic, stronger than myself in some ways, weaker than others. Much of what I can do, she could do even better."

If she weren't restricting herself to only healing, I'd love to sit and talk shop with the girl. The original Muzan would have been practically slavering to get his hands on her since there was a fairly good chance she could outright solve the cannibalism problem I held.

"How do you know that?"

"Because there's no such thing as power without an offensive bent," Fautline added. "It makes sense, but outside of an Endbringer fight, it wasn't like I was expecting to run into Panacea much. The information doesn't change much."

She stayed away from the action, so that wasn't a bad presumption to hold. If things continued as they did in canon, though, Amy would be getting quite a bit more attention in the public eye.

"Huh," Spitfire hummed. "Guess you're right."

The boss of this little crew wasn't entirely without wits, though. "And you know this conspiracy behind the Case 53s is a Thinker?"

"She's the origin of the scary fedora lady urban legend," I explained. "I haven't met her personally, but I know from tertiary connections that she's real and daunting, with a high rating to have maintained secrecy on this organization for any length of time."

Thinkers were just like that sometimes. They were terrifying force multipliers in ways that regular mortals could only dream of, pulling knowledge out of the ether for their ends.

"Additionally, my upgrade can provide a sort of…buffer, for powers with degenerative mental effects and their wielders." Pointedly, I looked toward Labyrinth. "For those that might need such a thing."

I don't think the stamp would fix her issues, but it'd at least stop the Shard-driven portion of Elle's problems from getting any worse. Without a conflict drive in their lives or being pushed to use their powers, plenty of parahumans could be perfectly passive and useful members of society.

"Taking untested Tinkertech isn't my favorite choice," Faultine admitted with a sigh. But you've earned at least some trust fixing Newter—more than a little. I won't make that choice for anyone else, but I'll take the Thinker immunity if you offer it. Spitfire?"

The gas mask-wearing girl shrugged. "Uh, sure? It seems useful, and Newter seems fine."

Useful, she says. Completely invalidating one of the most pain in the ass powersets in the setting, and she calls it useful. I don't think either of them would have gone through with the idea if it wasn't for Muzan's near thousand-year stint of attempting to hide nefarious intentions behind a kindly mask.

By and large, I seemed like a harmless Tinker who pulled a miracle cure out of his ass. Not a plotting mastermind in the making.

"Excellent," I smiled, flashing friendly white teeth. "And you, Labyrinth?"

The girl looked up, finally being addressed, and took note of the situation at hand. I think she'd been paying attention to some degree, anyway, just not taking an active part in the conversation.

"Would it help with control over my powers…?"

"Well, it couldn't hurt. You've got Shaker abilities, which aren't much of my specialty. But it'd balance out your hormones and neurochemistry, so at the very least, it'd give you time before you got out of sorts again."

If I picked up some of the mental defenses, that'd likely help to some degree as well. Elle was different from Burnscar, whose powers actively fucked with her psychology. In contrast, Labyrinth actively had to disassociate to explore her worlds, to use them later on. Even then, I doubt it was an entirely consciously controlled process; otherwise, she wouldn't have ended up in the Asylum in the first place.

"Couldn't hurt, I suppose…"

Three hands were offered, and I stamped the wrists of each one, trying to restrain my elation. The credits would be rolling in, and Cauldron would have a gigantic pain in their ass over the coming months. What more could an out-of-context element ask for?

"We're all finished," I said, giving them welcoming, friendly smiles. "I'll be back in a few days to check if the treatment took, but feel free to check in with Newter."

"Don't be a stranger," Fautline reassured. "With what you've done for Newter and Gregor, you've got a friend in my crew."

"A kindness which I appreciate. For now, I fear I have to get going. There are some ongoing projects that require some personal attention," I lied, like a liar. "However, here's my number if any problems come up with the treatments…"

"I'll text you when I've got a line on an Elite connection," Faultline promised. "If you're willing to market some of your technology through them, they're a good fit. Uppercrust is about as good as they get."

We said our goodbyes, and I was off into the night, as my credits threatened to burn a hole in my pocket. Nothing really, compared to the hundred I could expect to have in a few days time.

By then…I could start to make some moves. But for now, I'd enjoy the crisp Brockton air, and dream of dominion.

Sherrel​

"There's no fuckin' sign of someone here, you dumb bitch!" Adam yelled, throwing up his hands in defeat. "I'm tellin' you, it was just a bad trip!"

"I'm telling you he was fuckin' here!" Sherrel screamed back. "He was just as close to me as you are now!"

Her garage was the sight of a bunch of listless, ill-motivated drug addicts searching the building and its surroundings after she'd had the sense of mind to call Adam and inform him of the breach.

So far, his response to someone breaking in and almost doing…something…to her left a lot to be desired, mostly because he didn't believe it happened in the first place.

"Listen, there's not a goddamn mark on you. You think if some crazy slant Cape came in here, you wouldn't be getting your ass hoisted off to go work for Lung?" It was frustrating that he had a good point about the affair. She was fine.

No one dragged her off to be forced into working for some gang. She wasn't assaulted, beaten, or otherwise violated unless you counted the security of her workshop as something to taint. The supposition that she'd imagined the entire thing wasn't without merit, either. It wouldn't be the first time she or Adam had ended up hallucinating something that didn't exist.

But when she remembered those plum-red eyes staring into her own, slitted pupils boring into her, feeling safe was about the last thing on her mind. So she complained and whined, and eventually, Adam acquiesced. There'd be a few more idiots around her shop for protection, and they'd reach out to Mush to see if he was willing to stand guard for a few days.

There was a slim chance that a crazed Asian Cape was stalking her. Taking even a modicum of precautions was, indeed, perfectly reasonable.

"Be seeing you, Sherrel."

Those words were stuck in her head on a loop, like a broken record. Whoever that bastard was, with the fuckin' gall to put his hands on her and smirk at her, she'd show him. Adam, for not really believing in her. Mush…

Well, Mush didn't do anything wrong, but fuck him too.

She and Adam had a simple sort of relationship based on some common shared values. None of them were upright ones, but proximity had bred familiarity, and he knew enough to stay out of her orbit when she'd gotten into one of her moods over the years. Whether that be an angry one, a Tinkering one, or some combination of the two. Right about now, after dealing with that smarmy, MJ-lookin' fuck, Sherrel felt like it was in a combination of the two.

He'd be back—he all but promised it in those parting words to her. And when that fucker returned, she was obliged to blow to him to hell. It was the least Sherrel could do for teaching her a lesson about security in her own goddamn home.

Her current design was simple to the point, slowly put together to specifications only found in her head. Metal that could stand up to military-grade rigors was a bit of a sticky point, but Adam knew a guy, who knew a guy, who was hopelessly addicted to heroin. When you had an addict in your pocket, and you offered to give them their fix not for money but to serve as a connection to milsurp equipment, a lot of problems for a Tinker tended to sort themselves out.

The rest of the components came from cars worked over at chop shops across the city. With their routinely less-than-ideal conditions, they weren't perhaps the ideal parts for her construction. But beggars couldn't be choosers.

Every Tinker had a specialty, and hers wanted her to build big. But that took time, and it required her to spend most of that time servicing her rig, to the point where each one was a massive investment in its creation and upkeep. Certain parts had to be made from scratch, painfully machined or welded in joining that some distant part of her recognized would break from wear and damage.

Anything smaller than a car or a truck, and her power was leery when prodded for ideas. So when you have lemons, you make lemonade. She went big, loud, and dangerous. Outside of her baby, Sherrel was only as strong as her frail, human body. Behind the wheel of one of her creations, though?

She'd blast that fucking freak to kingdom come.

In her most generous moments, she thought she'd have to wait weeks for her next shot at this bastard. Much to her surprise, the peace only lasted for another few days. That's when the trouble began.

Arms deep in the engine's guts for her creation, Mötley Crüe blaring in her workshop, it'd been a long time since Sherrel had benefitted from feeling this in the zone. It wasn't the same as a fugue, mind you. That came with at times a worrying loss of control and direction, especially when she didn't have the technical knowledge to bridge the gap between what she was trying to do and what she wanted to accomplish.

This was…cooperative. She pushed, her power pulled, and they met in the middle. That was the best way she could explain it to someone who wasn't a Tinker, with a mind full of ideas, and slowly plodding along the paths to achieve them faster. It felt like she might even be able to finish fine-tuning the big block of metal in front of her.

Unlike her other vehicles, made for subtler affairs, this one was built for war. The big light machine gun on top could speak to that by itself, but the extra horsepower she'd made sure the treaded monstrosity held was also part of the solution. How else could she make it cart around all that armor?

She was in the middle of her work before the sounds of roaring guitars were interrupted by something else. Gunshots, frantic, panicked, and the screams of men in the distance. Real screams, the kind that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up, because you knew that someone was being fucking murdered.

That probably explained why Mush charged into the garage, already changing bits and pieces of his power, picking up whatever he could. "God-fucking damn it!" The bald man hissed, eyes wide and terrified. "Who the hell is that bastard?!"

"He's here?" Something caught in her throat, an emotion oscillating wildly between anger, fear, and bloodlust hitching there. She was already closing the hood, looking over her shoulder at the Changer.

Mush's power wasn't all that complex, and if he didn't have anything that he could absorb into himself, he'd be a bit fucked. But the result was a trash titan that could take hits from Glory Girl, so it wasn't entirely without use or substance. There was just one problem with the man. A shared symptom of all of the Capes in the Merchants.

He was a coward.

"That suited freak? Yeah, he fuckin…I dunno, evaporated Kevin!" Any other time, she'd be furious at this gremlin-fucker absorbing her tools into his mass. Right here and now, though?

A part of her wanted to flee, to drive away with Mush in tow, and get the hell out of dodge. But a much larger voice screamed for her to attack, to go on the attack for once. Maybe it was whatever was left of her self-esteem, raging against the taunts that Asian fucker had threw her way.

An observer, more willing to be less generous, might credit her courage to the bump of cocaine that she was currently snorting right up her nose, procured almost out of nowhere. Who was really quibbling at the details at that point?

It burned. It burned good, like victory and engine grease.

"Here's the fuckin' plan, Mush," she hissed, clambering up to the top hatch of her creation. "You distract him, and I'm gonna shoot him a bunch."

There was a brief moment when she could relish the look on his face before he vanished out of sight. "Don't we need a plan of attack?!" Mush yelled from outside. Sherrel grasped with the controls, preternatural instincts overriding whatever clumsiness she might have had at that moment.

"Oh, I've got a plan!" she howled, her voice echoing from the inside of the massive vehicle as it rumbled to life. "Attack!"

Mush might have wanted to contest her intelligent, daring plan, but he had bigger problems. Running from the hallway, he'd come in from was…Larry? Lewis? Sherrel knew it was something with an 'L' for sure. Anyway, he took a few steps into the room, sweating bullets, thinning brown hair plastered to his forehead, and with a face in a rictus of terror.

"God help me, I'm sorry, I didn't kno-"

Whatever words were going to come out of his mouth were silenced as his chest burst forward, what appeared to be some kind of gnarly harpoon of bone and flesh ripping through his torso. Then it reeled backward, and the Merchant was gone, into the shadows from whence he came. Silence reigned, as Mush stared at the entryway, swallowing slowly, even as he grew.

"...Fuck."

A soft, darkly amused chuckle rolled out of the gloom, followed by a familiar shape. The suit was different this time, yes, white with black highlights, a blue shirt, and a red tie…but those eyes—those awful, damnable eyes and impossibly arrogant smirk—were the same.

"Such vulgarity," the monster spoke, hands behind his back as he approached. Those slitted pupils felt like they could see past Mush, see past the safe armor of her tank, and at the vulnerable woman inside. "I suppose that's where Sherrel learned her filthy vocabulary."

A soft tutting escaped his lips, as he shook his head slowly. "I can tell it's going to take some time to housebreak her of all those bad habits." His mouth widened, though, into a lupine grin. "Fortunately, I adore a challenge."

Something about the possessive tone in his voice made her shiver as she screamed from the inside of her vehicle. "Challenge these nuts, sleazeball!"

"W- Who are you? What the hell do you want?!" Mush threatened, raising a bulbous arm made from a rolling tool cabinet and connected by his fleshy Changer strands.

It was lazy, the way the pale man looked his way, and tilted his head to the side ever so slightly. When he spoke again, the words were in Japanese.

"死体が喋っている."

"What?"

Unfortunately, whatever Mush wanted to ask, he didn't get the chance. Instead, between blinks, the pale figure had closed the distance between himself and Mush. The difference between Mush's swelling size and the 5'10" man throwing a punch toward him was almost comical. In any other world, it wouldn't make any sense.

But in theirs, where logic was thrown out the window in favor of raw power? Things like what made sense were ultimately relative, and the only real truth was how strong a Cape was. Something made exceedingly clear as Mush was thrown across the garage, a sound not unlike a thunderclap of force erupting from the monster's fist. Debris flew, both from Mush's Changer form but also from the wall as plaster and drywall cracked, the lights across the building flickering for just a few seconds.

Ultimately, they knew the biggest downside of Mush's transformed state was that it made him unequivocally slow. Even Skids, when he had the thought, could be pretty slippery and quick with his power, and Sherrel's whole thing was being inside a fast vehicle. In comparison, the lumbering Changer was ill-equipped to deal with anyone fast.

Which was fine. She didn't need him to be the strongest or even have a hope of beating their invader. No, what was important was that Mush kept him in place. If he did that by serving as a punching bag, while she got her rig online…

Well, Mush was a big boy. He could take a hit.

Not for long, though, if the look of that wall was any sign. It was already cracking and crumbling, with Mush being thoroughly unable to get the leverage to resist. He wasn't strong enough, and the blows kept coming at speeds neither could properly see.

When Mush finally reached his limit, utterly blown through the wall in fragments, Sherrel realized it was her time. The bastard was utterly distracted as he slowly followed Mush out of the building, seemingly beginning to crouch and do something for the other Cape. Whatever it was, it wasn't her problem.

What was her problem, was slamming her foot on the gas. The engine of her creation roared as it peeled off, barreling his way. He barely seemed to notice it coming toward him, lazily raising his head and giving her a nigh feral grin, he kicked Mush out of the way. Then, the jolt of his body slamming against the hood of the front fender.

"Fuckin' die, you sonuvabitch!"

Her truck howled with her fury as she drove out onto the street, crashing through whatever portions of the wall weren't big enough for it. The bastard was caught on her truck, being carried along, but laughing the entire time, until finally slipping out of view. There was a brief thump as the feeling of something going underneath the tires resonated through the vehicle.

Hitting the brakes, Sherrel swallowed, looking through the rearview mirror of her rig. And behind her truck was…nothing?

She ran him over, she felt it, but where did the fucker go? He was some kind of Brute, Mover too, yet she'd just rammed him at sixty miles an hour. Even someone like Aegis had to have had a moment to recover, or rest, or-

"That was kind of bloodthirsty, Sherrel-chan."

Stock, still in her seat, drifted her eyes down, seeing the man just…sitting…on the hood of her car. No sign of damage was visible—not a wrinkle in his suit, no blood, or a hair out of place. If anything, it seemed as if he'd never been touched at all—crisscross applesauce, without a care in the world.

"Then again," he continued, "I'm not displeased when you show off that side of yourself. It's cute, y'know?"

Yeah, this psycho was the type to consider attempted murder as a cute little quirk. "There's more where that came from, you cockgargling piece of shit!"

"Probably," he agreed, lazily pulling out his phone. "But not tonight, and not from you. About ten more seconds, I think…"

Ten more seconds until what? Sitting around and finding out seemed like a bad idea. Already, she was moving, fueled by adrenaline, rage, and manic monkey instinct, as she moved to head to the turret at the top. All the while, her target sat there, as if he didn't have a care in the world. So what if he thought she couldn't hurt him?

Opening the top hatch, mantling the gun, and pointing it down at the pale Asian man, she was just about ready to fire until those ten seconds were up. And then…

Well, things got a little weird.

In a flash, just about everything was flushed from her system. It came with a stark, naked clarity, even as her body changed before her eyes. Maybe an extra inch in high, a little padding where her weight wasn't right from not eating enough. Skin smoothed, hair made glossy and luxurious, and her teeth straightened out. Across the board, a substantive change, but perhaps none of the physical ones were as important as the metaphysical adjustments.

Like the surety, deep in her gut, that the man in front of her was her…owner? Contractor? Master? It was hard to describe what a distinct and undeniable tie it was, from her to him, as she blinked owlishly at the pale figure.

"Oh. Oh shit."

"Yeah," he smiled, giving her another toothy grin. "Oh shit, indeed."

Muzan​

I think I've got some sort of dysfunction in my brain because it was more adorable than anything else when Sherrel tried her best to murder me. Even if she'd been at the top of her game, I don't think she could have finished the job with my regeneration Dealing with Mush had been more of a warm-up than a real challenge, even taking him on without my full kit.

Tangentially, I also had a bit of a snack while dealing with those thugs. No one who mattered was harmed, I got to stamp Mush, and everything was coming up Millhouse for me.

Granted, I also had to skedaddle with Sherrel in my arms, because we had not been quiet while she was trying to kill me. Given Squealer's infamy, I chose to abscond, after spending the capture credits on both ranks of Pocket Apartment.

Architecturally, I'd describe it as a strange mixture of Taisho-era stylings and modern flair. Conventional appliances and electronics abounded, like a television in the living room and a nearby landline. Still, ultimately, it was just a nice, penthouse apartment dimensionally secure from the madness of Earth Bet.

It was no Infinity Castle, but it was a start.

I retreated to that place with my first Waifu in hand. Honestly, she's likely the only Waifu I intended to pick up in Worm. Sure, there were stronger Tinkers or parahumans, but Sherrel had things going for her that the others didn't.

One, she was a stacked blonde, and I was honest enough to say that sort of thing still did it for me. Two, her specialty had a lot of potential, and with the relevant Talents, she'd be the greatest Tinker in the world, one way or another, by the time I was finished with her.

And three…I'd always had a thing for underdogs.

Sherrel looked a lot better now too. She was clean, she was at a good weight, blemishes and pockmarks were gone, and all the little imperfections that'd built up as life as an addict had vanished. Hell, I suspected that even her physiological cravings for drugs had been wiped away by the Body Tune-Up. It wouldn't help with the psychological portion of addiction, but we'd be handling that with defenses before long.

That white, dingy tanktop she wore wasn't doing much for her modesty, though. Nor were the tight, denim shorts. I had to fight off my instinct to let my eyes wander for a bit longer, lest I just end up pouncing on her right then and there. That, and I didn't have Sticky Fingers yet.

After that though, all bets were off.

"Okay, so…" Sherrel looked around the apartment, and then back at me, eyes wide and confusion writ large across her features. "I've got a mountain of questions."

"And I've got answers."

"Nice. Thought you might continue the mysterious asshole routine, and I-"

At the swear, I bled the tiniest iota of aura, watching her pale slightly as I did so. All the while, I gave her an exceedingly polite smile. "Please watch your language."

She swallowed and gave me a shaky nod. "R-Right."

The Bindings from the Company provided a companion's loyalty, friendship, and sexual interest. But those were very much from the companion's perspective and how they viewed such things. Obedience was not absolute, and they had plenty of autonomy to follow their initiative unless you made efforts to ensure otherwise.

I didn't want Sherrel to be some mindless bimbo catering to my every whim, mind you. No, my vision for her was merely to provide a modicum of class and restraint. So, I was reliant on providing training the old-fashioned way: plannning for discipline and eventual rewards for good behavior.

"My name is Muzan Kibutsuji," I began, gesturing to the nearby couch. She took the unspoken suggestion and plopped herself down. "Do you want the long answer or the short answer?"

"Short," she stated, without hesitation. I'll probably want the long one eventually, but for right now, my brain feels a little too fuzzy to concentrate on anything too complex."

Fair enough. "I'm a member of a vast, interdimensional corporation that copies people's metaphysical imprints for profit and pleasure. I 'captured' you to become my concubine slash wife, and companion for the establishment of a vast criminal enterprise spanning across worlds."

Sherrel stared, a vast array of complicated emotions coming across her face, as she slowly leaned back against the couch. She practically sank into the cushions as she looked up at me, a slouch in her posture. "...Will you get angry if I don't entirely understand all that?"

I shook my head. "Not at all. It's a big concept to wrap your mind around, even vastly paraphrased and cut down to size." Going into detail about the Entities and the true nature behind parahuman powers seemed like extra, unneeded complexity.

"Can I ask why me?" Something about the way she sounded, weak with a plaintive tone in her voice, struck a cord. "I'm nobody special. A junkie, trailer trash, a shitty Tinker…" She turned her eyes down, looking away from my eyes, sinking into whatever reverie of self-pity and loathing she'd been in before.

Nobody who let their life get to where it was when I'd found her, was entirely thrilled with it.

"Sherrel," I spoke, the word laced with aura, as her attention snapped back to me. Whatever sternness was on my face didn't last long, though, as I felt my features soften. "If I thought you were a waste of time, I'd have never bothered bringing you here."

"There are stronger Tinkers."

I shrugged. "There's no other Sherrel. I didn't need a Hero. I needed a woman in my corner, ride or die, till kingdom come." She was that for Skidmark, once upon a future darkly.

"A little dramatic."

"I'm a massive drama queen."

She snorted, which turned into a low chuckle, as she buried her palms against her eyes, grinding them slowly. "Oh…oh, I can see that, with the whole 'Rejoice' business…"

"Well, I wanted to put the fear of god into you," I admitted, wearing a lopsided grin. "Did it work?"

"Damn near pissed myself," Sherrel shamelessly stated, before blanching and looking up at me nervously. "Er, peed myself. Sorry."

"It's forgiven."

"So what's next for your big plan to take over the world?"

"Just the city for now," I lightly corrected. Taking over criminal enterprises worldwide was out of my reach, but in a decade…? That was a different story.

Sherrel rolled her eyes. "Ah, my mistake."

"Well, I'm going to start making some moves, and you are going to get some sleep. We can talk more in the morning when you're not exhausted from overwork."

I could see her open her mouth to protest before yawning wide and stretching her arms up. "That's…fair."

"In the coming days, I'll have a proper garage for you to work from, far more secure than the one you were in before. And…" I paused, inspecting her reaction closely. "I'll need your help to find someone."

"Who?"

"Adam Mustain."

That made her body language still somewhat, as she swallowed slowly. "Skids?"

"I've got business with Skidmark, and I'm aiming to see it done quickly."

Pausing, I could see something like an old loyalty war with a much stronger, new one in her head. "You're not going to…hurt him or anything, right?"

"Of course not. He, and Mush, will be unharmed by the end of our business together."

I could see her watching my face closely, looking for any signs of deception. There wouldn't be any, because I was genuinely telling the truth. "You promise?"

"There'll be many crimes I commit, cruel and necessary over the coming months. But," I leaned forward, boring my eyes into her own. "For the people that become mine, I will never, ever break a promise. They'll be untouched if gently suggested to leave town."

It was even the truth. After I sold them off for credits, they would be leaving town and this reality altogether. Between the two, sixteen credits was enough to buy at least an upgrade or two here and there.

"Then that's fine. Now, uh…" Sherrel slumped against the couch, tilting her head to glance down at her sprawled-out form despondently. "I'm stupid comfy right here, but I wanna to get to bed. Can you help me up?"

With a snort, I reached down and easily picked her up, bridal style. She seemed like the day's events, and however much work she'd been blitzing past before, had finally caught up to her. I felt her press into my touch, relaxing and some tension easing out of her with a long breath.

"G'night, Muzan…" The blonde breathed, eyes closing as she already began to nod off.

"Good night, Sherrel."

I didn't need to sleep anymore. It didn't do much for me, but I suppose this one night, I could take a rest. Or maybe I just wanted to make excuses to enjoy the feeling of a warm body sleeping next to my own again.

Tomorrow night, though, was when the jackpot of points began in earnest. And things would begin to get…a little crazy.