King

B-52:

(1 part) Orange Cognac

(1 Part) Irish Cream

(1 part) Coffee Liqueur

Glass shatters in patterns. It's a blooming effect. The spreading of a weakness through the body of a system until the whole thing collapses. King knew how to take things down. He knew how to shatter. He knew how to hold a glass in his hand. To feel all the capability to dissolve it into fragments, but to restrain. Always restrain. Glass breaks beneath his feet as he walks. One step, two, and a third more hesitant than the last. He is alone. His heart beats so calmly he could almost forget it beats at all and he is alone. They were supposed to sweep the buildings. In groups, never separated. Find Horde. Subdue him. Maybe not try to get everyone killed in the process but where was the fun in that?

Sirens in the distance rise and fall like ocean tides. Stuck in that in-between state of annoying and useful. Annoying, because the sound grates his skin into ribbons. Useful, because if it's pissing him off it's probably pissing of Horde too. He needs the anger in the air, the frustration of a villain hiding like a rat in its den. Cornered. Trapped. Ready to slip up. Every step he takes makes the world feel deadened, numb from the vacancy of real life. There are only copies of one life, spread out to do the dirty work. And King. His fingers tap against the leg of his pants but he doesn't count.

Light shines in through broken windows. The power is off but he isn't sure why. Perhaps Horde has a flair for the dramatic. God knows King does. He walks further, searching. Scanning. Waiting for a breath. For something to give away the hidden. The witch's house might be made of sugar but right now, King is looking for blood in the water. For a shark's trail, not a child's scattered breadcrumbs.

The room divides. He can keep walking forward, or take the hallway into a deeper part of the building. He does neither. Patience is key. There is movement. A body clad in clothes he does not recognize. Not a civilian. Too fast. Too quiet. But now he has the scent. A throat cleared, another step forward, and King begins to speak. "Escaped from L'Amant, huh? I think I have a buddy who went there." His silhouette fills the entrance to the hall. Feet turn, body propelled forward, following gut instinct. Even in the dark, he is in control. There's no time for second-guessing. No time for doubts. He walks. He listens. When the air rustles with movement, muscles freeze until he is statuesque. Wait for a breath, another, a third, and then he goes where he feels drawn. The bodies tell him he's close. Other heroes from the team. Two of them to be exact. Both bodies slump against the wall. One has blue hair. The other, a tan hat. Neither serve a purpose now. All other color fades away at the sight of the blood that soaks the floor around them. "I see you're fond of red." No answer. Patience is key.

All it takes is a step over. Their dead eyes watch him but he's immune to the gaze. Corpses are a long familiar sight. It's the living you have to watch for and there's something in the air now. A shiver of frustration, a taste of tension that lingers on his tongue like the remnants of a kiss. Muscles tightening, adrenaline burning in the flesh, aching for movement. King feels it. He feels the thrum of energy in his fingertips. Already, the grey begins to pull. A step through the open doorway, then another. Ears straining, heartbeat skipping over the delicious second throb to move on to the third. Like an odd numbered pattern, faster but uneven. One, three, five, seven, nine—then he feels it.

A rush of air. Potential into kinetic. Cloth moves, bone collides with bone. King is pain. King is numbness. King is the aftermath of a fist slamming into his face. Barely missing the nose and he stumbles. The sting brings the world to an icy clarity. Still, he is blind to the assailant, lost in the dark. But it doesn't matter. King sees. Regains his balance. A hand rises to the pain. A gasping laugh breaks free of his throat. He shakes his head. Shudders a breath, then turns. He can't count how many are in the room. Their eyes are all he sees, gleaming and bright. But the air sings with energy. Not with the deadened silence of copies. One of them is real. Patience is key.

"Oh, honey." Blood, wiped from his lips. The taste of copper like ten thousand volts through his body. King's grin— bright, vicious, teeth bared in smile closer to a snarl. Ready to rip through the soft, tender flesh of his throat. Like an animal starved too long. He collects the passion of the sun behind his eyes, lets it burn through his veins. Until his body is the dying heart of a thousand stars. "You don't want to do that." Until his body is a supernova, an explosion of light that drowns out any promise of escape.

King reaches for the door. Lets it swing closed behind him. "Let's play a game, handsome." They wait. They're listening, intrigued. Or already spellbound by the grey smoke that lays itself in the air. It's too much, too soon, but King doesn't care. "You get rid of all this nonsense," he gestures to the crowd. "And in return, I'll leave you alive and sane."

There's a laugh. Cold. Gravelly. His heart lurches and it feels good to feel fear. Already, the world feels flatter. Depth becomes thinner, a more delicate line to walk on. Patience is key. But King wants him dead. King wants this over. The second hit flies. The third. The fourth. From all over the room, he's pinned against the wall but the copies overpower him. Blood drips from his mouth on the edge of a laughter. A glutton for punishment, yet his powers don't stop. A singular pair of eyes watches from the back. Waiting. But there's a flicker.

King is gone before he can see it. The world flattens, stretched into the grey that pours from his fingers. Adrenaline, pure and lethal. A thousand beating hearts, pounding to the same incessant beat. If there is pain, he barely feels it. It's an abstract thought, an unnecessary barrier between him and what lies beyond and King thrives.

The images flicker. Too quickly. Too much all at once. A younger him. More naive. Barely eighteen. Already working at a club full of older men who peer too closely at all of the waiters and waitresses alike. He is scared. He is afraid. There is a difference between the two to him. He has killed a man in one of the private booths for the money in the pocket of his apron. The grey smoke still lingers around the empty glass, like a lipstick stain.

Then he is moving. Pushing through the thrum of bodies. Out into the street. By the dumpster, where he gasps for air he cannot find. Chokes on nausea he's not sure he feels. He is a murderer. A murderer. And he curls up with his head in his hands. How long does he stay there? Eyes plastered to the ground, unable to move.

Then come the heels. A gentle click, click, click, down the darkened street. A hand reaches for his shoulder. "Woah there, rockstar. Did you have a little too much to drink?" He looks up. A shiver passes through his body. A stranger's eyes, looking at him. Smiling. Smiling. The nametag says Kitty. The words spill out of his lips before he has the sense to stop them.

"I think I just killed someone."

The hand stiffens. "Oh." A pause. Hesitation. Eyes glancing around the empty alley. Then a sigh. "Let's go get some coffee."

A knife rips through his shirt. King fights. His knuckles bleed, body bruises, but the more he struggles the more energy fills the air. The longer he remains focused, the longer he stays here. Depth becomes real. Sounds become real. His body is made of pain and he spits blood from between his teeth. Something stabs into his arm. Pain tears itself free of his lungs in a growl that could rip galaxies apart.

The coffee is bitter but Kitty's voice is sweet enough to drown out the taste. Each word is a melody. Like a song he's long forgotten. Back from the dead. Staring at him from across the room . And when Kitty looks at you, it's like being singled out by God himself. It;s winning the multi million dollar lottery. It's everything you could ever want rolled up into a curve of a smile and the hint of a laugh. In that moment, in the buzz of a neon sign and a secret passing between shaking hands, he only had eyes for one person. One person in the whole world.

"I don't think you're evil, Capricorn." His words are air, cold and crisp, revitalizing him. The warm cup he clasps between his fingers ground him to the earth, but Kitty grounds him to himself. "They made you do it, that's on them." A sip of scalding coffee, ripping apart the tension in his throat. He reaches across the table. Kitty's nails are more like claws, sharp and curved like something more feline than human. Fingers wrap around his wrist, gently pulling until he sets the cup down. He frees his hands, and then they are wrapped together. Connected. Pulse to pulse, hand in hand, and Kitty's eyes have something untamed and feral in them. Capricorn isn't afraid. He's never felt safer. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

Then it stops. The fighting stops. He is bloody and panting, fingers aching from fists held too long, but the fighting stops. Blood pools from his shirt. Is he dying? No. Maybe. But what matters is the pair of eyes that remain. The way they stare at him, and as the grey fades he can see the lips that part in surprise. And something else. Something that brings a vicious turn to his lips. A chuckle. King wipes the sweat from his brow.

Their hands stay clasped. They won't be separated for years but they've not yet come to know that. For now, Capricorn Travers is working at a club. Barely eighteen, barely held together, but now there is a glue to his life. Something solid. Something that stops under a yellow streetlight and looks at him as if heaven has opened. "What are you staring at?"

"Nothing. It's just..." Kitty shakes his head. Laughter tries to shake away the thought. Then, a small smile that crinkles his eyes. "In this light, you look like a king."

Madness tastes like gin and lemon on his tongue. Too sweet, too bitter, too much anger poured into a single shot glass. Still, King knows it well. He's seen what it can do. He's seen the confusion in Horde's eyes from another life. Another world, where laughter is made of coffee and strangers on the street and the world pulses blue and red with the timelessness of an eternity spent dancing on a dangerous ledge. He's debilitated. A shiver rakes through Horde's stunned body. A broken copy, flickering in and out. Fading and reborn. Never stable. Probably never stable ever again. King's shoulder aches, his bruises swell. And yet he is victorious. And yet he is reborn. And yet once again, he is wearing a crown made of light that collapses around his head like gold melted to his skull.

With the toe of his shoe, he nudges the mumbling, glassy-eyed villain.

"You shoulda' played along, honey."

Layer ingredients into a shot glass. Serve with a stirrer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Whiskey Wonder

ARRESTED FOR DRIVING UNDER THE INFLUENCE

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Glacier

The cellphone tucked away in the man's pocket vibrated for the fifth time since getting off the plane. Assuming it was only more email, text, or twitter notifications that were catching up with his few missing hours, he managed to dismiss it to crack open a bottle of water he'd smuggled with him. When it didn't cease on the third or so incessant ring, a sigh broke his lips and the device was raised to his ear. "Hello?"

"Clint, finally," Janice exclaimed, her voice indicating she was already shaking her head on the other side of the line. "Why haven't you been picking up?"

"I was on a flight," he replied, irritated both by her tone and the fact that he'd been forced to ride economy class squished between a man who couldn't contain his lunch within his own seat and a woman who had not yet discovered the invention of headphones. A mustard stain smeared on his suit pants and Mariah Carey stuck on repeat in his head were lingering reminders of his ordeal.

"No need to get testy, I'm not your receptionist." Janice found the need to remind him of that fact often - especially when it was on his spa day.

Clint frowned and waited. Being the sort of pretentious, self-centered being she was, the woman waited as well. This was why Clint preferred to text her. "What is it?"

"Project Phoenix is what it is. You really didn't think this one through, did you?" she asked, tsking softly.

Despite knowing it was meant to be a rhetorical question, Clint found the need to respond. "I did think about it." He dodged around a pair of young tourists, eyes flickering between the overhead signs. It was second nature by now, that his feet knew where he was going before he did. "I thought it would be a good move. You said I needed something new."

A huff came on the other side of the line. The picture of Janice crossing one arm over her chest and scrunching up the left side of her face was one he knew too well. He would've rather liked to know what face she made in bed, but the woman had assured him that was never, ever happening. "Don't use that tone. Don't blame this on me." Her voice grew faint as she pulled the phone away from her mouth, and Clint was forced to strain his ears to hear her over the bustling noise of travelers rushing by and intercoms crackling. "It would have been a good idea had you gone yourself."

The man rolled his eyes at this. He could count on one hand those that knew of Dante's existence; that wasn't counting that one girl in New Jersey from the Christmas party, but Clint was fairly certain she had overdosed on Heroin anyhow. Out of those who knew, Janice was the one who most adamantly hated the guy. That wasn't to say Clint was a fan of Dante either, but he had more tolerance on the matter. "Why? What went wrong?"

"Well-" She held her breath for a long moment - forcing Clint to hold his own - and then sighed, as if deeply disappointed in her own lack of news. "Nothing yet, but you're already in Canada, aren't you?"

"I thought you said you weren't my receptionist," he responded dryly, stepping onto the escalator nearest to him.

She chose to ignore the comment. "Check up on this is all I'm suggesting." Her tone turned rather sweet, knowing full well it would get to his swelled head. "Please, Clint. It'd put my mind at ease."

"Alright," he relented. "But I'm sure everything is going fine."

-

The day was already bad.

"Glacier, on your left!"

The warning came in what should have been the nick of time. "Got it," Dante yelled back, stumbling backward. For any superhero with so much as a year experience under his belt, the job should've been easy; however, the man had no such experience. This was why, despite the warning, the boat hit him smack in the chest. All the air left his lungs and both objects went spiraling backward, crashing into the freezing water.

Black swirled before Dante's vision. Salt water filled his mouth and was swallowed without thought, losing any remaining breath he had left. Blinking, he caught sight of the surface, light shimmering through the depths. His heels clicked together but nothing activated. Frustrated and panicking, he kicked up instead, fighting the current and dodging a sinking piece of a ship's hull. Wind swept against his frigid skin, biting at him as he tried to sputter out the water clogging his lungs. His throat was raspy and his hair dripping into his eyes as Dante scanned the situation.

It was hard to call the mission anything but a disaster. Already they had one dead on their hands, her white hair soaking up the blood spilling from her chest. Another was wounded, Splendor! forced to sit on the sidelines as he waited for someone else to help pull out the metal that had shredded his legs. He wasn't happy too happy about it either, but at least he wasn't clogging up the channel with his whining anymore. Several others were busy yelling at each other in Dante's earpiece, yet he drowned them all out to focus on dragging himself out of the harbor. For some reason, the flight power wasn't activating in the water. Forced to swim to the dock and grip the metal pier with his bruised and somewhat bloody knuckles, he heaved himself back onto land. The swaying didn't help.

If he hadn't had a headache when this fight started, he had one now. It grew when he turned left. Squinting past the nearest ship, he spotted Kevin booking it over the top of several lined up shipping containers. In his hands was a detonator. "You're kidding me," Dante whispered, before pressing his dripping fingers to his ear. "Can someone get me an update on whatever the fuck Kevin is trying?"

"Clint, I think you have your own problems." Irene's voice crackled in his ear, the static permanently damaging his eardrums. She was doing a hell of a job as their eye in the sky, though.

Turning around, Glacier caught sight of several more copies materializing before him. They blocked his way off the dock. With his chest heaving, Dante clenched his fists tight and faked an enthusiastic grin. "Well, what are you waiting for? Come at me," he boasted, though very much felt like he was going to hurl. Flicking his thumb as subtly as he could, Dante searched through the options that appeared in the corner of his eye. Icicles, flurry, blizzard, avalanche; each one came and disappeared as he moved on, desperate for something better, bigger. Permafrost, yes, please. With a tingling beneath his soaked gloves, he felt the metal skeleton buckle and shift.

A grin split his features. For hating this fucking job, there was one thing Dante loved. With fingers splayed, he turned both palms toward the clones charging at him and let the storm go as he ran. Two fists came at him at once, dodged as a wave crashed into the dock, rocking them all. He shot ice back in a messy fashion, though it sent one into the ocean below. The other landed a blow to his stomach. Dante bent over. Teeth gritted and eyes narrowed, he kicked the heels of his boats together again. This time they worked, sending him into the air faster than expected. He sailed of the dock and went plunging onto one of the shipping containers. It buckled under his weight.

Something shook the entire base. It took a moment of disoriented blinking and twisting of his head for Dante to find the source. One of the larger ships was in the middle of sinking. It was the one Horde had been on. Dante swallowed a breath as best he could, feeling blood dripping down his already bruised cheek. His mouth opened but no words came out.

"Does that mean it's over?"

"We really won?"

The com overlapped with talk, some celebrating, a few assessing damages. Irene's voice came a moment later. "I don't see Kevin's life signal." There was a pause in the silence.

"The bombs," Splendor! said what they all were thinking, his voice raspy and undercut with pain. No one responded. Whether it was out of mourning or respect, Dante didn't know nor care. He slipped from the shipping container and onto the concrete below, shaking water out of his hair.

"Let's all head back and meetup at the tower," Irene instructed once everyone had gathered their bearings. A few murmurs of agreement came across the line.

Dante lingered between the brickwall and the metal containers for a few moments, just breathing. He turned off his gadgets and leaned his head against the nearest wall to get his thoughts in order. Someone cleared their throat to his left and he turned. His heart all but gave out with the other was standing there, dressed head to toe in designer attire. Clint looked anything but amused.

A raspy breath passed Dante's lips. "Jesus, please tell me you haven't been standing there this whole time."

Clint rolled his eyes and closed the distance between them, stopping at the puddle of water that was dripping from Dante's clothes. "Where's the suit?"

"Not really a fan of spandex," he tried to joke, peeling off the blue mask that was glued to his face. It was itchy and irritating every damn time.

"So you're fighting in ripped jeans?" Clint had a point whether he liked to admit it or not. They certainly weren't the most flexible apparel to fight a supervillain with. The leather jacket didn't help either. Of course, no matter how much he hated the outfit, Dante would have been wearing it... had he not accidentally left it in Los Angeles. He'd been forgetful.

"Suppose so."

The man shook his head and pulled off the pair of sunglasses he was wearing, tucking them in the v of his unbuttoned dress shirt."That better not scar," he added, addressing the cut that was currently still seeping red onto Dante's jacket.

"That's what you're worried about?" He bent over to catch his breath, noticing Clint holding out his hand, as if he expected the other man to know what he wanted. "What?" Dante painted. He really wasn't cut out for hero work.

"The enhancers, please." His tone was sharp enough to cut with his tongue

"Why?"

"Because I saw you out there," he paused and raked a hand through his hair, shaking his head miserably. "And you were a disaster."

Dante scoffed. "You can't be serious."

"I am." He titled his head a flexed his fingers. "Hand them over."

"It was one mistake, maybe two," he tried to reason, clutching the devices tightly to his chest. "What're you even doing here anyway? Do you not trust me?"

"I can't have 'Glacier' dying on my watch." Clint pursed his lips. "That'd be a little hard to explain."

His eyes narrowed. "Don't worry, unlike you, I don't consider myself expendable."

Clint opened his mouth to respond but a voice cut them both off. It came from the little ear piece. "Glacier, where are you? I-"

"Be there in a minute, Irene," Dante replied, cutting her off unapologetically. He glared at Clint as if to show him he was doing his job.

The man grinned, losing his track of thought completely. "Oh, The Girl, right? I skimmed the files. She looked bangable, huh?"

Maybe it was the adrenaline that hadn't yet worn off, or the fact that Clint was, in every way imaginable, an asshole. Regardless, Dante did something regrettable. He hit Clint, straight in the face. A hit that, seeing as he hadn't considered his own strength, would've sent any regular human flying into the brick wall beside them.

This was when the day went from bad to worse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hydroflare

People are ugly. When someone wants to be in control, that ugliness pulsates within them until it burns out into everything they do. Ugly starts off small, with a little comment, and expands until it becomes all someone is. With every second of standing, sitting, and listening to people pretend they were in charge, Stella-Maris felt more confident that everyone in that room had a little bit of ugly inside them. This will take awhile. It wasn't just that their main leader was gone, no, it was that they had a task--and a task without command is just a voiceless trap that leads everyone to screwing shit up.

The logic-what-the-fuck girl was up there, talking to people, discussing the best way to go about things. The Girl, a stupid name truly, was there too in their elite group of 'look we can stand and say shit' while she and a few others just sat there, waiting. Waiting was fun, but trying to get Obsidian to realize that he doesn't have to do shit because he's a non-fighting unit was something she didn't have enough patience more and likely never would.

"You're fine."

"But what if--" he kept going and going and she cut him off with a hand to his lips. "Stella!"

Sighing again, she removed her hand. "Will you shut the hell up? You're going to sit here with the others in the vehicle and play lookout, while the rest of us who actually know combat will go and screw more things up, and then we'll go back. Yeah? Yeah. Great. Glad we had this talk."

"I didn't get to say anything."

She nodded. "That's saying enough," Stella said, brushing off any other comments with a scowl and throwing herself back into the seat.

Canada was different than Florida. She couldn't say exactly what the largest difference was. It was something that lived inside them, two places too far apart to understand why they could be alike, and Stella tried to feel pity for her inability to know but she couldn't. In fact, she felt nothing. They were different--their loss. What a shame. They have to live here, with these politics. Mm. Better or worse? There wasn't a right answer, or perhaps there was, but Stella figured hers was close. A non-answer, the best type, where she could sit there and think and not think at the same time.

They were going to fight a major-league villain. A supervillain. Named Horde, though his real name was Hart. A convict at that, escaping from a correctional facility. It made sense that all who went to places to fix themselves either got fixed or didn't. Those that were fixed had drastic life changes. Those that didn't? It was great to fall back into the best of crimes, wasn't it? She sighed again. It was a bad habit, one her father always got onto her for, but who the hell fucking cared? God, I'm tired. I needed more sleep, but damn he fucking snores. Not making that mistakes again...though he was warm. Can't deny that.

Obsidian was still looking over at her with that stupid face. Hands on his knees, hunched over in his seat, like a freaking five-year-old just waiting to ask a question. Damn him. Be a grown up and stop acting like this. The longer she spent around people the more she found their flaws, their faults. It wasn't that she hadn't always known that. Just that, over the years, the flaws of humanity lost their charm. A bitter girl like her had nothing that could be gained from them.

The target was at least someone interesting. Anyone who could make two hundred copies of themselves was someone that she viewed as important, but it was still a pretty lame skill. Oh look, now he can form his own cheerleading squad! Go him, what a great guy.

It wasn't just that he had gotten out, either. He was attacking a Canadian base. Why the fuck can't they defend themselves? Fucking Canada. Making us do your job. The bitter kept going. It swept through her, forming through the waves of her being and leaving her trapped in the salt of the ocean. It would be one thing if she could burn away the mood, but sadly, thoughts didn't go away that easily.

Pulling up her hair, she made certain to tie it into a bun so that it'd stay out of her way for a fight. While she didn't look particularly scary, something about the gentle nature of her skin, the way her muscles weren't defined and her shoulders not squared, left people assuming that she was gentle. It was the same way that people assumed she was sweet because she didn't talk to people. People are idiots--established, known, truth. I'll wear them down worse than my fingers. The edges of her nails had been broken and she tore at a scab, watching as the blood filled her middle finger so she could wag it at Obsidian.

Rude, but watching the color drain from his face was too fun to miss out on.

As they finally decided on something, whatever the hell it was would remain out of her hearing and stay that way for the sake of consistency, Stella readied herself for finding out what Vancouver actually looked like. From everything she's heard, it's a pretty place, but pretty also meant there was a large likelihood that she'd hate every second of it. At least there's water here. That makes it a little better.

Stepping outside into the calm of the world was interesting. The city was quiet and mobile. Everyone moving, their own noises in their lives, but she heard none of it but the soft buzz as they passed through, walking. Most of the area was missing, stalled in their lives as the scene before her unfolded. Dozens of the same walked, destroyed, fought. Dozens of superheroes fought back--more lay dead on the ground. The base itself had seen better days, but for all Stella knew, it'd always been a mess of rubbled ceilings, sloped walls with holes jutting from them, and smoke that billowed through the air around them.

What a waste. The rest of them were running into the action. She stayed back a few seconds, needing to think more, to see the world as it folded itself into the little pieces that made sense. How many of him are there? All two hundred? Can he just pick and choose how many he has? How the hell does this work? A pause, then, movement. Around her, Obsidian had faded into the crowd. His body would be found later, his mind left for her to toy with still, the two of them close yet she couldn't comprehend how. He's stayed. Idiot.

Unconventional friendship had become something keen to Stella's heart as she plunged herself into the action.

Splendour!, in all his glory, had been the first to fall.

Hart was a good fighter. Stella couldn't deny that. For someone located in Canada, of all places, his ability to push himself through a fight and take down someone with powers, strong people, was excellent. On par with the top of the top. Damn. Keven had ran forward for a second, then, as though an afterthought, he continued fighting and let his brother stay on the ground. Ruthless. One word thoughts were all she had--the motion lived inside her pulse. Her bloodstream screamed action.

Her body?

It danced.

Around her the air was wet and the clouds that formed above were perfect. Though her aim was off, the ignition had never been closer. Clicks of fire snapped through and the air sizzled as it burnt. That was on the onslaught of the storm--the beginning of a fight. The first body caught fire and it melted away. Another came forward, throwing her down. The thought--the pain--the throb--then his body, exploding. Another and another and her jaw was sore but she kept throwing. A scream bubbled inside as she worked, letting her powers steam throughout her body as she heated up.

Never before had there been such a need for the flames to continue--for the rain to fall down. The clouds remained in place. The water wouldn't pull to her command. Silence befell the world--no, it befell her, and the world screamed and fought and continued.

The rest kept going and there she went. A scream caught in her throat as another came for her and she couldn't fight. The ground offered no rest.

As more came forward, their attacks stronger than she, their movements faster, Stella's scream gurgled forward. The fire fell on him and fell back on her--catching her hair alight and she wiggled, trying to force herself away from it. One caught and there he fell, his body laying atop hers. A hot smack to the face. Fire in her fingers. Touching her body. Everything but the suit was burning.

Stella was dying there. Another super to fall. Is my Kevin running away now? She didn't have a Kevin. Against the wet concrete, the body atop her, the world swirling black and her hair flaming redder than ever before, Stella had no one. No, I can't fucking die! I can't! I can...

A shadow lingered over the sun and the world was dark.

Beside her, a LuLu lemon water bottle fell, crackled and burnt. Flames rose high in the buildings and the sky crackled. As each drop fell, the world continued moving. Fighting, screaming. An entire crowd trying to stop one person--trying to stop an entire army. There, the noise of the ocean was far away, and the water had stopped crashing against the rocks. The body before her finally fizzled away, decomposed atoms nothing but dust in the wind, and Stella remained.

Am I here?

It was only the hand that lifted her--only the voice screaming her name over and over, that left Stella aware that everything was not yet finished. "Wake up!" he'd call, his hands shaking, his eyes wild. "Stella! Stella!"

There, the water froze. It beat back and snapped. Recessed from her ears and faded from her throat. Left dead, against the waves, against the silence of an unforgiving day.

"We have to kill the real him! The Girl figured it out--she's on that now, they've got a team, but we have to protect the city before he does real damage here!"

The words meant nothing, but then again, most words meant nothing to her.

There, ugliness rooted inside her. He came to get me? It didn't make sense and she hated him for that. God, I'm so tired. The rain had destroyed the fire but not the burns that lay against her. The rain refreshed but did not take away the pain. He wants me to destroy the copies? Fine. Stella flexed her muscles and felt the taunt of strain, the ache of use. Beside her, the rain caught. A direct line of orange and yellow, scorched with the deep crimson of life, caught a row of copies that sought to destroy them. They mean nothing.

Just like everything else in life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Obsidian

Fun, as it turned out, was a word that Matthias either gravely misunderstood or had a surprisingly different view of than his companions. Fun was not an earpiece jammed into his ear so he could speak to his teammates. Fun was not a naval base all but burning to the ground. Fun was not watching Stella's hands jitter with excitement as they pushed through caution tape and wailing sirens. Fun was not the images of wounded, crying, innocent people praying that the ones they loved would be safe somewhere.

They'd been broken up into groups to search the base for Horde, a replicating supervillain that Matthias felt ill just thinking about. He would have wanted to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but walking beside Stella, into the first building they were going to sweep. Anywhere but in the path of danger, where he'd have to use the strength at his disposal once again.

Stella Maris linked arms with him, happier than he could ever remember seeing her. There was skip in her step as if something was finally breaking up the monotony she saw in the world. "Alright, it'll be just like last time. You push, I'll roast, and we'll serve this sucker up crispy." The only difference was this time, Matthias didn't want to play along.

"Stel—" He caught himself, eyes darting back and forth as he corrected his mistake. Don't be a dummy, Matt. You're working. "Hydroflare, I- I don't think I can do this." Already, Matthias could see her shoulders stiffen. She turned to face him, a look of bitter confusion pressing her lips into a hard line and arching her eyebrows into a look that begged him to keep talking. Licking his lips, he forced the words out before there was time to regret them. "I'm supposed to be a non-combatant. I need to be out here helping the personnel escape. I—"

I don't want to hurt anyone. It was unspoken, but the implication was there. The raid on headquarters still bothered him, despite how much he tried to swallow down his discomfort. Stella didn't miss his hesitation, he wasn't sure that she missed anything. Her arm slipped out of his. "Look at me, Obsidian," she ordered. He forced himself to look into her eyes and see the fire that burned there, almost as hot as the fire she conjured. "These assholes aren't real. They're illusions. When they die, they fade, got it?" She was right. He knew that she was, but that didn't stop the blare of sirens that pounded his ears or the thousands of people living there that could all be in danger.

His footsteps slowed to a stop. She only took a few steps further before she realized what he was doing. With a shake of his head, Matthias stepped back. "No," he told her. Stella stared at him and he could feel the heat generating beneath his scales when he fingers curled. Breath clutched in his throat, he shook his head more furiously. "I'm sorry. I can't."

There was more she wanted to say. He could feel it in the way the heat beneath his skin increased like she was trying to boil him from the inside. Stella's gaze lasted one agonizing second longer before she turned away from him without a word. Guilt swirled in his chest, fueled by the way she jutted her head up high as she walked away from him—as if somehow, his refusal had scorned her, humiliated her, even. There wasn't time to struggle with the uncertainty that shivered in his fingers as the fire faded away. Matthias turned back to the rescue party at the same time his earpiece crackled with a familiar, exasperated voice. "Obsidian's bailed. He's staying back to help the victims on base."

Matthias was running, that much was clear. Like a dog with its tail between its legs, he ducked beneath the lines of caution tape and lost himself to rescue work. All it took was a "point me where I'm needed" and he dissolved into something safer. Something he could handle.

"It's going to be okay. We're here to help," became his motto to everyone he came across. Matthias wasn't sure how long he stayed with the rescue team, or how many people passed through his arms and into the safety of the law enforcement standing by. There seemed to be no end to them. Countless children, countless soldiers, families split apart only to struggle through crowds for the loved ones they were missing. In spite of everything, Matthias didn't tire. He hoisted wounded men over his shoulders, carrying them to ambulances where they could be treated for their injuries. Only the communicator in his ear gave him any insight to what was happening beyond the job he'd immersed himself in, and even that he could only stand to have on for a few seconds at a time.

"The Girl is dead. We just found her body."

He silenced the crackle in his ear with a click, heart weighing heavy in his throat. Someone was giving orders, pointing in the direction he needed to head. Matthias followed, along with a few others. The work was easy to get lost in. It was wrapping blankets, guiding the panicked, following the directions of those who knew the base. With his mind occupied on the innocent, he could almost forget the casualties that echoed in his brain every time he remembered to turn the earpiece back on. It was almost easier to keep it off. Not knowing was better. Not facing the look on Stella's face when he'd refused to join the fight was better.

"Does anyone have a lead on where this asshole is hiding?"

Matthias was watching a group of kids when the voice came through. He wasn't worried about them wandering off, most of them were old enough to know better. But still, his eyes followed every head carefully, speaking in gentle tones and scanning the sea of flashing lights and moving bodies for any others that could be brought into his safety.

Another voice answered through the communicator, ragged and out of breath. "We've started running into copies over here." He listened quietly, glancing only briefly at the buildings his teammates were combing through.

"Where are you? He's got to be close by."

"The athletics centre."

He stood up a little straighter at the words, hand going almost immediately to the earpiece with words half-spoken on his tongue. Electricity spiked in his veins. Matthias knew the building, he could see it sitting in the distance. It was pale blue, red letters announcing its use on the side. Horde is in there? They just sent in a rescue team. His heart rate escalated, eyes darting back and forth between the small group and the centre. Taking a step forward, he caught the eye of the first person he could, signaling them over. Matthias wasn't sure who she was, a police officer or another member of the rescue team, but there wasn't time to figure it out. "Watch these kids," he ordered, surprised by the sternness in his voice.

"Shit. Obsidian, we've got some civilians in here."

He hurried through the crowd, pushing through groups of people congregated together as he did. This time, he did speak. "I'm not too far away. Just hold on."

By the time he reached the building, Matthias's heart was pounding against his chest. His breath was easy, no sweat beaded his forehead, but the cold air that greeted him when he pushed open the doors to the athletic centre was more worrisome than all of the fearful, injured people he'd seen that day. The erratic pulse beat against his scales, sending shivers across his body. Fingers curled, trying to hide the tremors that shook him, as he crossed the floor. White fold-out tables and scattered tablecloths sat in rows in the room. It looks like they were preparing for some sort of event. But now the lights were off, the party was over, and all that was left was the small group of terrified eyes that watched him approach and the narrow gaze of Stella who stood over them.

"About fucking time." There was a cut on her cheek, pink and raw but not bleeding. Her hair had become loosened from her ponytail and smoke darkened her fingertips. Anger, stinging and unfiltered, dripped from her words, but with adrenaline all but pooling in his veins Matthias found he wasn't afraid. He brushed past her anger, eyes zeroing in on the group she guarded.

Eight sets of eyes stared at him from behind her, frightened faces huddled together. Matthias tried to give them a reassuring smile, but his lips pulled downward as realization set in. Four, he counted all the heads, lips moving quietly with the numbers. That isn't right. There were more. "Is this all of them?" he asked and Stella scoffed, shrugging with her arms extended outwards.

"All we could find," was her answer.

Matthias nodded, reaching up once again to speak into the communication line. "We're missing some civilians in the athletics centre." There was a steadiness in his hands, in his voice, that hadn't been there before. "Anyone searching the building needs to be on the lookout. They're—"

"Oh, great." A new voice made him jump, breaking his message to the rest of the team. A man stood at the end of the room. There was confidence in the way he tilted his head and violence in the blood that stained his shirt. A chill shivered through Matthias's body as he took a step forward. "More of you super-powered assholes in my way." Horde. "How many of you do I have to kill before I make my point? I just finished up with that scrawny red-headed boy, but I suppose you two won't slow me down too much."

He expected all of the confidence he felt to drain away, leaving him pale-faced and terrified, but instead, he felt a protective urge swell inside of him. Matthias stepped in front of the civilians at the same time a groan of frustration left Stella's lips.The air shivered with heat, only for the briefest of moments, and then his body was writhing on the floor. "Ouch." His head shot up, to an identical man standing, once again, at the far end of the room. Matthias's eyes widened as the body on the ground faded into nothing more than a scorch mark on the floor. Sarcasm dripped from every syllable as Horde began to walk closer. "That hurt."

Another voice chimed in, the same mocking voice but from a different corner of the room. "What about you, big guy?" His dark eyes seemed to bleed into Matthias, stretching the corner of his lips into a grin. "You want to try something?"

"Oh, shut up," Stella snapped. The scenario was the same, a wave of heat, a burning body, but never the smell of flesh. Never a cry of pain. Just a scorch mark left on the floor, and a mocking laugh from somewhere else in the room.

"That was my favorite pair of pants."

Behind him, someone trembled. Matthias stretched out his arms to protect the group, mind whirring as he watched the copies grow closer each time Stella burned a new one. Two, he noticed, still only two. Why not swarm us if they're all in the building together? If he's actively making new copies he must be here somewhere. Horde kept getting closer, only delayed from cornering the heroes by a few seconds at the most. Matthias's blood roared in his ears. "Take them out of here," Stella commanded. He could hear how her teeth grit through her words. "These bastards are just going to keep coming."

He nodded, pushing the group toward the door until a hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Where are you going? We're just getting started." There wasn't time for rational reaction. His heart lurched to his throat. Fingers tightened into a fist as he spun around, colliding blindly with the figure. And then there was nothing. No after-effect, no gasp of pain. Just empty air where an illusion used to be.

"Go," he urged the civilians, and without protest they went, disappearing outside of the building into what would hopefully be safer terrain.

The doubles were still advancing on Stella, forcing her to step back closer and closer to the wall with each one she burned. They aren't real, Matthias told himself. It didn't stop the panic rising in his throat. They just look real. Use your strength for once. Help Stella.

Matthias wasn't sure what he did, exactly, but he launched himself into the fight. He reverted back to the only fighting plan he knew how: He pushed, and Stella burned. Except this time, he did so much more. Duplicates were yanked away, thrown into tables, twisted until he should have heart bones pop but instead just felt power disappearing into thin air in his grip. It wasn't enough. They just kept coming. With every duplicate, two more seemed to take its place. Multiplying. Crowding the room, forcing them back. They were in every corner. Fists collided with his scales. Arms wrapped around throats. Always pulled away, always burned. Never enough. Sweat dripped from his face. From the heat or the work, did it matter? Did he care? But there was always hesitation. Hesitation until he saw a fist plow into Stella's jaw, sending her backwards. Hesitation until he heard he cry out in genuine pain and watched her spit blood.

Then, there was anger. Boiling, furious anger that dyed the world red. He lurched for Horde, wrapping his arms around the copy's torso. But this time, when he squeezed down there was a crunch. It wasn't the feeling of illusion fading beneath his fingers, it was the all too familiar feeling of bone shattering into fragments at his touch. Broken ribs pierced lungs, filling the air with the gasps of a dead man. The body in his arms didn't disappear, just slumped forward with blood that trickled out of still-parted lips. Matthias froze, his muscles solidifying into lead while he clutched the corpse in his arms. Memories of another body flooded through him on a wave of nausea. A body wearing overalls with rabbit patches— no, he was mistaken. Just the body of a rabbit. Just a rabbit. Nothing else.

The other copies vanished one by one, falling away like dominos as Horde's power left the room. Matthias couldn't let go. The body in his arms was warm as if there was still a pulse beneath the thin flesh. I killed him. His eyes were almost as glazed as the dead man's, staring at the wall like he could see through it to the sea beyond. "Matthias?" Stella Maris's hand was on his arm, words pressing almost as gently as her touch. I killed him.

Something in the tone of her voice finally slid his eyes to her face. The body dropped, colliding with the ground by his feet. "I—" Her eyes were on him. Staring. Staring. Why is she staring? The hairs on the back of his neck began to rise, more eyes turning to him as the fight ended. "I'm- I'm sorry." Panic burned like an acid in his throat, scorching him from the inside out. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to, I didn't—"

Stella put her hand across his lips, wiping the blood and sweat from her face as she took a deep breath. "Beer is vegan, yeah?" Slowly, he nodded. "Good. Let's get fucking wasted."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Guaritore

    Her dark eyes have been carefully observing the Los Angeles skyline, the sun still up high. Urania Linnaeus doubts the sun truly ever disappears from this city—there is a constant need for real light—and she doubts its inhabitants want the sun to leave. Like she's noticed before, this a city that never sleeps, and perhaps the ever-present star is the reason why.

But maybe there's more, and maybe that's why she hasn't moved from in front of the all-glass wall.

The way the tall buildings give way to little clusters of ethnic neighborhoods, mostly Latino barrios; the way there are bright and colorful murals on every brick wall; the way there are mercados and vendedores on almost every corner; and the way there is a milling crowd...all of it reminds her of New Orleans. The only difference between the two cities, really, is that Los Angeles is simply hot—New Orleans is hot and humid.

Just like Honduras, she thinks.

Honduras, New Orleans, Los Angeles...what's the difference between the three? All of them have been considered home, in her eyes. Each and every one of them—no matter which one she was born in, has lived the longest in, is currently at—is home to her, and it's a lovely thing to be attached to so many places.

Finally drawing her eyes away, she turns her back to the glass wall, and sits down on the floor of the lounge. This room is the de facto official meeting room, and even if there is no meeting of any sort going on, most of the heroes are relaxing together.

Waving over the Beat, the two make their way the northern hallway, the one that leads to the first set of bedrooms. Positive that he's right behind her, she waits to close the door until he's inside.

"What's up?" the Beat asks casually, plopping down onto her bed as if he's done it a million times.

The only people have been in her room that many times are Splendour! and Sweetheart, but even then, they had the common courtesy to ask before they made a mess of her sheets. Even if obnoxious, she wishes Sweetheart were still around to be the cause of Hurricane Bedsheets...

"Uh...Earth to Guaritore?" the Beat questions, snapping his fingers under her nose. "You needed me?"

"Right, yes," she replies, a chill running through her body. "So your whole superhero thing is time? Super cool, by the way."

He jokes, "Almost as cool as Glacier? Wow, I thought the day would never come. Me, cooler than the very definition of cool. Amazing. Spectacular. Super."

Urania pretends to not acknowledge the two puns in there, but she means business; she can't get distracted anymore, even if she does want to continue the pun banter. "Ha, yeah. Anyway, so you can stop time, yes? Can pause it, go back and forth?"

Nodding, he says, "If you know this, why are you—"

"I need you to do me a favor," she blurts out. "Like, I really need you to do me this favor. I promise, it's not that time- or energy-consuming, and I promise that it would only be for the shortest period of time possible. Can you do it for me?" She tries to add more honey to her already sweet voice, tries to come off more charming than she is, and tries to seem very much in need—which she is—without seeming desperate.

Though her hands aren't touching his body, she can see how his brain is working, neurons moving through the pathways connecting his amygdala and his cortex, making their way to his frontal lobe. The unknown and fear come down to a decision.

Before he can open his mouth, she launches herself at him, kissing his thrice—on his two cheeks and his forehead. "Thank you! I promise, I'll explain what I need as you do your thing; I promise you won't regret it; and I promise that you're doing me the biggest favor ever!"

Giddiness is consuming her body, and if she falls under the spell of excitement, so be it.

"Hold up," the Beat says through laughter, though he feigns being unfazed. "Jesus, if I do more favors, will I be getting—"

"Gross. No."

"—one of your famous hugs next?" he finishes his question, raising his eyebrows at her.

She can't help but to blush. "Sorry, I don't know if you're that type of guy, you know. So I kind of just assumed...yeah, sorry."

Once more, he laughs, but this time it seems genuine. "No biggie. Now, just how long do you need me to pause time? And where do you think on going, because I can only make the world stop for about—"

Cut off again, he and Guaritore both look down at their official Project Phoenix cellphones, vibrating and lighting up like a rave. Like every gadget inside Headquarters, the technology used to make these phones is about ten years in the future, and the cost of them...well, even she would notice the amount of money gone from her bank account.

The shrill alarms coming from the phones only stop when every hero has put their own personal code in. (Side story: Urania had the hardest time ever when picking which four-digit code would be her password. She could use her birthday, either of her parents' birthday, the year she died, the hour and minute she came back to life, et cetera, et cetera. As Guaritore, superhero and healer extraordinaire, she had no trouble at all. The four numbers together mean absolutely nothing, but as individuals...let's just say, she had four inspirations.) When the Beat is done inputting his own code, the room goes quiet, but the hallways are still blazing.

After shouts of, "Glacier! Hurry up!" and one minute wait of ear-splitting sound, things finally quiet down, but their screens are still full of light.

Like a holograph, a profile emerges into the empty space in the air. The words are all in basic English, but it takes a moment for the message to register in their minds; the words are all simple enough—Declan Hart; Horde; Replication; Delta; Vancouver, Canada—but it takes a moment to settle and sink.

An escaped convict is wreaking havoc at the Canadian Forces Base Esquimalt; this is to be heroes' first mission; this is to be their first mission as a team, and they're lacking their leader.

"Can we take a rain check on our situation?" the Beat asks, done reading the message.

"Guess so," Urania says, her mood dampened, and not just because of the mention of rain. "I suppose we have to change."

Ushering her teammate out, she slips out of her leggings and knit sweater, and changes into the skintight white garment. Adjusting the straps of her belt, she makes sure that she has her usual tools—her surgical devices, her liquid medicines and poisons, her knife—and slips something else in. During the break-in, Sweetheart gifted Guaritore with two pink smoke bombs. As the battle progressed, Guaritore used one, but saved the other, "in case of an emergency," as Sweetheart put it.

This...this counts as an emergency.

Double-checking her boots, she pats along the nearly-invisible slits in the material, feeling for the implications of hidden blades. The knives are well-placed at the heels, in the interior, and as the buckles, but one can never be too careful.

Running to the lounge, King and the Girl are already given instructions. Aside from the Empress, there is no real leader, but King usually steps up to the job, as he can control the emotions of the room. Right now, he's calming them down without saying much, but his mere presence alone is bringing a sense of serenity. The Girl is a quiet one—unless she's practicing one of the languages she's fluent in—but she's a good strategist.

A haphazard plan is thought of on the spot, and when everyone is ready to go—or as ready as they can be without the Empress—the Girl takes the lead again and leads the team into two separate helicopters.

"If you're going head-on, come with me," she commands, and an inkling of the heroes follow her lead, giving each other amused smirks. It's unusual for her to be so...loud; it's unusual, but it's what's necessary.

Glacier, with his ability over water and all its variants, like ice; Hydroflare, with her power over water and setting it ablaze; Black Phoneix, with her skill of light and hand-to-hand combat; Reason, with her ability of chemical illusions after lust; and Splendour! with his powers of speed, strength, and illusions follow the Girl into the first helicopter.

As the second group gets into their own helicopter, the first group ascends into the sky and flies away.

Inside the copter, Guaritore takes inventory of those in her helicopter. There's Kevin, a genius with technology, manning their transportation, as King sits next to him, his presence giving off an aura of peace. Directly to Guaritore's right is Whiskey Wonder, whose job is to make anyone invisible and transport them to the center of battle or to Guaritore if they're hurt; to her left is Obsidian, who she thought would be in the first helicopter. Because of the scales protruding out of his body, he can't be harmed or maimed seriously, unless he's being hit in the same spot repeatedly and with a blunt amount of force.

Behind the trio sit Mannyo, the Beat, and Nora Belasco. Maanyo, too, is another surprise, but as his strength is moving in water, there's no need to throw him into battle—at least, not as a first resort. The Beat's job is to slow battle down when everyone is most hurt, most tired, and if it ever comes down to retreating, he is to pull everyone out. Nora Belasco's gig is to listen to whatever Kevin and the Girl say, as they're to remain on the helicopter and take over command...

Over the span of three hours on the helicopter, Guaritore contemplates her usefulness as a hero. Sure, she can save almost everyone; sure, she's a whiz when it comes to medicine of the natural and supernatural; and sure, she's an expert when it comes to killing without a trace; but what does she really provide? All she is, is a safety net. The team doesn't need her because she's valuable in battle; they need her for the after effects. Even in the grand scheme of the world, when there is nothing but Chaos and Void, all that remains is empathy and the ability to heal.

Almost as if reading her mind, Maanyo prods the front of her seat and gives her a small smile. Then he pokes his head forward, indicating to Kevin, his hands flying over controls and communicating with the Girl.

Even Kevin, she thinks, with no superhuman powers whatsoever, is still valuable.

He, like most heroes, will prove his worth in this upcoming battle.

As they begin to circle in on the Canadian Forces Base Esquimalt, loud explosions can be heard—collateral damage, damn it—but even more startling the noise of bombs going off is the thunderous dance of hundreds of pairs of feet.

Peering through the window, Guaritore almost faints. There are about two-hundred or so copies of one man, all of them acting on their own accord. Most of them are rampaging the Base, but a good portion of them are in full battle with the heroes of Project Phoenix. Even from up here, she can see how devastating the fight will be. Already, building are toppled over; already, the Girl's shrill commands can be heard. Kevin, at the sound of the Girl's cries, lowers down his copter and allows the remaining heroes to get off.

For a moment, Guaritore gets off, but then Maanyo pulls her arm back. Today is not for them—for now.

Grudgingly, but also thankfully, she sits at control with Kevin, "What do you need me to do?" she asks. "I'm a fast learner, and now that King isn't here, I'm confident I can ease you up until you're breathing like a normal person."

At the mention of his hitched breath, Kevin coughs and sits up straight. "Think of this as a car, okay? Just steer as you normally would, but pay attention to our altitude levels here and here; here's the gas indicator—why, looky, we have three-quarters of a tank left. And right here is the button for autopilot, just in case."

"Okay, and what will you be doing?"

"Uh, I know you're really smart, but I don't think—"

"Try me," she says instantly, eyes keeping track of the battle, the helicopter gliding in front of her, and her own steering wheel.

As he talks, she catches a few phrases she doesn't immediately know, but can guess at. When he talks about biochemical crafts he's engineered—different claws infused with radium, and some detonators that become undone, the way a bomb would, with things as simple as water and dyes—her eyes light up. And it's when he incorporates the physics behind it that she truly wakes up and feels useful.

"Maanyo," she calls out. In an instant, he's at the wheel, ready to take control. "Only call me if there's a problem. Talk to the Girl if you can't figure something out."

Moving to the back of the plane with Kevin, the two immediately get to work.

Hydraulic screwdrivers, and strips of copper, and chinks of silver, and vials of liquid hydrogen get passed around—even her scalpel makes an appearance. All these things—even the small slivers of a golden chain, weaved with the precision of one one-millionth of a millimeter—would be useless if not for the last gadget Guaritore provides.

Sweetheart's gift: a smoke bomb.

The pink dye is infused with nothing but dye and fluothane, penthrane, and neothyl, in both liquid and gaseous states, but when Guaritore injects one of her...special serums, the smoke bomb becomes lethal.

"Where should we aim?" Kevin asks, as if he's not the genius.

Looking out the window, it's almost impossible for Guaritore to say. Her fellow heroes are strewn all around, trying to take a blow at whoever they guess is the real Horde. No matter where she looks, she finds someone else she knows; every direction she looks at, not one cluster of Hordes is without a hero.

After a minute of holding the miniature bomb in her hands, Guaritore begins to feel it's warmth. The bomb has no concept of who is friend or foe, and though time is but a concept—just like infinity—the bomb will blow in less than five minutes.

"We need to decide—now."

The two look at each other, worry and acceptance plain on their faces.

The thing about Guaritore—about Urania, really—is that there is no such thing as an acceptable casualty. Saying something as malicious as that...it's like getting punched. In fact, any waste of human life is a despicable thing. No one deserves death, not even the most vile of people. Those who have caused nothing but hurt and destruction in their life are considered exceptions to people who think like her. Except, they deserve life too. They deserve to live out the rest of their miserable lives, receiving nothing but hurt and destruction in return.

The thing about Kevin is that he doesn't care. The job needs to be done. Casualties are acceptable in the wake of the greater good. It may be that one of these casualties is his brother, but it doesn't matter to him. The job needs to be done. Casualties are acceptable.

Casualties are acceptable.

They drop the bomb—epicenter.

Most of the heroes return, except for two.

In the wake of the greater good, blood has been spilt. In the passage of no acceptable casualties, blood has been spilt. Spilt, like the dredges of whiskey left in a glass, cool to the touch because of the cubes of ice. There's no reason for split blood, for death—but death seems to have reason.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Black Phoenix

 The cool breeze teases my hair out of its messy braid and blows it in front of my face. I brush it out of the way and sit down on the edge of the roof. Cars whiz by below and the sound of honking horns and squealing tires meet my ears. Lights blink on in the street, their beams chasing away the shadows cast by the setting sun. The air tastes of smoke and exhaust fumes, but I'm used to it. It's as fresh as the city gets most of the time.

It's peaceful, at least for the moment, and I want to take the time to enjoy it. Images of the masked intruders still flash through my head, though. Most of the people here aren't prepared for any kind of combat, but they fought anyway, simply because they felt it was their duty. I suppose I did the same, but at least I had experience. Maybe if the rest of them had been given more time to train we wouldn't have lost so many.

My phone rings and I check the caller ID. It's my boss, Julius. He probably isn't too happy about my extended absence. I didn't give him a reason for why I left- explaining that I was going to be part of a superhero program wouldn't have gone well- so the fact that he's calling my means he has run out of patience.

You can't just let it go to voice mail, Raven. Working as a hero doesn't really pay the bills, and you can't get fired. Anyway, he's probably worried too, after the last time you disappeared. I grudgingly accept my logic and answer the phone. "Hello, Julius."

"I thought it was only going to be a week or two," he snaps.

It's not the best greeting I could have asked for, but I appreciate the fact that someone is finally treating me like normal. The others have avoided me like the plague since Harmony died. Maybe they think it'll help. Maybe it has- I don't know. I don't really care either, I just wish I wasn't so hard to deal with. Tension runs high enough without my powers adding to it.

"Things got a bit out of hand. I'm helping the police department down here with a case," I lie. "It could be a while longer."

"You aren't in the hospital again, are you?" he asks. I can hear his concern.

"This isn't like last time, I promise. I'm perfectly healthy."

The last time I'm referring to is the time I took two weeks off to recover from a broken arm and severe burns. I'd gotten them while capturing a supervillain, but I couldn't exactly tell Julius that, so I'd faked being okay and pretended I was taking a vacation. He'd found out, though, as detectives tend to do. I came up with a decent excuse for it, but I think he still suspects I do things that most normal people wouldn't, like roaming the streets at night to keep supervillains in check.

"Well what are you doing working with the LA police department?" he demanded. "You're supposed to be on vacation."

"Come on, Julius, we both knew that wasn't going to happen." Or I did, anyway. I can't remember the last time I took a real vacation. There have been plenty of 'vacations', sure, but I took most of them so I could spend extra time tracking down various supervillains.

"Well stay safe. Let me know as soon as you know when you'll be back," he says with a sigh.

"Call me if you need anything. I'll can come back if necessary." I hope it won't be, but even so, Julius could easily end up needing me more than the rag-tag band of heroes I'd joined. If that does happen, I'm not going to stick around twiddling my thumbs at Phoenix HQ.

"Alright, enjoy your vacation. Don't let the department down there work you too hard." With that, he hangs up.

I'm about to put my phone back when a message pops up.

"Threat Profile:

Name: Declan Hart

Alias: Horde

Age: 32

Gender: Male

Status: Convict- Escaped from L'Amant Superhuman Correctional Facility, Quebec

Abilities: Replication- convict can make solid copies of himself, up to 200 at a time. Copies have all of Hart's memories, including his experience as a former member of the Canadian Special Operations Task Forces.

Threat Class: Delta (highly dangerous. Requires Empress's personal intervention)

Current Location: Vancouver, Canada, Canadian Forces Base Esquimalt

Urgent Action Required

"Great." I slip the phone back into my pocket and head for the door. "So much for not letting them work me too hard..."

Obsidian meets me halfway down the stairs. "What are we planning?" I ask. "The Empress is still gone, so are we going or not?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know yet. No one wants a repeat of what happened last time. At this point I feel like most of them are ready to pack up and leave."

"Well then get Maanyo, The Girl, and Reason and put together a team of whoever is willing to go." I'll go alone if I have to, but I find it unlikely that will bring anything but death for me. Things would go much better if we worked as a team. "I'll find transportation. Text me if no one else is coming. We need to leave as soon as possible."

"I'll go find the others, then," he says, darting back down the stairs. I head to my room and change into my combat outfit.

A small part of me wishes it was the masked men again. The cowards attacked Harmony from behind and I can't shake the burning desire to take revenge for that. Not just for her, but for everyone they killed that day. None of them should have died. This is why you joined the force, all those years ago. But you did it to bring those people to justice, not to take revenge- remember that.

I clip my power-dampening cuffs to my belt, although I can't imagine they'll do a whole lot against two hundred duplicates of the same man. Horde. The alias definitely works for him. He's got training in special forces too, which makes him even more dangerous.

My fists clench. This battle won't be like the last one. I won't let any more team members die, even if that means I have to fight alone.

***

In the end, everyone comes. Even so, it might not be enough. We're fighting without our leader and without much experience. Still, we have Obsidian, Maanyo, The Girl, and Reason doing their best to make things work and the rest are willing to listen. The main problem comes in who we're up against.

Horde can become an army- two hundred of himself, all focused on one single purpose. Our team is just sixteen and we aren't even used to working together. I've seen first hand how badly that can go. People who aren't used to working together make more mistakes, fight out of sync, and ultimately, put themselves in more danger. Especially going up against an opponent like Horde, who is both skilled and outnumbers us.

We split into four teams when as soon as we land. Obsidian, Maanyo, The Girl, and Reason become our team leaders, and each of them choose three heroes to join them. I end up with Obsidian, Hydroflare, and Glacier.

Before we go in, I focus a bit of my power on everyone so they can see in the dark. It isn't hard, and I get faster at it each time, but I won't be able to maintain that and use my other powers for a very long time. Hopefully it'll give us an edge in the coming battle, though.

When I take Glacier's hand to allow him to see in the dark, he grins at me. "Trying to get closer to me?"

Hydroflare taps his shoulder. "Don't bother," she warns. "She's too good for the rest of us."

He raises a perfectly-shaped brow and his grin widens. "I guess I've got my work cut out for me, then."

I pull away from him when I'm done and meet his gaze. "I'm not interested. Do your job and stop trying to get people into your bed."

His mouth turns down in a frown and he gives me an appalled look, as if that couldn't possibly be his goal. I ignore it. He's not offended, but he is interested. I would have preferred it if he was offended. It's not too late to make him back off.

I lean in a bit. "Don't bother denying it. You're just a player," I whisper. Then I move on before he can answer. Sure, it's a bit rude, but I've seen him with the others. He flirts with the first pretty face he sees, girl or boy. I want nothing to do with that kind of person and it's better if he stays far, far away from me.

Obsidian claps his hands to get our attention. "Listen, we don't know why Horde is here or what he's doing in there. He could have anywhere from one to two hundred copies of himself running around. We can expect this to be a challenge, but it is not impossible. If we knock out the original, the rest of his copies will disappear."

Everyone nods seriously, as if finding Horde's original body isn't going to be like searching for a needle in a haystack. "Let's go, then. The building has four levels, so pick a floor and search it. Stick together and support each other, got it?" Maanyo says, stepping forward.

"Got it." The reply echoes against the walls of the jet we'd used to get here. I can't help admiring their enthusiasm. Despite last time, once they decided to fight, they put all of their effort into it.

Just remember that running away when you can't win is okay too, I tell them silently. Don't get killed.

***

Horde has already torn up the third floor. There's broken glass everywhere and the lights flicker on and off ominously. I absorb the light, making everything dark.

The silence is the first thing I notice. A supervillain who decides to destroy someplace isn't going to do so quietly. But more than that, there are no screams. Nothing to indicate that someone might still be alive.

My boot crunches against the glass on the floor and I pull out my gun. The weight of it in my hands calms me a bit and I allow myself to slip into fighting mode. I absorb the rest of the light in the room and allow the energy from it to heighten my senses. The sound of Glacier breathing right behind me suddenly becomes much more audible.

I feel more too, but not from them. From Horde. All two hundred and one of him. The amount of anger and malice I can feel from him washes out the feelings of the rest of our small team. It's worse than the masked men, if only because it's coming from so many copies of the same man. The effect is exactly what I imagine taking one person's emotions and multiplying it by two hundred would do.

It takes considerable effort to push those feelings aside. It feels like trying to stop a tidal wave with a tiny splash, but I manage- barely. "You okay?" Obsidian asks.

"Yeah. He's here," I reply. "And he's multiplied to maximum capacity."

"Great." Hydroflare frowns at me. "Are you sure you're fine? You're kind of pale."

"I'll be fine. Let's find him."

We advance further down the hall and find offices. The doors have been kicked in and there's more glass scattered on the floor. Desks have been flung across the room, chairs broken, computers smashed, potted plants ripped apart, and windows shattered. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is the blood on the floor and the people the blood came from.

They're all dead, but I can feel traces of fear hovering in the room still, like ghost emotions. "He killed them all," Hydroflare whispers.

I kneel next to one of the bodies and examine the wounds. There are no bullet wounds, but at least three stab wounds, as well as multiple bruises. The poor man's arm is broken too. It looks like he tortured them before he killed them. How could one man hold such hatred for humanity.

"So you did come."

The voice startles me and I whirl around. There are six of them in the doorway, holding Obsidian. A knife is pressed against his throat. The Horde copies grin maliciously, and three of them step forward. "Surrender and we'll let him live."

Hyrdoflare's fists clench, but she doesn't say anything. She won't surrender, but she won't say she isn't going to either. She's conflicted. I, however, have no problem making a decision. "You're lying," I say. "You plan to kill all of us."

"Some might cling to hope," Horde murmurs. "Will you watch him die because you cannot?"

My feet move forward of their own accord and I step in front of the nearest Horde. "I won't hold to false beliefs." Then I pull the trigger. The gunshot echoes through the room and the first Horde collapses, then disappears.

Obsidian makes his move then, reaching up with surprising speed and cracking head of his captor against his own. There's a loud crack and Horde's head splits open. This copy disappears too. Glacier flies straight into the next one, freezing water from a nearby water fountain and stabbing the icicle into 3rd Horde's chest.

Hydroflare boils the same water and flings it into another Horde's face. He walks through the stream as if it's nothing and lashes out with his knife, but my bullet goes through his heart before he can do any damage. The last Horde disappears after a fatal punch from Obsidian.

He's not fighting seriously. It doesn't really surprise me, though. The guy can replicate up to two hundred of himself. If one replica goes down, he can just make a new one. In other words, he can replenish his army, while our small teams have no such ability. That's probably why killing them doesn't hurt me. After all, why fear death if you can just make more of yourself? This is going to be a pain.

"The real Horde probably won't be fighting," I point out. "He has two hundred of himself to do that, and there has to be some reason he's here other than just to kill people and destroy things. He's probably off taking care of whatever that is."

"Or I came to lure in the heroes of Project Phoenix and kill them." Another Horde appears in the doorway, alone this time.

I send a bullet through him before he can make a move. He smiles as he hits the floor and disappears. He's arrogant. He believes he can win with his powers simply because there are more of him than there are of us.

"Let's find the original," Obsidian says. "This place is a dead end."

There are more Horde copies everywhere we go, but once I make things pitch black, we get the jump on them more often than not. As long as we can attack from the shadows and avoid getting caught by a large group of them, we'll be fine.

That's the best situation I can come up with. Naturally, that isn't what happens. When we round the corner at the last place we hadn't checked on the floor, we come face-to-face with twenty or thirty Horde copies. They descend on us like skilled, nimble, self-replicating zombies.

Faced with the surprise attack, I lose my handle on the malice coming off of them. Just like that, my feelings are replaced with an incredible desire to kill. Bang. Bang. Bang. I shoot the copies until I'm out of bullets. Then I plunge straight into the fray with my knife.

Each time my knife comes down it connects with flesh, and each time my knife draws blood I hear a satisfying hiss, growl, or scream. Something slices across my arm and I recoil, slashing the area where Horde's knife had been.

Someone grabs my hair from behind, yanking me backwards, and then there's a knife against my throat. It disappears seconds later and I find Glacier standing behind me. Kill him. He trusts you- do it now, while he's vulnerable. He deserves it for flirting with you earlier. Everyone here deserves to die. Just stab him now. My fists clench. He does deserve it. If I do it now, he'll never see it coming.

"Behind you, Black Phoenix!" Hydroflare snaps.

I spin, throwing my knife as I do. It hits with deadly accuracy and the copy that attacks me disappears. I grab my knife and jump into the fight again. Destroy them. Kill the enemy. The little voice in my head urges me forward and my attacks become increasingly ferocious.

"Raven stop!" Obsidian grabs my hand and pulls me back. "They're gone."

Enraged, I nearly stab him too, but the way his eyes widen in fear as I attack snaps me out of it. The knife stops mere centimeters from his chest and I yank away from him, breathing hard. The desire to kill still lurks inside me, but I've horrified myself enough to push it deep down. If I almost killed Obsidian, what could I do to the rest of the team if this happened again?

Then I see Hydroflare and Glacier. They're on the floor with blood pouring out of various wounds. Dead. "Did I..."

"No! No, that wasn't you." His voice is gentle, but shaken.

He's scared of me. "I almost killed you," I whisper. My gaze is locked on Hydroflare and Glacier's bodies. What if he's wrong? What if I did kill them and he just didn't see it happen? I can't remember what happened... it's too hazy. I should remember. If I killed them, I should at least be able to remember.

Obsidian grabs my shoulders and shakes me gently. "We have to move now. Horde is still out there."

"I... I can't. I can't face him again." I take a breath. "I-If I hurt you, any of you, I'll never forgive myself."

"Listen to me, Black Phoenix. You've faced villains before, right? People just like Horde who shoot and kill and hurt people. What did you do then?"

"You don't understand! I've never worked with heroes before, Obsidian. On the force I'm not using my powers, so my ability to feel it is limited. Here I can't stop myself."

The idea terrifies me. I terrify myself. I could potentially go berserk at any minute and they won't be expecting it. "Look, we'll find the team on the second floor and you can join them. After that I'm going alone, alright?"

"They'll kill you! Don't you get that?"

"I don't care! I can't fight around you or I'll hurt someone."

He stares at me, unwavering. "I trust you."

"I'm sorry, but I don't. I won't leave you to fight alone, so come on. Let's find The Girl and her team."

***

Once we find the others, I split off and head back up to the third floor. The others object, but most of them don't seem to care. Only Obsidian is truly worried when I leave, but it doesn't matter. If I'm not around them, then the only things I'll be killing when I lose control will be Horde's copies. I can handle that, at least.

Since when do you have so little trust in your own abilities? You faced plenty of villains with plenty of blood lust before and you didn't kill them. You arrested them and sent them to jail where they belong. What's changed? My fist curls around my knife. I have a team to worry about, that's what. Harmony died because of me. Hydroflare and Glacier too. Even though I promised myself I wouldn't let it happen, I couldn't stop it.

"Here's a lonely hero." Horde slips out of a dark corner behind me, his deep voice grating at me ears. "I guess that incident with Obsidian really shook you up, didn't it?"

I face him, but turns out that was a big mistake, because something hits me from behind and everything goes black.