King

Harvey Wallbanger:

(3 parts) Vodka

(6 parts) Orange Juice

(1 part) Galliano

It's a feeling in his bones. A shiver, a twitch, something lost and something gained all in a single passing second. There's an emotion in the air he can't place. Not fear. Not confusion. And although the halls are empty, they throb with emotion. King isn't sure of the time. But that's nothing new. It's a concept beyond his reach. Morning, night, day, evening, all the same words but strung in a different order. All that matters is he that he is up before the sun. His wrists flick off invisible droplets of water. In his mind, they splash. One, two, threefour, and five. Suddenly alive, suddenly free, and then colliding with tile. Smeared together like lipstick on a window pane. A forgotten kiss. Full of meaning but without context—useless.

Why can't he sleep? Why does he feel so sluggish? There's energy all around. Misplaced, overwhelming, and lost. But it doesn't appeal to him. Like force feeding a child vegetables, he refuses. And it drains him. It drains him and he can feel his body slowing with every second. Memories becoming more distinct. The buzz wearing away into a dull hum. Not enough to satisfy. Not enough to keep King sharp. But enough even still. Enough.

She is standing in the hallway. Without a breath, he would have passed her by. But something pulls him back. Stops his feet from their mediocre trudge. What had he learned? Nothing really. A whole day wasted on chasing after geese. But this, this is something. Guaritore is wearing all white, her outfit of choice, but why? Why so early in the morning? He knows the girl. Knows she's gentle. When she turns, gentleness vanishes. When she turns, her outfit is spattered with blood. And she smiles. A low whistle escapes his lips. Eyes flicker to the ground, where another girl lays motionless. Bloody. The world tastes like battlefields and beer left out in the sun. Still, she's seen him. His breath hitches, but she's seen him. So he steps forward. Slowly, painfully so.

"I gotta say—" There's a steadiness in his voice. He's no stranger to murder. No stranger to the lifeless stare of the dead. " I didn't think you had it in you, sweetness." He can smell death. With every footfall, it is closer. It's waiting. Her sleeves are lined with blood. Her hands are stained.

When she moves, it is not fluid, not at first. Like a puppet tugged on strings, she smiles. Lips upturned, teeth showing, but nothing has ever looked so menacing. "What a lovely surprise." Guaritore's voice is pure starlight over running water. Soft enough to kiss. Smooth enough to forget. King doesn't forget. Energy pours off her in waves. Hot, burning, intense, yet unfocused. Ill-prepared. If it was a soup, he could swallow only a spoonful before his mouth was scalded raw.

Make them respect you, that's the key. So he does, he laughs, and it bubbles over with more venom that he expects. The taste is bitter and low, just like his voice. Patience is key. This isn't the hero he knows. This is something else. Something that kills. "I don't know what your game is, but I'd prefer to chat face to face."

A head cocked, eyes narrowed, and still that smile. That smile. It sets his teeth on edge, shivers in his bones. "Which face would you prefer?" she asks. A shimmer, a tremble, and then she is light. Unmanifested, unharnessed, then solidified. Whole. With the body of another. A girl with narrow, cold eyes and a heat that simmers beneath his skin. Hydroflare. "This one?" King steps back. The heat increases with each word. He can feel it burning. The cards in his deck crumble one by one. Forgotten, charred into ash beneath her glare. A single step forward, then another shiver. Light, mirrors shifting over a formless body. Now, a man, dark skinned and intense. King knows him. Maanyo. "Or perhaps this one?"

He is a seal in the water. And this—this thing, circles like a shark. Waiting. Hungry. Each step becomes sideways, walking around King and his jaw sets. In his mind, the world becomes a scramble. Trying to pick up the pieces, shove them desperately back into place. But there's too much. There's too much and there's not enough energy to think. He's suffocating. Drowning in his own air. He doesn't answer, and the thing pouts.

"Here I was, thinking you'd be fun." Maanyo is gone, replaced by a boy with dark hair and blue eyes that burn like stardust. Patience is key. The boy circles. Never slowing, never stopping. One arm folds across his chest. King doesn't move, only watches, only observes. Then, a grin, spread like hot butter over the shape shifter's features. One eyebrow arched, a gasp faked, and when he speaks it's with delight. "Do I make you uncomfortable?" Fingers curl into fists, nails bite into flesh. The pain can't pull him free. He's stuck in the cycle, watching death step easily over the body of the first fallen— or is it the first at all? "You seem be at a loss for words." It's true. He is. No words come from his throat. No reply can be given. King's eyes narrow, but all he does is watch. The boy steps too close, his circle tightens, closing in on his prey.

His hand slides around to his back pocket. Fingers wrap around the phone, pull it out but he never looks away. Don't hide your hands. This time, he ignores. All signs of deception are there. No need for niceties. The circle grows tighter, the boy continues to speak. "So how does this go down?" he asks and King says nothing. Only watches. Only moves the tips of his fingers the barest amount. Always where the intruder can see. Make them feel for you. Make them feel in charge and he does, he gives away his power. He lets him think he'll never make it, but his hands don't shake. "You sound the alarm and let your buddies take me in?" The boy chuckles, like water over loose stones. Turning, churning, never steady. King pauses. Breath caught in his throat. Finger half a breath away from dialing the number on the screen. "No, that isn't your style. You like to do it all by yourself."

Is it his style? Yes. Hell yes. He knows this. The intruder knows this. King's lips relax, release the tension in his jaw. The phone slips back into his pocket. A defeat. A rescind of ideas. Surrender. But the button is pressed, ever so softly, ever so gently. And the call is dialed in silence. King fills the voice with his words at last, tugs them from his throat with fish hooks. "Are you the one causing me so much trouble?" he asks. The question rewards him with another laugh. More stones crumble.

"In the flesh." He is proud. He is flaunting. He is arrogant. Still, his words flow smoothly. Running into one another until they mold into a single stream of being. "From what I've been told, you caused quite a stir in your day too." Again, the intruder circles him. Waiting. Waiting. King's feet move with his, turning and turning like gears in a clock. "And now you're here doing what? Cleanup for escaped convicts?" The words grate against his skin. They're too calm, too thought out. "It's a shame to see such talent go to waste." He is closer still. King can feel the air brush against him as he walks. Each syllable clings to his brain, engraves itself there until he can hear it echoing and echoing and endlessly echoing inside of the recesses of his mind. "This is quite a way to live up to that name of yours." The intruder's breath is in his ear. Whispering, grinning. "King."

But the voice that speaks isn't his own. It's some else's, someone new. King's heart is in his throat. His blood in on fire. There is no distinguishing the pounding of his pulse from the space between beats. On reflex, he lashes out. "Enough!" The word bursts from his lips. The circle is broken. He steps out, but his arm collides with the intruder's grip.

Something cold slides through him, like oil forced down his throat. King feels sick. He feels stolen from. But by the time he pulls his hand away, it's too late. The intruder grins. "That's more like it!" Call off the game, he's got the royal flush, and King watches as his face begins to change once more. Into one he knows. Into freckles like uncharted constellations and a cat-eyed smile with a bird caught in his jaws. He is King. "God, I see why you like this. The energy." A breath is pulled from the air, sucked into the new King's lungs. Grey floods his fingers, all too eager to oblige. "It's intoxicating."

Viciousness lines his teeth and he can't help but scoff. "Honey, there's only room for one on this earth for one of me. And that—" His head jerks in the direction of the smoke. Already he can taste it, too sweet and too enticing. A dull ache claws at his chest. Craving. Hungry. The bones are all gnawed to ribbons but there's nothing for them here. "Ain't gonna do shit against me." There's no time for regret. No time to pull the words back. King regrets nothing. King regrets everything. And the smile only widens. The false prophet, the usurper, he smiles, and the circle is complete.

The new King stands in front of him. Folds his arms across his chest. "You're right," he admits. But there's no defeat in his gaze. Instead, there is new life. New ideas, more diabolical than before. "How about we try something a little different?"

And then he changes. Into someone taller. Broader. Someone with hair that hits their shoulders like a lion's mane of gold and sunlight. His nails are curved, almost more feline than human. And there's a grace to the way his body sways back and forth that King cannot forget. Kitty stands in front of him. Tall, strong, and beautiful, with eyes only for King. Always for King. Arrogance dies a painful death in his throat. Shoulder aching, voice stripped away, he can only stare. Frozen. Shell-shocked. For a moment, he is lost. Drowning in the memories of laughter smudged against drying paint and whiskey coated kisses that erased the murderous neon glow of the night. "I—"

Kitty's smile cuts him off. Kitty's grin pulls him in. It's too easy to forget. It's too easy to hope that maybe this isn't an illusion. But then the ache spreads from his shoulder through his body. How did he get his face? The thought festers inside of him. An unspoken threat, an ace up the sleeve, and a fear that gnaws inside of his rotting bones until he crumbles. "What's the matter, handsome? You think I might've hurt your pet?" It's Kitty's voice, but not his words. It's Kitty's strength as he steps up to meet King, but the look in his eye is unfamiliar. The look of a stranger and he grins. "It's a shame you won't get to find out."

Blood boils into anger that tastes like regret. Bare knuckles meet skin, but not fast enough. He is not fast enough. Every hit misses. Again, he swings. Again, and again, but he is not good enough. He is not clear enough. Pain bursts from his side. From his jaw. He clutches unformed bruises and hisses through his teeth. Through emotion, his eyes are blinded. King is outmatched. Outwitted. The fight is over before it begins. Claws rake against his skin, blood blooming between shreds of broken fabric. His feet are knocked out from beneath him. The King falls. Collides with the ground and a gasp is forced from his throat. His body is inches from the corpse. Her blood is in his hair. King's blood is staining the floor.

Then comes the taste of lust. It's scorching and green and it burns holes through him until he gathers his senses enough to stop breathing. For Kitty, it's too late. His form falters. Flickers. And then it's gone and he can see the wildness in his eyes. Fully dilated, burning with something hungry. Fingers wrap around his wrist before he can turn. King yanks him to the floor, loses his fingers in his hair. The intruder's head is slammed into the tile. Once, twice, and then his eyes roll back.

Heels click against cold stone. It's always heels that save him. The lust dissipates. Breathing in short bursts, his gaze leaves the intruder. Focuses on the smiling, robotic-legged woman standing in the doorway. "You could have given me some directions, babe," she scolds. King grins. It tastes bloody, but it's victory. Reason crosses the room, helps him to his feet.

"What, and made things easy for you?" The joke is hard in his throat. "Never."

Stir the vodka and orange juice with ice in the glass, then float the Galliano on top. Garnish with orange slices and a cherry before serving.

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

Glacier

"You want to remind me why I'm in handcuffs again?" Dante asked, peering his head around the seat across from. He tried and failed to meet the woman's eyes.

"Because you couldn't be left alone," Irene muttered, a half-hearted response with her focus immersed in her phone. He would've thought she was telepathically linked with it now by how much she'd poked and prodded and called and answered the small thing in the past hour. It seemed a never-ending cycle that he had no choice but to watch.

He tested the handcuffs again. A soft yank sent them rattling, one cuff secured around his left wrist and the other clasped around the airliner seat. The truth was Dante could have broken the link in a single tug of his wrist. With all the arguing and planning, he'd never corrected Irene on the small fact he did have a little power. It wasn't Clint Galleger's patented superstrength or even enough to level the floor of a building, but what it had done was get the young boy out a heap of troubling situations that were eerily like this one.

"Irene, can you-"

She held up her fingers as the phone rang again, mouthed a sorry and stepped from the flight doors down to the outside steps. Dante sunk back in his chair. He drew in his surroundings of the empty plane and sighed. A minute passed, then two and then three. It wasn't until the explosion sounded that he gave up on the idea of waiting.

Tugging the handcuffs, he broke them in a motion and worked at the back of his heel with his other hand. Hidden beneath his foot were the handy gadgets Clint had given him. The others had had enough time to search him for his rocket boots but not enough to check the insides of his shoes. Per his luck, however, his own weight had crushed the skeleton for his right hand. Without time to gripe, he slipe on the left one and bolted through the aisle and off the plane. The landing stripe was beside the new compound they'd been brought to in search of signs of Sato. None of the others left stood guard, though, even Irene having disappeared. Swallowing his worry, Dante took off toward the nearest entrance.

Getting inside wasn't the hard part, it was finding anything once he was inside. The place was a maze. He took off down one hallway until he became bored and then switched directions down another. There were no signs of commotion and without the communicator with him to guide him he was blind. Changing tactics, he found a sign pointing in the directions of the security room. There had to be cameras or a map or even information there. He had barely started when his own footsteps halted on account of a second pair that picked up near him and came close by the second.

"Clint, there you are!" Irene's voice echoed down the narrow corridor.

He turned, gazing over the way more than a dozen stray hairs had escaped from her beanie and the way her chest barely heaved despite the steady pace she was following. The little earpiece she'd been wearing on the plane had disappeared. Trivial details and yet they made their mark at her approach. He shifted back, hands tucked into his pockets. An unease settled over him at the smile she wore.

"Irere, I'm not-" Dante had only begun to correct her when an elbow smashed into his jaw. He stumbled back in surprise, cradling the area.

Her eyes weren't focused on him, though. Irene's eyes were on her own hands, tracing the patterns there. She miserably shook her head. "This body won't do for a fight," the woman mumbled to herself as if the idea was too pathetic to question.

Dante fell back another step. "Want to tell me what's going on?" Her eyes were calculating as always but there was a threat that lurked on the edges and his jaw was still throbbing. So it wasn't Irene, or if it was, she certainly was no longer herself. It didn't matter.

A hand grabbed him and pinched the skin the between his hoodie and his neck. His body seized up in reaction and his eyes fell onto the ones across from him. They'd dulled to a familiar brown with a sharp jaw and a wide grin to match. Yanking against the grip, Dante fired ice from his working hand. It sputtered and spewed but the icicles shattered against the concrete too far to the right of the man's face - Clint's face. Two more blows sent him reeling to the round.

"Much better," the man spoke aloud his voice echoing down the corridor. His eyes glanced behind them at the shattered remains of Dante's useless attack. "That's handy too."

Trying to struggle to his feet, a foot connected with the side of Dante's face. He rolled over and lay still. A ragged breath pressed his lungs but copper clogged his nose and ran down the back of his throat when he tried to breathe. "Shapeshifting... okay, that's new." He spoke the words through a gasp of pain to reaffirm his handle on the situation. Needless to say, his grip was slipping.

Clint's second double clicked his tongue, staring down at Dante. "I really expected more from you Cherry. Considering your position, I would have thought you'd do better than a band of misfits." He paused upon that line and smiled lightly down at a crack in the concrete few would bother to notice, like he had found an inside joke with himself. It took a second to right the expression and he sighed as he pulled out a phone from his back pocket. "Power isn't everything, I suppose."

Dante struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. He glared at the familiar case of the iPhone and tilted his chin in a vain attempt to look threatening. "What'd you do with Irene?"

He made no sign he planned to respond, trying to swipe the phone upon and upon failing he shook the device vigorously. "Fingerprint scanner, clever." The phone was twirled once between his fingers before he caught it again. The shapeshifter shook his head. "Oh well." It dropped to the ground without a second thought and broke in two beneath his boot.

The weight of his own foot shocked him for a second. A small crater appeared beneath the sole of his boot and he threw a glance at Dante. "Strenght too." He strode over to the groaning body and delivered a second kick to the gut that sent Dante's body into the wall. It wasn't necessary but it seemed to please him. A new set of footsteps barreled down the hallway and the stranger turned his attention. "Now then, who's next?"

Of course, it would make sense that it was no other than Clint who turned the corner. His chest was heaving and his brow sweaty. He looked at the Dante across from his and then down at the bloodied and bruised version at the other man's feet. The shapeshifter did the same. Apparently, he normally was the one causing the confusion and not the other way around. Raising a hand as he'd seen Dante do, he tried to fire a shower of ice. It failed without so much as a sputter.

"You really can't beat the original, sorry," Glacier called with a smug expression as a storm twisted from his own hands and dropped the temperature just to the edge of freezing.Whoever the man was, he was faster than Clint. He dodged the attack in a fluid motion and prepared for the second. What he didn't prepare for was Maanyo sneaking up behind him. In one strike of his arm, the villain crumpled to the floor. Clint grinned and made his way to offer his true counterpart a hand. "Dante, I'm not sure what I'm going to do if you keep multiplying. What am I supposed to tell Irene?"

He shook his head, too dizzy to come up with a more clever response than "shut up."

However, it only took the Girl a moment before she herself was racing down the hallway, blood leaking from beneath her beanie and panting her hardest. She took one look between the three duplicates and Maanyo and repeated the action. "Scratch that. It's a migraine," she muttered, throwing her head back and wiping her brow.

At her words, the illusion faded. The man below them was not much more than a boy. A sea of black matted hair clung to his forehead and his eyes rolled behind his eyelids. A soft groan escaped his lips but he held still.

Clint smirked. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced with more enthusiasm necessary, considering Dante's head was already pounding, "I give you our new lead."

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

Hydroflare

People are wrong. They find ways to destroy every instance of right and relish in knowledge that is fake because it brings them comfort. To be strong for a person is to be ignorant and stubborn. People have never been right about that and Stella is no exception--she lingers on the edge of a donkey and an elephant. Either wise or an ass, whichever it may be, and as she waltzed through the room, Stella-Maris proposed that she must've been both.

Hell knows what it was that made her start talking to the captured guy. Maybe it was because The Girl and the rest of them had all fled the room, leaving guard duty to her and the big dragon. They expected her to be good at watching a criminal because she would just set the guy on fire.

An itchy suit covered her. It wasn't hers but it was the only flame retardant one they had on hand in her size. Given by the nasty puke-yellow color of it, she could only assume that it was necessary. If a fire got out of hand, the worst that could be burned was her head with that on. God, if only my skin was fireproof. But no, someone had to go and fuck that up in the superhero-making department, didn't they? Bitches.

Matthias sat before Azazel with his legs crisscrossed. Ever since the intruder had been found, someone had to be watching. Two people, because that way one would always (theoretically) be able to tell if something happened and they switched persons. Stella knew from extensive years of movie watching with her father that it didn't matter how many people were in the room, one wrong move meant hell. Clones were evil beings with powers of craziness. Shapeshifters? God have mercy.

"So," Stella began, a hint of amusement lining her words, "How long have you been here, big guy?"

He doesn't talk. If anything, the 'he' is a misplaced pronoun. Stella didn't know whether she should be calling him 'he' or 'she' given that Azazel had taken the form of Nora. It was pretty clever, looking like a cute, defenseless girl. If anything, it was downright maniacal. If someone didn't know it was him, they'd likely be doing anything to get her out. That was the power of pity--but Stella didn't have pity. Especially not for assholes or supervillains. With a mix of the two, it looked like Azazel wouldn't be getting anything for quite the time.

"Well? Cat got your tongue, mister?"

"Since the attack."

"Ooh, just hiding out?" Stella clicks her tongue against the side of her mouth and grins. "So you were part of the group that came in with the jade masks? Kind of an ugly disguise. Did you have to raid the arts and crafts store before breaking in, or were you just left with the leftovers from the stereotypical bad guy in movies?"

Again, the silence pooled from him. Her? Ugh. I hate pronouns. We need to just lock them all away and go with something better. Azazel. Sure, let's just call the bitch that. Or bitch. I like bitch.

"Don't antagonize him, S-Hydro," Matthias said. The focus on Azazel never left but something in his words felt too directed at her. Like he could see her every movement even when he wasn't looking at her.

It was disgusting. This won't last. I can't stand this. Sorry, big boy. You're fun but this is creepy. The very thought of someone caring for her and watching her throughout her life was enough to make Stella want to run away and live in the forest like some sort of fairy creature.

"Who says I'm antagonizing him? I'm just looking for information."

"Who says I didn't want information from you?"

There came his first unprovoked words. They were sharp, yet the voice remained Nora's. A shift came and he was Matthias, staring over at her with those big eyes. Fuck, I don't need two of them. At least, not outside of the bedroom. She turned from him and looked at the ceiling, catching the glare of the light until she looked away.

"What was that?"

"How do you even know this isn't a trap?"

A trap. "Of course this is a fucking trap. You've got some buddies coming to rescue you or something like that. This is Blade-level easy. You want to start talking about dicks too, or is that too graphic for the PG-13 rating?" An easy glint shattered in her eyes as she continued walking, letting her hands glide effortlessly around her. The room was bare, without anything in it, and yet she still felt the need to push off from the wall as she walked, as though just waiting to run into something.

There, Azazel changed again. It was almost beautiful to watch as his jawline grew stronger, the eyes turned a dark brown, his brows became furrier. Shoulders morphed wider, his body growing tall as hell, and that classic Glacier smile was there with those too-pink lips and the white boy tan that kept him looking like he belonged in a Hollywood film instead of a crime-fighting squad. Are his eyes really the same shade of his hair? What the fuck, did God run out of colored pencils when drawing him up or am I just not noticing a difference? She didn't want to get close enough to see.

"You've just got this all figured out, don't you?" he asked, never letting those eyes waver from her direction.

"You could say that." She paused, letting the air fill for a second or two. "So, where's The Empress? Going to let out that information anytime soon, or should I just set you on fire?"

Pop!

She turned her head to him too late--Azazel broke through the restraints with the same skill that Glacier had. Matthias jumped up to grab him but the floor was ice in seconds, the cyrokinesis transforming the room into an ice rink. The chill flooded through Stella. She burnt the ice in front of her and ran to him, trying to keep up her pace with the speed of her powers, but it wasn't going fast enough. He was close to the door and she shouted, screaming something loud enough for people in the hallway or anywhere close to hear.

Matthias slid over the ice as he ran for Azazel. A large bruise was purpling over his forehead. Before he could reach the copycat, he threw open the door. Outside, Guaritore threw up her hands, her voice as calm and cool as ever.

"What's wrong? I heard you screaming-"

Azazel didn't waste a second as he grabbed her, throwing her against a wall with his strength. A loud crack came but it wasn't as harsh as the sound of her scream--the quick, two seconds of torture before she fell to the ground, her body broken, neck snapped in half. Matthias grabbed Azazel, wringing his neck with his hands, and as they fell over and wrestled, Stella finally made her way over there.

"Matthias, hold him steady!"

"I'm trying!"

Matthias looked up at her with his hands around the other's neck--and yet the eyes that stared at her from both were the same. Each line of face was something she'd touched--those lips she'd kissed a hundred times over. Two men stood before her. One was a liar and the other was likely pretending he wasn't one. It didn't matter which was which. She threw up her hands, letting fire dance in the air.

"Good thing you brought in all this water, fucking genius. H2O, my absolute favorite. Chemistry isn't my deal, but something tells me that you really don't want me to set either of you on fire. Is that it?" They shook their heads, both copies keeping their grips tight. "Good job. Matthias, kill him."

Both paused. Behind her, Guaritore remained on the ground, unmoving. There goes another teammate. Great. Just fucking great. It was like that all the time--for some reason, people didn't seem to understand that dying wasn't helpful. It served them right, the idiots they all were. God, how am I supposed to figure out which is which? The want not to kill displayed perfectly between them, trapped in the distance between person and killer.

Does this even fucking matter? She didn't want the thoughts to come but they did. I wasn't going to be with him forever anyway. He was a fun guy, but it looks like I'll just fucking kill them both. Damn. Will I miss him? Is that wrong? To kill him? The pause was a second, maybe less, but Stella had over a million thoughts and none of them were right. It was all wrong. Wrong, because Stella was human the same as everyone else. Under the suit, under her skin, under her powers, lay a scared little human girl who didn't know shit and tried too hard to pretend that nothing mattered.

"I'm sorry, Matthias."

With a snap, both boys started screaming. The air filled with smoke as the fire roared underneath their skin--not enough to kill, but burning, leaving their arms charred. One of them was talking, his voice harsh and painful.

"Don't kill him, Stella," he gasped. "We need him! The Empress-"

Stella let the other one burn hotter and the copycat shifted back into his regular form. Matthias dropped the flaming one and flung himself onto a remaining patch of ice, letting it cool his burnt arm as Stella reached down and picked up Azazel.

"Good boy," she purred. Then, louder. "Hey! Someone get this asshole in a more secure room before I kill him!" The burn hadn't gone past his arm but she wasn't going to stop anytime soon. One body part wouldn't matter too much. Sweat glistened off his face as he struggled in her arms, the pain coming in gasps and cries.

The Girl and others came running down the hallway, coming to clean up the mess. About time.

"You okay, Matthias?"

He nodded, giving her a weak smile as she walked over and placed a hand on his back. This is why I don't date. Fuck. I bet he's wanting me to take him to get healed. Wait--fuck, wasn't that our healer over there? Look at this shit. This is all shit. I'm done. As they started down the hallway and left Azazel with the rest, Stella sighed at herself. I'm just done.

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

Obsidian

The key was the most important thing Matthias had done in what felt like forever. Saving people from destroyed buildings—that was good work, rewarding work, but it did little to uncover the mystery of where the Empress had gone. This was something that contributed to the team, something that made him feel a part of the people all around him. His heart was pounding when they left the Empress's room with the key safe in Stella's coat pocket. He could feel its beat all the way in the back of his throat, pulsing in time to the frantic thoughts in his mind. Even the elevator ride seemed too slow. Feet tapping against the linoleum, Matthias could do little to reel in his excitement. The grin on his lips made Stella shake her head and laugh, but she didn't do anything to correct him. She's happy too, he decided. We've both done something important here. Even if it meant breaking into someone's bedroom. Even his headache had vanished, replaced by the adrenaline in his veins and his eagerness to share their findings.

But the moment they stepped out of the elevator and onto the floor where all of Project Phoenix resided, that excitement boiled away into a bitter fear. Blood was the first thing that met Matthias's gaze. It spread across the floor like a miniature lake, freezing his heart as chills rose on his skin. Oh god. There should have been alarms. Even as he followed the trail of blood to the broken body lying in the middle of the hallway, his eyes were already looking at the security lights he knew so well. Matthias still had their sound engraved in the back of his head from the first night they'd been attacked. But now, the air was silent.

"What the fuck?" Stella whispered as she stepped out beside him. Her hand briefly touched his arm, a moment of support passing between the two of them. But he didn't have time to comfort her or try to lessen the confusion that was piling higher with every second that passed. Where are the others? Why has nobody seen this?

He might still be alive. The thought seized his whole being, propelling Matthias forward and around the blood until he could crouch at the side of the body. The face was a familiar one, even bloodied and swelling. Aar. With shaking hands, he put his fingers to the other boy's throat. His skin was cold, and his pulse was absent. "He's lost too much blood." The words were followed by a shake of his head. He was suddenly aware of the red staining his clothes from where he stood, but the way his clothes clung to his skin with the stickiness of the blood no longer fazed him like it had. "I don't think—" A shout pulled him back to his feet, a cry of surprise and anger that spun him on heel.

In front of him stood two copies of Stella-Maris, the first one held in a chokehold by the second. Identical in every way. His jaw fell open, words sputtering from his lips in half-formed sentences as his brain tried to catch up to the scene. "Matthias!" The first Stella shouted, struggling against the other's grip, but to no avail. He remained frozen in place, incapable of moving.

"What is this?" he asked, voice coming out much louder and much shakier than he intended. "What's going on?"

The second Stella's eyes narrowed into a glare. "This thing," she jerked the first one forward, forcing more air out of her throat, "just tried to grab me." The words were spit like they were toxic, grip tightening on the other Stella. Eyes darting between the two, he struggled to find some difference to tell them apart But there was nothing. They were identical in every way, even down to the sneer that crinkled their noses and creased their brows. His breath was tight in his throat, coming out only in short and unsatisfying bursts that left him dizzy. "Well don't just stand there, idiot!" she barked. "Help me!"

With a small jump, he stepped away from Aar's body, moving out of habit at the sound of an order. But the laughter of the first Stella stopped him. She grabbed ahold of the arm across her throat. "Oh my god," Stella hissed, trying in vain to pry herself free. "I'm not playing the Which One is Real' game. That's so fucking cliche." Matthias took another step forward, eyes settling on the first one. That has to be her, he decided, pressing his lips into a firm line.

But the closer he got, the more panic began to settle in the second Stella's eyes. "Matthias, I swear to god!" With every word, she stepped backward, taking her captive with her. "If you throw me through a wall, I will never forgive you." He could see her scrambling for a way to convince him, a way to slow his movements to a halt once again. Doubt coiled up like a snake in his gut, relaxing his features as an idea sparked to life in her eyes. "Look!" With her free hand, Stella reached into the pocket of her coat, pulling out a key set in glass. "I've got the key!"

"That's bullshit!" The first Stella's voice ripped through the other's explanation. "You stole the key from me!" Matthias hesitated, unsure of what to believe. The choice was made for him when she decided to wrap her teeth around the second Stella's arm, biting down hard and earning a yelp of pain from the second and nothing more than a tighter hold. Heat began to pool beneath skin, so hot that Matthias could feel it from where he stood. Skin began to smolder, the first girl's grip turning red with heat and a cry of alarm breaking the fury of her voice. "You do not get to use my powers against me, you asshole!"

With all the force she could muster, the first Stella hiked up her leg and brought it back against the knee of the second. A cry of surprise and pain broke the grip around her throat. Matthias lurched forward, wrapping his hands around the arm of the second. But as soon as his skin touched hers, she began to change underneath his fingers. Scales began to burst out of her flesh; muscles and bones shifting and rearranging beneath the surface of her body until Matthias wasn't looking at a second Stella at all. He knew the pattern of the scales beneath the soft sweater the shapeshifter wore. His eyes widened in shock and on instinct his grip tightened.

It wasn't enough. The double swung around, his fist colliding with the side of Matthias's face with all of his superior strength and sending stars scattered across his vision. Blinded by pain and unable to do anything more than gasp as his hold slipped away, he clutched on to the only thing he could find. Through the fabric of his shirt, he dug his fingers into the double's scales, lifting them up and away from the skin. Before he could hesitate, his hand clamped down once more and ripped a large section of the armor away. Blood, burning and hot, poured from the wound as the copycat screamed. The scales turned to bloody fingerprints in his fist, but the pain was real. It was half a dozen teeth pulled all at once, all of your fingernails ripped away, and even as the double broke free of Matthias's grip, at last, the agonized cry resonated deep inside of his own bones.

The disguise disintegrated back into the copycat's usual form, a dark-haired man with murder in his eyes and hands that clutched a bleeding forearm with gritted teeth that hissed with pain. Matthias's eyes zeroed in on the blood that dripped on to the floor and then widened. "Stella!" he shouted, catching the attention of the gasping girl. "The blood!" Those two words were all it took for her to straighten up. And without hesitation, sparks began to explode from the wound, roaring into an inferno that torched the intruder's arm. The sickly sweet smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils as a tortured wail left the copycat's throat. She's going to burn him alive. "That's enough!" Matthias shouted, holding out his arm to stop her. "Don't kill him! He might be useful."

Stella scoffed but the fire died down regardless. As he watched, the copycat's body fell to the floor, unconscious but still breathing. "Useful my ass," she swore, rubbing one hand across her bruised neck as her shoulders relaxed. His feet pulled him towards the assailant, checking for sure to make sure his chest still rose and fell and his pulse as still warm and thriving. "He tried to burn me with my own powers and—"

"And we're keeping him alive," Matthias finished for her, rummaging through the pockets of the intruder for the glass key and pocketing it quietly. There was an authority in his voice that he didn't know he could muster, but it stopped his companion from arguing further. She just looked at him, half confused, and half furious, but didn't breath another word. And if he was truly honest with himself, that was fine with him. This isn't rabbits on the side of a highway anymore. This is something bigger. 

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

Guaritore

  As more time passes, patience dwindles. Urania Linnaeus notes that the levels of angst within each hero is probably at the same magnitude that is present in the average teenager. Tensions are high—that much is obvious—but there's nothing much any of them can do.

During the first hours of daybreak, everyone is groggy and Neanderthal-like, but that's how it's always been. Once the coffee and tea and juice start getting dispensed, moods increase significantly. Once the muffins and bagels and croissants are done being inhaled, everyone resembles a human again.

This is the stage Urania and the rest are in now: morning; breakfast time.

Between the three of them, herself, Glacier, and the Beat, breakfast is done in about thirty minutes, which is the amount of time it takes for all of the team to wash their faces, brush their teeth, and make their way to the kitchen.

Washing her own hands, Urania dries them quickly, settles into a stool at the middle of the table, and serves herself four halves of French toast. Making a go for the whipped cream and bowl of iced fruit, she pours a generous amount onto her plate, passing along both items to Obsidian, who sits to her left.

"Thanks," he says.

"No problem," she replies, hands itching to get ahold of the flask of orange juice. When it comes her way, she pulls out ice cubes with tongs, and then pours herself a glass.

As she sips, she notices that everyone has been served, and though no one is busy chewing, no one is making conversation. Giving Glacier a glance—he's best at breaking tension—she nods her head ever so slightly, granting him clearance.

His eyes warn her to wait, to be a little patient, but patience—even hers—is running thin. Sighing a bit, he finishes chewing on a dice of mango, settles his fork down, and begins to speak. As smoothly as one possibly can—especially considering the position the duo is in—he explains what he and Guaritore were up the last couple of days: the pictures taken in the Empress's room, the three color-coded lists, the ominous interviews with each Project Phoenix hero and close employee.

Returning the look she gave him earlier, Guaritore forces herself to speak, though she doubts any of her words are comprehendible through her guilt-swollen tongue. "It's why we were inseparable—I forced him to help me." She puts as much emphasis as she can manage on that word, "forced," so if everything falls apart, all the blame can be pinned on her. "I understand if some form of trust has been b—"

"Broken?" Nora Belasco intercedes.

"I was going to say 'breeched,' but 'broken' works, too," Urania replies. "And if that trust has been broken or breeched, well, I accept all consequences, so long as they do not involve Glacier."

For a while, no one says anything, not even Reason. Then, of course, she's the one who breaks the silence. "No offense, kiddo, but we all have to trust each other on some basic level, right?"

Guaritore nods and replies, "Correct."

"So," Reason continues, "in kinda goin' behind our backs, in kinda thinkin' we're all suspects in the Empress's kindappin', you kinda showed you don't trust us—or don't trust us enough. Now how the hell are we supposed to trust you back, or trust you enough?"

"It's simple," cuts in Maanyo, "We can't trust Guaritore until she—you—proves to us that the strain can be mended."

Again, silence follows, this time longer than the last. Guaritore has been silent only because she agrees wholeheartedly with what is being discussed. If she wasn't willing to accept the consequences, she wouldn't have announced so, much less gone through with her plan. So far, she's glad that the team hasn't mentioned Glacier. That's another thing she's thankful for, too, that Glacier hasn't uttered a word. Perhaps it's the stern looks she occasionally throws his way, or maybe he's smart enough to stay quiet, or it could be something else entirely—whatever it is, she hopes he keeps up the act of indifference.

The quiet of the room is so low that even the closed-mouth chewing of banana resonates throughout the corners, bounces off the walls and windows, and hits every member of the team. Guaritore doesn't mind: she'd rather they have a silent, awkward breakfast together rather than one of shrills and accusations.

I brought it upon myself, she reminds herself.

When almost half of the table is cleared, Glacier tries to break the tension again, but a raised hand on behalf of Nora Belasco quiets him. Mannyo, however, is the one who speaks.

"While I am open to suggestions on how Guaritore can earn the team's trust back, I do believe it would be right if we set some sort of...punishment, for lack of better words. I don't mean anything radical, like making her go home, because that would be—"

"Unwise? Yes, I agree," cuts in the Girl. She, like a few others, have remained quiet throughout the ordeal, as they always do. Some, like King, have been surprisingly, and unnervingly, silent.

"As would be any other punishment, honestly," adds Hydroflare, though not reassuringly. "We need her with us at all times, no matter what."

Tensions, once more, are rising, but this time, Glacier and Guaritore add in to the conversation.

"If the team decides that they want me to sit out on a mission, that's fine with me. All any of you have to do is instruct Nora Belasco to heal a wound, and she'll do it."

"Yes, she probably could," Glacier says, "but she won't be as effective—you know that. And I may be in the wrong for even giving my opinion, as I am also at a fault here no matter what Guaritore says, but perhaps earning some trust doesn't have to be damaging to the team."

King asks, "What do you have in mind?"

"For me? Well, I'm always needed in battle—there I can make up what I messed up. But for her? No one hardly lets her go into a real fight; she's always in the sidelines. Maybe putting her on the front line, or—"

Four people, Guaritore, King, Nora, and the Beat, say together, "No."

"I'm not a fighter. I'd do more harm than good."

"We need her to always be centered and ready to take in whoever is in need."

"If she's hurt, I won't be able to take over—you said so yourself."

"We'd risk her life and ours in the process."

Most knives at the table are butter knives, but even those would be powerful enough to cut through the thick tension in the room. It feels as if there isn't enough air and everyone is on the verge of suffocating. At this point, almost everyone has added something to the discussion, and though they have all talked a lot, no progress has been made. The only thing that's really changed as everyone's mood: if they were calm, they are no agitated; if they were agitated, they are now irascible. There's only so much time and more talk that can pass and be made before everyone implodes.

The center of it all: Guaritore, someone who considers herself to be as drama-less as can be.

Atop of all the bickering, her voice is heard, "My alias is Guaritore, and my name is Urania Linnaeus. I'm from La Paz, Honduras; I've lived in New Orleans, Louisiana, all my life. I'm not a fighter, but I am a healer."

For the average human, introductions are vital to all relationships and bonds, but for the average hero, introductions are null. Real names are only spoken in hushed whispers, from mouth to ear, and only when there is real trust between two or more people. In their world of heroes, anti-heroes, villains, and those who fall in between, names are so powerful, the real ones are never spoken, and instead, false identifications are made. This fabrication of titles is meant to bond people, but instead creates barriers.

Guaritore, Urania, whoever and whatever she goes by, has just broken that wall. Perhaps the heroes did not want to know her name, perhaps she has done some harm in revealing her true identity, but now they cannot say she doesn't trust them. And by keeping her name a secret, they cannot say they don't trust her.

"I believe we're settled now?" she asks, and they all nod in unison.

For a moment, it looks as though everything will return to normal, as if their only problem will revolve around what to do in light of their leader's absence. Instead, the familiar flashing of their watches and phone shines on their faces, the shrill of noise echoes throughout the room.

Before they can read whatever break-in information has been given to them, however, blue and gray smoke bombs, alike Sweetheart's, break on the floor, and the oxygen becomes tinted.

Breathing isn't a problem, as the air is still as fresh, but seeing definitely is. As much as she tries to focus in on any area around her, she can't. Guaritore feels as if she's blind, but she knows she wouldn't be able to distinct even the colors. Closing her eyes, she uses her other senses to try to distinguish what's going on.

Carefully patting the space in front of her, she can feel the coolness of the iced fruit and the glass bowl; staining her ears, she can hear other people walking around, and once in a while, she can hear the heavy pounding of feet.

After three minutes, the air clears.

Five of the remaining heroes are on the other side of the hallway, at the end of the corridor that holds the bedrooms; the other five, Guaritore included, remain in the kitchen, though in different places from where they began.

Nothing is wrong, or so it seems, until she recounts again, and finds eleven members instead of ten. Looking at the people of her side of the room and those at the other end, Guaritore finds two identical Nora Belascos.

When the two make eye contact, they both gasp at the same time; when one—the one of Guaritore's side--tries to step forward, Glacier holds on tight to her.

"She's a copy," Nora Belasco on the other side says. "Look, read the profile."

While some of the team members look at their devices, a couple others have to restrain the Nora Belascos—Nora K, for the one in the kitchen, and Nora C, for the one in the corridor—from running at each other.

Guaritore is one of the few who read whatever profile was sent to her phone. Skimming as quickly as she can without missing important details, she shuts her phone off and curses. Of course one of the masked intruders from the original invasion escaped. Of course he is responsible for destroying the Empress's supposed missing note. Of course he is responsible for the disappearance of Miguel's Compendium—whatever that may be.

Of course this person might be the only one who knows where the Empress is being held.

Guaritore doesn't fix her attention of the fact that she was right, the Empress was kidnapped, her note was destroyed, and that she is being helped hostage; she doesn't even begin to fear that this man was able to escape the heroes when all of them are around.

No, what truly makes Guaritore shiver under the Los Angeles sun is the fact that this man, Sentry Azazel, is a mad shapeshifter, and right now, he's made himself into Nora Belasco, probably the most powerful and level-headed hero.

Try as they might, there will be no way the heroes will be able to distinguish between the real Nora and Sentry Azazel. The only thing stopping the two Noras, real and fake, from attacking each other is Obsidian, his scaly body right in the middle of the corridor. If his fighting skills aren't enough, than his booming voice is.

"I forbid you from hurting each other or anyone else in this room."

Immediately, the blue third eye emerges from the Noras's foreheads, shining bight like a diamond. When the profile said that Sentry Azazel can mimic a power exactly, it wasn't exaggerating.

We can't hurt one without potentially maiming the real Nora Belasco.

The situation reminds her of a paradigm she read about: when a person is approached with an identical self, how can one win if they are equally harmed? How can one lost if they are equally powerful?

The theory is all about the physical and the mental, but what it never touched upon was the emotional, morals and understandings. Perhaps in some way, the heroes will be able to channel that. But if Guaritore, who made it her job to know each hero personally, as far as they would let her, doesn't know much about Nora Belasco, who else will?

"Stand still and don't move at all," King instructs. Beckoning over Glacier, King tells Glacier to freeze both Noras's limbs together, just in case his commands aren't enough.

Hesitantly, Glacier does so. With each touch of his icy hands, the Noras wince loudly. Guaritore doesn't know where Nora Belasco is originally comes from, but because of the reaction the ice, she can only guess tropics. She herself comes from temperate places, mostly humid year round, but at the slightest touch from Glacier, she shivers uncontrollably.

When the job is done, each member is allowed to quiz both Noras. They let Guaritore go first because she's already interviewed Nora Belasco before and is familiar with her answers, but when she does it again, it's futile. The answers—all three of them—are identical.

"Why don't we just let them go?" asks someone.

"Because," replies Reason, "we ain't idiots. If these girls get so tired of not bein' believed that they start fightin' us, we might just kill the wrong one. And then what? We continue fightin' alongside some chameleon? No thanks."

"If we kill the real Nora, we've just fell into a trap. If we kill the fake Nora, we'll be left with no information on the Empress's whereabouts."

"It's a gamble," Mannyo says, "and it's one we're not ready to take. We need to continue interrogation, or have some practice fight—because we've all seen Nora fight—and pick up which one sound familiar."

A few beats pass, and Nora C mutters, "You haven't let me really fight."

"Exactly," cuts in Nora K, "All you do is tell someone—usually Guaritore—to give me instructions; that's not really fighting."

Obsidian, usually level-headed, calls for both Noras to be left alone. Neither of them can move, go anywhere anyway, so there's no problem.

"Wait," Guaritore and Glacier says.

"My name," continues Guaritore. "The fake Nora wasn't around when I said my name. There was a good one-minute break before Sentry Azazel infiltrated the building and I said my name."

Glacier looks over, "That's what I was going to say. But what if he was?"

"We have to try," mutters King. "Nora, what is Guaritore's real—"

"Urania—" Nora K manages to say.

"—Linnaeus," Nora C cuts her off.

The team collectively looks over at Guaritore, as if it's somehow her fault. It's the one good idea she had, and it was far better than what the other proposed, but it still failed. Unless...

Oh, if only Kevin were still around. He and I talked about the dual paradigm all the time. But maybe it can work...

When something precious to the original is placed in the pedestal, the two options the dual personas had were to either fight for the object and risk damaging it, or leave it be. The original person always let it be; they would rather lose the sentimental object rather than risk any harm. The second person, greedy in their wants to be believable, always fought for the object.

"Hydroflare, come here," Guaritore asks.

Guaritore knows that while Nora Belasco is level-headed during the right times, she's mostly exasperated, constantly rolling her eyes and sighing deeply when she thinks no one is watching or hearing her. If there's anyone who is exactly like that, but to a larger degree, it's Hydroflare.

After explaining her plan, Guaritore pushes Hyrdoflare to do her job. The rest of the team eyes her suspiciously, but all Guaritore can do is say, "Trust me. Watch."

"Alright, hands up."

Nora C immediately puts her palms up, but Nora K is a little hesitant. To probe her, Hydroflare sends a small burst of flame to Nora K's wrists, and to be fair she does it to Nora C as well.

Snagging the rings both, Hydroflare palms them and begins to juggle. Both Noras watch as the rings go round and round and round. As Hydroflare picks up speed, the rings pick up flame; soon enough, they will be engulfed in fire.

Molding them together, Hydroflare stops to admire her craft, and then places the ring on the floor. "I can easily make this melt, I can easily fuse this into something else; I can easily destroy it. So what will it be? Should I return it to its rightful owner and risk giving it to the wrong person, or should I just give it whoever?"

"You have ten seconds."

Immediately, Nora C calls for her ring to be returned; as the time dwindles, Nora K calls for the ring to be left alone.

Arching the ring towards Nora K, Hydroflare then throws bursts of flames to Nora C. Only as the body of Nora C falls ablaze, Nora K doesn't remain Nora K. Holding on to Glacier's hand, her form briefly flickers to resemble his. Almost as quickly as Glacier lets go, Obsidian launches himself on to the changing figure of Sentry Azazel.

Patience dwindles. All that remains is bloodshed.