Maanyo

 "How much do you know about the Sentries?"

His mother's words crackled over the wireless connection. On Aar's laptop screen, her face had been frozen in a dark, blurry smudge for the past five seconds, but her voice was the same deep, full timbre that had filled his home for years.

Her question required some thought, so he took a moment to ponder. Heroes here did not allow for these gaps in conversation, dearths of words in which their valuable time decayed. But Aar's mother understood that a good answer did not come immediately; a good answer came when tit came, and the time spent waiting was made all the more precious for that answer. Aar's mother understood many things that the American heroes did not.

When Aar had reviewed his memories, he spoke. "I know a bit. I researched before I took the job, you remember; we never spoke about Ms. Sato's past, but she's well-respected, and her former team just as much so. They stopped the Earthbound fiasco. Of course, they passed quickly—there are four left alive, and...this is why you're concerned."

His mother's face had finally clarified on-screen. Behind her, Aar could glimpse the colorful paintings and statuettes he remembered from his childhood home, rainbows of vibrant shades woven into every possible form. They'd never been wealthy, but his mother decorated in a way that might bring light to the darkness she and her son trod. Her face now, however, did not reflect that light. The creases at the edges of her eyes were deep, and her mouth was set.

"Aar," she said, her voice weary. "There are ten of you left. I remember when the New Sentries were active, and..." Her eyes moved to the edges of the screen. When Aar did not interrupt her, she continued: "They continued to die. The business is risky, of course. There were twenty-five heroes when the Sentries began, and I remember thinking, 'If half these people come out alive, their organization will have been worth it.' That was a pessimistic view, a number I never expected them to meet. But they...they continued to die. First facing criminals, then fixing the problems that they themselves caused. Their final battle was against entities from their own team." Here, finally, she stopped, and she gazed into the camera. In the yellow light of Aar's childhood home, her eyes glistened.

"Mother," Aar said. His words seemed to halt in the air in front of him; no sound reverberated in the men's dormitory. "I am safe, always. You know I'm kept out of the line of fire. I'm a scout, nothing more." Calling himself a scout didn't bother him now, though concealing the Chicago hostage situation did—he could not speak on any details the public had not already weaseled out, including the masked invaders and the CPD impersonators. For all his mother knew, the only reason all Project Phoenix heroes remained in Headquarters was for extra training; she did not know they were on physical lockdown while the staff located Ms. Sato, for safety's sake.

"You are not 'just a scout'," said his mother, gaze unmoving. "You're a member of the team, and for that, you are always in danger. Your position does not matter—there's a target on your back now." She was correct. The only reason Aar had been taken hostage in Chicago was because of his affiliation. The Headquarters invasion, too, had affected everyone; as his mother had said, roles didn't matter when the team was placed on the defensive.

Aar did not care for his own safety. He had never truly cared for it, never in his remembered life. His purpose in life was so menial that his world beyond heroes' work did not haunt him during battle, did not scream at him to preserve himself. But when his mother looked at him in that way, eyes brimming with fear and affection, something twisted within Aar. He believed himself to be alone, but these moments reminded him that he could never be so.

"I promise you," Aar said, swallowing the sentiment in his throat, "that I will be careful."

He cared not for his own safety, but he did care for his mother. The picture on the screen before him was his haven; his mother's strength was his strength, her battles his pride. He would never be able to express his gratitude for the woman that had raised him, that had pulled him from the fragments of bitter memory before her arrival into the long stretches of golden memory afterward. Biologically, she was separate from him—he remembered little of the life he'd led before he'd come to her home, though it had been cold and lightless—but he could not help feeling as if he were made of the same material as she, as if he had arrived in her life an empty vessel and she had filled him. He was somewhere around twenty years old now, and fifteen had been spent learning from her wisdom and basking in her eternal patience. She had been kind to him. But for someone as base and inhuman as himself, it was difficult to recognize that, just as she was his world, he too might be a large part of hers.

Aar didn't care for his own safety, but he cared for his mother's happiness. As long as he remained precious to her—and as long as she reminded him of that fact—he would protect himself fiercely.

When the call ended, Aar felt somewhat hollow. He would need to return to his Project Phoenix way of life now, as uncomfortable as it might be. His long silences and long answers were not acceptable here, as they were with his mother; he would need to adjust to short silences, which would shorten his speech accordingly. Stepping into the hallway from the dimly-lit dormitory, Aar felt as though he were waking from a nice dream and entering the harsh realities of the day.

Breakfast had almost ended in the mess hall, but Aar's trainer Sylvie was among the smattering of staff members still present. When she spotted him across the room, she waved from an already-sanitized table and gestured him over. Aar noted that the number of tables in the room had decreased to account for fewer heroes and staff; while the heroes had died, the staff had begun to leave Project Phoenix of their own volition, citing Ms. Sato's "abandonment" as a viable excuse. Sylvie and Jensen, to his knowledge, had remained and begun to take on more duties within the project as a result.

"Maanyo, good morning," said Sylvie cheerily. Her light blonde hair was tied into a tight bun, accentuating the soft roundness of her cheeks and the freckles across her pale nose. "I take it you got the email?"

Aar nodded and sat opposite Sylvie. The night before, management had emailed all remaining heroes to notify them of the following morning's activities. While ordinarily they would train, heroes would instead attend an individual reassessment meeting with management, where they would learn where the search for Ms. Sato stood and determine how their strengths could be best used within Project Phoenix.

"The schedule's out," Sylvie added, pulling out her smartphone and swiping into a digital calendar. "Here, it says you're fifth. Nora will be in there in about five minutes, followed by Guaritore, Hydroflare, and The Girl. Then you, and then the other heroes, okay?"

"Where is Jensen?" Aar asked.

Sylvie shrugged. "Not sure. He's had other duties, you know. If you wanna work out while you wait for this meeting, I can run the session for you—it's not too hard, I know how he does it."

Aar shook his head. "No, this afternoon should be fine. Where are the others?"

"Most are waiting in that lobby by the conference room. We can head over there if you want."

"All right."

The walk to the lobby was short, and Aar found seven of the ten Project Phoenix heroes sitting in red cushioned chairs, just as Sylvie had said. A water cooler leaned against the side wall, and potted ficus grew in the corners, reminiscent of his dentist's waiting room. King and The Beat looked up from their phones, but the rest were absorbed in other activities. Hydroflare was speaking animatedly to Obsidian, and King seemed to be speaking to Reason with no response on her end.

Aar took a seat next to Irene, who gave him an amicable nod once she noticed him. "Maanyo," she said with a smile, "how are you doing?"

"Aar." At the furrowing of her brow, he added, "My name. You can call me Aar. I am doing well, thank you." Here was another question he could have thought about—was he doing particularly well? But Irene had expected an answer, and he had given one, imprecise as it was. "And how are you?"

"I'm fine. It's been nice waking up in an actual bed, not tied to a chair." Aar offered a smile, and hers broadened. "I also like seeing you all in one place." In response to Aar's silence, she explained: "I don't eat the buffet-style meals with you—I'm usually snacking throughout the day. And I don't train, so the only time I see you all is during missions."

"We do train alone," Aar replied, "so you do not miss a lot. I eat with my trainers, so I only learn more about other heroes on the missions, like you."

"Maybe we should have get-togethers during the week. I know this great place just to the south of here—well, once we're not on lockdown, but I'm sure they'll find Ms. Sato soon."

As Aar and Irene continued to speak, Hydroflare was called into the neighboring conference room by a suited staff member. Soon Hydroflare was leaving, expression totally neutral, and Irene was being summoned as well. "It's been nice speaking with you," she said as she tucked her phone into her pocket. "Like I said, we should talk more often."

The next ten minutes passed quickly. The attendant was lingering at the edge of the room, saying "Maanyo", before Aar had realized Irene had passed back through. Perhaps she'd walked in the other direction after leaving the conference room.

When Aar turned the doorknob and stepped inside, his lips parted. He did not speak—it would be improper to question management—but he could not fathom why Jensen, his own trainer, had been chosen to conduct the reassessment meetings. He sat before Aar now, wearing a suit Aar had never seen before and holding a glass of water in one hand.

"Aar," said Jensen, and a grin broke across his face. "Good, you're here. How's Sylvie doing?"

"She is fine." Aar sat in the rolling seat across from Jensen. A plate of chocolate chip cookies sat one side of the table, and an empty glass sat on the other.

"Oh, let me fill that for you." Jensen reached under the table for a bottle of water. "I brought in my wife's cookies—I've mentioned her cookies to you, right? Perfectly baked, I have no idea how she does it." Here Jensen laughed, and Aar stared blankly at the sight of more teeth than Jensen had showed him all month. With Aar's glass full of water, Jensen replaced the bottle and folded his hands across the table. "Take one, I insist."

It was odd, Aar thought, that his former trainer was offering him cookies during a business meeting. Normally, this would not have bothered him, but now he paused. The last time Aar had thought something odd, he had been promptly accosted with a taser.

Aar opened his mouth, but the English phrase for gluten intolerance had escaped him. Rather than lying in broken English, he said, "I am not hungry."

Jensen only smiled, those teeth glinting eerily white. "Nonsense! Just try one."

Slowly, Aar's left hand reached across the table and closed around a cookie. It felt soft in his grasp, perfectly baked, just as Jensen had promised. But something wasn't right. More accurately, multiple things weren't right, the sum of them creating a bad feeling in Aar's stomach. On their own, they might be dismissed, but together Aar could not ignore them.

Jensen was not acting as he normally did. The other heroes would not have noticed, but Aar had worked with Jensen for days. He knew his nuances, the way he gave a tight-lipped smile whenever Aar punched a dummy in the right way, the way he chuckled in spurts. Jensen had spoken about his wife's cookies, but no one brought baked goods into a serious meeting. Perhaps he'd meant to lend the meeting a more informal tone; perhaps the raucous laughter was part of that, or perhaps Jensen was just nervous.

But Aar's mother spoke in his mind:

You are always in danger.

He had promised his mother he would be careful, and now he would follow through.

Aar began to tuck the cookie into his pants pocket. Crumbs detached from the cookie, spilling across the floor, and Jensen cringed. "I will eat this later," said Aar. He himself did not understand why he wouldn't eat the cookie now—it was that feeling, the feeling he had resolved never to doubt again. There was next to no chance this cookie was poisoned, but its presence was odd, and Aar would not acquiesce to that oddness.

"At least take a drink before we start," said Jensen, nodding at the glass of water. "You've gotta be thirsty."

Aar glanced at the water, then back at Jensen. "I think I am all right."

"Just humor me." The smile had dissolved on Jensen's face, leaving a near-imperceptible curl of the lip in its place. This was an expression Aar had seen on Jensen, though the context gave him pause.

"Perhaps we should start the meeting," Aar said instead, folding his hands across the table in a mirror of Jensen's. "Ms. Sato. Where is she?"

Jensen's gaze had hardened. He didn't seem to be staring into Aar's eyes, but at his forehead, giving a detached impression. "Drink the damn water."

"I will not."

"It's either that or the cookie. Everyone else went for the cookie."

Jensen's words repeated themselves in Aar's brain, and his muscles tensed. Jensen should not have cared whether Aar consumed this food or not, but he clearly did; he also cared that the other heroes had consumed it as well.

Aar didn't know what was going on. However, he had suspicions. The first was that the man before him meant harm, and the second was that something was seriously wrong with the food.

In one swift motion, Aar stood and grabbed the entire plate of cookies. "Excuse me for one moment," he said, turning towards the door. He'd drop this off at the lab, where they'd test it for poisons, toxins, anything dangerous. Then he would search for the other—

"Damn it!" Suddenly, the plate was hurtling out of Aar's hand toward the floor, where it shattered, sending cookies everywhere. Jensen had stood from the table and knocked it from Aar's grip. "You're the only one— why can't you just eat my fucking food?" As Aar stepped back from a rigid Jensen, he noted that his face had changed, expression becoming one of distaste.

Then Jensen began to change. He shrank within the suit, the angles in his face becoming softer, his lips becoming fuller. Before Aar could scream, he found himself staring at Hydroflare herself.

He had discovered a shapeshifter.

Water was rising from the glass to Aar's right. It came from the bottle, too, seeming to swell as Aar watched. In a flash of instinct, Aar sent his right fist at the mock Hydroflare, but she ducked, letting out an uncharacteristic cackle as she did so. Now the water was flying at Aar, and Hydroflare had grabbed Aar's wrist; she twisted, and Aar was colliding with the ground, covered in water.

"Help!" he bellowed. "Someone, please—"

The water ignited. Aar was covered in flames, and the heat bit at every pain receptor in his body. He screamed just as the door burst open behind him.

"Oh, fuck—"

Aar fought to say that the woman in the oversized suit wasn't the real Hydroflare, but his faculties had been overtaken by the pain, and he screamed again. The people streaming through the door had likely seen the real Hydroflare leaving long before, and, thankfully, they acted accordingly; over Aar's head, a scuffle was taking place, and suddenly a stream of cool fog was falling over Aar's body. Wincing, Aar turned to look—The Beat had fetched the fire extinguisher from the hall and was spraying it with shaking arms.

Later, the heroes would learn that Nora had been first to consume the poisoned cookies. Three other heroes had eaten, but, for Nora, even gagging the cookie came too late—to Aar's knowledge, her system had been irreversibly damaged. Even the apprehension of the shapeshifter could not compensate for that.

Of course, Aar could tell his mother none of this. His gratitude for her warning's help, however, would remain.

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

Reason

Catching a killer is a hard thing to do. It requires focus, attention to detail, and strong perseverance. To do that, one must find themselves wholly into the action. There can be no other focus, nothing to distract, nothing that exists outside of the realm of thought and motion. Catching someone who'd gone missing, though? Amanda shook her head at the thought, yet Tim was right there beside her with all the evidence.

To find The Empress, they'd have to catch a shapeshifting ragamuffin who was more likely to find himself on the corner of first than to come clean. This is crazy. Bonkers. There's no possible way we can do this. Yet, with a grim determination settling in over her bones, Amanda sighed. "Where are we headed now, babe?"

His eyes never left the screen. "Have you ever heard of Cienfuegos, Cuba?"

Oh for fuck's sake. "Tell me you're joking."

The smile lit up his face as he started laughing, turning around and giving her a tap on the shoulder before pointing once more to his screen. "Try the other side of this city, believe it or not. Looks like our guy didn't go far."

"Good. Because I'm ready to kick some ass."

♚♚♚

Sentry Azazel was a shapeshifter with enough combat experience to rival The Empress. It was enough to make someone want to think twice about busting into his apartment building but Amanda wasn't going to find herself scared like that. She was just going to think it through a little bit more. Okay. How the fuck do we do this? If it were King, he'd bust through the door--likely the same with Hydroflare, both of them up for the dramatics. Clint would do something stupid, and The Girl would come in and likely diagnose everything wrong with him, trick him somehow, and come back without a scratch on her. Yet for Amanda, talking to any of those people weren't options. Most of them were gone, off on their own search parties, and if they were on the trail to a better lead she wasn't about to stop them. If I need them, I'll have Tim contact them. Their message system was an old one but she figured he'd know to take the reply as a 'call the team' instead of the cops like it'd been when he first joined her corporation. It won't come to that.

It wasn't like Amanda had ever needed a backup before. If things got too rough, she'd just take care of the competition the way she did everything else. A little kiss, the pucker of her lips, and watching her enemies fall like leaves. It was simple. Almost too simple.

Yet still she waited.

Sitting outside in a hot dress was fun, but the wig that Tim had put on her was enough to make Amanda want to recant everything in her life. The brunette hair with blonde highlights felt like it was made of wool and the colors were horrid, matching nothing with her scalp and just barely passing the 'dirty mirror' test. If anything, she was going to have to teach him to go to the right shops instead of a strip mall with questionable choices. In a pinch, it'd work. She had to take pinches, given the limited resources she had. Without her home city and her office building there to supply her, Amanda was trapped.

Not for long. The second we get that bitch back I'm dropping out of here like a hot fly. Can't pay me enough for this bullshit. She tensed her shoulders, trying to make certain that nothing could be seen under the dress. Without a bra, it was harder to hide things, and her fake leg was sent in to be worked up while she used one of the cheaper versions that looked like a mocha surprise. This has got to be the lamest thing I've ever done.

After a moment to make certain her secretion patches had been contained and that the two knives under her boobs were holding in place with the sticky tack, she left the vehicle alone and began walking.

Parking two blocks away was a hard choice to make for a woman in three-inch heels and Amanda wouldn't have it any other way. It was far better than showing up without the heels, which would leave her the average height of a regular man. The heels gave her advantage--there, she became stronger, taller, and her leg was defined in such a way that left her feeling proud of all those years of exercising. Sure, she ached afterword, and lately, she'd been aching a lot from all the bad-guy-fighting and nonsensical midnight soirees. Sure, the pain sometimes meant that she obtained bruises that made her skin look splotchy and headaches that left her bedridden for an hour or two, but hell if she would give up the fighting or the heels. Both were necessary, if only until she quit her part-time and went back to the full schedule of her corporation.

Though Stand-Up Weekly had been doing well enough, everyone knew the business was nothing without its warrior in chief managing the hell out of them. Even Tim was gone, too busy helping her, which meant that Cassandra, Deline, and Penelope were up to their necks dealing with the shit from their competitors. When I get back, I'm writing a damn good think piece and then we're switching gears to this superhero bullshit.

They opened the doors as someone that Amanda didn't know and didn't give a shit about and she smiled, giving them a big smile. Whether it was Azazel or someone working for him, they were just as worthless. "Hello there," she said, placing a hand on her hip. "Who might you be?" The exchange happened within seconds and the change came faster. Almost too quick for her to notice, but it was there. A hair color from one shade of brown to the next and the whitening of skin until the woman had that pale shade, a stronger jawline, gray eyes, and the most hipster outfit that could be imagined.

"Reason--finally. Took you enough time to get here."

"Nah," Amanda said. "The Girl's got a few good things she can do, but I don't think shifting the way she looks is one of them."

She pushed through the door and closed it behind her.

"This is a nice setup you've got here. I'm guessing it's perfect for trying to kill me in?"

"You're here for The Empress, aren't you?"

"Well, I'm not here for your shitty-ass face. It's got to be ugly, right? That's why you turn yourself into other people?" She smiled and tsked, letting her heels clank against the floor as she walked through the apartment, making sure to never turn her back to him. Far as she could tell, it was empty. No guns. No knives. Just a plain room without furniture save for the folded up chair resting in the corner. "Well, Azazel?"

He raised his hands--her hands--and sighed. Another shift and he was the spitting image of Tim, down to the puffed out cheeks, freckles, glasses, and stupid expression. When did he touch Tim? God, that sounded wrong. "You'd be surprised to see that I know a bit more than you do, Miss Reason."

"You know where The Empress is."

"That I do."

She nodded. It felt silly, standing there in a dress and heels, talking with a supervillain. It wasn't the first time--hell, not even the first time in that month alone. If I could use my powers, this would go a hell of a lot faster. Tim had already scaled all the options with her and in every rundown of the event he would just end up using them against her. No, she'd have to use her own powers. The kick-ass fighting skills and smart mouth. He made the first move--a hit against her stomach, leaving her gasping as she struggled to lift her leg and hit back. Something in his motion was loud and Amanda fought against every urge as she began to hit back, letting her body roll with the punches. It was a tentative fight but she didn't let that distract her. The plastic wasn't holding up as well as the metal had been. Amanda slid her hand against her leg, barely brushing the phone, and tapped on the screen.

A loud crunch filled the room as he slammed his fist down into it and she cursed, lifting up with her good leg and wrapping it around his neck. It was sexual in a way that it never could be as he switched forms and she tightened her hold, forcing down until she was staring at her own face. Reflections of beauty were often just idealistic, and that one burnt as he bit down on her leg, his teeth cracking open the flesh. Her dress ripped alongside it and she cursed, punching at him as she tried to get him off her.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she asked, pushing until she popped away from him and landed on the floor. He wiped at his--her--mouth, that sickening grin growing as he ran towards the door with a suitcase in hand. "Get back here-" It wasn't that Amanda wasn't strong, just that she couldn't get off the ground with one leg broken and the other bleeding.

Before he could grab the handle the door flung open, slamming against his face and he cursed. It was odd, hearing Amanda talk. When King ran in, followed by Obsidian, Hydro, Girl, and a few of the others lagging behind, Amanda flung her hands up in the air with a grin. "God, you got here just in-"

"Stop talking." The Girl held a gun in both hands and pointed between Amanda and the copy of her who stood against the wall with her hands up and a powerful smile on her face. "I'm not playing 'who's who'. You'll both come in or you'll both die. Sound good enough to you."

"You wouldn't possibly-"

The gun let off a warning cry as it flew past Amanda's head, just barely missing her face.

That smart bitch.

"Good, fine," Amanda said, pointed at her leg. "I'm injured. Bring us back to HQ and we can find where The Empress is."

"We're going straight to her. Afterall, one of you will be talking. Obsidian, tie them up."

The other Amanda started her rant then, pointing at Obsidian as he spoke. "You're not getting anywhere near me with that kinky shit. Keep it in the bedroom. Tie up the other one. Keep a gun on me, whatever the hell you want, but I'll be damned if someone ties up Reason." Do I speak like that? No. No? There's no way in hell they'll--

Obsidian moved towards her with the rope, looking apologetic as he wrapped it loosely around her waist.

"God, you honestly think I'll get anywhere? My prosthetic was destroyed." She sighed as he picked her up and The Girl fired another shot. The wall stained with blood as the other Amanda fell to the ground, clutching his arm as he shifted in-between persons. "Took you suckers long enough."

"Okay everyone, back in the van. Obsidian, take Reason into the vehicle and tell Nora to put a bandage on her. Hydro, help me detain Azazel. Looks like this wrapped itself up nicely."

"How did you-"

The Girl shrugged her shoulders and pointed to the cracked screen on Amanda's phone. "It kept beeping while you were sitting there. Figure that had to be you to let everything else sit while you play wrestled the bad guy."

They were grumbling, but the team was there. Working. Existing. Amanda smiled to herself as they took her in. Pain ached up, throbbing inside her hips. The bleeding wasn't bad, and Nora fixed it up easily enough, but she just wanted to lay down and sleep. Someone took off her heels and she silently prayed to god as the vehicle got rolling. The Empress may have been missing, but it looked like Project Phoenix was anything but.

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

The Beat

The heroes file into the kitchen, grab themselves slate-white ceramic bowls from a cupboard, and wrap around the breakfast counter. As a cascade, they take their seats, shoving the corners of their eyes with the heels of their hands. With sideways glances, they admire the gunk they've excavated before they rub them into nonexistence on their sweatpants. Rajon sits on the very end, closers to the toaster and bread box than company. He shivers from a tiredness brought on by the redeye he got off of just a - he checks the microwave clock - hour or so ago. The only person who doesn't seem to be tired is King, who dances around the food factory in a cutesy, though seemingly excessive, flower-print apron, and plays a box of Super 'O's like a maraca. In his other hand, is a golden mug of espresso and, undoubtedly, a few different spikes. He starts at the far end and fills Urania's bowl - to which she beams, and gushes out gratitude. She pours herself a dose from the quart of milk she was responsible for, then slides it over to Stella-Marie, who is already being served the dry ingredients. The sequence chugs along till it arrives before Rajon, the warmth and cheer of the service now seems manufactured and robotic. Rings of cereal spill out into his bowl and, like a sunday cherry, a silicon signet ring lands on top of it all with a plop.

He catches the carton of milk thrown to him from across the bar, and pours it over everything. Sugar crystals and air bubbles crackle from the moisture, and the plastic toy bobs like the builder. He dips in a utensil and absentmindedly eats. One spoonful contains the ring. It scratches on the way down.

King leans back from his work and surveys his happy customers. "Hey, where's Matthias?" he asks the room.

"Obsidian? I saw him over around the rooms," someone says.

"I saw him training at the range," says another.

One of those areas are in the west wing, and the other's out east, and there's a good walk between the two. That is their first warning, but they only shrug at it as if it means nothing. He's a bit of a nerd, and flitting awkwardness does not sound out of the ordinary to anyone who has held a conversation with him.

He comes in late, when most of the bowls are emptied, and a few just have a couple bites left. Like nothing is out of the ordinary, he takes a bowl from the left-open storage and sets it down at the empty seat. "Dry," he orders. If anyone was looking closely, they would see a meanness new to his face.

"Nice of you to show up," says King, serving him nonetheless. It's like he takes the tardiness as a personal grievance, though, because he starts to mess with the kid. "You sure no milk? You really should. It's good for your bones. I'd imagine scale too," he says, tilting the carton to the point where only surface tension keeps it from dribbling down to the bowl. Lots of people tell him to shut up, and Matthias reminds him he's vegan and simply will not be having any milk. "Come on," King whines. "I will dump a bowl if you don't so the cows will be tortured either way. You can't call yourself a humanitarian anymore then, you're just a picky eater. You know what? Yeah. People who show up late don't get to chose," his voice swells with petty, self-involved venom. "You get what you get and you don't have a fit," he pours.

Azazel is opportunistic. "Mother-" he slams a fist down on his bowl, creating a loud crash and a puddle of crumbs and ceramic shards. Then he shoves the leftovers across the countertop and into King with frightening strength, seething. His victim stumbles to the ground, hitting the back of his head against the oven top. Blood leaks out to the tile floor from both that wound, and his tattered apron, where blades of bowl embed his belly.

"What the heck!" the room shouts. Many leap to King's side and tend to him, but it's already too late. Nora fronts up with Matthias, who is already crying and blubbering about how he forgets his own strength. Still making her mind up, she doesn't say anything to that and rather turns around and tells people to get King a bed, which a group goes ahead and does, leaving the room. Rajon sits in his corner, so enthralled by what he's observing that he kinda forgets he's doing absolutely nothing.

Nora watches them leave before turning back to the assailant. "What the heck was that, Matt? That's not like you."

"I don't know. I don't know. It's been a bad day - a bad week. Sakura missing... all this stress. I just lost control."

It's a decent story until Matthias walks in and raises a few questions that can't be quelled by pathos. The real one wipes his eyes and hiccups mid-yawn. "Wh-who are you?" he stutters.

His own face turns around and grins at him. "Call me Azazel." Then he pushes the consoling Belasco away from him and into a door, which she bounces off. Rajon flashes to life just in time to run as a coward. The man, whoever it is - it's confusing, alright - chases after him as soon as he starts and tags he shoulder with ease. "Gotcha!" he shouts. "Just. In..." His form boils, the skin bubbles and shifts, and he becomes shorter and weaker. Pimples pop up on his formerly flawless face. He becomes him. Rajon recognizes the knot in his stomach and knows he's trying to use his power, and a nervous knot ties itself in Rajon's real self. Instead of shouting 'time' while he pauses the room, which was the plan, he just laughs. "Oh Beat. Oh Beat. What have you gotten yourself into? Do they know? he looks around at the faces in the room, which pause from preparing to attack him. "They don't," he laughs. "You haven't told the people who depend on you for their life that you have absolutely no powers?" Rajon feels the eyes boring into his back. Azazel squeals, so amused he doesn't see Matthias' fist until it strikes him.

Rajon runs more, following Nora into the room over. A little room that doesn't do much other than being a really wide hallway and eating up space. There's a dirty brown couch in it, which hardly anyone ever uses, and they slide themselves between it and the rebar wall. He tells her he's sorry. She ignores him, honestly just not too fussed with all the other things to care about in this moment.

"It seems like this... whatever it is, can take our powers. Does anyone have a power with downsides? One we can trick him into taking on and then use it against it?" Rajon suggests.

Nora jumps to her feet like she's just been scared out of her socks. For no apparent reason, mind. "I think I might," she whispers. "Back me up," she says with more gusto.

"With what?"

"Your fists," she says like 'duh', and walks back into what has turned into a war zone.

At the doorway, Rajon evaluates the events which have occurred during their brief leave. Azazel has once again gotten a hold of Matthias and now the two swamp monsters are rolling along the wall in combat. Next to the pantry they stop, one of them leaning into the other and then swinging the faux wood door into his body. The hinges snap off and dry spaghetti spills out onto the floor. The victim looks dazed even before his hesitation opens him up to a flying set of armored knuckles. Rajon doesn't know who to root for, and Stella-Marie, with her powers at hand, has the same issue. Nora pushes her back and tells her to stay that way. She stands before the brawl like a wrestling referee.

The Obsidian who was pinned against the wall shoves his opponent off and to the ground, then turns around and grabs the door and turns the tables. He holds it over his own head and threatens to slam it down. The potential victim weasels, "I'd love to stay and talk for a while, but I gotta..." and he grabs at Nora around her ankle. peace, and submits before her knees. The once wildfire fox which was turning Project Phoenix into its personal plaything now has life only in his eyes. Limbs chained by obedience. Since the immediate danger has seemed to have died, Nora thinks hard about her next words, orders, because one mistake could bring it back, immediately.

"Peace!" Nora screams before any more damage can be done. With no further convincing, Azazel becomes peace, and submits before her knees. The once wildfire fox which was turning Project Phoenix into its personal plaything now has life only in his eyes. Limbs chained by obedience. Since the immediate danger has seemed to have died, Nora thinks hard about her next words, orders, because one mistake could bring it back, immediately.

The heroes in the room applaud Nora for her success, all the while realizing that, just like Rajon, (though this hopefully will overshadow that mess) she's kept a secret from them. It seems like she has a weakness which is strength, like the wit of a slave. Rajon thinks about her power and of the tragedy it's seeped in. Briefly, he must admit, he thinks about the things he could achieve if he wielded it, and he's reminded of something his mother told him once: 'Behind every hero is a cast of shafted nobodies, doing the grunt work, providing the fuel.'

>>|

This is a cold that permeates. Even his heart is shivering. Infection drips down from stalactites, and rides on the breath of prisoners the cell across from his. Some of it condenses on his shaved brow and runs down the crook of his nose like a teardrop. Howard Little hasn't actually shed one of those for a few days now, and he's wanted to. Tried to. The girl who's stored with him says it happened to her too, and in the time she's been here they've never come back. She doesn't know how long that's been, but she says she was six when she was brought in, and now, ignoring the effects of the draining, which make her look in someways eighty, he guesses she's something close to sixteen. He turns to her, the tangle of tubes suctioned to his bare back and bald head move with him, and he's just about to say something when they activate. Tension snaps his head back, and pressure differentials pull his skin in to the point where it feels it will tear. He convulses and screams such that it serrates the back of his throat with strain, and comes out alternating between two terrible tones. He screams as the energy seeps from every sinew and wicked away, and he only stops when all his power, and with it, his voice, is taken from him. Then he drops and hangs from the industrial excretory system like a marionette. Brittany, broken and hopeless, only whimpers, and stares ahead at the darkness with desert dry eyes.

Up at ground level, and way out in some tornado-torn hamlet of the American Midwest, Mr. Magnificent lifts an ancient oak tree without assistance, to free a cat which had been cornered by it and the rubble it created by falling into an old ranch home. Mittens mother, and a gaggle of concerned neighborhood women watch on, and find him simply magnificent.

"He's got the strength of a hundred men," one says to another. 

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

Nora Belasco

Monstruo! Mi hijo!

Oh, but mother, didn't you know? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Light was beautiful and welcomed by Nora, who had finally made her way out of the basement and risen to the higher levels of the building. She noted how clean the sky was, how bright and warm it seemed even though a golden afternoon had come along to dim it. It helped tenfold in easing the rapid cardiac pumping, in slowing her shaken steps, in reassuring her that the slim wisp of a figure down below was only the fabrication of a stressed mind. And she was stressed, there was no doubt about that. But she'd found things. It'll be over soon, she thought, breathing carefully. It'll be okay soon. I'm okay.

She soon arrived in the same room she'd found the rest of the team in before, and not much had changed aside from the lounging positions of oblivious adults and the volume of radio static. Nora stepped in, arms bundled with all that she'd found. Nobody acknowledged her entrance.

So she cleared her throat.

The group looked up in unison, and each of their tiny little eyes blew up into a much larger image upon seeing what lay in her arms. It was Obsidian, with his keen eye and quiet voice, that said, "That's the mask. Of the people who attacked us. I remember it."

"Smart puppy," Nora said, flinging the aforementioned object into the boy's lap simply because he was the first to recognize it. Then, she dangled the strip of black fabric from her peeling fingertips, and let it fall upon the mask. It was the label, however, that she kept close, stuck with the weak remnants of adhesive to her palm. "If I had to take one big 'ole guess, I'd say those little shits took this, what is it, Miguel's compendium?"

Nobody questioned how Nora found these things, preoccupied with the present, but someone, a girl, stepped forward to take the label, and Nora pulled her hand back to keep it in her own clutches. The girl sighed. "If they stole something, then your complaints about the Empress being off on vacation were probably in vain." Her pink lips tightened. "If they stole something, she's out there getting it back."

A gentle murmur swept through the audience of superhumans, and the golden light streaming in through the windows bounced atop each of their heads, as though signifying little light bulbs going off at every second. The room filled itself with statements like "so the Empress followed those weirdos in the masks, huh?" and "but it's been a long time - do you think they killed her?" Following that last one, the space erupted with noise and panicked voices. Nora pressed the butt of the flashlight to her forehead and clamped her eyes shut - I'm gonna get a fucking headache from all this.

Unfamiliarity caused the cessation of sound. It entered, masculine, caustic, and touched with amusement. "Oh, she's not dead. She'd be quite useless if she were dead, anyone could tell you that."

The voice made Nora drop the flashlight, and the heavy thing clattered to the tile loudly as she turned to look at the towering man in the doorway. He stood there, bored, almost, and donned in slim-fitting black. He'd look no different if he had a toothpick digging lazily through his teeth. "Huh," he said, glancing at her with faint recognition. "You're the jumpy one. Nosy. Well, then, I'm going to ignore you, and focus on your friends here." His gaze moved, and Nora's face reddened. "I assume you've all been looking for someone?"

"Yes," Irene said, standing cautiously behind the table in the back, "and I assume you know who that someone is."

"Oh, certainly. I know where that someone is, too. Say, d'you think we could quit referring to Sakura so cryptically?"

Nobody responded to his comment, and instead scanned him up and down, examining this intruder - firstly, because he was, in fact, an intruder, and secondly, because he claimed vital knowledge. He was young, much younger than Nora, and this, along with his evident penchant for breaking and entering, left room for doubt. So, naturally, Nora was moved to adjust her shoulders, swallow down the buildup of spit, and say,

"Who the hell are you?"

The man looked at her again, this time with incredulity. This, however, died down, and his expression flattened. "I'll bet the rock you crawled out from under was a shiny one." He looked around the group, searching for any hint of familiarity, but, met with confused glances, he gave up. "I'm an old friend of Miguel's, if you must know. One of his Sentries, actually." He chuckled fondly. "Azazel the Sentry. It had a nice ring to it, especially from him, before he exploded into tiny bits and pieces."

"But the Sentries are gone," someone asked, "aren't they?"

"Are you dense, fishie? Have you forgotten the place from which your leader hails? 'Course we're not gone, we're just...taking up new occupations. I can say that you're all on the right track about that notebook, though. Sakura very much likes her things in their respective places."

Project Phoenix seemed to lose its fear after that, and King, with his brows dipped in agitation, lifted his chin at Azazel. "You're the enemy, then?"

"That depends. I'll let you all decide while I get to tearing this place down room by room."

This was met with devious, devilish, dirty looks, all at their bottle's surface and ready to either explode or implode. One of those was damaging to the self, and the other, to the self and everything surrounding it. Several of them undoubtedly wanted the one that would take out Azazel, if only to rid them of a problem, but they were still unsure.

But Nora knew a threat when she heard one. "Ten to one," she said, "what are the odds?"

Azazel looked up, black hair lustrous with the afternoon light, and, for the first time, grinned. He grinned something fierce and unnerving and Nora knew then, when he took his first step, that she ought to've kept her mouth shut like she would before all of this. She'd've looked with distaste at something but never said anything about it because that was cause for attention and she did not, by any means, like attention but now she had it and his hands, they were out and lashing and on her throat and she was looking down her nose at the ice of his eyes and the coldness of his smile and searching for the heat of his words for any sense of warmth but there was nothing. She was small and cold. And he was touching her.

And he was dropping her.

Spine and flesh met the hardness of a glass window. They met with so much force that the glass bent to the will of something malleable, bending back and shattering under the weight of a girl who wanted nothing more, in that second, than to be caught. But what was supposed to catch her wasn't strong enough, and the shards instead bit into her clothes, digging deep and slicing through skin and tissue and bringing forth the troublesome stench of copper and blood. They fell and she fell with them.

Then came the question again: if she fell without attempting to fly, would instinct force her to?

Then came the answer: no. It was all on her.

She struggled and twisted, trying to recollect enough balance, enough of her bearings, to catch the wind in her body and avoid the hard impact of the earth. "Fuck," she struggled, "fuck!" Her body writhed midair, and her limbs thrashed about with panicked violence until she'd started to fall with her eyes to the ground. She screamed, and the air came, and she lifted, and she gasped and spun herself out across the fence. It came and went in spurts, this flight. She rose and fell and rose and fell and pivoted until it was safe to crash.

With a painful shriek, her body met hot, black asphalt. Arms and legs skidded along a short while, but the scrapes were enough to bring about a weak moan of agony from between her lips. "Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck." I almost died. I almost just died. I- am I dead?

A deafening honk reassured her that she wasn't. Not yet. She looked up, eyes widening with the approach of the drawling noise, screamed another, "Oh, fuck!" and curled bleeding arms over her head in defense. Swerving screeches sounded to the left, to the right, to the behind.

And still, somehow, she was not dead. But I should be.

Breathing heavily, she looked at the carnage of misplaced cars and angry drivers, and rubbed the mucus from her nose only to find her hands smeared with crimson. "This is my breaking point," she muttered casually, "this, I think, is my breaking point. I need to go. I need to leave, I need to get some band-aids, I need...to reevaluate my life choices. Oh, yes." She looked to the sky as she recovered - physically, anyways - and thought perhaps the dim color from before could calm her again. But it was dotted with something. Something that swam in the sky. Something black and small and watching from above the moderately-sized LA buildings. Circling.

Circling, circling, circling. And then, distantly, "Cr-r-ruck!"

Slowly, her gaze fell from the sky to the white building from which she'd been uncouthly thrown. But she looked at the wrong time, and a strike of panic and disturbance twisted every one of her features until she was on her feet, running, saying, "Fly!"

But the boy could not fly, and he sped beyond the fence to where she couldn't see, and only from the screams emanating from the busted window could she understand the end result. The people in the cars cried out, too, but Nora had no words, not anywhere.

She watched as another person came out the window, but this one could fly - Glacier - and had another woman tucked under his arm as he descended delicately to the outside. The woman was Guaritore, the healer, Nora recalled, but she also knew that any and all of her efforts for the fallen man would be futile. Glacier seemed to, also, as he flung himself back into the sky and landed on the sidewalk just outside the high fencing. They made eye contact, the two of them, and the man made an effort to walk towards her, but-

-but then a shadow, swift and slick, glided overhead, and the dark outline of a large figure danced across the pavement, and then feet were doing much the same, giddy with the concept of war. "Well," Azazel breathed, "isn't this just something? I've been watching you all for too long, doing nothing. Honestly, I've been expecting a little, ah, more, but I'm not a picky man."

Glacier huffed, breath misting before him despite the summer heat. His fist clenched, and he didn't blink, and then, as Azazel took his first step, that fist arched and opened and a pointed line of ice went shooting for the very throat that let the fucker speak.

But it missed.

Oh, no.

Azazel hummed. And, though Nora couldn't see his face, she could see the ripple of newfound color across his back, and the switch of black hair to dusted brown. He, too, breathed mist, and the ice coated his hands, and while one Glacier carried on unabashed, the other one faltered.

He was going to die by the hand of a masquerader.

Briefly, Nora saw Glacier with white hair and black eyes. And then with red hair and confident lips. And then with red hair and twitchy lips. And then just red. The death and the death and the death, it just kept on coming and it took the young and heroic. These kids, they were younger than her! Dying was not heroic and she had long tired of seeing the red. There was enough of it on her arms and legs. No more, no more, no more.

A crease in her forehead prickled.

She glanced around in a frenzy, head whipping this way and that, and while it could've been said that her panic lie in the idea of another member of Project Phoenix meeting a violent and pointless end, that simply wasn't the truth. No, the frenetic nature of her running was attributed to the foreign thought that said using the third eye was a good idea. But she couldn't blame his death on anyone but herself, oh, no, because she was there! No more, no more, no more!

Random bystander. She leapt over the curb and stuck her arm out to him, blood still wet and trickling down the little hairs. "Grab it. Grab it now."

The man knit his brows together, shook his head. "Wh-"

"Grab it!"

He complied. She inhaled sharply and though she wanted to wrench away, she didn't. I'm doing this. Voluntarily. "And you, and you, you need to say, you need to tell me to take him-" She pointed. "-down. Tell me to take him down. And if I do it right, you say 'mazel tov.'"

The man still seemed confused, and parted his lips without words, and the urge to jerk away kept on coming and coming and- "Say it al-fucking-ready!"

"Take him down! Take him down."

Of rolling heads and lashed skin, a girl relinquishes control of her own body. The eye, as always, is honored to be awake and aware of the land of the sometimes super and mostly mundane. It is sharper, here, alert with the flush of adrenaline and pain. The host itself can no longer detect these things, but the eye will feed upon it nonetheless. It will feed upon many things in the next few minutes, as it predicts that is how long the endeavor will last. Its predictions are typically correct.

Forget the mortal who gave the command. Azazel is here, and while Nora did not recognize the beast, the eye very much does. Off with him, then! Send a goat into the desert, and send all the sin of Azazel with it. Or, simply cut the root. Go on, girl. Cut the root. March with your head high, that's it.

The host does. She cracks all the bubbles in her neck in a single head roll and then she steps up the nearest object - a stop sign - and uses the strength of ten men to rip it free of its place. Cutting the root. But she must move quickly if she is to save a life unrelated to her own! The cryokinetic, he is clever and strong, but no one is strong enough on their back. The masqueraded man means to slaughter, and he will if given enough time. Move slower, if this is what you wish.

Twirl and step and whistle and whip! The metal line strikes Azazel across the back, and his spine arches, guise melting away like the ice on his hands. He is quick to thrash back, and knocks the sign out of her hands with the remnants of strength he derived from the now-fleeing cryokinetic. That is expected; he is not nearly the same man the alias suggests.

The eye pushes the host a few steps back, just enough for examination. But, unlike expectation, Azazel does not press forward immediately. His look instead grows serious - trying to tap into the mimicry of her power, likely. But then he goes, "Ah." Another one. "Ah, ha. You're not the jumpy one anymore. You know, if you joined my team, we could get rid of that host problem of yours. I see a...a struggle, in you. It's overwhelming you. It'll kill you."

Pressure in the socket. Quit fighting, desperate girl. There is no release and, might I remind you, I was summoned by you, of all humans. No more, no more, no more.

The host spasms, and the eye turns it into a fight, slinging the leg up into a kick that smashes into the delicacy of the opponent's strong jaw. But then pressure. Ankle. A monster touches the broken skin of her leg and, in a fit of distraction, the eye has allowed this man to throw her to the ground.

Silence! Prediction! Roll to the left in full. See those rocks, uplifted by his blade? See the sky - no, do not look there. Five birds sing a song and I will not have them cut me by the root.

Do not tremble. Small and cold. Show him fire.

It flicks forth from her fingers, assisted by the earlier desperation, and she touches him by the throat - a vengeful touch - before fleeing from under his agonized form. Distance - she creates distance. By the time he has stood and recovered, her hands have adjusted to the flames raging long and bright. Do not let him test you, girl. Do not give him a chance, girl.

We must do what we've been told, girl.

But the next few seconds bring hesitation. Across from them is not Azazel, but another Nora Belasco, smirking crookedly. If the eye is functional, how can it see its host? Two sets of flame burn hot and wild. Why is this?

Confusion catches it off guard. Heat skims Nora's upper arm and she bows slightly, but such a slight mistake is enough to kill the both of them. But look! The other Nora flickers into a harder face. Nora to Azazel to Nora to Azazel, and the fire sputters out here and there too.

Realization dawns at the start of the setting sun. Of course he is having difficulty. The eye is not so easily mimicked, hooked on the line of neutrality amongst ethereal beings. It is the middle of the up and down, the overlooked area between the angels and the devils. It is funny, almost, the frustration on that boy's face, and so the eye takes it up with stride. Do not let the boy torture his mental state again. Open your mouth.

Like a god, the eye says, "I will eat you raw."

Nora flickers back onto Azazel's face, and with this slight freedom, the host takes it upon herself to share her own words, not for subtle clarification, but for the genuine fury encompassing her chest at the sight of herself.

Like a god, she says, "I will eat you raw."

The comment shatters the resolve of both, and the rope of fire isn't seen when it comes to trip them up. It singes and chars bare ankles, caramelizing the small cuts, and they fall, eye vibrating with the impact, Nora heaving with the fall. They see the sky, the both of them.

Oh so many ravens that fly! The eye was testing its luck with five, but dozens flap wildly above, casting wicked shadows on the street, on her body. Feathers fall black and burnt, and the eye would've cast fire at them if only they didn't have the capacity to claw it right out of its comfortable socket. They cr-r-ruck and cr-r-ruck, one upon the other, in threat. Damn those birds. Damn them to the other world so long as I stay here.

Good night, 'til waking calls again.

She awoke on the same street she'd crashed upon, disoriented and wondering why her palms burned with heat similar to if she'd pressed her hands to a long-burning bulb and not removed them for an hour. Gasping and wheezing at the stinging blisters, she blinked and scrambled away. A silhouette came for her, it came for blood and it came to kill and it came to sink his jaws in her skin and rip out every bit of warm and beating flesh it could catch. She didn't know what the eye did, but it couldn't have been pleasant. Fuck that eye! She couldn't even push herself to a stand with her own two hands! She had to stumble and trip before catching her own balance and running off!

What do I do? What the hell do I do?! "Hursh! I'm, I'm." Nothing more. Running. Oh, God, that look of murder; how much worse could it get?

She ran backwards, keeping the man in her sight. But he'd stopped walking. He was stuck there in the middle of the street, feet situated on either side of the painted dividing line, looking at - no, beyond - her, eyes squinted with the same murderous look. But the look was uncertain. And then it was horrified.

Nora looked back, a tremor in every joint and limb. It was a flock of black, spinning down and screeching. Dozens upon dozens of birds came swooping down from the sky, and they shot for Nora's back, beaks pointed and talons outstretched. Her first instinct was to fall, and so she did, belly on the asphalt, face ducked down as the strongest gust of wind she'd experienced pushed itself down and across her back.

They glided over without paying her any mind.

Instead, she heard the scritch and scratch of claws on skin. They fluttered and the bird shit splattered down and the screech of every goddamn bird filled the city. She risked a look up. They surrounded Azazel. Every last one of them.

As soon as he was unable to move himself with assistance, they fled, leaving a body crippled and broken, but alive. When Nora approached, careful and limping, she saw that nothing remained of his eyes.

And he heard her come, and he spat the worst of expletives. He called her a witch and a bitch and a monster.

And to that, she only said, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder." 

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

The Girl

Dead, dead, dead. End after end after end. Nothing had come of Beijing, or the next lead in Berlin, and the one in Brussels after that.

'Maybe we just have bad luck with B's.'

It wasn't that the tips were duds, it was just that the enemy was a step ahead of them every time. They'd land in a city to investigate, only to find that the lockdown had been ordered too late or a jet had been stolen just moments before. They'd arrive at a warehouse that was confirmed as a hideout and stand before ash and rubble.

'It's like they know we're coming.'

Irene sighed and closed her laptop, leaning back on the couch. She needed a break; her eyes stung when she blinked and her jaw ached from being unconsciously clenched in concentration.

The Empress had left them over a month ago with no warning or word; since then, they'd lost a third of their team, scraped through scuffles with supervillains here and there, and had run all over god's green fucking earth looking for the Jade Masks.

Irene stood, tucking her laptop under her arm and picking up her mug of tea from the side table. Maybe she'd go for a run on a treadmill, now before the others were up. She liked having the place to herself; lifting weights next to a superhuman was as much an exercise in self-esteem as physical strength.

She lifted her mug of tea to her nose and breathed in the steam. She'd been feeling sniffly all this week; she sincerely hoped she wasn't coming down with something. She was doing everything she could to stave off a cold, short of getting an IV drip of Dayquil.

Palmer had suggested it was the stress, and encouraged her to go home for a few days. She'd been very hot-and-cold in their time here, one minute haughty, the next considerate. Stella-Maris too had had moments of humility and friendliness every so often, as though she'd traded personalities with someone for a split second. Maybe the close quarters and continued, consistent pressure of their situation was making them act funny.

At least they'd figured out why Clint had been so out-of-character--a doppleganger with better manners, ideals, and, if we're being honest, eyes, was a solid (if unexpected) answer to the riddle. Dante, it turned out, was not entirely useless to the team; he possessed superhuman strength which, although not entirely impressive next to an amphibious human, was still nothing to sneeze at. This skill, added to the fact that he'd already seen, heard, and read all the classified information Project Phoenix had to offer, made it seem best that he stay on the team for the time being.

And Clint, obviously, was supposed to be there from the beginning, so now Irene had the pleasure of dealing with both of them on a daily basis.

'Dante's not so bad,' she thought. 'I just still can't believe he lied for so long. And he made me think Clint—'

Irene stopped short of her bedroom. The door wasn't quite closed. She very carefully, quietly, nudged the door with her foot to push it further open.

"What are you doing?"

Dante jumped and turned. "Oh hey, Irene."

"What are you doing in here?" she repeated.

"I was hoping to talk to you," he said. "Can we talk?"

"It's six in the morning," Irene said, walking past him to set her laptop on her desk. "You're not usually up this early."

"I woke up and couldn't fall back to sleep. Thought you'd be awake, but you weren't in here."

"So you just let yourself in." Irene took a sip of her tea. "I don't appreciate that."

"You're right," Dante said, shaking his head. He scratched his scalp nervously. "That was--forward of me. I'm sorry. I'll get out of your hair, sorry."

"Hey, wait a minute," said Irene. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Nothing, I—"

"Does it have something to do with whatever you're trying to shove into your back pocket?" she asked. "Because that would be my first guess."

Dante let out a nervous laugh and held it up for her to see; a folded note, now slightly crumpled, but still clearly bearing her name on it in handwriting she'd come to know as Dante's. "Okay, you caught me."

"If you didn't want me to catch you, you shouldn't have come in my room," she told him. "Alright then, give it here."

"No, I--see, that's the thing, I changed my mind," said Dante. "I decided not to leave it."

Irene sipped her tea, waiting for him to tire himself out. He was being sketchy as hell; whatever nonsense this was, she wasn't in the mood for it.

"Okay," he said finally, having run out of ramblings. "Okay, fine... Irene, I'm sorry. I came here under false pretenses, and I let everyone believe I was someone I'm not. I understand how reckless that was and I'm sorry I did it. And I...I'm most sorry that I lied to you."

"Why me?" she asked. 'This should be good.'

"You knew Clint from before," he said. "In the middle of something that was already crazy and stressful, you had to deal with a friend who was acting entirely unlike himself. And you--well it seemed like you were starting to feel differently about him. About me, I guess."

This was a bit of an unexpected turn of events.

"Dante, what's in the note?"

"It's--Jesus, this is embarrassing, this is so high school." He folded the note over again and stuck it in his back pocket. "It's--okay, the note is a confession. I didn't know how to say it out loud-- but I just can't go on lying to you anymore, even by omission... Irene, I love you."

The door, which hadn't been closed entirely, was pushed open again, and Dante came in, saying "I changed my mind, ignore the note--Clint?"

"Clint?!" Irene screeched. "What the hell kind of a joke is this, you maniac?!" She smacked his arm. "God damn it, Clint!"

Behind Dante, a messy-haired, yawning Clint shuffled into view, wearing nothing but briefs.

"What?" he asked, yawning.

Irene looked from Clint to Dante to Other Dante. "What the fuck?" She'd absolutely had it with doubles.

The Dante in the room with her suddenly lunged, got behind her and grabbed her in a headlock nearly as fast as she could blink.

"Whoa, hang on!" shouted Clint, suddenly awake. He tried to get in the room but Dante--the real Dante, clearly--held him back.

"Go wake up the others," said Dante, and Clint sprinted down the hall. "Well whoever you are, you're clever," he said to the intruder. "Tried to pick up the note saying I was quitting, so you could pose as me and no one would be any the wiser. Very nice. So I know you're not stupid enough to think you can get out of here. Not even with a shield." He stepped inside the room, hands out, peaceful. "She's the most important one on the team, my man, we're not letting our Girl Friday be taken hostage and we're sure as shit not letting you get away with trying. I'm actually looking forward to breaking your hand for it, but I'll let you pick which one if you let her go now."

Irene stomped her foot down on the guy's instep and brought her elbow back to jab him in the ribs. It didn't do much, but it gave her just enough slack to slip out of his grip and roll away to safety on the other side of her bed. Clint burst in at that moment with the others to descend on the intruder; the man, still wearing Dante's face, swatted Clint aside like it was nothing and snapped Stella-Maris' neck as easily as popping open a soda.

Dante darted over to Irene. He pulled her to her feet and frantically checked her neck as the others subdued and restrained her attacker.

"I'm fine," she insisted.

"You're going to bruise," he said. "Let's get you some ice."

"I"m fine."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just--I'm a fucking idiot sometimes, I'm sorry."