It's funny, looking in the mirror and seeing a different face.
The pub's bathroom is as shoddy as the rest of the place, but it still has most of a mirror. It's a one-piece affair that runs all the way along the row of sinks, and it's long enough that I can see myself in full. I've got nothing I haven't seen before, obviously, but usually I'm looking at myself from the outside, from my old body. Usually Khanivore is shut up in the trailer while I'm wandering about in human form. I'd sometimes catch myself in the mirror, but it never felt like I was looking at me. Wes and Ivrina would disagree if they knew, but I never told them how I felt. They'd just waste time worrying about something that none of us could do anything about.
They put me in this body, saved my damn life, and I wasn't ever going to let them feel like they made the wrong choice.
It's a nice feeling to look into a mirror and see what you expect to see, to know that you're looking back. One thing I didn't expect to see, though I was warned, is the U etched into my chest. I've been branded, marked as the product of some fucking organisation. That hurts more than anything about being stuck here, that takes away from the thrill of finally being free to walk around in my own body. Without really thinking, I move my clawed hands up to scratch it away before stopping myself. If it could be removed then the others would have done so, and I really can't risk injuring myself for no good reason.
What hurts worse is that they're taking credit for something we did. Khanivore was our life's work, a labour of fucking love, and now everyone's going to think I was made by some fucking amateurs who can just cheat their way past the laws of nature and biology. I wonder if Newter and Gregor are the same; were they someone else's work snatched away and mind wiped? Somehow, I doubt it. They're Parahumans, like the others, which means they play fiddlesticks with the laws of nature. I don't. Besides, I still have my memory.
Should I tell them? I'm going to be putting my life in their hands, and not just because we'll be going into fights together. I hate to think about it, but I can't survive on my own. I can't shop for food or take a stroll down the street, and this body will begin to fail within a few weeks at least. My only hope is that they can put me in touch with some bullshit parahuman who can either break through the rules of biology or whip up some suspension fluid fifty years more advanced than current level tech.
For now, I make do with a hose attached to a tap in the corner of the filthy bathroom. It'll stop my skin drying out for the next few hours, but not much more than that. It was a bloody genius idea at the time to make Khanivore with Octopus DNA, but it's really come back to bite me in the arse. Faultline's crew have given me some space, and I appreciate it. It's not like I'm ashamed or anything, I used to run about in front of hundreds of people in this body, but I really don't like letting others see just how reliant I am on outside help.
Maybe I won't tell them, not yet at least. Let's get through this job first; nothing reveals a person's true nature quite like a bit of the old ultraviolence.
I shake off the excess water, feeling like a beaten dog as I do so, before stepping out of the bathroom and into the bar itself. Faultline is there, as are the rest of the Crew, standing in front of a table on which she's spread out a map of the city, as well as a bunch of photographs. She looks up as I step out of the bathroom, her face firm but not harsh. This is Faultline the professional, which means it's time to get serious.
"You'll need a name," she remarks to me, "but don't think about it right now. A name is something that will stick with you for the rest of your life, and you should be sure before you choose it."
How right you are, madam Faultline. Who am I, Sonnie or Khanivore? Better not to dwell on it right now. Down that road, madness lies.
"However, we are going into battle and we can't just shout 'hey you' every time we need your attention. So, how does 'White' sound, as a purely temporary measure."
Works for me, and it plays off my best features. I nod my head.
"Good. Here's the job." She points to a spot on the map. It's been a while since I read a paper map, hell, since anyone, but I follow along easily enough.
"This is the field office of the FBI in Philadelphia. Our client, who will always remain nameless in our jobs, is currently under investigation by the FBI for breaking the embargo on the CUI."
I tilt my head in an unspoken question. Fortunately, she gets the message.
"The Chinese Union-Imperial is a foreign nation, and not relevant to our job. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is a law enforcement agency. We've been hired to raid their building and copy their server files, specifically their ongoing investigations database. We will deliver that information to our client, so that they can burn their compromised assets and avoid prosecution. We're taking all the data, so as to not reveal our client's identity to the FBI."
Makes sense. Corporate espionage was never my scene, but there were always a few shady types hanging about at the fights who just loved to boast about their jobs over a few drinks.
"Normally a hit on a government building would bring the PRT down on us like rats, but they shouldn't bother us until the FBI gives up the chase."
Now that doesn't make sense. Everyone knows that if you fuck with one millicent group, you fuck with all of them. This time I let out a small growl, part of a test to see if I can make myself sound curious. Faultline smiles discretely, clearly this is part of the plan she's proud of.
"The Federal Bureau of Investigations and the Parahuman Response Team are both federal law enforcement agencies, and there's a lot of bad blood between the PRT and the rest of the feds. Most law enforcement agencies believe the PRT has gotten too big; its budget is nearly equal to all the other agencies combined. This is because they're responsible for all Parahuman crimes, no matter how big or how small. The PRT recently claimed jurisdiction over the Teeth, freezing out the ATF, and over Accord's operation in Boston, freezing out the FBI. Not to mention how many domestic terror groups are now led by Parahumans."
"The feds think the PRT is looking to become the sole law enforcement agency in the United States, and the PRT aren't doing anything to stop that impression. So, the other agencies have banded together in protest, agreeing not to cooperate with the PRT. What this means for us is that the FBI will try to stop us themselves, before reporting us to the PRT. They'll have to tell them eventually, their pride isn't worth losing the data, but we should be able to get out of the building well before that happens."
It's good that she's thought this through. This jargon is all Greek to me, but I understand the gist of it. The PRT have been stepping on too many toes, and these 'feds' are willing to put themselves at risk for the sake of their pride.
"The plan, therefore, is to enter as quietly as we can so that we don't draw too much attention. Once inside, we move quickly through the building to the server room, using these blueprints our client bought from the Dragonslayers."
Don't know who they are but I don't really need to. An information broker is an information broker.
"We transfer the server data onto this hard drive," she patted a small box with a carrying handle, "it's tinker made, with more than enough room to spare."
Now that's interesting. Another grunt, another demand for an explanation.
"Tinkers are parahumans who can create technology well in advance of our current standards. The only downside is the need for regular maintenance, but the hard drive should hold up long enough for us to get it to the client."
Bingo.
"Once we're inside, expect armed resistance. Most of the agents will be unarmed, but they will have firearms teams on-site. They will be trying to kill you, they don't have the same nonlethal options as the PRT, but under no circumstances are you to kill them. You kill a federal agent and the whole country will come down on our heads."
Horrorshow. I've always wondered how well my exoskeleton would hold up against gunfire. Hopefully the ammo here is less powerful than I'm used to. Not like they've ever had to take out a Beastie before.
"You and Gregor will be taking point, Newter says you're tough."
"Absolutely. He put his tail through a concrete wall, and I think the rebar as well. Dude's badass."
Right. That needs to stop right fucking now. I fix Newter with my most piercing stare, and separate my tail, bringing a razor-point close to his face.
"What the hell bro?" Newter scampers back, and Gregor begins to chuckle and mutter to himself in a strange language.
"I think you should apologise to the nice young lady." His voice its usual dry sound, but I think I can hear the slightest sounds of amusement.
Newter looks at me again, as if he's working through an impossible puzzle, before apparently working out the answer as his eyes widened a touch.
"Right, sorry miss."
Faultine's face is deadpan, but her lips have ever-so-slightly curled up into a smile.
"Good. Newter will be moving ahead of us; he's best at ambushes and his sweat induces psychedelic effects."
Hard to imagine him being stealthy, but I guess trippy sweat helps. If I wasn't already high on escapism, I'd consider what he's selling.
"If you encounter difficulties at significant range, then step back and let Gregor deal with it. He can project substances through his skin, including an anaesthetic gas."
The big guy nods to me. His appearance is still unsettling but I force myself to meet his gaze. I'm no-one to talk about odd looks.
"Myself and Labyrinth will be moving behind you. I can cut through nonorganic materials at a touch, so I'll collapse any corridor with too much resistance."
Half of that made sense, but why the hell are we bringing the kisa? My confusion must have come through, because Faultline looks over to the girl, who's currently off in a world of her own, and explains.
"Labyrinth is our way in. She can alter reality in a radius around her. Her radius increases the longer she stays in one place. Gregor and Newter will disguise themselves as workmen until Labyrinth can make us a door through."
What? Trippy sweat I get, an internal chemical plant I get. Hell, I can even accept invisible knives but she straight up alters reality? This is some wizard crap. Netwer's drinking in my confusion like fine wine.
"First rule of Parahumans. Powers are bullshit."
"Once we've made it to the server room, I'll wire in the hard drive and transfer the data. Shouldn't take more than a minute. Then we fight our way back out, find a patch of wall near our exit vehicle, and wait for Labyrinth to make us another door. If everything goes to plan, we should be able to make a clean getaway."
If everything goes to plan.
"This last stage is when we're most likely to encounter the PRT. If the FBI contacts Philadelphia Police then they'll tell the PRT the moment they spot we have powers. Put simply, the Police aren't paid enough to deal with us. We leave in three hours"
Every fighter prepares for the match in their own way. Some spend their time in noise and hedonism, speedballing steroids and amphetamines to whip themselves up into a berserk rage. Some ignore the fight, chatting with their mates and going about their day like nothing's happening, so they can go in with a clear head. There are as many prep methods as there are fighters, and nobody can say for sure which ones work best.
I never went in for that sort of thing. Ever since I got my edge, I've always been more distant. Everything seemed like so much less than it used to be. I couldn't feel the wind against my face or smell the stench of petrol that followed us around like a bad hangover. I was famous. The unbeaten Predator. People knew my name from Orkney to Cornwall, and we moved about the country surrounded by flocks of groupies. The rest of the team were ecstatic; we were the rising stars in a movement that was about to go mainstream, and the entire world was at our fingertips.
But to go back, to feel everything I'd lost, would have been worth any cost.
I spent the time before fights in much the same way I'd have spent all my time, if I wasn't surrounded by friends and their well-meaning concern. I'd find a quiet place, sit down, and just wait. I'd tell people it was because I was getting proper zen about things, but, in all honesty, I think I just wanted to pretend I wasn't there. It got easier as time went on. Not piloting my old body, that was child's play from week one, but distancing myself from it, from reality, until all that mattered was those glorious few minutes where the world itself felt like it was at my fingertips.
In a way, it's much the same now. I'm still surrounded by a team of people getting ready for a fight. Gregor and Faultline are moving about like the Predators used to, except they're checking over grenades and armour rather than marshalling a dozen roadies. We'd never been criminals, the fights drew in too much streaming revenue for that, but the scene always had that exotic air of illegality to it. It doesn't take much effort to slip into this overt illegality. The fight is different, I'll need to hold back in ways I never have before, but the arena is still the same.
What's different is that my mind and body are one. I'm not pretending to be somebody else anymore. I used to tell people I was getting into a zen mood when I distanced myself from the fight, but this time I mean it. I am a whole person now, and Faultline's crew know me for who I am. That's something I didn't even have in the Predators. If I ever told them just how much I slipped, how much more alive I felt in the ring that when we were touring boozers, then they'd never have forgiven themselves for what they did to Sonnie. They could never understand, but to the Crew I've always been this way. I'm more zen now that I've ever been.
It takes longer for us to get to the stage this time. The formula is the same in every arena I've ever fought in. The fighters would walk down a short corridor, flanked on either side by our crews, and step out onto the stage above the arena itself. My team always got a lot more out of it than I did, and I put in the effort for their sake. I didn't need to be seen, I could just as easily control Khanivore from the wings, but the Predators were more than just me, and the others deserved their time in the limelight. They loved it, especially Ivrina. She was always beautiful, and she liked to be seen being beautiful. Her body was a masterwork of tattoos, set to glow under blacklights to reveal a stylised skeleton. The audience loved her, and she loved them.
This arena is different. We can't be seen as we approach, and the audience don't know they're participating. We're travelling in the back of a Ford Transit, a vehicle so universal even I recognise it, done up to look like gas contractors. Gregor and Newter are dressed up in high-vis jackets and respirators, while Faultine is in her full mercenary chic and Labyrinth, the poor girl, is dolled up in green robes with a full-face ballistic mask. There's a maze printed onto it in shades of green, one that hides her face, but I can still tell she's spacing out.
I am not wearing a mask.
Between myself and Gregor, the back of the van is almost entirely full and I know it must be sitting low to the ground. At least Gregor's up in the front, and I'd rather have him driving than Newter. My head is low, so as not to give the game away, but I can see the buildings rising higher through the front windows. So this is a city centre, before the heat-shimmer, the domes and the skytowers. It's almost quaint. There's a lot more greenery about, and some old stone buildings that are in quite good nick. We pull up besides the brown side of one building, whose windows are tinted in the fuck off style, and the two 'gas workers' step outside.
Nobody questions them as they start levering a manhole off the floor and set up orange poles, or when they discretely open the van's sliding door to let Labyrinth out. The door's on the wrong side, which is a bit of a mindfuck, but then I remember where I am. Nobody bothers us. It's the unique effect of a high-vis jacket; anyone wearing one becomes part of the scenery, to be ignored like the sewage pipes that run beneath the pavement. People don't need to know how a city works, just that it does.
After a time, Labyrinth's touch starts to spread across the wall. It has to be the freakiest thing I've ever seen. The smooth panelling twists and turns into decrepit brickwork, and a door slowly starts to creep across the wall as her power asserts itself. What kind of force could give a little girl the power to overwrite reality? The door is rusted iron, and built like a cell with a small hatch so that the guards can spit on the prisoners. It's terrifying. What the hell is something like this doing inside her head?
I don't have time to dwell on the implications as Gregor and Newter shed their disguises, and Faultline leaps out of the van like she's storming the beaches at Normandy. She opens the door into a nondescript corridor, and I follow shortly behind. It takes some will just to cross through the door; I have to overrule the small part of my mind that insists it isn't there. As Labyrinth steps through and away from our entrance, reality reasserts itself and we're left stuck inside this new Arena.
Hey, remember when I said it'd be done by tonight? Apparently what I meant was it'll be done in an hour.
I tried to cut down on the acronyms, but this chapter could also be called alphabet soup. I don't think the status of the other federal agencies is ever mentioned in Worm but, given how absurdly broad the PRT's mandate is, I can't imagine they're doing well. I may have to make more stuff up in future, as Faultline's Crew operates slightly below the level of gangland warfare and traditional supervillainy that dominates canon Worm. Expect more Police, for example