The conquering heroes stagger back into 'Paddy's Pub', battered and bruised but victorious. Their clothes and skin are coated in a thin layer of brick dust, and their eyes are haggard and tired. Faultline is first in, moving off to the makeshift shower that had been set up in the old pub's bathroom. Newter steps over to the bar, taking down a bottle of some half empty spirits from the pub's better days and mixing it with a can of cola retrieved from a coolbag. Gregor sets Labyrinth down on one of the pubs few padded chairs, helping her remove her ballistic mask, before moving off to start packing away their small encampment. Faultline returns after a while, her armour brushed free of dust and her hair wrapped up in a white towel.
I snag the shower before any of the others can move, though calling the hose and bucket a shower is perhaps being a little generous, and begin to remove the dust that had been thrown up when Myrrdin decided to shoot off blasts in a confined space. The red-grey detritus washes over my skin, and I run my claws along the tiny gaps in my armoured carapace, enjoying the sensation of the icy water against my skin. It cannot compare to the all-encompassing suspension tank, but I need to do the best job I can before withdrawal starts to kick in.
I shake myself off rather than using the towel, removing the excess water while keeping my skin agreeably moist, and move back into the bar. I was in there for a while, and Faultine's hair has now dried. She's fitted her spiked ponytail of false quills back onto her head and looks about ready to go back out. I tilted my head towards her in confusion as she set a notepad down on the countertop.
"I'm going to make the drop off to the client. On the way back I'll pick up some food for tonight, then tomorrow morning we'll skip town. I want to see if you can write, so if there's anything you want me to buy then just set it down on paper. Don't think too hard about it, just do what you think feels right. Skills stay behind even if memories don't; Gregor here can speak fluent Icelandic."
It makes sense, but I can remember much more than she thinks. This is the moment, I decide, when I tell her who I really am. Faultline takes a pen from a discrete pouch in her armour and holds it out to me, removing the lid with a sharp click. It's a fountain pen, bound together in wood and brass, and looks a lot pricier than the pens I'm used to. I accept it, gripping it in my claws with elaborate care. If I can avoid crushing Myrrdin's skull, then I can hold a bloody pen. I think through in my head what I need to say, before leaning in to set it down on the page.
At the worst possible moment, a spasm fires through my synapses, causing my right arm to twitch. There's a crack, a louder and more noticeable sound than I have ever heard, and I look down in horror at the shards of wood and metal, and the clawed hands turned black with ink. Faultline sighs, and I shut my eyes in shame. I can't bear to look at her, and I can feel yet more tremors building up as the back of my right foot taps a staccato rhythm into the floorboards. I open my eyes again, bringing my inky fingers up to my face, and look at the blackened digits, holding all the words left unsaid. With a single claw, I gently trace out a single word onto the page, before slinking off to sit against the wall with my head in my hands.
'MEAT'
The Slo-Mo in my system is long gone, consumed within seconds of its creation, but the withdrawal effects were delayed by stimulants released from yet another gland, so as not to affect me mid-fight. Normally I never needed to use Slo-Mo, the connection between my brain and Khanivore was about as close as it gets so there was usually no need to speed it up with drugs, but on the rare occasions I did use it withdrawal always hit like a fucking freight train. The other Baiters never had to deal with this shit, they jacked out of their Beastie the moment the fight was over and went off to fuck whores while the bioware processors fought off the symptoms, but poor old Sonnie was left a gibbering mess every single time.
This is worse. This is leagues worse.
Now I can't even run away to Sonnie, small comfort though it was. I'm stuck in this body as it convulses and twitches, as any signals I send to my limbs are contradicted or buried amidst false-positives. Muscle tendons start to pull in contrary directions, and redundant tissue only increases the amount of tissue to spasm. The others leave me alone as I begin to lose control, probably taking the first shakes for silent sobs. Faultline leaves off to the meet, after reassuring me that she can find another pen. I don't care. I'll still pay you back in full.
The shakes get worse and worse, and the Crew begin to take notice. Newter spots it first, and comes over to me. For all his cockiness before, I can only see concern on his eyes. He speaks to me, but I don't hear it. My ears are filled with discordant sounds, and his words become twisted into high pitched wailing amidst a monstrous orchestra of random noise. With my claws, I manage to scratch out a half-formed word from jagged shapes, pausing and restarting at different places along the wooden floor.
'WITHDRAWAL'
He nods, and I think he looks at me quizzically. Everything I can see is brightening and blending together, filling my eyes with incandescent swirls of orange. I think I can make out him holding his arm up against my face, and with my last semblance of control I move my head into his waiting palm. Sweet relief floods through my body, seizing my trembling limbs and sending me tumbling headfirst into unconsciousness.
Sometimes I dream, but never clearly enough to latch onto. I see disoriented episodes from my life, with elements chopped and changed at random. I remember signing on with Sonnie's Predators as a Roadie, but they were called Jacob's Banshees back then, and their members are mixed in with Faultine's crew. I see myself leaving home, looking to get lost and find myself, before stumbling naked and alone into the alleyway in Pittsburgh, a brand tattooed onto my chest. Inevitably, what I see most is the Estate. My world is a riot of colour and bloodshed, but gradually the colours fade and sense returns to my aching limbs. I didn't even know Khanivore could ache.
As I blink away the spots from my eyes, I notice a strange weight on my arms. I look down, only to see Elle leaning up against me, staring off into space. I would have smiled, if Khanivore had the muscles to smile, but instead I simply reach up with an enormous hand and gently ruffle her hair. She doesn't react, but it sure makes me feel better. Gregor's standing behind the bar, frying up what looks like an absurd amount of mince beef, and Newter's idly throwing darts at an ancient and crumbling dartboard. Faultline's back, having swapped her armour for a white shirt and tight-fitting trousers, and she notices the slight movement of my arm. She nods at me, but I can see a thousand unspoken questions in her head. I gently manoeuvre myself around Labyrinth, leaving her amidst a pile of cushions, and stagger over to the bar on stiff joints.
Faultline's done more than just shop; there's a small whiteboard sitting on the table, with a rubber and two whole packs of inexpensive markers. She looks like she's about to say something to me, but there's something I need to get off my chest first. I pick up one of the markers, carefully levering the lid off with a razor-sharp claw. As I write, whatever Faultline was about to say dies in her mouth, and her unflappable expression wavers before failing entirely.
'I didn't lose my memory'
Faultline calls over to Gregor, who was in the process of pouring the mince beef out into a bowl, and he too loses his composure when he sees what I have written.
"So, who were you?" It's Faultline who asks, Gregor's still a little out of sorts.
'My name's Sonnie. I'm not a parahuman.'
"I had wondered what Chevalier was talking about," Gregor mused as I wrote the next line, "but are you sure?"
'A few years back I got into trouble. Almost died. My friends took my brain out of my broken skull and put it in this body. In Khanivore.'
"And what is Khanivore? A tinker creation?" Faultline now, who else?
That pisses me off, just a little, and I let out a short growl before continuing.
'Fuck no. Khanivore's real science, not magical bullshit. A Beastie used for pit fighting. We were bloody celebrities back in the UK.'
"I'm afraid I haven't heard of the sport."
Faultline's sceptical, who could blame her? I write out the next sentence, the one on which everything rests. If she doesn't believe this, then fuck knows what I'll do.
'You wouldn't have. Last I remember it was 2070, and there were no parahumans, no endbringers. There never were. I'm not from this Earth.'
Faultline takes a seat at the bar and looks me in the eye. I meet her gaze head on. She sighs.
"That makes an annoying amount of sense. We're aware of parallel Earths; we have steady contact with Earth Aleph, for example. Nothing as advanced as what you're describing, but it's not beyond the realm of possibility."
Well thank fuck for that. Of course they've already found parallel universes, why wouldn't they have? It's practically a staple of the superhero genre. Newter notices the intensity of our discussion and comes over, by the ceiling rather than the floor. The moment he spots what's written on the whiteboard, which is getting pretty full now, a dart falls out of his hand before juddering into the counter below. He's still, utterly silent, and it's Gregor who speaks up next.
"Sonnie," he says, seeing how the name feels on his tongue, "we've been looking into what causes Case 53's for a while? Do you think we could be like you? Bioweapons plucked from other realities?"
There's no need to think about this one, but I've run out of space on the whiteboard. Gregor waits patiently as I wipe away my writing, but his curiosity overcomes him as I write the next line.
'You're not bitek. Bitek has to follow the rules of biology, capes ignore it. Don't know about whether you're from a parallel universe, but your powers make no biological sense.'
Gregor frowns slightly, but there's not much I can do to help that. I don't know anything about what caused this fucking mystery, but I do know that I'm nowhere near the level of a Parahuman.
"Is there anything you remember about how you got here? Anything at all?"
'A flash of orange light. White walls. Another flash of orange. Waking up in an alley on the wrong side of the Atlantic.'
For a moment I thought Gregor was going to speak again, was going to demand information I didn't have. He didn't, and I gained yet more respect for the man. He was pretty goddam zen.
"Wait a minute… Where are you from?" Newter was trying to make light of things, but I could tell I'd shocked him.
'The UK. Lewisham, to be specific.'
"Well top o' the morning to you then!"
The worse part is that I have no idea if he's messing with me, or just that clueless. Fortunately, Faultline is there to get us back on track.
"That explains why you knew you were going through withdrawal earlier. Listen, Sonnie, were you using drugs on your world?"
Her concern is heart breaking, and I very quickly scrawl out something to appease her.
'Khanivore was made for pit fighting. This body has organs that I can control to release chemical stimulants and improve my performance in a fight. When the van got hit, I used one to speed up my reaction times. It's not harmful to my system in the long run, and Khanivore doesn't have the ability to get addicted, but withdrawals a bitch.
Faultline's face lights up with obvious relief. I get it; I wouldn't be too happy to have a junkie on my team. Unfortunately, that's not the problem she needs to be looking at.
'There's a problem. My body wasn't designed to go without our hardware for this long. I'll be immobile in about two weeks, and dead soon after that.'
"I see," Faultline didn't doubt me, I guess the hours spent in withdrawal must have proven my point, "what exactly are you missing?"
Wipe the board, start writing again.
'My organs are inefficient, designed to be redundant, and need a suspension tank to replicate their functions. Without it, I'll waste away.'
Faultline paused for a while, deep in thought.
"We could take you to a healer, but most healers work by resetting the body to its original state, which doesn't help you at all. Panacea's worked on birth defects in the past, but she wouldn't help you."
That doesn't sound right. Everyone has a price, and I now have thirty grand to my name.
'€10,000?'
Faultline laughs.
"First off, I'll be paying you in dollars," ah right, forgot about that, "and second, Panacea won't take your money."
"She's with New Wave," Newter's voice drifted down from the ceiling, "straight as an arrow and about as subtle. They're like the girl scouts with superpowers. She'll take one look at you and either run shrieking about a monster or sic her sister on you the moment she realises you're with us."
Well shit. Typical bloody heroes.
"I think…" Faultline continued hesitantly, more so than I'd ever seen her, "I think your best bet would be Blasto," there's a name I've heard before, "he's a Tinker out in Boston who grows his own creations. It's possible he'd be willing to sell you some of his equipment for a few thousand."
I tilt my head and look at Faultline. I don't know exactly where Boston is, but I don't think it's near Philadelphia. She must see my confusion, because her face takes on a saurian grin that matches my own.
"We need to get out of Philadelphia anyway, although the FBI and PRT will be fighting for jurisdiction over the case for months at least, and Boston is as good a place as any. I can set up a meeting between you and Blasto, and we can take on a few jobs in Boston while we're there."
We shake hands, her own looking comically small in my massive mitts, and Gregor hands me a plate laden with kilograms of mince beef which I wolf down in a single gulp.
"I have to ask," Faultline speaks up once my disgusting display ends, "which do you prefer, Sonnie or Khanivore?"
It takes me a while to think. This question cuts deep into each and every issue that's been gnawing away at my soul since the Estate. Who am I? In the end, there's only one answer.
'Can't I be both?'
I hear laughter from above my head, and look up to fix Newter with a piercing glare. He doesn't stop, and barely manages to force out a few words between laughs.
"A secret identity! We'll buy you a trenchcoat and a fedora! It'll be brilliant!"
Faultline's grin widens, and even Gregor cracks a smile.
"It's only fair," Faultline talks, good cheer seeping into her words, "who says you can't have a secret identity? You've put a lot of trust in me, and I'm happy to reciprocate. My real name is Melanie Fitts."
Melanie Fitts. Miss Melanie Fitts. Miss Fitts. Miss Fitts, and her misfits.
I learn something about Khanivore in this moment, something that years of fighting and testing had never been able to reveal. I can laugh.
Ladies and Gentlemen, this concludes Arc 1, which now has a name. The next chapter will be an interlude, in which I bring the story to Brockton Bay for a very brief moment before going into Arc 2, which will begin with a road trip as our gang of misfits go looking for America, but find England instead.
Thank you all for following me on this mad journey, the response so far has been overwhelming.
If I hadn't commtted to the Worm convention for one word arc titles, and if I had any faith in my ability to make puns, then this arc would be called It's Always Sonnie in Philadelphia
#155
Interlude 1 - Spitfire
"Put the money in the bag!"
The cashier trembles, her arms shaking uncontrollably as she shovels cash into the plain black carrier bag. It was a fucking waste, barely more than seventy-five dollars, but I need that money to get through the night. God, she's terrified of me. I try not to see myself through her eyes, but my imagination conjures up a brief image of a faceless gas mask, with black smoke pouring out through the nozzle. I had needed something to hide my face, and my dad had brought the mask back from Iraq as a souvenir.
Shit. I can't let myself think about him. Not now, not when I need to be the big scary supervillain. Come on Emily, pull yourself together.
My mask lasts just long enough for the helpless cashier, her eyes wide with naked terror, to hand the Alexandria backpack back to me. I zip it up and throw it over my shoulder, sprinting out into the night. Once I've gotten far enough away from the sirens, real or imagined I honestly can't tell anymore, I stagger into an alleyway and throw off my mask, pushing back the red hood of my overalls before vomiting onto the ground, my hands pressed against the wall like a drunk.
Once I'm done throwing up my shame, I root around in the rucksack, past the green paper and loose change, and pull out an anonymous black hoodie, replacing it with the gas mask. With the hood up, I become just another kid. It isn't the perfect disguise, but it means I can walk the streets without being stopped by the cops, or the capes, or the gangs. I'm just another girl walking alone at night through Brockton Bay. Great.
Nothing I can do about it. I can't go back home, home isn't there anymore, and there are probably arrest warrants out for Emily. The hoodie hides my curly brown hair, and conceals my freckles in shadow. It's better than nothing, but not by much. Shit. I can't believe it's come to this. Ten days ago I was worried about my falling grades, that I wasn't spending enough time with my friends, or wondering how to get Andrew to finally pick up the courage to ask me out. How the fuck did I end up sticking up gas stations?
I know how, of course. I killed those men. Sure, they'd broken into our home but I just can't forget the looks on their faces as my liquid flame ran down their skin in burning streams, melting the polyester of their red and green clothes. Our carpets followed, and our curtains, and the rest of our house, and the house across the street. It was my fault. I hadn't been able to stop screaming, and every jet of flame that shot out of my mouth just made me scream more. I don't know if my parents survived, they were upstairs asleep while I was staying up on the computer, and I can't bear to find out.
I ran out onto the streets without looking back, spewing flame onto the road before I thought to shut my mouth. I went back there after the second night on the street, only to find a burned-out ruin that offered me neither hope or answers. That was where I found the gas mask, among the ashes of my old life. From there it's been a quick slide into villainy. I hate that, hate what I've become, and hate myself for not having the courage to hand myself in. But, for all I hate it, I'm terrified of prison, of being sent away forever by the Protectorate or cut up by the ABB as an example of why you shouldn't fuck with their people.
I shiver, and draw my hands close into my chest. I must look like a junkie, but I'm just freezing. Ten nights. Ten nights spent out on the streets, and five of them without even a sleeping bag. That was my own fault, I really should have figured that someone would be selling sleeping bags to Brockton Bay's enormous homeless population. The camping store in the North End was a godsend, filled with far more homeless customers than actual campers and with a well-stocked, and cheap, second-hand section.
Still, I'm a long way from its warm comforts now. That's more of a practical measure than anything else; even I know not to rob stores close to where you sleep. It means a hike right through the middle of the city, but in the end it's worth it. Around me I can see the people of Brockton Bay staggering out of the clubs. It's three AM on Saturday, which means the streets are full of drunks. Used to be I'd be one of them, sneaking out from home with a fake ID in hand and without a care for how it made my parents feel. Just another in a very long list of regrets.
There's a group walking towards me on my side of the street, moving away from the usual flow of people towards the city's better neighbourhoods. They're heading to the old docks, which means they're either drunker than most or suicidal. I put my head down, hoping to pass them by unnoticed. No such luck.
"Hey, are you okay?"
I look up for a brief moment, catching the eyes of a blonde woman with a dusting of freckles across her cheeks. She's accompanied by a tall black guy who looks like he lifts cars in his spare time and a thin teen with a sappy looking face. The woman is glaring at me with more interest than she should, and there's something predatory about her grin. Like a fox sizing up its meal.
"I'm fine."
I shoulder past them before she can reply, and I hear the trio continue on without me.
"What was that about, Lisa?" one of them asked as their voices faded into the distance.
"I'll tell you later."
My walk brings me through the rest of the city, showing me the true face of Brockton Bay. In a dark alleyway to my left, four thugs in ABB colours nudge each other and point at me with bare blades, before deciding instead to take a puff from their crack pipe. I see four bouncers, sporting the grizzled look of former Dockworkers, drag a man in a tuxedo from a well-to-do nightclub. They bring him into the alley beside the building, and two of them hold him steady while a third wails on him with meaty fists. A shadow passes overhead and I instinctively try to shrink deeper into my hood as I spot Kid Win and Shadow Stalker zip across the rooftops.
I had idolised them once. Now the heroes are just something else I need to hide from.
Eventually, home looms above me. That's not me going all poetic either; the remains of the Monument are absolutely enormous, and stretch out to my right well into the bay. The Boat Graveyard surrounds me, hulking vessels driven ashore or simply sunk into the bay itself. The graveyard, more than even the gangs, has killed Brockton Bay. The older locals like to hold onto the comfort that the bay had always been in decline, they like to tell themselves that Leviathan was to blame when he sunk Newfoundland. That's a fucking joke.
People did this, stupid people acting in the heat of the moment. I remember my dad telling me about watching it from the Boardwalk, waiting with the rest of the National Guard for the order to board the fleet of cargo ships and seize control of the vessels back from the Dockworker's Association. Pirates, they'd called them, but nobody believed it. The weekend soldiers had waited there, as the police tried their best to break up the strike on their own, before all hell broke loose.
Somebody fired, nobody saw who or on what side, and soon the bay was crisscrossed with gunfire, yellow tracers breaking through the night sky. Some of the more militant unions fired rockets they'd bought from the Teeth into the Protectorate's floating fortress, then, when the missiles burst harmlessly against the shields, they'd turned their attention to the soldiers on the boardwalk. The ship they'd taken ended up shot to pieces by the National Guard, and the Protectorate had swooped in to clear up the leftovers.
The other ships panicked, and shouts and fights broke out in even greater numbers. Everything went to hell, and for a while it seemed like the Dockworker's Association would die in that bay. Then the largest ship had been rippled by explosions that tore out of the hull right on the waterline, sinking the hundreds of metres of steel in minutes. The Association had panicked, and made good on their threat to block the harbour. That was the end, as the guns fell silent and the people on both sides realised just what they had done. Brockton Bay was dead.
The Monument was that ship, now serving only as a monument to the way the city used to be. The ship drifted as it sank, until its bow was kissing the shoreline. It has never been moved. The East Coast has enough other ports that it simply isn't worth the cost it would take to fix it. The ship is also a great place to hide, something I had learned over the past three days. There's a section on the shoreline where scavengers have torn away at the hull, exposing the ships interior. I haul myself up and into the ship, careful to wear gloves to avoid cutting myself on the jagged metal, and move through the corridors lit only by a small handheld flashlight.
Eventually I find the small cubbyhole in the middle of the ship that I now call home, if only for old time's sake. I'm not alone, but on a ship this big that doesn't really matter. I've never seen the others, but I know they are there. I can see evidence of their presence sometime; a loose wrapper or the occasional sleeping bag in a hard-to-reach cubbyhole. I leave them their space and they leave me mine, a truly anonymous community. Some small-time gang has set up a meth lab in the bridge, but their goons are easily avoided and never leave the ship's tower. Come to think of it, I haven't seen any of them in a while. Maybe they got hit?
It doesn't matter, all that does is the small cubby hole that I have made my own. It's filled with everything I own, from my ragged sleeping bag on the floor to the wind-up lamp and radio beside it. That's it. That, and a small hole in the ceiling that holds my meagre funds. Still, it feels more like home than the bench by the ferry station, or the partially-collapsed warehouse in the docks. At least here I am kind of indoors, and I have stolen an intact door from an old cabin to offer me even more privacy. I block this door against the frame every night with a heavy metal barrel, part of the healthy paranoia I have developed, and crawl into my sleeping bag, throwing my boots to one side but not bothering to take off my overalls.
Sleep comes easy, more a sign of exhaustion than anything else, and I'm out almost immediately. I don't dream anymore, which is probably for the best.
The sound of footsteps on the deck above forces me out of my sleep, paranoia driving me to squirm out of the sleeping bag as silently as I can manage. Voices drift down through the holes and corridors that litter the Monument, voices I don't know.
"You're sure she's here?" Male, disbelieving.
"Grue, you know I'm sure." Female, cocky. No. Arrogant.
"Alright. Bitch, see if you can find her." The same man.
"Brutus, Judas, Angelica, hunt." Female, not the same as the first. No idea what she's feeling but that sure as shit sounds bad.
I throw my gas mask on, spending precious seconds fiddling with the straps before wasting yet more moments levering the barrel away from the door. Above me, I can hear the pounding of feet on metal, far louder than feet have any right to be. As I struggle my way out of my room, pulling my laces tight and looping them around my boots rather than tying them, I can hear the voices continue.
"Hunt? You sure, Bitch? Don't you mean find?" Some distant part of me notes the new voice.
"Never taught them find."
"It'll be fine. They just need to flush her out of hiding, then I'll win her over with my natural charm."
"Whatever you say, Tats."
As I sprint through the corridors, desperately making for the shoreline, I see my neighbours for the first time. The homeless and the desperate, fleeing through the corridors on bare feet, and dressed in ill-fitting clothes clearly thrown on in a hurry. No words pass between us, and soon our routes split apart, Monstrous barks begin to echo through the ship, and the pounding metal sounds get closer and closer.
My breathing is running hot and heavy, and small flecks of flammable spittle fly out of my mouth only to burn up on contact with the air. I pass an intersection, and as I glance right, I catch a brief glimpse of some kind of monster, all spikes and teeth, bounding across the parallel corridor. I run harder, moving faster than I ever have before. I leap over the jagged metal that litters the deck, the remains of the last 'fuck you' of the Dockworker's Association, almost effortlessly, not thinking about anything except getting out.
The wall in front of me dents, shuddering and bulging before the rivets begin to pop out, clattering onto the floor. I catch a sight of animal eyes, and feel warm breath on my skin. I duck beneath the bulging metal, only to hear it shatter against the opposite wall as the beast bursts through. Every instinct in me is telling me to keep running, to flee and not look back, but I can hear its enormous feet pounding closer and closer, and I know that I can't outrun it.
I spin on my heels to face it, but slip on a patch of wet metal and fall onto my ass, looking back at the four-legged monster charging towards me. I benign to scoot backwards, before letting out an instinctive stream of napalm into the beast. I angle my fire downwards as the first streams hit the beast, creating a pool of burning liquid between us. The beast refuses to cross and ignores its burning flesh as it leaves in search of other prey.
The instant my shock fades I shoot to my feet, turning once again to sprint. I can still hear the howls and barks around me, and I begin spitting jets of fire into every corridor, desperate to buy enough time to escape. Gradually, the dark of the ship and the flickering orange of my flames give way to the artificial yellow of distant streetlamps, and I jump down the gap between the entrance and the sandy beach, before sprinting off into the city.
<|°_°|>
Well shit. They're never going to let me hear the end of this. We're standing at the bow of the ship, right on the very edge. Anyone looking from below would see the four of us silhouetted against the night's sky, the moon at our back, and the Monument of Brockton Bay beneath our feet. It was meant to impress Spitfire, to show our strength, but that's a wasted effort now. I can tell as I look at her scrabble up from the sand. Grue's looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to step forward and make our point. I simply shake my head in frustration.
"There's no point. She's too scared to ever consider joining us."
His motorcycle helmet is blank and impassive, but I can tell he's scowling. I could tell even if my power wasn't showing me just how many different ways he blamed me for this. He's right, of course. I took the lead on this. I saw a vulnerable girl and let my feelings run away from me. Worse, I relied too much on my power. I was confident it would show me a way to her heart, but instead it told me that wasn't possible.
"It was the dogs, wasn't it?"
Regent is smug, as ever, but he's right. I fucked up with Spitfire; she'll never join us now, not even if I tried a softer sell.
We'll just have to do better with the next one.
Welcome to Brockton Bay. No need to unpack your bags, we won't be staying here long. It'll take a while for the Crew to get home, I'll probably spend almost all of Arc 2 in Boston, so I figured you could use this brief taste, and I could use a chance to get used to the character of the city.
Everything that occurs in this chapter has some basis in Canon, from Bitch's dogs scaring away Spitfire to the calamitous events that lead to the creation of the Boat Graveyard. I have filled in the blanks as much as I am able, and I hope the events I have relayed aren't beyond the realm of possibility. Frankly, the events that lead to the bombing in the bay sound interesting enough to be their own fanfic.
I think part of the reason I like the setting of Worm, more so than the people within, is that I'm fascinated by societies in decline. It's reflected in the other works I'm writing, a Warhammer 40,000 story and an original superhero book about London under martial law. I think I enjoy seeing people make the best of a bad situation, and pull together to make things better in some small way. I am no pessimist, indeed I firmly believe in humanity's ability to overcome any crisis.
That might not fly in Worm, but that's why this story is about a group of misfits making the most of their personal situation, regardless of the state of the rest of the world