Chapter Text
The sheathe of Elizabeth's knife tapped against her leg as she ran to cover, bullets spraying past her. She gave a nod to her squadmate, huddled behind the same broken window frame. At her signal, both answered the E88 thugs with a spray of laser fire, the tinker tech attachment on their guns glowing like hot coals.
It was hard to believe a simple drug deal had gone so wrong. While Coil had provided equipment much better than anything these neo-nazi thugs had, quantity has a quality of its own, and the E88 did not lack support among the population of Brockton Bay.
She pressed a button on her helmet, finding the small switch with practised ease. “Command, I am requesting reinforcements. We are under fire from the E88. Raven-2 is down…”
A choked sound squeezed out of her squadmate, a familiar sound, though one she had hoped not to hear. A thump, as a body armoured in heavy equipment fell to the ground, and a gun clattered across the tarmac. She stared at the body. It was John, the number on the uniform matched his code. He was very still.
She kneeled down over his body. A simple twist removed the tinkertech attachment from his gun, and slipped it into one of her pockets. Best not to let it be lost.
“...As well as Raven-5. Enemy numbers unknown, location of Raven-4 and 3 unknown”
The voice that answered was clear and steady. Professional. “Raven-1, reinforcements are on the way. Arrival time unknown, there are active conflicts involving the E88 and ABB in their path. Find a safe location, and wait for extraction.”
Damn . We’ve been caught in a territorial dispute.
“Confirmed, I will attempt to find a hiding spot.”
Not that there are many available hiding spots in a gunfight.
Unfortunately it didn’t sound much like a gunfight now. The gunfire had stopped, the sudden silence more piercing than the previous racket.
Experience told her not to hold hope, this was not going to be anything good. A small glimpse above the shattered window frame she was huddled behind confirmed her suspicions. A red and black costume on a tall, muscled man, accompanied by a small woman in a skintight red bodysuit, with a runic symbol on her chest. The suits were clearly padded and armoured, and both held themselves with the familiar stance of trained combatants, The thugs parted around them, looking at them with something akin to reverence or fear.
Victor and Othala. Othala isn't much of a threat alone, but together… This is a problem.
Victor's power allowed him to drain others of their skills. Being in his presence, him touching you, you looking at him. All of these drain your skills more and more. He had glutted himself on the skills of many professionals, becoming more skilled than any human could become in a lifetime. Othala was his partner, she could touch others and grant them one of an array of powers. She often served as a healer for the E88, granting regeneration, but when partnered with Victor she could make an already deadly and skilled opponent far more dangerous. Against parahumans with any degree of power, it was necessary if he wanted to win in direct combat. Against normal humans, it was akin to entering the boxing ring unarmed against a fully armed and armoured soldier.
Elizabeth was a normal human. She liked to think herself a bit better than that, that her skill and experience made her at least abnormal, but she couldn’t humour herself now. She was skilled, but she knew Victor had beaten and drained people far more skilled than her.
One of the thugs, a hulking man whose face was tattooed enough you could barely see the skin he was so proud of, thrust a finger in her direction. Othala tapped Victor's shoulder before turning to tend to the wounded skinheads.
Elizabeth aimed and got ready to fire, holding Othala in her sights. She had a chance against an unenhanced Victor, she told herself, hoping that removing Othala would remove the enhancement.
Victor was on her faster than she could pull the trigger, vaulting over the window frame. A knee to her chest forced her backwards, catapulting her through the doorframe behind her.
Superspeed. Not good.
The butt of her gun shot forward, aiming for his midsection, a futile, instinctual attempt to attack. His dodge was almost lazy, not even bothering to use his enhanced speed.
Their eyes met.
“My compatriots are dealing with the rest of the chinks. It should not be long. It seems necessary to send a message to your boss, if you are also operating in this territory. This territory is not yours anymore. It belongs to the Empire 88. Allow me to demonstrate for Coil what will happen, if he continues to operate here. We have the time.”
Victor was blocking the exit, and with that enhanced speed she knew she couldn't get past him. She was outmatched, wouldn’t be able to get a shot off, not at this range, not with that speed. She was outskilled, the longer she was here, the more true that will be. Her reinforcements won’t be coming any time soon.
In summary, I’m fucked.
Her best chance, she figured, was to delay until his superspeed ran out, and then escape. Until then, maintain distance, try and get a shot off. The one edge she had is her tinkertech enhanced gun, She needed to utilise that. It was a desperate hope, but it was a hope,
Victor closed the distance, a bolt of red. A sharp blow at her wrists, a pull, and she no longer had her gun.
Shit.
He casually inspected the gun, observing the attachment at the end of the barrel, before flinging it securely on his back. “I’ve been curious to try one of these armaments for some time. Thank you for your donation.” His form was relaxed, steady, with hints of tenseness in the limbs, a spring ready to uncoil at any time. He wasn’t openly smirking, but she could hear that he wanted to.
Elizabeth took a step towards the door, and he was on her in a moment. Victors’ punches hit with superspeed enhanced force, aiming for chinks in her armour. Whether he knew the armours structure or was just that skilled it didn’t matter, they hit their mark.
She had no chance to respond, the speed of his attacks not giving her a moment to act, not a moment to escape, not a moment even to curl up. She knew how to get out of these situations, she had trained on what to do if she was overwhelmed in melee combat. Little of that training took into account superspeed however, and what little did was little better than ‘Hope and Pray’.
In a panic, she attempted to draw her knife. A simple strike at the wrist broke her grip, sending it clattering to the floor, her hope dashed. He gave it a dismissive glance, almost bored. Presumably, it wasn’t special enough for him to take.
The beating continued. He didn’t seem to take an active sadistic glee in it, it felt more professional, like it was just business. Somehow that made it worse. If he was enjoying it, she wouldn’t be able to see so much of herself in him.
Time melted away, but eventually Victor stepped back. She did not know how long the beating had lasted, perhaps a second, perhaps an hour. At some point he’d manoeuvred her into a different room. She should have noticed that.
She also did not know why he was giving her a moment to breathe. Perhaps I was wrong about his sadism , she hoped. Either way, she refused to miss the opportunity.
Victor was watching her like a predatory bird.
Elizabeth's’ hand reached for her helmet, ready to call for aid from her fellow soldiers. She had already tried it, but maybe, maybe this time they’d be close enough.
Now, I press… What button do I press?
The hand shook. She remembered pressing the buttons before, but… which one was it to contact the rest of her squad? She wasn’t sure. Nor could she recall the correct codes. Words that had fallen easily from her lips before couldn’t even form, the memory slipping away. Victor watched her, circling her like a raven circling a dying dog.
She focused. There were protocols for this, she knew. Methods used to recall while under the influence of memory altering powers. She couldn’t remember them.
Elizabeth found a button, one her skills were silent on but her memories insisted was correct, and went to press it.
Victors’ fist hit her head before she could, and all sense of direction was lost. She couldn’t tell where the blows were coming from, every part of her ached too much, her head was full of barbs and her vision swam.
In a brief moment of clarity, she threw a punch, but it was sloppy, more a flail than anything professional. She couldn’t tell how it was sloppy but she knew it was, a ghost of a memory of her skills clueing her in. He easily avoided it, answering with a punch to her stomach.
She couldn’t breathe. The acrid taste of vomit welled up in her, as spit was forced out of her mouth. His superspeed had long since ran out, but at this point she knew she was simply too unskilled to beat him. The beating continued, as sensation blurred together and was lost. She never lost consciousness, he never allowed it, the darkness at the edge of her vision always distant. Whenever the strength to fight back was mustered, it was like she was a new recruit, just learning to punch.
Her gun was gone, her knife was on the floor, he was too close, but every attempt to strike him was easily dodged. Her reinforcements couldn’t come, not in time. She couldn't call for help, she couldn’t remember how and he wouldn't allow her to. Her comrades were dead or missing, and she couldn’t remember how to avenge them.
Everything ached, his blows having sunk deep. Even if she had her knife against his fists, she couldn’t do anything. Even if she managed to get the upper hand, he’d just draw her gun and use it against her. All her skill, hard fought for, amounted to nothing here. She was, for the first time in her life, completely and utterly helpless.
Elizabeth was no longer in that room.
Two great beasts dwarfed the sky. They were not like any life that had evolved on earth. The cells of their bodies seemed vast enough to swallow the moon.
She had seen a video once of what the compound vision of an insect would be like, a thousand images of the same object from a slightly different angle, a slight twist of the head sending the images dancing. It was like each section of the beast's bodies was being seen through those eyes, but each image was laid on top of each other, blurring into each other such that she could somehow see them all and yet could not distinguish between them.
They expanded in dimensions unseen, pseudopods that were drills which were not pseudopods twisting through reality, tunnelling through the universe, like maggots through dead flesh. Watching it made her brain hurt. She felt like a child's drawing staring at the real world, something flat and simple catching a glimpse of something more complex than she could ever imagine. This extended beyond just their form. She knew, somehow, in the same way that she knew her own name, that these things were more than just beasts. They knew more than she ever would, than mankind ever had.
They were communicating, and even the thought of the echo of their words was beyond her comprehension.
Were they comrades, lovers, rivals? She couldn't tell. She could barely tell they were two. The twisting forms danced around each other, colliding and separating, such that she couldn't keep track of which segment she glimpsed belonged to which of the beasts. Perhaps they swapped them, perhaps she just couldn't see the distinguishing markers, like UV patterns on a flower.
They were vast beyond her reckoning, and Elizabeth was so very small in their shadow. Lovecraft, she recalled, said that the strongest and oldest fear of humanity was the fear of the unknown. At this moment, beneath the wonder and curiosity, she felt incredibly scared.
Victor was in front of her. The door was behind him. Her knife was on the floor. He’s stumbling, and seems to have fallen over.
Elizabeth didn't know what happened, but she knew one thing. There is a song in her soul, her heart a wardrum, accompanied by pipes of bone and memory. It was in her blood, a song of bloody knives, of smoking guns. It felt familiar, an old friend. It wanted her knife. She dashed, picking it up, and the song harmonised with the blade, a new tune joining the melody. The song reached its crescendo, pouring into the instrument of violence. Her disorientation faded instantly, replaced with the familiar instinct and certainty of an old soldier.
He has an old injury, a scar on his knee. It is still sensitive, sore. His armour is weaker at the joint. She knows it hurts, knows how he got it, can hear the tune of an old battle, from before he became something more, before the medic allowed him to avoid the fruits of violence.
The knife glints, red light reflecting off it for a brief moment. Victor moves to block the lunge, but he's off balance, confused. The knife sunk into the flesh of his knee, blood pours, coating it, satisfying it. A noise escapes his mouth, too controlled to be a scream, too pained to be a grunt, and he folds. She wants to stab him. The rhythm wants to stab him, to cut and main and tear. But there are the sounds of Othala shouting outside, and he is recovering. The rhythm screams at her, she screams at herself, but the fear in her heart is stronger than the thirst in her blade. Elizabeth gives him a parting slash on his arm, a little act of spite, and runs.
He tries to reach for her as she runs past him, but his knee buckles, and her long legs carry her past his reach, through the broken window in the next room.
Elizabeth can’t stop. Somewhere inside her she knows he won’t be able to catch up, but the thought of being near him, of him pursuing her twists in her stomach.
A faint voice notes her luck, despite losing her sense of direction she had ended up on the opposite side of the building to the E88 thugs. Any relief she may have felt is drowned by the pain. She keeps running, until she hears the sound of an engine approaching, and a familiar truck barrels into view down the street.
It lurched to a halt and two small squads of fellow soldiers, accompanied by a field medic, jumped out. The matte black of their equipment filled her with a sense of relief beyond any she had felt in a very long time. They smelt like gunpowder and blood, but their armour was clean.
She finally came to a pause, the pain of her bruises assaulting her, the will that kept her running gone in an instant. As the darkness at the edge of her vision finally claims her, she hears the medic approaching, their voice fading as she does.
Elizabeth woke up with a start. While she didn’t recognise the room she was in, its purpose was fairly obvious. The white walls, the hospital bed she was in, the sheets surrounding her bed.
She was in an infirmary. Coil kept several available throughout his territory, and while she has never been in this one, they don’t vary that much.
Why she was in it, she couldn't quite remember. There were bandages on her limbs and around her torso, and an IV in her right arm. Her body felt cool and numb, the false death that comes with painkillers, any sensation distant and faint. She couldn’t see any of the other beds through the cloth sheet surrounding hers, and the infirmary was near silent, save the beeping of the machines, near scentless, the artificial sterility of a hospital, and a dull plain white.
At least, one of the infirmaries she could sense was silent, scentless and dull.
The other infirmary stunk, a smell like that of rot and dried blood soaked into the walls. It was the smell of a fresh wound, of your body failing you, of the approach of death. Her body wanted to gag, but she held herself firm, though the sight of the wall across from her did not help. The wall was soaked with rotting blood, the wallpaper littered with deep cuts, bleeding like the skin of a dying giant. One of the cuts was leaking, a yellow puss-like ichor that squirmed with things that looked like maggots, or centipedes, or rats. But she knew they weren’t. The maggots were too thick, too wet, the centipedes squirmed with a thousand more legs than they should have, the rats had boils that would have killed any true rat. The creatures flailed in pain, squealing like tortured pigs, and rotted, still alive. The husks left fused with the walls, like fossils, covering the previous generations' forms.
Accompanying all of this, was a distant, pained and mournful scream, the scream of someone who's lost a finger, an arm, a friend.
It was like she had two noses, two pairs of ears, two pairs of eyes. With one set she saw the world as it was, the other the world as a nightmare.
Elizabeth knew she should be panicking, staring at a world twisted, but she felt none of that. Instead, staring at the bleeding walls, all she felt was curiosity and disgust. She looked at the horror stricken walls like they were a strange piece of art. Something created to be pondered in the meaning of its malignancy.
In the centre of her heart she could feel something else, a distant sound, a strange feeling. She turned her senses away, too tired for that.
Elizabeth knew what this meant. But as she gathered her thoughts, staring at her bandaged arms, at the bleeding walls, Elizabeth’ remembered.
The memories hit her with a force far beyond any of Victor's blows. She did not know if any of her squadmates, her friends, had survived. She needed to move, to get up, to know what happened. But even if her limbs were capable, she knew that she needed to wait. She had lost a lot, far diminished from the soldier she was even a few days ago, but she still knows that getting up could just make the injuries much worse. After all, she's already lost so much, best not to lose any of her body's functionality. She’d need it to continue.
Elizabeth pushed the fear and grief to the back of her mind. As she let herself fall to sleep, two images filled her mind. The calm, impartial look on Victor’s face, the mask doing little to hide his lack of expression. The blood coating her knife, freshly ripped from his knee.
As she slept she dreamt of endless war, a battlefield that stretched beyond the horizon, that consumed the world, will consume the world, is consuming the world.
What were once trenches and dirt had become so drenched in blood to be a swamp, the bodies on the floor providing islands of stability in the wet muck, the sky choked with clouds of smoke from the gunshots. Voices that once shouted orders had long since gone hoarse, and then silent, and yet they still tried to scream their commands to unhearing troops, long deafened from the rattle of the guns. Tanks and planes had been occupied so long the occupants had fused to the machinery, the dead bodies of their fellows still pressing buttons, pulling triggers, the muscle memory so ingrained that they could do nothing else. The soldiers on the ground had never run out of ammunition, but their guns had fired so long the barrels had warped and broken, and the soldiers were reduced to running at their foes, beating them to death with the twisted clubs that remained. They all knew they must win, or the enemy would inflict violence upon them. The soldiers huddled in their trenches clenched pictures of family so worn as to be indiscernible, as the rumbles of the bombs hitting the earth filled their hearts with a great and terrible fear. In the distance, the commanders were glad they were not in the mix, but knew that a moment's failure could doom them, and so they fed more bodies into the grinder, ever fearful of the approaching foe.
Through it all a song was sung. It was not out of any mouth, or any instrument of human design. It was the rhythm of The War. Every blast and crack, every scream and gurgle harmonised into a vast symphony, one sung a thousand times before, sung a thousand times at this moment, to be sung a thousand times again. It was beautiful, it was foul, it was everywhere.
She saw all this, and something within her smiled, as a terrible hunger was satiated.
As she woke in her infirmary bed, soaked in sweat, the memories of her dream faded. All that was left was a feeling of satisfaction, a distant melody she felt the need to hum, and an inexplicable feeling of dread.