collins drove through the back streets of his city, trying to enjoy the sunshine and cool morning air. He was still getting used to the feeling of peace, and these long periods of calm tended to unnerve him. The feeling was so persistent that he had modified his patrol route in a poorly-conceived attempt to create an artificial feeling of danger. Simply put, it took him on a randomized path through Omaha's worst districts, areas where the police department struggled to make an impact. He thought that a gang member might see him, get brave, and take a shot. It didn't work. Nobody here was that stupid.
The Protectorate, as a legal institution, had the authority to investigate and pursue parahuman crime, but there were no laws stopping Colin from interceding in more mundane infractions should they occur in front of him. Similarly, nothing could stop Colin from loudly broadcasting his presence to the criminal element of the city by repeatedly driving past the places in which they congregated. He took a certain vindictive pleasure in watching gang members scatter at the dull roar of his motorcycle. There were never crimes committed in front of him, so pursuit was a waste of time, but the inconvenience he brought to them warmed his heart.
The meandering path Colin drove sent him past half a dozen gang-operated bars, in and out of criminal territory, before finally dumping him into more civilized areas. His next stop was a small jewelry store on the edge of downtown. There had been a break in there, overnight, and the most likely suspect was a parahuman. Specifically, a rather elusive parahuman thief, suspected to have stolen more than $30,000 of jewelry and electronics over the past month in a series of night time burglaries.
Cheapskate: tentative Stranger 3, capable of evading all forms of electronic surveillance yet attempted. Gender unknown, full range of powers unknown, appearance unknown. The person was an absolute nightmare to track down, as all camera footage of them would dissolve into white noise. Colin secretly suspected the cape was a techno-path of some kind, which would explain how the alarms had been disabled during every robbery.
He pulled into the parking lot at the Touch of Gold jeweler and stepped off his bike. The store was on the lower end of the quality spectrum, and its size reflected that fact. The building was originally a corner bistro, according to the blueprints Colin pulled up, and had seen very little renovation since its purchase by a Connie Wainwright, two years ago. Its security was below average for a jewelers, with half a dozen fewer alarms than Colin would've expected and only two cameras, making it an excellent target for even a mundane thief. The only reason Cheapskate was even suspected was that the owner had reported white noise on her camera feed during the time of the robbery.
Colin pushed open the front door, ignoring the jingling bell super-glued to the frame, and walked inside the store. Small tables were spread throughout the floor, remnants of the building's former purpose. Instead of food, large wooden cases lay on top, each drilled into place. The cases were open to the air, though the shattered glass sprinkled on and around each table made it clear that they had not begun that way. Empty velvet padding lined the bottom of the displays, empty to the last. Colin quietly noted the lack of alarm systems connected to the cases, or anywhere else.
A heavily tanned woman entered the room from further within the store. She was stocky, middle-aged, and well dressed. Her dark hair was done up in an immaculate bun, and she wore thick red lipstick and enough make-up to mask a face lined with age. She smiled widely upon seeing Colin, rushing forward with her arms spread wide. "Armsmaster! It's wonderful to meet you! I am Connie Wainwright, the owner of this establishment." She came to a stop directly in front of him and thrust her hand out pompously, palm down and limp. Colin stared for a moment, uncomprehending, then grasped the limb awkwardly.
"Wonderful!" the odd woman repeated, batting her eyelashes at Colin. He released her hand immediately, feeling a little like he'd crawled through something filthy.
"I'm just doing my job, ma'am," Colin said awkwardly, attempting to step away from the civilian invading his personal space. "I was told you had a break in last night—"
"Oh yes, a break in!" she exclaimed exuberantly. "A terrible terrible break in by that no good villain Cheapsteak!"
"Cheapskate," Colin corrected, with a growing sense of wariness.
"That's the one," the woman confirmed with a nod. "A dear friend of mine was a victim as well, one of the very first, you know. She's the one who explained to me how that fiend operates! How someone can be so depraved is beyond me. At the time I could only hope he was caught. But then, just the other day, she told me all about how you were taking over the case, and I was so jealous!"
"Jealous, ma'am?" Colin asked dubiously.
"But of course! You're Armsmaster!" She sidled up next to him, and reached a trembling arm towards his armor. "You're a hero," she whispered the word breathlessly, and Colin dodged away from her stroking hand. "Who would've thought that I'd get robbed too? What fortune I have, that I get to meet you in the flesh!"
Colin's keen, intuitive mind was telling him that things were progressing in a direction he would not enjoy. He turned away from the woman, mentally sifting through Protectorate protocols on harassment and desperately hoping for a distraction.
He was facing the exit, facing towards the street, when his distraction arrived. It looked like mist, at first, or a mirage; it was almost a trick of the eyes, an odd distortion rippling through the downtown skyline. Colin half expected to see a rainbow, but the skies were clear and the air was dry. There was no water to catch the light. No, it was shattered glass, hurtling through the air in a great wave.
Colin spun on his heel and dashed for cover, stopping only to scoop Miss Wainwright into a fireman's carry. The woman squawked as he hefted her, and he hurled himself and his cargo into the nearest hallway. She yelped in pain as he landed on top of her, covering her exposed skin with his armor, but her protest was drowned out by the shrill tone of exploding glass and the whomp of a passing shockwave. Bits of window rained down upon his armor, and several of his internal systems blared warnings on his HUD.
It was over in moments. Silence, save for the screaming woman beneath him. A quick scan of her vitals showed no physical damage. He stepped away from her and brushed a hand against his armor, dislodging chunks of glass. There was only one cape, that he knew of, who favored this kind of attack. He needed to return. Now.
"You are unharmed, stop screaming," Colin snapped, silencing the civilian. "The Slaughterhouse Nine are in town." The woman gasped in what he hoped was fear. "You need to leave. Find somewhere safe to hide. I have to go." He moved away from her, ignoring her questions. He didn't have time to babysit. He was having enough trouble keeping himself calm.
This wasn't Brockton Bay. The Protectorate base was not shielded, it was not a fortress. It was vulnerable, and poorly staffed. He couldn't reach them, couldn't get an update on their status. The communicator within his armor had been fragged by Shatterbird's power. It was the stock model that all Protectorate and PRT members used. Communications were down, the Nine were attacking, and he was across town.
Colin moved.
His motorcycle was fast. He'd built it that way. Not fast in relation to motorcycles, mind. No, it was designed to keep up with aircraft. He tore through the city at speeds well beyond unsafe. A decade of experience kept him stable, kept him focused, kept him moving. He ignored the smoke on the horizon, and the distant screams. He flew past civilians flagging him down for help, and bodies bleeding out on the ground. He had to leverage his time, he had to be efficient, he had to be perfect.
He was taking too long.
Regroup and resupply. It was standard disaster doctrine for a reason. He had to get back to base. There were people waiting for him. They needed his presence, his experience, his help. He had to get back to base.
He arrived at a ruin.
Every Protectorate base, no matter how small or unimportant, was equipped with rudimentary defenses. Blast doors, containment foam sprayers, a dozen men with large caliber rifles; these came standard with a team of Protectorate heroes. Foam guns would've been destroyed by Shatterbird's power, but the blast doors were down. They didn't need electricity to be manually locked into place over the front doors of the building. Nearly a foot thick at some points, they could shrug off everything up to an armor piercing tank round.
The doors were ripped in half. Blood coated the inside of the building, the walls, the floor, everywhere. Bodies were scattered across the lobby—no, not bodies. Body parts were scattered across the lobby, amputated limbs and eviscerated torsos and other bits of person. It was an abstract painting done in red on a canvas of concrete with a sprinkling of shell casings. A trail of blood led further into the building, the splatter sprinkled along the floor like a dripping mop.
Colin followed, slowly drawing his halberd. The building was silent, and the emergency power was off. No alarms, no screaming, no movement, only darkness. Smoke poured out of the walls at several points, the natural result of sensitive electronics violently exploding. Colin couldn't spare time to put out the fires. The trail continued towards the living quarters, occasionally stopping next to dismembered corpses. Colin's mental KIA count was at sixteen of the twenty-three PRT personnel on staff.
Colin found himself in front of Powerball's room. He was a Ward, only fourteen years old. Colin did not know him very well; had barely spoken to him, in fact. He... didn't know his name. A bloody hand-print was on the door, too large to be the teenager's. Colin gave the door a gentle shove. It swung open, revealing the Ward's room.
There was no body. That was the only comfort Colin could draw. The room was destroyed every bit as thoroughly as the lobby. Great trenches were carved into the walls, where a brute of impossible strength had peeled away solid steel. The bed was warped, bent in half and resting against the wall, clearly affected by Powerball's striker power. A single streak of blood covered the far wall.
Colin closed the door and kept moving. There was nothing for him here.
He moved deeper into the base. The blood trail had thinned out, all but disappeared. A lack of fresh kills, most likely. A good thing. At least, that was what he tried to tell himself.
He stopped at each door, investigated the rooms of every teammate, every Ward. Some were untouched, though empty. Most told the same story. A failed struggle, some form of injury, and nothing. Colin kept a mental catalog of what he could. He would go over his recording later, if he had time.
He moved on.
His lab was ahead.
The door was shorn in two, and covered in foam. He stood at the entrance, just staring at the door, for a good minute. He didn't want to enter, didn't want to see what was inside. He needed to think about something else, to gather himself.
His defenses had still been working at the point of the attack. The foam sprayers had done their job. The thing that had done this simply couldn't have been stopped. Had he shielded his tech? Some, yes. His spare suit had been shielded, his computer too; all his files had been protected. The defenses were not. He'd upgraded them a bit, added a few weapons of his own design. Nothing that could withstand Shatterbird's song. How...?
Melody.
And then Colin was moving, dashing inside his lab. No more delaying, no more evading; he had to know.
No body, no blood. His mind raced, analyzing the room, recreating the scene. Foam was splattered across the entrance, hardened into a shell around a person shaped hole. His workbench was overturned, his prototypes scattered across the floor and destroyed. Something about it was off. They were not broken with brute force, but vaporized. Crucial sections were missing, burnt away; the areas that would reveal purpose and design. What was left could barely be called scrap. The damage was familiar.
A glance towards the ceiling of his lab showed the twisted remnants of his Heatgun. It was one of the defenses he'd installed as an anti-brute measure. It mostly just caused pain, but could be tweaked to fire targeted laser bursts.
He moved on, examining the ground. Indentations, a few scrape marks, some scorching. More destroyed tech. His computers were slagged, large melted holes peppering the outer case. The monitor Dragon used had a fist shaped hole in it.
Dragon.
Colin could see it. Melody practicing diligently, with Dragon keeping her company. Shatterbird's scream hits, splashes against Melody's power and fails. Confusion, uncertainty, Dragon, still connected, locking down the lab. Defenses spinning up, firing at Colin's tech, destroying his prototypes, his computers, his files. She was protecting him. Eliminating any advantage the Nine might gain from within his lab. He could see foam spraying against the door, hardening, forming a barrier. He could see a woman arrive, striped in black and white. She would've walked through the foam like it was water. He could see Melody fighting, throwing a punch at an unbeatable enemy. He could see her dragged away, out the door, past a grinning man in a goatee, bristling with knives. The man in his vision smiled, cruel and joyful, and pointed past Colin.
There was a knife embedded in the wall, a digital camera hanging on a strap from the handle, a yellow sticky note saying 'Watch me' pasted above it. Colin took two long strides and ripped it free. He took half a moment checking for explosives, before turning it on.
A familiar face came on screen. A face Colin had seen half a dozen times in S-class briefings. Jack Slash was smiling.
"Armsmaster!" he crowed. "I do wish we could have this conversation in the flesh." The camera pulled back, revealing Jack's arms spread in greeting. He was sitting in Colin's lab, basking in the devastation.
"That was my original plan, you know," Jack continued, still smiling. "Unfortunately, circumstances have forced me to alter my plans. Normally, when I start one of these little games, I like to, hmm, personalize the experience. Tailor it to the individual, so to speak. I enjoy doing that, the challenge of it. I look forward to it." Jack's grin grew strained, fierce. "You've got a very good friend in Dragon, you know. Unfortunately, her little act of rebellion has put her squarely in the penalty box. Don't expect any more help from her. I've explained the consequences."
Jack paused for a moment, tapping his chin. "Or, perhaps, she'll help you anyway. That would be an interesting twist. But, I digress. To business!" He took a shallow bow, cocking his head to one side. "I am Jack Slash, and I, together with my Nine, will be your entertainment for the evening. Tonight's story will be played out in two parts, and you get to choose your role." Jack clapped his hands together in delight. "We will be recreating your two great failures, back to back just like they happened. First we have the Wards: out alone somewhere, caught by forces well beyond them!" He grinned cheekily, cupping one hand over his mouth and whispering, "I left them with Bonesaw." The sly wink that followed his statement almost made Colin crush the camera. "Yes! They are missing, and you, the great hero, their dependable mentor, must find them! Now, you don't have a time limit for this, but I will say that they won't be enjoying the wait. Of course, locating them might be a bit difficult, because of our second act: The Rampage of Lung!"
The camera zoomed in on Jack's face as he spoke. "Unfortunately, we don't have a giant monster capable of burning down the city. But never fear! We'll just improvise. We do have a giant monster, and we also have a girl who will happily burn down the city, so I've cut them loose to play. Now, I'm sure Dragon has called for assistance, and maybe some heroes will come along eventually to help out, but how much damage will be done in the meantime? Can you really call yourself a hero if you ignore them?"
Jack's face grew sympathetic. "It's a hard choice, I know, and there's only one of you, so I'll give you a handicap. Every member of the Nine is carrying a clue to the location of your Wards. They'll look for you, throughout the day, and ask you to complete their challenge. You do it, you get the clue. Do it fast enough, and you might be able to save your Wards before Crawler and Burnscar destroy your city."
The camera panned back again, and Jack stood, smoothing his clothing. "I do hope you put up a good showing, Armsmaster. I've always been fond of redemption stories... and tragedies."
The screen went black. Colin dropped the camera to the floor, barely registering the clang of metal. There was a sort of ringing, in his head. He couldn't—he couldn't focus, couldn't think. He needed to move, to check his lab. Dragon—she would've known, would've seen what was happening. His trackers, the sub-dermal implants for his Wards, they had been the very first thing he'd done when he'd come to Omaha. They were shielded; Shatterbird's power couldn't reach them. He needed to find his tracker, make sure it was working. He could save them in time if he'd only just move.
But his body wasn't responding. His mind was like mud, slowly looping through the events of the day. He needed to walk or run or search. He needed to plan and build and repair. But he couldn't do that. You needed eyes to do those things and his were having trouble seeing past this blinding rage!
There was a scraping sound, by the entrance to his lab. Colin's head turned, slowly, so slowly. There was a thing standing in the entrance. A monster made of ceramic. A living doll, many jointed and monstrous. Mannequin stood there, recognizable only from pictures, held together by chains. His faceless mask stared at Colin, and his hand rose to chest level. A thin blade ejected from a finger, and Mannequin tap tap tapped the wall.
Was he testing Colin, perhaps? Checking for recognition, or fear, or anger? It didn't matter. Colin's mask was down, his face was covered, his body was still as stone.
His halberd was leaning against the wall, a good few feet away. Mannequin might be able to close the distance, in a lunge, before he could reach it. It didn't matter.
Mannequin was carving something into the wall. A word of some kind. His test? His clue? He expected Colin to play along. Colin ignored it. It didn't matter.
Alan Gramme had once been a great man. He'd had a wife, and children. They had been wonderful, kind people. Colin had never met the man's family, but he'd heard stories from others. Stories about the tragedy, the great wound the world had suffered when they'd died. Alan Gramme's story was written in blood and horror and loss. It didn't matter.
On another day, Colin might've considered his next words to be defiling the memories of good people. Today was not that day. He wanted to hurt Mannequin before he killed him.
"I raised a glass to the Simurgh, you know, when she flattened your little compound," Colin said in a dull monotone. Mannequin froze, halfway through his carving.
"When I found out your wife and kids were still inside, well, I drained the bottle."
Mannequin's entire body swung to face Colin in a single violent motion, and stilled. He was coiled, like a jungle cat waiting to pounce.
"The way I see it," Colin continued blandly, "they deserved every agony they suffered, for loving a failure like y—"
Mannequin launched himself at Colin, blurring across the room at speeds far beyond human. Blades erupted from hidden orifices, his limbs detached and spun, the monster turned into a steel blender that would've made Hookwolf jealous.
Colin should've been scared. Maybe not terrified—he had a plan, he had his armor, he was going to destroy this man—but Mannequin had murdered his way through hundreds of tinkers who'd thought the same as Colin.
But Colin was far too angry to feel fear.
Mannequin crashed into him. Telescoping blades scraped against Colin's armor, carving away shallow chunks. Mechanized joints groaned as Colin took the full weight of the monster's body, and Mannequin wound around him like a snake, striking at every angle. His head was level with Colin's, mask to faceless mask, and his hand thrust towards the vulnerable mesh around Colin's throat.
Dull rust-colored panels hummed to life, gray clouds shimmered into existence, and Mannequin vanished in a cloud of red mist.
Colin blew out a breath as the cloud drifted to the floor. His nano-thorn field faded. He felt better, more focused.
One down.
His eyes fell on piece of rubble, dislodged during the brief fight. A tiny, round object was beneath it. One of the devices he'd made for Melody's training. She'd found it.
He picked it up, smiling to himself, hardening his resolve. There were people depending on him, waiting for him.
There was work to be done.
Author Notes:
A long one, just in time for the end of spring break.
Comments and criticisms are always welcome.
Hope you enjoyed it!
P.S. The word Mannequin was carving, was SACRIFICELast edited: Apr 6, 20181095McSwazeyMar 17, 2018View discussionThreadmarks Chapter 46 View contentMcSwazeyMar 24, 2018#2,339Colin's tracking device had been exactly where he left it, nestled safely inside his spare armor. The dime-sized piece of tech was flanked by half a dozen smoking holes in the breastplate, where Dragon had fired on the suit concealing it.
She always did value precision.
There had been a small corner of his mind screaming at him to charge into the city immediately after securing the tracker, but he had forced himself to spare five minutes and soundproof the thing, just in case. It screamed still, the angry part of him, the scared part, the reckless part. He buried it deep. Colin had learned long ago, that preparation won the day. Besides, there was a special sort of serenity to be found in planning ways to eviscerate your enemies.
He stood beside his righted workbench, hastily cobbling together a dossier on the Nine, based on half-remembered briefings from over a year ago. The Nine's roster was fluid, with them generally losing a member or two with every large-scale attack, but the core had been static for some time now.
Shatterbird. The opening act. Commonly thought to only control glass, she could actually manipulate several forms of silica through the use of high-frequency sound waves. She possessed no brute rating, but often fought surrounded by swirling shields of whatever shrapnel she had handy. Colin planned to raid the PRT armory before he left the building, but if assault rifles were all it took to kill Shatterbird, she would've died a long time ago. Furthermore, she could fly at a reasonable speed, giving her an overwhelming height and distance advantage. Colin might be able to conceal himself from most of the Nine by speeding along back streets, but Shatterbird would see him coming from a mile away, should she bother looking. Colin doubted she could keep up with his bike over long distances, but deflecting even a brief storm of glass, while driving, was not something he was capable of. Not without revealing his nano-thorn shroud, at least, which would be an unacceptable waste of a trump card. He needed to take away her glass somehow, only for a moment, and he could put her down.
An idea tugged at his mind. He stuck his hand into an armored pocket, and pulled out the miniature speaker Melody used for training. He disassembled it with practiced ease, a plan forming.
The next problem would be Crawler. With the approximate size and durability of an Abrams tank and adaptive regeneration at speeds that made Lung's look glacial, Crawler was a force second only to the Siberian. Colin suspected his nano-thorns could hurt the monster, but only the once, and he had no idea where to strike. Unlike most regenerating capes, Crawler could and had survived the loss of his head. An obscenely powerful alpha strike, one that involved total bodily annihilation, was the obvious way to kill Crawler, but Colin currently lacked the tools for such a task. If he encountered the brute, retreat was his only option. That was... unacceptable, but he saw no other option.
Colin was moving now, his halberd locked into its sheath, his armor repaired, his helmet on. Night vision illuminated the shattered facility, and he wound his way through smoke-filled corridors. His destination was locked, but a brief flare of grey rendered the PRT armory door into dust. Cold metal and dull brass filled the room. It was the work of minutes to pile it into a duffel bag.
If Jack was to be believed (a dubious prospect at best), Crawler would recreate Lung's mad rampage through the streets, with citizens and police officers standing in for the harried Protectorate. Did Jack really think Colin would try to stop the monster? The game was rigged, even an idiot could see it. Colin couldn't kill Crawler and Jack knew it. Did he expect Colin to try anyway, or was the madman happy enough forcing Colin to live with the knowledge that others were dying in his place?
There were times where one was helpless. It wasn't a truth that Colin enjoyed, but a truth it was. He wouldn't rage against a cruel reality; he had to focus on things he could accomplish.
Burnscar was much the same. A pyrokinetic and pyromaniac, her ability to teleport through flames rendered her mostly immune to anything Colin could throw at her. Melee was an impossibility. He'd be broiled alive in his armor long before he could close the gap. Conventional weapons would put her down, but with her teleportation, it was an unreliable option. Avoidance was the plan for her. It shouldn't be too hard. Where there was fire, there she'd be. Other heroes would arrive, eventually, and they would have more options. He could not waste time chasing an impossible fight.
Colin arrived at his bike, bag in hand. He dropped it at his feet with a clang, and started sorting through it. Grenades were useful, foam and flash-bang alike, and were set aside. Assault rifles were effective, but situational. Colin's halberd could fire large caliber bullets, though not with any great rapidity. He set a rifle aside just in case. He pulled out a shotgun, loaded with slugs. Yes please.
Hatchet Face was still a member of the Nine, last that Colin heard. A power nullifier and a brute, he specialized in blitz attacks against heroes with an over-reliance on their powers. Brutes, usually. Colin was his natural enemy, though Hatchet Face probably wasn't intelligent enough to realize that. Colin would shred him in a straight fight. With any luck, he'd get one.
Grenades were holstered in a pair of PRT issue bandoliers, worn in an X across Colin's chest. He slung the tactical shotgun across his back, snug against his halberd, and strapped an assault rifle to the side of his motorcycle. Bullets and shells filled the bike's hidden compartments.
Siberian was next. The strongest of the Nine. Colin was not quite arrogant enough to believe his nano-thorns would hurt her. She still relied on her senses, though, from all accounts. Flash-bangs and smoke grenades, all of them. That was his only hope against her. He didn't need to kill her, so much as escape from her. She would be the one guarding Melody. Colin could feel it in his bones. They had found the girl in his lab. Jack was no fool; he would milk that personal connection for every ounce of agony he could.
No, Jack Slash was many things, but he was certainly not a fool. A monster, a madman, a roaming cult leader, he'd spent two decades perfecting the art of human suffering. Colin did not spare a single moment wondering how Jack had reached such a point. It was irrelevant. The man needed to die. Yesterday. He was the glue of the Nine, the head of the snake. No matter what else happened today, Colin would see Jack Slash dead. He'd erase him so utterly that even Bonesaw couldn't bring him back.
Bonesaw. Just the thought of psychopathic child near Melody sent a flash of rage through Colin. She shouldn't have time, wouldn't have time, to do anything irreversible. The thought of her discovering his tracker crossed his mind and was forced away. Bonesaw was not a combat threat. Not to Colin. He could kill her if he closed the distance. The problem was the aftermath. Would she have a dead man's switch? Some last 'fuck you' to the world?
Did Colin care if she did?
He glanced over his equipment, making final checks. He had everything he could think of, had seized every advantage he could from this place. He unfolded his halberd, quickly scanning it for flaws. His armor was functional, but Colin ran a diagnostic one more time, just to be sure. Words appeared on his HUD, foreign, gibberish.
Colin blinked in confusion.
He tried to rerun the program, but he couldn't— he couldn't remember how. His hand tightened on his halberd, his favored weapon, a piece of technology he had poured countless hours into perfecting. He could remember its functions perfectly, but he couldn't, for the life of him, remember how to trigger them.
He heard heavy footfalls crunching on broken glass, and he spun to meet the threat. His armor fought the movement, slowing him by a fraction rather than enhancing him. It was built to be perfectly in tune with him. It learnt his movements through thousands of hours of use. The armor was functioning perfectly, it was Colin who was moving wrong. Just a hair slower, just a shade less efficient.
Colin completed his turn, coming face to face with a giant of a man. His physical features resembled a well-used cutting board, and he brandished a cleaver the size of Colin's arm. Hatchet Face smiled, his scarred visage splitting at the seams into a grotesque parody of happiness.
"Jack said to give you a test," the man rumbled. "Hold still while I take off yer arm, and you pass." The cleaver rose in the air, and fell.
Yeah, fuck that.
Colin's halberd snapped up to intercept the heavier blade, both arms straining to deflect the blow despite his powered armor. The cleaver glanced off Colin's weapon and struck concrete, cracking the ground and throwing up dust, and Colin struggled to retaliate while his enemy was off balance. A deft twist of his hand scored an angry red line across Hatchet Face's chest, but the shallow cut did nothing to stop the brute's fist from crashing into Colin's breastplate.
The blow blasted Colin off his feet, sending him soaring into the bloodstained lobby of the Protectorate base. He hit the floor at road speeds, and slid along the slick floor until he collided with the wooden welcome desk, reducing it to splinters. Colin slowly rose from the debris with a groan. He felt that, even through his armor. Stupid, idiotic mistake. He should have expected an attack upon leaving the base.
Hatchet Face stepped into the lobby, his smile turning cruel. "Good choice. I prefer this way," the titan said, smacking his cleaver against his hand.
Colin settled into a loose stance, fervently wishing he'd included a big red button somewhere, to activate his nano-thorn shroud. Even on his worst day, Colin felt he could match Hatchet Face in a fight, but killing the brute with a blade would be a trial.
Hatchet Face lunged forward, his speed just barely reaching superhuman, and swung the cleaver down in a hammer blow. Colin slid to the side, dodging past the weapon by centimeters, and angled the tip of his halberd to catch the charge. The sharp point of Colin's blade sunk into Hatchet Face's chest, but did little to halt the man's momentum. Colin's armor blared a warning as it absorbed his opponent's momentum, artificial muscles contending against brute force and slowly losing.
Colin ripped his halberd free, dodging a clumsy punch and feeling slightly irritated at Hatchet Face's durability. The tip should have pierced a lung at the very least, but the serial killer showed no signs of pain. Another swing of the cleaver, horizontal this time. Colin limboed beneath it and ripped a hole in Hatchet Face's throat with his follow-up strike.
The brute stepped back, uncertainly reaching for his neck. His hand came away bloody, but Colin could see the flow already slowing. Hatchet Face's smile fell into a grimace, then twisted into a mask of fury.
This wasn't working.
With a bellow, the man charged Colin, swinging his cleaver diagonally with both hands as if that would somehow make his blows more effective. Colin stepped forward, into the blow, intending to gut the man before it connected, but Hatchet Face turned the strike into a body slam. Three hundred pounds of parahuman plowed into Colin, sending him spinning across the floor, his halberd half-buried in his enemy's abdomen.
Colin staggered to his feet, drawing his remaining weapon, a PRT shotgun, but Hatchet Face gave him no time. The brute was on him in an instant, striking down with a one-handed chop that would split Colin in half. Colin darted forward, catching the overhead blow in his armored hand before it could become lethal. The force sent him crashing down to one knee, and a reinforcing plate running along his shoulder cracked beneath the impact. Colin's other arm angled his shotgun towards Hatchet Face, but the man's meaty hand locked around Colin's wrist.
"No mor' a' that now," the brute chuckled, slowly pressing forward. Colin's HUD was flashing red, and electric servos began to heat within his armor. With little choice left, Colin released Hatchet Face's blade, allowing the weapon to come arcing down towards his arm. He surged upwards, trying to minimize the impact, and used his freed arm to shove the barrel of his shotgun into Hatchet Face's nether region.
He pulled the trigger as the cleaver connected.
Blood splattered, and a shrill scream cut the air. Hatchet Face fell to his knees, clutching himself. His cleaver was abandoned, buried half an inch into Colin's shoulder. Colin stood, shotgun in hand. He racked the slide, pressed the barrel against the man's ear canal, and fired.
Two down.
He pulled his halberd free from the corpse as his power flooded back into him, and half a dozen plans to fix his armor's damage swam into place. Colin shook his head, dispelling the ideas; he didn't have the time. Instead, he gingerly pulled the cleaver out of his shoulder, and sealed the wound with Quickclot from a PRT first aid kit. A quick glance at the time made Colin grimace. Five minutes wasted on Hatchet Face. Five minutes, on a fight that should've been over in ten seconds. He had to be better.
Colin made a note to add voice operated activation to his armor systems. He needed better contingencies. He couldn't afford another bad fight, he didn't have the time.
He made his way over to his bike, which sat untouched by the chaos. A quick rummage allowed Colin to reload his shotgun, while he ran another diagnostic on his armor. His left arm was badly damaged, but still operational. The artificial muscles on that side would short out the next time he took a hit from a brute, but the nano-thorn projector was undamaged. He still had a disintegration field, and really, that was all he needed.
He mounted his bike, looking away from the steadily pulsing signal of his sub-dermal trackers. Smoke was rising over the skyline, great plumes of it, blotting out the afternoon sun. Colin could hear the distant sounds of car horns and screams, gunshots and explosions. There were people dying, right this very moment, because the Slaughterhouse Nine had decided, for some inexplicable reason, to personally fuck with him. He couldn't save the innocent, but he could find them justice.
He revved his engine, and tore off down the road, away from the fire and the noise, towards his missing Wards.
It was obvious, in hindsight. Other heroes would arrive, eventually. Jack couldn't have them stumble upon him and ruin the game. Crawler and Burnscar were the obvious targets, loud and flashy and unstoppable. Defenders would flock to them, and away from Colin.
Colin's path took him through familiar ground: gang-controlled territory, an area he'd literally just patrolled less than an hour ago. Unlike before, the streets were completely devoid of the living. Shards of glass and occasional bloodstains littered the ground, but no bodies, living or otherwise. He banked past a series of bars, before swinging into an alley, silent as a specter.
He moved through back streets, eyes peeled for movement, for any sort of activity. There was something intrinsically unnerving about an entire district going quiet.This part of the city wasn't quite as run down as the worst of Brockton, but it saw its fair share of ruin. There were abandoned buildings aplenty, factories and housing projects rusted away and overgrown. Colin moved through these areas, knowing that he could be ambushed at any time. His route wasn't a straight line, exactly, but he spared little time for caution.
He was close, now. The insistent pulsing of his tracker moved him forward. He left the cover of buildings, for the first time in minutes, pulling in view of an old park—
Except where there once was a children's playground, now stood a towering pyramid of glass. Streams of red ran down the sides of the structure, following trenches carved into the edges, and poured into the grass. More red flowed through the center, spiraling downward in elaborate patterns under the pull of gravity, following complex veins formed within. It was the most morbid work of art Colin had ever laid eyes on.
Balanced at the tip of the pyramid was the creator. She stood on one toe, floating motionless in the air and surrounded by a spinning veil of glass. Her skin was covered by colorful shards, and her face was crowned with a beaked mask. Her eyes were visible, closed in false meditation. She opened them slowly, laying languid eyes on Colin and smirking with unearned confidence.
How much time had Shatterbird spent building this? How many lives had she taken, all for this childish attempt at intimidation?
Colin could feel his anger returning, flaring against his control, howling for justice.