Worm

by wildbow

  The tall-helm cape slid some of the Suits out of the way. They started shouting, asking to be moved back. He responded in French.

  Disorganization, a lack of coherency. A lack of organization. I clenched my jaw and did what I could to stop the blood from welling out of the stumps of Bastard’s legs.

  This wasn’t a monster that was four or five stories tall. It was a single individual in a crowd, with capes using powers that would inevitably cause more harm to any bystander they accidentally struck than they could possibly deal to the intended target.

  Queen of Swords touched the tip of her sword to one of the main lines of the diagram she’d created. A circular blob expanded from the point like blood welling from a prick from the blade, two-dimensional, dark blue and translucent.

  She drew a gun from her hip with her free hand, aimed it at the blob and fired.

  The bullet hit the blob and pushed against it, slowing down with every fraction of an inch it traveled. It came to a complete stop, the previously flat surface of the blob-portal-thing now more of a cone, poked out of shape by the bullet’s movement. For a half-second, I thought it would be like a trampoline, sending the bullet back to sender.

  Then it punched through, and I could see ribbons, fire, darkness and innumerable other effects trailing behind it as it resumed normal speed.

  It struck Scion as he started to fire another beam of light at the crowd opposite me and the Undersiders. Scion stumbled, the aftermath of a dozen different powers rippling over, around and through him, and the beam was cut off by one of the powers.

  She began changing the map, breaking some connections, expanding others.

  Scion turned her way.

  It was just the right moment for our first reinforcements to arrive. Distorted terrain marked Vista’s arrival, as she folded the earth around Scion, surrounding him with walls of earth.

  I looked to see, and saw her and Kid Win standing on a twelve-foot high bulge of earth. Kid Win was getting himself set up, hunkering down, while Vista stood at a point slightly above him.

  Tattletale was with them. Hanging back, as if using Kid Win as a shield, her eyes on the battlefield, a phone in hand. Most likely to relay information.

  Others were filing between the Simurgh’s legs. Gavel, now clean-cut, his once-shaggy beard now cut to a style that would have been ludicrous if he didn’t have the reputation to back it up; two perfectly straight lines that met at a sharp 90-degree point at the chin. His hair had been buzzed, flat at the top. His mask covered only his forehead, eyes and nose, his lips were set a firm line. He wore a skintight black shirt without sleeves and heavy canvas pants, with boots that looked like they could be used to crush stone.

  His hammer, by contrast, was solid steel, with sharp lines that seemed to parallel the clean lines of his hair and beard, a pole that seemed too big to wrap one’s hands around. The entire thing was as big as he was, probably three or four times the weight.

  And he was big. Bodybuilder big, broad-shouldered in a way that you rarely saw, even in movies.

  Crane the Harmonious was just behind Gavel, joined by three capes I assumed were her disciples. Two of them looked like they were ready to enter a battle, ducking low, moving like trained soldiers entering a battlefield. A third looked like a scared kid. Reasonable, something to be expected from people who were walking into a situation like this. Crane, for her part, walked with her hands clasped behind her back, chin up, like she was completely oblivious to what was going on.

  Scion broke through the wall of hard rock, and it seemed to actually take a modicum of effort. He directed an attack at Vista, Kid Win and Tattletale. A sphere, just like the one that had totaled the Dragonfly.

  Gavel threw the hammer into the air, and it blocked the shot. The resulting explosion knocked a dozen capes off their feet, struck some of Kid Win’s airborne guns out of the air and very nearly knocked Tattletale from her perch. Crane’s disciples were bowled over, but Crane managed to turn with the shockwave, only taking a step back, remaining upright.

  The hammer descended, unaffected by the explosion, and Gavel caught the handle in his two hands.

  Scion turned his attention to Gavel, throwing one more sphere.

  Another detonation. Capes in the area were scrambling to get away from Scion’s new designated target.

  Gavel had stopped. He swayed, then swung his hammer around, striking it against the ground before gripping the pole, as if he’d only needed something to lean against. His skin was a little darker where it had been scorched, and golden light danced around the edges of the wounds like the orange at the edges of burned paper, where the paper had burned but not burned completely.

  I could see the Simurgh move, putting one of her larger wings in front of Kid Win. Stopping him from firing.

  I really hoped she was on our side in all of this. Letting Gavel handle this with only the support from the sidelines seemed feeble at best.

  Scion suffered a continual onslaught of powers and projectiles from every direction, and the distraction these shots seemed to give Gavel the chance he needed to find his second wind. The vigilante and ex-cell-block leader of the Birdcage advanced, picking up speed as he found his stride, dragging his hammer beside him.

  Scion used a beam instead, directing it at Gavel.

  Which was interesting. Maybe. A beam was what I would have used to deal with Gavel. His power made it so he could only take so much damage at a time, and reduced the severity of any damage to a set amount. Shooting him with a hail of bullets would be little different from shooting him with one or two bullets, and any given bullet would only gouge out a teaspoon of flesh.

  Excalibur’s scabbard. He could have done so much more with the concept, but he’d gone with a hammer instead of a sword.

  I stared, watching as he blocked the worst of the beam with the hammer. Scion stopped, interrupted as Queen of Swords shot him with another power-infused bullet, then resumed the assault.

  A spray of bullets wouldn’t do much to Gavel, but a steady stream of them could whittle him down. Blind in the face of the brilliant light, Gavel marched forward. He moved his damaged hammer out of the way, taking the beam in the face and throat instead.

  Amazing, perplexing… and I could only stare, watching Gavel’s inhuman tenacity, wondering if Scion was using the beam because it was one of the most convenient and effective tools available to him, or because he intuitively understood Gavel’s power.

  He was supposed to be the source of powers. It made sense that he’d know the particulars about them.

  It was a scary thought.

  Gavel got close enough to reach out and fumble, putting a hand on Scion’s face, two fingers finding Scion’s eye sockets.

  Scion pulled back a little, maintaining the beam as it cut into Gavel. I could smell something like burning hair. Clouds of it, choking.

  Gavel toppled.

  No, he was leveraging his full weight, swinging his hammer like an Olympic hammer-thrower might swing theirs. Not even a complete rotation, but he struck Scion dead-on.

  Scion hit the dirt, was plowed into a furrow fifteen feet long. He half-climbed to his feet, half-floated, and was struck again. Another swing of the hammer.

  It wasn’t hurting him, but it was an inconvenience, and that was something good in my books.

  I could feel the hot blood seeping through my costume, running over my shoulders and down my front. My back was already sticky with it. Probably not good for my flight pack. Rachel was running through the crowd, shoving anyone that wasn’t actively fighting to get them out of her way.

  Gavel hit Scion a third time, and the hammer, damaged earlier by the beam, fell to pieces.

  For the fourth hit, Gavel used the toe of his boot.

  But each hit was dramatically less effective than the last. Scion reacted to the kick, floating back a little, but it wasn’t much at all.

  Gavel had once been judge, jury and executioner to criminals in Australia. He’d announce his intentions pu
blicly, swearing vengeance and listing their crimes, and then he’d go after them.

  Generally speaking, he transferred his power from himself to his hammer and from his hammer to his target, conducting invincibility. His target would fly through the air until they hit something, at which point they would be pulverized.

  If he was feeling merciful, or if he didn’t want to give them a chance, he simply pulverized them with the swing.

  But Scion wasn’t pulverized. The golden man reached out and jammed a hand in the largest wound the beam had created. A golden light flared, and Gavel disintegrated on the inside. Flakes of burned flesh traced with bits of golden light flew into the air as either half of Gavel’s body hit the ground.

  Lung, on the sidelines, was as monstrous as he’d been when he fought Kaiser, Sundancer and I. But he waited.

  We needed time. Time for Lung. Time for the Simurgh to find her window of opportunity, time for reinforcements…

  Gavel, ruthless vigilante, monster, had bought us a good minute. Maybe two.

  Scion targeted Vista, Kid Win and the others. His target before Gavel had grabbed his attention.

  Very formulaic, very steady, picking out targets based on who was posing the biggest threat… or the biggest potential inconvenience, and then eliminating them. Gavel was out of the picture, so he moved back down to the next on his list.

  Vista folded more space, then changed the shape of the hill she’d created. It wasn’t fast enough to get her, Kid Win or Tattletale out of the way of Scion’s shot.

  The Simurgh protected them with her wing.

  Get out of there, I thought.

  Then I did one better. I broke up one swarm decoy and moved the bugs in their direction.

  The bugs flew too slow. They couldn’t cover that much ground in a matter of seconds.

  Get out of there. He’s going to come after you, and people aren’t going to be able to save you every time.

  Scion rose into the air, floating.

  Get out of there.

  Queen of Swords shot him again.

  Scion turned, slow, his eyes falling on her. Ribbons, perhaps the most identifiable projectile, sailed through the air, snagging on him and then fixing in the air, as if the other ends were attached to some invisible tether. It was one of the Swords doing it.

  He floated a bit forward, and the tethers broke, falling apart.

  Two projectiles, again.

  Softballing us so hard he was almost taking pity.

  Rachel approached. She had a device in hand. One of the matchboxes, Lab Rat juice on demand. I shifted position as she leaned over Bastard.

  “How?” she asked. There was a look in her eyes that suggested she was upset, concerned, worried. She looked at me, at the amount of blood on and around me, and I could even see a note of anguish, hidden behind stern eyes and a mouth that was pressed into a lipless line.

  “Turn it around,” I said. I couldn’t reach it without pulling away from where I was applying pressure.

  King of Cups blocked the shots using some of the largest arms. Gorilla arms with massive clawed hands, fanning out from his shoulders, blocking the shot and serving as walls to shield the teammates beside and behind him.

  Scion closed the distance, swept a hand to one side, and dashed all but one or two of the artificial arms to pieces. He caught King of Cups by the jaw.

  But he didn’t hurt the man.

  Instead, taking advantage of the pause where capes with ranged attacks weren’t firing into the midst of the Suits, Scion held King of Cups in the air, and extended a hand.

  Not attacking, but indicating.

  The hand swept over the capes in question.

  “How?” Rachel said, with a bit more emotion.

  I reached up, took her hand and pushed it, with the device, down on Bastard’s shoulder. I turned back to Scion as the high-pitched beeping started.

  He watched King of Cups as he moved his hand. The man’s expression, which I couldn’t make out, seemed to give Scion the answer he wanted.

  With his free hand, Scion flew forward, seizing the Queen of Swords before she could get out of the way.

  He bent over, and he pushed the pair to the ground.

  When they were pinned, he kept pushing one of them. I could hear a strangled scream. He had a grip on Queen of Sword’s face, and he was simply pushing her head into the ground. King of Cup’s screams were a different sort; not of pain, but horror.

  Capes pelted Scion, grabbed hold of his neck, arms and legs with chains, but failed to affect him. Vista’s power made the earth rise around Scion, but when he didn’t react, she returned it to normal, leaving room for others to try.

  It wasn’t just offensive attempts at rescue, either.

  “…can’t teleport them, blocking my power…”

  “…make him stop, make him stop…”

  “…someone? Anyone!…”

  I craned my head, looking. The Simurgh was still blocking Kid Win, and she wasn’t shooting. Glaistig Uaine was in the sky above, orbited by three spirits I couldn’t quite make out.

  Foil, still gone.

  It might as well have been him, the King and the Queen, all alone, for all it mattered.

  He jolted a bit, his shoulders and back dropping an inch or two, as something gave way.

  The lines and diagrams Queen of Swords had created disappeared, thinning out, then fading away entirely.

  I saw King’s legs kick, heard his screams intensify. There was a new kind of horror in the sound. He manifested new arms, monstrous ones, insectile ones, bird talons and tentacles, even the occasional indistinct head of an animal, grabbing Scion, trying to tear him away, tear him apart. Futile, just like all the other measures. Scion wasn’t even visible beneath the effects that surrounded him.

  Pulling the wings off flies. Kicking over anthills. As evils went, Scion wasn’t much more than a child in maturity.

  We weren’t much more than bugs to him.

  “It’s not working,” Rachel said.

  “I—what?” I asked.

  “The dose.”

  I tore my eyes away from the scene. The matchbox was beeping, but it wasn’t quite the frantic beep I’d heard when mine was going off.

  “The dog’s physiology, it might read as too healthy,” I said.

  “He’s lost half his blood,” she said, her expression grim. “He’s not even moving now.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “If we get the vials from inside, maybe we can manually apply it?”

  “Mm,” Rachel grunted.

  King of Cup’s screams reached a fever pitch. I turned to look, wincing.

  “Hurry,” I said. “I need to get in there.”

  “And do what?”

  Do what? I didn’t know.

  “S—”

  All at once, the chaos was replaced by stillness.

  It wasn’t a typical silence. Typical silence would have left my ears ringing with the sudden shift from noise to an utter lack thereof.

  Wasn’t a typical stillness. If it was, I would have felt my heartbeat.

  My senses had been replaced.

  I watched as two massive beings made their way through the void.

  One was familiar to me, in a dim way I couldn’t articulate.

  Not that I could think, really. I experienced, I took things in, and I understood it.

  They were flesh and they weren’t flesh. Something I couldn’t parse, given my frame of reference. I could understand how they moved, and I knew it was because of the senses I was using, senses that allowed me to be aware of these things, to grasp them in terms of how they slid between realities.

  I focused on the familiar one, and compared it to its kin.

  It was shucking away fragments of itself, discarding them. It kept select ones. Abilities focused on violence, on defense. On mobility and battle and any number of other things.

  It exercised a variety of the fragments. It was taking over for another role, a role that the partner wasn’t
fulfilling.

  The partner was busy, I noted, sending broadcasts. Messages, to something distant.

  But I couldn’t interpret the partner in the same kind of depth I could interpret the more familiar one.

  I turned my attention to it. Saw what it saw. Images of the future. I was connected somehow to every part of the being, and I was aware of everything they were aware of. I had only to look.

  It looked for a world.

  It found the world it was looking for.

  It looked for a particular variation of that world, and it found it.

  And it looked further. It viewed itself and its partner on that world. The possible forms they could take, the end results.

  It looked beyond that, to possible rebellions.

  In the midst of that, in the middle of a trillion images that passed through my awareness in a single instant, over an indeterminate span of travel and viewing, one scene was acutely familiar.

  The entity as a golden man.

  Capes littering the surface around him, every single one of them unconscious, dead, bleeding, crushed, or burned. He was untouched, coated only in their remains, thick blood and other, pulpier substances dripping and dropping from his fingers in strings.

  He viewed the scene, as he viewed all of the scenes, through the senses of the fragments that had gone ahead, of fragments that had arrived after he had. They were embedded in hosts, which meant he viewed things through the eyes of the host, and through the abilities the hosts expressed.

  I willed for it to continue, to go deeper, to provide more details. But things moved along. If anything, my efforts dashed the scene from the ongoing stream of sensory inputs. Instead, I got a glimpse the futures one step further. Variations.

  Every one of them, futures where the entity had survived. Futures where the hosts hadn’t fought back. Futures where they had fought back and inevitably lost. He was plotting a course to a particular destination in time and causality, just as he’d plotted a course to Earth. There were criteria, and in each of the visions, things occurred.

  These visions were blocked from any particular attention. Hidden away by some treatment of the fragments, treatment of the entity’s own recollections, so the visions couldn’t be used against it.