Chương 11: Chapter 11: Who Talks First?
Guardian
a Worm/Destiny Crossover
Chapter 11: Who Talks First?
The meeting point was an empty lot that had, in the past, been host to one of those DIY car washes. The kind with individual stalls and pay-by-the-minute hoses and those little soap dispensers that cost a quarter each. Taylor had a very distant memory, maybe when she was five or so, of bringing the family car here, ostensibly to clean it, but ended up splashing her parents with the hose a lot. Those days were long gone, as were the days of this little business. So far in the past that weeds now grew through the asphalt, and those stalls were little more than a few walls and foundations, rusted and forgotten.
What this lot was now host to, to her complete, utter and sarcastic delight, was an awkward silence. As it turned out, dropping silently from a nearby fire escape in front of a group of armed, superpowered individuals wasn't the best of ideas. In her defense it had seemed like a better idea than walking up and asking if this was where the clandestine gang-war meeting was being held. And at the time, up on the rusted metal platform with no Tinker enhanced halberd pointed vaguely yet menacingly in her direction, it most likely had been. That wasn't even accounting for the lance pointed at her, crackling with its strangely disappointing lightning, or the gaping chasm of the shotgun barrel looming nearby. With this much firepower in their face, only a true idiot would do anything unpredictable. So she didn't. Even though every nerve and muscle in her body was screaming for her to do something. Anything. She very pointedly did not, and that seemed to relax the group of heroes.
Perhaps not surprisingly, it was Armsmaster who recognized her first. With a flick of his wrist and arm that was entirely too smooth to be unpracticed he collapsed his halberd and stowed it away, snapping it to the back of his armor with a magnetic clack. "Guardian. Good to see you could make it."
The bearer of the shotgun; a tall, olive-skinned woman in an American flag themed get-up, cleared her throat, before speaking in a warm voice with only the faintest traces of an accent. The kind of accent with a lot of throat in it. "Yeah. We're also sorry about the...uh..." she hefted the gun, now safely aimed at the ground, and nodded. "You know."
"Yes." Armsmaster's helmeted head dipped in a curt nod. "I was just about to say that, Miss Militia." He paused for a moment, as if waiting for Taylor to say something. She didn't, too busy appreciating the fact that nobody was pointing a weapon at her anymore. "At any rate, you're who we've been waiting for, and now that you're here we can get started." He gestured at one of the standing walls, upon which a map of the nearby Docks was tacked. "If you'd come this way."
It was only a short distance, maybe ten paces, to the map, but it was enough for Taylor to get a few quick glances at everyone in attendance. The entirety of the Protectorate was present – well, everyone not the Wards, at any rate, a few independents like herself, and a couple of independent teams she didn't recognize. There was a duo standing by a long, large truck bristling with gadgetry. The truck, and the duo, were in black and silver, with cogs and gears grinding against each other as an emblem. A quartet in powered armor and exoskeletons, painted in military-style camouflage, were standing in front of the map. Apart from everyone was a masked kid straddling an obviously Tinkered motorcycle and a tall, thin man in a trench coat with a huge fucking sword in hand.
"Okay, then." Dauntless, who had moved to stand opposite the camo capes, brought everyone's attentiont to him with a voice like the plucked string of a bass guitar. Very deep and very strong. "Now that we're all here, we can begin."
And so, they did.
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The plan was simple and flexible. Taylor liked it immediately. It called for a wide-net advance into the heart of Merchant territory, sticking to cover as much as possible and staying out of sight. The primary target was a warehouse down by the Boat Graveyard, where the gang's leadership had set up shop. Secondary targets were an end-to-end stack of old tractor trailers that were supposedly the location of the majority of the gang's drug supply. Confirming that was what Taylor had volunteered to do. The swordsman, who turned out to call himself Reaper, had also elected to serve as a scout. He was a Mover/Shaker/Thinker, who could travel through connected shadows, had incredible swordfighting skills and reflexes. Something about his eyes made Taylor think he wasn't entirely there. She intended to work as closely as required with him, and not a millimeter more.
The tertiary targets were Squealer's vehicles. There were at least four of them, and in a moment of clarity, their builder had set up a seemingly random patrol pattern for them to follow through the streets around the primary target. The kid on the silver bike, calling himself Burnout, and the duo with the truck – Gearheads – were tackling those. That the Merchants' trucks were armed and their's weren't didn't seem to bother them, so she assumed that they had a plan or were confident in their creations. Or both.
The primary target, the warehouse, was where most of the fighting would take place. The military quartet, the Knights in Camo, along with Miss Militia and Dauntless would be the first wave. Armsmaster would be the second, and following him was everyone else as they finished their assigned task. If anything went wrong, New Wave was on standby to support any group having trouble completing their objectives, with Panacea waiting on the Rig to lay hands on any wounded. Taylor was of two minds about that last bit. On one hand, it was a good idea to keep the strongest healer on Earth away from any potential hostage situations. On the other, being marginalized had to suck. With a mental shrug, which copied itself in a twich of her shoulders, she put that aside just as Dauntless was shouldering his lance and asking, "Any questions?"
"Rules of Engagement call for nonlethal measures, right?" One of the Knights in Camo had a thick Southie accent, and seemed somewhat disappointed to receive the confirmation that yes, they weren't looking to kill people. He also seemed to be able to deal, nodding sharply and settling back with a simple, "Roger that."
"Anything else?" When no one else was forthcoming, he continued. "Right. Once you're in position, wait for the confirmation from the scouts. Once they report, move in. If we can't get their leadership, taking out their supplies is a big blow against these scumbags. If Armsmaster, Miss Militia, or I call for retreat, do it."
It seemed then that the briefing/planning session was over, and so after a slightly awkward moment where Taylor waited to be dismissed, she and Reaper went about their appointed tasks – her scrambling up a building to the rooftops, and he vanishing into a shadowed alley. The trucks were three-quarters of a mile away. She'd be damned if the creepy sword guy beat her there. Which actually made her wonder: when had she gotten so competitive?
=+= Chapter 11: Who Talks First? =+=
Taylor was a block away when the smell hit her. Almost literally. She'd been in the same room as Mush and it hadn't smelled this bad. The Merchant had reeked, certainly, but nothing like this. This was a level all its own. Spoiled milk and scorched meat and something...poisonously sweet. It wasn't exactly those things, but it was as close as she could get. There had been nothing in her life to compare this to, but its awfulness was obvious. It wasn't a scent that she wanted to find a source to, not in the least. She pushed forward, closing her nose as well as she could as she climbed yet another building. As she did, she couldn't help but wonder exactly what smelled so terrible. It was with a sunken sort of resignation that she knew – finding out was just around the corner.
The building was one of many empty ones in this part of the city. It looked like it had been a tenement house or a cheap motel, once upon a time. Now it was faded, crumbling bricks and broken, empty window frames. Bad news for Brockton Bay, good news for anyone looking to climb it. Like her. She scaled it without much trouble, pulling herself up onto the roof in a crouch. It felt grimy, oily under her hands, and gritty on top of that. The smell was almost overpowering now, nothing she did could keep her from noticing it or her eyes from watering. She blinked hard once, twice, three times, and then pushed onward. She kept as low and quiet as possible, curling her fingers around the rusted metal bar that had been laid into the roof, the barbs to ward off pigeons having either fallen off or fractured into jagged spines.
The parking lot below her held exactly what she had come to find. The three trailers looked even shabbier in person. Their doors had rusted open or fallen off, and around each entrance was clustered a snowbank of refuse and garbage. Her eyes were keen enough to catch a few details. She really wished they weren't. The only grace she could find was that there were no dead bodies. Piles of a yellow-green gelatinous sludge, jiggling gently. Cloths soaked through with something brown and flaking. Needles and broken glass and plastic bags that dripped liquid. Nausea burned the back of her throat, and she coughed, close-mouthed, into her fist.
Someone walked out of the middle trailer. He was as filthy as his surroundings. Yellowed plastic goggles rested on his forehead, and a ragged, stained labcoat was...Taylor's face burned and she frantically looked away. The labcoat was the only other article of clothing he wore. Staring hard at the roof beneath her hands, she reached up to touch the radio nestled comfortably in her ear. Armsmaster had handed them out before this all started, explaining that they were touch activated and to keep the channel clear of unnecessary chatter. "This is Guardian." She was mumbling, barely enough volume to qualify as speech, having been assured they were sensitive enough to pick that up. "I'm at the secondary target."
On the store bought radios she had used a few months back, there'd been static crackling over the conversations, obscuring words and generally being a pain. Not so here. When Armsmaster responded, it was as if he was standing right next to her. The wonders of technology, she supposed. "Armsmaster, here. Can you confirm the location?"
It took a moment for her to parse what he meant. "Yes. This is where the stash is."
A moment's pause. "Roger that. Reaper has yet to report in. Have you seen him?"
A small thrill of triumph raced through her and was chased away by concern. Not for Reaper, she didn't know him well enough nor really want to, but for what his absence implied. Something went wrong. Either committed by the man himself, or circumstance preventing his check in. "No." She risked another peek over the roof. Thankfully, the labcoat guy – Roofie, she presumed – had turned away and...and was pissing into the pile of trash. Class act, this group, Sabah's voice whispered in her head. "I haven't."
"Understood. Attention everyone, this is Armsmaster. Radio may have been compromised. We're going silent. Proceed to your objectives unless retreat is called. Out."
Not ten seconds after the transmission ended something exploded.
=+= Chapter 11: Who Talks First? =+=
That was the bad news. The good news it didn't happen in front of her. She saw the explosion before she heard it, a flash of impossibly bright oranges and reds just on the edge of her periphery. She whipped around just in time for the sound to hit in a physical wave. She'd known explosions would be loud, it was so obvious that if she'd heard it from someone else the urge to roll her eyes would have been incredible. But this...this was insane. The force of it, the sheer power, knocked her on her ass before the sound registered in her ears; an impossibly deep, thundrous roar like mountains crashing together. She scrambled to her feet, stealth forgotten and shot to hell besides, to stare at the growing plume of smoke and ash. "What..." her voice felt quiet and meek by comparison. Gunfire followed in wake of the fading boom, the sharp pop, hiss, and snap more familiar to her ears.
Her hand was touching the shell of her ear when she remembered. Radio silence. She had no way of knowing what was an acceptable reason to break that, if such a thing existed. If it did, should she be the one to do it, or should a more veteran hero take the lead? Plagued by indecision, Taylor froze. Which was when something hissed past her head, followed by the snap of a discharging pistol. "I see you up there, bitch!" Reflex sent Taylor diving to the ground, more a guided collapse than anything else in her haste to escape the follow-up shots, one of which punched through a length of duct nearby.
"All capes, this is Armsmaster," Well. That answered her question. "The Gearheads and Burnout have engaged Squealer. Guardian, find Reaper and move to support. Everyone else, stay on objective. Out."
Rolling onto her belly and cursing under her breath at Reaper, Taylor wiggled towards the left side of the building she was on. From there, she could drop down and take out the guy shooting at her. She hoped it wasn't the mostly naked guy in the lab coat, because the idea of getting close to, let alone touching him, made her skin crawl. Another bullet screamed overhead, heading off to parts unknown, as she dragged herself through the dirt, gravel, and old asphalt covering the roof. Sabah is going to flip, she thought, as she reached the edge and poked her head over, or she would if she didn't hate this costume.
Far more comfortable with the idea than she'd been the last time, she flipped herself headfirst over the side of the building. Her legs curled in as air rushed past and the world turned over, showing sky, then ground, before she landed in a crouch. It hadn't been her quietest landing, to be sure, but the sound of gunfire, and the guy's own vulgarity filled shouting covered her actions quite nicely. She reached for her knife, pulling it free but not yet igniting the blade. Its weight in her hand reassured her, gave her the fortitude to push forwards towards the lot with the empty trailers, the fetid trash, and the guy with a gun. What a life.
=+= Chapter 11: Who Talks First? =+=
It stank even worse up close. She didn't know what drug came out of this process, but if it was anywhere near as foul, only the truly insane would get close, let alone ingest it. The only, and she did mean only, benefit to the piles of plastic bagged garbage scattered around the lot was that they were tall enough to cover her crouched form. Taking care to avoid touching anything, and ignoring the thick sludge oozing from ruptures in the bags, she crept ever onward. Ahead of her, no more than a dozen feet, the lab coat guy – she just assumed that it was Roofie in all his glory – was wrestling with his gun and swearing a torrent of inventive vulgarity. He used words in ways she didn't think were possible before and if he weren't naked and gross and a bad guy, she might have been impressed.
As it was, she just wanted to find a way to avoid touching him. The knife in her hand dragged gently on the ground, drawing her attention and giving her an idea. She didn't have long to consider it, the sound of empty brass shells tinkling as they fell telling her he'd finally figured out how to reload the gun. She felt her heart beat against her ribs as she tensed, ready. Enough thinking, Taylor. Act. Breath gusted out of her as she pushed to her feet, throwing herself forward and out of cover. The world slowed. Her knife spun in her hand, rising up to flash against the pale sunlight as she aimed. Roofie's filmy eyes widened, chapped lips pulling back over rotting teeth. The cold gray weapon in his hand, cylinder locked open, was pointed uselessly away from her. She hefted her blade, shifting her grip ever so slightly, and whipped her arm forward.
The knife left her hand, spun once, and hit Roofie between the eyes, handle first. She'd thrown it as hard as she could and it showed. The impact sounded like a hollow concrete pipe being struck and he fell, poleaxed, to the ground. He seemed out of it, but if Mush had taught her anything, it was not to underestimate the ability of a Merchant to operate at diminished capacity. So she ran up and kicked him in the head. Hard. Twice. That did it, or at least made it look that way. He was still and his eyes closed, but he was breathing and she could see the pulse jumping in his neck. No way was she touching him to confirm it. She scooped her knife up and cued her radio. "This is Guardian. Secondary objective is secure. I have one Merchant unconscious. He might be Roofie, over."
The reply came instantly, with the mixed sounds of shouting and gunfire in the background. "Guardian. Armsmaster here. Confirm capture of...Roofie?" He said the man's cape name with disgust and reluctance. Taylor didn't blame him.
"I think it's him. He's wearing nothing but a lab coat and some goggles, and –"
"That's him. Secure him and proceed. I've flagged your position for a pick-up."
Taylor looked around for something to tie him with. She found nothing, and sighed. It looked like she would have to touch him after all. But first... "Roger that. Guardian out." That done, she kicked him over onto his belly and used her knife to cut the lab coat's sleeves off. There! Handcuffs! Well, they were makeshift and smelled of something horrid, but they worked, and that was the important thing. She tied his arms behind his back with one, and his feet together with the other. That done, she stood and brushed her hands against each other. More than happy to put the foul-smelling place behind her, she sheathed her knife and sprinted off.
=+= Chapter 11: Who Talks First? =+=
The battle between the Gearheads, Burnout, and Squealer's fleet of modded cars was taking place over a series of rapidly emptying streets. The Gearheads' big, armored truck was looking worse for wear, paint scraped off in streaks and dents scooped into the metal. Despite this, it still looked better than the Merchants' vehicles that surrounded it, all of which appeared too poorly built to move, let alone damage anything. The gun mounted on the back of the truck rotated, hummed weirdly, and fired. It was not, as Taylor half-expected, a bullet or grenade, but a quartet of bright blue disks that seemed to pass through an equal number of vehicles before fizzling out of existence. The cars they hit slowed to a stop, spilling out people who shouted at the running battle as it left them behind and kicking their now-dead transportation.
The fight hit a three-way intersection and, by some consensus-driven choice, turned right, speeding down the hill towards the train yard. Burnout's silver cycle darted around the outsides of the nebulous cloud of vehicles, Tinker-made projectiles, and good old fashioned gunfire. Taylor, from her position of headlong sprint along rooftops, barely able to keep up, could see him intentionally crashing his tires into those of Merchant cars. She wasn't able to see why, exactly, until a tire exploded and sent yet another car veering off the road. There was a worry that the kid would get himself hurt, exposed as he was, yet it seemed he was too fast and never in one place for long enough for anyone to get a bead on him.
Her breaths were coming in shallow pants, and her costume was almost soaked through with sweat. Her muscles burned with the effort of keeping up with souped-up vehicles, but she couldn't stop. She reached the edge of another roof and threw herself into the air, crossing the street in an act that would have thrilled her not too long ago but had now become almost routine. She landed, rolled, and came up running. Ahead the road ducked under a bridge, one of those old brick constructions that had too much 'historic value' to be remodeled or removed. It was right after the first Merchant passed underneath, into the long shadows cast, that Reaper made his reappearance. The shadows boiled, and a blur separated from them to blink across the street, leaving the sounds of tearing metal and screeching tires behind. The lead car spun out, going perpendicular to the street before flipping into the air, spinning once, twice, before crashing with a hollow, drumming crash.
The running battle then became a battle. Burnout continued to dance around the outsides, driving directly at someone only to have a shimmering field appear just before impact, sending his target spinning to the ground in a pile of jittering limbs. Some kind of taser field? The Gearheads' turret rotated again, spinning in a circle and barking rubber bullets into the growing crowd of Merchants abandoning their cars. Taylor hit the ground as Reaper appeared again, coat billowing behind him, to spear a shouting man's gun hand to the car behind him. The Merchant screamed, high and loud and barely human, and Reaper withdrew his sword and brought it whipping around. Her breath caught, sure she was about to see someone die, when the flat side of the sword crashed into the man's head.
She drew her knife, igniting its bright edge, feeling the reassuring rush of Light within as she dove into a trio of Merchants, all distracted by their efforts to shoot through what was obviously bulletproof glass. Her knife flashed in the air, lightning arcing along its length, cutting through their guns like butter. No, easier. Tissue paper. The pieces of former firearm fell to the ground as she dropped a punch into the leftmost thug's kidneys. He doubled over, letting her grab his head and heave him into his fellows as they were beginning to attack her. They stumbled under his weight, shoving him angrily to the side. One pulled a wrench from his shabby jacket and brandished it as the other fitted a set of brass knuckles onto his fist.
There was a moment of stillness. She twitched. They lunged. The wrench came up and over in an overhand swing that she dodged, pushing at the arm to spin the thug around and boot him in the ass. He went headlong into the window of the car behind him, spiderwebbing the glass with his forehead and falling to the ground, dazed. The second, wary, approached with fists held before his face, bouncing them like a boxer. He wasn't. She battered through his guard with a jab-cross combo before thumping him in the solar plexus. His breath whooshed out of him, sending him gasping to one knee. His face met her own knee not too much later.
Her fight done, she took stock of the fight around her to find it mostly finished. Burnout had come to a halt and was sitting, arms crossed and posed triumphantly, on his bike. Next to him was a pile of unconscious Merchants with suspiciously spiky hair and singed clothes. The Gearheads had gotten out of their truck and were moving among the fallen, dispensing handcuffs and tasings as necessity dictated. Reaper was gone again, leaving behind splashes of blood and gangsters with missing extremities. It wasn't much of a moral dilemma in deciding to give them first aid. They held perfectly still as she bound their wounds, wrapping strips of their shirts and pants around the injuries and telling them to keep the knot tight. Whether they listened or not was up to them.
Taylor stood, wiping strands of hair from her sweaty face, and sighed. Thank God that was over. She didn't want to run another foot, let alone however far it was to the warehouse where, as she caught her breath, Armsmaster and Miss Militia were fighting the rest of the Merchants by themselves. Whether they needed it or not – and she thought that they probably didn't – help would not go amiss. She was about to bring this up when a whistle caught her attention. One of the Gearheads was leaning out the window of their truck. "Hey! We gotta move! Hop in the back, we'll get there in no time!"
She nodded, and vaulted into the back of the truck. It wasn't the most comfortable of seats, but it worked for her. God, her feet hurt. So did her knuckles, but she was used to that by now. The pain was fading, all of her aches were, and she hoped it would be enough for her to be of any help once they reached the warehouse. As they raced down the street, Burnout riding next to them, something came to her. Something puzzling.
Wasn't Squealer supposed to have been part of that fleet of cars?
"All capes...this is Armsmaster." Alarm shot through her. He sounded tired, and in pain. Two things she'd never thought possible. "Be advised. Squealer has constructed a tank."
=+= Chapter 11: Who Talks First? =+=
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