The Girl

She hovered in the air, upon wings bestowed by alien science. Shards of the shattered sky above her head glowed with an ominous crimson light, yet she scarcely saw it. Portals. An endless kaleidoscope of portals, miniature golden hexagons, enveloped her, and everything within a five-foot radius. Countless doors leading to other capes, wherever they might be. Doors that opened the path to her control. Doors that were supposed to lead her to victory. But it was not so. They were watching her. Faces. Countless faces, but not reflections in a mirror. Bloodied, tortured, dead. They looked at her, through the endless procession of breaches through reality. Blind eyes gazed at her. Burned-out eyes scrutinized her. Closed eyes saw her. Dead eyes judged her. They awaited her. Heard her. Questioned her. "What is your next Command?" they whispered. "Send us to death again!" they screamed. "Make us pay for your victory!" they pleaded. She felt them. Those endless ephemeral threads of control, binding their will, subjugating them to her. Locking them in cages of their own involuntary bodies, leaving them to watch the death that pursued them. They trembled in terror and shook with rage, yet they were powerless against her. But then why did it hurt her so much? Why did she, omnipotent in her control, fear to look into these faces? What was so terrifying about this kaleidoscope of slaves? Yet, there existed something that frightened her even more than the fruits of her tyranny. The Golden Idol that had turned into a Monster. The Alien Savior who shattered his own illusions, choosing the path of Iblis. The Messiah who was always the Antichrist. Scion. He was here, looming on the horizon, invulnerable, unstoppable, inexorable, invincible. Golden rays that were supposed to herald the dawn instead reduced matter to a state of non-existence. She wanted to move, to dodge the approaching death, but she couldn't. The threads that gave her control had long turned into chains of necrotic veins, holding her in place. She was free - yet she was shackled. She was free - yet she was a slave to her own puppets.  She was free - yet she had no choice. Her wings could not carry her aloft, for the heavens had already fallen down. Scion approached. And in the golden light emanating from his avatar, she began to discern the features of his face. She... she knew him.  He was not the Son she remembered, but she knew him. Those facial features, those green eyes, that look filled with fear and disappointment. He approached her, passing through the floating kaleidoscope of unwilling dead as if not noticing them. "My Little Owl..." he whispered, touching her cheek. His... his hand, the skin of this avatar, it was warm. Familiar. Dear. There was so much she wanted to tell him. So much that burned her soul, but she couldn't. She was still here, still shackled by her own power, scorched by her own strength. Her lips barely moved, her lungs barely took and released air. All she had the strength for was one pathetic word. "F-father." The Golden God with the guise of her father looked at her and smiled. The light from his hands grew brighter. "My Little Owl... you were not meant to survive." In the blink of an eye, the warm gold turned into scorching hot lead that pierced her head. Everything faded to black.

***

Taylor Hebert She awoke in a cold sweat, clutching the synthetic material that only hours before had been a pillow. Her t-shirt, borrowed from Davidson, was soaked through, and her blanket lay somewhere on the floor at the other end of the room. Outside the window... the dawn was just beginning to break. The sky was already tinged with a golden hue... Suddenly, she felt as though the air had been knocked out of her. Everything inside her clenched, and time seemed to slow down, likely fueled by the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She felt as if she were in battle. But where was the enemy? Who was the enemy? From where did the threat come? Taylor turned to her swarm, trying to sense the direction of the attack. Someone stood outside the door to her room. Danger? But why wasn't it attacking? Was it a cape? Master? Blaster? Trump? No movement, no actions. The threat... insufficient for an immediate attack. Around her... the rest of the area was calm. Steeped in the ordinary stillness of slumber. No other potential threats. "Wh-who's there?" Taylor finally ventured, slowly approaching the door. Her throat was apparently quite dry from her time in bed, causing her voice to rasp slightly. She grimaced at the roughness in her throat. "It's me. Ashley," came the familiar voice. In the next moment, memories of the previous day flooded back. How they had arrived here, to this small two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. Even though it had been early, Taylor was recovering from the events and nerves of the previous days and had been groggy. She had barely managed to make it to the apartment, and had just enough strength left to jump in the shower for a mere five minutes before promptly passing out as soon as her head touched the pillow. The previous day... had been eventful. She didn't even want to think about Marathon and the circumstances of her escape from Vought's supervision. Although she was accustomed to the sight of blood, and even brain matter on her hands was not new to her, the memories were still fresh and the feelings they evoked... were mixed. She did not regret the fact she had killed Marathon. She had almost no choice. Movers... movers were dangerous opponents. Amongst all the types of enemies Taylor had experience facing, there were very few speedsters. The fight could have literally turned against her in the blink of an eye. No, the only thing she regretted was that she was forced to kill again. She was certainly no saint, there was probably a "nice" place in hell reserved just for her, but she had hoped that Contessa's plan for her retirement would not include... something like this. Alas, the ways to victory are inscrutable and the path Contessa chose once again seemed to be paved with bloody bricks. The question remained however what the ultimate goal of this path was. "...aylor!" Ashley's voice suddenly brought the girl out of the deep contemplation she had fallen into. It seemed... it seemed she had been standing there for several minutes. "Ashley… Davidson. Yes?" "Yes, it's me. I picked you up yesterday with Milk and Leon." Taylor grimaced. Her head was slightly aching, and she couldn't understand what might have caused this pain. Perhaps the nightmare from which she had awoken. Or the uncomfortable position in which she had found herself upon awakening. This Ashley... she seemed to have said something yesterday about staying overnight here, in the living room, by order of the Vice Director. Something about Taylor not being left alone for long. Honestly, she could well understand both the position and the motivation of the Director in this case. She... she didn't feel okay. Definitely not okay. It was a simple and rational conclusion. And for the deputy director of the CIA, in her current state, she was a very risky asset. Especially considering how the operation to save her ended. She agreed someone definitely needed to watch over her. And Ashley... Ashley seemed far from the worst option. Taylor knew almost nothing about her, but she was confident enough in that from what she had observed about her observers. Of course she couldn't fully trust her, but the same went for any secret government agents. Yesterday her control over her own emotions… faltered. She was too exhausted after escape to hold her raging emotions in a iron cage. She talked to them. Trusted them with miniscule part of her past… But it was enough. She felt easier. Not by a lot, but easier. "What... what do you want? It's early morning." Ashley chuckled from behind the door. "Try sleeping here when someone is screaming in the middle of the night like they're being cut open. I'm still surprised the neighbors haven't come to sort things out." "I... screamed?" The last nightmare she remembered was terrifying, but... did she scream in it? How many more like that did she have tonight? Did she wake up like that before? Did she remember anything about it other than the terror? "Like a dying animal. Called for your father and some girl named Lisa, begged for some Panacea to do something. Quite the show, sorry to say." Taylor could imagine. She knew what nightmares could be like. From her own in the past and from others'. She remembered quite clearly how Brian's nightmares had barely let the rest of the Undersiders sleep. However, the way Taylor chose to quell these nightmares, albeit temporarily, was... unique. Now, she didn't have such an option at hand. "Why didn't you wake me up then?" "I tried, but a certain someone locked the door. And I'm not some field agent ready to kick in doors at the first opportunity." Observing the lock, Taylor immediately realized that Ashley was telling the truth. The latch on the wooden door of the room was indeed closed, leaving few other options. "Ah… I see. But did you want something?" "I brought you some water. You were screaming all night so I guessed you might need it. And based on how hoarse you sound I was right." Davidson... was right again. Her throat did feel sore, and a glass of water would indeed be very welcome. Taylor carefully unlocked the door, admitting Ashley into her temporary sanctuary. Seeing the state of the bed, the metal headboard clearly bent and the state of the bedding, Davidson whistled. "Damn good thing I didn't try to come in. I doubt I would've gotten away with just a sleepless night." Taylor felt uneasy. Displaying weakness... she had become unaccustomed to it. In recent years, all she had to do was stay strong. Focused. Her enemies either already knew all her weaknesses or were simply so immeasurably stronger that it was completely unnecessary for them. Maybe... maybe she could use this. Her vulnerability, her apparent weakness. If she befriended someone like Davidson, would the Agency trust her more? If she gave them false leverage, a way for them to apply pressure, if she created an illusion of her own attachment... A thought like this was the same mistake she had made back at the dawn of her meteoric career. But this time the situation was fundamentally different. Back then she wanted to be a hero. She'd had something to lose and something to run from. Now, she has nothing but her own power, experience, and skills. This time she won't make the same foolish mistakes she did back then. But... is it really so bad, in reality? To have people you can talk to? Not subordinates or minions, but just ordinary colleagues with whom you can exchange a few words without having to worry that you will be overheard by genocidal aliens or some variation of the Illuminati. It's... a rather strange, new and surreal feeling for her. Here, in this new world, she is essentially free to choose what she wants to do. Of course for the foreseeable future she has plans of participating in a CIA undercover operation, but that is not a job with a regular work schedule. And Taylor had requested the possibility of college enrollment. Returning to college, applying to university. Choosing a future profession. Such ordinary things. Ordinary and yet so distant from the ordinary she was used to. She had no obligation to patrol the city, to deal with urban crime, or protect a territory from unhinged capes and the monsters they sometimes spawned. No more maniacs focused on genocide. No more Endbringers wiping cities off the face of the Earth every couple of months. No more Scion hanging like the Sword of Damocles over countless realities. All of that was gone. She had no more ties, no more debts, except those that allowed her to be here in this apartment. And most importantly, no way to turn it all back. Excepting Contessa and perhaps the Fairy Queen, it was unlikely anyone knew how to find her. Unlikely that anyone would even be looking for her. Taylor was free. And this freedom... It frightened her. Her hand still ached in places that no longer existed, images of Scion were frozen in her memory, shards of what she had done as Khepri terrified her very being. Thoughts raced through her head at a terrifying speed, accelerating ever faster. She was alone again. Without purpose. Without friends. Without resources. Taylor needed to move forward but didn't know where to. No more plans. No more prophecies. No more Path. No enemy. No bully to stand up to and teach a lesson. She had to act on her own. She didn't know what to choose, didn't know what to choose from. Moisture touched her lips. A woman's hand gently supported her back. "Drink," she heard Davidson's voice. Or had she heard it before? All her perception was mixed up, occurring against the backdrop of her thoughts, it didn't matter. Mechanically, she obeyed. The slightly warm water pleasantly rehydrated her throat and seemed to wash away some of her nervous thoughts. "Thank you. I... I needed that." Ashley sighed, sitting down on her ravaged bed. "Damn, girl. You're definitely not okay. Stood there for five minutes, not responding to my words. I don't know what happened to you... and frankly, I don't want to know, despite it being my job, but you won't last long like this." Taylor shuddered. Davidson... how old was she? The Special Agent looked quite young, no more than thirty. A face the right shape, straight blonde hair to her shoulders, brown eyes. No wrinkles, just bags under her eyes and a look full of fatigue and pity... directed at her. But there was truth in her words. She couldn't deny it, though she very much wanted to. Davidson gently touched her hand for just a second. "Hey, hey. Stay here, focus on what's happening. Don't think, just be here. Talk to me if it helps. I'm no psychologist, but I'll help as best I can." Taylor nodded, carefully sitting next to her on the bed. Perhaps the agent was right, and not thinking right now was indeed the right decision. "I... I'm sorry. You... you shouldn't have to see me like this. Normally I'm... stronger. More composed, certainly." Davidson nodded. "Most soldiers say something similar. At least the ones I know. It's okay, trust me - while you were sleeping, I took a look at what you did to the Vought van. Quite an impressive display. But you probably don't want to remember yesterday, so let's talk about something else. Maybe you want to know something?" "You... mentioned soldiers. How do you know? You're... not a field agent, right? An analyst. I... overheard your conversations back at the house." Ashley smiled. "Now I'll always be afraid that the cockroaches in the cafeteria will overhear my dirty secrets. Well, you're right that I'm not a Field Agent. At least for now, I don't know what might get into Mallory's head. But I know soldiers because..." her smile faded slightly, "Military family, you know? Mom worked as a secretary in the Pentagon, Dad was a Vietnam veteran. My brothers... Those blockheads didn't listen to dad and volunteered for Iraq. Right in the hottest months." "I'm sorry..." "Don't be, it's not all bad. They didn't die, even came back in one piece. Just... It was hard for them. Even with a family history. So I had to, willingly or not, get acquainted with... all the ensuing consequences." Suddenly, Taylor herself smiled at her thought. "So you also... didn't stray far. An analyst at the CIA, right? Special Agent Davidson. Sounds cool." "Well, you can't exactly write that on a badge or a resume. But yes, you're right. Family business is alive and well. It's just that the career prospects are so-so." "What do you mean? I thought the Agency pays quite generously." "Well, in that regard, yes. And the insurance is good. I'm more about the fact that it's quite hard to change jobs, and even if you do, you'll be doing pretty much the same thing. And climbing to the top is a real challenge. I heard Mallory had to do some truly crazy things to get promoted." "I see..." Their conversation seemed to fade, and for the next few moments, they simply sat in silence, staring into space. Taylor tried hard not to think about anything important, focusing instead on the information her swarm was conveying to her. Nothing particularly interesting was happening in the Bronx, which wasn't surprising given the early hour. Most people were either still blissfully asleep or just hurrying to work. A short janitor of Mexican descent leisurely cleaned the sidewalk a block away from her location. Such idyll could have continued for quite a while, had it not been for Taylor's growling stomach. Hearing the call of her stomach, she quickly realized that her nourishment over the past couple of weeks, although nutritious, had not been particularly satisfying. She was about to head to the small kitchen of her temporary shelter to see what she could make when she suddenly realized that the process of cooking would be somewhat... problematic. The last time she had cooked something on her own, she'd had twice as many hands. Fortunately, Davidson seemed quick to understand the hints from Taylor's stomach and stood up from the bed. "You didn't eat anything yesterday, just passed out immediately. Let's go fix you something, I asked Marvin to shop yesterday, so there's more than enough food." Taylor obediently followed Ashley, passing through the cozy art deco-styled living room. She briefly wondered why the agency needed such clandestine apartments but dismissed the question as foolish. "What about Marvin and Leon?" Ashley shrugged, opening the refrigerator. "They went home. Where they live, I have no idea, but the Vice Director can dig those two up if needed. And for heaven's sake, don't call Serge 'Agent Leon', or he'll be utterly unbearable." "Is there some joke or reference there?" Ashley turned to her, simultaneously cracking eggs into a skillet. She looked surprised. "You haven't seen… ah right, parallel reality. Damn, you'll need a whole course to fit in properly. I think we even have such a course lying around somewhere actually. Made almost as a joke, trying to simulate what enemy spies were supposed to undergo. But in theory... it's quite applicable." As she spoke, Ashley was busily preparing a hearty breakfast. All the ingredients for scrambled eggs with bacon and toast were either already on the table or in the skillet. "Umm... Ashley, what are our current plans? I mean, I'm grateful for being saved and I still feel... not great. But what's the next step?" "Well, I think you shouldn't rush things. I don't know all the details, but for the next couple of days, I've been assigned to help you adapt. In... " Ashley glanced at the wall clock, "...four and a half hours, a courier is supposed to arrive with a package containing your new backdated documents and the documents for their issuance, which you'll need to sign. There's also a credit card with your start-up funds, because my stuff won't last you long. After that... the Deputy Director will definitely want to meet with you personally. I think you'll find out the plans for everything going forward there." Ten minutes later, a plate bearing perhaps the most appetizing bacon and eggs Taylor had ever seen was set before her. Ignoring the inconvenience of having only one hand, she eagerly devoured the meal.

***

Peter Schneider His day had started off on the wrong foot. That bitch Mary had cursed him out and blocked him on all social networks after what was, in his opinion, a rather good date. Yes, he had messed up in a few places, but overall it had gone really well! Sure, not everyone likes being picked up by a guy in a costume or being wrapped in webbing and swung across the city on a web. But hey, where else could she experience something like that? Especially since he compensated for the inconvenience with a truly lavish dinner! That Chinese restaurant really was the best in town when it came to using insects in cooking. So, a total bust. Plus, his business had been failing for the past few months. No matter how much he traveled around the city, he couldn't find any new interesting stories to sell. Mr. Gordson had been a patient editor, so he hadn't been pressing Schneider too hard, and he was on a commission rate, but being a superhero required certain expenses. The allowance Vought gave to a lone second-rate super was definitely not enough. His last date had blown his budget to the extent that he would soon have to forget about decent restaurant meals and be forced to recall Uncle Augustus's cooking lessons. Midway through his daytime patrol, Peter found himself sitting on one of the many parapets of the Chrysler Building, eating pasta bolognese from a cardboard container. Suddenly, his phone rang. Seeing the number, Schneider was surprised. Mr. Giovanni usually didn't call him this early. "Hey Boss." "They know everything, Peter! Your column with those scandalous photos, they know it all. Every angle, every location, every date... it's a disaster, Peter!" "W-what are you talking about, boss? Who knows? Vought?" "Your stupid company has nothing to do with it, Schneider! The New York Times, the New York Post, the Wall Street Journal... the material was sent everywhere, you understand? Everywhere!!" "How could this happen, I don't..." "Schneider, for all my love for your approach, are you dumb or just pretending? The web, Peter. The web! Your damn web was left at every shooting location, even on the ceiling of that bathroom where you photographed the district attorney!" Peter started to grasp the seriousness of the situation and swallowed hard. Such news... such news promised nothing good. "But Vought..." "Your damn 'Vought' won't help you, Peter! The media sharks have smelled blood and won't let go of you now. So here's the deal, Peter, you have a maximum of a couple of days before the material is published. In that time, your job is to make yourself out as someone deeply depressed. I don't care how you do it, even shoot up heroin, but in three days you need to barely resemble a person. Only then, maybe, you'll be able to get through on psychological grounds and not end up in court. Do you understand me, Schneider?" His boss's voice sounded like a death sentence. "Yes, Mr. Giovanni." "Good, my boy. I really hope you make it. The survival of my publication largely depends on your stories." Gordson hung up, leaving Peter alone with a view of midday New York. His mood was utterly shattered, and he felt an urgent need for the restroom. First, Mary ghosted him, and now these damn journalists had sniffed out his work hobby. Maybe Uncle Augustus was right; he didn't need this superhero life… Shaking his head, Peter looked again at his phone's screen, where a live counter displayed his Facebook followers. He was just a hair short of three million. No way. He was definitely not going back to Uncle in Michigan. He was the Web Weaver, and he would handle this minor scandal easily. Then, perhaps, he might even make it into the Seven. It was a foolproof plan. After all, supers like him never lose.