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What Happened Outside Of Canon


TwiLyghtSansSparkles

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[I don't know why I wrote this. I just got the idea to post it at one point and decided to do it. Thanks for letting me steal your scene/character Coma!]

Mia watched as her teammates were cut down before her eyes. Sara tore apart with claws. Sam's head being ripped off and eaten. She knew Taylor Swift was dangerous, but this was beyond anything she had come to expect. She killed her trained teammates seemingly without breaking a sweat.

Mia threw off her fright and glanced at the piece of paper she carried in her hand. That writing held the key to defeating this madwoman. Suddenly Taylor spoke: "Oooooh, look what you made me do." Ugh, of course it was that. Suddenly, Taylor began to change. Bracing herself, Mia prepared for the monstrosity sure to come. But it never did. Instead, Taylor began to get uglier. Her body got bigger and she got shorter. Her hair changed to a brownish color. This is it. Her weakness activated. With a start, she noticed that Taylor had her gun pointed at her. Beginning to panic, Mia threw a punch at Taylor's face. A tooth fell out. Smiling, Mia began to sing to her favorite song before Calamity.

"All you are is mean."

Punch to the gut.

"And a liar."

Backhand to the face.

"And pathetic."

Broke her leg.

"And alone in life."

Broke the other leg.

"And mean."

She shot her thigh.

"And mean."

Shot the arm.

"AND MEAN!"

Screaming, Mia shot her in the face. Then shot again, just to be certain. Grabbing her mobile, she texted the Reckoners in Olympia Polaris. 

The shapeshifter is down, but she took everybody else with her. Send help.

And with that, Mia fell to the ground, tears pouring from her eyes.

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Kokichi was just minding their own business at a party, somewhere and somewhen, when a certain song came on the radio. They didn’t recognize it, but the beat of it was such a bop that it made them start singing along.

 

I’m not a fan of puppeteers but I’ve a nagging fear 

Someone else is pulling all our strings 

 

A random person became entangled in string, and Kokichi pulled her into a dance. It was fast and quick, with her movements controlled by marionette strings. Everyone else was singing too, or maybe the music was just existing over the land of chaos they were creating with their mind.

 

Something terrible is going down through the entire town

 

Theyd always been in what looked like a black paper cut out of a town as it fell down. They swung the person away, strings snapping as she went flying. It was hard to tell which people were real and which were only part of the moment.

 

Bringing anarchy and all it brings

 

Not like Kokichi really noticed. They were just dancing, after all. They were on a black and white checkered path as waterfalls and rainbows flowed the wrong way. 

 

I can't sit idly, no, I can't move at all

I curse the name, the one behind it all...
 

The chorus swung into motion as Kokichi found a crown upon their head. Gemstones dropped like rain as people froze and unfroze like statues of gold. The scene wasn’t gory as much as completely anarchic.

 

Discord, I'm howlin' at the moon
And sleepin' in the middle of a summer afternoon

 

A paper moon rose into the sky, like it was a prop in a play. This was all happening on a stage and a spotlight flashed on Kokichi. They were finger gunning the audience. A camera flashed.


Discord, whatever did we do

To make you take our world away?

 

Accusatory fingers pointed at them, which they silenced with a snap. A smile curled across their cheeks, malice in their eyes as those audience members turned literally to puppets. They jumped into the crowd and landed on a platform of clouds beneath the sky of earth.

Gravity worked in reverse.

 

Discord, are we your prey alone

Or are we just a stepping stone for taking back the throne?

Discord, we won't take it anymore

So take your tyranny away!

 

The person he’d danced with was desperately trying to crawl onto the cloud to avoid falling to the ground bellow. Kokichi leaned over as the next words began.

 

I'm fine with changing status quo, but not in letting go

 

As she processed the words letting go, Kokichi stomped her fingers, breaking them instantly. She fell down into a crack in reality shining black red. The cracks spread like a spiderweb around a central origin point.

 

Now the world is being torn apart

A terrible catastrophe played by your symphony

What a terrifying work of art!

 

Kokichi lunged off the cloud and landed in the center of the spider web pattern. Reality imploded, with brilliant lights shining outside of the hole.

 

I can't sit idly, no, I can't move at all

I curse the name, the one behind it all...

 

The person, who’s purple hair flew out behind her like a mane, contorted in painful positions as Kokichi waved their hands. She was the one singing now. Or had she always been?

This area was an island surrounded by water that bubbled like lava. Or was it lava that looked vaguely like water? The moon rose again, this time bright pink.

 

Discord, I'm howlin' at the moon

And sleepin' in the middle of a summer afternoon

Discord, whatever did we do

To make you take our world away?

 

The control they’d used over her body slackened. The not quite a woman not quite a girl was twenty. She ran as if she thought she could escape, grabbing onto a stone that turned out to be a crocodile.


Discord, are we your prey alone

Or are we just a stepping stone for taking back the throne?

Discord, we won't take it anymore

So take your tyranny away!

 

They bopped their head up and down as they temporarily returned to the normal dance, but it wasn’t over yet.

By the time she escaped, she was dizzy. Her head spun and her mind was more or less completely broken by the complete absurdity of what’d transpired. It seemed like she was the only one who’d been caught up in the... well, the discord, pun not intended. Thank goodness.

Kokichi watched her sprint away to vomit her brains out.

”Man, why does nobody ever want to dance with me twice?” they said, to no one in particular.

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  • 2 weeks later...

Armageddon hastily ran to the door. This is it. I'm finally going to meet my idol. I'm so glad he agreed to meet me!

Edit: Posted before finishing. Give me a couple hours probably.

Edited by Kidpen
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It had taken weeks, and no small amount of manipulation and Scottie, but it was finally ready. The Circuit had been assembled.

Karabiner walked down the steps of his new football stadium, built near the back left corner of his van. In the center were three Epics: Nicroburst, Upgrade, and Borrower. He had been a bit hesitant about involving that last, as he might be able to take the power for himself, but Karabiner had managed to freeze his mind first, preventing such a disaster almost too late.

The other two were simply hogtied. Upgrade had instinctively tried to use his powers on the ropes, but that had been completely pointless, as it simply strengthened them when he did.

Karabiner approached the Circuit.

"Such power, right here in one car, should probably break something," he said to the people gathered on the bleachers. The entire fence was there, as were a few Epics he had managed to persuade or force into the place.

"But I shan't keep you waiting with a monologue!" He laughed, Charles grabbing his voice and amplifying it so all could hear.

He motioned to a tank parked at one end of the stadium. Its mounted laser ignited, sending a green ray the diameter of his intellect directly at Upgrade.

Upgrade's power exploded outward, catching the other two pieces of the Circuit in a wave of green, identical in color to the beam of the Haywire. It also caught Karabiner, but that didn't matter. The Circuit had just been activated.

Karabiner went and stepped into the middle of the Circuit, feeling pure power wash over him. He could copy and paste any power in Edmonton to anywhere he wanted, in infinite supply!

"I will own the world!" he exclaimed. Before he took any powers, he felt an impossible large one appear. He couldn't place it, but it was as if the Great Noodly One had suddenly come down to him. He seized it greedily, Linking it to his own body a hundred, a thousand times stronger than it had been.

The Circuit shut down. He didn't care, he was already immeasurably powerful. He already owned the world.

He reached out with his new power, and pushed. A wave of green light, so bright it's color was almost irrelevant, swept out from him. He waited for it to destroy things, bend them to his will, anything, really, he wasn't picky just then.

Something did happen. Epics around him exploded in power. The world was ending, there was nothing left to rule. He saw an Epic with glowing green hair start floating up to the ceiling, arms back at their side, looking up at something.

Than the world became an anime.

The end.

Edited by FeuerBrisingr
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Kokichi stepped into the Circuit and ascended to godhood. Unfortunately, so did everyone else in the entire universe. Somehow, this included Calamity. 

All limits removed. Not just anime reaction images. No more based on emotion. No range.

Several Epics whose powers affected other realities ended up accidentally opening a rift for Kokichi’s abilities to flow through. The entire multiverse was at their fingertips, which meant the entire multiverse was exposed to their aura of godness. Permanently. 

“Welp,” Kokichi decided. “This is weird.”

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Armageddon could now mentally command literally every human in the multiverse. However, he really didn't know why. After all, that wasn't his power before the Circuit, why would it be after? Suddenly, he realized that maybe blowing up the universe wasn't his power. After all, he can't blow up the multiverse right now! Armageddon weeped, and then realized he could force everybody to kill themselves. So he did that. Unfortunately, pretty much every epic survived. So now there were no more maples.

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Nicroburst looked around cautiously.  He saw Borrower, grinning like a kid on Christmas.  He saw Upgrade, arrogant as ever.  And he saw Jacklyn, lying on the table between them.  Once he and Upgrade had double-enhanced her, her they had both fallen in love with her instantly.  Nicroburst knew that was probably due to his emotions being manipulated, but he didn't care.  He took a deep breath, and then the three held hands.  An explosion of power overtook them.  However, as per their instructions, they did not let it build exponentially.  They diverted the power into the masterpiece that they encircled.  Instantly, all three of them broke apart, minds twisted by the radiant form that lay between them.  The figure between them slowly stood, and spoke one word.

"Obey."

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  • 2 weeks later...

Commander Vondra was not what Nathan had expected in a leader. 

Oh, now that he'd had a chance to hear him talk and see how he ran things, Nathan had to admit that everything about him, from the clipped way he spoke to the way he carried himself—it all made sense. A human leader in a town full of Epics had to project an image of power, of self-assurance. Let that image crack for just a moment, and he'd be at the bottom of the Columbia River. Everything from his mannerisms to his clothing of choice made perfect sense for a man who had gotten a number of Epics under his control. 

It was just that Nathan still had trouble adjusting to the concept. 

"So, Sperry."  

Nathan sat up a little straighter, feeling like a kid in the principal's office and hoping he didn't look that way. Being addressed by his surname—rather than his first name, or shouts and whistles, or Traveler—felt so official. "Yes, sir?" 

"You already know why you're here, so let's get to it." Vondra pressed the record button on his device. "Tell me how you started traveling with Jade." 

Nathan looked down at his hands. Despite all the preparation he'd done for this moment, he found himself unsure of how to begin or just how many explanations he'd need to give for each part of his story. 

"Well, sir," he said at last, "how much do you know about Newcago Epics?" 

********* 

Vondra had begun sitting straight up, but that was over now. One elbow was propped on his desk; he rested his forehead in his hand, rubbing it as though he had a headache. Several times, he opened his mouth as if to speak, but closed it again. 

Nathan had told him the truth, the full truth, and nothing but the truth, and he still felt as though he should apologize. 

"'Throw a grenade this time, I want to make a salad,'' Vondra said at last. His hand fell to the desk, hitting it with a slap. "Sperry, is that a direct quote?" 

"Yes, sir." 

Another long moment passed in silence before Vondra finally turned his gaze from the wall clock ticking away the seconds and back to Nathan. 

"Well, did she?" 

"Did she…." 

Impatience edged its way into his tone, but Nathan didn't think he was the target. It seemed directed more at the story itself, at the details Vondra didn't—or couldn't—quite believe. "Did she turn shrapnel from Fortuity's grenade into a salad?" 

"No, sir. He never threw a grenade." 

Vondra grunted. "Can't say I blame him. Doubt I'd want to see what kind of oddball salad she'd come up with, either." 

Spoiler

So, the plan had been, after the destruction of Portland, have Funtimes face her fear and then take Nathan, Sam, Remington, and Revolution to The Dalles. This was just a random bit I'd thought of, for what might've happened if Nathan and Vondra met. Not quite as entertaining as Jade and Vondra playing Apples to Apples, but still. 

 

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The problem wasn’t just that they were all out of Coco Puffs. Independently of all the other strange things going down, Kokichi would’ve easily managed to rustle some up from wherever it was their stuff came from.

The problem was that the last place with any of that cereal was being turned into a castle of fruit loops by a woman who was funnier than they were.

Kokichi hadn’t thought it was possible. The idea of their absurdity being outdone, being forced to play the “straight man,” so to speak, in someone else’s joke— it just wasn’t done. They were the resident cuckoolander, not any... intruder! 

Her clothes were so sparkly. The dress alone made their hair look dull and their golden clips plain. And the sequins. Oh Calamity, the sequins. They were everywhere, falling onto the ground around her in waves. Glitter cascaded everywhere. She was quite possibly the awesomest person Kokichi had ever met.

And she’d just turned the last box of coco puffs into one of fruit loops.

”You!” they shouted and she turned, the motion sending sparkles everywhere. Bright pink lines shot out behind her, accenting the movement. 

“Yoo hoo!” she called, appearing next to Kokichi in a puff of rainbow. (1/?)

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Spoiler

Basically a novelization of a pony comic I made forever ago and sadly can't find now. 

Hannah didn't know too much about Epics, but even she knew this one was more than a little odd. 

He definitely dressed like one—that wasn't the issue. Black slacks, white jacket over a purple shirt. Black shoes, though she presumed that was only because white ones would have turned grey inside of an hour, given the way he'd eyed a pair. A purple cloak rippled in the wind, showing its golden underside; the same wind tugged his straight black hair away from his sharp cheekbones. Anyone who looked at Moral Guardian would run for their lives, probably screaming about Epics the whole way.

No, what set him apart from those within Hannah's limited frame of experience was the fact that he had saved her life. 

She zipped her jacket closed and pulled the sleeves down as far as they could go. It was new, stolen just that morning from an unguarded shop, and not nearly enough to shield her from the cold Alberta wind. She'd spied a better one, but Moral Guardian had yanked her out of the shop the moment a "mug marked with the stain of fetid iniquity" assaulted his senses. Hannah wasn't sure what kind of "iniquity" a family-oriented tourist shop would allow, but he'd found it offensive enough to cut their trip short. 

He stood on a small bluff overlooking the fire that still raged. It was mostly smoke she could see, pouring out the windows and climbing toward the sky. She would have thought the wind would pull all that smoke toward them—and it did—but she smelled little of it. She wasn't quite sure which Epic power might protect them from that sort of thing, but she was grateful for it. 

"Look," Moral Guardian said. Storms, he sounded creepy when his voice got all low and intense like that. "Watch as the fire of cleansing righteousness devours the house of iniquity. Stand back, child, lest the flames consume thee." 

He really likes that word, Hannah thought. Since it was wise to never disobey an Epic, she took a few steps back—never mind that she couldn't feel the heat from where she'd stood before and she couldn't feel it now. Moral Guardian closed his eyes, breathing deep of what smoke his unseen shield allowed through. 

He'd saved her life. Killed that other Epic the moment his hand wrapped around her wrist, made it so he died with that leer on his lips. Sure, Moral Guardian had gasped and covered her eyes when he saw the other Epic's old and faded T-shirt read Oregon is for Lovers, but he'd kept her alive and found her a jacket. Maybe he'd allow a question. 

"M…" How was she supposed to address him? "Mister Guardian?" 

Moral Guardian didn't answer, but he didn't lash out at her, either. Hannah plunged ahead. 

"Can I ask…why did you burn the art museum? Why not a prison, or one of the bars downtown?" 

He inhaled more deeply this time, and for a few seconds Hannah thought she might have pushed too far. Questioned him too much. Sounded too disapproving. But he opened his eyes, regarding his masterwork. 

"The museum had nudes.

Edited by TwiLyghtSansSparkles
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  • 1 month later...

One day, Kokichi and Doctor Funtimes met up. Calamity was too busy to notice. A week later, he glanced down at what they had done. He promptly burned the world, making sure there was absolutely no remnant of it anywhere and restarting from the beginning.

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38 minutes ago, Kidpen said:

One day, Kokichi and Doctor Funtimes met up. Calamity was too busy to notice. A week later, he glanced down at what they had done. He promptly burned the world, making sure there was absolutely no remnant of it anywhere and restarting from the beginning.

And they all didn't live happily ever after. The End.

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  • 2 months later...

"Quietus, we need to talk."

Epoch looked impatient. He usually did, which was darkly amusing, considering his power. Calamity had a good sense of humor.

"Yes?"

"The grocery store."

"What? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"The grocery store down the street. I can hear the screaming all the way over here."

"Screaming does not always mean I had something to do with it."

"Plus, I can see what you did to them."

"I'm sure there are lots of epics that would tie civilians up with their own tendons."

"...and the store just exploded."

"That sounds like a you problem."

Epoch glared at him. "Why?"

"Some jerk took the last box of coco puffs."

"What?"

"It was a vile act of rebellion against our rule."

"If you keep on doing this, there will be consequences."

"See, that's what I told them."

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  • 1 month later...
Spoiler

Recently, in the Question thread, the discussion turned to what Nathan's powers would be, if he were to become an Epic. One suggestion, from Kobold, was precognition. Several versions of precog!Nathan developed—the utterly ridiculous Lunchseer, the current Nathan who is given Fortuity's powerset after Calamity leaves, and….this guy. 

Traveler's duster was no more. 

It wasn't a difficult thing to notice. In the short time Lightwards had known the simpering vanilla, the man's duster had always caught his eye. That was likely intentional, as most Epics included some sort of statement piece meant to draw attention. Lucentia had her diamonds, Funtimes her glitter. Only the most powerful Epics, the strongest and most fear-inspiring, selected clothing similar to what a vanilla might wear. Steelheart, from all Lightwards had heard, wore clothes any vanilla might select, adding only a cape as his mark of divinity; and Möbius eschewed such designations altogether, but as an ordinary man masquerading among his betters, Traveler had never, to Lightwards' memory, shed that coat. Without it, the world might have seen him for what he was: a desperate vanilla putting on airs in hopes he might not receive the treatment demanded by his true station. 

Were Lightwards more inclined toward pity, he might have spared some for him. 

But today, the duster was gone, as were the pinstriped suit and shocking green tie. That was not to say he wore clothes befitting someone of his stature—no, that lesson had still eluded him. He sat at a table in brown woolen slacks and a dark double-breasted coat, and from where Lightwards stood he could just make out faint grey pinstripes on the soft maroon of an Oxford shirt. As he stared, however, a more pressing matter became apparent. 

Traveler was alone. 

Funtimes wasn't gone; Lightwards had spied her just that morning, if only in passing. But she wasn't there. The Funtimes he knew had never strayed more than a few yards from her most beloved pet, yet here that pet sat unsupervised, lacking any sort of visible leash or chain. That lack of coddling ought to have left him twitching his feet and glancing over his shoulder for the merest sign of an Epic, but Traveler sat at a stone table, calmly plucking cards from a deck and laying them out before him. 

Lightwards had half a mind to shoot him where he sat. As tantalizing as the thought of his blood on the forest floor, of his eyes reflecting the obedient vacuity of a proper Warrior, might be, the thought of Funtimes in a screaming rage was less so. 

"Here to have your fortune read, Lightwards?" 

His voice caused first a jump, and then a chill—the jump due to the silence preceding it; the chill because of the tone his voice carried. 

No. This was Traveler. A vanilla whose life would be vastly improved by an induction into the Army of Light—more so than others. Lightwards drew a breath as fear turned to anger, and drew closer. Funtimes had sent him here. Funtimes had given him a new suit, a new persona, and instructed him to sit within the jungle endlessly shuffling and reshuffling….

"Are those tarot cards?" 

Now Traveler looked up. His face betrayed none of the simmering terror he preferred to the man's false bravado. No, something else had stretched itself across his freckled features, made itself at home in his eyes. 

Fury. Contained and controlled within a tight smile, but present all the same. 

"So you do know what they are. And here I thought we'd have to spend some time playing catch-up." 

"Everyone knows what they are, Traveler. Only the truly brilliant know them as the pursuit of feeble-minded idiots who belong to mankind's primitive past."

"And you expect me to believe that means you.

Lightwards folded his arms, resisting the urge to reach for his pistol. Later, he told himself. Later, when he could savor the moment. "At least I have the good sense not to blatantly antagonize my superiors." 

He'd expected that remark to send his smile plummeting and the ruse to shambles, but Traveler smirked instead. 

"Your superiors. Funny you should say that." 

"I was referring to your superiors, Traveler." 

"I don't see any of them right now." 

Those words, their tone, that infernal smirk—before Lightwards could identify a conscious thought triggering the action, his pistol was in hand, barrel aimed directly at Traveler's forehead. His hammering heart demanded he pull it now, raise the idiot as a Warrior with some modicum of sense, but only the deepest seed of anger held him back. Wait, it said. Wait. Make it count. Make it something to savor. 

The vanilla's raised eyebrow set Lightwards' finger on the trigger. 

"You want to shoot me, go ahead. It's been a slow morning. Just get my name right, will you?" 

His finger itched to pull the trigger. His ears ached for the sound of gunfire, if it signaled an end to this infuriating man's current existence. But something within him held him back, some instinct or foreknowledge or….

No. 

No. Not instinct. Memory. 

A young woman, flannel shirt and hiking boots, brown curls loose beside her cheeks. "You want to shoot me, Lightwards? Do it. It's been a boring day." 

Lightwards clenched his jaw, willing his thoughts to still. Traveler wasn't Möbius. She would have had him sobbing for mercy in a pocket universe before he could blink. But the way he said it, the look on his face…Lightwards had seen it before his death. 

One of them, anyway. 

"All right, Traveler," he said, holstering his pistol with no small reluctance. "I'll play along. What is your name?" 

"Alastair." 

Lightwards managed a small laugh. "A big name, for such a small man. Those parents of yours taught you to put on airs right from the cradle, did they?" 

Traveler's smile became patient. "It's not that kind of name." 

The chill returned, and it took every ounce of will Lightwards possessed to drive it back. "Funtimes thought her pet needed a new title, did she?" 

That fury behind his eyes had never dimmed, but now it sparked as, with a motion far quicker than he ought to have possessed, Traveler swept up the cards on the table and shuffled them. "I was never her pet. She's helped me see that. Never some thing she dragged around. Not like those Warriors of yours—no. You don't wait for your Warriors to blossom into something new and powerful, do you?" 

Lightwards could scarcely breathe through the hot rage filling his lungs, but he managed to signal one of his raptors. The creature surged forward, working towards a run, mouth open for the kill—

BANG. 

—and there was Traveler, still seated, back to the raptor, revolver in the air and arm twisted behind him. The raptor screeched, blood pouring from its mouth. Traveler leapt to his feet, his motions far quicker than they'd any right to be. 

BANG. BANG. 

The raptor wasn't quite dead, but the twitching of its limbs left no question that it soon would be, the bullets having shredded its innards, doing far more damage than a shot to the hide could have. Lightwards could raise it easily, but for the moment, that was the furthest thing from his mind. Thought was the furthest thing from his mind. 

Traveler—Alastair—holstered his pistol and resumed his seat. Back went the cards into his hands, whirring softly as he shuffled them. 

"Now," Alastair said, as calmly as someone naming the time of day, "the first thing you learn about tarot is that the cards don't mean what you think. The Fool isn't meant to insult your intelligence, but to signal the new. The Tower doesn't signal protection, but chaos." 

This was a prank. Any moment Funtimes would leap from behind a tree and laugh at her own joke, take credit for those impossible shots Alastair had taken. There was no ready explanation for his sudden fluidity of motion, but there was an explanation. There had to be. 

"I'm simplifying, of course. Tarot is a complex art, and if I'm being honest, it's not one of those things that's come naturally for me. Not like those shots I made, at any rate." 

Aldo. Aldo was responsible for this. Lightwards didn't know how, or why, or to what end, but this was Aldo's doing. An Epic was behind this, an Epic whose name was not Alastair. 

"Death, though—that's one of the more misunderstood cards in the deck. You draw it, you think oh, sparks, this means I'm going to die. But its meaning is more nuanced. Simply put, Death heralds change." 

Alastair caught Lightwards' gaze, and his smile widened. It wasn't a grin, nothing like that. But the pleasure, the anticipation behind it made Lightwards want to pull his pistol free and fire. The raptor lying dead on the forest floor kept him from that course. 

"Unfortunately," Alastair said, presenting a card with a small flourish, "in your case, the meaning of this card is literal." 

Lightwards looked at the card without seeing. He knew what it said; Alastair had told him as much. It took a moment for anger to melt through the lump of fear in his throat. 

"I'm the Master of Death," he snapped. "I can't be killed." 

"No," Alastair said. Lightwards knew what his motions signaled even before his pistol rested in his hand. "But you can die." 

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5c44e8b8da5a4_DarkroseIcon.png.1c97899fddab7698011cc3147e8cf8f7.png

 

Darkrose was not the hero of her own story.

She'd been making good ground for several days now. The dead, smoky trees were all a gray blur to her now, and there weren't any old highway signs this far out into the wastelands. But even so she was certain she was going in the right direction. Backtrack's directions had been as precise as they had been shrill.

Black roses would sprout out of the ground just in front of her, supporting her with a strength they shouldn't realistically have and carrying her slightly further towards her goal. There was a wrongness to the way they sprouted up like that, popping out of dead earth or barren asphalt with identical ease. She wasn't really fond of the way they grew, either. Too fast for real plants, they looked like old timelapse videos with the way they'd mature from seedlings to impossibly tall vines in the span of seconds. She knew they had to violate every possible law of physics and biology because of the way they'd collapse into dust as soon as she moved far enough away from them. That trail of dust extended for miles, stretching all the way back to what used to be Portland.

So she had to be almost there. Just a few more miles of desolate Oregon and she'd have reached the tiny little village that dared to have survived. Just a few more and she would make them take a good, long look at all the unnatural wrongness that swirled around her.

Because she was not the hero of her own story, nor of anyone's. She was under no illusions. She didn't pretend that there was some noble reason to be doing what she was about to do. She knew it was evil, and that made it worse. At least the liars thought that they were trying to do the right thing. They weren't, and they were crooked maniacs, but at least they remembered what morality looked like. Not like her. She was trash. Just, absolute garbage. No redeeming qualities. No conscience. No buried screams hidden under all the corruption. Just a slontze who desperately needed a bullet in her head.

Still.

As much as knowing all that about herself should depress her... it didn't.

She was about to do the most evil thing she'd ever done. And there was a grin on her face, because the High Epic Darkrose was really looking forward to it.

 

Sam.gif.579646810f58b6f7a43ce405b020d513.gif

 

None of them knew what to say.

It was Nathan who put up a try first. With a hesitant hand on Sam's shoulder he told her he was so, so sorry about what had happened. Distantly she was aware of his voice asking if there was anything at all he could do.

He knew there wasn't. She knew it. These words had the air of something that had been rehearsed—no, not rehearsed. Said before. He'd comforted, or done his best to comfort, friends in this situation before. At least, he clearly thought he had.

Revolution was next. She was clearly less experienced than Nathan was. Her face was a strained look of struggling sorrow, as she rambled, unusually for the well-spoken woman, about how things might look like the end, but that she wasn't alone. She had friends who were there for her. That she could find a new path for her life. That she could blah blah blah.

Sam wanted to scream at her. My Mom is dead. If you don't know what to say, if you don't know what this MEANS, then you need to SHUT YOUR MOUTH RIGHT NOW.

But she didn't, because that would be wrong. Revolution just wanted to help her friend in the only way she knew how. And though it didn't work, she was grateful for it. Even if she privately shouted that she should turn around and run away right this moment.

Finally Remington Springfield. He didn't even say a word, but somehow what he said meant the most. It was just a nod. A solemn look in his eyes.

He knew.

Oh, he didn't know everything. But he knew that she'd lost the most important person in her life, and he knew what that felt like. He knew that she felt like a part of her had just wilted up and died. He knew that her life would never be the same, and there wasn't a single damnation word in the English language that could make it any better.

The only thing he didn't know was the name of the Epic who'd murdered her. She wondered how much that knowledge would change the look in his eyes.

"Clearly the work of an Epic."

Lightwards' voice was the last thing she needed to hear right now, but there it was. He stood amid the dusty ruins of the suburb, that perpetual glower on his face as he spoke. No quips sprung to Sam's mind; she wasn't really in the mood to even acknowledge the fact that he existed. But his scowl found her all the same, and she knew exactly why.

"Somehow, someway, a new Epic has blundered their way into the path of the Empire of Light," the self-proclaimed Emperor went on, the sour look on his face bleeding into his voice. "They have destroyed my buildings and buried my bodies. If anyone knows anything about this, I would advise them to pipe up now."

Liar. Not a single damnation thing in this city belonged to him. Even the clothes on his back were stolen.

"...no one?" Lightwards asked again, grinding his jaw in frustration.

For the first time Funtimes piped up. "How would they know anything? They were with me all night."

It was an unusually lucid sentence from her. She'd been as bubbly as ever this morning, and the carnage here in the suburb had done nothing to diminish it. It was only when she'd seen Sam's troubled face that a more concerning expression had overtaken her own, and she'd gone skipping off amid the rubble to make pretty faces out of all the leftovers of someone's house. Acting like an oblivious little girl to pretend she hadn't felt anything from the look on Sam's face.

Liar. Whatever was going on in the mind of Doctor Funtimes, it wasn't all unicorns and sparkles. Even the sparkles these days were getting fewer and farther between.

Lightwards' eyes narrowed. "Are you certain about that?"

"Pfft. Obviously," Funtimes retorted. "My house is the best! I make dresses and pancakes! Why would they want to be anywhere else?"

Sam swallowed. She held back tears through power of will. Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands.

"...she's right," Sam said with considerable difficulty. "I've never been here before in my life."

LIAR.

She'd managed to sneak out at the meeting last night. Right under Funtimes, Lightwards, and even Altermind's noses. She'd even managed to make it all the way out here in this suburb, in a bold, even heroic move to get her mother and ditch this city once and for all.

She... remembered that much, at least. Then it all turned into a blur.

Warriors. Dead bodies raised up and willed to hold Mom at gunpoint every moment of every day.

Anger. She'd felt angrier than she'd ever felt in her entire life, which was saying a lot.

Light. Red light. Red light crashing down on her, shining so brightly her eyes burned and her soul burst like an eggshell.

And after that, she'd woken up. Surrounded by dust. Dust and blood and roses. With difficulty she'd made it back to the rest of her fellow humans. There... hadn't been anywhere else to go, after all. At least they'd welcomed her back with worried open arms. They hadn't pieced together the whole story, or at least, she hoped they hadn't. But they knew that the Epic Sam most hated in the whole world had murdered her Mom in cold blood.

"Hmmph." Lightwards again managed to sound like the most petulant man-child to ever hold the powers of a demigod. "Well... if that story changes, you all know where to find me. And I expect to be told the truth."

Again he was glaring at her! What right did he have to look that angry? As though it was a personal slap in the face that some other Epic had murdered his pathetic bargaining chip!

But for once in her life Sam kept her mouth shut. Furiously she watched him stride away to discuss something with his lieutenants. He didn't know, not really. He wouldn't have the spine to turn his back on her if he knew. He was probably thinking Funtimes had made some secret alliance with one of his enemies behind his back.

Sam's fists were clenched as tightly as she could manage. So tightly her fingernails dug into her palms and drew blood. The blood dripped down to hit the dust, mixing with the other scattered remnants of the whole world she used to know. With the broken furniture, the broken woman torn in two in what was once a kitchen, and the broken picture frame from long ago. The father, mother, and older sister in the photo were all gone now, weren't they? Only the little girl was still around. As much as it would be better if she wasn't.

She clenched her eyes shut, and her bloodied palms began to suture themselves whole again.

 

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After a while the trees had started to be green again. Up here in the far reaches of Oregon the turf wars hadn't yet torn everything up, given there were so few people that Epics had never really materialized. You could grow up in these hills and never see one.

You could even grow up into a flaky naive moron who thought Epics were some kind of angelic test for humanity. If you were a particular idiot you might even have the audacity to say the evil ones, which were all of them, were the ones who'd failed the test. And that the good ones—which didn't exist—were the ones who had passed and were supposed to be guiding everybody else out of the dark or some sparking lunacy like that.

You know, theoretically. Not to point fingers or anything.

She was so sparking glad when she finally spotted a vanilla.

He was a lanky specimen. Young, probably as naive as any of them, with long unkempt hair and an even longer sleeved knit sweater. He didn't even seem to notice her coming, engrossed in plucking herbs from the side of the forest trail.

His eyes went as wide as saucers as thorny black flowers started to spring up like weeds amid the herbs he was picking, but they had grown twice his height and surrounded him by the time he had the common sense to try to get away.

Darkrose let her flowers carry her in a gliding motion to the ground beside him, their thorns digging into her body in a way she'd long since learned how to shrug off. She looked him in those terrified eyes and grinned.

"Hey!" she said cheerfully. "I'm looking for the farm where hippies come from. You look like you know where it is."

He was trembling, looking like any moment he might make a break through the thorny vines around him to escape. She decided to nip that little idea in the bud by coiling her vines tightly around his legs, until they dug under his skin and hooked there. He let out the cry of a man who'd never felt real pain before, and Darkrose waited patiently for him to stop.

"I..." His voice was weak, but she gave a bored motion with her hand to let him know he should continue. Something about that simple gesture ignited some defiance in him, and his next words came more confident. "...I... I won't tell you anything. I won't sell out my home to you, Fallen One."

"Epic," Darkrose said flatly. "We're called Epics. Using a different name than literally everyone else on the continent doesn't make you wiser. It just makes you sound like a cult."

"We know what you are," he replied, smiling weakly. "You are the ones who failed the test. You are the ones who were given the chance to be great, but failed to use it wisely."

"Whatever. I'm not here to convince you fairies aren't real or whatever it is you believe." She crept her vines up his body, until they grasped his chin and forced his face down. "I'm here to argue with your leader. Can you point me in her direction? I'm an old friend."

Still he struggled against her, both with his body and with those defiant eyes. "Our leader would never associate with one of the Fallen Ones. She is everything you failed to be. Kind, and merciful, and-"

"Liar." One of her vines grabbed his shoulder, wrenching it painfully towards her. She used her hands to yank back the sleeve of his sweater, revealing the arm that lay beneath it.

He whimpered. She could see why.

There was a burn scar there—a carefully crafted one. Something extremely hot had seared away the skin and flesh exactly where it touched and nowhere else, specifically to leave a scar. That something was in the shape of a young woman's hand.

Darkrose whistled softly. "Wow. That's some great kindness and mercy you've going for you."

"She... she's only stern where she needs to be. It's to guide us, to make sure we don't stray from the path of-"

"Oh, for the love of—dude, you need to chill," Darkrose interrupted, rubbing her forehead. "I'm not gonna kill you because you didn't defend your Epic overlord. In fact, I kind of like it when I hear your kind badmouth them."

There was confusion on his face, mixed with a slight bit of hope at the phrase 'not gonna kill you.' She put her hand on his chin, leaning in close to continue.

"I'm gonna kill you 'cause I'm an Epic, and that's just what we do. Think of it as our way of saying hello."

He never made another expression beyond that look of pure fright etched into his every muscle. That was the moment she squeezed her vines around him until he burst.

She moved on quickly, letting his bloody remnants fall to fertilize the forest herbs. She followed the trail he'd been on, picking up speed and building in anticipation.

Revolution was close.

She could feel it.

 

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Sam had had nightmares for as long as she could remember. Any vanilla girl who lived in downtown Portland would, and she'd seen more than most. But she'd never had the kind the next couple of weeks brought with them.

She'd always be back in the kitchen with Mom. Sometimes she'd be the woman she was now, sometimes a little girl again. Memory and fantasy would blur in that way only dreams could.

"It helps to keep busy," Mom would explain, just as she had in the real world. "There's always going to be something to bother you, but if you keep your hands busy—set yourself a little goal and try your best to meet it—you won't even notice."

She'd stir with that sad smile. "Most of the time, at least. Will you bring out the cupcake moulds?"

Then it would break. Again, just like in the real world. Except here she was treated to a different calamity every night. Sometimes it would be Lightwards and his Warriors. Sometimes it would be Lucentia, sometimes with her brother by her side. Sometimes it was Altermind and his soldiers and sometimes it was CorpseMaker and his Epics and sometimes it was Funtimes with too wide of a smile stretched across her lips.

But they'd all end the same way.

Blood. A broken body sprawled out on the floor. Chest torn straight through the middle.

There was no other way it could end. No matter what she did. How she cried out, how she tried to warn her, no matter how she tried to fight back, she would always be gone in the end. And she'd stay gone. That was the worst thing. Every time she woke up she returned to a world where Mom was gone, where that house would never again be a warm home waiting for amid all the chaos and tension of the city outside, where she was alone.

At random times through the day the thought of cupcakes would make her want to curl up and cry. Funtimes had mercifully started leaving them in the cottage more often, leaving her with plenty of time to do just that. To look around, make sure the others were all in the fenced in courtyard or similarly out of hearing, and then quietly sob her eyes out.

Stupid sparking cupcakes. It was like they were all she could think about. Covered in icing, cooked to moist perfection all the way through, made with only the garbage ingredients a Portlander could acquire but somehow made beautiful and exquisite anyway.

Because it helped to keep busy. Because that was the way she'd hide from all the troubles. Before her daughter couldn't keep her sparking mouth shut and brought the troubles right into her kitchen.

Stupid sparking cupcakes! They were even in her dreams now! After the end, after the gore, after the nightmare had hit its grisly climax, there would always be one sitting on the table, flecked with blood, mocking her for still being there even after everyone else was gone.

Sleeping brought nightmares. Being awake was a nightmare.

Why couldn't it just end?

It wasn't as though she hadn't thought about it. At length, even. There were so many ways a girl could end in this city. There were guns lying around for anyone to pick up. There were knives. She could even use an Epic for the job. Just walk up to Lightwards, or to Lucentia, or any other Epic she had access to and punch them right in the face. Funtimes or no Funtimes, that would have to do the job, right?

Except it wouldn't work. She was now very certain of that. Every bump or scratch she picked up around the cottage would be gone by the time she so much as glanced down at it. There'd only be the trailing expression of something like a black petal slipping back under her skin, and she'd be flawless and whole again. In those brief moments she could feel it itching inside of her, wanting out. She could feel her grief flash into anger and her anger into hate. It was those brief moments that were making her more afraid of living than she was of dying.

But there was nothing she could do. Nothing but curl up on her garish bed and cry her eyes out, a confused dog her only comfort.

Until one night, when Revolution heard her.

"...Sam?"

She stopped immediately, stiff, embarrassed and somehow angry. She tried to wipe away the tears, but the other woman was already in the dark bedroom, her face already scrunched up in concern. She'd already seen.

"Listen," Revolution said softly. "If you tell me to get out, I'll go. I'll leave you be. But..."

There was a kindness to her voice. One almost no one had ever had with her. Certainly not Dad, in the end.

"...if you don't want to be alone, I'm here."

There was no stopping the next wretched sob, or the next. But this time a dismayed but earnest Revolution was drawing close, hand on her shoulder, simply quietly letting her cry it out with a warm presence beside her.

That was the night Revolution Sunburst Jones became more than just a friendly face to spout quips at. That was the night she became, without hesitation or ambiguity, Sam's best friend.

It was also the night that in years to come she would identify as the fatal mistake of Samantha Trattner.

"I..."

Her quivering voice stammered out through the sobs.

"...I'm an Epic."

 

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"Oh no, it's one of the Fallen Ones!" Darkrose grinned at the scattered vanillas, who gazed back at her with stunned, terrified eyes. "...that's what one of you was about to say, right?"

Apparently what they were really about to say was a bunch of screams, as they went scattering and running for cover as quickly as she could. Their charmingly quaint little mud-village was suddenly a shrieking frenzy of chaos. Chores were abandoned. Buckets were dropped. Children were hastily scooped up in terrified mothers' arms.

But no one was getting very far. Her roses could sprout out of even the hardest of substances, but good old fashioned dirt made it easier than ever. She was grabbing them with ease, walling off their avenues of escape and slaughtering them faster than they could even move their feet.

At least, it started that way.

A bolt of pure sunlight came careening out of the trees, striking the ground in front of her with a sound that made the deepest of thunderclaps sound silent. The earth shook, the ground just in front of Darkrose melting into a pool of red hot lava.

Darkrose recoiled from the heat, her nearby flowers catching fire and burning swiftly away as though made of matchsticks. But the smile never left her face. If anything, it got wider.

She snapped her eyes up, as did everyone in this dirty little village. A figure walked out of the treeline. The figure stood tall and proud, wearing a vivid red sarong that would have been out of place anywhere but a beach in a world without supervillains. On her wrists were countless little bracelets of the kind artsy folk would sell on the Internet back before Calamity.

And that face. Determinedly calm and serene, even as her hands glowed with the might of the sun.

Darkrose's best friend.

The High Epic Sunburst stared at her coolly, not with rage, not with hate, but with a look that shouted almost of disappointment. Darkrose's smile faded.

"Samantha," said Sunburst. "Stop."

Edited by Kobold King
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A collaborative piece.

Part 1 of 2.

Blue text written by @TwiLyghtSansSparkles. Green text written by @Kobold King.

Set in a darker universe.

 

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****

 

Alastair stepped onto the street, and a hundred futures swam in his mind.

They were there by choice, of course. Prior to his awakening, he’d assumed the overwhelming presence of futures, of potential futures and their many permutations, was what drove precogs from sanity. The burden of that sight, he’d thought, would send anyone as far from human thought, human behavior, as it was possible to go.

He smiled. Looking back on those naive days was like revisiting the period of his childhood when he’d thought hot dogs were named for the animal from which they were formed. Almost as laughable as the notion that Epic powers were a burden.

They were a gift.

Portland had not fared well under nearly a decade of Epic rule passing from hand to hand, but a battle never helped matters. He wished he recalled the moment when the simmering tensions came to a boil, when they bubbled over and scalded anyone in their path, but all he had were snatches. Red light. A scream here. A shout there. The thud of a body hitting the floor. A small voice at the back of his mind whispered that he ought to feel something from these thoughts--some sense of remorse, perhaps. People had died, people he couldn’t recall. Perhaps they were people he’d known--

Alastair turned his attention to the futures in his mind, and the voice fell silent.

CorpseMaker was still within the city, or what remained of it. That name didn’t bring the rush of fury Lightwards’ name had (or still did, if he reminisced about those days spent under his boot). But it did bring anger. There he was, another Epic who thought he might escape justice. An Epic who had held Alastair in terror for little purpose but his own gratification.

Alastair breathed the smoke-filled air, fingers brushing his revolver. He’d reloaded on his way down from the Museum of Natural Awesomeness, but if his predictions served, he wouldn’t need more than a round or two.

And his predictions did serve. They served quite well.

******

Darkrose hadn't been to this part of Portland since she was a little girl. It had seemed bigger then.

The streets were a whirl of chaos and confusion, men with guns retreating desperately before a horde of horrors painted in every stripe of horrible there was. Robots would go screaming across the sky, heavy weapons blazing. Dinosaurs were on the rampage, having gotten suddenly and inexplicably even wilder than normal at some point in the battle. Every now and again an Epic could be seen hurtling down the street, leaving carnage in their wake.

Darkrose did her best to rise above it. The asphalt underneath her cracked and disintegrated into dust, opening space for her twisting vines to sprout up ahead of her and carry her forward. Impossibly strong they hefted her far above the chaos, allowing her to traverse the streets quickly and as though the hectic frenzy below her were nothing. It was sort of like a giant pair of stilts, except she could use the lower parts to grab and rip people apart when they got too close or tried to shout some kind of challenge at her.

If she'd ever put much thought into Epic powers beyond how much their wielders sucked, she might have thought they took more getting used to than they did. She'd even had a little bit of trepidation about rising herself up this high. But as it turned out, powers like this came as naturally to her as breathing or sarcasm.

The only real downside to her current locomotion was that she'd left a pretty obvious trail behind her from the direction of Thoughttown, which on a strategic level probably wasn't the best thing in the world since the slontzes with the Dominion would think she was on the other side. She wasn't really used to thinking that way—Epics were the ones who thought about how they could outwit their enemies. Vanillas thought about how to stay the sparks out of the way.

Not that that had ever worked out for her.

Right now she just hoped none of them made it difficult to get to where she wanted to be. As satisfying as it might be to dismember every single Epic she ran into—to pick them up, to shake them to pieces, to shout "Look at me! I'm not afraid of you! I'm worse than you!"--she really didn't have the time for that. There were just so sparking many Epics in this city, and it seemed like half of them had the convoluted sort of powers that made fights take forever.

'Cause obviously she wasn't invincible. Only lunatics thought they were.

She was just really good at killing people. She'd proven it quite a few times now. And as she saw the bank her goal was holed up in looming in the distance, she found herself... excited. Just as excited as she'd been striding into Thoughttown, and eager for the satisfaction she'd felt when she'd walked out. She progressively lowered her vines until she was almost walking on street level in her steady march for the prize.

Years ago her father had taken her to this bank. Not as a daughter. As a piece of cannon fodder in his fight to take the city. It had been a scene that replayed in her darkest dreams for years, at least until the new nightmares came.

Her father had failed, CorpseMaker making short work out of him. But maybe it was time for another Trattner Epic to give it a go.

After all...

What was more fitting for a new Epic than an old grudge?

******

Alastair’s progress toward the bank was slower than he would have liked.

That was to be expected, in the midst of a battle on this scale, but that didn’t make the reality any less irksome. Take two steps, wait for the mecha to pass. Take three forward, one back and one to the side to avoid the foot of a Tyrannosaurus before it crushed him. Had he more time, he might have found it interesting to observe the dinosaurs that still rampaged throughout the city. Lightwards wasn’t dead, not in the traditional sense, but the sheer number of deaths Alastair had subjected him to had left him in no condition to run an electric toothbrush, let alone an Empire. It would be interesting to see how his resurrected goons fared under that.

Unfortunately, Alastair spent more time dodging the dinosaurs than he could observing them, and when he did steal a glance or two, their behavior seemed little different from what he’d seen under less extraordinary circumstances. Perhaps they rejoiced at being set free from Lightwards’ control; perhaps he’d never had much control over them in the first place. Whatever the case, it made Alastair’s approach a good deal more frustrating than it ought to have been.

Finally, finally, the bank was in sight. The taste of vengeance wasn’t quite as strong as it had been with Lightwards. Alastair knew even then that he would not relive this encounter the way he would relive the one with Lightwards, that he would not relish the moment of CorpseMaker’s death the way he already relished the necromancer’s descent into madness. But he would relish it. He smiled already at the thought of holding it close at some date in a future he could not quite see.

Speaking of….

Alastair pressed his back against a nearby building--more ruin than building now, though the lone intact wall still provided a small measure of cover--and scanned the future.

A pterodactyl circling above, sighting prey a street or two over. Little threat to him, unless he lingered too long on the decaying asphalt.

A mecha, clattering onto the street he needed to cross only to turn and go the other way seconds later. An omen if Alastair had ever seen one.

An Epic approaching from the east, carried on vines that sprouted heedless of asphalt or concrete, soaring feet above the road they ruined.

Alastair paused to consider this future a moment. Not because of her powers, incredible though they were. Not because of her face, lit with the anticipation of vengeance. No, it was the face itself that gave him pause.

He knew that face.

****

In theory, Darkrose knew about every Epic in the Dominion. She'd sat in at the most elite, highly classified meetings in all Portland, listening to Lightwards and Altermind coolly and methodically listing out every one of their enemies and all their known strengths and weaknesses. More so than any late player to the game, she had access to all the information she could possibly need.

In practice... she hadn't actually done that. She'd mostly spent those meetings scribbling jokes about Lightwards' hat and the ridiculously buff OC that Altermind had insisted was his real body, and had actively done her best to ignore what the Epics were talking about. She almost felt a bit of regret about that. As far as anyone could regret opting out of one of Lightwards' long-winded lectures about how smart he was.

So really, as far as she knew, CorpseMaker could have anyone secretly guarding the bank entrance. She hesitated. This had been too easy so far, even for a toppled Epic on his last legs. There had to be something waiting around the corner, or behind that wall. But what?

Then she had one of those little moments where you kicked yourself for being stupid, like when you panicked that you'd lost your house key when it was right in your hand. She actually snorted, amused.

She was an Epic.

She decided to use her roses to tear down the wall and every other obstruction in sight.

****

Precognition or not, Alastair was still a lone Epic in CorpseMaker’s territory. Still in danger from the moment he’d set foot outside the Empire--although with the Empire now defunct and the city crumbling before his eyes, the rules regarding territory were only as good as the Epics who still cared to enforce them.

It seemed many of CorpseMaker’s Epics were off defending what remained of said territory, in whatever ways they could--hence the clashing of metal punctuated by prehistoric shrieks. CorpseMaker’s defenses had been reduced as a result, although most people would not call a gaze that killed in seconds reduced defenses.

But then, most people couldn’t see what Alastair could.

A sharp buzzing at the back of his skull pulled him from his analysis of defenses.

Danger sense--one of Calamity’s first and most useful gifts to him. When he thought back to the snatches of memory he still struggled to recover, that buzz permeated every fractured moment. Danger. Danger in front. Danger behind. Danger above and danger below. Focus on the danger. Deal with the danger until it is no more.

The warning was lessened now, but no less dire--and it warned of a threat from behind. Without pausing to see what form that hazard took, Alastair leaned forward, removing his weight from the doomed wall. The simplest move would have been to duck and roll and run a few paces, and under ordinary circumstances he would have done so.

But these circumstances demanded more.

Vines covered in thorns and roses alike shot forward just as Alastair’s jump propelled him onto the half-crumbled wall of the adjacent building. His foot struck, allowing him to bound upward, into the air. From there, he could land safely, both feet atop the uneven wall and balanced as though he stood on solid ground.

The small somersault he took in midair wasn’t strictly necessary, but introductions between Epics were a time for theatrics.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly once the noise had settled. There were a number of ways he could ask the needed question, but the one he landed on seemed the most polite. “You can call me Alastair. And what should I call you?”

*****

Nathan?

Her mind was reeling. It was obviously him—she'd lived with him for a couple of weeks now. She'd know him anywhere.

He was her friend Nathan. Good guy Nathan. Nathan who'd been introduced to her as a maniacal Epic. Nathan who'd been a normal guy forced to date a real maniacal Epic. Nathan who'd looked like he might cry like a pathetic child when he'd been punched in the stomach by a real Epic. Nathan who'd laughed at her jokes. Nathan who'd made her laugh with his own. Nathan who'd helped her negotiate Funtimes. Nathan, one of the only human beings in the world she felt like she could trust.

Nice, wimpy, quiet, breakable Nathan.

Nathan had just somersaulted up the side of a collapsing wall. He'd also foregone his Traveler coat and was rocking a brand new coat and a faintly striped maroon shirt. And his face wasn't meek and terrified at all. He was half smirking, and introducing himself with what she could only assume was some kind of French name.

And he asked her name.

It was such a shocking intrusion of normalcy—or the faux-normalcy that had become her life—that she almost answered with the oldest name in her head. Sam. Somehow that made her feel angry.

"...Darkrose," she said, her face an imperious mask. She'd seen Lucentia make this face enough to replicate it pretty easily. "I am called Darkrose now. And I..."

Nathan. Weird French name. Somersaulted up a wall. Smiling like he wasn't the most ridiculous, dorky, fragile little man she'd ever seen. It was all too much, especially after this rollercoaster of a day.

She snorted. And then she snickered. And before she knew it, she was actually holding her side and struggling to hold in a laugh. "...okay, okay, hold up. Hold up. How... the sparks did she pull it off this time? Did she put springs in your shoes? Is it in the new coat? You can tell me. I'm not even mad, really."

She was barely even thinking about killing him.

****

Foresight brought with it an odd sort of dualism.

Most people, vanillas and Epics alike, were unable to see what he saw as clearly as the world around him. There were moments when this knowledge brought a thrill, a savage sort of glee. He knew what was coming. He knew what would happen. Life was a book, and he was a chapter ahead. He’d felt that thrill while confronting Lightwards, and he could still feel it now, warming him from within.

But there were other moments, other times, when the lack of knowledge carried by the rest of the world brought a lack of patience. The future barreled towards them with all the subtlety of a runaway car, and no one else seemed to notice. They ambled along, oblivious to reality--and if confronted with the truth, there was a chance they’d lash out toward the one attempting to guide them.

Alastair drew a breath, biting back a sharp reply. Sam--Darkrose--couldn’t know. She couldn’t see. She wandered the world in a blindfold, while he walked with sight intact. He had his visions, his sense to keep him safe. Aside from her newfound powers, Darkrose had nothing but snide remarks and biting sarcasm.

A small chuckle escaped his lips. Whatever Calamity had changed in her, it hadn’t touched her. She was Darkrose, and yet she was still the Sam he’d hunkered down in a garish cottage with. Still the Sam who had watched him double over as Lightwards’ fist collided; watched him stagger off to nurse his wound.

His smile had faded. He couldn’t help that, and so he didn’t try to replace it.

“Funtimes can do some incredible things,” he said, striding easily along the narrow wall, his feet finding grips in the uneven brick without trouble. “But don’t tell me you think a coat and some shoes can do what I just did?”

Alastair didn’t need to glance at her face to see that a part of her, perhaps a small part of her, still clung to the possibility. He looked anyway, and cracked a small but genuine smile. He’d have better luck convincing her if he met her gaze.

“Although I have to say, that’s a more creative guess than the one Lightwards came up with.”

*****

It couldn’t be.

It couldn’t possibly be.

Nathan wasn’t cool, he was nice. He wasn’t confident, he was terrified. Sometimes even more terrified than that Backtrack slontze. Who, she made a note to herself, still definitely needed to die.

Above all else that Nathan was, and wasn’t, he was not a man who would even say the name of an Epic without some slight lingering fear in his voice. So when he looked her in the eyes, despite how clearly dangerous she was, and walked towards her, despite how easily she could pick him up and snap that twig a neck, and when he smiled as though she weren’t the kind of monster he’d spent years of his life learning to keep his head down around…

...the only rational line of thinking was that this wasn’t Nathan at all.

This was Alastair. Or… whatever name he’d said. And the other half of that line of thinking, along with his admittedly wicked cool wall stunt, was that ripping his scrawny body apart probably wouldn’t be as easy as she’d assumed.

That made her furious. She grinned back at him. She wanted to tower over him and force him to kiss her boot. She instead lowered her roses still further, until she stood precisely at eye level and only a few feet away.

“Lightwards?”

She was a monster, true. But she was a monster who hated Lightwards.

“Was he the first one to see you like this?” The grin on her lips was genuine now. “On a scale between 1 and ‘Joyous Leprechaun,’ just how badly did that piss him off?”

****

Alastair couldn’t read minds.

He could guess, of course. Years spent learning to read the moods of his Epic masters had translated quite easily into a knack for reading vanillas as well. Sometimes he’d been wrong. Sometimes he’d mistaken shyness for a standoffish nature, or worry for anger. But in most cases, his guesses weren’t far off the mark.

With Darkrose, there was little need to guess.

Her grin was not one of glee, or even disbelief. No, he’d seen it before, as a lowly server seconds from a beating. He’d learned to avoid that grin or, barring that, brace for whatever pain his masters had in store for him. Learned to bear it, learned to work through it, learned to smile despite it when they wanted a servant full of cheer. But he hadn’t understood it back then, not fully, certainly not the way he did now.

It was the grin of one with power in the presence of the powerless. The glee of an angry god about to crush a wayward mortal purely for her own enjoyment.

Alastair wanted to shoot her in the heart. No--that wouldn’t be an appropriate display, nothing an ordinary sharpshooter couldn’t manage. He wanted to smile and lead her toward the raptors entangled with those mechas three blocks away, pull her into as best a trap he could devise, entangle himself only to escape with ease. He wanted to watch that grin fade to dismay, watch as understanding dawned too late.

Instead, he took a few more steps toward her along the ruined wall, his last step more of a small jump as he dodged a hole. Those roses were close--close enough to strangle, close enough to crush--but Alastair saw no fewer than fifteen methods of escape while Darkrose remained blind. The thought alone was enough to bring a small smile to his lips. To add to her frustration, he slipped both hands into his pockets, fingertips brushing the tarot deck hidden there.

“I wouldn’t say he’s pissed off. He was furious, sure, but that didn’t last.” Alastair shrugged. “Now he’s too busy babbling to the air to feel much of anything.”

******

She used to like Nathan's smile. He didn't show it often, but whenever he did it felt like such a welcome break from the fear and the tension that she couldn't help but grin back. If it weren't for him and Revolution she'd have never been able to keep her spirits up.

Now she wanted to pierce her thorns into his cheeks and peel his face away until he had nothing but that smarmy smile to keep him company. Why was he smirking at her like that? What did he know that she didn't? What even were his powers anyway?

"Lightwards is always babbling," she said, matter of fact. Still, she knew he got crazier when he died, and chose to focus on savoring the image of him getting loonier and loonier with every bloody end. It was more fun than being annoyed at Alastair's little smirk and cocky pose. "How many times did you have to off him before you could tell the difference?"

****

“I lost track after thirty.”

That wasn’t true. Thirty-seven. That number was burned into Alastair’s memory. Not every death had been due to gunfire, of course; he might have far fewer limits now than before, but the capacity of his revolver was the same as ever. He’d had to get creative a time or two, but that creativity had been less obligation than opportunity.

Sam. Snide, sardonic Sam, who wouldn’t have survived long working Newcago’s overstreets. Weeks prior, he would have assumed her to be just the sort to become an Epic, if only because her boldness left Calamity no other option to ensure her survival.

She was still there, little as Darkrose would have likely cared to admit it. Sam still reared her head in every quip, every jab toward his newfound power, even if those remarks were sharper than they might have been back in Funtimes’ cottage. The thought kept Alastair’s smile in place, kept his desire to make her suffer for her jabs as exactly that.

“Not every death was the same,” he went on. “And they did grow a bit repetitive and dull after a time, but there are a few I’m sure you’d like to know about.”

“But,” he said, stepping lightly off the wall and landing on the street, “I didn’t come here to discuss the past. Right now I’m more interested in the future.”

He drew his pistol, resisting the urge to cast a pointed glance in her direction. She hadn’t even asked what he could do, though his demonstration had provided a hint. She didn’t need to know his plans--unless, of course, she wanted to offer assistance.

****

He wasn't looking at her. He was even hopping down and acting like he was about to walk off as though he had better places to be.

She'd been trying to keep her mirth up. After all what was even the point of being an Epic if you were going to be outraged over everything? Lightwards and Lucentia hardly ever looked like they were enjoying themselves, always stiff and acting like they had steel rods rammed up somewhere uncomfortable. She'd thought they were ridiculous.

Now she kind of understood. Now that it was her turn to be the most important person in the world, being treated like an uninteresting diversion was sparking annoying.

"'I'm more interested in the future,'" she mimicked, making her voice as ridiculously pompous as it would go. "That's you. That's what you sound like right now. Being an Epic is one thing, but you don't have to be a cryptic slontze about it."

****

Alastair didn’t suppress his entire smile. Just the part that betrayed his depth of amusement.

Still the same old Sam. Of course, Sam had lacked the ability to tear down entire structures with deadly roses and she would have had the good sense to squelch some of her quips, but Alastair could just as easily picture that mocking imitation done by the vanilla he’d known.

“You didn’t ask a question,” he said, looking up toward the entrance to the bank. No one had entered or exited, and they wouldn’t for a few minutes. He had time. “I can’t be cryptic if there’s nothing you wanted to know in the first place.”

****

There were actually a lot of things she wanted to know.

When had he become an Epic? What were his powers? What about Revolution and Remington, were they still alive? Had he left anything up at the Museum of Natural Awesomeness for her to kill? What about Funtimes? Had he finally wiped the smile off that sparking lunatic's face?

"What the sparks does 'Alastair' mean?" she asked.

****

Alastair almost laughed. Of all the questions she could have asked, she’d chosen the one with the least pertinent answer.

“Aleister Crowley. The Wickedest Man in the World. I take it you’re not familiar?”

Alastair wasn’t either, if he were to be honest. His knowledge of the man was limited to a few scattered facts he’d stumbled across while pretending to research a school report prior to Calamity’s rise. But Darkrose didn’t need to know that.

****

Darkrose folded her arms, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“Neeeeever heard of him,” she said flatly. “Who’s he? Some bottom-of-the-bargain-bin Epic from Newcago? Did he hang out with Lord Snakehands?”

****

“Never mind,” Alastair said, giving the future another quick scan. There was time to field a few questions, though his fingers itched to send a bullet into CorpseMaker’s skull. Still, if that was the best question she had, he figured he’d need to give her a hint or two. “Suffice it to say, his methods of divination were a bit less….reliable than mine.”

****

Divination. That was telling the future, right? Was he a precog?

That might explain why he looked so impatient. She didn’t care for the idea that he was seeing things she couldn’t.

“Dramatic… pauses,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. “If you wanted me to ask you what powers you got you could have just said so.”

If he was a precog though, she could test for that. Maybe even see how those powers worked. She began to will a single solitary flower to pop up and bloom behind him, intending it to work its way up and surprise him with a tap on the shoulder.

And, if he just stood there and got surprised by it like an idiot, to pop his head off so she could keep moving.

****

A flower popped into the future.

Alastair saw it moments before it rose out of the ground. Just a single flower, thorns sprouting from its stem but, for the time being, no immediate danger. Still, having seen what Darkrose could do, he didn’t doubt she would impale him the moment she grew bored. The option that placed him in less danger was, sadly, the less impressive.

Without glancing behind, he took a few steps forward, placing him out of the flower’s immediate reach. He then turned round, gave it a pointed glance, and looked to Darkrose with a raised brow.

After continuing a few more paces, he stopped. “You’ll actually be able to surprise CorpseMaker with that trick,” he said. “In case you were worried it might go to waste.”

****

It hadn't even popped out of the ground before he'd gotten out of his path. Precog, then. Definitely a precog.

"...I don't want to surprise him," she said slowly, frowning. She stared straight ahead at the base, once but no longer the most feared building in Portland. The smile tugged at her lips again. "I want him to see what's coming but not be able to do anything about it. Just like Altermind."

And maybe you too, Nathan 'Alastair' Sperry. Haven't decided yet.

****

I don’t want to surprise him, either.

Those words were on his tongue, in his throat, but he didn’t voice them. She’d said it first; if he agreed, it might seem as if the plan was hers and he wouldn’t dare give her even that small measure of power.

“I want to see his face when he knows he’s been had,” Alastair said quietly. “He thinks he’s safe. I want to watch that crumble as reality sets in.”

He wouldn’t cherish CorpseMaker’s death the way he did Lightwards’. CorpseMaker, after all, had never dismissed him as a brave little body better off as a soulless Warrior. But he would enjoy watching the self-styled ruler’s last defense vanish before his once-deadly eyes.

****

Quiet. Sincere. Ah, there was Nathan. Just a bit more murder-y than ever before.

"You're honest about it. I like that." Her smiling gaze moved back to him. "If you'd started rambling about justice or purpose or some crem I think I'd have barfed. And then, you know. Killed you."

Her eyes fixated back onto the bank. No one had come out of it yet. Was CorpseMaker bunkered down in there with all he had remaining, determined to make his last stand?

"Don't make it weird or anything... but how'd you feel about going in there together?"

****

Justice. Alastair almost laughed at the word. In Newcago, it had existed only as a mockery of itself. Give Epics what they want. Let them do as they please. Serve them. Grovel at their feet. Die by their hand. Refuse them that, and the Epic wronged was allowed to set the terms of restitution. And in Portland, even that joke of a law was absent.

“Justice is dead.” He gazed toward the bank, where one of the city’s arbiters of the concept--or what passed for it--resided. “All that’s left is what you can take--or take back.” He caught her gaze briefly. “It wouldn’t be weird if we went in together at all.”

******

“Great! I’d tell you to watch out, but if I had to do that I think we’d have just had a very different conversation.”

She raised a hand towards the bank--the motion wasn’t necessary, but it made her feel cool. Her first clenched, and she created her quickest, strongest garden of roses yet. They moved like extensions of her own will, acting with one goal.

To rip the front of the building into chunks of rubble and to cast them aside.

No more waiting. Get ready, CorpseMaker. We’re coming for you.

****

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This is a collaboration between @TwiLyghtSansSparkles (purple) and @Kobold King (green). Part 2 of 2.

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Even without her warning, even without precognition, Alastair would have had the good sense to get out of her way. Still, it was far easier to jump to safety, and to determine the best place to find that safety, now than it once would have been.

The ground rumbled as roses sprang free, cracking asphalt and concrete alike. Chunks of manmade stone fell away as vines, more than Alastair could immediately count, surged toward the sky.

Then, in the space of a second, the roses changed course, arching toward the bank. Alastair watched from across the street, one foot behind the other, ready to vault forward—but only half his mind was on his chance.

The rest was caught up in the show.

Disbelieving or not, contemptuous or not, Darkrose knew her way around a good bit of destruction. Bricks were pulled free of mortar, cracking in two when they hit the ground. Plaster and drywall shattered, sending up a cloud of dust as defunct wiring was torn like string. All of this happened too quickly for Alastair to see with the naked eye, but watching the future, keeping an eye on the building itself, allowed each detail to bloom to life.

His only regret was that it ended too soon.

****

The fight ended too soon.

There weren't any other Epics with him in the end. Even most of his vanilla troops had deserted when they'd realized the once mighty Epic would never get the opportunity to hunt him down. That left him with nothing but his most "loyal"--meaning stupid—bodyguards.

The hail of gunfire that greeted them was intense but little more than aggravating. Although she probably could have managed to block the bulk of it with some fast and tangled vine clusters, Darkrose instead elected to allow some of the shots through--'Alastair,' after all, had yet to see her healing factor and she kind of felt like showing off. The bullets were so fast they didn't even hurt. All she felt was the itching as her sinew became vine, sewing up her wounds almost as fast as they'd opened.

For his part the precog had never been in danger of even that much. He strode in with a confidence even Lightwards wouldn't have shown, ducking underneath their original volley and calmly walking from one spot of cover to the next, an occasional flawless shot from him dropping soldiers as surely as their boss's stare would have. 

Darkrose refused to be outdone. Her wave of thorns crashed into the men at full force, shredding flesh and cracking bones as it rolled over them. They had about the consistency of dried leaves in front of a hurricane.

CorpseMaker, for his part, never got out of his chair.

When Darkrose and Alastair finally stood before him with not a single obstacle to be seen, the once greatest Epic of Portland took a casual sip of coffee. The motion didn't seem to fit the intense, bushy-eyebrowed man with the face of a mob boss, but there it was.

His eyes turned up to survey them, and if Darkrose had for a moment worried that her new powers wouldn't save her from that stare, that worry was dead and buried now. There was hate in his eyes. Hate and hot incandescent rage, with a satisfying surge of fear fueling it all underneath.

He must have tried to kill them. No man with his powers could look at them that way and not try to kill them. But it hadn't worked. Not on either of them.

"I hate leaving a job unfinished," said CorpseMaker. His voice was gravelly, and forcefully subdued. "Always did. That goes so much more for you two."

Those eyes were drilling into the both of them now. His intense stare aside he looked so much smaller, so much flimsier than she'd ever remembered him. She suspected Alastair was feeling the same thing.

"Quasar's girl, am I right?"

Darkrose stiffened. She hadn't heard that name in years. Its effect on her even after all this time surprised her.

CorpseMaker had the audacity to chuckle, though that intense fury never left his eyes. "I remember you, barely. Quasar put up a memorable fight. Using his own kids as a front line diversion... very effective. Just wish I'd managed to track you down and finish the job back then. I get the feeling it would have saved me and a lot of other people a lot of trouble."

His eyes turned away from her, and she felt the fury roaring up inside of her again. But he didn't look back.

 "And the Traveler. A lot’s happened since you and that lunatic cut me out of the wall."

**** 

“Mmm, I’ll say.” Alastair leaned against the nearest pillar—load-bearing rather than decorative, and looking the part. He folded his arms, propping one foot up against the pillar, the other flat on the ground. Incredulous fury flickered through CorpseMaker’s features, and Alastair would be dishonest if he said he didn’t feel a spike of triumph. If CorpseMaker wouldn’t show them the most basic of courtesies, Alastair would forgo it as well. “For one thing, I’m not ‘Traveler’ anymore.”

How CorpseMaker could appear both bored and interested at the same time was a mystery Alastair had yet to unravel.

“I have to say, though,” he went on, “that name stuck far longer than I thought it would. Invented it right on the spot. Hadn’t known what to call myself the second before you asked, and as soon as you did—well, the rest is history.”

The studied disinterest was gone now, replaced by something more genuine. Something darker. “You mean to tell me,” he said, and Alastair heard the controlled fury building with each word, “that you’re not an Epic?”

“Oh, I am.” Alastair pushed himself off the wall and strode forward, hands in pockets. Memories of a day that felt so long ago surfaced with all the clarity of the moment they’d occurred. CorpseMaker, cut from the wall of a bouncy castle that had once been a bank. Clothes for the freed Epic, awful and so very fitting. A new designation thrown onto Alastair’s shoulders. Fear, through it all. So much fear.

“I am definitely an Epic,” Alastair continued, stopping close to Darkrose. “Just not the type you thought.”

CorpseMaker fell silent a moment, though his glare—one that would have been deadly to anyone else—did not soften.

“Oh, you want a demonstration?” Briefly, Alastair considered granting a small display of power—some relatively innocuous prediction around the possible direction of Darkrose’s fury, perhaps—but anger choked that possibility. Instead, he gave a cold smile. “You could have seen the demonstration of the century if you’d bothered to get out of that chair.”

*****

“And why would I do that?” asked CorpseMaker. “So you fresh new Epics can kick the lion while he’s down?”

He shook his head in disgust, turning an impatient glare down at his coffee. He took another long drink. Somehow he made the action feel like an insult, one which Darkrose itched to answer with an immediate assault of thorns. 

But she hadn’t yet felt the satisfaction she’d felt when Altermind died. She wasn’t ready to skin him alive yet.

“You new ones are all the same,” CorpseMaker went on. “You wake up, you show off, and expect everything to be handed to you on a silver platter. Think you have the right to it, somehow.”

“It’s not about rights,” Darkrose scoffed. “It’s about doing whatever the sparks we feel like." 

“Really? And what have you done, exactly?” His glare was filled with rage, fear, and even pain. So how did it still manage to be so taunting? “Altermind’s the one who wore me down for years. Your Doctor and that damnation necromancer are the ones who shook up the city enough to break my ranks. And you two idiot vanillas just happened to get dragged kicking and screaming into the right places and the right times to make my powers moot, or else you wouldn’t stand a chance being in front of me now.”

Sparks, the moron was right. Darkrose grit her teeth, drawing her vines from the broken ground in a threatening posture. “What makes you think any of that matters to us? We’re here, you’re a dead guy flapping his lips, so what’s the difference?”

CorpseMaker gave them both a tight, hateful smile before leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. “I think you both know the difference, or you wouldn’t have stopped to gloat.”

He dared. He sparking DARED to close his eyes in front of them! Darkrose had lifted off the ground before she even realized it, her vines gliding her across the floor in a fury. Alastair remaining standing still, an angry look spreading across his silent face.

“Gloating?!” Her voice had raised to a shout as she towered above the mighty CorpseMaker, snarling at him as he remained with peaceful eyes shut. “Is that what you think this is, what we’re doing? You think we’re just another Quasar, or Altermind, or Lightwards?” 

He made no reply.

“We’re NOT!” Her hands were balled up into fists yet again, so hard her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands and dripped her blood onto the lair’s floor. “We are so much worse than any of them! We’re not here for any moronic goal! We’re only here to see the pain in your powerless eyes before we peel the meat off your skull!”

Anger got her feeling creative, apparently. Still CorpseMaker made no reply.

“Open your eyes and look at me, dead man!”

His eyelids didn’t so much as twitch. CorpseMaker was still.

Darkrose loomed over him, chest heaving with angry breaths and her vines writhing like maddened snakes all around her. It was only little by little that she noticed the utter stillness in him head to toe; the pill bottle on the table next to him, covered with dire warnings; the residue at the bottom of his empty coffee cup.

That taunting, satisfied smile that remained on his still lips.

The realization hit her like a bullet. Her reflection in the Epic’s glossy table showed a face of sheer inhuman rage that she didn’t even know she could make. From Alastair’s posture and expression, he’d figured it out a minute before she had but had been just as powerless to seize the moment.

The slontze had been serious about not granting them the satisfaction. So serious in fact, he’d went and made one last corpse.

****

The battle was winding down somewhat, though it didn’t immediately appear so. Shouts and cries, clanks and roars sounded from all directions. Smoke from a dozen unseen fires gave everything a hazy cast. If Alastair looked long enough, he could spy spots of blood on corners, on the few doors that still stood. He was more concerned with the future, with the decrease in possibilities since he’d last broadened his focus. People were dying, animals were dying, machines were dying. Before long, there wouldn’t be enough of any to sustain much of a fight.

He wanted to storm back through the ruined wall, back to where CorpseMaker’s body lay. The process of decay had set in nearly as quickly as the poison, but there was still enough of him left to sustain a few pointless, pitiful kicks. The urge to scream tore at his throat, but he kept his mouth shut. No sense proving a dead man correct.

Darkrose’s fury hadn’t lessened with their passage outside, but it was quieter now. She’d hardly spoken a word since emerging into the ruined street. An optimist would assume she’d said everything she needed to already. A realist knew there was nothing she could say.

That coffee.

That sparking coffee.

He’d poisoned it before their arrival, that much was clear. He’d slipped it into his own drink, and Alastair hadn’t seen, he hadn’t guessed, he hadn’t known until shortly before that sparking Epic had closed his eyes.

“You wake up, you show off, and expect everything to be handed to you on a silver platter.” Maybe, if Alastair hadn’t wasted those minutes showing off, if he’d charged in without waiting for Darkrose or anyone or anything

No. No, he couldn’t allow himself down that path. The moment you began thinking your enemy had a point was the moment you became their slave, and he’d been a slave already.

Not again. Never again.

Alastair drew his tarot deck from his pocket and shuffled the cards, more for something to do than anything else. The soft whirr wasn’t quite a comfort, but it did nothing to sharpen the fury coiling in his middle, so he shuffled them again.

He needed something to say to Darkrose.

*****

Nothing in the world existed.

There was a battle going on, somewhere, off in the distance and out of the realm of things Darkrose gave a storm about. It didn't feel real to her. Not like CorpseMaker's smug dead smile did.

She'd tried so hard not to be an outraged sort of Epic. A Lightwards, a Lucentia. She figured it'd be easy to revel in the bloodlust and ignore everything else. At first it had even felt liberating.

She couldn't easily remember getting this angry. Certainly not over not getting to torture a guy. It must have been a combination of everything raging in her head right now. Every word and dark impulse clashing in the most miserable of ways.

"You two idiot vanillas just happened to get dragged kicking and screaming into the right places and the right times to make my powers moot."

It was true. She and Alastair had both set off his weakness, however it was precisely that worked. But it was through no effort of their own. She'd somehow met the criteria when her Dad had marched her unwilling body through the doors of that bank ages ago. Alastair had met them while Funtimes was parading him around the city. At the end of the day then, the death of CorpseMaker was nothing but the product of the Epics who'd puppeteered their lives.

They hadn't even shown up there of their own free will, really. Darkrose knew that, though she wondered whether Alastair had realized it in the same way. She knew that free will was a long lost memory for her now. Calamity was in her head, in her feelings, in her blood, at her fingertips. Nothing she 'chose' to do really belonged to her like it would have once. Anything she did was just the product of the world's most dangerous drug.

So why did it make her seethe so much to think about him getting one over on her?

Alastair seethed just as much as she did. She could tell even before he whipped out a deck of weird cards and started shuffling them in an irritable display. She needed something to say to him. Something to break this stuffy silence so she didn't feel like she was standing on the sidewalk alone.

"What kind of slontze," she said finally through gritted teeth, "Even calls himself 'CorpseMaker'? Every Epic makes corpses! I made dozens just on my way over here! It's not hard."

****

Despite himself, despite it all, Alastair smiled.

“The kind who knows he’s not good at much else,” he said, not bothering to draw the card he knew was next. Justice. His mouth tightened, and he shuffled again. “That, what he did back there? Probably the most interesting thing he’s ever done.”

That was probably a lie. Any Epic who could carve out a little Dominion in Portland and rule it for years had to have more going for him than a plan for a final insult--but Alastair wasn’t about to admit as much. CorpseMaker didn’t deserve to be remembered honestly. Not now.

****

“Probably, yeah,” she agreed. “Sipping coffee while making a corpse, though. He went out doing what he loved.”

She made jokes when she was angry. Always had. Whether she was angry about how bad Portland was, angry about being abducted by a glitter Epic, angry about Lightwards murdering a family friend, angry about anything at all… she could always spark a joke. She could grin. It was her way of asserting what power she had over life. It usually hadn’t been a lot.

She was now one of the toughest Epics she personally knew of. So why did she still find herself standing outside cracking jokes about things she’d had no control over?

A tired yawn escaped her lips. You probably weren’t supposed to do that in front of other Epics. It was a sign of weakness or something, probably. She didn’t find that she cared--she hadn’t fully respected the rules about Epics as a vanilla, so why the sparks should she now that she couldn’t die? She folded her arms and leaned against the wall.

“...there is one thing we’ve learned today. One major takeaway,” she said slowly. “...’Alastair’ isn’t actually the worst name you could pick.”

****

Had it come from anyone else, Alastair might have taken the insult as such and acted accordingly. But this was Sam--or Darkrose now. Wisecracks were a language for her. He’d seen her make them in Funtimes’ cottage, in the Museum, in Lightwards’ presence. The only time he could recall not hearing some sort of quip was when Nighthound stood close. If Darkrose could look at a situation and find nothing to mock, then he could safely assume the situation was a disaster beyond reckoning.

He cracked a grin. It felt a little false, but it didn’t feel wrong. “Would I rather I go with something more descriptive? Like….I don’t know, NextMove. Since that’s what I can see?” Memories of days long gone surfaced, and he laughed. “Dear Calamity, that sounds like a moving company.”

*****

He was funnier now than he had been. The jokes seemed to come easily, no part of him trying to bite them back as they came. He'd always been so meek before, even when he was alone with them.

Darkrose laughed out loud. The image he'd brought to mind was hilarious, after all.

"Call NextMove Travel Agency today," she shot back with a smirk. "The only Fractured States moving company. Make sure your family and belongings are in safe hands."  

She raised her hands, flexing them to accentuate her remark. Across the street from her she had her vines sprout up and entangle an old car, wrapping around it, crushing it like a soda can and flipping it as far as she could. That turned out to be further than she'd anticipated, causing the totaled car to go soaring over the nearby buildings and leave her line of sight. Hearing it come down somewhere and add to the receding sounds of chaos improved her mood a little further.

****

“Please note: The NextMove Travel Agency does not guarantee your family, possessions, or finances will be in hands at all, much less safe ones,” Alastair said with a glance toward the vines still standing where the car had once been. “But, what are you gonna do? Hire some other company? What part of ‘only moving company’ don’t you understand?” 

He turned his gaze back to Darkrose. There was an order to destruction, whether most saw it or not; a sequence that turned a thing to rubble. Here, it began with the sides squeezed, the doors crushed in before the glass could shatter and the engine could rupture. But it didn’t have to. It could have begun with the engine, or the fender, or any number of components that needed to go before the vehicle became a wreck. It simply happened too quickly for most to watch, with too ghastly a result for most to appreciate the process.

Darkrose was not among that number.

She couldn’t see the steps. The process was, to her eye, less a process and more a single step, through no fault of her own. But she valued the result. Perhaps the steps between were nothing more than a means to an end, but she didn’t spurn them.

She, like he, was a connoisseur of chaos.

****

There was something powerful in a shared joke, even now. Maybe especially now, since everything else had stopped mattering.

Well, almost everything.

She smiled as long as she could but eventually it began to wilt, and she found herself giving a long, tired glance at the ruined, dying city around them. This really was the end of Portland; there wasn't much room to doubt that. There was more rubble than anything else now, and if any vanillas had survived they were probably packing up and relocating right now. She'd heard rumors that Corvallis and The Dalles were pretty decent places to live, as far as post-apocalyptic cities went. Maybe she'd pay a visit to one of them herself, just to see what the hype was all about. Or maybe single handedly end that hype.

What was Alastair going to do next? She hadn't asked. She was curious, yeah, but showing too much interest didn't really feel right. He wasn't the worst to be around, but whatever it was they'd shared as terrified vanillas under an Epic overlord was gone. Whether it had been trust or just mutual comfort, it had been replaced with something with a flavor she couldn't identify. But since her thoughts kept turning to possible ways she could kill him, she had to assume his were doing the same thing in reverse.

"I've been thinking," she said finally, a more serious tone to her voice, "About what kind of Epic I'm gonna be. You've got the different kinds, you know. You've got your boring old dictators like Lucentia or Steelheart or CorpseMaker." 

She made sure the appropriate scorn was heaped upon the last name.

"And then you've got the creeptastic perverts like Nighthound. I think my least favorite are the megalomaniacs. The Alterminds and the Lightwardses. The ones who think they're doing the world a favor."

That had ticked her off for as long as she'd known their names. She shook her head, trying and failing to shake the anger, the resentment that still colored her thoughts turning to them. Satisfying though their deaths or babbling ends might be those slontzes had still gone down in the end feeling that they were in the right. It was the one thing neither Calamity nor other Epics had managed to take from them. Which meant, in their own way, they’d pulled the same cheat as CorpseMaker.

"Have you thought about it?" she finished, her voice going quiet. "What kind are you gonna be, Alastair?"

****

He hadn’t. Truth be told, he’d had the time--not much of it, but time enough to think. He simply hadn’t paused to do so.

“Don’t much feel like being a Steelheart,” he said. He’d ceased shuffling the cards and settled for moving the top card to the bottom, again and again. It would take some time to cycle through the entire deck, but that didn’t concern him at the moment. “Holed up in a bunker somewhere, coming out just to make sure everyone stays in line? No thanks.” 

He shifted a facedown Ace of Pentacles to the bottom of the deck.

“I’ve seen more perverts than Nighthound.” Fortuity came instantly to mind, passionately kissing one woman while another stood by. “The sooner they’re dead, the better. And Lightwards….”

A reversed Six of Wands moved to the bottom of the deck.

“Maybe he didn’t get what he deserved. But it was close. As close to what he deserved as I could manage.”

“As for what I want to be….” He shuffled through a few more cards, his mind drifting back to those old days in a darkened city, eternal nights spent shuffling about with his head bowed. It was the only way to survive, being a mortal in a city of gods. Keep your head down. Smile when they wanted a smile. Stammer and beg when they wanted subservience. Do what they wanted, apologize for things that weren’t your fault, allow fear and admiration to blend together until you could scarcely tell the difference.

And after all that, still wind up strapped to a table.

Alastair nearly moved past the next card, but after a moment’s hesitation, he turned it over. A Grim Reaper sat astride a white horse, resplendent in black armor, banner in his hand. Peasants and royals, old and young alike bowed or fell before him. Here, at least, all were equal. In the presence of Death, no one stood above another.

The card had many meanings, he knew, and those meanings fluctuated depending on whether the card was upright or reversed. In its current position, it could herald an ending, a time of transition, a transformation. In life, Death was something to fear. In tarot, Death was an opportunity.

Nathan Sperry was dead. He’d survived his encounter with Fortuity only to meet his end on a night Alastair hardly remembered. Change had come, and Nathan had not survived. Alastair could either forget the browbeaten server or avenge him.

He lifted the card and held it. Death. Change. Transformation. All three brought pain, agony most liked to pretend would pass them by. One of those three was a mystery. The other two brought either helplessness or power. Alastair had been on the receiving end of both. Once when Steelheart declared Newcago his own. Once when Calamity had claimed him.

“I don’t want to be anything.” Alastair’s voice carried only enough volume to be heard above the dying battle. Much as he might relish the thought of storming back to Newcago, of challenging Fortuity to a duel and beating him through sheer will, the thought of the other Epics in the city kept that thought from becoming reality. But there were other Epics out there, others who had wronged him. Wronged Nathan. Wronged the world simply by existing.

“I don’t want to be a hero. I don’t want to be some mighty savior.”

He ran his thumb over the Death card. Change. Transformation. Endings. 

“I just want what’s mine.”

****

Alastair's hate was something beautiful.

Every dismissive comment made that completely plain. He kept his composure to be sure, managing to look cool and collected. But Darkrose knew bitterness when she heard it.

She wasn't sure she liked the way he said 'mine.' It was a little too similar to how Lightwards talked about people's dead bodies, or the way she had once been downgraded from daughter to possession. But all the hate and anger that came before it was something she could understand. There were Epics in the world whose very existence were continuously offensive to him. She felt the same way. Alastair knew that there was no virtue or glory to be had in seeking out the satisfaction he wanted. So did Darkrose. Neither of them, it seemed, cared.

Was it empathy when an Epic recognized—and appreciated—seeing a little bit of herself in another Epic? Or was it just another kind of egomania? Did it really matter?

"Nothing belongs to an Epic, Alastair," she said, perhaps a little sharply. "But... we can take whatever we want, so it's kind of semantic. Whatever."

She found herself raising upwards a few feet off the ground. She hadn't willed it that way. It was just how the roses responded to her wanting a better view of the desolate remains of her home.

"You know what I want to be? You didn't ask, but I'll tell you." She stared off at the smoky horizon, where somehow over the line she knew there were other cities with chaotic turf wars of their own. She wondered how many had been won already. She wondered how many she could win.

"I want to be the kind who makes all the other kinds nervous when I walk into their city. I want them to be the ones who get told to keep their heads down. And more than anything..."

She felt a shiver run down her spine. The chill of an oncoming Oregon evening, or anticipation?

"I want them to remember exactly what the world is. That this is the world where the bad guys won. That not a single sparking one of us is a god or a superhero or an emperor of light. Killing and razing and enslaving is one thing. But there's no pretending allowed when I’m around."

****

“Are you afraid of me?

It was a common question from Epics--or had been, in Nathan’s early days as a servant. And it wasn’t a search for an honest answer so much as the beginning of an exchange as scripted as the one beginning with How are you today?

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Darkrose hadn’t asked if he feared her, nor had she demanded fear from someone with no choice but to give it. She’d simply stated a fact: She wanted others to fear her. Wanted other Epics to fear her. Wanted to be the one whose name was whispered in cities where her presence would be as welcome as an earthquake.

She wanted to be like Steelheart. No--like Obliteration. A wanderer as feared as the end of all things.

For a moment, Alastair considered making his excuses and leaving, or laying the groundwork and slipping away while her attention was elsewhere. He could manage it easily. Most people, vanillas and Epics alike, let their guard down precisely when and where they thought it strongest. Better to walk alone than to stay with one who expected him to cower and grovel and keep his mouth shut save to offer praise.

But then again, she didn’t want to be an empress. Thoughts of divinity didn’t entice her. She simply wanted to rid the world of those she despised.

Alastair looked to her, caught her gaze, and offered a smile. “I’ll be as honest as I can. That is, if you promise me the same?”

*****

"Hmm?" She looked down at him and not for the first time today thought about how tiny he was. How tiny and breakable.

He was asking her to make a promise. A rule for herself. A part of her bristled at the very thought of this ludicrous stack of twigs making any such request, but another found she was pleased he saw things the same way she did. Apart from the whole 'I can see what you're going to do in the future' thing.

Besides which, lying didn't have much appeal to her anyway.

"You want me to be honest with you?" she asked. "Well, here goes. I killed my mom and I don't even remember doing it. I am pretty sure I enjoyed it."

She lowered her roses, deigning to stand on equal footing with him. She met his smile with one that was as sincere as any she'd made today. 

"I guess that truth doesn't mean anything to you," she went on softly. "This one should. Ever since I saw the new you I've thought off and on about killing you. I don't know if I'd win the fight or not, but I know I'm not afraid of you. I definitely know I'm not afraid of telling you this to your face. I'm not even afraid of telling you I'm thinking about it right now."

She took a step closer.

"But since you're still standing here... I guess you see that I don't wind up trying. And for what it's worth, as far into the future as I can guess, I don't see me doing it either."

She held out her hand.

"I'm not Steelheart. I don't want a minion. I just want to see what kind of carnage you can get up to, and for you to see the chaos that 'Darkrose' is going to mean. And if that sounds as good to you as it sounds to me, then I will promise you all the honesty you want... and a front row seat."

****

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Bonus Episode: Every Darkrose Has Its Thorn, Part One

Spoiler

Part one because I wanted to finish something, but I also need to work on my original fiction a bit. So I'll put up Part Two before too long. 

INTERIOR: One of Newcago's casinos. It's the height of the evening rush, with well-dressed couples clustered around various games, servers moving as quickly as their laden trays will allow, and slot machines providing a constant soundtrack of bells and whirrs. The camera settles on FORTUITY beside the blackjack table. Unlike him, the dealer does not appear to be in a good mood—which is probably for obvious reasons. A young woman with blonde bobbed hair stands beside him, sipping a cocktail.

FORTUITY: (voiceover) Yeah, Steelheart got word a new precog is going to show up tonight. And I don't mean he heard a rumor—I mean this guy sent a literal engraved invitation to come and watch him do his thing. 

We cut to FORTUITY standing off to the side, holding said invitation. It is printed on heavy parchment paper, the letters engraved in black and gold. 

FORTUITY: (reading aloud) "You, Almighty Emperor of Newcago, are cordially invited to witness I, Alastair, show your pathetic excuse for a precog the extent of what he cannot do." He chuckles and continues: "I will meet him at the Ace of Spades Casino at nine-thirteen on the dot. You may wish to have a therapist on hand, as following this encounter, Fortuity will be in severe emotional distress." 

He lowers the invitation with a chuckle, shaking his head. 

FORTUITY: Okay, first of all, Steelheart's not gonna show up, you slontze. He never comes to these things, and when he got the invite, he gave it to me and said, and I quote: 

We cut to STEELHEART in government headquarters, several days prior. He has just finished reading the invitation and hands it to FORTUITY with a look of disinterest. 

STEELHEART: Here. Seems like something you don't want to miss. 

FORTUITY reads the invite. 

FORTUITY: And where will you be? 

STEELHEART: Eh, I'll probably take that quiz to see which dirty sock I am. It'll be a hell of a lot more interesting than watching two precogs go at it. 

We cut back to FORTUITY in the present, looking at his watch beside the blackjack table.

FORTUITY: (voiceover) It'll still be a while before he shows up. Haven't gotten an advance look at the guy. I could, but why bother? Anybody who thinks they've got to announce a fight with me is gonna lose that fight. Nah, I'll focus on my game. 

The clock on the wall strikes nine-thirteen. As promised, the casino doors open and a couple strides in: a young woman and a young man. The woman wears a flowing black dress, sleeveless, with fishnets pulled up past her elbows, leaving her shoulders bare, hair falling loose about her face. Violet fingerless gloves cover both hands. The man wears a dark double-breasted coat over a grey-pinstriped Oxford shirt, brown woolen slacks and loafers. He brushes a lock of short red hair from his forehead, placing a rather large sum of money in the palm of the nearest server while casting a pointed glance toward FORTUITY. We cut back to FORTUITY, who seems—despite his ability to see the future and sense danger—utterly taken by surprise. For a long moment he simply gapes at the camera. 

FORTUITY: I…I almost killed that guy once. 

***********************************************

INTERIOR: STEELHEART's palace. STEELHEART seems to be alone, as the other government Epics are engaged in their own evening pursuits. STEELHEART sits on his throne eating ice cream straight out of the container, using a serving spoon rather than a normal spoon. As soon as the container is empty, a servant hurries over with a tray of french fries. 

STEELHEART: (voiceover) Am I worried about this Alastair thing? He snorts. If I was, Alastair wouldn't have made it into the city. 

The camera zooms out, and we see a television sits across from the throne. The pre-Calamity film Sky High plays on the screen. STEELHEART watches intently as the servant brings him a whole pot roast. 

STEELHEART: (voiceover) Look, I've heard of these matched battles before. Strongman vs. strongman, it's basically just waiting to see whose arms get broken first. Flyer vs. flyer, you gotta see who's dumb enough to fly into the stratosphere. Usually, it's both of 'em. Pretty funny when they hit the ground. 

STEELHEART raises the pot roast to his lips and tears off a bite with his teeth, not averting his gaze from Will Stronghold in his Mad Science class. 

STEELHEART: (voiceover) But precog vs. precog? That's gonna be a battle of wits. And if Alastair's got half a brain, Fortuity won't stand half a chance. 

We cut to the palace kitchen, where the servants are frantically opening cupboards in search of something else to bring. The cupboards aren't bare—not by a long shot—but they seem frantic anyway. 

FIRST MALE SERVANT: Please tell me we have more ice cream. 

SECOND MALE SERVANT: Doesn't matter. We've already brought him ice cream. 

FIRST MALE SERVANT: Cheesy bread? 

FIRST FEMALE SERVANT: Already did that. 

FIRST MALE SERVANT: Doritos? 

SECOND FEMALE SERVANT: Nope. 

FIRST MALE SERVANT: Maybe he wouldn't mind another ice cream flavor. 

FIRST FEMALE SERVANT: You know he doesn't like repeats. What else can we bring him? 

 A SECOND MALE SERVANT looks in a massive pantry. The others cluster around him. 

SECOND FEMALE SERVANT: No. No. We cannot bring him that. 

We cut back to STEELHEART on his throne. One of the servants scurries over, carrying a single bowl filled with hot sauce. STEELHEART accepts it without acknowledging her and, without averting his gaze from the screen, dips his fingers in the hot sauce and eats it that way. 

STEELHEART: (voiceover) No other city in the Fractured States has more than one precog. None of 'em. But once Fortuity loses to this Alastair guy…well. Maybe having some competition around'll make him less of a slontze. Or, you know. Less of a moron. 

The bowl of hot sauce tips over, spilling onto STEELHEART's lap. He looks down at the mess a moment before calling out to the kitchen. 

STEELHEART: Where's the sparking bleu cheese? 

***********************************************

EXTERIOR: The Aces Casino, apparently a few minutes before the couple walked in. The woman stands out in the Newcago night, arms folded over her chest. She seems not to mind the evening chill. Her name is DARKROSE. 

DARKROSE: Fortuity is dumb. I hate his hat and I hate him. 

The camera pans over the crowd outside. Most of them are simply looking to get into the casino, though they all stop to stare at DARKROSE. She ignores them. 

DARKROSE: I mean, look at him. He saw a picture of Al Capone and said "Oh, wow, that guy's look sure is stupid. Bet I can make it even stupider." Okay, so I don't know if that happened. But it probably did. He's stupid. And I don't like him. 

ALASTAIR steps into frame. 

ALASTAIR: You say that about every Epic. 

DARKROSE: I don't say it about you. 

ALASTAIR: (smiling) I wonder why that is. 

DARKROSE: 'Cause you're not a lying lieface like every other Epic on this stupid planet. 

They share a quick kiss.

DARKROSE: So what's your plan for trouncing this slontze? 

ALASTAIR: Eh, I'll just play it by ear. Worked in Oregon. 

DARKROSE smiles fondly. 

DARKROSE: Sure did. Leveled half the state. 

ALASTAIR: She took the other half. 

They smile at one another, then turn back to the camera. 

ALASTAIR: Besides. I know Fortuity pretty well. That slontze has nothing on me. 

We cut to FORTUITY inside the Aces Casino in the present, still staring at ALASTAIR and DARKROSE. His disbelief soon hardens into determination. He strides forward, rings catching every color of light the casino has to offer, cape billowing behind him. Casino patrons part before him. Soon he stands mere feet from the Epic couple. He raises his hands for silence, and the murmurs and whispers grind to a halt. 

FORTUITY: No need for alarm, ladies and ladies. 

A WELL-DRESSED MAN looks offended. 

WELL-DRESSED MAN: Some of us aren't ladies, you know. 

FORTUITY: And some of you don't matter. 

The WELL-DRESSED MAN looks even more offended, but doesn't argue. 

FORTUITY: Anyway, I know you're all probably very alarmed at the sight of a new Epic in town, but rest assured, you have nothing to fear. Not from a humble servant and his way-too-sparking-pretty-for-him fake girlfriend.

DARKROSE: I'm not fake, you slug-covered flour sack. 

FORTUITY ignores her. 

FORTUITY: This man is not what he seems.

WELL-DRESSED WOMAN: Seems like he's an Epic to me. 

FORTUITY: Well, your seeming senses are off, because...

He grins briefly, whirls dramatically, and points a glittering finger at ALASTAIR. 

FORTUITY: This man used to work here! 

Shouts. Gasps. The camera zooms in on ALASTAIR. He gazes directly into the lens, his expression unreadable, before a cut to black. 

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The Newcago Office
Bonus Episode: Every Darkrose Has Its Thorn
Part Two 

INTERIOR: Aces Casino. Every eye has turned to ALASTAIR and DARKROSE. FORTUITY looks immensely pleased with himself. The camera zooms in on ALASTAIR, who rolls his eyes and steps forward. DARKROSE remains behind. 

ALASTAIR: I didn't work here, and you know it. 

FORTUITY: (laughs) I'm pretty sure I remember you serving me. 

ALASTAIR: I remember that, too, because I worked at the LaBeau across town. 

Gasps and murmurs filter through the crowd. 

ALASTAIR: Honestly, Fortuity, if you're going to drop a "bombshell" like that, you should at least get your basic facts right. 

FORTUITY: You do realize most Epics in this city would kill a lowly server for making air quotes at them like you just did? 

ALASTAIR: Well, I'm an Epic now, so….

He raises both hands in the air and gives the most exaggerated air quotes he can, making a face as he does so. FORTUITY draws back, hand over his heart, incensed. 

FORTUITY: I never would have thought—

ALASTAIR: Thought what? That I'd survive to tell everybody about that time you placed a takeout order for three pounds of mozzarella sticks and a value-size bottle of cherry-flavored children's cough syrup? 

FORTUITY: I—that—the cough syrup was for something else. 

ALASTAIR: You took a cheese stick out of the box, poured cough syrup on it, shoved the whole thing in your mouth and walked away. 

The camera cuts to the crowd, revealing faces that reflect disgust, horror, or some mix of the two. We cut back to FORTUITY, whose rage appears to grow by the second. He reaches for his holster and pulls out a revolver. 

FORTUITY: I should have shot you the first time. 

ALASTAIR stands with arms folded and a smirk on his face. 

ALASTAIR: It's a pity croutons just don't work as well as plain old bullets. 

For a long moment, FORTUITY simply stands there, barrel aimed directly at ALASTAIR, who makes no move to step aside or beg for mercy. 

ALASTAIR: You want to watch me dodge that bullet and have it hit the guy behind me, who'll fall onto that server and spill a bunch of margaritas onto Darkrose? Go for it. She's drop-dead gorgeous when she gets all murdery. 

FORTUITY does not pull the trigger. Evidently, he has seen the same thing as ALASTAIR. Finally, he holsters his pistol. 

FORTUITY: Fine. You want to settle this, we'll settle it the usual way. 

ALASTAIR: Go outside and duel until Steelheart gets mad enough to tell us to keep it down because he's watching his stories? 

FORTUITY: The other usual way. 

**********************************

INTERIOR: Same casino, some time later. FORTUITY and ALASTAIR stand on opposite sides of the blackjack table. Each has his arms folded. FORTUITY's date stands beside him, clinging to his arm and looking very much as if she would rather be at home cleaning her bathroom. DARKROSE stands beside ALASTAIR and looks as if she would like very much to slap FORTUITY with her roses. The BLACKJACK DEALER looks as if she's trying to get through the end of her shift with her sanity intact. A small crowd has gathered around, though they mostly keep a safe distance. Others watch out the corners of their eyes or steal glances now and again. 

BLACKJACK DEALER: (voiceover) Has there ever been a precog's duel in Newcago? No. Not that I've seen, and not like this. 

ALASTAIR: Four of clubs. 

FORTUITY: Too easy. 

ALASTAIR: I did the same thing you just did. 

FORTUITY: And it was too easy for me, so it's too easy for you. Try something else to impress me. 

BLACKJACK DEALER: (voiceover) I mean, a guy came through a couple years ago claiming he was even more powerful than Fortuity, since he could predict things that were days out…but it turned out all he could see was what the dictator of the city he was in would have for dessert the following Tuesday.

ALASTAIR: Who says I'm trying to impress you? 

FORTUITY: You're right. That dame of yours is doing a much better job at that. 

What appears to be a vine covered in thorns and roses alike springs from the floor and lashes out toward FORTUITY, who easily jumps out of the way. DARKROSE glares at him, speaking through gritted teeth. 

DARKROSE: Stand in one place so I can murder you already

Roses snake toward his feet. 

FORTUITY: You know Steelheart's going to get involved if you keep attacking a government Epic

DARKROSE looks for a moment as if she's about to unleash another attack; but then the roses halt their progress and slowly move back toward her. We cut to her, standing apart from the others. 

DARKROSE: I hate Fortuity. I hate him even more than I thought I hated him before I saw his stupid, hateable face. But I hate Steelheart even more, so I guess if it'll keep him from showing up, I'll stop trying to murder Fortuity. 

FORTUITY smirks. 

FORTUITY: That's what I thought, sweetheart. 

DARKROSE: (voiceover) For now. 

ALASTAIR: Wow, I'm impressed. Threatening to call Steelheart. So tough. 

FORTUITY: At least I don't go around hiding behind my girlfriend. 

ALASTAIR is about to counter this, but he quickly realizes he is, indeed, standing just behind DARKROSE. He rectifies this. 

ALASTAIR: Said the man who still hasn't realized his rings could be used as brass knuckles. 

FORTUITY glances down at his ring-covered hands, then up at ALASTAIR in horror. 

FORTUITY: These are original designs

ALASTAIR opens his mouth to say something, but FORTUITY speaks first. 

FORTUITY: Oh, now you're going to tell me I'm prissy, aren't you? 

ALASTAIR: Before or after you make fun of me from coming from Oregon? 

FORTUITY: I wouldn't have to if you weren't about to tell me I wouldn't have lasted two seconds there. 

ALASTAIR: I wouldn't have to point that out if you weren't about to brag about the time you beat some slontze who could only see whether Steelheart was going to have eclairs or ice cream. 

FORTUITY: Said the man who was about to brag about having met Backtrack. 

ALASTAIR: You were just about to learn that Backtrack could've beaten Dessertseer in a heartbeat. 

FORTUITY: If he could stop crying! 

A SERVER, who clearly wants to be anywhere else on the floor but there, scurries over, notepad in hand. She addresses each of the Epics in turn. 

SERVER: Is there anything I can get for you, sir? And—um—sir? And ma'am? 

FORTUITY: I'll take a bottle of single-malt whiskey. 

ALASTAIR smirks, raising an eyebrow. 

ALASTAIR: Will you, now? Because I'm pretty sure I saw you about to order one of those fruity little drinks. 

FORTUITY: I ordered whiskey. 

ALASTAIR: You weren't going to. You were going to order—

FORTUITY: Oh, and what were you gonna get? Cream soda? 

ALASTAIR: It's better than an appletini. 

FORTUITY is silent a moment, causing some confusion in the crowd, as the insult wasn't that bad. 

FORTUITY: Don't say it. Don't you dare say it. 

ALASTAIR: Say what, Appletinity? 

ALASTAIR looks from side to side, as if waiting for the crowd to burst into laughter at his new nickname, but sees only confusion. We cut to a WOMAN standing apart from the crowd. 

WOMAN: Appletinity? My four-year-old could come up with a better nickname than that. She frowns. Actually….don't tell either of those two, but I think she did. Lord Reddykins the Shiny. 

The SERVER returns. FORTUITY snatches the bottle from the tray and takes a swig, glaring at ALASTAIR. 

SERVER: Can, uh, I get you anything else? 

FORTUITY: Can she, Felldownthestairs? 

We cut to the same woman again. She is on her mobile. 

WOMAN: Hey, sweetie. Mommy's still at the casino and there's another precog. He's wearing a long coat and a sort of pinkish shirt. Pause. She looks up at the camera. Doctor Professor Pugbutt. That was quick. 

We cut back to the blackjack table. 

ALASTAIR: I'll have a cream soda. 

FORTUITY smirks. ALASTAIR returns it with one of his own. 

ALASTAIR: Next to a bottle of vodka. 

*************************************

INTERIOR: STEELHEART's palace. Only a handful of night staff mill about, cleaning and preparing for the next shift. We move to an unspecified corridor and stop outside the door to STEELHEART's suite. His mobile rings, playing the Bowling for Soup cover of "I Melt with You." Through the door, we hear a muffled conversation. 

STEELHEART: Look, a precog's duel is none of my—okay, fine. I don't care if they got drunk. Just tell me who wins and who's dead or sobbing in the—Pause. They're doing whatPause. Okay, okay, I'll be right over. Just….sparks, man, don't cry. I hate crying. 

STEELHEART exits his suite a few minutes later, wearing his customary cape. He looks to the camera, holds the gaze a moment, and sighs. 

STEELHEART: God, why couldn't this be another Dessertseer? 

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"Oh, hey! You're alive! That's great."

Darkrose stiffened where she stood, whipping her head around to see the man who'd just called out to her. He stood across the ruined street from her, shivering in place but looking relieved. That lanky body. Those stupid glasses. This was Backtrack the Epic, who was anything but.

She knew him.

She hated him.

He walked closer, happy and oblivious. "Whew, that'ts a relief. If you guys survived then things must have wound down in this place a little. And I bet you'll know where to find the future guy!"

Darkrose raised an eyebrow. "Future guy?"

"Yeah," Backtrack said, nodding sagely. "Well—I think he calls himself Alastor or something like that? I looked into his head but it got... weird."

The man suppressed a shudder. "I mean, I was looking into the past into his head, but he was looking into the future, but the future in this case was actually the past, which is usually my thing but it hadn't happened for him yet, and it just overall got kind of timey-"

"Hey, slontze."

He snapped out of his rambling as though slapped. His eyes were wide behind those ridiculous glasses, and he took a step back just as she took two forward.

"Wha—hey, what did I do?" His shock turned into a shrill indignation, as he shot her a glare that was even less intimidating than his stammering. "I mean, besides, you know-"

"Selling my home address to Lightwards?"

He winced, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. Darkrose barked out a laugh, one without a trace of humor in it. "What, you can't even look at me? Other Epics at least own up to their atrocities, you know."

Backtrack swallowed loudly, and it seemed with great difficulty that he looked back up at her. "I..."

He took a deep breath, and it seemed with even greater difficulty that the fear left his eyes to be replaced with displeasure. "...look, I'm an Epic. Do you know what that means? I don't have to take this. I'm going to go find Ala-star so I can..."

Roses sprung up from the earth. They carpeted the cracked street like a layer of grass, twisting upwards with one another as their thorny vines grew taller and taller. Without any warning there were now black roses at Backtrack's face level, completely surrounding him.

"...so... I can..."

Realization flashed across his face. Then terror.

"...be your number one guy!" he proclaimed, voice suddenly hitting a high note. He put his hands up in the air in a defensive posture. A defensive posture that meant roughly diddily squat.

Darkrose folded her arms over her chest, fixing him with a flat stare. "Wow. You change sides even faster than I can grow my vines. Is that automatic, or what? Is that your—what do they call it—your 'prime invincibility'?"

"Heh... I just, uh..." He tugged nervously at his shirt collar, eyes never leaving the thorny tendrils around him. "...I just know a winning bet when I see one."

"And you're betting on me letting you stay alive?"

"Uh..."

Backtrack trembled, but seemed to force a confident smile onto his lips. He then gave her the shakiest thumbs up she'd ever seen.

"Yes. Yes I am. Because I am an extremely useful Epic to have on your side. I can help you track down anybody, absolutely anybody at all, and I would be honored to do so for a merciful and gracious-"

He cut off with a yelp as her vines coiled around his ankle, jerking him into the air and dangling him upside down. His glasses fell down to the street as he kicked and screamed, Darkrose yanking him violently forward until his upside down face was mere inches from her own.

"Liar," she hissed. His face was white and his eyes were petrified. She wanted to gouge them out—and she would. In just a minute. "I'm not merciful. I'm not gracious. You don't think for a sparking second that I am. And if you think that I want a simpering, lying, spineless sack of crem like you following me around and telling me I'm something that I'm not, then, buddy..."

She leaned in even closer, a grin widening across her face. She could see her bared teeth reflected in his teary eyes.

"You've missed some very important history."

Backtrack's lips moved, but only the ghost of a whisper came out. She was close enough to hear it.

"...I'm sorry."

"I don't care."

She snaked her vines down his legs, slipping under his shirt where her thorns would be prodding at his chest. His terror was so palpable she could practically taste it on his breath.

"Now, since I don't see Alastair wanting anything more to do with you than I do... and since there's really no one I need tracked that I can't track myself... I guess we can start pulling out bones until we find out if there's a spine somewhere in there after all. How does that sound?"

His face was filled with mortal panic and desperation. She drank in the sensation, reveling in every teary drop she saw in his eyes.

And then he booped her on the nose.

Darkrose frowned.

"...what. The sparks. Are you-"

And then infinity exploded.

The sun raced backwards in the sky as though God just slammed the rewind button. Today faded into yesterday and yesterday faded into ereyesterday and ereyesterday faded into centuries long past where Portland was just a forest. Then the forest became a sheet of ice with woolly mammoths trumpeting in the distance, and the mammoths faded into a hazy backwards memory of the distant future by the time jungles and dinosaurs sprung up around her.

Dinosaurs rewound before her eyes, shrinking back into the weird lizards they'd come from. Bizarre forests filled with giant insects flashed before her eyes before all signs of life retreated into the distant sea. Then the ocean raised, and she realized the very land she stood on had once been underwater. She watched the primordial ocean fade away into the barren ball of lava that Earth used to be. She watched that same ball of lava disintegrate into rings of red hot dust circling a newborn Sun burning in the distance.

It was as though she stood in space with no ground to stand on. The stars rewound, hurtling into each other at the moment of time. Then she saw it. Sparks, but she SAW it! Playing backwards before her eyes the Big Bang EXPLODED out of existence, and she saw the birth of all she knew. It was then with a terror she'd never felt before that she realized all she knew was smaller than she could have imagined. Because before the Big Bang, before time, there were powers. Bright lights and dancing energies at play she could no more understand than an ant could decipher the lights of highway traffic. Even so, she knew in that moment how small she was. That everything she'd ever known, the universe itself, was little more than a single bud on a vine dotted with them. That there were more universes than stars in the sky or hairs on her head or atoms in her hairs. That there were truths to the dizzying, infinite reality before her eyes that made even the origin of Calamity or the existence of God seem like a pointless inquiry. That TRUTH was written all around her in a language she could never understand.

She wasn't sure if she was falling or flying. In truth, she was lying flat on her back, jabbering to herself for a solid ten minutes before the impossible sights she'd seen were mercifully blacked out of her memory.

 

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Sparks! Sparks sparks sparks sparks. Sparks sparks sparks.

Sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks. Sparks? Sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks. Sparks sparks sparks. Sparks.

Sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks SPARKS sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks sparks!

Spark-

 

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"Steve, shut up!"

MV slapped him across the face, glaring angrily to hide how concerned she'd suddenly become. In the admittedly short time she'd known him she'd never heard him babbling like this. She chose to further mask her worry with some sarcasm.

"Now, what happened? Did Timmy fall in the well? Did you see another stray dinosaur?"

Backtrack took a moment of staring off into space before suddenly shouting at the top of his lungs.

"GOTTA GO! GOTTA RUN! SHE'S COMING! OH SPARKS SHE'S COMING!!"

"Huh?" MV had her mouth open to demand further clarification when a sudden scream echoed from a nearby street. It wasn't a scream of fear. It was a bloodcurdling expression of pure rage and bloodlust that made her hairs stand on end.

"Calamity," MV said with a shiver. "What kind of Epic did you piss off this time?"

"Samrose!" Backtrack wailed, waving his arms miserably in the air. "Darksam! Gotta go!"

"You know what, I think that's a good idea."

She took him firmly by the hand—only because he was in no condition to lead himself right now—and started running.

Whatever was behind them, at least they'd survived it. Now they just had to keep it that way.

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  • 3 weeks later...

The Newcago Office
Bonus Episode: Every Darkrose Has Its Thorn 
Part Three

INTERIOR: Aces Casino. The camera shows us a shot of a slot machine, tipped on its side and dented. The dents are filled with mustard. 

CASINO MANAGER: (voiceover) Here at the Aces Casino, Epics don't get drunk. 

The camera shifts focus to a pair of tables, each resting on its side, chairs piled all around to form a sort of fort. Each table is pocked with bullet holes. 

CASINO MANAGER: (voiceover) They drink, of course. Sometimes they drink too much. But do we say they get drunk? Absolutely not. 

We then see broken bottles on the floor, shards of glass scattered all around as though two combatants had a sword fight with bottles.

CASINO MANAGER: (voiceover) Instead, we say they're intoxicated. An Epic who's drank a lot is heavily intoxicated. Anything beyond that is we should start bringing them some water or tell them we're all out of their favorite. 

We see a pile of ladies' shoes topped with a flag made from a napkin tied to a fork.

CASINO MANAGER: (voiceover) We don't say they're drunk. We don't say they're squiffy, or sloshed, or hammered. We just try to get them to sober up before the damage gets too bad. 

The camera then cuts to a corner of the now mostly-empty casino, where ALASTAIR is trying to splash FORTUITY with the contents of his bottle. FORTUITY, in turn, is trying to catch the alcohol in his mouth. A bit goes up his nose, and he whips out his pistol. ALASTAIR ducks the shot with ease and takes a swig in celebration. FORTUITY tries to swat the bottle out of his hands, and jumps aside as ALASTAIR throws the entire bottle at him. We cut to the CASINO MANAGER, who looks as though she has been awake for days and would like nothing more than to punch a koala to relieve her stress. 

CASINO MANAGER: Fortuity and Alastair are hammered. 

**************************************

EXTERIOR: Aces Casino. We linger there only a moment before STEELHEART pushes his way through the doors, NIGHTWEILDER in tow. He stops in his tracks, doors swinging behind him. 

Not too far away, FORTUITY and ALASTAIR stand opposed. Each has a half-full bottle of alcohol somewhere at hand—ALASTAIR's is on a nearby table and FORTUITY's is on the floor at his feet. DARKROSE perches on the table beside ALASTAIR's liquor, eating a bowl of curry and swinging her stocking-clad feet casually as FORTUITY draws a card from a regular 52-card playing deck and presents it to ALASTAIR. 

FORTUITY: See? Izz the jack a spades. Geddit? Cuz yer a [bleep]? 

DARKROSE: Ooh, that was rude. Get him, babe. 

ALASTAIR whips his tarot deck out of his pocket and flings the whole thing at FORTUITY, who swats at a few cards as they flutter around him. 

ALASTAIR: Yer gonna 'splode. 

We cut to STEELHEART, who seems—for a moment—unable to figure out where to start or what to do. This passes quickly, and he strides forward, cape billowing behind him and NIGHTWEILDER following after. He stops just beside DARKROSE, folding his arms over his chest. 

STEELHEART: All right, you two, party's over. We're gonna take you someplace to sober up, since you (he nods to FORTUITY) have work in the morning. 

ALASTAIR: Nunh-uh! 

STEELHEART: You're a guest in this city. I'd advise you not to push it. 

ALASTAIR: (pouting a little) I just want my juice. 

STEELHEART looks to the bottle DARKROSE holds up and reads the label. 

STEELHEART: You mean your peach vodka? 

FORTUITY evidently finds this hilarious, as he breaks into uncontrolled laughter. 

FORTUITY: Yooooooouuuuuuu don' even know what you're drinking! Yer so drunk you…you….

His laughter causes him to choke on air, and he takes a swig from his bottle. 

STEELHEART: Yeah? And what're you drinking? 

FORTUITY: Water. 

STEELHEART: That's a bottle of peppermint schnapps. 

FORTUITY holds the bottle up and blinks blearily at the label. 

FORTUITY: Izz premium water. 

He goes for another swig, but STEELHEART pins his arm down, wrestling the bottle from his hand. 

STEELHEART: No, nope, you're done. C'mon, you're going to bed. 

FORTUITY: Awwww! 

ALASTAIR: Yeah, don't be such a party pooper. 

FORTUITY: Weeeeeee were 'bout to settle this. With a game a Slapjack. 

ALASTAIR: Yeah! We're gon' play Slapjack. 

FORTUITY: Slapjack. 

ALASTAIR: Slappity jack. 

Both turn hopeful looks on him. STEELHEART regards each of them a moment, apparently weighing his options: no Slapjack and perhaps a call for some other means of settling the score….or a game of Slapjack and possible calls for a rematch. He holds a hand to his forehead in defeat. 

STEELHEART: Fine. Fine. You may play one game of Slapjack, and then you're both leaving. 

FORTUITY and ALASTAIR move to the nearest table. DARKROSE does not get off the table, but she does scoot aside a few inches as the two precogs remain standing. FORTUITY eagerly divides his deck, placing one half in front of him and the other in front of ALASTAIR. Each turns the top card over, face-up, and sets it slightly to the side. 

FORTUITY and ALASTAIR: Eenie….meenie….miney….

NIGHTWEILDER and STEELHEART trade glances. Neither has played Slapjack in a while, but they don't recall this being a part of the rules. 

FORTUITY and ALASTAIR: Jack! 

On that count, they both try to slap each other. Precognition and enhanced reflexes—even if they're not at peak performance due to alcohol—kick in and both duck, their arms and hands swinging wildly. STEELHEART and NIGHTWEILDER, sensing a brawl, move quickly to restrain the two precogs. 

STEELHEART: That is enough! You. You. We're going to take you someplace to sober up. 

ALASTAIR: You're takin' us to the coppers! 

FORTUITY: Enforcement HQ is a sucky place. I ain't goin'. 

ALASTAIR: Me neither. 

NIGHTWEILDER: At least they agree on—

FORTUITY: I ain't goin' before you ain't goin'. 

ALASTAIR: I ain't goin' better than you ain't goin'. 

STEELHEART gives NIGHTWEILDER an exasperated look. NIGHTWEILDER looks defeated for a moment; then he brightens. Using his shadows to keep ALASTAIR restrained, he fishes his mobile from one pocket and presses a few buttons. Suddenly, FORTUITY and ALASTAIR perk up at exactly the same moment. 

ALASTAIR: Pizza? There'll be pizza? 

FORTUITY: No way, I saw it first! 

ALASTAIR: I saw it better! 

NIGHTWEILDER: It doesn't matter who saw it first or better. Enforcement HQ will have more than enough pizza for everyone. 

FORTUITY and ALASTAIR pause a moment, meeting each others' gaze. 

ALASTAIR: I'm getting there first. 

FORTUITY: No way! I'm first all the time always! Izz a rule

At STEELHEART's nod, he and NIGHTWEILDER release the two precogs, who race out the door, shoving each other on their quest to be first to Enforcement HQ. 

**************************************

INTERIOR: Enforcement HQ. The main area is alive with activity—Enforcers hurrying back and forth, mobiles buzzing, computer screens lit up and voices discussing this and that. DARKROSE stands with her back to this, arms folded. 

DARKROSE: Fortuity was going to take his stupid car over here, but Steelheart wanted to make sure he actually got here instead of changing his mind, so he just carried him like a baby and flew over. She sighs. Alastair was going to steal a train, but same thing—they wanted to make sure he didn't decide to rob a taco stand instead of getting pizza, so Nightweilder just drove him. Way to ruin the one cool thing about our visit, guys. 

We cut to STEELHEART standing across from the ENFORCEMENT CHIEF. His arms are folded and FORTUITY is not with him. The camera zooms out, and we see FORTUITY standing in a glass-walled partition. He is using his fingers to stretch his mouth, sticking out his tongue. We pan to the other side of the room and see ALASTAIR, also behind glass, pointing to FORTUITY, then to a picture of a donkey he holds in his other hand. We cut back to DARKROSE, who is smiling. 

DARKROSE: I don't even know where he got that picture. 

We cut to STEELHEART and the ENFORCEMENT CHIEF. 

ENFORCEMENT CHIEF: Well, we got them separated. That's the important thing. 

STEELHEART looks to ALASTAIR and FORTUITY. Whatever FORTUITY has done has offended ALASTAIR deeply; he raises both hands in a pixelated gesture. 

STEELHEART: Could you at least have gotten them behind actual walls

ENFORCEMENT CHIEF: (irritated) We got them separated and we confiscated Fortuity's card deck. Not the easiest thing, since they tried to start up a game of poker once you walked away. 

STEELHEART: Please tell me it wasn't strip poker. 

ENFORCEMENT CHIEF: No, they just tried to draw cards and poke each other in the eyes. 

The camera swings over to FORTUITY, who is in the process of undoing his belt buckle. We pan back quickly to STEELHEART, who is already moving in. 

STEELHEART: No! No! Fortuity! Do not take those pants off! 

We cut back to DARKROSE, who is watching the proceedings with a smile on her face. 

DARKROSE: Okay, never mind what I said earlier. Newcago is awesome. 

*******************************************

INTERIOR: Still Enforcement HQ, some time later. ALASTAIR sits in a windowless room, tearing into a pile of buffalo chicken wings. NIGHTWEILDER sits across from him, dipping the crust of a stuffed-crust pizza into a plastic cup of cheese sauce. ALASTAIR looks up, wing still in his hot-sauce-smeared hands, taking in the steel walls, steel ceiling, steel door. He looks to NIGHTWEILDER in horror and outrage. 

ALASTAIR: Am I being detained

NIGHTWEILDER calmly dips a slice of cheese pizza in the cheese sauce. 

NIGHTWEILDER: No, you're eating chicken wings.  

ALASTAIR: Oh. Okay. 

ALASTAIR goes back to the chicken wings. We cut over to another room, similar in construction, although this one contains STEELHEART and FORTUITY. A small radio sits on the floor beside STEELHEART, playing "Party in the USA" by Miley Cyrus. FORTUITY has his arms folded on the table, a piece of pepperoni stuck to one cheek, eyes closed as he rests his head on his arms. He half-sings, half-mumbles along with the music. 

FORTUITY: They blow the vans up, we're eatin' hot dogs, my underwear flies away….

STEELHEART: (muttering) That had better not make it into your next movie. 

STEELHEART does not look up from his current pursuit: drawing mustaches on all the female characters in a copy of Joe Quezada's One More Day. 

We cut to DARKROSE, an unspecified amount of time later. She sits before a desk at Enforcement HQ, although it is NIGHTWEILDER who sits opposite, not an Enforcer. 

NIGHTWEILDER: Rather than force your boyfriend through the indignity of a common prisoner, we have decided to put the two of you up in a hotel for the night. 

DARKROSE: Ooohhh, is it one of those really good ones, where you have to battle cockroaches for the right to sleep on the bed? 

NIGHTWEILDER shoots her a warning look. 

NIGHTWEILDER: It has been used by visiting Epics prior to your….holiday here. At any rate, it is far better than you might expect for a man who destroyed a casino and caused a government precog to embrace his inner four-year-old. 

DARKROSE: Hey, you go on some cheese-eating tour for your vacation, Alastair comes to Newcago to humiliate people. We all like different things. Don't judge. 

NIGHTWEILDER: I'm judging. 

DARKROSE looks as if she's about to say something else, but NIGHTWEILDER turns a tablet toward her. She skims it. 

DARKROSE: What is this and why do I have to read it? 

NIGHTWEILDER: It's a statement acknowledging that you aided and abetted your boyfriend in impugning the dignity of this great city and sowing general chaos. 

DARKROSE smirks. 

DARKROSE: Sparks yes! It was awesome. 

NIGHTWEILDER: Steelheart doesn't agree. 

DARKROSE: Well, he's stupid. 

NIGHTWEILDER hands DARKROSE a stylus. 

NIGHTWEILDER: Just read the statement and sign at the bottom acknowledging that all of it—

DARKROSE signs eagerly. 

NIGHTWEILDER: —happened. And then you'll have to indicate one of the options at the bottom. 

DARKROSE: (reading aloud) "Option one: I hereby agree to apologize by staying in Newcago and serving Emperor Steelheart forever and always. Option two: I hereby agree to be banned from this stupid city and all its stupid rules." 

NIGHTWEILDER: It…doesn't say it quite like that, but you get the idea. 

DARKROSE: (reading aloud) In acknowledgment of my and my boyfriend's many crimes, I have the following to say." She looks up. You left it blank. 

NIGHTWEILDER: That is where you can add a statement. Explain yourself, or apologize some more. Many Epics choose to praise Steelheart for his—

DARKROSE has already started writing. 

**********************************************

INTERIOR: The hotel. As NIGHTWEILDER indicated, it is a nice one—opulently furnished with steel walls and wainscoting painted over in rich hues. ALASTAIR lies facedown on one of two king-sized beds. DARKROSE sets a plate of waffles on the nightstand beside him and digs into her own. After a moment, he rises groggily, squinting at the light from the bedside lamp. 

ALASTAIR: Where are we? 

DARKROSE: Some hotel or other. 

ALASTAIR: How'd we get here?

DARKROSE: You passed out in the cab and three bellhops had to load you onto a luggage cart and push you into an elevator. 

ALASTAIR blinks, as if trying to digest that, and takes a long gulp from a water glass. He picks up a waffle and takes a cautious bite. 

DARKROSE: We'll have to leave soon. 

He chuckles. 

ALASTAIR: Yeah, I think I had too much fun at the casino last night. 

DARKROSE: That, and they made me make a statement about what happened. She swipes a waffle through a generous amount of whipped cream. Don't think they liked it. 

ALASTAIR: What'd you say? 

We flash back to the night before, where DARKROSE is providing her written statement to NIGHTWEILDER. She types a few keys on the tablet and appraises it. 

DARKROSE: There. 

She hands it back. NIGHTWEILDER studies it, and we see what he's seeing. There, in the large blank left for a profuse apology or profession of loyalty following "In acknowledgement of my and my boyfriend's crimes, I have the following to say," DARKROSE has written a single emoji: 

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

NIGHTWEILDER does not speak for a long moment. When he does, it is without tearing his gaze from the screen. 

NIGHTWEILDER: I think you need to leave. 

****************************************

EXTERIOR: Newcago outskirts. ALASTAIR and DARKROSE sit in the back of an open-bed Enforcement truck, which is headed rapidly toward the edge of town. As they cross the city limits, DARKROSE puts both hands in the air and lets out a whoop, her raised hands turning into two pixelated gestures. ALASTAIR laughs and does the same, facing the city he is leaving to mirror DARKROSE's gesture. 

ALASTAIR: (voiceover) So, we're leaving Newcago. Can't say I'll miss it. 

DARKROSE cups her hands around her mouth to spout a stream of bleeped profanity at the city. 

ALASTAIR: (voiceover) Yeah, I lived there for a while, but coming back made me realize….Newcago sucks. 

We cut to the two of them a short distance from the city, both standing on the ground outside beneath the sunshine. 

ALASTAIR: (voiceover) They make pretty good waffles, but I know of someone who can get me waffles whenever I want. So no. I won't miss that city. 

They wave goodbye and shout profanity at the truck as it speeds away, eliciting no reaction from the drivers. They laugh. When they've tired of laughing, ALASTAIR takes DARKROSE's hand and kisses her. 

ALASTAIR: So what should we do now? 

She kisses him again, then grins. 

DARKROSE: Whatever the sparks we want. 

Edited by TwiLyghtSansSparkles
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DarkroseIcon.png.d55a8cd8c8871478d2441bdf61d25ab8.png

AlastairIcon.jpg.06a538cd376056f1ee9bb4263a6e9475.jpg

Darkrose hadn't slept last night. She'd been too busy killing everyone who'd ever known her.

She hadn't meant to stay up all night in that pursuit. It just sort of happened—she’d woken up around midnight and couldn't seem to get back to sleep. It hadn't been the first time this month she'd woken up in a bed that wasn't her own. Nor was it the first that she'd woken up from a nightmare that had left her panting and half-crying.

It was the first time both of those things had thoroughly ticked her off. She'd have murdered the idiots who'd owned this abandoned house if they hadn't already died to someone else during the battle. Or maybe they'd had the good sense to leave the city beforehand. Who knew?

So instead she spent the long night on a different rampage. It turned out there was a somewhat decent stretch of downtown Portland still intact—the stretch where she'd once lived. Apparently hadn't destroyed it all during those first hectic hours of her new life. Her carnage had been focused around the bakery and the single street she'd called home. Neither had the three-way battle for CorpseMaker’s territory extended out here. There was still more to the neighborhood that hadn’t been destroyed, which she was now making up for. 

Mrs. Travis, that batty old lady with the puckered up face and the sharp words for young people she thought were foolish. Many of those words had been spat out for the teenage girl of the neighborhood who had always been pushing the boundaries of common sense with what she wore and what she said. Mom said Mrs. Travis had lived through hard times in her life. Well, she didn't make it through Darkrose.

Frank Gale. A nice man. He carved furniture out of whatever wood he could get and hired local youths to help out. He'd even tried to get her on board, once or twice. She'd turned him down then. When she returned, it was to rip him into screaming shreds.

Keith Pauls. Odd boy about her age. He would often come into the bakery on days when she'd been helping out, stammering and acting weird. He'd always had trouble looking her in the eyes. Back then she'd found him confusing; when she returned she left him impaled on one of the spiked fence posts around his house. His other family members were left in even smaller pieces all around the yard.

Each of these people, and many more, perished at her hands. They'd all been people who'd known Darkrose, and most were people she'd liked to some degree or another. And they'd all had a look of terrified recognition when she'd shown up again, a look that gave her a curious feeling as she ripped them apart.

It was like the sensation of pulling off a scab when you were a little kid. It hurt, and she knew perfectly well she shouldn't be doing it. It didn't even feel good per se. It just felt... satisfying. Because it was there, and she could.  

She committed unforgivable sin after unforgivable sin just to keep herself busy that night. When the sun rose, it rose upon a dead neighborhood in a dead city, only a single woman left standing on a street covered in dust and blood.

Alone.

Life always had made a habit of whittling away at the people in her life, but this time there was no nebulous destiny to blame for it. She had no one to blame but herself, with a mind that was only half-inclined to cast blame at all. In the end it all felt worth it as long as no one was around who could look at her with eyes that had also seen Sam Trattner.

And she'd done that.

Mostly.

Where the sparks was Revolution? For that matter, what about Remington? And Nathan...

...Nathan...

...Alastair... 

...had slipped away last night, probably finding some abandoned house like she had for shelter. Except he'd probably gotten a decent night's sleep, the slontze. A part of her still wanted to kill him, but not for the same reasons she'd killed everyone else. Everyone else, looking at her during their final moments, had seen Samantha Trattner. They might have realized she was an Epic, but the reflections in their dying eyes had still been Sam. It was Sam that they blamed for their murders. It was Sam whom they believed was capable of murder.

Alastair knew that she was Darkrose. He knew the full extent of the change that had occurred. He knew she was an inhuman monstrosity, and above all, he knew the satisfaction that came with being one.  

So she wouldn't kill him. At least not without a good reason. In fact...

Maybe it was just the fact that she had no one to talk to, but she was actually looking forward to him crawling out of his hole this morning. She was done killing time and old neighbors. She wanted to find something that would give her real satisfaction.

And maybe he could help her find that.

****

Alastair had thought the nightmares would end.

They hadn’t visited him on a nightly basis, prior to Calamity’s claiming, but they had visited. Dead friends and angry Epics appeared frequently in those dreams, and often came together. He’d learned to push them back with his morning alarm, relegate them to the back of his mind and focus on surviving the day. Such dreams should have ceased to be once he gained the power to keep the source of those nightmares at bay, but last night’s offerings forced him to reconsider. He wouldn’t forget that final night in Newcago; to think otherwise would be absurd. And, what with it being burned into his memory, he knew it would resurface from time to time.

Never had he thought—never had he wanted to think—his mind would subject him to a version where Funtimes failed to appear.

He’d rushed out the door without putting too much thought into what he was doing, glanced here and there for someone, anyone. His mind held no directive that could be put into words, but someone, someone he didn’t know, would peer out a window in moments and he saw futures filled with blood, screams, defenses engaged too late.

Then, shaking breath, cool air drawn into his lungs. One after the other.

Beyond those futures, beyond that man’s death, was nothing of import. Simply a body on the floor and blood staining Alastair’s clothes. His death would change nothing, solve nothing. It wouldn’t bring Lightwards’ wits back for another round; it wouldn’t lure Fortuity from Newcago for a fair fight. It wouldn’t even leave a satisfying memory to cherish.

Alastair had looked up, toward the second-floor window of the survivor’s home. A man’s face—the man’s face—peered out for no longer than a second before vanishing into the dark. Prey disappearing at the sight of a predator.

Alastair had turned and walked down the street, out of the ring of mostly-intact homes, without looking back. 

Darkrose entered his thoughts more often than he would have liked, in the hours between the nightmare and dawn. He didn’t know where she’d gone, and he told himself he didn’t care. She wanted to be feared, worshipped by anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path. She wanted Steelheart himself to quake in his shoes at the mere mention of her name. Despite what she’d told him, she likely did want a minion. Every Epic despot did. And as tempting as the thought of having an Epic with her powers close by might be, the thought of being placed under her thumb was less so.

Yet even as he considered this, he found himself scanning the future in search of her. Perhaps it was some lingering memory of Nathan’s, of laughter strong enough to drive away fear for a few minutes. Perhaps he simply wanted another Epic around until Funtimes found her way back to him. Whatever the case, locating Darkrose wasn’t a difficult task. Finding a lone survivor in a neighborhood filled with blood never was.

He’d spent his adult life and much of his teenage years working for people perpetually three steps ahead of him. Walking into a room and feeling as though he’d walked in on a joke mid-punchline was less an unhappy event and more the normal state of affairs. Epics knew more, did more, and weren’t afraid to show it. He simply had to do his best to keep up.

So when he found Darkrose in the middle of a street run through with stripes of blood and pockets of dust, a part of him—a small part of him—expected her to turn to him with a scowl and announce she’d expected him half an hour ago. Despite the myriad futures that depicted her standing there until he interfered with her thoughts, it still seemed more natural for her to be the one with the plan.

She looked more like Sam standing there like that, breeze ruffling her dark gown and lifting tiny locks of her hair. Nathan might have snuck up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder, sent her fright away with a quick joke. And when she took a few steps forward without acknowledging his presence, Alastair couldn’t help a small smirk at the thought of what he could do.

The houses here were vacant now. Some had gone that way gradually in the years following Calamity; others had been abandoned as the Portland turf wars intensified. Still others had lost their occupants only last night when the High Epic Darkrose decided there were too many who still knew her old name. Most of the latter were too crowded with bodies—or pieces of them, rather—to serve Alastair’s purposes. Were she more receptive to the lesson, he might have given her a few pointers on keeping the mess to a minimum. A tidier space opened it to greater possibilities. 

His muscles ached to scale a wall and run leaping along the rooftops to his intended destination, but Darkrose’s astounding lack of awareness was not complete blindness. Such a display would have attracted her attention long before he wanted it. Instead, he trailed along at a distance, slipping into a home that had sat abandoned some weeks prior to the previous night’s battle. Alastair slipped inside. The home smelled of must and disuse, but was otherwise clean. His powers left him unable to see precisely what had happened to the family who used to live within those walls, but as clothes and much of their food stores were missing and their furniture and generator were not, he could surmise they’d fled once Portland’s factions made peace a fool’s dream.

He got the generator up and running again without much trouble; it had been kept in good repair prior to the family’s leaving and his precognition was more help than any manual. Whatever propane they’d had on hand had been given to or stolen by the families who chose to stay, but Darkrose had cut them off long before their supply ran out. Getting it was as simple as taking it from the adjacent home—a task complicated by the bodies Darkrose had left quite literally lying around.

Alastair stifled a sigh, stepping around a pool of blood on the front porch on his way to the front entrance, yawning open with the door tossed aside. Someone needed to inform her that blood and bodies were not the only frightening things in the world. On the other hand, it might be amusing to watch other Epics tire of her antics long before she did.

Portland had never been a major shipping destination, not the way Newcago was. Residents subsisted on whatever they could grow or get their hands on, and Alastair knew better than to expect a cellar stocked with fine wine and rare cheeses. Still, there was fresh water, and oats, some honey and dried berries. He carried them back to the abandoned house and set to work.

By the time the future showed Darkrose on her way back, Alastair had no impressive structures or feats of any great magnitude to show for his time. Nothing more than a pot of oatmeal, some of which he’d spooned into a bowl and sat down with at the table. But he’d accomplished it all while her back was turned. It was this thought, more than the taste, that made him smile.

******

Darkrose was starving.

It sort of came at her from nowhere, like a sunburn on a cloudy day or blood splatters when you thought you'd been standing safely out of spraying range. As she meandered aimlessly down the abandoned streets the scent of oatmeal came wafting towards her, and she realized just how sparking hungry she actually was.

The last proper meal she'd had was a pancake platter served at the Tillamook cottage. She hadn't even eaten the whole plate. As much as she had a sweet tooth, Funtimes' overly sweetened fare would drive anyone crazy if it was every breakfast for nearly a month. She'd then had the busiest day in her life, getting stuck in an intense supervillain battle, becoming a supervillain herself, slaughtering as many other supervillains as she could get her thorns into, and then staying up all night massacring normal, decent people until she was half ready to keel over from exhaustion.

So, yeah, that oatmeal was smelling really sparking good right about now. Her only hang-up was the fact that she'd gone down this street before and it had not smelled like oatmeal and it had not been advertising itself with the roaring sound of a generator. That house had belonged to the Walters family, who—she'd overheard Mom talking to Pamela about it—had packed up and left about the same time rumors started about crazy new Epics tearing up streets not far from their suburb. This made the Walters the most sensible former denizens of Portland.

Who would be in the Walters' house letting a loud generator run and a tasty breakfast waft out to the neighborhood, on a street that had clearly been the target of an especially murderous Epic in the past hour?

Her stomach growled, and she found herself walking up the steps and stopping by the front door. She was pretty sure she knew who this was. It wasn't like there were many people it could be in this ghost town. And if it was him, then it would explain why he'd set up here. She was even, begrudgingly, a little impressed. She'd been meandering at random. He would have had to know where she'd walk by before even she did.

If it wasn't him then it was just some idiot, and no random idiot was going to stand between her and breakfast. She'd been looking for a stupid and petty reason to kill someone this morning.

Ripping the door off its hinges would have been easy. She'd done it to houses on this very street. But instead, this time, she raised her hand and knocked. It felt more sarcastic that way.

"Morning, neighbor," she said lazily as she did. Her stomach gave another impatient growl. "Hope you don’t mind-”

The door swung open to reveal a familiar figure, already standing there leaning casually against the frame with a bowl of oatmeal in his hands. He looked like he’d been standing there even before she’d knocked.

“...me dropping by," she finished, rolling her eyes.

****

“‘Course not.” Alastair took another bite of oatmeal. He hadn’t expected to enjoy her irritation this much. “There’s some left for you, if you want it.”

He nodded to the stove, knowing she most certainly would want it. “The bowls are in the cupboard above the sink, spoons in the first drawer under the counter. I wouldn’t stand too close to the counter. Might get a thread caught on the edge.” Now that he’d said it, she’d take a course that put her nowhere near fulfilling that particular prediction, but that didn’t matter. He’d seen it and she hadn’t.

****

How was it that there was a cocky way to eat oatmeal? She thought that had to be one of the most neutral things a person could do. She'd been wrong. Alastair was looking like it was taking all his effort not to be smirking over that bowl of his. Like the oatmeal and his knowledge of the kitchen were monuments to Epic power that rivaled even the giant floating museum across the city.

The worst part? It was actually annoying her.  

"Holy sparks," she said. "Calamity gave you oatmeal powers? I was wrong about you. You're a 10 out of 10 Epic. Easily Steelheart-tier. Obviously I have to be your minion now."

She didn't wait for a reply, because it was a tired, hungry sort of jab and she didn't really care what he had to say about it. She walked right past him into the kitchen, steering clear of the counter because, sparks, this was her only dress and it had taken enough punishment during the battle yesterday. She set about scooping herself a bowl of the hot oatmeal before taking a seat at the table, shoveling bites with a hunger she didn't feel like disguising.

Her first thought was that the oatmeal was pretty good, as far as she could taste it as she made it rapidly disappear. Her next was that it might be poisoned. That wasn't something she'd ever have suspected Nathan of; Funtimes, definitely, but never meek, harmless Nathan. 

Alastair, though, was a slontze, and being a slontze herself she knew that the makeshift peace they'd made last night didn't necessarily mean she could count on him not to try anything funny. Still... she was hungry, and if he ever turned on her she liked to think he'd try something cleverer than slipping poison into an immortal and very destructive Epic's breakfast.

****

Alastair laughed, less at the humor of her joke (hilarious as thought of an Epic conquering the planet through the power of oatmeal was) and more at what lay behind it as she stalked into the kitchen. She followed his instruction about the counter, took a generous serving of the oatmeal, and plopped down at the table, starting in on the dish only seconds after sitting down. He took one bite of his own as she polished off three, trying to figure why he found the whole situation so amusing.

It wasn’t her jabs. He’d found them funnier as a vanilla, and suspected a good bit of his laughter had come from shock that she dared voice things that could have easily led to her death. Were she still Sam Trattner, he….well, he’d probably keep her around anyway in large part because of the things she said, rather than in spite of them. The fact he was now the target of these opinions rather than an observer of them didn’t ignite the sort of rage he’d seen from Epics like Lightwards and Lucentia.

No, it was something else, he realized through his second-to-last bite of oatmeal. Even back with Funtimes, even when Sam was as trapped as he, he’d looked to her. Not as an authority on pleasing Epics, a skill he’d mastered long before she’d deemed it unnecessary. Not as a last-ditch line of defense, a role that had gone to Remington almost as soon as Funtimes called him up onstage.

He’d looked to her the way some might look to an oracle or a diviner. If her mood was as high as circumstances allowed, if she could poke fun at their captors, then he could relax. It was those moments when her jokes ceased flowing and her laughter fell silent that he’d known the situation was dire indeed. Epics who escaped her ridicule were Epics to avoid, Epics to fear above all else. Sam Trattner’s laughter had been more than amusement. It had been a barometer of a situation, its absence a portent of doom.

And now he had taken that position.

He hadn’t minded then, being the one at the bottom of the ladder. He hadn’t minded sitting back and letting others take charge, when those in charge didn’t want him dead or bruised. But now, with a mind on the future and a foolproof means of detecting danger, he had to admit that being the one looked to, whether or not they enjoyed admitting as much...well, it was something he could get used to.  

“So,” he said, letting his spoon hit the empty bowl with a clank, “since you said yesterday you don’t want a minion and I have a feeling I shouldn’t take you up on the very serious offer you made just now, I think we should find something we can agree on doing today. Besides raiding the neighbors’ pantries. They’re mostly dried beef and mushrooms anyway.” 

***

"Ooh, look at you. The Newcago gentleman's too good for smuggled rations and stuff people shot in their yards."

She stuffed another spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth, using the action to hide her uncertainty. Truth be told, she didn't really have a plan. Plans used to be easy... but only considering that she didn't have any control of her life.

Even before Funtimes her days were pretty much scripted ahead of her. Help Mom bake some goods out of whatever traces of sugar and flour that had leaked out of Thoughttown this week. Help Mom run some deliveries, trading goods for whatever they needed that week. Spend some time around the house, where Mom was happiest to have her. Or take a walk, which terrified Mom to no end. Even the walks felt boxed in. There were so many areas she had to avoid just on the off-chance that Hotwire would be running one of her impromptu demolition derbies, or Headshot would be taking pot shots at passerby, or some unknown Dominion Epic would have wandered by chance out of their turf.

After Funtimes abducted her, her choices became at once more liberating and more confining. No longer did she walk the same old boring streets that she used to. Under Funtimes she was treated to a variety of exciting locales ranging from a floating jungle fortress to the center of Thoughttown itself. She could go anywhere... provided it was where Funtimes wanted to go, and that she stayed in general proximity to the mad teleporter at all times.

Considering she'd been a kid before Calamity, this was really, truly the first time in her life she felt like she could go anywhere. And she had no idea where to go.

 Names of places popped into her mind, mostly Oregon cities. Corvallis. The Dalles. Astoria. Gresham. Oregon City, the city she had to assume had been named by CorpseMaker. She knew about all of these—at least as much as anyone knew about them in this age of rumors and hearsay—but none of them really called out to her more than the others. She just felt tired and not sure where to go.

Maybe there were still things to do in what used to be Portland. Things she could do until she'd put some more thought into a life without boundaries.

She swallowed her oatmeal. "Well, lucky for you I've been putting some thought into it. I think we should kill people."

She pointed her spoon at him, after another quick bite. This was actually really good.

"Bad people, good people, just people in general. But specifically, I think we should look for Epics who survived the battle yesterday. They're probably out there, and I hate thinking about them giving themselves a pat on the back for it."

****

Killing people was not Alastair’s first choice, or even his second. He had no compunction toward it, but he didn’t relish the thought, either. If he hesitated too long, if he went more than a few moments without looking toward the future, then something rose within him, something that ought to have been relegated to memory by now. The sensation that he’d just swiped money from the cash drawer and a supervisor stood directly behind. That sudden sense of dread, like danger sense but coming seconds after the danger had made itself known.

But then, killing Epics was another thing entirely. Technically a subset of killing people, but one that didn’t spark a reaction he couldn’t explain and couldn’t quite push back. Epics were threats. Darkrose was a threat, technically speaking, but she was a threat who had sided with him.

For the time being.  

“We start with Epics,” he said. “Makes more sense to start with the biggest danger here.”

****

For a moment, there was Nathan. Just for a moment. You could blink and you'd never have noticed him on the High Epic's face.

She almost laughed. In lieu of that, she settled for a derisive snort. "Danger? What, you think Obliteration is out there squatting in the rubble?"

She shook her head, scraping the bottom of her bowl. "You and I walked out of the worst Portland had yesterday. The top three dogs in the city are gone, and we killed them."

Technically. CorpseMaker still counted, whatever the slontze intended. And Lightwards was as good as dead.

"That means we don't have to pull out a map like Lightwards and Altermind, putting dots on everything we're scared might come and hurt us. We don't have to avoid any place 'cause we're scared of who lives there. All we should be thinking about is who ticks us off the most."

****

That’s the problem, he didn’t tell her. There was one Epic who fit into that category, and even assuming they could get to him without Funtimes’ intervention, he’d run crying to Steelheart the second their fight turned against him. Perhaps Alastair could land a few blows, but whatever pain he dealt would be doubled—if not tripled—once Newcago’s Emperor made an appearance.

Still, if he could just get a few minutes….

With some difficulty, Alastair put those thoughts out of his immediate reach, placing his bowl and spoon in the sink as an attempted distraction. Obsessions were dangerous for Epics. They were dangerous for anyone, but there was something about having the drive to get something and the means to shatter obstacles in the way that blended into a need to get it. Better to pretend a fight with Fortuity would be out of his reach. Better to focus on what he could have.

He could have a fight. Not the one he wanted, but a fight. Maybe that would help.

Alastair faced Darkrose, leaning back against the counter. “Did you have anyone in mind?”

****

"Oh, lots. Listing all of them would sound like reading out the phonebook, except with stupider names." She leaned back in her chair, propping her feet up on the table. Her shoes were still those ridiculous pink ones Funtimes had made for her; she'd really need to find a look of her own here soon. Preferably with shoes she hadn’t consented to wearing out of fear of an acid bath. "On general principle I want to kill everyone who was with the Empire, Thoughttown, or the Dominion."

She tilted her head back as though deep in thought. She wasn't really. The names came easily to her.  

"Nighthound... definitely Nighthound. Also Lucentia, but I think she went back to Astoria. That's a long way away."

Also, Lucentia was easily a rank above either of them on the Epic totem pole. Even her healing was a superior version of what Darkrose could do, as much as she refused to admit that out loud. Taking down Lucentia would be a challenge for another day.

"And there are... others. Ones I don't want to kill."

Her eyes settled on those shoes a little longer.  

"I mean... I do want to kill them." Her voice was quieter, but she forced it to stay upbeat. "But not as much as I want to see them crack."

****

Funtimes.

Alastair didn’t ask her for confirmation and he didn’t look to the future for it. The way she stared at those shoes, at her gift from the teleporter, was confirmation enough. Funtimes was one of the Epics, if not the only Epic, falling into the latter category.

He turned away and placed the empty pot in the sink. The action itself didn’t buy him enough time to fully quash his rising fury, but it kept him from saying what he wanted to say, from doing what he wanted to do. If he charged forward and pinned her to her chair, he’d only get a face—and body—full of thorns for his trouble.

Do you know what she did when she saw me like this? How she smiled? How she cried?  He held those words in his throat, much as he wanted to loose them. On another Epic, they might have some sort of impact; but on Darkrose they were useless. She’d made up her mind regarding the teleporter, and once an Epic’s mind was made up, it didn’t often change.

“I haven’t seen Nighthound recently,” Alastair said at last. “He may have gone back to Astoria too, though I’m not opposed to a fight.” He’d considered how the slontze’s healing factor might turn into a distinct advantage over a danger-sensing precog who could nevertheless tire, but saw no need to mention that particular disadvantage to Darkrose.

“I’m assuming Altermind is dead,” he went on, “but you didn’t mention any of the other Thoughttown Epics. If his first- or second-in-command managed to escape, that might be a good place to start.”

*****

He dodged around her implication. He tried to cover it by stopping to put the empty pot in the sink, but she knew better—what kind of Epic would stop to take care of the dirty dishes in an abandoned house? None of the ones she'd met, that was for sure. If Lightwards told a zombified corpse to clean up its own blood then it was a considerate day for him.

Alastair wasn't interested in going after Funtimes. Or, if he was—he had to be, right?--he wanted to do it alone. The thought made her angry, as much as she knew it was irrational. Of course Alastair's goals wouldn't line up neatly with her own. No one's would, now that she was a psychopath.  

"Altermind's definitely dead," she replied. Alastair wanted to keep the talk moving to other things. Fine, then. She'd allow that. "You should have seen the look on his face—you know, the real one."

And to think, she likely would have never seen that face again if it hadn't been for Calamity. Thoughts of Sam Trattner ever getting close enough to harm him felt naive now, even with his weakness.

"Buuut... it's possible his lackeys maybe slipped away while I was doing my thing in there. I didn't see any of his Epics hanging around there at the end, but I know he had a lot of them."

She held her hand out in front of her, counting on fingers. "Flashpoint, Scorch... no, Scorch died way back... uh, Panacea, Strongsteel... Sightline... Lightwards made you talk to him about teleporting, remember? And also Voidgaze, Big Al, and Intervention. Those last two are actually their names. I didn't make those up. There are probably others whose names I’m forgetting, because they didn't talk at the meeting and I don't care."

****

“Sightline wasn’t too bad, if I remember correctly,” Alastair said. Fear was what he remembered most from that meeting-—his certainty that a true teleporter would detect a false one before the latter could blink. So far as he could tell, that hadn’t happened, though of course that no longer mattered. “If he guessed what I told you back then, he didn’t let on.”

Voidgaze, though—she had been the one to inadvertently spill that secret. Not directly; he doubted she had enough interest in most things to take any pleasure in causing such a disaster. Yet Alastair couldn’t summon up anything but an intense ambivalence toward her. Had she led Lightwards to murder him, it would have been a mistake on her part, not the result of any sort of malice. There wasn’t much satisfaction in killing someone who never seemed to mean much harm and would rather sit and eat greasy sandwiches. He might as well rip the head off a teddy bear.

“Big Al, though. Might be fun to drag him along, don’t you think? I haven’t had a McMuffin in years.

*****

Nor had she. They were kind of hard to come by if you weren't willing to play Altermind's IQ games--or if you’d played and turned down your prize. Big Al had been just another cog that let Thoughttown function and his boss live out insane utopian fantasies. A tool.

And also Voidgaze's boyfriend. Voidgaze's precious, innocent, 'adorkable' gentleman of a boyfriend. The man had earned a death sentence just for how much Darkrose had been subjected to his girlfriend gushing about him in her past life.

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I can heal from bullets, but between you and me I don't know if heart disease is covered. We'd also be a fine line away from wandering around with cans of spam in our pockets."

****

Alastair nearly rolled his eyes. Give a suggestion, a perfectly good suggestion, get shot down simply because it wasn’t what Darkrose wanted to hear.

He had an inkling of what she wanted to hear, of the single suggestion that would send her to her feet and get her out the door quicker than he could say the words themselves. But the mere thought of it made him want to shoot Darkrose between the eyes.

Not Funtimes. They would not, so long as he was in control, go after Funtimes.

“What’re your thoughts on Flashpoint?”

****

Alastair should die.

So few direct words had passed between them, but she'd always been perceptive. It was clear that he wasn't on the same wavelength as she was. He clearly wanted to avoid killing some Epics, for reasons she couldn't even begin to wrap her mind around. He'd been around to see Voidgaze chattering vapidly about her Epic boyfriend, right? He had to have felt the same frustration she had. That anger at being expected to take her bubbly smile at face value and pretend she was a friend. A sweet friend, not the rabid dog that she was.

And had he really described Sightline—another Epic—as 'not too bad'? 

And had he really not jumped up with an eager smile at the thought of killing Funtimes? What the sparks was wrong with him?  

She felt her fingers twitch. It would be so easy to send this house tumbling down around him. He could run, he could dodge, he could somersault his way up falling debris—but every Epic had their limits. She was fairly confident he would run into his before she was introduced to hers. She could entangle him, impale his wrists to the wall behind him and give him the gutting he’d been due to get in Newcago.

Except...

...that didn't call out to her. Nothing felt satisfying about the thought. What would she even do if she found herself alone in the kitchen with his flayed corpse? Where would she go after walking out of this house into an empty Portland? Who would she talk to? What would even be left to keep life from taking away from her?

...why did the cupcake from her nightmares flash so vividly in her mind?

Just like the previous night, try as she might, she simply couldn't imagine herself actually making an aggressive move. His stillness across the kitchen from her would seem to confirm it. She wasn't going to raise a single rose against him. Not here at least; not now. The High Epic Darkrose would slaughter her kindly and innocent neighbors by the dozen, but not the psychotic slontze who'd replaced Nathan Sperry.

Ha. It almost funny. Now who was the one being picky about which Epics should die?

She sighed—loudly. It was the only way to disguise her whirling thoughts of murder and rampage as the general bad attitude she liked to greet each morning with.

"Flashpoint's fine I guess," she groaned, making a show of stretching. "I mean, not nice fine. I'm sure plenty of slontze-ness rubbed off on him from Altermind."

Killing Flashpoint wouldn't change anything about her world, if he was even still alive to begin with. Still... she wouldn't turn down even a taste of the satisfaction she'd tasted at her awakening. Although it was half forced, a smile still twitched on her lips.

"...I definitely wouldn't say no to killing him, or watching you make him look like a joke. And it'd be kind of fun to see what Thoughttown looks like now."

****

The future revealed more than Darkrose would have liked.

Her face betrayed little beyond the simmering fury she had taken to carrying. Her fingers simply twitched. But Alastair saw more than what she wanted him to see. In that instant, he saw what she could do.

Roses lashing the walls, surging through plaster and concrete to wrap round the support beams and tug them inward.

Stems wrapped around his body, thorns through his wrists. A brief rush of air past his head before she pinned him to the wall.

Then darkness.

It could be death, he knew, but the terror making itself at home in his middle told another story. That vision contained a different sort of darkness, the awful quiet of a future beyond his sight. In all likelihood, Darkrose wouldn’t kill him instantly—the impaled corpse he’d passed hinted at an Epic disinclined to cut suffering short—but whatever she did to him beyond the moment his wrists hit the wall was a mystery to him.

That mystery, however, was no certainty. Simply a possibility, one that faded almost as soon as it flitted through Darkrose’s mind. Alastair had the fleeting urge to shake her hand and thank her.

She’d shown him something important.

He’d thought he had understood Epics back in Newcago. Working in such close proximity to them necessitated he learn to please them, and in all that time, the greatest lesson he’d gained was that their fury came and went like the wind. Sometimes it was a gentle breeze, sometimes a chilling gust that froze all in its path. If there was a cause behind it, said cause was beyond his comprehension. The best thing to do was keep a smile, keep docile, keep them as happy as possible.

But in that instant, with his own anger rising and that of Darkrose fading, he knew. Epic fury was no unhappy accident. Like the wind, it had a cause, and that cause could be predicted with the right tools.

She didn’t know his weakness. She had it, she could engage it, but she didn’t know the value of what she held. That lack of comprehension afforded him two distinct advantages: caution, and time.

“I wouldn’t say no to that, either,” he said with a small shrug. “Of course, there’s a good bit of space to cross between here and Thoughttown. Who knows what we’ll find?” 

There. That ought to leave things open to her whims. Keep her happy, keep her amused.

And in the meantime, watch her—and her futures—to see what he could learn.

****

 "Yeah. Who knows."  

Did he know? Stupid precog. She still wasn't sure just how far into the future he could see. If he ever wanted to walk her into a trap of some kind, she had a feeling he could do it easily. Even if that would be the last mistake he ever made it was still an annoying thought.

She didn't like being annoyed. She wanted to get back to the parts of being an Epic that felt good. So for the time being, she elected to push her bitter feelings to the back of her head and try to focus on enjoying herself. It wasn't hard, even now that she was insane. She'd been practicing for a while now after all.

"Guess we should get going, then. Flashpoint's not gonna kill himself. Or... he might, so we'd better get a move on."

****

Darkrose had not given an accurate assessment of her impact on Thoughttown.

In fairness, she hadn’t given much of a description at all. Perhaps she figured he’d fear her more if she left her crimes largely to the imagination—though given her lack of appreciation for subtlety, that seemed unlikely. The possibility that she simply didn’t remember much of her destruction lost credulity once Alastair remembered she had mentioned Altermind’s death, as though it were an event she recalled well.

Which left one other explanation: She wanted him to ask about it. 

Upon first sighting, Alastair wasn’t certain what to ask. A pickup truck, crushed like a soda can and nestled in the collapsed ruin of a duplex, wasn’t the first sight that greeted him, but it was the first he noticed. An adjacent home still stood mostly intact, save for a corner of the roof that had fallen in, spilling debris onto the floor. Others were recognizable as homes only by the mailboxes at the ends of their drives, many of which had tipped onto the ground. He stepped around a pile of broken asphalt, the hole in the center attesting to its cause. A middle-aged woman lay facedown nearby, her chest bearing a similar hole.

It wasn’t that there was nothing to discuss. It was that any question Alastair could think of had an answer attainable simply by looking around.

But she had his weakness.

She didn’t know as much, true. But she knew about Newcago, about Fortuity. Nathan had seen no reason not to tell her. He’d had no reason not to tell her, no reason not to unburden himself of that awful memory. If he’d known Darkrose was coming, if he’d known handing over that memory was like handing over a key….

He needed the same from her. Needed a clue. She wouldn’t give it as readily as Nathan had given his, but with the right tool, he could guess. And to get what he needed, he had to get her talking.

“I see now why you didn’t tell me what Thoughttown looked like now,” he said, cracking a grin. “There’s no way you could’ve done it justice.”

*****

I didn't do enough here.  

It was an evil thought. The houses that she'd flattened didn't belong to anyone of any significance to her. They hadn't, to the best of her knowledge, belonged to anyone particularly guilty of upholding Altermind's tyranny. The people who lived here had played along with Altermind's delusion because it was their best bet for survival. There was nothing evil about that. In another life, Sam Trattner might have lived here playing along too.

That hadn't made it any less satisfying to rip building supports up like weeds. It hadn't made it feel any less cathartic to rip the shrieking citizens in two as they'd run past, the weak sense of safety that had been built here toppling around them like a house of cards. Their only crime was happening to live on the path between Darkrose and Altermind, and their lives were undoubtedly worth more than either of the Epics they were stuck in the middle of. Slaughtering them was evil. She was evil.

Darkrose found herself smiling. This one wasn't a mask. She was happy. More than happy; she was sparking proud of herself. As much as she’d hated Altermind, Thoughttown itself was something to long for. For years this had been some elusive fantasy land in the back of her head; a place barred to her, a place as divine and untouchable as Heaven or Santa's workshop.

And she'd destroyed it. Or, rather, destroyed a straight line through it to the command center. Was there a word for someone powerful enough to slaughter their way through Heaven on their way to kill God? 

"Can you believe people wanted to live here? 'Cause I don't think you'd guess that now." She watched Alastair's eyes as they wandered over her handiwork. She felt a sense of warmth somewhere inside of her when he paused before a particularly devastated building, one she'd left as mere dust and bent nails, or when he'd have to leap over a smear of entrails that she'd previously left behind in her path. There was something very, very satisfying about people having to react to what you'd done.

"But if you look really closely, you can see fatter and richer bodies the closer you get to Altermind. Nothing in Portland is really good, but he was basically a big fountain of mediocre, and you got more of it the closer you were to him."

****

Alastair let out a small chuckle at her estimation of Altermind, stepping around a particularly large cluster of broken asphalt. Those had not been an infrequent sight, but he knew they would become nearly ubiquitous the closer they drew to Thougttown’s command center. He considered making a crack about how the lower the bar was set, the more a mediocre man seemed a benevolent god, but didn’t like the number of futures involving a less than enthusiastic reaction on her part. Instead, he opted for a question, one with a degree of flattery built right in.

“How long did they manage to hold you off? Doesn’t seem like they lasted long.”

*****

"Most of them didn't even try. I think their Epics were all off fighting the Dominion, and probably their better soldiers too. A lot of these poor slontzes were smart enough to take off when their first shots didn't stop me."

They walked past and over the bodies of a few Thoughttown soldiers, who lay face down in the rubble. Their uniforms were torn where they'd been impaled by vines that had long since crumbled to dust in her absence, but a clever eye could tell they'd been stabbed in their backs. Some had dropped their guns several paces behind them.

She found herself recalling the incident with relish.

"And the guys who did keep shooting at me even when they could see my bullet holes were filling back up... well, I'm not even sure how they passed the tests to get in here."

****

Desperation. 

It was an emotion Nathan had known well. In those early days, with the dust of the Annexation still settling and uncertainty as common as reports of dead or missing loved ones, desperation had been less an unwelcome intruder and more a constant companion. Beg. That was the answer to his woes. Beg for a place to stay. Beg for food. Beg for work. Don’t think about how you got what you had; just be grateful you had anything at all.

As months became years and he built up a skillset that guaranteed employment, if not safety, that pervasive misery had faded, becoming more background noise than a constant ringing in his ears. He’d felt it since, of course—-sometimes in snatches and sometimes as an all-consuming terror—but it had always passed. Alastair had thought he might not feel it again. Precognition, after all, eased fears of the immediate future. He wouldn’t be desperate as long as he could chart a path around situations leaving him in desperation.

Yet as Darkrose described what had become of those soldiers, that old terror welled up inside him again. An echo of its former strength, but he recognized it on sight. Those soldiers--was that why they’d emptied their magazines into an Epic they knew full well could heal?

Another look to the future drove the thought from his mind—and the unwelcome chill with it.

“Well, everyone has to lower their standards at some point,” he said with a small smirk. “Altermind just happened to lower his when it came to his guards. Kind of ironic, for a man who claimed to value intelligence.”

******

For a moment it didn't feel like he was sharing her mirth.

This gave her pause. Half the reason she was enjoying this walk was the way he mirrored her enjoyment of the aftermath. Every wrecked house and impaled corpse was almost like a shared joke. Something that raised both their spirits, reminding them their thoughts were one and the shame. Something that reminded them they were both on the same side, whether or not that was the truth.

But for a moment, just a moment, he didn't look amused. He looked like he had back when they'd been captives, and what little mirth they'd been able to share was cut short by the latest Epic atrocity. Perhaps Nighthound introducing a new member of his harem, or Lightwards executing one of his own zombies just because he could.

Just because he could.

Lightwards' tight smiles suddenly made so much more sense.  

Alastair smirked, and the brief chill she'd felt receded. What he said next rekindled an anger that had sprouted years back and only recently blossomed to its full potential.

"The slontze never cared about intelligence." She let her roses grow up under her feet, providing her an elevated platform that carried her forward in a wave as new roses sprung up ahead of her. She didn't raise herself high, but just the act of moving by her new power had a certain pleasure to it. "I made him admit it, at the end. Did I tell you that? I made him admit he just liked ruling. That he just liked being able to tell people 'No, you don't get to live here.'"

She smiled, her face feeling tight. "Now, I'm not an idiot. I know he was just telling me what I wanted to hear. He was just trying to stall for time."

They approached the wreck of a building that had once been Altermind's HQ, and had probably once been a public school before then. Barely any wall was left standing, and the bodies and ruined plaster blended here into something like a slurry. Searching for the real Altermind amid all his illusions had been a game of… trial and error, to say the least.

"But for a moment there, at the end, even if he didn't believe he was doing it... I made him tell me the truth."

****

“I made him tell me the truth.” Alastair couldn’t explain why his mind latched onto that last bit. Perhaps it would be of import later on. Or perhaps it simply reminded him of Sam, of that day she’d confronted him in a floating jungle and demanded the truth out of him. Or rather, demanded he confirm or deny what she’d already guessed.

Whatever the case, he held to it as they approached a bloodied pile of rubble that had once held the shape of a building. Alastair supposed that if he sat in a helicopter or airplane, or simply got Darkrose to carry him up above the few trees still standing upright, he would see the rubble still stuck to the building’s original layout, but he didn’t fancy the thought of placing himself at her mercy dozens of feet off the ground.

The smell of decay was stronger here, though some of it was being carried off by the wind. Rain was coming, not now but a few hours off, and while that might help with the odor then, it was of little use now.

“How long did you give him?” Alastair’s voice had taken on a softness he didn’t quite like but couldn’t quite shake. “Was that truth a death sentence, or did you let him elaborate?”

*****

"There was nothing to elaborate," she replied. Her own voice dropped to Alastair's tone, though she wasn't sure whether he was in awe of her deeds or feeling some more subtle emotion. "And I was tired of listening to his stupid voice. 

The smell was awful. The chill in the wind was biting. But even having to wrap her arms around herself and breathe through her mouth... she felt glee from standing here.

"I thought about putting his head on a spike or something. But in the end I decided that made him seem too important. So I buried him here under the rubble. In the dust. Where we belong."

****

We.

Where we belong. Not he. We. You and I.

“Do you know why you’re lying on the ground, Sperry? It’s where you belong.”

Alastair tried to quell his rising fury. She belonged under the rubble simply for saying as much. She deserved to lie there decaying and forgotten beneath a dusty sky. His mind turned to the future once more, toward something, anything that might serve as a clue to her weakness. He’d rather have the real thing, but if a clue was all he could manage, he’d take it and he’d use it, follow it to its brutal, beautiful conclusion. He’d—a  

A scream tore through the air, stopping his thoughts in their tracks.

It wasn’t near enough for him to see its cause with eyes alone, but a quick look to the future showed an Epic. Three of them, actually, all of them leering and two of them armed, though Alastair’s attention was drawn to the one with a battleaxe. The scream had come from a vanilla, but he was more concerned with the Epics, the three of them leering, smiles full of anticipation toward what they had come to do.

Without waiting for Darkrose, he took off toward the scream and the path his futures charted. He couldn’t yet see the conclusion where those smiles were wiped from those faces, but he would.

He would see it soon.

*****

It was a simple statement of fact, 'where we belong.' She'd assumed he'd figured it out by now; that he saw it the same way. That they shouldn't, wouldn't hold themselves up as paragons of humanity like Altermind, Lightwards, or Lucentia had.

The look in Alastair's eyes said no. He was furious at the very thought. The look flashed through his eyes that she'd seen in quite a few Epics over the past month—the look of one who was so offended he was ready to kill her.  

She didn't feel any satisfaction from seeing that look in what should have been Nathan's eyes. But she still grinned back at him.

Go ahead, slontze. Take a good long preview of your disembowelment. Just 'cause I deserve to die doesn't mean I'll let it happen. I will stuff what's left of you down the same hole I put him in...

Already tense, she jumped in surprise when a scream tore through the air.

She'd heard many screams in her life. For most of her life they'd been a signal for her to race home as quickly as possible, while wondering if the screams were from anyone she knew. Her legs were half ready to start running from that muscle memory alone. 

Over the past couple of days screams had developed a very context, however. She'd heard them from much closer and much more personal distances, and hadn't had to wonder if they were from anyone she knew because she could see the stupid scared look in Keith's eyes right in front of her as she ripped him apart.

This was a brand new context. The screams were far away, but not something to be afraid of. She was the predator, but the prey was being attacked in her absence. It actually just... annoyed her. Almost as much as the fact that Alastair instantly lost all interest in their conversation and possible duel to the death, having the nerve to turn his back on her. He took off running towards the sound of screams, leaving her standing like an idiot by the old school turned garbage pile.

"What's your hurry? It's an Epic massacre! It'll last a while, so you can spit out whatever you were going to say to me first!"

Alastair didn't slow down, or even look back. Feeling incensed, Darkrose took off quickly behind him, a wave of vines carrying her with speed she knew instinctively how to navigate. It didn't take long before they both found the source of the screams.

It was, by all appearances, a caravan heading out of Thoughttown. Fleeing citizens, no doubt hoping to find something better outside the smoke and viscera scented ruins of their current home. A few trucks were dumped over at the far end of the street, a testament to how this escape attempt had gone. For the crime of being the first ones clever enough to try to get out of dodge, the surviving Epics had noticed and decided to crush them.

These holdovers from the Battle of Portland were a trio of Epics that Darkrose didn't recognize. Old Epics or new they hadn't inhabited her part of town, and if they could make such short and brutal work out of a caravan of fleeing trucks, that was probably why she'd lived long enough to get powers of her own. They had a dangerous air about them.

One wore an awful studded leather jacket like he thought he was in a rock band, with spiked blond hair and a knife in his grasp. The electricity crackling from his other outstretched hand suggested the knife was more a matter of preference than anything practical. Slontze.

It was hard to notice the knife though, when the guy in front of him had a sparking battleaxe. Where had he even gotten that? There was already a dismembered corpse by his feet, so the axe definitely wasn't just for show. And the grin on his face said that he absolutely wasn't done. Slontze.

There was one last guy she noticed. He wasn't as flamboyant as the other two, and stood considerably behind them. He did wear a green-gray cloak though, and it billowed behind him in the wind as he sipped a cup of coffee. The action reminded her of CorpseMaker, which did nothing to help her mood. Double slontze.

She'd have recognized them from the meetings or from her previous rampage if these slontzes had worked for Altermind. Similarly, if they were part of Lightwards' band of circus freaks she'd have had plenty of opportunities to witness their slontze-ness up close while criticising their God-awful clothes. That meant these were survivors from the Dominion. Scratch that—with everyone else dead or defected, these guys were the Dominion. All that was left of it.

Alastair had stopped a few paces away from her. She cast him a glance, one that was both curiosity on her part as well as her attempt at communication.

She was still mad at him. Furious, even. She was thinking right now about pulling his arms and legs off.

But she was also asking him a question.

Do you want to kill them too?

****

Edited by TwiLyghtSansSparkles
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AlastairIcon.jpg.06a538cd376056f1ee9bb4263a6e9475.jpg

DarkroseIcon.png.d55a8cd8c8871478d2441bdf61d25ab8.png

Darkrose was thinking of murder—Alastair’s, for one—but Alastair’s mind was on the three Epics before them.

None of them were familiar to him—but then, he hadn’t much chance to meet most Epics outside of those Funtimes’ Empire business took him near. They might have been from Thoughttown, they might have been with the Dominion, they might have been a roving band of scavengers out looking for a good time at some vanilla’s expense. If Alastair had to guess, he’d say it was the latter option, if the dismembered body at the feet of the one with the battleaxe was any indication. His powers involved some unholy combination of time-travel and teleporting, but nothing Alastair couldn’t predict.

The other’s grin was every bit as obnoxious as his companion’s, though it was paired with spiked blond hair rather than brown and he carried a knife. Something within Alastair twisted and fumed at the sight of it, but a quick peek forward told him that the electricity sparking up and down the length of the blade was a greater threat than the blade itself. Were either to move a few yards closer, Alastair’s thoughts would swirl together and his brain would cloud with a fog thick enough to obscure even precognition, for a time. More than one of these futures concluded at the business end of a blade.

The third too wore an infuriating grin, so near to those of the others that Alastair had to wonder if they had practiced in a mirror prior to their little excursion. His powers, unlike those belonging to his compatriots, had already begun to snake toward Alastair. He felt it creep over him like a chill, dampening fury, raising fear and sorrow in one swoop. His thoughts turned from the immediate future and toward the past, toward that Newcago night.

Then anger took its place.

There was a question in Darkrose’s eyes, seated beside her fury, beside the desire to tear him limb from limb—a change from disembowelment, though no less unwelcome. These three Epics, these three walking atrocities, stood before her, and she was thinking of picking up where Fortuity had left off. Thinking of throwing him out in the alley with the other garbage without so much as acknowledging the value of what she’d destroyed.

Do you want to kill them too?

The cloaked one raised his paper coffee cup to his lips. Alastair saw it a moment before it happened, saw it without looking in the Epic’s direction. He met Darkrose’s gaze, held it as he raised his pistol.

His bullet went straight through the coffee and shattered the Epic’s skull.

*****

Actions spoke louder than words. She knew that because words used to be all she had, and even those had their limits; the number of actions she could take to make the slightest difference in her life was roughly the number of ways she could have learned how to fly. Her life was spent pacing around the outskirts of a war zone and hearing that it was off limits to even talk about how much that blowed.

So yes, she knew actions had a power to them--the kind of power you could lose yourself reveling in. So she knew how potent that smooth action was. The casual way he hefted his pistol. The way he didn't even break eye contact as he squeezed the trigger, sending off a gunshot that sliced through the chaos in the air like a hot knife. The way he didn't even blink while ending the life of an Epic.

That wasn't impressive. He was an Epic himself, after all. The action came as naturally as the roses came to her, so was nothing to be praised for. She'd probably still wind up killing him when his inevitable Epic slontze-ness became too irritating to bear. There was even still a chance that would be today.

She still sucked in a breath in spite of herself. Whether she was enraged, begrudgingly impressed, or just surprised by how much hateful intensity could burn out of those eyes, whatever she was feeling right now wasn't anything like she'd ever associated with Nathan Sperry. Maybe she should finally stop making that comparison.

Maybe she should wait till later to decide what name belonged to the hot new emotion in her chest. For now she grinned back at his gaze, turning around to face the remaining Epics.

"Calamity," said the man with the battleaxe. "You killed Quota."

It wasn't exactly a curse, and it wasn't anywhere near an exclamation. Both Epics stared at the corpse of their fallen ally, and then back to Alastair with a set of distinct frowns. There wasn't rage on those expressions. They were slightly put-out grimaces like you might find on a man who'd just spilled his beer.

"I mean, we hated him, so good job," the man in the punk jacket went on. "But there was a reason we hadn't done that yet."

The man with the battleaxe teleported. It was barely a teleport, at least by the high standards someone like Doctor Funtimes could set. He only moved a couple of feet in their direction. Even so Darkrose found herself tensing at the sudden movement, feeling aggravated by how still and unsurprised Alastair was beside her.

"That reason," the axe-wielding Epic went on, smirking, "is that he had a way of making screams even louder and better. Calamity had to have heard them all the way up there."

She didn't like anything about him. Not his smirk, his hair, his axe, his eyes, his bravado, or his provocation. There were so many things she wanted to say to him. So many things she wanted to scream in his face before she strangled the life out of him.

"Calamity's in space. There's no sound in space, moron."

Not her best. But it earned a glare, so she counted it a win.

"Smart mouth," said the guy in the jacket. He had a smirk as he looked her up and down that she did not like. "That’s fine. I like 'em feisty. Do you know who we are, darling?"

Darkrose folded her arms. "Nope. Can’t say I do. Pretty sure the sex offender registry burned down way back."

He threw his head back and laughed at her. Not at her quip, that much was sure. At her. She felt a growing fury that was going to be so sparking satisfying to let loose against him.

"Let me tell you, darling. You're talking to the Epic who razed half of Portland all on his own. You're talking to Electro."

The man with the battleaxe simply smiled, his voice quieter than his comrade's. More intense. "And you're about to kneel or to die to Calamity's Chosen. The Epic who's spilled more blood in the name of Calamity than anyone else in this city. To Timeport."

Now they'd moved on to threats... and to showing their true colors. They were men who couldn't make up their minds whether they wanted to destroy or to rule. They were a destructive maniac and an extremist.

"The 'name of Calamity'?" she scoffed. "You can just say you want to kill people, you know. You don’t have to say your imaginary friend told you it was okay."

Timeport's gaze darkened once more.

"God," he said, "Chose me. I prayed for it. I bargained for it. And Calamity gave me what I was due."

A zealot. That's what he talked like. That's what anyone would call him. A man rambling about God telling him to kill and ravage. Claiming that he'd wished his way into becoming an Epic. Sparks, what kind of claim even was that? As if someone who'd asked to become one of the things wouldn't have been lower than dirt to begin with!

But he wasn’t a zealot. She knew that much. She was the only one who knew that. Because zealots had to believe in something bigger than themselves, and that was something no Epic could ever truly do.

She felt something change inside of her. It was a distinct, unique feeling, one she'd never fully known about before becoming what she was now. It was the feeling of anger changing color inside her chest. It flashed inside of her, changing from the crimson of petty rage into something deeper, darker, bloodier.

Electro was eyeing her with condescension, as well as focusing on every part of her that wasn't covered by Funtimes' fabric. Given the bullet holes and other tears, that was more than she'd ever have been comfortable with before. As furious as those things made her, she knew in the back of her mind her rage was the product of something else. It was the product of the same thing that made her kill people she used to love. It was the forced rage in her head that was part and parcel of being an Epic.

But Timeport. There was a look in those smarmy eyes that flash forged that Epic rage into something far older. Something more real. Something that half brought her back from the dead, letting the real, human outrage of Samantha Trattner come surging up from whatever cold place in her soul she'd gone to rot.

"Liar."

She spat it. Something in her tone, she could tell, made the two Epics tense for a fight—even though the gunshot from earlier had barely mustered so much as yawns.

Electro began walking towards her. She didn't waste time in pulling a small wall of vines up out of the earth between them, keeping him from getting any closer. She didn't know what he could do, but just him walking her way suggested bad things. Some Epics had powers that only kicked in when they touched you or were close by. Lightwards needed to touch bodies. And... Quasar... had needed to touch people to control them.

Timeport didn't make a motion to suggest he might move. Being a teleporter, this meant absolutely nothing. He did raise his axe slightly, his expression one of anger and of malice.

"What did you just say to me?"

The downside of her vine wall was that she'd just played her hand. They knew half of what she could do now. The advantage of surprise was gone. If this would turn into a fight, it was one she'd have to face head on.

The image of Alastair flashed again in her head. Standing tall, arrogantly proud, a gun pointed at an Epic corpse that he couldn't be bothered to so much as look at. That image that filled her with fury... and... also, that weird excitement.

She wanted to outdo him. She would outdo him.

"I called you a liar," she replied simply, meeting Timeport's eyes. "Because that's what you are. As if I'm supposed to believe you murder people with a battleaxe because you think it’s okay? Because you think you’re better than actual good people? Because you think God chose you?"

She threw her head back and laughed. Pure, cruel, mirthful, scathing laughter.

"No—don't even try to convince me of that. You murder people for the same reason I do. The same reason all of us do! Because nothing's telling us 'no' anymore... and because it feels sparking amazing."

*****

Darkrose, Alastair was learning, was one of those Epics.

Every Epic had a theme. That fact was as plain as the one that all Epics had powers. Some of those themes were subtle, some were more apparent, but every Epic had one and those who didn’t were among the lowest of the Low Epics. Ones like Curveball, who seemed to have arrived to the gathering well after Calamity finished passing out the decent ones and could only manage to swipe rude slontze who is bad with firearms for himself.

But there were others who didn’t so much choose a theme and stick to it as wave it in the face of anyone who approached, lest they forget who they faced and why they were about to die. Yes, Darkrose, we get it. You can do what you want and what you want is to kill people. Please put down the baseball bat and step away from the dead horse. If he valued her reputation more and his own life less, he might tell her to write a sparking manifesto and be done with it.

What commanded his attention, more than Darkrose’s relentless hammering of the same point, was the Epic with the knife. Electro, he was called. The one with the battleaxe—Timeport, nearly as bad a name as Quota though at least somewhat descriptive—was less threat to him than he thought. His porting could take him into the future, true, allowing him to reappear when and where the element of surprise could do the most damage--but the ability to see where he’d land negated much of that advantage. Electro, though—Electro was trouble. The thought of having his precognition muddled and confused beyond function was nearly as disturbing as the thought of Darkrose realizing she had his weakness. Alastair scanned every future containing Electro, searching for a moment when he got close enough to engage that ability, a moment he could avoid or stop in its—

With one swift motion, Timeport severed Darkrose’s head from her neck.

It flashed through his mind seconds before it happened. The axe flashing in the smoke-dimmed light. Her head hitting the ground with a dull thud. Timeport’s face twisted in abject fury.

When Alastair met his gaze, anger had melted into a smile, fury still burning behind his eyes.

We’re the Dominion now,” he said. “CorpseMaker left room for heretics. I don’t.”

He strode forward. Electro hung back—would hang back, giving Timeport the chance to have his fun.

“So what do you say….whatever-your-name-is? You believe in God?”

Alastair plucked a tarot card from his pocket, seeing it before his fingers grasped it, but its face wasn’t near as interesting as what Darkrose was about to do. Still, he kept his smile at bay until the card was within Timeport’s field of vision: the Magician, reversed.

“I believe you didn’t think this through.”

****

And then Darkrose died.

It happened too quickly for her to stop. One minute Timeport was glaring at her with a hilariously pissed off expression. She was radiating in the heat of his glare, reveling in it; it felt even better than when Lightwards had shot her that look. Back then she'd have been afraid even as she smiled. Now, she thought.

The next minute Timeport was standing right in front of her, and with a lurching feeling she realized there was an axe jutting through her neck. Next was that she couldn't feel her body. Next was the sensation of falling to the ground, her body thudding loudly beside her. Everything blurred. And then, nothing but darkness.

It didn't last very long. Somehow, even though her senses had blacked out, she was aware of her flesh crawling. It was the feeling she had when her tissue turned into vines and sutured her back together; she'd taken enough bullets the previous evening that she had a good idea what it felt like. Even so... even knowing she could survive this... she felt terrified.

The blackness was all consuming. The sensation, or lack of sensation in her body was a sudden and panic-inducing realization. If she had any power over her own lungs, she was afraid she would have screamed.

The itching feeling of her vines became stronger. All in a single moment she could feel again, and it was as though she could see a light shining somewhere in the distance. The light condensed into a gray blob, the blurry gray Portland sky spreading out above her. She was lying flat on her back now. There was a crick in her neck—at least there was for a moment, until her bones reconnected with a satisfying pop.

A gasp of air filled her lungs, but her mind was flooding with questions.

Had she actually died? Had her brain actually shut down? Could she be killed permanently if someone cut off her head and moved it too far for her body to grab and reconnect it? Oh Calamity... dying wouldn’t make her go crazy like Lightwards did, would it?

Where was Timeport?

All other questions flitted away like leaves before a storm. Where the Calamity was he?

She climbed shakily to her feet, swaying back and forth with a dizzy gait. Technically, she supposed her head had just been spinning a minute ago. Her ears were ringing slightly, but she could hear Alastair's voice saying something. Turning in place she she could see Timeport with his back to her, with Alastair showing off one of his tarot cards.

There wasn't a smile on her face now. Nor did she have any interest in listening to the two of them chat. She simply raised a hand, flexing her fingers and unleashing hell.

A solid wall of thorn-covered vines crashed into Timeport from behind, wrapping him up, squeezing him, and slicing him to ribbons all in the same second. His joints came undone and his body became the consistency of raw eggs, her vines obliterating him until there was nothing left. He didn't get the chance to teleport... or to scream.

Her ears popped just in time for her to hear Electro's footsteps coming forward again, curving around her previous roses and trying to make a beeline for her. She rolled her eyes, sending a wave of vines in his direction that sent a convoy truck flying and Electro backing away as quickly as he could.

"Don't think I'm not watching you," she said. "Sit tight and I'll kill you in a minute. As for you-"

One of her closer vines curved to point accusingly at Alastair, as though it were a particularly long and lethal finger.

The slontze must have been internally laughing like a madman when he saw what Timeport was about to do to her. She wasn’t sure what made her so angry about that--wasn’t it a good thing that he now knew decapitation only annoyed her? Maybe she was angry at the thought of him getting one over on her. Maybe it was the idea that this might have been his way of testing to see if he could kill her that way.

She fixed him with a cutting glare. "Don't think I didn't catch that you decided it'd be hilarious to watch me get my head cut off. Is that just gonna be a thing with you? 'Cause you're about to see if it's funny from the other end."

Maybe it wasn’t about ego or pragmatics. Maybe it was just the memory that a friend would have said ‘Duck.’

****

Darkrose’s jabs had changed.

Oh, they were as biting as ever, as snide as before. Had he been graced with some other power than the ability to see the future, he might have still taken them as threats.

But now, as he peered forward, he still saw violence on her part. He still saw those thorns lashing toward him, seeking his blood, his screams. Yet those were merely glimpses, and few of them at that—nothing like the multiple permutations of various manglings he’d seen before.

Alastair couldn’t say what had prompted the change. Perhaps she’d seen his smile for the confidence it was and her threats were simply a cover for it. Perhaps she’d recognized him as a lesser threat than Timeport and Electro. Or perhaps she just remembered the old days better than she cared to admit. Whatever the case, she posed less of a threat to his safety than she had while eating oatmeal that morning.

“You might want to save that fury for Timeport,” he said, fighting the urge to brush away her thorn as one might swat a pointing finger. Danger aside, this was no time to assert himself. This was a time to make himself useful. “That is, if you want to stick around here longer than a few minutes.”

He cast a glance in the direction Electro had gone.

“Or, if you’d rather take care of Electro first, I’d recommend doing it at a safe distance.”

******

Darkrose rolled her eyes, but turned them in the direction Alastair indicated.

"Like I'd get near him even if he didn't have powers. He looks like a serial killer tried to start a punk rock band in his garage. During his mid-life cri—sparks!"

That was more literal than she would have liked. Electro swept his hand out in front of himself, sending a powerful slicing beam of lightning along the edge of his knife. It crackled as it cut, separating the roof of a truck from the rest of it just as easily as it sliced through the air. It forced her to use her vines to carry her rapidly to the side and out of its path; if she hadn't moved—or hadn't followed Alastair's gaze to the new source of danger—she'd have been decapitated. Again.

Alastair himself stood calmly where he was, letting the beam sail harmlessly a few feet over his head. He hadn't been Electro's target, which he clearly knew. Annoying slontze.

"You know, I'm almost impressed, babe."

Electro's condescending tone helpfully reminded her how much she wanted to kill him. Rising herself higher into the air she extended her hand, causing yet another cluster of vines to erupt out of the earth and go spearing towards him at full speed. He remained light on his feet, weaving out of their way while parrying with a slash of lightning.

Apparently her vines had a limited tensile strength. Although they'd pulled apart metal and concrete without so much as tearing, the vines closest to Electro were neatly slashed down their middles, dissolving into dust the moment they were no longer connected by stalk to the ground. Her only consolation was that the cutting hadn't been quite as quick as the cars he'd sliced in two. While not indestructible, her vines were still considerably more durable than the city they sprouted out of.

She wondered if he could slice them faster than she could grow them, if it really came down to it.

Electro didn't look impressed, calling out to her again as he made another vertical slash in her direction. She was almost bisected top to bottom, only just managing to carry herself out of the way on a wave of thorny roses. He was walking briskly forward, bits of car shrapnel sliding away from his feet as he did. Some kind of metal-repelling power, then? That was probably why Alastair hadn't tried shooting him. The bullet would go wild.

She wondered if there was anything around that he couldn't repel, if it really came down to it.

"The last thing that did Timeport that much damage was a dinosaur," Electro went on."Which I killed. For the record."

Darkrose hadn't wanted him to come close to her from the start. Alastair's warning only confirmed what she suspected, which was that the number of reasons not to let Electro close to her was roughly the number of annoyingly unkillable Epics in this city. Apparently even if she managed to kill Electro in the next minute, Timeport was still gonna be an issue. How did that work? Healing, or resurrection? If reducing him to the consistency of cake batter hadn't permanently killed him, what would?

That was a problem for a couple of minutes from now. She raised both hands in the air, feeling stupid for the pose but finding the action helped her concentrate. A wall with the thickness of a topiary sprung up in front of Electro, looking alive with the writhing of vines and flowers that made up its form. He made a slashing motion with his knife, electricity carving through the foliage—but it didn't carve deeply enough. She tied the vines in layers and layers in front of him, creating an interwoven lace with a complexity that surprised even her. It was almost like she could feel the vines through her power, intermingling them as easily as she could clasp her fingers.

Her wall of thorny lace kept him about twelve feet away, and she expanded it into a perimeter around herself to keep him that way. No matter what angle he tried, he wouldn't be able to get close. Which was a good thing because that hair gel had an odor all the way from here.

"But you know..." Electro's voice was more strained this time, sounding aggravated even though he retained his smirk. "It doesn't have to be like that. You're not bad for a new player on the block. And I've got a bit of a soft spot for goth chicks."

"That's all about your 'spots' I need to hear about, thanks."

Even with twelve feet between them she could see his smile clench. "I'm making you a generous offer, sweetheart. A couple, actually."

"I can be generous, too," Darkrose retorted. "I'm offering to kill you before you run out of condescending words for 'woman.' It'll be better for all of us."

Another slash of lightning flowed off the blade of his knife, slicing a couple of her vines at once. Her fine lace wall quickly wove itself back together, but it was clear she couldn't do it forever. It was also clear from the strain in his voice that the slontze was done talking.

Darkrose's own voice was showing a similar strain, she was sure. But she didn't try to hide that. No, let him hear an Epic at her limits. It made his slontze-y smirk light up, which would make it all the better to wipe off the floor.

But he was confident for a reason. The way his feet glided across the street made it clear he was no stranger to fighting. He avoided her vines, but he could also sever them if they got too close; he wasn't some terrified vanilla she could overwhelm by sheer multitude of attacks. He knew how to duel with another Epic, which was more than Darkrose could honestly say.

But it got worse than that. Their fight was starting to drag on, and Timeport was going to pull his prophesied Jesus impression any minute now. Once he came back from the dead she could get overwhelmed by the two of them. Worse than losing, she might need Alastair to come swooping in to help her.

...where had he run off to, actually?

She became aware of a presence behind her. It wasn’t Electro, because he was still outside her perimeter. It wasn’t Timeport, because there wasn’t an axe in her neck. It had to have been someone who’d slipped in before she grew the barrier. Probably someone equally smug about being able to get in as he would be in his ability to get out any time he wanted to.

“What’s the matter?” she asked out of the blue, her focus still on replacing the vines in her barricade as Electro sliced through them. “Ran out of cover, so you decided to hide behind me? I guess that’s not the worst strategy.”

****

“Not when Electro forgot there were two of us.” Alastair couldn’t help a small chuckle. “Right under his nose and he hardly noticed.”

It wasn’t so much that fury flashed through her eyes. That emotion had been present since her resurrection and even before, and Electro’s brutal offensive had only deepened her rage. But up to that moment, her anger had been focused solely on the man slicing through her vines with the ease of a sharpened knife cutting thread. Now that he had made his presence known, her fury had briefly shifted targets.

He peered out at the mass of vines, flowers and thorns woven so tightly together they blotted out light and cast a shadow over their hiding place. It held, and it would for a few minutes more, but beyond that were darker futures. She didn’t have twelve feet between herself and Electro; she had two. Once he bridged that gap, she’d be in no shape to keep those vines in place.

“I do have a better strategy,” he said, shaking the shards of glass in his hand. They clinked a discordant melody he barely heard above the sounds of twisting vines and rapid growth interrupted by the buzz of electricity. Electro could have seen him pluck the glass from the ground, but his priorities had been elsewhere. Namely, objectifying Darkrose in new and uncreative ways. “I’d be willing to share, unless you’d rather keep pushing him back indefinitely.”

*****

"Maybe I would," Darkrose retorted. "I'm having the time of my life, if you couldn't tell."

She punctuated the remark by trying—and failing—to have one of her vines skewer Electro from behind. The slontze was clearly prepared for that sort of trick, easily turning in time to sever it and render the attack moot. That was one of the differences between this guy and the other Epics she'd seen. He didn't move his feet the same way—he moved like the half-feral vanillas that she'd once avoided with almost the same fear she had for the local Epics. She had the distinct impression that if Calamity hadn't 'graced' him with powers, he'd still be fighting on the streets for some gang or another. It gave him an edge of experience when it came to fighting.

She needed more than twelve feet of distance and brute force. She needed a plan.

Alastair continued to practically shove his shards of glass in her face, clearly dying for her to ask him for help. The worst part was that she could almost piece it together in her head. Electro repelled metal. The glass wasn't metal, but it was sharp enough to slice a slontze's arteries wide open.

But how could she deliver those shards to the arteries they very much needed to slice? That was the frustrating question, and she had an infuriating feeling that the answer was hidden somewhere in his freaky visions of the future.

She let out a groan of frustration. "Alright, fine. Tell me your idea. It had better be better than your old ideas, 'cause I don't see him surrendering if we ask him nicely and non-confrontationally."

****

Alastair was tempted to draw it out a little longer, keep Darkrose guessing as to what his plan was until the situation demanded he reveal it all. He did have a little while longer—not much longer, about forty seconds—to make her wait, and the longer he kept her waiting, the longer he held the upper hand. The longer she stayed in the dark, the longer he could bask in the knowledge that he, and only he, knew exactly what to do. Never in all his years would he have thought being surrounded by the blindfolded would be so empowering.

But the longer he waited, the more precision his plan called for. And the more precision his plan called for, the less chance it had of working. Electro might have set his sights on Darkrose, but he already knew there were two Epics after him, not one.

“Go on the offensive,” he said. “Drop the wall, fling vines at him as if you’re trying to tear him apart. Enhance a few of them with these.”

He opened his hand to reveal the shards of glass that would kill Electro. He didn’t know which one, exactly, would do the deed; but one of them would.

“One of them will hit an artery. You’ll have blood and gurgling screams galore, and if that doesn’t cheer you up, I don’t know what will.”

******

Credit where credit was due: the thought did put a smile on her face. But it wasn't as eager a smile as Alastair no doubt hoped.

His idea made absolute sense to her, and she could easily imagine it working. It was close to what she herself might have wound up trying even without his insistence on getting to call the shots. And while she'd rather beat Electro purely by her own power, the slontze's grin, condescending tone, and annoying degree of competence were all making Alastair's projected outcome more appealing by the second.

But that was where the problem came in. Alastair's proposal was appealing—too appealing. His power was more subtle than hers, and in a way that made it way more dangerous. Getting people to do what you wanted was one of the most dangerous abilities anyone could have, and you didn't have to be an Epic to do it. Maybe he thought she'd forgotten the way he'd given her advice back in Tillamook. How he'd kindly, softly walked her through the exact set of dialogue she'd need to make Funtimes give her a dress more akin to her style. How his advice had worked to a tee.

Nathan hadn't realized exactly what kind of power he possessed; that knowing exactly what to say to an Epic was a power many vanillas would die for and many more would die for not having. That was because Nathan had probably never included the words 'power' and 'Nathan' in the same conscious thought before Funtimes' charade had forced him to. Alastair, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was doing. The same casual, confident ease with which he'd killed Quota could just as easily apply to a longer scheme.

If she dropped her wall like Alastair suggested, one of two things would happen: either her attack would kill Electro where he stood, or he would have an opening to slice her down the middle before crossing the deadly distance and doing Calamity knew what to her. Either one of those, or both, could be Alastair's desired outcome. He was the only one who knew all the steps to his goal as surely as a cook following a recipe. Funtimes had been a predictable piece of clockwork to Nathan's experienced eyes, one with a simple set of steps for soothing and navigating—to Alastair, were Electro and Darkrose just as predictable?

Electro shouted something she couldn't make out. Lightning carved through her vines, turning them to dust as quickly as she could replace them. She couldn't do this forever.

Sparks, it was like fighting Altermind all over again. Except instead of wondering if her reality was real, she had to wonder if her reality was just a slowly marked-off checklist in Alastair's head. And unlike the night before, she didn't have a weakness in reserve she could use for a reality check.

She had to make a gamble; to pick a card at random, or however it was that tarot worked. She had to guess whether she was an ally or just a domino to be knocked over, just like the tiresome trifecta were.

Were it Nathan, the choice would be immediate. With Alastair she had a moment of hesitation… but at another lightning strike from Electro, she still sucked in a breath and made the same decision.

She reached out with her real hand instead of a vine, taking the shards from Alastair's grasp. She met his eyes, and without speaking did her best to make clear to him that whether he was trying to help her or not, the slightest miscalculation meant death. Then she turned her back to him, facing in Electro's direction just as she dropped her vine wall.

Electro looked surprised, but grinned as he saw her take a step forward. He cocked his head, his entire body tensing in the way only an Epic's could. It was the stance of an Epic whose entire being was energized with the intent to kill. His knife flashed upwards.

Darkrose said nothing. Actions spoke louder than words. And in that sense she shouted.

She waved her hand. The ground obeyed. A row of vines erupted out of the dust at the speed of thought, rapidly bending to grow in Electro's direction at full speed. His gaze was sharp, and he reacted with a knife strike so fast that it might as well have been the lightning he themed himself around. If that attack had been aimed at her, there'd have been no time to get out of the way.

But it wasn't. And she didn't need to be fast; nor did it matter that his attention was sharp. It wasn't sharp enough to have noticed the invisible glass shards she'd dropped to the vines as they surged forward.

Electro's grin was wide and frenzied as he severed the incoming attack at the roots, reducing the wave of city-crushing vines to nothing but a cloud of dust. His knife kept moving, and the look in his eyes made it clear the next slash of lightning would spill blood. With nothing now in between him and Darkrose, there'd be a lot of it.

But though the vines disintegrated, the glass shards didn't—and they kept on flying. Transparent and twelve feet away, there was no way to get a good luck at them entering his throat. The mark of their presence was solely in the sudden flash of scarlet that stretched across Electro's neck, a flash that became a froth as some mocking remark turned into a gurgle on the way to his lips.

Triumph and belittlement left Electro's expression. With a look of sheer shock he fell to his knees, knives clanging to the street as his hands futilely grasped around his own neck.

So this was Alastair's desired outcome. Not another decapitation for Darkrose. Not her body sliced down the middle. Not the death she very much deserved but was loath to imagine.

It was Electro falling to the dirty Thoughttown street, dying not to a street-leveling blast or a wave of vines, but to a razor sharp edge so small it wasn't even visible amid the red-pink froth gushing out of his throat. He cried out, but the cry cracked and came out as a gurgle that pierced the stagnant air nonetheless.

Soaking in the sight, shivering at the sound, she almost felt silly for doubting. The futures that Alastair hoarded in his mind were infuriating... but he and she were in agreement.

Seeing them through could be sparking beautiful.

****

Keeping Epics happy had never been Sam’s strong suit.

With advice, she could do it. Give her some guidance and a few instructions, and she’d survive her encounter—provided, of course, she was inclined to do so. That was her difficulty: she marched to the beat of her own drum. Unless her life was at stake, she would rather do as she pleased and suffer the consequences then avoid consequences altogether by doing as she was told. A charming trait, when danger was not present; but when danger suffused every aspect of existence, such stubbornness was more alarming than winsome. Alastair still recalled the mingling fear and wonder he’d felt hearing the insults Sam heaped upon any Epic who happened to cross her path.

Alastair hadn’t fully understood it back then. The way to survive Epics was to serve them, to bow to them, to keep them happy at one’s own expense. If you stood for hours out in the cold for an Epic’s amusement, their amusement was worth the chill. Their amusement kept friends alive, kept an Epic’s simmering rage from boiling over. To crack a joke in an Epic’s hearing was dangerous. To crack a joke at an Epic’s expense was unthinkable. At times, Nathan had wondered if Sam had a death wish; at others, he simply assumed she’d never been taught proper conduct. Portland was the modern equivalent of the Wild West, after all, and there likely hadn’t been much room for manners.

But now, as he watched her anxious distrust melt into glee, Alastair understood precisely what had led to all those jokes.

Power.

She’d had very little of it back then, being a smart-mouthed vanilla with a still-living mother to worry about. There had been no laws mandating she bow and scrape before Epics, but Lightwards and Nighthound and all the rest hadn’t seemed to care. She had no powers, and in their eyes, she had been powerless in every sense of the word.

But not in her own imaginings.

Lightwards became a bit less frightening when Revolution pronounced him a joyous leprechaun. He hadn’t realized it then, but in retrospect the difference was clear. His fondness for murder and his ability to raise the dead had been no laughing matter, but his hat, his ridiculous air of grandeur whilst wearing it—those had been funny. Those had been all but an invitation to laugh, and Sam had invited him to partake in that laughter. And in those moments, when they had all laughed until their sides hurt, Lightwards had lost a small piece of his power.

Now she was the one with the power, the one with the ability to break the laws of nature and bend them to her whim. She had it, and she took every opportunity to revel in it. Slicing Electro’s throat in three places gave her what she craved, and from the look she turned on him, Alastair knew she recognized the moment as a gift and he as the giver.

He couldn’t name the emotions flooding him then, couldn’t describe his thoughts with words. He recalled feeling something similar in Newcago when one Epic or another tossed him a compliment the way a medieval lord might toss scraps to his dog, but that was more akin to relief and the simple joy of knowing his death would not come by their hand, not immediately anyway. This, this was something stronger, something as sweet as strawberry jam and as heady as wine.

Darkrose wasn’t under his power. Alastair doubted she would ever allow herself to be taken under another Epic’s sway. Give her a position in Steelheart’s government, and she’d sooner kill everyone under her authority and flee the city with an armful of valuables than savor the chance to rule. He knew better than to give her a direct order; strong suggestions were the closest he would ever manage with her.

Yet now….

Now there were more chances. He couldn’t yet see them, being further in the future than his powers allowed him to see, but he could sense them. He’d have another chance to prove himself indispensable, to give her a reason to keep him around. He’d have that chance followed by another, and another, so long as he kept his predictions on point and his anger more or less in check. Keep things going along this same path, and he would have one of the more powerful Epics in Oregon on his side for the foreseeable future and beyond.

Darkrose likely didn’t care one whit about him. But she valued what he could do, and that was more than Nathan Sperry would have dared hope for.

“Timeport will resurrect soon,” he said once he’d given Darkrose a chance to relish Electro’s dying moments. “What do you say we go someplace else and let him wonder what the sparks happened while he was dead?”

******

Funnily enough, Darkrose hadn't always enjoyed blood. Blood used to make her squeamish whenever she'd had the misfortune to come across it. An accidental knife cut in the kitchen would make her cringe, and when forced to watch Lightwards slaughtering his own zombies she'd always been sure to avert her gaze with a well-timed eye roll.

Not anymore. There was a thrill to its presence now; it sent a hot tingle up her spine and made her own veins feel so much more alive. Its taste was familiar but so much sweeter than it had ever been before; it was the taste of knowingly doing something wrong, but without the pang of guilt that would come from snapping at Mom after a hard day, or the fear of consequences she couldn't shrug off when she spread jabs about an Epic throughout the neighborhood.

Was that emotion always what had accompanied the sight of blood? Had the sight of slaughter and mayhem only disgusted her because she knew enjoying it was wrong—or was it perhaps because she had no control over it? Was bloodlust a brand new emotion that Calamity had endowed her with, or had it always only been a couple of inhibitions away from making Sam feel as alive as Darkrose did now?

She supposed it didn't matter either way. A man—an Epic—was dead. His blood pooled in the street and it was hers to revel in. Hers and Alastair's, anyway, and she found she didn't mind sharing the moment. In its own way it felt like the times they'd laughed until their sides hurt, mocking an Epic's image until it lost all potency.

Alastair also had the tact not to talk to her until the blood show was over, which was a plus in his favor. He was quickly becoming an Epic she didn't mind having around—oh, she hated him, to be sure, but hate didn't have to be an unenjoyable emotion. Sharing happy moments with someone you hated was better than passing through them alone.

But eventually all good things had to come to an end. The sun was always going to set, a bowl of sweets would always run out, and there was only so much blood in Electro's arteries.

"Guess we might as well," she said finally. "I don't know if I'm crazy enough to kill the same guy fifty times in a row."

That was a lie. She could rip Timeport apart for hours and barely get bored of it. If Lightwards were within reach she could flit away the day toying with him. But at the same time, what she'd told Alastair the night before was even truer now than it was then.

She was curious what kind of carnage he could cause. If they both intended to drown the world in blood and chaos, she wanted the entertainment of doing it together—and she craved more creative outlets for her new bloodlust than the repetition of killing a resurrecter.

"Anywhere—anyone—in mind?"

****

Alastair’s fingers brushed the tarot deck in his pocket. Briefly he considered leaving it there; he knew what card he would draw and there seemed little point in removing it.

Yet the moment the thought crossed his mind, he knew he needed to draw it. He had to see the figures, the weapons, the color. He had to feel the glossy texture of the card, the near-absent weight of it in his hand.

He drew the card. A lone figure held two swords over one shoulder and another in his hand. Two more lay in the ground, ripe for the taking—and by the smile he cast at a retreating foe’s back, the man with the swords intended to do just this. The Five of Swords.

Holding the card did nothing to make the associated future a reality, but it made it feel more solid, less like a daydream and more like a course of action.

“I don’t have a destination in mind,” he told Darkrose. “Just a path.”

He looked to her, needing to see the response he already knew to expect.

“There’s someone I want to run into.”

 

 

 

 

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It had been a while since Timeport had met God.

The shock of appearing in the barren nothingness that was death still startled him after all the times he'd been through it. The sensation of not having sensation was a bitter one no matter how many times he didn't feel it, and it was always aggravating. There was always a full five minutes before he could return to the world—a full five minutes before he could wreak God's own vengeance on whatever slontzes had thought it was a good idea to kill him. It was like waking up in the middle of the night with nothing to do but to stare up at the ceiling, except there was no ceiling, or eyes to stare with. There was only God.

And God was a quiet sort, at least for the vast majority of Timeport's deaths. But every once in a while...

"Child," said God, "Once again you have forsaken Me."

"What?" Timeport started, jolted out of his bored reverie. Somehow he was always able to speak, though he had nothing resembling a body. "No, I'd never!"

"You lie to Me," God replied. The voice was not angry, nor was it calm. The voice of God went beyond any human or Epic emotion.

"Over and over and over once more you forsake the mission I gave to you. You were meant to right all that is wrong with humanity. Instead you chase your own chaotic desires, destroying when you should be building and playing when you should be ruling. Like the stray dog that I watched on the streets of dead Portland, you bound away from your purpose at the slightest scent of fresh meat."

This was different, Timeport realized with a rising panic. Never before had God spoken at such length, rebuking him with such harshness.

And never before had God reminded him of the street rat that had been Seth Nathsha.

"I have never forsaken you, Calamity!" he shouted. "Everything I've done has been at your command—including serving CorpseMaker! I don't know what you want from me!"

"What I want from you, child, is focus. CorpseMaker had focus, though it failed him in the end. But here I find you toying with those whose broken lives have no meaning, siding with those who only hold you from your purpose. You are not working as the Chosen I willed you to be."

Timeport had no body, no eyes, no voice, no soul, and no response. Somewhere in all the chaos that had been the Battle of Portland, somewhere amid all the sweet screams and the amazing mechs, he had left his purpose behind. Coming to Thoughttown to slaughter refugees did nothing to to rebuild the Dominion like he claimed he wanted—it was nothing but the playful diversion of an Epic who had no idea what to do next. It was clear to him now. As usual God had told him nothing new. He told him that which he had already known but refused to admit to himself.

He had lost his way. Dying to the goth chick and the dweeb with the cards was his due punishment for that crime. He was meant to be a worker of deathly miracles to rival even Steelheart or Obliteration, but he acted like nothing more than a minor Epic who had lost his master.

CorpseMaker had not been his master. Calamity was. He could not afford to forget that again. He could not afford to act like anything less than Calamity's Chosen.

Calamity's Chosen was something special. Calamity's Chosen was the Epic who had learned how to kill other Epics from the Reckoners, before offering them up as sacrifice. Calamity's Chosen was not the most powerful Epic, but he was the most persistent and the most deadly. Calamity's Chosen was a little spark of the red star, sent down to Earth to burn everything he touched.

God whispered to him a Truth. Timeport took it eagerly, greedily even, with all the desperation of a drowning man given a gasp of air. The nothingness around the absence of his body faded away to light and dismal air, Portland rushing back to him at full speed.

For sending him to God to see the light, he owed these two new Epics everything. As reward he would make sure their ends were special. The goth girl would regret mocking his mission and reveling in her purposeless power; he would see her die feeling as powerless as the false 'friends' that he'd stripped and cut down in the street. The man with the cards, whose face had shown such smug certainty of what the future would bring, would come to regret his past. He would live long enough to wish he'd fallen to his knees praying for his life, but would die in the dirt where vanillas and Calamity's disowned Epics belonged.

Vengeance would be had. If not today, then tomorrow. Timeport knew as well as Seth Nathsha that good things came to those who waited and schemed. He would rebuild and there would be Calamity's own reckoning to all who had dared oppose him.

He reincarnated on an empty street between the bodies of Quota and Electro, but neither corpse diminished the smile growing on his lips and the anticipation building in his veins. Those two and the trifecta they'd established were nothing but a diversion that had held him back. Now the true terror had been unleashed. He could face any direction and find a city ripe for the rending, stocked with the Epics and human-cattle he'd need to build something with true power.

The goth and the card master had disappeared, but he would find them. The empire ruled by Calamity’s Chosen would be of a kind no one could hide from, or could hope to resist by brawn. It would make everything ever built by CorpseMaker look like nothing but a nest for street rats.

The Dominion, like Timeport himself, would be Reborn.

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The Surprisingly Long Crossover Nobody Asked For: The Power of Hatsune Miku (God) and Anime versus Cosmic Horror Eldritch Abominations, starring mentions of gore, some violence, medication, trauma, and a large number of homicidal shenanigans
(SCP + Oregonverse = Beautiful, Glorious, Chaos)

Item #: SCP-1912
Object Class: Euclid
Special Containment Procedure: SCP-1912 is to be contained in a containment area capable of sustaining life humanoid no smaller than 40x40 feet and provided with whatever not-Internet forms of entertainment it requests at Site [REDACTED.]

It prefers sugary food, but it is important to regulate its intake of any substance known or rumored to to cause hyperactive behavior. See Addendum 1912-B for the specifics. Only God knows what would happen if it got drunk. No, not SCP 343. It takes 20 milligrams of long acting Adderal generic shortly after waking along with standard vitamins and 5 milligrams of short acting at six thirty PM. Any complaints by it are not to be heeded, and all attempts at convincing it to refer to its the medication as something other than “calm making snacks” to “crunch on” have proven futile. 

In emergencies, calling it “my butterfly” or simply “butterfly” will negate its powers for fifteen to thirty minutes. However, using this will destroy any and all rapport between members of the Foundation and SCP-1912, making research more difficult. As of now, all memories of those emergencies have been erased by amnestics, but it is important to minimize any risks.  

 

Addendum 1912-A: it grows bored and starts attempting to engage any researchers in conversation, it should be obliged, as SCP-1912 is prone to attempting dangerous stunts when left alone. However, the following subjects should be avoided at all costs.

 

  • The origin of its scars.
  • Its confinement/lack of freedom. 
  • Its family.
  • Any mentions of spiders or butterflies. They have no aversion to insects in general and are rather fond of cockroaches but mentions of topics even tangentially related might lead to an association with those two. 
  • The state of Florida.
  • Any sort of weapon but especially knives. 
  • Violence, including its own violence against others.
  • Elvis Presley.
  • Edmonton, Canada. 
  • Its “nightmare face.” 
  • Dogs. 
  • Old friends.
  • Trauma. 
  • Its assigned number. 
  • The name “Chiyou Atsuki”

 

These subjects can be discussed but are liable to induce a passionate, albeit seemingly unrelated to past trauma, emotional reaction. These can have destructive results but are unlikely to result in loss of life, with one exception. 

 

  • Freudian psychology.
  • The Marvel character Gwenpool.
  • Any argument about “who would win in a fight.” 
  • Castles. 
  • The manga and anime adaptations of Berserk.
  • Doctor Who and its fans. 

 

Full List Bellow

 

In edition, any Class D Personal involved in testing must have no history of kidnapping or have targeted children, with the exception tests designed to purposefully inflame SCP-1912, and any attempts to do so must involve exposure to SCP 999, followed by Class A amnestic, in order to prevent it growing hostile to the Foundation. See attached Incident Report 1912-B and Cross-Testing Log: SCP 1912-SCP 999 under Addendum 1912-C and 1912-E for more details. 

 

Update A1: Any staff assigned to SCP 1912 who is found to have self describe as a weaboo, weeb, otaku, or any sort of hardcore anime fan at any point in time will be swiftly reassigned. Researchers with a casual interest are acceptable, but they’re on thin [PROFANITY OMITTED] ice. I don’t care how harmless it turned out to be, the “Great Hatsune Miku Containment Breach of ‘[REDACTED]” will not be repeated, and anyone found referring to Incident 1912-A as such will be administered a Class C amnestic. 

 

Update A2: The same applies to anyone calling it Kokichi Kochan Kokunchi Ko-ichi912 Koko Ko any sort of nickname will be transferred and administered Class C amnestics. 

 

Update A3: Moe is not an appropriate term to use in reports. Don’t. 

 

Update A4: SCP-1912 does not have memetic properties relating to language, and any attempts to justify using its particular vernacular in any situations requiring professionalism with the excuse that “Ko-Talk is contagious” will be assigned to review the Foundation’s standards for official documents. They will also be reminded to review Update A1.

Update A5: The list of unacceptable topics has been updated. 

 

Update A6: See Update A5.

Update A7: That’s it, I’m replacing the unacceptable topics list with acceptable topics, and you will stick to it or I will know why. 

 

Addendum 1912-B: 

Remember that any food delivered must be checked against the following: 

Full List Bellow

 

Addendum 1912-C:

Incident Report 1912-A

Incident Report 1912-B

Incident Report 1912-C (In Progress) 

 

 

Addendum 1912-D: 

Experiment Log 1912
Read Full List Bellow 

 

Addendum 1912-E: 

Cross-SCP Testing Log: 

  • SCP-1912-SCP-999
  • SCP-1912-SCP-682 (See also Incident Report 1912-C)

 

 

Description: 

SCP-1912 is a humanoid Type Green, preferring the name “Kokichi” and they/them pronouns. It grows irritated when described by its number or by it pronouns. The word surrounding it acts with the logic of an anime. Although it is incapable of ceasing the effect at will, SCP 1912 is well practiced at manipulating it to its advantage. The range is unknown and seems to affect anyone at all relevant to its current situation. The furthest mobile communications tested so far was at [REDACTED] miles, with no decrease in potency. Fortunately, SCP 1912 is not capable of utilizing its full capacity at any time and shows little inclination to attempt such a feat. 

 

It is 19 years of age, although it looks younger due to a combination of its anomalous properties and malnutrition. It consistently claims to have not been born with its abilities, saying it spontaneously developed them during a particularly traumatic incident relating to a butterfly shaped knife scar on its back. Testing (see Testing Log Entry 17 for details) suggests that might have been the point where the obvious signs manifested the most strongly, but the more subtle symptoms were already shaping the structure of its reality. 

 

SCP-1912 first came to the Foundation’s attention after a [REDACTED] incident in Edmonton, Canada and was recovered by [REDACTED], as covered in Dr. Clef’s report. Before, the rare reports of it had been dismissed as deliberate misinformation with humorous intent released on 4chan, as that was where reports generated the most attention. All posts were left up as to avoid alerting any users of their veracity, and four fake ones were added over a course of five months, designed to be increasingly suspect. It regained popularity as a cryptid following the rise of apparently mundane memes surrounding Area 51, which it, when confronted about, commented that, “I’m not an alien, lol.” It also expressed a desire join the raid, which was vetoed immediately for the obvious and numerous reasons.*

 

It is usually over the top and dramatic, prone to pulling pranks and references that rarely make sense to anyone but itself. 

*Note: In light of recent events, it might’ve been a good idea to take this seriously. 

 

Message from Dr. Winters to members of the Foundation with [REDACTED] clearance. 

 

Subject: Some great news and some terrible news,
SCP-682 was finally successfully terminated. It has been twenty four hours since the event. Although little of its body was remaining due to an explosion, all samples were found and tested, showing initial signs of decomposition and absolutely no regeneration. 

In regards to said explosion, SCP 1912 and a yet undetermined number of others escaped containment. 

Yes, SCP 1912 was responsible for the termination of SCP-682. If you need to ask, you do not have clearance to view the transcript of the incident. It has been reclassified as Keter with a threat level of Red. If you so much as suspect you are remotely near it and are not certified for  combat with Type Greens, run in the opposite direction and alert someone who is.  

 

SCP-1912 is reclassified as Ketter with a red threat level and to be terminated as fast as possible. It is not to be engaged without the assistance of Dr. Clef and if it is encountered by a team without anyone certified to handle reality warpers at all, retreat immediately and avoid revealing that any Foundation members were there at all. It is highly hostile and will kill anyone it believes to be part of the Foundation on sight. Just because it is acting jovial does not mean it does not see you and is capable of murder while maintaining its eccentric sense of humor.

Dr. Winter
-
Secure. Contain. Protect.

Attached: 
SCP-1912-Style23.jpeg

 

Re: Some great news and some terrible news,

I told you it would work. I’d like my twenty bucks now. 
5d55c8d77c982_ScreenShot2019-08-15at9_55_23PM.png.adae57d19274179242ff4fea02c00420.png

 

Re: Re: Some great news and some terrible news,
I’ll pay you once you clean up the mess. Were you aware of the collateral damage your little plan would cause?

Dr. Winter
-
Secure. Contain. Protect.

 

Re: Re: Re: Some great news and some terrible news,
Would you believe me if I said no? What about if I said yes? Or, perhaps, what if I said that if you thought about their long term anomalous properties, this was an obvious and inevitable conclusion? Maybe I was simply affected by said long term properties? 

For the record, I definitely didn’t anticipate their new hairstyle, and I still prefer the orange and cyan from a few months ago. 
5d55c8d77c982_ScreenShot2019-08-15at9_55_23PM.png.adae57d19274179242ff4fea02c00420.png

 

Re: Re: Re: Re: Some great news and some terrible news,
Knowing you, it’s probably something else entirely and all at once. Why I even bother with the questions at this point is a mystery. 

You only say that because it gave everyone, especially me, a headache. For the record, the latest look is superior by far. Dr. Bright is running a survey. You might want to get your vote in before "running surveys" is added to The List. 

On a more official note, you've predictably been assigned to the case of tracking them down. Happy hunting, you insufferable [PROFANITY REDACTED]. Here are the details. I presume you don’t need the initial capture report, considering that you wrote it. I’d there’s anything else you need, I’m sure you’ll let me know. I’m also sure it will be a hat. 

Dr. Winter
-
Secure. Contain. Protect.

 

Attached:
SCP-1912 Vs SCP-682 

  • SCP-1912 Vs SCP-682 Video Transcript
Spoiler

 

<Begin log, skip to 00h-30m>

SCP-1912: So you want me to kill some creepy lizard monster that’s annihilated pretty much everything you throw at it for some ominous reward that may or may not tots be murdering me afterward. With some shady caveats about how it can’t “risk Foundation security” or whatevs. And that gunk I just roasted was part of it. 

Dr. [REDACTED]: That is practically everything I just said with significantly less nuance and paraphrased to the point of absurdity. 


(SCP-1912 winks)

SCP-1912: That’s my specialty. Anyway, I’m game. Point me at the lizard. 

Dr. [REDACTED]: (Surprised) Really?
SCP-1912: Want me to change my mind? 

 

(They lean in dramatically, and the shadows on their face darken.)

Dr. [REDACTED]: No. I’m going to need to cuff you with these. (Pulls out Tellekill handcuffs and ankle cuffs)

SCP-1912: You gonna take them off when I do the lizardcide? You know I’ll probs need maximum no lame antimagic Kokichi to do that, right?
Dr. [REDACTED]: (Exhausted, lines of stress showing beneath eyes) Yes. We’ll also need to drug you for transport, as otherwise your—
SCP-1912: Anomolous properties will attract unnecessary attention. Blah, blah, boring lecture, blah blah, secret society is secret, I got it, let’s go.

<skip to 009h-59m> 

 

(SCP-1912 stands nervously outside SCP-682’s containment, shifting wait from limb to limb. It looks over its shoulders at the two researchers and ten highly trained operatives, all certified for Type Green combat, who are watching it. Dr. [REDACTED] releases the cuffs and it rubs its wrist, before it is handed a large package of jelly beans, which it eats rapidly and at a rate that would be likely induce vomiting in a human.)


SCP 1912: (Upon finishing package) Let’s get this party started, amirite, my lads, ladies, and nonbinary pals? 

Dr. [REDACTED]: This is not a party. Please stay focused, [REDACTED].
SCP-1912: Not to you, anyway.

(They enter the room and examine SCP-682)

SCP-682: …what—

 

(SCP-682 is unable to finish on account of SCP-1912 smacking it in the face with what, according to all known physics, should be enough force to mildly bruise a normal human. If anything else attacked SCP-682 with that force, that thing would be dead before they even made contact. Nevertheless, SCP-682 is completely annihilated. All that is left of one of the most dangerous threats that humanity has ever faced SCP-682 is viscera, which does not appear to make any moves to regenerate. The scene plays again on camera, showing a slowed motion depiction of its destruction, and there is even less of an explanation as to the force SCP-1912 harnessed. It is incredibly beautiful and incredibly terrifying.)

 

SCP-1912: Wow, that was disappointing. 

 

(It pokes its finger in the gore and licks it.)

SCP-1912: Gross. You sure this was your unkillable lizard monster hellbent on murdering, like, everything? 

 

(Camera cuts to showing stunned researchers, armed guards, and Class D personal who do not speak for a whole minute.)

 

Dr. [REDACTED]: (Stunned) You did it. 

SCP-1912: Well, duh? I’m awesome? (It pauses)
SCP-1912: Wait, did you guys think I was gonna bite it? Like, die?
Dr. [REDACTED]:(Slowly)  It was always a possibility. 

SCP-1912: Laaaaaaaame. Ya’ll are so laaaaaaaame. Anyway, can I has reward now?
Dr. [REDACTED]: Of course— I mean, you just… how did you? 

 

(They catch their breath). 

 

Dr. [REDACTED]: Yes. You can. 


(One of the armed guards, who has been on SCP-682 duty for the longest and survived a containment breach, is now most shaken as she fights the urge to fall to her knees, fires.) 

 

Agent [REDACTED]: Oh my god— oh my god— they— it killed, it’s Ketter— 

 

(It flashsteps to the side and grabs the bullet out of midair. Its expression goes from amused to irritated in a moment, darkness covering its eyes. This face was only ever been seen during memory wiped experiments — see Testing Log SCP-1912 [REDACTED].) 

 

Agent [REDACTED]: What did you do?
Agent [REDACTED]: I didn’t mean to— I didn’t even press the trigger, it moved without me, it was its powers, man! It’s a reality warper! It can do that.

SCP-1912: (Expression darkening further, presumably in response to being referred to as “it.” My name is Kokichi. And I don’t appreciate being shot at. 

Agent [REDACTED]: (Chuckling nervously) Does anyone?

Agent [REDACTED]: It was an accident, I panicked, I’m sorry— please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill us!

SCP-1912: See, from what I figured, I just saved the whole dang diddily dang world from some dumb lizard. And I was expecting, y’know? A little bit of gratitude? 

Dr. [REDACTED]: We are very grateful! Now, if we could sit down and discuss a reward like reasonable people...

SCP-1912: How about my freedom? 

 

(The newest agent starts praying under their breath to every god in the book, in alphabetical order.) 

 

Dr. [REDACTED]: We would certainly be happy to let you to assist in the termination of other high threat Ketter SCPs—


(Another agent joins in.)

 

SCP-1912: I don’t think you understand. I want out in the open. I am awesome. I am beautiful. And I’m sick of being locked up. It’s been fun, but, c’mon, dudes. You couldn’t have honestly expected me to stick around forever?

(Agent [REDACTED] looks at the abandoned cuffs.]

Dr. [REDACTED]: That was the deal you made in exchange for your life, SCP-1912.
SCP-1912: See, that is what lawyers and peeps who are nerds and know about the Devil would call a Leonine contract. I’m not a lawyer or a nerd, thank my lucky Virgo stars, so I’m just gonna call it [PROFANITY OMITTED].
 

(They open their mouth to reveal they’re still chewing on the last gummy bear before swallowing it ominously. Their bright violet hair darkens to a shade close to black, and although the golden hair clips stay the same color, their edges seem to sharpen and appear more ominous. The lighting makes its skin more washed out. The song Megalovania becomes stuck in the head of anyone watching the footage and, based on the look of surprise and recognition from the self described gamer Agent [REDACTED], presumably the heads of those involved as well.)  

 

SCP-1912: Let’s get edgy.

 

(It pauses, some of its former humor returning along with a lighter color.)

 

SCP-1912: Wait, no, that sucks. Get dunked on? Get rekt, scrubs? That’s a lot of gets... (Darkness returns) you know what, [PROFANITY OMITTED] this, I’m just going to get out of this place and find some of those snake guys. Or maybe those wonder guys. They seem more likely to appreciate me.

 

(Agent [REDACTED] reaches for his communications device, but SCP-1912 is fast. It is still only partially visible going through frame by frame on a camera that records down to the nanosecond. The speed is comparable to teleportation. Previous data recorded during official testing, even from the classified tests that were erased from its memories, and its capture in Edmonton was insufficient at determining the extent of its capacities. SCP-1912 breaks Agent [REDACTED]’s wrist over its knee and uses his own [REDACTED] to [REDACTED] him.) 

 

Agent [REDACTED]: My butter—

 

(SCP-1912 is caught off guard by the use of its weakness and the footage slows. It opens its mouth and shuts it. The air around SCP-1912 cracks with a glass-like pattern. Each piece starts playing a memory that was supposedly erased by the Class A amnestics. These tests were authorized by the [REDACTED] on the condition that it would not be able to remember them. See Addendum 1912-D-[REDACTED]-[REDACTED] for the complete description of said experiments.)

 

SCP-1912: Oh, Hatsune.* You lying [PROFANITY OMITED]. 

 

(SCP-1912 proceeds to murder the rest of the guards, Class D personal, and researchers. Watching the actual footage without any antimemetic distortions is highly unadvisable, as SCP-1912’s “nightmare face” is a memetic hazard that, when combined with the brutality and speed of their actions, is enough to make convicted serial killer and self professed sociopath D-700 vomit, shake, and refuse eye contact with anyone until termination. The amount of distortion required to write this transcript without experiencing severe psychological affects made it very difficult to determine the events and even then, some damage was unavoidable. Not replaying Undertale any time soon, that much I can say for sure.)

 

<skip to 010h-3m> 

 

(SCP-1912 finishes off the last agent and turns to camera, which was clean of any viscera despite the room otherwise being covered. 

 

SCP-1912: So, I maybe overreacted a bit to all this. (It chuckles nervously, scooting a body away with its foot.) If ya’ll weren’t gonna coma me or murder me before, you sure are gonna now. Don’t follow me, blah blah, if you do, I’ll destroy everything you’ve built ifihavetheattentionspantogothroughwithit and whatnot. I’m pretty sure you’ll do, cuz ya’ll’ve warned me about pulling homicidal stunts like this with folks other than the blood banks, but, like, I’m not responsible for ya’ll’s terrible judgment. Just my own! Lol, j-k, you gave me the candys so this is your fault as well. Anyway, thanks for all the stuff and ciao, [PROFANITY OMITTED]

 

(The camera is engulfed in an explosion that kills most personal inside and releases several SCPs that survive. See incomplete list of casualties and containment breaches bellow.)  

 

<end log>

Note: SCP-1912 is likely referring to Hatsune Miku, who it describes as its “love, its life, and its philosophy.” This may be an ongoing joke, but if it is, then SCP-1912 is very committed to it and may have long since passed the point where irony and sincerity are indistinguishable.


 

  • SCP-1912 Vs SCP-682 Video Footage, Antimemetic Filter
  • SCP-1912 Vs SCP-682 Aftermath: Casualty Report
  • SCP-1912 (Outdated)
  • SCP-1912 Testing Log
  • SCP-1912‘s Sitings (Last Updated 2 Hours Ago)
  • SCP-1912’s Requests (716 items) 
  • kokichis sickest stunts as recorded by the ko themself dude does this have a character limit im gonna put all of the bee movie script here i have it memori
  • Personal Anime Stash  

 

 

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Some great news and some terrible news,
You would be correct on most fronts, the hat included. 


I’m most curious about this “Personal anime stash.” I thought the policy on anyone with anything more than a passing interest in the medium handling anything related to SCP-1912 was rather firm. I wonder how the legions of scorned weaboos would handle your hypocrisy. It would be such a shame if said information was leaked. 
5d55c8d77c982_ScreenShot2019-08-15at9_55_23PM.png.adae57d19274179242ff4fea02c00420.png
 

 

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Some great news and some terrible news,
No one will ever believe you. 

Dr. Winter
-
Secure. Contain. Protect.

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