10th of April, 2011
The first thing I did after breaking in the Bay's abandoned synagogue was to make a beeline toward where its Torah Ark used to be while double-checking that I got the right dimensions, before triggering the a half-inch thick hologram projection on every possible walls, the floor and the ceiling to isolate the entire place from the outside world.
And also sterilize the dusty place somewhat. I'm going to embark through another exciting round of ritualistic self-surgery and didn't exactly fancy catching something funky while doing so – even though I absolutely intend to waste enough Salve-ation to drown a small animal to deal with the recovery period in the aftermath.
So, yes, sterilizing the whole place is totally superfluous in theory. But it does wonders for my growing nerves in practice.
I quickly shrug off my stuffed backpack as I kneel on the ground of the old and forgotten place of worship, and promptly open it while starting to quickly take out various items and reagent out of it.
Powdered Witchfire crystals, to draw the ritual circle with. A lamb's heart, stuffed full of various medicinal herbs, to represent my ties to the One True God's flock as a human being. A preserved serpent's skin, to call on its favor on this night once again. An egg, to represent birth and renewal. A sigil-engraved scalpel, to work my craft. Various IV pouches full of alchemical concoctions, to catalyze the ritual in my own physical body. Thirteen dark red candles, those wax had been mixed with my own blood. Two liters' worth of holy water, stolen from the local parish over the course of a few days. And finally, a bible, the Satan Key and my Tome.
I take a deep breath, before slowly exhaling.
"Dark-chan," I call without looking, "I'm starting. Make sure I'm not disturbed."
~~Of course, dearest,~~ she answers easily from somewhere at my back.
With a last, shuddering exhale, I reach toward the powdered Witchfire crystals, and instantly black out.
***
View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qkY_AA3oOfc&list=RDqkY_AA3oOfc&start_radio=1
The very moment the thing tied to her littlest protegee's Khet starts pulling her strings, [Phobia of dying in chains] frowns in annoyance.
Oh, the fiend understands that this is probably for the better, since her littlest protegee's apprehension had been clear as day for the past hour. It wouldn't do at all for her to botch something during her supposed metamorphosis because her nerves got the better of her.
This doesn't mean [Phobia of dying in chains] has to like it, though.
Yet she remains silent and watchful as she keeps a mental eye on their surroundings, paying attention to the mortals' life-force to better watch out for them. Most of those she can sense appear to be asleep for the time being, which is just as well.
But if her more esoteric senses are elsewhere for the time being, her own eyes are watching the puppeted body of her littlest protegee like a hawk as her physical vessel goes about its task.
First is the circle, wide enough for her littlest protegee's body to fully lie in. Finely powdered, crystalized and degraded magic is poured on the ground, first in a circle, then in a triangle, and finally in a second, smaller triangle, upside-down from the first.
The sigil-engraved scalpel is pulled close, and a quick incision of her left palm later, the thing puppeting her littlest protegee's body mixes what is left of the powdered crystal with the life-fluid in a wooden bowl, a muttered incantation streaming out blackened lips as it does so.
It goes back to the circle soon after, using the paste to write words and draw arcane sigils, pagan runes and sharp hieroglyphs according to a pattern the fiend isn't quite able to follow herself, but understand the wider principles due to her littlest protegee's ramblings.
The thirteen blood candles are placed all around the ritual circle's periphery next, followed immediately afterward by what her littlest protegee called holy water – and which felt like anathema to [Phobia of dying in chains] – flicked with her still bloodied hand beyond the candles' boundary.
Then the lamb's heart, the preserved serpent's skin and the egg are placed at three tips of the smaller triangle, closely followed by the holy text, the blasted book and what her littlest protegee has started to call the Satanic Key at the tips of its bigger counterpart.
Only then do the thing puppetting her littlest protegee's body discards her clothes, pulling them in a neat pile next to the backpack and keeping only the spirit trapped in metal and glass strapped on her arms, before taking with itself the sigil-engraved scalpel and the various alchemicals concoctions that have been prepared beforehand.
A quickly entered command while it stands in the middle of the ritual circle later, and a raised dais accompanied by what [Phobia of dying in chains] idly recalls to be infusion stands appear.
The fiend watches as her littlest protegee's naked body is made to lay on the dais after jamming no less than seven different needles inside her flesh.
The first word spoken out-loud and heralding the beginning of the ritual in truth is grating, even to [Phobia of dying in chains]'s ears. All at once, the blood candles light up, shining a reddish, baleful glow in the darkness of the forsaken place of worship.
Another word, and the 'cli-cli-click' of the Satanic Key echoes like a dirge in the empty chamber for one, two, three heartbeats–
–right until it comes to a final, especially louder 'click', and a portal blossoms into existence on the ceiling.
Despite herself, [Phobia of dying in chains] takes a step back, wide-eyed, as she feels the interplay of kin and anathemic magical energies that immediately starts to thicken the old temple's surroundings as they mist out of the the blood red and shining gold circular cut in reality.
If she had a real throat like humans do, she figures she'd probably be swallowing in apprehension like they sometimes do by now.
Her ears twitch as the thing puppetting her littlest protegee's body starts a droned out chant, the sigil-engraved scalpel held aloft. Like the last time, the fiend doesn't recognize the words, but can make the intent behind it.
It is another bargain of a sort, one that aims to forge a living weapon able to stand against the darkness of the world.
How peculiar then that it seemingly uses both hellish and heavenly energies at the same time.
[Phobia of dying in chains]'s lips ticks minutely upward as she finds herself idly musing about the circumstances of the rather peculiar world her littlest protegee's rather odd power has tapped into. Its afterlife must really be something if both spheres can coexist like so.
Her head snaps to the side as she feels a mortal nearing their position and she frowns while starting to make her way toward them.
The fiend finds herself quite perplexed when it stops right at the entrance of the forsaken place of worship, before about-facing a few seconds later.
Shaking her head in bemusement, [Phobia of dying in chains] goes back to her vigil. Her littlest protegee's steed should bring some lights on what exactly just happened once her ritual is done.
The fiend finds the thing puppetting her littlest protegee's body hard at work carving sigils in her flesh, an unceasing stream of incancation and prayers streaming out of her blackened lips.
Despite herself and how the last time the very same thing happened, [Phobia of dying in chains] cannot help but to feel a little concerned. There is a lot of spilled life-fluid slowly dripping on the conjured dais' sides from what she can see.
Thinking quickly, she steps closer to the backpack to retrieve the trio of oddly apple-shaped bottles of healing potion her littlest protegee brought with them, and resolves to stand at the ready to hand those to her as soon as everything is over.
The bloody work carries on for a long while, until almost every inch of her littlest protegee's torso and limbs – the spirit trapped in metal and glass now set aside on the dais – are covered in strange scripts out of which her life-fluid keeps endlessly dripping.
Then, the sigil-engraved scalpel drops on the dais with a sonorous 'clang', and the chanting out of her littlest protegee's mouth gets louder still as the interplay of holy and unholy energy gets heavier, faint golden wisps shining amid the blackish red mist of what the girl calls Witchfire.
First the lamb's heart, then the serpent and finally the egg gets surrounded by three twisters of aspected raw magic.
[Phobia of dying in chains] watches intently as the heart rot to dust in front of her very eyes while the serpent's skin seems to take a life of its own until it tries to bite its own tail. Then, in twin flashes of shining gold and blackish red, both vanishes from the circle, reduced to their primal essence as they interplay with each other while raising in the air–
–and stream back toward the egg, its shell get increasingly darker with every second elapsed.
As soon as the three twisters calm down, only a blackened and glossy egg remains at the tip of the smaller triangle, the one closest to her littlest protegee's head, the chant streaming out of blackened lips gets louder still.
And, in her bosom, where [Phobia of dying in chains] can feel the part of her Ba that touches her littlest protegee's own, the stream of magical energy tying the two of them together turns into a raging torrent, right as the blackened egg cracks with a sound not unlike a thunder strike.
The change is so sudden in fact, that she almost stumbles.
Yet it doesn't stop her from noticing how the pouches full of alchemical concoctions start to rapidly empty themselves straight into her littlest protegee's body, all the while both the blasted tome and the holy book's pages frantically flip in an unseen wind.
[Phobia of dying in chains] watches, transfixed, as her littlest protegee's self-inflicted wounds start to close in front of her eyes.
The fiend watches as her skin grows paler and paler still, quickly losing its lifelike's hue to transition toward an alien, grayish complexion.
She watches still as her littlest protegee's traits turn less childishly chubby and thinner, and her ears turn pointy like her own.
Then the very last of the alchemical concoctions squeeze themselves into her littlest protegee's veins as the chanting comes to a final, droned out note–
–and her eyes snap open, the portal on the ceiling winking closed far faster than the one she showed the fiend less than a day ago.
Her littlest protegee's chest rises once, and with her first inhale, an entire stream of blackish red mist falls on her, before getting absorbed right through her skin.
Ignoring the sputtering cough and the muted swear that promptly follows, [Phobia of dying in chains] figures this is her clue to hand her littlest protegee's a healing potion, just to be safe.
***
"T-Thank you, Dark-chan," I mutter in thanks as one of my healing potions gets put into my hand – rather forcefully, I admit, but I'm not exactly in position to complain.
I've never felt so dizzy in two entire lifetimes, and that includes the time I went through hypno-indoctrination at the beginning of the year. Worse even, my throat is so raspy I figure I could use it as sandpaper, and I have this persuasive feeling of being both very weak and very strong at the same time, which makes no sense at all.
I distractedly crack the Salve-ation one handed, the healing potion turning into a healing mist that quickly streams toward my body, and promptly sag in relief as my various aches and pains dials down a few notches.
"Another, please," I ask with my eyes still closed.
A second healing potion later, and I can finally take stock of the ritual's results.
It admittedly doesn't take very long, since I can feel my veins and arteries growing steadily hotter with each passing breath, the Witchfire running in them slowly getting thicker and thicker.
I snort, then let out a giggle.
"It worked!" I enthusiastically laugh, my eyes snapping open to lock eyes with Dark-chan as she peers down at me with what looks like bemused wonderment carved all over her face.
~~Indeed,~~ she hums, ~~Although you may want to take a look outside, dearest.~~
I blink as she looks at something in the distance, her smile turning mean and vicious.
~~It would appear that a little party is getting started,~~ she says, explaining a whole lot of nothing.
I frown, give a look around to find Dell, pause a little as I register how absolutely coated in blood every inch of my body seems to be, blink some more when I realize that I am, in fact, noticeably paler than before, before finally getting a look at Hooky's camera feed.
My enthusiasm instantly nosedives as I take stock of the situation.
"What the frak?!" I swear, my head snapping back toward Dark-chan, "Why the hell is the Empire having a staredown with Taylor Hebert–" at least I'm pretty sure the spooky bug-themed costume is hers, "–across the street?!"
~~I do not know, the ritual was already ongoing when the girl showed up,~~ the fiend shrugs, ~~But I can tell you that she feels trapped and in danger. Do you want me to intervene?~~
I contemplate her offer for a moment, before shaking my head as I jump off the dais.
"Don't bother," I answer with a sigh while bending down to take hold of the Satanic Key, "I'm pretty sure she followed us. I should've seen that coming."
A couple seconds later, a portal materializes in the room.
"I'll be dealing with this," I tell her over my shoulder, "Could you please start packing while I go fetch my gear?"
~~To see you sow terror in your enemies' hearts? Always, dearest,~~ she titters, eyes positively twinkling.
It is not a nice laugh.
But I'm not really feeling like laughing either.
4.13 Malebolge
11th of April, 2011
Taylor didn't exactly have a good idea of when things turned pear-shaped for her all of a sudden, but if she had to give a guess, it'd be roughly one hour after she settled on to keep watch on the old synagogue.
For the record, staking a place out like a PI would was actually surprisingly boring. The only breaks in the rather monotonous and mind-numbing activity had been when she occasionally tried – and failed – to break through the barrier isolating the room she suspected her quarry was in.
It hadn't worked the first time, nor did it the second. Or the third. Or even the fourth.
All the while, a deep sense of frustration had overtaken her. After coming back home empty-handed the previous evening, she finally had the opportunity to be a hero by stopping a crime in progress, and her stupid power apparently wasn't good enough to do so!
It got to the point that she almost gave up her surveillance to seek the nearest telephone booth in order to call the incident in, but it had been a couple blocks away, which got her thinking.
What if the villain responsible for the break in left the very minute Taylor was away? Then she'd be coming back home empty-handed, again. Talk about a hero.
So she settled back to wait with much grumbling.
And waited.
And waited.
Until, finally, something happened
Sadly for her, said something took the form of airborne nazis dropping from on-high on the rooftop she was crouched on, completely bypassing her swarm-granted awareness by virtue of flight.
When she had pictured her career as an independent hero, not even in her wildest dreams – or more accurately, nightmares – she'd have thought it'd start by finding herself face-to-face with a cape wearing an honest-to-god SS uniform and a gasmask.
"You are not zee Nightflyer," is the first thing out of the guy's mouth as a trio of other people jump off the big chunk of asphalt that apparently ferried them all the way up here, Taylor barely managing to make a last figure remaining on top of it.
Now, a hero she may want to be, but it would be a lie to pretend that she knows everything about the Bay's cape scene.
That said, the combination of the costume, gas mask and shitty german accent is one that is rather well known to the Brocktonites at large, and she'd have to be pretty dim not to be able to put one and one together and get Krieg of the Empire 88.
Behind her mask's lenses and even as her heartbeat starts to beat like a drum in her ears, Taylor pans her eyes on the trio that accompanies him.
A really, really white guy sporting a lot of weapons all other him, which should be Alabaster, and two bare-chested guys, one wearing a wolf mask and the other a tiger one.
Them too she recognizes, if only because of his current company for the second.
Hookwolf and Stormtiger.
Even as she shunts the entirety of her body-language into her swarm – which promptly rears itself into a frenzy as a frenzy – Taylor quickly comes to a conclusion during the scant few seconds it takes her to acknowledge her situation.
She is rightly fucked, good and proper.
And yes, the swearing is entirely deserved. Because a five versus one when the team includes the Bay's local murderblender, to which her swarm can do approximately a grand total of shit-all, seems to be a quick way to commit suicide.
Since Taylor would rather live to see another day, it leaves her with only one way forward: talking, and hope that she can find a way out of this.
In her heart of heart, she knows that her chances aren't exactly stellar. Which is why she starts converging all the brown recluse and black widow she has under her control to her position.
If the worst comes to happen, she can always attempt to blindside and poison them with her power before fleeing. Maybe it'll buy her enough time?
"I am not," she answers, her voice completely void of emotion as she straightens to her full height, "I do not even recognize the name."
The cape Taylor identified as Hookwolf lets out a snort full of disbelief.
"Shit, you're serious?" the man asks, seemingly finding great humor in her admission, a hand coming to gesture vaguely in her direction, "You a newcomer to the Bay or something? That thieving cunt got everyone up in arms bar the slants for the past two months!"
"Still saying she must be hiding with the dragon," Alabaster chimes in, one hand fiddling with a knife way too big for Taylor's comfort, "Only way she would escape us for so long."
"And vee vill know soon enuff, vonce zee Empire's victory is made total," Krieg growls through his gas mask, his fists tightening at his sides, "It still leevs zee questchion, vho are yoo?"
And despite shunting all of her reactions inside her swarm, Taylor feels her cheeks grow hotter than the sun at the question.
Because, the truth is, she still hadn't found a good heroic name! But what can she do about it when her power dials the creep factor way up on its lonesome?!
"I have no name," she answers, thinking very fast while simultaneously being extremely glad that her fidgeting, and stuttering, didn't translate, "Only a cause."
The urge to facepalm that overtakes her is almost overpowering as she finds herself cringing at her own words.
She couldn't have sounded more right out of an episode of Lil'Mousey if she tried!
If the baffled snorts and chuckles coming from the trio of capes loosely arrayed at Krieg's back is anything to tell, the Nazis definitely seem to share the sentiment.
"Very vell zen," Krieg answers, an undercurrent of feint amusement leaking through his tone of voice in spite of his 'accent', "And vhat zis cause of yours may be?"
"Fucking hell, this is a waste of time," Hookwolf preempts any response Taylor can possibly give as he spits on the ground while roughly gesturing at her, "Guy's fucking green as grass, thinking it's some kind of cartoon shit. We didn't find a thief, we found a fucking lost puppy!"
"You'd know something about dog rearing," Alabaster lazily comments, still playing with his knife.
"Throw 'em into a pit so that the older, meaner dogs get their blood pounding, yeah," the cape answers, a smile in his voice that makes Taylor's skin crawl.
"Now, now, do not be zo hasty, my friend," Krieg interjects, his tone mild, "After all, zis represents an opportunity."
"'An opportunity?'" the other man echoes, "Fuck, you want to recruit this clown?"
"Zee Empire iz ever hungry for varm bodies," his counterpart answers, "Capes in particular. Zey are fongible azets, after all."
By this point, Taylor is truly starting to freak out, and about ready to unleash all the bugs on the quartet – quintet? – of capes before bolting off, because getting forcibly recruited by the Empire sounds like one of her worst nightmares come to life.
Which is when a girlish giggle – although rather off-putting due to how utterly neutral it sounds – breaks through what can only be generously called a conversation, before being promptly followed by a swear and a whimper.
At once, every person present looks back toward the still hovering chunk of asphalt.
Taylor finds herself having to suppress her urge to do a double-take when she realizes that a newcomer has seemingly manifested out of thin air next to the green-clad Empire cape she has yet to identify.
The first thing that jumps to Taylor's mind as she looks at the newcomer is how ridiculously tiny she looks next to the taller cape.
The second is that the girl, because with how absurdly skintight her costume is, she can only be one, is currently pressing a gun's barrel against the Empire cape's temple, her shoulders shaking in barely repressed mirth, which sounds ludicrous to her.
She was trying to find a way not to die the very next minute and the girl is laughing.
The third is that while before Taylor had been proud of her costume, now she's feeling self-conscious. Despite the newcomer's full bodysuit being stupidly skintight, it is also covered in little armored hexagons all over her vitals in a way that doesn't seem to impair any of her motions. Her mask also seems to be of better make than hers, shaped like an owl skull – which annoys her a little – with deep red lenses.
"Ah, this little Nightflyer apologizes for the disruption," the girl says, waving her free hand in an apologetic manner, "Please, do go on, this is very entertaining for her."
"You!" Krieg once again growls, and Taylor easily deduces that the thief must have pissed him off something particularly fierce to earn such a reaction.
"Awww, no more bad German accent?" the girl's shoulder sags a little, "Such a shame, this was the best part by far. Although the newbie's fumbling was a treat too!"
Out of seemingly nowhere, and despite his ally being held at gunpoint, Hookwolf barks a laugh.
"Hear that, 'only a cause'? Even the thief thinks you're a joke, and she looks like she's still sucking her moma's tits!" he guffaws.
"Hookwolf, this is no time–" Krieg snaps.
"Yeah, yeah, I got the part where she's holding Rune at gunpoint, obviously," the other man drawls, "But since she has yet to shoot–"
A very faint, almost imperceptible 'clack' sound echoes, followed almost instantly by an impact and another whimper out of who she now knows to be Rune.
"This little Nightflyer just did now!" the clearly insane girl chirps, before making pew-pew sounds with her mouth for some reason, the faintly smoking barrel of her gun pressed once more against Rune's head, who's now shaking like a leaf under her robe.
A quick glance to the other four Empire capes baffles Taylor when she realizes that, while they do look angry, they aren't surprised.
"... I figure she wants to talk first," Hookwolf ends what she thinks was his first sentence, the humor in his tone having vacated the premise.
"Presentation is important, but you'd know all about that, Mister Hookwolf," the girl nods sagely, "Although you're wrong! This little Nightflyer merely got curious about what you were speaking about with the newbie, and so she snuck in like a ninja!"
"And? Was your curiosity satisfied?" the man flatly asks.
Taylor figures this is probably cape-talk for 'I'm going to bash your skull in', because it definitely sounds like it.
"It now is! Although this was a little disappoin–" the girl starts to answer.
Which is when a ringtone starts to blare out of nowhere, cutting through the growing tension like a hacksaw.
𝅘𝅥𝅮S-O-S, please, someone help me
It's not healthy for me to feel this𝅘𝅥𝅮
A very out of place ringtone, if the way everyone else is giving the young thief weirded out looks is anything to go by.
𝅘𝅥𝅮Y-O-U are making this hard
I can't take it, see it don't feel right𝅘𝅥𝅮
"... Now, this is quite awkward–" the girl goes to scratch her cheek in a display of embarrassment.
𝅘𝅥𝅮S-O-S, please, someone help me
It's not healthy for me to feel this𝅘𝅥𝅮
"–but this little Nightflyer seems to have forgotten–"
𝅘𝅥𝅮Y-O-U are making this hard
You got me tossing and turning, can't sleep at night𝅘𝅥𝅮
"–to put her communicator on silent mode tonight," she admits.
𝅘𝅥𝅮This time, please someone come and rescue me
'Cause you on my mind, it's got me losing it𝅘𝅥𝅮
"This little Nightflyer should probably answer–"
𝅘𝅥𝅮I'm lost, you got me looking for the rest of me
Love is testing me, but still I'm losing it𝅘𝅥𝅮
"–though she's warning you, Miss Rune–"
𝅘𝅥𝅮This time, please someone come and rescue me
'Cause you on my mind, it's got me losing it𝅘𝅥𝅮
"–one wrong move, and 'pew-pew', alright?"
𝅘𝅥𝅮I'm lost, you got me looking for the rest of me
Got the best of me, so now I'm losing it𝅘𝅥𝅮
The green-clad cape frantically nods as the girl stares her down despite the height difference, until the latter nods to herself and quickly does something with her right hand, still holding the gun, with what Taylor supposes is her communicator strapped to her left arm.
Showing her that tonight has yet to exhaust all the curve-balls it has apparently chosen to throw her way, a towering, translucent figure wearing what seems to be an oversized labcoat materializes in front of the thief and with its back to the other Empire capes not currently held at gunpoint.
Though if the swears and gasps are anything to go by, Taylor isn't the only one who got thrown for a loop here.
For a beat, nothing happens.
Then the figure, no, the man, speaks.
"I was wondering what was taking you so long, my little Nightflyer," a cultured, if again offputtingly neutral male voice rings in the silence, "But it seems you have found yourself in some manner of situation."
"... This little Nightflyer apologizes, Ser Callidus, but her curiosity got the best of her," for the first time since she entered the scene, the thief almost sounds awkward to Taylor's ears.
"Ah, but you should know that curiosity killed the cat," the man chuckles knowingly, "After all–"
"Are you the one holding this thief's leash?" Krieg, looking like he finally lost what little patience he had left, cuts through the man's next words, making him visibly pause.
Slowly, the man turns to face the rest of the arrayed Empire capes, and Taylor almost startles when she realizes that he isn't wearing any kind of masks.
Then she does startle when she takes in what the opened lab coat of Ser Callidus lets her see.
Simply put, it is to Armsmaster's power armor what a tank is to a honda civic; brutalist and made for one and one purpose only, to kill, with armored plates as thick as Taylor's hands, with pipes and tubes boring through it and sloshing with liquids, and servos the size of her two fists put together articulating the joints. Yet the giant of a man moving in it makes it look easy as he turns around with grace to look down on Krieg and the others.
Two calculating dark eyes set under an aggressively bald head, with only thin, grey locks of hair trailing its circumference, quickly glances at the assembled capes.
And if the man's expression of mild disdain is anything to go by, it finds them wanting.
"A situation indeed," the man, Ser Callidus it would seem, idly muses, before locking eyes with the spokesperson of the Empire capes, "My little Nightflyer is following my orders when out and about, what of it?"
"Then you should know what she did," the pseudo-SS steps forward, "The Unwritten Rules–"
"Are of no concern to me, and your ilk only pays lip service to it at the best of times," the man chuckles, and despite the neutrality of his tone, Taylor hears the dark humor in it clear as day, "Come off it, Mister Fleischer. I thought the threat was explicit enough. Do I need to make you a crayon drawing too?"
"What?" Krieg rears back as if slapped.
"I know your kind, little man," the man, no, the Tinker says, if the way an endless array of tools suddenly unfolds from the high of his back is anything to go by, exposing syringes, bone saws and drills to everyone's view, "So high and mighty, so certain of your genotype's superiority over any others."
"The Empire–" the pseudo-SS growls back, fist balled at his sides.
"Will fall, like the Third Reich did," Ser Callidus snorts contemptuously, "Your ideals are as backward as they come and just as trite."
"Enough of this pissing context!" Hookwolf grunts as he takes a step forward to stand next to his fellow – which Taylor now apparently knows the secret identity off, which she's currently more than mildly freaking about, "You fucked with us. You keep fucking with us. So we're going to make this nice and easy, we–" the man gestures to the Empire capes, "–are going to find you. And then we're going to kill you, and the twerp while we're at it, got it?"
"Really, now?" the giant of a man answers amusedly, "Isn't that something."
"Got your face, can't be that hard," Hookwolf glibly points out to a chorus of agreement.
Which earns him a bark of laughter.
"Ah, truly refreshing Mister Meadows," Ser Callidus chuckles, "But I'm afraid that subtle and I do not mesh well together. Comes with the territory when you are over three meters tall, you see."
The giant of man gestures toward his back while taking a step to the side.
"Which is why I have my little Nightflyer, useful little thing that she is," he explains, and his words make Taylor's skin crawl.
"Fat load of good it'll do when she ends up in a ditch," Hookwolf grunts.
Ser Callidus' image raises an amused eyebrow, before letting out a discordant screech that grates Taylor's ears something fierce while simultaneously making her think of the old dial-up modem they used to have back home.
The other capes present cringes at the sound, but Nightflyer's reaction is the most extreme, as she dazedly takes a couple of steps back while letting out an all-encompassing blast of blackish-red mist, which Rune eats head-first, making her finally loose what little compensure she still had left and sending the duo, arguably trio, crash down on the roof.
Contrary to Taylor's expectations, the thief perfectly sticks the landing, the odd mist curling all around her diminutive frame.
Rune though, not so much, if her pained groan is any indication.
"I've lifted your limiters, my little Nightflyer," the Tinker says in the same tone Taylor would've used to discuss the weather, "Deal with this annoyance, then come back."
A pause.
"Do try to spare the girl. She's still young, she can learn," the man adds like an afterthought.
"This little Nightflyer hear and obey, Ser Callidus," the thief answers, her joking undertone very conspicuously absent, "What about the newbie?"
"I'd suggest she run," in contrast, the man's tone is definitely amused, "Don't take too long."
Then the Tinker's translucent image winks out.
And Taylor bolts the fuck away under the cover of her swarm, leaving the others to their stand off for the time being.
[AN: Yes, I made Krieg speak with a shitty German accent because this is a particular bit of fanon that amuses me.
Yes, Jacky's ringtone is S.O.S. by Rihana, because it's from 2006, so they should have it on Alep, and, again, it amuses me.
Yes, Ser Callidus' appearance is a rip-off of Fabius Bile, again because it amuses me, but also because it sells the Tinker preying on a naive young parahuman girl eerily well.
Now I sleep.