Even as I race toward the location marked by the beacon on my phone's GPS, I'm thinking about method. Damn Tattletale didn't leave me a choice—well, she did leave one, a very simple moral choice. Yeah... do I have a choice, the recruit asked the sergeant in the mess hall. Yes, son, you can eat this shit or get the hell out!
So my choice was simple—walk away, just not respond to her message. Wait while Bakuda, the new ABB leader, kills or subjugates the Undersiders—more likely kills them. But that's not even a choice. There is no choice here. I have capabilities—right now I'm a very, very dangerous parahuman. Maybe even the most dangerous on the entire Northeast coast. I'm nearly invulnerable, capable of rapid regeneration, explosive teleportation—damn it, I'm Butcher Fifteen and Swarm in one package. I can still be poisoned, shot with a high-caliber rifle with armor-piercing rounds (I think), but I have Edward's danger sense—the third Butcher and first hero in the collective. No, in the Hive.
And I still have my Swarm, and even if I only had the Swarm—I'd still rush to help. Because that's what people do. I can think of a thousand arguments why I shouldn't get involved in the conflict between Bakuda and the Undersiders, and ten thousand why I absolutely must. But actually, I wasn't thinking about anything. As soon as I got the message—I immediately opened the window and jumped out, only managing to pull on sneakers and throw on a black hoodie.
Thank God, the car Tattletale provided was still in the same place, and the keys were still under the driver's seat mat. Tattletale had also arranged for parental controls over her phone to be installed on mine—I could see where Lisa herself was at any moment. Or rather, her phone. For a while it was moving actively, but now it had stopped. I race toward the location, occasionally passing ambulances and police cars. I don't see them, but my Swarm notes flying capes streaking across the sky. I don't have time to identify them.
Meanwhile, my head rapidly analyzes behavioral options. Tactics and strategies, developing combat scenarios considering my capabilities. I note peripherally that attack schemes, withdrawal and hostage protection have gotten much better—my consciousness spins out scenarios like a squirrel cracking nuts, and boom, a scheme is ready. Complete with pros and cons, percentages and probabilities, weak points and vulnerabilities, where and what could go wrong and definitely will, plus options for eliminating these vulnerabilities—some morally acceptable, others completely unacceptable. Is this Tactician's power?
My Swarm finds Tattletale's beacon and the other Undersiders ahead—a whole crowd has gathered there. I could floor it and simply burst onto the scene, scattering Bakuda's supporters and crashing into her jeep, immediately eliminate her and... mission accomplished. Wait. She just detonated her bomb. She's effectively holding all these people hostage. Options?
Schemes and scenarios begin flashing through my head at incredible speed. Pros and cons. Attack and withdrawal options. An inner voice demands parameters from me. Everything depends on parameters, on the task I set for my inner strategist. If the task is simply to save Tattletale without revealing my identity—that's one option. Don't even need to think. Quick attack on Bakuda—her costume has plenty of exposed areas, and my "Stingers," improved and modified versions of Japanese hornets, can penetrate up to two centimeters of practically any clothing, even Kevlar. They can't bite through armor plates, but everything else... Bakuda is doomed. If she's not stupid, after her death a self-destruct mechanism triggers for all these people, and probably throughout the city. There'll be lots of explosions. Despite this—mission accomplished.
That doesn't work for me. New parameter—minimize civilian casualties. If possible. How? Two options—immobilize, meaning paralyze or put in a coma... but I already tried that on the Butcher. Didn't work out well. Worked out shitty, honestly. Second option—negotiations. In negotiations I need to operate from a position of strength. I need to hold all the cards. Bakuda's psychological profile... hmm. She craves being strong, craves recognition that she's strong and smart, that she surpasses everyone. Probably an inferiority complex—she's Asian, right? And from Lung's gang, where they usually wipe their feet on women, but she... she didn't even spare her own gang members, implanted bugs in all their heads. And it's not because she's seeking loyalty that way—well, not only because of that. She's taking revenge. So she and Taylor have very similar problems... except Taylor held back. And not because Taylor is stronger with a proper moral compass. Just different circumstances.
But that's not the point now—no time to pity Bakuda. Worst case, there's option B, with a "Stinger" bite to her unprotected neck.
As for negotiations... unfortunately, you can only negotiate with Bakuda from a position of strength. So first I need to scare her shitless. And talk to her in a language she understands. The language of overwhelming force. The language of fear.
I stop the car, pull the hoodie over my head, and race toward the scene. My "Stingers," "Medicis," barrel ants with toxin and acid supplies gather with millions of others—all the insects I managed to collect during the drive, and those who kept up form an impressive mass. Just what's needed for the show. The Eighth Plague of Egypt. Lord of the Flies. Baal-zebub or Beelzebub. Embodiment of everything darkest and most sinister in the human soul. Hmm. Might work. Is this Bakuda an atheist?
"Give! Give! Give!" a voice inside pleads. "You don't know how! You can't! You... you don't have the guts. Give me control, you four-eyed whore! I swear I'll rip out your intestines and..."
"One more curse word and you won't see privileges for a year," I reply to the Butcher. "A year. Want to count how many days and hours that is?"
"Damn you... aarrgh! Taylor! Give me control of at least one clone! You can't inspire fear! I can! I've done this my whole life! Listen! Give me control and... I'll stop calling you a four-eyed whore!" the Butcher snarls. I hesitate. On one hand, giving in to the Butcher... but on the other hand, I should show I have not just stick but carrot too. Show that I'm capable of compromise and cooperation, and also let him taste that carrot. When the Butcher tries direct insect control (under my supervision, of course), he'll become more agreeable. As the Chinese say, a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. And also, I should acknowledge he's right. The Butcher knows how to inspire terror. He's a professional at it, and he really can handle this better than me. Simulating madness is difficult... but if you have one insane maniac in your head...
"Fine. You're right," I say, and the Butcher rejoices in my head while the others shout something in chorus, pleading, begging, but I ignore them. "Conditions—not one civilian dies. Preferably fewer deaths among ABB fighters, though that's as it goes. Bakuda... I need her to deactivate all bombs. Clear? If you fail and screw up, I immediately take control back. Any attempt at deliberate sabotage means end of cooperation for the entire duration of my leadership in your little collective. Simply put, while I'm driving, you have no voice."
"Don't give a shit," the Butcher replies. "Do what you want."
"So you're refusing the agreement?"
"No! Give me the chance! Fine, damn you, girl, I agree. Won't touch civilians, deal. I'm not interested in weaklings myself... done?! Get off my back already."
"You know, someday we'll work on your attitude..." I nod. "Creating clones. Get ready."
Millions of my insects gather nearby and suddenly—fly together, crawl together, move toward the center of events. Meanwhile, I pull the hoodie over my head and approach the crowd, thinking how good it is to look like an ordinary civilian, without all those tight spandex and clown outfits that mark you as a cape from a mile away. An ordinary girl in a black hoodie attracts no attention, and I simply blend with the crowd. Before I would have tried to stay far away, but now the most dangerous and tough combat unit in my arsenal is me. I sharply regret not taking my machine gun and leaving it there on the street. Wait, what? My machine gun? Shit, I'm starting to think of myself as the Butcher. Whatever, later, all later...
"Taylor!" Edward's voice in my head—he's been trying to reach me for a while. "Taylor, what are you doing! He'll expose you! He'll show everyone you're the Butcher!"
"I know," I reply. "Now I have Tactician's power, remember?"
"But..."
"How long do you think I can keep this fact secret? And what will I have to sacrifice each time trying to hide that I'm Butcher Fifteen? Such secrets don't last long," I shake my head. "And... what's bad about being the Butcher? On the contrary, being the Butcher has all advantages—no one will try to kill you. Everyone will leave you alone. Heroes and villains both. Being the Butcher is bad subjectively—that you no longer belong to yourself. But I've already dealt with that, I'm not even bored with you all. You're actually a normal guy, Edward. Argued with Muramasa all evening yesterday about the quality of European medieval blade steel versus Japanese swords, even Quarrel is okay. Shock is a bore... wants his workshop. Like a big family. Well... every family has its black sheep."
"This will change your life drastically!" Edward doesn't give up. "And your father! And friends!"
"My father... as far as I know him, he'll be glad to learn that now it would take at least help from the Triumvirate or an Endbringer to hurt his little girl. As for my friends... I think I have only one girlfriend and she's standing over there by the wall. And... ultimately what's more important—my reputation or the lives of all these people. I think the answer is clear."
"Well... if that's how it is..."
"Exactly." The crowd starts getting agitated seeing so many insects flowing and flying toward them. I immediately form clones from insects. A shot rings out—someone panicked and pulled the trigger... whatever. I don't even feel deaths among the insects—the bullet just passed through the clone.
"What the hell is this?!" Bakuda's voice booms. "Who are you, freak? Show yourself! Who are you?!"
At the same time I stand among the crowd of civilians—they're frightened, clutching improvised weapons and looking around. On some necks I see dried blood, traces of surgery. Each of them is a hostage. What a pity I can't end it all at once by just ordering the "Stingers" to attack. I urgently need a tranquilizer, reliable and non-lethal, right now urgently. As soon as I rescue Tattletale, I'll get on it. Even if I spend all my money, maybe buy some tinkertech?
"Give, give, give!" the voice whispers impatiently in my head. "Come on, let's go!"
I transfer control of the clone to the Butcher. Rather, not quite—I still control each insect individually, he couldn't do that, he couldn't even control two cockroaches, these are my abilities. I hold the insects together and simply relay the commands he forms, moving as if in a human body.
The clone straightens its spine and takes a "step" forward. Slowly, as if looking into Bakuda's eyes.
"Who am I?" The buzzing of insects forms a strange voice, on the edge of infrasound, a deep, low air vibration where each individual sound seems to resonate in the chest. "Who are you to ask me questions?" The clone gestures and the nearest ABB fighter grabs his throat, falls to the ground, thrashing his legs, screaming, flailing his arms, kicking his legs while thousands of insects devour him alive, turning the poor bastard into a screaming piece of meat. Even the gangsters' faces go white at the nightmarish sight. Someone opens fire, shots pierce the clones, several more join the first one. Bakuda raises her grenade launcher, but the Butcher's clone merely raises a finger and those who shot immediately drop their weapons and start spinning in place, shaking insects off their hands. Bakuda's grenade launcher doesn't work—sticky substance from spider glands, carried by barrel ants, has jammed all internal mechanisms.
"Whoever shoots again will become just like that." The Butcher's clone raises his hand and the wave of insects immediately retreats from the body of the first ABB fighter attacked by insects. The crowd gasps, someone turns away, you can hear someone vomiting right on the ground. The sight isn't the most aesthetic—insects stripped the guy to bone in seconds. I can't say it's a skeleton, there's still plenty of flesh, but the task was to terrify. Eating a human in seconds is impossible. But that's not needed. Neurotoxin killed him, and insects only gnawed the visible body parts—face and hands. They worked especially hard on the face—this part was supposed to look nightmarish, and it does. First impression—eaten alive, devoured to the bone. No eyelids, no eyes, no skin on the entire face, facial muscles eaten, no nose. And as a finishing touch—after shocked silence settled and all eyes stopped on the bloody skull—an especially large centipede crawled out of his eye socket and slowly streamed down, sliding onto the asphalt.
"You there." The Butcher's clone turns its head toward Bakuda. "What were you saying about fear? Stand still—right now there are several thousand insects on you. Neurotoxin will paralyze you, but your death won't be that quick. My babies have already eaten. You know there are insects that lay their larvae in other insects and even animals? And these larvae live there, in the body's warmth, multiply, eat the body from inside... and then burst out? I can make such an incubator out of you. Lower your damn grenade launcher and keep your hands where I can see them."
Bakuda nervously swallows, looking at her minion's body. She's been trying to shoot him with the grenade launcher for several seconds, but then a huge spider slowly crawls across her hand resting on the fire control grip, and she immediately throws away the grenade launcher. It hangs on the strap while she holds back a scream, clenching her teeth.
"Good girl," the clone says, and behind him another ABB fighter falls to the ground, devoured by insects, his screams quickly turning into muffled moans of pain and despair.
"For all other thick-skulled bastards, let me explain—whoever tries to run will be devoured. Whoever tries to shoot will be devoured. Whoever screams and argues with me will be devoured. Whoever I don't like... well, you know... you!" The Butcher's clone raises his hand. "You—who are you?"
"M-me?" blinks a guy in ABB's green and red colors. "I..."
"Oh yes. Whoever asks idiotic rhetorical questions will be devoured." Insects bury the guy under them and his screams quickly fade under a pile of chitin, wings and antennae as a dark wave covers him completely.
"What else?" the Butcher's clone says thoughtfully. "What did I forget to say? Oh yes..." He turns to the frozen Bakuda. "You. Remember I said thousands of my insatiable babies are already on you, and you notice nothing? Remember? Nod if you remember. Good girl. Well, I lied. Actually thousands of my insatiable babies are already in you... understand..." Bakuda's eyes widen, she pales, and the Butcher nods with satisfaction.
"Don't believe me? Think I might be deceiving you? Raise your hand, the right one. Look at the back of your palm, don't be afraid, bring it closer to your eyes." Bakuda obeys him, bringing her hand to her eyes, and I activate the tracker worm I just implanted under her skin. These worms secrete a toxin when penetrating under skin that causes numbness of nerve endings, so the person feels no pain during implantation. And they're very small, but if you bring your hand close to your eyes like this and look really closely... I know what she's seeing now. She sees a worm no bigger than a fly larva bursting right through her skin, breaking out and leaning toward her, as if—seeing her. It has no eyes, the tracker worm can't see, but I know that. She doesn't see that. Right now she's looking at something inside her own body, something she can't control and... this something is looking right into her eyes.
"Aaaah!" Bakuda screams and hits her hand with all her strength with her other hand. "Aaaah! Get this thing away from me! Aaaah!!!" She falls to the ground and starts rolling around, shaking off imaginary insects. "Please!"
"Here's another reason I let the Butcher out, Edward," I mentally tell the hero. "He knows how to strike terror into human hearts. I couldn't have done it like that. If you need to negotiate with a psychopath, it makes sense to show that no one intends to negotiate with them. No negotiations. Only capitulation. I would have bargained for lives, I would have tried to appeal to reason and conscience. But the Butcher... just had fun."
"I hope he didn't break her..." Edward mutters in my head.
"She was already broken," I say, and catch Tattletale's gaze as she stands by the wall, tired and exhausted. In her eyes—horror, fear, admiration and... something else?