Legend sighed. “Some are still angry at me. At Alexandria, Eidolon, and others, who played parts. But you haven’t spoken up, you haven’t interrupted me. I’d like to think it’s because we’re all recognizing the same fact. This? It’s our second chance. Something we’ve all dreamed about from time to time. A chance to cut out the rot and start anew, to fix things that were broken before.”
There were one or two nods around the group.”And it’s going to be hard,” Legend said. “Those who know how badly we fucked it up on the last try, who know the full story, they get why this is so frightening a prospect. We still have to clean up the messes from last time, and we have to be doubly, triply sure we move ahead properly this time. Already, there are people plotting to take advantage of present circumstances. Already, there are things going wrong. It’s an uphill battle.”
“But,” Chevalier cut in, “Like those badges we wear show, we’ve all fought in at least one bitch of a battle, and we came out ahead.”
“I’ll be damned if we’re not ready for this one,” Legend agreed.
Cheers rose from the group. Fists pumped in the air, boots stomped.
“And,” Legend said, while the cheering was present but dying down, “With all that said, we’re moving forward with our second chances. I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of our Wardens. Valkyrie.”
He gestured, and the crowd parted. All eyes fell on her. When she stepped forward, she had to be careful, her longer legs unfamiliar. Staying young had come with benefits. The Crone, Schwarze Tante, had been able to give Ciara some of the time she’d stored away. The ghost of a hero called Thane had fashioned her armor, shield and sickle.
The crowd parted as she approached.
The body of a nineteen year old was an unfamiliar one, the costume even more so. Gold and sky blue. The cloth that dangled from her belt traced the insides of her thighs to her knees, the skirt stopped mid-thigh, silent even with the gold chains that traced its edges. The mask didn’t block any of her vision, but it pressed against her cheekbones and forehead, reminding her of its presence. Even her hair was longer, tied back in a thick braid.
She liked the wings, though. The wings were good. The rest would take getting used to, after thirty years as the childlike Faerie Queen, but the wings were a natural fit from the start.
“You’ve formed a new Triumvirate,” a cape in the crowd said.
It might have sounded accusatory.
“Valkyrie will be starting on the bottom,” Legend said. “She’ll earn her way to whatever rank is most fitting.”
There were murmurs in the crowd. For many, the sentiment was the same. I think we know what rank that will be.
For every two people that thought the strength she brought to the table was a good thing, there was one who was suspicious, doubting, or discouraged. They knew who she was. The figures that accompanied her made it clear enough. She couldn’t think of them as shadows anymore.
She liked debating words, the power of words, of titles. It had been her favorite part of the sessions with the therapist. The subject of renaming them had come up in the recent past, along with the discussion of what her new identity meant, and her new name.
Valkyrie, warrior women who guided the souls of dead warriors to the afterlife. These spirits were her warriors, not mere shadows.
No, perhaps two people in her camp to one person against was optimistic. There were others harboring doubts, a little slower to offer their congratulations. Given time and a night to think about it, they would start to think about what her presence meant, that they might fall in battle and that she would claim them for herself, adding to her own power.
Her vision flashed. For a moment, she might as well have been in hell. The capes here on the rooftop were inhuman, even monstrous, distorted and exaggerated. The city glowed with the distant presence of other capes, as though it were on fire.
Valkyrie resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose or shake her head. Her heart pounded long after the image had faded.
Nobody had said this would be easy. Just the opposite.
The speech was done, and the city around them demanded attention. Slowly, capes began peeling away from the group.
“Hey, Valkyrie?” Miss Militia asked.
Valkyrie turned her head.
Miss Militia jerked one thumb in the direction of a man with a massive round shield and spear. “Want to join us for a meal? We’re leaving on patrol soon, so we were going to grab an early dinner. You’re welcome to come with.”
Valkyrie opened her mouth to speak, then thought twice about it.
She was still learning to talk normally, to stop affecting the faerie noble’s manner of speech. She was getting lessons, and it wasn’t perfect yet. If she spoke, it would turn heads.
Except here, now, she almost missed the familiarity of it. The power of her old voice.
“No obligation,” Miss Militia said. “Honest. I get it.”
Miss Militia had been the one to invite Ms. Yamada in, to connect them, and give her a chance. She knew, perhaps better than Chevalier or Legend.
Valkyrie offered her a tight smile, then turned to leave.
When she walked down the hall, flanked by her three chosen warriors, her heels struck the floor. There were Wardens in the hall, talking.
“Where’s Defiant?”
“Complete radio silence.”
She was half again as tall as she had been, fit, glittering in armor, carrying a weapon and shield, and she felt more fragile than she had in a long time.
Incomplete.
Her vision flickered again, like lightning before a crash of thunder.
As the Faerie Queen, she’d had a mission. She’d been a part of something vast, a powerful engine that had reshaped whole civilizations, then erased worlds from the universe.
“We’ve got muscle now. Might be we can make headway. Retake the Eastern Queens portal.”
“Shh.” Eyes turned towards her. They talked about her like she was a secret.
Too many people. She needed to talk to the therapist, but Ms. Yamada wasn’t here. She’d come at a moment’s notice, with only one phone call, but it somehow felt like that would only compound the feeling of fragility.
I wanted to be more human.
Never human, per se. Only more human. Parahuman, instead of inhuman.
She’d spent so much time in therapy, figuring out what Scion had been to her, coming to terms with the loss of the pillar he’d become in her psyche.
In trying to distance herself from him, had she set herself on the exact same path?
Seeing the flickers in the crowd wasn’t helping. She avoided them, making her way downstairs, into an adjoining structure. Once upon a time, she’d used that other sight exclusively. In this, in the here and now, she was warring with the keeper of the dead. A part of why she felt incomplete, fragile. They craved purpose. It took a special kind of willpower to avoid using abilities altogether. Some did, but they were rare.
Using her power meant killing, it meant being around the dead, immersing herself in the gravest kinds of conflict.
Would her experiment in humanity be so short lived?
She found an empty hallway and took it. Things were under construction here, hidden behind plastic. She ignored it, taking the paths that were available to her.
Finally, she came to a large room, a cafeteria, apparently, unfinished. Only half of the tables were present, the kitchen unoccupied and unstocked. The serving area had two tracks where trays could slide. One of the two racks was behind a thick plexiglass barrier.
She sat down on a table, her feet on the bench, lost in thought.
Not five seconds in, her official phone rang.
She ignored it. I only want some peace.
This wasn’t her. Had it been madness? Arrogance? Joining the side of the angels?
Her vision was distorting. Even this far away from other parahumans, her other sight was showing their presence as a glow, as ripple
s. She turned her eyes skyward, but one figure streaked through the sky, well above her.
She heard voices, and turned.
“We meet again, Faerie Queen,” the voice echoed through the chamber.
She turned to see a thin man accompanied by a brutish caveman of a figure, walking on the other side of the thick plexiglass. A child was on this side, petite, blonde, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans with pink sneakers.
Valkyrie felt a pang of jealousy. She missed her old body, and the girl resembled her, superficially.
“Goblin King,” Valkyrie responded. “I don’t go by that name anymore.”
“A pity, a pity. This is my Alice, visiting our not-so-wondrous Wonderland.”
“Riley,” the girl said. “I keep telling you, it’s not Alice, Riley.”
“A mere title, not a name,” the man tittered some. It was an eerie sound, coming from someone his age and gender. Not that Valkyrie minded. She’d dealt with worse in the Birdcage.
“Nevermind,” Riley said. “Alice it is. Whatev.”
Valkyrie looked between the two. “Are you allowed to be here?”
“I’m incarcerated,” the Goblin King said. “She’s visiting.”
“Officially visiting. They’re watching me. Probably watching you, too. We’ve played nice for the last stretch, and the illustrious Nilbog gets visits as a reward, so long as he’s good. We each keep our distance from the barrier, and they don’t use the cameras to fill us full of darts.”
Valkyrie followed the girl’s eye to a camera mounted in the corner.
“As you can tell, I keep friends of the highest caliber,” Riley said.
“Yes, yes,” the man said, seeming very pleased with himself. The sarcasm appeared to be lost on him. “A fallen king is still a king, yes?”
“If he can hold his head high, then he’s more kingly than a man who relies on the crown and silks,” Valkyrie said.
“Yes! Yes! Quite right!” Nilbog agreed.
Riley was smiling, as if despite herself.
The phone was ringing again. Valkyrie canceled the call. She knew why they were calling, now. They were less than comfortable with this trio in one room together.
No matter.
“I came for my weekly dose of sanity, if you know what I mean,” Riley said. “Spend enough time with them, you need a break from it all.”
“I do believe I know what you mean,” Valkyrie said. You mean just the opposite. A weekly dose of madness. A return to the familiar. Both for comfort, and to serve as a reminder of how far they’d come.
Dangerous, perhaps. She wondered if she’d share this with Ms. Yamada.
Probably. People would pass on word. They were all being tracked, no doubt.
But would she share what this meant to her? That she felt more secure than she had, leaving the rooftop meeting and speech?
“Shall we share stories of long ago?” Nilbog asked. “Of our kingdoms, as they were?”
“We could,” Valkyrie said. “Tragedies? Comedies?”
“In my stories,” Riley said, “The line between tragedy and comedy is awfully thin.”
“I suspect my stories are mostly tragedies,” Valkyrie said. “Everyone worth talking about dies in the end.”
“Just the opposite for me,” the Goblin King said. He ran one hand along the cheek of the neanderthal figure beside him. When he turned to face the barrier, he limped, and the brutish man helped him stay balanced. “My favorites persist, they keep coming back to start the adventure anew, a little different every time. This is my helper. They allow me him, only him.”
For a man talking about comedies, he looked sad.
The amnesty still hasn’t gone through in entirety. There are snarls, like this king without a crown or a kingdom.
There were distant running footsteps, growing in volume as they drew closer, suggesting that capes were en route to intercept her.
Valkyrie glanced over her shoulder.
“I suspect this visit will be cut short.”
“Fuck,” Riley said. “Not that the goblin king isn’t awesome, but…”
She trailed off.
“Maybe another time,” Valkyrie said. She raised her hands as the capes entered the room from the far corner. She had to pick her words carefully, so she wouldn’t sound strange. “I’m being good.”
“We’d like to play it safe,” one of the capes said. “If you don’t mind.”
“I understand.”
“Another day, Faerie Queen,” Nilbog said. He smiled, bowing a little.
Valkyrie returned the bow. When she rose to her full height, she was smiling a little in turn. It surprised her.
Flip sides of the same coin.
Rebirth.
The act was an idle one, like one might move a hand inside a pocket to double check there was nothing inside it. She used her power. Bringing one of her warriors through, on the other side of the barrier.
The neanderthal reacted. Valkyrie’s warrior didn’t manifest in full, but it flowed through the neanderthal’s body before rejecting the host.
Almost. Close.
Shepherd of the dead, Valkyrie thought, as she walked away. The Goblin King was shushing his creation.
They were all parts of a whole. The Chirurgeon, the Maker, the Keeper of the Dead. It only made sense that there would be synergies between such abilities.
A way to bring her dead back, perhaps?
She could see them, in the dark recesses, waiting, loyal, obedient. The ones she’d collected, some still mending from the great fight six months ago.
She felt better now. Less incomplete. Her other half was content with this line of thinking.
She just wasn’t sure where she’d take it.
E.2
Nero leaned back in his chair, propping a boot on the edge of his desk. His lieutenants were bringing a line of prisoners into his ‘office’.
They were treated to a view of a tall, muscular man, wearing armor on his legs, shoulders and arms, his chest and stomach bared, marked with small scars. His helmet had dark slits forming an ‘x’ over each eye to allow him to see, and the metal came together in the middle to form an axe blade, extending from his chin to his forehead. His longer brown hair and beard were visible behind and below the edges of the mask.
Braziers burned on either side of him, in the corners of the room, casting him in a flickering orange-red light while filling the room with a haze of smoke. Things had been expanding quickly enough that they couldn’t give away of all of the wood they were cutting down. Some wood was reduced to planks, while other trees were stripped of the exterior bark and branches and used wholesale, forming older-looking log buildings. Problem was, every tree that came down and every tree that was stripped meant huge amounts of debris. There were crews working on producing sawdust and chipboard, but even that was work intensive. Most went into the fires.
This first winter would be the biggest test for the various settlements. Six months in, there were still far too many displaced people, and far too little in the way of shelter, despite wholesale efforts to put things in place.
The prisoners, the slaves, finished filing in with their shuffling footsteps. Many looked at him, then looked away, spooked. More than a few were still in sleepwear, a couple were less than fully decent. They’d been dragged from their shelters and homes, forced to climb into trucks and shipped here.
The resentment and fear was clear on their faces.
He took his time looking them over.
Lucan stepped up to the desk. “The product-”
“Is it urgent? Are people dying?”
“No, but-”
“Are we going to die because of problems with the product?”
“No. People getting sick. It was cut with something ugly, we think.”
“That can wait.”
Lucan nodded, stepping back.
“I am not an especially cruel man,” Nero addressed the prisoners.
They didn’t believe him. Nobody relaxe
d or even moved, at those words.
“You work, you get your tokens,” Nero said. He opened a drawer, grabbed one pile of chains with attached tokens from inside, and then tossed the things onto the desk. They clattered, and one or two prisoners flinched.
“This is my system. We can’t police things every step of the way. Shelter, food, supplies, it slows things down, creates too much confusion. We use these.” He stabbed the pile of tokens with one finger. ”So long as you have one, so long as you earn one, you can have what you need for the week. Food, water, and shelter. Get more tokens, you get access to more. Luxuries, comfort, a chance to voice concerns to me and my men.”
He turned his gaze on each of the prisoners. “You took these things without a token in hand, which makes you thieves. If you had empty pockets when it came time to pay in a restaurant, they’d make you work as a dishwasher. I’m going to do the same. You’re getting punished, and then I’m giving you to Lucan there. He’ll work you for the week, keep you in chains and give you the bare minimum you need to get by. You’ll earn the tokens you pretended you had. Tokens you more or less stole from me.”
He gestured to his lieutenant with one gauntlet. Lucan held a shotgun, and one of his eyes was bloodshot, a perpetual beam of light extending from it. Lucan offered a sly smile.
Still, the prisoners didn’t move.
“If you try to run, you won’t escape. One of the names they gave me was Persecutor. I was good at finding things and finding people before I got powers, and I got better after. If it gets to the point where you’re back here a second time and I recognize your face? It’ll get uglier. If you try to shirk your duties and leave, it’ll get uglier. You follow?”
There were reluctant nods from the line of prisoners.
“This is the way things are,” Nero said. “You’ve got guys like me in charge because you need us in charge. Adapt.”
“Adapt?” one prisoner said. An old man, his hair sticking up from sleep and a lack of shampoo. He sounded just a little drunk. “Only reason you’re there and we’re here is you got powers.”
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