Wearing the Cape 6: Team-Ups and Crossovers

by Marion G. Harmon

  The brain-hurting thud of the speakers cut out. “I’ve jacked their feed!” Shell crowed. But the distortion was still growing, like a stretched membrane. We’re not going to stop—

  “What in the name of the Brothers Grimm is going on here?”

  Three women in ball gowns dashed out of a suddenly-there arch of climbing roses. The one leading the charge, a regal blonde in pink and a tiara, had the interesting curse words. The one right behind her was— “Astra! Don’t get caught!”

  They pushed through the rose arch and into a street full of smoke, pulsing light, and the ugliest critters Hope had ever seen that walked on two legs. Brian—Brian!—shouted a warning and she twisted to look as Jamal came out of nowhere to smash a tiny something flying for her head. A flying blonde hero in a black bodysuit dropped down beside them, landing hard enough to stagger her.

  “Carrabelle, we need to stop the crowd!”

  The Princess looked around, wide-eyed and determined. “With what?”

  Grendel smashed ugly whatevers out of the way as they turned towards Hope and the girls, shouting about no-faces! She got the message, flying into them to knock them flying like bowling pins as a blonde woman in black spandex laid into them with precision shots of weirdly physical light-blasts from above.

  Jamal blurred to a stop beside The Princess. “Shell says she can give you a soundtrack! Like your origin story!”

  “Really, sugar?” Her eyes lit up. “Orchestra! Sleeping Beauty’s waltz!”

  The van-mounted speakers around them erupted into a full symphony orchestra performance of a tune Hope instantly recognized—one known to millions of children and adults who had been children sometime in the last fifty years—and The Princess broke into song, Shell getting her voice into the broadcast (probably through one of the team’s mics). Beside The Princess, Jack tossed what looked like fist-sized Christmas-poppers into the air and they exploded into multiplying and cascading fireworks as Hope dropped to the street and her feet started moving to the piped music.

  What the heck? Oh no, the drones— But she saw Jamal blur again before the song could grab him too, going back to swatting drones away from The Princess as everyone else on the street—the no-faces (who could hear somehow, obviously, even if Hope couldn’t see any ears on them), Artemis, Polychrome, and a whole crowd of zombie bystanders—formed up in the biggest flash-crowd dance routine she’d ever seen.

  A dance that ripped everyone’s attention away from the growing distortion that Hope only now spotted in the street, which popped like a soap bubble as the Princess sang and everyone danced. Grendel grabbed and spun Hope into the waltz as she turned to him, and she could have danced all night, twirling partners in the glorious swirling synchronicity. The bit of her brain not lost in The Princess’s song wondered how long everyone else could.

  Then they didn’t need to; the street lit up with a blinding pulse and everyone else fell down. She and Grendel stood in the middle of a street full of sleepers as shorted-out drones fell like rain.

  So how did one end a night that featured an attempted extra-dimensional invasion that turned into a self-choreographed street ball? Even for this place Hope could tell it obviously wasn’t just another night in Portland. By some unspoken agreement, Jacqueline, Carrabelle, and two more women introduced to her as the Polychrome and Victory Anna she’d been told were watching over Velveteen’s city, got her and her team (she was so happy to see them she almost cried) off the street and up into the hotel suite they’d set up in.

  Something about avoiding explanations and paperwork.

  Collapsing onto a couch, she sighed and adjusted the skirts of her ball gown. It was a little the worse for wear, but since a magic mirror in an enchanted castle had made it she didn’t feel too bad (and it was disturbingly okay that that thought made sense). Shell, after clinging and babbling for ten minutes while Hope and the rest watched Polychrome and The Princess handle the live report on the big screen TV (both of them very good at handling the media), curled up in Hope’s lap and let her scratch her ears.

  Artemis—her Jacky—stepped in from the patio to drop to the couch beside her. “So, that’s a new look.”

  “This old thing? I just threw it on. Been waiting long?”

  “A few days. You?”

  Hope hugged her favorite fiend of the night. The gown and protesting cat barely got in the way. “Glad you’re here. Hey, so what was that flashy-thing at the end?”

  “This place’s Verne-type rigged her big gun for max dispersal and Ozma hot-shotted it with the Magic Belt. Turned out the drones didn’t like being tased any more than people do. I wish she’d waited; Shell’s got great video of Grendel twirling you. I think she’s saving it for blackmail.”

  “And what did we stop, exactly?” Talk. Just talking is good. She kept looking over at her guys, even Kitsune, making sure they were here too.

  Jack sat down opposite them, easily arranging her own gown. “Nothing less than an attempted incursion from a Dada anti-realm. They’re related to the Seasonal Lands, but…not.”

  “Nasty little things,” Victory Anna sniffed, coming into the room. “Not even respectable universes.” She stalked over to the bar and started rifling through it. “I traveled through my own share to get here and most of them were balls, without even proper—ha!” She pulled out a wooden tea box.

  “There is an electric pot and filter here,” Ozma informed her, leaving the whiteboards she’d been playing with to join her at the bar. “A bit of tea would be most welcome.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I can prepare—”

  Ozma didn’t let Victory Anna finish her protest, simply locating the pot and water as she stammered. From what Hope understood, the woman was a survivor from a vanished Victorian steam-punk world; Ozma’s old world royal demeanor probably pushed every one of her class-buttons.

  “Tea sounds great,” Carrabelle agreed, entering the suite ahead of Polychrome—the flying photon-manipulator who’d helped Hope and Brian keep the uglies off of Carrabella while The Princess had gone to work. All done dealing with the police and press, Hope supposed, stifling a giggle. The Princess of Oz and The Princess were certain to start a more-royal-than-thou contest any moment now; she hoped poor Victory Anna didn’t have a meltdown.

  And she was way too…jet lagged? The littlest things felt insanely funny. She found Jacky’s hand, ignoring Kitsune’s considering look from across the room (or trying to—her rebellious eyes kept wandering). She also ignored the part of her wishing it had been Kitsune on the street and caught in the dance with her instead of Grendel; Kitsune anything would have to wait. Right. Absolutely.

  In any case she needn’t have worried about Victory Anna; as soon as Polychrome joined her at the bar all of the woman’s attention focused on her. “Are the policemen satisfied, Pol?”

  “For now. Since we identified it as an attempted incursion, federal agents with all their science stuff are going to be here tomorrow.” She looked at the suite’s grandfather clock, sighed. “Today, actually. Till then the street’s sealed off.”

  “They will find that the point of distortion is safe,” Ozma informed everyone from the bar. “I know nothing of them, but my tests have determined that they came through the same weak place that we used to get here. I believe that they were attempting to use their technology and captive minds to create a wider beachhead at the closest point congruent to a more stable point in their world.”

  “Great.” Polychrome’s face said it really wasn’t. “So Portland is going to become a weirdness magnet, now?”

  Hope laughed, slapped a hand over her mouth.

  “I think not.” Ozma finished measuring tea and let Victory Anna take control of the pot. “We kept our own presence quiet, but now that you know about the rift you will be able to monitor its terminus here with minimal difficulty. It does not support large incursions, the reason for tonight’s attempt.”

  Polychrome sighed. “We’ll need to think about getting more city heroes, an
yway. Or getting our science guys to rig something up.”

  “Actually, guys,” Jack put in. “Do what you want, but the Seasons are going to be learning about these Dadas as soon as I get home. Protecting the Calendar Lands from disruption by anti-realms is part of our job. The whole cosmic Order vs. Chaos thing.”

  Hope took a breath and straightened up. “And that gives us our deadline, doesn’t it? We should be on our way home before your people start sealing off our arrival point.” And I can go home. The best news she’d had was that, back home, it had apparently been not even a week since she’d left for her adventures. Which didn’t mean she wasn’t going to hug the stuffing out of a lot of people.

  Ozma nodded agreement. “It is best that we not dawdle. However, there is always time for tea, and I would like some time to speak to both Victory Anna and Jacqueline Claus. Perhaps you could nap in Kitsune’s room, once he removes his young lady.”

  “His what?”

  “And perhaps while he does, you may discuss your courting arrangements? He’s already met your parents, and they would like to know as well.”

  She covered her eyes and groaned. Maybe home could wait a few more days? One? Two?

  In her lap, she could feel Shell laughing.

  DSA Field Report: Agent Smith.

  Okay Boss, everybody’s home and accounted for. Apparently Astra brought souvenirs, one in a very large garment bag. We’ve mapped the current edges of the rift, and they haven’t expanded beyond the warehouse walls; my recommendation, again, is if the science boys can’t figure a way to make the rift go away completely then we seal the entire site inside a cement cube and forget about it. SP1 is weird and dangerous enough—it sounds like a lot of their capes are Ultra Class and they know a lot of Omega Class entities—but Ozma has informed me that our faceless dudes launched an invasion on the SP1 side of the rift. Boss, if we leave it open then one of these days Cthulhu is going to come knocking on our end.

  Odysseus Case File 1-K612 B.

  Operation Odysseus: Director Kayle.

  Madame President, Per Agent Smith’s recommendation assets are being mobilized to seal Gate SP1. Initial reports are confident that total seal is possible; if not, steps can be taken to make the open rift less accessible and more hostile to intrusions. I understand the potential of the site, but further mapping of accessible destinations on the other end of Gate SP1 does not appear worth the risk of leaving the door open. See summary of Operation Hellmouth for a review of the downsides of such a venture. Also, see full Astra debrief; I found her observations succinct, and our analysts are going to be rethinking many of our suppositions regarding extrarealities in light of the data she brought back.

  Finally, given what we have learned regarding the Ascendancy, I request approval of Operation Icarus.

  Director Summary, Odysseus Case File.

  Historical Accuracy

  by K.F. Lim

  Chapter One

  “To be honest, one of the most useless bits of advice I’ve ever heard was “prepare for the worst, hope for the best.” The thing is, when you’re dealing with six active military bases, one NASA facility, one highly active government-funded physics lab, and one of the biggest shipyards on the east coast, all in one area code with a propensity towards hurricanes and flash floods, it’s really impossible to even predict what the worst could be, let alone prepare for it.”

  Nikki Aguilar, aka Typhoon

  2 PM, March 31st: Virginia Beach

  I sat in my mother’s obnoxiously pink catering van, stuck on the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel, with 300 loaves of Filipino breakfast rolls in my trunk. Grimly leaning against the horn, I contemplated the futility of my own existence, wondering just how furious my mother would be if the pan de sal at my cousin’s wedding was served slightly stale and smelling of sweaty diving gear. My earbud chirped, thankfully interrupting my gridlock nihilism.

  “Dispatch to Typhoon, do you copy?”

  Groaning, I put the catering van in park. Given the fact that I hadn’t moved in 20 minutes, I probably should have done that ten minutes ago. “Typhoon, here, General. What’s the what?”

  I could hear his disapproving grimace at my non-regulation response over the headset. Whatever; I was technically off duty, and The General could use some informality in his life.

  “We got a Level 5 Pinocchio. Some idiot decided to animate the King Neptune Statue over by the Boardwalk.”

  I groaned again. Spring Break had just broken on the Ocean Front; the beach was probably overflowing with tourists and locals alike. “Well, shit, General, that sounds like a real Charlie Foxtrot just waiting to happen, but I don’t know how I’m gonna get down there when my van’s not moving and I haven’t even crossed the tunnel yet.”

  “I have a Navy chopper waiting for you at the coordinates I just sent to your headset. Cold Front will meet you at a rendezvous point closer to the Ocean Front. Nightingale is already there on crowd control duty. Just jump in the drink and zoom over there, Typhoon.”

  Muttering something a lot harsher than “shit” under my breath, I dug through my purse for my waterproof, Verne-type-engineered set of goggles. “General, this is supposed to be my day off. Do you even know what “day off” means? I have 300 bread rolls in my van and—”

  Of course, he overrode me. “Somebody will be by to pick up your van and deliver the baked goods to their final destination. Good luck, Typhoon.”

  I sighed and started stripping, eyeing the waves with a suspicious glare. I hated diving off the HRBT; you just never know what weird litter lurked underneath the foamy, smelly water. Finally free of my jeans and dressed only in an ergonomic tankini, I climbed out of the van, locked my door, stashed my keys in a waterproof wrist pouch, slid on the goggles, and positioned myself to jump off the bridge. For a second, I contemplated how ridiculous I looked—a short, muscular, dark-skinned Filipina girl, dressed only in a silver mesh two-piece, struggling to get her half shaved, half shoulder-length black wavy hair under a swim cap, all while preparing to jump into some seriously sketchy water.

  “DON’T DO IT! TRAFFIC ISN’T THAT BAD!” somebody yelled over the cacophony of car horns.

  “I PROMISE YOU, THIS ISN’T WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!” I yelled back.

  And then I jumped.

  Maybe I should take a moment to explain why jumping off a bridge doesn’t mean certain death for me.

  Hi, My name is Nikki Aguilar, and I am an actual mermaid.

  OK, maybe not a mermaid all the time. But five years ago, me and a bunch of my swim team buddies accidentally got caught in a hurricane. In our defense, it was only a little hurricane…well, as little as a hurricane can get while still officially being labeled a “hurricane.”

  We decided that taking a boat out to sea without checking the weather report was a great idea. The experience was life-threatening and adrenaline-pumping enough to induce my breakthrough. My best friend was drowning, and I was (and still am) an enormous fantasy nerd. Result: I grew gills…and yes, a fish tail where my legs had been. What I didn’t grow was a pair of conveniently placed seashells, which 15 year-old-me was more upset about honestly than the fact that I had turned into a frickin’ mermaid and wasn’t quite sure how to turn back. You’d think that a big honkin’ fish tail would make me more self-conscious than a little nip sip, but that’s high school for you.

  After the Coast Guard responded to our SOS call, rescued us, and ensured my modesty was protected by a big towel, my parents and I hitched a ride with a couple of scientists to Camp Peary, since I was still awkwardly flopping instead of walking. A group of super creepy CAI, CIA and DSA scientists put me through my aquatic paces (or rather, swim strokes). We discovered that I wasn’t just a mermaid. The scientists determined that I was an aquamorph: able to change my anatomy to any sort of aquatic creature (or creatures) that I knew about. Sure, I had to study up on what each animal was capable of and their specific musculature, but by the end of the first week, I could mimic the tail of a marlin and the bio
luminescence of an anglerfish. We also discovered that shifting back was just as hard—I had to have intimate knowledge of my own skeletal and muscular systems.

  In the General’s words, I was “tactically useful” to the US Government.

  Flash forward to now. I’m a certified and fully trained member of the Hampton Roads CAI team. We’re officially known as “The Nauticals,” but the locals know us as “The Pirates.” We’re a relatively small team; just three, sometimes four, of us. The 757 isn’t really that big of a supervillain town; it’s simply not Metropolis-y enough for the average attention-seeking-bad-guy. Local authorities mostly call us in when some government/military experiment goes haywire. The pay is good, the benefits are ace, and I’m not stuck at an office job like the rest of my friends are.

  But the hours are crap, and sadly, jumping off a bridge into sketchy, sludgy Chesapeake Bay water wasn’t nearly as disgusting as my average workday could get.

  I hit the water feet first (there was no way I was going to risk a head injury by jumping into murky water) and propelled myself forward, melding my legs into a sailfish’s tail (bursting the seams of my tankini bottom in the process) and cutting through the water with gills and arm-fins. The coordinates The General had sent me flashed red against the plexiglass of my goggles, superimposed over a GPS display. Ten seconds later (it was a familiar morph), I was fully finned and zipping through the Bay at a brisk 68 miles an hour and gritting my teeth against the icky feeling of polluted bay water flowing through my hair.