Ink-stained Pages
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MGM - 78
🕑 Added 2025-03-22 20:45:01 +0000 UTCTwenty minutes later, I was forced to concede the fact that I may very well have underestimated my impact on the civilian populace of Brockton Bay.
Because they were absolutely feral.
It wasn't until I was boots-down down on the streets, looking the very same people of whom I saved in their faces as they broke down and clung to my body, did I realize just how much my victory over Leviathan - and my previous killing of the city's vilest villains - meant to the average person. I wasn't normally a touchy-feely kind of guy whatsoever, but not for even the seventh or eighth time, I found myself pulling another sobbing and overwhelmed fan into my arms, my voice low and comforting as I accepted their gratitude and whispered my own in return.
"Y-you don't get it, man," a dark-skinned man was practically yelling into my ear, clenching his bulky, tattooed arms around my chest and squeezing, "They killed her. They killed my mama, Joyce Williams, years ago! And I couldn't do shit. I don't got powers. I don't got shit no more. And the cops ain't give a fuck. The PRT ain't give a fuck! But you- you wiped those motherfuckers out, man. All of 'em! I can go to my mama's grave and smile now, Avalon. I can visit her without feelin' like a fucking failure. Because of you. I-"
Bullshit. And this wasn't even the first person to feel this way.
It pissed me off.
"You were never a failure," I gripped him by his shoulders and lightly tugged him off of my body, starting straight into his wet, bloodshot eyes. "You couldn't have done shit. It wasn't your responsibility to avenge your mother. It was the heroes' job- and they failed you for a long, long time. But I'm here now, and I won't fail you, or anyone else who calls Brockton Bay their home. Invictus won't fail."
Behind him, surrounding us, the ground-shaking buzz of the crowd quieted down as my magically-amplified words filtered out into the air. They were spoken no louder than a whisper, but it washed over the festival like a blanket of water, quenching the flames of excitement and replacing it with a sudden, scarily intense degree of focus. My tongue felt sweet and warm in my mouth, a passive reminder of Voice, and I allowed that sweetness to nestle itself comfortably into the atmosphere, bringing power to my words.
I wasn't one for speeches, but maybe I could say something here to shift the course of the city, if only slightly. Not everywhere had to be a fucking shithole in this God-forsaken world.
"Yesterday, I killed an Endbringer, just as I'd said I could on the night that I killed Lung," I continued slowly, patting the teary-eyed man on the shoulder and taking a step backwards. With that movement, my body slowly hovered into the air, even as hands reached out in futile efforts to grab hold of my fluttering black mantle. Within a passing moment, I'd already floated just out of reach - close, but no so close as to be yanked around like before. They'd hurt themselves far sooner than they'd actually move me.
My eyes drifted over the seemingly endless crowd of people, lidded and sharp, before they caught sight of one of the news crews aiming their equipment towards me.
I locked gazes with the cameras, and smiled.
"Before Lung, I killed Oni Lee. After Lung, I killed Coil. And then Kaiser. And then the rest of the Empire, scourging their filth from these streets and ensuring that not just minorities, but everyone who calls this city their home could do so without fear and shame. However, these victories… They're not just mine, or Invictus'. They're yours."
For what felt like the first time since I'd came to this world, I saw the wide-reaching effects of Force of Spirit as clear as day, and I found myself both terrified and amazed by the sheer effectiveness of the charisma-boosting power. I wasn't sure if it was because of Holy Hexes, or if Force of Spirit even counted as magical enough to be boosted by the perk, but-
The crowd of hundreds were latching onto my every word as if it was gospel.
People were recording me on their smartphones, kids sitting on their parents' shoulders and waving around black flags emblazoned with golden crowns. They didn't understand the meaning of my words, not really - but their parents, the ones who were not ignorant to the shittiness of this reality… They did. I knew, intrinsically, that whatever I said now would embed itself into the very foundations of this city, and spread itself like wildfire around the entire world.
You'd think that that would be a lot of pressure for a dude who'd always struggled at public speaking.
I guess my new self didn't get that memo.
I let the silence stretch, savoring the moment. The weight of hundreds of eyes on me was heavy, but far from what I'd originally thought, it was hardly burdensome. It was starting to feel more like a crown - a cape draped over my shoulders that I wore as easily as my mantle. Their faces were alight with hope, some with tears streaking their cheeks, others with awe so palpable I could taste it on the tip of my tongue. Spice and cinnamon and honey. Excitement. Happiness. Determination. They murmured to each other, some hushed by others, but none looked away.
They believed in me.
I could mold that belief into something stronger than fear, stronger than violence, stronger than the endless cycle that had kept this city in chains for so long.
So I continued to speak, letting Force of Spirit and Hidden Intuition subtly guide my words to follow my heart where the mind hesitated.
I spread my arms, floating above them, black mantle billowing behind me. "Brockton Bay has suffered long enough. You've endured the cruelty of villains who thought they could carve this city into pieces for their own gain. You've suffered beneath heroes who failed you, institutions that turned a blind eye, and monsters - human and otherwise - who thought you were too weak to fight back."
My voice softened, pulling them in closer, yet the magic made it rang through the city block all the same. "But you were never weak."
The murmurs grew louder, the disbelief and awe in their expressions shifting, twisting into something sharper. Something fiercer.
I fanned that flame.
"You survived. You fought. You endured. Day after day, night after horrifying, anxiety-ridden night, you continued to pave the way for your children. For your family. For your future." My gaze swept over them, catching the hardened, weather-worn faces of men and women who had lived through hell and were still standing."And now, I tell you this - your endurance was never a curse. It was never just suffering for the sake of suffering. It was proof. Proof that this city isn't meant to be trampled under the boots of the strong. Proof that, given time, someone would sweep in and pull you out of the muck and grime and push you towards triumph and salvation!"
Salvation.
That was all I needed to say for the spell to activate.
Magic burst from the seams of my very soul, thick and potent and a mixture of a twinkling silver and a dazzling gold. Rather than press down on the bodies and minds of the civilians, I willed the pressure away, replacing that heavy feeling - that intent to kill, to dominate - with the intent to uplift and heal. Hysh was already abundant in the atmosphere.
The mass healing spell was simple to perform. It was Holy Hexes that gave it that extra oomph it needed to truly do its big one.
My mana saturated the city block, suffusing the hearts, bodies, and souls of every human being who came to celebrate my victory. Gasps and cries shot through the crowd, several figures staggering back in shock or falling to their knees in joy and appreciation as years-old aches, pains, and unhealed injuries began to glow and mend beneath the touch of powerful magics. It emanated from my body, ribbons and streams of celestial light, snaking around bodies and imbuing flesh with light.
I smiled, hovering above the dazzling show, golden crown crooked atop my head.
"This is my city now, and you, citizens of Brockton Bay… You are my people. I take care of what's mine. No longer will you have to cower in the shadows, waiting helplessly for someone to save you. No longer will you bow to those who would take from you - your homes, your families, your very lives."
I spread my arms again, and the magic drifted up and away from the crowd, as if peacefully retreating back beneath the recesses of my mantle. "From this day forth, Brockton Bay will be our sanctuary. A place where the strong do not prey on the weak, where justice is not just a distant dream. All because we will make it so."
A thunderous roar shook the streets, cheers and shouts of agreement crashing together in a chaotic symphony of praise and gratitude. Feet slammed against the pavement, hands reaching skyward, and my eyes were momentarily blinded by the flashing of cameras as the paparazzi made themselves known in the corners of the streets. I could almost feel it at this point - the foundations of something greater solidifying beneath my feet. It was a… strange feeling, because I wouldn't have thought that something like this would've actually granted me something more than a sense of self-indulgent pride and trace pockets of embarrassment.
I had them.
All of them.
And something inside of me - deeper than my emotions, or feelings, or thoughts - was reacting.
Yet there was one last segment of this speech that I wanted to do. One last piece of the pie. Just as the crescendo of their voices reached a fever pitch, I moved to deliver the final blow.
A ripple of energy crackled through the air as I lifted a hand and reached sideways into nothingness. The air split apart in a shimmering tear of blue light, a rift yawning open beside me, revealing the vast, endless depths of my Dimensional Inventory - a familiar sight to those who'd watched the Endbringer battle, because it wasn't too terribly different from the opening of my Reality Marble.
The crowd gasped.
Eyes widened in awe and terror as I plunged my hand into the void and pulled forth a ruined, crumpled husk of metal, plastic, and artificial flesh.
Mannequin's corpse was the least… graphic of the eight bodies I currently had stored in my Inventory, despite how much Trainwreck had fucked him up. The silvery-white sheen of his corpse was dirtied and covered in soot and mud, warped blades and fractured buzzsaws hanging out of different crevices and cracks that lined his segmented body. From his 'feet', an oily, bluish-black fluid leaked down into my field of Aqshy, where it burnt away in a tiny explosion of orange and blue sparks. I made sure the cameras got a really good view.
The crowd went silent. Then, as realization set in, as the implications dawned upon them, they screamed.
Not in fear.
But in triumph.
Because if Mannequin was here, dangling lifelessly from my hand… If he was dead - then so were the rest of them. They knew that we wouldn't do a half-assed job.
I turned my head, smiling as I let Mannequin's ruined corpse drop towards the ground beneath me. My Dimensional Inventory opened up at the last second, depositing him safely back inside of the infinite pocket space. I rolled my shoulders and cracked my neck before speaking one last time, voice low but carrying across the stunned masses.
"Oh yeah," I drawled, as if it were a mere afterthought. "By the way… Invictus slaughtered the Slaughterhouse Nine. Home invasion gone wrong. Be sure to send your regards to the Pala-"
"HOLY SHIT, HE-..."
"Did they really kill the…-"
"PRAISE AVALON! PRAISE INVICTUS…!"
My voice, even magically-amplified, was drowned out in the chaos.
Pure, unfiltered, exhilarating chaos.
Over the heads of the bustling crowd, I caught a flicker of movement at the edge of my vision - a squad of at least six PRT soldiers pushing their way through the densely-packed bodies of celebrating civilians, pale and drawn faces a curious mixture of awe and urgency beneath the hard plastic shell of their helmets.
'Right. I have a meeting to attend.'
I took one last glance at my people, my city, my sanctuary. Then, with one final, half-amused, half-befuddled grin, I twisted on my heel and strode toward the struggling soldiers, walking as easy on thin-air as I would on solid ground beneath me. The crowd caught sight of the disturbance and began booing at them, but they parted like the red sea regardless - an act that got them an approving nod from me. There was no violence, or hatred. Just disappointment.
That… would have to be the PRT's crucible to withstand.
The seeds were planted. It was up to me, and up to Invictus, to urge them to grow.
_________________________________________
Director Piggot
PRT HQ
Emily Piggot considered herself a woman led predominantly by efficient pragmatism and gritty efficiency, as was the training ingrained into her psyche through several decades of service to the people of the United States of America. She was certainly not a saint, but neither was she some dread-faced tyrant hellbent on imprisoning all Parahumans. There were good ones, and though they were completely outnumbered by the bad. But at the end of the day, her job was not to judge. That was for the DOJ. Her job was to protect.
So where, exactly, did that leave her when it came to her city practically being 'claimed' by the same man who'd just ripped an Endbringer apart a scant few miles outside of Brockton Bay?
Avalon, Piggot had long since decided, was something of a force of nature in and of himself- uncontrollable. Unpredictable. A whirlwind of self-righteousness and chaos. He was too useful to antagonize, too rebellious to coerce, and too powerful to strong-arm - which led to them having to simply lay back and take it as he and his group did whatever the hell they wanted.
It wasn't even a bad thing. Not necessarily. If she was being honest, despite her somber attitude and pinched face, Piggot was… happy that Leviathan was killed before it could destroy her city. Somehow, someway, Brockton Bay had avoided that disastrous visit for many, many years, and in the one instance that it occurred, Avalon was there to save the day and do the impossible. Force of nature against force of nature. Humongous drill versus impenetrable defense.
Despite her atrophied muscles and severe health issues, even she had stood up in shock at the climax. Even she had pulled out the good liquor as a somber celebration - locked within the confines of her office, of course.
So what was her current beef with the savior of Brockton Bay?
Why, after he'd shown himself to be a true hero - and an impossibly powerful one at that - did she still find herself at a conflict with the young man?
The answer was clear cut. Simple.
"This is my city now, and you, citizens of Brockton Bay… You are my people. I take care of what's mine. No longer will you have to cower in the shadows, waiting helplessly for someone to save you. No longer will you bow to those who would take from you - your homes, your families, your very lives. From this day forth, Brockton Bay will be our sanctuary. A place where the strong do not prey on the weak, where justice is not just a distant dream. All because we will make it so."
The crowd's thunderous applause and cheering nearly broke the speakers.
This was… not good.
Where the Hell was the squad of agents she'd sent to escort him back here?
They were witnessing a goddamned bloodless coup on live television, and the very obvious birth of some sort of cult. It was freaky, and scary, and the exact opposite of what the PRT needed at the moment - right after they were displayed sitting with their thumbs up their asses during both the Endbringer fight and the apparent Slaughterhouse Nine conflict. Yet, despite the blatant danger of their organization losing complete face, authority, and trust within the wider Brockton Bay Community…
"Patience, Director Piggot. He'll be here soon, and we'll have our answers then." Chief Director Costa-Brown sighed, her sharp eyes showing a twinkle of amusement as she observed the large television screen from over the rim of her coffee mug. A black one, Piggot dully noted. Emblazoned with a golden crown.
It was as clear as day what side her own boss was batting for at this point.
And didn't that just piss her off even more?
Piggot wanted to swear. Loudly. Violently. Maybe even throw something. But that would be unprofessional. Instead, she settled for a deep, measured breath as she locked eyes with Costa-Brown, whose expression remained as irritatingly neutral as ever.
"This is a power-play," she grounded out through coffee-stained teeth, steepling her fingers beneath her chin. "A declaration of authority. Sovereignty. He's making it clear to everyone - parahuman or otherwise - that he's the new arbiter of Brockton Bay. That the PRT, the Protectorate, the unwritten rules that had kept the chaos even slightly contained… they're not applicable anymore. Not to him or Invictus. Not unless he allows it."
Costa-Brown took another slow, decadent sip of coffee, her expression as unreadable as ever. "Brockton Bay is experiencing a meteoric decrease in the daily crime rate. So meteoric, in fact, that I'd genuinely thought that you'd muddied the numbers in your report last week. You can willingly blind yourself to the emotional byproducts of what he's done if your bias leans you that way, Director Piggot, but numbers do not lie. Statistics hold no bias. And, more notably, the people love him for it."
Even more than the numbers, that was what really made Piggot's stomach churn.
The civilians - the blood of the city - absolutely loved him.
The cheers, the applause, the sheer adoration in their eyes… It was the kind of reception that even the greatest heroes in history rarely, if ever, received.
It was more than gratitude.
It was devotion. Worship.
It made her head hurt to think about the potential response if the PRT even dared to try and restrain him.
"He's establishing a power base," Piggot breathed, simply allowing herself to speak her thoughts aloud before they could be swallowed up by the reality of their situation - a reality that she knew she'd have trouble digesting. "And with the Slaughterhouse Nine wiped out just as suddenly as they appeared, he's delivered the city a miracle on top of his killing of an Endbringer. How the hell are we supposed to push back against that?"
Costa-Brown set her mug down on the conference table, finally leveling Piggot with a look that was equal parts bemused and weary. "We don't."
…
And there it was.
Piggot bristled, her hands clenching into fists against her chair's armrests.
"The PRT doesn't bow to independent vigilantes, Chief Director. You were the one who taught us that," she bit out, unable to mask the frustration in her voice. "We regulate them. We oversee them. We ensure that they follow the goddamn rules so tha-"
"And how exactly do you propose we 'regulate' Avalon?"
The question came out of the ether - so sudden, so obnoxiously blasé that it immediately robbed Piggot of whatever steam she'd managed to get going. She fell silent, her mouth opening to retort, but her brain and heart were both tired and lost. The answer had been obvious since before this meeting was even called, and yet she'd hoped that somehow, someway, they would be able to come up with some genius plan to reclaim PR without tipping off the 'Endslayer' lounging in their backyard. Pipe dreams.
As much as she hated it… And God fucking damn it did she hate it-
There was nothing they could do.
He was beyond them. Beyond the PRT. Beyond everything.
Avalon had killed an Endbringer, and every other major villain within the Bay that they'd been slamming their head, ineffectively, against for years. Invictus, his team and 'family', had wiped out the Slaughterhouse Nine in, what… minutes? The battle hadn't even spilled out over the lip of that mountain of theirs, and reports had already shown the majority of their members casually patrolling the streets, just the same as they did every other day. As if nothing had happened. They were scarily efficient, and their leader was, for all intents and purposes, a one-man apocalypse. If, God forbid, he ever decided that the PRT wasn't worth the effort…
No, that wasn't even a question.
He had already decided that.
This speech - this moment - was proof of it. He was making it clear that Brockton Bay was his, and that the only authority that mattered was his own.
And the worst part?
The really infuriating part?
Piggot wasn't even sure she could call it a bad thing.
Because he wasn't wrong.
The PRT had been less than efficient. During the Endbringer attack, during the Nine's incursion - during every major crisis the city had faced in the last decade, they had done nothing but scramble to keep up. One could blame it on a lack of resources. A lack of manpower. But the dirt honest truth - the truth that she knew, because she'd been the one pulling the goddamn strings - was that they'd simply been incapable of overcoming and dominating the overwhelming numbers and power advantage that a city rife with villains brought to the table.
But they did.
And now, for the first time in years, Brockton Bay wasn't afraid. For the first time in years, they had hope. And it hadn't been the PRT that gave it to them. It had been him.
Piggot closed her eyes, exhaling through her nose as the cheering and festivities continued on the screen, though Avalon had already made his exit alongside their agents.
"…He's going to be a problem," she said eventually, voice rough.
Costa-Brown hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "He's going to be a lot of things, Director Piggot. It's best you ride the current instead of fighting against it. Things are less tiring that way."
Of course.
Piggot rubbed at her temples as she turned away from the screen, refusing to watch any more of the adoring masses celebrating a man who had, intentionally or not, just set the PRT on the path to irrelevance in his city. Because make no mistake, that was exactly what had just happened.
She could already predict the fallout.
The Protectorate? Handicapped even more then it already was. A glorified police force at best, one whose authority would be entirely dependent on Avalon's whims. The Wards? There was no way they wouldn't be drawn into his orbit. No matter what safeguards they put in place, the idea of a literal Endbringer slayer standing in front of them, talking about how he'd make the world a better place, would be intoxicating to impressionable young minds. They'd already experienced it with Shadow Stalker, and that was only after he'd decapitated Lung.
And the media?
A goddamn circus, because that's what it had been for the past several weeks.
There would be articles, interviews, op-eds about how he had 'succeeded where the government had failed,' about how 'Avalon and Invictus was the future of cape society.' Every pundit and talking head would throw themselves into the debate, trying to spin it one way or another, but the narrative had already been decided. These people had already made up their minds.
And the villains?
Well, if Avalon's speech hadn't made it obvious, any idiot thinking of setting up shop in Brockton Bay would be wise to reconsider. The Bay was closed for (illegal) business. That was good, at least.
Truthfully, her emotions were very, very mixed right now.
Piggot sighed.
"How are the Directors taking it?" she asked Costa-Brown, already dreading the answer.
The Chief Director merely smiled faintly, lifting her mug once more. "Mixed. Some see opportunity. Some see disaster. Some-" Her eyes flicked to a different monitor, this one a black and white camera feed that displayed Avalon being escorted into the PRT HQ, utterly at ease, "... Are still waiting to see which way the wind blows."
"And you?"
Costa-Brown chuckled. Frustratingly enough, it was one almost completely devoid of stress or worry. As if it wasn't her organization that was struggling at the seams due to this young man's actions. "I think I already told you, Emily. It's best to ride the current."
Piggot exhaled slowly.
'This is going to be a long day.'
…
And, a short few minutes later, Piggot discovered that she was - surprise, surprise - completely right.
Avalon had a certain… way about him that made her hackles rise.
It wasn't a Mastering effect, of that she was certain. While Piggot was absolutely not a parahuman herself, she'd undergone extreme Master resistance training for several years, and although she doubted she'd be able to resist an extremely powerful Mastering effect through sheer force of will, she knew from experience that she'd, at the very least, be able to detect it. This 'aura' Avalon possessed wasn't something that she felt warranted Master-Stranger protocols, and it wasn't something that put her immediately on code red…
But that charisma he'd shown on television, and the easy, rakish way he seemed to effortlessly banter with the Chief Director, as if they'd been friends for several months now instead of having just met-
There was something there.
"-And after I dropped the meteor," he was saying, flourishing dramatically with both hands as he described his battle with Leviathan, "I knew that time was runnin' out, right? Levi was a big fish - I can only keep End Boss-level fuckers like him contained for a short amount of time, so I had to move fast. Y'know how it is when you're battling for the fate of thousands, yeah?"
"I do not, but I admire your tenacity in doing so, Jason. Now, you say that this Reality Marble's duration is reliant on the strength of the opponent?" The Chief Director asked, not even bothering to hide the warm curiosity in her gaze.
She leaned against the conference table, wine-red lips pulled up into a small, astonished smile as she leered at the reclining hero. "Interesting. How long do you think you'd be able to keep, say… Alexandria of the Triumvirate inside if the two of you were to fight?"
The suddenness of the extremely tactless question took Piggot completely by surprise. She nearly choked on the lukewarm,chalky mouthful of coffee she'd been surreptitiously sipping at, shooting Costa-Brown a confused stare. "Chief Director, now isn't the-"
"Half an hour," Avalon tossed out casually, waving a ring-laden hand. His lips pulled up into an irreverent smirk as he stared directly into the Chief Director's bespectacled gaze, entirely unbothered by the prying question. "Forty-five minutes tops, maybe. 'Least until I get another upgrade. More than enough time to handle business, at the very least. Ol' Fish Face didn't even take ten, and…"
Alexandria would've never been able to take it on by herself.
The words don't need to be said - the implications were abundantly clear.
"You are saying that you can beat our beloved Alexandria, one of this world's most powerful Parahumans, in under five minutes?" The Chief Director questioned wryly, something like a spark of a challenge igniting in the light of her eyes.
He chuckled - a deep, husky, warm sound. "I'm definitely not sayin' I can't, Miss Chief Director. But it ain't like there's much point, is there? Endslayer sounds a lot cooler than Triumvirate Beater-Upper, and I kinda fuck with my current branding."
"Hmph. It's definitely more dashing, that's for sure," Chief Director Costa-Brown giggled.
She giggled.
Were there pigs flying in the sky outside? Did Avalon conjure those out of thin air as well?
Piggot pursed her lips and leaned back in the uncomfortable metal folding chair, internally cursing the ever-present spike of agony in her gut as she did so. There was something there, charged and familiar in the air between her boss and her latest headache, but, to be completely blunt, she was hardly being paid enough to care about the Chief Director's personal relationships, nevertheless pry.
But this meeting was getting horribly off-topic.
"The Slaughterhouse Nine," she interrupted briskly, punctuating the foreboding name with a click of her ballpoint pen against notebook paper. "Let's focus on one of the elephants in the room, shall we? Walk us through their deaths, Avalon. You hinted that you weren't involved; that the rest of your team killed them while you were fighting Leviathan. Is that correct?"
The man's mismatched gaze flickered towards her, sharp and lidded, and Piggot met its intensity with a cold determination. Her thumb clicked her pen once again.
Avalon smiled. "That's right. I'm better equipped than my teammates at carrying around dead bodies," he leaned forward, snapping his fingers, and a fountain of blue sparks erupted from the contact, "And I have 'em all stashed away here. Magically. Trainwreck smashed Mannequin. Imp assassinated Siberian's daddy, Hatchet Face, and Shatterbird. Iris stomped out Jack Slash. And Dragon asphyxiated Burnscar - which was pretty fuckin' metal, by the way. Didn't know she was capable of that."
"… 'Siberian's daddy'?" Piggot parroted dryly, pausing mid-scrawl to squint at the laidback hero.
"Unimportant," Costa-Brown sharply cut in, her former amusement cooling into something infinitely more professional and familiar. She narrowed her eyes at Avalon, who returned her stare with a nonchalant stoicism. "I'm more curious about the last two members. You've mentioned six, when the Slaughterhouse Nine boasts eight murderers beneath their umbrella. What happened with Crawler and Bonesaw?"
He sighed and propped his cheek up against his fist. "Relax - they attacked us, y'know. We're the victims here."
"Avalon, that isn't an answer."
The hero shrugged. "Crawler's dead, Bonesaw's not. And before either of you ask… No. Non-negotiable. I've got shit going on that only I can take care of, and it doesn't involve the PRT. My house, my homicidal little prisoner, my responsibility."
Piggot's grip tightened around her pen.
The sheer audacity of the statement made her blood pressure spike - moreso than the little tidbit of knowledge that he was keeping Bonesaw, of all plague-inducing, city-wiping villains, hostage. Dealing with arrogant capes wasn't new to her - her entire career had been a lesson in managing their egos and overconfidence… but Avalon was something else. He was neither foolishly reckless nor defiant for the sake of it. His aggression and chaos was measured, deliberate, and worst of all, effective. He made these calls not because he was impulsive, but because he genuinely believed he could handle it better than anyone else.
He was arrogant, but it was an arrogance that was unfortunately warranted after everything he'd done. But she simply couldn't wrap her mind around the why.
Her mind came up with a lot of potential reasons. None of them were good.
"Keeping a member of the Slaughterhouse Nine in your custody," the Chief Director began, her voice steady. Cold. "It's a risk, Avalon, and an unnecessarily egregious one. One that will raise more than a few questions if word ever got out. Not to mention the extremely horrifying implications that keeping that little girl around hints towards. She's a walking war crime. Help me understand your thought process."
Avalon's mismatched gaze flickered toward her, unreadable yet assured. "No offense, Chief Director, but you wouldn't understand. Neither of you would. But that's alright - I'm sure there's a lotta things both of you do or believe that I wouldn't necessarily care for, either. Same goes for the public populace. Seems like we could all do with embodying a bit of mindin' our own business, right? Just trust me on this. You trusted me with Leviathan, and look where we are now."
Piggot exhaled slowly, attempting to keep her irritation in check. "That isn't how this works and you know it. There are procedures in place that you can't just-"
"I understand procedures," Avalon interrupted, his voice firm. "And I understand the reasoning behind them. But let's be honest here; your procedures didn't keep Lung, Coil, and a motherfuckin' nazi from taking over the city. They didn't keep the Nine from trying to set up shop in my mountain. They didn't defeat Leviathan when he came knocking on our door. I did. And I'm not here to be antagonistic, Director Piggot, but I just think I can do a better job."
…
In the tense silence that followed, glances were exchanged all around. Chief Director Costa-Brown's full lips curled upwards into something that wasn't quite a smile, but wasn't quite a grimace.
Piggot, on the other, found herself bristling.
"And I suppose," she continued blithely, unable to keep her growing impatience contained, "You're going to turn Brockton Bay into some kind of utopia? A 'sanctuary'? Because from where I've been sitting, Avalon, watching you posturize on live television… It seems like you're declaring yourself some sort of king. An 'overlord', in other words. Subtlety isn't your strong suit."
In the corner of her eye, Piggot noticed Costa-Brown's attention pique.
Yet Avalon didn't even flinch. If anything, that nonchalant expression on his face softened into something that pissed her off even more.
Pity.
"I'm declaring myself responsible," he corrected, pinning her with his eyes. "For too long, people here have waited for someone to step in and fix things. They waited for the Protectorate. They waited for the government. They waited for heroes who were stretched too thin or bound too tight by red tape. And in the end, the only ones who made real change were the ones willing to get their hands dirty, step on some toes, and blow some shit up."
He tilted his head, considering her. Appraising her. "I'm not sayin' you haven't tried, Director Piggot. But tell me honestly - if you had the power to wipe the gangs off the streets overnight, to make sure people could walk home without fear, wouldn't you?"
Piggot sucked in a sharp, irritated breath. "That isn't the same thing and you damn well know it. This world doesn't revolve solely around power, Avalon. We have rules so that those lacking in ways to 'blow shit up' can assist. Help. Because nothing good has ever come from one man with too much power thinking that he knows better than everyone else and deciding to take matter into his own inexperienced hands."
"That's a valid rebuttal," Avalon inclined his head, "But ultimately meaningless, because that's exactly what I plan to do. I don't think I know better than everyone else, but I know that I know better than you. And where my experience fails, magic prevails. This city won't suffer if Invictus is guiding it."
Piggot slammed her fist against the conference table, spilling her mug of cold coffee across the cheap black plastic. "You arrogant brat. How dare you? Why do you think that you, a kid not a day over nineteen-"
"Sixteen, actually. Seventeen in August."
"-Can handle the administration and security of a city like Brockton Bay just because you're powerful? Do you think it's nothing but fighting off thugs and killing 'bad guys'? Do you even know how many hours I put in, day by day, night by night, trying my damndest to keep this dying city afloat?! Brockton Bay would crumble beneath your authority. Open your eyes and really think about what you're saying, child."
He raised a sharp, thinly arched eyebrow. "My eyes are open, old woman. Has been since I got jumped by a bunch of skinhead fucktards in what used to be your city. And by the way; you're sounding really fuckin' hysterical right now. Maybe it's about time for your retirement, anyways. You should be thankin' me for accepting the torch, grandma."
Piggot felt her blood curdle inside of her stomach. Her head pounded; that's how angry she was getting. "I'd rather die."
Avalon blinked. His head tilted, and his gaze wandered down the unseemly slope of her chest.
"Keep stressin' out that crusty old heart of yours and it'll 'prolly hap-"
"Damn it. The two of you, that's enough!"
It wasn't often that the Chief Director raised her voice. She often spoke in low, husky words, letting her natural presence and authority do the screaming for her - and it worked. It was rare for someone to go against her directives, because the Chief Director simply oozed 'I know what I'm doing'. Always so prim, proper, and direct. Her authority was absolute, and she was one of the very few 'superiors' that Piggot possessed whom she actually held a kernel of genuine respect and admiration for.
So when she shouted for the very first time that meeting…
Piggot listened. It was instinctive.
But Avalon did not.
He met the Chief Director's glare with his own, visibly unimpressed. "I have shit to do, Chief Director. A lot of shit to do, in fact. I came here to drop the S9 off and collect my bounties, not sling my dick in the PRT's face, but I can do both if that's needed. Is that needed?"
In an instant, Costa-Brown's composure was regained - all professionalism and graceful coolness, a farcry from Piggot's own blotchy red skin and quivering hands. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet and collected once again. "Be exceedingly blunt, Avalon. Brockton Bay?"
He didn't hesitate. "It's mine now."
Piggot went to open her mouth, but one sharp, livid side-eye from the Chief Director silenced her on the spot. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper.
"You sound awfully sure of yourself," Costa-Brown continued, returning her lidded gaze to Avalon. She didn't sound even the slightest bit surprised. Or bothered.
"I usually am," he replied smoothly. "I'm not saying that the PRT can't operate here, or that I'm going to start throwing people off rooftops for disagreeing with me. But the way things were run before? That's over. No more gangs, no more unchecked crime, no more waiting for someone else to fix things. No more worrying about 'power vacuums'. I'll handle it. And if I don't, Invictus will."
Costa-Brown's lips twitched slightly. "And what do you expect from us?"
Avalon smirked. "Cooperation."
Piggot scoffed; she couldn't help it. Fortunately, her boss didn't see the need to silence her this time. "That's a candied way of saying 'submission'."
But he just shook his head. "Not at all. I'm giving you a choice; you can work with me, or you can stay out of my way. Either way, Brockton Bay gets better. I'll make sure of that."
"And if we decided to push back and ignore those two options?" Costa-Brown asked with a light tilt of her own head, amusement - actual amusement - flickering in her light brown gaze.
Avalon exhaled, almost boredly, and shrugged.
"You won't."
The room fell into silence once more. This time, neither woman had a counterpoint.
And then Costa-Brown sighed - one that sounded as if it was filled with more relief than stress - and adjusted the stack of folders and documents on the table in front of her. "Fine. Enough of this topic - you and I will discuss these terms more in-depth in private, Director Piggot. For now, let us return to the Slaughterhouse Nine. After this meeting is adjourned, you and I - Avalon - will head to the PRT's mortuary wing to confirm the deaths and tag the bodies for cremation. However, before that, we have the bounty rewards to discuss. Starting with Jack Slash's monetary reward of twenty-one million US dollars…-"
Thirty minutes later, the impromptu meeting officially wrapped up.
Piggot found herself shuddering and swearing beneath her breath as she stood, her blood pressure skyrocketed and every atrophied muscle in her misshapen, bruised legs screaming out in pain. She stiffened her upper lip, refusing to show weakness in front of the man attempting - and succeeding - at turning her organization into a leashed, glorified police force, but the discomfort was too much. Not to mention the radiating agony suctioning away her insides. The remnants of an organ long gone.
There was a reason why she often used a highly expensive, custom-made office chair during longer meetings. Her body didn't do well without it.
As she was attempting to regain her composure, Avalon - who'd been speaking to the Chief Director in a quiet tone and had been preparing to follow her to the door - stopped at Piggot's side. He eyed her with that same pitying look that she absolutely hated.
She wanted to spit in his damned face. But instead, she gritted her teeth and glared. "What?"
"Nothing," he said coolly, laying one large hand on her heaving shoulder. His touch was warm, almost hot - too much for her sweat-slicked skin - and she fought the urge to shove him away. Her body wouldn't have been able to take the extraneous movement. "I just hope that you get better, Director Piggot. I'd hate for your heart to give out before you saw what Invictus could turn this city into."
And then, before she could even fully register his words, or the warmth that they brought her body…
He, and the Chief Director, were gone.
Piggot narrowed her eyes suspiciously, and touched her chest.
And then she felt along her rib cage.
And then she crouched - actually crouched - and touched her calves.
They were quivering. But not from the usual pain and cramps, but from something else.
"W-what…" She whispered, confusion and fear intermingling in the gruffness of her voice as something hot began soldering away at the core of her stomach. It was a hotness that burned, but that burning sensation… It was pleasurable, in a way. It felt good. It radiated up and downwards, sending waves of heat and euphoria through every inch of her body. She found her eyesight flickering with dark spots - the kind of dark floaties that often came with standing up too fast.
Piggot fell flat on her ass, but it didn't bring her pain. Her head swam, but it didn't make her nauseous.
She grasped her chest.
Her heart was pounding. Powerful. So much stronger than it had been mere minutes ago.
Her breath caught.
No.
No, no, no.
"No- He… He didn't."
Her hands trembled as they moved down to her large, cellulite-covered thighs, squeezing. Her legs had been useless for anything more than slow, painful movement for years. Even standing for extended periods left her feeling brittle, like she might collapse at any moment.
But now-
Piggot threw herself to her feet.
Too fast. The chair scraped against the floor as head swimming head forced her to stumble against it for leverage, but for the first time in years, she didn't feel her knees nearly buckle under her own weight.
Her breathing quickened.
He did something.
She could feel it, deeper than skin and bone. Her muscles weren't just functional, they were… awake. The gnawing exhaustion that had settled into her body, the weight of years spent fighting against her own failing health - it was gone. Just… gone.
And Avalon had done it. The same man who had just gotten through declaring that Brockton Bay was his… The one who had just wrenched power out of the PRT's grasp like it was his from the very beginning, had reached out and- what? Healed her?
Fixed her?
Her hand curled into a fist, nails pressing into her palm as she forced herself to think. He hadn't asked. Hadn't even given her the courtesy of a warning. Just a casual touch, a murmured farewell, and now she was something different than she had been five minutes ago. Unnatural.
It was an attack, in its own way. A power play. A way to remind her that even her own body was not beyond his reach. Her breath came shallow and quick as she sank back into her uncomfortable chair, forcing herself to still, to push away the panic clawing at her throat. She needed to think. She needed to-
Breathe.
There was nothing to think about. Nothing to debate in her mind. The main reason why she was borderline having a panic attack right now was because…-
She owed him.
And wasn't that just the worst part of it all?
Even as she tried to tell herself that she despised him, that she hated everything about his arrogance, his unchecked power, his blatant disregard for structure and order…
She couldn't deny the truth.
That, for the first time in years, she felt whole. Alive. It would take time to regain her former physique and health, but the fact that working out and dieting could even be an option now was damn near impossible to wrap her head around.
And that terrified her.
Emily Piggot pressed her hands against her face, exhaling slowly.
'Damn him.'
Damn him for making her believe, even for a second, that maybe - just maybe - he really could do what he said he would.
That man was dangerous. So very dangerous.
And truthfully…
He terrified her.
________________________________
A/N:
Here we are! Sorry for the wait, been very busy recently, but I got it uploaded on Saturday as I said I would on QQ! Now, I know I said the first world hop was gonna happen in this chapter, but the meeting ended up taking a bit longer than I'd thought. This chapter was important to establish the paradigm shift in the city.
Next chapter features Bonesaw dying, Riley being revived, and Jason officially taking his first step into his Wormhole. Hope you guys are ready!
Comments
Artman
It was the heroes' job- and they failed you for a long, long time. But I'm here now, and I won't fail you, or anyone else who calls Brockton Bay their home. Invictus won't fail." This rubs me the wrong way. It seems to disrespect all the parahumans that died fighting them. You call there sacrifices failures. Go with something more along the lines of not strong enough. He has the celestial grimoire, calling those that held the line failures? My two cents.
Thomas Nissen
Great chapter!
