Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Your steak, sir. Medium rare, as requested.” The waiter set the plate down.

This rib-eye would be mouth-watering to most eyes, seared to perfection and served with equally tantalizing sides, roasted potatoes and mushrooms. Only yesterday I would have been more than satisfied with such a meal. But today, my eyes judged it to be barely adequate. My new eyes.

An irritated sigh died in my throat. Just one more oddity to add to the list.

I gave the waiter a curt nod, dismissing him, before I carefully picked up the knife and fork. He took a moment to leave, curious eyes lingering rather unprofessionally, but the waiter disappeared with a final backwards glance.

Examining the blade before me, I turned the steak knife in long fingers. Smooth metal with a barely chipped edge, an elegant wooden handle scuffed and scratched. Minute flaws were found clear in my eyes, not as the result of any power but of a new point of view. For a moment, I caught a blurry reflection in the polished steel, nebulous and unrecognizable. But I knew it still — a handsome face inlaid with two ruby eyes burning dimly and crowned with short white hair, soft as clouds and fluffier yet. A body larger than I was used to, barely under seven feet, a giant by any sense of the word.

It was unfamiliar to me. I twisted the knife away, forced it down to the plate. It sawed through the steak with ease, and while the meat impaled on my fork wasn’t quite phenomenal, it was juicy enough with a rich taste; as it should damn well be, for a hundred fifty dollars.

Somewhere, a tiny part of me brayed at my wasting three quarters of the cash I’d been been granted on this extravagant and frankly unnecessary meal. The rest of me didn’t care. After all, if I didn’t have more money than I knew what to do with by the end of the week, then what in the world was the point of this second chance, of these powers I now held?

Besides, I could hardly take over a city on an empty stomach.

The reminder of which, coincidentally, made said stomach turn over and twist. That small letter tucked into my silk suit’s upper pocket burnt like hell itself trapped against my heart.

It read the spiel exactly as it always was — you died, I kidnapped you to another universe, here are some powers, here’s a new body, won’t tell you how any of this works or what’s really going on, try and amuse me, blah blah blah. Boring, unnecessary, irritating things. I’d died, of course; the circumstances unimportant, the method mundane. And I had been reborn, my soul left at the behest of an incomprehensible being.

The only difference I’d found from the usual preamble was the series of blacked-out lines at the bottom of the parchment. At present, only a single line was clear to me.

“Become the criminal overlord of Brockton Bay by May 15th. Failure brings death.”

As I bit into a morsel of steak, teeth clinking sharply against the fork, I could feel my expression twist in raw, unchecked anger. I could only imagine how it appeared to others, my features still unfamiliar to me.

Bastard. This… being, thought it could control me? That it could puppet me, as part of some demented show for its own amusement? Absolutely not.

This could not stand. It would not.

For now, I would have to abide with these… requests, as they were certainly not orders. And I would find some way to find this thing, and return the favour.

After all, with the power of All For One in the palms of my hand, there was little I could not do. Very little.

Especially considering where and when I was. The story of Worm, and in Brockton Bay itself. It was the evening of April 11th; in scarce few hours the story would truly begin, with Taylor bringing down the great dragon and shaking this city’s foundations.

Perfect timing for a prospective criminal mastermind, though I’d have to gather allies and shards very quickly if I wanted to take advantage. I had quite a few plans in mind, though there were some worries.

While All For One was a power that could thrust me to the pinnacle of this world with even three good acquisitions, it was conversely a power that would make me public enemy number one the moment word got out. Parahumans viciously guarded their powers, desperately holding onto that last kick from the world while they were at their worst point. To have someone take it away with a brush of a hand, and worse, give it away to another, one undeserving, unsuffering? It would be maddening to the poor bastards.

Enough to draw, shall we say, unwanted attention.

So, caution was the name of the game for now. For now. One or two weeks would be more than enough time and power for me to be ready to cast off the shroud.

But until then, I had targets aplenty, and a delicious meal to polish off.

The cab slowed to a rickety stop near the curb, and I looked down at the beaten-up thing with only a little contempt. Hell, it certainly deserved it. It stood out in stark contrast to the facade of luxury here in Brockton Bay’s downtown.

Opening the door, I squeezed my way in, my frame proving to be more of a hassle than a blessing. The driver stared back at me, his eyes blank and apathetic beneath a thin brimmed cap as he chewed on a dying ember of a cigarette. I supposed he’d seen more surprising things than a tall man with white hair, driving in Brockton Bay.

My first target were, unsurprisingly, the Merchants. A tiny gang of weak parahumans that not even the Protectorate cared about. They less held territory and more made a nuisance of themselves, sadistic little pests that they were. But more importantly, they had Skidmark. Someone no one would miss who had an unused and relatively powerful ability. His was the shard that would take me from normal human to parahuman. “Archer’s Bridge.”

The driver raised an eyebrow lazily. I raised one back.

Rolling the short cigarette around, he drawled, “Merchant drugs’re cheap, sure, but they’re crappy. I can getcha better deals, man, way better. Ya lookin’ for molly, or what?”

“Archer’s Bridge,” I repeated, more forcefully.

The driver shrugged and turned away, the cab pulling away from the curb with a none too reassuring clunk. “Whatever, man.”

As the city fell away to the ever familiar drone and rockiness and of a nighttime car ride, I thought back on my situation once more. Ever since I’d opened my eyes to a dirty alley downtown, wearing an unfamiliar body and a suit I’d never be able to afford, I’d not done anything of note. Hell, after reading the letter I’d just ducked into the first restaurant I found and ordered the most expensive thing they had, trying to calm my shaking hands. Whether in anger or fear, I couldn’t tell.

On the one hand, I had All For One. On the other, I was in Worm.

My mind ached. It was like there were two of me, one indulgent and yet irritated by the situation, and the other worried to the bone, planning desperately, thinking of the future. I didn’t feel any particular emotions at the thought of what I was going to have to do; I was to be a Villain in a twisted game. To kill and to break. And… I didn’t really care.

I raised my hand to my face, staring into my palms. The thumb of my other hand pulled the flesh of my palm to the side, and I watched, vaguely disgusted, as that pinprick hole in the centre of my palm grew oblong. The swirling void within ate the light, and I couldn’t see or feel a damn thing inside.

I let my hands drop to my lap and turned to look out the window, and instead met eyes with my own reflection. But not the one I’d known for the past nineteen years. The face of a villain from a show I watched long ago stared back at me.

Albeit, I wasn’t fully in All For One’s body. For one thing, I was a bit shorter than his full seven feet, though that might have to be with being nineteen instead of his two hundred and change. More than that, I was thankfully still brown skinned and had kept most of my facial features instead of suddenly being Japanese. That helped a bit with the dysmorphia, and the more I traced the lines of my face, the more it seemed to be an enhancement rather than a replacement. Especially with the new muscles. I wasn’t exactly unbuilt before, but this was on a different level. And, I wasn’t going to lie, the man’s voice was nice to have and hear.

It still annoyed me.

It was slimy, the way his skin fell around me. At times, I could even feel myself reaching blindly through my memories, only to pull on one of his instead. It made me wonder, how much of this existence was my own, and how much was him? Did I have his Vestige, crawling around in the depths of my soul?

I had the Quirk of All For One nestled in the palm of my hand, twisted to work on and steal shards; how much more of him pervaded me?

I turned away, rolled down the window despite the disapproving cluck of the driver. I kept my eyes fixed on the streets.

As night slowly fell over the city, the view from my window changed as well. Tall skyscrapers quickly fell to overgrown weeds, cracked pavements, chain link fences and houses with the blinds drawn closed. Very few people were walking about outside. So, this was the dark side of the docks. Not as bad as I was expecting, to be honest. I’d driven through places like this back home.

A few minutes later we turned a corner, getting closer to where the docks met the boardwalk, and the cab began slowing.

“We’re here. Thirty bucks.” The driver spoke quickly. The price seemed about right for going from downtown all the way to the docks, but really, what did I know? What even was the strength of the dollar in Worm? “Just so you know, Merchant’s keep their party shit going a couple streets down thataway, up in the tower by the bridge. Try not to mess with them, ya hear? Don’t do nothing stupid, Skiddie’s fucking crazy.” The car rolled to a jerking stop, and he turned expectantly to me.

Nodding to the man, I handed him two crisp twenties and stepped out, stretching my sore muscles. He didn’t wait a moment before pulling away as fast as he could in these streets. I didn’t blame him.

I looked down the street, seeing the bridge he was talking about in the distance. Archer’s Bridge wasn’t quite as impressive as I might have expected, and to be honest, I couldn’t see any tower. There was one building, three stories tall, with a patchy and fading striped paint job. Barely discernible, multicoloured lights were flashing from its shattered windows.

I suppose that was it. Drowning in this mess of weary suburbia, hidden in the corpse of a still living city, it wasn’t a place anyone but its inhabitants would care about. Not the heroes, not the villains. Only the civilians, and the cockroaches.

A smile stretched across my face, excitement rushing into my veins. It didn’t feel out of place, but right. Correct. This was who I was, after all.

My power exhaled eagerly, twinges of exhilaration running up my arms. My palms twitched, the flame of anticipation alighting in the twin voids.

No matter what happened next, this was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

I checked my watch, pulling up the sleeve of the suit to stare at the silver. It was engraved with a logo I didn’t recognize; likely some Earth Bet luxury brand. That thing had done much to get me into the right character, I’d admit.

The time had just passed nine in the evening, I noted.

There were two men passed out outside the doors, and it was only nine PM. I was surprised — I’d have thought the Merchants had better constitutions than that. 

But more importantly, the time meant that there was a minimum of three hours, more likely four to five, before Skitter brought down Lung deeper into the docks, probably not too far away from where I was stood. I wasn’t exactly planning on intervening, but the possibility of grabbing Lung’s shard while he was down was an appealing one.

I could even pin his death from a lack of regeneration on the girl. It wouldn’t be particularly difficult, I’d just have to play my cards right. Though that was somewhat of a bad idea, considering who exactly that girl was. On the one hand, I wanted nothing to do with Taylor Hebert. On the other hand, she’d be the most interesting person in the city once I was done crushing the gangs.

But before doing anything else, I’d need my first shard. You had to get on even footing before you flipped the tables.

And to do that, I had to go… a disgusted grunt escaped my throat. I had to go in there.

The sounds of the party echoed out from the windows, unintelligible music muffling shouts and cries and other, more disgusting, sounds. The stench was positively vile. It was a place that I had little interest in entering, but would have to. I wore a polite mask of indifference to hide the revulsion, but I doubted it would hold for long.

I could go around. Sneak in. Climb the walls, find Skidmark carefully and wait for the perfect moment to strike. 

But that would be boring.

I strode through the doors, one hanging off the hinges and squeaking in the wind. The entrance quickly opened into a small room, filled with a couple speakers and a random assortment of shoddy couches. Men and women were strung over them, a couple more lying on the floor around empty syringes and broken beer bottles. It wasn’t late enough for their highs to wear off just yet, and most of them were still awake and buzzed. Chatter filled the room underneath the bass-heavy music, and I could hear a lot of stomping from the floor above — likely where the real party was. Fifteen, twenty people down here, and at least thirty upstairs.

A foyer was more than I was expecting of the Merchants.

At the end of the room there was a long counter that looked like a cashier’s checkout, absolutely smothered in booze and drugs of every kind. I could only name a few of them at first glance. 

A bored man sat beside them, stylized M emblazoned on his shirt. A simple racket. Pay him, get your drugs, and head on up into the party. The entrance to the bathrooms and probably an office or a security room was behind him, and to his right, the staircase.

He was the first to notice me. 

His eyes widened immediately, and he half-stood before stopping in place. Not a terrible enforcer; I mean, I was running around with red eyes and white hair and crashing a party being held by known capes. Either I was a parahuman or I was the edgiest person for fifty miles, and you’d have to be stupid to take the risk of finding out which.

I trod across the room, walking with clear purpose. He stayed still as I neared, waiting fearfully. It might’ve been the fact that I had a foot and a half on him and was built like a tank under my suit, but he didn’t seem willing to gain my attention. By, well, not moving. As if I was a dinosaur or something.

At least he was smarter than the others, who were already pointing and whispering. At least, those few cognizant enough to realize I wasn’t a hallucination. True, I was seriously out of place here — leaving alone the height, build, and features, I was dressed like I’d walked right out of a soirée. Though, trust me, I didn’t want to be here either. I’d not seen a phone pulled out yet, but it’d only be a matter of time before someone did something stupid. 

I was not planning on having a secret identity, since a good Changer power would take care of it for me — poor Browbeat, I almost felt bad for what was going to happen to him — but still, I’d like to not be known to the PRT so soon. 

Just had to move quickly. I’d wasted my cash on that steak for a reason; now that I had started, I could hardly stop. Relaxing was entirely out of the question.

“Is Skidmark in?” My voice was soft as I stepped past the drug counter and towards the enforcer.

The man licked his lips and his eyes flicked around the room. After a short moment of indecision, he nodded jerkily.

What a useless guard. Gave up his boss immediately.

If I took over the Merchants, which was a big if, I’d have to ensure none of my men were so easily cowed. 

“And, do tell, where is the man?”

He gulped quietly. “Third floor.”

The enforcer stumbled back as a sharp smile settled on my face. Without another word, I swept up the staircase, steps careful and precise. Behind me, there was movement; the enforcer either grabbing a weapon, or running off into the night. One was more likely than the other. 

Oh, how my power singed as we ascended, eager as we were. I just couldn’t wait.

The moment I passed by the second floor, a veritable wave of music rushed into me. This room was significantly larger than the one below, empty without any other attached rooms, and had been turned into a fiasco of a dance floor, neon lights included. Trash was thrown around everywhere, though that didn’t seem to deter the dancers, their liveliness unimpeded. Interesting, but ultimately unimportant.

I continued on, passing by the open door and up the rest of the stairs. No one followed me.

The next door was closed, the mark of the Merchants carved into it. Likely a private room for the capes. It wasn’t locked, and I opened it gently, though the hinges would have creaked no matter what I tried.

Not a single guard. Not even a damn lock. It was a true miracle that these idiots were able to hold power after Leviathan.

The door opened to a large room with a short ceiling, probably storage. The lights were dim, dying. Mostly dominated by a bed that I didn’t want to go anywhere near, there was a television playing in front of some less ratty couches in the centre of the room. Strangely enough, a news reporter blared out from the screen.

Lounging upon the couch in front of the screen was my target. Adam something or other. Skidmark himself. 

Though not for long.

Skidmark’s reflexes were marginally better than the others, and he noticed me only a second or so after I walked into the room, closing the door behind me. He straightened, dry lips tightening. Quickly throwing one leg off the couch, he stood up as if he were a king, body wound tight as he stepped towards me. As he did, the space between us glowed softly, emanating violet light at his feet and blue at mine. Ten feet, give or take.

My fingers flexed, a strange sense of calm washing over me.

Force fields that could effect movement in nearby objects. There was so much more that could be done with this power, wasted in the hands of this man.

But it was mine now. Even if it hadn’t realized yet.

“Who the fuckin’ shit do you think you are, asshole?! Posh cunt, walking in like you own the place! You know who I am, shitstain?”

He was wearing his abomination of cape costume, a suspiciously stained mask wrapped around his face. But even through the threadbare thing, I could tell what he was thinking. 

He was wary. Angry. A little worried about the people downstairs, for some reason. 

I breathed out, holding back a grin. This may have been significantly easier if he was asleep, but it certainly wouldn’t have been half as fun.

“Down, Skidmark,” I said, keeping my eyes on him. On that tiny light behind his eyes. On my shard. “Let’s not waste time. You have something that belongs to me.”

It galled me. Not that I was breaking rules, nor that I was tricking a person. I was fine with all that. It incensed me that I had to. While I could attack him outright, it would be messy. Dangerous. It would put me on the back foot, instead of in total control.

So I had to talk. How irritating.

Still, talking… there was so much that could be done with speech. There was something to be said for the archetypal silent slasher, yes, but a man of words could strike despair in a nation, and I certainly wasn’t aiming for anything lower.

“We’re the fucking Merchants!” he sneered, waving a hand at me, his other reaching behind his back to draw a dirty handgun. The conveyor field intensified, baby blues changing to a shimmering azure. “We take what we want cause it’s all ours! Take that goddamn suit off, you cockgargler! Your watch and your wallet are mine, fucking now!”

Strangely enough, the sight of the weapon, one that was easily capable of killing me as I was now, had no effect on me. 

Was this arrogance? I doubted it.

After all, arrogance was unearned. I’d been in worse situations, after all. Like… Kamino? Wait…

I stepped towards the field carefully, adjusting my tie and shaking my mind clear. Skidmark, I mused. Based off what I remembered from his appearances in Worm, the fields weren’t strong enough yet to keep me out, at least not until the edge was a darker blue. There was still a chance I’d get knocked over if I tried.

“Relax,” I said with an easy smile, “we’re not enemies. I’m not here to hurt anyone, and I haven’t. I just want what’s mine.”

The clear anger on his face dimmed a bit, but he didn’t relent, decaying teeth still gritted. “Where the fuck’s Squealer?”

Squealer was here? I didn’t pause, but I did allow myself a moment of thought. Squealer was their biggest muscle, and as a Tinker, there was any number of weapons she could have on her. Even if she was specialized in vehicles, I knew she absolutely had a tinker gun of some type that she could pull on me, regardless of whether I’d taken her shard or not. If any of these idiots could kill me so early in my career, it’d be her.

Still, that was a blessing in disguise. I wouldn’t have to hunt her down, and while I wasn’t particularly enthused with Tinker powers myself — far too much time of mine wasted — they were the perfect ability to pawn off to a new minion. Especially a vehicular power; I wasn’t about to walk across Brockton Bay every damn day, now was I? 

Was their third member also here? Mulch? That could be unlucky, depending on the range of my version of All For One. If I could take his shard by touching his Changer form, he’d barely register as a threat. If I couldn’t, Skidmark’s power would be more than enough to deal with him. 

I hadn’t seen either of them, but I hadn’t inspected the dancers too closely either.

“Downstairs, I suppose,” I answered, voice kept tranquil. “I didn’t see her on my way up.”

He stared at me, bloodshot eyes laser focused. And after a moment, he lowered the handgun. Terrible trigger discipline, for the record. The repulsion field remained between us, but it didn’t seem to be growing any darker.

Goodness. It was genuinely alarming to see how terrible he was with his own powers. I’d have had myself trapped against a wall by now, let me explain myself from there, and that was the most basic application! Was he so confident in his own powers that he’d leave himself this wide open?

“Fuck do you want? You ain’t gonna get it, but I wanna know what makes a rich dumbass like you walk in here,” he said flippantly, though he did look intrigued. “And why the shit do you look like that? You even a cape?”

I tilted my head and stepped forward into the field. Immediately, I was rebuffed, sliding backwards slowly, but I kept my footing easily enough. If I rushed through it, I could theoretically get to him. And get shot for it, without even knowing whether I’d get my hands or him not. Patience was the play here; a certainty was infinitely better than a possibility.

“Not at all,” I hummed, Skidmark’s mouth twisting as he watched me test his field. Yellowed teeth clacked against one other, but he didn’t intervene. “And what I want is simple. You.”

“I don’t swing that way, shitstain.” He was quick with the comebacks at least, even if it was a remarkably low-hanging fruit.

“I’ll ask you this, Skidmark — tell me, what is a Villain?” My voice rose as I gestured widely at the room. It was barely more put-together than the other two floors, and that was being generous. “Are you all really Villains, or are you just a couple drug dealers that lucked out? I’d say the latter.”

“Fuck you,” he responded, voice sharp. I might’ve struck a nerve there. It would’ve for any parahuman; of course he’s a real villain, he’s got a power. Doesn’t he? “Ain’t no one here that’s not scared dickless of me and my Merchants!”

“But you could be the former. You — your power — could be so much more,” I pressed. It was an offer he could hardly refuse. “And that’s what I’m asking you to consider. I can take the Merchants from trash to levels of grandeur you couldn’t even imagine. A simple deal. I can make you… kings.”

No. Subjects of the King, though… that was definitely possible.

The Merchants were the lowest of the low. No one would deny that. If I wanted a good start to my empire, all I’d have to do was take over Coil’s operations and keep paying off the hired help. Get Tattletale to help me pick off the Nazis one-by-one, bring down Bakuda’s reign of terror before it even began, more, even. I’d have this city in the palm of my hand.

But there was something beautiful in starting from the very bottom that… resonated with a part of me. Both parts of me, actually.

“Fuckin’ rubbish is what it is,” Skidmark said loudly, though I could tell his resolve was wavering. “Shove your deal up your ass.”

“Come now, my friend. Don’t be a fool, running from your destiny,” I laughed, stretching an open hand into the field. It was pushed backwards, but I held my feet steady, keeping my arm outstretched. “Let’s take over this city.”

He stared at it, for a moment. He’d twitched when I spoke of running, but beyond that, he wasn’t moving.

My blood thundered in anticipation, a void holding its breath within me. Could he really be this stupid, in a world of Strikers and Masters?

“You came to the right folk, big guy. Let’s do this.” Skidmark stepped forward, his field disappearing entirely as he strode across, and his smirk was prideful as he took my hand.

What a fool.

The light behind his eyes shattered.

A strangled scream escaped his throat, and his eyes rolled back in their sockets, up to a distant dream. My own eyes remained open, greedily drinking up the spectacle, but I could see it myself — past the edges of my sight, through a third eye in the depths of my being. It was not taking all of my attention, nor was I dazed. I could move, and I did so, wiping my hand clean with a cloth as Skidmark screamed before me.

But at the other end of my awareness was something incredible, unprecedented. I beheld a vast emptiness, folded in on itself again and again, infinitely shattering into discrete impossibilities. An island crystalline, light fracturing blue and violet through a crimson abyss. Larger than reality, this one, yet small enough to conceptualize, connected to myself by a thin string of light held in the palm of my hand. I looked up at it, perceiving everything and nothing — the shard was a transition, movement itself brought to life.

It looked down upon me. Confused. Blinking in disbelief, if only it could. Limitless information penetrated my psyche, questioning and probing, and was all batted away without fanfare by All For One. The shard paused for an infinitesimal moment, and it stared.

In that moment, All For One cast it in chains and dragged it quietly from one void into another. Into my own being.

The vision ended abruptly, and Skidmark finally collapsed before me, letting out a loud screech that made me click my tongue in displeasure. The Merchants would be coming to investigate soon enough.

I flexed my hand as he rolled across the floor, a peculiar tingle in my palm. Soothing, actually. Appeased. Very good.

I hummed as I thought back upon what I’d seen. That was… unexpected, to say the least. Clearly not a Trigger Vision, as those were prerecorded. This was more intimate. As if I’d invaded the shard itself, broken through the film that separated our existences. I couldn’t understand… what was this? I had no recollection of such events, but I moved away from my past knowledge towards what I know knew.

I could feel the shard, in my chest or perhaps my throat. It was difficult to explain, and even more difficult to feel. It was like a sixth sense, a new colour. My shard was there, in the void, but it was resisting. Pulling against its shackles, sending out signals in every direction. That was…

Well, it wasn’t fucking good, that was for sure. I almost swore aloud, aggravated as I was.

This was the kind of thing that would bring Zion down on me, let alone Cauldron. I’d vaguely assumed I’d only be making a connection to these shards and breaking others’ connections, not stealing them outright. 

Did that make me an Entity? Probably not. No avatar to keep my main body safe, though I wouldn’t really be in need of one. Not yet, at least.

Though there were more important things to consider right now. I knelt, placing a hand on Skidmark’s shoulder to keep him from moving. His eyes were flicking to and fro beneath his eyelids, and after a moment, they opened groggily.

I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be this easy from here on out. Skidmark was a grade A imbecile, and people like the Protectorate and the Empire had genuine combat experience. I’d have my work cut out for me.

“Wha-whuh?” He looked around, eyes squinted beneath the dim lights of his room. “The fuck- huh?”

No brain damage. At least, none that he didn’t already have. I nodded to myself.

It wasn’t Glaistig Uaine’s death touch, but it was something. It had taken Skidmark out for a moment… well, more than a moment. I looked down at him, still shivering on the floor and murmuring unintelligibly.

I had essentially just lobotomized him, to be fair. I wondered what his Corona Pollentia looked like now; did the shard take enough care to fix his brain as it left? Did it even have the time? Was the Gemma still there, just lacking a connection to my shard? I’d taken advantage of that very connection to steal the shard — I didn’t think it remained, but what if?

Now, if I gave someone else the shard, how would it create the connections? The differences if they lacked a Corona and if they had one already? What if I forced a shard into a parahuman? Could I create Nomu of my own? Would the shards conflict? Perhaps I could copy the Faerie Queen’s Striker ability that way, if it just killed them outright. Cluster Triggers were unique, weren’t they? Could I force my own? Would giving them shards move them back into their original voidspace or whatnot? Or would they forge connections from my own void?

And an instant pseudo Trigger Vision; that was huge. If it knocked out nearby capes, which I’d have to test soon, I had options. 

I almost moved to find something to start writing down my thoughts before discarding the idea. I sighed, disappointed in my lack of resources. Oh, please let me find a Good Doctor of my own to play around with soon. Not Panacea, definitely not Bonesaw… eh, I’d find someone of like mind eventually. 

After all, there was so much to learn about these intricate mechanics, about these shards of mine.

And they were mine, no matter how much they struggled. They would learn quickly. I pulled on my first shard, brought it to the forefront of my being. It glared balefully at me, or so I deciphered from its alien existence.

Conveyor Fields, I decided. Perhaps it was not the most glorious name for my first conquest, but I thought it best to keep it simple. I kept it active, preparing to test its strength on its previous owner before conflict came knocking at the door.

But Skidmark interrupted me with a groan, palms slapping against the floor as he attempted to right himself. 

I huffed. Hopefully whoever else I forced my Quirks onto — no, shards — wouldn’t take as long to recover. I waited for him to move, so I could see the limits of what I could do with my new shard. See how easy it would be to break his body against a wall.

It resisted, but All For One forced the power to flow through me. My eyes felt scratchy as I flicked a finger to make a minute field flicker into being beneath his palms. It was simpler than I expected, even easier to layer them. His hands slipped to the side, almost comically fast, and Skidmark fell flat onto his face once more. Right, so there was a clear inverse proportionality between strength and size. Useful.

At least his swears were becoming more coherent. That was good, for some sense of the word.

But the rest of my testing was quite rudely interrupted. I was beginning to grow annoyed by it all.

The door to the room swung open with a bang, and an annoyingly high-pitched voice erupted behind me. “What’s going- Skiddie?!”

I flexed my fingers and let a grin grow as I turned, Conveyor Fields already activated. Well, a fight was overdue, and it was time my new shard learned who it truly belonged to. After all, if there was anyone in this world who could show it the true meaning of creativity and conflict — well, I didn’t want to brag… 

But it’d be me.

Chapter Text

Coronation 1.3

The chipped floor tiles beneath me were mottled crimson and black.

I almost snorted when I noticed it; while Conveyor Fields was either unwilling or unable to change the particulars of the power it granted me, aesthetics seemed to be another matter entirely.

Still, red and black? I certainly didn't ask it to do that, so why did it?

Did… did my Quirk make it do that? Really?

Goodness. Well, All For One unironically called himself the Demon King and he almost managed to pull it off. I could handle running around with a little bit of edge in my step.

And I certainly was, as I used Conveyor Fields to slide myself and the groaning Skidmark a few feet away from Squealer. Skidmark's rusted revolver I sent away to the corner of the room, far from all of us; I didn't need anything as base as guns to win, but I certainly wouldn't let them have one either. The young tinker jerked back as we slid away, a horror-struck expression clear on her oil-stained face. Her hands hung uselessly in the air, but I noted a wrench on her belt alongside other power tools. Her specialization was likely large and powerful vehicles, but that only meant her tools would be designed the same.

As we moved I noticed that I had significantly better balance on the conveyor field this time around; it seemed the shard was helping me stay upright and steady. Not surprising. The first thing anyone would do with this power was to start sliding down streets at ludicrous speeds after all, and powers generally came with smaller secondary abilities to keep you from killing yourself when you used them.

"Squealer!" I threw my arms out and stretched a pleased smile onto my face. "How good of you to join us. Skidmark was just wondering where you were!" I nudged his body with my foot and the former cape made a jerky movement as if to twist away, or perhaps to grab onto my leg. The shoe suddenly digging into his spine quickly put an end to that notion.

She stared at her partner's prone form for a moment, before clear blue eyes snapped back to me. Surprisingly lucid eyes. Not high, huh? I caught her at a good time.

Skidmark groaned, slamming a fist into the floor. "Sherrel, fucking run!" he yelled, giving all of himself into the words as he tried to stand up. At least he understood the dire situation they were in, even if it was one he got himself into.

But let it not be said that Squealer wasn't a woman of action. Though she probably should have listened to Skidmark.

"Get the fuck away from him!" she screamed shrilly. Downstairs, the music had already begun waning, but now it was absolutely silent. Ah, not good — I couldn't have my prospective goons running off into the night, now could I? I'd have to deal with these two quickly.

Ignorant of my new intent, Squealer drew her little wrench and rushed me with a scream that'd make a banshee proud. The wrench seemed to be electrified, intermittent sparks of brilliant blue energy arcing between its ends.

And she immediately fell backwards, almost cracking her head on the harsh floor. The pained squawk Skidmark let out in no way compelled me to move my foot away, but I still found myself touched by the spectacle of it all.

Young love, eh?

To be honest, I barely remembered anything about these two idiots or their other members. Skidmark was a sadistic weirdly British asshole who tried to force triggers and quickly grew hooked on his newfound power after Leviathan. Squealer… existed, vaguely. I was half-convinced she had been press ganged into the Merchants and forced into a drug addiction, but nothing I'd seen so far supported that. Skidmark cared for her, and she was genuinely loyal to him, enough to throw herself into a fight with a totally unknown enemy.

And judging by the wrench she'd sent careening towards at my head with surprising accuracy, it probably wasn't the first time she'd done so.

I didn't actually have any instinctual knowledge of how to use an ability. It was strange. Most parahumans got a little data packet with instructions uploaded directly into their brains, but not me. I had to figure it out myself.

My eye sockets developed a peculiar scratchy tingle as I pulled on Conveyor Fields. It was a remarkably unique sensation. It wasn't difficult, it wasn't slow, it wasn't even painful. It was just odd. Like I was suddenly aware of my own blood flow and in control of it all. Pumping my own heart, forcing an involuntary muscle to act. Something to get used to.

That, or Conveyor Fields was being annoying and not helping me out. The brat of a shard was still sending out signals begging for help, inasmuch as I understood them, but they were all meaningless within the confines of my Vestige Realm. Rather, within what I was assuming was my version of the Vestige Realm. I could feel All For One shift and pull on the chains as it forced the shard to connect with me and grant me its powers.

Hopefully my other shards would be less irritating than this one.

But I had more important things to worry about at the moment. Mainly, the wrench flying at my face. With my arm already raised, I twisted it around and moved to intercept the projectile, saturating it in a conveyor field as I did. Once, twice, thrice, as quickly as I could manage. I was rewarded as a brilliant field, flowing from a deep crimson to an impossibly bright black, coated my sleeve and even up to my wrist.

A power defined by line of sight, not Manton limited, and endlessly stackable. I've said it before but I'll say it again - Skidmark was a damn idiot.

Taking a swift step back, I simply raised my arm and let the tool slam into it. While a small electric shock still penetrated my suit, I felt minimal physical force and my arm was barely shaken. But the wrench wasn't quite so lucky as I. Its velocity was nearly doubled as it glanced off my arm, the metal deforming a little. The hunk of scrap continued past me, deflected at and through the nearby wall.

There was a muffled clang as it impacted the street a moment sooner.

"You've got a good arm there, Sherrel." I made a show of brushing dust off my shoulders, watching as she pushed herself to her feet. I wasn't lying either — she'd thrown it as she fell. A quick thinker on top of everything else.

I came in here with full confidence her name was Shirley. Good on Skidmark for fixing up that misconception for me. Names were power, and that was especially true for Worm. It was clear what the tinker was thinking, it was written all over that face. If 'Skiddie' gave hers up without hesitation, then he had to be being genuine in his desire for her to escape.

Which meant that he didn't think there was any way for her to beat me.

Which there wasn't. Not as she currently was. Out of her lab, away from her projects, she didn't have anything. Just a normal person.

She was visibly shaken, but Squealer had grit, I'd give her that much. There was no hesitation before she pulled out another weapon from her belt, an unwieldy power torch with a large canister attached under the handle. I had some doubts about its capacity for precise welding, but none about its capacity to incinerate anything in its way.

The blowtorch ignited, a thin jet of blue-green fire lancing out. Amusingly, Squealer held it as if it was a sword, pulling it back as she readied herself to attack once more, feet shifting on the floor warily. Her footing was terrible, but the attempt was admirable.

"Watch your fingers, Sherrel," I admonished. "That thing's hot."

Her noble attack was interrupted by her hands being pushed away from her weapon.

Squealer scrambled for purchase against the slick black-crimson field I'd layered across her blowtorch, but found none. The lit torch slipped out of her fingers and bounced and rolled across the ground, quickly charring a thick black furrow into the ceramic tiles. Living up to her name, the tinker squealed as she jumped to avoid the incandescent flames, though she didn't seem to get singed. Skidmark himself only barely managed to escape, rolling out of its way and finally getting to his unsteady feet.

He was panting, already sweating, his eyes wide and searching and feral. His fist clenched, pain and anger painted all over his face in thick lines. Incredible. An artist would have to work for decades to capture all of his emotions.

How much did it hurt, I wondered? To lose that part of yourself?

I couldn't even imagine it. No, not at all. I simply couldn't.

It would never happen to me, so there was no point in even considering it.

I turned away and fanned my face, blandly wondering if we'd end up burning this place down. The smoke would probably end up giving the whole neighbourhood a contact high. There were far too many drugs concentrated in here, it could count as a warehouse on its own. It probably was their main warehouse. Merchants weren't exactly the smartest people in the city — I mean, they actually named themselves after their main hangout spot.

Surely the PRT could've spent a day or two taking them out of the picture, right? Just for the image, even. It wouldn't have been difficult. It certainly wasn't for me.

I clicked my tongue in irritation as I checked my watch, ignoring the two before me.

This was getting out of hand. I shouldn't be getting hung up on D tier capes like them, not when there was so much work to be done.

I'd just have to kill the idiots and get this over with.

A few swipes of my hand and the power torch rolled haphazardly towards me, leaving a decidedly artistic pattern of burn scars in the floors. It was hot. Very hot, especially for what looked like a basic gas torch. I didn't consider myself well informed on the melting points of flooring tiles, but based off the sheer heat washing over me even from feet away, the flame was hotter than it had any right to be.

I knelt to grab the torch, careful to not get any more dirt on my suit I'd already accumulated through simply being here. It was truly a disaster in here. I'd need to find a good launderer before I'd have to find a money launderer.

Cool metal brushed against my fingers, in sharp contrast with the heat raging against my forearm. Rather heavy too. I examined it, standing and taking an absent-minded step to the side. Skidmark's punch went wide and the former cape stumbled right into the pockmarked wall with a loud smack. I suppose he hadn't realized he now lacked the balance to slide over his former fields.

Poor man.

He should've gone for the gun. Should've given up on Squealer and just run. Out the door, out a window. Then he might've had a sliver of a chance.

I could hear Skidmark swearing up a vile storm as he bounced off the wall, already turning around and coming back in for another bull rush.

It wasn't a terrible idea altogether. Without his power, the only real chance he had to take me down was to throw himself at me entirely. Knock me to the ground, pin me down even for a second so that Squealer could do me in with that savage drill she was spinning up.

Not a bad plan for two rejects from cape society with only a minute to think, and on top of that, set in progress without any semblance of a conversation. The two had a truly beautiful bond.

I shook the torch, watching the nearly foot long flame wobble. If it had an off switch, I certainly couldn't see it. It should be right there, in the corner, where there was absolutely nothing at all.

There were so many ways to kill a man. I could throw him out a window using Conveyor Fields, letting velocity and gravity do the job. I could sweep up his gun and shoot him dead. I could make him choke on his own spit, layering the inside of his throat in conveyor fields until nothing could escape. Wasn't quite sure if that one would work, but it'd be an interesting experiment either way.

Or, I could just use what was at hand.

I should probably feel worse about this, but… I really didn't.

Why would I? It's what I came here to do. The method didn't matter, only the outcome.

As Skidmark approached, I turned and lazily swiped the torch.

Hm.

I nodded to myself, pleased. Squealer had the right idea of using it as a sword.

I'd have to build a lightsaber as soon as I got a good Tinker specialization. Even this imitation lived up to my childish expectations, the lack of any resistance absolutely exhilarating.

But, as I wrinkled my nose and exhaled, I'd have to get a power that blocked smells first. It was a damned disgusting scene.

The sounds were fine for now — I'd gotten him clean across the throat. It was mostly just choked half gargles and soft pops as his saliva boiled, and very little else after that. The sudden silence was almost soothing. Not even the dripping of blood was audible.

It was a very hot torch, as I said. Though the man wasn't dead yet — his arms waved erratically in the air, like a half-crushed cockroach. Fitting.

Another poke fixed that, though it did little for the already gruesome sight. Thankfully I'd never been very squeamish.

There was a soft thump behind me, and I turned to see Squealer flat against a wall, chest heaving high and eyes blown wide. Her open hand reached blindly for the nearby door handle, her drill discarded, letting out an angry whir as it dug into the floor.

"You… you…" Grasping the door handle she swung it wide open, and eyes never leaving my face, she backpedalled down the stairs.

I followed.

"Come now, Squealer," I called, peering over the railing. I activated Conveyor Fields. One quick field, layered twice, tripped the carelessly rushing tinker down into the second floor. "Don't make this more difficult on yourself."

She changed course on pure instinct, sliding into the party room and continuing her frenzied sprint. I entered but a moment behind her.

The dance floor was decidedly emptier. It seems that I'd lost a few of the partygoers, but those that remained were all marked with the symbol of the Merchants and defiantly armed with pipes and bats and other melee weapons. So most likely the enforcers and dealers. The useless muscle that capes chewed through.

The crowd shifted backwards as one, most green in the face. Smell travelled quickly. There were small pools of vomit dotting the floor; this might have been a bit much even for Brockton Bay's iron stomach. But I had seen worse than this, even in my own life.

Myself, fire… blood damn everywhere… the screech of breaking metal.

I shook my head, tossing away the bothersome memories. Violence was not something I had ever been unfamiliar to. But my hand swayed nonetheless, the still lit blowtorch wavering in the air.

The crowd shrunk even further away. They jostled one another, elbows slamming into sides as they rearranged themselves.

I let out an annoyed huff. This had taken far too long and made far too much noise. I'd have to play up the Merchants. Make it clear that their continued silence was not a request but a command.

Wouldn't be very hard.

"Merchants," I said, watching them all take in a single breath. "It's very good that you're all here."

Squealer wasn't hard to find in the small group. All I had to do was look for the most terrified one, the one pushed to the edges of the solid block of people. I estimated I had about ten seconds before she gave up and jumped right out the windows. The drop wasn't too bad from here and I wasn't convinced she didn't have some kind of invisible tank waiting outside.

So I placed repulsion fields over each and every one with a theatrical of my arms. There were some gasps at the sudden crimson lights illuminating the room, but no one so much as moved. Weapons wavered and creaked in white-knuckled fists. No words spoken, no looks exchanged. Only fear.

Squealer stopped. Slowly, she turned to stare back at me.

"You can't… you can't kill… fuck you!"

The 'Unwritten Rules' were merely a manufactured state of affairs that very few people actually followed. But one rule was followed closely, at least by most — capes didn't kill capes. You did damage, minimal or lasting. You hurt. You even broke them.

But you didn't go out of your way to end another cape. Never. If you had the upper hand, you left them broken and limping, but you left them alive. You didn't kill.

Therein lay the realm of the truly insane, the truly feared. Those who feared no reprisal, kept no eye open for the boogeyman. The Nine, the Faerie Queen, the Birdcaged. The monsters.

But the heights that I was aiming for lay well beyond their paltry ilk.

Though to these poor goons, the intricacies were unimportant. If I killed a cape, then I killed a cape. They stood no chance.

"Now, there's no need for you all to be afraid of me. Our dear Skidmark may be dead, but as long as you don't do anything foolish, there's no reason for any of you to join him."

It was truly astonishing how the ABB and Empire managed to make their goons rush at capes. Perhaps the Merchants were the sane ones in this city, given how quickly they all seemed to surrender.

But they were still in my way.

Conveyor Fields. What a useful shard. I wondered, what type of shapes could I make with it? The late Skidmark, bless his heart, stuck mostly to rectangular fields, but surely that wasn't all that could be done?

I drew a wobbly circle with a finger underneath the crowd's feet. I grinned as I was rewarded with a glowing circle, crimson at the center and onyx at the edges, and I repeated the motion. The crowd let out a collective scream as they began collapsing into one another, arms and legs slamming into a small pile of person.

And with that, I turned to the one person left standing.

"Only you, Sherrel. Let's make this quick."

Poor Squealer. Alone, outside the pack, nowhere to turn to. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!"

She moved to run, somewhere, anywhere, away from me. It was barely an effort to stride forwards and swipe a hand across her bare shoulder.

Squealer dropped down with a wordless scream. An image played behind her eyes and mine, one I knew and didn't care for.

I ignored the vision of All For One capturing and chaining the shard, but snippets of knowledge filtered through regardless, some interesting. Vehicle Construction, as I quickly named it in lieu of the useless identifications it pinged me with, was a much more generic shard, but with a minor focus on the transport of large amounts of matter. It was interesting to consider the alternate powers the shard could've granted — mass teleportation of matter, some highly powerful shaker abilities, countless more applications if it wasn't constrained. While my own shackles kept a handle on the shards, I couldn't see any way to remove the restrictions that Zion had placed upon them.

Not yet, at least. I'd break them soon enough. The only chains I could accept were my own.

Allowing Vehicle Construction to connect, and noting that my connection with Conveyor Fields was entirely unaffected by the second shard, I stared down at the small piece of tinkertech still in my hand. In the new light I'd gained access to, the torch was significantly more comprehensible.

Oh, that's where the off switch was! Aha! If only that was more obvious, I might have just bludgeoned Skidmark aside with this thing instead. I chuckled to myself as I twisted the innocuous pin near the nozzle and cut off the jet of flame. There was an enjoyable rush of coolness as I considered the symbol of Squealer's insanity contained neatly in my hands.

Obviously, this thing was not a blowtorch. Of course. Why would it be?

No, this was a small but potent engine catalyst, or so to speak, as it didn't make any sense whatsoever. Powered by some absurdly explosive concoction of nitrous, acetylene, and several other seemingly random agents, this thing was somehow capable of overclocking Squealer's monstrosities when plugged in correctly. Or exploding if used incorrectly.

And she walked around with it on her belt and pulled it out to use as a sword.

This creation wasn't a matter of all her tools being mini vehicles, no. The wrench was a wrench with a few generic enhancements to keep her alive in a fight. The drill was, you guessed it, a drill, only with the patented Squealer aesthetic. It was just her blowtorch that she'd woken up one day to find on her workbench, twisted into a turbocharger for her vehicles.

As had happened with many of her tinkertech projects. Vehicle Construction fed me the information as I queried, the shard surprisingly cordial in comparison to Conveyor Fields; Squealer was partial to working on a good amount of large, heavy-duty projects. Train cars, yachts, a long-gone excavator. Because she just kept adding things! On and on and on.

She wasn't the hyperspecialist type of Tinker as I'd assumed, only able to work on cars and vehicles and absolutely nothing else, but instead a genuine mad scientist, playing around with the science of her projects like a methed up Beethoven up on the stage. The polar opposite of Armsmaster, Squealer kept on cramming things into her projects, adding modules and abilities and gun emplacements to her vehicles until they were too big to be feasibly used, and then she would move on to another project. Everything she created was big, ugly, eye-catching, louder than hell, and disgustingly inefficient. But they were steadfast, reliable, and robust, especially so considering the inferior materials used. She wasn't a great person, not at all, but she was a fine enough tinker, one that could be great.

And Vehicle Construction absolutely loved her.

It was practically begging me for Sherrel's life, asking me to leave her alone as if I was just some other shard in the area. It must have really liked its haphazard host. I wasn't sure if it was some kind of meth-addled creativity or if Squealer was a closet genius, but the data her former shard kept droning on about was supposedly 'unique'. Not at all useful to me and only marginally useful to the shards and their idiotic cycle, but the shard kept pushing it at me anyways, as if it had a chance of changing my mind.

I tched, pushing the shard out of my mind. Later. I'd have to deal with her and it later.

Instead I turned my mind and face towards my new gang, leaving Squealer collapsed on the floor. I wouldn't kill her just yet. I made no promises to my shard, but it wouldn't be difficult to keep the idiot savant alive for a while longer, see if she could be weaned off the meth. If she was still annoying after that, I'd cut her off, permanently, and toss Vehicle Construction to some promising member of the gang.

For some reason, that seemed to mollify the shard. Vehicle Construction settled happily into its new home in my Vestige Realm, and it expertly ignored the screaming coming from Conveyor Fields. It probably had swaths of experience in it.

Shards. What alien little things they were. I quite liked them.

"Merchants," I began, opening my arms wide before seeing that the idiots still stuck in a tangle of limbs and metal.

Really?

I sighed, and flicked my hands, spreading them apart with only a few moments of concentration.

"Ah, now what should I do with you all?" I stepped across the dance floor, dress shoes clacking sharply. Terrified faces glanced up at me. The stench of Skidmark's fate was easily perceptible even a floor dow and Squealer was out cold with a brush of my hand. What chance did they have? It was a pathetic mindset, but an understandable one. "Let's see now. Let me have a look at you all."

I gestured impatiently when they didn't so much as move. "Stand up now, come on. Don't waste my time."

It was amusing how quickly they scrambled to their feet.

I placed my hand on my chin as I examined the rank-and-files. About twenty Merchants milling, none particularly impressive. Crude weaponry, unskilled, flinching and cowering in my presence. As well they should, but still, it wasn't a dignified sight. "How many more of you are there?" I asked, not at all pleased with what I was seeing.

None of the gathered Merchants answered me. How awfully rude.

"When I ask a question I expect an answer. Don't be impolite, it's unbecoming. You." I pointed at a man with brown hair and literally nothing else remarkable about him. He was rather out of place in the Merchants. "Speak."

"S-Sir. This…" He looked around the crowd before coming to a decision. At least he didn't freeze up. Points in my book. "There's a couple more, but they weren't here tonight. And Mush. Sir."

"Very good. Your name."

"M-Mike. Sir."

The way he swallowed empty air, the sight of his pupils dilating, the sound of his boots shakily shuffling back — oh, it was frankly delicious.

Fear ruled man. This was a fact. Empires rose around those that struck fear in others, be they enemies or allies. How could you follow someone you weren't afraid of? How could you trust in them to treat you fairly if you couldn't see the consequences laid upon the failures, the gifts granted to the strong and loyal?

One look at the world around, and my philosophies were only solidified.

Lung, Kaiser, Butcher, Accord, Moord Nag, Jack Slash, countless others. Alexandria. Even Skitter herself.

They held power through fear and fear alone. Strength may have built up fear, but fear consolidated power, and power created strength. It was a loathsome cycle. And a cycle that was written deep in our souls, from the very first of humanity to our last. It would follow us to our extinction and beyond.

But all these empires I saw before me were mere imitations. Attempts at grasping the truth of fear, groping blindly for the essence of the world.

I would be a symbol. I would show them the truth, what fear really meant.

"Mike," I stretched out his name, stepping closer, "what do you do for the Merchants?"

I could tell that Mike wished for nothing more than to not be standing in front of me. A smart man. "Uh, I'm a, dealer."

"Respectable enough," I smiled, my grin stretching wide over far too perfect teeth. "But why? Perhaps you enjoy drugs?"

"Don't - I don't do nothin' more than weed, sir." He wasn't here for the free and frequent highs, then.

"In for the cash, are you?"

His breath in his throat, body stilled, eyes pinpricks of light. I wonder if he thought I would disapprove. No, of course not. We all needed something to chase. Money, normalcy, freedom — whatever drove him was fine with me as long as he remembered who ruled him.

"Good." I patted his shoulder. He was a good find in this mess. "Welcome to the Subjects, Mike. You're in charge of it all, for now. Do try to not disappoint me. I'd hate to have to replace you so quickly."

If he did, all I'd have to do was pick up another promising member and throw them into the flames. Someone would prove themselves up to the task eventually.

…I hoped. God, I hoped.

Good help was so hard to find these days. I'd need to get myself a biotinker sooner or later.

"Your first duty: clean up after Skidmark, and get Squealer situated somewhere safe and secure. She can be useful to us in the future." I turned away, walking past the slowly waking Sherrel. It was terrible image, truly, but I could just pass it off as the routine press ganging of a fine Tinker.

After visibly steeling himself, Mike nodded resolutely, if a bit resigned. "Yes sir. I'll get it done."

As far as any of them could tell at this moment, I made scary lightshows and knocked people out with a touch. Not exactly the Faerie Queen, but after what they'd seen or rather heard me do today, I could have been powerless and still not someone they'd even want to even think of crossing. I had little doubt that none of them would object to my actions or dare to go to inform the PRT.

At their core, people like them only ever served themselves.

That was about to change. They had a new master now.

"As of today, you are no longer Merchants. You are now my Subjects." Some shifted, foot to foot, while others simply watched in confusion. They were probably expecting something much more… bloody. "The Merchants are dead, and you work for me from this day forth. Have faith that I will be a much more reasonable employer than Skidmark, than any you have ever had before. If you do your duties well, I will reward you handsomely, in ways you could not possibly imagine."

They didn't believe me yet, but they would learn soon enough. I did not lie. I had no reason to.

"I am Sovereign, and this city is mine."