I was able to get the things that I had remaining on my to-do list completed with only a few exceptions when it came time to head over to meet The Undersiders.

  I was nervous. I tried channeling that into heat, a simmering focus. I couldn’t say if it worked exactly, but it did help take the edge off. Attending the meeting tonight like this, as Apex, was so much harder than doing it in human form would have been. In my other skin, I could have dressed the part. Played it cool, new on the scene, pissed off, or just another would-be recruit trying to cut her teeth.

  But the problem was the unknowns.

  Very few people laid their full powers out in the open.. Everything was cloaked in mystery, all cloak and dagger. Heroes, villains. Everyone kept their cards close. You didn’t expose your hand unless you had no choice. You didn’t advertise your weaknesses.

  Maybe that was just me. But I doubted it.

  The real issue was the Thinkers. The Tattletales. The PRT analysts. The outliers with perceptions so far beyond normal that they broke the rules. I could be playing poker like a master. They’re over there playing their hand, and four games of chess. Some of them stayed behind the curtain: manipulators, orchestrators, silent partners. But not all.

  After this morning, I’d been reminded that some of them could see things. Sniff out secrets, pierce disguises. Which means walking into this meeting came with risk. Real risk. If someone out there figured out that I could pass for human, it wouldn’t just compromise my image. It might connect back to my civilian life. The people I cared most about.

  That was unacceptable.

  No, Apex would be attending, from start to finish, and that included travel. I texted Taylor and told her that I was on my way. I asked her to wait outside and give me a signal: thumbs-up skyward if it was safe to land, no unexpected eyes or ears. If not, devil horns, and I’d pass by and come back when it was clear. Yeah, yeah, sue me if it’s cheesy. I wasn’t about to compromise a base of operations, and I was trying to be considerate.

  She confirmed, and I took off from the out-of-service parking deck I’d been loitering in.

  I’d tucked my phone and a slim wallet into the coils of my ‘hair,’ secured and out of sight. As I flew, I climbed higher than usual. Less direct and less obvious where I was headed.

  The sun was down now, and the city below glowed dimly under a blanket of light pollution. Even the darker areas and unlit streets weren’t pitch black. Their street, though, was dark. No streetlights. Intentional, or just a happy accident?

  I picked out Taylor easily in the dim light. Her arm lifted, and the signal was a clear, skyward thumbs-up.

  I pitched down and tucked my wings. The ground approached at a dizzying pace. Diving was everything a rollercoaster ride promised, but on steroids. About a hundred feet up, I flared my wings, swooped up hard to bleed speed, then back-thrust forwards and down at a steep angle. The sharp vector gave me room to shed momentum cleanly.

  I came to a near-standstill in the air, hovering about fifty feet up, then cut and dropped.

  Free-falling the rest of the way, I aimed for the street in front of Skitter. I was trying something new. A little more dramatic than usual. I still wanted to make a splash as the big, scary monster, but without tearing up the old pavement outside their secret base. That would draw attention.

  Everything about this maneuver was weighted, literally and figuratively. Higher altitude to reduce visibility and obscure my landing point for would-be observers. But that meant more energy to bleed on approach, and way more ground effect. People tended to notice sudden, localized windstorms, especially the kind accompanied by giant predatory shadows moving around.

  So I was experimenting. Dive from on high to disappear from view, swoop wide to dump energy, and fall the last few stories for a mostly silent touchdown.

  The trick? Not leaving a crater when I landed.

  I dropped, pre-loaded my legs, and fell tail-first. I was trying to stretch the impact out over time, using as much of my body as possible to spread the load. It was kind of like a tail-first landing that flowed into a forward roll… except instead of rolling, I belly-flopped.

  Contact: tail, then legs. I flexed the tail, translating vertical momentum into forward thrust. Then all four arms hit the pavement, bracing hard. Like doing a burpee with way too many limbs.

  I nailed it. A couple of inches of clearance between my chest plates and the street. I pushed up to a quadrupedal stance and tucked my lower arms, then circled around my landing area and inspected my work.

  No imprints. A little light scuffing from my tail, no claw marks. Perfect.

  It probably made a decent whump when I landed: six limbs plus tail, but I’d take a weird thump that could pass for a tailgate or door slam over cracked pavement any day.

  Boom, trigonometry, bitch.

  Skitter looked at me, her mask’s bug-eye lenses unreadable, but I could feel the stare.

  “You just fell three stories, tail-first, and didn’t crack the pavement.”

  I shrugged one massive shoulder. “Distributed impact, momentum redirection, and a splash landing. I’m learning,” I said.

  “You’re… huge.”

  “I did tell you I worked out a lot.”

  “No, I mean… that should’ve sounded like a car crash. It didn’t.”

  It was hard to tell where she was looking, but I imagined she was tracing over the space I’d landed in. After a moment, she lightly rapped her knuckles on the big bay doors. Quiet movement from inside, and then the side door opened, and out they came.

  I took stock of the full gang while they made their appearance.

  There was Skitter. Tall and thin, to the point of androgyny. Black bodysuit with gray armor panels at all the right places. Her mask blended seamlessly into it, covering her whole face, and maybe a little more. It was hard to tell with her hair loose and out. I kicked myself internally for not putting it together sooner. The build. The hair. Obvious in hindsight. Still, I had to hand it to her: it was a kickass costume. I was honestly jealous. The bug eyes and mandibles on her jawline were excellent details.

  Next was Grue. He basically wore a two-piece motorcycle suit with a modified motorcycle helmet. The visor had been replaced, or maybe modified, so it had his skull motif. It was simple, rather basic, but also quite smart at the same time. Motorcycle riding gear, the real stuff, and not the dress-up stuff? Heavily armored, impact, cut, and abrasion resistant, so you could survive bouncing off the pavement at highway speeds. It was also something you could just wear out and about, and people really wouldn’t think twice about it.

  Regent looked like the odd one out of the bunch. Fancy, ornate, and very old-school clothing. Tight leggings, leather boots, a blousy shirt, and a masquerade mask. He even had a tiara on. It was ostentatious and tacky. The scepter he was carrying fit the aesthetic perfectly.

  Hellhound followed behind him, hard to miss. Her costume, if it even counted as one, looked like a last-minute Halloween pickup. Work boots, grubby jeans, oversized jacket with a faux-fur collar. Hoodie underneath, hood sticking out. It might’ve been intentional, or just how she dressed. She had a solid build under all of it. Maybe she didn’t care what people thought. Maybe that was the costume.

  Tattletale brought up the rear, closing and locking the building behind herself. She had on a more traditional mainstream hero outfit. A bit retro, but debatably in the ‘timeless classic’ category. Tight bodysuit, boots, domino mask, and utility belt. It was a look. Her suit was a shade of purple, with black horizontal bands at the chest and waist, with two vertical bands tying them together. There was an eye logo on her chest on top of the black band.

  Regent spoke first. “Tattletale said ‘big scary monster,’ but I was picturing more teeth and fewer limbs.”

  I turned my head to face him, then opened my mouth wide, displaying the nightmarish arrays of teeth. I let my tongue slide out a good foot or two, then yanked it back in suddenly and snapped my jaw shut with a clack.

  “Yeah, okay. Point made. I didn’t want to sleep tonight anyway. Do you eat people?”

  I replied, low and guttural: “You’re a bit slim. Maybe if I’m in a snacking mood.”

  That got a laugh out of him.

  Grue piped up: “Regent, Apex. Apex, Regent. Seems you two will be fine.” He gestured to the girl standing off to the side. “And that’s Bitch.”

  She looked at me, beady eyes behind cheap plastic. Then she grunted.

  I preferred words, but I could work with it. I grunted back.

  I turned back to Grue. “So what’s the plan for getting to this place? I could fly you all over there, but I charge per passenger, per minute.”

  “Really?” Skitter asked.

  Huh?

  “It isn’t super far away. I was thinking we just walk over,” Grue said.

  “You want all of you–” I gestured with one lower arm at the group, then at myself. “--and me, to walk across the city like this?”

  Has he been hit in the head now?

  “It’s really not far. Eight blocks. Ten? Something like that. Doubt there are any checkpoints between here and there in this part of town at night.”

  I gave a lazy shrug of my shoulders. “You’re the boss here with this thing tonight. I’ll defer to your judgment. If anything winds up going down with the army or PRT, though, I’m probably cutting loose rather than getting involved.”

  He looked momentarily put off-stride, but I think it was more the recognition of his authority than it was the cut-and-run statement.

  “Let’s head out, then.”

  They walked on the sidewalk in an awkward and seemingly random arrangement. I was thankful they weren’t doing the single-rank supervillain march down the middle of the street.

  I stuck to the pavement. The sidewalks were in rough shape as it was; I didn’t want my fat ass crunching them up worse than they were.

  Walking with them was strange. I mean, everything about this was strange, but that was just another day in my life lately. What stood out was the pace. How slow I had to move just to keep up. On all fours, I felt like I was sneaking through enemy territory, crawling through a dream. My limbs shifted in lazy precision, my spine and tail undulating behind me in a serpentine rhythm.

  Oddly relaxing, despite the circumstances.

  I noticed Bitch kept watching me. Skitter, too, though in a more subtle manner.

  I didn’t know we had arrived when we did. The businesses on the street looked like an even mix of closed, foreclosed, and abandoned. It was a bar with an old sign hanging out front called “Somer’s Rock.” Grue was right: this was the bad part of town. Bars on the windows, not out of paranoia, but necessity.

  Grue held one door open while the group piled in. I held the other with my tail claws. I came in second to last, my tail releasing the door handle and snaking in dead last.

  What stuck out to me wasn’t just the coordination: it was the awareness. Even without looking, without my tail in my field of view, I knew where it was. I was aware of every inch of my body, every limb, every piece of me. The immediate area around me as well, and my position relative to everything else. Something to think about later.

  The inside of the place was, to put it bluntly, a dump. Badly lit with incandescent bulbs, stained tables, and a stained wood floor. I held my breath walking over it, but it seemed like either the construction was amazing, or the wood was laid over a hard substrate. Most of the free-standing tables had been pulled into a big rectangular conference arrangement that necessitated walking around it. The Undersiders took a big corner booth, and I sat beside it, behind the tall back of the booth seating.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  The place was virtually empty. A waitress, two men behind the counter, and that was it. Notable in the fact that they didn’t seem to pay an ounce of attention to my appearance. Either they were used to it, or perhaps more likely, they had seen some shit go down in this place over the years, and a giant blue fucking monster was par for the course on a Saturday night.

  Seems we were first on the scene. That was good.

  The waitress came over, and they ordered drinks. Tattletale mentioned she was deaf. I waved a lower palm when she came by with a notepad. I contemplated while we waited for whoever else to show up. If this whole thing turned out to be a flop? I’d either laugh or cry. Probably both.

  I’ve lived this dual-natured life for about a month now at this point. I’ve been spending about a third of my time as Morgan, a third of my time as Apex, and a third of my time asleep. I eat, drink, and do… other normal stuff as Morgan. I haven’t really noticed until now that I don’t really drink much like this. Huh.

  A few minutes passed, and then they entered. Empire Eighty Eight.

  Kaiser came in wearing his stupid fancy European knight armor with a crown of thorns. Fenja and Menja hanging off each arm, dressed up in their Valkyrie outfits. They were both hot, which was agony considering what ugly people they were underneath it all.

  Purity was next. Wearing an all-pure white outfit, with glowing white hair and eyes. A whole motley crew followed. E88 was a big organization… if you wanted to call it that. Big and powerful.

  Rumors swirled about Kaiser and Purity. Supposedly, they were an item, but she’d been sort of fucking around doing her own thing for a bit now. Some of the E88 members present hadn’t been around much either, thought to have left the area. It was interesting seeing both of them and her here, now. It could just be that they called in all the big names for a show of force. There could be problems on the home front, though, too.

  Kaiser took a seat at the head of the table. Purity didn’t sit at the table, but behind it, behind Kaiser.

  I shifted the focus of my vision over to The Undersiders. They were still hanging out in their booth, watching the arrivals.

  I’m not going to let Kaiser and the E88 just dictate the pecking order here. I need to keep humble, though. Maybe a middle ground?

  I rose from my haunches and slinked over to the opposite end of the table from Kaiser. As much as I wanted to sit opposite him, I thought that maybe I’d go a touch less confrontational and take a position on one of the seats flanking the opposite end instead. I lifted a chair out from where I wanted to sit and slid it under the end of a nearby booth, then took a seat once again.

  Kaiser and Purity watched me in silence.

  I sat with my head and shoulders squared with my body, and I did my entirely motionless thing. If they were going to sit quietly, I’d be content to play the statue.

  Coil entered next, alone. He took a seat where I had wanted to sit. Coil was an odd one, one of those mastermind types. A puppetmaster. His PRT records were virtually empty. The only reason I recognized him at all was the notes of scattered sightings saying “tall, gaunt, black bodysuit with white snakes.” That fits the description, but he was wearing one of those green-screen or stage body stockings that covered everything. Including the full head and face. No holes at all.

  I can out-creeper you, twig man.

  Faultline and her crew entered next, including the others I didn’t have the chance to meet. Faultline, Gregor the Snail, and Newter came in first, and Spitfire and Labrynth took up the rear. Faultline walked around, and there was something between her and The Undersiders, but whatever it was, it was said or done in passing. She took a seat next to Kaiser’s side. The rest of her crew took a booth. Gregor nodded to me, and I returned it, then resumed the perfect stillness.

  Grue slid out of the Undersiders' booth and took a seat at the table opposite me. We also exchanged nods.

  The Merchants came in next. Skidmark, Mush, and Squealer. Skidmark looking like his typical crackhead self, Squealer rocking the Trailerpark Kitsch aesthetic, and Mush having only a small collection of random trash making up most of his body today. Guess that’s his version of cleaning up for an important meeting.

  Squealer and Mush headed to a booth, and Skidmark went to take a seat at the table.

  Kaiser kicked the chair out and away from the table, flipping it over onto its back before Skidmark could take a seat.

  Skidmark peeled his cracked lips back, exposing his rack of rotten chompers. Absolutely disgusting.

  Guess I have the second nastiest mouth in here now. Small blessings.

  “The fuck!?” Skidmark exclaimed.

  Kaiser, sounding bored, replied: “You can sit in a booth.”

  Skidmark asked if it was because he was black. I hadn’t thought of that. Looking over at Grue, he basically didn’t have any skin exposed with his outfit.

  “You can sit in a booth because you and your team are pathetic, deranged losers that aren’t worth talking to. The people at this table? I don’t like them, but I’ll listen to them. That isn’t the case with you.”

  Skidmark clapped back: “Fuck you. What about this guy?” He pointed to Grue and said, “I don’t even know his name, and he’s sitting.” He thumbed at me next. “And this fucking thing ain’t even a person!”

  Fautline of all people cut in, saying: “His team hit the Brockton Bay Central Bank a week ago. They’ve gone up against Lung several times in the past, and they’re still here, which is better than most. Not even counting the events of a week ago, he knows about the ABB, and he can share that information with the rest of us.”

  Kaiser turned his head to address Faultline. “I did wonder, Faultline. Was bringing this thing here your idea, or perhaps one of the children’s pet dogs slipped the leash?”

  He turned to me next. “This isn’t a freak show or zoo exhibit.”

  Faultline replied: “They’re not on my team, but they are useful. More than I can say for some of the people here.”

  Kaiser looked to Grue next. “They’re also not with The Undersiders.”

  “They were sitting with you when I arrived. Certainly looked like a stray you took in from my vantage,” Kaiser said.

  “Previous statement still stands.” Brian again.

  “Well?” Kaiser asked, still looking at me.

  I turned my head to face Kaiser. Slow as molasses.

  “You strike me as arrogant. Not stupid.”

  The room was already pretty quiet, just some low conversations here and there in the booths. It went totally silent after that.

  No time like the present.

  “You meet here to discuss war against the ABB, who expand their control and reach by the hour. So what’s more important to you, posture or strategy?”

  “So the freak gets to squat at the table and I don’t?” Skidmark’s voice was trembling with anger. “So you’d rather let someone who hangs with Glory Girl sit than an actual gang that holds territory.”“You hold nothing,” Grue said, his voice doing that ghostly echo thing with black smoke spilling out of the skeletal mouth of his helmet. “You’re cowards that hold onto the areas nobody else cares about, making drugs and selling them to children.”

  Kaiser held up a hand in Grue’s direction. “What’s this about Glory Girl?”

  “We saw that thing with her on our turf! Chilling in a warehouse! Probably fucking!” Skidmark screeched.

  “Is that true?” Kaiser asked me.

  “I know Glory Girl personally.” I swept my gaze over the occupants of the table. “We were collecting scrap in the trainyard. Had dinner after. PHO had a field day with it.”

  My gaze came to Skidmark.“What The Merchants aren’t saying about that encounter is that I challenged them to a fight on their own turf, and they fled, screaming. Skidmark left one in his underwear when he shit himself, and he and Squeeker nearly left Mush behind in their haste to flee.” “You ripped the back end off my truck!” Squealer objected in her high-pitched voice.

  The only thing I said in response was: “Oops.”

  I gave Coil a look, then swept my gaze back across the table to Kaiser. “Right now, I’m neutral. I’m here because no one has stepped up to deal with the ABB.”

  Villains don’t trust each other…

  “If you doubt my desire to be here and willingness to participate in a battle against the ABB, then question why not one, but two parties present at this table extended an invite to me.”

  Looks were shared between virtually everyone at the table. Let them try and figure out which of their rivals I was working with that they didn’t know about. To not want to say anything to avoid exposing that gap.

  “Fuck all of you,” Skidmark sneered, then stomped off like a petulant child to sit with his two groupies in a booth.

  The waitress came over and put the chair back up at the table. She went around with her notepad and pen, handing it to people to collect their orders.

  “I’ll be taking a chair, I think,” said a newcomer entering the door. He wore a black costume with a tophat and a red mask. A big guy in bulky armor with a square mask, a woman in a sunburst costume, and a giant, hairless ape in matching red-and-black gear: vest, mask, and leggings. Unlike an ape, it had pretty nasty-looking claws on each hand and foot.

  Mine are much nastier.

  “The Travelers, yes?” Coil asked, speaking for the first time all meeting. “Not from around here.”

  “We’re nomadic. What was happening in the Bay was too interesting to pass up, so I decided we’d stop over for a visit.” The man in the tophat gave an elaborate bow, theatrical but smooth. “I’m Trickster.”

  “You know the rules here, Trickster?” Grue asked.

  “I can guess. No fighting, no powers, no baiting people into fighting, or everyone puts an end to it collectively.”

  “Close enough. It’s neutral ground to meet and have a discussion about current issues.” Grue said.

  Trickster took a chair like he said he would, leaning back on two legs with his feet up on the table and arms crossed over his chest. The rest of The Travellers took a booth next to The Undersiders. The big gorilla sat on the floor, much like I would.

  “This appears to be everyone. Lung obviously not attending,” Coil said.

  “Yes, the ABB problem,” Kaiser agreed.

  Coil listed the damages, and they were staggering. Over thirty-five were confirmed dead. More than a hundred were hospitalized. Dozens more missing, presumed dead, or worse: taken hostage, implanted with tinker bombs, conscripted. Basically, an ongoing state of armed conflict and gun battles between ABB forces, police, military, and the Protectorate.

  The Protectorate and PRT were mostly on the defensive, holding key high-risk zones: schools, downtown towers, business blocks, and major gathering sites.

  What caught my attention wasn’t just the scale of it, but how casually they talked about losing territory. Coil had said they, meaning the people sitting at this table.

  I’d known that Coil, the ABB, and the E88 all held ground around the city in a very typical organized crime sort of way. What caught my attention of how casually they talked about it. They claimed the city block by block, business by business. When they laid claim to your part of town, your house, your job, or whatever, you became subject to the kinds of things you hear and see on television. Taxes, tolls, extortion, and “protection” rackets. It was essentially a big, never-ending turf war between gangs and factions, a war more typically fought in the shadows.

  How visible that war was? Depended on social class, really.

  You saw gang tags on lockers and in classrooms in Winslow. Students wearing colors and symbols, their own form of coded language, ever-evolving around shifting attempts at censorship.

  In more upper-class areas, where my family lived, Arcadia, downtown, and the boardwalk, it still happened. The same games, the same wars. Just with nicer clothing, suits. Less “beating you over the head with a baseball bat,” more paperwork and polite threats over lunch meetings.

  This wasn’t to say Brockton Bay was lawless. We had the good guys: PRT, Protectorate, and Wards, the police.

  A slightly more cynical version of me would say that they were just another gang. Officially sanctioned. Publicly funded. Wearing more socially acceptable colors, symbols and uniforms.

  I try not to think like that when I can avoid it.

  Cynicism is a slippery slope.

  And I’m not sure there’s a bottom.

  I watched and listened attentively, studying the faces and reactions of a half dozen different people simultaneously at any given moment. Say what you will about the way I look, but fuck if having eight different independent eyes wasn’t damn useful most of the time.

  The meeting was coming to its climax. Or maybe just its end.

  “So,” Coil spoke as he cracked his knuckles. Cheap theater. “We’re in agreement? The ABB cannot be allowed to continue operating.”

  Nods and low voices all around.

  He outlined the terms of the agreement. Truce between all parties present, between each other and military and law enforcement. He was going to handle contacting officials and informing them of the proceedings of this meeting and our declared intent. No land grabs. No new claims. No unnecessary illegal operations until the ABB was dealt with.

  Faultline spoke up, firm and businesslike: her team’s support wasn’t guaranteed unless paid. Anyone here could fund their services. Otherwise, they’d remain neutral and entertain offers from the ABB, too, if the price was right.

  It didn’t take a Thinker to guess their price wasn’t cheap.

  Coil stepped up and offered to fund the buy-in. Said he’d talk with Faultline to go over numbers afterwards.

  Faultline turned her gaze to me, intense and focused.

  Is she suggesting… But that would make me what, another mercenary? I declared myself a neutral party, and so had she, more or less. Coil didn’t seem to hesitate in snatching up her offer, either to secure her forces or to deny the enemy. Or both.

  What do I do? I wasn’t prepared for this.

  Before the moment passed, I cleared my throat. “My terms are similar to Faultline’s. I don’t hold territory, and I expect to be compensated for the risk I take.”

  Was that dumb? Did I just say something dumb?

  I panned my head around to survey the response. Worst case, they tell me to fuck off. I could lie and say someone else paid my fee, right?

  I wasn’t sure if this had turned into a pissing match between Kaiser and Coil, the way they were locked in that silent standoff. But Coil spoke first.

  “Perfectly understandable. We’ll speak after as well.”

  “Everyone agrees with the terms?” Coil again.

  “Acceptable.” Kaiser.

  “We’re cool with it.” Grue.

  “Sure,” said Trickster, with a lazy shrug.

  “Anything else? Offers, complaints, grievances?” Coil asked the room.

  Apparently, there was one. Hellhound—who insisted on being called Bitch—had been busting up dog-fighting rings organized by E88. Specifically, Hookwolf’s little side enterprise. She’d torn through a couple of sites with her dogs and messed up some of his people..

  The room shifted. A few eyes narrowed. Hookwolf made a very thinly veiled threat. Bitch, never one to back down, growled that she’d keep tearing them apart if any more showed up.

  The obvious question came up: would that count as a violation of the truce? Would it mean war?

  The question of whether or not that would constitute violating the terms and instigate a war between the groups was raised.

  Grue said he wasn’t interested in a war, but every person had their own pet peeves, and that was Bitch’s.

  More words, more posturing, more dick-wagging between The Undersiders and the E88.

  I was on their side for this one. Dog fighting was disgusting. Torture, basically. Like forcing children into cage matches, for the amusement of sadists. Even the non-lethal fights were a tragedy in their own right.

  Kaiser demanded restitution in the form of blood or money. He and Grue came to an agreement that they would settle matters after the issue of the ABB was dealt with.

  Kaiser didn’t object; he simply nodded. The kind of nod that meant this isn’t finished.

  People started filing out in groups. Merchants were first. The Undersiders are not far behind them. I stuck around with Faultline’s Crew and Coil. Faultline leaned over and whispered something to Gregor, then turned to speak with Coil.

  Gregor gave me a subtle wave, beckoning me closer as Faultline and Coil stepped aside to speak in low voices. I padded over, lowering my head to his level.

  “Good,” he whispered. “She wanted you nearby. A reason to listen in. Pay attention.”

  I nodded.

  I did my best to tune in to what Faultline was saying: “...lower than my average rate for a job of this magnitude. Because this is local, and out of respect for the work…”

  The gaggle of E88 members snickered and laughed about something, and I really wanted to just go beat the white straight off them right about now.

  “...quarter million for services up to two weeks. Extension will entail renewal…”

  If I could’ve shit myself, I probably would’ve right then and there.

  A quarter million!? For one job, and that’s less than half price!?

  I didn’t think of myself as greedy. But holy fuck, the federal government had us practically working for free compared to what a small merc crew could pull on a single contract. It didn’t change my moral compass, but I suddenly understood the allure of villainy a hell of a lot better.

  Oh shit, I’m up.

  Faultline and Coil shook hands, and she turned to face Gregor and me. She gave me another look, pointed and intentional, then signalled her crew to move out.

  I stepped forward and took a seat in front of Coil on the floor.

  “Well?” He asked.

  I have… No idea what to do. I made fifty thousand a year as a Ward… Is that too much? Oh, wait, does he like, mean powers? Maybe I should lead with that. I’m an unknown. Okay, dust off the boasting. Let’s see… How would Apex put this?

  Simple. Direct. My body spoke of violence, but I wasn’t just a beast. I had brains, I had tactics.

  What had Tattletale said?

  “I’m a flying organic tank. I can fight ten people simultaneously, handle high-level brutes solo, and level structures in seconds.” I thought for a moment. “I’m not new to conflict, despite my recent appearance here. I know how to work solo or on teams, follow plans, and think tactically.”

  He nodded along, not saying anything as I spoke. The silence expanded for a moment after I’d finished, then he said, “Okay, and? What’s the ask?”

  “Fifty thou-”

  I hadn’t finished speaking, and he said, “Deal,” and stuck out a hand.

  I wanted to blink my eyes. I held still instead. Then I extended a lower arm out and shook his hand, being careful not to cut him with my lower arm claws. Razor blades, which were more of a nuisance than anything.

  “Do you have a preferred discreet financial services provider?” He asked.

  Oh, duh. Think, Morgan.

  “Please arrange my payment with Faultline’s. I’m still setting up shop; she can handle it for me.” I lied.

  “Sensible,” he said, and I got the impression he was sizing me up. Couldn’t tell with the whole faceless thing we shared in common. Finally, he said, “Is she also a good way to get in contact with you for future offers and arrangements? All voluntary, of course.”

  I have a feeling I’m going to hear that quite often.

  “Yes, for now.”

  I tried to think of something a villain would say at the end of a war council.

  “Good hunting, Coil.”

  He nodded curtly. “Same, Apex.”

  …I didn’t recall giving him my name.

  He’d be one to keep an eye on.