Agrippa
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Wake-up Call – Chapter 44
🕑 Added 2022-06-22 22:37:44 +0000 UTCTaylor – Spectating
I’ve been shot.
Really, it’s almost a wonder it hasn’t happened sooner. Somehow, being almost burned to death by a dragon on my first outing and then having to fight a mad bomber whose explosions could be loosely defined as ‘sending physics to cry in a corner’ has made me forget that bullets are, you know, a thing.
A lethal thing.
An awfully painful thing.
Lisa’s helped. As she does. As she always does. The anesthetic is strong enough that the gaping hole in my arm is now numbed, something I mostly feel when the surrounding flesh is pulled or pushed as she keeps fiddling with the surgical clamps stuck inside it rather than the throbbing, burning agony it was at the start.
It’s still painful, still something I want to keep my mind away from. But I can push past it. I can throw myself out of the body lying on her wooden floor and into my swarm, feeling the outside breeze, the mild thing that would make a shot such as the one that got me trivially easy for someone like Victor. I can feel the sunlight on a myriad compound eyes, the indistinct murmur of the city around us. I can feel Lisa’s yielding skin beneath the spider I have chosen as my herald.
I also feel the spreading warmth below me, blood staining her white towel, cooling around me.
There’s… a lot of it.
It doesn’t matter.
Lisa will save me.
It’s what she does.
Lisa – Bargaining
Taylor’s offered silk lines are thinner and stronger than surgical thread. That is both a good and a bad thing. Human tissue can only withstand so much before being torn, so I need to sew a few more stitches than I would’ve to with regular thread to distribute the pressure, but I think the payoff is worth it. I think. Maybe not to a regular surgeon, but I can let Power guide me toward the best spots on the artery’s outer coat—nevereven graze the inner lining. I can leave out some small gaps, it doesn’t matter. Blood’s thick enough that it will stick to the openings and naturally clot, but I still need to do this with the utmost care because she’s Taylor, and I’m freaking out every time I see how pale she looks—
“So, ready to hear the rules to our little game, Lisa?” Victor’s voice calls out.
And he manages to calm me down.
Huh, who knew all-encompassing, homicidal rage was good at steadying your nerves?
Lisa Wilbourn’s—
I know, I know. ‘Good’ is not the right word.
I’ll still take it.
“Please, Johnny, why don’t you tell me which one of your board games we’re gonna be aping? I should warn you, though, we may be short a few players for a rousing round of Catan.”
Provoke him. He’s objectively better than me at board games because reasoning and observation only take you so far against someone with actual skill. Make him realize how ridiculous the idea sounds.
“Oh? Would you prefer something more up your alley? How about Never Have I Ever? A nice, friendly way to get to know each other.”
That… is dangerous. Really dangerous.
I need to take it.
“How generous of you. So, rules? What does the winner get?”
“We play a few rounds, and, when we tally the points… I shoot a bullet into your girlfriend or you for every point I win by.”
“How original. And by every point I win by?”
“Hmmm… How about I shoot a bullet into an Empire member of your choice?”
“That includes capes,” I immediately latch on.
“Of course it does. Though maybe don’t choose Alabaster?”
Coy, with an almost flirty tone. He’s putting his acting skills to good use, dangling a prize in front of me he thinks I desperately want.
Which means he’s associated me with both the ABB’s and Coil’s downfall. He thinks Taylor and I are systematically dismantling all the villain groups in the Bay.
Which… is kinda obvious? It’s a good thing so few gangs employ Thinkers, because it looks like Colin was… right…
Lisa Wilbourn’s bitterness—
Not the time. I’ll mope about him ‘telling me so’ when I’m not frantically trying to keep my hand steady so the gleaming needlepoint in front of my eyes stops being a flickering line.
Or when I’m not bargaining with a murderer not to shoot through my head. Either works, really.
“Of course, I get double points each time I get you to admit to something,” he comments. And, before I can protest, he adds: “It wouldn’t be fair otherwise, you know? What with you being such a powerful Thinker.”
This is stupid.
‘A few rounds’ just means that the game stops when he feels like it. But he thinks I’m playing along, either because I’m that stupid or because I’m that out of it (which I am, because there’s blood everywhere, and Taylor looks so pale, her breathing so shallow that—stop). The point is? Pretend weakness when strong. And I’m someone strong pretending to be weak, pretending to be strong.
I hope.
Lisa Wilbourn’s enhanced cognition and allies—
Yes. Thank you.
I so desperately want to call Colin, to turn this into a stalling battle… but I can’t use my phone. He will notice if I move it, and I should have muted my keyboard since the very start, but I always got a kick out of annoying Alec with my typing, and…
I can’t believe the day’s come when I regret doing something purely for the sake of annoying Alec. This world really is the Hell of a better one.
“If I am so powerful, why play at all, Johnny? You know you’re going to lose anyway,” there. Bravado. Arrogance. The kind of thing he expects a Thinker to affect when pretending to be in control, yet leaving a hint of doubt, of fear.
All too real fear.
“Maybe. Still, first question: never have I ever collaborated with a Protectorate member.”
Satisfaction. Not looking for confirmation, just throwing in my face what he already knows. Looking to destabilize me, to pretend to know more than he actually does.
It’s a poor move.
Interrogator tactics 101: this is a late-stage move. It’s what you do when you’ve already caught the suspect in a contradiction, or when the conversation has stalled. It’s something to do when you need to get things moving, to water that seed of uncertainty about how much you actually know, what other piece of evidence you have up your sleeve. It’s not something petty to throw in my face.
Especially when, to him, this is about the worst thing he can accuse me of.
Victor’s use of connection to Protectorate and Colin Wallis likely to stem from personal nature of confrontation. Personal nature of confrontation something Victor is unused to. Victor used to dehumanization of targets. Victor letting emotional nature of confrontation—
Yes. Yes, perfect. Thanks.
“I guess you want me to drink now?” I tell him, my tone just the right amount of bitter. Sarcasm meant to show myself as deriding his accomplishment, yet surliness giving him an inkling of triumph.
“Now, now, you aren’t yet of legal drinking age, Lisa. Maybe just say: I have, Victor.”
“You can’t seriously expect me to—”
A bullet interrupts my indignant protest, going straight through the back of my sofa and showering me with white down that I shield Tay’s wound from, my knees protesting when I once again lean forward on them, the floor making my jeans’ rough fabric scratch against my lower legs.
Perfect.
“I expect you to agree to what the man with a rifle pointed at you tells you to do, but maybe you’re as dumb as Faultline’s always claimed?”
I’m going to murder—no. No, this is good.
Murdering Faultline would also be good, but that comes later.
So I softly blow away the fuzzy, small feathers that have landed on top of my hand, careful not to dislodge Taylor’s spider when I do so, and go back to agonizing over how to stick a needle through my fiancée’s brachial artery.
Oh, and I guess, to answering him.
“I have, Victor.” The emphasis is as bitter as I can make it, a mockery of his own when he remarked how I should use his cape name rather than his civilian identity.
Which makes it so each and every time I say ‘Victor,’ he will associate it with this moment, with me mocking him. And then he won’t get the emotional detachment he wanted to get.
So, me calling him ‘Victor’ is every bit as aggravating and personal as me calling him ‘Johnny.’
I hope.
“Well, that’s two points for me. Your turn, Lisa.” The exact same tone I just used. Which means he’s trying to mirror my mockery, but not understanding the underlying reason for it.
Good.
“Never have I ever had my pussy eaten by my cute fiancée—I mean, my cock sucked by my wife,” I immediately retort.
Taylor goes rigid beneath my hands, and she momentarily opens her eyes just to glare at me in a way that I find disturbingly reassuring.
‘Trust me,’ I mouth at her.
And she rolls her eyes before closing them.
… I hope we get out of this in a way that manages to let her forget this one move. I don’t want another unexpected bondage session.
Lisa Wilbourn does, in fact—
Shut up. Not the time.
“… New rule: nothing that needs specific anatomy,” Victor answers.
After taking a moment to compose himself.
“Aww, you’re no fun. It’s about the most basic tactic ever. Also, does she, or doesn’t she?”
Uncomfortable with sexual matters. Idolization of feminine figure—motherhood? Uncomfortable with homosexuality. Contrary to worldview. Not overtly hostile? Bigoted, yet self-aware?
Victor’s avoidance of sexual slur indicative of aspiration to perceived high-class behavior. Aspiration to status—
So, self-aware enough to know calling me a rug-munching dyke isn’t polite. And he wants to be polite, wants to be anything other than white trash. Wants to…
The Empire propaganda. He’s written it, and I thought he was mostly following Kaiser’s instructions, but something must’ve slipped. There’s been a shift, a focus on white men having fewer opportunities to live up ‘to their potential.’ Projecting. Sees himself as oppressed, as someone who should be at the top if not for circumstances outside of his control.
Except he could be at the top. He could be another Accord, easily, if only he was…
“All right, I’ll give you this round. Two points to one, Tattletale; that’s one bullet for you so far.”
“Wunderbar…” Come on, come on, bite this one—
“Your pronunciation is atrocious.” Yes! Fucking knew it!
“Not all of us can siphon knowledge without having to put in any effort, Johnny. Some have to work for it.”
Right, don’t get too carried away, just… just point at his advantages. The source of both his vanity and insecurity.
Because I can easily picture it now: Victor’s trigger. Yes, it was violent, dangerous, it forced him to confront bloodshed outside the scope of what he’d thought ever before. But that could’ve manifested as a Brute power, a Blaster one. Heck, a Changer or Breaker would’ve also worked.
But he’s a Thinker.
He’s someone who wanted to be more. Someone who envied others, who always saw what they had and he didn’t.
Someone who, at his core, despite all his advantages and prodigious skills, despite being in practice one of the most gifted men to ever walk the Earth…
Still follows orders.
Gotcha.
Taylor – Observing
She’s having fun.
Oh, she’s terrified. Her hands are trembling, and she keeps nearing my wound to stitch it up, only to then back away. She’s pale, and trembling, and sweating, and there’s a scent around her that my bugs pick up and I think is the stench of fear.
I used to have that same stench, after all.
But, despite all that, Lisa’s having fun.
Because she’s getting into Victor’s head, dissecting every clue he feeds her without the guilt she would feel at doing this to anyone else. She’s letting Power run wild, gathering every scrap of information from his word choice, his tone, the length of his pauses…
And, through the spiders and flies I always keep hidden in the corners of her apartment, I get a perfect view of her kneeling, shirtless body, the way she bites her lip, and her pupils dilate when Victor slips more than he thinks he does.
I’m getting Lung-chasing-a-bike flashbacks…
Which is a good thing.
Because… she’s afraid. She’s anxious about how to treat me.
But she’s acting, moving, thinking.
She’s fighting.
So she’ll win.
I can lend her a hand, though, if only to keep her smugness at manageable levels.
Which is why the bugs on the rooftop Victor’s lying in are hidden at various spots, between planters and over fences, that give me a thorough enough view of him.
He’s wearing a beekeeper’s suit. One that’s been coated with a strong enough insecticide that he has to wear a gas mask. I guess he’s hidden a mic inside of it, because the voice that comes through the phone is clear and well-modulated.
The cockroaches I used to cover him and his rifle are long dead. Biting a hole through the suit isn’t an option.
But… I have a clear enough view of him.
So, with utmost care, I direct a part of my swarm to model Victor in real-time or as near as I can manage, and do it slightly behind my wounded arm, mindful to ignore the scent of my blood that so many of my bugs find appetizing.
Lisa sees it and immediately recognizes it for what it is.
And then she shoots me a look so full of love I think I would blush if it weren’t for the, you know, blood loss.
…
I kinda wish she would hurry with that needle of hers.
Lisa – Offensive
“Never have I ever watched my loved ones bleed in front of me,” he says, voice full of perfect calm and poise that doesn’t fool anyone.
Not with how I’ve been needling him.
“Oh? Going for the murder-suicide, Johnny? That won’t get you much of an advantage, you know?”
“I’m willing to stall if this keeps this delightfully entertaining game going for a bit longer, Lisa.”
“Ah, well, if that’s how you feel… I have, Victor.”
Smugness. Provocative behavior. Insolence. Things he knows aren’t elegant, but that he’s witnessed from those he follows, those he… not admires, but respects.
Aspires to.
“Good. Your turn.”
“Right… let me think of a good one,” I tell him, as flippantly as I can.
“Sure. I wouldn’t want you to claim I’ve been anything but fair when I finally do the tally,” he says, affecting control.
Control he doesn’t feel at all, or he wouldn’t have brought up the death of his first fiancée himself.
I’m walking the line. Pushing just far enough to keep him unbalanced, but…
Not the time.
No, now I need to focus, not on the petty questions and needling, but on…
I take a deep breath, one that fills my lungs to the bursting point, to the painful sensation of my ribs stretching, my belly being pushed down.
To the focus I need before I release it and lean down, finally gathering the courage to push the needle through Tay’s Brachial artery, thankfully aiming for just the right spot and direction. It goes through the outer coating without damaging the inner lining, and pokes out of the opening without tearing anything.
I stop for just a moment, almost trembling, and then I grab the other stretch of severed artery with surgical tweezers and finally join the two tubes with a glimmering, reddened, silken thread.
Right. Perfect. Fantastic. Now I just have to do it around twenty more times.
Not to mention sewing the wound itself.
… I think I’m going to hire a full-time doctor to live with us. That, or brainwash Panacea into being a voyeuristic lesbian who gets paid by listening through my bedroom’s door.
Sorry, Ames, you aren’t my type. That’s about as far as I’m willing to go with you.
What’s my type, you say? Huh, good question; I would answer that maybe somebody slightly less apocalyptical, but… well…
The contradiction is lightly panting below me.
And stoically holding back her pained grunts every time I manage to repeat my feat of bile-swallowing and not throwing up that sewing her flesh together is, all the while showing me Victor’s unchanged posture as he half lies on top of the building’s balustrade.
Except he keeps fidgeting. Keeps looking for a more comfortable posture—or at least that’s what he tells himself. He isn’t disguising his body language, as he thinks it would be pointless if I’m not watching him and doesn’t quite realize the precision Taylor has when manipulating her bugs. And why would he? How could he suspect the actual power she has when she hasn’t displayed it yet?
Yes, every cape keeps an ace up their sleeve, but… Tay’s full array of skills is ridiculous enough that nobody would suspect the actual depths of her power.
And that’s enough of a distraction. I need another question, something that will drive the point.
Something that will disrupt the game even more. Because no matter what he says, we both know this isn’t going to end with me getting as many flesh wounds as points he’s winning by. Victor intends to kill me, and he will so long as he feels justified in doing so.
Because I threatened his wife.
I can understand the feeling. Would even empathize with it, except for the fact that he shot my fiancée.
Right. Breathe. Breathe and let go of the needle, because I’m this close to making a mistake, so I’ll lay it across the gaping edge of the wound I’m keeping open enough to operate with the twin surgical clamps that are still impeding Taylor’s blood flow. It shouldn’t be much of a problem. The body’s as redundant as it can feasibly be, and, as long as I don’t block the flow from the corresponding vein, things should be mostly okay. Really, this is just me making sure the healing process is as optimal as it can be.
…
I’m gonna kidnap Panacea. I’m gonna kidnap Panacea and force-feed her My Little Pony cartoons until she learns about the fucking magic of motherfucking friendship and stops being an obstreperous cunt—
“Are you forfeiting, Tattletale?” he says with a calm voice that doesn’t match the way he’s sweeping the street below with his rifle, looking for either police or Protectorate capes.
“Nah, just… savoring the moment.” Come on, that’s the hint, isn’t it? This is out of love, concern, and rage. I can use that. “Never have I ever… manipulated Armsmaster into killing me.”
He pauses, the mannequin of bugs going perfectly still.
“I’m not sure I follow,” he says, voice slightly derisive, as if calling my bluff.
Because he’s pretending to be strong when weak.
Thank God, it looks like those board game skills aren’t being properly applied.
“Oh? You didn’t wonder where did Kaiser’s little earpiece come from? Who in the Bay makes technology that small, that lightweight? Something a bug can carry?”
“You stole it from—”
“Yes, of course. I stole an invention tailor-made to enhance my girlfriend’s powers. An invention that was used to take down dangerous villains. Something that a Tinker would have to devote precious time and resources to making. Tell me, Johnny,” remind him he’s human, that he’s the same little boy who was always ashamed of how little he knew, how little he’d ever amount to, “with those wonderful accounting skills of yours, the very same that you use to keep Medhall’s books squeaky clean, how much of Armsmaster’s budget do you think has been spent on me? How much do you think he cares?”
A lot. He cares a lot.
Damn it, no time to get mushy. I need the rage, the focus it gives me. I need to feel the want to peel his mind back like an onion, layer after layer of weeping, oozing, paper-thin suffering spread in front of me as I dig past the next one—
Tay’s squeezing my arm.
…
I nod and lean back in to do the last stitch. The last suture before I cut the thread and remove the clamps, hoping the elasticity of the artery will be enough, that it won’t rupture.
So I do it. I don’t spare any thought to Victor’s writhing effigy as I take the small scissor and cut off the thin, gleaming line of silk.
And I take a deep breath and remove the clamps.
The artery pulses, thrumming with the blood retaking its natural path, and it seeps through the gaps in my stitches, capillarity and viscosity combining to have it stay there, to have the dark, red ring around her wound glisten even as I can convince myself that it’s begun to darken, to clot.
And I release the air I’ve been holding.
Right, no time to rest. Now I need to close the wound. It’s… Frankly, it still freaks me the fuck out to have my hands dripping with Taylor’s blood, which I’m finally allowing myself to notice and—oh God, I’m going to throw up—
“That would be something very convenient for me to believe, Lisa,” the fucking moron finally says.
“That’s what happens with the truth, Johnny: it’s usually convenient to believe in it. Mostly, because not doing so can have some seriously life-impacting consequences.”
He’s aiming right at me. Past the sofa, where he saw Taylor falling and where he guesses I’d be if I was treating her and hadn’t wanted to risk moving her.
Unimportant. I need to sew past the skin, going deep enough that the stitches won’t come off the next time she decides to make an acrobatic exit off a building. This. This is important.
“I don’t suppose you can offer some proof of this thing that’s suddenly been revealed and would’ve saved you so much trouble at the start of our little game?”
Digging. Wanting more information—not because he doesn’t believe me, but because he needs to process how screwed he actually is.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that you haven’t shown your hand. That you can just kill both Taylor and I, and Armsmaster won’t ever know it was anybody but maybe one of Coil’s disgruntled mercenaries come to complain about his insufficient severance package.”
“You know me so well,” he mutters. And, this time, doesn’t remember to hide the bitterness and anxiety.
Almost there.
“Except you’ve given me too much time, Johnny. Not only will Taylor’s medical treatment be obvious, but you don’t know how many ciphered messages I’ve written with her blood that will only show up with a cheery luminol rave.” Zero. I’ve written precisely zero messages, but that seems like a good idea if there’s ever a next time after I purchase bulletproof windows. “You don’t know how thoroughly I documented my investigation on you, which would be the first thing to show up on my computer if I was to disappear—”
“I can hack—”
“Dragon is Armsmaster’s girlfriend, you dense motherfucker!”
“What did you just—”
“I’m tired of pretending. You’re a moron. You’re a stupid bastard who never did well in school, a barely literate piece of white trash, somebody who gives the black community someone to look down on. You were destined to a life of violent mediocrity, except you got lucky and got a power that let you pretend. You could make believe, play at being one of the big, smart guys you always felt jealous about, but—”
Another shot. Another swirl of falling feathers. Another annoyed huff to clear the hand covering Taylor’s wound as her adorable jumping spider clings to my skin.
“But you still knew. You always knew little Johnny couldn’t cut it by himself. That no matter how much you learned, how much you stole, you would never have the actual brain to properly use all that wonderful knowledge wasted on scum like—”
Another bullet. Really, I think I’m going to send him my painter’s bill.
“Scum like you. Someone stupid enough not to steal a surgeon’sskills until long after his beloved fiancée bled in front of his helpless eyes—”
“I can murder you, Lisa. I can murder you and damn the consequences. You think Armsmaster is gonna go to war for a traitorous villain? You think you really frighten me with—”
“I do. I do, or you wouldn’t still be talking. Because you know I make too much sense, and you desperately need to know what I’m getting at. To know what’s my real game, Victor, why I’ve put up with you for so long rather than lay the cards on the table at the very start or try to hide them until it was too late and I could hunt you down for revenge. For daringto hurt Taylor, for daring to make her bleed in front of me. Just… Just be thankful I’m not as stupid as you are, that I actually learned how to treat her before her life depended on me having done so.”
Silence.
Blessed silence as Taylor’s breath deepens, as the bug mannequin stills completely.
So I breathe.
I still my ragged gasps, the fury beating behind my eyes, the pulsing heat like a circlet burning around my head.
I… I don’t calm down.
But I focus.
“Assuming I believe you… What do you want?” he says. And I could cheer, except I’m in precisely the wrong mood to do so.
Right. Endgame. The foundation should be there. I’ve poked at his fears, his regrets, his insecurities. I’ve made him confront how helpless he is without a guiding hand, and in how much danger he is after doing something that Kaiser didn’t order him to do—not because the Nazi’s about to punish him, but because he fucked up. The first mission he’s decided to go on on his own in years, and he’s royally fucked up by confronting someone with ties to the two most powerful heroic Tinkers in the world.
Poor, poor Victor. I feel sooo sorry for him.
“Oh, that’s easy, honey: defect.”
There. Cards on the table.
“… What?”
And, of course, the clinically stupid man with the skills of a once-in-a-millennium genius makes me fucking elaborate.
“Defect. Take your little wife with you and every scrap of dirty laundry you have on the Empire and jump ship. Join the Protectorate. You will be given a cushy job at Watch Dog, where you will become a very valued middle management employee as soon as they discover how incredibly useful and versatile your stolen skills are. And she? The woman who can grant regeneration that goes beyond what Panacea can fix? The woman who can heal the unhealable, who can do brains? How protected do you think she’ll be after she restores Alexandria’s eye?”
“I—I can’t—”
“Of course you can, you fucking moron. Of course you can, as long as I help you.”
There. Now I just have to hope that he—
“One shot,” he says, voice suddenly cold.
“What?”
“You’re asking me to betray everyone I know—”
“I’m asking you to leave behind the murderous gang of Nazis that are only making the end of the world come faster! You know the numbers! You know how close civilization is to falling!”
Another pause. Another moment of Taylor opening her eyes, staring at me like—ah. Shit.
‘Later,’ I mouth at her, and her eyes narrow before closing yet again.
“And if that’s true—” Victor tries to rally.
“No ifs, you fucking moron. Sea trade disrupted? Infrastructure systematically targeted? Maps rearranged? We need a win. We desperately need a win, or we won’t have anything left to fight for. And your little band of WW2 cosplayers will be the best dressed dead white men left on the smoldering, radioactive ground. Empire? An Empire needs something to rule over, something to protect—”
“We show up to each and every fight—”
“And then go back to murdering heroes in their homes! How much worse do things get every time Hookwolf decides to ‘send a message?’ Or that Kaiser wants you to do some wetwork? How much worse is the world because you lot fucking exist?”
Ah. Maybe I’m kinda losing sight of the objective here…
Taylor’s glaring at me, and I can only shrug my shoulders and offer her a sheepish grin.
It would be very embarrassing if that’s how I died.
“One shot,” he repeats.
“What does that fucking mean?!”
There’s silence. Silence as I glare at my phone, lying on the warm, wooden floor next to a pile of white, unused towels. Silence as I let the blood rush in my ears, wondering why Power isn’t—
Lisa Wilbourn’s usage of previously analyzed data—
… You flatter me too much, you mushy piece of anomalous brain growth.
“If you really believe what you say? If you really think me and my wife can help save the world and this isn’t a Thinker’s trap? Show me. Stand up, and put your hand to the side so I can shoot you. Do that, and I’ll trust at least part of what you say is true.”
Damn it.
Victor’s commitment to his cause—
Yeah. He wants to see if I’m… well, the genuine article, I guess.
“Give me a moment,” I say, my voice rougher than I’d care for it to be.
“Are you trying to—”
“I’m about to finish suturing my fiancée’s arm and bandage it properly before you make me unable to do so.”
“… Go ahead.”
And I do.
Taylor – Trapped
Is she insane?!
Shot?! She’s gonna let herself get shot?! To recruit a murderer?!
My swarm buzzes around her as she finishes wrapping the bandage, and I keep glaring at her. I don’t know why I can’t speak—maybe I damaged something with my first scream when the bullet went through me—and part of me can’t help but think hilarious the prospect of a mute Lisa if the same thing happens to her.
Except not. Not hilarious at all.
Because bullets aren’t surgery. Because it’s not a clean thing, in and out without any complications.
Because I don’t care how good Victor is, he can’t guarantee Lisa won’t die!
And she’s smiling at me, patting my cheek, not quite saying goodbye.
And she’s grabbing the edge of the sofa, ready to push herself up, to offer herself to Victor as a target, as collateral.
And my swarm roars.
Not in Lisa’s apartment, not inside these walls that, from now on, I’ll strive to make safe.
No.
It roars around Victor as three blocks of bugs finally show themselves, first blocking his view of us with a black wall that surges from below his nest, and then…
He’s covered with insecticide. Strong enough he needs a gas mask, strong enough that the flies that land on him die in a matter of seconds.
It doesn’t matter.
Hornets are dangerous. One of the most aggressive species of arthropods, one that likes to use other animals to lay their eggs in, so that they hatch inside the living hosts and devour them from the inside.
Bees kill intruding hornets regularly.
Not by stinging them. No.
Hornets are bigger, stronger, harder. A bee cannot do anything against it.
But a lot of bees?
They can get creative.
So they will surround the hornet like I’m surrounding Victor. They will land over and around it, like the dying flies that I keep in place with the adhesive webbing stuck to their legs as they land on Victor. And then more bees will land on the first ones, like dragonflies, beetles, and cockroaches keep landing on the dead flies, each of them carrying some more adhesive webbing that gets them stuck on Victor’s beekeeper’s suit.
The suit that’s now studded with dying, writhing insects that are absorbing enough insecticide to make the next layer survive that bit longer.
He throws himself on the gravel roof, rolling around like he’s trying to put out some fire.
And that only gets him tangled on the silk lines I’ve laid around him, carried by spiders held aloft by squads of flying insects, each one stuck to a thin line that goes back to the spider they carry.
So now Lisa’s would-be murderer is lying on the roof, like a hornet laden down with the weight of some very angry bees.
It doesn’t stop there.
Because, what the bees do now? It is to lie on top of the other bees, layer after layer of buzzing, angry, protective bees that keep moving, that keep flapping their wings as fast and as hard as they can.
That keep dying.
Because they’re spending a lot of energy while doing that. As much as my surviving flies, beetles, dragonflies, wasps, and cockroaches. And when a living being uses energy? It comes out as heat.
And that’s how the hornet dies. That’s how the intruderwho dared threaten the bee’s home is murdered: he’s cooked alive.
Or, maybe, if he’s lucky, he asphyxiates.
“Taylor!” Taylor, stop! It’s over; you’ve won!” a voice calls to me from a place that’s not my swarm. My protective, shielding swarm.
“Tay! Tay, I want to kill him, I want to tear down his mind until suicide is his only escape, the only way he will stop feeling pain! I want to! But not you! You don’t! Tay, please!”
The voice’s closer, insistent.
The intruder writhes, struggles. Stills.
“Oh God, Oh God, please! Please, Tay! You are a hero! That’s what you are! Don’t… don’t hurt yourself because of me… Please…”
The voice hesitates, and so do I.
And she hugs me.
Lisa hugs me.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you…” she sobs against my hair, cradling my body up against her chest.
And I…
I look through a myriad eyes at the still form of Victor lying on top of loose gravel.
And I take them back.
It… It takes minutes for brain death to occur from lack of oxygen. Minutes.
I… I don’t think…
Victor twitches, struggles, lies still.
And I breathe, kissing my fiancée’s hair, relieved that…
That the hornet’s gone.
Comments
Agrippa
All right, sorry about the delay, but this? This was fucking intense. I'm gonna get dinner and drink something alcoholic, because I really need to unwind after dealing with Lisa and Taylor's heads.
