Spoofing

Gil pumped Snow’s arms, trying to get a better feel for her physique. He wasn’t about to make a break for it as Snow. It just wasn’t within her skillset, and he had no fucking clue what the crazy eyed man or his big friend could do to stop him. They were dressed like supervillains, but given that they hadn’t shown up on Rose’s dossier they were probably C listers at best. If Gil needed to rescue Snow, it would be expensive. He sat down in a swivel chair and ran through the options while he waited.

There was Team Evac, of course. Quick, easy, pull her out at the cost of one hour of portal time. He’d been planning on buying it for a while, but he hadn’t wanted to commit a full five credits to it. Any time he actually needed to use that was a logistical failure on his part, so it was essentially an emergency escape hatch.

The really overpriced option would be to use his new Azula card, acquired from evading the Undersiders all night. She was some kind of warrior princess from one of those magical martial arts anime, from the look of things. Even if he didn’t give her fire magic to Snow, he suspected that the superhuman martial arts would include miraculous skill at parkour that she could probably use to make her escape. That would of course be stupid, since the only way Snow would ever use those sweet kung fu skills as intended would be when someone else was in her body, but it was certainly a possibility.

The last and probably least attractive option was a full frontal ****. Gil’s assets in Brockton were scattered, embedded in multiple groups, and would have a hell of a time fighting an entire pack of Bitch’s monster dogs even if she didn’t promptly get backup. Much better to negotiate his way out if he could.

When Bitch walked back into the room with a flip phone and handed it to him, Gil leaned back in his chair and brought it to his ear.

“Talk to me.” He said, his words coming out as a chirp in Snow’s voice.

“May I confirm to whom I am speaking?” Came the voice from the other end. A man; older, cultured, and skeptical.

“Nomad.” Gil said, “I’m borrowing my employee’s voice for reasons I don’t care to get into. So, same question.”

“A prospective employer.” He said, keeping his voice coy. “One with interest in your purported abilities.”

“Man, I wasted a lot of money planning that marketing push, Biff.” Gil said, affecting boredom, “What do you want, and how much do I need to promise to get you to call off the Undersiders? I’ve got a busy morning scheduled and will be leaving the city by noon, so you’d better be economical with your requests.”

Gil didn’t know who this guy was, but he seemed like the kind of cultured asshole who wouldn’t rise to a bit of judicious needling. A nice, dismissive nickname seemed appropriate in the moment. Thus, Biff.

“Straight to business then?” Biff said, “I can respect that, I suppose. There is an individual with a rather tenacious condition I’ve been asked to investigate. The problem is of a powered nature, so I am seeking out individuals with compatible skillsets. As neither Panacea nor Bonesaw seem inclined to meet with me, a thinker in my employ believes you may be able to assist.”

“Alright.” Gil said, “Put them on the phone. I can do a consultation right here and now.”

“The individual in question is rather delicate in their sensibilities.” The man said, “I don’t, as a rule, expose them to unknown individuals lightly or discuss them in depth over the phone.”

“If you aren’t even going to tell me what you need, I can hardly even guess if I can do anything. I can pencil you in for a few weeks from now?” Gil said, “I’ll just drop in on short notice. I don’t like traps much, and I am a very bad enemy to have.”

“Surely you must be,” the man said with dry sarcasm, “given that you have not left any of your enemies alive long enough to spread your legend.”

“So, I’ll swing by here next time I’m in town or I’ll send one of my agents on my behalf when it’s convenient.” Gil said, “If you’re staying secretive about them, then I doubt that it’s terribly time sensitive.”

“That seems… equitable, yes.” Biff said, thoughtful. “May I have an estimate as to when, precisely, you will be in contact?”

“A week from now at the latest.” Gil said, “I’ll get someone in contact with you; as for when I’ll be available for the procedure? It could be as much as a month depending on what other opportunities present themselves.”

“Acceptable.” Coil said, “I see no reason to rush a professional. Hand the phone back to Bitch, please.”

••••••••••

Missy felt great when she woke up to her alarm. Better than most mornings, honestly. Even the act of standing up was easier, as if something was lifting her up to her feet. She brushed her teeth, but when she went to change from her night clothes to her suit she was surprised to find that she was already fully dressed in her green and black armor.

That was odd, but she’d slept in her gear before. The problem, of course, was that her super suit was hanging on its peg, and she didn’t have two of them. Her backup had been busted up a week ago and the replacement wasn’t considered top priority. The one she was wearing was comfortable, like a second skin. It felt as light as a feather when she moved, but also carried a certain comforting mass that only armor could provide.

As comfortable as it was, this was strange, and strange was alarming in Missy’s line of work. She moved to take it off and as soon as the thought solidified, she wasn’t wearing it anymore. None of it was on the floor. It had simply transformed into the boring cotton underwear Missy favored. A shard of ice formed in her heart.

This didn’t feel like her power. She could twist space like wet clay, but she had to do it all manually. Second triggers didn’t work like this. If she tried very hard, she could see a connection between twisting space and altering her clothes, but the entire mechanism changing? No.

She rushed out of her room. She hoped that Weld was available. She needed to report to a superior officer, and if he was out on patron then she’d need to talk to Director Piggot. Honestly, she’d need to talk to Piggot eventually. The very idea terrified her, and she wanted someone to have her back. Without thinking, she went to Lily first. They’d had an intimate moment, and she trusted Lily. They wouldn’t have had sex if Missy didn’t trust her completely.

As awkward as it had felt afterwards, that was mostly because she wasn’t really sure if she was actually bi. It had been nice, but she hadn’t really been focused on her teammate during the process. Lily was gorgeous, but Missy didn’t generally like girls and it’s not like she wanted anything more than friendship out of this relationship. Does it even count as sex if you’re just using your friend to help you get your rocks off?

Stupid question, obviously it does. People have random flings all the time. Missy just suspected that Lily wouldn’t be happy to know that the whole time they were sleeping together that she was imagining someone else, generally Dean, in Lily’s place. She’d never thought of herself as someone who would use a friend as a glorified sex toy, and actively tried to shove aside how hot it would be to sleep with Lily and a hot guy at the same time. It wasn’t going to happen, Lily was a lesbian, shut up brain.

She felt a little bad waking Lily up; she’d begged off her last shift, citing exhaustion. Missy knew her friend well enough to know that wasn’t something she did casually.

Waking her up to deal with Missy’s shit felt wrong, but she needed someone. Someone who wasn’t obligated to respond in a purely professional capacity, and someone who wouldn’t be sneaking glances at her body when her suit kept changing. Or worse, not sneaking glances at her because she wasn’t enticing enough.

“Vista?” Lily said, “are you ok?”

That was strange. They normally only used one another’s cape names in costume. Theoretically it was intended to minimize slip ups and avoid revealing their identities. Missy looked down, and realized that her clothes had shifted back to her supersuit. She’d been walking through the base and wanted comfort, so she’d put on armor. It felt so nice, even if the armor was a huge part of the problem.

“I don’t know.” She said, leaning against the desk. “I’m not in pain or anything, but…”

With barely a thought, her suit with its multiple ceramic plates and high tech polymer mesh shrank into a sports bra and shorts. Her helmet vanished completely, unnecessary to her new ensemble. She noticed, distantly, that her muscles were just a hint more defined, and quite a few old scars were faded to leave pristine skin.

Missy wrinkled her nose. It’s not that she wanted bad skin, but of fucking course whatever the hell this was made her look even more like a pretty doll.

“Holy shit.” Lily said, “We should probably report this, now.”

She stood up and started getting in uniform, obviously intending to accompany the shorter girl to the most awkward meeting of her life. Suddenly, Missy wanted to kiss Lily. She wanted to be wrapped in the taller girl’s arms and to be told that she was going to be ok. Instead, she and Lily suited up and went to have a chat with Weld. Very professional, very appropriate to the situation.

She tried not to think about the document she saw on Lily’s desk while she waited for her friend to get dressed: a formal request for transfer to a private team. It wasn’t filled out, not yet, but it’s not like those were just floating around. Paper was in short supply, just like everything else, so Flechette would have needed to request that a copy be printed for her.

••••••••••

“Holy shit, O, are you ok?” Victor looked her up and down as she staggered out of the darkness, “No, I can tell you can still walk. It can wait; we’ve got injured. Is that tinker still around?”

Othala blinked and suppressed a flash of resentment at the completely reasonable reaction. It’s what she would have expected from Victor; he was almost always focused on the mission. Even so, her traitorous memory reminded her that Lucious would have fussed over her own mild injuries before even considering the help. David would have had the entire situation managed before she even arrived.

She crushed the unkind thoughts down. Their underlings legitimately did need help, and she was uniquely equipped to provide it. At a glance she could pick out who was in most danger; the man whose leg looked as if it had been caught in one of Bitch’s dogs.

Othala had never actually gotten formal medical training, generally relying on the use of her power to brute **** healing, but Fox had been trained as a paramedic. The details were so fuzzy, but the broad strokes came through just like a thousand other jobs she’d done for what now felt like a heartbeat’s worth of time. She started giving quiet orders to the troops before she’d even realized she was doing it, placing the fallen into groups so she could get to them as efficiently as possible.

Victor looked at her, and she could read him like a book. He wasn’t sure why she was taking charge, but countermanding her would make him look weak. She felt sympathy for him as she realized that the woman he’d loved, if imperfectly, was gone.

Othala and Victor had put quite a lot of work into making their relationship work, despite it being a rather thorny mess of family politics and arranged pairings. He’d been surprisingly gentle with her, honest about his feelings and accommodating of hers. She tried to hang onto the appreciation for that; he’d been good to her, and that meant more to her than any “morality” a man might ascribe to.

Unfortunately, he was no longer the tough older man she’d married after the **** of her sister. No longer the stable pillar she could trust and rely upon. Instead he was young, so very very young, with an arrogant impetuousness that he had no longer earned in her eyes. She’d had lives where she’d had children older than this man, and most of the husbands she’d enjoyed most had been at least thirty. Listening to her, taking her opinions into account, being understanding of her feelings? That wasn’t a stretch goal. That was the bare minimum, a hurdle that nearly everyone she’d ever been with legitimately had exceeded easily. Even Mr. J had managed that much… well, the version she’d been paired with had. She shook her head, knowing that now was not the time for an existential crisis. Yes, she had a thousand lives, several of which she could remember as fictional stories, but she could unpack that later.

Othala looked at Victor and saw a child with potential, less than one one hundredth of her own age. Hookwolf was even worse, little more than a glorified bandit gifted with outsized power, and looking back Kaiser had the requisite competence and precious little else to commend him. She was going to need to manage this organization if it was to survive. Needing to work around the ideological framework would be difficult, especially resolving the troubles with the Pure, but Othala had managed entire kingdoms, billion dollar corporations, armies, and conspiracies, all for her husbands. For men worthy of her. Men that Victor, the poor man, might never stack up against. What could she do? If she set aside the men that inflated her standards, she’d be left with nothing but the confusing, delirious joy of service to a parade of men she could never respect in retrospect.

“Victor.” She said quietly, for his ears alone, “You need to know something. That armor that Nomad put on Menja? He can control her with it. She’s a security risk just waiting to happen.”

••••••••••

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