Homeless 1.5

Okay, this is REALLY the last one for tonight. Couldn't sleep. But here it is.

I'm checked out of my personal effects, which the PRT desk officer sneeringly references as "One bag of cold hash browns, one broken umbrella, sixty eight dollars and fifteen cents in cash." Prick. I stuff the umbrella in my trench coat pocket, the cash in the back pocket of my pants, and the McDonald's bag under my arm.

My situation is only marginally better than before. No, scratch that. Even with the additional power available to me, I'm worse off. The PRT and Protectorate have me on their radar, and even if nobody comes after me until after Piggot and Armsmaster have admitted their misdeeds publicly, they will come after me. Of course, admitting that they first arrested me by error and then tried to prosecute me to cover their asses, I might actually gain a degree of immunity. Cashing in on that immunity would require me to go out into the open, though. Anonymity, or security? Security is always an illusion, but at this point, with being known of by the biggest blabbermouth in villain history on one side, and the PRT on the other, anonymity is a vanishing commodity too.

I'll hold off on it for now. Go into hiding, until I can-

Oh. Of course. Faultline. Why on earth didn't I think of her sooner?

I begin digging around in my pockets for the phone number Tattletale slipped me; undoubtedly she can get me in contact with Faultline immediately, and my inhuman appearance would make me a shoo in for her crew. She might contract out, but her deal has always been, first and foremost, the wellbeing of the case 53's under her banner. And to sweeten the pot…

Dammit, where the hell is that phone number?

They never gave it back to me. The umbrella, the hash browns, and the money is all they gave me.

I feel like screaming. Only one thing to do: Go back to the bar where I first saw them, and hope I find them again. Knowing how Lisa's power works? It's risky. If Brian's with her, it's riskier. And there's no doubt in my mind that she'll try to recruit me. But I have something more valuable to trade to her- her freedom.

CYOA​

By the time I get to the bar I've choked down the cold, glutinous hash browns for all that they're greasy, taste like paste, and sit like a rock in my stomach. I feel less than spectacular, but I don't go into the bar, just in case I get nauseous, not to mention that I've still got the remnants of the dissolved containment foam in my clothes and fur, now hardened to the consistency of dry clay and tugging unpleasantly at my fur with every motion. I was homeless once for two weeks, but never have I felt this grimy. There's definite matting in my fur, and despite it all the rain still manages to spit and burst just enough to keep me from actually drying out without getting me wet enough to wash any of the crud from me. The sun is setting below the roof tops and has plunged the streets into night despite the still colorful sky. In its own way it makes the streets feel even darker than actual night.

I'm thirsty, hungry, tired, I stink only slightly less than the garbage bin behind my back, and I'm wearing a horrible costume not just because it conceals my identity, but because it's literally the only thing I have. I'd like to say I've hit rock bottom, but saying that usually causes life to hand you a shovel. Given that I have no intentions of digging myself deeper, I huddle deeper into the shadows by the dumpster and force myself to keep attentive watch.

I can't say how long I'm here. All I know is that out of a combination of boredom and fatigue I almost fall asleep several times. My claws help with this, although I accidentally draw blood once and have to stop to heal the dirty cut.

Then, I notice a fly on me. Hardly a surprise, given how bad I must smell by now. But despite the cold air it makes a concerted search of my fur, crawling over the coat, on my cargo pants, the underside of the brim of my hat. When it stops, it doesn't do the normal things a fly does when it stops, no twitches, no steps, no shuffle of its wings or cleaning of its body with its forelegs. Perfectly stationary.

They know where I am.

I get to my feet, straining my ears to listen past the sounds of Brockton Bay evening for anything like conversation. The fly shifts again, this time flying in a horizontal figure eight pattern. I can barely make out the motion in the darkness of the alley. I shift to the left, and match the pattern with my arm. It seems to satisfy the fly- or Skitter, at any rate- and the fly begins drifting down the alley. When I don't follow, it returns, flying into my face, before drifting back down the alley again. I settle down and wait- if they are willing to meet me, they can come to me.

Am I antagonizing them? Maybe a little. But my mood is shit and my belly is empty. I'm entitled to be pissy about it, I think.

Apparently they figure it out pretty quickly. Within a minute I notice the alley is filling with something that roils like smoke but is utterly black. With my knees tucked up to my chest, the darkness rises high enough on them to make them look like islands rising out of a black fog, barely visibly in the reflected light of the street lamps.

"Hello, Undersiders."

They won't be coming from the street, not with the direction that the darkness rolled in from, and certainly not with them having such exposure as they've gotten from the heist today. I look further down the alley, and my suspicion is confirmed as I see a cluster of figures walking toward me.

Tattletale is the first to speak. And I know immediately that she's pissed. "You've got some nerve coming out here after the stunt you pulled today."

"Trying to save your bacon?" I say.

"Try- what the hell does that mean?" Demands Grue.

"… You weren't trying to get us… no, you WERE trying to get us arrested. Or stopped. Captured. Because it was safer. In the long run." Tattletale mumbles quickly. "You know things about us. About me. About what we're doing, about why we're doing things, about who we're doing things for."

"Yes. And how he does it." I pause, then add, "Two roads diverged in a yellow wood."

To my surprise, it's not Tattletale who answers, but the one in the back. Her outfit is murky in the combination of poor lighting, roiling darkness, and its own coloration, but I can see the outline of a mandible. "-And sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler, long I stood, and looked down one as far as I could-" Skitter and I finish the stanza together, "-to where it bent in the undergrowth."

"The road not taken, Robert Frost," she says. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

Tattletale is staring at me, her wide eyes visible through the domino mask. "-so that's how he does it."

"And how he gathers all his information. Yes. About you, about everything. But he just got a lot more dangerous."

"How do you- the bank job. Matching us two for one. A distraction. A distraction for gaining another asset. Someone he can control, who can extend his reach across the city."

"Close enough," I answer. "A precog. A powerful one. One that lets him refine the road far more precisely and effectively than he's been able to up til now."

"How do you fight that? No." Tattletale shakes her head. "He knows all our weaknesses, everything about us by now. He's probably… extracted that information."

"You all talk too much. We gonna punish her already?" Says a new voice- that has to be Rachel.

"No, we aren't," Tattletale replies, her voice indicating she was far away at the moment. "She was helping us then, and she's helping us now- I just didn't know enough to see it."

"So, what do we do, then? Hire her?" That had to be Regent. "We've already got five. We don't need another."

"I don't want to join you," I respond. "I want you to get me in contact with Faultline. Tonight. Sooner, if possible. Call it my price for the information, along with a shower and about three pounds of meat. Don't care what kind."

The six of us stand there, only twenty feet separating them from me. The alley is dark, cold, and stinks. None of us really want to be here. "Alright," Tattletale finally says. "All in favor of bringing her back with us for the night? I say yes."

"Yeah." Says Grue.

"Fuck no." Says Rachel.

"Too much trouble," answers Regent.

Tattletale looks at their fifth members. "Tie breaker vote. Your call."

Skitter's posture fairly screams uncertainty. "I… Um, I'm still new… I shouldn't already have a vote… should I?"

Grue squelches that pretty firmly. "You went with us today, you saved our asses out there. Far as I'm concerned, you're one of us. If you're one of us, you get a say."

"Well, that depends, actually," adds Regent, "on whether you're gonna agree with us." He motions towards himself and Rachel.

"Shut up, Regent," Grue says without looking at him.

Skitter looks back and forth between the others, only briefly looking at me. I recognize the sensation of her eyes not wanting to look at me too long, not wanting to admit I'm there. "I… guess the least we could do is let her use our shower. And a wash machine."

I don't even bother feeling resentful. I gratefully follow as the group leads the way.

"Oh, and one more thing, Tattletale?" I add.

"Hmm?" She looks over her shoulder at me.

"That phone number you gave me- I think the PRT took it when they arrested me. So you might want to dump that phone."

"Thanks for the heads up." She reaches into her top, pulling out what even I recognize as a cheap, burner phone. She drops it, stepping on it with a loud crunching sound, as the six of us walk.

End 1.5