Valiant

[Valiant #9: Sanctuary, Pt. 1]

Log Date: 10/9/12763

Data Sources: Feroce Acceso, Kiwi

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

The Bulwark: Ridge’s Quarters

8:10am SGT

“Wait, I can come on this mission?”

I lean on the frame of the doorway, staring into Ridge’s room. “Yes, you may. Though you’ve brought your grades up, they could still be better; however, the probability of danger on this mission is almost zero and it will have some educational value. You’ll have a chance to get an up-close look at a Quill Sanctuary, and learn more about Masklings and their culture.”

He deflates a little where he’s still sitting in his bed in his pajamas. “It’s just a field trip to some museum, then?”

“To the Maskling equivalent of a community center.” I say, pulling my flask out of my longcoat and unscrewing the lid. “This is also part of what Challengers used to do. We got to know other cultures, so we could understand them, and better help them. There is value in understanding different kinds of people, and being able to empathize with them.”

Puffing out a breath, he looks around his messy, cramped quarters. “I guess I’ll go. It would be nice to get off the ship for a bit and get some fresh air.”

“Your enthusiasm overwhelms me.” I say, rolling my eyes and taking a sip from my flask, then capping it. “Get dressed in warm-weather clothes. It’s summer on the part of the planet that we’ll be visiting. You’ll have to eat on the go; we’ll be taking a transport down to the surface in thirty minutes, so if you’re not at the hangar before then, we’re leaving without you.”

“Yeah yeah, Dad, I hear you.” he says, mimicking the eyeroll back at me. “I’ll be there. You go do whatever it is vampires do in the morning.”

“Put up with sassy little brats, apparently.” I fire back over my shoulder as I cap my flask and start back down the hall again.

“Go play cards with your freaky Maskling girlfriend!” he calls.

“For the last time, she’s not my girlfriend!”

“Yeah, and I’m not an orphan!”

Rolling my eyes again, I tuck the flask back in my jacket and make my way to the hangar.

The News

“Welcome back, loyal viewers, to Good Morning Myrrdicato. It’s another bright and sunshiny day in the galaxy, and we’ve got all the latest for you from across the galaxy. Our biggest story this morning: the V-pop band Nightrun will be playing a benefit concert to raise money for refugees that have been displaced by Collective attacks on frontier worlds. The concert, due to take place on the fifteenth of the month, will be broadcast from the entertainment stadium at the galaxy’s Colloquium. The event has drawn several big names in the music industry, and in-person tickets are going for astronomical prices. In their public statement, Nightrun said that all profits from the concert will be going towards resettlement programs for refugees fleeing from the Collective, and that ‘those with access to platforms such as ours should use them for the benefit of the helpless and needy’.

“In other news, anonymous sources from the Colloquium claimed that lawmakers in the legislative body were moving to blacklist the Dussel Mercforce, which many of you may know as the mercforce that aided Songbird’s escape from Valcorria. The move is seen as a natural progression after the Guild revoked the group’s merc license. Once blacklisted, the Vaunted will be able to pursue and arrest members of the mercforce, and those known to be collaborating with them. There has been no comment from the mercforce with regards to their revoked license and the possibility of being blacklisted.

“For those viewers that have been looking for a new career — are you a stellar scientist, engineer, or soldier? Then you may want to check out CURSE’s job openings. Recruitment for the organization has started trending upward in the last month, and CURSE has released an ad blitz advertising the career paths that can be found within Citizens United. While there has been no comment on the reason for the renewed focus on recruitment, longtime CURSE observers were unanimous in attributing the sudden shift to the reappearance of Songbird on the galactic stage.

“On the civil rights front, there are organized anti-Mask protests scheduled today in several systems that are home to Quill Sanctuaries. Largely organized by SCORN and other fringe groups, the protests come at a time of increasing anti-Mask sentiment, and efforts by politicians to roll back galactic rights and protections for the Maskling race. Counterprotests have been organized in a number of systems, and the potential for violence remains high in systems that have seen increasing polarization over the last decade…”

Event Log: Kiwi

Wisconsin: New Bridsgard Quill Sanctuary

11:18am SGT

“Did we really have to do this?” I ask, checking my reflection in the dingy window of the magtrain we’re riding on.

“That’s a question you know the answer to.” In that same window, I can see Forecast’s reflection where he’s standing behind me and slightly to my left, dressed impeccably as always. “The Council requires that you have a handler. That was part of the agreement made when you became a Mask Knight.”

“I already have someone I can tangle with.” I mutter, adjusting the white, high-collared, knee-length jacket I’m wearing. “And who picked out this coat for me?”

“I did. The white pairs nicely with your hair.” Tarocco says from where she’s sitting in the seat across from us. “It was paid for as a gift from the Council. They wanted you to look good when you show up at the Sanctuary.”

“As for partners, you need an approved handler.” Forecast adds. “One of our kind. You know what happens when Masks tangle with non-Masks.”

“S’not like it’s any different from what happens when I tangle with other Masklings.” I say, tucking my hands into the pockets of the jacket and turning from side to side to see how I look in it. “Alright. This jacket isn’t too bad. I can dig it.”

“I doubt I need to recite the compatibility issues to you.” Forecast says, pulling his phone out and checking it. “At any rate, this is not up for debate. We are going to the Sanctuary so you can pick your next handler. Songbird is not a viable alternative.”

“Says you.” I mutter, taking my hands out of the pockets.

“I do say.” Forecast says, calmly scrolling his phone. “And since we’re already here, we’ll be having them run the usual tests on you. It’s been several months since your last checkup, so you’re long overdue for them.”

I huff a breath through my nose. “C’mon, those tests aren’t going to show anything different than what they usually do. Can we quit with them already?”

“Another question you already know the answer to.” Forecast says, tucking away his phone. “Venox has finished scouting the anti-Mask rally being held at the park. Attendance is much higher than anticipated.”

“They’re just blowing smoke.” I say, reaching down to fluff out the split tails of the jacket, then spinning in place to see how they flare out around me. “Nice. I can take this jacket into combat.”

“Why is Venox casing the rally? It’s not a threat, is it?” Tarocco asks, then glancing at me. “Don’t wear that into combat. It’s not reinforced for battle.”

“We don’t anticipate it’ll be a problem.” Forecast answers, making his way to the doors as the magtrain starts to slow. “But SCORN rallies have turned violent before, and as a rule, one should not underestimate the power of stupid people acting in large groups.”

I hold out an arm, picking at the sleeve of the jacket. “If it’s not reinforced for combat, what’s the point of it?” I sigh. “I want to look good and kick ass. That’s not asking too much, is it?”

“Sorry, Feather. Wasn’t in the budget.” Tarocco says, standing up. “You should just be thankful it’s coming out of the Council’s pocket. Wish I could get free clothes.”

I snort at that. “Out of all of us, you probably need them the most, with how fast you go through yours.” I say as the train pulls into the station, and the doors open. “Just I wish I had something like what Songbird’s got. His longcoat’s got a reinforced crysteel combat weave, so it can shrug off knives and small arms fire.”

“Songbird is a Challenger, with a Challenger’s connections, and a budget to match.” Forecast says, stepping out of the train and starting briskly across the covered station to the plaza beyond. “We have to make do with what we can manage on our own. Tarocco makes a good point, though; try not to ruin that jacket within the first month.”

“Sure, I’ll toss it in my closet and never take it out again after today.” I say, rolling my eyes as Tarocco and I follow him across the plaza. “That should keep it nice and spiffy.”

“Remind me again why we invited the mercs to the Sanctuary?” Tarocco says, tucking her hands into the pocket of her baggy hoodie.

“A formality, a courtesy, if you will.” Forecast answers, sizing up the Quill Sanctuary tucked away into one side of the plaza. The grand building is about three stories tall, built from stone, with classic carved columns holding up the overhanging roof. A wide flight of stairs leads up to the front of the building — it’s definitely one of the older Quill Sanctuaries; the newest ones usually aren’t this austere. Most of the more recent Quill Sanctuaries try to be a little more welcoming with their architecture. “A way for them to get to know us a little better, learn our ways and our culture. What we value.”

“Ah right. The noble parasite routine.” I say, rolling my eyes as we start up the stairs. “Are we going to have a Quill give them a tour of the Sanctuary and summarize our sorry history for them?”

“We cannot change the fact that we are Masks, so we ought to take pride in what we are.” Forecast replies. “We do not need their pity. Merely their empathy, and understanding.”

“And their money, and their military and tactical support.” Tarocco adds as we crest the top of the stairs and cross into the shadow of the roof’s overhang.

“Well yes, but let’s not mention that in front of them.” Forecast says in a low undertone, before raising his voice to call to the group near the main doors. “I apologize for our lateness. There were a few matters we had to tend to before coming here.”

Sierra — the platinum blonde with the playbunny figure and the eyepatch — looks around from where she’s got Songbird in a headlock, scruffling his hair. “Oh hey, look to decided to show!” she says, letting go of Songbird and straightening the dress jacket draped over her shoulders. “Thought you guys had gotten lost on your way to the bathroom.”

“Is this it?” Tarocco asks as Songbird straightens up, grumbling wordlessly. “Just the three of you?”

“Everybody else had better things to do.” Ridge says without looking up from his phone. “Or they hate Masks.”

“Pity.” Forecast says, offering a smile. “We were looking forward to changing their minds. At any rate, we’re looking forward to showing you around. Shall we?”

I puff a breath, moving past Forecast and Tarocco. “Let’s stop being so formal about it.” I say, taking Songbird by the hand and pulling him along as I head for the main doors. “Tell me what you want to know about Masklings, Blueberry.”

“Oh, uhm. I. Uh.” he stutters as I tug him into the Sanctuary’s main foyer. Inside, a scattering of Masklings and Quills are hanging out, coming and going, and chatting with each other. In the middle of the room is a dais with towering statues standing around its rim, each one representing one of the seven aspects of the Lord of Masks. “I really don’t… well, I’m not sure. I know a bit about Masks, but I guess… what do you want me to know about Masklings?”

“Show the man a little respect, Feather.” Forecast calls as the others follow us into the Sanctuary. “Dragging him around like that is poor form.”

I stick my tongue out at Forecast, then let go of Songbird’s hand and tuck both of mine in my pockets as I walk backwards. “Well. If you really want to know more about us, we should start with the god that created our race: the Lord of Masks.”

“Really?” Ridge says in a flat tone. “Gee, I never would’ve guessed. The Masklings were created by a guy called the Lord of Masks.”

“He is also known as the Inkling.” Tarocco says from behind Ridge. “We are made in his image. The Inkling is a set of seven Masks that require Maskbearers in order to manifest and act on their own. Our race was designed in like manner, and it is both our blessing and our curse.”

“Like our god, we are effectively immortal, so long as our Masks are never shattered.” Forecast explains, bringing up the rear as Sierra goes wandering around the dais. “But we are bound by our need for Maskbearers. Without them, we are little more than inanimate objects that contain a soul.”

“We can grow, evolve in a way that other species can’t.” I explain, reaching up and running my hands through my hair. Relishing the satisfaction that comes with telling others that we’re capable of things they could never do. “We can become other species by taking a Maskbearer from that species. We can become hybrids, new species, by mixing the genetic traits and physical forms of our previous and current Maskbearers. We have the gift of getting to choose what we will be. That’s a privilege a lot of people will never have, even though they wish for it.”

“It is not without cost.” Forecast adds at this point. “It’s not just the physical attributes of a Maskbearer that we take upon ourselves. The mind and soul come with it, and those become a part of you as well. It changes you — sometimes in ways you didn’t expect, or didn’t want.”

“Every time you take a new Maskbearer, you become a new person. A combination of what you were before, and whoever’s become a part of you.” Tarocco says. “A new entity. When you Mask someone, an entire life becomes part of you. The emotions, the memories, ideas, thoughts, principles, hopes, dreams — those all become a part of your being. It can change you… so much that you may not recognize yourself, and others may not recognize you. That’s why, despite media portrayals, most civilian Masks only take new Maskbearers once every three or four decades.”

“Taking too many Maskbearers in a short span of time can drown you.” Forecast says, watching as Sierra walks around the dais. “A Mask that does this is at risk of losing themselves, of losing their core identity amongst all the Maskbearers they absorb.”

“Mask Knights are trained to compartmentalize, though.” I say, sitting on the dais at the feet of one of the statues. “We’re trained to slow down the merge between ourselves and our Maskbearers, so we can absorb those identities over time, in chunks we can handle without going crazy. This allows us to take Maskbearers at more frequent intervals than civilians.”

“So why don’t you just, like, get together one of each species and take turns slapping your Masks on them?” Ridge asks, looking up from his phone. “That way you can get all their stuff and make the ultimate hybrid. Become whatever you want.”

“That’s… cute.” Tarocco chuckles.

“If we could do that, my boy, our position in this galaxy would not be nearly so precarious as it presently is.” Forecast says, his mouth quirking in a hint of amusement. “But that is not how it works. If a Mask is removed from their Maskbearer before the Maskbearer dies, then the Mask loses all the traits, knowledge, and physiology they would’ve otherwise gained from being fused with that creature. Once a Maskling dies, and the Maskbearer along with them, all that they were is now permanently part of the Mask. If the Mask is removed at any point before death, the union is severed, and both Mask and Maskbearer become two distinct individuals once more. Separate from each other.”

“A natural limiter built into our species by our creator, no doubt.” Tarocco says. “We have to die in order to grow, evolve, and become more than what we were before.”

“You’ll prolly wanna tell them about the Maskbearers while you’re at it.” Sierra says as she rejoins our group after circling around the dais. “The kid probably thinks you all still kidnap people and force Masks onto them.”

“Oh?” Forecast asks, raising his eyebrows. “You’re familiar with our people?”

Sierra scoffs. “Bitch please. I was friends with Ink; of course I know about Masks. Had to help Kau rescue his ass more than once.”

“You really want us to believe you’re thirteen thousand years old?” Tarocco says, folding her arms. “Even if you were, I don’t see how someone like you would ever stand in the presence of our creator.”

“Well, it wasn’t hard.” Sierra says, giving a nonchalant shrug. “He was a pretty easygoing guy. Still is. He could be real mopey sometimes, but Kau does a good job of keeping him from getting his head too far up his own ass.”

“You mean to tell me that you’ve met our god.” I say, just to check to make sure we’re all on the same page.

“Met him, banged his wife.” Sierra says, reaching into her jacket and pulling out a lollipop. “Well, banged his wife before she was his wife, but y’know. Details. Water and rain, it’s all the same.”

“Excuse me?” Tarocco demands, looking like she’s about ready to throw hands. Behind her, Forecast isn’t nearly as offended, but he does look mildly disgruntled.

“Hey, you know what?” Songbird says, slapping a hand on Sierra’s shoulder. “Here’s an idea: why don’t we stop making inflammatory claims about other people’s closely-held religious beliefs and show a little sensitivity for the things they hold near and dear to their hearts, mm?”

Sierra gives Songbird a look. “What, I’m just tellin’ the truth!”

“I doubt that, but regardless, let’s stop playing shock jock and try to be a little more polite to our allies.” Songbird says, before giving us an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. Please, tell us more about your Maskbearers.”

“Gladly.” Forecast says, motioning to one of the adjoining halls. “Tarocco, would you lead the way?”

“This way.” Tarocco mutters to the rest of us, giving Sierra a glare as she heads towards the orientation hall. Pushing off the dais, I stand up and fall in step beside Forecast as he brings the rear. Both of us watch as Songbird corrals Ridge and Sierra along, muttering to the latter in a strained undertone.

“Well, that’s a first.” Forecast remarks quietly. “Claiming to have met our creator, and claiming to have slept with his wife. What do you think?”

I tilt my head to one side as we loiter our way towards the orientation hall, watching Songbird and Sierra conduct their argument in whispers. At one point, Songbird casts a furtive look back at me, and quickly looks away when he catches me watching him. Sierra looks back shortly after, catches sight of me, and smirks.

“She has a fearless honesty, even if she is probably delusional.” I decide after a moment. But my attention remains on Songbird and the splash of bright blue that he brings to the Sanctuary’s stone halls. Unlike Sierra, he always tries so hard to be a nice guy, actively avoiding conflict and trying to deescalate anything that might lead to violence.

I can’t tell if that’s just who he is, or if it’s because he’s trying to hide another side of himself.

Quill Sanctuary Holo-Pamphlet

Maskbearer Q&A section

Q: What is a Maskbearer?

A: A Maskbearer is a person that’s willing to be partnered with a Mask. Maskbearers come in many shapes, sizes, and species — but what they have in common is their willingness to evolve, grow, and become something more than they were before.

Q: Do Maskbearers choose to become Maskbearers?

A: Yes! By galactic law, all Maskbearers must be willing participants. Any and every Maskbearer you see in a Quill Sanctuary is there of their own accord, and many are in the process of aligning with the Masks they will one day partner with.

Q: Do Maskbearers get to choose the Masks they merge with?

A: Yes. The aim of every Sanctuary is to help pair Maskbearers with the Masks that they are most compatible with. Pairings are only approved and formalized if both Mask and Maskbearer are comfortable with it, and there are counseling and guidance services provided to help good pairings work through any differences they may have prior to being paired.

Q: What if a Maskbearer isn’t compatible with any of the Masks available at the Sanctuary?

A: There are a wide variety of Masks available at each Sanctuary, and alignment courses created to help Maskbearers and Masks become more compatible. But if a compatible match isn’t found at the local Sanctuary, a Maskbearer can transfer to other Sanctuaries to seek a match from a different roster of Masks.

Q: What if I want to become a Maskbearer?

A: Speak to any Quill at a Sanctuary — they will be able to direct you to the right people to begin the vetting process. Additional paperwork may be required depending on the laws of the system you live in, and support groups are available for those that live in Maskophobic regions.

Event Log: Kiwi

Wisconsin: New Bridsgard Quill Sanctuary

12:14pm SGT

“Scared yet?”

Songbird looks sideways at me from where he’s leaning on the railing of the wraparound balcony in the library room. Below, Quills and Masklings are scattered among the bookshelves and beanbags below, some talking quietly, most relaxing and reading.

“Why would I be scared?” he asks.

I rest my forearms on the granite railing, mirroring his posture. “Most people are freaked out by Masks. If they aren’t freaked out when they first step in, usually they’re freaked out after we explain how things work. They’re usually polite enough not to show it on the surface, but you can tell by how quickly they decide to leave.”

“Well, Masks are definitely a unique species.” he says, looking back down to the library below. “But people are often scared of what they don’t understand. I’ll be honest, it’s hard for me to get my head around your way of life — taking an entire person into yourself, letting them become part of you, becoming part of them, turning into an entirely different person… that’s kind of intimidating.” He laces his fingers together. “Most species and cultures are really attached to the idea of individuality, the idea of a sense of self. So the idea of giving up that sense of self — I get why that can be scary to them.”

“Yeah.” I say, watching how he’s laced his fingers together, and mirroring the gesture with my own hands. “I guess I get that. I grew up with it, so it’s no big deal to me; it’s just who we are as a species. I don’t know how it is for other Masks, but I don’t change too much when I get a new Maskbearer. Obviously they become a part of me, but I am me, and I can’t afford to stop being me. Either they yield to me, or I crush their soul until it conforms to its place within me.”

“So you do value your sense of self.” he surmises. “Maybe you’re not so different from the rest of the galaxy.”

“I like who and what I am. I don’t want it to change too much.” I answer. “But Forecast says that’s selfish. As Masks, we are designed to be chimaeras, amalgamations. An individual that is made of many. He say that we should be ‘reflections of those that have become part of us’. But I don’t want to change so much that I no longer recognize myself.”

“I get that.” he agrees softly. “But it sounds like Forecast wants you to respect and recognize the sacrifice of your Maskbearers.”

“I can do that without giving up who I am.” I push back. “Would you want to give up who you are just to keep existing? What’s the point of existing if you don’t get to decide who you want to be?”

“Good point.” he admits. “I hadn’t realized losing your sense of identity was something your kind had to deal with.”

“What, you thought we could just take people as our Maskbearers, absorb their skills, their power, their knowledge, and not have to pay a price of some sort?” I ask, looking at him. “The galactic media machine always portrays it as if we can just take Maskbearer after Maskbearer with no consequence. But that’s not the truth. After taking a new Maskbearer, every Maskling has to reconcile the differences between the Mask and the Maskbearer. The memories, the beliefs, the principles, the perspectives. It’s not easy for most civilians; it’s an ongoing process that often takes years.”

“But that’s not the case for Mask Knights.” he says, meeting my gaze. “You said military Masklings were trained to compartmentalize, so they can take new Maskbearers more frequently than civilian Masklings.”

“Well, yes.” I say, pushing off the railing and tucking my hands in my jacket pockets. “That’s different. Mask Knights are trained for carrying on the fight even if they end up getting killed. We’re allowed to take unwilling individuals as Maskbearers, and we’re trained on subduing their psyche and integrating it into our own with as little damage as possible to ourselves. As a matter of necessity.”

“Is that what you were planning on doing to me?” he asks, pushing off the railing as well. “Back at the party, when you had me paralyzed, you said you were tempted to take me as your Maskbearer.”

My heart skips a beat; I hadn’t thought he’d remember what I’d said to him that night. For a moment I can’t decide how to answer him; I don’t want to scare him off. But I also know he’s not stupid; he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he seems to have an intuition for seeing through people.

“I thought about it.” I admit after a moment. “But for now, I think I’d like to remain tangled with you instead.” Turning towards him, I tilt my head to one side, smiling and going back on the offensive again. “Unless you don’t want to be tangled.”

He hesitates, just like he did last time I asked. It makes me giddy, because I know what the hesitation means: he doesn’t want to untangle, but he can’t think of a good reason for staying tangled. Though it makes me fluttery and bubbly inside, I hold it together outside, keeping my excitement from bleeding through.

“I mean, well…” he says slowly, as if he was trying to buy more time.

“Are you afraid to admit you want to stay tangled with me?” I ask.

I can see the direct question send him into panic territory. “Well, I, uhm…” he says, avoiding looking directly at me. “We probably should untangle…”

“Yes, we probably should.” I say, leaning forward a little. “But do you want to?”

“Well, do you want to?” he says, flipping the question around on me.

I almost answer right away, but I don’t want to come across as desperate. So I grin instead, rocking back and forth on my feet and leaving him in suspense for a few seconds more before giving my answer. “No.”

It didn’t look like he was expecting that answer. “You… want to stay tangled with me.”

I bite my bottom lip and nod.

He opens his mouth, as if he was about to say something, then closes it, like he’s thinking about how to phrase his response. “…if you don’t mind, can I ask why?”

“Because she likes you, dude.”

Both of us turn to see Ridge leaning against the archway that leads into the wraparound balcony from the hallway. His arms are folded, and he’s wearing some combination of boredom and disgust in his expression.

“You know you just made this unnecessarily awkward, right?” Songbird says to Ridge.

Ridge shrugs. “Just callin’ it like I see it.”

“Yes, but now it’s no fun.” I sigh, making a shooing motion. “Get out of here. You’re ruining the mood.”

He glares at me. “Don’t shoo me, parasite.”

I raise my eyebrows, taking a step towards him. “Oh, now we’re slinging names?” I lift a hand, motioning back to Songbird. “What makes me a parasite and not him? You know what he is, right?”

Ridge scowls at me. “He cares about me. You told me to scram after I helped you.”

“That’s enough.” Songbird says, pushing away from the railing. “Ridge, she’s not a parasite. She can’t help that she is what she is.”

“Yeah, but she could be nicer to the people that help her.” Ridge mutters.

“Alright, sorry about that.” Tarocco says, stepping into the archway from the hall beyond. “Forecast and the Lieutenant have stepped away to discuss a couple things with the Sanctuary’s leadership, so me ’n Feather will be taking over the rest of the tour. We’ve given you the story on Maskbearers; what do you want to know next?”

“Tell me about the Quills.” Songbird says before anyone else can say anything. “I think I get Masks and Maskbearers, but who are the Quills and what do they do? Why do they run the Sanctuary? Shouldn’t the Masklings be in charge?”

Tarocco and I lock eyes, and start laughing at the same time. “So, a lot of the Quills are Masklings, actually.” I explain, turning back to the railing and peering over it, starting to point out the Quills on the library floor below. “What makes Quills different is that they are employees of the Sanctuaries, and disciples of the Lord of Masks. Obviously a lot of them are Masklings as a result, but you don’t have to be a Maskling to be a Quill.”

“So it’s not just Masklings that worship the Lord of Masks?” Songbird asks, leaning on the railing as Tarocco and Ridge join us on either side.

“The Lord of Masks is our creator, but he is not our god exclusively.” Tarocco answers. “Our race is one of his more recent creations, but people have worshipped him since long before the Masklings were created. The Quills, as a religion, have been around for longer than our race has existed, but once the Masklings were created, many of the Quills at the time decided to help and protect us, since they considered us children of their god. Since then, most Quill Sanctuaries have been repurposed as community hubs for Masklings, and proxies for the Maskling government.”

“Well, that answers that, then.” Songbird says, rapping his knuckles on the granite railing. “I’m all out of questions for now, I suppose.”

“Don’t you guys have other forms or something?” Ridge asks. “I’ve heard that some Masklings can transform into monsters or something.”

I glance at Tarocco. It takes her a moment to realize I’m staring at her, and when she finally notices, she shakes her head. “Nope.” she says. “I’m not a circus animal. I’m not going to shift on command just because you want to impress the Challenger. Why don’t you shift for him? Yours isn’t as extreme.”

“You know I don’t shift into my original form unless I have to.” I say, looking back to the library floor below. “Hey, anybody down there wanna shift into one of their stored forms? We got a couple investigators here that need a demonstration.”

Several heads turn and look up at me, but no one takes me up on the offer. One of the librarians behind the counter shushes furiously up at me, and Tarocco reaches up and pops me in the back of the head. “Seriously? Shouting at people in a library?” she hisses.

“Watch where you put that hand, pixie sticks. I’ll break it off next time.” I grumble at her.

“We don’t need a demonstration, really.” Songbird says hastily.

“No, I wanna see this.” Ridge says, leaning forward on the railing to stare around Songbird at me and Tarocco. “Do you just like, grow claws and tails and wings and stuff?”

“Ridge!” Songbird interjects. “We are not going to ask them to transform for us. That’s rude, and like Tarocco said, they’re not circus animals that are here to perform for our amusement. This is like asking a wereckanan to morph to prove they’re a wereckanan; it’s offensive and demeaning. If they don’t want to transform, that’s the end of it. Don’t push it.”

“Geez, I was just curious.” he mutters. “Whatever.”

“Trust me, kid, you don’t want to see me shift.” Tarocco murmurs.

“I am curious about how that works, though.” Songbird says. “How does the hybridism function? Genetically speaking, it takes years to create a chimaera in the lab. There are lots of barriers to creating a viable hybrid, but it sounds like Masklings can do it at will.”

“It’s an instinctive thing.” I answer, throwing an arm around Tarocco’s shoulders. “Isn’t that right, pixie sticks? Tarocco knows all about hybridism, since she specializes in that.”

“Unlike most Masklings, I’m light on magic and heavy on the chimaera side.” Tarocco says, examining her fingernails. “So yes, I can explain that, since I have a lot of experience with it. Songbird brought up a good point: hybridism usually takes years in the lab. Masklings, however, are inherently arcane creatures; most of our natural abilities are facilitated by the arcane energy that flows through us. It also enables our hybridism, stitching together DNA that would otherwise be incompatible and providing the energy and cellular flexibility needed to shift from one form to the other.”

“So magic is involved, just not the kind that Kiwi has.” Songbird says.

“Correct.” Tarocco confirms. “And who’s Kiwi?”

“That’s me.” I say, as I pull out my phone.

“That’s you.” Tarocco says, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s the nickname he thought up for me. I like it.” I say, checking my notifications. “It began when I called him Blueberry.”

“Huh. Alright then, Kiwi.” she says.

“Sidebar.” I reply, motioning my phone to Songbird. “Go ‘head, keep explaining Maskling hybridism to him. You do it better than me, anyhow.”

“How do you choose what traits get incorporated into a form?” Songbird asks. “How do you know what sequences code for a specific trait and how they would integrate into a specific form? In the lab it would be in the form of a database shown on a screen, but for you all…”

“That’s a process that occurs on instinct.” Tarocco answers, reaching up to take my arm off her shoulders. “It’s hard to really describe it. Masklings can sense, feel the forms of their past and current Maskbearers within themselves. The bodies of your past Maskbearers are memories that you can feel, as are your hybrid forms. When you think about your hybrid forms, you can… feel how an addition or adjustment to that form would feel like. How it would affect the function of the form. Like I said, it’s hard to describe, but it’s like a mental preview that you can sense within yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

All of us turn around to see a goat-earned Maskling in a Quill uniform standing in the archway, with a data slate tucked under one arm. “I was told to retrieve the Mask Knight in the white jacket. The lab is ready to put you through your benchmarks, and after that, you will be able to assess and choose your next handler.”

I grumble, tucking my phone away. “Do I have to?”

The Quill looks uncertain at that. “I… would assume so? Do you not want to?”

“Yes, she has to.” Tarocco says, placing a hand against my back and steering me towards the archway. “Even if she doesn’t want to. You know that if you avoid it, it’s just going to piss off the Council and get Forecast in trouble.”

“Fine. But I’m bringing Blueberry with us.” I sigh, looking over my shoulder at him, only to find he’s slowly wandering away from us, like he’s looking for something. “Where you going, Blueberry?”

“Did you guys see where Ridge wandered off to?” he asks, turning about with an exasperated look on his face. “I think he’s sulking because I told him off. He probably thinks I’m favoring you over him.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Tarocco says, looking around. “After all that work I put into explaining how hybridization works, and he just wandered off?”

“He’s a teenager, what did you expect?” I ask. “Forget about him, it’s not like he’s in danger here. Sanctuaries are called Sanctuaries for a reason; he’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried about him getting hurt. I’m worried about him getting lost and breaking something, or pissing off someone he shouldn’t piss off.” Songbird says, running a hand through his hair. “You guys go ahead; I need to track him down. He’s still a minor, so I can’t leave him unsupervised.”

“If you need help finding him, just let one of the Quills know.” Tarocco says before I can reply. “C’mon, Kiwi. The sooner you get to your tests, the faster you’ll be done with them.”

I give her a suspicious look, but allow her to push me along through the archway. As the goat-eared Quill scrambles to keep up with us and guide us to the lab, I tuck my hands in my pockets and let out a sigh.

I hate tests.

Intercepted Internal Transmission

CURSE Surveillance Network

12:30pm SGT

>Movement detected from Unit 5377.

>Retrieving case file…

>Reviewing contents…

>Status: Active

>Priority flag detected.

>>Priority order detected: immediate Peacekeeper dispatch.

>>Identifying nearest operatives to dispatch to Wisconsin…

>>>Prophet identified onsite.

>Generating briefing…

>Briefing sent.

>Dispatching operative to apprehend.

>Generating notification message for CURSE Supervisors and Administrator…

>Notifications sent.

Event Log: Kiwi

Wisconsin: New Bridsgard Quill Sanctuary: Subterranean Laboratory

2:57pm SGT

The moment the door of the suspension chamber unlocks and slides down, I’m yanking off the oxygenation mask and stepping out.

The lights outside the chamber are bright and harsh, and the whitesteel floor beneath my feet is hard and unyielding. The air is cold, and with the suspension fluid still clinging to my skin, it’s frigid. Tarocco looks up from the chair she’s sitting in, grabbing a towel off the table and tossing it to me. “That was the last benchmark. You should be done now.”

I grab it and start drying my hair first. “Great. Let’s do this never again, please.”

“Your next battery of tests will be scheduled for three months out, since you’ll be pairing up with a new handler today.” Forecast says from where he’s focused on a screen over at one of the lab’s desks, flicking through my results. “If you manage not to kill them after the three-month mark, your next set of tests can be scheduled for six months out. The biannual schedule is contingent upon you not having a change of Maskbearers or handlers during that time, however. Any time you get a new Maskbearer or a new handler, you’ll be reverted back to the three-month schedule.”

“I get running tests after getting a new Maskbearer, but after every handler?” I say, drying my shoulders and working down from there as Tarocco slides my clothes to the end of the table she’s sitting at. “I’ll be stuck on the three-month schedule for the rest of my life.”

“You could always go a little easier on your handlers.” Tarocco says, going back to checking her phone.

I give her a look as I towel off my legs. “Or they could try to keep up with me.”

“You know quite well that they are not the problem.” Forecast says without looking away from his screen. “If you exercised some moderation with the people you tangle with, this issue would not occur quite as often.”

“What, and risk the success of the missions the Council sends me on?” I ask, stepping off the platform that the suspension chamber’s on. “No thanks. I’m not gonna hold back just to coddle someone that’s weaker than me.”

“You can’t blame them for being weaker than you.” Forecast says, turning in his chair as I start getting dressed. “You are unique among Masks; you know that. That is not the fault of the people that have to handle you.”

“Yeah, but I can’t help what I am, either.” I say, shaking my head like a wet dog. “You know I can’t control it. Nobody else can do what I do, but that comes at a price. You were the one that told me that.”

Forecast’s lips draw into a thin, straight line. “So I did.” he concedes. “Are you ready to meet your options now?”

“Send them in.” I say, starting to gather my hair back into my usual messy ponytail.

Tarocco raises an eyebrow. “You wanna get some pants on first?”

“I ain’t got time for them to be shy. Send them in.” I say, sorting through my clothes.

Reaching out, Tarocco taps the screen on the desk, unmuting a channel. “You heard her. Send in the candidates.”

By the time the doors to the lab open and the handlers start filing in, I’m tugging my jeans on, and Forecast is directing the candidates on where to stand. There’s five of them, four guys and one girl, doing their best not to look as I pull my shirt on; Forecast has them assemble across the middle of the lab in a line. Tarocco puts away her phone as I pick up my jacket and start to shrug my way into it.

“These are all volunteers, right?” I ask as I slide my arm through one sleeve. “They know what they’re signing up for?”

“They’re all volunteers, yes.” Tarocco says, standing up as I pull my arm through the other sleeve. “They’re not privy to the details, since that’s classified.”

“Heard the rumors, though.” the guy in the middle of the row calls. “None of your handlers last more than a few missions.”

“I didn’t hear anyone give you permission to speak, Knight.” Tarocco calls back to him as I head towards the line of volunteers.

“It’s fine. I want to hear what he knows.” I say, stopping in front of the volunteer that spoke. It looks like he’s Masked a canid in the past; he’s got wolven ears, and a bushy tail. Pronounced incisors, short, scruffy hair, and a cocksure smirk. “Go on, spit it out. What are they saying about me nowadays?”

He shows his teeth. “They say nobody can handle you. That you burn through handlers faster than a chainsmoker burns through a pack.”

“Yeah?” I say, looking to the other handlers in the row. “That what they say, guys?”

None of the other handlers answer. I can see eyes darting to me, and then away again, as if afraid to meet my gaze; the other four remain at attention, some of them looking to Forecast and Tarocco, as if asking for permission to speak, or looking for some sign that they were expected to answer the question. Neither Forecast nor Tarocco give any indication to that effect, so I look back to the middle candidate.

“So do you believe what they say, then?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I think you just haven’t found someone that can meet your needs.”

“Huh.” I say, folding my arms. “I feel the same way. And you volunteered for this because… why, exactly? Patriotism? Because you feel it’s the right thing to do in order to help preserve your race?”

“A little bit of both.” he admits.

“And you’re not afraid to die.” I surmise.

He smirks. “I don’t plan on dying.”

I stare at him a moment, then give him a slight smile. “So you think you can meet my needs. That’s why you weren’t afraid to volunteer for this role.” Unfolding my arms, I start to pull up my left sleeve a little. “What’s your name?”

“Cahriu.”

I give a little flick of my wrist, my runemarks glowing to life. Reaching out, I touch two fingers to his chest, a ripple of green light echoing away from the point of contact; I listen to the resonation as the pulse of energy travels through his body. Feeling the contours of the soul locked within his body, how brightly it burns.

After a moment, I take my fingers away. “You think you can meet my needs.” Looking up at him, I lean in a little, whispering because I know those wolven ears will catch it. “But if you tangle with me, I will eat you alive.”

He glances down at me. Orange-yellow eyes, standard for canid hybrids. “Try me.”

I smirk, leaning back. “Trust me, you don’t want me to.” Turning to the other volunteers, I start to move down the line, touching two fingers to each chest as I go. Listening, sensing, getting a feel for the soul within each one. It’s just a glimpse, like a peek through the window, but it’s enough to give me an idea of what I’d be working with. I listen long and hard on each one, searching for some hint of what I had when I tangled with Songbird.

None of them even come close.

After listening to the last one, I pull my fingers away, the runes on my wrist going dark. Stepping back, I size up the row of volunteers, checking every face, seeing most of them are doing their level best to avoid making eye contact. Cahriu’s the only one that’s got the guff to look at me when I look at him. But even if he thinks he can handle me, I know he can’t, and I know it because I’ve had handlers like him before.

“Mm.” I say after a moment, moving around the row and heading for the door. “Tarocco, you pick one for me.”

“What?” she says, shocked. “Feather, this is your handler. You need to pick them.”

“No matter which one I pick, the end result will be the same.” I reply without slowing down. “Let’s stop lying to ourselves. This isn’t a matter of compatibility anymore, if it even was in the first place.”

“Feather.” Forecast calls. He has that tone, the one that warns me to stop what I’m doing, even if he’s only saying my name. I stop short of the door, my fingers curling into fist; I don’t want to turn around.

“What.” I ask over my shoulder.

“You will pick your handler.” he says, his voice slow and clear. “This is not a decision you will foist on someone else, as if it was not important enough for you to make yourself.”

I turn around. “My decision doesn’t matter, so it doesn’t matter whether I make it or someone else makes it. It doesn’t matter if anyone makes it at all; hell, you could randomize it for all that it matters. And don’t give me that crap about this bunch being the best that this Sanctuary has to offer. It doesn’t matter that they’re the best this Sanctuary has, because no matter how good they are, the result is always the same. You could give me the worst handler this Sanctuary has, and the result would still be the same. Hell, we’d probably be better off doing that, instead of sacrificing our best Masklings over and over again!”

“It matters because they are the ones being asked to make the sacrifice.” Forecast replies, his tone hard and cold. “Your suggestion that we randomize this process is an insult to the volunteers that are offering to put themselves in this position at risk to themselves. It trivializes the selflessness they have demonstrated by volunteering. And that is not something that should be coming from you — the one that they are being asked to make this sacrifice for.”

“Do they know what that sacrifice is, Forecast?” I demand. “Were they told what’s going to happen to them? Did you tell them what happens to the people I tangle with?”

“They know they will be at risk—” Forecast begins.

“You didn’t tell them.” I hiss. “Let’s tell them, why don’t we? So they can make an informed decision about signing up for this position.”

“Feather, c’mon, don’t do this.” Tarocco says from the other side of the room.

“No, I think they should know.” I say, marching back to the row, pacing the line behind their backs. “Cahriu’s the only one that admitted to hearing the rumors, but I know the rest of you have heard them as well. Everyone does. Whispers about the Mask Knight that drains her handlers dry, leaves them dead or worse. That tangling with her is a death sentence. Well, guess what? That’s me. And those rumors are true.”

None of them turn around, but I can see all of them responding in little ways as I pace back and forth behind the row that they form. Little twitches, a slight turn of the head, the backwards flick of an ear, the lashing of a tail, the fidgeting of fingers. They hear me, and I can’t see their expressions. Even if I did, I wouldn’t know what was going on inside their heads. But I know fear and doubt is something that each of them would be feeling to some degree.

“I’m not like other Masks.” I hiss, breathing down on their necks as I stalk back and forth. “Nobody knows where I came from. I don’t know where I came from. But what they do know is that when I tangle with someone, I can tap into my partner like a battery. I can draw out their life and soul, and amplify it into the sort of destruction that only ancient Masks should be capable of. I can flip the tables on our enemies; I can end most skirmishes in twenty seconds. And all it costs is someone else’s life.”

“Feather, that’s enough.” Forecast says sharply.

“No, it’s not.” I say, turning on him. “Because they need to know, Dad. They need to know that they’ll be dead after a few combat-heavy missions with me. They need to know that being my handler means they’re eventually going to die, and more likely than not, I’m going to be the reason they die. Not an enemy, not a stray plasma bolt, not an accident. They’re gonna die because I’m using them as a battery pack to fuel my own power.”

“We’d still do it.” says the volunteer standing on the end. She says it without looking back at us, keeping her eyes fixed on the far wall. “If it means protecting other Masks, if it meant securing a better future for our race, we’d do it.”

“That’s the thing, though.” I say, turning back on the row of volunteers. “You don’t need to do it. Because there’s someone upstairs I can tangle with who can keep up with me. In fact, I’m already tangled with him. Have been for a month and a half now—”

“He’s not a Mask, Feather!” Tarocco says, crossing the lab at this point so she can talk directly at me. “You know what happens when Masks tangle with non-Masks!”

“I do!” I snap at her. “It’s the same thing that happens when I tangle with regular Masks! But Songbird’s different than other non-Masks. He can handle it.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” Tarocco demands. “What if you burn through him just like you burn through all your other handlers?”

“Then I guess I’m wrong.” I retort. “And the only thing that will have changed is that it won’t be another Maskling that’s dead.”

Tarocco’s about to snap back at me when a tinny, metallic thud echoes in the lab. We all stop, looking in the direction of the sound, which came from a ventilation grate in the wall on the other side of the room. After a moment of silence, there’s the sound of hasty shuffling from within the grate.

“What the hell…” Tarocco mutter, starting towards the wall.

I flick my wrist, my runemarks flaring to life. As they project into a circle around my wrist, I tap and drag the ones I typically use for displacement ripples, rearranging them to produced the inverse effect. After that I lift my hand and point it at the ventilation grate; the far wall distorts as a ripple of force pulls through it, moving towards my hand, and whatever was shuffling back into the ventilation shaft is yanked forward, slamming through the grate, which goes flying out of its housing. Tumbling out of the shaft is a person, one in a familiar blue hoodie and sandy blonde hair.

Ridge.

I charge another emplacement ripple as he groans and recovers from his fall; by the time he’s getting back to his feet, I unleash it again, another wave of force yanking him clear across the room to where I can grab the front of his shirt and hoist him in the air. “So this is where you got off to.” I growl. “You have a bad habit of trying to follow me to places you don’t belong.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t try to hide things.” he grunts, glaring at me as he grabs my arm and tries to break my grip. He won’t be able to; currently I’m reinforcing that arm with magic, since I wouldn’t normally be able to lift all of him with a single hand. “Like how you’re gonna drain Songbird dry.”

“What I do with Songbird is none of your business.” I snarl at him.

“Feather, put him down.” Forecast orders. “This is not helping matters. The boy is absorbing and processing much of this information without context; we must provide the context, or he will end up spreading misinformation about us.”

“I dunno, he nailed the core issue on the head.” Tarocco mutters, looking aside.

“The commentary is not helpful either, Tarocco.” Forecast says flatly.

I’m about to demand exactly how much Ridge heard, but before I can, a boom echoes from the floors above, followed by a tremor that passes through entire Sanctuary, rattling everything from the walls to the desks to the lab equipment on them. All of us look up, the tension of the moment forgotten.

“What was that?” I demand.

“It sounded like there was an explosion.” Tarocco says, looking to Forecast. “Do you know what’s going on up there?”

“I don’t know.” Forecast says, pulling out his phone. “Let me call the Sanctuary’s security—”

At that moment, the door to the lab slides open. Standing there is the goat-eared Quill, panting from running. “Mask Knights! We need you upstairs!”

“What’s happening?” Forecast demands, sliding his phone away again.

“There’s a SCORN mob outside the Sanctuary!” the Quill wheezes. “They just breached the front doors, and there’s thousands of them! If we don’t do something now, we’re going to be overrun in minutes!”

The words hit me like a hyperspace freighter. My grip on Ridge’s shirt loosens, and he falls to the ground as I let my arm drop. “How did they get through the front doors?” I demand as I flick my other hand, a rune circle flaring to life around that one as well. “Did they bring a bomb?”

“I don’t know!” the Quill pants, clutching a hand to his chest as he tries to catch his breath. “I think there’s an Anayan ecclesiarch out there or something that’s been egging them on. Songbird tried to block them from coming in, but the priest used his staff to blast him clear through the front doors!”

I can feel my heart jump into my throat at that. I turn and run for the doors while Forecast reaches into his suit, pulling out a rune-inscribed handcannon as he gives orders to Tarocco and the handlers. “Move. We need to evacuate everyone from the building. You all are authorized to use deadly force if needed. Feather!”

I don’t heed him, skidding into the hall and sprinting down its length as I head for the stairs leading back up to the ground floor. Reaching through the entanglement that links Songbird and me together, I search for any sign of his consciousness on the other end. All i can sense is a black fuzziness — the telltale silence of someone that’s been knocked unconscious.

Gritting my teeth, I pelt up the stairs as fast I can go, taking them three at a time. He’s probably okay, for now, but if he’s been knocked out, he won’t be able to defend himself. And mobs aren’t known for being kind to galactic pariahs.

“Hang in there, Blueberry.” I mutter. “I’m coming to rescue your stupid ass.”

Wisconsin Local News Network

3:16pm SGT

“Welcome back to our continuing coverage of today’s breaking news. For those that are just joining us: SCORN protestors have left their designated rally area in Bridsgard Park and are currently swarming the Bridsgard Quill Sanctuary. The march from the park to the Sanctuary, which was not part of the original rally permit, appears to have been a spontaneous decision spurred on by the rally’s last scheduled speaker: a SCORN representative known only as Prophet. Some of his remarks from the last portion of the rally were caught on video by the reporting drone we had deployed to the rally, a clip which we are about to air right now.”

—

“…this is your world. Your city! It is your home. And it should be a safe place, but we all know it is not. It is not a safe place because there are predators here in these streets. They walk among you every day, hiding in plain sight, spreading dangerous ideas that corrupt your sons and daughters. These predators are everywhere: in the schools, in the media, in the government, indoctrinating your children to accept the unacceptable. And if you don’t step up and do something to stop it, this WON’T be your world anymore! It will belong to the Masks, and you all will be nothing more than servants and slaves to their perverted way of living!”

—

“At the moment we are following this story as it continues to develop. Conditions on the ground around the Sanctuary are violent and unpredictable, so we are following developments with our station’s news drones, rather than deploying any of our news crews.

“The footage you currently see is the view from the plaza that the Quill Sanctuary resides in; as you can see, there are several thousand protestors present, enough to fill the plaza. Because the march was not part of the original rally permit, there were no police or barricades deployed around the Sanctuary. We are told that the Sanctuary’s local security force and resident staff held back the mob at first, but were forced to retreat into the building by the sheer number of protesters, many of whom appear to be armed with signs, flagpoles, and other protest materials. Police are now onsite, but so far have made no move or effort to clear or contain the mob, and simply appear to be holding position at the edges of the plaza for reasons unclear. Though the majority of the mob appears to be trying to break in through the front entrance, it seems they are also starting to encircle the building and scale the exterior in an effort to get in through the building’s windows. There is no word on what is happening within the building, or how many Masklings and residential staff are within; calls we have made to the Sanctuary’s phone line have so far gone unanswered…”

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

Wisconsin: New Bridsgard Quill Sanctuary

3:04pm SGT

“Where’s that kid gotten off to?” I mutter to myself as I come down the stairs back into the Sanctuary’s main foyer. Almost three hours and on-and-off searching for Ridge, and I still can’t find him. He’s been replying to his texts, though not in a timely manner, and as I’d expected, most of the replies are sulky. He wasn’t too happy about getting called out over how he was treating Kiwi.

“Feroce!” someone calls as I reach the foyer floor. I look around to see Sierra stalking towards me at a brisk clip. “Where have you been? We’ve got a situation on our hands.”

“A situation?” I repeat, tucking my phone away. “What kind of situation?”

“Why don’t you take a look out the window?” she says, moving towards one of the foyer’s front windows. I follow along, and upon reaching the window, she pulls aside the curtain so I can look through it. Leaning forward, I peer through the smudged glass.

Outside is a heaving mob of people. They’ve mostly filled up the plaza, with more streaming in from the streets that lead into it. A lot of them are carrying flags; mostly Wisconsin’s flag, but also the SCORN flag and the flags of other supremacy movements. I also see a lot of tactical gear — most of it worn in a way that makes absolutely no sense, meaning there’s probably a lot of amateur militiamen in the crowd.

“Anaya above.” I mutter, staring at the scene. The Sanctuary’s security staff are holding a perimeter at the Sanctuary’s stairs, but it’s all of twenty people up against thousands. There’s no way they’re going to be able to hold it for much longer. “Where the hell did this come from?”

“SCORN rally down the street.” Sierra answers. “Got out of hand. They violated their rally permit and started marching this way after one of the SCORN spokespeople riled them up. I’ve contacted the Bulwark and let them know we’re going to need extraction and we’re probably going to need it within the hour.”

“You don’t think we’re really going to need to extract from this, do you?” I ask, alarmed.

“Have you seen that crowd?” Sierra says, motioning out the window. “Look at those people, they’re foaming at the mouth. You can’t reason with people like that. The Quills are putting calls in to the emergency line, but I think the police are sitting on their hands and slow-walking the response.”

“Seriously?” I ask. “They wouldn’t, would they?”

Sierra gives me a look with her one eye. “In case you forgot, there’s a lot of institutional prejudice against Masks. Just like there’s still institutional prejudice against vampires.”

I puff out a breath. “Well, when you put it that way…”

“We need to gather our people and get out of here.” Sierra says, letting the curtain fall back into place. “I can probably track down Forecast and the others. Where’s Ridge?”

“He wandered off somewhere. Got sulky after I told him off for being a jerk to Kiwi.” I answer, stepping back from the window. “I haven’t been able to find him for the past three hours. I think he’s trying to play a game of hide and seek to get back at me.”

“Ugh.” Sierra groans. “We don’t have time for this! We need to get out of here!”

“What, and leave the Sanctuary to deal with this alone?” I demand, motioning to the curtained window. “You saw that crowd out there, they didn’t come down here to shout at the building for a bit and go away! They’re here to hurt people!”

“There are thousands of people in that mob, Feroce!” Sierra says. “There is no way we can take on that many people. We are the only two Challengers in this building; I have no powers, and you’re too scared to use your powers! You do the math. We need to leave!”

“Hey, that’s not fair.” I snap at her. “I decide whether or not I use my powers, and I am not going to use them on a crowd of idiots that’s been brainwashed by whatever online echo chamber they like to spend their weekends sulking in.”

“We’re gonna have to agree to disagree on that.” Sierra says, turning and stalking back across the foyer. “C’mon. We need to find our people and get out of here, or we won’t be able to make a clean extraction.”

“You go find everybody. I’m going to see if I can buy us some more time.” I say, heading for the front doors and pulling them open, a gust of warm air rushing in and carrying the shouting of the mob, whose current mantra is a nasty, rhythmic PARASITES AIN’T GOT NO RIGHTS! PARASITES AIN’T GOT NO RIGHTS!

“Are you bloody insane!?” I hear Sierra screech as the doors swing shut behind me. Stepping out onto the Sanctuary’s broad porch, I head to the top of the flight of the stairs and stop there, staring out across the sea of people that makes up the mob. At the foot of the front stairs, a line of Quills is wrestling with the front of the crowd, which is trying to push through them. Not too far from them is a single figure that stands out in the crowd, enclosed in scintillating white-and-gold power armor, and holding a staff that has a brilliant yellow light gleaming in the mace-like top.

If I had a need to breathe, my breath would’ve caught in my throat, and if I’d had a heartbeat, it would’ve skipped a beat. It’s been fifteen years since I’ve seen that suit of armor, the faceless helm with a simple yellow circle emblazoned on the surface, glowing bright and judgmental. I never thought I’d see it again, but of all the places it would turn up, I never thought it’d be here, in the middle of a mob about to storm a civilian facility. I never thought I’d hear that amplified voice shouting the things I hear it shouting now.

“Your world has been infested, not by the Collective, but by another disease that is almost as dangerous! These parasites steal from us the one thing that is most precious to all living things: our individuality! They steal it! They take it from us, every time they Mask a person! Just like the Collective, they seek to become everything, believing that by doing so, they will evolve into superior beings — but in reality, they are nothing more than HYBRID ABOMINATIONS! A plague, an infestation that must be purified and burned away, just like the Collective!”

Just hearing the words, I feel sick to my stomach. Because these words are familiar to me; I’d heard softer versions of these same beliefs when I attended church with my family as a child and a young man. I’d heard these same concepts dispensed from the pulpit Sunday after Sunday — cruel ideas sprinkled among more virtuous teachings to soften their edges, to make it easier to justify hating entire races.

And the most sickening thing of all is that I used to believe these things.

I don’t hate the people in this mob. I pity them, because I see a younger version of myself in them. I know that just like me, many of them were never taught any better. They were taught to believe that this was normal, this was okay, this was right, and that had been reinforced over years and lifetimes and generations of inherited beliefs. For many of them, it might be the only constant in their life, the only thing that never changed. And I could almost guarantee that all of them believed they were the good guys, that they were doing the right thing, that they were saving their world and their race.

Because they had never been taught any better, and this was all they knew.

I knew all this because I had once believed the same thing.

But the man in the power armor, standing in the middle of the crowd and fueling their misguided rage, was one person that I knew should know better than this.

A flash of fury rises up inside me, a thing mostly born of disappointment, of a sense of betrayal. For the first time in years, I feel the magic spring to life inside me in a way that isn’t the sly manipulation of sound and the mimicry of voices and noises. Taking a step forward, I open my mouth and shout out across the plaza.

“PROPHET!”

The word slams across the open area as if it had been channeled through a stadium speaker. It drowns out the chanting of the mob and carries across the open air, audible clear across to the other side. It startles the mob and draws their attention up to me; those fighting at the perimeter are distracted, and stop tussling with the Quill guards. Out in the crowd, Prophet turns about, and at a motion from him, the crowd parts as he makes his way towards the foot of the stairs. The robes of his ordination drift behind him, pinned to his armor and swathed around it in a mockery of angelic grandeur.

“Need you further proof of their crimes?” Prophet says, his amplified voice echoing over the crowd as he raises an armored hand to gesture to me. “Behold the great betrayer, the man that cast away his humanity for love, and became a monster instead. Behold the man that killed Nova, and destroyed the Challengers! The Masks harbor this bloodsucking fiend among their ranks because he is like them. Birds of a feather flock together… a Songbird would know that better than most!”

The crowd’s roaring returns, the chant picking up again as the mob starts pushing the perimeter anew. Some part of me wants to bristle at Prophet’s words, wants to throw them back in his face and shove them down his throat. But that part of me is small, dwarfed by something else. When I look at him, when I hear the cruel things he says about me, I can only feel sadness, and think one thing to myself.

This was once my friend.

“Pull back!” one of the Quill guards shouts. They start retreating up the stairs; some of them have head wounds and others are battered and bruised. They don’t have any riot gear, and they’re ill-prepared for this sort of engagement. “Pull back and barricade the doors!”

I stay where I am, staring down the stairs at Prophet, who is starting to advance as the mob flows up the stairs, chasing the Quill guards. My anger, sadness, and disappointment flow in alternating waves as I stare down at him, and I struggle with what to say until it spills out in a single cutting statement that harks back to our common foundation. “Anaya would be disappointed in you.”

I know he hears it, because he stops on the stairs, staring up at me. After a moment, he levels his staff at me, a ray of light tracing from the tip straight to my chest.

“If she’s disappointed in me, I can’t imagine what she thinks of you.” is his reply. A moment later, a pulse of yellow light races down that long, straight ray; I twist to dodge out of the way, but I’m far too slow. It slams into me and explodes with a blinding surge of golden light; I can feel myself flying through the air, then slamming into something with so much force that it crunches and buckles behind me. Or perhaps that’s my bones buckling and crunching. Hard to tell when I’m still flying through the air.

Then I slam into something that feels like stone, and I can definitely feel my spine and ribs buckling and crunching.

I slide down the statue that stopped my trajectory, falling at its feet on the dais within the Sanctuary’s foyer. I can smell my shirt burning and crackling where the pulse hit me, and every bone in my body feels like it’s dislocated, broken, or fractured. Blood is seeping past my lips, and opening my eyes, I can see the front doors of the Sanctuary bent and twisted off their hinges from where I’d been blasted through them. The mob is coming up the steps as the Quill guards take a stance in the doorway, planning bottleneck them there.

Gritting my teeth, I try to stay awake, but I can feel my consciousness slipping away from me as my body starts defaulting into repair mode. I feel like I’m overheating as the blood in my veins start to burn away to produce energy for healing my battered and broken corpse; I curl my fingers into fists, as if consciousness was a physical thing I could hold onto. But it’s slipping away from me, quickly being replaced by darkness.

Whatever time I ended up buying for Sierra and the others isn’t gonna be enough.