Chapter Text
Subject: Oracle.
Playing back recording…
O: Hey, doc. How’s it been?
Y: You don’t know?
O: Testing me right off the bat, huh? No, I’m not using my power. I remember the rule, doc.
Y: Just wanted to make sure.
O: Mh. Like it’d be smart to use that on my therapist instead of saving it for, you know, actual problems.
Y: I can’t imagine how torturous it must be, having to constantly remind yourself not to use your power.
[There is a bitter laugh.]
O: Torturous? Nah. That’s...annoying. Torturous is a cell, a thousand questions, and a gun.
Y: Oracle, you don’t have to talk about it. Not if you don’t want to.
O: No, I… I want to.
[There is a brief silence.]
O: At first, I kind of thought it was karma, you know? Ever since I ran away from home, I’d been racking up some serious red in my ledger.
Y: You were just trying to survive, Oracle. You shouldn’t beat yourself up for stealing when you had no other options.
O: It wasn’t only stealing and we both know it, doc. I ruined people’s lives for profit and for pleasure. It was… fun , feeling in control. So when they grabbed me, part of me thought: hey, maybe this is penance. Then I got thrown in the cell and I realized it was purgatory instead. And… maybe I could have handled it. For a little while. I’m— I was good at gathering info. But when I started hitting my limits, he...found a new way to motivate me.
Y: Taylor.
O: Pretty, hopelessly depressed, and the only person besides him I was allowed to see. How could I resist?
Y: One might say it was a good thing you and Taylor had each other. I can’t imagine how bad the isolation would have gotten without her.
O: One might say it would have been better if we, you know, hadn’t gotten fucking kidnapped.
Y: I—
O: It’s— fine. Sorry. I know what you meant. Just...shit, doc. Even if I hadn’t been partly responsible for getting Taylor locked in that hellhole with me, she’s also...you know, my girlfriend. And yes, I know that the way we met isn’t any healthy basis for a relationship. I know, okay? But— fuck, I need her. I think I would have gone mad without her. I was down there so long I honestly forgot what grass smelled like. I’d forgotten, doc. And then she comes down there and...god, this makes me sound awful— I would never have wished that on anyone, but when I saw her… I was happy. I was happy someone else was down there.
Y: Not wanting to be alone in misery isn’t a sin, Oracle.
O: Hate the sin, love the sinner.
[There is a dry snort.]
O: I wonder if in a few years, we’ll be attending some kind of… I don’t know, meeting, and people will ask how we met, and we’ll have to tell them our first kiss was in a cell. And that I cried the first time she let me hug her because I’d forgotten how wonderful human contact was.
[There is a sob.]
O: God, Taylor. What have I done to her?
Y: You helped her get out, Oracle. You kept the two of you sane. You saved her life.
O: She’s borderline agoraphobic, doc. The first time we went out, she had a panic attack from the crowd, and I was right there along with her. And she still blames herself for… everything. Even though it was pretty clearly my fault.
[Oracle makes a dry cough.]
O: I’m not surprised Armsmaster’s been avoiding me, I basically cost him his reputation.
Y: You think he’s been avoiding you?
O: I feel like I’ve barely seen him since… well, since Echidna. When he responded to our little distress call, it ended with— with so much death. And all of it my fault.
Y: Oracle, if you hadn’t, you and Taylor would probably still be—
O: I don’t regret it. Or. I regret Echidna being unleashed. And everything that followed. But killing Coil? No. He— he was going to kill her. She was the— the only person I had left, at that point. When he had a gun to her head the only thing I could think was how if he pulled that trigger I was gonna be alone again. So I pulled mine first.
Y: No one blames you for saving Taylor’s life.
O: I know. And that’s part of the problem. Because I’d do it again, doc. If it came down to it, I think I’d kill anyone who threatened her.
O: …I’m done.
End of session.
Cla-click.
Lisa Wilbourn wakes up, and for a few moments, she’s not in pain. She’s learned to treasure these moments in-between sleep and true wakefulness, before everything catches back up to her. Then her body shifts, and it all comes right right back: fireworks light up her nerves, poisons burn her brain, muscles ache and throb in a familiar song. She slowly rolls out of bed, fumbling for her phone. The screen blares 4:14 PM in the darkness of her room (and even that much light feels like a needle, drilling right through her corneas) and she groans to herself. Way later then she’d intended to nap, and yet she still felt as if a single shout would shred her grey matter like tissue paper.
She staggers into her shower and the cold shock clears her head, but does nothing for the aches— she’d long since given up on some of them. Honestly, she doesn’t notice them, most of the time. After she’s wrangled her hair into something presentable and managed to stare down her reflection long enough, she emerges into the halls of PHQ once more. Despite her slow familiarity with the building layout, the faux-white walls of the oil rig remind her far too much of the deceitful shading of hospitals—saccharine in nature. Look at how strong I am, they say, false shine hiding the cracks in the foundation, the damage. Look at how I stand firm against the ocean.
Erosion — a slow unbecoming by gradual destruction, the world wearing you down to your bones.
Lisa Wilbourn walks down the halls of the oil rig, thoughts circling, chasing, tripping, and eventually returning to the same conclusion: she has about an hour before her shift and has no idea what to do with it. Idly, she checks her phone again and to her dismay, she realizes that she’s left it on silent, and Taylor’s sent her 15 texts in the past few minutes.
Today 3:54
Hey, Lisa.
I, um.
I have something I wanna show you if you're not busy.
If you are, that's fine!
Really, no harm done.
It’s not that important.
I know you need your rest
I hope you feel better.
I’m sorry about what happened this morning.
I panicked.
I’m sorry.
I hope you’re not mad but I get it if you don’t wanna talk.
I’m gonna stop talking now.
Wolf-fucking horseballs. Why didn’t she wake up sooner? Fuckity fuck fuck. Fingers flying, she lets Taylor know that she’s fine, she’d love to come over, and that she’s barely even thought about this morning. (It’s not really a lie, she’s had other things on her mind.) So she turns on her heel and makes her way back towards the personal quarters— this route, she knows particularly well. She’s done it nearly every day since they moved in.
She rapidly arrives at Taylor’s door, knocking swiftly. The bespectacled, black-haired girl opens up, eyes wide. The bags under her eyes are somehow worse than Lisa’s own, dark rims beneath darker browns.
“Hey, Lisa,” she says, voice small enough to slip in between Lisa’s ribs and sink into her heart.
“Hey, Taylor.” Lisa leans in and gives the girl a quick kiss, and as always, Taylor goes very still (like a puppet, limbs slack and strings freely given. She was given a shell of a girl and told to fix her, but all she could do was make it dance to a new tune.) Lisa breaks contact and does her best at a cheerful smile, an expression she is still unaccustomed to. “I believe you had something to show me?”
“Mh? Oh, uh yeah! Come in.” She steps aside to let Lisa into her quarters, and they’re just as Lisa remembers them: nearly a mirror of her own. Spartan in design, with little accessories or belongings decorating the shelves. The result of only being released to the world for a few months. Nothing new, except—
...what the fuck?
Lisa’s standing in the corner, resting against a wall with her arms crossed, a blank smile on her face. Except, she isn’t. She’d just entered the room with Taylor, who’s grinning at her even as she takes off her glasses and pops on her helmet.
“Is that…”
“One of my drones? Yep!” Taylor chirps, sliding on the helmet, and then Other-Lisa gets up and walks towards her, hair perfectly shifting in accordance to gravity, edges of her stylized coat flowing in such a way that had Lisa’s mind reeling, and she has to desperately clamp down on the edges of her power creeping up around her mind— she really doesn’t need a debilitating headache at the moment.
“Wow.” Lisa swallows, watching her neck mimic the motion, bottle glass green eyes staying locked on her own, the shade exact to the last fleck. Hesitantly, she raises her hand up, and again, the motion was perfectly copied, down to the slight twitching of her fingers. Digits brush, and—Jesus, that feels entirely too real.
“Honestly, Taylor.” Lisa shakes her head, turning to her girlfriend, who’s beaming under the praise. “How in the world did you do this?” Instead of answering, she just keeps grinning.
“It wasn’t easy,” her own voice chirps, false irises bright with amusement. It’s a damn near perfect mimicry, to the point where there’s more than a slight surge of deja-vu. “It’s nowhere near combat-ready, but I got the prototype working with Armsmaster's help, at least. The hard-light shell can even replicate tactile sensation. It needs a lot of power, and to get one-to-one actions, you have to wear this headset— I’ve installed mine into my helmet. We’re thinking we can use it to do stuff like bomb-disarming or tasks that require more finesse that my old controller couldn’t do. It takes a lot of concentration, but… it’s cool, right?” With a wink the hologram fades, and she’s staring at the sleek steel, mannequin-like form of Taylor’s drones. She’s long since lost any sense of discomfort that she originally had with the wiry, humanoid robots: saving your life will adjust your perceptions fast. Speaking of...
“Taylor, this is incredible and I’m proud that you made a breakthrough.” She walks over to the black-haired girl and bops her on the nose. “But don’t think it’ll distract me from the fact that you need to go to your session.”
Taylor’s face sinks, a ship at sea with cannon-holes blown through its hull.
“I’m…” Taylor swallows. “I’m sorry about this morning. I just— I wasn’t thinking clearly, and—”
“Hey. It’s okay. I get it. I really, really do.” Lisa promises, keeping steady eye contact. “But this is something you have to do by yourself.”
“Why?” Taylor asks, curling in on herself. “There’s nothing in my life you don’t know about. And I—” She hesitates, clearly struggling with the words. “I… I want you there if I’m going to talk about it. I need you to be there if I’m going to talk about it.”
“You can’t rely on me, Taylor.” Lisa says it as gently as possible. “I wanna be there for you as much as I can, but going to your sessions would be unfair to Yamada and to you. She’s not a couples counselor, and… if you need to talk about me, I can’t be there.”
Taylor’s eyes go wide behind her visor. “I— I have nothing to talk to her about you!” She rushes out. “I mean if— if I did it would only be good things, I promise—” Lisa envelops the girl in a hug, and Taylor sinks into it. Fingers find their way into Taylor’s hair, and she starts running down the length of curly black, admiring the silky-smoothness even now.
“I know,” she coos, “I know. But even if you did, you know I wouldn’t be mad, okay? You’re free to say whatever you like in there.”
“Do you talk about me?” Taylor asks, and then freezes, genuine fear flashing across her face (Lisa hates that expression, hates it hates it hates it.) “I mean— You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry.”
“I do talk about you,” Lisa admits after a moment of hesitation, going for half-truths (they are more reliable than lies) “but mostly I just say how glad I am that I know you.” She breaks the hug to give Taylor a smile, and the dark-haired girl returns a feeble one. Lisa raises a hand to her girlfriend’s face, and Taylor leans into the touch. A thumb, brushing across skin, and it’s still a marvel, the texture of another human being. Lisa thinks she’ll never tire of it. (It’s almost addicting, the tactile sensation. She thinks she could spend hours, merely exploring Taylor.)
“Now, how about you get this back where it’s supposed to be, go to therapy, and later we can maybe sneak away from everyone else?”
Taylor’s eyes light up, and Lisa can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll take that as a yes.” She leans in for another kiss, and after another moment of dreadful stillness, Taylor returns it. Then the two separate, and Taylor leads her drone out of her room and in the direction of the garage— she might be a little late, but Yamada shouldn’t mind. It’s not until Taylor vanishes down the hall that Lisa lets herself sigh, aches crawling up her spine.
She doesn’t know how to fix this.
Her feet end up taking her a familiar route, deeper into headquarters, navigating towards the rec room. LED lights paint the world grayscale shades until she finally arrives at one of the few splashes of color in this place. The Ward’s rec room was one of the few that managed to escape from the overbearing atmosphere that permeated the rest of the building, decorated with bright couches, gaming consoles, wallpaper, and most importantly, a coffee maker that had stickers slapped on it to hell and back. Manning the most coveted device in the entire building is Dean, helmet off and eyes cast downwards, sandy-blonde hair hastily wept to the side, a clear result of helmet hair.
“Hey, pauldrons.” Lisa strolled up, not bothering to hide her exhaustion. Rather pointless, with him. “Pour me a cup?”
“Hey, Lise.” He gives her a grin even as he hammers in a few buttons. “Have a good nap?”
“No, but I did get Taylor to agree to go to her session, so...that’s something.”
“That is something,” Dean agrees. “Now we can invite her to the post-therapy bitching parties.”
“There’s post-therapy bitching parties?” She raises an eyebrow. “And I haven’t been invited?”
“They only happen when no-one is listening.” He faux-whispers as he hands her a mug. She takes a shot of sweet, sweet caffeine and barely even notices the burning sensation. God, that’s some good shit.
“How are the others?” she finds herself asking. The knightly teen shrugs, an impressive sight in full-armor.
“Dennis is…well, you’ve seen him. Weld’s been doing his best not to aggravate him, but that just makes him angrier.”
“Mh.” Lisa nods. “I was hoping he’d have at least warmed up to Weld, by now.”
“Give it time,” Dean advises. “He can’t stay angry at Weld or Flechette forever.” Lisa’s already shaking her head, replaying some of the scenes from the last two months in her mind.
“I think we may have to change strategies. He’s allowed to grieve, but if he’s still giving them shit for simply being called in, then it could wind up leading to something happening in the field.”
“I know that, Lisa. Trust me, I know. But Dennis...we’ve been friends for years. He needs time to work it out. He doesn’t appreciate other people getting up in his business.”
“And here we are, talking about it behind his back,” Lisa points out, taking a large slurp of her coffee, to Dean’s obvious annoyance.
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, you approached me on trying to get this team talking to each other.” Dean takes his own sip of coffee, silent as the dead.
“Guilty as charged. You know that I’m right, though.”
“I wouldn’t listen to you if you weren’t.” Dean lets out a harsh breath. “We got so much work to do, Lisa.”
“Mh.” She makes a mental note to collaborate with Dennis, once they’d graduated beyond sardonic sniping, on what they could do for the local empath. “Yeah, I know.” She gives the kid a half hug. “Make sure not to overextend, okay? You’ve already done so much for me and Taylor.”
“Please.” Dean gives her a small smile. “Haven’t I told you that it wasn’t a big deal?”
“Only you could think that an entire apartment wasn’t a big deal, rich boy.” A very nice, expensive apartment, one that Lisa could have only dreamed of living in, when she was still on the run. It was quiet, quaint and pretty much perfect for her and Taylor’s needs.
“Oi.”
“Oh, my bad, bourgeoisie boy.”
“Ha!” Dean gives her terrible joke a chuckle. “Fair enough, I suppose.” She’s not entirely sure of where that conversation would have gone, had the elevator warning light not dinged to life. A scant minute later, Clockblocker, Flechette, and Weld stroll into the rec room, fresh from the warzone of Brockton Bay. Clock’s armor had scorch marks on it, and Weld looked a little...well, misshapen, metallic muscles slightly bent in places. Flechette was the only one who appeared unharmed.
“Well,” Clock drones, pulling off his helmet, ginger hair flopping down, soaked with sweat. “What are you two mother hens up to?”
“Discussing your Zac-Efron-esque emergence from the chrysalis of puberty, of course,” Lisa drones, and Dennis gives a shit-eating grin.
“Holy shit, Lisa. You actually watched it?”
“Yes, and I do believe you owe me fifty bucks.”
“Fifty?” Dennis gawks. “The bet was you watching all of season one without having a stroke for twenty-five.”
“Yes.” Lisa acknowledges. “The other twenty-five is for the mental damages that it caused me.”
“...you know, that’s fair. Hey, Dean, you got twenty-five?”
“I refuse to fuel your obsession with watching terrible shows,” Dean states, shaking his head.
“You watched The Room with me, you have no legs to stand on. Speaking of—”
“No.” Lisa shakes her head. “I refuse to watch The Room. The main girl’s name is also Lisa and I won't open myself to the litany of jokes I’m sure you’ve got saved up.”
“...I don’t think I could make any without HR getting on my ass,” Dennis drawls.
“...What’s the Room?” Weld asks, looking utterly baffled by the rapid-fire exchange. Dennis’s face goes flat even as he rolls his eyes.
“God, Weld. Are you seriously that much of a fucking boy scout?”
“Hey.” Dean takes a step forward, face stern— and for a moment, Dennis almost looked chastised. “Language, Clock.”
“...Are’st thou seriously that much of a fucking—”
“Clock.”
“Yeah, yeah whatever,” the boy huffs. “...Sorry. I don’t suppose you got around to watching The Artist?”
Dean, and to Lisa’s surprise, Weld nods, and the two begin discussing the film, much to Dennis’s barely hidden consternation. Lisa decides that she’s far too pretty for that nerd shit and drags aside Flechette.
“How are you doing, Lily?” she asks, pulling them into the corner couch. “Oh, you know.” Flechette shrugs. “City’s a wreck. We’ve been having pretty frequent run-ins with what remains of the Empire— they’re desperate to not lose more territory to Lung. Today was Cricket, Alabaster, and Crusader.” The girl scowled. “I hate Crusader. Actually, I hate all of them, but Crusader in particular is annoying.”
“That’s the nazi with the ghost legion, as I recall?”
“Essentially. He’s...a lot. Multiples the amount of people you have to keep track of, scary fast.” She shrugs. “We managed to not die, at least. That’s something.”
“It’s the best thing,” Lisa assures. “But how are you doing, Lily?” The Ward’s shoulders slump.
“I’m… I’m fine.” She gives a valiant effort at it, a whole smile that almost manages to reach her eyes.
“Mh. You wanna stick with that, or…”
“Heh.” Her fake exuberance dies, reborn as something far more sardonic. “No point in lying to the thinker, huh?”
“Well, no, but it doesn’t take a power rating to see it, Lily. No offense.”
“Mh.” She sighs again. “I’m… nervous, I suppose.”
“About?” Lisa prompts.
“Everything,” the forlorn girl confesses. “This team, this city, M-my own stuff.” Lisa sees the stumble, decides not to push.
“Well, if you ever want someone to talk to about any of it, I’m here. And I do mean any… of it.” Lily’s eyes meet hers, wide with surprise and hope alike, and Lisa knows she got the message. The blonde gives her a smile.
“I’m ace,” she whispers. “And pretty committed, but still. Let me know.”
“Thank you,” Lily whispers back, taking a moment to hesitate. “I…” The elevator light blares once more, and all but one of the Wards put their helmets (in Lisa’s case, a domino) back on. And once again, it was all for nothing, as it was only their superiors.
Wait, what?
“Armsmaster, sir,” Gallant said, tilting his head, no doubt as confused as the rest of them. When was the last time Armsmaster had even been down here? To say nothing of Militia, Dauntless, and Velocity. “Something the matter?”
“No, Gallant,” The stoic leader of the PRT returned. “We just—”
“This was the closest coffee maker,” Velocity said, already manhandling the machine. “We’ll be out of your hair in a moment, don’t mind us.” He gives them a grin. “Unless there is a problem?”
“No, sir,” Gallant reports. “We were just catching up.”
“Didn’t three of you just come from patrol?” Militia asks, reclining against the wall. The obvious three nodded, and Militia quickly enveloped them in a conversation about routes and possible adjustments, dragging Dauntless into it. Velocity had engaged Dean at the coffeemaker, chatting about something she couldn’t quite follow, leaving Lisa...with no alternative.
Her eyes hopefully meet Armsmaster’s— it’s hard to tell, behind the visor. He meets the gaze, for a moment. And for a few moments longer, Lisa wonders if he’s going to simply steal Velocity’s mug and leave. He drifts over to her.
“Hello, Lisa.” His tone is the very definition of neutral: unremarkable, bordering on bored.
“Hi.” She’s not entirely sure why it comes out as a whisper. “I— Hello, sir.”
“How have you been?” Nothing to go off of, nothing, nothing. She forces her power down, information trickling in— not unless necessary, not unless necessary. She clings to that phrase like a lifeline.
“Oh, you know. Fine. Trying to keep busy.”
“Good. Keeping busy is…good.”
“You’d know.” Fuck! “I mean— You’ve been pretty busy yourself, sir. I’ve barely seen you, you’ve been rounding up so many villains in the last few months.” Get ahold of yourself, damnit!
“Not nearly enough.” For once, there’s a discernible emotion in his voice: tepid anger. “Sometimes it feels like for every one I catch, five more move into Brockton the next hour.” The implacable man lets loose a sigh.
“Nature of crime-fighting, isn’t it?” Lisa offers. “Fighting criminals on our current scale is a deterrent, not a solution.”
“...yes,” he agrees, and has his perpetually still face dipped down, slightly? Shit. “It is.”
“Ah— I’m…” She flounders for words, and then decides to go for the truth. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m...tired.”
He stands utterly still, as imposing and solid as a marble statue, depicting some hero of old. And then he moves, and a hand comes to rest on her shoulder as he kneels down. It feels impossibly heavy, nerves screaming you've fucked up you've fucked up.
“I think we’re all tired,” he admits. “I know how hard the last few months have been, for you above all. And I am… I know that you’ve done good work with us. And I’m sure you’ll continue to.”
“I will,” she promises, as fast as she can. “I— I want to do what I can to help.”
“Good. Keep that attitude in mind, and the Protectorate will be glad to have you.” He glances away, and for once there’s an upwards curve to his lips. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I need to get a mug, or I’ll be waiting for an hour.”
Okay. Not everything was broken. She can still fix this. She can still—
An alarm rips through her world, deafeningly loud, shrieking in the same abject terror that her brain has reverted to at the assault of noise. Piercing purple lights blare from the emergency system, and doors automatically slam shut, locking with a definitive hiss. Everyone slams their helmets back on for a third time, looking to each other with now untrusting eyes.
Purple meant someone had triggered a Master-Stranger alarm.
Taylor.
Oh god.
Taylor was out there. Lisa breaks for the door. Was Taylor the source of the alarm? What if she was locked with Yamada? What if Yamada was the stranger what if Taylor was dying right this second she had to find her she had to save her—
“Oracle!” Armsmaster’s voice cuts through the haze. “We have to follow procedure!” “Taylor.” She finds herself gasping, struggling against his grip, desperately trying to free her arm from one of his mercenaries, straining for a weapon, something anything to stop what’s about to happen.
“Lisa?”
She has to save her. She has to. She wrestles out of his grip, limbs lashing out, she has to get the gun she needs to get the gun she has to stop him before—
“Lisa!”
She bowls over, pain flaring in her gut, but… the panic is muted. She’s not particularly feeling anything at the moment, numbness sweeping over her like an ocean wave, drowning her frantic thoughts. Armored hands take hers.
“Lisa?” Dean whispers, clad in armor. “Are you with me?”
Lisa does her best to wipe the tears away. “Yeah,” she croaks. The effect of Dean’s power is already fading away, shame crawling up her neck, running red in her veins. “Yeah. S-sorry. I’m good now.”
“Mh.” Dean knows she’s lying, but the rest don’t. So… it’s fine. They’ve already seen enough. “Okay. Do you know where you are?”
“Yes,” Lisa bites out, yanking her hands back. “We’re still in the goddamn rec room, and the fucking alarm is going off.”
“Lisa.” Armsmaster steps forward, what’s visible of his face a granite wall. “I need you to give me this week’s password.”
“Sir, she just had—”
“I know, Gallant. Still.”
“Piper PA-twenty four,” Lisa rattles off, already mortified enough. She wants to crawl into the innards of the couch and never come out (she wants to grab the pistol flickering in Miss Militia's hands and fire until she’s sure that Coil’s dead.)
“Okay.” Armsmaster takes a deep breath. “Okay. We stay here until contacted. We don’t know the cause of the alarm yet, but I’m sure that we’ll—”
They hear it— the sound of the elevator sliding up. Someone’s bypassed the lockdown. Miss Militia instantly switches to a simple shotgun, kneeling and taking aim, flanked by Velocity. Dauntless and Armsmaster stand at either side of the door, with Flechette taking position behind Militia, Clockblocker ready to freeze the elevator itself, Weld moving to guard any possible attack aimed at her or Gallant.
Metal grinding against metal, mechanics whirling.
The door slides open.
“Identity yourself!” Armsmaster barks.
“Myrmekes!” Taylor shouts, hands up in the air. “Piper PA-twenty four!”
After a tense few moments, Armsmaster relaxes his halberd, and the rest of them follow. Lisa just barely waits before she darts forwards and almost tackles Taylor, forcing herself not to cry right then and there.
“Hey,” Taylor says, voice warbly with barely-contained relief. “Hey.”
“Taylor, what happened?” Lisa asks, checking for injuries, and finding only bloodshot eyes and dried tears.
“Why did you break protocol?” Armsmaster demands, stepping forwards. “You know you’re supposed to stay in the room you were in when the alarm triggers. You know that—”
“I know! I know, I’m sorry!” Taylor rushes out, not letting go of Lisa. “But I couldn’t stay there, with the— the body.” Lisa pulls away just enough to make eye contact. “I’m the one who called it— the alarm. I was— I was putting away my drones, and then I went up to Yamada’s office, and that’s when I found her— her body.” She swallows. “Yamada’s dead. Someone killed her.”
Silence rules the rec room for a few moments, as everyone drinks in the statement. And then a few seconds more, as all eyes turn to Armsmaster, whose face has completed its journey into marble. Eventually, with a voice deeper than a grave, he speaks.
“Show us.”
Ten parahumans gather in the elevator. The doors slide shut.