Work Text:
It wasn’t a terrible job, exactly. He’d had worse. Now that he’d been at it long enough to be qualified, never mind what his resume said, it could be downright enriching.
But three hours into his meeting at DC-Eleven Incorporated’s main office, staring into Mr. Vilakazi’s too-wide smile, Martin caved and allowed himself a fake phone call and a ten-minute breather in the break room. Luckily he was left alone in spite of the building’s hefty security, so he didn’t have to fake an actual conversation.
Martin fiddled with the office kettle just to have something to do with his hands besides rubbing his face. Three hours of negotiating the buyout and he was no closer to understanding what the DC-11 company actually did. The closest he’d come was Mr. Vilakazi’s fun little anecdote about how the name was an inside joke about a meditation group he used to run in college, but he hadn’t elaborated on what the joke was or how it related to the company’s purpose.
Martin sighed deeply. Not his problem. Peter wanted it so Peter would have it, and Martin’s only job was buttering up its current owner so that the sale went smoothly.
“Right then,” he murmured to himself, turning the kettle off. “Here we go.”
He was about to brace himself to find Mr. Vilakazi when he caught the faint sound of disturbed air, followed by the scrape of nails on linoleum. Martin turned, startled, to find a dog in the middle of the breakroom, scrambling for purchase on the smooth floor. He took an instinctive step toward it, and the dog flashed the whites of its eyes at him before vanishing into thin air. In the same instant, it reappeared huddled against the far corner of the room.
Martin gaped. He hadn’t blinked. The dog had teleported right before his eyes.
How the fuck did a dog wind up with an HT?
Then again, the poor animal looked thin and malnourished, its fur dirty, matted, and worn to bald patches in a few places. It panted harshly, eyes bloodshot as it stared up at him with bared teeth. If any animal was going to have an HT, it’d be this one.
Hurried footsteps reached his ears, followed by hushed but terse voices. “Check the break room,” a woman hissed nearby. “Hurry up! If we lose it, Claude’ll make one of us take its place!”
Martin’s body made the decision for him before his brain had quite caught up. He lifted a hand over the dog and focused, and it cringed away before vanishing again. This time, it didn’t reappear.
Martin whipped around just as two women hurried into the break room, one of them a security officer. His mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, fumbling for an excuse, before he realized both of them were looking around, eyes roving without ever landing on him. He bit his lip to hold back his sigh of relief.
“Should we check the cupboards?” the security guard asked.
“No point,” the other woman sighed. “It can only transport itself to places it can see. Let’s keep going.”
“Right, keep it down. Claude’s in a meeting on this floor.”
They left, and Martin let out the breath he was holding. Once he was sure they weren’t coming back, he let the dog back out. It reappeared in front of him, still battered and thin, but calmer. It even allowed him to touch it, though he didn’t feel like pressing his luck.
“Alright,” Martin murmured. “Good boy. Or girl. Good dog. What the hell am I gonna do now?”
He had a meeting to get back to. Vilakazi’s first name was Claude. Whatever was happening to this dog, Vilakazi knew about it, and it would probably keep happening if they got it back.
“Hope it’s not too lonely in there,” Martin went on. “But I’ve got a meeting to get through, and then we’re both home free, alright?”
The dog stared up at him with liquid brown eyes. Martin vanished her again, then stood up and went to finish his meeting.
He was sweating when he finally emerged from the office building, and not just out of nervousness. He wasn’t sure what muscle he could possibly be exerting when he used his HT, but whatever it was, it was getting a workout.
He made it down the street and out of sight from DC-11’s building, and finally relaxed.
The dog popped back into existence at his feet, curled up in a tight ball on the sidewalk. At the sudden sound of traffic, it startled visibly and scrambled to its feet, whining in distress.
“No! No, you’re alright. It’s alright.” Martin managed to herd it into an alley without it teleporting away from him. “I’m sorry. I forgot about the noise—shh, sh.”
The darkness and seclusion seemed to calm it back down, giving him a moment to think.
So. He had a dog with a superpower. That wasn’t ideal. He’d have to report back to Peter at some point today, but he could at least take it home first. Maybe cover up the windows so it couldn’t teleport outside while he was gone. The woman had said it couldn’t teleport anywhere it couldn’t see, right?
An idea came to him. Martin undid his tie and, moving as carefully as he could, managed to tie it loosely over the dog’s eyes as a makeshift blindfold. The poor animal submitted to the indignity without a fuss, and didn’t even struggle too much when he picked it up. It was probably supposed to be a medium-sized dog, but it was so skinny and undersized that it hardly weighed a thing.
On the Uber ride home, he noticed something he hadn’t before: a collar. Unlike the rest of the dog, it was in pristine condition. It was yellow, a few shades darker than mustard, and the polished silver tag read, Agape.
He assumed whoever had it engraved meant agape as in divine love and not agape as in wide open, but whoever took better care of a shitty overpriced collar than the dog wearing it was clearly insane, so who knew, really.
As soon as Martin got home, he e-mailed Peter a summary of the meeting and called out for the rest of the week.
The first thing he did—after buying supplies, dog-proofing and teleportation-proofing his flat, and finding a vet to schedule an appointment with—was Google superpowers.
It mostly confirmed what he already knew. The top result was, of course, the Wikipedia article:
Hysterical talents or HTs , also called superpowers, are abnormal abilities outside of typical human capacity that develop in response to traumatic events, near-death experiences, and other extreme circumstances. The term takes its name from hysterical strength, an older but less well-documented phenomenon.
He skimmed the article, then tried a few more searches. The results were what he expected. Of all known and documented cases of hysterical talents, one hundred percent were the result of some kind of trauma or extreme danger.
And someone had given one to a dog.
The animal in question spent the rest of the day hiding under Martin’s bed, to the point where he simply left bowls of kibble and water in the room, lined the carpet with puppy pads, and shut the door. When he ventured inside the next day, he found his bedspread chewed through, and the expected dog-related messes staining the pads. The dog remained under the bed as he cleaned up, but when he left, he could hear its soft footsteps and sniffing as it explored the room alone. He spent the day with a box of treats on hand at all times, sitting just outside and tossing them in, trying not to think about how much his heart hurt.
The vet visit was… interesting.
Blindfolding seemed to genuinely help, and Martin managed to find a soft stretchy cloth hood that fit over the dog’s head, eyes, ears, and all. Dr. Anderson, a man with a slight New Zealand accent, looked just as upset at the state of the dog as Martin felt, but seemed to accept Martin’s excuse of finding her abandoned in an alley in the bad part of town.
The dog was female, and by Dr. Anderson’s best guess she was a border collie, no older than a year. Martin gritted his teeth and tried not to scream—whoever had done this had done it to a puppy.
“Have you had dogs before?” Dr. Anderson asked, once he’d brought her back from taking x-rays.
“Er, no.”
“Alright, well, normally I wouldn’t recommend a border collie for first time dog owners, especially given her circumstances, but if you’re up to the challenge I’d advise getting in touch with a reputable trainer.”
Martin gaped at him, realizing with a jolt that yes, in fact, he was now a dog owner. A teleporting dog owner.
“Something tells me her breed’s gonna be the least of my worries,” he said faintly.
“True. I have some business cards I can give you.” Dr. Anderson went to rummage around in a drawer. “Have you named her?”
“Er…” Martin almost said Agape on instinct, but whoever left her in this state had lost the right to name her.
What, then? Aggie? Maggie? Gabby? No, best to leave behind the old name completely. For all he knew, she’d react badly if he tried to call her by it. Better to avoid anything having to do with her ability, too, just in case.
“How about Millie?” he said eventually.
“Oh that’s cute. Any particular reason?”
Unfortunately, there was no way to say “I found her while helping my flaky asshole boss buy a multi-million dollar startup” without sounding like a douche, so he just shrugged and agreed that it was cute.
By the time they left the vet’s office, Millie had been rewarded for her bravery with at least two solid handfuls of treats, and Martin had scheduled another appointment to spay her and opened up his wallet for scab ointment. As they walked back out into the street, Millie’s tail remained tucked firmly between her legs, but she pressed against his side and didn’t vanish on him.
Martin extended his impromptu vacation period another two weeks, but still the end came all too soon.
Progress was slow, but it happened. A blanket-lined kennel became Millie’s new safe place, which allowed Martin to reclaim his bedroom. He messed up from time to time, startling Millie into blinking around the room. The trainer that Dr. Anderson recommended was an enormous help in the whole process.
But Martin couldn’t stay on vacation forever, even if Peter’s unreliable habits practically begged him to try. He had to return to work, and the question became, what was he supposed to do with Millie?
She had progressed beyond the skittish cringing little thing he’d run into at the start. But her injuries were still healing, her fear was palpable, and the thought of leaving her alone in the flat for eight hours kept him up on the last few nights. He’d ordered some home cameras so that he could keep an eye on her while he was out, but they weren’t set to arrive until after his first day back.
In the end, the solution was equal parts obvious and nerve-wracking. If he couldn’t leave her at home, then he’d just have to take her in with him. Peter did not run a dog-friendly office, but he was barely there, and when he was, he actively avoided his employees.
Martin could pull it off. He knew he could, because Carlita had been bringing her cat to work for months, because Carlita was the only one in that office who gave even less of a fuck than Martin. But Carlita was not Peter’s personal assistant. Carlita was not the one he’d hired for the express purpose of having to talk to one person rather than everyone.
Mid-thought, a gentle weight pressed down on Martin’s knee. Millie stared up at him, her chin on his thigh. When he gave her a scratch behind the ear, he heard her tail thump against the floor.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Let’s give it a go, then.”
Of course it all went horribly wrong, but not for the reasons Martin would have thought. Not even remotely close.
Martin made his preparations, took every precaution, commuted across London and got Millie all the way to his desk without incident, and opened his work email to a message sending him to the Fairchild and Sons office, back on the other side of London near where he’d started. By the time he arrived, he was caught between seething annoyance and churning anxiety. He hadn’t planned for Fairchild’s office. Peter wasn’t a good boss, but he was a convenient one. He made a point not to notice other people if he could help it. Simon, on the other hand, went out of his way to crash into other people’s business.
Martin got past the front desk by vanishing Millie until he was shown to a temporary workspace of his own, whereupon he closed the door and let her back out.
Weeks of training and progress were erased in an instant. Millie let out a high-pitched whine, tucked tail, and belly-crawled under the desk. When Martin tried to reach for her, she bit him and bolted for the door. She cried louder at finding it closed, nails scraping frantically at the wood.
Martin was about to put her back in the quiet when all the lights went out, alarms sounded in the building, and the terror struck like a battering ram to the ribs.
It was as if someone had reached into his chest and squeezed. Martin gasped, nearly driven to one knee by the sudden, crushing weight of fear. He wanted to freeze until the danger had passed, to crawl under his desk and hide, to cover his eyes like a child thinking the monster couldn’t see him if he couldn’t see it.
Instead he watched as the door swung open, and the gray-faced receptionist tripped over Millie in her panicked scramble for a hiding place. Millie slipped through the door and was gone.
Martin wasn’t stupid or unobservant. He read the news. He knew a few lights and a fire alarm weren’t enough to warrant the terror he was feeling. He’d read the articles about the Chelsea Panic, watched the broadcasts, heard the hushed anecdotes.
Of course. Of course, the first day he came in after his leave was over was the day that London’s most notorious supervillain attacked a building he shouldn’t have even been in.
The terror kept him frozen for ten more grueling seconds, until he heard his dog yelp in the distance, and something in his chest snapped.
He could move again. And so he ran.
Millie’s fearful crying led him deeper into the building, past silent offices and cubicles full of cowering employees, all of them too caught up in their own terror to pay him any mind. He couldn’t help but notice certain doors as he went: the door to Harriet Fairchild’s office, to the backrooms, to the stairwell that led to the basement. Martin had never seen any of those unlocked before, never mind wide open.
He stood at the top of the basement stairs for a moment, staring down them, wishing he hadn’t heard Millie’s whimpering from below.
As he descended, he paused and sniffed. There was a smell from below, one that he recognized: wet fur, cat piss, chemicals. It almost smelled like Dr. Anderson’s office, if Anderson left it to molder for a few months. What the hell were the Fairchilds doing down here?
The further down he went, the harder he had to fight through the fear. By the time he reached the bottom of the steps, he was suppressing a panic attack with each breath. Martin forced his legs to move, venturing down a short hallway to one more half-open door. He licked his lips, wondering if he should try calling out for Millie.
He stepped through, and stopped dead in his tracks.
The room opened out to sterile-looking metal tables, cages lining the walls, filing cabinets, and one desk crammed in the corner with a clunky old PC. Thin, undernourished animals stared out from the cages with hollow, hopeless eyes: mostly dogs, a few cats, and a single rhesus monkey.
And in the midst of it all, a figure stood hunched over one of the filing cabinets, a cat tucked under his arm, staring at Martin from beneath a dark hood. Darkness shrouded most of his face—more darkness than the hood alone should have accounted for—but his eyes shone so clearly from the darkness that they must have been glowing.
Martin opened his mouth, closed it again.
“Sorry, you haven’t seen a dog, have you?” he asked.
Night Terror stared at him, slowly turned his head toward the cages, then back at Martin.
“ You mean in general? ”
His voice reverberated through the room, oddly layered with a distorted echo, but Martin still caught his dry tone.
“N-no, I—”
“ Leave. ”
Another wave of terror washed over him, but this time Martin was ready for it. His nails bit deep into his palms, and he could only hope that his knees weren’t trembling too noticeably. “I’m not leaving without my dog,” he gritted out.
“ Yes, actually, you are, ” Night Terror’s voice deepened. “ I did not go to all this trouble just for Lukas’s personal lackey to get in my way. ” He stepped forward in a single fluid movement, hand flashing out from beneath his cloak to reach for him.
A familiar screaming bark rent the air, and Millie blinked into view with her trembling body pressed against Martin’s legs. Night Terror stepped back, startled, as Millie lowered her head and growled.
She didn’t lunge. She didn’t even look at Night Terror. She turned away from him, tail tucked beneath her legs, cringing as if bracing for a blow, but she didn’t move from her spot directly between Martin and the supervillain.
Martin’s heart lurched to his throat so suddenly he almost gagged with fear. “Millie, no—no, love.” He tried to push her away, but she’d always been slippery with or without her HT. She pressed her head against his leg and stayed where she was.
Night Terror had drawn back, clutching the cat to his chest. Martin eyed him nervously, then looked over his shoulder at the way he’d come. Would the supervillain let him escape? He’d said to leave, but whatever he was doing, Martin was now a witness. A liability.
Glowing eyes looked down at the dog, then at Martin again.
“You—” The villain paused. “Your face.”
“What?” Martin blurted out.
“What’s wrong with your face?”
“What’s wrong with your face?” Martin shot back automatically. He touched his own cheek instinctively, and then registered the faint whining hum in his ears that meant his HT was active. Ah—he’d blurred himself on instinct. At least, that was the best way he could describe it. It wasn’t exactly a blur, it was subtler than that—anyone who looked at his face would think it was normal at first glance, at least until they tried to apply any adjectives to it.
Night Terror’s eyes flickered downward. “Point taken,” he said after a moment. “But you really do need to leave. I don’t know if the nearest vigilantes will get here before the police, but either way you won’t want to be here when they do.”
“Why do you care?” Martin demanded, instead of doing something smarter like taking the offered out and running. “What are you even doing down here—stealing lab animals?”
“Do you know what this place is?” Night Terror asked. “It’s an HT empowerment research lab. Believe me, I know them intimately. I doubt you need to know that its existence is highly illegal and several levels of unethical, and if that really is your dog then I don't think I need to tell you why.”
The venom in his voice made Martin flinch, a split second before he realized what it meant.
“Wait a minute—are you here to save them?”
Before Night Terror could answer, loud footsteps reached Martin’s ears from the stairs. Voices drew near—loud, clipped, clearly police.
“ You should get out if you don’t want to take the blame for all this,” Night Terror advised, shadows billowing around him as the press of fear grew once more. “Can your power hide you?”
Martin had other ideas.
Just as the cops were kicking in the already-open door, Martin’s hand flashed out. Night Terror vanished, cat and all, with Millie quick to follow. Martin had enough time to turn around halfway before someone grabbed his arm, twisted it, and slammed him facedown over the nearest table.
“Saw that,” a woman’s voice snarled in his ear. “You’re under arrest for unauthorized HT usage and vigilantism.”
“Are you bloody serious?” Martin spat.
“Oh, please do keep talking,” the cop said smugly, snapping handcuffs around his wrists. “Got a fancy codename you want us to call you? What is it, Drab Everyman?”
Instead of replying, Martin let the quiet take him further. The cop’s rough weight vanished, and he barely heard her bark of surprise, nor the handcuffs as they clattered to the floor. He was already mist, sweeping past and through the startled police officers until he was out of the basement laboratory, up the stairs, and out of the building entirely.
He came back to himself in a clogged parking lot. Cop cars, emergency vehicles, and news vans surrounded the building. By pure luck, he’d reappeared right in the shot of a startled reporter.
To her credit, she barely missed a beat. “Are you a vigilante?” she asked.
Martin paused to think about it. “Guess so,” he said. “Did you know Night Terror was down there?”
“Yes, someone made a 999 call from within the building,” the reporter replied. “Wait, did you say ‘was’?”
“Oh, yeah, he was attacking the secret lab in the basement,” Martin replied. “He’s gone now. Er, temporarily.”
“Can you tell us how that happened? Did he leave on his own, or… do we have you to thank?”
Oh, Martin was not in any way prepared to deal with that. “Gotta go, vigilantism’s illegal,” he said hurriedly. “Bye.”
He vanished again, invisible but not intangible this time. The reporter startled, then played it off as she continued her report into the camera.
Fairchild’s office was a short bus ride away from his flat, near enough to make it without letting out everyone and everything he’d put in the quiet. Still, by the time he got home and shut the door behind him, his skull felt like an overused snare drum and he could barely see through the dark spots in his vision.
Half-dead from exhaustion, Martin made it to the middle of his living room and let everyone back out. Millie darted to his side, pressing against his legs and growling.
He braced himself for another wave of artificial panic as Night Terror emerged, but to his surprise, he felt nothing beyond the normal fear at seeing a supervillain in his flat. For Night Terror’s part, he seemed more bewildered than anything, still clutching a bedraggled ginger cat in his arms as he stared at his new surroundings.
“Er.”
“What,” Martin rasped out, listing against the side of his sofa, “the fuck is going on?”
“You’re asking me that?”
“Well clearly you have some idea!” Martin snapped. “Why is my shitty boss’s business partner hiding an illegal lab under his building?”
“You just called him shitty and you’re surprised?”
“He’s shitty because he ghosts me for weeks at a time and has to be coaxed out of breaking UK employment laws, not because of—that! What was that?”
Night Terror stared at him for a moment. The cat made an earnest attempt to fully disappear into his armpit; the sight would have been comical if Martin could just stop thinking about footage of the Chelsea Panic.
“You should quit your job,” Night Terror said eventually.
“W-what?”
“You work for Peter Lukas,” the supervillain went on. “You have an HT, and a dog with one, no less. You seem to genuinely not know about his and Fairchild’s involvement in illegal HT experimentation.”
Martin’s heart dropped to his stomach.
“Peter Lukas is many things. Lazy, antisocial, careless, arrogant, lazy, self-absorbed, and most of all, lazy.” Night Terror shifted his grip on the cat. “Unfortunately, he isn’t stupid. Your power does a good job of hiding you from strangers, but he’ll notice. He has an eye for useful tools.”
“Why should I listen to any of this?” Martin’s voice cracked.
“I don’t know. Why did you bring me here to question me?” For a moment, Night Terror sounded simply tired. “He and Fairchild are embroiled in an arms race of superpowers. Someone like you under his control is a potential advantage. He’ll find out about you soon enough, if he hasn’t already, and he’ll approach you. You should quit your job before then. Whatever he has planned for you, you won’t find it pleasant.”
Martin stared at him.
“Believe me or don’t,” Night Terror said, stepping past him toward the door. “I should leave before someone finds a supervillain in your flat and labels you an accessory—”
“What’s your angle, then?” Martin asked. “What were you doing down there? Are you part of this arms race too?”
Night Terror snorted. “Good lord, no.”
“Then what?”
“Police can’t exactly go knocking over a perfectly legitimate office building to get to the illegal lab underneath, now can they?” Night Terror said over his shoulder. “Same goes for heroes—terrible PR, you understand.”
The next wave of panic shocked Martin, freezing him in place before he could brace himself or push through it. By the time his tunnel vision cleared, Night Terror was gone and Millie was pawing at him anxiously. Martin only realized his legs were shaking when he tried to kneel down and comfort her.
“‘S alright,” he rasped, not sure which of them he was trying to convince. “It’s alright. We’re alright.”
Before his next day of work, Martin set up the home cameras, tested them to make sure he could keep an eye on Millie from his phone, and braced himself before going in.
There was no e-mail sending him across London when he arrived. Instead, at the very top of his inbox sat a meeting request from Peter.
He considered just walking out and texting his resignation. He could probably find a job elsewhere; Sean and Carlita would let him put them down as references for sure. Carlita would happily lie about being his manager, even. But in the end, the insanity of walking into the meeting was outshone by the insanity of giving up a job that let him live comfortably in London without a flatmate on nothing but the word of a supervillain.
“Good to see you, Martin,” Peter said when he arrived. “Close the door behind you.”
Martin only hesitated a little before complying.
“Well,” Peter began without waiting for Martin to speak. “You’ve certainly made a name for yourself, haven’t you. I wasn’t sure I’d see you today.”
Martin blinked at him. Peter liked hearing himself talk; better to let him explain on his own time than admit ignorance.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Peter went on. “I’ll admit I wasn’t sure, but the process of elimination pointed to you. If it’d been one of Simon’s, I’d have been hearing about it for weeks.”
He turned his laptop around on his desk, already open to a video player on a news site. Martin marveled at the fact that Peter had worked out how to set it up without him.
The face on the screen was impossible to describe, and because of that Martin knew it was his own. He recognized the words, as well: the impromptu interview he’d given to the startled reporter outside of Fairchild’s office.
NEW SUPERHERO ON THE STREETS OF LONDON? the banner beneath asked.
“I must say, it’s quite the entrance,” Peter went on. “Taking on Night Terror, walking away unscathed—unfazed, even. Remarkable.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Martin, because he might as well.
“I have to wonder what sort of resources you have at your disposal,” Peter went on. “I know I pay you well, but well enough for this?” He tapped the screen with a pen. “I very much doubt it. But, if you’re willing to hear me out… that can change.” His eyes glinted. “I’ve always had a knack for spotting good investments.”
Martin marveled at the mental gymnastics it must have taken to see that brief clip and conclude that he even wanted to be a masked vigilante, fighting supervillains and dodging cops. He opened his mouth to deny it all again, and paused.
He thought of the laboratory at the bottom of the Fairchild building, and its rows of tormented prisoners. He thought of Millie, found in the office of a company Peter wanted. He thought of an arms race of superpowers, and what that would entail.
He thought about animal trials, and the step that generally came after.
“What did you have in mind?”
When Night Terror descended on Canary Wharf, there was a hero waiting for him. At least, people had to assume he was one. His costume, if it could even be called that, consisted of a long raincoat that hid his figure, and an indescribable face. When questioned, witnesses would later call him a “big bloke, I guess, I dunno.”
The citizens below, caught between fear and anticipation, watched as the faceless man approached Night Terror, reached for him, and vanished both from view.
Unbeknownst to the onlookers, they reappeared elsewhere: an empty place with nothing but fog as far as the eye could see, and the vague impression of a floor.
“Hi again,” said Martin. “So. You were right.”
Night Terror stared around, hands drawn to his chest as if he was trying to make himself even smaller in the gray expanse. “I’ve been meaning to ask—”
“I don’t really know where this is. I just sort of call it the quiet.”
“Ah.” Night Terror lowered his shoulders. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Not that I’m opposed to hearing that I’m right, but I assume there was something else.”
“Turns out what Peter wanted—er, wants, at the moment—is a kept superhero,” said Martin. “Dunno what his next move is, but I’m sure I’ll find out eventually. What’s in Canary Wharf?”
At the mention of Peter, Night Terror had drawn back and tensed. “...What do you want?”
“Mainly to know what you need to crack open,” Martin replied. “Oh, by the way, if you’re still interested in animal testing, I’d have a look at DC-Eleven Inc., if I were you.”
The supervillain paused. “Oh?”
“‘S where I found my dog.”
Night Terror’s eyes flickered beneath the hood. “I see.”
“I looked into your history,” Martin told him. “Noticed the pattern where, right after every major attack you pull off, someone with a lot of money and no morals gets in a lot of trouble. It’s easy to miss—gets lost in all the fanfare over superheroes.” Martin paused. “Even the Chelsea Panic—I can’t work out exactly what you were aiming for with that one, but Elias Bouchard himself came out of it with egg on his face, which. Is very impressive.”
“Chelsea was—” Night Terror hesitated. “Chelsea was an accident. One that I would rather not repeat. The blow against Bouchard wasn’t worth it.”
Martin’s power hid all but the vaguest impressions of feeling, so he didn’t feel too self conscious letting his jaw drop. Without the layered echo, Night Terror’s voice sounded… normal. Nice, even, if a bit posh. Sincerity rang through it, clear and deep as a bell. “I think we could help each other, you and me.”
“Sure you want to risk your brand new position?” The distorted reverb in Night Terror’s voice didn’t quite hide the note of wry humor. “Associating with me won’t do your reputation any favors.”
Martin smiled, and wondered if his power let people see even that much. “Not quite what I meant by help.”
“...What?”
“It’s like you said,” Martin told him. “Police can’t or won’t expose the people you do. Heroes can’t just attack them unprovoked, either. But a supervillain—well, everyone just expects them to go after rich, upstanding members of the community.”
“Your point?”
“You know what else people expect, when heroes and villains fight?” Martin asked. Night Terror cocked his head. “Property damage.”
He couldn’t see Night Terror’s face any more than Night Terror could see his, but he got the distinct feeling they were smiling at each other.
“That’s a dangerous game you’re suggesting,” Night Terror remarked. “It won’t work without a lot of trust on both sides. Your dog didn’t even like me.”
“I wouldn’t take it personally. She doesn’t really like anyone.” Martin swallowed hard. “I’ve been with her for weeks, and I think it’ll be a lot longer before she’s alright. One of these days they’ll finish up with animals and move on to humans.”
“You’re a bit late, if you want to prevent that.”
Martin’s stomach twisted. “There’ll be more. We can prevent those.”
The supervillain considered him. Martin didn’t let himself wonder what the face under the hood looked like. It probably wasn’t safe for either of them. “Very well, then. Let’s see what we can do together.”
A rush of wind, they reappeared over the hustle and bustle of Canary Wharf. Night Terror looked startled by the sudden presence of noise and world around him. Hopefully he’d get used to it.
“Ready to put on a show?” Martin asked.
He could hear the smirk in the villain’s voice. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the past year?”
The shadows roiled. Martin could feel the fear billow outward, could hear it in the screams below. He reached for his belt, feeling for Peter’s little perks. The standard kit, or so Peter said—what self-respecting superhero walked into a fight without a little firepower?
“Just tell me what to break,” he said.
“Building behind you, seventh floor,” Night Terror replied. “Front for black-market pharmaceuticals. Did you know they’re developing fear-enhancing drugs to speed up HT development?”
“Not for long,” said Martin.
Night Terror laughed as he lunged, and Martin met him head-on.