It was past noon, but not so far that any undead would risk walking into the daylight. Taylor left the graveyard slowly, there was no reason to rush. She could feel the door she had opened, kept open by the two Clansmen. The walls between the two worlds were thin at the graveyard, it was why she had chosen it, and it would be an easy task to hold the door. Whatever would come from the River would come later, likely at sunset.

The sun was bright, without a single cloud to block its light. The air was cool, but not supernaturally so. She could spend the rest of her day walking, or she could go back to class. An easy choice, had her father not warned her about skipping more classes. But she had already broken her promise this day, she may as well make the most of it.

There was a bus that would take her to a nicer part of the city, she knew, but it would not be arriving for some time. She would walk to the shore, steering clear of the docks where her father worked. The shore always held the promise of safety and reassurance, it was an irony not lost to her that the undead hated flowing water. Perhaps all the time spent in the River soured them to it.

Buildings were sparse in this area of the city, a mixture of run-down houses and long abandoned industrial factories. Manufacturing had been the first industry to leave Brockton Bay, and it had never returned. The shadows each building cast were small, there would be no space for any undead to hide from the midday sun.

Inside the buildings, there could be anything. They were abandoned only by the city and by the wealthy folk who had long since moved to nicer suburbs. Any one of these buildings could be home to a drug den, or a gang hide-out, or a super villain lair. But that wasn't her problem, never would be.

As she walked closer and closer to the bay side, the buildings became whole again. Full of life and laughter, it warmed her spirits. It didn't last long, as she heard the roar of a motorcycle approach then pass her by. Armsmaster.

Had he not interfered, she would have dealt with the situation and completed her goal for the day. She had had control of the situation. Had she known it was him that came knocking on her diamond, she would have continued on. It was annoying, more than annoying, that she wasn't able to continue, and that she wouldn't be able to use that graveyard again.

She fingered the card in her sweater pocket. The promise of PRT agents watching her as she travelled was unwelcome. She had managed so far on her own. She would have to be more discrete, no more open spaces. Maybe she would return to using pets as both a guide and a door, as she had done in her youth. That had raised its own questions, but not ones asked by the local heroes.

There were always other options, she could leave the new Snowballs and Pumpkins as a fallback. Those same factories and storehouses that she had walked by had seen enough death in their time that one would surely have a passage. Hospitals were the same, and likely safer. Farther away, though, but if she was willing to miss a whole school day to go to a graveyard, she could do the same with a hospital.

She came to the docks, and the sounds of water drew her out of her musings. She was somewhere north of the Boardwalk. She had been there only rarely, the shops were all beyond her means. Out in the bay, quite a distance away, was the local Protectorate headquarters, home to Armsmaster and his squad.

She reckoned it was around two in the afternoon, late enough that she could walk back to her home and be there around the time she usually came home from school. The busybodies of the neighbourhood weren't shy about telling her father if she came home early. She had thought to stay longer, here by the water, but it did not bring that feeling of comfort she thought it would.

The bay would only protect her if she dived into it, anything else was useless. The doubts at the back of her mind came to the fore, would whatever came to this world hunt her down? She could not protect herself forever. She had managed to travel so far in the River by being not worth the effort, there was always something else to go after.

It would be the same in Life, rational thought said. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, knowing that someone would die by another's actions. She was the medium, surely, but it was Armsmaster's doing, his untimely intrusion. It might be her, or it might be the first person encountered. The heroes of the city could handle it, they had to, but not before there were losses.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. At the Clansmen, at the river, and at Armsmaster. When she finally arrive home, she threw her backpack onto the stairs, immediately regretting her action. She had put the knife in there, and more besides. Her most valuable possessions.

She collapsed into a sofa in front of the television, suddenly tired from a day spent walking. She spent some time flicking through the channels before finally settling on news, it suited her as background noise. There had been a robbery downtown, while she was walking. Parahuman involvement was likely, but not confirmed.

There were shots of a black smoke that drifted through the streets, and vague silhouettes emerging from it. Miss Militia had answered a few questions, reassuring the public, after which a PRT representative blathered on about safety procedures and other nonsense. Taylor snorted, Armsmaster had spent his time with her instead of stopping an actual crime.

She washed her bloodied hand while listening, and prepared herself a meal, one for her father once he came home. The television continued, no injuries had been reported, potential suspects and their ties to the local crime scene. She ate back on the sofa, only vaguely interested in her meal or the crime. The channel had an expert for these situations, and he determined that the most likely suspect was some villain who hadn't been seen in at least three years.

The segment ended with an official statement from Armsmaster and the local PRT. He had been dealing with a potentially volatile parahuman across the city. Taylor left her living room, plate and glass in hand. Who was he to judge her, when he had attacked first? When he had cost her so much? Her dishes became shards of glass and ceramic on the ground.

She cleaned the kitchen silently, and there was a call on the phone. An automated message from her school, Winslow. She hung up, and removed the call from the cordless' history. Her job done, she went to her room, grabbing her bag along the way. Carefully, she removed the knife. Her hand still ached, but that was hardly a comparison to what would come.

Taking the knife in her off hand, she slowly carved a Mark of healing into her hand, teeth clenched. She did not know why it had to be this way, there were other Marks that she could whistle or draw in the air, overlapping in purpose. Slowly, both the mark and the cut faded away, and she flexed her hand. Good enough.

Only then did she draw more things from her bag. Her knife was a thing of blood and pain, but the other objects weren't to be exposed to such things. A journal, full of charter marks she knew, failed spells and projects. A sheet of paper, rolled up, with the only chain of marks she had gotten to work. It spoke of fire and flame, but it was weak, only enough to warm her on a cold day.

Finally she drew her mother's flute, much changed in the years she had owned it. Charter marks were carved along its length, each one worth a week's work. She could no longer decipher the meaning, but each one flowed from the next. It was a story that she had forgotten, told to her long ago. The last rune had been finished no less than three days ago, and she had meant to complete it in the waterfall on this day.

It could wait another week, while she worked out a new scroll to heat it. She had only gone today in the vain hope that it would come to her during her journey, as was often the case. Things such as this were remembered when needed, they weighed on the mind otherwise.

It was frustrating to look at her flute, and the work she had done, and only being able to see the individual marking. Many were variations on sound; song, tone, tune, softly, sing, while others were of power, person and death. More than frustration, it worried her, this thing she had created. But she would see it through, if only in her mother's memory.

She put the flute back into its case, and ate her food. Her father would be home soon, and it was best if she was doing schoolwork when that happened. He had found her notebook once, when it only had a few pages filled. He hadn't known what it was, thought it was only meaningless scribbles. She knew then that she couldn't share her work with him.

There was at least one other out there that knew the Charter. Marks left on walls, lights in the sky, the work of one man or many no one could tell. But they were always violent in nature, and as wild as the Charter could be. There had been a desire to meet whoever this person was, but as she learned, it had faded away until it was replaced by apprehension and suspicion.

His helmet's communicator had broken, sometime between his arrival at the graveyard and his departure from Callaway's grave. He hurried back to his motorcycle, it held a spare and he was loathe to be without it. He took it from its place in the center of the handles, and carefully attached it to the inside of his helmet. It was an old model, from years ago that he had never gotten around to replacing.

The channels were all active. He had missed something. He took only a moment to curse before announcing himself to his team. "Armsmaster reporting in, what happened?"

"Where are y-" that would have been Assault, always quick to respond, but not very helpful.

"Suspects fleeing north along fifth, just past Haven street. Four unidentified parahumans, mounted on horse sized beasts," Miss Militia could always be relied on, it was why she was second in command.

"Moving to intercept," Armsmaster responded. This was what he lived for, everything he had dedicated his life to. "Any advisory warnings?"

"One of them creates dark fog or smoke. No idea about the others."

His bike was fast, and he handled it with years worth of experience. Cars pulled to the side for him, and pedestrians gawked. Most of them. He went by the girl, fast enough that he almost missed her. She was clutching her wounded hand to her chest and walking slowly. She said no to his offer of help, and she was reaping her consequences, and he his.

"They've turned west onto Parker." And after a moment, "Fog's filling up the area, visual lost."

It was still minutes away. He turned his mic off, he wouldn't have anything to contribute for some time. Miss Militia and Assault traded information. Battery was south, farther away than he was. The rest of his team were in other channels, dealing with their own situations. Important enough to be ignoring this, or they would be hearing from him.

When he could see the smoke, he turned his microphone back on. In truth, the dark mass didn't resemble smoke or fog, but a black cloud blanketing the ground all the way up to the second story of some buildings. It moved and swayed with the wind, or at least it appeared to. Assault and Miss Militia had chosen not to go in, they were on the east side of the cloud keeping a careful eye on the streets.

He did the same, and advised Battery on which streets were worth watching. He used his authority to call in a police helicopter, it would be much more useful than any one of them.

They waited for the cloud to dissipate, over ten minutes of watching for any sign of beasts or costumed villains. People ran out from the darkness, but they were all dressed in civilian clothes. He wished for more autonomy in cases like these, they should have cordoned off the whole area, and brought anyone leaving in for questioning.

When the darkness finally vanished, there weren't beasts or villains. There were car accidents and terrified citizens, as was so often the case.

"Where the fuck were you? You say you're available for anything that comes up, and then you don't fucking answer when we need you?" Assault was practically screaming, leaning forward over the table that they all sat around.

"Sit down and be quiet," Armsmaster said. "Miss Militia, do you have a preliminary report?"

She set the papers that she had been reading down and spoke quickly. "Four individuals, only one of which is confirmed to be a parahuman, robbed Zale's, 308 Main street. This occurred at approximately quarter till one. Assault and I arrived within ten minutes, while the persons were still inside. We were delayed long enough by two of the beasts for them to get away on two others.

"We believe that one of them is Grue. Description of attire and power match what we saw today. He is a mercenary, but only in the, ah, most technical term. He's popped up as a guard in some of the clubs we've shut down in the past few months. Some legal work, too, according to the file. Nothing of this sort, before.

"The other three were wearing masks, indicating a high chance of parahuman abilities. The beasts were likely controlled by the one with the dog mask."

Assault snorted, and the others turned to look at him. "Seems a bit obvious, eh? One of them was doing something to mess with me, I was missing an awful lot. Miss Militia was, too, even is she doesn't want to speculate."

Armsmaster had little patience for interruptions, but it was good information. "Something to keep in mind. Any insights into whichever happens to be the last one?" No one did, and all he could do was give a frustrated sigh. "Ideas on how to deal with them when they strike again?"

"The smoke blocks sight and sound, as well as communication devices. Easy to lose track of each other in there. It reacts to the environment, so we may be able to use that."

"Think you can whip up a giant fan, boss?" Assault grinned at him, then at Battery. He had even less patience for their romance.

"I'll look into it, but it would be terribly unwieldy and quite the eyesore. An attachment for vehicles, maybe, if they prove to be worth the effort," he mused. He waited, long enough that the others weren't sure if he was serious or not. Eventually he smiled and Assault let out a laugh, while the others had smiles of various degrees. Humor was a welcome treat when their lives were dominated by seriousness and violence. "How hardy were the beasts? You said two of them managed to delay both of you."

Miss Militia was the first of the two to speak, after Assault hesitated. "It's hard to say how many of my shots hit, if what Assault said is true. Nothing had an effect, and I thought it best not to use heavier weapons."

"A good decision until we know more. Assault?"

"They're tough as shit, that's for sure. Mean enough to match, too. They wouldn't stay down when I managed to hit them. If they were people, they'd be Brutes. Maybe they are people."

"Alright. If any of you encounter this group again, call for reinforcements, but do not engage unless they are attacking others or property. Expand the search for potential matches to the anything east of Chicago. I'll relay this to the Wards as well. We're done, unless anyone has anything else to add."

Dauntless and Miss Militia left the room almost instantly, they were the two on duty at this time. "You aren't going to tell us what you were doing?" Dauntless and Miss Militia performed their work well and without question, but Assault would always raise problems.

"Dealing with a new and potentially dangerous parahuman."

"Don't give me that bullshit. If they were dangerous, you would have called in. Unless you thought you could handle it." There was mockery in his voice, and Armsmaster responded coldly.

"Parameters changed after I made that call. If you want more, I suggest you read the report after I file it." The conversation was done, and he headed right to his lab. He avoided the cold eyes of the Director, those that spent the whole meeting judging him.

He had misjudged the damage to his helmet. The entirety of the wiring within was fried beyond repair, and the electronics didn't look much better off. He had discovered this when he tried to access the internal storage, to review his interactions with the girl.

There had been nothing that would cause this, not with all his safeguards. He tried again and again to salvage anything from this pile of scrap. Each time he failed, his frustration grew, until he threw his helmet against the nearest wall. It was worthless as anything other than a paperweight, he would have to remake the whole thing.

In the meantime he had a report to make, without the benefit of audio visual recordings. The general proceedings were easy, he had been called to investigate a disturbance in the graveyard. The girl had been surrounded by some sort of forcefield, which yielded when pressured repeatedly.

The girl and he had spoken, and it was here that he faltered. He could describe her appearance well enough; tall for her gender, long, dark hair, simple glasses, and thin lips. Her figure had been hidden under baggy clothing, but her fingers were long and thin, which might be indicative.

She had no name, but her powers weren't new. A visitor to the city? Somehow, he doubted it. He had seen her walking, slowly but with purpose. Was there anything more to their talk? She said her wound would heal quickly. A boast, or part of her power? He was inclined to believe the latter, but without proof it was only speculation

Her barrier had been effective, and she had to fix it before she removed the whole thing. Many parahumans had neurosis, she might have to work in patterns. The etchings that had been on her knife might fit into that. He did his best to draw some of them, but art had never been one of his skills. He ended up with lines randomly arranged inside circles, which seemed good enough.

His armour was thankfully undamaged, and so he reviewed the recording of his movement. It told him how much force he had applied to the barrier, and he put this in the file. It might be for the best that his other files were gone, knowing details about secret identities rarely worked out in anyone's favor.

He set the paperwork aside and began gathering materials for his helmet. As he was doing this, he remembered another thing she had said. The north wind is not kind to your work. He had taken it as incoherent babble from a girl that wasn't entirely there. The north wind meant nothing to him, but his work had a clear interpretation.

He seethed. The chance of some random critical failure disappeared. She had done this. Or she knew it would happen. There was little difference, He went back to the papers and slowly added that the girl was anathema to Tinker technology.

Anti-technologists were not unheard of, and he did his best to avoid them. This girl had undone days of work, spread over years. He had put more thought into that helmet than into some villains.

There was nothing he could in retribution for his loss. The others wouldn't understand how much it had cost him, only that he would have to use his power again. It came easy for them, just think about using your power and it happened. If he asked them, they would acknowledge that he spent time on his devices, but that was far from understanding.

There was someone who did understand, though. And as much as he tried to ignore it, she was always watching. A short message typed into his lab computer, and a few minutes wait.

"How are you, Armsmaster?" The voice, Dragon's, came from his computer's speakers. She was called the greatest Tinker in the world, and on most topics she lived up to it. He had never given her access to his lab, but she had it regardless. She gave excuses, security and peace of mind, but she never truly left. In truth, he often enjoyed her insights and advice.

"Well enough. I suggest you look through my report," he said. "There are some concerning elements." A voice in the back of his mind said he should have spent more time on pleasantries, but he ignored it. He didn't have to wait long before Dragon spoke again.

"Yes, biological connections to powers can often be unpredictable. But you wrote that the connection between her power and blood was only a possibility." Was she ignoring the problem to rile him, or because she didn't see it as an issue.

"That's not what I meant. She fried my helmet, and I never even suspected." His voice was hot with anger, and he had no doubt that Dragon noticed.

"There are others out there, you know that. Just apply the standard procedures. If she turns violent, let someone else do the heavy lifting. Battery, or Velocity, or Dauntless." He gave his computer a glare. He was regretting his decision to call her.

"Yes, thank you. I am aware of what to do," he said after a moment. "That will be all."

"Really? I can help you with a new helmet. I've been studying some of your earlier designs, and I think I have a couple of suggestions. If you're willing to add a bit of bulk, that is."

It was the wrong thing for her to say, and his respond was curt. "I can handle it." He closed the program she had opened from across the continent. If she wanted to, she could reopen it and override his control of his own systems. She didn't, and he sank into a silence that lasted for the rest of his day.