Tyrant 3.5

"Brockton Bay," she began, her light accent distorted by the gas-mask that covered her mouth, the simple words turned harsh and metallic. Even through the filter it was easy to hear the anger that shone in her uncovered eyes, framed by her pale skin and her dark hair.

"I am Bakuda, the daughter of a woman shunned, the sister of a people oppressed. I am the student of a system rigged against us. And until now," she paused, the valves on the mask clicking open and closed as her shoulders heaved, "and until now I have played by your rules."

The last was a curse, growled with so much fury that the news anchors behind her flinched back.

"Today the rules changed, Brockton Bay."

She slumped forward, head bowed.

"Today I lost someone."

She spun into motion and drove her gauntleted fist into the newsdesk, strange metal knuckles roaring as the surface disintegrated, shards exploding outwards. The captive newreaders screamed, cowered behind their arms as the splintering wood rained over them.

The villain turned back, eyes wild.

"TODAY HE WAS TAKEN FROM ME," she screamed. I heard the words echo through the walls, a hundred televisions in the building all watching the same broadcast.

She took a deep breath, seeming to calm down a little, easing back in her stance.

"He was strong, Brockton Bay. He was honourable."

She looked up again, eyes shockingly tear-stained, transfixing the camera.

"He fought for you, Brockton Bay, when he thought it right to do so. He fought until his homeland was shattered, until his fists were broken and his strength was failing. And still he fought, for he believed death in battle was preferable to defeat."

Those almond eyes closed gently, tears leaking down onto the black rubber of her mask. Her next words came as a whisper.

"He did not receive a warrior's death."

She grimaced, her face contorting.

"Your heroes," she spat the word, an epithet, "have not been honourable."

She turned, stalked across the broken desk to the cowering anchors, their usually immaculate clothes spotted with blood leaking from a thousand tiny puncture wounds. She grabbed one by the lapels, dragging him forward to the camera.

"Lung died last week, I do not know when," she continued over the terrified cries of her captive. "The man I recovered from the Protectorate was not him. A perversion of the man I knew, without strength or honour."

Her hand found the news anchor's throat, lifting him bodily into the air, his legs flailing.

"I begged him. Begged the gods, the demons. Begged the stars themselves, that this would not be so. That they could not have done this."

The man in her grasp was turning blue, hands scrabbling at her implacable grip. His legs were kicking out now, striking her shoulders, her body. She didn't even flinch.

Her head bowed.

"The stars did not listen," she whispered. "The abomination did not disappear."

Her hand clenched visibly, the man choking.

"So it was left to me to be honourable," she hissed. "To end his ignominy."

Her fingers twitched and her gauntlet roared. Gore fountained into the air, the body bucked and fell from her grasp. The remaining newsreader screamed now, a long note of pure terror that trailed off into great sobs. My own hands clenched reflexively.

"You are probably wondering why this broadcast is still on?" the murderer spoke in clipped tones, delicate eyebrow raised. "Why the heroes are not here now, bringing one like me to justice?" Her eyes smiled behind her mask. "We have come to an accommodation, they and I. No heroes from outside will enter this city, no soldiers. No citizens will leave."

She lifted the silver device from her belt.

"I have placed these across the city," she stated, a note of excitement entering her voice. "This is a bomb, and I am a bombmaker. A Tinker, in your language, although the mundane word does not do my art justice."

She turned the device over in her hands, examined it with glittering eyes. Caressed it.

"Such a small thing, is it not? Such elegance? You see, when I ended what was left of Lung, I changed. He gave some of himself to me, his boundless energy. And I have been busy."

She looked back to the screen again, eyes hardened like chips of icy slate.

"They will not come, because if they do, Brockton Bay will end."

She paused as if in thought, then stood up straight and flung her arms out wide.

"I call a council!" she announced. "All villains who are present in the Bay, come to me. You may think I have gone too far, but you do not know what I know. You do not know what they can do. Come to me on neutral ground under the terms long agreed upon."

She chuckled, arms high.

"I call a council of war."

AN: Weeeeee! Upset!Bakuda is so fun! A touch theatrical, but this story needed a classical supervillain.

So, Worm starts in earnest now. Multiple factions, multiple grey motivations, confusion and conflict abound. Somewhere the genestealer boss is cackling in glee about the distraction.

Damn this story is violent though, it isn't intentional, just required by the characters. I honestly fought Bakuda here: I thought killing someone on live TV was going to be too much. She disagreed.

It remains massively entertaining to only have limited control over what the characters are going to do next.