Summus Proelium

Non-Canon - Cassidy-As-Paintball takes Simon-as-Squire for a motorcycle ride.

Throughout her attempt to stop Murphy from doing something she would probably regret in the wake of her brother’s death, while also bringing that murderer to justice, Cassidy had expected to do plenty of fighting. That wasn't a surprise. What was surprising, however, was running into her brother in the process. He might have been disguised, but she knew him. And she knew that if he was there, it meant the Ministry was protecting this piece of shit.

If Simon was here, he was going to help that guy escape. Or Murphy was going to kill the guy. Or kill Simon. Or Simon would kill her. There were a lot of bad options. Too many. Cassidy couldn't let any of that happen. But what was she supposed to do?

From the corner of her eyes, she spotted a possible solution, even as they were facing off. But it would require her to leave Murphy with a man she definitely wanted to kill. If she did that… it was her choice. She just had to hope the girl made the right one.

“Tie him up for the cops!” she called that way. That immediately made all three of the others, Murphy, the man in question, and Simon, all start talking at once. But she ignored them and sent shots of red paint in two different directions. The first hit her brother and yanked him toward her red-painted glove. He was pulled that way with a yelped curse.

The other shot red hit the seat of a motorcycle parked next to the building with the keys in the ignition. Even as Simon was pulled toward her, Cassidy pulled herself toward that. She landed on the bike, then canceled the paint on her brother. As he staggered to a confused halt, she got the bike started and immediately revved the engine.

Simon, who had been yanked very close to the bike, had time to look down in confusion as he was left standing behind it as the thing started up. Then a new shot of red hit his chest while another appeared on Cassidy's (or Paintball’s from his perspective) back. With a new curse, he was yanked off the ground and flew through the air to land fully on the back of the motorcycle with his chest held tight against her back by the paint. His arms were flailing wildly as he blurted a reflexive, “What the hell do you think you're doing?!”

Cassidy--Paintball, she had to think of herself as Paintball now. With her brother this close, she had to turn all those thoughts off just be the boy called Paintball, not Cassidy-- gave a quick shake of her--his head. “Boy, if you think you're freaking out now, just wait.”

Just to be on the safe side, he hit both of Simon’s legs and the sides of the bike with more red paint so they were yanked together to keep him seated there.

As though only realizing exactly where he was right in that moment, the boy looked down at his painted legs, then up and snapped a quick, “Oh, don't you even think about--”

“Deal!” Paintball snapped back before joining the throttle. Just like that, the motorcycle took off out of the parking lot with Simon trapped on the back. “No thinking going on here!” And just like that, the motorcycle was shooting out the side entrance of the parking lot and onto the road beyond.

“Might wanna lean the directions I call out!” Paintball shouted over the sound of the engine. “I'm not sure wrecking at this speed is recommended!”

“Stop the bike!” Simon shouted right back. “You really don't wanna pick a fight with us!”

Rather than respond to that immediately, Paintball called, “Left!” With that, he shoved himself that way, with Simon following suit a moment later as the bike took a sharp turn. “And to be totally real with you, I’m gonna take a wild guess that you guys are the ones who don't wanna start a fight with me!”

Even as he said that, Paintball was renewing the red to keep Simon in place. They were heading through an intersection, weaving around several cars in the process. “Or at least, you don't wanna start a fight with me over that Luciano prick! Right!”

Just like that, the bike skidded along the road on a sharp turn that would have been impossible normally. But Paintball wasn't relying solely on their combined body weight. He also hit the nearby building with red paint, along with part of the bike, yanking the front end that way to help get the whole thing to turn almost ninety degrees in an instant. All without slowing down. Suddenly, the motorcycle was aimed at an open gate on the edge of the sidewalk, leading to a set of concrete stairs heading downward to a lower street. Well, to be precise, the concrete stairs went down about halfway, then turned ninety degrees before continuing the rest of the way.

Simon had enough time to see the narrow opening, just wide enough for the bike itself, before they were suddenly shooting forward. Not only did Paintball not stop to consider the ramifications of what they were doing, he actually gunned it, sending the motorcycle straight through the opening and down the stairs with a series of heavy thumps as the wheels hit every step.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, what the fuck is wrong with--”

That was as far as Simon got. Because while the steps themselves might have turned, Paintball didn't. Instead, he triggered the green paint he had put on the bike, boosting their speed even more just as they near the end of the steps. There was a metal fence blocking a steep dropoff there, with the hard pavement waiting over twenty feet down. But just before they would have hit that fence, he sent a puddle of blue on the very edge of the sidewalk. As the bike hit it at that speed, they were launched up and over the fence, easily clearing it.

Not only did they clear the fence, in fact, but the motorcycle rocketed all the way over to the roof of a building on that lower street. They came down right on the edge of it, tires barely finding enough purchase for the bike to scream its way across that building. Just before they would have launched off the opposite side, Paintball called, “Left!” and sent the thing into another sharp ninety degree turn. A turn that pointed them at another roof within a certain number of feet. That number was entirely too high as far as Simon was concerned. And for Paintball, it was, “Eh, close enough.”

“Close enough!? What the fuck do you mean, close en--” That was as far as Simon got before his words became a strangled cry as the motorcycle hit a blue puddle and launched itself into the air. Their speed and momentum was barely enough to cross the gap, landing on the other roof.

Unfortunately, the building was shaped like a rectangle, and they were crossing the narrow part of it, not the wide part. Which meant the other side of that roof was frighteningly close, within about a hundred feet, and they were going fast enough to cross that in a couple seconds. But Paintball was ready for that. He had already slapped red paint on the side of the bike near the front, and had hit the other part of the roof to their left with more of that red as they made the jump. The second before the bike landed, he activated that paint so the bike was yanked around. It came down, tires squealing in protest as the thing was jerked to the left. Even then, their speed carried them within about a foot of the opposite side of the building before it managed to get pointed in the right direction and speed off along the long part of the roof.

Simon, for his part, hadn’t stopped his wordless shout since they hit the puddle. Though he did, in that moment, manage a snapped, “You’re like twelve, you don’t even have a driver’s license!”

“Turn me into the cops then!” Paintball called over his shoulder. “You’ve got enough of them in your pocket! Or just hang on!”

That last bit came as they neared the end of the roof from that direction. A second later, they went shooting off it and down toward the parking lot below. Except there was a semi-truck heading straight toward them, coming from the opposite direction on its way to the building itself. Just before they would have been annihilated by the truck by landing directly in its path, Paintball activated the yellow paint he’d covered them with. The speed of their fall immediately slowed just enough for the bike to land on top of the trailer rather than directly in front of the truck. He canceled the paint right after that, sending the bike along the roof of the trailer while it was pulling away from them in the other direction. They shot off the opposite end a second later, with orange paint on the bike helping hold the thing together as it came down hard on the pavement.

Without giving Simon even a second to collect himself, Paintball sent the bike straight into oncoming traffic down a one-way street. Cars were blaring their horns as he weaved the motorcycle between them, from one side of the street to the other. “See, I don't think the Ministry is gonna care all that much about me taking you for a trip! I'm guessing you're only fulfilling a contract with that prick! You had to try to help him, but what I'm doing right now is giving you plausible deniability! You can blame me for not living up to your part of the bargain! I don’t mind if people like that hate me!”

Even as he said that, Paintball continued to boost the bike’s speed as much as he could. They went screaming through the streets (literally and figuratively, since Simon kept forgetting how to shut up), taking one hard turn after another, using red paint and blue to get around obstacles. The whole world was a blur. Simon could barely hang on tight enough to avoid being thrown from the bike as they weaved dangerously between cars and through narrow alleys.

Finally, Paintball brought the bike to a halt in an unused parking lot. Once his passenger realized they were actually stopping for good, he added a flat, “If I'm wrong, you could try to shoot me.”

Simon did not shoot. He slowly stepped off the bike, wobbling a little. “You’re the second-most absurd driver I've ever seen, kid. And if my sister had your powers, she'd probably be even worse.” He paused then before adding, “Anyway, I didn’t take you for someone who would just let your little friend kill someone.”

“I’m hoping she didn't,” Paintball replied quietly. “But you and your people forced me to let her make that choice for herself. Now if you excuse me, I have to go see if I was right.”

With that, he turned the bike around and took off again, leaving Simon where he was. The young man stood there, relatively stoic though wobbling a little until Paintball was out of sight.

Then he took three quick steps to the corner, collapsed to his knees, and threw up.

*******

Non-Canon - Four Different Versions Of Cassidy (Ficheur and Votary from established non-canons, Graffiti from the original planned path of the story who had a much more antagonistic relationship with their family, and canon Paintball) meet.

Something went wrong. Of course, Cassidy had been at least half-expecting that. They were, after all, attempting to transport Pittman all the way from Breakwater to Detroit. There were bound to be complications. And once the machine had started making that unhappy noise, it had been obvious that things weren't going according to plan.

Even then, however, they didn't expect to find themself standing in a completely different place. The machine was supposed to transport Pittman to them. If it messed up, it should have dropped him somewhere, not sent them somewhere else.

For the briefest of moments as their surroundings abruptly changed, Cassidy was afraid the transport had been reversed and that they had ended up on the island. That would be bad for too many reasons to count within the time they would be able to stay alive. Which itself was one of the reasons.

But no, they definitely weren't on an island. They weren't in a forest or jungle. They were standing on top of a skyscraper in the middle of the city. Actually, they were still in Detroit. In fact, they might be able to see the building where their dad’s main office was if they turned just--

They weren't alone on the roof. Cassidy realized that just as they turned to look that way and found themself staring at three other figures, who were all staring back at them. Three figures with different clothes, but the same face.

Their face. Cassidy was staring at three figures who all looked exactly like them. And if being transported to this random building had taken them by surprise, finding themself staring up at three more versions of them was enough to make their brain completely shut off for a second. They just stood there and stared, open-mouthed under the helmet and mask.

“Oh hey look, another one,” one of the people with their face snapped. Besides having Cassidy's face, they wore a red jacket over a white shirt that was textured to look like chain mail, along with black cargo pants, running shoes, and gloves. A red metal helmet or large enough to cover their entire head, with a black visor, and hung loosely from one of their hands. “At least, I’m assuming that's another one of us.”

“Same height, same build, costume’s covered in paint like mine,” announced another of the lookalikes, “Definitely one of us.” This one was wearing loose-fitting track pants, the same skate-shoes as Cassidy--as Paintball, a long-sleeved shirt with a bandolier of what looked like vials of different colored liquids, and some sort of light raincoat. And, as they had noted, all of their clothes were covered in random bits of paint. There were splotches of color alongside actual drawings and words seemingly at random. “Or they want us to think they are.”

“This is sweet!” That was the third of the lookalikes. This one didn't appear to have any costume at all. They were standing there in what looked like an ordinary pair of pants, boots, and a button-up shirt along with a simple leather jacket. The only things that stood out at all were the two metal bracelets on their wrists. “At this rate, we could make up our own band. Or a super team. Yeah, that's probably more on brand, isn't it? Do you think Fantastic Four is taken around here?”

Finally, Paintball found their voice, blurting, “What the hell?!”

The lookalike who wore the red jacket and held the metal helmet gave them a sympathetic look. “Dude, don't feel bad about being confused. Honestly, we're only about ten minutes ahead of you. And look at it this way, if another one of us shows up, you'll be ahead of them.”

It was the one in the raincoat and bandolier of colorful vials who spoke next. “What they're trying to say is, take the helmet off so we can see what you look like. Or what you're choosing to look like.”

“If you can't tell,” the one who wasn't wearing any costume noted, “they’re the paranoid one.”

“I'm the one that's still alive,” that one snapped, “Despite the best efforts of my entire family. So you're gonna have to excuse me if I'm not willing to take chances on someone who keeps hiding behind that helmet. I've had a few too many close calls.”

This was absurd. The idea that it could be a trap of some kind kept playing through Paintball's head. But they couldn't figure out what the point would be. If this was someone messing with them, it meant their identity was already known, so they were screwed anyway. So their only hope was that this was real and they were actually standing here with three other versions of themself.

Reaching up, they took off the helmet, then the ski mask underneath. Holding both in one hand, they stared at the other three identical faces. “I repeat, what the hell?”

“Ah, there we are,” the one in the red jacket noted while beaming. “And is it just me, or do we keep looking better every time another one shows up?” While saying that, they walked in a circle around the figure in question.

As for Paintball, the idea that they might have just been flirted with by a version of themself was enough to make them need to sit down. Or possibly run and jump off the roof without using any paint to spare themself.

Before they could do either, the one without a costume cleared their throat. “Right, let's do this the quick way this time. We’re all Cassidy Evans. I call myself Votary, that's Ficheur in the red jacket, and the paranoid one is Graffiti. You are?”

There was a brief pause while the one being addressed ran through a mental checklist of all the options and possibilities. Finally, they exhaled heavily. “Paintball. And you're all… you're really…”

“Alternate Cassidy Evans from other worlds,” Ficheur confirmed. “Like Baldur, except we’re physically meeting. And it looks like the three of us might have similar powers.” They nodded between themself, Graffiti, and Paintball. “Unless you both just decided to cover your costumes with random bits of color for unrelated reasons. Which, you know, no judgment.”

Giving Graffiti a brief look, while remembering what they had said about their family trying to kill them, Paintball flinched slightly before extending their hand. A bit of red paint hit a piece of wood that was lying nearby, before being yanked over to their red glove.

Graffiti, in turn, made a blue star with a green outline appear under their feet. As it was activated, they were launched into a backwards flip that carried them a good twenty feet into the air before they flipped over and came down on top of an air conditioning unit, using orange on themself and the unit itself to avoid damage.

“So three of us with similar or identical powers, interesting,” Ficheur murmured. “I wonder why that would happen. It feels like tripling up. Could be redundant if we’re supposed to be doing something special.”

“In that case, guess I’m just the unique one,” Votary noted with an almost feral smile. “I could live with that.”

Paintball quickly shook their head. “Hang on, what do you mean, something special? What’re you guys doing here? Why did you all show up now? Was this because of Trevithick’s machine? Was this Pittman?”

At the name Pittman, Votary literally growled. “That piece of shit better not have anything to do with this if he knows what's good for him. No matter what universe he's from.”

“You do seem confused about something though,” Graffiti put in. Their tone had softened somewhat and they seemed to have eased up a bit once Paintball showed who they were and that they had the same powers. “We're pretty sure this world isn't any of ours. We were all brought here. You showed up the same way we did, so it's probably not yours either.”

Yeah, Paintball really should have assumed something like that. Then again, they didn't exactly have a lot of experience when it came to suddenly standing in front of three identical versions of themself. It was kind of taking a lot out of them just to avoid freaking out too much to be coherent in any way whatsoever.

Before any of the physically identical Cassidies could say anything else, however, Graffiti quickly held up a hand for silence. They pointed toward the nearby roof access door and pantomimed running footsteps with their fingers to indicate that someone was coming. Immediately, the others raced that way, positioning themselves just out of sight on either side of the structure that held the door and the small stairwell beyond. Paintball found themself standing next to Votary, who gave a brief look that way before plucking a metal circlet from their pocket and touching it to their forehead. The band expanded into a full face-covering mask. At the same time, metal gloves expanded over their hands.

They all heard the footsteps by then, as someone came jogging up the stairs. When the person reached the door and started to cautiously open it, Votary stepped right through the nearby wall. Paintball heard a yelp, and the figure came stumbling out as the other Cassidy (apparently) appeared right by the open door and grabbed their arm to give a solid yank.

Soon, all four of the Cassidies surrounded the new figure. Paintball had put their mask and helmet back on, Votary had that metal mask, Graffiti wore some sort of cowl that was attached to their costume neck and covered everything aside from their mouth, and Ficheur had put on that red helmet with the black visor over the eyes.

The quartet surrounded the newcomer, with Ficheur demanding, “Okay, whoever you are. You were obviously in a pretty big hurry to get up here and find us, so maybe you can explain just what the hell is going on and why we’ve got four versions of ourselves standing on this building right now.”

“Also tell us who the hell you are,” Graffiti put in.

“I’d love to,” came the muffled response, before the figure straightened up and looked around at all of them. “I’ll tell you all about why we brought you here, and why we need your help to stop Pittman and your grandfather.

“But first, thank God you guys are actually here. We had no idea if that would work or not,” a seventeen-year-old Anthony Tate informed them.

****************

Caishen goes over reports at the end of the week

Sitting in her office in the Ten Towers headquarters in Detroit, Natsuki Quinlan (better known to the public at large as Caishen) held a computer pad in one hand while tapping her way through it with the other. She was reading field reports from the past week. There were more than usual, given how much their group had to step up in the wake of the Sleeptalk effects and the resulting quarantine. She was proud of her people for all the extra work they’d been doing. Between the established gangs trying to cause as much trouble as possible, others doing the best they could to become established, and the extra problems that kept popping up, there was plenty of overtime to go around. But her teams, Touched and Prev alike, were doing the best they could without too many complaints. They knew what the stakes were, and how easily the entire city could fall apart.

Ephemera and Stick had submitted a report about several of the Touched from Braintrust, and their Prev minions, committing several seemingly unconnected robberies across town in the past few days. The things that were stolen (or attempted to be stolen) didn’t seem to be connected at all. But when it came to Tech-Touched, it was often impossible to say what they might be using things for. With a few taps, she selected the various lists of materials and submitted it to the Ten Towers Techs in the hope that they might be able to explain just what the Braintrust people were trying to do.

Meanwhile, another report from Linesight and the Prev squad he was running mentioned another unknown Touched who had apparently been starting fights amongst a group of minor gang members. The new Touched seemed to have some sort of physical boost ability allowing him to charge up for a brief time in order to carry out bursts of great speed and strength, along with generating and controlling metal spikes from his body. They didn’t know his name yet, but it sounded like he had been trying to find the best fighters amongst those Prev gang members to recruit them.

Bunglebotch was helping their new member, Rubi/Flurry, get up to speed with her training both physically and as far as paperwork went. She was also helping the new girl understand how to talk to the media, which was a whole thing in and of itself. Fortunately, Rubi seemed like a natural in more than one way. They were incredibly lucky to have snapped her up. And, well, she was just a really great woman all the way around. Natsuki was delighted to be able to give her and her siblings a chance at a better life.

And the fact that there were so many more like them who would never get that chance simply because they didn’t hit the lottery of gaining superpowers… yes, maybe it was time to push the Board to step up their charitable giving.

Finally, she glanced over her own sister’s report. Even though she had already read it and knew what it would say ahead of time, this one was coded and only revealed the actual words once she allowed the pad to scan her face and gave a vocal password. Then she read the bit about Deicide. The Easy Eights leader had agreed to their deal, and would fake her death to create a new persona who could be recruited to aid them.

Having someone like Deicide on their side, someone that strong… Caishen was cautious about getting her hopes up, especially given everything that could go wrong. But right now, she was at least a little bit hopeful that they might have weathered the worst of what was being thrown at them and were coming out the other side into some good news.

Which, of course, was the moment her phone buzzed. Seeing her sister’s name on it, the woman frowned before answering. “Tell me Deicide hasn’t decided to back out.”

“No,” came the response, “they haven’t. But there’s another complication. You should probably make sure you aren’t around anyone important right now. It’s going to make you curse.”

She was right, of course. The news did make Natsuki curse, loud, long, and repeatedly.

And she definitely didn’t have time to read any more reports.