Chapter Text
The Siberian stood in front of the PRT headquarters, staring absently at the golden letters emblazoned high on the glass facade. They shined merrily into the darkening evening, the glow throwing shadows against the smooth wall beneath and highlighting the burnished steel frames around large exterior windows.
Droplets of water pooled and collected on the edges of the sign, slowly trickling down towards the pavement below. Individual drops merged together to speed down the sign before bleeding to a stop, leaving a glistening trail behind.
The rain had been stopping and starting as afternoon drifted into evening, but was now no more than a gentle mist falling with barely a sound. It formed an aura around the nearby light posts and streetlights, and surrounded the letters with a hazy glow that seemed to expand and contract like the breath of an enormous creature. Distorted reflections dotted the street, wavering in pools of water that collected in potholes and the edges of sewer grates whose iron bars stood out mutely against the deeper darkness they covered.
An astute observer may have noticed how the rain seemed to avoid the figure standing in front of the building, who remained dry in casual defiance of the oppressive weather. Indeed the water seemed to slide off the long white cloak and hood, refusing to even darken the edges dragging on the ground. Inside the hood a crude oval mask glinting pale grey revealed none of its wearer's thoughts. Thick gloves completed the ensemble, leaving not a single scrap of skin visible.
Minutes passed quietly as she stared up at the building, thoughts flickering back and forth. It had been only hours since she arrived in the city, most of the time spent wandering in the fading daylight. In the past she would have crossed the distance in moments, propelling herself with a single leap and brushing aside the tug of gravity as it failed to find purchase on her body. The image of her form tearing through the air had been the last sight of many a hero.
She was different now. Something had irrevocably changed on the day of her creation. And creation was the word. As awareness bloomed out of the void she had known from the very beginning that whatever she was, it wasn’t human. Perhaps it had never been. More importantly, however, she was free.
In retrospect, perhaps it had been Manton who had finally liberated her. He was her father and yet simultaneously something else, something darker. A short life’s worth of memories had warred with a blurred collection of impressions on the day of her genesis. Impressions of shackles stretched taut between herself and Manton, black and white and crimson. Far, far too much crimson. Even now her flawless fingers twitched as she itched to scrub them raw. A part of her wondered if he realized, in the end, when his own memories condemned him. How could they not, when his daughter looked out at him once more and saw what he had become?
There had undoubtedly been a connection between herself and Manton, but she was still unsure of its exact nature. Years worth of memories had placed him as her father without question, but the uncertainty lay elsewhere, in the memories themselves. As encompassing as they were, they weren’t hers. No matter how they appeared, she could feel the faint certainty in her core. Besides, they were incomplete. More than the shimmering mirage of forgetfulness or uncertainty, the edges felt sanded down. Pieces had been removed to create whatever she was now.
Her new self was quiet now, calm. There would be no more massacres, no more visions of crimson as unstoppable force cleaved through vulnerable flesh. And unstoppable it was. Even in the midst of her muddled mind and scattered thoughts, the certainty at her core had revealed its nature as a reflection of her own power. She knew that detail beyond a doubt, at least. She was a weeping hole upon reality. An inexorable force, an utterly immovable object. Yet it was a small comfort compared to knowledge of what she had done. Amongst the murky depths a single recollection stood out brightest, the horror all the worse for it. A memory of fingers plunging through flesh, a glistening orb in her palm as it withdrew.
Moving forward she would be different. Obscurity would be her greatest ally, the ability to get lost in a city full of capes with an unremarkable power. Her strength would still stand out, but it could be downplayed. Hits that had previously shattered across her unmoving form would be allowed to knock her around, build the image of just another brute. With any luck, the facsimile of humanity would hold.
It was amusing, in a sort of macabre way. A monster, a projection, all pretending to be human. The trick would only work once; if she was revealed the heroes wouldn't fall for it again.
Her nonexistent stomach churned at the thought. The unease was a new feeling, one of many since her transformation and subsequent independence from Manton. Her scattered impressions from before had been almost clinical, but her new memories had filled the gap immediately, providing no lack of reaction. Now she loved and hated them in equal measure. Pride and satisfaction had filled her with warmth on brief occasions, but guilt had been her real companion. It gnawed at her incessantly, rising and retreating like the tides. As bad as it was now, it had been far, far worse in the beginning.
To be identified now would pare away her freedom like a giant pair of shears. She hated the very idea, dreaded being reduced to an animal scrabbling in the dark. She couldn't even blame the heroes, knowing she deserved nothing less. Justice demanded her death, but her conscience refused to let her go without making the effort to do better. To be better.
Best to let them think the Siberian had died with the rest.
Her gaze drifted down to the double doors framing the entrance of the building, and with slow but sure footsteps she moved forwards to pull open the door. She moved steadily into the interior, head tracking side to side as she scanned the lobby. In the corners PRT officers stared with blank faceplates, covering the entire room with overlapping fields of view.
They stiffened as they noticed her, no doubt prompted to alertness by an unknown parahuman entering the building. Heads tilted almost imperceptibly as three of the officers glanced towards the fourth, presumably the one giving orders. She couldn't hear anything from beneath their sealed helmets, but when they failed to take any further action she raised a palm slowly, gesturing towards the front desk. After a moment the fourth officer nodded in acknowledgement and they all seemed to relax slightly, returning to the attentive scanning that had been only briefly interrupted.
The remainder of the lobby was mostly empty, a few office workers talking in the corners or shuffling papers back and forth. On one side of the room the entrance to a gift shop beckoned, a riot of color showing off the latest merchandise of the local Protectorate and Wards teams. It was relatively quiet now at the end of the day, the buzzing of fluorescent lighting occasionally audible when conversation lapsed. Finally, in the center of the room near the back wall stood the receptionist's station, manned by a tired-looking young man standing behind the tall desk.
The Siberian approached with measured steps as the receptionist spoke without looking up. "I'm sorry, our hours for the tours are already over if you'd like to come back..." he trailed off in surprise, apparently not expecting to see anyone other than the usual visitors.
"Ah, apologies. PRT ENE Headquarters, what can I help you with?" he recited, straightening up and raising his head. If the hooded and masked figure concerned him he gave no sign of it, evidently used to seeing capes regularly.
She stood uncomfortably in front of the receptionist, trying to project an image of confidence that she didn't feel. Then with a reflexive and entirely unnecessary breath she spoke, voice soft but echoing hollowly.
"My name is Disjoint, and I'd like to register as an independent hero."