Chapter Text
There is no greater insult than being forced to walk when you can fly.
Objectively, I know that’s not really true. I’m surrounded by examples to the contrary, but that doesn’t banish the thought from my head. It feels wrong to be here, walking alone among a crowd of indentured labourers, their eyes downcast and heads bowed, bodies half slumped over after a full day’s toil. They could have come from any of the factories that rise like monoliths over the North End of the city, making consumer goods that’ll be shipped to anywhere that still has a strata of people rich enough to afford such luxuries.
Every single person around me has suffered worse than I have – indeed, they suffer worse insults with every passing day. They’re trapped in whatever function they’ve been assigned, living in cramped company-run housing and working in factories that pay in company scrip, to buy rations of food from company diners – pre-cooked so that it can’t be stockpiled without spoiling. They exist under the yoke of oppression, penned up within ghettoes and trapped beneath the brutal control of Kaiser’s Empire.
And yet, here in the middle of all this suffering, I still feel as though my willing decision to be covert is the greatest humiliation of them all; an unnatural inversion of the order of the world. I am superhuman; should I not be recognised as such? Why am I brushing shoulders with this dispossessed, miserable crowd when I could soar above them bringing hope and awe at a glance? When I could be their hero?
To be superhuman is to possess power greater than any human mind can bear. It is to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, while having the strength to shape that world according to your whims. It’s a truth that’s evident in the city around me, from the grand billboards promising extra rations for each shift that exceeds its quota to the great steel walls dividing each designated district and sector, manned by shaven-headed Chosen in black and red uniforms.
But that power has whims of its own – whims that the human mind is too small to overcome. It’s why Kaiser has negotiated trade deals with the Patriarch of Pittsburgh to ship in vast quantities of steel to the city; steel that takes the place of concrete in new constructions, that rises out of plazas and intersections in statues depicting idolised Aryan bodies with arms outstretched and weapons raised in triumph. It is his obsession; the accumulation of power through metal.
It clads his tower – his Valhalla – layered over Medhall’s old corporate skyscraper until it resembles nothing more than the naked blade of a jagged sword thrust defiantly towards the sky. He holds court at the point of the sword, passing judgement and impaling the condemned on televised broadcasts displayed in worker barracks across his dominion.
My own power chafes beneath his tyranny, mingling with my rage at all I have lost. At my family slain in glorious but futile opposition, at my father’s desperate last words as he begged me to flee so that at least one of us would survive. At how I had to fight against my own instincts to follow his last wish, disappearing into a dockyard alleyway and swapping Glory Girl’s costume for stolen clothes.
Now I’m stuck in a sweatshirt and fraying sweatpants, my face buried in the shadowed hood of a warm winter jacket to hide among the crowd, only able to cut loose in brief yet immensely satisfying ambushes and lightning raids. Glory Girl may be dead, but Polaris has brought hope in her own way. Not the radiant hope I yearn to bring, but an intimate hope that’s passed along with a day’s rations from person to person or in whispered encouragement given to a factory worker near collapsing from exhaustion; ‘Stay strong. Victory is coming.’
A flare of light draws my gaze upwards, just for a moment. An incandescent star glows in the heavens above, bright enough to illuminate the base of the clouds hanging over the city. Purity is up there most nights; all fliers want to spend as little time as possible on the ground, and the Kaiserin has nothing to fear from being seen. It adds a personal emphasis to my hatred of her, especially when I know she gets as much satisfaction from being visible as I do. She looms over all, punishing any who dare to look up with an icon of the omnipotence of the Empire’s Einherjar.
But beneath her gaze, in the shadows and the streets of this city that was once called Brockton Bay, my hope spreads from mouth to mouth, from one willing hand to another. From the flames of each reprisal, more torches are lit in the hearts of the survivors. With Polaris as a point of light for them to rally behind, their rage has gained an inevitable momentum, hard-fought over two years of insurrection.
Two years since the New Wave was wiped out, and the last hope of restoring the old world died with it. Two years in which I’ve aged from seventeen to nineteen, though it feels as though I’m far older than that now. Two years in which I’ve had to learn to be a soldier, a leader, a guerilla and a revolutionary. Two years of strife, but not one more.
The warehouse before me is virtually indistinguishable from those around it, save for the fact that it’s empty, while they’re still in use. There are still districts within the North End that are almost completely abandoned, inhabited only by whatever squatters have managed to avoid forcible relocation, but those are regularly patrolled. Whenever I need to hide something, it’s far better to do it in plain sight.
I duck into the alleyway between buildings, knocking lightly on a side door that swings open immediately to reveal one of my people, a submachine gun half-raised as he peers at my shadowed features. I draw the hood back and let slip a flash of my power, watching as his eyes widen in awe and wondering whether my face or my power had the greater effect. I’ve never had the luxury of wearing a mask and I’d never choose to, though I don’t begrudge those who do; anonymity is a precious thing and valuable in wartime.
I move past the guard and into the open interior of the warehouse, where a wide circular space has been cleared of all shelving and detritus. I pause at the threshold, kicking off my trainers and rising up a few inches off the ground before stripping out of the rest of my nondescript attire to reveal the figure-hugging black bodysuit beneath, trimmed with gold and carrying a starburst icon on my chest.
I fold the clothes and leave them on one of the shelves, then drift towards the circle. It feels good to finally slip gravity’s leash; to glide gracefully through the air as I was meant to. As I cross the threshold, I’m joined by the sudden apparition of a man in black-dyed military fatigues, his face concealed beneath a leering horned mask and a bomb vest strapped to his chest.
“Lose the vest,” I order Oni Lee. “They might take it the wrong way.”
He nods, a duplicate of his body appearing at the edge of the room a scant handful of seconds before the man in front of me collapses into ash. He carefully disarms and removes the vest, setting it down on a shelf alongside his gloves with their inbuilt detonators before he reappears back in front of me once again.
I found Oni Lee half a year into my war, chasing rumours that he had been seen flickering across the rooftops of his gang’s old territory. Reaching him had been difficult, constrained as I was by the need to keep a low profile, but eventually I managed to get close enough to hit him with a burst of awe.
It captivated him in an instant, ending his pointless wandering over the city streets. I found him obedient to any order I give; an invaluable weapon for whatever purpose I require, from launching suicide attacks to watching over me from the rooftops as I move throughout the city.
In spite of his reduced state, I’ve managed to piece together the essence of the man he once was through conversations with his former gang members, but the greatest revelations came from the man’s own journal, carried in a pocket on his thigh. He was fully aware of the fact that his power degraded his own mind each time he used it; his writings are an account of that decline in great detail, romanticised with comparisons to kamikaze pilots and the stoic ideal of ritualised suicide in the name of duty.
In his last moments of lucidity, he penned the death poem that he still carries with him; a scrap of paper torn from his notebook and tucked into the breast pocket of his fatigues, right above his heart. It is a brief reflection on the nature of life, death and duty, expressing the earnest hope that he would still be of use to his lord Lung, who he compares to a daimyo of old.
In its unintentional subtext, it is also a cautionary tale of the dangers of all superhuman powers; of the self-destructive delusions that they whisper in the ear of those who wield them. The urge to embrace your nature wholeheartedly even if it means expending your life in a single blaze of glory.
Lung is long since dead, killed in an ambush by eight of Kaiser’s Einherjar, and his retainer’s loyalty beyond ego-death has been exploited by another lord. Just like the urge to stay and burn out with my family rather than slinking off into this shadow war, his power drove him to overuse. To burn bright and fast rather than consider restraint. It’s an inferno that has consumed the whole world.
I glance down at my watch, counting the last few seconds before the appointed time. At twelve minutes past ten – exactly as scheduled – the decoy work crew that had moved into position outside the warehouse switches on their pneumatic drill as they start excavating the loose asphalt from a pothole. At thirteen minutes past ten, that diversion baffles the muffled thunderclap of displaced air as Strider teleports into the centre of the circle.
He's dressed in a black uniform trimmed with blue, the cap on his head reminding me of the chauffeurs who’ve been caught up in the assassinations I’ve ordered. In his stance I can see the kind of eager anticipation that all Movers feel. Just as I yearn to fly, he isn’t truly comfortable unless he’s stepping across the world. It’s what makes him such a highly sought-after mercenary. The fact that he actually came is a good sign.
“You good?” he asks, waiting for me to nod. “Great.”
Three words, a handful of seconds, and we’re gone in another crack of thunder as the barely-lit warehouse is replaced in an instant by the deliberately dim lighting of a vast reception room, its ceiling supported by columns of some dark stone. To my left are the exterior windows of a skyscraper, with great panes of glass held together by gilded metal struts as if I were standing in an art deco church. Beyond the windows stretches the irrepressible skyline of New York, bathed from above in the blue light of a flickering shield that stretches across the whole city.
There are guards around the perimeter of the room – armed and armoured NYPD officers watching over myself and Oni Lee – but I quickly put them out of my mind and turn my attention to the superhuman waiting just beyond the painted circle demarcating the room’s entry point.
She’s blonde and perhaps the same age as me, but that’s where the similarities end. Her eyes are green, for one, and there’s a scattering of freckles across her face. She’s physically fit, but there’s nothing combative in her frame; none of the hard-won athleticism I’ve cultivated over the course of my war. She wears her hair loose, rather than in a ponytail like mine, and her face is lightly made-up.
They were always going to send a superhuman to greet me and she’s signalling her status through her costume. Like myself, she’s unmasked and wearing a tight-fitting black bodysuit, though hers has broad purple lines radiating out from a stylised eye on her chest. She’s armed, too, with a belt around her waist that holds a pistol and what I assume is a personal shield generator – a circular piece of Tinkertech about twice the size of a belt buckle.
On a technical level, there’s nothing wrong with the way she’s standing. Her feet are together, her back straight, her hands clasped behind her back. She’s perfectly matched the stance of a dutiful subordinate greeting a powerful guest, but there’s a dangerous, subversive light in her eyes that seems to mock the idea that any authority can constrain her.
“Polaris,” she greets me, the corner of her lip curling up into the barest impression of a smirk. “Welcome to New York. If you’d follow me, please. Thank you, Strider, you can carry on.”
There’s another thunderclap behind me as the teleporter disappears once again. The superhuman makes to turn, but stops when I remain in place, folding my arms over my chest and lifting myself up ever so slightly.
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“Sorry about that,” she said, her lip creeping closer to an actual expression. “Not all of our visitors care to know. I’m Witness. I’m, well, an advisor would fit best.”
A Thinker, then. It fits; the upper echelons of the Elite tend to keep a few around them. They’re unfortunate, as superhumans go. They have plenty of power, but only the most dangerous ones manage to avoid falling under the thumb of people whose powers are more tangible in nature. Even with her gun and her shield generator she can only mimic what I can do naturally.
I drift forward, the Thinker falling into step beside me as Oni Lee shadows our progress out of the reception room and into a well-furnished corridor lined with portraits of old statesmen.
“How long have you been working for Uppercrust?” I ask, more to get her measure than anything else.
“Oh, I’m Elite through and through,” Witness says, for the first time giving me a complete smirk. “Arrived in the city about three years ago and ended up working for Homeland Security. From there I made my way into counterintel, and then up here. I’ve been advising Uppercrust for about half a year now.”
“You’re climbing fast,” I say, leaving ‘for a Thinker’ unspoken. Either she’s one of the dangerous ones, or she’s just a good liar. She’s certainly got a good poker face; I’ve been radiating a low simmer of awe since I arrived, but so far she hasn’t appeared to be affected.
“I give good advice,” she says, simply, before falling silent as we draw closer towards a pair of tall oak doors flanked by two guards in black suits and sunglasses that have to be linked to some Tinkertech augmented reality network, or else what would be the point?
One of them speaks a few murmured words into a microphone pinned to the collar of his shirt before the pair of them pull open the doors. I drift forwards and up another foot, leaving Witness to walk behind me as I enter alone.
It would be impossible for anyone to see the room as anything other than a royal court, despite the décor that runs closer to an office than a palace. Petitioners must approach along a long hall that’s been justified by a few couches, a fireplace and a small library of leatherbound books. It gives them time to observe the antique wooden desk at the end of the room, resting on its own oval-shaped carpet to create a dais and a throne. Beyond the desk, a tall window looks up the length of Manhattan Island, across Central Park to the skyscrapers and shield towers beyond.
The room is filled with courtiers and attendants, both mundane and superhuman. Human officials from across Uppercrust’s domain wait to be acknowledged on the couches, or are preoccupied with hushed discussions of policy among their peers. The superhumans stand out both through their costumes and the small entourages they have been allowed to bring with them, forming huddled cliques whose leaders eye me with the appreciative suspicion of someone weighing up a potential threat.
Others serve more immediate roles within the court itself. Wait staff linger patiently beside cloth-covered tables of glasses containing a sensible ratio of alcoholic to non-alcoholic drinks, while yet more suited bodyguards linger at the edges of the room. One of the guards is superhuman; in place of a suit he’s wearing matte black power armour and holding a halberd that’s taller than he is.
“Presenting Polaris, of Brockton Bay,” Witness speaks up from behind me, sounding a little annoyed at being left behind. I ignore her, like I ignore all the other people in the room. I cast my gaze over them in a glance before locking eyes with the person behind the desk – the only person in here who really matters.
Physically, he’s a shell of a man, his body ravaged by some wasting disease. His treatment has rendered him completely hairless while the disease’s progress has shackled him to the wheelchair in which he sits, plugged into esoteric Tinkertech monitoring equipment and intravenous tubes of chemical solutions. In spite of that, his eyes are alive with fierce intelligence and someone has dressed him in a meticulously maintained and tailored suit.
I move closer to him, allowing myself to drift downwards until my feet touch the edge of the oval carpet, simultaneously damping down my aura in case he views it as an attack.
“Uppercrust,” I begin, bowing my head for a moment. “It is an honour to finally speak to you in person, and to see your city for myself. New York has lost none of its glory.”
Each word has been carefully chosen to match what I know of Uppercrust’s sensibilities, each motion and gesture worked over in my head and rehearsed in the privacy of a dozen different bolt holes. It’s an imposition on my pride, but my entrance was grand enough to soothe my nerves. My mind grumbles, but it does not yet complain.
The man himself shifts on his chair, a near-skeletal hand typing away at a keyboard mounted on one of the arms before an artificial voice emanates from speakers built into the frame.
“You are welcome, Polaris. News of your achievements has reached the streets of my city, and your deeds are often spoken of among my cabinet.”
But you still buy Medhall’s goods. If New York talks of my achievements, it’s only to entertain itself.
“I’m pleased that word of my plight has spread this far, and I am grateful for the assistance you’ve already provided.”
Nothing much, nothing substantial. Firearms and explosives taken from old US Army stockpiles, small trickles of intelligence pointing towards targets whose elimination would benefit New York. Kaiser’s factories have allowed cities like this to maintain something close to an old world standard of living and it has been hard persuading them that the flow of consumer goods would continue if he were overthrown.
“Kaiser has always been distasteful, like his father before him,” Uppercrust replies, his tone artificially level. “Not just for his ideology, but for his arrogance. His disregard for authority. He has renamed his city. You represent a better alternative, if you are prepared to swear allegiance.”
He moves his hand ever so slightly, gesturing to the icon at the centre of the carpet. I take a deep breath, swallowing my wounded pride and walking a handful of steps forwards before dropping to one knee at the centre of the carpet, looking down on the singed and scarred Presidential coat of arms taken along with the desk as a prize from the fall of Washington D.C.
My eyes flick up at movement in my peripheral vision. Witness is slowly circling the carpet, looking down at me as she languidly moves to stand just behind Uppercrust’s shoulder, one hand resting on the back of his chair.
“I, Polaris,” I begin, “absolutely and entirely renounce any and all previous loyalties. I swear to be faithful and bear true allegiance to the office of the President, and to govern my domain in his name.”
“Then,” comes the reply, “by the authority I hold as the protector of that office, I name you Lieutenant Governor of the city of Brockton Bay, to hold that land in trust until civil order can be restored.”
Like all Tinkers, Uppercrust’s mind works along mechanical lines, given character by the nature of his creations. He makes shield generators, which drives him to control, to envelop and to conserve. His cities are walled gardens of tranquillity; snow globes preserving whatever fragments of the old world order he has managed to snatch for himself. State and Federal Agencies have been recreated as cargo cult facsimiles of their predecessors, while his court within the Elite has styled itself after the long-dead government of this land.
He found the presidency in the gutter, brushed off the dirt and placed it like a crown upon his head, as if it was a prize instead of a battered and broken fiction from a dead age. As if anyone wanted it. He's trapped in the past and the idea of placing myself under the rule of such a man would be reprehensible if it weren’t soothed by his obvious decline. He will be dead soon and his office will die with him, leaving me free to abandon my oath without breaking my word.
I stand up, my head raised and my hands clasped behind my back in a mirror of Witness’ posture, waiting for the self-named President to continue.
“I charge you with restoring order to Brockton Bay, deposing the invaders who have occupied it and reintegrating the city into the Union. To serve that goal, you will be provided with weaponry, resources and advisors. Promethea, step forwards.”
I don’t look away, standing in silence as I’m joined on the carpet by an Asian woman in her early twenties, wearing high-collared white body armour over black fatigues, her body criss-crossed by webbing belts laden down with pouches.
“You will accompany Polaris and assist her in her endeavours. Witness, you will also join her.”
A hurried murmur spreads throughout the superhuman courtiers, most of it focused on Witness. It seems she holds some privileged place within this court – evidenced by her proximity to the President – and her being sent away represents an opportunity for someone else to take her place.
Certainly, Witness takes a deep breath to steady herself before nodding her acceptance, but as she moves to join me atop the coat of arms she flashes another half-grin when only I can see it.
She might be a very dangerous Thinker.
“I thank you for your support,” I say, nodding deferentially to Uppercrust. “I swear that I will end Kaiser’s rule, that I will bring down Valhalla and restore Fólkvangr to what it once was.”
“Then you’d best get started,” comes the monotonous response, before I am dismissed from the chamber with a flick of an emaciated wrist.
I glide out of the hall with three superhumans following at my heels, returning to the reception room to find the circle filled with crates, duffel bags and electronic equipment in robust cases.
“Strider’s been busy,” Witness says, picking up the pace a little to walk beside me. “This should be the eighth shipment from here, and there are more coming from our military stockpiles. Enough to equip an army, if you provide the people.”
I walk over to one of the crates, pulling off the lid to reveal an assault rifle packed in foam. Judging by the depth of the crate, there are four more beneath it. I cast my eyes over the other cases, running through the numbers in my head, and my indignation quiets at the exact account of what my moment of deference has bought.
The teleporter himself reappears in a crack of thunder, staying just long enough to make sure that all four of us are standing in the circle before we’re abruptly transported back to the warehouse, surrounded by the spoils of war and two dozen of my own people – who’ve been manoeuvring yet more shipments out of the circle until they’ve filled the rest of the room.
“We’re the last shipment to this site,” Witness says. “Everything else is going to the other drop points.”
Promethea moves over to one of the cases, entering a code onto the keypad and grinning like a lunatic as she opens it up. She pulls out a gas mask and a white helmet, donning them with the familiar relish of someone who doesn’t feel whole unless they’re in costume, and holds up a cylindrical device with all the care of an artisan handling the product of their craft.
“You’re going to love these, boss,” she says, her voice deepened and distorted by filters in the mask, “but I’m going to love them more. I haven’t been able to cut loose in ages.”
“Pyromaniac,” Witness whispers, uncomfortably close to my ear. I wave a hand, brushing her off, and drift over to admire the bombs.
“I want you to make me a list of your arsenal,” I say to her. “I’m assuming these do more than just explode. Firstly, though, I want you to pick something light and experiment with Oni Lee.” The teleporter’s attention snaps back to me at the mention of his name. “Make a bomb vest. If your power interacts favourably with his, we’ll fit him with your most potent ordinance and use him as mobile artillery.”
Promethea starts to laugh, a chuckle that almost immediately turns into a manic roar, the whole noise twisted into something demonic by her mask.
“God, I could fucking hug you,” she says, bringing a hand up to one of the lenses as if to wipe away an imaginary tear. “It’s been too long since I’ve had a good war.”
I turn away from her, drifting back towards Witness and gesturing for her to follow me into one of the offices at the side of the warehouse. Once she’s closed the door behind us, I raise myself up a little higher.
“When this is done, I want her out of my city. But you… you’re using me for something, and if you want to live you’ll tell me what.”
She gives me an infuriatingly sly grin.
“I’m just using the weapons I have, same as you.”
I reach out and grab her head, the forcefield that envelops my body imbuing my grip with exceptional strength that causes her to wince in pain. At that moment, I let slip my hold on my aura, filling the room with the weight of my presence and watching her face as her panicked mind turns it into terror strong enough to paralyse her, her legs going slack as I allow her to drop to her knees and lower my feet to the ground so that I can keep my grip on her head.
“I see your weapons, Thinker. The gun, to frighten people. The costume, to throw them off balance. But I don’t need a gun to terrify you, to shatter your skull. I don’t need this costume to enrapture you” – I remove my hand from her head, instead cupping her cheek and helping her back to her feet with a warm smile. When I remove my hand, the fear has been tainted by the display of affection and she unconsciously moves her head back towards my touch, her eyes roving over me with terrified awe in her gaze – “though I will admit it certainly helps.”
I drift back up, leaving her shaking under the emotional whiplash. She’ll get control of herself and answer, or I’ll fight my war without her.
“You saw Uppercrust,” she begins, waiting for me to give voice to the obvious.
“He’s dying.”
“Nobody wants to make a move, but they know his Union can’t survive without him and his tech. Everyone’s waiting to take a piece of the pie, yourself included.”
I don’t bother denying it.
“So why come with me? Why not stay and carve our your own slice?”
She chuckles, though it’s not a pleasant laugh.
“Nice of you to think that I could. Everyone who matters is in New York, hanging around and waiting for him to croak. They’ll wipe me out, or sweep me up and keep me on a doped-up leash to be wheeled out whenever they want access to my power. I can’t survive a civil war.”
“So you manipulated Uppercrust into send you to my war because you’ll be part of a strong power base far from the collapsing centre. One that’s new enough for you to find a place near the top.”
She nods, and I force my power to weaken in intensity. Enough to keep her simmering, but I see no reason to boil her anymore.
“Alright, you can stay. I’ve seen that you can be respectful, and I might need someone with your political experience after the war is over.”
I pause, frowning as a suspicion forms in my mind. Witness clearly sees something in my features; the hopeful smile turns brittle on her face.
“You deliberately goaded me into using my power to appease my ego and manipulate me into keeping you.”
She doesn’t immediately answer the accusation. I’m sure that she’s pushing her power – whatever it is – to the limit.
“I don’t want to lead.” Her tone is neutral, almost flat. She’s deliberately stripped it of any verbal sparring. “I don’t have that compulsion, like you do. I build webs around myself, trick my way through life, but I can’t do that if I’ve made myself a target.”
She pauses, but I stay silent, gesturing for her to continue.
“This war will be your triumph. At the end of it, you’ll stand at the top of that tower with your followers shouting your name. You’ll feel like a goddess. I don’t know how much history you’ve read, but back in ancient Rome they used to give conquering generals a triumph of their own. The general would parade into the city at the head of his army, his face painted to look like a god.”
She takes a hesitant step towards me, moving well within arm’s reach.
“But they’d put a slave on the chariot with him, holding a wreath above his head. That slave’s job was to whisper in the general’s ear.”
She stands on her tiptoes, leaning in close as I hover a foot off the ground.
“Remember you are mortal.”
Every part of me bristles at the insult, my hands unconsciously closing into fists as I’m struck by the sudden urge to smack her into the wall. But after a moment, I quell the urge, stamping down my wounded pride and looking at the Thinker in a new light.
“Kaiser doesn’t believe he can lose,” I begin, slowly working my mind around the idea. “He’s wrapped up in his own pride, surrounded by devoted followers who’ll only ever be able to see him as Kaiser. There’s nothing keeping him grounded.”
Witness smiles, and this time it looks genuine.
“You know, I’m actually looking forward to working for someone who’s a little self-aware.”
“Then come with me,” I say, drifting back towards the door. “We have a war to win.”