"The Slaughterhouse Nine are in Brockton Bay."If Director Piggot ever wanted a job reading audiobooks, horror had to be her first stop because the way she said that made Greg’s stomach drop further than it ever had before.Like the contents of his guts, the room shifted.
Not loudly. Not at first.
That was what made it so much worse.
One of the Wards — Gallant, probably, judging by the sound of metal on metal and the heavy scrape of chair legs against the floor — inhaled too sharply as someone in the New Wave family muttered something harsh and fast and not-at-all-safe-for-work under their breath.
The independents were no different from the other side, the cape in the white desert robes hissing out a simple “No.”
Valid. Greg didn't blame Sere or the rest of them, even as he kept all his curses and complaints on the inside. Completely one-hundred-percent valid.
There were cape names that demanded respect because they were fuck-strong, clearing rooms with nothing but the sheer tonnage they could bring to bear. There were also cape names that made people scared because they were cruel, emptying entire buildings because they liked to paint rooms with the insides of their occupants.
The Slaughterhouse Nine were both, but that really wasn't the problem. They were famous the way a natural disaster was famous, for the body count and the unstoppability; everyone knew the wiki articles and nobody wanted to be another citation or a blue link.
Worse than that, you didn’t need a Parahumans Online account to know of the grainy footage and the blurry warning board threads. It’d be a lie to say you had to have wifi or to have ever picked up a book to know the name ‘Slaughterhouse Nine’.
Piggot let the first wave of reaction hit the room, all the gasps and sighs and ‘what the fucks’ wafting back at her for a good few seconds.
“Our confirmation is direct.” Then she cut right through it. “It came from Mouse Protector.”
Mouse Protector. Blue eyes went wide at the name. No… no way.
The side door to the conference room unlatched, the Camembert Crusader herself walking in under the fluorescent lights. There was no spandex to be seen, no brightly colored cheesy yellow shield on her arm. That was the first thing wrong — violently wrong, even. Seeing Mouse Protector in normal clothes felt like a crime against nature, and for those normal clothes to be nothing but a dark unbranded zip-up hoodie felt like heresy.
She stood at the front of the PRT conference room surrounded by armored capes, tactical gear, and pristine spandex; the only part of her costume she actually wore was the famous helm.
And even that was destroyed.The mouse-eared helm was cracked clean down the left side, a jagged fissure splitting the thing open with deep scuffs gouged into the material scraping down to the raw reinforced material under the plastic. Something sharp had done a decent job in an attempt to get to the face underneath.
But they had failed because the heroine stood tall anyway.
That was the second wrong thing.
Not because Mouse Protector standing tall was strange or unusual or weird. It was the exact opposite. The Cheesy Champion always stood tall in every piece of press, footage or photo. Her edits and fan-vids didn’t even need music to carry that hyper-kinetic hero energy and Greg had watched too many at two in the morning to know that. For Mouse Protector, fighting crime was almost a stage play and the villains were — more often than not — embarrassingly under-rehearsed for their roles and she was improvising to save the show.
Greg was a fan. A massive fan.
Not in a weird way, honest.
But he was a real fan of a real pro, someone who had taken the dual arts of trolling and heroism and proved herself a virtuoso at the combination.
Which made seeing her like this hurt deep under his ribs.
She didn’t have any injuries on her, so she was definitely freshly healed; wounds closed up and bones slotted back into the right sockets by Panacea most likely. He didn’t need Analyze to know that and — honestly — he didn’t want to Analyze her to know how bad it was.
Mostly, because it was obvious the healing hadn't actually fixed anything.
He’d been through the sort of damage that made it hard to know if you were still you or if you could ever even be you again. It was clear as day when you know what to look for. For someone whose posture was perfectly straight and whose smile was pasted right where it belonged, Greg knew when someone was pretending to be themselves.
And, right now, Mouse Protector was trying extremely hard to be Mouse Protector.
"Hi, hi, hi! Yes, hello! Cheesed to meet so many new faces!" A bright little wave and a magnificent bow came with the words, Mouse Protector already in motion as soon as Piggot announced her in. "Bossmouse still kicking. Hold all that applause till after the horror story!"
A few people around the room made strained sounds that failed at laughter, Assault coughing loud and hard into his elbow.
Mouse Protector didn’t let the silence sit as she stepped forward, hands burying themselves into the pockets of her hoodie. “Soooooo…” She hopped from one foot to the other, bouncing in the same familiar rhythm that he’d seen before a thousand teleports. “Here’s a fun fact about grudges, kiddos. They make you stupid. Suicidally stupid. So stupid that you decide to go after your nicest nemesis by calling on some very famous murder-hobos.”His stomach shifted again, doing a slow little roll that was somehow more nauseating than if it had been quicker. “Adorable plan, in theory. Terrible execution, in everythiiiing else.” Mouse Protector chirped as she kept going, the words firing out quick. “I guess my little Ravager figured hiring nine nationally syndicated serial killers to setlte a personal beef would somehow work out with her holding the leash.” A laugh burst free from the hero in the center of the room, one Greg knew didn’t come from anywhere funny at all. “S-sp-spoiler alert! You just end up wearing the collar! And it comes with spikes! On the inside!”
Her breath came quicker as Mouse Protector didn’t stop, hands moving inside her pockets. “And so, they got us, all gagged and bagged and wrapped up like perfect little presents to Doctor Bonesaw.”
The spit in Greg’s mouth might as well have been made of chalk and salt.
"Ravager was screaming because when is she not, right?" Mouse Protector's smile hadn’t slipped one bit the whole time. "Bossmouse says no to impromptu surgery, obviously, but Little Miss Murder had a whole presentation ready. Something to fix our little rivalry and make us the bestest of friends forever.”Her eye twitched behind her helm even as her mouth refused to move. “Very surgical, very avant-garde, so of course Mr. Slash thought it was a riot. And the little girl... she just kept talking about us like we were parts for an art project."
The twitch stopped as quickly as it started. “I punched my ticket early, missed the grand finale and bounced my way to the bay.” That should have been the end of the story; a heroic getaway if there ever was one. Unfortunately, it was clear that Mouse Protector wasn’t done.“Course, your girl isn’t entirely convinced that she’s that good at slipping mouse-traps.” Another twitch of the eye had her freeze for a second. “Might have been more of a catch-and-release.”
The air in the room turned a new kind of toxic as Armsmaster rose from the table, gauntleted fists meeting wood as he addressed the room. “We know they’re here and we know their current active roster.” His knuckles tapped the grain. “Jack Slash. Crawler. Bonesaw. The Siberian. Mannequin. Hatchet Face. Shatterbird. Burnscar.” The hero paused for a moment, visor taking in the silent Mouse Protector for a moment. “And at least one new asset, likely not a member, seemingly created from Ravager. Or at least what remained of the cape after Bonesaw’s attempted procedure.”Nobody bothered to offer a name.“Whatever she is now, we have to accept she is not a known quantity and any understanding of her potential or ability is effectively useless, and actively harmful to our chances of confronting her.” Armsmaster took a breath. “Understand that her current state is more field experiment or punishment than human and she is to be treated with as much force as you would any other member of the Nine.”
As much force. The words scraped against the inside of his skull as he looked at Mouse Protector's hands, still shuddering inside the pockets of her hoodie.
"Their operational pattern is chaos, bloodshed and fear. Whatever strategy they implement, it is solely geared toward mass murder and terrorism. They locate an area’s structural breaking points and apply continuous pressure until the infrastructure shatters along with the spirits of its population.” His suit shifted, metal fists clenching tighter as the table groaned beneath him as it felt more of Armsmaster’s weight. “Assume no greater plan or holding ground or even self-preservation. If they are attacking, it is because they believe they can survive whatever force you bring to bear. Do not underestimate the Slaughterhouse Nine."
That visor surveyed the table, impressing the message on the Protectorate before making sure the rest of the room was well aware. “Their threat vectors are as diverse and varied as the group itself. Hatchet Face nullifies powers within his radius, rendering direct engagement a tactical no-go for the majority of our roster. Crawler possesses adaptive regeneration, granting functional immortality against conventional and most forms of unconventional trauma. The Siberian is…”The Siberian. Greg wasn’t sure what else needed to be said about the naked tiger-woman that had turned the original Protectorate into the Triumvirate.“Siberian is an unstoppable force. And Shatterbird—"
"Oh, by the way, armor-boy!"
Armsmaster paused, visor turning back to Mouse Protector. She glanced back at him, smiling in a way that refused to reach her eyes. “Oh not you, Armor-Man. I mean, armor-boy.” A hand finally freed itself from those pockets to aim a finger right at Greg’s chest.“The Nine were chatting. Well, mostly Mr. Slash. Before I skipped out, I heard them tossing a name around. A lot of patter being passed back and forth about one…” She tilted her head to the side, cracked mouse ear listing just a little. “White Knight.”
The air locked in his throat.“Not even about putting you in a blender either, kid.” That chirp was so much at odds with everything else it should have been hard to take it seriously. Somehow, that wasn’t a problem for him, though. “They sounded downright interested in you, little man. You got some big fans of the portfolio, apparently.”
I… Sweat bloomed across his collarbone, itching under the blue undershirt. I definitely should not have answered that text from Lady Bug.
The universe chose that moment to shove its comedic timing into his face, the air in front of him warping as another box blinked into existence with a sound no one else could hear.
"sounded like an audition to me." Mouse Protector offered a razor-thin, deeply unfunny smile. "big fans of the portfolio, apparently."
A translucent blue box violently detonated into existence right in the middle of his field of vision.
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Quest Gained![Vonnegut + Four] Details: The Slaughterhouse Nine have entered your territory.
Yes, those Slaughterhouse Nine.
Old Brockton Bay has been chosen as the newest host for a Murder-Death-Kill of grand proportion. Get ready for one long screaming performance-art installation. That is, unless you can do something about it.Can you?Well… maybe.Normally, the correct response to this would be evacuation, federal intervention, orbital bombardment, or prayer.
Unfortunately, this is your territory.
And unfortunately for you, they did not come here seeking your death.
I mean, it’s definitely a second or third option.
Objective: Survive the Slaughterhouse Nine. Failure: Recruitment or Death. Reward: ???
Bonus Objectives: Eliminate Jack Slash. Eliminate Bonesaw without allowing a plague release. Eliminate the Siberian permanently. Prevent Shatterbird’s citywide glass attack. Eliminate Crawler without feeding him useful adaptations. Save at least one intended recruit. Prevent the Nine from learning your full capabilities. Prevent Bonesaw from collecting viable samples. Prevent Jack Slash from speaking to you alone.Keep civilian casualties below 10000. Keep civilian casualties below 1000. Keep civilian casualties below 100. Keep civilian casualties below 10. Keep civilian casualties at 0.
Hidden Bonus: Hidden Failure Condition:
System Note: This quest is not recommended for your current level. System Note: This quest is not optional.
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Greg was still staring at the glowing blue text, the zeroes still cascading in his head as he took on the casualty limits below the word optional.
That was when the room began to sing, a familiar physical pulse running straight down the base of his neck that wasn’t just simple chills.
Not the PRT intercom speakers.
Not the emergency alarm system.
The actual room.
A thin whine, high and shrill, threaded its way directly through the glass water pitchers on the Protectorate table, resonating its way into the long fluorescent bulbs overhead as the pitchers trembled beneath them.
Water rippled, lightes buzzed, and brand-new windows began to hum.
Someone at the table shouted.
Someone else kicked their chair back, boots scrambling against the floor.
The scream hit.