Greg Vs Raid 9-22 (Patreon)

Her mouth opened wide in a yawn, arms stretching above her head as she woke up to a song loud in her ear. 

The same one this city had been screaming for weeks now. Honestly, it was the best vintage she’d tasted in years, thick and layered like someone had redone a classical piece with the expert hands of a jazz trumpeter.

Cherie Vasil stretched again, arms open over the bed that wasn't hers as she smiled up at the ceiling. Toes curled into thread-count sheets that definitely cost more than the man sleeping next to her made in a month as the landlord of this building  — Mark? Matt? Mike? — radiated a soft thrum of contentment and exhaustion that kept time with his snoring.

She sighed as she rolled out of bed, the silk robe she’d bought with his credit card comfortable and airy. She walked to the window, brushing a lock of dark hair with that streak of red — une petite rebellion — out of her eyes as she looked down at the street.

Water stains climbed the brickwork like mold over piles of debris that used to be lives as people shuffled through the slush and mud, heads down and broadcasting their misery so loud it was almost deafening.

The city was her playground, cracked pavement and all. With the heroes busy playing cleanup and the villains busy licking wounds, nobody was looking for a stray suspected Master, not when there were Endbringer scars to patch up.

Well, maybe for that one boy.

The blond one.

Her lip curled at the thought of him. The Knight. She’d tried to pluck his strings weeks ago, just a little tease to see if he’d dance, maybe get herself a bodyguard with some real firepower since the locals were so disappointing.

Nothing.

It was like shouting into a pillow, a murderous pillow that almost wrapped itself over her face until she played up the innocent girl act. She knew he was bad enough, but watching what he pulled against Leviathan… That boy needs therapy.

She turned away from the window, losing interest in the memory of failure as she leaned over the bed. "Mike.” She pushed a little Panic into his dream, a sharp spike to wake him up because she wanted coffee and didn't want it bad enough to make it herself. "Wake up."

"Wha-?” He snorted, jerking awake, the Contentment shattering into Confusion. “Cherry?"

Cherie. "Coffee.” False warmth bled into her voice, wrapping around him like a blanket of Adoration. "Please?"

Confusion melted away as he blinked, smoothing out the wrinkles in his brain. "Yeah. Yeah, of course, babe. Anything."

He scrambled out of bed, almost tripping over his own pants in a rush to serve. Humming a little tune, Cherie turned back to the mirror to fix her hair.

And then the song changed.

Cherie froze, hands hovering over her hair. 

The landlord in the kitchen rang loud with Adoration and Focus. The woman in the apartment below: Grief, Hunger. The couple fighting three doors down: Resentment, Fatigue.

And then, underneath it all, creeping in from the east like a draft under a door.

Terror.

Sharp. Crystalline. Artificial.

It stood out as a single note of Panic, clear enough that it couldn’t be anything but.

And woven into it, a counter-melody.

Compliance.

Cherie’s eyes snapped wide, rhe color draining from her reflection in the mirror. Non.

She knew that flavor, and the taste of that specific, twisted harmony.

Florence. Echochamber.

The fear rippled further, bouncing from person to person; amplified and distorted, it echoed out until it was more a primal drive than simple emotion.

The void underneath it, the absence, also stood out loud and clear.

Guillaume.

Blindside.

"Merde.” She hissed the word, half-desperate, robe torn off and clothes thrown on as she grabbed her purse with white knuckles.

"Babe?" Matt called from the kitchen, the smell of coffee starting to drift. "You want sugar?"

"I'm leaving.”

She shoved her feet into her boots — heels, stupid, why did she always buy heels when she spent half her life running? — and grabbed her coat.

"Leaving?" Mark appeared in the doorway, a mug in his hand. Confusion again, spiking into Hurt. "But... breakfast? I thought we were gonna..."

She pushed — crushing, suicidal, black-hole Despair.

The mug slipped free from his loose fingers, shattering on the hardwood in a spray of ceramic shrapnel and splashing hot coffee. He sank to his knees, not reacting as his knees hit the steaming puddle of brown.

Cherie hit the door, leaving it wide open as she ran for the stairs. 

She took them two at a time, the heels clacking a frantic rhythm on the concrete.

Run, Cherie. Barely a minute later, she burst out onto the street, sunlight harsh and glaring against the grey slush. Run.

The song was louder out here.

Her head whipped towards downtown, a wave of Panic pinballing towards her, sweeping up pre-tagged people in its path.

Cherie turned left, ducking into the alleys. The main streets were exposed and Guillaume needed lines of sight to make you look away, to twist your neck until it snapped if you tried to perceive him.

She needed clutter, chaos enough to hide in. Cherie scrambled over a pile of rubble that used to be a newsstand, the damp brickwork soaking through her thin leggings.

A homeless man huddled in a doorway fifty feet up, Apathy bleeding off him enough that she knew it was safe.

Cherie hurried past him, head down and hair falling over her face. 

"Hey."

She didn't stop, not even turning around as he threw the word her way.

"Hey!"

She felt the shift before she heard the movement as the Apathy vanished in an instant, a jagged spike of Anger burning her way.

Anger and… Recognition.

Cherie spun, heels stopping in a puddle as the homeless man stood up.

Glazed eyes, pupils dilated, locked firmly on her face. "Red streaks. Pretty. Dark hair. Red streaks."

Post-hypnotic triggers. 

"No." Cherie backed up, breathing already coming faster.

The man lunged.

He was old and hungry, but he threw himself at her with the strength of someone who had no control over his own muscles. "Get her!" He screamed to an empty alley, the sound tearing at his throat.

Cherie didn't have time for finesse.

She blasted him.

Terror.

The man froze mid-lunge, eyes going wide and breath hitching in a strangled wheeze. He collapsed, curling into a ball in the mud as his hands clawed at his ears to shut out the monster she’d just put in his head.

Cherie turned and sprinted, cursing under her breath. Every pair of eyes was a trigger. Every stranger was a sleeper agent waiting for her silhouette to activate the kill switch.

How many?

Ten? A hundred?

How long had they been here?

She ducked into a cross-street, heart hammering against her ribs like a bird in a cage. Think, Cherie. 

The Boardwalk? Too open. The Docks? Too empty.

She needed a crowd that was already loud. A riot. A protest. Something to drown out Florence's signal.

Or...

She stopped, chest heaving as the song shifted again.

To her right.

Sadism.

Cold, sharp, and amused.

Nicholas. Bloodfire.

He wasn't close enough to touch her, but she could feel his anticipation like a hook in her lip. He was herding her.

They weren't trying to catch her yet.

They were playing.

"Family reunion.” The whisper left her, bubbling up into a laugh that collapsed even further down into a sob as she looked around. "Everyone's invited."

A rusted fire escape, hanging low.

Up.

Guillaume hated too much height. It messed with his angles.

She jumped, fingers closing around the cold iron, rust flaking off onto her skin as she hauled herself up. Muscles screamed at her, the expensive coat she had on snagging on a bolt and tearing.

"Putain.” She swung her leg over the next railing.

She climbed higher, second and third floor passing her by as she — finally — made it up to the roof and rolled onto loose gravel, gasping for air that tasted like ozone and dead fish.

From up here, the song was clearer, enough to map at least.

To the north, a cluster of Confusion and Compliance — Florence moving a crowd.

To the east, a streak of Pain and Joy — Roman enjoying himself.

And below...

Right below her.

In the alley she’d just left.

Nothing.

Guillaume was following her track, her most annoying brother walking where she walked.

Cherie scrambled back from the edge, scraping her hands and knees as she crawled to the center of the roof. Eyes darted over to the next building, a gap of maybe four feet.

She kicked her heels free, boots scattering across the roof. Six hundred dollars of Italian leather… left for the pigeons. Cherie refused to look back as she ran barefoot on the gravel, sharp stones biting her soles. 

Momentum carried her forward as Cherie hit the next roof in a roll, momentum carrying her forward. She scrambled up, ignoring the sting in her feet.

She couldn’t risk going down below, not with everyone down there possibly compromised already. Florence had poisoned the well.

Wait. Her lips quirked upwards. Not everyone.

The ABB remnants? No, too close to the blonde boy.The Merchants, though? Stupid, violent and drug-addled to a fault, she couldn’t think of better targets. Especially when Florence's subtle little whispers had a harder time sticking when the brain was already swimming in meth and adrenaline.

Cherie turned south, running along the rooftop as she reached out with her power, strumming the emotional chords of the building below her.

Boredom. Hunger. Irritation.

She knew the feel of squatters well enough.

Someone is coming. Someone wants to hurt you.

It barely took five seconds before she heard shouting, the sound of furniture dragging as barricades went up. Good, good.

She reached the edge of the roof, looking down at the street three stories below.

A dumpster. Overflowing with trash bags.

Soft?

Probably not.

But better than the pavement.

Air rushed past her ears, wind tearing at her clothes, as she dropped.

A second later, she hit the bags, garbage shifting to break her fall. Enveloped in the scent of rotting food and old diapers, Cherie bit back a gag and rolled off onto the pavement on her hands and knees. "Okay," she gasped, wiping slime from her hand onto her torn coat as she stood up on a throbbing ankle. "Okay."

Twisted? Just bruised? Doesn't matter. 

She limped toward the intersection, eyes darting.

A group of teenagers on the corner, wearing ratty purple hoodies. Merchants.

They were laughing, passing a bottle. Intoxication. Bravado. Haze.

Cherie fixed her hair and pulled the torn coat closed, a smile as real as any other worn brightly.

"Hey, boys.” Her voice pitched low, a thread of Arousal and Excitement weaving through them and drawing all of them her way. "You mind helping a girl out with something?”

Dull eyes and slack jaws turned her way, Lust already burning bright from beneath the drugs.

"Ayyy, you fine as fuck, babygirl." The tallest one stepped forward, words slurring into each other. “Who you?”

"Just a girl looking for some good guys to party with." Cherie stepped closer, words coming out a purr as her power washed right over them. You want to impress me. You want to protect me. You want to fuck me. "But my... crazy ex-boyfriend and his friends are chasing me."

She pointed back the way she came.

"They're real mean. Think you can handle them?"

The tall one puffed out his chest. Pride. Aggression.

"Yeah. We can handle 'em. Nobody messes with Merchants."

Cherie smiled. 

A real one this time. Or close enough.

"You're my heroes.”