Synovus: Villains Never Retire (2)

[This is part two of three for Villains Never Retire, and the third overall installment of Synovus’s story! As usual, if you’d prefer the Ao3 posting, you can find that here, and the master post with links to all of the parts of the Synoverse pinned on my blog, or here. Enjoy!]

All told, you think you did a pretty good job staying out of the scramble for your territory.

Yes, you did somehow manage to get caught up in one of the first power moves someone made and put one of them in the hospital on principle. And okay, maybe you were… tetchy… about people starting to lay claim to titles that once had been yours.

But hey. You were a villain. Selfishness was in your nature.

There was, however, one very significant hurdle to overcome.

You were very quickly becoming dangerously bored.

Normally, you kept yourself busy by partaking in various villainous pastimes. You exercised your powers, studied pop culture to keep your witticisms up to date, and actually studied various goings on from political shifts to news from other villains. If you had a plan upcoming, you worked on filling in its details. If you were in recovery from your last plan… well, you were in recovery.

But with your grand plan of retirement, there was no reason to do any of that. All you had to keep you occupied was a private island full of state of the art facilities, a teenager, and your small army of minions.

Okay, so it shouldn’t have been that hard, but you were used to multitasking, okay?

It didn’t help that everyone else, rather than trying to avoid the news of what was happening on the mainland, were actively keeping up with it. It seemed like every time you entered a room, someone scrambled to change a TV or radio channel, or stop a video’s playback. Several times, you showed up to eat in the dining hall, and found everyone else furiously debating something in a corner - only to stop cold as soon as anyone saw you.

And you also often lost the war against your own curiosity. Typically late at night (by your reckoning, which could mean any time on the clock at all depending on when you’d woken up last), you wound up skimming headlines, or going through your emails.

Still. You didn’t intervene. Not even when fucking Dazzler showed back up, and you hated Dazzler so much you’d spent a year specifically running them out of the hemisphere.

It was tempting, though.

Your self-imposed exile - sorry, retirement - was interrupted about a month after the fighting over the West Coast began in earnest. You woke up one morning to find an invitation set out on your balcony, complete with a completely unnecessary white rose threaded through a signet ring.

You stared at it for a minute. Then you raised your phone and snapped a picture of it, and dropped it into a group chat.

[Syn]: Someone care to explain what this is about?

You left it where it was, and went back inside. You’d need to do laundry before you dealt with that. And probably inform people of where you’d be going.

—-

By the time you were dressed and had eaten something, you had a response.

[Tall]: It hasn’t been that long since you came to a meeting, Synovus.

[Dr.W]: We even gave you a few hours’ notice. This time.

You hissed at your phone as you replied.

[Syn]: I recall the last meeting. I also recall, not long after that, delivering my resignation to each and every one of you in this chat.

You might’ve gone on to say more - but you nearly ran into Minerva, and abruptly had to reach out to steady her.

“Watch- Synovus?”

The once-hero was balanced on crutches, which she was not adapting to with any fluidity. Her leg, broken at Alexandria’s birthday dinner a month ago, was nearly healed. Or at least, it would be, if she stopped trying to walk on it. The wonders of a heroic healing factor.

“That is my name.” You reply intelligently.

Minerva scowls at you, and at first you think it’s for nearly running into her or your reply, but then she surprises you by going so far as to take one hand off of her crutches - to indicate your clothes. “Where are you going?”

“Well, you needn’t be so suspicious, dear Minerva.” You drawl. The helmet is still tucked under one arm, but you already feel the mask of your field persona slipping back into place. It’s comforting, if inconvenient.

For a moment, Minerva blocks your way, staring you down. You meet her eyes, relatively unbothered. You two have done a variation of this particular dance too many times by now not to know how it ends - with you getting away.

She whistles.

You wince.

“What’s up?” Asks your young protégé, poking her head out of a door in the hall. “Did you throw one of the crutches aga- oh.”

Alexandria slips more fully into the hall, considering you curiously. “I thought we didn’t have any more training exercises today?”

It’s a reasonable assumption. You and Alexandria have been keeping to her training regimen, at least. Those sessions are the only times you’ve donned your costume since you delivered your notes of notice (for all the good that seems to have done you).

“We do not.” You answer shortly. “I have a meeting.”

“With who?” Alexandria asks, tilting her head. Minerva is still watching you with an intense scrutiny you find more annoying than unsettling.

“Individuals.”

“Villains?”

“Presumably.”

“Anyone I’d know?”

“Probably.”

“Where’s the meeting?”

“Elsewhere.”

“When is it?”

“Soon.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

“Synovus!” Oflok calls, jogging down the hall after you with a small box in one hand, “good, glad I caught you - these are for Tallflawes.”

Either oblivious to or uncaring of Minerva and Alexandria’s reactions (one a sharp start, the other a more subtle tensing) Oflok tucks the box of what you know are cookies into your upturned helmet, while you pinch the bridge of your nose.

Minerva recovers first, “Tallflawes, as in the supervillain, I presume?”

“The Scourge of the East Coast!” Alexandria sounds, if anything, like she might start squealing in excitement. “Oh that makes sense that you two would cooperate! Hey, did you know that there’s a group on the Internet who thinks you two should date-“

“I am not dating Tallflawes.” You snap, flushed. You know exactly who to blame for that stupid fan theory.

Oflok gives you a look. “You’ve done worse.” She comments, and you wish she meant the murdering.

Scowling, you tug on Oflok’s shadow, turning it briefly physical to tug at her ears. Most people find the reminder of your ability to manipulate their personal shadows suitably intimidating.

Oflok sticks out her tongue at you.

You resist the urge to respond in kind.

“Do you know who else is going to be at this meeting?” Minerva demands, but she’s looking at Oflok.

“Ah.” Oflok glances at you, and you throw up your free hand in askance. “Lord Synovus-“ (it was one of those kinds of days, as you’d told her earlier) “-is sworn not to discuss those meetings. You know how he is.”

Alexandria nods, “Well, if Tallflawes is there, and it’s not a one-on-one, that’ll probably mean… something to do with territory? That’ll mean Gray Gangster at least, since he controls a good chunk of the area between you two? I don’t know anyone else who has significant enough territory to bother.”

“Dr. Wraith.” Minerva says grimly. “And the mages, Unwritten and Chanter.”

“Touched as I am that you all are so concerned about my social circles.” You interject, before they can keep guessing your comrades. “I do, in fact, need to get to this meeting, so if you will just scoot your righteousness to one side-“

“I’m going.” Alexandria announces, “So lead the way.”

When you glare at her, she shrugs, “I am your apprentice.”

Minerva’s expression at that is a study you don’t have time for - not the least because she informs you, “I am not allowing my daughter into a room full of supervillains without me there.”

The idea of it - taking Menace as your shadow, while Athena stands guard at your shoulder in furiously disapproving silence - is. Well. It just is, and it shouldn’t be, because this should never have come up.

“Easy fix.” You reply smoothly, on autopilot, “as neither of you will be going. This is not a meeting for apprentices or injured over-protective heroes.”

“I’ve fought through worse injuries.” Minerva says stubbornly.

“Mom, I don’t need you to protect me so much anymore-“ Alexandria abandons that angle completely at the look Minerva gives her, and tries another, “- it wouldn’t make any sense for you to go, why would Athena be there?”

“Then I won’t go as Athena.” Minerva says, irked. “Synovus has to have spares. That’ll do for one evening.”

You nearly have a heart attack in the goddamn hallway. Mental image of Minerva in your costume aside, you can’t think of any way to declare that you are hiding someone more clearly than to have them show up in your hand-me-downs. Even Menace’s costume was designed to be different, regardless of the similarities between them.

Tallflawes and Wraith would have a field day.

“This.” You tell Oflok, deadly serious. “This is why we keep our mouths shut, my dear Fair Lady of the Kitchen. This. Is your fault. Fix it.”

“Well, there is that project we’ve been working on.” Oflok muses, and that is when you know you are well and truly fucked.

—-

At least you finally get a chance to reply to the group chat again.

[Tall]: Yes, I did get your note. Very elegant.

[????]: Yeah about that… the swirling miasma of chaos that is my life kinda… ate it before I could read it?

[????]: Saw the Twitter post though.

[Tall]: Decidedly not elegant.

[OP]: I did not receive a note. This upsets me.

[Syn]: Optix, give me a physical location to find you, and I will gladly remedy my error.

[OP]: No :P

[Dr.W]: Come on, Synovus. You didn’t really think the rest of us would continue to suffer through these meetings without you, did you?

[Ibis]: My companion and I will also be in attendance. We wish to see you, Synovus.

[*GP*]: Ooh, wouldn’t wanna upset the goddess, Syn

[Syn]: Someone remind me why we added Prodigy.

[Dr.W]: I believe it was your suggestion, with Optix’s support.

[Dr.W]: You did not elaborate on your reasoning, but Optix said something about ‘memes’ being ‘fire.’

[Dr.W]: It was mixed with emoticons, so I can only presume my interpretation is correct.

[*GP*]: [FortniteDance.gif]

Syn, ????, Tall, Dr.W, and Ibis have reacted to this message with *thumbs down*

[OP]: Synovus, bring your guests

[Dr.W]: Guests?

[Tall]: Optix, I feel obligated to remind you not to listen to anyone through our devices.

[Tall]: Additionally, I second both the question and the suggestion.

[Syn]: …

[Ibis]: We wish also to meet your allies.

[Ibis]: Unless they are prisoners - then we will respect your rights to your own sacrifices.

[Dr.W]: Here - all in favor of extending the Right of Parley to Synovus’s guests for the duration of the next gathering?

Tall, *GP*, ????, Ibis, and OP have reacted to this message with *thumbs up*

[Syn]: … Will the teleporter you sent me even take more than one person?

[Tall]: You’ll have to stand rather close together, but I see no issue - provided, of course, your collective mass does not exceed the specifications.

[*GP*]: Wait, who’s playing host this time? Need to know if I should eat before or not.

Resigned, you get the details from Tallflawes, and promises that the others will intervene if anyone else at the meeting not in your chat - namely, Gangster and Chanter - try anything.

While the banter continues (now at Galactic Prodigy’s expense instead of your own - the poor soul had made a typo), you set your phone down, and rub at your face with both hands. You are currently sitting in your own - well, okay, it was technically a sitting room.

You were waiting on Minerva and Alexandria, was the point.

You pull the package of cookies out of your helmet and tuck it into a pocket where it won’t get too crushed - you’re tempted to just eat them, but you know Oflok will make you wait while she makes more. You’ve had enough peer pressure for one day.

Helmet now clear, you slip it on, and find comfort in the familiarity of the interior, and being closed off from the world again.

As the clasps are sealing and the audio is syncing, you catch Menace’s voice, calling, “Ready!”

You look up, noting that she also has her helmet on now - though you could tell from the voice. Like your helmet, hers has a slight affectation, allowing her to sound more feminine without focusing. Though yours is featureless, hers has angles, more akin to a motorcycle helmet with a permanent visor.

And behind her is Minerva, in the results of some of your attempts to avoid boredom.

(Well, that wasn’t the only reason you’d designed it - but it was the reason you’d gone from concept to testing, ostensibly just to see if you could do it. You’d never intended to actually show it to her.)

‘Athena’ had been styled after a war goddess, what was worshipped by her partner. This costume, which you’d mentally dubbed ‘Amphitrite,’ was meant to fit the woman who wore it. You knew it wasn’t quite the same, given it was your design and not Minerva’s, but-

“Are these real pearls?” Minerva demands, running a hand over the scalloped edge of her half-mask. The pearls in question are set into the brow, at different points to accentuate the design.

You blink. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

Minerva makes a disapproving noise, and you roll your eyes. “They’re not load bearing, and they’re naturally harvested with mindfulness for the environment. You can pry them out to give to the poor or people who help you if you want.”

Minerva narrows her gaze at you, though it’s filtered slightly by the glass lenses of this mask. “You’ve… put a lot of thought into this.”

You shrug as you stand. “It seemed a shame not to have something more fitting for your costume.” You don’t intend for that to be a double-entendre, but given that this suit does hug the figure more, you realize it could be. You move on rather than address it, circling to check the seals and explaining as you do.

“It’s modeled after a wetsuit, so you won’t have to worry about potential wear and tear. The interior is woven with Kevlar and padded for ballistics. I presumed you’d prefer something more akin to your old costume in terms of contact, if only for familiarity, ergo-“ You gesture to the mask, “No full helmet, and the collar not reaching your chin. All of the compartments are water tight, and the compression should help with deep dives.”

You fold your arms, considering, “I wouldn’t recommend relying on it in arctic waters, we didn’t get to testing that factor.”

Minerva blinks, having stood warily still throughout your inspection. “And the color?”

Rather than white and gold, as her old suit had been, ‘Amphitrite’ was a darker blue, with slight lines of distortion. There were panels of extra fabric at the waist for modesty, though they were shorter than the skirt of Athena’s chiton.

You’d kept the gold accents though. Small gleams at the neck, wrists, and hips. Lining under the eyes of the mask. It worked with her hair.

“Camouflage. White or black stands out in the water. Blue seemed both fitting from a design standpoint, and practical.”

Minerva rolls her shoulders, quietly pensive. You realize you’re holding your breath.

“Well?” Menace prompts, leaning in to poke at her mother.

“I-“ Minerva falters, then sighs. “Thank you, Synovus. It’s - unexpected.”

“You think it’s creepy.” You conclude, sighing. “I promise you the measurements were guesses-“

“It’s - a little unsettling.” Minerva admits, “But not for the reasons you think. Before I became Athena, I… would occasionally go out for ocean rescues. I wore a wetsuit… and a snorkel mask.”

She reaches up to touch the edge of the mask you’ve given her again. You can place that hesitancy now - it’s wonder.

“I didn’t know.” You say softly, and it’s the truth. “Though I take it that means you don’t dislike it?”

“She loves it.” Menace informs you.

“A- Menace.” Minerva scolds.

You are grinning, beneath your helmet. “Well, in that case, there is one other matter of business before we can leave.”

“And that would be?”

“A name!” Menace crows, “A villain name!”

“I am not a villain.” Minerva corrects her quickly.

Menace shrugs, “You are for this meeting. I suggest Pacifica, after the ocean.”

“In my notes for the costume, I referred to it as Amphitrite, in keeping with your previous naming convention.” You offer.

Minerva shakes her head, “When I first started,” she says quietly, “I told people, when they asked, that a Naiad had rescued them.”

“Then a Naiad you will be.” You accept. The name, both Greek and tied to the water nymphs, feels right.

But you weren’t here to play dress up.

“The others you’re going to meet today know I change methods of address, but for formality reasons, will default to the neutral. I ask that you do the same. Do not speak unless spoken to, and even then I might intervene. You have been granted the Right of Parley for this meeting - that means you must also agree to grant it to others. That means no violence, no mental influences, and no poisoning. If someone else draws, you may do the same - but you must let them make the first move to strike, or the agreement is void.”

“What happens if someone breaks the agreement?” Menace asks.

“I happen.” You say flatly. “Questions?”

You leave out the times these meetings have turned into full scale brawls. You’d had to learn who could be invited and who couldn’t, and it was an ever shifting roster.

“Several.” Minerva - Naiad - says grimly, “but none, I suspect, that you would answer. Let’s get this over with.”

“Menace has been recognized as my student. Naiad, you will be a petitioner I have granted sanctuary. If anyone asks further, tell them you invoke right of privacy. They’ll still push, but it means officially they’re supposed to go to me about it as your sponsor.”

When they both nod, you gesture for them to follow you to the balcony, where the ring and rose still rest. You pick them up, and decide it’s better to show than tell.

You pull the rose free of the ring, and drop the signet to the ground. It expands, metal fluid and shifting now that it’s been triggered, but maintaining the perfect circle.

Once it stops, you step into it, and gesture for Naiad and Menace to join you. It is a little awkward - like trying to stand three people inside an oversized hula hoop - but as Tallflawes promised, doable.

“Pemberley.” You invoke - and you snap the stem of the rose.

—-

Between one blink and the next, you are there, and then you are here.

‘There’ had been a balcony in the Pacific, balmy air coming in off of the waves, the sun just past its zenith.

‘Here’ was a well-furnished room in the modern style, with one wall consisting of floor-to-ceiling windows, showing you the night sky and the distant Atlantic.

You shake your shoulders, dispelling the strange sensation teleporting always gave you.

“Pemberley?” Naiad questions. “As in-“

“Yes!” Calls a delighted voice from behind you, because Tallflawes is, after all, a villain. “A delightful choice of name for a home, isn’t it?”

You step out of the circle before you turn, letting the stem drop and tucking the rose blossom into a pocket. It gives you a moment before you have to actually address her.

“Tallflawes uses a coded system to designate transportation points.” You explain, “based, for some unfathomable reason, on primarily Gothic literature.”

You come to a stop in front of Tallflawes herself, and incline your head in a regal acknowledgment of the host for the evening.

“I’m surprised you didn’t tell them before you arrived.” She responds with a smirk.

Though Tallflawes has to look up at you to do it, she’s long since mastered the art of meeting your eyes through your helmet. Though she will occasionally wear masks in the field, here at her home, she hasn’t bothered. And though you know she’s worn a variety of ‘costumes’ over the years… she’s chosen a white pantsuit to host, marked with the shoulder-and-lapel accents of her particular technology.

You can’t help but smile, “What fun is there in explaining everything?”

You leave the question rhetorical, gesturing behind you, “Menace, my protégé, and Naiad. I take responsibility for their actions and damages, for the duration of our meeting.”

“So you have spoken,” Tallflawes replies smoothly, “So you must live. Welcome to my home, Menace, Naiad. I will not promise you peace, only a place at my table.”

It’s still strange, to hear someone else speak the ritual words. To be the visitor, instead of the host.

You feel more than see Menace and Naiad watching you - but now is not the time to respond.

“Formalities aside, Tallflawes, you never did explain the purpose of this meeting.”

She gestures for you to follow, and you fall into step beside her as she leads the way through a selection of hallways and adjoining rooms. “Why, Synovus, darling, it’s you of course.”

You’re fairly certain both of your hangers-on tense, but you are unperturbed. “Doubtful.”

“Would I lie to you, my dearest?”

“Only as much as I lie to you, dear heart.” Your tone is sardonic. Hers is not. There was a time your positions were reversed. But regardless of the tone, you know you both understand each other.

“Well, that’s only fair.” Tallflawes agrees, shrugging. “But I’d rather only go through everything once.”

You tip your head in recognition, and change the topic accordingly. “Your sense in decor hasn’t changed.”

Indeed, from the white walls of the room you’d arrived in, to the pale gray of the furniture, everything you’d passed so far had been remarkably monochromatic, with only the dark lines of supporting furniture to accentuate the lack of color.

“All the better to show the bloodstains.” Tallflawes replies serenely, as you reach a door. “Take your seat, Synovus. We’ll begin shortly.”

You know that’s not why she decorates in white, of course. Tallflawes would never spill blood in her living quarters - at least, not without having it immediately cleaned and the victimized furniture replaced.

No, Tallflawes decorates in white because it makes every guest uncomfortable. It leaves everyone who walks her halls checking surreptitiously for shoe prints in the carpet, smudges on glass, feeling as though they are an embarrassing stain in a spotless world.

And you, in your dark costume, had always been like a walking blot of ink on a white page, slinking from one part of the building to the next. You had recognized the power play for what it was, and in defiance, had actively stained something every time you visited. Spilled drinks, actual ink blots from pens. Sometimes you’d had to get creative.

But now, all of the seats for her guests, spread out in this room in a rough circle, are black.

You settle into the chair that is yours (it’s complicated to explain why you know it is yours - a combination of view of entrance and exits and decor patterns and who else is sitting where) with a practiced grace, tossing your cape over one arm of the chair and leaning against the other, legs crossing comfortably.

Menace and Naiad shuffle for a moment, before finding their places at your shoulders - likely modeling it on how Gray Gangster, across from you, has two of his enforcers at the ready.

Everyone else is alone - bar Unwritten, who this time has a small dragon in her lap, gnawing ferociously on the upholstery - except for Ibis, who sits a few seats over from you with Vulture directly beside her. It throws off the symmetry of the circle to have their chairs so close together. Tallflawes has solved this by putting herself opposite the pair, with you and Gangster on the other quarter-axis. You approve.

On your left is Dr. Wraith, the immortal with a penchant for robbing museums. You’re not sure how old she actually is, and you do know for certain that not every artifact she’s stolen under the pretense of ‘reclaiming’ has actually belonged to her at some point, but you can account firsthand for how hard she is to kill. She gives you a wintry smile.

On your right sits Unwritten, now enticing her dragon to gnaw on the tie of her robes instead of Tallflawes’ furniture. “Hello, Syn.” She calls merrily. Her clothing changes color as you watch, but she doesn’t seem to be aware of it. Perils of being a chaos mage.

Ibis, in an excess of golden jewelry, sits with her consort on Unwritten’s other side. She bares her teeth at you in what you understand as a favorable greeting, and ruffles her wings in lieu of a wave. Supposedly, she and Vulture are the most recent vessels of long dead gods. You’re not sure if that’s objectively true, but you’re hardly one to throw stones for a bit of self-aggrandizement. Or a God complex either, really.

Past Vulture, and flanking Gray Gangster, is Chanter. He raises a brow at your two guests, but nods solemnly. Where Unwritten is chaos ever-roiling, Chanter is tightly constrained. His posture is perfect, his clothing neat. The only sign of his abilities are the swirling colors in the gemstones of his necklace, and in the small pocketwatch-shaped device he keeps on a chain wrapped around one hand.

Gray Gangster themselves is as unreadable as always. They won’t speak at this meeting - you’ve only ever heard them speak once - but their enforcers will translate what they want. A traditional pin suit and fedora marks the crime boss of the North. They do not offer you a greeting.

“Heya Jim.” You call to one of the enforcers you recognize.

“Synovus,” he replies respectfully, dipping his head.

Seated on Gangster’s right, between him and Tallflawes, is a bouncing bundle of energy you know as G.P. - Galactic Prodigy.

Lanky, blue skinned, and with several tendrils that he continues to insist cannot be described as ‘tentacles’ in place of hair, Prodigy never had a chance at blending in among humans. Lucky for him, he’d never intended to.

Prodigy had been an instant splash with the hero scene - though, as one of only.. (five? Yeah you were pretty sure the number was still five, unless Astrae had had her kid) five aliens on Earth, he would’ve stood out regardless. You remembered the first time you saw an advertisement for his themed cereal.

But then the kid had realized he wanted to go home, maybe, at some point, and he’d wound up in some trouble that you’d had to haul him out of, and some people who wanted nothing more than to lock him up somewhere and study him had taken that as opportunity to brand him a traitor. And Prodigy had decided that crime was more fun anyway.

He mostly pissed off governments by stealing classified files - making sure no one else wound up where they’d wanted to put him.

And that left Tallflawes, reigning queen of the circle and host of this tenuous peace. Her chair was slightly raised on a small dais. She had a small table on which to set a champagne glass, which you knew actually held a non-alcoholic sparkling cider. As she took her seat, she did not look at anyone in particular, instead checking something on a summoned view screen.

That technology was not public access - hell, even you had only figured out a few basic components to some of what Tallflawes did. It wasn’t that she was a genius - though she was, undoubtedly - it was that she was a woman out of time.

Some indeterminate amount of time in the future (she refused to tell anyone when, exactly) Tallflawes had been grappling with a hero for different reasons. During the fight, they had both been knocked into a contraption she’d been working on with the aim of deciphering time travel. It had worked - but she hadn’t planned on it being activated yet, and certainly not as a round-trip.

So she and the hero known as ‘Blue Prophet’ were stuck in the now.

Tallflawes, disinclined to give her technology to anyone else anyway, had immediately found ways to set up shop again, and now hand-crafted most of her tech in a foundry/workshop downstairs. Prophet, she’d told you once, had nowhere near the amount of knowledge needed to do the same - so he only had what he’d brought with him.

She was rather smug about that.

You realize Menace has leaned over towards you when she murmurs, “What’s the significance of Pemberley?”

“Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen. The estate the protagonist moves to once she’s married, and proof of her suitor’s good heart and business sense.” You reply, gesturing vaguely to the area around you. “Also, in this case, definitely bugged.”

“Noted. What’s our island called, then?”

You sigh, “Thornfield. From Jane Eyre, by Emily Brontë.”

Naiad gives you an incredulous side-eye.

“What does that represent?”

“You know, Menace, I believe I have a copy at home. You can borrow it and find out yourself.”

“That doesn’t help me know what it means now, though.”

“Naiad seems to recognize it. Why doesn’t she explain?”

Naiad exhales in a near-imperceptible sigh. You realize she probably has a lot of practice at this - keeping her mouth and jaw still, if not the rest of her face. “I support you broadening your literary horizons and coming to your own conclusions.”

Menace leans further forward, “Wait, you agree with Synovus?”

“That is not what I said.”

“It is what she meant though.” You confide to one side, not quiet enough that Naiad can’t hear you.

You might’ve continued - or Menace might’ve found something else to ask about, there were certainly plenty of conversation starters in the room - except Tallflawes looked up from her screen. Recognizing the sign, you raised a hand, gently nudging Menace back into place.

“Before we begin with this meeting’s purpose.” Tallflawes calls, and her voice is clear and commanding, “Are there any relevant challenges that must be settled?”

“Nope.” Replies Prodigy. At a look from Tallflawes (and Wraith and Chanter) he sighs, and recites, “I hold no grudges with anyone here.”

One of the enforcers - Not-Jim - speaks for Gangster. Chanter gives his affirmation solemnly. Ibis uses the plural as Vulture simply nods. Unwritten mostly sticks to the script.

You go to give your oath, and pause. Athena, your rival, is standing at your shoulder. In a different name, in a different costume. Someone who hurt her child, accidentally or no, and was working to change.

The question was - did you still hold a grudge?

“Whether I hold a grudge against anyone present remains to be seen.” You settle for that, “though I give my oath that any potential grudges will not see consequence until well after this meeting’s conclusion.”

Tallflawes watches you for much too long. She nods, and turns to Dr. Wraith, who gives the standard answer.

“Aw come on,” Prodigy complains, “Why does Synovus get to give a different answer?”

“Because Synovus is retired.” You drawl, “And only here to find out what you all could possibly want.”

“The oath given was sufficient.” Tallflawes says, as though you hadn’t spoken. “Though Synovus is why we are here. We don’t have many rules - and I don’t intend to ask anyone to follow any more than we already do. But I think we all need to know a few things about your plans for retirement.”

She taps the arms of her chair, looking at you expectantly.

“I’m retiring.” You reiterate, “if you want specifics, ask for them.”

“A point of clarification before we devolve-“ Chanter puts in, leaning forward, “- Synovus, are you aware of what’s been happening in your territory since you announced your retirement?”

Awful question. Admit to ignorance, or pretend you know everything. You do neither, “Again, you’ll have to be more specific before I can answer that question.”

“He refers,” Dr. Wraith says softly, “To the small scale war breaking out between upstarts. The kind you normally put down, or intimidated too much for them to start.”

You sigh, “That is to be expected. I covered a lot of ground with several large scale cities - and it isn’t as though I had a no-interference policy.”

“And if you want to watch those cities burn, that’s your business.” Unwritten says cheerfully, “I just want to know if you’re backing anyone, so I know who to bet on.”

“What.”

Jim shrugs, “You do have a student, after all. Maybe you wanted to have them take over?” He looks towards Menace, and several others do as well.

“Though we haven’t seen her out and about - or heard much at all about her yet.” Unwritten agrees, peering closer.

“An apprentice succeeding the master is only natural.” Chanter points out.

“Menace is under my tutelage - but she is not my pawn.” You say coldly, straightening from your lounged position. “If she wishes to take my place, that will be her affair.”

“Do you?” Asks Tallflawes, and she is no longer looking at you.

Menace, to her immense credit, doesn’t fidget under the gaze of so many monsters from her bedtime stories. “I have no plans to do so at this time.”

Dr. Wraith laughs, in a sign of approval. “Inherited Synovus’s tongue, if nothing else.”

You give her a sharp glance that she has no way of knowing occurred, picking up on the word choice. You haven’t addressed allegations she’s your actual child, and you don’t intend to be baited into discussing it now either.

“I choose my words for myself, Dr. Wraith. My teachers deserve their credit where it is due - but do not presume I am only their creation.”

Dr. Wraith gives another cold smile, and you’d swear you can feel Naiad’s blood pressure rising.

“A warning aptly given.” Tallflawes says coolly, “And not one we are likely to forget, child. The question remains. Clarified - Synovus, do you name a successor to your territory?”

“I do not.”

“What about your rivals?” Prodigy asks, having folded his legs up underneath him.

You are still.

“Athena and her Legionnaire.” Ibis hums, “I do not believe she is like us… but I would like to find out.”

“Bit difficult, given Legionnaire’s dropped off the map.” Not-Jim says.

Unwritten shrugs, balancing her dragon on one hand as it tried to climb on top of her head, “It never made sense to me that they were your rivals anyway, Synovus, so you know I’m in favor.”

“Dazzler or White Shadow would’ve been more thematic.” That’s Chanter, and you’re reminded why you’ve never liked him.

“This is an old conversation.” Dr. Wraith puts in, “the point is, if Synovus is retired, they may no longer claim the Right of Rivalry against the heroes Athena and Legionnaire.”

“Point of clarification.” Asks a voice from over your shoulder, and you tense as Naiad continues, “Define the Right of Rivalry?”

Chanter, again, “Your patron is the one who penned the Right. You do not know?”

Tallflawes’ eyes do not narrow, but you do feel them weighing on you.

Prodigy speaks before she can, “Hey, it took me forever to learn these things, no harm in wanting to know for sure.”

He looks at Naiad, and you wonder if they have met before. If he will know her, beneath the mask. You should have asked. You didn’t.

“Basically, no one is supposed to kill someone else’s rival, or go out of their way to fuck them over. There’s a whole lot of wiggle room if one of them comes after you or someone changes territories, or something happens, but it’s our way of calling dibs.”

Chanter remarks disdainfully, “Synovus has broken the Right before, of course.”

You force yourself to relax back into your chair. “Point of contention.” You say, as though bored, “The case of death of Igneous was ruled valid, and I have settled the debt with Heathen.”

Unwritten snorts, and you hear her mutter, “flying submarine.”

“Point - both of them - acknowledged.” Tallflawes cuts in. “Synovus, do you acknowledge that you may no longer claim the Right of Rivalry?”

You are silent, for a beat. You knew this was a possibility, but to bring it up here is forcing the issue. Is someone else eager to hunt them? It would have to be someone here, powerful enough to be willing to risk your wrath -

“I claim inheritance of Synovus’s rivals.” Menace says.

Tallflawes tilts her head, “On what grounds? No more than that they were your patron’s rivals?”

You do not speak. You cannot. To do so would be seen for what it would be - a desperate attempt at a cover up.

But Menace, your menace, continues on with her own gamble. She says simply, “They are my parents.”

There is silence in the room. In that silence, you can hear Naiad’s sharp intake of breath, and the creak of Menace’s gloves as she tightens her grip, hands clasped behind her back. You know how far it is to the nearest window and how everyone here will begin if it turns to violence. Shadows begin to knot, unseen, under your palms.

And then Gray Gangster laughs. Chuckles, really. It’s rough, and unsettling, and sounds like something from a graveyard had dragged its way up to sit in this room and mock you. He claps, slowly, exactly three times, as his enforcers watch him intently.

Not-Jim looks up, at you. “He congratulates you, Synovus.” They say neutrally, “On going above and beyond his expectations for your agreement. He will support Menace’s claim.”

With that declaration, the spell of silence is broken. Ibis and Vulture mutter to each other, speculative, while Chanter slowly nods. Dr. Wraith is staring at Menace, calculative, and tsks in a way that might indicate sympathy. Tallflawes cuts a glance towards Prodigy. Prodigy gives a bewildered shrug.

“We acknowledge Menace’s claim to the Right of Rivalry with Athena and Legionnaire. Are there any other matters of business we must address?”

The meeting continues - but no one in your party speaks again.

—-

It’s only after you teleport all three of you back to the island (crushing the rose blossom in your palm with a terse ‘Thornfield’) that you expect the dam to break.

You are braced for it, prepared, waiting for the accusations and demands and questions. You stand on your balcony, letting the warm wind whip past you, and you wait for them to begin.

But Menace leaves first, stepping off the balcony railing and into the air to soar straight up, far away from both you and her mother. She leaves without a word.

Naiad - Athena, Minerva - is almost worse. She pulls off her mask, as the two of you watch Menace’s outline grow smaller. She watches her daughter fly away, and says softly, “Well. You did warn me you were a liar, Synovus.”

She leaves her mask on the railing, right where the ring and rose were earlier, and turns to leave. It is her parting shot that hurts more;

“More the fool, I.”

And you can only stand and stare at the starlight, alone.

[Do not fear! There will be a (at least slightly) happier conclusion - but this does mean instead of a two-parter, you all will be waiting on a part three. See you then!]