Cold seeped into Kayden's bones, a damp chill that had nothing to do with the persistent drizzle and everything to do with the black, glassy substance encasing half her body. It felt like ice, drinking the meagre light and warmth from her skin. Pain was a dull throb in her shoulder and ribs from the initial blast, which she only barely avoided by taking cover behind a van. But even that ache was overshadowed by the stiff, unyielding pressure of her prison.
She watched him leave. The cape in the soaked black hoodie and a cheap ski mask. He hadn't even hesitated when she called to him. Her voice had cracked, pleading first, then trying to bargain—information, future favours, anything. It shifted to threats born of desperation, demanding he free her, before collapsing back into raw pleas as he methodically loaded the unconscious Bakuda and his spoils into the captured jeep. He hadn't acknowledged her beyond that first, brief eye contact, that silencing gesture that now felt like a mockery. He'd simply driven away, leaving her trapped, exposed, a beacon of diminished light in the smoky ruins.
The abandonment felt colder than the rain, colder than the hardening black goop. A cold that roused memories she would rather forget. And in that cold, the only thing she could cling to was hope. Hope that someone—an ally, another stranger, anyone really—would find her first and help set her free. But even that felt like a fragile, stupid thing. She hadn't told anyone she was coming here tonight. She rarely did these days. Aster and Theo… They were probably asleep already. The thought of them, alone in that apartment, sent a fresh wave of ice through her veins. What would happen to them should the PRT find her before help stumbles her way? Who would look after them if she were in custody? Kaiser? The thought soured in her mouth.
Headlights cut through the smoke first and with it came despair. A standard Brockton Bay Police Department cruiser, rolling slow. The two officers inside peered out, their faces illuminated by the dashboard glow, then by the flickering fires. Recognition dawned on their features. One spoke urgently into his radio, his eyes wide, fixed on her. They didn't approach, just backed the car up slightly, keeping their distance. Smart. Or just protocol when dealing with a known Blaster of her caliber, even one visibly incapacitated.
Minutes crawled by, marked by the crackle of flames and the distant, growing wail of sirens. Then the real response arrived. Three PRT vans, heavy-duty, windowless boxes painted in dull institutional grey. They fanned out, armoured figures spilling from the rear doors, assault rifles held at the ready. Floodlights mounted on the vans snapped on, pinning her in overlapping cones of harsh white light, making her diminished glow seem even weaker, pathetic. Turrets mounted on the van roofs swivelled towards her, and then came the hiss. Streams of greyish-white containment foam sprayed out, layering over the side of her body not held down by the black substance, reinforcing her prison, and building up into thick, insulating walls. Standard procedure. Maximum caution.
They knew who she was. They knew what she could do. They were right to be afraid.
After the foam cannons ceased, two PRT troopers, clad head-to-toe in body armour, approached cautiously. They moved like bomb disposal technicians, slow, deliberate. They examined the black substance, tapped it with a plastic rod, shone tactical lights on its inert surface. One spoke into his helmet mic, confirming the material was inert. They retreated, joining a growing cluster of armoured personnel near the vans. More vehicles were arriving now—heavier trucks, vehicles with unfamiliar equipment mounted on them.
Then, the heroes. Armsmaster arrived first, his power armour gleaming dully even under the harsh floodlights. Miss Militia followed, a minute later. They conferred briefly with the PRT commander on site, then walked towards her, boots crunching on debris before stopping a careful ten feet away.
"Purity," Armsmaster's voice was filtered, synthesized, devoid of inflection. "You are under arrest by the Parahuman Response Team. Pursuant to emergency regulations and established cape protocols, I am required to inform you of your rights specific to parahuman combatants and villains." He recited them—the right to remain silent, negated by thinker abilities; the right to counsel, often assigned and operating under security constraints; the expectation of power nullification and enhanced containment. It was a bleak, stripped-down version of civilian rights.
He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "Understand this, villain. Your situation is critical. At the moment, you will be transported to a PRT holding facility here in Brockton Bay. Your civilian identity and cape alias will be processed and cross-referenced with existing records. Your history with Empire Eighty-Eight, your known violent actions—murder, mass property destruction, terrorism—will result in federal prosecution under parahuman statutes." His voice remained flat, clinical. "Given your power classification and criminal history, a sentence to the Baumann Parahuman Containment Center is the most probable outcome. The Birdcage."
He let that hang in the air. The name itself felt like a physical weight. A life sentence in a hell dimension, cut off from everything. From Aster. From Theo.
"Your only variable in this equation is cooperation," Armsmaster continued, his tone unchanging. "You may choose to express your right to remain silent during the preliminary interrogation that would follow this speech, but that would not serve you here. Substantial, verifiable intelligence will mitigate the push for immediate Birdcaging. It will offer leverage for negotiation regarding sentencing or facility placement. It is your only path. I would advise you, for your sake, to seriously consider it."
Fear, cold and absolute, clenched around Kayden's heart as she considered the implication. She forced her face to remain impassive, locked away the terror behind the mask of Purity's defiance she hadn't realized she was still wearing.
"Let's begin," Armsmaster continued. "Who is responsible for the destruction of this building?" A softball, as he'd likely calculated. Information she had no reason to protect.
She hesitated only a moment, glancing at the heavy machinery now being maneuvered into position nearby—cranes, flatbeds, things with cutting arms she couldn't identify.
"Answer the question, Purity," Armsmaster urged, a bare hint of impatience in the synthesized voice.
"The ABB," Kayden said, her own voice hoarse. "Bakuda."
"Who captured you? Who applied this substance?"
"Bakuda," she repeated.
"And where is Bakuda now?"
Here, she paused again. The masked man. He'd saved her life, in a way... But he'd abandoned her just as readily. Left her for dead. No. From her, he deserved nothing. Resentment burned hot, overriding any flicker of gratitude.
"Gone," she spat. "Another cape took her."
Armsmaster and Miss Militia exchanged glances. Kayden could almost feel the shift in their attention. An unknown third party complicated things.
"Describe them," Armsmaster demanded.
"Male. Tall, maybe six feet—a bit under. Lean build, but strong enough to haul Bakuda around. Dressed like trash—black hoodie, jeans, sneakers. Ski mask covering his face. He was soaked, likely from the rain." She focused, dredging up the details. "He moved fast too. Killed Bakuda's men before they could react. Headshots. Used a pistol, maybe suppressed, it was hard to tell. My ears were still ringing then. Afterward, he just… took Bakuda and her gear and left."
The heroes were silent for a moment, processing. "This individual engaged Bakuda and her forces, then abducted her?" Armsmaster clarified.
"Shot her in the back first. Then took her. I think he crippled the bitch"
"Did you recognize him? Or his abilities? Any affiliation? Any distinguishing marks or technology?" Miss Militia asked, her voice sharp, cutting through Armsmaster's synthesized monotone.
"No. Nothing."
They glanced at each other, silent for a moment, before Armsmaster resumed his interrogation. "Empire Eighty-Eight. We require current locations of known safehouses, weapon caches, recruitment centers..."
Kayden had stopped listening, her jaw tightening. This was the line. Giving them Bakuda, giving them the unknown shooter—that cost her little. Giving up the Empire… some part of her balked. Old loyalty, maybe. Or just the pragmatic understanding that information was her only currency now. She'd shown willingness to cooperate by answering the initial questions. They wouldn't get the rest without guarantees. Solid ones.
"No," she stated flatly, interrupting him. Armsmaster's posture seemed to grow a tad more hostile. He stared silently at her for a long moment, then turned and walked a short distance away, Miss Militia following behind. The pair conferred in low tones that Kaydan couldn't overhear.
One of the heavy machines nearby rumbled to life then. Powerful cutting tools whirred, spraying sparks as they bit into the rock foundation surrounding the hardened black goop and containment foam. The noise was deafening, vibrating through the ground, through her prison. They weren't trying to remove the goop itself, she realised quickly; they were carving out the entire section of rock she was attached to. A heavy-duty transport truck, the kind used for hauling ore or debris, backed up slowly, its massive bed positioned beneath a large crane that had arrived with the support vehicles.
The cutting stopped. The loudest noise now was the grinding hydraulics of the crane as its arm extended, heavy chains and clamps lowering towards the slab of rock she was now part of. Straps were secured. With a groaning protest of stressed metal, the entire chunk—rock, hardened goop, and Kayden Anders—was lifted into the air, swinging ponderously, then lowered carefully into the truck bed. Rough hands immediately began pulling a heavy canvas tarp over the top, plunging her into near darkness, the only light filtering weakly through the weave. The truck's engine roared, and with a lurch, they began to move.
Trapped. Blind. Being hauled away like hazardous waste. Resignation began to set in, heavy and suffocating. This was it. The holding cells, the trial, the inevitable sentence. The Birdcage. Aster, Theo…
Then, chaos erupted outside. Shouts. The unmistakable staccato rhythm of automatic gunfire. The shriek of tortured metal. An explosion nearby rocked the truck. Screams. More gunfire. The truck slammed to a halt, throwing Kaydan painfully against the side of the rock slab. The sounds of battle soon began raging around her. It was distinct enough for her to recognise—A cape fight. Right here.
After a few tense minutes where the sounds seemed to move slightly further away, the truck lurched forward again, accelerating rapidly, turning sharply. It bounced over uneven ground, jostling her painfully. What was happening?
This continued for some time. Sudden bursts of accelerations, decelerations and sharp turns to either direction. Suddenly, the truck screeched to a full halt again, this time in what felt like a more enclosed space—the sounds outside were muffled, echoing slightly. The tarp above her was ripped back.
Blonde hair, pale skin, dark eyeliner framing intense blue eyes beneath the hood of a black and red robe. Rune. Tammi peered down at her from the edge of the truck bed, a look of focused concentration on her face.
Relief washed over Kayden, so potent it almost made her dizzy. "Rune! What is going on…?"
"Kaiser, the twins, and Krieg are keeping the heroes busy," Rune said quickly, already clambering down into the truck bed beside her. Her fingers traced signatures onto the rock slab Kayden was attached to, a faint shimmer gathering around them as she established her telekinetic grip. "Alabaster and Stormtiger are on escort duty. Hookwolf as well, but he got tangled with some Wards further back—had to pull out. We don't have long."
The slab beneath Kayden vibrated as Rune's power took hold. Slowly, impossibly, the massive chunk of rock and obsidian lifted, floating inches above the truck bed.
"Where are we going?" Kayden asked as Rune carefully levitated her towards the edge of the truck.
Rune jumped down lightly to the ground—an alleyway, smelling of damp brick and refuse. "Warehouse nearby. Kaiser's orders. Lay low until he arranges transport out of the city. Says he needs you hidden until we figure out how to get you out of… this." Rune gestured vaguely at her bound form.
Kayden floated out of the truck bed, Rune guiding her movement smoothly. Outside the truck, further down the alley, she saw Stormtiger and Alabaster, vigilant, watching the alley entrance.
Rune glanced back, her expression unreadable for a moment. "Kaiser said he'll look after the kids in the meantime. Keep them safe while you're… indisposed."
Ice returned to Kayden's veins. Kaiser, unsupervised, looking after her children. She knew Max Anders too well, and quickly found herself suspicious of his motives. Unease warred with the relief of rescue, the exhaustion, the pain. But what choice did she have? Trapped like this, she was useless. Powerless. Dependent.
"Alright," Kayden said, the word tasting like ash. She kept her face blank, nodding wordlessly as Rune began guiding her floating, rocky prison down the alley towards the others. She had no other choice. Not now.
Her thoughts wandered then to the cape who had abandoned her, and Kaydan felt her distaste for him grow stronger. The next time she saw him, she swore to herself, she would make sure to teach the fucker a lesson.