by Chewy Walrus and GoozX
The EPS:
O'Hare Airport, Chicago:
Amid a proverbial sea of human and metahuman corpses, a swirling blue mass appeared as if from nowhere. A man stepped out, gripping a silver-headed cane in his right hand and a Cuban cigar in his left. He quickly surveyed the area around him, took a puff from his stogie, and mumbled to himself, "Missed the party again, eh, Tweed, old boy?"
The carnage around William Marcy Tweed was absolutely devastating. Men, women, and children laid strewn about him. Some died because they were metahumans, known to the community at large as the unseen menace. Some died because they were humans, fighting to keep the blasted metas off of their territory. Others died because they were innocent bystanders, killed in a war that they did not understand, killed without feeling, without emotion, without reason.
Suddenly, as clear as a dinner bell ringing through the air after a long day of work, Tweed heard a noise. Instantly, he dropped from sight, his cane, cigar, and clothes all vanishing from view. Turning, the invisible man saw a woman, battered and scarred, rising up from the valley of corpses and standing to her feet. She was young, probably no older than nineteen years of age and was most likely quite the heart-breaker before this whole thing had started.
Tweed noted that, as she looked around, she appeared a bit confused. The look on her face made her thoughts fairly evident to the former mob boss. I could've sworn there was someone here!
Tweed raised an eyebrow as the girl slowly turned away from him and began walking toward a nearby exit gate. Curious, Tweed decided to follow the girl.
Along the way, the EPS agent found himself wondering who she was, how she had come to survive, and where she was going. He noted that the look on her face was now intent, deliberate, with the slightest hint of worry. She slipped among the shadows, rioting still taking place in the streets.
She must be normal, thought Tweed to himself as he stalked her. A human. Why else would she be hiding? Keeping away from the streets? Any other meta would be fighting. This girl must be trying to get home safely.
After two and a half hours and about four miles of walking around in circles, to make sure no one was following her, Tweed surmised, the girl stopped suddenly, dropping to her knees and creeping, very slowly, out of the alley she inhabited and onto a nearby curb. Once there, she slipped, slowly but efficiently, not to mention unseen, into an open drain spout that led to the Chicago sewer system.
Still invisible to the naked eye, Tweed walked over to the small opening and shook his head, rubbing his large stomach. Taking a puff from his stogie, he whispered to himself, "You have GOT to be kidding me..."
Looking around, Tweed took in more destruction from the Chicago streets. Everyone had been too busy to notice the girl slipping into the sewers. And, if Tweed had his way, they would not see him, either.
The invisible man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. As he did so, he felt himself becoming immaterial, intangible. Smiling as he felt the last of his mass slip away, he took a nosedive through the ground, just in time to see his target running around a pipe not too far away.
Retaining his intangibility, Tweed ran after her, his legs ripping through the surface of the sewage without making so much as a sound or a ripple. Tweed continued to follow her through the complex maze of the sewer system. He recognized these sewers slightly, as he had once, in his glory days as a crime lord, led a smuggling operation through these tunnels. So he recognized the site under which they were standing when the girl finally slowed her pace: O'Hare Airport.
We've made one gigantic loop! Tweed thought to himself, exasperated at having done all that work only to be back in the same place he had started from. Who is this woman? Why is she in the sewers at all? What is she hiding?
The answer to Tweed's question came much sooner than he had expected. The next turn that the girl made led to a large opening in which sat a few dozen metahumans, all huddled tightly together, some with frightened looks on their faces.
"Were you followed?" an abnormally tall man asked as the girl walked to the center of the room, warming herself by a fire that blazed from an old oil barrel.
"I'm not sure, Ben," the girl said. Tweed was surprised at her voice: she sounded years older than she looked. "I could've sworn I saw and heard someone before I left O'Hare, but when I looked up, he was gone. I went along the prearranged entry path, but all the while I still felt as though I was being watched and followed!"
"It's probably just your nerves," Ben reassured her, patting her on the back. "There is a war on, after all."
"Do you really think pacifism is the answer, Ben?"
"Of course, Allison," the tall man responded, sitting down and motioning for her to do the same. "Rothman is a madman. We cannot follow his lead, or we will surely die. The Ghost did not train us to fight so frivolously. Do not forget that we were humans once, as well. Fighting them is like fighting ourselves. We have no other alternative but to remain unaffiliated."
"I still think it's a sign of cowardice," Allison said, a certain malice dripping from her words. Tweed smiled. The girl was a free spirit. She did not like hiding.
"Still," Ben interrupted, "we mustn't let others dictate our actions. We mustn't let men like Rothman tell us what to do!"
"So, we should let men like the Eurostar tell us what to do, then?" Allison said, raising her voice and standing to her feet, attracting the attention of everyone in the room. "Let him talk us into a revolution that will never occur? We cannot live with the humans, yet we cannot fight them? You are an idealist, Ben, the same as he is. And I hate the both of you!"
"Allison, wait!" Ben said as the girl began to walk out of the room. "You cannot leave! Only together can we remain safe to brave the coming storm!"
"Wrong," Allison said, pulling a walkie-talkie from her pocket. She smiled as she spoke into it. "This is Special Agent Martinson. Converge on my location."
Tweed shuddered as, within minutes, FBI agents in full riot gear stormed the sewer pipes, opening fire on the innocent metahumans in hiding. He noted the smug look on Allison Martinson's face as she personally fired a shot directly through Ben's skull. The men and women in the room did not even attempt to fight back. The firefight was over almost before it began.
Tweed, studying Allison closely, began to deduce her story. A young FBI agent, she was sent to infiltrate the Zoo in order to weed out any potentially dangerous metahumans. Upon their escape, she then took to the sewers with the rest of her brethren in order to maintain her cover. All the while, she let the Bureau know of her movements and those taking place underground. When talk of the revolution began to spread, she was there to report it to the government.
There was no way the metas could have won. She stayed with the weakest among them in order to ensure not only her own safety, but also that no meta escaped. And here she was, her year of carefully planned strategy come into play.
And it was evident that she loved every second of it.
Tweed found that he no longer had pity or curiosity for the girl. Turning, he walked through the sewers, invisible and intangible, until he would come across a suitable place to open a doorway.
The sun slowly died out of sight, yet the fires that ravaged the city of Chicago blazed on in a glory of pain and misery. Riots spread just as fast as the so-called Meta Revolution, with metas killing humans, metas killing metas, humans killing metas, and even humans killing humans. A mess of blood and bodies littered the ground.
Turner could not help but close his eyes. He had seen much death in his short life. He had even killed many, but this was different. This was disgusting beyond thought.
Turner did not notice as a large brute slammed his hairy fist into his back. A normal human would have hit the ground dead, broken in half by the sheer force of the hit. Turner rolled with it, sustaining a broken rib or two, but nothing he could not handle. Getting to his feet, he brushed dirt off his jumpsuit.
"You make me sick."
The now-furious meta jumped into the air toward Turner but was turned to ash before even touching the ex-MCCA agent. Looking around, Turner could tell that this revolution was not over, not by a long shot.