Of Heroes And Villains: The Ties That Bind By Minikisa An assassin. A fallen hero. An unlikely meeting. The road to redemption is long and hard and filled with explosives.

Psy smiled politely at the waiter who was offering him appetizers from a silver plate, trying to project an aloof air of Why, yes, I do belong here, I was most definitely not locked up in a mental institution a few weeks ago.

As he absently nibbled on the hors d’oeuvre, he let his gaze roam over the ridiculously fancy party. Granted, spending time at the Reynolds mansion had somewhat desensitized him to obscene displays of wealth, but the part of him that had spent days on end living on ramen or nothing at all because the food budget ran out again still stood a little in awe.

He tugged at the sleeves of the expensive suit Caroline had bought when she went out to buy herself a dress because she “would not meet her brother in rags”. Having been recently traumatized by a shopping excursion, he’d abstained, but she’d done a good job estimating his size which, given that she’d worn his body, was not that surprising.

Psy craned his neck, looking for familiar faces, and frowned slightly.

He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but something about the atmosphere was extremely off. His gaze lingered on various guests, brushing their surface thoughts and analyzing the swirl of colors around them. Nothing sinister caught his eye, but he was still uneasy.

Or maybe he was just unused to being around large crowds with his powers fully functional. The sheer amount of feedback he was getting was far too much for him to parse.

Stephen spotted Diane talking animatedly to a throng of guests, most of whom were male, likely courtesy of her very, very revealing gown. They all had varying shades of bemusement written on their face, so Psy could only assume she was being her usual charming and slightly demented self. He grinned.

His smile froze when he recognized a very iconic hat.

Tex.

Tex was standing on the other side of the room, talking to Platypus Man, his face a mask of polite disinterest.

Stephen’s breath left him at the sight.

Not the sight of Tex. The sight that only Psy could see.

That bond of friendship that used to connect them, a chain so thick and strong it seemed unbreakable, was gone.

In its place was a pale imitation that ran from Psy to Tex, brittle and cracked and suffused with the resentment of a year’s worth of abandonment, yet still something that might be mended with an apology.

But there was nothing connecting from Tex to him except a thin strand of pain.

Psy could see the remains of their old chain, running from Tex and scattering into the ether, brutally broken. As far as Tex was concerned, their friendship was well and truly dead.

Stephen turned away, nauseous, and made his way to the balcony.

He had known, of course, that his carefully chosen words had to have had a devastating effect. That was why his madness had compelled him to use them after all, to hurt Tex as much as the Purpose was hurting, using the only weapon available to him.

But… he had hoped… the extent…

He let out a shuddering breath, and then inhaled the fresh air, composing himself.

“Drink, sir?”

Psy slightly turned his head, frowning over his shoulder. One of the waiters had joined him on the patio, holding out a tray with glasses of champagne. The white-haired man smiled professionally, his pale skin stretched tight over high cheekbones.

He had no aura.

PsyBlockers prevented Stephen from reading anyone’s thoughts directly, but the empathetic part of his psychic powers that manifested as visual information was so highly specialized that PsyBlockers were not built to stop it.

Which meant he was looking at someone with extremely strong innate defenses.

“You came all the way out here to offer me a drink?” Despite his caution, Psy made himself sound grateful.

“Ah, it’s my job to keep our guests happy with alcohol, and I say this with no offense intended, but you look in need of my services. Sir.”

PsyKick had spent much of his life carefully picking every single word he said. And while he had not precisely chosen to be as manipulative as he was, he nonetheless was quite adept at recognizing other people like him.

So he grinned ruefully, and shook his head.

“Well, thanks for the offer, buddy, but I’m sober. 38 days and counting. Was just trying to get away from temptation.”

Annoyance flashed in the man’s eyes, yet his face twisted in sympathetic concern. “Ah, congratulations. That can’t have been easy.”

“It’s been a hard road to recovery, yeah. But I don’t want to bore you with my life story, so…” He waved in a vague gesture, inviting the waiter to go back inside.

“As you wish, sir.”

The man raised the balls of his feet to turn – only to stumble and for one of the precariously balanced glasses to shatter on the floor, sending a spray of champagne in all directions. “Ah, darn it, I’m sorry.” The waiter pulled out a white handkerchief out of his pocket, already reaching for Stephen. “I ruined your coat, let me…”

Psy jumped back out of reach until he hit the railing, narrowing his eyes and letting the ridiculous pretense that hadn’t been fooling either of them fall by the wayside.

The waiter cocked his head, and then sighed.

“I do wish people would stop forcing me to accelerate my schedule. It’d be so much more pleasant all around.”

And that’s when screams started sounding from within the mansion.


***


“It was just so traumatic, you know?”

Tex nodded, trying to ignore the uncomfortable ache in his chest. His bruised ribs were starting to protest every movement. “Yes, the Event was a very dark day for all of us, Platypus Man.” For some more so than others. Mark had nearly had a heart attack when he saw the footage of Dawn hitting the ground; even seeing Cinder Snow again had paled in comparison to the horror he’d felt at that moment.

He’d visited her in the hospital the next day, and she’d still been in a full body cast.

“I mean, being cut off from them like that…”

“Well, I’m just glad you survived that ordeal,” Tex deadpanned, and congratulated himself on his restraint. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I see…someone.”

He quickly slinked away, making a beeline for a small crowd not far from them. Too late did he notice that said crowd had formed around Dionaea. He grimaced, though he was hardly surprised that she was stealing the spotlight – that girl had a fierce need to be the center of attention.

Their eyes met briefly. He sneered and she narrowed her eyes in response. Tex turned away, striding back toward the buffet. Even listening to Platypus Man’s questionable wisdom was better than trading venom with Dionaea. Tex did not, after all, go out of his way to harass her; he simply made no effort to conceal his disdain when forced into her company.

He smiled politely at the various guests who asked for an autograph, and contemplated just calling it a night. Enjoying a fancy party while other heroes were risking their life trying to contain a break-out just struck him as wrong.

Plus, it was much less fun without Dawn around.

And his chest was starting to burn hotter than blue blazes. He frowned and absently rubbed his palm over it.

“Letting other heroes do the dirty work whilst gorging yourself on free food, dear Tex? How will you climb up the moral high ground if you get out of shape?”

Tex closed his eyes, and then slowly turned to face Dionaea.

“Could ask the same of you. Don’t you love making a show of how very reformed you are?”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter.” Her trademarked smirk had that edge again – that anger he’d noticed the last time he’d seen her and which had never been there before, no matter how many insults he’d hurled her way. Maybe she’d just reached a boiling point. “What’s your excuse?”

He gritted his teeth. “I was injured yesterday.” Maybe he should swallow his pride and just ask her to heal him so he could leave for The Asylum, even though the thought of owing her anything raised his hackles.

“Oh, so you’re in pain? Good. Do you think they serve popcorn here?”

No, definitely not asking her for anything.

“Just leave, Dionaea,” he said, tired. “Go beg for scraps of attention elsewhere.”

Her glowing eyes narrowed. “You know, as tempting as removing myself from your charmless company sounds, no. I need to talk to you.”

Tex frowned, absently noting that the burning in his chest was receding. He’d heard she had a healing aura. That, more than anything, made him actually consider talking to her, if only for a minute. “About what?”

“PsyKick.”

His fingers clenched into a fist, a spark crackling inside.

“You have some nerve bringing him up.”

“Why? Hate to be reminded of your failings as a friend?”

“My fai-?” That familiar anger that had never been far from the surface in recent months rose, choking his words. After three years, he’d come close to making his peace with his best friend’s memory, but Cinder Snow’s reappearance had torn that wound wide open. “Your bitch of a creator killed him and you...”

“Last I checked he wasn’t dead. When’s the last time you visited him?”

An incoherent noise of fury was all Tex could manage in response. Dionaea narrowed her eyes at him.

“Maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass long enough to stop giving me shit for things I had no part in, you’d see what’s right in front of you. On your doorsteps, even.”

Tex opened his mouth to reply – with what, he had no idea, at this point the rage did his work for him – but whirled around when he heard a crash followed by a scream.

One of the few remaining heroes had collapsed and was coughing up blood.

Another hit the floor just seconds later.

Dionaea immediately started pushing past him, but he caught her wrist, rage forgotten as something clicked in his head.

“Heal me.”

She looked up at him with disgust. “Priorities.”

“Heal me now or I’m next. My chest hurts in a way bruised ribs shouldn’t.”

Dionaea’s eyes widened as she, like him, instantly grasped the gravity of the situation. She splayed her fingers over his chest, palm pulsing with red light while Tex scanned the room for anyone who did not have shock or surprise written on their face.

Someone was targeting heroes.

At least, that’s what Tex thought until a stout politician collapsed, too.


***


I’ve been compromised.

Malice clucked her tongue, sending a wave of disapproval into Pestilence’s direction over their telepathic link.

Very well. We move in now.

Executioner’s mental voice burned like ice and was just as cold. Malice was quite fond of it; there was something beautiful about a mind forged in fire to be a perfect weapon.

She pushed herself off the wall as the first of Pestilence’s victims began to collapse.

At her direction, he’d targeted anyone with mental defenses of any kind.

Malice made her way up the podium, careful not to step on her long black cocktail dress.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please! Remain calm!”

Her voice was one of authority, and instantly all heads turned to her.

EMP engaged. She felt nothing of the pulse wave Executioner’s gadget sent out, but knew nonetheless that all communication tech within the estate had just been fried.

Malice smiled, creating a mental connection with everyone who had their mind and eyes on her.

“Everyone taken a deep breath? All calm? Good. Now please…” She spread her arms wide. “Follow the white rabbit.”

Nightmares stirred.

A moment later the guests were turning on each other, convinced they were surrounded by monsters.