6

Carrion Crow advances, his boots soundless on the tile floor.

"Let’s see.” He counts off on one gloved hand. “Wrong gender; wrong powers. No previously recorded contact with the super community, and yet here you are, hobnobbing with two very high profile vigilantes. Anything else?”

I have no response for that. I retreat until I feel the counter dig into my back.

The mercenary rocks on his heels. "Have I got the wrong person?"

"Um, yes?" Will he leave me alone if he believes that?

"No, can't be," he says, more to himself than me. "The Wheel is definitely after you, and how. Then there's that tracker." He straightens. "Wait! I see now. You have a twin! Now that the tracker's disabled, you and Pax—or Pax and you—pulled the ole switcharoo! Cle-e-ever."

My mouth's hanging slightly open. Of all the conclusions to draw, a twin? Is he for real? Then he lunges forward. I freeze, a razor-sharp knife tickling the fragile skin of my neck. All the joking and chattiness have disappeared from the mercenary, leaving behind something dark and dangerous. He's so close I can see the movement of his eyes through the red mask.

"The details can wait,” he growls. “Where's Pax? If anything's happened to him, I'm going to be really annoyed. And you won't like it."

Shit-shit-shit—

"I—it's—"

I can feel the blade tickling my throat. I’m going to die, I know it. If any of the little gods are listening, I'm so sorry for being such a fuckup. I should have lit incense every week, praying for blessings to make up for my inherent idiocy. Carrion Crow is going to kill me, and it's all my fault for not leaving well enough alone. Why did I think I could be a hero?

"Answer me."

He doesn't raise his voice or anything, just presses that teeny bit closer, until the top layers of my skin part like butter under a hot wire. The sting of the shallow cut makes me flinch back, the knife following my movement with uncanny precision. I lean as far away as I can, but the counter behind me is unyielding. I'm trembling, faster and faster, until it feels like my bones are vibrating—

Carrion Crow blinks, molasses slow. He inhales, and it seems to take seconds, his hand swaying incrementally with the motion of his lungs. Oh. Oh. Littlest gods forgive your believer for being such a brainless jellyfish. I woke up female. That means I have super speed. If I’m fast enough, I can escape.

If I’m fast enough.

I tense my muscles, try not to think about what might happen if I fail. Putting all my desperation into it, I twist to one side. A line of heat cuts into my neck, and I hear something tear, but I don’t stop until I bang into something. I stagger, panting with effort, drenched in sweat, robe hanging half-off, leaning against the cabinets on the other side of the kitchen. Holy shit, I did it! And I’m not dead, although I feel something begin a slow trickle down the hollow of my neck. Blood or sweat, I can't tell. It seems to take forever for Carrion Crow to react, but his movements speed up as the vibration in my bones settle back into normal trembling. The mercenary whirls around.

"Well, that proves it. Speedster, huh?" He sounds pretty composed. "Not often I get to tango with one of those."

He's got two knives in his hands now, the same big blackened blades I saw carve up those Wheelies yesterday. My knees turn to water.

"I'd rather sit this dance out," I squeak, clutching my torn robe. "Listen, you've got the wrong idea—"

"Just tell me where Pax is," Carrion Crow says in a reasonable tone of voice. "I just need to make sure he's protected. By me."

I thought yesterday was the worst day of my life. Today's barely started, and I've got a creepy merc trying to kill me, while professing the need to protect me. I feel a frantic giggle bubbling up. I think I might be sick.

"It’s me, I’m Pax," I babble. "I swear on all that's holy."

He advances on me, unimpressed. How the fuck am I supposed to prove I am who I am? Especially since A) my wallet’s in my pants, which I am not wearing; B) I don't have the focus gem to help me switch; and C) I probably couldn't switch even if I had it. He has to believe me! I don't want an angry killer for hire chasing after me as well as the stupid Wheel, because it seems like literally EVERYONE has got me all wrong. I hiccup a laugh, or maybe it’s a sob. I'm just a fucking barista. Until yesterday, my crowning achievement is the one time I poured an absolutely magnificent latte for Mr. Gordie, and he left me an enormous tip.

"Time out," I gasp, struggling to get myself back in control. "Let's talk this—"

Carrion Crow tackles me. I go down, making a whoofing noise as the air gets knocked out of me. He's got me flat on my face in a second, my arm twisted painfully behind my back. And that terrible knife returns to rest against my stinging neck, right under the jaw where my heartbreat thrums.

"No time-outs for speedsters," he says cheerfully. His hard knee digs into my back. "I've learned over the years that your kind are tricksy."

What I wouldn't give to be able to switch for strength right now.

"Listen," I gasp out, trying to lift my face off the tile. The all-too-familiar vertigo is coming back. "I can promise you Pax is safe, but he won't be if you keep this up."

"You're in no position for threats, sweetie," says Carrion Crow.

"But I am. Hands up, merc."

Angela. Oh thank the entire universe. My relief is so profound that I go a little light-headed. Or maybe that's just the vertigo. I can't see shit from my position, but I feel Carrion Crow tense above me. There's a little sound, like maybe something small but extremely painful powering up, from the vicinity of Angela's voice.

"Now, you scummy little rat turd."

The knife, if anything, presses a little harder. I wince.

"Angela, hey. You're looking nice." I can hear the smirk in his voice. "Where'd you get that outfit? From the bargain bin at Sexworkers R Us?"

"Yes, actually. You must have gotten yours from Braindead Brat Co. Now shut up and get up." The whirring noise kicks up a notch.

"Not until I know what the fuck is going on," Carrion Crow says. "Look, this ain't just about you. I've got a bone to pick with my client too. I hate it when things are left out of the briefing. Throws off my entire expense account." He slides the knife meaningfully against my jaw until the point dimples the skin above my hammering pulse. I can't help it—I whimper. “You folks just happen to be handier.”

Angela makes a few inarticulate, angry noises. She probably really, really wants to hit the trigger on whatever weapon she's got. But with the knife poised like that, any move, accidental or intentional, is going to have it plunging into my artery.

"Got the picture? Good." He settles more solidly on my back. My arm complains, but its needs are not a priority right now. "Let's start with the basics. Where the fuck is Pax Warkin?"

"You're sitting on him," I wheeze. As terrified as I am, my mouth seems happy to run off without me.

"Ha ha. Don't feed me any more of that bullshit. I'm going to ask nicely one last time. Where is Pax?"

"Oh, my gawd," says Angela. "If I wasn't so angry I'd be laughing. You seriously know nothing about this whole thing, do you?"

"Exactly my point!" Carrion Crow says, exasperated. "Let me repeat: exactly my freak-a-deaking point."

"If you could—ow—let up a little, I can explain," I say. I don't think he's actually going to listen to me, but to my surprise, he eases off my arm. Just a little.

"Use tiny words, for I am a man of very little brain," he drawls, but there's still that deadly undercurrent in his voice that I know I'm never going to forget.

I take a deep breath. "I really am Pax. My, uh, ability is that I can change my sex. And my powers change too. Um, based on my sex."

There’s a beat, then Carrion Crow snorts.

"Right," he says. "And my ass can sing the global anthem."

"It’s the truth, jerk." Angela sounds tired now. "We have no idea how it works, but it does."

"What? Really? Are you—?" He leans slightly to peer into my face. "You're serious."

"You think I'm joking, when I'm a sneeze away from getting my throat cut?" My voice goes squeaky again on the last few syllables.

Carrion Crow ruminates on that for a second.

"They're serious," Angela says impatiently. "Now get off."

"Prove it."

I wince. "Well, that's where things get a bit complicated, and you did say you have very little brain."

I for sure am going to get punished for that bit of snark, but to my surprise (yet again), the mercenary only gives a short laugh.

He rolls off me in one fluid motion, knife disappearing back into its sheath. "All right, fine. Whatever the truth is, at least I know you're not lying. And Angela's too smart to come up with such horse shit in the first place."

I sit up with a groan. The world sloshes around, then steadies. There's Angela, standing by the fridge, eyes burning cyan in the dark. She's got a glowing weapon in her hands, a flimsy bra, and the tiniest pair of shorts I have ever seen in my life. I blush and look down, rubbing my bruised arm. She keeps Carrion Crow covered as she hurries to my side and gives me a quick glance over.

"You okay?"

"More or less." I get to my feet with far less grace than Carrion Crow, and touch a finger to my neck. Yowch. I squint at the smear on my fingertip. Yeah, that's blood.

"How are you even awake?" she demands, the gun (or whatever it is) still raised, though it seems like the mercenary isn't going to do anything heinous to either of us in the immediate future. "We gave you deathless sleep."

I shrug, gingerly so as not to aggravate the vertigo. "You're the expert. You tell me."

"Never mind that," Carrion Crow says. "Gimme some exposition."

We do—or, well, Angela goes briefly over what's happened to me since the Wheel first tried to abscond with me a week ago. Has it only been a week? I interject some commentary but mostly I spend the time leaning against the counter and trying not to fall over.

Hm, this is getting kind of bad. Maybe I should be concerned.

Carrion Crow looks... well, it's hard to tell, but he seems incredulous.

"You're telling me," he says, "that both the Wheel and my client are completely wrong about the future telling powers, and you don't know why. Instead, Pax has an impossible ability no one's heard about?"

I squint with some confusion. "What’s so impossible about it? There've got to be shapeshifters that do crazier things than me, right?"

"Well, see," Angela says, a little awkwardly, "I didn't really want to get into it with you before, what with everything else—but the way you switch, you're not conserving your mass. I'll admit there's some wiggle room that metaphysicists haven't figured out yet. But for the most part, shapeshifters can change their shape but they're more or less made up of the same atoms. You could shapeshift into a rat, even a smallish one, but you'd be a 150 pound rat. Or you'd be 150 one-pound rats. Pax, you on the other hand, lose about thirty pounds when you shift to a girl, and get that mass back when you switch back. There's no matter shedding, no energy burn off, nothing. You just... change, instantaneously."

I rub my head. "I'll take your word for it."

Angela opens her mouth like she wants to explain more, then frowns.

"You really look like shit,” she says instead. “I pinged Pops. I don't know how you woke up early, but it can't be good."

"I can always count on you to be reassuring," I say. Am I slurring?

Things are doubling up again, like they did when I tried to switch back on top of the warehouse. Gravity decides to go on vacation, and I tilt sideways. Angela grabs my arm, and when did she get so close? Her mouth moves, out of sync with her voice. I shut my eyes because it's extra confusing.

"Pax! Hey, look at me. Can you look at me?"

"She's going down," Carrion Crow observes.

He's right. I'm going, going... gone.

For an eternity, there is nothing.

Then, gradually, I begin to feel.

The floor is hard, and very cold. I try to open my eyes and can't. I try to turn my head and can't. I try to yell and can't.

I'm dead. Oh fuck, I'm dead and my spirit hasn't vacated the premises like it's supposed to and now I'm going to be stuck here forever, in this corpse that used to be my body as it slowly rots and putrifies and falls apart. I'm going to be sick.

"I'm going to be sick."

My body is rolled over. There's a rushing in my ears as my stomach empties itself. It does a pretty thorough job, but I retch helplessly a few more times for good measure. The waves of nausea finally subside. I fall limp on the tile floor, exhausted and reassured.

Not dead after all. Dead people don't puke.

"You're definitely not dead," says Angela, sounding equal parts amused and worried. I had no idea I was thinking out loud.

Sigils dart around her to encircle me. They really don't help my shaky vision, but I can vaguely make out Lars behind her. He's the source of the sigils, muttering and making careful motions with his fingers. Carrion Crow looms into view beside Angela, obscuring the old man. He’s still wearing the cutesy pink pajamas.

"I believe you now," he says. "I didn’t even blink, but you got tall again, and your boobs disappeared. It's like you never had 'em."

"Cool," I say, for lack of anything better.

Angela shoves him away with a glare. "Why don't you make yourself useful and grab some towels or something?"

"What do you take me for? I'm a merc, not a janitor.”

It turns out to be a moot point, because from under one of the cabinets, a little cleanbot comes rolling out. It sucks up the mess and trundles off with a cheery peep. It's like I never puked. I wish I had one of those at my place.

Oh, right. I don’t have a place anymore.

I try to sit up but Angela stops me.

“Hold still a minute, Pop’s doing a vital scry right now.”

With a sigh, I lay back on the frigid floor, counting sigils as they cycle past my vision. After about twenty or so (I lost count), they dissipate. Lars heaves a sigh and stretches his fingers. I notice he’s in pajamas too, plaid button ones complete with a matching nightcap.

“Well, you seem totally fine. Except for one thing: you appear to be… well, asleep.”

“Come again?” I say.

Lars shrugs expressively. “I'm no specialist, but it's as if you’re dreaming—or sleepwalking, rather.”

“What? Are you sure?” asks Angela.

“Quite. I went over everything twice.”

“But I’m… awake, aren’t I?” Between the dizziness and the adrenaline, I feel strange enough to doubt myself. Am I dreaming right now? I don’t think I’ve ever thrown up in a dream before.

“Well, yes. But also no. You appear lucid and awake, but your brain waves indicate an unusually erratic sleep state.”

“You’re not making any sense. I must be dreaming.”

“Believe me, I’m as baffled as you are.”

Angela says, “It’s gotta be some weird interaction with that switching ability, right?”

“I couldn’t say. It's not an effect I've ever observed with the deathly sleep.” Lars shrugs again. “I shall make some calls. In the mean time, pay attention to yourself and tell us immediately if anything feels off. There's little else we can do at the moment.”

Great. What even counts as feeling “off” anymore? I haven’t felt normal in a long time. I add another impossibility to the list and close my eyes. I am so tired right now, and all I want to do is check on my feeds and take a nice long nap somewhere warm, where the universe will stop interrupting me with this shit.

An alarm goes off, sharp and clanging. I open my eyes, convinced that I’m about to wake up, tucked safely in my own bed. It was all a dream—

I heave a sigh. I’m still in a bathrobe on the floor. I watch as Angela and Lars hurry to the window, Carrion Crow close at their heels with his hand on his knife.

“They’re rather early,” Lars says.

“You mean you knew they were coming?” Angela says, her voice shrill with indignation.

"Of course. I invited them."

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were asleep,” he says. “I thought we would have time—until dawn, at the very least. But it appears they managed to recruit Dancer after all.”

That seems to derail Angela. “You think it’s her?”

“It certainly isn't me.”

"What about Bluebeard?"

"He'd never. You know that."

"Zenith is here?" Carrion Crow sounds... not scared, exactly. "You invited her here?"

Lars turns to the mercenary with a raised eyebrow. "Is this going to be a problem?"

Carrion Crow looks sideways into the air. "She's just not going to be happy, that's all."

"Maybe you haven't noticed, but no one is happy right now," Angela says. "So shut up and help me get Pax to their room. I think they passed out again. Shit. Now is not the time for a potential medical emergency—"

I'm still awake, I think. Angela and Carrion Crow hoist me up between them. I readily go where they direct me. I guess this is what Lars meant by me still being asleep. I feel like I shift between dreaming and wakefulness as I shuffle between them. It’s disorienting.

Eventually they get to my room, where they hit a snag. Angela pauses, halfway through the door as Carrion Crow stops dead at the threshold, with me strung between them like the world's silliest tug o' war rope.

"Right, the room's warded," Angela mutters, reversing herself back out.

"What's that mean?" I ask. I feel both of them startle, and stifle a laugh. Probably shouldn't laugh at the people helping me right now.

"It mean's that no one can find your room except me and Pop. More importantly, no one can get in except us, and you obviously.” Her voice goes warm with pride. “It's a custom obscurion we invented when we first set up this base. There’s a version ready to go on every room."

Carrion Crow squawks witn indignation. "Ya could have told me that instead of letting me wander around this mausoleum for hours, looking for Pax."

"It kept you entertained, didn't it?" Angela turns to me. "Can you walk?"

I shuffle my feet experimentally. "Yeah; why?"

"Go in and get some rest. Open this door for no one, got it? I'll check in on you as soon as I can, and you better be asleep."

"Where are you going?" I ask, holding on to the doorframe.

"I’m going to stop ECHO from arresting you, and give my father a piece of my mind. What else?" She turns to leave, and glares at Carrion Crow when he doesn't move. "Don't bother, the wards won't let you in. You'll forget this door even exists once it's shut."

He crosses his arms. "I don't give a flying fuck. If you think I'm going to (a) not do my job, that is, protect the Asset, in order to (b) go talk to Zenith, you must have left your brain back on Emerald. Me and Zenith, we're not exactly seeing eye to eye right now."

Angela makes an exasperated noise. "You don't see eye to eye with literally half the galaxy, how is this any different? And I told you, Pax is safe as long as they stay in there. There's no way they can stand up to Zenith right now."

Carrion Crow sighs. "At least we can agree on that. Oh, all right. I'll go sacrifice myself to the ECHO gods for the greater good. But you owe me."

Angela sputters. "Owe you? For fucking what? You can just leave, y’know."

They move back down the hall, arguing. I stand forgotten in the doorway. I’m supposed to stay in my room like a good little civvie and await my sentence, while Zenith herself is here, in this very house? I glance at my Switch suit, folded on a chair with the focus gem nestled on top. The suit’s black and white pattern is inert, waiting for a warm body to bring it to life.

There's an adjoining bathroom through a sliding door. I make use of it, washing away sweat and vomit and blood in the tiny pedestal sink. I peer into the mirror, assessing myself. Angela is right, I do look like shit, and the cut on my neck is red and crusted with dried blood, but it doesn't matter. Stumbling a little with vertigo, I pull on my suit. It settles on me like a second skin. I feel—not good, exactly, but a little better. More capable.

I pick up the focus gem, weighing it in my hands. It looks innocent enough, at least as innocent as a mysterious palm-sized piece of maybe-glowing, maybe-black crystal jelly can look. Because of this gem, my brain's shot to hell and I can't even Link up anymore. I get dizzy every other minute. In addition, I'm stuck in a weird sleepwalking state that an accomplished mage doesn’t even want to try to solve right now.

But this crystal jelly can also let me switch.

I slot it into place on my chest with a satisfying snick, pull on my mask, and leave the room.

***