High and Low and High Again

Moroya’s arm tightened around Pisha’s throat. Bats stopped mid-charge while Anma lowered her pistol, their stares landing on Pisha.

Did the Othered come from the roof? Why now!?

Only a minute ago, she thought they had won. Pisha glanced down. Her own body had become a pitch-black void, just like Moroya’s. The bright paint coating the floor was nearly visible through her arm, like a discount cloak of invisibility.

“Hands off,” Anma growled.

As their team hesitated, two other men appeared beside Pisha. To her left stood a man in a gas mask and mismatched button-up, his sleeves scrunched up to his elbows.

To her right, a man in a tracksuit and American baseball cap, featuring a team that hadn’t won in a decade. Around them, the archive room’s fluttering leaflets froze mid-air.

Gas Mask’s head whisked upwards. He tapped Moroya on the shoulder, and Moroya raised an arm. A moment later, a machete warped into place a metre above Moroya’s head. They whispered as it landed in their waiting palm, and as soon as it made contact, the machete’s edge turned blunt. It thudded into the concrete before them like a rubber replica, scattering purple particles into the air.

“Please. No more tricks.” Moroya glanced at Anma. Their other hand coasted to Pisha’s muzzle. “A single touch could nullify Pisha’s immortality, though I've no such intentions today.”

Pisha stopped struggling. Nullifying her immortality? Was that even possible?

Could they… Kill me?

She’d already accepted that dying wasn’t on the table for her anymore. And now, a terrorist was claiming they could change that.

A month ago, she might’ve welcomed it. But now…

Bats’s fingers tightened around his machete. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

Anma’s mouth twitched. She sighed, then let her pistol clink to the ground.

“For real?” Bats turned to her. “You serious?”

After a single glance at Anma, the fight seemed to drain from his face. His eyes wandered to Pisha. He scowled, then let his weapon drop beside Anma’s.

Moroya gave a see-through grin. They stepped forwards, dragging Pisha along with them.

“Fuck off!” Pisha shouted.

She swiped the baton from her belt and swung it around towards their neck. Moroya caught the rod between two fingers, but just as the aluminium started to vibrate, they whispered.

“Conductive.”

The weapon crackled faintly, but not a single spark emerged. They’d somehow turned it off, like the baton had run out of batteries. Just like their visibility, and like the machete’s edge, too.

Nullification. Pisha tried swallowing, but their hand was clamped too tight around her windpipe.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Pisha,” they said. “Quite the opposite. I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you again.”

Their voice was unnerving. Like the weird fan at a meet and greet, the one that’d end up on the news for murdering their favourite idol’s boyfriend. The thought of a friendly conversation with them made her want to pull a Bonnie and hurl.

“What are you, some stalker? Get off me, you freak!”

Pisha stole a move from Bats’s playbook and sank her teeth into Moroya’s hand.

“You’re surprisingly feisty,” they laughed. “I see why Chastie was interested in you. I’ll have to congratulate her later.”

Their attention shifted to Bandages. They stooped beside her, lowering a free hand to gently tuck in a loose dressing. “I care for those under me, Pisha. The A.O.A. is content to keep you on leashes. Don’t we deserve better than that?”

She clawed at their arm around her throat. “Care? That’s what we’re calling this?”

“I’d call it a temporary measure,” they said, easing off a bit. “But it’s a genuine offer. Naturally, your teammates are welcome as well. As far as I.E. traitors go, you lot seem at least capable.”

“Is that supposed to be flattery? How about you let me go, and I’ll consider it,” she said.

“Something tells me that’s not quite truthful.”

“Go to hell.” Pisha thrashed between their grip, though they didn’t budge an inch.

“What a shame. That Director of yours doesn’t have your best interests at heart. He already sold you out to me, after all.”

Moroya was close enough that she could smell them, but somehow, they smelled like nothing at all. At that point, Pisha had heard enough of their schizo-rambling.

“And I’m sure you do, bitch,” she said. “You’re a hypocrite, you and the Director. How can you talk about treating me well when I’m in a literal chokehold? Isn’t that a massive fucking contradiction!?”

She wrenched her head around, spitting on their pointed boots.

Anma fidgeted with her muzzle’s dial. “The Director? What did he tell you?” she asked.

“You’re an intelligent one. I’m sure you’ve realised by now.” Moroya extended their hand out. “Now, I’ll be needing that briefcase.”

“And I need Pisha back,” she said, glaring at them.

Pisha stared at the two of them. They were trying to cut a deal, like some schoolkids swapping rare cards behind the gym. But if Moroya had gone as far as infiltrating the facility for that luggage, it had to be more important than that.

And the last time Moroya had gotten their way, thirty innocent people ended up dying.

Pisha strained forwards. “Anma, you saw what they did in Koto! Whatever's in that case has got to be dangerous!”

“Do I need to nullify you, after all?” Moroya jerked her back by her neck and whispered once again. “Conscious.”

As they went silent, the archive room blurred. Pisha’s eyes had drifted shut without her even noticing. By the time she’d opened them again, Anma and Bats were wide-eyed in front of her.

“Nullification…” Anma muttered. “That ability. It was you, wasn’t it?”

Bats’s face scrunched up. “Huh? What was?”

“Shinjuku. The terrorist.” Anma lifted her head towards Moroya. “It’s the same ability from that old footage, just on a smaller scale. You’re no imitator at all.”

Moroya laughed. “You’d call me a terrorist for escaping the Institute’s experiments? Hardly fair, is it?” They gestured towards Anma. “The briefcase.”

Anma stamped her loafer onto the suitcase, pinning it underneath. “Give me Pisha. Or I’m warping it ten thousand feet underground.”

Pisha twisted towards Anma. “Fuck that, Anma! I can’t die. Don’t—”

“Stop! I’m not about to gamble on whether he can actually kill you, Pisha.” Anma turned away from her.

Pisha wanted to scream at Anma to stop, to grab her pistol and fire a bullet through the both of them, but Moroya’s grip was too stiff to even breathe anymore.

“Pity. And here I was hoping to leave with the Immortal.” Moroya sighed, pausing. “...Very well.”

Anma closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She hesitated, before finally giving the briefcase a solemn kick, sending it scraping across the ground. It smeared half-dried blood and neon paint as it landed halfway between the two groups.

“There.” She aimed a finger at the goods. “Let her go and grab it. If you try anything, it’ll be gone before you even realise what’s happened.”

“Clever,” they said. “Though I didn’t plan on betraying you, for what it’s worth.”

…For what it’s worth?

Their word wasn’t worth anything. Moroya was nothing but a walking contradiction, and Pisha had gotten good at sniffing out their type.

They could act like a saint all they pleased, but at the end of the day, it was pure coping. A poor attempt at justifying some ancient A.O.A. grudge. If Moroya had beef with the Association, then that was between them. They had no right involving innocent people.

Moroya’s fingers were cold around her neck. Earlier, they touched her before she went invisible. They touched the machete before nullifying it, too. Was that why they were so hell-bent on keeping a hold on her?

In that case…

Pisha tore away from Moroya, whipping her stun gun out and pointing it at their forehead.

“Touch this.”

Bats vaulted towards them as Anma reached for her own gun.

“Pisha!” she shouted.

Moroya shot out a splayed hand towards Pisha. Right as their palm reached her forehead, Gask Mask shouted.

“We’ve got three seconds, Moroya!”

Moroya snarled. They lunged for the briefcase, crashing into the concrete. Just as their fingers closed around the handle, it turned as invisible as them. The archive room began to wobble around them.

First, a shard of skylight debris teetered into the air. Then, Pisha’s trainers lurched up off the ground, too. Tracksuit popped his umbrella open, and she, alongside Moroya’s other goons, were pulled upwards towards the ceiling like they’d been caught in an otherworldly U.F.O. beam.

Her stomach rolled as the room flipped upside-down. She spun around like the hands of a clock stuck on fast-forward. The room turned into a rattling snowglobe of swirling bodies and drifting debris.

For a second, she figured it was what astronauts felt like. Then, she realised the shattered skylight was rushing towards them. Her hands flailed, her uniform fading back into existence. If she was visible again, that meant…

Zip.

Pisha landed ass-first at Anma’s feet.

Anma didn’t waste any time before scolding her. “What were you thinking!?”

As Bats leaped towards the intruders, their escape suddenly accelerated. The group of Othered launched towards the starry sky overhead, leaflets and shattered glass soaring behind them. It was like gravity had been flipped on its head. Bats was sent barrelling into the solid ceiling before warping next to the two of them.

And just like that, Moroya was gone. The office supplies and debris plummeted back down to ground-level. Anma’s glasses had vanished, and Bats was clutching a machete in one hand and a useless hilt in the other.

Pisha stared at the spot where the briefcase had been just moments before. What… Just happened?

Before they could even rest, a stampede of footsteps burst into the archive room. The Director strolled in, swarmed by a team of Excursors, their shoes crunching over shattered glass. White uniforms flooded the area like a flashbang in a first-person shooter.

* * *

Intercity Excursion Force, Case File #14

Ability: Foresight.

Ability: Gravity.

Limitations:

TBD.