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"What for -?"

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(speak no secrets)

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"Did you set something up - something you can't stop - Promise, just tell me what it is and we can think of something together -"

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(proceed with established plans -)

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUNGH," Promise screams, hands over her mouth, as the exact opposite of healing befalls her only friend.

There is blood everywhere.
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"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUNGH," Vista agrees. But there's no time to do anything to Promise, and an instant after it's too late she stops.

And then resumes. "AAAAUGH, got in my head, made me like it..." She kicks the body.
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"Are you," gulps Promise, "back to normal?"
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"I, I think so. She was doing the same to you?"

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"May've been differently detailed. She wanted different things from us. Can you let us walk through the crack under the door, or slow down the ripples enough for a quick gate?"

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"I could maybe let gates work. Door sounds easier."

Rather than expand the crack that much, she makes the door contract and the space between it and the frame expand. It only takes a few inches before the locks disengage.

"Do you know where the others are?"
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"Last I saw them the other Slaughterhouse Nine were fighting Alexandria and four, possibly five by now, fewer if they've taken casualties, evil clone vassals."

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"Evil– oh well.
It doesn't sound like we'd change the outcome one way or the other, but they did this to us. What direction?"
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"This way." Promise leads on. "Tactics note, if you see Mannequin or Burnscar they can't hurt me, I'll make a reasonable shield between them and anyone else."

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"Burnscar hasn't been seen since Leviathan. Protectorate is guessing she's dead.
If I see Mannequin, I'll get him close to you."
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"He's got his hearing turned off, so I can't actually order him, but better me than anyone else, yeah."

Force field back on. Fly fly.
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They arrive to find a lot of property damage and no Nine. Everything is covered in shards of glass, and several nearby buildings have chunks gouged out. Alexandria is gasping for breath and coughing.

"They got away."
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Promise has been around Alexandria enough to toss her a heal. "Well. Cherish is dead. If the Protectorate has a cape anywhere who can let me directly transmit telepathic instructions to Mannequin - without relay; it's important that there be in principle negligible chance of spoof - that would be worth a try?"

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Alexandria stops coughing as the whatever it is disappears from her lungs. Immediately after, her visor bulges forward from one side. She reaches up and plucks out a sphere of glass, together with its supporting metal rods, allowing the visor to snap back into place.

"There are no true telepaths, and no capes that can do what you're describing. How did Cherish die?"
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"I killed her. It was extremely unpleasant and I'd rather not describe the details. ...Were you just going around with a false eye this whole time? Why didn't you ask me to fix it?"

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"After the first few years it becomes normal. I almost forgot it could need healing.
You used sorcery on Cherish? She has shown enough control to make it unlikely that anyone could harm her while under her influence."
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"I really, really, really don't like mind control."

"What do you call this, then, chief?" snorts Blue.

"I couldn't affect your thoughts or emotions if I tried, with the sole exception of requiring mental effort, which I'm not planning to do nearly enough to crowd out whatever you were otherwise planning to think."

"Well, that clears everything right up, then," says Yellow (the Victoria, not the fairy).

"Also, while we're at it, can you all pick nicknames which aren't color codes? I have known uncreative people who go by colors before and it's confusing."
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Panaceas prefer "Pestilence" and "Plague."

"Disapproving of powers rarely grants immunity. Is your method of resisting Cherish replicable? There are other instances where it may be useful."
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"Not exactly. Anyone who's really worried about what they might do under the influence, I can offer fairy orders, which have been tested to hold against a variety of Master powers, but what I was doing relied heavily on my idiosyncratic practice of self-understanding."

"Are we doing a theme?" asks Green. "Piranha." (She is the one with sharp teeth. Pestilence and Plague didn't adjust those away.)

"I can't think of anything good that starts with P," complains Blue.
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Alexandria can tell Promise is being evasive, and has some guesses, but doesn't press the point.

If the clones weren't doing a theme, they are now. "Pugilist?" suggests one, while the other grins and says "Pyrrhic."
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"What does that mean?" asks Blue.

"I can't vouch for whether any of these things start with P without effort I am not remotely in the mood for, but the first suggestion means someone who punches things and the latter means winning in such a way as to not be worthwhile," says Promise.

"Heh, Promise starts with P, too," says Blue. "I'll be Pugilist."

"I guess I'm Pyrrhic then," says the remaining Victoria.

"If the remaining Slaughterhouse Nine cannot be chased down at this time I need to go find the sparrow, see if changing her back is an instant disaster or not somewhere safe, and figure out something that will hold you five while I take a nap. I don't like operating on inadequate sleep."
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"We don't have much of a way of tracking them.

Before you try any of that, can you have one of your Panacea clones fix what Bonesaw did to Vista? I'd send her to the real one, but she can't do brains."

"And they can?" Vista asks.
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