CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - FAULTLINE

The old ferry terminal felt like the world’s most dangerous potluck. Neutral ground, they called it. Faultline had seen execution chambers with a friendlier atmosphere.

She adjusted the strap of her bulletproof vest, her sharp eyes scanning the room as capes gathered under the flickering industrial lights—an uneasy alliance of desperation and territorial pride. It wasn’t every night that the city’s heroes and villains agreed to set aside grudges, but then again, it wasn’t every night that the Slaughterhouse Nine hung over their heads like a guillotine.

Familiar faces stood out in the sea of masks and costumes—Armsmaster with his rigid posture and gleaming halberd; Miss Militia, calm but visibly wary; Tattletale, leaning casually against a rusted steel beam like she owned the place. That last one earned a scowl.

“Think they’ll start without us?” Newter asked, his tail flicking behind him as he followed her. The rest of Faultline’s Crew trailed just behind—Spitfire, Gregor the Snail, Shamrock. They stayed close but gave her enough space to lead, a quiet affirmation of the trust they’d built over the years.

“If they’re smart, they’ll wait,” Faultline replied. Her voice was sharp, clipped. She wasn’t in the mood for banter.

Faultline moved to a shadowed corner, her crew—Gregor, Newter, and Shamrock—staying close but not hovering. Shamrock gave her a look, her eyes sharp with the unspoken question: Are you sure about this? Faultline answered with the faintest of nods. This wasn’t just about survival. It was about ensuring her crew didn’t end up as one of the Nine’s victims.

Coil’s absence was glaring, though not surprising. His empire had collapsed in spectacular fashion a few days ago, taking his smug face and his seemingly endless resources with it. His former lackeys—now fractured and scrambling for relevance—hovered at the edges of the room. 

And then there was him.

Superman stood near the front, radiating calm in a way that seemed almost unnatural. A confidence that she was sure most people didn’t feel at the moment. If it was anyone else, she would say he was being foolish, but still, there was something about him—something that made her pause. It wasn’t arrogance, not the way she was used to seeing it. 

Faultline wasn’t sure what to make of him yet. His blue-and-red suit didn’t belong in a place like Brockton Bay. And yet, there he was, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room like he was memorizing every face, every nuance. Not a single bead of sweat betrayed any tension in him.

At the center of the gathering, Miss Militia raised her voice, calling for order.

“Thank you all for coming,” she began. “We’re here tonight because the Nine are a threat to all of us. They don’t discriminate between hero, villain, or civilian. If we want to protect this city, we need to work together.”

There was a murmur of agreement, though Faultline noted a few skeptical glances exchanged among the villains. Some shifted where they stood, clearly uneasy at the idea of aligning with those they saw as the enemy.

Superman spoke next, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room, drawing immediate attention. The room quieted instantly, even among villains like Hookwolf and Skidmark, who exchanged glances but didn’t dare interrupt. It was as if his very presence commanded a sense of respect, a rare feat in a room full of hardened individuals who typically dismissed authority.

“We are stronger together than apart,” he said, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “This city can’t afford any more divisions. If the Nine succeed, there will be nothing left for any of us to protect or rule.”

Faultline folded her arms, studying him. She didn’t like the earnestness in his tone. It was too clean for someone who hadn’t been hardened by Earth Bet’s grime. But damn if it didn’t work. Even the hardened villains looked like they were second-guessing their cynicism.

Miss Militia stepped up beside him, nodding. “The Protectorate has already been reduced. We don’t have the manpower for an outright assault, but if we combine forces—resources, information, powers—we have a chance.”

 “Big if,” Skidmark muttered, earning a glare from several nearby capes.

Tattletale’s smirk widened. “And who’s running point on this? Superman here? The Boy Scout from another world?”

Faultline watched the room react—mutters and a few suppressed laughs from the villains, unease from the heroes. Superman didn’t flinch.

“No,” he said, his voice firm. “I’m not here to take over. I’m here to help. That’s all.”

Hookwolf barked out a laugh. “Yeah? And what happens when they kill you, alien? You think your little speeches are gonna scare the Nine?”

Superman didn’t miss a beat. “If I fall, then you’ll have one less person between them and you. But I’ll do everything I can to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Faultline glanced at Gregor, who tilted his head slightly. She didn’t need to say it; they both knew this wasn’t going to be easy. The Nine weren’t just killers—they were chaos incarnate. Even with someone like Superman on their side, the odds were slim.

Armsmaster began outlining a potential strategy, his words crisp and deliberate. The Nine’s latest movements, possible weaknesses, proposed teams. It was all very logical on paper, but Faultline couldn’t help but notice the undercurrent of doubt rippling through the crowd. Brockton Bay’s capes weren’t exactly known for playing well with others, and tonight was no exception.

“That’s cute,” Tattletale interrupted. Her smirk was almost palpable, even through the dim light. “But you’re forgetting one tiny detail: nothing about the Nine is predictable. You think they’ll play along with your neat little plans? Fat chance.”

Faultline’s jaw tightened. Typical Tattletale—always poking holes, always stirring the pot. And yet, the girl had a point.

“And what’s your brilliant solution?” Armsmaster shot back, his tone icy.

“Simple,” Tattletale said with a smirk. “Don’t waste time trying to outthink them. Focus on hitting them where it hurts.”

She typically preffered to observe first, to listen. The others could posture and argue all they wanted; she’d weigh in when it mattered.

Like now. 

“Easier said than done,” Faultline replied, folding her arms. “While a straightforward, aggressive approach can work, we don't know their vulnerabilities and weaknesses—and I doubt we have the time to figure them out.”

“She has a point,” Miss Militia said, her calm tone acting as a buffer. “If we wait, we will be engaging them on their terms, and we will lose. We need a strategy, one that plays to our strengths.”

“Strengths?” Hookwolf barked from the villain's side of the crowd. “Half the people here don’t trust each other, and the other half are ready to stab each other in the back the first chance they get. What strengths are you talking about?”

“The fact that we’re still here,” Faultline said, stepping forward. “Bickering won’t get us anywhere. The Nine are a threat to all of us, and if we can’t set aside our egos for one night, we might as well roll out the red carpet for them.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, the crowd seemed to settle.

“Fine,” Armsmaster said grudgingly. “Then let’s focus. Faultline, your crew’s been around. Got any intel on where the Nine might be hiding?”

“Nothing concrete,” she admitted. “But they’re not subtle. They’ll want to make a statement, and they’ll pick their stage accordingly. Somewhere public, somewhere they can maximize damage.”

“That’s half the city,” someone muttered.

Faultline ignored the comment, her mind already working through the possibilities. The Docks? The Boardwalk? The Nine would want to hit where it hurt, but they’d also want to make sure everyone was watching.

“Then we hit them first,” Faultline said. “Before they get the chance to pick their moment. We draw them out, on our terms.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Tattletale asked, her tone laced with sarcasm.

“We make them an offer they can’t resist,” Faultline said simply. “Bait them.”

The place fell silent, and she could feel the weight of every gaze on her. It was risky, yes, but fighting the Nine was always going to be a gamble. Better to do it with a plan than without one.

Superman nodded slowly. “It’s a dangerous strategy, but it has merit. We’d need to coordinate carefully—”

“No coordination,” Faultline cut in. “Not with this many moving parts. Small teams, each with a clear role. We keep it simple.”

“Simple doesn’t mean safe,” Armsmaster said, his frown deepening.

“It’s not about safe,” Faultline replied. “It’s about effective.”

Miss Militia hesitated, glancing around the crowd. “Each team will have a specific role—scouting, containment, or combat. It’s the only way we can cover enough ground and respond to their movements.

It wasn’t a bad plan, though it relied heavily on cooperation—which could be too much to ask from them.

Faultline nodded. “I’ll take my crew and handle scouting,” Faultline offered. “We’re good at staying mobile, and we’ve got the firepower to handle ourselves if things go south.”

Miss Militia gave a small nod of approval. “That would help.”

The discussion continued, voices rising and falling as plans took shape. Faultline stayed quiet after that, letting the others hash out the details. She’d said her piece, and she knew when to step back.

As the meeting wound down, Faultline caught Tattletale’s eye. The younger woman smirked, as if to say, Not bad.

Faultline didn’t return the gesture. She wasn’t here for Tattletale’s approval—or anyone else’s. The Nine weren’t just another contract, another payday, but Brockton Bay was her city, and if that meant walking a fine line between hero and mercenary, so be it.

Because at the end of the day, there was one thing she understood better than most:

When it came to fighting monsters like the Nine, you didn’t just need strength or strategy. You needed people willing to do whatever it took.