CHAPTER SIXTEEN - FRANCIS

Francis Krouse adjusted his top hat as he stepped onto the uneven asphalt of Brockton Bay’s Docks. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the red glow lighting up his face as he exhaled into the briny night air. He was out here of his own accord—the other members of the Travelers engaged elsewhere—and though it was risky, he felt the pros outweighed the cons. 

He would do anything for Noelle. 

Francis knew the others might not agree with his methods, but he didn’t need their permission. Sundancer would hesitate, Ballistic would criticize, and Genesis would argue, but none of them understood the burden he carried. They were all here for Noelle, sure, but not like he was. She trusted him to make the hard decisions, to play his role, to fix this.

He had spotted the Wards before they saw him, their distinctive costumes stark against the dim glow of the dock lights. Too conspicuous, too organized, too predictable. 

Amateurs.

Francis adjusted his gloves, taking another drag from his cigarette before flicking it to the ground and grinding it out beneath his heel. Time to work.

He darted between two buildings, fast enough that his features couldn’t be made out, yet slow enough that they caught sight of him—just enough to build unease, deliberating teasing.

It was an old trick, but it worked every time.

He kept moving, never staying in one place too long, careful to stay just out of reach. The Wards’ eyes followed him, their movements shifting, anticipating his next move. He could feel their eyes on him, their instincts telling them something was off, something wrong.

Francis allowed himself a smirk. That was the beauty of being Trickster—his enemies would always be a step behind, unable to predict what was coming next.

His heart was racing, but not with fear. With excitement. This was the kind of chaos he thrived in, where every action could change the outcome, where one wrong move could mean victory or defeat.

Then, he stopped.

Not for long—just long enough for them to think he was making a mistake, to think they had him cornered.

With a flick of his fingers, he swapped places with a pile of old crates, his body shifting in the blink of an eye, leaving his last position empty. They hesitated, Miss Militia’s rifle raised, eyes scanning the shadows, trying to process the sudden shift.

Too late.

He appeared in front of them. “Evening, heroes,” he said, his tone casual as he tipped his hat. “Out for a stroll?”

Miss Militia didn’t hesitate. Her rifle snapped up, and she fired without a word. He swapped himself with a stack of crates, the bullets slamming into the wood where he’d been standing.

“Guess that’s a no to friendly conversation,” he muttered, ducking behind cover.

“Trickster,” Miss Militia called, her voice sharp. “Surrender now. We don’t want to escalate this.”

He laughed, the sound bitter. “Oh, you absolutely do. That’s the problem with you lot—always looking for a fight.”

The ground shifted beneath him, stretching and twisting as Vista compressed the space around his hiding spot. He stumbled, nearly losing his balance, and swapped himself with a nearby lamppost to avoid being crushed.

Clockblocker was waiting for him. The younger hero lunged, hand outstretched, but Francis was faster. He swapped Clockblocker with a stack of pallets, leaving the hero to crash into the wood with a muffled curse.

“You’re going to have to try harder than that,” Francis taunted, retreating farther into the maze of shipping containers.

The Wards whipped around, but the moment’s hesitation gave him the opening he needed. He swapped again, this time with a rusted metal barrel nearby, sending it tumbling into their path. The sound of metal scraping against concrete was deafening, enough to throw them off balance.

Miss Militia cursed, swinging her rifle toward the barrel, while Vista’s eyes darted around, trying to calculate his next move.

Francis didn’t give them a chance to recover. He moved again, faster this time, reappearing just behind Clockblocker. He could see the confusion in the younger hero’s eyes as he spun, hand outstretched to tag him with his time-freezing power, but Francis was already gone, swapped with a nearby dumpster.

“Three-on-one? How flattering,” Francis drawled, his voice carrying an almost bored tone.

“Stand down,” Miss Militia ordered, her stance steady and authoritative. “We don’t have to do this.”

Francis chuckled, reaching into his jacket to pull out another cigarette. He lit it with a practiced flick of a lighter, blowing a puff of smoke as he stepped forward. “Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

Clockblocker didn’t wait. He lunged again, his hand outstretched, trying to tag Francis with that annoying little time-freezing power of his. Francis swapped himself with a nearby crate, reappearing several feet away just as Clockblocker’s palm grazed empty air.

“Close, but not quite,” Francis quipped, watching as the young Ward stumbled to regain his balance.

The Wards were flustered now, frustrated by the constant shifts in their surroundings. Vista was already warping the space between them, attempting to close the distance, while Miss Militia called out orders, trying to rally them.

But they were losing control.

It was all part of the plan.

Vista’s powers rippled across the battlefield again, and Francis felt the ground stretch and compress beneath him. His footing wavered, but he kept moving, his eyes darting between his opponents.

“Vista,” Miss Militia barked, “tighten the space around him.”

The younger Ward nodded, and the world seemed to close in on Francis, the distorted terrain becoming claustrophobic.

Francis smirked. “Cute trick.”

He swapped himself with a chunk of broken pipe lying at Miss Militia’s feet, reappearing right behind her. Before she could react, he swapped again, this time trading her rifle-turned-bayonet with a loose piece of debris. The weapon clattered to the ground several feet away, leaving her momentarily unarmed.

Miss Militia didn’t hesitate—she spun and lashed out with a sharp kick, forcing Francis to duck back.

“Clever,” he admitted, still grinning despite the pain as he retreated a few steps. “But not clever enough.”

“Shut your mouth,” Clockblocker growled, his hand glowing faintly as he tried to close the distance.

Finally, a little spirit.

This time, Francis swapped the Ward with a rusted barrel farther down the alley. The sudden displacement left Clockblocker swearing under his breath.

“Keep him pinned!” Miss Militia ordered, re-summoning her weapon as it shifted into a pistol.

Francis’ smirk widened. “Pinned? You don’t get it, do you? I don’t play by your rules.”

Vista’s powers surged again, the space around Francis warping into a tight, disorienting funnel. It felt like the air itself was pressing in, leaving him with nowhere to run.

Perfect.

He tethered the loose debris scattered around the battlefield, swapping in rapid succession—barrels, crates, pipes, even a piece of twisted rebar—all to create a swirling storm of confusion. One second, Clockblocker found himself knee-deep in a pile of junk. The next, Miss Militia’s footing was disrupted by a stray chunk of metal, forcing her to stagger.

Vista struggled to maintain control, her distortions faltering under the assault. She was undoubtedly the most powerful Ward—maybe even the strongest shaker in Brockton Bay and one of the strongest in the world—but even the powerful needed to concentrate. Not that he would give her that chance. 

This fight wasn’t about winning, not really. It was a means to an end. And maybe a way of reminding these self-righteous little do-gooders that the world wasn’t theirs to fix.

Two birds with one stone and all that jazz. 

“You’re all going to have to do better than that,” Francis said, his tone light but cutting. “Though I do admire the effort. A little sloppy, but—”

He didn’t get to finish. Miss Militia’s rifle morphed into a sleek, futuristic cannon. “Don’t lose focus!” she barked to the Wards before firing. The blast forced Francis to dive for cover, debris raining down as the shot tore into a nearby building. 

Suddenly, a gust of wind blew through the Docks, powerful enough to snuff out the lingering briny air and knock everyone off balance. All eyes turned upward, where a streak of red and blue descended like a meteor, landing in the center of the chaos with a resounding thud.

Superman.

For a moment, everything stopped. Francis and the Wards alike stood frozen, their gazes locked on the alien as he straightened, his cape billowing. His mere presence seemed to dwarf the battlefield, as though the fight itself had become insignificant in his shadow.

Francis adjusted his top hat, stepping forward as though this interruption had been planned all along. With a flick of his wrist, he let his cigarette drop to the ground, snuffing it out with the tip of his shoe.

“Finally,” he said, his voice carrying an air of theatrical relief. “I don’t know how long you expected me to wait for you, big guy.”

Superman’s piercing gaze fell on him. “Why are you doing this?”

Francis tilted his head, his smirk faltering for just a moment. The mocking façade gave way to something more earnest, his next words devoid of sarcasm. “I wanted to get your attention. I need your help, Superman.”

The tension hung thick in the air as Superman took a step forward, his expression softening just slightly. “Help with what?”

“My girlfriend,” Francis replied, his tone suddenly serious, momentarily stunning the Wards. “Noelle. She’s missing.”

“And you thought attacking these people was the way to get my attention?”

Francis spread his arms in a shrug, his smirk returning but lacking its usual bite. “What can I say? Desperate times. It’s not like I can just call you up, you know.”

Superman regarded him for a long moment, his piercing gaze searching for any hint of deception. Finally, he said, “If what you’re saying is true, I’ll help. But you need to stand down. Now.”

Francis hesitated, his fingers twitching toward the brim of his top hat as if considering whether to tip it in one last display of defiance—weighing the risk of standing down against the slim chance of Superman actually helping.

“I need to know I can trust you,” Francis said finally, his voice quieter but no less intense. “This isn’t just some favor. If you’re in, you’re in all the way. No backing out when things get messy.”

Superman’s gaze didn’t waver. “If Noelle is in danger, I’ll help her. But you have to trust me too, Francis. Stand down, and we’ll do this the right way.”

For a moment, Francis stood perfectly still, the air between them thick with tension. Then, with a long exhale, he adjusted his top hat and let his hands fall to his sides.

“Fine,” he said, his tone light but edged with something raw. “You win, big guy. I’ll play nice—for now.”

Behind him, the Wards exchanged uncertain glances, their confusion and frustration simmering just beneath the surface. Clockblocker looked ready to argue, but Vista placed a hand on his arm, shaking her head slightly.

Miss Militia stepped forward cautiously, her weapon lowered but not deactivated. “If this is some kind of trick—”

“It’s not,” Francis interrupted, his voice clipped. “I’m done playing games. At least for tonight.”

Superman nodded, his posture relaxing slightly. “Good. Now tell me everything you know about Noelle’s situation.”

Francis exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “She’s not just missing. She’s… different. Something happened, something bad, and it’s way beyond what we can handle. We found someone who promised us help, but now he's dead.”

Superman’s brow furrowed, his expression one of quiet determination. “We’ll figure it out. But first, you need to leave before anyone gets hurt.”

Francis nodded, but as he retreated, he cast one last glance over his shoulder at Superman. “Don’t let me down,” he said, his voice low but firm.

Superman met his gaze, his cape billowing slightly in the night breeze. “I won’t.”