Remedium: Stories of Peregrine

Content warning: this work may contain language or themes which are difficult for certain readers. Parents should be advised that this novel contains occasional strong language. All readers should be advised that this piece contains elements of depression, anxiety, torture, and PTSD.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 Amy Gaillard

All rights reserved.

PART ONE: THE C-LIST SUPER

1: THE GIRL ON THE ROOF

T

he girl in the mask looked like a phantom.

She was perched on the roof of a scrappy house with a damaged for-sale sign. The soles of her sneakers, stained with blood and dirt, scraped against the shingles. The metal edges of the roof's ridge dug into her palms. Each house in this neighborhood was low set, and their lawns had brown, crumbly grass, littered with shattered glass and cigarette butts. The curb was lined with half-eaten cheeseburgers and torn umbrellas and abandoned shoes. Deep bass rumbled out of the house next door. Screaming and wailing ricocheted from the house on the other side.

This was only marginally poorer than her own neighborhood.

Saga bit the inside of her cheek. Her breath warmed her face; sweat gathered under the mask on the lower half of her face. She licked her lips and slipped a hand into a pouch on her belt. Two screams echoed in chorus from the house across the street. Saga cringed. She pulled out an earpiece and slipped it into her ear. 

Several weeks ago, a rogue hero had taken out a local gang. The hero had dismantled the gang's smuggling and drug-dealing sectors but left the rest of the grunts for the C-Listers to clean up. The Peregrine City Police Department had alerted Saga that two of the higher-ranked gang members were hiding in the house across the street. They'd called her, which meant an extraction was necessary. And it was—one of the gangster's two sons and wife were also in the house. And both the gangsters were armed. Which meant that Saga needed to get the boys and the wife out so that they couldn't be used as hostages.

Saga gripped the ridge with one hand and used the other to unclip the transparent tablet on her belt. She kept one arm braced against the roof as she swiped on the screen. The technology in her contacts allowed her to see what the tablet had on it but kept it invisible to everyone else.

I hate this part, Saga thought irritably.

A cold breeze whisked by her. Her jacket rustled.

In position, she texted. She glanced over the ridge. The night-time hung heavily on the city. Fog pressed down on the street, the houses, Saga's back. She could see a face pressed to a window in the house across the street. She squinted; her contacts highlighted him and cleared his face. This was one of the gang members PCPD had ID'ed.

Saga clipped the tablet to her belt again. She held her breath until his face vanished from the window.

Wyatt Jones, accused of running a sex trafficking trade. Jake Bush, accused of first-degree murder on multiple counts and arson.

As soon as Jones' face vanished, Saga slid down the back of the roof into the backyard and landed on the overgrown lawn in front of it. The impact shuddered through her. She tucked her hands into her pockets as she walked around the house and across the street.

She kept an eye on both windows and darted up to the front of the house, pressing against the front door so that she was in the windows' blind spot. She examined the door. Knife marks marred the wood. She cast a glance across the front of the house and turned toward the gate leading into the backyard.

8:57 p.m.

The authorities were instructed to arrive at 9:05. Saga had until then to get Jones' family out.

Saga dropped to her knees, pressed herself into shadows, and crawled to the side gate. Her heartbeat banged in her ribcage. She rose to her feet and lifted herself over the gate.

She let out an oomph—no louder than the rustling of fabric—and landed on the concrete inside. The side of the house was bathed in shadow, but a thin, watery ray of light came from one of the curtained windows. She peeked in. The living room, in the front of the house, was the only illuminated room. Both gangsters sat there, the woman—Jones' wife—shaking violently as she paced, wobbling from foot to foot. One of the men slapped her ass as she passed, and she jumped. The other man was smoking a cigar. Saga frowned. She darted past the window, down the driveway, and into the backyard.

She wouldn't be able to get the woman out without alerting the gangsters. The boys first, then.

The yard was littered with more cigarette butts and rotten figs. A weeping fig tree wilted in the center of the yard, surrounded on each side by rusted folding chairs and grey weeds. Someone inside the house wailed and was abruptly cut off. Shuddering, Saga moved across the yard, wary of producing any sound. Even as subtle as crunching glass.

By the time she reached the back door, she'd recounted in her head every single time she'd been in a situation exactly like this one. It was her role—that's what made her a C-Lister. All members of the Alliance of Heroes were ranked A through C. A-List supers dealt with supervillains, things that humans had no chance of resisting. C-List supers dealt with petty crime. B-List supers existed somewhere in between.

At least, that was what they had told Saga at the AOH orientation.

She had battled supervillains before, but she avoided the attention of the press and her superiors. The entire rating system was ridiculous, anyway. Saving people was saving people, no matter how much of her work was broadcast on the evening news.

Saga wrapped her hand around the door handle and turned it slowly.

The handle caught. Locked.

She tried to recall the layout of the house. The back door opened into a small hall that functioned as a laundry room led into the kitchen, which led into the living room. The two bedrooms and one bathroom were separated by a hallway parallel to the kitchen and living room. The boys were in one of the rooms other than the living room.

Saga retreated from the back door and lurked behind the house, examining each window. One of the bedroom windows was cracked open.

With a steady hand, she lifted open the window and slipped through. The room was bathed in shadow; a single low-set bed was placed on the other side of the room. Two small figures, barely illuminated by the light of a wavering night-light, sat curled together on the bed. Saga lifted a finger to her lips.

The twins blinked at her as one. One of them had a bleeding cut on his cheek, and both were covered in bruises and little scratches. Saga's insides flipped over, like a switch, catching her between silent, razing fury and the instinct to comfort them. The carpet was stained with dark spots and felt slippery with grease. Piles of laundry formed a moat around the bed. A rubber duck sat on its side by Saga's feet, its beak frozen in a cheery smile.

Saga gestured outside. They glanced at each other, back at Saga. She gestured again.

9:00

The twins rose. Saga lifted the first of the boys and set him down in the yard on the other side. She lifted the second boy, but someone shouted from the living room, and the woman screamed. The boy in her hands tensed, but she set him outside anyways, and ducked through after him. One of them tugged on her utility belt. What about Mom? he whispered.

Saga knelt. She'll be okay, she whispered. But I can't save her until you two are safe.

The boys looked at each other, then back at Saga. She turned to the padlock on the gate and began to pick it. It creaked as she pushed it open.

Both of the boys flinched and followed Saga's gaze toward the house.

Nothing.

Saga led them away from the house, out of sight of the windows, and then crossed the street several houses away.

Which superhero are you? one of them asked, wide-eyed, the moment they were clear. The other one kept looking back at the house.

Saga.

9:03

A cop car rolled down the street, no lights on. The passenger side window rolled down as it drove up beside them. A familiar officer nodded at Saga. She turned to the boys. Get in the car with Officer Daniels, she said. He'll make sure you're safe.

The smiles vanished off the boys' faces. What's gonna happen to Mom?

Saga swallowed the lump in her throat. I need to handle your dad and Jake Bush to save her, she said. Since she was in the same room, I couldn't get her out at the same time as you two. I'll do my best to keep her safe.

They're armed, said the fidgety one.

Saga smiled. I know. She nodded at the car. Now, get in.

Reluctantly, the boys climbed in. Officer Daniels met Saga's gaze and drove down the street.

9:05

Showtime.

NEXT WAS THE SCHOOL.

It had been abandoned by the time she got there. Saga scaled the fence, then prowled toward the main building. Dewy grass rustled beneath her feet. Blinking a few times, Saga's contacts analyzed the ground in front of her, picking out shoe prints and residual heat signatures.

Motus, one of the dreaded supervillains of Peregrine, had vandalized Peregrine North District High School the night before. Saga had heard about it on the news.

She could still smell the remnants of the smoke as she approached the side of the building.

Many of the graffiti images had paper taped over them, the edges of Motus's handiwork peeking out from underneath in bright, fuming colors. Saga approached one and peeled the paper back. She grimaced. It wasn't clear whether Motus had written anything beyond an incoherent string of expletives.

She pressed the paper back against the wall and made her way to the smashed windows. Tarp was tacked to the frames. Saga cast a cursory glance around, then climbed through into a science classroom, the tarp crinkling as she pushed it back. All of the lab equipment was stained and warped, the cabinets thrown open, their contents splashed across the floor. Smashed beakers littered the ground. The desks were damaged from the chemicals dumped on them.

As Saga made her way through the halls, she observed that the other labs were in the same state of destruction. The rest of the school was untouched.

She was still puzzling through it as she walked home, and that was where he found her.

Motus touched down on the concrete in front of her. His cape, silver and shining in the moonlight, fluttered dramatically around him. Saga suspected he used his powers for that effect.

Motus, like most famous supers, wore a full spandex ensemble. A murky royal blue suit hugged his form tightly, his signature silver M on his chest, like a bad rip-off of the Superman comics that had existed before the superhuman phenomenon of 1940. The initial was his only defining characteristic, other than his—currently black—emerald eyes.

Saga looked like a rebellious teenager in comparison. Which she was.

Hello, love.

Motus's infamous smirk: both vexing and horribly attractive. Arrogant and familiar.

Saga pursed her lips. He must have been waiting for a hero to come poking around the scene of his last crime. And Saga had taken the bait.

Not in the mood to talk? Motus pouted. His blue mask framed his cheekbones and brow, curving to his expressions. When she didn't respond, he sighed. That was a bad lead-in. I'm not here to fight you.

Saga tensed her arms at her sides, anticipating an attack. His sidekick, Insurgo, would appear behind her—

Insurgo is missing.

This time, Saga actually opened her mouth, then stubbornly shut it again.

Motus gesticulated. He got taken by... by I don't know. I've been tracking him for weeks, and I only just found him. And as much as it pains me to say it... I need your help.

Motus looked earnest enough. Saga narrowed her eyes. He deflated.

Look, you're the only one I can trust. Marauder would arrest me on site if I tried to get him to help. Listener freaks me out. And the other heroes, even the villains... He trailed off. I'm not the most popular super around these days. And you've seen what's been happening on the news. I wouldn't know where to find them, not anymore.

Where did you track him to?

His head snapped up from where he'd been staring at the ground. Remedium, he said. Some disease research company, but it must be a front—

I know what Remedium is.

He closed his mouth, then opened it again and said, Their Peregrine facility. I tracked him there. I had to break into three of their facilities already to figure out he was at this one.

Saga frowned at him. What's keeping you from breaking into this one?

I don't know how to.

Saga's brow creased. She thought she knew what facility he was talking about, and if he was, then it was no surprise that he couldn't find a way in. Why ask a hero for help?

You're a hero. Isn't that what heroes do?

I help victims, not villains.

Motus had the audacity to grin at that, but it faded as quickly as it had appeared. Whoever Remedium is... Insurgo is the victim. Lesser of two evils and all that.

Saga considered this. His face was earnest. He rang no warning bells. Then again, Saga could always ask Listener to invade his mind a little bit, just to see if he was telling the truth. Then she thought the better of it, knowing how much Listener hated using that power, claiming it left a residue of whoever's head she invaded in her own. Truly foreign thoughts.

Abruptly, Motus stiffened. Saga's contacts lit up a silhouette to her left. A familiar one.

Marauder lunged at Motus, who ducked, scrambling back. Marauder had an ostentatiously golden wig and an aureate spandex suit with a green leather jacket. His powers consisted of teleportation and compulsion, and neither of those was related to anything about his super persona. Compulsion was, in theory, far too overpowered for one superhero. To be able to orally command a person, and have them follow those orders, was vastly more power than one person should have.

Stand down! Marauder shouted, but Motus laughed and danced away, several long pieces of metal floating up around him.

Fortunately, the weakness of Marauder's power was that the more times he used it on someone, the more resistant that person became to his power. Motus was practically immune.

Marauder was the head of the Alliance of Heroes—he had organized it all those years ago, drawing together the many supers of Peregrine under one banner, inviting them to share resources and knowledge, giving them an opportunity to get access to technology and assistance they couldn't have received otherwise. Saga remembered the warm summer evening he had found her in an alley, her wrist sprained from a fall, her face covered by a black medical mask and a hood, a gaggle of unconscious criminals at her feet, and invited her to join his secret society.

She retreated backward from the fight, observing silently. Motus's flying objects spun. Telekinesis, flight—Motus should have had the advantage over Marauder. But Marauder was stronger, faster, and professionally trained. Saga didn't know a lot about him other than that his mother owned some big pharmaceutical company, and he'd been trained in all sorts of fighting forms from a young age, and to use his powers. She was low on the scale at the AOH, but she paid attention. Especially where the A-Listers were concerned.

Marauder punched him, but Motus ducked, grinning, teeth glinting in what little light was left. This is fun, he said, not at all out of breath, but I have calculus homework.

He shot into the sky.

Marauder spun on Saga. What did he want?

He was pissy about me poking around his crime scene.

Marauder eyed her, already turning away. Why were you poking around his crime scene? He was only half interested.

Curiosity.

He was gone, vanishing into air. Nothing more than a ghost.

Saga sighed and walked down the street. It wasn't until she turned the corner and put her hands in her pockets did she feel it—she pulled her hand out to see a folded piece of paper. Glancing around like Motus might appear in front of her, she unfolded it.

Meet me at the school tomorrow night.

No signature. Just blue pen scribbled on neatly folded lined paper.

Saga looked up at the street, thought about her brother, not bothering to call even though their father was in the hospital, and walked faster than she had before.

2: A SPRINKLING OF ESPIONAGE

T

he heartbeat monitor spiked a beat as Sorrel entered.

She smiled. Did I scare you?

Dean Kaiwi managed a weak smile, book open on his lap. No, dear. He closed it.

Sorrel's father had Stage IV pancreatic cancer, diagnosed four months earlier. His prognosis wasn't good, and his family was in debt from the bills, but Keilani, Sorrel's mother, insisted Dean try every treatment option. Keilani wouldn't give up until Dean had died.

How are you feeling? she asked as she sat down next to him. The chair's cushion was peeling, and Sorrel's finger ran along the seams of the chair, her muscles tense and her stomach roiling. She felt restless. Unsettled. She suspected it had to do with Motus.

Medicated. His eyes were unfocused. How was your day?

A melancholy smiled tipped Sorrel's lips. It was good, Dad.

They sat in silence, then Dean spoke again. Tell me about your day. More than 'it was good'.

Sorrel looked at the ceiling. I made breakfast for Noe and Mum. And... Kaleo is on one of his 'camping trips' again. Dean snorted. Sorrel tried to avoid thinking about the dozens of supers that had been reported missing lately, and Motus's request, and Kaleo's radio silence. Buttermilk pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, the works.

Potatoes?

Sorrel grinned. Of course.

What else did you do?

Took Noe to the park for an hour and then went to the shop. Sorrel worked at Joey's Automotive. Marauder worked closely with Joey to give supers, who were often called away at random times, a steady income. Employees weren't given set hours, and were paid solely based on how much time they spent there, and all AOH supers got priority when applying to work at Joey's. While the AOH's funds would pay for supers to have safe houses, many also had other homes and families. Like Sorrel. All of her income went to Dean's medical treatments. She limited her super expenses to her AOH allowance.

Then again, she would have worked at Joey's even if she hadn't part of the AOH. Joey Pascal and his daughter, Beth Pascal, were close to the Kaiwis. Beth was Sorrel's best friend.

Sorrel scratched her temple. I came here after I got off work.

I can see that, Dean sighed, eyeing the oil smudges on Sorrel's clothes. Now tell me about your lessons.

AS MUCH AS SORREL HATED to admit it, she'd had ulterior motives when visiting her father. After what Motus had told her about Remedium and Insurgo, she'd hacked Remedium's network. She'd found very little before getting booted, but what she had seen had confirmed Motus's assessment of Remedium. Instead of what one might expect on a medical research company's private network, she'd gained access to a system of spies and undercover agents seeking to find vulnerable supers. She'd found one such spy located in her father's hospital. A janitor, really a Remedium scientist, stealing blood samples and testing them for super genes.

Which meant Insurgo wasn't the only super they had taken. Not if their operation was this big. Supers had been going missing for weeks. Some of them were big, hot-shot superheroes or supervillains who hadn't been sighted. Others were registered supers who had been reported missing. Kidnappings linked to mortalantism groups. There had been stranger things than that, though. Some heroes and villains had been reported working together to commit crimes even the supervillains didn't dare. The famed superhero Animatia had been seen destroying homeless shelters. Katane, one of the oldest active superheroes, had murdered several city chair members. Heat, beloved vigilante of Peregrine, had burnt down an elementary school while working with the supervillain named Viral.

Sorrel had been investigating these episodes for weeks. Beth couldn't get her to shut up about it.

Before Sorrel had arrived, she'd found the spy's work hours. She waited to enter the hospital until the janitor went on his lunch break, then slipped into the closet she'd tracked his laptop to and slid a thumb drive into his computer. She let her tech do the heavy lifting and went to visit her father. She returned to the closet five minutes before the janitor came back from lunch, took the hard drive, and left the janitor's computer wiped.

When she got home, her younger brother was sitting in a ball on the couch, staring a textbook Sorrel had left open on the coffee table. Noe, at three years old, hadn't spoken a word. Sorrel dropped down beside him.

If you keep leaving your books out, he's going to tear them, Sorrel's mother said from the other room.

Hello to you, too. He knows not to tear books.

Keilani Kaiwi walked into the living room. She was an inch taller than Sorrel, dark-skinned, and had russet-brown eyes. Sorrel didn't know a lot about her family history. She knew that Keilani had been born on the island of Molokai, and moved to Los Angeles when she was young. Other than that, the Kaiwi family history was one big question mark. Dean had taken Keilani's last name when they'd married, and didn't speak about his family, either. The Kaiwi children didn't have grandparents. Sorrel didn't even know what their names had been.

How's your father? Keilani asked. She walked into the kitchen. The island was piled with gadgets and parts and peppermint wrappers, and the smell of coffee grounds and mint stung Sorrel's nose as the heat rumbled to life and washed it through the house. Noe crawled into her lap.

Same as he was when you visited this morning.

Sorrel couldn't stop looking at the island. Dean had been sitting there yesterday morning. His permanent hospitalization had started at 10:00 A.M. yesterday. Sorrel didn't know if he would ever come back home.

Anything from Kaleo? Sorrel asked.

Nothing. Keilani's voice was soft.

Sorrel leaned her head back against the couch back and closed her eyes, wishing Dean Kaiwi hadn't turned the smell of peppermint into a smell of mourning.

IT WAS RAINING.

Saga stood, soaking in it, staring at Peregrine North District High School. She wondered if she'd be attacked. She didn't think so. Her research confirmed that Insurgo hadn't been seen in over a month, which meant Motus's concern was real.

You got here fast.

Saga didn't turn to Motus as he walked up beside her. He was wearing a light raincoat, and water trickled down the