Book 2: Chapter 95: Confidence (1/2)

Gregoir needed to take this fight out of downtown, or at the very least to a less populated area. Anywhere, really, that he could be allowed to cut loose without fear of collateral damage. Things were bad enough with his federal allies hurling around storms of fire willy-nilly. Gregoir felt an infuriating level of gratitude towards Coldeyes, who was obviously taking great care to put out any fires that might harm civilians. His motives were clearly vile, but the results were certainly saving Gregoir time. It would be a great inconvenience if he was forced to intercept every wayward attack from his careless compatriots.

Gregoir's mind raced as he considered his options. Defeating Coldeyes would be a simple thing if only he could get his hands on the villain! Unfortunately, Gregoir's legs, though wide and mighty, did not grant him the capacity for flight. He could not reorient himself once airborne, unlike Coldeyes who was using the walls of the surrounding buildings as a skating rink. The Natural was keeping himself high in the air at all times, anchored to multiple buildings on bridges of constantly shifting ice.

Gregoir's comrades were making things as difficult as possible for Coldeyes, keeping up a constant barrage of fire-based attacks from every possible angle. Coldeyes could only put out what attacks he could see, though turning his head wasn't a great inconvenience and actually snuffing out the incoming fire was the work of a moment. Meanwhile, Gregoir sprinted along the streets below, which were becoming progressively less iced over as Coldeyes was given no time to exercise his considerable power.

There was little Gregoir could actually accomplish from this angle—approximately two hundred feet below the melting platform of ice from which Coldeyes battled the soldiers—but it did place him conveniently out of his enemy's line of sight. An attack would be impractical; while Gregoir did, in fact, have a two hundred foot vertical leap, he was as blind to Coldeyes position as the latter was to his own. Gregoir could just as easily injure one of his own allies as Coldeyes were he to make the attempt.

He chose a different path. Gregoir reached into his APD-issue tactical belt and removed the small body camera that had been issued to him many years ago. These devices were handed out sparsely among the force, mostly to those individuals with above-average survival capabilities, and were generally used for investigative purposes by SPEAR Teams and their associates. Their primary use was in unexpected villain ambushes. They were meant to be a defensive tool, automatically recording an opponents capabilities so that the officer could focus entirely on retreating. The small black button contained an internal gimbal and advanced tracking software meant to identify attackers. It really was an invaluable, if situational, tool.

Gregoir should have had it already equipped and on, but given the amount of classified information being thrown around within the National Guard encampment, he had been nervous about keeping any recording devices active on his person. He was quite relieved to find it intact, and even more relieved to realize he was still wearing pants. His shirt was in tatters, mostly around his biceps and shoulders, but he was able to clip the camera onto what was left of his tie.

The People and Coldeyes' Crew were working together, this much was a fact. Unfortunately, there had yet been little in the way of hard proof, at least from a public perspective. For some, it would take nothing less than Champion himself acknowledging the connection before they would believe. But for others, Gregoir hoped, having Coldeyes admit it might just be enough. The man was particularly chatty, after all. Who knows what might spill from those arrogant lips?

The FATs had cameras, but Gregoir could not rely on them to publicize anything they captured. Federal Assault Teams were technically a special forces branch deployed by the FBI, and the feds were notoriously prickly about sharing information with local law enforcement. Their worries ended the moment they ended the villain threat, while Gregoir and his comrades would be left in the lurch to deal with a rioting city. He needed something, some kind of evidence to counter the emotionally loaded narrative Coldeyes and Champion were trying to sell to the country.

Anyone who spent thirty seconds to think rationally about Coldeyes actions would see right through them. Most of the city had cowered in their homes not a month ago, when the Crew had led a war against the Scales and filled the Austin streets with blood. Yet now Coldeyes was trying to present himself as some kind of folk hero, protecting the citizens from the cruel and invasive outside forces. Gregoir wanted to scoff, but he knew it would work on at least some of the population. People had short memories, angry people had even shorter ones. They would grasp onto anything remotely resembling common cause and never look back.

It was the power of a demagogue. The man wearing Champion's face had rallied an already existing sense of powerful outrage and redirected it masterfully. All the stress and anger from the past few months' unrest, all pointed at exactly the wrong target. Even the Scales, the literal victims of the weeks-earlier bloodbath, were allied with the people who had probably arranged it. All under the thin veneer of plausible deniability. Champion did not directly declare himself an ally with Coldeyes, therefore it could not be the case. It was insanity.

The best solution was to have Coldeyes himself admit to the ploy: his alliance with the People, his motives, and his faux heroism. Or just kill the man before things got even more out of hand. Frankly, Gregoir would accept either outcome at this point, but the former was proving to be difficult.

The ice platform above him finally collapsed, its melted connectors giving way with a snap. Gregoir frowned as a dozen shapes darted away, following a single trail of blue that skated effortlessly through the air. The massive chunk of ice plummeted towards the street, ignored by both parties. He glanced at the buildings flanking him. Neither had been reinforced by Coldeyes, the man's efforts to curtail collateral damage dwindling as he was harried by his opponents. And the feds had been quite frank in their disregard.

Fine. Gregoir would do it. He placed himself directly below the falling platform, cocked back his fist, and searched for the right angle. He would need to hit it perfectly to evenly disperse the ice. His fighting spirit thrummed at the challenge! The goliath of ice grew large in his vision; his muscles burned in anticipation and he waited for his moment!

There!

His fist rocketed upwards in an uppercut that could decapitate a skyscraper! It smashed into the base of the platform, not ten feet above street level. The ice rippled beneath the impact, and the ripple propagated across the entire platform. Gregoir let loose a tremendous shout, pressing upwards with all his strength! The ice cracked, then broke! The platform shattered into powder, and Gregoir bounded after his prey!

He found them a few blocks away. A handful of the attacking feds had been glued to the side of a squat apartment building by a wall of grasping ice. Another was at street level, his hands raised and a fireball the size of a truck hovering above them. Four more danced around Coldeyes, cloaked in steam as their upgrades fought against the briefest brush of his power. Coldeyes himself was carried along a track of ice. his feet firmly rooted in the rapidly expanding structure. Supports occasionally branched off the main track, attaching to nearby buildings so that he could not be swatted out of the sky.

The trapped soldiers were making progress at melting their bindings, but it was a slow process. Any individual paid more than a glance from Coldeyes would be trapped for several seconds. Keeping the man distracted was key. His head spun on a swivel, eyes blazing blue. His outfit, a simple 3-piece black suit, was almost spotless. Very mild scorching marred one shoulder, and the man's tie had become untucked from his vest at some point. The feds were holding admirably, but making little progress.

Coldeyes was at his lowest elevation since Gregoir had entered the battle, and he'd fled far enough from the center of downtown that Gregoir was comfortable engaging the man. He leapt, not at Coldeyes but at the restrained soldiers. Freeing them was the first priority; Coldeyes would need to be properly distracted before Gregoir could initiate any real attack. He slammed into the ice, dug his hands in deep, and gouged a deep fissure into the structure. Heat poured out of the crack and the ice turned to steam. Gregoir swung himself to the side, balancing on a nearby balcony, as the soldiers freed themselves.

”How long till reinforcements?” he asked them as they shook the cold out of their limbs.

”None available,” one replied tersely, as the rest of his team launched themselves back into the fray. ”All unoccupied units have been directed to quell the university riot.”