Erich was well aware that no one could hear him breath. His suit served to muffle it. He’d made sure of it.

Didn’t want so sound like some kind of asthmatic golem after all.

Yet, even with all the empirical evidence pointing to the act being entirely pointless, he couldn’t help but hold his breath as Manacle hovered beneath him.

With his arms spread out as he clung to the hallway ceiling, Erich looked like some kind of demented spider as the fire-based villain ranted, raved and flung fire as he searched for his prey.

Genius intellect, multiple doctorates, grew up training to be a hero, and the best I can think of is ‘he probably won’t look up’, the villain thought frantically.

“Come out Mechromancer!” The pyromaniac yelled, “or I’ll burn this whole building down with everyone in it.”

It took all of Erich’s willpower not to point out that the guy was already in the process of burning down the building. In fact, given the shoddy construction materials that seemed to permeate the entire city, he wasn’t entirely sure the rest of the block was safe either.

Especially when you consider just how tightly packed everything is, he thought as he searched desperately for an opening - any opening - in which to slink away.

As if on cue, a crash came from across the hall, both villain’s turning to look just in time to see a Spartoi emerge into the hall.

Erich felt hope flare in his chest as he realized that once more Spit had chosen to jump between buildings, rather than move to the bottom floor.

That brief spark of hope died an ugly death as the Spartoi opened fire, Manacle ducked under it, and the villain hit the machine in the chest with a truly spectacular fireball.

Erich’s Spartois were designed to be resistant to small arms fire. A fireball to the chest was not small arms fire, and Erich could practically visualize the machines delicate internals frying as it slumped to the floor, smoke trailing from the insides.

On the bright side, he’d learned something from that interaction.

Manacle dodged.

Manacle was not immune to kinetic impacts.

Given his powerset and his current state, Manacle was only immune to heat based weaponry.

Even as another Spartoi spilled into the hallway and was summararily cooked by his opponent, Erich felt a plan form.

He just had to time it… now.

In the next few seconds, a few things happened.

Erich’s mechandrites dropped their attached weaponry.

Manacle looked down for just a moment as the weapons in question clattered to the floor, which meant he didn’t notice the trio of serpentine mechanical limbs descending from on high.

He also missed the slight crack of a fluorescent light tube being snapped out from its position on the ceiling.

He did notice though when something wrapped around his throat, pulling him up into the air and face to face with the featurless mask of the Mechromancer.

“Night,” Erich smiled vindictively as he drove his impromptu new weapon into one of his opponents wide open and panicked eyes.

The effect was instantaneous.

The flames that wreathed the villain winked out, leaving behind a slightly overweight corpse in the tattered remains of a fireman’s uniform.

A corpse that fell to the floor a moment later as Erich’s mechandrites unwrapped from around the former villain’s throat.

Erich dropped to floor a moment later, dropping the bloody shard of glass that had broken off in his gauntlets as he did.

He felt ill. Not for killing Manacle. He’d stopped feeling squieemish about death when his killcount hit the triple digits.

No, he felt ill because he’d nearly died.

What should have been an easy ‘in and out’ assassination had become the sort of frantic brawl that heroes and villains always seemed to engage in.

Because of shoddy information. Because he hadn’t brought enough drones. Because he didn’t have enough variety of drones. Because he’d felt the need to get involved himself.

Complacency.

That had been what nearly killed him.

He’d thought he was safe and he wasn’t. It had been an illusion. A fantasy.

“Uh, you ok, Boss?” Spit’s voice came over his comms, prompting the villain to look up from the corpse, to see a Spartoi tentatively peeking out of the doorway, looming over its two fallen brethren.

It took him a second to identify the emotion in the girl’s voice.

Concern. Concern and fear.

Concerned about him and worried that she might be punished for ‘failing’.

It was funny. Not even ten minutes previous, he wouldn’t have picked up on that. Wouldn’t have bothered, his head so filled with machines and numbers. Not caring for the ‘little details’.

When was the last time he’d sat up and seriously looked at the people around him? Assessed them for more than just their value as a cog in his production line.

I can’t remember.

“Boss?”

“I’m fine,” he said, before hesitating as he slowly he came to a conclusion.

He wasn’t safe. Not yet. He’d thought he was and he’d nearly paid for it.

He needed to think bigger. Beyond machines and blueprints.

“…You did good Spit,” he said, plumbing his mind for the words he thought he might have wanted to hear at her age. “Very good.”

He couldn’t see her, and as the silence stretched on, he found himself wondering if he’d made a mistake. Said the wrong thing.

A concern that was put to rest a moment later as the girl spoke again, pride suffusing her voice.

“Thankyou sir. T-that mean’s a lot.”

He was sure it did. Which was good. It meant she would work harder.

She’s not a machine after all, he mused, wondering when that had become news to him.

The sensation of heat growing on his face, even through his suit, reminded him that he was still standing in a burning building.

Perhaps epiphanies about the world and his still tenuous place in it could wait until he wasn’t inside a burning building.

Still, the second he returned to the workshop, things would change.

As many as needed.

Until I’m safe.

“Were you intentionally trying to have me killed, or just humbled?”

One would think that with Manacle’s death, and the success of the Saint’s other attacks on the Kings, the atmosphere in the restaurant would be jovial.

It was not.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about?” Zig-zag drawled, refusing to take their eyes off Bronte.

“Same,” the woman in question said.

Erich sighed in disgust. If he had a more fragile ego, he supposed he might have been irritated that no one in the room was even looking at him.

Not Bronte. Not Zig-zag. And certainly not the collection of goons they had brought to this ‘team meeting’.

Heavily armed goons, Erich mentally amended.

Zig-Zag might have had the edge in Metas, with both Prowler and another Meta swathed in white robes he had never seen before being present, but Bronte’s people were armed to the gills.

With his tech. Lasers. Helots. Armor. Some other bits of meta-tech he knew he hadn’t built.

Black-market tech?

Gravity was there too, but she looked entirely disinterested, if not outright disgusted, by the events going on. He also noticed that she wasn’t exactly on Bronte’s ‘side of the room’ either. If something did happen, he couldn’t help but wonder if she would side with Bronte or choose to run and see who came out on top.

Actually Prowler might be in the same boat, he thought as he glanced surreptitiously at where the woman was lingering near his own team of Spartois. Although that might just be so she can smash them the moment this turns violent.

He missed his workshop. His nice, black and white, politics-free workshop.

“Manacle,” Erich reiterated. “Both of you sent someone to my workshop with orders to take out a Meta in King’s territory.”

And hadn’t that been annoying – receiving identical orders from two different ‘bosses’.

“It had an accompanying dossier on the man. Said dossier was lacking in several key pieces of information.”

He pulled out two different flash drives.

“Now, perhaps I should have grown suspicious when both dossiers were missing different pieces of information.” He should. He definitely should. “But given that I’m trying to create an entire industrial base for this organization from scraps, I figure I can be forgiven for missing a few small details from people I was supposed to have been able to trust.”

Or at least, trust enough not to play power games with him while their was a war going on.

Which was hopelessly naïve in retrospect.

“It was Manacle,” Zig-Zag scoffed. “He was the leader of the Kings for years and he didn’t exactly shy away from using his powers in public. I assumed that his powers were common knowledge.”

Yep, the shapeshifter wanted him dead.

“Perhaps if you live around here, but I’m new to the area, and I haven’t exactly been chatting with the locals.”

Or anyone really.

A mistake I really need to rectify.

The shapeshifter shrugged, before turning to glare at Bronte once more.

“More importantly, I do wonder what gives you the right to give orders to people who don’t belong to you, Block Captain.”

This time it was Bronte’s turn to shrug.

“I received information on Manacle’s location and decided to bypass the usual chain of command in favour of speed,” Bronte’s smile turned decidedly mocking. “My apologies for acting beyond my station, Gang Leader.”

Erich had to wonder why they were even pretending at this point. The Saints were less a unified entity these days than they were two different organizations acting in concert.

The only thing that would need to change is for one of the groups to adopt a new colour scheme and name.

That wasn’t his concern at the minute though. His concern was that both of them were ignoring him!

“I assume your reasoning was the same, Bronte?” He put in before the two could really get into sniping at each other.

Bronte glanced at him, before looking away.

“Yes. Manacle’s powers are common knowledge. I thought you aware and underestimated just how out of the loop you were in regards to the Kings line. My apologies, it won’t happen again.”

He had to hand it her. She was an excellent liar. If she even was lying - which was the problem with her possibly being good at it.

Which left him little better off than when this meeting began, information wise.

Zig-Zag definitely wanted him dead – likely as a way of weakening Bronte. Bronte might want him dead – for reasons he couldn’t even begin to guess.

Feeling slighted by his actions back at his workshop?

It was a hell of a grudge to hold over something so minor. Then again, didn’t that describe Bronte perfectly?

Still, she might be innocent.

He needed more information. Which was why, rather than participate than in the ensuing argument between the two de-facto leaders of the Saints, he sat back and waited.

An hour later, he was free to leave, shaking off unsubtle attempts by both parties to speak privately.

“Natasha,” he said to the one-handed girl fiddling with an Omni-pad in the van, “bring Darius and anyone else with influence in the Block Party to me when we get back.”

“We going to have some kind of meeting boss?” the girl asked as she glanced nervously at the Spartois clambering into the back of the vehicle.

For just a second, he wondered why.

Then he saw where else she was glancing.

The Saints, lingering about the place. Which was only naturally really, what with all their leaders in the restaurant. The place was well guarded, even if it was deep in the Saints territory. Perhaps even more tightly guarded, given the friction between Zig-Zag and Bronte.

Natasha was nervous because they were in a perfectly normal van. It wouldn’t stop gunfire, and with the Spartois all loaded up, they were pretty much defenceless.

It was funny that he’d never thought of that before. Just trusted that the Saints would perform their roll as guards.

As if they just another kind of drone.

But they weren’t, and as recent events had shown, they weren’t necessarily on his side just because they were wearing the same colors.

“Something like that,” Erich murmured as he directed the Spartois to redeploy outside again.

Seeing Natasha’s questioning look, he inclined his head, “we might be a bit slower getting home, but I’d rather be ready for anything.”

“Won’t get any argument from me, Boss.”

No. He supposed he wouldn’t. Nor from any of the other members of the Block party.

The drive home was slow with the Drones jogging alongside, and Erich didn’t feel totally relaxed until they were past the ring of Helots that patrolled ‘his’ territory.

With Manacles death, Saint territory had never been more secure.

Why then did he feel more in danger than ever.

No more sticking my head in the sand, he thought.

Things were going to change. No more sitting back.