“I became a hero to save people.” The words are soft, almost kind but with an undercurrent of pure force and conviction. The speaker lets them sit in the air like the aftermath of ringing a bell echoing silently in the somber room. Then, after what sounds like an age, he opens his mouth once more.

“This is a sacred obligation.” Beacon pauses, letting the words settle into the air. “It is the inalienable duty of everyone who takes up the mantle to serve on the jury of peers and equals. In my home country, America, the right is so ingrained that you must request any other kind of judgement for trial.”

Beacon pauses, settling his hand on the shoulder of his companion. He lets the words sit and sink in for a few moments before starting to speak once more. “A jury of peers, of equals. The Association demands this obligation from you as the price of entry into our upper ranks. This power over your fellow heroes comes with the understanding that when summoned you will serve as one member of this jury, and you weigh the only decision the jury makes. Death. Life. The Association only hears one kind of trial, and only passes two verdicts. Death or life.”

Placing his hands on the black dagger sitting in front of them, Beacon lifts the fragile thing. Then, concealing his utter distaste, he places it in the hands of the man next to him.

“Villains have but one peer, other supers. So we decide. Not as individuals, not as vigilantes, and not for any but the worst of cases. Cases already tried by our powerless counterparts. In those rare cases, we sit in judgement as peers, and we listen. Then we decide.”

Beacon hesitates, watching his charge curl their clean hands around the shard of dark metal. He closes his eyes to conceal his bitterness. The next part of his speech is the most difficult.

“This is not a good thing we are doing. Killing, executing another human being, is a horrible act.” Beacon’s mouth is dry, his tone carefully regulated. “You are not doing something noble. Make no mistake, this jury decided to sanction a sin, a violation, a transgression against what is right. But we are peers, and we are the ones with the sacred obligation to decide. God help us, we have decided that this act, this killing, is what must be done.”

Beacon chokes up for a few seconds, the agony of the moment overcoming him. Forcing down the feeling, and concealing any hint of it in his voice, he reigns in his emotions. Then he continues to tear away his companion’s idealism and innocence, deliberately exposing them to the repugnance of what is yet to come.

“Fifteen of his peers judged Cannibolic,” Beacon shakes his head, reconsidering his last words. “Fifteen of his peers judged Jeffrey Nelson must be slain. We judged him beyond rehabilitation, beyond worth. We decided he would die. Fifteen jurors, all knowing that one of them would hold the knife, decided on the penalty of death.”

Beacon stares down at the dagger in his companion’s hands. His eyes bore into the weapon as if trying to destroy it with sheer willpower. Instead, he guides his companion toward the door, and the hallway connecting the two rooms.

“It fell on you.” Beacon says simply, quietly, and with no outward sign of remorse.

What goes unsaid between the pair is that if he could, Beacon would have volunteered as he has each time he could. But Beacon, for all that he wishes cannot. Indeed, for all that his presence here will help his companion through the next few minutes, he was not a part of the jury that made this decision. So he could not offer to take up this blade. All he can do is join the man for the long walk from the vault that houses it to the execution chamber. The only solace he can offer is in reassuring his companion that he is not alone. Absolutions, indemnifications, neither are options here.

“I have done this eight times,” he says, dispassionate, as the pair walk down the hallway. “It is never good. Nor is it easy. But this is the weight of choice, and the price of peerage. We belong to a great fraternity that carries greater obligations. That is why we use a dagger made by Ascherus to perform executions. This is the only method we have to ensure that death is quick and permanent. It also reminds us what killing does, and how far we can fall.”

Beacon pauses at the end of the hallway, forcing himself not to react as his companion starts and stares at him with wide, fearful eyes. “You go in alone,” Beacon clarifies, “they are waiting for you.” Then he opens the door. Sensing the uncertainty and confusion emanating from the man, he explains, “This is a moment between Jeffrey Nelson and his peers. His death is not a spectacle for anyone other than the ones who condemned him.”

Pale faced, his companion nods and walks in. Beacon closes the door behind him. Then, he promptly turns heaving and falling to his knees as he places a hand on the stones of the wall, sinking to the floor. Warm bile drips down his chin, staining the ground as he continues to retch until nothing but malignant water gurgles up from his throat. Trembling violently, Beacon wills forth his power using it to burn away the contents of his stomach before using it to hoist himself back to a standing position. His recovery is just in time. Staggering out of the room is the man bearing the now-bloody dagger who, upon seeing Beacon, fixes him with a look of ghastly vulnerability and sinks to his knees with a childlike wail of despair and anguish.

“We are heroes, not because we fight for just what is good,” Beacon says, watching the man weep. “We are heroes because we accept this sacred obligation. You are a hero because you replied to the summons and served on the jury. Now, like all your predecessors, you are a hero because you carried out the verdict.” Finally, at long last, Beacon allows some of his emotions to creep into his voice. With measured approval, he gently says, “You did not do a good thing. You did do the heroic thing instead.”

A thousand miles away, Eldritch sits. Her whole body is still as she mulls the words of the man across from her. The air, as if sensing her emotional state shakes with anticipation. Moments ago, the King of Spades threw down a metaphorical gauntlet, citing the necessity of killing Rabbit before he could divulge the location of the cursed book of dark magic to anyone.

Her voice is direct and authoritative as she replies to his question with an ironclad, “No.”

“No?” asks Carver, cocking his head to the side.

Cutting off any further response, Eldritch continues. “I became a heroine to save people. And I wouldn’t be one if I let this happen. I won’t allow you to do this.”

“You won’t allow?” asks Carver in a dangerous voice. The promise of a fight lingers in his tone as he materializes a black dagger and begins toying with the edge.

Firmly, Eldritch replies, “Yes. I will not allow you to kill him or anyone else in pursuit of this misguided mockery of justice.”

Growling, Carver snaps back, “I am not misguided! The mere presence of that book represents a significant danger to everyone in the city. This sh-”

“It’s serious, right?” asks Eldritch with a raised eyebrow. “That’s what you’re going to say? Just more justifications, reasons, and arguments. Save your breath. I’m not going to listen to any of your rambling any longer. The right thing does not involve an execution.

“That jive turkey is hardly an innocent,” drawls Carver.

The two girls trade glances. Both of them know that Rabbit is an informant for the police, but Carver does not. Careful not to let anything slip that might expose the man, Eldritch replies, “Nothing he’s done would warrant the death penalty.”

Carver kicks back in his chair and grins expansively. Nonchalantly, he says, “I agree, but this is about the future, not the past baby doll. If you can’t see that then we have nothing to discuss.”

“Then we have nothing to discuss,” Eldritch affirms simply.

“You too?” the King of Spades asks Ginger.

“Absolutely.”

“Well then,” the King sighs. “I hate the thought of depriving the world of you lovely ladies. Are you certain?” Seeing the resolute expressions they both sport he gestures toward Ginger’s legs and adds, “You can hide it, but I know you’ve been using the suit as a crutch this whole time darling. I bet you can barely walk without help right now. You going to try and stop me when you’re hobbled like that?” Then he points to Eldritch’s ears and continues, “And don’t think I missed your little hearing problem. It’s not a handicap when I’m this close, but do you really want to test it against a former scout? Silent attacks are my forte. The dagger that gets you won’t come from the front, and you won’t hear it in time to react.”

Angry, Ginger slams her hand down on the table and snaps back, “Hobbled? Why don’t you test me instead of running your mouth, huh?”

Eldritch nods in support and says, “I have other ways of sensing you. Magic doesn’t require ears.”

Carver nods at the pair of them, then spins the dagger in his hands and stands upright. “Alright, that’s how you wanna play it. I can dig it. I’ll even do the right thing and take this upstairs.”

Snorting, Ginger cuts him off. “Like Hell!” she says, “I’d bet that’s where the other kings are. We aren’t going through a brawl like that again.”

Barring his pearly white teeth, Carver flashes her a predatory smile. “Can’t blame a brother for trying doll, can you?”

Flicking his fingers into the air Carver tosses his dagger upwards where it vanishes in a puff of inky black. Then languidly, almost as if he hardly cares, Carver unwinds from his seat and rises. Then he spreads his hands and begins to fade into the darkness, the pristine shine of his teeth the only marker of his presence after a few seconds. Tersely watching, the two girls waste no time in preparing for the coming confrontation.

Eldritch begins chanting in a low voice, surrounding her head with a runic circle that floats around her head. Ginger drops to all fours, transforming into the shape of a tiger and pushing her damaged feet into a position where they are less of a liability. Both girls then circle back toward Rabbit, dragging his chair to the corner of the room and waiting for Carver’s inevitable opening salvo.

When it arrives, it arrives in a hurry. Dropping from the celling a flurry of shadow-made daggers fly toward the girls in a diamond pattern. With a roar from her tiger form, Ginger swats away the bottom half of the formation. A hurried incantation manifests a bubble of light that blocks the rest.

Mocking laughter echoes from above upon seeing the probing attack fail. “That’s the best you can do?” Carver taunts. His face forms from the darkness above, grinning down at the two girls like a Cheshire cat. “Little ladies, if that’s your level of protection I won’t even need to break a sweat.”

“And if you could do anything more than talk, this fight would be a lot more interesting!” shouts Eldritch.

However, her words meet only the remnants of Carver’s laughter as he fades out of view once again. Behind him, he leaves another pattern of deadly missiles. This time sending them in the form of twin crosses, one behind the other. Her barrier of light quickly snapping back into place, Eldritch holds the line against the first set as Ginger leaps into the air and intercepts the second. Snapping her paws in the air, Ginger twists herself into the way of the daggers and using the hellish training of Vicious intercepts them with quick swipes.

Upon landing, the girls trade grins. They know, dear reader, that Vicious’ mud training prepared them for exactly this fight, a fortuitous coincidence indeed! Eldritch, upon seeing her companion, feels the grin drain from her face as she realizes exactly how much overconfidence has cost them. Sticking out of Ginger’s metal hide is a set of three shadowy daggers, each one lethal if not for the steel coating of her companion. Lacking such a protection, Eldritch suddenly is acutely aware of her own vulnerability, and the stakes of this fight.

High stakes indeed, dear reader! Stakes appropriate for the coming fight, as we shall see next week in… “Just a Pack of Cards!”