Interlude: Blood and Wine
Clara Reisingen — formerly known by the stage name of the now-elderly superheroine Liberty — watched the gray-haired woman standing before her with a smile. Even with the wires wrapped around her body and the current that had been running through her continuously for several days, she still hadn't surrendered. Still hadn't broken.
"You know what's truly disappointing?" Clara said. "When a new generation forgets what their predecessors accomplished. Just look at yourself — old, sagging, and sooooo…" She drew the last word out with open condescension, savoring each syllable. "…weak. I can smell that rotten blood from across the room."
But Grace Mallory didn't let her finish. Another surge of electricity tore through the captive's body. The woman simply laughed. When the current cut off, the superheroine continued without missing a beat.
"…Back during a real war, I saw things that would have sent your specialists running to empty their stomachs. Müller always had a talent for keeping things entertaining. And Josef's experiments — mmm…" She tilted her head back slightly, eyes drifting upward as if calling up a fond memory. "He and Friedrich had such an appetite for inventing something new. Something truly curious." When she finished, the former heroine lowered her head and looked Grace directly in the eyes, smile intact, her expression one of open challenge. "Believe me, darling — you will never surprise me. You will never break me. And besides, over the years I've become very good at tolerating pain. Ben never held back during our little parties." A short laugh. "Not once."
Mallory's gaze — entirely stripped of emotion — rested on the entertained captive. She waited in silence for the woman to finish. When she did, Grace spoke.
"Maybe not today," she said, her tone flat and cold, spacing her words deliberately. "Then tomorrow. Or the day after. A week from now, a month, a year…" She paused. "Consider Vought finished. They will be under our complete control very soon. And every secret you've worked so hard to protect will become ours. So I'd recommend against playing games and start talking while your words are still worth something. At best, we can arrange a reduced sentence."
Unexpectedly, the lightning queen smirked — and her smile only widened. Then she began shaking her head slowly, like someone expressing mild disappointment in a child.
"My, my — has our little brown *boss* finally decided to show the room who's in charge?" she said with theatrical sarcasm, raising an eyebrow. "I always knew he'd try to push us out the moment he had the opening. But this clumsily? It's obvious he knows how to shuffle paperwork and manage the fools on the board of directors — but he's too limited to deal with a superior race on its own terms. He simply can't comprehend what he's done."
This time it was Mallory's turn to be surprised. She had spent several weeks engineering this conversation — carefully positioning the woman across from her, working with subtle methods to draw out the information she needed. Torture had yielded nothing. But simpler approaches sometimes worked better.
"What do you mean?" the gray-haired woman asked.
Clara only shook her head, watching her tormentor with a sly, knowing expression.
"'Dear' Edgar may think himself the smartest man in the room," she said, her voice carrying the quiet certainty of someone who has already seen the ending, "but he is still nothing but a small, ordinary human being — planning the movements of superhuman beings as though they were no different from regular mortals. A critical error. One that will cost him everything." She let that land, then gave a slight shrug. "But trash like him should have been taken out long ago. So it hardly matters."
She tilted her head to one side and studied the figure before her with undisguised curiosity — contempt and interest occupying her expression in equal measure.
"You know, you're really no different from him," she said, her voice taking on a strange, almost cheerful lilt. "Another fool who thinks that because she climbed higher than the other ants in the colony, she can now stand on equal ground with a real human being. That is *precisely* why Vought has ruled this world for all these years — we won the arms race before any of you even understood you were in one. Even if you manage to wring every secret out of me, you won't know what to do with them." The confidence in her voice was absolute — the confidence of someone who has never truly lost. "Your defeat is inevitable. Accept it, darling, and just enjoy the ride. You'll love where it ends."
After that, the former heroine Liberty threw her head back and began to laugh like someone who had lost their mind. Arcs of electricity crackled across her body, but the Faraday cage constructed around her prevented any of it from escaping outward. Mallory stood beside her for another few minutes, waiting for the conversation to resume. The Nazi only laughed.
Not wanting to waste any more time, Mallory turned and walked toward the exit. She stepped out of the armored-glass observation room where the woman was being held and headed for the door. But before she left entirely, she turned to one of the handlers responsible for the captive's detention and gave a quiet order.
"Which idiot decided to use electricity? Don't be stupid — switch to something more… intensive. And don't go easy on her."
Unexpectedly, Clara stopped laughing and turned her gaze toward where Mallory had been standing.
"Oh, don't be such a prickle," she called after her, her voice carrying its corrosive edge. "I'm certain that fifty years ago you were wearing slippers with my face on them, buying underwear with my brand, completely obsessed with the world's first real superheroine. Well — I'm sorry if meeting Liberty in person didn't go the way you always dreamed." A pause, and then a voice that was almost warm. "You know what they say, darling — never meet your heroes. Are you really that disappointed in me?"
Grace walked out and let the door close behind her.
***
Victoria Newman sat in her favorite restaurant and gazed out the window with a look of mild curiosity. She watched the people moving far below — from up here they were nothing more than small shifting points. Barely more than ants beneath the foot of something greater…
"…I do apologize — the interview ran considerably longer than I expected. I hope you took the opportunity and already ordered something?"
She had heard his footsteps long before he arrived, but only now, as the young man stepped into the room, did she turn her head. A smile bloomed on her face as she settled into the role she always played. He matched her energy, and within minutes they were seated together at the table with coffee.
Mark Shety, sitting across from her, looked appropriate for the setting — black tuxedo, white shirt, a crimson tie that came together well. Victoria's years of experience let her read what the clothes couldn't quite hide: the young man was not accustomed to wearing something like this, and the suit was hampering him more than it was helping. That, unexpectedly, produced something genuine in her expression.
Old memories drifted back — her own early days, when she had been just as unpolished, just as unaccustomed to the rules of the larger game. Without the connections of her adoptive father, she wouldn't have risen above secretary level. But even those connections couldn't simply hand you everything on a silver platter.
Hours of work stretching late into the night. A personal life she had quietly sacrificed. Constant vigilance over every word and every action — that had become her daily routine. Public appearances, advantageous deals, social functions — each one a step higher on the ladder. The path had been difficult. The result was worth it.
Even the queen of the game, of course, had her weaknesses. The rare, precious meetings with her father, which had left marks on her soul she couldn't entirely account for. And, of course, her dear Zoe. Though her adoptive daughter didn't share her blood, Victoria loved her with everything she had and wanted nothing but the best for her.
And if ensuring that required getting her hands dirty — she would do it without blinking. Even if it meant working against her father's plans, she would secure a bright future for her daughter. Whatever the cost.
"I completely understand," Victoria said, her voice carrying a note of genuine sympathy. "After everything that's erupted recently, finding even a few free hours has become nearly impossible. And I can only imagine the volume of work involved in the early stages of the distinguished Mr. Singer's presidential campaign."
Mark gave a polite nod, as if sharing her concern. The conversation drifted smoothly onto neutral ground — performing the necessary exchange of pleasantries that allowed both of them to approach the delicate subject of their arrangement with appropriate grace.
"…By the way — have you had a chance to look at the results from the charity evening?" Newman asked, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, taking a small sip from her coffee cup. Mark held an identical cup, but his movements looked more mechanical, more deliberate.
Newman privately acknowledged that he had genuine acting talent. Even her years of political experience weren't quite sufficient to read what was happening beneath the surface at any given moment. But she hadn't become as successful as she was by trusting her eyes alone — she had long since established that they were far too easy to fool.
She wanted it, and the ability activated. Victoria felt the movement of blood through the man's body. She heard his heart hammering in a rapid, anxious rhythm. She felt the tension running through the muscles of his neck and back, betraying the rigidity he was working to conceal.
The ability to control blood was rare enough that, across the entirety of recorded history, only two people had ever possessed it: Mark, whose power was documented in Vought's classified archives, and Ньюман herself. Her father had, of course, ensured that any evidence of her own ability had vanished from accessible sources.
She had trained her gift far less than Mark had — less than the young man who had apparently opened an entirely new dimension of what their shared power could do. She relied far more on the precision of her mind. But she had developed certain skills along the way. The ability to read the emotional states of her political opponents had served her more than once.
"Yes — the results are very, very promising," the young man said after a moment's thought. "Enough funds were raised that even a fraction of it could change a great deal for tens of thousands of people." But what held Victoria's attention far more than his words was the object he smoothly drew from the breast pocket of his jacket.
A vial of blue liquid.
Mark turned it over in his hands without speaking, then raised his eyes to meet hers. She continued to smile, not looking away from the vial. He rolled it between his fingers and glanced at her — once, then again. She was not a fool. She understood his meaning perfectly.
"In that case, I'm very glad you've held up your end of the agreement," she said. "You are a genuine pleasure to work with. And I can confirm that eleven million dollars will be deposited to the fund's account shortly. Though given the number of my acquaintances who are prepared to do virtually anything for the chance to meet you — I suspect there will be considerably more before long. I imagine you'll find yourself wealthy enough soon to help an even greater number of people on your own terms."
The moment Mark heard the conclusion of their small deal, he sat quietly for a moment with something turning over in his expression — and then, with a short, firm nod, he set the vial of Compound V on the table beside Victoria. She did not toy with fate. With one swift motion, she tucked the most valuable substance on earth into her handbag.
"It has been a genuine pleasure working with you as well, Miss Newman," the hero replied, his voice even and deliberately drained of expression. "More than you can imagine."
But the woman was already building plans inside her head.
Her father — who despised the majority of supers — was going to be deeply displeased by what she was about to do. But she had no alternative. Every day that passed only diminished the chances that Zoe could handle the serum and survive the process. Every day also meant another day that the probability of her daughter becoming sick, or caught in a disaster, or crossing paths with a predator, remained unacceptably high.
Victoria would protect her daughter. Whatever the cost. Even if it meant sacrificing her own career, or undermining her father's plans — she would do it. It was her weakness, yes. But without Zoe, she simply could not go on.
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