CHAPTER FOURTEEN - CHERIE

Brockton Bay was alive with suffering, salt, and rust. To Cherie Vasil, it wasn’t just a city—it was a symphony. She leaned against a crumbling brick wall in the warehouse district, reveling in the melodies that only she could hear. The discordant cries of the city played in her mind: sharp bursts of anger, the low hum of despair, and the occasional sour note of hope.

The Nine had come to Brockton Bay for their usual grim purpose—to test, to torment, and, ultimately, to recruit. Cherie had tagged along, not because she cared for Jack Slash’s games, but because it was an opportunity she couldn't pass up. If she played her cards right, she’d secure the privilege of choosing the next additions to their merry band of monsters. And if not? Well, failure wasn’t an option she intended to entertain.

Closing her eyes, she let the symphony unfold, the individual notes of emotions separating into distinct voices. Lust and greed blared from a nearby dive bar. Fear and despair thrummed like a dirge from the tenement building across the street. But it was the spike of fury, sharp and insistent, that drew her attention.

“Let’s see who you are,” she murmured, pushing off the wall.

She didn’t need to see her target to find them. The emotions guided her like a beacon.

The source wasn’t far. In an alley a block away, a young man stood with fists clenched, his jaw tight as he glared at a group of dockworkers laughing nearby. His anger was palpable, almost intoxicating. She could hear it in the “music” of his emotions—a pounding drumbeat, wild and uncontrolled.

“A cape,” she murmured, recognizing the telltale volatility of a parahuman. She lingered in the shadows, letting her power brush against his emotions. The drumbeat faltered, shifting to confusion and a tinge of unease. He looked around, sensing something but unable to pinpoint her presence.

She lingered in the shadows, letting her power brush against his anger. The drumbeat faltered, replaced by a jagged rhythm of confusion and unease. His eyes darted around the alley, searching for the source of the invisible touch.

She smirked. “Not bad, but you’ll need more than a short fuse to impress Jack.”

Turning away, she let the thread of his emotions slip from her grasp. He was promising, but raw. A potential candidate, perhaps, if the Nine needed another blunt instrument. But there were others in this city, capes and criminals alike, who might be more entertaining. And Cherie intended to savor every moment of finding them.

. . . . .

Her next stop was a high-rise in Downtown, a building that practically screamed wealth and power. Inside, the air was thick with tension—people playing their own games of manipulation and deceit. But one “note” stood out—a strange, elusive tune that she struggled to define.

She stepped inside, brushing past the doorman without a glance. Her power guided her to an office on the twentieth floor, where a woman in her thirties sat at a desk. Cherie leaned against the doorway, unnoticed, and listened.

The woman’s emotions were muted, tightly controlled, but not entirely hidden. Pride hummed like a steady bassline, underscored by the sharp notes of ambition. It was… fascinating. Cherie rarely encountered someone so adept at hiding their true feelings.

“Interesting,” Cherie mused aloud.

The woman jolted, her composure faltering for just a moment. “Who are you?” she demanded, rising to her feet.

Cherie smirked, leaning casually against the doorway. “Just an admirer,” she said, her tone dripping with mock sincerity. “You’ve got a talent for keeping your cards close to your chest. I can respect that.”

The woman’s fear spiked—a sharp, discordant note in the symphony. But just as quickly, she forced it down, her mask slipping back into place. “You’re one of them, aren’t you? One of the capes.

Cherie didn’t bother to answer. Instead, she let her power brush against the woman’s emotions, a subtle nudge that introduced just enough unease to keep her on edge. Not enough to break her composure—just enough to let her know who was in control.

After a long moment, Cherie straightened and turned to leave. “You’re not what I’m looking for,” she said over her shoulder. “But you’ve got potential. Maybe I’ll be back.”

Night fell and Cherie perched atop a derelict building, staring out at the city below. The wind tugged at her hair, the red streak stark against the darkness. She toyed with a shard of glass she’d picked up earlier, turning it over in her hand. It caught the light of the moon as she pressed her thumb against its edge, letting the sharpness bite just enough to sting.

Cherie had created a mental list of potential candidates for the Nine. The unknown cape, with his raw anger and destructive potential. A young girl from the Docks whose fear masked a surprising amount of resilience. A mercenary with a dark past and a talent for violence. 

But there was one person she couldn’t ignore, one candidate whose inclusion wasn’t a matter of choice.

The only other person who truly understood what it meant to grow up in their father’s house.

“Payback,” she whispered to herself, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. It wasn’t the first time she’d considered it, nor would it be the last. Jean-Paul was in this city, and she couldn’t let the opportunity slip away. Not after everything he’d done—or failed to do.

. . . . .

When they were children, their father, Heartbreaker, had forced them to practice their powers on each other. It was never framed as cruelty; it was “training,” a lesson in control, a way to sharpen the tools they’d been gifted with. But Cherie remembered the pain. She remembered how Jean-Paul would sit there, emotionless, as she pushed fear or joy or despair into him, testing the limits of her abilities. And she remembered how he turned her into a puppet in return, forcing her to laugh or cry or freeze on command.

It wasn’t his fault, not really. They’d both been victims back then. But when he ran away, leaving her behind to endure their father’s increasingly twisted games, something inside her broke.

Her escape had been messier, bloodier. And when she finally got out, she swore she’d never let anyone control her again. Not Heartbreaker, not Jean-Paul, not anyone.

. . . . .

She leaned against the glass display case near the entrance of the video game store, fingers toying with a keychain she’d swiped off one of the racks. The bell above the door had jingled when she entered, drawing the bored glance of the clerk, but no one had bothered her since. That was the thing about places like this—no one cared, not really.

And there he was.

Jean-Paul. Regent. Whatever he was calling himself these days.

Her brother.

She watched him for a moment, unseen but not unnoticed. He stood in the aisle marked Retro Games, posture slouched and movements unhurried, flipping through old PlayStation cases with lazy disinterest. His emotions told a different story though—boredom tinged with faint irritation, the kind of feeling that came from being unable to find the exact thing you were looking for. 

It was almost laughable. Here she was, a member of the infamous Slaughterhouse Nine, scouting for potential recruits, and her estranged brother was digging through dusty relics in a game store.

She didn’t announce herself right away. Instead, she let her power drift toward him, brushing against his emotional signature like fingertips skimming still water. His mind was strange—muted and quiet, like someone had taken a wrench to his emotional volume and turned it way down. He’d always been that way. Detached. Distant.

“Still wasting time with this crap, huh?” Her voice sliced through the quiet like a knife.

He stiffened, just for a moment, before turning his head toward her. His expression was unreadable, but she felt the flicker of recognition—a spark of surprise, quickly swallowed by his usual indifference.

“Cherie.”

He said her name like it was an inconvenience, like running into her here was just another thing he had to deal with.

“You don’t look happy to see me,” she said, stepping closer.

“I’ve learned not to expect much from family reunions.”

Her smile faltered for a heartbeat before snapping back into place. “You’ve got some nerve, pretending you’re above it all. You left, Jean-Paul. You left me with him.”

“And yet, here you are,” he replied, waving a hand dismissively. “Alive. Strong. Free. You should be thanking me.”

Cherie’s fingers twitched, the temptation to shove every ounce of anger and hatred she felt into him nearly overwhelming. But she held back. Not yet. She wanted him to feel this—truly feel it—when the moment was right.

“Thanking you?” she spat. “For what? For running away while I was stuck playing his little doll? For leaving me to clean up your mess?”

Jean-Paul’s gaze didn’t waver. “You think I’m responsible for what Heartbreaker did to you?”

“Aren’t you?” she shot back. “He got worse after you left. You were the favorite, Jean-Paul. The prodigal son. When you ran, he took it out on the rest of us. On me.”

For the first time, his expression flickered, a faint shadow of guilt crossing his face. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. He sighed, setting the case back on the shelf and turning to face her fully. His expression was calm, but there was something in his eyes that she couldn’t quite place.

“What do you want, Cherie?”

She smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

His lips twitched, like he was holding back a laugh. “A proposition? From you? This should be good.”

“You think I’m joking?” she asked, her voice dropping a notch. “I’m serious, Alec. This is big. Bigger than Dad, bigger than the shit he put us through.”

He folded his arms, leaning back against the shelf. “Go on, then. Impress me.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Her smile widened, and for a moment, she felt a flicker of something almost like fondness. He hadn’t changed much—not really. Still the same little brat largely driven by pleasure seeking.

“I’m with the Nine now,” she said, watching his reaction closely.

To his credit, he didn’t flinch. But she felt the subtle shift in his emotions, the faint ripple of unease that he couldn’t quite suppress.

“And?” he said, his voice carefully neutral.

“And we’re looking for new recruits,” she said, taking a step closer. “You’ve got potential, Alec. You’ve always had potential. I’m just here to give you an opportunity.”

His eyes narrowed. “An opportunity to what? Join a bunch of psychopaths and murderers?”

She shrugged. “Call it what you want, hypocrite. But let’s be honest—you’re not exactly living the dream here, are you? Hiding out in some backwater city, playing second fiddle to a bunch of losers?”

He didn’t respond, but she could feel the anger bubbling beneath the surface now, hot and sharp.

“I’m giving you a chance to be something more,” she said, her voice softening. “To take control, for once in your life. Don’t you want that?”

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shook his head and turned away.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” he said, walking past her toward the door.

She watched him go, her smile fading.

“You’ll regret this, Alec,” she called after him.

He didn’t look back.