Chương 80: Venus S. Vaugn

The lounge security door hissed. Dr. Haider and Stacy walked back in. They'd brought friends. A small armed retinue streamed in behind Haider and Stacy. Kelly scanned their EQ levels at a glance—a spread from a low 3, to decent 8, up to a rigid 32. Professional muscle. They flanked a woman who was talking. Everyone else was just listening. Nodding. As if everyone walking was listening to a natural disaster explaining the weather. She was obviously high EQ.

Kelly didn't need to ping her stats to check her level; beyond 60, likely a peak-Elite, or maybe even a real-life Demigod. Her appearance was superhuman, almost perfect. Flawless skin, athletic poise, movement so graceful it looked edited. The only flaw was a single visible seam running from beneath her left eye down her neck. A modification line. Not an injury. A choice. She looked slightly older than Kelly, but only by a few years. Her real age, however, was anyone's guess.

Her hair was black, styled in a severe, expensive trend. This slightly older lady carried an eerie inhuman elegance, like a heavenly being who'd decided to slum it with mammals. Unlike Kelly's team, she had style. Actual style. She wore a tailored jacket that probably cost more than a light armored vehicle, dark pants that allowed full tactical movement, and boots that looked both expensive and functional. She carried a pair of designer glasses in one hand. The moment she stepped into the room, she put them on.

Glasses. A strange fashion choice. Her eyes were clearly perfect. She'd never seen a glassed city or breathed toxic air in her life. She could afford gene corrections, lens implants, and any optical upgrade on the market. The way she wore them—a careful, deliberate gesture—suggested that, like most people on this elevated plateau, she'd never actually needed glasses before. They were a prop. A power move. It felt like seeing a fairy in Levi's jeans.

Kelly couldn't explain why, but she had a bad feeling about this woman. Mostly because Dr. Haider, Stacy, and Reggie suddenly looked like marionettes on a tight string whenever she spoke—and even Manuel, usually as chill as a lava lamp, went full "don't breathe wrong" mode at the sight of her. Kelly looked back at her cards, reshuffling without care.

"Okay," she said.

"The welcome committee. Did we order a corporate goddess? I don't remember ordering one." Manuel grunted, his eyes on the cards as he shuffled.

"That's because you don't pay the bills." The woman's gaze swept the room. It passed over the scorch mark on the floor, the disarrayed chair from the wolf's crash landing. It lingered on Kelly for a half-second longer than necessary. Her expression didn't change. She was clearly used to being the most dangerous thing in any room. The mad scientist's eyes flicked past the corporate goddess. She landed on the bodyguard to her left.

Tall, a posture more rigid than functional, a face that had become something carved from granite and left in bad weather. She recognized him. He was one of the men from Simon's barricade—the suicide squad, not Simon's idiots—back when the first troll had smashed through the street, and back when she was still dying her way through that particular chain of events. He'd been in covert suits and light body armor then, part of a team that tried to net and bag the first troll. He'd failed.

The troll had used his partner as a toothpick. This time, he had changed. He wore heavy gear—a reinforced uniform, tactical plating at the joints, a helmet with a retracted visor. The gear was something other than corporate sleek. It was military surplus, modified. The gear was more than protection; it was a statement. The kind that could stop a high-caliber round at the cost of making you move like a refrigerator with legs. In his hands, he carried a large gun-shaped box.

A sealed metal crate with a handle and the silhouette of a heavy weapon. The rest of the retinue, she hadn't met in this restart. New faces. New muscle. Likely higher pay grade. Definitely duller conversation. The last time she'd seen him, his helmet had come loose, knocked aside as he'd tried to lasso a troll with reinforced rope. That didn't work out. Was the box an improvement, or just a fancier way to get eaten? You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

She nodded at the bodyguard. The bodyguard's eyes shifted toward her. His expression had changed. It held no recognition or even irritation. It was a flat, professional assessment. He was working, and she was background noise. The corporate goddess paused her conversation with Haider. She glanced at Kelly, then at her bodyguard. A slight, almost imperceptible tilt of her head that said, 'Ignore her.' The bodyguard's gaze snapped back to scanning the room's corners.

"Yeah," the mad scientist muttered, throwing a card on the table that Manuel completely failed to notice, distracted as he was.

"Definitely an improvement. Big scary box. I hope for his sake it's not a sandwich." The corporate goddess and her retinue moved, passing by Kelly and Manuel on their way to the center of the room. Kelly caught a rushed conversation about 'securing the specimen,' 'a premium for live capture,' 'containment protocols must be absolute,' and 'no one must know its importance.' The woman stopped abruptly when she noticed Kelly.

"You." The woman's voice was deeper than Kelly had expected, a voice very used to immediate obedience.

"Me?" Kelly pointed a finger at herself.

"How are you doing that?" she asked. Her sharp eyes, magnified and framed by the glasses, examined Kelly with a slow, invasive focus. The lenses flashed with a soft internal light. Kelly saw the faintest scroll of text and numeric strings projected onto the glass. The device was doing more than offering a better look. It was cataloging. Assessing. The feeling was like standing in an open field while a satellite calculated your thermal signature. Somehow, it felt like locking eyes with a scope.

"What are you?" she asked, voice low. The Elite, or 'possible member of the Upper Echelon' woman stood there and stared at Kelly after asking. She waited for an answer with an eerily patient gaze, like a sniper that had already decided on the angle of your throat. Kelly stared back at her without blinking.

"A guest." Doing what? Being awesome? Having style so uncontainable it should need a permit? Kelly had no idea what the first question even referred to. She honestly couldn't tell which of her numerous excellent qualities the woman meant. The woman held her gaze. The lenses over her eyes continued their data scroll.

"That is not what I asked." Everyone held their breath as she repeated her question, as if forcing her to repeat anything was usually bad for the answerer's health.

"What. Are you?"

"Good question." Kelly smiled and gave a small wave. It was the smile of someone admitting to a parking ticket, not a cosmic secret.

"I'm a baby time-god. It's a whole thing. Contract work. Very hush-hush. Don't tell Genecorp. They get jealous."

"Interesting." The woman's mouth curved, something vaguely amused and entirely cold.

"No one controls time," she said.

"It can't be owned or contained. But the way you interact with it is... interesting."

"I'll admit, I hope to achieve what you have someday." Her face held a complicated look, like she'd been reminded of something. She glanced toward Kelly's abdomen, and Kelly felt the pressure in the room shift.

"But you're not as impressive as you believe yourself to be, stranger." Then she turned. She walked away with her escort. The conversation had ended. The room's focus moved with her. Kelly watched them go and wondered which one of her many awesome qualities those glasses had exposed. She also wondered why she hadn't had to kill anyone to protect those qualities. That part was unusual. Usually, someone would have tried to dissect her by now. This was practically impolite.

But most of all, she wondered about her last words. Like hell she wasn't impressive. Kelly was special. Nobody was more special than her. But it had looked like the woman was thinking of a specific singular person that Kelly had somehow reminded her of. Who the hell was almost-but-definitely-nowhere-near as impressive as her? Nobody, that's who. Not even gods and avatars. Manuel dealt another card onto the table. The sound was sharp in the quiet.

"Baby time-god," he said, his voice flat.

"You got a better title for it?" Kelly asked, picking up her new hand.

"'Chronologically Challenged' was already taken."

"You're strange, you know that?" He grunted.

"You just put yourself in the world's worst crosshairs without a care. I mean it—she's bad news. Well, it was nice knowing you, time-nut. I won't grieve your passing."

"I'd be disappointed if you did," Kelly said, examining her cards. She didn't look up.

"Grief's a waste of good adrenaline. Save it for someone who stays dead." Manuel shook his head—once, sharp, like he was cutting the thought off before it could finish forming.

"You think this is funny," he said, his voice low and flat.

"Like I'm exaggerating." His mouth pulled to one side. It wasn't a smirk. He looked more frustrated than anything else, like he was trying not to lose his temper.

"Goddammit." He leaned back against the chair and crossed his arms, eyes never leaving the place the retinue had left from.

"I'm telling you straight: she's bad news. You better hope you never see her again. Not even by accident six months from now when you think this whole thing's blown over." He paused, letting the weight of his threat sink in.

"Who is she?" Kelly asked. Dangerous people were her favorite category of person. Dr. Haider returned just in time to hear Kelly's question.

"That's Venus.

'Venus S. Vaughn.' The real Venus, not the double that plays pretend on the news. Gideon Vaughn's daughter, and one of our primary employers. His youngest. She's a partner," Dr. Haider said as he regrouped, clearly visibly worried, his features taut.

"When he sends her, people tend to disappear."