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Deleted Scene: Wolves
AlSmash
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- May 26, 2018
- Messages
- 56
- Likes received
- 2,959
This is a deleted scene from 5.2. We felt that it did not fit well with the general flow of the story, and as a result, we snipped it. However, it still can add to the story and provide additional details, so here we go.
Isaiah Knight
Callsign 'Reaper'
Brockton Bay, MA
May 21st, 2011
0503 Zulu Hours (GMT-5)
It seemed that despite the minor setbacks, fortune still favored them. The downpour of rain provided excellent cover and the decision to wait an additional day had allowed everyone to position themselves better just as Skidmark began to lower his guard.
Which only enhanced the belief that Skidmark was a patsy for someone else. No intelligent individual would do something as stupid as beginning to relax only a few days after effecting a mass casualty event.
Nonetheless, that was what Skidmark had done and he would pay dearly for such stupidity.
"All Wolves in position," the communication from their overwatch, a drone operator loitering a Predator overhead. It was certainly not what he wanted after reading the report of Hebert's new machine, but it still did its job and that was all that mattered.
They had all the intel that they required. The Merchants had been quite forthcoming with all of their usage of cellphones, not knowing that they were being monitored the entire time. As a result, everyone knew exactly where the Merchants had holed themselves up, but more importantly, where Skidmark and Mush were currently located. Squealer was a non-issue, according to intercepted conversations. It appeared that Skidmark had been unhappy with her.
The only missing target was Trainwreck, but from the signal interceptions, re: Skidmark's profligate usage of his cell phone, Skidmark didn't know either.
But it didn't matter. After tonight? They would have their answers, one way or another.
He pulled down his goggles, bathing his vision in series green light, before raising his rifle and patting Marian on the shoulder, receiving a slight nod before keying his mic.
"Wolf Lead to Wolves. Execute."
They then moved into the alley in silence, weapons raised. In his mental map, he knew that all eleven other members were spread amongst five teams as they approached their target, the rain and shadows serving to mask their approach.
With the rise of heroes and villains, it had also witnessed the emergence of what the cape community simply referred to as 'cape-killers'. Not in the concept of singular individuals, but groups of unpowered individuals who banded together to deal with capes. Back in the day, capes went out of their way to eliminate such groups. Nowadays, however, cape killing teams were a rarity, and those that existed were either damned good at their job.
Or they were government sponsored.
His team, however, did not specifically target capes unless their mission profile required it. If a cape did become involved, however, they were likely to just become another dead body by the time his team was done.
While cape killing was no different than killing another human being, there was an added dimension to it. You could not go after a cape half-cocked, while some amateur might get lucky, more often than not they became just another statistic. Another idiot added to the supposed "invincibility" of capes to normals.
Hunting a cape was akin to hunting big game. You need to know everything about your quarry, otherwise all it took was one underestimation, one mistake, and you ended up a statistic.
But perhaps more importantly, you never hunted alone.
That was what his Wolves were. They weren't just the team that was sent by Hexa to deal with nasty issues that their patrons didn't want to have their fingerprints on. They were professional killers who hunted the most difficult of quarries.
And right now, as they approached their target, they took advantage of a Brockton Bay urban legend revolving around the Empire Eighty Eight. One that had first been started by Kaiser in his early days suggesting that the Empire had in reserve a group of former soldiers who subscribed to their beliefs, killing and disappearing people in the middle of the night.
It was a legend steeped in some truth. Victor did have a unit of men and women who could do what was whispered, but they were rarely employed in such a way. Instead, these 'Jäger' were used more as an elite honor guard for Kaiser, and when not him, spent their time protecting Othala. Still, it was the matter that the legend existed in the first place that lent credence and provided them with a smoke screen to do this and muddle any beliefs by Taylor Hebert that Vice President Ryan had ignored her warning.
Marian Channing, his second in command, came to a stop in front of him, holding up her open hand calling him to stop.
"Three contacts," her whisper sounded in his ear, "twenty meters, surrounding a barrel."
She slowly backed, allowing him the opportunity to look over her shoulder and around the corner, sighting her contact. Sure enough, there were three Merchants huddled around an open flame in a barrel underneath and some sheet metal that provided protection from the elements.
Leaning back, he made a decision, "Engage the rightmost target, I'll handle the other two. On my mark."
"Copy."
"Mark."
They exploded into motion, whipping around the corner, Isaiah sighting down his scope as he acquired his first target. With a quick trigger pull, a soft sharp crack sounded just as another sounded from Marian's weapon. Without even waiting to confirm, he acquired the second target and pulled the trigger again.
All of this happened in less than a second, and all three targets fell to the ground, never becoming aware that they were under attack. They both moved quickly, weapons scanning around even as they moved towards the building where they knew where Skidmark was hiding.
Coming to a stop at the door, they positioned themselves to cover their backs as he keyed his mic.
"Lead, in position. Three kills. Sitrep"
He received quick responses from the rest of his team
"Two, in position. One kill."
"Three, in position. One kill."
"Four, reaching position. Two minutes."
"Five. In position. One kill."
"Copy."
Everything was going according to plan, all threats on the outside had been eliminated, and now all that remained was breaching the building and capturing Skidmark. That was what Four was doing, taking one of the ladders up to the roof so they could look in on their targets, providing final intelligence while also positioning to deal with Skidmark himself.
For that, one member of each team had an underslung attachment on their rifles. The only ordnance within it was a crystalline 'spike' that would deliver a nerve agent to their target. It had been a purchase made from Heisenberg, a chemical Tinker for Toybox. From time to time, Hexa commissioned the black market organization to provide them with tools and equipment for their missions. It was patently illegal for a governmental organization to do so, but because Hexa was considered a private company, they were not beholden to such restrictions. Even if they were basically part of the government.
Against non-brutes, it was an effective weapon, able to quickly incapacitate a target and not be restricted by things like clothing or light armor with its ability to penetrate into the target and deliver its cargo. And for Skidmark, who most certainly did not have a brute rating, it was perfect.
"Four. In position. Five hostiles. Target sighted. Ready to engage."
Once again, he wished that he had the Focus device that Hebert had provided his sister. The ability to see through walls and have targets identified and highlighted would make breaching so much easier. Instead, it was going to be done the old-fashioned way.
"Bang and Breach," he quietly commed, even as he raised his goggles back up. They would only be a hindrance once they breached into the brightly lit building, "When you're ready, Four."
"Roger, Lead. Hold tight."
He glanced over at Marian, who had likewise removed her goggles, her expression focused as they exchanged a look, in her hands a pair of stun grenades as he placed his hand on the handle, ready to wrench the door open so she had a clear path..
"On my mark, Team. Three. Two. One. Breach. Breach. Breach."
On the first 'Breach', he had already flung the door open, Marian pulling the pins and throwing her stun grenades. The cacophony of a string of explosions sounding the only signal needed as she brought her weapon up and moved in, him following her in
"Skidmark down," sounded in his ear, but it was all background noise, the cracks of subsonic gunfire reverberating off the walls as targets were engaged. His own weapon joined the din as Marian and himself swiftly eliminated a Merchant who was staggering around like a drunk from the stun grenades.
In only a few moments it was over, and he moved through the warehouse, his weapon at the ready for any possible threats. But there were none, instead, he moved towards the target as another one of his men was already taking a kneeling position, rifle shouldered as he withdrew plastic zipties and secured them around Skidmarks' wrists.
"Fucker smells bad enough without him shitting his pants," Elend muttered, as he finished securing Skidmark. It was one of the side effects of the nerve agent. It caused the target's muscles to completely relax, resulting in such unfortunate things like voiding of bowels.
Isaiah didn't say anything, instead keying his mic, "Overlord, Wolf Lead, package secured. Require extract."
"Roger, Wolf Lead. Extract in thirty."
"Copy, Overlord," he replied, watching as Elend threw Skidmark over his shoulder. He cast a glance at his other men, who silently awaited the orders for what was required next.
"Set up the scene."
Nothing else needed to be said, as they began moving, reaching into their pouches and extracting spray cans. Satisfied, he rejoined the formation as the rest of the team arranged themselves around the package. The soft hiss of spray cans being used was the only indication of the men's work as Isaiah moved with the rest of them towards their extraction. Another pair of his team broke off, reaching into their pouches and extracting long cylindrical tubes.
"Tags applied," Steve, his trusted left hand's voice sounded on the headset. The 'Tags' being carefully applied gang iconography of the Empire Eight-Eight. Just another layer to the deception, it would ensure that by the time anyone was able to put together what happened, if they were ever able to, would be lost in the rest of the noise in the next twenty-four hours. It also suited the longer term goals that Cardinal had in regards to the Brockton Bay, leaving far too many questions that couldn't be answered by any side.
"Light it up," Isaiah ordered as a pair of beat up vans pulled up. Vehicles that would easily pass for something that the Empire used. Getting into the vehicle, they secured their captive, as the rest of the team moved into their transportation. The last thing he saw before the doors slid shut was the flames quickly beginning to engulf the building, the stored drugs acting as an accelerant, and then they were on their way to their next destination..
It was time to get to the next part of the mission.
Isaiah Knight
Callsign 'Reaper'
Brockton Bay, MA
May 21st, 2011
0503 Zulu Hours (GMT-5)
It seemed that despite the minor setbacks, fortune still favored them. The downpour of rain provided excellent cover and the decision to wait an additional day had allowed everyone to position themselves better just as Skidmark began to lower his guard.
Which only enhanced the belief that Skidmark was a patsy for someone else. No intelligent individual would do something as stupid as beginning to relax only a few days after effecting a mass casualty event.
Nonetheless, that was what Skidmark had done and he would pay dearly for such stupidity.
"All Wolves in position," the communication from their overwatch, a drone operator loitering a Predator overhead. It was certainly not what he wanted after reading the report of Hebert's new machine, but it still did its job and that was all that mattered.
They had all the intel that they required. The Merchants had been quite forthcoming with all of their usage of cellphones, not knowing that they were being monitored the entire time. As a result, everyone knew exactly where the Merchants had holed themselves up, but more importantly, where Skidmark and Mush were currently located. Squealer was a non-issue, according to intercepted conversations. It appeared that Skidmark had been unhappy with her.
The only missing target was Trainwreck, but from the signal interceptions, re: Skidmark's profligate usage of his cell phone, Skidmark didn't know either.
But it didn't matter. After tonight? They would have their answers, one way or another.
He pulled down his goggles, bathing his vision in series green light, before raising his rifle and patting Marian on the shoulder, receiving a slight nod before keying his mic.
"Wolf Lead to Wolves. Execute."
They then moved into the alley in silence, weapons raised. In his mental map, he knew that all eleven other members were spread amongst five teams as they approached their target, the rain and shadows serving to mask their approach.
With the rise of heroes and villains, it had also witnessed the emergence of what the cape community simply referred to as 'cape-killers'. Not in the concept of singular individuals, but groups of unpowered individuals who banded together to deal with capes. Back in the day, capes went out of their way to eliminate such groups. Nowadays, however, cape killing teams were a rarity, and those that existed were either damned good at their job.
Or they were government sponsored.
His team, however, did not specifically target capes unless their mission profile required it. If a cape did become involved, however, they were likely to just become another dead body by the time his team was done.
While cape killing was no different than killing another human being, there was an added dimension to it. You could not go after a cape half-cocked, while some amateur might get lucky, more often than not they became just another statistic. Another idiot added to the supposed "invincibility" of capes to normals.
Hunting a cape was akin to hunting big game. You need to know everything about your quarry, otherwise all it took was one underestimation, one mistake, and you ended up a statistic.
But perhaps more importantly, you never hunted alone.
That was what his Wolves were. They weren't just the team that was sent by Hexa to deal with nasty issues that their patrons didn't want to have their fingerprints on. They were professional killers who hunted the most difficult of quarries.
And right now, as they approached their target, they took advantage of a Brockton Bay urban legend revolving around the Empire Eighty Eight. One that had first been started by Kaiser in his early days suggesting that the Empire had in reserve a group of former soldiers who subscribed to their beliefs, killing and disappearing people in the middle of the night.
It was a legend steeped in some truth. Victor did have a unit of men and women who could do what was whispered, but they were rarely employed in such a way. Instead, these 'Jäger' were used more as an elite honor guard for Kaiser, and when not him, spent their time protecting Othala. Still, it was the matter that the legend existed in the first place that lent credence and provided them with a smoke screen to do this and muddle any beliefs by Taylor Hebert that Vice President Ryan had ignored her warning.
Marian Channing, his second in command, came to a stop in front of him, holding up her open hand calling him to stop.
"Three contacts," her whisper sounded in his ear, "twenty meters, surrounding a barrel."
She slowly backed, allowing him the opportunity to look over her shoulder and around the corner, sighting her contact. Sure enough, there were three Merchants huddled around an open flame in a barrel underneath and some sheet metal that provided protection from the elements.
Leaning back, he made a decision, "Engage the rightmost target, I'll handle the other two. On my mark."
"Copy."
"Mark."
They exploded into motion, whipping around the corner, Isaiah sighting down his scope as he acquired his first target. With a quick trigger pull, a soft sharp crack sounded just as another sounded from Marian's weapon. Without even waiting to confirm, he acquired the second target and pulled the trigger again.
All of this happened in less than a second, and all three targets fell to the ground, never becoming aware that they were under attack. They both moved quickly, weapons scanning around even as they moved towards the building where they knew where Skidmark was hiding.
Coming to a stop at the door, they positioned themselves to cover their backs as he keyed his mic.
"Lead, in position. Three kills. Sitrep"
He received quick responses from the rest of his team
"Two, in position. One kill."
"Three, in position. One kill."
"Four, reaching position. Two minutes."
"Five. In position. One kill."
"Copy."
Everything was going according to plan, all threats on the outside had been eliminated, and now all that remained was breaching the building and capturing Skidmark. That was what Four was doing, taking one of the ladders up to the roof so they could look in on their targets, providing final intelligence while also positioning to deal with Skidmark himself.
For that, one member of each team had an underslung attachment on their rifles. The only ordnance within it was a crystalline 'spike' that would deliver a nerve agent to their target. It had been a purchase made from Heisenberg, a chemical Tinker for Toybox. From time to time, Hexa commissioned the black market organization to provide them with tools and equipment for their missions. It was patently illegal for a governmental organization to do so, but because Hexa was considered a private company, they were not beholden to such restrictions. Even if they were basically part of the government.
Against non-brutes, it was an effective weapon, able to quickly incapacitate a target and not be restricted by things like clothing or light armor with its ability to penetrate into the target and deliver its cargo. And for Skidmark, who most certainly did not have a brute rating, it was perfect.
"Four. In position. Five hostiles. Target sighted. Ready to engage."
Once again, he wished that he had the Focus device that Hebert had provided his sister. The ability to see through walls and have targets identified and highlighted would make breaching so much easier. Instead, it was going to be done the old-fashioned way.
"Bang and Breach," he quietly commed, even as he raised his goggles back up. They would only be a hindrance once they breached into the brightly lit building, "When you're ready, Four."
"Roger, Lead. Hold tight."
He glanced over at Marian, who had likewise removed her goggles, her expression focused as they exchanged a look, in her hands a pair of stun grenades as he placed his hand on the handle, ready to wrench the door open so she had a clear path..
"On my mark, Team. Three. Two. One. Breach. Breach. Breach."
On the first 'Breach', he had already flung the door open, Marian pulling the pins and throwing her stun grenades. The cacophony of a string of explosions sounding the only signal needed as she brought her weapon up and moved in, him following her in
"Skidmark down," sounded in his ear, but it was all background noise, the cracks of subsonic gunfire reverberating off the walls as targets were engaged. His own weapon joined the din as Marian and himself swiftly eliminated a Merchant who was staggering around like a drunk from the stun grenades.
In only a few moments it was over, and he moved through the warehouse, his weapon at the ready for any possible threats. But there were none, instead, he moved towards the target as another one of his men was already taking a kneeling position, rifle shouldered as he withdrew plastic zipties and secured them around Skidmarks' wrists.
"Fucker smells bad enough without him shitting his pants," Elend muttered, as he finished securing Skidmark. It was one of the side effects of the nerve agent. It caused the target's muscles to completely relax, resulting in such unfortunate things like voiding of bowels.
Isaiah didn't say anything, instead keying his mic, "Overlord, Wolf Lead, package secured. Require extract."
"Roger, Wolf Lead. Extract in thirty."
"Copy, Overlord," he replied, watching as Elend threw Skidmark over his shoulder. He cast a glance at his other men, who silently awaited the orders for what was required next.
"Set up the scene."
Nothing else needed to be said, as they began moving, reaching into their pouches and extracting spray cans. Satisfied, he rejoined the formation as the rest of the team arranged themselves around the package. The soft hiss of spray cans being used was the only indication of the men's work as Isaiah moved with the rest of them towards their extraction. Another pair of his team broke off, reaching into their pouches and extracting long cylindrical tubes.
"Tags applied," Steve, his trusted left hand's voice sounded on the headset. The 'Tags' being carefully applied gang iconography of the Empire Eight-Eight. Just another layer to the deception, it would ensure that by the time anyone was able to put together what happened, if they were ever able to, would be lost in the rest of the noise in the next twenty-four hours. It also suited the longer term goals that Cardinal had in regards to the Brockton Bay, leaving far too many questions that couldn't be answered by any side.
"Light it up," Isaiah ordered as a pair of beat up vans pulled up. Vehicles that would easily pass for something that the Empire used. Getting into the vehicle, they secured their captive, as the rest of the team moved into their transportation. The last thing he saw before the doors slid shut was the flames quickly beginning to engulf the building, the stored drugs acting as an accelerant, and then they were on their way to their next destination..
It was time to get to the next part of the mission.
Interlude 5.C
AlSmash
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- May 26, 2018
- Messages
- 56
- Likes received
- 2,959
Interlude 5.C
Dennis Peters
May 21st, 2011
Brockton Bay, MA
Tap - Tap - Tap
My concern is that the Ward in question has shown a noticeable increase in aggression and a growing disregard for procedures designed to safeguard—
No. That was too extreme. He erased it for the umpteenth time and started again.
Given the previous actions of Shadow Stalker and her attitude causing friction within the team, I am concerned about…
Dennis sighed, leaning back in his chair. The Wards common room was quiet, the crazy day having driven everyone out to find what relaxation they could. Missy and Lily were touring the town. And Chris was… somewhere.
And Dennis was doing paperwork. Not the boring paperwork. Not the dotted I's and crossed T's that came with the job. This was the paperwork that was filed and remembered. That was pulled out and referenced in interviews and hearings. Disciplinary hearings.
Liam had left after a pat on the shoulder and a steady look in Dennis's eyes. The big teen didn't talk much, but he made himself heard all the same. When he wasn't passing under everyone's notice. Seriously, the guy should have a Stranger rating.
And… he was distracting himself. Twisting his pen around in his fingers, he tried to find the right words. Some people had a way with words. Found the perfect way to put everything they were feeling on to paper. Take all the sharp edges of emotions and press them flat.
Dennis didn't have that. How do you write that you're feeling while you're betraying a friend for a good cause? That your judgment wasn't based on evidence, but growing concern, gut feeling, and past experience?
He remembered the fight earlier today. Not the fight itself, but the aftermath. The groaning bodies on the ground, the ones who lay still enough to invite questions and concerns. Kid Win, hovering above it all. Even through his mask, Dennis could see satisfaction. Not at a job well done. Not at saving his team.
But at putting down a threat.
It was the same look that Sophia had when she spoke of her patrols.
Dennis wrote again. My concern is that Kid Win is looking to prove himself after his previous difficulties. The actions in Boston were the catalyst for an escalation of force that is not in keeping with the goals of the PRT, the Wards, or the Protectorate. It's my recommendation as Wards Leader, that Kid Win be removed from active service, pending counseling and psychological evaluation for fitness to act as a law enforcement officer.
Neat, tidy, clinical. And it did nothing to ease the twisting in his gut. It was the kind of language that the doctors used to describe his father's prognosis. Reality held at arm's length. Sharp edges were still sharp. Even if they were polished now.
Tilting his head back he brought his hands up to his forehead, and ran them down until they cupped over his mouth as he stared up into the fluorescent lighting, letting the stress flow out of him
The shrill sound of the door alarm shattered whatever peace Dennis had found. Blinking in confusion, he slipped his helmet on, his hands moving faster than his understanding as he moved into the common room from his office. Understanding fled faster when a lean blond haired man walked in. Nice civilian clothes, wind-swept hair and a quiet confidence that raised Clockblocker's concerns a few inches.
Because whoever he was wasn't part of the regular PRT staff. And he had just walked into the Wards Common room.
"Sir, this is a restricted area," Clockblocker stood, his earlier tension finding a productive outlet. "I'll need to see some identification. Or things will get complicated fast."
The man smiled slightly. "Good instincts. But it would be awkward for the Protectorate to try and detain me. There are perks to being the boss."
Clock relaxed slightly, there was no way he would be able to forget that voice. He heard it enough in Boston to know it by heart.
"Legend."
"It's Keith when I'm like this. Can I call you Dennis?"
"Uh. Sure." Dennis replied numbly, sliding his helmet off. Legend was in the Wards Common room. Offering an informal chat. Okay then. Moving on.
"Great," the leader of the Protectorate flashed a smile and sat down on the couch.. Dennis found himself spinning his chair around, taking a cautious seat, trying to edge his paperwork out of eye-sight.
"You know, when it was decided that you would be Brockton Bay's Ward Leader," Keith started, "I had concerns. I never agreed with how promotions are just handed to the oldest Ward. Some people just aren't cut out for leadership."
Dennis swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, because knowing that the leader of the Protectorate took a personal interest in your city and career meant nothing good, "And you thought that about me?"
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't. You never did do a lot to endear people on the idea that you could be responsible. I just so happen to know that there is a dartboard in Imaging's breakroom with your face plastered on it that is replaced every week. Glenn Chambers has still not forgiven you for your…unique choice of a hero name."
Dennis snorted. Back then, it had been absolutely hilarious, being able to pull one over on the stuffy Protectorate and PRT. It had defined who he was, the jokester, always with a quick joke and big smile. Now, however, he realized how childish it had been. A fit of pique to hide how uncomfortable and boxed in he had felt back then.
Humor had always been his coping mechanism. If he had a smile on his face, then people wouldn't know the pain he hid.
"But then I read the reports from Boston. I read about a young man who threw himself into the thick of an Endbringer fight without any regards for his personal safety. How that same young man in the aftermath immediately sought out ways that he could help save lives. I read about how when others went home, he still stayed, helping to stabilize patients so they could be transported to other locations to be saved. How when he finally went home, he assisted in the removal of a shipwreck so more lives could be saved. And not once, did he ask for any recognition."
Dennis swallowed thickly. For a moment, he wasn't in the air conditioned calm of the PRT building. He was in the rain, the muck, and the cold of Boston. His hands caked in mud and blood, soaked completely to the bone. The sounds of battle, of the monotonous reports signifying a growing list of casualties that seemed without end. The screams, the explosion, the sight of Leviathan towering over all of them as water became a weapon.
Being so terribly small and insignificant.
Then the aftermath. The desperate eyes of people looking for hope. The costume that he wore signifying hope to them. And his powers, his ridiculous powers to stop time. To stop death in its tracks. But he couldn't go faster. Time was against him. And Death never tired.
Dennis closed his eyes, and slowly opened them, finding himself back at his table. Legend watched him with heavy eyes. If pressed, the Ward wouldn't be able to say if it was pity, respect, sadness or regret that the man looked at him with.
"Sometimes, it takes going through a crucible in order to discover who they really are, Dennis. Boston was the crucible for you and your friends. I wish, more than anything, it didn't happen. But you and your team have every right to feel proud of what you did."
Dennis wanted to deflect the praise. Make a quip, or a joke, or something to distract the way that Legend's earnest compliment hit him in ways that were too sensitive to examine right now. Dennis nodded mechanically, letting silence fill the room.
But because silence gave him room to think, he broke it the first chance he got.
"Do you ever feel ridiculous, sir?"
Legend laughed, short and sharp, "Gods yes. Standing around a few dozen people in business suits, while I'm in a skintight outfit and a domino mask is… one hell of an experience if you stop to think about it."
Dennis gave a thin smile, glad that he didn't feel like the odd man out. The senior hero caught it immediately, "I take it you felt a little odd? Maybe today working with the police and the troopers?"
A shrug, carefully calibrated to seem uninvested, "I felt like the clown at a birthday party."
Legend leaned forward, "But that's the trick Dennis. It's supposed to be that way." He carried on, "The Wards, and the Protectorate, are modeled after the idea of 'heroes'. Heroes, by unspoken definition, are singular. No two heroes are the same. So standing out is the goal. Grabbing attention is the goal… most of the time. There's an argument to be made about some heroes not wanting to draw attention. But I prefer the attention grabbing heroes. Because once you have the public's attention, you get to decide what to do with it. Do you speak to them? Use that moment of attention to encourage them towards some goal? Or do you let your actions speak for you, and inspire by example?"
Sitting dumbly for a moment, Dennis tried to process this. It had never been explained in such a way to him before. And it certainly gave him a few things to think about. But by now, he was relaxed enough to voice the question that was actually bothering him.
"Sir…do you think it's right to do bad things for good reasons?"
The question was dropped with all the subtlety of a rock in a pond. It had none of the grace that Dennis was hoping for. But then, maybe he was done with grace. More and more, his life revolved around honesty. And sometimes honesty was a cinderblock. Other times it was a summer breeze.
Legend actually paused, thinking about his response. "Dennis, take it from me. That is an easy road to get lost in. It's the start of most justifications. But… I believe that if you can separate 'bad', 'painful', and 'evil'... then I think you can say yes, sometimes painful things are needed to have good outcomes."
The man continued, "Medicine has lots of examples of painful effects with positive outcomes. Cleaning an injury with alcohol, setting a bone, and so on… a lot of people use references to medicine when justifying their actions. And what separates the 'painful' from the 'bad/evil' is if you can communicate clearly with someone, and have them accept your rationale. Explain your cause and effect. A doctor is clearly able to explain why you are experiencing pain as part of your treatment."
Dennis sat with that for a moment. It was heavy, in old memories of doctors explaining treatments to his father. All of which translated to 'This thing will kill you over a long time, and we're using it to kill the thing that will kill you faster'.
Legend nodded gently at the open door of the Ward Leader office that Dennis had left open. "I take it your question had something to do with what happened this afternoon?" At Dennis's sharp look, the leader of the Protectorate looked sheepish. "I spoke with Dauntless, who passed along the police report of the operation. Do you want to talk about it?"
Dennis sat up a little, squaring his shoulders. "No thank you sir. I'll have my report done soon. You can read it then."
Leadership sucked. But being powerless sucked more. Dennis was learning in real time that responsibility meant the highs and the lows.
"Making the right decision isn't always easy, but true leadership is having the courage to make it regardless. That's what being a leader is about, Dennis," Keith leaned forward, making the Wards room sofa seem more grand then it was, "and I'm proud to see any of my Wards grow. It gives me hope for the future."
"Thank you sir," he finally said, and he meant it.
"Think nothing of it," Legend smiled, "just keep going and keep growing, that's all any of us can do. I think you will do a good job, Clockblocker, but if you need anything, even just someone to talk to. Feel free to shoot me an email. I'll make sure my filters will let you through."
Legend then got to his feet, "I'm sorry to cut this short, but I have other duties that I have to take care of before I head back to New York. Again, if you need anything, don't hesitate to reach out."
"I will. I don't think anyone would turn down an offer from The Legend," Dennis snarked, letting a little bit of that Clockblocker into it. The chuckle from Legend told him that it hit the target, as the older man shook his head in mock exasperation.
They then said their goodbyes, and Legend left Dennis alone in the common room, accompanied only by his thoughts. For a few minutes, he just sat there, letting the silence fill the solitude of his thoughts.
It was sobering. Legend was right, in a way, Boston had been a crucible. The problem was he wasn't sure he liked what came out of it as time went on. Oh, he might snark and complain about being in charge, but part of him liked it. It meant having a proper voice in things. It meant being able to actually look out for people.
But being the Wards Leader wasn't what he envisioned for his future.
He had joined the Wards for a myriad of reasons. Primarily to help his dad, but also because he had thought being a hero would be fun.
Now his father was healed thanks to Armsmaster and the shine of being a hero had long worn off. In its place was the honest truth of the job. It was difficult, it was challenging, unpredictable, and fulfilling in a strange way.
He just wasn't sure he wanted it to be his life.
Walking back into his office, he gently shut the door, before walking back to his desk. Settling into his chair, he paused for a brief moment, before he began again.
Kid Win is a dedicated Ward that is coming into his own, having successfully developed his Tinker specialization. As Wards leader, my concern is that he is now looking to overcompensate for his perceived failures in the past, which leads to a disregard for teamwork, communication, and PRT/Wards protocols. His actions have begun to mirror the previous actions of Shadow Stalker prior to her reassignment. Given the delicate nature of cooperation within the Wards teams, due to personnel changes inside the ENE Protectorate and new Wards transferring in, this is a situation that could deteriorate. I am formally asking that Kid Win be removed from active patrol and placed on psychiatric evaluation for problems of self worth, and trauma over the events of the Boston-Endbringer-Defence.
There. That would work. Gentle, in the same way that a scalpel is gentle. Hitting everything that it should, and leaving everything else alone.
A vibration pulled his mind away from paperwork and sour feeling that he was betraying a friend for trying to help. Pulling out his phone, he checked the message.
Food. Tonight. Rooftop nests. Your choice. Y/N?
This wasn't his work phone. It was his personal one. He was trying more and more to have a personal life away from work, and this was part of it. He typed back.
Yes. Time? You in a mood?
The reply came immediately.
Fuk U
Oh yes. She was in a mood.
With a goal in sight, he finished the last of his paperwork. His mind already considering options.
For years, Brockton Bay was a city in decline.
It meant that there were plenty of places left empty. Of various conditions and levels of habitability. Some of them were even in somewhat respectable areas of town. Emphasis on the 'somewhat'. A fact that Dennis was keenly very aware of as he walked down the street with one hand free and the other balancing a pizza box. Baseball cap pulled low. The classic example of someone not interested in anyone's business.
Crusty Pete's was an oddball to say the least. Jokingly referred to as Fugly Pete's, it was an 'Italian ristorante' that danced the line between fine dining and Italian fast food, depending on who you asked. You could have the finest quality Bistecca alla Fiorentina served to you or you could choose a cheaper option and slum off the buffet that served pizza, pasta, and bread by the carb load. It made the destination popular with all walks of life. They even had takeout and pickup.
But what Dennis appreciated most, was it had the best New York Style pizza in Brockton Bay. The crust was always crisp in all the right places, and perfectly foldable. He always made it a point to have at least one outing to Pete's a month just for the pizza alone.
It was his turn to pick the food, so he was getting a proper pie.
This would be their fourth meet-up. He still hadn't had the opportunity to do the Star Wars marathon due to his new responsibilities, but also because his father was rather clingy of his Aleph Edition of Star Wars. And he didn't want to say it was for a girl, because he knew his dad would happily give it then, but would want to know about Tammi.
Which was honestly understandable, considering the differences between the Aleph and Bet versions. Unlike Aleph, Bet's version of Star Wars never reached the juggernaut that Aleph became, amounting to only three commercially successful movies. But not successful enough for the prequels
It was still hotly debated on the forums but the general consensus was the casting choices Lucas made, as well as the ending of Revenge of the Jedi. Jodie Foster as Princess Leia was certainly different once you watched Carrie Fisher in action. That wasn't to say Jodie didn't do a great job, but the energy was different.
Al Pacino as Han Solo, on the other hand, was a…certainly a choice, and he never seemed to be comfortable in the role. It was probably why Lucas kept to his original plans for the third movie where the Emperor is killed, but it was a pyrrhic victory with Leia leading a savaged rebel alliance, Han dying, and Luke going off into the sunset.
As a result, Star Wars remained a cult classic on Bet, but when Professor Haywire opened a portal to Earth Aleph, media began to be exchanged and one of those was Star Wars
Needless to say, Bet's George Lucas was less than pleased at his Aleph counterpart, fighting a rather nasty court battle to stop the distribution of the Aleph version. He won, but by that time there had been tens of thousands copies sold.
Since his dad didn't want to part with his copies, Dennis found himself looking to buy a set himself off the nerve. The only problem was the cheapest one went for over two thousand dollars. It was a decent chunk of change, but between the money that was dispensed to everyone who were involved with the dismantling of the Boston Corona and the salary he made as a Ward (which got a decent raise with his promotion to Leader), he would be able to afford it next month.
No one should be deprived of one of the greatest sagas ever to hit the silver screen. He hoped one day he could get his hands on the supposed 'expanded universe' books he had heard about. Just the idea of a Star Wars after Episode Six was enough to make him giddy.
Ducking around the corner of a boarded up restaurant, he slipped through the side door. Thumping the crossbar back into place.
It was dim, hardly any light slipped through the boards across the windows. He raised his voice intentionally. "You could have at least left a light on! If I drop this pizza, I'm making you get a replacement."
Picking his way through the room, his way was blocked by the massive cooking range that sat crooked along the back wall. It looked like someone had given a valiant effort to remove it, but then gave up.
Of course, they didn't have cheating powers.
"Speak friend, and enter!"
Dennis's declaration died slowly in the muffled silence of the old shop.
The cooking range lifted silently, drifting a few inches off the ground, and twisted to the side.
"You are such a dork."
Dennis stepped through the revealed doorway with a grin on his lips. "Maybe, but I'm a dork with…"
Whatever witty reply he was going to make died on his lips as his brain locked up.
He blinked. Trying desperately to determine the best course of action. One wrong move would result in violence, he was sure of it.
Dennis opened his mouth.
"Not a fucking word."
Dennis closed his mouth.
Tammi stormed over, and grabbed the pizza box from him. He followed quietly, certain that discretion was the path to survival.
Because Tammi? Was dressed up nice.
Skin tight jeans of pale blue with a thick black belt, and a shirt that was clearly the product of false advertising. It was a black long sleeve zip-up crop top that left her midriff bare to the warm Brockton Bay air and defined abs that left him feeling things that were not appropriate for someone he tentatively considered a friend. Quickly he stopped looking, after noting the platform shoes she also wore, not wanting to make it more awkward.
"I feel underdressed. Or overdressed. I don't know which."
Dennis received a withering glare over the girl's shoulder, and he decided that it was safer for everyone involved if he did something productive. At least then he wouldn't stare. Those jeans were… he knew the girl was fit. Most capes were active people. But… still.
The backroom was a mini apartment. The sofa doubled as a bed as needed, the kitchen had a small oven and sink, and there was a toilet/shower bathroom. A few cabinets dotted the walls, with a tv hung on the wall, and a radio tucked in a corner. There were no windows, only the warm light of the overhead lights.
This was a safe space. Hidden, quiet, tucked away from all the chaos of the city. Hidden away behind thick walls and a derelict mass of iron that would need four men and a winch to move normally. Or a girl with the ability of telekinesis.
The fact that Tammi had shown him this place was humbling. It was a vulnerability.
They hadn't talked about what it meant exactly. Dennis liked where things stood.
Working together, the pair pulled together plates and sat. The smell of melted cheese filled the air as Dennis served.
Sitting across from one another, Dennis nibbled his food. Tammi didn't look at him, biting angrily at her own slice, only to flinch at the heat. The young man silently slid her water glass closer. She glared, but took a sip.
Slowly, her shoulders lowered, and she relaxed. As the pizza slowly dwindled and the silence stretched, Tammi glanced away. Her hostile glare had turned into quiet regret. Or maybe shame.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Dennis said it calmly. His even tone broke the silence, and seemed louder for it.
Her glass silently took flight, and Tammi watched it with a forced neutrality. The water itself was not under her control, but the container was. It was something she did at times, using her powers on mundane things. It gave her something else to focus on.
"There's a party tonight. And I know that I'm going to be hit on by every man with more testosterone than brain cells. I don't need that from you as well."
Privately, Dennis wondered if 'need' should have been replaced with 'want'. But that was not important right now.
"Understood. Want me to come with you?"
Tammi looked at him, the glass orbiting in tight circles. "This isn't the kind of party that I can bring a plus one. Not unannounced."
That didn't sound good.
"Any chance you can just not go?"
She wordlessly shook her head. Loyalty, fear, implied debt, or something else. Dennis wondered at what it was that made her feel like she had to obey. Had to do something she didn't want to do. Wasn't comfortable doing.
The silence didn't get a chance to settle. Dennis broke it with the question they had both been avoiding for weeks now.
"Do you ever get tired of it?"
Now the quiet had teeth. Edges and angles. This was thin ice that the two of them had avoided by silent agreement.
Dennis liked having Tammi as a friend. He didn't like seeing his friends in trouble. He just hoped that she was still a friend by the time the conversation ended.
"Because today? I asked myself that same question. I never aimed to be a leader. Hell, there weren't any plans for me being the leader until Boston happened. I was going to fulfill my initial contract and get promoted after that. That was it. Now, I'm in charge and have to make all these decisions that I was never prepared for or wanted to do in the first place. I never wanted any of this. And today? I had to make a call that might cost me a friendship. It was the right call to make. But it doesn't change the facts."
A hush descended between them and Dennis found himself wondering if he shouldn't have said anything. This probably wasn't something that he should even be discussing. Hell, it would have probably been better to discuss it with his parents, but they were so damn proud of him. He didn't want to hurt them, not so soon after his father had been made cancer-free by Panacea, no, Amelia.
"Why did you join," Tammi finally broke the stalemate. The glass stopped orbiting and settled gently on the table.
He waved a hand awkwardly, "Because it sounded like fun," Dennis shrugged, carefully tracing old emotional scars that he had come to terms with. "Because it helped pay for my dad's medical bills and opened doors for treatment that wouldn't have been available. Because it got me out of the house so I didn't have to see hope slowly die and him waste away." He looked down at his plate, counting crumbs as he spoke.
To his sudden shock, he found a hand on his and he looked up to Tammi, who looked back at him with a quiet intensity. She put on eyeliner, framing her stormy grey eyes. It was a silly thing to notice at the moment. But there it was. She didn't seem the type.
In the weeks after Boston, he had come to know her a little. She wore her prickly scorn like a cactus wore spikes. Her insults were imaginative and plentiful. And in spite of all of that, she had a quiet thoughtfulness that peeked through like dew in the desert. Dennis had cottoned on quickly that she didn't like to show anything other than being strong. So, her showing concern for him, well, it felt…well he wasn't sure how to describe it.
"Do you regret joining?," she asked.
"No? Honestly I wouldn't change that choice. It was fun and it provided me someplace I could escape from everything going on at home. But that was what it was supposed to be: an escape. Now, Dad's better, and I have to make these hard choices and…"
"Do you want to quit?"
Dennis' face twisted. Did he want to quit? It had crossed his mind after Boston, but he had told himself that he needed to stay, if only for the others. But he hadn't expected becoming the Wards Leader, he had figured they would ship someone in. Only it hadn't happened and he was now making choices that should have been Carlos's.
"No," he admitted, finally, "No, I don't. I don't think I could live with myself if I did. And honestly? If I did quit, what would I do? I'm not exactly prime hiring material," he chuckled, "I'm not exactly failing in school, but I was never the most studious. I preferred screwing around in class and doing just enough to avoid worrying my parents. I've lost count how many times my teachers complained about how if I applied myself I could run straight A's instead of B's and C's."
Offering a shrug, he finished up simply saying, "It just was never that important to me."
"What about you?"
Tammi pulled back, letting his hand go. The absence was noticeable.
"Let not jerk around it Dennis. There's no getting out of this for me," She stated flatly. The way that someone spoke of a foregone conclusion without any wiggle room.
Dennis's first instinct was to argue back. To argue the merits of turning coat, of finding a better way. The more mature outlook that he was trying to cultivate told him to stay quiet and listen.
Tammi…Rune… took a moment watching the wall before continuing. "Look, I get it. It's shit. The others? Utter shits. Hook, Alabaster, Cricket, Stormtiger? I'm glad they're gone. But that doesn't make the rest of it wrong! Look around you. Africa isn't even falling apart, it's basically rubble being used as a trashpit. Down south? The cartels are vicious in a way that most people can't even imagine. It's important Dennis. Important that someone stands up for things, for Americans who are just trying to live their lives."
Silence descended again, colder than before. To Dennis, who had sat through classes on gang induction, on emotional influence, and propaganda…it sounded rehearsed. Like she was repeating something someone else had told her. But the problem lay in the fact that repeating someone else's words enough times, sometimes made you believe them more.
He took another angle, "I was there beside you in Boston. You didn't flinch at anyone who needed transportation, regardless of their skin color. That wasn't your boss's orders making you give a damn. You actually cared for those people."
The young women shrugged, looked away, and muttered something about the Endbringer Truce. An excuse for her actions, one that she might have had to use if her 'co-workers' took exception to her actions.
Legend had been right about one thing. Heroes didn't give up. Didn't flinch from the hard jobs.
Tammi was the same age as him. She was part of a racist criminal organization, there was no denying that. But Dennis wanted to believe that people could change. At seventeen, she shouldn't feel like her path in life was set.
No more than he should feel the same.
He had worked closely beside her for days in Boston, then in Brockton Bay, he had gotten a good measure of her personality. Regardless of the fact that she was on the other side of the fence, he had found a peer who was just as human as he was.
And humans made mistakes. That didn't mean they were too far gone. And from everything he knew of Rune, she hadn't crossed that line yet.
"So why did you join?" He bounced the question back to her.
The girl ducked her head, shrinking into herself. This time, her glass rose quickly, the water sloshing dangerously.
"I joined them because for the first time in my life, I was treated like I actually mattered. That I had the power to change things."
She sighed softly, then spoke again, only this time there was a noticeable accent to her tone. A southern edge that surprised Dennis, because he had never heard any hint of it before.
"For some dumb hick girl from Bumfuck, North Carolina, with no prospects other than eventually ending up as a trophy cunt for some good ol' 'upstanding'," she quote-gestured with her free hand, "boy to plow," the rueful laughter that escaped her lips, made his heart twist, "you cannot imagine how powerful I felt."
Dennis remembered the first time he walked the streets in costume. The way that people looked at him for safety, for answers, for direction. Not because of what he did. But because of what he represented. They respected the uniform.
Respect can come from fear, just as much as love it seems.
"Tammi, I mean it. There is a way to get you out of this, if you want it. You and I both know that they are going to keep asking more of you. They will push you over the line, and make sure to hold it against you so that you can never get away." Her plate started floating as well, a sign that she heard his words, but didn't have an answer.
"Look… Purity seems to have gotten out. So there must be a way."
That was a mistake. He knew it as soon as her lips sneered in anger.
"Don't talk to me about that bitch. She hasn't gotten away with anything! Kaiser holds her leash as much as those trophy twins of his. She's been very careful not to do anything to make him tug. Besides, I don't have nearly the same pull as she does, did, whatever." The young women spat angrily. It was unexpected, and Dennis suspected that there was a context missing.
"Just… leave it alone Dennis," she said after a few moments, the resignation clear in her tone.
He replied firmly, both of them knowing that the conversation would pick up another time. "As you wish."
Tammi scowled. "Don't start." But her plate returned to the table, and her glass floated down as well.
As the tension in the room dropped, he slowly smiled, falling into the role of the lighthearted clown. "But my lady! I am Dennisio Montoya. You saved my father. Prepare to cry! No.. wait, that's no good…. My name, is Dennisio Montoya. You saved my father. Prepare the pie!"
Her jaw tightened, even as the corner of her mouth twitched. She had loved discovering that movie. He loved it as well, for different reasons.
Dennis yelped as her very solid shoe slammed into his shin, jerking his leg up in pain, bashing his knee into the table. The plates rattled as they danced.
"Ahhh…. That was too much… Quit it, before I call the brute squad."
"You are the brute squad." Tammi shot back. Smiling now. He liked Tammi's smile. It was like sunshine and made him forget all the difficulties they had for the moment.
The second kick to his shin caused that to die a sudden and inauspicious death
"Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow," reaching he massaged his other shin, hissing at the sensation as he tried to soothe it, "Why'd you have to do the other shin?!"
"Ohh… how gallant. How noble and charming you are…Dennisio. Be a good dog and warm my feet for me would you?"
I shouldn't be doing this, but fuck it. Dad would tell me to go for it and we need to get off this depressing subject. And Mama didn't raise no bitch!
"Well, two out of three is nice. I'm just not Gallant."
He reflexively twisted in his seat, anticipating her righteous response.
Only for his chair to levitate off the ground.
"Inconceivable!"
"Dennis, I swear. Stop, or I'm going to pancake you to the ceiling."
He raised his hands in surrender, and Tammi lowered him back down. Clever of her to infuse the chair with her powers. That took planning.
But the serious tone of the earlier conversation was broken. Just for a few minutes more, the two of them could relax,
without the weight of the world pressing down on them.
Still…his shins did hurt.
So worth it, he thought to himself as Tammi quizzes him on their next movie.
"Sure you don't want me to come along?"
Dennis knew the answer would be no. But the offer had to be made. A good friend made sure to show they care. There was probably something wrong with the idea of 'letting friends go to a nazi party unaccompanied' but Dennis wasn't looking into that too far.
Tammi had thrown on a heavy coat, hiding her outfit as they walked back towards the nicer areas of town. "Like I said, not a party I can bring a 'plus-one' to without warning. I'll be fine. Done this before, doing it now, and will do it again at some point."
They reached the bus stop with minutes to spare. Despite the deserved reputation of Brockton Bay, the public transit system was fairly well respected by all sides.
"Well, before you go, I do want to say something." Dennis's gut churned. Nerves, because this was sticking his hand into a bee-hive if Tammi took it the wrong way. She shot him a look, and he continued before he could lose his nerve.
"Girls deserve to feel good. So I'm going to give you a compliment." Dangerous waters now. He could see her face closing off, the anger in her eyes. A touch of betrayal.
As quickly, and clearly as he could, Dennis delivered the line he had been working on. "Girl, you look like the kind of woman who can do her eyeliner without poking her eyes once."
The dumbfounded look she gave him was so satisfying. His guess was correct. Tammi didn't want attention drawn to her body. She got that from every other man it seems. So Dennis was going the other direction. "Girl, you look like you blend your contours."
Now she was smiling. "You have no idea what that means."
"I do not. But I hope you still take it as a compliment."
"Very well, I accept" she said, adopting a haughty pose, nose to the sky.
Laughter slowed as the bus rolled up.
Dennis looked deep into her eyes, a step separated from her. "Take care of yourself."
Stay safe.
Tammi surprised him, pulling him close and wrapping her arms around him. She was shorter than himself, so his lungs filled with the smell of her perfume. Dennis didn't know what to do. Not without poking at the shadowed edges of her discomfort. He compromised, returning a polite hug that made sure to leave her room to escape.
A feather-light press of her lips on his cheek banished any further thoughts from his head. Uncontrolled, he smiled, even as she scampered onto the bus. A glance through the window let her give him a solemn nod that she had heard his unspoken request. Then the bus rolled away.
The young man stood in the gathering dark, finding that the wind bit just a little harsher in her absence.
Dennis Peters
May 21st, 2011
Brockton Bay, MA
Tap - Tap - Tap
My concern is that the Ward in question has shown a noticeable increase in aggression and a growing disregard for procedures designed to safeguard—
No. That was too extreme. He erased it for the umpteenth time and started again.
Given the previous actions of Shadow Stalker and her attitude causing friction within the team, I am concerned about…
Dennis sighed, leaning back in his chair. The Wards common room was quiet, the crazy day having driven everyone out to find what relaxation they could. Missy and Lily were touring the town. And Chris was… somewhere.
And Dennis was doing paperwork. Not the boring paperwork. Not the dotted I's and crossed T's that came with the job. This was the paperwork that was filed and remembered. That was pulled out and referenced in interviews and hearings. Disciplinary hearings.
Liam had left after a pat on the shoulder and a steady look in Dennis's eyes. The big teen didn't talk much, but he made himself heard all the same. When he wasn't passing under everyone's notice. Seriously, the guy should have a Stranger rating.
And… he was distracting himself. Twisting his pen around in his fingers, he tried to find the right words. Some people had a way with words. Found the perfect way to put everything they were feeling on to paper. Take all the sharp edges of emotions and press them flat.
Dennis didn't have that. How do you write that you're feeling while you're betraying a friend for a good cause? That your judgment wasn't based on evidence, but growing concern, gut feeling, and past experience?
He remembered the fight earlier today. Not the fight itself, but the aftermath. The groaning bodies on the ground, the ones who lay still enough to invite questions and concerns. Kid Win, hovering above it all. Even through his mask, Dennis could see satisfaction. Not at a job well done. Not at saving his team.
But at putting down a threat.
It was the same look that Sophia had when she spoke of her patrols.
Dennis wrote again. My concern is that Kid Win is looking to prove himself after his previous difficulties. The actions in Boston were the catalyst for an escalation of force that is not in keeping with the goals of the PRT, the Wards, or the Protectorate. It's my recommendation as Wards Leader, that Kid Win be removed from active service, pending counseling and psychological evaluation for fitness to act as a law enforcement officer.
Neat, tidy, clinical. And it did nothing to ease the twisting in his gut. It was the kind of language that the doctors used to describe his father's prognosis. Reality held at arm's length. Sharp edges were still sharp. Even if they were polished now.
Tilting his head back he brought his hands up to his forehead, and ran them down until they cupped over his mouth as he stared up into the fluorescent lighting, letting the stress flow out of him
The shrill sound of the door alarm shattered whatever peace Dennis had found. Blinking in confusion, he slipped his helmet on, his hands moving faster than his understanding as he moved into the common room from his office. Understanding fled faster when a lean blond haired man walked in. Nice civilian clothes, wind-swept hair and a quiet confidence that raised Clockblocker's concerns a few inches.
Because whoever he was wasn't part of the regular PRT staff. And he had just walked into the Wards Common room.
"Sir, this is a restricted area," Clockblocker stood, his earlier tension finding a productive outlet. "I'll need to see some identification. Or things will get complicated fast."
The man smiled slightly. "Good instincts. But it would be awkward for the Protectorate to try and detain me. There are perks to being the boss."
Clock relaxed slightly, there was no way he would be able to forget that voice. He heard it enough in Boston to know it by heart.
"Legend."
"It's Keith when I'm like this. Can I call you Dennis?"
"Uh. Sure." Dennis replied numbly, sliding his helmet off. Legend was in the Wards Common room. Offering an informal chat. Okay then. Moving on.
"Great," the leader of the Protectorate flashed a smile and sat down on the couch.. Dennis found himself spinning his chair around, taking a cautious seat, trying to edge his paperwork out of eye-sight.
"You know, when it was decided that you would be Brockton Bay's Ward Leader," Keith started, "I had concerns. I never agreed with how promotions are just handed to the oldest Ward. Some people just aren't cut out for leadership."
Dennis swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, because knowing that the leader of the Protectorate took a personal interest in your city and career meant nothing good, "And you thought that about me?"
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't. You never did do a lot to endear people on the idea that you could be responsible. I just so happen to know that there is a dartboard in Imaging's breakroom with your face plastered on it that is replaced every week. Glenn Chambers has still not forgiven you for your…unique choice of a hero name."
Dennis snorted. Back then, it had been absolutely hilarious, being able to pull one over on the stuffy Protectorate and PRT. It had defined who he was, the jokester, always with a quick joke and big smile. Now, however, he realized how childish it had been. A fit of pique to hide how uncomfortable and boxed in he had felt back then.
Humor had always been his coping mechanism. If he had a smile on his face, then people wouldn't know the pain he hid.
"But then I read the reports from Boston. I read about a young man who threw himself into the thick of an Endbringer fight without any regards for his personal safety. How that same young man in the aftermath immediately sought out ways that he could help save lives. I read about how when others went home, he still stayed, helping to stabilize patients so they could be transported to other locations to be saved. How when he finally went home, he assisted in the removal of a shipwreck so more lives could be saved. And not once, did he ask for any recognition."
Dennis swallowed thickly. For a moment, he wasn't in the air conditioned calm of the PRT building. He was in the rain, the muck, and the cold of Boston. His hands caked in mud and blood, soaked completely to the bone. The sounds of battle, of the monotonous reports signifying a growing list of casualties that seemed without end. The screams, the explosion, the sight of Leviathan towering over all of them as water became a weapon.
Being so terribly small and insignificant.
Then the aftermath. The desperate eyes of people looking for hope. The costume that he wore signifying hope to them. And his powers, his ridiculous powers to stop time. To stop death in its tracks. But he couldn't go faster. Time was against him. And Death never tired.
Dennis closed his eyes, and slowly opened them, finding himself back at his table. Legend watched him with heavy eyes. If pressed, the Ward wouldn't be able to say if it was pity, respect, sadness or regret that the man looked at him with.
"Sometimes, it takes going through a crucible in order to discover who they really are, Dennis. Boston was the crucible for you and your friends. I wish, more than anything, it didn't happen. But you and your team have every right to feel proud of what you did."
Dennis wanted to deflect the praise. Make a quip, or a joke, or something to distract the way that Legend's earnest compliment hit him in ways that were too sensitive to examine right now. Dennis nodded mechanically, letting silence fill the room.
But because silence gave him room to think, he broke it the first chance he got.
"Do you ever feel ridiculous, sir?"
Legend laughed, short and sharp, "Gods yes. Standing around a few dozen people in business suits, while I'm in a skintight outfit and a domino mask is… one hell of an experience if you stop to think about it."
Dennis gave a thin smile, glad that he didn't feel like the odd man out. The senior hero caught it immediately, "I take it you felt a little odd? Maybe today working with the police and the troopers?"
A shrug, carefully calibrated to seem uninvested, "I felt like the clown at a birthday party."
Legend leaned forward, "But that's the trick Dennis. It's supposed to be that way." He carried on, "The Wards, and the Protectorate, are modeled after the idea of 'heroes'. Heroes, by unspoken definition, are singular. No two heroes are the same. So standing out is the goal. Grabbing attention is the goal… most of the time. There's an argument to be made about some heroes not wanting to draw attention. But I prefer the attention grabbing heroes. Because once you have the public's attention, you get to decide what to do with it. Do you speak to them? Use that moment of attention to encourage them towards some goal? Or do you let your actions speak for you, and inspire by example?"
Sitting dumbly for a moment, Dennis tried to process this. It had never been explained in such a way to him before. And it certainly gave him a few things to think about. But by now, he was relaxed enough to voice the question that was actually bothering him.
"Sir…do you think it's right to do bad things for good reasons?"
The question was dropped with all the subtlety of a rock in a pond. It had none of the grace that Dennis was hoping for. But then, maybe he was done with grace. More and more, his life revolved around honesty. And sometimes honesty was a cinderblock. Other times it was a summer breeze.
Legend actually paused, thinking about his response. "Dennis, take it from me. That is an easy road to get lost in. It's the start of most justifications. But… I believe that if you can separate 'bad', 'painful', and 'evil'... then I think you can say yes, sometimes painful things are needed to have good outcomes."
The man continued, "Medicine has lots of examples of painful effects with positive outcomes. Cleaning an injury with alcohol, setting a bone, and so on… a lot of people use references to medicine when justifying their actions. And what separates the 'painful' from the 'bad/evil' is if you can communicate clearly with someone, and have them accept your rationale. Explain your cause and effect. A doctor is clearly able to explain why you are experiencing pain as part of your treatment."
Dennis sat with that for a moment. It was heavy, in old memories of doctors explaining treatments to his father. All of which translated to 'This thing will kill you over a long time, and we're using it to kill the thing that will kill you faster'.
Legend nodded gently at the open door of the Ward Leader office that Dennis had left open. "I take it your question had something to do with what happened this afternoon?" At Dennis's sharp look, the leader of the Protectorate looked sheepish. "I spoke with Dauntless, who passed along the police report of the operation. Do you want to talk about it?"
Dennis sat up a little, squaring his shoulders. "No thank you sir. I'll have my report done soon. You can read it then."
Leadership sucked. But being powerless sucked more. Dennis was learning in real time that responsibility meant the highs and the lows.
"Making the right decision isn't always easy, but true leadership is having the courage to make it regardless. That's what being a leader is about, Dennis," Keith leaned forward, making the Wards room sofa seem more grand then it was, "and I'm proud to see any of my Wards grow. It gives me hope for the future."
"Thank you sir," he finally said, and he meant it.
"Think nothing of it," Legend smiled, "just keep going and keep growing, that's all any of us can do. I think you will do a good job, Clockblocker, but if you need anything, even just someone to talk to. Feel free to shoot me an email. I'll make sure my filters will let you through."
Legend then got to his feet, "I'm sorry to cut this short, but I have other duties that I have to take care of before I head back to New York. Again, if you need anything, don't hesitate to reach out."
"I will. I don't think anyone would turn down an offer from The Legend," Dennis snarked, letting a little bit of that Clockblocker into it. The chuckle from Legend told him that it hit the target, as the older man shook his head in mock exasperation.
They then said their goodbyes, and Legend left Dennis alone in the common room, accompanied only by his thoughts. For a few minutes, he just sat there, letting the silence fill the solitude of his thoughts.
It was sobering. Legend was right, in a way, Boston had been a crucible. The problem was he wasn't sure he liked what came out of it as time went on. Oh, he might snark and complain about being in charge, but part of him liked it. It meant having a proper voice in things. It meant being able to actually look out for people.
But being the Wards Leader wasn't what he envisioned for his future.
He had joined the Wards for a myriad of reasons. Primarily to help his dad, but also because he had thought being a hero would be fun.
Now his father was healed thanks to Armsmaster and the shine of being a hero had long worn off. In its place was the honest truth of the job. It was difficult, it was challenging, unpredictable, and fulfilling in a strange way.
He just wasn't sure he wanted it to be his life.
Walking back into his office, he gently shut the door, before walking back to his desk. Settling into his chair, he paused for a brief moment, before he began again.
Kid Win is a dedicated Ward that is coming into his own, having successfully developed his Tinker specialization. As Wards leader, my concern is that he is now looking to overcompensate for his perceived failures in the past, which leads to a disregard for teamwork, communication, and PRT/Wards protocols. His actions have begun to mirror the previous actions of Shadow Stalker prior to her reassignment. Given the delicate nature of cooperation within the Wards teams, due to personnel changes inside the ENE Protectorate and new Wards transferring in, this is a situation that could deteriorate. I am formally asking that Kid Win be removed from active patrol and placed on psychiatric evaluation for problems of self worth, and trauma over the events of the Boston-Endbringer-Defence.
There. That would work. Gentle, in the same way that a scalpel is gentle. Hitting everything that it should, and leaving everything else alone.
A vibration pulled his mind away from paperwork and sour feeling that he was betraying a friend for trying to help. Pulling out his phone, he checked the message.
Food. Tonight. Rooftop nests. Your choice. Y/N?
This wasn't his work phone. It was his personal one. He was trying more and more to have a personal life away from work, and this was part of it. He typed back.
Yes. Time? You in a mood?
The reply came immediately.
Fuk U
Oh yes. She was in a mood.
With a goal in sight, he finished the last of his paperwork. His mind already considering options.
AEH
For years, Brockton Bay was a city in decline.
It meant that there were plenty of places left empty. Of various conditions and levels of habitability. Some of them were even in somewhat respectable areas of town. Emphasis on the 'somewhat'. A fact that Dennis was keenly very aware of as he walked down the street with one hand free and the other balancing a pizza box. Baseball cap pulled low. The classic example of someone not interested in anyone's business.
Crusty Pete's was an oddball to say the least. Jokingly referred to as Fugly Pete's, it was an 'Italian ristorante' that danced the line between fine dining and Italian fast food, depending on who you asked. You could have the finest quality Bistecca alla Fiorentina served to you or you could choose a cheaper option and slum off the buffet that served pizza, pasta, and bread by the carb load. It made the destination popular with all walks of life. They even had takeout and pickup.
But what Dennis appreciated most, was it had the best New York Style pizza in Brockton Bay. The crust was always crisp in all the right places, and perfectly foldable. He always made it a point to have at least one outing to Pete's a month just for the pizza alone.
It was his turn to pick the food, so he was getting a proper pie.
This would be their fourth meet-up. He still hadn't had the opportunity to do the Star Wars marathon due to his new responsibilities, but also because his father was rather clingy of his Aleph Edition of Star Wars. And he didn't want to say it was for a girl, because he knew his dad would happily give it then, but would want to know about Tammi.
Which was honestly understandable, considering the differences between the Aleph and Bet versions. Unlike Aleph, Bet's version of Star Wars never reached the juggernaut that Aleph became, amounting to only three commercially successful movies. But not successful enough for the prequels
It was still hotly debated on the forums but the general consensus was the casting choices Lucas made, as well as the ending of Revenge of the Jedi. Jodie Foster as Princess Leia was certainly different once you watched Carrie Fisher in action. That wasn't to say Jodie didn't do a great job, but the energy was different.
Al Pacino as Han Solo, on the other hand, was a…certainly a choice, and he never seemed to be comfortable in the role. It was probably why Lucas kept to his original plans for the third movie where the Emperor is killed, but it was a pyrrhic victory with Leia leading a savaged rebel alliance, Han dying, and Luke going off into the sunset.
As a result, Star Wars remained a cult classic on Bet, but when Professor Haywire opened a portal to Earth Aleph, media began to be exchanged and one of those was Star Wars
Needless to say, Bet's George Lucas was less than pleased at his Aleph counterpart, fighting a rather nasty court battle to stop the distribution of the Aleph version. He won, but by that time there had been tens of thousands copies sold.
Since his dad didn't want to part with his copies, Dennis found himself looking to buy a set himself off the nerve. The only problem was the cheapest one went for over two thousand dollars. It was a decent chunk of change, but between the money that was dispensed to everyone who were involved with the dismantling of the Boston Corona and the salary he made as a Ward (which got a decent raise with his promotion to Leader), he would be able to afford it next month.
No one should be deprived of one of the greatest sagas ever to hit the silver screen. He hoped one day he could get his hands on the supposed 'expanded universe' books he had heard about. Just the idea of a Star Wars after Episode Six was enough to make him giddy.
Ducking around the corner of a boarded up restaurant, he slipped through the side door. Thumping the crossbar back into place.
It was dim, hardly any light slipped through the boards across the windows. He raised his voice intentionally. "You could have at least left a light on! If I drop this pizza, I'm making you get a replacement."
Picking his way through the room, his way was blocked by the massive cooking range that sat crooked along the back wall. It looked like someone had given a valiant effort to remove it, but then gave up.
Of course, they didn't have cheating powers.
"Speak friend, and enter!"
Dennis's declaration died slowly in the muffled silence of the old shop.
The cooking range lifted silently, drifting a few inches off the ground, and twisted to the side.
"You are such a dork."
Dennis stepped through the revealed doorway with a grin on his lips. "Maybe, but I'm a dork with…"
Whatever witty reply he was going to make died on his lips as his brain locked up.
He blinked. Trying desperately to determine the best course of action. One wrong move would result in violence, he was sure of it.
Dennis opened his mouth.
"Not a fucking word."
Dennis closed his mouth.
Tammi stormed over, and grabbed the pizza box from him. He followed quietly, certain that discretion was the path to survival.
Because Tammi? Was dressed up nice.
Skin tight jeans of pale blue with a thick black belt, and a shirt that was clearly the product of false advertising. It was a black long sleeve zip-up crop top that left her midriff bare to the warm Brockton Bay air and defined abs that left him feeling things that were not appropriate for someone he tentatively considered a friend. Quickly he stopped looking, after noting the platform shoes she also wore, not wanting to make it more awkward.
"I feel underdressed. Or overdressed. I don't know which."
Dennis received a withering glare over the girl's shoulder, and he decided that it was safer for everyone involved if he did something productive. At least then he wouldn't stare. Those jeans were… he knew the girl was fit. Most capes were active people. But… still.
The backroom was a mini apartment. The sofa doubled as a bed as needed, the kitchen had a small oven and sink, and there was a toilet/shower bathroom. A few cabinets dotted the walls, with a tv hung on the wall, and a radio tucked in a corner. There were no windows, only the warm light of the overhead lights.
This was a safe space. Hidden, quiet, tucked away from all the chaos of the city. Hidden away behind thick walls and a derelict mass of iron that would need four men and a winch to move normally. Or a girl with the ability of telekinesis.
The fact that Tammi had shown him this place was humbling. It was a vulnerability.
They hadn't talked about what it meant exactly. Dennis liked where things stood.
Working together, the pair pulled together plates and sat. The smell of melted cheese filled the air as Dennis served.
Sitting across from one another, Dennis nibbled his food. Tammi didn't look at him, biting angrily at her own slice, only to flinch at the heat. The young man silently slid her water glass closer. She glared, but took a sip.
Slowly, her shoulders lowered, and she relaxed. As the pizza slowly dwindled and the silence stretched, Tammi glanced away. Her hostile glare had turned into quiet regret. Or maybe shame.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Dennis said it calmly. His even tone broke the silence, and seemed louder for it.
Her glass silently took flight, and Tammi watched it with a forced neutrality. The water itself was not under her control, but the container was. It was something she did at times, using her powers on mundane things. It gave her something else to focus on.
"There's a party tonight. And I know that I'm going to be hit on by every man with more testosterone than brain cells. I don't need that from you as well."
Privately, Dennis wondered if 'need' should have been replaced with 'want'. But that was not important right now.
"Understood. Want me to come with you?"
Tammi looked at him, the glass orbiting in tight circles. "This isn't the kind of party that I can bring a plus one. Not unannounced."
That didn't sound good.
"Any chance you can just not go?"
She wordlessly shook her head. Loyalty, fear, implied debt, or something else. Dennis wondered at what it was that made her feel like she had to obey. Had to do something she didn't want to do. Wasn't comfortable doing.
The silence didn't get a chance to settle. Dennis broke it with the question they had both been avoiding for weeks now.
"Do you ever get tired of it?"
Now the quiet had teeth. Edges and angles. This was thin ice that the two of them had avoided by silent agreement.
Dennis liked having Tammi as a friend. He didn't like seeing his friends in trouble. He just hoped that she was still a friend by the time the conversation ended.
"Because today? I asked myself that same question. I never aimed to be a leader. Hell, there weren't any plans for me being the leader until Boston happened. I was going to fulfill my initial contract and get promoted after that. That was it. Now, I'm in charge and have to make all these decisions that I was never prepared for or wanted to do in the first place. I never wanted any of this. And today? I had to make a call that might cost me a friendship. It was the right call to make. But it doesn't change the facts."
A hush descended between them and Dennis found himself wondering if he shouldn't have said anything. This probably wasn't something that he should even be discussing. Hell, it would have probably been better to discuss it with his parents, but they were so damn proud of him. He didn't want to hurt them, not so soon after his father had been made cancer-free by Panacea, no, Amelia.
"Why did you join," Tammi finally broke the stalemate. The glass stopped orbiting and settled gently on the table.
He waved a hand awkwardly, "Because it sounded like fun," Dennis shrugged, carefully tracing old emotional scars that he had come to terms with. "Because it helped pay for my dad's medical bills and opened doors for treatment that wouldn't have been available. Because it got me out of the house so I didn't have to see hope slowly die and him waste away." He looked down at his plate, counting crumbs as he spoke.
To his sudden shock, he found a hand on his and he looked up to Tammi, who looked back at him with a quiet intensity. She put on eyeliner, framing her stormy grey eyes. It was a silly thing to notice at the moment. But there it was. She didn't seem the type.
In the weeks after Boston, he had come to know her a little. She wore her prickly scorn like a cactus wore spikes. Her insults were imaginative and plentiful. And in spite of all of that, she had a quiet thoughtfulness that peeked through like dew in the desert. Dennis had cottoned on quickly that she didn't like to show anything other than being strong. So, her showing concern for him, well, it felt…well he wasn't sure how to describe it.
"Do you regret joining?," she asked.
"No? Honestly I wouldn't change that choice. It was fun and it provided me someplace I could escape from everything going on at home. But that was what it was supposed to be: an escape. Now, Dad's better, and I have to make these hard choices and…"
"Do you want to quit?"
Dennis' face twisted. Did he want to quit? It had crossed his mind after Boston, but he had told himself that he needed to stay, if only for the others. But he hadn't expected becoming the Wards Leader, he had figured they would ship someone in. Only it hadn't happened and he was now making choices that should have been Carlos's.
"No," he admitted, finally, "No, I don't. I don't think I could live with myself if I did. And honestly? If I did quit, what would I do? I'm not exactly prime hiring material," he chuckled, "I'm not exactly failing in school, but I was never the most studious. I preferred screwing around in class and doing just enough to avoid worrying my parents. I've lost count how many times my teachers complained about how if I applied myself I could run straight A's instead of B's and C's."
Offering a shrug, he finished up simply saying, "It just was never that important to me."
"What about you?"
Tammi pulled back, letting his hand go. The absence was noticeable.
"Let not jerk around it Dennis. There's no getting out of this for me," She stated flatly. The way that someone spoke of a foregone conclusion without any wiggle room.
Dennis's first instinct was to argue back. To argue the merits of turning coat, of finding a better way. The more mature outlook that he was trying to cultivate told him to stay quiet and listen.
Tammi…Rune… took a moment watching the wall before continuing. "Look, I get it. It's shit. The others? Utter shits. Hook, Alabaster, Cricket, Stormtiger? I'm glad they're gone. But that doesn't make the rest of it wrong! Look around you. Africa isn't even falling apart, it's basically rubble being used as a trashpit. Down south? The cartels are vicious in a way that most people can't even imagine. It's important Dennis. Important that someone stands up for things, for Americans who are just trying to live their lives."
Silence descended again, colder than before. To Dennis, who had sat through classes on gang induction, on emotional influence, and propaganda…it sounded rehearsed. Like she was repeating something someone else had told her. But the problem lay in the fact that repeating someone else's words enough times, sometimes made you believe them more.
He took another angle, "I was there beside you in Boston. You didn't flinch at anyone who needed transportation, regardless of their skin color. That wasn't your boss's orders making you give a damn. You actually cared for those people."
The young women shrugged, looked away, and muttered something about the Endbringer Truce. An excuse for her actions, one that she might have had to use if her 'co-workers' took exception to her actions.
Legend had been right about one thing. Heroes didn't give up. Didn't flinch from the hard jobs.
Tammi was the same age as him. She was part of a racist criminal organization, there was no denying that. But Dennis wanted to believe that people could change. At seventeen, she shouldn't feel like her path in life was set.
No more than he should feel the same.
He had worked closely beside her for days in Boston, then in Brockton Bay, he had gotten a good measure of her personality. Regardless of the fact that she was on the other side of the fence, he had found a peer who was just as human as he was.
And humans made mistakes. That didn't mean they were too far gone. And from everything he knew of Rune, she hadn't crossed that line yet.
"So why did you join?" He bounced the question back to her.
The girl ducked her head, shrinking into herself. This time, her glass rose quickly, the water sloshing dangerously.
"I joined them because for the first time in my life, I was treated like I actually mattered. That I had the power to change things."
She sighed softly, then spoke again, only this time there was a noticeable accent to her tone. A southern edge that surprised Dennis, because he had never heard any hint of it before.
"For some dumb hick girl from Bumfuck, North Carolina, with no prospects other than eventually ending up as a trophy cunt for some good ol' 'upstanding'," she quote-gestured with her free hand, "boy to plow," the rueful laughter that escaped her lips, made his heart twist, "you cannot imagine how powerful I felt."
Dennis remembered the first time he walked the streets in costume. The way that people looked at him for safety, for answers, for direction. Not because of what he did. But because of what he represented. They respected the uniform.
Respect can come from fear, just as much as love it seems.
"Tammi, I mean it. There is a way to get you out of this, if you want it. You and I both know that they are going to keep asking more of you. They will push you over the line, and make sure to hold it against you so that you can never get away." Her plate started floating as well, a sign that she heard his words, but didn't have an answer.
"Look… Purity seems to have gotten out. So there must be a way."
That was a mistake. He knew it as soon as her lips sneered in anger.
"Don't talk to me about that bitch. She hasn't gotten away with anything! Kaiser holds her leash as much as those trophy twins of his. She's been very careful not to do anything to make him tug. Besides, I don't have nearly the same pull as she does, did, whatever." The young women spat angrily. It was unexpected, and Dennis suspected that there was a context missing.
"Just… leave it alone Dennis," she said after a few moments, the resignation clear in her tone.
He replied firmly, both of them knowing that the conversation would pick up another time. "As you wish."
Tammi scowled. "Don't start." But her plate returned to the table, and her glass floated down as well.
As the tension in the room dropped, he slowly smiled, falling into the role of the lighthearted clown. "But my lady! I am Dennisio Montoya. You saved my father. Prepare to cry! No.. wait, that's no good…. My name, is Dennisio Montoya. You saved my father. Prepare the pie!"
Her jaw tightened, even as the corner of her mouth twitched. She had loved discovering that movie. He loved it as well, for different reasons.
Dennis yelped as her very solid shoe slammed into his shin, jerking his leg up in pain, bashing his knee into the table. The plates rattled as they danced.
"Ahhh…. That was too much… Quit it, before I call the brute squad."
"You are the brute squad." Tammi shot back. Smiling now. He liked Tammi's smile. It was like sunshine and made him forget all the difficulties they had for the moment.
The second kick to his shin caused that to die a sudden and inauspicious death
"Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow," reaching he massaged his other shin, hissing at the sensation as he tried to soothe it, "Why'd you have to do the other shin?!"
"Ohh… how gallant. How noble and charming you are…Dennisio. Be a good dog and warm my feet for me would you?"
I shouldn't be doing this, but fuck it. Dad would tell me to go for it and we need to get off this depressing subject. And Mama didn't raise no bitch!
"Well, two out of three is nice. I'm just not Gallant."
He reflexively twisted in his seat, anticipating her righteous response.
Only for his chair to levitate off the ground.
"Inconceivable!"
"Dennis, I swear. Stop, or I'm going to pancake you to the ceiling."
He raised his hands in surrender, and Tammi lowered him back down. Clever of her to infuse the chair with her powers. That took planning.
But the serious tone of the earlier conversation was broken. Just for a few minutes more, the two of them could relax,
without the weight of the world pressing down on them.
Still…his shins did hurt.
So worth it, he thought to himself as Tammi quizzes him on their next movie.
AEH
"Sure you don't want me to come along?"
Dennis knew the answer would be no. But the offer had to be made. A good friend made sure to show they care. There was probably something wrong with the idea of 'letting friends go to a nazi party unaccompanied' but Dennis wasn't looking into that too far.
Tammi had thrown on a heavy coat, hiding her outfit as they walked back towards the nicer areas of town. "Like I said, not a party I can bring a 'plus-one' to without warning. I'll be fine. Done this before, doing it now, and will do it again at some point."
They reached the bus stop with minutes to spare. Despite the deserved reputation of Brockton Bay, the public transit system was fairly well respected by all sides.
"Well, before you go, I do want to say something." Dennis's gut churned. Nerves, because this was sticking his hand into a bee-hive if Tammi took it the wrong way. She shot him a look, and he continued before he could lose his nerve.
"Girls deserve to feel good. So I'm going to give you a compliment." Dangerous waters now. He could see her face closing off, the anger in her eyes. A touch of betrayal.
As quickly, and clearly as he could, Dennis delivered the line he had been working on. "Girl, you look like the kind of woman who can do her eyeliner without poking her eyes once."
The dumbfounded look she gave him was so satisfying. His guess was correct. Tammi didn't want attention drawn to her body. She got that from every other man it seems. So Dennis was going the other direction. "Girl, you look like you blend your contours."
Now she was smiling. "You have no idea what that means."
"I do not. But I hope you still take it as a compliment."
"Very well, I accept" she said, adopting a haughty pose, nose to the sky.
Laughter slowed as the bus rolled up.
Dennis looked deep into her eyes, a step separated from her. "Take care of yourself."
Stay safe.
Tammi surprised him, pulling him close and wrapping her arms around him. She was shorter than himself, so his lungs filled with the smell of her perfume. Dennis didn't know what to do. Not without poking at the shadowed edges of her discomfort. He compromised, returning a polite hug that made sure to leave her room to escape.
A feather-light press of her lips on his cheek banished any further thoughts from his head. Uncontrolled, he smiled, even as she scampered onto the bus. A glance through the window let her give him a solemn nod that she had heard his unspoken request. Then the bus rolled away.
The young man stood in the gathering dark, finding that the wind bit just a little harsher in her absence.
Interlude 5.v
AlSmash
Getting sticky.
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Let me absolutely and perfectly clear. I do not share, nor condone, the views of Neo-Nazism. Nor do I condone any of the views that are espoused in this chapter. This is a work of fiction, not a personal statement of any kind.
Interlude 5.y Various
Tammi Roth
Walking up the stairs to the suburban estate Tammi buried her feelings as best she could. The house was as immaculate as always, the flower garden was cared for, and several nice cars sat in the circular driveway. It had an air of what would be the perfect slice of Americana.And that was the point, she thought sourly to herself as she rang the doorbell and waited for the inevitable greetings. She didn't have to wait long before the door was quickly opened by Esther.
"Tammi, darling! It's wonderful to see you."
Esther Lambert had taken her husband's name, but was Tammi's cousin by her mother's side. Today, she was dressed as the stereotypical suburban housewife. Jewelry, fitted summer dress, and small heels. It almost felt like taking a time machine back to the fifties.
It was complicated dealing with Esther. She was friendly, charming, and warm in a way that Tammi's own mother had never been. Esther and her husband Garrett had been good to Tammi when she first came to Brockton Bay, seeking independence and fresh off a stint in juvie. They had sheltered her under their roof, helped her settle in at school, and introduced her to other, like-minded people.
To the general public, the Lamberts were a well-off American couple. The kind that had a business manager deal with their wealth, and who spent their days at various social gatherings.
Tammi knew them as Victor and Othala, high ranking members of the E88.
Esther especially believed in the superiority of the 'old times'. When America was strong, proud, and untainted by the 'parasites' which ruined the country. Esther was the best kind of white supremacist, one who cloaked her racism in patriotism.
Ushered inside, the hostess kept up a running commentary on the guests who had already arrived. The house was lovely, something that Tammi had always found daunting to come to terms with. It was sizable, in a very good part of town, and lovingly furnished with what she could expect to be expensive pieces. The wall art was tasteful, and probably meant something to someone. Tammi didn't really 'get' art.
Guests mingled, snacked and drank in little groups of conversation. It was more a party of quality instead of quantity. Esther waved at several as she led Tammi through the house.
"Mr. Barker, have you met Tammi before? Charming girl. So supportive! Please, do try the snacks, I worked hard on them."
"Mrs. Duchane! I saw the latest headlines, I couldn't believe it! We'll have to sit and talk soon. Oh, have you met Tammi? She's still in that 'rambanctious' phase. You know how young girls can be. We'll catch up later, I promise."
"Yes, Mr. Simon, I will certainly ask my husband about future plans. No, of course I can't comment. I'll leave it for him to decide. He'll be in touch."
The entire time Esther played host, Tammi could not help but feel eyes upon her. They traced down her hips, along the length of her collarbone. Thighs, chest, neck, the line of her jaw. She felt it. Even if her conscious mind recognized that they stood feet away from her, she felt their attention like a hot, cloying, sticky filth that she would need to scrub away.
She was a display piece to them. Silently gauging her, leaving her feeling naked, stripped of dignity, ambition, personality and hopes. Everything that made her who she was. She passed huddles of young men, their eyes hungry and with the swagger of youth and ambition. Grown men sat and glanced over at her before returning to their conversation, their eyes having noticed her hips, and not her clenched fists. Husbands stood beside wives and traced the curve of her backside as she moved past them.
Tami hated dressing up. Being desirable was dangerous. That was true no matter where she went. Back home there had been hard, bitter men with calloused hands and short tempers. Here there were men with soft hands, soft smiles and expensive suits. Both types had a bad relationship with the word 'no'.
Glancing at Esther brought no comfort. She was a spineless creature, utterly deferential to her husband. And Garret had made it clear that so long as Tammi lived under his roof, she would obey his rules. He was careful not to push too far, but her comfort and happiness were never part of the equation. Only her obedience, and invisible line that would push her to run again.
Just get through tonight, she thought to herself, as she followed Esther to the stairs that led up to the second floor. It was blocked by a large man with a shaved head and fighter's shoulders, who nonetheless nodded respectfully and stepped aside, allowing their passage.
The second floor was nearly silent, isolated from the buzz of conversation downstairs. Esther led her to the furthest door at the end of the hall and knocked firmly. After waiting for a moment, she opened the door and stepped inside, Tammi following on her heels.
"Husband, Tammi has returned," Esther declared.
Garrett Lambert didn't react as his wife entered his private study. Instead, he finished writing whatever it was that he was working on, and only then did he glance up with a frown.
"Ms. Roth. You are late."
Tammi bristled slightly at the accusatory tone, her irritation bleeding through in her response, "Traffic delays because of—"
"I don't care for your excuses. Do better," he cut her off dismissively.
She glanced at Esther, who gave no reaction to her husband's words. Tammi still felt a sting of disappointment at her inaction.
Clearing his desk, Garrett stood and walked over to them, "You may go, Esther."
With a lowering of her head in silent obeisance, which only made Tammi grind her teeth harder, the older woman stepped back and walked out of the room. The door closing behind her felt like a coffin closing upon Tammi.
"You are my attendant," the older man declared, "You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not comment unless asked. And you will not discuss this meeting with anyone. Is that understood?"
It was yet another reminder on why Tammi did everything she could to avoid Victor and Othala when they met in costume. They might serve the same cause, but Victor saw people as tools, easily utilized and discarded once no longer useful. His wife was utterly permissive of his behavior despite the implications upon herself. Burying the indignation, Tammi nodded.
"Good," Garrett asserted, staring her down and searching for any hint of insubordination. Nodding with satisfaction, he brushed past her, opening the door behind her.
"Come."
She follows Garrett in silence to another room.
"Gentlemen. Thank you for your patience," Garrett announced himself quietly, leading Tammi into a sitting room. Four men sat in the room, drinking and smoking. They acknowledged Garrett's arrival with indifference, more fascinated with their own indulgences. Yet there was a subtle tension that hung in the air despite the relaxed atmosphere. Inconspicuously Tammi ran her hand over a small side table by the door, imbuing it with her power as she walked past it. She took a position behind and to the side of Garrett as he settled into his own luxurious leather chair, her eyes running over the men and cataloguing everything about them.
"No problem, Mr. Lambert, sir. Not like we have better things to do. Nothing to do whatsoever," the rough, thick, derisive drawl from one of the men left no uncertainty at the man's feelings on the matter. He was a stocky individual who upon cursory glance would likely be dismissed as fat, but Tammi knew better. The man hadn't cut his teeth within Hookwolf's little band of enforcers by being soft. The close cut hair, piercing blue eyes, and knuckles marked with Iron Crosses only added to the image of the man who was known as "The Boar". Alister DeBoer was a man as vicious as he was unrepentant, having mercilessly filled the vacuum left with Hookwolf's death. It was made only more notable by the fact that DeBoer was no cape.
The man's piggish eyes undressed her as he took a deep pull from his cigarette, slowly letting it out as his visage contorted with a smile that could only be described as gluttonous as he licked his lips, "Though, I do appreciate the entertainment you seem to have brought. C'mere girl, lemme show you a time you'll never forget."
Tammi's already tenuous control snapped, animalistic instincts screaming to the forefront as her power flared and took control of the table behind her in an instant. Normally, it was a process that took time, like water seeping into soil. However, driven by her rage, disgust, and provocation, she pushed it like an angry jet through a hose. It felt like someone had driven a red hot spike into her eyes, but she felt her power crystalize and respond instantly. With a thought, she levitated the table and launched it across the room at Alister. It came to a stop millimeters from the bastard's face, hovering there in unspoken threat.
However, instead of being cowed by the blatant display of power and promised violence, the bastard simply sat up a little straighter, the ugly smile on his face only growing wider.
"Boar, this is a professional meeting, not one of your brothels. You will refrain from spewing your filth or I will allow Ms. Roth to correct your behavior," Garrett ordered icily, though there was a sense of boredom rather than anger in his tone, "Tammi, return my furniture where you found it."
A chill ran down her spine at the recognition at how easily Garrett had dropped her name to these men. The bastard had just casually outed her like it was a trivial tidbit. Another tether tying her to the Empire, another braid added to the noose around her neck.
You and I both know that they are going to keep asking more of you. They will push you over the line, and make sure to hold it against you so that you can never get away.
She shoved that traitorous voice into the back of her head and did as she was told.
"As you can see, Ms. Roth is one of the 'special assets' to the cause, Mr. DeBoer," Garrett's eyes flicked toward Boar like a pair of primed daggers threatening violence, "Do not cross her again."
Alister pulled from his cigarette again, as if he had not just been threatened by a cape and his nominal superior. Instead, he leered in Tammi's direction, "No bite. All bark. How disappointing," he sneered as Tammi returned back to her position. It was a sobering reminder that this man had been one of Hookwolf's lieutenants.
The other three men who had silently watched the interaction settled themselves as the room reordered itself. They hadn't introduced themselves and Tammi didn't know them. It was yet another reminder that she really didn't belong here and only added to the drowning sensation that was growing stronger.
"Now that we are all here; we can begin," Garrett started, panning his gaze over the other men, "Kaiser is out of the city. This is not news we want spread. He has asked that I coordinate things in his absence. Especially after the trash was cleaned up so magnificently," the man paused, as though expecting protest.
The four men held their silence. For now.
"Detective Byers," The leftmost man acknowledged Garrett. He was a man in his forties, dressed in a casual pair of slacks and button up long-sleeve shirt. Brown hair cut short and discerning brown eyes that seemed to pierce everything, "I hope our friends in the BBPD are able to set aside anything that can help our cause."
The badge clipped to the man's belt drew Tammi's gaze like a beacon. Perhaps that was the point in the first place.
"It's going to be difficult, Mr. Lambert," Byers responded, swirling his snifter of amber liquid in quiet contemplation, "Normally, I would say it was no problem losing what you need. However, this is different. PRT is involving itself in everything and my boys are being hounded. For now, I'm ordering my boys to keep their heads down. It's likely to change once things settle, but for now?"
The man shrugged apologetically, earning a snort from the man in the corner.
"Even when they're gone, the Merchants continue to be an unremovable stain," the unknown man spoke, his rolling German accent telling Tammi exactly who he was. Krieg was…he didn't fit with the rest of the gang. He was an outsider and he made sure to keep it that way, "I hope you're taking steps to remedy the situation, Garrett."
Victor wasn't afforded the opportunity to respond, because DeBoer cut in, "What I want to know is why we aren't moving in on all that free turf with the trash now disposed of. There's street corners that need feeling and we've been made to sit our on our hands like fucking pansies. Oy, bean counter, tell 'um!"
"There's no denying that the money has stopped moving to a certain degree, but that's hardly cause for alarm," the 'bean counter' answered. He was a rather nondescript man with thinning grey hair, glasses perched upon his nose. He would have easily blended into the crowd.
Garrett tapped his finger on the arm of his chair, "Mr. Duchane, it's your job to keep the money moving. You keep it safe, keep it clean, and you keep it moving. If you can't do that, we will find someone who can."
Tammi swallowed nervously, her eyes darting between the individuals. Garrett didn't have the same charisma that Kaiser did. And it was readily apparent that the men in the room were learning this fact…and not appreciating it.
"As you were, DeBoer. The Empire is not moving on the Docks area because it's not worth the trouble. The Merchants learned this fatal folly and we will avoid sharing their fate. Hopefully the lizard will make the same mistake the Merchants did."
"I don't like relying upon 'hopes', Lambert," Alister snarled, "I want to do something now! Like with that dogfucking rugmuncher, Bitch, Hellhound, whatever the fuck she wants to call herself. That knotslut hit another one of our rings three days ago and my boys are getting fucking tired of being her goddamn chewtoy. You say money is down? Then we need to do something about what is costing us money!"
It was Byers who spoke up, "Since we're working with the PRT fairly closely, it wouldn't take much effort to get them to deal with her more seriously. They've got blood in their mouth after all of their recent faceplants and need some good press."
"Fuck that! Since when do we let the fucking Tin Pigs do our work for us?! This is the Bay! These are our streets!"
"Since she turns dogs into armored hell beasts you jacked-up pig fucker," Byers snapped back, alcohol sloshing in his glass. DeBoer gave him the finger. There was evidently no love lost between the crooked cop and the thug. Tammi was beginning to see why Garrett had called her in as muscle.
Probably because he didn't want to expose himself as a cape. She suspected it was a flimsy excuse, considering Krieg's presence here. Nonetheless, it was much easier to use her as a distraction by exposing her, and it benefitted him in the long run because now they knew who she was.
And left her with very few avenues of escape if she chose to…waver.
"Gentlemen," the sharp admonition stilled the furor, and parties returned back to their prospective sides, rendering a calm that remained teetering on the edge of a razor.
"Gentlemen," Garrett repeated, casting his gaze over the room, "rest assured, we have considered what to do about this. Once Night and Fog arrive, an ambush will be prepared. Now that it seems that the Undersiders have dissolved, Bitch is on her own and will be easy to take care of."
"Night and Fog will not be coming," the man who was Krieg spoke up, "They have been recalled back to Berlin. It is felt that they would be used in other endeavors."
Everyone turned to look at him as he spoke, a myriad of expressions on their faces.
"When was this decided," Garrett demanded, for the first time showing a crack in his facade.
"This morning," the man waved his hand dismissively, the lit cigarette in his hand leaving lazy smoke trails in the air, "I was just informed on my way here. They are planning to send someone else, but they have not seen fit to inform me who. However, they have said that he should be sufficient for our local problems. All of them."
"Great…Perfect! We're down another Cape? Fan-fucking-tastic. By the way…who the fuck is this guy," Deboer jerked his thumb at the blond man.
"I am responsible for the Empire's external allies, Mr. Deboer. And if you talk to me again with that tone or crude language, I will cut off your tongue, grill it in front of you, and make you eat it," Krieg delivered this threat calmly, his accented English conversational. Like a man who was commenting on the weather.
The Boar grinned in response, fixing his eyes on Tammi again. She preferred it when everyone ignored her.
"See that girlie?!? Now that's how you threaten someone. Make it mean something!"
"Returning to the matter at hand," Garrett cut off Tammi's developing retort, looking to Krieg, "do we at least have a timeline on when this asset arrives?"
"Could be a couple days? Could be a couple weeks. My masters were not specific, they were more concerned about Kaiser's fixation with the Judenschwein."
For the first time ever, Tammi watched Garrett's features darken in fury.
"Kaiser and I were quite thorough in our research. There is no evidence supporting such claims."
"The father descending from Frankish stock is offensive enough. It is the matrilineal line that is suspect," Krieg leaned forward, "old money like that always has skeletons. It is bad enough that Kaiser is cavorting with untermensch, it is quite another to offer his progeny to Nichtarier."
"Enough," Victor snarled, "if your masters have an issue with Kaiser, then they should take it up with him! My role is to fulfill his directives, not explain him in absentia."
The tension was suffocating, as everyone in the room was looking between the two now. Alister wearing an ever-widening smile; Byers looking like he hadn't a care, and Duchane on the verge of panic.
Krieg just smiled, dipping his head, "Of course. My mistake."
"This is neither the time nor place to discuss such things. Moving along." Garret firmly moved past the disturbance. But even Tammi could tell that the damage had been done. Whoever Krieg's masters were, they seemed to have a lot of pull if it was enough to get under Garrett's skin.
Tammi had never been involved with leadership. She followed orders. This was far beyond what she wanted to deal with. Hopefully, being quiet and compliant would make them overlook her attendance. She was under no assumptions on her chances of survival if they took offence to her attendance.
"I'm afraid that we must stay on this topic, Mr.Lambert," Krieg, who had still not revealed his name, leaned forward, cigarette ash trailing disrespectfully down onto the carpeted floor. "There have been concerns raised about the current direction the Empire has taken. There are some who are worried that Kaiser has been too soft. When he called for war against the Merchants, he did nothing else. An opportunity to further assert that the Empire is operating in the best interests of this city, and we ended up doing nothing except show up to watch as the city dealt with them."
"We have discussed that already, and there is.."
"Oh yes there is a reason to talk about it! Our capes were wasted on pointless posturing!"
She had wondered that as well. It had seemed rather unlike Kaiser. When the orders had come down to assemble just outside of Merchants territory, she expected it was the prelude to an assault on their territory and finally putting an end to them. Instead, they had stood around, doing nothing except attracting the attention of the Protectorate, before dispersing. It was what had allowed her to meet up with Dennis this evening.
"The Merchants were a blight," Victor returned, "It didn't matter who dealt with them, only that they were dealt with. If law enforcement had failed, we would have been in a position to finish the job. That was the entire reason for the mobilization, James. Besides, Kaiser did do something, unlike your claims. He authorized the elimination of Skidmark. It was not worth making such a dramatic scene when a more deft touch was appropriate."
"So the urban legends about the Jager were true," Jonathan chimed in, before shaking his head, "I saw the report on their work. Pretty clean if you ask me. Still, why use them now? Would have been a nice trump card later on. I don't think Skidmark warranted such a usage."
"The issue is the changing landscape of Brockton Bay itself. Previously, we would not have to worry about federal attention. They had written the city off, but now, with Zero Dawn Technologies, that has changed. Previously, everyone would have shrugged and gone on their day if the Merchants attacked a company in the Bay. And now they are gone in two days."
"Is that Kaiser's official stance?"
"For now, James. We are still going to operate as normal, but there will be no more large-scale activities until we know exactly how people are going to react. The last thing I think any of us want is for the government to get trigger happy and decide that Boston was just a dress rehearsal."
"So we're just going to hide with our tails between our legs because we're afraid that the government will bring a hammer down on us, is that what you're saying," Alister snarled, "None of us signed up to spread our cheeks to fucking race traitors."
"That isn't the intention," Garrett quickly rebutted, casting a quick look at James, "However, we have to bear in mind that the situation is no longer the same and we have to adapt to the changing tides if we are to survive. Kaiser perceived this well over a month ago and has been working to develop a new plan."
Krieg hummed consideringly, "Tell me, Mr. Duchane. Medhall has previously been a friend to the cause, and yet now Max Anders is shaking hands with subhuman filth. What do you make of this?"
Tammi had learnt quick how to judge a fellow member of the Empire. You had the true believers. You had the opportunists who were angry and just needed an outlet. You had those desperate for meaning.
The look of disgust that passed across Duchane's face told her exactly what kind of believer he was. The mousy man spoke firmly for the first time so far.
"Mr. Anders is a great man. A firm patriot, and a beacon to good Christians everywhere. But this? This man, Calvert, might be a fine puppet. But it would be better for the cause if the world could see a proper white man leading this city back to greatness."
Garrett was losing control of the meeting, and he knew it. DeBoer was nodding slowly, looking between Krieg and Garrett with a contemplative look on his face.
"We can discuss further once things develop. For the moment, Calvert has plenty of opposition. Stansfield, for example."
Tammi saw the tension on Garrett's shoulders as he pulled the meeting back under control. "Mr. DeBoer, your concerns are warranted. Your operation has merit, and we must protect it. Rune will provide protection for the dogfighting events," he said, "I'll also assign some of my men to assist. I want the Bitch problem handled permanently before Kaiser returns, Alister. Consider it your top priority."
This drew a smile from the tattooed man, "Finally! Consider the dogfucker euthanized."
Garrett looked to Byers "See if you can have your boys locate her. Don't engage her, just let us know where she's hiding. We'll take care of her."
"What about the rules," she blurted out, before wincing at her own traitorous mouth as every head in the room turned to her. Even if she had inadvertently voiced it, it still remained completely valid. While the death of a cape in the field was something that happened, it was not necessarily sought after. It was one of those unspoken rules in the cape trade, accidents may happen, but you deliberately did not go out of your way to kill a cape. Doing so made you open season by the rest of the cape community.
And they were actively talking about killing Bitch, not metaphorically, but actively seeking her out and killing her. If this was not a clear cut violation of those roles that kept the cape community from descending into straight internecine warfare, then she didn't know what was.
Alister snorted, "What about 'em? No one's gonna care if the bitch is put down."
"My colleague is correct," Krieg jumped in, "previously killing Bitch could have complicated things. However, she's now alone and no one's going to care if she gets herself killed. In fact, I believe a lot of people would be relieved that she is no longer among the living. Besides, we still have a few friends inside the PRT. The girl has a warrant for murder. Putting her down is just…self-defense"
"I know quite a lot of the boys would celebrate getting rid of her. The bitch has been nothing but a fucking nuisance," Byers spoke, "my boys have the hospital visits to back it up."
"This is an opportunity, Ms.Roth. A chance to prove your devotion to the cause and earn rewards for that devotion."
The warning was clear. Lacking the requisite devotion was deadly. They wouldn't kill her here. But even if she left the city tonight, she would be lucky to see the sunrise.
"You've been telling me you've been wanting more responsibility Tammi. This is your chance to prove you are ready," Garrett added, "the only way Kaiser will trust you is if you become properly blooded and do something to further the Empire."
"I-," Dennis' prophetic words rang through her head.
You and I both know that they are going to keep asking more of you. They will push you over the line, and make sure to hold it against you so that you can never get away.
If she did this. If she killed Bitch. She would be Empire forever more, because she would have no other place to go. Capes that intentionally sought to kill capes were universally treated as a pariah, no other cape outside of the Empire would want to deal with her outside of trying to kill her in turn.
And looking at everyone staring at her expectantly, she knew she only had one answer she could give and survive the night. She knew too much.
The Boar watched her with a glimmer in his eyes, and an evil smile on his lips. She could read the message in his eyes. Time to get your hands dirty girl.
She closed her eyes, seeing Dennis' smile, the laughs and experiences they had. The kiss she gave him.
Dennis…you were right.
"I understand, sir."
Rebecca Costa-Brown
Rebecca understood the numbers. For years, she had worked inside them. Planned around them. Everything she had built was constructed with the singular goal of ending Scion. To that end, by direct action and by inaction, tens of thousands had suffered or died.
She understood that. Accepted it, even.
It did not absolve her from trying to save what could survive.
The public saw Alexandria as the pinnacle of strength and endurance. She was content to afford them that belief. She believed differently, though. It wasn't her strength or invulnerability that served as her greatest asset, but her mind.
Alexandria's Thinker abilities were known, but were always downplayed. It was there, for anyone who knew to look. Her own private message to the world. The white tower that she took as her symbol.
The Library of Alexandria. The tower of knowledge.
Her mind was her greatest tool, and it was how she knew that she was in trouble.
For years, in the West, the Parahuman emergence had been framed a certain way. Lines, both real and imaginary, had been drawn and a rhythm was developed. The PRT served as the official and unofficial arbiter of 'right' and 'wrong' and all parahuman affairs that revolved around it.
That wasn't to say that things had been seamless. An organization with thousands of people and millions of opinions always had a few rough edges.
The Paige McAbee situation was one such example. The overzealous pursuit to make an example of the girl had been something that she had quietly supported. Masters were probably the most dangerous cape to the continuance of the system, and Paige McAbee had provided a fertile ground to place other Masters into check.
Only it hadn't ended as it should have, with McAbee shuffled off to the Birdcage with no resistance and Masters made aware that there was only one option available if they didn't want to end up like her. Instead, sole oversight over the Birdcage by the PRT had been removed. All Birdcage cases would now have to go through a judicial panel in order for the sentence to be confirmed.
It was an inconvenience. Getting angry over it would change nothing. She would move forward because the dead had no use for indignation, and everyone would die if she did nothing.
Opening the door, she was mindful of her strength. David once commented that she now lived in a world of cheap cardboard. It had been the first time that he had not sounded envious of her abilities.
The restaurant was empty, aside from one patron. A special favor from the owner, to come in before the evening opening and have some quiet time. Rebecca walked over, her practical heels a drumbeat against the rich wooden floor.
Tammerlane Shaw was, despite being in his late 40s, a man still retaining his physique from his days in the military. Piercing blue eyes, square-jawed, brown hair cut military short with greying temples, a well-groomed beard, and broader shoulders than one might expect from a politician. He was charismatic, passionate as needed, and viciously intelligent.
He was also probably Rebecca's greatest mistake as Chief-Director of the PRT.
Looking up, he placed his tablet down, "Becky, it's good to see you," he greeted as he got to his feet walking around the table and held out his hand to her. While she'd rather stick her hand in Crawler's gut, she quickly clasped it, returning the greeting, "It has been some time, Tammerlane."
Polite, cold, and driven. These were words to describe Chief Director Costa-Brown in polite settings. She was well aware what they called her in less polite settings.
Shaw used to be one of her subordinates in the PRT. Begrudgingly, she could admit that he had been her most effective PRT director in the organization's history. The perfect blend of ruthlessness and pragmatism that had characterized his time in the military had translated far too well to the PRT.
And therein lay the problem. Shaw's effectiveness had provided him a platform to espouse his personal doctrine on the matters of the PRT. There existed a small but vocal minority who argued that the current role and structure was insufficient to fulfill its organizational mandate. They argued that there should not be a separate PRT and Protectorate, but one singular organization. Furthermore, it should be less a law enforcement entity and more an offensive paramilitary unit.
A specialized tactical command, instead of the community police initiative that it was currently.
They argued that by modelling itself in this manner, it would create an organization far more efficient by being offensively-oriented. This was in contrast to the current branch system that was more oriented to a static presence that was less flexible and favoured by the moderates, of which she was part of.
She didn't begrudge that there were doctrinal differences that existed within the PRT. They were a natural part of any organization. And in any other circumstance, she would likely agree with the militarists. However, they were not privy to the reason why the PRT and Protectorate must operate in this way.
They needed the inefficiency and chaos in order to produce enough chaff that hopefully they would find the silver bullet to kill Scion.
Their idea would also not work. They would secure short-term success in crushing organized villain activity and certainly put many criminals behind bars. But they would also torpedo any recruitment of the younger generation. The highly militarized system would naturally kill the Wards program, as the prospect of child soldiers would definitely hobble any attempt at mass recruitment. But perhaps worse, it would destroy the moral high ground that the PRT enjoyed, as the Heroes who could not accept being militarized would quit in protest.
So she had tolerated Shaw and his little cabal. By having a diverse set of Directors with enough latitude to operate their districts like a personal fiefdom, she could obfuscate the fact that the PRT System was working as intended. That the divide between hero and villain was determined not by actions, but by public narrative. Narrative that the PRT control through their position as the source of Parahuman information.
Besides, by allowing Shaw and other voices to make themselves heard, it painted her as a proponent of free speech and debate.
However, Shaw made a mistake, or at least she thought he did at the time. He made the doctrinal differences public on Capitol Hill, but he used Hero's death as an example of why the moderates stance was wrong. He had blatantly suggested that if the PRT were more militarily-oriented, then Hero would likely not have died.
Grief was not rational. It was an imprecise emotion that did not respect system disruption, response time delays, or force projection failures due to loss of personnel. It was a cudgel that was crude and inefficient that created more of a mess than it was worth.
However, Clark had been her friend. And, once upon a time, he might have become more.
And Shaw had used his death to support his agenda.
Rebecca could not attack the Slaughterhouse Nine. She could not avenge her friend because the continuity of the species came before personal feelings.
But she could remove Shaw. Immediate dismissal from his position as Director of Seattle, citing a 'loss of confidence in Shaw's ability to command'. Everyone knew it was a thinly concocted narrative, the Triumvirate had loudly denounced the Director, and the Chief Director was forced to remove him in order to pacify the strongest heroes in the United States.
And for a short time, Rebecca had considered the matter closed. She grieved privately and kept working. The militarists had been crippled with their poster boy removed, and she no longer had to worry about Shaw attempting to replace her as Chief Director. With Shaw gone, she could focus on maintaining the status quo and cultivating more capes, while slowly undermining the militarists.
Two months later, Shaw reared his head again. This time as a senatorial candidate for the state of Washington. And her belief that his dismissal would prevent anyone from taking Shaw seriously had backfired. Shaw had always been popular with the state, utilizing his charisma, good looks, and effectiveness with not only the masses, but the special interest groups of the state. Many had believed that he had wrongly been dismissed for offering his personal opinion.
Running on a platform that Shaw described as 'classical' liberalism, he had been able to reach across the political aisle and cultivate a rapport that catapulted him to an easy win in the 2002 elections. Since then, he had become a proverbial thorn in her side as he amassed power, now serving as the Chairman of the Senatorial Parahuman Oversight Committee. There was nothing she could do without him not only being aware, but having to give his blessing for the most part.
But it ran far deeper than that. Despite being a 'sophomore' Senator, Shaw had been able to accrue both the political capital and connections in DC that had forged him into one of the frontrunners for the Democratic ticket for the 2012 Presidential Election. If the polling continued as it was, Shaw was looking to be the Democratic candidate, in spite of him being more centrist in comparison to his other opponents by running on a platform of fiscal responsibility, economic rejuvenation, and, more critically, law enforcement reforms.
With the PRT being one of those in his sights for his reforms.
In hindsight, she had created this monster, making Shaw far more dangerous than he could have ever been as a simple Director. And it was why she now believed that Shaw had manipulated the situation.
He was intelligent to know that his remarks were inflammatory. He was savvy enough to know that the four greatest heroes of the nation were close friends. And he knew that the Chief Director would have to placate the heroes who had just lost a dear friend.
The only thing he didn't know was that Costa-Brown and Alexandria were the same person.
Grief made things imprecise. She had learnt that. It was fine. She had no more grief to give.
"Please," Shaw motioned with his hand to a chair that was already pulled away from the table across from where he was seating, "Take a seat. I see that my little hideaway didn't last long. Managing my office and my presidential campaign has resulted in the unfortunate necessity of multitasking."
"It's fine," she returned, taking the seat even as Shaw returned to his place. Clearing away his tablet, he placed his hands on the table, clasping them in front of him.
Both settled in now, she waited for Shaw to speak again. The man liked hierarchy, and saw himself as her superior given his position on the oversight committee. Indulging him cost her nothing.
"So what can I help you with, Chief Director? I could have sworn we weren't on speaking terms outside of our professional roles."
There was not a hint of mockery in his tone. It had been spoken with the clinical matter-of-fact tone that made her internally bristle. She would have preferred the mockery or irritation, but the way he referred to his dismissal was like it was hardly an inconvenience.
"I wanted to make sure that we are aligned in how to address the new fringe Parahuman group that is forming. The National Organization for paRahuman Advancement, as well as how to address the architect behind its creation."
Shaw raised his brow in interest, but Rebecca's powers made his disdain clear.
"Rebecca, I'm going to be increasingly concerned with your abilities if the actions of the not-even sixteen year old blind girl is causing you such worries."
She silently plucked a flashdrive from her pocket, and placed it gently on the table. Her silence spoke more than any rebuttal. Now Shaw was on the backfoot.
"There are two reports on this. One compiled by mundane resources from the DC office. The other is the Panopticon Report from WEDGDG."
The man's gaze sharpened, jumping between her face and the tapping of her finger.
"The mundane report is interesting, because it highlights the many inconsistencies that Ms.Hebert exhibits. Six months ago, she was a socially isolated girl of middling grades in an underfunded high school. By all accounts, she had no strong relationships and was ruthlessly bullied by her former best friend. Now, she is rapidly surrounding herself with political, economic and military power. She has dozens of patents already, and hundreds that are still being processed. She is building a business empire that will likely join the Fortune 500 within two years. Dozens of products are being re-released to market with improvements that she owns royalties on. She is set to be a billionaire before she can legally drink."
Rebecca leaned back, making it clear that she understood exactly what kind of threat the young women presented. The Chief-Director continued.
"On paper, she should be socially isolated, and desperate for connection. Instead, she is speaking like she's a forty year old CEO with a Doctorate in dozens of fields. She carries herself like she's actually comfortable in the position she's in. A number of analysts actually flagged her as a Master victim. But after careful review, that theory was put aside. The current theory is that she's self-Mastering, which goes contrary to her stated power expression."
"And the reason we need to be concerned is in the Panopticon Report."
The Panopticon Report was a report that could only be ordered by the Chief Director. It empowered Watchdog to temporarily recruit Protectorate Thinkers to research a given subject. Given the disruptive nature of such actions, it was largely limited to S-class events or time-sensitive incidents. While a Panopticon on a single individual was irregular, Rebecca had used the example of Eagleton and the fact that Ms.Hebert was messing with nuclear energy to support the authorization.
"Taylor Hebert is a crusader. She has a fully realized vision for how she believes the world should be, and she will do anything she can to make it a reality. And she has the knowledge to make it happen. Every report we have confirms it. She is not a Tinker, she is a Thinker. One with an advanced understanding of science that surpasses ours by decades, maybe even centuries. What we are seeing right now from Hebert is referred to as kludgetech. She's literally cobbling together existing technology with what little she can produce right now artisanally. Her only bottleneck is she's limited by the technology of today. However, that bottleneck is rapidly eroding. In terms of actual physical threat, she's an underweight teenager. But her threat in terms of influence is currently mid-to-high B-Class, but in three years, she's predicted to reach S-Class, if not sooner."
Shaw's meal had gone cold as he listened intently. Pushing the plate aside, he clasped his hands together. Rebecca could see the calculations being run. The consideration that he was giving to the problem.
"What's your worst-case scenario, " he asked quietly, his eyes hardening like ice.
"NORA will expand, offering a bridge between business interests and parahuman talent. NEPEA will be revisited as competing economic interests try to sway the community with positive PR gestures. Meanwhile, the courts will be flooded with amnesty cases as NORA attracts villains looking to reform. The PRT will lose representation as detainees seek legal counsel through NORA. That's not even touching the slow down in recruiting numbers for the Wards and Protectorate as the PRT now has to compete with the private sector for talent. Which will directly impact our Endbringer defences."
She took a theatrical breath.
"Hebert herself is a different problem. The PRT has made it a priority to keep parahumans outside of positions of influence or governance, in order to keep the national discussion from turning into a 'us vs them' debate. But Hebert's scientific understanding makes her invaluable, and she's intelligent enough to utilize that fact to her advantage. Used correctly, she can offer a valuable shot in the arm to the United States economy. It would make the nation the distributor for products and services to every other developed nation on the planet. But, it would also give her enormous influence. How long before Senators and Governors start pandering to her? If she offers to build a factory, bring thousands of jobs into struggling local economies… how many are going to bend to her demands for law changes. Or Constitutional changes?"
The argument was structured to provoke exactly the right kind of response. Despite everything that could be said about Tammerlane Shaw, he was still a patriot, and a firm believer in the power of the government over the governed. It played into his desire for control and prestige.
It made him an easy man to lead to certain conclusions. In this case? That Taylor Hebert would become more influential than himself, even if he became the next President.
Rebecca watched as the small muscles in his hands tightened steadily.
"Jesus fucking christ, Rebecca…," he breathed, reaching up to massage the bridged of his nose, before relasing it, "Hebert is a monster of your own making. Piggot should never have been made Director of a shitshow like Brockton Bay. She was an excellent soldier, but a piss poor leader. She could never put her ego and biases against capes aside and it showed in the command reviews over the years. Hebert was an inevitable outcome."
He was right, but he didn't need to know that. In any other circumstance, she would have never selected Emily Piggot as a Director. If anything, like Shaw said, she was a fine soldier, and would have made an excellent instructor, and eventually commandant, at the PRT training academy. Unfortunately, Piggot fit all of the character and skill markers necessary for the Project Terminus scenario.
She was never meant to succeed, she was meant to hold the line. To see how the line broke, how rule of law would fail in a situation where Parahumans overcame civil control. A controllable microexperiment on what the collapse of organized nation-states would look like. Credit to Emily Piggot, she would never have yielded. She would have held on to the rule of law with her bleeding fingernails if she had to.
It was…ironic that she was brought down not by violent action or malicious subversion, but by a blind girl's good intentions and desire for cooperation.
Shaw breathed out, slow and controlled.
"So…just to make sure we're on the same page, Rebecca. We have a sixteen year old who, quite literally, not only has the power to destabilize, then rebuild, the American economy, but also accrue enough soft and hard political power with her creations to make the robber barons look like misbehaving toddlers, and she's opening a social program that could destabilize three decades of Federal Parahuman policy."
"Correct, and this is why we need to ensure that we're both on the same page. I don't like you Tam. And you don't like me. That's fine. But this is not a problem that can be solved by-"
"Relax, Rebecca, you've sold me," he cut her off as he rubbed his jaw, "Jesus Christ, what a mess!"
Rebecca didn't bother to smile at her success. Now that Shaw was aware of the threat, he would take action. He was not a man of idle observation and contemplation. It remained to be seen how effective he would be. For being a sophomore Senator, he had an unusual amount of power within the Senate and his own party. Most politicians like him wouldn't be running for President with his party's blessing either.
Shaw downed the rest of his drink, idly running his finger along the rim of the glass. "What is the position of the PRT on Hebert?"
"Publically, the PRT is supportive of Hebert's efforts in post-Endbringer cleanup and welcomes her contributions on the part of the cape community. We feel that the technology she is bringing to the table is untested, and until she hands over the design schematic and lets PRT scientists understand her devices from basic principles, we are not comfortable with the Focus device, or anything derived from it, being used by the general public. We also are leaning on our legacy media contacts to bring more focus onto PRT friendly news stories, a major PR push to showcase the successes of the current generation and the upcoming stars of the next."
"Internally, we are pressuring independents across the country to sign on with the PRT, and revising work contracts to keep talent from jumping ship to NORA. Granted, NORA is currently not allowed to operate outside of Brockton Bay, but that doesn't stop capes moving into the area to work."
"Interestingly, that lines up with something I've been hearing on the Hill. She has been ruffling quite a lot of feathersl. Important constituents have been voicing their uneasiness in regards to Hebert."
It didn't take much to read between the lines of who those 'constituents' were. Between the telecom companies and major tech firms, Hebert was drawing a lot of ire with her shock and awe tactics. The telecom companies were especially irate because Hebert had used a vulnerability in their networks that they had not even been aware of. It was thanks to that exploit she had been able to connect her Focus Network in Boston and allow it to connect countrywide. Her refusal to defer to them after the matter had only escalated the situation.
The tech companies were concerned that Hebert was going to establish herself as a tech monopoly. The Focus and her machines were bad enough, everyone with a basic understanding of computer programming was aware of how much of a leap those were. No, it was a computer Hebert had provided to Greg Veder. Software and hardware that eclipsed anything currently on the market, while also being something that people on the street could understand. With a single gift to a 'friend', Taylor had made the current generation of computers obsolete. And the only way to catch up was to throw everything into development, steal the plans, or buy from Hebert and hope she didn't gouge them for the privilege.
Given most tech companies were comfortable gouging other people, they were remarkably shy about it happening to themselves.
"And what do you intend to do about that?" Rebecca asked, another nudge at the man's ego. Her abilities tracked the micro-expressions of strain and indignation. He would now try to put her 'in her place'.
"Certainly not like you have;" Shaw scoffed. "If there is one thing predictable about you, Rebecca, it's you treat every problem like a nail, and you're the sledgehammer. If you haven't been able to deal with her by now, then she's likely legally covered every angle of attack you have. All you are going to do is make yourself into the villain to the public and wear out Durling and Ryan's patience. She's their golden goose, after all."
She remained silent, waiting as he pontificated.
"No, this is going to be a war in the public sphere. I have friends who I can speak to. I know Hebert is going to be subpoenaed by several committees on the matter of Boston, on top of the house energy committee on her nuclear reactor. I don't see any reason not to have my colleagues subpoena her on everything they can. They enjoy ripping into upstarts and troublemakers. Hebert won't be any different. Combine that with the right media pressures and reporting, it should break her down or allow us to catch her on something that is illegal or expose her for what she is.".
Rebecca hummed, quietly listening while Shaw spoke. Survival, continuity, these were things that mattered. Scion was the enemy that humanity would never recover from. It fell to her to make sure that recovery was possible.
Let the dead judge her, her duty was to the living, and the future.
Ethan Moore
Assault
Boston, MA
"Please tell me there are leftovers."
"Yes, and we have wine"
"I love you."
Ethan smiled as he closed the door of their apartment behind them. He heard her moving about the kitchen, then the hum of a microwave.
It had come as a shock when the pair of them received transfer orders to Boston. Afterall, everyone knew that the Boston Protectorate was functionally defunct. It had taken a personal call from Legend to explain why the couple were being asked to uproot their life. Explaining that they wanted his wife to run things.
"How did the meeting go with Chief Terrance?"
Erin had dropped her business jacket on a chair, and was nursing a glass of red as she watched the food spin as the appliance hummed.
"It went fine. Emergency dispatch is going to fold in PRT/Protectorate lines, so we'll all be on the same page."
He wasn't sure who was more stunned between the two of them when it was announced that his wife, Battery, would be in command of the BostonProtectorate.
That wasn't to say he didn't believe in her ability to do the job. His Puppy was a quiet hard-working professional who did her job when it was called for and didn't give up easily. She was also humble, never gloating or calling attention to herself for her exploits or performance. In every way, she was an exemplar of both capes and law enforcement.
But she had never shown an interest in a leadership position, let alone sought training for it. His Puppy was content with her position as one of the team.
That's what she had highlighted when she had met Legend in Boston. She hadn't outright told her boss that he was making a mistake, but she pointed out that there were plenty of heroes with better qualifications for her.
He knew it hurt her to say that, but she was never one to mince her words if she felt something was wrong.
That was when Legend revealed why he had chosen her. Yes, there were people with better qualifications than her, but she was more uniquely suited for the role because of her experience in law enforcement as a beat cop.
The Protectorate didn't have anyone to transfer into Boston. Not without compromising elsewhere. This was compounded by the mutterings in DC about the cost of reconstruction. In short, PRT Boston was going to have to build itself up from bedrock. Which means recruiting local talent, fresh triggers, reformed villains, out of town independents.
And it meant that the PRT would not have the support staff to be independent. They would be working closely with the Boston Police and emergency services, who were themselves struggling to rebuild.
So both the PRT Director and Protectorate leader needed to be approachable, likeable, relatable by capes and law enforcement. They needed to be principled, but flexible when needed. Which is why Battary was on the very short list for Protectorate Leader.
It was also why Erin Moore was on the short list for PRT director.
According to all PRT and Federal regulations, leadership positions inside the PRT could not be held by a Parahuman. It was designed to keep organizational clarity, the last thing you wanted was the boss to be absent because they were out in a mask punching bad guys in the face. It also removed ideas of favoritism, and because the PRT was meant to moderate Parahuman behavior. You don't put a prisoner in charge of the prison keys, as some news pundits had commented.
Which made the fact that Assault was running the Protectorate as Battery's number two so funny in a cosmic sense. Fate clearly had it out for him.
But Battery was now pulling double duty as PRT Director, which means that when she wasn't hitting the streets in costume, she was sitting behind a desk. Which meant that Assault was stepping up to cover.
Legend had argued with the Chief Director that limiting a Director position to non-Parahumans only isolated Protectorate members by having leadership that likely did not have any first-hand experience of what it was like to be a cape. Eventually the woman relented, allowing for a single pilot program.
"Oh, I've got a surprise for you," Ethan declared with a grin, pulling forks from a drawer and coming to stand beside Erin. This was very much going to be a 'standing at the counter' kind of dinner.
An inquisitive hum was all he got from her.
"Mr. Krantz has agreed to sign on."
"Oh thank god. That's great news, really. They already are something of a local figure, and have been doing great work with…"
"Puppy…I know. We've read the same briefings and we talked about this yesterday."
Krantz, or Mr.Krantz as people referred to him, was the singularly weakest combat cape that Ethan had ever met. But what he lacked in combat power, he made up for in goodwill and connections. He was well respected in Boston, and many people had a story to share about his actions. The older man had appeared after Leviathan's attack, a battered mail bag across his frame, a rumpled uniform from the US postal service, and a hat pulled low over his brow. The many who interacted with the man, remembered him being soft spoken, kind, considerate. They were not able to remember his face, the sound of his voice, the colour of his eyes, or any other identifying marks. Just the uniform, the presence, and the letter he brought them.
A rough estimate put his power rating at Shaker 1, Thinker 1, Mover 2, and Stranger 1.
The Stranger rating was for the selective memory that he inspired. The Shaker/Thinker rating was for his core ability; communicating to the dead. Or rather, listening to the dead, and transcribing a letter for them. Mover came into play at this point, as he demonstrated an ability similar to Vista, able to seemingly compress distances…or maybe teleport. The details didn't matter. What did matter is that reports were clear that the man could appear on the west coast, then return to the east coast in the span of an hour.
The whole 'speaking with the dead' thing bought up theological questions that Ethan was firmly staying away from. But the information inside the letters was always genuine, filled with private details and turns of phrase that only the deceased might have used.
The letters were not always happy. Some people spat when they heard the name Krantz. But more often than not, he carried the unspoken words of lost friends and family members to those waiting for word. His actions had secured a sense of community amongst the survivors, and had indirectly brought people back to the city to aid in its reconstruction.
His agreement to work with the PRT was a shot in the arm for an organization trying to earn back the trust of the public.
Erin groaned and leaned against him, her head falling to his shoulder. "Sorry. But I think this is the first good news that we've had in a while."
Since they had arrived, they hadn't had time to rest. They had to build up an entire branch from the ground up in the rubble of Boston.
Luckily, or perhaps unluckily depending on how you looked at it, Endbringer battlegrounds had a tendency to be a breeding ground for triggers and Boston had been no exception to this rule.
The deck was stacked completely against them. They had no headquarters, less than five percent of the personnel of one of the largest PRT departments remained, and only Oxide, Blockade, and Weld remained of the Boston Protectorate. The last two survivors of the Travelers who had surrendered before the Teeth Break had been flagged as Simurgh victims. Having been exposed at Madison, before the walls went up. Alexandria herself had dropped in to keep them from running, an unnecessary precaution in the end. They had quietly left the city under guard, and that was the last Ethan had heard of them.
"Really? Better than us finding that barbeque place that re-opened?"
"Oh damn. Okay, that's a good point."
The food dinged, and the pair mechanically started eating.
Things in Boston were improving, there was no denying that. Even with the dead, and the migration of people leaving the city, there were always going to be people to rebuild. Some stayed, or even came to Boston, out of idealism, or because they had nowhere else to go, or they thought it would be a chance to reinvent their life.
But that just meant that new problems developed. Accord was definitely still active, but staying strangely quiet. It was a not-so-subtle secret that the villain had an understanding with the Boston PRT. It was inevitable that the man would watch how the PRT rebuilt itself.
Blasto was still at large, setting up shop in the now condemned areas of the city. The man seemed to have moved away from making wet-tinker creatures, and focused more on cornering the drug market. His efforts creating medicine after Leviathan attacked had bought the man some goodwill, but that was a supply he was burning through quickly.
And that wasn't even touching on the seven or so confirmed new capes that had sprung up.
The police, fire, ambulance and medical services were slowly recovering, running accelerated training programs, and pairing rookies with veteran mentors. Along with out-of-town professionals who came offering their services. There was some concern that Interim-Governor Herres would push to keep the 10th Mountain Division active in law enforcement. But the man himself, as well as General Faraday had seemed pleased to pull back the army troops and let the proper authorities pick up the difference.
"So…the meeting with Herres and the ZDT rep. How are you feeling about it?"
Erin grunted through her mouthful of food.
"Hmm, that bad, huh?"
She delivered a deadpan look as she finished eating.
"It's not 'a ZDT rep', it's Taylor herself. And yes, I'm going to be there as the PRT Director for Boston. And I'm going to try and smooth things over so that we get Focus devices and get tied into the wireless network that she's putting up."
Ethan quietly wished her luck. Even with Panacea making a deal with Rennick, on behalf of Zero Dawn Technologies and the greater PRT respectively, relations were still frosty.
Now, Assault tried to keep out of politics. Especially office politics. Nothing ever good came from it, and despite everything he was still a former criminal. Keeping himself uninvolved was more to protect himself from getting caught in the splash zone than any dislike for it.
Nonetheless, he would have had to have lived under a rock to not be aware of the ongoing saga between the PRT and Taylor Hebert. He had front row seats to it from day one thanks to his wife being involved in the initial interview. Personally, he viewed the entire situation as distasteful. The late Director Piggot was a blunt instrument, predisposed to seeing Parahumans as threats to be contained. Any attempt at self-determination was viewed with suspicion. So he knew that Piggot wouldn't take even a gentle refusal lying down and would apply the screws to Taylor and her father, legal or semi-legal. One small credit he did have to give the women is that she didn't cross the line into illegality. But she would happily push legality to its limits.
Only that wasn't what happened. Every heavy-handed attempt by Piggot was deftly handled. He honestly had to hand it to Hebert, he'd never see Piggot so consistently and profoundly pissed off on a subject.
The rest was history. Taylor received funding from somewhere, built her machines and tech, sidestepping any attempt to stop her. Then Boston came and went, and the young inventor was vindicated. Her tech worked, her machines worked, and the PRT had been on the backfoot.
Which translated to the Boston emergency services receiving Focus devices and training in their use, and the PRT/Protectorate being told that "supply chain concerns resulted in unexpected delays for delivery."
Honestly, it was the most polite, corporate snub that Ethan had ever received. He was impressed.
"I should review my talking points. Highlight that the PRT not using the same resources as other emergency services will hamper public protections. Harris will probably agree with me and-"
"Okay, that's enough." Ethan plucked the fork from Erin's fingers, she had been waving it around emphatically. He handed the wine glass to her in its place. "No more work talk. Dinner is done, the wine bottle is still full, and we've got five minutes before that sappy period drama you like comes on."
"It's not sappy! It has emotional depth." Erin shot back, letting him lead her into the living room. "And I thought you hated my shows."
"Yes, but I love you. So I will manfully restrain myself tonight. No commenting on how ugly Mr. Wellerby looks with that mustache. Promise."
"...I think it makes him look dashing." His wife smiled, curling up against him as the TV came on.
A quiet night was just what the pair of them needed.
Interlude 5.y Various
Tammi Roth
Walking up the stairs to the suburban estate Tammi buried her feelings as best she could. The house was as immaculate as always, the flower garden was cared for, and several nice cars sat in the circular driveway. It had an air of what would be the perfect slice of Americana.And that was the point, she thought sourly to herself as she rang the doorbell and waited for the inevitable greetings. She didn't have to wait long before the door was quickly opened by Esther.
"Tammi, darling! It's wonderful to see you."
Esther Lambert had taken her husband's name, but was Tammi's cousin by her mother's side. Today, she was dressed as the stereotypical suburban housewife. Jewelry, fitted summer dress, and small heels. It almost felt like taking a time machine back to the fifties.
It was complicated dealing with Esther. She was friendly, charming, and warm in a way that Tammi's own mother had never been. Esther and her husband Garrett had been good to Tammi when she first came to Brockton Bay, seeking independence and fresh off a stint in juvie. They had sheltered her under their roof, helped her settle in at school, and introduced her to other, like-minded people.
To the general public, the Lamberts were a well-off American couple. The kind that had a business manager deal with their wealth, and who spent their days at various social gatherings.
Tammi knew them as Victor and Othala, high ranking members of the E88.
Esther especially believed in the superiority of the 'old times'. When America was strong, proud, and untainted by the 'parasites' which ruined the country. Esther was the best kind of white supremacist, one who cloaked her racism in patriotism.
Ushered inside, the hostess kept up a running commentary on the guests who had already arrived. The house was lovely, something that Tammi had always found daunting to come to terms with. It was sizable, in a very good part of town, and lovingly furnished with what she could expect to be expensive pieces. The wall art was tasteful, and probably meant something to someone. Tammi didn't really 'get' art.
Guests mingled, snacked and drank in little groups of conversation. It was more a party of quality instead of quantity. Esther waved at several as she led Tammi through the house.
"Mr. Barker, have you met Tammi before? Charming girl. So supportive! Please, do try the snacks, I worked hard on them."
"Mrs. Duchane! I saw the latest headlines, I couldn't believe it! We'll have to sit and talk soon. Oh, have you met Tammi? She's still in that 'rambanctious' phase. You know how young girls can be. We'll catch up later, I promise."
"Yes, Mr. Simon, I will certainly ask my husband about future plans. No, of course I can't comment. I'll leave it for him to decide. He'll be in touch."
The entire time Esther played host, Tammi could not help but feel eyes upon her. They traced down her hips, along the length of her collarbone. Thighs, chest, neck, the line of her jaw. She felt it. Even if her conscious mind recognized that they stood feet away from her, she felt their attention like a hot, cloying, sticky filth that she would need to scrub away.
She was a display piece to them. Silently gauging her, leaving her feeling naked, stripped of dignity, ambition, personality and hopes. Everything that made her who she was. She passed huddles of young men, their eyes hungry and with the swagger of youth and ambition. Grown men sat and glanced over at her before returning to their conversation, their eyes having noticed her hips, and not her clenched fists. Husbands stood beside wives and traced the curve of her backside as she moved past them.
Tami hated dressing up. Being desirable was dangerous. That was true no matter where she went. Back home there had been hard, bitter men with calloused hands and short tempers. Here there were men with soft hands, soft smiles and expensive suits. Both types had a bad relationship with the word 'no'.
Glancing at Esther brought no comfort. She was a spineless creature, utterly deferential to her husband. And Garret had made it clear that so long as Tammi lived under his roof, she would obey his rules. He was careful not to push too far, but her comfort and happiness were never part of the equation. Only her obedience, and invisible line that would push her to run again.
Just get through tonight, she thought to herself, as she followed Esther to the stairs that led up to the second floor. It was blocked by a large man with a shaved head and fighter's shoulders, who nonetheless nodded respectfully and stepped aside, allowing their passage.
The second floor was nearly silent, isolated from the buzz of conversation downstairs. Esther led her to the furthest door at the end of the hall and knocked firmly. After waiting for a moment, she opened the door and stepped inside, Tammi following on her heels.
"Husband, Tammi has returned," Esther declared.
Garrett Lambert didn't react as his wife entered his private study. Instead, he finished writing whatever it was that he was working on, and only then did he glance up with a frown.
"Ms. Roth. You are late."
Tammi bristled slightly at the accusatory tone, her irritation bleeding through in her response, "Traffic delays because of—"
"I don't care for your excuses. Do better," he cut her off dismissively.
She glanced at Esther, who gave no reaction to her husband's words. Tammi still felt a sting of disappointment at her inaction.
Clearing his desk, Garrett stood and walked over to them, "You may go, Esther."
With a lowering of her head in silent obeisance, which only made Tammi grind her teeth harder, the older woman stepped back and walked out of the room. The door closing behind her felt like a coffin closing upon Tammi.
"You are my attendant," the older man declared, "You will not speak unless spoken to. You will not comment unless asked. And you will not discuss this meeting with anyone. Is that understood?"
It was yet another reminder on why Tammi did everything she could to avoid Victor and Othala when they met in costume. They might serve the same cause, but Victor saw people as tools, easily utilized and discarded once no longer useful. His wife was utterly permissive of his behavior despite the implications upon herself. Burying the indignation, Tammi nodded.
"Good," Garrett asserted, staring her down and searching for any hint of insubordination. Nodding with satisfaction, he brushed past her, opening the door behind her.
"Come."
She follows Garrett in silence to another room.
"Gentlemen. Thank you for your patience," Garrett announced himself quietly, leading Tammi into a sitting room. Four men sat in the room, drinking and smoking. They acknowledged Garrett's arrival with indifference, more fascinated with their own indulgences. Yet there was a subtle tension that hung in the air despite the relaxed atmosphere. Inconspicuously Tammi ran her hand over a small side table by the door, imbuing it with her power as she walked past it. She took a position behind and to the side of Garrett as he settled into his own luxurious leather chair, her eyes running over the men and cataloguing everything about them.
"No problem, Mr. Lambert, sir. Not like we have better things to do. Nothing to do whatsoever," the rough, thick, derisive drawl from one of the men left no uncertainty at the man's feelings on the matter. He was a stocky individual who upon cursory glance would likely be dismissed as fat, but Tammi knew better. The man hadn't cut his teeth within Hookwolf's little band of enforcers by being soft. The close cut hair, piercing blue eyes, and knuckles marked with Iron Crosses only added to the image of the man who was known as "The Boar". Alister DeBoer was a man as vicious as he was unrepentant, having mercilessly filled the vacuum left with Hookwolf's death. It was made only more notable by the fact that DeBoer was no cape.
The man's piggish eyes undressed her as he took a deep pull from his cigarette, slowly letting it out as his visage contorted with a smile that could only be described as gluttonous as he licked his lips, "Though, I do appreciate the entertainment you seem to have brought. C'mere girl, lemme show you a time you'll never forget."
Tammi's already tenuous control snapped, animalistic instincts screaming to the forefront as her power flared and took control of the table behind her in an instant. Normally, it was a process that took time, like water seeping into soil. However, driven by her rage, disgust, and provocation, she pushed it like an angry jet through a hose. It felt like someone had driven a red hot spike into her eyes, but she felt her power crystalize and respond instantly. With a thought, she levitated the table and launched it across the room at Alister. It came to a stop millimeters from the bastard's face, hovering there in unspoken threat.
However, instead of being cowed by the blatant display of power and promised violence, the bastard simply sat up a little straighter, the ugly smile on his face only growing wider.
"Boar, this is a professional meeting, not one of your brothels. You will refrain from spewing your filth or I will allow Ms. Roth to correct your behavior," Garrett ordered icily, though there was a sense of boredom rather than anger in his tone, "Tammi, return my furniture where you found it."
A chill ran down her spine at the recognition at how easily Garrett had dropped her name to these men. The bastard had just casually outed her like it was a trivial tidbit. Another tether tying her to the Empire, another braid added to the noose around her neck.
You and I both know that they are going to keep asking more of you. They will push you over the line, and make sure to hold it against you so that you can never get away.
She shoved that traitorous voice into the back of her head and did as she was told.
"As you can see, Ms. Roth is one of the 'special assets' to the cause, Mr. DeBoer," Garrett's eyes flicked toward Boar like a pair of primed daggers threatening violence, "Do not cross her again."
Alister pulled from his cigarette again, as if he had not just been threatened by a cape and his nominal superior. Instead, he leered in Tammi's direction, "No bite. All bark. How disappointing," he sneered as Tammi returned back to her position. It was a sobering reminder that this man had been one of Hookwolf's lieutenants.
The other three men who had silently watched the interaction settled themselves as the room reordered itself. They hadn't introduced themselves and Tammi didn't know them. It was yet another reminder that she really didn't belong here and only added to the drowning sensation that was growing stronger.
"Now that we are all here; we can begin," Garrett started, panning his gaze over the other men, "Kaiser is out of the city. This is not news we want spread. He has asked that I coordinate things in his absence. Especially after the trash was cleaned up so magnificently," the man paused, as though expecting protest.
The four men held their silence. For now.
"Detective Byers," The leftmost man acknowledged Garrett. He was a man in his forties, dressed in a casual pair of slacks and button up long-sleeve shirt. Brown hair cut short and discerning brown eyes that seemed to pierce everything, "I hope our friends in the BBPD are able to set aside anything that can help our cause."
The badge clipped to the man's belt drew Tammi's gaze like a beacon. Perhaps that was the point in the first place.
"It's going to be difficult, Mr. Lambert," Byers responded, swirling his snifter of amber liquid in quiet contemplation, "Normally, I would say it was no problem losing what you need. However, this is different. PRT is involving itself in everything and my boys are being hounded. For now, I'm ordering my boys to keep their heads down. It's likely to change once things settle, but for now?"
The man shrugged apologetically, earning a snort from the man in the corner.
"Even when they're gone, the Merchants continue to be an unremovable stain," the unknown man spoke, his rolling German accent telling Tammi exactly who he was. Krieg was…he didn't fit with the rest of the gang. He was an outsider and he made sure to keep it that way, "I hope you're taking steps to remedy the situation, Garrett."
Victor wasn't afforded the opportunity to respond, because DeBoer cut in, "What I want to know is why we aren't moving in on all that free turf with the trash now disposed of. There's street corners that need feeling and we've been made to sit our on our hands like fucking pansies. Oy, bean counter, tell 'um!"
"There's no denying that the money has stopped moving to a certain degree, but that's hardly cause for alarm," the 'bean counter' answered. He was a rather nondescript man with thinning grey hair, glasses perched upon his nose. He would have easily blended into the crowd.
Garrett tapped his finger on the arm of his chair, "Mr. Duchane, it's your job to keep the money moving. You keep it safe, keep it clean, and you keep it moving. If you can't do that, we will find someone who can."
Tammi swallowed nervously, her eyes darting between the individuals. Garrett didn't have the same charisma that Kaiser did. And it was readily apparent that the men in the room were learning this fact…and not appreciating it.
"As you were, DeBoer. The Empire is not moving on the Docks area because it's not worth the trouble. The Merchants learned this fatal folly and we will avoid sharing their fate. Hopefully the lizard will make the same mistake the Merchants did."
"I don't like relying upon 'hopes', Lambert," Alister snarled, "I want to do something now! Like with that dogfucking rugmuncher, Bitch, Hellhound, whatever the fuck she wants to call herself. That knotslut hit another one of our rings three days ago and my boys are getting fucking tired of being her goddamn chewtoy. You say money is down? Then we need to do something about what is costing us money!"
It was Byers who spoke up, "Since we're working with the PRT fairly closely, it wouldn't take much effort to get them to deal with her more seriously. They've got blood in their mouth after all of their recent faceplants and need some good press."
"Fuck that! Since when do we let the fucking Tin Pigs do our work for us?! This is the Bay! These are our streets!"
"Since she turns dogs into armored hell beasts you jacked-up pig fucker," Byers snapped back, alcohol sloshing in his glass. DeBoer gave him the finger. There was evidently no love lost between the crooked cop and the thug. Tammi was beginning to see why Garrett had called her in as muscle.
Probably because he didn't want to expose himself as a cape. She suspected it was a flimsy excuse, considering Krieg's presence here. Nonetheless, it was much easier to use her as a distraction by exposing her, and it benefitted him in the long run because now they knew who she was.
And left her with very few avenues of escape if she chose to…waver.
"Gentlemen," the sharp admonition stilled the furor, and parties returned back to their prospective sides, rendering a calm that remained teetering on the edge of a razor.
"Gentlemen," Garrett repeated, casting his gaze over the room, "rest assured, we have considered what to do about this. Once Night and Fog arrive, an ambush will be prepared. Now that it seems that the Undersiders have dissolved, Bitch is on her own and will be easy to take care of."
"Night and Fog will not be coming," the man who was Krieg spoke up, "They have been recalled back to Berlin. It is felt that they would be used in other endeavors."
Everyone turned to look at him as he spoke, a myriad of expressions on their faces.
"When was this decided," Garrett demanded, for the first time showing a crack in his facade.
"This morning," the man waved his hand dismissively, the lit cigarette in his hand leaving lazy smoke trails in the air, "I was just informed on my way here. They are planning to send someone else, but they have not seen fit to inform me who. However, they have said that he should be sufficient for our local problems. All of them."
"Great…Perfect! We're down another Cape? Fan-fucking-tastic. By the way…who the fuck is this guy," Deboer jerked his thumb at the blond man.
"I am responsible for the Empire's external allies, Mr. Deboer. And if you talk to me again with that tone or crude language, I will cut off your tongue, grill it in front of you, and make you eat it," Krieg delivered this threat calmly, his accented English conversational. Like a man who was commenting on the weather.
The Boar grinned in response, fixing his eyes on Tammi again. She preferred it when everyone ignored her.
"See that girlie?!? Now that's how you threaten someone. Make it mean something!"
"Returning to the matter at hand," Garrett cut off Tammi's developing retort, looking to Krieg, "do we at least have a timeline on when this asset arrives?"
"Could be a couple days? Could be a couple weeks. My masters were not specific, they were more concerned about Kaiser's fixation with the Judenschwein."
For the first time ever, Tammi watched Garrett's features darken in fury.
"Kaiser and I were quite thorough in our research. There is no evidence supporting such claims."
"The father descending from Frankish stock is offensive enough. It is the matrilineal line that is suspect," Krieg leaned forward, "old money like that always has skeletons. It is bad enough that Kaiser is cavorting with untermensch, it is quite another to offer his progeny to Nichtarier."
"Enough," Victor snarled, "if your masters have an issue with Kaiser, then they should take it up with him! My role is to fulfill his directives, not explain him in absentia."
The tension was suffocating, as everyone in the room was looking between the two now. Alister wearing an ever-widening smile; Byers looking like he hadn't a care, and Duchane on the verge of panic.
Krieg just smiled, dipping his head, "Of course. My mistake."
"This is neither the time nor place to discuss such things. Moving along." Garret firmly moved past the disturbance. But even Tammi could tell that the damage had been done. Whoever Krieg's masters were, they seemed to have a lot of pull if it was enough to get under Garrett's skin.
Tammi had never been involved with leadership. She followed orders. This was far beyond what she wanted to deal with. Hopefully, being quiet and compliant would make them overlook her attendance. She was under no assumptions on her chances of survival if they took offence to her attendance.
"I'm afraid that we must stay on this topic, Mr.Lambert," Krieg, who had still not revealed his name, leaned forward, cigarette ash trailing disrespectfully down onto the carpeted floor. "There have been concerns raised about the current direction the Empire has taken. There are some who are worried that Kaiser has been too soft. When he called for war against the Merchants, he did nothing else. An opportunity to further assert that the Empire is operating in the best interests of this city, and we ended up doing nothing except show up to watch as the city dealt with them."
"We have discussed that already, and there is.."
"Oh yes there is a reason to talk about it! Our capes were wasted on pointless posturing!"
She had wondered that as well. It had seemed rather unlike Kaiser. When the orders had come down to assemble just outside of Merchants territory, she expected it was the prelude to an assault on their territory and finally putting an end to them. Instead, they had stood around, doing nothing except attracting the attention of the Protectorate, before dispersing. It was what had allowed her to meet up with Dennis this evening.
"The Merchants were a blight," Victor returned, "It didn't matter who dealt with them, only that they were dealt with. If law enforcement had failed, we would have been in a position to finish the job. That was the entire reason for the mobilization, James. Besides, Kaiser did do something, unlike your claims. He authorized the elimination of Skidmark. It was not worth making such a dramatic scene when a more deft touch was appropriate."
"So the urban legends about the Jager were true," Jonathan chimed in, before shaking his head, "I saw the report on their work. Pretty clean if you ask me. Still, why use them now? Would have been a nice trump card later on. I don't think Skidmark warranted such a usage."
"The issue is the changing landscape of Brockton Bay itself. Previously, we would not have to worry about federal attention. They had written the city off, but now, with Zero Dawn Technologies, that has changed. Previously, everyone would have shrugged and gone on their day if the Merchants attacked a company in the Bay. And now they are gone in two days."
"Is that Kaiser's official stance?"
"For now, James. We are still going to operate as normal, but there will be no more large-scale activities until we know exactly how people are going to react. The last thing I think any of us want is for the government to get trigger happy and decide that Boston was just a dress rehearsal."
"So we're just going to hide with our tails between our legs because we're afraid that the government will bring a hammer down on us, is that what you're saying," Alister snarled, "None of us signed up to spread our cheeks to fucking race traitors."
"That isn't the intention," Garrett quickly rebutted, casting a quick look at James, "However, we have to bear in mind that the situation is no longer the same and we have to adapt to the changing tides if we are to survive. Kaiser perceived this well over a month ago and has been working to develop a new plan."
Krieg hummed consideringly, "Tell me, Mr. Duchane. Medhall has previously been a friend to the cause, and yet now Max Anders is shaking hands with subhuman filth. What do you make of this?"
Tammi had learnt quick how to judge a fellow member of the Empire. You had the true believers. You had the opportunists who were angry and just needed an outlet. You had those desperate for meaning.
The look of disgust that passed across Duchane's face told her exactly what kind of believer he was. The mousy man spoke firmly for the first time so far.
"Mr. Anders is a great man. A firm patriot, and a beacon to good Christians everywhere. But this? This man, Calvert, might be a fine puppet. But it would be better for the cause if the world could see a proper white man leading this city back to greatness."
Garrett was losing control of the meeting, and he knew it. DeBoer was nodding slowly, looking between Krieg and Garrett with a contemplative look on his face.
"We can discuss further once things develop. For the moment, Calvert has plenty of opposition. Stansfield, for example."
Tammi saw the tension on Garrett's shoulders as he pulled the meeting back under control. "Mr. DeBoer, your concerns are warranted. Your operation has merit, and we must protect it. Rune will provide protection for the dogfighting events," he said, "I'll also assign some of my men to assist. I want the Bitch problem handled permanently before Kaiser returns, Alister. Consider it your top priority."
This drew a smile from the tattooed man, "Finally! Consider the dogfucker euthanized."
Garrett looked to Byers "See if you can have your boys locate her. Don't engage her, just let us know where she's hiding. We'll take care of her."
"What about the rules," she blurted out, before wincing at her own traitorous mouth as every head in the room turned to her. Even if she had inadvertently voiced it, it still remained completely valid. While the death of a cape in the field was something that happened, it was not necessarily sought after. It was one of those unspoken rules in the cape trade, accidents may happen, but you deliberately did not go out of your way to kill a cape. Doing so made you open season by the rest of the cape community.
And they were actively talking about killing Bitch, not metaphorically, but actively seeking her out and killing her. If this was not a clear cut violation of those roles that kept the cape community from descending into straight internecine warfare, then she didn't know what was.
Alister snorted, "What about 'em? No one's gonna care if the bitch is put down."
"My colleague is correct," Krieg jumped in, "previously killing Bitch could have complicated things. However, she's now alone and no one's going to care if she gets herself killed. In fact, I believe a lot of people would be relieved that she is no longer among the living. Besides, we still have a few friends inside the PRT. The girl has a warrant for murder. Putting her down is just…self-defense"
"I know quite a lot of the boys would celebrate getting rid of her. The bitch has been nothing but a fucking nuisance," Byers spoke, "my boys have the hospital visits to back it up."
"This is an opportunity, Ms.Roth. A chance to prove your devotion to the cause and earn rewards for that devotion."
The warning was clear. Lacking the requisite devotion was deadly. They wouldn't kill her here. But even if she left the city tonight, she would be lucky to see the sunrise.
"You've been telling me you've been wanting more responsibility Tammi. This is your chance to prove you are ready," Garrett added, "the only way Kaiser will trust you is if you become properly blooded and do something to further the Empire."
"I-," Dennis' prophetic words rang through her head.
You and I both know that they are going to keep asking more of you. They will push you over the line, and make sure to hold it against you so that you can never get away.
If she did this. If she killed Bitch. She would be Empire forever more, because she would have no other place to go. Capes that intentionally sought to kill capes were universally treated as a pariah, no other cape outside of the Empire would want to deal with her outside of trying to kill her in turn.
And looking at everyone staring at her expectantly, she knew she only had one answer she could give and survive the night. She knew too much.
The Boar watched her with a glimmer in his eyes, and an evil smile on his lips. She could read the message in his eyes. Time to get your hands dirty girl.
She closed her eyes, seeing Dennis' smile, the laughs and experiences they had. The kiss she gave him.
Dennis…you were right.
"I understand, sir."
EDH
Rebecca Costa-Brown
Rebecca understood the numbers. For years, she had worked inside them. Planned around them. Everything she had built was constructed with the singular goal of ending Scion. To that end, by direct action and by inaction, tens of thousands had suffered or died.
She understood that. Accepted it, even.
It did not absolve her from trying to save what could survive.
The public saw Alexandria as the pinnacle of strength and endurance. She was content to afford them that belief. She believed differently, though. It wasn't her strength or invulnerability that served as her greatest asset, but her mind.
Alexandria's Thinker abilities were known, but were always downplayed. It was there, for anyone who knew to look. Her own private message to the world. The white tower that she took as her symbol.
The Library of Alexandria. The tower of knowledge.
Her mind was her greatest tool, and it was how she knew that she was in trouble.
For years, in the West, the Parahuman emergence had been framed a certain way. Lines, both real and imaginary, had been drawn and a rhythm was developed. The PRT served as the official and unofficial arbiter of 'right' and 'wrong' and all parahuman affairs that revolved around it.
That wasn't to say that things had been seamless. An organization with thousands of people and millions of opinions always had a few rough edges.
The Paige McAbee situation was one such example. The overzealous pursuit to make an example of the girl had been something that she had quietly supported. Masters were probably the most dangerous cape to the continuance of the system, and Paige McAbee had provided a fertile ground to place other Masters into check.
Only it hadn't ended as it should have, with McAbee shuffled off to the Birdcage with no resistance and Masters made aware that there was only one option available if they didn't want to end up like her. Instead, sole oversight over the Birdcage by the PRT had been removed. All Birdcage cases would now have to go through a judicial panel in order for the sentence to be confirmed.
It was an inconvenience. Getting angry over it would change nothing. She would move forward because the dead had no use for indignation, and everyone would die if she did nothing.
Opening the door, she was mindful of her strength. David once commented that she now lived in a world of cheap cardboard. It had been the first time that he had not sounded envious of her abilities.
The restaurant was empty, aside from one patron. A special favor from the owner, to come in before the evening opening and have some quiet time. Rebecca walked over, her practical heels a drumbeat against the rich wooden floor.
Tammerlane Shaw was, despite being in his late 40s, a man still retaining his physique from his days in the military. Piercing blue eyes, square-jawed, brown hair cut military short with greying temples, a well-groomed beard, and broader shoulders than one might expect from a politician. He was charismatic, passionate as needed, and viciously intelligent.
He was also probably Rebecca's greatest mistake as Chief-Director of the PRT.
Looking up, he placed his tablet down, "Becky, it's good to see you," he greeted as he got to his feet walking around the table and held out his hand to her. While she'd rather stick her hand in Crawler's gut, she quickly clasped it, returning the greeting, "It has been some time, Tammerlane."
Polite, cold, and driven. These were words to describe Chief Director Costa-Brown in polite settings. She was well aware what they called her in less polite settings.
Shaw used to be one of her subordinates in the PRT. Begrudgingly, she could admit that he had been her most effective PRT director in the organization's history. The perfect blend of ruthlessness and pragmatism that had characterized his time in the military had translated far too well to the PRT.
And therein lay the problem. Shaw's effectiveness had provided him a platform to espouse his personal doctrine on the matters of the PRT. There existed a small but vocal minority who argued that the current role and structure was insufficient to fulfill its organizational mandate. They argued that there should not be a separate PRT and Protectorate, but one singular organization. Furthermore, it should be less a law enforcement entity and more an offensive paramilitary unit.
A specialized tactical command, instead of the community police initiative that it was currently.
They argued that by modelling itself in this manner, it would create an organization far more efficient by being offensively-oriented. This was in contrast to the current branch system that was more oriented to a static presence that was less flexible and favoured by the moderates, of which she was part of.
She didn't begrudge that there were doctrinal differences that existed within the PRT. They were a natural part of any organization. And in any other circumstance, she would likely agree with the militarists. However, they were not privy to the reason why the PRT and Protectorate must operate in this way.
They needed the inefficiency and chaos in order to produce enough chaff that hopefully they would find the silver bullet to kill Scion.
Their idea would also not work. They would secure short-term success in crushing organized villain activity and certainly put many criminals behind bars. But they would also torpedo any recruitment of the younger generation. The highly militarized system would naturally kill the Wards program, as the prospect of child soldiers would definitely hobble any attempt at mass recruitment. But perhaps worse, it would destroy the moral high ground that the PRT enjoyed, as the Heroes who could not accept being militarized would quit in protest.
So she had tolerated Shaw and his little cabal. By having a diverse set of Directors with enough latitude to operate their districts like a personal fiefdom, she could obfuscate the fact that the PRT System was working as intended. That the divide between hero and villain was determined not by actions, but by public narrative. Narrative that the PRT control through their position as the source of Parahuman information.
Besides, by allowing Shaw and other voices to make themselves heard, it painted her as a proponent of free speech and debate.
However, Shaw made a mistake, or at least she thought he did at the time. He made the doctrinal differences public on Capitol Hill, but he used Hero's death as an example of why the moderates stance was wrong. He had blatantly suggested that if the PRT were more militarily-oriented, then Hero would likely not have died.
Grief was not rational. It was an imprecise emotion that did not respect system disruption, response time delays, or force projection failures due to loss of personnel. It was a cudgel that was crude and inefficient that created more of a mess than it was worth.
However, Clark had been her friend. And, once upon a time, he might have become more.
And Shaw had used his death to support his agenda.
Rebecca could not attack the Slaughterhouse Nine. She could not avenge her friend because the continuity of the species came before personal feelings.
But she could remove Shaw. Immediate dismissal from his position as Director of Seattle, citing a 'loss of confidence in Shaw's ability to command'. Everyone knew it was a thinly concocted narrative, the Triumvirate had loudly denounced the Director, and the Chief Director was forced to remove him in order to pacify the strongest heroes in the United States.
And for a short time, Rebecca had considered the matter closed. She grieved privately and kept working. The militarists had been crippled with their poster boy removed, and she no longer had to worry about Shaw attempting to replace her as Chief Director. With Shaw gone, she could focus on maintaining the status quo and cultivating more capes, while slowly undermining the militarists.
Two months later, Shaw reared his head again. This time as a senatorial candidate for the state of Washington. And her belief that his dismissal would prevent anyone from taking Shaw seriously had backfired. Shaw had always been popular with the state, utilizing his charisma, good looks, and effectiveness with not only the masses, but the special interest groups of the state. Many had believed that he had wrongly been dismissed for offering his personal opinion.
Running on a platform that Shaw described as 'classical' liberalism, he had been able to reach across the political aisle and cultivate a rapport that catapulted him to an easy win in the 2002 elections. Since then, he had become a proverbial thorn in her side as he amassed power, now serving as the Chairman of the Senatorial Parahuman Oversight Committee. There was nothing she could do without him not only being aware, but having to give his blessing for the most part.
But it ran far deeper than that. Despite being a 'sophomore' Senator, Shaw had been able to accrue both the political capital and connections in DC that had forged him into one of the frontrunners for the Democratic ticket for the 2012 Presidential Election. If the polling continued as it was, Shaw was looking to be the Democratic candidate, in spite of him being more centrist in comparison to his other opponents by running on a platform of fiscal responsibility, economic rejuvenation, and, more critically, law enforcement reforms.
With the PRT being one of those in his sights for his reforms.
In hindsight, she had created this monster, making Shaw far more dangerous than he could have ever been as a simple Director. And it was why she now believed that Shaw had manipulated the situation.
He was intelligent to know that his remarks were inflammatory. He was savvy enough to know that the four greatest heroes of the nation were close friends. And he knew that the Chief Director would have to placate the heroes who had just lost a dear friend.
The only thing he didn't know was that Costa-Brown and Alexandria were the same person.
Grief made things imprecise. She had learnt that. It was fine. She had no more grief to give.
"Please," Shaw motioned with his hand to a chair that was already pulled away from the table across from where he was seating, "Take a seat. I see that my little hideaway didn't last long. Managing my office and my presidential campaign has resulted in the unfortunate necessity of multitasking."
"It's fine," she returned, taking the seat even as Shaw returned to his place. Clearing away his tablet, he placed his hands on the table, clasping them in front of him.
Both settled in now, she waited for Shaw to speak again. The man liked hierarchy, and saw himself as her superior given his position on the oversight committee. Indulging him cost her nothing.
"So what can I help you with, Chief Director? I could have sworn we weren't on speaking terms outside of our professional roles."
There was not a hint of mockery in his tone. It had been spoken with the clinical matter-of-fact tone that made her internally bristle. She would have preferred the mockery or irritation, but the way he referred to his dismissal was like it was hardly an inconvenience.
"I wanted to make sure that we are aligned in how to address the new fringe Parahuman group that is forming. The National Organization for paRahuman Advancement, as well as how to address the architect behind its creation."
Shaw raised his brow in interest, but Rebecca's powers made his disdain clear.
"Rebecca, I'm going to be increasingly concerned with your abilities if the actions of the not-even sixteen year old blind girl is causing you such worries."
She silently plucked a flashdrive from her pocket, and placed it gently on the table. Her silence spoke more than any rebuttal. Now Shaw was on the backfoot.
"There are two reports on this. One compiled by mundane resources from the DC office. The other is the Panopticon Report from WEDGDG."
The man's gaze sharpened, jumping between her face and the tapping of her finger.
"The mundane report is interesting, because it highlights the many inconsistencies that Ms.Hebert exhibits. Six months ago, she was a socially isolated girl of middling grades in an underfunded high school. By all accounts, she had no strong relationships and was ruthlessly bullied by her former best friend. Now, she is rapidly surrounding herself with political, economic and military power. She has dozens of patents already, and hundreds that are still being processed. She is building a business empire that will likely join the Fortune 500 within two years. Dozens of products are being re-released to market with improvements that she owns royalties on. She is set to be a billionaire before she can legally drink."
Rebecca leaned back, making it clear that she understood exactly what kind of threat the young women presented. The Chief-Director continued.
"On paper, she should be socially isolated, and desperate for connection. Instead, she is speaking like she's a forty year old CEO with a Doctorate in dozens of fields. She carries herself like she's actually comfortable in the position she's in. A number of analysts actually flagged her as a Master victim. But after careful review, that theory was put aside. The current theory is that she's self-Mastering, which goes contrary to her stated power expression."
"And the reason we need to be concerned is in the Panopticon Report."
The Panopticon Report was a report that could only be ordered by the Chief Director. It empowered Watchdog to temporarily recruit Protectorate Thinkers to research a given subject. Given the disruptive nature of such actions, it was largely limited to S-class events or time-sensitive incidents. While a Panopticon on a single individual was irregular, Rebecca had used the example of Eagleton and the fact that Ms.Hebert was messing with nuclear energy to support the authorization.
"Taylor Hebert is a crusader. She has a fully realized vision for how she believes the world should be, and she will do anything she can to make it a reality. And she has the knowledge to make it happen. Every report we have confirms it. She is not a Tinker, she is a Thinker. One with an advanced understanding of science that surpasses ours by decades, maybe even centuries. What we are seeing right now from Hebert is referred to as kludgetech. She's literally cobbling together existing technology with what little she can produce right now artisanally. Her only bottleneck is she's limited by the technology of today. However, that bottleneck is rapidly eroding. In terms of actual physical threat, she's an underweight teenager. But her threat in terms of influence is currently mid-to-high B-Class, but in three years, she's predicted to reach S-Class, if not sooner."
Shaw's meal had gone cold as he listened intently. Pushing the plate aside, he clasped his hands together. Rebecca could see the calculations being run. The consideration that he was giving to the problem.
"What's your worst-case scenario, " he asked quietly, his eyes hardening like ice.
"NORA will expand, offering a bridge between business interests and parahuman talent. NEPEA will be revisited as competing economic interests try to sway the community with positive PR gestures. Meanwhile, the courts will be flooded with amnesty cases as NORA attracts villains looking to reform. The PRT will lose representation as detainees seek legal counsel through NORA. That's not even touching the slow down in recruiting numbers for the Wards and Protectorate as the PRT now has to compete with the private sector for talent. Which will directly impact our Endbringer defences."
She took a theatrical breath.
"Hebert herself is a different problem. The PRT has made it a priority to keep parahumans outside of positions of influence or governance, in order to keep the national discussion from turning into a 'us vs them' debate. But Hebert's scientific understanding makes her invaluable, and she's intelligent enough to utilize that fact to her advantage. Used correctly, she can offer a valuable shot in the arm to the United States economy. It would make the nation the distributor for products and services to every other developed nation on the planet. But, it would also give her enormous influence. How long before Senators and Governors start pandering to her? If she offers to build a factory, bring thousands of jobs into struggling local economies… how many are going to bend to her demands for law changes. Or Constitutional changes?"
The argument was structured to provoke exactly the right kind of response. Despite everything that could be said about Tammerlane Shaw, he was still a patriot, and a firm believer in the power of the government over the governed. It played into his desire for control and prestige.
It made him an easy man to lead to certain conclusions. In this case? That Taylor Hebert would become more influential than himself, even if he became the next President.
Rebecca watched as the small muscles in his hands tightened steadily.
"Jesus fucking christ, Rebecca…," he breathed, reaching up to massage the bridged of his nose, before relasing it, "Hebert is a monster of your own making. Piggot should never have been made Director of a shitshow like Brockton Bay. She was an excellent soldier, but a piss poor leader. She could never put her ego and biases against capes aside and it showed in the command reviews over the years. Hebert was an inevitable outcome."
He was right, but he didn't need to know that. In any other circumstance, she would have never selected Emily Piggot as a Director. If anything, like Shaw said, she was a fine soldier, and would have made an excellent instructor, and eventually commandant, at the PRT training academy. Unfortunately, Piggot fit all of the character and skill markers necessary for the Project Terminus scenario.
She was never meant to succeed, she was meant to hold the line. To see how the line broke, how rule of law would fail in a situation where Parahumans overcame civil control. A controllable microexperiment on what the collapse of organized nation-states would look like. Credit to Emily Piggot, she would never have yielded. She would have held on to the rule of law with her bleeding fingernails if she had to.
It was…ironic that she was brought down not by violent action or malicious subversion, but by a blind girl's good intentions and desire for cooperation.
Shaw breathed out, slow and controlled.
"So…just to make sure we're on the same page, Rebecca. We have a sixteen year old who, quite literally, not only has the power to destabilize, then rebuild, the American economy, but also accrue enough soft and hard political power with her creations to make the robber barons look like misbehaving toddlers, and she's opening a social program that could destabilize three decades of Federal Parahuman policy."
"Correct, and this is why we need to ensure that we're both on the same page. I don't like you Tam. And you don't like me. That's fine. But this is not a problem that can be solved by-"
"Relax, Rebecca, you've sold me," he cut her off as he rubbed his jaw, "Jesus Christ, what a mess!"
Rebecca didn't bother to smile at her success. Now that Shaw was aware of the threat, he would take action. He was not a man of idle observation and contemplation. It remained to be seen how effective he would be. For being a sophomore Senator, he had an unusual amount of power within the Senate and his own party. Most politicians like him wouldn't be running for President with his party's blessing either.
Shaw downed the rest of his drink, idly running his finger along the rim of the glass. "What is the position of the PRT on Hebert?"
"Publically, the PRT is supportive of Hebert's efforts in post-Endbringer cleanup and welcomes her contributions on the part of the cape community. We feel that the technology she is bringing to the table is untested, and until she hands over the design schematic and lets PRT scientists understand her devices from basic principles, we are not comfortable with the Focus device, or anything derived from it, being used by the general public. We also are leaning on our legacy media contacts to bring more focus onto PRT friendly news stories, a major PR push to showcase the successes of the current generation and the upcoming stars of the next."
"Internally, we are pressuring independents across the country to sign on with the PRT, and revising work contracts to keep talent from jumping ship to NORA. Granted, NORA is currently not allowed to operate outside of Brockton Bay, but that doesn't stop capes moving into the area to work."
"Interestingly, that lines up with something I've been hearing on the Hill. She has been ruffling quite a lot of feathersl. Important constituents have been voicing their uneasiness in regards to Hebert."
It didn't take much to read between the lines of who those 'constituents' were. Between the telecom companies and major tech firms, Hebert was drawing a lot of ire with her shock and awe tactics. The telecom companies were especially irate because Hebert had used a vulnerability in their networks that they had not even been aware of. It was thanks to that exploit she had been able to connect her Focus Network in Boston and allow it to connect countrywide. Her refusal to defer to them after the matter had only escalated the situation.
The tech companies were concerned that Hebert was going to establish herself as a tech monopoly. The Focus and her machines were bad enough, everyone with a basic understanding of computer programming was aware of how much of a leap those were. No, it was a computer Hebert had provided to Greg Veder. Software and hardware that eclipsed anything currently on the market, while also being something that people on the street could understand. With a single gift to a 'friend', Taylor had made the current generation of computers obsolete. And the only way to catch up was to throw everything into development, steal the plans, or buy from Hebert and hope she didn't gouge them for the privilege.
Given most tech companies were comfortable gouging other people, they were remarkably shy about it happening to themselves.
"And what do you intend to do about that?" Rebecca asked, another nudge at the man's ego. Her abilities tracked the micro-expressions of strain and indignation. He would now try to put her 'in her place'.
"Certainly not like you have;" Shaw scoffed. "If there is one thing predictable about you, Rebecca, it's you treat every problem like a nail, and you're the sledgehammer. If you haven't been able to deal with her by now, then she's likely legally covered every angle of attack you have. All you are going to do is make yourself into the villain to the public and wear out Durling and Ryan's patience. She's their golden goose, after all."
She remained silent, waiting as he pontificated.
"No, this is going to be a war in the public sphere. I have friends who I can speak to. I know Hebert is going to be subpoenaed by several committees on the matter of Boston, on top of the house energy committee on her nuclear reactor. I don't see any reason not to have my colleagues subpoena her on everything they can. They enjoy ripping into upstarts and troublemakers. Hebert won't be any different. Combine that with the right media pressures and reporting, it should break her down or allow us to catch her on something that is illegal or expose her for what she is.".
Rebecca hummed, quietly listening while Shaw spoke. Survival, continuity, these were things that mattered. Scion was the enemy that humanity would never recover from. It fell to her to make sure that recovery was possible.
Let the dead judge her, her duty was to the living, and the future.
AEH
Ethan Moore
Assault
Boston, MA
"Please tell me there are leftovers."
"Yes, and we have wine"
"I love you."
Ethan smiled as he closed the door of their apartment behind them. He heard her moving about the kitchen, then the hum of a microwave.
It had come as a shock when the pair of them received transfer orders to Boston. Afterall, everyone knew that the Boston Protectorate was functionally defunct. It had taken a personal call from Legend to explain why the couple were being asked to uproot their life. Explaining that they wanted his wife to run things.
"How did the meeting go with Chief Terrance?"
Erin had dropped her business jacket on a chair, and was nursing a glass of red as she watched the food spin as the appliance hummed.
"It went fine. Emergency dispatch is going to fold in PRT/Protectorate lines, so we'll all be on the same page."
He wasn't sure who was more stunned between the two of them when it was announced that his wife, Battery, would be in command of the BostonProtectorate.
That wasn't to say he didn't believe in her ability to do the job. His Puppy was a quiet hard-working professional who did her job when it was called for and didn't give up easily. She was also humble, never gloating or calling attention to herself for her exploits or performance. In every way, she was an exemplar of both capes and law enforcement.
But she had never shown an interest in a leadership position, let alone sought training for it. His Puppy was content with her position as one of the team.
That's what she had highlighted when she had met Legend in Boston. She hadn't outright told her boss that he was making a mistake, but she pointed out that there were plenty of heroes with better qualifications for her.
He knew it hurt her to say that, but she was never one to mince her words if she felt something was wrong.
That was when Legend revealed why he had chosen her. Yes, there were people with better qualifications than her, but she was more uniquely suited for the role because of her experience in law enforcement as a beat cop.
The Protectorate didn't have anyone to transfer into Boston. Not without compromising elsewhere. This was compounded by the mutterings in DC about the cost of reconstruction. In short, PRT Boston was going to have to build itself up from bedrock. Which means recruiting local talent, fresh triggers, reformed villains, out of town independents.
And it meant that the PRT would not have the support staff to be independent. They would be working closely with the Boston Police and emergency services, who were themselves struggling to rebuild.
So both the PRT Director and Protectorate leader needed to be approachable, likeable, relatable by capes and law enforcement. They needed to be principled, but flexible when needed. Which is why Battary was on the very short list for Protectorate Leader.
It was also why Erin Moore was on the short list for PRT director.
According to all PRT and Federal regulations, leadership positions inside the PRT could not be held by a Parahuman. It was designed to keep organizational clarity, the last thing you wanted was the boss to be absent because they were out in a mask punching bad guys in the face. It also removed ideas of favoritism, and because the PRT was meant to moderate Parahuman behavior. You don't put a prisoner in charge of the prison keys, as some news pundits had commented.
Which made the fact that Assault was running the Protectorate as Battery's number two so funny in a cosmic sense. Fate clearly had it out for him.
But Battery was now pulling double duty as PRT Director, which means that when she wasn't hitting the streets in costume, she was sitting behind a desk. Which meant that Assault was stepping up to cover.
Legend had argued with the Chief Director that limiting a Director position to non-Parahumans only isolated Protectorate members by having leadership that likely did not have any first-hand experience of what it was like to be a cape. Eventually the woman relented, allowing for a single pilot program.
"Oh, I've got a surprise for you," Ethan declared with a grin, pulling forks from a drawer and coming to stand beside Erin. This was very much going to be a 'standing at the counter' kind of dinner.
An inquisitive hum was all he got from her.
"Mr. Krantz has agreed to sign on."
"Oh thank god. That's great news, really. They already are something of a local figure, and have been doing great work with…"
"Puppy…I know. We've read the same briefings and we talked about this yesterday."
Krantz, or Mr.Krantz as people referred to him, was the singularly weakest combat cape that Ethan had ever met. But what he lacked in combat power, he made up for in goodwill and connections. He was well respected in Boston, and many people had a story to share about his actions. The older man had appeared after Leviathan's attack, a battered mail bag across his frame, a rumpled uniform from the US postal service, and a hat pulled low over his brow. The many who interacted with the man, remembered him being soft spoken, kind, considerate. They were not able to remember his face, the sound of his voice, the colour of his eyes, or any other identifying marks. Just the uniform, the presence, and the letter he brought them.
A rough estimate put his power rating at Shaker 1, Thinker 1, Mover 2, and Stranger 1.
The Stranger rating was for the selective memory that he inspired. The Shaker/Thinker rating was for his core ability; communicating to the dead. Or rather, listening to the dead, and transcribing a letter for them. Mover came into play at this point, as he demonstrated an ability similar to Vista, able to seemingly compress distances…or maybe teleport. The details didn't matter. What did matter is that reports were clear that the man could appear on the west coast, then return to the east coast in the span of an hour.
The whole 'speaking with the dead' thing bought up theological questions that Ethan was firmly staying away from. But the information inside the letters was always genuine, filled with private details and turns of phrase that only the deceased might have used.
The letters were not always happy. Some people spat when they heard the name Krantz. But more often than not, he carried the unspoken words of lost friends and family members to those waiting for word. His actions had secured a sense of community amongst the survivors, and had indirectly brought people back to the city to aid in its reconstruction.
His agreement to work with the PRT was a shot in the arm for an organization trying to earn back the trust of the public.
Erin groaned and leaned against him, her head falling to his shoulder. "Sorry. But I think this is the first good news that we've had in a while."
Since they had arrived, they hadn't had time to rest. They had to build up an entire branch from the ground up in the rubble of Boston.
Luckily, or perhaps unluckily depending on how you looked at it, Endbringer battlegrounds had a tendency to be a breeding ground for triggers and Boston had been no exception to this rule.
The deck was stacked completely against them. They had no headquarters, less than five percent of the personnel of one of the largest PRT departments remained, and only Oxide, Blockade, and Weld remained of the Boston Protectorate. The last two survivors of the Travelers who had surrendered before the Teeth Break had been flagged as Simurgh victims. Having been exposed at Madison, before the walls went up. Alexandria herself had dropped in to keep them from running, an unnecessary precaution in the end. They had quietly left the city under guard, and that was the last Ethan had heard of them.
"Really? Better than us finding that barbeque place that re-opened?"
"Oh damn. Okay, that's a good point."
The food dinged, and the pair mechanically started eating.
Things in Boston were improving, there was no denying that. Even with the dead, and the migration of people leaving the city, there were always going to be people to rebuild. Some stayed, or even came to Boston, out of idealism, or because they had nowhere else to go, or they thought it would be a chance to reinvent their life.
But that just meant that new problems developed. Accord was definitely still active, but staying strangely quiet. It was a not-so-subtle secret that the villain had an understanding with the Boston PRT. It was inevitable that the man would watch how the PRT rebuilt itself.
Blasto was still at large, setting up shop in the now condemned areas of the city. The man seemed to have moved away from making wet-tinker creatures, and focused more on cornering the drug market. His efforts creating medicine after Leviathan attacked had bought the man some goodwill, but that was a supply he was burning through quickly.
And that wasn't even touching on the seven or so confirmed new capes that had sprung up.
The police, fire, ambulance and medical services were slowly recovering, running accelerated training programs, and pairing rookies with veteran mentors. Along with out-of-town professionals who came offering their services. There was some concern that Interim-Governor Herres would push to keep the 10th Mountain Division active in law enforcement. But the man himself, as well as General Faraday had seemed pleased to pull back the army troops and let the proper authorities pick up the difference.
"So…the meeting with Herres and the ZDT rep. How are you feeling about it?"
Erin grunted through her mouthful of food.
"Hmm, that bad, huh?"
She delivered a deadpan look as she finished eating.
"It's not 'a ZDT rep', it's Taylor herself. And yes, I'm going to be there as the PRT Director for Boston. And I'm going to try and smooth things over so that we get Focus devices and get tied into the wireless network that she's putting up."
Ethan quietly wished her luck. Even with Panacea making a deal with Rennick, on behalf of Zero Dawn Technologies and the greater PRT respectively, relations were still frosty.
Now, Assault tried to keep out of politics. Especially office politics. Nothing ever good came from it, and despite everything he was still a former criminal. Keeping himself uninvolved was more to protect himself from getting caught in the splash zone than any dislike for it.
Nonetheless, he would have had to have lived under a rock to not be aware of the ongoing saga between the PRT and Taylor Hebert. He had front row seats to it from day one thanks to his wife being involved in the initial interview. Personally, he viewed the entire situation as distasteful. The late Director Piggot was a blunt instrument, predisposed to seeing Parahumans as threats to be contained. Any attempt at self-determination was viewed with suspicion. So he knew that Piggot wouldn't take even a gentle refusal lying down and would apply the screws to Taylor and her father, legal or semi-legal. One small credit he did have to give the women is that she didn't cross the line into illegality. But she would happily push legality to its limits.
Only that wasn't what happened. Every heavy-handed attempt by Piggot was deftly handled. He honestly had to hand it to Hebert, he'd never see Piggot so consistently and profoundly pissed off on a subject.
The rest was history. Taylor received funding from somewhere, built her machines and tech, sidestepping any attempt to stop her. Then Boston came and went, and the young inventor was vindicated. Her tech worked, her machines worked, and the PRT had been on the backfoot.
Which translated to the Boston emergency services receiving Focus devices and training in their use, and the PRT/Protectorate being told that "supply chain concerns resulted in unexpected delays for delivery."
Honestly, it was the most polite, corporate snub that Ethan had ever received. He was impressed.
"I should review my talking points. Highlight that the PRT not using the same resources as other emergency services will hamper public protections. Harris will probably agree with me and-"
"Okay, that's enough." Ethan plucked the fork from Erin's fingers, she had been waving it around emphatically. He handed the wine glass to her in its place. "No more work talk. Dinner is done, the wine bottle is still full, and we've got five minutes before that sappy period drama you like comes on."
"It's not sappy! It has emotional depth." Erin shot back, letting him lead her into the living room. "And I thought you hated my shows."
"Yes, but I love you. So I will manfully restrain myself tonight. No commenting on how ugly Mr. Wellerby looks with that mustache. Promise."
"...I think it makes him look dashing." His wife smiled, curling up against him as the TV came on.
A quiet night was just what the pair of them needed.
Last edited:
The Cycle Beyond Akasha
Getting sticky.
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it lives yes i need more
ChaosSlimeKing
Leaving a Chaotic trail
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I don't think your plan against Taylor is going to work like you want it to Shaw. Yeah, it might hinder her, but Taylor has the mind of a woman who wrangled the entire worlds most powerful people to follow her tune. She had to deal with Faro after leaving FAO and starting her own company, Miriam Technologies. She most likely also had to deal with CIA-like operations against her. Obligatory Fuck Faro is needed to be said most often, when speaking of HZD.
Really loving how long this story has been going on, and the quality of chapters that still come out. This story is/will be a shining example for the Worm section of the community for years to come. Thanks again for another fun chapter.
Really loving how long this story has been going on, and the quality of chapters that still come out. This story is/will be a shining example for the Worm section of the community for years to come. Thanks again for another fun chapter.
Hardship 5.3
New
AlSmash
Getting sticky.
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Hardship 5.3
Taylor Hebert
Boston, MA
May 22nd, 2011
0902 Hours
"Ms. Hebert, welcome back to Boston."
"Thank you, Colonel," I returned, using his preferred title as I shook his hand. Courtesy observed, we both settled into our respective chairs, the leather creaking around me at the sudden displacement.
I may not be able to see him beyond a computer generated simulacrum, I could at least tell, thanks to the biometrics provided by his Focus, that he was doing far better than he had been last month. That was at least some good news, I knew how much of a challenge that Boston had been for a man who had zero experience in running a state that had undergone a major disaster.
Normally, personal information would be locked beyond layers of security to provide privacy, but my Omega-Level access overrode those. I wasn't ready to unleash my inventions without any safeguards of course.
The older man acknowledged me with a nod, "Before we get to business, I'd like to offer my condolences for the loss of your people."
I raised a hand to stop him from going further. "Thank you, and I'll pass the wishes along. But we both know that we're busy people, and time waits for no one. Let's get into it."
Herres gave me a look for a moment, and I did my best to appear composed, confident, and…whatever else he might be looking for.
I knew that I had a problem. The combined memories and intelligence of a genius woman with a 2040s education gave me a good idea of where I was deficient. Namely, task orientation as a means of sidestepping emotional processing. My father threw himself into work. Elisabet did the same. And it turns out, I'm not all that different.
Point being, at the moment, there was nothing to be done. Well, nothing reasonable. The PRT/Police pushback against the Merchants had gone fantastically. Dozens of stash houses and labs had been emptied. Tons of drugs had been seized, hundreds of thousands of dollars in drug money collected. Hundreds of arrests. Yes, we hadn't gotten Skidmark. And yes, the Empire was attempting to deny any involvement in the bastard's disappearance despite enough circumstantial evidence indicating otherwise.
No. I did not want to discuss it.
There was nothing more that I wanted to do than to put the screws to Max Anders, despite the self-acknowledgement of how self-sabotagingly foolish it would be. This was one area where Elisabet's knowledge failed me. She never had to deal with people who could turn a room into an abattoir with a mere flex.
Furthermore, as distasteful as it was to admit, the Empire's existence had a moderating effect upon the local criminal elements of Brockton Bay. Unlike the Merchants, the Empire and ABB could be reasoned with and operated by a set of rules. They could also rationalize the benefits of a recovering Brockton Bay.
Well, Max Anders could. And that was what mattered. Despite promoting such virulently racist and anti-semitic rhetoric, he was an opportunist and businessman first. He could weigh the cost-benefit of short- and long-term opportunities provided by a resurgent Brockton Bay.
And he was capable enough to utilize it in both of his personas.
I viciously dismissed the thoughts. It was an unnecessary diversion from the here and now. Anders' time would come, it was no use dwelling upon any of that. Not when I had more important things to focus upon.
"Nonetheless, if you require anything, don't hesitate to ask. The State of Massachusetts and the CIty of Boston owe you a debt that cannot be repaid."
"Thank you, Colonel. While I certainly appreciate the offer in the spirit it was made, I feel it's best if it went without acceptance, considering the current political currents."
The Colonel's expression hardened as it reflected my own thoughts. In recent days, there had been concerns in the media about the 'propriety' of the relationship between Colonel Herres in his role as acting governor and Zero Dawn Technologies. Several pundits had raised alarm over the economic zone and the contracts that I was here to ink that would provide the state with additional Foci and requisite support systems.
Of course, it was a complete and utter crock of shit. Herres was the consummate professional, and if anything, he was taking advantage of me. I was adding a five percent markup to show positive cash flow into the company, and then reinvesting that money right back into growth. The City of Boston was getting new wireless infrastructure, a rescue lance of machines which can act in a variety of roles, and several thousand Focus devices to use in rebuilding the city's bureaucracy.
"Some of my advisors have voiced concerns in your interest in the land occupied by the Boston Naval Yard."
I blinked, an entirely unnecessary motion given that I was blind, but still, "Mr.Gabriel hasn't already informed you?"
The Boston Naval Yard had been a national historical site after its closure in 1974. Unfortunately, it had also been near ground zero of Leviathan's rampage. All that remained of the site and surrounding area that had not been scoured by the waves were skeletons of buildings and large tracts of debris. The only thing that had even survived intact had been the USS Constitution, and only by dint of unbelievable luck.
"He's been diligent in working with us regarding the management and growth of the economic zone. However, he hasn't said a word about the Yards. He claimed, quite pointedly mind you, that it was "ZDT's concern and thus not our problem," Herres kept his tone professional, but the irritation was there.
"That man…," I sighed, rubbing my temple. I was going to have to talk to him about his attitude, "I can explain it now if you have the time."
"By all means. I'll add that Mr. Gabriel has done exemplary work, which means that my staff and I are perfectly willing to deal with his eccentricities. This was just an isolated incident."
Pulling up my file directory, I swiped through options until I found a mockup of the Yards. Projecting it, and setting the image to 'public' let Herres review it with me.
"As we both know, there's hardly anything left of the yards. It was ground zero for Leviathan's arrival."
The aftermath of a tsunami, or any large wave, was humbling to behold. Buildings were reduced to skeletons, landscapes became flat plains of debris, roads cracked and washed away as the land underneath was eroded. It was Mother Nature at her most enraged. A reminder of how small we were in the scheme of things.
"My goal is to use the infrastructure that exists, roads, rail lines, power infrastructure, industrial zoning, all of it. In the long term, it will become the primary assembly and distribution point for Zero Dawn Technologies. Brockton Bay will take care of research and development with some of the production facilities in order to produce prototypes, institute low-rate initial productions in order to iron out any kinks and host our corporate offices."
Letting him digest what I said for a moment, I then continued.
"But that's a long term goal. In the short term, I'll be using the slipways to develop and construct amphibious, littoral, and deep-ocean based machines. We envision these machines to take on roles of environmental cleanup, subsurface mapping, diving assistance, and even heavy salvage assistance if we get the production lines working. Geographically, Boston provides easy access to the Stellwagen Bank, which will assist in the development of machines as time goes on."
Sometimes, the aftermath of a wave is as bad as the wave itself. Sewage systems flooded, then retreated back with the waves. The accumulated trash of a city mixed with the newly created debris all flowed back into the ocean, or rather, Boston Harbor in this case. Even over a month on, the surface of Boston Harbor was a soup of garbage. And that was dangerous. Algae blooms, chemical contamination, habitat die-off, animal entanglement, damage to boats and engines as they tangled in trash.
Herres sighed like a man who felt a weight lift off his shoulders.
"And I suppose these are going to be local hires?"
I nodded in confirmation, pulling up a list of names on the display window, "I have a core team that will arrive to get things started, but beyond that? Yes, local people will be the majority of the workforce."
"So, jobs in the short term while you build and repair, and then more jobs as you build and expand, then more jobs when you get up to scale. Plus restoration of transport and infrastructure. And more jobs for that."
The man smiled for the first time since we'd sat down.
"Ms.Hebert, you are going to make people very happy with this news. I assure you of that."
Something in the way he said it made me concerned.
"Problems in the city?"
A blind man couldn't miss the grimace that flickered on Herres' face before he sighed, his hands unsteepling as he leaned forward on the desk. The level gaze he was giving me told me almost everything I needed to know, even if he did add context.
"Officially? We are now well ahead of schedule for holding the elections on time. Furthermore, it looks like we will be having the Boston Marathon a few days before the handover. Unofficially? If you'll pardon my bluntness, it's a goddamn mess. Basic cleanup is going to take months. And that's if Congress doesn't decide that it's better to just write Boston off. I've got a world-class team; but even we can't work miracles unless we have the resources."
I couldn't help but ask the question that had been burgeoning in the back of my mind.
"Is that why the 10th Mountain's deployment has been extended indefinitely."
I could tell that I surprised Herres with the question. Then again, many adults would have difficulty putting the pieces together. The 10th Mountain wasn't there to assist anymore. It was there to ensure that shit didn't hit the proverbial fan.
"Unfortunately," Herres ground out, "everyone has their own vision of how the reconstruction should happen. Your BASE initiative was a lifesaver and has already helped tremendously, but it's also caught the eyes of special interests, who are leaning on their political reps for a slice of the city. Then you have arguments of which areas get money first, which constituents are being unfairly favored, and so on and such bullshit."
"And," he added, his disgust readily apparent, "It's election season and none of those suits wants to be responsible for an increase in taxes to their constituency for a city that could be on the other side of the country."
It was a frustration that I felt and heard clearly. It always boiled down to the same thing. People weren't working together.
It would be so much easier if everyone worked together.
"Alright. Fine," I bit out, fingers twitching in my lap, "Then we'll fix things ourselves I suppose. What do you think will realistically happen?"
"If you want me to be realistic," Herres asked. The sigh that escaped his lips did not inspire me with any sort of confidence, "They'll probably offer up some sort of backhanded pittance. Just enough for the city to keep barely above water until after the election cycle is over and the media loses interest. The next Endbringer attack will both draw attention away, and remind people we're relevant. So we'll probably see the 'windfall' then."
I breathed. Letting the problem settle and letting my mind slowly dissect it. Elisabet was good at that. Taking a problem apart, understanding the pieces, identifying what was important, what were the possible knockon effects, and what key points needed to be fixed.
The obvious answer was more tech. But the world wasn't ready for more tech. There was a societal impact to new technology, to the way that it changed people's lives. It changed expectations, changed systems. And perhaps most importantly, it changed societal matrices. I was already pushing the envelope dangerously close as I was. While the Focus could easily be explained as merely an advanced logical progression of current mobile communications devices, the machines on the other hand, well…suffice to say it might as well be Clarke's Third Law made manifest. There was such a breadth of technologies and ideas that had simply not yet been explored in Earth Bet to make the technology viable.
The Augmented/Virtual Reality tech that the Focus functioned on was even worse. Those not using a Focus would immediately find themselves isolated from a new layer of social reality. Which was both good and bad. Elisabet's time had its share of problems with AR/VR, which only got worse as the line between the digital world and the brain got more and more thin.
I wasn't even going to touch on the prevalence of AIs in all levels of society.
Suffice to say, more tech would stress the systems that were already steadily fraying at the seams. Gradual change was needed. Sudden change was usually violent change. Already, the warning signs were beginning to appear as other nations were becoming aware of just how far ahead the United States was by the simple fact that Zero Dawn was based in it.
So… how to work the problem.
If external aid wasn't going to arrive in a satisfying amount, or time, then it meant either coercing external aid, or finding alternative sources. OR we focus on internal growth and complete the restoration that way.
We needed a plan. And I had the man who made plans working with me. There was a lot to discuss with Acc-
"Miss Hebert?"
My attention snapped back to the present, where Herres was looking at me with a mixture of expectation and concern. I felt myself blush at losing myself in my thoughts in a setting like this.
"Sorry about that," I got out, "I don't suppose that the state government would be able to pick up any of the slack?"
Herres snorted, "Massachusett's state budget was eighteen billion last year. Even if I could activate full austerity measures, which I legally can't, mind you, it wouldn't even scratch the paint of the reconstruction costs. We're talking well in excess of half-a-trillion dollars to restore Boston to at least a semblance of what it was."
"So that's a definite no, then," I offered, trying to inject some levity into the situation. However, from Herries reaction, he didn't seem to appreciate it. Releasing another sigh, I again made some mental adjustments.
"Let's drop it for now," I finally allowed, folding my hands into my lap. It was the best way to convey a shift away from the tension by lowering it through body language, "ignoring the federal elephant in the room, how is rebuilding going?"
"Like I said before, we're ahead of schedule. Utilities are about ninety percent restored. Water treatment is still unable to meet demand, so there is still a boil order in effect. We hope to have full capacity by the end of the month."
He then accessed his Focus, sending her a databurst. She accepted it and looked through the information as he kept talking, his expression now becoming grave.
"We now come to the heart of every single problem, Downtown Boston."
I remained silent, perusing the data and I could see why he highlighted it. It was both the economic heart of Boston and the most devastated area.
"I've talked to the people involved in New York City's rebuilding. They all say the same thing, it would have been better off if it had been Behemoth who had attacked Boston. At least he would have slagged everything in his path, then it would be easy to rebuild that way."
I noted he left off the last Leviathan attack on US soil; it was understandable though. Seattle hadn't been directly impacted by Leviathan, it has only received moderate damage from waves. Leviathan's target had been Naval Station Bremerton, which the Endbringer had scoured off the face of the Earth.
"We've got hundreds of millions of tons of debris, a lot of it toxic, covering the area," Herres continued, "the best we've been able to do is divert water and energy away from the area, but if we're going to restore Boston, we're going to need a hell of a lot more heavy lift capacity and somewhere to dispose all of the debris safely and without creating new problems."
"Are there any companies that socialize in Endbringer cleanup," I asked, continuing my notations, "you would think there would be a demand for something like that."
"You would think so," Herres replied, his expression turning wry, "Unfortunately, all Endbringer cleanup has to be routed through the PRT and that makes it unprofitable. Another consideration is that this has only been the fourth Endbringer attack on US soil. Luckily, the local PRT rep has actually been working with us."
"Who's the rep?"
"Battery."
"She's Protectorate," I pointed out, unable to hide my surprise. As far as I knew, the Protectorate and PRT were distinct entities where the PRT maintained oversight of the Protectorate
"Some sort of pilot program. I don't know what's going on with the PRT and frankly it doesn't matter to me. The elections are next month and I'll be handing the reins to someone else. They've been rebuilding a team, from the few survivors and pulling in the independents that have popped up or drifted into the city."
We continued talking for another hour, Herres inquiring about more support on the Foci Systems, specifically around cross-compatibility with existing legacy programs, and additional programs to fill in administrative gaps. Specifically around record maintenance, a lot of records had been lost in the attack. As a result, Herres wanted to digitize as much as possible to back up hard copies.
I left the meeting feeling mixed. Boston had a chance for recovery. Clean up was clearly on track, but it would need help. It was a question of where that help came from. We would need to turn Boston into more than a recovery story.
Boston would have to become far more than the industrial heart of Zero Dawn.
It would have to become the beacon of the future.
1315 Hours
I ate my quick lunch of a rather bland turkey and rye flatbread sandwich while Monica gave me a run down on the local elections. Her responsibility as my executive assistant had been slowly ramping up as she had gotten the experience. Now, she was handling almost every facet of my itinerary, from scheduling, to ensuring that I eat properly, even providing my outfit for the day.
It was almost creepy at how easily she had slid into the position.
"Mr. Scanlan's camp is the latest candidate to reach out for some kind of comment from you. As with the others, he would prefer to have a moment of your time, a press event, or even an endorsement."
The car slowed as I chewed, processing the latest instance of someone trying to use my name for their own ends. As Herres had pointed out, the elections were about a month away. Everything from a Congressional Representative seat, to City Council seats were on the ballot. And as the current hot commodity in Boston, the candidates believed that securing my endorsement was the difference between victory and defeat.
"Monica, please contact the local media outlets. I'll send them a blanket statement regarding the elections. They can do with it what they will. Draft a polite message of rejection for anyone else who calls asking for my endorsement."
Crinkling up the sandwich wrapper and placing it aside. I made sure to take a drink before I pulled up a recording file on my Focus. For a few minutes, I considered what I should say. My goal of adjusting society and guiding progress would eventually necessitate me getting involved in politics. Hell, I was already working hand in hand with the Vice-President. But there was a difference between quiet support and active support. The latter was much more problematic. In the end, I wanted people to become invested in the direction of their city, and of their future.
And yes, the fact that I couldn't legally vote, despite being emancipated, did add some humor to the whole situation.
"There is nothing so great as a man or woman who strives valiantly. Whose face is marred by dust, sweat, and blood. Boston, this historic city of our republic, has been hurt. There is no denying that this event will be spoken of for years to come. But my hope is that the coming events will be spoken of in the same sentence. Of how people rallied together, and rebuilt what was broken.
This election is the next step in rebuilding. It is the choice that will define the future of your lives. Of your children's lives. The men and women chosen will take their seats during the most trying time this state has faced since its founding in 1788. You have a chance to chart the future. That chance is in the ballot that you will cast. I encourage everyone to vote for the future that you want, and the men and women that you trust to see that future into reality."
After saving the audio file, I forwarded it to Sobek for cleanup. Satisfied with that done, I glanced at Monica who was looking at me wide-eyed. I resisted blushing. Maybe paraphrasing Roosevelt was too much? I needed to speak to voters, and…nevermind. I'll get a second opinion. Jean would have something to say. We really did need to fill the Public Relations and Marketing positions… Another thing to add to the list.
"After Sobek is done, we'll review it, maybe send it by Jean, before sending it out. Next item?"
We worked out a few more issues before arriving at my next meeting of the day. The offices of the Boston Autonomous Special Enterprise where I would be meeting Alain. It was a modest five story office building in Waltham, which was well positioned in the center of the BASE area.
I let Monica fuss over me for a moment, making sure I was presentable. Not like I could check for spots on my shirt with my condition.
Elisa Bauer had thoroughly adopted the role of Monica Stele, executive assistant to Taylor Hebert. She had a deep understanding of my methods, my quirks, and concerns. She knew, in intimate detail, the disquiet that I felt in trusting people.
She had walked a mile in my shoes, and internalized the journey.
Elisa/Monica had reshaped her entire personality to be the best personal assistant possible. She didn't respect me… she worshipped me. And I was NOT comfortable with that. Because I wasn't a hero. I never would be a hero.
I was just a woman trying to do her best.
A pedestal was sometimes as isolating as a cage.
Walking in, I was greeted by a crisp young man who led us through introductions and greetings for the staff that had been hired on. After shaking hands and exchanging greetings, we moved through the orderly crowd as Sam hovered at my elbow. Her staff had arrived earlier in the day, vetting the staff, clearing the building, and generally ensuring that my safety was assured. The office workers seemed to have no complaints over the treatment, eagerly talking about their positions and how I had impacted their lives.
Finally, we were ushered out to the top floor, where the atmosphere of the building changed. My erstwhile ally had made his influence felt. As the villain Accord, the man was known for being uncompromising in organization, symmetry, and aesthetics. The man was fixated on imposing order onto the world. Each desk was organized exactly the same. Each wall hanging was placed at the same elevation and distance from the previous. Even the people were dressed in similar fashion. Pressed suits, tailored dresses, appearance maintained. It lacked the warmth and comradery that the lower floors had exhibited. The behavior of the staff, and of our guide, reminded me of Jean, before her time at ZDT had mellowed her slightly.
A crisp knock and our guide opened the door for us, stepping aside for us to pass. Mr.Gabriel stood from the table, keeping his hands clasped in front of himself.
"Ms.Hebert"
"Mr.Gabriel"
Courtesies were short, but that was how we both liked it. We sat, and tea was placed in front of me. No spoon, the man probably didn't like the sound. I accepted it, slowly sipping from it and resisting the urge to sigh at the exquisite taste. The man certainly had a deft touch with tea.
I had spent some time leading up to this meeting researching Accord. The best way to understand the man was through the lens of high level, functional autism. His desire for order was a compulsion. The question, of if the man gaining powers worsened his condition or developed it, was academic.
The rest was complicated. This wasn't a situation like Max Anders. Anders was obsessed only with himself, the only reason he tolerated me was because he believed that I could further ascend his legacy.
Accord, on the other hand, was a different beast altogether. He was personally credited with sixteen confirmed murders, with upwards of twenty attributed to himself, his gang, or his influence. And yet, before Leviathan, the regions under his 'control' were considered the safest in Boston. Exclusive, a touch elitist, and run on a protection ratchet, but still safe. Violent crime was in the single digits compared to other regions, sexual assaults were nonexistent, and the drug trade was heavily regulated by Accord's Ambassadors.
"Mr.Gabriel. Before we begin, I was hoping to clear the air between us. You've been a tremendous help in agreeing to take on management of the BASE initiative. But you have to know that continued interaction puts us both at risk given your past affiliations. So, respectfully I have to ask, why?"
Thankfully though, Accord merely sipped his own drink, a dark, chocolatey coffee that didn't impose on my enhanced sense of smell.
"Because you represent an opportunity for change, on a magnitude that we haven't seen since Scion appeared or Behemoth first erupted from the earth."
"Civilization is built on systems. Strong economies are built on appropriate regulations, structures of exchange, a stable social matrix, agreements between parties and more. Learned men and women are produced by structured education systems that encourage development. The systems are safeguarded by strong and independent courts that can be trusted to regulate all levels of the populace and deliver fair and just judgments."
Accord paused, measuring the weight of what he said next.
"This country is fundamentally broken. It is the divine right of man to rebel when the system inevitably fails to fulfill its mandated purpose."
This wasn't some random run-of-the-mill militant antigovernment extremist that seemed to be growing more prevalent by the day spouting such nonsense. This was a well-educated and put-together man who, while being a criminal, had shown none of those predilections.
The only question I had was whether this was a rationalization of his criminality, or his raison d'être. It would be telling of who Alain Gabriel truly was.
There was a soft rasping of cloth as Sam shifted slightly from her vigil behind me. I made it a point to ignore her as I parsed his words. The room was empty outside of Accord, myself, Sam and a well dressed attendant who stayed in the background.
"This is a distillation of the works of Thomas Paine, John Locke, and Thomas Jefferson, among others," he explained, settling into a practice lecturing tone.
"These systems of civilization were broken by greed, sloth, inexperience, naivety, and a dozen other illnesses of the soul that people in power suffer from. These systems were carved at and twisted until they were made to profit a few at the expense of the many. This offends me!" The man said, his tone dripping venom. And for a moment I could see the villain that committed murder by his own hand. But then, decisions made in polished offices by men in suits can be just as murderous. Elisabet's memories flashed back to the holocall with Farro. There is a glitch in the Chariot line.
Accord began to speak again. "The waste, the inefficiency, the potential wasted because small minded men and women can not conceive of impact outside their immediate circle. Your technology is the disruption needed to reform these systems before it is too late. You, Ms. Hebert, are a storm, one much needed to wash away the old and the complacent and prune the world of deadweight."
I drank my tea, feeling the warmth for a moment to steady myself. Outside of his outburst, Accord had remained calm, cultured, articulated in his dismissal of the systems governing society. The worst part was that I could hardly fault him for his frustrations. I shared them. Elisabet had lived in a time of environmental collapse, rampant shifts in population, the explosion of poverty and privation, and the abusive yoke of corporations.
And yet, for all of its flaws, humanity was capable of truly great things, as well.
Her world had been defined by the 'Clawback Era' a time of cooperation where humanity set about fixing the planet that they themselves had ruined. In my timeline, countless men and women threw themselves against creatures that had never suffered defeat. Time and again, people from every walk of life, every nationality and generation stepped up in defence against the Endbringers. They succeeded only in limiting the damage, but sometimes that was enough.
Maybe that was the difference between her and I… this dead woman whose memories I carried. Elisabet Sobeck had loved the planet. She loved nature. She loved humanity. Not as individuals, but as a concept. The same way that you might love a forest, but not individual trees.
I didn't love like she did. Again and again, people have failed me. I didn't love nature, the planet, the same way she did. I wasn't even sure if I could love anymore.
But I wanted to help.
Because of my father, who struggled to keep things working, even when everything else failed.
Because of my mother, who had read me stories too complicated for a child to understand, then took the time to break it down into ideas I could comprehend.
I had the tools to make a difference. To make all the pain I had suffered, mean something. I didn't want to hurt anyone, but I was coming to understand that, by my actions, people would be hurt.
But I still wanted to help.
"With all that being said, Ms.Hebert. I trust your curiosity is satisfied?"
I decided to channel Elizabet in answering him. It felt only fair to meet his previous quote with one that Elizabet kept in her private study. A quote that had helped carry her through Enduring Victory from a man who wholeheartedly supported the pursuit of science even if he may not have agreed with the conclusions gained thereof.
"Cosmic evolution may teach us how the good and the evil tendencies may have come about; but, in itself, it is incompetent to furnish any better reason why what we call good is preferable to what we call evil."
He tilted his head slightly, "I don't recognize the quote."
"Thomas Huxley," I took another draft of the tea, noting that it was almost empty. "Thank you for indulging my curiosity. I don't see any problems working together going forward. I think we can both agree that rapid change is often violent change. A more methodical approach is needed, something that your skills are uniquely suited for."
"To our partnership, Mr.Gabriel," I stressed the partner in my words, raising my tea cup and finishing the last of it.
The man nodded, the ghost of a smile in the corner of his lips. "Then let us plan for the future, Ms.Hebert."
"Let's."
Alain lightly tapped his Focus, the device flaring to life, and I accepted the handshake connection between our Foci. Immediately, I found myself sharing the data that he wanted to present to me.
"In the nine days since your announcement of the initiative, I have been tracking public sentiment. On a local level, we are viewed favorably. The state and national level shows a decline in favorability. A lot of the negativity revolves around the morality of corporations operating a special economic zone within Boston. Both Gene and myself have assets monitoring public trends for the time being. It's nothing that can be truly helped until we start showing progress and successes."
I nodded, it made sense. We could probably do more to present a better message, but it would be a waste of finite resources in the long run. Elisabet believed that success was the killer of doubt, and if we truly wanted to get rid of BASE's skeptics, then we needed to show them success.
Gene flicked two fingers up, "Shemanefer, display local map, full notations."
Holoprojectors came online, sending a wave of light across the table. Hovering in the air, the regions accorded to BASE were marked out, then zoomed in on. Buildings shifted from 2D to 3D, allowing us to look over the urban area like gods from on high. Buildings, shops, residential areas, all colour coded and annotated. This wasn't the map of the BASE area currently, this was the city as we would reshape it to be.
A greater emphasis had been put on accessibility, a mix of walking paths and public transport systems. Ease of transportation would reduce car costs for residents, and the creation of new green spaces would reduce city heat and act as a buffer for noise. Cloth awnings were draped strategically to create and encourage seating.
After seeing the world through wireframes, having a proper digital interactive display made my heart soar. Accord began to walk me through his process.
"The development plan has been my sole focus for the past week, and the framework is complete. With today's contribution from yourself, I will be able to finalize it. We have already begun taking in applications," Accord leveled me with hard eyes, an effect diminished by my blindness. But the tone of his voice made his intentions clear, "Any serious deviation after this point will be… irritating."
Left unsaid was what he would do to those who interfered with his grand plan. It was likely to be significant, and not always proportional in its retaliation.
With a wave of his hand, the map updates with colors, "I've retained the services of several urban planning experts, and have begun outlining the end result of the reconstruction. The rebuilding will take place in stages, with milestones needing to be met before we expand further. Meeting or exceeding the Pre-Leviathan metrics will take years."
I nodded. The reconstruction was always going to be a long term effort.
"We will begin with mass market vendors and transportation. We already have interested parties being vetted," Several buildings flashed briefly, well distributed across the area, "Freight transportation and delivery has been simple, however the civilian transport system requires coordination with Herres and the greater Boston recovery team to ensure standardization once we hand back control."
He looked at me for a moment, "As does your push for a more localized policing system."
"You have concerns," I asked quietly, perfectly willing to listen to the man whose entire power was planning.
"Yes. First, the manpower distribution and requirements. Small, community police presence will require a greater number of people in uniform. Second, there's a distinct cultural nuance to the Koban system that I believe you are missing. The reason it is so effective is due to the cultural bias towards the individual being part of the collective that dominates eastern culture. It is much the glue making the system effective than any discernible police efforts. I will agree the decentralized nodal structure would provide decreased reaction times to crimes. However, it opens the door to balkanization and increased chances for localized corruption."
I chose not to answer immediately. The Koban system was a policing system popularized in Japan. In essence, it was a decentralized nodal system that dispersed officers into smaller "boxes", literally putting the police inside the communities they are meant to protect. The level of interaction with the public was higher, with officers expected to keep up to date with local affairs and serve as sources of information to the public. It changed the police from a force coming into the situation, to a trusted figure that the locals had interacted with, joked with, eaten beside. Considering Boston's police force was going to be stretched thin for the foreseeable future, I believed this system would maximize the zone's ability to police itself without putting additional undue stress on the Boston police departments.
"This is true, we do need to be aware of cultural considerations. However, as you stated before, a storm has swept away the old. There is a strong sense of community cooperation among the survivors of Boston, and capitalizing on that sentiment now to implement a new system will bolster our chance of successful implementation,"I countered in reply to his concerns. And Accord's concerns were very valid. In regards to the collective vs individual, the Koban system did rely upon both that and the cultural impetus on honor. It was what made Japan stable even now despite the apocalyptic damage it sustained from Leviathan.
Accord bowed his head slightly, looking over the map.
Part of my push for the new system was my learned distrust of the Brockton Police. Like many young people in my city, there was no single incident that I could point at that soured me to the BBPD. Just the consistent evidence of gang activity, late police presence, and the grumbling of the adults who had stopped expecting better from the people meant to protect them.
The only reason I knew of the Koban system was because of Elisabet's memories. In the early 2050s, when the majority of the world had moved towards a full robotic police and military force, Japan had remained one of the last developed nations to maintain a majority of human officers. The public pushback against the proposal to modernize the National Police Agency with robotic officers had seen the sitting government nearly removed from office. Police had been part of the community, not an 'other' that people were ambivalent about. Elisabet had actually been approached for advice on policy after the pushback. Her actions during the Clawback era had made her, and her company, a recognized name across the islands of the Pacific.
"On the topic of manpower, we have a technological edge that we can use to bridge the gap."
With that declaration, I accessed my private files and forwarded him a series of them. I watched as his eyebrows rose after a minute or so of reading.
"I see…"
"The Merchants attack made me consider additional security enhancements to better protect my company and workers. However, I also realized that these same systems for security, could also be adapted for police work with a few tweaks of the design and programming. After discussing it with my chief of security, who happens to have a police background, we have developed the Argos."
Adam had been crucial in the redesign. The Argos was a heavily modified Scrapper unit. First, the internals had been removed or modified. Scrappers were designed to break down metals and materials into smaller and smaller increments, then store that material in pellet form. All of that had been removed, allowing for more artificial muscle fibers. This was needed to handle the addition of form-fitted armor plating, a weapon pod that rested at the high point of the back, and hardpoints for police and security tools. The grinder head had been replaced by a head with additional sensors and a unique 'grabber' jaw that could capture and restrain a limb without injury.
The armor was the first example of actual armor material that would leave my forges. Thin, lightweight, and, most importantly, retaining a degree of flexibility, it was still rated to resist rifle rounds thanks to the unique molecular bonding of the process. The fortunate, or unfortunate, side effect of the material was that the forging process left it bleached bone white. It did mean that we could easily paint the unit the required police colours.
We even had light strips to recreate police strobes mounted on the shoulder joints.
The 'weapons' pod was a misnomer, as the weapons contained in the pod were less-than-lethal. A belt-fed thirty millimeter short-barreled medium-velocity grenade launcher that could store up to thirty-two of the improved confoam grenades. Packed inside was the new solution that I developed to impress Piggot. It would fire single rounds with an airburst detonator. The standard load would only be a dozen grenades before needing to be reloaded. Backing that up was a taser system mounted in the jaws, energy for sixteen charges before recharge or swapping capacitors. It could tap into the Argos' own energy reserves, but only in emergency situations.
Hardpoints on the exterior had space to strap a small medical kit, or police tools like zipties, tap, or communication equipment.
All in all, the Argos was designed to operate alongside police, complementing human officers and allowing them to focus on the more human-oriented aspect of policing. They would serve as a second pair of eyes for officers operating on solo patrol. The ideal use scenario would be teams of four, two human officers, and two Argos units. But given the stretched nature, it was likely that the current ratio would be one human operator and three machines.
The most challenging aspect was the programming, something I was still working to perfect. The difference in thinking between a rescue machine and law enforcement machine was extensive. It required threat detection, behavior prediction, threat escalation and descalation, an understanding of appropriate force, and smooth interactions with the human partners. Consider the range of activities that a police officer might engage in… from writing tickets, mediating disputes, transporting criminals, securing a crime scene and a dozen other things that I had no idea of.
I also wanted the Argos to be approachable, friendly, and interactive. Public perception was important to get them to view the Argos unit as a public protector. A loyal guardian of peace and order.
A police variant of the Skydrifter, and the Sunwing were both in development, but those brought up even more privacy concerns than the Focus and the Argos unit. I would see how the city used the LRL that I was giving them before moving forward with flying support.
"The goal of the design is force multiplication, allowing one officer to always have backup on hand. If someone sees an Argos unit on the street, it means an officer is likely within two hundred meters. We don't want to remove the human element from the streets, we want to augment what they can do."
Which would be a godsend for a police department that had been gutted by Leviathan and would take quite some time to bring back up serviceable levels. It was bad enough that the Boston Police Department was actively recalling retired officers to help anywhere they could.
"I can see what you are trying to do with this," Alain finally spoke several minutes later. I had let him work in silence as I considered my own possible adjustments to the idea. The Koban System would still be a hard sell to a society that was raised upon the idea of centralized police nodes in the form of stations and roaming patrols. Those systems would stay in place, but would instead serve as rapid response and coordination centers, "and it should work with your proposed system. The only issue I am finding is who is going to pay for this. You're suggesting one hundred and sixty of these Argos spread between Boston and BASE."
I couldn't help the wince that I gave. That was another weak point of the plan: paying for the machines. Functionally, BASE was an organization dealing with a pot of money, with the mission of spending that money to rebuild Boston. Accord was responsible for building a plan to spend/distribute that pot. The idea was to give out loans, and a plan to rebuild businesses, who would then spend money in turn. Economies grow when money moves.
The 'pot' had been filled by contributions by ZDT, Far Zenith, and several personal contributions from Mr.Gabriel. The return on money invested was not going to be high, but the prestige of having contributed was a selling point. My hope was that companies and wealthy donors would pay in because it was the right thing to do.
Yes, I also reminded myself to contain my idealism.
Even putting these machines at cost plus five percent, we were looking at around one million dollars per unit once the logistics of maintaining them and cost of training became involved. Thankfully, I had taken almost the entire book on modular forging and production of Elizabet's world to heart, which drove down the cost significantly as I could easily change production tracks and quickly recycle the molds for parts into something new. It was a large part of the reason I was able to quote a much lower price in comparison to the original LRL, as the system was now self-sustaining in comparison to the original artisanal production system. It was still nothing compared to some of the more advanced production methods developed like molecular furnaces and forges, but it was enough to keep prices sane.
Huh, I should probably introduce/patent that process soon, I completely forgot about that, focusing instead on just producing what was needed. Just the idea of modular forging and production would kickstart the economy significantly with higher production at much lower costs per unit.
But I was getting sidetracked. The pot only held so much. And the larger financial concerns were outside of my control. So I said as much, "I will leave the calculations in your capable hands. We are going to complete a first run of Argos units to augment ZDT security. I can keep you apprised of their performance if you wish?"
Accord nodded, and Monica made a note.
"What about finding new investors? Has anyone of note shown an interest," I asked, hoping for some good news.
"At the moment, nothing concrete. I have what remains of Far Zenith making inquiries, but the majority of my effort will be on using the resources. Not finding them," Accord quickly moved the conversation forward.
"Moving on, it's my belief that Boston requires three things as priorities; Construction, Recycling, and Energy. I trust that you will be able to help with such problems."
"Okay. Let's start with energy. I haven't been able to talk to the DOE lately, but I doubt you're looking for nuclear energy as the solution within a decent time frame. Which leaves solar cell tech and how to integrate it into the city."
Accord nodded, bringing up another image of the BASE area, "Correct. The question of scale remains, but your solar-membrane has proven to be effective. It can quickly be adapted to new and existing construction. Power inverters and power storage remain a problem, I presume you have solutions?"
I took a moment to admire the planned future of the city. Solar panels hung off of every balcony, large awning stretched across streets and sitting areas, creating shade and power in equal measure.
"I have a design for battery storage, but don't have the contacts to test and manufacture it on scale. Theoretically, a battery would be placed inside each building, or a larger one would be dedicated to a city block. As for power inverters? I have something that would work, it will need to be approved by the city inspectors."
Accord tapped the table with his finger. "I have few contacts inside the manufacturing industry. I will see about finding a solution. Can you develop a prototype for testing?"
I nodded in turn, already considering who I could delegate the task to in Brockton. Turning the issue over in my mind, the numbers didn't add up. Local infrastructure would naturally have lower needs, what with half the city damaged. That means energy supply would outstripe demand. Even considering a generous storage amount, the system would still run positive. Which would prove dangerous, requiring upgrades to the grid. Unless…
"You want to sell the excess energy."
Alain nodded, "The fastest way to stimulate an economy is to put money into the pockets of the people. Money spent is money invested, which then turns to expanding the city. If we offer solar cells to the people, but demand a percentage of the money gained from the excess energy, the cells offered for free pay for themselves. The Northeast is already struggling with the demand outstripping supply."
"I can see where you are going with this. It is doable, though won't we be angering the power companies for doing this?"
"Yes and no. You are right to worry about the energy companies. Eventually the solar cells will render their production methods inefficient and expensive. But they will be unable to resist the prospect of what is essentially cheap energy they can turn around for a profit. Their investors will not allow them to do otherwise. They are legally required to return on their investments, after all. Long term implications are secondary."
"In this case, greed is good, huh?"
"Nothing so crass, Miss Hebert. We're merely utilizing the existing market for our gain. Boston needs every single penny it can generate if it is meant to be revived."
I was reminded of… something I read somewhere. Trade flows where infrastructure allows it. Influence follows trade. Power follows influence.
"I stand corrected, then. I'll defer to you on this matter. I will alert SunCorp to prepare for your call. It may be faster to create a new production line locally, but I will leave that discussion between yourself and them. Now," I folded my hands in my lap, "Construction and recycling. In this instance, they are mutually inclusive because I have been considering them."
"We both know that conventional construction will take time, and materials will likely need to be imported. A short term solution would be material recycling," I pulled up the design documents and projected them for the room. A deceptively simple mechanical design, it would allow for rapid rebuildings. "We render the debris into interconnecting blocks that can be locked together akin to legos. However, the drawbacks are the building materials and designs are meant for disasters and wartorn areas that need structures quickly. It'll last at best for twenty years before they start breaking down. It's a great stopgap and will get people into homes and quickly build office spaces and factories, but it's a short-term solution in the end."
Accord took a moment to review the data, "Provided we have proper testing done on the end product, this will serve well. Short-term production that incentivizes cleanup, while also allowing for traditional construction to focus on critical buildings."
Another note was made, another project that I pulled from my design binder, and handed off to someone else to build. I hoped that Jean was still hiring, because it was clear that the extra hands would be needed.
We spoke for hours more. Discussing water treatment, recycling centers, waste management, electrical tram systems run on large scale batteries. Rules, zoning, regulations, community initiatives, cultural encouragement. A large part of me was thrilled by our discussion. This was tech that would make a difference. It wasn't flashy, it wasn't revolutionary, but it was the backbone of people's quality of life. Clean, well-run cities.
I would turn Boston into a beacon towards the future. That the Endbringers could rampage as much as they wanted, but we would rebuild. We would grow stronger. And sooner or later, we would find a way to kill them once and for all.
The small part of me that was still fifteen and remembered eating lunch in the bathroom stalls relaxed a little. Today, none of my more radical designs were needed. Pandora's box stayed closed.
Right now, I could step away from everything and possibly live a quiet life. I had already bequeathed safe nuclear energy, advanced robotics, new and innovative production techniques, revolutionary new computing, alongside all the patents I've already published and could still publish under pseudonyms.
If I chose to open that box, I would never be able to have that life.
The self expanding machine that was HEPHAESTUS.
The Molecular Furnaces that sat inside every HORUS Titan, that built the machines that devoured humanity.
Optimized Logistics AI that made a mockery of the idea of privacy in the name of efficiency.
Gene therapy, agricultural genetic optimization, the nanomachine augmentation theories that Far Zenith took with themselves during their escape to the stars.
If I revealed any of this, it would make my earlier nuclear reactor revelation look like a gentle breeze in comparison to the furor that would result. It would be the Watt Engine all over again, and unlike the slow methodical replacement that launched the industrial revolution, nations and societies would have to adopt immediately or be left in the dust. There would be no choice in the matter.
I would never be able to live a normal life. This was an escalation in which I would never be able to return from. Other nations and factions would not stop at nothing to kill or co-opt me. And eventually, it could quite possibly trigger a war, and not just any war, but a world-spanning one.
And it was true, I knew that even when the Endbringers were finally destroyed, humanity would not know peace. There was an Aleph song, where it talked about how humanity drank from the water then turned around and put up walls to deny others that same lifegiving water. It was prophetic, humanity was selfish in that way. It didn't matter if I argued that the technology should be shared until I was blue in the face, I was only one person in the face of the geopolitics that drove the United States decision makers. Decisions that, even if they did choose to honor my wish, would likely only do it once they had an insurmountable advantage over others.
So I sat in that office, making plans with a supervillain. Plans that would reshape what cities meant to those living in them. Plans that I hoped would change the world for the better.
I don't think I could live with myself if it did otherwise.
1736 Hours
"I'll leave this with you. Sobek will have the documentation ready, you can pull a team for assembly and testing…Yes, liaise directly with Mr.Gabriel if he contacts you for details. Anything Sobek can't tell you, contact me directly…Thank you Jean. I'm heading to the LRL hand-off now. Talk to you another time."
I closed the call, relaxing for the first time in several hours as the car drove through the city. It was slow going, even with the quiet police escort that drove with us. Monica was completing her own calls next to me, her voice a comfortable low murmur.
After my talk with Alain I was feeling more hopeful. Speaking with the man showed just how dedicated he was to this project. An almost blank slate that he can build from? Make an orderly city and rebuild the local economy? The man might not emote much, but I think this is the happiest he's been in his life.
I was happy to leave the problem to him. I had done some data crunching with Sobek, to better compare the economic conditions of my Earth, and what I remembered of Elisabet's history.
Ironically, it hadn't been the Endbringers that had cut economic growth off at the knees, despite what was promoted by the PRT. It was, in actuality, the collapse of the Zhōngguó Gòngchǎndǎng, or Chinese Communist Party. While Nixon's visit to China had opened diplomatic and financial ties between the two countries and integrated China into the larger world economy, all that work was destroyed when the Aisin-Gioro retook power and established the Chinese Imperial Union.
Overnight, western economic access to China was completely severed as the country assumed an ultranationalist stance against 'Western exploitation' and has maintained that strict stance since.
As a result, Earth Bet never got to truly transition to a debt-based economy with China assuming large amounts of national debt bonds while becoming a worldwide source of cheap goods. This resulted in a lower worldwide GDP and more fiscally austere and risk-averse nations and economies. Furthermore, it retarded economic growth by degrees compared to Elizabet's world.
The Endbringers only served to worsen an already stagnating world economy.
One of the major chokepoints of any economy has always been resources. Many modern economies required resources that they did not have on hand or easy access to. Sobek's world had been interconnected in ways Bet hadn't achieved yet.
I would probably have to consider pushing for a revitalization of the shipping industry. Rail line modernization. Maybe get into shipbuilding. Maybe use the Boston Harbor Drydocks to make actual ships? I'm positive I could make something more reasonable then the toxic clunkers being used currently.
"Ma'am? We're here," Sam commented, and I was drawn out of my maudlin thoughts to look out at the building.
Because of the rescue oriented nature of the lance, it had been agreed that the Boston First Rescue Lance would be based out of a fire department. The only issue was that the logical placement no longer existed. Engine 10, Tower 3, of the Boston Fire Department has been located downtown and had been directly in the path of Leviathan's rampage. As a result, what remained of that station had been relocated to a machine shop just outside the devastation zone. It certainly did not have the glamor or utility that the 'Big House" did, but their job was saving people, not looking good.
I respected them more because of that.
A large warehouse and adjoining parking lot had been cleared to allow the BFD to park and maintain their engines and equipment. For today, the parking lot had been cleared, with the engines housed inside, and a trio of Zero Dawn flatbeds had been parked in a place of prominence. Men and women mingled and a few cameras had been set up by local journalists. I specifically hadn't wanted this to turn into a big ceremony. As far as I was concerned, I was merely handing over a tool to the people best suited to utilize it. Pomp and ceremony had no place in the practice of saving lives.
I spotted the ZDT engineers mingling, their Foci pinging identification tags. Lucius Fuchs and his team had agreed to stay in Boston for several weeks to train the new teams on the LRL maintenance requirements and other troubleshooting that would need to be handled. I didn't perceive that there would be any problems, but I wasn't going to discount it either. After all, I was merely the tool maker, and there was a stark difference between controlled settings and the actual field.
Sam held the door open as I stepped out of the armored suburban, enjoying the wind on my face after spending most of the day inside. I took the time to ditch the jacket, tossing it back into the cab, before rolling up my sleeves. As much as I had cultivated a corporate and professional image for myself, it would never be me. I was a child of the shop and field, breathing life into my creations and witnessing their success.
The crowds quieted as I wandered across the lot, Samantha in my shadow. I did my best to not be affected by the attention, preferring instead to run a status check on the machines of the Rescue Lance. My ping pulled the system into standby, feeding me data. After a moment, I was satisfied.
With a slight quirk of my lips that probably would be charitably called mischievous, I decided to be a little theatrical. After all, you should never leave a good audience hanging.
Facing the assembled machines, I took a deep breath.
"Alright lazybones! Up and at 'em! You've slept long enough," I pitched my voice louder, clapping my hands like I was waking up a dog caught napping on the job. All the while, I was using my eyes to run through the menus and activation commands to bring life to the machines. And one by one, they roused themselves to wakefulness.
The Watcher quartet lived up to their namesake, popping their heads up first while their stubby bodies remained resting. Necks craning and swiveling as they took in the new environment they found themselves in.
The pair of Burrowers, like the ferrets they were modeled after, uncurled from their ball. Hilariously, they both squawked and skittered off the trailer and onto the other side like they had been startled. Then they scrambled back up onto the flatbed, perching themselves on their hind legs and looking around. They chittered at the audience, their heads bobbing a few times.
Sparky the Scrapper seemed to yawn, his grinders revving a few times, before giving a stretch that would make any big cat proud. He had earned his name from the rescue crews and I had quietly updated his Code ID. Even etched his name below the neck joint, where a cat collar would have rested. To be a fly on the wall when someone found that.
The newly added Skydrifters hopped in place, wings giving off mechanical clicks as they shifted. They hadn't had enough time to solidify a personality yet. Of all the machines, they were probably the most malleable in terms of their machine learning. I had left clear instructions with the team to watch them closely and report any departures from projected behavior patterns.
Petrie the Sunwing kept himself folded up, aware enough to know that he didn't have enough safe clearance in order to extend his wings. Taking flight took far more space than what was available right now.
The Charger stood quickly, eyeing the lip of its flatbed cautiously. Even if it was only a few feet, the skittish machine pawed the edge carefully before jumping down. It gave a shake of its body as it returned to solid ground as if in relief.
But it was my Titan that stole the show. Bruce raised his massive head and let out a loud and long bellow. The call of a wild bison was deep, base, and oddly wet. Bruce's call instead reverberated in your bones, with an electrical undertone that made it clear that this was not a creature of flesh and blood. He stood slowly, one foot at a time raising his massive bulk. Even having built him myself, I was still giddy at the sheer physicality of the machine. He stepped down and the suspension of the truck groaned. A strong mechanical hoof pawed at the ground, before he gave a shake of his massive head.
I was smiling with giddy joy. These were my first creations and they were magnificent!
"Yes. Yes. Good morning. Good morning. Settle down before you go exploring," there was a strange feeling in my chest, as the machines immediately recognized me. There was a subtle undertone to their recognition inlaid within the code. It was a lot more complicated than the simple designation of 'creator' that I was tagged with.
As much as I wanted to separate myself from Elizabet, there was just too much similarity between the two of us. We had both become married to our similar causes in saving the world. So much so that it was singularly our focus. Sure, we both allowed ourselves our moments of divertissement, but they were always fleeting things meant to remind ourselves of what we were fighting for.
So it was difficult to maintain my emotions in the knowledge that they viewed me as their Mother.
Taking a deep cleansing breath, fighting back my emotions, I turned to face the crowd.
"I'm not going to talk much," I declared, letting my voice carry over the crowd, "this ceremony is about them," I gestured behind me to my children.
"It's about reacquainting you with Boston's First Rescue Lance. Now, before anyone worries; No, we did not modify their memories or programming. So for better or worse, they'll remember you."
I let that hang in the air for a moment, idly noting that a few people elbowed one another as chuckles spread across the crowd.
"My company believes in the cooperation between man and machine. That humans are meant to work alongside machines, not be replaced by them. Removing the human element would not only be detrimental to people, but also the machines as well. Some of you have proved that point before when Leviathan came to town. Now, you have the chance to do it again."
"Mr. Fuchs and his technicians are going to be with you for the next few weeks. They're here to teach how to maintain this rescue lance, but they also have plenty of experience in working alongside them. Don't be shy to ask questions," I waved a hand towards Lucius and his team, "Sorry to throw you at the problem, Lucius. I'll make it up to you, I promise," I added with a smile, playing the role a little harder. The man laughed along, so I think it landed properly.
Clapping my hands together, I continued, "Alright. First Rescue Lance of Boston, spread out, and prepare for inspection. Humans, mingle with your new teammates. Mr. Fuchs, spread your staff out. Any questions you can't answer, ping me. I'll be mingling."
Things broke up quickly after that, the machines spreading out as instructed. I found myself shaking hands with the Station Chief, Fire Commissioner, and Director of Disaster Management. It was light talk, exchanging thanks and so on. The details for integrating the machines, managing their repairs, and so on would be handled by Lucius. At a gentle pace, I moved between clusters of staff examining the machines, listening into the conversations.
A cluster of men were walking around the Charger, looking it over while a woman pulled out an apple. Clearly she had worked with this machine before. Because the Charge was designed to process Blaze, it could 'eat' most biological material. Which means that people could feed it treats just like a regular horse. And speaking of horses, the conversation reached my ears.
"So, this is a Charger?"
"Yeah," another responded to the questioner.
"Why does the horse have horns? Looks more like ram."
"Steve, it's a mechanical horse that eats anything organic, turns it into fuel, and then stores said fuel in the tank on its back," The speaker rapped his knuckles against the Charger's rear tank, earning himself an electronic huff from the machine, "The fact that it has horns doesn't matter. But to answer your question, they're chainsaws."
The man took a step back. Notably, the women feeding apples to the machine didn't react, "Uh…what?"
"Yeah, adjustable height, adjustable speed. The teeth aren't sharp, so it's more of a grinder than a cutting action. But you get them moving fast enough, and this bad boy can turn a power-pole into firewood in minutes," Silence fell after that declaration. "Why are you so focused on them anyways?"
"Well, they look like something you can attach reins to then. And if they keep saying it's a horse, that means we can ride it, right?"
There was a long pause.
"Hebert did ride it into Boston, didn't she?"
"Nope," it was the woman who spoke up, "Neither of you are going to even think about riding this beautiful machine. The last thing we need is one of you knuckleheads falling off, and ruining it for the rest of us. Let someone who knows what they're doing go first!"
"That still doesn't answer the question, though!"
I chuckled, watching as Clyde peeled off to interrogate a Zero Dawn tech for answers. I continued moving along before they spotted me. I really didn't want to get drawn into that conversation. As I moved, I found myself drawn into another conversation at the edge of my perception, as a group had gathered around the Titan.
"Hey there Bruce, you remember me?"
The mechanical groan that emanated from the Titan put a smile on the woman's face.
"I'll take that as a yes. Look at you! All fixed up an' shiny. They even added anchor points. I bet those'll come in handy! Hey, Tech guy! What's the storage looking like inside this thing?"
Eriksson, who had been watching the congregation as the team leader in charge of the Titan, spoke up, "The idea is for them to be modular, so they can change depending on the situation that the Titan is being deployed into. Medical, Search and Rescue, Fire Rescue, and so on. The company is sending a few extra containers in the next few days, while developing a few more. And before you ask, it takes about five to ten minutes to swap from one container to another."
I actually remembered the woman fawning over the Titan. Mandy…or maybe it was Mindy. She had offered to buy Bruce from me if I was going to 'kill' him. I didn't have the heart to tell her that Bruce had a several million dollar price tag. The Fire Chief and Disaster Coordinator made their excuses and peeled off, starting an animated discussion with Eriksson. They discussed inventory capacity, restocking and maintenance costs, along with the cargo distribution for the containers that Bruce could carry. The idea of having a rescue machine that could modularly carry different supplies into hard-to-reach areas was an attractive one for the more debris choked areas of Boston.
I wonder what they would think of the Cyclops Drone that I was sending along with the containers. In terms of drone design it was fairly simple, but it would allow a stable observation and scanning platform for rescuers to get a top-down perspective of a worksite. Jean had fought me on the production of these drones. Arguing that there was no demand for the product. ZSec, our security force, would find use for them patrolling the areas of the Docks and buildings, but…Jean was right. There wasn't a demand yet. I was hoping to create the demand by showing them in action in Boston, working alongside the LRL.
Now it was just Sam and I as we moved along, stepping off to the side as a commotion drew our attention.
Ah, that would do it. Petrie had just extended his wings, topping up his batteries before the evening sunset.
"Look at the wingspan on the guy," one person cried.
"They're big to capture as much sunlight as possible and to keep him aloft in the air. There might not be much to the frame, but what's there needs quite a bit in order to provide lift. It's actually kind of funny to see him relax and sun himself. Like a beachgoer soaking in the rays."
"So…how much lift are we talking?"
"No. You can't ride him."
"How did you…"
"Because you're the fifth person to ask so far. Look, at best you'll get a controlled glide down to the ground. So if you're stuck at the top of a building, he'll get you down. But he sure as hell isn't going to fly you up."
Still. Why did everyone want to ride my machines?! The Charger I could understand, it was modeled on an animal humans had ridden for millenia…but the Sunwing was functionally a Pteranodon. What sane individual would want to risk it? What was next? Requests to put a saddle on the Titan?!
After several more handshakes, and one unprompted photo of the occasion, I said my farewells. Crowds were never really a comfortable idea for me. My machines were now in the hands of those who would use them. That was enough for me.
The drive back to our accommodations was quiet. Herres was putting me up in one of the converted hotels that had become living quarters for army leadership. It was secure, private enough, and comfortable. I didn't need more. I was already reviewing what I needed to get done tonight. A review of the progress of Focus Communications, before my meeting with the chosen directors tomorrow. Work on Accord's engineering wishlist, and assign teams back in Brockton. Review the installation plans for the Focus Network Dish. Call Amy and see how she's doing. Maybe call Theo and see how he's doing. Do some quick design work for aquatic machines while they're relevant and on my mind. Discuss with Mr.Milton on what to expect tomorrow with Paige's verdict. Actually… check in on Paige and the team responsible for her care.
I began to work, losing myself in a digital world that only I could see.
Taylor Hebert
Boston, MA
May 22nd, 2011
0902 Hours
"Ms. Hebert, welcome back to Boston."
"Thank you, Colonel," I returned, using his preferred title as I shook his hand. Courtesy observed, we both settled into our respective chairs, the leather creaking around me at the sudden displacement.
I may not be able to see him beyond a computer generated simulacrum, I could at least tell, thanks to the biometrics provided by his Focus, that he was doing far better than he had been last month. That was at least some good news, I knew how much of a challenge that Boston had been for a man who had zero experience in running a state that had undergone a major disaster.
Normally, personal information would be locked beyond layers of security to provide privacy, but my Omega-Level access overrode those. I wasn't ready to unleash my inventions without any safeguards of course.
The older man acknowledged me with a nod, "Before we get to business, I'd like to offer my condolences for the loss of your people."
I raised a hand to stop him from going further. "Thank you, and I'll pass the wishes along. But we both know that we're busy people, and time waits for no one. Let's get into it."
Herres gave me a look for a moment, and I did my best to appear composed, confident, and…whatever else he might be looking for.
I knew that I had a problem. The combined memories and intelligence of a genius woman with a 2040s education gave me a good idea of where I was deficient. Namely, task orientation as a means of sidestepping emotional processing. My father threw himself into work. Elisabet did the same. And it turns out, I'm not all that different.
Point being, at the moment, there was nothing to be done. Well, nothing reasonable. The PRT/Police pushback against the Merchants had gone fantastically. Dozens of stash houses and labs had been emptied. Tons of drugs had been seized, hundreds of thousands of dollars in drug money collected. Hundreds of arrests. Yes, we hadn't gotten Skidmark. And yes, the Empire was attempting to deny any involvement in the bastard's disappearance despite enough circumstantial evidence indicating otherwise.
No. I did not want to discuss it.
There was nothing more that I wanted to do than to put the screws to Max Anders, despite the self-acknowledgement of how self-sabotagingly foolish it would be. This was one area where Elisabet's knowledge failed me. She never had to deal with people who could turn a room into an abattoir with a mere flex.
Furthermore, as distasteful as it was to admit, the Empire's existence had a moderating effect upon the local criminal elements of Brockton Bay. Unlike the Merchants, the Empire and ABB could be reasoned with and operated by a set of rules. They could also rationalize the benefits of a recovering Brockton Bay.
Well, Max Anders could. And that was what mattered. Despite promoting such virulently racist and anti-semitic rhetoric, he was an opportunist and businessman first. He could weigh the cost-benefit of short- and long-term opportunities provided by a resurgent Brockton Bay.
And he was capable enough to utilize it in both of his personas.
I viciously dismissed the thoughts. It was an unnecessary diversion from the here and now. Anders' time would come, it was no use dwelling upon any of that. Not when I had more important things to focus upon.
"Nonetheless, if you require anything, don't hesitate to ask. The State of Massachusetts and the CIty of Boston owe you a debt that cannot be repaid."
"Thank you, Colonel. While I certainly appreciate the offer in the spirit it was made, I feel it's best if it went without acceptance, considering the current political currents."
The Colonel's expression hardened as it reflected my own thoughts. In recent days, there had been concerns in the media about the 'propriety' of the relationship between Colonel Herres in his role as acting governor and Zero Dawn Technologies. Several pundits had raised alarm over the economic zone and the contracts that I was here to ink that would provide the state with additional Foci and requisite support systems.
Of course, it was a complete and utter crock of shit. Herres was the consummate professional, and if anything, he was taking advantage of me. I was adding a five percent markup to show positive cash flow into the company, and then reinvesting that money right back into growth. The City of Boston was getting new wireless infrastructure, a rescue lance of machines which can act in a variety of roles, and several thousand Focus devices to use in rebuilding the city's bureaucracy.
"Some of my advisors have voiced concerns in your interest in the land occupied by the Boston Naval Yard."
I blinked, an entirely unnecessary motion given that I was blind, but still, "Mr.Gabriel hasn't already informed you?"
The Boston Naval Yard had been a national historical site after its closure in 1974. Unfortunately, it had also been near ground zero of Leviathan's rampage. All that remained of the site and surrounding area that had not been scoured by the waves were skeletons of buildings and large tracts of debris. The only thing that had even survived intact had been the USS Constitution, and only by dint of unbelievable luck.
"He's been diligent in working with us regarding the management and growth of the economic zone. However, he hasn't said a word about the Yards. He claimed, quite pointedly mind you, that it was "ZDT's concern and thus not our problem," Herres kept his tone professional, but the irritation was there.
"That man…," I sighed, rubbing my temple. I was going to have to talk to him about his attitude, "I can explain it now if you have the time."
"By all means. I'll add that Mr. Gabriel has done exemplary work, which means that my staff and I are perfectly willing to deal with his eccentricities. This was just an isolated incident."
Pulling up my file directory, I swiped through options until I found a mockup of the Yards. Projecting it, and setting the image to 'public' let Herres review it with me.
"As we both know, there's hardly anything left of the yards. It was ground zero for Leviathan's arrival."
The aftermath of a tsunami, or any large wave, was humbling to behold. Buildings were reduced to skeletons, landscapes became flat plains of debris, roads cracked and washed away as the land underneath was eroded. It was Mother Nature at her most enraged. A reminder of how small we were in the scheme of things.
"My goal is to use the infrastructure that exists, roads, rail lines, power infrastructure, industrial zoning, all of it. In the long term, it will become the primary assembly and distribution point for Zero Dawn Technologies. Brockton Bay will take care of research and development with some of the production facilities in order to produce prototypes, institute low-rate initial productions in order to iron out any kinks and host our corporate offices."
Letting him digest what I said for a moment, I then continued.
"But that's a long term goal. In the short term, I'll be using the slipways to develop and construct amphibious, littoral, and deep-ocean based machines. We envision these machines to take on roles of environmental cleanup, subsurface mapping, diving assistance, and even heavy salvage assistance if we get the production lines working. Geographically, Boston provides easy access to the Stellwagen Bank, which will assist in the development of machines as time goes on."
Sometimes, the aftermath of a wave is as bad as the wave itself. Sewage systems flooded, then retreated back with the waves. The accumulated trash of a city mixed with the newly created debris all flowed back into the ocean, or rather, Boston Harbor in this case. Even over a month on, the surface of Boston Harbor was a soup of garbage. And that was dangerous. Algae blooms, chemical contamination, habitat die-off, animal entanglement, damage to boats and engines as they tangled in trash.
Herres sighed like a man who felt a weight lift off his shoulders.
"And I suppose these are going to be local hires?"
I nodded in confirmation, pulling up a list of names on the display window, "I have a core team that will arrive to get things started, but beyond that? Yes, local people will be the majority of the workforce."
"So, jobs in the short term while you build and repair, and then more jobs as you build and expand, then more jobs when you get up to scale. Plus restoration of transport and infrastructure. And more jobs for that."
The man smiled for the first time since we'd sat down.
"Ms.Hebert, you are going to make people very happy with this news. I assure you of that."
Something in the way he said it made me concerned.
"Problems in the city?"
A blind man couldn't miss the grimace that flickered on Herres' face before he sighed, his hands unsteepling as he leaned forward on the desk. The level gaze he was giving me told me almost everything I needed to know, even if he did add context.
"Officially? We are now well ahead of schedule for holding the elections on time. Furthermore, it looks like we will be having the Boston Marathon a few days before the handover. Unofficially? If you'll pardon my bluntness, it's a goddamn mess. Basic cleanup is going to take months. And that's if Congress doesn't decide that it's better to just write Boston off. I've got a world-class team; but even we can't work miracles unless we have the resources."
I couldn't help but ask the question that had been burgeoning in the back of my mind.
"Is that why the 10th Mountain's deployment has been extended indefinitely."
I could tell that I surprised Herres with the question. Then again, many adults would have difficulty putting the pieces together. The 10th Mountain wasn't there to assist anymore. It was there to ensure that shit didn't hit the proverbial fan.
"Unfortunately," Herres ground out, "everyone has their own vision of how the reconstruction should happen. Your BASE initiative was a lifesaver and has already helped tremendously, but it's also caught the eyes of special interests, who are leaning on their political reps for a slice of the city. Then you have arguments of which areas get money first, which constituents are being unfairly favored, and so on and such bullshit."
"And," he added, his disgust readily apparent, "It's election season and none of those suits wants to be responsible for an increase in taxes to their constituency for a city that could be on the other side of the country."
It was a frustration that I felt and heard clearly. It always boiled down to the same thing. People weren't working together.
It would be so much easier if everyone worked together.
"Alright. Fine," I bit out, fingers twitching in my lap, "Then we'll fix things ourselves I suppose. What do you think will realistically happen?"
"If you want me to be realistic," Herres asked. The sigh that escaped his lips did not inspire me with any sort of confidence, "They'll probably offer up some sort of backhanded pittance. Just enough for the city to keep barely above water until after the election cycle is over and the media loses interest. The next Endbringer attack will both draw attention away, and remind people we're relevant. So we'll probably see the 'windfall' then."
I breathed. Letting the problem settle and letting my mind slowly dissect it. Elisabet was good at that. Taking a problem apart, understanding the pieces, identifying what was important, what were the possible knockon effects, and what key points needed to be fixed.
The obvious answer was more tech. But the world wasn't ready for more tech. There was a societal impact to new technology, to the way that it changed people's lives. It changed expectations, changed systems. And perhaps most importantly, it changed societal matrices. I was already pushing the envelope dangerously close as I was. While the Focus could easily be explained as merely an advanced logical progression of current mobile communications devices, the machines on the other hand, well…suffice to say it might as well be Clarke's Third Law made manifest. There was such a breadth of technologies and ideas that had simply not yet been explored in Earth Bet to make the technology viable.
The Augmented/Virtual Reality tech that the Focus functioned on was even worse. Those not using a Focus would immediately find themselves isolated from a new layer of social reality. Which was both good and bad. Elisabet's time had its share of problems with AR/VR, which only got worse as the line between the digital world and the brain got more and more thin.
I wasn't even going to touch on the prevalence of AIs in all levels of society.
Suffice to say, more tech would stress the systems that were already steadily fraying at the seams. Gradual change was needed. Sudden change was usually violent change. Already, the warning signs were beginning to appear as other nations were becoming aware of just how far ahead the United States was by the simple fact that Zero Dawn was based in it.
So… how to work the problem.
If external aid wasn't going to arrive in a satisfying amount, or time, then it meant either coercing external aid, or finding alternative sources. OR we focus on internal growth and complete the restoration that way.
We needed a plan. And I had the man who made plans working with me. There was a lot to discuss with Acc-
"Miss Hebert?"
My attention snapped back to the present, where Herres was looking at me with a mixture of expectation and concern. I felt myself blush at losing myself in my thoughts in a setting like this.
"Sorry about that," I got out, "I don't suppose that the state government would be able to pick up any of the slack?"
Herres snorted, "Massachusett's state budget was eighteen billion last year. Even if I could activate full austerity measures, which I legally can't, mind you, it wouldn't even scratch the paint of the reconstruction costs. We're talking well in excess of half-a-trillion dollars to restore Boston to at least a semblance of what it was."
"So that's a definite no, then," I offered, trying to inject some levity into the situation. However, from Herries reaction, he didn't seem to appreciate it. Releasing another sigh, I again made some mental adjustments.
"Let's drop it for now," I finally allowed, folding my hands into my lap. It was the best way to convey a shift away from the tension by lowering it through body language, "ignoring the federal elephant in the room, how is rebuilding going?"
"Like I said before, we're ahead of schedule. Utilities are about ninety percent restored. Water treatment is still unable to meet demand, so there is still a boil order in effect. We hope to have full capacity by the end of the month."
He then accessed his Focus, sending her a databurst. She accepted it and looked through the information as he kept talking, his expression now becoming grave.
"We now come to the heart of every single problem, Downtown Boston."
I remained silent, perusing the data and I could see why he highlighted it. It was both the economic heart of Boston and the most devastated area.
"I've talked to the people involved in New York City's rebuilding. They all say the same thing, it would have been better off if it had been Behemoth who had attacked Boston. At least he would have slagged everything in his path, then it would be easy to rebuild that way."
I noted he left off the last Leviathan attack on US soil; it was understandable though. Seattle hadn't been directly impacted by Leviathan, it has only received moderate damage from waves. Leviathan's target had been Naval Station Bremerton, which the Endbringer had scoured off the face of the Earth.
"We've got hundreds of millions of tons of debris, a lot of it toxic, covering the area," Herres continued, "the best we've been able to do is divert water and energy away from the area, but if we're going to restore Boston, we're going to need a hell of a lot more heavy lift capacity and somewhere to dispose all of the debris safely and without creating new problems."
"Are there any companies that socialize in Endbringer cleanup," I asked, continuing my notations, "you would think there would be a demand for something like that."
"You would think so," Herres replied, his expression turning wry, "Unfortunately, all Endbringer cleanup has to be routed through the PRT and that makes it unprofitable. Another consideration is that this has only been the fourth Endbringer attack on US soil. Luckily, the local PRT rep has actually been working with us."
"Who's the rep?"
"Battery."
"She's Protectorate," I pointed out, unable to hide my surprise. As far as I knew, the Protectorate and PRT were distinct entities where the PRT maintained oversight of the Protectorate
"Some sort of pilot program. I don't know what's going on with the PRT and frankly it doesn't matter to me. The elections are next month and I'll be handing the reins to someone else. They've been rebuilding a team, from the few survivors and pulling in the independents that have popped up or drifted into the city."
We continued talking for another hour, Herres inquiring about more support on the Foci Systems, specifically around cross-compatibility with existing legacy programs, and additional programs to fill in administrative gaps. Specifically around record maintenance, a lot of records had been lost in the attack. As a result, Herres wanted to digitize as much as possible to back up hard copies.
I left the meeting feeling mixed. Boston had a chance for recovery. Clean up was clearly on track, but it would need help. It was a question of where that help came from. We would need to turn Boston into more than a recovery story.
Boston would have to become far more than the industrial heart of Zero Dawn.
It would have to become the beacon of the future.
AEH
Hey everyone, this is the Backpack Traveler Travis, coming to you from slightly sunny Boston. Now I want to be clear. This is one of those places that has a 'feel' to it. You walk through here, and it's got a weight to it. And it's hard to put into words. So bear with me.
*A Camera pans around the semi-circle of raised stones*
So let's keep it respectful everyone. I know you've got it in you.
This is the Boston Endbringer Memorial. Each of these stones? Etched with the names of every confirmed dead from the attack. Yes, confirmed dead. There's a section dedicated to the unknown missing.
And this stone holds the names of every person who died trying to help others. Not just capes. Every police officer, firefighter, good samaritan, and citizen who died trying to help.
At the center of all this is sculpture. The artist used recycled metal rods pulled from the wreckage to make this sculpture of a woman. Flowing hair, bent back as she gazes at the sky, reaching for the stars. It's beautiful. And it lines up with Herres's speech when he inaugurated this memorial. Hope is important. Amidst all this death, the tragedy, the loss… a better tomorrow is possible as long as we keep working towards it. If you haven't seen his speech, I really recommend it.
This has been Travis, in Boston. Next stop? Not sure, but I'll keep you updated.
*A Camera pans around the semi-circle of raised stones*
So let's keep it respectful everyone. I know you've got it in you.
This is the Boston Endbringer Memorial. Each of these stones? Etched with the names of every confirmed dead from the attack. Yes, confirmed dead. There's a section dedicated to the unknown missing.
And this stone holds the names of every person who died trying to help others. Not just capes. Every police officer, firefighter, good samaritan, and citizen who died trying to help.
At the center of all this is sculpture. The artist used recycled metal rods pulled from the wreckage to make this sculpture of a woman. Flowing hair, bent back as she gazes at the sky, reaching for the stars. It's beautiful. And it lines up with Herres's speech when he inaugurated this memorial. Hope is important. Amidst all this death, the tragedy, the loss… a better tomorrow is possible as long as we keep working towards it. If you haven't seen his speech, I really recommend it.
This has been Travis, in Boston. Next stop? Not sure, but I'll keep you updated.
AEH
1315 Hours
I ate my quick lunch of a rather bland turkey and rye flatbread sandwich while Monica gave me a run down on the local elections. Her responsibility as my executive assistant had been slowly ramping up as she had gotten the experience. Now, she was handling almost every facet of my itinerary, from scheduling, to ensuring that I eat properly, even providing my outfit for the day.
It was almost creepy at how easily she had slid into the position.
"Mr. Scanlan's camp is the latest candidate to reach out for some kind of comment from you. As with the others, he would prefer to have a moment of your time, a press event, or even an endorsement."
The car slowed as I chewed, processing the latest instance of someone trying to use my name for their own ends. As Herres had pointed out, the elections were about a month away. Everything from a Congressional Representative seat, to City Council seats were on the ballot. And as the current hot commodity in Boston, the candidates believed that securing my endorsement was the difference between victory and defeat.
"Monica, please contact the local media outlets. I'll send them a blanket statement regarding the elections. They can do with it what they will. Draft a polite message of rejection for anyone else who calls asking for my endorsement."
Crinkling up the sandwich wrapper and placing it aside. I made sure to take a drink before I pulled up a recording file on my Focus. For a few minutes, I considered what I should say. My goal of adjusting society and guiding progress would eventually necessitate me getting involved in politics. Hell, I was already working hand in hand with the Vice-President. But there was a difference between quiet support and active support. The latter was much more problematic. In the end, I wanted people to become invested in the direction of their city, and of their future.
And yes, the fact that I couldn't legally vote, despite being emancipated, did add some humor to the whole situation.
"There is nothing so great as a man or woman who strives valiantly. Whose face is marred by dust, sweat, and blood. Boston, this historic city of our republic, has been hurt. There is no denying that this event will be spoken of for years to come. But my hope is that the coming events will be spoken of in the same sentence. Of how people rallied together, and rebuilt what was broken.
This election is the next step in rebuilding. It is the choice that will define the future of your lives. Of your children's lives. The men and women chosen will take their seats during the most trying time this state has faced since its founding in 1788. You have a chance to chart the future. That chance is in the ballot that you will cast. I encourage everyone to vote for the future that you want, and the men and women that you trust to see that future into reality."
After saving the audio file, I forwarded it to Sobek for cleanup. Satisfied with that done, I glanced at Monica who was looking at me wide-eyed. I resisted blushing. Maybe paraphrasing Roosevelt was too much? I needed to speak to voters, and…nevermind. I'll get a second opinion. Jean would have something to say. We really did need to fill the Public Relations and Marketing positions… Another thing to add to the list.
"After Sobek is done, we'll review it, maybe send it by Jean, before sending it out. Next item?"
We worked out a few more issues before arriving at my next meeting of the day. The offices of the Boston Autonomous Special Enterprise where I would be meeting Alain. It was a modest five story office building in Waltham, which was well positioned in the center of the BASE area.
I let Monica fuss over me for a moment, making sure I was presentable. Not like I could check for spots on my shirt with my condition.
Elisa Bauer had thoroughly adopted the role of Monica Stele, executive assistant to Taylor Hebert. She had a deep understanding of my methods, my quirks, and concerns. She knew, in intimate detail, the disquiet that I felt in trusting people.
She had walked a mile in my shoes, and internalized the journey.
Elisa/Monica had reshaped her entire personality to be the best personal assistant possible. She didn't respect me… she worshipped me. And I was NOT comfortable with that. Because I wasn't a hero. I never would be a hero.
I was just a woman trying to do her best.
A pedestal was sometimes as isolating as a cage.
Walking in, I was greeted by a crisp young man who led us through introductions and greetings for the staff that had been hired on. After shaking hands and exchanging greetings, we moved through the orderly crowd as Sam hovered at my elbow. Her staff had arrived earlier in the day, vetting the staff, clearing the building, and generally ensuring that my safety was assured. The office workers seemed to have no complaints over the treatment, eagerly talking about their positions and how I had impacted their lives.
Finally, we were ushered out to the top floor, where the atmosphere of the building changed. My erstwhile ally had made his influence felt. As the villain Accord, the man was known for being uncompromising in organization, symmetry, and aesthetics. The man was fixated on imposing order onto the world. Each desk was organized exactly the same. Each wall hanging was placed at the same elevation and distance from the previous. Even the people were dressed in similar fashion. Pressed suits, tailored dresses, appearance maintained. It lacked the warmth and comradery that the lower floors had exhibited. The behavior of the staff, and of our guide, reminded me of Jean, before her time at ZDT had mellowed her slightly.
A crisp knock and our guide opened the door for us, stepping aside for us to pass. Mr.Gabriel stood from the table, keeping his hands clasped in front of himself.
"Ms.Hebert"
"Mr.Gabriel"
Courtesies were short, but that was how we both liked it. We sat, and tea was placed in front of me. No spoon, the man probably didn't like the sound. I accepted it, slowly sipping from it and resisting the urge to sigh at the exquisite taste. The man certainly had a deft touch with tea.
I had spent some time leading up to this meeting researching Accord. The best way to understand the man was through the lens of high level, functional autism. His desire for order was a compulsion. The question, of if the man gaining powers worsened his condition or developed it, was academic.
The rest was complicated. This wasn't a situation like Max Anders. Anders was obsessed only with himself, the only reason he tolerated me was because he believed that I could further ascend his legacy.
Accord, on the other hand, was a different beast altogether. He was personally credited with sixteen confirmed murders, with upwards of twenty attributed to himself, his gang, or his influence. And yet, before Leviathan, the regions under his 'control' were considered the safest in Boston. Exclusive, a touch elitist, and run on a protection ratchet, but still safe. Violent crime was in the single digits compared to other regions, sexual assaults were nonexistent, and the drug trade was heavily regulated by Accord's Ambassadors.
"Mr.Gabriel. Before we begin, I was hoping to clear the air between us. You've been a tremendous help in agreeing to take on management of the BASE initiative. But you have to know that continued interaction puts us both at risk given your past affiliations. So, respectfully I have to ask, why?"
Thankfully though, Accord merely sipped his own drink, a dark, chocolatey coffee that didn't impose on my enhanced sense of smell.
"Because you represent an opportunity for change, on a magnitude that we haven't seen since Scion appeared or Behemoth first erupted from the earth."
"Civilization is built on systems. Strong economies are built on appropriate regulations, structures of exchange, a stable social matrix, agreements between parties and more. Learned men and women are produced by structured education systems that encourage development. The systems are safeguarded by strong and independent courts that can be trusted to regulate all levels of the populace and deliver fair and just judgments."
Accord paused, measuring the weight of what he said next.
"This country is fundamentally broken. It is the divine right of man to rebel when the system inevitably fails to fulfill its mandated purpose."
This wasn't some random run-of-the-mill militant antigovernment extremist that seemed to be growing more prevalent by the day spouting such nonsense. This was a well-educated and put-together man who, while being a criminal, had shown none of those predilections.
The only question I had was whether this was a rationalization of his criminality, or his raison d'être. It would be telling of who Alain Gabriel truly was.
There was a soft rasping of cloth as Sam shifted slightly from her vigil behind me. I made it a point to ignore her as I parsed his words. The room was empty outside of Accord, myself, Sam and a well dressed attendant who stayed in the background.
"This is a distillation of the works of Thomas Paine, John Locke, and Thomas Jefferson, among others," he explained, settling into a practice lecturing tone.
"These systems of civilization were broken by greed, sloth, inexperience, naivety, and a dozen other illnesses of the soul that people in power suffer from. These systems were carved at and twisted until they were made to profit a few at the expense of the many. This offends me!" The man said, his tone dripping venom. And for a moment I could see the villain that committed murder by his own hand. But then, decisions made in polished offices by men in suits can be just as murderous. Elisabet's memories flashed back to the holocall with Farro. There is a glitch in the Chariot line.
Accord began to speak again. "The waste, the inefficiency, the potential wasted because small minded men and women can not conceive of impact outside their immediate circle. Your technology is the disruption needed to reform these systems before it is too late. You, Ms. Hebert, are a storm, one much needed to wash away the old and the complacent and prune the world of deadweight."
I drank my tea, feeling the warmth for a moment to steady myself. Outside of his outburst, Accord had remained calm, cultured, articulated in his dismissal of the systems governing society. The worst part was that I could hardly fault him for his frustrations. I shared them. Elisabet had lived in a time of environmental collapse, rampant shifts in population, the explosion of poverty and privation, and the abusive yoke of corporations.
And yet, for all of its flaws, humanity was capable of truly great things, as well.
Her world had been defined by the 'Clawback Era' a time of cooperation where humanity set about fixing the planet that they themselves had ruined. In my timeline, countless men and women threw themselves against creatures that had never suffered defeat. Time and again, people from every walk of life, every nationality and generation stepped up in defence against the Endbringers. They succeeded only in limiting the damage, but sometimes that was enough.
Maybe that was the difference between her and I… this dead woman whose memories I carried. Elisabet Sobeck had loved the planet. She loved nature. She loved humanity. Not as individuals, but as a concept. The same way that you might love a forest, but not individual trees.
I didn't love like she did. Again and again, people have failed me. I didn't love nature, the planet, the same way she did. I wasn't even sure if I could love anymore.
But I wanted to help.
Because of my father, who struggled to keep things working, even when everything else failed.
Because of my mother, who had read me stories too complicated for a child to understand, then took the time to break it down into ideas I could comprehend.
I had the tools to make a difference. To make all the pain I had suffered, mean something. I didn't want to hurt anyone, but I was coming to understand that, by my actions, people would be hurt.
But I still wanted to help.
"With all that being said, Ms.Hebert. I trust your curiosity is satisfied?"
I decided to channel Elizabet in answering him. It felt only fair to meet his previous quote with one that Elizabet kept in her private study. A quote that had helped carry her through Enduring Victory from a man who wholeheartedly supported the pursuit of science even if he may not have agreed with the conclusions gained thereof.
"Cosmic evolution may teach us how the good and the evil tendencies may have come about; but, in itself, it is incompetent to furnish any better reason why what we call good is preferable to what we call evil."
He tilted his head slightly, "I don't recognize the quote."
"Thomas Huxley," I took another draft of the tea, noting that it was almost empty. "Thank you for indulging my curiosity. I don't see any problems working together going forward. I think we can both agree that rapid change is often violent change. A more methodical approach is needed, something that your skills are uniquely suited for."
"To our partnership, Mr.Gabriel," I stressed the partner in my words, raising my tea cup and finishing the last of it.
The man nodded, the ghost of a smile in the corner of his lips. "Then let us plan for the future, Ms.Hebert."
"Let's."
Alain lightly tapped his Focus, the device flaring to life, and I accepted the handshake connection between our Foci. Immediately, I found myself sharing the data that he wanted to present to me.
"In the nine days since your announcement of the initiative, I have been tracking public sentiment. On a local level, we are viewed favorably. The state and national level shows a decline in favorability. A lot of the negativity revolves around the morality of corporations operating a special economic zone within Boston. Both Gene and myself have assets monitoring public trends for the time being. It's nothing that can be truly helped until we start showing progress and successes."
I nodded, it made sense. We could probably do more to present a better message, but it would be a waste of finite resources in the long run. Elisabet believed that success was the killer of doubt, and if we truly wanted to get rid of BASE's skeptics, then we needed to show them success.
Gene flicked two fingers up, "Shemanefer, display local map, full notations."
Holoprojectors came online, sending a wave of light across the table. Hovering in the air, the regions accorded to BASE were marked out, then zoomed in on. Buildings shifted from 2D to 3D, allowing us to look over the urban area like gods from on high. Buildings, shops, residential areas, all colour coded and annotated. This wasn't the map of the BASE area currently, this was the city as we would reshape it to be.
A greater emphasis had been put on accessibility, a mix of walking paths and public transport systems. Ease of transportation would reduce car costs for residents, and the creation of new green spaces would reduce city heat and act as a buffer for noise. Cloth awnings were draped strategically to create and encourage seating.
After seeing the world through wireframes, having a proper digital interactive display made my heart soar. Accord began to walk me through his process.
"The development plan has been my sole focus for the past week, and the framework is complete. With today's contribution from yourself, I will be able to finalize it. We have already begun taking in applications," Accord leveled me with hard eyes, an effect diminished by my blindness. But the tone of his voice made his intentions clear, "Any serious deviation after this point will be… irritating."
Left unsaid was what he would do to those who interfered with his grand plan. It was likely to be significant, and not always proportional in its retaliation.
With a wave of his hand, the map updates with colors, "I've retained the services of several urban planning experts, and have begun outlining the end result of the reconstruction. The rebuilding will take place in stages, with milestones needing to be met before we expand further. Meeting or exceeding the Pre-Leviathan metrics will take years."
I nodded. The reconstruction was always going to be a long term effort.
"We will begin with mass market vendors and transportation. We already have interested parties being vetted," Several buildings flashed briefly, well distributed across the area, "Freight transportation and delivery has been simple, however the civilian transport system requires coordination with Herres and the greater Boston recovery team to ensure standardization once we hand back control."
He looked at me for a moment, "As does your push for a more localized policing system."
"You have concerns," I asked quietly, perfectly willing to listen to the man whose entire power was planning.
"Yes. First, the manpower distribution and requirements. Small, community police presence will require a greater number of people in uniform. Second, there's a distinct cultural nuance to the Koban system that I believe you are missing. The reason it is so effective is due to the cultural bias towards the individual being part of the collective that dominates eastern culture. It is much the glue making the system effective than any discernible police efforts. I will agree the decentralized nodal structure would provide decreased reaction times to crimes. However, it opens the door to balkanization and increased chances for localized corruption."
I chose not to answer immediately. The Koban system was a policing system popularized in Japan. In essence, it was a decentralized nodal system that dispersed officers into smaller "boxes", literally putting the police inside the communities they are meant to protect. The level of interaction with the public was higher, with officers expected to keep up to date with local affairs and serve as sources of information to the public. It changed the police from a force coming into the situation, to a trusted figure that the locals had interacted with, joked with, eaten beside. Considering Boston's police force was going to be stretched thin for the foreseeable future, I believed this system would maximize the zone's ability to police itself without putting additional undue stress on the Boston police departments.
"This is true, we do need to be aware of cultural considerations. However, as you stated before, a storm has swept away the old. There is a strong sense of community cooperation among the survivors of Boston, and capitalizing on that sentiment now to implement a new system will bolster our chance of successful implementation,"I countered in reply to his concerns. And Accord's concerns were very valid. In regards to the collective vs individual, the Koban system did rely upon both that and the cultural impetus on honor. It was what made Japan stable even now despite the apocalyptic damage it sustained from Leviathan.
Accord bowed his head slightly, looking over the map.
Part of my push for the new system was my learned distrust of the Brockton Police. Like many young people in my city, there was no single incident that I could point at that soured me to the BBPD. Just the consistent evidence of gang activity, late police presence, and the grumbling of the adults who had stopped expecting better from the people meant to protect them.
The only reason I knew of the Koban system was because of Elisabet's memories. In the early 2050s, when the majority of the world had moved towards a full robotic police and military force, Japan had remained one of the last developed nations to maintain a majority of human officers. The public pushback against the proposal to modernize the National Police Agency with robotic officers had seen the sitting government nearly removed from office. Police had been part of the community, not an 'other' that people were ambivalent about. Elisabet had actually been approached for advice on policy after the pushback. Her actions during the Clawback era had made her, and her company, a recognized name across the islands of the Pacific.
"On the topic of manpower, we have a technological edge that we can use to bridge the gap."
With that declaration, I accessed my private files and forwarded him a series of them. I watched as his eyebrows rose after a minute or so of reading.
"I see…"
"The Merchants attack made me consider additional security enhancements to better protect my company and workers. However, I also realized that these same systems for security, could also be adapted for police work with a few tweaks of the design and programming. After discussing it with my chief of security, who happens to have a police background, we have developed the Argos."
Adam had been crucial in the redesign. The Argos was a heavily modified Scrapper unit. First, the internals had been removed or modified. Scrappers were designed to break down metals and materials into smaller and smaller increments, then store that material in pellet form. All of that had been removed, allowing for more artificial muscle fibers. This was needed to handle the addition of form-fitted armor plating, a weapon pod that rested at the high point of the back, and hardpoints for police and security tools. The grinder head had been replaced by a head with additional sensors and a unique 'grabber' jaw that could capture and restrain a limb without injury.
The armor was the first example of actual armor material that would leave my forges. Thin, lightweight, and, most importantly, retaining a degree of flexibility, it was still rated to resist rifle rounds thanks to the unique molecular bonding of the process. The fortunate, or unfortunate, side effect of the material was that the forging process left it bleached bone white. It did mean that we could easily paint the unit the required police colours.
We even had light strips to recreate police strobes mounted on the shoulder joints.
The 'weapons' pod was a misnomer, as the weapons contained in the pod were less-than-lethal. A belt-fed thirty millimeter short-barreled medium-velocity grenade launcher that could store up to thirty-two of the improved confoam grenades. Packed inside was the new solution that I developed to impress Piggot. It would fire single rounds with an airburst detonator. The standard load would only be a dozen grenades before needing to be reloaded. Backing that up was a taser system mounted in the jaws, energy for sixteen charges before recharge or swapping capacitors. It could tap into the Argos' own energy reserves, but only in emergency situations.
Hardpoints on the exterior had space to strap a small medical kit, or police tools like zipties, tap, or communication equipment.
All in all, the Argos was designed to operate alongside police, complementing human officers and allowing them to focus on the more human-oriented aspect of policing. They would serve as a second pair of eyes for officers operating on solo patrol. The ideal use scenario would be teams of four, two human officers, and two Argos units. But given the stretched nature, it was likely that the current ratio would be one human operator and three machines.
The most challenging aspect was the programming, something I was still working to perfect. The difference in thinking between a rescue machine and law enforcement machine was extensive. It required threat detection, behavior prediction, threat escalation and descalation, an understanding of appropriate force, and smooth interactions with the human partners. Consider the range of activities that a police officer might engage in… from writing tickets, mediating disputes, transporting criminals, securing a crime scene and a dozen other things that I had no idea of.
I also wanted the Argos to be approachable, friendly, and interactive. Public perception was important to get them to view the Argos unit as a public protector. A loyal guardian of peace and order.
A police variant of the Skydrifter, and the Sunwing were both in development, but those brought up even more privacy concerns than the Focus and the Argos unit. I would see how the city used the LRL that I was giving them before moving forward with flying support.
"The goal of the design is force multiplication, allowing one officer to always have backup on hand. If someone sees an Argos unit on the street, it means an officer is likely within two hundred meters. We don't want to remove the human element from the streets, we want to augment what they can do."
Which would be a godsend for a police department that had been gutted by Leviathan and would take quite some time to bring back up serviceable levels. It was bad enough that the Boston Police Department was actively recalling retired officers to help anywhere they could.
"I can see what you are trying to do with this," Alain finally spoke several minutes later. I had let him work in silence as I considered my own possible adjustments to the idea. The Koban System would still be a hard sell to a society that was raised upon the idea of centralized police nodes in the form of stations and roaming patrols. Those systems would stay in place, but would instead serve as rapid response and coordination centers, "and it should work with your proposed system. The only issue I am finding is who is going to pay for this. You're suggesting one hundred and sixty of these Argos spread between Boston and BASE."
I couldn't help the wince that I gave. That was another weak point of the plan: paying for the machines. Functionally, BASE was an organization dealing with a pot of money, with the mission of spending that money to rebuild Boston. Accord was responsible for building a plan to spend/distribute that pot. The idea was to give out loans, and a plan to rebuild businesses, who would then spend money in turn. Economies grow when money moves.
The 'pot' had been filled by contributions by ZDT, Far Zenith, and several personal contributions from Mr.Gabriel. The return on money invested was not going to be high, but the prestige of having contributed was a selling point. My hope was that companies and wealthy donors would pay in because it was the right thing to do.
Yes, I also reminded myself to contain my idealism.
Even putting these machines at cost plus five percent, we were looking at around one million dollars per unit once the logistics of maintaining them and cost of training became involved. Thankfully, I had taken almost the entire book on modular forging and production of Elizabet's world to heart, which drove down the cost significantly as I could easily change production tracks and quickly recycle the molds for parts into something new. It was a large part of the reason I was able to quote a much lower price in comparison to the original LRL, as the system was now self-sustaining in comparison to the original artisanal production system. It was still nothing compared to some of the more advanced production methods developed like molecular furnaces and forges, but it was enough to keep prices sane.
Huh, I should probably introduce/patent that process soon, I completely forgot about that, focusing instead on just producing what was needed. Just the idea of modular forging and production would kickstart the economy significantly with higher production at much lower costs per unit.
But I was getting sidetracked. The pot only held so much. And the larger financial concerns were outside of my control. So I said as much, "I will leave the calculations in your capable hands. We are going to complete a first run of Argos units to augment ZDT security. I can keep you apprised of their performance if you wish?"
Accord nodded, and Monica made a note.
"What about finding new investors? Has anyone of note shown an interest," I asked, hoping for some good news.
"At the moment, nothing concrete. I have what remains of Far Zenith making inquiries, but the majority of my effort will be on using the resources. Not finding them," Accord quickly moved the conversation forward.
"Moving on, it's my belief that Boston requires three things as priorities; Construction, Recycling, and Energy. I trust that you will be able to help with such problems."
"Okay. Let's start with energy. I haven't been able to talk to the DOE lately, but I doubt you're looking for nuclear energy as the solution within a decent time frame. Which leaves solar cell tech and how to integrate it into the city."
Accord nodded, bringing up another image of the BASE area, "Correct. The question of scale remains, but your solar-membrane has proven to be effective. It can quickly be adapted to new and existing construction. Power inverters and power storage remain a problem, I presume you have solutions?"
I took a moment to admire the planned future of the city. Solar panels hung off of every balcony, large awning stretched across streets and sitting areas, creating shade and power in equal measure.
"I have a design for battery storage, but don't have the contacts to test and manufacture it on scale. Theoretically, a battery would be placed inside each building, or a larger one would be dedicated to a city block. As for power inverters? I have something that would work, it will need to be approved by the city inspectors."
Accord tapped the table with his finger. "I have few contacts inside the manufacturing industry. I will see about finding a solution. Can you develop a prototype for testing?"
I nodded in turn, already considering who I could delegate the task to in Brockton. Turning the issue over in my mind, the numbers didn't add up. Local infrastructure would naturally have lower needs, what with half the city damaged. That means energy supply would outstripe demand. Even considering a generous storage amount, the system would still run positive. Which would prove dangerous, requiring upgrades to the grid. Unless…
"You want to sell the excess energy."
Alain nodded, "The fastest way to stimulate an economy is to put money into the pockets of the people. Money spent is money invested, which then turns to expanding the city. If we offer solar cells to the people, but demand a percentage of the money gained from the excess energy, the cells offered for free pay for themselves. The Northeast is already struggling with the demand outstripping supply."
"I can see where you are going with this. It is doable, though won't we be angering the power companies for doing this?"
"Yes and no. You are right to worry about the energy companies. Eventually the solar cells will render their production methods inefficient and expensive. But they will be unable to resist the prospect of what is essentially cheap energy they can turn around for a profit. Their investors will not allow them to do otherwise. They are legally required to return on their investments, after all. Long term implications are secondary."
"In this case, greed is good, huh?"
"Nothing so crass, Miss Hebert. We're merely utilizing the existing market for our gain. Boston needs every single penny it can generate if it is meant to be revived."
I was reminded of… something I read somewhere. Trade flows where infrastructure allows it. Influence follows trade. Power follows influence.
"I stand corrected, then. I'll defer to you on this matter. I will alert SunCorp to prepare for your call. It may be faster to create a new production line locally, but I will leave that discussion between yourself and them. Now," I folded my hands in my lap, "Construction and recycling. In this instance, they are mutually inclusive because I have been considering them."
"We both know that conventional construction will take time, and materials will likely need to be imported. A short term solution would be material recycling," I pulled up the design documents and projected them for the room. A deceptively simple mechanical design, it would allow for rapid rebuildings. "We render the debris into interconnecting blocks that can be locked together akin to legos. However, the drawbacks are the building materials and designs are meant for disasters and wartorn areas that need structures quickly. It'll last at best for twenty years before they start breaking down. It's a great stopgap and will get people into homes and quickly build office spaces and factories, but it's a short-term solution in the end."
Accord took a moment to review the data, "Provided we have proper testing done on the end product, this will serve well. Short-term production that incentivizes cleanup, while also allowing for traditional construction to focus on critical buildings."
Another note was made, another project that I pulled from my design binder, and handed off to someone else to build. I hoped that Jean was still hiring, because it was clear that the extra hands would be needed.
We spoke for hours more. Discussing water treatment, recycling centers, waste management, electrical tram systems run on large scale batteries. Rules, zoning, regulations, community initiatives, cultural encouragement. A large part of me was thrilled by our discussion. This was tech that would make a difference. It wasn't flashy, it wasn't revolutionary, but it was the backbone of people's quality of life. Clean, well-run cities.
I would turn Boston into a beacon towards the future. That the Endbringers could rampage as much as they wanted, but we would rebuild. We would grow stronger. And sooner or later, we would find a way to kill them once and for all.
The small part of me that was still fifteen and remembered eating lunch in the bathroom stalls relaxed a little. Today, none of my more radical designs were needed. Pandora's box stayed closed.
Right now, I could step away from everything and possibly live a quiet life. I had already bequeathed safe nuclear energy, advanced robotics, new and innovative production techniques, revolutionary new computing, alongside all the patents I've already published and could still publish under pseudonyms.
If I chose to open that box, I would never be able to have that life.
The self expanding machine that was HEPHAESTUS.
The Molecular Furnaces that sat inside every HORUS Titan, that built the machines that devoured humanity.
Optimized Logistics AI that made a mockery of the idea of privacy in the name of efficiency.
Gene therapy, agricultural genetic optimization, the nanomachine augmentation theories that Far Zenith took with themselves during their escape to the stars.
If I revealed any of this, it would make my earlier nuclear reactor revelation look like a gentle breeze in comparison to the furor that would result. It would be the Watt Engine all over again, and unlike the slow methodical replacement that launched the industrial revolution, nations and societies would have to adopt immediately or be left in the dust. There would be no choice in the matter.
I would never be able to live a normal life. This was an escalation in which I would never be able to return from. Other nations and factions would not stop at nothing to kill or co-opt me. And eventually, it could quite possibly trigger a war, and not just any war, but a world-spanning one.
And it was true, I knew that even when the Endbringers were finally destroyed, humanity would not know peace. There was an Aleph song, where it talked about how humanity drank from the water then turned around and put up walls to deny others that same lifegiving water. It was prophetic, humanity was selfish in that way. It didn't matter if I argued that the technology should be shared until I was blue in the face, I was only one person in the face of the geopolitics that drove the United States decision makers. Decisions that, even if they did choose to honor my wish, would likely only do it once they had an insurmountable advantage over others.
So I sat in that office, making plans with a supervillain. Plans that would reshape what cities meant to those living in them. Plans that I hoped would change the world for the better.
I don't think I could live with myself if it did otherwise.
AEH
The countdown has begun! Many are calling this the most important election of the past decade, and all eyes are on Boston and Interim-Governor Herres. Volunteers and observers from neighbouring states were welcomed by the Interim-Governor where he thanked them for their assistance in 'restoring the democratic heartland of our nation'. Competition is fierce across the many seats to be picked up, and several candidates have scheduled last minute rallies to shore up support. But the strong endorsement that many were searching for from CEO Taylor Hebert of Zero Dawn Technologies may not be coming to any one candidate.
In a public statement, released just hours ago, the young women did not profess support for any single candidate, instead encouraging the public at large to make their voices heard. Stating that "This election is the next step in rebuilding. It is the choice that will define the future of your lives. You have a chance to chart the future. That chance is in the ballot that you will cast. I encourage everyone to vote for the future that you want, and the men and women that you trust to see that future into reality."
Already, the registrations offices are showing a surge of people registering to vote, and we'll share the information here if you want to find the nearest station. Remember that…
-Nightly News in Boston, May 22nd
In a public statement, released just hours ago, the young women did not profess support for any single candidate, instead encouraging the public at large to make their voices heard. Stating that "This election is the next step in rebuilding. It is the choice that will define the future of your lives. You have a chance to chart the future. That chance is in the ballot that you will cast. I encourage everyone to vote for the future that you want, and the men and women that you trust to see that future into reality."
Already, the registrations offices are showing a surge of people registering to vote, and we'll share the information here if you want to find the nearest station. Remember that…
-Nightly News in Boston, May 22nd
AEH
1736 Hours
"I'll leave this with you. Sobek will have the documentation ready, you can pull a team for assembly and testing…Yes, liaise directly with Mr.Gabriel if he contacts you for details. Anything Sobek can't tell you, contact me directly…Thank you Jean. I'm heading to the LRL hand-off now. Talk to you another time."
I closed the call, relaxing for the first time in several hours as the car drove through the city. It was slow going, even with the quiet police escort that drove with us. Monica was completing her own calls next to me, her voice a comfortable low murmur.
After my talk with Alain I was feeling more hopeful. Speaking with the man showed just how dedicated he was to this project. An almost blank slate that he can build from? Make an orderly city and rebuild the local economy? The man might not emote much, but I think this is the happiest he's been in his life.
I was happy to leave the problem to him. I had done some data crunching with Sobek, to better compare the economic conditions of my Earth, and what I remembered of Elisabet's history.
Ironically, it hadn't been the Endbringers that had cut economic growth off at the knees, despite what was promoted by the PRT. It was, in actuality, the collapse of the Zhōngguó Gòngchǎndǎng, or Chinese Communist Party. While Nixon's visit to China had opened diplomatic and financial ties between the two countries and integrated China into the larger world economy, all that work was destroyed when the Aisin-Gioro retook power and established the Chinese Imperial Union.
Overnight, western economic access to China was completely severed as the country assumed an ultranationalist stance against 'Western exploitation' and has maintained that strict stance since.
As a result, Earth Bet never got to truly transition to a debt-based economy with China assuming large amounts of national debt bonds while becoming a worldwide source of cheap goods. This resulted in a lower worldwide GDP and more fiscally austere and risk-averse nations and economies. Furthermore, it retarded economic growth by degrees compared to Elizabet's world.
The Endbringers only served to worsen an already stagnating world economy.
One of the major chokepoints of any economy has always been resources. Many modern economies required resources that they did not have on hand or easy access to. Sobek's world had been interconnected in ways Bet hadn't achieved yet.
I would probably have to consider pushing for a revitalization of the shipping industry. Rail line modernization. Maybe get into shipbuilding. Maybe use the Boston Harbor Drydocks to make actual ships? I'm positive I could make something more reasonable then the toxic clunkers being used currently.
"Ma'am? We're here," Sam commented, and I was drawn out of my maudlin thoughts to look out at the building.
Because of the rescue oriented nature of the lance, it had been agreed that the Boston First Rescue Lance would be based out of a fire department. The only issue was that the logical placement no longer existed. Engine 10, Tower 3, of the Boston Fire Department has been located downtown and had been directly in the path of Leviathan's rampage. As a result, what remained of that station had been relocated to a machine shop just outside the devastation zone. It certainly did not have the glamor or utility that the 'Big House" did, but their job was saving people, not looking good.
I respected them more because of that.
A large warehouse and adjoining parking lot had been cleared to allow the BFD to park and maintain their engines and equipment. For today, the parking lot had been cleared, with the engines housed inside, and a trio of Zero Dawn flatbeds had been parked in a place of prominence. Men and women mingled and a few cameras had been set up by local journalists. I specifically hadn't wanted this to turn into a big ceremony. As far as I was concerned, I was merely handing over a tool to the people best suited to utilize it. Pomp and ceremony had no place in the practice of saving lives.
I spotted the ZDT engineers mingling, their Foci pinging identification tags. Lucius Fuchs and his team had agreed to stay in Boston for several weeks to train the new teams on the LRL maintenance requirements and other troubleshooting that would need to be handled. I didn't perceive that there would be any problems, but I wasn't going to discount it either. After all, I was merely the tool maker, and there was a stark difference between controlled settings and the actual field.
Sam held the door open as I stepped out of the armored suburban, enjoying the wind on my face after spending most of the day inside. I took the time to ditch the jacket, tossing it back into the cab, before rolling up my sleeves. As much as I had cultivated a corporate and professional image for myself, it would never be me. I was a child of the shop and field, breathing life into my creations and witnessing their success.
The crowds quieted as I wandered across the lot, Samantha in my shadow. I did my best to not be affected by the attention, preferring instead to run a status check on the machines of the Rescue Lance. My ping pulled the system into standby, feeding me data. After a moment, I was satisfied.
With a slight quirk of my lips that probably would be charitably called mischievous, I decided to be a little theatrical. After all, you should never leave a good audience hanging.
Facing the assembled machines, I took a deep breath.
"Alright lazybones! Up and at 'em! You've slept long enough," I pitched my voice louder, clapping my hands like I was waking up a dog caught napping on the job. All the while, I was using my eyes to run through the menus and activation commands to bring life to the machines. And one by one, they roused themselves to wakefulness.
The Watcher quartet lived up to their namesake, popping their heads up first while their stubby bodies remained resting. Necks craning and swiveling as they took in the new environment they found themselves in.
The pair of Burrowers, like the ferrets they were modeled after, uncurled from their ball. Hilariously, they both squawked and skittered off the trailer and onto the other side like they had been startled. Then they scrambled back up onto the flatbed, perching themselves on their hind legs and looking around. They chittered at the audience, their heads bobbing a few times.
Sparky the Scrapper seemed to yawn, his grinders revving a few times, before giving a stretch that would make any big cat proud. He had earned his name from the rescue crews and I had quietly updated his Code ID. Even etched his name below the neck joint, where a cat collar would have rested. To be a fly on the wall when someone found that.
The newly added Skydrifters hopped in place, wings giving off mechanical clicks as they shifted. They hadn't had enough time to solidify a personality yet. Of all the machines, they were probably the most malleable in terms of their machine learning. I had left clear instructions with the team to watch them closely and report any departures from projected behavior patterns.
Petrie the Sunwing kept himself folded up, aware enough to know that he didn't have enough safe clearance in order to extend his wings. Taking flight took far more space than what was available right now.
The Charger stood quickly, eyeing the lip of its flatbed cautiously. Even if it was only a few feet, the skittish machine pawed the edge carefully before jumping down. It gave a shake of its body as it returned to solid ground as if in relief.
But it was my Titan that stole the show. Bruce raised his massive head and let out a loud and long bellow. The call of a wild bison was deep, base, and oddly wet. Bruce's call instead reverberated in your bones, with an electrical undertone that made it clear that this was not a creature of flesh and blood. He stood slowly, one foot at a time raising his massive bulk. Even having built him myself, I was still giddy at the sheer physicality of the machine. He stepped down and the suspension of the truck groaned. A strong mechanical hoof pawed at the ground, before he gave a shake of his massive head.
I was smiling with giddy joy. These were my first creations and they were magnificent!
"Yes. Yes. Good morning. Good morning. Settle down before you go exploring," there was a strange feeling in my chest, as the machines immediately recognized me. There was a subtle undertone to their recognition inlaid within the code. It was a lot more complicated than the simple designation of 'creator' that I was tagged with.
As much as I wanted to separate myself from Elizabet, there was just too much similarity between the two of us. We had both become married to our similar causes in saving the world. So much so that it was singularly our focus. Sure, we both allowed ourselves our moments of divertissement, but they were always fleeting things meant to remind ourselves of what we were fighting for.
So it was difficult to maintain my emotions in the knowledge that they viewed me as their Mother.
Taking a deep cleansing breath, fighting back my emotions, I turned to face the crowd.
"I'm not going to talk much," I declared, letting my voice carry over the crowd, "this ceremony is about them," I gestured behind me to my children.
"It's about reacquainting you with Boston's First Rescue Lance. Now, before anyone worries; No, we did not modify their memories or programming. So for better or worse, they'll remember you."
I let that hang in the air for a moment, idly noting that a few people elbowed one another as chuckles spread across the crowd.
"My company believes in the cooperation between man and machine. That humans are meant to work alongside machines, not be replaced by them. Removing the human element would not only be detrimental to people, but also the machines as well. Some of you have proved that point before when Leviathan came to town. Now, you have the chance to do it again."
"Mr. Fuchs and his technicians are going to be with you for the next few weeks. They're here to teach how to maintain this rescue lance, but they also have plenty of experience in working alongside them. Don't be shy to ask questions," I waved a hand towards Lucius and his team, "Sorry to throw you at the problem, Lucius. I'll make it up to you, I promise," I added with a smile, playing the role a little harder. The man laughed along, so I think it landed properly.
Clapping my hands together, I continued, "Alright. First Rescue Lance of Boston, spread out, and prepare for inspection. Humans, mingle with your new teammates. Mr. Fuchs, spread your staff out. Any questions you can't answer, ping me. I'll be mingling."
Things broke up quickly after that, the machines spreading out as instructed. I found myself shaking hands with the Station Chief, Fire Commissioner, and Director of Disaster Management. It was light talk, exchanging thanks and so on. The details for integrating the machines, managing their repairs, and so on would be handled by Lucius. At a gentle pace, I moved between clusters of staff examining the machines, listening into the conversations.
A cluster of men were walking around the Charger, looking it over while a woman pulled out an apple. Clearly she had worked with this machine before. Because the Charge was designed to process Blaze, it could 'eat' most biological material. Which means that people could feed it treats just like a regular horse. And speaking of horses, the conversation reached my ears.
"So, this is a Charger?"
"Yeah," another responded to the questioner.
"Why does the horse have horns? Looks more like ram."
"Steve, it's a mechanical horse that eats anything organic, turns it into fuel, and then stores said fuel in the tank on its back," The speaker rapped his knuckles against the Charger's rear tank, earning himself an electronic huff from the machine, "The fact that it has horns doesn't matter. But to answer your question, they're chainsaws."
The man took a step back. Notably, the women feeding apples to the machine didn't react, "Uh…what?"
"Yeah, adjustable height, adjustable speed. The teeth aren't sharp, so it's more of a grinder than a cutting action. But you get them moving fast enough, and this bad boy can turn a power-pole into firewood in minutes," Silence fell after that declaration. "Why are you so focused on them anyways?"
"Well, they look like something you can attach reins to then. And if they keep saying it's a horse, that means we can ride it, right?"
There was a long pause.
"Hebert did ride it into Boston, didn't she?"
"Nope," it was the woman who spoke up, "Neither of you are going to even think about riding this beautiful machine. The last thing we need is one of you knuckleheads falling off, and ruining it for the rest of us. Let someone who knows what they're doing go first!"
"That still doesn't answer the question, though!"
I chuckled, watching as Clyde peeled off to interrogate a Zero Dawn tech for answers. I continued moving along before they spotted me. I really didn't want to get drawn into that conversation. As I moved, I found myself drawn into another conversation at the edge of my perception, as a group had gathered around the Titan.
"Hey there Bruce, you remember me?"
The mechanical groan that emanated from the Titan put a smile on the woman's face.
"I'll take that as a yes. Look at you! All fixed up an' shiny. They even added anchor points. I bet those'll come in handy! Hey, Tech guy! What's the storage looking like inside this thing?"
Eriksson, who had been watching the congregation as the team leader in charge of the Titan, spoke up, "The idea is for them to be modular, so they can change depending on the situation that the Titan is being deployed into. Medical, Search and Rescue, Fire Rescue, and so on. The company is sending a few extra containers in the next few days, while developing a few more. And before you ask, it takes about five to ten minutes to swap from one container to another."
I actually remembered the woman fawning over the Titan. Mandy…or maybe it was Mindy. She had offered to buy Bruce from me if I was going to 'kill' him. I didn't have the heart to tell her that Bruce had a several million dollar price tag. The Fire Chief and Disaster Coordinator made their excuses and peeled off, starting an animated discussion with Eriksson. They discussed inventory capacity, restocking and maintenance costs, along with the cargo distribution for the containers that Bruce could carry. The idea of having a rescue machine that could modularly carry different supplies into hard-to-reach areas was an attractive one for the more debris choked areas of Boston.
I wonder what they would think of the Cyclops Drone that I was sending along with the containers. In terms of drone design it was fairly simple, but it would allow a stable observation and scanning platform for rescuers to get a top-down perspective of a worksite. Jean had fought me on the production of these drones. Arguing that there was no demand for the product. ZSec, our security force, would find use for them patrolling the areas of the Docks and buildings, but…Jean was right. There wasn't a demand yet. I was hoping to create the demand by showing them in action in Boston, working alongside the LRL.
Now it was just Sam and I as we moved along, stepping off to the side as a commotion drew our attention.
Ah, that would do it. Petrie had just extended his wings, topping up his batteries before the evening sunset.
"Look at the wingspan on the guy," one person cried.
"They're big to capture as much sunlight as possible and to keep him aloft in the air. There might not be much to the frame, but what's there needs quite a bit in order to provide lift. It's actually kind of funny to see him relax and sun himself. Like a beachgoer soaking in the rays."
"So…how much lift are we talking?"
"No. You can't ride him."
"How did you…"
"Because you're the fifth person to ask so far. Look, at best you'll get a controlled glide down to the ground. So if you're stuck at the top of a building, he'll get you down. But he sure as hell isn't going to fly you up."
Still. Why did everyone want to ride my machines?! The Charger I could understand, it was modeled on an animal humans had ridden for millenia…but the Sunwing was functionally a Pteranodon. What sane individual would want to risk it? What was next? Requests to put a saddle on the Titan?!
After several more handshakes, and one unprompted photo of the occasion, I said my farewells. Crowds were never really a comfortable idea for me. My machines were now in the hands of those who would use them. That was enough for me.
The drive back to our accommodations was quiet. Herres was putting me up in one of the converted hotels that had become living quarters for army leadership. It was secure, private enough, and comfortable. I didn't need more. I was already reviewing what I needed to get done tonight. A review of the progress of Focus Communications, before my meeting with the chosen directors tomorrow. Work on Accord's engineering wishlist, and assign teams back in Brockton. Review the installation plans for the Focus Network Dish. Call Amy and see how she's doing. Maybe call Theo and see how he's doing. Do some quick design work for aquatic machines while they're relevant and on my mind. Discuss with Mr.Milton on what to expect tomorrow with Paige's verdict. Actually… check in on Paige and the team responsible for her care.
I began to work, losing myself in a digital world that only I could see.
Amdar210
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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Yay! More of the best Worm x HZD fic!
I know it won't happen for awhile, and I love the pace.
But man do I wish I could see Taylor with a pack of ClawStriders ala Owen in Jurassic World. Just her and a very loyal, very territorial pack of robo-raptors.
I know it won't happen for awhile, and I love the pace.
But man do I wish I could see Taylor with a pack of ClawStriders ala Owen in Jurassic World. Just her and a very loyal, very territorial pack of robo-raptors.
Follower38
Getting out there.
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- Apr 9, 2019
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Wonder how long itll be before someone suggests/designs a rig straight out of zoids? Even if in universe its an entirely original concept.
Basically a system with a rotating carousel, with sections on the carousel loaded with pods and mechanical arms capable of removing and replacing components with new ones. In this case: from one job type to the next, with the carousel centered around a platform for machines to walk onto.
Basically a system with a rotating carousel, with sections on the carousel loaded with pods and mechanical arms capable of removing and replacing components with new ones. In this case: from one job type to the next, with the carousel centered around a platform for machines to walk onto.
WerewolfEros
Not too sore, are you?
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I got an idea during this chapter, much to late of course, that Taylor should of gotten Elizabet, Aloy and Beta's memories, on the account of all being the same person. Different knowledge, experience and skills, all coming from the same person. That would've been cool to read.
Balorak146
They of the Bullshit-Seeing Eye
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Except they're not the same person?
They're three different people with three completely different lives who just happen to share 99.47% of their DNA.
WerewolfEros
Not too sore, are you?
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Exactly.