Another Way (Worm AU fanfic)

Another Way

Prologue, Part Three


1999

"Paul, got a moment?"

Paul Renick looked up from the progress report he was preparing; leaning into his cubicle was his immediate superior.

"Uh, sure, Mr Jameson," he replied. "If it's about this progress report -"

"It's not about the progress report," Jameson told him. "Leave it for the moment; this is more important. I need to talk to you."

"Sure, okay." Not entirely certain as to what was going on, Paul saved the report, locked the papers in his desk, and shut down his terminal. Not that what he was working on was so sensitive, but the habit had been ingrained into him by his years of working for the PRT.

Getting up from his ergonomically-designed chair, he followed Jameson to his office. There, his boss closed the door and leaned his rump up against his desk. He was a big, bluff man with fading reddish hair, and ruddy cheeks. "How long have we been working for the PRT, Paul?"

"About four and a half years, more or less, Mr Jameson." I wonder what this is about.

"Cut the 'Mr Jameson' crap, Paul," Jameson snorted. "Outside the office, you're Paul and I'm John, and we went to the same damn school, back in the day."

"That's true, uh, John," allowed Renick. Only you were a couple of years older than me, and you stole my lunch money more than once. It was funny how that tiny slight still stung, years later. "So what's going on?"

"What's going on, Paul, is that they're opening a new PRT office, and the powers that be are looking for some patsy to be the Director there."

"Uh, patsy?" Don't let it be me, don't let it be me.

"Yeah," Jameson told him heavily. "It's in Brockton Bay. You know it?"

"Christ, yes," Paul blurted. "Only two hundred fifty thousand people, and it's got no less than four major supervillain gangs operating there."

"And some minor ones, yeah," agreed Jameson. "The Protectorate's had a presence there for a few years, but a while ago one of the gangs hired the Slaughterhouse Nine to take out a couple of our capes who were intruding on their business. Goldstar and Venturi, you may have heard of them."

"Yeah, I heard," agreed Paul, still wondering. Still dreading Jameson's next words.

"So head office wants us to establish a presence there, to try to bring law and order to the Wild West, as it were. Give the capes a bit of backup. Show the flag."

"And what's this got to do with me, John?" he asked boldly. If you're going to say it, say it.

"They've asked me to step up, Paul," Jameson told him. "And I told them, only if I get to pick my deputy." He chuckled. "Shades of the Wild West, all over again. I might have to get myself a ten gallon hat."

"Wait, you want me as your deputy?" Paul was stunned.

John gave him an are you kidding? look. "Well, yeah. You kick ass in the admin department. Haven't you ever wondered why I've never had you transferred out of my department? We've always worked well together. I've never had to scratch my head trying to figure out what you were saying in a report."

"Huh. I never knew."

Jameson clapped him on the shoulder. "The more you know, pal. So. You in?"

"Uh ... I've kind of got a girlfriend ... "

"So bring her along too."

"I don't know if she'll want to move."

Jameson rubbed his chin. "Tell you what. I'll give you twenty-four hours to talk to her about it. It's not going to be for another month. Let her know that there are full accommodations laid on, and the pay's a bit higher than we're getting here.”

Renick wasn't sure if he wanted to lead with the pay deal; he rather liked Janine, and thought she liked him for himself. If she's only with me because of the money …

“Just so long as this isn't some ploy to slide me into the Director's chair,” he replied. “I don't want that sort of responsibility.”

Jameson clapped him on the shoulder. “Perish the thought,” he told Renick heartily. “You're more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy, I know. Don't worry about it; I'll give the orders, and you can figure out how to make the numbers work.”

For the first time, Paul felt himself smile. “Sure thing … John,” he agreed, still a little awkward with using his boss's first name. “That's something I know how to do.”

<><>​

Early 2000

“So, what do you think of the place?”

Paul looked up at John, then around at the office. It was cramped, dingy, and a little musty. “I … it's seen better days,” he allowed. The PRT budget for Brockton Bay must be stretched thin.

“You're wondering about why they're putting us up in such crap conditions,” Jameson told him.

Renick blinked. “I … yes, I was. How did you know?”

Jameson grinned. “I wondered exactly the same thing. So I asked. Come on.”

“But I haven't finished unpacking -”

“Finish later. Come on. I wanted to show you something.”

Getting up off the ergonomic chair – it was the first thing he'd unpacked – Paul followed Jameson from the office.

“So how'd the girlfriend take the move?” the Director of PRT ENE asked as they headed along a corridor, the carpet worn through in places.

“She, uh, didn't,” Paul replied. “Decided to stay.”

There had been a bit more to it; disbelief, demanding that he stay, recriminations, thrown crockery … all in all, he decided, he was better off. A woman who would throw a plate at someone's head over a relocation was possibly not the best choice for life partners.

But he still missed her.

“Her choice. Ah, here we are.” Jameson pushed on a door, then leaned his shoulder into it; the slightly warped doorframe resisted, then released it. The stairwell was beyond; they ascended.

“I was actually asking what you thought of Brockton Bay.” John's voice echoed in the stairwell.

“I haven't seen enough of it to make a judgement,” Paul replied defensively.

“So take a car. Go for a drive. Take its pulse.” Jameson chuckled heartily and opened the roof access door. They stepped out on to the flat rooftop, and looked over Brockton Bay.

For a city housing four major crime syndicates, it seemed remarkably peaceful. No gunshots, no screams broke the relative peace. A distant siren was sounding, but Paul thought it might be an ambulance. To the east could be seen the distant glint of the ocean.

Jameson turned in a circle, his arms out, breathing deeply of the air. “Smell that?”

Cautiously, Renick sniffed. “Smell what?”

“A new day. An opportunity to make a difference. It's the year two thousand, Paul. The dawn of a new century.” He pointed. “See that?”

Paul adjusted his glasses, peered into the distance. There was a building going up; at the moment, it was a skeleton of steel and concrete, yet to be clad in gleaming glass. “Uh, yes?”

“That's why we're in such a crap location. That's the new PRT building. No expense spared. Tinkertech lifts. Underground detainment cells. Research levels. There'll be a gift shop in the lobby, even.”

“A gift shop.” Paul shook his head. “Why?”

“To sell the action figures, of course. Revenue's revenue.” Jameson pointed toward the ocean. “And the Protectorate's gonna be building a proper base. A floating island in the bay, if you can believe it. Protected with some fancy-dancy force field.”

“Which is also why we're in this piece-of-crap office building,” Paul noted.

“Sure as hell. Which is why we soldier on. Why we make do with what we've got. Because great things are coming.”

Renick nodded. “I see what you mean. I do see.” Just so long as I don't have to run the show.

<><>​

Mid 2000

The phone's discordant tone jolted him from warm, comfortable slumber. Rolling over, he scooped it up and hit the answer button. “Renick,” he mumbled.

“Sir, this is Henderson in Ops. We have a situation.”

No other set of four words could ever be so unwelcome, especially over the phone at ten on a Sunday evening. He'd gotten in after dark, microwaved himself a meal, watched a little TV, and enjoyed a glass of wine before bed.

The work was hard and never-ending, but he was on top of it; every new challenge he met, and beat. And any time he ran into red tape he couldn't cut through, all he had to do was pick up the phone, and John would deal with it. It was odd; he'd worked for the man for years, and it was only in the last few months that he'd really gotten to know him, that they had become the sort of friends that John had always thought they were in reality. “Uh, why are you calling me and not Director Jameson?”

“Director Jameson is dead.”

He'd been wrong. Those four words were even worse.

<><>​

Twenty-three minutes later, he was in the makeshift Ops centre, reaching out to take the cup of coffee that someone was handing him. He took a drink, steeling himself against the biting taste; John had always liked it strong and bitter. “Brief me.”

“Director Jameson took his family out to dinner at a restaurant,” Henderson recited. “A Chinese restaurant.”

“Fuck.”

The word, harsh as broken glass, stilled the room. A moment later, Paul realised that he himself had uttered it. He waved to Henderson to go on. “Sorry. Continue.” But he had a sinking feeling that he knew what was coming next.

“Gang members currently thought to be Empire Eighty-Eight targeted it. They threw incendiaries. He tried to protect his family.”

Of course he did. John's wife is half Japanese. “Tell me what happened.”

“Witnesses say that he put up a good fight. He was stabbed six times, and shot twice. They fled when the police arrived. He was dead on arrival at the hospital.”

He took a deep breath, then looked at everyone in the room. He was used to being the nobody, the ignored one, the invisible man. Now everyone was looking at him. “ … what?”

Henderson was the one who broke the silence, who asked the question. “What do we do now, Director?”

What do we do now, indeed.

<><>​

“I'm very sorry to hear about Director Jameson, but there's not much I can do about it from here. You were Deputy Director, and now you're Director. The regulations are quite clear about that.”

“But Chief Director -” Renick paused, and took a breath, trying to moderate his tone. Another breath, then he spoke again. “I'm sorry, Chief Director, but I don't think I'm really the man for the job.”

“But you're the man on the spot. I'm sorry, Director Renick. I really am. But we don't have anyone available right now to step into Jameson's shoes. So you're going to just have to do the job.”

“But I -”

“Director Renick.” Her tone brought him to a halt. “You are the Director of PRT East-North-East. Brockton Bay has one of the highest incidences of cape crime in the United States, per capita. If you abandon your post, by the time we can get someone else in, there won't be any order to maintain. You are there, you have an understanding of the city. You made an oath when you joined the PRT. Now, carry out that oath and do your job. Do you understand me?”

He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Good.” The phone clicked down at the other end, and he was left listening to a dial tone.

Well … crap.

<><>​

“So where will you go?”

Susan Jameson, only a slight puffiness around her eyes betraying her grief, looked at him steadily. “Far away from Brockton Bay. Probably back to Columbus.”

“Ohio?” he asked, stupidly.

“Yes.” She nodded. “It's where my parents are. I'll see if we can make a new start there. Away from all this.”

Awkwardly, he nodded. “Look, I'm sorry – more sorry than you can imagine -”

She shook her head. “I know. John told me time and again that he would never be able to do this job without you. 'Thank God for Paul Renick', he said.”

“He said that?”

“And that you were the ideal subordinate. Because you didn't want his job.”

“God, no,” he blurted. “I never wanted it. Still don't. Even if he'd just retired, I still wouldn't want it. But like this -”

“But you've got it. It's your burden to shoulder, now.”

“No.” Convulsively, he shook his head. “I can't do it. I'm going to resign from the PRT. They can't make me do this. The job's too big for me.”

Reaching up, she laid her hand on his cheek. “The job's too big for anyone, Paul. Do what John did, and trust your staff. Do this, take on this burden, for John. He had faith in you. Make him proud.”

He felt his resolve crumbling in the face of her calm assurance. “But I can't -”

“Yes. You can.”

Closing his eyes, he surrendered. “Okay. I'll do my best.”

But I still don't want the job.

<><>​

Late 2000

Interim Director Paul Renick, PRT ENE, sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Lowering his reading glasses, he looked over them at the six people before him in his office.

He had moved into said office just a month previously; the Protectorate base was still taking shape out in the bay. Stubbornly, he had refused to hang pictures on the wall, or bring any other sort of decoration into the office. Anything like that, he had figured, would mark his acceptance of the post, not just someone holding down the fort until the actual Director was finally assigned to the Brockton Bay branch.

I never wanted the job.

Every day he said that to himself, and every day it proved him right once more. Crises averted by the skin of his teeth, cape crime rates that stubbornly refused to go down by any sort of effort engineered by himself or the PRT. The Teeth had left the Bay recently, but only because they'd been nearly obliterated by the Empire Eighty-Eight in a turf war of some sort. They'd been the worst of the offenders, but the Empire and Galvanate's men weren't much better.

Not a day went by without some problem or other cropping up, and despite what the law of averages tried to say, more often than not it was something for which he had no precedent to follow. Such as this one; as he looked over the six people, three injured, he tried to work out all the potential outcomes, which one would be most acceptable, and how to reach that one. A perfect solution failed to magically appear, which didn't surprise him in the slightest.

“Okay, I'm going to need this from the top,” he stated. “You are the Brockton Bay Brigade.”

“We are,” stated one of the black-clad women. She stood straight, proud, despite the PRT guard close behind her. “I'm Lady Photon.”

“Very well, I'm going to presume that's true,” he replied, massaging his forehead in a vain attempt to prevent an oncoming headache. “After all, Flashbang, Manpower and Lightstar have arrived once you telephoned them, and they vouch for your identities.”

“Good,” stated the second woman, who had been identified as Brandish. “So we -”

“I hadn't finished,” he interrupted. “You were in that building to … as I recall … apprehend the supervillain known as Marquis?”

“That's true,” Lady Photon stated. “It's his house.”

“Do you have proof of that?”

She blinked at his question. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you have proof of that?” He spread his hands. “It's a simple enough question. Do you have any evidence that conclusively states, or even very strongly implies, that the house in question belongs to Marquis?”

“Yeah,” snapped Brandish. “We fought him.”

“Inside the house.” Renick's tone was dry.

“Yes, inside the damn house. Which is his house.” Brandish's tone was almost hostile; Flashbang put a hand on her shoulder. She subsided slightly.

“But did you have any proof that it was his house before you entered?”

Brandish blinked, apparently seeing the trap. “We had evidence.”

“May I see it?” He held out his hand.

“No – it was the word of an informant. He didn't give us anything written. Just that Marquis lived there. So we investigated, and found the name of the owner. Pictures of him fitted Marquis, so we went in.”

Renick rubbed his forehead again. “And when was this? When did you get the information, and when did you go in?”

Brandish didn't seem to want to reply, but Lady Photon filled in for her. “Four days ago, and three days ago, respectively.”

“And of course you informed the police. Obtained a search warrant for the house.” Renick stared back at their expressions. “Come on, please tell me you at least told the police. Because I know you didn't inform the PRT.”

“I – we – the information was too sensitive,” Lady Photon told him. “If we'd let them know, let anyone know, then it may have gotten back to him. We had to take him by surprise.”

“Your logic, however misguided, is sound,” Renick conceded. “You could have at least informed me so that I could have PRT troops ready to move in.” He paused, looking them over. “I take it that the surprise attack failed.”

“He's good,” muttered Lightstar. “Too damn good. And besides -”

Too late, a gesture from Fleur, the third dark-clad woman, quieted him. Renick raised an eyebrow. “And besides?”

“He plays dirty,” Brandish filled in. “He, uh, lured us outside, and used the terrain to his advantage. Took Manpower hostage and threatened to kill him before forcing us to leave.”

“Manpower, were you harmed by this?” asked Renick. “Your shoulder -”

“A wound acquired in battle,” Lady Photon cut in. “Once we agreed to cease fighting and leave, he withdrew the threat on Manpower. We had half our members wounded; retreat was the logical option.”

“And so you then informed the authorities?” pressed Renick. Silence greeted his question. “Come on, please tell me that you told someone.”

“We, uh, decided,” Lady Photon replied stonily, “that the best idea was to wait a few days, then try again, at night.” Her expression was almost impossible to read, but there was a glance at Brandish that he couldn't interpret. Did Brandish object, or did she push the plan through against opposition? If I press the issue, they'll close ranks and I'll never get to the bottom of this.

“So you went in,” Renick went on, “without notifying the police or PRT, to the home of a supervillain who had beaten you six on one, not even wearing your identifying costumes.” He shook his head. “I'm just trying to work out what's worse about that plan; how stupid it was, or how illegal.”

“I -” began Lady Photon, but Renick cut her off.

“And then, you find important evidence, which you fail to then take straight to the police, because you first decide to indulge in the crime of destruction of private property, which has followed your crime of breaking and entering. Which, incidentally, gets caught on the closed-circuit TV cameras which Marquis had apparently had installed over the last few days. Along with the silent alarm system which had been given a priority status for police response. So that the letter, which was undoubtedly intended to decoy you into staying to search the house, succeeded long enough for the police to arrive and arrest you. Is that about it?”

Lady Photon nodded slowly. “I … that's about it, yes. Sir.”

“You're lucky,” Renick told her, and the rest of the Brigade. “Lucky on two counts, so far. The first count is that the police decided to call in the fact that they had found parahuman perpetrators. I was able to get on top of this and claim jurisdiction, and take you off of their hands. The second count is that Marquis was not there, to hand you yet another humiliating defeat.” He paused. “Oh, wait. He did. Without even being there.”

Stung by the biting sarcasm, Brandish raised her head. “He's a murderer and a monster. We were just trying to take him down.”

“Oh, I have no doubt that he has committed many heinous crimes,” Renick agreed. “But it's not him that we are talking about. It's you.”

“Okay, if we're talking about us, how about we talk about the number of people we've saved from being hurt and killed since we formed the Brigade,” Brandish countered. “We're superheroes. We help people. He's a villain and a murderer. For god's sake, he kills his own men if they fail him. Who even does that?”

Renick took a deep breath. “Okay, I get it. He's a bad man. You're on the side of goodness and light. More or less literally. But.”

“ … but?” ventured Lady Photon, waving Brandish to silence.

Abruptly, Renick felt tired. “But even the police – whose paid job is to protect the community – have to investigate and prosecute an officer, even one who's saved countless lives, if he's found to be breaking the rules. If you want to have extra privileges, you need to show that you hold yourselves to that higher standard. Which you haven't been.”

“If we'd taken him down, what would have happened then?” asked Lady Photon.

Renick nodded acknowledging the point. “We would have taken him off of your hands. Success tends to wipe away the little awkward questions. Capturing Marquis, one of the crime bosses of Brockton Bay, would be a coup for everyone. There would have been no question of throwing him back.”

“So we -” began Brandish.

“I hadn't finished,” Renick told her. “However, you didn't succeed. You failed, in quite a spectacular and potentially public manner. This doesn't erase the awkward questions; it magnifies them. You made a big play, risked your good name as a team, and fell flat on your faces. Worse, you compounded on your failure, played straight into his hands, and opened yourself up for legal consequences. If I was the type of person to dislike capes, you would be in so very much trouble right now.”

“But that's not fair!” burst out Fleur. “We were just -”

Lady Photon cleared her throat, silencing the younger woman. “I notice that you said 'if' you were that type of person,” she stated carefully.

“Indeed,” Renick agreed. “Now, I can see where you were coming from. I can't exactly condone your methods, but I can more or less understand why you resorted to them. Which is one of the reasons why I'm not going to have you prosecuted. After all, you are superheroes. You have done much public good. You helped carry the load before the PRT and Protectorate were properly established in this city.”

He paused a beat, then went on. “But on the other hand, there has to be accountability. Responsibility. People have to be able to know that they can trust their superheroes not to play fast and loose with the rules. I have to be able to know that.”

“Well, actually, we've been working on something along those lines,” Lady Photon stated, her face and voice showing cautious hope.

“What, really?” asked Renick.

“Really,” the female superhero confirmed. “We're calling it the New Wave initiative. Capes to unmask across the country, reveal their identities. We stay in our teams, keep our costumes and cape names, but the general public knows that Joe and Jane Smith are really Captain Commando and Lady Patriot, or whatever. That way, there's accountability. If Captain Commando accidentally kills an innocent, then he can't just take his mask off and go home and never be held -”

“Okay, I've heard enough,” interrupted Renick. “No.”

The members of the Brockton Bay Brigade looked at one another; Lady Photon was the one to speak. “ … no?”

“Absolutely, one hundred percent no,” he repeated. “What happens the very first time a criminal decides to take revenge on the hero who put his brother away? He can find him in the White Pages, that's what.”

“But if we're being accountable to the public -” began Brandish.

Renick snorted. “I'm the public, and I think it's a stupid idea. Especially after that stunt you pulled with Marquis' house. What if that gets out? No, scratch that. If you carry through with this plan, how soon before it gets out that heroes invaded a villain's home? No hero would be safe. No, I'm telling you now, I oppose this plan. The PRT will oppose it. If need be, we'll speak out against it. And if anyone does follow through with it due to your urging, and gets hurt or killed as a result, the PRT will hold you six personally responsible.”

“But you were just talking about responsibility, accountability,” Brandish challenged him. “How else are we going to achieve that?”

“I can think of two ways,” Renick told her. “One way is that you six join the Protectorate. We have accountability more or less built in to our regulations. On the upside, you get our paycheck and backup from PRT and Protectorate; on the downside, you have to follow orders.”

Lady Photon shook her head. “We can't do that. We have children -”

“And you were going to unmask yourselves to the nation? With children at stake? What were you thinking?” Paul shook his head. “No. Very well, there is always the other option.”

“Which is?” Brandish's voice once more held a note of challenge.

“You reveal your real identities to me, personally. All of you. Your identities will be kept as a matter of highest security. You get no paycheck, but nor will you be under orders. You will, of course, be required to follow the law, at least as far as we can see you.”

“So you'll just be holding this over our heads?” Brandish asked.

Renick spread his hands. “Accountability. You wanted it. Now, unless you want this to go farther, I'd advise you to pick one of the two options.”

“And the police?” asked Lady Photon. “They saw our faces.”

“I will advise them to pass on to me anything that can be used to identify you,” he assured her. “After all, from here on in, you're going to be directly accountable to the PRT.”

Lady Photon grimaced. “You've got us over a barrel. We don't really have a choice.”

“We could just, you know, quit,” offered Fleur in a small voice.

“Are you really going to go there?” asked Brandish. “After all we've done to build this team up?” She turned to Renick. “So, do you have any other demands?”

“Actually, yes,” he replied. “I'd like you to do one more thing for me. I'm lining up a psychologist for the team – more than one, hopefully – and I'd like you to talk to him. See if we can't ferret out the reason you went at Marquis so hard when you were taken down the first time. It'll also help make me happier on the accountability front.”

Again, the glance from Lady Photon to Brandish, too fast for him to interpret.

“It's … probably not that bad an idea,” the former conceded.

“No, hell no!” retorted Brandish. “Not going to happen!”

“You do realise that not doing so will merely ensure that we keep a closer eye on you? Because I do not want something like this happening again on my watch.”

Lady Photon muttered something to Brandish, and the belligerent hero subsided. Then Lady Photon turned to the rest of the team. “It's the best deal we're going to get, guys.”

One by one, they nodded; Flashbang readily, Fleur dubiously. Brandish was reluctant, but Lady Photon stared her down until she nodded curtly.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Let's get this over with.”

Lady Photon turned to Renick; as the others removed their masks, she pulled the scarf from around the lower part of her face.

“My name is Sarah Pelham.”

As he watched the heroes unmasking, all Renick could think was, John should have been doing this, not me. He'd know if it was the right thing to do.

But it was him and not John, so he had to do the best he could with what he had. As each mask came off, he made no real attempt to memorise faces; however, he did jot down the names as they were spoken.

“Well,” he announced, once the last name was written down. “That's a start, at least. We'll be verifying your identities, of course, but that's just a formality, right?”

Lady Photon, fitting the scarf over her face again, nodded. “That's correct.”

“So, one last thing before you go,” Renick noted. “This is the letter he left you, correct?” With his fingernail, he tapped the missive, currently contained in a large zip-lock bag.

Lady Photon leaned forward and peered at it. “Looks like the one, all right. What's the matter?”

“I was just wondering why you were searching the house. It was clear that he had already left.”

Brandish spoke up. “There had to be a clue somewhere in the house as to where he had gone. He was taunting me, daring me to find it.”

Renick blinked. “But there was. Didn't you see it?”

Silence, as all six members of the Brigade stared at him.

Lady Photon broke the deadlock. “What?”

He tapped the letter again. “I was a forensic accountant before I joined the PRT. I spotted it as soon as I read the letter. First letter of each paragraph.” Using two fingers, he spun the letter around so that she could read it; almost instantly, Brandish was looking over one shoulder, and Fleur over the other. Manpower loomed over all of them, while Flashbang and Lightstar – Mark and Donny – didn't seem to want to bother.

“Boston,” hissed Brandish. “Fucking Boston.” Her voice rose to a scream. “And I had the fucking letter in my hand all that fucking time!”

“Calm down, Brandish,” warned Renick. “This is not a good time or place for a temper tantrum.”

“He's right,” Lady Photon – Sarah – agreed. “Now we know where he is, we can -”

“ - stay right here in Brockton Bay,” Renick told her flatly. “I've already alerted the PRT in Boston. If he raises his head there, they'll know about it. If I get even the slightest whiff of you going to confront him yourself, after the last fiasco, then you will be charged with interfering with an ongoing investigation. Do you understand?”

Brandish – Carol – turned to glare at him, and he flinched inwardly; a moment later, Lady Photon put her hand on the woman's shoulder. “We understand,” she assured Renick. “We'll leave it to the PRT.”

Paul wasn't so sure. And he really didn't want to have to prosecute superheroes who were just trying to get villains off of the street. But nor did he want a repeat of the previous incident.

Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

I really, really don't want this job.


End of Prologue, Part Three

Prologue Part Four