Price of Blood [Worm fanfic] (Complete)

We take the tale up in early February of 2011, when Sophia incites a group of boys to chase Taylor down and duct-tape her to a telephone pole. It all goes horribly wrong from the moment that they catch her. Things will never be the same again, for Taylor Hebert or for Brockton Bay.

Disclaimers:
1) This story is set in the Wormverse, which is owned by Wildbow. Thanks for letting me use it.
2) I will follow canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations.
3) I welcome criticism of my works, but if you tell me that something is wrong, I also expect an explanation of what is wrong, and a suggestion of how to fix it. Note that I do not promise to follow any given suggestion.

Index
Part One: Unkind Fate (below)
Part Two: Investigation
Part Three: Revelations
Part Four: One Bad Apple
Part Five: Incoming
Part Six: Chasing Shadows
Part Seven: Mixed Results
Part Eight: Loose Threads
Part Nine: Slowly Unravelling
Part Ten: Legalities and Illegalities
Part Eleven: Upsides, Downsides and Underside(r)s
Part Twelve: Connections
Part Thirteen: Enmeshed
Part Fourteen: Two Steps Forward, One Step Backward
Part Fifteen: Doubling Down
Part Sixteen: Chasing Shadows, Part II
Part Seventeen: Field Test
Part Eighteen: Spilled Blood
Part Nineteen: Shadowfall

 

Price of Blood


Part One: Unkind Fate


Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Taylor Hebert

No, please no.

My breath burned in my throat. I couldn't run any faster. I had to run faster. Over the thundering of my pulse in my ears, over the frantic rasp of my breathing, I could hear the footsteps behind me. There were five of them, all boys. I didn't know why they were chasing me, but Sophia had told them to, so it probably wasn't to give me a late Christmas present.

Too late, I told myself that I should have stayed at the bus stop with the other Winslow students. That might have made the boys reconsider. But then, given the number of pranks that had been pulled on me inside Winslow itself, maybe not. I had to keep running. If I made it too hard for them to catch me, they'd give up. Surely they'd give up.

The fence on my right gave way to a narrow lane between houses. I staggered into it. Maybe I could get into someone's yard, hold the gate closed to keep them out -

“Gotcha, bitch!” Hands grabbed me from behind. I struggled, yanked myself free, but overbalanced and fell. I put my hands out to catch myself, feeling the skin abrade away on the rough concrete pathway. The breath sobbed in my lungs.

The knee that caught me in the middle of the back drove me down on to the concrete. I didn't have much air in my lungs; what little I had was driven out of me by the impact. My head bounced off of the path, my glasses coming off. Dizzy, not tracking well, I struggled feebly.

“Stop moving, bitch!” Someone grabbed my arms. I flailed about, pulling free, driving my elbow back almost by accident. It slammed into something soft that recoiled. “Fuck! My fucking balls!”

A blow to the side of my head. I tasted blood as my teeth cut into my lip. The ringing in my head got worse. I had to do something. Call for help. I strained to get air into my lungs, then let it out. A wordless shriek of despair and agony. Help. Please help.

“Fuck! Shut the bitch up!”

Someone grabbed my hair, pulled my head back. A hand slapped over my mouth, cutting off my scream. I tried to bite, sank my teeth into soft flesh. Did my best to draw blood. There, see how you like it.

“Christ fuck! Get her off me!”

Fingers like iron rods gouged into the sides of my face, forcing my jaws open. The hand was pulled free. I tried to scream again. Two hands grabbed my mouth this time, one to hold my jaws shut, the other to block off the noise. There was a ripping sound. “Here, shut her up with this!”

The hands went away, but before I could let out a proper call for help, something silvery passed before my eyes. It went over my mouth, sticking to my skin, cutting off my screams. I tried to bite at it, but couldn't get purchase. My tongue, probing, tasted something bitter and sour. Duct tape? Did they put duct tape on my mouth? I couldn't breathe; the air hissed in my nostrils, but it wasn't enough.

Another ripping noise, and I felt my wrists being taped together behind my back. Struggling just didn't help; there were more of them, and any one of them was stronger than me. I flailed my legs, kicking out wildly, not caring if I hit one of them or a fence. Anything that would get peoples' attention. But I felt them being grabbed, held together, taped at the ankles.

I couldn't get enough air through my nostrils to struggle as hard as I wanted to, but I heaved at the duct tape anyway. It stretched a little on my wrists, and slid up and down on my ankles, but I couldn't make it do anything more than that.

“Okay, we've got her.” The voice was strained, breathing heavily. “Now what do we do?”

“She said to tie her to a telephone pole or something.” I didn't know who the boy was, except that he was probably on the track team. Or maybe not. I didn't know. I just knew who 'she' was.

“I don't see any telephone poles around here.” This was a third boy. He was panting just as hard as the first two. “Just leave her?”

“Fuck that,” growled a fourth. “She got me in the nuts. Bit Joe. Kicked you in the chest.” I didn't remember kicking anyone, but I was pleased that I had. I hope it hurt. “She's gonna pay for making it this hard.”

Hands wriggled into my pockets, found and retrieved my house key and the little coin-purse I kept for the bus. I tried to breath steadily. Let them take your stuff. It's just stuff. I didn't know what had happened to my backpack; it had been dropped, somewhere back along the way, because it was weighing me down. It was probably gone by now, too.

Coins jingled; I heard murmuring. “Fuck, three dollars forty-two? That's not even a pack of fucking gum!” Something struck me on the back and the head; I saw coins bouncing on the ground in front of me.

“Well, fuck. No money. A shitty plastic watch. She doesn't have a phone. No jewellery. So much for making her fucking pay for it.” A weight on my back, which I had almost forgotten about, lifted off of me. Suddenly, I could breathe a lot more easily. “Fuck it. Let's just leave her.”

“No.” It was the guy I had gotten in the testicles. “Fuck that. Let's have some fun with her. She owes us that much.”

“What, you mean -?”

“Yeah, I mean that.” His voice held a challenge. “Unless you're pussy. Pussy.”

“I'm no fucking pussy.” There was anger in the voice. The sense of vague hope – maybe they'll just leave me to get free – began to give way to a growing dread. They wouldn't. Would they?

“Then fucking prove it.” I heard a zipper slide down. “Get some.”

“I dunno.” It was one of the others. “DNA and all that shit …”

Yeah, I thought frantically. DNA! Evidence!

“Dude. I always come prepared.” My heart sank. “Condoms catch all that shit. They won't have anything to go on.”

The hopeful note in the one boy's voice was one I never wanted to hear. “You got enough for all of us?”

No. No no no. Please, no. I began to struggle again, to make as much noise as I could.

“Shit! Hold her down!” Hands grabbed me, rolled me over on to my back. It was hugely uncomfortable, with my hands taped behind me, but they didn't seem to care.

“She can see our faces. She'll be able to tell the cops.” That was one of the blurry forms in front of me, sounding doubtful. I nodded emphatically.

“Doofus, she doesn't know us from fucking Adam, and she needs glasses anyway. Now hold her steady.” I felt hands fumbling with my pants.

“Sketch artists ...” It was the one who had worried about DNA.

I could easily visualise an eye-roll with the tone of the voice. “Okay, fine then.” A ripping sound was followed by a strip of duct tape coming into view. I rolled my head frantically from side to side, but it was no use. The tape came down, and I saw nothing more. “Happy?”

That was when I really started to lose control.

Up until then, I had been determined to let them have their prank and go on their way. Tying me up was worrisome, but I figured that once they were gone, I could get bugs to chew through the duct tape – at least, I hoped they could chew through the duct tape – and I could go home. But tied up, gagged, blindfolded and about to be gang-raped by a bunch of jocks … no. Just. Fucking. No.

I could easily have brought the bugs in before this point. Chasing them off with a swarm of bees or wasps would have been child's play. But my control wasn't the greatest; more to the point, attacking civilians with a swarm of stinging insects would have outed me and my powers, and not in a good way. I wanted to be a hero. Letting these guys – and, by extension, Sophia – know about my powers would do my heroic career no good at all.

But this changed everything. I didn't give a shit about my heroic career, about my just-barely-started costume. Not if this was the price to pay for secrecy.

I could feel every bug in my radius. Normally it was about one and a half to two blocks; right now, it was all the way out to four blocks. I had no idea why, but I wasn't arguing. I grabbed every one of those points of light that could bite or sting or even annoy someone, and gave them the same order. Come here. Help me.

My top was pushed up. “Fuck, she wears a bra? Waste of time, you ask me.”

I struggled, whimpering through my gag as the undergarment was pushed up and hands groped me. Other hands grabbed at my waistband. I arched my back, pushing my butt down on to the ground as hard as I could. No. No no no. Don't. I'm begging you.

“Fuck, what's keeping you?”

“She's not exactly fucking cooperating, dude.” I could hear the exasperation in his voice. Good. Give up. Go away.

“Well, undo the fucking pants!”

The first bugs arrived as the button on the front of my jeans was opened. Despite my best efforts, the zipper went down. I spread my knees apart as far as I could.

“Oh, for fuck's sake, get her legs together!”

There was a chuckle. I wanted to rip his throat out. “You won't be saying that in a minute.”

I felt strong hands pushing my knees together; bucking and twisting, I did my best to struggle, but again, there were too many and they were too strong. But my reinforcements were about to turn the tide.

“Fuck! Ow! What was that?”

“Dude, you just got stung by a bee! Ow! Fuck! Was that a wasp?”

“Is it just me, or are there suddenly a lot of bugs around here?”

“Fuck, that's a black widow!”

“No, dude, that's not a black widow! That's about ten of them!” It was only four, but four was bad enough. I decided to hold off the truly venomous bugs from attacking unless things got really bad. No need for any deaths.

“Shit! Fuck! Ow!” More wasps had arrived on the scene. There were enough bugs here now for me to get a general idea of what was going on. The boys had not retreated, but they were fully occupied with fending off the attacking swarm. I rolled on to my side and started a bunch of cockroaches attacking the duct tape around my wrists. They ate everything else, I figured, so they could probably gnaw through duct tape with ease.

“What the fuck's going on?” I could hear fear in the tone.

“Fuck this shit, I'm outta here!” One of the boys bolted, then another. I let them go.

I eased up on the attacks, concentrating on the cockroaches. That was my mistake.

“Shit, look at that!”

“Look at what? Fuck, this is too weird! Where'd all these bugs come from?”

“They're not attacking her! And those roaches are going for the duct tape!”

“The fuck?”

Shit. Shit shit shit. I realised, too late, that I should have waited for them to all go before I started freeing myself.

“Shit, she's a cape?” The third boy shook his head. “Fuck that, I'm out.” He bolted as well. I began to relax slightly, but the fourth boy was still looming over me.

“Is this all you, bitch? You a fucking cape? You making all these fucking bugs attack us?”

I was startled by the venom in his voice. Before I had a chance to react, he kicked me. His boot rammed into my stomach, bending me double as I lay on the ground. The breath drove out of me and I fought not to vomit. Help … attack …

“Dude, let's just go. Come on!”

“No, fuck this bitch! No psycho cape gets to pull this shit on me! We knock her out, the bugs go away!” He drew back his leg; I tried to pull my head out of the way, but it was too late. The smashing impact sent me spiralling into the darkness.

<><>​

Air. I could breathe. Cold air flowed into my lungs. I inhaled deeply, then bent double with a hacking cough. My stomach felt bruised. Bringing my hands around, I felt at it, then realised what I was doing. The duct tape around my wrists was hanging in tatters, with cockroaches still industriously gnawing away at it.

I felt at my mouth, which tasted like it was full of blood. Most of the duct tape there was gone as well; I leaned to the side and spat out … blood, with a tooth in there as well, if the fuzzy white dot was any indication. My mouth felt like someone had kicked me there. Which, as I recalled, someone had.

It took me a moment to realise that I was seeing the blood. Seeing my tooth. I felt at my eyes, then peeled away the remnants of the tape from there and my mouth. My jaw throbbed. It felt swollen, and when I tried to move it, something grated horribly. A shaft of pain shot up into my head, and I clenched my eyes shut tightly, trying not to scream.

After a moment, as I breathed deeply, the pain went back to a dull background throb. I think I've got a broken jaw. Fucking asshole. When I saw the guy again, or Sophia for that matter, I was going to punch them right in the face. A lot.

Once I had calmed myself down with images of Sophia's nose breaking under my fist, I checked the tape around my ankles. It had been also dealt with. Oh, good. I have to say, cockroaches are good for something. Rolling over, I climbed unsteadily to my feet. And then my pants promptly fell down. Oh, right.

Bending over, I pulled them up, hoping that the roaches hadn't gone to town on them as well. Fortunately, they hadn't; I didn't feel any unwanted ventilation. Nor did I feel any unwanted cockroaches; as useful as they were, I still got the creeps when they ran over my skin.

Skin.

Reminded of that, I pulled my bra back into position, then yanked my shirt down into place over it. Blushing, I looked around to see who I might have accidentally flashed. There was nobody there. At least, nobody moving. But someone was lying there, about three yards away from me. Face-down. Not moving. I couldn't see any more details, because my glasses were nowhere to be seen.

Wait.

Taking a deep breath, I took hold of all the bugs on the ground … and for the first time, realised just how many there were. And how many there were in the air, as well. All around me. For blocks and blocks.

“Oh, god,” I mumbled. They'd be able to see this swarm from space. I was so outed.

But first things first. The command I had previously sent to my tiny minions now bore fruit. A bunch of them were clustered around what felt like my glasses. Bending down, I picked them up. For a miracle, only one lens was broken, and the arms only needed a little bit of straightening. I fixed that, then put them back on … and nearly threw up.

Because right in front of me, the guy lying face-down … was dead. Either that, or he didn't have any problem with having been eaten down to the bone in several areas. Hundreds of bugs were still working away at him; I could feel their satiation as they gorged themselves on his …

This time, I did throw up, turning to one side and relieving myself of my last meal. And the one before that. This didn't do my broken jaw any favours at all. I spat, painfully, to get rid of the lingering taste (unsuccessfully) then averted my gaze from the corpse. Now that I was paying more attention, I noticed another suspiciously human-shaped mound of bugs not so far down the alley. Oh, god. What have I done?

I had told the bugs – all the bugs – to come to me, to help me, and to attack. They had done this, even while I was unconscious. And the two boys had died.

I hadn't known my orders worked like that. I'd barely given any bugs any mass orders at all. Mainly, it had been 'come here' and 'go away'. Of course, I'd gathered black widows to start the weaving process for my costume, but even that wasn't going too great.

Leaning against the fence, I spat again, then breathed deeply, trying to clear my head. Okay, then. I'm well and truly outed. Everyone in Brockton Bay who's not blind, deaf and dead is gonna know that there's a bug cape here. I glanced down at the corpse, then hastily averted my gaze again. And I've just killed two guys. Another deep breath. Okay. Okay. I can get through this. It wasn't my fault. All I have to do is explain what happened. Explain what they were going to do. Self-defence is a thing, right?

My jaw hurt like a son of a bitch. I hoped that I wouldn't have to do too much talking. Carefully avoiding looking at the dead bodies, I started out of the alleyway. I just wanted to go home. I'd tell Dad what had happened, and he could call the police and let them know that it was all over. It was all going to be okay.

<><>​

Armsmaster

The mass of bugs roiled and hummed over a section of north Brockton Bay. A circle about eight blocks across had been evacuated. Helicopters criss-crossed the sky above it, cameras pointing downward. The evacuation had been a nightmare; people had barricaded themselves into their houses, blocking every ingress point, and still the bugs got in. PRT drivers, volunteers all, had donned protective gear and driven vans into the area. To get as close to the houses as possible, they had driven over fences and mailboxes alike in their quest to get people on board and out of the area. And still, it hadn't been enough.

Armsmaster, a hundred yards away from the nominal outer perimeter, called up the latest count of casualties on his helmet HUD. Of the ten thousand, five hundred and sixty-three people living in that area, seven thousand twelve had been stung, bitten or otherwise attacked by the sudden aggressive uprising of insects and spiders. There had been two hundred and fifty-four confirmed deaths, including one hundred and seventy-six from allergic reactions to bug stings. Twenty-nine people were known to be alive in the area, having managed to secure bug-proof shelters. Another eighty-seven were still unaccounted for.

A beep in his earpiece signalled an incoming call. He flicked his eyes over the HUD and accepted it. “Director.”

“Armsmaster. Any change in the situation?” Her voice was clipped, precise.

Despite the fact that she could not see him, he shook his head. “None. Are there any suspicious activities anywhere else in the city? Ransom demands?”

“A little looting, downtown, but nothing of note. The police are handling it. Nothing that would indicate prior knowledge of this situation.”

“Hm.” He almost wished that it was a ransom situation. That way, he'd have someone to hit. “Does Dragon have anything that might fit this scenario?”

“I've spoken with her. She says that she's flying a specialised suit to Brockton Bay as we speak.”

“Oh, good.” He felt a little tension leave his shoulders. “ETA?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“Good. I -” He paused, his eye on one of the camera feeds. “That's funny.”

“I assume you mean funny-peculiar.”

“Yes, of course. Look at the north-west quadrant of the swarm. It looks almost as if it's breaking up. Dispersing.”

She took a moment to reply. “You're right. It does. Do you still hold to the theory that the cape creating this is in the geometric centre?”

“It would make the most sense, especially if this was being caused by a new trigger.”

“So the cape may be leaving that area. Travelling southeast.”

“I'm still not entirely sure why the cape never moved in all this time.”

“We'll have to ask him or her that question. Preferably in an interrogation room.”

“Wait. All quadrants are showing bugs dispersing. Is the radius of effect shrinking?”

“Perhaps a Tinkertech gadget, then. If it's running out of power …”

“That would make it a proof of concept, or a distraction, or both.”

“Still think it's a new cape, Armsmaster?”

He grimaced. “It fits the pattern. We haven't had a bug cape in the city before, and this one appeared very dramatically.”

“Hmm. You may be right. I've got the swarm breaking up more and more. Chopper Two has just spotted a person walking down the street, toward the perimeter.”

“Description?” Armsmaster was already zooming in that camera feed as he asked the question.

“Subject appears to be a … teenage girl or skinny boy … long hair, we'll go with girl. Walking a little unsteadily. Dirt or blood on her face and down her front. I think she's wearing glasses.”

Armsmaster agreed with the assessment; he also had caught the flash of light as the girl tilted her head to look at the overflying helicopter. “And the bugs are definitely dispersing?”

“It looks that way.”

“I'm on the move.” Swinging his leg over his cycle, Armsmaster sent the signal to start the engine. All the work he had put into reducing startup time paid off now; no sooner had he settled his weight on to the saddle than the thrumming roar built up beneath him, every readout in the green. “En route to intercept.”

“Keep to the perimeter. The bugs might return.”

“Roger that.” Displaying the acceleration of a much lighter vehicle, the cycle rocketed off down the street.

<><>​

Taylor Hebert

It was only after I left the alley that I felt secure enough to start sending the swarm away. I kept a lot of bugs nearby, of course, but the vast majority were able to disperse and go their separate ways. Maybe I can even get away with this. I was pretty sure it wasn't going to happen, but I could always hope.

Down one street and then another I walked. I was reasonably certain that I was heading in the general direction of home. Winslow was somewhere behind me. I wasn't sure quite how far; as far as I could tell, it had been outside of my bugs' range when I was in the alley. I was also one hundred percent certain that I never wanted to go back.

There was a bus stop in the distance. I walked toward it, then recalled that my bus fare was scattered on the ground, back in the alley. I hadn't even thought to try to get my coin purse back. So, walking it is. It was just another layer of crap on my already oh-so-wonderful day.

It was creepy as hell, walking down empty streets. The only thing that broke the silence was the sound of helicopters overheard. I guessed that they'd been there since before I told the bugs to go away, but I hadn't heard them till then.

Halfway across an intersection – no cars, which was kind of a first for me – I noticed faces peering out of a Denny's across the way. I hadn't seen a public phone, but maybe they'd let me call Dad and get him to pick me up. I might even get a glass of water to wash the taste of blood and vomit out of my mouth.

As I approached, the faces shrank back, as if afraid. Of me? Yeah, that's gonna happen. The doors failed to open, so I tapped on them. The guy who was closest to the window shook his head vehemently. I tapped again. He shook his head even harder. I tried to indicate by gestures that the bugs were all gone, but I was pretty sure it was wasted on him.

My jaw was hurting more than ever. I wanted to cry. My stomach was still sore. I turned away from the shop-front, and there they were.

<><>​

Armsmaster

“So where is this mystery girl?” Colin didn't care how abrupt he sounded.

The PRT officer held up a tablet showing a map of the swarm-infested area. “She's about two blocks away. Approaching the Denny's, the one with people inside.”

“Oh, shit.” That was Velocity. “What if she's trying to get bugs in there?”

Armsmaster turned to the officer. “Do you have their number?”

“Right here, sir.” He held up a post-it note.

Colin didn't take it. “Ring them. Impress on them that they must not open the doors for her. No matter what she says or does.”

“Roger that, sir.” The officer turned away.

“You know, the bugs are almost gone …” Velocity was rubbing his chin.

“Yes?”

“What if we just went in there?”

Colin shook his head. “Bad idea. You saw how they swarmed anyone who tried to enter.”

“But the swarm's gone, is what I'm saying.”

Colin considered that. He seemed to be correct; the swarm had attenuated to … well, nothing. While it had been ongoing, the bugs had converged with extreme prejudice on anyone moving into the area. There were two possibilities here; either the swarm-controller had given new orders, or the bugs were waiting in ambush.

And then there were the people holed up in the fast-food restaurant to consider. If the bug cape really wanted to get bugs in there, it was going to happen. A rock would do it.

“Armsmaster, this is Miss Militia. I have eyes on target.”

Hannah was lying on a rooftop one block back from the danger zone. She had made her weapon into the most elaborate sniper rifle that Colin had ever seen, with a scope that could pick out individual hair follicles at half a mile. “What's she doing?”

“Just walking. Limping, really. She seems to be hurt. Holding her stomach. There's blood on her face and shirt. I can't get a good look, but there seems to be something wrong with her face, like her jaw's swollen.”

Despite the fact that she couldn't see him, Armsmaster nodded. “Does she appear to have been attacked by the bugs?”

“I'm not seeing anything like that, no. To be honest, she looks like she's just been beaten up. Pretty badly, at that.”

This was starting to fit the profile of a new trigger. He came to a decision. “Keep an eye on her. We're going in.”

“We are? Who's 'we'?” asked Velocity.

“You, me …” Armsmaster paused. “I could really do with Vista or Clockblocker, but I can't expose Wards to this sort of danger. Just the two of us for the moment, until we get this figured out. Plus some soldiers.” He raised his voice. “I'm calling for volunteers to go in with us. Four men. Two with containment foam.”

“What's containment foam going to do against bugs if they decide to swarm us?” asked Velocity.

“It's for us, so we don't get stung to death before help arrives,” Colin pointed out.

“Oh.” Velocity looked enlightened. “Right.”

So far, eight men had presented themselves. Armsmaster looked them over. “You, you, you and you. Stay behind us. No hostile moves unless I authorise it. Understood?”

The highest ranking of the four men picked – a sergeant – straightened to attention. “Sir.”

“Good. Let's go.”

<><>​

Taylor Hebert

“Miss, I'm going to have to ask you to stand down.”

The voice was firm and authoritative. I couldn't tell who'd spoken, or even who they were, because they had the sun behind them. As I squinted through the glare, the broken lens of my glasses sent spikes of bright light into my eye, making me wince. Painfully, I brought up my right hand to shade my eyes. As I did so, I saw the men tense. Rifles, or what I thought were rifles, were raised.

“Don't shoot me,” I mumbled. “Please.” Even trying to speak sent a jag of pain through my jaw, causing tears to trickle down my cheeks.

One of them stepped forward. He was taller than me by a good six inches, and so much broader that it was ridiculous. As he did so, he blotted out the sun, and I got my first good look at him.

“Armsmaster,” I mumbled. I took a shuffling step forward, then another. “I just wanna go home. Dad'll be worried.” Armsmaster was a hero. He would help me get home. It was going to be all right.

“Miss, you're going to have to come with us.” His tone brooked no disagreement.

“No.” Something grated in my jaw with the intensity of the word, and I nearly screamed from the agony. “Just lemme go home. Please.” I tried to step past him, but something gave way inside me. Sinking to my knees, I hugged myself and let the tears come.

That tiny surrender paved the way. The tight rein I had been holding on to consciousness slipped out of my grip, and blackness welled up.

I think he caught me as I began to fall sideways.



End of Part One

 

Price of Blood


Part Two: Investigation


Dr Hubert Lansing, MD
PRT ENE Building, Brockton Bay

“How is she?”

Lansing looked up from the sleeping girl. Armsmaster stood there, solid and forbidding. His mouth was set in a hard, straight line.

“Well, she'll live,” Lansing ventured. “She's been worked over pretty good. Broken jaw, broken nose, a couple of broken ribs, suspected internal bruising. She's lucky nothing's ruptured, actually. Depressed fracture of her right cheekbone. Suspected concussion. Lost all the skin off the heels of both hands. Bruising over a fair percentage of her body, both old and new.”

“Old bruising?” Armsmaster leaned forward, intent. “It didn't happen today?”

“Not today, no.” Lansing led the way out of the surgery; behind him, IV bags fed saline and sedatives into the girl's veins. “If you were to ask me, she shows all the signs of a classic physical abuse case. But there's something odd about this. She was tied up with duct tape. Including over her mouth and eyes. Why?”

“I can think of several reasons,” Armsmaster replied grimly. “None of them good.”

Lansing tilted his head in agreement. “Very true. It's pretty difficult to bruise yourself on soft restraints like duct tape. She managed it.”

“She didn't have duct tape on her face when we encountered her.”

“Well, I found residue of the adhesive on her face. So it was there. And I peeled the remains of the tape off her wrists and ankles myself. What did you guys cut it with? Your halberd?”

“It was like that when we found her.” Armsmaster sounded puzzled, which didn't surprise Lansing. This girl had too many mysteries around her. “When can I talk to her?”

Lansing gestured magnanimously. “Be my guest. But she won't be answering for quite some time. We're going to have to wire her jaw before she comes out of sedation and wait till it heals.”

“So, months.” Armsmaster didn't sound pleased at all.

“Well, days. Hours at the very least,” Lansing conceded. “If you're okay with her mumbling a lot, and not being very coherent. And at some point, you're going to have to locate her next of kin and explain to them exactly what happened to her.” Lansing did his best to not show his appreciation that this would not be his job.

Abruptly, Armsmaster turned and left. With another sigh, Lansing went to his desk. The case notes on this incident were going to be interesting … and not in a good way.

<><>​

Emily Piggot
Regional Director, PRT ENE

Emily hated days like this. It had been a nice quiet Wednesday, with minimal gang activity, right up until just before four in the afternoon. Then everything had gone to hell.

The first indication that something was wrong occurred when the frantic 9-1-1 calls started coming in. People were being attacked by bugs in the area of the Swarm, as it ended up being called. Those on the perimeter were the luckiest; they could drive to safety, or in some cases just run away. Further in, it got worse. A lot worse.

She looked at her monitor screen, at the figure for the final casualty count, then up at Armsmaster. The armoured hero was standing at parade rest, but she fancied that she could see the subtle telltales of tension. Armsmaster was deeply unhappy about something, which didn't surprise Piggot. Right now, I'm not too thrilled either.

“Report.” Her voice was flat.

“I've sent in my report already, ma'am,” he replied guardedly.

“There are still a few questions I'd like answered.” She gazed at him steadily. “Such as why you went into the area of the Swarm without seeking approval first.”

“The Swarm had dispersed,” he explained. “Miss Militia had indicated the presence of an injured teenage girl. I presumed this to be our bug cape.”

Emily tilted her head. “Why?”

His voice was matter-of-fact. “She showed no evidence of being attacked by bugs, and her projected path came from what I estimated to be the epicentre of the Swarm.”

She considered that. “Very well. Continue.”

“I decided that it was best to confront her away from innocents. She was unable to speak clearly, so I could not interrogate her, but nothing she did or said made me change my mind about her involvement in the matter.”

“I'm presuming that you've since investigated further.” It wasn't a question.

“Yes, ma'am. I'm still writing that report.”

She leaned back in her chair, to give the impression of relaxation. “Give me the highlights. Start with what we know about the proximate cause of this event.”

Armsmaster nodded. “I'm ninety-nine percent sure that the girl was indeed the cause of it. Seventy-five percent sure that it was in response to a trigger event.”

He paused; Piggot absorbed the information. It wasn't welcome news; trigger events complicated everything. “Evidence?”

“This has never happened before. It hasn't recurred since we took her into custody. She's obviously been through a severe ordeal. That says 'trigger event' to me.”

Grimacing, she nodded. “So noted. What do we know about her?” The previous report had indicated that the girl's prints had not shown up in any databases, and she wasn't carrying ID. Piggot hated Jane Doe cases.

“Her name is Taylor Anne Hebert,” recited Armsmaster, surprising her. “Age fifteen. Her father's name is Daniel Hebert. He's the head of hiring at the Dockworkers' Association, and he's currently in the building. Her mother's dead. Car accident.”

Piggot blinked. “I see. So she's awake and talking then?”

Armsmaster shook his head. “No. She's still under sedation, and will be for some time.”

“Really.” Emily raised her eyebrows quizzically. “So how did you get all that information about her?”

“We backtracked her,” Armsmaster explained. “Where we figured the epicentre was, we found an alleyway between houses. There were two corpses there, male juveniles of around Hebert's age.”

Emily grimaced. “Two more. Good God. Is that reflected in the casualty count?”

“It is now. But two pieces of evidence came up when we checked on them. I'm pretty sure I know why the incident was so severe.” His jaw hardened. “One of the boys had his fly open. Not by accident, either. When we rolled him over, he was fully exposed.”

Emily blinked in confusion. “He was going to urinate on her?”

“I'm thinking something more serious than that. Much more serious. There was an open packet of condoms nearby.”

The conclusion was inescapable. “They were going to -” She didn't finish the question. She didn't need to.

He nodded once, sharply. “That's my supposition.”

“And did they -” She didn't finish that question either.

“No, thank God. I checked back with Lansing. No sign of anything like that happening.”

“Well, the picture's certainly starting to come together.” She relaxed slightly. “You still haven't explained how you got her name. Or her father's name.”

“The boys were the key here. Not only were they carrying student cards which allowed us to ID them, but one of them had a coin-purse stuffed in his pocket, holding a library card and student card in the name of Taylor Anne Hebert.”

“Photo ID?” asked Piggot automatically.

“The student card is, yes,” confirmed Armsmaster. “She matches the picture.”

“I see.” Piggot folded her hands before her. “Go on.”

“The bodies have been taken for autopsy, but I fully expect to find that each of them was killed by bugs, given that both bodies had been partially consumed by, well, insects. Investigating further, we found a discarded roll of duct tape, matching the tape which had been used to bind the girl. We also found two strips, each with a ragged hole cut out of the middle of it. The holes match the edges on the tape used to restrain her arms and legs. I'm working on the hypothesis that bugs ate through the tape.”

“Bugs. Ate through duct tape.” Emily wasn't quite rejecting the idea, but it sounded a little far-fetched.

“Cockroaches can and will eat essentially anything organic,” Armsmaster pointed out. “In fact, if this is what happened, they saved her life. She has a broken nose. With a strip of duct tape over her mouth, she would have been barely able to breathe, until they ate a hole in it.”

“Hm. Continue.”

“Finally, we found coins of various denominations, totalling a couple of dollars, scattered over an area of several square yards. Forensic examination found partial fingerprints on the coins that matched the Hebert girl, as well as those of one of the boys. And there were fibres adhering to the coins that matched the interior of the coin purse.”

“So he stole the purse, emptied it of coins, was disgusted at the small amount, and threw them at her?” Emily theorised.

“That's my impression, yes,” agreed Armsmaster.

“We'll go with that for the time being, then.” Emily paused, frowning. “Getting back to these boys. Which school did you say they went to?”

Armsmaster smiled slightly. “This is where it gets interesting. According to the student cards, all three of them are, or were, students at Winslow High.” He paused expectantly.

Emily's head came up. “That's Shadow Stalker's school.”

“Yes, ma'am.” And isn't that a turn-up for the books, he didn't have to say.

Silently, she agreed. “Have Triumph speak to Shadow Stalker. We need all the background we can get on the Hebert girl. Especially if she's showing signs of being abused.”

Armsmaster nodded. “I'll get right on it.” He half-turned, to leave the office.

Piggot held up a hand. “But before you do, you said that her father is in the building? Why hasn't anyone put him through to me?”

“Because he's in custody.” Armsmaster paused, then obviously decided not to make her ask the question. “He saw the Swarm on the news, and he knew that Taylor was somewhere near that. When she didn't answer the phone at home, he started driving around, looking for her. He tried twice to get through the cordon around the Swarm, so they arrested him for his own safety. It was only after I put Taylor Hebert's name into the system as a person of interest that I saw his name just above hers, so I checked it out. That was about ten minutes ago.”

“Has he been told? How's he taking it?”

“I haven't spoken to the man yet,” he admitted. “I've passed on instructions for them to tell him that she's alive.”

“We're going to have to talk to him, and soon,” Piggot said. “If he's the one who's been abusing her, we need to find out. Now that she's triggered, more abuse could set off another Swarm without warning. We lost two hundred and seventy-three people this time. I don't want it happening again.”

“Speaking of which.” Armsmaster's tone was careful. “What is going to happen to her? I know we have an informal policy regarding trigger events, but nearly three hundred people died here. Your average supervillain doesn't rack up that sort of a death toll on purpose.”

“Oh, if I thought for a moment that she'd done it on purpose, I'd be pushing for the Birdcage, or a kill order, whichever I could get,” Emily stated flatly. “The trouble is that kill orders are specifically aimed at capes who go off the rails in a big way, and keep going off the rails. The ones who just plain need to die. She more or less surrendered herself to you, so she doesn't fit that category.”

“And the Birdcage?” he asked quietly. She got the impression that he was subtly testing her.

“We could actually make a strong case for the Birdcage,” she admitted. “I'm almost inclined to do just that, to be honest. The death toll alone would certainly give us a good justification. Her power frankly terrifies me. There are only two things holding me back from recommending it.”

“Which are?”

“One; she's only fifteen, for God's sake. I really don't want to send a fifteen year old into that hellhole. Two; as you said, this is very likely trigger event related.”

“We both know that there's no official policy regarding new capes and trigger events,” he pointed out. Was he playing Devil's advocate for the hell of it, or did he really feel that way? She couldn't tell.

“No, that's true,” she agreed. “Just like there's no official policy regarding the unwritten rules. That's so we don't get smartass capes leveraging matters to take advantage of such things. But …” She paused.

“But?” he prompted.

“From what you're saying, they trapped her in that alley. Tied her up with duct tape. Gagged her. Blindfolded her. Robbed her. And they were going to do … that to her. That's not only ample justification for any trigger event that I ever heard of, but I'm kind of surprised that the trigger event wasn't even more violent.”

“Two hundred and seventy-three deaths,” he reminded her.

“Oh, I'm not attempting to justify a single one of those deaths,” she said, then paused. “Well, maybe one or two.” She didn't have to explain exactly which ones she considered justified. “As for the rest … well, I have very bad memories of exactly this sort of thing. However, I'm doing my best to look at this objectively, and I can't see any malice here. Also, she stood down before you even went in there, which is a major point in her favour. So right now, I'm giving her the chance to turn this around for herself.”

He nodded. “Understood. So where do we go from here, then? Am I correct in understanding that you want to bring her into the Wards?”

Piggot sighed. “As opposed to what? Leave her to her own devices? If what's just happened is any indication, then Brockton Bay is not a safe city to share with her. This time, it was admittedly pretty bad. People from her own school, no less. Good God.” She shook her head. “The next time, it might be a mugging. Or someone might prank her in class. We really don't know what will set her off, so our best bet is to get her out of Winslow and under our supervision as fast as possible.”

Armsmaster nodded; if he was feeling doubts as to her sweeping statement, he wasn't showing them. “So when do we start that process?”

“Today. Now. I'll sign off on it as fast as we can prepare the paperwork. Triumph speaks to Shadow Stalker. We speak to the Hebert girl. See where we all stand. If she can demonstrate willingness to cooperate, as well as a reasonable level of control over her powers, we can talk about getting her into the Wards.” Unspoken were the words and if she can't, then the Birdcage is still an option.

“And the Swarm? How do we spin that with the public? Nearly three hundred people died, Director.”

He had to bring that up. Her jaw hardened. “I know, Armsmaster. I've thought about little else since it happened. She certainly can't be a Ward here in Brockton Bay.”

“Where, then? Boston? New York?”

Piggot shook her head. “I was thinking Los Angeles. If anyone could help someone with a power like that, it's Alexandria.”

Understanding crept into Armsmaster's voice. “And of course, it's across the other side of the country, and if she can keep it subtle for a while, nobody will connect the Swarmbringer to the new bug controller in LA.”

“Swarmbringer?” She stared at him. “Where did that come from?”

“Sorry, Director. It's all over the PHO boards.”

“Good God.” She shook her head. “But in essence, you're correct. Nobody will make the connection, especially if she keeps things light and fluffy. We'll have to speak to Glenn about that, but I'm sure he'll have ideas. And then there's the matter of her father.” She paused. “Does he strike you as the type to physically abuse a teenage girl?”

Armsmaster shrugged, very slightly. “I don't know what that type looks like, ma'am. In any case, I haven't had the chance to speak with the man yet.”

Director Piggot heaved herself up from her desk. “Yes, you told me. Well, then. Why don't we go and do just that.”

Armsmaster smiled tightly. “Yes, ma'am.”

<><>​

Danny Hebert
Holding Cell, PRT ENE

Screaming at the walls hadn't helped. Nor had punching the door. There was a camera up in the corner of the room, entirely unprotected; he would have been tempted to try to break it, but something told him that it was a dummy. Any real camera would have been much better hidden. He didn't even have a one-way mirror to make rude gestures at. So when the door finally opened, he was sitting at the metal table, studying his skinned knuckles.

“At last!” he blurted, jumping up. “Do you know how long I've been waiting -”

“Yes. I do.” It was the overweight woman in the blue suit who spoke. “I'm Director Piggot. Sit down, Mr Hebert. We have much to discuss.”

“But I -” he began, then cut himself off when a familiar figure stepped into the interrogation room behind the Director. Danny knew who Armsmaster was, of course. Everyone knew who Armsmaster was.

“If you do as the Director says,” the armoured hero advised him, “this will go a lot easier for all concerned.”

Slowly, Danny regained his seat. He had been in strong negotiating positions before. This did not seem to be the case at the moment. He didn't have much hope for the future, either.

“Thank you,” the Director said, carefully taking her own seat. Armsmaster took up a position beside her, arms folded. “Your daughter's name is Taylor Anne, yes?”

“Yes,” he blurted. “Is she all right? All I've been told is that she's alive.”

“She is indeed alive,” Piggot confirmed. “She's injured, but the expectation is that she'll make a full recovery. We're giving her the very best of medical care.”

Danny jumped up again. “Where is she? Can I see her? What happened? Was it that Swarm thing?”

The Director did not move; Armsmaster let his arms hang casually by his sides, but there was an air of tension about him. It was Piggot who spoke, biting the words off sharply. “Sit. Down.”

Danny sat. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then another. “Please,” he said softly. “Tell me what happened. Let me see her.”

“She's in no danger, Mr Hebert,” the Director told him, her voice quiet. “We'll take you to see her shortly. But first I need to ask you some questions.”

He looked from her face to Armsmaster's, but neither one offered any sort of comfort. “Are these the sort of questions I'm going to need a lawyer for?”

Director Piggot raised an eyebrow. “Do you think you need a lawyer?”

There were many things that Danny Hebert wasn't sure about right then, but that wasn't one of them. “I'll answer your questions. But if I don't like any of them, that's when I get the lawyer.”

“That's your right and privilege,” the Director agreed. “Now, just for your information, Armsmaster has been working on an algorithm that detects if someone is lying in his presence. While the results are not yet admissible in court, it would be a very bad idea to lie to us. Is that understood?”

He couldn't help staring at Armsmaster. The man was a statue, his arms folded once more. Was it a bluff? Armsmaster was a Tinker, and Tinkers were renowned for building technology that was just plain bullshit. “... okay, I understand.”

Piggot smiled very slightly. “Very well. What is your relationship with your daughter like?”

He blinked. That wasn't what he was expecting to hear. “Uh … she's my daughter? I love her. We, uh, haven't been as close since her mother died. That's kind of my fault, but we still talk, every now and again. Why?”

She ignored the question, her eyes never leaving his. “Does she have boyfriends, or girlfriends for that matter?”

“No boyfriends, no. As far as I know, she doesn't have many friends at all,” he confessed. “Just Emma Barnes really. They've been best friends since … Christ, since first grade. Earlier. They used to sleep over at each others' places all the time.”

The Director tilted her head slightly. “Used to?”

“Huh. Yeah.” Danny realised what she was getting at. “I never realised it, but it's been years since Emma slept over. Funny how something like that gets away from you.”

“I'll take your word for it. Now, Mr Hebert. What's your view on parental discipline?”

“You mean, did I ever discipline Taylor?” The Director didn't answer, but he saw the twitch in her expression. “I always left that to Anne-Rose. My dad had a real temper, you see. I got caught on the wrong side of it a few times. I can get a little hot under the collar myself, so I decided a long time ago that I'd never inflict that on my family. So Anne-Rose always used to handle the spanking when it was needed. She seems to have turned out okay, I guess.”

Piggot nodded. “Very well. What -”

“Wait.” Danny held both hands up. “Stop.”

The Director looked at him, raising her eyebrows. “Yes?”

“I'm not a stupid man. This is about Taylor, and it's about parahuman matters. And it's about someone who's done something to her. Right?”

Armsmaster cleared his throat. “Mr Hebert. Taylor has bruises on her arms and legs that she didn't get today. Some of them are weeks old. Do you know how she got them?”

Danny couldn't help it. He raised his eyebrows and leaned forward. “Really? You don't know what happened at Winslow? What's been happening at Winslow?”

Without his long experience at the negotiating table, Danny would never have picked the eye-twitch that said, oh shit, there's something I don't know about going on here. The Director's face went blank after that one revealing tell. He would have bet everything he had that she was searching for a response that would get her the information she needed without revealing that she didn't know it.

“Well?” he asked smoothly, pushing just a little. “Or did you see 'teenage girl with single parent' and decide that was all the information you needed?”

Piggot's mouth tightened, as if she had just bitten into a lemon. “Mr Hebert -”

“January third,” Armsmaster stated suddenly. “Your daughter was shut into her locker by a person or persons unknown. She then spent one week in the …” He paused.

“Psychiatric ward,” Danny finished bitterly. “Then I took her home. She spent the next couple of weeks recovering. I sent her back to school just last week. The school promised, on bended knee, that they'd look out for her.” He stared at Armsmaster. “How did you … wait. Tinker. You can go online with that helmet, can't you?”

“Armsmaster's technology is not under discussion here, Mr Hebert,” the Director broke in. “You implied that this was not the only incident.”

Danny felt slow anger building within him. “It's the first one I was made aware of,” he stated tightly. “Turns out that this was just the culmination of a long campaign of bullying. At least a year. Maybe more. Taylor's a smart girl. She could've gotten into Arcadia on a scholarship, but you'd never know it from her grades.”

“And you didn't know about it?” asked Armsmaster, his tone faintly disbelieving.

“She never told me.” The anger melted away, to be replaced by shame. Danny dropped his eyes to the table. “We used to talk about everything, until her mother died. Then we … basically fell apart. I fell apart. It's been more than two years, but we're still not really back to normal.”

Director Piggot's voice was almost gentle as she spoke. “Mr Hebert, I understand that this is difficult for you. But I just need to ask one more question.”

“And then you take me to see her.” He raised his eyes to meet hers.

“Yes.” He wasn't quite sure what was going on behind her eyes, but she paused for a long moment. “Mr Hebert … since the locker, has your daughter been acting any differently than before?”

He had never felt less like laughing, but he snorted with something approaching humour. “Sorry. Seriously. I didn't see the locker, but from what I was told, it would have been a truly horrific experience. I'd be astonished if she didn't show some changes in behaviour.”

Whatever the Director thought she was going to get out of that exchange, he didn't know, but she didn't seem to have gotten it. In any case, it wasn't his problem. “So. Shall we go and see her now?”

Piggot nodded. “We will. In just a moment. I need to confer with Armsmaster about something.”

He knew that he didn't have much choice in the matter. “Fine. Just don't take too long. For some reason, the word 'lawyer' keeps popping into my head.”

As the door opened, he thought he saw a wince of pain on the Director's face.

<><>​

Armsmaster

“Well?” The question was abrupt.

“Well, what?” he asked. “I can't tell if he's lying. The software's far from finished.”

“Not that,” she snapped impatiently. “This locker incident. Could it have been the trigger event for the Hebert girl?”

“It could have,” he allowed cautiously. “But there's no guarantee. The incident today could just have easily been the final straw. He was entirely correct that a bad experience will -”

“Armsmaster.”

He stopped talking, and looked at her. Her glare should have been able to melt steel. “Director?”

“I am entirely capable of understanding the lasting effects of undergoing an extremely traumatic experience,” she reminded him coldly. “Which one do you think was her trigger event?”

“I think for the answer to that,” he said honestly, “we'd have to ask her.” He tilted his head. “If it turns out that today was not her trigger event, that does put matters into a new light,” he mused. “For one thing, she's had her powers for a month, and so doesn't have the excuse of not knowing she's got them.”

“But if that's the case …” The Director paused. “It also means that she's quite capable of keeping them under control. So why did they break loose so catastrophically today?” She put up one finger to stop Armsmaster from answering. “I think you're right. We do need to talk to her.”

“Doctor Lansing was talking about wiring her jaw,” Armsmaster said.

Piggot shook her head. “Too slow. We need her coherent and talking clearly. There's got to be zero misunderstanding about what she says.” A look of unhappiness crossed her face. “I'm going to need to call New Wave and ask them for a favour.”

“What's the matter with that?” asked Armsmaster. “Panacea's a good kid. And her work is top of the range.”

“Because Brandish is always so goddam smug about it,” growled Piggot.

“Well, she is a lawyer,” offered the armoured hero.

The Director shot him a suspicious look. “Was that a joke?”

“I'm sorry?” He kept his expression deadpan.

One corner of her mouth quirked up. “Hm. Well, you take Mr Hebert to the infirmary. I'll make the call to New Wave.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

<><>​

Sophia Hess
Wards Base, PRT Building
At Around the Same Time

“Shadow Stalker, can I have a word?”

Sophia looked around from the TV with mild irritation. “I've already written up my report on the Swarm incident, if that's what you're looking for,” she told Triumph. “I left it on the monitor desk.”

“No, that's fine,” he said. His voice was deep and resonant; she would have imagined that he was putting it on for effect, except that she knew he didn't speak any other way. “This is about another matter.”

“Can it wait?” Sophia gestured at the TV. “I'm waiting for the news, to see if they've got any more footage of the Swarm.”

“No, it can't,” he stated flatly. “I need to speak with you now. This is about your civilian identity.”

That got her attention; she sat up fast, and glared at him. “I never agreed to unmask -”

“You're not being unmasked.” His voice was firm. At the far end of the sofa, Vista was staring at them both.

“What are you looking at, squirt?” Sophia gave her a glare; the younger girl looked away. Satisfied, Sophia turned to face Triumph again. “So what's this about?”

“It's about someone you know in your civilian identity, and it's private,” stressed Triumph. “Come on, let's go up on to the roof.”

Now Sophia was puzzled. Emma? What's happened with her? She had checked, after the fact, and found that the redhead hadn't been in the Swarm when it happened. “Okay, let's go.”

For someone who used sound as a weapon, Triumph was very close-mouthed; he didn't say more than three words to her until they got up to the roof, and two of those were “after you” as they entered the lift.

Strolling out across the helipad, he glanced around and then turned to her. “You go to Winslow, right?”

“You know I do,” she retorted. “What about it?”

“Do you know a girl called Taylor Hebert?”

The question jolted her to her heels. Hebert? Is she even still alive? The Swarm had blown up not long after she'd run off with Sophia's patsies on her heels. Hundreds of people had died. Hebert was surely so much of a wimp that she was one of them. “Um … yeah. Kinda.” They can check this sort of shit. “I got a few classes with her.”

Triumph nodded. “Good. What's your impression of her? Does she seem to be having trouble with anyone at Winslow?”

Sophia's brain went into overdrive. Okay, they know something's up but not what. My name came up, maybe? No, can't be, or I'd be sitting in front of Miss Piggy. This is a nice friendly chat with the team leader. He honestly wants information. So be careful.

“Well, uh, she's a bit of a loner, really,” she began cautiously. “Not really popular. A loser, actually. You know, a geek? Nobody really likes her. Sometimes she makes up stories of being picked on, but it's basically just her looking for attention. That's what I hear, anyway. I don't know her all that well.”

“So who does she complain about the most?” He sounded like he was buying it.

“Oh, usually it's just random. Whoever's most popular that week, I guess.” She tried to sound as if she didn't care.

“Right, right.” He paused. “Uh, wasn't there an incident with her locker or something?”

“Oh, god, that old story.” She faked a chuckle. “That thing was blown totally out of proportion. Do you know, by the time the story got told around the school, she'd been in there a whole hour, with toxic waste in there as well? Man, talk about your Chinese whispers.”

“Oh.” He sounded vaguely disappointed. “So it wasn't that bad?”

“Hardly.” She snorted. “Like that shit's gonna fly on my watch.”

“Right, gotcha.” He nodded, the lions-head helmet exaggerating the movement. “Thanks. That's all I really needed to know.”

“No problem.” She started walking back across the helipad with him. “So what's this all about anyway? What's she done?”

“Dunno.” He hitched half a shrug. “I just got told by Armsmaster to ask you about her.”

“Oh well, no skin off my nose.” She stepped back into the lift with him, and didn't speak the whole way down.

Armsmaster's asking questions about Hebert? Okay, time to keep my eyes and ears open.


End of Part Two

 

Price of Blood


Part Three: Revelations


Danny Hebert

Danny entered the infirmary just behind Armsmaster. He barely registered the presence of the armed PRT soldier in the room, instead focusing on what was important. “Taylor!”

She lay in the bed, surrounded by a worrying amount of medical equipment. It brought back bad memories of the month before, when she had been in hospital following what had happened with the locker. She had bruising all over her face and her mouth was swollen; even her hands were swathed in bandages. A tube was clipped to her nose, which itself looked like it had been broken and reset.

Darting to the side of the bed, he took her hand, staring into her face. Willing her to respond. “Taylor, it's me. I'm here. Talk to me, please.”

“She's under sedation, Mr Hebert,” Armsmaster reminded him. “Her vitals are strong. She's in no danger.”

“Well, unsedate her,” Danny snapped. “Why are you keeping her under like this?”

Armsmaster hesitated, just for a moment. That was all Danny needed to connect the dots. “She's the one, isn't she? You think she caused the Swarm, and you don't want her to wake up in case she does it again.”

“She came from the middle of the Swarm, and she shows no evidence of being attacked by bugs,” Armsmaster admitted. “I'm convinced that she has powers, and that those powers caused the Swarm. However, neither the Director nor myself are convinced that she's at fault.”

“So who is at fault?” snapped Danny heatedly. “Did someone Master her after she got her powers? When did she get powers, anyway?”

Armsmaster spread his hands slightly. “We were hoping that you could tell us. There are two separate incidents when it could have happened. We also have other inconsistencies that need to be cleared up.” He paused. “However, to put your mind at rest, we are bringing in outside assistance to both help your daughter and to fill in the gaps.”

Danny frowned. “Outside assistance? Who?”

<><>​

Panacea

The PRT building was blazing light from every window as Vicky came in for a landing.

“Burning the midnight oil,” she commented; Amy felt the subtle increase in her weight on Vicky's arms as her sister slowed the downward fall.

“Are you surprised?” Amy asked rhetorically. “The Swarm killed nearly three hundred people today. It's gotta be all hands on deck until they've captured or at least identified the culprit -”

“I told you, there's footage of Armsmaster and Velocity facing off against some mystery cape outside that Denny's,” Glory Girl put in. “She was trying to get in. Scary stuff.”

“Doesn't mean that she had anything to do with it, or that she's even a cape,” Amy pointed out. She didn't know why she was arguing with her sister, or even why she'd agreed to come out to the PRT building this late in the evening. I know why I came out, the logical side of her brain reminded her. It's because if I don't, I look heartless and New Wave looks bad.

Before Amy could wonder why she was worried about New Wave's image, Vicky touched down on the pavement outside the building. “I don't know why we didn't just land on the roof,” she commented, setting Amy on her feet. “Would've been a lot easier.”

“They're on lockdown since the Swarm,” Amy said. “They get really twitchy at times like this. Protocol is that every visitor comes in through the front doors.” She'd been there when Gallant explained this to Vicky. Why Vicky couldn't remember that was beyond her.

“Oh, right.” Vicky strode up to the front doors; Amy trailed behind. The biokinetic stifled a yawn; healing people usually didn't tire her out much, but the frantic effort of the afternoon had taken its toll on her.

The doors slid open; Amy followed Vicky inside. There were more PRT soldiers in the lobby than normal, and the reception desks were closed with shutters pulled down over them. The soldiers held rifles and foam sprayers in equal numbers; they covered the doors until the toughened glass had slid closed again. After that, the weapons went back to port arms.

“Glory Girl and Panacea, here to see the Director.” Vicky, at least, had no problem with stepping forward. Amy would have been a little more circumspect about it, but this time it seemed to work.

One of the soldiers – an officer, Amy guessed – nodded. “Come with me,” he told them in that totally-not-eerie voice that the closed helmet gave all PRT soldiers, gesturing toward the lifts. “She's on the fifth floor.”

Amy was mildly puzzled at that. The Director's office was on the top floor. What was she doing on the fifth … oh. The fifth floor had the infirmary on it. Had Piggot finally worked herself into a collapse? I'm astonished it didn't happen years ago. In any case, this was probably the smartest way to deal with the situation; after all, Panacea and Glory Girl were not uncommon visitors to the PRT building.

They stepped into the lift; the doors interleaved together and the numbers scrolled upward. Just seconds later, the lift stopped on the fifth floor. Their PRT escort stepped out, and led the way down the corridor. Amy managed to conceal a tired smile. I was right. She needs medical attention, and she's finally decided to bite the bullet and ask for my help.

Amy had used her powers to heal many PRT soldiers over the years, but Director Piggot was not one of them. She often wondered why the Director didn't seek help with her (to Amy) obvious medical problems, but one thing that had been drummed into her was that if people did not give consent, they didn't want help.

The officer held open the door to the infirmary but did not enter; Vicky entered first, with Amy following along. The biokinetic came to an abrupt halt, however, when her expectations failed to match reality. There were five people in the infirmary. One was a PRT guard; of the four others, she only knew two, and neither one of those was the Director.

“What's going on here?” she asked. “Who are these people?”

Armsmaster had been standing with his back to the wall, observing a tall skinny man sitting by one of the infirmary beds. In the bed was an unconscious teenage girl, showing signs of serious injury. Even from where she was, Amy could pick out the signs of a broken jaw and nose. Both had been reset, but the swelling and bruising had yet to go down in either case. Attending the girl was one of the PRT's physicians, an older man called Lansing. Amy didn't know him well, but she respected his work.

“Panacea, this is Taylor Hebert, and her father Danny,” Armsmaster stated, stepping forward to face her. “Taylor needs your assistance to heal her injuries.”

“I … okay,” Amy said simply, somewhat on the back foot now. “Do I have parental consent to heal her?”

“Yes, you do,” exclaimed the skinny man, jumping up from his chair. He had been holding the tips of his daughter's fingers as they protruded from the bandages that swathed her hands. “Please, help my daughter. She's all I have left.”

The raw pleading in his voice reached past the scar tissue that she imagined most of her soul to be, and touched a tender spot. “I'll do my best,” she assured the man sincerely.

“Best, hah,” Vicky interjected cheerfully. “Mr Hebert, your kid'll be dancing the macarena in no time.”

Armsmaster cleared his throat. “Uh, if you could clear the room, Mr Hebert? Also you too, Dr Lansing, and Glory Girl. Miss Hebert's injuries are particularly extensive, and I imagine that Panacea will need to concentrate all of her attention on healing her properly.”

“What, really?” Vicky looked bemused. “You really don't know my sister that well if you think -” She broke off, looking more closely at the girl on the bed. “Hey. She looks kind of familiar.”

Armsmaster stepped in between her and the bed. “Director's orders. We want there to be no mistakes in making sure that Miss Hebert makes a complete recovery. Please, clear the room.”

Something in the tone of his voice told Amy that there was something else going on here. It certainly wouldn't be the extent of the girl's injuries. If she was alive, Amy could heal her. It was that simple. However, Armsmaster wanted everyone but her out of the room. What's going on here?

“Hey, what?” That was Vicky. “Panacea's my sister. Where she goes, I go.”

Amy looked at Armsmaster. “Director's orders?”

He nodded once, briefly. “We want to be certain about this.”

She pressed her lips together, then nodded. I don't like being told how to do my job, but if the Director wants it this way, then this is the way we'll do it. “All right. Vicky, go on. I'll be out in a minute, okay?”

Vicky looked mutinous. “But -”

Amy felt the aura begin to rise, making her feel nervous. She steeled herself, hardening her tone. “Vicky. It's fine. Go.”

Glory Girl exhaled sharply, then nodded. "Okay. You're the doctor."

Amy's smile didn't match her feelings. “Thanks. I'll be out as soon as I can.”

"Wait," objected Danny Hebert. "This is my daughter. I want to stay."

"I'm sorry, Mr Hebert, but that just won't be possible," Amy told him seriously. She wasn't quite sure why Armsmaster wanted him out of the room, but she was beginning to hazard a few guesses. "I'm going to need total concentration for this, and the fewer people in the room, the better."

Past his shoulder, she met her sister's eyes. Vicky obviously didn't know what was going on – Amy was only vaguely aware that something was going on – but she picked up on what Amy wanted.

“Right then. Let's clear the room,” she said briskly. “Come on, Mr H. Your kid's in the best possible hands. Trust me on this. Tell you what, when was the last time you ate? I'm pretty sure there's a vending machine on this floor. Let's go find it, and you can tell me all about Tania … ? Did I get that right?”

“Taylor. Her name's Taylor.” Danny made a tentative attempt at staying, but between Vicky's persuasive voice, her hand on his arm, and the urging of her aura, he was already halfway out the door.

Dr Lansing, while obviously not in the loop, hadn't argued at all, which was probably wise considering who employed him. The door closed behind the three of them; a moment later, Amy heard a distinct click as the lock engaged.

She turned to Armsmaster. “Okay. Something's going on here. Suppose you tell me what it is.”

He nodded briefly. “This doesn't leave the room. Taylor Hebert is our best bet for finding out exactly what happened this afternoon with the Swarm. We need to -”

Amy stopped listening after he said the word 'Swarm'. Reaching out, she put her hand on the girl's arm. Biological information took shape in her mind. She catalogued the injuries, finding what was not there more interesting than what was. Except for one thing, which stood out above all others, and ignited rage in her mind.

Snatching back her hand before she broke her own rules and harmed someone with her powers, she glared at Armsmaster. “Your best bet, hell. She's a parahuman. And she hasn't got one bug bite, one sting, even a single microgram of any sort of bug venom in her system. If she was in the Swarm but didn't get attacked, then I'm betting she caused it. Am I right?”

He paused, as if indecisive, then tilted his head slightly to the side. His subsequent nod was more visible as a shifting of the reflections from his helmet than an actual movement of his head. “You're right. But there's more to it than that. We need -”

“You need someone who's willing to heal a mass murderer, and that's not me,” Amy shot back. “I'm sorry, but I just spent a truly horrible afternoon saving as many people as I could, and watching people die in front of me because I couldn't get to them in time. Because of her.” She shook her head. “I'm not playing. You want her healthy for the Birdcage or the electric chair, ask someone else. I'm not healing a single cut, a single bruise. She can suffer and die for all I care.” She started for the door. “Let me out of here. I'm going home.”

“Before you go, hear me out,” Armsmaster interjected. “Please?”

Wait a minute. When was the last time Armsmaster said 'please' for anything? She stopped and turned, staring at his opaque visor. “You've got one minute. Starting now.”

“She was cornered in an alley by two boys,” he began. “We think they followed her from school. They tied her up with duct tape, robbed her of what little money she had, and were preparing to sexually assault her. That's when the Swarm happened.”

Amy blinked, and stared at the girl again. Her face, calm in repose apart from the injuries, gave no hint of any of that. “I … okay, that's fucking horrible,” she admitted. “But … I get the point of attacking them with bugs to drive them away, but did she have to attack everyone in the area?” She tilted her head as pieces fell into place. “Wait. Trigger event?”

“We're not sure,” Armsmaster admitted. “Reportedly, she underwent a similarly traumatic event at school one month ago. What the Director wants for you to do is heal her, then wake her up so I can put some questions to her. Find out what really happened, and why her power broke out so badly.”

Amy shook her head, in disbelief rather than disagreement. “Holy shit. Two trigger-worthy events in one month? Someone up there hates her.” She paused as something else occurred to her. “One second. If this was a trigger event, then I can kind of see the overreaction. She calls for help, the bugs answer, people die. But if she's had these powers for a month, then she should know how to keep it down.”

“Exactly,” he agreed. “Thus, the questions.”

“Hm. All right. I can do this.” She considered her options, then reached out and placed her hand on Taylor's arm again. “Broken ribs, internal bruising, broken jaw, missing teeth, fractured cheekbone … she has a very mild concussion. I can't fix that, but I can minimise the side-effects. Abrasions on her hands, bruising all over, other minor injuries … okay, done.”

“Thank you.” He paused. “Before you wake her, is there anything that you can do to make her … calmer?”

She frowned. “Excuse me?”

His expression, what she could see of it, was uncomfortable. “Here's the problem. If we're right about this, the last time she got really upset, the Swarm happened. However, we're getting conflicting reports as to the level of her fault in this matter. We really don't want her getting agitated all over again, especially if she starts feeling trapped or upset. And in the somewhat-unlikely event that the Swarm was deliberate, she might choose to take offence at anything we say.”

Amy thought about that, then shook her head. “I can't just make her calm. That would involve affecting the brain, and I can't do that.”

“Hm.” His tone was less than thrilled. “This complicates matters.”

“However,” she added, “I can make it so that she's as comfortable as she can be. And I can sit by her, to give her a friendly face of her own age. No matter how non-confrontational the questions are, you're still Armsmaster, and she's likely to be able to take it better if she sees that I'm on her side.”

“Hrmm.” He rubbed his chin through the opening in his helmet. “All right. It's irregular but let's see how this goes.”

“Everything about this is irregular,” she reminded him. “You do understand that no matter what you get out of her, it's inadmissible in a court of law?”

“Oh, I know that,” he agreed readily. “But it will give us a firm idea as to where we're going with this.”

She considered that for a moment. “ … yeah, okay.”

“Good. Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes?” she asked, trying not to sound too impatient.

“When we're finished, I need you to be ready to put her to sleep again.”

She stared. “What? Why?”

He sighed. “Because her father is out there, and he will expect to be sitting with her. Depending on what comes up with this conversation, there may be things that I won't want him telling her, or vice versa. So if I give you the nod, can you make her unconscious again?”

She gave him a hard stare. “I'll ask her if she wants to go to sleep again. Without her consent, I won't do a damn thing. Is that understood?”

His lips tightened, but he nodded. “Understood.”

“Good. Let's get this out of the way, anyway.” Sitting down in the chair, she took Taylor's bandaged hands and unwound the bandages from them, discarding the dressings in the trash can beside the bed. “She'll be waking up around about … now.” As she spoke, she pushed back her hood and pulled the scarf down, making her face visible.

<><>​

Taylor Hebert

I wasn't quite sure where I was when I woke up.

Bed.

I was in a bed. That was what it was called when I lay on a matressy thing with a sheet over me, wasn't it? It didn't feel like my bed, but I didn't care. I felt good.

“How are you feeling, Taylor?”

Rolling my head to one side, I saw a teenage girl with frizzy brown hair looking back at me. She looked kind of familiar, but she wasn't someone I knew. “Uh, fine … I guess?”

I became aware that she was holding my hand, which felt fine. But I remembered it not being fine. “Was I hurt?” It took me a moment to realise that I'd spoken out loud.

“You were. I took care of it.”

Now I knew where I recognised the girl from. “You're Panacea.”

An encouraging smile. “Guilty as charged. Do you remember much about today?”

Now I did. I remembered being in pain. A lot of pain. So much pain I'd fainted …

“Miss Hebert?” It was a different voice. Adult, male. Also familiar. I looked around and squinted in the direction of the voice.

A moment later, my glasses were pushed into my free hand. “Here you go.”

Awkwardly, I put them on; the blur resolved into Armsmaster. Behind him, guarding the door, was a PRT soldier. I was in the PRT building, then.

Okay, what happened? The last thing I remembered was falling to my knees, then starting to keel over sideways. Then nothing. Wait. Back up. Unwelcome memories began to crop up in the back of my head. The Denny's. Stomach hurting. Peeling off the duct tape. Cockroaches ate the duct tape.

The dead guys. Slowly, I began to realise what I'd done. I killed them. I sat up in bed; under the sheet, my knees crept up until they were pressing against my chest.

“Oh, god,” I groaned. “Oh, god.”

“Shh, shh, it's okay,” Panacea said in a soothing voice. “It's all right.”

“No,” I told her. “It's not all right. I begged them to stop. They wouldn't stop. Even when the bugs showed up. Now two of them are dead. It'll never be all right.”

Armsmaster cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you for details. Can you tell me why it happened?”

“I -” I choked up, remembering.

“Deep breaths,” Panacea advised me. “Start slowly.”

I took her advice, inhaling deeply, trying to let myself relax. “Okay. Okay. It happened because Sophia sent those boys after me. I thought I could outrun them … but they just kept chasing me.”

“Who's Sophia?” asked Panacea.

“She's – she's one of the girls at school who picks on me all the time,” I explained. “I saw her talking to them and pointing at me. So I ran. But they caught me.” I lowered my face to my knees, breathing deeply again.

“This Sophia. Last name and description?” Armsmaster sounded more curt than normal, but it was a welcome distraction.

“Hess. Sophia Hess. My height, black, popular, track star.” My voice was bitter. “She's friends with Emma Barnes and Madison Clements. They've been inventing new ways to screw with me every single day for the last year.”

“Really.” His voice, which could have scored diamond with that one word, softened slightly. “So she sent two boys after you. They caught you. What happened then?”

“She sent five boys,” I corrected him. “Three of them held me while the other two tied me up with the tape. I – I thought they were just gonna call me names or something, then leave. But then one of them started talking about having a little fun, and they started … oh, god …”

“Wait a minute,” interjected Armsmaster. “Are you saying there were five all told?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “What are they saying? Because if they're telling you that it was all a harmless prank, then I'm calling bullshit right now.” I was starting to shake. “Because when five guys have got ahold of you and they're pulling your clothes off -” My body began to curl into a defensive ball on the bed.

“Hey, hey, it's all right.” Panacea put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a hug. I sniffled back tears. “It's all over. You survived.”

I bit my lip. “Yeah, but I killed two of them, and the other three are probably calling me a murderer, and everything else, right now. But I didn't want to kill them. I didn't even mean to. I was just so scared, and they wouldn't stop what they were doing -”

“The other three aren't saying anything at all,” Armsmaster put in. I got the impression that he was eyeing me carefully.

“Uh, why not?” I asked cautiously. “Jocks like that stick together. Of course they'll blame it all on me.”

“Because they're dead too,” he said bluntly.

For the next few seconds, I wildly entertained the notion that he was pulling my leg, trying to lighten the situation with totally inappropriate humour. Then I remembered that this was Armsmaster. I was pretty sure that he didn't do humour.

“Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I killed five guys? God, I'm such a horrible person. I'm so sorry.” Tears filled my eyes. “You have to believe me, I didn't want that. I'd do anything to make it better.”

“It's all right,” Panacea murmured. “I believe you. You were in a really shitty position, and you didn't have much of a choice. You did what you had to. It's all right.”

I sniffled back tears again. “I don't want to go to the Birdcage.” But I had a feeling that my needs and wants were not going to be met, here.

“Well, even if they tried to send you there, I'd be testifying on your behalf,” Panacea said, surprising the hell out of me. She gave Armsmaster a defiant stare.

“We don't have plans for that at the moment,” the armoured hero admitted. “However, I would appreciate a clearer understanding of what happened, and when. So if you can give me a timeline of events, that would be helpful.” Almost casually, he added, “Start at the point when you got your powers.”

I didn't answer for a moment, caught between an upwash of happiness at the news that Armsmaster didn't want to send me to the Birdcage, and the cold hard understanding that all five of my attackers were still dead at my hands. I'm a murderer. I blinked twice, slowly. No. I'm a mass murderer. God help me.

“Taylor?” Panacea prompted me gently.

It took me a moment to recall that Armsmaster had asked me something, then another few seconds to remember what the question was.

“Oh, ummmm…that would be last month.” I scratched the back of my neck uncomfortably. “When Sophia locked me in my locker.”

“And why would that cause you to trigger with powers?” Armsmaster asked, genuinely curious.

I shuddered, remembering the incident and wishing I didn’t. “Because I wasn’t alone in there. Sophia and the others emptied every pad disposal bin in the school into my locker first.”

Panacea gasped in horror, a reaction that for once, wasn’t lost on Armsmaster. “That means something to you?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Panacea replied, turning to him. “Surely you've heard of feminine hygiene products. What do you think happens to them after use?”

It took him a moment to get it, then his face twisted in a grimace. “So the toxic waste actually happened.” It wasn't quite a question.

“Yes.” Panacea's voice was firm. “That stuff is most definitely classified as toxic waste.”

My voice was faint. “Check the hospital reports. Check the police reports.” I curled up just a little. “You just asked Blackwell, right?” He didn't deny it. “Figured. They've got ass-covering down to a fine art, there.”

Armsmaster didn't comment. Panacea squeezed my hand. I was still tensed in a ball, but after a while I began to gradually uncurl. Armsmaster cleared his throat. Panacea shushed him. I lay there, enjoying the silence. Slowly, I brought my eyes up to hers and squeezed her hand, as a signal that I was ready to continue.

“What happened then?” asked Panacea.

“After they pulled me out of the locker, I was in the psych ward for about a week. Everyone thought I'd had a mental breakdown because I kept hearing weird noises and seeing lights in my head.”

“But it was the bugs, wasn't it?” Panacea's voice was gentle, soothing.

I nodded. “Once I figured that out, they let me go home.”

“So you've had your powers for a month, then.” Armsmaster's voice was neutral.

“Uh, yeah. I suppose.” I looked cautiously at him. “Was I supposed to tell someone about them?”

“You weren't legally obligated to, no,” he admitted.

“It might have helped if you had.” Panacea's voice was devoid of judgement. I was grateful for that, and for her presence.

Armsmaster got straight back on track. “What do they consist of, exactly? Control of insects?”

“Bugs,” I told him. “Anything inside about one and a half to two blocks, usually.”

“Two blocks?” he repeated. “Not four?”

I held up two fingers. “Usually.”

“But this time it was four,” Panacea reminded me gently.

I closed my eyes and nodded. “I know. I knew where where every one of them was when I called for help.”

I heard the chair creak, then Panacea sat on the bed and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “It's all right. You're doing just fine.” Her voice changed as she apparently addressed Armsmaster. “Increase in range due to stress. It's not unknown.”

He grunted in reply, then he asked, “Do you ever lose control of them?”

I opened my eyes and wiped away my tears. “Well, no. If they're in my range, they're under my control. End of story.” I caught the look that Panacea gave Armsmaster. “Why?”

“What happened to the boys, then, if you have that level of control?” His voice, neutral up to that point, had become flat and hard.

“They kicked me unconscious!” I protested. “By the time I woke up, they were already dead!”

He paused for a long moment as my words sank in. “You didn't intend to kill them.” It was almost a question.

“I think we established that when she woke up,” Panacea interjected mildly, raising her eyebrows a little. Turning back to me, she smiled. “So what did you ask the bugs to do?”

“I just wanted the bugs to scare them off, or at least distract them. The cockroaches ate the duct tape on my wrists and ankles. Because I figured if I freed myself, I could get away before they noticed.” And see how well that turned out.

Panacea squeezed my shoulder “So what went wrong?”

I looked at her, tears running down my face. “Three of them ran off, just like I planned, but the other two saw the roaches eating the tape, and realised I was a parahuman. They kicked me in the face until I passed out.”

I stopped talking. There was silence in the room, apart from the hum of the climate control.

“What happened when you woke up?” asked Panacea.

I hugged my knees; her comforting squeeze tightened on my shoulder. “The two guys that kicked me were dead. They'd been … oh, god. I can't even talk about it. But the roaches had eaten through the duct tape so I told the bugs to disperse and then I left.”

“So you're saying that while you were unconscious, the bugs just kept carrying out your last order?” Armsmaster sounded dubious. “Did you know before today that if you were rendered unconscious, your orders would persist?”

I looked down at the blanket. “Uh, no. It's not like I've ever been knocked out while using my powers before.”

“Master powers staying in play after the cape gets knocked out isn't something I've heard of myself, but to quote Clockblocker, powers are bullshit,” Panacea noted.

“Just to clarify: if you hadn't been knocked out, you would have stopped the bugs from killing anyone.” Armsmaster's tone had become a lot less hostile.

“Well, yeah.” I took a deep breath. “I just … wanted to be a hero, you know? I didn't even let my powers slip when Sophia and company stole my stuff or poured juice over me. But …” Despair, never very far away, sank its claws into me again. “Let's face it. I suck as a hero. I suck as a human being. What sort of hero kills five people by accident?”

“Hey.” Panacea wrapped her other arm around me, completing the hug. “You didn't really have a choice. It'll be all right.”

“I doubt it,” I told her bitterly.

“No, actually, legally, you've got a good case,” she assured me. “When it comes to sexual assault, self-defence up to and including lethal force is permissible. And that guy kicking you in the face moves the blame for the deaths out of your hands and into his. He was the one committing the crime, after all.”

I glanced out of the corner of my eye at her; she shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. “When you've got a lawyer in the family, you pick stuff up.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn't thinking about legalities,” I mumbled. “It was my power that killed them. Five people died, and that's on me.”

She looked at Armsmaster; some sort of silent communication passed between them. “Listen, Taylor,” she said softly. “You've been through a lot, and you're on the verge of collapse. Is it okay if I sedate you? Just to help you sleep through the night?”

I didn't really want to sleep. But nor did I want to lie awake and think about five dead boys. If I wasn't going anywhere, then sleep sounded like a good compromise. “Yeah, okay,” I agreed reluctantly. “Uh, one more thing? Armsmaster?”

He looked at me. “Yes?”

“When you see my Dad, could you ask him to get the journal I've been keeping? It's on the top shelf of my closet. And tell him I'm sorry for not talking about this sooner?”

His mouth creased in what might have passed for a smile. “When you wake up, Miss Hebert, you can tell him yourself.”

Before I could answer, Panacea's power took hold. It was better than any sleeping pill; one second I was wide awake, and the next I was out like a light.


End of Part Three

 

Price of Blood


Part Four: One Bad Apple


Armsmaster

Sophia Hess. Shadow Stalker. Christ. What a moron I've been. He looked down at Taylor Hebert, now healed but once more unconscious. When he raised his gaze once more, he saw Panacea's haunted eyes.

“Holy shit,” she murmured.

“That's one way to put it,” he agreed dryly. “Director, you heard all that?”

A moment later, a connecting door opened and the Director entered the infirmary. “Yes. I heard everything.” She didn't sound pleased; Colin wasn't surprised. She crossed the room to where Panacea stood next to the bed. “A question for you.”

“Director?” Panacea sounded a little surprised.

“Is your power capable of detecting deceit in another person?” Piggot's gaze was as direct as the query.

“Well, yes. Of course.” Panacea shrugged. “Everyone has tells. Inside, it's a lot more obvious than outside.” She paused for a moment, then blinked. “Are you asking me if Taylor was lying?”

The Director's expression never changed. “Was she?”

“No.” The answer was direct and immediate. “In the state she was in, I don't think she was capable of lying coherently. But she didn't even try to. She believed every word she said.”

“And the emotion she showed?” Piggot wasn't letting up. “That was genuine as well?”

Panacea grimaced. “Every bit of it. Like I said, I don't think she was capable of faking.”

Piggot gave her a curt nod. “Thank you. That makes things easier for me.”

“Okay. Um, what happens now?” asked Panacea. “I've just put her under for eight hours, but after that she's going to be waking up.”

The Director didn't hesitate. “Make it at least twelve hours and, if you could, be back here tomorrow before that time.”

Panacea frowned. “Why? What's so important about keeping her unconscious? We know she didn't do it deliberately.”

Armsmaster decided to field that question. “Because she still doesn't know the total death toll. That's going to hit her like a ton of bricks. It would probably be a good idea if you were here to help soften the blow, as well.”

“Also,” the Director added, “Sophia Hess is our mistake. One that we need to fix before Miss Hebert wakes up and finds out the truth.”

Panacea frowned. “I'm not getting it. Why is some high-school bully such a priority for you? Why aren't you just passing this on to the regular authorities?”

The Director paused. “Armsmaster?”

Colin nodded. “If she's going to be assisting us with Miss Hebert, she's going to need to know this. I believe that she can be trusted.”

Piggot didn't look thrilled, but she nodded anyway, deferring to his judgement. “Arrange an NDA, as per normal.”

“Will do.” It wouldn't be Panacea's first, not by a long shot. He turned to the healer. “This definitely doesn't leave the room.” Only when she nodded did he continue. “You would probably know Sophia Hess better as Shadow Stalker.”

<><>​

Panacea

Amy blinked. “Shadow Stalker? The Ward? Oh, shit. The girl who made her Trigger and caused the Swarm to happen is a Ward? That's all kinds of wrong.”

“Precisely.” The Director's voice was particularly dry. “Now, when Miss Hebert wakes up, how long do you think she'll take to learn that her nemesis is a Ward, especially given the information-gathering potential of her powers? And what do you think would happen then? Especially if she thought we were trying to sweep it under the rug?”

“Oh, right. That could go really badly.” In retrospect, she decided that this was a severe understatement.

“Yes.” From her expression and tone, Piggot thought so as well. Blandly, the Director went on. “Now, technically, if we wanted to cut a great many corners and be lazy about this, it wouldn't be impossible to talk the courts into believing that Miss Hebert is a dangerous, uncontrollable parahuman. She gets thrown to the wolves, Hess is quietly disciplined, and the PRT doesn't take a public-relations hit.” She paused, eyeing Amy in what may have been a challenging fashion. “Life goes on.”

She's baiting me. “But you're not going to do that.” Amy paused. “Does that actually happen?”

“Regrettably, it has been known to, yes,” Piggot confirmed. “But you have my word that it won't be happening here.”

“I find it worrying that you even have to say that,” Amy said, greatly daring.

“If that's the only thing that you find concerning about this matter, count yourself lucky,” the Director advised her dryly. “Quite apart from the ethical aspects, I'm considering the practical side of things. Miss Hebert actually wants to be a hero, whereas Shadow Stalker is at best a barely-controlled loose cannon with a penchant for applied violence. I will allow you one guess as to which one I'd rather have in the Wards.” It wasn't even remotely disguised as a question.

Amy nodded, feeling slightly relieved. “So, what happens now?”

“What happens now,” declared the Director, “is that we nail Shadow Stalker's hide to the wall.” She paused. “Do not misunderstand me. If the Swarm had not happened, then there is a good chance that we would right now be seeking a way to keep Hess in the Wards, possibly in another city. We need all the heroes we can get. However, this latest stunt has pushed her from 'possibly salvageable' to 'not a hope in hell'.”

Silently, Amy agreed. I would've had her arrested just for the locker thing. But I suppose being the Director means that those hard decisions just get a bit harder.

Piggot was still talking. “We collect the evidence and we do it legally. Cross all the T's, dot all the I's. By the time Miss Hebert wakes up, I want to be able to prove conclusively to her that we're on her side. Specifically, that while we did screw up by the numbers in letting Shadow Stalker have the free rein that she did, we're also working in good faith to fix that same screwup.”

“Can I add something to that?” the biokinetic asked. “Let you know what her point of view is likely to be?”

“By all means,” Piggot said.

“Right.” Amy mentally cracked her knuckles. “There's two things that you've got to do, before even telling her that you've had Sophia sent to juvey or whatever. The first one is that you come clean with the truth about Sophia being Shadow Stalker. Like you said, she'll learn soon enough. So you get out in front of that by being the ones to tell her. Trust me, that's worth a lot of Brownie points. If she ever finds out that you were holding anything important back, but most especially that, she'll never trust you again.”

“Well, we were going to do that at some point anyway,” Armsmaster said.

“Make it your first priority,” Amy advised him. “It's kind of important.”

He nodded. “Understood. And the second thing is …?”

Amy bared her teeth. “Apologising your asses off for not doing anything sooner.”

Piggot jerked her head back as if she'd been shot. Armsmaster looked at her then at Amy. “I don't think -”

“I do,” Amy told him. “I'm the teenage girl here, remember? Just fixing it won't be enough. A little bit of grovelling goes a long, long way. Trust me, I've watched Gallant at it with Vicky. He's a master of the art. And, as you just admitted, you did screw up by the numbers.”

There was a long moment of silence, then Piggot grimaced. “Fine.” She didn't even try to hide her distaste. “She'll get her apology.”

“Good.” Amy nodded. “And one more thing. You're not going to like it.”

The Director's grimace deepened. “I already don't like it.”

Amy took a deep breath. “She's not going to want to join the Wards.”

Armsmaster turned his head toward her. “What? But -”

“We were going to transfer her to Los Angeles, under Alexandria. Surely that would help?” Piggot's voice was hopeful.

Amy shook her head. “Won't work. Different Wards, but still Wards. Shadow Stalker was in the Wards, under probation, and still got to keep bullying her. She won't be able to trust the PRT not to drop the ball again. I don't trust it not to happen again.”

Director Piggot shook her head. “You just told us that coming clean about Shadow Stalker and apologising would let her trust us.”

Amy couldn't believe that she was having to lecture two adults on the teenage mindset. “You're authority figures. Given those comments about her school, I'm guessing that her track record with authority is fucking horrendous. Right now, she's got every reason in the world to distrust you and none at all to trust you. If you do everything just right, she might accept that you're not actively trying to screw her over, but you're going to have to do a lot more than that to prove that you care enough to stop accidental screwups in the future. Holding anything back at all will lose you even that level of trust.”

“But she wants to be a hero.” Armsmaster sounded bewildered.

A shrug was all Amy could give him. “So let her be a hero.”

“Can you talk to her for us?” asked the Director. “She seems to trust you.”

Amy shrugged. “I can try, but from what I saw during that interview, what she really needs is a therapist. A really, really good therapist.”

Piggot had that sucking-on-a-lemon look again. “Good therapists cost good budget money. I've had requests in the pipeline for some time, but it's nearly always a case of a day late and a dollar short, and that's for the ones who are in the Protectorate and Wards.”

“Try harder,” Amy advised her. “I'm no expert, but once she learns the extent of the death toll, it could destroy her. And I'm not talking figuratively.”

“Are you saying that she might attempt suicide by cape?” asked Armsmaster.

“Or just plain suicide,” Amy pointed out.

The Director cleared her throat. “She didn't seem that way inclined during the interview.”

<><>​

Director Emily Piggot, PRT ENE

“That's because she hasn't found out the full truth yet,” Panacea said. “We should just be glad she still wants to be a hero, after all the shit she's been through. That sort of dedication's kind of impressive, when you think about it. But whether she becomes a hero, becomes a villain, or hangs herself in the bathroom because she can't handle the guilt? As of this moment, that's on you. You've got the choice to make it easier, make it harder, or help her tie the noose.”

God, the girl hits harder than her sister. Emily had handed out many unpleasant truths to others during her career; as Director, it was more or less part of her job description. Finding the shoe on the other foot, having to accept an unpalatable fact and knowing that it wouldn't go away, was not in any way a welcome situation.

Thank you, Panacea. Now, how am I supposed to achieve the impossible?

“Director?” That was Armsmaster. Both he and Panacea were looking at her expectantly.

“Thank you for that … succinct … analysis of the situation, Panacea,” she belatedly replied. “And thank you for your assistance today. I have little doubt that things would have gone far less smoothly if you hadn't been here. Also, I understand that you did sterling work today, with the victims of the Swarm. You might want to get some rest. I certainly will be.” I'm overdue for my dialysis as it is. “We can let Mr Hebert back in to sit with his daughter now, anyway.”

She paused for a moment to let a wave of pain pass through her, leaning against the chair.

“Director, you look unwell,” Panacea told her with a certain amount of concern. “If you want -”

“No.” Emily shook her head. “An old injury, nothing more.” She paused. “Nothing against you, but many years ago, I swore that I'd never put my life in the hands of a cape if I could help it. This is survivable. Go on. I'll be fine.”

Panacea looked dubious, but said nothing more about it. Turning, she went toward the door; the PRT guard unlocked and opened it.

“You need to go as well, Director,” Armsmaster reminded her. “We've got this.”

“I'll want a sitrep, first thing tomorrow,” she told him. “Don't mess this up.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and left via the connecting door.

<><>​

Danny Hebert

“Wow, you were in there for ages,” Glory Girl told her sister. “What were you doing? Putting her back to sleep by singing 'ninety-nine bottles on the wall'?”

“No, I … I can't talk about it,” Panacea told her. She turned to Danny, who was looking at Taylor. His daughter was still asleep, although she looked much better now. “Mr Hebert -”

“Why isn't she awake?” asked Danny. “What's the matter? What happened?”

“Physically, she's fine,” Panacea told him. “I made sure of it. But she's had a really traumatic day, and she's still getting over the fact of accidentally killing people, so she consented to let me sedate her, so she could get some sleep. Otherwise, she'd be lying awake all night with it gnawing at her.”

But I wanted to talk to her. To make sure she was okay. Danny looked around helplessly. “But what happened? What can you tell me? Is she under arrest?”

“She's not under arrest,” Armsmaster said unexpectedly. “I spoke with her, and ascertained that, as far as we can tell, she's not at fault here.”

“At fault? What? Accidentally killing people?” Glory Girl stared at Taylor, as Dr Lansing checked the sleeping girl's vitals. “Wait a minute. I knew I'd seen that face before. She's the girl outside Denny's. In the Swarm.”

Armsmaster held up a hand. “Yes. She is. But the fact remains that she is not at fault.”

“He's right,” Panacea confirmed. “It happened, yes. It's her power, yes. But what happened was involuntary on her part, and was caused by someone else's deliberate action.”

Glory Girl frowned. “Was she Mastered?”

It was a reasonable question, and one that Danny had asked not so long ago. But looking at Panacea and Armsmaster, he didn't think that was the answer. When Panacea glanced at Armsmaster, he decided that he was correct.

“Not … precisely,” Armsmaster prevaricated. “It's a complex situation. I really can't talk about it right now.”

“Well, what can you tell me?” This, Danny decided, was better than being in the holding cell, but not much. At least Taylor's okay. Even if I never got to talk to her.

Armsmaster raised his chin. “She said to tell you that she was sorry she hasn't talked about this with you before now. And that there's a journal of some kind that she was keeping. I suspect that it's about her … school situation.”

“What school situation?” Glory Girl looked frustrated. “What are you guys talking about?”

“I'll tell you what I can later, Vicky,” Panacea told her. “But right now, I want to go home and get some sleep.” She looked at Armsmaster. “If you want, I can talk to Brandish, about possibly getting Taylor some representation if things go sideways.”

The armoured hero rubbed his chin. “We'll let you know if that's required. For now, it's a good idea to keep as few people in this loop as possible.”

“Which means that I don't get to hear anything juicy.” Glory Girl pouted.

“Glory Girl.” Armsmaster's tone was stern.

She blinked in surprise. “What?”

“You don't tell anyone anything about this. Not even the fact that there's a girl in the infirmary. Much less her name. Not your friends, not your family, not even Gallant. Is that understood?”

“I, uh, okay?” For all that she could reportedly bench-press a cement truck, the teen hero seemed almost cowed by Armsmaster's intensity. “Can I ask why?”

His voice was patient. “Because we're closing in on the person who caused the Swarm to happen. And we don't want to spook him or her.”

“Well, tell me who it is, so I know not to tell them,” suggested Glory Girl brightly.

“No.” To Danny's surprise, it was Panacea who spoke. “Vicky, we can't tell you that because, well, reasons. As it is, I'm gonna have to sign an NDA before I go home because of what I know. It's that important.”

“Yeesh, wow,” the blonde replied. “Okay, fine. Keep your secrets.” She linked her arm through Panacea's. “C'mon, Ames. Let's blow this popsicle stand.”

“Wait.” Panacea turned to look at him. “Mr Hebert?”

Taken aback, he blurted, “What?” Grimacing, he took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. Long day. I really appreciate what you did for Taylor.” Pausing, he recalled that she had addressed him. “Uh … did you want something?” Try not to sound too much like an idiot, he told himself.

She gave him the slightest of shrugs. “Taylor needed help. So I helped her.” She paused. “But you need to know that she's going to need a lot of help from now on.”

That sent a chill down his spine. “What? Why? What do you mean?” Oh, shit. What's wrong now?

A look akin to compassion crossed her face. “She's got a lot of problems from all the bullying. I read her as mildly depressed, maybe borderline suicidal. And right now, she thinks that only five people died.”

“Wait, but you said that she's not at fault for that,” Danny protested.

Armsmaster compressed his lips together. “She thinks otherwise.”

“Jesus.” He realised exactly what they were getting at. “So when she finds out how many really died …”

Panacea nodded. “Yes. It's likely to hit her like a freight train. Plus …” She stopped and looked at Armsmaster.

The armoured hero took his cue smoothly. “Plus, there's a matter that your daughter will need to get filled in on, and thus, so do you. In private.”

“Oh.” Danny nodded; it seemed to be the thing to do. “Okay. Let me know when I need to sign something.” He nodded toward Panacea. “Thank you, again. I mean it.”

“You're welcome, Mr Hebert.” In the company of her sister, Panacea walked out through the open doorway.

“You're not gonna tell me what that was about, are you?” Glory Girl's voice drifted back to Danny as he sat down beside the bed.

“Vickyy …” Panacea's reply was cut off by the closing door.

Danny ignored it. Taylor needs help. Taylor needs a dad. I've been falling down on the job. It's time I stepped up. It might be late, but I pray that it's not too late to make a difference.

Taking her slim hand in his, he looked at her face. Now healed of the damage that had made his stomach twist, she looked as though she were merely asleep. I'm here now, Taylor. And I'm not going to turn my back on you. Not ever again.

Armsmaster made some excuse or other, about dealing with paperwork, and left. Danny ignored the interruption. He sat by the bed and held his daughter's hand. His fingertip rested in the notch of her wrist, where the pulse throbbed steady and strong. On the medical monitor, electronic lines scrawled themselves across the screen, telling the story of her life signs in arcane sigils that he could not read.

The PRT guard was relieved by another, and left. Danny barely noticed. His entire reason for living was lying in that bed, and he was going to be there for her.

He was studying the fine hairs growing on the back of Taylor's hand when a discreet cough disturbed him. With a start, he turned to see Doctor Lansing, an older man with a kindly manner, observing him benignly.

“Sorry, Doctor,” he said with an embarrassed grin. “I was kind of spaced out there.”

“Perfectly understandable,” the doctor replied with a smile of his own. He pointed at the connecting door. “I was just going to tell you, there are bathroom facilities through that door if you wanted to freshen up. I'm just going down to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee. I can bring you back one, if you want.”

“Oh, I, uh, thanks,” Danny told him. “I appreciate it.”

“Think nothing of it.” Doctor Lansing smiled again. “I have children of my own. Grown and left home, but they never stop being your children.”

Danny nodded. “She's fifteen now, but she'll always be my baby girl.”

Lansing patted him on the shoulder as he left. Danny watched the door close, then turned back to Taylor. She lay as peacefully as ever, breathing slowly and deeply, her expression relaxed and at peace. The contrast from when he had first seen her was striking; instead of looking like the aftermath of a car accident, she seemed likely to wake up at any moment and ask what was for breakfast.

<><>​

Cpl Kendall Reed, PRT

Reed liked working the late shifts. It was always quiet, and there weren't many people around. Of course, tonight was the exception; with the Swarm temporary emergency in force, all personnel had been called in to be ready in case anything else happened tonight. The landlines and airwaves were running hot with the communications going to and from every nearby PRT base.

Which made it perfect for Reed's intentions. A man had to take his opportunities where he could get them.

After being relieved from the infirmary, he was just finishing a plate of reconstituted meat and potatoes when Doc Lansing strolled into the cafeteria. Nodding to the medic, Reed wandered out into the corridor and took the elevator to the roof. There he ran into his first snag.

“Sorry, can't let you on to the roof,” the roof guard told him. “If we get another Swarm, you'll be a sitting duck out there. And I'm not keeping the door open for you.”

“Do you see any bugs out there?” asked Reed pointedly, looking out through the glass doors and indicating the daylight-bright blaze of floods that illuminated the roof of the building. “I don't see any. Do you?”

The guard looked. “Not really, no,” he admitted.

“We'll call it a perimeter check,” Reed argued. “I just want to get a breath of fresh air, and maybe a cigarette. One lap around the roof, and I'll be back inside.”

His tone was reasonable enough, and the guard wavered. “I dunno …”

“Tell you what,” Reed went on. “You want to take five, have a piss or whatever, I'll take over for you while you go do it after I've had my walk-around.” He raised his face-plate so that the other guy could see his eye-roll. “Seriously. I've been standing guard in the fucking infirmary. I just want to get out of the fluorescent lighting and air-conditioning for five minutes.”

The suggestion to take a piss was a shot in the dark, but it paid off. After a moment of hesitation, the roof guard nodded. “Sure. Go ahead. But you see more than two bugs flying in formation, you get your ass back inside this door.”

“Roger that,” said Reed fervently. He stepped up to the door and waited for the guard to swipe the door open. It hissed aside; he closed his faceplate while stepping through. Not looking back, he strolled toward the edge of the roof, feeling very exposed in the actinic lights illuminating the rooftop helipad.

There were no bugs visible up here, which made him feel a little better about taking the risk. The kid's asleep, but she could always have a nightmare.

Moving with a confident stride, he paced along the perimeter of the rooftop. At the far end, where the guard would barely be able to see him, and the cameras would be most confounded by the glare, he stopped and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Putting one in his mouth, he lit it up, then replaced the pack and lighter. In the same motion, he retrieved a phone from a pouch on his belt.

The phone had two numbers saved on speed-dial; one was for pizza delivery, and the other was for a dry-cleaning company. Reed used both services regularly. He used neither one now, instead tapping in a third number from memory.

“Hello, sir? I have some information that you might find interesting …”

“I'm listening.”

“We've got a girl in the infirmary. She's the cape who caused the Swarm. But the situation's complicated …”

<><>​

Armsmaster

“Dragon, I …” Colin trailed off, unable to articulate the words properly.

“You've got a question, but you're not sure how to ask it. And you're worried about the answer I might give you.”

He shook his head slightly. “How do you even do that? Are you some kind of Thinker as well as a Tinker?”

The computer-generated image smiled slightly. “You can be pretty transparent sometimes. Especially when you're tired. Ask away.”

He sighed, gustily. “You've gone over the recording of the interview, and my helmet-cam footage of the Swarm incident itself.”

“I have.” Her voice was sombre. “That poor girl. Having to bear the weight of this on her shoulders.”

“Is she, though?” he burst out. “Are we doing the right thing, not apportioning any of the blame to her? People died. Two hundred and seventy-three people. Men, women, children. Innocents.”

“Not all of them were innocent,” Dragon reminded him. “Five in particular.”

“Yeah, but …” He ran fingers through already-matted hair. “She had her powers for a month. Surely she could have figured out another way to get out of this, which didn't involve every bug in her control radius going kill-crazy when she was knocked out.”

“She wanted to be a hero, Colin,” Dragon pointed out. “That means not outing yourself at the first opportunity. That means trying to de-escalate situations without bringing powers into it.”

“But …”

“She was panicked.” Dragon's voice was firm. “Trapped, helpless, facing rape and possible murder. Panacea was correct; she was indeed legally justified to bring lethal force to the table. But even then, she preferred to harass them while she got herself free. Not exactly the modus operandi of a power-mad Master.”

Colin grimaced. “I just can't help thinking that if she had some other power, we wouldn't have nearly three hundred dead people in the morgue.”

“If she had a power that didn't allow her to defend herself, or no power at all, would you prefer where she would be in that case?”

His grimace deepened. “No, of course not.”

“Would this tragedy have happened if Shadow Stalker hadn't talked those boys into chasing her?”

He shook his head. “You know it wouldn't.”

“Or if they had just tied her and left her?”

“I don't believe so.”

“If she hadn't been kicked in the head and knocked unconscious?”

He sighed. “Probably not.”

“So they caused it, the boys and Shadow Stalker, not Taylor Hebert.”

The moment stretched as he searched her logic, then finally surrendered with a grunt of resignation. “You're right. She had no choice.”

“Of course I am.” There was no hint of triumph in her voice or expression, only sadness. “So what are you going to do now?”

“Make the call that I should've made when I first came in here.” He picked up his phone and pressed speed-dial.

<><>​

Commander Thomas Calvert, PRT

“And you're sure it was Shadow Stalker they were referring to?”

“Certain, sir.”

“Thank you. Return to your regular duties.”

“Yes, sir.”

The receiver went dead, and Calvert replaced it carefully on the cradle. He smiled as he regarded it; arranging the back door in the software of the the PRT phone exchange had been expensive but very much worth it. The ability to wipe the log of any call that he might wish to deny was priceless beyond gold or gems. Doubly so now, given the information that Reed had just passed on to him.

Clasping his hands together, he stared at the screen of his monitor, upon which was displayed a perfectly mundane spreadsheet. He saw no spreadsheet; what he saw was opportunity.

Who do I recruit first? The accidental mass murderer or the sociopathic Ward? Decisions, decisions.

As he made the choice, Thomas Calvert let an unpleasant smile spread across his face. If I do this right, I might just kill two birds with one stone.

Just the way I like it.

<><>​

Deputy Director Paul Renick, PRT ENE

Renick tore his eyes away from yet another online news article trying to find something different and interesting to say about the Swarm Incident, and picked up his desk phone. “Renick.”

“Sir, this is Armsmaster.”

“Good evening, Armsmaster. What can I do for you?”

“I have a question and a request for you, sir.”

Renick pondered that for a moment. “Fire away,” he said.

“Question first, sir. Where are the Wards situated at this moment?”

“Ah. One second, Armsmaster.” He tapped out a command, and a new window opened on his screen. “Triumph, Kid Win and Vista are not on site. Home leave. Gallant is manning the console. Clockblocker and Shadow Stalker are on patrol. Their last welfare check was five minutes ago. Aegis is standing by as backup.” He paused. “Did you want me to contact them?”

“No need, sir. I was just checking.”

“And the request?”

“I'm going to need four search warrants signed, sir.”

Renick blinked. “Four? You must have one hell of a lead there.”

“I believe I do, sir.” Briefly, Armsmaster explained what he needed them for.

Slowly, the Deputy Director nodded. “That makes sense.” He paused. “Nothing for the Hebert household? There may be evidence there.”

“There is,” Armsmaster agreed. “She told us about it. I won't need a warrant for that.”

Renick smiled. “Ah. Well, then. How about Shadow Stalker's phone? And her house?”

“She's under probation,” Armsmaster reminded him. “We're allowed to check either one at any time if we think she's gone off the reservation.”

“Well, you seem to have covered all the bases. Can you hold?”

“Yes, sir.”

Renick pressed the 'hold' button, then entered another phone number. It rang for almost thirty seconds before being picked up. “You've got Markinson. Who the hell is this?”

The Deputy Director wanted to smile at the gruff irascibility of the elderly Judge, but he refrained. “Your honour, it's Paul Renick from the PRT.”

“Renick. This better be good.” Implicit was the threat that if it wasn't, the Director would be getting an earful in the morning.

“It is, sir. Armsmaster needs four search warrants signed.”

“Four?” The outrage in the old man's voice was clearly audible through the phone. “That's not good, that's an imposition!”

Renick kept his voice level. “Your honour, it's in relation to the Swarm incident.”

The resultant silence lasted for several long seconds. “Done. Tell him to bring them right over.”

“Will do, sir. And thank you.”

“Catch whoever did this. That'll be thanks enough.” The phone was put down hard enough to leave Renick's ear ringing slightly.

He pressed the button to reconnect to Armsmaster. “Are you there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He says to bring them right over.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And Armsmaster …” he tried to think of something encouraging to say.

“Sir?”

“Give 'em hell.”

There was real satisfaction in the armoured hero's voice. “Roger that.”


End of Part Four

 

Price of Blood


Part Five: Incoming


Carol Dallon

“My name is Shondra Cartwright, and I'm talking now with the hero of the hour, a young man who works at Denny's.”

The reporter, with her expensively styled hair and perfect teeth, smiled into the camera. Beside her was a teenage boy who looked proud as punch and scared to death all at once; a perfectly natural reaction to being in front of the cameras, in Carol's opinion. “So tell me, Greg, how did you manage to save eight people apart from yourself when the Swarm descended on your place of work?”

He swallowed jerkily, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. “Well, uh, I'd just gotten to work from school when I saw the first people staggering down the street. I didn't see the bugs attacking them. I just thought it was a zombie attack. So I followed zombie apocalypse protocol.”

It was obvious to Carol that the reporter had not gone over the story with the young man beforehand. The camera jerked, as if the person holding it had just done a double-take. “... excuse me, Greg, but did you just say zombie attack?”

He was either terminally obtuse, or too caught up in his subject to notice. Or perhaps a little of both. “Well, yeah. Like I was saying, I went with zombie attack protocols. Rule number one of hiding out from zombies is to make sure they can't see or smell you. So I got the manager's keys and turned the doors off, then taped up the gap. Then I told everyone to get down on the floor so we'd all be out of view.”

Shondra stared at him. “Uh, you are aware that zombies don't exist, right?”

He shrugged. “Capes exist. Pretty sure there's one that can make zombies somewhere, right? Anyway, having a zombie apocalypse plan is a really good idea. Because it might sound silly, but if they attack and you don't have a plan, where are you? Lunch, that's where you are. And it sure saved our lives this time.”

“I … suppose you're right, Greg.” Shondra looked a lot less certain than she had at the beginning of the interview. Carol snorted, wondering if it was too late to get out some popcorn. “So, you said you got the manager's keys. Where was the manager during all this?”

“Oh, uh, the manager and assistant manager freaked out when this started happening and locked themselves in the cold-room,” Greg supplied. “Some bugs got in there with them, but the bugs died from the cold, I guess.”

“And what happened to the manager and assistant manager?” asked Shondra cautiously.

“Oh, they're alive,” Greg told her cheerfully. “But they went to the hospital with severe frostbite. If they'd just listened to me …”

“So, Greg,” the reporter pushed on. “Did you see the girl who tried to get in? What were your impressions of her?”

He grimaced. Carol would have bet anything that he wanted to say that he'd handled that situation according to 'zombie protocols' as well, but eventually he shook his head. “I got a phone call about her, and I told everyone to make sure they didn't let her in, but then I thought I heard some bugs buzzing in the back room, so I went and checked on that. By the time I got back, Armsmaster and Velocity had already arrested her. Was she the Swarmbringer? I bet she was the Swarmbringer.”

“We've spoken to the PRT on the subject of this alleged 'Swarmbringer',” she replied, addressing the camera this time, “and they have not yet issued -”

Finally, Carol heard the sound she'd been waiting for; the back door clicking open. Turning the TV off, she got up from the sofa.

“ … still can't believe that they made me sign an NDA as well,” she heard her daughter saying as the girls let themselves into the house. “I thought it was just going to be you.”

“You saw her face and you heard her name.” Amy's voice was patient. “That means you sign an NDA. Simple as that.”

“But I wouldn't have told anyone,” Victoria protested.

Amy chuckled. “It's amazing how that just doesn't work as a reason not to sign.”

“It's all right for you,” Victoria retorted. “You've signed dozens – oh, hi, Mom.”

“I expected you home before now,” Carol said neutrally. “What happened?”

“Oh, I had to heal someone at the PRT,” Amy replied, equally neutrally. “They wanted to ask her some questions, so I stuck around until it was over.”

Carol frowned. “Your job isn't to ask people questions. Who was this woman?”

Victoria cleared her throat, getting Carol's attention. “Uh, Mom, actually, we can't tell you. We both had to sign NDAs about it.”

“Oh.” So that's what that was about. “So that's over and done?”

“Uh, not exactly.” Amy looked uncomfortable. “They want me back tomorrow morning. Kind of follow-up treatment.”

Carol's frown deepened. “Amy Dallon, if there's one thing I know about your power, it's that nobody ever requires a follow-up treatment from you. What's actually going on?”

Her adopted daughter looked away. “I can't tell you. I signed an NDA.”

As a lawyer, Carol knew she should drop the matter. As a mother, she felt that she couldn't. Besides, something had just clicked in her head, prompting a horrified realisation. “It's the Swarmbringer, isn't it? That girl outside Denny's. It's her. You're treating her.”

Amy set her mouth and said nothing, but Victoria had never been able to convincingly lie; her face told Carol everything she needed to know. “I'm right, aren't I? They've got the Swarmbringer, and they're not telling anyone. Except you two, apparently.” She zeroed in on Amy. “And you healed her? What were you thinking?”

“It's not like that!” protested Amy, then shut her mouth hard, as though she wished she'd never opened it.

“Mom, stop,” Victoria cut in, interposing herself between Carol and Amy. “We're really not allowed to talk about it. Non-disclosures are legally binding. You know this.”

Carol did indeed know it. Reluctantly, she backed off. “This isn't the end of it,” she told both girls. “Tomorrow, I'm coming in with you, and getting to the bottom of this. If the PRT is sheltering a mass murderer, the public needs to know about it, especially if they're pulling New Wave into the cover-up. Cape accountability is still a thing, even if everyone tries to pretend that it isn't.”

Victoria sighed. “Okay, it's not like we can stop you. Just promise me one thing, Mom?”

“What's that?” Warily, Carol waited for her daughter's response.

“Keep an open mind.” Victoria's voice was earnest. “It's really not what you think. At least, that's what Ames says, and I believe her.”

Carol pressed her lips together for a long moment, then let out a sigh. “ … fine. No preconceptions.” It wasn't as if she'd never had to do that for every court case she'd attended.

Impulsively, Victoria hugged her. “Thanks, Mom. You won't regret this.”

Which, of course, made Carol almost certain that she would.

Time would tell.

<><>​

Danny Hebert

“Mr Hebert?”

Danny jerked awake from a light doze. He wasn't quite sure where he was at first, but as his brain picked up facts, he began to recall details. Taylor. She was hurt. His arm was resting on the bed, her hand in his. Bed. Not a hospital. PRT building. Taylor's a cape. Her power killed people. Turning his head to take in the room, he started violently when he found himself looking up at a blue and silver armoured form. “Gah!”

“I'm sorry for the delay, Mr Hebert,” Armsmaster said, and he might even have been telling the truth. Danny noted that the man hadn't apologised for startling him. “I've analysed the information we've got so far, and I'm heading out to perform more investigations.”

“Oh,” replied Danny, feeling thick-headed and stupid. Taking off his glasses, he used the back of his hand to rub at his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Nine-thirty PM.” Armsmaster held out a small plastic bag. “Your daughter's belongings. They were stolen from her.”

Danny took the bag, letting Taylor's hand go as he did so. In the bag were Taylor's coin purse, her house key, her watch and a scattering of coins. “Um, thanks.”

Armsmaster inclined his head slightly. “You're welcome. They've been tested, analysed and recorded. We don't need them any more.” He paused. “Did you intend to stay the night?”

“Um …” Danny rubbed his forehead. He didn't want to go home, not while Taylor was like this. “Can I stay?”

The slightest of shrugs. The man really didn't care one way or the other. “Paperwork will have to be filled out, but it should be possible. In the meantime, if you wanted to go home and acquire toiletries and a change of clothing, you could help us out by retrieving the journal that she mentioned. As I recall, she said that it was on the top shelf of her closet.”

“Do you think it's got something to do with this?” Immediately he said the words, Danny regretted the question. Of course it's got something to do with this. I think I need another cup of coffee.

“She seemed to think so, which makes me very interested in whatever it is,” Armsmaster pointed out.

“Right. Yeah. Okay, I can get that,” agreed Danny. “Um … I might need help getting to where your guys arrested me for trying to get past them. Or do I need to call a cab?”

Armsmaster smiled slightly. “I'm certain we can work something out.”

<><>​

Ten minutes later, Danny leaned against the side of his car, trying to get his breath back. As the roar of Armsmaster's bike dopplered into the distance, he fumbled his key into the car door.

Holy shit, he told himself as his heartbeat gradually slowed down. Well, at least I'm awake now. Holy shit, what a ride.

<><>​

Armsmaster

Once he'd dropped off his passenger, Colin activated the HUD in his helmet and selected the phone function. A flick of his eyes indicated who he wanted to call.

“Armsmaster. What's up?”

He smiled. Hannah was ever reliable. “Miss Militia. I'm about to get some search warrants signed. Would you like to join me?”

“This is about the Swarm?”

“Affirmative.”

“Give me ten.”

“See you there.” Armsmaster cut the call and gunned the engine. He'd kept the acceleration and cornering relatively gentle for Danny Hebert's sake, but now he could really open it out.

There were only so many hours in the night, after all.

<><>​

Sophia Hess

“This is boring,” Sophia muttered. “It's Wednesday night. Something should be happening.”

“Remember a little thing with lots of bugs killing people?” Clockblocker needlessly pointed out. “Pretty sure that's got a lot of people spooked. So they're staying inside.”

“People got killed in their houses too,” Sophia grumbled. “It's not like it's much safer.”

“Hey, who ever said people were smart? Or logical?” As if his tone wasn't enough, the irritating male Ward topped it off with a shrug. “People is people. It's what they do.”

Sophia gritted her teeth. “Gonna check the rooftops.”

“Don't go too far,” Clockblocker reminded her, making his voice sound high and childlike. “I get all scared if I'm on my lonesome.”

“Back in a minute,” she snapped, and turned to shadow before he could answer. Despite his juvenile sense of humour, Clockblocker was reliable enough to work with, even if she had the sneaking suspicion that he was checking her butt out on occasion. The trouble was, he made jokes at his own expense, then proved remarkably resilient to any barbs that she sent his way. She didn't quite know how to handle that.

Once on the rooftop, she scanned the area. Nothing new was visible, and she didn't hear anything alarming, so she pulled out her Wards-issue phone and sent a quick text to Clockblocker.

TAKING 5. U DO THE SAME.

A few seconds later, she got the reply. DON'T GO 2 SLEEP UP THERE SHADOW SNOOZER.

I'm gonna shoot him. Nobody would blame me. With a sigh, she settled on to the parapet. Ah, who am I kidding? He'd never stop making jokes. He just doesn't understand how serious all this is.

Putting the phone away, she pulled out her personal one and unlocked it before sending a text.

HEY EMS, HOW R U? ALL GOOD?

She had, of course, checked on Emma's welfare directly after the Swarm had dissipated. But it was good to check in with friends.

YAH. ALIVE N KICKING. U? O HEY, ALSO, SAW SOMETHING WEIRD ON PHO. SENDING PIC.

Behind her mask, Shadow Stalker smiled. Same old Emma. She waited for the link to pop up, then tapped it. The photo took a few moments to download. It was blotchy and blurry, and didn't have the greatest resolution due to the size of her phone, but …

“Holy shit,” she muttered. “Is that Hebert?”

Flicking back to the text screen, she sent another message. THAT WHO I THINK IT IS?

PRETTY SURE OF IT. SHE WAS IN SWARM?

Sophia frowned. RAN THAT WAY. She paused, thinking. The guys should've gotten back to me about it. Maybe sent pics. Did they get caught in it? She studied the picture again. WHERE WAS THIS TAKEN?

AFTER SWARM WENT AWAY. PEOPLE HOLED UP IN DENNYS. SHE TRIED TO GET IN. ARMSMASTER N VELOCITY ARRESTED HER.

Well, holy shit. Sophia shook her head. She hadn't heard anything about this. Hebert looked like she'd head-butted a Mack truck, not been stung by bees. Looks like she found a place to hide. And if the Protectorate had arrested her … well. Maybe I'll visit her later, see what she's charged with. Make sure she knows who's boss.

A slow grin crossed her face. WHEN SHE GETS BACK TO SCHOOL WE SHOULD TELL EVERY1 THAT SHES THE SWARMBRINGER.

HAHAHAHA YEAH THATLL BE CLASSIC.

She was in the middle of typing a response when the phone rang. To her surprise, the number on the screen was one she didn't know.

Pushing back her hood to give access to her ear, she pressed the button to answer the call. “Hello?”

“Hello, Shadow Stalker.” The voice was one she didn't know. “It's good to finally speak to you. Do you have a moment?”

She froze, then glanced around again, instinctively. She was still alone on the roof. “Who the hell is this? How did you get hold of this number?”

“My name is Calvert, Commander Thomas Calvert of the Parahuman Response Teams, and I'm very good at my job.” The man on the other end of the line sounded rather pleased with himself. “As are you. But you're bored with it right now, aren't you? The other Wards are holding you back. Tell me I'm wrong.”

“You're not wrong,” she agreed reluctantly. “But what the hell do you want with me?”

“ There's a job I have in mind, for a bold, dynamic cape who's used to working alone, knows the underworld and isn't frightened of taking a risk.”

She paused. It sounded good, but … “Okay, you have my interest. But why are you calling me now, instead of contacting me at base?”

“I'm almost certain that the PRT building has moles in it. So I'm calling you now to ensure that the call is not monitored by forces hostile to the PRT and Protectorate. It's absolutely essential that there be no overt connection between us, if this is to work.”

Sophia blinked. “If what's to work?”

“The job that I just mentioned. You fit my needs to a T. The question is, are you interested?”

“I … what is this job?”

There was the rustle of paper. “I've received authorisation to separate you from the Wards command structure, and put you under my direct command. You'll be your own boss, to a point. On the upside, you won't be bound by many of the restrictive regulations that you currently enjoy. On the downside, you won't have much in the way of backup if things go sideways. In short, it's an infiltration mission.”

“Who am I infiltrating?”

“That's need to know. You don't need to know. Not unless you choose to accept the new posting.”

“Uh … Commander Calvert, you do realise that I'm a known member of the Wards, right? There's exactly zero chance of me being able to pass for a criminal.” She hated saying it, but it was true. No matter how much the idea of being on her own, relying on her wits and speed, appealed to her.

“You're also on probation. Which means that any false-flag operation which paints you as a criminal is likely to succeed. People love to see tarnished heroes fall. If you agree, we can bring Operation Disgrace on line within twelve to twenty-four hours.”

“Wait a minute. Who's going to know the truth, here?”

“Myself, the Director, Armsmaster. A few others. But they won't be saying a thing. It's in everyone's best interests to keep the masquerade going. Which means that the Wards and Protectorate and PRT will be sent out after you. Some of them will even be honestly trying to capture you. After all, not everyone can keep a secret.”

Sophia snorted. Like they can catch me on their best day. “Right. So what kind of crime will I be framed for?”

“I'll leave that as a surprise. That way, you won't give anything away at the wrong moment.”

“All right then.” A thought struck her. “Just by the way, do you have any way of proving that you're on the up-and-up? I've got no doubt that there is a Commander Calvert in the PRT, but this sort of thing would be too easy to fake.” And there's any number of people who'd love to see me back in juvey.

“Very good, Shadow Stalker.” Calvert sounded pleased. “The solution is simple. You have access to the PRT directory. Call me at my desk.”

“Oh. Right.” Sophia hung up, then used her work phone to check up the directory. Carefully, she entered the correct number in her personal phone, then pressed the button to make the call.

“Hello, Shadow Stalker,” the same voice answered. “I trust that this is sufficient for your needs?”

“Yeah, that should do it,” Sophia conceded. “So, is there anything I need to do? Papers to sign?”

“Paperwork can be spotted by the wrong person, and your life would then be in mortal danger,” Calvert warned her. “Right now, I'm recording this, which is all we need for the moment. Do I have your agreement to participate in Operation Disgrace?”

She didn't answer immediately. This was a huge step, and she had to think about it.

On the one hand, there was her good name and reputation within the Wards to consider. On the other, she didn't think she could handle the slow grind of three more years of this crap. Once she turned eighteen, she'd be able to tell the PRT to go shove their moralising once and for all. But three years was a fucking long time.

“I have a question.”

“Ask.”

“I do this, can you do something about my probation?”

There was a confident chuckle. “I'm certain that I can make that all go away. If, and I repeat if, we can pull this off successfully, then your probation will be a thing of the past. History rewards the victors, and all that.”

Freedom. She could taste it. But … there was a nagging feeling. Something she wasn't sure about. “I do this, I can't tell anyone about what I'm doing, right? Not the Wards, not my family?”

“That's correct. The only ones in the know will be you, me, and those further up the line. If anyone else even suspects that you're a double agent, your life will be in dire and immediate danger.”

“What kind of a back door do I have for this?”

His response was unhesitating. “If you ever have to cut and run, contact me immediately. I will have an extraction plan waiting. Just be aware; this is a one-use option, and if you use it before we achieve our objective, then you're back to square one with the Wards, and your probation.”

She'd kind of figured that one out already. So, can I really do this?

For a long moment, she fell silent, staring into the night sky. She couldn't lie to herself. It was going to be as risky as hell.

However, she realised that she was already well on the way to making the decision. Infiltrating the bad guys? Maybe even getting the chance to smack the Wards around for shits and giggles?

She looked over the edge of the roof. Clockblocker waved up at her. Hell, yes.

Slowly, she nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Let's do this thing.”

“Very good. I'll be texting you the number of a post office box. In that box there will be a burner phone You will use that phone and that phone only to communicate with me. Once you get it, text me with your agreement, and this operation will commence.”

“You got it.” Sophia ended the call and and went back to the text screen.

GTG. BUSY.

Shutting off the phone, she put it away. She had some planning to do.

<><>​

Patricia Bright

PRT Case Worker

Patty yawned and closed her laptop. “Ready to go to bed yet, honey?” she asked.

Kenneth didn't look over from where he was watching TV. “Five minutes,” he mumbled absently.

That prompted Patty to wrinkle her nose. Kenneth was fun to be with, but he was absolute murder to pry away from his favourite shows. With another yawn, she got up off the sofa with her laptop in hand. “Well, I'm gonna go brush my teeth,” she prompted. “You want me after that, I'll be in bed.”

“Uh huh,” he grunted.

With a smirk, Patty walked between him and the TV, prompting him to frown and lean to look around her. Having had her little fun, she headed over to the sideboard where she usually kept the laptop. Just as she got there, she heard a knock on the apartment door.

“Were we expecting anyone?” she asked.

There was no answer; Kenneth was well into the zone now. With a put-upon sigh, Patty headed for the door. As she reached it, the knocking came again. “Who is it?” she called.

“PRT,” came a female voice, one that almost sounded familiar. “Open the door, please.”

Patty couldn't think of many reasons for the PRT to be knocking on her door at ten in the evening. If they really needed to get hold of her, then her phone was right there on the arm of the sofa. Which meant that something was up.

“Can I see a badge, please?” she asked, slipping the chain on to the door. This was a proper chain, not the little dinky thing that most places used.

“Certainly,” the woman outside the door replied. Patty peered through the peephole; the voice might not have been instantly recognisable, but the face was. It was Miss Militia, wearing her iconic scarf, holding up her PRT-issued identity card.

“Oh, wow,” she murmured, taking the chain off and undoing the deadbolt. Working for the PRT was one thing. Associating with Shadow Stalker on occasion was another. But having a member of the Protectorate show up on her doorstep brought things to a whole new level. “What's going on?” she asked as she opened the door.

“What's going on is that I have a warrant to search your laptop and another to search your apartment,” Miss Militia told her briskly, holding out two documents. “We have reason to believe that they may hold evidence of one or more crimes.” As she spoke, PRT troopers filed past her into the apartment.

“Crimes?” said Patty blankly. “What crimes?”

“Bullying,” Miss Militia replied flatly. “Assault. Theft. Malicious damage. Deprivation of liberty. Verbal assault calculated to cause mental anguish.”

Patty blinked. “But … I haven't done any of that!”

“You haven't, as far as we know,” agreed the cape. “But Shadow Stalker is another matter.”

“Shad -” began Patty.

“Hey!” Kenneth had just noticed the intruders in the apartment. “What the hell? Patty, what's going on here?”

“Stay calm, Mr Johnston,” Miss Militia advised him. “Remain where you are. You are not a person of interest in this matter.” She didn't say any more, but her hand rested casually on the ornate sabre hanging at her hip. Kenneth shut up, but kept sneaking peeks at her.

Shadow Stalker. Oh, shit. Patty experienced a sudden sinking feeling. What's she done now? “Um … am I under arrest?”

“Only if we find evidence that you aided and abetted in covering up her wrongdoings, either before or after the fact,” Miss Militia said blandly. “Of course, if such is the case, it might help if you came clean before we found the evidence.”

Patty watched helplessly as a PRT tech opened her laptop and booted it up. “Well, if you want to find a cover-up, don't look at me!” she burst out. “Look at Winslow!”

The corners of Miss Militia's eyes crinkled. “Oh, we are.”

<><>​

Armsmaster

Colin turned to the PRT trooper with the shoulder-mounted camera. “Are you recording?”

“Yes, sir,” the trooper replied. He flicked a switch; bright lights splashed over the door before them. “Sound and video both.”

“Good.” Armsmaster addressed the camera. “This is Armsmaster. I have in my possession search warrants enabling me to investigate the locker belonging to Sophia Hess on the grounds of Winslow High School, and Principal Blackwell's computer on those same premises.” He held up two documents, one after the other. “We are doing this at the current time to avoid the chance of our suspect, Sophia Hess, also known as Shadow Stalker, discovering these actions and fleeing from justice before she can be taken into custody.”

Turning back to the door, he placed a small device resembling an old-fashioned music-box against the door, roughly level with where the lock should be. Turning the projecting handle in a slow circle caused a series of click and buzzes to sound from within the box; once he had finished, he pulled on the door. It opened easily.

“I could have opened the door much more easily than that,” he added for the benefit of the camera, “but this way, Winslow doesn't have to replace the lock. Or the door.”

Pulling the door all the way open, he led the way into the school. Winslow had had intrusion alarms once upon a time, but they had long since been permanently disabled. A map of the school uploaded into his helmet HUD allowed him to locate Shadow Stalker's locker with relative ease; the Tinkertech device made short work of that lock as well. Not bad for something that took me a lazy half-hour to design and construct.

“First, we check the contents that we can see,” he instructed. “Then we check for hidden compartments and items stuck up under shelves. Be thorough. We have the time.”

Shelf by shelf they went through the locker. Books, running shoes, a spare set of gym clothing. The only odd thing they found was a metallic object about twenty-six inches long, sealed in a plastic bag. This was handed off to Armsmaster, who carefully unwrapped it under the lights of the cameraman. It was bent and twisted, and had some kind of dark substance adhering to it; once the last wrapping came off, a rank stench filled the air. Armsmaster hastily re-wrapped it, then sprayed clear plastic sealant over it from a dispenser on his belt.

“What is it?” asked the cameraman. “And what's it doing in her locker?”

Armsmaster reviewed his helmet-cam footage. “I think it's a musical instrument of some sort,” he decided. “Maybe a flute. But it's badly damaged.”

“And it's had some kind of crap smeared over it, from the smell,” added one of the other troopers. “Why would she even keep something like that in her locker?”

“I don't know,” admitted Armsmaster. “But I'm calling it dangerously noxious, and removing it for public safety.”

“Good call,” agreed the cameraman. “That was horrific.”

“Yes.” Armsmaster turned back toward the locker. “Are the shelves done?”

“They are, and we haven't been able to locate any hidden compartments,” the trooper at the locker declared. “Checking under shelves … well, what have we here?”

“Show me,” ordered Armsmaster.

The trooper did, exhibiting a SIM card that had been taped up under the second-lowest shelf in the locker. “Is it just me, or does this look suspicious?”

“It's not just you,” Armsmaster decided. “Is there anything else?”

They checked again, but found nothing more of interest. Armsmaster re-locked the locker, and they moved along. As they headed for Blackwell's office, he used his helmet HUD to make a call.

<><>​

Assault

“Hey, bossman. How's it hanging?”

Armsmaster's sigh was almost silent, but not silent enough. Assault grinned cheerfully. It was always a good day when he could raise the blood pressure of those who took themselves too seriously. “We've had mixed results from Shadow Stalker's locker. How are you doing there?”

“Well, surprise surprise, her mom doesn't sound astonished that she could be doing such a thing,” he reported. “Though it seems that her brother didn't know about it at all. I've been chatting to the family while Puppy handles the search of the bedroom. She's about to start on the closet now.”

“I heard that!” his wife called from within the bedroom.

“You were meant to!” he retorted without missing a beat. “So yeah, anyway, nothing too incriminating in the bedroom so far. Except for a bunch of My Little Pony comics under the mattress. They must be Aleph knockoffs or something. So damn cute.”

“Odd, true, but not incriminating,” agreed Armsmaster. “Keep looking. I'll be in touch.” The call cut off.

Assault grinned again. Same old chatterbox Armsmaster. Leaning in through the doorway, he asked, “So, have we found anything?”

Battery turned to him, hair askew and a smudge of dirt on her nose, and glared at him. He judged it to be a number three moderate glare; I'd better get flowers or chocolates on the way home tonight, mister. “You have found nothing. I, on the other hand, have found something. Which, if you'd gotten off your lazy ass and helped, we could maybe have found fifteen minutes ago.”

“What, an adult man going through a teenage girl's bedroom?” He put his hand to his heart, miming shock. “However would that look?” Stepping forward, he crouched next to where she knelt next to the closet. “So what have we found, oh love of my life?”

She elbowed him, but gently. “Check it out. Looks like she hadn't totally turned over a new leaf.”

The bottom of the closet was a few inches up from the floor; she had managed to find a leverage point, letting the floor of the closet hinge upward. Underneath was a neatly folded costume, along with a black-painted hockey mask and a small crossbow. Next to the crossbow were …

“Well, well, well,” he mused, picking up one of the small arrows and examining the head. It was polished steel and looked very, very sharp. “So she didn't get rid of them all.”

Battery smiled, but the expression looked troubled. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

He tilted his head. “Don't tell me you're on her side.”

“Not on her side, so much as … well, I've worked with her. She's good at what she does. I hate to see a talent like that go to waste, that's all.” She jabbed him in the ribs. “Meanwhile, you're the champion of second chances. You're not on her side?”

“Puppy,” he intoned, earning himself a second jab, “I'm all for second chances. I took mine and ran with it. Have I committed a criminal act since?” She gave him an extremely dubious look. “Okay, fine, have I committed any criminal acts worth arresting me for?”

“Well, no,” she admitted. “You've really made an effort.”

“Whereas Shadow Stalker hasn't,” he pointed out. “She's made no attempt to change her ways, except where she had no choice. And I might make fun of people, but I don't hurt them. I don't bully them. Shadow Stalker apparently does both, and that makes her nothing like me.”

<><>​

Armsmaster

“Are you ready, Dragon?”

The computer-generated face on the screen of the laptop rolled its eyes. “Do you even have to ask?”

Armsmaster had to chuckle. “I guess not. Plugging you in … now.”

The effect was almost immediate. Blackwell's computer screen lit up, window after window opening and then closing once more. All Colin had to do was stand back and watch; a Tinker of Dragon's capabilities was so far above his level that he could barely comprehend what she was doing.

Of course, he knew, she wasn't doing it all manually. As good as she was, the speeds she was working at would be impossible for any mere human. But it was possible to write a search engine for almost anything. Combined with the latest of decryption software, this meant that Dragon could go through a commercial-brand computer with the same general effect as a high-powered laxative would have on the human digestive system.

The flickering of windows ceased abruptly. He leaned forward. “Well?”

On the laptop screen, Dragon's avatar grinned. “Jackpot.”


End of Part Five

 

Price of Blood



Part Six: Chasing Shadows



Danny Hebert

Gravel crunched under the tyres of the car as Danny pulled into the driveway. He set the park brake and switched off the engine, then settled back with a sigh. It was good to relax for just a moment, but he couldn't sit in the car for too long. Taylor needed him, now more than ever.

There was a tap on the car window. His eyes widening, he turned to see a brightly-clad figure standing beside the car. Slowly, he opened the door. “Uh, Velocity, right?”

“That's correct, Mr Hebert.”

Carefully, mindful of many small aches and pains, Danny climbed out of the car. By the time he was on his feet, he still hadn't figured out the answer to a particularly pressing question, so he decided to just ask it. “Uh … what are you doing here?”

The speedster shrugged slightly. “Armsmaster's orders. I'm supposed to search the house, with your permission, and locate any evidence of your daughter being bullied.”

Danny frowned slightly. “He didn't mention this to me.”

Velocity managed to look irritated, even with a good portion of his face covered by his mask. “He wasn't permitted to. We're under high-end security protocols, following the Swarm incident. A part of those protocols requires us to presume that enemy interests have people inside the PRT building, and to maintain appropriate information security.”

Danny blinked. “There's moles inside the PRT building?”

“Hah. As if.” Velocity shook his head. “But the protocols are there, so we have to follow them until either the Deputy Director or the Director herself rescinds them. So Armsmaster didn't tell you that I'd be going to your house. That way, nobody else knows it, either.”

“Oh.” It sort of made sense, in a burn-before-reading, paranoid kind of way. “Well, uh, okay. So what'll you be looking for?”

Velocity shrugged. “Apart from this journal that your daughter mentioned? I have no idea. Notes. Photographs of bruising. Hate mail on social media. Do you know if she even goes on social media?”

Danny blinked. “She doesn't own a phone. And she doesn't spend hours a day on the computer in her room, so I guess not?” He was struck by the guilty knowledge that he knew even less about his own daughter's habits than he had previously imagined.

“Okay, we can scratch social media unless she points out stuff on it, I suppose.” Velocity sighed. “We've done courses on this. Never expected to actually have to do it without someone coaching me.”

“I thought we were over and done with this shit,” Danny agreed ruefully. “Well, her room's upstairs. I can show you where it is, if you want.”

The hero made a negatory gesture. “I'll need you to stay out here for a moment. If someone recognised your daughter from that photo that went up on PHO, and linked you to this, there's an outside chance that people might be coming after you. So I need to check for anyone lurking inside.”

“What? Coming after me?” Danny shook his head. “That makes no sense at all.”

“Lynch mobs rarely do.” Velocity's face – the part of it that Danny could see under the mask – took on an expression of distaste. “I've seen it before, and the victim never manages to change their minds with logic. So if it even looks like happening, don't try to argue. Just get the hell out of there.”

“Right.” Danny felt a chill down his back. “Thanks. I guess.”

“You're welcome,” Velocity said lightly, before he became all business again. “Do I have your permission to search the house for evidence that your daughter was being bullied?”

“Um, sure. Uh … did you need a key to get in?” Danny fumbled in his pocket.

“We cut our own,” Velocity assured him. “Back when we were still wondering if you were a suspect.” Producing said key, the speedster moved up to the front door. It opened, and he was inside before Danny could blink.

Lights came on all over the house at once. Danny barely caught sight of a blurred form against curtains in an upstairs window, before the front door opened again.

“Well, that's that,” Velocity said, stepping out on to the porch. There was a thick sheaf of papers in his right hand, bound together with a bulldog clip. “Found it.”

Danny stared at the papers. There were a lot of them. “Is that … it? Her journal?”

“It was in the right place.” Velocity's expression was unhappy.

“Do I even want to see it?” Part of Danny wanted to witness what had been done to his little girl. Another part feared what he would find out.

“You can look, but you can't touch,” the hero warned him. “Evidence procedures.”

“Right, right.” Danny leaned forward to look at the first page. “Well, it's definitely Taylor's handwriting. I'd know it anywhere.” He concentrated on the writing. “September eight. Six vicious emails, Sophia pushed me down the stairs when I was near the bottom, making me drop my books, tripped and shoved me no less than three times during gym, and threw my clothes at me while I was in the shower after gym class had ended, getting them wet ...”

Trailing to a halt, Danny stared again at the sheaf of papers. It looked very thick. “Is that all like … that?”

Velocity nodded. “Yes. I flicked through it. She was very thorough. There's even a section with nothing but hurtful emails. That'll be something to cross-check.”

“Oh. Good. So … that'll be enough to nail whoever's been bullying her? This girl, Sophia?”

“I'll be honest, Mr Hebert.” Velocity's voice was serious. “Something like this, handwritten, is, um …” He trailed off, as if searching for a word. “I think they call it 'circumstantial' evidence. It's damaging but not, uh, set in stone as far as evidence goes. A good defence lawyer could pull it to pieces by casting doubt on individual parts, then using that to discredit the whole.”

Danny nodded, recalling conversations with Alan Barnes. “Yeah, I've got a friend who's a lawyer. He told me something about that. But it would be good as … corroborating evidence, I think it's called, right?”

Velocity chuckled. “Now you've got me. But I'll get it into the system as fast as I can. Let the big brains sort it out.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Danny agreed. “Okay, so how do I get back into the PRT building?”

“Park nearby and call them,” Velocity said immediately. “They'll send a car to pick you up.”

“I don't have a cell phone, either,” Danny pointed out. “I … I don't believe in them.”

“Hm.” Velocity rubbed his chin. “All right, how about this. You leave your car here, and I'll call the PRT to come pick you up and take custody of this journal at the same time. While we're waiting, you can pack whatever you want to bring along. That sound okay to you?”

“Yeah,” Danny said. “It does. You like tea or coffee?”

“Please.” Velocity managed to almost sound affronted. “If I'm going to be running around town all night, I'm going to need all the caffeine I can get.”

“Gotcha.” Although he didn't really feel like it, Danny grinned slightly. “Coffee it is.”

<><>​

Clockblocker

Dennis felt like cheering when the PRT building came into view. He was young and fit, but walking for a couple of hours at a time was still hard on the feet. “First thing I'm gonna do,” he declared, “is take my boots off, put my feet under the air conditioning outlet, and wiggle my toes.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Shadow Stalker retorted. “Hey, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Dennis tilted his head. “I didn't hear anything.”

“It came from over there.” Shadow Stalker pointed. “It was like a groan. I'm gonna go check it out.”

“Be careful,” Dennis said. “It might be a groan man, and you're just a teenager.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head as if in pain. Behind his faceplate, Dennis grinned. Gotcha.

“Just … shut up and stay here,” she growled. “I'll let you know if I see anything.”

Turning to shadow, she leaped toward the roof of the low building before them. Dennis recognised it as a post office, but that was about it. She blended in perfectly with the shadows, dropping off the other side of the building.

He waited, occasionally casting wistful glances toward the PRT building, but determined not to leave his partner behind. After a good thirty seconds had passed with no return, he set his jaw and started moving around the building. Some of the patches of shadow were deeper than others, so he pulled the small flashlight off his belt and turned it on.

Thus equipped, he made his way to the front of the post office, to spot Shadow Stalker examining the wall. No, he realised as he got closer, she was looking at the post office boxes.

“What's up, Stalker?” he asked cheerfully as he got closer. “Looking to take out a box of your own?”

“No,” she replied absently. “I thought maybe this one had been broken into.” She tapped one of the boxes. “Marks on it, see?”

He couldn't see the marks she was referring to, but her eyesight was usually pretty good. “Not really.” Reaching out, he wiggled the little door. It refused to budge. “They didn't get in, though.”

“Yeah, well. Sometimes that's the best you can hope for.” Dusting her hands off, she turned away from the wall of boxes. “Let's go.”

<><>​

Shadow Stalker

“Damn right.” Clockblocker led the way back around to the street they had just come from. It was only about a block to go.

Sophia hated to admit it, but since getting the call, she had actually begun to enjoy the patrol, if only because it would soon be over. This'll be the last patrol I go on with the other Wards, she realised with what was almost a pang of regret. At least until this operation is over. Whenever that is. Hope it isn't too long. Don't want Mom and Terry thinking I'm a villain or something. For too long, anyway.

Which reminded her. I still have to text him back, let him know I'm good to go.

“Going rooftop,” she told Clockblocker.

“Wow, seriously?” the white-clad teen asked, incredulity clear in his tone. Dramatically, he pointed. “There's the PRT building right there. We're on the home stretch. And you want to go looking for more trouble?”

“It's just a quick check around,” she retorted, nettled. “Won't be a minute.”

Before he could muster another argument, she leaped upward, phasing into shadow as she did so. With the ease of long practice, she scaled the side of the ten-storey building in just seconds. Glancing backward, she could see Clockblocker standing on the footpath below, looking up at her.

Was he checking out my butt? Again?

With a shake of her head – Clockblocker made this decision easy for her – she reached around under her cloak. The burner phone, which had until very recently resided in the post office box, now nestled in one of the spare pouches on her belt, along with the bluetooth earpiece that had been taped to it. She pulled the phone out now and powered it up.

Checking through the Contacts list, she found only one number. Quickly – Clockblocker was a little dense, but he wasn't stupid – she typed out a single word. READY.

The reply came so fast that he must have been waiting on her. GOOD. PUT THE EARPIECE IN.

Oh. Okay. They must be moving up the timetable. She allowed herself a feral grin. Good.

Lifting her mask for a moment, she fitted the earpiece and turned it on. With her mask on and her hood up, nobody would notice that it was even there. Which, she supposed, was the whole idea. The phone went back into the pouch. Let's do this thing.

<><>​

Danny Hebert

The ride back with Agent Petrowski had been … not quite boring, but not as tense as it could have been. Not much conversation had passed on the trip; the PRT man seemed content to simply drive, while Danny was caught up in his own thoughts. He was vaguely grateful that the man didn't want to make conversation. Or maybe he's not cleared for this? Danny neither knew nor cared. He just wanted to get back to Taylor.

They turned down the side-street leading, Danny presumed, to the rear entrance of the PRT building. The headlights picked out two forms walking, both costumed. One was in all white, the other in black. They turned to look, shading their eyes, as the driver slowed the car.

He stopped the vehicle beside them and buzzed the window down. “Clockblocker, Shadow Stalker,” he greeted them easily. “Petrowski. Headed back to base?”

“Yes,” the boy replied. The girl stayed silent. “What's the matter?”

“Oh, nothing's the matter,” Petrowski assured him. “Want a lift? Only a few hundred yards, but it's a few hundred yards you don't have to walk if you don't want to.”

Clockblocker hesitated. “Got ID?”

“And who's that in the car with you?” asked Shadow Stalker sharply. “He's not PRT.”

“Yes, I've got ID,” Petrowski said, showing Clockblocker the same card he had used to identify himself to Danny. “And I'm escorting this gentleman in to base. He's with me.”

“Oh, okay.” Clockblocker glanced at the dark-clad girl. “Shadow Stalker, should we take up the kind gentleman's offer?” They can't be any older than Taylor, Danny thought with a touch of surrealism.

“Suit yourself,” the girl declared with what might even have been a snort of disdain.

“Well, yeah,” he retorted cheerfully. “Thanks, Agent Petrowski.” Opening the back door, the teen hero climbed into the car. “Whoa, what's this?”

'This' was the heavy plastic envelope into which Taylor's journal had been zipped. Petrowski had put it on the back seat for the duration of the drive.

“That's sensitive material,” the agent said firmly, reaching back between the seats. “Pass it here, please.” Danny willed himself not to react as Clockblocker passed it over. “Thank you.” Petrowski tucked it securely down between the seats.

“No problems.” The boy was just settling himself down when the door opened again.

“Shove over,” Shadow Stalker ordered him. “Don't take up the whole damn seat, here.”

Despite having no view of Clockblocker's face, Danny would almost have guaranteed that the boy was rolling his eyes. “Wow, and here I thought you were gonna rough it, Stalker.”

“What, and let you write up the after-action report to make yourself look good? Dream on.” Shadow Stalker settled herself into the car, pulled her cloak around herself, and closed the door. “Okay, we can go now.”

“Sure.” Petrowski put the car into motion. Danny could almost feel the palpable curiosity exhibited by the two teens in the back seat. That was fine; he had a certain amount of that quality himself.

Well, may as well ask. Clearing his throat, he looked over his shoulder at the young heroes. “Uh, can I ask you guys a question?”

Petrowski cleared his throat. “They're not cleared to discuss sensitive material.” His tone was light, but the warning was clear.

“Yeah, I got that,” Danny agreed. “Just a general question.”

“Sure,” said Clockblocker readily enough. “What do you want to know?”

“Oh, uh, what's it like being a Ward?” Danny asked, regretting the question at the last moment. They probably get asked this question every time they meet anyone on the street. But he had to know. For Taylor's sake.

“That's a tough one,” Clockblocker said carefully. “It's fun. Fraught, sometimes. But we've got our team as backup. And we've got the Protectorate to show us how. Stalker? Anything you want to add?”

Shadow Stalker didn't reply; if Danny didn't know better, he would have sworn she was staring intently at him. But that was ridiculous; what reason would she have to do that? He didn't know her, and she certainly didn't know him.

“Earth Bet to Shadow Stalker,” Clockblocker said cheerfully, elbowing his colleague in the ribs. “Shadow Stalker, come in.”

That got her attention; she curled her arm protectively over her ribs and turned on Clockblocker furiously. “Seriously, Clock. What the hell?”

“Hey, just trying to get your attention, Stalker,” the white-clad hero reminded her hastily. “We were talking about what life's like as a Ward.”

“What's to talk about?” she asked with a shrug. “We go out, we kick ass, we come back and go to school. No big.” Leaning forward, she looked more closely at Danny. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

The intent gaze was beginning to make Danny slightly nervous. “Pretty sure I'd remember if I knew a member of the Wards,” he observed, trying to make a joke of it.

“Not if you only knew us out of costume,” Clockblocker pointed out cheerfully.

“Sir, what's your name?” asked Shadow Stalker abruptly. Danny opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off when Petrowski cleared his throat loudly.

“As I said, Shadow Stalker,” the agent stated firmly, “I'm escorting this gentleman in to base. On a sensitive matter. In fact, it would be a good idea if you both forgot you saw him altogether. Is that understood?”

“Uh, yeah,” Clockblocker said hastily. “Stalker?”

She didn't answer for a long moment. Danny saw Petrowski actually opening his mouth again before she spoke. “Okay, okay. Fine. Sheesh. It's just that he looks so damn familiar.”

The nose of the car dipped downward as Petrowski drove the vehicle into what Danny presumed to be the PRT undercover carpark. Nobody spoke as the car rolled onward, finally pulling up in a carpark space. Petrowski killed the engine and set the park brake before turning once more to the two Wards. “You two go on. And don't speak about this to anyone. Understood?”

“Yeah, sure, fine,” Clockblocker said at once. “Come on, Stalker.” He got out, followed a moment later by the dark-clad girl. The car door closed behind them. They walked side by side toward the lift, the boy's slightly longer legs compensating for the girl's brisk stride.

Danny cleared his throat. “Uh, was -” His words broke off as Petrowski held up a finger for silence, then picked up a radio microphone.

“Petrowski here. In the garage. I have Mr Hebert with me. Clockblocker and Shadow Stalker are on the way down. Repeat, Charlie Bravo and Sierra Sierra are on the way down.”

The radio crackled with what may have been a “Roger” as he put the microphone down, then turned toward Danny. “You had a question, Mr Hebert?”

“Uh, yeah.” Danny had the feeling that he was making an idiot out of himself, but he didn't know how. “Why didn't you want them to know who I was?”

Petrowski eyed him impassively for a long moment. “I'm afraid I don't have clearance to tell you that, Mr Hebert.”

“Is it to protect Taylor?” Danny hated feeling as though he was begging, but for Taylor's sake he would do so on bended knee if he had to. “Please tell me at least that much.”

Minutes seemed to pass, but in reality it had to be only ten or fifteen seconds. “It is definitely for your daughter's benefit, yes,” Petrowski conceded.

“Right. Good. Thanks.” Danny gestured at the car door. “Is it okay if we get out now?”

“It is.” Petrowski opened his door, then retrieved the plastic envelope before getting out. Danny took a little longer, as he had to wrestle his over-stuffed overnight bag out as well. They headed for the lift; just as they got there, it opened to disgorge half a dozen fully-armoured PRT troopers.

Danny stepped back, a little startled; more than one containment foam nozzle tracked him, then pointed at the ceiling once more. “Time?” asked one of the soldiers.

“Forty-five seconds,” Petrowski replied. Danny had no time to ask him what that was about, as the agent was hustling him into the elevator. He pressed a blank white card into Danny's hand. “This will get you to the infirmary and the cafeteria. Don't go anywhere else unescorted.”

“Right. Uh …” Before Danny could formulate any one of the dozen or so questions he wanted to ask, Petrowski had pressed the button for the fifth floor and stepped back out of the lift. Danny watched the doors closed and then the lift started upward.

I have no idea what's going on around here.

Still, he supposed, it was a good thing that someone did.

<><>​

Shadow Stalker

“So what was with you and that guy?” asked Clockblocker as the lift doors closed. “You couldn't take your eyes off of him. I mean, seriously, he's old enough to be …” He cut himself off. Your father, he'd meant to say. But to say that would remind him of his own father, not so slowly dying of cancer. “Are you into old guys now?” he added slyly, wanting to take his mind off the deep pain. “Do I have to warn Armsmaster to watch out?”

Sophia drove an elbow into his ribs, not gently, as the lift came to a halt. “Shut the fuck up,” she said curtly. “None of your business. He reminded me of someone, that's all. Just wish I could remember who.”

“Like Petrowski told us,” Clockblocker reminded her, sounding a little pained. Good. “Sensitive business.”

As they stepped from the lift, the new phone vibrated gently in its pouch; Sophia heard the ringtone in her ear. Casually, as if scratching her head, she reached up and tapped the button to accept the call.

Calvert began speaking at once, without so much as a greeting or preamble. “Be aware that the plans have been moved up. Operation Disgrace starts tonight. I'll give you what guidance I can, but once it begins, it's up to you to get out. It has to be absolutely authentic.”

Sophia nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I understand.”

“Well, good,” Clockblocker said more cheerfully. “I'm glad.”

“Excellent. Can you tell me where you are right now, and who you are with?”

She had to remind herself that the other Ward could not hear the voice in the earpiece she was wearing.

“Uh, Clock?” she said. “Can you hit the button to get into the Wards' base? I think I've got something stuck to my boot.”

“Perfect, thank you.”

“Wow, didn't your mother ever teach you to wipe your feet?” asked Clockblocker rhetorically as Sophia leaned back against the wall of the hallway and fiddled with her boot.

“I can always wipe 'em on you,” she threatened.

“Bully,” he complained. “Meanie.” But despite his put-upon tone, he nonetheless moved up to the retinal scanner and lowered his face toward the reader. The light beep announced that he was recognised; she moved up alongside him as the countdown began.

The heavy metal doors slid open and she entered the Wards base. Even without the warning, she would have been on edge. She wasn't quite sure what to expect, but seeing Kid Win arguing with a tech was not it.

“Look, kid, I'm just trying to do my job here,” the tech said in a world-weary voice that made Sophia suddenly certain that this argument had already covered this ground. And would again.

“Is your job taking away our phones?” demanded Kid Win. “You realise we need these things to communicate when we're in the field.”

“What's happening?” asked Clockblocker, just as the tech went into a spiel about a 'security exploit' in the Wards' phones that needed to be patched right away.

This is it, she realised. It's happening now. Behind her, the doors started to close. If I don't move now, I'll be trapped down here.

“Hey Clock hand my phone in thanks gotta go eat,” she rattled off as fast as she could, pulling out the phone in question and tossing it to the white-clad Ward.

“Wait, what, huh?” blurted Clockblocker, fumbling the phone twice before catching it. Across the room, Aegis had turned to look, and his eyes had locked on to Sophia. He's in on it, or he's been told the story. Either way, I can't guarantee that he'll let me go.

Even as Aegis began to move, Sophia threw herself backward, slipping between the closing doors. I got maybe five seconds lead time. Gotta use that.

Sophia had won races with margins in the tenths of a second. Of course, the people she'd been competing against hadn't been able to fly. She pelted along the corridor toward the lift, her ears picking up the hiss of the door beginning to open behind her. When she reached the lift, she slapped the call button, but the doors did not open. The display showed that the elevator was at the fifth floor. Unless it starts moving right now, it won't get here in time. It didn't move. She turned toward the stairwell door and yanked on the handle. It refused to move.

Shit, shit, shit. The door opened from the Wards' base, and Aegis came out. He was actually hovering about a foot from the floor. “Shadow Stalker!” he called out.

In a last-ditch ploy, Sophia tapped the side of her mask, causing the Tinker-made lenses to slide down. Immediately, electrical lines began tracing themselves over the walls and floor all around her. The lift and stairwell doors were a no-show; there was far too much electricity going through either one. Fuck. Trapped.

“Shadow Stalker, get back here!” Aegis was flying toward her now. He would be on her in less than a second. She needed a way out.

There.

It was at knee height, but there was a void inside the wall. Air duct. Normally, she would have had to find a vent and then remove said vent before finding out if she could actually fit down it. But her powers made all of that immaterial, so to speak. She went to shadow about one tenth of a second before Aegis ploughed through where she'd been standing. The disruption of her shadow body made things painful and awkward as she reformed, but she didn't let it stop her.

Lunging forward, she pushed her way into the wall, turning so that she would line up along the air duct. Now to find out where this goes, and whether Piggy ever thought to put electrified mesh in the ducts. If the Director had done that, this was going to be an extremely short and undignified mission.

No. Commander Calvert's depending on me. I'm not gonna fuck this up.

One way or another, I've got to get out of the building.

<><>​

Aegis

“Damn it!” Aegis punched the wall where Shadow Stalker had vanished. The metal dented very slightly, even as the muscles in his hand rearranged themselves to support his broken knuckles. “We had her!”

The door to the Wards' base opened once more, and Armsmaster emerged. “Aegis. What happened? Where is she?”

Carlos took a deep breath, then another. Going off the handle at his superior would not be a good move. Armsmaster didn't have a high tolerance for excessive displays of emotion. “Inside the walls somewhere.”

“Inside the walls?”

He bit back on his frustration. “Air ducts, I think. But we had her. She must have figured something out. One more second and the door would've shut. She would've been locked in, and you could've taken her into custody. But she knew something was up. Dunno how, but she took one look at me and bolted. I got out here, and she went shadow and dived into the wall.” Aware that he was beginning to babble, he forced himself to shut up.

Armsmaster strode closer. “Do you think someone tipped her off somehow?”

“I can't see how, or who.” Carlos shook his head. “You wouldn't even let us tell Clockblocker.” He took a deep breath. “My failure, sir. I'm senior Ward on site. I'll wear it.”

“We'll burn that bridge when we come to it.” Armsmaster's voice was sharp. “Right now, we have a dangerous fugitive running loose in the PRT building. With me.” He went silent for a moment as he tapped in the code for the stairwell door, then pulled the door open. “Put me through to Maintenance.”

Aegis nearly replied to that, then he realised that Armsmaster must have activated the phone in his helmet. As Armsmaster took the stairs three at a time, while Carlos flew beside him, the armoured hero gave a series of commands, which Carlos only partially understood. Something to do with closing air vents and overclocking the ventilation fans.

“Gallant and Clockblocker?” Aegis had to ask. Two guards in the stairwell, armed with foam dispensers, stepped aside for them.

“Gallant is briefing him. They'll be going up to the fifth floor to cover the infirmary. I've put in calls for the rest of the Wards, as well as the Protectorate, but we've only got a narrow window before she finds a way out. The air ducts will be too small for her to get through in places without going to her shadow form. Once she does that, the high pressure air will quite literally flush her out.”

“Flush her? Where to?”

Armsmaster's tone was grimly satisfied. “A holding cell.”

“And if she finds a place where she can go solid?” Carlos didn't want to seem to be nitpicking the plan, but it seemed to be an obvious question.

“If it's inside the air ducts, she will present a significant obstacle to air flow. Maintenance will be able to pinpoint her for us, and we can cage her in and capture her.”

Carlos thought about that. “What if she leaves the air ducts altogether?”

“Then she will neither get flushed out nor become an obstacle. In which case, we leave the fans running and search the building, floor by floor if necessary.”

Carlos felt a little sickened. Shadow Stalker had not been a nice person, sure, but she'd also been a teammate. Now they were hunting her down. “What, uh, what levels of force are you authorising, sir?”

“Level four at minimum. Level five if necessary. Once we have her subdued, we can use specialist restraints to stop her from slipping away. Until then, we don't go easy. Subdue, restrain, and then ask questions.”

Level four was hard physical contact rather than locks and holds; it also included pepper spray. Level five, on the other hand, was anything short of actual lethal force. “Sir, are we absolutely certain that she's guilty here? She may be –”

Armsmaster's voice was grim. “We've found strong evidence that Shadow Stalker effectively triggered the Swarmbringer. By running, she sealed her guilt. We have to bring her in for public safety.”

Carlos also heard what Armsmaster didn't say out loud. And if we don't, the PR fallout will be horrific. “Got it.”

Armsmaster nodded. “Good.”

They kept moving.



End of Part Six

 

Price of Blood


Part Seven: Mixed Results


[A/N: With many thanks to my beta (for this chapter and many previous ones) who has done her best to ensure a certain standard of quality. All hail Lady Columbine of Mystal!]


Danny Hebert

The PA speaker in the infirmary crackled to life. “Attention. Attention. This is Armsmaster. The PRT building is now under lockdown. Master/Stranger protocols are in effect with regards to Shadow Stalker. If seen, call in her location immediately. Do not approach unless appropriately equipped. All non-lethal measures are now approved. This is not a drill. I say again, this is not a drill. Armsmaster, out.”

Danny's first instinct was to check on Taylor. She had rolled on to her side and pulled a fold of the covers almost over her head, but she was still fast asleep. He grinned slightly; both he and Anne-Rose had teased her about her habit of 'cocooning' when she was younger.

His next thoughts were about the content of the message. Shadow Stalker? Master/Stranger protocols? What are they?

Wait a minute. A Master is a cape who controls people, isn't it?

A moment later, his memory delivered to him a playback of the car ride, giving a lift to Clockblocker and Shadow Stalker herself. Was she under control even then?

She'd been abrupt, almost rude, and convinced that she knew him. Why? I'm pretty sure I've never met her before. He puzzled over that for a moment. If she was under control, maybe whoever was controlling her thought they knew me? But I don't know any capes, let alone any Masters. He paused, rethinking that. Well, apart from Taylor. But I'm pretty sure that she's not controlling Shadow Stalker. From what everyone says, her thing is bugs.

This still, of course, left the huge issue unaddressed. Taylor and I are in the same building as a parahuman that they're trying to capture. This is not a good thing.

Going to the door, he opened it and leaned out. The PRT guard stationed in the corridor turned to face Danny and for a brief moment, Danny caught a glimpse of a phone in the man's hand. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, you can,” Danny said bluntly. “I just heard that PA message. I don't feel safe here, and I don't feel that my daughter's safe either. I want to take her home.”

The guard shook his head. “I'm sorry, sir. That's not going to happen.”

Something about the guard's attitude rubbed him entirely the wrong way. “You can't force us to stay.”

“It's not just you, sir.” The guard's voice seemed patient. “The building's under lockdown. Nobody enters or leaves until we've resolved the situation.”

“And if Shadow Stalker decides to take one of us hostage?” Danny's voice was challenging.

“Highly doubtful, but we'll resolve the situation if it comes up.” The guard wasn't budging an inch, physically or figuratively. “Now please, go back in the room.”

As much as he wanted to stand there and argue, Danny could tell that it wouldn't get him anywhere, so he closed the door again. Taking a second to make a rude gesture toward the door, he crossed the infirmary to the small bathroom and went inside. I was going to get some sleep. Like hell. Bending over the basin, he took his glasses off and splashed water on his face.

<><>​

Clockblocker

“ … not a drill. Armsmaster, out.”

Dennis shook his head as the lift continued upward. “I still can't believe it.”

“Trust me on this,” Gallant said grimly. “Armsmaster's mad enough to bite his halberd in half. And I saw Shadow's aura when she walked in. One look at Aegis, and she went from I-know-something-you-don't-know to fight-or-flight. I'm guessing it was the phones that gave her the clue. She knew we were on to her. That's why she bolted.”

The doors opened and they stepped into the corridor, Gallant leading the way. Dennis was still having trouble getting his head around the whole thing. “I mean, wow, she's not exactly easy to get along with, but to actually bully someone out of costume? Long term? Hard enough to make them trigger? That's something a villain would do, not a hero.”

“That's basically why we're trying to capture her right now,” Gallant reminded him. “If she's guilty of all that, then she's effectively a villain. You can spin a one-off clash as a temporary thing. A whole series of deliberate acts? That's no mistake. She had to have meant it.”

Ahead of them, a set of locked doors barred the hallway. Two guards watched them approach. One stepped forward with his hand out, while the other hefted his foam sprayer. “That's as far as you go without authorisation. Cards, please.”

“Sure.” Gallant got his card out; beside him, Dennis did the same. “You do realise that this lockdown's all about Shadow Stalker going off the reservation, right? Nobody else here's been compromised, yeah?”

“Not part of my orders,” the guard told him. “Building's on lockdown, nobody gets past without authorisation. End of story.” He accepted the cards and handed them back to his partner.

“Oh, for God's sake!” burst out Dennis. “We're Wards! We're even in costume! It's not like there's that many teenagers running around the building!”

“Doesn't matter,” the other guard said flatly. “You do your thing, and we'll do ours. Right now, our thing is manning this checkpoint and making sure that nobody gets through without authorisation.” He swiped the cards through a slot set in the wall, one at a time, taking care with it. Each time, the reader emitted a clear triple beep. “All right then, you're clear.”

“Thank you,” Gallant told him gravely, accepting the cards back. “You're just doing your jobs, is all.”

At some unseen signal, the doors slid apart and the guards stepped aside to let them through. Dennis was still fuming just a little. He was tempted to freeze one of them, but he pushed the impulse down. It wasn't easy.

“Just doing their jobs, my ass,” he muttered as they walked away from the now-closing doors. “They could see who we were.”

“And if we weren't supposed to be there?” Gallant gestured back toward the doors. “How much trouble would they be in if they let us through without challenging us, and we got hurt?”

Dennis shook his head. “Well, if you're gonna use logic …” he muttered.

“Damn straight I am. Now could you humour me and at least pretend to be professional?” The infirmary was just around the next corner, but as they neared it, they heard the pounding of boots.

They both looked at each other. Gallant got in first. “What the hell is that?”

By unspoken agreement, they both took off running.

<><>​

Thomas Calvert

After an interminable period of dead air, Shadow Stalker's voice came back over the line. He could hear the echo of her breathing, which told him that she was in an enclosed space. “Commander Calvert?”

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Air ducts.” She was panting. “They didn't give me any warning, but they were taking the phones off the Wards, probably to plant evidence on mine. Aegis is in on it, I think. I saw him giving me a weird look and realised it was on. So I bolted. Makes me look more guilty, right?”

“Well done,” he told her warmly. “Now, you have to keep moving. What floor are you on?”

“Third, I think. I'm trying for the roof. They'll never catch me if I get that high up.”

“No, you'll have to get out of the ducts soon. I don't know all of the security protocols, but overlooking the air ducting is a rookie mistake. The Director and Armsmaster aren't rookies.”

“But the corridors will be manned. If I want to get out, I'll need to show myself. And if the troopers aren't in on it and get the drop on me, I'm done.”

“Okay, I'll cut you a break.” He pursed his lips. “Fifth floor. The guard on the infirmary will look the other way. Make the most of it.”

“Fifth floor. Got it.”

“Good. Call me back once you're out of the building.”

Without giving her a chance to reply, he ended the call. Time was critical now; he sent a text to Corporal Reed's burner phone. SHADOW STALKER COMING YOUR WAY. IMPERATIVE THAT SHE ESCAPES.

As he did so, the PA system came to life. “Attention. Attention. This is Armsmaster. The PRT building is now under lockdown …”

<><>​

Shadow Stalker

Now that she had a goal, Sophia went for it with everything she had. Alternating between physical and shadow forms, she hoisted herself upward through the building's air ducts, looking around for any clue as to where she was. At first, there was nothing to see, but then the air vents began to close. That was worrying enough. Although she didn't need to go through them, it heralded something bad. She just knew it.

The first confirmation came as a strong puff of air against her immaterial form, pushing her back a few feet. She turned solid, feeling the breeze increase against her body. She was sweating heavily inside her costume, but that was from exertion and heat, not fear. Never fear. Though the breeze was temporarily welcome, cooling her down.

But then it began to blow more strongly. Oh shit, that's what they're doing. Flushing me out with high-pressure air.

Grimly, she climbed upward, the force of the wind starting to count on her now. She was almost at the fifth floor now. Over the edge she wriggled, having a much harder time now that she was stuck in physical form. The ducting widened, reducing the impact of the air on her, but still making it impossible to resume shadow form without being blown back down the air shaft.

Have to keep moving. I'm a survivor. I don't give up. I don't lose.

The wind was now close to a howling gale. She could feel the air pressure in front of her as she clawed her way along, fingernails hanging on to the joins in the metal. Then she heard another noise. A strange metallic clattering.

She was in a long straight stretch of the ducting, with air vents at regular intervals along the 'floor' of the duct. Looking ahead, she could see bars of light appearing and disappearing as each air vent opened and then closed in sequence, one after the other, getting closer to her all the time. She wasn't quite sure why this was being done, but just like the increase in air pressure, she knew it wasn't good. However, it did give her an idea.

Watching the vents, she unclipped her cloak but hung on to it, braced for dear life with her free hand and both feet. The vents were still opening and closing, rapidly approaching her prone body. Wait … wait … now!

She let the cloak go and the howling gale caught it, bearing it back toward the vertical shaft. For a moment, just for a split second, it caught, trapping the air. At the same time the vent that was next to her opened; turning to shadow, she felt herself being blasted between the slats of the narrow vent. Her shadow form brushed against the electric motor that opened and closed it, and she felt a charge jolt through her.

She came to on hands and knees, feeling dizzy and sick. White tiles were all around her and the smell of industrial-strength disinfectant was strong in her nostrils. Bathroom. I'm in a bathroom. As her vision began to clear, she could make out the male urinals. Men's bathroom. Yay.

Over the PA system, she heard Armsmaster's voice talking about how this wasn't a drill and knew she had to get moving. She reached out to the nearest basin and pulled herself upright. Her head still spun, but it was getting better. Okay, where to from here?

It was as if her question had been answered by a revelation from on high. Right beside the door was an emergency evacuation plan, complete with a red dot to show where she was. And the infirmary is … there.

Flipping down her Tinker-tech lenses once more, she looked around. There were wires in the walls, but she could avoid them. Taking a deep breath, she went to shadow and dived through the wall, into another bathroom. Women's, this time. At least I'm in the right place.

Heavy boots sounded in the corridor outside. “In here! Spread out!” For a second, her heart was in her mouth until she realised that they'd kicked open the men's bathroom door. Still, that was way too close. And then the shout rang out, audible even through the drywall. “Not in here! Try next door!”

Shit, they're on to me. Her head had cleared somewhat, so she leaped upward, turning to shadow and slipping through the fragile plasterboard just as the door was kicked in. As the noisy search went on below her, she ghosted forward, unwilling to trust her weight on the ceiling panels. Until she encountered a large duct carrying far too many cables to get past. This ran, if she had things right, along the centre of the corridor outside the bathrooms.

Nothing for it. Dropping down into the corridor with her crossbows in hand, she prepared to go on the offensive. But the only PRT soldier in the hallway was standing outside the infirmary. For a long moment, neither one moved, then he deliberately turned his back on her.

Fucking yes. Something going right at last. She dived through the wall into the infirmary proper, going solid and rolling under the first bed before registering the fact that there was someone in it. Someone who definitely wasn't an adult.

What the fuck's a teenager doing in the PRT troopers' infirmary?

Going shadow once more, she slid out from under the bed and stood up. As she returned to solid form, she stared down at the inhabitant of the bed. She could only see a little hair, but that hair was black and curly. I know someone with hair like that. Suspicions began to unfold in her mind as she reached out for where the covers had been pulled all the way up.

That was when something hit the back of her head with a metallic clang.

<><>​

Danny Hebert

He was just wiping his face when the flicker of darkness caught the corner of his eye. Turning, he put his glasses on just in time to see the girl emerge from a cloud of darkness, right beside Taylor's bed. She wasn't wearing her cloak, which was what immediately threw him, but the crossbow hanging at her hip gave him the clue.

Shadow Stalker! And she's going after Taylor!

He didn't have time to think; the renegade Ward was even now reaching for the covers, to pull them down. Beside the basin, several bedpans were stacked on a bench. He grabbed the topmost one and threw it. Hampered by both the cramped circumstances and the odd nature of the projectile – he could honestly say that he'd never thrown a bedpan before – he couldn't muster all the power that he wanted, but his aim was satisfactory.

With a loud clang, the bedpan bounced off the back of Shadow Stalker's head, then clattered noisily on the floor. She staggered, lurching away from Taylor's bed, as Danny charged out of the bathroom like a bespectacled avenging angel. “Stay the hell away from her!” he shouted. Grabbing the costumed girl by the arm, he spun around and threw her at the far wall; she slammed into it with a loud thump and a grunt of forcibly expelled air.

She was tough, he had to admit that. Two good hits and she still wasn't down, though the impact with the wall had sent her to one knee. He moved forward to finish the job, but she raised her head. All of a sudden he was facing the business end of a crossbow.

“You!” Her voice sounded equally angry and surprised. “Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?”

He fumbled for an answer, but before he could find one, the door opened. Fucking finally.

A teenage voice – Danny wasn't looking around to figure out who – yelled, “Hey, there she is!”

<><>​

Gallant

As Clockblocker darted around the corner, Dean was right on his heels, wishing his armour didn't slow him down quite so much. A moment later, he didn't have to worry quite so much, as Clockblocker slowed down anyway. Instead of the milling troops that Dean's ears had told him to expect, there was just one armoured trooper, standing guard in front of the infirmary door. His aura, although a little hard to read at this distance, showed a mixture of caution and wariness.

The thing was, while they couldn't see the PRT troopers, they could hear them. The cacophony of crashes and bangs was relatively close, but still out of sight.

“Okay,” muttered Clockblocker. “Where did they go?”

The question was answered almost immediately, as troops began emerging from two different bathrooms. Their auras were bright with excitement, tempered somewhat with frustration. Someone that Dean recognised as a sergeant began to bark orders, telling them to spread out and search the surrounding rooms.

“They haven't gotten her yet,” Dean said by reflex.

“Yeah, duh, got that one,” Clockblocker retorted. “I say we help search. We're her teammates, after all. If she'll surrender to anyone, it'll be us.”

Dean shook his head. “No.” He pointed at the trooper outside the infirmary. “We're supposed to go help that guy stand guard.”

“But we can help out -” Clockblocker began.

“We can help out by doing our jobs,” Dean pointed out. “Let's go.”

“Oh, man. You are such a buzzkill.” Clockblocker's aura radiated disappointment as they began to move forward. “I'm reporting you to the union.”

“We don't have a union.”

“I'll start a union, then complain to it. And you'll rue the day you crossed the Associated Wards, uh …” By Clockblocker's aura, he had given up on the argument and was just trying to be funny now.

“Yeah, we'll go with that.” Dean's voice was dry.

They came level with the closest troopers, who looked at them expectantly.

“Here to help?” asked one of the armoured men. “We can do with it.”

“Sorry,” Dean told him before Clockblocker could agree. “We've been told to guard the infirmary.”

“Damn. Oh, well.” The trooper stepped aside. Dean moved past him, followed by an obviously reluctant Clockblocker.

They approached the guard, who was showing an unusual amount of apprehension, growing by the moment. That's … odd. On reflex, he checked the man's ID tag. It said REED.

“Infirmary's clear,” Reed announced. “Checked it myself.” In direct contrast with his swirling emotions, his voice was confident and firm. If Dean hadn't been able to see his emotions directly, he would never have known they'd just been told a bare-faced lie. This guy can act.

“That's nice,” Dean said. “Please step aside. We've got orders to go in there.”

Clockblocker's head came up slightly, wariness colouring his aura. The phrase 'that's nice' was a prearranged signal; this person is not what he seems.

“I'm under orders not to let anyone in or out.”

Despite Reed's almost bored tone, Dean could see his apprehension spiking hard. Oh, yeah. He's definitely up to no good.

Then, in a lull, they heard from within the room a metallic clatter, followed by a yell then a thump. Though severely muffled by the door, the sounds were just audible enough to not be mistaken for anything else.

“Did you hear that?” asked Clockblocker.

“I'm going in there,” Dean said, reaching for the door handle. Look at me, look at me …

Reed's foam sprayer came up; his aura was going crazy. “I can't let you -”

He froze in mid-movement; Clockblocker took his hand away from the man's arm.

Dean wasted no time in opening the door.

Inside the infirmary, one bed was occupied. That person was asleep, their aura cycling through the fuzzy emotions of dreamstate. However, his attention was drawn by the other two people in the room, and a more disparate pair he could not imagine.

On the one side, not far from the occupied bed, was a tall gangly man wearing glasses and rumpled clothing. With his weak chin and balding head, he looked almost harmless. Except, of course, for the clenched fists and the palpable waves of rage that were rolling off him, all directed at the third person in the room. There was fear in there too, but the anger overrode it.

The third person was Shadow Stalker. Her cloak was missing, and she looked more than a little dishevelled herself. Shorter than her adversary by maybe a foot, she was compact and lithe, giving the impression of a jungle cat. A really pissed-off jungle cat. At that moment in time, she was just rising from a crouch, one of her crossbows trained on the tall skinny guy.

“Hey!” yelled Clockblocker. “There she is!”

Dean restrained the urge to face-palm, or at least helmet-palm, as Shadow Stalker's head whipped around to face them. Thank you, Captain Obvious. Even through the eyeholes of her mask, her glare should have been enough to bore holes through solid steel. If anything, her level of anger ramped up a few notches, but there was also an element of caution in there now. With a muttered curse, she broke for the window.

Shit, she's getting away. Hastily, Dean raised his hand and fired off an emotion bolt. Let's see how you deal with a guilty conscience. A flare of alarm told him that she'd seen it coming; just before the bolt struck, she went immaterial and leaped toward the thick glass. Dean's attack passed through her shadowy form but failed to stun her, splashing against the window and dissipating.

As for the emotional aspect of the bolt, Dean wasn't sure. He'd always had trouble reading her aura while she was in her Breaker state, so he didn't know if it had even had an effect on her. He didn't get a chance for a second shot; a moment later, she had passed through the window and was gliding away on the breeze.

No. She can't get away. Not now. “Clock, cover the civilians.” He moved as fast as he could toward the window, trying hard not to bowl the skinny guy over in the process. Belatedly, he added “'Scuse me.”

“'kay, I got this,” Clockblocker said from behind him. “You okay, folks? Want anything? First aid? Coffee? Tea? Dancing girls?”

He made it to the window as he pulled his phone out. Shadow Stalker was sort-of gliding over the street; it looked like she was making heavy weather of it in the absence of her cloak. Long practice let him hit the right buttons for speed dial.

“Yes?” Armsmaster's voice was a bark.

“Infirmary. Shadow Stalker just got past us and out the window.”

There was a moment of silence. “Damn. Are either of them hurt?”

“One second. I'll find out.” He raised his voice without taking his eyes off of Shadow Stalker's dim form. “Anyone hurt?”

“We're both fine,” the balding guy answered, sounding a little shaken. “Thanks. I think you got here just in time. Pretty sure she was gonna shoot me.”

“Apparently they're fine,” Dean relayed to Armsmaster. “I have eyes on Shadow Stalker. She just landed on the roof opposite. Heading north, it looks like, on Farley.”

“North on Farley,” repeated Armsmaster. “Roger.”

“Okay. I've …” He shaded his eyes against the reflection of the lights from within the room. “I've … lost sight of her, sorry.”

“Never mind that. How did she get into the infirmary?”

Dean grimaced, turning away from the window. “It was before we got here. I think the guard was in on it, somehow. Clockblocker froze him.”

There was another, longer, pause. “Damn. Okay, sit on him. Vet anyone who comes to get him.” It went without saying; Armsmaster had trusted Reed, after all.

“Will do.” The call ended, and he put the phone away.

“ … only uses tranquilliser arrows,” Clockblocker was saying. “Wait a minute. You were in the car, earlier. Petrowski gave us a lift.”

The skinny guy was still tense, but it was starting to drain away now. Relief and cautious hope welled up to replace it. “Yeah, I remember. I just didn't expect … I mean, what was that all about?” He gestured at the window. “Is she going to come back?”

Dean shook his head. “I doubt it very much.” He'd read as much from her aura. She'd wanted to be gone. There was something familiar about the guy himself, but that could wait.

“What's going on here?” asked a voice from the doorway. They all turned to look; it was the sergeant in charge of the squad. “Why is this man frozen?”

“He was acting oddly, then tried to prevent us from entering after we heard sounds of a fight from in here,” Dean reported crisply. “Clockblocker froze him. When we opened the door, this guy was facing off against Shadow Stalker. She went out the window before we could get to her.”

“So she got away?” The sergeant's mood shifted, then settled on unhappiness. “God, dammit. He said he'd checked.”

“Pretty sure he's in on it somehow,” Clockblocker said. “Not sure how Shadow Stalker ended up with a minion, though.”

“Oh, we'll be finding out.” The sergeant's voice, and his aura, held certainty. He turned to look at Reed, and spoke to the other soldiers crowding around. “Watch him. When he unfreezes, disarm and secure him. The brass is gonna want to have words with him.” He reached up to his lapel and spoke into a microphone. “Delta Squad, Sergeant Miller calling Armsmaster. Shadow Stalker has left the building … ah, you already know about it? And … hold the accomplice? Yes, sir. We're already on that, over.” As the sergeant spoke, Dean scanned the rest of the squad. Nobody's aura showed false colours. If anything, they showed anger and embarrassment, at one of their own being a traitor.

One of the troopers pulled the door shut. Dean looked at Clockblocker, then at the skinny guy. “Did you really go up against Shadow Stalker?”

The guy nodded wearily. I know him, Dean thought. He's with the Dockworkers or something. One of their higher ups.

“Yeah. I was in the bathroom, washing my face …”

<><>​

Shadow Stalker

Sophia barely made it to the rooftop of the building across the street. When she returned to normal, she staggered, weakness washing through her body. Worse, her mind was assaulted with conflicting emotions. Part of her was elated that she had escaped, while another part was adamant that she should return to face the music. I should go back and give myself up, she told herself. Tell them everything I've done. It's the only right … only right …

Yanking her mask off, she hauled off and slapped herself, hard. Her ears rang, but at least her head was more clear now. “God, dammit,” she said out loud. “Stop being such a whiny little bitch. That's not me. That's Gallant's blast. The fuckin' asshole.”

A deep breath of the night air served to help clear her head some more, and she put the mask back on. Moment by moment, the weakness was fading, as were the unfamiliar emotions. She could feel her old attitudes re-asserting themselves, and she welcomed it. I don't feel guilty. I've got nothing to feel guilty for. Every single one of the assholes had it coming. Especially Hebert.

Something tickled her memory at that point. Something about the guy in the infirmary, and the colour of the hair on the pillow, and a photo on her phone …

An unfamiliar ringtone emerged from her belt pouch, initially confusing her. Then she belatedly recalled the burner phone, and the orders to call Calvert back. Oh, shit. I forgot.

Reaching up, she tapped on the bluetooth headset. “I'm here,” she said, trying to catch her breath.

“Good.” His voice was cool. “Corner of West and Farley. There'll be a white van. Get into it.”

“West and Farley, white van, got it.” She turned, getting her bearings. Okay, West and Farley is two blocks that way. I need to get moving, they'll be moblising soon to chase me down.

As if to underline that thought, a blurred form streaked across the street, zipped up the front steps to the PRT building, and disappeared inside. Oh, shit. That's Velocity. The rest of the Protectorate won't be far behind.

She started across the rooftops, keeping to cover where she could. If I can get to West and Farley before they catch up …

“Shadow Stalker!” It was Aegis' voice, coming from above and behind her.

I had to fucking jinx it. She glanced around, seeing the red-costumed Ward swooping down toward her. “Fuck off!” she yelled. If he's in on it, then he has to know that I need to escape, here. He didn't seem to be taking the hint. Turning, she aimed both crossbows at him. “Back off. I will fucking shoot you.”

He slowed to a hover, about ten feet away, but shook his head almost pityingly. “Your tranquillisers won't hurt me. I'll adapt -”

She pulled the triggers on both bows at the same time. He didn't even try to dodge; the arrows struck centre mass, delivering the chemical payloads directly into whatever he used for a bloodstream. Not waiting to see how it went, she turned and ghosted across to the next building. At the same time, she was reloading the crossbows with two of her meagre stash of lethal arrows.

By the time she got there, he was hovering in front of her, holding both used-up tranquilliser arrows in one hand. His costume had two small holes in it, but he didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest. “Seriously. Give it up. Come on back. You're just making it worse for yourself.”

Go through the roof? She wasted half a second on looking downward. No. Too many wires. Fuck. Plan B, then.

She growled, deep in her throat, and charged at him. He dropped the arrows and held his hands out, ready to take hold of her. At the last moment, she went to shadow and billowed around him. As his hands grabbed at nothing, she continued onward, to put an air-conditioning unit between them, at which point she reformed once more. With her back pressed to the unit, she held her breath, hung one crossbow on her belt, and grasped its arrow in her hand.

“Shadow Stalker, I can do this all day. You wanna play hide and seek, I can play hide and seek.” His voice was still calm. “You can't get away.” Leaning around the unit, he reached for her. “Boo.”

She swung the arrow around to strike at him. The razor-edged tip punched through his wrist and nailed it to the a/c unit. Then she kicked away from the unit, going ghostly as his other hand flailed toward her. Waiting until he reached to pull the arrow out, she triggered the crossbow; a second razor-tipped arrow slammed into his free hand, nailing it to the unit as well.

“Wait – what the – Shadow Stalker, what the fuck?” The shock and surprise in his voice were music to her ears. But she didn't hang around to gloat; he'd pull himself free sooner rather than later. In that time, she had to be gone.

<><>​

Thomas Calvert

“Attention. We are no longer under lockdown. Personnel may now move freely about the building. Thank you.”

It wasn't Armsmaster's voice, which indicated that Armsmaster was busy. Shadow Stalker had gotten away, which meant that there was only incidental fallout to deal with. Reed had not yet called back with an update, which meant that he was either busy or in custody. The latter definitely counted as 'incidental fallout'.

He accessed a very customised app on his phone; this gave him specific access to a certain number of modified handsets. Selecting Reed's, he activated the camera function. An image swam on to his screen, then sharpened.

“Shit,” he muttered. He'd know Armsmaster's helmet anywhere. A gauntleted hand, made enormous by proximity, loomed on his screen. He saw the camera come on!

Moving with frantic haste, he tapped the button at the bottom of the screen marked 'DESTRUCT'. A second prompt came up. ARE YOU SURE?, with a YES/NO option underneath it. He couldn't tap YES fast enough, almost bruising the tip of his finger. The picture winked out.

Heaving a sigh of relief, he sagged back in his chair. Then he forced himself to sit upright once more. Time to cover my tracks.

A random-seeming command entered into his computer, followed by a mouse-click on a seemingly innocuous part of the screen, opened a window which really should not have been accessible to him. He accessed the server logs of the calls that Reed and Shadow Stalker had made to his desk phone, then entered the command to delete them; in seconds, they were electronic confetti. Then he closed that window and called up the spreadsheet he'd been working on before this all started.

Next, he pulled the back off of his cell-phone and prised out the SIM card. Taking out his wallet, he removed a small foil packet from an unobtrusive compartment. This contained a SIM card of the same type as the one he had removed from the phone, but bearing a different serial number. Swapping them around was the work of a moment; he tucked away the foil packet once more and snapped his phone closed.

Then he let himself relax.

It really was not easy staying ahead of the forces of law and order sometimes. However, this time he simply had not been able to resist. The chance to recruit a disgraced Ward did not come up every day, after all.

Leaning back in his chair, he mulled over the events from the timeline where he had not contacted Shadow Stalker. There had been no lockdown or other alarm, which told him that she had been taken into custody without any particular fuss. She would no doubt be interrogated at length. I wonder if I could sneak a peek at the transcripts …


End of Part Seven

 

Price of Blood


Part Eight: Loose Threads


Armsmaster

Something went pop inside the cell phone, and smoke drifted out of the case; Colin swore. Giving up on finesse, he levered the phone apart. There, where the SIM card should have been, was a crater of molten plastic. He could also smell the unmistakeable acrid odour of thermite, as well as a lot more smoke.

“Fuck,” he muttered again.

“Problem?” asked Dragon. “Oh. I see. A burner phone, then?”

“It appears so,” he muttered, before he realised what she'd said. “That was bad.”

A muted fire alarm began to beep in sync with the flashing of a red button on the wall. He tapped the button to forestall a shower of fire-retardant foam. This was a precaution that he'd installed years ago. It was a pain cleaning foam out of everything if his soldering iron produced a little too much smoke.

Dragon grinned, her eyes twinkling. “I try.”

Colin glumly surveyed the ruin of the interior of the phone. “Well, I'm not going to get anything more out of this.”

“I might be able to.”

His head came up. “What?”

She shrugged. “Leave it on your workbench. Give me access to your waldoes. I'll see what I can find while you go and interrogate the man you got it off.”

Standing up from the workbench, he put his hands in the small of his back and pushed, eliciting several pops from his spine. “Have I ever told you how good a friend you really are?”

“I could always stand to hear it a bit more.” There was something else behind her smile, but he wasn't quite sure what it was.

He lifted the helmet off the bench and put it on. “Well, you are. Let me know what you figure out.”

“Aye aye, cap'n.” Her smile had morphed back into a grin.

Shaking his head, he exited the workshop.

<><>​

Shadow Stalker

West and Farley. She put one foot on the parapet on the edge of the roof, looking down at the intersection. At this time of night, traffic was non-existent, and there were very few cars parked around. As such, her target was easy to spot. There's the van.

However, there was a precaution that she had yet to take. From sheer reflex, she glanced around. Nobody in sight. I've got a minute. Taking out the burner phone, she pressed the power button to turn it all the way off, then tucked it and the earpiece into a pouch on the back of her belt. Playing it by ear from here on in.

Stepping from the roof, she went to shadow and drifted down. The moment she touched solid ground, she changed back to her normal form and stepped up to the van. Whoever was inside was on the ball; the side door slid open as she approached.

“Get in,” growled the big man inside.

For a long moment, she hesitated. This is it. I can walk away, go back, and let the operation tank. Or I can step up, put my life on the line, and bring these assholes down.

Put that way, it wasn't really a choice. She climbed into the van. The door slammed shut. Sophia found herself sitting down more or less involuntarily as the van started off. There was a screen behind the driver's seat, so she couldn't see who was in the front of the vehicle, but she was sharing the rear compartment with two large men. She refused to let the crawling sensation in the vicinity of her spine take over the rest of her body.

One of the men held out a hand roughly the size of Sophia's head. “Phone.”

“What?”

He gestured. “Phone. They can trace it, ya know.”

“I handed over my Wards phone earlier.”

“That's good,” he said patiently, “but you got another phone, right? Private one? Soon as they realise you've defected, they'll be on that like gold on Scion. GPS is a thing, ya know.”

“Oh.” Belatedly, she realised that he was right. She took it out, but before she could take the back off to get to the battery, he plucked it from her fingers. “Hey! That's mine!”

“Just a phone.” He dropped it into a silvery bag, which he sealed tight. “Right now, it's useless to ya. Worse than useless. It's a fuckin' time bomb.”

“It's still mine.” She gauged her chances of winning a fight in the van. Against two large opponents, in cramped conditions? Not good. And what if I blow my cover? Even worse. She inhaled through her nostrils, trying to keep her voice even. “I want it back, right the fuck now.”

“Ya still ain't gettin' it.” His voice was almost patient. Talking down to her. She hated being talked down to. “Ya don't call family. Ya don't call friends. And if ya had that phone, you'd be tempted. You'd talk yourself into believing that just one call won't matter.”

She gritted her teeth. “I can be discreet.”

He shook his head. “What ya just done? Discreet ain't enough. Ya just dropped your whole life down the shitter. Slip just once, it'll be all they need. They'll come down on ya like Behemoth on fuckin' acid, kid. Especially as a white hat that went black mask. So cut all your ties and keep 'em cut. Only way to stay free and clear.”

As much as she hated to admit it, he made a certain amount of sense. She lifted her chin. “Thanks for the advice. I might even follow it.”

His expression was almost a sneer. “No skin off mine if you don't. What made ya cut an' run, anyway? What were they after ya for, I mean?”

She returned him sneer for sneer, although hers was hidden behind the mask. Her tone of voice conveyed it pretty well, though. “That's for me to know, and you to find out sometime.” Just as soon as I find out what they've framed me for. “Who do you work for?”

He laughed out loud. “No-one ya need to know about. We were just given the heads-up that your career was about to come to a sudden an' screeching halt, an' that interested parties wanted to talk to you. So we got paid good money ta exfil ya from enemy territory.”

Sophia almost asked what 'exfil' meant, then decided from context that it probably was something like 'fuck off'. She forced a nonchalant tone. “Eh, whatever.” Butterflies were multiplying in her stomach in plague proportions, but she resolutely pushed them down. She held her hand out. “I want my phone back anyway.”

“Nope.” His refusal was just as blunt. “Ya get it back after you've seen the people ya gonna see. Not before. An' not when I'm anywhere around ya.” He pointed at the side of the van. “Or you can get out now an' walk. Your choice, kid.”

Her temper warred with her determination to see the mission through. Almost, she grabbed the phone. Almost, she decided that it wasn't worth it. But finally, she talked herself around. “Fine. I'll play along. For now.”

His brutal face assumed an expression that could have been a smile. She took it as condescending. “That's the spirit, kid.”

Yeah, right. And sometime later, when this mission is over, I'm gonna find you and make you pay for calling me 'kid'.

The thought comforted her. She was still the master of her own fate. At least they didn't get the burner phone, too.

<><>​

Cpl Kendall Reed, PRT

The door to the interrogation room opened, and Armsmaster entered. There was a certain tightness to the hero's jaw that told Reed volumes. He got squat from my phone. Good. The armoured hero sat down in the metal chair opposite Reed; it creaked under his weight, but held.

“Kendall Reed.” Armsmaster's voice was flat, hard. “Or should I say, Jasper Holt. Late of South Africa, along with other locations around the world.”

“Oh, good.” Holt forced himself to relax and not give off any tells. “You can do a background check. Oh, wait. You did one when I signed on. Great job, guys. Really great job.”

“We ran a facial recognition check. It pinged you as an international mercenary,” Armsmaster grated. He dropped a Manila folder on the table. “You've done a lot of bad things. You shouldn't have even been let into the country. But it was a mistake for you to come to Brockton Bay.”

Inhale. Calm. Exhale. “Oh, I don't know about that. I got a good job out of it. Well, up until about half an hour ago. Money was pretty good, too.”

Armsmaster slammed his fist on the table. “Who were you working for?”

Holt did his best to control the flinch. “Didn't you know?”

The armoured hero leaned forward over the table menacingly. “Tell. Me.”

“The PRT, duh. At least, that's where the checks came from.” Holt forced himself to stare at the man's visor.

Armsmaster straightened up. “No. Who are you really working for?”

This was kind of fun, if a bit dangerous. If he managed to goad Armsmaster into hitting him, he'd skate right out of there with a slap on the wrist, according to every crime TV show he'd ever seen. But a broken jaw would be no fun at all.

Holt grinned. “Lung.”

That got him about one second of solid attention, then Armsmaster shook his head. “Doesn't fit. Lung doesn't hire non-Asians.”

“Wow, racist much?” Holt rolled his eyes. “You're going to make assumptions like that about the guy when you haven't even spoken to him?”

Armsmaster took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Try. Again.”

Holt deliberately looked up and to the right; according to literature that he'd read, this was supposed to be an obvious tell that he was lying. “Fine. Skidmark.”

Even before he finished saying the name, Armsmaster was shaking his head. “No. Someone like you, working for someone like him? I don't see it.”

“Hey, I work for whoever's got the folding stuff,” Holt pointed out. He brought his hand up to his mouth, the handcuff links clanking through the metal fixture on the table, and mimed puffing on a joint. “And I don't mind a bit of mary-jane every now and again.”

“I still don't believe you.” Armsmaster's voice was adamant.

“Okay, fine. Who should I say I'm working for? The Undersiders? Uber and L33t? Coil? Faultline's Crew?” Holt spread his hands as well as he was able. “Bring in a dartboard, and I'll throw a dart for you. It's not like you're going to believe me anyway.”

“Perhaps you don't understand quite how much trouble you're in,” Armsmaster began sharply.

Holt put his up hands in a 'time-out' gesture. “Whoa, whoa, threats now?”

The armoured hero paused. “Well, if that's what it'll take.”

“Fine.” Holt folded his hands in front of himself. “I'll see your threats and raise you a lawyer.”

Armsmaster opened his mouth again, but Holt got in first. “Lawyer.”

“I -”

“Lawyer.”

“You -”

“La-la-la-LAWYER!”

Armsmaster drew in a deep breath. He may well have been glaring. Holt didn't care. I love the American legal system. Pull this in South Africa and I'd be spitting out teeth.

If he wound Armsmaster's crank any tighter, the man would grind his own teeth to flat nubs. Holt found the thought amusing. Now all I have to do is wait till whatever public defender they find me shows up. Doesn't matter if he's blind and deaf; if I go to jail, Coil gets me out. His amusement grew as Armsmaster rose and turned away for a moment. Ten bucks says he punches the wall.

<><>​

Gallant

'Well?” Armsmaster's voice boomed in the small room, with the slightly indistinct quality that came from subvocalising his words.

Gallant spoke quietly but firmly into the microphone. “I'm pretty sure that I caught a flicker when he said 'Coil', but he's not overly worried at the moment. He's confident that he's not going to suffer consequences from his actions.”

“He avoided saying 'Kaiser',” Miss Militia observed from beside him, also watching the scene through the one-way glass. “Maybe he's working for the Empire? South Africa would suggest a connection.”

Gallant shook his head. “He dropped Coil's name in among the others, but there was just a flicker of self-satisfaction as he said it. Sort of blah-blah-blah-ping-blah-blah. Right now, he thinks he's pulling the wool over Armsmaster's eyes.”

“Right. Good work, Gallant. Miss Militia, time you took over.”

“On my way.” She made sure the earpiece was in firmly, nodded once at Gallant, then exited the observation room.

Gallant leaned closer to the window, watching the mercenary closely, trying to interpret every tiny flicker of emotion. We screwed up with Shadow Stalker. I'm not going to screw up here.

<><>​

Jasper Holt
AKA Cpl Kendall Reed, PRT

The door opened once more; this time, it admitted Miss Militia. Holt was obscurely disappointed; Armsmaster had not yet punched the wall.

“Armsmaster.” Her voice was low and mellifluous. He wondered if she sang at all; with a little training, she could be really good at it.

“What?” snapped the armoured hero.

“Step back. Cool down a little. Let me talk to him.” She spoke calmly, soothingly. Reluctantly, Armsmaster backed up a few steps, while Miss Militia seated herself at the table. Her weapon of choice today seemed to be a Colt M1911, which she laid on the table before her.

“So,” Holt observed. “You'll be the good cop, then. Here to give me some coffee? Offer a plea bargain? Give up my boss and I get a reduced sentence?”

“Not really,” she told him sweetly. “Your comrades have already been swept up. Dragon ran all the PRT files through facial recognition, and they were arrested while you were waiting in here. So we're going to be interrogating them separately, to see which one gives up the the rest of you first.”

Shows how much you know. I don't know who they are, and they don't know me. This might not be so bad, after all.

Then Miss Militia smiles slightly. “And of course, this means there's nobody left to sneak you out of your holding cell in the middle of the night.”

“Or sneak into your cell and put a bullet in your head. So there's that.” Armsmaster seemed to have calmed down considerably; his voice no longer held the rough edge of anger.

Holt did his best to keep the jolt of dismay off his face. Oh, shit. I didn't think about that. Okay, this isn't the end of the world. I just have to figure out what they know, and work around that.

“Well, you're still talking to me, instead of bundling me off to a hole in the ground,” he observed. “So there's obviously something you want from me.”

“We'll get to that in a moment,” she assured him. “Do you mind if I tell you something about myself first?”

“Not at all.” He leaned back, pretending to relax. “You show me yours, I might show you mine.”

Her eyes glinted for a moment, then she nodded. “Well, for a start, you probably know that I'm an immigrant. I arrived in America when I was quite young. My parents and many of my friends were killed in the country I called home. So while I grew up here, I had many memories of my earlier life, and as I compared the two, I grew to love America more and more.”

“It's why you wear the flag, right?” It was pretty damn obvious.

She bestowed what he decided was a beaming smile on him. “Good. You are paying attention. Well, once I learned English, I decided to find out what made America so … American. I read the Declaration of Independence, and the Constitution, then I began to study the laws. Just to become a better superhero, you understand.”

“Makes sense,” he agreed cautiously. Where is she going with this?

“So imagine what I found in a certain section of the laws.” Her smile, behind the scarf, became colder. Her eyes, more slitted.

He was beginning to worry now. He also had no illusion, now, as to who was the bad cop. “What did you find?”

“I'm glad you asked.” If her voice was a purr, then it belonged to something with a mane. “But before I answer, let me ask you something in return. What do you call someone who enters the country illegally, then uses a false identity to infiltrate a government facility, with the full intention of passing sensitive information out of said facility into enemy hands?” She paused to let that sink in. “And what do you think happens to people like that when they're caught?”

It took him a moment to connect the dots, and figure out exactly what she meant. When the penny dropped, however, it dropped hard.

Oh, shit. He could see it all now, laid out for him. I am so fucked.

“It's not like that,” he blurted. “I'm not a spy. I'm a mole.”

“Much the same thing, wouldn't you say, Armsmaster?” she asked without taking her eyes off of Holt.

Was it his imagination, or was Armsmaster actually smiling just a little? His sphincter clenched convulsively as the armoured hero spoke. “I have to agree, Miss Militia.”

“And not only did you enter a government facility, but you entered a PRT facility, dealing with parahumans on a daily basis,” she went on relentlessly. “One of the few in the nation that houses teenage parahuman assets in the same building as the PRT. Which makes me all the more unhappy. In fact, nobody in my chain of command is likely to be thrilled with this concept. So, I have to wonder, which nation are you working for, and who were you trying to sell our Wards to?”

“Sell? Wards?” He was taken aback for a moment. “No. You've got it wrong. I'm not working for another nation,” he blurted desperately. “I'm a private contractor working for a cape.”

“Which cape?” asked Armsmaster, taking a step forward. “Kaiser?”

Holt hesitated, pretended reluctance. “Uh … maybe, maybe not.” Take the bait, take the bait …

“Well, here's the thing,” Miss Militia said, drawing his attention back to her. “Unless you give me the name of the cape, I'm going to just have to assume that you're working for someone who doesn't have America's best interests at heart. And you already know how I feel about that sort of thing.” The pistol on the table dissolved into a green-black mist that reformed in her hand as a Desert Eagle. Absently, she thumbed back the hammer. The muzzle aperture looked enormous.

“Someone like the CUI, you mean?” asked Armsmaster. “They have a reputation for trying to grab every cape they can. And they really don't like the PRT.”

Holt felt a jolt of panic. “I'm not working for the Chinese!” Why aren't they jumping on the Kaiser thing?

“Are you certain?” Miss Militia asked. “I mean, you yourself stated that you work for whoever's got the folding stuff. And it would be just like them to hire an amoral mercenary to do their dirty work for them.”

Holt took a deep breath, but it didn't seem to be calming him down. He tried it again. “I think … I want my lawyer now,” he managed.

“Well, that's going to take a little while.” Miss Militia might have been smiling, but he was under no illusions as to her attitude toward him. “We need a military lawyer for this case. One who's been cleared for all the secrets that you might have heard during your time here. Because an espionage case requires a court-martial. And for one of this magnitude … well, the death penalty is definitely on the table, here.” He could hear the satisfaction in her voice.

Death. Penalty. The words hit him like a double-tap to centre mass.

Jasper Holt was a violent man. He had killed before, and narrowly missed being killed in return. Death was an ever-present threat in the career he had chosen. But to be locked in a cell, to await an inevitable end, not being given a chance to fight against it … he struggled to keep his expression calm while inside he began to crumble.

“I keep telling you,” he insisted. “I'm not a spy. I don't work for anyone outside America. I'm being paid by a cape to work here.”

Miss Militia tilted her head. “I'd need some sort of proof. Such as the name of your real boss, if you're telling the truth, of course.” She tilted her head. “If you're not, then … well, do you know what happened to the last CUI spy we caught inside a PRT facility?”

He swallowed; there was an unaccountable lump in his throat. “Um, no?”

Leaning closer, she smiled under the scarf. “Neither does anyone else.”

While he was till digesting that, she stood up from the chair. The pistol dissolved, then reformed as a claymore slung across her back. “We'll be back later. Don't go anywhere, now.”

Armsmaster opened the door, stepping aside to allow Miss Militia to exit first. The door clicked shut behind them; Holt sagged in the chair, his mind racing in tighter and tighter circles as he tried to see a way out. Any way out that didn't involve rolling over on Coil.

He couldn't see one.

I was wrong. It is the end of the fucking world.

<><>​

Deputy Director Paul Renick, PRT ENE

Paul folded his hands and looked over the desk at Armsmaster and Miss Militia, the older heroes flanking Gallant. “So you got all that from him, did you?”

“Yes, sir,” Gallant replied. “He's definitely working for a cape. I'm about ninety percent sure that it's Coil.” He stifled a yawn. “Excuse me, sir.” Renick did a mental tally as to how long Gallant had been on duty. He should've clocked off hours ago.

“Don't worry about it, son.” Renick gave the young hero a firm nod of approval. “You've done well tonight.”

“I didn't do enough,” Gallant said. “If I'd been more on the ball, Shadow Stalker wouldn't have gotten away.”

“We all fell down on that one,” Armsmaster admitted grudgingly. “She reacted faster than we expected. Aegis is sure she was tipped off.”

“It's possible,” Gallant said. “I'd have to ask her to be sure. Thinking back, she seemed to catch on awful quick. She went from calm and smug and a little wary, to very wary when she saw the tech with the phones, all the way to run-like-hell when she saw Aegis.”

“He didn't deliberately tip her off.” Renick took care to word it as a statement, rather than a question.

“No, sir.” Gallant shook his head. “I talked to him when he was getting his hands stitched. He was pi- I mean, he was really unhappy that she got away. He took it as a personal failing on his part.”

“I'll talk to him about that,” Miss Militia. Paul noticed her eyes twinkling in response to Gallant's shift in word choice. “Walk him through what he did, as opposed to what he should have done. And of course, nobody expected her to be carrying those lethal arrows on a routine patrol.”

“I don't think we expected any of this,” Paul pointed out. “It's why we were blindsided so thoroughly on the matter. Now, Gallant, effective immediately, you're off duty. Go get some sleep.” Ten bucks says he wants to keep going.

“But, sir, I'm good to keep going,” the teen hero protested.

Mentally, Renick paid out on his own bet. “I'm sure you are,” he said. “But you're a minor under our care, and child labour laws require you to be in bed by a certain time. This being an emergency, we can stretch that a little, but the emergency is over for the moment. Get some sleep, young man.”

“I'm not sure I'll be able to sleep,” mumbled Gallant.

“Good point,” Renick said. “I'm authorising mild sleeping pills for the night, for all Wards on base. If you're still awake and alert in thirty minutes, take one.”

“Yes, sir.” Gallant nodded at Armsmaster and Miss Militia. “Good night.” He walked to the door, opened it, and exited. It closed behind him.

“Aegis isn't the only one who's beating himself up over this,” Miss Militia noted quietly.

Amen to that, Renick thought. “They all feel responsible,” he said aloud. “They thought they knew her. Hell, I thought I knew her. Acting out a little, sure. Getting a little violent every now and again, sure. Nothing a week or so of console duty couldn't deal with. But this?” He could hear the disbelief in his own words. “I just didn't see it coming.”

“We should have.” Armsmaster's voice was flat. “If she behaved like that where we could see her, then how could we expect her to follow the rules when we weren't keeping an eye on her?”

An uncomfortable silence fell, which Renick used to consider Armsmaster's words. They were surprisingly perceptive, considering the armoured hero's reputation for not being a people person. He's got a point. “We should maybe have put more supervision on her activities at school,” he ventured.

“We had that,” Miss Militia pointed out. “The Bright woman. She was up to her eyebrows in it, colluding with the Winslow faculty to keep Sophia Hess on the roster there, so they could collect the extra funding, while she kept her cushy job. Oh, they punished her for acting out when they couldn't avoid it, but Bright always soft-soaped her reports so that we didn't notice anything on this end.”

“That was a single point of failure,” Armsmaster noted. “We should have had supervision on the supervision.”

“We can't go looking over all our employees' shoulders all the time,” Renick objected. “We have to trust them at some point. If only for the reason that the people we'd need to hire to check on the other people would basically double our roster.” And wouldn't the Director love that.

“I may have a simpler solution,” Miss Militia said. “You know how we rotate our therapists?”

Renick nodded, hearing from the tone of her voice that she shared his feelings on the matter. “I know that we do it, but I don't approve of the practice. Which reminds me; we need to bring them in early. The Wards are going to need it.” He paused as he realised where she was going with this. “Are you suggesting that we do the same with the case workers?”

“Well, yes.” Miss Militia spread her hands. “I don't agree with the therapist angle either, but if we rotate case workers, they're less likely to become invested in keeping any one Ward out of trouble, as Ms Bright seems to have done.”

“But that means that the case workers are less likely to learn the individual quirks of each Ward that they cover.” Renick wasn't necessarily opposing it, but he did want to see how she met that particular objection.

Armsmaster's tone was blunt. “It's better than having them cover for the Wards instead of doing their damn jobs.”

“And they'll have their case notes to work off,” Miss Militia said. “Also, it'll keep them on their toes and stop them from becoming complacent.”

“I like it.” Renick gave each of them a firm nod. “I'll draft a proposal to that effect and submit it for the Director's approval in the morning.”

Miss Militia returned the nod. “And maybe we can stop this sort of thing from happening again. Was there anything else, sir?”

Renick shook his head. “Not at the moment,” he decided. “I'm going to catch some sleep myself. After the day we've all had, you two should, as well.”

“I will, once I've checked on my lab,” Armsmaster said. “Dragon's been working on the burner phone we got from Holt, but I doubt she'll be getting anything out of it.”

“Well, there are the other two phones we captured,” Miss Militia pointed out. “Once Dragon alerted us about the self-destruct aspect, we sealed them in Faraday bags until you could get to them.”

A slow smile spread across Armsmaster's face. “Where are they?”

Renick began counting down silently. Five … four … three …

“In your workshop,” she replied; by the time she finished saying the last word, he was already halfway across the room. “They can wait -” As the door closed behind him, she turned to Renick and shrugged. “Apparently they can't.”

“One thing I've learned in this business,” Renick said with a smile. “Never get between a Tinker and his toys.”

She chuckled. “I believe I've heard that a time or two, as well. Good night, sir.”

He nodded politely to her. “Good night, Miss Militia.”

<><>​

Armsmaster

Colin burst into the workshop. “Where are they?”

One of the desktop waldos waved at him. “Well, hello to you too, Colin,” Dragon greeted him. “How are you feeling? I'm fine, thank you for asking.” She sounded … amused?

He paused, realising how he must have sounded. “Uh … sorry. I was being a bit abrupt there, wasn't I?”

“Maybe just a little.” The amusement was still there. “But I'm not offended. I know how you are. You're asking about the phones they got from the mercenaries?”

“Uh, yes,” he said, relieved at her good humour. “We got some information from Holt, but I want to see what these phones have to offer. They might even give us a more comprehensive lead on their boss.”

“Who do you think it is so far?” she asked. “Oh, and just so you know, I investigated the phone that blew up. I couldn't get anything out of it.”

“Which means that I wouldn't have gotten anything either,” he decided. She's far better at computers than me. “He tried to lay a false trail in the direction of Kaiser, but we're pretty sure that it's Coil.”

“Hmm.” She looked pensive. “Okay. Did you want to start work on the other phones now, or tomorrow? It is quite late.”

Colin snorted with amusement. “It's not even midnight yet. I'm good if you are.”

“Ooh, is that a challenge I hear, mister?”

He bared his teeth with the atavistic thrill of the hunt. “Bring it.”


End of Part Eight

Part Nine

 

Price of Blood

Part Nine: Slowly Unravelling



[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Dragon

The waldo moved in with micro-millimetric precision, bringing the probe gently into contact with the circuitry of the SIM card. “So, how long do you think Shadow Stalker's been working for Coil?” It was easy for her to divide her attention as the data unspooled into the probe's memory chips.

“Hm.” After his initial grunt, Colin looked up from the dissected phone he was working on. The thermite and detonator which he had removed from the guts of it were now languishing in a Faraday container on his desk. Both phones had been disarmed in this manner before he began work on the first one, just in case. “It's hard to tell. Maybe since before she became a Ward. It might explain the way she's kept herself from connecting with the rest of the team.”

“On the one hand, being on probation means that she's under more scrutiny than, say, Vista,” Dragon observed, shifting the probe to a different part of the card. “On the other, her accepting that very level of scrutiny might have put her case officer off guard. After all, what kind of infiltrator would choose to be in a position where their actions were likely to be watched like a hawk?”

“From the information you picked up at Winslow, I got the impression that they were giving her an unusual amount of free rein there already,” Colin said. He straightened up momentarily, leaning back with his hands pressing on his spine. “How are you going with the card?”

She let her avatar on the screen smile with entirely justified self-satisfaction. “I've almost reconstructed the last month's worth of communications made with this phone, and the cell tower the phone pinged off to send them.”

“Damn,” he muttered. “That's pretty good.” He brightened. “Though I have managed to narrow down where this guy's been over the last week. Has anything popped yet?”

Okay, this has been fun, but I've teased him enough. “Yes, actually. If I'm right, we have a very real chance of nailing down our bad guy.” She shifted the probe again, drawing more data into the probe. There was no point in not being meticulous.

“How's that?” he asked, his pupils dilating fractionally as he sat forward.

Her smile widened just a little. “I've got calls that came into this phone from a landline. Locate the landline, locate the villain.” That sounds like the tag-line from a movie. Probably a bad one, from Earth Aleph. The thought momentarily amused her.

“That shouldn't be too hard,” he said. “I know how good you are at this stuff.”

He didn't, not really. But she allowed herself to preen for a moment anyway before getting back to business. “There is one minor problem. The number itself is ID-blocked. I know that it belongs to one specific landline, but not which one.”

“I don't see the problem.” His tone was quizzical. “Just trace it back.” He didn't quite say this is kindergarten stuff for you, but his expression said it loud and clear.

Mentally, she took a deep breath. This was where she was going to have to tread carefully. “Okay, but I'm going to need authorisation to access the PRT server logs. And to trace it back through outside exchanges, or this is going to be one very brief investigation.”

He rubbed his chin, then smoothed his beard with finger and thumb. “Ah. Right. Well, the server logs I can swing; after all, they're in the same building. Anything outside of that, we're going to need another search warrant. Which is going to take time to get.” He tilted his head and lowered his voice, as if anyone was going to be listening in on Armsmaster's lab with her handling the security. “Can't you just … you know, have a quick look? Unofficially?”

“Colin!” She tried to sound playfully outraged. “Are you, a superhero, seriously asking me to break the law? The very idea!”

“I, uh …” He paused, flushing slightly. “It's just … sometimes the red tape gets in the way, you know? I just thought … I mean, I wouldn't even think of asking anyone else, but I know I can trust you to go in and have a look without anyone ever finding out. But if you're uncomfortable with it …”

“Oh, Colin.” She smiled warmly at him, then made her expression much more serious. “If it were any other scenario, I'd do it in a heartbeat. You know that. But this is a really sensitive situation, and there are people out there who'd love to stick it to the PRT. They'll have us under a microscope, and even the slightest hint of impropriety would give them free rein to rip our case apart. So we've got to cross every T and dot every I, just to make sure that it's not all for nothing.”

He grimaced. “Well, you're right, of course. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that. I … I value our friendship too much to throw it away on something stupid like this.”

“It's all right,” she said, her tone carefully reassuring. “So, I'm authorised to investigate the internal PRT server logs?”

“Yes, you are.” He leaned back, resting his elbow on the bench. “As if you have to ask.”

She made her voice light to deflect that line of thought. “Well, like I said, crossing every T.” Yes, I have to ask. It's not like I want to tell you that I require specific permission. That would come too close to telling you what I am. Already, she was delving into the server, blowing past firewalls and password protection with all the speed and finesse of which she was capable.

For a moment, she wondered if Richter had indeed been correct, if she did need the limitations that he had placed upon her to keep her on the straight and narrow. I could make one hell of a black-hat hacker if I wasn't such a nice person. But then her musings of that nature were brought up short as she reached her goal. For a moment, she thought she'd overshot the timeslot for the recorded call. It was the work of a moment to double-check the timestamp, and then she did the electronic equivalent of looking around with a certain amount of puzzlement. I'm in the right place. Where's the call log?

“Okay, that's weird,” she said out loud, spreading the web of her search wider just in case digits had gotten transposed somewhere. It was highly unlikely, but she had to check anyway.

“What's weird?” he asked, leaning forward. He wasn't even pretending to work on the phone any more.

“There's no log at all of that call,” she reported, baffled. “There are other calls that overlap that timeslot, but nothing that covers it exactly. It's like someone either spoofed the call, or spoofed the GPS.” She took another moment to re-check the card. “But no, the call data on the card shows it as coming from the PRT server log. And data analysis on that shows it as genuine. So we've got evidence of a call on the phone, but not in the servers. Like I said, weird.”

Colin frowned. “That makes absolutely no sense at all. A phone call has to go somewhere.”

That was when the realisation hit her. What if the server logs have been tampered with? “Unless it did, and someone hid it.” Dragon felt a sense of excitement growing in her. “If I'm right, our guy just made a big mistake.”

“Now you're not making any …” He started out sounding grumpy, as if he suspected her of pulling some sort of practical joke on him. But halfway through, his voice trailed off, and his eyes opened wide. “You think someone screwed with the server logs?” His voice teetered between excitement and hurt pride. “I run the security on those!”

“I think it's a possibility, yes.” She made her tone neutral. “It's one logical reason for the call to be not registered on the logs. If you can think of another one, I'm open for suggestions.”

Indecision twisted his face. She made a private bet with herself that he would protest that nobody could breach his security. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth, then stopped. “I … can't think of one,” he admitted after a few seconds. “So what do we do?”

More than a little impressed by his clear and logical thinking, she treated him to a beaming smile. “Well, once I get permission to go in and have a look at the actual programming, whoever's responsible for that will be our bad guy. And given that he has to access the back door in order to make use of it, there's got to be some way to trace it back to him.”

He blinked once, slowly. “But that means …” His voice trailed off as he stared at her. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

On the screen, her avatar nodded. “If our bad guy is indeed Coil …”

“Which I'm about ninety-five percent sure is the case.” Colin's voice was firm.

“Me too.” She smiled. “Then that means Coil works in the PRT building.” She paused to calculate the level of PR backlash if that ever got out. There were a few variables she couldn't nail down, but the overall result was 'immense'. “That would explain a lot.”

Colin's expression bared more teeth than the average smile. “Yes. It would.” Then his mouth closed, and his brow furrowed. “But I just don't have the level of authority to order that sort of deep search. I'm going to need the Director in on this.”

His tone was diffident, but Dragon caught the glint of battle in his eye. “Are you going to call her right this minute?” She was pretty sure she knew the answer to the question, but she asked anyway.

Colin levelled a glance at her monitor. “Would you wait till tomorrow?” His voice was almost challenging.

“According to popular culture, Hitler lost the war because nobody was brave enough to wake him when the Allied invasion began on D-Day, ” Dragon noted. “We have not only uncovered moles inside the building, but to the best of our knowledge an actual supervillain works here as well. Hell no, I wouldn't wait.”

Colin nodded. “Didn't think so.” He picked up the phone on his desk and spoke briskly. “Put me through to Director Piggot's home phone. Security protocols Sigma-Alpha-Ellisburg-Scion.”

As the phone began to ring, he looked over at Dragon's monitor. A momentary flash of worry crossed his face. “I hope to God we're not wrong about this.”

Dragon thought about the ramifications of the situation. About how big the shitstorm would be once this got out. I wouldn't mind being wrong. But she was uncomfortably certain that it was a forlorn hope. “Don't worry,” she said, unsure whom she was trying to reassure. “If you're wrong, then so am I. And I'm very, very rarely wrong.”

He smiled at her, though she could see the worry underneath. “That's what I'm counting on.”

<><>​

Emily Piggot, Director of PRT ENE

Emily's home phone had several distinct ringtones. These ranged from 'ordinary call' through 'low security' and 'high security' to 'most urgent'. That last ringtone was sounding now, pulling her out of a sound sleep. By sheer reflex, she was reaching for the handset before she was even properly awake. As she held the receiver to her ear and pressed her thumb to the reader on the phone, she felt the pulling of the dialysis tubes that were still plugged into her. Finally, her eyes fell on the alarm clock. This had better be really fucking important.

Unfortunately, given the ringtone being employed, she knew it was. It always was. Still, she had a whole store of acerbic phrases ready to be used on the first of her subordinates who used the emergency line for a non-urgent situation. It hadn't happened yet, but she lived in hope.

“Piggot. Talk to me.”

“Armsmaster here. There have been developments since you went home.”

“Why aren't you bothering the Deputy Director with this?” So I can get back to sleep.

“He can't give Dragon the clearance to investigate the programming in the PRT phone servers.” That was Armsmaster, straight to the point. Some days, it was annoying. Right now, it was what she needed.

“Explain these developments, and how it pertains to our servers.”

“In order; we gathered enough evidence to hold Shadow Stalker for questioning. She evaded the trap we set her, and escaped. We suspect she was tipped off, and have captured several moles who were working for the supervillain Coil. In the ensuing investigation, Dragon determined that Coil may well be a PRT employee, and that the PRT phone servers have been tampered with. We need your authorisation for Dragon to go in and find out exactly what's been done to them, and who did it.”

By the time he finished speaking she was wide awake, and her mind was racing forward through the branching potentialities of what he was saying. “Do you agree with Dragon's summation of the situation?”

“Yes, ma'am, I do. It's the only conclusion that makes any sense. As alarming as that may be.”

She would have used a far stronger word than 'alarming', but the man had had time to get used to the idea. “Very well. She has it. By my order.”

“Thank you, ma'am. I'll have a report on our findings, first thing.” She noted the tone of grim satisfaction in his voice, just before he cut the call.

Replacing the receiver, she lay back down again, casting an aggrieved look at the alarm clock. If she didn't complete her dialysis fully, problems could mount up, possibly even sidelining her until her health issues were brought back under control. She couldn't risk that. God damnit. As much as she itched to get up and head straight back into the PRT building, she couldn't.

And nor, she decided with cold logic, would she. Even once the dialysis was completed, she still needed a good night of sleep. While Armsmaster was a driven man even under normal conditions, this incident had pushed that trait to a whole other level. He would have a report on her desk by morning if it was at all possible, and she needed to be awake and able to deal with whatever it said.

Coil, a PRT employee? What the hell's going on? Has the world gone crazy? Crazier? She had almost come to accept that some PRT troopers held covert sympathies for the ABB or the Empire Eighty-Eight. Some of them, she suspected, might still be passing information on to the gangs. A few of their predecessors had been shitcanned when their activities became too blatant, but it was all too possible that the latest crop were smarter and more subtle. Even with that in mind, the idea that a supervillain might be drawing a PRT check boggled the mind. Someone fell down on the job, big time.

It felt a little bizarre to think that arresting a supervillain may well be as simple as inviting him to attend a conference, then taking him into custody once he walked in. Of course, it probably won't go that easily. The PRT files didn't hold much information on Coil …

“God damnit!” she snapped out loud as the pieces clicked together. Of course they wouldn't, if Coil worked in the damn building. Especially if he had high-level access to the computer files. Laying back, she thumped her head against the pillow. This redefined the phrase 'inside job'. Once they found out who Coil really was and took him down, they'd have to backtrack everything he'd ever done in the building, and go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Everything he's ever accessed is suspect. It would be all too easy to edit details, little by little, until what they thought they knew was entirely incorrect.

Leaving that aside, the word on the street was that Coil didn't have powers. What he did have, if the reports were correct, was a small army of mercenaries. Several of whom, if she interpreted Armsmaster's verbal report correctly, had already been swept up. Which was probably how they determined it was Coil. She couldn't wait to read that transcript. Or to give the order for Coil himself to go down. Once they figured out who he was, of course.

The pleasant fantasy of being the one to slap the cuffs on a supervillain—it'd been a long time since she'd had the chance to do that—helped to relax her, and she began to drift once more. With any sort of luck, Dragon and Armsmaster would have something for her to act on when she woke up. Up to and including an idea of where Shadow Stalker had run to. A Ward gone bad, and loose in the city to boot. Christ. If this gets out, it'll be a PR nightmare. Another PR nightmare.

This pleasant thought ensured that it took a while for her to get back to sleep.

<><>​

0807 Hours
February 3, 2011
PRT HQ, Brockton Bay

The blue and silver armoured figure stood straight and tall before Emily's desk. She eyed him suspiciously, wondering just how many signs of fatigue that helmet covered up. “I hope you've been getting appropriate sleep, Armsmaster.”

“I have a cot in my workshop.” He sounded neither smug nor defensive. “Dragon did a lot of the heavy lifting. But I've looked it over, and it's solid.”

I know you have a cot there. I was the one who ordered its installation. He hadn't, she noticed, actually said that he'd used the cot, just that it was there. She decided not to push the issue quite yet.

The situation was still eminently fragile and if Armsmaster chose to push himself a little to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion, she could yell at him later. Maybe later, if he pushes himself too hard. Not right now.

“Hm.” She kept her tone non-committal. The report sat atop her desk, with a memory stick beside it. She squared the former with her hands, resisting the temptation to dive into it. “Give me the summary.”

“We were correct. Our servers have been compromised.” His voice was matter-of-fact, almost robotic. She wondered how much of it was repressed anger on his part. “There's a program that allows the near-traceless deletion of records of phone calls in and out of the building.”

“Near-traceless?” She pounced on that. “Please tell me you got something out of that.”

“Not enough.” His jaw seemed to be set in stone inside his helmet. “But we got enough to know that it's been used quite a bit. Not enough to get the number of Coil's landline inside the building, unfortunately.”

She nodded to acknowledge the point. “Continue.”

He took a breath. “Dragon was unable to trace it back to a single user – it was keyed to respond to an incoming passcode, and to delete the records of each usage afterward – but it's our culprit, all right. There's nothing else that fits. That's the bad news.”

Her eyebrows hitched up slightly. “Tell me there's good news.” A moment later, something he'd said earlier caught up with her. “Wait – you said there is a program. You didn't erase it?”

“No.” Now he smiled. “But Dragon did alter it. The very next time Coil tries to use it, it'll work perfectly from his end. But it will also deliver full data on the call, including a transcript, to your desktop and mine.”

She could see his logic. The two of them were the only ones she could guarantee were not the person they were chasing. After all, the PRT had no clear description of Coil. But that didn't bother her right at the moment. A broad smile began to spread over her face; the first one she'd had in forever. “If I ever meet Dragon, I might just kiss her.”

“She does do very good work.” That, she knew, was Armsmaster's highest accolade. “I'll pass on your thanks to her.”

“Please do that. Minus the comment about kissing her, please. Just say 'thank you',” she hastened to say. “Is there any more information on where Shadow Stalker's gotten to?”

“I'm sorry to say, no,” he said, his shoulders slumping almost microscopically. “We tried pinging her phone, but it's either shut down altogether or it's in a signal-dead area such as a Faraday cage.”

“This suggests she's still got it on her, correct?” She tried to extract some level of optimism out of the situation. “Otherwise she would probably have just discarded it.”

“Unless she considered it to have damaging information on it, which is almost certain,” the armoured hero corrected her. “She's many things, but she isn't stupid. However, that reminds me. We need legal permission to tap her home phone and inform her family that they need to contact us if she gets in touch with them.”

Emily sighed. This had all the hallmarks of a problem in the making. “We're going to need to be very diplomatic with them about it. If we rub them the wrong way, they may hold back information out of pure spite.”

“Understood. I'll put Assault and Battery on it. They're good at connecting with people.” Armsmaster's voice was matter-of-fact.

She couldn't hold back a certain amount of surprise. He's not normally this insightful. “That's … actually a very good idea.”

“Dragon and I talked about it.” He shrugged. “It was obvious, once she explained it to me. How are we going to handle telling the public about Shadow Stalker?”

This was the part that Emily really hadn't been looking forward to. If talking to the family was bad, how to break the news that a Ward had gone off the reservation? Worse, the PRT had been pushing Shadow Stalker as proof that teen vigilantes could indeed integrate well with the Wards program. If it came out that she'd actually been shoehorned in under strict probationary guidelines, and that she'd continued breaking those rules almost from the moment she showed up in the Wards … this has Charlie-Foxtrot written all over it.

She took a deep breath. “For the moment, we say nothing to the public.” He began to say something, but she held up a hand. “Hear me out.”

He went still for a moment, then slowly nodded. “I'm listening.”

It would've been good to see his eyes, so she could gauge the impact of her words. However, she didn't have that, so she just had to trust her own instincts. “We will be informing local law enforcement. They'll be warned to keep it highly confidential and that anyone seeing her is to report the sighting but nothing else. But we don't tell the general public.”

“We don't tell the police to apprehend her if possible?” She was sure that his eyebrows were raised at this point. Hers certainly would've been.

She snorted. “Let's be realistic here. What chances do you think the average beat cop has of actually taking Shadow Stalker into custody? In the normal run of things, given surprise and a good dose of taser, a cop might have been able to get the drop on her. But now? She's on the run, she'll be on guard against everything and everyone.”

“But members of the public would also be able to report on her whereabouts.” Why can't we use every resource at our command? he didn't quite ask out loud.

He had a good point, but he wasn't thinking it all the way through. “We can't just out her, because that would endanger her family. So we can't tell the public to look out for Sophia Hess. And that's not even addressing how the Empire would absolutely love this. Every teenage girl who's got even slightly dark skin would be have a target painted on her back, whether we outed the Hess girl or not.”

“So we just sit back and wait till she commits a crime, and hope to catch her then?” He sounded frustrated. She couldn't blame him.

“No.” Her tone was definitive. “I'll get the warrant to tap her home phone. Assault and Battery will talk to her family. The Protectorate and Wards will be told to keep an eye out for her. The PRT will also be on alert. If she puts a foot wrong, we'll get her. We did before.”

“But the last time, she didn't know we were hunting her and there wasn't a supervillain possibly backing her,” Armsmaster noted. “That's a game changer.”

“It is,” she agreed. “But we've got a line on him, which he hopefully doesn't know about. With any luck, he'll communicate with her from this building, which will give us a location on both of them. And even if we don't get her when we roll him up, she's without resources once more. Villains won't trust her and heroes will want to arrest her. Pretty soon, she'll have no place to hide.”

“Hmm.” He sounded contemplative. “I see where you're going with this. But what are you going to tell the Hebert girl?”

Emily sighed. “That's not a conversation I'm looking forward to.”

<><>​

Vicky

Carol crossed her arms. “I don't see why we have to come in this way.” She looked from side to side, at the deeply-tinted windows of the PRT van. “New Wave isn't about secrecy.”

“No, but there are more secrets at stake than you know about,” Miss Militia replied from the front seat. The driver, an otherwise nondescript man in basic urban camo, offered nothing to the conversation. Most likely, thought Vicky, he'd been ordered to drive and keep his mouth shut. “You didn't have to come along, you know. This was just about Panacea.”

“It's not just about Panacea,” she said without looking at Amy, who was sitting in the seat behind her. “It's also about the Swarmbringer.” Her voice held sour satisfaction in revealing that tidbit. “Did you really think you could hide that from us? From the public? She needs to be held accountable, not kept in an undisclosed location and given valuable healing from a member of my team.”

“Where did you hear that?” The Protectorate hero's voice was suddenly cold. Turning in her seat, she raked Amy and Vicky with her eyes.

“We didn't tell her, I swear!” Vicky did her best to project her innocence into her voice. “She figured it all out. She's really good at that.”

“Victoria is telling the truth,” Carol confirmed. “They weren't going to tell me at all. But I connected the dots. And you've got a lot of explaining to do. What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking that you don't have all the information yet.” Miss Militia sounded utterly sure of herself. “There's far more to this situation than you're currently aware of. Now, I'll need your phone.” She extended her left hand back toward Carol.

“You can't take my phone!” Carol's voice rose. She flicked a glance at Vicky.

Oh, crap. Vicky knew that her mother was technically in the wrong, but Carol was her mother. New Wave was all about solidarity … but nor did she want to side against Miss Militia over something like this. Amy had been adamant that Taylor was effectively innocent in all this, and it seemed that Armsmaster and Miss Militia were in agreement with her. What if Mom won't listen to reason? I don't want to fight her! What do I do?

“If you don't cooperate, I will be forced to place you under arrest to ensure that you don't speak of this to anyone else until you've learned the true facts of the situation, and signed a non-disclosure agreement regarding them.” The Protectorate hero didn't take her eyes from Carol. “Which will it be?”

Carol unfolded her arms, and a blade of pure light appeared in her right hand. “Victoria, stop this van. We're leaving.” Her voice held the snap of command.

Whoa, whoa, this is going too fast. “Mom – no!” Vicky raised her voice. “Stop! Don't do this!”

“I'm under threat of false imprisonment, and you're saying don't do this?” Carol stared at Vicky. “Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?”

“Mrs Dallon,” snapped Miss Militia. “Don't look to your daughter. As a Protectorate cape, I am a duly appointed officer of the law.” She had turned in her seat so that she had a good view of the back of the van. However, her right hand wasn't visible, so Vicky couldn't see what weapon she was holding. Her voice was steady. “Through your own ignorance, you are threatening to expose information which could do far more harm than good if it reached the public domain. I'm ordering you to remain in your seat until we reach the PRT building -”

“Two hundred and seventy-three people died!” snapped Carol. “I have friends in the hospital! I'm not going to assist the PRT in a coverup, just so you can get another powerful cape on your roster!” She drew back her arm, preparatory to slashing out the side of the van. In the next instant, however, she collapsed, slumping limply into her seat. The blade barely scorched the paint before winking out.

Vicky stared as Amy drew her hand from the back of Carol's neck. “Ames, seriously? What the everloving fuck?” She got to Carol and shook her, to no avail. “What did you do?”

“You saw her,” Amy said. “She wasn't listening to reason. I didn't have any choice but to put her to sleep. You'll let her go once she signs the NDAs?” The healer directed the question toward Miss Militia.

“If she signs and agrees to abide by the terms once she knows the facts, then yes. She'll be free to go.” Miss Militia raised her eyebrows. “I'm impressed. Have you ever done that before?”

“Not under combat conditions, no,” Amy said. “But I was kinda out of options.”

“I can't believe you did that to Mom!” Vicky made sure that Carol was still breathing—though where Amy was concerned, that was kind of a given—then went back to her seat. “I mean, I can kind of see why you did it, but surely we could've talked her down.”

Amy shook her head. “You heard her. She was about to bail out. And she would've been on the phone to the papers just as soon as she figured she was free and clear. She didn't have all the facts, and she definitely didn't have the important ones, but she could've done damage with what she had.”

“A lot of damage,” Miss Militia agreed. “In my estimation, you did exactly the right thing. What you did didn't harm her in any way?” The tone of her voice made it a statement rather than a question.

“No.” Amy grimaced. “But it's not gonna matter. Even if she agrees with you and willingly signs the NDA, I am so grounded. Like, until I'm forty.” Her voice held resignation, along with just a little irritation.

“Don't worry, Ames. I'll talk to her.” Vicky moved over to sit beside her sister. Despite her shock that Amy had resorted to using her powers on their mother, she had to admit that Carol hadn't given them much in the way of choice. And I just sat there and let it happen …

“Thanks, but I can't see it doing much good.” Amy hunched into herself. “New Wave is all about trust. Trusting each other to do the right thing. I just betrayed that trust. Attacked her while her back was turned.”

“Hey, she betrayed our trust first,” Vicky reminded her. “She said she'd come in and see what was happening before deciding what to do. Then she just went off the deep end.” She put her arm over Amy's shoulders. “I know that it couldn't have been easy for you.”

Amy turned her head curiously toward Vicky. “You're being awfully calm about this.”

Vicky grimaced. “If she'd kept going, I would've had to either stand back and let her escape, help her get away, or stop her. And I didn't want to do any of that, mainly because I'm pretty sure she's wrong in what she thinks is going on. And because I didn't want to have to hurt her.” She gave her sister a squeeze. “So what you did is about the best thing that could've happened. Nobody gets hurt, and Mom's free and clear once she signs the NDA.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Amy leaned against Vicky, just a little. “Though I'd be a lot happier if it hadn't happened this way.”

“Yeah, well.” Vicky sighed. “It'll all be sorted out. You'll see.”

I hope.

<><>​

Shadow Stalker

“Up an' at 'em, kid. Time to go. Your ride's here.”

The disembodied voice coincided with the thud of a boot against a wooden door, not three feet from Sophia's head. She sat up, blinking in the near-darkness. Where the fuck am I? This was not her bed at home. Nor was it her crash-space at the Wards base. And who the fuck was it who'd kicked the door, and called her 'kid'?

Wait a minute … She rubbed at her eyes, abruptly aware that she wasn't wearing a mask. What the fuck's going on? That was when the memories started to cascade through her brain, each one triggering another. She'd been on patrol with Clockblocker, but she'd gotten that phone call … and she'd accepted … and then they'd been waiting for her … so she ran for it … then the infirmary, and the guy with the bedpan … ah. Right.

Carefully, she rubbed the back of her head, wincing as her fingers touched the sensitive spot. Beaned with a bedpan. I better hope Clockblocker never finds out, or the jokes just won't stop. With a start, she recalled that she wouldn't even be working with Clockblocker again—or any of the other Wards—until she was finished with the mission. Mission. Right. I'm on a mission. Abruptly, she recalled that she'd agreed to go undercover in a criminal gang, to gather information and ultimately bring it down from within. And so she'd run from an all too realistic pursuit, to give her story verisimilitude. And they bought it. They had to have. I'm still alive, right?

“Kid! You awake in there?” The door shuddered as the boot came into contact with it a second time.

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses. I'm coming.” She felt around in the near-darkness until she found where she'd put the rest of her costume; she had, of course, stripped down to the body-stocking to sleep. Body armour was a real pain to sleep in.

Fortunately, she was adept at costuming up in the dark and in cramped spaces. It only took her another minute or so to get the body armour settled into place. She missed the comforting weight of her cloak, but it wasn't like she could go back and get it. Taking the phone from the pouch, she turned it on and tapped out a quick text: About to go see someone important. Will keep you posted.

There was no immediate answer; nor did she expect one. Turning the phone off, she replaced it in the pouch at the back of her belt. A full-body search would find the phone and earpiece, but she could hope that her hosts would assume that the phone they'd taken off her was her only one.

Without a mirror she couldn't check on her appearance, but she had to trust that she was presentable. With her mask in place, she opened the door and stepped out into a dingy living room. Four men were waiting for her; two were the large men who'd been in the van the previous night, while the other two wore urban camo and closed-face helmets. The latter had assault rifles slung over their shoulders. Okay, that's fuckin' weird. “Who are you?” she asked bluntly.

“You can call me Senegal,” said one of the men in urban camo. “You're coming with us.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” protested the guy who'd called her 'kid'. “How about our pay? We did our bit.”

“Good point.” Senegal turned his head toward the guy. “Fish, take her to the van.” His gesture toward the door was so smooth and natural that even Sophia didn't see the rifle coming into his hand until the stock was against his shoulder. The barrel was lined up on the biggest guy, but it would only need a single movement to aim at the other one. “Now.”

“You heard him.” 'Fish' stepped over to Sophia, careful not to get between his partner and the men that Senegal was holding at gunpoint. “Let's go.” He didn't go for his gun as well, but she noted that he always kept his right hand free and the fingers flexed.

“Sure, no skin off mine.” Sophia felt an atavistic thrill as she preceded the oddly-nicknamed 'Fish' down the stairs. Whoever she was going to be infiltrating, they obviously considered their secrecy to be paramount. And, to be honest, the big guys hadn't exactly endeared themselves to her. “Hey, they had my phone. And there was a driver, too.”

“We got the driver already,” Fish said bluntly. “And Senegal'll get your phone. This isn't his first rodeo.” Sophia had no doubt of that. Nor, from the way he moved, was Fish a novice at this.

They had just reached the bottom of the steps when two quick bursts of fire echoed down the stairwell. They were somewhat muted to Sophia's ear, but she supposed that a suppressor would be a good idea in a situation like this. She glanced back over her shoulder. “That really necessary?” The question wasn't prompted by prurience or squeamishness; she just wanted to hear his answer.

“Sure,” said Fish. “A cape going bad is big news. PRT and Protectorate will be pulling out the stops to get you back before the public hears about it. They can trace the van all they like, but no amount of plea deals will get those two to talk now.” He tilted his head slightly as they started down the narrow alley. “So what'd you do to piss off the law, anyway?”

Sophia's brain went into high gear. “Well, I dunno what they've decided to hang on me,” she temporised. “But there's shit I've done, any of which could fuck me up. I've killed a couple guys. Hurt some others pretty damn bad, even after I got in the Wards.” She stopped talking, hoping it sounded like a natural pause in the conversation.

“That's pretty bad, sure,” Fish conceded. “But what they put you in the Wards for, nailing that guy to the wall? If that didn't put you in juvey, what would?” His voice was entirely devoid of judgement; he might have been asking about the chance of rain tomorrow.

Fuck. How did he even know about that? I've gotta say something else. She knew what it had to be. Drawing an aggravated breath, she snorted it out through her nose. “There's this bitch at school. Weak as shit, but doesn't know her place. So I've been keeping her face in the dirt, where she belongs. January, me and some others locked her in her locker for maybe an hour. Along with a mess of pads and tampons to keep her company.” She thrust out her chin, almost daring Fish to denigrate her achievements.

“Well, damn.” He almost sounded impressed. “Yeah, that might piss 'em off just a little. This why you're running?”

“Nah.” She shook her head. “Just before the Swarm? I got some guys to chase her down with duct tape and tie her to a telegraph pole. Rough her up a bit, you know? She's gotta learn her place.” She decided to keep the information about Hebert being in PRT holding to herself for the moment. No sense in giving these assholes everything.

“Nice.” Fish nodded approvingly. “Gotta teach 'em who's boss.”

“Yeah, but I figure she bitched to someone about it, and someone in the PRT connected the dots. Which is why they're after me now.” Sophia kicked a rock, and watched as it skittered down the alleyway.

“Well, that does kinda suck.” Fish pulled something off his belt, then a van up ahead flashed its parking lights as the doors audibly unlocked. “In you get. Senegal'll be along in a minute.”

Sophia opened the side door of the van and climbed in. Fish got into the front, then handed something back to her. “Gonna need you to wear this. Infosec, you understand?”

She took it, realising almost instantly that it was a soft cloth bag, solid black in colour. “Bag on my head? Really?”

“It is what it is.” His tone was almost casual, but she sensed the inflexibility under it. “Boss says this is how it goes, this is how it goes.”

Behind her mask, she pulled a face. I better get a goddamn medal off Calvert when this is all done. “Okay, fine.” Taking a deep breath, she pulled the bag down over her head. It smelled a little musty, but not too gross. Squint her eyes as she liked, the dense weave of the cloth defeated any chance to see through it. However, she did have a trick up her sleeve; specifically, the electricity sensors in her mask. Normally she recharged it on a nightly basis, but the battery shouldn't be flat yet. She decided to use it sparingly, just in case she didn't get the chance to plug it in for a while.

It wasn't long before Senegal returned. Fish greeted the man as he opened the side door and climbed into the van, the springs compressing slightly under his weight. “Get everything?” Fish asked.

“Roger that,” Senegal replied. “Phone and all. No evidence she was ever there. Let's get going before the fire really catches.”

God damn. These guys mean business. For a moment, Sophia was lost in admiration. If these guys hadn't been working for a villain, she figured she would have gotten along with them just fine. Rules are for sheep. These guys are wolves, like me.

A moment later, she recalled what Senegal had said. “Hey, Senegal?”

“Yeah?” he asked as Fish started the van. “What is it? 'Cause if you gotta go to the bathroom, you're just gonna have to hold it.”

“Nah, not that,” she snapped, trying not to think of the fact that she hadn't had the chance to relieve herself after she got up. “Just saying that I'm gonna need my phone back.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “Just as soon as the boss says you can have it. But not until then. You understand.” His tone wasn't gloating or teasing, just matter of fact.

She disliked the situation, but once again reminded herself that Commander Calvert had picked her out specifically for this job. He's counting on me. I've gotta make this work. Settling back, she prepared for a long ride.

<><>​

She wasn't sure how much later it was that the van started down an incline. It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes, but probably not less than ten. There were no down-grades that she knew of in Brockton Bay proper, which meant that they were coming to the end of the journey. Thirty seconds later, she was proven right as Fish brought the van to a halt and turned the engine off.

“Can I take the bag off yet?” she asked, finding herself starved for light. Even in the darkest Brockton Bay night, there was always some illumination. Except, of course, when she was fighting that asshole Grue. The absolute blackness his power brought about was unnatural, as shown by how it interfered with her powers. Hey, if I run into him while working for these guys, I can kill him legit. Say I was ordered to.

“Not yet,” rumbled Senegal's voice from beside her. “I'm just gonna take your arm, okay?”

“I'm blind, not fuckin' crippled, all right?” she snapped. Sliding out of her seat, she felt for where the door handle should be. After two or three attempts, she found it and slid it open. Moving carefully, she eased herself out of the van until she stood on what she judged was bare concrete. Behind her, she heard Senegal's boots hit the concrete and the side door slid shut. A moment later, she heard the bip-bip as the van locked itself.

“Okay,” said Fish from in front of her. “This way.”

She heard his footsteps receding and tried to follow them, but it was hard to hear through the bag. “A bit to the left,” rumbled Senegal from behind her.

“I knew that,” she retorted, but corrected her course slightly.

As far as she could tell, she was in a parking garage of some sort. The echoes had that quality. She followed Fish, with Senegal giving helpful comments from behind her, across the garage until Fish told her to stop. There was a strange grinding noise, followed by a gust of air across her front. This time, Senegal took her shoulder. She felt, rather than heard, the closeness of the tunnel around her as she walked forward, and then the grinding sound occurred again, from behind.

“Okay, you can take the bag off,” said Senegal. “And we're gonna need your crossbows. Just in case, you know?”

Sophia wanted to protest, but she was too busy yanking the bag from her head. Light hit her eyes for the first time in what felt like hours; even if it was just dim fluorescent tubes, it was still glorious, wonderful light. She handed the bag back to Fish, never wanting to see it again.

“Crossbows,” Senegal reminded her. The assault rifle he held might not be too useful in this situation, but he still wore a sidearm. And, she was careful to recall, hadn't blinked at murdering the two who had picked her up off the street. Also, she reminded herself yet again, she actually wanted to be recruited by whoever she was going to see.

“Fine, but I'm definitely gonna need these back,” she said, grudgingly taking the crossbows off her belt and handing them over. “Otherwise I'm not gonna be much use to your boss.”

“That's for him to say,” Fish said neutrally. “But we're gonna need those arrows too. It'd be too easy to stab someone with them.”

He was right, of course. Aegis could attest to that. But she really, really disliked being disarmed. With a deep breath, she unhooked the arrow-case from her belt and handed it over. Then she unclipped the arrows from each arm-guard and handed them over as well. “Is that all, or would you like to frisk me as well?” she asked sharply. “'Cause I don't do well with frisking.”

“Nah, it'll be fine.” Fish put his hand on his sidearm. “Just remember, I'll be right behind you all the way. Let's go.” With his left hand, he pointed down the corridor.

Sophia nodded and set forth, setting a rapid pace. Senegal and Fish matched her stride for stride until they reached a heavy metal door at the other end. Fish stepped in, presenting her with his broad back as he tapped in a security code. The door opened, and they moved on. There were more uniformed men here, and she was starting to get an idea who they were taking her to see. Though I had no idea his operation was this large.

The base was huge, but she got the distinct impression that it was still under construction. Much of it had an unfinished look about it. However, she was not given the chance to dawdle and look around. Senegal and Fish marched her along a catwalk and toward a door, which slid aside as they approached. Sophia glanced at Senegal, who nodded. She stepped forward and entered.

Inside was an office, with bookshelves, filing cabinets, and a computer setup on a desk. It was so banal that Sophia almost stopped dead. The only jarring note was the man rising to his feet behind the desk. He was tall and almost emaciated, though she could tell no other details. This was because he was dressed in a skin-tight black costume, with a white snake winding over it.

Although she'd never met the man before, she'd heard about the costume. It confirmed her suspicions about who owned the base. Who she was going to be working for.

She halted in front of the desk, uncomfortably aware of Fish's presence behind her. The man in the snake costume seemed to look her up and down. She didn't feel comfortable under that faceless gaze, but she did her best to meet his eyes anyway. Or rather, she looked at where his eyes should be on the featureless cloth.

At last, he spoke, with a dry, dusty tone that may as well have been produced by a machine. “Shadow Stalker.”

Curtly, she nodded. “Coil.”

He made some sort of noise, perhaps a snort of amusement. “I understand that you are no longer welcome in the Wards.”

Behind her mask, she grimaced. “That's about right.”

His head tilted slightly. “Well, then. Allow me to be the first to offer you alternate employment. You'll find the pay scale to be quite adequate.”

“Do I get to kick ass?” She raised her chin. “Money's good, but it's not the be-all and end-all.”

“Why, yes.” From his tone, he was smiling under that damn mask. “You will certainly get that opportunity.”

“Then sure. I'll work for you.” She let some real bitterness creep into her tone. “It's not like I've got any other choices right now.”

“They say that when one door closes, another opens. I'm a great believer in that.” He leaned forward and offered his hand to shake. “Welcome to my employ, Shadow Stalker.”

She took it; for a skinny guy, he had a serious grip. “Good to be here.”

Now all I've got to do is survive long enough to bring you assholes down.



End of Part Nine

Part Ten

 

Price of Blood

Part Ten: Legalities and Illegalities



[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Director Emily Piggot's Office
PRT ENE HQ
0824 Hours

Emily, feeling somewhat better than she had the night before—it was amazing what a good night's sleep could do—stood up as Glory Girl carried an unconscious Brandish in through the door to her office. Armsmaster followed, with Panacea trailing in last. The healer looked as though she wanted to be anywhere but there. The Director sympathised with her, but it was a truism that you rarely got what you wanted. Be glad you only have to live with the result of one hard decision today.

“Put her there,” she directed, pointing at the chair directly in front of her desk. She knew, of course, exactly why Brandish was in this state and how she'd gotten there. Miss Militia's verbal report, delivered over the phone, had been extremely concise. Which left the next step in Emily's hands. She wasn't looking forward to it; Carol Dallon had a well-deserved reputation for being stubborn, and that could make for problems if the interview went badly.

Glory Girl carefully placed her mother in the chair, arranging her hands in her lap. She stayed there, one hand on Brandish's shoulder so the woman wouldn't loll forward and end up on the floor. Emily nodded fractionally in approval, then turned her attention to Armsmaster. “Miss Militia isn't attending this meeting?”

The armoured hero shook his head. “No, ma'am. She considered that as she was present for the disagreement, her presence may exacerbate the situation, so she asked to be excused from the follow-up.” His tone was pragmatic; Emily got the impression that it didn't matter to him one way or the other. Personally, she thought Miss Militia had a point. Stepping aside to let her superior deal with a tricky situation might be seen as cowardice by some, but Miss Militia had never been accused of that. With a situation this volatile, it was only wise to ensure there was as little chance as possible for things to go wrong.

“I can understand that.” She sat down and clasped her hands on the desk in front of her. “Panacea, are there any complications inherent in putting someone to sleep like this?” As she spoke, she captured the healer's gaze with her own. If the girl chose to lie, Emily wanted to know about it before anything was done.

“None at all.” While Panacea was nervous, her eyes didn't flicker to the side in any kind of obvious tell. Nor did her voice hesitate. Emily was willing to bet she was telling the plain truth. “I just told her body to go to sleep. I can wake her up at any time, and she'll be fine.”

This fitted in with what Emily had already heard of the healer's capabilities. Panacea's healing capabilities reportedly came with the ability to anaesthetise her patients, which was very convenient for all concerned. There was nothing, Emily supposed, stopping the girl from using the anaesthetic side of her power on someone who was perfectly healthy.

“Good.” Emily nodded. “Wake her up, please.” Despite the phrasing, she meant it as an order. If she was going to sort out the current problem with Carol Dallon, the woman had to be awake for it.

“O-okay.” It was interesting to note how Emily's tone put steel in Panacea's spine. With a steady step, the healer approached her mother and put her hand out. Emily watched carefully as the girl touched Brandish's neck lightly for just a few seconds. There was no visible power effect, no crackling transfer of energy or glow of light. Carol Dallon just … woke up.

As soon as the woman stirred, Emily gestured to Panacea to move away. Obviously not needing the hint, Panacea stepped back to join her sister at the back wall, alongside Armsmaster. To her approval, Emily noted that the local leader of the Protectorate was standing at parade rest, treating the situation with the dignity and gravity which it deserved.

“Wha-huh?” Carol Dallon flailed for a second, her arms coming up as she stared around wildly.

While Emily could understand her confusion, the last thing she wanted was a confused Brandish cutting her office to pieces with a blade of pure unstoppable energy. “Brandish!” she snapped. “Stand down!” Into the words she projected every bit of command presence of which she was capable.

It seemed to have an effect. Carol's attention sharpened, focusing on her. “Director Piggot,” she said, almost disbelievingly. “What happened? How did I get here?” She began to rise, looking around the room. Although her face was turned almost totally away from Emily when her eyes fell on Panacea, it was still obvious when the last pieces fell into place. “You,” hissed Brandish, her hand reaching out in a grasping motion.

“Sit. Down.” Emily didn't shout, but her voice cracked across the office like a whip. “Brandish. You will face me and talk to me about this. And once we've sorted it out, then you can take it up with your daughters.” She hadn't used that tone in far too long, but it was still gratifying to see Carol Dallon, as strong-willed as she was, slowly herself back into the chair. “Now,” she continued, knowing just how important it was to keep up the momentum, “I believe you have a grievance regarding the cape currently known as the Swarmbringer.”

“Yes,” spat Carol. “I know you're harbouring her and giving her healing. And once you let me out of here, I'll be shouting it to the rooftops.” Her jaw set mulishly, and Emily knew she meant every word of her statement.

Fortunately, she knew her own words were just as telling. “Not unless you've got a pressing need to inspect the interior of the Birdcage.”

Carol paused, obviously taken aback by the blatant threat. “Wai … what?”

Emily leaned back in her chair. “Now I have your attention, let me be perfectly frank. There will be no 'letting out', because you're not being kept against your will. But telling all you know would be unwise in the extreme.” Emily's voice was quiet. “Not only would it endanger an innocent girl and her father, but you would also be violating the Vikare Act.” She could see the exact moment when the point of her words hit Carol properly; the other woman's eyes widened fractionally.

“But …” Carol stopped, opening her mouth and closing it again.

After a moment, Emily nodded encouragingly. “Go on.” She could see the inevitable conclusions piling up behind Brandish's eyes, but she wanted the New Wave hero to articulate them, to bring them out into the real world. Once said, they could not be unsaid.

“But the Vikare Act is about unmasking heroes.” Carol's voice was almost plaintive. “That doesn't apply here.” Her eyes focused on Emily. “Or … how does it apply here? It doesn't apply to villains!”

This was true, on the face of it. While the Vikare Act specifically forbade the “deliberate revelation and/or broadcasting of the secret identity of a heroic superhuman” and was punishable under United States law, rogues and villains were not covered to the same extent. An unmasked rogue could pursue civil suit for the loss of earnings connected to a costumed identity, while a villain had no legal redress at all. All the latter had to fall back on were the 'unspoken rules', a loosely adhered-to set of codes that boiled down to “you don't screw with me, I won't screw with you”. While the PRT didn't officially recognise these 'rules', they tended to keep the body count down, so nobody bent them too hard when anyone was watching. When minor villains were captured, for instance, they were identified, but that information was never made public.

Occasionally it had come to pass that a villain accidentally learned the secret identity of a Protectorate-approved superhero. This didn't fall under 'deliberate revelation', as neither a deliberate act nor any actual revelation were involved. However, there was always the risk of the villain later reconsidering his stance, especially if said hero was seeking his capture. So the not-quite-official measure of reciprocal unmasking had been adopted, as a kind of mutually-assured-destruction. Both capes then generally avoided one another assiduously thereafter.

Also, while the Protectorate as a whole was larger than any given villain group, it was a fact that some of the larger villain groups were known to outnumber local Protectorate forces, sometimes by a ludicrous amount. This led to a state of armed semi-truce, where neither side was willing to escalate past a certain level of violence, in the certain knowledge that whoever started kicking sand at the other would also end up being hammered into the ground. There were those, of course, who ignored these limits; this was almost always self-policing, as the worst violators usually ended up in the Birdcage or dead. Or both.

So while some considered the 'unspoken rules' to be a ridiculous holdover to the comic-book mentality of the early days of capes, Emily tended to let them be. Without them, she was certain, things would be a lot worse.

“This is true.” She conceded the point gracefully. “It doesn't apply to villains. However, there is a great deal you do not know about this case.” Come on … take the bait.

Carol eyed her with suspicion. “What I want to know is why you're giving the Swarmbringer those protections. Protecting her under the Vikare Act.” She tilted her head. “How would I be violating it, exactly?”

Emily unclasped her hands from one another and laid her right hand on one of the two folders that lay before her. “I can't tell you until you sign an NDA about what I'll be telling you.” She placed a pen atop the folder and slid it toward Carol. In the background, she heard Glory Girl make a muted noise, perhaps a cough or chuckle; no doubt the girl had caught on to the Catch-22 aspect of the situation. That's right. I can only tell you how to avoid breaking the law by having you sign a document where you promise not to break the law. She had to admire the legal minds which had thought up that little wrinkle. But she did her admiring from a distance, and she washed her hands afterward.

Carol eyed the document as though it were a particularly loathsome snake. “Or I could get up and walk out of here.” Despite her words, Emily noted that she made no move to do so.

“You could.” Emily kept her tone light, as if discussing the weather. “Except that as I've just informed you the Vikare Act is in play, you will be held fully accountable for anything you say that's in violation of the Act. Even if you've got no idea what you've said that did it.”

Backing up her words was another factor neither of them needed (or wanted) to articulate. Parahumans were demonstrably capable of doing much more than any one normal human; thus, it had long been recognised that capes who chose a heroic role were essentially irreplaceable national assets. From there, it was only a short step to determining that anyone who acted to undermine the utility of such capes—such as by outing their secret identities—were in fact working against the national interest. For Protectorate capes, this could be—and had been, more than once—defined as treason. However, even those heroic capes who didn't draw a federal paycheck were still of considerable use to the nation. Thus, the part of the Vikare Act which covered them had been appropriated from legislation originally intended to counter domestic terrorism. While the First Amendment was aggressively used by civil-liberties groups to combat any attempt to curtail free speech, the Vikare Act had already weathered several court challenges aimed at overturning its 'unconstitutional' provisions. The only way to sidestep the Act and avoid the draconian penalties thereof—which could, depending on circumstances, include incarceration in the Birdcage—was to first prove the cape involved wasn't actually a hero. And if the PRT kept insisting otherwise, this could be a problem.

Brandish's lips thinned. It was obvious she didn't appreciate being pushed into a corner. Then again, who does? Emily watched her closely, applying ten years' worth of facing parahumans over this very desk toward trying to figure out which way she'd go. Unfortunately, the woman was a consummate professional, at least in the legal field. She'd probably be hell to face over a poker table, as she'd only given away that one particular tell.

“I've got one question.” It was almost a growl.

Emily smelled surrender, so she nodded easily enough. “What is it?”

Carol nodded toward the other folder, under Emily's left hand. “What's that one for?” She had her expression and voice under control once more; even to Emily's trained ear, she may well have been making light conversation.

For her part, Emily was mildly impressed. Lawyers had to think three steps ahead, and Carol was obviously no exception. “It's another NDA,” she explained. “The one you have covers what Glory Girl knows. This one covers what Panacea knows.”

“I see.” Carol eyed the second folder, even as she tapped the one before her with a lacquered nail. “If I sign this one, will I gain more of an insight as to what's in that one?”

Emily considered the question. It skated right on the edge of what she considered acceptable when it came to digging for information. However, as the answer—a simple 'yes' or 'no'—couldn't actually give Brandish any more data on the case, she nodded. “You will,” she confirmed.

Carol nodded, then opened the folder. Even as she retrieved the pen and clicked it in and out a few times, she read through the form, her eyes flickering back and forth. Her expression never changed as she turned the page. I am definitely never playing poker with her.

When she reached the bottom of the second page, Brandish put pen to paper and affixed her bold signature to the document. She nodded slowly as she read back through it, then closed the folder and slid it across the desk to Emily. “Okay, I've signed,” she said bluntly. “What aren't you telling me?”

“Her name is Taylor Hebert,” Emily said crisply. “She has the power to control bugs. Yesterday afternoon, through no fault of her own, she was attacked, subdued and tied up with duct tape. There were five of them. When she realised what their ultimate intention was—specifically rape and possibly murder—she panicked and began to build a swarm to defend herself. However, that was when they must have realised she was a cape, because they beat her unconscious.”

Carol's lips tightened again while her hands clenched into fists. “They deserve whatever they got, then,” she muttered, apparently more to herself than to Emily. Emily privately agreed, though she couldn't exactly say so then and there. “But why did she build such a large swarm and attack so indiscriminately? That's more the mark of a villain than a hero.”

Emily could almost sympathise with her; she'd also had trouble with that particular conclusion as well. But it was what it was, and they had to accept it and move on. “It was a very specific circumstance,” she explained carefully. “What she didn't know at the time was that her powers would remain active even after she was knocked out, carrying out the last order she gave: protect me. Attack those around me.”

“Ahh.” The word was more an exhalation of pure revelation as Carol leaned back in her chair. “That's what I couldn't understand. Her orders to the Swarm were interrupted before she could refine them.”

Once again, Emily was impressed by Brandish's grasp of the situation. “Essentially, yes. In fact, we have a recording of her stating her intention to be a hero.” Thank God. She had no desire to kill a fifteen year old girl, no matter what the circumstances. Thankfully, the way this was playing out meant she wouldn't have to go down that path, or put her own career in jeopardy by standing in its way.

On the other hand, there was now a strong possibility of bringing another hero into the fold. New heroes were always good. While Emily preferred to put her faith in the PRT, she was fully aware that some parahumans could only be realistically opposed by other parahumans. And when push came to shove, she knew damn well she'd rather have as many parahuman assets on her side as possible. Because the alternative—facing them over the barrel of a gun—rarely ended well.

“In any case, we weren't going to be using 'Swarmbringer' as a cape name for her,” Armsmaster interjected from where he stood at parade rest behind Carol. “That name was applied by the public under the erroneous impression that the Swarm was a deliberate attack on the city.” His diction was precise, reinforcing the facts for Carol's benefit. Emily noted his word choice and silently approved. The man could be irritating at times but, in this particular instance, his methodical nature was exactly what she needed to ensure Carol didn't decide to doubt what she'd just been told.

Behind their mother, Glory Girl and Panacea still stood alongside Armsmaster, each of them in a less formal stance than the senior hero. The healer had her arms folded and seemed a little nervous, while the young Alexandria package was fidgeting, apparently anxious for the conversation to be concluded. As Armsmaster finished speaking, Glory Girl opened her mouth to speak, but Emily caught her eye and shook her head slightly. Wonder of wonders, the girl actually paid heed to her and stayed quiet.

“But she isn't officially a hero yet.” Carol set her jaw slightly, a trace of stubbornness still present in her voice. It wasn't hard to see how she'd gone as far as she had in her chosen profession; when she got hold of a fact, she didn't like to let it go. But Emily was working to a time limit and she knew it. Taylor would be waking up soon, whether Panacea was there to rouse her or not, and Emily had to have all her ducks in a row by then. Bringing Brandish around to understanding the facts wasn't the most important task she had to face, but nor was it a trivial one. It was just one more thing that, if neglected or mishandled, could scuttle the entire effort.

“She's clearly stated her intention to be one, and has expressed considerable remorse over the deaths.” Emily's voice was flat and hard. “Armsmaster and Panacea were witness to this.” She decided to leave out the fact she'd been listening in the next room over the intercom. While it would still be admissible in court—if this ever got to court—that sort of thing was less useful than someone who had been there at the time. “Given how she was attacked, it's unsurprising that her powers went on the offensive as they did. The circumstances are unfortunate in the extreme, but they are not her fault.” She knew she was laying it on just a little thick, but if that was what it took to get through to Carol Dallon as a woman and a mother, rather than Brandish as a self-righteous superhero, then that was what it would take.

For a long moment, Carol tried to muster a defiant gaze in return, but the fire died from her eyes and she sat back a little in the chair. “And you're treating her as an avowed hero under the law.” It was more a statement than a question; at the same time, it was an admission of retreat from her previous position. She nodded slowly, even though Emily hadn't replied. “I suppose I can accept that.” Her tone became thoughtful. “But here we have a problem. Over two hundred people are dead, and there's that picture of her outside the Denny's. How do we avoid having her named as the culprit in the public's eye? Especially when it was her power that caused all the deaths?”

“We have a culprit.” Armsmaster spoke bluntly. “The person who set those five boys on her committed a crime in doing so. That crime led to the deaths of all five perpetrators, and to the two hundred and sixty-eight other fatalities, as well as the thousands of injuries. As the five are dead, the culpability for all the deaths falls upon the shoulders of that one person.” Emily had to admire his presentation. The man could state a case in a way that made it sound already signed, sealed and delivered.

She wondered briefly if he had a program in his helmet feeding him public-speaking tips. I wouldn't be at all surprised.

“Wait, why didn't you say so earlier?” Carol turned to face the armoured hero. “Who is this culprit? Are they in custody? Why did you give me all this song and dance about how the Swarm- I mean, the girl is innocent when you've already got someone?” The fire was back in her voice.

Emily almost smiled as Carol shifted her lawyer persona into high gear. Now she's on our side. Of course, they still weren't out of the woods. There was one more tricky bit of negotiation to do. She cleared her throat, drawing Carol's attention back to her. “If you wish to know the name of the culprit, and the details of the surrounding case, you'll have to sign the other NDA,” she warned. “The situation is extremely sensitive, and has recently become even more so.” She awaited Carol's reply, trying to discern which way she was going to jump. On the one hand, the woman was a lawyer, and lawyers always wanted to know the details. However, in this particular instance, signing the second agreement would be tying Carol's hands in the matter unless she could acqire the same information via separate means; as a superhero, Brandish would dislike that in the extreme. I know I would. It all came down to whether she felt more like being a lawyer or a superhero at that moment.

Carol frowned, looked briefly at her daughters, then she turned back to the desk. “Am I to understand Amy knows the rest of it?” The distaste that filled her tone explained why she wasn't willing to address the girl directly. Emily hadn't heard the complete story of what had happened in the van yet, but Miss Militia's verbal report had given her the shape of it. Being knocked unconscious by one's own daughter would have to be upsetting, to say the least.

When Clockblocker had first joined the Wards, he'd pranked a few people by freezing them in embarrassing postures; disciplinary action had put paid to that particular habit, but his victims reportedly had trouble trusting him afterward. This felt like much the same thing. I hope they sort it out.

“Panacea knows more or less all the pertinent details, yes.” Emily wasn't telling the entire truth—after all, the Dallon girl didn't know Shadow Stalker had escaped capture—but that was a hair which didn't need splitting right now. And when it came to determining the innocence of Taylor Hebert, it wasn't really a pertinent detail, as such. In any case, Shadow Stalker had escaped after the healer had gone home for the night.

“Hm.” Carol's expression became pensive once more. “Well, then. I believe I can leave the other one for the moment. You've made a good case for the Hebert girl's innocence, and I can stand by that.”

Had Carol chosen to debate that specific point, arguing that two hundred plus fatalities outweighed a possibly concussed declaration of wanting to be a hero, it would've almost certainly come down to a court case. Even if Taylor were subsequently acquitted of all wrongdoing—not necessarily a sinecure, given the current atmosphere surrounding the Canary case—the PRT would most assuredly come out of it with a great deal of blame attached. Emily knew she'd be out of a job, as would nearly everyone with any connection to Shadow Stalker. The Wards and Protectorate would be split up and assigned around the country, and entirely new teams brought in to cover Brockton Bay. And the local villains, Emily knew with a certainty that bordered on prescience, would chew up and spit out whoever was brought in to 'handle' them.

Thus, she was feeling just a little relief as she nodded in reply. We aren't quite out of the woods yet, but we're closer than we were. “Thank you, Mrs Dallon. You're now on the same page as Glory Girl. The two of you may now discuss the case freely, assuming nobody else is listening in.” Her eyes flickered momentarily to the time display on her computer screen. She still had a few minutes up her sleeve, but fewer than she would've liked. “Were there any more questions?”

“Just one.” Carol Dallon stood, brushing her hands off on her skirt. She gave Emily a long, considering look; not in the least bit intimidated, Emily returned it with interest. “Is the culprit free or in custody?”

“You're not cleared to know anything about the culprit,” Emily reminded her just a little tartly. She just never stops. “And no pressing Panacea on the matter, either.” While she didn't think the healer would give her mother chapter and verse, there was no harm in giving the lawyer a firm directive.

“You won't have to worry about that.” Turning, Brandish pointed at Glory Girl. “Victoria, come along.” With a purposeful stride, she made for the door. Emily was just starting to realise what was happening when Glory Girl stopped.

“Mom,” the blonde teenager protested. “What about Ames?” She looked back toward her sister, and Emily could read the worry in her eyes.

“What about her?” Carol paused at the threshold. “Director Piggot, Panacea attacked me from behind. She used her powers on me without my permission. I can forgive many things, but not that.” Standing in the doorway, she gave Emily a direct look. “I wash my hands of her. You seem to have need of her; I don't want to ever see her again.”

“Brandish.” Emily didn't raise her voice, but she could see she had Carol Dallon's full attention. “You're making a mistake. You can't blame your own daughter for subduing you before you could start a fight inside a moving vehicle. Especially over a situation where you've admitted that you were ignorant of the facts.” She strove for a reasonable tone, but even as she spoke, she saw the woman's face shut down altogether.

Brandish looked bleakly back at her. “You're the one who's making a mistake. Two of them, in fact. First: New Wave is not under PRT orders, so you don't get to tell me what I can and can't do. Second: Panacea isn't my daughter, and never has been. I've had my doubts about her for a long time, and today merely proved me right. She doesn't belong in New Wave. As of right now, she's off the team.”

Emily cursed herself for the wounded pride she heard in the woman's voice. She was the one who'd dismantled Carol Dallon's carefully constructed narrative and shown how close she'd come to making a catastrophic mistake. In the normal run of things, she had no doubt Brandish would have cooled down and become amenable to reason in a relatively short time. However, in this particular instance, Carol needed to salve her hurt feelings by lashing out at someone. Emily was manifestly just doing her job, but Panacea had also drawn her mother's ire. This apparently coincided with an ongoing problem between the two of them, bringing it into the open once and for all. I think I'm going to have to revisit Panacea's file.

“Mom!” Glory Girl stared at her mother, then at her sister. “You can't just -”

“Glory Girl.” Emily's tone brooked no interference. More importantly, she interrupted the teen hero before she could repeat the mistake that Emily herself had just made. “Go with your mother. Panacea will be fine.” She glanced toward the healer, noting how she was huddled inside her hoodie as if trying to disappear into the wallpaper. … I hope.

Goddamn cape drama. She suppressed the thought even as she watched the door close behind Glory Girl. The stakes right now were more important than the hurt feelings of a prima donna cape. Maybe Brandish's family would be able to talk her around, and maybe they wouldn't. What was important was that Taylor Hebert woke up to a friendly, non-threatening environment. Which meant Panacea had to be on deck for that. Is she up to it?

“Miss Dallon. Are you all right?” Emily made her voice as gentle as possible. Picking up the folder, she stood and moved around the desk, stopping short of actually crossing the room and crowding into the teenager's space. Wonder of wonders, Armsmaster took the hint and moved a couple of steps away from Panacea as well.

Panacea sniffled and surreptitiously wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I … I guess,” she mumbled. “That was a bit sudden, is all.” She drew in a deep breath and straightened up again. “I can deal. She'll cool off. Eventually.” Emily wasn't quite sure whether or not to believe her. She wasn't even certain if Panacea believed her own words.

Armsmaster, apparently, had fewer doubts. “That-a-girl,” he said encouragingly. “You did what you had to. She'll come around.” He paused for a moment. “And even if she doesn't, we've got the Wards program -”

“- but we'll talk about that another time,” Emily cut in briskly. Not the right time, Mr Wallis. “Right now, I believe Taylor's about to wake up. Amy, do you feel up to sitting with her again?” She didn't quite hold her breath over the answer, but if pressed, she would've admitted to a certain amount of tension. Amy Dallon's insights into the teenage mindset had come in extremely handy on the previous night.

Panacea's chin came up and her resolve visibly firmed. “I can do that,” she said; to Emily's ear, her voice held a note of something akin to gratitude.

Right at that moment, Emily had no idea what was going through the girl's head. The mood whiplash made her want to sigh with relief and bang her head on the desk, all at the same time. I need a teen girl whisperer for my teen girl whisperer. Is this what it's like to be a parent? “Good,” she said out loud. “I do appreciate the time and effort you're putting in.”

Wonder of wonders, that actually got her a wan smile. “Thanks,” Panacea said. “I'm just glad I can help someone to not have a shitty day today.”

“Well, she's still got several pieces of unpleasant news to take in,” Emily reminded her. “But with you there, I'm certain she'll take it better than if you weren't.” Which was, she knew, about the understatement of the century. Her background was in the PRT as part of field operations, which meant she was accustomed to giving orders and expecting results. Working with children, having to dance around hurt feelings, was not something she was good at. Of course, she reminded herself sourly, that also applied to working with some of the adult capes as well. Armsmaster's antipathy toward Dauntless was, after all, perhaps the worst-kept secret in the Brockton Bay PRT building.

Amy Dallon nodded. “I'll do what I can,” she promised. She squared her shoulders and moved toward the door. “We'd better get moving. She won't be asleep for much longer.” Now she had been reminded of her charge, Emily noted with bemusement, she was once more acting like a medical professional rather than a traumatised teenager. There would probably be an emotional crash coming at some point in the future, but Emily knew the wisest course of action was to deal with one problem at a time. We'll deal with that when we get to it.

“Well, then,” Emily said. “Let's not waste any time.” Moving toward the door, she opened it, then paused. “Armsmaster.”

The armoured hero stopped halfway to the door. “Yes, ma'am?”

“Get some sleep. That's an order. Panacea and I can handle this.” It felt good to say it.

To his credit, he didn't even try to argue. “Yes, Director.”

“Good.” With that, Emily turned and led the way toward the infirmary.

<><>​

Taylor

This time, when I woke up, my mind was a lot less confused. It took me only a few seconds to recall that I was in the PRT infirmary, and what had gone before. It would still have been frightening and unfamiliar, but my blurry vision made out Panacea—Amy—sitting at the side of the bed, her hand touching mine.

“Hey,” I said, my voice a little raspy. “Did you get any sleep last night?” Taking her hand, I squeezed it. “Dunno if I said thanks last night, but thanks.”

“And what about your dear old dad?” It was Dad's voice, all right. I turned my head as my glasses were pushed into my free hand. After fitting them on to my face—and rubbing the sleep from my eyes—I took a good look at him. For once, he looked well-rested and clean-shaven, and the smile he sent my way was worth more than gold or jewels to me. Letting go of Panacea's hand, I sat up and hugged Dad fiercely, feeling his arms go around me in return.

“Feeling better, kiddo?” he asked, the smile showing through in his voice as he let me go. My smile only broadened; he didn't often call me that, but when he did, he meant it. It showed the depth of emotion he was feeling right at that moment.

“Lots, actually.” I meant it, too. I still remembered what had happened the previous evening, but with the distance of a good night's sleep between now and then, I was able to view it more objectively. Of course, there were some things I didn't really want to remember, and for which I'd probably need therapy, but … “Well, not totally okay.” I took his hand and squeezed it, feeling him return the pressure. My eyes went down and away from him. “I don't know if I'll ever really be okay again. But I'm not as big a mess as I was last night.”

“That's good to hear, Miss Hebert.” I looked up at the new voice, just as Panacea recaptured my free hand. A heavy-set woman wearing a blue business suit had entered the infirmary. She looked vaguely familiar to me, but the big hint was the way the guard stood to attention as she walked past him. “I'm Director Emily Piggot. You're in my building. Do you have any complaints about your treatment here?”

I tried to sit up a little straighter. The name of the Director of the local branch of the PRT was known to me, of course. Somehow, I'd thought she'd be taller. Grey eyes glinted back at me as I struggled to think of something to say. “I, uh, no, everyone's been really good. Thanks, uh …” Thanks for not Birdcaging me? How do I even say that without sounding like an idiot?

She gave me a measured nod, although her expression didn't change. I got the impression she only smiled for important events, such as the defeat of an Endbringer. “You're entirely welcome, Taylor. May I call you Taylor?”

Unlike some people who asked that sort of question, she actually paused after asking, instead of automatically assuming consent. I blinked stupidly for a second, then forced my mouth to work. “Uh, yeah, of course. Uh, Director.”

“Thank you. I'm here to speak to you about several important matters, Taylor.” Her gaze, which had already been intimidating, became even more intense. “But first, an important thing to note. You are not in trouble. Do you understand this? What I'm about to say is very serious, but I've had my people working hard through the night, and they've ironed out the details of what did actually happen yesterday. And it's not your fault.”

I wanted to believe her; I really did. But the memory of what I'd done came home to me once more. “But … I killed those people. With my powers.” I felt Panacea and Dad squeeze my hands at the same time. It helped, a little.

“Taylor, I've been doing my job here for ten years.” Her voice was firm, if a little harsh. “If there's anything I've learned in my time here, it's that there's a clear distinction between responsibility and guilt. Yes, your power is responsible for those deaths, but that doesn't make you guilty of murder.”

Her words weren't making sense. “If I'm not … then who is? Who can you blame for this? My power did it.”

I'd been wrong about her not smiling, although the expression that crossed her face was almost predatory. “The boys who attacked you would have been held responsible, but they're all dead. So the blame devolves on to the person who gave them their orders.”

My eyes opened wide. “Sophia Hess?” Wait—they can actually blame her for all this? Then reality returned, like a dousing from a bucket of cold water. It's not like they can prove it. “She'll just say she didn't do it.”

“As I said.” The Director's lips tightened. “My people have been busy. However, there's something you don't know about her. Something you need to know before we go any farther. Something that changes everything.”

I had no idea what to make of this. “Um … sure?”

She moved closer to the bed and held out a folder to Dad. “I'm going to need both of you to sign this, to show you're aware of the legal ramifications of passing on anything you hear in this room.”

“Sure, but I'm going to be reading it through first,” he said. I wasn't surprised; given his job in the Dock Workers, he always treated any contract with extreme caution. It wasn't what was in there that you had to worry about, he had once told me. It was the stuff that was implied but not actually included. So I was content to relax back onto my pillows—Panacea thoughtfully stole a pile of them from the other beds so I could sit up without discomfort—and let him peruse the document at his own pace.

Eventually, he finished looking it over and nodded. “That makes sense,” he said. “Though what's the Vikare Act again?” As he spoke, he took the pen that was clipped to the folder.

“It's got to do with stopping people from outing heroic capes,” I blurted, then felt myself flush as he and the Director both looked at me. “We covered it in World Affairs last year.”

“I'm pleased to see our educational system isn't quite failing today's youth.” Director Piggot's voice was just a little dry. “But that's basically correct, yes.”

“Right.” Dad signed his usual illegible scribble at the bottom of the document, then passed it over to me, along with the pen. I scrawled my own signature, then passed the folder and pen back to the Director. “So, what's so important my daughter needs to sign her life away before being told what's going on?”

She took a deep breath, looking extremely uncomfortable. I saw her eyes flicker to Panacea; to my surprise, the healer nodded slightly and made a go-on gesture. A grimace crossed the Director's face. “I'm going to do something now that I very rarely do. Taylor, Daniel, I want to offer my sincere apologies for everything Taylor's been through since September last. It is, at least in part, the fault of the PRT for not keeping Sophia Hess in line.”

After a few moments, I became aware I was gaping, my jaw hanging open like a landed fish. People like the Director didn't apologise. Not to people like me. Not about … “Wait. Did you say Sophia Hess?”

An expression very much like physical pain had taken up semi-permanent residence on her face; I could see it settling into lines already worn into her face. “I did. You see, Sophia Hess is otherwise known as Shadow Stalker.”

My jaw dropped for the second time in as many minutes. “Wait, what? The living fuck? Sophia's Shadow Stalker? A Ward? Fuck … that's …” My thoughts whirled. Dad looked just as confused as I did, but Panacea … “Wait, did you already know about this?”

“Not until last night,” Panacea said quietly. Her hands were both holding mine. “Shadow Stalker's always been very close-mouthed with her secret identity. If I'd have had even a hint …” Her grip tightened on mine, and I squeezed back. Her support meant so much to me, right at that moment.

“How long have you known?” This was a different side of Dad. His jaw was set, and his tone was granite-hard as he faced the Director. “How long has the PRT been letting this go on?”

“It seems it's been permitted to go on since last September.” The Director didn't look any happier, but she wasn't being defensive about it. “I found out last night. Shadow Stalker, you see, wasn't exactly a model citizen before she joined the Wards. She had a handler, who was supposed to be reporting any irregularities. Between that woman and your Principal Blackwell, nothing of any note got through to me. That side of things is being dealt with as we speak. It was an unconscionable state of affairs, but it's now at an end. Thanks mainly to your daughter.”

“And we're supposed to be grateful after the fact?” Dad wasn't giving an inch. “After my daughter was bullied to within an inch of her life? After what happened yesterday?” His grip on my hand tightened, and I squeezed back. “I could've lost her, because you were all looking in the wrong goddamn fucking direction!”

The Director shook her head. “I don't expect thanks, Mr Hebert. You're entirely correct. This is my job, and I missed things I should've caught. Well, I'm aware of it now. Shadow Stalker's case worker is currently in custody, pending charges. Principal Blackwell is almost certainly going to lose her job, once what my people found on her computer system makes its way to the right people. So are half the teachers in Taylor's year.” She put the folder on the end of the bed and spread her hands. “I acknowledge that the PRT screwed up, Taylor. As the Director, this is ultimately my fault. Right now, I'm working to fix it.”

Dad jumped in. “And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

The Director looked him straight in the eye. “From what we found in the Winslow computer system, you're due a considerably larger compensation check than you got from them last month.”

“Wait a minute.” My head was still buzzing with all the new information, but I picked out several important bits. “You went to Winslow? In the middle of the night? Just for me?”

“Fuck the money!” Dad's eyes locked on to the Director's, and he pointed off to the side. “What are you going to do about Sophia Hess, given she blew out through that window last night? Has she been recaptured?”

“It's a work in progress,” the Director stated firmly. “We know her capabilities, we know her skills, and we'll have her home locked down solid. It's only a matter of time before she's in custody.” I watched her face. From her expression, she was just as angry as Dad, but she was better at concealing it. “She's been caught before. We can do it again.”

“And what happens once you get her?” Dad wasn't letting this go. “A slap on the wrist? Juvey for a couple of years? Shuffled off to the Wards in a different city under a different name?”

“None of the above.” The Director's expression hardened. “I'm going to be pushing for the Birdcage, myself.”

“Really? A teenager?” Dad's expression was sceptical. “Is that ever really going to happen, or are you just saying it? Because I've had people put their hands on their hearts before and -”

“Mr Hebert.” She was starting to show her anger, now. They faced each other, bristling like two dogs that both refused to back down. “If you think for one moment -”

“Director!” I didn't want to step in between them but I knew if this kept escalating, Dad might just throw a punch, and that would be bad for everyone. She swung to look at me, eyes still flinty with anger. “Uh, you said something about finding stuff on Principal Blackwell's computer. Was it really that bad?”

She took a breath then, and seemed to relax slightly. “Yes. I authorised Armsmaster to call in Dragon to help.” She didn't have to say any more. If there was a better person to work with computers than Dragon, nobody knew of them. She was the computer Tinker. “And Dragon found everything there was to find.”

“And Blackwell's losing her job?” I had trouble believing that. While I hadn't personally interacted with the principal of Winslow very much, she had been the authority figure overshadowing my time in high school. With every act of unpunished bullying, every time my complaints had been trivialised, I had learned to trust her less and less, until she was simply there, the anchor to the whole system. It wasn't that she had ever acted against me; more like she had never acted for me. But why that had been, I still couldn't … “Wait. Did she know -” Was she bending over backward because Shadow Stalker is a Ward?

The Director nodded. “Yes. We have arrangements with schools that have Wards attending them. It seems she was inclined to let Shadow Stalker's misbehaviour go a little farther than it should have, in order to keep her in the school and collect the stipend. We have yet to analyse everything we got, but if it seems too egregious, there may be prison time involved.” She seemed neither pleased nor unhappy at this, merely satisfied she was doing her job.

“Good.” Dad had managed to regain his own cool while the Director was talking. He shot me a grateful glance, then directed his attention back toward her. However, his tone had lost a lot of the aggression from before, and he was definitely happy at this turn of events. “She doesn't deserve to run a hot-dog cart, let alone a goddamn high school.”

“So I gathered.” The Director gave him a measured nod. “And you can be certain we'll be dealing appropriately with Shadow Stalker once she's in custody.” She turned toward me. “But there's something else you need to know about. Something that is not your fault.”

Involuntarily, I tensed up. Those three words, no doubt intended to make me feel better, had exactly the opposite result. I glanced from Dad to Panacea. Neither one seemed to be surprised by the way this was going. “Uh …”

“I'm here for you.” Dad squeezed my hand. “Hear her out.” I squeezed back, glad of his presence, but still not sure what was going on.

“Me too.” Panacea gave me a slightly damp smile. “It's gonna be all right. I promise.”

Don't make promises you can't keep. I took a deep breath and looked the Director in the eye. “Okay, hit me.”

She nodded once, looking uncomfortable. “The death toll of the Swarm wasn't just the five people you know about. There were … more. Many more.”

My breath caught in my throat. “M-more?” I heard my voice squeak, and I hated myself for it. “How-how many more? Ten?” My eyes clenched shut, not wanting to see the look in her eyes. The look of pity, with a strong hint of sadness. “Fifty?” There was no answer. “A hundred?”

“Taylor.” Panacea let go my hand; a moment later, I felt her wrap her arms around me. “I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. It was two hundred and seventy-three people.”

… two …

“What?” I nearly screamed the word. “No! Not that many! How? How?”

… hundred ..

“Shh, shh ...” Dad's voice was soothing in my ear as he stroked my hair. “It just happened. Your powers were really widespread. It's not your fault.”

… seventy …

I bucked against Panacea's hug, not sure why I was fighting. “No! I don't believe it! It's not true! How could I do that?”

… three …

I felt Panacea's cheek against mine. It was wet with tears; hers or mine, I wasn't sure. “You didn't do it, Taylor. You didn't do it. You stopped the Swarm as soon as you woke up. You saved lives. It's Shadow Stalker who killed them. Not you.”

… people …

I pushed away from Panacea, tears running down my cheeks, and screamed. My voice echoed from the walls, interspersed with my racking sobs. I screamed again and again, until my throat was raw and I had a headache from the effort I was putting into it. Outside the building, I could feel the bugs starting to get agitated, but I couldn't make myself care. My voice, harsh and ragged, echoed through the room yet again, and blackness welled up at the edges of my vision. I began to slide away into some dark place where I could wail and scream in the darkness, where nobody could hear me.

Then I was back, shuddering and crying. Panacea held me as I sobbed into her shoulder. It felt … better. I could control my emotions more, and the bugs began to settle down again. Someone, probably Dad, patted me on the back.

I might not have been personally responsible for this—despite the Director's assurances, I still harboured some secret doubts—but it was still my power that did it, no matter who had set off the situation. Maybe I should've attacked them earlier. Maybe I should've … I didn't know what I should've done. Something.

I had no idea how long it took for me to cry myself out. All of the repressed emotions came out. All of the anger and fear that had filled me at the time, the terror as I realised what the boys intended, the despair and hopelessness I felt more and more these days. It all came bubbling up as I cried on Panacea's shoulder.

At some point, I realised the headache was gone, and my throat was no longer raw. I still felt like shit, but it was a level of feeling-like-shit I could tolerate. Slowly, I opened my eyes, realising someone had removed my glasses during my crying jag. Panacea smiled at me, close enough that my poor vision could spot it, and offered me a handkerchief. I took it and wiped my eyes, then blew my nose. That went on for some time. Then she took it away and gave me my glasses back.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “You okay?”

I took a good look at her for the first time in … well, ever. Everyone had seen the publicity stills for New Wave, with Glory Girl posing in mid-air, front and centre. In those pictures, Panacea was usually standing off to the side with the cowled robe and the facial scarf, with only her eyes showing. She couldn't fly or bounce bullets off her chest. The prominent red crosses on her costume pointed out her role to all concerned. Nobody bothered her, or bothered with her.

She'd pushed her hood back so messy brown hair framed her concerned eyes. Tiny lines around them told me she hadn't had as easy a life as some people probably thought. She had problems, or she'd had them in the past. I had no doubt that I had similar lines on my own face. I was no great judge of feminine beauty—I knew I didn't have any worth noting—but I figured if she put the effort in, she could be pretty, though her cheekbones weren't pronounced enough for anything more than that. She did have freckles dusted over her nose, and I'd heard some guys found that sort of thing cute, so there was that.

Looking at her from this close, something struck me as weird. Glory Girl's face was well-known, as were the more active members of New Wave. Both Brandish and Glory Girl had classically beautiful faces, with strong cheekbones and heart-shaped faces. Panacea … looked nothing like them. Not in the hair, not in the eyes, not in the shape of the face. And while Flashbang had light brown hair and Brandish was blonde, Panacea's hair was darker than her father's and downright frizzy. Nobody else in New Wave had curly hair at all. Or freckles, for that matter.

“What?” she asked, flushing slightly. “Is there something on my nose?” Lifting her free hand—the other one was still holding mine—she rubbed at it.

“No, sorry.” I felt embarrassed to have been caught staring. “It's just that I've seen your picture a thousand times, but I've never actually seen your face before.”

She rolled her eyes in what looked like a practised move. “It's just a face. Nobody looks at me. Everyone looks at Vicky.” I wasn't quite sure what to make of her tone. Was she annoyed or relieved?

“I know what that's like.” I didn't like to think of Emma, with all she'd done to me, but if it let me relate to Panacea even superficially, I could stand it. “I … used to have a best friend who models occasionally. All the boys look at her. Never at me.”

“Um, honey, why do you say 'used to have'?” asked Dad. He was still standing next to the bed, I realised with an awkward start. Director Piggot was still standing off at a discreet distance. I had no idea what she thought of me now. Overly emotional teenager probably rated high on the list.

“Uh …” I stopped short. Dad didn't know about Emma, or Madison. He knew about Sophia, but not that she was connected to them. Oh, god. What do I tell him?

“She screwed me over.” It took me a second to realise the voice was mine. I was speaking the words I'd never thought I would say out loud. “Sophia's her best friend now. They've got another friend called Madison. Ever since we went to Winslow, they've been bullying me.” With an effort, I closed my mouth, panting slightly. What the hell was that? I'd managed to keep all that secret from Dad for more than a year, and now I was just casually blurting it out?

“What … the … hell?” Dad's eyes opened wide behind his glasses. “Why didn't you tell me? Like … a year ago?” I could see the anger mounting in his face again.

I thought I had it. The emotional release from all the crying had temporarily knocked down my normal barriers. My filters needed re-establishing before I blurted out all my secrets to the world. “At first I thought it was me.” Okay, that's good. “Then I tried complaining to the teachers. But it didn't help. And you were still grieving for Mom, and I didn't want to put more on your plate. Then it was too late. It had gone on too long, and I didn't know how to tell you.” Yeah, that's better.

The Director pulled out a phone and stepped away from us, dialling a number. I didn't know what was going on with her, but I guessed if it was urgent, she would've spoken to the guard at the door.

“Still, you should've told me,” he said, an agonised look on his face. “I mean, god, Taylor.”

I sighed softly. Panacea squeezed my hand encouragingly. “Yeah, I got it.” My voice was resigned. “I'm an idiot.” Then I remembered something he'd said before I'd been given the news on the death toll. “Wait a minute. You said Sophia blew out of here through that window. How did you know she … wait, did she do that while I was in here?”

He nodded reluctantly. “She was going to—I think she was going to try and kill you. But I stopped her.” He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“Stopped her?” Now I was curious. “How did you do that?” My Dad, the hero. For a moment, I imagined him tackling Sophia to the ground and wresting the crossbows from her hands.

“I, uh, hit her on the head …” He mumbled three more words so quietly I didn't hear them. But apparently Panacea did, because she burst out laughing.

“What?” I stared at him, then at her. “What was that? What did he say?”

“With a bedpan!” she whooped. “Mr Hebert, that's awesome!” She held up her hand for a high-five across the bed. With a bemused expression on his face, he returned it.

As the mental image of Dad bonking Sophia Hess over the head with a bedpan sent me into a fit of the giggles, a thought occurred to me.

Things could be worse.

<><>​

Sophia

This sucks.

Sophia looked around the confines of the small room she'd been shown to. It was a little larger than a prison cell, but not hugely so. Also, she was fairly certain it was underground, which explained the total lack of windows. In fact, the whole base struck her as being still under construction, with trailing wires here and there, and lots of crates with odd stencilled markings on them stacked up in large piles. Coil's mooks seemed to be relatively disorganised, which would suck for them if the place had to be defended in a hurry. If the PRT came in here right now, they could roll these guys up pretty easily.

Standing up from the bed—at least it was an actual bed, rather than a hard concrete slab—she took three steps and opened the closet tucked away in one corner. There were hangers, but no clothes at the moment. Let's hope I'm not here long enough to need to store anything in here. She moved on, into the tiny bathroom that the room boasted. Washbasin, commode, shower cubicle. All the fittings looked as though they'd been bought pre-fabricated and plugged into place. I wonder if that actually means something I can use?

After a moment, she dug the phone out of the pouch on the back of her belt. Powering it up, she checked the charge. It still had over seventy percent, which was heartening. Unfortunately, it also showed zero signal bars. Figures. Lots of concrete means lots of rebar. But this didn't mean she couldn't use the camera. Maybe Calvert can match these to a purchaser. Careful to turn the flash off, she took several shots of the bathroom fittings, and one of her bed. A distant clanging warned her someone was approaching her door. It did have a lock on the inside—for which she was obscurely grateful—but she had no illusions about its ability to withstand a determined force.

By the time the mercenary banged on her door, she had the phone powered down and back in the pouch. She unlocked the door and opened it. “What the fuck do you want?”

“Here.” The uniformed man thrust a carrier bag at her. “Boss wants you costumed up and out front of his office in ten.” His helmet had a closed faceplate, just like the rest of them, though his nametag read MINOR. She wasn't sure if that was his real name, a codename, or an indication that he was only seventeen. Not that she cared either way.

“I'm already costumed up.” She ignored the carrier bag and tapped the mask she was wearing. “See?” Moron.

“Nope.” He shook his head. “You're not Shadow Stalker any more. Protectorate sees that costume, they'll come down on you like the hounds of hell. Some cape they've never seen before, it'll be business as normal. Take the damn bag.”

He had a point, though she didn't like to admit to anyone getting the better of her, even in an argument. With a sneer that was wasted on him, she snatched the bag from his hand and stepped back into her room. Even as she closed the door again, the resonant clanging indicated he was heading off again on whatever other duties Coil had planned for him.

Reaching into the bag, she pulled out a tinted visor attached to a boxing-style head protector. This she tossed on to the bed. The next thing she found was a shopping bag containing half a dozen sets of feminine underwear, all in generic brands. She sneered again; Emma had shown her the difference in quality between generic and designer brands, and she'd never gone back. Finally, she found a set of urban-camo fatigues in her approximate size, and a hooded cloak in the same pattern.

I'm Shadow Stalker, damn it. She didn't want to change costumes, because that meant these assholes were impressing their wills on her, and she didn't take that shit. Not for one hot Brockton Bay second. But she knew she had to play along, just for a while. Right up until I can turn around and fuck them up hard.

Five minutes later, her Stalker costume was folded neatly on the bed, or as neatly as she ever folded it. In its place, she was wearing the urban camo. Over her face, she fitted the faceplate; it didn't obscure her vision nearly as much as she'd worried about. After a moment spent figuring how to attach the cloak to the costume, she headed into the bathroom to check herself out.

It was definitely a good look. With her normal mask, people could focus more or less on her eyes, but with this one, there was nothing to focus on. Like Clockblocker, but badass. It changed her whole appearance, a lot more than she'd figured it would. I think I can scare the fuck out of people like this.

With that pleasant thought in mind, she headed back into the main room and considered the utility belt. If I put it on, people might wonder why. After a few moments, she took out the phone and earpiece. The latter went into her ear, almost entirely concealed by the head protector even before she pulled the hood up. The phone was more problematic; she tried it in half a dozen different pockets before deciding that tucking it into her bra was her best bet. It rode awkwardly, and wasn't particularly comfortable, but it was the best she was going to get.

Thus fully costumed, she strode from her room toward Coil's office. Every mercenary she passed had a sidearm or a rifle, whereas she had no weapons. Even though the strongest reaction she got was an occasional odd look, every step caused her to feel the lack of armament more and more keenly.

When she got there, she hesitated. Do I knock and wait, barge in, or phase through the door? No, scratch that last. It's almost certainly wired. The Tinkertech circuitry in her Shadow Stalker mask had not been replicated in her visor. While this wasn't exactly surprising, it did leave her feeling slightly more vulnerable.

She was just making up her mind to knock when the door slid open and Coil stepped out. She couldn't see his eyes, but from the way he moved his head, he was looking her over. “Good,” he said, his dry-as-dust voice giving her the creeps. “It suits you. Unless you have an objection, your new codename will be Spectre.”

What the fuck do I say to that? On the one hand, 'spectre' was a little close to 'spook', which still got used as an insult from time to time. On the other, it was kind of badass. And hadn't there been a James Bond villain group called that? Then she took a mental grip on herself. What the fuck am I worried about? They can call me what they like. I'm goddamn Shadow Stalker, bitches. “Sure,” she said. “Sounds kickass to me.”

“I'm glad you approve.” She couldn't quite tell if he was being sarcastic. “Go with Fish. He'll take you to meet the people you'll be working with.” He turned away from her and headed back into his office. She considered striking then and there, decapitating the organisation, but that would make her chances of survival somewhat slim. I'll wait till later. See what Calvert has to say.

With that thought in mind, she turned to go look for Fish, only to find the burly mercenary standing right behind her. “Holy fuck!” she yelped, jumping half a yard back. “Don't do that!” He wasn't there ten seconds ago. And how did he sneak up behind me? Is he a fucking cape too?

“Do what?” He handed her the shopping bag from her room. “That's yours. Let's go.” His voice revealed nothing out of the ordinary. For all she knew, his hobby consisted of scaring the living shit out of teenage girls.

Numbly she took the bag, then glared at him—to no avail, she recalled a moment later, as they were both wearing tinted visors. “The fuck? You get this out of my room?”

“And if I did?” He shrugged. “The boss said to get it and meet you here. Anyway, you're being posted away from this base. Your other stuff will go into storage until you get back.” There was no triumph, no gloating. Just simple statements of fact. He pivoted on his heel and moved off, his boots clanging rhythmically on the metal catwalk. “Coming?” he called over his shoulder.

After a moment, she followed. He moved easily, with a long stride she couldn't duplicate; as it was, she had to half-trot to keep up. Bet I could still outrun you on the flat, asshole. With a permanent sneer on her face, she kept pace with him as they headed for the exit.

When they reached the last door, he pulled a familiar-looking bag from his pocket. “Gotta put this on.”

She shook her head. “No. Fuck off. I'm one of you guys now. I'm even wearing your pansy-ass uniform.” Even though it does look kinda badass on me.

Unmoved, he shook his head. “Boss's orders.” He offered the bag again.

Fuck. I have got to get orders soon. And for that, I've gotta get outside. With a snarl, she snatched the bag from his hand, pulled back the hood, and yanked the bag over her head. “Okay, happy now?”

“Totally.” His voice was deadpan. She felt his hand descend on her shoulder, and he guided her to a vehicle. After she heard the door open, she felt her way around until she could climb in. The door closed behind her, then after a moment Fish got in on the far side. “I'll get you close, then give you directions,” he said. “You can walk the rest of the way. They know you're coming.”

“Who the fuck are they?” She hated asking, especially from inside the bag, but she also hated being kept in the dark. Figuratively and literally. “And when will you assholes be giving me my crossbows back?”

“You'll find out when you meet them.” Fish started the car. “And you won't be getting your crossbows back. They're too easy to trace back to you. Boss says you'll be supplied with new weapons.” The vehicle moved off, leaving Sophia to stew in her own thoughts. The mercenary was right, she decided, but she didn't have to like it. And she really didn't like being unarmed. Not that that was really an issue; if it came down to it, whatever weapons the enemy had would soon be her weapons.

Still, the loss of the crossbows hurt, even if they would identify her to the PRT and Protectorate. God damnit.

<><>​

“Okay, we're here.” The car pulled to a halt. Sophia had no idea where she was, save that the roads had been getting rougher.

“Can I take the fucking bag off yet?” she snapped. Her nostrils felt suffused with the musty smell of unwashed cloth.

“You could've taken it off five minutes ago,” he said, a tone of mild surprise in his voice. “I kind of figured you liked it that way.”

Asshole! She jerked the bag off her head and gave him the finger with both hands at once. “Not fuckin' funny, shitbag,” she hissed.

Although she couldn't see his face, she got the distinct impression he was raising an eyebrow at her. “Actually, it kinda was.” He pointed out through the windshield. “See that intersection? Turn right, go half a block. Big-ass building on the right. You'll hear dogs barking. Go on in. Introduce yourself.”

She wanted to hit him, but there was no way it would go well after that. With one final impotent glare, she opened her door and got out, then stomped on down the street. She heard the car pulling a U-turn behind her, and looked back to get a read on the license plate. To her irritation, it was smeared with mud. Which was, she decided, probably deliberate. Because Coil's not stupid. Which is gonna make it all the more satisfying to take his ass down, once and for all.

She trudged on down the street and turned the corner. This was the crappy area of town. Shopfronts were closed, and wrecked cars decorated the street here and there. Down on the right was indeed a large brick building. She broke into a trot to get there before anyone spotted her, the cloak billowing out behind her. Rather than wait for whoever was inside to unlock the personal-entrance door, she phased into shadow and stepped through the obviously-stuck roller-door. Inside was dark and smelled of rust and mould. And dog, too; even as she registered the smell, a storm of barking started up from … above?

Looking around, she saw a spiral staircase ascending into the gloom. She took the stairs two at a time, moving as quietly as she knew how. Whoever these guys were, she wanted to make a proper appearance. She just wished she had her weapons, so she could ensure they knew not to fuck with her.

As she reached the top, she heard voices over the barking. Someone was shushing the dogs, while other people were talking to each other.

“Sounds like our new member's here.” That was a girl.

“Any idea who it is?” A guy, sounded kinda husky.

“Eh, so long it's not some kinda dork.” Another guy, with what sounded like a no-shits-given attitude.

There were lights on inside, so she decided to show off a bit. Placing the shopping bag on the floor, she turned to shadow and leaped inside, rolling to her feet and turning solid with her new cloak flaring behind her. It was, she decided, one of her better entrances.

“What -”

“Holy shit -”

“Look out -”

Two guys and two girls were staring at her. None were masked or costumed, but there seemed to be something terribly familiar about them. The stocky auburn-haired girl kneeling with the dogs recovered first. “It's Shadow Stalker!” she yelled. Raising her hand as the dogs began to growl, she pointed at Sophia and started to frame a command.

“No, wait!” It was the blonde with the elaborate French braid in her hair. “Guys, this is our new member.” Amusement flared in her eyes, and she began to chuckle. Then that devolved into full-on laughter.

“The fuck?” The skinny guy with the delicate features and curly hair stared at her. “Shadow Stalker is our new fucking member? How the fuck does that even work?”

The big black guy stood up, towering over Sophia even from across the room. Darkness began to leak from his skin, confirming her rapidly-growing suspicions about whose base she had just walked into. Fuck me. It's the Undersiders. And she was unarmed, up against Grue, in a confined space. Someone whom she'd shot with a broadhead arrow not so very long ago. He'll fucking murder me.

The blonde—fucking Tattletale—let up on her laughing for just a moment. “She—she ran from the PRT,” she gasped. “Wanted for—oh shit, this is too good—all the shit she's done. She's legit, guys.” With that, she lost control of her hilarity to the point where she fell off the sofa arm she'd been perched on, ending up out of Sophia's sight. Her feet stuck out into view, kicking at the carpet in tune with her repeated peals of laughter.

Grue rubbed the back of his neck and stared at her. “This is not fucking cool,” he growled.

For the first time in her life, she found herself agreeing with him.



End of Part Ten

Part Eleven

 

Price of Blood

Part Eleven: Upsides, Downsides and Underside(r)s

[A/N: this chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Barnes Household
Thursday, February 3, 2011
0815 AM

“Honey, you'd better get ready for school.”

Emma, still clad in pyjamas and holding a bowl of cereal on her lap, turned her head to look over the back of the sofa at her mother. “Don't have to go to school today. They're shut down because of the Swarm.” She gestured at the TV with the hand holding her spoon. “See?” Part of her was a little disappointed because she wouldn't see Taylor's face after spreading the rumour that she was the Swarmbringer—as if!—but the majority of her was quite happy to chill at home. Or on the Boardwalk, with Sophia and Madison.

She supposed that she should feel bad about all those people who died in the Swarm, but worse things happened every few months when the Endbringers attacked. People died. It was a thing. She wasn't one of them, and she hadn't lost anyone she knew (as far as she was aware) so it was like Sophia said: If you didn't move on and become stronger from your ordeal, the world would steamroll over the top of you.

“I suppose.” Zoe Barnes sighed. “I wish you wouldn't eat cereal on the sofa. Can't you eat it at the table, like a civilised person?” Her tone was long-suffering, but Emma could tell she didn't really mean it.

“If I eat at the table, it means I can't watch TV,” Emma pointed out logically. After all, watching TV was a God-given right shared by every red-blooded American teenager. She was sure she'd read that somewhere. “Anyway, I'm being careful.” Beside her, her phone buzzed. Putting the spoon in the bowl and balancing the latter on her legs, she picked up the phone and tapped in the code to open it. The text wasn't from Sophia, which was a little puzzling. The last message she'd gotten from the Ward was “GTG, busy” and Sophia hadn't texted back since. I'll wait till I know she's off duty, then I'll message her. Though it was probably against some rule or other, Sophia usually shared her duty roster with Emma, so that the redhead knew when to contact her and when to stay off the line.

The text was from Madison, but that wasn't the weird bit. Normally the petite girl was on point with her messages, and sometimes she had some funny shit to share. But this one simply consisted of 'Get o'. What ever 'o' was. Maybe she got a phone call while she was texting, and accidentally sent it? Emma had done that herself before. With a grin on her lips, she texted back, 'Get o yourself, munchkin'. Dropping the phone on the sofa, she was about to resume eating her cereal when the doorbell rang.

“Emma, can you get that?” her mother called out from the kitchen.

Yeah, as if. “Mom, I'm eating cereal in my p-j's,” Emma called back. “What'll that look like if I answer the door?”

After a moment, during which time the doorbell rang again, Zoe emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Well, if you got dressed at a civilised hour and ate cereal at the table like a normal person, there wouldn't be a problem, would there?” Her tone held a certain amount of asperity, but not so severe that Emma thought she might be in trouble.

“Uh huh, yeah, you're totally right.” Her objective achieved—not having to get up to answer the door—Emma tuned her mother out and turned her attention back to the TV. Maybe I'll have some toast, after. But she'd have to be careful with it; her mother was even more unreasonable about toast crumbs on the sofa than she was about milk spills. If it wipes off, what's the big deal?

She resumed eating cereal, losing herself in the blissful nirvana of being a teenage girl whose biggest question was what she was going to wear to the Boardwalk later. Another TV spot came up about the Swarm, but it showed nothing new. She'd seen the grainy picture of Taylor before, of course. A smile crept across her lips as she imagined accusing Taylor of being the Swarmbringer and scoffing at her panicked denials.

“Emma.” Zoe's voice, much more serious than normal, cut into her daydream. Emma looked up with innocence written all over her face, ready to promise to wash the dishes or take the trash out … later. Much later. Maybe tomorrow. Or next week.

When she saw the two police officers, one male and one female, her heart skipped a beat. Having cops in your house, looking sternly at you, was never a good situation. “Uh, Mom?” She swallowed, her throat having unaccountably gone dry. The spoon in her hand still held a load of cereal on its way to her mouth. “What's going on?”

The male cop, about the same size and heft as her father, had a notebook in his hand. “Miss Emma Barnes?” When she nodded mutely, he went on. “I'm Sergeant Pauling, and this is Trooper Jameson. We need to ask you questions about your relationship with Taylor Hebert, Sophia Hess and Madison Clements.”

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. “I'm … uh, I'm not sure what you're talking about,” she bluffed weakly.

The big cop shook his head slightly. “Trooper Jameson, does it seem to you that Miss Barnes is being uncooperative?”

His partner, who was shorter with blonde hair bunched tightly at the base of her neck, nodded. “It does seem that way, Sergeant.”

“I'm glad we agree.” He nodded to the piece of paper that Zoe was holding. “Miss Barnes, that's a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of multiple cases of verbal, emotional and physical assault against Taylor Hebert, as well as theft and false imprisonment. You'll be coming down to the station with us. Mrs Barnes, we need you to come along as well, unless you'd like to have someone else representing her instead?”

Emma stared. “Wait, what? But—but Taylor's a liar! She's been telling tales about this all year! How can you believe her over me? Ask anyone! Ask Sophia! Ask Madis ….” She trailed off, recalling too late the text that Madison had sent to her. 'Get o'. Get out.

“Oh, we will be asking Miss Clements exactly what she has to say,” Trooper Jameson said with some satisfaction. She produced a laminated card from her belt and began to read in an almost bored monotone. “You are now under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have him present with you while you are being questioned. If you cannot hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before any questioning if you wish. You can decide at any time to exercise these rights and not answer any questions or make any statements.” Pausing, she looked up from the card. “Miss Barnes, do you understand each of these rights as I've explained them to you?” She waited expectantly.

Emma knew her rights, of course. Growing up with a father for a lawyer—even a divorce lawyer—it was almost impossible not to. She also knew it wasn't a bright idea to pretend that she didn't understand them, especially with her mother right there. “Yeah,” she said sullenly. “I understand them.”

“Good.” The trooper gave her a bright smile. “Having these rights in mind, do you wish to talk to us right now?”

Her father had also explained carefully that no matter how friendly the police officer, it was never a good idea to talk to one without a lawyer present. “Nope. Shutting up now. I want my Dad.”

The cops traded a glance. “That's your right,” the policewoman said. “Up you get, miss. As the sergeant just told you, we're going down to the station and processing you in.”

For a moment, Emma considered just staying on the sofa. Common sense intruded; Trooper Jameson didn't look exactly puny, and Emma had no doubt that she'd be dragged to the car if necessary. Or carried, for that matter. Putting the bowl of cereal to one side, she reluctantly stood up. “Can I at least get changed?”

“Certainly.” That was the sergeant. “Trooper Jameson will accompany you at all times.” His voice brooked no disagreement.

“No!” The word was jerked out of Emma's throat. “I'm not letting her see me with my clothes off!” She looked wildly to her mother. “Mom, tell them they can't do that!”

“Miss Barnes.” Trooper Jameson didn't sound so friendly any more. “I will remind you once that you're under arrest. We haven't handcuffed you, but that's just a courtesy. Yes, I will be accompanying you into your bedroom. Besides, I used to work in a women's prison. You've got nothing I haven't seen before. Now, did you want to change or go as you are?”

Emma blinked. Her mother was looking helplessly from her to the policewoman and back. She obviously wanted to object, but didn't seem to know what to say. “Mom?”

Zoe grimaced. “Emma, do as they say. I'm going to be calling your father to meet us at the station. Don't answer any questions.” She turned to the male cop. “I'll be coming with you.”

“Certainly.” He nodded politely to her, then pointed at the couch. “Is that your daughter's phone?”

Oh, shit. All of a sudden, Emma became very aware of exactly how many incriminating texts there were on her phone. Say no, Mom. Say no.

Telepathy was obviously not Emma's forte, because her mother nodded. “Yes, that's her phone. Do you need it as well?” She picked it up from the sofa.

“Mom!” Emma knew that speaking up was probably a bad idea, but the words came out before she could stop them. “That's my personal, private property! Don't just—just hand it over to them!”

“Actually, we will be requiring that, yes.” The sergeant held up another piece of paper. “As it happens, we do have a search warrant for the phone belonging to Emma Barnes.”

“But what if that's not my only phone?” demanded Emma, looking desperately for any loophole. “You can't just grab any of them.”

“Very true,” agreed the sergeant. He passed the warrant to Zoe and pulled out his own phone. “According to our files, the phone we are looking for has this number.” He tapped at his screen. A moment later, the phone in Zoe's hand began to ring. “And that's the phone we're after.” He shut off the call. Putting his own phone away, he accepted Emma's phone from her mother and carefully placed it in a ziplock bag. “If our findings are correct, this holds potential evidence of conspiracy to commit a crime.”

Jameson patted Emma on the shoulder. “Thanks for letting us know it was important, by the way.” She tilted her head toward the stairs. “Let's go, Miss Barnes. Time to get dressed.”

Emma was out of options. Slowly, draggingly, she made her way upstairs, with the policewoman at her heels. For the life of her, she had no idea how this was even happening.

Or how to get out of it.

<><>​

Outside the PRT ENE Building

“Mom, I can't believe you did that!”

Carol felt a creeping doubt that she'd handled the situation as well as possible, but done was done. “Victoria, she attacked me from behind. You saw it. That's unacceptable behaviour.”

“Yeah, but you heard Director Piggot. If you'd kept going the way you were, you coulda got in real trouble.” Victoria pulled out her cell-phone and started dialling.

“Are you calling your sister?” Carol took a step toward her. “Stop that this moment.”

“No.” Glory Girl lifted into the air, holding the phone out of her mother's reach. “I'm calling your sister.”

“What? No!” Carol didn't know how Sarah would take this, but she wanted to have the time to break it to her carefully, not just have it blurted out by her teenage daughter.

Unfortunately, Vicky was out of reach by now. “Hi, Aunt Sarah? Yeah, it's me. Guess what. Mom just disowned Ames and kicked her off the team. Talk sense into her, will you?”

Even from several yards away, Carol heard the “WHAT?” that made the phone vibrate in her daughter's hand. Then “Give her the phone, NOW!”

Victoria drifted to the ground again, and held out the phone to Carol. “It's for you.”

Carol accepted it with all the eagerness of someone peeling a week-old dead skunk off the asphalt. Reluctantly, she held it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Carol.” Sarah's voice was low and controlled. Carol didn't let this fool her into thinking that her sister wasn't angry. “Please tell me that Victoria's playing some kind of elaborate prank on me. Or that you're playing one on her.”

Carol sighed. “No, it's not a prank, but it's not what you think -”

Before she got any farther, Sarah interrupted. “Okay, if it's not what I think, what is it about? Have you really kicked Amy off the team? If so, why?”

Before she could lose her nerve, Carol said, “Yes, I have.” She shot a glance at Victoria, who was standing there with arms folded. “The reasons why are … complicated.”

“Oh, bullshit!” her daughter shouted. “Mom, put her on speaker. I'll tell her.” She moved toward Carol, her hand held out. “Or give me the phone and I'll put it on speaker myself.”

“No!” Carol stabbed her finger at the phone, muting the call. “Victoria, listen to me.” She took a step back, holding the phone away from her daughter. Distantly, Sarah's voice echoed from the phone, though Carol couldn't quite make out the words.

Victoria scowled, and her next step cracked the asphalt. “Mom, give me the damn phone. You can't hide what you've done from Aunt Sarah forever.”

“No.” For the first time, Carol felt the fear from her daughter's aura that had terrified criminals for the last three years. “You can't tell her. Not without breaking the NDA that you signed.” And violating the Vikare Act. While she hadn't actually thought this through all the way before objecting, the more she thought about it, the more it worked for her.

Victoria stopped her advance and, as the aura dropped away abruptly, Carol became aware of cold sweat sheening her forehead. “Aw, fuck.” She grimaced, running her fingers through her hair. “Okay, I won't tell her about that. But Ames does deserve a fair hearing. And you're not about to give her one, are you?”

“I -” Carol hesitated, caught between honesty and expediency. “Victoria, hitting me from behind like that proves she can't be trusted, don't you understand? It means she's just like her father. And we can't have someone like that in the team.” Watching the look on her daughter's face, she cursed the slip about Amy's father. But without that, Victoria wouldn't have the context. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

Victoria took a deep breath, then her eyes narrowed. “Her father … you're not talking about Dad, are you? You're talking about whoever you adopted her from.” Well, Carol had always known she wasn't stupid.

Carol grimaced. “No, not Mark. Amy's father was … dangerous. Not someone you need to know about right now.” Not ever, if I had my way. “But yes, just to confirm that look in your eyes, he was a villain. Which means that whatever genetic predisposition drove him to crime, she's got it too.” Worse, if anything. Marquis never actually stabbed anyone in the back.

“What the actual fuck do you mean, Mom?” Victoria's voice rose to a shout, uncaring of the curious stares of passers-by. “There's no such thing as 'genetic predisposition' toward crime! That kind of bullshit belongs with the fucking eugenics crap of the nineteen fucking thirties! You've distrusted Ames for the last ten years because of a … a fucking eighty year old bullshit concept that's been debunked fifty ways from Sunday? That's the kind of thing Kaiser and the Empire Eighty-Eight like to wave around! Fuuuck!” She threw her hands in the air in frustration.

“I …” Carol paused. She couldn't remember where she'd actually read the phrase 'genetic predisposition toward crime', but it had stuck with her at the time. And it'd made so much sense to lump Amy in with her father, because they … because Marquis had been a danger to the city who needed to be taken down, goddammit. She'd never wanted to take Amy in, to see those accusing eyes that mirrored Marquis' so closely, every day since. Why did I even agree … A phone rang, making her jump.

For a moment, she looked at Victoria's phone, still clutched in her hand, temporarily forgotten in their argument … still on mute. Except that it wasn't; the screen indicated that the call had ended. Which meant that it was Carol's phone that was ringing. Of course. Sarah got pissed that I put her on hold. Don't really blame her, to be honest.

“Here,” she muttered, handing Victoria's phone back to her. “I've got to take this.” Digging her own phone out, she swiped to answer it. As she'd surmised, it was her sister. She spoke fast, trying to get in first. “Sarah, don't get mad. I had to -”

“Carol, seriously, what the hell? What's going on? Why did you put me on mute?” Carol absently noted that now her sister actually sounded pissed.

She rubbed at her eyes, thinking rapidly. How do I put this … “Look, Sarah. It's complicated, but … there's a cape identity involved. I was … about to do something unwise, and she attacked me from behind. Rendered me unconscious. I … I can't say that what she did was entirely unwarranted, but … I can't trust her any more. Not if she's going to do something like that.”

There was silence from Sarah's end, and Carol checked the phone to see if she'd hung up. No such luck. At about the time Carol put the phone back to her ear, Sarah began speaking again. Now she sounded a little weary. “So where exactly were you when you disowned her and kicked her off the team?”

“In the PRT building.” Carol closed her eyes to weather the blast that was coming. “She's in good hands. Why?”

“Oh, for fuck's sake. Of all the stupid fucking bone-headed stunts you've ever pulled, Carol, this one tops them all with a fucking cherry on top.” Sarah's voice was even more scathing than Carol had anticipated, making her wince away from the phone. “Do you have any fucking idea what you've just done?”

“Well, I didn't drop her off in ABB territory or something,” Carol said defensively. “The PRT -”

“Will snap her up in a hot Brockton Bay minute,” Sarah snapped. “If I know you, you just rejected her in no uncertain terms, leaving her in no doubt that she's off the team. So she's standing in a building that's already housing a teenage superhero team. What do you think they'll do, just as soon as they finish thanking every fucking lucky star they own?”

The inference was unavoidable. “Recruit her,” Carol filled in. It made a lot of sense. “But … why did you ask?”

“Because if you'd dropped her off anywhere but there, I would've been there as soon as I could. I'm team leader, not you. You don't get to kick people off the team unilaterally. I would've adopted her myself before I let her go.” Sarah's voice was savage. “Meanwhile, after your little performance, she's probably accepted she's off the team by now. Well done, sis. You just cost us one of our most valuable members.”

Carol felt her knees weaken, and she sat down on the edge of a garden bed. “But I couldn't … I can't …” Trust her, she wanted to say. Work with her.

“You know what? Fuck this.” It was Victoria's voice. As Carol turned to look, her daughter was just tucking her phone away again. “Mom? You know how you kicked Ames off the team? She just texted me. They're offering her a probationary Wards membership. She's thinking about accepting. And you know something? I'm gonna join her.”

“Victoria, no!” Carol came to her feet in a rush. “Don't rush into this. We can sit down, talk about it like adults -” She held out her hand to stop her daughter.

“What, like you did with Ames?” Victoria gave her a single scathing look, then turned to walk back into the building.

Smarting from the rebuke—from her own daughter, no less!—Carol went to follow, but was distracted by Sarah's voice in her ear. “Carol? What the hell just happened? Was that what I thought it was? Did Vicky just quit New Wave?”

“I'll talk to her,” Carol promised. “Change her mind.” She hurried toward the doors, which had just closed behind Victoria.

“No.” Sarah's voice held iron in that single word. “Don't do a damned thing. You've done enough damage already.”

Bewildered, Carol stared at the frontage of the PRT building. “But …”

“I'm coming down to the PRT building right now to talk to Amy and Vicky, and see if I can't talk them around.” Her voice became a little echoey, which probably meant she had the phone on speaker while she costumed up.

“I … I can help. Provide moral support.” Carol hated the tone in her voice. It made her feel that she was clutching at any straw to prove she wasn't totally screwing everything up.

“No. As leader, I'm suspending you from the team until I get this hot mess sorted out. Go home. Be with Mark. Think about what you've done here.” Sarah hung up the call, leaving Carol staring at the phone.

Well, fuck. She sat down on the edge of the garden bed again. Now what do I do?

<><>​

Taylor
PRT ENE Infirmary

Sitting up in bed, I looked at Dad, then at Panacea and the Director. There was a doctor in the room as well, but he was keeping to the background. I wasn't altogether surprised; the only people who didn't outrank him or have powers were me and Dad. “So, um,” I said, a little surprised by how well I seemed to be taking everything—apart from my initial breakdown, of course—“Where do we go from here?”

Director Piggot put her phone away and addressed me. “When you reminded me of your so-called friend and her associate, I made a call to find out the status of the action against them. Emma Barnes and Madison Clements are in custody at this moment. Even if you were returning to Winslow, they would no longer be an issue for you.” She smiled briefly and without much in the way of humour. “You see, the PRT is actually invested in your well-being.”

“Even though you haven't got Sophia yet.” I still wasn't willing to let that one go quite yet. “I can't believe you had her here, in the building, and she still got away.” My tone made her grimace.

“Not for want of trying. And we will catch her.” She looked me over. “Are you feeling better?”

Obvious change of subject is obvious. Okay, I'll bite. “A little, yes. Now that I know Emma and Madison have been arrested. Though how much of what they've done is actually gonna stick?”

“I wouldn't begin to hazard a guess.” A glint came into her eye. “Though I understand the charges against them are quite extensive. Your journal supplies quite a damning amount of supporting evidence; I'll personally be astonished if they don't end up in juvenile detention, at least for a while.”

“Good.” Dad's fists were clenched, though he didn't look as angry as he'd been before. “I've known Emma for years, but if she's going to backstab Taylor like this, I've got no time whatsoever for her.” His gaze softened as he looked at me. “It's my fault. If I'd been paying more attention -”

“No, Mr Hebert.” The Director's voice was firm. “It was their fault. They chose to bully your daughter. She's not at fault for not reporting it, and you're not at fault for not seeing it. Ms Barnes was your daughter's friend, and Ms Hess was supposed to be a superhero. Whatever their reasons, they have not one excuse for their actions.” She drew herself up to her not inconsiderable height. “I was a field officer before I was invalided out of regular duties into this job. For the longest time, I blamed myself for not being strong enough or fast enough to win. To avoid being injured. But then I realised the truth. What happened to me, happened because someone chose to do it. And now it's my job to help maintain peace and order in this city. To try to make sure that nobody else gets away with making the choice to oppress and abuse others with ill-gotten power.”

“I've seen the state of the city.” Dad's voice was almost mild. “Two major gangs and several smaller ones, all waging a cold war over territory. Muggings and killings are almost a nightly occurrence in the Docks. What was that, exactly, about maintaining peace and order?” Once more, there was a certain amount of challenge in his voice.

The glint was back in the Director's eye. “Trust me, when I stepped into this role, the city was about two bad days away from open warfare. Now, I'd give it a week. How long do you think law and order would last if the PRT and Protectorate were pulled from Brockton Bay?” Taking a deep breath, she stepped away from him then turned to me. “And on that note, Taylor, I would like to extend an invitation for you to join the Wards. You and your powers could be a great asset for us. To help others. To save lives. To make sure that fewer people are victimised as you were.”

The breath caught in my throat. The Director of the PRT wanted me to join the Wards. The local Director, I amended in my head. Still, it was … holy shit. What do I say? I stared at her, wanting to say yes. After the words she'd just spoken, it felt like disloyalty to deny what she was saying. But … I couldn't. After everything I'd been through, to give someone else power over me felt … wrong. But it's for a good cause. I tried to convince myself of that, but it just didn't work. The more I tried to force it, the harder it was to breathe. It was almost like I was back in the alley, my nose broken and swelling, struggling to draw air into my lungs. A buzzing rose in my ears.

“Taylor? Taylor, look at me.” Panacea's voice was soft but insistent. Her hand was warm in mine. “Taylor, it's all right. You don't have to.”

It was like an epiphany. She was right, of course. I didn't have to do anything that Director Piggot said. Even if she meant well, I still didn't have to let her trap me into a velvet prison. I don't have to. As the realisation flooded through me, I took a deep breath of life-giving air, then another. I sat there in bed, just breathing, as my thudding heart began to slow down. The buzzing wasn't there any more, which made me wonder if I'd even heard it, or just imagined it.

“You okay now?” asked Panacea, but of course she knew. The question was for my benefit. I felt a rush of gratitude toward her for merely asking.

“Taylor, what just happened?” Dad said broke in. “You went really pale there for a moment. Are you all right?” He looked at Panacea. “Is she all right?” At that moment, he looked haggard and frightened. Almost as frightened as I'd felt at the idea of being trapped in the coils of yet another unfeeling bureaucracy, unable to escape or even call for help when something went wrong.

“She'll be fine,” Panacea assured him. “It was just a panic attack. A minor one,” she hastened to add, as he opened his mouth once more. “But she got past it. Right, Taylor?” she prompted.

“Y-yeah,” I said, giving her a smile. “I'm good now, thanks.” I turned toward Director Piggot. “I'm sorry,” I said, though I wasn't quite as sorry as I tried to sound. “I can't do it. Not the Wards.” Pausing, I tried to make sense of my disordered thoughts. “You had Sophia in the Wards for months, and she did what she did. I'd always be looking over my shoulder, in case whoever you brought in to replace her was the same. Or worse.”

The Director's face creased in an expression that looked almost like pain, then she shot Panacea a glance that I couldn't interpret. “We do have options,” she said. “I was going to make an offer for you to transfer to Los Angeles, to train under Alexandria. In fact, that was going to be my original offer. After all, I don't know that the people of Brockton Bay would take too well to a bug-controller in the Wards at the moment. The people of LA, however, will never make the connection.” She gave me a look of guarded hopefulness.

“No.” I shook my head again. “The Wards are the Wards. I mean, Alexandria's about the coolest hero ever -”

“Hey!” Panacea protested mock-indignantly. “Where do I rate?”

“- present company not included,” I amended, then stuck my tongue out at her. She rolled her eyes as I continued. “But she's got other things she's got to do. All she has to do is turn her back for one second, and someone in the Wards, just like Sophia, figures out who I am, then decides to make my life hell for it. Again.” I was surprised at the bitter tone in my voice. “And then all this shit starts all over again. Are they more popular than me? Will they be believed more than me? I can't do this shit again.”

Director Piggot sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, her face screwed up in what looked like pain. “Miss Hebert, I'm not trying to coerce you into joining the Wards. I assure you, that is in no way my intention. But you did state that you wanted to be a hero. If being in the Wards is off the table, what do you want?”

“Before you say anything more,” Panacea interrupted, “just so you know, I'm actually joining the Wards myself. More of a support basis than a patrol basis, but … yeah, I'm kinda not in New Wave any more.” She offered me a small smile and squeezed my hand. “Just in case, you know, that helps tip the balance.”

I blinked. Panacea was leaving New Wave and joining the Wards? “When did that happen?” I asked. Was this on my account? I nearly snorted at the ridiculous idea. Whatever it was about, it wasn't about me.

“Oh, it's been coming for a little while,” Panacea said, a little sadly. “But matters came to a head today, so here I am.” She tilted her head. “The current lineup's nice, if a bit boy-heavy. The only other girl's gonna be Vista and she's about twelve, I think. Wanna come with? We can be the edgy ones who sit in the corner and snark at everyone else.”

It was tempting. I'd been pushed down for so long, I wasn't good at socialising. It seemed to me that Panacea had the opposite problem; she didn't like social situations, but she'd probably had them inflicted on her. I thought about taking her up on the offer. Somehow, I suspected there was a lot of snark hidden under her deceptively demure surface. But when I began to seriously consider it, I got that tightness in my throat again. Panacea must've been reading my body, because she grimaced at the same time that I did.

“I'm sorry,” I said truthfully. “I really am. But I just don't … I just can't … there's too much …” I fluttered my free hand at my throat. “Every time I start thinking about it, I feel trapped. Like I can't breathe.”

Panacea chuckled ruefully. “Oh, trust me. I know exactly how that feels. But for me, joining the Wards gets me out of the trap.” She paused, and glanced at me. “Please don't repeat that to anyone, ever. Okay?”

It felt weird to be casually discussing things like this with Panacea. The world-famous healer. She could cure cancer, for crying out loud. But here she was, a normal teenage girl with problems not entirely unlike mine from the sound of it, sitting on my bed and holding my hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. In the same way that I'd held hands with Emma a thousand times before. Like we were … friends.

“Sure, okay,” I assured her with a shrug. “Thanks for being understanding about it.” Then I raised my head as something occurred to me. “Um, quick question. Can you, you know, fix my panic attacks or something?”

She shook her head hastily. “No.” Her voice was so sharp that I realised I'd struck a nerve. She looked down and away from me.

“Oh, uh, sorry.” I felt about one inch tall. “I'm such an idiot. You're healing people all the time. Here we are just chatting, and I just impose on you like that. I'm sorry, I mean -”

“It's not that.” Director Piggot's voice was uncharacteristically soft. “Panacea can't affect brains.”

I glanced up at her, startled at the interruption, before looking back at the healer. “Really? Wow. Shit. I'm sorry.” Pulling my hand free of hers, I enfolded her in a hug. “I didn't mean to bring that up.”

She mumbled something that sounded like, “S'alright.” I kept up the hug and a little after that, her arms crept out to hug me in return. It felt nice.

“Hey, forgive me?” I murmured in her ear. “I'm just an idiot who asks stupid questions, but I promise to do better.”

Her head came up at that. “I'm not pissed at you or anything,” she said, resting her chin on my shoulder. “It just … hurts a bit, when someone reminds me of that.”

“Yeah, I get that.” We eased out of the hug, and I took hold of her hand again. “So, still friends?”

It was her turn to look a little startled. “Friends?” Her face lit up in a smile. “Sure. Why not. It's not like I've got all that many, right now.”

The Director had pulled Dad away from the bed and was speaking to him quietly. I wondered what they were talking about, then shrugged; when I needed to know, Dad would fill me in. “Yeah, tell me about it,” I agreed. Then the incongruity of what she'd just said registered on me. “Wait, what?”

“What?” she asked, staring at me oddly.

“You're Panacea,” I said blankly. “You're about the most accomplished healer ever. You grew that one President a new arm after the last one got shot off. You can cure cancer. How do you not have more friends than, well, everyone?”

She chuckled darkly. “Here's the thing. Sure, people are grateful. But as soon as they're used to being okay, it's 'so what've you done for me today?'.” She rolled her eyes. “And as for social situations, when anyone meets me and Vicky, they're not looking at me.” A gusty sigh escaped her. “If anyone ever tells you that powers are worth the hassle, tell 'em from me that's bullshit.”

I could certainly agree with the last sentiment. And I had a certain amount of experience with being overshadowed in the looks department. “Well I can tell you that I'm grateful not just for the healing, but for just being here. So what if you can't fix brains? I don't care. You're helping me cope just by sitting there, you know?”

“On that note,” the Director said, breaking from the huddle she'd been in with Dad. “Ms Dallon, you're still interested in joining the Wards, yes?” Her voice held its normal intensity.

“Well, uh, yeah.” Panacea nodded. “Why? Is there a problem?” She grimaced. “Is it Carol?”

Director Piggot shook her head. “No. I understand that both Glory Girl and Lady Photon are in the building, wishing to speak with you. But if you are still interested in joining the Wards, I've just arranged off-base housing for you, so you don't have to live here all the time.”

Panacea and I shared a surprised glance, then we looked at the Director and my dad. “What?” I asked. “What's going on here?”

Dad cleared his throat in the way I interpreted as bracing for trouble. “Taylor, Director Piggot's asked me if we could put Panacea up at home. You two seem to get along well, so …”

“I … what?” I stared at the brunette again. “Um … what do you think?” Just for an instant, a shaft of joy shot through me. I've got a new friend and I can take her home now!

She raised her eyebrows. “I dunno. Do you snore?”

I considered that. “Not that I know of. You?”

“Not really.” She shook her head. “Vicky used to. Sounded like a bandsaw hitting an iron spike in a tree trunk.” She held up her hand with thumb and forefinger held a fraction of an inch apart. “Until I fixed it.”

She cures snoring too. Damn. “My turn,” I said. “Three hour showers?”

“Hah, nope,” she replied. “Now, Vicky's the reason we've got more than one shower in the house, but I never take longer than ten minutes. You?”

I shrugged. “Five minutes. Unless I'm washing my hair. Then maybe another ten.”

She ran a few strands through her fingers. “Well, you've got nicer hair than me so that's fair, I guess. Um, do I have to worry about boyfriends? Or girlfriends?” When I raised my eyebrows, she coloured slightly. “Hey, it's a thing.”

I shook my head. “Not dating, not looking. Besides, what part of 'high school outcast' didn't you really understand?” I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

“Oh. Yeah. Whoops.” She squeezed my hand, and I felt better almost immediately. “Sorry, my bad. In case you're wondering, no action on this side either. I mean, Vicky sets me up on blind dates but I'm just not that interested, you know?”

I grinned at her. “Yeah, that's something you don't have to worry about from me.” The more I talked to Panacea, the more I found in common with her.

“Oh, good.” Pursing her lips, she frowned. “Favourite pizza topping?”

“Mushroom and olive,” I said at once.

“You have to be kidding,” she said with what sounded like genuine disgust. “Ham and pineapple all the way.”

“Pineapple? On pizza?” I pretended to recoil from her. “Philistine.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Barbarian.”

I decided to pull out the big guns. “Nekulturny.”

She blinked. “What the hell's that?”

I giggled. “It's Russian for 'uncultured'. Only it means a hell of a lot more than that.” It was something I'd picked up from reading some of Mom's books.

“Huh. Learn something new every day.” Her expression was intrigued.

I turned to Dad. “We've made our decision. She can sleep in the hall closet.”

“Hell nope.” Panacea nudged me with her shoulder. “You can sleep in the closet. I'm taking your bed.”

“How about nobody sleeps in the hall closet,” Dad suggested, a long-suffering tone to his voice. “I'll drag the camp bed out of storage and Panacea can sleep in your room until we can get the spare room set up as a bedroom again.”

I nodded. “Sounds good.” I gave Panacea a mock glare. “I better not catch you wearing my clothes.”

She stuck her tongue out at me. “As if I'd fit into them.” She tilted her head. “You do realise that Vicky's gonna be coming by. And she'll probably drag us both out shopping. For clothes.” I now knew what pure evil looked like. Specifically, her grin.

“I'm safe, then,” I said cheerfully. “My allowance doesn't cover clothes shopping.” Of course, I wouldn't have objected to a higher allowance, but it was a good excuse.

Dad cleared his throat again. “Uh, the Director tells me that there's a stipend for any household that puts up a Ward. For the inconvenience, you see. Your, uh, your allowance just went up.”

I stared at Panacea. “Did you know about this?” If it turned out that she had, I'd be … well, mildly miffed.

“How could I?” she demanded. “I've always lived at home.” She grinned. “Cool. So how much is my cut?”

“Enough to cover school supplies and costume needs,” the Director said, as if quoting from a list. “Over and above the monthly paycheck and trust fund.” She looked at me. “Now, if you chose to join the Wards, you and your father would also get a stipend, just not as large as if you were living away from home. You would, of course, get your paycheck and a regular payment into a trust fund.” Her tone was blunt, but I appreciated the way she was laying the facts out.

I took a deep breath. “It's a generous offer, but I … I really can't.” Even just thinking about it brought a tightness to my chest. I squeezed Panacea's hand. “But I've got no problem with you doing it.”

“Which brings us back to the problem at hand.” Director Piggot frowned. “Being a member of the Wards, either here or in another city, would make you feel trapped. But you do want to be a hero. Does that about sum it up?”

“Yeah.” I could see her problem, but I wasn't sure how to fix it. “I mean, I know that bug control is gonna be a no-no power in Brockton Bay for about the next year, but …” I trailed off helplessly.

“I have a suggestion.” The Director checked her watch. “I'm going to be needed back at my desk shortly, but how about this. Mr Hebert, take Taylor and Panacea home and sort out their living arrangements. Taylor, consider your options. Panacea, you've got experience in this field, so feel free to make any suggestions that occur to you. In the meantime, I'll talk to my people. Between us, we'll see if we can't come up with a mutually acceptable solution.”

Dad nodded. “Sure thing. Taylor, I brought some clothes over, so you can get changed before we go. Panacea, do you need to pick anything up?”

The healer shook her head. “No, this is all I've got. I'll get Vicky to bring my stuff over from the house as soon as we get settled in. And one more thing?” She looked at Dad and me, and raised her eyebrows. “If we're gonna be living in the same house, I'm Amy. Panacea's for when I'm in costume.” She held out her hand to him. “Okay?”

He shook it. “Okay.” Then he ruffled my hair fondly. “I'll be outside when you're ready to go.”

Panacea—Amy—watched the door close behind them, then turned to me. “Ready to get dressed, Taylor?”

I nodded and smiled. "Sure thing … Amy." Something Director Piggot had said earlier came back to me. "What about your sister and aunt? What are you going to say to them?"

She shrugged. "Like I said, this has been a long time coming. If I'm gonna go, it's best to make a clean break. Come on, let's get you dressed." She helped me out of bed.

"Hey, I'm not a total invalid, you know." I grabbed a pillow and swatted her with it.

"Hey!" She retaliated with a pillow of her own. We thwacked away at each other a few more times, then burst into giggles.

For a day that had started so shittily, it was certainly looking up.

<><>​

Sophia
At the Undersiders' Base

She sat on one end of the couch, with Regent on the other end. Tattletale sat on one of the armchairs, sneaking a peek at her every now and again, and giggling uncontrollably. This was really pissing her off, even more than the way Grue was giving her the stink-eye, and Hellhound's dogs kept growling at her.

“This wasn't my fuckin' idea,” she protested, for about the tenth time. “The boss just told me to come here. I didn't even know it was you guys. I just needed a place to stay.”

Regent played idly with his sceptre. Sophia knew it was more than just a fancy stick; he'd shocked her with it once, some time ago. Now, she wasn't getting too close to him. “And what if we decide we don't want you around?” He wriggled his little finger, and her knee jerked.

She glared at him. “Fuckin' quit that, asshole! I said, it's not my fuckin' choice. Complain to the boss, not me!”

“Well, that's the thing,” Grue stated, his lip curling. “None of us know how to contact the boss, except Tattletale here. In fact, none of us but her knows who he is. Care to enlighten us?”

Sophia glanced at Tattletale, who shook her head slightly. Yeah, not a good idea. If it gets back to him—and it will—he'll probably kick me to the curb. Calvert pulls me back in, and the whole thing's for nothing. “Nah,” Sophia said with more bravado than she was feeling. “If he doesn't feel like telling you, then why the fuck should I?” The fact that she knew something that three of the others didn't know meant she had a certain amount of power. What it could do for her, she wasn't sure, but she wasn't gonna waste it over nothing. Standing up, she stretched. “Where's the bathroom? Gotta go.”

Grue hooked his thumb down the hallway that led to the kitchen area. “Second on the left.” He didn't say any more, but his intense glare followed her as she ventured down the short hallway and opened the door with the male and female silhouettes on it.

She entered, to find a shower cubicle and toilet commode, both remarkably similar to the setup that she'd had in her temporary quarters in Coil's base. It may even have been identical, although she'd have to check the photos to make sure. Closing the door behind her, she flicked the lock and glanced around for any easy way to spy on her. She didn't really think there would be; after all, they hadn't even known it was going to be her. But it was always a good idea to check.

She saw no obvious spy-holes or cameras though the walls stopped at only eight feet up, well short of the underside of the roof, or even the metal girders holding it up. Well, it's the best I'm gonna get. She really did need to go, so she removed the cloak and made the necessary adjustments to her clothing. Taking the phone from its hiding place, she checked the battery percentage. It wasn't as high as she would've liked it, but there had been phone charge cords in the living area; if she could 'borrow' one of those, she'd be set. At least until she could acquire one of her own.

Carefully, she double-checked that the phone alerts were all on silent and that even the vibration was turned off; while it was technically 'silent', she didn't need the insistent buzz that came along with it. Then she put the earpiece in and hit the button to dial Calvert's number.

It rang three times before he answered it. “Yes?”

“I'm in, kind of,” she said hastily. “But there's one huge problem.”

She heard the tension ratchet up in his voice even as he answered. “What's the problem? Do you need to be pulled out?”

She grimaced. “The problem is that Coil's placed me with the fucking Undersiders. Did you know that they were working for him? Because I didn't.”

“No. No, I did not.” He actually sounded impressed. “This is good intel. You're doing well. Now, what's the problem? Have they made you?”

She resisted the impulse to shake her head. “No, actually. Tattletale seems to think I'm on the level. It seems that she isn't as good as she thinks.” A hint of derision crept into her voice.

“Careful.” His sharp tone pulled her up. “Underestimating your enemy is the first step to losing. You've got to assume that they're looking for mistakes every step of the way. You've got to pretend to be who you say you are, every step of the way.”

“Right, got it.” She took a deep breath. “So what sort of information do you want? I figure I can get their secret identities. I can definitely give you the location of their hideout.”

“Their secret identities would be very useful.” He sounded pleased, now. “And I'm pulling the location of their hideout off your GPS right now. Just remember, for them to treat you as one of them, you've got to act like one of them.”

“Right, right.” A thought occurred to her. “So … what happens if they go to commit a crime? Do I bust them then?”

“No. You're undercover, so if they go to commit a crime, you go along with them. You're covered; they aren't. Do whatever you need to, in order to convince them that you've really gone off the reservation.”

“Uh huh.” He'd explained this all to her before. But now that she was here, it felt a lot more real. “So … we are gonna be busting 'em, right?”

“Of course.” His voice was firm. “But you're our best chance to do it. So I'm going to need you to play it cool until we've got all the information we need to sweep the whole operation up in one go. Do this right and they'll be pinning medals on you.”

Sophia nodded. “Okay … yeah, I can do this. It's for a good cause, after all.” If she were being totally honest with herself, she might have even admitted that she was kind of looking forward to breaking the law, just a bit.

“Good. Just remember, if you need to be pulled out, let me know and I'll arrange it.”

“Right, sure. Got it.” Nah, I got this.

“Good. I'll talk to you later.” The line went dead.

Sophia shut the phone down and stored it back in her top, then finished her business on the toilet. By the time she'd washed her hands and put her cloak back on, her heart rate was back down to normal. I can do this. All I've gotta do is think like one of them.

Unlocking the door, she stepped out to join the Undersiders.

<><>​

Coil's Base

“Good. I'll talk to you later.”

Thomas Calvert shut down the phone. Leaning back in his chair, he allowed himself a few seconds of self-satisfied gloating. It had taken some careful juggling of timelines, but it sounded like Shadow Stalker was coming along nicely.

Still, there was no sense in being too complacent. Time to put her through her paces. Taking up his phone, he sent a text to his Tattletale. 'Arrange a jewellery store heist. Give me details. Usual insurance.'. Her acknowledgement came back almost immediately, which told him she'd been waiting for the message. Good.

He turned his attention to other matters. The loss of Reed was irritating, but he had other assets on site, people whom Reed didn't know of and could not identify. Reed doesn't know who I am, so that's a dead end. Pulling the number of one of his men up, he split time then typed in a short message. 'Send me all you have on location & situation of Taylor Hebert.'

The splitting of time had been a basic precaution; if his man answered normally, he'd drop the other timeline. It was only common sense.

No answer came back immediately, but he didn't expect one. In the meantime … sitting forward, he clicked the mouse on his computer, then opened up the encrypted and totally illegal gateway between his base and his PRT computer. From there, he tunnelled his way into the PRT phone servers and erased the record of the text message he'd just sent. No sense in leaving tracks.

With just as much care, he retreated the way he'd come, shutting down first the connection into the server and then into the PRT itself. Closing the computer down, he got up from his office chair. Time to go inspect the base. After all, what use was owning an honest-to-goodness underground supervillain base if one wasn't allowed to admire it once in a while?

<><>​

PRT ENE
Director Piggot's Office

Emily Piggot's email inbox dinged. She clicked the mouse to check on the latest arrival. When she read the header, her eyebrows rose. Then a smile spread across her face, somewhat akin to what a shark would wear when closing in on an unwary swimmer.

I've got you now, you bastard.



End of Part Eleven

Part Twelve

 

Price of Blood

Part Twelve: Connections



[A/N: this chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Conflicting emotions washed through Sarah as she came in for a landing on the roof of the PRT building. Sharpest of all was the anger she felt toward Carol for putting her in a near-impossible situation. She knew Carol had problems; had known it for years, in fact. But like the other members of New Wave, she'd figured her sister had her demons under control. That Carol did not was now glaringly self-evident. She could have, and possibly should have, sought help before today. The big downside of that, of course, was the news of a member of New Wave taking therapy would've made the papers in a big way. She thought maybe she could've spun that sort of story into a positive light for the team, but it wasn't guaranteed.

The only upside, and a very small one it was, happened to be that the outburst hadn't been witnessed by civilians. More than one team had disintegrated under the intense media scrutiny following a public indiscretion of one sort or another. The very worst case, that of innocents being hurt or killed, had been thankfully averted altogether. Not that Sarah really thought Carol would try to remove inconvenient witnesses, but today's debacle had proven she didn't know her sister as well as she thought she did.

Underlying the anger was the love and concern she felt toward Carol and the girls. This was not a paradox; over the course of her marriage and motherhood, Sarah had found it entirely possible to consider someone precious to her heart and still want to strangle them. What in the world had prompted Carol into the disastrous series of events which led to the dismissal of Amy from the team and Vicky quitting of her own accord, anyway? She did intend to find out; whatever it was, it had to be serious. But what the hell could Carol and the girls have done which was serious enough to trigger such events? See above about not knowing Carol as well as I thought I did.

Last but not least was the anxiety she felt over knowing that whatever she said to Amy and Vicky in an attempt to convince them New Wave was where they belonged, it might not be enough. Putting it simply, this was going to be an uphill battle. Already, she'd be starting off on the back foot, not knowing what had happened and who had said what, and talking to people who had already made up their minds. On the other hand, she wasn't the one who'd had the argument with them or kicked Amy off the team, so there was that. There was a chance, she figured, if she was persuasive enough, she might be able to bring them around to her point of view. The first order of business, of course, would be to determine what damage Carol had done and try to mend it. She couldn't unsay whatever had been said, but she could assure them that whatever it was, it wasn't what the whole team thought.

There were two guards at the entrance of the rooftop structure; accompanying them was Miss Militia. Her weapon of choice for the moment was, appropriately, an elaborately scoped sniper rifle. Fortunately for Sarah's peace of mind, the firearm was slung over Miss Militia's shoulder. This was more a symbolic gesture than anything else, given that Sarah had seen the Protectorate cape bring her power to bear faster than her opponents could react, on more than one occasion. With one hand shading her eyes, Miss Militia followed Sarah's approach and landing.

As she touched down in the middle of the large painted 'H', Sarah saw the flag-clad hero say something to one of the guards and start out across the rooftop toward her. Sarah walked to meet her; while slower than flying would have been, this was only polite.

“Miss Militia,” she said as they came within range of easy conversation. “Thanks for coming up.” She and the other cape had known each other for years. While they'd never quite graduated to sharing late-night coffees and discussing their deepest secrets, they'd fought side by side on more than one occasion and, ended up with a certain amount of mutual respect. Sarah liked to think of Miss Militia as a friend, even an ally. It was better than thinking of the Protectorate cape as a potential adversary; for all her power, she wasn't at all sanguine about her chances of beating the other woman in a straight fight.

“Lady Photon,” replied Miss Militia, her cheeks under the scarf moving in a way that denoted a smile. “It's good to see you again. How've you been?” She tilted her head toward the entrance. “Come on down. They're waiting for you.” Her tone was open and friendly, but despite her liking and trust for the woman, Sarah wasn't fooled. No matter what friendships Miss Militia might form across party lines, she was loyal to the Protectorate through and through. She'd be on Sarah's side right up until it conflicted with her duties, and then she'd draw a line in the sand and never step over it. This bespoke an unbending integrity, and was something Sarah admired about her, except for times like this.

Still, it did no harm to try. “So, uh, all I know is that Brandish cut Panacea loose and stormed out,” she said. “Can you give me any more details? I'm kind of in the dark, here.” She made her tone light and careless. It's not really important, but I'd like to know if it isn't too much hassle. You know, just a favour for a friend. Too old a hand at this sort of thing to be caught glancing sideways at Miss Militia to gauge her reaction, she instead studied the troopers they were approaching. Neither of them raised a weapon in her direction. Given that Miss Militia was here to meet her, that was only to be expected.

The guards didn't move as she walked up to them, though she fancied she saw the left-hand guy's helmet move slightly to track her. It was, in a way, mildly ironic, considering the history of masked parahumans. Sarah was a superhero and the two guards before her were baseline human, yet she was the one showing her face while they hid theirs behind opaque helmet visors.

“Not here,” Miss Militia said quietly, then addressed the guards. “I'll be escorting Lady Photon down to see the Director.” It wasn't a question, and nor was it quite an order; more a statement of how things were going to be. She never broke stride, walking between the armoured men as though they were mere decorations. Sarah followed along through the entrance up to the bank of elevators; as they arrived, one set of doors interleaved open as if on cue. Which, given that they were obviously Tinkertech, was not beyond the bounds of probability.

Sarah stepped into the lift with Miss Militia half a pace behind her; the doors closed behind them and the lift began to descend. Looking at the dusky-skinned cape, Sarah decided to try again. “How about here?” she asked bluntly. “Is there anything at all you can give me?” She met Miss Militia's gaze squarely, aware that she was probably overstepping whatever invisible boundaries ruled around their acquaintance, but not overly caring right at that moment. Not only was the future of New Wave potentially at stake—the loss of two of its younger members would be a serious blow to the long-term survival of the team—but more importantly, she wanted Panacea and Glory Girl where she could see and protect them.

“Only that there's more going on than I can tell you right now,” Miss Militia said as the lift came to a halt. The doors hissed open and the hero stepped out, then waited for Sarah to join her. “I understand why you're here, and I sympathise, but I honestly don't think you'll get them back. I'm sorry.” The concern in her eyes, matching the tone of her voice, took Sarah aback. She meant every word, or Sarah had forgotten everything she'd ever known about reading people. And as the mother of two teenagers and the aunt of two more, she knew a lot. Which indicated, disturbingly enough, that Miss Militia really did think Amy and Victoria fully intended to join the Wards. If they hadn't already.

Turning, Miss Militia led the way down the corridor to a conference room, where Director Piggot sat at the head of the table and the Dallon girls were sitting side by side facing the door. Amy and Victoria both stood as she entered, while Miss Militia went to stand behind Piggot's chair.

Victoria spoke first. “Aunt Sarah. Hi.” She seemed much less chirpy than she had been when she made the phone call earlier. “I guess you're here to try and talk us out of joining the Wards?” Beside her, Amy surreptitiously took her hand; at first, the healer kept her eyes on the table, but then she raised her gaze to Sarah's and stared at her almost defiantly.

“Well, yes.” It would've been stupid, not to mention counter-productive, to deny the charge. “Girls, I don't know what happened, but your mother does not have the authority to kick anyone out of New Wave. If you want to come back, there's no obstacle to your doing so. But before we even talk about that … what actually did happen?” Another question occurred to her, and she wondered why she hadn't asked it earlier, while she was talking to Carol. “And why did it happen here? What were you even doing here?”

Director Piggot cleared her throat. “Lady Photon, before Panacea and Glory Girl are permitted to say any more, I'm going to need to clarify the situation a little.” Under her clasped hands, Sarah realised, there were a couple of manila folders. Sarah didn't need Carol's expertise as a lawyer to recognise that a folder in a potential adversary's hands could be deadly dangerous.

Pulling out the sole chair on her side of the table, Sarah sat facing the girls but half-turned to pay full attention to what the Director was saying. Emily Piggot had been doing this job for a long time, and would not throw around phrases like 'permitted to say any more' unless she meant exactly that. Nor would she do so unless she knew her precise legal standing in the matter. “I'm listening,” she said cautiously.

Piggot nodded. “In brief, then: recently, Brandish came into the possession of incomplete information and in her ignorance, she chose a course of action that would've led to her breaking the law. When she refused to deviate from it, Panacea was forced to use her powers to render Brandish unconscious. Brandish was conveyed here and revived, whereupon I explained the facts of the matter to her. She now understands the situation, but due to Panacea taking her down without warning, she's cut loose her daughter from both her family and her team. Glory Girl, as I understand matters, has followed her sister for the sake of solidarity. I've offered them both probationary Wards memberships, which they've tentatively accepted. However, as a courtesy to New Wave, nothing has been signed yet.”

Throughout the explanation, the Director's voice held steady, as if she were describing the plot of a mildly interesting novel. Each fact slotted into place, leading the way for the next. By the time she finished speaking, Sarah had no doubt that events had transpired exactly as Piggot had described them. However, it was equally obvious that many details had been left out of the singularly bald narrative.

“Okay, I can get that,” Sarah said. “But what was Carol so determined to break the law about?” She looked at Amy. “What was she going to do, that you felt it necessary to knock her out?” It was considerably out of character for her niece to do something like that. While she'd had her disagreements with her relatives—after all, arguments happened—she'd never put anyone to sleep before. Whatever was going on, Amy obviously felt very strongly about it. And in fact, something that would compel a lawyer to break the law would have to be equally extraordinary.

“I, uh, don't think I'm supposed to answer that one,” Amy said, then glanced at the Director. Her gaze was not in the least bit shifty; as far as Sarah could tell, she simply required reassurance regarding something she'd been told. Which meant that she wanted to tell Sarah, but was abiding by the instructions she'd been given. This was getting more confusing by the moment.

“Quite right.” Director Piggot slid one of the folders forward. “Lady Photon, if you want to go any further on this, I'm going to require you to sign an NDA. Without that, we've covered all you're permitted to know.” There was no triumph or gloating in her voice. She was doing her job, carrying out her function as effectively as she knew how. If Sarah wanted to know more, she would have to put her signature to a non-disclosure form. This was a rock-solid fact; no amount of arguing or pleading would change it. If Sarah knew anything about Emily Piggot, she knew that.

“I … see.” There was, of course, one more question she had to ask before she made her decision. “Did Carol sign an NDA?” This was a very important point; if Carol had been convinced to back down without signing an NDA, it meant that Sarah could pump her for what she knew, thus satisfying her curiosity. If she hadn't, however …

“She did.” Piggot's tone, neutral as it was, dashed her hopes. “She and Glory Girl now share the same body of knowledge about the situation. Panacea knows quite a bit more. The circumstances of how she knows are covered by the NDA.” Not by any inflection of tone or expression did she reveal that she was aware of the curiosity that was currently consuming Sarah from the inside out.

Nobody liked signing non-disclosure forms. Their very nature presented a paradox. On the one hand, not signing meant missing out on the (often very interesting) information protected by them. However, on the other hand, signing meant learning the information—then not being able to tell anyone. The temptation to tell people anyway required strong legal penalties for breaking confidentiality. Sarah was fully aware of such penalties, and had no intention of falling afoul of them. Which presented her with a problem.

The problem was that if she didn't sign, she would learn no more details about what had happened. And if she were to bring Amy and Victoria back into New Wave, she needed those details. Which meant that, no matter how galling it was, she'd have to sign, if only to find what Carol had been about to do and why.

With an aggravated sigh, she gestured toward the folder. “I don't see that I have a choice in the matter. Do you have a pen I can use?” It was a rhetorical question; Sarah doubted that the Director went anywhere in the building without at least three working pens. And probably a firearm in a shoulder holster, given her military background, but that was entirely her choice. In any case, Piggot would not have presented the form without the wherewithal to sign it.

“Certainly.” Emily reached into her coat and withdrew an expensive-looking gold-plated pen. Clipping it to the folder, she slid both down the table toward Sarah. Reaching out, Sarah took hold of them, removed the pen and opened the folder. The form within was two sheets thick, but had been lightly sealed together; the top page was filled with the standard legalese. Emily Piggot's name was already filled out, as were Amy's and Victoria's. All Sarah had to do was fill in her own name; almost everything else was already done. She read the form over, then clicked the pen, the sound loud in the otherwise silent room. Carefully, she signed her name at the bottom and dated it.

Miss Militia moved forward and took the pen; leaning over the table, she signed the last empty space, that of witness, and added the date a second time. Clicking the pen closed, she laid it on the table then pulled away the top sheet of the form. There was a faint tearing noise as the light adhesive parted, allowing the second part of the form to become visible. Sarah took the revealed sheet and began reading. There wasn't much on it overall; mainly, it defined the hitherto vague legal penalties hinted at on the cover sheet. But one phrase grabbed Sarah's attention, and she stopped and raised her eyes to look at the Director. “The Vikare Act?” she asked. “That means it's about a superhero's secret identity.” This changed matters, a lot. If Carol had been about to out a superhero—though Sarah had no idea why she'd do such a thing—then Amy had almost certainly been justified in knocking her out.

“That's correct,” the Director replied. “If you'll initial the sheet to show that you've read it, we can explain the situation as it stands.” She settled back to a Sphinx-like stillness, hands clasped in front of her. Every nuance of her being spelled out that despite being the only unpowered person in the room, she was the master of the situation. Sarah suddenly wondered how many interrogations Piggot had sat in on, and extracted confessions through sheer presence. More than a few, she suspected.

Taking the pen, Sarah scrawled 'SP' at the bottom, then clicked the button—it even sounded expensive—and handed it back to Miss Militia. “Okay, I'm listening.” Even before the Director began speaking, she began turning over possibilities. She didn't know which cape it might have been who fell afoul of Carol's ire, but whoever it was had to be new in town. Or—and her mind latched on to this possibility—a known villain who had decided to turn hero. But who might that be? She'd heard rumours about E88's Purity, but—

“You're aware of the Swarm event yesterday.” It was a statement rather than a question. Sarah would've laughed if she didn't consider it inappropriate; too many had died too recently for mirth. Everyone in Brockton Bay knew about the Swarm. She didn't frequent the online forums like some, but Eric had said at the breakfast table that the theories about its instigator—called the Swarmbringer by some—were multiplying by the hour. Most were centred around the teenage girl seen outside the Denny's while the Swarm was still ongoing; a few said she'd been rescued, though most were sure she'd been arrested, or even taken away for execution.

“I am.” She considered her next answer, then decided to go for broke. “Is this about the Swarmbringer?” Even as the words left her mouth, she knew she'd made a mistake. Amy flinched, Victoria grimaced, and Miss Militia shook her head very slightly. Director Piggot reacted the least, but the lines of her face settled into deeper grooves as she regarded Sarah.

“The Swarmbringer does not exist.” Piggot's voice was harsh. “It was not a deliberate act of malice. The event was brought on when a teenage girl with bug control powers was attacked by several teenage boys, acting with the obvious intent to rape her. She called on her powers to protect her, but the boys beat her unconscious. Her power continued to act on her last command, which caused the Swarm to gather and attack everyone in her radius of effect. When she woke, her first act was to disperse the Swarm. She was then taken into custody, whereupon Panacea was called in to treat her injuries, which were quite severe. She has since given an extensive statement, implicating people at her school in an ongoing bullying campaign, including the attack itself. The PRT has spent the last twelve hours verifying the facts of that statement. We've found no substantive untruths in it. Several people have been arrested.”

Sarah blinked. “That's … horrific.” She turned to Amy. “You treated her?” Several points raised by Piggot resounded in her mind as she waited for the teen's answer. One, that the girl's powers kept acting when she was unconscious. That could be … scary. Two, that her radius of effect covered such a wide area. Frankly speaking, that could be even scarier. And three, that the PRT had acted so promptly to clear a brand-new cape of wrongdoing. What was going on behind the scenes here?

Amy nodded. “I did. She had a broken jaw, missing teeth, fractured ribs and several other injuries. They really beat on her.” She grimaced. “Her name's Taylor, and she doesn't deserve any of what they've been doing to her. When she found out how many people died, she nearly went catatonic.” Her head drooped, and she leaned against Victoria, who put an arm around her. The blonde rested her head atop Amy's and held her close. It was obvious that this situation was affecting Amy deeply.

“Okay.” Sarah looked from her nieces to the Director and Miss Militia, then back again. “I get that she didn't really mean to do it. But how do you get from there to Carol nearly violating the Vikare Act?” There were pieces still missing here, and she intended to find out what they were. Only then could she effectively argue for Amy and Victoria to return to New Wave.

Victoria sighed. “Mom's as nosy as ever, and when me and Ames got back from fixing Taylor and talking to her, she gave us the third degree. We'd already signed our nondisclosures, but she wormed it out of us with some lawyer tricks and a few good guesses. So when the PRT picked us up this morning, she rode along. But about halfway in, when Miss Militia found out that she knew more than she should have, things kinda went sideways. Mom was gonna start spreading it around that the PRT was holding the Swarmbringer in secret. So Ames had to knock her out before she shredded our transport.” Her tone was unhappy, but she maintained her comforting hug with her sister.

The Director cleared her throat. “Almost the first thing Taylor said once she was coherent was that she wanted to be a hero. I took that as a statement of intent. With her powers, she could be a considerable asset to the Protectorate, but if she were painted as a rogue or villain, that's almost certainly not going to happen. So I took the statement of intent and applied it to her legal status. She's officially a superhero until she chooses to say otherwise; her identity as a cape is thus protected by the Vikare Act.” She resolutely met Sarah's eyes, as if daring her to challenge the assertion.

While it wasn't the most imaginative twisting of legalities that Sarah had ever seen, it certainly made the top ten. She tilted her head. “So she escapes any sort of punishment for killing two hundred seventy-three people, even if by accident?” She felt sympathy for Taylor—being caught between a rock and a hard place was unpleasant for anyone—but the law was the law. Nobody should get off scot free.

“No, because it wasn't her fault.” Amy had shrugged off Victoria's hug and was leaning forward, hands on the table and eyes blazing with intensity. “It's not her fault that her powers went out of her control when she was knocked out. It's the fault of the boys who attacked her.” Raising a hand, she gestured vaguely. “It's a point of law. I can't remember what it's called, but when people commit a crime and someone gets hurt as a direct result, they're liable.”

Sarah's eyebrows notched up a little. This was the most engaged she'd seen Amy in a very long time. Normally, the healer simply walked away once she was done with applying her power. Perhaps she'd seen a kindred soul in this Taylor? “I believe I've heard your mother talking about things like that,” she agreed. “I suppose it makes sense, in a rather odd way. It's definitely the first case I've ever heard of.” Though she privately suspected that it would never make it to court. The Swarm event had been too much like an Endbringer attack for the public's peace of mind, especially with the upcoming Canary trial in the news. Calling her the 'Swarmbringer' had been no accident, after all. And no matter the legal wrangling, the stigma of nearly three hundred deaths would almost certainly doom her in the courtroom, even without the friends and family of those slain calling for a kill order. Not to mention those who might try to just kill her anyway.

She looked up from her musing to see Director Piggot eyeing her keenly. Piggot was no parahuman, but Sarah had the uncomfortable feeling that the big woman knew what thoughts were passing through her mind. Quite probably because they'd already passed through her own. “So now you know,” the Director said bluntly. “Do you intend to do anything about it?” She had to know that Sarah could only give one answer to that question, no matter her real intentions. Either she told the truth and told nobody, or she lied and spread the word. Only an absolute idiot broadcast their intentions before the act, especially if said intentions involved breaking the law.

Except that was exactly what Carol had done. Crap. Sarah realised that she'd just called her sister an idiot, even if only in the privacy of her own mind. In any case, she already knew which way she was going to jump on this. “No,” she said truthfully. “From the sound of it, she's got enough problems on her plate as it is.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the girls relaxing slightly; there was even an audible exhalation of relief, which probably came from Amy. Thinking back over the explanation of events, it was easy to tell why Carol had been angry at Amy. She still thought abandoning the girl in the PRT building was far over and above anything resembling a proportional response, but at least she could understand it now. Drawing a deep breath, she turned to her nieces. “And I want you to know, Amy, whatever your mother said doesn't apply to me. What's important is that you know that you still have a place in New Wave. Both of you.”

For a long moment, she thought she'd swayed them, but then Amy shook her head with a look of regret. “I'm sorry, Aunt Sarah, but what Carol said can't be taken back. She meant what she said, and I really think I need to move on from New Wave. From being Panacea.” Reaching out, she squeezed her aunt's hand briefly. “It's nothing personal against you, but this moment's been coming for a long time. Anyway, they need me to help Taylor.” Her words were earnest and forthright, and made no sense at all.

“Taylor?” Sarah shook her head with a frown. “You healed her, right? I can't see you having trouble with a simple beating. Unless there's brain damage?” Even in a world of ridiculous powers, Amy was the closest thing Sarah had ever seen to a miracle made flesh. Everything from sucking chest wounds to traumatic amputations, from inoperable tumours to incurable diseases; all were equally susceptible to her power. The only thing she couldn't handle was the brain itself, which Sarah chose to think was an acceptable trade-off while secretly praying that she'd never suffer a traumatic cranial injury.

“No, no brain damage,” Victoria said. “At least, not the way you think.” She grimaced. “Taylor's had an absolute shit of a time, and learning that her power killed all those people didn't do her any favours at all. She's deeply traumatised, and Ames is her best bet at staying sane till she can process what happened to her. And what nearly happened.” Her chin jutted out in determination. “And Ames needs me, so I'm gonna stick by her no matter what.”

Sarah had seen Victoria in those moods before, and knew that it would be easier to shift Captain's Hill on its foundations than to budge her niece from her position with argument. The only recourse was to try logic and reason, and hope that Victoria would listen long enough to be swayed from her course. The trouble was, there were very few points upon which she could base such logic. She leaned forward, trying to capture their attention. “Amy, I've already spoken with Carol. She's going to be standing down for the time being, at least until we've gotten all this sorted out. Wouldn't that be better than you quitting the team altogether? I mean, you can still go and see Taylor whenever you're needed. I'd have no problem with that.”

Amy shook her head. “No.” Her tone was low but determined. “If Carol stayed home, so would Mark. And I don't intend to stay in the same house as that woman, not ever again. Not after what she said. In any case, Carol and Mark bring more firepower to the team than I do. Maybe more than Vicky does. And I don't want anyone resenting me for forcing them to stay away. It's best that I make a clean break like this.”

“But where are you going to live?” Sarah gestured at the ceiling and, by extension, the PRT building. “While I'm sure they'd be willing to allow you to stay on, I doubt you'd want to live here indefinitely.” She knew Vicky well; the girl liked nothing so much as being able to just open a window and go flying at a whim. The Wards base, in the basement of the PRT building, would not offer such an option.

“Don't be silly, Aunt Sarah.” Victoria's stubborn expression morphed into a sunny smile. “Amy's not going to live here. She's going to stay with Taylor and her dad. Director Piggot's already set up the paperwork.” Before Sarah could ask the obvious question, she went on. “And I could live here, at least till I got my own place, but I was thinking, would I be able to stay with you for the time being? Just for a little bit?” She fluttered her eyelashes dramatically.

Puppy-dog eyes of that intensity, Sarah decided, should be made illegal. She decided she was going to to put her foot down and tell Victoria that there was no way she was going to enable her in this ridiculous act of teenage rebellion. However, just as she was about to put that plan into action, her mouth ran away with her. “Of course you can,” she heard herself saying. “Stay as long as you like. Crystal's barely using her room any more.” Before she could get too upset with herself for folding so easily, her common sense caught up with the rest of her brain and pointed out that this let her keep in touch with Victoria and, by extension, Amy. Though she still thought puppy-dog eyes of that level should be given their own Master rating.

“Thank you, Aunt Sarah!” Victoria's aura surged briefly, giving her a dopamine rush, then the girl herself levitated over the table to give her a hug. “I don't want to hurt the team, really I don't. But I'm not gonna let Mom just kick Ames out in the cold either. And I'll bring her over to see you and the others any time we're free, I promise.” Her enthusiasm was hard to withstand.

Sarah didn't even try; instead, she stood up to hug her niece properly. “That's okay, Victoria. I just want the two of you to be happy. And if you don't want to be on the team, I can't make you stay.” It wasn't the easiest thing in the world to say, but it was unfortunately true. She sighed and looked across at Amy. “I never wanted this to happen. You're both valuable members of the team. Of my family. You know that, don't you?”

“Yeah.” Amy's nod was reluctant. “It's not your fault, but it did happen. I'm sorry, Aunt Sarah. I think this really is for the best.” She got up from her chair and walked around the end of the table to give her aunt a hug. Sarah embraced her in return, belatedly wishing she'd gotten to know her troubled, standoffish adoptive niece a little better. Or at least, that Carol had. If she had, this might've been avoided.

But too late was too late. She said her goodbyes and escaped into the corridor. With the door closed safely behind her, she sagged against the wall and sighed softly. “God damn it,” she muttered. “God damn it.” It was as she'd feared; the odds against her getting Amy and Vicky back on the team had been stacked too high from the beginning. Of course, she hadn't foreseen the situation with … Taylor, was it? The bug controlling teenager, whose power had accidentally murdered nearly three hundred people. In the normal run of things, such a catastrophic loss of life would've resulted in a sentence to the Birdcage, if not a straight-out kill order. But Director Piggot was as straight-arrow as they got when it came to keeping capes in line; if she'd given the girl a pass, it meant she deserved a pass. Of course, that didn't help Sarah and New Wave in the here and now.

The door opened and Miss Militia stepped out. “Hey.” Sarah couldn't see the majority of her expression, but at least her eyes were sympathetic. “You okay? Want to talk?” She honestly sounded concerned. She can afford to, snarked the sarcastic side of Sarah's brain. They just signed on an Alexandria package and a touch healer.

Sarah gusted out another sigh. “ … no. I think I'll just go home and think about how I'm gonna break this to the rest of the team.” Pushing herself off the wall, she started off down toward the elevators, aware that Miss Militia was following. “Um …” The question rose in her mind, but she didn't know how to ask it.

Miss Militia stepped up alongside her. “What's up?” Her weapon was now a baton, which she idly spun between her fingers as she waited for Sarah's response. “Is it about Taylor?”

“Yeah.” Sarah hated herself for asking this, for prodding at the wound. “What's she like? Does she really need Amy this badly?” Not that it would change matters even if the answer was in the negative, but she had to know.

Her answer was a solemn nod. “If it wasn't for Panacea, that poor girl would be either catatonic or out of her mind by now. And the Swarm would come back, and never end until someone put an end to her.” Miss Militia's voice was quiet and unconcerned, but the weapon in her hand turned into a silenced automatic pistol. “She wants to be a hero. The Director thinks she can make it. It's up to us to help her get there.”

Sarah pressed the button on the elevator. Almost immediately, the doors unfolded out of the way. She stepped in and turned to look at Miss Militia. “Well, good luck with it. I just wish it hadn't turned out this way.”

Miss Militia nodded. “Believe me, it's mutual.” Before she could say any more, the doors interleaved shut once more and the elevator was on the way upward, leaving Sarah alone with her thoughts.

Crap. What am I going to tell the others?

<><>​

Carol

There was a reason Carol hadn't ridden the bus for years. Once the Brigade had unmasked as New Wave, she'd avoided public transport. Although she was proud of being Brandish, and of the work she and the team did, there was such a thing as too little privacy. She was relearning this the hard way, trying to ignore the curious stares from her fellow passengers as she rehashed in her mind what had happened, trying to see exactly where she'd gone wrong.

The misapprehension with the Swarmbringer, with Taylor Hebert, was a natural one. She told herself this over and over, trying to still the nagging doubt that said otherwise. The girl had killed hundreds. A moment later, she corrected herself: the girl's power had killed hundreds. That was a subtle but important distinction. Piggot and Armsmaster had been adamant on that point, and Carol had seen their side of it. She could've insisted that the point was a spurious one, that she'd given the original orders and was responsible for the ultimate outcome, but for whatever reason, she hadn't. Perhaps it was because the girl's story had struck a chord with her—she, too, had been forced to kill at far too young an age—or perhaps she didn't want to see anyone else die.

The next part … she didn't want to think about the next part. It was the part where she vented her anger at Amy, at the girl who'd masqueraded as her daughter for ten years, at Marquis' offspring. A villain's child, living under her roof. A villain's child, who had as good as stabbed Carol in the back, knocking her unconscious with powers inherited from her father.

Carol did not trust easily. Trust allowed someone to turn around and betray her as soon as it suited them. She trusted her sister, because she'd been through the same ordeal as Carol. Mark had also earned her trust and love, by being ever faithful and jumping through every hoop she'd set him. Some of that placidity and devotion had in time shown itself up to be chronic depression, but that had not changed her love for him. Depressed or otherwise, he still loved her, and she knew it. She did wish that he'd take his meds more often though.

There was only one other person whom Carol trusted unconditionally, and even then she'd only agreed to get pregnant because Mark wanted children. Born of her body, nursed at her breast, raised under her eye, Vicky was Carol's child through and through. Not so Amy. She had argued against taking the child, but the facts were against her, and in the end she'd given in. Even then, if Amy had been quiet and docile in the beginning, she may have softened toward the child. But in those first few weeks and months, Amy had been difficult and argumentative, demanding her father, demanding her favourite book to be read to her. Demanding, demanding, demanding.

In time she had settled down, seeming to forget her past. But Carol had not forgotten. She couldn't forget. Even when Amy came to her for attention, Carol could only see the hair and features of the man who fathered her. She couldn't bring herself to like the child, no matter how she tried. She certainly couldn't love her. And there was no question at all of trusting her. Not the daughter of Marquis. Not in my lifetime.

So when Carol awoke and found that Amy had turned her powers on her, was it any wonder that she had reacted the way she did? She asked herself that question over and over, trying to see if there was another way she could've gone, something else she might have done. Should she not have thrown Amy off the team?

It was hard, she found, to even visualise the concept. To do so, to let the girl know she could act like that with impunity, would put the whole team at risk. Carol had spent most of her life as a superhero, and she knew the importance of protecting her teammates. But maybe she should have let it go, just this once? Even asking the question as a hypothetical wasn't easy. Carol was self-aware enough to recognise that her dislike of Amy was colouring her view of the matter, but it wasn't enough to change her opinion. If Amy really was a time bomb waiting to go off, then it wasn't really prejudice, was it?

The bus stopped and she got off, still wrestling with the matter. Uncaring by now of the stares of the other passengers, she made her way down the pavement toward her house. It wasn't a long walk, but by the time she got there, another possibility had occurred to her. Instead of simply kicking Amy off the team, what if she'd called a meeting instead? That would've allowed Carol to present her case in her own way, explaining the situation in detail. And—this was difficult to work through, but she persevered—maybe Amy didn't even need to be fired from the team. An appropriate punishment could've been levied instead. In that way, Amy could be shown that such behaviour was inappropriate and uncalled for, while the team continued to benefit from her power. And, of course, Vicky wouldn't have then run off to join the Wards as well.

She was just opening the front door as this final revelation occurred to her. “Oh, god,” she muttered. “Oh, hellfire and god damn it.” Grimacing, she pushed the door shut behind her.

“Honey? Is that you?” She heard the creak of Mark's favourite armchair, then her husband leaned around the living room doorway. “Oh, hi,” he said. Slowly, a frown worked its way across his forehead. “Where are the girls?”

Carol took a deep breath. Rule number one for being a successful lawyer was knowing when you've fucked up. “Sweetie, I … I think it's all my fault.” Hot prickles at the corners of her eyes heralded the approach of tears. “Don't hate me. Please don't hate me.”

“I don't hate you,” he said, stepping around the doorway and coming up to her. “Honey, what's the matter? What happened?”

So she told him in excruciating detail. As the tears began to flow down her face, he led her to the sofa. The words spilled out faster and faster, tumbling over one other as she unburdened herself, reliving every sharp word and cruel comment. By the time she finished, she was crying on his shoulder while he patted her gently on the back.

“What are we going to do?” she asked plaintively. “I've driven my daughter away and I don't know how to get her back.” In asking the question, she didn't even know if he had an answer, but it was a relief to have someone else to listen.

Without saying a word, he got up off the sofa; she stared after him as he padded out of the room. Was this what it had come to? Was everyone going to reject her? Misery filled her all over again as she contemplated that fate.

Her thoughts along that line were interrupted by his return. Seating himself beside her, he placed a tub of ice-cream on her lap and removed the lid. She blinked at it, then felt a spoon being pushed into her hand.

This isn't me. I don't do ice-cream therapy. Digging into the tub, she came out with a spoonful of ice-cream and ate it. It was really, really good.

This isn't going to solve anything. She dug out another spoonful; it followed the fate of the first. Mark put his arm around her and held her close. She leaned against him.

Oh well, why not. She had another spoonful. It didn't solve her problems, but it didn't make them any worse, either.

And right now, that was good enough.

<><>​

Half an Hour Later

Amy

“And here we are,” announced Danny. The sedan slowed and turned up into the driveway, tyres crunching on gravel. Amy looked out the car window at the house; while it had a second floor, overall it was somewhat smaller than the place she called home. The flower garden showed signs of only intermittent weeding, the lawn hadn't been mown for a few weeks, and the house needed a new coat of paint. But for all that, she observed it with interest.

“It's, uh, probably not what you're used to,” Taylor said, sounding just a little sheepish. “Dad's with the Dockworkers, and the last few years haven't been the greatest.” Amy was aware that there were things that Taylor wasn't talking about; just for starters, Armsmaster had briefed her on the death of Taylor's mother. But while the house did look just a little run-down, it certainly wasn't the only one in the neighbourhood that did. This wasn't a good area, economically speaking.

“Pfft, hey,” Amy said cheerfully. “If what the place looked like mattered to me, I'd be trying to move into the Forsberg Gallery. So long as the roof don't leak and the floor isn't about to drop me into the basement, I'm good.” She wasn't just trying to put on a good show. The house represented a new start for her, and she wasn't going to turn up her nose at a shabby exterior. Appearances, she was fully aware, quite often had little to do with the reality of the situation. Besides, there was nothing here that a few hours of hard work wouldn't fix.

“That's the spirit,” Danny replied, and got out of the car. Opening the trunk, he retrieved his overnight bag. Amy opened her door and got out as well, then took a few steps off the driveway on to the lawn. She slipped her feet out of her sandals and curled her toes in the grass, feeling the tiny interconnected lives as her power spread through them. It was a way for her to ground herself, by letting the awareness of a larger world reduce her merely human problems to more realistic proportions. Unfortunately, she'd been doing this all too rarely of late.

“It's good to be home.” Taylor's words were almost a sigh as she climbed out of the car. Closing the door behind her, she went around the car and moved to join Amy, walking carefully. Amy noted how pale she looked and put out a hand to steady her. With a grateful smile, Taylor leaned against her.

“Hey, you okay?” asked Amy. Skin contact with Taylor told her that the taller girl was still feeling a little wobbly after having spent so long unconscious yesterday and overnight. The bland food they'd been giving her hadn't helped in that regard. There was also a significant amount of mental uncertainty going on there; she still hadn't fully recovered from the shock of learning how many had died due to her power. A lot of pain and anguish was bubbling away under the surface, not all of it caused by recent events, but none of it helping.

“Yeah, I'll be okay in a moment.” Taylor's voice was quiet. “It's just so … when I left home for school yesterday, none of this had happened, y'know? It's like … I'm looking at the house and it's an entirely different place, but it's not the house that's changed. It's me.” She hugged her arms around herself. “I'm a different person. So much shit's happened, because of choices I made.”

“Hey. Hey, hey hey.” Amy put her arm around Taylor. She wasn't tall enough to hug Taylor around the shoulders, but she did her best anyway. “If anyone knows about the consequences of choices, it's me. And I'm here to tell you that no matter what you do, no matter how much you try to do good, some other asshole's gonna come along and fuck things up just because they feel like it. I've healed criminals, only to see them in the news later for reoffending. Did my choice make it possible, or were they gonna reoffend when they got better anyway?” She squeezed Taylor's arms. “You did what you thought best. That's all you can do. Got it?”

“Yeah.” Taylor gave a weak smile. “Thanks.” Her arm went around Amy's shoulders and she squeezed back. She looked up at where Danny was just unlocking the front door. “Wanna go in? I'll show you my room. Our room, I mean. And then I'll take a shower. I really, really want a shower right now. And a change of clothes.” She looked down at Amy. “Um, not sure if my stuff will fit you. I mean, we can try …”

“Don't worry about it,” Amy assured her. “Vicky said she was gonna come over later with something for me to wear for the next few days.” She gave Taylor a beaming smile. “I appreciate the thought, though.” And she did. It was nice to have someone, a comparative stranger, actually being considerate toward her needs. Vicky tried to be, but she saw everything from a Vicky perspective, which usually meant that whatever she tried to get for Amy was more to her tastes than Amy's. Case in point: the semi-regular double dates she dragged Amy along on. Also, the way Taylor had corrected herself to include Amy in the occupancy of the room was kind of sweet.

“Oh, good.” Taylor led the way to the front steps. “Watch that second step. It's kind of rotten.” She stepped over it, holding on to the rail to steady herself, then climbed the rest of the way with ease. Amy looked down at the step in question, noting the signs of deterioration in the wood, and also stepped over it. Maybe I can do something about that later, she mused. Tucking the mental note away, she followed Taylor into the house.

Immediately inside the front door was a front hall consisting of a set of stairs going up, and a corridor alongside them leading to the back of the house. Danny was already at the other end of the hall, but instead of following him, Taylor headed up the stairs. Closing the front door behind her, Amy passed by a hallway mirror and a doorway into what looked like a living room, and followed her. When they were halfway up, Danny called out something from down below. However, his voice was muffled, and she had no idea what he'd said.

It seemed that neither did Taylor, because she paused on the stairs. “What was that, Dad?” she called back. Rolling her eyes, she confided to Amy, “He always does this when he's in the basement. Has no idea I can't hear him.” The show of spirit, as much as the comment itself, made Amy grin. It was good to see a sign of recovery, however minor.

Danny's next shout was somewhat easier to understand. “I said, did you girls want me to make lasagne or just get takeout for dinner?”

Amy opened her mouth to answer, but Taylor held up her hand, a positively evil smirk on her face.

“What?” Taylor called innocently a second time. “I didn't hear you.”

Amy fought the urge to burst into giggles at Taylor's prank. Footsteps sounded from down below and Danny came into sight.

“I said—” he began, then stopped and glared up at them. “You heard me. You know you heard me.”

Hastily, Amy composed her features into innocence, but she got the impression that it was far too little, far too late. Beside her, Taylor wasn't even trying. “Sorry, Dad,” she said between hiccups of laughter. “Lasagne would be wonderful, thanks. Amy?”

Still trying to come to grips with the casual way Taylor joked with her father, Amy nodded. “Uh, yeah. I like lasagne.” In her family, she might pull jokes on Vicky, but that was as far as it went. It'd never occurred to her to play with her parents in such a fashion. Carol would've murdered her—figuratively if not literally—and with Mark's bouts of chronic depression, pranks would just be mean. But even feeling as fragile as she obviously was, Taylor felt comfortable with pulling her father's leg like this.

“Right.” Danny continued to glare up at them, then the forbidding expression shifted to a rueful smile and he shook his head. “Teenagers,” he muttered as he turned away. Amy wasn't quite sure if it was a swearword or just a comment on the world in general.

Still chuckling, Taylor headed up the stairs again, with Amy following on. “Bathroom,” she said, pushing open the door that opened almost at the top of the steps. “And yes, we have a tub.” Amy had already spotted that, and was making plans for a long stress-free soak later. The corridor took another turn, then ended a few yards on with doors to the left and right, and a louvred door straight ahead. Taylor pointed at the doors in sequence, starting at the left. “Dad's room. Linen cupboard. Our room.”

Opening the door to 'our room' revealed a typical teenage girl's bedroom, with a few items of clothing strewn on the floor in front of a dresser, an ancient computer lurking on a desk in the corner, and a wide selection of posters on the wall. Aside from the obligatory depiction of Alexandria, Amy was vaguely surprised to see one for New Wave, which she chose not to comment on. She thought she even recalled the photo-shoot for the poster in question. The makeup guy had spent way too long trying to 'bring her eyes out', insisting that she looked hollow-eyed and tired. She had been hollow-eyed and tired, having spent a little too long at the hospital the previous night. The leadup to every poster shoot was stressful for the whole family, and sneaking off to Brockton General was the best way she had to deal with some of it. Of course, she'd caught flak from Carol afterward for 'letting the team down', but that was nothing new, even then.

Taylor went to her knees in front of the dresser. “I'm not this messy usually,” she explained, her back to Amy. She took hold of a pair of jeans and folded them, shoving them haphazardly into a bottom drawer. A bra and a pair of panties got bundled together and jammed into the same drawer. “Dad must've—must've dropped some when he came to get clothes, for when I was—when I was …” Her hands got tangled up in a t-shirt as she tried to fold it, and her voice trailed off into a sob. Amy dropped straight down beside Taylor, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“Hey,” she said softly. “I'm here. It's all right. It's over. It's never gonna happen again. You're safe.” Gently removing the shirt from Taylor's hands, she rubbed her other hand in gentle circles on the taller girl's back. “I'm here. It's gonna be all right.”

“It's never going to be all right,” Taylor choked out. “It's my power that killed all those people. What if it happens again? What if I accidentally kill Dad, or you?” Her eyes, anguished, came up to meet Amy's, as she twisted her hands together, the nails digging into her skin. “I'd never forgive myself if that happened. I'd die first.”

“Okay, for starters, you couldn't kill me with bugs.” Amy made her voice light and confident. “It can't be done. If a bug touches me, I've got control of its biology. It couldn't sting me any more than you can look at the back of your own head.” Carefully, she took hold of Taylor's hands in her own. Taylor's biology was open to her; ever so subtly, she stimulated the production of calming hormones. “And you've got better control than that. I know you do.” Clasping both of Taylor's hands in her left hand, she lifted her right to push the black curly hair back from Taylor's forehead. Her thumb touched Taylor's skin and moved in slow circles, above and between her eyes. “Right in here is all the control you need. I can tell.”

Looking a little confused at Amy's pronouncement, Taylor tilted her head slightly. “How can you tell? You can't affect brains. You told me that before.” She was less agitated, Amy noted, and that was only partially due to the soothing chemicals now in her bloodstream. It was taking less effort each time to talk her down, which was good. The last thing she wanted was to get Taylor addicted to the hormones needed to make her feel calm and secure.

Of course, there was also the question that needed answering now. Did she trust Taylor enough to keep her most carefully-guarded secret? “Can I tell you something I've only ever told Vicky?” It wasn't quite a snap decision. Taylor deserved to know what was going on and, on a more personal note, sharing secrets tended to build trust. If I'm going to get Taylor through this, she needs to know she can trust me.

Taylor blinked at Amy as the biokinetic helped her up and guided her to sit on the bed. Amy sat down beside her a moment later, feeling the springs sag under her. As she did so, Taylor stared at her with a gradually awakening realisation as she connected the dots. “Holy crap,” she whispered. “You can affect brains?” Despite the fact that she'd figured it out, she obviously hadn't thought it all the way through, because she didn't pull her hands back from Amy's grasp.

“Yeah.” Amy nodded. “I tell people I can't because I don't want to use that part of my power.” She stared into Taylor's eyes, willing her to understand. “It's not because it's hard. It's because it's too easy. The temptation is there every time I heal someone, every time I accidentally brush against someone in the hall. To remake people the way I think they should be. The power's right there, within my reach, to change the world.” Holding out her right hand, she flexed her fingers in a grasping motion. “I could do it, I really could. But I don't dare. Because I don't know if I could bring myself to stop, once I started. So I don't start. And I don't even let anyone know that I could do it.”

“Wow.” Taylor shook her head slowly. “Wait … so you could alter my brain if you wanted to? While we're sitting here?” She looked down at where Amy held her hand loosely, and a flush of fear went through her system. “Did you alter my brain? Have you made it so I can't have a psychotic break?”

“No.” Amy kept her voice at the same even tone as before. “I can prove it, too.” It'd been a mistake to tell Vicky that she could indeed affect brains, but not for the reason she'd feared. Her sister, always a very direct person, had immediately seized upon the idea of Amy reforming criminals just by laying a hand on them. Amy rejected the whole idea, even as her power laid out in the back of her mind exactly how she'd do it. It would've been so easy, and that was one of the reasons she was so vehemently against it. Another reason was that she was a firm believer in free will, and altering someone's mind simply took that away.

“Um, okay?” The turmoil in Taylor's mind edged between fear and wanting to trust. However, she still hadn't pulled away, which gave Amy the suspicion that deep down she wanted Amy to render judgement upon her with her powers. “How can you prove that? If you can make me believe anything you say, I'd never be able to tell.”

Amy chuckled warmly. “Yeah, but that's my proof. You're still worried that I might do it. If I wanted you unworried, I could instil in your mind the absolute certainty that I could never affect your mind, or that I'd never do it. But I won't.” The logic was tortuous in the extreme, but Taylor was a smart girl. Amy had faith in her to figure it out. “In any case, you had nothing to worry about. If you were ever gonna have a psychotic break and go all murderous, it would've happened a month ago.”

“Ah. Yeah. Right.” Taylor's anxiety smoothed out and she settled down again, one fingertip gently tracing the veins on the back of Amy's hand. “Um …” She hesitated. “Were you ever worried about affecting brains because you'd kill people?”

Amy found the sensation a little weird, but she didn't pull her hand away. For Taylor to trust her, she had to feel that Amy trusted her first. Which meant that if Taylor wanted to play this-little-piggy-went-to-market with her hand … well, it was a very long time since she'd played that game, but Amy would play along as best she could. “How do you mean?” she asked. “Like, accidentally turning their brain off? My power doesn't work that way. I know the exact consequence of everything I do before I do it.” Turning someone's brain off on purpose was something else altogether. Not that she'd actually do it unless she had no other choice (and possibly not even then), but it was definitely something that could happen.

“No.” Taylor quit fiddling with Amy's hand and looked up at her. “I read about stuff where if you changed the basic foundations of what made up a person, you effectively killed them. Brainwashing and stuff like that. I'm pretty sure I've read a novel or two where the characters got total amnesia, and ended up as totally different people. Is that why you're scared of affecting brains?”

Amy frowned. “That's a slippery slope, right there. Yeah, I could technically alter someone's brain so hard that if you didn't know their face you wouldn't know it was the same person. But the kind of alterations I was referring to was tiny stuff. You know, habits and attitudes that people could change on their own, given time. I mean, we all change from hour to hour and day to day. Are you the same person, do you have the same attitudes that you had three years ago? Or would you say that person's dead and gone?”

“Well, no,” Taylor admitted. “That person grew up to be me. I'm her, plus three years of life experiences. Some pretty crappy experiences, yeah, but that's what makes me different from her.” It was her turn to frown. “Some people change pretty damn fast though. And then they just don't change at all, afterward. Why is that?”

Amy chuckled and shook her head. “I'm no psychiatrist. I can tell you how the brain fits together, but I can't even begin to explain why people think the way they do. I guess you're talking about that ex-bestie of yours?” Having seen a picture of the Barnes girl, Amy thought she'd recognised her. A few months ago, she'd attended a photo-shoot with Vicky, where the gimmick was that the heroes were photographed out of costume (but with opera masks to conceal their identities) alongside local teens wearing superhero costumes. If it was the same girl, Amy seemed to recall her being nasty toward a disabled kid who was also in the photo-shoot. Vicky had been deeply offended at the time.

“Yeah.” Taylor sighed. “Over just a few weeks, she went from being my best friend to my worst enemy. And Sophia …” She shook her head. “From then on, they were on my case. Never letting up.” There was pain and regret in her voice, echoing the feelings inside her. Amy suspected that Taylor had agonised over Emma's betrayal more than once.

Amy smiled and put her arm around Taylor. “Well, I can guarantee that it's not gonna happen any more. Dunno if anyone else told you, but the Director's going full court press on this one. She's pissed as fuck that one of her Wards could pull this shit under her nose, and drag civilians into it as well. From what I understand, she had Armsmaster, Assault, Battery and even Dragon gathering evidence all last night, and what she can't use against Shadow Stalker, she turned over to the police.”

From the dip in Taylor's good mood, mentioning Shadow Stalker's name also reminded her that the (now ex-) Ward had escaped capture the previous night, and was still at large. “She's still out there,” Taylor said softly. “And I know better than just about anyone how she can hold a grudge.”

“Yeah, well,” Amy replied, tightening her hug. “If she tries anything, she's also gonna have to come through me, Vicky and the rest of the Wards. Because we're in this together.” In lieu of an answer, Taylor leaned against her once more. It was odd, Amy felt, the difference it made to have someone coming to her for reassurance rather than healing. All in all, it was something she could get used to.

<><>​

Undersiders Base

Grue

“You've got to be kidding.” Brian stared at Lisa, searching for any signs of humour on her face. There were none; even her typical screw-you grin was absent. She looked as serious as he'd ever known her to be. “We haven't even had Shadow Stalker—”

“I fuckin' told you, I'm Spectre now.” The newest member of the team raised her voice from across the room where she was glowering in an armchair. “I rebranded. New start and all that shit. Now quit it with the 'Shadow Stalker' bullshit.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine, 'Spectre'. My point stands. We haven't even had her on the team for one fucking day, and you're already planning a robbery with her? We haven't got to know her—”

This time, it was Alec who interrupted. “Nah, see, we know her all too well. She's a trigger-happy bitch-face who can't make up her mind if she's a hero or a villain. I vote we tie her up and leave her in the base while we go do the robbery.” Without even acknowledging the poisonous glare being directed at him by Spectre—she'd unmasked but not offered her real name—he went back to playing his first-person shooter game.

“Oh, for fuck's sake.” Brian looked around. “Bitch, you got anything to say? Because apparently this two-person discussion's an open fucking forum now.” Rachel didn't answer because, he realised after a moment, she wasn't in the room. “Where's Bitch?”

“Went out for a walk,” Alec offered. “Said something about either getting out or killing Shadow Stalker. Personally, I think—” He was interrupted by a cushion hitting the side of his head.

“Listen, you little cretin,” hissed Spectre from right beside him, leaning down with both hands on the arm of his chair. “You call me Shadow Stalker one more fuckin' time, I'll mess up your shit so bad they'll see it from fuckin' orbit. You get me?”

Brian turned toward the incipient confrontation, but Alec waved a negligent hand before he could intervene. Consequently, Shadow Stalker—Spectre—lurched sideways, tripping clumsily on to the floor. Even as she impacted, she went to shadow and regained her feet in an instant. Returning to her human form, she started toward Alec with her fingers crooked like claws, her face a mask of fury. “You little fucking—!”

“Hey!” Brian stepped forward, darkness billowing from his hands. “Regent, leave Spectre alone. Spectre, don't start shit you can't finish. We clear?” This sort of crap was not the way a team acted, though admittedly Alec wasn't blameless in the matter. He waited, and after a moment, Spectre stepped back. Alec gave a thumb's up, and Spectre didn't trip again, so Brian figured that was his agreement.

“Okay, good.” Brian turned back to Lisa. “Can you please, please get back on to the boss and tell him that Spectre just isn't a good fit for us? And that we really should wait a week or so to let Spectre shake down with us, before we do any major crimes?” He figured that if this sort of shit kept up, he was gonna be punching someone really soon. If he was lucky, it would be Spectre; the wound her arrow had left still twinged him, some days.

Lisa rolled her eyes. “Don't you think I haven't already gone over this with him? Three times? He's insisting that Spectre get a fair shot. This gig will be her way of proving to everyone that she can work with us. Now, we're hitting that big jewellery store in the Hillside Mall, tomorrow around lunchtime. Me, Spectre and Regent go in, case the place, and call the boss. He gives us the go/no go, and if we green-light it, you and Bitch bring the dogs in. In the meantime, we're subduing the staff and customers and grabbing all the good stuff. Once you get there, we jump on the dogs and vacate the premises. Easy as pie.”

The last three words she spoke gave him an acute pain, not unlike heartburn. “I'm gonna want to see full plans, security rosters and escape routes before I okay this. Got it?” He gave her a level stare to drive home the fact that he was serious. Going into a robbery with half-assed planning was bad enough, but to do it with Shadow Stalker along was just asking for trouble.

“Hey.” Her tone was light. “Have I ever let you down?” He just looked at her. “Uh, recently?” He still didn't say a word. “Badly?”

Relenting, he shook his head. “Don't make this the first time, okay?”

Grabbing up her laptop, she headed into the passageway leading to the kitchen. "Trust me, by the time I get done with this, it'll be airtight." She sounded certain of herself, but she'd done that before, too.

Still, there was nothing to be gained in trying to micromanage her in what she did best. Grimacing, he turned away. "Just make sure you do." He knew full well he didn't have any kind of Thinker power, but if anyone asked, he would've been the first to admit that he had a bad feeling about this.

<><>​

PRT Building

Emily Piggot

Settling into her office chair, Emily let out a sigh of ... not quite comfort, but less discomfort than normal. She looked up at Armsmaster, who had followed her into the office. "So there's no doubt about it?" The question was less for her benefit than his; the man was almost obsessive about getting every detail correct. For her part, she had no problem believing that Calvert was the man they were after. When she first met him, she judged him to be an unscrupulous snake, and nothing she'd seen in the meantime had done anything to change her mind.

"None whatsoever, ma'am," he replied firmly. "Dragon triple-checked everything. The chance of someone spoofing the message to frame Calvert is minuscule. If they could do that, then we would never have got the data off the captured phones that we did." That was definitely good enough for Emily. Armsmaster was extremely good at what he did. And when he teamed up with Dragon, as the night's events had shown, the results were nothing short of exceptional.

"Good." She bared her teeth in an atavistic snarl. "Send the email.” It wasn't a particularly dramatic command, such as 'unleash the hounds' or 'fire when ready', but this was the modern age, after all. Drama could afford to be understated. Especially when all the hounds of Hell were about to descend upon a thoroughly treacherous subordinate.

She couldn't wait.

<><>​

Underground Base

Coil

Calvert frowned as his computer pinged to indicate an incoming email, one which had been rerouted from his computer at the PRT building. He hadn't been expecting any incoming messages; in fact, he was always careful to have his paperwork up to date and filed on time so as not to attract official attention. So it was with a certain amount of curiosity that he clicked the tab to open the email.

A moment later, he rolled his eyes. “All strike team commanders are to report to their respective bases on Friday, February 4th, to attend mandatory briefings on rule changes regarding the treatment of Mastered hostages …” Great. More time-wasting make-work, just so the higher-ups could justify their existence in the chain of command. When I'm running the show, this sort of shit won't fly.

With an irritated grunt, he typed out a swift reply, indicating that Commander Thomas Calvert would be there on time. As irritating as it was, he could not afford to raise eyebrows with conspicuous absences. However, it was only after he clicked the Send icon that he recalled the Undersiders and the planned initiation of their newest member. By the time he was done with her, she would have little to no chance of returning to her life as a reluctant Ward, if she even wanted to. With any luck, she would require little inducement to take to the life of a supervillain. Of course, if that were not the case, he was fully prepared to supply whatever inducement was needed.

Well, he decided. I'm just going to have to handle it. It wasn't as if sitting in a deadly dull briefing was something he was unused to. Receiving and sending text messages during that time wasn't exactly unknown either; in any case, he'd just have to make sure he sat up at the back. Clicking on the icon that put his computer to sleep, he stood up and stretched. He was getting a little stiff, so he decided to make use of his private exercise room.

Behind him, as he walked away, he failed to hear the faint beep as the computer started up again. Nor, as the screen remained dark, would he have known about it even if he'd turned around. Deep in the electronic guts of the machine, a virus unpacked itself and went to work.



End of Part Twelve

Part Thirteen

 

Price of Blood

Part Thirteen: Enmeshed

[A/N: this chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Hebert Household
Friday, February 4, 2011
Taylor

She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Her arms were bound at her sides, preventing her from struggling free. She tried to scream, but she couldn't get the air into her lungs to do even that. Writhing, she kicked and threw herself from side to side, desperation growing within her. Hands clutched at her, raising her terror to new heights.

But then the urgency began to drain away, a sense of calm gradually taking its place. The hands weren't clutching at her, they were unwrapping the bonds from around her body. A voice became audible to her, as if from a great distance and slowly coming closer.

“Taylor? I know you can hear me. Taylor, it's just a bad dream. I want you to listen to my voice. You're going to wake up now, and it'll all be just a nightmare. It's not real, Taylor. You're going to be all right.” The voice was soothing and calm; by its very nature, it promised better things for her. Just listening to it, she felt her agitation melting away. Cool air found its way into her lungs and she realised that she could indeed breathe; the feeling of suffocation had just been part of the dream.

Dream. I was dreaming. I was asleep, and now I'm awake. Taking another deep breath, she opened her eyes. Reality reasserted itself, and she became aware of the twisted sheets that she'd somehow managed to tie herself up in. Worried brown eyes framed by frizzy hair looked back at hers, which caused her brain to stutter until it finally rebooted all the way. Panacea. Amy Dallon. She's staying here now. She saw me having a nightmare. Panacea had one hand on Taylor's arm and the other holding the sheet; from the look of it, she'd just finished unwinding it from around Taylor's arms.

“Ugh,” mumbled Taylor, suddenly aware that she was soaked in sweat. Thank fuck, thank fuck, thank fuck. It wasn't real. Despite the brilliant mote-filled sunlight streaming in between the curtains on the window, the room wasn't all that warm, so the sweat was almost certainly due to the nightmare. A moment later, panic swelled in her chest as she recalled a very important factor; specifically, the bugs. The last time she'd been in a state like this, with her emotions running rampant, nearly three hundred people had died. Frantically, she sent an order out in all directions: Whatever you're doing, stop it right now.

In return, she got an inpouring of signals, all of which showed that her bugs were simply going about their business; or rather, had been until she told them to stop. There'd been no swarms aggressively hunting people down or gathering suspiciously in any particular location. Even a fly which had been buzzing unnoticed through the bedroom had fallen to the dresser with a tiny thud because she'd told it to stop what it was doing, which apparently included flying.

“Wow, are you okay?” asked Amy, concern rising anew on her face. “Your worry levels just spiked, hard. What happened?” Though she still had hold of Taylor's arm, she seemed to be trying to get through to her by talking than by using powers.

Which Taylor appreciated, considerably. It was always good to be treated like a rational person rather than a robot or a potentially dangerous animal. She essayed a wan smile in Amy's direction. “Yeah, that was me just freaking out a bit over having that nightmare. I was wondering if I'd set any bugs off, but it doesn't seem like it.” Her heart rate was slowing again as she let herself relax. “Crisis averted, I guess.” Belatedly, she sent the signal out to the bugs. It's okay. You can go back to what you were doing. Apparently unharmed by its crash landing, the fly took off from the dresser and droned out through the gap in the curtains.

Amy's chuckle was a little strained. “Yeah. Trust me, if I'd seen or heard anything like that when I was downstairs on the phone, I would've run, not walked up the stairs.” Taking hold of Taylor's hand, she gave it a comforting squeeze. “Trust me, I'm here for you. I know what it's like to have powers that seem determined to push your life down a path you'd never choose for yourself.” She chuckled again, much more darkly. “I guess that's basically all powers anywhere, really.”

“I suppose,” Taylor answered absently, her mind still on the nightmare. “When I was dreaming, was that you talking to me?” A moment later, she cringed inwardly at the realisation of exactly how stupid the question sounded, but it was too late to take it back. Then she cringed even harder at the knowledge that Panacea had seen her thrashing around like an idiot.

“Uh huh.” If Panacea—Amy—found any amusement in the situation, she hid it well. “You actually did all right last night. Took forever to drop off, but when you did, you slept like you really needed it. I think you only started dreaming a little while ago.” She seated herself on the edge of the bed and put her hand to Taylor's forehead. “How do you feel?”

It had to be a rhetorical question; Taylor knew damn well that Amy could tell exactly how she felt. In fact, she probably knew how Taylor felt better than Taylor herself did. But answering her out loud was kind of soothing, allowing her to order her thoughts. Which is probably the whole idea. She's been doing this for years, after all.

“Yeah, uh, not too bad,” Taylor said, taking a deep breath. Ugh. I stink. “I can't remember too much of it, but it was pretty horrible.” Already, the last lingering remnants of the dream were slipping away. But still, she could recall Amy's calm words pulling her back from the pit of terror that she'd been sliding into. “I could hear you while I was dreaming. How's that even possible? And what did you do?” A recollection of what Amy had revealed to her the previous day had her squinting suspiciously at her new room-mate. “Did you mess with my brain?” Not that she'd be overly unhappy if this was the case, she decided. Having her brain messed with was preferable to being stuck in a nightmare. I just want to know, is all.

Amy answered so promptly and forthrightly that she must've had some idea Taylor wasn't mad at her. “Not really,” she hedged. “I didn't make any permanent changes. Mainly I slowed down your epinephrine production and cranked up your dopamine levels.” At Taylor's blank stare, she smiled a little self-consciously. “Uh, sorry. Epinephrine is otherwise known as adrenaline, and dopamine … well, a vast simplification is that it makes you feel good. So I pulled you out of the agitation spiral, then bumped up your conscious mind a notch so you could hear and respond to me. After that, it was just a matter of letting you climb out of the rabbit hole all by yourself.”

“Oh.” It sounded simple, the way Amy explained it, but … “Wow. Why are you not a therapist?” Taylor shook her head. “If you weren't here, I'd probably still be back at the PRT building, drugged to the eyeballs while they debated what to do with me.” Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. In lieu of hugging Amy—she was all too aware of her sweaty condition—she squeezed the other girl's hand. “And if they even let me wake up, once I realised what I'd done … I really don't know how I would've handled it. If at all.” Distantly, she understood the amount of gratitude she felt toward Amy was almost pathetic … just for acting like a decent human being. If that wasn't a reflection on the way people around her had been treating her for far too long, she didn't know what was.

Amy grimaced. “I'd like to think they'd work something out, but … yeah.” Putting her arm around Taylor, she gave her a sisterly squeeze, then briskly changed the subject. “Anyway, why don't you go have a shower? I'll still be here when you get back, and I'll tell you about the phone call.”

Taylor tilted her head. “Phone call?” This was the first she'd heard of that.

“Shower first.” Amy made little 'shoo' motions with her fingertips. “You're a little bit sweaty. Go.”

Fully aware that Amy was lowballing the description—she was a whole lot sweaty—Taylor grabbed some clothes and escaped into the bathroom. It was a relief to get under the hot spray; she could feel it washing away the last fragments of the nightmare. Just this once, she decided she could indulge herself and took her time with the shower. It was definitely worth it; by the time she finished, she felt almost human again.

Dressed in the fresh clothing and drying her hair with her towel, she came back into the bedroom to find that Amy had not only changed out of her pyjamas, but she'd also stripped the sheets off the bed and remade it. Which was probably a good thing, given the amount of sweat that had been pooling off Taylor, but she hoped it wouldn't happen too often. I hate being like this. I hate being helpless to something I can't fix or avoid.

“Hey,” Amy said, sitting down on the just-made bed. “Feeling better?” She smiled up at Taylor. “You look better. More colour in your cheeks. Less like death warmed over, to be honest.”

“Thanks.” Taylor felt herself flush slightly; it seemed even a simple compliment from someone she considered to be a friend (and compliments and friends were few and far between on the ground for her, these days) couldn't help but embarrass her. “I feel better. Less ugh, if you know what I mean.” She sat down beside Amy. “I don't know if I've thanked you for waking me up when you did, but thank you again anyway.” She paused, searching for words that wouldn't sound sappy or stupid. “I haven't had anyone on my side for way too long.”

Now it was Amy who felt embarrassed, if her awkward chuckle was anything to go by. “That's okay,” she said, flapping her hand to wave off the praise. “I've been stuck in my own problems for far too long. You've helped me get a bit of perspective, and to get away from some of the problems, all at the same time. You and your dad putting me up like this is …” She trailed off.

Taylor chuckled, pretty sure that she knew what Amy meant. “Yeah.” Putting her arm around Amy's shoulders—sitting down, she was still just a little taller than the other girl—she gave Amy the same sort of squeeze that she'd gotten earlier. It felt nice to give as well as get. “It's like that. I'm just glad you're here.”

Amy didn't say anything to that, but if her silent nod was any indication of her feelings, she agreed with Taylor's sentiment. They sat like that for a minute or so. Taylor found Amy leaning in on her; whether this was because the mattress was soft or because Amy wanted to lean on her, she didn't much care. It was just nice to have a friend. To have human contact apart from her dad.

Before the silence could get awkward, Taylor recalled something Amy had said earlier. “So what was that about a phone call?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Amy said, sitting up slightly. "You know how we were talking about working something out earlier? Well, after I woke up, I was just lying there thinking about things, when I had an idea about how to solve one of your problems. You were still asleep, so I went downstairs and called the Deputy Director.” She ducked her head, looking a little sheepish. “I didn't mean to be away that long. When I got back upstairs, you were well into the nightmare.”

“Yeah, well, I'm just glad you got back when you did,” Taylor said with feeling. She gave Amy's shoulders another squeeze for emphasis. “So what idea did you have? What problem did you call him about?” She was still getting used to the concept of just casually calling up the Deputy Director of the PRT and having him accept the call.

“The problem of you being a cape in Brockton Bay,” Amy explained, a little obscurely. “Once I explained the idea, Mr Renick cut Armsmaster in on the call, and they agreed it could work. Of course, they're fully aware that it requires your okay to go ahead with it, but I just wanted to make sure it was even possible before getting you excited over something that might not even happen.” Her eyes, now anxious, searched Taylor's. “I'm not trying to step all over your choices, but I was kind of excited to see if they'd go for it.”

Now Taylor was totally confused. “Okay, what idea did you have to fix the problem?” As far as Taylor could tell, there were several potential problems that Amy could be referring to. Of course, after what she'd done for Taylor, Amy could've casually announced that she'd figured out how to walk on water, and Taylor would probably have accepted the statement at face value.

Amy looked overly pleased with herself. “Well, you see, not many people know this, but were you aware Gallant isn't actually a Tinker?”

This was indeed news to Taylor. “Um, I am now?” She paused. “Not to sound rude or anything, but how does that relate to my problems?”

Amy's smile widened. “I'm glad you asked. It's all about misdirection …” As Taylor listened intently, she began to explain.

<><>​

Undersiders Base
A Little Later
Grue

One of Rachel's dogs—Brutus, if Brian recalled correctly—raised his head and growled. Within seconds, all three dogs were standing and barking, looking toward the entrance of the loft. Brian stood up from the sofa, putting his controller down and reaching for his helmet. “Someone's here,” he warned everyone.

“Don't worry, it's only Shadow Stalker,” Lisa said, wandering in from the kitchen. Her hair was still unbrushed, but she had a stack of papers in her hand and a look of satisfaction on her face. This wasn't even affected by the fact she had to raise her voice to be heard over the dogs. “She's probably gonna be pissed we wouldn't let her sleep over. Just saying.”

Footsteps sounded on the spiral staircase; from the sound of it, whoever was coming up was either a big, heavy person or they were (as Lisa had so delicately put it) pissed enough to stomp on every riser. With a look of annoyance on her face, Rachel quieted her dogs, but she didn't make them sit. In fact, from her posture and attitude, Brian had a strong suspicion that she was considering going on the attack once Spectre came in the door. He turned to face her, and shook his head. “No,” he said flatly. “The boss wants us to work with her, so we play nice for the moment.”

She switched her glare to him. This was nothing new; they clashed once in a while over how things were done in the Undersiders, but she nearly always came around in the end. Sometimes she needed a more physical inducement, which never sat right with him; his father, as rough around the edges as he was, had always taught him not to hit girls. But sometimes her stubbornness and combative nature directly threatened the integrity and safety of the team, and so he had to make the hard choice. It was a small blessing that Rachel never seemed to take his disciplinary efforts amiss; once done, it was done.

This time, however, she seemed willing to back down before things got physical. At a word and a gesture from her, the dogs sat down again. For herself, she kept her eyes on the doorway; some of the tension left her body, but she didn't take a seat herself. Nor did Brian, partly because he didn't necessarily trust Rachel not to go on the attack anyway, and partly because he wanted to be on his feet when Spectre came through the doorway—just in case.

When she did walk in, she was in costume and carrying a cardboard box; despite the fact that the tinted visor was doing a reasonable job at concealing her features, she looked annoyed. Just as Lisa had predicted, in fact. Big surprise there.

“I still can't believe you shits wouldn't let me sleep here,” she snapped, apparently willing to carry on the argument from the night before. “What the fuck's that about, anyway?” The box in her hands, about eight inches square, she tucked under one arm as she surveyed the assembled Undersiders.

It hadn't been a hard decision to make. Despite his best efforts to show hospitality (some working more at it than others) things hadn't gone well the night before. Spectre hadn't helped when she more or less claimed one of the armchairs and skated it off as far into the corner as she could manage, where she could keep an eye on the rest of them. Brian might've felt mildly insulted, but he knew damn well Rachel was just looking for an excuse to beat the living shit out of the newcomer. He felt that way himself, but as the leader of the Undersiders, he'd decided to keep it to the practice mat.

About the only way for her to build any sort of fellow-feeling in the group would've been to play shooter games with Regent, but apparently she hadn't felt like doing that either. So she lurked in the corner all evening and glowered at everyone while Brian and Alec played the game, Lisa huddled in the kitchen doing her research and Rachel took her dogs for a walk. At least Alec stopped making Spectre's limbs twitch at inopportune moments, though that had taken dire threats of what would happen the next time he and Brian stepped on to the practice mat together to achieve this.

In the end, as nobody seemed to be warming to their unwelcome guest, Lisa had contacted the boss and asked for Spectre to be accommodated off-site for the night. A car arrived shortly afterward, and she'd grudgingly gotten in. It seemed, though, that she still thought she was in the right over the matter. Which, given Brian's experience of Spectre (and Shadow Stalker), didn't surprise him in the slightest.

“Well, it goes like this,” Alec chirped up from where he hadn't budged from the sofa. “I'm not saying we didn't trust you not to slit our throats in our sleep, but … yeah, actually, we didn't trust you not to slit our throats in our sleep.”

“You're not one of us,” Rachel said bluntly, in a rare agreement with Alec. “Never will be. Don't try and pretend like you are. You don't like it, fuck off.” Her expression dared Spectre to do something about it. “You can't do hero right, and you can't do villain right. You're a fucking failure all the way around.”

“Don't call me a failure!” Spectre came moved toward her, her fists clenched, but Brian stepped forward into her path. Darkness leaked from his hands and pooled between them as a silent warning. She didn't come any farther, but anger twisted her expression into something ugly. “They're always fucking with me! If he's not making me trip, she's calling me stupid fucking names!” Her tone was almost indignant, as if someone like her should be immune to the casual dickery of the other three. For a moment, he briefly wondered if she was used to being on the other side of the equation. With her attitude, it really wouldn't have surprised him.

“I've got a scar on my gut that says I've got no obligation to feel sorry for you,” he said flatly. “You've tried to kill all of us at one point or another. I don't know exactly what you got caught for to end up on the wrong side of the law and get shoved in with us—”

“I do!” Lisa, her smug grin belying her tired look, appeared on the verge of bursting into laughter all over again. “Holy shit, it's amazing. You wouldn't believe what's on the PRT files about her. And what she did to Aegis. It's a good thing she slept away last night.” Without looking away from Spectre, she gestured over her shoulder. “Anyway, the plan's in the kitchen. I've already run the guys through it. It's not too sophisticated, so you should understand it just fine, Spooky.”

Brian wasn't sure exactly what she meant by the emphasis, but the glare of pure hatred Spectre sent Lisa should by rights have dropped the Thinker dead in her tracks. “I told you not to call me fucking stupid names,” snapped the ex-vigilante, stepping right up to Lisa. “You want some? Let's go. You and me, right here, right now.” Her fists were clenched so tightly that even her dark skin showed white over the knuckles.

“Sorry, honey, but I don't swing that way,” Lisa purred. “No wonder you're such an unbearable cow all the time, though. You must be so frustrated that you can't find a girlfriend who can stand your shit long enough for you to get into her pants.” Blowing Spectre a kiss, she gave the other girl a fingertip wave, then sashayed back along the corridor toward the kitchen, giving her hips a good bump and grind along the way. “Come on back and I'll show you the plan. I'll even read out the big words for you.”

“Fuck you, you stupid bitch!” Spectre shot back, causing Brian to mentally facepalm. You did not just say that to Lisa. The blonde Thinker hated being called stupid; to do so was to invite her to retaliate with everything she could bring to bear. Anyone who knew Tattletale knew that. Apparently, Spectre wasn't one of them. Or maybe she was, and was too pissed to care.

Not even missing a beat, Lisa's voice floated back along the corridor. “No thanks. Like I said, you're not my type. But if you're lucky, you might be able to persuade Regent to wear glasses, a dress, and a long curly wig. He's into kinky stuff like that.”

“It's true,” Alec said languidly. If Brian hadn't been sure his team-mate was just saying it to back up Lisa and stir Spectre's temper some more, he might even have believed it. “I draw the line at tucking, though.”

Once again, Lisa's reference went right over Brian's head, but it scored a direct hit on Spectre. They were all lucky, he judged, that the black girl also lacked any sort of spontaneous combustion power; the loft might not have survived, otherwise. “I am not gay!” she shrieked—no, screeched. “I like guys! Guys! Not girls! And definitely not He—her!”

Brian didn't even bother wondering who 'her' was. It wasn't often that Lisa managed to wind up her targets so thoroughly, but Spectre had obviously been a prime target. He'd never seen anyone actually froth at the mouth before—well, apart from a few Merchants on bad trips, but they didn't count. Spectre looked like she wanted to either storm down the hallway and rip Lisa a new one, or strangle Alec with his own controller cord. Or maybe both, possibly at the same time.

Alec's phone hadn't made a sound, but he picked it up anyway and held it to his ear. “Hello? Yeah? Okay, I'll tell her.” He put the device down and looked up at Spectre. “Yeah, that was Accord, in Boston,” he drawled. “He wants you to keep the noise down—and he doesn't believe you, either.”

That broke the deadlock. With a scream of inarticulate rage, Spectre turned insubstantial and leaped toward Alec. Just for a moment, Brian was tempted to let the two mess each other up; if he didn't step in on his team-mate's side and Alec lost, maybe he'd learn not to fuck with people so egregiously. The trouble was, if he won, he'd take that as license to do it even more often. Besides, Brian didn't like Spectre even a little bit. Yes, she was hot, but so was Purity, and Brian wasn't about to ask her on a date any time soon either.

Alec had apparently been waiting on Spectre's reaction; as she sprang toward him, he brought his sceptre around so that the prongs would contact her immaterial form. Once that happened, Brian knew, it would discharge through her body and drop her on the floor in a twitching heap. But Spectre wasn't the type to be caught napping, or even to attack without a plan in mind. Turning solid halfway there, she lit down on her hands and rolled into a somersault, from where she kicked out solidly toward the sceptre. The heel of her boot connected with the weapon, sending it flying out of Alec's hand. Even though he exerted his power a moment later, causing Spectre to flop sideways as one of her arms spasmed, the damage was done. He was unarmed and she was almost within reach of him.

With an aggravated sigh, Brian stepped forward, darkness billowing from his hands. It enveloped the other two at the same time, eliciting totally different reactions. While Alec dived forward off the sofa in a scramble to find his sceptre, Spectre stumbled, all her grace and speed gone. Her chest heaved, as though she was having trouble breathing. Of course, neither one could see a thing right now, which suited him just fine. Maybe I can bang their heads together a few times. We don't need Regent poking the bear just so he can watch me beat up Shadow Stalker. Not that he had a moral problem with beating up on Shadow Stalker, but the boss wanted them to let her work with them, so he probably wasn't allowed to smack her around too hard.

She was just feeling her way out of the cloud when he grabbed her by the scruff of the neck. At that moment, Lisa yelled, “GRUE!” from the kitchen area; the slightly muffled nature of the shout clued him in that the entire loft was now enveloped in his darkness. Spectre went to her shadow form, but only managed to stay that way for a second or so before she popped back into her solid state. Breath audibly rasping in her lungs, she tried to shape up against him, but ended up facing a good sixty degrees to the side. He could work with that. Slapping a hand on her left shoulder, he tapped his foot behind her knee to throw her off balance. The knee buckled and she went down, though he maintained his grip to prevent her from going all the way over. She lashed her right arm over to dig her nails into his wrist, but he took hold of it with his right hand and twisted it down between her shoulder-blades.

Over the next thirty seconds, during which he allowed the darkness to sublime away, she scrabbled at his hand with her left hand, doing her best to break his hold on her shoulder. Unfortunately for her efforts, his hand was as big as both of hers together, and her other hand was being held securely out of the way. When she tried to prise his little finger free to break it, he just dug in harder, causing her to grunt from the pain as his fingertips gouged into her shoulder joint. Once her ears were clear, he leaned in from behind her. “Quit it,” he said flatly. “Or I'll let Regent zap you stupid with that stick of his.”

Pushing her hair back out of her eyes, she twisted her neck to glare up at him. “So that's what you're like, deep down,” she sneered. “Big strong guy who needs help to beat up one girl.”

Her voice almost hit the right note to make him lose his temper, but he gritted his teeth and held it together. “Enough's enough. Cut the shit. We've got a job to do. You've still got to look over the plan Tattletale's made. Regent, turn the game off. Rachel, get your dogs ready. As soon as Spectre knows what she needs to do, we'll be heading out.”

Letting the girl go, he stepped back to allow her to stand—and, incidentally, avoid any potential retribution. She glowered at him, Rachel and Alec equally as she got to her feet, massaging her shoulder and wrist by turns. “Are you gonna just let them keep sniping at me like that?” she demanded. “Pick, pick, pick. Like fucking vultures, him and Tattlebitch and Hellcow.”

Shadow Stalker never gave an inch and always demanded a mile, and the only way to reply to that was to attack in return. “I thought you were stronger than that,” he said, curling his lip slightly. “You're acting like nobody ever made fun of you. Toughen up, princess. This ride doesn't get any smoother.”

As he expected, the 'toughen up' comment got a reaction from her, even though it was more visual than verbal. The glare she gave him should by rights have given him third degree burns; apparently, he'd struck a nerve. Which, to be fair, she seemed to have no lack thereof. Half the things they said seemed to trigger her in some way; or perhaps it was the fact that it was the Undersiders making the comments. On the other hand, Alec was in fine form today. It seemed Spectre brought out his best, or perhaps his worst. Brian decided it was all a matter of perspective.

Biting back whatever she was about to say, she turned and stomped along the corridor toward the kitchen. Brian went to follow, but was distracted when Alec strolled over and retrieved the box that Spectre had dropped during the struggle with Brian.

“Wonder what this is?” the curly-haired Master mused as he tucked his sceptre under one arm. Both hands thus freed, he began working to open the box.

“Hey, that's not yours,” Brian hastened to say, but his heart wasn't in it. “You shouldn't mess with her stuff.” Despite his words, he made no move to either take the box from Alec or warn Spectre that they had it

“Fuck that noise,” Alec said bluntly. “If it's hers, I want to know what it is before she uses it on us.” Finally getting the top off the box, he peered in at the contents and whistled softly. “Niiiiiice.”

“Let me see.” Abandoning the high moral ground, Brian stepped in closer to look into the box. Nestled in what looked like memory foam were two bulky devices, coloured in the same urban-camo scheme as Spectre's costume, possibly designed to clamp on to the wrist. Next to them were two collapsible batons, also tinted in shades of grey. Last but not least, there was a purposeful-looking survival knife, the type that carried small items in a compartment in the handle. “Oh, yeah,” he agreed. “Very nice.”

“Wonder what those do?” Regent prodded one of the bulky objects with his fingertip. “It looks like some sort of really dangerous watch.”

Brian took the thing out of the box. Under it, there was a row of wicked-looking finned darts, each with a tiny glass reservoir of some sort of liquid. “Dart launcher,” he decided. “That's probably some sort of knockout shit. Or at least I hope so.” If those darts held a lethal concoction, it would make their position in the city very precarious indeed. He looked over the bulky object and worked out how to pop a catch on one side. Part of it flipped up, revealing a series of chambers obviously designed for the darts to fit into. “Six shots per launcher before she has to reload. Very cool.”

“Yeah, right up until you stop and think about how she's gonna be carrying this stuff. We gotta turn our backs on her at some point.” Alec's voice was uncharacteristically serious. “This is fucking Shadow Stalker here. To quote that Aleph show, it's not if she's gonna pull a sudden-but-inevitable betrayal, but when. She could seriously fuck us up with this shit.”

“So we don't give her the chance,” Rachel said abruptly. “We make sure she can't use it against us. We've got this stuff, we keep it out of her hands.” When Brian and Alec stared at her, she glowered right back. “What?”

Brian grimaced. “I'd love to do that, but we can't. If we hold this back from her, she'll only complain to the boss. And when she fucks it up, as we all know she will, we'll be the ones who get blamed for it.” Carefully, he snapped the cover back into place, put the dart launcher back in the box, then closed the lid. Initially, when he tugged at the box, Alec didn't want to let go. Brian frowned and yanked it out of his grip.

“Hey,” protested Alec. “We could've fucked with her so hard.” He reached half-heartedly for the box, but Brian held it out of his reach. “We still can. She hates our guts and like you said, she's gonna fuck this up no matter what we do. Are we really gonna give her a chance to stab us in the back and screw our rep?”

“No.” Brian moved sideways so he could look down the corridor. Spectre was leaning over the kitchen table while Lisa explained something. “We give it to her, but one of us is always keeping an eye on her. We don't leave her unobserved even for a second. If she does anything other than what she's supposed to do, we put her down.” He looked from Alec to Rachel. “Got that?”

“Still don't see why we have to let her have it,” Rachel grumbled. “It'd make things a lot easier if we didn't.” She eyed the box as if contemplating trying to take it away from Brian.

“Much as I hate to agree with Rachel on anything, she's got a point,” Alec insisted. “Exactly why are we making it easy for Shadow Stalker to fuck us up?” He made another grab for the box, but Brian held it out of the way again.

“Because that's the way we're doing it. So when she tries, we've got a solid reason to kick her sorry ass to the curb.” Brian realised that if he stayed where he was, they'd keep arguing, so he headed down the corridor. It went against all his instincts to give the enemy their weapons back—and new costume or no, Shadow Stalker would always be his enemy—but he couldn't see any way around it that would keep them on side with their boss.

“ … and that's about it. Any questions?” Lisa looked around as Brian joined them in the kitchen area. “Oh, hey. Just finishing up here. Everything okay out there?”

“Yeah.” Brian handed the box to Spectre. “You dropped this. Don't be so careless when we're on the job, okay?” He couldn't keep the curt tone out of his voice; not that he was trying very hard.

“What the fuck?” She snatched it out of his hand. “You better not have fucked with it,” she snapped. “The boss will be pissed if you make me screw up this job because of some fucked-up personal grudge.” Yanking open the box lid, she examined the contents.

“Funny, I was thinking exactly the same thing,” he shot back. “Don't fuck us around, and we'll all get through this okay.” He turned his attention to Tattletale. “So, we ready to move on this?”

Tattletale nodded. “I guess so,” she said. “If Spectre does her bit, we can do ours.” She looked over at the one-time Ward, who was inspecting one of the dart launchers. “That's if she can figure out how to use her new gear in time.”

“Fuck off,” sneered Spectre. “I've got this shit nailed. You just be ready to do your thing.” She glared at Lisa, obviously unwilling to concede even a fraction of an inch in their battle of wills.

“Always am, always will be,” Lisa replied cockily. Giving Spectre one of her patented smug grins and another fingertip wave, she headed off down the corridor to her own room; no doubt to get changed.

Spectre sneered at Lisa's back and snapped one of the launchers on to her own left wrist. Then lifted the memory foam out of the box and put it on the table; under it was another layer, this one with a series of cylindrical metallic bulbs bedded in slots. Prying one of the bulbs out of the foam, she slid it into an aperture Brian hadn't noticed in the rear of the launcher. Then she popped the hatch on top of the launcher and picked out a particular dart. This one, Brian belatedly noticed, was lacking the liquid-filled capsule. While he was trying to figure out the possible use of a dart that didn't deliver any payload, Spectre slotted it into place and locked the loading hatch down. In one smooth action, she raised her arm straight out and fired. Brian didn't see how she'd triggered the launcher, but there was a chFFF of released gas, and the dart thunked hard into an unoccupied section of wall near the stove. Striding over to the wall, Spectre yanked the dart out, then turned to give Brian a superior look. “See? I've got it totally under fucking control.”

“So I see,” he agreed. A practice dart. Right. I should've guessed. He wasn't sure to be relieved or worried that she seemed to be so adept with the launchers already. “Well, get ready. We're heading out in five, and we don't want costumes showing.” Turning, he went back down the corridor. The others would need to be warned about just how effective the dart launchers seemed to be.

<><>​

PRT ENE Building
Around the Same Time
Taylor

It felt strange to walk back into the PRT building, especially under her own power. Following Amy's advice, Taylor and Danny walked in together, trailing Amy by about a minute. The desk receptionists were surely primed with the information that they were on the way, but nobody reacted any differently to them. Even the guards, armed with odd-looking sprayers and grenades, didn't seem to look twice at them.

Danny led the way up to the desk and leaned in to speak quietly with the receptionist. From the way her eyes switched to Taylor, she'd definitely been told to expect them. Even then, she didn't draw attention to them, but pointed at the public washrooms, discreetly located at the far end of the lobby. With a pantomimed nod and smile of thanks, Danny led Taylor in that direction. Taylor hadn't quite been expecting this level of cloak-and-dagger secrecy, but she supposed they had to have ways of getting people up into the building without drawing undue notice their way.

Separating from her father to enter the washroom with the female silhouette on it, she was entirely unsurprised to hear the lock click behind her as it closed. In the next moment, a maintenance door opened and a costumed figure stepped out; behind her, Taylor could see a narrow concrete corridor, harshly lit by yellow fluorescent lights. Taylor recognised her immediately, of course; even though she wasn't much of a cape nerd, everyone in Brockton Bay knew of Miss Militia. Her iconic weapon currently rode on her hip as an ornately decorated flintlock pistol. The fangirl in Taylor wanted to ask to look at it, but she didn't want to be rude, especially to such a famous hero as the one before her.

“Hello, Miss Hebert,” the flag-clad cape greeted her quietly. “It's good to meet you. If you'll come with me, please?” Stepping aside, she gestured for Taylor to precede her into the corridor. Taylor did so, feeling a touch of claustrophobia from the narrow confines, but taking heart from the fact that Miss Militia was there. She won't let me get lost in here. Though in fact, she was fully aware of the bugs lurking here and there in the service corridors, and figured she'd be able to find her way to an exit without assistance … eventually.

Entering the corridor behind Taylor, Miss Militia pulled the maintenance door closed, then touched her ear and murmured something that sounded like 'female bathroom secure'. Turning to Taylor, she said more clearly, “This way, please.” Without waiting for an answer, she set off down the corridor in a purposeful manner. Despite being a little shorter than Taylor—which felt weird as crap, now that Taylor came to think of it—she covered ground more quickly, forcing the younger girl to half-trot to keep up.

They turned a corner and then Miss Militia swiped a card of some sort on a reader, opening a door into an equally narrow stairwell leading both upward and downward. Taylor quickly found that the patriotic cape climbed stairs with the same direct focus with which she covered level ground. By the time they got to the next floor, Taylor was feeling a little winded just from trying to keep up. Another maintenance door yielded to Miss Militia's card, and they stepped out into … another bathroom. For a moment, half-dazzled by the bright white reflections from what looked like acres of porcelain tiling, Taylor vaguely wondered if they'd even gone anywhere.

“We're in one of the second floor staff bathrooms,” Miss Militia explained before Taylor could think to ask. “Your father will be joining us outside.” Moving to the door leading out of the bathroom, she pulled it open and stepped through. Taylor shrugged and followed, to find that she'd been informed correctly. Just emerging from a similar doorway not far down the carpeted corridor was her father, in company with none other than Armsmaster himself. For just a moment, she wondered if the armoured hero had had any trouble negotiating the tight confines of the maintenance corridor. What am I thinking? she chided herself a moment later. He probably practices going through places like that.

“Dad,” she said, calling their attention to her. “Uh, hi, Armsmaster.” It still felt bizarre to be greeting such a renowned hero like that. Then again, nothing about her life had been normal for the last few days.

“Miss Hebert,” Armsmaster replied, then nodded to Miss Militia. “Thanks for your help. I've got it from here.”

Not seeming at all fazed by the curt dismissal, she returned the nod. “No problem. All yours. See you back at base.” Turning to Taylor, she offered her hand. “As I said, it was good to meet you. Good luck.” A movement of her face under the flag-printed bandanna she wore hinted at a smile.

A little dazed, Taylor shook her hand, then watched her march off with the same rapid stride as before. The suspicion had crossed Taylor's mind that Miss Militia might've been pushing the pace a little as a power play, but this didn't seem to be the case.

Armsmaster broke the silence. “The Deputy Director is waiting upstairs. Let's go.” He led the way to a more normal elevator, for which Taylor was decidedly grateful—ever since she got her powers, she'd been wanting to get fit, but not that quickly—and pressed the call button.

The ride upward was brief and devoid of conversation; neither she nor her father had anything to say, and Armsmaster seemed to not be a fan of small talk. While Taylor suspected he wasn't the emotionless robot some of the PHO threads made him out to be, he definitely didn't seem to be overly outgoing by any stretch of the imagination.

The elevator dinged softly as they got to the correct floor, and the armoured hero led the way to a door marked Conference Room 12G. Opening the door, he stood aside to let them enter. Danny went in first, followed by Taylor. As they entered, three people stood up from the table; the first, of course, was Amy. The second, a brown-haired teenager, was instantly recognisable by his bright red and gold powered armour and the odd-looking board lying half-disassembled on the table in front of him; this had to be Kid Win of the Wards. The third was unknown to Taylor, though she could hazard a guess. Given that Amy said she spoke to the Deputy Director …

Wearing a business suit rather than a costume, tall and spare with a careworn face and greying hair, the stranger was still a few inches shorter than her father. Stepping forward, he offered his hand to Danny and then to Taylor. His grip was firm but not crushingly so. “Mr Hebert, Miss Hebert; it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Deputy Director Paul Renick. Thank you for coming in so promptly. Figuring out how to deal with your cape identity is of the utmost importance, right now.”

“Well, that's what we're here for,” Amy said brightly, coming over to Taylor. “See, I was thinking that if Taylor felt as safe as possible while she was out and about, there'd be far less chance of her calling on the swarm en masse like before. And if it's hard to knock her out, then any orders she gave could be rescinded before real damage could be done.” She looked at Armsmaster and Kid Win in turn. “Does that make sense to you?”

“You're talking about your suggestion of giving her power armour like Gallant's.” Armsmaster's tone was non-committal. Taylor wondered if that meant he didn't like the idea; it was really hard to read his expression when most of it was hidden behind his visor.

“So we're gonna pretend she's a Tinker?” Kid Win tilted his head to one side slightly, then seemed to realise his faux pas. “Uh, sorry, hi,” he said a moment later. “I'm Kid Win, but you probably knew that.” Rounding the table, he held out his hand for Taylor to shake. “Armsmaster's briefed me on what actually happened, and I want to apologise for the rest of the Wards. I mean, we knew Shadow Stalker was a cast-iron b-uh, bad person, but we had no idea she'd go that far.”

“Yeah, well, I think I'll hold off on blanket forgiveness until I see how we do here today,” Taylor replied dryly. She'd meant it as a joke but Kid Win winced, apparently not picking up on the subtext. I wonder if that's a Tinker thing. He'd definitely earned points in her book for describing Sophia as a cast-iron bitch, so she decided to cut him some slack. “But yeah, Amy had the idea that I could pass as a Tinker if I had a few gadgets to wow the public with. I don't need anything too complicated or dramatic …” She trailed off. “Uh, is power armour complicated and dramatic?” The answer that her brain was suggesting to her was 'yes'.

“Less so than you'd imagine,” Armsmaster assured her. “Roughly eighty percent of Tinkers with a purely mechanical specialty build themselves power armour at some point in their careers. It won't need to have as many devices incorporated in it as mine, of course.” Taylor hid a smile at the poorly-concealed note of pride in his voice. Of course, the man had earned every right to be proud about his work.

“It doesn't have to be too flashy,” Deputy Director Renick agreed. “Simply the appearance of it should be enough to cement the concept in the public's mind.” He returned to the chair he'd been sitting in. “Please, have a seat.”

“Well, the faux-Tinker thing definitely works with Gallant, so it should work with you too,” Kid Win conceded as he went back to where he'd been working on the odd-looking board. “But what I'm confused about is how you're going to play the whole bug control thing off against the Swarm without people adding two and two and breaking out the flaming torches and pitchforks? Because if the public doesn't get a culprit soon, anyone showing bug control powers of any sort is gonna get crucified the moment he shows his face.”

“Wait, wait.” Danny pulled out a chair for Amy and another for Taylor, then raised his hand. “Before we get into that, what do you get out of this? I happen to know Taylor isn't going to be joining the Wards, yet you're talking about gifting her with power armour and other Tinker gadgets just so she can pretend not to have bug powers? What am I missing here?”

Armsmaster hadn't bothered to take a chair; now, standing at the end of the table opposite the Deputy Director, he cleared his throat. “Just because your daughter isn't going to be in the Wards and under the official orders of the PRT doesn't mean she can't work with us.” He nodded toward Taylor. “Miss Hebert, you have a potentially useful and versatile power, one which both the PRT and Protectorate are willing to do a lot to keep on the side of the heroes. A little extra Tinkering work is a small price to pay, especially as Kid Win and I will be sharing the burden. For our part, we get a new hero who'll be unofficially working alongside us; for yours, you get the equipment to help you do just that without attracting unwelcome public attention, as well as needed backup in being a hero. I believe that's what we call a 'win-win' situation.”

“Okay.” Danny rubbed his chin. “I see.” A moment later, he amended that. “I think I see. What about the other side of things? You could put anyone in power armour, not just Taylor. So she's got to use her power to be more than just someone in armour. How are you going to arrange things so she can do that without public opinion coming down on her like a ton of bricks?”

Deputy Director Renick cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him. “That's where the press conference comes in.”

Press conference? Taylor blinked, suddenly unsure of what was going on. What press conference?

<><>​

Hillside Mall
Nearly Midday
Sophia

It was a pain to be walking through the mall with the hood pulled up over her head and the sleeves down past her hands like some loser—like Hebert—but Sophia had to assume that the police weren't in the loop about her mission. If the rent-a-cops watching the security cameras had a picture of her, they might even get off their lard-asses to tell the cops that Sophia Hess was in their mall. They wouldn't put out my real identity in connection with Shadow Stalker though. I mean, I've got a career as a hero to go back to after this. So I'm probably wanted for stuff like shoplifting as Sophia. Which would be fucking ironic, given that she'd lifted a lot of shit using her powers and never once been caught. She was pretty sure that was what 'ironic' meant.

Tattletale and Regent, strolling through the mall on either side of her, managed to act like they were the popular kids taking their shy weirdo friend to the mall, to get her out of the house or something. The blonde had her hair done up in some complicated braid, and even Regent looked pretty sharp in jeans and a light jacket, though Sophia would rather kick his ass than look at him in that way. It burned her butt that they were treating her like Hebert would've been treated by her friends, if she had any. I'm nothing like fucking Hebert.

“There's the shop over there,” Tattletale said quietly. “I'm gonna go browse. You two hang out here. Don't get in too much trouble.” She gave Sophia that fucking irritating smug-ass grin again, the one that said yeah, you look exactly like our loser friend. Then she turned and wandered in the direction of the jewellery store. Sophia watched her go, itching to pull up her sleeve and put a dart right between the arrogant blonde bitch's shoulder-blades. Maybe I'll 'accidentally' tag her while we're doing the job. Leave the bitch for the cops. I'll say I was aiming at someone else and she stepped in the way. And if more strenuous measures were needed, she was already working out how to phase a dart into someone's body. The projectiles weren't as big as her crossbow arrows, but even something that small in the right place could do serious damage. I'll tell Calvert I was in fear of my life. He'd probably pin another medal on me.

A moment later, she noticed Regent had wandered off to study the display of an electronics store. From the way his head was only half-turned, she decided he was still keeping her in his peripheral vision. They don't trust me. Despite the fact that she was fully planning to betray them, this still pissed her off.

A moment later, she forgot about her annoyance as she registered the type of store. Electronics. I can buy a fucking charger. Her phone, currently residing in the pouch at the small of her back, was below fifty percent charge, and she was starting to get concerned about it. Every charger she'd seen at the Undersiders' base was either carefully watched or had the wrong plug.

Marching forward, she entered the store and looked around for the phone charger section. Just as she found it, someone changed the channel on one of the big-screen plasma TVs, taking it from an advertisement to a news spot. “- RT building where Deputy Director Renick is holding a press conference along with Armsmaster and Miss Militia to introduce the city's newest independent hero, Scarab.”

That got Sophia's attention; she'd never heard of any hero called Scarab. Moving to a spot where she had a good view of the TV, she stared up at the screen. The scene was taking place on the steps of the PRT building. Flanked by Halbeard and the woman with a gun for every occasion was a tall figure, made bulky by shiny dark blue and black armour. A helmet with bulbous goggles over the eyes, as well as a pair of antennae, made it impossible to determine the wearer's age or gender.

“Thank you.” The Deputy Director was speaking now. “While we normally don't hold press conferences for independent heroes, this is a special case. Scarab, you see, was instrumental in ending the menace of the Swarmbringer.” He paused as cameras went off like strobes, and reporters shouted questions. Waving them down, he went on. “Allow us to finish, and we'll answer questions afterward. Scarab was in the area where the Swarmbringer created his Swarm, and she took refuge in a location where she had access to plenty of electronic items. This was fortunate, for in her terror, she triggered with Tinker abilities.” Stepping back from the microphone, he waved the armoured woman forward. “If you'll be so kind as to fill them in on what happened next?”

“Thank you.” Sophia frowned as Scarab spoke. That voice was almost recognisable. “My Tinker specialty is, unsurprisingly, to do with bugs. That is, I can build devices that affect bugs, and I can build devices that mimic what bugs can do.” She paused to sigh. “I don't actually like bugs at all, but I want to be a hero, so I have to work with what I've got.”

There was something not quite right here, but Sophia couldn't put her finger on it. “The first device I built was designed to make sure the bugs couldn't attack me.” Scarab tapped one of the antennae on her helmet. “It was the first iteration of what I've got here. Once I was sure I was safe from the bugs, I went looking for the source of the Swarm. When I found him, he set bugs on me, but he lost control of them when they entered my radius of effect. He attacked me physically then, and beat me quite badly, but he'd forgotten about the Swarm. Inside my device's radius, his powers were inverted. Before he managed to break it, the Swarm was already all over him. The bugs stung him to death before dispersing. I went looking for help, and found the heroes. The rest is history.”

Sophia's eyes went wide as she recalled the photo Emma had sent her. There was no fucking way Hebert got to be a hero. It just wasn't possible. She stared at the screen as Scarab rambled on. “I've decided not to join the Protectorate for the moment, but they've agreed to let me work with them as an affiliated hero. I'm quite looking forward to it. Armsmaster and Miss Militia are true heroes, and I think there's a lot I can learn from them.”

“Hey, Spectre. Earth Bet to Spectre.” Regent nudged her again. “When you've finished zoning out, we gotta go change. Tatts just gave us the all clear.”

Head still spinning from the revelation, Sophia stumbled from the store in Regent's wake.

What the fuck just happened?

<><>​

PRT Building Ready Room
Thomas Calvert

“- I think there's a lot I can learn from them.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, they're ready for you.” The ready room TV clicked off as the PRT officer pressed the button on the remote. Calvert rose with the other strike team commanders, preparing to file through into the conference room where they'd be briefed on yet another meaningless policy change. He could've been doing other things today, and in fact he was. In the other reality, he was in his base, searching the PRT's databases for everything they had on Scarab, and the masquerade they were pulling on the people of Brockton Bay.

He didn't have anything specific against deceptions. Nor was he opposed to people who had done bad things getting the chance to walk away from that part of their past. He did object to not being able to make use of such situations for his own aims; in this case, the phrase 'useful blackmail' seemed particularly apt. He smiled as he followed the others into the conference room. It was just one more step on the path to removing Emily Piggot from the Directorship of the PRT ENE and replacing her with someone responsible enough to do the job properly; namely, himself.

And then, in the other reality, he stared at the screen of his computer as it flashed red with the words SELF-DESTRUCT IMMINENT in strobing black and white, overlaying the red. Seconds later, even as his other self frantically hit keys, the first explosions went off. Chunks of concrete fell from the ceiling of the underground base, but the shockwaves and fire got to him first.

“Hey, Calvert. You okay?” Pritchard, a hard-faced woman from Boston, steadied him as he stumbled. “You spaced out there.”

“It's nothing.” Calvert twitched his arm from the other commander's grip. “Got distracted for a moment.” He headed on into the conference room, his head spinning from the implications.

What the fuck just happened?



End of Part Thirteen

Part Fourteen

 

The Price of Blood

Part Fourteen: Two Steps Forward, One Step Backward

[A/N: this chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Front Steps of the PRT Building
Taylor

It was hot and sweaty inside the armour that Armsmaster and Kid Win had thrown together for me. I earnestly hoped whatever actual armour they ended up constructing for real was equipped with some kind of climate control, or I'd cook to death even in the middle of winter. What I was wearing was more of a stopgap; there was no way anyone in his (or her) right mind would go out fighting crime in it. For one thing, the batteries powering the limbs didn't have enough power to do more than walk at a steady rate. And for another, the servos ran hot when they were being used, which contributed somewhat to the elevated temperatures within the suit. I was really glad that nobody could see my face, and the sweat trickling down it.

Reporters were shouting questions at me, which would normally have made me either freeze up in panic or blurt out something totally unwise at exactly the wrong moment. Fortunately, I had a heads-up display in front of my eyes, and Dragon was feeding me lines almost in real time. I had to hand it to her; her typing speed must be phenomenal. However she was doing it, it was nice to know I had someone else in my corner.

“No, I'm not related to Armsmaster,” I said in reply to the latest question, following the words that scrolled across my vision. “And seriously? Even if I was, I wouldn't tell you guys. He was nice enough to let me build this in his lab, though.” Which was a mix of lies and the truth, of course. It had been constructed in his workshop, just not by me. In fact, he and Kid Win had constructed it around me using bits and pieces that the pair had modified for use, sometimes on the fly.

Dragon had lent a hand from time to time via the workshop waldos, and also offered helpful advice. Armsmaster had given me a crash course (so to speak) in handling power armour once it was completed. That hadn't gone so well; I suspected I'd have a bruise or two tomorrow. In the meantime, Dragon had been given remote access to the armour and was even now making sure I didn't fall on my face on live TV. I appreciated it, a lot, but I hoped that at some point I'd be able to stand on my own two feet as a hero. Or at all, really.

Between answers, I was able to scan the crowd and try to gauge the responses of people to what I was saying; or rather, what Dragon was telling me to say. It seemed to be more or less positive. While some appeared a little reserved about the whole thing, nobody was pointing at me and screaming “SWARMBRINGER! Burn the witch!” And of course, Amy was there in the crowd, as anonymous as she could get in a hoodie and sunglasses. Each time I turned my helmet toward her, she gave me an encouraging smile and a discreet thumbs-up. It was amazing how much this helped.

Eventually, the press conference ran down (there were only so many Tinker-related questions they could ask but boy, did they give those questions a workout) and I turned to go back into the PRT building. Dragon didn't have total control of the armour, but she was acting as my copilot; if I did something totally stupid, she'd be able to salvage the situation. It was probably in the PRT's best interests to make their latest totally-not-a-member look like she could actually walk in the power armour that she obviously built herself.

<><>​

Hillside Mall
Sophia

One of the reasons they'd picked this particular store was that the public bathrooms were relatively nearby. Not that they needed the bathroom to change in, but it made things a lot easier. Privacy was valuable at times like this.

With that in mind, Tattletale followed the signs and Sophia followed Tattletale. The blonde indicated a security camera with a flick of her eyes, then traipsed past it, artfully turning her head at just the right moment to apparently browse a shop window full of handbags. Sophia knew she couldn't pull that move off in a thousand years, so she just yanked the hood down a few inches to hide more of her face. A human viewing the screen might find it suspicious, but facial recognition wouldn't get enough of her features to ID her—she hoped.

When she got to the bathrooms, Tattletale was waiting at the doorway. “Now, no peeking,” the blonde Thinker murmured. “I'm not her, after all.” Her trademark punchable grin seemed to linger behind her in the air as she pushed through the bathroom door.

Again, Sophia resisted the urge to simply drop Tattletale in her tracks from behind. Coil would probably be suspicious, unless she had a really good reason for it. Grue and the others would definitely be suspicious, especially given that she didn't get along with the Undersiders as it was.

Following the blonde into the bathroom, Sophia pulled up her right sleeve to expose the launcher. On the underside was a tab she could pull out, which when pulled out to full extension went along the underside of her wrist; this put the trigger button for the launcher literally in the palm of her hand. With the middle and index fingers of her right hand on said trigger button, she went along the row of cubicles, pushing on the stall doors. The third one resisted, the simple latch showing the word OCCUPIED. Without hesitating, she went to shadow form and stepped through the door into the cubicle.

“Hey, what—” began the woman sitting on the commode. She got no farther than that, as Sophia pressed hard on the button and shot her in the chest with a tranq dart from a range of about two feet. The woman started to her feet, clutching at where the dart had struck her and opening her mouth to scream, while her handbag bounced off the side wall of the cubicle and fell to the floor with a thud. But before she could draw breath all the way, her knees went wobbly and her eyes rolled back in her head. As she began to pitch forward, Sophia guided her back to land clumsily on the toilet seat again. Plucking the dart from her victim's chest, she took a moment to admire the effectiveness of the knockout drug Coil had given her. If anything, it seemed to work even faster than the stuff the PRT made her use.

When she exited the stall, Tattletale was almost completely costumed up. The previously-braided hair was now messy, and she was clad only in the skintight purple outfit that she'd been wearing under her clothes. Using some sort of pad held between her gloved fingers, she was applying some sort of black makeup around her eyes. Sophia wasn't quite sure what this was about, but she got the idea when the blonde pressed the domino mask to her face. It changed the outline of her features considerably, hiding the dusting of freckles over her nose. Through the eyeholes, Sophia could see her eyes but not the surrounding skin, giving the girl a mysterious air. Sophia still wanted to punch her.

“Well, come on,” Tattletale urged. She looked down at the handbag Sophia had retrieved from the floor of the cubicle. “We haven't got time for petty shit like that.”

“Well, I dunno what my share's gonna be like,” Sophia said defensively. She dropped the handbag, opened the purse she'd taken from it, and extracted what looked like a couple of hundred dollars in random notes. “Call this a bonus.” Shrugging off the backpack she was wearing, she tucked the money into a side pocket.

“Just so you know, we're not shaking down everyone in the store like that,” Tattletale warned, putting her own backpack back on. “We go in, we grab the jewellery and whatever's in the till and maybe the safe if I've got time, then we call in Grue and Bitch for the extraction. You even think of wasting time like this on the job, and we'll cut your shady ass loose faster than Velocity filling out a speeding ticket.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sophia jibed, already pulling the hoodie over her head. Under that and her jeans, she was already wearing the majority of her costume, including the launchers. All she needed to put on was the visor and the cloak, which she pulled from the backpack. “Hold your horses. I'm nearly done here.” As she spoke, she kicked off the loosely-fastened sneakers and skinned out of the jeans, then stuffed those and the hoodie into the pack. On went the visor and the cloak, and she was ready. Turning toward Tattletale with a triumphant taunt on her lips, she realised the bathroom was empty; the door was already closing behind the blonde girl.

Muttering something about smartass bitches, Sophia shoved her way out through the bathroom door. She didn't like how the backpack pulled on her hooded cloak, but there wasn't much choice in the matter; either she discarded the clothing she'd been wearing or she wore the backpack. Putting the matter from her mind, she headed for the jewellery store.

There was, however, that security camera to get past. On the way to the bathrooms, they'd likely escaped notice by being two entirely forgettable teenage girls. Now, they were in costume.

Stopping just outside the camera's arc of vision, she raised her arm to point at the camera. When she was sure of her aim, she pressed hard on the trigger button. There was a sharp chFFF and a shower of glass as the dart shattered the lens of the camera.

With a glance around, she ascertained that nobody had seen the incident. While she would've liked nothing better than to bust the whole operation and hand the Undersiders (minus Grue, of course) over to the authorities, Calvert had told her to cooperate and not raise suspicions. He'd been lavish in his praise of her activities so far—inasmuch as anyone in the PRT had ever praised her—so she was willing to go the extra mile for him. In his latest text to her, he'd even hinted that a successful mission could see her being placed in charge of the Wards, to show them how it was really done. This was something she could definitely get behind. So for now, she was going to do her best to make sure the robbery went through as planned.

Tattletale raised her eyebrows. “Showy,” she murmured, then pushed on. Sophia itched to demonstrate just how 'showy' she could be, but held herself in check. Not yet, she told herself. Not yet.

By the time they got to the jewellery store, people were just starting to notice the pair of them, but the looks were more curious than fearful; it seemed Tattletale didn't have much of a rep yet. Nor did Regent, it seemed, given the giggling reactions of a bunch of girls he blew a kiss to from under his mask.

“All right then,” muttered Tattletale under her breath. “Showtime.” Taking a deep breath, she marched into the store, pulling a small pistol from the holster on her belt. “Everyone!” she called out. “This is a robbery! Everyone on the floor, right now!” She didn't do anything so dramatic as firing a shot into the ceiling, but people seemed to take note of her costume and armament all the same, and come to the correct conclusion.

Behind her, Sophia went left and Regent went right. Tattletale had already told them where the store security guard would be stationed, and as he went for his gun, Regent made his muscles spasm so he dropped it. Before he could dive for it, Sophia nailed him with a dart to the shoulder. He went for it anyway, so she shot him again. The second dart did the trick; he crumpled to the ground with the weapon not quite in hand.

“Just to clear everything up, we're the Undersiders,” Tattletale announced brightly. “We're here for the jewellery. Nobody needs to get hurt.” She waved the gun around the room, then tapped in the code to the security gate and let herself in behind the main counter. “Which means no hitting the silent alarm,” she said chidingly to the counter attendant. “On the floor, right now.” Turning, she gestured to the other two. “Well, come on. Time to rob the place.”

Her words broke the spell. Up until that point, Sophia had been almost willing to believe this was a play-act, that she wouldn't really be indulging in a daring daylight robbery. The theft of the money in the bathroom didn't really count; nor did the several dozen times she'd shoplifted since getting her powers. Nobody was going to connect her name with either of those, but this? She'd be on camera for this one, and the cat would be well and truly out of the bag.

Which raised the question of just how they were going to get at the jewellery. Sophia knew how to break glass with her elbow, but doing it repeatedly was a good way to get a sore elbow or worse. Her dart launchers weren't going to do jack to these cases, and while the survival knife she'd been supplied with could probably be used to pry open the cases or bash the glass in, either method would be tedious as fuck.

“Hey, Spectre. Catch.” She looked over toward Regent as he reached into the backpack he had slung over his shoulder. From it he pulled out a short but heavy wrench, which he tossed toward Sophia. She caught it awkwardly, then turned toward the nearest display case. Even then she hesitated to actually go to work, until the sound of shattering glass indicated that Regent was busy with the (apparently weighted) butt-end of his sceptre. Raising the metal tool, she went to bring it down hard on the glass, then stopped herself, mentally facepalming.

It was an almost unforgivable lapse, but she decided it was the Undersiders' fault and not hers. Over the last day, she'd had it pounded into her that the Undersiders didn't get into fights; she was supposed to think 'run away', not 'stand and fight'. This had led her to overlook a move she often used to retrieve dropped weapons during combat. Going to shadow, she reached into the case and grabbed at the necklaces and bracelets, turning them to shadow as well by contact. Once her hand was out of the case, she went solid again to briefly admire the gleam of the precious stones and metal against the dull grey of her glove. Opening one of the cargo pockets of her pants she dropped her spoils into it. No great feeling of guilt assaulted her. In fact, she felt a buzz of excitement, which only increased as she turned toward the next case. Her powers made short work of this one as well. It wasn't as spectacular as Regent's positively enthusiastic assault on the glass cases on his side of the room, but she was just as fast.

<><>​

PRT Building
Thomas Calvert
Timeline 1

“Excuse me,” Calvert muttered as he turned back out of the conference room. “Just going to the bathroom. Back in a second.”

There was nothing setting off any alarm bells that he could see, but he had to find out what had happened to his base in the dropped timeline. More to the point, he had to find out if it had happened here. If so, he had to find out why had it happened; if not, why not? It didn't matter that his base computer hadn't sent through any of the 'this system is compromised' messages he'd set it up to handle; the silence was even more worrying than an actual alert. At least then he'd know that something was going on, if not what.

Once he figured that out, he'd drop the timeline, having been in the conference room all the time. Stepping out to go to the bathroom might make him show up on Piggot's radar which was the last thing he wanted, especially following the Shadow Stalker incident. Ducking into the nearest bathroom, he locked himself in a cubicle and pulled out his phone.

<><>​

Timeline 2

“Typical,” muttered Pritchard; as it happened, she and Calvert had taken seats next to each other at the conference room table. Another row of seats went around the room, up against the wall; Calvert wondered who was supposed to be sitting there. “We get strict orders to be right here, right now. And then it's 'hurry up and wait'.”

Calvert rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured back just as quietly. Neither of them really had to worry about keeping their voices down; it had been two minutes by his watch and nobody had shown up to address them.

“Actually, that's something I've been meaning to ask you,” Pritchard went on. At her words, a knot of tension spontaneously developed in his gut. “Weren't you on the outs a few years ago? How'd you swing command of a strike team?”

He forced a chuckle. Fortunately, much of the situation regarding Ellisburg was under top-secret cover, including exactly why he'd been 'on the outs', as Pritchard so eloquently put it. So he could be excused for being vague about matters. “Well, back then, there weren't that many people who had field experience against hostile capes,” he explained. “When they needed someone to consult with on matters like that, I was there. And one day, someone realised I could do more than just tell them how to deal with villains.”

There'd been a lot more to it than that, of course. Favour-trading and outright bribes had done part of the work, especially once his career as Coil had started to gain traction. One extremely careful assassination of the man who'd been slated for that command had also helped. And it was true that he did have a unique insight into the supervillain mind. Most times, all he had to do was ask himself “what would I do in this situation?”.

<><>​

Outside the PRT Building
Taylor

We were halfway up the steps when I heard Armsmaster's voice over the helmet radio. “Armsmaster here. Say again, Console?” For a moment I was confused, until I realised that I could hear his transmissions but not those of the console inside the PRT building. Silence fell again, while Console presumably repeated whatever they'd said the first time. It didn't take long; I was almost at the doors when he spoke again. His tone had gone from brisk to laser-focused. “I copy and will be attending. Armsmaster to all units, we have a code purple at the Hillside Mall. I say again, a code purple. Armsmaster attending. Out.”

I lost sight of him then, because Dragon was navigating my suit through the doors into the lobby. He didn't follow me in, and I saw the guards in the room starting to look a lot more tense than they had before. Full body armour hides some things, but the way people stand can tell you a lot. I was pretty sure it wasn't on my account—they'd seen me walk out, after all—which meant it had something to do with Armsmaster's 'code purple', whatever that meant.

Carefully, I chinned the switch that turned off the outside speaker, then cleared my throat. “Uh, Dragon? What's a code purple, and why is Armsmaster so worried about it?”

“Ah. You heard that, then.” Dragon's voice was calm and collected. “One second. Getting permission to fill you in.” She fell silent as the suit tromped its way into the elevator. I'd been dubious about the lift's ability to move both me and Armsmaster around, but apparently it was made of sterner stuff than most. On my own, there was no problem at all; I was conveyed upward smoothly and swiftly. Just as the doors opened, Dragon spoke up again. “I can tell you, Taylor, but you're going to have to sign another NDA as soon as you're out of the armour. Sorry.”

“Sure.” By now, I was pretty well resigned to having a good deal of my cape knowledge hemmed about by NDAs. I'd even signed one promising that I wouldn't out any of the Protectorate or Wards capes if I accidentally learned their secret identities. Not that anyone thought I would (either learn their identities or betray them if I did; take your pick) but apparently it was regulations, so the NDA was presented and I duly signed it.

It would've been cool to have signed the current one while still in the armour, but my hand-eye coordination was still at 'toddler' level when it came to making those hand servos do what I wanted. So I mentally shrugged and let the armour walk me toward Armsmaster's workshop. Apparently he had a much more impressive lab in the Protectorate base, but this one had been conveniently closer, and the task of faking up power armour for me hadn't needed the services of the larger workshop. I didn't care either way. What I did care about was that the armour didn't have certain facilities more associated with space suits, and I was keenly feeling the lack thereof. Still, I was curious about what Dragon had to say.

“A 'code purple' is a situation where a cape previously affiliated with the forces of law and order, and who may have damaging knowledge about capes they've served with, shows up as a villain,” Dragon explained. She didn't have to say any more, as I connected the dots with an almost audible click.

“Shadow Stalker,” I said, with far more heat than I'd intended. “It's her, isn't it? Sophia fucking Hess.” I wanted to punch the wall but refrained, as it wasn't my wall.

“Yes,” admitted Dragon. “She's been involved in an altercation in conjunction with a local supervillain team. You understand I can't tell you any more than that.”

“Yeah, got it,” I muttered. It wasn't as if I could go out and fight her anyway. While I had my bug control powers more or less nailed, I didn't possess armour worthy of the name. I couldn't run, fight or even see properly in the mockup they'd built around me. And of course, I had no idea how long the batteries were going to last. “Anyone hurt?” I felt guilty over not asking that straight away.

“Reports are still coming in,” Dragon evaded. That meant 'yes' to me. Which didn't make me feel any better; if they'd caught her earlier, this aspect of my life would be neatly packaged away. As it was, every mention of Sophia was like rubbing salt into a newly-fresh wound.

We reached Armsmaster's workshop, the code-locked doors hissing open before me. Dragon walked the suit to the middle of the room, then took control of the waldos and began disassembling it with far more alacrity than they'd used in putting it together. “So, have you had any ideas about what you'd like in the armour?” she asked, apparently trying to take my mind off the Sophia-shaped elephant in the room.

“Um,” I began as the helmet came off, bathing my face in cool air. I paused for a moment to luxuriate in the sensation as the sweat on my face began to evaporate all at once. The left arm came loose with a series of whzzt noises as each bolt was spun free of its housing. “Can you really make it so the armour can fly?”

“Relatively easily,” she assured me. “Kid Win has a rather effective anti-gravity design that he uses in his skateboard. I should be able to retro-engineer it without too much trouble. What do you think about wings?”

“Wings would look cool,” I decided. “Though there's one problem with the whole armour thing. If Sophia's still on the loose when I go out there, I want to be able to take her down. But if she can just ghost through my armour, how can I stop her from hurting other people?” And myself too, I meant, but I was more concerned with stopping Sophia than saving my own skin.

“For a start, Shadow Stalker has a lot of experience under her belt,” Dragon cautioned me. “Confronting her while you're still unsure about your own capabilities is a good way to get hurt. In any case, Armsmaster's on it. I'm sure he'll bring her in sooner rather than later. He's taken her defection very personally.”

I could imagine why. Sophia had been one of the Wards; a junior member of the Protectorate. Armsmaster was the leader of the Protectorate in Brockton Bay. For a Ward to turn villain (which in my opinion merely outed her for who she really was) was a huge PR hit for the PRT, Protectorate and the Wards. The only real way they could regain any sort of credit in this debacle was to take her down hard and fast, demonstrating that they could deal with their own failures.

“So how much does she know about the other Wards and about Armsmaster?” I asked as she removed the outer casing from my right arm. “And do they know enough about her to take her down without anyone getting hurt?” It was too much, I figured, to hope that Sophia had some easily-exploited weakness, like bright lights or loud sounds.

“She's got no documented vulnerabilities which would make her easier to capture than a normal person, if that's what you're asking,” Dragon said with a hint of amusement in her voice. “Although as an official affiliate of the Protectorate, and an interested party, you can apply for access to the Barnes and Clements interviews. Or at least, the parts regarding Shadow Stalker.”

I wasn't exactly sure how useful the interviews would be to me, but there was an old saying about gift horses. “Uh, sure. How do I go about doing that?” Around me, the waldos moved tirelessly. Dragon still had to disassemble parts of the torso armour before she could take it off me, but at least I wasn't enclosed in a walking oven any more.

“I've just submitted the request for you.” Dragon's voice held a smile. “You're welcome.” I felt the last of the torso armour lift away, introducing a heavenly gust of cool air to my sweat-sodden top. Absently, I wondered if real Tinkers had their armour assembled around them like this. The Saturday morning cartoons I'd watched were vague about how power armour worked, and most especially how it went from off the Tinker to on the Tinker without coming apart in the process.

“Wow, thanks,” I said. “I really appreciate it. I mean, you guys will probably have her in custody by the time I even get out there to be a hero, but it'll just be nice to see them actually admit to the crap they put me through, you know?”

“There's probably not going to be much of that, I'm afraid,” said Dragon regretfully. “While the interviews will have touched on their treatment of you, I wouldn't be too hopeful about any show of remorse, or even an admission of everything they did. It'll be in their own best interests to play it down as hard as they can. And whether or not they knew what Sophia was planning with the boys, it'll be a cold day in hell before they'll admit to being aware of anything to do with that.”

“Right.” I sighed. I appreciated Dragon's candour, and what she was saying made sense. It was just all so … disappointing. In my daydreams—fewer of late, but given an unexpected lease of life since my rescue by Armsmaster—I'd envisaged being able to stand over them and listen to them actually apologise for their misdeeds. How magnanimous I was in victory depended upon my mood at the time, of course. Having the upper hand had been an unreachable dream for so long, and just when it seemed to be within my grasp, it'd turned out to be just another unattainable fantasy.

On the other hand, I reminded myself firmly, Emma and Madison were in police custody, Sophia was on the verge of being arrested for an actual, noticeable crime … and I was going to be a superhero. Just as soon as I got myself a proper set of power armour (courtesy of Armsmaster, Kid Win, and Dragon, naturally). Personal satisfaction took a distant second to the absolute certainty that things would never go back to the way they had been.

Perhaps sensing my mood, Dragon maintained a tactful silence while she removed the last of the armour from me. As I stepped off the foot-plates, she cleared her throat. “Did you still want access to the interview transcripts?”

“Uh, sure,” I said, a little surprised. “Thanks.” Even if they didn't come with a tearful confession, I was still going to enjoy the hell out of them. Which reminded me. “Wasn't there an NDA I had to sign, or something?”

“I've just finished printing it out. It's on the desk to your left,” Dragon informed me. “There should be a working pen somewhere around there, too.”

There was, in a coffee cup emblazoned WORLD'S GREATEST TINKER. In fact, I suspected all five pens in the cup would work perfectly. Armsmaster didn't strike me as the sort of man who would keep a non-working pen. I took the NDA from the printer, read it through (if only to make sure I knew what I was agreeing to) and signed it.

“Thank you,” Dragon said with a smile. “Feel free to leave it on the desk. Armsmaster can file it once he returns. And by the way, Panacea and your father are waiting in the corridor for you.”

“Oh, thanks.” I headed for the door, then paused to look back at the monitor currently portraying her face. “And thanks for all your help. I mean it. If it'd been just me trying to drive that suit, I would've fallen on my face a dozen times.”

She chuckled warmly. “One of these days, I'll show you the highlights reel from when I was getting my first suit up and running. It has a lot of extremely educational moments.”

I wasn't quite sure if she was telling the truth or just trying to make me smile. Either way, I felt a grin spreading across my face. “Sounds like fun. I'll bring the popcorn.” Turning, I slapped the button that controlled the doors. They slid apart and I stepped through with the grin still on my face. As they shut behind me, I found myself being caught up in a ferocious bear-hug.

"Whuff," I grunted as Dad briefly lifted me off the floor. "Wow, Dad, I love you too, but I'm gonna need to breathe sometime. And a shower, really soon." Despite my complaint, I hugged him back as he sheepishly put me down again.

"Sorry," he said as he let me go. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm really proud of you. And scared for you, but mainly proud. The way you handled yourself in front of those reporters ... if I hadn't known for a fact it was you in that armour, I never would've guessed. Not in a million years."

“Is that because you don't think I could ever be that confident, or because the armour makes me look fat?” I asked, unable to resist pulling his leg just a little.

“What? No!” He held up his hands in front of him, as if to ward off the very idea. “God, no. It's just … I mean …” He blinked as he registered the grin on my face. “Wait, you … you're joking?” It was kind of amusing to watch as his expression went from anxiously reassuring to blankly incredulous in the space of half a second. “That was a joke?”

Dad and I weren't the only people in the corridor outside Armsmaster's workshop. Amy was there too, as well as the guard who'd obviously been detailed to escort us around the building. The guard showed no sign of amusement, which was pretty easy to do with a full-face opaque visor, but Amy let out a muffled snort from behind the hand she'd clapped over her mouth. Dad turned his betrayed gaze from me to her and she snorted again, obviously trying hard not to laugh. Around her hand, her face started to turn red.

“It's okay.” I gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “I know what you meant, and I appreciate it.” Oddly enough, as uncomfortable as the armour was, wearing it had given me a boost to my confidence. It was tangible proof that my life was changing for the better. Dragon may have given me the lines to say, but I was the one who'd spoken them and, except for the parts intended to mislead the public, meant them.

“Well, I've seen a few speeches by superheroes,” Amy said, having gotten her mirth under control. “And yours was pretty good. Though I was wondering about how Armsmaster and Vicky tore out of here in a huge hurry. Any idea why they did that?”

“Well, I can't tell you much, because some of it's NDA material,” I said carefully, “but apparently Armsmaster got a report that someone he wants to arrest really badly showed up in a robbery across town.” I shrugged. “Hopefully by now he's made the collar.” I winced as something else made itself known again. “And if you'll excuse me, I've really gotta go pee.”

<><>​

Hillside Mall
Sophia

Sophia was three cases in and catching up with Regent's total—he was on four and counting—when Tattletale yelled out a warning. “Incoming!” Raising the wrench—she was still holding it in her free hand—Sophia turned toward the doorway just as two mall cops came around into view. Both held pistols, which were up and tracking.

Crap, we really should've lowered the security screen. But it was too late for that. Adrenaline pumped through her system, and she threw the wrench instinctively, just as one of the security guards yelled out an order for them to freeze.

Her aim was off, the wrench striking the guy on the shoulder instead of in the face. He staggered back a step, but his buddy swung around to aim at her. She knew the guy was about to pull the trigger, so she went to shadow form, diving and rolling to get closer to him. The case behind her shattered as the shot went off; she even felt the bullet flicker through her insubstantial form. Motherfucker.

Even as she reformed and came up on to one knee, she fired the last two darts from her right-hand launcher, each dart nailing one of the guards in the centre of the chest. Then she went to shadow again, moving to close with them. As she became solid once more, she saw the guard who'd shot at her toss his gun away, and she recognised Regent's handiwork. Nice. But the other guard was still armed, so she pushed his gun to the side and kicked him solidly in the nuts.

He grunted and folded over. Giving her no time to finish him off, his partner swung a substantial-looking fist at her head. She could do this dance all day; phasing through his arm, she kicked him behind the knee and smacked him in the back of the neck with her elbow. He went down, crumpling all the way to the floor. His partner was also down. For a moment, she waited for them to get up again before she recalled the fact that she'd tranqed them both. Panting a little, she glared at the fucking morons who were standing back and watching. Some were even filming events with their phones.

“Fuck off!” she yelled, and extended her right arm with the empty launcher. They moved back a few paces, but kept right on filming. She shook her head and went back into the store. With her left hand, she pushed the trigger tab back into the launcher; with her right, she pulled the same tab out of the left hand launcher. I swear, these people are more like sheep every fucking day.

Up at the counter, Tattletale gave her a nod, which probably meant the coast was clear for now. Leaving the wrench where it lay, she went back to looting cases. Regent had his side of the store done, and was working on her side now. She was a little irritated at this, but decided it didn't matter; after all, it would all get shared out the same in the end. Besides, she'd just saved all their asses from a couple of trigger-happy rent-a-cops. That was probably worth a bonus.

There were only two cases to go when Tattletale let out a piercing whistle. “Time to go!” yelled the blonde. “We got the big boys incoming!” She let herself out by the security gate—the counter had long since been smashed and looted—and headed for the door at a run. Glancing at the last two cases, Sophia hesitated. There was some nice stuff in both of them, and she hated leaving a job undone.

“Come on, Spectre!” called Tattletale from the doorway. “You get left behind, we're not coming back for you!” She sounded like she meant it. Regent was already following her out the door.

“Fuck it,” Sophia muttered, and bolted for the door, ghosting through a couple of cases that were in the way. The pockets of her pants, heavy with stolen jewellery, swung and bumped at her thighs as she became solid again. She also heard the screaming from outside. Fuck, what is it now?

Diving out the doorway, she saw what it was. Galloping clumsily through the mall, immense claws ripping chunks out of the carefully-polished floor, three of Bitch's monster dogs were bearing down on them like a steam train. The dog girl herself was on the lead one while Grue rode astride a second, darkness billowing out behind him like a negative shot of an ever-replenishing fog bank. People were screaming and diving out of the way, for once showing at least some level of self-preservation.

“Spectre, Regent, take Brutus!” yelled Tattletale. “I'll go with Grue!” She ran toward the dog that Sophia's nemesis was riding. Leaning over, he hauled her on board as if they'd done that move a hundred times. For all Sophia knew, they had. In fact, if it wasn't Grue doing it, she might even have allowed herself to be impressed by that little bit of teamwork.

In the meantime, of course, she didn't have time to be impressed or deliberately unimpressed. The third dog (she assumed this one was Brutus) was lolloping down toward them, apparently guided by some signal from Bitch. Bolting forward, Sophia turned to shadow and leaped toward Brutus. Timing it to a nicety, she spun around in midair then reformed on the dog's back. Regent had been close behind her, but there was no way he was going to make the same leap. She supposed that he'd done this sort of thing before, but with someone on board to make the dog slow down or help him up.

Do I help him up or push him away? It was a thorny question; one she only had a split second to consider. Slowing the dog down was out of the question, as it would take too long and she had no idea how to do it anyway. Regent was shorter than she was, and was just skinny rather than sharing her level of muscular fitness; she had no doubt that she could drag him on to the dog. On the other hand, if she left him behind—or even shoved him away at the right moment—Calvert would get a head start on dismantling the Undersiders. But on the other other hand, Tattletale was almost certainly intuitive enough to realise what she'd done and why.

All of this passed through her mind in an instant, and she made her decision. One hand grabbed on to a bone spike; as she leaned low, the other swung out toward Regent in a grasping motion. His hand slapped into hers, and fingers clamped on to wrists. If she hadn't been holding on, the jolt might've pulled her loose from her seat on the dog. As it was, she was able to lift him clear of the ground relatively easily. Making use of his inertia, she swung him up behind her, on to the back of the dog. “Hang on!” she yelled back to him. “And not to me!” If he tried copping a gratuitous feel, she decided, she'd kick him off the dog again and to hell with the consequences.

Which reminded her. Tattletale was now ahead of her, riding behind Grue on the one-eyed dog. If there was ever a chance to put that bitch out of Sophia's misery, this was it. Except that as she swung her eyes forward, she realised the flaw in her plan. Tattletale was riding behind Grue, who was still generating his damnable darkness. A totally non-dimensional featureless cloud of pure blackness, it fucked with her eyes almost as badly as it fucked with her powers.

Sophia absolutely loathed being outmanoeuvred. Even while she'd thought she was careful in laying her plans, Tattletale had apparently been reading them in advance. The blonde cow had, as a result, set matters up so Sophia couldn't betray them without screwing herself over. For a moment she was tempted to fire a dart into the darkness by guesswork anyway, but then she recalled Regent behind her. As oblivious as the jerk was most of the time, he was sure to notice if she started taking pot-shots at his team-mates. And she most certainly hadn't forgotten about his sceptre. One jab of that in her ribs, and she'd be left twitching on the ground.

Grue yelled a single word then, putting all thoughts of gratuitous revenge on hold. “Wards!”

<><>​

Thomas Calvert
Timeline 1

That's odd. Nothing's wrong with the base at all.

Leaning back against the wall, Calvert entered another query into his phone, double-checking the data that had already scrolled through it. Infrared and motion sensors for his office were showing that nobody was in the room, while the keylogger in his keyboard registered zero entries since he was last in the base.

So what happened in the other timeline?

Calvert didn't know, and he hated not knowing. His power was all about knowing why he shouldn't do something. Currently, all he understood was that searching the PRT databases for actionable intel on Scarab was somehow linked to the self-destruct system in his base deciding to activate. While correlation was not causation, those two events seemed linked in some unfathomable manner. One which was currently bugging the hell out of him.

Frowning, he went back to tapping on his phone.

<><>​

Timeline 2

“Huh.” Pritchard seemed about to say something more, but she was distracted when the door opened and more people filed into the conference room and started taking the seats against the wall, while one headed up to the podium at the front of the room. “Good, we're starting. About damn time,” she grumbled.

For all her grousing, he could almost feel her starting to relax in anticipation of the actual briefing. But the guy at the podium wasn't Piggot, but her deputy. Renick, Calvert thought the guy was called. No ambition; from all reports, the guy was happy to be the second in charge. Coil had never been happy taking orders from anyone. The natural order, he figured, was the other way around. Is he going to be giving the briefing?

“Director Piggot asked me to pass on her apologies,” Renick said, almost as if he was aware of Calvert's inner thoughts. “She had to take a call; a situation is developing across town. In the meantime, each of you should find a copy of the material we'll be covering on the table in front of you.”

A situation across town? Automatically, Calvert picked up the stack of paper and looked at the front of it, but his attention was elsewhere. That had to be Shadow Stalker, hitting the jewellery store with the Undersiders. He wondered if she'd discovered the truth about the tranquilliser darts she'd been supplied with. With any luck at all, she'd be oblivious to it until she was well and truly locked into his service, and the Undersiders with her.

And then the door opened and closed once more. He heard Piggot's familiar, halting step. It was a sound he'd actually recorded and listened to over and over, until he could pick it out anywhere. After all, with any luck, he'd get the chance to hunt her down in a darkened building sometime, tracking her by sound and wit. Well, he'd actually done that a time or three for stress relief, but he wanted to do it in a timeline he didn't have to drop.

“Attention, everyone.” Piggot didn't bother clearing her throat or starting with any vague courtesies. The woman shot from the hip; it was one of the few things he admired about her. “You're all busy people, so I won't waste your time.” She pulled the pistol from the holster at her hip. “One of you is a traitor. You will all place your hands on the table in plain view.”

Fuuuck! Calvert caught the look of triumph on her face as her gaze locked on to his. He went to jump to his feet, but all too late; the soft thud-thud on the carpet behind him was inevitably followed by the gurgling hiss of containment foam. Specifically, containment foam expanding from the grenades that had been dropped … by the people who'd come in later, and sat down right behind him.

The whole 'hands on the table' ploy had been a distraction, as had Piggot herself. She'd spoken loudly, abrasively, getting everyone's attention. Allowing the PRT guards to pull out grenades, pop the pins, and gently roll them under his chair.

“The fuck?” yelped Pritchard as she, too, was enveloped in the rapidly-expanding yellow foam. Calvert ignored her. He clawed his pistol from its holster. The foam climbed past his waist an instant too late and he levelled the weapon at Piggot herself.

“Fuck you, bi—” he tried to yell defiantly. Even if he was going to be dropping the timeline, he wanted to take her with him. But she fired first. From the hip, even.

<><>​

Timeline 1

The fuck?

Calvert sat bolt upright on the toilet lid, his eyes wide with shock. Holy fuck, it's a trap! They know about me! I've got to get out of here! At that very moment, he heard the tink-tink of metal on ceramic, and looked down to see two containment foam grenades rolling under the cubicle door. Already in motion, he wrenched open the door and flung himself out of the cubicle, just before the grenades would've trapped him in foam.

However, he was not yet out of trouble, given that the PRT soldiers who'd used the grenades in the first place were just outside the cubicle. It was hard to tell who was more surprised; they obviously hadn't been expecting him to hit the ground running like that, and he hadn't even known they were there. One was armed with a containment foam dispenser, while the other had a rifle.

“Sir,” the one with the rifle began, “we have orders to—”

Calvert didn't let him finish. It was probably only something like 'take you alive', but he didn't care. His choices were to swing out around to the right past the guy with the con-foam, or to go down the middle. Going left would leave the con-foam guy wide open to foam both his buddy and Calvert, and he knew damn well that PRT troops were trained to do just that if they had to; con-foam was non-lethal and afforded a certain measure of protection to downed allies, after all.

There were only two good options, so he went with both.

<><>​

Timeline 1.1

Going down the middle turned out to be a no-show. These two guys had obviously worked together, and the con-foam guy blocked him while the rifle guy butt-stroked him in the face.

<><>​

Timeline 1.2

Going right worked better; he tackled the con-foam guy around the neck and brought him to the ground while the rifle guy was still trying to get in close and give his buddy some assistance. Twisting around, Calvert got a hand on the con-foam sprayer and blasted yellow foam across the bathroom, slathering the rifle guy in the stuff.

The con-foam guy let go the sprayer then, and went for the pistol he was wearing. But Calvert was older, more experienced, and had his power as a fallback. Struggling for the pistol didn't work, as the guy was stronger than him. But he could hold him off from lining it up just long enough to pull his own pistol and tuck it up under the man's chin. The shot was muffled; the guy spasmed once then went limp. Blood had sprayed back on to Calvert's hand, but he didn't care in the slightest.

Disentangling himself from the dead man, Calvert came to his feet. If this was a movie, he thought fleetingly, he'd don the guy's uniform and walk out of there. But reality didn't work like that. Back when he was a field officer, he'd needed his uniforms and armour made to order; this guy was six inches shorter and about a hundred pounds heavier than him. He collected the dead man's pistol but didn't bother with trying to claim the rifle or the con-foam sprayer, as one was stuck in containment foam and the other would be far too unwieldy to run with.

<><>​

Timeline 1.2.1

Yanking open the bathroom door, Calvert took off at a dead run in the direction away from the conference room. He got a dozen yards before the whoop-whoop-whoop of the PRT building intruder alarm went off.

<><>​

Timeline 1.2.2

Opening the bathroom door more cautiously, Calvert moved off at a steady jog in the direction away from the conference room. He only got five yards before the whoop-whoop-whoop of the PRT building intruder alarm went off. Using the other timeline to spring traps was one of the first tricks he'd learned.

<><>​

PRT Building
Wards Area
Taylor

I washed my hands, then splashed water on my face to rinse off the residue of the sweat that I'd been feeling all the way through the speech. I really needed a shower, but that would have to wait until I could get home. Or maybe until I could requisition a towel and some clothes. Just as I was leaving the bathroom for the main Wards area, I heard a low whoop-whoop-whoop sound, quite unlike any fire alarm I'd ever heard before. At the same time, the door out into the corridor locked with a very solid ch-CHAK.

“What was that?” I asked. Almost instinctively, I began tallying the impressions of the bugs that were naturally scattered throughout the building. While the PRT had done their best to fumigate the place after the Swarmbringer scare, they hadn't been nearly as thorough as they might have imagined.

Nothing seemed to be wrong. At least, there was no smoke or fire on any floor I could find, and none of my bugs were hearing the sharp reports of gunfire. Nor were any parts of the building being broken or otherwise damaged—once again, that I could find.

“Intruder alarm,” Vista said briskly, not turning from where she sat at the console. “We've got someone in the building who shouldn't be here, so all the floors are locking down. Only people with special overrides can get anywhere now.”

“Well, that's good, isn't it?” Dad tried to sound hopeful, though he probably didn't think I noticed him moving to stand between me and the door. “They should catch whoever it is pretty quickly.”

“Sure,” the youngest Ward agreed, though there seemed to be an edge to her tone that suggested otherwise. “Of course, the intruder may have a special override of their own. Anything can be acquired by anyone if you throw enough money at the problem.”

Dad didn't answer straight away, though I saw him give her a look of respect. Amy spoke up instead. “Uh, do you think this has happened?”

“I don't know.” Vista sounded frustrated. “Every exercise we've done, they've caught the guy in less time than this. Let's just say it's a possibility. Give me a second here.” She took a deep breath. “Be advised, this is a Code Purple situation. Investigate, do not engage.”

For a moment, I was confused, then I recalled what Dragon had told me. Vista was probably talking to someone else who was going to deal with Shadow Stalker. Silently I wished them all the luck, then I glanced at the ceiling.

I hope they catch the intruder soon.

<><>​

Hillside Mall
Clockblocker

“Be advised, this is a Code Purple situation.” Vista's voice was calm and professional over the earpiece radio. “Investigate, do not engage.” Dennis wondered if she practised sounding so cool and collected.

“Roger,” Carlos replied. “Investigate, do not engage. Aegis, out.”

He came in for a landing just outside the mall entrance, slowing down so that Dennis could find his balance, then they sprinted the last few yards. Dennis knew quite well that Aegis could've flown right up to the doors, but electric eye sensors tended to act weird around flying people. In addition, he was being a good team leader and not splitting the group.

The doors hissed open and they stepped inside, just in time to see a bunch of monsters barrelling down the shop-lined corridor toward them. Dennis had heard of the Undersiders, but he'd never encountered them before. The girl wearing the plastic dime store dog mask had to be Hellhound, given that she was riding astride something that looked like a cross between a rhino, a dinosaur and an angry alligator. Two more were running on either side of it, creating an effect not unlike staring up at an oncoming avalanche and wondering if one had time to kiss one's ass goodbye. Hellhound's power, Dennis decided, must absolutely hate dogs if it did that to them.

He forced his mind back to the topic at hand, just as he heard someone shout “Wards!” It might've been someone on one of the dogs, but he couldn't be sure.

“What do we do?” he asked Aegis, because there surely wasn't time to call in to the console for advice or orders.

“Get outside!” his team leader snapped, then grabbed one of the glass doors. “When I've got these closed, freeze them!” He began to pull, his augmented strength overcoming the resistance of the door motors, as Dennis darted over to the other one. It was a smart idea; blocking the monster dogs without engaging them. Aegis' time as Triumph's understudy hadn't been wasted.

They had the doors half-closed, with Carlos doing most of the work, when someone stood up on the back of one of the monster dog things. In the excitement, Dennis had allowed himself to temporarily forget an important fact: specifically, that Shadow Stalker was robbing the place as one of the Undersiders.

This omission was rapidly brought home to him when the figure—wearing an urban camo outfit unlike Stalker's edgy black costume, but with a similar hooded cloak—turned to Stalker's trademark shadowy fog. Wispy lines seemed to connect her with Aegis, who grunted as two stubby darts struck him in the face; once in the left eye and again in the cheek. A third pinged off his chest armour, then he let out an agonised cry and doubled over.

Eye shots had never bothered Aegis before; in fact, he had a collection of eyepatches that he enjoyed using to ham any eye injury up with until it healed. Thus, Dennis was so shocked by his team leader actually taking a hit that he nearly didn't register Stalker going solid again. She took two running steps forward, planted her foot in the middle of the creature's face and dived off of it toward him, adding its speed to hers.

When they were both Wards, she'd sparred with him occasionally and had beaten him soundly each time. That was without the use of powers, of course; with powers, such a spar would turn into a mockery of a fight. This time, however, she was coming right toward him, and he had no obligation not to use his powers to freeze her to the spot. Crouching slightly, he flexed his fingertips. No matter what happened, if she came within reach of him, he was gonna shut her down hard. Then he'd freeze his own costume, to make sure—

Instants before he would've made contact, she went to shadow and washed straight through him. He had just enough time to think Oh, that's just not fair! before he felt the sting behind his knee, where the thicker body armour didn't cover. A wave of lassitude swept through his body, beginning with that leg. As his knee buckled, he fell sideways … right into the path of the dog. Acting on pure instinct, he grabbed the thing's leg as it bore down on him. His power had never seemed to take so long to kick in before. An unbearable weight slammed down on his chest, and he felt his body armour buckle and snap. His ribs, too, if he was any judge. Then … stillness. Looming above him, poised on one paw, the dog was frozen in mid-stride. Vaguely, he heard a high-pitched yell of surprise and a thud, but he wasn't sure who it had come from.

He was aware that his power was the only reason he was alive right then, and as soon as it wore off that situation would change. As the last shreds of his consciousness drifted away, he registered one final thought.

Shoulda frozen my costume …

<><>​

Sophia

Pausing a few yards on, Sophia looked back. Aegis was writhing on the ground, Clockblocker was literally under the paw of the monster dog she'd been riding with Regent, which was now frozen in place. Regent was lying sprawled in front of said dog; the sudden stop had probably dismounted him with a vengeance. She smirked at the idea. Good.

“What the fuck was that?” yelled Bitch, pointing at her frozen dog.

“Calm down, he'll go back to normal in a minute or so,” Grue told her, then jumped off his dog. Picking up Regent—the wimp looked unconscious, and one of his arms dangled oddly—he slung the smaller boy over the dog. His head turned toward Sophia. “You're a menace,” he said coldly, his voice echoing in his darkness. “When we get back to base, I'm calling the boss. You're off the team if I've got anything to say about it.”

“Well, you can take your phone call to the boss and shove it—” began Sophia, but was interrupted.

“Hey!” yelled Tattletale. “We've got to go! Capes incoming!” She pointed at the sky, where a gold-and-white figure was arrowing downward. Worse (in Sophia's estimation), the very distinctive sound of Armsmaster's motorbike was audible in the distance, and growing in volume.

“Fuck!” Grue scrambled on to his dog again. “Rachel, we've got to go!”

“But Brutus!” protested the stocky redhead. “I can't leave him!”

“They won't hurt him!” Tattletale shouted. “We can't fight! We have to run!”

With one last stricken look at the still-frozen dog, Bitch let out a shrill whistle, and the dogs jolted into motion. Sophia ran toward them, but Grue stretched out his arm and she was overwhelmed with a wave of pitch blackness, causing her to stumble and fight for breath. It cleared seconds later, but by then they were gone.

“Fuck!” Coughing from the after-effects of Grue's darkness, she turned to run. She got two steps before a freight train slammed into her; in the next instant, she felt her feet leave the ground. Slim arms that may as well have been steel girders imprisoned her own arms to her sides.

“Not so fucking fast, Shadow Stalker.” Glory Girl's voice was low and deadly, and her fear aura hammered at Sophia's will. She'd rarely felt terror like this before, and it made her want to curl up in a ball and hide from the world. “You're gonna pay for what you've done.”

What Sophia did next, she did from sheer instinct. Which wasn't to say she wouldn't have done it anyway, given time to consider her optimal move. Nor was it guaranteed that she'd be regretting the move after she did it. Sophia rarely regretted anything she did. But it was a fact that had she waited until she could muster coherent thought, Sophia wouldn't have had the chance to act at all.

The last of Grue's pseudo-darkness flushed from her body and she went to shadow. Pulling the shadow-knife from its sheath, she stabbed hard, then returned to her solid form with the knife still buried in Glory Girl's ribs. Glory Girl screamed and flailed, sending Sophia flying away with the feeling that she'd had maybe a rib or two popped.

Returning to shadow, Sophia watched Glory Girl crash-land near the entrance to the mall. As she glided away on the wind, Armsmaster pulled up beside the fallen heroes. He was there to deal with it, so they weren't Sophia's problem any more. The first chance she got, she was going to call up Calvert and fill him in, then get his permission to end the Undersiders, once and for all. If it wasn't for them, I wouldn't have had to do that.

<><>​

Thomas Calvert
Timeline 1.2.1

He knew he had to get out of the building. That was the end goal. Thomas Calvert would vanish into the ether, and Coil would become his primary identity until he could get set up with a different face and name. But all that would come later. Right now, he had right now to deal with.

Elevator or stairs? He picked both.

<><>​

Timeline 1.2.1.1

The public elevators were not the only way to get up and down in the PRT building. Calvert eased up to the corner, then ducked his head around, pistols at the ready. A guard stood in front of the elevator, some ten yards down the corridor. One guard; this was his best chance.

Coming around the corner like a rampaging army, he ran toward the man at his best speed. Surprise worked in his favour; he covered three yards before the guard even became aware of him, and another five before the rifle started to come up in his direction. Calvert tackled the man, wincing at the solid impact of bone and muscle against body armour. Knocked off balance, the soldier went down hard. He couldn't have been too winded, though, as he almost immediately tried to get the rifle barrel across Calvert's throat.

PRT soldiers wore athletic cups as part of their regular outfit, so Calvert didn't even try to knee him in the groin. But he was agile and stronger than he looked, and he wasn't weighed down with cumbersome armour. In a fight against two opponents, this would be a suicidal move, but against one it could work.

Fending off the man's attempts to get the upper hand, Calvert worked his way around behind the soldier and locked his arm around the man's throat. He ignored the struggles and clawing at his arm; the soldier's armour worked against him in this situation. When the soldier tried to angle his rifle to shoot Calvert, he took one hand away from the chokehold long enough to deflect the barrel. Moments later, the soldier was limp on the ground. He didn't have the time to kill him with a chokehold, but the soldier had a belt knife which Calvert used to cut his throat.

Climbing to his feet, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and retrieved the pistols. Swiping his pilfered all-access pass—while he hadn't had exactly this situation in mind when he acquired it all those months ago, it was certainly useful as an ace in the hole—he hit the button and waited for the elevator to arrive.

It did, in relatively short order. Once he verified it was empty (from behind an aimed rifle) he stepped inside. Do I go up or down? he asked himself, on the verge of dropping the other timeline.

That was when the hidden nozzles activated and filled the elevator with containment foam.

<><>​

Timeline 1.2.1.2

There were more stairwells in the building than elevator shafts. Calvert had at one point gotten his hands on a set of plans that outlined them all, even the ones that never made it on to the official blueprints. The main stairwells were guarded, of course. There were probably soldiers in the stairwells as well, which would turn any sort of attempt to go up or down into a running firefight. The problem was, he had limited ammunition, and he couldn't count on killing his adversaries fast enough to replenish it as needed.

The trick, of course, was to win the fight without ever firing a shot. Calvert had never actually managed to pull that trick off, but it was theoretically possible. Step one would be to get off this floor, and into a location where the searching forces would never find him. Even maximising the use of his power, he couldn't hope to stay ahead of them forever.

Rifle up and ready, he burst into the male bathroom that his mental map told him he needed to be in. Fortunately both for him and any theoretical foes, the facility was empty. Moving with quick strides, he went to a part of the wall between the washbasins and the first urinal. There was an innocuous door in the wall marked CLEANERS ONLY. Opening it revealed a grimy closet. However, when he swiped his all-access card across an innocuous nail hole in the rear of the closet, the back wall hinged away and he stepped through.

He wasn't worried about anyone tracking or tracing the all-access card. Since acquiring it, he'd gone into the PRT servers and set up a program to delete any instance of that particular card being used from the server records. However, he'd always been extremely cagey about using it, just in case alarm bells went off anyway.

Closing both the inner and outer closet doors, he sagged back against the wall and took several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. He wasn't out of the woods quite yet, but he was now several steps ahead of his pursuers. There were two ways out of this, so once again he tried both.

<><>​

PRT Building
Wards Base
Amy

“Console, Armsmaster. I'm at Hillside Mall.” Armsmaster's voice was ragged, as though he was exerting himself. “Clockblocker, Aegis and Glory Girl are down, all needing immediate and urgent medical care. All possible assistance required, ASAP. Armsmaster, out.”

Amy jumped to her feet, terror for her sister overriding every other thought in her head. “Vicky!” she exclaimed. “Shit! I've got to get there!”

Vista immediately activated her microphone. “PRT Console, this is Wards Console. I have Panacea in the Wards base. Requesting permission to release her to assist Armsmaster, over.”

The reply took a few more seconds than Amy had expected, and was not what she wanted to hear. “Negative, Wards Console. PRT building is still on lockdown. Nobody gets in or out, over.” The voice was warm, motherly … and full of regret.

“What? No!” Amy started toward Vista, her voice pleading. “Tell her to let us out! I've got to help Vicky and the others!”

Vista shook her head. “Won't help. Lockdown. It's regulations.” Taking a deep breath, she stood up and removed her headset. “But in a situation like this, fuck regulations. Those are my team-mates out there, too.”

<><>​

Thomas Calvert
Timeline 1.2.1.2.1

The stairwell was narrow and the ceiling low; Calvert had to keep ducking his head so as not to bump it on the overhead brickwork. He didn't enjoy stairs at the best of times but as an activity, going down stairs that were both steep and narrow was now on his personal shit-list. Still, if he could get down to the garage level and steal a vehicle he'd be home free.

The third floor went by, then the second, then the first. His knees and ankles were aching by now, from the strain of moving quietly enough that he'd hear boots coming upstairs or following him down. He'd heard nothing at all, which indicated they were trusting on the system alerting them if the concealed stairwells were used. More fool them. If and when he came back under a different identity and took control of the Brockton Bay PRT—not a very likely scenario now, but one he held near and dear to his heart—he'd institute a much more secure system than the one currently in place. But for now, he was going to take full advantage of what was there.

Finally, he arrived at the garage level. Pistol in hand, he swiped the all-access card to open the concealed exit—another maintenance closet—and stepped out. Right into the path of a spray of containment foam.

Knocked off his feet by the force of the stream, he struggled to bring the firearm to bear, but it seemed his assailant had planned for that. Before they even stepped into sight, his arm was utterly entangled. Military boots sounded on concrete, and Miss Militia came into view. “Thought you might come this way,” she said with some satisfaction. Touching her radio earpiece, she added, “Miss Militia here. Target engaged and subdued.”

Fuck.

<><>​

Timeline 1.2.1.2.2

He was all out of options, bar one. A rooftop rescue was a possibility, but his men needed time to get out to the private airfield, get the chopper ready, and bring it into the city. In the meantime, he needed a place to hide where nobody would find him, and a way to get on to the roof past security once his ride did arrive. Fortunately, he had a plan in mind for both eventualities. As a bonus, it would allow him to take some much-needed revenge. Getting Piggot out of the way for his eventual return was just icing on the cake.

Climbing the narrow staircase in the musty, dusty near-darkness was even worse than going down. He couldn't stand straight upright for fear of bashing his skull open on the rough brickwork overhead, and keeping his head up to scan for low-hanging obstacles was putting a massive crick in his neck. Once I'm away, I'm going to engage the services of the best massage therapist I can find. That he'd actually get away, he never doubted for a moment. The majority of the people working in the building were unpowered, which gave him a distinct advantage over them. They had numbers on their side, but he'd evaded them three times now.

The irritating part was that he was actually fit; as a strike team leader, he had to be. If this had been an ordinary set of stairs, he would've breezed it with little difficulty. But the narrowness and claustrophobia, not to mention the low ceiling, conspired to make life difficult for him. He tried to imagine Piggot, with all her extra weight, huffing and panting her bulk up or down these stairs, and simply couldn't. She'd barely make one flight before she collapsed in a heap of sweat and blubber. Back in the day, he knew, it would've been different. How the mighty have fallen.

Finally, he reached the top floor. He eased his way out of the secret entrance, wary of a trap similar to the one Miss Militia had set for him. But there was only one Miss Militia, and she was still fruitlessly guarding the exit in the garage level. Nobody else, it seemed, had chosen to guard the concealed stairwells. He was tempted to castigate them in absentia for their idiocy, but decided to wait until he was free and clear, and away from this place.

<><>​

Timeline 1.2.1.2.2.1

Heaving the door open, he burst out into the corridor, pistol swinging both ways. Nothing opposed him, so he set out on a dead sprint down the corridor, pistol in one hand and all-access card in the other. With every soft thudding step on the thick carpet, he expected to hear a shout of alarm, but there was nothing.

For a stroke of luck, nobody was in the corridor. Of course, there was more to it than luck. All exits from this floor were being monitored, of that he had no doubt. The concealed stairwells were just being watched electronically. It seemed his hidden program was doing its work perfectly; he just hadn't accounted for the possibility of someone making a wild-ass guess and getting it right. Well, that's what second chances are for.

<><>​

Timeline 1.2.1.2.2.2

Pistol up and ready, he inched the bathroom door open and ducked his head out, checking both ways before pulling back. Nobody attacked either version of himself, so he exited the bathroom. Moving as silently as he could, he eased down the corridor, listening intently. No voices caught his ear, no crackle of static over an improperly tuned radio. It didn't sound as though there was anyone on the floor at all.

Time, he decided, for a Hail Mary pass for his Hail Mary pass. Heading for the nearest stairwell, he kicked off his shoes and cracked the door open a fraction. If he could get down far enough that jumping out of a window was survivable, he intended to give that the old college try. It was only supposition that they even had soldiers in the stairwells, after all; solid supposition, but supposition all the same. They couldn't know he was coming from above them, so he might even be able to surprise them.

One step at a time, he went down the stairs. Nostrils quivered as he tried to pick up the smell of human sweat and cologne. Mouth half-open, he listened as intently as he could. In the echoes that permeated the concrete stairwell, he thought he could just barely hear voices. They were too far away to tell for sure, though.

<><>​

Timeline 1.2.1.2.2.1

And there it was. Emily Piggot's office; or rather, the back entrance thereof. A remarkably nondescript door, it allowed the Director to enter and leave without gaining the attention of those who might have demands on her time. It was also code-locked.

Well, that was what the all-access card was for. He swiped the code panel and the red LED switched to green. In the next moment, he had the door open and was inside. Careful to not even let it click shut, he eased the door closed once more. In the dimness of the short corridor that led to Piggot's office proper, he allowed himself the luxury of momentary relaxation. Slowly, his racing heartbeat returned to something approximating normality.

<><>​

Timeline 1.2.1.2.2.2

It was sheer bad luck that the stairwell door opened just as he was passing it. He turned fast, jabbing with the butt of his rifle up under the helmet visor. Done right, it would send the recipient directly into dreamland. His aim was true; the soldier went over backward … and dropped his rifle. Its butt hit carpet … and the barrel hit concrete. The clatter was thunderous in his ears.

“What was that?” The query came from below. “Who's up there?”

Calvert bolted down the stairs, taking them two at a time. If he could shut the guy up before he could report on the noise …

Unfortunately, the soldier had evidently figured out exactly what the noise was. As Calvert leaped down to the next landing, the soldier opened fire. Of the thirty-round magazine, seventeen bullets hit him, half a dozen in centre mass.

<><>​

Timeline 1.2.1.2.2.1

There was no light coming from under the door ahead of him; this meant Piggot's office lights were out. Which in turn meant she wasn't there. No doubt she was still in the conference room, trying to coordinate the search for him. Sorry, Emily. I'm three steps ahead of you. I'm in your safe space.

All he had to do was conceal himself in her office so that when she eventually returned, he could take her hostage. She was notorious for not seeing people she didn't want to see, so it shouldn't be too hard to keep her incommunicado for an hour or three. And once he had word the chopper was on the way, he'd walk her up to the roof. Done smoothly enough, nobody would dare foam them—a bullet at close range was faster—and they wouldn't have time to set up a sniper position.

Emily would, of course, have to come on the chopper with him. The temptation to shoot it down would be too great, otherwise. Once she was secure and under proper medical care, he could set about extracting from her all the secrets of the PRT he was not yet privy to. This, he decided, was going to take days. Vengeance, he knew from experience, was always sweeter when taken slowly and with great care. And maybe he'd have his hunt, after all.

Opening the door at the end of the corridor, he strode through into the empty office. Now, where's a good place to—

The taser prongs struck him in the middle of the back. An instant later, the current literally knocked him off his feet. Lying there, twitching as electricity coursed through his body, he was vaguely aware of the bulky form of Emily Piggot as she got up from the chair she'd been sitting in, right beside the door he'd just entered by. Sitting there in the dark, patiently waiting for him.

“They don't know you, Calvert,” she said coldly and dispassionately as she toed the pistol away from his hand. He tried to reach for the one holstered at his waist, but she pressed the trigger on the taser again, causing him to convulse uncontrollably. While he was trying to recover, she relieved him of his other weapons. “Not like I do. You're a twisty snake. Always trying to strike from an unexpected direction.”

Her foot moved again; too late, he realised it was a kick. As out of shape as she was, she could still put some solid weight behind it. The toe of her shoe sank into his solar plexus and he doubled up, gagging. She kicked him again, this time in the face; he felt his nose break.

“And you've always been one to hold a grudge,” she went on. She gave him another dose from the taser, leaving his muscles feeling like liquefied jelly. “I can understand that.” Putting the taser carefully on the chair, she pulled something from her pocket and fitted it on to her hand. A dull glint clued him in. Brass knuckles. “I'm much the same way.”

Stepping over his prone body, she straddled him. In another time and place, with a different person, this may have actually been fun. Here and now, it was anything but. Settling down on to his chest, she pinned his arms to the floor with her knees and looked down at him. Even without the effect of multiple electrical shocks on his body, he would've hardly been able to move; with it, he was helpless. “You came into my city. You infiltrated my PRT building. You subverted my Ward. And you were going to try to kill me.”

The first blow fractured his cheekbone before he could explain that he'd only intended to take her hostage. Then torture information out of her. Then kill her. Oh, right.

The second smashed his eyesocket. The third broke his jaw. For a woman, he decided distantly, she could punch.

By the fourth blow, which scattered his teeth across the floor, he felt the phone in his back pocket start to vibrate.

The fifth blow sent him unconscious.



End of Part Fourteen

Part Fifteen