Are You Afraid of the Dark? [Worm AU fanfic]

[Ack]

In this fic, Danny and Annette Hebert had slightly different backgrounds. How Danny reacts to Taylor's bullying will be ... interesting.

Note: Yes, this fic may bear a very close relationship to a particular movie. Call it an homage.

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: Turning Point (below)
Part Two: Seeing a Man About a Dog
Part Three: New Information
Part Four: Night Terrors
Part Five: Removing Threats
Part Six: Training Montage
Part Seven: Zeroing In
Part Eight: True Lies
Part Nine: The Oncoming Storm
Part Ten: Retribution
Part Eleven: Bad Luck and Trouble
Part Twelve: Into the Lair of the Serpent

 

[Ack]

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Part One: Turning Point


Tuesday, January 4, 2011

She looks so small.

That was his first thought upon seeing her in the hospital bed. Skinny she might be, but she was tall for her age; however, her height was not apparent when lying down. Worse, some cruel trick of the light made her features seem emaciated, as though she had lost weight in the last few hours.

Leaning forward, he brushed an errant strand of hair from her face; the rest of it had been bundled back out of the way. There were a few scrapes and bruises there, including the makings of a black eye. She looks like she was beaten up, not shoved in a locker. I almost wish she had been. There would be more chance of finding out who did this.

He had seen many faces in repose; some had appeared angry, some surprised. But most of them had given the impression of serenity, of being at peace with the world. From what he could recall, Taylor's sleeping face had been much the same, once upon a time. But here and now, even sedated, she was not at ease; her body twitched, her eyes rolling from side to side beneath the lids. To him, it looked as though she was struggling with an unseen opponent, one that he could not assist her with. To a man who had sworn to protect his child from the evils of the world, this was almost intolerable.

"What's happening to her?" he asked, trying to keep the anger from his voice. Unheeded, his fists clenched, the nails biting into his palm. "Why is she like this?" His eyes fell on her wrists, held down to the side of the bed by soft Velcro cuffs. "Why in God's name is she restrained?"

The doctor at his side drew a deep breath. "Because she's not yet in her right mind, Mr Hebert," he explained carefully. "When she was let out of the locker, she was irrational, attacking everyone she saw. Some of the time she was clawing at herself, at the bugs and the filth on her." He gestured at the contusions on her face. "Some of that was done by her. We were understandably concerned that she might harm herself, so we put the restraints on her. When she's coherent enough to ask for them to be removed, we will take them off again."

Danny closed his eyes for a moment, trying to damp down the pain welling in his chest. "But she'll be all right?" he asked, eyes still closed. "She'll recover?"

"Sooner rather than later, yes," the doctor – Danny hadn't even bothered looking at his nametag yet – assured him. "She's suffered a massive trauma, but once her mind has had a chance to work its way through the worst of it, and we've eased off on the sedation so that she can take in the world again, she should be lucid. But she'll need care and attention. Make no mistake; she will be fragile for a while."

"I understand." Danny was no stranger to trauma and the effect that it had on people. "When will she know who I am?"

"Tomorrow," the doctor told him. "We'll start easing the sedation back then. She should be awake and lucid by tomorrow afternoon. If she isn't … well, we'll deal with that when we come to it. But I have every expectation that she will be." His tone was confident, not forced. Danny believed him.

"Can I – can I be here?" He hated the pleading tone in his voice, the supplication. But this was Taylor. There was absolutely no benefit to be had in alienating the doctor.

"I would much prefer that you were, Mr Hebert," the doctor agreed. "A familiar face would be a very good thing when she comes out of it."

"Will she be able to tell us who did this?" Danny's fists were clenched again.

"Now that, I can't predict," the doctor told him. "Some people block memories out at times like this. For others, it's burned into the brain." A slight shrug. "Gentle questioning may get the answer, it may not. Just remember -"

"I got it. She'll be fragile." Danny's voice was curt, sharp. "I'll be as gentle as I need to be."

Despite his tone, the doctor essayed a smile. "Good. You can also expect emotional outbursts and irrational demands. She may well choose to sleep with the lights on and the bedroom door open. This is a natural reaction; don't be overly concerned. Therapy -"

"- is expensive," Danny pointed out. "The school is denying culpability. They're covering her bills and that's about it." His tone made it clear what he thought about that.

This time, it was the doctor's lips that thinned. "That's absurd. This happened on their watch -"

"Preaching to the choir," Danny reminded him. "I've been through all this." He had gone right up to the line, stopping just short of threatening bodily harm to that skinny, narrow-minded bleached-blonde bitch behind the principal's desk in Winslow. She had been adamant that all due care had been taken, that the school could not oversee every single child every minute of the day.

However, there had perhaps been something about his posture, something about the look in his eye, that had caused her to relent. Or maybe it was a gesture to reduce the chances of him suing the school; the check she had written would cover Taylor's hospital stay with a little extra on top. This in no way admits any kind of culpability, she had warned him. It's just the school trying to help you out in your time of need.

He had wanted to tear the check up, to express his anger more physically, but the fact was that his finances were at a current low. Between unexpected expenses and the depressed state of the economy in Brockton Bay, he simply wouldn't be able to cover her hospital bills. Not easily and not quickly, anyway. At least, not without uncovering certain assets that would cause more problems than they solved.

And besides, his father had taught him long ago to never hit a woman.

<><>​

I met her on the docks; I was working as Dad's enforcer, while she was Lustrum's favourite trigger-girl. Fortunately for the both of us, our interests coincided; the ABB was trying to ship out a bunch of teenage runaways to the brothels of Bangkok. Dad didn't know what the cargo was, but he knew it was illegal and the Asians hadn't slipped him any kickbacks to let it through. I was the one he sent to express my displeasure and find out what the cargo was.

I met Annette for the first time atop a cargo container at about half past one on a particularly chilly February morning. We sparred for a little, before establishing our respective credentials, then we decided to join forces. When I found out what the ABB was trying to slip past Dad, I didn't even think twice, just offered my help, no strings attached.

We found the container and the guards assigned to it at more or less the same time. I went in, while Annette covered me from a distance. She saved my life twice during that fight; I saved hers once. I'm not sure exactly when it was I started to fall for her, but it might have been about the time she shot the guy in the eye, seconds before he would have gutted me with a baling hook.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

Taking leave of the doctor – his name was Franklin, Danny finally bothered to note – he strode down the steps outside the hospital to where his car waited at the curb. Climbing in, he fastened his seat belt but then sat with the keys in the ignition for the longest time.

He stared at the car ahead, but did not see it; behind his eyes, he was engaged in a struggle between what he knew he should do and what he wanted to do.

I made a promise.

Yes, but they did this to Taylor.

It doesn't matter. A promise is a promise.

It does matter. They hurt Taylor.

It shouldn't matter. I promised her.

Yeah, but she didn't know this was going to happen.

A promise is still a promise.

A tap on the window startled him from his reverie; he jerked in surprise, looking around, to see a police officer peering at him through the window. The officer made a 'wind the window down' motion; Danny nodded, drawing in a deep breath to regain his calm. He realised belatedly that he was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white under the strain; slowly, one hand at a time, he let it go.

The window creaked and clattered as he worked the handle to wind it down. "Can I help you, officer?" he asked as politely as he could manage.

"You looked a little stressed there, sir," the policeman said. "Are you all right?"

Jerkily, Danny nodded, although he felt as far from all right as any father would, under the circumstances. "I … sort of," he admitted. "My daughter's in the hospital. She'll be fine, but I'm still getting used to the idea that she's been injured."

"Ah, yeah," the officer agreed, relaxing slightly when he heard the explanation. "I know the feeling. I have three myself; ten, twelve and sixteen. You just want to wrap them in cotton wool, you know?"

"Yes. You do." Danny felt himself warming to the man. He understands.

"But we can't have you hanging about outside the hospital," the police officer noted in a let's be reasonable with the stressed-out dad tone. "Is her mother still in the picture?"

"She died a couple of years ago," Danny replied shortly. "Car accident."

"Oh. Well, I'm very sorry to hear that, sir." The officer nodded sympathetically. "It can't be easy, raising a child on your own. My advice to you is to go home, relax, maybe have a few drinks. Go out in the back yard, swear a bit, throw something at the fence." His voice hardened slightly. "I would suggest not going to a bar. Chances are you'll start a fight with someone and you really don't want your little girl seeing you all banged up, right?"

Danny blinked. That's actually good advice. "You've done this before, yeah?"

"A time or two, yeah," agreed the police officer. "Both ways. The first one works better." He gave Danny a friendly nod. "You get on home now, sir. You'll feel much better once you've gotten it out of your system and had a good night's sleep."

"I'll do that, officer. Thank you." Danny started the car and moved off, not bothering to wind the window up. It was January, after all, and he rather liked the feel of the brisk air on his face. As he drove, he pondered the police officer's words, as well as those of Dr Franklin.

The conversation had given him time to cool down, to think rationally. He was still angry over what had happened to Taylor, very much so. However, there was still the chance that the forces of law and order – he permitted himself a mild snort – would carry out their duly appointed function and bring those responsible to justice.

No, what mattered right now was Taylor's happiness. She would wake up and he would be there. But he wanted to do more for her than just be present. She's going to need care and attention. I need to do something nice for her, something that proves to her without any shred of a doubt that I'm on her side.

The lights ahead turned red; without even thinking about it, he brought the car to a halt. Still thinking hard about the problem he had set himself, he was only vaguely aware of the figure approaching from the left … right up until the pistol was stuck in his face.

"Keys and wallet, four-eyes!" the shaven-headed punk demanded. "Outta the car! These are my wheels now!"

Danny was mildly shocked; not that the carjacking was going on, but that he hadn't seen it coming. Annette would have given me merry hell over this. He turned his mild gaze on the punk. "Shouldn't you be beating up a minority somewhere?" he asked. "Seriously, I've got enough problems to deal with right now."

The punk stared and jabbed the pistol at him; it ground into his cheekbone, just below his glasses. "I'm giving you the count of five to get outta the car, motherfucker!" he snapped.

With a sigh, Danny took hold of the kid's wrist and dug his thumb into the pressure point on the back. The Empire Eighty-Eight punk yelped with pain and involuntarily opened his hand, dropping the weapon into Danny's lap. "I said, I've got problems to deal with," Danny reiterated patiently. He tilted his head as he twisted the guy's wrist to keep him off balance. "My little girl's in the hospital. Do you think she'd like a pet? Maybe a kitten or a puppy?"

"Ahh! Fuck! Fuck!" screamed the punk. "Let go! Let go! Fuuuck!" With his free hand, he pounded on the side of the car, unable to formulate a more reasoned response.

With his free hand, Danny picked up the pistol and used the steering wheel to push the slide back. A moment's glance into the breech was all he needed. "Seriously?" Letting the slide snap forward, he tossed the pistol on to the passenger seat. "Kid. A gun is not a magic wand. It's a machine. It needs cleaning and it needs lubrication. Take care of your gun, it'll take care of you."

He would have said more, but the lights chose that moment to turn green; deciding to swap one lesson for another, he put the car into gear and let the clutch out. The car had gone through the intersection and ten yards beyond before Danny figured it was time to release the punk's wrist. Glancing in the mirror, he could see the shaven-headed thug as a vague form rolling and bouncing on the asphalt behind the car.

Puppy, he decided. I'll get her a puppy.

<><>​

He did not see, as he turned the corner, another shaven-headed young man in Empire Eighty-Eight colours, step from a doorway. The man was already holding a phone; he used it to dial a number.

<><>​

We worked well together. I was the better close-in combatant, while she had the edge over me with pistols and rifles. During our time together, I tutored her in every dirty trick my father ever taught me, while she instructed me in how to shoot.

Dad wasn't thrilled that I was quitting the docks, but then, Lustrum wasn't too happy about Annette leaving her crew either. But we didn't care. She was the only one for me, and I was lucky enough to be the only one for her.

After Taylor was born, we made a mutual pact that if either of us was killed, the other would quit the killing business and settle down to raise Taylor properly. I never expected that she'd die in something so stupidly mundane as a car accident.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

The bell on the door of the Four Paws pet shop tinkled; Mabel looked up from behind the counter. A motherly type who had never quite managed to have children, she lavished care on her furry charges, and did her best to make sure that pet was matched with owner.

As always, the noise of the bell roused the various caged pets to respond. Some of the puppies yapped, while others sniffed at the air. The cats pretended indifference, though nearly all reacted in one way or another.

The man who had entered was tall and skinny, probably only a few years short of her own cough-fifty-cough age; he was balding, wore glasses and had a weak chin. Mabel didn't speak to him, watching intently as he approached the wall of cages.

Some customers knew more or less immediately what they wanted; others spent very little time before they made their decision. Her current customer fitted neither category; he seemed honestly unable to make up his mind. Either he doesn't know what he wants, or … he's buying for someone else, and he doesn't know what they want.

Lifting the hinged leaf, she stepped out from behind the counter and moved toward him. He looked around warily as she approached; she smiled to show her good intentions. "May I help you?"

Turning to face her, he shrugged slightly. "Maybe? I'm trying to pick out an affectionate pet for a fifteen year old girl. An emotionally fragile one."

She smiled slightly. "You're going to have to narrow it down a bit."

He frowned, apparently puzzled. "Pardon me?"

Mabel chuckled briefly. "Honey, teenagers have two qualities. They're really good at overdoing emotion, and they all think that they personally invented angst."

The man sighed. "She's a bullying victim. She's been subjected to a particularly mean prank and I want her to feel loved when she gets out of the hospital."

"Oh. Uh, sorry." Mabel immediately felt contrite. "I shouldn't have joked about it. Uh … is she allergic to anything?"

"Not that I know of," he replied.

"Well, then," she said briskly. "Let's have a look at this little fellow." She expertly opened one cage, then captured the resident puppy within, lifting it out, she settled it into the crook of her arm. "This one's a boy. He's been fixed, had all his shots and he's a friendly type." To underscore her point, the puppy licked her hand.

Her customer eyed the dog closely. After a moment, he shrugged. "What breed is it?"

"Not sure. No pedigree papers with this pup, that's for sure." She rearranged the creature so that she could examine him more carefully. It was some sort of short-haired breed, with almost comically floppy ears and a dappled red and white look. "Bit of beagle, maybe some basset. Wouldn't be surprised if there was some lab in this thing's family tree. All affectionate dogs." She held the puppy out. "Want to hold him?"

"I … uh, maybe?" he hedged.

She rolled her eyes. "Aw, c'mon. You're buying a pet for your little girl, but you're gonna be there, too. Want to make sure you get along with him too, you know."

"Ah. Right." He accepted the squirmy warm bundle into his arms. Mabel knew immediately that he hadn't spent much time holding dogs or cats. Holding them was totally unlike holding a baby; where babies were uncoordinated, puppies knew exactly what they were doing with their limbs. This one wriggled around in his arms until it could look up at him with a disconcertingly bright, intelligent gaze.

Mabel was watching them both, a slight smile on her face. "I think he likes you."

"How can you know that?" Unbidden, his hand crept up to smooth back those adorably floppy ears, the short hair soft under his hand. The puppy stood up on his arm, and for a heart-stopping moment, she thought it was making a bid for freedom. But instead, it licked his face.

Her smile widened. "Just a wild guess."

<><>​

The puppy only whimpered a little as Danny bore him from the shop in a plastic carrier. Danny could hear the tiny nose sniffing at the gaps in the carrier, picking up who knew what messages in the brisk January breeze.

The oversized carry-bag in Danny's other hand held a basket, a leash and collar, various puppy toys, a bag of puppy chow and a bottle of puppy shampoo; Mabel had been a very adept salesperson. Danny had known con artists, back in the day, who would have gotten less money out of him.

It's all for a good cause. He dumped the paraphernalia in the trunk and placed the puppy in its carrier on the passenger side seat; after a little work, he managed to get the seatbelt around it to make it more secure. As he did so, the puppy sniffed and licked at his fingers through the gaps in the plastic. "It's okay, boy," he murmured, feeling foolish for talking to an animal as if it were a person. "We'll be home soon." Unexpectedly, he was rewarded by the sound of the puppy's tail thumping inside the carrier.

Maybe this will work out well after all. Strapping himself in, he started the car. I hope Taylor likes him.

<><>​

Once we went freelance, we worked at building up our reputation without putting our real names and faces out there. Potential clients would contact us by email, then we would get back to them and let them know what to expect. They only tried to stiff us a few times, then word got around that this was not a great idea.

Marquis was one of our more regular clients; he appreciated our professionalism. He never tried to pull anything dodgy on us, always paid us on time, occasionally with a small bonus for a job well done. In return, we gave him preferential treatment when it came to picking clients. This was the case right up until he was taken down by the Brigade.

After that, our client base began to dry up. More and more capes were coming into the city, and Annette and I had a rule; we didn't go after capes. They were far too unpredictable, not to mention dangerous. We both had our cover jobs, and we started spending more time doing them than our other line of work. Between that and the fact that Taylor was getting smarter by the day, or so it seemed, we were working on making the reality fit the narrative.

That's not to say we didn't do some work, of course. Just not all that much.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

"Taylor? Can you hear me?"

Taylor didn't want to wake up. There were reasons that she wanted to stay asleep. If she remained asleep, then the weird noises and odd flashes of light in the back of her mind stayed there and she didn't have to think about them. But the voice was insistent and the soft warm blanket of forgetfulness was drawing away from her.

Slowly, reluctantly, she opened her eyes. Everything was fuzzy, but she thought she recognised at least one person. "Dad?"

Her voice was husky, barely even qualifying as a whisper, but he must have heard her, or at least read her lips. "I'm here," he assured her, leaning over her. She heard something tearing, then something was unwrapped from each of her wrists. He took her hand in his and squeezed it tightly.

She squeezed back as hard as she could, as she felt tears springing to her eyes. "Oh, Dad," she whimpered, then coughed at the dryness in her throat.

"Help her sit up," murmured a male voice; immediately her father's arm was behind her shoulders and lifting her while pillows were slid in behind her. He squeezed her in a hug, holding her close. Weakly, she hugged him back; some of the terror began to recede.

"Are you thirsty, Taylor?" asked the male voice, once he'd let her settle back against the pillows. "Nod if you're thirsty."

Taylor nodded immediately; a squeeze bottle was held up to her mouth and she was given a couple of mouthfuls of water, just enough to take the edge off her thirst. It was barely cooler than luke-warm but it was still the best thing she had ever tasted.

Next, a light was shone into each eye, then her glasses were handed to her. For the first time since awakening, she could see the world clearly. Her father, looking more than a little haggard, was watching her carefully. A nurse and a doctor were also in the room, but she barely paid any attention to them.

"Taylor." His voice was soft, gentle. At some point he had recaptured her hand. "Do you remember anything of what happened?"

Involuntarily, she thought back to the locker; the horror, the terror, the utter stench. The machine beside her gave a warning beep as she felt her heart begin to race, the sweat springing out on her forehead. Her control began to slip and the crackling noise in her ears began once more, as did the odd formless blobs of light across her inner eye. I'm going mad. Or I already am.

"No," she mumbled, shaking her head. "No, I don't -"

"Mr Hebert ..." warned the doctor, but her father was already acting.

"It's okay, Taylor," he soothed her, leaning in to hug her again. "You don't have to talk about it. You don't have to think about it."

"Oh god," she whimpered. "Oh god, it was horrible ..."

"Sh, sh, shhh," he murmured, holding her close to him. "You're here now. You're safe. And there's someone here who wants very much to meet you."

"Huh?" She was just a little confused.

Letting her go, he ducked below the level of the bed, giving her a precious few seconds to get the visual and auditory hallucinations under control. Not all the strange sounds went away, however; there was still an odd scratching and whining noise that she had been trying to ignore ever since she woke up, with only middling success.

It stopped, and she congratulated herself on her self-control. Then her father stood up again and she finally realised that what she had been assuming to be a particularly stubborn hallucination was instead the doing of a perfectly ordinary ... puppy.

Confused, she blinked. "Dad?"

"Yes, Taylor?"

"Why do you have a dog?"

"Because I think you need it," he said. "He's yours, after all."

"What." His words made no sense at all.

"He's yours." Carefully, he placed the puppy on to her lap; it sniffed at her fingers, then licked them. She stroked his ears, marvelling at how soft they were, as the puppy began to clamber determinedly up her stomach toward her face.

"We've never had a dog before." The statement sounded inane even to her own ears.

He looked contrite. "I know you asked for one occasionally," he agreed. "But the time never seemed right. Now it does."

Wrapping her arms around the bundle of fur, she held it gently. "What's his name?"

He smiled to see her holding the puppy. "That's up to you."

She looked down at her new dog, who was rapidly making himself at home. "I think … Chewie."

"What, like the Star Wars character?" His tone was amused. "He doesn't look much like him."

"No." She smiled. "Because he's chewing my pyjama sleeve."

He grinned in reply. "Well then, Chewie it is."

Taylor leaned in toward Chewie and kissed him on top of the head. "Hi there, Chewie," she breathed.

Chewie, for his part, laid off worrying Taylor's sleeve and licked her face.

"So, do you like him?" Her father actually sounded concerned.

Her eyes misting over, she hugged the puppy – her puppy – as tightly as she dared.

"I love him."

<><>​

Danny left Taylor playing with the puppy and moved into the corridor with Dr Franklin.

"How is she?" he asked bluntly. "Can I take her home?"

Franklin's grimace told him more than he wanted to know. "I don't like that idea right at this moment, Mr Hebert," he confessed. "She's more agitated than she lets on; her heart rate was elevated even before she woke up, and it's only eased off after you gave her the dog. Personally, I'm worried about her blood pressure. We really need to do more tests. And then there's the infections."

"Infections?" Danny didn't like the way this was going. "What infections?"

"Nothing serious," Franklin assured him. "Just a few scratches and scrapes that got material from the locker in them. Minor right now, but I'd feel a lot happier with a course of hospital-grade antibiotics inside her."

"So you're saying what?" asked Danny. "She needs to stay in the hospital?"

"Just for the next few days, until her condition improves," Franklin said. "If she goes home now, she has a chance of getting really, really sick. And I'm still concerned about her mental state. With your permission, I'd like to get in a child psychologist to talk to her."

"I still can't really afford therapy for her," Danny warned him. It wasn't really true, but if Taylor did actually turn out to need therapy, it would take him a little time to arrange payment in a legal fashion.

"This won't be charged as therapy," Franklin countered. "We need to see what her mental state is, find out if the agitated state will pass easily or not."

"Oh. Right." Danny nodded. "I can see that, yeah."

"In the meantime, the more you visit her, the better," the doctor advised him. "And bring the dog. She's obviously smitten by it. In fact, seeing the effect it's had on her already, that pup might end up having more to do with her recovery than any of our fancy medical techniques."

"Well, I was already intending to," Danny agreed.

Dr Franklin shrugged. "Puppy therapy. It's a thing."

<><>​

Taylor sat in the wheelchair with the IV tree attached, watching as her father walked Chewie in the park-like grounds surrounding the hospital. The puppy bumbled happily through the grass, stopping and sniffing at everything that could possibly be of interest. He peed on everything he sniffed at, causing her father to hitch his eyebrows in mild surprise.

"Is it just me," he asked almost plaintively, "or did we not give him that much to drink?"

She giggled, enjoying the sunlight, the cool breeze and the company. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Alerted by the sound of her voice, Chewie turned and started toward her. Attached to the animal by a leash, her father perforce followed. He watched as Chewie scrambled right up to her feet and sniffed at them, then licked them.

"Oh god," she blurted. "That feels so weird."

"You'll learn soon enough what it's like to be woken up by a puppy slobbering in your ear," he said, grimacing from the memory. "It's quite an experience."

"Wow, Dad," she exclaimed looking at him in some surprise. "Letting him sleep on your bed now?"

He looked away. "He whines."

"Softy," she accused him cheerfully.

"Once you get home, he's your responsibility," he told her in an attempt to change the subject. "Got it?"

She grinned as he lifted the puppy to nestle in her arms. "Got it." Apparently tired out by his exertions, Chewie rolled over, snuggled in and went to sleep.

"I don't get the wheelchair," she complained as he began to wheel her back into the hospital. "Why can't I just walk?"

"Because you've suffered a massive trauma, and some of that was physical," he said. "Doctor Franklin wants you resting as much as possible, and if you were on your feet, you'd be running around after that dog."

"Yeah, maybe." She didn't exactly deny it, absently scratching Chewie behind the ear. He snuffled and one leg kicked a few times.

"No maybe about it. I know you." He stopped pushing and knelt down beside her. "I just want you to get better."

"How soon?" she asked, a break in her voice. "I hate it here."

"A few days, no more," he promised. "Doctor Franklin just wants to make sure there aren't any really big problems about to surface. I'll visit every day with Chewie."

"Thanks." She freed one arm from under the sleeping puppy to wrap around his neck. "And thanks for getting him for me. He's gorgeous."

He smiled self-consciously, putting his arm around her back. "Hey, if I'd known getting a dog would make you this happy, I would have done it years ago."

"Yeah." She leaned against him, looking fondly down at the sleeping puppy. "I really, really love him."

He ruffled her hair. "I know. Doctor Franklin knows. People on the fifth floor know."

"Oh, ha ha."

Chewie moved in his sleep, and Taylor disengaged her arm from her father's neck to steady the puppy. Her father took that as his cue to keep pushing her toward the hospital doors.

She was silent as the automatic doors slid aside for them; as they rolled down the corridor toward the lifts, she stroked Chewie's ears. It was only when the elevator doors had closed behind them that she spoke again. "I don't want you to go."

"I'll stay as long as they'll let me," he promised. "Me and Chewie both." He pressed the button for her floor. "In the meantime, do you have any idea who …" He let the words trail off.

Instinctively, she knew what he meant. "No, and I don't even want to think about it." She curled in on herself like a wounded animal, wrapping protectively around Chewie. "Every time I even start to think about it, I want to throw up." He couldn't see her face, but from the sound of her voice, she was about to start crying.

"It's okay," he soothed her, ruffling her hair. "It's all good. I'm not going to ask you that any more. We can talk about whatever you want to talk about. Okay?"

She sniffled. "Okay. Let's start with how come you let my dog sleep on your bed."

"Oooh." He mimed clutching his chest, just as the elevator doors opened. "A mortal wound. I am slain." Cheerfully, he grinned at the two old ladies waiting for the lift, and pushed Taylor out into the corridor. "You fight dirty. I'm proud of you."

<><>​

"Yes, sir, what is your order?"

Danny cleared his throat. "One large Big Mac meal with extra fries. And two burger patties, no bun, no sauce, no salad."

"I, uh, beg your pardon? Two patties?"

"That's correct." He grinned. "There's a perfectly reasonable explanation. I just need to show you."

"Uh, okay." The attendant gave him the price. "Drive forward to the window, please."

Danny let out the clutch; the car rolled forward. As he pulled to a halt, he reached across to where Chewie was lying obediently in his basket on the seat – he had learned 'stay' relatively quickly – and lifted the puppy so that the attendants inside the shop could see him. "See?"

"Aww, he's so cute!" gushed the girl at the window. She waved at someone inside the shop, and an older lady appeared. She also melted at the sight of Chewie's happily panting face; when the meal came out to Danny, they had added several extra patties as well as some strips of bacon.

"Well, you're certainly popular," he observed as he pulled away from the shop. "They didn't even charge me for your food." Chewie made no reply, as he was busy attacking a strip of bacon.

They drove home in companionable silence, broken only by the tiny growls as Chewie wrestled with the bacon. Not being a very large dog, he was having trouble with it. However, being both hungry and stubborn, he wasn't about to give up. Danny grinned and ate fries.

<><>​

"That the guy?"

The shaven-headed punk, decorated with gravel rash and bandages, nodded. "That's the sonovabitch."

"Good. Follow him."

The car pulled out of the parking lot and followed the sedan down the street. Two other cars fell in behind.

<><>​

He pulled the car into the driveway and shut the engine down. Getting out was a little bit of a trial, as he had to carry Chewie and the basket as well as the fast food he had ordered. The basket and the food went on top of the vehicle while he locked the car, then he retrieved them and carried the lot around to the back door.

Chewie yapped at something in the darkness; Danny, concentrating on getting the key into the lock, shushed him. A car drove past on the side road, momentarily distracting him, and then he had the door open. Once he was inside and had the door closed, he put Chewie down again; the puppy pranced around his feet as he put the bag of food on the kitchen table.

"You can smell it, can't you?" Danny asked the dog, amused. "Well, give me a chance to get sorted -"

The back door crashed open; at the same time, there was a loud crack from the direction of the front door, followed by a less than impressive thud against the door itself. He spun sideways, reaching for a knife from the draining rack. His hand folded around the handle and he went in for the kill.

They had pistols, he registered somewhere at the back of his mind. Some part of him had understood that from the beginning and had made the choice to close the distance.

<><>​

When going against firearms, you've got to either increase the distance, including cover, to the point that they can't hit you. Or you've got to get right up in the shooter's face, to the point that you can push the gun barrel aside. The former approach has the benefit that if you're behind solid cover and he can't see you, then he can't hit you. The latter approach is good in that if you've got a knife or something similar, you can stab him. A lot. Knives don't run out of ammo, after all.

So few gunmen expect their opponents to come at them.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

They weren't even wearing body armour. He pushed the first gun aside and stabbed the man twice up under the ribcage, then spun to slash the blade across the man's throat. Blood spurted from the horrific wound, the coppery smell filling the air. The second man was trying to get a sight picture; in Danny's opinion, he should have started shooting the moment that Danny engaged the first one.

Oh well. His loss. Danny dived, rolled, came up inside the man's guard. The gory blade opened his second opponent from crotch to throat; the stench of more noisome substances joined that of blood. As the man fell away, hands clutching at his escaping intestines, Danny grabbed the chair and spun with it, intending to throw it at the third man.

A pained yelp told him too late that Chewie had been cowering under that chair; one of the legs must have caught him. Out of the corner of his eye, Danny saw the puppy skidding sideways, out of control, across the worn linoleum. Toward the open cellar door. The tumble down those steps to the hard concrete below would injure the dog badly, perhaps fatally.

He didn't hesitate; the chair left his hands, tumbled over and over in midair. It passed Chewie, landed across the cellar door, jamming in the opening. A split second later, the pup struck the hard wood and rebounded with an indignant yip.

Good. He's all right. Danny went to turn his full attention back to his third opponent; just an instant too late, he registered the presence of a fourth man in the room, behind him. An arm rose and fell; the weight of the world smashed into the back of his head. The last thing he heard before the lights went out was the sound of Chewie yapping frantically.

<><>​

Consciousness returned as a series of apparently unconnected impressions.

Wrists, compressed, tied. Plastic ties. With time I can work my way out of these.

Headache. Maybe a mild concussion, nothing serious. Not nauseous.

Sitting upright.

Hands in front of me, not behind.

Smells of my house. My living room. Blood; the men I killed. Hasn't been long.

Blind. No, cloth tied around head. Blindfolded.

"I think he's awake."

The cloth was pulled away and Danny looked at a semi-circle of hostile faces. He'd been here before, more than once. The fact that he was unarmed and restrained was a mere detail. Besides, not all weapons can be seen.

"Can I help you?" he asked mildly.

The question seemed to take them aback. In fact, his entire attitude of less than fearful cringing seemed to have them puzzled.

"Fuck yes, you can help us," snarled a familiar-looking punk. He had bandages on both arms and his head; two of his fingers were splinted. Road rash showed from under some of the bandages. "You can die screaming, that's what you can do."

"Wait, I know you," Danny replied. "Aren't you the guy who tried to carjack me?"

"Yeah, an' I'm gonna be doing more than that now," the punk spat. "You fucking dragged me behind your car, you cocksucker."

Danny had tuned him out; his mind had tossed up a query. Where's Chewie? Looking around as if casually, he saw the pup in the hands of one of the men. He seemed to be healthy enough, for which Danny was grateful.

"Are you listening to me, you old fart?" The skinhead was shouting now, flecks of foam on his lips. "I'm gonna fuck you up so bad your grandkids will feel it."

Danny looked him in the eye. "Not on your best day." I have to play this just right.

"I'll fucking show you -" The punk moved forward; Danny tensed, but relaxed again as the punk was restrained by a hand on his arm.

An older man, in his mid twenties, wearing the colours of the racist gang, moved forward to stand in front of Danny. He was the one holding Chewie; as Danny watched, he scratched the pup behind one ear. "You messed up Billy and Steve pretty good," he observed. "And J-dog here came off second best, even when he started out with a gun in your face. I'm guessing special forces training, or something of the sort."

"Something of the sort, yeah." Danny wasn't about to give anything away, but a polite request deserved a polite answer.

This got him a brief smile. "Thought so. Well, J-dog wants a piece of you, and it was kinda impolite for you to drag him behind your car like that. How else is he supposed to learn how to carjack people?"

One corner of Danny's mouth curled up. "Tell J-dog that we can go right here, right now. You don't even need to untie me."

The Empire man snorted. "Yeah, that's gonna happen. Billy's dead and Steve isn't looking too good either. We don't need to lose anyone else tonight."

"So what, you just gonna kill me?" Danny watched the man's eyes. If they showed a change in focus, he was prepared to move.

"Thinking about it," mused the man. "I think you're too dangerous just to let live."

"Yeah well, it's not like J-dog could handle me," Danny sneered. "No matter how many buddies he had along." Come to my feet, headbutt him, catch Chewie, out the window …

The man stopped just short of the optimum point for Danny to carry out his plan. "Hm. J-dog, what do you think? He's tied up, and I'll leave you four men. Think you can make an example of him for me?"

"Fuck yes," blustered J-dog. "I won't even need them. I -" Belatedly, he caught the glare sent to him by the man. "Uh, yeah, sure. Four men sounds good."

"Excellent." The man smiled slowly, then turned back to Danny. "Oh, and by the way, you won't need to worry about your little dog here."

"Oh?" Show no concern, show no concern.

"The way you threw the chair shows that you're attached to the little furball," the man mused. "So I wondered how you would like it if I snapped his neck in front of you." His fingers dug into Chewie's fur; the pup whimpered as the pressure increased.

" - don't!" The word was jerked out of Danny's mouth. "Please, don't."

"Ahh." The smile widened. "We see your true colours, your true weakness. So let me tell you what's going to happen to little uh," he checked the collar tag, "Chewie here. I'm going to take him home. I'm going to feed him well. And then, tonight or tomorrow night or maybe, possibly, the night after, I'm going to take him to the dog fights."

Danny blinked. "But he's not -"

"Big enough to fight?" The smile turned vicious. "No, he's not. But he's big enough to blood the newcomers."

Danny felt sick. Blooding newcomers to the fight circuit was usually done with stray cats or rabbits. Anything small, that couldn't fight back. The dogs would tear Chewie apart, getting the taste for blood, making them more savage. No way can I let that happen.

"So yeah, while they're working on you, I want you to think about that." The man locked eyes with Danny. "Because J-dog's a fucking moron, yes, but he's our fucking moron. And you fucked with him. Which means you fucked with us. And nobody fucks with the Empire and gets away with it."

"But he's just a puppy," Danny argued. "Why hurt him? He never hurt you."

"Because hurting him hurts you." The man turned away. "I wonder if he'll even see it coming?"

Danny came off the sofa, hands reaching, but the men on either side of him had been ready for just such a move. Two grabbed his arms while the third swung a powerful fist into his solar plexus. He grunted and doubled over as the blow knocked all the wind out of him. His arms were released; he fell to the floor, taking the impact on his elbows before rolling over. A boot crashed into his ribs; he rolled away, fighting for breath. J-dog came in, vicious glee on his face. He drew his foot back, then lashed out; Danny caught the ankle and twisted. J-dog yelped in utter consternation as he lost his balance and crashed to the floor.

Danny tried to launch himself on top of the fallen Empire punk – maybe he had a blade on him somewhere – but once more, strong hands seized his arms and held him back. They lifted him to his feet, while J-dog climbed unsteadily to his.

While he caught his breath, Danny looked around. The man who had taunted him had left with Chewie; five men remained behind, including the redoubtable J-dog. I have to kill these idiots fast.

Reaching into his back pocket, J-dog pulled out a switchblade. I would have checked there, Danny told himself. "Okay then," he purred, attempting a menacing tone. "Let's see how you like it, wise guy."

"Not up here," one of the men holding Danny stated. "We've made enough noise as it is. He's got a basement. That'll be a lot quieter. Plus, he's got a workbench."

"So what?" snarled J-dog, weaving the blade around.

"So it's got a vice on it. You ever wanted to put someone's balls in a vice for real?"

"Ooooh." J-dog's eyes widened. "Okay, basement it is."

"All right, smart guy," the man behind Danny told him. "Basement. Now." Danny felt something hard and metallic prodding him in the small of the back; it felt like a pistol barrel.

I'd like one of those, too, Danny thought wistfully. He had cleaned the pistol he had taken from J-dog, and it was now residing in his nightstand, doing him exactly no good at all.

Together, they moved toward the cellar door; someone had moved the chair from where he had thrown it. "Serious soundproofing here too," the man who had mentioned the vice went on. "What's that all about?"

Danny didn't answer, at least not immediately. J-dog was at the bottom of the steps, with another man just a few steps up. There was one man immediately in front of Danny, another behind, and the last man was just closing the cellar door. The aged incandescent bulb almost directly over Danny's head provided the only illumination in the cellar.

"Gotta ask you guys a question," he said casually, stopping on the steps.

"What's that?" J-dog snarled.

He paused a beat. "Are you afraid of the Dark?"

"The fuck that supposed to mean?" J-dog retorted, but two of the other gang members were looking around.

"Whaddaya mean by that?" asked one.

"You mean dark, or, you know, Dark?" asked the other.

For an answer, Danny reached up; the cord for the light switch was right where he had paused. Giving it a tremendous yank, he plunged the cellar into darkness; a snap, along with the cord falling limply across his face, told him that he had broken the cord itself. He shoved the man in front of him, then grabbed the stair rail and vaulted over it to the floor below.

<><>​

The name was Annette's idea. I wanted to use an acronym, so that people didn't know if we were two people or ten, but I was stuck between DAH, being Danny & Annette Hebert, and DAR; Danny & Anne-Rose. She watched me pace back and forth for a good ten minutes – I wanted an acronym, sure, but I didn't love either one of those – before picking up a pen and writing on her own pad. Spinning the pad around, she shoved it across to me.

DANNY & ANNE-ROSE, KILLERS FOR HIRE, I read.

"Yeah, so?" I asked.

Smiling, she underlined the first letters of the first four words, then wrote it out underneath.

DARK FOR HIRE.

I'm not sure which one of us first began using the phrase about being afraid of the Dark, but it certainly stuck. Before long, everyone had heard of it. We were officially 'the Dark'.

I had to admit, it was kind of cool.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

Not having any visual cues, he had to guess at how far he was falling. He didn't quite get it right and fell sideways, feeling as though his ankles were broken. But the tumbling, yelling man on the stairs covered up any noise he might have made.

Muzzle-flares lit the cellar as shots racketed to and fro in the confined space. The first casualty was the man Danny had pushed down the steps; he had made enough noise with the bumping and yelling that attention gravitated his way, as did a few bullets. Pained shouts died away in a gurgling moan.

Thumps on the steps indicated that the men who had been behind Danny were coming down to join the others. Light or dark, he knew the cellar like the back of his hand, but that wasn't going to be much use if and when they produced light and then shot him down like a dog. So he moved fast.

Under the steps, there was a large cardboard box full of gardening paraphernalia; amid said paraphernalia was a pair of shears with rather sharp points. His questing hands found the box and the shears very rapidly indeed; closing his hands around the handles, he stood up beneath the stairs, just as the thumping noises went from over his head to in front of his face. Dust drifted down upon him; he didn't care.

Opening the shears slightly, he jabbed viciously through the gap between one riser and the next. One point struck something and sank deep, eliciting a scream from above; the shears were nearly dragged from his hands as the man plunged forward, tumbling down the steps in his turn. Nobody fired this time; he was obscurely disappointed.

"He's under the stairs!" someone yelled.

And that's my cue to move. Or wait …

Reaching into the box, he palmed a trowel then tossed it underhand toward the far wall. It made a nice clattering sound; several more shots were fired in that direction. In the glare of the muzzle-flares, Danny got a quick impression of where everybody was. Right then …

Lunging from under the steps, he lashed out with the shears; the improvised weapon struck someone, dragging an agonised yell from them. Danny stabbed again and again; the third stab, aiming at head height, hit bone before pulling free. He heard the boneless thud as the man went down … and more importantly, the clatter of metal on concrete.

The others were moving in, but this was his chance. He threw the shears aside and dived for where the gun had fallen. His fingers fell short; he scrabbled for it. I know it's here somewhere.

Light flared; one of the men held up a Zippo. Danny saw the pistol, inches from his hand. He grabbed it, rolled on to his back, looking up at the startled men. They tried to bring their guns around but he was faster.

He shot the man with the lighter last.

<><>​

Danny trudged up out of the cellar, dragging J-dog by one arm. He'd shot the punk in the shoulder, then knocked him cold so that he could make sure of the others. That he'd done; nobody was left alive in the cellar once he and J-dog were gone.

Upstairs, he slapped the punk awake. J-dog stared at him blankly. "How the fuck -" he blurted.

Danny smashed the pistol across his face; blood started from the punk's lips. "I want answers. Now."

"Wha – wha – what?"

"Dog fights. Where?"

"Wha – wha - wha – dog fights?"

"Yes." Danny gritted his teeth. "Dog. Fights. Where. Are. They. Held."

J-dog eyed the pistol in Danny's hand. "I tell you, you don't shoot me."

"I won't shoot you."

"Or stab me?"

Danny rolled his eyes. "I won't shoot you or stab you. Now give."

The punk rattled off an address. "There. See? Can I go?"

"Nope." Danny locked his arms around the guy's neck, twisted.

"Urk -" J-dog had hardly any air left by the time he realised what was happening. "You said -"

"Said I wouldn't shoot you or stab you." Danny gave one last wrenching twist; the punk's neck snapped like dry kindling. "Never said anything about not killing you."

He let the punk's limp body fall to the floor and straightened up, feeling his own vertebrae click back into place. Getting old for this.

But he had one more thing to do. Going to the phone, he picked it up and dialled a number from memory. The voice that answered the call was male, and sounded as world-weary as Danny felt.

"Kwiksmart Pizza Delivery, Jimmy speaking."

Danny cleared his throat. "I'd like to place an order for Dark."

There was a long pause. "Sir, could you please repeat that name?"

"I said, I'd like to place an order for Dark."

"What? Holy shit." All the boredom fell away from the voice. "Is that really you?"

"September 'ninety-nine. Worth Street. Three guys."

"Shit, it is you. Everyone's been saying you've dropped out of sight. Maybe died, or left town. Nobody's heard from you in the last two, three years."

Danny grimaced, reminded of the reason. Two years, four months. "I'm still around. I've just been … retired."

"So what, are you back in the game? Or is this just a courtesy call?"

"No. I've got some business for you."

"So you're back then?"

" … temporarily. Maybe."

"Right. Okay, what's the job?"

"Pizza for five, extra topping. Going to need some garlic bread, too."

"Just like old times. Address, please?"

Danny gave the address. "Surprise party for a friend. You've got maybe an hour."

"Heh, same old same old. Yep, just like old times all right. Sure, we can do it. Kwiksmart is on the job."

"Good. Come in the back way. Key's under a fake rock. Payment's in the letterbox."

"Fake rock, got it. We're on our way."

"Good." He hung up.

Normally, at this point, he would have made more elaborate preparations, but time was short and getting shorter for a particular puppy. It was also getting quite short for the man who had taken Chewie, but he wasn't to know that. He would learn soon enough, however.

Under a loose floorboard in his bedroom, he located a locked box. He hadn't opened it in more than a year, but the combination was fresh in his mind. Our wedding anniversary.

Within the box were several small flat gold bars. He took one out, locking the box and replacing it once more. Gold was hard to change into legitimate currency in a hurry, but when dealing with not so legitimate businesses, it worked well enough.

An old backpack served to collect the guns that the men had brought with them. Letting himself out of the house, he slipped the gold bar into the mailbox. Then he got in the car and started it up.

It was time to go and see a man about a dog.


End of Part One

Part Two

 

[Ack]

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Part Two: Seeing a Man About a Dog

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Danny

<><>​

Professional killers have certain traits in common with spies.

Both inhabit the shadows, their presence only revealed by the fallout of what they've done. The good ones go unnoticed until the job is done and dusted; the very good ones aren't even identified after the fact. Both require anonymity as a first principle for the job; to be known is to draw extremely unwelcome attention not only from the target, but also from those who might think they're the next target.

And, of course, they rarely retire. Oh, they may cease to take paying work, but it's a fact that the best killers and spies only get that good due to a certain natural affinity for the work. So the really good ones never stop looking, gauging, analysing. They're always preparing, however subconsciously, for the next mission. If they're lucky, they get to pull that one last job.

If they're really lucky, they might even survive it.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

The worn backpack sat on the passenger seat beside Danny along with a grungy jacket salvaged from one of the gang punks, the former gently clanking each time he took a corner. He drove with absolute concentration, making an effort to not clench his hands on the wheel; over-exerting his finger muscles at this point would lead to uncontrollable cramping and twitching when he least needed it, later on. In his mind, he was preparing for the fight to come.

This time, he wouldn't be up against a bunch of overconfident and under-prepared no-hopers. While the men at the dog-fight would be woefully inadequate to face him on a one-on-one basis, they would be more numerous and more amped up on adrenaline than the ones at the house. He wasn't quite sure who'd come up with the maxim 'Quantity has a quality all of its own', but it was extremely apt in this situation. The turnout at one of those dog-fights was likely to be upward of fifty or sixty men, which was more than he'd ever taken on at one time before, even with Annette at his side.

Despite knowing that, and knowing he was out of practice, not once did he consider abandoning the rescue mission. Chewie was far too important to Taylor for Danny to let him be slaughtered by a bunch of racist assholes for their own amusement. Which didn't mean that he intended to charge in blindly. Tactics and planning, properly utilised, were potent force multipliers. So was the element of surprise. He intended to make full use of all three.

<><>​

When you're setting up for a kill, you've got all the time in the world. You're going to need it; you have to study your target, figure out his routine, his weaknesses and his strengths. You need to wait until you're comfortable with the hit, until you've figured out how you're going to get close, how you're going to do the deed, and how you're going to exfil afterward. Then you work out another plan, and a third one, then a fourth. You figure out what you're going to do when the plan goes wrong, as it inevitably will. All this takes time.

The inverse applies when you're going for a rescue mission. I haven't done very many of those, but they came up once in a long while. The life expectancy of the victim of a gangland kidnapping is usually a few hours to a few days, so we had to act fast to get them back before anything happened to them. And of course, we usually had to kill quite a few people to get the job done. Including—and I always made a point of this—the person who ordered the kidnapping in the first place.

It was my way of ensuring they didn't ever do it again.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

The warehouse where the fight was due to happen wasn't hard to find. He parked the car next to a straggling row of dented pickups, one with an entire series of spotlights on the roll-bar across the top of the cab. Rednecks in New England. Now I've seen it all. Climbing out of the car, he pulled the jacket on and rummaged in the backpack for the pistols he'd salvaged from the five gang punks. Not one of them was fully loaded, so he took out the magazines and stuck them in his left pants pocket. Three of the pistols had rounds chambered, and it only took a moment to remove them and replace them in the magazines. Fortunately, all the pistols were chambered for nine-millimetre rounds, which wasn't a total surprise; it was one of the most popular calibres in the world, after all. The now-empty weapons went back into the pack, now slung one over one shoulder. He started moving briskly toward the warehouse.

As he walked, he tested the tension in the springs then started to swap ammunition between the magazines, thumbing the cool copper-and-lead projectiles out of the emptiest ones and pushing them into one of the more fully loaded ones. The familiar repetitive action was almost soothing, helping to get his head back in the game.

People were still filing in through the main doors, which gave him hope that Chewie was still alive. But it was getting close to the hour, so he didn't have much time to play around with. Swapping the bullets over had filled one magazine and nearly filled a second one, so he stuffed the now-empty magazines into the pack along with the pistols that went with them. Loading two of the pistols, he chambered rounds, applied the safeties, and put them back in the pack as well. As an afterthought, he took a switchblade he'd salvaged from the earlier fight out of his back pocket and slid it into his sleeve.

The jacket had enough Empire-related patches that nobody looked twice at him, but it would still take too long for him to get where he needed to be without being noticed. With this in mind, he detoured away from the converging crowd, around to the back of the building. As he'd expected (having a certain amount of familiarity with this sort of facility) there was a loading dock mostly filled with random trash. Beside the rust-laden roller-door was a doorway of more normal proportions. Near the door, an equally dilapidated fire extinguisher hung on a bracket, no doubt a relic of safety regulations dating from more prosperous days.

However, of more interest to him were the two guards in front of the door, both eyeing him with a certain amount of disfavour. The one on the left stood about six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a broader gut. His thick beard spilled down on to his chest over a faded black T-shirt that displayed a raised fist with a swastika on the back, and the slogan "White Power" beneath. At least, Danny figured that was what it said, given that all but "ITE POW" was obscured by the leather vest the Empire thug was wearing. The patches on the vest were more or less the same as the ones on Danny's 'borrowed' jacket, while tattoos of a similar nature decorated the Empire thug's thick forearms.

The guard on the right was about six inches shorter and fifty to a hundred pounds lighter than his buddy. He also wore a jacket proclaiming his lack of moral standards, and had a heavily acne-scarred face with greasy dark hair falling over it, along with a receding chin. With his beady, suspicious gaze and straggly moustache, he rather resembled a rat peering over a hairbrush.

Danny was briefly reminded of a quote—he wasn't sure where from—that asked 'Why is it the greatest champions of the white race always turn out to be the worst examples of it?'. While both men were technically armed—with pistols pushed into the front of their pants, a move he wouldn't advise to anyone who was set on raising a family—he saw the two-way radios clipped to their belts to be a greater threat than the weapons ever would be. If he was going to pull this off, he had to make his entry quick and quiet. At a pinch, he'd settle for one out of two.

"Wrong way, asshole," grunted the bulky guard, scratching his neck under his beard. "This ain't the way in." His rat-faced partner nodded in agreement. Fortunately, as far as Danny could see, neither one of them considered him to be more than a mild annoyance. He ignored the warning and took a couple of steps closer, flexing his wrist slightly.

"Got a question," he said bluntly. "Either of you guys afraid of the Dark?" As he spoke, he let the switchblade drop into his hand.

The rat-faced guard was a little quicker on the uptake than his partner. His eyes opened wide and his face paled dramatically as he stepped back, hands held up defensively in front of him. "Oh, shit," he muttered. "Oh, shit. Chuck, it's the Dark."

"The fuck you on about?" Chuck almost literally puffed himself up. "This ain't the Dark. He's just some skinny fuck." Pulling the radio from his belt while reaching for the gun with his other hand, he thumbed the button. "Hey, we—"

<><>​

When you're using a short knife, like a switchblade, the temptation is to stab with it. This isn't the best idea in the world. Barring certain areas where vulnerable points are very close to the surface, a stab will be painful but won't do a whole lot to your opponent. Slashing is more difficult, but opening up a vein or artery can easily be a fight-ender. Likewise, taking out tendons and ligaments will seriously hamper your opponent and give you an edge. The straight razor is the epitome of this principle; most see it as almost an archaic weapon but in the right hands, it can be terrifying.

Of course, this isn't to say that stabbing is always a bad idea. At the right time and place, it can be exactly what you need to do.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

Danny flicked the switchblade open and threw it underhanded, sending it flashing in a bright line that terminated in the man's right eye. Even as the guy dropped the radio and let out a high-pitched scream, Danny reached out and yanked the fire extinguisher from its place on the wall. Ramming it forward, he slammed its base into the switchblade, driving the knife deep into the thug's brain.

"Oh, shit, oh, shit!" yelped the rat-faced guy, trying to edge backward. Danny turned and took one long stride toward him, then swung the extinguisher. With a hollow clang, it bounced off the guy's skull. His eyes rolled back in his head as his knees buckled and he slumped to the grimy concrete, out cold. Dropping the extinguisher on the chest of the deceased Chuck, Danny leaned down and plucked the gun from his belt. The other one hadn't done anything to deserve death quite yet, so Danny decided to let him live and just took his gun instead.

Turning to the door, Danny pushed down on the handle with his elbow. It utterly failed to open, which didn't surprise him; locking the door was only a logical precaution. It would've made his life a little easier for them to have overlooked that one, but he couldn't have everything. It looked as though he was going to have to go with 'quick and noisy' for his entry, which meant he'd have to do a little preparation. Setting the safety catches on the pistols he'd just souvenired, he grimaced and shoved them into his waistband in the small of his back, where they'd be concealed by his jacket. His hands now free, he took the loaded guns from the pack, dumped the empties along with their magazines on the loading dock, and slung the now-empty pack properly on his back.

While storing a gun in the waistband was convenient and could be done ninety-nine times out of a hundred without mishap, there was always the hundredth time. Danny had never liked it; there was always the chance of a safety disengaging and the gun going off. Shoved down the front of the pants, the gun muzzle was guided with almost laser-like accuracy toward certain parts of the anatomy that every man held near and dear. Down the back, there were the leg muscles and the large arteries in the thigh to worry about. Just as importantly, the waistband depended on friction and luck to have the gun still there when it was needed. He much preferred a well-made holster. The trouble was, he didn't always get what he wanted.

The pistol in his left hand was a Beretta 92-S, fully loaded; in his right, a Sig-Sauer P-220 with eight rounds. That meant he had twenty-three bullets to play with, in hand. The guns he had stashed in his waistband had felt like they were close to fully loaded, so he figured on another twenty or so rounds there. Once he was getting close to running out, he knew he'd have to take weapons off of someone else. It was an ad hoc arrangement and one he wasn't overly happy with, but he'd long since gotten used to dealing with uncomfortable choices.

Prep was done, and the noise from within the building was starting to build. Time, he knew, was getting short. Stepping back a little from the door, he straight-armed the Sig at it, flicked the safeties off of both weapons at once, then fired a shot at the lock. The muzzle flare would've blinded him if he hadn't squinted, and the report echoed loudly in the empty loading dock, but the lock was blown away and the door sagged open. He hit it hard with his shoulder an instant later, arms already crossing over his body.

<><>​

When you're going through a door into an uncleared area and you've got two guns, cross your arms over so your right gun is shooting left, and your left gun is shooting right. The most effective place to wait in ambush is right beside the door, which is a hard place to target with a pistol on that side; the human elbow and wrist aren't designed to bend in that direction. If you can't put a couple of rounds through the wall before you hit the doorway, make sure you can shoot sideways as you go through the door. It's a little tricky to put your bullets exactly where you want them, but enough practice can fix that too.

Annette taught me that one. It's saved my life more often than I can count.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

His instincts were correct; there'd been a guard to either side of the door. The one on the left was out of luck, because he had a door in his face. For that matter, the one on the right was even more out of luck, because he was facing Danny's Beretta. Behind that guy, there was a set of stairs going up to some sort of platform, and someone was coming down them. He put three shots through the door with the Sig, then saw both men reaching for their weapons. Stepping closer to the guard at the foot of the stairs, he jammed the Beretta into the guy's chest and double-tapped off two shots. A shudder went through the guy as the first round punched through his heart and kept on going to bury itself in a wooden support. For the second shot, Danny angled the gun upward; this one ranged up through the guard's body, crossed the intervening space in a fraction of a second, and took out the guy on the stairs.

As they both started to go down, Danny half-turned just in time for the left-hand guard to push the door closed again. The action was probably reflexive, because the guy just kept leaning forward, the pistol falling from nerveless fingers to clatter on the ground. He joined it a moment later.

This just got real loud. With that in mind, Danny turned toward the rest of the warehouse. He couldn't see the dog-fighting arena, blocked as it was from his sight by a row of makeshift bookies' desks where people had been laying bets up until the shooting had broken out. Three more guys, with the air of enforcers, were even now moving toward him. This was good, as it saved him from having to go after them, as time was not his friend at the moment. On the downside, he couldn't see the guy he was after, which meant he had to get a better view of the venue.

The set of stairs to his right seemed tailor-made for the purpose; they went up about twenty feet to some sort of platform. And in fact—Danny's eyes widened slightly in recognition—the guy up there was the one he was looking for. Which would've been more useful if the guy hadn't seen him at the same time. He could just see Chewie's head sticking up over the guy's shoulder, so he couldn't risk a body shot. Raising the Sig, he snapped off a shot to make the guy keep his head down. With that breathing space, he opened fire on the incoming enforcers; left, right, left, the guns bucking in his hands. Their heads snapped back, blood spraying bright in the actinic glare of the floodlights. As the last one fell, he turned and went up the steps, taking them two at a time.

Both his guns were raised and ready to shoot in case the asshole showed himself, but he got to the top without being shot at; in fact, by the time he got there, the only one facing him was a chubby little guy with glasses. He didn't look dangerous but Danny knew not to take that as a metric, so he elbow-charged the guy in the chest, sending him back over the rail with a shriek. Turning, he scanned the crowd, looking for his quarry.

A moment later, he spotted the guy. Irritatingly enough, he'd apparently made the jump down from the platform without hurting himself and was now pushing his way through the crowd with the puppy visible in the crook of his left elbow. Danny had a clear shot, but if he took it, he risked Chewie being trodden to death if the puppy was dropped into the milling crowd, so he didn't fire. But he could make the guy's life difficult in other ways. Looking down at the control panel, he saw what he needed and tucked the Sig under his arm.

Knowing he had to be quick, he closed his eyes and tucked his face into the crook of his right arm. The microphone was easy to find, and he flipped the switch. "Your attention please," he said, his voice echoing throughout the building. "Is anyone here afraid of the Dark?" Without waiting for a response, he skated his hand sideways and flipped the switch beside the microphone; the one that said LIGHTS. He didn't see the lights go off, but the radiant heat from the floods cut out immediately. Due to his preparations, when he dropped his arm from his face and opened his eyes, he was the only sighted man in the land of the blind.

All that was left was the glow from the tired fluorescents hanging from the rafters, which had been on all the time and had probably been installed when the building was constructed. He could see clearly by this light; not so the crowd. Between his announcement (which maybe half to two-thirds of the people in the warehouse were taking seriously) and the sudden darkness, the crowd was on the verge of panic. Just the way I like it.

Danny had already marked the position of the guy who had Chewie, and since he'd had enough of jumping off high things on to hard surfaces, he took the Sig in his hand and headed for the way down. There were two enforcers in single file at the bottom of the stairs, the first one just starting up the steps. Each had a gun in hand. They stared up at him, eyes obviously still adjusting to the dark, and tried to bring their guns into line, but he fired a single shot from the Sig before they were halfway there. It went through the throat of the enforcer in front and punched into the chest of the guy behind him, dropping them both to the ground before they were even aware they'd been hit. At the same time, the Sig's slide locked back, confirming that the gun was empty.

Tossing the empty weapon aside, he pulled one of the guns from his waistband and jogged down the stairs. As he stepped over the pile of bodies at the bottom, he was just reflecting to himself that he was getting too old to pull this sort of shit on a regular basis when one of the bodies moved. By sheer instinct, he fired three shots into the pile; there was no more movement. Then he looked around to orient himself and headed toward where he'd last seen Chewie's abductor.

The bookies' desks were hardly an obstacle, and the bookies themselves cowered back when he kicked one of the desks over to get past. He was splattered here and there with blood—shooting someone at close range makes it hard to avoid that—and was carrying two guns, so it was hardly surprising that they didn't want to get in his way. Or maybe they were just that afraid of the Dark.

Good.

Guns in hand, he stalked into the crowd. It parted for him, not unlike the Red Sea before Moses; if, that is, the Red Sea was made up of panicking humanity. An enforcer came out of the crowd to his left, already firing wildly. Danny ducked aside as people went down screaming, then knocked the gun aside and kicked the man's legs from under him. He fired a single shot into the downed man and kept going without pausing.

Up ahead, he heard Chewie's frantic yapping, and he quickened his pace. More enforcers closed on him from all sides, or perhaps they were just regular Empire thugs who'd decided the Dark wasn't as scary as Kaiser. Their mistake. He fired to the left and right, parried a knife-slash, then elbowed one man in the jaw as he shot another in the face. A gunbarrel angled in his direction, but he shot the man in the groin then the head in quick succession.

Someone kicked the Beretta from his hand; it fell to the floor and skittered away. He twisted away from a follow-up blow, then intercepted an incoming slash from a Ka-Bar, the man's wrist slapping into his palm. Dropping to the floor, he fired half a dozen shots into the thugs crowding around him as he stabbed the Ka-Bar guy with his own knife. Bodies slumped to the floor, including the surprised-looking thug whose knife he appropriated, seeing as the guy didn't need it any more. As he came to his feet, he wondered at the sudden outbreak of screaming. They hadn't been screaming en masse up until now: what's changed?

What had changed, he realised in short order, was that a new player was on the scene. A stocky girl on a rhino-sized dog was charging through the crowd, tossing people to left and right. It was the member of the Undersiders called Hellhound; as Danny understood things, she made dogs grow to monstrous sizes then told them what to do. It occurred to him, from what he knew about her, that she may not be a fan of dog-fighting.

<><>​

While Annette and I made a rule of never going after capes, it only made sense to find out all we could about them. After all, even if we never went after them, there was nothing to say that they wouldn't come after us at some point. So we took in all the public-consumption information we could find, then dug deeper. Not that we ever intended to use it against them unless they brought the fight to us, but forewarned is forearmed.

By the time Annette passed, we were quite well-informed about all the capes in Brockton Bay, including some points of data which would have shocked the public if they knew. I kept up the information-gathering afterward, more from habit than necessity. While I wasn't quite as well-informed as we had been before—cutting ties with my old life also meant casting away access to illegal sources of information—I still knew more than most about the capes of Brockton Bay, who they were and who they associated with.

And, of course, how to take them down if I had to.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

Any distraction for the opposition was a good distraction, but Danny had other fish to fry. The crowd had thinned somewhat—virtually everyone who'd been willing to face him was dead or dying—and the asshole he was chasing was just up ahead, alongside the dog-fighting cage.

The cage was a circular affair roughly ten feet across. It was made up of a wooden frame about two feet high with chicken-wire extending another four feet, so the audience could see every detail of what happened, while the loser in the dog-fight couldn't easily escape its fate. The framework was broken in two places by gates to allow dogs to enter for the fights. Another, larger, gate was obviously there for people to enter and drag out the corpse of the loser. This gate was on the far side of the arena to where Danny stood.

Within the cage, there had obviously been a teaser fight going on, between two somewhat mismatched dogs. While Danny was taking down the opposition, the larger dog had dispatched its scrawnier opponent and was now looking around in evident confusion at the running and screaming. But Danny had no eyes for that; his gaze was locked on the man with Chewie, whose own gaze was flicking back and forth between him and Hellhound.

"Fuck you!" the man yelled, obviously deciding Danny was the greater threat. He raised the pistol he held; just as he snapped off a shot at Danny, Chewie growled and sank his sharp little puppy teeth into the man's thumb. Danny would never be sure if this caused him to miss, but the shot went wide anyway. The real problem was that the guy reacted to the bite by flinging his arm out to the side. Chewie hung on for a split second then let go, performing a parabolic arc through the air. Predictably, because things obviously couldn't get any better, he went over the mesh and into the cage. Where he landed was both good and bad news.

Had Chewie landed on the bare concrete floor of the fighting arena, there was a strong chance he would've been injured by the fall. Fortunately, what he landed on was soft. Unfortunately, the soft thing he landed on was the back of the victorious dog.

With a startled yelp, Chewie rolled off the back of the dog on to the ground. When he hit the concrete, he kept rolling, which saved his life; teeth snapped together just inches away from his body. Too young to really have an opinion in the matter, the little puppy nonetheless acted correctly; scrambling to his feet, he tucked his tail between his feet and fled, yelping frantically. Hampered by the few injuries he'd received in the fight, the bigger dog turned in pursuit.

Once Chewie was out of the sight picture, Danny double-tapped the guy twice in the chest, then finished him off with one in the head. The guy hadn't even finished crumpling to the ground by the time Danny was at the cage. "Chewie!" he called. "Chewie! Come on, boy!" Spying one of the wooden slide-gates into the cage, he kicked at it viciously, shattering it inward. It measured about two feet square, large enough for a dog to enter, but problematic for someone even as skinny as him. "Here, boy! Come on!" Up came the pistol, aiming at the bigger dog. While he didn't like killing animals as a rule, he'd certainly do it to protect Chewie. Unfortunately, all he got out of it was a dry click.

Discarding the pistol, he reached back under his jacket for the last one he'd stashed there … but it wasn't there any more. At some point during the melee, possibly when he'd gone down on to the floor, he and the pistol had parted ways. Which was just one more black mark in the record against shoving them into the waistband, but he didn't dwell on that. Chewie had heard him and was gamely galloping in his direction, but the other dog was gaining with every stride. It would catch Chewie before the puppy got to the gate, and then it would be all over.

Reaching up, he yanked down at the chicken-wire, trying to give himself enough room to throw the knife at the pursuing dog. While he had both arms atop it, struggling to get enough slack—someone had been thoughtful enough to run wire through the top of the mesh, preventing it from sagging, or being made to sag—he heard a piercing whistle, and a command: "Fetch!"

Before he could make sense of it, one of the rhino-sized dogs burst clear through the chicken-wire on the far side of the arena, twanging the retaining wire like a guitar string very briefly before snapping it altogether. The sudden tension flung Danny away from the cage to land on his back, just in time to see the lizard-dinosaur monster tear out through the near side of the arena with the bigger dog struggling in its jaws. Enormous claws ripped chunks from the blood-stained concrete as it turned back toward its mistress, revealing the fact that Chewie was wrapped up in its tail.

He kept enough presence of mind to roll to his feet; on the way, he collected someone's discarded pistol. Upright again, he checked chamber—there was a round ready to go, and the pistol felt heavy enough to have more than a few in the magazine—then started toward where Hellhound and her dogs were harassing the remnants of the crowd. After a moment's thought, he paused to shed the empty pack, preparatory to removing the jacket. The lizard-rhino dogs had proven to be bulletproof in the past, and he didn't feel like being mauled for wearing Empire colours, when all he wanted to do was take Chewie home. Once he had the jacket off and stuffed in the backpack, it would supply ample padding to keep Chewie comfortable on the ride back to the house. And if the little dog felt like peeing on it, Danny was good with that too. He'd even stop by a fast-food place, to treat Chewie to more bacon.

The universe chose that point in time to express its amusement at his daring to make plans past the moment. Just as he began to pull one arm from the jacket sleeve, he heard the familiar roar of a motorcycle engine being revved to the max. More than once in the past, he'd been the one doing the revving. He wasn't surprised to hear it; what better way to escape from an attack by Hellhound than by motorcycle, after all? What was unusual in this specific instance was that the noise was coming closer. A lot closer.

Danny turned to look at the main entrance, a moment before the people struggling to crowd their way out were flung aside by the mass of a speeding motorbike. The rider, clad in loose clothing and wearing a metal cage around her head in lieu of a helmet, came off over the handlebars as the front wheel struck an obstacle it couldn't go over—in this particular case, a person. However, her dismount was anything but uncontrolled, as she proved in short order. Touching down, she rolled to her feet and kept moving at a dead run, drawing a pair of kama from her belt as she made a beeline toward Hellhound.

The fact that people had been hurt by her precipitate entrance didn't seem to bother the woman; nor did Danny think she'd be worried about it later. By all appearances, this was Cricket, one of the Empire's leg-breakers. She wasn't a big-name hitter like Purity or Hookwolf but she was fast and, by all accounts, almost prescient in a fight. Danny had his theories about how that worked, and how she managed to keep her opponents off-guard. If he was right, he'd need a little preparation before he could face her on terms he preferred.

Hellhound wasn't oblivious to the danger; as he picked up the Ka-Bar knife and started slicing a strip of cloth from his shirt, she whistled and pointed. Two of the monstrous creatures—neither one being the dog that had Chewie—began loping toward the newcomer. Misshapen jaws opened to unleash unearthly howls, and drool hung in ropes from their jaws.

Danny had the strip almost torn away when they met the woman head-on, or tried to. As one snapped at her, she pirouetted away, then wedged a kama into its grapefruit-sized eye and dove on to its back. The stricken monster howled and turned its head to snap at the elusive prey, but she ducked away again, ripping chunks from its bone-encrusted neck with her second kama. Planting her feet under her, she launched herself into the air from the dog's back, leaving them behind her. Now there was nothing left between her and Hellhound.

For just a moment, Danny was tempted to let the fight play out. The only beef he had with the Empire—apart from them being racist assholes—was that they had Chewie. If Cricket beat the snot out of Hellhound, Chewie wouldn't come into it at all. He could wait till the dust settled, take Taylor's pet, and go home. No harm, no foul.

Then he sighed as the Ka-Bar snicked through the strip of cloth, dividing it in two. Hellhound was undoubtedly someone's daughter, and she was trying to do the right thing by the dogs. Also, she'd saved Chewie, so he owed her. "Hey!" he called out. "Cricket! Over here!"

She slowed to a stop and turned to look at him. Rolling one of the strips of cloth into a ball, he stuffed it into his right ear. She glanced from him to Hellhound and back, then raised a stubby metal cylinder to her throat. "Who are you?" she asked, the words distinct despite the raspy tone.

"I'm the Dark," he replied simply. "And I'm giving you one chance to back off and walk away." As he held her gaze, he balled up the second strip of cloth. Take the option. Walk away.

"And what happens if I don't back off?" She began to walk toward him. Her whole attitude told him the story; she knew who he was, and didn't care. Which just meant that she hadn't heard enough about him, or had decided that because she was a cape, she was better. Not an uncommon attitude among capes, he'd heard.

"You don't get to walk away." He shoved the other balled-up strip of cloth into his left ear. "I'm sorry, but that's the way it is." The makeshift earplugs functioned well enough. There was the faintest of sensations on the edge of nausea, but he'd dealt with worse in his time.

Again, she glanced from him to Hellhound and back, quite possibly judging whether to ignore him or take him out first. Holding out his hand, he made the classic come-at-me gesture, the hilt of his knife laying across his palm as he did so. That must have decided her, because she started toward him at a steady jog, her kama at the ready.

<><>​

When the odds are against you, change the odds.

Always assume the odds are stacked against you. If you believe this isn't the case, you're almost invariably mistaken.

Fair fights are never what they seem. If you seem to be in a fair fight, be assured someone will correct that error soon enough.

If defeat means death, then winning at any cost is the only sane strategy. Losing because you played fair has the same end result as just plain losing. So take advantage of every opportunity to stack the deck in your favour, because the other side most certainly will be.

Luck is the art of arranging for improved odds before your opponent's even aware there's going to be a fight.

In other words: if you're not winning, you're losing. If you're losing, you're not cheating hard enough.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

From the moment Cricket started for him, Danny knew he was in for a fight. She was younger, faster and couldn't be blindsided. She was also an experienced combatant, but that played into the difference between them. He'd been doing this longer than her, he knew how good she was, and she was used to being able to screw with her opponents using her power.

The adage about age and treachery versus youth and enthusiasm flitted through his mind, but he suppressed it. He didn't watch her hands or feet as she got close to him; instead, he watched her eyes. Kama could be deadly weapons in the right hands—and if any hands were the right hands, hers definitely were—but in order to land a blow, they had to get through the enemy's guard.

As combatants, right then they were almost an even match. Danny was feeling a little bruised from the earlier fighting, but paradoxically it had also done a lot to knock the rust off. He'd never been more in the zone than he was right now. As it stood, he suspected he had a slight edge on her, but he intended to make that edge a lot bigger, while letting her think the opposite until it was all too late.

The first pass was almost formal. She came in fast, feinting with the right-hand kama while seeking blood with the left. He could tell the wound she intended to leave would not be deep or greatly debilitating, but it would give her the measure of him. Accordingly, he blocked the feint with the Ka-Bar, sparks scraping off the steel, and pretended to awkwardly fall away from the true strike. For a split second, he thought she was going to fall into his trap and follow through while he appeared vulnerable, but as he brought the gun into line, she twisted away and disengaged.

Or at least, she tried to disengage, but he recovered fast and followed on. She brought the kama into line, deflecting the Ka-Bar away from her body. The other kama caught the barrel of the pistol, preventing him from aiming it at her; or rather, it would have if that was what he'd been trying to do. He squeezed the trigger three times rapidly, the gun hammering back into his palm. While the bullets missed her head by a good six inches, he saw her flinch as the waves of high-intensity sound hammered at her ears. Just the way he'd intended.

He wasted no time in capitalising on the momentary advantage he'd gained from overloading her hearing, bringing his shin up into her ribs. The impact was solid, knocking her sideways and off balance. A momentarily twitch in expression betrayed something going on behind her eyes; with any luck, she was feeling fear now. Fear meant a lack of confidence. It meant she'd be second-guessing the moves she normally pulled off flawlessly, slowing her down by that fraction of a second which meant the difference between winning and losing.

She threw a kick at his kneecap, an almost transparent ploy to push him back and give her space to manoeuvre. As a counter, he angled the pistol downward; the kick would connect, but in the process she was going to lose her own kneecap. It was the ultimate game of chicken. At the last second she flinched, swinging her leg away from the line of the shot and spoiling her own kick. His own kick at her other kneecap was already on the way, but even though she spotted it and tried to jump back out of the way, his boot still smashed into the side of her ankle.

She went down, but turned it into a roll and a handspring that got her back on to her feet. If Danny had given her a moment's respite, she might've recovered the initiative, but he had no intention of giving her that chance. Pushing in hard, he crowded her space, reducing her options. His next slash from the Ka-Bar was a feint but it drew a defence from one of her kama anyway, more sparks flying off the steel. With her attention drawn the wrong way, he went in with the real attack, bringing the pistol into line. The second kama came around to hook it away, but the move was hurried, lacking in her usual finesse. He twisted his wrist, tangling the pistol with the bladed weapon and yanking hard.

Faced with the choice to either let go or be forced to put her weight on to her bad ankle, she obviously decided that getting clear of him was the best option, so she released the kama. She wasn't quite done though; as her fingers let go the weapon, she reached for the pistol instead. Her fingers closed over the barrel, but an instant before her thumb clicked over the safety, he pulled the trigger. This time, the muzzle was a lot closer to her head, and the bullet went within half an inch of her ear.

He knew he'd scored, hard. Her face clenched in agony and her head jerked sideways as if she'd been physically struck. He was reasonably sure he'd just burst her eardrum, which had to really hurt for someone whose hearing was sensitive enough to use for sonar. On the other hand, she was a cage fighter; there was only one way to put her down for good. The trouble was, killing a cape would cross a line he'd never crossed before. It would draw the attention of other capes; unwelcome attention.

She's seen my face. She could find out who I am. Killing whoever came after me wouldn't be a problem, but Taylor might be at risk anyway. It was a no-brainer, really. As the knife went in under her breastbone, her eyes widened in pure shock. It didn't stop her from bringing the other kama around and trying to bury it in his side, but he spoiled that at the cost of a minor slash to his forearm. They strained against each other for a moment, then she tried to kick him in the groin. He blocked the knee with his leg, then brought up his own knee and jammed it against the hilt of the knife. As the blade moved in the wound, her grip on his gun weakened fractionally. Making a supreme effort, he twisted the weapon from her grip, flicked the safety off again, and shot her in the face from a range of less than six inches.

<><>​

If you're going to kill, kill.

Don't mess around and don't try to be fancy. Above all, if you want to send a message, don't do it by killing someone. Western Union works just fine. The only message a death should convey is that someone needed to be made dead.

On the other side of the coin, if you do choose to kill someone, be aware that it's up to you to own it. You thought it was necessary at the time, so don't agonise over it and don't ever second-guess yourself.

Once someone's dead, they're dead. If you're a professional killer, you've got enough to worry about without having the ghosts of your targets living in your head as well.

Of course, if the person you killed has friends, that is something to worry about, which is why a quick, quiet kill is best. Sometimes, of course, despite your best efforts, shit will impact the fan at high velocity, and you've got a decision to make. There are now people after you, and you have exactly two options; evasion or dissuasion.

How permanent you make the dissuasion is up to you.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

Panting, Danny stood over the body of his first cape kill, smoking gun still in his hand. Even though she looked dead, with half her brains sprayed over several square yards, he still kicked away the remaining kama before retrieving the Ka-Bar, automatically wiping it off on her clothing. Reaching up, he plucked the wads of cloth from his ears, sound returning to his world with a jolt. When he looked toward the other end of the warehouse, he saw Hellhound dealing with the caged dogs, prioritising that over joining in the fight.

She wasn't an idiot, though; her monster dogs were on guard, watching his every move. Juggling his weapons from one hand to the other, he shrugged out of the Empire jacket. It had long since served its purpose, and would be more of a drawback than a convenience from here on in. Shaking it out, he draped it over Cricket's face, more as a civilised gesture than an act of conscience.

He had no more reason to be here. The Empire punk who took Chewie was dead, as was the cape who would've killed Hellhound; all he needed now was to take his dog and go home. Which depended on exactly how reasonable Hellhound was going to be about it. He didn't want to have to kill a second cape tonight, especially one who'd saved Chewie's life, but Taylor's well-being was of utmost importance to him. Nothing else mattered.

At some point during the struggle, Cricket had found the magazine release and activated it, though she hadn't been able to work the action to remove the chambered round. Picking up the magazine and shoving it into his pocket, Danny used the Ka-Bar to hook the shoulder seam of his shirt. With a hole started, he yanked down on the cloth, ripping the sleeve clear of the shirt. Wrapping the sleeve around his forearm wound, he tied a knot and used his teeth to help tighten it. There was a first-aid kit at home, with disinfectant and proper bandages; once he got Chewie home, he'd deal with the cut properly. All he needed to do right now was—

"What the shit?" The new voice came from the same entrance Cricket had used. It was masculine and rough, and Danny had a fair idea who it belonged to. "Who the fuck?" Slowly, he turned, not wanting to be right. But of course, he was. Facing him, outlined in the glow of lights from outside the building, was a familiar silhouette. "Cricket!" The word was a bellow, with faint metallic undertones.

"Hookwolf," sighed Danny. "Why did it have to be Hookwolf?" He knew why, of course; in the circles that mattered, the brawny Changer's name was inextricably linked with Brockton Bay's underground dog-fighting scene. But he could've been gone before the Empire cape ever showed up. If he'd just been a little faster. If he'd cared a little less about debts owed. "Cricket's not here any more," he called back. "Take her away for burial. Fight's over." Take the hint. Let the fight be over.

Hookwolf's tone changed, even as steel bands and plates slid into place to cover him. "Holy fuck, is that you? Is that the Dark?" He advanced into the warehouse steadily, warily. "Heard you were fuckin' dead, man." Danny made sure he was standing in a patch of shadow, so the Empire brawler couldn't see his face clearly. They'd met before, years ago, and since Hookwolf hadn't seen his face then, Danny didn't see any reason to change that now. "What the fuck you doin' here?"

"My business." Danny made his voice as clipped as possible. "Helping out Hellhound. She gave me a hand, so she keeps the dogs. Empire keeps the money." Well, technically he was helping the Lindt girl. He'd take Chewie, she could take the rest. And he was also helping her by making sure Hookwolf didn't interfere.

"So what, you're working for them now? The Underbitches?" Now Hookwolf was about twenty feet away. Gleaming metal covered nearly all of his body. "You kill Cricket for them?" His tone was accusatory. "Thought you didn't go after capes."

Danny sighed. This wasn't going well, but maybe he could still turn it around. "Not on contract. Something got stolen. I came to get it back. Hellhound gave me a hand. Cricket wouldn't back off. Gave her the chance. She didn't take it." He spun the Ka-Bar in his hand, flipped it into the air and caught the point between finger and thumb. "You still got the chance to walk away. Take it. Come back in half an hour."

Hookwolf presented a problem for Danny. He couldn't be shot or stabbed, or even hit with a car. Or rather, he could be, but it wouldn't stick. Which wasn't to say Danny didn't have a way of taking him down, but the way was likely permanent, and he still didn't want to have to kill another cape tonight.

Slowly, the metal-covered man shook his head, eliciting a light scrape of steel on steel. "Sorry, man. Cricket's one of mine, y'know? She's not just Empire. She's a fighter like me. Someone puts her in the ground, I gotta make that someone pay, even it it's you that did it. It's a fighter thing. You understand." He sounded regretful, but there was an implacable determination underlying his words.

Danny nodded. "I understand." He flipped the Ka-Bar up again without looking, and let the hilt slap into his palm. "Hope you don't mind if I've got other ideas, though." Every element of his bearing was carefully calculated to give the appearance of rock-solid confidence without betraying his actual plan. Even the slightest hint of weakness or pleading would likely goad Hookwolf into attacking instead of playing along.

For a long moment, Hookwolf stared at him, then he burst out laughing. "Holy shit, you're serious." He shook his head again, this time in wonderment. "I know you—I mean, I don't know you that good, but I know you—and you're as good as they get, but you're no cape. There's no fuckin' way you're gonna come out on top against me."

Danny took the magazine from his pocket and slid it into the pistol, then worked the slide. He had the Ka-Bar in his other hand, the blade protruding below his fist. It had worked just fine on Cricket, but as both he and Hookwolf well knew, there was no way even Danny's skill would get it past the Empire cape's metallic integument. Nor would the pistol be of much use as an offensive weapon—but then, Danny didn't intend to employ it as one.

Baring his teeth, he mustered up a growl from deep in his throat. The knife came up and he launched himself at Hookwolf, the growl rising to the closest thing to a roar he could manage. Hookwolf reacted predictably enough; springing spikes, claws and blades from his anatomy as he leaped toward Danny. Gunfire echoed once more through the warehouse as Danny opened fire at close range, the rounds sparking off of the steel blades criss-crossing over Hookwolf's eyes.

He didn't expect it to do any lasting harm, but the sparks obscured Hookwolf's vision for just long enough. Before the gunshots, he'd been leading to the right; Hookwolf's left. At the last moment, he cut to the left and went down in a diving roll. Hookwolf's bladed slash split the air above him, but by the time the Empire enforcer realised what he'd done, Danny was on his feet and sprinting for the exit.

Correction; not specifically for the exit. For Cricket's discarded motorbike. Behind him, he heard the sound of metal scraping on concrete as Hookwolf tried to stop and turn around. It seemed being covered in steel didn't make cornering easy; who knew? Still, he was fully aware that his window of opportunity wasn't very large; in fact, it was rather minuscule. He recalled, back in the day, dancing on the very edge of catastrophe in this very same manner and glorying in the fact. I was an idiot.

Reaching the motorcycle, he shoved the pistol down the back of his pants—not without a shiver of distaste—and wrenched it upright. There was no place to put the knife, so he stabbed it into the rear of the pillion seat then swung his leg over the bike. The headlight was smashed and it had no doubt stalled—and possibly flooded—when Cricket made her entrance, so he held the clutch in while he jiggled the gear lever down to the lowest setting. Then he flicked the kickstarter out with his foot and kicked it over. The engine refused to start.

Directly ahead of him, Hookwolf had managed to stop and turn, and was now heading back for him. He was extruding more metal, assuming his 'wolf' form as his metal claws tore at the concrete floor. Danny kicked the engine over again and felt it almost catch. Without pausing—Hookwolf was just seconds away by now—he kicked it a third time. This time, the engine kicked over and roared to life, blasting great volumes of blue smoke everywhere as he revved the engine. It was already in gear so he let the clutch out, screeched the back tyre in a half circle and let the brake off.

Leaning forward on the bike, throttle twisted to the max, Danny blasted out of the doorway and on to the surrounding concrete paving, heading straight for the row of cars. Uncomfortably close behind him, he heard the clattering of metal striking concrete, and pulled the kind of sharp turn that motorbikes excel at. He heard the shriek of steel on concrete as a claw missed the back wheel by inches, then a roar of frustration and anger was followed by a loud crash. A glance over his shoulder told him that Hookwolf had not only failed to take the turn, but had also ploughed into one of the vehicles. There was a 'dog chasing parked car' joke somewhere in there, but he decided to let it be.

About fifty yards further on, he slowed to a stop and looked back. Hookwolf was pulling himself out of the damaged vehicle; for all that he was covered in steel, he looked pissed. Looking around, he spotted Danny and pointed at him. "I'm going to kill you!" he roared; his voice sounded like blades clashing deep in his throat. "You can't run far enough to get away from me!"

"The game's called follow the leader," Danny called back. "Can't you take a little challenge?" Reaching out, he made the same come-at-me gesture he'd made to Cricket, and with much the same result. This urge to take up any gauntlet thrown down was a weakness they really should address, he figured. Not that he was about to fill them in; it was too useful to him right then. Had Hookwolf been of a more contemplative nature, he might've figured it out in time. Unfortunately for the Empire cape, he was rapidly running out of time, even if he didn't know it.

As Hookwolf lunged forward, Danny gunned the bike again, the back tyre leaving a thick black mark on the concrete. He peeled out of there on to the street, aware that Hookwolf was cutting the corner and gaining precious yards by doing so. As Danny twisted the throttle, the metal-clad villain tried to pounce at him, but misjudged the bike's acceleration and hit the asphalt barely three yards behind it. Chunks of gravel-infused tar flew into the air as Hookwolf clawed at the ground, trying to establish traction. By the time he got himself straightened out, Danny was six yards ahead and gaining. Of course, he wasn't gaining too much; he wanted Hookwolf to be able to keep up with him, after all.

<><>​

Most people can be killed with minimal effort. A knife pulled across the throat or slipped between the ribs, or a single gunshot at moderate range. If you've done your job right, they don't see it coming and you're free and clear to exfil.

Other jobs are harder. People who are more paranoid—but of course it's not paranoia if there really is an assassin seeking your death—make our job so much more difficult. Disguises, trickery and sometimes really high-end sniper rifles all have their part to play in such kills.

Then there's the problematic ones, where you can't bring the weapon to the victim. Those are the ones where you have to lure them to their own death. The trick is to do this without letting them know what's going on.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

Hookwolf

While Brad didn't know the Dark to have beers with, he'd spoken to them once or twice, back in the day. He'd been fresh on the cape scene, and the number of kills attributed to the Dark was impressive, so he'd been respectful. Not that they made a big deal of things; the shadows were their thing. Brad had never so much as seen their faces. But the one thing he knew even then was that the Dark never went after capes. Which was, considering their fuckin' fearsome rep, probably a good thing.

Time had passed, and things had changed for the worse. Cricket was dead at the hands of the Dark. He'd known they were good, but taking down Cricket was very fuckin' impressive indeed. Especially when there was only one of them on scene. Of course, this now meant he'd have to kill the guy. Which sucked for the Dark, but they were only normals, after all. Against a cape, especially a cape like him, there was no way this ended well for them.

The noise of the motorbike echoed between the buildings, giving him his bearings. He pushed himself a little harder, wondering why the guy had come this way, into the Docks. Maybe he'd thought he could give Hookwolf the slip in unfamiliar surroundings. Fat chance; that bike was way too loud to lose.

Galloping past the frontage of the Dockworkers Association offices, he followed the sound of the bike engine around the corner to the left. Cutting across the pavement, he shaved time off the turn just in time to see the red tail-light turn the next corner, this time to the right. As he surged forward, he heard a gunshot. Nothing came near him, so whoever the Dark was shooting at, it wasn't him. Fuck, I hope some gangbanger hasn't fucked him up before I can get to him. The Dark was going to die, but he deserved a proper death, with all the respect due him.

His claws scraping on the concrete sidewalk, he powered around the corner and down the next street. He almost missed the gate hanging open, if it hadn't been for the metallic crash that came from within. Slowing down, he turned and went back. It was a wrecker's yard, and the gate had been roughly pushed back into position. But once he got close enough, he could see that the chain was hanging down, and the lock was lying on the ground, busted open by a gunshot. Inside was in darkness, except for the red glow of a familiar-looking motorbike tail-light … but it looked like the bike was on its side. What the fuck happened here?

Shoving the gate aside, he stalked on in, head turning from side to side in case the Dark tried something stupid, like pushing a junked car over on him. Not that the guy had the muscle to do that, but he did have a rep. And then, when he got closer, he saw what had happened, and he laughed out loud. The bike was on its side next to a heavy crane or something, and the Dark was trapped under it, trying to lift it off and failing. He looked up at Brad's approach; the red glow of the tail-light reflected off of his glasses.

"End of the fuckin' line, man." Brad shook his head. "Led me a good chase. I'll make it quick for you." He flexed his hands, and long sharp claws extended from his metallic paws. "Any last words?"

"That's funny," said the guy on the ground. "I was about to say exactly the same thing." He lifted a bulky rectangular object off the ground, and in the dimness, Brad saw for the first time the heavy cord that trailed back into the darkness, up into the machinery overhead. There were lit-up buttons on the control module, and the Dark pressed a big green one.

Right at that moment, Brad got a really bad feeling. He'd been chasing this guy halfway across town, and he'd been led to this very spot. To where the guy wanted him. In the middle of a car wrecking yard. "Oh, shi—" he began, as he tried to leap out of the way. He wasn't fast enough, as an invisible force grabbed him and yanked him upward. He smashed into the underside of the gigantic electromagnet with stunning force, finding himself pinned on his back with his arms outstretched, looking down at the Dark. Who easily lifted the motorcycle off himself and got up.

Fuck. He played me, every step of the way. But I can get out of this. "You better run, asshole!" he shouted. "You better run and never stop. Because once I get down from here, I'm gonna hunt you down and rip your guts out. You won't kill me as easy as you did Cricket." He began to struggle, trying to pull himself free, to no avail. The magnet was too strong. But it occurred to him that if he worked his way sideways to the edge of it, he could maybe pull free then …?

The Dark shook his head. "Hookwolf, Cricket was the tough one. I had this planned for you ever since I learned about your powerset. How do you think I knew how to arrange this trap at such short notice?" His tone was almost paternal, chiding. "And you're not going to pull free that way. All I have to do is step up the gain, and your front armour's going to come back to meet the rest of it. It'll blend you." He pressed another button on the control box, and Brad felt the metal over the front of his body start to press down.

"I can absorb the metal again!" Brad shouted his defiance. "This magnet won't hold shit then!" He began the process; it wasn't easy and it wasn't fun, but it was his only way out. Of course, the Dark would be long gone before he'd finished, but he'd get the guy in the end.

"Really." The Dark gestured at Brad's face. "And about your wolf mask? Can you absorb that too?" He put his finger on a particular button, then paused and looked up. "I gave you the chance to back off. This is on you. Any last words?"

Brad struggled uselessly. "Just do it!" he bellowed. He stared Death in the eye, and the Dark stared back.

The second-last thing Brad heard was a rising whine above him. The last thing he heard was the bones of his skull beginning to collapse under the pressure.

<><>​

Danny

Blood dripped down from the corpse pinned to the overhead electromagnet. Danny waited until the last twitching had ended, then he cut the power. Hookwolf's mangled body fell to earth, landing with a clatter as some of the metal armour was jolted loose. Stepping up to the corpse, he took careful aim and shot Hookwolf where the armour didn't quite cover the back of his neck, just in case. Then he mounted the cycle, kicked over the engine, and headed for the gate.

<><>​

Bitch

Nobody else from the Empire had showed up, which was good. Rachel lugged the last of the dog-cages out to the pickup she'd come in, and strapped it down. She was just about to climb into the cab, where the puppy sat waiting patiently, when she heard the sound of an approaching motorbike. It sounded remarkably familiar, and the puppy started to whine. "Sh!" she told it, quieting it, as she turned to see who was coming. Alongside the pickup, the dogs she had on guard began to growl, and she quieted them too.

It was the guy from before, the one who'd fought Cricket and whom she'd last seen leaving on the motorbike with Hookwolf in hot pursuit. He stopped about twenty feet away, in a patch of darkness between two lights, and got off the bike. "Where's the puppy?" he asked.

"What happened to Hookwolf?" she countered. There was no way she was just giving the puppy away to some random asshole.

"Better for you if you don't know," he said flatly. "I'm here for my puppy. Where is he?" She wasn't good at human body language, but something about him screamed 'predator' to her.

She jerked her head upward. "Prove he's yours," she called back.

He might have smiled; she wasn't sure. Then he put two fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly. In the cab, the pup perked his ears up and started yapping. Then he scrambled across the seat and down on to the floor of the pickup. Launching himself from the open door, he landed on the concrete with an audible oof, then picked himself up and scampered off toward the tall man in the shadows. As the pup got close, the guy knelt down and gathered him up. Rachel watched him let the pup lick his face and scratch the floppy ears in return. "Thanks," he called out. Then he turned and started walking away.

"Wait!" Rachel normally wouldn't have pushed things this far, but she had to know. "Who the hell are you?"

He asked a question then, and walked off leaving her scratching her head. What did he mean, was she afraid of the dark?

<><>​

Some may think that because I accept money to kill people, I am a common murderer, indiscriminate in whom I target. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I command high prices because I'm very good at what I do; if I'm going to kill someone, I need to be sure that the client really wants them dead. When there's no money involved, I'm not motivated to go out and kill people. There's no reason for me to do so.

Right up until the well-being of my family is threatened. Once that happens, all bets are off.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

Next Morning

Taylor

The door to her hospital room opened, and Taylor heard a familiar yapping. "Dad!" she cried out, her face lighting up with the biggest smile in the world. "Chewie! I've missed you so much!" She watched as he set the pet-carrier down on the bed and opened it, then giggled in delight as Chewie scrambled out and made his way up on to her lap. His warm wriggly form snuggled up to her and he licked her face, then she buried her face in his fur.

"We've missed you too, honey," her dad said fondly as he carefully lowered himself into a chair. "So how was your night?" Reaching out, he gave Chewie a scratch behind the ear.

Taylor wrinkled her nose. "It was boring, and Chewie wasn't here," she complained, then giggled again as Chewie licked her nose. "How about you?"

He shrugged off-handedly. "Oh, we had a little bit of excitement. Chewie got himself lost, but I found him again pretty quickly. That was about it, though." Giving her a smile, he leaned back in his chair. "After that, we had a quiet night in."



End of Part Two

Part Three

 

[Ack]

Are You Afraid of the Dark?
Part Three: New Information


[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


Thursday, January 6, 2011
Kaiser

Max Anders loomed over the quaking mook, with Krieg standing off to the side. He'd never met the guy before, and under normal circumstances there would have been no contact with peons like him. But this was one of the few witnesses to the death of Cricket, and the last member of the Empire to see Hookwolf alive.

The leader of the Empire Eighty-Eight had called on this man because of the tentative rumours he'd heard about the incident at the dogfighting ring. Some had blamed the Undersiders in general and Bitch in particular, but Max didn't believe it. The Undersiders weren't killers, and the way the Empire hitters had gone down didn't fit their methods. But then he'd heard a name being whispered around; a name that hadn't been spoken in Brockton Bay for nearly three years.

"Tell me what you heard," he commanded, knowing his voice echoed menacingly in the helmet he had formed around his head. Good. That meant the man would be less likely to lie. "Everything."

"Well, uh, we were at the fight," the guy said. "First I knew about it was some shootin' near the back door. I was just lookin' around to see what was goin' on, then the lights went out an' I heard this voice." He shuddered. "I ain't never gonna forget that voice. He said somethin' about your attention please. Then he asked if anyone was afraid of the Dark."

Max closed his eyes inside his helmet. Of course he did. "What happened then?" he asked, resisting the urge to skewer the man with his powers.

"Well, it took me a bit to figure out what he meant, but then the shooting started again. And the screaming." The guy shuddered. "The Dark just … went through them. Whoever stood in his way just fuckin' died."

"I notice you're not dead," Krieg said. "What's the matter? Did you lose your nerve?"

"It's the Dark," the guy said desperately. "I've heard the stories. When Marquis wanted someone dead, he called on the Dark. I mean, he's the reason Jack Slash went into the Birdcage in a fuckin' wheelchair. You don't fuck with the Dark. He wasn't hunting me personally, so I ducked and covered."

"So who was the Dark after? Who was his target?" asked Kaiser. He couldn't figure it out. The Dark had been away for years. Why was he suddenly back?

The guy shook his head. "I—I dunno. He was chasing some guy. One of the guys promoting the fight, I think? Then Bitch came in, just before Cricket showed up. Cricket was going to go after Bitch but the Dark told her to back off. She came at him anyway. I've seen her kill people, but he put her down like it was nothing."

"Like it was nothing." Krieg's voice was faintly disbelieving. Kaiser knew that he, too, had watched Cricket at work. She had a penchant—she'd had a penchant—for toying with her opponents, a remnant of her cage-fighting days. But against an unpowered opponent, there should have been no contest. Everything he'd ever heard said that the Dark had no powers. It was one of the more terrifying things about the man.

"And then what happened?" asked Kaiser. "When did Hookwolf come in?"

"Just after the Dark blew Cricket's head off." The guy shuddered. "I had a gun on me, but I also had one of those fuck-off monster dogs in my face. Last guy I saw who pulled a gun around them lost his hand. But I saw Hookwolf and the Dark go head to head and the Dark just danced around him. Then the Dark took Cricket's motorbike and Hookwolf followed him. That's all I know."

That matched what Kaiser knew, as unbelievable as it seemed on face value. More worryingly, it matched what Kaiser had heard of the Dark. "So what can you tell me of the Dark? What did you see?"

The mook shook his head. "I didn't see much. The lights were out, like I said. But I can tell you he's a big guy. Taller than Cricket. And the way he moves … it's like he already knows what you're gonna do. Anyone who got close to him just … died."

Kaiser grimaced. "Fine. Go. Don't spread this around." If whatever had brought the Dark out of retirement could be settled in good time, the Empire might even be able to go back to business as usual. On the other hand, if the Dark was back for good and he was now killing capes, this would signal a major change in the way things were done in Brockton Bay.

He watched as the man scrambled from the room, then closed the door. Schooling his movements to appear casual, he turned toward Krieg. "You have something to add?"

"You're just going to let him go out and spread that wild tale?" Krieg shook his head. "By tonight, every man in the Empire's going to be jumping at their own shadow. And everyone outside the Empire will be laughing at us."

"He knows not to do it too obviously," Kaiser corrected him. "If we told him to tell nobody, or even killed him, that would merely hasten the spread of the story, with the addition that we were terrified. They would see us as losing control of the situation. As for those outside the Empire, the ones who know the truth about the Dark won't be laughing at all." He went to his desk and retrieved a small notebook. It was old and yellowed, and the pages were brittle.

"What is that?" asked Krieg dubiously. "And what is the truth about the Dark?"

"This is a collection of the most important phone numbers in Brockton Bay," Kaiser said quietly. "Everyone who's anyone is in this book. I got it from my father. As for the truth about the Dark, it's quite simple. Everyone the Dark has ever been paid to kill … has died. Everyone who's tried to kill him … has died. Nobody knows who he really is, or even if he works alone, and anyone who's tried to find out has ended up dead or wishing they were. When the police find out that the Dark's involved in a situation, they tread lightly. He's never accepted a contract on a parahuman before. The rumour is that he once said this was because he wouldn't find it enough of a challenge. Given the ease with which this man dispatched both Cricket and Hookwolf, I'm not entirely inclined to dismiss that claim."

"So who are you going to be calling?" Krieg frowned. "And why hasn't the PRT gotten involved years ago, if he's so dangerous?"

"The PRT haven't gotten involved for three reasons," Kaiser said, carefully turning the pages of the notebook. "One: the Dark doesn't normally kill capes. Two: the Dark isn't a cape. Three: they know what's good for them."

"Not a cape?" Krieg shook his head. "I find that extremely hard to believe."

"Apparently the PRT believes it." Kaiser shrugged. "They have Thinkers who can ferret out the truth about that sort of thing. The fact of the matter is that they've never gone after the Dark." He stopped turning the pages and prodded a number. Beside it was written just one word: DARK.

Krieg stared at Kaiser. "He killed two of your capes and you're going to be giving him a phone call?"

"You're not from Brockton Bay. You wouldn't understand." Kaiser lifted the telephone receiver and carefully punched in the number. "It's easier this way." Putting the phone on speaker, he replaced the handset on the cradle. It rang once, then twice. Halfway through the third ring, it was picked up.

"Hello, Kaiser." The voice was deceptively mild. Despite the intervening years, he recognised it immediately.

"Dark." Even saying the word out loud made his throat constrict.

"You're calling about Cricket and Hookwolf." The casual tone of the Dark's voice made the conversation all the more surreal.

"I … am." Kaiser took a deep breath. "Why did you kill them? Are you working again?"

"One of your men took my dog. I came to take him back. Cricket and Hookwolf got in my way. I told them to back off. They wouldn't."

Kaiser let his head fall back, trying to gain some level of comprehension from the Dark's words. "A dog? You killed them over a … dog?"

"He's very important to me."

Kaiser flinched at the implied rebuke. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean … of course dogs are important." He didn't own one himself, but he'd heard people say that. "Uh … you got him back okay?"

"He'll be fine. I regret what happened to your people." He didn't exactly sound regretful. "If they'd backed off, none of this would've happened."

"And, uh, the Undersiders?"

"Coincidence. Hellhound showed up at the same time as I did. We were on the same page, so we worked together."

That made for a certain kind of sense. "I see. So … are you back? Are you working again?"

"I hadn't planned on it, but it depends on who wants to get in my way." The subtle threat was back in his voice.

"Right, right." Now came the sixty-four million dollar question. "You've got your dog back. The ones who took him are dead. Are we good?" Am I going to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life? Do I have to mobilise the Empire for one last hopeless battle against an impossible opponent?

The Dark didn't answer immediately, and Kaiser's gut knotted up. Finally, the answer came back. "For now. So long as nobody messes with me or mine again." There was a click; it took him a few seconds to realise that the Dark had hung up.

When he turned his head, Krieg was staring at him again. "What?"

"What in God's name was that?" Krieg's tone was disbelieving. "I can't believe you just rolled over and showed your belly to a normal!"

Kaiser punched him in the stomach, doubling him over. Then he hauled him up by his collar and backhanded him across the room. Stalking after Krieg, he loomed over the Gesellschaft cape, a long metal spike extending from his forearm.

"Rule number one," he hissed. "You don't fuck with the Dark. Rule number two. You don't do anything that will draw the Dark's close and personal attention in the direction of the Empire. And rule number three. Question my decisions again and I will put a spike right through your head. Is that understood?"

Krieg looked up at him, a trickle of blood running out of his left nostril. " … Understood," he said reluctantly.

"Good." Kaiser turned away from him. "Now go and give the order. The dog fights stop now. As of today. Got it?"

"Dog fights?" Krieg began to climb to his feet. "Why the dog fights?"

"Because the Dark has a dog now," Kaiser explained patiently. "If anyone kills his dog, they're dead. And if they're Empire, we're dead. So we don't do dog fights any more. Just in case."

He didn't let his guard down until Krieg was out of his office. Once the door was shut once more, he went to his liquor cabinet. Retracting the metal from his hands and head, he poured himself a drink and tossed it back in one gulp. Losing Hookwolf and Cricket in one fell swoop had rattled him deeply, but not as much as the phone call with the Dark. At least the Empire was safe for the moment.

Fuck, I hope nobody does anything stupid.

Pouring a second glass, he began to consider who would be a good replacement for Hookwolf. And possibly Krieg.

<><>​

Director Emily Piggot

The report was almost dramatic in its simplicity. There had been a major incident at an Empire dog-fighting ring, resulting in the deaths of more than thirty men, and the maiming of quite a few more. Rachel Lindt, aka Hellhound, had been placed at the scene, but Assault (who'd written the report) hadn't attributed the deaths to her. Nor did Emily consider that an oversight. While Lindt had a couple of deaths and many cases of unlawful wounding on her file, all of the killing at the arena had been done with knives and guns, not Hellhound's trademark monster dogs.

Worse, forensic analysis of the aftermath—including the deaths of not one but two high-profile Empire capes—indicated that just one person had been the culprit. That person had shot, stabbed, maimed and murdered dozens of opponents in close quarters, and had made it out alive. Cricket had been taken apart in hand to hand combat, and Hookwolf had met a gruesome end via a junkyard magnet. But that wasn't the worst bit. The worst bit was who was being named as the architect of this massacre.

Closing her eyes, she massaged her temples slowly. When she opened them, the name was still on the page before her. "How reliable are your contacts?" she asked, looking up. "How certain are you that the Dark was involved?"

"Oh, I'm positive," Assault said with no sign of his usual humour. "I met him a couple of times in the old days." This, she knew, was code for 'while I was still working as Madcap'. "And I saw his work. This is very familiar to me. I just asked around to see if anyone had a second opinion. Nobody did."

"So, the Dark's back." She leaned back in her chair and let out a gusty sigh. "Just perfect."

Assault cleared his throat. "Uh … I'm not being facetious here, but … you know, it could be worse. The Dark doesn't take jobs on police or PRT. Or any innocents, really. Everyone he's ever killed has been dirty as hell."

"He also had a reputation for not killing capes," Emily pointed out bitingly. "He's been away for nearly three years. What else has changed?"

"Maybe he didn't plan on Cricket and Hookwolf showing up?" suggested Assault. "Maybe it wasn't an ambush, like those Empire guys we picked up are saying?"

"So you're saying that the Dark was there for another reason, and when Cricket and Hookwolf showed up, they were eliminated just because they were in the way?" The idea of someone casually brushing Hookwolf aside as being surplus to requirements sent chills down Emily's spine. As much as she despised the Empire, she was fully aware of the fact that the killings would send tremors to the far reaches of Brockton Bay's gang scene. The aftershocks, she suspected, would be reverberating for some time to come.

"Well, it fits with what I know of him," Assault agreed. "He wouldn't have killed them if they weren't trying to kill him. Or maybe he was protecting Hellhound."

"All right." Piggot put her hands flat on her desk, mainly so she could avoid rubbing her temples again. "If he was there for another purpose, what was it? Was he there to assist Hellhound in her personal crusade? Do you think the Undersiders may have hired him for that?"

"That's a very scary thought." Assault pinched his lower lip, pulling it out. "But I can't see it. He killed a lot of them, and I doubt the Undersiders would want their name linked to that sort of thing, much less the deaths of two Empire capes."

His summation made sense to Piggot, unfortunately enough. "Granted. So he wanted something in that building on that night. It wasn't anything concealed on site, because he could've gone in the night before or after, when there was nobody there. It had to be one of the Empire men on site. He killed his way through half the crowd to get to whoever it was. And then he killed Cricket and Hookwolf because they interrupted him."

"Which means that one of those corpses is a lot more valuable than he looks," Assault said, spreading out the photos of the carnage that littered Piggot's desk. "Any of them known to run in important circles?"

She shook her head. "No. Everything I've got on any of them says 'low level Empire minion'."

"Then there's something we're missing. Has to be." Assault pulled off his helmet and ran his gloved hand through his hair. "I can buy him killing all those idiots, but not for nothing."

"We'll just have to keep looking." Piggot hated that idea, and didn't bother schooling her face to hide the fact from Assault. "If he'd just stuck to killing normals, we could've washed our hands of the whole affair. But he had to kill capes."

"Criminal capes," Assault reminded her. "And I seem to recall that Hookwolf was looking at Birdcage time himself."

"Birdcage, not a kill order," she snapped back. "And Cricket didn't even have that."

"Hm." Assault's tone was carefully noncommittal. "Just so you know, Armsmaster's looking to go on the hunt just as soon as he starts his patrol this afternoon. He's been working on a new halberd all morning."

Piggot's eyes opened wide. "That idiot." Picking up her phone, she stabbed a few buttons with her fingertip. "Get me Armsmaster. Now."

Assault tuned out the upcoming explosion as he leaned over the desk and stirred the photos with his finger again. If we just had some idea of why he was there …

<><>​

Lung

"Hookwolf and Cricket are dead."

Lung let the pronouncement hang in the air as he looked around at his men. They stared back with varying levels of excitement and trepidation. Only the faithful Oni Lee evinced no trace of emotion, and it wasn't just because of the full-face mask he wore. Oni Lee never showed excitement over anything.

He wanted to pace back and forth, but the room they were in lacked the space to do that, so he smacked his fist into his palm instead. "The Empire Eighty-Eight lost two of their stronger members last night. They will be reeling, unsure of themselves. We can push outward, into their territory. Take it for ourselves."

One of the braver men raised his hand. "What about the Dark?" he asked.

"What about him?" retorted Lung. "The man doesn't exist. His so-called exploits have been blown out of proportion. Every time an idiot criminal tripped and hurt himself in Brockton Bay in the last twenty years, they've blamed it on the Dark. Nobody could do what he's said to have done. Especially without powers. Whatever happened to Hookwolf and Cricket, it wasn't the Dark."

"But Jack Slash—" objected the man.

Taking one long stride, Lung smashed the man to the floor with a single punch. "Jack Slash was found with his knees and elbows shot out by high-powered rifle fire!" he shouted. "The Dark was invented by the PRT in the first place! Back then, Brockton Bay had too many criminals, so they dreamed up a master assassin who could take the fall for them killing anyone they wanted out of the way. When Jack Slash was getting too troublesome, they crippled him then stuffed him in the Birdcage, but said the Dark actually took him down so nobody would look too closely at how they did things."

He'd thought about the matter long and hard since he first came to Brockton Bay. In the seven years and change he'd been there, the so-called 'Dark' had only been active for five, and barely any of his killings came to light. It had been more than two years since anyone even mentioned the mythical killer's name. The conclusion was inescapable. The 'Dark' was obviously a fraud perpetrated on the gullible criminal underworld of Brockton Bay to excuse extrajudicial killings, something that had been all too common in the CUI.

It made him want to punch someone. Everyone was pissing their pants over a name, a word. Over something that wasn't even real.

"If there ever was a Dark, he's been dead in a ditch for years. If there's anything we need to fear, it's not the Dark." Turning away from the unfortunate minion, he addressed the rest of the men in the room. "Tonight, we prepare. Tomorrow night, we start our push. We won't take the city in a night. We won't take it in a week. We won't even take it in a month. But we will take it."

Behind his mask, he smiled. Things were finally looking up for the ABB.

<><>​

Coil

Thomas Calvert frowned. "The Dark?" he asked out loud. "Who the hell is the Dark?" He scrolled upward and read through the report again. It was from one of his moles in the Empire Eighty-Eight. Apparently, the murders of Cricket and Hookwolf were being attributed to someone with that singular name. Not only did the mole assume that he knew exactly who the Dark was, but the whole tone of the report indicated that the Empire was bending over backward to make sure they didn't annoy the Dark again.

Tapping in a command, he accessed his home system. Using that as a back-channel, he logged in to his office computer in the PRT building. From there, he downloaded all the files with his clearance that were tagged with the name 'Dark'. There weren't many of them. In fact, as he scanned through them (after wiping his traces and logging out of the secure link) he decided that they had to have been redacted at a high level.

The information on the man was maddeningly obscure. In fact, it was downright non-existent. Barely any hard data about the man called 'the Dark' was available, even at squad commander level. Nearly every reference ended in the notation "Referred matter to BBPD". What the Brockton Bay police department did with it, Calvert couldn't tell. They certainly hadn't arrested anyone, or at least no such arrests had been recorded in the files.

Closing the files, he began to wonder if he was the victim of an elaborate prank of some kind. Or perhaps the Dark was just some kind of urban legend. Even as a crime boss of growing power within Brockton Bay, he'd never encountered the man, much less heard anything about him.

Making an irritated noise, Calvert picked up his phone and dialled a particular number.

<><>​

Lisa

Oh, holy shit. Lisa carefully closed the laptop screen, but the inferences she'd drawn from the crime-scene photos stretching back decades were still running around in her brain, hitting the panic button. Fuck me, he's still alive.

She'd never heard of the Dark before she came to Brockton Bay, but when people let their guard down, they talked. And she was good at listening.

Over the last ten months, she'd heard whispers of a name, always respectful, almost nostalgic. The Dark had been one of the scariest highlights of the Bad Old Days of Brockton Bay and in a very odd way, one of the most comforting. Everyone who was in a position to know, knew that if anyone got too excessive, someone would hire the Dark to get rid of the problem. Nobody knew who he really was, not even the ones who hired him. The word on the street was that he wasn't a cape—her power agreed—and that to cross him was to die. Her power agreed with that, too. His one quirk was that he didn't go after capes.

The Dark's career had stretched from 1988 to 2008. In the criminal underworld, a twenty-year run was almost unheard of, especially when it wasn't rounded out by a public funeral or an even more public trial. He'd been trailing off with his kills—personal choice, her power said, caused by outside circumstances—and then simply cut off altogether. Had he died? Made the decision to just … stop? Her power couldn't quite come to a conclusion. There wasn't enough data.

And then, last night, Rachel had run into someone who'd killed dozens of men with the same ease that Lisa ate pop-tarts, then killed Cricket in front of her before leading Hookwolf away. Lisa had plucked the news about Hookwolf's death out of the morning news. It wasn't exactly a strain to figure out that the Dark had killed him, too.

Because it was the Dark. There was absolutely no doubt about it. Rachel, as puzzled as she ever was, had repeated the question to Lisa: "Are you afraid of the Dark?" Only the Dark ever used that catchphrase, because apparently nobody else was stupid enough to impersonate him.

So the Dark was back in Brockton Bay, from wherever he'd disappeared to—didn't go anywhere. Was here in Brockton Bay the whole time—and had come out of retirement to rescue a puppy from a dog-fighting ring, of all things. That part, Lisa knew Rachel had no problem with. The stocky girl would happily have slaughtered the rest of them to save the puppy as well.

What terrified Lisa was that the Dark almost certainly had just as little problem with it. And that, combined with his obvious talent for directed violence, led to an inescapable conclusion. Someone else in Brockton Bay was going to cross the Dark very soon, because people were like that. And that someone was going to have a very bad day. No matter how unlikely it was that she'd ever come to his attention, it was still one hell of a wake-up call to find out there was an extremely accomplished killer living unseen in Brockton Bay.

Her phone buzzed. She picked it up, noting the number as she swiped her thumb across. "Yo, boss," she said, leaning back on the sofa and consciously relaxing her back muscles so that Coil wouldn't hear any traces of tension in her voice. "How can I help you?"

"I want you to find everything you can on the Dark," her so-called boss replied, his voice clipped and precise. "His place of residence, his name, his weaknesses, his record. Everything."

Lisa's power filled her in even as she was formulating her reply. Coil had tried going through official channels, and had run headfirst into a brick wall. Are the PRT and cops soft-selling the Dark's existence? Holy shit, I think they are.

And then the Plan dropped into her lap, almost fully formed. "I … heh, would you believe I've already been looking him up?" she asked. "Rachel met someone calling himself that at the Empire slaughter last night. I found out a bit, too."

"I'm listening." Coil's voice was tight.

Lisa made herself shrug. It was easier to make bullshit sound just right when you did the gestures as well. "There's no such person as the 'Dark'. Oh, there might have been one once, but every few years when someone got the drop on the previous one, they'd take over the name. The last one got his head blown off in a screwed-up bank robbery three years ago, so there's been no contenders for the title until now. The thing is, if you claimed the name, this guy's likely to come after you with the idea that you're some grandstander. But he doesn't know who you are, so your guys'll take him down easily." The story came easily to her, flowing to its natural conclusion.

"And why should I do that?" But she knew she had his attention.

"The reputation, duh," she said. "If you can put it out that the Dark is working for you, nobody's going to want to cross you."

"Hmm." There was a long moment of silence. "So do you think—"

"I mean, I'm pretty sure we couldn't pull it off," she interrupted, trying to make it sound as though this had only just occurred to her. "I mean, we're all too young to be the original Dark, and everyone knows the Undersiders don't kill. One of your guys could do it easily, though."

"I'll keep that in mind." The dial tone cut in, indicating that he'd hung up.

Lisa dropped her phone, grabbed up the sofa pillow, and held it over her mouth. The squeal she let out was still a little loud, even muffled by the pillow, but she didn't care.

Holy fuck, I think I just did it.

Fuck you, Coil. Fuck you.

<><>​

You know you've built a solid reputation when people you've never heard of, people who weren't even around when you set out to build it, veer off from upsetting you just on the strength of what you're supposed to have done.

Of course, there are those who can't take a hint, and have to poke the bear.

These people are otherwise known as 'object lessons'.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

Danny

Taylor giggled as Chewie licked her face. She cuddled the wriggly little puppy in her arms and scratched behind his ears. He stretched out, a blissful expression on his puppy face, as his back leg thumped on her arm. Danny leaned back in his chair with a faint smile on his face. All the violence and death, even the unwanted notoriety that would come from the Dark killing capes, was worth the glow of joy on Taylor's face.

The door clicked open and Danny turned, his right hand easing toward the pistol that now rode in the shoulder holster under his left arm. He was pretty sure that nobody had identified him, much less that anyone would be coming into the hospital to take him out. But there was no such thing as being too careful.

"Hi?" To his jaded eye, the young woman looked like a teenager, but she was wearing a lab coat with a nametag, and carrying a clipboard. Her hands were in plain sight, and she didn't walk like a killer. "I'm Doctor Marshall? I'm looking for Taylor Hebert?"

Danny came to his feet and held out his hand. "That's Taylor on the bed. I'm Danny Hebert, her father. I wasn't aware that she needed any more specialist medical attention." Whatever this was about, he was sure the money he'd been given by the school wouldn't cover it.

"Oh, no, I'm the child psychologist?" She had, Danny was quickly learning, a habit of phrasing her statements as questions. Her free hand fluttered up toward where her black hair had been gathered into an untidy bun. "Doctor Franklin asked me to do an assessment on your daughter?" As if spotting his hand at the last moment, she shook it. Her hand was cool and slim.

"Oh, right." Danny nodded, remembering. Yesterday seemed so long ago. "Do you want me to wait outside?"

She shrugged, looking self-conscious. "If you wouldn't mind? I find children act more naturally when their parents aren't in the room to give them cues, don't you?"

Danny glanced at Taylor. "Honey?" If she gave the word, he was going to stay in the room, doctor or no doctor.

She held Chewie close to her as she stared past him at the doctor. "Uh, can Chewie stay with me?"

"Chewie's your dog?" Doctor Marshall smiled at Taylor. "Certainly he can stay." It was the first definitive statement she'd made.

"Then I'll be okay," she said, making an obvious effort to be brave. Her hand stroked Chewie's ears, and he licked her chin.

"Okay. I'll be right outside." Leaning over, he ruffled her hair then brushed the back of his fingers across Chewie's fur. Giving the doctor a nod, he stepped past her and out the door then pulled it shut behind him.

There were some chairs here, of the type that were comfortable for about five minutes then quickly became an exercise in torture. He sat down anyway, then picked up a newspaper that someone had discarded on the next chair over. Turning it over, he went still for a long moment. The headline said: CRICKET, HOOKWOLF SLAIN IN GANG VIOLENCE.

Leaning back in the chair, he turned the pages of the paper until he reached the body of the article. He scanned it with a practised eye, looking for one particular word. It wasn't there. Nowhere was anyone connecting the killings with him; not that the Dark was officially known to the public, but stranger things had happened.

Going back through the article, he read it through more carefully. While the author had gotten most of the facts right, the general idea seemed to be that the massacre had been perpetrated by a fireteam rather than a single man. The article assumed there'd been about ten people in the team, even suggesting that some had been wounded or killed during the fight.

Cricket's death was attributed to being shot from ambush, with speculation that Hookwolf had been immobilised somehow before being taken to the wrecking yard and executed. On reading this, Danny snorted. Whatever his personal feelings about the Empire capes, they had gone down bravely. Hellhound's presence—he knew her cape name was Bitch, but he refused to call any woman that—at the scene wasn't mentioned at all, which surprised him a little.

The Brockton Bay Police Department was usually better than this with their forensic investigation. However, he suspected that their eagerness to fill in every detail had dried up altogether once the Empire guys he'd left alive at the scene had started talking. The entire article could be summed up as "Hookwolf and Cricket are dead, please don't ask for inconvenient details, now sports."

Closing the paper, he rolled it up and sat for a few moments, tapping his lips with the end of the paper. Taylor was happy with Chewie at the hospital, but something was niggling at his mind. He knew damn well there was more to the story than the weak-as-dishwater narrative the Brockton Bay Bulletin was trying to pass off as investigative journalism. The reporter who wrote the story probably knew that as well. And the cop who'd provided details for the journalists definitely knew it. But the average person on the street would read the article and take at face value that there was no more to be said.

When Taylor had been shoved into her locker, no criminal investigation had been launched. He wasn't even sure if the school had questioned any of the students. They'd done a masterful job of sweeping it under the carpet, to the point that Danny wouldn't have known it had even happened if he hadn't been forcibly made aware of it. Why are they working so hard to hide what happened? Who are they protecting?

The door to Taylor's room opened and he looked around. "That was quick," he said, a little surprised.

"We were a good fifteen minutes, I believe?" Doctor Marshall gave him a brilliant smile.

"Oh. Right." He'd been concentrating on the article for longer than he'd realised. Dropping the paper on to the chair, he stood up again. "So, uh, how is she?"

She stepped out of the room and closed the door. Taking a deep breath, she clasped both hands on her clipboard and held it in front of her. When she spoke, her voice was serious. "Mr Hebert, it's obvious that your daughter's been through a very traumatic experience. She's going to be showing the effects of it for some time, though the puppy you got her is already blunting the edge of that."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Will she be needing therapy?" The question was more in hope than in any confidence that the answer would be negative.

"Mr Hebert, we all need therapy. It's the world we live in." He raised an eyebrow at her cynical tone. "It will be expensive, I know, but she really will be better off in the long run." She sighed. "She's already bottling some of it up, and I don't think that's good for her, do you?"

"Well, no." He'd had anger issues in his youth, and holding those in had never helped either. Fortunately, his father had recognised the problem before it got out of hand, and given him a useful outlet. I'm pretty sure we've still got that punching-bag in the basement. That'll be a good start.

"Well, I'll leave you to think it over, all right?" She gave him another smile. "It was nice meeting you, and Taylor and Chewie as well. You'll let Doctor Franklin know of your decision?"

"Sure. Nice meeting you, too." Danny shook hands with her, then watched her walk off down the corridor. Opening the door into Taylor's room, he stepped inside.

"Hi, Dad." Taylor was sitting up in bed with Chewie sleeping on her lap. She looked happy enough, but he recalled the doctor's words.

"Hi, kiddo. How'd it go?" Pulling the chair around, he sat down next to her so he could look her in the eye.

She shrugged gently so as not to disturb the snoozing puppy. "She asked a few questions that I didn't really want to think about. But she was really nice about it, and Chewie likes her. If you think I should get therapy, I guess I can do it."

"Well, we're not going to do nothing," he assured her. "But we might look at less expensive methods first, if that's okay with you?" Teaching her the basics of hand to hand self-defence would give her a boost of confidence, and then maybe she could stand to learn how to shoot. Just in case. The basement had been carefully soundproofed for a reason, after all.

"Okay." She smiled at him. "So what are we gonna do right now?"

"Well, if you don't think it's too boring," he said, reaching into the shopping bag he'd carried in from the car, "I brought some board games. How do you feel about Monopoly?"

"Cool!" She sat up a little more, and Chewie grunted and rolled over, then went back to sleep. This didn't surprise Danny. The little guy had been through a lot, the night before. "Chewie can play too. I'll roll for him."

He blinked. "Chewie?"

"Yeah." She grinned mischievously. "He can be the Scottie dog."

Danny facepalmed. "Of course." He looked at the smirk on Taylor's face and the light of glee in her eyes, and mentally shrugged. "Why not?" It was an excruciatingly obvious cheat, but if it made Taylor happier, then he was perfectly okay with losing to her.

"Awesome." Taylor reached over and pulled the rolling table into place. "Let's get this set up."

<><>​

Hebert Household
Much Later

When Taylor cheated, Danny decided, she went all out. Even with her occasional bouts of distraction—which he totally understood—she had perpetrated such gross misrepresentations of the rules that he wasn't sure if the game would survive. And of course, once she and Chewie were the sole owners of the board, the puppy had graciously conceded the game to her. Or at least, that was the way she'd interpreted him sitting up and yawning, then licking her face.

He couldn't have been prouder. His entire career had been predicated on figuring out what the target was doing, then cheating as hard as he could. Entire cemeteries were filled with people who'd chosen to fight fair. Taylor was showing that she was a Hebert through and through.

His watch told him that it was a little after ten, which was late enough for what he wanted. Standing up from the sofa, he checked himself over. Balaclava currently masquerading as a watch cap on top of his head, dark clothing, heavy boots. Pepper spray and folding knife in the pockets, plus a few other potentially useful items concealed about his person. Pistol, of course, in the shoulder holster. After not wearing one for so long, it was amazing how quickly he was getting accustomed to the weight again. No more shoving one down the waistband.

He took one step away from the sofa. Chewie, who'd been sleeping beside him, sat up and looked questioningly at him.

"Stay," he told the puppy firmly. "I won't be too long."

Chewie responded by jumping off the sofa and looking up at him with an expectant air. His tail whipped back and forth through the air. Are we going out? he seemed to be asking. Walkies?

"No," Danny said as firmly as he was able. "This is not a Chewie thing. This is a me thing. No place for little puppies. Stay." Turning, he took two steps toward the back door. Totally ignoring the command, Chewie trotted after, nails clicking on the floor.

Danny grimaced. He headed for the door and opened it. The guys from Kwiksmart had done a good job of re-hanging it on its hinges and fixing the front door step. Stepping outside, he leaned down and captured Chewie, then gently shoved him back inside and shut the door. "I said, 'stay'."

Carefully, he turned the key in the lock, ignoring the snuffling sound that was coming from under the door, then went down the steps to the back yard. He made it exactly two more steps toward the car before Chewie started howling.

"Oh, God," he muttered. He took two more steps, then waited. The howling didn't stop. It occurred to him that Chewie had never been left alone since Danny had acquired him. Worse, if he walked away now and Chewie kept up the racket, it might just draw attention.

With a put-upon sigh, he climbed the steps once more and unlocked the back door. Chewie scrabbled his way past the opening door and leaped into his hands. Danny lifted up the wriggling bundle, tail wagging so hard that Chewie's entire back half was jerking from side to side, and looked him in the eye. "What am I going to do with you?" he asked rhetorically. Chewie's answer was to lick him on the face.

Holding Chewie with one arm, he locked the door with his free hand then headed down the steps to the back yard. "Okay," he said seriously. "These are the rules. You don't make noise. You don't run off. And if trouble happens, I'll take care of it. Got that?"

Chewie tilted his head to one side. Danny hoped that meant Gotcha, boss. Whatever you say. It was more likely, of course, that what it really meant was I have no idea what you just said. Whatever; he had a leash in the car. He'd just have to deal.

Unlocking the car, he climbed in and put Chewie on the passenger seat. The pup immediately put his paws up on the windowsill and peered out, as if to say, Well, why aren't we moving yet? Shaking his head, Danny started the car. Carefully, he backed the vehicle down the driveway and out on to the road. Running the engine at just over an idle, he rolled off down the road. The fewer people who knew that he'd gone for a late-night drive, the better.

It only took him about fifteen minutes to reach his destination. All the same, he didn't drive into the Winslow parking lot. There would be no better way to advertise his presence in the school. Neither slowing down nor speeding up, he made his way past, then parked in the first side-street he came to. This time, he didn't even bother trying to lock Chewie in the car. Leaning over to grab the leash from the passenger-side foot-well, he suffered a slobber attack in his ear. When he straightened up, he tried to glare at Chewie, but the pup looked so happy that he didn't have the heart.

"Okay," he said. "Walkies." Clipping the leash on to Chewie's collar, he climbed out of the car. Chewie followed eagerly, jumping to the floor of the car then down to the road with the ease of a seasoned expert. He snuffled busily over the road while Danny locked the car, apparently finding a dozen scents in as many seconds, all of which were equally fascinating.

Fortunately, when Danny headed off back toward the school, Chewie obviously decided that walking was as much fun as sniffing scents, and trotted out in front. As an afterthought, Danny removed the balaclava and shoved it into an inside jacket pocket. I'm just some guy out for a walk with his dog. Nothing to see here.

Slowly, the school came into sight. Danny would have preferred to move faster but he didn't want to drag the puppy, and to carry Chewie would've invalidated the whole 'walking the dog' concept, at least while they were in view of the public. So he let Chewie bumble along at his own erratic pace, while he enjoyed the brisk night air. Though if it was much more brisk, his ears would be in danger of falling off.

He was, of course, keeping a discreet eye out. The incident with the would-be carjacker was still fresh in his memory. Back over his shoulder, just as they were coming up to the school driveway, a police car cruised into sight. No flashing lights or sirens, which meant they were just patrolling. Of course, if the word was out that the Dark was active again, they'd be a little more cautious than normal.

Straight past the driveway he strolled, just a suburban dad out for a late-night walk with his puppy. It was such a quiet night that he heard the tiny squeak of brakes being applied as the cop car came up behind him. And then, much less quietly, the rasp of their siren being flicked on and off again.

Turning, he was careful to keep both hands in sight as he shaded his eyes against the flashing red and blue lights now throwing weird shadows across the school parking lot. Chewie, frightened by the noise, began yapping at the car as it eased up to Danny.

"Evening, officers," he said politely. "Can I help you?" The passenger-side window was already down. He figured he could have the guy in the passenger seat out and disabled before the driver could respond. Rolling over the hood and taking out the driver without killing him would be a little more difficult with Chewie there, but it could be done.

"Good evening, sir." The police officer looked down toward where Chewie was still expressing his displeasure. "Would you mind quieting your dog?"

"Sure," said Danny. "Sorry about that. He's still young." Bending down, he scooped Chewie up and ruffled the dog's floppy ears. Chewie quit yapping and licked his hand. "Is there a problem?"

"No problem, sir." The cop looked him up and down. "It's a bit late to be out and about, that's all."

"Don't I know it." Danny affected a yawn. "I got him for my daughter, but the little critter just won't settle. So, walkies time." He rolled his eyes and put on a sarcastic tone for the last few words.

"I hear you, sir." The officer offered a sympathetic nod. "It's just not a very safe neighbourhood to be walking around in, this late at night."

With his free hand, Danny patted his pocket. "I've got pepper spray. And I'm on the way home, anyway. Want to see my ID?" Within the lockbox, he'd also had stored away several fake driver's licences. One now resided in his pocket for just such an occasion.

"Nah, it's fine." The cop waved away the question. "You get home safe now, you hear?"

"Will do, officer, and thank you. Glad to see Brockton Bay's finest on the job." Danny stepped away from the car and tipped a vague salute to the cop. The window was already buzzing up as the car moved off.

"Well," he mused as he put Chewie down again—the cops were almost certainly watching him in the rear-view mirror—and started forward again. "It seems that you're handy for dealing with the police. Maybe I've been missing a trick, all this time." Up ahead, the cop car turned a corner. He kept walking, counting in his head. At 'twenty', just about the time it would've taken to pull a three-point turn, the car came out of the side-street again and headed back toward him. He offered a friendly wave as they went past. Due to the glare of the headlights, he wasn't sure if they'd waved back.

Glancing back over his shoulder, he watched until the car was out of sight again. No cars were visible in either direction. It was time to move. Bending down, he gathered Chewie up and began to retrace his steps, moving quite a bit faster now. When he got to the school driveway, he headed in. Loose gravel crunched under his boot soles and his heart beat faster, the excitement catching up with him.

When you're setting up for a kill … you have to study your target. Danny had written those words a year or two ago as notes for a potential memoir. Despite his years as a contract killer, he now found himself in an unusual situation. Studying his target, he was familiar with. Finding out who his target was before he actually set up the kill was new to him. Normally, that sort of information was handed over before he ever began to prep for action.

In order to find out who he needed to kill, he had to return to the scene of the crime. In this case, Winslow. Fortunately, unlike every crime scene investigator in history, his evidence would have been written down and stored away, waiting for him to come and check it out.

A car cruised past on the road. He dropped to a kneeling position next to a bush and held still, head down, hardly breathing. Chewie wriggled around and licked his face. It wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to him. He was just pleased that the puppy was enjoying himself.

When the road was clear again, Danny came to his feet and jogged the rest of the way to the school. During his previous visit, when he'd harangued the school principal, he had almost subconsciously noted that the school had no operational security system. Wires had been pulled away from the wall, motion sensors were dead and dark, and everything that should show glowing LEDs … didn't. Even the remaining security cameras were actually a well-known fake brand. Which meant that all he needed to do was get inside.

Of course, he didn't want to make it clear that anyone was inside, so he eased his way around to the side wall, to where a sturdy-looking downpipe was attached to the building. Zipping his jacket part-way up and tucking it in, he tightened his belt to almost painful levels. Then he picked Chewie up and put him inside his jacket, zipping it the rest of the way. After a little squirming around, Chewie pushed his head out through the neck of the jacket, looking around with interest.

Taking the balaclava out of his pocket, Danny pulled it on to his head, watch cap style. Then he took out a pair of black leather gloves. Finally, he reached into his jacket sleeve and unhooked a small pry-bar from where it rested against his forearm.

Reaching up to where a bracket held the downpipe against the wall, he inserted the pry-bar and used it to hoist himself off of the ground. Holding on with his knees, he hauled himself up the wall in that fashion, while doing his best not to press his body weight on Chewie too closely. Fortunately for the both of them, the pup seemed fascinated by this method of travel and didn't try to climb out of the jacket halfway up.

Clambering over the edge of the roof, Danny took a moment to catch his breath before unzipping his jacket and putting Chewie back on his own four feet. Then he loosened his belt again and headed over to the roof access door. He was fully expecting to have to use the pry-bar there, but when he got close enough, he saw that the area around the lock had already been tampered with. When he grabbed the handle and pulled, it opened easily. Pulling a small flashlight from his pocket, he examined the lock; the damage looked like it had been done weeks or even months ago. And they never bothered to fix it. Son of a bitch.

No alarms had sounded when the door opened; it seemed his analysis had been accurate. Chewie slipped through the gap in the door, snuffling industriously at the concrete stairs. Danny wondered what he was scenting, hoping that nobody had spilled any drugs right inside the doorway. The last thing he needed was a puppy strung out on cocaine.

Stepping through, he let the door swing closed behind him. With Chewie jumping from step to step, no doubt enjoying the unusual nightly excursion, Danny prowled down the stairwell, pausing at every flight to listen for noises. Aside from the gentle creaks of the building settling, there were none. Reaching the floor he wanted, he headed along the corridor. He knew full-well where Taylor's locker was, but that wasn't his goal.

When he got to the door of Blackwell's office, it was locked. The pry-bar made short work of it; the muted crack didn't even startle Chewie. Danny was quite aware that he was now leaving traces of his activities, but he was beyond caring. Besides, he couldn't imagine that nobody had ever broken into the school before, or even the principal's office.

Blackwell's office had a window looking out over what could charitably be called sports fields. Danny pulled the blinds closed, then took a small flashlight from his pocket. He could've probably gotten away with turning the light on, but those would show even through blinds. They'd know someone had been there in the morning, but his main concern was being interrupted before he found out who was responsible for Taylor's condition.

Before he started the search in earnest, he spent a few minutes looking around the office and determining where he'd need to search. There were a couple of upright filing cabinets beside the desk, and an antiquated-looking PC on the desk itself. Danny wasn't great with computers, but he knew the basics. He decided to look there last.

First, he seated himself at the desk and tried each of the drawers. One was locked, but that didn't last long. Inside was a locked box, which rattled invitingly when he shook it. In the interests of verisimilitude (and the fact that the school owed him a lot more than the check Blackwell had reluctantly written out for him) he cracked that open and pocketed the cash within.

None of the other drawers yielded results; there were no documents which referred to Taylor in any way. He left the papers strewn over the desk and floor as he got up. Next was the filing cabinet.

None of the drawers were locked; he went for D-H, then started paging through for 'Hebert, T'. It wasn't hard to find. Taylor's file was half as thick again as any of the files around hers, and twice as thick as some. Hauling it out, he dropped it on the desk and started flicking through it. Almost immediately, he began to swear.

From about halfway through the school year in 2009, Taylor had been putting in complaints about being picked on. At first these were sporadic, then there were a lot in a short time, and then they tailed off. At first, there were notations about 'spoke to other person. Warned for behavior'. Then it became 'spoke to T. Hebert. Warned for nuisance complaints'.

He went back again, frowning. No names were given for the other people, just initials. 'S. H.' showed up a lot. 'M. C.' was also a very common one. And then there was a rash, all naming an 'E. B.' for saying nasty things to her.

E. B.? Emma Barnes? Can't be. The very idea was ridiculous.

Well, now he had initials to work with. He went back to the D-H section, looking for any potential S. H. candidates. There were four, but a quick check narrowed it down to only one in Taylor's year, a Sophia Hess. He noted down the home address, and kept looking.
M. C. was either Madison Clements or Monica Carlton. Danny wasn't sure which one yet.

In the B section, he discovered that only one girl had the first initial E.

Emma, what have you been doing?

Cold rage now filled him, and he pulled the filing cabinet over on to its side. Each of the drawers, he dragged open, so that the papers spilled out everywhere. The second one got the same treatment. Retrieving Chewie from where the pup had just relieved himself against Blackwell's desk leg (he decided to excuse the break from house-training just this once) Danny tucked the puppy under his arm as he went back into Blackwell's desk. It appeared that the woman was a smoker, who kept a lighter in her desk drawer. Balling up a single piece of paper, he carefully set light to it then flicked it off the desk and into the mess of paper on the floor. Then he tossed the lighter after it and pulled the door shut.

A little speed was definitely of the essence now. Cradling Chewie in his arms, Danny took a different path out of the school. There was no time to climb three flights of stairs then slide down the drainpipe, but there was a simpler way. He already knew where the emergency fire doors were, so he headed for the nearest one. Taking a tighter grip on Chewie, he pushed the door open, fully expecting an ear-splitting alarm to go off. Nothing of the sort happened, and he shook his head with disgust. They can't even maintain the building that well.

Crossing the parking lot at a brisk jog, he glanced back over his shoulder as he reached the road. He couldn't be sure, but there appeared to be a faint glow from within. If he really concentrated, he thought he could hear the crackling of flames.

By the time he got to the car, Chewie was wriggling in his arms, impatient to be let down. Danny put him on the front seat, then climbed in himself. Stripping the gloves off his hands and the balaclava off his head, he tucked them into his jacket. He started the car and drove off, adrenaline still singing in his veins. From a distance, he looked back at the school, where he was certain he could see a flickering glow through some of the windows.

Principal Blackwell hadn't been directly involved in Taylor's bullying, but she had enabled it. So had every teacher at Winslow. They deserved to lose their livelihood.

As for the ones who had been involved, he would get to them. First, however, he intended to have a heart to heart talk with an old friend. Or someone whom he'd thought was an old friend.

Alan, you'd better have some very good answers.



End of Part Three

Part Four

 

[Ack]

Ack, can QQ haz Leviathan omake, plz? Because that was fucking gold.

Click to shrink...

Crossposted from Spacebattles.

This was written in response to the comment:

I know it's ridiculous, but reading this just made me imagine Danny making plans to kill Leviathan.

Click to shrink...

Rain poured down over Brockton Bay. The heroes of the Protectorate and the Wards gathered together as sirens wailed across the city. Heroes and villains alike came in from across the country, with one aim in mind. To stand, together, against one of the primal forces which had destroyed cities, sunken whole islands. Millions of people were dead as a direct result of Leviathan's depredations, and countless hundreds of thousands more had fallen victim to the after-effects.

And now he was coming to Brockton Bay. Every hero, every villain ... every cape there knew that this could be their last day on Earth. Leviathan may not have been Behemoth, the Hero-Killer, but many capes had fallen to his claws or his water shadow, or simply drowned under a million tons of water.

Offshore, a tremendous surge of water began to build. This would be the first tsunami to fall on Brockton Bay, but not the last. Leviathan would call them in as easily as a man might pick up a beer and open it. Heroes of might and power such as Eidolon might be able to blunt the impact of the waves on the city, but that would mean they weren't fighting Leviathan.

It began to roll toward the coast, rising higher and higher as it came. From within, for those who had the senses to detect it, Leviathan surfed the inconceivable power of the wave, drawing it with him. Unstoppable. Inevitable.

And then a cloaked figure started out on to the longest pier that jutted out into the Bay. As sturdy as it was, it would be crushed to matchwood when the tsunami struck, but the figure showed no hesitation. Stride by stride, carrying some sort of bulky object in his right hand, he made his way along the pier.

Some capes noticed him, but few would be able to reach him in time, and in any case he was outside the force-field barrier they were even now assembling along the shoreline.

Alexandria flew up and over the barrier and lanced down toward him. Even now, the tsunami was building to its full power, rising high above the pier, high above the Protectorate base. It would be touch and go, but she could--

And then the figure stopped, and pulled the cover off of the thing he carried. It turned out to be a Tinkertech megaphone, which he raised to his mouth. Slowly, almost theatrically, he pushed back his hood.

"LEVIATHAN!" His voice, amplified by the megaphone, echoed back from the still-building wave, clearly audible to those in the city. "ARE YOU AFRAID ... OF THE DARK?"
There was a pause. The wave, astonishingly ... stopped. Alexandria, even her racing mind stunned by the name she'd just heard and by the cessation of forward motion, landed behind the cloaked figure. He made a 'wait' gesture with his free hand, his attention fixed on the wave.

And then, slowly, it began to slump away. Water--the incoming tide, nothing more--ran back over the bare sea-bottom up to the level of the beach, and stopped there. The rain ceased, and the clouds began to part. In the distance, on the surface of the water, there was a brief disturbance, as of something huge and powerful returning to the ocean depths.

The cloaked man turned to Alexandria. "Yes?" he asked mildly. He was taller than her, she realised. Strands of greying hair were stuck to his scalp by the rain. Droplets glinted off of his glasses. But behind the facade of the mild-mannered suburban dad, she saw the true man. The Dark. Involuntarily, she swallowed.

"If ... if he hadn't turned back ... what would you have done?" she asked.

He smiled. She had never seen a more chilling expression on a man's face. The cloak blew aside briefly, and she saw a rifle hanging down off of his back. His free hand brushed the barrel. "I would've had to get serious," he said lightly. Turning, he pulled the hood up over his head again and began to walk back along the pier. She heard him begin to whistle, off-key. Belatedly, just before he got out of earshot, she recognised the tune as "Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head".

 

[Ack]

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Part Four: Night Terrors


[A/N: this chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


Alan Barnes pushed himself away from his desk, the office chair rolling easily over the smooth carpet, and rubbed his eyes. He'd once overheard one of his colleagues asking—maybe rhetorically, maybe seriously—how hard could it be to be a divorce lawyer. The divorce was going to happen anyway, right? It wasn't like he had to prove someone was guilty or innocent to make it happen.

Oh, if only you knew. He figured there was more guilt rolling around in both sides of the average divorce case than in any ten criminal cases. There was always a brain-numbing amount of he-said-she-said that had to be unravelled before he could even make a start on the case. And what was worse, the more he delved into this particular brief, the more the story between the lines was starting to look bad for his client. It wasn't what she'd said that was setting off the alarm bells, it was what she hadn't said.

But he'd opted to take the case and he'd get paid anyway. So, win or lose, he would stand out there and do his best to paint her as an upstanding citizen who most certainly was not getting it on with the gardener while her husband was banging his 38DD secretary at work. Or at least she'd accused the guy of doing so. Alan had seen photos and he had to admit that in all fairness, the secretary didn't look like she'd been hired for her brains. So, guilt on both sides. He just had to spin it so her guilt (which her soon-to-be-ex-husband's attorney would flaunt from the rooftops) showed up as a negligible peccadillo while his guilt became the betrayal of the ages.

Heaving a sigh, he stood up twisting his shoulders to crack his back. Next he popped his neck, then glanced at his desk clock. Zoe would give him hell if he didn't get to bed sometime soon, but he had to finish reading the brief and making notes first. However, right now his brain was threatening to melt out through his ears, so he had to get a metaphorical breath of fresh air before he got back into it. He was just about to head out to the kitchen to pour himself a drink when his phone went off. Bzt-bzt. Bzt-bzt.

It was only a text message, which puzzled him. If people contacted him at this time of night, they usually rang him. Frowning, he scooped up the offending device and brought up the message.

Alan. We need to talk. Front door. Now. It was from Danny.

"What the hell?" he muttered. What was Danny doing texting him at oh-dark-thirty in the morning? What was so important that he couldn't wait till some more civilised hour? And what was 'we need to talk' about, anyway? They'd been friends for more than ten years. More importantly, they shared some important secrets that nobody else knew about, and nobody ever would. Real friends help you move a body …

Sliding the phone into his pocket, he opened his study door and padded in his carpet slippers down the hallway to the living room. It was in darkness, as was the rest of the house. Through the living room into the front hall, and thus the front door. A flick of a switch turned on the outside security lights, but the peephole revealed no Danny on the front step. Which was really odd. If Danny wanted to talk about something, why didn't he just ring? Or say what he wanted to say in the text message? And why say 'front door' if he wasn't going to be there?

And then he froze. Someone was audibly breathing in the living room.

The rest of the house was utterly silent, but Alan could hear panting, as if the person had just run a marathon. His heart rate hitched up a few notches, and he edged forward until his hand could curl around the door-frame into the living room. His knee nudged the umbrella stand, and he grasped the heavy golf umbrella that he usually took out on the course when he had time to visit the Augustus Country Club. It wouldn't give anything but visual cover against a gun, but Danny had shown him a few tricks to use against someone with a knife.

The questing fingers of his other hand found the light switch, and he flicked it over, bringing the umbrella up in a defensive stance. There, sitting in an armchair, facing the front hall … was Danny. On his lap was a puppy, panting happily.

"Hello, Alan." Danny's voice was cool and reserved. Alan recalled the number of people he'd used that tone with, and what had usually happened to them. Then he wondered why he was hearing it. Was it something about Taylor? And why a dog, of all things?

"Danny!" Alan kept his voice down, but he tried to use his tone in a reproving fashion. "What the hell? You scared the crap out of me." He slid the umbrella back into the stand. "What's the matter?" Belatedly, he recalled that Danny knew where he kept the spare key to the front door. Or had he even bothered to use it? Covert entry was one of Danny Hebert's more esoteric skills.

In any event, he ignored Alan's question. "How's Emma doing at school?"

"What?" This was not what he'd been expecting to talk about.

"Emma. School." Danny's voice was firm. "She started back on Monday, just like Taylor. How was she acting when she got back from her first day?"

Alan blinked. He had no idea where this was going, but his innate caution made him think carefully before he spoke. "Uh … the same as normal. A little excited, I guess. She had one of her friends with her. Madison somebody, I think. Is this about Taylor? Because she didn't come over."

"No," said Danny. "She wouldn't have. Because she's in the hospital." He shooed the puppy off his lap; it scrambled down to the floor and immediately began snuffling around like an industrial vacuum in a pint-sized package. However, Alan's incipient thoughts about how cute the puppy was came to a screeching halt when Danny got up. The movement caused his oldest friend's jacket to swing open, affording Alan a glimpse of a leather strap across his chest, and a very familiar object tucked under his left armpit. Something Alan hadn't seen there in quite some time. When he looked up at Danny's face again, Alan was quite sure that he'd been meant to see the gun.

"Danny …" Alan whispered the words. "Are you … working again?"

"That depends," Danny said, his jaw set. "Let's go to your study. We need to have words, and I might just be raising my voice."

Dazed, Alan led the way to his sanctum sanctorum. Questions whirled in his head, like moths battering themselves against a lightbulb. Why was Danny asking about Emma? How had Taylor ended up in the hospital? Why was Danny wearing a gun again?

Scratch that last one; Danny was wearing a gun because Taylor was in the hospital. Whoever had put her there would not long regret that action. But why was Danny here? Why was he going to be raising his voice? Why, in fact, did he have a faint smell of smoke about him?

All of these questions had one pivotal point, and it didn't take him long to narrow his sights down to what it was.

What does he think Emma's done?

<><>​

Coil

"Say it again."

The mercenary took a deep breath. "Are you afraid of the Dark?"

Calvert frowned slightly. There was something missing. The man was big and husky, just the right body type for this 'Dark' boogeyman that the criminal element of Brockton Bay had their drawers in a twist about. He was good enough with a gun to carry off the role, and a balaclava would be a suitable disguise. But still …

He twirled his finger in a circle. Again.

"Are you afraid of the Dark?"

"No …" He rubbed his chin. "Don't just say it. Feel it. You're a scary bastard. Everyone knows it. Nobody's going to fuck with you. It's not a threat. It's a promise."

Lifting his chin, the mercenary tried again, doing his best to infuse his voice with menace. "Are you afraid … of the Dark?"

Finally, it sounded right. "Yes. That's it. Perfect." Under his mask, Calvert smiled.

Making use of an urban legend to further his aims. Who knew?

<><>​

Lung

"There's just one thing you need to know about the Dark!" Kenta strode up and down, his voice booming through the empty space. His men (and women, because women could hold guns too) watched him carefully. Oni Lee stood impassively to one side, thinking whatever thoughts that occupied him when he wasn't killing people. "There is no such person!"

Again, he strode up and down. Nobody said anything. Finally, he raised his voice again. "Does anyone doubt my word?"

The pause was long and pregnant. It was obvious that nobody wanted to gainsay him. As Lung, he had a reputation for burning people alive. Part of this was true, and part was exaggeration. Only a little was exaggeration, of course. Reputations had to start somewhere.

"Uh, great Lung." An older man hesitantly raised his hand. Immediately, everyone around him shuffled away to leave him in an empty spot. "I do not doubt your word. You are the Dragon of Kyushu. If you say the Dark does not exist, then he does not exist. But … they say he walks the streets of Brockton Bay. What do you want us to do if we encounter someone who says they are the Dark?"

Kenta stalked up to the man, and loomed over him. "Do you have a gun?"

"I … yes, sir." There was a long pause, as Kenta glowered at him, then the penny finally dropped. Hands made fumble-fingered by haste, he pulled it out and pressed it into Kenta's hands.

Kenta examined it, pulling back the slide to check that a round was chambered. Then he raised his voice again. "One of the many rumours about the Dark is that he's just a man! That he has no powers! That he's done all he has with no powers! Do you know what this means?"

Absolute silence reigned in the warehouse. Kenta fancied he could hear the spiders spinning their webs in the rafters above. He glared at his people, wishing they'd understand the difference between when he wanted them to speak up and when he wanted them to stay quiet. "It means that he can be killed, just like any other man!" He jammed the muzzle of the pistol up under its owner's jaw. The man froze in place, his wide eyes staring at Kenta for mercy.

"If I pulled the trigger now, this man's brains would be all over the floor. Does anyone doubt that?" He left them about twenty seconds to voice any doubts. Nobody did. Then he put the safety on and handed the gun back to the man. "That's what you do to any idiot claiming to be the Dark. Whoever he is, he has no powers. So you shoot him, then when he's down you shoot him again, to make sure. What you don't do is piss yourself and run away, just because someone quoted a name from some idiot story." He glared at the gun owner. "What are you going to do?"

"Uh, shoot him?" ventured the man.

Leaning close, Kenta whispered, "If I have to ask you again, you're going to wish I'd shot you."

The man took a deep breath. "I'm going to shoot him, sir!" he shouted.

Kenta nodded, once. Then he turned away and began to stride up and down once more. "Now we have that out of the way, let's get down to business."

<><>​

Danny

The chair in front of Alan's desk was as comfortable as ever. Chewie had relieved himself before coming inside (on Zoe's prize rhododendron, but she didn't have to know that) so Danny felt comfortable with unclipping the lead and giving the puppy the run of the office once the door was securely closed. He watched as Alan sat down behind the desk, probably more from habit than anything else.

"What's this about, Danny?" Alan got straight to the point, anyway. "Why are you here? Why are you armed? What's happened to Taylor? And why are you asking about Emma?" He didn't mention Chewie.

Danny rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers in front of him. "Monday morning, when Taylor went to school, someone shoved her into her locker and locked her in." He raised one hand briefly to quell Alan's shocked gasp, then resumed his pose and kept going. "Over the Christmas break, her locker had been filled with biohazardous material of a particular nasty type. She was in there for at least an hour before someone noticed and she was let out."

"Jesus Christ," muttered Alan, and Danny knew he wasn't praying. "What the hell, Danny? Is it someone who knows about your past, sending you a message?"

"I considered that option, briefly." Danny shook his head. "It doesn't scan. Anyone who hates me that badly is already dead. No, the answer's worse than that." He took a breath, and continued. "She's in the hospital, right now. Psych ward. They're also treating her for potential infections from the material in the locker. I decided to check with the school."

"Something tells me you didn't get the answers you wanted," Alan said slowly.

Danny grinned briefly. Alan did know him, after all. "They were remarkably unforthcoming. So I went back tonight. It appears there's been an ongoing and concentrated campaign of bullying against her, ever since she entered Winslow. She complained. They didn't do anything about it, and then they started telling her to shut up and keep her head down."

Alan blinked. "No, that's not right." He shook his head, as if to try to dislodge an insect from his ear canal. "Emma's said nothing about that." He stared at Danny. "Did you want me to bring her in here, so you could ask her who could've done this?"

"No." Danny shook his head in turn, for a different reason. "I found the names of the girls who've been bullying her." Opening his jacket, which of course reminded Alan once more that he was carrying, he took out the single sheet of paper he'd salvaged from the blaze and unfolded it. "Or rather, the initials. S. H., which apparently translates to Sophia Hess …"

Across the desk, Alan's face went through several abrupt transformations; disbelief, shock, fear. Danny's worst suspicions seemed to be coming true; Alan knew that name. He waited, but his oldest friend said nothing.

"Then there's M. C., whom I couldn't put a name to."

This time, he saw Alan's lips form a name. His lip-reading was a little rusty, but he was pretty sure it was Madison. He didn't react. "I'll give you three guesses whose initials also came up. And the first two don't count."

Alan Barnes went white as a sheet, or rather, as white as he could with his ruddy complexion. Then, as if in a time-lapse sequence sped up for comical effect, he went red again. Not fear. Not embarrassment.

Anger.

Danny tensed then. He and Alan Barnes had been friends for a very long time. While he and Anne-Rose had taught Alan a thing or two about protecting himself back in the day, the man had to know he was no match for Danny. If Alan attacked him, Danny would have to be careful about how he went about subduing Alan. While not injuring his oldest friend too badly was a factor here (albeit a minor one) he wanted Alan conscious and both willing and able to talk.

"That conniving, two-faced manipulative bitch!" exploded Alan.

Danny blinked as Alan ranted on, using some particularly vicious epithets more suited to the lowest dockside dives. That was new. Alan rarely made outbursts like that, and he never said things like that about women, especially after having two daughters. Even when his female clients lied to him, he kept his cool. This was, in a word, unprecedented.

"Who, exactly, are you referring to?" asked Danny, when he could get a word in edgewise. Despite the fact that he'd been edging the conversation around to Alan's younger daughter, he had a hard time accepting the idea that Emma was the subject of this tirade.

Alan paused, panting. "Oh, sorry. Sophia goddamn fucking Hess is who I'm talking about. That stinking little cow insinuated herself into our lives. She caught Emma at a vulnerable time ..." He gave a hollow laugh. "Who am I kidding. She caught both of us at a vulnerable time. I welcomed her into our home. I had no motherfucking idea that she was infecting Emma with her ideas. I certainly didn't have the faintest notion she was turning Emma against Taylor."

"But you know now." Danny didn't say it as a question.

Alan ran his hand over his forehead. "You know what they say about hindsight being twenty-twenty. I could see what you were leading up to, and I didn't want to hear it. But in law school, they train you to look at a case from both sides, so you can attack the opposition's weak points and shore up against their strong points."

Danny nodded. It wasn't an unfamiliar concept. He'd had occasion to put it to use himself, a time or two.

"Yeah, well," said Alan, as if Danny had actually spoken. "Just for a second I asked myself, if he's telling the truth, how could this have happened? And it all came together. Sophia motherfucking Hess." Even without the profanity, the name was a curse on his lips.

Danny paused. In all truth, he'd come here tonight to speak to Alan and hear his side of matters, explain what Emma had done, and visit summary justice on her. The other two girls would also suffer, but it was the betrayal of a long-standing friendship that angered him the most. Taylor had trusted Emma.

But now it seemed there was something deeper at work. Emma hadn't just decided to backstab Taylor on a whim. This Sophia Hess, whoever she was, had gotten into Emma's head and turned her around. He was well used to the idea of former allies becoming adversaries when paid by the opposition. After it was all over and the survivors encountered one another, there were rarely any hard feelings. It was just business. And money wasn't the only way to temporarily change someone's allegiance.

Emma would still pay, he decided. There was more than a year of torment, and the locker on top of that, for her to atone for. But not yet. The true architect of all this was the shadowy girl behind the scenes. Sophia Hess. And a great deal of Emma's punishment would depend on how fixed she was on this course once the other girl was removed from the equation. 'Just business' never applied to the paymaster, after all.

Leaning forward, he fixed his eyes on Alan Barnes'. "Tell me everything you know about the Hess girl. Leave nothing out."

Perhaps sensing a partial reprieve for his daughter, Alan Barnes began to talk. As the tale rolled on, Danny's eyebrows hitched higher and higher. After Alan got to a certain point, Danny began to swear.

<><>​

Alan Barnes

Danny paused at the door, the puppy already sniffing at the front doormat. He looked back at Alan, a warning in his eyes. "I will be back," he said. "If Emma isn't here, I'll have to go looking for her. She doesn't want that."

Alan absolutely believed him. "Do you want me to talk to her, make her understand just how much trouble she's in …?"

"She won't understand." Danny's voice was flat. "You've seen people like that. The ones who've never been held accountable. So long as they've got the slightest reason to think they're going to get away with whatever they've done, they just dig their heels in." His left hand brushed his closed jacket, a gesture that had supremely sinister connotations when it came to Danny Hebert. "There's only two ways to get through to them."

The taste of vomit rose into the back of Alan's throat. "What … what's the other way?"

Danny stepped out through the door. He glanced back once. "Kick their legs out from under them." Then the door closed and he was gone.

<><>​

Danny

With Chewie trotting happily at his side, Danny made his way back to his car. Where before his anger had been entirely directed at Emma, now he was seething, with a new target in mind. Corrupt cops were not his favourite people in the world; if police officers couldn't be depended upon to do what they were paid to do, who could? Under the circumstances, he was willing to extend this attitude toward so-called superheroes.

Unlocking the vehicle, he opened the door and got in. Once he was sure Chewie was settled on the seat, he pulled out his phone, then took an aged notepad from his inside jacket pocket. Flipping through the pages, he settled on a particular number.

Before he pressed the buttons to dial the number, he paused to think about his options. A great many consequences would ride on the outcome of this call. He was about to take more steps down a path he'd never ventured on before. Is this what I really want to do?

The memory of Taylor in the hospital bed, frail and helpless, decided him.

Yes.

To hell with the consequences. If they didn't want consequences, they shouldn't have messed with my daughter.

<><>​

Assault

The credits rolled, and the late movie came to an end. Ethan stretched and yawned, careful not to dislodge the warm weight of his sleeping wife against his chest. It was time, he decided, to go to bed. Tomorrow was another day, after all.

He nudged her shoulder. "Wake up, puppy. Movie's over."

"Hmm?" she murmured, and snuggled into him.

"Movie's over," he reiterated. "Time to go to bed. Get some sleep."

"'m comfy right here," she mumbled.

His reply was interrupted by his phone ringing. "Crap," he muttered, and carefully wriggled it out of his pocket without jolting his wife too much. Pressing the button to answer it, he held it to his ear. "You've got Ethan."

"Hello, Madcap." The voice was familiar, though it had been years since he'd heard it. Adrenaline flushed through his system, and suddenly he was a great deal more awake.

"Uh, hi, uh, buddy," he stumbled. "What's up?"

"I'm going to assume you're not alone." The Dark was as perceptive as ever. "Don't worry; this won't take long. I'm calling in a marker."

"Wait, what?" Ethan scrambled for something to say that wouldn't alert his puppy to the fact that the night had suddenly taken an ominous turn. When the Dark called in a marker, nobody said no. "Uh, beer and poker night next Saturday? Isn't that a bit sudden?"

As expected, those words woke his wife all the way up. "What?" she hissed. "You know we're having dinner with Robin and his girlfriend next Saturday." She sat up and glared at him.

"I know, honey, I know," he said placatingly. "Listen, I'll just go out on the porch and explain that. I'll just be a moment, mmkay?"

"Don't be too long," she growled. "And don't give in. I've been looking forward to this for a while."

"I won't," he said in answer to both of her strictures. "I'm just going, okay?" He got up from the sofa and escaped to the front porch, where he closed the door for some privacy. "Okay, what the hell, man? You drop out of sight for years, and then you ring me in the middle of the night?"

"I wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't important." The Dark had a way of cutting to the chase. "I presume you managed to convince your Director that it was me behind Hookwolf and Cricket?"

Despite having been certain in his own mind about both, it was good to have verification. For a given definition of 'good', that is. "Yeah. I kind of had to. If I'd pretended not to know, she wouldn't have bought it for an instant. Hope that's okay."

"It really doesn't bother me." The scary part was, the guy was absolutely serious. The PRT has been alerted that I'm active again? Meh, who cares.

Ethan took a deep breath. "Uh, so, quick question. Are you back? Are you working again?" The answer, he knew for a fact, would decide whether he was going to sleep that night or not.

"That depends. Like I said, I'm calling in a marker. If I can get my business concluded and out of the way in a timely fashion, this is a temporary thing." He didn't have to spell everything out. Ethan could see the writing on the wall. If his business wasn't concluded in a timely fashion … the Dark was back, and life in Brockton Bay was likely to get that little bit more complicated.

"Okayyyy …" Next was the question he didn't want to ask, because the answer was undoubtedly something he didn't want to hear. "What do you need from me?"

"Information. Everything you have about one of your Wards. Shadow Stalker, to be precise."

Ethan was jolted to the core. Before, he'd been casually wondering why the Dark had called him. Now he knew. To say that this set off a lot of alarm bells was putting it mildly. What the Dark had just requested went against nearly everything Ethan knew about him. And it would cause a massive upheaval.

"Uhhh …" He racked his brain, trying to recall what markers the Dark had on him. He wasn't going to refuse the request, but he didn't recall anything that stringent. Maybe he could talk the guy down to something less explosive. "Refresh my memory. When did I run up a marker that big?"

"Oh-five. April. Carnifex. Birdcage run. You'd been contracted by his followers to spring him. They decided to feed you to him once you succeeded."

"Oh, fuck, yes." Ethan didn't need any more reminding. Carnifex was a Changer, who became a huge feral bear-wolf-wolverine hybrid creature that ate people. He'd had a cult following him, sort of like the Fallen-lite. The hit on the Birdcage convoy had gone off perfectly, right up until he presented Carnifex to his loyal followers for the second half of his pay. The net had been an unpleasant surprise, wrapping around his limbs and tumbling him to the ground. Carnifex had unlimbered a jaw apparently capable of engulfing Ethan whole, then a shot came in from nowhere and blew most of the feral cape's lower jaw all over the ground.

Ethan managed to escape in the subsequent chaos. He didn't know exactly what had happened with Carnifex and the cultists after that, but the rumour was that the cape (along with an indeterminate number of his cultists) ended up dead. It didn't surprise him that it was the Dark behind the rifle. "Okay, yeah. That's some marker."

"So, what information can you give me?" The Dark was relentless. It was kind of his thing.

Unfortunately for Shadow Stalker, Ethan knew a lot about her. Sizing up other capes fell somewhere between 'fun hobby' and 'survival trait' for him, and he was very good at it. What he was officially allowed to know, what he'd found out by poking around, and the gossip he'd overheard from time to time; it all added up to a fairly comprehensive picture. Over the course of the next few minutes, he conveyed that picture to the Dark.

"What are you going to do with this?" he asked, once he'd finished. "I thought you didn't go after capes. Hell, I was pretty sure you didn't go after kids."

"Shadow Stalker stepped over a very personal line." The absolute chill in the Dark's voice sent shivers down Ethan's spine. "I aim to send a message."

The message, Ethan intuited, read something along the lines of 'don't do this if you like having working kneecaps'. "How … uh, how hard are you going to push this message?"

"That depends entirely on her sense of self-preservation." The call ended.

Ethan closed his eyes and rested his forehead against one of the porch roof supports. Everything he knew about Shadow Stalker told him this would not go well for her.

"Honey?" The door opened. "Is everything all right?"

He manufactured a smile for the love of his life. "Sure. All sorted. Let's go to bed."

Sleep, he knew, was going to be a long time coming.

Never once did he even consider warning Shadow Stalker. You fucked up, you wear it.

<><>​

Danny

Brockton Bay General Hospital

The Next Morning

Taylor rubbed Chewie's stomach, eliciting comical grunting noises from the puppy as he wriggled on his back, eyes closed and tongue hanging out the side of his mouth from sheer doggy pleasure. Spread on the bed before her was a copy of the Brockton Bay Bulletin, showing the front-page image of smoke billowing over Winslow High, the school itself in ruins. Danny, sitting at the side of the bed, kept a surreptitious eye on her expression. Was she upset or merely puzzled?

"Wow," she said at last. "Says here they'll be closed indefinitely?"

"Yeah," he replied, having read further through the paper than she had. "Apparently the fire brigade managed to save a chunk of the school, but when the fire inspectors went through the place they found so many violations of the fire codes that it's basically going to have to be demolished and rebuilt from the ground up. There's even rumours of charges being laid for criminal negligence against some of the school administrators and staff."

Her eyes widened. "Charges? Criminal negligence?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "Emergency fire exit door alarms not working, defective sprinkler systems with years of fraudulent inspection certificates, fire extinguishers that had been long since discharged and not replaced, smoke detectors dead and gone, and so forth. The word is that Blackwell and several other senior administrators were either turning a blind eye or actively participating in the fake certification scam. It would cost them a fraction the cost of a genuine inspection, and they pocket the difference. Once the investigators start digging, they'll find out which one it was."

He was quite satisfied with this outcome. None of the school staff had actively set out to harm Taylor; it was merely their wilful negligence that had done so. Proving their culpability in what had happened to Taylor would've been a long and tiring legal battle, especially with Alan Barnes appealing everything in sight to keep the heat off Emma as long as possible. But this had nothing to do with Taylor, so she could be kept out of sight and out of the papers, and the fire safety board would be highly unlikely to simply drop the case and walk away.

A smile spread across her face. It was like the sun coming up. "Well, good. It's about time bad stuff happened to them rather than me." She paused, looking concerned. "Didn't you say something about the school paying for my medical bills …?"

"We're good," Danny assured her. "The check already cleared. I'm not saying I anticipated something like this happening," he gestured at the paper, "but I'm all too familiar with the idea of bureaucrats cutting off funding for a partially paid-for project. So I went in to the bank, first thing." At the time, it had been his only way to stick it to those self-important assholes. Depriving them of the money before they could change their minds was basic common sense. Now, he was pleased with his foresight.

Her smile returned, in full force. "And the more they paid you, the less they have for their other legal fees? Good."

He didn't have the heart to tell her that the amount they'd gotten from the school was likely a small fragment of the total money available, but it wouldn't matter. All the legal trickery in the world wouldn't get those scumbags out of this fix. Though something else had occurred to him, and now he brought it up. "Talking about that. Once the investigators start going through their books, this payment is going to come to light. They're going to probably want to ask us questions about it. Do you think you'll be up to that?"

She hugged Chewie to her. The puppy wriggled around in her arms and licked her chin. "Yes," she said firmly. "If it means Winslow never gets rebuilt, I'll talk to them all day long."

Danny smiled and ruffled her hair. "That's my girl."

"Da-ad!" But she giggled, even as she ducked away from his hand.

The door to the room opened suddenly. Danny stilled his reach for the gun under his armpit as Doctor Franklin entered the room. "Morning, Danny, Taylor," he said cheerfully. His smile widened as he took in the scene. "How are you feeling today, Taylor?"

"Better," she told him, lifting her chin for emphasis. "Dad told me the school burned down last night, and the people running it are in deep legal trouble."

Franklin's eyebrows rose as he took Taylor's wrist. He glanced at his watch as he counted silently for a minute, then nodded and released her hand again. "Do I detect a hint of schadenfreude there?" He paused. "Schadenfreude means—"

"I know what it means." She grinned at him. "Mom was an English professor. Anyway, it's only what they deserve. They never did a thing to stop people bullying me. It's only right that their negligence comes back to bite them in the ass."

Danny watched the byplay with a sense of pride and amusement. Even in a hospital bed, his Taylor could hold her own with the best of them.

"I agree totally," Franklin said gravely. He produced an electronic thermometer, the type that gets inserted in the ear. "Hold still." Clearly used to multi-tasking, he held it in place and gave Chewie a brief head-rub as he kept talking. "You're looking better. Your blood scans are clearing up faster than I'd expected. We might be able to discharge you as early as tomorrow." The thermometer beeped and he took it out of her ear and examined it more closely. "Yes, that's looking very good." Moving down to the end of the bed, he took up the clipboard there and made a couple of notes. "And is the little furball behaving himself?"

As everyone looked at Chewie, he sat up and panted happily, apparently aware that he was the centre of attention. Then he grabbed Taylor's sleeve—already a little the worse for wear—and began gnawing on it again with tiny growls as he shook his head from side to side.

"Mostly," Danny allowed, scratching the puppy behind the ear. "He's very adventurous. Keeps me on my toes." He gave Taylor a mock-stern glare. "So get well soon, young lady. I'd like to be able to relax once in a while."

She rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue. "I'm working at it, okay?"

Franklin chuckled. "Well, I'll leave you to it. I'm very pleased with your progress, Taylor." He nodded toward Chewie. "A positive attitude is one of the best tools that can lead to a quick recovery. That little guy is probably doing more for you than I ever could."

"Well, I appreciate what you're doing as well," Danny said firmly.

That got another smile out of Franklin. "It's good to be appreciated. I'd stay and chat, but I have rounds to do. So I'll see you both later." He headed for the door; a moment later, he was gone.

"So … home tomorrow, you think?" Danny didn't want to get Taylor's hopes up, but the way her face lit up at the suggestion was heart-warming.

"Definitely." She hugged Chewie, who yapped and licked her face. "I can't wait."

"Me too." But he was thinking hard. I can't leave Taylor alone on her first night at home. It'll have to be tonight.

Fortunately, he already had plans in place.

<><>​

Later that Afternoon

Taylor lay back in bed, apparently reading one of the books her father had brought in. Periodically, she turned a page, but her eyes did not take in a single word. Her mind was far away; or rather, far away in many different directions.

It had taken her a while to come to grips with her power, but her father's visits had helped. Chewie's unconditional affection had done even more to bring her mental state to something approximating equilibrium. Now she was able to explore the ramifications of her capabilities without freaking out more than a little.

It seemed that she could sense every bug for two blocks in all directions. More than that, she could pinpoint their locations and make them move in any direction that she chose. In fact, she could make them do anything she wanted. She could even tap into their senses, such as they were.

As she counted the bugs in her range (it was just another astonishing fact that she could effortlessly count them) and had them do five million independent things, just to prove that she could, a smile crossed her face. She stretched her will just a little and focused her eyes on the page before her. Still manipulating five million bugs (including clearing every single roach out of the hospital building), she concentrated and began to read.

At first it took a little effort, but this was largely due to the fact that she'd never done this before. Much like flexing a muscle she'd never used before, it was not entirely comfortable, but the more she did it, the easier it got. By the time she was two-thirds of the way down the page, she was taking in every word.

She finished that page and read two more as smoothly as if she wasn't also exerting positive control over every single arthropod in the surrounding million square feet. Closing the book, she folded her hands over it. Every bug she'd been controlling went back to what they were doing.

I have powers.

This was huge. She wouldn't have wished what had happened to her on anyone; in fact, she still wasn't sure if having the powers made it worth the torture she'd gone through to get them. It certainly wasn't worth the previous year and more of bullying at Emma's hands, at the hands of all three of them.

But the fact was, she had powers. Unfortunately, they weren't the type of powers that would let her go back and change the circumstances that forced the powers on her in the first place, if that was even possible. But they were the type of powers that would let her do the next best thing.

Slowly, a smile spread across her face.

I'm gonna be a superhero.

<><>​

That Night

The Docks

Shadow Stalker

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Sophia took a run-up and leaped across the gap between two buildings, turning to shadow and gliding onward. Her senses got a lot fuzzier in shadow form, but she could tell where her destination was. As she crossed the parapet of the next rooftop, she went solid again and landed without so much as a stumble. She didn't even crack a smile at the confirmation of her absolute capability in this regard. It wasn't just that she thought she was good; she knew she was good.

A groan from below drew her attention, and she moved to the edge of the roof. Looking down, she tapped the side of her mask and cycled through several options. There were no electrical sources below, but the low-light setting showed three people sprawled in the alley in painful poses.

Oh, for fuck's sake. Not again.

Turning to shadow, she stepped off the edge of the roof and drifted down toward the ground. While still a foot in the air, she reverted to solid form and fell to the ground in a crouch. Without pausing, she began to check over the men.

Thirty seconds later, she turned back to shadow and began to ascend to the rooftops again. Her mood, already irritable, was souring even more. It was what she'd thought; far from being innocent victims, the men showed all the signs of being opportunistic muggers. Their weapons had been lying on the ground near them, but their injuries had all been inflicted with hands or feet. She knew the signs.

This was the third group of would-be muggers she'd encountered tonight. All had been armed, all had been savagely beaten and left where they lay. Broken bones had been both plentiful and varied in nature. She couldn't be certain that some would even survive the night. Most wore the colours of the Empire, but some appeared to be freelancers.

Her problem wasn't the fact that someone was kicking the shit out of muggers. She'd done exactly the same thing herself, on many occasions. No, what was bugging her was the fact that there was some unnamed vigilante out and about, doing what she'd done so effectively before the PRT had snapped her up. And he wasn't even using any kind of weapon to do it with. Worst of all, he was smacking her muggers around before she could get to them.

When I find you, asshole, you and me are going to have a chat. She didn't know exactly what sort of a chat it was going to be, but she needed to explain to this guy that she was here first. She took a run-up and leaped across the gap to the next building. It wasn't that she wanted to warn the guy off, of course. But having someone outside the PRT building, someone she could maybe team up with on her previously-solo patrols, capable of this level of directed violence … that was something she could consider. So long as he knows who the boss is.

She kept running, kept jumping. Scanning the street. Listening for anything that might clue her in to a crime in progress. Somewhere, there was someone beating hell out of muggers, and not letting her in on it. She was playing catch-up, and she hated it.

"Uh … hello, guys. Can … can I help you?" It was a masculine voice, a little high-pitched from fear. A puppy yapped. Sophia ran the last few yards and stared down at the scene that was even now playing out on the street below.

A tall skinny guy had been approached by four guys. Balding, wearing glasses, he'd been out walking his dog. Sophia let her breath hiss out from between her teeth; doing that, in this area, was idiotic. Unfortunately, there were far too many idiots in the world today. Like most of the other muggers, these guys were wearing Empire colours. Their victim was white, but skinheads were equal-opportunity muggers.

Sophia settled down to watch the ongoing shakedown. The guy couldn't get away; in fact, he seemed more interested in keeping the leash short so the yapping puppy couldn't run into danger. Neither was he putting up any sort of fight. He was trying to talk the guys into leaving him alone, retreating until his back was up against the grimy brickwork. At his feet, the puppy faced the four muggers, growling defiantly. Sophia liked its style. Its owner, not so much.

The muggers were in no hurry, waving knives and iron bars and trading crude jokes at their victim's expense. They moved in toward him, encroaching on his personal space with casual menace. He kept trying to defuse the situation, keeping his right hand up in a non-threatening gesture while his left was occupied with controlling the puppy's leash. This could only end one way, and it wouldn't be too long coming.

Shit, what if the other guy jumps in first? She did not want to be left on the back foot if the interloper to her territory took these mooks out and saved the victim. At the very least, she'd look incompetent. Should I just go in there?

A moment later, the decision was taken out of her hands. Yapping loudly, the puppy managed to lunge forward, and the guy tried to pull it back. One of the muggers was taken off guard, and the guy accidentally shoved him. Through sheer luck, the mugger tripped and went down hard.

Well, that's good enough for me. It could be argued that the guy wasn't actually fighting back, but Sophia decided to take what she could get. Rising to her feet, she leaped over the edge of the roof, turning to shadow as she went.

She reached the ground a moment later. When she turned solid, it took a moment to take in what was happening. Two more of the muggers were down; even as she tried to wrap her head around the situation, the tall guy smashed the fourth guy to the ground with an elbow to the throat. She stared at the tall guy. He didn't look like a victim any more. Now he looked like her. He looked like a predator.

Holy fuck. It's him. It's the—

He whipped around toward her, moving so fast she barely had time to react. As he struck at her body, she instinctively went to shadow. All too late, she saw the stun-gun in his left hand. Where the fuck did he get—

Electricity crackled and she went solid again, convulsing from the shock to her system. As she crumpled to the dirty pavement, she heard him speak. His voice was no longer high with fear; now, it was firm with satisfaction.

"Took you long enough."

<><>​

Danny

Hebert Household Basement

Chewie sniffed around the basement as Danny finished restraining Shadow Stalker (minus her mask and cloak) to the chair. It was made of solid wood, and the cable ties were of the industrial variety. Nothing short of Brute strength would snap them, and Shadow Stalker didn't have a Brute rating. To get around her phasing ability, he had a hundred-foot extension cord plugged into mains power, wrapped around her arms and legs, as well as her body and neck. The other end of the cord was plugged into an electric fan, which was whirring away merrily up on a shelf. In addition, the chair itself was fixed to a solid base, so that it couldn't be simply tipped over.

He'd done this sort of thing before, from time to time.

By the time he pulled the last cable tie taut, he was pretty sure she was awake and faking it. That was fine. He picked up a plastic bucket and went to the faucet in the corner, and filled it. The water was cold; this time of the year, it was always cold. Stepping back in front of Shadow Stalker, he made sure the fan was well out of the way and drew the bucket back. Heaving it forward, he let the teenage girl have the contents, square in the face. The fan whirred on.

She gasped and spluttered, no longer able to fake unconsciousness. He put the bucket down. She glared at him, water running down her uncovered face. A moment later, she recognised this and her eyes flared with rage.

"You unmasked me, you son of a bitch!"

"If it's any consolation, I knew who you were before I ever took your mask off, Miss Hess." He folded his arms and leaned back against the nearby workbench. "But your identity is the least of your problems right now."

"Problems?" she screamed. "You want problems? You're fucking dead! When I get out of this, I am gonna kill you!"

"Save your breath," he advised her. "This basement is soundproofed." Unfolding his arms, he leaned forward and placed his hands on the chair arms, his face a foot from hers. She tried to headbutt him, but the cord around her throat pulled her up short with a choking sound.

Looking around, he ensured that Chewie was nowhere near the water that had pooled beneath the chair. Neither was he standing in it. Producing the stun-gun, he touched it to Shadow Stalker's skin. When he pressed the button, the girl arched her back, her limbs straining against the cable ties. He let the button go after one second, and stepped back.

Slowly, she came back to herself. She glared groggily at him, blood running down her chin from a bitten lip.

"Now that I've got your attention," he said. "Let's talk about Taylor Hebert and Emma Barnes."


End of Part Four

Part Five

 

[Ack]

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Part Five: Removing Threats


[A/N: this chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


"What did I do?" demanded Sophia Hess as the man climbed the steps out of the basement. "What did I do to you? Tell me! Tell me!"

He didn't respond, not even by turning his head to look at her. The light clicked off. At the top of the stairs, the door opened and then closed again. Only then did she allow the terror she felt to send shivers throughout her body.

She had no idea how long she'd been imprisoned down here, but it seemed like an eternity. It wasn't that the man had been cruel. He hadn't tortured her in the physical sense. He hadn't waterboarded her or even used the stun-gun after the first time. It had sat on the bench like a silent observation that yes, he could put white fire through her veins at any time, but he'd never actually used it.

Neither had he starved her or forced her to soil herself. One of her hands had been released so she could eat—takeaway food; she wasn't picky about her nutrition—and he'd released her from the chair at one point so she could relieve herself into a bucket. But he'd taped the damned electrical cord to her ankle first, so she still couldn't use her powers.

That hadn't stopped her from trying to jump him, of course. He'd turned his back out of respect for her privacy, and she'd gone in for a kidney strike. One hit to slow him down, and she could beat the living shit of him at her leisure. Maybe tie him into the fucking chair, and see if she could drain the batteries of the stun-gun into him before he died of a heart attack or something.

That plan lasted right up until she'd gotten within arm's reach of him. All she recalled from that point on was the glint of the basement light on his glasses as he swayed aside from her attack and retaliated in kind, far more effectively than she'd ever been on her best day. She'd woken up in the chair with a few new bruises and the burning question uppermost in her mind: Who the fuck is this guy? Because old and balding or not, glasses or not, he had moves she'd never even seen Armsmaster use.

It hadn't been hard for him to get the story about Emma and Taylor out of her. The PRT handbook even said that if you were faced with torture, confess everything. It wasn't like he was asking for classified shit, like the secret identities of the Wards or the layout of the PRT building. He just wanted to know what was going on with her and Emma and Hebert.

Truth be told, she might've embellished things a little. It was obvious that this was a guy for whom the phrase 'does not fuck around' might well have been invented. After the beatdown, she'd decided that it couldn't hurt to try to impress him a little. Badass to badass, that sort of thing. It could even be that he was testing her, seeing what she was like when the chips were down.

So, after she told him everything, she'd said, "Okay, I gave you what you wanted. Who the fuck are you?"

Earlier, he'd ignored the question. Now, he answered it. And the more he spoke, the more deeply she regretted asking it.

She'd heard of the Dark, of course. Who hadn't? But he'd vanished from the Brockton Bay scene before she ever got powers, and as time went on she'd tended to assume that his legend had been vastly inflated.

But there was one little problem. She knew boastfulness and braggadocio when she heard it, and the dry uninflected voice of the man before her had none of that. In fact, the more she listened to him speak about his career, citing half-forgotten names from before Sophia was even born, the more worried she became.

If this guy is for real, what does he want with me?

"So wait," she'd interrupted after he'd explained how Jack Slash's elbows and knees had been shot out with sniper fire. "If you're really the Dark, didn't you have a rule where you don't go after capes?" She was sure she'd heard that somewhere.

"That was more of a guideline," he replied, turning his head in just the right way that the basement light hid his eyes behind the reflection from his glasses. It gave him a supremely sinister air. "I came to an agreement a long time ago with a scarily competent woman in a fedora. It's apparently in society's best interests not to have capes being sniped from every rooftop. However, it's also in society's best interests to have people like me around to deal with certain other people. So I agreed not to take any jobs to kill capes, and to try to avoid killing them in general. But that didn't include special circumstances. The fact that I won't take money to kill a cape doesn't mean I won't kill capes if I consider it necessary. I've just managed to avoid the necessity until very recently."

"Special circumstances?" she asked, a suspicion nagging at her that she might regret asking. But then, she'd never been one to avoid doing something just because she might regret it later.

"Special circumstances," he repeated, tossing a newspaper on her lap. It took her a moment to focus on the print, and then her eyes widened. It had been folded so that one specific story was prominently displayed; the deaths of Cricket and Hookwolf. When she looked up from the paper, he let out a brief whistle. The puppy that she'd seen snuffling around the darker corners of the basement with great interest woke up and came trotting over. He picked the dog up and scratched its ears. "The Empire took my dog. I went and got him back. Cricket and Hookwolf wanted to argue the point."

It was cool in the basement, but sweat still sprang out on Sophia's forehead. She'd already known she was in the presence of a uniquely dangerous individual. His words hammered that point home in no uncertain terms. Not only was he capable of killing two highly capable parahumans without much in the way of trouble, but he was entirely willing to do so over a dog. "I never hurt your dog," she offered hopefully.

Again, he looked at her. This time, she could see his eyes behind his glasses, and she wished she couldn't. They were dead, flat. His gaze didn't promise pain. It promised oblivion. "No," he agreed, and his voice was even more terrifying than his eyes. "You did something much, much worse."

That was when he turned and left the basement, still carrying the dog with him. She called after him, wanting answers. Above all, wanting to know why. But he never answered her. Reaching up, he pulled on the cord to turn off the basement light. The basement was plunged into darkness, alleviated only briefly by the door opening and closing at the top of the stairs.

Sophia Hess sat in pitch blackness, tied to the chair. She racked her mind to recall everything she'd ever heard about the Dark, but only came up with one thing. A question he used to ask. Popular culture held that it was the very last question that some people ever heard.

Are you afraid of the Dark?

And as she sat in the stillness, with not a scintilla of light to illuminate her surroundings, she discovered that the answer was yes. She was very much afraid of the Dark.

<><>​

Taylor

Chewie stood up on Taylor's lap with his front paws on the windowsill of the car door, his head as far out the window as he could reach and his tongue flapping in the breeze. His back end was just as busy, hindquarters wriggling as his tail wagged briskly. She held on to him carefully, which he had no problem with. He seemed to be so thoroughly alive in the moment that it was hard not to share his pleasure.

Of course, she was also enjoying the situation of her own accord. Doctor Franklin and the nurses had all been kind to her, but the hospital was not home, and she craved the comfort and familiarity of her own bed in her own bedroom. Despite her father's occasionally acerbic comments on the matter, she'd gathered he was fine with Chewie sleeping in her room, or even up on her bed if she so wished. Just so long as she ensured that he didn't make a mess, or that she was responsible for cleaning up any messes he did make.

She was perfectly okay with that. Chewie was wholly, unequivocally devoted to her, just as she was to him. He didn't mind when she clung to him extra tightly, or when her tears soaked into his fur. For her part, she was always cheered up when he licked her face or slobbered in her ear, even if part of the laughter came with an exasperated, "Chewie!"

"You okay, honey?" asked her father, breaking into her introspection. "You're being a bit quiet there."

She turned to him, a smile breaking out on her face. "I'm great. Getting used to being out of the hospital and actually going home. I still can't believe they made me ride out the front doors in a wheelchair."

"Hospitals," he said. "Go figure." He turned his eyes forward, his tone becoming thoughtful. "Things are going to be different. You understand that, right? I'm not going to let something like that happen to you again."

The suddenly serious topic caused her to sit up a little in her seat. "Yeah, well, now that Winslow's burned down, I don't have to go back there ever again," she agreed. "Have they found out what caused that? I'd like to find the person responsible and give them a big hug."

He raised an eyebrow. "You seem sure that it was deliberate and not something like frayed electrical insulation." A smirk lingered on his face. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Dad, seriously?" She grinned more widely, playing along. "You can't prove anything. I've got the perfect alibi. But you have to admit; this was Winslow. It probably had a higher population of potential teenage arsonists per classroom than any other school in Brockton Bay."

"Your point is valid." He tapped the steering-wheel idly with his finger. "However it happened, I'm glad it did. Makes it much easier to get you a transfer. And this way, I don't have to worry about pressing charges against everyone from that Blackwell woman on down."

"And I don't have to sit through another World Affairs class with Mr Gladly trying to be everybody's friend but mine, and ignoring all the shit they're doing to me."

"Hm." Danny's eyes took on a faraway look. "Gladly, huh?"

"Yeah." She snorted. "So glad."

Her father nodded. "Yeah, me too. You won't have to worry about that anymore." His eyes coming back into focus, he glanced at her. "So how are you doing?"

She snuggled Chewie to her, and he obligingly licked her on the chin. "I'm not going to say that what I went through was worth it, but I think I'm going to be okay."

"That's the general idea." He turned the car on to their street. "Also, just so you know, I've arranged another little surprise for you. A bit of closure, you might say."

She turned to him, mouth opening to ask questions, but he held up a hand. "I'm not saying any more. This is going to be an actual surprise. No hints."

"Okay." She settled back in her seat and scratched Chewie behind the ears. "What's the surprise, Chewie? Do you know what it is? You can tell me. I'll give you a belly rub."

Chewie yapped and licked her face. She sputtered and wiped her mouth, but giggled anyway. "Chewie! Dog breath, ew!"

Her father snorted with amusement. "Serves you right for trying to entice that poor innocent pup with belly rubs."

"Poor innocent pup, my butt," snorted Taylor. "He begs for belly rubs every chance he gets."

"My point exactly." Danny slowed down and turned the wheel. Gravel crunched under the wheels as they rolled up into the driveway. "You've corrupted him. Addicted him to them."

Taylor undid her seat belt once the car engine shut off, and opened the door. "Dad, that's the silliest thing I've heard you say yet. And I know you."

"Doesn't mean it's not true." Her father led the way to the front steps, Chewie running alongside. "Did you know that dog brain chemistry is set up so that every time they see you, they have the same reaction as falling in love for the first time?"

"What, really?" Taylor looked at Danny askance as he climbed the steps and unlocked the front door. Bending down, she picked Chewie up. While he had all the will in the world, he was more suited to running under the steps than climbing them. She followed him up into the house as he opened the door and entered.

"Really," he said. "I'm not actually joking here. I mean, you've seen the way Chewie reacts every time he meets you."

"Huh." She pushed the front door closed with her heel so that the latch clicked, then scratched Chewie behind the ears as she headed through into the living room. "Well, I fall in love with him every time I see him too, so that's fair."

"So I see." Her father watched as she let the puppy down on the floor. Immediately, Chewie trotted off in the general direction of the kitchen, snuffling loudly. He disappeared around the door frame, and a moment later Taylor heard the sound of dry kibble crunching. "I really should've done this a long time ago."

Taylor leaned up against her father and put her arm fondly around his waist. "Yeah, you should have. But I'm not complaining. I was about as far down as I could get. Chewie gave me the boost to start climbing out of the hole I'm in."

"That's really good to hear." Danny turned his head as a car pulled to a halt outside the house. "Ah, it seems we have a visitor."

"Visitor?" Taylor looked around with puzzlement. "Was that the surprise?"

"No. That's something else. But the visitor can come first." Danny nodded toward the kitchen. "I'm just going to make sure Chewie's got enough water. Would you mind getting the door?"

"Uh, sure?" Taylor went back into the entrance hall and unlocked the front door. She took a moment to dust herself off and make sure there weren't any Chewie hairs visibly adhering to the front of her coat. A glance in the mirror showed that she was reasonably presentable. While she felt her hair could do with a good brushing, she didn't have the time for that right now.

Footsteps sounded on the path, then someone climbed the front steps. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door … and froze.

"Hello, Taylor," Alan Barnes said awkwardly. "May I … may I come in?"

"Is Emma with you?" Warily, Taylor tried to look around him without making it look as though she was doing just that. In the back of her head, she started manufacturing excuses as to why she didn't want to hang out with Emma while their dads talked over whatever business they had.

"No." He shook his head heavily. There was something in his eyes that she couldn't identify, something that she'd never seen in his expression before. It might've been guilt or shame or fear, or some combination of all three. Or she may well have been imagining the whole thing. "Taylor … you won't have to see Emma again. You'll never go through that again. Not ever."

Her head came up and she stared at him. "What … I …" All of her assumptions smashed headlong into reality and shattered irreparably. His words spun around and around in her head, leaving her dizzy and off-balance. " … I don't understand."

His smile was more of a grimace. "You will. But I'll get your dad to explain. May I come in? Please? He asked me to come over for this."

This? What 'this'? Mystery was mounting on mystery. "Is this to do with the surprise he was talking about? Do you know about it?"

Now he looked unaccountably wary. "I … suspect so. I don't know what the surprise is, but … probably. Knowing your father."

"Well, that cleared the air." Taylor wrinkled her nose, then nodded. "Okay, you can come in." She opened the door all the way, then stepped back. "Dad!" she shouted. "It's Mr Barnes!"

"I know!" he called back. "Bring him through!"

That was clear enough. Pausing only to make sure the front door was securely closed, Taylor led the way along the entrance hall to the kitchen. Her father, sitting at the kitchen table, looked around as they entered. "Hello, Alan," he said. "Have you met Chewie yet?"

The puppy, hearing his name, paused in the act of licking himself where dogs have a habit of licking, and looked around. When he spotted Alan, he yapped then trotted over to Taylor. She gathered him up and held him protectively.

"No, I haven't." Alan held out the back of his hand for the puppy to sniff. "Hello, Chewie." For his trouble, he got a sniff and a cautious lick. Then he turned to Danny, surreptitiously wiping his hand on his shirt. "Taylor mentioned a surprise. Is this why I'm here?"

"In a way." Danny gestured at the closed basement door. "Taylor, your surprise is down there. You might want to leave Chewie with us."

"Okay …" Taylor had no idea at all what was going on now. Setting Chewie on the floor, she patted his butt and gave him a little shove toward her father. "Go to Dad. Go on." Then she turned toward the basement door.

<><>​

Shadow Stalker

Sophia came awake as the door at the top of the steps opened. Instinctively, she tried to pull free of her bonds, but none of them had fortuitously come loose during the night. The damned fan was still whirring away on the shelf, reminding her that electricity coursed through the cord that had been wrapped generously around her arms and legs and neck.

With no source of light, it was hard to tell the passage of time, but she was pretty sure a day would've passed by now. Which meant they were probably starting to search for her. The fact the front door hadn't already been kicked in meant that he'd done something to spoof the tracking signal from her PRT-issued phone. So she was going to have to get out of this shit all by herself. Fucking typical.

At least she'd managed to get a few hours of sleep here and there. She'd pulled all-nighters before, sometimes in even less comfortable circumstances than the current ones. She'd never spent a night tied to a chair before, though. When she got out of this, once she got her hands on the Dark, she was going to make him understand once and for all that as scary as he might be, it was a huge mistake to mess with Shadow Stalker.

Long hours of experience on stakeouts clued her in that whoever was coming down the stairs had a lighter tread than the Dark. Was it another prisoner? An accomplice? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Whoever it was, she knew they were her very best chance for getting out of this.

With a click, the light came on. As weak and worn-out as the bulb was, it flared like a nova in her vision, leaving spots before her eyes. While she was in the process of blinking them clear, a stupid bug of some sort landed on her face. Fuck off, bug.

"Hello?" The speaker was a teenage girl. She knew that voice. "Who's there?"

<><>​

Taylor

When the light came on, the first thing Taylor saw was a dark mass in the middle of the basement floor. A few seconds later, she made it out to be a person tied to a chair. Okay, what the hell? They were wearing dark clothes, and long dark hair hung over the face, keeping it in shadow.

Exerting her power, she sent a fly to land on the person's face. The fly's senses reported back that yes, this was a living person. "Hello?" she called out as she continued down the stairs. "Who's there?" Was this some kind of live roleplay setup, where she was supposed to play the part of the superhero and release the hostage?

And then the person's head lifted and she saw the face for the first time. "Hebert?" rasped a voice that she almost recognised. "Is that you? Fuck, it is you."

"Sophia?" Taylor reached the bottom of the stairs. "What the hell's going on?" Slowly, she began to circle around the bound teenager. Oddly enough, there was a large sheet of plastic on the floor, extending several yards in all directions from the chair. "And what the hell are you wearing, anyway?"

Taylor Hebert considered herself to be a good person. If she'd found Mrs Knott tied up like this, or Greg Veder, she knew she would immediately be working to set them free.

Well, maybe she'd free Greg. After she freed everyone else she found tied up at the same time.

But Sophia Hess was another story altogether. From literally the first minute she'd met the girl, Sophia had done nothing but sneer at her, bully her and trip her whenever possible. She'd had exactly zero interactions with the girl that were even neutral, much less positive. Freeing her right now seemed to be remarkably counter-intuitive, at least until she found out what was actually going on here.

"Never mind what I'm wearing, Hebert!" Sophia's tone was urgent, almost frantic. "You've got to cut me loose! We've got to get the fuck out of here before he comes back!"

"Before who comes back?" Taylor stared at Sophia's outfit. It seemed almost familiar. Like something she'd seen on TV.

"Tall skinny psychotic fuck with glasses!" Sophia struggled uselessly against her bonds. "Asshole cap— uh, abducted me. Tased me. Tied me up in his basement." She struggled against the cable ties for a moment by way of demonstration. "You don't think I came down here and tied myself up, do you?"

Taylor studied Sophia's bonds. They appeared professionally-applied, and extremely thoroughly done. Unless Sophia was a contortionist of the highest degree, there was no way she would've been able to tie herself to the chair like that. But the inspection raised another question. "Well, no. But what's with the extension cord?"

"Fucked if I know, but if you can get it off me, I'd appreciate it." Sophia grimaced. "It's uncomfortable as fuck."

Taylor looked up at the fan on the shelf and at how the cord leading to it had been wrapped around the black girl's arms and legs, even fastened to one ankle with electrical tape. There was a puzzle at work here. Somehow, all the pieces of the jigsaw could be arranged in a fashion that would let her form a single coherent picture out of everything that was going on. She was just missing some important details. "Give me a moment here …"

"Hebert!" snapped Sophia. "Get this fucking shit off me right the fuck now!" She struggled against her bonds, rocking back and forth in the chair. With the wide base it was sitting on, she didn't even shift it a little. "Come on! He might come back at any moment! When he finds out you know I'm here, you'll be next! Cut me loose! Come on!"

The urgency in her tone was real, but Taylor still wasn't sure what was going on. And to be honest, it was deeply satisfying to see Sophia tied up like this. Tuning the bully's words out, she wandered away toward the workbench at the side of the room.

"HEBERT!" screamed Sophia. "GET BACK HERE! CUT ME LOOSE, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT!"

And then Taylor saw it. A mask, lying beside what had to be a stun-gun. She picked it up and examined it. A scowling woman's face; again, oddly familiar. Next to the stun-gun was a pair of small crossbows. She looked from them back to the raving girl in the chair, then carried the mask back to Sophia. "Is this yours?" she asked.

"Of course it's not fucking mine, you little moron!" Little flecks of spittle were flying off Sophia's lips. "Now cut me loose, or so help me fucking God, when I see you next at school, you are so goddamn fucked."

The threat almost got to Taylor. She was so accustomed to bowing her head to the threats offered by Emma and her friends that she nearly did as Sophia told her. Her hand was actually reaching for a pair of wire-cutters, when she heard it. The merest intake of breath from Sophia. The sound of despair given hope. The only crack she'd ever seen in the girl's armour.

She stopped, and pulled her hand away. Slowly, she turned back to Sophia. "No," she said quietly. "I don't think I will."

"What?" Shock had replaced the rage on Sophia's face. "You can't just leave me tied up! He's going to come back any minute now and kill us both! Don't be a fucking pathetic little queef all your fucking life!"

Taylor walked around Sophia slowly. She held the mask in her hand, turning it over and over. Taking her glasses off for a moment, she tried it on. It felt a little strange, the padding not quite fitting the contours of her face, but she could see out through the eyeholes quite well. It certainly wasn't an amateur job. Taking it away, she put her glasses back on.

"You know what I think?" she said as the pieces continued to fall into place in her head. "I think this is your mask. I think you're Shadow Stalker. You've been Shadow Stalker all the time I've known you. You've been pretending to be a hero all this time …"

"I AM A FUCKING HERO, YOU COCKSUCKING LITTLE NOBODY!" screamed Sophia. "Now cut me loose or I swear to God that when the Protectorate tracks me down, I'll name you as an accessory and a fucking accomplice and you'll go to supermax for attacking me in my civilian identity!"

Taylor backhanded Sophia with her own mask. It was heavy and solid, and rocked the black girl's head to one side. A cut on her cheek began to bleed.

"I was fucking talking," gritted Taylor. "You've been pretending to be a hero, all the time you were doing all that shit to me. I nearly died in that fucking locker. Because of you. A hero." Contemptuously, she tossed the mask back on to the bench. "You're no hero. You want to talk about a psycho? You're the psycho in the room."

"Well said," Danny added as he opened the door and started down the stairs. Behind him, Alan Barnes entered the basement. Alan grimaced as he saw Sophia tied to the chair, but he closed the door carefully behind him, and followed Taylor's father into the basement.

"Oh, hey, Dad." Taylor paused. "Where's Chewie?"

"Attacking a large hambone in the kitchen," Danny said. "We won't be long, and his ears are still pretty sensitive."

"Holy fuck," Sophia said. "Holy living fuck. He's your fucking dad? You're the daughter of—" She broke off as she saw Alan Barnes for the first time. "Oh, thank fuck you're here! You've got to get me out of this!"

Slowly, Alan Barnes folded his arms. "I'm not here for you, Sophia."

Danny came over to Taylor and put his arm around her shoulders. "Okay. So, any questions so far?"

"Yeah," said Taylor, looking up at her dad. "How'd you catch her, and what are we gonna do with her?"

"To answer your first question, she's a predictable idiot who goes on solo unsanctioned patrols. I went out and got myself mugged in the area she was patrolling. Took me seven encounters before she finally intervened." Danny gave Sophia a disapproving glare. "And even then it took her a good thirty seconds to decide to do anything about it. Turns out she only intervenes if the victim tries to fight back."

Taylor turned to Sophia, who had gone utterly silent. "Is this true?"

Sophia glanced at Danny, then at Taylor. Lips tight shut, she carefully nodded.

"Don't bother pretending you didn't say anything to Taylor," Danny advised Sophia. "We heard everything." Then he turned to Alan. "You advocated for her once. Care to do it again?"

Silence fell, then Alan slowly shook his head. "No, Danny," he said quietly. "I made that mistake once. For Emma's sake, I won't do it again."

Danny reached out and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "For Emma's sake, there's more you need to do before your slate's clear."

"I'll be moving," Alan said. "I'll tell the company it's a family emergency. Transfer to … LA, maybe?"

"A better idea would be to ship her off to boarding school in Europe," Danny stated. "But that wasn't what I was talking about. You made this mistake. You enabled this mistake. You need to be the one to correct it."

Taylor tilted her head. "What are you talking about, Dad? Correct what mistake?"

"Oh, don't be fucking terminally dense all your fucking life, Hebert!" Sophia burst out. "Your father's the fucking Dark! He hasn't got the balls to kill me, so he's getting Alan fucking Barnes to do his dirty work for him!"

"The Dark?" Taylor had heard that name before, but only in whispered conversations. The names of the people the Dark had supposedly killed were legion, but to equate the semi-mythical hitman with her father; her funny, sometimes awkward father … "Dad, is this true?"

He turned to look at her. "It is. I know that's not what you want to hear, but it's true. But this is the first time I've done any of this since your mother passed."

Taylor tilted her head. "Did … did Mom know that you were the Dark?" Was I the only one you never told?

He smiled and gathered her in for a hug. "We were the Dark, honey. Danny and Anne-Rose, Killers for Hire. We were a team, and a damn good one. When you were born, we made a pact that if either of us died, the other would give up the killing to take care of you."

Taylor had a sudden presentiment. "Mom … the way she died. Was it really a car accident, or did someone …" Her voice trailed off.

The lines on her father's face deepened, as though he'd just aged ten years. "It was just a car accident. But we'd agreed. So I walked away from being the Dark, until now. Until the locker. Until her." He gestured off-hand at Sophia.

"Are we … are we really going to kill her?" It was as though Taylor stood on the edge of a yawning gulf. It really was a very long way down, but if she trusted herself to jump into the darkness, a safe landing on the other side was promised to her. Or she could stay and trust to the footing where she was.

"When it comes to secrets, there are three types of people in the world," Danny said in a lecturing tone. "Those who can be trusted to keep it because they know it's the right thing to do, those who can be trusted to keep it because they're scared of the consequences, and those who can't be trusted either way." He gestured at Sophia. "I stayed up till five this morning talking to her. By the time I finished, she was terrified of me. But she's since gotten over that. In my estimation, she's the type of idiot who'll fuck herself over just to get a chance to screw with the people she sees as her enemies. Alan, do you concur?"

Alan Barnes stared down at Sophia and rubbed his chin with forefinger and thumb. "Unfortunately, I do." His voice was reluctant. "In my personal estimation, she holds exactly one viewpoint as being valid; hers. She despises Taylor for perceived 'weakness' and she hates you for scaring her. No matter what you say or do to dissuade her; if you let her go, she will report this incident in every detail, and even make up a few to incriminate Taylor as well."

"Even though she knows I'll kill her for it," Danny noted dispassionately.

"She believes she can evade that fate." Alan shrugged as if to say, not my fault she's an idiot.

"Hm." Taylor didn't see her father's hand move, but suddenly he held a pistol. Where the hell did he get that from? Turning it so it lay across his palm—Taylor noted that at no time did the barrel point at any of them—he offered it to Alan. "It's loaded."

"I'd be surprised if it wasn't." Alan took the weapon, then did something with it that exposed a glint of brass. When he let go of the bit he'd pulled back, it snapped into place with a meaty clack. A smaller snik followed as he clicked over some kind of control on the side. He looked up at Danny. "Just to clarify; once I send Emma to boarding school, she'll be in the clear?"

"So long as she never comes near Taylor again, yes." Taylor had never heard her father's voice pronounce judgement so starkly.

"Mr Barnes!" Sophia struggled in her bonds. "You've got the gun! You don't want to do this! He'll kill Emma anyway! Kill him! The PRT will fucking shower you with money! They'll give you a fucking medal! Shoot him! Shoot them both! You'll be a fucking hero!"

Alan Barnes' laugh was entirely without humour. "There are two problems with that. One; even if I were willing to betray my oldest friend, only an idiot assumes the Dark has just handed over his only gun. Two; I trust him a lot more than I trust you." He paused. "Oh, and three? You nearly got Emma killed twice, you stupid little bitch." With that, he levelled the pistol at Sophia's head.

"Wait a minute, Alan." Danny turned to Taylor. "Why don't you go up and check on Chewie, hon? Make sure he's not gotten lonely yet."

Taylor nodded, grateful for the reprieve. She was pretty sure she knew exactly what was coming, and she wasn't at all certain she was ready for it. "Okay, Dad."

She trotted up the stairs and opened the door at the top. As she began to close it behind her, she heard Sophia sneer, "Fucking weakling little bi—"

The door clicked shut and she looked around for Chewie. He raised his head from the tattered remnants of the hambone her father had mentioned, then paused and looked down at the bone again. Taking pity on him, she walked over and bent down to pick him up. He licked her face; his breath smelled like ham. This one time, she didn't object.

A minute or so later, the basement door opened and her father emerged, followed by Mr Barnes and a faint acrid smell. The pistol, unsurprisingly, was nowhere in sight. She looked at them both. "She's dead?" It was a surprisingly easy question to ask.

<><>​

Danny

"It had to be done," he said. He put a hand on Alan's shoulder. "You'll be okay?"

Alan offered a wan smile. "When Emma's safe in Europe, I'll be okay. I need to head home and start making the arrangements. I guess I'll see you around." He held out his hand.

Danny shook it. "I guess so. Give my best to Zoe and Anne."

"I'll do that." Alan turned and headed toward the front door.

Danny waited until the door opened and closed before he turned to Taylor. "Are you okay?"

"I'm not sure." Taylor had an odd expression on her face. "It's kind of an emotional whiplash to find out your father's a hitman that everyone was scared of back in the day. And to know someone was just shot and killed in my basement." She paused. "And don't get me started on how I feel about the victim being Sophia, who was also a Ward, and a bully, and was threatening us both with the PRT and the Protectorate." She thumped the heel of her free hand on the side of her head. "I'll let you know how I feel about it when it all settles out."

"That's fair," Danny allowed. "Okay, I'll ask a simpler question. How do you feel about me being the Dark? About your dad maybe going back into the business of killing people, if I think it's necessary that some people die?"

"How do I feel about that? Hmm, let me think." Taylor grinned and put Chewie back on the floor, where he immediately attacked the hambone again with a series of little growls. Then she took hold of his arm and wrapped it around her in a hug. "On the one hand, you're a merciless killer. On the other, you got me Chewie."

He snorted a laugh. "I see you have your priorities straight. I'm impressed that you're taking my secrets on board so readily."

Taylor's smile fell away. "Secrets," she said. "Right."

Danny blinked. "What's the matter? What did I say?"

"It's nothing you said," she assured him. "It's something about me. Something I think you need to know."

He raised an eyebrow. "Okay, I'm officially intrigued. What is it that I need to know?"

Stepping back from him, Taylor raised her arms dramatically upward and outward. Danny wasn't sure exactly what was going to happen, until tens of thousands of bugs started swarming in through the windows and under the doors. They scuttled over the floor and walls, while those that could fly took to the air. Moving in unison, they began to orbit Taylor, covering the floor in a glittering curve of brown-black chitin. The air was abuzz with the sound of thousands of tiny wings.

Danny looked at the insectoid halo surrounding his daughter and whistled softly.

"Well, now," he said softly. "Isn't that interesting."

<><>​

Barnes Household
Emma Barnes

"What do you mean, you're sending me to boarding school in Germany?" Emma demanded. "It's not fair! You can't just drag me away from all my friends! I was going to go to Arcadia!"

"It's a done deal." Her father was adamant. "And don't even think of trying to wiggle out of it. You're grounded. Indefinitely. And I've changed your cell-phone plan until further notice. From here on in, the only people you can contact will be me, your mother and your sister."

"What?" Her voice was almost a shriek. "You can't do that!" Her father had never pushed back on what she wanted before.

But apparently, when he set his mind to it, he could and would.


End of Part Five

 

[Ack]

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Part Six: Training Montage

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

A Couple of Hours Later (after dark)
Taylor

Holding Chewie in her arms with a heavy plastic bag hanging from one hand, she chose to avert her eyes when her father carried the plastic-wrapped bundle up out of the basement. The oven gloves and the long-sleeved shirt didn't look too much out of place, though the shower cap gave him a faintly ludicrous air. She switched off the kitchen light before she opened the back door, to avoid silhouetting him against the light.

"Clear?" he murmured.

"Clear," she confirmed. It was too dark out for her to see anything, but that didn't matter to the hundreds of thousands of bugs that were confirming that the surrounding two blocks contained no watchers.

He went down the back steps then crossed the yard to where the car waited, trunk open. It had already been lined with more plastic; there was no sense, he'd explained, in not taking extra precautions. She hadn't argued, though she'd wondered where one got rolls of industrial-strength plastic from. It seemed like such a niche product.

His burden safely deposited in the car, he relieved her of the bag. Within it, she knew, were Shadow Stalker's mask, her crossbows, and some extremely sharp arrows her father had found in a holder at the small of Sophia's back. Tying the handles of the bag together, he placed it in the trunk next to the body then shut the lid; not with an audible slam, but pressing it down the last inch gently, so that the latch clicked into place. Then he stripped off the oven gloves and shower cap and turned to her.

"Want to come for the ride?" he asked, and nodded at the furry bundle in her arms. "Chewie gets lonely and howls if nobody's around. So if you come, he has to come as well."

He wasn't trying to warn her off, she understood. He was just giving her all the facts. "Sure, I'll come," she said. "You need someone to watch your back, right?"

The smile he gave her sent a warm feeling right down to her toes. "It's definitely appreciated," he agreed. "I could do it on my own, but having a second set of a million eyes along is very useful." Moving to the passenger side, he opened the door for her. She got in and arranged Chewie on her lap while he closed the door for her. Manoeuvring her seatbelt around the wriggling puppy was a little tricky, but she managed. Chewie licked her face, then stood up with his front paws on the window ledge as if to say, Come on, let's go already.

"Patience, Chewie," she murmured, wiping puppy drool off her cheek (not for the first time) and rubbing his ears so that he arched his neck into her hand. "Dad's gotta lock up yet."

Sitting in the cool darkness of the car, holding the warm bundle of her dog in her arms, she considered the turns her life had taken over the last day. The hospital had been tolerable, but she'd been aching to get home. To sleep in her own bed, to play with Chewie, and to forget everything that had happened to her.

Well, not everything. Her bug powers weren't going away, and her father seemed to be intrigued by them, so there was that. And there was also the fact that her father was the Dark. A man whose very name had inspired the equivalent of a meme in the criminal underworld; one which nobody laughed at. It wasn't just Dad. It was Mom, too. As she rubbed her cheek against Chewie's soft fur, she tried to figure out how she felt about that. My parents used to kill people for money.

The most striking part of all this was that her father had never tried to explain away what he used to do, or even excuse it. He'd simply told her, and left her to decide how to react. Also, he and Alan Barnes had murdered Sophia Hess in the basement.

This was the part that she was still trying to get her head around. Sophia Hess pushed me into my own locker, full of horrible crap, so Dad told Alan Barnes to kill her. And he did, so Dad wouldn't do the same to Emma. To save her life, Emma was going away to boarding school in Europe, and Taylor would never see her again, just because her father had said so.

And Sophia Hess was a Ward. A superhero. She bullied me and put me in the hospital, and Dad had her executed because of it.

Superheroes were supposed to be the best of people. They were literally supposed to embody the concept. The bright costumes, the hopeful names, the powers. They were supposed to stand between normal people and the evils of the world. But Shadow Stalker didn't wear a bright costume, and even her name sounded creepy as hell. Still, she should've lived up to being a hero. Instead, she'd been a bitch and a bully, even after she stopped being a vigilante and joined the Wards. In fact, she'd gotten worse. She'd helped subject Taylor to abuse that had driven her to the depths of despair more than once. In the locker, Taylor had honestly thought she was going to die. How could someone do that to someone else and still call themselves a hero?

She was no hero. She was a villain, pretending to be a hero.

The epiphany left Taylor almost breathless. It explained so much. Far from protecting people from the evils of the world, she'd been one of the evils of the world. Her father had even mentioned how she watched crimes happen without intervening if the victim didn't fight back. That's not a heroic act. That's letting evil happen. It was how Emma got her head twisted around.

If Dad hadn't stepped in … what would have happened? Taylor could see it for herself. She would've recovered in time, and gone back to school. Well, if Winslow hadn't burned down … wait a minute. Dad knew the names of people that he didn't know before … and Winslow burned down last night? Coincidence? I think not.

The driver's side door opened, and Danny got in. "Ready to go, honey?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. "Uh, quick question though."

He gave her a grin as he fastened his seat belt. "Shoot."

She took a deep breath. "Did you burn down Winslow?"

Putting the key in the ignition, he started the car. "Yes, actually." He raised an eyebrow. "Do you have any objections? I was under the impression you hated the place."

"Oh, no objections at all," she assured him. "I was just wondering." Another thought struck her. "You told me Chewie can't be left alone or he howls. Did you take him along with you to burn down Winslow?"

The car clunked into gear, and he started it rolling gently down the driveway. "I took him along, yes. The idea was originally to gather information. Once I had it, I decided that the place deserved to burn. Chewie was in total agreement with me. In fact, he handed me the matches."

His delivery was so perfectly deadpan that she burst out laughing. Chewie yapped and licked her face, and she cuddled him to her. "I'll just bet he did," she managed between giggles. "My little Chewie, the arsonist."

"That's right." His tone became more serious as they headed off down the road. "Now for the next question I know you want to ask. What are we going to do with the body?"

Taylor stared at her father, wondering when he'd become a mind reader. A moment later, she got it. "Everyone asks that, don't they?"

"It was certainly the subject of discussion between myself and your mom on more than one occasion," he confirmed. "So tell me; what are the options?"

She thought about the matter seriously. "Drive out into the woods and bury her there, put weights on her and dump her in the bay, find a construction site where they're about to pour concrete … um, yeah, I'm out of ideas."

This was all weird to her, but she felt she could handle it better if she thought of it as disposing of the body of a villain who'd tried to kill her, and would've kept trying. And she probably would've hurt Chewie too, just to get at me.

"All good ideas," he said approvingly. "I've used them all in the past. But there's one you missed."

She frowned. "What's that?"

He indicated to take the next left, heading north. "Let them find it. But you muddy the waters at the same time."

<><>​

Next Morning
Sunday, 9 January, 2011
PRT ENE
Director Piggot

"What do you mean, Shadow Stalker's dead?" Emily Piggot hated Mondays, but Sundays had just made her list as well. "Don't we have precautions in place to make sure this exact thing doesn't happen?" When the Youth Guard finds out about this, the shit is going to hit the fan so hard.

On the other side of her desk, Armsmaster took a deep breath. "We do. Partnered patrols, regular welfare checks, a tracking device in the Wards-issued phone, and carefully devised patrol routes that kept them away from trouble hotspots. But she's … she was … good at ducking around the regulations if it didn't suit her to follow them. She apparently had a habit of ditching her patrol partner, going off-route and ignoring welfare checks as long as possible. It didn't help that her shadow state disrupted signal reception with the radio and phone, so it was hard to keep track of her at the best of times. I strongly suspect that she knew about this and played on it, because the number of 'radio disruption' and 'phone signal loss' incidences we had with her outweigh the rest of the Wards combined."

Emily spread her hands in frustration. "And she wasn't disciplined for this, why exactly? She was on probation, for Christ's sake!" Bringing a semi-criminal into the Wards had not been her idea, and she'd never been in favour of it, but they did need all the heroic capes they could muster on the streets, and the girl had been reasonably competent, so she hadn't complained too loudly. Now, it seemed she would've been well-served to complain a lot louder.

"Several reasons." Armsmaster's tone suggested he was reading a pre-prepared list from his helmet HUD. "She was smart enough to read the regulations and figure out exactly how far she could push matters before things got serious. Also, the radio and phone problems were due to interactions with her power, which she never actually allowed us to measure, so there was a chance that they were legitimate. A small chance, but a chance nonetheless. Next, she was abrasive enough that people rarely complained when she dumped them on patrol. Not that she did this all the time; just enough that they weren't surprised when she did do it. And finally, Triumph is good at shouting orders but not so good at dealing with breaches of discipline. He's on track to graduate to the Protectorate in the next couple of months, and I suspect he may be slacking off a little, leaving his problems to be dealt with by Aegis once he takes over."

"Really." Emily made a note: deal with Triumph re: SS. Then she looked up at Armsmaster. "So, give me the gory details. How did it happen, and where?"

"We found her at the Boat Graveyard, via an anonymous phone tip, a little before midnight." The armoured hero's tone was matter-of-fact. "The content of the call was simple: a disguised male voice saying they thought they'd seen a superhero get shot at the Boat Graveyard. Duration of call was less than fifteen seconds. Burner phone. Velocity got there within five minutes, and both located and identified her. She was lying face-up in shallow water near the docks. I was next on site, and we got her up on shore. Cause of death was easy to ascertain; someone had shot her in the forehead with a nine-millimetre pistol. Death would have been near-instantaneous. There was no seawater in her lungs, so she went into the water after she died. Rigor mortis had already set in, so she'd been dead for more than two hours already. Getting an exact time of death was difficult, given that she was submerged in water for at least part of that time. But there's a problem."

"I'll say there's a problem." Emily leaned forward over her desk. "She was dead long before we got that tip-off. Whoever shot her wanted us to find her. The killer was taunting us. Sending a message."

"More of a problem than that." Armsmaster grimaced. "Her mask had been removed before she was shot. No bullet-hole. It was lying beside her in the water, like it was tossed there. And from the angle of the shot, she'd been made to kneel before they shot her. Execution style."

"Christ." Emily clenched her fists. "Anything else?"

Armsmaster nodded. "She put up a fight. There's bruising on her body along with a cut on her face and marks from a stun-gun. No signs of sexual assault; no extraneous DNA at all, actually. Both her crossbows were nearby. They'd been fired. We found the projectiles some distance away." He paused. "Sharp arrows. The type she was using when she was still a vigilante. There were more in a holder on the back of her belt, under her cloak."

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose. "She shot at someone, intending to kill them, and missed. They subdued her, unmasked her and executed her, then left her for us to find. God damn it." This was getting more and more problematic by the minute. "Do you have any good news to tell me?"

To her surprise, Armsmaster nodded. "The bullet that killed her didn't go all the way through, and we were able to retrieve it. There were enough rifling markings on it that we were able to make a match. That bullet came from a pistol used in several killings by the Empire Eighty-Eight."

"Now why does that not surprise me?" marvelled Emily in a savagely mocking tone. "We had exactly one black Ward in the city, and she got unmasked and murdered by our resident neo-Nazis." She pointed at Armsmaster. "Have you contacted her family yet?"

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am, we have. They've been taken into protective custody until we can determine if the Empire intends to come after them as well."

"Good. Well, even if they don't, I'm not letting this stand."

"Director?" asked Armsmaster, taken slightly aback by her change in tone.

"If the Empire wants war, we'll give them war." Emily stood from behind her desk. "I'm going to be calling on Boston and New York for reinforcements, and then we're going to explain to Kaiser and his minions that nobody murders a Ward so blatantly in my town and gets away with it. Even if she was on probation and had a habit of going off the reservation."

"Yes, ma'am."

<><>​

Danny

The punching bag barely shuddered. Danny steadied it and leaned around to nod at Taylor. "Again," he said. "From the shoulder."

Taylor, wearing a sleeveless top and sweatpants, her face sheened with perspiration, nodded tensely. She wiped her forehead with the back of her glove and shaped up again. This time, she managed to put a little more force behind the blow, and the bag moved perceptibly.

"Better," he said approvingly. "Like that. Let's see if you can't do that five times in a row."

The breath rasped in her throat, but she complied. Once, twice, three times, she made the bag shake. The fourth was weaker, and after the fifth she let her hands drop to her sides. "I can't believe people do this for a living," she panted.

"It's a useful skill to have," he reminded her. "In a world where bug-spray exists, you're going to need to punch someone out sooner or later."

"And if they've got powers that make them immune to bugs and being punched out?" she asked; he judged that her question was half sarcasm and half serious.

"Running away is also a useful skill." His answer was entirely serious.

"And if they can run faster than me?" She raised her eyebrows, the sarcasm still evident.

I'll be waiting on a nearby rooftop with a sniper rifle. "We'll be working on that later. The endurance will be good for your boxing, as well." He moved around the bag and raised his own gloves. "For now, watch my form. You've been holding your hands a little low. When you lay a punch on someone, you're trying to put your fist all the way through them. Your entire body weight has to go into it. Doesn't matter if the other guy is your size, or ten stone heavier. Make him feel like he's been hit by an eighteen-wheeler."

Moving almost in slow motion so that she could follow his movements, he unleashed a right into the bag. It moved, but not very much. His left was faster, then his right came back at full power, making it buck and jerk on the chain. He hammered a four-punch combo into the hanging target, leaving it rocking and swinging, then instinctively followed through with a rising shin-strike that would've impacted under the short ribs.

"You didn't teach me that one," Taylor said as he steadied the bag again. Now, she sounded impressed rather than sarcastic. "Am I going to have to learn how to do that, too?"

He grinned. "If you want. But you're going to have to walk before you run. For now, I need to make sure you've got a solid grounding in the basics. Now go shower while I check on Chewie. It's time I got caught up on the details of what you can do."

"Yes, sir," she replied with a jaunty grin, the sarcasm back in full play. Holding out her hands, she let him unlace the gloves, then headed up the stairs.

He watched her go, then nodded approvingly. She had what his father would've called moxie. She's a Hebert. She'll last the distance. Teasing out the lace tags with his teeth, he began to remove his own gloves. He was looking forward to this conversation.

<><>​

Brockton Bay
Traffic Lights at Fifth and Main

The armoured truck had plenty of momentum, so Joseph Keller made sure to slow down well before the lights. "Been doing this job twenty years," he told his offsider as he downshifted. "Rain or shine, I can put this truck at any bank within one minute of the due time."

"What, you've never been late?" Mike was six months into the job. "Like, ever?"

"Oh, I've been late before," Joseph was quick to admit. "Once because of a blown tyre, and three times because—" He broke off, eyes flicking between the truck mirrors. Twenty years had given him a knack for reading traffic, and he really didn't like the look of those black Chevy Suburbans that were coming up behind.

"Because what?" Mike wasn't as quick on the uptake.

"Robbery." Joe grabbed the mic off the dash.

"What, you got robbed three times?"

"Four, now." Joe keyed the microphone while he slid the truck over another lane, hoping to maybe sneak around the corner before the Suburbans boxed him in. "Anchorfield three four nine to Control. I say again, Anchorfield three four nine calling Control. We've got five Suburbans crowding us, over."

"What the—" Mike peered out his own window, then recoiled as one of the Suburbans blurred past and swerved in front of the truck. "Shit! What's he doing?"

"Blockading us! Hold on!" Joe took his foot off the brake and shoved it on to the accelerator. The engine responded with a roar and the truck surged forward. He whipped the wheel around, trying to squeeze the ungainly vehicle into the gap between the Suburban and the curb. Hands moving on automatic pilot, he changed up again in an effort to wring more speed out of the truck.

The driver of the Suburban had clearly anticipated this, as the vehicle angled across the lane, nose almost in the gutter, before slamming on its brakes. An instant later, the nose of the armoured truck slammed into the side of the Suburban, driving it sideways with a great squeal of rubber on asphalt. The engine faltered, on the verge of stalling, and he punched in the clutch and downshifted again. Mike yelled as he was thrown against his seatbelt.

"Shotgun!" bellowed Joe, wrestling with the wheel. He was pushing the Suburban sideways at a steady rate, but it wasn't fast enough. If he could just reach the corner …

"… chorfield three four nine, this is Control. Copy five Suburbans. Be advised, backup incoming. Requesting update, over."

Even through the thick glass of the windows, he heard the multiple shots. They weren't aimed at the windows or the windshield; in fact, the shooters were nowhere in sight. But he knew where they were and what their targets were, because he felt it through the truck. Both rear tyres had just been shot out, with a corresponding loss of traction and control. Still, he kept his foot flat on the accelerator, engine screaming as he felt the rubber flaying off the wheels, doing his best to push that damn Suburban around the corner.

"Shots fired. I say again, shots fired," he managed into the mic. "Confirmed robbery. Black cars, no plates. Rear tyres just got shot out. Blockaded, over."

By now, Mike had recovered his wits sufficiently to reach back and retrieve a shotgun from the rack behind them. The chak-chak as he worked the slide was music to Joe's ears. The shotguns were loaded with rifled slugs, perfect for short-range work. He didn't care what sort of body armour these assholes were wearing; a high-velocity twelve-gauge slug would break bones and bruise internal organs, leaving them gasping on the ground. And if they somehow came to an armoured car robbery without body armour, they'd be stretchered away with fist-sized holes in them.

More gunfire sounded, and the truck lurched; that had been the passenger-side front wheel. It was official now. They weren't getting around the corner, and they weren't getting away. Okay, then. Time to show these sons of bitches who's boss around here. Even apart from the shotguns and their personal sidearms, they still had their passenger in the back. Steelheart, a rogue cape whose body could take on the consistency of whatever metal he was touching, was paid the big bucks to protect these shipments and keep insurance premiums down. Whatever bullets they hosed him down with were just going to irritate him.

He took his foot off the accelerator and put the truck into neutral, allowing the engine to go back to an idle. "Okay, then," he said tensely as he reached back to get his own shotgun. "The glass is good against small-arms fire, and we've got the big guy in the back. We can bunker down until the cavalry gets here."

Another Suburban pulled around in front of the one that had blockaded them. The driver's side door opened, and a man got out; tall, imposing, wearing a simple cloth mask. He raised a bullhorn to his mouth. Joe knew what was coming next; 'surrender or we bust in there anyway and take you out'. Same old, same old. He went to rack the slide on his shotgun.

"YOU THERE, IN THE TRUCK." Here it came. "ARE YOU AFRAID … OF THE DARK?"

Wait, what? Joe froze in the act of working his weapon's action. What did he say? That was a phrase that let every Brocktoner with a brain and a shred of common sense know when it was time to duck and cover. He'd never encountered the Dark himself, of course. Nobody he knew had. But everyone knew the question. And there was only one right answer.

"Wait, is that … him?" With a shaking hand, Mike pointed out the windshield at the masked man.

"Looks like it." Because nobody would be so fuck-stupid as to impersonate the most terrifying man in America. Carefully, Joe put the shotgun on safe and replaced it on the rack. Then he began to wind down the window.

"But doesn't he normally just kill people, not rob armoured cars?"

"Maybe he's saving up for retirement. Anyways, I'd rather be robbed than killed, get my drift?" Turning off the ignition, Joe took the keys out and dropped them out the window. Then he put his hands on the wheel, in plain view of the man with the bullhorn.

"Yeah, good point." Mike put his own shotgun back on the rack and leaned forward to place his hands on the dash. Joe let out a silent sigh of relief. They'd catch hell from the boss, but at least they'd live past the next five minutes.

<><>​

Taylor

Once again, Taylor blessed the impulse that had led her father to buy her a puppy. Sitting on the sofa, holding the bundle of warm fur, she was able to lean back and relax instead of tensing up over her father's questions. Chewie was enjoying the situation as well; as befitted his name, he'd found the corner of her sleeve irresistible, and was gnawing on it with little growls and shakes of his head.

"I can sense and control bugs out to two or three blocks, as far as I can tell," she explained. "It varies from time to time, but I'm not sure why. Anyway, I can sense every bug in the area, and I can control every bug I can sense."

"That's a lot of bugs," he noted. "Do you have any difficulty in doing this? I've heard that some capes get headaches when they try to push their powers too hard."

"Nope, no headaches." She smoothed down Chewie's ears as she thought about her answer. "If they're in my range, I can control them. If they're not, I can't."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "I suspect a few capes out there would be very envious of you. How precise is your control level?"

"As precise as you want." She wasn't sure where he was going with this. "I could have ten thousand spiders dancing the macarena on the living room floor if you wanted. Of course, I'd have to get ten thousand spiders together and learn how the macarena goes, but that's just detail."

Both his eyebrows went up. At the same time, he made a negatory motion with his hand. "Let's not have any spiders, doing the macarena or otherwise, okay, honey?" Pausing, he raised a finger. "At least, not in our living room. There are some situations where it would be definitely worthwhile to have spiders and other bugs going places where they shouldn't."

"Sure, okay." Taylor smirked. "Did you want to know how many spiders and roaches we have living in the basement? Because I can tell you, if you're really interested."

He gave her a medium-dirty look. "Unless the answer is 'zero', I'd rather live in happy ignorance. How good is the sensory information that you get from them, anyway?"

Chewie seemed to have given up on the sleeve and gone to sleep; Taylor shifted him to a more comfortable position. "Good and bad, at the same time. Sensing exactly where they are and what they're doing, it's extremely precise, down to a fraction of an inch. Sensing through them is almost hopeless. Bug senses are weird."

"Down to a fraction of an inch …" he mused. "So, if you had three bugs that were almost lined up in a row, you'd know which how far out of line the middle one was, and how to move it back into line? Even with your eyes closed?"

Taylor wasn't sure where this was going, but the answer seemed clear enough to her. "Uh, sure?"

He smiled then. "Taylor, honey, put Chewie to bed. Then we're going back down to the basement."

"The basement?" She rolled her eyes and groaned. "We just got done with the punching bag."

His smile widened as he shook his head. "Oh, we're not going to be using the punching bag this time."

<><>​

Coil

"It went off without a hitch," boasted the mercenary he'd picked to be the faux-Dark. "Soon as I called it out, they wet 'emselves and gave up without a fight. Even the asshole cape in the back said 'screw it' when we opened the doors. I dunno why we didn't do this years ago."

"Neither do I," mused Calvert, mostly to himself. He'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop after the robbery, but it really did seem as simple as that. Tattletale's analysis had been on the money, for once; or rather, she'd given him the correct analysis. Normally he had to torture it out of her. Has she figured it out and decided to play it straight for once?

Whatever the reason, he was pleased with the end result. With the Dark supposedly at his beck and call, he was going to become a power in this city. Once word spread, nobody would dare cross him.

And all because of a reputation that should've run its course years ago. How stupid are these people, anyway?

<><>​

Kenta

Lung's voice rose to a shout. "How many times do I have to tell you? There is no such person as the Dark!" His clenched fist erupted in flames, causing his minions to cower away from him. Except Oni Lee, of course; nothing scared that man. Lung wasn't even sure he was capable of feeling fear.

"I'm not questioning you, great Lung," babbled the minion. "But they say he robbed an armoured truck! The guards didn't even resist! All he had to do was ask the question!"

"HE IS NOT THE DARK!" It was a primal roar, accompanied by metal sliding from Lung's skin and flame bursting out all over his body. "Do you know how I know this? Because there is no Dark! There never was a Dark! Those who fear the Dark fear something that isn't there! They are cowardly and superstitious! They are fools, listening to tales started by the PRT to keep us in fear!"

"So, should we create our own Dark?" That was one of his bolder, more forward-thinking minions. "After all, who is to say whose Dark is real?"

Lung's rage dropped back to a simmering anger as he considered the question. "… no," he decided. "The people will come to their senses, sooner or later. They will realise that the Dark is a hollow name, and that there is nothing inside. We do not wish to be caught out when this happens. We will stand back and laugh at the fools who believed. And if we are lucky, we will be the ones to uncover the sham." He pointed at the nearest man. "If someone claims to be the Dark, what will you do?"

The man blinked, unprepared for the question. "Uh … shoot him?" It was more a question than a statement. He cringed, as if expecting flames.

Lung shook his head, deciding to be lenient this time. "I didn't hear you." His voice was a menacing growl.

"Shoot him!" the man declared, pulling his pistol and waving it at the ceiling. For even appearing to menace the Dragon of Kyushu with a firearm was an invitation to a painful end.

"Louder!" Lung waved his arm to include the rest of the minions.

"Shoot him!" Everyone had a pistol in their hand now. Their voices echoed in the room.

"I can't hear you!" he shouted.

"SHOOT HIM!" they bellowed.

He nodded, pleased. "Good. Now somebody find me some pants."

As they dispersed, he allowed himself a smile behind the metal mask. Whoever was pretending to be the Dark was going to have a very bad day if his men had anything to say about it.

<><>​

Kaiser

"Don't be an idiot, James. It wasn't him." Max leaned back in his chair and sipped at his drink. Perfectly aged whisky, served just right. Money had its privileges.

James tilted his head, apparently forgetting that he wasn't in costume and he didn't need the gesture to convey confusion. His face did it just as well. "But … he was a big man, and he claimed to be the Dark. The guards just gave up without a fight. What do you mean, it wasn't him?"

"I mean it wasn't him because it wasn't him." Max looked over at James, trying to figure out the best way to describe that water was wet and the earth was indeed round. "Listen. The Dark killed dozens of people. Probably hundreds. He had a twenty-year unbroken record of kills, was never arrested or even suspected by the cops, and didn't end up in a shallow grave. If he wanted money, all he had to do was pick out one of a dozen outstanding hits and collect on it. Robbery was never his style and never will be."

"So … he'll kill two dozen men over a dog, but he won't stoop to robbing an armoured truck in broad daylight?" James' voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Putting his glass down, Max clapped his hands in ironic congratulation. "Precisely! Now you're getting it!"

"You're all fucking crazy here; you know that, right?" James shook his head. "This whole city. Batshit crazy. Verrückt."

"Maybe," conceded Max. "But it still wasn't him. That Dark that's making waves? Dead man walking."

"So, what do we do about it?" James looked at him questioningly.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." Max picked up the glass and drained it, then turned to look out the window of his office. "I lost two good people and lots of fucking idiots who got between him and his dog. There's no telling what he'll do to someone who gets between him and his kill. So, we sit back and we don't do anything that might antagonise him until he's done with business."

James didn't answer; a moment later, Max heard the office door open and close. Slowly, he shook his head. He's been here how long and he still doesn't understand how we do business?

<><>​

Danny

"Brace, but don't tense," he said out loud. "Just squeeze the trigger and let it happen."

"Okay." Taylor shifted her grip on the pistol. It was only a .32, so the recoil wouldn't jar her wrists too badly, but Danny still had her holding it two-handed. She did her best to line up the front sight with the rear sight, and both with the paper target he'd pinned up on the far wall of the basement, but her lack of experience showed. The pistol went off with a flat crack that barely made it through their earplugs. As he'd expected, the shot missed the bullseye by several inches. The previous nine hadn't done any better.

"Aw." She looked disappointed. "It's harder than it looks."

"Everything worth doing in life is," he reminded her. "But that was just to familiarise you with the weapon. You're used to the sound and the recoil now?"

"Uh huh." She nodded firmly. "I used to think guns were scary." She looked at the pistol in her hand. "Well, they're still scary, but I know a lot more about them now."

"Good." He pointed at the weapon. "Now, put a bug on the rear sight and another on the front sight, and one where you want the bullet to go. See how accurate you can get."

Suddenly, she looked intrigued. Raising the pistol, she held it while a couple of flies landed on it, and a roach scurried up the far wall. When she aimed the gun this time, she was a lot less unsure of herself; just gauging by eye, Danny figured she had it on target or nearly so. She squeezed the trigger, the pistol went crack, and bits of roach splattered across the bullseye.

"I got it!" she whooped. "I got it!"

Danny raised his eyebrows. "You did. Think you can do it again?"

Five shots later, she had proved she could definitely do it again. At least at short range against an unmoving target, she could reliably place a bullseye shot on target, six shots out of six. As she reloaded and policed up her expended brass, Danny went searching through the gear he had stored until he'd found what he was looking for.

"Here," he said, coming back to her. "Put this on."

"What is that?" she asked, putting the pistol on the bench and taking the length of cloth. "A mask?"

"Nope. It's a blindfold." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You don't even need to see the target with your eyes. Let's see how good you are when all you can use is your powers."

"Oh. Okay." While she was tying it on, he went and replaced the paper target; the bullseye was more or less gone, anyway. As an afterthought, he placed a thumbtack in the middle of the bullseye of the new sheet.

"Are you ready?" he asked, once he was back behind the firing line.

"I guess." She sounded doubtful. "I can't believe I'm about to do target practice blindfolded."

He snorted. "Well, this is one thing I can't teach you how to do. So take your time."

"Thanks, Dad." She reached unerringly for the pistol and readied it, as he'd shown her. Then she pointed it downrange and squeezed the trigger.

Crack.

Crack crack.

Crack crack crack crack.

She fired until the magazine was empty. The only expression he could see under the blindfold was one of total concentration.

After the last shot, with hot shell casings still tinkling to the floor, she safed the pistol and laid it to one side. They walked down together to where the target was pinned to the wall. Every shot had gone within an inch of the bullseye. The thumbtack was nowhere to be seen.

Pulling up the blindfold, Taylor stared at the paper. "My powers told me I'd hit it," she confessed. "But I didn't believe it."

"I'm looking at it, and I have trouble believing it," he said, and put his arm around her shoulders. "Taylor, honey, your powers have given you a great talent. Maybe one that most people wouldn't think of, and maybe not quite as useful as being able to smother someone in bugs at will, but a great talent all the same."

She wrinkled her nose. "You know I'd much rather I never got these powers at all. What I had to go through to get them …" The shudder that went through her looked entirely unfeigned.

He squeezed her shoulders supportively. "I'd much rather you hadn't gone through that, either," he said. "In fact, I'd much rather I'd thought to buy you a puppy on my own. But if there's one thing life has taught me, it's that there's no sense in regretting a path not taken. You accept what life deals you, and you make the best of it. Or you change it to suit yourself. I've never really been an accepting sort of person, myself."

"Change it to suit myself, huh?" Taylor looked up at her father thoughtfully. "I think I can learn to do that."

Grinning, he reached up and ruffled her hair. "That's my girl."

<><>​

PRT ENE
Director Piggot

"God damn it," snapped Emily. "You listen to me, Wilkins. Armstrong's already come on board; if you won't release troops to me, I might just order Armsmaster to call Legend direct and have him ask you why you're offering what amounts to thoughts and prayers over the murder of a black Ward by neo-Nazi elements! I need people, damn it! Boots on the ground! Not fucking platitudes!"

"I'm sorry, Emily, but my hands are tied. I can't—"

There was a knock on her office door. "What?" she snapped, looking up from the video call. "No, not you." Then she saw who it was. "Can it wait? I'm busy."

"It's important, Director." Assault's tone was uncharacteristically subdued. "This is something you need to hear."

This Sunday had been bad enough already. Now, seeing the set of his jaw, Emily was struck by a dark presentiment. "Fine." She directed a glare at Wilkins' image on the screen. "I will call you back." It was as much a threat as a promise. With a click of her mouse, she ended the call, then looked up at Assault. "Please tell me you're here to report Clockblocker for mooning the Mayor on the Boardwalk, on live TV."

"I wish it was that simple." Assault shook his head. "That report of an armoured truck robbery, by the Dark? It's bullshit. The man never did anything so basic. I need you to make that clear to the cops."

"And you're worried about this, because?" Emily clenched her fists on the desk. "The Dark is a murderer! I know you've got connections to people in low places, but why are you covering for him so hard?"

"Because one, I know for a fact he didn't do it, and two, if the cops come after him, he's gonna have to make a choice between not shooting cops and not going to jail. Up 'til now, he's managed to avoid that particular dilemma, because the cops have been smart enough to say 'fuck it' and look the other way. But robbing an armoured truck is not the same as putting a nine-mil hole through the head of some asshole who desperately needs it. The cops actually have to take notice." Assault paused and took a deep breath. "And while he's undoubtedly done shit that in any sane world would get him put away for a long, long time, he didn't do this. Also, the world is anything but sane. And then there's the other problem."

"Other problem?" Emily really, really didn't want to hear this. Unfortunately, her job description said otherwise.

"If the cops start trying to take down the Dark, a lot of them are going to end up in the hospital. They're gonna call on the Protectorate and the PRT for help. Which means we're going to be facing off against the Dark. I don't like that."

Emily's initial impulse was to remind him that he was a parahuman, in a team of parahumans, and one lone normal gunman was unlikely to pose a serious threat to them. Then she reconsidered. She didn't like the idea, either. "You think he's that good?"

"I don't think it. I know it. Twenty years, Director. Twenty years." He rapped his knuckles on her desk. "I don't care how you do it, but make it clear to the cops that the Dark didn't do that armoured truck job. For their sakes."

"Well, then," she snapped, "we can go after the real robber, at least."

"Bad idea," he advised. "Once the Dark finds out—and he will find out—he'll be gunning for the guy as well. At which point, the safest option will be to stand well back and award points for style." Turning, he headed for the door, then paused. "Oh, and one more thing."

"I don't want to hear it."

"Yeah. You do. Shadow Stalker wasn't killed on site. The body was moved after death."

The abrupt change of subject caught her unawares. "And you know this, how?"

"Call it a hunch. But mainly, the tides. Where she was found, the tide was just coming in. I know the time of death was hard to pin down, but if she'd been shot and left there in the early evening like the lab boys think, her body would've been picked up by the ebb tide and washed out to sea. Find where she was shot, and you'll find her murderer." He stepped out through the door and closed it behind him, leaving her to think over his words.

"Motherfuck." She picked up the phone. She had more calls to make, now, and she wasn't going to enjoy a single one of them.

At times like this, she kind of understood what drove a man like the Dark to do what he did.



End of Part Six

 

[Ack]

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Part Seven: Zeroing In

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Dad pulled the car to a stop outside Arcadia High. I stared at the wall surrounding it, the clean-looking building, the neatly manicured lawns. There was not a speck of graffiti to be seen, no gang tags, nothing. Chewie wriggled on my lap, clearly anxious to explore this exciting new world. I wasn't so sure; school, after all, was … school. Before it burned down, Winslow had been a hive of scum and villainy (as that one movie had put it) and despite outward appearances, I wasn't quite prepared to give Arcadia the benefit of the doubt.

"Ready to go in and say hello?" I had to give Dad that, he wasn't being pushy. If I said no, he'd probably turn the car around and take me straight home again.

I sighed, and Chewie licked my chin. "Pfft, get off," I said without heat. "Yeah, sure. We're here now, so we may as well go and see what the fuss is all about."

We got out of the car and I clipped Chewie's lead to his collar, but kept him in my arms. It looked like a moderately long walk to the front office, and I didn't want to tire him out quite yet. I wasn't totally heartless, though; once we got close to the main doors, I let him down so he could sniff at (and pee on) a few bushes. As soon as I was sure he wasn't going to have an embarrassing accident—he really was doing very well with potty training at home—I picked him up again and we went inside.

The receptionist smiled as soon as we walked in, a facial expression with which I was unfamiliar, at least coming from school administration. "Can I help you?" she asked, the question directed at Dad and myself equally. This was followed almost immediately with, "Oh, what a cute puppy! What's his name?"

There may have been a quicker way to disarm my worries, but I don't know what it was. "Chewie," I said, the word popping out of my mouth before I had time to think. "Thank you," I added belatedly.

"Taylor had a bad experience at her last school," Dad said smoothly. "Chewie's a new addition to the household, but I think he's fitting in just fine."

"I totally understand," the receptionist replied with a warm smile. "He certainly seems attached to you. Can I see him?"

Carefully, I placed Chewie on the desk, keeping a firm grip on his leash in case he decided to try to jump off and go exploring. He did nothing of the sort, instead padding across the width of the desk to meet his new best friend. She skritched his ears and made the appropriate ooh and ahh noises, which of course he lapped up as was his right and proper due.

After proper introductions had been made, of both canine and human, she accepted the papers Dad had prepared. I regained possession of Chewie while she looked them over and nodded. "Yes, this looks all in order. Just a moment, please." Pressing a button on her desk console, she pulled the microphone on her headset down to her mouth level. "Ms Howell, the Heberts are here. Yes, Taylor Hebert." She released the button and looked up at us. "You can go right through. Ms Howell will meet you."

Ms Howell turned out to be a skinny blonde woman with a bowl cut; in body type at least, she could've been Principal Blackwell's sister. Just what was it with skinny women and high positions in school administration, anyway? I hoped my own future didn't lie in that direction. In this particular instance, she was the vice principal rather than the principal, and (shock, horror) knew how to smile. I began to wonder if the whole 'evil twin' thing was actually real, and whether I was just now meeting the good twin.

We settled down in a conference room, having pulled three chairs away from the table so that we could sit without anything between us. Ms Howell spared Chewie a little attention (he was a very gregarious puppy) then got down to business. Equally to my shock, her questions seemed to indicate that she was interested in finding out the truth rather than reinforcing a pre-formed judgement.

"So, I gather from your earlier academic transcripts that you could have had a place here from the beginning of your freshman year, but you chose to go to Winslow for reasons that you've already explained." She leafed through the pages as she spoke, glancing down at the text every now and again. "I can see here how your grades declined steadily in your first year, which I can absolutely understand considering the stresses you were under."

"Uh huh," I said, more to fill the silence than give a reasoned response. This felt utterly bizarre, to have someone apart from Dad acknowledge what I'd been through, and not just in a throwaway fashion. Chewie snuggled up to me, his fur warm and comforting under my fingers.

"I'm going to presume that you're a bright young lady," Ms Howell said, putting the papers down. "Per the destruction by fire of Winslow and the fact that more than a few of the students displaced from there will be trying to come here, I'm very much inclined to offer you a place ahead of time to make up for the poor showing that you were given there. However, I will also give you a choice."

I blinked, but didn't answer. After a moment, Dad coughed quietly and nudged my arm, reminding me that Ms Howell was waiting for a response.

"A, uh, choice?" I asked stupidly.

"Yes." She beamed at me as if I'd just done well on a test. If this was a psychological move to make me see her in a more positive fashion … well, it was working. So far, she was scoring higher on my Helpful Adult Meter than anyone but Dad or maybe Mrs Knott. Of course, I saw Mrs Knott for exactly one class a day, and none of the bullies shared that class, so that wasn't a high bar.

She gave me and Dad a serious look. "The choice is whether you want to continue as a sophomore, or to repeat your freshman year. If you come to Arcadia as a sophomore, given the mess your grades have been to this point, you're going to have to work hard to get up to the standard you should be at by now. We will, of course, give you all reasonable assistance in this matter." She spread her hands. "Or, if you don't think your grades are salvageable—and you would be a better judge of that than myself—you can come back in as a freshman, and hit your sophomore year running."

Once more, I was sent mentally reeling. I was being given a reasonable choice by the people in charge. It was almost as if they had my best interests at heart. "Uh … Dad?" I asked, looking over at him helplessly. I had no idea which way to jump.

On the one hand, the idea of being held back a year gave me an obscure feeling of being a failure somehow, though I knew she didn't mean it that way. But on the other …

"Making up your grades won't be easy," Dad said, echoing my thoughts almost exactly. "It's up to you, Taylor. Do you think you can handle it?" With hardly a pause, he kept talking. "Don't answer that quite yet." Turning to Ms Howell, he asked, "If Taylor came back in as a freshman but got back into the swing of things faster than expected, could she take the following year's exams to skip a year if she feels up to it?"

The vice principal of Arcadia raised her eyebrows. "I honestly cannot see why not," she said. "Taylor, do you think this is a viable course of action for you?"

Dammit, I was being offered far too many choices. I'd gotten used to having no way off the shitty path I was on, and now I had one and didn't know what to do with it? No fair, world.

"Uh … can I think about it for a bit?" I asked, holding Chewie closer to me for comfort.

Dad nodded. "How about you take Chewie for a walk outside?" he suggested. "I'll go over the boring details with Ms Howell while you're gone. When you get back, you can let us know what you've decided."

"Yeah, I'll do that," I said with some relief. "C'mon, Chewie, let's go."

Carrying the little pup out of the building, I put him down on the grass. With the lead played out, it was easy to follow him as he scrambled eagerly from one new discovery to the next. "So what should I do, Chewie?" I asked as he sniffed at the base of a bush, then added his own little contribution to the scents on it. "Do I set myself up for extra work just for the sake of my own pride, or do I admit that I can't do it and start fresh as the tallest girl in my year?"

To be honest, I'd been the tallest girl in my year at Winslow anyway, with only one or two possible exceptions, but this time around would really seal the deal.

Chewie's industrious snuffling disturbed a bug in the grass that my power had already noticed and dismissed, and he yipped and jumped back. I told the bug to go back to sleep, and tugged Chewie away from any more entomological explorations. "Actually," I murmured. "That is a good point. Thanks, Chewie."

Until he'd made the discovery, I'd been entirely discounting the fact that I had powers, and that Dad was going to be training me to be the best hero I knew how to be. Unless I had my cape pop culture entirely wrong (which I was totally willing to admit that I did) that would require a lot of late nights and extra time on weekends that I wouldn't be able to devote toward schoolwork, at least until my superhero career was up and running. Jumping into Arcadia as a sophomore would just serve to load more work onto my shoulders, and more stress was the last thing I wanted on my plate right then.

Over the next few minutes, I thought it through and decided that this was the correct course of action. While I'd be effectively a year older than everyone else in my new class, I'd actually been in the latter half of the year at Winslow, and nobody knew me here. And finally, I wasn't looking for the approval of anyone but myself, Chewie and Dad.

Gathering up a happily panting and well-walked little bundle of fur, I headed back inside. The secretary gave me a nod and a smile as I went past once more, and I ventured a smile in return. It still felt weird, like I'd taken a sharp right into the Twilight Zone: The Land of Nice People.

Dad and Ms Howell looked around as I knocked on the open door to the conference room. "I've made my decision," I said to the both of them. "I'm thinking that the last thing I want right now is more stress on top of what's already happened, so I'm willing to go into your freshman class with the option to study for those exams and take them, once I feel that I'm up to it."

"That's probably not a bad idea, all told," Ms Howell said at once. "I have no doubt you can do the work, but we don't want to burn you out and put you even more off the idea of coming to school than you no doubt already are." She chuckled to let us pretend it was just a joke, but we all knew it was no such thing. Just one hint of the attitude I'd gotten from Principal Blackwell, and Dad wouldn't have been able to drag me into the place.

"I tend to agree," Dad said. "I'm all for adversity building character, but 'too much of a good thing' is more than a cliché, as far as I'm concerned." His tone was light, but the look he gave me showed a deeper understanding. Even if he hadn't followed my whole thought process, I was willing to bet that he knew exactly why I was taking the easier road. In fact, it had probably been at the forefront of his thinking from the beginning.

Ms Howell nodded. "I'm glad we're all in agreement. I'll get the paperwork sorted out, and then you can be on your way." She gave me a sympathetic look. "I've got no intention of pushing you before you're ready, but when do you think you'll be able to start classes?"

Once again, I shared a glance with Dad. "It's Monday afternoon now. Maybe next Monday, on the seventeenth?"

Dad nodded. By way of explanation, he said to Ms Howell, "She came out of the hospital just the other day. Chewie's helped a lot, but I think a week at home is best before she goes back into that sort of environment. No matter how non-hostile it is."

"I wasn't going to argue," she replied at once. "The last thing we want is for her to have a panic attack in class because we rushed her."

I had to agree with that. Also, I didn't want to get a reputation for falling asleep in class because I'd been up too late doing things that weren't schoolwork. Also also, Chewie was good for heading off incipient panic attacks, but I doubted I'd be able to bring him into Arcadia with me. I had to make sure I didn't need him with me every minute of every day.

"Which reminds me," I said to Dad as Ms Howell got up and left the room. "How long do you think it'll take before Chewie will get used to us not being there during the day?"

He grimaced. "I think maybe I might have to take him into work myself for the time being. Not that the others will mind. Lacey loves dogs."

I snorted. "I suspect the real hassle will be when you want to take him home again."

"That's almost a certainty," he agreed dryly. Taking a deep breath, he looked around the room and slapped his knees in a blatantly obvious 'well, I'm out of things to talk about' gesture. "So, what do you think of Arcadia so far?"

"Well, the staff seems nice, but given that I haven't actually seen anything more of the school than the front office, I don't have much else to go on with, do I?" I raised my eyebrows and shrugged. "Chewie likes the lawn, so there's that."

"Chewie likes peeing on the lawn," he corrected me. "He also likes chewing on your sleeves, so his judgement is probably a little suspect in that regard."

It wasn't all that funny, but I was still laughing by the time Ms Howell came back with the paperwork.

<><>​

When we got back home, I released Chewie so he could attend to his water bowl then food bowl in that order. Over the sound of puppy jaws industriously crunching kibble, Dad and I went over the paperwork so that we were both aware of the start times and finish times, and what my actual subjects would be for my first semester returning as a freshman.

"Just so you're aware, these teachers are likely to actually try to teach their subjects, not just throw them at the students and hope something sticks," he pointed out with the air of an attempted joke.

I made a face. "God, I hope so. Mr Quinlan never put more than half an hour effort into an hour and a half period. Mr Gladly loved getting everyone into group projects so the cool kids could hang out together and he didn't have to do anything. Except reward the top-marked group with snacks from the vending machine, like a bunch of performing chimpanzees."

"Which I'm guessing were always the popular kids," he said sympathetically.

"Well, he marked fairly enough, I guess," I said, trying to be even-handed. "But they stole ideas off everyone else. Hell, Madison even stole my actual work, once or twice. He never saw a thing, never said a thing."

"Really." He said the word quietly, rolling it over his tongue.

"You don't need to, uh, kill them too," I said hastily. "Sophia actively wanted to murder me, and her death can be passed off as a gang killing. If another one of my classmates and one of my teachers also end up dead, after Winslow mysteriously burns down …"

He paused for a long moment, then nodded. "I'll respect your wishes in this. Of course, if they still managed to get to you somehow after all I've done, I reserve the right to change my mind."

I nodded. That was fair. "So, what did you want for dinner? There's the makings of a lasagne in the fridge, or we could just order in pizza."

"Lasagne sounds great," he said with a smile. "I'll even …" The mobile in his pocket rang. "Well, I was going to give you a hand. Let's see how long this call goes for." Fishing it out, he pressed the answer button. "Yes?"

I smiled as well as I headed into the kitchen. For all that Dad was a ruthless killer, my life was getting better by leaps and bounds. Getting Chewie, going to Arcadia, learning how to deal with my power, learning how to defend my self in the cesspit that was Brockton Bay … yes, things were definitely looking up.

<><>​

Danny

"Yes?"

"It's me."

Madcap. So as not to let Taylor hear, he spoke quietly. "Why are you calling?"

"Trust me, I didn't want to. But I also didn't want to see too many more corpses on the nine o'clock news, so here we are."

"So noted. Why are you calling?"

"Have you seen the news recently? Armoured car heist. The guy who pulled it off claimed to be you."

Danny didn't have to ask what he meant. Danny Hebert was a nonentity. The Dark was someone who could be impersonated. But just because he understood the implications didn't mean he was okay with it.

"Any idea who?"

"None right now, but I'm going through my contacts as fast as I can get ahold of them." Assault hadn't even tried to crack any jokes, which showed just how serious he really was. "I've clued the Director in that it wasn't you, and she's gonna try to get the cops to stand down. Can't guarantee that'll work. There's always some young glory hound." He took a breath. "Just working from general principles, it won't be Lung because they weren't Asian. Possibly Kaiser, though there was a distinct lack of skinheads and tattoos."

"Not Kaiser," Danny said definitively. "Not after Hookwolf and Cricket."

"You know that for certain?" Assault seemed to be edging between hope and disappointment.

"He called me personally, to apologise and ask if I was going to keep coming after his men."

Assault snorted. "Well, that's … actually kind of par for the course, for you. So the Empire's out of the picture. And the Merchants wouldn't have been able to pull this shit off in a hundred years."

"So you're saying it's probably Coil." Danny's hand clenched around the phone. Coil hadn't been in the city long enough to see him at work. It figured that the sleazy snake would decide to slither into his affairs and try to capitalise on his name, just as he was making progress on being a good father for once.

"Not for certain, no. But it's a good bet. None of the other players are big enough to try this, or have the goods to fit the frame."

"And Coil's got a bunch of mercs from around the world. Any one of whom could've pretended to be me." Danny nodded to himself in agreement. "Okay, thanks for the heads-up. Was there anything else?"

"Yeah. Shadow Stalker." Assault seemed to be tamping down anger. Objectively speaking, Danny didn't really blame him. Subjectively speaking, he couldn't give a fuck. "I thought you were just gonna, I dunno, break her kneecaps or something. Not shoot her in the fuckin' head."

"I didn't shoot her. Someone else did." Danny lowered his voice a notch, to put across the message that the subject was done. "And she might've come out of it with just a few career-ending injuries, but she had the gall to threaten me and my daughter to my face. After I told her exactly who I was."

Assault sighed. "Okay, so suicide by terminal lack of survival instinct, gotcha. I hope you're not going to be killing off any more of our Wards? Some of them are pretty nice kids."

"Not if they don't make a habit of targeting my daughter, I won't." That was as plain as Danny could put it. "They do their thing, I do my thing, and never the twain shall meet."

"A twain is something that wuns on a twack." And there was the old joking Madcap. "I'll make sure they're briefed on what to do if they ever encounter you. Short version: walk away. Long version: be polite, walk away, and don't look back."

"If they can stick to that, then they'll probably survive their time with the Wards and go on to enjoy a long and oh so fulfilling career in the Protectorate." He could make jokes, too.

Assault snorted. "I'm pretty sure that's not how you pronounce 'endure'. But are we good?"

"We're good." Danny ended the call, then thoughtfully put the phone away again. He noted that Assault hadn't asked if he was back. The time for that question had come and gone.

Someone was cheapening his reputation? The reputation he and Annette had built over the course of twenty years? Of course he was back.

He went through his contacts list and made a call. It was time to shake up the rat cage.

<><>​

Kaiser

The phone rang. Max picked it up, then stopped dead when he saw the number. Oh, shit. It's him. He's decided more people have to die.

There was only one thing for it. He had to tough it out and hope he was still breathing at the other end of whatever this phone call heralded. "Hello?"

"Kaiser. I'm disappointed in you."

The distant chill at the back of his neck became a sudden and horrific Arctic blast that froze his spine to the chair. "I … what? I thought we were good?" What's Krieg done? It was the only thing that made sense. If that idiot had gone ahead and done something to piss off the Dark, Max was going to personally eviscerate him, then hand over what was left to the Dark. In as many pieces as it took.

"The armoured car heist. Which one of your men did you pay to impersonate me? Or did you do it yourself and think I wouldn't find out?"

Sudden realisation burst in on him. The Dark thought he was behind that! In the meantime, he'd been sitting back, congratulating himself on knowing that it hadn't been the Dark at all. Shit, shit, shit, what do I say?

"No, no, that wasn't us, I swear. We had nothing to do with that." He felt sweat beading on his forehead.

"Well, it certainly wasn't the ABB. I got an anonymous call saying it was you. Are you certain none of your boys have gone off the reservation?"

Again, he wondered about Krieg's loyalty. But no, he hadn't heard even a whisper of anything like this. "How about Coil?" he asked, grasping at straws. "Maybe he did it, then made the call to throw the heat off of him."

"Hmm. Coil." The Dark actually sounded thoughtful, and Max decided he probably wasn't going to wet himself after all. "Interesting thought. Can you provide proof? Give me a name or a location?"

"What?" The solid ground beneath his feet was rapidly assuming the texture of quicksand once more. "No, I don't know his operation that well. I'm just saying it wasn't us, and he's the only other real suspect."

There was silence for a moment. "Meanwhile, someone else is saying it's you. I'll tell you what. I'll hold off on judgement for the moment. Give you a chance to bring me something solid. Prove it wasn't you. Sound fair?"

It didn't, not in the slightest, but Max wasn't going to argue. "Yes. Absolutely. I'll let you know, the moment I have anything at all."

"Good. Don't keep me waiting." The call ended.

Slowly, Max put the phone down on the desk, then visited his en-suite, to deal with a very pressing need to relieve himself. When he came back, he took the elevator down while making more calls. This would require all the resources he had at his disposal.

The meeting convened in a nominally abandoned building, actually owned through a multitude of shell entities by Max himself. It was kept neat and clean, fumigated regularly, and swept for bugs on a weekly basis, just in case. Max, in his armour as Kaiser, took the podium, while Menja and Fenja flanked him, and the rest of his capes stood at either end of the stage.

Before him sat the second-tier lieutenants, and their most trusted men. While this wasn't all the people the Empire could bring to bear, it was most of the smart ones. He didn't need numbers in this situation; he needed brains.

"Who here has any knowledge of Coil's operations, or any of his people?" he called out. There was a brief, confused silence, then murmuring broke out. Several people raised their hands.

He let the talk die down. "Excellent," he stated. "Coil has accused us of impersonating the Dark in that armoured truck heist the other day. I don't need to tell you just how bad it could be if that gets out."

Not one voice disagreed. The deaths of Hookwolf and Cricket, as well as the other wounded and dead in that dog-fight arena, had gotten everyone's attention. Nobody wanted to deal with the Dark again … ever. Even Krieg was silent; it seemed Max's message had gotten through to him.

"So, you're going to find out everything you can about Coil's operations. Any and all of them, but focusing on this fake Dark thing. I want results …" He leaned forward on the podium. "And I want them yesterday. Does anyone not understand me?"

Dead silence fell over the room. Not a man (or a woman; he was an equal opportunity supervillain) moved, for fear that it would be construed as an answer in the affirmative. Max fancied he could hear dust motes falling to the floor.

"Good," he said, and smacked the metal podium with his fist. "Get to it."

<><>​

I had the lasagne in the oven by the time Dad came in from the living room. He scooped up Chewie from where the pup was snuffling around my feet for potential dropped snacks, and scratched him behind the ears. Chewie grunted with pleasure, his whole body going limp in Dad's arms.

"Okay, what's got you in such a good mood all of a sudden?" I asked suspiciously. While we'd been in good spirits when we got back from the visit to Arcadia, right at the moment he was positively grinning with mischief.

"The Empire," he replied, rolling Chewie over so he could rub the puppy's tummy. Chewie managed to go even limper than he had been before.

"What about the Empire?" I asked. "You said something about how Kaiser called to apologise about Chewie. Was this more of the same?"

Dad's grin became a smirk. "No. Someone's out there pretending to be me. I just got the heads-up."

"Wouldn't that … well, piss you off?" I asked. Being the Dark was pretty important to Dad.

"It did, and it is," he confirmed. "But I've narrowed down who's probably responsible. I just made Kaiser an offer he couldn't refuse, and now he's got his men doing my legwork for me. Once I know exactly where to find him …" He mimed firing a finger-gun, not an easy task with Chewie demanding all his attention. "Problem solved."

"Okay, yeah, you win." I shook my head. Only my Dad could force the same people who stole Chewie to do his personal bidding in a situation like this. "Think it'll work?"

He chuckled. "Oh, it will. Let's just say I've been doing this for awhile. I know how people like that tick."

<><>​

At times, in my line of work, you will find yourself in a position where you need someone shady to do something for you; where if they were aware of the true state of affairs, they may half-ass it, attempt to gouge you for their services, or even outright refuse to help.

The best way to inspire someone like that to put their absolute best effort into serving your needs is as follows:

One, give them the impression that their continued health and well-being depends entirely on doing whatever it is you need them to do.

Two, you don't ask. You tell. It adds a certain note of urgency.

Three: you arrange matters so they believe you're doing them a favor by accepting the assistance.

Four, you allow them to assume that the requirement originated from outside, not from you. That way, they don't end up resenting you for it, and screwing you over out of spite.

I find this gets me better results than saying 'pretty please with sugar on top'.

• from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

Coil

Thomas Calvert surveyed his men. They were still in high spirits after the armoured truck robbery, and he couldn't blame them. It had gone off without a hitch, the guards surrendering without so much as a token fight. Even the cape in the back had put up his hands and stood aside once the doors were opened.

A few words of encouragement wouldn't hurt, he supposed.

"Well done, everyone," he said, thankful that the full-body costume he wore meant he didn't have to fake a smile. "You pulled it off. We officially have a Dark. This is the beginning of a new era for this organisation. The local idiots are so scared of a simple name that we can go where we want, do what we want. As of right now, we are untouchable." He gestured at the coolers full of beer. "Drinks are on me."

It wouldn't last, he knew. Reigns of terror rarely did. All it would take was a single moment of doubt, or even something so simple as one person deciding that he had the chops to match off with the notorious Dark. Sooner or later, the man behind the mask would die, and the legend would fade away to its long-overdue end. But until that point came (and he would stave it off with his powers as long as he could) he was going to cash in.

Which reminded him of something else he had to do. As the men who had been in on the heist swarmed the coolers, he gestured to the mercenary—a man named Frankoff—who had played the central role. A single finger-crook was enough to bring the man to his side.

"Yes, sir, Mr Coil, sir?" Frankoff's was at odds with the persona he'd put on to play the Dark, grinning but respectful to the man who had given him the opportunity.

"You've done well," Calvert said, quietly enough that nobody else but Frankoff heard his words. "But just remember, in case you're ever tempted to take your little 'are you afraid of the Dark' show on the road … I'm the one who made you, and I can unmake you just as fast. Do we have an understanding?"

"Uh, absolutely, Mr Coil, sir!" the mercenary blurted, his face going a shade paler. "I wouldn't even dream of it!" From the sheen of sweat that sprang up on his forehead, Calvert judged the message to have been received loud and clear.

"Good," he said neutrally. "You realise why I had to make that clear, right? The one thing I can't abide above all else is disloyalty." It wasn't an apology; neither would the man be getting one. Saying 'sorry' for something that had to be done would easily be taken as a sign of weakness.

Even if he had the build to carry off a tough-guy role such as the mythical Dark, there was no way he would opt to stand front and centre, a target for every hostile gun if (and when) things went sideways. So he needed someone like Frankoff to take the heat for him. But there was no way he was going to allow the man to let the role go to his head. Everyone else feared the Dark, and Frankoff feared him. That was the normal and natural order of things.

"Absolutely, sir," Frankoff said again. "You're calling the shots. I'm just the guy wearing the mask."

"Excellent." Calvert slapped him on the shoulder. "Well, maybe you should go and enjoy a beer or two. They aren't going to drink themselves, you know."

Frankoff obediently went over to join his fellows. Calvert watched him go through a round of back-slapping before being handed a beer. He had never been the one that everyone crowded around and back-slapped. That had always been someone else while he stood off to the side, observing the social dynamic without ever being able to break into it.

It was another reason he'd had the quiet word with Frankoff. Because he was not naturally charismatic, he made do with the next best substitute; money. Ensuring the burly mercenary was aware of both stick and carrot meant that even if someone else had the idea and suggested it as a joke, Frankoff would shoot it down before it ever got into the air.

Calvert's eyes narrowed behind his mask as a thought occurred to him; Tattletale was just the sort of person to try to bend his pet bogeyman to her will. Her natural charisma was also lacking, but he was unsure whether this was due to her still being in her teens, or if her odious personality had killed it before it had a chance to mature. The problem was, she also possessed a certain amount of money, and had been known to be persuasive from time to time.

He made a mental note to never let the girl get close to Frankoff. Trying to keep the information about the fake Dark from her would be as futile as attempting to bail out the ocean with a colander, but preventing her from using it would be a sight easier. If need be, he would prime Frankoff with strict orders to report every conversation with the girl, no matter how innocuous.

He tried to think of other precautions he should be taking. When he next went on duty at the PRT building, he would wait until someone spoke to him about the Dark, then check to see what was being done about the armoured truck robbery. This wasn't insurance against a trap being set for the ersatz Dark (his powers would work well enough for that) so much as a gauge of how seriously the PRT were taking it. There was no such thing as being too careful, after all.

<><>​

Danny

They were relaxing on the sofa after dinner, watching TV, when his cellphone rang. Taylor didn't need prompting; she grabbed the remote and muted the sound while he got the phone out. "Yes?" he asked.

"It's me," said Kaiser. "We're still digging up leads, but I thought of an independent source you might be able to check with while we're doing that."

Danny frowned. He hadn't been aware of any 'independent sources' in Brockton Bay. "I'm listening."

"The Undersiders. They're a relatively new group—"

"I know who the Undersiders are," he interrupted brusquely. "Get to the point."

"They're based more in ABB territory than ours or we'd be checking this out ourselves. The word on the street is that Tattletale claims to be a psychic."

"Hmm." He'd known the Undersiders had a Thinker, but apart from making a note of what it would take to bring the gang down (four bullets), he hadn't put much more thought into them. "She's that good?"

"Every single one of my people who's interacted with her is adamant on the subject. I quote: the smart-mouthed little cow always knows far more than she should."

That sounded at least promising. "Do you have a location?"

"Not a very accurate one, I'm afraid. We can pin them down to a few city blocks, but no more than that. Any gains wouldn't be worth the backlash for breaking the rules. Before you killed Hookwolf, Bitch would raid his dogfights occasionally, but we're calling those off altogether now. So, I'm not exactly sure how you're going to narrow it down closer than that."

Danny smiled. "Oh, I'm sure I'll think of something. What's the closest location you have?"

"Somewhere southwest of the convenience store on Richmond and Carey."

"Richmond and Carey, understood." He ended the call and turned to Taylor. "Do you feel up to coming for a drive?"

Taylor blinked uncertainly. "Are you going to be shooting anyone?" She held up a hand before he got a chance to respond. "That won't be a deal-breaker. I'd just like to know ahead of time, that's all."

"That's fair." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I doubt it. We're just going to have a friendly chat with some supervillains."

"Two phrases which rarely go together in the same sentence." Taylor got up from the sofa, then picked up Chewie. "Sure, okay. Let's do this."

<><>​

Tattletale

Lisa finished watching the footage on her laptop, then closed the cover on it. Attempting to exude 'casual' from every pore, she got up and sauntered toward the corridor leading to the bedrooms.

"What's up with you?" demanded Rachel, who was sitting on the floor, brushing her dogs down.

Startled, Lisa stared at her. "What? What do you mean?"

Rachel snorted. "You're jumpy as fuck. And just now you were walking like you had a stick up your ass. If you need to go, go, but if you use up all the paper, you're the one going to the shop for new rolls."

"Uh, sure," Lisa mumbled, and fled into the bathroom. Locking the door securely, she sat down on the toilet lid. Jamming her arm into her own mouth, she did her best to scream silently so she wouldn't alert the others.

She couldn't believe it; she'd pulled it off. Coil had taken the bait and done perhaps the one thing that the Dark could never forgive or forget.

He'd made a Dark of his own.

When the real deal found out and came looking, she was just glad that she wasn't going to be in the line of fire. The screaming fit had passed, and now she was giggling at the thought of Coil's expression (under the mask, of course) when he came face to face with the Dark. Preferably with a gun in his face. A fly alighted on her cheek, and she waved it away irritably.

The dogs started barking around then. Lisa's power identified it as 'stranger outside' rather than any one of a dozen other variations. Which meant she needed to be outside rather than hiding in the bathroom. Flushing the toilet for the appearance of it, she quickly ran water over her hands, then unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out.

"What's going on?" she asked, taking up her domino mask from where it was lying on the table next to the small pistol she favoured. The spirit gum was still good, and she pressed it into place.

"Dogs smell someone outside," Rachel said. "They've got another dog with them."

There was a clank and a creak from downstairs. The sound of a heavy metal door opening. "Not outside," Lisa said tensely. "They just picked the lock. They're in the building." Leaning over, she scooped up the pistol.

"What are you waiting for?" demanded Alec, looking at Rachel. "Grow your dogs!"

"It's too cramped in here!" she snapped back. "And don't tell me what to do!"

"Fuck," growled Brian. Snatching Alec's scepter from him, he billowed blackness from his body, sending it pouring out the door and down the stairs. Lisa lost all vision and a good deal of her hearing, but she felt vibrations through her feet that told her he was heading out to deal with the problem. Moving cautiously, sliding her trainers across the floor, she moved around Alec and Rachel to the doorway, ready to back Brian up if he needed it.

She got to the top of the spiral staircase, leaning heavily into her power to make sure she didn't miss a step and go tumbling down. Grasping the rail firmly, she could feel Brian's descent, step by step. Even though the black fog muffled sound to a degree, she knew he was moving as quietly as he could. She felt the vibration as he stepped off the bottom stair, and knew it was all up to him.

A fly landed on the back of her hand. Her eyes widened uselessly in the darkness. Fuck, the bugs are under control! These are capes! "Grue!" she shouted, knowing he would hear her clearly. "C—"

Just as she went to articulate the word, another bug flew down her throat—aimed there, her power told her, too little and too late. Coughing helplessly, she subsided to her knees, one hand still clutching the rail, her pistol almost forgotten in the other.

Still, she was confident Brian would get the better of whoever had broken in. Being able to see while your opponent could not was a huge advantage, and Brian was a lot better at close-quarters combat than her, Alec or even Rachel. Unfortunately, she had no idea how the fight was actually going; as good as her power was, the total lack of any kind of input meant she was drawing a blank.

And then the darkness began to shred and fade away. Still coughing, she pushed herself to her feet, using her gun hand to brace herself upright. "So did you …" Her voice trailed off as she turned to look at the stairs, at the man who stood just a few steps down, silencer-equipped pistol pointing unerringly at her.

Out of the corner of her eye, at the bottom of the spiral staircase, she saw Brian lying on his side with his wrists fastened behind him. A teenage girl holding a puppy stood beside him, and Alec's scepter lay nearby. The girl was wearing a bandanna over her lower face, and a pair of glasses. She didn't show any signs of overt threat, but that could change in a moment. Still, she wasn't doing anything right then, so Lisa focused her full attention on the man before her.

He was tall and balding, and also wore glasses. Somehow, he knew the exact angle to hold his head so she couldn't see his eyes behind the reflected lights. As a slight smile quirked the corner of his mouth, her power screamed at her. The girl was the bug-controlling cape and he wasn't, but he'd just taken down Brian without taking a hit in return, and he was THE DARK!

Slowly, so as not to trigger a lethal reaction, she pointed her pistol down and to the side, and flicked on the safety. Then she let the weapon slip through her fingers until it clattered on the grating beside her.

"Guys?" she called out. "We have visitors. Everyone on their best behaviour. Don't do anything that'll get us all killed." She thought for a moment, and dredged up a word she hardly ever used. "Please."

The man's smile widened slightly. "Oh, good. You're as smart as they said you were. I have a few questions."

Oh, god. I brought him to our front door. What have I done?



End of Part Seven

 

[Ack]

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Part Eight: True Lies

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



The Undersiders had a nice sofa, and an impressive console gaming setup. Well, I assumed it was impressive; I'd never actually seen one before. It looked pretty damn expensive to me. The rest of the place … well, if someone had told me that only teenagers lived there, I would've believed them. Subtle signs like stacked-up pizza boxes waiting to go into the trash.

The big guy, Grue when he was in costume, was extremely unhappy for reasons I could absolutely understand, despite the fact that he wasn't zip-cuffed anymore. He'd probably never had to fight someone who could beat him in his own darkness before now. This was almost certainly why he was on his best behaviour, but I could see him wishing very hard that we were gone.

It could've been worse; that bit went unspoken. Dad could've shot him, or killed him some other way. That he hadn't, made a point all of its own.

Grue's teammates were reacting in different ways; all telling.

The one who called herself Bitch (Dad addressed her as 'Miss Lindt') wasn't so much resentful as respectful. Extremely respectful. She had her dogs, three of them, lying on the floor beside her. Every few seconds, she looked down to make sure that they hadn't moved. The rest of the time, she was watching Dad, or glancing across at Chewie. Not at me; I wasn't even on her radar as anything other than 'person holding the puppy'.

The blonde, Tattletale, was absolutely terrified. Again, not of me, despite the fact that she knew I could control bugs. Every time one landed on her, she flicked her eyes to me. But most of the time her attention was fixed on Dad, even as she made tea in their little kitchenette. Her movements were careful and deliberate, and she never, ever put her hands out of sight.

Regent, the last member of their little group, was a different matter altogether. Dad hadn't given him back his gold-painted stick, but he didn't seem to mind. Of everyone here, he seemed the most chill with the whole situation. If I'd had to wager a guess, I would've said that he came across as someone with the most experience at sitting around under the eye of someone who could fuck his entire life up at will. But with all that, he didn't seem scared, or worried, or … well … anything. A little cautious, maybe, but that was about it.

This was probably why, after a somewhat uncomfortable silence, he was the first one to speak.

"Excuse me, Mr. The Dark, but can I say something without being shot?"

Dad nodded slightly. "Go ahead."

A corner of Regent's mouth flicked upward. "I have to say, I've seen Tats pissed off, I've seen her happy, I've seen her sad, and oh my good Lord I have seen her smug. But this is the first time I've seen her so scared she actually shuts up." He tilted his head. "I couldn't convince you to come visit on the regular, could I?"

Dad's eyes hooded with amusement. "I'll leave that for the rest of your teammates to decide. In the meantime, I'll thank you to moderate your language in front of my daughter and her puppy." He glanced at me and Chewie. "Yes, she probably knows the words already, but he's still very young and has sensitive ears. You understand." There was the slightest motion of the pistol silencer from where he had his arms folded.

Regent nodded carefully and sat back against the sofa, apparently no longer interested in being a smartass.

Grue cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. "Can I at least ask why you're here … sir?" The honorific was clearly an afterthought, and equally clearly sincere.

Dad nodded. "I have a problem, and I understand that Tattletale has a reputation of being a psychic."

Tattletale twitched at that, then finished pouring the tea and brought the cup out to him, on a saucer. He took both; the pistol vanished somewhere while he was doing so, but I suspected nobody was stupid enough to assume it was gone for good.

"Ahh, thank you, my dear. You may sit down now." He took a sip, and nodded. "Perfect. Now, as I was saying. I have a problem. Rumour has it that a man named Coil is abusing my good name for his own ends. You may have heard of the recent armoured-car robbery, where the perpetrator claimed that he was the Dark? He wasn't."

"You're saying that was Coil himself?" asked Grue. Dad's eyes cut his way. "Uh, sorry, sir."

Dad nodded to acknowledge the apology. "No, that wasn't Coil wearing the mask. Far too much of a risk if one of the guards gets brave. But I have it on good authority that only Coil could have arranged the robbery, so he is responsible. I need to find out all I can on him; where his bases and safe houses are, how many people he employs, and how I can go about arranging a personal one-on-one interview with the man." His attention turned back to where Tattletale was sitting on the sofa beside me. "And that's where you come in."

Interestingly enough, she was actually sweating now. I wasn't sure why; it wasn't like Dad was personally mad at her. "M-me?" she squeaked.

"Yes, you," Dad said patiently. "I know your type. You love being seen as the smartest person in the room, or am I incorrect on that score?"

Regent chuckled. "Well, Tats, he's definitely got your number. Shutting up now," he added hastily, as Dad glanced across at him.

"As I was saying." Dad took a step closer to Tattletale, the teacup still in his hand. "You're clearly a Thinker of some type. I'm told you always know more than you should. It's time you put that talent to good use. I need you to do a deep-dive on Coil. Everything you can dig up on him, even if you don't think I'll find it useful. Can you do this, or aren't you as smart as I've been led to believe?"

It was psychological manipulation of the most blatant type. I knew it, Dad certainly knew it, and Tattletale most definitely knew it. I could see it in her eyes. But it was also a bait she couldn't help but rise to. As Dad had said, her ego was immense. Even scared out of her wits, she had to prove herself smarter than the next person.

"I can do it," she declared, drawing herself up. Meeting his eyes seemed to be a struggle for her, but she managed it. "When do you want it by?"

"'Scuse me, wait a second." Regent put his hand up, like a kid in class. "Can I ask a question here?"

Dad smiled slightly. "It appears I can't stop you. Ask away."

"Right. Okay. You're the Dark. You are literally the scariest guy in three states. You pop someone off, you're gonna get paid for it, yeah? So are we working for free here, or do we get something out of it too?"

Grue and Tattletale both facepalmed. "Regent," growled the big guy under his breath. "If we get out of this alive, so help me I'm gonna …"

"No, he's right." Dad nodded to Regent. "A fair day's pay for a fair day's work. If you come through with actionable intel, I will owe you one favour for a later date. This favour will apply to either Tattletale personally or to the group as a whole. You get to pick which one."

Everyone's eyes widened at that one. I saw Grue and Tattletale glance at each other, and in that moment I knew they were thinking about taking the deal. Even Bitch seemed interested. Regent pretended not to be, but I had a suspicion that he just didn't show off emotion like everyone else.

"What sort of a favour?" asked Tattletale carefully.

Dad's smile widened fractionally. He had them, and we both knew it. Deliberately, he looked over at me and Chewie again. "Nothing that works against my personal interests, or harms anyone I care about. It has to be within my power to pull off. And nothing that denigrates my reputation as the Dark."

"If we ask you for something you can't give, you'll tell us so we can change it, right?" That was Grue.

"A deal is a deal," agreed Dad. "I will inform you if I am unable or unwilling to deliver the asked-for favour. For my part, I will trust you not to give me bad information."

He didn't raise his voice or change his tone; he didn't have to. Everyone there got the message loud and clear. Screwing with me would be a very, very unwise move. A moment later, I got the second part, when he glanced at Tattletale. If she was as good as people said, any bad information the team gave him would have to be deliberate in nature. She'd gotten the message too, from the way her lips whitened where they pressed together.

"Uh, getting back to the whole deep-diving Coil thing," Regent said. "What if he finds out and objects? I hear he's got mercenaries and stuff. Can we call on you if he comes after us, or are you just gonna sit back with popcorn once you've got the information?"

"You surprise me." Dad's tone was light. "Your team has an impressive reputation for being able to duck away from trouble. But in the case that his people prove better at tracking you than most, you may call the number I will be giving to Tattletale. Only use it if you're truly in need of assistance." He smiled coldly. "I don't anticipate this being the case. He and I will be having an in-depth discussion about the inadvisability of identity theft."

Regent shrugged. "Suits me. Even if I knew the man, I still wouldn't care."

"Strangely enough, I believe you." Dad turned his attention to the rest of the Undersiders. "Does anyone else have any questions before we go?"

Tattletale and Grue glanced at each other, then at Rachel. Then Tattletale looked back at Dad. "Uh, no."

"Good." Placing the teacup and saucer on the side table, he reached into his jacket, then raised his eyebrows at the sudden tension in the room. "Really?"

"You've got a pretty intense reputation yourself, you know," I pointed out, scratching Chewie behind the ears. He lazed blissfully in my arms, only his sharp little eyes moving to follow Rachel's dogs.

"Hm. True." His hand emerged again with a card held between index and forefinger. He put this on the table beside the teacup. "We'll be going now." His gaze fell on Tattletale as I got up from the sofa. "Thank you for the tea. It was delicious. When will you have it?"

"Tomorrow, next day at the latest." It seemed she had to force herself to meet his eyes, but she did it anyway.

"Good. I'll be waiting. Do not try to follow us." Dad stepped aside to allow me past, then followed me down the steps.

We left the building and walked briskly to the end of the block. Nobody had messed with the car that we'd parked around the corner, so we got in. I removed the bandanna I'd been wearing, then nodded to Dad. "Okay, I just took the bugs off them. I'm pretty sure Tattletale told them not to move until I did."

He gave me a warm smile. "Well done, Taylor. It's good to have competent backup."

As he started the car, I smirked and rubbed Chewie's tummy. He woke up briefly, yawned, then rolled over in my arms and went back to sleep. "Well, Chewie did his best."

He grinned and reached across the pet the puppy. "You think you're joking, but you might recall the story I told you about encountering Ms Lindt. She's the one who saved Chewie's life that night, and I saved hers, so we've already got a connection there. Also, the Empire's called off all dog-fights, just to make sure Chewie doesn't get caught up in them again. What she's been trying to do for months, I achieved in one night. I suspect she will go quite a long way to avoid antagonising us."

"Oh, wow." I'd actually forgotten about that. "Next time I see her, I'm gonna have to give her a hug for saving Chewie."

He shook his head. "That might not be the best idea. If I'm reading her correctly, she doesn't have the usual emotional responses to people, and might react badly to close physical contact."

It didn't sound like he was pulling my leg, so I gave up on that idea. "Okay, then. So what are we doing until Tattletale comes back with the information?"

"The hardest part about this life." When I looked quizzically at him, he grinned. "Pretending to be normal."

"Oh, okay." I felt a little let down. My dad was a trained killer, the scariest person in three states (if Regent were to be believed), and I was a parahuman who could control bugs. 'Normal' was about the furthest thing from my mind right then.

He reached across and ruffled my hair. "I'll be continuing your training in how to make the best use of your bugs, of course. The assistance you gave me in the fight against Grue was invaluable."

"Ah. Right." Well, that was better. For a given definition of 'better'. Dad's idea of training could get pretty strenuous. Though I supposed it was all for the good. Bad guys, as he was fond of saying, weren't likely to let me catch my breath. And Chewie certainly enjoyed all the running around.

"If you're up for it, of course." His tone was sly.

There was only one acceptable answer. "I'm your daughter. I was born ready."

"That's my girl."

"Woof."

"You said it, Chewie."

<><>​

Grue

"Okay, we can move now," Lisa said, and got up off the sofa. She took the card from the side table and tucked it into her pocket, then carried the teacup and saucer into the kitchenette.

"Wait, are you washing those?" Brian got up and followed her. He wasn't sure what his plan was, just that he'd seen this sort of situation in spy movies. "We could get fingerprints and DNA from them, maybe find out who he really is."

She put them on the sink, then turned to face him. Her features were so pale that her freckles stood out in stark contrast. Where she gripped the edge of the sink with her hands, her knuckles were white. "How are we even going to get that information? We're not set up for forensic examination here, and while I could maybe half-ass my way through doing that in an actual lab, I'd be just as likely to screw it up."

He shrugged. "Well, maybe you could pass it onto our mysterious boss. Or the PRT, or someone."

"Nuh-uh." She shook her head violently, causing her hair to fly everywhere. "Bad idea. So very bad. Someone talks, it will get back to him. He beat you down, in your own darkness, when he was just looking for information. If he decides that we've actually betrayed him, we're dead. Simple as that. It'd just be a matter of time."

"We're not gonna go against him." That was Rachel, standing at the entrance to the kitchenette. "I owe him. He went into the dogfights to save that puppy, and he killed Cricket and Hookwolf to save me. He's one of the good guys."

"Fuck." Brian rubbed the heels of his hands over his face, trying to forget how easily he'd been taken down. He'd been overconfident, which had been his first huge mistake, but he suspected that it wouldn't have made much difference.

The Dark had come in toward him; feet gliding over the ground, head tilted slightly, eyes unfocused. Just as Brian went to jab the guy with Alec's borrowed sceptre, some bugs had gotten in his eyes, then the guy somehow blocked the second try. From that first contact, he'd owned Brian; a vicious knee up under the short ribs, followed by a twist then a grab. He'd followed up by lifting, turning and smashing Brian to the ground while he was still reacting to the blow. It had been the most humiliating defeat Brian had suffered since … well, a long time.

"Don't look at me," Alec piped up from where he'd picked up his controller and was prepping a new game to play. "I know stone killers. He's as cold as they come. But he's not like some of them. You know, the ones where they've gotta kill someone or they don't feel complete? He doesn't give out that vibe. We play straight with him, he'll play straight with us."

"Exactly." Lisa put the plug in the sink and started running hot water over the cup and saucer. Reaching for the bottle of detergent, she put a squirt of the green liquid in the sink as well. "So as soon as I've done this, I'm going to start right in on what he asked us to do."

"Argh." Brian huffed out an aggravated breath. "I hear what you're saying, and I can see where you're coming from, but why do I have the feeling that we're all going to regret this?"

"Because we are." Lisa turned off the hot water at just the right time, then turned to look at him. "We're supervillains. Making bad choices now that we're gonna regret later on is basically what we do."

"Damn right," agreed Alec, thumbs busy manipulating the controller.

Lisa began washing up the cup and saucer. "The trick is to pick the regrettable action that we can at least survive, and hopefully get some profit out of."

Brian looked at her suspiciously, wondering if he was just imagining the impression that there was more to what she was saying than met the ear. With another annoyed huff, he went over and flopped onto the sofa. "Pass me a controller."

"Now you're talking."

<><>​

Director Piggot, PRT ENE

Emily stood at the podium of the briefing room. Every seat was filled; where not by PRT uniforms, then by costumes. Far more of the former than the latter, which was the way she privately preferred it. Capes were a necessary evil, as far as she was concerned.

Armstrong was the only PRT Director who had actually given her the time of day. He'd sent along a contingent of troopers, along with Bastion and Weld. The two capes least likely to be hurt by the Empire capes, she reflected sourly; not so much the two that would be most effective against them.

If she recalled the notes on those two capes correctly, Bastion was good at making barriers and force fields, which would be helpful, but scuttlebutt said he had a temper problem. Armstrong's probably moving him out of Boston for a little while, to see if that will settle him down.

Weld, on the other hand, was reportedly level-headed; in fact, Armstrong's notes said that he had leadership potential. He was also effectively bulletproof, and had strength to match his durability. The downside, of course, was that if he touched metal, he would stick to it. While Hookwolf and Cricket were dead, the number of metal-wearing villains in Brockton Bay was considerable. Just in the Empire Eighty-Eight, there were Kaiser, Stormtiger, Fenja and Menja. Victor tended to wear a breastplate, though while Crusader wore armour as well, Weld's powers would serve as a natural counter to the villain's spear-wielding ghosts.

Filling out the ranks of the capes were some minor names, as well as the New Wave heroes; these ones, at least, she'd had previous dealings with.

She tapped the microphone, creating a hollow booming through the room. All eyes turned to her.

"For those of you who don't know about this," she said bluntly, "one of our Wards was brutally murdered the other day. She was tasered, beaten, unmasked, tied up, then killed execution-style with a single shot to the head. After that, her body was deliberately left for us to find." A click on the projector control projected a publicity still of Shadow Stalker on the screen behind her. It would've been a picture taken at the scene, but there were minors in the room and she didn't want the Youth Guard assholes coming down on her neck any more than they already were. That picture would be in the briefing packets, to be handed out later. "She was sixteen years old."

A murmur swept through the room. The heroes looked especially grim; no cape liked to think they could be taken down and eliminated like just another mook. Young heroes in general and Wards in particular were to be protected, so the cape culture went. This was why they were given the soft patrol routes.

Emily stifled a snort. In Brockton Bay, there was no such thing.

"We don't have a specific suspect as yet, but this is why you're all here. Shadow Stalker was the only black member of the Wards, and she had a habit of going off on solo patrols … in Empire Eighty-Eight territory."

This time, the murmur was much stronger. Everyone in the room knew of the Empire Eighty-Eight. It had chapters in several cities, but none so strong as in Brockton Bay, its home base. Everyone there also knew of its ethos; the reason for its being. If anyone was likely to murder a black Ward in such an explicit fashion, it would be the neo-Nazis of the Empire Eighty-Eight.

There really were no other viable suspects.

"We will continue to monitor the activity of the other gangs, but the ones we're going after in force are the Empire and its followers. If we see Empire supporters, we'll be targeting them hard, charging them with whatever crimes they are committing at the time, and handing them over to the police. Empire capes, if encountered, will be brought down as hard and fast as possible." She took a deep breath. "I am not authorising lethal force—unless it is to protect yourself or one of your comrades."

The reaction to this part wasn't a dissatisfied mumble, as she'd feared it might be. It was a growl, a collective snarl of anger. Directed not at her, but at the enemy upon whom she was preparing to unleash them. With those last words, she had effectively signed the death warrant for any Empire cape who resisted with significant amounts of force, but she didn't care.

The Empire Eighty-Eight had been a stain on the face of Brockton Bay for far too long. Some said that they were too influential to remove from the status quo, that such a removal would threaten a reiteration of the Boston Games, back in the day. Power was attracted to a vacuum, after all.

It didn't matter.

The Empire Eighty-Eight had committed the most egregious sin in her book. They had murdered someone who was under her command, under her care, and they'd taunted her with the body. We can do this, their actions had sneered. And you can't do a damn thing about it.

She was going to see about that.

"Once we have the leadership in custody, we will be interrogating them to find out who authorised this despicable act." Her voice was hard and flat, brooking no disagreement. "That cape, if I have anything to say about it, will be going to the Birdcage. Those underlings who carried out the order will be facing trial as well. We are going to be sending a message to the gangs of Brockton Bay; nobody touches our Wards."

Just because she didn't like the irritating little shits didn't mean she was okay with them being murdered, especially in such a taunting fashion. Kaiser was going to learn that lesson if she had to engrave it on a fifty-calibre round and pop him through the head with it. And she would too, if she had to.

"Very well," she said. "Individual briefing packets have been prepared. I want every squad ready to roll by oh-eight-hundred tomorrow. Dismissed."

Turning off the mic, she stepped down from the podium. Armsmaster came over to meet her and she paused for him. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry we couldn't get more heroes," he said quietly. "I spoke to Legend, and he told me flat-out he was under orders not to send capes out of the city."

"Understood," she murmured in reply. She would've liked to have more troopers rather than more capes but either would do in a pinch, so long as they could be trusted not to cut and run. Unfortunately, that was something that could only be determined at the time.

Why she was being undercut with the number of troopers and heroes that could've been released to her, she wasn't precisely sure, though she had a few ideas. It probably didn't even have anything to do with her, personally. Sometimes it was just politics … or maybe they didn't want to be caught up in the shitstorm that would almost inevitably follow tomorrow's crackdown.

She left the briefing room with an air of confidence that was at least fifty percent assumed for the benefit of the troops. On the walk back to her office, she mulled over the aspects of the situation that had not been covered by the briefing; neither would they be. Going after a specific cape gang with the intent of wiping them from the face of the city was … if not unprecedented, then at least unofficially discouraged. Doing so would cause an upheaval in Brockton Bay's criminal underworld that would take some time to settle down into whatever the new normal turned out to be.

As she opened her office door, she ran her thumb over the nameplate. With any kind of luck, Brockton Bay wouldn't have a rerun of the Boston chaos. Whichever way it went, though, she figured there was better than a fifty-fifty chance that she'd be out on her ear in the aftermath, especially if any of the Empire capes (none of whom had a Kill Order against their names) happened to eat a bullet or three in the name of self-defence.

If she could just bring down that smug bastard Kaiser and the Empire Eighty-Eight in the meantime, she figured it would be worth it. She hadn't even liked Shadow Stalker, but those racist fucks had gone all the way over the line and way past it when they executed the kid like that.

Enough was enough.

They were going down.

<><>​

Coil

Holy shit. She's actually going to do it.

Calvert could barely contain his internal glee. If this was what it took to send Piggot off the reservation, he should've had Shadow Stalker popped about one month after she joined the Wards. But for all his plans and manipulations to oust her and take her place, he couldn't believe it was something that he hadn't even done that would bring her down.

Life was really, really weird sometimes. Also, highly satisfying.

He sat in the briefing room as she took everyone through the bare bones of the case. He'd known the basic information, but he hadn't been privy to the gritty details until now. Once he got hold of the information packet, he was going to read the hell out of it.

There was no doubt in his mind that it was the Empire who'd done it; after all, who else would be so stupid as to murder a Ward in such a public fashion? He hadn't done it, and none of his men had been out and about on that night. It wasn't the ABB, because Shadow Stalker hadn't shown any signs of being stabbed, caught in a grenade explosion or burned to death. As for the Merchants, as much as they could be mistaken for a gang, he imagined their preferred method of execution would be an overdose of something nasty.

In addition, the sharp arrows (he had a contact in Evidence) were equally problematic for the PRT. It was extremely doubtful that whoever had ended Shadow Stalker had been carrying a bunch of arrows that would fit her crossbows, just in case. The inevitable conclusion was that she'd been going out and about with them, looking to do exactly what got her caught by the PRT in the first place.

In other words, Shadow Stalker had lacked a certain amount of pattern recognition. Whether that had been what got her caught and killed, he doubted he'd ever know. Though the chances were that it had contributed in some way. Long story short, she was dead.

Officially, he was dedicated to hunting down her murderers and bringing them to justice. Unofficially, he didn't give a shit, but he was going to vaguely regret not having had the chance to swing her to his side. With the right incentive, or carefully crafted bunch of lies, he suspected that she would've made a useful tool.

As he left the room, he allowed himself a brief smile. Between the Shadow Stalker situation and his fake Dark, it seemed he couldn't put a foot wrong.

<><>​

Anders Household
Purity

The first indication Kayden got that something was wrong was when Max answered his phone and spent a solid minute just listening, his eyes getting wider and wider. When the call ended, he just sat there, staring at his phone. "What the fuck?" he exclaimed.

This was far enough out of character for him that she got up awkwardly (the baby was due any day now, and it couldn't come soon enough) and went over to him. "What's the matter?"

He stared at her; for a second, it seemed he didn't recognise her, then his eyes came into focus. "First the Dark, and now this. What the fuck's happening?"

"Honey," she said soothingly. "Talk to me. Whatever it is, we can figure it out."

He took a deep breath. "Right. You know that Ward, Shadow Stalker?"

She nodded. Shadow Stalker had a reputation for unwarranted violence (which didn't surprise her much, given that the Ward was one of those people) and she'd put more than a few members of the Empire in the emergency room. Usually with broken bones, though before she'd joined the Wards, Stalker had nailed her fair share with razor-sharp crossbow arrows.

Personally, Kayden thought it was just typical that a violent black vigilante got a pass from the PRT and got to join up with the heroes, while right-thinking white capes had arrest warrants put out on them. But that wasn't addressing the situation at hand. "I know of her, yes. What's she done now?"

She braced herself for the bad news; someone important to the Empire had been hurt or killed, and of course the 'misunderstood' little black thug would merely get a slap on the wrist and be allowed to carry on as normal.

"She's dead." Max spat the words out like they were poison. "Shot in the head."

To her credit, Kayden tried to feel regret for the wasted life, but Shadow Stalker had gone after enough of her fellow Empire members that it wasn't easy. In addition, she wasn't sure why Max was unhappy. Unless … "Wait, did we do it?"

"Well, I didn't order it!" Which wasn't a guarantee that it hadn't been an Empire thing; that, she understood perfectly well. "But that's not the worst bit. Piggot's decided that we're the only suspects, so she's called up all the reinforcements she can get, and she's coming after the Empire. She intends to end us. Literally, if anyone does anything to resist. She said straight out that she was authorising lethal force for if they feel threatened, or if they think someone else is threatened."

That sent a chill down her back. The PRT never went lethal if they could avoid it, except in the case of Kill Orders. This was mainly due to the rarely-stated but always-present threat of villain retaliation; if you come after us with intent to kill, every other villain in town will do the same to you.

Kill Orders were different, of course. People who had earned those were generally vile enough that nobody liked them, and even other villains could kill them for the reward with no repercussions. Kayden had never done that herself, but she'd heard that the villains who'd taken down the Siberian (losing half their number in the process) had made absolute bank, despite the fact that they'd levelled a small town to do it.

But it looked and sounded like Director Piggot had just unilaterally declared a mass Kill Order on every member of the Empire. And she'd called in help from out of town to do it. "Is that even legal? Can she do that?"

Neither then nor later did she or Max ever stop to consider the irony of a supervillain appealing to the rule of law to save them from the situation. There were rules, damn it, and if the good guys couldn't be depended on to adhere to them, who could?

Max's voice was grim. "Technically speaking? No. In reality? Piggot's quite likely going with the concept that it's better to beg for forgiveness than permission. She'll likely get a slap on the wrist for this, but anyone her goons gun down will still be just as dead."

She took a deep breath, and made the decision that had been dancing at the back of her mind for the last few moments. "That's it, then. I'm out."

"Out?" He stared at her quizzically. "What do you mean, 'out'? Out of the fight?"

"Out, as in out of the game. I'm done. If the PRT and the heroes are going to go lethal anytime some idiot Ward pushes the wrong thug the wrong way, being a villain isn't for me anymore." She patted her swollen belly. "I'm going to be a mother, Max. I can't risk orphaning my baby. Or worse, what if they decide to suspend the Unwritten Rules even further and start going after villains' families again?"

"They'd never do that." He was trying to be firm and reassuring, but she knew him too well. His tone was too hearty for it to be anything but an act. "There would be an outcry from the rooftops. It would result in a retaliation like never before."

"Like when that one guy murdered Fleur? That kind of retaliation?" She'd been with the Empire Eighty-Eight about five years when that had happened, and she hadn't approved of it even then. But nobody else (on the villain side, anyway) had seemed to have a problem with it, possibly because the kid (a teenager, at the time) hadn't been a cape.

There'd been no retaliation upon him or the Empire. He'd broken down in court during the trial, but after he'd done his time and gotten out, he'd been accepted straight into the gang. As far as she knew, he was still an active member, living his best life.

"This is different." But he was trying too hard, and she knew it. "Heroes don't take revenge for that sort of thing. At least, not extra-judicially. Not if they want to stay out of the Birdcage."

"Well, apparently they do now." She tried not to sound too sarcastic. "If the regional PRT Director says it's legal, does that mean it's even extra-judicial? And just between you and me, are Lung or Skidmark or Coil even going to raise an eyebrow when the PRT comes after us for the murder of a black Ward? It's not like they're going to get anything but profit out of this."

"If it can happen to us, it can happen to them." But he was trying to shore up a collapsing levee with leaky sandbags, and they both knew it.

"Not if they keep their noses clean, and don't murder Wards." She saw his eyes flare at the sharpness in her tone, but she refused to back down. "You know I'm right. And you know there's only one way out of this right now. When's this going down? When are they coming for us?"

"Tomorrow morning, eight AM." He frowned at her. "Why? What do you have in mind?"

She took a deep breath. "Can you put your hand on your heart, Max Anders, and tell me without a shadow of a doubt that the Empire Eighty-Eight had no hand in killing Shadow Stalker?"

He glared at her for a long moment. The look in his eyes told her that he dearly wanted to answer in the affirmative, but he didn't say the word. Finally, lips thinned almost to invisibility, he shook his head. "You know I can't. I didn't give the order, but that doesn't mean that someone in the Empire didn't do it."

"Then find out." Her voice was brisk. "Have the men you trust reach out to everyone under them. Find out who was out and about on the night in question. Where they were, and who was with them. For all we know, they might have boasted about it to their friends. You've got until eight tomorrow morning to find this person and present him to Director Piggot."

"What, just surrender?" He sounded horrified. "Just hand him over, whoever he is? The Empire is about right-minded people supporting each other! That's as far from 'support' as you can possibly get!"

She didn't budge from her stance. "And if the PRT rolls over us? Who'll be left of us then? I read a Russian saying once that basically said when the wolves are closing in, you've got to choose who you're going to throw off the back of the sleigh."

From his expression, he knew she was right. His jaw hardened. "God fucking damn it."

An idea occurred to her, and she raised a finger. "And no finding some sacrificial goat and telling the PRT it was him. They'll be wanting to interrogate him, and I'm quite sure there's details your man on the inside doesn't know. Whoever they get has to be the right one."

"But what if he's one of our best?" Though Max was slowly coming around, it was clear he didn't like the idea in the slightest.

"If he's going to pull a stunt like this without at least informing you, or his immediate superior, then he really isn't one of your best, is he?" In retrospect, she was quite proud of that point of logic.

He huffed out an aggravated sigh. "You're right. I'll send out the word." Clicking the power button on his phone to wake it up again, he looked up at her. "So you'll stay now?"

Though she was tempted, she shook her head. "I'm going to see how it all turns out. This might be a one-off, or the PRT might actually be changing their policies permanently. I have no desire to be sniped from half a mile away by a PRT special ops guy with a high-powered rifle and a light filter on his scope."

"I'll find whoever did it," Max promised. "And he will confess to the PRT that it was all his idea. Once that's dealt with, things will probably go back to normal."

"Probably isn't certainly." Kayden raised her eyebrows. "Until I know for a fact that they aren't about to go all kill-order at the slightest provocation, I'm unofficially retiring from the villain business. If they keep it up, I'll be making it official." She started making her way out of the room.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Packing." At the door, she turned and favoured him with a glance. "Don't you think you'd better start making those calls?"

As she headed toward the bedroom she shared with him, she heard the first button-presses. She didn't know whether or not he was going to be successful in his quest but one way or the other, she didn't intend to be in the line of fire.

<><>​

Lady Photon

Sarah Pelham sat on the edge of the rooftop, looking out over the city. Beside her, Carol seemed to be engrossed in her own thoughts, but Sarah was pretty sure she knew the way they were going.

"Penny for them," she said lightly.

Carol roused herself from the introspective trance. "I'm thinking it's about damn time. Those assholes have been making the city look bad for far too long."

"No second thoughts?" Sarah tilted her head. "Even about how the Director said we're clear to use lethal force if we're protecting someone?"

Carol raised her hand, and a shining blade of light grew out of it. When she touched the weapon to the brickwork, smoke arose from the glowing cut. "They did the crime. They couldn't have expected for there not to be some kind of backlash from this."

"Even if we don't know who actually pulled the trigger?" Sarah's voice was quiet, thoughtful. Other ideas were running through her mind.

"If they're willing to hide him, they're all complicit." Carol looked across at her, allowing the lightblade to vanish. "Tell me you don't believe that they're not all criminals anyway."

"Oh, no. I'm down with it, as the youngsters say." Sarah smiled briefly, then her expression changed to something darker. "They murdered a kid, this time. A Ward. Unmasked her then executed her. The PRT wants to take the Empire out of the picture once and for all? I am totally on board with that. It's been a long time coming."

"Good." Carol got up from her perch and dusted herself off. "I'm going to call Victoria and get a lift home. Are we meeting at our place or yours in the morning?"

"Yours, I think," Sarah said. "That way, Crystal and Eric can help carry you and Mark to the PRT rendezvous. Seven?"

"Seven." Carol reached out to Sarah, her fist clenched. "We're gonna kick their asses."

Sarah bumped her sister's fist with her own. "Absolutely."

She watched as her sister strolled along the roofline a little way before pulling out her phone to make a call. Then, when she was sure she wouldn't be overheard, she took out a phone of her own; not her New Wave handset, but a burner she'd acquired about six months ago, just in case.

The 'just in case' had come due, as she dug into her pocket for the other thing. It was a folded scrap of paper, tattered and faded, bearing a single name as well as a string of digits. Carefully, she tapped the number into the phone.

For ten years, she'd convinced herself that this was not what a hero did. But now, with everything else that was happening, she couldn't lie to herself anymore. Some things just had to be done. And now, it seemed, he was back.

The phone, held to her ear, rang several times. Then it was answered. "You have the Dark."

She'd met the man once, years before. He'd scared her silly then, and even hearing his voice now wasn't much better. "This is … this is Sarah Pelham."

"Lady Photon." He sounded bemused. "You have my interest. Why are you calling?"

"I … there's a man. In the Empire Eighty-Eight. Seven years ago, he killed my brother's fiancée."

"Fleur. Yes, I remember. A great pity." There was no emotion in his voice to go with his words.

She took a deep breath. "I want you to find him and kill him. Tomorrow, when the Empire is disrupted from the PRT attack. I want you to look him in the eye as he dies, and tell him New Wave sends their regards."

She didn't bother giving the guy's name; it had made the news more than once, despite the fact that he'd been tried as a minor. The Dark would either know it or he could find it out. He was known to be very, very good at locating his targets.

"Understood. We can arrange payment once it's done."

That she would be paying whatever price he demanded was in no doubt whatsoever. She knew that for a fact. "Absolutely."

"Good. Then we can do business. You'll receive a message when the job's complete." The call ended.

She sat there, looking at the phone, before sliding it back into her pocket. Whether she'd just done the right thing or not, she didn't know. But it had to be done, all the same.

Carol came back to sit by her, her own phone call concluded. "Vicky's on the way. What was that about?"

Sarah looked up at the night sky. "Oh, just taking care of some business."



End of Part Eight

 

[Ack]

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Part Nine: The Oncoming Storm

[A/N 1: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: Work is still kicking my ass, which is why this is so late in the month. Book is entering the last stages of editing, so woo!]

[A/N 3: Trigger warning of a racial slur in the Empire section. Racists be racist, yo.]



Tuesday Morning

January 11, 2011

The next morning didn't exactly dawn bright and early—it was January, after all—but it definitely started sooner for some people than for others. Dad had me set my alarm for half after five, more than an hour before sunrise, so when I stumbled yawning and stretching from my bedroom, it was still dark out. I'd hoped Chewie would sleep through the noise, but he woke up and came looking for attention shortly after we got downstairs.

"It's going to be a big one, today." Dad spoke calmly as he made the bacon. Alongside him, I dealt with the eggs. "The PRT's decided to land with both feet on the Empire, once and for all, because of what happened to Shadow Stalker."

It took a couple of seconds for that to sink in, then I realised what he wasn't saying. "You meant for it to happen this way!"

"It was a possibility." He shrugged, putting bacon onto three plates; one each for us two, and a smaller rasher for Chewie. "You have to admit, they've more or less opened themselves up as a target for that sort of frame. No matter who killed her, they were going to be the prime suspects."

I couldn't argue with his logic. "So they're actually going to arrest them all?"

"It's what I heard." He carried the rest of the bacon to the table while I put a generous helping of eggs onto each plate. Chewie got some egg, too. A growing puppy needed his protein. "I strongly suspect that with the capes, it's going to be a case of surrender or be gunned down in self-defense. They won't be going into the 'too hard' basket this time. Also, we've got a job of our own. One man in particular is going to die."

"Who?" I carried our plates to the table and sat down, then poured orange juice for each of us. "Kaiser?"

"No." He chuckled, shaking his head. "I almost feel sorry for him. He knows precisely what the score is and how he can't win, but I'm betting he's too proud to accept it without a fight. Unfortunately for him, the clock just ran down on the Empire and there's no compromises he can call on. The PRT can have him, for all I care."

While Dad gave Chewie his breakfast, I started on my bacon. Then, as he sat down, I asked the question. "Okay, so who are we killing, and why?"

"His name is Larry Peterson," Dad said, not actually helping with my curiosity. "He's twenty-two years old. Seven years ago, he walked up behind a woman named Jess Chandler at a bus stop and stabbed her five times in the back, then cut her throat. He was restrained and people called nine-one-one, but she died of her wounds before the ambulance ever got to her. As he was a minor by law and had no priors, he wasn't tried as an adult. He was released when he turned eighteen ..." He paused in his explanation as I sat up in my chair, and looked over at me. "Yes?"

I'd just realised who he was talking about. "Fleur! That's the guy who murdered Fleur, of New Wave! Whatever happened to him, anyway?"

Dad shrugged. "He did it to prove himself as a potential member of the Empire Eighty-Eight. When he got out, he applied again, and they welcomed him with open arms. Since then, he's just been one of the boys. No doubt, any of them who have tangled with the rest of the team have bought him drinks from time to time." He steepled his fingers, giving himself a supremely sinister air. "And today, we're getting paid to put him in the ground."

"Getting paid." That part drew my attention. "So, we're not just putting an end to him because he's a bad person?"

He chuckled before taking up his knife and fork again. "Oh, good Lord, no. If I used that as a reason, there would be dead bodies from Downtown to the Boat Graveyard. There are many worse people than him in the city. No, the only reason I kill people for free is if they're a threat to me or mine, and I don't believe they can be reasoned with. I've never met this despicable little hooligan, and he's never done anything to me, but someone wants him dead badly enough to pay for it. Given what's happened recently, I figure it's time for me to officially come back out of retirement. So, he gets to die today."

I thought over that as I finished my breakfast. Chewie, being an opportunistic little mooch, gobbled down the bacon and eggs we'd given him then came to us looking for more. I, being the strong-willed and independent young woman that I am, of course gave him more. All I had to do was look into those soulful puppy-dog eyes and my resolve just crumbled on the spot.

"So what's my job in all this?" I asked, once we were washing the dishes. Chewie had retired to a spot under the table where he could wrestle with one last piece of overly tough bacon; his tiny growls provided a counterpoint to our conversation.

"As much or as little as you feel comfortable with," he said at once. "I kill people; you know that. In fact, I'm impressed by how understanding you've been. I believe a certain mindset is needed to be okay with it, so I'm not going to rush you into things."

I snorted and rolled my eyes. "Well, I am your daughter, and Mom's as well, so I'm thinking genetics might play a small part in that. Also, everyone you killed so far has deserved it, right?"

"Well, it's not usually part of the decision-making process, but I like to think so," he confirmed. "It's hard to qualify for the attention of a hitman of my calibre, without being involved in something shady. Usually it's a turf war, or someone took something they shouldn't have."

"And Cricket and Hookwolf were just plain bad people, and the ones you killed to get Chewie back would've watched him die and laughed about it." I shrugged. "It's a tough world out there. I'm sick of being stomped into the ground while the supposed 'good' people ignore everything. If you and Chewie are the winning side, then sign me up."

"That's my girl," he said approvingly, reaching over to ruffle my hair. "But as I said, I'm not about to push you into doing anything you're not comfortable with."

"I'm good with that." I handed him the last dish to dry, and took a deep breath. "I'm fine with going as lookout and Chewie wrangler for the moment, but I'm thinking I'll carry that pistol you've been training me with, just in case."

"And that's perfectly fine." He stared out the window thoughtfully as his hands carried out the automatic task of wiping the dish dry. "I'm pretty sure I've got a clip-on holster for that one somewhere."

"What, not a shoulder holster?" Every time I'd seen someone carrying a pistol surreptitiously in the movies, it had been in a shoulder holster. Had Hollywood lied to me yet again?

He actually chuckled at my expression. "We can fit you with one, but they take time to learn how to wear and draw from effectively. It's much easier to give you one that clips onto your waistband, that you can slide around into the small of your back under your jacket as soon as you get out of the car. Your waistband is literally the last place you should put your pistol."

"Sounds like there's a few stories you could tell there," I observed as I crouched down next to the table. Chewie trotted out and jumped into my arms, and I scratched his ears as I stood up again.

"More than a few. I've seen people get away with it, I've seen them just plain lose the weapons—never a good thing in a firefight—and I've seen them shoot themselves in the feet, the legs, the butt, the femoral artery, the groin …" He shook his head. "People like that usually forget to set the safety catch, or it can accidentally disengage. They're also the type not to practice trigger discipline. Putting your finger on the trigger when you're not immediately intending to shoot what's in front of the gun is an excellent way of taking yourself or one of your buddies out of action."

"I got it, I got it." He'd been rigorous in enforcing trigger discipline from the very beginning. I was still an amateur with firearms, but at least I knew not to trust any gun as being unloaded unless I could personally see that it was. This was another lesson, I could tell. I resolved not to stick any pistol into my waistband if I could possibly help it.

"Good." He opened the door to the basement. "Let's go get kitted out, then."

As I followed him down the stairs, I couldn't help a quiver of excitement. Dad belonged to a strange and mysterious world, and for the first time I was going to see him doing what he did best.

I couldn't wait.

<><>​

PRT Building Parking Garage

0730 Hours

Director Piggot

"Attention!" The order echoed through the underground garage.

Emily Piggot walked along the line of troopers, her face impassive. Inside, she was seething at the need to go back into the Ops room while the active-duty men and women went out there and faced danger in her stead. She understood why the regs were the way they were, but that didn't make it any easier to handle.

Standing in their own little group were the heroes she'd selected to go along with them. While they'd all volunteered to go along on the mission, Vista, Clockblocker, and Kid Win would be staying in base. She understood they could all be useful in their own ways, but the first two were vulnerable to anyone with a pistol and a clear shot, and the third only had lightweight laser pistols to call upon. Aegis was durable enough to stand up to virtually any of the Empire capes, at least for a while, and Gallant's powers would work through armour. Triumph was due to be promoted into the Protectorate, and his sonic blast was definitely powerful enough to be of tactical use.

Bastion and Weld stood apart from the others; this was partly because they weren't used to working with them, and partly because (if Emily had it right) Weld's power tried to absorb any metal that he touched. Thus, if he touched anything metallic, it stuck to his skin. When coming into contact with vehicles and street-lights, this could be extremely problematic. On the upside, he was extremely durable and apparently much more level-headed than Bastion.

The adult contingent were all on deck, though Armsmaster had reportedly worked the night through on potential counters to Fenja and Menja's growth ability. Emily didn't know what sort of insane stimulants he was on at the moment, and didn't want to know. Miss Militia, grim-faced, had some kind of portable minigun slung over her shoulder. Usually, as far as Emily could tell, her weapon choices were guided by whim or amusement value; today, she looked like she planned on winning a war. Most telling of all was Assault's demeanour; normally he'd be making irreverent comments, but today he was silent.

"Listen up!" she barked, raising her voice enough to reach all the assembled personnel. "You all know the situation! You all know the stakes! You all know what we're fighting for out there! You've all been given your orders!" She paused then, to scan the ranks for any reaction. There was none. "I'm going to give you one more order! Don't take any chances! If they'll execute a teenage Ward for being black, then they'll murder any one of you if you let your guard down even once! I want to see each and every one of you back here in this building tonight! And if you're stupid enough to let one of them kill you, I will by God reach down into Hell and bring you back to life just so I can kill you again! Got it?"

There was scattered laughter amid the replies of, "Yes, ma'am."

She tilted her head. "I said, Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"I can't hear you!"

"YES, MA'AM!"

Drawing in a deep breath through her nostrils, Emily looked them over again, pride swelling in her chest. "Good. Take ten, check your gear over, make sure everything's ready to roll. You move out at oh eight hundred, on the dot. Dismissed."

As the formation dispersed, she turned to the strike squad commanders. "Keep them from getting too excited," she said in a low voice. "Verified Empire targets only. Kids throwing rocks aren't a threat. We need to make the point that we're cleaning up the city, not cracking down on everyone. The capes are force multipliers, so they're a priority. It's almost a certainty that one of them gave the order for Stalker to be murdered in this way, probably as a reaction to Hookwolf and Cricket. We just need to find out who, so they can be tried and Birdcaged."

This had all been covered in briefings already, but it was worth repeating. The city would be blowing up over this no matter what, but if she could shape the narrative, she could maybe get the citizens to understand that the Empire was the bad guy here. She had no doubt that she was walking a tightrope over a pit of hungry lions, but there was no way in hell she was letting the Empire get away with murdering a Ward on her watch. To do nothing would be tantamount to posting an ad on prime time TV: "Don't send your minority capes to Brockton Bay, because they won't come out alive."

Calvert answered for the rest of them. "Understood, ma'am. Question: the other gangs?"

What do we do if we see them, he was asking. It was a cogent question, but hopefully she had the correct answer at hand.

"If they don't bother you, you don't bother them," she said. "They'll probably already have the word that we're targeting the Empire, and why. If they've got the sense God gave a rock, they'll be sitting back with popcorn, watching us take the competition off the board without needing to do a damn thing. They haven't got a single reason to interfere, and every reason to keep out of the way."

"What if they offer to hand over Empire members to us?" asked another squad commander, Rusworth.

Emily paused briefly to think about that. "Accept. Be polite, but don't let down your guard. The enemy of your enemy is never your friend, merely an ally of convenience. And as soon as it stops being convenient, they'll stop being our allies. Got it?"

Rusworth nodded. "Understood, ma'am."

"Good." She would've said more, but her phone buzzed. Taking it out, she saw a message: New Wave on roof. Quickly, she typed back, On way. She looked up from the phone at the strike commanders. "See to your men. I've got business to attend to."

Turning, she headed for the elevators. Every last bit of assistance would be useful, she understood that. More capes would add firepower, but in her heart she wanted more boots on the street. People she knew she could depend on. Once again, she felt the chill down her spine from ten years before when she'd heard the capes had fled the Ellisburg battlefield, abandoning the PRT troopers to their fate.

Intellectually, she knew the Wards and Protectorate capes weren't like that, and New Wave had a reputation for getting the job done. Emotionally, she wasn't convinced. Part of her insisted that a cape was a cape was a cape. They were all the same; overgrown children with assault weapons nobody could take away. And it was her job to wrangle them into something approaching unity.

She used the elevator ride upward to compose her thoughts. Brandish had always been a firebrand, but Lady Photon was a more moderate voice, one whom Emily could find common cause with. The fact that they'd shown up in good time to go out with the troops was definitely a point in their favour.

When she stepped out onto the roof, she saw the guards facing New Wave; it wasn't quite a stand-off, as no powers or weapons were being readied, but there was a certain tension in the air anyway. It would be thus between the PRT and any non-Protectorate cape, at least for today, she suspected.

They'd brought the whole team, including Panacea, which heartened her more than a little. Troopers would be hurt during this mission (and capes might be, as well) but the difference between a mission-kill and an actual kill was considerable. The presence of the unassuming frizzy-haired teenager across the roof from her might literally spell the difference between life and death for any number of her men. Extrapolating that to troopers being able to pick up a rifle and head back out there to back up their buddies, her value in potential lives saved was considerable.

"At ease," she commanded the troopers. "New Wave. Has anything changed since you attended the briefing?"

It almost certainly hadn't, given they'd brought the whole team along. But she had to ask the question, in a way that gave them a graceful out if such was the case.

Emily Piggot knew she had a reputation of not being able to handle capes well. That was untrue; she was reasonably good at dealing with people, and capes were people, for the most part. She just didn't bother trying to deal with them politely most of the time, because confronting them over something stupid and avoidable brought out her acerbic side. And for some reason, capes brought 'stupid and avoidable' to a whole new level if they got the chance.

Now, she gave New Wave a polite gaze, awaiting the answer to her entirely non-confrontational question. They hadn't done anything stupid and avoidable since landing on her roof, so she was going to give them a conditional pass for the moment. Whether that state of affairs continued would be entirely up to them.

"We're here to help you against the Empire," Lady Photon confirmed. Emily took note of how her chosen wording was entirely unambiguous. "This is something that should've been done long ago."

Darkly amused, Emily snorted softly. "Well, I can't argue with you there."

"So, how does this work?" asked Manpower. "Do we split up and go with your guys, or go out on our own, or what?"

Emily had actually been putting some thought into this. "I think we can all agree that while we don't want Panacea getting hurt, her power could literally save the day for us. So we treat this almost as an Endbringer situation; we set up a medical post here in the building, and any injured get brought back as soon as possible. With her protected, the rest of you can embed with our troopers, just as the Protectorate and Ward capes are doing, and provide muscle where it's needed. We don't have flyers and the streets might end up being blocked, so if it gets bad, we might be calling on you for medevac duties. Are you okay with that?"

Part of her hated to be in the position of asking a cape if they could do something as self-evident as save the life of a fellow human being, but that was the situation. To her relief, she got four immediate nods from the capes in question.

Lady Photon stepped forward, lifting her chin. "You can count on us," she declared, then glanced over her shoulder. "Shielder and Laserdream, you'll be pairing with Glory Girl for that."

Emily frowned. "Why pair them up? Wouldn't they work twice as well separately?"

"Glory Girl can't shield anyone she's carrying," Lady Photon explained. "If they're sniping from rooftops, someone carrying a body will be an easy target."

"Right." Because of course she wouldn't be able to depend on the other side respecting things like removing wounded from the battlefield.

"I have a question," Manpower stated. "What's to stop the capes from simply stepping back into the shadows, taking off their masks, and hiding in their holes?"

"Only one thing." Emily set her jaw. "Pride. If they fall back on their secret identities, we will sweep up every last skinhead, white supremacist and racist redneck in this city. By the time they stick their heads up again, they won't have a gang. And how many people will flock to their cause once word gets around that the capes cut and ran once there was serious opposition?"

"Some will," Brandish predicted. "Because some people love to hate, and to pretend that they're the oppressed ones."

"But not as many as before." Emily was sure of that. "And it's virtually impossible for an organisation of that size to not have some leaks. Up until now, loyalty to the cause has kept their mouths shut. If they do go to ground, how long is that loyalty going to last among the few that are in the know? All we have to do is offer them a plea deal in return for a name."

With any other cape, her comment would've likely been met with shock or disbelief. The heroes of New Wave, already unmasked, nodded slowly in agreement. Glory Girl's lips drew back in a vicious grin; looking forward, no doubt, to punching Nazis in the face.

"Some people might have a problem with you outing them like that," Lady Photon observed mildly.

Emily shook her head. "Then those people can come and say it to my face. If they didn't want to deal with the consequences, they shouldn't have murdered a Ward. That breaks their so-called 'unwritten rules' in so many ways it doesn't matter. Kaiser didn't turn over the guilty party, so he gets to reap the whirlwind." She raised her eyes as she looked at the assembled New Wave capes. "Does anyone have a problem with that?"

Amid the various head-shakes, and Glory Girl smacking her fist into her palm, Brandish's voice carried through clearly. "Not in the slightest."

"Good." Emily turned and headed back toward the elevators. "Then let's get to it."

<><>​

Kaiser

Max Anders was having a bad day, and it was getting worse by the second. He'd successfully managed to divert the Dark's attention onto Coil—why the fuck that idiot had chosen the worst possible person on the eastern seaboard to impersonate, he had no fucking idea—but now this shit was looming over him. And he had no idea how to fix it.

Kayden was already gone; she'd finished packing up the car around midnight, shoved Theo into the passenger seat when Max's back was turned, and vanished into the night. He thought she might've gone south to Boston, but for all he knew she was outbound for LA. Somewhere far away from the developing shitshow here in Brockton Bay. And to be honest, some small part of him didn't blame her.

"What do you mean, you don't know who gave the order?" he yelled at Stormtiger—hastily promoted to 'lieutenant' status following Hookwolf's death—and Krieg. "Not one of those mouth-breathing fuckwits out there would've had the monumentally fuck-stupid idea of murdering Shadow Stalker as dramatically as that without either being told to do it like that, asking if they could do it like that, or boasting that they'd done it like that! One way or the other, we would've heard about it!"

"But we didn't," Stormtiger pointed out needlessly. "Nobody's said a word about it."

Max clenched his fists and refrained from nailing the idiot to the ceiling. "Which means that either we didn't do it, or much more likely, whoever did it has realised exactly how thoroughly they've fucked up and they're keeping quiet about it." He looked at his watch. There was less than half an hour to go before the troops rolled out, and his last chance of calling off Emily Piggot's dogs evaporated. "Okay, cards on the table. Time for the truth."

"What?" asked Krieg cautiously.

Breathing deeply to calm himself down, Max eyed them both, trying to isolate tells and tics from general nerves. "In twenty-five minutes, the Empire Eighty-Eight comes under attack from every hero in this city, as well as the PRT. They'll be arresting every single one of our followers on suspicion, and forcing confrontations with any of our capes that will end in either arrest or death for us. Even in the unlikely outcome that we win, Lung is likely to pounce on us and finish us off while we're still licking our wounds. So, we don't want that. Understand so far?"

"Yes …" Stormtiger didn't sound happy about it. "Why are you looking at us like that?"

"Because you two are the most likely to have given the order to kill Shadow Stalker." Max spoke flatly, without emotion. "You had the most authority, under me. I'm offering you both a one-off amnesty if you come clean. If you okayed it or gave the order, tell me who did it, and I'll give you a head start out of the city before I hand the asshole over. So, tell me. Did either of you do it?"

They both stared at him, then glanced at each other. He tensed; had they come up with this between them? Was this going to be a coup where they blamed him, and tossed him to the figurative wolves?

The moment passed, and they both looked at him again. "No," Stormtiger said. "I woulda told you straight-up if I had offed the nigger cooch, but it wasn't me."

"Nor did I do it," Krieg stated. "The schwarze Schlampe was not worth my time. And I would have checked with you first, because of this exact situation."

Max wasn't totally convinced, but they'd given reasonable excuses not to suspect them, so he had to accept it. "Alright then, one of the others is lying," he declared. "I know it wasn't Nessa or Jessica, because they're never far away from me. I doubt Tammi would have the initiative."

Stormtiger nodded. "So you're thinkin' Victor or Othala, or maybe Crusader? Yeah, I could see any of 'em doing it, but we asked 'em, and they all said no."

"Someone lied." Krieg's tone was matter of fact. "They are still lying. I do not think it was Crusader. He is too brash, too mouthy. He would want bragging rights. We would know."

"Yes." Max had to agree with him. Justin was an incurable show-off. There was no way he would've kept it quiet in the interval between Shadow Stalker's not so unfortunate demise, and the subsequent development of the shit-show that followed. "So, Othala or Victor then."

"Not Othala." Stormtiger snorted derisively. "Girl can't tell a lie to save her life."

"Whereas Victor," mused Krieg, "could tell us all the sky was green, and we would believe him until we went outside to see for ourselves. The man is an accomplished actor. We all know this. He also has a flair for the dramatic."

He wasn't wrong, Max had to admit that much. Nobody played poker with Victor for money. But the idea that …

"Fuck!" spat Stormtiger. "He could've done it, but would he? Why lie to us?"

Max tried to rein the discussion in, see the bigger picture. Time was ticking on; they had perilously little leeway in which to fix this. "Okay, let's put a pin in that. If it was one of us who okayed it, it was Victor. But what if it wasn't us? What if it was someone else?" It was a crazy idea, but he was willing to grasp at any straw by now.

"Yes, but whom?" Krieg posed the obvious question immediately. "Who else would murder Shadow Stalker in such a blatant fashion, and why?"

Stormtiger beat Max to the equally obvious answer by a fraction of a second. "To frame us, duh. To make this shit right here happen. The Merchants couldn't have done it if someone wrote the instructions on the side of a bag of weed. So we're looking at … Lung and Coil, yeah?"

Krieg frowned. "Was it not Coil who attempted to frame us for his impersonation of the Dark? Could this be some kind of ongoing campaign to have us ousted from Brockton Bay?"

"Well, shit." Max blinked a couple of times at the subtle brilliance of the idea. "That's … that's totally possible. We deflected the Dark thing, but this is a lot more direct."

"Or, y'know, it coulda been the Dark himself," Stormtiger pointed out.

That didn't take Max more than fifteen seconds to shoot down in his own head. "Nah. Everyone knows he doesn't target capes without a really good reason. He sure as hell doesn't accept hits on them. And I sincerely doubt she'd be able to do anything that might make him feel remotely threatened."

"Oh, right, yeah." Stormtiger rubbed the back of his neck. "Good point. So, you reckon Coil's behind it then?"

"He does seem to be the most logical candidate," Krieg agreed. "Even more logical than Victor, to be totally honest. The burning question now, of course, is how to prove this to the PRT Director before her men overrun our territory?"

Max grimaced. He'd heard the saying 'the truth hurts', but now it applied more than ever. "We can't."

Stormtiger summed it up for all of them. "Well, fuck."

<><>​

Tattletale

"In case you hadn't already gotten the memo, we're staying home today," Lisa announced to the other members of the Undersiders. In the event, this was Brian and Rachel; Alec rarely surfaced before ten or eleven. Not that he went outside the loft much as it was. The kitchenette and the sofa were usually the limit of his travels unless they were going out on a job.

So, of course, Rachel had to argue. "Can't. Gotta go check on my dogs."

She didn't have many as yet, but her collection of strays was gradually expanding. And now that Hookwolf was dead and the dogfights officially cancelled—an event that had almost caused the stocky girl to smile when she heard the news—there was less to endanger them out there. Still, she took them in, because that was what she did.

"It's going to be a war-zone out there," Brian warned her. "Everyone's going after the Empire Eighty-Eight for what they did to Shadow Stalker."

"You hated her, too," Rachel pointed out accurately. "A lot of people didn't like her. Why are they going after the Empire for it?"

"It's not a case of not liking her," Lisa said. She'd scoured the social media channels, and had come up with a conclusion that she hadn't shared with anyone. "She was held down and shot in the back of the head. They executed a Ward because she was black. The PRT and Protectorate can't let them get away with that sort of thing, ever. It's a public relations thing."

Normally when she knew something nobody else did, she couldn't wait to share it. Passing on information, watching the emerging comprehension in someone's eyes, gave her a dopamine rush like nothing else. But this time around, what she'd pieced together was totally off the menu. As in, "fuck NOPE!" The most terrifying event in her life had been when the Dark walked into their base and spoke to her about getting information on Coil. He hadn't said a single word about how she'd told Coil it was a good idea to make a fake Dark, but he didn't have to. Somehow, he knew.

Worst of all, he hadn't confronted her with the knowledge. He had instead let her dangle, allowing her to see it in his eyes as they spoke oh so politely and pretended everything was normal. They'd both known he could kill everyone in the room in less than two seconds. She'd seen some of it in his daughter's eyes as well; the awareness that lives hung in the balance. Brian had only been butt-hurt that he'd had his ass kicked on his own turf, and Rachel had automatically deferred to him.

They'd come out the other side of it okay, in her estimation. Nobody was dead, she had the chance to actually fuck up Coil properly this time, and the team would have access to an actual favour from the Dark. This was like the Holy Grail, if it were bestowed by a darker power.

Of course, when it came time to call the favour in, Brian and Rachel were going to have to sit on Alec, but that was just a minor detail. The trick would be to find something that benefited them all equally, and not to hold out on using it just in case a better idea came along.

For herself, she would've gone with "shoot Coil in the head, pretty please?" but it looked like he was well on the way to doing just that, as soon as he got the information she was carefully compiling on her laptop. The majority of the work was to make it look like she'd hacked it and not just downloaded it.

"It's not gonna do 'em any good anyway," Rachel said grumpily. "Soon as those Nazi jerks start taking casualties, they'll just duck for cover. Nobody knows who they are."

And that was when Lisa had her Idea. Slowly and carefully she looked it over. There didn't seem to be any flaws in it. Of course, that didn't mean the others would like it. "Guys …"

"Yeah?" Brian looked over, having caught the tone in her voice. "What's up, Lise?"

"Just how badly do we want the Empire to go down?" She looked over at Rachel. "I mean, even if they don't have dogfights anymore, they're still assholes to dogs, right?"

"Yeah, they are." Rachel scowled. "That's why I want to go see to my dogs. Why?"

"Just an idea I had. Brian, how about you? What if the Empire could be made to go away altogether today? How happy would you be?"

"I'd be thrilled," he said frankly. "But how are you going to achieve that? Call in the favour to the Dark and have him shoot Kaiser in the head?"

"Who's shooting Kaiser in the head, and can I watch?" Alec stumbled out of his room, rubbing his eyes. "What the fuck time is it, and why is everyone talking so loud?"

"It's seven forty-seven in the morning, and we're talking normally," Lisa told him. "Got a question. The Empire Eighty-Eight. What if it went away altogether, today?"

"Never happen," Alec said without even pausing for thought. "They'll go to ground and pop up again as soon as everyone forgets about Shadow whatsername."

"Ah, but what if it did?" Lisa put all her persuasiveness into it. "We'd still have Lung to deal with, true, but …"

"But there'd be a lot fewer assholes on the street who want to fuck me up just because of my skin colour, yeah, got it," Brian said. "Are you saying we should ask the Dark to kill Kaiser?"

Lisa shook her head. "No. But …" She drew the word out. "He's been in Brockton Bay longer than I've been alive. He knows all the movers and shakers, and they know him. And he'd know secrets that only a few other people know about. Such as … the secret identities of most of the Empire."

She'd meant the conclusion to be glaringly obvious, but it was a few seconds before Alec jumped on it. "Holy shit, you want the Dark to out the fucking Empire?"

"Well, yeah." She shrugged. "If the PRT knows who they really are, they won't be able to run and hide. It'll make things a lot easier for them. And life a lot more convenient for us. And let's face it; it's not something we could pull off any time soon."

"It's not something we would pull off." Brian was scowling now. "Have you forgotten about the unwritten rules?"

Lisa rolled her eyes. "Did whoever unmasked Shadow Stalker then shot her in the back of the head care about the unwritten rules? No? If the Empire got its hands on you, Brian or you, Rachel, do you think they'd care about the unwritten rules? Fuck 'em. Those rules only apply to people who never break them. You guys and me. The little guys. Not the big gangs. Anyway, we're not breaking the rules, and if the Dark doesn't want to he'll just say no."

She knew damn well he wouldn't, and they probably suspected it, but they didn't know what she knew about why. As the phrase went, it was a beautiful example of plausible deniability.

"Huh." Alec scratched the back of his neck. "I was gonna try and talk you guys into asking him to kill my dad. But sticking it to the Empire sounds like a boss move, so fuck 'em. Let's do it."

"He doesn't go after capes, remember?" But Brian sounded like he was coming around to the idea. "Okay, fine, if you're all in favour of it, I won't say no."

He doesn't go after capes. For a moment, she wondered if she'd achieved a totally erroneous result with her power, but then the second part dropped into place. Unless it's personal.

"Okay, so that's a yes from Alec and a conditional yes from Brian." She looked at Rachel. "Yes or no? Your call."

What the hell could Shadow Stalker have done that made the Dark come after her like that? It was something Lisa both feared to know and wanted to find out, if only to ensure that she never ended up in the same situation.

Rachel shrugged. "Fuck the Empire Eighty-Eight. They kill dogs."

"I'll take that as a yes, then." Lisa picked up her laptop and looked over her assembled files. Making a snap decision, she settled the computer on her lap and took out her phone. Taking the card from her pocket, she dialled the number, one momentous digit at a time.

<><>​

Driving Through Brockton Bay

Taylor

I took the mask off so I could admire it again. I wasn't sure when Dad had done the work, but he'd presented it to me when we went into the basement to grab our gear. A simple black domino mask with glasses lenses set into the eyepieces, it had a moth as the centrepiece over the bridge of the nose, the markings showing up as a prominent skull.

I loved it.

"You know, you don't have to wear it until we get there," he said with a quick sideways grin.

"I know, but it's so cool." I looked down to where Chewie was curled up in my lap, his nose tucked under his tail. "Maybe we should get Chewie one too. Dog-Breath of Doom."

This time, he chuckled. "We both know he'd chew it to pieces."

"Yeah, this is true." I tried the mask on again. "I'm Death's Head." Slyly, I glanced across to Dad. "Death's Head and the Dark. That actually sounds pretty badass."

He snorted. "Or like some forgettable punk rock band from the nineties." Turning his head, he glanced at me. "Just by the way, when you do speak, I'd suggest using the insect-buzz trick to overlay your voice. You'll sound a lot more intimidating that way."

"Okay, got it." I didn't have enough bugs in the car to make that happen, which was an oversight on my part—I'd have a swarm with me from now on, I decided—but that was something easily fixed when we got out. "I wish I could sound one-tenth as intimidating as you do without the bugs, though."

"Hm." He smiled easily. "Some things come with practice."

Right then, his phone rang. He fished it from his pocket and handed it to me, so I swiped to answer and put it on speaker. Carefully, I held it so it wasn't in his way but he could talk into it normally.

"You have the Dark."

"Uh, hi. This is, uh, this is Tattletale?" I recognised the voice as belonging to the nervous blonde from the Undersiders.

"I remember you, yes." Dad was all business. His 'Dark' voice was different from his usual warm tone. "What's the issue?"

"I've got some of the information you asked for, with more to come." Tattletale paused. "I, uh, we were wondering if we could have the favour right now instead of later."

"I'm a little busy at the moment," Dad replied. "How do you intend to get the information to me?"

"I'll set up a blind drop online and text you the link," she said. "The favour will be really easy for you to do."

Dad glanced at me, his raised eyebrows conveying a question. I nodded; it would be easy to grab the information that way. "Very well," he said. "And the favour?"

"We want you to tell the PRT who the Empire Eighty-Eight are, behind their masks."

I was brought up short by that. Looking over at Dad, I could see he was almost as surprised as I was. Again, he looked at me; this time, I covered the microphone with my hand. "Do you know who they are?"

"Most of them, yes," he confirmed. "Especially the higher-ups." I could see he was thinking it through.

"So, what are we gonna do?"

For an answer, he nodded toward the phone. I took my hand away from the microphone. "Your terms are acceptable. The favour will be carried out."

Before she could answer, he took his hand off the wheel and hit the end-call icon. I let him take the phone back, and he returned it to his pocket. Then he eased over to the side of the road and brought the car to a halt.

"How are you going to do this?" I asked. "I mean, I know the people who have your number are careful with it, but do you really want Director Piggot knowing it?"

"She's not a stupid woman, but I understand your point." He thought for a moment, drumming his fingers on the wheel, before taking his phone out again. This time, he tapped in a number from memory.

It rang twice, then a moderately angry voice answered. "What do you want now? It's bad enough that we're going after the Empire for something you did, but—"

"Madcap." Dad never raised his voice, but the diatribe on the other end cut off. "I have something that will make you popular with your boss. Are you interested?"

A pause, then the voice cautiously answered. "I'm listening."

"Good. Do you have a pencil and paper? I have some information I want you to take down."

"Do I look like a secretary? Don't answer that. Hang on a minute." The voice became more muffled. "Puppy, can I borrow your notepad?"

A moment later, he was back again. "Okay, shoot."

Dad cleared his throat. "Kaiser. Max Anders. Krieg. James Fliescher. Fenja. Jessica Biermann. Menja …" Slowly, he recited the names, giving 'Madcap' a good chunk of the secret identities of the Empire Eighty-Eight. When he finished, he asked, "Did you get all that?"

It took a few seconds for the person to answer. "Did you just … hand us the Empire Eighty-Eight on a platter?"

"Perhaps." Dad shrugged, even though the guy on the other end couldn't see him. "It all depends what you do with it."

"Right. Um. If you had all this information before, why didn't you …?"

"I didn't have a reason to, before." Dad ended the call. "People just ask so many questions."

I grinned and nodded. "It's true." And with that information out and about, it would make life just that much harder for the Empire as a whole.

For some reason, I didn't have a problem with that.

<><>​

Assault

"I didn't have a reason to, before."

The phone call ended, and Ethan stared at the list of names on the notepad. Right there, on that page, was pure dynamite. He put the phone back in its pouch and tore the page from the pad.

"Hon, who was that?" Battery was by his side. "Why did you need my notepad?"

"Because I forgot mine." He checked his watch. Three minutes to go. Not enough time to catch up to Piggot and explain. Crap. Hauling out his phone again, he took a photo of the page, then called up the email app. I am booting this upstairs right now.

<><>​

Director Piggot

Emily was just settling into her seat in the Ops Centre when her phone buzzed to indicate an incoming email. It was from Assault, and the header read, A friend from the old days sent me this.

The attached photo wasn't the best quality and neither was his handwriting, but it was still readable. As she worked her way through the names, her eyebrows rose dramatically.

"Motherfucker," she breathed. "Now I've got you."

<><>​

Coil

As Calvert climbed into the truck and settled into his assigned seat, he couldn't help grinning broadly. The Empire Eighty-Eight was going down, and so was Emily Piggot. All his plans were working out perfectly.

It doesn't get better than this.

<><>​

Taylor

Carefully, I pasted the link into the search bar and tapped the enter icon. The drop box opened up, and I grinned as the file names showed themselves. "Got it."

"So what is it that we have?" asked Dad pragmatically. "If it's his favourite song list, I will be disappointed."

Somehow, I didn't think Tattletale was that stupid. I tapped the first file, and it unfolded into a map of the city, with a single dot showing in red. Using pinch-and-zoom, I opened up the image until we could determine the exact location.

"Well, well, well," Dad murmured. "So that's where he is."

"Looks like it," I agreed, as Chewie awoke with a yawn. "Chewie thinks so, too."

"Good." He shut the phone down and put it back in his pocket. "We can follow that up later, at home. For now, we have a job to do."

Starting the car, he moved it back out onto the road. I settled back in my seat and rolled down my window so Chewie could stick his nose out and enjoy the breeze.

When Dad got around to dealing with him, Coil wouldn't know what hit him.



End of Part Nine

 

[Ack]

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Part Ten: Retribution

[A/N 1: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: Ugh. This chapter seriously kicked my butt. Not least when I realised halfway through that the neat scene I'd set up for Rune to be arrested at school was entirely null and void because … it's a Saturday. Anyway, enjoy.]
[A/N 3: EDIT - on closer re-examination of the timeline, it's Tuesday. FML.]



Medhall Building; 7:55 AM

Kaiser

Up until this point in time, Max Anders had never had much time for the so-called stages of loss. As far as he was concerned, if you had enough money and power, loss was what happened to other people. But in the last few hours, he'd found himself cycling through an accelerated version of it.

Denial: I can't believe this shit is happening to the Empire. To me.

Anger: How dare those officious assholes at the PRT try to pin this on us. On me.

Bargaining: Maybe if I offer them some kind of deal. Find and hand over whoever actually did it.

Depression: I have no idea who did it. How are we—how am I—going to get out of this?

And now he was in Acceptance. "Fuck it," he said out loud. "They want a fight, they can have a fight."

"What?" asked Victor. With Othala in attendance, he'd just come in. "Max, that's not a great idea. They've got all the capes they can muster, and every PRT trooper who can hold a gun or a sprayer. Today, they won't be playing keep-away. They'll be playing capture or kill. They're pissed."

"But we've still got more capes than they do," Max announced, holding tight to his new epiphany. "If we can wipe their capes off the board, it'll be our capes and street guys against the PRT grunts. We'll roll straight over the top of them, all the way to the PRT building. There's a reason we've held power for so long in this city. They never wanted to go up against all the capes we could muster at once. Well, now they're going to find out why."

Crusader diffidently cleared his throat. "Uh … we don't have as many capes as we used to. Kayden left last night, and Geoff and Dorothy headed out sometime early this morning, as soon as they heard. And one of our guys just told me that New Wave landed on the roof of the PRT building not long ago."

Fuck. This had just gone from bad to worse. He did the mental math. Even discounting Panacea as a frontline fighter, New Wave added seven formidable capes to the PRT's lineup, while the Empire Eighty-Eight was down by five. He took a deep breath, hating himself for even having to suggest the idea. "Have someone contact Faultline and see if she's amenable to a temporary contract inside the city."

"I already tried." Krieg sounded resigned. "She hung up on me. When I rang back, she said—and I quote—"not just 'no' but 'hell no'," then hung up again."

Max's options were drying up faster than sidewalk puddles after a summer shower. Mentally, he went through the other potential allies in Brockton Bay. Lung? The man would laugh at me, then dance on my grave. Coil? I'm pretty sure he started all this. Skidmark? He'd be more of a liability than an asset. The Undersiders? They're more thieves than front-line fighters. Also, Bitch likely has a problem with us regarding Hookwolf's dogfights.

"Don't we have any friends in the city?" he asked out loud, hoping someone would come up with something he'd forgotten.

Alabaster grimaced. "I'm pretty sure we always went with, 'we're too tough to mess with'. And we used to be. Until now."

Hard times require hard decisions. Max was sure he'd read that somewhere. Or maybe it was 'desperate times require desperate measures'. Whatever. "Okay, I know what we're going to do."

"Leave the city while we still can?" That was Krieg.

As Faultline put it, not just 'no' but 'hell no'. "Not going to happen. If we do that, the Empire relinquishes all title to Brockton Bay. We'll be seen as weak, a pushover. Wherever we set up our main power base next, the locals will be forever probing to see if they can push us out again. Not to mention, some of us have well-known civilian identities. If Max Anders vanishes from Brockton Bay the same day Kaiser flees with his tail between his legs, it won't take a Thinker to determine the reason."

"So, it's just gonna be the old secret identity two-step?" Crusader sounded disappointed. He didn't say 'I thought you had something smarter planned' out loud, but he didn't have to; the tone of his voice said it for him.

"No." Max gave him a medium glare, just to see him wilt. Though it was a testament to Justin's character that he hadn't followed Kayden from the city, so there was that. "Doing that would be almost as bad. We'd lose a lot of our popular support, and they'd be turning us in any time we were spotted. No, we're going to fight, like I said. But we'll do it smart. Victor, how would you do it? I want to see if your ideas align with mine."

The skill-thief gave him a cynical look, as though he knew exactly what was going through Max's mind, but he played along anyway. "Our secret identities are still a huge asset. Specifically, the Medhall building. Nobody knows it's ours. We can make our base here, and sortie out via the secret entrances. Othala can stay here where it's safe—"

"Wait," Othala objected. "I can make you guys impervious, or super-fast, or whatever you need. I'm a force multiplier. Why keep me back?"

Victor sighed. "Because you can't use your Trump abilities on yourself, and they will absolutely be targeting you. With containment foam, if not actual fucking bullets. No, the best place for you is back here where you can give our wounded a chance to regenerate in total safety, then go back out again."

Max rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I'm afraid he's right, Othala. I was going to have you stay here anyway; he merely confirmed my opinion." He turned to Victor. "And how would you deploy our fighting forces?"

Victor frowned for a moment. "I'd hold them back initially, until I saw how the PRT was deploying theirs. If they're splitting them up, I'd bring all our capes down on one group at a time, singling out the capes from the PRT troopers. Once the capes are down, the troopers will be easy game."

"And if they go out in one big group?" Max didn't think they would, but it was a possibility. "How would you handle that?" He was careful to give the impression he'd already thought it through and was merely checking with his subordinate.

"Oh, in that case I'd make a straight run for the PRT building, once they're far enough away not to be able to react in time," Victor said flatly. "If we can take that, especially if we get our hands on Piggot, we've got 'em by the balls. Then, it's a simple matter of arranging a cease-fire. They back the fuck off, and they can have their precious building and Director back."

"And if they're thinking like you are," Othala put in, "they'll have their medical setup in the building too … with Panacea. I think she'd be an even more valuable a hostage than the Director. I mean, Piggot can be replaced. Panacea can't."

"Either way," cautioned Victor, "we have to be careful not to actually hurt or kill Piggot or Panacea. If we take the building, it's got to come across as a reasonable response to an unreasonable escalation, not a sudden jump to HOSV status. The last thing we want is for Costa-Brown and Legend to suddenly start taking notice."

"My thoughts exactly," Max claimed boldly. The general public thought 'HOSV' stood for 'High Occurrence of Supervillains' or something like that, but Max had heard from a solid source that it actually meant 'Hive of Scum and Villainy'. In such a circumstance, most citizens tended to evacuate the city and martial law was imposed for the remainder. The irony being, of course, that supervillains could only truly thrive within a normal law-abiding environment; when everyone was breaking the law equally, the profit margin went straight out the window. Villains needed marks to prey on, or what was the point?

However, the next bit he could handle himself. "Victor, once the action starts, I'll need you to hang back, because they won't be going in for hand-to-hand combat. Draw a sniper rifle from the armoury, and look for opportunities. Crusader, hang back as well and protect Victor, and move him from point to point when necessary. Your ghosts can handle front-line combat, but you can't."

"And the rest of us just … wait here until something happens?" asked Alabaster. "You know the boys won't be happy about having to face the PRT and Protectorate on their own."

"No." Max made a snap decision. "You, Victor, Crusader and Stormtiger are going to go out in civilian garb, just four regular citizens. Go to each of our hangouts in turn and inform them of what our plan is. Tell them to stand ready." He didn't want to simply call them because he had no idea of who would be where, and he had no desire to spend an hour on the damn phone just to reach a dozen people.

"What about me?" Rune stepped forward. "You didn't mention me."

"You are going to be staying right here, young lady," Max said. "When we need to start moving our forces around quickly, it'll be at a moment's notice. But even then, you need to keep your head down. You're another one they'll be targeting. Like Othala, you're not bulletproof."

"Aww." Rune's head drooped. "I could maybe help the guys get around faster."

"You could," agreed Max. "But that would make it harder for them to get where they're going without being spotted by the PRT and their stooges. We need to play it low-key, at least for the time being."

"Yeah, okay, got it." Rune nodded, though she still didn't look thrilled.

"Hey," said Othala. "If you could come down with me and help set up the clinic for incoming wounded, that would be a great help, yeah?"

Rune smiled. "Yeah, I can do that."

The pair headed out together, and Max dusted his hands off. "Well, I believe I laid out the current plan of action. Get to it."

They got to it.

Max watched them go, then picked up his glass of bourbon from the desk and headed over toward the windows to look down at the streets of Brockton Bay. Krieg came to stand beside him, his own glass in hand.

"Do you really think we have a chance?" he asked quietly.

"I don't see why not." Max sipped at his drink. "You've already sent word to Gesellschaft. If we can survive today, tomorrow will be easier as they realise that we're not just going to roll over for them. Inside of three days, we'll have reinforcements. Also, once someone gets to Night and Fog and tells them to get the fuck back to Brockton Bay, maybe they'll start doing the job they were sent to America for."

"This would be a lot easier with those two, and Purity as well," admitted Krieg. "Why is it, when we started losing capes for the first time in forever, did we have to lose some of our heaviest hitters? Hookwolf, Purity and Night—those three could almost win this for us on their own."

"Only Hookwolf's dead," Kaiser reminded him. "Kayden's just … working things out. She'll come back on her own." This was their first real separation since they'd married. He had to believe she still loved him. After all, how could she not? "And when she comes back, Night and Fog will too."

"I certainly hope so." Krieg fell silent, staring out over the city's skyline. "I still can't believe how all this blew up over a single dog."

Max nodded. "I'm just glad we've only got the PRT and Protectorate on our case. This is at least survivable."

"Isn't that the truth."

<><>​

PRT Building ENE

Operations Room

"Director Piggot to all points." Emily paused to marshal her thoughts. "New information has been received. Pursuant to this, I will be very shortly requesting arrest warrants for persons of interest, and search warrants for locations of interest. Once signed, these will be conveyed to the teams who can make best use of them. Until then, stick to the original plan. Piggot, out."

One by one, the various team leaders radioed through their acknowledgements. Emily listened with half an ear, while she watched her analysts tear into the list of names and narrow down locations where they (or their associates) might be found. Equally interesting was the subsidiary list of names and descriptions fitting people not identified in the original list.

They would have arrest and search warrants ready to roll just as soon as Velocity could convey them across town and get them signed. The irony was almost palpable; in life, Shadow Stalker had been divisive and a rule-bender. Her death was bringing them together to pull off a victory against the crime in the city that hadn't been seen in years.

Still, Emily wasn't going to argue with results. If this ended up with the PRT and Protectorate rolling up the Empire Eighty-Eight once and for all, she would give the little twit all the credit in the world. If only for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and provoking the wrong gangbanger into killing her.

"Hey, I got another hit," said one of her analysts. "We got Othala via Victor's secret identity, right? Well, check this out. Mugshot of Tammi Herren, aka Rune, before going into juvey and triggering there. And here's a high school yearbook photo for Teresa Biermann. Niece of Othala, and she's taken Fenja and Menja's surname. I'm pretty damn sure it's the same kid."

Emily leaned closer to the screen, scrutinising the two images. The earlier image was scowling instead of smiling and had shadows under her eyes and was gaunter around the cheekbones, but the resemblance was utterly unmistakeable. Even looking past that, there were tiny details that both shared. Far more than two merely similar-looking girls would have had. "I concur," she said. "Where is she?"

"Currently attending Immaculata, ma'am. We can call ahead and get her class schedule."

Emily considered that. "Okay," she decided. "No lights, no sirens. Roll up on the school in unmarked vehicles. Put a trooper either side of the classroom door. Have the admin staff page her and two other students to come to the principal's office. As soon as she walks out of the classroom, foam her solid. Take no chances."

"Yes, ma'am."

<><>​

Taylor

"There's a question you want to ask, but you don't want to sound stupid," Dad observed. I wondered how he knew; he hadn't even looked around at me. Oh, right. He's killed more people than I've had hot dinners. I guess that lifestyle breeds a certain amount of attention to detail.

"Yeah." I ruffled Chewie's ears. "How exactly are we going to find this Peterson guy, anyway? Look him up in the White Pages?"

"That is actually one way to do it," he said. "Normally, I'm given more time to locate my targets and arrange an exit scenario both for them and for me." I rolled my eyes at the assassin joke. "Sometimes I'm given the details up front, or the person's prominent enough to make it no trouble finding them. But in this situation, I'm going to go with an age-old favourite: I'm going to find someone who knows what I want to know, and ask them."

I raised my eyebrows. "Ask, or 'ask'?" Just in case he didn't get it, I put finger-quotes around the second version of the word.

"I usually go with the first, then graduate to the second when and if necessary." He didn't seem to be bothered by the prospect either way, which didn't overly surprise me.

"So how do we find people who are likely to know where he is?" Because that part wasn't particularly clear to me, either.

"I know where he was living before he was arrested for the murder of Fleur," he said. "He's almost certainly moved since then, but people don't travel far from their home neighbourhoods, especially if they're in a gang that runs said neighbourhood. So, we go to an Empire hangout in that general area."

I nodded, reasonably sure I'd followed his chain of logic. "And what if they object to telling you?"

He smiled coldly. "Then I know I'm on the right track."

<><>​

Derek 'Deke' Foster

The lights were turned off in the front of the bar, and the 'CLOSED' sign had been hung inside the front doors. Deke and the others sat in the back, trying to play cards but utterly unable to concentrate on their hands. A small TV in the corner was showing the news but with the sound turned all the way down, and nobody wanted to look in that direction.

One of the guys coughed, and everyone jumped like a gunshot had gone off. "Sorry," he said weakly. "It's just so goddamn quiet, you know?"

Deke took a deep breath and let his hand brush the pump-action shotgun leaning against the wall behind him. "If one damn asshole says anything about it being 'too quiet', I will fuckin' shoot them," he promised.

"Maybe we should just go home," muttered someone else, too low for him to pick out who'd said it.

This time, Deke did pick up the shotgun. He didn't point it at anyone, but he did lay down his cards—they weren't worth shit anyway—so he could hold it across his lap. "Nobody's going home."

The guy who'd coughed, Joe, sat up straight. "Why the fuck not? The PRT and Protectorate are gonna be busting every Empire place, kicking in doors and stuff. Why should we just sit here and wait for them?"

"Because that's not what our orders were," Deke said steadily. "Our orders were to go to the hangouts and wait for Kaiser to tell us what to do. If we go home, do you think they don't already know who we are? We've all worn the fuckin' colours in public, you moron. They'll just kick in our front doors and arrest us there, where we've got no backup. So we're staying, until we get told what to do."

"Admirable," said a new voice, by the back door. Deke looked around, wondering who the fuck that was, because it didn't sound like Ferg, who'd been standing guard—

Ferg stumbled backward into the room, his hands held up in surrender, mainly because there was a gun in his face. And holding the gun was someone Deke not so much recognised as he simply knew who it was.

"Sit," ordered the newcomer, and Ferg more or less fell backward into the one empty chair. "Question for you gentlemen: are you afraid of the Dark?" The pistol twitched fractionally toward Deke, and he dropped the shotgun like a hot potato. "Smart man."

"Uh, hey, we haven't done—" Joe began.

The Dark's pistol flicked in his direction, and he shut up. "Quiet." The Dark turned to look at Deke. "I need the whereabouts of one man."

Deke kept his hands in plain view. Everyone else, he was pleased to see, did the same. Even among the young bloods in the crew, word had travelled fast. Nobody crossed the Dark and lived; it was as simple as that. "Who?" Right then, he was willing to reveal the location of anyone he knew.

At that moment, the Dark's head came up and he stepped aside from the doorway. Deke wondered what was going on, until he heard the rumbling sound of a motorbike. Someone else was arriving, though he had no idea who, or how the Dark had known about them before anyone else.

A moment later, an imposing figure darkened the doorway, accompanied by the sound of clinking chains. Stormtiger stepped into the room, hands busy with the act of settling his blue-and-white tiger mask in place. He stopped, looking at Deke's group. "What the fuck are you lazy bastards just sitting around for? Why isn't someone on guard? What are you all looking at?"

"Me." The Dark spoke the single word with such menace that chills went down Deke's back; when Stormtiger spun around, the pistol was eighteen inches from his face. Too close to dodge, too far to bat aside.

"Jesus fuck!" Stormtiger legitimately jumped six feet backward, but nobody laughed at his fright. "Listen, man, we didn't do that armoured car, and the dogfights are all shut down. Kaiser's told us all we've got no beef with you."

"I know." Somehow, even those two words bore a world of menace. "I have a name: Larry Peterson. I need a location."

The room was filled with a brief silence, as several grown men each visibly refrained from asking 'why do you want to know where he is?', mainly because they damn well knew the reason. Deke considered asking who wanted Peterson dead, but decided that if the Dark wanted them to know, he'd tell them.

"Peterson," Stormtiger repeated, then his brain clearly caught up with what he was saying. "That Peterson?"

"That's the one." The Dark gave the faintest gesture with his pistol, as if to say, 'get on with it'.

"Well?" demanded Stormtiger, half-turning his head. "Do any of you lazy fucks know where Peterson is?"

Joe hesitantly raised his hand. "Uh … pretty sure he's at Casey's," he ventured.

Deke spared no thought to Larry Peterson's imminent demise; that was a done deal. His only emotion was relief that Joe had known and spoken up.

The Dark let his gaze pass over each of them; Deke swore he could feel it, like a burning torch. "If he's not there, I'll be back." Then he vanished out through the open doorway.

Slowly, as the fear leached out of his body, Deke let out a long breath. "Fuuuucccck," he muttered.

Stormtiger took two steps to the table and loomed over it, and Joe. "You're certain Peterson's at Casey's?"

Joe nodded spasmodically. "Y-yeah. It's where he said he was goin'."

"Good." Stormtiger looked around the room. "Okay, so the Dark didn't want to kill us, so we're all good. Now, as for the fuckin' PRT, Kaiser's got orders for everyone."

Deke wanted to know something. "So … we're not gonna ring Casey's and warn Peterson, right?"

That earned him a glare from Stormtiger. "Don't be a fuckin' moron. The Dark was never here, and we never saw him. We absolutely did not tell him where he could find one of our own. Got it? Now, Kaiser's orders …"

<><>​

Manpower

Neil hunched over in the PRT van, feeling cramped. He knew he took up two seats compared to anyone else; just in costume, he was still bulkier than a fully kitted-out trooper. Armsmaster sat opposite him, and Triumph was next to the Protectorate leader.

"So, where are we going?" he asked. He hated having to ask, but the PRT had their in-helmet comms and hadn't thought to offer earpieces to the capes.

"Right now, we're just showing the flag." Armsmaster sounded grumpy. Neil could understand why; the man was proud of the bike he'd built up from stock into one of the most distinctive vehicles on the East Coast. "Cruising the streets, being visible, until the Director sends us new orders."

"Um, I think I might've missed something in the briefing," ventured Triumph. "Why aren't you out there on your bike, sir? That's kind of your thing, isn't it?"

Armsmaster nodded. "It is, but the Director decided that the Empire might just try to dogpile PRT-friendly capes and take us out of the picture. So, for the moment, we're riding inside. That way, they have no idea what they'll be facing if they hit one of these vans."

"Oh. Right."

"Well, I hope we get these orders soon," Neil quipped. "Because if we don't, my spine's going to be bent over so far, I'll come out of this about four feet tall."

It wasn't exactly hilarious, but he got a laugh anyway.

Then Armsmaster's head came up. At the same time, the van accelerated, and took a corner rather more sharply than previously. All the troopers in the van started checking their weapons.

"The new orders?" Neil asked. He really, really hated being out of the loop.

"Absolutely." Armsmaster's teeth showed in what might have been called a grin by someone who wasn't paying attention. "We've got him."

"Who?"

<><>​

Kaiser

Max checked his phone to find a text from Victor on it. He was making good progress from one hangout to the next; by Max's estimation, the Empire's people should be all informed within the hour. Alabaster and Crusader were also checking in on the regular, with only Stormtiger falling behind. This sort of thing happened. Max suspected that his newest lieutenant was having to dodge PRT patrols.

Placing the phone back on the desk, he leaned back in satisfaction. All according to plan. They'll never know what hit them.

The desk phone rang, startling him. As he sat forward, he automatically checked the caller readout. It said LOBBY SECURITY.

Now, why are they calling me? He'd been tempted to shut the entire building down for the day, but as opposed to a few bars and bowling alleys, important people would notice if Medhall itself closed its doors ahead of time. Still, there were very few people in the building who weren't loyal to the cause that he professed to follow.

Taking up the handset, he said, "You've got Max Anders." Unspoken, but entirely understood, were the words, 'This had better be very important.'

"Sir, this is Grantley. The PRT is here, right now. They've got a warrant to search the building—hey!"

There was a confused thudding or clattering sound, then a different voice spoke. "Max Anders? This is Armsmaster. We need to speak with you, immediately."

What? He blinked in shock. "I'm a busy man. Please make an appointment with my secretary. I'm sure she can find an opening for you."

"That's not how it works. Remain where you are." The call ended.

Max stared at the handset, then dropped it on the cradle and jumped up from his desk. Hurrying over to the windows, he stared down at the street in front of the building. At least three PRT vans were out front, and those were just the ones he could see.

All of this could only mean one thing. They know. The PRT knows. There could be no other explanation for them hitting his place of business in such force, with a search warrant of all things.

Worse, Armsmaster hadn't asked him to stay where he was, he'd demanded it. He had exactly zero doubt that there were capes and PRT troopers on the way up to his office right then. They've got proof. There's no way in hell they'd base an operation of this magnitude on a mere supposition or a suspicion.

"What's going on?" Jessica and Nessa had come to their feet, but it was the former who'd spoken. "What's the matter?"

"It's the PRT and Protectorate," he explained rapidly as he launched himself back toward his desk. "Somebody's just outed us. Outed me. They're raiding the building."

"Our armour!" Nessa looked down at herself with good reason; her weapons and armour, and that of her sister, was kept stored in the sub-basement set aside for Empire business.

Jessica was more pragmatic. "Who talked?" she asked, striding up to the desk. "Who knew and talked?"

"Night and Fog wouldn't have the imagination," Nessa decided. "Does Kayden hate you that much? Does she hate the Empire that much?"

Max tried to tune them out so he could think. The secure elevator, hidden behind a secret panel, beckoned. But he had to warn his subordinates; if only because not doing so spelled the end of any chance he had of rebuilding the Empire Eighty-Eight after this debacle was done. And mobile signals were crap inside an elevator. So, he typed as fast as he could, linking every Empire cape into the outgoing text message. PRT in Medhall, aware of secret. Take all due precautions.

Just as he was finishing, he heard the pounding of heavy bootsteps outside the main doors to his office, and reflexively reached under the desk to hit the emergency-lock button. Then he pressed the Send icon, and watched as the text … did nothing. The little circling icon just spun around and around.

Something hit the doors with an almighty crash, and the steel-cored doors actually bulged inward slightly. Max's eyes widened with shock. Christ, what've they got out there? A rocket launcher?

The phone was still trying to send the message, but he didn't have any more time to waste, especially after a metal blade with a glowing edge began to slice downward through where the main locking mechanism was. Slapping the panel open, Max stepped into the lift.

"Ladies," he said. "I'm going to need you to hold the line." Then he hit the button for the lowest level. As the doors closed, he was already starting to form his armour, aided by the genuine Rolex on his wrist.

Who betrayed us? Is Nessa right? Was it Kayden? He didn't want to think it was her, but she'd certainly shown her disdain for the way the Empire Eighty-Eight operated. If she still thought that Max had ordered the death of that stupid fucking Ward, then her entire departure took on a whole new light.

She'd had motive and she'd had means. And the opportunity would've been simple. A stop for gas at any of the towns she was passing through (Max had enough reach to know she was out of the local area, at least) would've given her the chance to drop a dime on him and not even Theo would know about it.

Another thought shook him up. What if it wasn't even Kayden? What if it was Theo? While the boy was Max's own flesh and blood, he'd never showed any enthusiasm for taking up the family business, or even for the creed the Empire was built around. Max had always had hopes of bringing him around, of bringing out the man in him by way of tough love … but what if Kayden's babying of the boy had brought out a resentful streak instead?

There were too many variables. Following the demise of Hookwolf and Cricket, one of the others might have decided to make a play for the top spot; what better way than to turn in the boss and lay low for a while, then re-emerge and claim leadership over what was left? After all, that was how he'd claimed leadership of the Empire Eighty-Eight … well, minus the turning Allfather over to the PRT and laying low aspect. Some members of the Empire must surely have suspected he had a hand in his father's death, but nobody had said a word about it, so those that did must have approved.

But that was enough dwelling on the past. What was done was done; now he had to move forward and deal with the present.

<><>​

Taylor

Like its predecessor, the bar we'd been directed to was dark and lifeless, with a CLOSED sign in the window. Also like its predecessor, it had a bunch of guys sitting around nervously in the back (it sounded like they were chatting quietly, but my control still wasn't good enough to listen in on human speech. It was all rumbling and squeaking, and barely anything in between).

"They're there, but they aren't any more agitated than the last lot were," I reported. "No capes, either."

Dad chuckled dryly. "I wonder if the Empire realises that they're advertising where they are by the number of businesses that are shut down on a normal Tuesday morning. Oh, well. When your enemy's making a mistake …"

"… don't interrupt him," I finished. This was something Dad had drummed into me. A good operator forced his opponents into making mistakes that he could then exploit, but a really good operator saw the flaws in his opponents' tactics and adjusted his own tactics to suit.

"Correct." He pulled his pistol into view and checked the chamber; I saw a brief glint of brass before the pistol vanished again. That firearm was very definitely loaded. "Did you want to come in this time, or stay out here?"

I knew why he was asking. This was going to be his first paid kill since Mom died, and he wanted to be sure I was okay with it.

"I'm fine staying out here," I reassured him. "Besides, Chewie is likely to get lonely if we leave him in the car, and I'm not really certain that we'll make quite the impact we need to if I'm carrying a friendly puppy."

"Valid point," he agreed, and got out of the car. "Just make sure you don't concentrate so much on me that you let someone sneak up on you."

"Understood." I wouldn't be a very good backup if I got taken out before things even got serious.

To show him I meant it, I took my own pistol out—making sure not to point it at either of us, or at Chewie—and checked my own chamber. Like his, there was a round in the breech, and the safety was all the way on. If I had to shoot someone, all I had to do was flick it over with my thumb. But of course, that presupposed the massive swarm I'd have all over my hypothetical opponent was having zero effect. Carefully, I put the pistol away again.

"That's my girl." He gave me a nod of approval, then headed across the road toward the bar.

I watched him go then started a general lookout of the area, vastly augmented by the bugs. Every human being within two and a half blocks was under my surveillance, with insects riding their clothing undetected. I knew where everyone was and, to a certain degree, what they were all doing. This included the people inside Casey's; there would be no unpleasant surprises from that direction.

Of course, there was definitely going to be an unpleasant surprise, but we were going to supply it, not them.

<><>​

Medhall Building

Laserdream

"I'm not sure … why we couldn't … have taken the elevator," panted Gallant, thumping down the stairs in hot pursuit of Miss Militia.

Crystal didn't even bother pretending to be using the steps, gliding down the stairwell in the Protectorate hero's wake. "Because elevators can be locked down," she said sweetly. "Or, you know, dropped into the basement."

"Ssh!" hissed Miss Militia, hefting a multi-barrelled shotgun that looked like it could be used to shoot down low-flying pterodactyls. "Gallant, I'm sure you've got a silent mode for that suit."

"I'm using it," he panted. "Running doesn't help."

"Hm." Crystal got the impression she was pursing her lips behind the bandanna. "Go more slowly, then. Laserdream, with me."

"Ma'am." He slowed down a little, the heavy thumping sounds easing off.

Miss Militia continued downward, with Crystal following close behind. When they hit the bottom of the stairwell, Miss Militia gestured at the door. "Can you open that silently?"

Crystal felt like grinning, but this wasn't the time or the place. "Yes, ma'am." She placed a layer of her crimson force field over all the door except for the lock—this wasn't to protect the door, but was in case whoever was on the far side decided to shoot through the door—and quickly cored out the lock itself with a quick burst of identically-hued laser. Where her field was barely stronger than plywood, her laser sheared through steel, concrete and wood alike.

"Good." Miss Militia tugged at the untouched door handle—Crystal dismissed the force field—and it opened smoothly and silently.

"—over here?" asked a teenaged girl's voice.

"Yes, that'll do nicely," an older woman replied. "Thanks, Tammi."

Miss Militia leaned in toward Crystal and cupped her hands around her mouth. Up against Crystal's ear, she whispered, "Othala and Rune."

Crystal nodded to show she'd gotten it. Being fliers, they'd tangled with Rune before, but not so much with Othala. Eric had once given the blonde villain the nickname 'Sabrina the Teenage Nazi', and it had stuck. "They must have pulled her out of school."

These two weren't the Empire Eighty-Eight's biggest hitters by far—that distinction probably belonged to Purity and probably Night or Stormtiger—but they definitely helped make the Empire as tough to beat as it was. Rune's power gave her aerial bombardment capabilities, as well as the ability to Move her comrades across the city en masse. Othala, on the other hand, could take injured and make them whole once more. Worse, she could give healthy capes other abilities altogether, making them a total pain to fight. Alabaster on his own was bad enough, but Alabaster with the ability to fly was horrifying.

They didn't have time to wait for Gallant, and his heavy tread had too much chance of alerting the bad guys anyway. Miss Militia seemed to be of the same mindset; gesturing for Crystal to follow her, she started off down the corridor toward the voices.

<><>​

Armsmaster

Once the lock was dealt with, Colin stepped back for Manpower to make his entry. The New Wave member's force field was capable of dealing with any surprise attacks that the Empire capes could muster, after all. This time, when the massive cape hit the doors with his shoulder, they burst open and he entered with an entirely unnecessary shoulder-roll.

Colin followed him in—minus the shoulder-roll, which was far too difficult to pull off, no matter how flexible he made his armour—with his halberd at the ready. Kaiser was known for metal spikes and barriers, so the plasma cutter on the axe-blade was ready for use.

Except that there were no such obstacles to be found. In fact, the office was clear, save for the two eight-foot-tall women who were currently grappling with Manpower. It wasn't much of a stretch to recognise Menja and Fenja, even without their signature armour and weapons.

At Colin's side, Triumph let out a bellow; one of the women was blasted away from Manpower, rolling over and over until she hit the wall and left a dent. Colin reversed his halberd and fired a dart into the other one. Unarmoured, she was an easy target, and the powerful soporific soon had her shrinking back to normal size.

While Triumph secured the two prisoners, Colin looked around suspiciously, triggering various vision modes in his HUD. There was nobody in the office apart from his fellow heroes and the PRT troopers who had followed them in. Even the tiny ensuite—quickly checked by a couple of troopers armed with confoam sprayers—revealed no hidden villains.

"Okay," said Manpower. "Where the hell did he go? That was the only door in or out. And he had to be in here to lock it, right?"

"You'd think so, yes." Colin went behind the desk and leaned down to examine the array of buttons underneath. He didn't press any, but he knew the tech guys would probably have a field day disassembling Kaiser's office. "When I was speaking to him on the phone, my helmet recorded the ambient sound. It's identical to what we've got right here. He was in this office, less than a minute ago."

"And he can't teleport. And the Empire's got no Tinkers to make him an emergency teleport getaway device." Manpower was more or less going through the options now, as though searching for the hidden key to Kaiser's disappearance.

Colin, however, had a different viewpoint, as befitted someone who built things as part of his powerset. "That's all true. But he very likely did have access to the architects when this office was being built, or rebuilt. And with his kind of money, do you think he could've had an escape route constructed within the building itself?"

Manpower's eyes widened. "Shit, you're right! This was his villain lair, and every lair has a back door."

They both turned to look at the wooden panelling directly behind Max Anders' desk. It was clean, pristine, and showed no sign of being anything other than a wall. If a piece of inanimate timber could exude smugness, it would have.

Manpower punched it. His seven-foot frame and concomitant musculature gave him serious heft and throw weight, but even that didn't explain the sheer power that went into the blow. Colin had long theorised that the largest member of New Wave had the ability to fluctuate his protective force field to add more damage to his punches, either kinetic or electrical. And this time, his fist was a pure battering ram.

Pieces of wood flew everywhere, destroying what had to have been five or six figures' worth of handiwork in an instant. Colin cared just as little as Manpower evidently did, especially when the rubble fell away to reveal the closed door to an elevator.

Manpower grinned. "Bingo."

<><>​

The Dark

Every sense alert, Danny approached the back door of Casey's. There was a guard on the door, an older man holding a shotgun as aged as he was. Danny's eyes narrowed as he recognised the man. He'd once been an up-and-comer in his own right, but now it seemed he'd been absorbed into the Empire.

Stepping sideways as the guy turned away from the wind to light a smoke, Danny came up behind him. The muzzle of his suppressed pistol touched the old man on the back of the neck, and Danny saw every muscle freeze. The guy knew exactly what it was, and expected to die at any second.

"Hello, Frankie." He kept his voice down.

"Dark." To Frankie's credit, his voice didn't shake. "Shit, I never thought it'd be you who'd kill me."

"Doesn't have to be. How many years has it been?" How many men are inside, he meant.

"About a dozen, I reckon." Frankie was just as quick on the uptake as ever.

"Hm. Impressive."

"You here on business?" The sir was implicit.

"Afraid so, Frankie." There was a pause while Danny let Frankie work that one out, then he decided to give the old man a break. "Why don't you just go home? I never saw you, you never saw me."

Frankie nodded. "Thanks, I will. About time I got shut of these assholes, anyway." He carefully leaned the shotgun against the wall and walked away, never looking back even once.

Danny moved on into the building, letting the pistol lead the way. The murmur of voices gave him his direction, and he stepped into the room before anyone was aware he was there. He knew a small swarm had preceded him, buzzing at ankle-height, and was ready to fly into anyone's face if they tried doing anything stupid.

"Morning, gentlemen," he said, his voice cutting across their chatter. "Are you afraid of the Dark?"

And with that, he had their complete and total attention. Shadowed against the doorway as he was, they couldn't see his face, so his manner had to project total menace. But that was merely a matter of practice. And of course, they could see his gun.

One guy yelped something obscene and clawed for a pistol; Danny shot him in the face, not bothering to go for a non-lethal wound. Doing that sort of thing too often would send entirely the wrong message about people being allowed to pull guns on him.

The subdued whipcrack—apart from certain purpose-built versions, there was no such thing as a silenced pistol—echoed through the room, while everyone else froze. Danny noted with satisfaction that Peterson wasn't the idiot who'd pulled the weapon. This meant he'd be able to fulfil the terms of the hit.

"You," he said harshly, gesturing with the suppressor. "On your feet."

There was no mistaking who he was indicating, but Peterson still went with the dumb-show of who, me? before two of his more awake erstwhile comrades literally shoved him upright.

"Wh—what do you want me for?" he quavered. But there was a growing look of comprehension in his face. He knew. For seven long years he'd managed to escape the final price for his actions, but now karma was finally coming back around.

"You talk too much, Larry," Danny said, confident that when Peterson was drunk, he would certainly get boastful about his one big deed. "Some people don't like little shits talking like you're better than the capes. And they finally took notice. Come on." He gestured with the pistol.

Peterson looked around, evidently realising that not one of the people in the room would lift a finger to defend him, mainly because they didn't want to die. "Guys? Help me. He's gonna kill me!"

"And if we try, he'll kill us, you stupid fuckwit," grunted the big guy in the corner. "Fuckin' go an' die like a man, you little pussy."

The man Danny killed had been trying to draw a pistol; it had landed on the floor near his outstretched hand. It seemed Larry wasn't trusted with firearms because he didn't attempt to pull one out himself. Instead, he dived for the discarded weapon. Danny fired while he was in the air, taking a little more care than with the first snapshot. Peterson screamed as the bullet smashed through his wrist, turning it into a useless mass of destroyed bone.

Danny stepped forward and grabbed up Peterson by the collar and dragged him out of the room. Even when he was out the door, he still heard no movement from within.

<><>​

Taylor

I got out of the car as Dad came into sight, manhandling the idiot we'd come to kill. Peterson's right wrist was bleeding, but it wasn't like he'd have to live with the problem for long. As I came over, pulling out the burner phone that we'd bought for the occasion, Dad forced him into a kneeling position.

He waited until I had the camera up and recording video—catching the back of Dad's head, but the look on the face of Fleur's killer perfectly—before he leaned forward. "Larry Peterson," he intoned. "New Wave sends their regards."

Dad waited just long enough—Larry's eyes opened wide as the full realisation hit him—then he aimed the pistol at Larry and shot him in the face. Blood and brains sprayed out to paint the sidewalk, then Larry slumped to the ground. I stopped recording.

"Nicely done," said Dad, putting the pistol away and taking the phone from me to check the recording. His voice sounded from the phone speakers, much more tinnily, then the poc of the shot heralded the end of Larry's life. "And that's perfect. Much easier than doing it myself."

"New Wave, huh?" I asked as we headed back to the car. "That's a bit dark, isn't it? I thought they were all about cape accountability and transparency."

His voice was dry. "There's a life lesson there. No single solution works perfectly for all problems. Even the most transparent of systems requires a little darkness here and there."

I nodded, looking back at Larry. He'd been a bad person, and had evidently felt no remorse for his crime despite the waterworks in court, given that he'd joined the Empire anyway after his release. I had no way of knowing what sins he'd perpetrated since then, but intellectually I felt that despite all that, I should feel bad about his passing.

But I didn't. He was a null, a cipher, in my emotional landscape. Now that he was dead, I felt nothing at all about him.

"Lingering regrets?" asked Dad, following my line of sight.

I opened the door and got in; Chewie immediately jumped into my lap. "No, actually," I said, hugging the wriggly little pup. "None whatsoever."

He smiled as he started the car. "That's my girl."

<><>​

Kaiser

The elevator finally reached the sub-basement that wasn't even on the building plans housed only on Max's personal computer system. It was below the clinic, below the parking garage, and below the secret meeting area for the Empire Eighty-Eight capes. This area wasn't large, but it contained several items that might be of use to a supervillain on the run. These included a change of clothing, a briefcase full of cash, another case containing escrow cards connecting to accounts holding large amounts of untraceable cash plus several very well-made fake identities, a car that was registered to someone who was not Max Anders, and an exit tunnel for the aforementioned car.

He stepped out, heading for the bug-out stash, but before he'd made three steps, there was a huge crash from right behind him. Spinning around, he saw that the interior of the elevator was totalled, given that most of the roof of it was on the floor. Picking himself up from the remains of the former roof was Manpower; his gaze fell on Kaiser, and he grinned. "Hi."

Fuck. Do these assholes ever give up? Kaiser waved his hand, causing a thick fence of metal palings to spring up in front of the elevator. They were stronger than his office door, so they should hold—

Vzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Grabbing up the nearest briefcase, Max turned to look as the strange buzzing noise ceased, then a plasma blade slashed off the iron fence at shin height. The metal palings fell over with a tremendous clatter on the raw concrete flooring, to reveal Armsmaster alongside Manpower.

More sheets and spikes of metal extruded from the floor and ceiling as Max hastily tried his best to delay the two heroes. "You won't be able to get them all!" he called out as he retreated, grabbing the second case on the way. "I warned them before I came down here!"

"I jammed the signal," Armsmaster replied. The stink of plasma-heated metal wafted through the air. Manpower was taking the initiative to wrench several more spikes from the ground, speeding the efforts to get through. "Your team is going down."

Max wrenched the car door open. The keys were right there, in the ignition. Ignoring the seat belt, he turned the key, eliciting a roar from the engine. Throwing the car into gear, he spun the wheels as he prepared to get the hell out of there.

One of his own metal spikes smashed in through the rear window of the car, passed by close enough to dent the armour on his right arm, then speared through the dashboard and firewall into the engine. It clunked horribly, seized, and the car swerved to a halt. The airbag went off, pinning him back against the car seat.

The driver's side door was ripped off, then dropped to clatter to the floor. Inhumanly strong fingers dragged him from the car, then began prying the armour from him, until enough of his arms were exposed to apply flex-cuffs. Armsmaster stepped in front of him. "Max Anders, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent …"

Well, fuck.

<><>​

Laserdream

Crystal followed Miss Militia out of the corridor and there they were; a normal looking young woman chatting to an equally mundane teenager as they laid out medical supplies. Except that their faces matched the pictures they'd been sent, of Othala and Rune.

Their movement must have drawn the attention of the pair, because Othala turned to look at them. She was a great actor, because after just a split second of oh, fuck her expression turned welcoming. "Oh, hi," she said chattily. "I don't often see superheroes down here. What's the occasion?"

If Crystal hadn't been looking for it, she wouldn't have spotted what Othala was trying to do; that is, sidle closer to Rune. As her hand reached out and back toward the blonde teen, Crystal encased Rune in a force field.

"The occasion is that you're under arrest," Miss Militia strode forward, aiming a large taser at Othala. "You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up this right—"

"No!" screamed Rune, smashing both fists on the force field bubble and kicking out at the same time. The field fractured, and then she was free. "This doesn't happen this way!" She threw herself forward onto the table, one hand beginning to scrawl a sigil onto it while the other reached for Othala.

Crystal hesitated; Othala was blocking her best shot, and she didn't want to injure the older villain for something she hadn't even done. And then an energy bolt flashed past her, grazed Othala, and hit Rune full on. Othala staggered, and Rune collapsed in a weeping mess.

"Yeah," Gallant said, stepping up and blowing imaginary smoke off his finger. "It does."

<><>​

That Evening

Pelham Household

Sarah sat back on the sofa with her feet up. She was a little bruised—Stormtiger was no pushover—but they'd located and arrested every Empire cape they could. According to Crusader, Purity had skipped town already, along with Night and Fog, which had absolutely not helped the Empire's cause in any way. She'd heard of a rumoured split between Purity and Kaiser, and hoped that meant the flying Blaster wouldn't be back to break him out of lockup.

"We did good today, didn't we?" asked Neil as he came to stand by her. He'd been grinning ever since he and Armsmaster had taken down Kaiser and brought him in for processing.

She reached out and captured his hand to give it a kiss. "Yeah," she said. "We did."

Leaning down, he returned the kiss to her lips. "Found a parcel in the mailbox today, addressed to you." He took a bubble-wrapped package from his pocket and handed it to her.

"Thanks, hon." Frowning, she worked her nail in behind the pasted-over flap as he wandered away again. Who's sending me stuff?

A little bit of work had the package open; an extremely unremarkable smartphone slid out into her hand. Brow still wrinkled, she looked it over. Then realisation hit, and she pressed the power button. I think I know …

The phone woke up in very short order. She figured out why when she saw that all internet capabilities had been shut down, and there were only two icons on the home screen; a notepad app, and a video app. Hesitating between the two, she finally tapped the notepad app to open it.

There was exactly one note, titled Per our previous arrangement. It contained a price—high, but not exorbitant—and a set of banking details. Last came a single word. Sound.

With that warning, she turned the sound down to nothing before she opened the video app. As she'd suspected, there was just one file to play; she tapped it. The face that had long since been burned into her memory looked back at her. She played it through once, just to see what happened, then turned the sound up fractionally so she could play it again with the phone up to her ear and hear the Dark's voice say, "Larry Peterson. New Wave sends their regards." On the third play-through, she took atavistic glee in the horrified comprehension that crossed the asshole's face before the Dark shot him at close range. From the way he slumped over—and the gore sprayed over the asphalt behind him—he was comprehensively dead.

Smiling, she closed the video. She would go online in a moment from her own phone and send the money. The price was not too high to pay, especially considering she would've parted with three times as much with a song in her heart. But for now, she decided she could relax and enjoy the feeling of a wrong finally made right.

Rest in peace, Jess.



End of Part Ten

 

[Ack]

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Part Eleven: Bad Luck and Trouble

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Tuesday Evening, January 11, 2011

Director Emily Piggot

"Well." Emily looked around the expanse of Conference Room A, meeting the eyes of her PRT subordinates as well as the Protectorate heroes and Triumph, who was standing in for the Wards. "I want to say, first off, that I'm damn proud of each and every one of you. You went out there, you engaged the Empire, and you beat them. Every Empire Eighty-Eight cape known to be still in the city is currently in holding, and you put them there."

Assault raised his hand diffidently. His costume needed repair after the day's events, but he himself was hale and hearty, thanks to Panacea. "It wasn't just us. New Wave did a lot of the heavy lifting as well."

Miss Militia nodded. "That's true. They got our wounded to Panacea on time, and they were instrumental in the assault on the Medhall building."

"Which I'm actually curious about." Calvert leaned forward. His body armour was also less than pristine, but Emily had no issues with that. It showed he'd been on the front lines with the rest of them. "How did we know to hit there? This morning, we were hoping to take out the capes once they showed up to defend their followers, then all of a sudden we knew exactly who to go after, and where. What happened? Who talked?"

Emily glanced involuntarily in Assault's direction, then covered it by deliberately looking around the room once more. "I'm not at liberty to divulge that information," she said smoothly. "Suffice to say that a deep-cover source chose today to hand over the information that we acted on. It was what we needed, when we needed it."

"I'll say," murmured Triumph. Emily had heard about his takedown of Menja in Max Anders'—Kaiser's—office. He was definitely a good fit for promotion to the Protectorate proper when the time came.

"But while I would like to wax lyrical about my satisfaction with how well you all worked together and supported your comrades," she said, "this isn't the only reason I set up this meeting."

She didn't miss the way they all sat up and paid more attention. "There's another shoe, isn't there?" asked Assault. "There always is."

"There is, as you say, another shoe." Emily laced her hands together. "The Empire Eighty-Eight, although the biggest of our extant gangs until today, was not the only one. We still have the ABB and Coil's operations, as well as minor concerns such as Faultline's Crew, the Undersiders, the Merchants, and Uber and Leet. While not all of these are expansionist, the ABB definitely is, and I can see a few of the others also taking territory now that the Empire is out of business."

Armsmaster spoke up for the first time since the commencement of the meeting. "Are we shutting them down next?"

"It's a distinct possibility." Emily let her gaze span the room once more. "However, the immediate concern is that in the absence of the Empire Eighty-Eight, there's quite likely to be conflict over turf in areas that they once held, and civilians being put in danger."

"As opposed to people being put in danger by the Empire Eighty-Eight," quipped Assault. "Well, at least there won't be so many people being targeted just because of their skin colour or religion."

Dauntless rolled his eyes. "You have read Lung's file, haven't you?"

"I didn't say 'none'. I said 'not so many'."

"Be that as it may," Emily cut in before the discussion could spiral out of control. "The fact remains that this is not yet over. However, it should be clear to everyone not actually living under a rock that the Empire Eighty-Eight was taken down because they stepped over the line when they murdered one of our Wards. With any luck, the others will take the lesson to heart and keep their goddamn heads down, at least for a while." She personally didn't believe it for a second, but that was just her experience talking.

Velocity nodded. "And if they don't, we give them the Empire treatment, correct?"

She let a half-smile twitch her lips before it went away again. "Correct. In other matters, the memorial for Shadow Stalker will be held on Saturday the fifteenth, starting at noon, in the private chapel. Black armbands will be issued for all to wear on the day. Attendance to the memorial is not mandatory, but it is encouraged. Shadow Stalker's family members and friends will be invited, so all capes present will need to mask up." She paused. "Shadow Stalker may have been a problem child, but she was our problem child. Her memory deserves all proper respect."

"Speaking of which," Armsmaster said, "have we gotten any stronger leads for who pulled the trigger, or even who gave the order?"

"It will come as no great surprise to any of you that they are all denying involvement." Emily's smile had nothing to do with humour. "Kaiser, I'm told, is most insistent about this. He blames Coil. Krieg and Stormtiger seem to share this opinion, except that at one point while they were in holding, Stormtiger let slip a comment about 'unless it was that asshole Victor'. When questioned directly, he denied even thinking that."

"I can follow up on the Coil thing," offered Calvert. "Shake the bushes and see what falls out."

Emily considered it for a moment, then shook her head. "No, I'll be needing you and the other strike squad commanders to be patrolling with your men as ready-reaction forces. This whole thing has to be treated as a potential Boston Games in miniature. We can't afford to let things get out of hand. Armsmaster, you look into the Coil angle. Assault, Battery, you see what you can dig up regarding Victor's whereabouts on that night. Any questions?"

There were none. Even Assault seemed to be restraining himself from asking something ridiculous; it seemed the night for miracles.

"Very well," she concluded. "You all know what you have to do. Report to Deputy Director Renick with anything you've got. Dismissed."

As she rose to her feet, she reflected that it had been a long hard day, but god it had been worth it.

<><>​

Deputy Director Renick

Half an Hour Later

There was a knock on Paul's office door. "Enter," he called, raising his head.

The door opened, to show one of the PRT officers who had participated in the strike on the Empire Eighty-Eight: Captain Ridley. "Are you busy, sir?"

"Not with anything I can't get back to. What's on your mind, Captain?"

Ridley entered, closing the door behind him. "It was one of the safe-houses we hit. There was nobody there, except for two dead men."

Paul raised an eyebrow. "Just two? How did they die?"

"GSW for both, sir. And that's where it gets interesting. One was shot in the face, in the safe house. He'd been pulling a gun, or so it seemed. It was lying near his hand, anyway. Now for the other one, there was a blood splatter near the gun, and a trail of blood leading outside to where he was. He'd been shot in the wrist, and then forced outside and shot again in the head, execution style."

"Execution style …" repeated Paul slowly. "Like Shadow Stalker was."

Ridley nodded. "Yes, sir. Our best guess is that they were both in the safe house, someone came in, our first vic—some nobody called Tommy Knicks—goes for his gun and gets shot in the face. The second vic doesn't have a gun, so he goes for Tommy's, and gets shot in the wrist for his trouble. Then he gets dragged outside, forced to kneel, and takes one in the head there."

Paul frowned. "I notice you haven't named the second victim. Is that the interesting aspect?"

"Yes, sir." Ridley smiled grimly. "His prints popped right away. Larry Peterson. Went away as a juvenile on a charge of murder one, got out when he turned eighteen, and joined the Empire Eighty-Eight more or less straight away."

"Wait …" Paul knew that name. "Peterson … isn't he the one who …"

"… murdered Fleur, yeah." Ridley raised his eyebrows. "Like I said, sir. Interesting."

"Very much so. How are forensics on recovered bullets?"

Ridley grimaced and sucked air through his teeth. "Not so great, sir. One went through Knicks' head then hit a brick wall, and the other went through Peterson's head and hit concrete."

"And the one through Peterson's wrist?"

"Tile floor, sir. Impossible to reconstruct, they say."

"Fingerprints on the brass?"

"Wiped clean."

"So, there's no way to pin the deaths on any one person." Paul ran his thumbnail over his lower lip. "Any witnesses?"

"I asked around, sir. Nobody's admitting to even knowing about the deaths. To hear them talk about it, they walked out, Knicks and Peterson stayed behind, then someone came in and murdered them both, but took Peterson out of the building first."

"Well, it could have been the ABB, getting a little payback for something he maybe did on the inside." But Paul didn't believe it for a second.

"That's one theory, sir. And I like it better than the other one."

Paul tilted his head. "Which one is that?"

"You tell me. Who do we know, who could make a room full of hardened criminals swear they didn't see someone murder one of their own, then drag another one out to their death? If it is him, he's been out of the scene for years, so there's minimal chance that Peterson ever did anything personal to him. That makes this a contract hit. And who has the biggest motive for that?"

There was only one viable answer. "New Wave. They saw the opportunity for revenge, and they took it." He shook his head. "You're right. I like the other theory better." Specifically, he liked it because it didn't come attached to a huge can of worms.

"Well, it's not like we've got more than circumstantial evidence either way." Ridley grimaced. "Good luck getting the Dark to roll over on his clientele."

"I believe I'll pass on that attempt." Paul shook his head. "I will also refrain from any attempt to make such a shaky case stick, not with Brandish on the stand."

"Copy that, sir. Maybe … Peterson went nuts and shot Knicks in the safe-house? Someone got a lucky shot into his wrist to make him drop the gun, then they dragged him outside and killed him because he was a danger to them? Then they left the scene of the crime." Ridley tilted his head. "Does that sound plausible, sir?"

Paul didn't like lying in reports. It felt untidy. However, the alternative was to risk a highly problematic schism with New Wave right when they needed all the assistance they could get. In any case, it wouldn't be the first time he'd swept just such a problem under the rug. "I've heard stranger stories."

Ridley nodded. "Me too. It'll go into the 'death by stupidity' file. I have no doubt that every now and again, someone will probably look it up, make the New Wave connection, and decide to leave it as it is. After all, to put it very bluntly, nothing of value was lost."

Though he raised his eyebrows, Paul chose not to dispute the point. "And I'm guessing that they weren't the only two to die today?"

"No. They weren't." Ridley sighed. "A few idiots tried to shoot it out with the troopers. We fired back. Not all of them survived to make it to the hospital."

While he wasn't personally crude enough to make the observation 'fuck around and find out', Paul was quite familiar with it. "And all our wounded survived?"

"Panacea did stellar work." Ridley smiled for the first time. "There were only a few bad ones, but with Shielder, Glory Girl, Laserdream and Lady Photon acting as medevac, they all got back in time to be saved."

"Good, good." Paul leaned back in his chair, suddenly pensive. "What we were talking about earlier, how both Peterson and Shadow Stalker were killed execution style … do you think it's possible that the Dark did both?"

Ridley paused thoughtfully. "No. He had no reason to kill Shadow Stalker. Hookwolf and Cricket, sure. They got on his bad side. I can't see the kid even hitting his radar, much less pissing him off bad enough that he'd go out of his way to kill her. It had to be the Empire."

"That's a reasonable analysis, yes." Paul held up a finger as an entirely new scenario occurred to him. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait. What if … now bear with me, here … what if someone in the Empire, one of the capes, saw which way the wind was blowing and decided to sow discord in our ranks? They go to that safe-house and announce they're going to kill Peterson to make it look like New Wave called a hit on him. Knicks objects and gets shot. Nobody else makes a peep. Peterson goes for Knicks' gun, gets shot, then dragged outside and murdered. The body gets left out in plain view for anyone to find and identify. The whole aim being to drive a wedge between us and New Wave."

"Jesus." Ridley's eyes opened wide as an expression of enlightenment spread across his face. "Yeah. Yeah. I can actually see Kaiser ordering that. Someone like Victor could've totally pulled it off and been the guy who popped Shadow Stalker, too. I think you've figured it out, sir."

"You do?" Paul felt a twinge of relief. He hadn't really believed the concept of Peterson going crazy, but this one had weight behind it and left New Wave in the clear. And to be honest, he felt more at home with the idea of the Empire callously murdering one of their own than with New Wave finally taking belated revenge. It made sense.

"Absolutely. With what Stormtiger said, we've got reason to suspect Victor for Shadow Stalker, so why couldn't he have done both?" Ridley spread his hands. "Not exactly an open-and-shut case, but with the right prosecutor and judge, we might just get him into the Birdcage."

Paul knew the process of remanding villains to Baumann was a little more stringent than that, but if Victor was found guilty of murdering a Ward in cold blood as a hate crime, he'd be well on the way to meeting the criteria. He didn't want to disillusion Ridley, so he nodded instead. "It sounds like a plan. Thank you for filling me in, Captain."

"Not a problem, sir." Ridley turned and left the office, closing the door behind him.

Paul leaned back in his chair, holding a pencil at each end between his index fingers. This hadn't been the first unexpected consequence of Shadow Stalker's death, and it probably wouldn't be the last. He just hoped nothing else would be quite so momentous.

<><>​

Secret Underground Base

Coil

What a fucking day.

Thomas Calvert, now clad in his other working clothes, stepped up in front of his mercenaries. He was off-duty at the moment, but he'd be back on at oh-dark-thirty, so he had to give his orders now instead of later. "If you hadn't heard by now, the entire cape roster of the Empire Eighty-Eight is either dead, fled, or in custody. Many of their foot-soldiers have also been swept up. This opens up an opportunity to us. Tonight, I will be sending you locations to hit. If the Dark needs to appear, he will do so."

Frankoff stood a little taller at that, while the other men slapped him on the back. Thomas judged that they enjoyed having him there to make the opposition crumble without a fight. Which was, to be honest, quite fair. While his men had all been hired for their capability in battle, he hadn't wanted raving berserkers. A good soldier was just as happy to not have to fight.

Nobody ever slapped me on the back like that. He forced down his momentary resentment. These men were under his pay; they acted to his whim. He was in control, not them.

"So get your rest, but stand ready," he commanded. "I will be sending you orders as the situation evolves. The Empire Eighty-Eight is dead, and tonight we feast upon its corpse."

This time, they cheered him. He stood there, basking in the adulation, the smile on his face hidden beneath the morph mask.

Yes. This is what it's all about.

The only blemish on his horizon was that he hadn't managed to take control of the investigation into himself for the Shadow Stalker shooting, but that wasn't really an issue, given that he was actually innocent of all that.

Nobody's got anything on me.

<><>​

ABB Territory

Lung

Kenta smiled beneath his metal mask as he looked over the men and women who had flocked to his cause. "Tonight is a momentous night!" he proclaimed. "Our greatest enemy has fallen, and all we had to do was stand back and watch! Tonight, we rule Brockton Bay's underworld unchallenged! Tonight, we reap the rewards of our patience! Tonight, we seize what is ours!"

Cheers arose from his people. More than a few bottles were being passed around, but he pretended not to see. They had earned their celebration.

Caught up in the fervour, one of his men stepped forward. "Tell us what to do, great Lung!"

He hadn't asked for the interruption, but he was still riding the high of knowing that he had finally, unequivocally, won. Besides, asking for instruction was quite low in the scale of such things. "You will go out into what was once Empire territory," he commanded. "Each time you see an Empire tag, you will cover it over with an ABB tag. If you see a store that seems prosperous, you will explain to them that they are under my protection now and take one hundred dollars as a down payment for future protection. And if you see anyone wearing Empire colours, you will end them!"

That statement, unsurprisingly, drew more cheers. Many of his people pulled guns and other weapons out and brandished them, though they did not fire into the ceiling, mainly because he had banned the practice due to it being a waste of ammunition.

None of the men asked what they should do if anyone refused to pay. They knew exactly what was to be done. Nobody ever refused twice, which merely proved the efficacy of their business model.

Though one of them did have a legitimate question. "What if we are stopped by the heroes or the PRT?"

"You will call me," Lung responded, then forced himself to grow a little larger, a little more draconic. His voice took on a rasping rumble. "And I will show them the error of their ways."

They cheered him all over again.

Truly, it was a good time to be alive.

<><>​

Chicago

Lightstar

Mike frowned as he recognised the number on his mobile. What's Sarah want now? He'd gone as close to no-contact with his sisters as he could without officially cutting ties, but she apparently still had his contact details. This could be bad. Sarah meant New Wave, which meant dredging up memories he never wanted to revisit.

The temptation was there to decline the call, but Sarah had never been the pushy one. That was all Carol. If it was her making the call, he would've blocked her already—their last conversation had been acrimonious, to say the least—but he still had enough time for Sarah to see what she wanted.

Getting up from the armchair, he thumbed the Accept icon as he left the room. If he was going to raise his voice, it wasn't going to be in front of his family. His actual family.

"Hello?"

"Mike." Sarah sounded upbeat, which meant the news wasn't immediately bad. Nobody was hurt, then. "Have you been keeping up with the news?"

"You're going to have to narrow that down a little for me, sis." She was the only one he called by that nickname. Carol always got her given name.

"Brockton Bay news. We took down the Empire Eighty-Eight today." She seemed to be bubbling over with excitement. "We finally did it."

That startled him considerably. He'd managed to keep the name of that gang out of his mind for years now, but to find out they were finished seemed too good to be true. "What? You you, or everyone?" It didn't seem likely that New Wave on their own had managed that particular feat.

Slowly, with prodding for the occasional detail, the story unfolded. When Hookwolf and Cricket fell afoul of the infamous Dark (and there was a name he'd thought he'd left behind) that seemed to have been the initial inciting incident. Shadow Stalker hadn't been around when he was there—unsurprising, as Sarah noted she'd been a Ward—but her murder at the hands of the Empire as some kind of misplaced payback was what had truly set the train in motion.

The fighting had been fierce at times, while other members of the Empire had been blindsided and taken down with barely a struggle. Alabaster, trapped in containment foam, had apparently raved non-stop with a truly impressive command of profanity. By the time the dust had cleared, all the capes loyal to the Empire Eighty-Eight were either behind bars or pre-emptively gone from the city, and Medhall (he could hardly believe it had been a cover organisation all this time) shut down preparatory to a thorough investigation into its operations.

"You should've seen us," Sarah enthused. "We absolutely cleaned their clocks. Amy was set up in the PRT building, putting our wounded back on their feet as fast as they came in. Their wounded had to lump it."

"I can see how that would've been useful," he agreed. "So yeah, this is great news, but nothing I wouldn't have learned about sooner or later anyway. Why the tearing hurry to tell me about it now?"

She hesitated. "Because … I've got something to show you. And I need you to come to Brockton Bay for it."

"What? No!" He shook his head. "I swore I would never set foot in that goddamn city ever again. Whatever it is, you can tell me about it now." It had taken him longer than he'd thought to get to the voice-raising part, but there he was.

"I can't." She took a deep breath, audible over the phone. "This is something I need to show you personally, or not at all. And I really, really want you to see it."

"Sarah …" He tried to find the words to tell her how unreasonable she was being. "I have a family. Kids. I can't just run off to Brockton Bay. Just tell me what this is all about."

"I'm sorry. I can't." And she truly was sorry; he could tell from her tone of voice. She'd never been able to hide that sort of thing from him. Sarah had always worn her heart on her sleeve. "I don't even like mentioning it over the phone."

"Christ." He fell silent for a moment, trying to figure out what she was talking about. What was so great she wanted to tell him, but didn't dare refer to it except in the most general of terms? "Sarah, what's going on? What's the big secret?"

"If you want to know that, come to Brockton Bay." He knew her well enough to know that she wasn't going to budge. Carol was the more stubborn, but only by a matter of degree.

"Or I can ignore what you've said, and stay right here in Chicago, where I've got a job and a life." His riposte was weak and he knew it, but it was all he had to work with. While he wasn't officially going out as a hero, he helped out the local PRT from time to time, keeping things on the down-low. It worked for him, and he didn't want to upset the applecart.

"You could do that. But then you'd never know." Deliberately, she switched topics on him. "So, how are the kids, anyway?"

He knew what she was doing, but he was determined not to crack and end up begging for hints. So instead, he gave her the rundown on what he'd been doing recently, and the details of the last birthday party he'd thrown for his kids. They were still too young to really know what was going on, but it had been fun anyway.

She responded with anecdotes about what Crystal and Eric had been up to recently, and how they'd all kicked ass (except for Amy) against the Empire. Neil was doing well, Mark seemed to be about the same as always, and Carol was still definitely Carol.

"Well, this has been nice," he said, after she seemed to run down. "It's been good to hear from you. Thanks for not … well, you know." For not badgering him to come back and rejoin New Wave, he meant.

"Well, no. You're where you want to be. You've made that clear enough."

"Have I? Carol didn't seem to think so, the last I spoke with her."

She sighed. "Carol … is carrying burdens that she really should put down, but doesn't know how to. She has trouble letting go of preconceived notions. You know that."

"And one of those notions is that I should still be in New Wave." Knowing it still didn't make it any easier to handle. "Do you think that too?"

"I'd love it if you wanted to come back, even for a visit, but I'm not going to try to insist." He could hear the smile in her voice. "I just want my baby brother to be happy."

"Even if it made Carol unhappy?" He didn't know why he was pushing the issue.

"You coming back for good would make you unhappy, which wouldn't really help her state of mind. I'd rather one of you be happy."

"And are you happy these days?" The question had to be asked.

She paused long enough that he wondered if she was going to answer at all. "… yes. I think so. We're really starting to make a difference. Cleaning up the city. I'm busy but yes, I'm happy too."

"Sarah," he said seriously. "If you have to stop and ask yourself if you're happy, and if all you can say is 'I think so', then maybe you're not. Happy, I mean."

"Well, after today, I'm happier than I have been in a while." She chuckled. "You should've seen Othala's face when she realised we weren't fooled."

"I bet." He grinned, looking out into the darkness from the porch. His eyes, adjusting automatically, picked out the movement of a stray cat through the light snow that had fallen earlier. "But maybe, once the fuss and bother has died down there, you could come visit. Meet your nephew and niece."

She sighed again. "You know, I might just do that."

"Well, I won't try to insist, but …" He let the words trail off.

"Oh, you." The chuckle was in her voice again, as he'd intended by repeating her words back at her. "I'll see what I can do, okay?"

"See you when I see you."

"See you then."

He ended the call with a smile, then headed back to the living room, tapping his phone against his lips. Now, what was it she wants to show me, but can't just tell me about?

He couldn't fathom it for love nor money.

<><>​

Taylor

I sat back on the sofa with Chewie sprawled across my lap, legs in the air. He let out soft grunts of enjoyment as I rubbed his belly. I was still wondering if I was going to be hit by some great wave of guilt for standing by and recording a man's death, but it seemed to be affecting me as little as it was Chewie. In exceedingly blunt terms, Larry Peterson had been a murdering piece of shit, and he'd deserved no less.

"So, what's next?" I asked. "Do we give it a day or two, or do we go after Coil straight away?"

Dad set his jaw, and I saw the Dark in him more than I saw my father, perhaps for the first time ever. "Your mother and I spent too much time and effort building up the reputation of the Dark for some jumped-up would-be criminal mastermind to tear it down like this. I'm going out tonight. If you want to stay home, you can; I won't blame you if you do. People are going to die."

I shook my head. "No, Dad. We are going out tonight. Death's Head, the Dark …" On my lap, Chewie yawned and rolled over. "And Dog-Breath of Doom."

"You're sure?" He looked at me intently. "You're not just saying it because you think you have to?"

"You're my dad. You're the Dark." I gave him a half-smile. "And without Mom there, someone's gotta watch your back, right?"

"Well, there is that." He returned the smile. "And we're probably the most alliterative team in town, since the Empire Eighty-Eight went down."

"We are, aren't we?" That was kind of funny.

He snorted in amusement. "Of course, if you wanted to rename us, we could go with Danny and Taylor Hebert. Stick a word starting with E in there, and you have Death."

I shook my head. "I know you're not serious. You and Mom started the Dark, and that's what we'll keep going with. Besides, it lets me feel that she's still with us when it counts."

"True. Very true. And thank you." He reached across and squeezed my shoulder. "I appreciate the way you're stepping up."

"How could I not?" I put my hand on his. "Chewie and I are members of Dark now too."

I kind of meant the Chewie part as a joke, mainly to do with the fact that he'd actually been on more Dark missions than I had (and that Dad's re-emergence on the scene had been all about rescuing him for me), but Dad nodded seriously. "You are, that's true." He stood up from his end of the sofa and twisted his shoulders to pop his back into place again. "Well, it's about that time. Let's get ready and head out."

Handling Chewie carefully, I got up as well. "Time to rock and roll."

<><>​

The Dark

"Um, this is about as close as we can get."

Danny pulled the car to a halt and applied the handbrake. "Let me see."

Taylor handed the phone over, and he eyed the dot on the map that apparently represented Coil's hidden lair. Then he looked out the window at the nearby construction site.

"Want to know what I think?" Taylor scratched Chewie behind the ear, more or less automatically.

"I'm always interested in your input." Danny looked at the phone then back at the half-built structure.

"I think … what better way to conceal people coming and going at all hours, than by having it in a construction area? Put on a high-vis vest and a helmet, and you're instantly one of the crowd."

"Huh. You have a compelling point there." Danny looked at the building again, this time viewing it as protective camouflage. It would totally work. "However, the proof of the pudding and all that. Is there actually a base under there somewhere?"

"Hmm." Taylor looked thoughtful for a moment. "Well, there are bugs down there, and they're in an open space, but that doesn't mean they're not in a sewer or something. Can we get out and walk around?"

"We can do that." He took out his pistol and checked the chamber, and watched approvingly as Taylor did the same. She was picking up useful habits already.

They got out of the car, with Chewie on his leash, and began strolling in the direction that Taylor indicated. It wasn't too long before they reached the high fence around the construction area, and started around it, keeping to areas illuminated by street lighting. Danny took Chewie's leash while Taylor sketched in a notepad.

They made it all the way around the site—with some detours for other nearby buildings—after about half an hour. Chewie was panting happily after the walk, and Taylor's pencil had been quite busy. He handed the leash to her and unlocked the car, and they both got in.

Once Chewie was settled on Taylor's lap, Danny started the car and drove off. He didn't go far, just enough to satisfy any hidden watchers (or cameras) that they'd left the area. Pulling up in a side-street, he turned to her. "So, what did we get?"

"There's a whole Endbringer shelter down there, as far as I can tell." Reaching up, she flicked on the interior light and showed him her work. "A multi-storey underground area with people carrying guns, and several concealed ways in. One is a tunnel from under the construction area. There's another one that lets out into that parking garage we skirted around. I counted maybe fifty people inside."

"Huh." This was extremely valuable intel. "Is Coil on site?"

"Not that I could see." She ticked off points on her fingers. "Nobody off on their own. Nobody wearing a morph suit. Nobody who was tall and skinny giving orders."

He nodded slowly, agreeing with her points. "From what I've heard of Coil, he'd be doing at least one of those. Okay, so where is he? Home in bed?"

"Probably … whoa." She raised her head. "Something's up. There's a bunch of them moving around, like they're getting ready to do something."

Danny flicked off the internal light, put his hand on his pistol and glanced around. The night was still and quiet around the car. There was no sign that anything had changed. "If they're leaving, I want to know by which exit."

Taylor nodded. "Got it."

<><>​

Coil

The sergeant behind the wheel of the truck slowed for the intersection, glanced both ways, then kept on going. "It's quiet, sir," he observed over the gentle rumble of the engine. "Somehow, I expected it to be busier."

Thomas nodded. "We'll take our blessings where we can get them, sergeant. They could've quite easily been rioting because we took away their 'protectors'."

"Yes, sir. Says a lot that they're not doing a damn thing." The sergeant chuckled. "Seems to me that they just might prefer Kaiser and his scumbags to be gone for good."

"Maybe, maybe not. We'll see if things stay quiet over the next few days." They rolled past a jewellery store with a fairly elaborate frontage and an Empire graffiti tag next to it, and he took note of the address. "Pull up on the next block. The men can get out and stretch their legs for five."

"Sir, yes, sir." The sergeant rolled the truck through the intersection, then pulled over to the side of the road. Picking up the microphone on the dash, he keyed the talk button. "Okay, everyone out. Five-minute break."

Thomas opened his door and stepped out onto the sidewalk, stretching his arms above his head and working the kinks from his back. He paid little attention to the sergeant putting three men on sentry duty while the rest settled down around the truck or walked around.

Pulling out his burner phone, he sent a quick text, appending the address of the jewellery store. By the time his mercenaries got there, he and his strike squad would be long gone. Their orders were to show up on site and wait for the go/no go call. He didn't want to split time this early in case he needed it for his own welfare on patrol.

He tucked the burner away and strolled around the truck, returning salutes as they were given. The men were casually chatting, and he noted that they sounded cheerful, not grumpy. He smelled the enticing odour of coffee as one trooper poured a cup from a thermos, but moved along.

At the end of the five minutes, he climbed back into the truck and strapped himself in. With the men loaded on board again, the truck started up and they rolled off down the street.

It was quiet, alright. Just the way he liked it.

<><>​

Death's Head

With my bugs, I followed the men as they grabbed their weapons (at least, they felt like weapons to the bugs I had crawling on them) and headed for the exit. "They're leaving via the parking garage."

"Understood." Dad started the car and we drove about a block, and then stopped again. "Let me know which way they go when they leave."

"Sure thing." I sat and petted Chewie, who of course soaked up the attention as his rightful due, as I waited for the men to get into the two cars parked in the garage. "Two cars. I can't make out the plates. One of the men has a phone; I can see the glow of the screen but I can't read it. If I had to guess, he just got instructions."

"That's reasonable," agreed Dad.

I watched as the cars left the garage. One of my worries had been that they might go in different directions, but one seemed to be following the other. "Okay, they turned left." I pointed. "That way."

Dad started the car again, and began to follow the cars. This was different from every time I'd ever seen it in the movies or TV shows; we were literally a block over and behind the two-car convoy, entirely out of their line of sight. They were the only two cars on the road where they were, and yet we were sticking to them like glue.

When we were deep in what had been Empire territory, they pulled over and parked; I wasn't quite sure why. But I relayed this to Dad, so we cautiously got closer and finally parked a little way down the block, around the corner from where they were. Some of them got out of the cars, but the majority stayed inside. However, the only thing that happened was that the guy with the phone tapped out a message.

I told Dad all this, and he nodded. "Stay in the car." Opening the door, he got out.

While I wanted to protest and say I was good enough to go with him, I knew that wasn't the truth. At his side, I'd be a liability. In the car, I could cover him and Coil's goons with room to spare.

Well, I was going to be the best damn cover he ever had.

<><>​

'The Dark'

Frankoff, leaning against the car's hood, checked his phone again. He'd messaged the boss that they were in position and ready to roll as soon as they got the green light. Specifically, the message went: 'Here'. All they were waiting for was the answer. Anything starting with 'G' would be a green light, while any word starting with 'R' would be a wave-off. Frankoff had learned to not question the boss's decisions; they always turned out to be correct.

The phone pinged just as a car rolled down the street, deep thumping bass making the windows vibrate. He checked the message: Geranium.

"Okay, guys," he said. "Soon as these assholes are gone, let's go … what the fuck?"

As he spoke, the car with the music pulled in across the street, right outside the jewellery store. Having been about to take a step forward, he halted and waved everyone back. He didn't know what was going on, but witnesses to a break-in were a bad thing, even if you worked for Coil.

Either they'd been crammed into the car or it was bigger than it looked, because no fewer than six solidly built ABB gang members got out of their car once the bass stopped its incessant beat. Frankoff didn't have any particular disdain for Asians in general, but the visible tattoos on these guys looked more than a little worrying. Plus, they were ripped.

One shook up a spray can and headed for where the Empire Eighty-Eight tag was. Frankoff knew what was going on now; the ABB were striking while the iron was hot, stealth-claiming the suddenly unoccupied territory. He had no problem with that. As soon as they were gone, he and his men would be hitting the jewellery store.

"Hey!" One of the men pointed across the road at them. "What the fuck you doing?"

Shit. Frankoff straightened from the hood of the car, and pulled his mask on. Seeing this, the rest of the guys started paying attention. There weren't as many ABB as his men, but all they had to do was one spray of autofire. He didn't want to lose anyone to an unnecessary fight.

"Are you afraid of the Dark?" he called out, hefting his gun just to make his point. The armoured-truck guards had basically shit their drawers when he'd said this; even their cape had stood aside while his men raided the truck. These guys would crumble just as fast—

"I believe that's my line."

The words, delivered with supreme menace, had come from up the street a little. He turned and saw a dramatically silhouetted figure, with shadows swirling around him. Just for a second, they looked like a skull.

In that moment, Frankoff knew two things, but failed to recognise a third. First: the Dark was real. Second: he had fucked up, massively, by agreeing to this masquerade.

The thing he didn't realise was where the danger would come from.

He never saw the figure on top of the building, crumbling to ash.

<><>​

Oni Lee

All seemed to be going well, until the men down below pointed across the street. Lee had noticed the two cars, but so long as the men in them didn't aggress on Lung's men, they would be forgiven for existing. But when the one man stood forward and claimed to be the Dark, that was when he drew his knife.

He was just about to teleport down and end the fool's life when the second voice spoke up. His head jerked around at the tone. That was the tone of a killer. He knew it well enough; his own voice held that tone.

That made one fake Dark, and one … real one? The Dark was real? He had trouble conceiving of that. Lung had stated otherwise.

No matter. He would kill them both. First, the pretender, to get the distraction out of the way. Then the other. His way never failed.

He moved, reappearing behind the first so-called Dark, in the midst of the man's allies. Even as he grabbed the fool with one hand and brought his knife around with the other, he was moving onward, toward the other one.

The shadows were deeper here, despite there being a street-light not far away. But he'd seen the vague shape of the second Dark, and so he knew where to teleport to. He appeared behind his foe, grabbing for the tall man's shoulder, only for his hand to slip straight through a swirling cloud of … bugs?

Far too late, he registered the movement at his side, and turned his head to see a gun barrel.

It was the last thing he would ever see.

Fu—

<><>​

The Dark (the real one)

Danny registered Oni Lee appearing behind the false Dark. Bugs swirled around him, drawing shapes in the night air. The blade in Lee's hand had not yet sliced open the imposter's throat when Lee appeared right next to him. It wasn't even difficult to raise his gun and fire. One point-blank shot, one dead ABB assassin.

Thanks, Taylor. That was a lot easier than it might have been.

The false Dark convulsed and died as Lee's teleport-clone collapsed to ash. Now was the time to strike, while both sides were stunned by the sudden deaths.

"Gentlemen!" he called out. "This is the point where you must ask yourselves. Are you … afraid … of the Dark?"

A moment passed, while gangsters and thugs alike glanced at him then at each other, and decided that they were indeed afraid of the Dark. Both groups, showing newfound unwillingness to contest the name with him, piled into their respective cars and burned rubber out of there. He stood alongside Oni Lee's cooling body for a moment longer, then turned and walked back to the car.

"Well," he said as he climbed back into the driver's seat. "That's dealt with."

"Cool." Taylor grinned. "Did you like my bug shapes?"

He nodded. "They were useful. Are Coil's mercenaries heading back to base?"

"As far as I can tell."

"Good." He smiled coldly and started the car. "I have a bone to pick with that man."



End of Part Eleven

 

[Ack]

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Part Twelve: Into the Lair of the Serpent

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by @GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: Apologies for the delay. Head and chest cold have been kicking my ass.]

A/N 3: I have noticed that the time-date stamps for the chapters don't actually reflect the passage of time as shown within the chapters. So I've gone back to fix them. This chapter is up to date (so to speak).]



Death's Head

We caught up with Coil's guys as they returned to his base. In other words, we got close enough for me to pick out the bugs I'd ordered to stay put in their vehicle.

They weren't quite fleeing, but they weren't exactly dawdling either. I figured Dad must have spooked them somewhat, having appeared out of nowhere as though their faux Dark's act had accidentally conjured him out of some eldritch dimension.

In a way, that was almost correct, even if all the essential details were wrong. The fact was, we had actually been there because of Coil's impostor. As for it being accidental … well, he certainly hadn't meant for us to show up, so that was technically accurate.

Under my careful direction, Dad got us closer behind the two cars carrying Coil's goons. There wasn't much traffic out and about, but we were able to break the line of sight enough times that they didn't suspect we were following them. Or rather, they weren't making urgent phone calls sending text messages, or looking in their rearview mirrors more than usual, so that was the conclusion I came to.

They drove into the parking garage they'd come from in the first place and got out of the vehicle while Dad and I pulled up outside. This time, I'd prepared more thoroughly; by the time they got to the base entrance, each mercenary was carrying a substantial load of bugs in hard-to-spot places. Equally important, the concealed keypad had tiny bugs perched on each key, so when one of them tapped in the entry code, I could write it down in my notepad.

Dad glanced at it, then got out of the car. "Wait here," he murmured, then ghosted into the shadows.

I knew where he was, of course. With all the bugs I'd been gathering in the vicinity, I would've had to be literally in a coma to not know where he was. I wasn't exactly comfortable with him going into the lion's den (or would that the snake pit?) alone, but we'd talked about it.

Several factors militated against me accompanying him. First, someone had to watch Chewie, and it would kind of ruin the implacable image if I showed up carrying a puppy. Second, he was used to working alone or with someone as well-trained as he was. Even with my powers and all the things he was showing me, I was little more than a talented amateur, and he didn't need the distraction that watching out for me would cost him. Third, one person could be twice as stealthy as two (see above about my relative lack of training). And finally, even if I stayed out of the action, it wasn't like I couldn't help him out anyway.

By the time he got near the keypad, I'd located all the cameras in the vicinity, and my bugs were doing what bugs do best: randomly walking over the lenses at the worst possible time. Even if someone were watching every camera with hawk-like attention (they weren't; my bugs had crap vision, but I could still use them to detect posture) they'd only see what I wanted them to see. Dad could ease up to the keypad and tap in the code I'd given him.

With a friendly beep, the apparently solid concrete wall slid aside, and Dad was in.

<><>​

The Dark

As he stepped through the open doorway, Danny allowed himself a brief half-smile. Normally, this kind of incursion would've only been possible after extensive recon and information-gathering, and there'd be more than one person coming in. A hacker would be tapped into their electronics by now, taking over the cameras and looping footage as needed.

He didn't need any of that this time, because he had Taylor.

He kept the layout plan in his head as he moved through the base. His pistol was out and held low, ready to fire if necessary, but he was fully aware that even a suppressed shot (Hollywood had a lot to answer for) would echo forever in these concrete passageways. At the edge of his vision, he saw the swarm that had ridden in with him as it spread farther through the base, vastly augmenting Taylor's supply of insects already within the walls.

The sound of bootsteps came to him before the voices, echoing from around the corner leading to a side corridor. In the next moment, three fireflies lit up before him, blinking in a steadily increasing rhythm. He took a moment to see how Taylor had them arranged on the wall and nodded.

There was no place for him to hide, and he seriously doubted that any bunch of fifty mercenaries would be unfamiliar enough with each other's faces that he could pretend to be one of them. Likewise, the old 'hey, nice to meet you, I just transferred in' ploy, while surprisingly effective under certain circumstances, was likely to fall flat in less than ten seconds against people who were actually on the ball. Retreat was also off the table, mainly because he had a personal aversion to being shot in the back.

Which left exactly one option.

<><>​

The human brain takes time to react to changing circumstances, especially when confronted with danger in what was previously considered a safe environment. Those untrained in dealing with crises may freeze altogether. At the same time, even well-trained individuals can take up to five seconds to register and react competently to danger from an unexpected quarter.

In a not entirely unrelated side-note, I find that when a smaller force takes a numerically superior one by surprise, the advantageous move is to go on the attack, as hard and fast as possible. Getting in among them gives you a target-rich environment and allows you the best chance of killing or disabling as many people as possible in the time it takes them to react to your presence. This attack also engenders a strong shock and awe aspect, which can only help your cause.

In situations like that, it's amazing how much you can get done in five seconds.

- from the collected notes of Daniel Hebert

<><>​

Cued by the bugs, Danny went around the corner just before the three mercenaries reached it. They were all wearing body armour, including helmets with faceplates, but that wasn't really a problem. Absently, he considered the idea that Coil had somehow acquired some PRT gear and had it repainted for his guys. Nothing was sacred to the man, it seemed.

Independent from his musings, his body was already in action. The suppressor of his pistol went up under the helmet faceplate of the closest guard, and he pulled the trigger. Using a human head as extra sound muffling was something he'd done more than once; the auditory absorptive quality of brain matter was quite useful in his line of work.

As the bullet created a slight protrusion from the top of the helmet—Danny was glad he wouldn't have to be wearing that one, what with the mess that would now be splattered over the inside of it—he used his left hand to drive his knife point-first into the throat of the second guard, then ripped sideways. The concrete wall and floor beside the guard were painted red almost on the instant, which wasn't very surprising, seeing that Danny had opened up not only the man's windpipe but also his carotid artery and jugular vein. He'd live a little longer than the man Danny had shot in the head, but only by a matter of seconds.

The two bodies crumpled to the floor, and Danny surged forward over them to confront the third guard. This guy had had just enough time to realise that something Very Bad was happening, but not enough to figure out what to do about it, so he made the worst possible move. He tried to do two things at once: running (the natural instinct in that circumstance) and unslinging his rifle (which had evidently been drummed into him). As he backed up and turned, his fumbling with the rifle unbalanced him, and he tripped over his own feet; Danny would've taken him down anyway, but this just made the job easier.

He came down hard on the guard's back with his knee; holstering the pistol and dropping the knife, he grabbed the helmet with both hands and hauled it back with a slight twist. As the guard flailed beneath him, he pulled until he judged he'd reached the limit of travel for the luckless man's muscles and vertebrae, then essayed a sharp twist, yanking the guy's head around a good ninety degrees. There was a rending crack, and the guard spasmed and then went limp under him.

Taking up the knife, he wiped it off on the guard's sleeve—he'd be cleaning it properly later, of course, but congealing blood inside a sheath could make it hard to pull in a hurry—and sheathed it, then took up the guard's rifle. The cylindrical apparatus slung under the barrel wasn't something he'd seen before, though he had heard rumours that Coil's men were equipped with Tinkertech. Thoughtfully, he aimed it at the wall and pressed the square red plastic button on the side; a Tinker may have constructed it, but it was also intended for the lowest common denominator to use without issue—big red button equalled danger.

He was accompanied by a sharp smell of ozone and a pop of ionising air, an actinic purple beam shot out from the device and began to burn a hole in the wall. He let off the button and raised his eyebrows. Either that was the world's most aggressive laser sight, or Coil believed in equipping his men to do cape levels of damage when they were out and about.

He took up all three rifles and slung them over his shoulder, then headed in the direction of where Taylor's diagram had indicated the armoury would be found. The clock was now ticking. Those guards had been going somewhere, possibly to investigate why the door had opened and closed again, and whoever had dispatched them would soon be wondering why they hadn't checked yet.

Both he and Taylor knew that he was good, but every time he engaged with any of the opposition, there would be the chance that the noise of the conflict would just draw more into the fight. Forewarned, they would be much less of a pushover, and numbers would surely begin to tell. He preferred to avoid all that; he was a hitman, not some action hero.

The alarm had not yet sounded by the time he got to the armoury. Even before he stuck his head around the corner, he knew (thanks to Taylor) that there was a guard on the door, but nobody else in the vicinity. This, he figured, was probably standard procedure; if the alert had been given, there would be more than one at this important post.

He paused and passed his hand over his eyes. Then he unslung one of the rifles, rested his thumb lightly on the activation button of the laser, and stepped around the corner. Taylor was on the ball; even as the guard came into view, Danny could see the bugs clustering around the helmet faceplate, crawling up under it and utterly distracting the man at this crucial point.

He levelled the rifle and pressed the button, lancing the same actinic beam across the twenty feet that separated them, into the man's chest. The muted crack that resulted was quieter than either the rifle or suppressed pistol would have been; he dragged the beam sideways for half a second before releasing the button, causing the stink of burned meat to join that of ozone. As the guard fell over, Danny saw the scorched line in the concrete wall behind him, the beam having gone all the way through in less time than it took to think about it.

Hustling over to the guard, Danny determined that he was dead. Then he checked the armoury door; it was secured by both a card-swipe and an electronic keypad. Frowning, he looked down at the guard, fully aware that even if the man had been carrying the appropriate card, there was no way of coercing the code out of him now.

On the other hand … he looked thoughtfully again at the laser.

<><>​

Coil

Thomas' phone beeped an alert. He stilled a frown; what was going on now? Affecting unconcern, he took it out and checked the screen.

The content of the message sent a chill down his back. Someone had just forced their way into the base armoury, damaging the lock in the process. This was a silent alarm, sent directly to him so as not to alert any turncoats to his knowledge of their perfidy. But the question was, who the hell was doing this behind his back?

He already knew about the loss of Frankoff, but he'd ordered his mercenaries back to base upon getting the news. According to the less than coherent report, both Oni Lee and someone they tentatively identified as the actual Dark had been involved. He'd wanted to hear the full story, face to face, before he made his next move in this matter. Especially, he wanted to find out what the hell was going on with this mythical bogeyman who had supposedly manifested for real.

But now on top of that, someone in his employ had betrayed him. He couldn't figure it out. Had this brand-new Dark spooked them so badly that they would rather turn on him?

Oni Lee was dead, and so was his faux Dark; there was no option to change that. He'd simply carried on from where he was, having his troopers follow a different patrol route in each of the timelines. Now he was starting to wish he'd held back a timeline, because it seemed the loss of Frankoff was having knock-on effects that he'd failed to anticipate.

Exactly what had happened still had to be figured out, but he was absolutely going to get to the bottom of that, too. His power was all about making the right choices (for his own personal well-being, naturally), so he needed to learn where he'd gone wrong with that one.

The most irritating aspect of all this was that the breach of the armoury was happening in both timelines, so he couldn't actually rule out an arbitrary outside factor. Actually, that was the second most irritating aspect; most irritating was the fact that he couldn't simply choose to cancel the entire expedition, and keep his base armoury unscathed. That ship had long since sailed.

"Commander Calvert?" asked the driver in both timelines. "Is everything okay?" It seemed he hadn't been as good at concealing his emotions as he'd thought he was.

In the first timeline, he shook his head. "No. We're heading back to the PRT building, now."

In the second, he nodded. "Yes. Continue the patrol."

Dipping out halfway through the patrol would draw unwelcome attention, but he could use that timeline to determine exactly what the fuck was going on, then drop it for the second timeline where he could deal with the problem using his newfound knowledge.

In the meantime, he did the only thing he could at the moment: he sent a message in both timelines, activating the alarm system with the specific code that indicated the armoury was compromised. This would vector the guards currently on duty toward the armoury (he assumed the sentry who had been guarding it was either complicit or dead) and potentially deal with the problem before he even got there. Even if they didn't, they would gather information that he could hopefully use.

<><>​

The Dark

Danny heaved the door open, careful not to touch the smoking remains of the lock, and was five steps into the armoury before the alarm went off. Taylor wasn't alerting him with her bugs, so he figured he had a little time to play with, though the clock was definitely ticking loud and clear now. Looking around, he catalogued what he had to play with.

Pistols, there. Rifles, there. Ammunition, there. Laser modules on charge, there. Grenades, there.

He wasted no time in idle meanderings; re-slinging the rifle he'd used to kill the man outside, he played the undermounted laser from the second one over the other racked weapons. The harshly crackling beam, its ozone stink even more pronounced in the confined area, sliced through metal and plastic like a hot knife through warm butter. The only things he spared were the charging laser modules and the hand grenades: the former because he couldn't be sure that being cut in half by a laser wouldn't make their batteries explode, and the latter because he had his own plans for those.

He gathered up what he needed, and spent about thirty seconds ensuring that the next person to open the armoury door would receive a rather terminal surprise. Then he moved on, farther into the base. While he could have acquired one of the helmets to provide a little head protection, not to mention a moment of confusion on the part of any one he ran into, he decided not to. He had several reasons for this, but mainly because Taylor could provide more confusion than any disguise ever could.

He made good time, only having to duck into a side-passage once (on Taylor's recommendation) to avoid a bunch of guards going in the other direction. The clock in his head was ticking ever louder now, and he knew that if he wanted to achieve what he'd come down here to accomplish, he'd need to get it done sooner rather than later. So he kept going, planning out his moves in advance so he wouldn't have to stop and think once he got there.

Taylor warned him with a bunch of bugs just before more guards came around a corner right in front of him. This time, he didn't bother with suppressors or knives; he just brought the rifle to his shoulder and started shooting, one bullet per faceplate. Two and a half seconds later, they were all down and he was hurdling their corpses, moving faster now.

He knew the previous group had reached the armoury when the deep rumbling BOOOOM echoed through the corridors, sifting down concrete powder from the ceiling and making the floor shake underfoot. This was what happened when a single frag grenade wedged in the door set off a few more just inside; it appeared that the laser modules (which he'd stacked around the live grenades) were just as explosive as he suspected them to be. Almost at the same time, a hot wind blasted through the tunnels, followed by the sound of collapsing concrete.

Good thing there's more than one way out of this place.

A moment later, he came onto the open area he'd seen on the plan. There were catwalks above and crates below. None of the mercenaries he saw appeared to be armed, but that didn't mean there weren't weapons in their close proximity. Still, he'd gone loud, so it was time to show off a little.

"Tell me something!" he bellowed. "Are you afraid of the Dark?" As he spoke, he let the rifle fall on its sling and prepped an incendiary grenade, which he hurled toward the stack of crates. A second grenade, this one of the fragmentation variety, went toward an interesting-looking electronic console on the lower level. Stepping aside for a moment to allow the shrapnel from the latter to harmlessly pass him by, he kept an eye on his potential adversaries.

The crates were on fire and the console was a shredded mess after the grenades went off, so he started along the catwalk at a run. When one of the mercenaries pulled a pistol, Taylor surrounded the asshole's head with a swarm of stinging insects, so his first shot went wild. Danny put him out of everyone's misery with a single rifle shot to centre mass, then kept running.

Halfway to the next exit, he made a detour to another locked door. The laser on the third rifle burned through the lock, though it was somewhat sturdier than the armoury door, and he tossed in a frag and an incendiary grenade before he kept going. If, as Taylor strongly suspected, this was Coil's office, then the man was going to have to redecorate everything before it would be usable again.

He shot two more guards before he reached the other exit. The door was locked down, but that merely meant he would have to use the laser from the third rifle to carve his way through. He'd just begun when the quality and sound of the flashing lights and sirens echoing through the base altered noticeably. This was, he suspected, in response to the double explosion in Coil's office, though he didn't know what it meant.

Then the recorded message started playing. 'Base self-destruct activated. You have one minute to evacuate. Base self-destruct activated. You have fifty-five seconds to evacuate. Base self-destruct activated. You have fifty seconds to evacuate …'

Danny blinked, honestly surprised. In the twenty years he'd been dabbling in the cape scene, this was literally the first time he'd come across a supervillain base with a self-destruct mechanism. Coil, he decided, had been reading far too much lurid cape fiction.

He finished carving the lock out of the door and heaved it aside, then ducked into the tunnel beyond and started running. While he could run in pitch darkness (and had done so before) there were a series of muted lights in the corner of the roof of the corridor, allowing him to just barely see where he was going. Behind him, he could hear the countdown steadily progressing, and he set about putting as much space between himself and the base as possible.

The stairs were a welcome sight, but the metal trapdoor at the top was not, especially when it refused to move. He used the last of the battery power from the second and third lasers to carve it into sections, then stepped aside to let the glowing metal pieces fall down onto the stairs. As he emerged into the night air, he saw the headlights of the car coming around the corner, and smiled.

Taylor, of course, had been tracking him the whole way through, so when he started leaving by another way, she'd come to meet him. He was pleased both by her initiative and the fact that the driving lessons he'd been giving her were bearing fruit so early. Waving to her, he headed for the gate.

By his personal clock, the self-destruct had ten seconds to go, so he simply shot the lock away, shoved the gate aside, and dived into the back seat. "Drive," he said urgently. "The place is about to blow."

"Got it." Taylor sprayed gravel in a half-circle, then applied pedal to metal in no uncertain fashion. In the front passenger seat, Chewie yelped in surprise at the sudden acceleration. Danny ignored him, counting down in his head. Five … four … three … two … one …

They were a hundred yards away and still gaining ground when Danny felt the first juddering rumble through the suspension of the car, not unlike an earthquake he'd once experienced. Peering out through the rear window of the car, he thought he saw the ground split open here and there then close again, but the audible aspects of the self-destruct—a bunch of explosives seeded through the very structure of the base, if he wasn't much mistaken—were a lot more subtle than the palpable side of things. However, the half-constructed building was less fortunate about matters; Danny saw it sway and then begin to topple. That, at least, made a considerable amount of noise when it hit the ground.

"Holy shit," she said with admirable calm once the last of the echoes had died away and they were driving smoothly on the road once more. "How did you pull that off, exactly?"

"Built-in self-destruct," he said briefly. "Coil's the worst type of supervillain. He does what he thinks supervillains should do, without ever considering why he's doing it, or even if he should."

"Well, that's a thing." Without needing to be told, Taylor pulled over to the side of the road. The rifles went into the trunk, and Danny got into the driver's seat while Taylor joined Chewie in the passenger seat. "So, what are we doing next?"

"Right now? Home, for sleep." He glanced over at her. "Once Coil starts to regroup, we hit him again. Rinse and repeat. Wear down his resources."

"Until he sticks his head up where you can put a bullet in it?" Her tone didn't sound like she was guessing.

"Precisely." He set the car in motion. "I don't have a lot of rules, but your mom and I put a lot of work into that name. Nobody messes with it and lives."

Taylor scratched Chewie behind the ear, just the way he liked it. "Damn right." She paused, frowning. "Wait a minute. If I were him and I figured I was being targeted, I'd be inclined to set a trap at some point. How do we know he doesn't have a Thinker on speed-dial, so he can plan ahead of you?"

"He does." Danny smiled coldly. "Or rather, he did, until recently. Remember the Undersiders?"

"Yeah, but—" It only took her that long to get his point. "Tattletale? She's his Thinker?"

"That's my guess, yes. When we were talking to them, everyone else was very respectful, but she was utterly terrified of us. With her talents, she would have picked up the fact that I had zero intention of harming them if they played straight with us. So … why was she petrified with fear?"

Taylor stroked Chewie slowly as she answered. "Because she'd done something that she thought was likely to get her killed."

"That was my read, yes." Danny felt a surge of pride at how well Taylor was coming along. "Now, the only thing that's caused us any problems recently is the impersonation gambit. My guess is that she suggested it to him, then got a horrible surprise when we showed up on her doorstep. For all she knew, I'd figured it out ahead of time, and was there to shoot her right in the head." He paused significantly. "The question is, why would a Thinker suggest such a risky course of action to her boss?"

Taylor only took a second or so to get it. "She hates him. Wants him dead. Especially considering all the information she gave us on him. Which means she isn't working for him willingly."

"That would be my conclusion, as well." He bared his teeth in a smile as he drove. "Even if he contacts her, the last thing she's going to give him is a straight answer."

Leaning back in the seat, Taylor snuggled Chewie to her. "Mwahahaha."

<><>​

Throwaway Timeline

Coil

Thomas Calvert had been in and around military or military-adjacent command structures for more than a decade; in this time, he had acquired a better than average command of profanity in its many and varied forms. Having seen the slightly-subsided area of ground where his base had once been, he found himself lost for words. No matter what he might have said, it would have been inadequate for the situation.

The survivors stood before him, all fourteen of them. They represented a twenty-eight percent survival rate of the men he'd had stationed in the base. That was shocking by any metric, or it would've been if he actually had any kind of investment in their well-being. As far as he was concerned, they were mercenaries; if they got killed, they were taking a hit that otherwise might have gotten to him, and he didn't have to pay them anymore after that.

"The Dark? Really?" He was still having trouble coming to terms with the idea that the imaginary bogeyman of Brockton Bay had actually shown up to express an opinion on his methods. "How do you know it was him? How many were with him?"

One of the men, who went by the nickname of Fish, seemed to have broken his left arm from the way he was holding it. "He yelled out that thing about being afraid of the Dark, just before he chucked the grenades in your office, and shot Creep and Senegal. Then all the alarms started going off about the self-destruct. You never said anything about a self-destruct!" He stared at Calvert accusingly.

"Certainly I did. You got a warning, didn't you?" Thomas was starting to get a clearer picture of what had happened, and why the self-destruct had been triggered. Two grenades going off in the confines of his office would certainly stand a good chance of activating it. Also, he'd gotten a message on his phone, announcing the destruction of the automated console tasked with keeping the lower levels pumped clear of water. Even if the built-in explosives hadn't gone off, the rising water levels would've rendered the base unliveable all too quickly. "You didn't say how many men were with him."

"Nobody." It was Pritt. "Just one man." He spat to one side. "Except it was the Dark. The real Dark. He got in through the garage entrance and waltzed around us like we weren't even there. Nobody got a shot off in his direction, and he killed everyone who tried to point a gun at him."

"Yeah," agreed Fish. "Fuck this shit. I never signed on to go up against someone like that. I'm gone. We're all gone."

"Don't be so hasty." Thomas considered the ways to turn them back to his side. Greed was a good start; they were mercenaries, after all. "I can pay you all triple what you were making before. Call it permanent danger pay."

"Nope." Pritt pulled his pistol and levelled it at Thomas. Four of the men with him did the same. "All this? This is because you decided to get cute with someone else's rep. Frankoff and the others are dead because you pulled this shit and because you built the fucking base to explode like some stupid supervillain's wet dream. I lost good friends down there. Fuck off and die."

"Ten times." Calvert tried once more.

He wasn't sure who fired first, but the bullet caught him in the upper chest. His morph suit had nothing resembling ballistic cloth in it, and he was already falling before the other shots hit him. He sprawled on the ground, still conscious but already bleeding out, as Pritt stepped up and prepared to kick him in the face.

At this point, the timeline was a dead loss, so he dropped it, then split off from his current line. They'd returned to the PRT building in this one as well, though the patrol had been over by that point. Unfortunately, his assigned patrol route was nowhere near where his base had been, so he hadn't been able to officially investigate it.

Fortunately, there was a debrief ongoing in Conference Room A, where he could find out more about what had happened.

"So, this is what we have," reported the duty officer, a Lieutenant Holloway. "Approximately thirty minutes ago, reports started coming in about subterranean explosions toward Midtown. Our own seismographs also picked up the traces, and pinpointed them enough to vector troops in that direction. When they arrived, they found a large area of subsidence and a collapsed building."

"Casualties?" asked Porton, another strike squad commander.

"None from the building, thankfully," Holloway acknowledged. "It was a construction site, half-built. But according to a suspicious person we picked up near the site, the subsidence was apparently due to a large underground base, belonging to none other than Coil. He'd rigged it to blow, and the charges went off tonight."

"Fucking supervillains," muttered someone else in the room. There was a murmur of agreement.

Although Holloway had to have heard it, he chose not to react. "According to the person, he was a member of a fifty-strong mercenary force Coil had kept quartered in that base. Some of the others apparently got out, but he doesn't know how many. Most of them, he says, are probably still under the rubble."

Calvert decided to ask the question, if only to find out what the PRT knew. "Did he say why the self-destruct was triggered?"

Holloway tilted his head slightly. "He gave an explanation, but it's entirely unverified at this point."

"This is Brockton Bay," quipped Assault from the back of the room. "Hit us with it."

Holloway half-shrugged to acknowledge the point. "He says it was the Dark. Apparently, the man walked in through a code-locked security door, blew up their armoury, killed a bunch of their guys, blew up Coil's office, then left through another exit despite the base being on hard lockdown. If the guy found a big red button marked 'Press to blow base up' then he probably hit it on the way past, just because he could."

"Christ," muttered Armsmaster, a rare sign of emotion from the normally professional hero. "Did he say why? The man you've got in custody, I mean."

Holloway seemed about to answer, but Assault got in first. "I bet I know why."

"If you were going to say, 'fake Dark', then you are entirely correct," Holloway responded. "When prompted, he volunteered the information that the recent apparent actions of the Dark regarding an armoured-car robbery were due to a false-flag operation run by Coil to increase his personal power in the city. That man is now dead, reportedly murdered by Oni Lee earlier tonight, just before the real Dark killed Lee himself. We found the bodies right where our informant said they'd be."

Assault nodded. "The Dark wasn't after Lee. He was after the impostor. But Lee had to try to kill him, and that's always a losing proposition when it comes to the Dark."

"That tracks," agreed Armsmaster. "Once the impersonator was dead, Coil's men probably retreated straight back to base. The Dark followed, gained access to the base, went looking for Coil, failed to find him, set off the self-destruct either deliberately or accidentally, then left again."

"Just like that." Battery shook her head. "Just how good is this guy, anyway?"

"Twenty years of matching up against the worst of the worst that Brockton Bay could offer, without any discernible powers," Assault reminded her. "The Dark's the one who knocked the Nine off their perch and sent Jack Slash to the Birdcage in a wheelchair, remember? We're just lucky he doesn't take contracts on capes, or target the PRT."

Dauntless seemed to have a problem with that statement. "So, what was that thing where he killed Hookwolf and Cricket, if it wasn't him accepting a contract on them?"

Assault met his gaze. "That was personal. Totally different situation."

"You seem to know a lot about the man and his motives," observed Velocity, his tone not quite accusatory but definitely edging that way.

"Yeah." Assault wasn't backing down. "I do."

Deputy Director Renick usually let these briefing sessions run on their own momentum, but now he stepped forward with his hands raised. "Enough. Now, the Dark is definitely a person of interest to us, but for the moment we have higher priorities. In order of importance: first, excavating Coil's base, given that there might still be men alive down there. Second, vetting all officers who will be having any kind of contact with the Empire capes in custody, to make sure there's no moles to give them a chance to break out. Third, patrolling in and near ABB territory, to make sure they don't do anything stupid because of Oni Lee's death."

"You think they will, sir?" asked Assault.

Renick sighed tiredly. "When you've got a read on what goes through Lung's mind on a daily basis, be sure to let me know."

<><>​

Lung

One thought was going through Kenta's mind. Whoever and wherever this supposed Dark is, I will find him and kill him.

He did not shout, or rage, or throw fire around willy-nilly, because he was Lung, and that meant he had to command his men. Such was the power of his personality that he did not have to so much as raise his voice for people to scurry to do his bidding. Right now, his bidding was simple.

"Tell me again. Everything you saw. Everything you heard."

Leaning back in his chair, he listened to their account yet again, filling in small gaps from the previous narratives. The picture, as he built it up, was simple. There had been a false Dark, whom Oni Lee had engaged and killed, but another one had appeared and murdered him in turn.

Oni Lee had been very, very good at what he did. His power had given him an almost unbeatable tactical command of the battlefield, given that nobody knew where he was going before he got there. He should have appeared in the perfect spot to kill the new 'Dark' before the man had the chance to react to his presence, but somehow he had missed his strike, and been shot in the same instant.

Kenta still didn't truly believe in the legend of the Dark, but he had to wonder: if the dead one was an impostor employed by some gang or other, who was the newcomer? Oni Lee had killed one with ease, but had fallen to the other equally swiftly.

Whoever it is, he vowed again, I will kill him.

"Pass the word," he said carefully. "Lung is not afraid of the Dark. If he wants me, he can come and get me. I will be waiting."

If nothing else, that should silence those who doubted his strength of purpose.

<><>​

Wednesday Morning, January 12

The Dark

For a midwinter day, it dawned brightly if not early. Danny decided to resurrect a habit from earlier days, and dug his running shoes out from the fossilised strata at the bottom of his wardrobe so that he could go for a morning jog. Minutes later, clad in equally long-unused sweats, he was puffing his way along the sidewalk in a mediocre attempt at a good pace.

I've really been letting myself go these last couple of years, he admitted to himself as he stopped at the halfway point, wheezing rather more than he should have been. But that, of course, was because he'd been thinking there was no longer a place in the world for everything that the Dark represented.

The events of the past few days had clued him in that he couldn't have been more wrong. When he'd hung up his shoulder holster and allowed his cover identity to enfold him so completely that it became his actual life in every way that mattered, he hadn't been doing the right thing by Taylor. He'd been hiding from the world.

He saw now that the pact he and Anne-Rose had made between themselves, as idealistic and high-minded as it sounded, had enabled the current situation in a roundabout fashion. Immersed in the role of being Danny Hebert, he'd kept his head down, paid no attention to anything but maintaining the Dockworkers Association and putting food on the table … and letting Anne-Rose's death numb him into ignoring all the tiny warning signs about the bullying. If he'd still been operating as the Dark, he would've kept an eye on all that shit, and stomped on it hard the moment it reared its ugly head.

Well, no more.

He wasn't entirely sure how he would've handled it at the time, but going after the little shits that had targeted Alan and Emma would've been a good start. That would've put Emma in a better headspace so that she wouldn't have thrown away her friendship with Taylor so readily. And if he needed to drop by and have a quiet word with a certain wannabe vigilante, about the wisdom of choosing her targets very carefully indeed, he could've done that too.

As a result, Taylor would've been happier, Emma would still be in the picture, and Sophia Hess would still be sniping assholes with her moronic little crossbows rather than decorating a slab in the PRT morgue. Danny didn't give a damn about Sophia, but he'd had some regard for Emma when she was still Taylor's friend. He and Alan had known each other for years, after all; it was solely on the strength of their longtime acquaintance that he'd even chosen to give Alan the chance to save Emma's life.

As he let himself in through the back gate, he sighed. Shit had gone sideways in no uncertain terms, and a lot of it was due to his own choices. I really have to start doing better.

The back door opened to his key, and he smelled the bacon and eggs even before he stepped inside. Taylor was at the stove, frying up a breakfast that immediately had his stomach rumbling. "Morning, Dad," she greeted him brightly. "Have you been running?"

"Stumbling, mostly," he agreed. "I was thinking we could extend your training, and make a regular habit of it. Fitness is surpassingly important when an unwanted quiver in a trigger finger means the difference between a hit and a miss." He headed for the stairs. "I'll be down after I shower and change."

Just as he started upstairs, his phone rang. He pulled it out and checked the number. "Madcap."

"Hi. Just thought I'd pass on profound thanks for all our guys who made it back alive because you told us exactly when and where to find all the Empire assholes."

It was a nice gesture, but Danny was reasonably certain that Assault had more to say. "You're welcome. Was there anything else?"

"Yes, actually." Assault hesitated. "We found a body near an Empire safehouse. A Larry Peterson. Dragged out of the safehouse and shot execution style. You never gave me a straight answer for if you were working again."

Danny easily translated the unasked question in his head. Assault wanted to know if he'd accepted a contract to kill Larry Peterson. If he admitted that he had, there was just one potential culprit for taking that contract out, and it rhymed with View Save.

As the Dark, he didn't have many rules, but an ironclad one was that if the customer paid promptly (Lady Photon had done so) their secret was safe with him. "No comment. Tell the Director she needs to understand that I don't talk about my jobs, or even whether a job was mine or someone else's."

"This won't be getting back to the Director. I'm just asking out of morbid curiosity."

That might even be true, but rules were rules. "I can neither confirm nor deny." He paused for a beat. "Do you have any other leads?"

"Only that the Empire might've sacrificed him to drive a wedge between the PRT and New Wave, why?"

"You might want to follow that one up. Don't give the Empire one last fuck-you."

"Understood." Assault ended the call.

Danny pocketed the phone and kept going up the stairs. He hadn't actually lied to Assault, but with any luck the ex-villain would tell his bosses to look elsewhere for the truth about the demise of Larry Peterson. Or it might not even get that far, if he'd been telling the truth about his morbid curiosity.

Humming a tune that had been popular twenty years ago, he went into his bedroom for fresh clothing, then headed for the bathroom.

Assault had posited the question about whether he was back or not. After due consideration, he believed he had the answer to it. Yeah, I guess I am back.

A new day was dawning, in more ways than one.



End of Part Twelve