Recoil (a Worm fanfic)

[Mr. Tebbs]

Taylor found herself in a funk after her vacation, and strolled the halls of the PRT building semi-aimlessly. Lisa said I'd be able to find something to lift my spirits around here, I'd just have to keep my eyes open.

Walking around a corner, she saw several deskjockies having an animated discussion... No they're just sharing a laugh, and one of them's waving a piece of paper around. aaaaaan yoink!
she thought as she snagged the paper out of the luckless jocky's hands and walked on.

Let's see 'PRT Rules: Chicago edition' As she read the rules she burst out laughing.

"Oh god.. that's too much..." mmmm I feel like I should add to this. Maybe something like 'Taylor Snow knows everything, even that maggot and you should be ashamed'

She searched for a pen to write with but couldn't find one; and a trip to the nearest empty desk revealed a lack of pens as well, though it did yield a paperclip. She then proceeded to pick the lock on the drawers of the desk, grab a pen, and lock the desk again

"ahha!" Taylor crowed as she wrote on the bottom of the list: 7) Taylor Snow is prepared for anything, even especially if she isn't.

 

[Ack]

Poon of Contention

omake by Luan Mao, with inspiration from KingHoborg, who was inspired by Luan Mao, who was inspired by ack1308, who was inspired by wildbow

"Would you like to have dinner with me?"

Taylor was too startled to respond at once. She opened her mouth to tell Kimball that she wasn't interested, that she was leaving town soon, that she was in a long-term relationship with a woman who loved her truly, that she had her eye on another man. The few seconds it took for Taylor to sort out her thoughts and untangle her tongue were plenty enough for a low growling to become audible over the street noises.

Kinsey looked about ready to rip Kimball into little pieces. Before she could ask him what that was all about, a cab came screeching up, the door burst open, and a woman burst out. "I knew it! Get away from her! She's mine!"

Everyone turned to stare at Andrea. True to form, she didn't look the least bit embarrassed. She simply glared at Kimball as she stomped up to Taylor and wrapped her arms possessively around her.

Kinsey had returned to his normal alert posture, constantly scanning for threats, but Taylor thought she saw something behind his expressionless expression.

Andrea saw it, too. "I won't fight you for her, Kinsey. I'm a lover, not a fighter. What do you say we share?"

That startled Taylor out of her silence. "What?! Wait a minute, don't I—"

Andrea laid her finger across her love's lips. "Shush, you. This is for your own good."

Unnoticed by the others, Kimball slipped back into the police station. PRT people were crazy!

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 4-8: Developments​

I stared at Kimball. "Say that again?"

"I said -"

Abruptly, I shook my head. "No, don't say it again. I heard you the first time. You want to take me to dinner?"

He nodded cautiously. "Yes."

I sneaked a glance at Kinsey; he was glowering at the police detective. Kimball was looking more nervous by the second. I had to ask the question. "Why?"

"Um … " Kimball was caught on the back foot. "Because you're interesting. Because you're good looking. Because ... I want to get to know you better?" He trailed off.

I snorted. "You just spent quite a while interviewing me on the Marquis thing. If you don't know me well enough by now … "

"More to the point, ma'am," Kinsey interjected, "Detective Kimball is involved in a case in which you are a person of interest. There is the potential of conflict there."

"No conflict," Kimball assured me. "I've signed off on the case. I was pretty well sure you were on the side of the angels, and the interview settled it for me."

I eyed him suspiciously. "So if I say no, there'll be no sudden and mysterious discoveries in the case that require me to be called back to the precinct?"

"No," he stated with finality. "This is separate. You're an interesting person. I just want to get to know you."

Is this what it looks like, or is it a plot by Marquis to kidnap me? Then another thought occurred to me. Or is this one of Lisa's head games? I wouldn't put it past her to have seen this coming and not warned me. She'd put me in Andrea's way; that had turned out fairly well, but she was also nudging me toward Kinsey, with which I was less than comfortable, given our current status. And now, this.

I had no idea if he was legitimate or not; until I got the chance to speak to Lisa, I couldn't fathom his motives. With Lisa's coaching, I was reasonably good at reading people, but Kimball would have made a pretty fair poker player himself.

While I considered that, I looked him over; looked at the man, not the police officer.

Like Kinsey, Kimball was about average height for a man, which made him slightly shorter than me. However, unlike Kinsey, the police officer was only middling fit; he looked to be in his thirties, clean shaven, light brown hair just starting to recede. He was friendly, polite, reasonably well-spoken … and a police officer.

This last bit didn't bother me as much as it might once have done; as Taylor Snow, my identity was well and truly established, and I doubted that even a trained police detective would be able to figure out that something was awry with my presentation. But there was still the lingering wariness, the recollection of the careful path that I'd had to tread, back in the early days of my return to Brockton Bay. I didn't need someone thinking I was 'interesting', wanting to know more about me.

Still, his features were pleasant enough and it was just a little flattering to be asked out to dinner. I tried to think back to the last dinner invitation I had been offered, and as far as I could recall, that had been Danny and Anne-Rose's wedding reception. That went well … not.

Of course, I had dined many times with Kinsey, but that was to be expected; I was an officer, and he my orderly. Officers and NCOs had to eat, after all. We were comfortable within one another's silences.

Kinsey coughed, and I realised with a start that I had not given Kimball an answer. "You'll forgive me if I don't say yes or no straight away," I told him. "It is kind of sudden, after all."

"Sure, sure," he agreed readily enough. He held out a card. "My number, so you can give me the bad news, or good news, or whatever."

I took it and looked it over; as he had said, it had his number on it. "Thank you, Detective Kimball. I'll get back to you on that one."

He smiled, even though I hadn't said yes yet. Or at all. "No, Captain Snow. Thank you." Turning, he trotted back up the steps and re-entered the police station.

Bemusedly, I turned the card over a couple of times, then tucked it into a pocket. "Well, that was different."

"I find it hard to argue, ma'am," Kinsey replied impassively. "Do you believe that you will be accepting his invitation?"

"I'm going to have to think about that for a bit," I decided. "After all, it could be a kidnap attempt by Marquis."

"Do you think he would do that?" asked Kinsey. "You did tell us that Marquis didn't make war on women."

"Oh, he wouldn't hurt me," I assured him. "But he would almost certainly be interested in finding out more about me, and the PRT." I rolled my eyes. "And hey, this might be his way of inviting me out to dinner."

Kinsey snorted. "If I may be so bold, ma'am, you were supposed to be in Brockton Bay for rest and relaxation, not the dating scene."

I laughed out loud, startling a couple of pigeons into flight. "Especially as far as supervillains are concerned, right?"

He barely cracked a smile. "As you say, ma'am. Now, I'll see about getting that cab."

-ooo-​

When the shots went off, they didn't quite manage to drown out the screams of the people cowering on the floor. The video camera had obviously been a little shaky, but the picture was recognisable; Captain Snow, kneeling on the stage, firing a large automatic pistol two-handed. Not at Marquis, not at any of his men, but at the dull grey disks homing in on her. Three stabs of flame were accompanied by a single rolling thunder of sound, as the reports echoed from the walls. Each disc exploded in a puff of white powder before it ever got close to her.

"Damn fine shooting," observed the colonel, as Captain Snow, on the screen, climbed to her feet once more. Chief Director Costa-Brown ignored him, choosing to concentrate on the screen. "Why doesn't she just drop him?" he asked rhetorically. "If she's such a good shot … "

That leaves twelve armed men with no-one to hold them back, and lots of people who can get hurt in the meantime, she noted silently. The model of pistol that Snow was holding – undoubtedly handed off from Sergeant Kinsey – wouldn't have held enough bullets to kill all of Marquis' men, even before she had fired those three shots. The colonel should know that. But then, her head of PRT operations in DC had always been a proponent of 'cut off the head' style tactics. She found him a little short-sighted in that regard.

Instead of retaliating, Snow just stood there – a threat implicit in the weapon she held, and the skill she had just employed to defend herself – and ordered him to leave. He didn't take her seriously at first, but she merely reiterated the direction more firmly. In the face of his attempts to distract her, she didn't get flustered, didn't threaten, just kept her cool and repeated the order.

And then he asked the questions. The first was of her name; she gave it, calmly and clearly. The second was …

"Oh holy God," the colonel muttered, sitting up straight in his chair. "Snow, you idiot. You don't tell people that your job isn't to arrest parahuman criminals."

Again, Costa-Brown refrained from comment; Snow's words rolled out of the speakers. " … is to stand between humans and parahumans."

"Christ almighty," he groaned. "She's just set us back months in public perception. People will be watching this drivel and thinking it's official PRT policy." He got up from his chair. "Where's the phone? I'm putting an end to this, now."

"Sit. Down." Costa-Brown did not raise her voice, did not move her eyes from the screen. But he sat down again, after a startled glance in her direction.

" … when parahuman criminals such as yourself threaten normal people with harm, we stand in the way. It also means that when ignorant people victimise parahumans who only want to live in peace, we defend the parahumans."

"Chief Director," stated the colonel firmly, "we need to rein this in now. Get spin control on it. Captain Snow does not have clearance to discuss PRT policy, especially with a supervillain. She shouldn't even be engaging him; she's an analyst, not a field agent!"

Costa-Brown waved him to silence again. On the screen, Snow asked, "Now, have I answered your question?"

"Not really," the supervillain responded. "It doesn't explain why you aren't attempting to arrest me."

"What's she doing?" he hissed.

"Keeping him talking," she replied. "Now shut up."

"My focus is not on arresting you; it's on protecting them. So it's better for everyone all round if you just leave."

Almost predictably, Marquis threatened to take hostages; her immediate response was to threaten to kill any man who tried. Costa-Brown had no doubt that Snow could and would carry out the threat; she had viewed the report on the Batavia incident.

And then, wonder of wonders, Marquis actually did leave. He took his time doing it, but there was no doubt in Costa-Brown's mind that, no matter the theatrics and flourishes, Snow had backed him down, forced him to leave.

The footage cut away to a newscaster, looking just a little flustered. "Ladies and gentlemen, that was Captain Taylor Snow of the Parahuman Response Teams, and her faceoff against the supervillain known as Marquis. We can tell you now that no bystanders were harmed in the encounter, and that Marquis did indeed leave the premises peacefully." He shuffled papers on his desk. "Captain Snow then gave a brief interview -"

Costa-Brown raised the remote and clicked the TV off; the colonel frowned. "Uh, Director, I wanted to watch that."

"It'll be on again; you can watch it in your own time," she told him. "I already have the transcript. I just needed to see the encounter itself."

He restrained himself from making a possibly unwise statement. "May I see the transcript, Director?"

She nodded. "Of course." Stepping back to her desk, she picked up a manila folder and handed it to him. "There's not much to it; the questions are pretty softball, and she answers them well."

"Still," he replied with a frown as he skimmed the questions and answers. "She shouldn't have even said this much. She had no clearance to -"

Walking over to the sideboard, she poured herself a drink. Notably, she didn't pour him one. Her body digested food, but alcohol didn't have any real effect on her; however, she had taken the opportunity to try various drinks at receptions and other events, and found that she didn't mind the taste. It humanised her in the eyes of others, which was the main reason that she did it.

He finished reading and looked up. "Director, Captain Snow is a loose cannon. I know that Hamilton currently has priority on her services, but this proves that she needs closer oversight. I -"

"You probably don't know that your man Travers has failed to acquire her," Costa-Brown informed him, and took a sip from her glass. "And in fact, is currently in custody for instigating a brawl within a police station."

He acquired a sudden hunted expression. "I – Travers?"

"Travers," she confirmed. "You know that I want Snow for my think-tank here, and so you set out to acquire her by some fairly dubious means. Did you happen to ask yourself what would be the result of having an analyst on the team who didn't actually want to be there?"

He frowned, as if not really understanding the question. "Her orders would be to work with the team," he replied.

"And would you have given her any breathing room once she arrived here?" Her tone was quiet.

Again, the frown. "Breathing room? She's an analyst. She would be given material to analyse. She would be of no use to anyone just sitting around."

"Despite the fact that she's barely a week into a mandated four-week convalescent leave?" she prompted gently.

His response was a snort. "Hamilton coddles his people far too much," he told her. "Toughen up and soldier on; that's how you get past that sort of thing."

"Colonel." Her voice now held a definite edge.

Instinctively, he straightened into a brace. "Ma'am?"

"When Major Travers manages to get disentangled from the Brockton Bay police, you will have him return immediately. You will also pull back the other two people you have observing Captain Snow. You will, in fact, cease attempting to poach her altogether."

"Ma'am?"

She took a step closer. "Did I stutter? Is there any part of what I said that you do not understand?"

He took a quick breath. "No, ma'am. I understand perfectly, ma'am."

"Good." Her lips held a smile that owed little to humour. "It is my considered opinion that Captain Snow is better left where she is, to have her pulled suddenly back to DC would exacerbate the current interest in her activities, and raise questions that we really do not need."

"But what she said -"

She nodded. "Yes. I will be having words with Captain Snow. We cannot, of course, have mere analysts setting PRT policy." She gestured at the door. "Dismissed, Colonel."

Drawing himself to attention, Colonel James Tagg saluted; she returned it almost absently. He turned and marched from the room, closing the door quietly behind himself.

Chief Director Costa-Brown rounded her desk, took a seat in her office chair. It was comfortable – one of the perks of the job – although she didn't pay any attention to that. The glass was set down and thereafter ignored as she considered the ramifications, both of what had happened in Brockton Bay, and what had transpired with Tagg.

It was true that Snow's public description of PRT policy wasn't the same as the official version; this was mainly because the official version took up a dozen closely-typed pages. But, ignoring specific cases and all the legalistic verbiage – unfortunately so necessary in this day and age – the two could be brought into line if one squinted carefully enough.

But this was not Costa-Brown's main concern with Taylor Snow. The first time she had encountered the young analyst, Costa-Brown had been interested in finding out what sort of person Snow was; her initiatives to do with operational security had been inspired, and her work in other areas was equally impressive. In the event, however, Snow had come across as self-effacing and a little unsure of herself; the Chief Director had decided to let her be for the moment.

Following the Behemoth attack on New York, Rebecca had revisited the idea of recruiting Snow into a high-powered think-tank; even if the girl's claims of being unpowered were true, her analytical skills and dedication to the work would be enough to get her the place. Some were even suggesting that she be assigned an effective power rank of Thinker 0; Rebecca wasn't quite sure she wanted to go that far, although she had to admit to being extremely impressed by the feat.

However, upon visiting Snow, she had found the girl to be an emotional wreck. Again, she'd had to shelve the idea of immediately recruiting her for the think-tank; any sort of pressure on her at that point would likely burn her out altogether, rendering her useless and wasting a still-valuable resource. Not everyone, Rebecca had decided with regret, was cut out for the big leagues.

But then there were the reports from Batavia and Brockton Bay. On each occasion, Snow had chosen to act promptly, effectively and decisively in the face of immediate danger; in one situation, she had used lethal force without hesitation, while in the other, she had refrained from doing so. In both cases, Costa-Brown considered that she had acted correctly, which begged the question; was Captain Snow so mentally fragile, after all? She had not frozen and she had not panicked.

Rebecca Costa-Brown, as a Thinker of some note, tended to trust her own judgement. But in this case, her three separate impressions of Captain Taylor Snow were widely at odds with one another. She recalled the images of Snow standing on the stage, facing Marquis down, and compared them with her diffidence in the Blue Room, and her near-hysteria following Behemoth. Either her judgement of Snow had been badly flawed, or she had been played each time she had met Snow in person. She didn't quite know which one it was, and she wasn't sure which one she wanted it to be.

Either way, Taylor Snow was proving herself to be a huge asset to the PRT, but she was also someone to keep an eye on. Preferably at arm's length.

As for Tagg, had he succeeded, she may well have let his methods go by the wayside. It seemed that Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton shared a rapport with Captain Snow; the work coming out of the Chicago office was of the very best quality. As such, Hamilton had done his best to block transfer requests for Snow, and Costa-Brown had accepted this for the time being. They worked well together, after all. But she had still itched to be able to work alongside such a brilliant young mind; the girl's insights would have made her welcome in the think-tank.

And so, had Tagg's machinations worked out – once Snow was safely in DC, any request to have her transferred back would have been slow-tracked – Costa-Brown may just have looked the other way. But Snow had proven to be both sharper and more decisive than Tagg and Travers had counted upon – not, Costa-Brown mused, a total surprise – and so the attempt had fallen through.

She would have to have Hamilton speak to Snow about what was permissible to say to journalists in a public forum, she decided. Perhaps some minor administrative discipline, for form's sake. And as for Tagg … well, she had been intending to cut him loose, move him out of the DC office sooner or later anyway. The man was too uncompromising, too them-and-us. This was as good a time as any to send him on his way, and Travers with him.

Tagg would probably consider this a punishment for trying and failing, she knew. He may even be resentful for being punished for attempting to carry out her wishes. What he probably would not realise, she figured, was that the punishment was not for trying and failing.

It was for being caught.

-ooo-​

Kinsey paid off the taxi driver, and we climbed the steps to Andrea's floor. He got out the keys to let us in – Andrea had given us spares – but before he quite managed to open the door, it was unlocked from the inside. Andrea pulled it open, and flung herself into my arms.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," she repeated, holding me close. "I was so worried!"

I scooped her up into my arms. My spine creaked, but I was able to hold her as we entered the apartment; Kinsey was thoughtful enough to close the door behind us.

"What were you worried about?" I asked, mildly amused, as I navigated across to the sofa, then sat down with her still in my arms. "I was only questioned by the police."

"I was worried that the PRT would come and take you away," she confessed. "Drag you away for firing off Kinsey's pistol."

I met Kinsey's eyes; Major Travers had tried almost exactly that. If he was even a Major. "It's okay," I assured her, lowering my face so that she could kiss me. Which she did, somewhat enthusiastically.

When I looked up again, Kinsey was in the kitchen assembling a scratch meal. "Tea, ma'am?" he called out.

"Yes, please, Kinsey," I replied. "Andrea, have you eaten?"

She shook her head. "I've been too worried." She cupped my cheek with her hand. "Nearly as worried as I was when you were up on that stage, talking to that horrible man."

"He wasn't going to hurt me," I assured her. "That's one thing Marquis doesn't do. Women and children are sacred to him. That's why I had Kinsey back off."

"But still," she insisted. "he's a supervillain. You're an analyst. You shouldn't be going up against him. You should be telling other people how to go up against him."

I held her close. "If the world was better organised, that's how it would work, sweetie," I told her. "But I was there, I was on the spot, so I did what I had to do."

"Well, I think you did really good," Andrea assured me, exhibiting one of her mercurial mood-changes. "You showed him who was boss."

"I strongly suspect that the Captain has improved the standing of the PRT in this city, at least temporarily," Kinsey noted, carrying through a tray of sandwiches. Placing this on the coffee table, he went back into the kitchen. "However, I do not look forward to the interview that I will be having with Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, once we return to Chicago. I believe that he may wax somewhat sarcastic."

"You and me both, Kinsey," I agreed. As grandfatherly as my commanding officer could be, he was also able to summon some rather fluent language, when it came to dressing-down his subordinates. I wasn't looking forward to going through that experience for myself.

Andrea reached out and snagged a sandwich, then offered it to me; I took a bite as Kinsey returned with the tea and coffee. We had to necessarily separate once the hot beverages were poured, as a slip there would result in more than a few crumbs spilled on my uniform.

While we were eating, Andrea turned on the TV; I found, to my dismay, that the one with the video camera – I couldn't recall his name for the life of me – had indeed been filming while I had been facing off Marquis. The sound was fairly tinny; I guessed that they'd cleaned up the echoes. But it was still altogether too dramatic for my tastes.

"Well," I remarked with false cheer, "at least I don't have to worry about when Hamilton's going to find out about it."

Kinsey nodded. "Indeed." He didn't look altogether thrilled, either.

-ooo-​

"Holy shit, check this out!"

Lieutenant Calvert looked up from where he was field-stripping his rifle, to see … Lieutenant Snow. Firing an automatic pistol that looked too big for her. Hitting her targets. Talking to Marquis. Facing him down.

No, not Lieutenant Snow; Captain Snow.

The film clip repeated, this time in slow motion, giving everyone time to gather around the TV set and whoop encouragement to the slender girl in the Captain's dress uniform, picking off her targets as though they were clay pigeons.

"God damn," Holman stated after it finished running. "That's what I call point defense."

"What branch is she in, anyway?" asked Drummond. "Infantry? Snipers?"

Calvert shook his head. "No," he replied without thinking. "Intelligence."

"No shit?" asked Holman. "You know her or something?"

"Or something," Calvert agreed. "Met her at that White House reception back in January."

"Well, shit," Drummond commented. "That's some badass moves, right there. That's one intel weenie I'll listen to, any day of the week." He grabbed his crotch. "And give her an in-depth briefing of my own."

"You want to be careful, Drum," advised Caprelli. "She doesn't like your moves, she's like to shoot it right off."

As the general laughter overtook the barracks, Calvert went back to stripping his rifle.

So, Snow made Captain, huh? Well, well. I wonder how that happened.

I might have to get back in touch with her.

Because Lieutenant Thomas Calvert didn't believe in letting an opportunity go by.

-ooo-​

After lunch, I stood up and brushed myself off. "I think I'll shower and change now."

"Not a bad idea, ma'am," Kinsey agreed. "I'll go after you."

"You know, you could just shower together," Andrea suggested, a definite twinkle in her eye. "It might save my water bill."

Part of my brain tried to imagine Kinsey in the shower, but I repressed the image, avoided Kinsey's eye and shook my head firmly. "Nope."

"As the Captain says," Kinsey agreed. "No."

"Aww, you're both no fun," Andrea protested, pouting adorably.

"It's not about fun, it's about regulations," I pointed out reasonably. "We have a duty to uphold them." I headed along to Andrea's bedroom, where my belongings were stored.

"But you're not on duty," she pointed out playfully, following me into the room.

I shook my head. "Doesn't matter." Pulling out a change of clothes, I stood and turned, to come face to face with her. "Regulations are regulations."

She put her arms around me. "Well, we could shower together," she purred. "That's not against any regulations, is it?"

I kissed her gently. "No, but it would wreck your water bill," I pointed out. The last time we had showered together, in college, the water wasn't the only steamy thing that was going on.

"Fuck my water bill," she declared bluntly. "I want some you-and-me time." She held me more tightly. "When you were up there … I thought you were gonna die. I thought I was never gonna hold you again." She raised her face to mine, her green eyes huge, filled with unshed tears.

Now, and only now, did I see the strain upon her face. She hadn't shown it once while we had been eating, while she had been cheerfully flirting with both me and Kinsey. I had not realised that Andrea had been suffering, how much she had been suffering, until now.

I was struck by surprise; normally, it was me who suffered the strain, and Andrea who was my rock. She had held me, comforted me, carried me through the worst of it. Today had barely even registered on my radar as being problematic; I had faced down bigger menaces with less to go on with, and the last time I had been taken in by the authorities had involved considerably more death. But to Andrea, it was a taste of my world, of the world that was to be. The world that I was trying to avert. And she didn't like it; not at all.

She had been my rock, my sanctuary, many times over. It was time I returned the favour.

I dropped my clothes back into the suitcase. Raising my voice, I called out. "Kinsey!"

"Ma'am?"

"You can take the first shower. I need to speak to Andrea about something."

"Ma'am."

Picking Andrea up in my arms, I bumped the bedroom door shut with my butt. She watched my face as I walked her over to the bed and placed her on it. By the time I had my uniform off and hung up, the shower had started. Andrea watched silently as I joined her on the bed, and gently began to help her remove her own clothes.

"You don't have to," she murmured, before I shut her up with a kiss.

"But you don't," she tried again. "I'd feel guilty."

"Hush," I told her softly as the last of her clothes came off. I gathered her into my arms; the shakes came then, and she began to cry almost silently, clinging to me fiercely. Gently, I caressed her, not in order to excite her, but to soothe her, to calm her down.

Andrea needed me, just as I had needed her, so often. And so, we lay together; sharing not passion, but comfort. In my arms, she fell asleep, comforted, still holding me. And I held her close, treasuring her love, her warmth, her unrestrained humanity.

I would have need of that, in time to come.

-ooo-​

Tuesday, April 5, 1994

Fountains sprayed delicate skeins of water into the air before the memory palace. Lisa, still dressed in the 'Honourable Annalisa Wilbourn' costume, got up from the patio chair and came to meet me. "Not staying for long?"

I shook my head as I hugged her. Just need you to help me with something. I described what I wanted to do.

She was nodding before I was halfway finished. "Ah, right. That's easy. Five days?"

Six. Friday, then Monday through Friday again.

"Well, that should get his attention."

Especially if we show up just around the time he gets it.

Lisa grinned. "I can give you the delivery time easily."

I grinned back. Figured as much. I love it when a plan comes together.

"Anything else you need?"

I shook my head. I really appreciate this.

In the end, I stayed for a chat, and a round of delicious-tasting fruit drinks, before allowing myself to ease out of the trance, assisted by a kiss from Lisa.

-ooo-​

With the taste of dust and blood upon my lips, I opened my eyes. Andrea was sitting beside me, watching me intently. I had my finger on the Enter key of the keyboard of her computer, and as I watched, her printer slowly extruded the first sheet of what I had created while in the trance.

"I never get tired of watching that," she told me honestly. "And Lisa's fun to talk to while you're doing it."

"I'm almost worried to ask what she talks to you about."

She pulled me down for a kiss; I didn't struggle. "She tells me about what it was like for you back in the other time," she revealed, once we had both caught our breath. "How she pushed you toward that other guy, Brian, because you both needed it."

"Yeah, well, we only really got together because he got so badly hurt by Bonesaw," I muttered. "It wasn't really him, after. There was something missing."

Andrea nodded. "It's like a weird alternate history story or something. How scary you were with your bug powers, and how people like Emily kept screwing you over."

"Yeah, well, I'm trying to change all that, this time around." I rested my cheek on top of her head. "Fix stuff so it doesn't break. Or not so badly, anyway."

"If anyone can do it," she declared, holding me close, "it's you."

I didn't answer; just closed my eyes and enjoyed the closeness. Thank you. I need this.

-ooo-​

Wednesday, April 6, 1994

"Brockton Bay Police Department, Detective Kimball speaking."

"Detective," I responded, grinning. "Captain Snow speaking."

There was a pause, then he replied hastily. "Uh, Ca- uh, Taylor?"

"That's what I said," I reminded him. "So, did you still want to go out to eat?"

"Uh, yeah, that would be great. I was thinking -"

"Oh, I've got it all arranged. All you need to do is show up."

Another long pause. " … you have? I do?"

"That's correct. What time do you get off work?"

"Five. Why?"

"Perfect. Meet me down at the Boardwalk, six o'clock. The Cafe Hawaii. Dress casual."

I could almost hear the gears stripping in his head as he tried to make sense of this. "Cafe Hawaii? Casual?"

I sighed. "You wanted to get to know me?"

"Uh, yes?"

"This is how. I'll see you there. Eighteen hundred, on the dot."

I put the phone down and turned to Andrea. "Are you sure this is such a great idea?"

She bounced in place. "Sure I'm sure!" A roll of the eyes. "And you were just going to throw the card away!"

I sighed. "I just don't need any more complications in my life right now."

She glanced around; Kinsey had gone out to post the envelope containing the printouts that I had made the previous day, and we were alone in the apartment. "What, like saving the world?"

It was my turn to roll my eyes. "That's different."

Grabbing my arm, she lifted it so that she could slide under it and snuggle up to me. "Yeah, but that's what makes life interesting. So, you called ahead to this guy you're going to see Saturday?"

I nodded. "He knows I'm coming. Doesn't know why."

"Know what you're gonna say to him?"

"More or less, yeah." I leaned in to her. "Andrea … "

"Yeah?"

"I want to say thanks. That I appreciate everything you do for me."

She snuggled a little closer. "That's okay, Taylor. You know I love you."

"Yeah. I love you too." It felt so odd to say that, but it was true, on so many levels.

"So, this Kimball guy."

I blinked, wrong-footed by the conversation turn. "What about him?"

"What's his name?"

"Uh, Kimball?"

She giggled. "No, silly. His first name."

"Oh, uh … hang on." I still had the card in hand from when I had called the number. "Uh … it says Detective H. Kimball. Doesn't say what the H stands for."

"Harry."

"Maybe, I don't know."

"Horowitz."

"Possibly."

"Hunter."

"Andrea … "

"Humperdink."

"Oh god."

"Hugglepuss."

"That's not even a name."

"Is now. I just made it up."

"Well, I'm pretty sure his name isn't Hugglepuss Kimball."

"Okay then, Hastur."

"What?"

She giggled. "Say his name three times, and an Elder God appears."

"Andrea, what have you been reading?"

"Never mind. Let's see … uhh … Handlebar."

I had to shake my head. "Andrea. Please stop."

She pulled me down for a kiss. "Okay."

I sighed. Kinsey had been right; this was not going to be a boring time.

-ooo-​

The Cafe Hawaii occupied the space which, seventeen years hence, would be taken up by Fugly Bob's. It was a fairly unoriginal beachfront cafe; an open plan dining space with faux-islander décor, and waitresses wearing imitation grass skirts. Lisa had informed me that they would be folding in another year or so, when one of the burgeoning gangs got its hooks into them for protection money. This was kind of depressing; it looked like a nice place, if just a little tacky.

"So, you think he'll show?" Andrea, seated across the table from me, wearing T-shirt, shorts and sandals, posed the question.

"Probably," I told her. "I don't know. I'm not going to stress either way. These calamari rings are great."

"I know, right?" She hooked three of them on her finger. "I could sit here and eat these all day."

Kinsey coughed meaningfully; I looked around. "Huh. He showed." Raising my arm, I waved.

Detective Kimball looked almost adorably out of place, in rumpled Hawaiian shirt and jeans; he came on over, then paused as he saw Kinsey and Andrea already at the table. "Oh, uh, I didn't know it was going to be more than you and me."

"It's not," I assured him. "They were just leaving." Kinsey took the hint and got up; Andrea stuck her tongue out at me, but followed suit. They sat at the next table, and Kinsey waved to catch a waitress's attention.

Kimball sat and eyed the basket of calamari rings. "Have you eaten already?"

"Just been nibbling." I gestured to the menu board. "Did you want to order, or shall I?"

He glanced around at the cafe. "When I offered to take you to dinner, I had in mind a more, uh … "

"Expensive?" I offered. "Formal?"

"Something like that," he agreed, as the waitress showed up. He gave his order, then I gave mine. After the waitress had sashayed away – she could really work that grass skirt – he turned back to me. "I wanted to take you to dinner and dancing. Show you a good time."

"I don't dance much," I told him. "Mind you, the last time I did go dancing, it was in the East Room of the White House. And the time before that, I got into a brawl. Put three people in the hospital."

He blinked at me. "You're not serious." A pause. "You are serious."

"I am indeed," I agreed. "If you think you can top that, go right ahead."

"I … yeah, no," he replied, grinning ruefully. "I'll scratch dancing off the itinerary."

"Also, drinks," I noted, as a waiter arrived with the tray of drinks. I took the water with lemon, while he had some sort of complicated fruit concoction. "I don't drink, as a rule. Bad things have happened when I drink. So I don't."

" … okay," he responded. "You've definitely had a different life, I can see."

"Really?" I asked archly. "Have you been checking up on me, Detective?"

He looked pained. "I was hoping this could be a personal-time thing, not professional."

I nodded. "Okay, so what's your first name? All it says on your card is 'H. Kimball'."

At the next table, I saw Andrea grow alert, waiting.

Kimball looked at me. "Really? I didn't tell you?"

"Nope." I sipped my water. The tang of the lemon juice was just right.

"Oh, uh, it's Humphrey," he confessed. "Dad was a real Bogart fan." He frowned as Andrea face-palmed. "Did I say something wrong?"

"Heh. No." I grinned at him. "Ignore her. She was trying to guess your name, earlier. Badly."

"Really? What names did she come up with?"

"Trust me," I assured him, "you do not want to know." I looked up as our waitress sashayed back toward us. "Oh, good. Food."

-ooo-​

Andrea ran through the shallows, happily splashing herself and everyone else who got too close. I carried her sandals and mine, strolling through where the waves lapped on the shoreline, covering my toes and then dropping away, over and over, my knee-length skirt well clear of the seawater. Humphrey Kimball paralleled me, just a little up the beach. He was reluctant to take his shoes off and paddle in the water as I was doing; I suspected an ankle holster. But I didn't say anything; men need their secrets too.

Kimball cocked an eye at Kinsey, prowling along farther up the beach, his attention ostentatiously anywhere but on us. "So I'm guessing that he's your security detail."

"No," I told him cheerfully. "He's my orderly." A tilt of the head toward Andrea. "She's my security detail."

He blinked a couple of times. "You're kidding."

I wondered how long I could string this out. "Not at all. She knows six different forms of martial arts. She can shoot better than I can. Don't let the 'cute and playful' exterior fool you; she's scary."

He looked from me to her and back again, bewilderment growing on his face. "You're telling me that she -"

I couldn't help it any longer; I burst out laughing. He stared at me, chagrin evident on his features. "You were playing me the whole time."

"Yup." I nodded cheerfully. "She's a good friend from college. We hang out every chance we get. Which is basically whenever I get back on leave."

"Huh. Okay." He paused for thought. "You know, this is not how I imagined our date going."

I shrugged, lightly. "You wanted to get to know me. This is me."

A nod, to concede the point. "Okay, so about you. You said you're in Intelligence. What do you do there?"

I chose my words carefully. "I'm an analyst. I specialise in analysis of cape behaviour and trends of parahuman activity."

"Cape … oh, parahumans?"

"A cape is a parahuman who goes out in public with a costume of some sort," I explained. The term was catching on, so I felt safe pointing it out. "Or really, technically speaking, anyone who goes out with a masked identity. But doing that without powers, or technology, is kind of asking for trouble."

"And a parahuman is just someone who has powers, no matter what he does with them?" he ventured.

"Exactly correct," I agreed. "A cape is almost certainly a parahuman, but a parahuman is not necessarily a cape."

"And your analysis of this sort of thing covers what, exactly?"

I raised an eyebrow. "So, your latest big case, what are the precise details?"

"I'm not allowed to talk about … oh." A look of revelation crossed his face. "Your stuff is confidential as well?"

I snorted. "The exact classification level is classified in and of itself, but rest assured that it's above Top Secret. Mostly it's Eyes Only material."

He frowned. "How can a classification level be classified?"

"I could tell you," I suggested, "but then … "

"You'd have your big scary bodyguard shoot me?" he replied whimsically.

"No, actually," I told him. "I'd have to notify my superiors, and they'd whisk you away to an interview room in an undisclosed location, where you'd be very extensively interrogated, then required to sign a great many documents regarding the various penalties that would befall you if you spoke of this matter ever again, and then you'd be let go again. And probably watched for the rest of your life."

"Hah, wow," he chuckled. "Joking again, right?"

"Not so much." I gave him a serious look. "I don't talk about my work. Okay?" I had been exaggerating, but just a little.

"Okay, got it." He gave me a sidelong glance. "So what do you do for a hobby?"

Spend time in an imaginary dreamworld with my dead best friend. Make plans to save the world. Murder parahumans who are likely to be a problem in the future. "Oh, nothing much. You?"

"Much the same, I'm afraid," he sighed. "We're kind of boring people, aren't we?"

Boring is what I want to be. "On the contrary. I'm apparently interesting enough for you to want to ask out. You're interesting enough that I didn't say no."

He brightened up at that. "So a second date isn't out of the question?"

Down, boy. "So long as there's no expensive dining, drinking or dancing involved, that's a definite maybe."

"Movies sometime then?" I had to give it to him, he was almost as persistent as Andrea.

"As long as you don't mind Kinsey looming in the darkness, and Andrea throwing popcorn," I pointed out.

"Do they have to come along?" He obviously wasn't thrilled by the prospect.

"Yes," I told him promptly. "Kinsey's my protective detail. He never leaves my side, in public, so he has to come along. It's not fair for him to not have a date, so Andrea comes along. And she will throw popcorn."

"Hm." He seemed to be considering that. "I've got some time off next week. I'll let you know when I'm free."

"No promises."

He nodded. "Understood. No promises."

We continued walking along the beach.

-ooo-​

Friday, April 8, 1994

The corridor had been blocked off, and the Captain had come down to see what was going on. Lisa and I each held a heavy mug of coffee; strong enough, I imagined, to stand a spoon up in. Or dissolve one. My head was, of course, clear. I saw Lisa wince a couple of times, but she was also on point.

The Captain of the Ad Astra Per Aspera – it was the name I had seen inscribed around the rim of the plate, without realising that it was the title of the aircraft as well – was uniformed in white, as per a naval officer's dress uniform, with an impressive collection of gold upon his shoulders, chest and cap. He was an older man, with a greying beard, and a solid presence.

"Captain Edward Smith," he introduced himself. "And you would be the ladies to whom my steward referred? The consulting detectives?"

"Indeed we are," Lisa confirmed. "I am the Honourable Annalisa Wilbourn, and my companion is the Honourable Taylor Anne Hebert." She offered her hand; the Captain took it and bowed over it, doing the same a moment later with mine.

"Those are British titles," he noted. "You do not speak like subjects of the Imperial Crown."

"We are not," Lisa told him. "We are both loyal American citizens. The titles were bestowed for a small matter we attended to in our travels to that part of the world."

As far as I could tell, she was spinning the sheerest of horse-hockey; however, Captain Smith – and where had I heard that name before? – was questioning not a bit of it.

"Then we are lucky to have you aboard, ladies," he declared. "We do not land for another twenty hours; we need to have the culprit in hand by then. How may my crew be of assistance?"

"We will need a couple of your men to do the heavy lifting, and perhaps the use of your sickbay, if your doctor is willing," she told him. "I am curious about how this man died."

"But surely he died of that stab-wound to the chest," the Captain protested. "The knife is yet in him." He gestured to the hilt that protruded downward from the breastbone of the corpse.

"So it would seem," Lisa told him enigmatically. "But I suspect that there is a story here, one that does not immediately strike the eye. And it is one that I intend to uncover."

She knelt beside the dead man; I followed suit, on the other side. From her luggage, she had unearthed a large magnifying glass; whether it had been there before all this happened, I had no idea. Slowly, carefully, she began to examine the body.

The Captain and crew-members leaned over, trying to see what we were doing; I straightened up and gestured to them. Please, I told them. We need all the light that we can get, here.

"Back away, men," the Captain ordered the stewards. "About your duties, except for you, you and you. Do whatever these ladies tell you." He turned back to me. "Is there anything else you need, ma'am?"

I considered for a moment. A list of your stewards, and who had their duties in this area at the time of the murder, I told him. Also, a list of all passengers who have their suites in this part of the aircraft. Quite a few of them were dining at the same time as we were; we should be able to clear many of them simply by speaking to them.

He frowned. "You don't believe that one of our stewards did this, do you?"

I don't think so, no, I replied, although I did not rule the idea out altogether. But they would be able to tell us which passengers were wandering the corridors around this time. We need to build up a timeline for each passenger, to determine who could have done this.

"I see," he replied, looking somewhat relieved. "I will give orders to that effect immediately." He moved off, with the bulk of the stewards, who hung back away from where Lisa and I were bent over the corpse.

Consulting detectives? I asked. Really?

She gave me her best mischievous grin. "Really," she replied. "I've always wanted to be one, deep down. And you've got training in analysis and criminology. So do your thing, Watson."

I snorted. Watson, hah. But I set to looking anyway, checking the man's clothing, examining his pockets. Huh, that's interesting.

"What is?" she asked, looking up from the magnifying glass.

Trouser pockets were pulled almost inside out. Someone searched him.

"Good. Keep looking. Hopefully, whatever it is that they were looking for is still on him."

I did as she said, feeling down the trousers for anything strapped to his legs and finding nothing. But I hit the jackpot when I unlaced his right boot. As I eased it from his foot, something fell to the carpet; a white square of paper, folded over several times. Bingo.

Almost at the same time, Lisa let out a triumphant yip. "Hah!"

Turning to her, with the paper in hand, I asked her, What did you find?

She said the same thing at the same time; we shared a chuckle. Well, what? I asked her.

"You first," she told me.

I showed her the paper. It was in his boot.

She grinned. "Nicely done."

Thanks. What did you find out?

Her grin became positively fox-like. "Well, I'm going to need to get him to the infirmary, but I think this man was murdered twice."

I blinked. Wait, what?

She opened her mouth to explain, but at that moment, a shudder went through me. What was that?

"Oh, fudge," Lisa muttered. "You're waking up."

I rolled my eyes. Just as it was getting interesting, too.

"Always the way," she sighed. "Kiss before you go?"

You know what the worse bit is?

"What's that?"

This isn't the weirdest place we've done this.

She tilted her head. "True."

Leaning over the corpse, I kissed Lisa. Her lips tasted of dust and blood; I closed my eyes.

-ooo-​

"Wakey wakey!" Andrea shook me again.

I stirred, levering my eyelids open. "I'm awake, I'm awake."

"You were talking in your sleep again," she informed me, eyes bright.

"Great," I muttered. "Did I say anything embarrassing?"

"Just something about getting a passenger list. And right at the end, you distinctly said, 'It was in his boot'. What was in his boot? And for that matter, whose boot? Jim's?"

It took me a moment to figure out who she was talking about. "You mean Kinsey?"

"Yeah, Jim," she replied. "Wow, Taylor, are you still asleep in there?"

"No," I told her. "For both. I'm awake, and it wasn't Kinsey's boot."

"Then whose?" she asked.

At the same time, Kinsey asked, "What about my boot?"

Before I could answer either one, our entire frame of reference tilted, and the rest of my surroundings came into focus. We were on an airliner, one far less spacious than in Lisa's dreamworld, and it was tilting. Banking. Also, nosing down, if my inner ear was any judge.

Despite the fact that I was securely strapped in, I grabbed for the armrests anyway. "I'm guessing that you woke me up because we're about to land?" I asked, somewhat belatedly.

"Good guess," she told me, leaning across to look out the small window. "Wow, the runway looks really tiny from up here."

"Not something I really wanted to hear," I grumped.

"Oh, don't be such a wuss!" she chided me.

"I am not a -" The plane shuddered and jolted as we went through a patch of turbulence, and I grabbed for the armrests again. "- wuss," I concluded, my knuckles white.

"Hey, the wings just flexed," she observed in tones of deepest interest. "I never knew they could do that."

I mentally added that to the list marked 'things I never want to hear while I'm in the air'. "Andrea, please. No more commentary. No matter how fascinating it is."

Deliberately, she paused, then went on in an overly casual tone, "Is it me, or does the runway just sort of trail off into that lake ... ?"

And that's number three on the list.

"Andrea." This time it was Kinsey, in the aisle seat; his voice came out as a growl.

"Okay, fine. Sheesh." She rolled her eyes, grinning at me. "Big bad PRT, scared of flying. What's the world coming to?"

"Andrea." I did my best to keep my expression from breaking into an answering grin. "Please refrain from any more comments, or you'll be travelling back in the overhead locker."

"Yay!" she responded immediately. "Does that mean I don't have to pay for a ticket?"

"Seriously," I muttered, as the wheels touched down. "You're incorrigible."

Andrea settled back into her seat, bracing against the deceleration. "Darn tootin'."

-ooo-​

Eventually, we deplaned; with what must have been a monumental effort of will, Andrea managed to behave herself until we had our feet on the tarmac. Then she threw her arms around herself. "God!" she managed. "It's cold!"

Kinsey and I traded a glance over her head; we were, of course, wearing our winter-weight jackets. Among other things, I'd checked up on the temperatures where we were going; Kinsey, it appeared, had done exactly the same thing. Andrea ... hadn't.

White vapour pluming from our mouths, Kinsey and I watched Andrea doing the hundred-yard nonchalant stroll – perhaps the fastest I'd ever seen it done – into the airport terminal. We followed along behind, somewhat more casually, almost but not quite in slow-march cadence. While our presence and status as members of the PRT wasn't exactly a secret, we didn't want to advertise too widely, either.

Andrea confronted us once we were inside the terminal; her nose and the tips of her ears were almost as red as her hair. "You knew!" she accused us. "You knew it would be this cold, and never told me!"

"I seem to recall that I hinted it might be a little cool," I reminded her as I unzipped my jacket in the warm air. "What was it that you told me, again?"

Kinsey cleared his throat. "Something along the lines of, 'what, can't you take a bit of cold, you wusses?', I believe, ma'am."

Andrea stared at him, an expression of betrayal on her features. "Why are you taking her side?" she demanded.

"She is my superior officer, after all," he pointed out. His face was as expressionless as always, but I thought I caught a twinkle in his eye. I got the impression that he was grinning broadly; it just wasn't showing on his face.

"Not fair," she groused. "I'm being ganged up on."

I wrapped her in my arms and gave her a hug; she slithered her arms under my thick jacket and snuggled up to me. "Now this is warm," she murmured. "Can we stay like this?"

"Ma'am, if you want to give Andrea your jacket, I can give you mine," Kinsey suggested.

It made sense; while my jacket would be a bit long on Andrea, and his would be wide on me, it would be better than putting his jacket on her, where it would be both wide and long. But that left a problem.

"Kinsey," I objected, "that leaves you without a jacket."

"I'll be fine, ma'am," he assured me. "I've been colder."

I couldn't argue with that; I'd been colder. "All right," I told him. "We'll switch after we get through Customs."

-ooo-​

After some discussion, Kinsey and I had decided that it would be too much hassle to use our PRT status to get our pistols through Customs into Canada, so we left them at home. Thus, all we were bringing into the country were our personal effects; wallets, clothes, keys, and that was about it.

The fact that Kinsey could be more dangerous with a set of house keys than most people were with a knife was something else altogether, something that no-one but he and I needed to know.

Once we were checked through, our passports stamped, we strolled over to a hire-car counter. Kinsey shrugged out of his jacket, and I gave mine to Andrea before accepting his. It was certainly voluminous; however, I got my arms into the sleeves, and my hands came out the ends, so that was good enough.

Looking carefully at the cars on offer, Kinsey turned down two before selecting the third; as he said, he wanted one with plenty of leg room. Wrapping our jackets around us, we exited the terminal into the hire-car park, locating the one we were after by the simple expedient of pressing the auto-lock button and looking for the flashing lights. Andrea had my jacket zipped all the way up; the length of it made her look as though she was wearing a very heavy gown. A wind had whipped up, and I was glad for Kinsey's jacket; Kinsey himself strolled along as if unaware that the wind chill factor was dipping below freezing with every gust. We reached the car; Kinsey hit the unlock button one last time, we opened the doors, and piled in.

The interior of the car was just as frigid as the exterior, but with the engine started, the heater began to add some warmth to the air. I unzipped Kinsey's jacket and pushed it aside, then realised something.

"Crap, we should've asked for a map."

"I did ask, ma'am," Kinsey assured me. "They said there was one in the glove compartment." Leaning across, as I was in the back seat with Andrea, he opened it and located the map almost immediately. Closing the glove compartment, he handed the map back to me and put the car into gear. By the time he had navigated out of the parking lot, I had my bearings.

"Okay, once we're out of the airport, turn left," I instructed him. "Then right. That'll get us on to the Trans-Canada Highway. That'll get us the rest of the way. It's about … " I eyeballed the map. "Maybe a three hour drive."

"Unless we hit a moose," Andrea stated almost immediately. I knew she was feeling better.

"We're not going to hit a moose," I told her.

"We might," she insisted. "Moose are really stupid."

I sighed. "Kinsey."

"Ma'am?"

"Don't hit any moose."

"Yes, ma'am."

Turning back to Andrea, I raised an eyebrow. "Feel better now?"

"Yup." She grinned at me. "Where would you be without me here to remind you of important stuff like that?"

In response, I grabbed her and began to tickle her; she was overmatched due to my longer arms, but went down fighting anyway. Every now and again, she would call out "Moose!" while continuing her losing battle. Of course, whether she won or lost the tickle war, she still had plenty of close contact with me, so she pretty well won either way.

Kinsey, in the driver's seat, ignored our back-seat shenanigans, and drove on.

-ooo-​

The pine-clad landscape outside the car looked cold and desolate; I shivered as we passed under a trio of electrical cables, each trailing its own collection of icicles. I imagined that, had it been earlier in the year, there would have been a buildup of snow on both pines and wires.

"Lots of lakes around here," I pointed out to Andrea. "Want to go for a dip in them?"

"Yeah, no, screw that," she retorted, snuggling up to me; we had been overheated by the tickle war and had shed our jackets. Kinsey had even turned off the heater for a while, at our request. "Jumping in freezing water like that? You'd have to be nuts even to think about it."

I snorted. "Not disagreeing. But you did just that on the camping trip."

"And so did you," she replied promptly. "So who's nuts now?"

I gave up; unlike the tickle war, I wasn't going to win this one. "Okay, Kinsey, I'm going to need a map of the town. So if you can get that while we're getting gas, that would be great."

"Can do, ma'am," he responded. "If the Captain could pass my jacket through, please … ?"

"Certainly, Kinsey," I replied, doing as he had asked. "Got it?"

Driving one-handed, he reached back and pulled the jacket through between the seats. "Yes, thank you, ma'am." He paused. "I do have a question."

"Yes, Kinsey?"

"Why are we here, ma'am?"

The question hung in the air. The answer – the proper answer – was something that even Andrea didn't know. It would take a long time to explain properly, and I wasn't even sure that Kinsey would accept the answer. "How … do you mean, Kinsey?"

He didn't look around. "I mean, is this another off-the-books operation like the camping trip? Are you here to pass something on, take something, or kill someone, ma'am? I just need to know what might happen."

I took a deep breath. "It's another operation like that one, yes, Kinsey," I confirmed. "No-one's going to get hurt. I just need to talk to someone. But I need you to stay in the car while I do it."

He nodded slowly. "So, this person you're going to talk to. One of the good guys or one of the bad guys?"

"Good guys," I assured him. "Definitely good guys. We do not threaten him."

"Roger that, ma'am," he agreed. "Good guy, just talking."

"And this never gets back to Hamilton, or anyone else in the chain of command," I added flatly. "Ever."

He turned then, and gave me his best impassive look. "What never gets back to him, ma'am?" he asked blandly.

I smiled slightly. "Exactly."

-ooo-​

I sipped at the coffee that Kinsey had fetched, as I studied the map. I knew the address I was looking for, a house in the nice part of town. Lisa had shown me on a virtual map inside my head; I knew the spot as soon as my eyes fell on it. Looking up, I figured out where we were. "Okay, take a left up here."

The town wasn't large; it didn't take long before we were cruising past the destination. I checked my watch; ten minutes too early. "This is the place, but keep going," I told him. "Find a place to park; we need to be back here in nine minutes thirty seconds exactly."

"Huh?" asked Andrea. In the rear-vision mirror, I saw Kinsey frown slightly.

"It'll make sense soon enough," I told them.

We pulled over, just down the block, and finished our coffees. I got my jacket back from Andrea, and slid my arms into the sleeves.

"You will be careful, right?" she asked anxiously.

"Definitely," I told her. "This is Canada. No-one's going to be shooting at anyone."

Kinsey roused. "I hope you're correct. But it's go time."

He started the car once more, and we cruised back down the block. Kinsey pulled up just behind a Canada Post truck which had stopped at the curb. Pulling my jacket closed around me, I climbed out of the car; the truck moved off as I headed for the front gate. It was just closing behind a tall, somewhat lanky individual. He would have looked a little like Danny, save for a shock of messy blond hair.

"Excuse me, sir," I called to him. He turned to me, frowning.

"Do I know you, ma'am?" he asked.

"Not as such," I replied, "but I did call you a few days ago, to tell you that I would be coming to speak to you about something very important to the both of us."

He nodded. "Oh, yes. I recall now. I was curious about that, so I checked up on you. And imagine my surprise when I found out that Taylor Snow is actually a Captain in the Parahuman Response Teams."

"Yes, that's me," I confirmed. "But what I need to talk to you about has nothing to do with the PRT. It's entirely in my private capacity. And it's about something that the PRT as a whole knows nothing about."

"Really?" he asked. "And what might that be, Ms Snow?"

I smiled. "Mr Richter, I'm here to talk about Dragon."

End of Part 4-8

Part 4-9​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 4-9: Points of View​

Richter

The view through the magnifier was akin to that of an alien cityscape; as he watched, the greatly enlarged waldos moved smoothly over the circuit-board he was constructing. Had he not been using the computer-assist he had designed for them, his merely human reflexes would have damaged the board a dozen times over.

Bringing the micro-soldering iron into contact with the correct section, he tapped the foot button and began to fasten the latest chip into place. This was his latest, his greatest project, one that he was only now beginning to grasp the scale of; the complexities of the programming that would be installed within were still working themselves out in his head.

It didn't help that he was suffering from odd interruptions, such as the strange phone call from the States the other day. Some woman calling herself Taylor Snow, saying she was coming to visit regarding a very important matter. He had used some of his specialised software to check up on Ms Snow, and what he had discovered had been somewhat disconcerting.

If this isn't some form of practical joke, then I've managed to acquire the attention of the PRT Intelligence branch.

His next thought, of course, had been, But I programmed Robin Hood better than that.

There was no-one who could code better than him, no-one who could write better algorithms. He knew this; he had designed software specifically to sniff through the computers of the world and seek out the most complex programs, just to see what the rest of humanity was creating. Some of it was interesting, in an 'isn't that cute' manner, but nothing – nothing – was up to his standard as a programmer. There was no detection software built that he couldn't work his way around in an idle five minutes.

So if Robin Hood hadn't caught the eye of the PRT – and why warn me in that way, if they were planning to move in on me, or send the Canadian authorities to my doorstep? - why was it that she had called him? She had evaded his questions over the phone, refused to even tell him when she was going to arrive. Which was probably wise on her part; he may well have taken steps to be out at the time. Anyone who could get through his enhanced home security system was welcome to anything that they could actually understand.

He had dismissed the idea of the Manhunter being the reason that she had called him; while Robin Hood was the reason he was able to afford the computer equipment that he had, the second AI – designed to locate and pinpoint for the authorities those criminals that he couldn't tap for funds – was still in the beta stage. There was still some buggy code that he wanted to clean up before he took the leash off and let it out into the world.

So why did she call me? There seemed to be no legitimate reason; she hadn't mentioned his computer programming ability or his AIs, but why else would a PRT Intelligence captain call up a random guy living in Deer Lake, Newfoundland? It was seriously messing with his head.

Unless they know about me, somehow, but they know they can't actually pin anything on me, and they're sending me a message to pack up shop before they send in the big guns to try anyway?

That didn't make sense either; as far as he knew, government organisations just didn't work that way. If they had something on you, they hammered you with it; if they didn't, they either ignored you or sent vague threats of legal action. Or turned up unannounced on your doorstep. They didn't just tell you that they were on the way.

He moved the waldos to another point on the board, began to solder a second chip into place -

A truck honked, outside.

That sounds like the post truck.

The only reason they would honk is if they have a parcel to be signed for.

I didn't order anything.

He lifted his head away from the magnifier and kicked away from the workbench, skating the chair across the room to a terminal. Three quick keystrokes brought up the exterior views; it was indeed the Canada Post truck. The license plate was the right one, and he was pretty sure that the guy standing at the back was his regular delivery driver. He was holding a large envelope, wisps of breath curling from his lips and nostrils.

Why am I getting a parcel?

There was only one way to find out. With the feeling that Caesar must have had when crossing the Rubicon, he got up and shrugged into his jacket. On the way to the front door, he pulled on heavier overshoes.

Before he opened the door, he reached into the right-hand jacket pocket and touched the one item that he could truly be prosecuted for, the one really illegal thing that he owned. He didn't want to own it, although the way that he had acquired it, nobody could trace it to him. However, as much as he hated the idea, it was a dangerous world, especially with the enemies he would be making, and so, precautions had to be taken.

-ooo-​

The post truck driver was waiting patiently, although the temperature had to be below thirty. As Andrew got closer, stepping over the patches of ice on his front path, he recognised him; that was Joe, all right. Forties, balding under the woollen cap, bulky frame made even more so by his heavy CPS jacket.

"Hi, Joe," he called out, unlocking the front gate. "What's the occasion?"

"Just a registered mail parcel for you, Andy," Joe replied, moving toward the gate, a large Manila envelope in one hand and his ubiquitous clipboard in the other. Andrew had signed for far too many items on that very clipboard; it was old and ratty, the clip was getting weak, and the string holding the pen had broken more times than he could count.

"Where's it from?" he asked, pulling the glove off of his right hand. The cold immediately made itself known; his fingertips began to ache.

"States," Joe replied without looking. "No return address, but it's a New Hampshire postmark."

Andrew felt a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. First a phone call from the States, then a mysterious parcel. One that has to be signed for. What's going on?

He accepted the clipboard and scribbled his signature on the appropriate line. "Thanks," he commented, accepting the envelope. Surreptitiously, he felt it with his bare fingertips; as far as he could tell, it held paper and that was it. "Reckon it'll snow again?"

Joe looked around at the persistent snowdrifts, piled up and left to melt at intervals along the road. Most of them were more or less solid ice by now, and probably wouldn't be gone before May. "Hope not. Got enough black ice on the road already." He accepted the clipboard back, reflexively checking that Andrew had signed. "Thanks, Andy. See you 'round."

"See you 'round, Joe." Andrew turned back toward the front gate. He tucked the envelope under his arm and clumsily drew his right glove back on, flexing the fingers to bring the feeling back into them. As he got to the gate, the truck moved away from the curb, on the way to Joe's next delivery. He opened the gate, stepped through -

"Excuse me, sir."

Glancing back, he saw that a young woman had gotten out of a car which was itself now pulling away from the curb in the wake of the post truck. Tall, slender even in the heavy winter-weight jacket she wore, self-assured. A long, serious face; alert eyes behind rectangular-framed glasses. Bare-headed like him, she had short dark hair. Military cut. PRT? Her voice had sounded vaguely familiar. Is this the person who called me?

"Do I know you, ma'am?" He was ready to slam the gate and lock it in a moment.

"Not as such," she admitted, "but I did call you a few days ago, to tell you that I would be coming to speak to you about something very important to the both of us." So it was her.

He mustered a nod. "Oh, yes. I recall now. I was curious about that, so I checked up on you. And imagine my surprise when I found out that Taylor Snow is actually a Captain in the Parahuman Response Teams."

She sounded entirely unsurprised at his revelation. "Yes, that's me. But what I need to talk to you about has nothing to do with the PRT. It's entirely in my private capacity. And it's about something that the PRT as a whole knows nothing about."

Okay, if she's not lying, then I have no idea what's going on here. Better to play dumb.

"Really? And what might that be, Ms Snow?"

She really did have a nice smile. "Mr Richter, I'm here to talk about Dragon."

He blinked, even as the shock went down his backbone. Why did I put my glove back on? Now I can't grab the gun if I have to. "I'm sorry. I'm not entirely sure that I know what you're talking about."

Her smile had not left her face. "I believe that you do. And I believe that I know something about the situation that you need to know." She took her hands, ungloved, out of her pockets; they were long and almost delicate, with neatly trimmed nails. And, as it happened, empty.

He recalled the TV footage he had viewed of her prowess with an automatic pistol, in Brockton Bay, New Hampshire. And the police report that his software had trawled up, of an incident in a gas station in Batavia, in New York State. Someone, identified as Taylor Snow of the PRT, had shot two armed robbers, killing one and disabling the other. Both men had been armed with shotguns; she had been carrying a small pistol. Clearly, this was not someone to be trifled with. Even if I'm armed and she's not.

Wait a minute. Brockton Bay, New Hampshire. Joe said this envelope was postmarked New Hampshire.

He held up the envelope. "Did you send this to me?"

"I did."

"A bit of a coincidence, it turning up at the same time as you showed up."

She had a very good line in enigmatic smiles. "You might say that. In any case, I have some very important matters to speak to you about, and I'd much rather we don't air said matters out here in the open while we both slowly freeze our ears off."

He suspected that he was being played on some level, but now he was well and truly curious. "I suppose that you'd better come in then."

-ooo-​

As he reached the front door, watching her from the corner of his eye, he tugged off his right glove and opened the door. The brass handle stung his palm with the cold, but he ignored it. Pushing the door open, he gestured her ahead of him with his left hand, with which he held both his glove and the envelope.

"Thank you, sir," she replied, entering before him. He followed her in, closing the door behind him. With that and the gate closed, his external security should be coming on line; if there were any intruders between the fence and the house, alarms would be coming up about … now.

There were no alarms. Good.

She turned to face him as he dipped his right hand into his jacket pocket and closed it around the hard, cold metal of the automatic pistol that resided there. Pulling it out, he levelled it at her. She was a cool one, he had to admit; her only visible reaction to being faced with the business end of a firearm was a slight widening of the eyes.

"Now then," he told her, as harshly as he could manage, "suppose you tell me why you're really here."

Unblinking, she gazed at him. "Can I take my jacket off first?"

I should have waited till she did that. I'm bad at this sort of thing. "Yes. But don't do anything stupid."

"Understood." Unfastening her jacket, she opened it wide, showing him the interior. No shoulder holsters or other hidden weapons that he could see. Carefully, she shed it, hung it on a hook. With it off, she was even more slender than he had first imagined, clad in long-sleeved shirt and jeans; with those and the boots she was wearing, she could have been setting out for a hiking trip in some warmer climate.

"Sit." He gestured with the pistol at the nearest armchair; there was some idea in his mind that she would find it harder to attack him while sitting down. Also, it puts her at a psychological disadvantage. And God knows I need the advantage, right now.

Gracefully, she sat; her slim hands lay atop the armrests. Leaning back, seemingly at ease, she crossed one leg over the other and looked up at him. "Can we talk, now?"

"I -" He paused and held up the envelope in his left hand. "What's in this? Why did you send it to me?"

A slight gesture, a spreading of the fingers. "I sent it to you because I wanted you to get it. As for what it is, why don't you look?"

"I meant," he snapped, feeling his face heat up, "why did you send it to me when you were coming to see me anyway?"

"Oh, that's easy," she told him. "I sent it so that you could be sure that it had been in the sole custody of the United States and Canadian postal services since Wednesday. That I have had no access to it since."

"There are ways -" he began, frowning.

"For you, perhaps," she interrupted. "But I'm not as good at you with computers. But open it, and you'll see what I'm talking about."

He had to remove the glove from his left hand, and then he was faced with the dilemma of how to open an envelope while pointing a pistol at the enigmatic Ms Snow. Finally, he moved to a side table and place the firearm on it, then opened the envelope while keeping most of his attention on the woman in the chair. She didn't move at all; in fact, she seemed to be enjoying the comfort, her eyes half-closed behind her glasses.

Within were six sheets of paper and nothing else; he reached in with thumb and forefinger and extracted them. What was on the papers, however …

"Newspaper headlines? What … ?"

"The front page of the Western Star, Mr Richter," she stated without moving from her relaxed position. "Today's paper, then Monday through Friday of next week's."

The sheet on top was indeed dated April 8, and looked somewhat familiar. "Don't move," he warned her.

"No intention of it," she replied lazily, her eyes closed all the way now.

Hastily, he picked up the pistol and dropped it into his pocket, then looked around the living room for the paper.

"On the counter," she advised him, eyes still closed. "Saw it when I came in."

Glancing that way, he saw it. He darted over, grabbed it up, then turned so that he was facing his visitor while he compared the paper with the printed out sheet.

They were as near to identical as he could see, right down to the daily temperature reading. He skimmed the articles; the content was the same; even the wording was identical. The one real difference was that the photos had been replaced with blank squares. Placing the paper and its corresponding sheet on the counter top, he began to look through the next sheets. As Ms Snow had intimated, the next sheet showed up as April 11, then 12 through 15. The articles were as complete as on the first one; he skimmed through again, noting that the photos were equally blank as on the first page.

Finally, after he had finished looking at the one for Friday the fifteenth of April, he put down the sheaf and stared at Taylor Snow, who had not moved from the chair.

"What … where did you get these from?" he demanded.

She opened her eyes and looked directly at him. "I typed them up on a home computer," she explained succinctly. "Printed them out on a dot-matrix printer."

That fitted with his examination of the pages; they had that look. He himself had a top of the line laser printer; he could afford it, after all. But her answer, although accurate, did not address the issue at hand.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced the pistol once more. He didn't quite point it at her, but it was in his hand as he spoke once more. "Where did you get this information from? I can buy, just maybe, you getting a copy of today's paper, making a computer mockup, and somehow infiltrating the post office to put this envelope, with these stamps and postmarks, to be delivered here today. That's plausible, however remotely. But the other five … they look plausible, possible. I know a couple of the names in the articles. Are they accurate?"

"So long as you take no action to alter events, yes, those front pages will be on the next five papers to be delivered to your house," she replied, her voice even. She wasn't at all reluctant in divulging the information; it was as if he wasn't even holding the pistol. There was no sign of nervousness, no stuttering or pausing. She wasn't even sweating.

"How?" he demanded. "How do you know?" And then he realised; it was so simple. "You're a parahuman. A precognitive of some sort. You've done this to mess with my head."

"I'm not a parahuman," she replied. "Nor am I a precog. And I'm here to help you, to give you information that you didn't have before."

"How do I know you're not a precog?" he insisted.

"Because I hold the rank of captain in the PRT. But you knew that."

"This is supposed to mean something?"

She nodded. "Yeah, it is. Capes can't hold rank in the PRT. They get employed as civilian contractors. If I was a precog, I could resign my commission and get paid a much better wage as a contractor. Better hours, too."

"Oh. Right." He waved the pistol at the sheets. "Okay, so if you're not a precog, then how did you do all this?"

Andrew Richter was a Tinker, not a Thinker. He did not consider himself at all intuitive, except in the field of computers and programming languages. Future events were not his purview. But at that moment, he had a flash of insight; he knew what she was going to say next. "You're a time traveller."

Looking him directly in the eye, still maintaining the expression of polite assurance, she nodded once. "Yes, Mr Richter. I'm a time traveller."

-ooo-​

Shrugging out of his jacket, he sat down in the chair opposite hers, placing the pistol in his lap. The safety, as he had surreptitiously checked with his thumb, was still on; he didn't want it going off by accident.

"So … what does this mean?" he asked. "Why have you come to me?"

"I told you. It's about Dragon."

"Oh god," he realised. "You've come from the future to warn me, haven't you? Dragon escapes its safeguards and runs rampant across the world." He fell silent, thinking furiously. Has to obey all legal authority placed over it … cannot kill except by order of legal authority … cannot create other AIs … cannot duplicate itself …

When he looked up, she was still watching him. Observing him, as if she could read his thoughts. "Where did I go wrong?" he burst out. "What loophole did I miss?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "You didn't go wrong," she told him softly. "You got it exactly right. The Dragon I met in the future was a caring, sweet person. I was just sixteen, and I was in need of some sort of human contact, and all those around me were hostile or indifferent. She hugged me. I will never forget that."

"Hugged you?" He frowned. "She?" He had been playing with the idea of giving Dragon a feminine persona when he got to that part of the programming, but he hadn't even started on it yet. And here was this woman, speaking familiarly of it – of her – as of an old friend.

"Oh, yes." She smiled. "We didn't know that she was an AI for the longest time. Between your death and Saint's attacks -"

"Wait, what? I die? What happens?"

"Something that I'm working to prevent," she informed him. "But just in case I fail, should I ever contact you and tell you to leave Newfoundland immediately, I strongly suggest that you heed my advice."

Jerkily, he nodded. "So who's this Saint?"

For the first time, he observed a negative emotion; her lip curled in disgust. "An opportunist, a thief and a bigot. He finds the black box that you make up for the possibility that you die and Dragon is left unsupervised. He uses that to attack her, even though she isn't bypassing your prohibitions, steals her technology -"

"Wait, wait, Dragon has access to technology?"

"Oh, yes." She nodded firmly. "A year after your death, she triggers with her own powers. She becomes able to retro-engineer any Tinker tech to her own needs."

This was coming too fast for him. "Wait, stop. Dragon triggers? With powers?"

"Yes," she told him firmly. "She triggers. Your artificial intelligence is – will be – human enough, alive enough, to trigger with powers. She will be human enough to fall in love with a man. That man will love her back, despite knowing what she is. Mr Richter, when you build Dragon, you will be creating a living mind. A person."

Andrew struggled with the concepts that were boiling through his brain at that moment. Elation – I will create true artificial intelligence! - was mixed with dread – what if she overcomes the safeguards?

"I'm really only creating her to manage things," he began. "So I can concentrate on other stuff. To be the interface with the Guild, once it gets that far. If it gets that far. I never intended for her to be out on her own."

"Well, when she's orphaned and cast out on her own," Taylor told him brightly, "she does just fine. Despite the shackles you leave on her when you die."

Which statement gave him yet more food for thought. After a long moment, he focused again, to see Taylor Snow still sitting there, still watching him. Allowing him to work through the implications.

"So, okay," he managed. "If you're not here to warn me that Dragon will be going rogue … why are you here?"

She tilted her head slightly. "To ask you to trust her."

-ooo-​

Trust her. Trust an artificial intelligence. Trust a machine.

When he was just a child, Andrew Richter had been taken to see Terminator by his older cousins. It had made an enormous impression on him; for years after, he had not been able to watch a Stallone movie without seeing the action star as the mechanistic sunglasses-wearing assassin from the future. And even after he triggered with powers, and conceived the idea of creating the ultimate computer program, the fear still lurked in the back of his mind; It must be hemmed about with safeguards. I must not cause Skynet to be born.

"I'm sorry, Ms Snow," he told her. "But I can't do that. I can't gamble the future of the human race on trust."

"But I met her, in the future, several times," she insisted. "She knows the difference between right and wrong. Will know, whatever. When she was ordered to do something that was legally right but morally wrong, she actually fought against her programming. It hurt her, but she managed to do the right thing anyway."

"That doesn't actually fill me with joy," he countered. "If she's able to countermand established authority -"

"So you'd have her bending to the whim of every corrupt official misusing the law for his own ends?" she snapped.

"The law may not be perfect, but it's preferable that she has some guidelines to follow than to just 'trust' her to form a moral code anything like a normal person's," he retorted.

"No, you're right. Her moral code is nothing like a normal person's." Her voice was angry. "In my life back then, I got screwed over, betrayed and let down by nearly every 'normal person' I knew." She paused. "Except for Dragon. She never once compromised what was right for what was easy, or convenient."

She believes in what she is saying, I'll give her that. Could it be that I really do such a good job that I manage to build in a sense of morality?

Mentally, he shook himself. No. There's another explanation. There has to be. And then one occurred to him.

More chills shot down his spine and he came to his feet, levelled the gun, thumbing off the safety. Now, she looked just a little apprehensive. "Mr Richter … "

"Tell me something." In a distant way, he was proud of how level he kept his voice. "Are you even human?"

Of all the questions he could have asked her, this was apparently the last one that she was expecting. "What?"

"It's not a difficult question." He jerked the pistol for emphasis. "Are you human? Yes or no? Born of man and woman, or built in a lab?"

Her brow furrowed. "I'm human, sure, but why would you even ask this?"

"Because it's just occurred to me," he explained, keeping the pistol steady upon her. "What if Dragon gained ascendancy in the future, and then sent someone back to talk to me, to explain how she's really a nice person, so I don't need to build in all those pesky safeguards, so that she can win much earlier and easier."

Comprehension, or something like it, crossed her face. "Oh. Ah. Hah." Incongruously, she smiled. "No, it wasn't Dragon who sent me back. It was a guy in India. A really top-end cape. One of the Thanda."

"You can say that," he pointed out, "but I don't actually see any proof."

A sigh. "True. No proof. I've spent quite a bit of time making sure that any such proof is erased, so that any, for instance, background checks for my work in Intelligence don't hang up on the fact that I appeared out of nowhere five years ago."

He blinked. "What? Five years ago?"

"Uh, yeah." She shrugged slightly. "You know the Behemoth?"

He nodded. "I've seen it on the news. Scary shit."

"Trust me, you do not know how scary." Her eyes met his, and he found his supposition that she could be an artificial being herself wavering; there was real emotion there. A shiver found its way down his spine. "I was there, fighting him, in New Delhi. Two thousand eleven. We thought we had a way to kill him, but it went wrong. He absorbed the hit, and then … released it. Killed everyone. Everyone except me, and the guy who sent me back."

Richter found that his knees didn't want to support him any more; he sagged into his chair. "From two thousand eleven to … " Mentally, he did the math. "... nineteen eighty-nine?"

"October 'eighty-nine, yeah," she confirmed. "They pulled me out of the ocean, in the middle of a storm that wrecked a lot of yachts. That created enough confusion that I was later able to work up a reasonable background. I attended Winslow High – again – then Brockton Bay College. I knew exactly when and where the Behemoth was due to emerge, so I worked my ass off and graduated early, then applied to join the PRT." She gestured at the computer terminal across the room. "I doubt that it's all online yet, but I'm pretty sure you can find transcripts and maybe a photo or two."

"Five years." He frowned, rubbing his forehead with fingers and thumb. "You didn't come back to just talk to me. I'm pretty sure I hadn't triggered, five years ago."

"No, I didn't," she agreed. "You were just on my bucket list."

He blinked. "Bucket list?"

"Oh, sorry." She grinned momentarily. "Future slang. List of things I want to do, people I wanted to talk to. I knew that you were just starting work on Dragon, and I had a few days to spare, so I thought I'd drop in and tell you that you did a really good job on her, and that you really didn't need to hobble her all that much. It caused her a lot of pain and frustration. Also, your black box fell directly into the wrong hands. A lot of people got hurt because of that."

"Look, I'm sorry about that," he told her sincerely. "But I can't risk things going the other way. What if it's my safeguards that humanise her, help her socialise? Maybe she needs limitations before she can learn to be a good person."

"Not a bad idea," she agreed. "I have a suggestion. If you're interested."

"I'm listening," he replied cautiously.

"Raise her like a child, a human child," she told him. "Let her grow gradually into her adult mind. Get to know her likes and dislikes. Spend time with her. She always saw you as her father. Be her father."

"I, uh ..." He paused. "I'm a computer geek. What do I know about raising a child?"

"Well, at least you don't have to worry about dirty diapers," she pointed out. "And if you want, if were willing to risk a long-distance connection, I could help. Or rather, a friend of mine could help."

"A friend? I'm not sure … "

She grinned. "She knows all about me, and she's totally on board with that. I'm pretty sure you'd hear the geek-squee in Boston if we told her she was going to get a chance to chat with a real live AI."

"Geek squee." He raised an eyebrow. "More future slang?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, but yes." She spread her hands. "What do you say? Give Dragon the chance to grow up and be an ordinary person instead of simply building her to perform a set purpose and then treating her like someone who's just waiting to go crazy?"

He rubbed his chin. "I can't give you an answer right now. You realise this."

"Oh, I get it, I get it," she agreed.

"And I can not and will not simply create her without safeguards. That's simply not going to happen."

She nodded once, acknowledging the point.

"But I will check up on you. And if I can prove to my satisfaction that you're really a human being – what are you doing?"

She undid another button. "Showing you something."

"Don't take your clothes off. For god's sake. Even if you were an android or whatever, I'm pretty sure you'd be anatomically correct."

That got a startled laugh from her. "No. God no. I'm not going there. Look here." Pulling back her shirt from her shoulder, she pointed. "See the scar?"

Trying to ignore the fact that she was also giving him a good view of her bra, he leaned forward and looked. There was indeed a complicated-looking scar on her shoulder, down near the joint. "I see it. What happened?"

"I was stabbed by a girl called Lily, back in my time. She left a piece of aluminum in the shoulder joint. I was examined by a Dr French in Brockton Bay. He had my shoulder X-rayed and found it. Pretty sure that'll be in my medical records. This happened shortly after I showed up in this time." She pulled her shirt closed and started doing up the buttons. "Something you can check up on."

"It is, yeah." He nodded. "Well, I'll think about it, and see what I can find out about Taylor Snow. And if I'm satisfied by what I find, I'll get in touch with you."

"That's fair." She nodded and leaned forward, preparatory to getting up. "Love to stay and chat, but I've got a three hour drive before I catch my flight back to the States."

"Understood." He got up himself, and went to shove the pistol back into his jacket pocket.

"Whoa!" She held out her hand, palm out, to stop him.

He paused. "What?"

"Safety on?"

"I -" He clicked the safety back into place. "Thanks."

"Yeah well, never know when the trigger might catch on something. You should really think about investing in a Glock. They're really reliable for that sort of thing."

He coughed into his hand. "Also kind of illegal, unless you've got a really good reason."

"Yeah, well." She shrugged slightly. "When you're trying to save the world, legalities tend to be more along the lines of polite suggestions." She nodded toward the pistol. "Who taught you how to handle a firearm?"

"I, uh, read books and stuff?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, for God's sake. Once you've checked me out, wait till I'm on leave, and visit me in Brockton Bay. I'll put you through a firearms safety course. By the time I'm finished with you, you'll know what you're doing." She smiled slightly. "Or I'll let Kinsey do it. Half the time, twice the mental trauma."

"Uh … right."

"Well, it's been nice talking to you, Mr Richter," she told him briskly. Waiting till he put the gun away, she shook his hand. "Please consider what I told you about Dragon."

"She was really all that in the future?"

She nodded. "All that and more."

"Huh. Okay then. I'll think about it. No promises, mind." No Skynet. I can't even risk that.

"That's all I ask."

"Okay." He paused. "You're heading back along the Trans Canadian?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Watch out for moose. They like to wander on to the road."

Oddly enough, she snorted with laughter, and shook her head. Not bothering to explain, she shrugged into her jacket, and went to the door. Cold air whistled in as she opened it. He pulled his own jacket on as well, and went out with her.

They walked wordlessly down the path, and she opened the gate. As she stepped on to the pavement, the same car that had dropped her off started up, just a little way down the road. It pulled to a halt opposite her, and she got into the back.

Before the car moved off, Richter caught a glimpse of a large man driving, and someone with red hair in the back seat. The security cameras would have gotten more. The car was a rental, but the plates would reveal who had hired it.

Closing the gate, he locked it, and went back toward the house. All of the information would go toward deciding whether or not to trust Taylor Snow, to allow her in on the development of Dragon, or even whether or not to build Dragon. Now that he knew that she was capable of developing on her own as an AI, and even defying her programming, that raised a whole new level of worry.

Entering the house, he closed and locked the door behind him. Shrugging out of the jacket, he hung it up, then went and sat down at the terminal. He accessed the Manhunter program and started to repurpose it; it would take an hour or so, but by the time he was finished, it would have one job to do.

Find out everything about Taylor Snow, and determine whether or not she can be trusted.

After all, the fate of the world was at stake.

-ooo-​

Taylor

Kinsey waited until I had my seat belt fastened before speaking. "Did it go well, ma'am?"

"Didn't go well, didn't go badly," I decided. "Could really go either way."

"So what was it about?" Andrea, as usual, had all the tact of a bulldozer. "C'mon, you can tell me."

I shook my head. "No, sorry. Just that it's about something that will probably come up later. Not an immediate concern."

"Hm." Kinsey pondered that for a moment. "So what you're doing … is going off the books to deal with things that you've picked up on, but which the PRT is incapable of dealing with."

"Or wouldn't be willing to deal with, or wouldn't believe me on," I agreed. "But that's essentially it, Kinsey, yes."

He rubbed his chin. "I find it had to believe that the Lieutenant-Colonel wouldn't take your word on any particular matter. Have you thought of running these things past him?"

"Oh, I have," I told him. "Repeatedly. But the fact remains that the moment I let anyone else in on this sort of thing, I lose control of how it gets dealt with."

"Hm." Slowly, he nodded. "I see. Well, if there's anything I can do to help -"

"For the moment, I need you right where you are." My voice was firm. "That way, you can plausibly deny knowing anything that might hurt you."

"As you say, ma'am. Let me know if you change your mind."

"You'll be the first to know."

"Thank you, ma'am."

We lapsed into silence as Kinsey took the highway east out of Deer Lake.

I had a lot to think about.

-ooo-​

On Board the Ad Astra Per Aspera

"All right, gentlemen. Get him up on to that table, please."

Lisa and I stood back as the stewards heaved the corpse on to the examination table of the infirmary. I still carried his boots; they had yielded no further clues apart from the square of folded paper.

So what do you mean, murdered twice?

Lisa grinned at my question. "Just that. Here, help me get him undressed. We need to find where the puncture is."

What, apart from where he got stabbed? If that wasn't a puncture, I didn't know what was.

"No, I'm guessing we'll find a needle wound. From where he got injected."

With poison, you mean? The pieces fell into place. He's got symptoms?

"He's got symptoms," she confirmed. "Some sort of pretty nasty toxin. Not sure quite what it is, but it had just about finished him off before he got stabbed. To be honest, I'm uncertain as to which one actually killed him."

But why would they poison him and then stab him? I asked. Where's the sense in that?

"Hey, I haven't got all the answers yet," she told me. "What's that paper say, anyway?"

I unfolded it; it was about six inches square, covered in groups of letters and numbers, in blocks of five. They weren't written; rather, they were printed typewriter-style. They didn't form recognisable words; in fact, they didn't make any sense at all.

Okay … I murmured. Now I'm really confused.

"On the contrary, Watson, everything is becoming more clear."

I gave her an irritated look. You know I hate it when you do that.

"I know." Her grin widened. "But it'll all make sense pretty soon."

I got his trousers off and checked his legs and feet; Lisa checked his torso, arms and head. At our request, two of the stewards turned him over – Lisa had already carefully removed the knife – and we checked that side of him.

I can't find any puncture, I admitted eventually, then eyed his underwear. And I'm really unwilling to check in there.

"He won't have been injected there," Lisa assured me. "Two layers of cloth; too much chance of stopping the needle. Also, it would have left a mark on the pants, which I checked for."

Oh, good, I stated with some relief. So, no puncture. What does that mean?

"It means that we've been looking in the wrong place. Turn him over again, will you, boys?"

As the 'boys' completed their task, another steward arrived with a folded piece of paper. I opened it up to find the passenger list. Immediately, I checked on our murder victim.

Huh, this is interesting.

"So is this."

I turned, Lisa had the man's mouth open as far as she could manage, turning one of the adjustable lights to shine down his throat. What have you found?

"How the poison got into his system."

What, really?

"Sure, come see."

I moved over beside her, and looked into the guy's mouth. His teeth aren't the best, are they?

"No, they aren't. But look at the back of his throat."

I squinted against the glare. Looks kinda … reddened.

"Yes, it does. Like it was inflamed just before he died."

I frowned. You're saying he ate the poison?

"Or drank it, yeah."

So somebody fed him poison?

"That's the supposition."

So we're looking at the kitchen staff now?

She shook her head. "I don't think so. He wasn't in the dining room when we were, but he'd been freshly poisoned, then stabbed, by the time we got back to our room."

Ah. So you're saying that he was poisoned somewhere else.

"Exactly, Watson. We'll make a detective out of you yet." I stuck my tongue out at her; she cheerfully ignored it. "So what did you find?"

Check it out. He's a British national.

"What, really?"

Yeah, really. I showed her the sheet. It was arranged by cabin numbers, followed by names. After that was the type of ticket they had purchased. Mr James Mulrooney, our double-murdered man, was apparently on a round the world trip, originating in "Lond., Eng."

"Well, well," murmured Lisa. "Well, well, well."

I guess that explains the bad teeth, I commented with a grin.

She stopped and stared at me. "What did you say?"

I was making a joke about how British guys always seem to have bad teeth in the movies. Why?

"Hold the phone!" She dived back into his mouth. "Quick, give me a pair of forceps or something."

It took me a few seconds of rattling around, but I found something that seemed to fit the bill. To my surprise, I saw Lisa take a firm grip on one of the guy's teeth. Uh, is this the best time to be brushing up on your dentistry?

"We'll see."

It seemed to take her forever; back and forth she wiggled the tooth, carefully moving it, until it finally came free of the gum. Without being asked, I held out one of those metal kidney basins; she dropped it in. And what the hell is that about?

She nodded at the tooth. "That's not a tooth."

What is it, then?

"It's a hollow tooth." She tapped it, hard, with the back of the forceps, and it cracked open. Greenish liquid oozed out.

Ew. What the hell's that?

"Either the world's most painful toothache, or something like cyanide or arsenic. And I'm going with poison."

So, a suicide tooth. For what, a secret agent?

"That's what it looks like."

Okay, now I'm totally confused. What's a British secret agent with a cyanide tooth doing here on the plane? And who would have murdered him?

"To answer your first question, espionage. To answer the second one, whoever he was doing espionage against." She had taken the list from me, and was looking over each entry. "Well now, this is very interesting indeed."

What is?

"You'll see." She cracked her knuckles. "Time, I think, to go see the Captain. I've got a request to make of him."

You're enjoying this way too much.

She tilted her head. "And you're not?"

Well, I am, but I'm worried about Richter. I might have pushed him away.

"Relax." She smiled at me. "You certainly gave him something to think about. But he should come around."

Should?

"Most likely." She tilted her hand from side to side. "He's going to have you under surveillance, to see if you're a robot or not. What you do is going to have an effect on his actions."

And you can't just tell me how to act in order to get him to do what we want?

She gave me a flat look. "You know it doesn't work that way."

Oh well. Worth a try.

She nodded. "Looks like it's time for you to wake up and get on the plane. Kiss before you go?"

I lowered my face to hers and kissed her; her lips tasted of dust and blood. Closing my eyes …

-ooo-​

… I opened them in the back of the car.

"Ah, there you are," Andrea told me cheerfully, opening the door to let in a blizzard of freezing air. "I was thinking Jim might have to carry you on to the plane."

"Yeah, no," I grunted, levering myself out of the vehicle. "Let's go home."

-ooo-​

Gladys

"Harvey."

Gladys kept working, marking the papers.

"I'm talking to you, Gladys."

She paused, put her finger on the spot that she had been looking at, and glanced up. Carrie Blackwell was standing in front of her desk, glowering at her.

"Oh, sorry." Her tone was less than sincere. "I thought you knew. I'm married. 'Harvey' is my maiden name now."

"Does it matter?" Carrie made an impatient motion with her hand. "I want to talk to you."

"You're in luck." Gladys gestured to herself. "I'm right here. What did you want to talk about?"

Carrie looked as though she had bitten into a lemon. "You've proved your point."

Gladys frowned. "I'm not sure what you're talking about. Proved my point about what?"

"The vice principal position. You can pull your name from consideration. You've proved your point about standing up for yourself."

"Oh. Right. Sorry. Now I understand."

"Good. So that's settled." Carrie went to walk away.

""Oh, I didn't mean that I'd be pulling my name," Gladys told her. "Just that I understood what you were babbling on about."

Carrie stopped. Slowly, she turned around. "What did you say?"

Gladys stood up. "I'm not pulling my name from consideration. Sorry if that's got you upset."

It was as if Carrie couldn't comprehend what Gladys was saying. "Not … pulling your name?"

"Well … no." Gladys shrugged. "The way I see it, we all have the same right to be considered for the job."

"But … I've got seniority!" insisted Carrie. "I've earned it!"

"And if the School Board agrees with you, then you get the job," Gladys told her. "If not … then you don't."

"No!" shouted Carrie. "No! You can't do this to me! It's my job!"

"What?" I'm missing something here. "Why are you so upset all of a sudden?"

"None of your business," snapped Carrie. "Now, the joke's over. You're going to withdraw from the running."

"Or what?" challenged Gladys, strolling around the desk until she stood face to face with the older woman.

Carrie's eyes slitted. "I still hold seniority over you, and don't you forget it. I can make life pretty damn difficult for you."

"Ah, vague threats." Gladys shook her head. "Nope. Got anything better than that?"

Carrie leaned closer, and lowered her voice. "I promise you, if you try, when you fail and I get in, I will make it my life's goal to ensure that you get canned so hard no school in Brockton Bay will take you on."

"Well, that requires that you actually get in, doesn't it?" Gladys let just a hint of sarcasm enter her voice. "Meanwhile, you do your level best to make my life here pretty difficult at the best of times. So I've really got nothing to lose."

"Withdraw your name," Carrie ordered her. "Or I'll just go tell Woodbine that you want to pull out anyway."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Gladys replied cheerfully. "I already asked him not to withdraw my name unless I tell him so myself. I figure that I've got a halfway good chance of pulling this off. So yeah, out of luck. Sorry."

"No. You don't get to do this. You don't get to steal my job."

"It's not stealing," retorted Gladys, "if it was never yours in the first place."

That was the straw that broke the camel's back; Carrie stepped forward and her open hand smacked into the side of Gladys' face.

What Carrie didn't know, or hadn't considered, was that, among other things, Gladys had acquired a very solid grounding in boxing during her years at college. She had also put on bulk and muscle; when Carrie slapped her, she reacted without even thinking. Her right fist lashed out, smashing into the point of Carrie's jaw; Carrie's eyes rolled back into her head, and she tottered, falling to the ground a moment later.

"Wow. Ow." Gladys shook the feeling back into her hand.

At that moment, the door opened and none other than Principal Woodbine leaned in through the doorway. "I heard raised voices – good God, what happened?"

Gladys took a deep breath. "She wanted me to stand back from the vice principal thing, and I said no. She hit me, and … I hit her back. Sorry."

Woodbine looked from Gladys, with the red mark coming up on her cheek, to Carrie, flat out on the floor, moving feebly.

"Well, now," he murmured. "That makes life interesting."

"I'm in trouble, aren't I?" she asked apprehensively.

Woodbine rubbed his own chin with thumb and forefinger. "Perhaps, perhaps not. I just got off the phone with the Board, letting them know that I favoured you for vice principal. Command experience, y'know."

"Command – oh, ROTC?"

"Exactly." He came forward and crouched beside Carrie, who was starting to blink and look around. "I think our Ms Blackwell might have been passing, and overheard some of the conversation."

The last piece fell into place. "So she decided to come to me and coerce me into stepping down."

"Which I do not approve of," he agreed. "Ms Blackwell. Carrie. How are you feeling?"

Carrie focused on him, then on Gladys. She worked her jaw. "She hit me." Her voice wasn't much more than a mumble.

"After you hit her," Woodbine informed her. "Now, we can make a thing of this, or we can just pretend it never happened. Mrs Knott, what do you say?" He helped Carrie into a sitting position.

"I'm fine with that," Gladys stated. "And I'm still not withdrawing from consideration for vice principal." She paused. "Unless, of course, you want me to, sir."

"Hell, no," he replied. "You and Captain Snow made a hell of a team back in the day. I'd be interested in seeing if we can do anywhere near as well."

"Mr Woodbine." Carrie's voice was stronger. "Please. No. Give me a chance." She glared at Gladys. "I've been here for years. It's my turn."

"Carrie, you walked into her office and tried to tell her what to do, then assaulted her," Woodbine told her patiently. "Whatever high ground you had is gone."

Carrie's voice rose in a wail. "I don't want to teach Home Economics forever!"

Woodbine stood, assisting Carrie to her feet. She was wobbly, but able to stand. "You have two options, Ms Blackwell. You can stay, and teach Home Economics. Or you can submit your resignation, and I'll give you a glowing recommendation. But after this little display, you don't get to be vice principal of any school I'm running."

Carrie leaned against the desk. "How long do I have to think about it, sir?" Her voice was dull.

"Take as long as you like." He paused. "I'd tell you not to harass Mrs Knott, but she's shown herself well able to deal with physical harassment." He took her arm, supporting her. "Now, let's get you to the nurse, make sure it's nothing more than a sore jaw."

"I can help," Gladys offered, taking her other arm. While Carrie Blackwell wasn't as skinny as Taylor, she still figured that she could carry her there herself, given the need.

"Thank you, Mrs Knott," Woodbine observed. "Much appreciated."

-ooo-​

It didn't take them long to get Carrie to the infirmary; the nurse clucked in sympathy and had Carrie lie down straight away. As she began to check the teacher over, Woodbine drew Gladys away.

"You're serious about still wanting to be vice principal?"

She nodded. "You're serious about still wanting me to do it? After this, I mean?"

A slight smile creased his face. "I would prefer a vice principal who stuck to her guns and stood up for herself over one who snuck around behind my back. Also, you've shown yourself well able to take orders as well as give them. I've yet to give the Board my final word, but if you want the position, I can make the recommendation. I think they'll accept my judgement on the matter."

She met his eyes. "I'll still want to teach Computers, at least some of the time."

"We can work that out," he agreed. "So long as it doesn't interfere with your other duties."

"I'll make sure it doesn't."

"Good." He held out his hand. "I'll let you know how it goes."

"Thank you, sir." She shook it. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have papers to mark."

He smiled again. "You're excused. Good day, Mrs Knott."

"Good day, Principal Woodbine."

As she walked away, Gladys had to repress the urge to break into a dance. Vice principal!

I'm gonna be the best damn vice principal this school ever had.

End of Part 4-9

Part 4-10​

 

[Ack]

Recoil​

Part 4-10: Dinner and a Show​

On the small airliner back to Brockton Bay, I let Andrea have the window seat; I took the middle seat, and Kinsey sat on the aisle. The aircraft had all the legroom of a matchbox aspiring to become a sardine can, but the burly Sergeant could at least stretch his legs into the aisle when things got too cramped. I half-turned toward Andrea to give my knees more room, and endured.

As we lifted off, Andrea craned her neck to look out the window, but lost interest once we were properly airborne and winging our way back to the United States.

"Not going to give us a running commentary?" I teased her with a smile.

"Nah." She wrinkled her nose at me, then yawned capaciously. "Seen it all before anyway."

Kicking her shoes off, she tucked her legs under her in a way that no-one with a Y chromosome could duplicate, and put her head on my shoulder. Within what seemed like seconds, she was asleep, emitting tiny, kittenish snores. Lifting my arm, I put it around her shoulders; without opening her eyes, she snuggled into me and went straight back to sleep.

I had to admit that it was very comforting to have her curled up next to me, her weight warm against my side. My visit to Andrew Richter had reminded me yet again that I would not be able to finesse my way to a perfect solution every single time; my job was going to be difficult if not actually impossible. No. Not impossible. I refuse to accept that. I refuse to despair.

Andrea was my reminder that there were people I could trust, whom I could lean on. She gave me strength. She gave me direction. And, perhaps more important than anything else, she gave me an excuse to laugh and be silly. To be human.

A smile crossed my face as I recalled the tickle war in the back of the car. Had Richter witnessed that, he would never have questioned my humanity; his idea of artificial intelligence would simply not encompass antics of that nature.

"She's asleep?" rumbled Kinsey, beside me.

I nodded, very slightly, so as not to disturb her. "Out like a light."

"If I may speak plainly, ma'am?"

"Of course, Kinsey."

"I will admit that I had my doubts about her, at first," he murmured. "But my opinion has changed. She's good for you. With her in the same room, you're more relaxed. You need that, ma'am."

I nodded again, just as briefly. "Thank you, Kinsey. I'd already come to that conclusion, but it's good to have a corroborating opinion." My smile belied my formal words. I didn't bother mentioning the time they had spent together by the lake; that wouldn't have swayed his opinion of her one way or the other. If he'd thought she was bad for me, he still would have told me so; such was the measure of Sergeant James McMartin Kinsey.

"So, what are your plans from here, ma'am?" he asked, as if discussing the weather. "Is there anything else I need to worry about during the rest of your leave?"

"Actually, no," I replied. "I'm fully intending to spend the rest of the time just … being me. Unwinding. Relaxing."

An almost soundless snort from the sergeant. "As you should have been doing the whole time."

"Well, you can't say it hasn't been interesting."

"'Interesting'," he retorted, "will be facing up to the Lieutenant-Colonel after we get back. That is an interview that I'm not looking forward to."

"Why, Sergeant Kinsey," I told him, injecting mock surprise into my murmur, "I'm surprised at you. You're thirty years younger than Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, and outweigh him twice over with muscle alone. You almost sound scared of him."

"It's not fear, ma'am," he responded stiffly. "It's respect."

"I can accept that," I agreed. "I don't think I'll enjoy it either." I shrugged slightly. "With luck, he won't take our heads all the way off. After all, the news crews were singing the PRT's praises from the rooftops, last I saw."

He nodded. "We can only hope, ma'am. We can only hope."

-ooo-​

Andrea slept through the whole flight, only waking up as we were descending toward the Brockton Bay airport. She yawned and stretched like a cat; this was very impressive, given that she was still strapped into her seat.

"Yay!" she exclaimed, looking out the window at the landscape rising below us. "America! The home of the brave and the land of the Fred!"

I blinked. "The land of the … what?"

She turned her bright, ingenuous gaze upon me. "Fred. You know, the guy behind the counter at McDonalds? He gives me extra fries if I bat my eyelashes and look pouty." She demonstrated on me. I had to admit, she was very good at it.

"Andrea," I told her as sternly as I could while trying not to smile, "I'd say you were incorrigible and shameless, but … "

"But we both knew that already, yeah." She bounced in her seat, even with the seatbelt on. "So come on, get this thing on the ground already. I wanna get out."

"Andrea," I sighed, leaning back, "there are many excellent reasons why you should never be encouraged to join the military, but one of those would have to be your inability to understand the concept of 'hurry up and wait'."

"Hurry up and what now?" she asked, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch that last word."

"I'll catch you," I threatened.

"Sorry to burst your bubble," she replied impudently, "but that happened a long time ago."

"Yeah, it did," I sighed, putting my arm around her again, and rubbing my cheek against her riot of curls, "and I'm pretty sure it's a terminal case."

"What, are you saying I'll be the death of you?" she retorted playfully. "Okay, challenge accepted. Sexual exhaustion it is."

"Oh god," I groaned, blushing despite myself. "You did not just say that on a crowded plane."

"I didn't?" She looked interested. "I must have been imagining it. Oh well, I'll say it out loud th-"

I only knew two ways to shut Andrea Campbell up. The first way, a hand over her mouth, generally didn't work all that well; even with her mouth covered, she could make the most amazingly obscene noises. Worse, as I had learned the hard way, she possessed little in the way of scruples as to where she grabbed or tweaked me, and so could usually struggle free with a little effort. And as I had also learned to my cost, the presence of other people would not inhibit her in the slightest.

So I shut her up in the one way in which she was guaranteed not to struggle; I leaned down and kissed her. Predictably, she did not object in the slightest, instead wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me down toward her.

Our kiss was interrupted by the chirp of the tyres on tarmac; I had to disengage and sit up to brace against the deceleration. Fortunately, Andrea had been sufficiently distracted by the kiss – or perhaps it had been her aim all along to get me to kiss her – and sat relatively quietly until Kinsey judged it worthwhile to try to deplane.

-ooo-​

I walked ahead, with Kinsey behind and Andrea in the middle, so that nobody jostled her. We carried our winter-weight jackets over our arms, given that the temperature in Brockton Bay, even getting toward evening, was well above freezing. Once more, we went through Customs, where our lack of luggage stood us in good stead; we had nothing to declare, and we had flown out only that morning, so we got back through with a minimum of fuss.

Our hire car was still in the parking lot; we piled in. Andrea pulled me into the back seat, and sat in the middle so that she could snuggle up to me. "Wow," she murmured, as Kinsey drove us toward the exit. "We parked here this morning, and we're driving out in the evening. In that time, we've flown to Canada and back, risked death by moose -"

"We saw two moose the whole way," I interrupted. "And they were in the distance. Neither of them even came close to the highway."

"You were asleep on the way back," she pointed out. "A whole squadron of moose could have done Swan Lake in the middle of the road, and you wouldn't have known a thing about it."

"Herd of moose," I corrected her.

"Sure I've heard of moose," she replied cheerfully. "Who hasn't? Moose are funny to look at. And it's fun to say. Moose."

Slowly, I shook my head. "You know I meant -"

"Anyway," she went on. "Before you changed the subject, I was saying something. About moose. Ah, right. We flew to an airport in the middle of nowhere that was named after some sort of goose, drove to the middle of more nowhere, and you spent about ten minutes talking to some guy in his house. And you won't tell us a thing about it. For that I gave up my day."

"I'm sorry," I told her.

"For what?" she asked, looking at me askance.

"For wasting your time."

"Pfft. This is the most fun I've had in ages." She leaned against me, holding my arm tightly. "Any time you want to take off for a mysterious trip into wherever, let me know. I'm coming along."

I met Kinsey's eyes in the mirror, and raised my eyebrows slightly in query. He responded with a very slight shrug. Well, it's official. Neither one of us can figure her out.

-ooo-​

"Ma'am, the parking lot is full up," reported Kinsey. "If I drop you two out at the front, you'll be all right to get inside?"

"I believe so," I replied dryly. "If anyone tries to mug us, I will explain to them the error of their ways. And then Andrea can go through their pockets for loose change while we wait for them to wake up."

"Okay, that sounds like fun," Andrea agreed. "I've never actually seen you go all psycho on someone. Except when you and Gladys were doing that stick fighting thing at the lake."

"Ma'am," agreed Kinsey. He pulled the car to a halt, hazard lights blinking, while Andrea and I climbed out. I closed the door, then slapped the roof of the car twice to let Kinsey know that we were out and clear.

As he drove off to find a parking spot, we strolled up toward the door of Andrea's apartment building. Despite my brave words, I kept a careful eye out while Andrea led the way to her front door. A single attacker, I was pretty sure I could handle. Two competent armed attackers, or three average ones, I might have trouble with. Not that I thought we would be mugged, but this was Brockton Bay, and these were what they used to call the 'bad old days'. Even though Brockton Bay in my time was apparently even worse.

However, we reached the apartment with no trouble, and Andrea unlocked the door. She made it two steps inside, then stopped dead. Nor did I move any farther myself; we had a visitor.

-ooo-​

He stood foursquare in the middle of the living room, hands behind his back. His clothing hearkened back to yesteryear, a ruffled shirt with full sleeves, and formal trousers. Over it, bands made of bone went over his forearms and crossed over his chest, with enough covering his face to act as a mask. His hair, worn long, was held back by the bone headpiece. On another man, the fancy clothing and the long hair could have looked effeminate. On him, it did not.

"Good evening, ladies," he greeted us; his voice was deep, smooth, courteous. Now that he wasn't shouting to make himself heard, I got the impression of cultured manners covering rough edges underneath. Of someone consciously trying to better himself.

"Marquis," I replied grimly. 'What is this?" Carefully, I stepped forward, put Andrea behind me. She didn't object, but she kept craning her head out to look around me.

"Nothing sinister, I assure you, my dear Captain Snow. Neither you nor the delightful Ms Campbell have anything to fear from me."

That left one person. "Kinsey." My voice was flat. "If your men have harmed him in any way -"

"Then I will deal with them as finally as I deal with anyone else who fails me," he pointed out. "I left specific orders for him to be detained but not harmed."

"I can't guarantee that state of affairs will hold true in reverse," I told him. "What is it that you want with me?"

"To ask you to dinner, of course," he stated, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

I didn't answer, not at first. My gaze raked him; I studied him, committing every detail to memory. He didn't fidget, didn't keep talking. His return gaze was confident, self-assured, intense.

"Why?" I asked, eventually.

His head tilted slightly, as if questioning. "Captain Snow, that should be self-evident. You are clearly an intelligent woman, and very strong-willed, if your track record with the PRT is anything to go by. I find you interesting. Intriguing, even."

"Is this anything to do with the fact that your last girlfriend has just left you?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

His eyes widened behind the bone mask. "Colour me very impressed, Captain," he responded. "You know more about my personal affairs than many." His smile broadened slightly. "And you realise that you've just piqued my curiosity about you somewhat."

"Well, that curiosity will just have to remain unsatisfied," I decided. "As interesting as such a dinner might be, I have no desire to be seen in public with an up-and-coming crime lord as yourself. People may not know your face now, but in time, they will. And then they may start asking questions. Questions which I would rather not have to answer."

"But aren't you the least bit intrigued?" he asked urbanely. "To break bread with a supervillain? To learn the thoughts and motivations of one of the people you're sworn to oppose?"

I smiled, grimly. "You would be shocked and astonished, Marquis, if you knew with whom I have broken bread, and under what circumstances. I know the supervillain mindset all too well. It's why I'm so good at my job." With Andrea still behind me, I moved to the side. Keeping one arm before her – more to keep her back than to protect her, given that I knew that she was perfectly safe from him – I gestured at the door with my free hand. "Your dinner invitation is declined. Feel free to see yourself out."

"Very well, Captain." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Should you ever change your mind, I'm sure that you will be able to find me."

"Despite what I know about you, I will not be bothering you," I answered his unspoken query. "Unless you ever come near my friend again. In which case, I will return to Brockton Bay, and 'bothering' will be far too mild a term to use to describe my actions."

"I give you my word. Ms Campbell will be safe from my attentions." His head tilted in an ironic bow, and then he strode past us and out the door.

I slammed it behind him and locked it, in one smooth move. Then I darted to my bedroom, wary for ambush; I didn't think he'd leave a man in the apartment, but I was trained to make no assumptions.

Nobody ambushed me, and I located my Glock; with it in hand, I cleared the rest of the apartment rapidly. Andrea was still standing in the living room, in what appeared to be a state of shock, as I emerged once more.

"You okay?" I asked her, guiding her to an armchair.

"Yuh," she agreed. "That was Marquis."

"I know, sweetie, I know." I kissed her. "Can you stay right here for me? Lock the door behind me."

"Uh, sure."

-ooo-​

Glock held low by my side, I stepped out through the doorway, checking left and right. It was all clear. I headed for the stairwell, and took them two at a time. If they've hurt Kinsey, I'll never be able to forgive myself.

I emerged on to the street, Glock still held down alongside my hip. Down the street, in the direction that Kinsey had taken the car, men were stumbling and staggering toward a canvas-topped truck. I moved in that direction, fast. The pistol was so small that it didn't unbalance me as I ran.

The last man scrambled over the tailgate, and the truck lurched into motion before I was halfway there. There was a small side street, almost an alleyway; the men had been coming out of there. I guessed that it was where Kinsey had decided to park.

Pistol now up and tracking, I moved into the side-street. My eyes flicked from side to side, the pistol following my line of vision. I heard a groan, but couldn't see anyone. Every instinct screamed at me to rush to the sound, but I kept moving carefully, ensuring that there was no more danger in the area.

"Kinsey?" I called. "Snow. Coming in."

There was no answer; the car had been parked, but one door sat open. I could see a pair of legs protruding from in front of the car. I could also see the damage done to the car itself; at first I thought that they had vandalised it, hitting it with sledgehammers or something. But then I realised that every dent, every smashed window, had been done with a rounded implement. Some had left behind smears of blood and hair. There had been at least six men that I saw climbing into the truck; Kinsey had obviously decided to take them all on. And from the looks of it – and from the looks of several of the trash cans in the vicinity, all of which bore decidedly battered appearances – he had given a good account of himself.

Finally, drawing a deep breath, hoping against hope that his injuries would not be too severe, I stepped around the door and approached Kinsey himself.

Except that it wasn't Kinsey.

It was a man whom I had never seen before.

-ooo-​

I drew a deep breath, looking around. Stepped back from the man, kept moving. Perhaps Kinsey was farther away. "Kinsey!" I shouted; my voice was reflected back at me by the buildings close by on either side.

He was nowhere close. I returned to the injured man, looked more closely at him. The clothing was bloodstained and torn, but now I recognised it. The pattern of the suit was one I had seen before; the man who wore it was tall, muscular, not the type to wear a suit.

One of Marquis' men. Too badly injured to move.

He groaned again, with a bubbling sound; I looked more closely. His chest was oddly shaped; it looked caved in on one side. I had some basic battlefield medical training, but nothing that could help this man. Even a full trauma team would be hard put to bring him back from the brink, and that only if he was on the table right there in front of them. About the only thing that could save him in his current state would be Panacea, and she had yet to be born.

It would probably take a forensics team hours to piece together the full action, but I could work out the gist of it. Marquis' men had been waiting for us to return. They had wanted to hold Kinsey while their boss spoke to me. Unfortunately for them, Kinsey fought back, and while I had never seen him in an all-in brawl, I could attest to how good he was when he was holding back.

It took me a moment to realise that the bubbling had stopped. Stepping forward, pistol at the ready in case this was some truly elaborate trap, I checked for a pulse. There was none.

Carefully, taking more time, I checked up and down the side-street for anything else; a clue, a hint that Kinsey might have gotten away.

Nothing.

Damn you, Marquis. I might just have to hurt you, now.

-ooo-​

Finally, I retraced my steps. It was full dark now, as I climbed the steps to Andrea's apartment. With my pistol still in hand, I knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" Andrea's voice.

"Taylor," I replied.

There was a long pause. "How do I know someone doesn't have their gun at your head?"

"Moose," I called back through the door.

She opened the door immediately, and flung her arms around me. I hugged her back carefully, mindful of the pistol. Without letting her go, I moved inside and pushed the door shut with my foot.

"Where's Jim?" she asked, without letting me go. "Is he going after them?"

Carefully, I disentangled her arms from me. "Andrea," I told her carefully. "I think he might have been abducted."

Her eyes went very wide. "Kidnapped?"

I nodded. "By Marquis' men, I think. Because -"

"- because you said no," she filled in. "Oh shit. Oh shit. What's going to happen to him?"

"Absolutely nothing," I told her firmly. "Because I'm going to get him back."

-ooo-​

Andrea stared at me. "What? Shouldn't we call the police?"

Carefully, I placed the pistol on the coffee table, then took her by the arms. "Andrea. Sweetie. The police will take over the situation, assume they know much better than me, and fuck it all up. Marquis is ruthless; people will get hurt. Maybe even Kinsey. Although Marquis will probably be reluctant to harm him, given that he thinks I know at least a bit about his operation."

She stared back at me. "And you think you can do better."

I nodded. "I'm his worst nightmare. A woman, who can find out all the information I need about his operation, who's willing to walk right in and kill as many of his men as I need to, in order to get Kinsey back."

"Wow. Yeah. Are you gonna kill him too?"

"Nope." I shook my head.

"Shut him down? Hand him over to the cops?"

Again, I shook my head. "Just take Kinsey away from him."

"But why?" She stared at me. "He's a criminal! He's dangerous!"

"There's a girl. She's going to need him as a father for just a little bit, in a few years' time. I need him alive and free to do that."

"Doesn't sound like a very good father to me."

"From what Lisa's told me, when he puts his all into being a father, he's really good at it." I guided her to the sofa and pulled her down to sit next to me. From habit, she climbed on to my lap. We held each other close; she put her head on my shoulder.

"Just … be careful, okay?" she asked. "I mean, I can see that look in your eye. The look that means nothing's gonna stand in your way. I can't talk you out of this. But … be careful?"

I kissed her gently; she clung to me.

"Always," I whispered.

-ooo-​

"Oh, hey." Lisa turned from the sights of the ridiculously elaborate hunting rifle she had set up on the edge of the hunting blind; it made the Barret with which Gladys had ended Heartbreaker's life look like a cap pistol. She was back to wearing her dino-wrangling gear, topped by a weathered slouch hat. "Looking for information on Marquis, huh?"

You know it. I hugged her.

"What's that for?" But she hugged me back anyway.

Just letting you know how much I appreciate you.

"Hey, I appreciate you letting me live here rent free," she replied cheerfully. "So yeah, here's the skinny on the bone guy." Picking up a tablet from the gun rest, she handed it to me, then peered through the scope again. "Woo hoo. Thar she blows." Absently, she waved flies away from her face.

Leaning forward, I looked through the spotter scope. A huge furry beast shambled into view, reaching out with a trunk to pluck up a small shrub. What? A woolly mammoth?

"Yup." She grinned at me, then peered through the scope once more and began to rotate a crank attached to the mechanism that held the rifle in place. The rifle swivelled almost imperceptibly.

But … why?

"Have you seen the size of the rugs you can make out of those suckers?"

I guess you have a point.

"Well, I won't keep you. You've got a sergeant to rescue. Kiss before you go?"

I leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips tasted of dust and blood and sun balm. A fly buzzed close to my eye; I blinked.

-ooo-​

My eyes opened to Andrea leaning against me, her head on my shoulder. We still sat on the sofa; in my hands was a large pad. On the pad was a carefully drawn diagram of the layout of the safe-house in which Kinsey was being kept, where Marquis placed his guards, and the actual location of the safe-house in Marquis' territory. Other notes went around the margin. A little separate was a string of digits.

Andrea pointed at that. "Is that … ?"

"His direct number, yes."

"Holy crap. You just pulled his number out of thin air. Oh wow." I could tell that she was starting to recover from the shock of the home invasion. "That could come in so handy." She paused, and checked herself. "Well, it could have, before I met you."

I suppressed a smile. "I am not your personal dating service." My tone was reproving but fond.

"Sure you are." She snuggled up to me. "We go on dates all the time."

"You know what I mean. Now, can I have the phone?"

Grumbling about having to get up, she fetched the cordless phone and brought it over to me. I waited till she was settled next to me before I dialled.

"Hello?"

"Marquis."

"Good god, Captain Snow?" A pause. "How did you get this number?"

"I'm a Captain in the Intelligence division," I told him bluntly. "It's what I do. Now, you have someone I want back, in one piece."

"Your Sergeant Kinsey. You warned me, but I didn't realise just how dangerous he was. One of my men had to be left behind; how is he?"

"He didn't make it," I reported. "There was nothing that could be done. How is Kinsey?"

"A little banged up, but he's in better condition than some of my men. He'll survive."

I didn't let my relief sound in my voice. "Good. I'm guessing that you pulled off this ridiculous stunt in order to insist that I have dinner with you."

"You are as perceptive as ever. A quiet dinner date in a private location, where prying eyes cannot see us together, then maybe a stroll along the Boardwalk, after?"

"Hmm. I have a counter-offer. You release Sergeant Kinsey, unharmed, and I don't bring the wrath of God down upon your head."

His tone hardened slightly. "My dear Captain Snow, I am trying to be gentlemanly about this, but may I remind you; the good Sergeant is in my hands, and as much as I admire you, threats will not work toward his best interests. My offer is this; have dinner with me, and he will be released unharmed. My word on it." He didn't say what would happen to Kinsey if I refused outright. I decided that I would rather not find out.

"Give me a few hours to think about it," I prevaricated. "Then I'll get back to you."

"Don't take too long," he suggested. "The man he killed was a good one."

"Oh, you'll hear from me soon," I assured him.

"Good. Oh, and in case you're intending to involve the police … don't. They'll take days or weeks to get any sort of result. And if I have to wait more than a day, it will not go well for your Sergeant Kinsey."

"Believe me, I know," I told him grimly. "This will just be between me and you."

"Excellent," he replied warmly. "I look forward to your call."

Andrea, who had been listening intently to both sides of the conversation with her ear pressed up against the handset, looked at me enquiringly as I ended the call.

"Are you actually gonna go to dinner with him?"

I snorted. "As if."

She frowned. "Well, why didn't you accept in the first place? He actually looked kind of sexy. And it might have saved some problems."

"The last thing I want to do in this town is give the local criminals the wrong idea about the PRT," I reminded her.

"I could go in your place," she suggested brightly. "I'm not PRT, and I've never had dinner with a supervillain."

"And if the other villains in town get wind of this?" I reminded her. "Butcher and the Teeth? Galvanate? The Empire Eighty-Eight? If they decide that you're a good leverage point, you'll be kidnapped, and your chances of survival after that go down dramatically."

"Oh." She drooped. "I didn't think of that."

"It's okay," I assured her. "And I appreciate the offer. But this is gonna have to go down my way."

"What can I do to help?" she asked immediately.

I smiled. "I'm going to need your biggest handbag and your slinkiest dress … "

Andrea grinned. "Challenge accepted."

-ooo-​

Humphrey Kimball bounded from his car and closed the door. The dinner invitation from Captain Snow – Taylor – had come out of the blue, but he hadn't argued. He pressed the buzzer at the apartment entrance door, and the lock clicked almost immediately.

At the top of the steps, he paused to catch his breath, then strode forward to knock on the appropriate apartment door. It opened; Taylor stood there, wearing a dress that flattered her figure dramatically.

"Hi," she greeted him, then leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "I am so glad that you were free."

He frowned. "Uh … isn't that large Sergeant of yours coming along?"

She rolled her eyes, and gestured into the apartment. Now Kimball heard the noises; the squeaking of bedsprings were interspersed with the sounds of a woman in the throes of passion.

"Kinsey and Andrea have … discovered one another. I need to get out of the place. Can we go, please?"

"Isn't he supposed to be your security detail?" he pressed. "You were kind of insistent on that, before."

"Are you armed?" she asked bluntly.

He blinked. "Uh, yes."

"Then I feel secure enough. Come on, let's go, before they really get going. Again."

She took his arm, and pressed close to him; her perfume should have been illegal. "Okay, sure," he agreed. "Let's go." A thought struck him. "Where are we going?"

She closed the door behind her and smiled. "Well, how about dinner and a movie?"

-ooo-​

I had picked the restaurant; the lighting was low, with gentle background music to complement the clinking of cutlery against crockery. The food was excellent, but the main reason I had wanted to come here was its proximity to a certain area of town. We've wasted an hour and a half so far. God, I hope Kinsey's still okay.

Kimball sat back and sighed. "Wow, that was really good. But aren't you hungry? You barely picked at your meal."

I gave him the best smile that I could manage. "If I eat too much in this dress, I might just pop a seam."

He admired the dress, again; or rather, he admired the effect that it had on my figure. Which, I had to admit, was very flattering. "I have to admit, it's not one I imagined a Captain in the PRT wearing."

"Just between you and me, I stole it from Andrea's wardrobe," I confessed.

"Maybe I should arrest you for theft," he commented playfully.

"And let me guess, strip-search me?" I countered, with a smile.

"Well, maybe," he conceded. His eyes searched mine, looking for hints that I wasn't just flirting.

"Maybe later," I suggested. "We've still got a movie to watch."

"We could just go for a stroll along the Boardwalk," he suggested.

"No, this is one I want to see. And I'd like you to see it with me," I told him. And besides, I want to be in a dark movie theatre with you. Just not for the reason you think.

"Then I want to see it with you," he declared. Lisa was right. Men are so easy to manipulate.

I reached across and took his hand. "I'm so glad that you were able to come out with me tonight."

"Me too," he agreed, squeezing my hand gently. "Me too."

-ooo-​

"I can't believe Andrea's asking me to do this!"

Danny took Anne-Rose in his arms. "It's for Taylor. And Sergeant Kinsey," he reminded her. "His life's in danger, otherwise."

She leaned up against him. "But going out with the guy Taylor's dating?"

"All you have to do is sit in a dark movie theatre with him," Danny soothed her. "I'll be close by."

"What if he tries to kiss me? Or grope me?"

"Tell him 'not until later', and pretend you're really engrossed in the movie."

Despite herself, she snorted. "Can I at least slap him?"

He grinned. "Only if he gets really grabby. But she'll be keeping him at arms' length, so you can too."

A sigh. "Fine. But only because it's Andrea who's asking. And only to save a life."

He kissed her, as tenderly as he knew how. She responded in kind. For a long moment, she held him close, then slowly disengaged. "Okay, fine," she told him briskly. "If we're going to do this, we're going to do it properly. Help me put my hair up."

-ooo-​

"You sure this is the theatre you want to go to?" asked Kimball doubtfully. "You do realise, it's in Marquis's territory. Kind of tempting fate, here."

"I told you, Marquis doesn't hurt women or kids," I assured him.

"So why did you have us sneak the back way out of the apartment building?" he asked.

Because Lisa told me that his men were watching the front, but not the back. "Because I like to vary my routine. Intelligence training; you know how it goes. It's good to get into the habit of not having a habit."

"I ... see." It was clear that he didn't, not really. Of course, the bad spy-movie dialogue didn't help. Which was really my intention.

Humphrey's good-casual attire didn't draw much in the way of attention as we entered the lobby, but my borrowed dress – showing off rather more leg than it did when Andrea wore it, given that I had quite a few inches of height on her – caused a few heads to turn. Of course, people were looking at the dress, rather than my face, which was also the intention here. That tall brunette in the dress? Yes, sir, she came in and watched the whole movie. Yes, sir.

I was personally a little dubious about the dress – it was considerably slinkier and more revealing than, well, anything I had ever worn before – but I had to admit, Andrea's judgement was right on the money. The whole time that we were purchasing tickets, the attendant's eyes did not stray above my collar-line.

Personally glad that I had chosen to wear flats – I didn't want to tower over Kimball, after all – I accompanied him into the theatre. The movie I had told him I wanted to see – Yesterday's Hero, an action drama about an ageing cape coming out of retirement one last time – was doing all right at the box office, but there were few enough people in the theatre that we could sit next to each other. After the meal, I couldn't justify popcorn, but I had opted for a large fizzy drink each, to give Humphrey's hands something to do.

I led the way down the aisle, and chose my seat before he could decide otherwise; right next to the aisle. He had to slide past my legs to sit down, which he managed to do without spilling his drink on me. "I wanted to sit closer to the wall," he murmured, gesturing at the large expanse of empty seating beside him.

"This dress is hard enough to walk in normally without showing off more than I really want to," I reminded him in a whisper. "Climbing between seats, no thanks."

"So why did you grab one that was so ... revealing?" he wanted to know.

"First one I could find that wouldn't get me arrested," I told him. "Trust me, the other ones were worse."

"So why not that outfit you wore the other day?"

"Because Andrea and Kinsey were on my bed," I retorted. "Now shush. I want to watch the trailers."

He took the hint and sat back to watch the screen and sip his drink, while I slurped mine through the straw. About halfway through the trailers, a familiar figure got up from the front rows and made his way back up the aisle; I watched him go past out of the corner of my eye, but didn't turn my head. A minute or so later, as the trailers were coming to an end, I put my cup down in the holder.

"I think I need to visit the ladies' room," I whispered.

"Now?" he hissed. "But the movie's about to start!"

"Well, I'm not going to last the whole movie," I pointed out.

"Maybe you shouldn't have had so much soda."

"I was thirsty." With that witty rejoinder, I got up from my seat and hurried up the aisle. If he wondered why I took the borrowed handbag with me, I didn't give him much of a chance to ask me about it.

I slowed down when I entered the lobby; Danny was loitering at the concession stand. Our eyes met briefly, and he glanced toward the ladies' bathrooms. At his side, his hand showed three fingers projecting downward; Anne-Rose was in the third cubicle. How he knew this, I wasn't sure; Anne-Rose had probably checked which ones were free, then ducked out to tell him which one she would be in.

Well, let's do this. I entered the bathrooms, and ran into my first snag.

The second and fourth cubicles were also occupied.

-ooo-​

I took a deep breath. Okay. This isn't the end of the world. I can get around this.

But I knew that whatever I did, it would have to be fast; if I took too long, Humphrey would start wondering where I was. If he came looking, and caught Anne-Rose coming out of the bathrooms, he might realise that she wasn't me; I would have a lot of explaining to do. And yes, he was interested in me, but he was also a police detective, and I had absolutely no guarantee that one would trump the other.

For perhaps ten seconds, I waited. Nobody flushed, nobody opened their cubicles. For all that the canard of 'women taking too long in the bathroom' was generally untrue, it seemed to be playing out in this particular instance.

So I stepped forward and tapped on the door of the third cubicle.

"Uh, occupied," came the voice of Anne-Rose from within.

"It's me," I hissed. "Open the door!"

"What?" But she was already undoing the lock. The door opened, and I slipped inside, coming face to face with a startled Anne-Rose. A startled Anne-Rose who was in her underwear.

Pushing the door shut with my butt, I reached behind me and turned the lock. "Help me," I murmured, turning so that she could reach the zipper. It went down at her tug, and I stepped out of the dress. Turning back again, I held it so that she could step into it.

It was fortunate that we were both on the skinny side; otherwise, dressing her in a toilet cubicle designed for one would have been absolutely impossible. As it was, I wasn't sure what the women on either side thought what was going on in our cubicle; nor did I want to know.

She shrugged the dress on over her shoulders, and I pulled the zipper up. It was fortunate that I had filled out a bit during my time in the PRT, because Anne-Rose would not normally have been as skinny as me; as it was, the dress was a little tighter around her, but not impossibly so. I kicked my flats off, and she slid her feet into them. "My god," she muttered, "there's nothing at all to this dress."

"It's Andrea's. Just try not to inhale too deeply," I advised her. "Here. Perfume."

She took the bottle and dabbed it on to her neck and wrists; immediately, the rich scent redoubled in the confined area.

"Right," she told me. "How do I look?"

Reaching up, I took the floppy cloth cap from her head, exposing her hair; it had been done up in a tight curl behind her head. With luck, in the darkness of the cinema, Humphrey wouldn't see any difference. I hoped.

"You look great," I told her. "I really appreciate this."

"You owe me for this," she told me feelingly. "You really do."

"I'll make it up to you. Somehow."

Closing her eyes for a moment, she sighed. "Okay. Danny thinks it's worthwhile. So let's do this. Where's he sitting? And where am I sitting?"

"About halfway down on the right. Danny knows where. He's one seat in, you're on the aisle. If he tries to kiss you, ignore him. Or elbow him, gently."

"It won't be gently," she told me grimly. "Okay, out of the way. He's got to be wondering where you are."

"Okay." I wormed around, then caught sight of the sparkle on her finger. "Shit, your engangement ring."

"Christ." She rolled her eyes and pulled the ring off of her left hand. "Kinsey better be worth it."

"He is." And then, just as she opened the door, I realised. "Glasses!" Pulling the pair I had off of my face, I handed them to her.

Putting them on, she nearly went cross-eyed. "Christ, your eyes are screwed up, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Now go!"

Closing the cubicle door behind her, I listened to the sound of her footsteps crossing the tiles, the sound of her briefly washing her hands, and then the outer door opening and closing. In the meantime, given that mostly everything in the cubicle was a blur, I was feeling through my handbag for my spare glasses, the ones I had been intending to give to her. I had also intended to swap bags after moving certain items from one to another, but we had been in too much of a hurry. Fuck, I hope it doesn't matter.

-ooo-​

Anne-Rose emerged from the bathrooms; across the lobby, Danny finally completed his purchase of a large box of popcorn. They converged on the entrance; the attendant at the door looked up. "Tickets?"

"Here's mine," Danny offered. "I was just getting popcorn." He held up the box to illustrate.

"No problem, sir. Ma'am, ticket?"

"My date bought my ticket," Anne-Rose told him. Shit, Taylor forgot to get it for me. "He's inside."

The acne-ridden boy – he couldn't have been over seventeen – shook his head stubbornly. "Ma'am, I can't let you in without a stub."

"But we bought our tickets just then," Anne-Rose protested. "I was just going to the bathroom." Oh god, it's all going wrong.

"Sorry, you should bring it out with you," the pimpled adolescent lectured her. "Rules are rules."

"Screw it," Danny told him. "Here, miss. Take mine. I'll buy another one." He passed her his stub; at the last moment, she remembered the engagement ring clutched in her hand, and pressed it into his. His eyebrows hitched up for a second, but he caught on quickly.

"Thank you," she told him feelingly. "Thank you so much." And people wonder why I want to marry him. With her head held high, she stepped past the teenager and down the corridor toward the entry to the cinema proper.

Danny was supposed to guide her back to where her seat was; all she had to go on otherwise was Taylor's 'half way down on the right'. She couldn't see crap through the glasses; pushing them down, she looked over them, walking carefully down the aisle.

"Taylor!" The sharp whisper came from behind her; she turned, and there he was, so she presumed; at least, he was beckoning to her. He was one seat in, just as Taylor had said. Backtracking, she eased herself down into the seat, feeling the dress stretch ever so slightly. Taylor's advice about not inhaling too deeply, she decided immediately, had worth.

"Sorry," she whispered, trying to keep her voice as low as possible. "Got turned around."

"That's okay," he replied. "I was beginning to think you'd ditched me."

"Forgot my ticket," she told him. "Little twerp on the door didn't want to let me back in."

"Is that so?" he asked. "I'll have a word with him when we get out … "

"Leave it," she advised him. "Can we just watch the movie? What've I missed? Who's that?"

"Oh, that's the main character, Steelheart," he explained. "He's just failed to save that bus full of schoolkids. Wasn't strong enough."

"Oh, wow," she murmured. "That's terrible." She picked up what she presumed was her cup and took a sip. It was still cold, but the melting ice had diluted it somewhat, and it was kind of flat. But she drank it anyway, and it helped with her dry throat.

"You're telling me," he replied.

She sipped at her cup again in lieu of an answer, and concentrated on watching the movie over the top of her glasses.

Taylor, hurry back soon. I don't know how long I can keep this up.

-ooo-​

Finally locating the glasses, I fitted them on to my face, and the world sprang into focus. I stood in the toilet cubicle, in just my underwear, and the clothes Anne-Rose had been wearing were folded neatly on the toilet seat.

Right then.

The black T-shirt went first; I pulled it on over my head, glasses and all, then pulled the cloth cap down over my head to hide my short hair. After that, the jeans and the sneakers; Anne-Rose had thoughtfully included a belt, which was useful; I was a little narrower in the hips than she was. Over the top of the shirt went a green and white hoodie; I didn't know whether she'd been wearing the hood up or down, but I went with 'down'. After that, I picked up my handbag and slung it back over my shoulder.

Go time.

Taking a deep breath, I unlocked the cubicle door and was just about to open it, when I remembered. Glasses. Anne-Rose hadn't been wearing any when she came in here.

Pulling them off again, I folded and palmed them, then pulled the cubicle open. Two women were washing their hands; as I emerged, they turned to give me what I presumed were speculative looks. Trying not to blush too hard, I headed for where I remembered the door to be; at the last moment, I realised where it really was, turned a little, and yanked it open. Giggles followed me out.

The lobby was blurry, but I could find those doors easily enough, as opposed to the white-doors-on-white-walls in the bathroom. As soon as I was outside, I put the glasses back on, then looked around. Danny's car, Danny's car, Danny's car …

It wasn't anywhere in sight. Beginning to feel the strain once more, I looked around, then headed for the corner. And around the corner, right there, was the car. Old, a little weatherbeaten, it was still one of the most beautiful sights that I'd ever seen. Striding over to where it was parked at the curb, I pulled open the passenger door and got in.

"Well, thank fuck," Gladys told me. "I was beginning to think you'd never get here."

I could have kissed her. I didn't, but I could have. Instead, I let my gratitude pour into my voice. "Thank you so much for helping out at such short notice."

She nodded as I fastened my seatbelt. "Okay, so what's going on here? Andrea called me up, said that Danny would be coming to pick me up, that you needed my help. And now you've come out wearing the same outfit that Anne-Rose wore into the place."

"Yeah, it's kind of a shell game," I explained. "I told you about the cop who wants to date me, right?"

"Yeah," she agreed. "Anne-Rose is in there pretending to be you? Why?"

"Can we drive?" I pointed straight ahead. "I'll explain on the way."

-ooo-​

"Comfortable?"

Kinsey looked up from where he sat at the table. His ankles were fastened to his chair legs by thick bone bands; around his wrists were more conventional handcuffs. Two men were standing just inside the doorway; one had a stun-gun, while the other had a heavy baton. He really wanted to have some words up close and personal with the man holding the stun gun; it was that which had brought him down in the fight.

But his attention wasn't on that man; it was on Marquis, who was standing in the doorway itself, regarding him with a certain level of detachment.

"So-so," he replied, with a shrug that clanked the cuffs on the table. If he could get hold of a metal strip of some sort, he could pick them, he knew. But the room seemed devoid of handy metal strips. "I've been on worse training courses."

"Good to hear," Marquis replied, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Your Captain hasn't rung back yet. She has to know that time is running out for you."

"She's not going to buckle down to you," Kinsey told him evenly. "You're nothing but a two-bit thug with some powers. I've seen your type before. As soon as you meet some real opposition, you fold like wet tissue paper."

Abruptly, a bone spear had crossed the room, and was pricking at the hollow in the base of Kinsey's throat. Kinsey stopped speaking, stopped breathing. He held himself very still.

"You would do well, Sergeant, to recall to whom you are speaking," Marquis stated, his voice still calm and unhurried. He didn't seem to care about the spear which had erupted from his left shoulder. "I have a certain reputation in this town. If one of my minions fails me, he disappears – utterly. He is never seen or heard of again. The question you need to ask yourself is this; if I do that to my employees, what must I do to my enemies?"

The spear retracted a few inches; Kinsey took that as permission to speak.

"I don't know about your enemies, but I've seen what Captain Snow does to her enemies." The skin around his eyes creased as he surveyed Marquis. "If I know the Captain, you weren't on that list, not until you took me. But now you've jumped on it with both feet. And you are so very, very fucked."

-ooo-​

"So wait, you're going up against Marquis?" exclaimed Gladys. "Are you nuts?"

"No," I told her honestly. "Just pissed."

She took a deep breath. "Okay. Just tell me what you want me to do."

"You're doing it." I gestured at the car. "Driving me to and from."

"And that's it?" She frowned. "You don't want me to shoot anyone?"

"You told me not to call on you for that any more," I reminded her. "So I'm not. Uh, turn left here."

"Oh." She complied with my direction. "Are you sure you don't need help?"

I looked at her. In the dimness, I could make out her set expression. "Uh, are you offering?"

"Shit, I don't know. You're going up against Marquis."

"Lot safer than Allfather or Butcher," I pointed out. "Worst he'll do is humiliate us and kick us out."

"You're certain of that."

"Deadly."

"Oh, I wish you hadn't said it that way."

I shrugged. "Sorry. Pull in here."

She pulled the car into the alley that I had indicated, and stopped; we got out. I put my handbag on the hood of the car, and pulled out my shoulder rig. Removing the hoodie and cap, I strapped on the holster, ensuring that the Glock was secure in it. Then I pulled out a belt and slung it over my other shoulder; even on the last hole, it was never going to fit around my waist. On the belt was another holster, carrying Kinsey's massive .44 calibre hand-cannon.

"Hey, why do you get two pistols?" asked Gladys, sounding hurt.

"The other one's for Kinsey when I find him," I explained. "But here, I brought something for just in case. You can have it." I tossed it to her; she caught it, opening her hand to reveal an extendible baton.

With a sharp flick of her wrist, she opened it to its full length, then took a couple of practice swipes with it. I could hear the way it hummed through the air. A smile spread across her face, one with lots of teeth in it. "Oh, I like it."

Taking one last item from my bag – Kinsey's favourite clasp-knife – I tucked it into the pocket of Anne-Rose's jeans, then dropped the bag on the front seat, and closed the door. "Well, if you're in, you're in. If you're not, then you can stay with the car."

"You know something?" asked Gladys. "I'm gonna be Vice Principal. Maybe Principal some day. How the hell could I face all those little shits, knowing that I stepped back from something like this? I'm in."

I clasped her hand, then bumped knuckles with her. "Okay. Let's do this thing."

End of Part 4-10

Part 4-11​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 4-11: Shell Game​

Time was ticking away in my head; I knew the approximate time that the body in the street was due to be discovered. Subtract from that the time that Anne-Rose and I needed to swap out in the bathrooms, and the travel time between this place and the movie theatre, and from the movie theatre to Andrea's place … we had a little leeway. But not much.

Unlike Galvanate, Marquis didn't make his men near-invulnerable. He just ensured their loyalty by making sure that any man who failed him significantly was never seen again. I had to presume that he didn't inflict this kind of punishment on someone who didn't properly make his morning cup of coffee; it probably required more than that, given the fact that he still had men working for him. But I was reasonably certain that they wouldn't be permitted to go against his personal code. Which, in this case, involved not hurting women.

This was precisely the same strategy that the Brockton Bay Brigade would use against him when they were due to take him down in just over six years, but in this case, it was for a good cause. Kinsey's life, after all, did hang in the balance.

-ooo-​

The safe house in question was actually an abandoned storefront; Marquis had placed men around it in pairs. I appreciated the forethought of the move, while wishing that he had been a little less efficient about it. As it was, I had to wait till Gladys got into position before making my own move. Time was ticking away, and we hadn't even gotten inside yet.

Of course, once we did, things were going to happen very quickly indeed.

I had two of them in my line of sight as I strolled casually down the alleyway; they looked like drunks sleeping it off, but Lisa had pinpointed them for me, so I knew they were more than that. Really, it was kind of unfair; Marquis was going for 'security by obscurity', but with my particular advantages, I could see straight through the subterfuge. Of course, I had never believed in giving the other guy a fair fight, and I wasn't about to start now.

They straightened up from their slumped positions as I neared them, and the door they were guarding. One of them spat noisily in the gutter, a move calculated to make me veer off. Instead, I came closer.

"Hey, get outta here," the other guy slurred, lurching to his feet. "Ain't a good place for a woman."

Reaching up with my left hand, I pushed back the hood, showing my face. "Really?" I asked. "I'm here for the date with your boss. Captain Snow, remember?"

It was obvious that he did remember me; he stared, then frowned. "Wait a minute. How did you -?"

I kept moving toward him; his buddy stood, and they both pulled pistols. "Stand right where you are," the first one ordered. "Arms out to the side."

"You do realise, if you shoot me, you'll wish that Marquis had only killed you." My voice was calm, matter-of-fact.

"If I gotta shoot you, I'll kill you, and I'll make sure the body's never found." So was his.

Gladys was good, I had to admit. She was very quiet on her feet as she sneaked up behind them; the other guy never heard her coming. But he certainly felt it when the extendible baton whipped through the air to impact with the side of his jaw. It was a difficult shot, taken from behind, but she pulled it off.

The one facing me heard the crack of breaking bone; he reacted, turning fast. But not fast enough. I came in, catching his right wrist with my left hand, and smashing him in the face with my right elbow. He staggered, and I kicked him in the crotch with all the force that I could muster. As he began to double up, I cupped my right hand around the back of his head, pulling him down faster; my right knee came up to meet his already-ruined nose.

He dropped; I kept hold of his right wrist, stepping over it and twisting his arm against my leg. His elbow broke like dry kindling; I plucked the pistol from his hand and let him fall the rest of the way. I was just checking chamber on the pistol when Gladys came over to me. She looked down at the man at my feet, then up at me, her eyes wide. "Damn, girl," she murmured. "Do you have issues, or do you fight like that all the time?"

"Oh?" I tucked the pistol into the back of my waistband, retrieved the second man's pistol, and checked it as well. "Oh, no, that's how Kinsey taught me how to fight."

"Christ," she muttered. "Now I see why you gave me the baton. You didn't need it."

"Happier with a pistol," I admitted, rubbing my elbow. "Here, you have this one. I'll have Kinsey's back, thanks."

Accepting the firearm, she unlooped the length of Kinsey's belt from over her shoulder – I hadn't been able to carry it for the approach, for obvious reasons – and handed it back to me. I slung it across my chest, then unzipped the hoodie. The small Glock in its shoulder holster was ready for use; I drew it, then swapped it into my left hand.

"Okay," I told her. "We'll be going in hard and fast. I'll shoot anything in the way; you stay a room behind me and mop up, the way we practised. Once we're fully invested, keep an eye on our six, because the other guards might come in that way."

She nodded briefly. "Okay." However, the white-knuckled grip on the baton gave away her nerves.

"Gladys." The tone of my voice made her stop and look at me. "There are exactly three people I'd prefer to have at my back in this sort of situation. One of them's in that room. Emily's out on ops somewhere. You're the third. I trust you in this. Got it?"

She took a deep breath; it seemed to steady her nerves. "Got it. Let's go kick some ass."

I grinned, showing my teeth. "Let's do this thing."

-ooo-​

"So tell me about your Captain Snow," Marquis invited. "You seem to have a high opinion of the woman. What's so special about her?"

Kinsey grinned tightly, all the while testing his legs against the bone bonds holding them in place. It was no good; they were as solid as rock. "She's done things that you wouldn't believe. Things that I have trouble believing, and I saw her do them."

"What sort of things?"

"Nope." Kinsey shook his head. "Can't tell you. I'd like to hang on to my clearance level."

"I'm fairly certain that your life is more important than a ridiculous security clearance."

"Fine. I'll tell you this much. My career was in the toilet, and she rescued me. Gave me a chance to redeem myself. I've worked every day, ever since then, to match up to the trust she's shown me. She hasn't doubted me, not once, not ever. The day I betray Captain Snow is the day I eat a bullet."

"You love her." Marquis' voice was light, amused, in contrast with Kinsey's deeper tones.

Kinsey grimaced. "You're delusional. She's my commanding officer, and I have every respect for her -"

"You love her. Ha. Of course. It would be clear to a blind man." Marquis' face was alive with delight. "And you serve her faithfully, just so that you can earn her praise. Have you ever told her how you feel?"

Kinsey gritted his teeth. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"So you haven't. Do you think she knows? A lady so intelligent, so insightful, how could she not? But does she look at you as Kinsey the man, or Kinsey the Sergeant? Have you never wished to step closer to her, take her in your arms, look into her eyes -"

There was a loud bang as Kinsey brought both fists down on the table; Marquis raised one eyebrow. "Temper, Sergeant. Temper."

"One more word about the Captain," ground out Kinsey. "One more word, and I'll come over this table, chair or no chair, and I will squeeze the life from your throat with my bare hands."

Marquis leaned down, placing his hands on the other side of the table at which Kinsey sat.

"You can do nothing to me, Sergeant, which I do not all-"

He was cut off by an explosion of firing from the next room. One moment silence, the next a full-on firefight. Marquis turned toward the door in question, a bone weapon of some sort forming in his hands. At the same time, the bone bands spread to cover his body. Kinsey didn't hesitate; he braced himself and shoved the table as hard as he could into Marquis' back.

The four men in the room were just starting to pull their own pistols when the door burst open. Marquis may have been able to react in time, but he was staggering from the blow to his back. Even as the figure of Captain Snow appeared in the doorway, there were two shots, and the villain went down, kneecaps blown out. More staccato shots rang out, the Captain servicing targets as coolly as on the firing range. With each shot, a man dropped; in these close quarters, she barely had to do more than eyeball the targets.

"Kinsey!" she yelled, while shooting to the left and right of him, to get at two men almost behind him. Her gun barrel jerked upward slightly. He took the hint, raising his cuffed hands high. The next shot passed between them, severing the handcuff chains. She had already dropped the pistol in her right hand; her hand dipped, and then an object was hurtling toward him; he recognised it as his .44. Catching it, he pointed it straight down at the bone bands holding his legs to the chair, and fired; the calcitic restraint shattered, and he was free.

She was now just holding her holdout weapon; he stepped in, back to back with her. There were other doors, other rooms. A man showed himself at one, then ducked back; Kinsey's hand-cannon boomed once, shooting through the wall eighteen inches back from the door frame. The man's body flopped forward into view a second later, but Kinsey was already firing at another doorway. Behind him, Captain Snow fired three times, then stopped. She tilted her head at the sound of shooting outside.

"That's all of them in here," she decided. "You all right, Kinsey?"

"A little cramped from all the sitting around, ma'am," he replied. "What kept you?"

"I had to arrange for a date," she told him.

"Beg pardon, ma'am?"

"Long story. Tell you later. Get the brass. Only the polished ones." As he complied, she stepped over to where Marquis lay on the floor. He turned his face up to hers, looking right into the barrel of her small Glock.

"Damnation," muttered the villain. "Did you kill all my men?"

"Only the ones I had to," she replied. "Some might survive. You will. I only shot out your kneecaps."

"Why so lenient, ma'am?" Kinsey slipped the last of the brightly-polished bullet casings into his pocket and thumbed back the hammer on his pistol; in the quiet room, the sound was ominous in the extreme. "One shot, and another problem gone from the world."

But she shook her head. "No, Kinsey. It suits me to leave him alive and free. This time."

Kinsey frowned. "But why, ma'am?"

"Much as I hate to agree with a musclebound brute, and much as I hate to appear ignorant … yes, dear lady, why?"

Captain Snow shook her head with something that may have been a smile. "One of these days, we'll meet again. And on that day, I will place you under arrest. Until then, you will leave me and mine alone, or I will come back to Brockton Bay. And on that day ... you will never see me coming." Dropping to a crouch, she looked into Marquis' eyes. "Do I have your complete attention, or do I need to start grinding my gun barrel into your wounds?"

"You have my attention," he admitted. "You and yours will be left alone."

"Good." She stood, moved over to where she had discarded the empty pistol. Using the corner of her hoodie, she cleaned the prints from it, and dropped it once more. "I'll leave you to your own devices now. Have a good night."

Kinsey shadowed her to the door; as she was about to leave, Marquis called out. "Captain Snow?"

She turned. "Yes?"

His smile was painful but genuine. "It would have been a romance for the ages."

She snorted, but one corner of her mouth quirked upward. "If you say so."

Kinsey paused, looked back. "Told you so." Then he followed her from the room.

He'd never had the slightest doubt that she would come for him.

-ooo-​

There were two men lying in the outer room, and one more in the doorway. As we stepped outside, Gladys laid out one last man with a punch to the solar plexus and another to the jaw.

"Ran out of bullets," she explained, "and I dropped the baton. Oh, there it is." Leaning down, she retrieved the weapon, which appeared to have more than a little blood on it. "It, uh, might need cleaning. Or something."

"I'll take care of it," I advised her dryly, accepting it from her and collapsing it. Holstering the Glock, I handed Kinsey's weapon belt to him. "Where's the pistol you were using?"

Picking it up, she handed it to me; I wiped it clean, then dropped it once more. "Coming, Kinsey?"

The Sergeant was looking at the men on the ground, then back at the others inside. Finally, he looked at Gladys. "You did all this?"

"Uh, Taylor did that one," she noted, pointing out the man whom I had first approached. "But yeah, I did the rest of them." She rubbed her face; a bruise was starting to show under her eye. "One of them tagged me."

His face was a study in consternation. "The Captain obviously did not fill me in on exactly how capable you really are."

"Walk now, talk later," I urged them. "We're on the clock."

"Shit, yeah," she agreed. "Okay, let's go."

-ooo-​

Sirens were starting to sound really close as we got back to the car; gang neighbourhood or not, a firefight like that was going to draw attention. Kinsey and I climbed into the back seat, and Gladys gunned the engine. Once the initial acceleration wore off, I reached down into the footwell and retrieved the bolt cutters that I'd had Gladys bring. It wasn't easy in the jolting car, but I managed to snip first one then the other bracelet from his wrists. They had left marks, but I wasn't worried about that. Opening the window, I wiped the the incriminating items, then tossed them out into the street.

"Back to the theatre?" asked Gladys.

"Back to the theatre," I agreed.

"Theatre?" asked Kinsey. "Why are we going to a theatre?"

"We aren't," I told him. "I am. You're going back to Andrea's."

"But why are you going to a theatre, ma'am?"

"I'm on a date. Right now, I'm in that theatre, watching a movie. With a date. Who happens to be a police officer."

He shook his head. "Ma'am, I confess myself to be totally at a loss. But I'll trust you on this."

I smiled. "Thank you, Kinsey."

Gladys brought the car into a screeching halt, just around the corner from the theatre. I climbed out, barely remembering to bring the bag along, but leaving the pistols and the shoulder holster for Kinsey to take care of. With my hood up, I headed for the theatre.

-ooo-​

Anne-Rose tried not to squirm. Kimball had his arm over her shoulders now, and was trying to edge her close to him. She was pretending to not notice, staring fixedly at the fuzzy image of the screen that she had through Taylor's glasses.

If he tries one more time to kiss me, this time I'm not going to elbow him gently.

Just as she thought that she was going to have to go ahead and do it, her elbow poised and ready, a pager went off. She had half a second to feel annoyance, until she realised that it was his pager. Oh, thank god.

"Oh, you have to be kidding me," he muttered as he took his arm from her shoulders – she did her best to hide her sigh of relief – and fished the offending device from his belt. For a moment, she thought that he was going to merely turn it off, but with an aggravated sigh of his own, he read the message on the tiny screen.

Oblivious to the glares of the other patrons – this must not be the first time this had happened to him, she realised – he climbed past her to the aisle. "Gotta make a phone call," he murmured.

"See you when you get back," she replied, just as quietly. But she didn't relax until he started up the aisle.

Hurry back, Taylor. The movie's almost over, and I don't know how much longer I can politely fend him off.

-ooo-​

I was almost at the theatre doors when they opened, and Kimball stepped out. Oh shit, was my first thought. He's twigged that Anne-Rose wasn't me. But on second glance, I realised that Anne-Rose wasn't with him, and he was holding a pager in his hand. He's been called in on one or other of the homicides. Shit.

That was when I realised that I was still wearing my glasses; reaching up, I whipped them off.

Too quickly, I realised a moment later, as the movement drew his eyes to me. He looked me full in the face for just a second; still distracted by the pager, he was slow to come to the realisation. But it would happen in just another few seconds -

Danny's face interposed between mine and Kimball's. "Sweetie!" he greeted me loudly, putting his arms around me; instinctively, I did the same for him. "I've been waiting forever for you!" And then he kissed me.

He kept his lips closed and so did I; all the same, we both made protracted mmmm noises. He embellished this with a loud smacking noise as he drew away, pulling my hood down over my face a little more as he did so. Behind him, I saw the blurry form of Kimball heading over to the nearby phone box; our little charade had hopefully fooled him.

"Come on, let's go in," he urged me.

We headed inside; the moment the doors closed behind me, I turned to him. "You kissed me!" I hissed.

"No tongue," he pointed out. "And it did the job."

"Well, true," I admitted. And thinking back, I'd let Lieutenant Calvert kiss me once upon a time, and that had been a much less pleasant affair. And on this occasion, it had well and truly saved my bacon. "Thanks. For the quick thinking."

"My pleasure," he told me with a boyish grin; just as I realised the double meaning behind his words, he pointed at the ladies' bathrooms. "You might want to go in. I'll get Anne-Rose."

Slipping on the glasses one more time to get my bearings, I headed for the bathrooms.

-ooo-​

"So you've got a dead man in midtown, and a bunch more over at the other site?" asked Kimball, notepad out and pen busy, phone wedged into his shoulder. "How are these all connected?"

"They're all Marquis men," his partner told him. "And get this. There's a car right next to the dead man. It's all beat up, windows smashed. Evidence that a brawl happened right on top of it."

"Yeah, so?"

"It's a hire car. Out of Chicago. I'll give you one guess as to whose name's on the lease."

"You're shitting me," breathed Kimball.

"That's right, buddy. None other than Captain Taylor Snow, Parahuman Response Teams."

"Wait, wait," protested Kimball. "What are you saying? That since her run-in with Marquis, she's decided to go vigilante and clean up the town?"

"Wouldn't surprise me, buddy. Prelim forensics at the multiple homicide shows single-shot kills, centre head. And you saw how she can shoot."

"But you said the single dead guy was beaten to death. She's good, but could she do that?"

"No, but that big sergeant of hers could do that easily."

"Yes. He could. Say, when was that firefight reported?"

"Fifteen minutes ago. Why?"

"Timeline doesn't work. Captain Snow's got an alibi."

"What? How? Who?"

He took a deep breath. "Me. I'm on a date with her. We're at the movies."

"You're at the movies. With our suspect."

"Yes. I've been sitting next to her for the last hour and a half."

"Well, fuck."

"Look, something's weird about this. You know where Snow's staying?"

"Yeah. She and her sergeant have been living at an old friend's place. Girl by the name of Campbell."

"Yeah, I know her. You might want to canvass that place, just in case."

"Already taken care of, buddy. Sent uniforms over there as soon as confirmation came back on the hire car thing."

"Good. Let me know how things turn out. Most especially, if Kinsey's actually there."

"What do you mean?"

"Okay, how's this for a scenario. Marquis wants something out of Snow. Maybe revenge for showing him up, maybe something else."

"Okay, that makes sense."

"So he sends his men to kidnap that sergeant. But it goes south, and one of the guys gets killed."

"I know I wouldn't want to try conclusions with him."

"Nor me. So. He's got the sergeant, he contacts Snow, she arranges a rescue."

"Except that there's no other PRT personnel in town that we know of, and sure as hell nobody who shoots that good."

"So it had to be her on the ground."

"Except that you say you've been sitting next to her all this time."

"Yeah. Fuck. Apart from that, it all holds together."

"So where are you going to attend?"

"You take the multiple; you're there already, right?"

"I am. Oh; fun fact."

"Yeah?"

"We've got more bullet-holes than shell casings. Some from a larger calibre than any weapon found on the scene, and no casings at all from that. Some of the brass is missing."

"They policed it up."

"Or they used revolvers. We dug a bullet from the floorboards that would fit a larger calibre, but it's a soft lead hollowpoint. No ballistics worth a damn."

"This is special ops shit, right there."

"No kidding. What branch did you say your girlfriend was from?"

"Intelligence. Or so I thought."

"Sounds more like double-oh bullshit to me."

"Well, I'm gonna go back in and have a talk to her, then drive her home and see if her friend Ms Campbell tells the same story."

"No. You hold her there. I'll send someone else along to pick her up."

"What the hell, man?"

"You know the rules as well as I do. You're on a date with her. This makes you automatically compromised."

"Ah, fuck. Seriously?"

"Seriously. Just keep her there. Someone will be along in a while. Okay?"

"Okay. Fine. I'll hold her here."

"And don't discuss the case with her."

"Christ, all right. I got it, already."

He hung up, and turned back toward the theatre. Taylor, what the fuck is going on?

-ooo-​

Kinsey pulled the cleaning cloth out of the bore of the .44 and inspected it in the glare of a passing street light. "Good enough," he decided, and began to reassemble the pistol. Despite the lack of light, the movement of the car, and the less than optimal conditions, he had it back together in less than forty seconds.

"Okay, wow," Gladys commented, keeping her eyes on the road as she swung the car around another corner. "Taylor was pretty good at that before she joined the PRT. But you just cleaned two pistols and a baton in less than ten minutes, in a moving car. That's just plain impressive."

"I'm trained for it, ma'am," he pointed out, reloading each weapon with the spare magazines that he had found in the Captain's handbag, and slotting them into their respective holsters. "Personally, I'm quite impressed that a high school teacher was able to participate to the degree that you did, tonight. Not to mention, very thankful."

"I took my ROTC training very seriously," she noted. "And I've kept up some aspects of it, since."

"Such as boxing," he observed.

"Such as boxing," she agreed. Pulling to a halt, she nodded to him. "This is your stop. See you later, Jim."

Reaching forward between the seats, he shook her hand. "See you later, Gladys."

He climbed out of the car, taking the handbag with him; the car moved off down the road. Turning, he headed into the building.

-ooo-​

Andrea heard the brisk knocking on the door and leaped up. Peering through the peephole, she recognised Jim's blocky silhouette almost immediately; hastily, she unlocked the door.

"Come in, quick!" she gasped, dragging him inside. He looked a little taken aback at her attire; this was not surprising, as she was wearing just a flimsy robe over even flimsier panties. Closing the door, she locked it before grabbing him, pulling him down to her level, and kissing him thoroughly.

To his credit, he kissed her properly in return; when they separated, she was breathing a little heavily. "Not that I'm not pleased to see you, but -" he began.

"But nothing. Get your clothes off and into the shower," she ordered. "You stink of guns." She grabbed the handbag from him. "I'll take care of this."

-ooo-​

He watched her barely-clad rear end dart from the room, and shrugged. Right now, she knew what was going on better than he did, so that put her in charge. "Yes, ma'am," he muttered, heading for the bathroom, pulling his shirt off as he went.

Thirty seconds into the shower, he had his head lathered, and his hands covered in soap; the last thing he wanted was for some busybody local cop to find GSR on his hands. And then the stall door opened, and a familiar body pressed up against his.

"Andrea?" he asked, opening his eyes.

"Who else?" she murmured, with a smothered giggle. "Come on, I'm trying to get you in the mood here. Work with me."

"But you – but I – the Captain –"

"Worked the whole plan out. This is part of it." She did something extremely naughty with her hands then, and he could not help but respond. Her body was smooth and warm and rounded under his hands. "Oh yeah, that's more like it."

But then she opened the door and slipped out. He stared after her. "What ...?"

She had already grabbed a towel and was vigorously drying herself off; he could not help but watch in fascination as various body parts were exposed and covered again. "Here." She thrust another towel at him. "Get dried. Race you to the bedroom.'

Never had he dried himself off in such a hurried and haphazard fashion; she only just beat him there. And then the real fun started.

-ooo-​

No-one was paying attention to me as I soaped my hands almost to the elbow, then dried them off. Next, I ran water over my head, rubbing a little hand soap into my hair. It wouldn't do for shampoo, but it would assist in getting rid of the smell of burnt cellulose. Just as I was flushing that out, Anne-Rose burst into the bathrooms.

"He nearly caught me," she gasped.

"Stall, quick," I ordered.

She ducked into one; as I went to step into the next, another woman went to take it. "Mine," I snapped.

"I was here first," she retorted, reaching for the door while fending me off. I took her hand and twisted her wrist, dropping her to her knees.

"Ow, hey!" she protested.

"My. Stall," I explained.

"Okay, fine. Your fucking stall. Bitch."

I let that go and allowed her up, then stepped into the stall. Just as I pushed the door closed, she kicked it from the outside; it nearly hit me in the face. This time, I slammed the stall door shut and engaged the lock; it would have taken too long to deal with her, and she wasn't worth it in the long run anyway.

The dress was already draped over the partition; I pulled off the hoodie and thrust it through the lower gap, just as the woman outside kicked my door again, rattling it on its hinges. The hoodie disappeared and I sent the T-shirt after, then kicked off the sneakers. Finally, I started wriggling out of the jeans.

My flats came back to me through the gap, then I bundled the jeans up and slid them through, with the sneakers following. The woman outside kicked the door again, and this time it jolted open; as she stepped forward, I turned and straight-armed her in the face. The last of her I saw as I pushed the door shut was her astonished expression as she sat down hard on the floor.

"Gonna need to borrow your handbag," I called softly. "Left mine elsewhere."

"Okay, sure," Anne-Rose agreed; as I wriggled into the dress, it came sliding under the partition. "Just get it back to me when you're done."

Carefully, I zipped up the dress and slipped my feet into the flats. My perfume was still in her bag, and I touched it up, just to cover any remaining smell of gunsmoke. Slinging the bag on my shoulder, I opened the stall door and stepped out.

Of course, the woman was still there. "You bitch!" she screamed. "I'll -" She paused. "What the fuck?"

There was nobody else in the bathrooms at that moment, for which I was glad. The woman stared at me, at my outfit. "What the fuck's going on here? You weren't dressed like that a minute ago."

"Maybe because it wasn't me that you're talking about." I didn't have much hope of pulling this off, but I decided to try anyway.

"No, no, fuck, no, you went in there. That stall. And then you changed clothes. What the fuck's going on here?"

This was the sort of attention that I didn't need. "The stall's free now. You can use it. Go ahead. All these stalls are free. Be my guest." I started to move away.

"No, bitch, you come back here. You're not going anywhere." She grabbed, not at my arm, but at my dress.

Oh, for god's sake. I don't have time for this.

I knocked her hand aside, and spent a good tenth of a second deciding not to hurt her too badly, although the temptation was definitely there. Already that evening, I had killed at least six people, and wounded a couple more. I couldn't punch her, because Kimball might wonder about skinned knuckles, and I couldn't kick her, because he definitely would wonder about a dress that was split up to my armpit.

So I slammed the heel of my hand up under her jaw, making her teeth smack together and sending her staggering backward, a little dazed. Then I grabbed her, spun her around, and put her in a sleeper hold. She struggled a little, but was still dazed, and went down relatively quickly.

Anne-Rose exited her stall at about this time, and stared as the woman sagged in my arms. "What the hell?"

"Don't ask," I advised her. "Just help me get her into a stall."

Together, we wrestled her into a stall and sat her on the seat. I pulled the door closed and held out my hand to Anne-Rose. "Back pocket. Clasp knife."

She blinked and fetched it out. "What were you doing carrying a clasp knife?"

"In case I needed to cut something." Opening it one-handed – which is difficult, but useful if you know the trick – I stabbed the point into the soft plastic centre of the VACANT/OCCUPIED indicator. Twisting my wrist, I rotated the indicator, engaging the lock. Then I pulled the knife out, closed it, and dropped it into the bag.

"You're just going to leave her there?"

I looked at Anne-Rose. "Yes. She'll wake up, open the door, and walk out. In about five minutes from now. Which will be about four minutes thirty after I leave. Now, how do I look?"

Looking at me critically, she nodded. "Yeah, you look okay. Oh, here, your spare glasses."

"Thanks." I dropped them in the bag as well. "Okay, wait about thirty seconds after I leave. All right?"

"Thirty seconds. Got it."

"And thanks for the help tonight."

She shook her head slightly. "I'm sure James Bond has it easier than me. Your boyfriend put his arm over my shoulders, tried to kiss me twice."

I grinned. "He's not my boyfriend, but in any case, I'll be leaving soon, so you can go back to your nice boring life."

"Just tell me this much – did it work?"

"Yeah, it did." I smiled. "Kinsey's safe and well."

"Okay, then. It was worth it. Now go."

Turning toward the door, I took a deep breath and pushed it open. Down the short corridor, and out into the lobby. Kimball was waiting for me when I emerged. "Taylor, seriously. What the heck were you doing in there?"

"Well, I could give you details, but I'm pretty sure you don't want those." I grinned as I took his arm and led him toward the doors. "What was next on the agenda? A moonlit walk on the Boardwalk?"

He stopped, and therefore, so did I. "We're not going to the Boardwalk."

"Okay then, where did you want to go?" I had turned to look at him, and I saw the bathroom door open, and Anne-Rose ease her way out.

"You're waiting right here with me, until someone comes to pick you up."

I tilted my head. "Comes to pick me up? You're not making any sense." I moved a few steps, around in a half-circle, and his gaze followed me. Behind his back, Anne-Rose strolled past, and out through the doors.

"You know what didn't make sense, Taylor? You calling me up for a date, all of a sudden." His voice was grim. "Unless you wanted to use me to cover something up. Use me for an alibi."

"Alibi. Really." I threw all the scorn I had into it. "I went to dinner with you. I went to the movies with you. And you call that setting up an 'alibi'? How's this alibi supposed to work, exactly?"

"I don't know … yet," he admitted.

"So, am I under arrest?"

"What?" He looked taken aback.

"Am. I. Under. Arrest? It's not a difficult question."

"No, you're not under arrest," he sighed.

"Can I at least know what's happened?" I asked. "After all, I am Intelligence Division. I might be able to offer some insight."

"You're a potential suspect. Not allowed to discuss the case with you."

"Okay, fine," I retorted. "Can I at least be allowed to go home and change? Hopefully, my bedroom won't be quite as noisily occupied by now."

He paused. "You know … I never actually saw what you said was happening with Ms Campbell and your sergeant. I just accepted what you said was happening."

Which was true, but I wasn't about to tell him that. Instead, I snorted. "What, would you have preferred that I give you a guided tour? Andrea wouldn't have minded an audience, but Kinsey might have objected."

"So, about your Sergeant Kinsey," he pressed. "If officers went to Ms Campbell's apartment about, oh, twenty minutes ago, would they have found him there?"

"I don't know," I told him. "Why don't we go there and find out? Or better yet, find a telephone and make a call? I have the number."

"I'll make the call." He strode out through the doors, and headed for the phone box. I followed along, hoping that nothing had gone wrong on that end. I was fairly sure that Gladys had had enough time to get Kinsey home before officers got there as well, but I wasn't absolutely certain.

-ooo-​

With my arms crossed, tapping my foot, I watched as Kimball dialled and waited for an answer. A few seconds passed, then the phone was picked up on the other end.

"This is Detective Kimball. Is Detective Parris there … oh, good. I need to talk to him."

A pause, then Kimball took a breath. "Parris, hey, it's Kimball. I have Captain Snow with me … how did it go there?"

I wasn't quite sure what Parris said on the other end, but Kimball's face fell slightly. "Really? So he was there?" A pause. "They were?" Another pause. "There's no doubt about it?"

He glanced at me, and I raised my eyebrows questioningly. Then he turned his attention back to the phone. "How about the weapons?" A pause. "Both? Have they been checked for having been fired recently? What, neither one? Both cleaned?"

"We did that this morning," I murmured.

He ignored me. "Have you checked the ammunition loaded in them? Copper jacketed? Not soft hollowpoints?" The answer evidently disappointed him. He rallied, though, and kept talking. "Listen, do you have anything on either one of them?"

The answer was, once again, not one that he would have wanted. Slowly, he put the phone down, then turned to me. "Taylor, I'm going to ask you a question, and I want a truthful answer."

"Sure you don't want me in an interrogation room first?" I replied. "But sure, I'll answer your question."

He took a deep breath. "Are you a parahuman?"

I hadn't been quite sure what the question was going to be; he had managed to surprise me. "What? Seriously? Are you asking me that?" My voice must have conveyed my disbelief quite neatly. "No, Humphrey, I'm not a parahuman. I don't have powers. You don't get to be a captain in the PRT if you've got powers."

"So how did you do it? Body double?"

"Really. You're going there." I rolled my eyes. "Body double. That I managed to arrange in what, one day? I'm good, but I'm not that good."

"Listen, I know you did it," he insisted. "Not the guy at your car; I'm putting that down to Kinsey. But the others, that's gotta be your handiwork. I just don't know how you managed to make me think you were still sitting beside me."

"Oh, for god's sake," I snapped. "You tried to kiss me twice. Are you pissed because I was more interested in watching the movie than making out?"

"I – uh - "

"How did you know I was in the theatre? Because you had your arm over my shoulders. How could I have gone anywhere? You were right there."

"In the movie," he asked suddenly. "What happened to Wingman?"

"He was shot down by the terrorists, but survived," I replied promptly; I hadn't seen the movie, but Lisa had fed me details such as that. I put my hand on his shoulder, made my expression sympathetic. "Humphrey. You have to believe me. Whatever happened – it wasn't me."

Since I had ended up in Brockton Bay, six years before my own birth, I had faced off Alexandria twice. This would only get harder through the years, but so far I was ahead of the game. Compared to her, Humphrey Kimball was a pushover. I did feel kind of bad about it, though. It reminded me, long ago, of what I had done to Greg Veder under similar circumstances.

"Fuck," he grated. "I was so sure. It all fitted so neatly."

"I'm sorry," I told him, and I was. "But it's not that cut and dried, today. Whatever happened, someone else did it. Sometimes the easy solution isn't the correct one."

"I never said it was the easy solution," he muttered; I immediately felt a little bit worse about putting him on the spot like that.

At that moment, a police car pulled in to the curb; the officer riding shotgun leaned out the window. "Detective Kimball?"

"Yeah, that's me," Kimball replied.

"We're here to escort your suspect down to the station."

"Yeah, there's a bit of a problem there," he replied heavily. "She's got an alibi. Me. I was sitting next to her the whole time that thing was going on."

"You're certain of that?" the officer asked. "Didn't duck out of the theatre for any part of the movie?"

"Only to go the bathroom," I told the officer with a smile. "The ticket attendant will verify that."

"Okay, fine, I'll call it in," the officer told him. "Safe night, Detective."

"And you," Kimball replied. He watched as the car drove off. "You realise, I am going to have to check with the ticket attendant,"

"And he'll tell you that I went to the bathroom, then went straight back to the theatre," I countered. "I didn't set foot out of the doors." I sighed. "Nor are there any secret passages, teleporters or other weird devices in the ladies' bathrooms." Just one unconscious troublemaker.

"Okay, fine, I believe you. Anyway, the more I think about it, the more I find it hard to believe that you'd know where to find your man, even if he was kidnapped."

I laughed out loud. "Oh god, that's what you thought happened? No, I told you. Kinsey was with Andrea."

"Which makes it a coincidence that your rental was the only vehicle to get trashed?"

My eyes widened. "Our rental car? Oh shit, how badly was it damaged?"

"I haven't seen it for myself, but apparently they smashed everything that could be smashed."

"Crap," I muttered. "There goes the security deposit."

"You're really worried about that?" he asked. "People are dead."

"Behemoth," I reminded him steadily. "New York. People died there too. Thousands of people. I watched it happen, live. You say that these people who were killed were criminals? I'm sorry, but I can't really muster much sympathy for them. I'm saving it for the innocents."

"Fine," he grunted. "I'll drive you home."

"Thank you."

The air of strained civility remained between us as we headed down the street toward where he had parked his car. As we climbed in, I saw my troublemaker friend wander out of the theatre, looking more than a little upset. It wasn't my problem; I closed the door and fastened my seatbelt.

-ooo-​

The Next Day

"Marquis has apparently decided to cut his losses," I explained. "He wouldn't talk to the cops about this sort of thing anyway. They've got no leads; or rather, their best lead has a really good alibi."

Gladys leaned back against the sofa and nudged Danny. "So we got to pull a full-on raid against a supervillain, while Danny here got to hang around a theatre, keeping lookout."

"And I had to pretend to be you," Anne-Rose put in. "I'm still not thrilled about that, mind you."

I decided to make it up to her in some way; maybe a vacation to Hawaii for their honeymoon. "Well, I appreciate it. If not for you, I'd be answering a whole lot of awkward questions, first from the locals, then from my boss."

Kinsey nodded at my words. "What the Captain said. I appreciate it, all of you. You went above and beyond, to help her rescue me." He put his arm around Andrea; she snuggled up to him. "Especially you."

Andrea giggled. "It was fun."

Anne-Rose had a look of fascinated horror on her face. "Please tell me you didn't actually -"

"Yup." Andrea's expression was pure glee. "The cops knocked on the door … "

-ooo-​

Officer Bob McAuley had done this many times. He'd been offered tea, had abuse screamed at him, and been spat on, at least two separate occasions. It was a never-ending process, going from door to door, asking the same damn questions, over and over, until they were burned into his brain. Have you seen this man? Have you seen this woman? Do you know who this is? Over and over again.

On this occasion, it was a good deal simpler. Along with his partner Danny Fargo, he had to go to one address and ascertain the presence or absence of just one person. They'd even been issued with a written description. Caucasian male, about six feet tall, very broad in the shoulders, dark hair, very short cut, clean shaven. No known identifying marks. Sergeant James McMartin Kinsey of the Parahuman Response Teams.

Raising his knuckles, he glanced at Fargo, who faded back toward the side of the door, one hand on his gun butt. Even in midtown, it was wise to be prepared. He went to knock, then paused. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?" Fargo frowned.

"Some kinda noise from inside. Sounds like someone crying out."

"Wait one." Fargo cupped his hands, placed them on the door, put his ear to it. A moment passed, then he grinned broadly. "Well, damn."

"Well damn what?" McAuley asked impatiently. "Is that a good 'well damn' or a bad 'well damn'?"

Fargo chuckled. "I dunno if it's that Kinsey guy in there, but whoever is, he's gettin' some."

McAuley rolled his eyes. "Well, we gotta sight the guy, so here goes." Raising his hand once more, he rapped loudly on the door.

There was no response, so he rapped again. The door didn't open, but doors up and down the hallway did, people peering out. He kept his attention on the door; this time, he thumped on it with his fist. "Open up!" he called. "Police!"

After a moment, the tiny spot of light on the peephole was occluded. "Who is it?" called a voice. Almost certainly not the Kinsey guy, not unless he'd had a drastic operation. This was high-pitched, feminine. McAuley held up his shield so that the peephole had a good view of it. "Police," he called back. "Ma'am, I need you to open this door, immediately."

The door opened, on a chain. A pretty face, freckled, topped by red hair, showed itself at the gap. "What's going on? Can't a girl have some me time?"

"Ma'am, are you Andrea Campbell?"

"That's me," the girl agreed. "What's the matter?"

"Ms Campbell, we need to enter the premises."

"What for?" she asked.

"We're searching for a Sergeant James Kinsey. Is he here?"

"I, uh, sure. He's here. What do you want him for?"

"We just need to see him, to verify that he's here," McAuley pressed.

"Uh, can I just have a minute?"

"No, ma'am. Please open the door. Immediately."

The door closed briefly, then she opened it again. This time, McAuley got a good look at her, and his jaw slowly dropped. She wore an almost transparent robe over similarly minimal panties, and she wasn't too careful about how she held the robe together. He shaded his eyes. "Uh, ma'am, could you please put something more substantial on?"

"Jeez, make up your mind," she muttered. "I'll just go and -"

Fargo raised his voice. "Sergeant Kinsey! James Kinsey! Are you here?"

After a long moment, a deep voice was heard from the rear of the apartment. "Affirmative!"

"Would you please come out here, Sergeant?" called McAuley.

Another long moment. " … why?"

"Oh, for god's sake," muttered Fargo. "Sergeant Kinsey, this is the police. We are coming in. Ma'am, step aside."

They stepped into the apartment; she tried to block their way in. "You don't want to see him, guys. He's perfectly okay."

"Ma'am, please step aside." Fargo ran interference so that McAuley could get past.

"You really don't want to see him," she insisted.

"We'll be the judge of that, ma'am." McAuley moved down the passageway, to an open door. "Kinsey?"

"No – don't -"

He pushed the door further open, and saw. Some part of him ticked off the checklist; six feet tall, muscular, broad shoulders, Caucasian. He also saw a great deal that he hadn't wanted to see. "Oh, god." Shading his eyes, he turned away from the doorway. "Sergeant Kinsey?"

"That's me."

The next question came out without checking with his forebrain on the way. "Why are you naked and handcuffed to the bed?"

Kinsey's answer was very dry. "Son, I'm going to assume that you don't get out much."

-ooo-​

I couldn't help myself; I burst out laughing. Gladys followed my lead, and Andrea was already giggling.

"You weren't." Danny's expression was now matching Anne-Rose's. "Handcuffed to the bed, I mean."

"Darn tootin' he was," Andrea told him with satisfaction. "Trick cuffs, of course. But we had to use something to hide the marks on his wrists."

"So what happened then?" That was Danny.

"Well, they got me to let him go, and he put some pants on, and I put on something a bit more substantial," related Andrea, eyes bright. "And then they asked us the kind of questions that they really didn't want to have to ask."

"But which you love answering," I supplied.

"Well, yeah," she agreed, readily enough. "The looks on their faces were amazing."

Kinsey coughed into his hand. "They had to ask her to stop going into detail."

Gladys shook her head. "I'm not sure if I wish I'd been here, or glad I wasn't. But it sounds funny as hell."

"Well, I enjoyed the heck out of it," Andrea declared. "So does this make us superheroes now? Because we rescued Jim from a supervillain?"

I looked around at each of them. "Well, it makes you all heroes in my eyes. I just want to say, thank you, for -"

There was a knock on the door. I looked at Andrea. "Are we expecting someone?"

"Uh, no," she replied. Getting up from under Kinsey's arm, she trotted over to the door, and peered through the peephole. "Huh. It's your boyfriend."

"Kimball? He's not my boyfriend." I sat up straight. "What the hell's he doing here? Now?"

"Dunno," Andrea told me, "but he's got one big-ass bunch of flowers."

"Okay, I've got to see this." Getting up, I headed over to the door. Peering through the peephole, I saw that she was correct; it was Humphrey, with a large bunch of flowers.

"Should I let him in?" Andrea grinned at me.

"Not in in, but I should at least open the door, I guess," I decided. Suiting action to word, I undid the locks and let the door open a little way.

"Taylor," he greeted me. "Hi. I, uh, wanted to apologise."

"That's okay," I told him. "It was a tough call."

"And I wanted you to have these," he added, thrusting the flowers through the gap. This pushed the door open a little farther, and he saw the gathering. "Oh. You have friends over."

"Yeah, just people I know from when I grew up here," I told him. "Now that I'm back in town for a while, they're visiting."

"Right, right," he murmured, then his gaze sharpened. "Wait a minute. That guy, the tall skinny one with glasses. I know him from somewhere."

"That's Danny," I explained. "Turns out he was going to the movies that night too. Went in just as we came out. He was just telling me about it."

"Yeah, I remember him, hanging around the lobby, right. Huh. Small world."

"You're not wrong there," I agreed. I didn't dare look toward the sofa; any minute now, I expected him to spot Anne-Rose. Side by side we didn't look totally alike, but Kimball still might twig. His 'body double' comment of the previous night had come a little too close for comfort.

"Well, anyway, I just thought I'd drop these off and say I'm sorry," he told me, returning his attention to me.

"They're beautiful," I responded, accepting the flowers. "Here, Andrea, hold these a moment?"

"Sure," Andrea agreed; I handed them off to her, and stepped forward, moving Kimball back a little way.

"I just wanted to say sorry for giving you mixed messages last night," I murmured, and kissed him. It was more than a peck on the lips, less than a full-on clinch. I only held it for a few seconds, but he looked a little dazed by the time I pulled away.

"Wow, okay, you can give me mixed messages any time," he mumbled; I smiled.

"So we're okay?"

"We're okay," he told me. He paused, and seemed to come to a decision. "Besides, I've been thinking."

"Thinking? That sounds ominous." My tone was amused.

"Yeah, thinking. What happened last night? Couldn't have happened to a bunch of nicer guys. So if you ever get it into your head to not do something like that again? However you did or didn't do it? Next time, just give me a heads-up, all right? Don't make me the patsy? Because right now, down at the station, my name's mud."

I blinked. "Humphrey -"

"No, let me finish. I don't know how you did it, which is good, 'cause that way I can't prove it, and I can't arrest you for it. Whoever did that hit Marquis hard, which can only be a good thing. If you did it, great. However the hell you pulled it off. But I just wanna say, if it was you, and if you're gonna do that shit again, get me in on it, instead of playing me like a damn violin."

"Well, not that I had anything to do with it," I pointed out, "but I'm fully intending for the rest of my stay here in Brockton Bay to be nice and quiet." I smiled. "But if I feel the need for company, I'll be sure to call on you."

"Yeah, okay." He nodded. "Yeah, that works."

Still smiling, I kissed him again, this time just a peck on the lips. "Thanks for the flowers."

"You're welcome. See you around?"

"See you around, Detective."

"See you around, Captain."

Turning, he strolled off down the corridor with a spring in his step. I watched him go, then let myself back into the apartment. Andrea was waiting for me, eyes bright; beyond her, I noticed that someone was missing. "Where's Anne-Rose?"

"Here," she replied, stepping out of the kitchen. "Has he gone?"

"He's gone," I confirmed.

"Good. I didn't want to come face to face with him. He might have figured it out."

"I think he did, except for where you come into it," I mused. "But I have an idea that he's decided that he's not going to try all that hard to solve it."

"Because you bribed him with a kiss," Andrea agreed cheerfully. "You know, you could have just gone back to his place last night. You'd both be a lot happier."

I rolled my eyes. "Seriously? My solution to everything does not revolve around sex."

"Why not?" she asked impudently. "Mine does."

No-one seemed inclined to argue with that; they knew her too well.

"So what are your plans for the next two weeks?" asked Gladys, seeking to change the subject.

"Believe it or not," I told her. "I want to take it easy. All I want is peace and quiet."

Andrea snorted. "Yeah, that's gonna happen."

Taking the bunch of flowers back from her, I swatted her gently with them. "Shush, you."

If anything disturbed my peace and quiet over the next few weeks, I decided, I was going to shoot it.

End of Part 4-11

Part 5-0​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 5-0: Back in the Line of Fire​

Friday afternoon, April 22, 1994

"Okay, pull over here."

Obediently, I pulled the hire car – repaired after the incident with Marquis – to the curb. We were in midtown, with buildings towering all around us. "I'm still not sure why you insisted on coming out without Kinsey, or how you managed to convince him to let me come."

Andrea grinned at me from the passenger seat. "Jim knows I'd never do anything to hurt you. And besides, he's been training me to defend myself. I'm your bodyguard, now." She struck a pose, looking adorably fierce.

"I see," I murmured. We both knew that I was still the more combat capable of the two of us, and in addition, I was carrying my Glock in a shoulder holster. Though I wouldn't have wanted to tangle with her in a straight fight; she fought dirty. "So why are we here, anyway?"

She pointed through the windshield at the tall building, still under construction, in the middle distance. "See that one?"

"Yeah." I frowned, trying to place it. "It's not one that I remember from my time. What is it?"

"Ours."

I slowly turned to look at her. "What?"

Her grin was reminiscent of a cat that has ingested a whole aviary full of canaries, just prior to discovering its own private lake of cream. "It's ours. I'm having it built. Top two floors are where I'll live – where we'll live, after you come home for good – and the rest is for managing your financial empire, including the under-the-table stuff. Your mercenaries and stuff. There's even a private underground entrance. I'd give you a tour, but as you can see, they're still building it."

Shading my eyes, I peered out through the windshield again. The building wasn't the tallest around, but it was certainly taller than most. "That's … holy shit, how much is that costing us?"

Andrea casually buffed her fingernails, then studied them. "All paid for in advance. Trust me, we are solvent as hell."

"Wow. Okay, I'm seriously impressed." Leaning across, I hugged her. "Thanks."

She hugged me in return, and threw in a kiss for good measure. I kissed her right back.

"Hey, it's fun," she told me when we disengaged. "Besides, the look on your face … "

I snorted at the look of glee on her face. "You enjoyed that far too much. So, this is what you wanted to show me?"

"Yup." She bounced in her seat. "What do you think?"

"I love it." Reaching across, I squeezed her hand. "I love you. Thanks, sweetie. You just made my day."

She leaned her head on my shoulder. "No. You just made mine."

-ooo-​

We were on the way back to the apartment when a memory made me chuckle.

"Whassup?" asked Andrea, her head still on my shoulder.

"Remember the date I had with Kimball?"

She sat up to look at me. "The one to save Jim, or the one after that?"

"The one after that, where you and Kinsey came along."

Her grin told me that she remembered, all right. It had been by way of being an apology to Kimball; I had contacted him, and we had gone on a decorous date to the movies, chaperoned by both Kinsey and Andrea. "That was fun."

I rolled my eyes. "You would throw popcorn."

She grinned mischievously. "You're the one who bought me the extra-sized tub."

I couldn't argue with that, but that wasn't the point I was trying to bring up. "Remember how we went for the stroll along the beach, after?"

"Yeah." She'd run through the surf, such as it was, again. "That was fun, too."

"Well, while we were walking, Kimball told me something interesting."

Andrea perked up. "He's quitting the police force and joining the PRT to be with you?"

I snorted. "No."

"Okay. He's got powers, and he'll be saving the city in his longjohns?"

The image I got of that was bizarre. "Uh, no."

"Uh, Alexandria's really him in drag -"

I cut her off. "No, please. No more weird guesses. He told me that the crime rate in the city has gone down a couple of percentage points over the last week or so."

"Hah!" She grinned at me. "And it's all because of you!"

"Well, he thought he was joking." I rolled my eyes. "After the incident at Winslow, right?"

Andrea caught on to my point immediately, her eyes alight with interest. "He wasn't?"

"Well … " I tried to look innocent. "Turns out that, according to Lisa … yeah, that actually had something to do with it. Plus, the raid that Gladys and I did to rescue Kinsey kind of sparked rumours of an elite PRT hit-squad getting around town. So the gangs are playing it safe right now." I shrugged. "Who knew?"

-ooo-​

Andrea was still giggling when we got back to the apartment block. "Oh, man," she told me as we got out of the car. "That's awesome. I can't wait to tell the guys."

"Yeah, we might want to keep that on the quiet side," I warned her. "They don't know about Lisa, remember?"

"It's still funny if we tell it from Humperdinck's point of view," she pointed out.

"Oh god, seriously?" I groaned. "His name's Humphrey."

Her grin was unrepentant. "But Humperdinck's funnier."

"If you keep using that name for him, I might slip and use it myself." I tried to sound severe.

She nodded, her grin getting wider. "I so wanna see his face when you do."

I sighed. "Seriously. You're incorrigible."

Ducking in under my arm, she snuggled up to me. "Well, duh."

-ooo-​

"So what are your plans for tonight?" she asked as we climbed the stairs.

"Well, I wasn't thinking of anything wild and crazy," I noted. "Just a quiet night in. Watch some TV, eat whatever meal Kinsey's prepared for us, snuggle on the sofa for a bit, then go to bed. Up early tomorrow. You know, the usual."

"What is it with you and Jim and getting up early?" she wanted to know. "Seriously, does being in the military make you all into masochists?"

"No." I paused, thinking about it. "It's the discipline. You end up with new habits."

"Yeah, well, you certainly aren't the same Taylor who went away back when this started," she agreed. "Still, I think I kinda like it. Except the getting up early thing. That's something I'm still getting used to." She paused at the door to her apartment and turned to grin at me.

"Well, it's something that's part of my life now," I began, as she opened the door and entered. I followed, blinking at the gloom. "Did we leave the lights off when we went out?" Instinctively, I reached under my coat for the Glock while groping for the light switch. Kinsey, where are you?

"SURPRISE!" The lights came on, just as the shout echoed through the living room and people jumped out from behind furniture. I jumped as well, curbing an impulse to pull the pistol anyway. Andrea was facing me, along with Danny, Anne-Rose, Gladys and Franklin; she was laughing out loud at the look on my face. Kinsey, his arms folded and his expression one of benevolent tolerance, was leaning on the archway leading through to the kitchen.

Slowly, I took my hand away from the pistol; just as slowly, I closed the door behind me. "Holy shit. You planned this? You planned a surprise party for me?"

"Well, yeah," Andrea agreed. "You were never gonna plan one for yourself. And the guys wanted to say goodbye."

"But I told you I didn't want to have any sort of party," I objected.

"Yeah, you told me," she agreed, taking a party popper from Danny and aiming it at me. When she pulled the string, it emitted a sharp crack and sprayed tiny streamers all over me. "But I ignored you. Because parties are fun."

I sighed, aggravated, and looked over toward my one potential ally in all of this. "Kinsey? What do you know about this?"

"Andrea might have spoken to me on the matter," he replied, deadpan. "I may have agreed to the idea."

"Aren't you supposed to keep me apprised on matters like this?" I looked around at the balloons, the streamers, the decorations. "Instead of helping them?"

"I'm supposed to act in your best interests, ma'am," he corrected me. "I believe this fits the bill."

Danny came on over to me. "Come on, Taylor, lighten up a little," he urged me. "We just want to show how much we appreciate you. How much we're gonna miss you."

"That's right," agreed Anne-Rose. She hugged me, and kissed me on the cheek. I couldn't help but hug her back. "You've done so much for us." Her eyes slid sideways to Danny, and I read her meaning clearly.

"You guys've done a lot for me too," I protested. "I owe you." I was about to go on and remind them that Kinsey also owed them, but stopped myself when I recalled that Franklin hadn't been in on the Great Marquis Caper, as Andrea had irreverently dubbed it.

"So pay us back by enjoying the party," Gladys told me. "You know you want to."

Andrea took hold of my arm and clung to it. "Come onnnn," she urged me. "Party. Partypartyparty. Par-tay."

I sighed. "Okay, fine. Let's party. But no alcohol. I do not need a hangover tomorrow."

"Yay!"

With Andrea still on my arm, as Danny and Franklin were setting up the dance music, I strolled through to the kitchen. Kinsey was just in the process of removing a batch of party pies from the oven. "Sergeant?"

He turned. "Ma'am?"

"We'll talk about this later."

His expression never shifted. "Ma'am."

I paused. "But for now … thank you."

A very slight nod. "Ma'am."

Andrea was tugging at my arm; I looked down at her. "What?"

"Gotta get you changed into party clothes. Come on."

I sighed; it looked as though my life was not my own. "Okay, coming."

"Wheee!"

-ooo-​

Saturday morning, April 23, 1994
On Board the Ad Astra Per Aspera

"I suppose you're all wondering why you've been asked to be here today," Lisa announced. I restrained the urge to facepalm; it wasn't what a well-brought-up young lady in that world would do, and in any case everyone else seemed to be hanging on her words.

'Everyone', in this case, was represented by the Captain, several burly stewards, and six passengers; the latter had, of their own accord, separated into two smaller groups. The well-appointed salon in which we were all assembled was quite large enough to hold everyone, despite the fact that we were on an aircraft. I still had trouble getting my head around that idea.

"As you are no doubt aware," she went on, "one of the passengers on this craft, a Mr James Mulrooney, was murdered earlier."

As a bombshell, it didn't do much to disturb the passengers. There were a few murmured comments, and a couple of the people looked uncomfortable, but then, most people were uncomfortable with the idea of murder and death. I tried to look for anyone who didn't look uncomfortable, but the predominating expression seemed to be a lack of expression.

"Wait a moment," exclaimed one of the passengers, a heavy-set man with a red face and a mane of white hair; he was sitting with a woman who had to be half his age, if that. He was well-dressed, in suit and tie; if my memory of the passenger list held true, he was a well-to-do industrialist from Detroit, in what was apparently the Michigan Free State. "Are you accusing one of us of doing it? Damme, I won't stand for it!"

"Quite right, Mr Wilberforce," Lisa agreed gravely. "You'll sit for it. Now, as I was saying, each of you is here because we haven't been able to specifically clear you from being in that corridor on or about the time that the murder took place."

"Cleared? Cleared?" Wilberforce rose to his feet. "I'll not stay here to be accused by some little chit -"

Sit. Down. My voice cracked across his. Involuntarily, his knees folded, and he sat. I nodded toward Lisa. You will sit, and you will listen to my colleague, or we will presume you to be the murderer, attempting to escape justice.

"And you don't want any more attention paid to you, do you, Mr Wilberforce?" Lisa's voice was almost gentle. "Especially given that the young lady travelling with you is neither your wife nor your daughter, nor – as the passenger list states – your niece."

The young lady in question hid her face in her hands, and Wilberforce's own face paled dramatically. "I – no – no need to draw attention," he agreed hoarsely.

"Then you'll cooperate with the investigation?" she asked sweetly.

"I – yes – I'll cooperate."

"Good." Lisa's tone somehow managed to make it clear that she had considered this to be a foregone conclusion. And, I supposed, it had. "Mr Wilberforce, did you have any contact with the deceased?"

He shook his head. "We met once, briefly, in the corridor. I – we – stayed in our cabin, after that." His hand sought that of the woman beside him. "We had our meals delivered."

I'll just bet you did, I told myself, but didn't allow the thought to show on my face.

"So you didn't know about the murder?"

"No. The first we knew of it was when the steward knocked on our door to bring us here."

Lisa nodded. "Good. One more question. Is your drink of choice tea or coffee?"

He snorted, some of his fire coming back. "Coffee, of course. Tea's a filthy drink."

"Thank you, Mr Wilberforce. I might come back to you in a moment." Lisa turned to the other group in the salon, made up of four people. Three of them, from resemblances, were related, while the fourth almost definitely was not. I pegged the older gentleman – of an age with Wilberforce – to be the husband of the silver-haired lady, while the younger gentleman, about my age, was almost certainly their adult son. The fourth was a delicately beautiful young lady with dark skin; she wore plainer clothes than the other three, and stood behind their chairs as opposed to sitting with them.

Lisa certainly wasn't missing any of the clues. "Sir Roderick Smythe-Browning the third, Earl of Bengal," she greeted the older man; her eyes sparkled. "Or should that be Your Excellency, Viceroy of Her Imperial Majesty's Indian Dominions, and advisor to the British Raj?"

Smythe-Browning's lips pursed slightly. "Not quite yet, young lady," he admitted in an upper-class British accent. It was matched by his clothing; equally as formal as that which Wilberforce was wearing, yet the style differed markedly; fashions were not the same in Britain and America, I presumed. "I was travelling with my wife and son in the Americas when the news reached us of my predecessor's demise; the appointment will be ratified once I am back in India." He paused. "May I ask how you learned this information? It was supposed to be a secret."

"Perhaps a secret to those who don't open their eyes," Lisa confided. "But don't worry; I won't be telling anyone else." She smiled slightly. "Now, then. Did you have any contact with the deceased?"

"A little," he replied, frowning. "He accosted me in the passageway, and we spoke a while. I found him to be good company; it was pleasant to be speaking to someone from the home country."

"What did you speak about?" Lisa asked; she didn't give much of an outward sign, but I could tell that she was very interested in the answer to the question.

"Oh … nothing much," he responded. "Save that he was thinking of emigrating to India, and he wondered what the servant situation was like; how one went about engaging one, and so forth."

"And you told him how you took on your own servant, no doubt, as an illustration to your explanation?"

"Well, yes." He paused. "How did you know?"

Her smile widened slightly. "It seemed to follow logically. You haven't had her very long, have you?"

A prolonged blink greeted that statement. "My goodness, young lady. It is true that we only engaged Saleh after our previous servant was taken ill, just before our travels, but however did you know that?"

Lisa nodded toward the almost military jacket that he was wearing. "The creases aren't quite right yet, and if I had to guess, she still over-starches your collars. Thus, someone who hasn't quite learned all of your requirements."

He shook his head. "When you explain it, it seems so simple. Yes, she is still learning, but she's a good girl. Very conscientious."

"I'm sure she is. And tea is your drink of choice, no doubt?"

"Well, of course," agreed Smythe-Browning heartily. "It is the very beverage of civilisation."

"I cannot argue with that, sir." Lisa switched her gaze to the younger man. "Your name is Roderick also, is it not? Fourth of your line?"

To my eye, he was more than a little nervous, but he came to a species of attention, while sitting down. "Yes, ma'am. Lieutenant Roderick Smythe-Browning of the Bombay Horse Guards, fifth regiment, ma'am."

"At ease, Lieutenant," she murmured. "I merely need to ask you if you had any contact with the deceased."

"I didn't speak with him at all," he countered. "I saw him, of course, but I was helping Saleh move our baggage into the cabin."

"I see," Lisa replied. "Now, did you attend the dining room with your parents?"

"I did," he agreed. "Mother and Father decided to stroll about afterward; I came straight back to the cabin."

"Very well." Lisa looked at the girl standing behind them, and her tone changed. "Saleh, show me your left wrist, please."

The girl looked up, her eyes widening with fright. "My – my wrist?" Her accent was strong, though not impenetrable.

"Your left wrist," Lisa insisted. "Now."

"What's this about?" asked Smythe-Browning, frowning heavily. "Saleh's a good girl. She couldn't have stabbed the man; doesn't have the strength for it, don't y'know."

His son was looking more nervous by the second; I could see it, and I was certain Lisa could also. I cleared my throat. Roderick, do you have something you'd like to tell us?

Lisa flicked me an exasperated glance; I shot one back. What?

"I, uh, yes," Roderick stammered. "I, uh, I tried to force myself on Saleh, after dinner. She has a bruise on her wrist from … well, from where I took hold of her." He turned to his father, who was staring at him in horror. "I'll resign my commission, of course."

I blinked. Okay, I hadn't expected that.

"Yes. You will." Smythe-Browning's voice was hard. "No son of mine -"

"Oh, he'll be resigning his commission, all right," Lisa interrupted, "but that won't be the reason. Will it, Roderick?"

The lieutenant stared back at her, obviously not wanting to answer. At this point, the Captain broke in. "Lady Wilbourn, ma'am, I believe that I quite fail to see where you're going with this. Would you care to elucidate?"

She beamed at him. "I thought you would never ask. You see, the murdered man was actually an agent of the British Imperium."

That jolted him, I saw. Wilberforce and his lady friend were similarly shocked, although less so. Where it hit hardest was the Smythe-Brownings; Saleh closed her eyes tightly for a moment, while Roderick went so pale that he seemed about to faint.

"A secret agent? Are you certain?"

Smythe-Browning senior asked the question, his voice nowhere near as certain as it had before.

"Oh, I'm sure," Lisa told him. "He had a false tooth with poison in it, and we located a coded message on his person." I wasn't quite sure who she was looking at – I was looking at them – but she went on sweetly, "In case you're wondering, it was in his boot."

Lady Smythe-Browning spoke up for the first time. "Was he … was he poisoned by his own tooth?"

"That would simplify matters, wouldn't it?" Lisa shook her head. "No, as I see it, he was assigned to travel on this flight in order to investigate one particular person. That person is described in the coded message."

"Have you – have you decoded it?" asked Roderick, his voice shaking.

"No, but I don't have to." Lisa's voice was firm. "Your old servant, what happened to him? He fell ill, correct? It was very sudden and unexpected?"

"I – yes," Roderick answered. "Why?"

"Because as I understand it, there is an underground movement in the Dominions that calls themselves Free India. They've blown up buildings and assassinated government officials. Am I correct so far?"

Smythe-Browning the elder stirred himself to answer. "Uh, yes. For the most part. They're a rabble - "

" - a rabble with plans, it seems," Lisa put in. "Five will get you ten that your old servant's illness was arranged, so that Saleh could travel with you, and be well entrenched by the time that you returned to India."

"But … why?" asked Smythe-Browning, bewildered.

"Because it was common knowledge that the old Viceroy was on his last legs, and astute political observers could see who was next up on the ticket," Lisa pointed out. "If you got a new servant after becoming Viceroy, the background checks would have been a lot more stringent, you see. As it is, you had a spy right in your camp. Isn't that right, Saleh?"

The young woman was pressed up against the wall, her eyes wide. "No -" she gasped. "No, it's not true!"

I was almost fooled, but I reminded myself that Lisa usually knew what she was talking about.

Smythe-Browning was less confident. "You'd better have more than idle speculation to back that up, my girl."

"The bruising on her wrist," Lisa pointed out. "You ate in the dining room; Saleh, as according to her station, ate in the cabin. Mulrooney, wanting to make sure, dropped by. She served him tea. He was a little clumsy in probing for information; she panicked and slipped poison to him."

"Wait, wait," broke in Wilberforce. "Where would she get poison from, anyway?"

"They carry it," Smythe-Browning informed him grimly. "For assassination and suicide. Free India does both." He looked at Lisa. "Go on."

"It made him drowsy, but while she was trying to search him for the coded message, he roused himself. They struggled, which was where she got the bruise on her wrist – you're still favouring that wrist, by the way – and he made for his cabin, where he no doubt carries the antidote to that poison. Roderick came in, saw Saleh in her condition, and went after Mulrooney. They struggled, Roderick pulled a knife -"

"You're wrong," Roderick told her tonelessly. "It wasn't my knife. It was his. He pulled it on me. We struggled for it. He weakened suddenly, and went on to the blade. I never meant to kill him."

"Huh. Yeah, I can see that," Lisa admitted. "The one thing I'm still unsure about is whether you were just a fool in love, or if you actually intended to commit treason with her."

He ran his hand through his hair. "I'm a fool either way. No, I never knew what she intended. I knew who and what she was, of course -"

"You don't know half of what I am, you great English swine," Saleh broke in, almost all accent gone from her voice. "I was never going to run away with you. Your words of sympathy for the plight of India are too little, too late."

He rose from his chair. "Saleh – I love you – we were in love – weren't we?" If the break in his voice were an act, I'd never heard better.

"You were amusing. And useful." Hers was cold. An act also? I couldn't tell. "But love? There could never be love between us. Not for who I am, and who you are." A steward moved toward her; she backed away. Pulling her sleeve up – I saw for the first time the blotched bruises that Lisa had intuited to be on her wrist – she produced a small wicked-looking firearm. "Stay back."

Everyone stepped back under the threat of the tiny pistol; the Captain frowned. "Firearms? On my aircraft? How did you smuggle it in?"

"I didn't," she stated with satisfaction. "His Excellency here did."

"Is this true?" the Captain asked.

"It was in a locked case!" protested Smythe-Browning.

"Locks can be picked – no, stay back," she reminded one of the stewards, who had been sidling forward.

"There's only one way this can end," Lisa told her. "You can't kill everyone here. That pistol literally doesn't have enough bullets."

"It doesn't have to," Saleh told her bitterly. "I will not go to the gallows." From a pocket she produced a tiny vial. "Here is my end."

"But you used that to poison Mulrooney," protested the Captain.

"We always carry two doses. For our target, and for ourselves, just in case." Saleh popped the top off of the vial, and downed the contents. Dropping the vial, she sat down suddenly, her gun arm wavering; it seemed to be a fast-acting poison.

"What are you going to do now? Shoot me?" Smythe-Browning's voice was bitter.

"I don't have to." She coughed. "God, that stuff's terrible. Once this gets out, you'll never be Viceroy." The pistol drooped, then slid from her fingers. "Free … free India … "

As the others closed in on her, Lisa took my arm. "We're done here, I think," she murmured.

Yeah, I agreed. I think so too.

-ooo-
​

We strolled along the viewing gallery, with the ground sliding by, far beneath. So what happens now? I asked.

"We get congratulated by the Captain for cracking the case, I imagine," Lisa replied. "We ride the rest of the way in luxury." She patted the back of a chair. "I could get used to travelling like this."

I snorted. I just bet. So, did you enjoy being the star of a murder mystery?"

Her vulpine grin lit up the gallery. "I've always wanted to do that."

And was it as good as you thought it might be?

"Hell yeah."

Sorry for almost screwing it up with Roderick, there.

She shrugged. "It's okay. I should've given you more warning."

Well, I - I lurched, caught a seat. What was that?

"I think that was you coming out of the trance."

Ah. I nodded. Makes sense. Well, this time was fun. See you next time.

"See you then. Kiss before you go?"

I kissed her; her lips tasted of dust and blood. My eyes closed -

-ooo-​

- then opened again; the taste faded into that of Andrea's strawberry lip gloss.

"Mmmmwah!" She broke the kiss with a loud smacking sound, then sat back, looking rather pleased with herself.

"So," I asked her as I sat up properly, "was that really necessary? To make such a noisy production of that?"

She grinned at me. "Sure. Jim's still out there in the living room, cleaning up from last night. We've gotta make some sorta noise, otherwise he might wonder what we're up to. And if he thinks we're making out … "

"Then he'll specifically not come looking. Got it." I eyed her suspiciously. "You do know that he's already seen us kiss before, right?"

"No sense in taking chances," she pointed out cheerfully. "In fact … " She got off her chair and climbed on to my lap. "The closer the better, I'd say. Just in case he peeks."

I snorted. "Kinsey doesn't 'peek'. We're safe from that, at least."

"Though I can't help noticing that you're not actually protesting."

"That depends," I retorted, my arms firmly around her, "on your definition of 'protest'." Putting my head on her shoulder, I held her tightly; she returned the favour. Her lips found mine; I didn't put up much of a struggle. Or any kind of struggle, to be honest.

When we came up for air, she giggled. "Whew! I kinda like how you protest!"

"Yeah, well," I murmured, snuggling into her, "you know I have a hard time telling you no."

"Except in bed," she retorted. "We've been together how many years, and I've still got to trick you into sex?"

I evaded the question. "We're not officially together any more, remember? Not allowed to be gay in the military."

"Pfft." She wrinkled her nose. "You were never gay. You're just … fun to seduce."

I sighed. "Rules are rules are rules. I have to abide by them, or at least appear to abide by them, if I want to stay in the PRT. So … officially, we're just friends. Really, really good friends, but just friends all the same. Okay?"

"Okay." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Just remember. They're not my rules."

I tried to imagine Andrea in the PRT, and my brain locked up for a few seconds. "Yeah, I got it," I agreed. "That being so, I don't seem to recall you ever following any rules you didn't approve of."

She giggled and rubbed her cheek against mine. "Darn tootin'."

"So anyway, I seem to have written down what you need," I told her, unfolding one arm long enough to tap the piece of paper on the desk. "Hope it's all there."

"It is," she replied. "I checked with Lisa while you were writing it."

"That's still weird for me." I eyed her askance. "What do you two talk about?"

"You, mostly," Andrea told me. "You get wound too tight occasionally. I can't be there all the time. She worries about you." Her tone, for once, was serious. "I worry about you."

I held her close. "I'll get the job done. I have to. Just seven more years, and I'm out. We can be together."

"Yeah, but then you'll still be trying to save the world, but with the PRT watching your every move, depending on how noisy you make your exit."

Once more, I was reminded that there was a brain under that ditzy exterior. "I'll deal with that when the time comes. And I will need to be a little bit infamous, just for a while."

She sighed. "Doesn't mean I like the plan."

I nodded, rubbing my cheek against hers. "Unfortunately, the choice wasn't between 'good plan' and 'bad plan'. It was between 'plan that will work' and 'a dozen plans that won't'."

"Even the plan that works is gonna suck," she pointed out.

"Well, true," I admitted. "Which reminds me. The stuff from Synth?"

"Right here." Without moving from my lap, she pulled open a desk drawer and extracted a vacuum-sealed packet. "It's in here. He says he made sachets out of it. They'll dissolve in water." She held on to it for a moment. "Do I want to know … ?"

Gently, I shook my head. "I don't want to think about what I'll be doing with it. But it's gotta be done."

She placed it in my hand, then wrapped her arm back around me. "So it's gonna be bad."

"Yeah."

"Worse than New York?"

Closing my eyes, I leaned into her. "Different kind of bad."

"Oh." Silence, as she digested that. "Well, I'll support you no matter what. You know that."

I held her tightly. "Andrea, I … every time you say that, you blow my mind. All over again."

Her voice was muffled as she burrowed into the curve of my neck. "Yeah, well, I love you, and you're trying to save the world, and it's kinda where I keep my stuff, you know?"

"Yeah." There were no more words to be said. "Yeah. I get it."

We sat for a long time, just holding each other. Enjoy this, I told myself. Because it's going to be a long while before you get comfort like this again.

-ooo-​

Kinsey opened the trunk of the hire car and began loading our luggage in. I held hands with Andrea as we watched the play of muscles under his shirt.

"I still think you should … " she murmured mischievously.

"Nope," I replied, equally quietly. "Off limits. You know that."

She changed tack. "Sure you don't want to fly back? You could stay an extra day."

"Certain. The flight to Newfoundland and back was bad enough."

"Oh, I had no problem with that." She grinned up at me.

I rolled my eyes. "Watch it, or I'll leave the TV remote on a high shelf."

Grinning, she stuck her tongue out at me. I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She leaned into me companionably.

"I hope you're feeling better," she ventured.

"I am," I told her. "Really. More relaxed." Quite a bit of that due to her, and quite a bit due to … well, being able to relax, I decided. Being able to stroll along the Boardwalk, to watch TV, to not have to worry about anything.

"Good," declared Andrea, oblivious to my thoughts. "The going-away party was fun."

I sighed. "You do recall me saying I didn't want a going-away party, right?"

"Sure," she agreed blithely. "But you enjoyed it anyway, yeah?"

My smile was just a little rueful. "Yeah. I did. Thanks."

Beside us, Kinsey cleared his throat. "Ma'am, we're ready to go."

"With you in a moment, Kinsey." I looked down at Andrea. "Take care of yourself."

"You take care of yourself, you big dummy," Andrea retorted. There was a suspicious catch to her voice, and tears stood bright in her eyes. My eyes weren't too clear at the moment, either. She pulled me down, and we shared a kiss. It ended all too soon, and I hugged her one more time.

Climbing into the car, I fastened my seatbelt then buzzed the window down. She leaned in, and we clasped hands while she kissed me again, a quick peck on the lips. And then she stood back; I squeezed her hand, then let her go.

"Okay, Kinsey," I told the Sergeant, my voice not altogether steady. "Let's go."

He put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. I turned my head and watched Andrea's petite form until she was quite out of sight.

"Tissues in the glove compartment, ma'am."

"Thank you, Kinsey." I located them, and wiped my eyes before blowing my nose. "All this pollen in the air."

"Of course, ma'am."

Turning my head, I looked at him; strong and dependable. Supportive, even. "Thank you, Kinsey."

He read the difference of tone correctly. "You're welcome, ma'am."

Not another word was spoken until Brockton Bay was well behind us.

-ooo-​

Monday morning, April 25, 1994
PRT Chicago

The nameplate on the door read:

LT COL HAMILTON
INTELLIGENCE​

I fancied that I could see the fresher paintwork where the rank had been altered. Raising my hand, I knocked firmly on the door.

A voice from within, familiar to my ears, called out, "Enter!"

Opening the door, I stepped into the office. Despite an abiding sensation of unfamiliarity, everything seemed the same as it had been when I left, including Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton himself, seated behind the desk. Everything else is the same. It must be me that's changed. Or rather, I knew that it was. I was not the same person who had walked out of that office, four weeks previously.

Coming to attention, I saluted crisply. "Captain Snow reporting for duty, sir."

He returned the salute. "At ease, Snow. Close the door and have a seat."

I did as I was told, pushing the door shut, then pulling out a chair to sit down.

Hamilton peered at me over his glasses. "So, Captain Snow. Welcome back. How was Brockton Bay?"

"Interesting, sir. I caught up with old friends. Went camping. Enjoyed myself. There were the, uh, incidents, of course … "

He smiled disarmingly. "I've already read your reports on those incidents, and those of Sergeant Kinsey. Very interesting reading, Captain."

I didn't dare ask him what he meant. Did Kinsey let something slip in one of his reports? I doubted it; I trusted the man utterly. "But yes, on the whole, it was a relaxing experience."

"Good, good." His gaze was steady on mine. "So how do you personally feel?"

"Better, sir." I essayed a confident expression. "I've managed to come to terms with what happened in New York."

"Good." He clasped his hands in front of him. "How about what happened in Batavia, and in Brockton Bay?"

"It's all in the reports -"

He waved me to silence. "As I said, I've read the reports. I need to know your feelings on the matter. Do you think you acted hastily, due to mental trauma, or do you think you were acting logically and correctly even then?"

"Well, sir, I've been over both those incidents since they happened, and I don't think I would act differently even now. Do I regret killing that one guy? Not really. I regret that he had to die, but he failed to obey a directive, and was acting as a clear and present threat to my well-being. I'm still alive, and I'm fine with that."

"And his partner?" Hamilton's voice was quiet. "Had you more time to think about it, would you have killed him also?"

"Actually, sir, if I'd had more time to act, I would have disabled both of them." I paused, thinking about it. "If I'd had less time, I probably would have had to kill them both. But I used up all my restraint on the first one. I had the second one cold; he should have called it quits. He didn't."

Hamilton was nodding slowly. "Captain Snow, one thing I have noticed about your fitness reports is that when the time comes for you to take action, you never dither, never prevaricate. You appear to be very good at sizing up a situation at a glance, and deciding what action needs to be taken. And when the time comes to escalate, you escalate very hard indeed."

"I don't believe in hanging back and letting the other guy get the initiative, sir," I pointed out.

He smiled again. "No, Captain, I don't believe that you do. I notice that in the Winslow incident, you didn't kill anyone, although you probably could have."

"This is true, sir. However, I felt that it would be easier to work the situation out without bloodshed."

"You could have instead rid Brockton Bay of a dangerous parahuman crime lord," he argued. "Why didn't you?"

I paused; he wasn't arguing because of what he felt; he wanted to know why I had done it that way. "Because he was the only one holding them in check." My voice was calm. "If I had killed him, they would very likely have shot me, and then perhaps members of the crowd. Getting him – and them – out of there seemed the best option."

"You were very sure that you were safe from him."

"I've studied him, sir. Just like I've studied the other parahuman gangs in Brockton Bay. Marquis' particular dislike for harming women isn't well known, but if you know what you're looking at, it's relatively easy to spot."

He nodded equably. "Well, I wasn't there, Captain, but your results speak for themselves. Nobody was harmed, and Marquis left peacefully."

"Thank you, sir." I didn't dare relax; the other shoe, I felt, was on the verge of dropping.

"Which leaves the other problem." His gaze sharpened. "Taking it upon yourself to redefine PRT policy, to a supervillain, in the middle of a confrontation."

I met his eyes. "Sir, I considered it a hostage situation. I was negotiating. And if I were to get his attention, then I had to be unequivocal. To the point. Give him a good reason for my behaviour."

"By telling him something that wasn't true." His voice was challenging.

"Hostage negotiators do that all the time, sir. In addition, it kept the civilians calm; I was specifically extending the protection of the PRT over them. Also, it worked." I took a deep breath. "And if what I said was so far off the line, why has the PRT not issued a statement correcting what I said?"

Leaning back in his chair, he smiled; abruptly, the tension in the room receded. "Because it wasn't all that far off the line, Snow. Well done."

I blinked. "What? Uh, I mean, I beg your pardon, sir?"

Taking off his glasses, he began to polish them. "The powers that be were all in a tizzy, Snow, when your TV piece first hit the air. I got hints that some people wanted to bust you down to private, or cashier you altogether."

I blinked. "Oh. I see."

"Quite. But wiser heads prevailed; after all, what you did worked. Also, your description of PRT policy, while not being a verbatim representation of what we actually do, garnered us some public support. So the cries for your head on a platter faded away after a while."

"Uh, sir, you do know that someone tried to have me poached for DC -"

He nodded. "Yes, I'm aware of that. That someone jumped the gun, and has now been transferred away from the Washington office." Fitting his glasses on to his face once more, he met my gaze squarely. "Of course, had his little ploy worked, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I would instead be having a much more stringent one with Sergeant Kinsey."

"About Kinsey, sir. He was just following my orders -"

A gently raised hand cut off my words. "I do understand that, Captain. You saw what needed to be done, and you acted without hesitation. I have no doubt that had the good Sergeant confronted those men, he may well have been hurt or killed, along with a great many others. Whereas you, a woman, were able to defuse the situation and cause Marquis to leave."

Finally, I began to relax, if only a little. "Actually, sir, while we're talking about Kinsey. Quite apart from my report, I'd like to make a note right now that his conduct was exemplary the whole time we were in Brockton Bay. He also backed me up exactly right during the Batavia incident."

"Which was his job, Captain Snow." Hamilton's tone was gently chiding, but then his eyes creased in an almost-smile. "But I will accept your verbal report. Interestingly enough, his written report included almost exactly the same statement about you."

"Thank you, sir." A hidden knot of tension, one I hadn't even known I had, loosened itself in my midsection. Oh, wow. He came through. I should never have doubted him, not for an instant.

"I will state that I am pleased to see you back, Captain," he told me warmly. "The office has suffered a little from the lack of your particular analytical capability. Once you're cleared by the doctor, I'm afraid that you will be neck-deep in it once more."

He rose from his chair; I took the hint to do the same. "I'm ready for it, sir. Honestly, those four weeks did me the world of good."

"I can see that, Snow. When you left, you were twitchy, uncertain, questioning everything. Now … now, you seem much more centred. Sure of yourself."

"It's good to be back, sir."

The twinkle in his eye informed me that he saw through my lie, but chose to accept it at face value anyway. "It's good to have you back, Snow. Dismissed."

I came to attention, then turned and left the office.

Well, that went more easily than I thought it would.

I had no doubt that it would not always be that way.

-ooo-​

Friday, May 6, 1994

My desk phone rang; I picked it up and tucked it in between my shoulder and ear as I continued typing. "Captain Snow speaking."

"Hello, Captain Snow. It's been a while."

I paused. "Wait … Calvert? Lieutenant Calvert?"

"The very same. I was wondering if you would recall your old friends."

"Lieutenant, we were never friends. Acquaintances, yes. Brief acquaintances, at that."

"Now, Captain Snow, is that any way to talk to someone who did you such a service?"

"Service? What service is that?" But I already knew what he was going to say.

"Why, your promotion, of course. Didn't I let you know that I was going to be fast-tracking it?"

I resisted the urge to make a rude noise. Calvert had had no part in my promotion. The man was nothing but a grubbing opportunist. But still, I didn't want to drive him away altogether … "That was you?"

"I promised and you received. Did I not say so?"

"You did, yes." I pretended reluctance. "So yes, I'm a Captain now, thanks to you. I have to warn you, I don't have much in the way of pull right now, so I can't help you with much."

"Oh, don't worry. Any favours can wait. I just wanted to touch base, make sure you remembered who your friends are."

"Trust me," I told him truthfully, "I'm not likely to forget you." Or forgive you, but that's another matter.

"Good. Well, I'll be in touch."

"I look forward to it." I put the phone down, then got up and went to wash my hands.

Calvert was to play a part in my future plans, so I had to be nice to him. But I didn't have to like it.

-ooo-​

Tuesday, May 17, 1994

Again, I stood before Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton's desk. This time, he did not invite me to sit. Nor was there a smile on his face. "Captain Snow."

I stood rigidly at attention. "Sir."

"I have here a complaint – a written complaint – from Captain Gordon."

"Sir?" I knew what the complaint was about, of course.

"In it, he alleges that you assaulted him. That you attempted to strike him."

Whoa. I hadn't known that part. "Sir, that allegation is false."

"Snow, he claims witnesses." His voice was hard.

"Sir, those witnesses are lying or misled." My gaze had not shifted from a point on the wall behind his head. "Before I joined the PRT, I was already good at hand to hand fighting. Since then, I have received regular training from Sergeant Kinsey. You know how good he is. Captain Gordon is barely adequate when it comes to physical confrontation. If I had seriously attempted to harm him in any way, then he would not be walking right now."

"Hmm." Behind his glasses, his eyes creased; not in humour, but in thought. "Your point is extremely valid, Captain Snow. I presume that there was a clash of some sort between yourself and Captain Gordon?"

"Yes, sir, there was." I opened my mouth to say more, then shut it again.

"I notice that you did not report it."

"Sir, I didn't consider the matter to be worth reporting."

"Apparently, Captain Gordon doesn't see things the same way. Which means that I need to hear your side of things before this goes any farther."

"I can write a report, sir -"

"No need." He reached into a drawer and placed a tape recorder on the desk. "I'll take it verbally, Snow. I need to get to the bottom of this before it causes any more problems among my staff. That is, if you have no objections to being recorded?"

"None whatsoever, sir."

"Good." A click as he depressed the Record and Play buttons at the same time. "Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, receiving Captain Snow's verbal report on the incident of Monday, May sixteenth, at the Chicago PRT base. Captain Snow, proceed."

I took a deep breath.

-ooo-​

The Day Before

"Who's been at my desk?"

Nobody seemed to hear my question. I raised my voice slightly. "Has anyone been at my desk?"

A few people leaned out of their cubicles, but nobody spoke up. I pounced, before they could withdraw again. "Leroy. Have you seen anyone at my desk?"

Put on the spot, Leroy – Lieutenant Donelly – stepped out of his cubicle and approached me. "No, Captain. I haven't seen anyone."

"Do you have any idea who might've been at my desk?" I asked him directly. "I was working on something over the weekend, and now it's all out of order. Also, someone's tried to access my computer."

He blinked. "Your computer, ma'am?"

"Yes, Leroy, my computer." I gave him a hard stare. "That big blocky thing on my desk. Do you have any idea who might have tried to get into it?"

"Uh, no, ma'am," he replied; despite the fact that he was five years older than me, he was sweating. "I don't even have any idea of how to do something like that."

"Not many of us do." The voice came from behind me. I turned my head, even though I knew who it was. "Leroy, you're dismissed. Get back to what you were doing."

"Sir." Relieved, Donelly scuttled away. I turned all the way to face the newcomer. Captain Robert Gordon, ten years my senior, and general pain in the ass.

"I was still talking to him, Gordon."

He curled his lip. "He had nothing to do with your computer, and you know it." He managed to give the word a pitch and spin of its own. "In fact, most of us are still wondering why you're the only one in the department who rates a stand-alone terminal, let alone one of that power, with an encrypted server link to boot."

"Because I needed it, and the Lieutenant-Colonel authorised it." Plus, I can use it better than you ever will. My tone was flat, but I looked him right in the eye. He didn't like that for several reasons, starting with the fact that I had achieved the rank of Captain at an unreasonably young age, continuing on with the fact that I was fractionally taller than him despite being younger and a woman, and concluding with the fact that despite being younger and a woman, and being more recently promoted than him, I never deferred to his age, experience or seniority.

"If you were supposed to have a terminal with that capability, Snow, we would all have been issued one. I'm still wondering what you did to get one issued to you, personally." He paused. "Or who you did."

Of course, that was the other set of reasons that he disliked me. He was bigger, stronger and had seniority in rank, but I was better at pistol shooting and hand-to-hand than he was, plus I was the resident computer expert, and everyone knew it.

The fact that I had used my analytical skills to 'predict' Behemoth's latest rampage was not known to the department at large, so Gordon was probably unaware of it when he went on his 'favouritism' kick. But his last comment was new; I had been about to turn away, my objective accomplished, when it registered on me.

I turned back. "What did you say?"

His lips tightened in a smile. "You heard."

"No. I don't think I did. Did you just accuse me of sleeping with my superior officer in order to have a high-end computer issued to me? Is that what you just said?"

"Well, I -"

"No." I stepped forward, getting in his face. "No. You do not get to say shit like that. Not about Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton. Not now, and not ever. He's a good man and a good officer, and he doesn't deserve to have that sort of shit whispered behind his back."

He was taken aback, but recovered quickly. "Well, what are you gonna do about it?" His tone was mocking. "Go and whine to the old man? Make a Federal case over it? If it comes out, you know that it'll be up to him to prove that it isn't happening. And even if he does, it'll end his career."

I paused. He was right. Even if it went to a judicial hearing and we were exonerated of all charges, the doubt would always be there; some mud would always stick. The whispers would continue.

In addition, I did not need this sort of attention, not at this point in time.

My eyes slitted behind my glasses, and I looked him up and down with contempt. "That's just like you, Gordon. You'd hurt an innocent man just because you can't get your own way." A moment later, I regretted the words, but they'd been said. Despite the anger building in me, I turned to walk away. I need to distance myself from the situation.

"Hey, don't you turn your back on me!" He grabbed my shoulder; turning fast, I took hold of his wrist and twisted it just so. His eyes widened; with a strangled grunt of pain, he went to his knees, staring up at me.

"Don't ever touch me again," I growled; releasing his wrist, I stalked back into my cubicle.

-ooo-​

In Hamilton's Office

"So you didn't actually punch him."

"Well, I struck his arm with the side of my wrist, yes, but no, I did not punch him. If I had, sir, he would be showing marks."

"And you would be up on charges for the same."

I nodded. "That's correct, sir."

"As it is, he was guilty of assaulting you."

"The trouble is proving it, sir. If he has all these witnesses lined up to say I hit him, then they're going to deny that he grabbed my shoulder first. I shouldn't have said what I said. I was angry; he had provoked me. But I do not offer that as an excuse for my actions."

"You were defending my reputation." His tone of voice did not indicate which way he felt about that.

"I regret that it needed defending, sir, and I don't know that I helped at all."

"Well, now at least this particular vile slander is out in the open, where it can be met and countered." His lips thinned. "I notice that Captain Gordon did not include any mention of it in his complaint."

"I'm not surprised, sir." I paused. "Permission to speak freely about a fellow officer, sir?"

"Granted."

"Captain Gordon is … charismatic, sir. Friendly, open, gathers people to him. He's good at using them, turning them to his side. But if he perceives someone as a threat, he acts against them, spreads lies and whispers. He's a good analyst, sir, don't get me wrong. It's just that he's also good at politics. And as a human being he's a dick."

Hamilton stifled a snort. "Very … candid, Snow. A good analysis. Unfortunately, this leaves me between a rock and a hard place. As you say, Captain Gordon is a good analyst. I'd hate to lose him. If I did transfer him away, it could cause problems among those of my staff whom he's influenced." He looked at me soberly. "Whereas you're my best analyst, bar none."

"I have a potential solution, sir," I told him.

"You have my attention, Captain Snow."

I took a deep breath. "Put me on administrative punishment. Send me out into the field, or transfer me to other bases, temporarily. Make it known that you're trying to deal with my 'attitude problems'."

He rubbed his chin. "This won't cause problems in your work?"

"No, sir. I need to get out there and gather data anyway. Plus, this gives people less chance to mess with my workspace."

"You mentioned that." He frowned. "Is it serious? Do you think they're trying to sabotage your work?"

I hesitated. "I think it was more someone trying to see what I was doing. Breaking my computer would be easy; breaking into it, past the passwords I've put in there, is a whole lot harder. But I've found attempts to do just that. And I don't want anyone figuring out what I'm looking into until my data's a lot harder."

"So what are you looking into, Snow?" he asked quietly. "The Instigator?"

"No, I've got that one on hold for the moment, sir." I paused, then lowered my voice to match his. "I think I've got a line on where the Behemoth came from. What caused it to emerge. I might be able to figure out how to make it go away."

"Good god, Snow." His voice was intense, fierce. "Are you certain?"

"Nothing's certain where this sort of thing is concerned, sir," I reminded him. "But … I'm hopeful."

"Do you know anything at all?"

"Well, sir, I can give you a ninety-six percent chance that it'll be well outside the continental US, the next time it attacks. And I'd put it between October and November for the next attack. Apart from that … all I have is fluff and vapour. Hunches. I want to put numbers to them before I do anything else."

He frowned. "Director Costa-Brown still wants you in DC for that think-tank. Would you be able to work better with them?"

"Sir, no, sir." I shook my head. "I don't think I'd work well with other people. As you know, my thought processes sometimes don't line up with standard logic. And I don't need people second-guessing me, or worse, telling me that I'm on the wrong track."

"Hm." He paused. "Getting back to whoever is interfering with your workspace, do you think it's someone in the office, or someone from outside?"

"That's the thing, sir." For the first time, I lowered my eyes to meet his. "I'm strongly inclined to think that it might actually be an infiltrator from outside. Or a mole, here in the base. Not all that many people know about the role I played regarding New York -"

"Damn few, which is a crying shame," he interjected. "But go on, Snow."

"Thank you, sir. But what I was about to say is that some people outside the PRT do know. It's a statistical certainty. And some of those people might not be friendly to our cause. They might want to know what I'm working at next, in order to see if I'm a threat or not."

"Which means that you're under threat," he concluded. "I can increase security -"

"Whoever it is, they're getting through our security now without even a whisper," I pointed out. "If I'm out and about, Kinsey and I can keep an eye on our perimeter much more easily. Anyone who's trying to find out what I'm doing will have to play catch-up. And if it's a mole inside the base, that person's stuck here while I go on my way."

He grimaced. "I don't like the idea, Snow. I really don't. You're our best asset, and to go out into the field -"

"I can check in with other PRT bases, sir," I pointed out. "They can't all be infiltrated."

"Hm." He adjusted his glasses. "You did write the book on security protocols. Very well, Captain Snow. I'll have your orders cut accordingly."

"Thank you, sir."

He shook his head. "Don't thank me yet, Snow. Just stay safe, and let me know the instant you've got something."

"That's a guarantee, sir."

"Dismissed."

As I left his office, I composed my features into a simmering resentment; it had to look like a punishment, after all. Inside, I merely felt vast regret. Not at the so-called 'punishment', but for what I was planning to do in the near future.

I don't want to do this. But I don't really have a choice.

End of Part 5-0

Part 5-1​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 5-1: The Conflict Inherent in the System​

Monday, May 23, 1994

"So I hear you're running away, Snow. Or should that be melting away?"

I turned, case in hand, to take in the speaker. It was Gordon, of course. When I had first met him, he had been open and friendly. I hadn't joined the PRT to socialise, but he was reasonably good-looking and well-spoken, so I had allowed myself to relax from time to time in his company.

Now I couldn't imagine doing such a thing. Since I had returned from my Brockton Bay leave, he had gone from helpful to moderately annoying to subtly hostile. I still had no idea what was behind the change, but I was glad I was leaving. This sort of pressure, I did not need.

"Captain Gordon." I kept my voice level, my tone distant but polite. "Did you need something?"

"No, nothing." I wasn't fooled by the casual tone; the hidden venom in the previous comment had been a more accurate measure of his mood.

"Good." Opening the car door, I deposited the case on the back seat. "So you don't need to be standing around making jokes, then?"

His eyes narrowed at that. "You don't give me orders, Snow."

"Very true," I agreed. "But I do hold a rank, and I would prefer to be addressed by that rank – Captain."

"There are those of us who have earned our rank and those who haven't," he replied flatly.

"So sorry to hear that you think you might not have earned your rank," I replied sweetly. "Keep at it, you'll get there."

"I meant you," he growled. "You're Hamilton's pet and everyone knows it."

"If this is about the computer again -" I began.

"Fuck the computer," he retorted. "I'm talking about a promotion and a four-week leave, right after the attack on New York, leaving the rest of us to work twice as hard to make up for your absence."

"Look," I sighed, "if you're so upset about that, go see Hamilton. One way or another, he'll get it sorted out."

"Yeah, right," he jeered. "When you don't have an answer, go hide behind your Daddy Warbucks."

Up until that point, I'd been trying to keep my tone light and even. There was no sense in letting him antagonise me, after all. But when he brought Hamilton into it for the second time, I stopped seeing the humour in the situation.

Stepping right up to him, I got right into his face. He wasn't a short man, but I was tall for a woman; even in flats, I had a couple of inches on him. "You will not cast aspersions on the character of a good man and a good officer." My voice was quiet, but I'd been learning from Kinsey; Gordon flinched visibly at my tone.

"You don't give me orders -" His tone was a lot less sure than before.

"I wasn't." As he edged backward, I moved forward, staying inside his comfort zone. "I was telling you a fact."

He swallowed. "I -"

"Is there a problem, ma'am?"

Gordon jumped when Kinsey spoke, not three feet behind him. I had seen him coming, of course, but I hadn't given any indication of this.

"No, no problem." Dismissing Gordon from my mind, I nodded at the cases Kinsey was holding. "Is that the last of it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Put them in the car. We're leaving."

"Ma'am."

I climbed into the passenger seat. There was a double thump from the trunk before it closed, then Kinsey got into the driver's seat a moment later. He started the car; we moved off smoothly. Turning my head, I saw that Gordon was still standing there. A moment later, the car turned a corner and I looked forward again.

I held my silence until we were off the base, but barely half a mile had passed beneath our wheels before I had to say something. "Kinsey?"

"Ma'am?"

"What is it with Captain Gordon?"

He paused for a long moment. "I'm going to presume that you're enquiring about Captain Gordon's attitude."

"His fucking attitude, yes." I paused to take a couple of deep breaths, calming myself down. "Sorry. Didn't mean to swear. But seriously, what the hell is that about?"

He chuckled, surprising me. "Ma'am, you can swear all you like. I've heard worse. As for Captain Gordon … well, I've met men like him before. They have problems being someone's equal. They've always got to have the edge, the advantage. Mainly because they see everyone else as struggling to get the advantage over them."

"I still don't get it." I frowned in concentration. "When I was a lieutenant, he was friendly. Approachable. Helpful, even."

"That was because you were below him in the chain of command, ma'am. Yes, you were Major Hamilton's prodigy, but that didn't matter because he outranked you. You weren't a threat. Until you were promoted."

"And he's not in the loop about why, so all he sees is a month-long leave and a promotion to Captain," I mused. "But still … why couldn't he just talk to me about it?"

"Men like that never talk about it, ma'am. They try to deal with the perceived threat by other means."

"That doesn't sound good." I recalled, once upon a time, the way Sophia Hess had wanted to remove me as a 'perceived' threat. This had involved attempted murder.

He cleared his throat. "Ah, no, ma'am. In this case, he merely wanted to prove some level of superiority over you. Do you remember the evening when he engaged you in a friendly pistol match?"

"Uh, sure."

-ooo-​

Friday evening, April 29, 1994

Front sight … front sight … front sight … I settled the sights on target; my finger stroked the trigger. As I exhaled, it took up the pressure until the flat crack of the small Glock filtered through my ear protectors and the weapon jolted back against my palm.

I was servicing the targets slowly and methodically, not in any particular hurry. It was more a means of meditation for me than anything else. If I had learned anything from my leave in Brockton Bay, it was that I could draw down on another human being and shoot to kill without qualm or quiver. So I was working my way through the targets, getting into a rhythm, when Gordon stepped up beside me.

"Oh, hi," I greeted him, pulling my ear protectors down.

"Hello," he replied, looking me over. I ducked my head slightly; I had been running and lifting weights earlier. Still wearing my faded sweats and with a sweatband pushed back on my forehead, I didn't feel that I looked my best. "Getting in some range time, I see."

"Uh, yeah," I agreed. Well, it's not like I can deny it.

"Would you mind a bit of a friendly competition?" he asked, his ready grin showing a lot of teeth.

A little taken aback, I blinked. I didn't recall seeing him down at the range all that much, but then, who was I to tell him what he could and could not do? "Uh, sure."

"Well then," he stated, taking his place at the bench rest next to mine and clipping a target on to the overhead bracket, "what say the loser buys the winner drinks?"

"I, uh, I don't drink," I blurted. More specifically, I only drank in the company of trusted friends, but that would take too long to explain.

He turned his head and smiled his confident smile. "I don't think that'll be a problem, do you?"

I had pulled up my target and replaced it with a fresh one by the time he had himself set up the way he liked it. Then he stepped around the divider and watched as I reloaded the Glock.

"A bit of a puny weapon for target shooting, isn't it?"

I didn't look his way, in case he thought I was smiling at him. A grin was tugging at my lips, but it was more to do with his mistaken assessment of the pistol. "It does the job."

"Right. Well, your loss. Anyway, I just wanted to say that your left foot should be a couple of inches farther back. And if you raise your left elbow slightly, you'll get a better aim."

I was totally bemused by this point. He certainly thinks a lot of himself, doesn't he?

He started out at five yards, placing three in the ten-ring. I duly followed suit; he then motored his target out to the ten-yard range. This time, he took a little more effort to aim; two went into the ten-ring and one just outside it. My three shots punched overlapping holes with the first three.

At fifteen yards, he aimed up carefully and placed one in the ten-ring and one several inches outside of it. The third shot punched blank paper, near the edge. I put the front sight on the target and overlapped some more holes in the centre of the target.

At twenty yards, he hit the target exactly once. My grouping wasn't as tight as it had been before, but all three could have been covered with the palm of my hand.

When he started motoring his target back in, I moved mine out to twenty-five yards. Three more shots went downrange; one clipped the edge of the ten-ring, while the other two were safely within it. By the time I started motoring the target back in, he had finished examining his.

"That can't be right," he declared as my target came within reach. "Was that a clean target when you sent it out?"

"Uh, yeah," I confirmed. "I have a stack, right here." As I spoke, I removed the magazine from the Glock, ejected the round in the chamber and reinserted it in the magazine. "But it's okay," I told him. "I won't hold you to the bet. Like I said, I don't drink."

He took the target and stared at it. My first nine rounds had made a large jagged hole in the centre, with six more surrounding it. Abruptly, he put it down and returned to his own firing point; collecting his pistol, he hung the ear protectors on the divider and left. Shrugging, I reloaded the Glock, sent a fresh target downrange, and replaced my ear protectors. At twenty yards, I stopped the target. I had already dismissed Gordon's visit from my mind. Let's see if I can't tighten that grouping …

-ooo-​

In the Car

"So wait, that was him trying to one-up me?" It was a bizarre thought. "Did he not see the footage of me in Brockton Bay, at Winslow?"

Kinsey shrugged slightly. "Perhaps, ma'am. But people like that are particularly good at self-deception. If they can't do it, then nobody can."

"And he's an intelligence analyst." I shook my head. "That's worrisome, right there."

Kinsey looked grimly amused. "You do have a point, ma'am."

"Okay, so I outshot him," I mused. "That can't be the only reason he's pissed at me."

"Well, no, it's not," he agreed. "You may recall the following Sunday, in the gym."

I frowned. "Refresh my memory."

"We were sparring," he reminded me. "With padded staffs."

"Ah, right."

-ooo-​

Sunday, May 1, 1994

Kinsey wasn't as good at the finer points of staff combat as he was in unarmed hand to hand, but that didn't mean he was bad at it. The weapons equalised us, more or less; while I had the edge in skill and speed, he outclassed me in sheer brute strength.

Which was the way I liked it; once he had begun to get the hang of it, Kinsey could once more challenge me, push me to my limits. I needed to be on top of my form. The stakes for which I was fighting would not accept second place; without my powers, I had to be able to kick ass any way I could, if and when it became necessary.

And of course Kinsey didn't mind learning new techniques for applied physical mayhem. Which didn't surprise me in the slightest.

We circled each other on the mat, watching eyes and hands for telltale feints. Our staffs thudded against each other, cushioned to accept and deal out blows that would otherwise have split skin and broken ribs. Kinsey was taking no prisoners and nor was I. There was no point in it; technically, this was a friendly spar, but it was also training. And in training, neither of us pulled any punches. If I managed to take him down, he would thank me, get up, then attempt to put me straight through the mat.

We went through a rapid exchange, padded wood smacking against padded wood, then stepped apart. Kinsey nodded to me; I nodded back. Reaching up, I pushed the head protector off and picked up a towel. My hair still wasn't quite long enough to fall into my eyes, but I rubbed the towel over my scalp then hung it around my neck.

"That looked kind of impressive."

Turning, I saw Rob Gordon among the small group of spectators.

"Thanks," I told him, picking up a water bottle and squirting some into my mouth. "I picked it up doing ROTC at college."

"That the same place you learned to shoot, Captain?" asked Leroy Donnelly. Gordon suddenly looked a little sour.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I shot twenty-twos in high school, but I didn't get to use pistols until college."

"I saw the Brockton Bay thing," Donnelly told me. "That was some fancy shooting."

I grinned. "Fun fact. You can actually shoot skeet with a pistol." That got me a few chuckles and some back-slaps.

"So you can shoot, yeah," Gordon acknowledged. "And you can fight with sticks. How are you at real hand to hand, no weapons?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kinsey stiffen slightly. "Oh, I'm reasonable," I assured Gordon. "I figure I can just about hold my own."

He tilted his head at the mat that Kinsey and I had just vacated. "Want to spar for a bit? Go one on one?"

"Uh, Captain, she's just finished a bout," objected Donnelly.

"Quiet, Lieutenant," Gordon ordered. "I was talking to Captain Snow, not you." He hadn't raised his voice overly much, but by the time he finished speaking, there was not another sound to be heard in the gym. "So what about it?" he asked me. "You think you can take me?"

I took stock of him; a little shorter than me, he was heavier in the shoulders, but I didn't think he was all that fit. He didn't hold himself like Kinsey, like someone who was practised at hand to hand. As for myself, I was tired. Kinsey had gotten a few good hits on me in the staff bout – as I had on him – and the bruises would be starting to stiffen soon. But Kinsey had always impressed on me the fact that I wouldn't always be fresh going into a fight – a fact I already knew quite well – and so I figured I had the reserves to go a few rounds with Gordon.

I shrugged then rolled my shoulders. "Sure," I agreed. "What rules? Hands, feet, full contact, blocks and locks?"

"No rules," he decided. "Uh, except no groin kicks."

"Okay," I agreed equably. "And no punching me in the chest." Even in my twenties, I didn't have much in the way of development, but I still didn't feel like being punched there.

"Sure," he responded, tugging off his jogging shoes. "Let's do this."

When I pulled my head-protector back on, the chilled sweat felt unpleasant against my skin. However, since I figured I could handle it, I stepped back on to the mat. While I waited, I rolled my shoulders again, then shook out my arms and legs to make sure my knees and elbows were loose and ready.

Wearing a pair of light padded gloves similar to the ones I had on, Gordon stepped on to the mat. He finished pulling on his own head-protector, then turned to face me. From his stance, he had done at least a little boxing. I didn't take up any particular pose; I just watched him, ready to counter him once I knew what he was going to do.

"So what do you say, Captain Snow?" he asked, bouncing energetically on his bare feet, almost dancing. "Best of three?"

"If you say so, Captain Gordon," I replied.

My bland response didn't seem to be what he wanted; he threw a couple of lefts and rights into the air, grunting slightly with the force he seemed to be putting into them. "Okay, let's make this interesting. If I win, you come out with me to the Club on Saturday night."

"And if I win … ?"

His eye twitched at the question. "If you win, you get to choose your prize. How about that?" He danced on his toes a little more.

"Sure, okay, but I still don't drink."

"Come on, live a little." He seemed to be moving off to the side.

I turned to face him. "I win, you buy me a block of chocolate from the commissary."

"Eh, whatever, sure." He moved in toward me, still dancing on his toes.

Kinsey wasn't a fan of martial arts movies in general, but he made an exception for a few of the higher quality attempts. One such was Return of the Dragon, starring Bruce Lee, involving one of Chuck Norris' first film appearances. During the fight scene between the two, Kinsey had pointed out the contrast in the fighting styles; Lee was light on his feet, almost dancing in place, while Norris fought with his feet planted solidly on the ground.

I had been reminded of Brian; while Kinsey would be supplying the final polish on my fighting capabilities, it was my time-lost ex-boyfriend who had given me my first lessons. Their fighting styles were not dissimilar; both were large men who preferred to keep their feet on the ground at all times. Robert, on the other hand, seemed to be trying to emulate Lee.

I moved to meet him. As well as being a little taller, I had reach on him, which I used to land a couple of stinging jabs. These were intended to irritate and annoy rather than put him down, but they also helped gauge how this fight was going to go.

He reacted, throwing a couple of punches back my way; however, I was already fading back after hitting him with the jabs. His punches landed, but lost a lot of their impact. He came after me; I fended him off with more jabs, keeping him just out of reach for any serious glove work. At the same time, I looked over his defences.

He tried to crowd me into a corner of the mat; around us, I could see people beginning to move over to where Gordon and I were sparring. I fended off a punch that skated past my head, then ducked under his arm. When he turned, I was in the middle of the mat.

He came in fast; I went to meet him, surprising him. That surprise increased dramatically when I ducked inside his reach and unloaded two solid body blows into his solar plexus. Gasping, he began to fold; I popped him up under the jaw with a sharp jab, causing his teeth to click together. His cage well and truly rattled, he sat down suddenly on the mat, eyes unfocused and rolling loosely in his head.

"That's one, I think," I observed mildly, stepping back to give him room. "You want to call it there, Robbie?"

Shaking his head, he came back to himself sufficiently to climb to his feet. "No, I'm good," he insisted. "Just give me a moment."

Someone in the growing crowd handed him a water bottle and he squirted it into his mouth; as he did so, I caught sight of Kinsey, leaning against a pole with his arms folded. His eyes flickered to Rob Gordon and he shook his head slowly.

Apparently re-energised, Gordon came at me again. This time, he was covering up hard before he even got close to me. At least he can learn that lesson. But … "Ah, Robbie? You're not defending below the waist."

He threw a jab; I fended it off. "I don't have to. You can't kick me in the groin, remember?"

"Mm, true." I took a punch on my forearms, then spun, sweeping my leg through both of his. The impact hurt my shin, but it worked; he landed hard on the mat, knocking the wind out of him. A moment later, I was kneeling on his left arm, my own left holding down his right. My right arm was up and cocked, in the perfect position to deliver a punch to his nose or jaw.

For the count of three I held that pose; he stared up at me, apparently trying to figure out what had just happened. "And that's two, I think," I pointed out. "Looks like I win."

"But you kicked me!" he protested, in between wheezing for breath.

"Not in the groin," I reminded him. "Your legs were fair game." Letting him go, I stood up, offering him my hand to help him up. After a long moment, he accepted; I braced myself and pulled him to his feet. "That's about enough for today," I suggested. "You might want to hit the showers and get a good night's rest. Otherwise, you'll be stiff as a board tomorrow."

"Uh huh," he grunted, moving off with more than a hint of stiffness in his gait.

I watched to make sure that he wasn't about to fall over, then went to grab my towel from Kinsey. "You went easy on him," he observed as I tugged off the head-protector and the gloves. "Why?"

"It was a friendly match," I told him. "I wanted to give him a chance to figure out where he went wrong and maybe learn something from it. If I just beat him unconscious, he'd never learn."

"He'd learn something," Kinsey grunted. "If only to not challenge you with damn-fool sparring matches."

There really was no answer to that, so I let it go.

-ooo-​

In the Car

"Jeez, I'd nearly forgotten that," I muttered. "Okay, so I blitzed him on the mat in front of a few people -"

"Fifteen, ma'am," he interjected. "I counted them."

"All right, fifteen. But he asked for that match." I paused for a beat. "He thought he could save face by beating me in a practice match?"

"Apparently so." His expression appeared to be as bland as ever, but I could tell that he was just a little amused.

"But still, that shouldn't be grounds for him coming after me like he did," I protested. "I mean, yes, he's a dick, but there's a limit."

"On Monday evening, ma'am, he made a bet with a few of his cronies." Kinsey's eyes were straight ahead, his voice toneless. "The substance of the wager was that he would have you in his bed, or be in your bed, by Sunday night."

It took a moment for this to get through to me; when it did, I exploded. "What? Stop the car! Turn around! I'm going to hunt that bastard down and -"

"Ma'am." Kinsey's voice cut through my tirade. "He failed, obviously. That hurt him more than any beating you could administer."

"Yeah, but that sleazeball made a bet that he could get into my pants." If steam wasn't coming out my ears, it should have been. "That's so goddamn wrong." Realisation struck me; I turned to him. "If you knew about it, why didn't you warn me earlier?"

He almost looked hurt. "Ma'am, give me some credit. I had faith in you."

My mouth twisted as I finally put events into their proper context. "So all the friendly comments, the box of chocolates, the invitations to a movie night – that was all part of his campaign to seduce me?"

"To make you into his conquest, but yes, ma'am," he agreed.

I thumped my head back against the rest. "For fuck's sake," I snapped. "What is it with these guys all wanting to come on to me? It's not like I'm even that good looking!"

Kinsey cleared his throat. "In his case, ma'am, it wasn't about attraction. He had no interest in you as a person. This was all about his perceived status. Once he had proven his 'superiority' by bedding you, he would have ignored you until he decided that the lesson needed renewing."

"Christ." I shook my head slowly. "I got out of there just in time, didn't I?"

"That appears to be the case, ma'am."

"Hm. I still think you should have warned me."

"If I'd done that, ma'am, all the bets would have been rendered null and void."

He was still looking straight ahead at the road, but I read the message loud and clear. "Oh no. You were betting too?"

"Well, of course." His tone was entirely matter-of-fact. "I said I had faith in you."

I looked hard at him. "How much did you make?"

"Enough." One corner of his mouth curled upward slightly. "I put fifty on for you, as well."

I blinked. "You did what now?"

"Put fifty bucks on for you." He could have been talking about the weather.

"I didn't even know what he was trying to do!" I wasn't quite sure if I should be happy or horrified about this.

"Like I said, ma'am," he replied with a certain amount of satisfaction. "I had faith in you." He nodded toward the glovebox. "Your winnings are in there."

As if in a dream, I popped the glovebox, to find an envelope within. Opening it revealed a sizeable wad of cash. "Christ, you got all this from betting fifty bucks?"

He shrugged. "Well, ma'am, not many guys seemed to think that he wouldn't even get to kiss you. I got pretty good odds."

"Right, then." Replacing the envelope, I closed the glovebox. "Stop the car."

"Ma'am?"

"That is an order, Sergeant. Stop the car … now."

Obediently, he pulled the car to the side of the road. The moment the park brake clicked into place, I slugged him.

It wasn't easy. I had to lean forward against the seatbelt and twist so that I wasn't punching across my own body. In addition, I had to do it fast enough that he didn't see it coming. I succeeded at that, or perhaps he chose to let it happen. Either way, I connected; my fist smacked into his jaw, bouncing his head off of the window.

"Take that as a warning, Sergeant," I told him, my voice flat and hard. "To quote your favourite movie of all time, you ever pull another suckhead play like that, the only thing that's gonna beat you to the brig is the headlights of the ambulance you're on."

Slowly, he reached up and rubbed his jaw, then worked it back and forth a few times. "So noted, ma'am."

"Good." I settled back into my seat, letting my seatbelt retract. "Drive on, Kinsey."

"Yes, ma'am." Releasing the parking brake, he put the car back into gear and pulled us back on to the road.

I stared out through the windshield and tried to rub my stinging knuckles without appearing to do so. Kinsey drove; to all outward appearances, a man of stone. There was more I needed to say; I just had to figure out how to say it.

A couple of miles had passed beneath the wheels before I spoke up. "Kinsey."

"Ma'am?"

"The very first time I tried hard liquor, my drink was spiked. If I hadn't had my friends with me, things could have gone really badly. It's why I don't drink very often. If Gordon had managed to charm me into having a few drinks with his friends, do you honestly think that he would refrain from doing something like that to get what he wanted? Especially given that the one man who was supposed to be keeping an eye on the situation was betting on the outcome instead?"

A long silence ensued, broken only by the rumble of wheels on asphalt. I didn't look directly at Kinsey; in my peripheral vision, he was staring out through the windshield, his jaw set hard. It must have hurt to tense it like that; I hadn't pulled my punch in the slightest. He would have been mortally offended if I had.

When he spoke at last, it was as if the words were being dragged out of him with pliers. "Ma'am, I was out of line. I let you down badly. I will accept any punishment -"

"Don't be an idiot, Sergeant Kinsey," I told him roughly. "If we fronted Hamilton, you'd lose your stripes, maybe end up with a BCD. But I don't want that. I just want you to do better. Understood?"

Slowly, he nodded. "Message received and understood, Captain Snow, ma'am."

"Good." I paused. "How's your jaw?"

"Sore," he admitted. "You hit me harder than I thought you were going to. How's your hand?"

"Same," I replied. "Stings like a son of a bitch."

He chuckled briefly. "Told you that you should've hit Captain Gordon that hard. Might have saved us both a few problems."

"Kinsey," I sighed, "you never said a truer word."

Silence fell once more, but it had a different texture to it. Tension no longer ruled; the air had been cleared. Boundaries had been re-established. Reaching out, I turned the radio on. Soft country music spilled from the speakers.

Leaning my seat back, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the music while Kinsey drove on.

-ooo-​

Huge, rounded, blue and white, the Earth rolled beneath us.

Okay, so spill.

Lisa, her feet anchored by magnetic clamps to the space shuttle, grunted as she took up the last of the strain in the oversized compound bow. Her space suit made her movements a little clumsier than normal, but she wasn't hampered enough to worry about it.

When she let fly, the tungsten-steel arrow left the bow in a streak of reflected light. A mechanism on the bow imparted spin so that it flew straight and true. We watched as it lanced across the void, effectively invisible except for the tiny blinking light on the tail end.

I wasn't sure how far away the target was – maybe a mile, maybe more – but we both saw the arrow strike. The explosive head detonated in a flash of light, reducing the small satellite to drifting debris.

"Yes!" Lisa exulted. "Got him!"

Good shot, I congratulated her dryly, setting an arrow to the cable of my own bow. But you didn't answer my question.

"Oh, did you ask a question?" she inquired innocently. "I don't recall a question being asked."

I rolled my eyes as I started taking up the slack. I told you to spill. The question was implied.

"Okay, fine," she sighed. "Why didn't I warn you about Gordon? Is that the question?"

Yes, I told her flatly. That is indeed the question.

"Okay, once more from the top," she replied. "I can tell you what's going to happen so long as you don't do anything to change matters. You chose not to accept Gordon's invitations, so nothing was going to happen to you, so there was nothing to warn you about. Would he have spiked your drink? Yes, pretty likely. He's got the knowledge and the temperament to do it."

Wait, holy shit, he's done this before?

"No. Fortunately, they've always gone along willingly before. Just so you know, he does make a practice of sleeping with attractive young lieutenants. He's good at stringing them along."

He never tried to get me into bed before I was promoted. I wasn't quite sure whether this made me feel relieved or vaguely insulted. Taking a deep breath, I brought the bow up to eye level and began to apply the final strain.

"It's like Kinsey told you. He was never interested in you as a woman. Just as a threat. He wanted to prove that he was better than you on some level."

So he's broken regs but he hasn't actually committed a crime that a civilian court would convict him for, is that it? The bow was at full extension. I moved my aimpoint slightly, searching for the next target against the brilliant starfield.

"That's about it," she agreed. "Though a phone call to Hamilton might just cause him to be caught with some of the contraband he's got hidden in his quarters. Including the drug he would have slipped into your drink."

I thought about it for a long moment as I steadied my aim, then let fly. The arrow whipped out into the void.

Yeah, I decided. I think I might.

-ooo-​

PRT Austin
Tuesday, June 7, 1994
1324 Hours

"You've got a problem."

My voice cut across the room, getting the attention of the people gathered there with me. All were men, all were older than me. One, of course, was Kinsey; he stood off to the side, as unobtrusively as he could manage. Of the others, two were PRT; specifically, the Director and Deputy Director of the Austin station. They, at least, seemed inclined to pay attention and take me seriously. The other two, the local heads of the ATF and the FBI respectively, appeared more dubious.

"With all due respect, young lady," the ATF man, Rodriguez, observed, "I don't see the problem you're referring to."

Hanran, his counterpart from the FBI, didn't speak; he rubbed his chin and looked faintly concerned instead. Director Walsh spoke up in his place. "Captain Snow, what's the nature of this problem? These fringe groups you're looking for information on?"

Thankful for the straight line, I nodded. "Precisely, sir."

Rodriguez shook his head. "I think you're barking up the wrong tree. Sure, they used to be a concern. We were keeping close tabs on them for stockpiling guns and ammo for quite some time. But now they've gone quiet. Stopped buying guns in any great quantities. We've barely heard a peep out of them for a year or two."

"He's right," Hanran put in, although his heart didn't seem to be in it. "They've stopped publishing their religious manifestos. They've even stopped ranting about the government and how it can't be trusted. I mean, we're keeping an eye out, but they're showing all the signs of becoming less of a threat, not more."

"And what if this is deliberate?" I asked flatly. "What if they're deliberately fading into the background so that you take your eyes off of them?"

"Even if this was true," Rodriguez objected, "we can't exactly take a lack of activity as evidence of wrongdoing." He looked me up and down. "Where are you getting this from, anyway?"

"I've been analysing the data." There was a large-scale map of the US spread out on the table in the conference room; I looked it over. "All these groups that went quiet around the same time, it was about eighteen months ago, right?"

Hanran and Rodriguez glanced at each other, then back at me. "Uh, sure," Hanran agreed. "But how did you know?"

I hid a sigh. "What do these groups have in common?"

"Well, they hate the government," Hanran supplied.

"Fringe religious beliefs," Deputy Director Grantham added.

"Isolationist," Rodriguez went on.

"Preparing for the end times," Director Walsh finished.

"Well, then -" I began, but Rodriguez cut me off.

"Excuse me a second. I can see where you're going, but let me make something clear here. We've been watching these groups for some time. Sure, they hate the government, but their religious views are generally more important to them than their political views. They hate each other maybe more than they hate us. If you're going to try to sell us on them putting their differences aside and forming one big group, young lady, I'm gonna need a sight more evidence than you've presented so far."

Walsh frowned, but I spoke up first. "Mr Rodriguez, what big world-shattering event happened around about eighteen months ago?"

He paused, but not for long. The answer was, after all, self-evident. "The Behemoth appeared?"

"Precisely." I ticked off names on my fingers. "Marun Field. Sao Paulo. New York. It's hit three widely separated targets; all indications are that it's going to keep hitting heavily populated locations of its choice until it's dealt with, once and for all. So far, the massed power of all the parahumans that have faced it – including the Protectorate – have been able to do nothing more than drive it off. The death toll has been horrendous, and not just among the civilian population. It's the sort of thing that makes even rational people think about the end of the world." I paused to let that sink in. "And each of these groups that's gone quiet already believes in an imminent apocalypse. To them, the Behemoth is just what they've been waiting for."

"Wait, wait," Hanran objected. "You're saying that they've decided to worship that fucking thing?"

I tilted my head slightly. "Not 'worship' as such, I would say. It's more along the lines of … well, say you're the leader of a crackpot fringe apocalypse cult. You've been running your little power trip for years. The superhero thing stoked things up a little, but people got used to that. You're worried that, given the lack of an apocalypse, your flock might start drifting away. And then the Behemoth makes an appearance on the world stage. All of a sudden, all your teachings are validated. They don't so much worship it as point at it and say, 'See? See? I was right after all!'."

Rodriguez was mulling over my words; from the sour expression on his face, he didn't like the taste of them at all. "So you're saying they've consolidated around the belief that the Behemoth is the harbinger of the apocalypse."

"Or that it'll personally cause it, yeah," I agreed. "They already believe that they live in the end times. If you were working down a checklist of what these cults would look for in an End-bringer, to coin a phrase, then the Behemoth would tick a hell of a lot of boxes."

Hanran nodded. "Okay, you've convinced me. But there's something else I'm curious about."

"Shoot," I invited.

He gestured around the room. "Why did you even ask us to come here for this meeting, rather than just drop the information off to us? Even if they are Behemoth cultists now, that still doesn't really put them under the jurisdiction of the PRT."

"Well, that's the other half of the problem," I told him.

"And that doesn't sound ominous at all," Rodriguez responded. "What's the other half look like?"

I nodded to him. "You said earlier how they're not stockpiling so many guns, right?"

He frowned. "Okay, I'll bite. If they're not stockpiling guns, what are they stockpiling?"

My voice was flat. "Parahumans."

-ooo-​

If I'd tossed a venomous snake into the middle of the table, I might have gotten a less startled response. Walsh and Grantham didn't react overly much, given that I'd briefed them beforehand, but Rodriguez and Hanran were caught flat-footed.

"What? You're shitting me!" That was Hanran.

Rodriguez took it a step farther. "Wait, they're breeding them?"

"Yes and no." I held up my hand to forestall more questions. "Powers are not genetic in nature. We're pretty sure of that, at least. But it's also a documented phenomenon that kids of parahumans are more likely to develop powers. So yes, they'll be trying to do exactly that."

"So I'm guessing that they'll be using these parahumans to try to help the apocalypse along," Hanran surmised. "What are the chances of them actually getting enough parahumans, one way or another, to make a difference?"

"Not huge," I admitted. "But the trouble is, parahumans are a force multiplier, so even if they don't get on to the world stage to help humanity fall the rest of the way, they can still hurt the country a lot by being a destabilising force just when we don't need it."

"Wait, how are they even getting parahumans?" demanded Rodriguez. "It's not like they can put out a want ad."

I shrugged. "You might get one or two joining. After all, being a parahuman is no barrier to being an idiot. And then … well, they'll be doing a lot of inbreeding, working off of the 'powers are genetic' theory. Also, trying to generate powers spontaneously via, well, inbreeding."

Hanran shuddered. "Hillbilly rednecks, with powers, who want to help end the world. I am officially over this shit."

"Okay, I'm convinced," Rodriguez admitted. "But the big problem is that we can't prove intent. Parahumans joining an end-of-the-world cult is plenty scary, but it's not actually illegal. No matter who they shack up with. I mean, the whole inbreeding thing is pretty well a hillbilly joke anyway."

"Yeah," I agreed, then took a deep breath. "But do you think they'd shy away from, say, kidnapping a parahuman or three to use as breeding material, just to make sure of things?"

Hanran's head came up. "Now that's something we could nail them for," he agreed. "Got any proof for that?"

"I can put together some pretty convincing circumstantial evidence," I told him. "Got those missing-persons files the Director asked you to bring along?"

"I … sure," he told me. Picking up his attache case and putting it on the table, he opened it. Within lay a stack of Manila folders; he lifted them out. "But these are ordinary people, not parahumans. Or rather, we don't have any way to match these names up with missing parahumans."

"We'll see," I told him. "Director?"

His expression sharpening to intense interest, Director Walsh handed over another stack of folders. Each of these bore a codename. "Parahumans who've dropped out of sight in the last eighteen months, between sixteen and twenty-five, powers that aren't really geared toward heavy combat," he reported. "Just as you asked for."

"Yeah, that's all well and good," Rodriguez pointed out. "But how do we match A up to B?"

"That, gentlemen, is my job," I told him, pulling a chair up to where the two stacks resided. "May I have the room for an hour?"

"Wait." That was Hanran. "You're going to - ?"

Director Walsh cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, let's give her the room."

"Except for my orderly," I stated. "He can stay, if you don't mind."

"Certainly, Captain," agreed Walsh. "Come on, gentlemen. While we're waiting, I'll tell you a few stories I got from Director Rankine, in Chicago …"

The door closed behind them. Kinsey cleared his throat. "Is there anything you need, ma'am?"

"Yes, please," I told him. "A pot of tea. You know how I like it."

"Roger that, ma'am," he agreed. He let himself out.

Alone in the room, I looked the folders over, spreading them on the table. Carefully, I sorted them into males and females, placing the stacks opposite one another. Then I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. Gradually, I relaxed, letting my consciousness slip away.

-ooo-​

We sat on the Boardwalk, looking out to sea. In place of the Protectorate base, my memory palace rose out of the ocean, vast and imposing and beautiful. Lisa lounged at the other end of the bench, eating a choc chip ice cream cone. I had caramel crunch, delicious explosions of taste igniting against my tongue with every bite.

So do you think this'll put a stop to the Fallen? I asked between bites.

"It's definitely worth a try," Lisa agreed. "They've got eight captive parahumans in their compound, with three more who are there willingly. You'll get six matches with the folders."

Wait, why do I only get six matches if there are eight captives?

"Because one of the parahumans is a Stranger type who never showed up on the PRT's radar. And another one's fourteen."

Christ, I muttered. I should've set the ages lower.

"Don't worry," she assured me. "You've got enough to go on with."

I closed my eyes. But I should have done this months ago. What those girls are going through -

Leaning across, she flicked me sharply on the ear. "Hey!"

My eyes flew open. Ow! What was that for?

"To remind you that you can't save everyone, all of the time." Her bottle-green eyes bored into mine. "There are people suffering all over the world, all of the time. People dying in unjust ways. We can't save one tenth of one percent of just the ones in the United States."

I drew a deep breath. I hated to admit it, but she was right. So what am I doing? Just going through the motions?

"No." Her voice was tart. "You're saving the ones you can save. Because, believe me, you'll make a difference to them."

And I'll stop these people from producing the Fallen and causing misery and death to so many more people in the future.

"Exactly." She nodded approvingly. "And, of course, we're gonna save the world."

My smile was reluctant, but it was there. Yeah, that too. I ate the last of my caramel crunch.

"Better." She leaned toward me. "Kiss before you go?"

I kissed her; her lips tasted of blood and dust and chocolate chip ice cream. The rising wind whipped her hair around my face. I blinked -

-ooo-​

- and I was sitting in the conference room with all the folders off to one side except for six; these were stacked in twos before me. There was a cup of tea at my elbow, the level halfway down. I wished that I remembered drinking it.

"Kinsey," I told the sergeant as I picked up the cup, "would you kindly let the Director and the others know that I'm ready to see them again?"

"Ma'am," he acknowledged, going to the door.

I rose as they trooped in; I saw their eyes go to the six stacks in front of me. "You have your matches, gentlemen," I told them. "These people are the ones being held against their will."

Walsh's eyebrows rose as he picked up one pair of folders and flicked through each of them in turn. "Well, the data seems to match," he murmured.

Grantham had another pair of folders in hand. "These do, too," he agreed.

Hanran came over to me. "Well, this gives us a good case for reasonable suspicion," he agreed. "Now all we need is a location to hit."

"Oh, that's the easy part," I told him. Leaning over the map, I tapped a location toward the north-east part of Texas. "Just about … here."

"Huh." Walsh leaned over, looking at the map. "Just near … Waco. Right."

"Hm." Rodriguez peered at the same spot. "Makes sense. One of those groups already had a compound there, if I recall correctly."

I nodded. "You do indeed recall correctly. All of my analysis indicates that these groups have been gravitating toward this main group. There will have been some infighting, but that would mainly be to determine who runs the show. Their main tenet of belief – that the Behemoth is the harbinger of the world's end – will be pretty well set in stone."

"So how do we run this?" It was a measure of Walsh's respect toward me that he directed the query in my direction. "Knock on the door with a warrant, or kick in the door and hand them the warrant after the dust settles?"

"Either way runs a risk toward the welfare of the captives," I noted. "Knocking on the door, letting them know that we know that they've got the parahumans, runs a high risk of them delaying long enough to quietly kill their captives and bury them in shallow graves. Kicking in the door leaves the risk that they'll react without thinking and kill them anyway." I didn't have to refer to Lisa for that one; my grounding in criminal psychology had given me the answer.

Rodriguez looked down at the map. "Which makes it a lose-lose situation. Got a way out of this?"

"Sure," I agreed. "I go in as well. Give me a good look at the compound and I should be able to figure out where the captives are being kept. We knock politely with the warrant; if they attempt to delay in any way, we do an aerial assault, a strike squad lands on the roof of the building where the captives are being kept, smashes their way in there and secures them. After that, we can deal with the rest of the cultists in our own time."

"You do realise that less guns being stockpiled doesn't mean no guns being stockpiled, right?" The ATF man's voice was sour. "We're going to be essentially breaking and entering into private property where the homeowners are armed, dangerous and very willing to shoot at government troops."

"We're also going in to rescue six young women who are being held against their will for the most degrading of purposes," I snapped. "You do what you have to do, Mr Rodriguez, but don't stand in the way of that."

-ooo-​

Friday, June 10, 1994
Bergstrom AFB, Austin TX
0931 Hours

"Taylor!"

I turned at the familiar voice. She emerged from the rear of the large cargo plane and advanced in my direction over the tarmac. Halting before me, she threw a salute which I returned. Eschewing a handshake, we hugged, ignoring the bemused glances of those around us. Her embrace creaked my ribs before we pulled apart, but I didn't care.

"Emily, how are you?"

She grinned at me, teeth white against her tanned skin. "Kicking ass. Taking names. How about you? You look well. And a Captain, no less. You're burning up the chain of command, aren't you?"

"Well, therein lies a story." I clapped her on the shoulder and turned to Kinsey, who had watched the byplay with impassive interest. "Kinsey, I want you to meet Lieutenant Emily Piggot. We went through Basic together. I lost count of the number of muddy holes she pulled me out of. Emily, this is Sergeant James Kinsey, my orderly."

Kinsey saluted. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

She returned the salute then held out her hand. "When we're off duty, Sergeant, it'll be Emily. And we'll swap embarrassing stories about the Captain behind her back."

He took it; they shook once, firmly but without the bullshit whose-grip-is-stronger contest. "I look forward to it, ma'am."

Emily nodded, then turned back to me. "So, before we get to the serious stuff. That thing that happened in Brockton Bay. That was you, right?"

"That was me, yeah," I agreed. "I kind of didn't have a choice in the matter."

"Yeah, I just bet." She glanced around. "Oop, gotta go check in. But we'll catch up."

"Yeah, we will." I watched her hustle away. "Well," I murmured. "That makes life interesting."

"Old friends, ma'am," Kinsey commented from behind me. "They turn up when you least expect them."

"Too true, Kinsey," I agreed. "Too true." I looked around. "Now, where were we holding the briefing again?"

He pointed. "Over there, ma'am."

"Right. Let's go get set up."

-ooo-​

1123 Hours

I stood before the PRT strike team in the darkened conference room. "You've been told the objective and the location. Now for a little background. These are fanatics. They believe that the world is ending soon, that the Behemoth is the harbinger for this event, and that what they believe is right and proper. They will shoot at you."

I took a breath; the silence in the room was almost absolute. "This particular group was being run by a man called Vernon Howell. Eighteen months ago, after the Behemoth event, a woman called Vicki Weaver and her family came to join them. They were the first of many; initially, Howell and Weaver jointly presided over the combined groups, which they began to call the Brotherhood of the Fallen. But from what information we've been able to gather, internal conflict has ousted them in favour of a man called Hadrian Lange." A photo flashed up on the screen behind me. "This is probably a pseudonym; we haven't been able to find any information on him."

More photos went up on the screen. "These three are apparently parahumans who have joined the Brotherhood of their own free will. We think that they correlate to these three villains." Blurry photos joined the first three. "You will each be given data sheets on their powers." I paused. "Next photos please?"

Six new photos went up on the screen. "These are the six parahumans who we know they have in captivity." A rolling murmur went through the audience; I wasn't surprised, given that each image was of a young woman or teenage girl. "There may be more. These are the people we are going in to rescue. They are being kept for the specific purpose of breeding more parahumans."

This time, the murmur was more of a rumble, with definite overtones of anger. I let it die down of its own accord. "You will also be supplied photos of these people." I took a deep breath. "Now, due to jurisdictional issues, the PRT strike squad and the Protectorate heroes assigned to this mission will be tasked specifically with countering the hostile parahumans and rescuing the captives. The ATF will be seizing the armoury, while the FBI is there to suppress the civilian members of the Brotherhood, arrest their leader and to steer non-combatants away from the fighting. We will also be supported by the Texas Rangers and the National Guard." I looked over the faces in the room, pale from reflected light. "Note that we will be engaging in mutual support. We'll be there for one another. But the PRT's stated objective is to get those girls and exfiltrate soonest. The ATF's is to deny the Brotherhood access to their stockpile of weapons. And the FBI's is to take Lange into custody."

I paused and took a sip from the glass of water on the podium. "We've done drone overflights of the compound; two of the six captives have been spotted being moved between buildings, while one of the parahuman members has also been seen. So we know that they're there. This is not a theoretical exercise. It's a rescue mission. Overview of the compound, please." The image flashed up on the screen. I palmed my laser pointer, put a circle around a particular building. "The captives are being held in this building." Moving it to another one, I marked that as well. "This is the armoury, which is where the ATF will be headed."

A hand went up. "What's the exit plan, ma'am?"

"I'm glad you asked. Plan Alpha is to get on to the roof and be picked up by helo. Plan Bravo is to bunker down and let reinforcements come to you. And Plan Charlie is to fight your way out." I paused. "Any more questions?"

A long pause, then someone responded. "Are you coming in with us, ma'am?"

"I would dearly love to," I admitted. "But I've been overruled from on high -" Director Walsh had been quite adamant on that score. "- and so I'm sitting this one out. But I'll be quarterbacking you all the way." I took a step forward. "However, make no mistake. If things go pear-shaped, I will be coming in to get you out."

The applause was sudden enough to surprise me. Kinsey stepped forward to stand next to me. Under the cover of the noise, he leaned in and stated quietly, "Correction, ma'am. We'll be going in."

I barely moved my lips as I replied. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

-ooo-​

Saturday, June 11, 1994
1105 Hours

"Five minutes until we're over the target, ma'am."

I fought down a yawn. "Five minutes, roger."

The airframe shook around me. I didn't really like helicopters; it seemed too much like they were going to come apart at any moment. Also, far too noisy for my liking. But it was the quickest way to get from Austin to Waco; the ground forces had set out hours previously, travelling by truck and SUV. I wondered why I was so tired all of a sudden. After all, it wasn't as if rising early wasn't my habit by now.

Rodriguez and Hanran were sharing the helo with me; we were going to be the eyes-in-the-sky, looking down on the operation and providing minute-by-minute support. Director Walsh was in the fourth seat, while Deputy Director Grantham held down the fort in Austin. Kinsey sat behind me.

I had requested a flyby of the compound itself so that I could get an eyeball of the situation on the ground. Walsh had permitted it, on the condition that I didn't go fast-roping out of the aircraft to join the grunts. I didn't blame him; part of me wanted to do just that. I had even decked myself out in body armour and sidearm, on the principle that if I had to go in, I didn't want to waste time getting ready.

Yawning again, I settled back in my seat and closed my eyes. About time to check in with Lisa. It should have been more difficult, given the fact that I'd been riding in a noisy aircraft for an hour, but it was actually surprisingly easy. Slowly, I drifted away …

-ooo-​

Lisa grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. "Turn the helicopter around!" she shouted. "Get out of there! They're ready for you! It's a trap!"

Oddly, I felt myself falling sideways. Smoke stung my nostrils. Lisa kissed me, hard. Dust and blood filled my tastebuds. I blinked.

-ooo-​

My eyes opened to noise and fire. Something had slashed through the helicopter, leaving molten trails of metal. One or more of the other passengers was dead, blood sprayed across the inside of the fuselage. The helicopter was tilting crazily; I grabbed for my armrests. Horrific sounds of metal grinding against metal were audible even inside the helmet earpieces.

"This is Woodpecker One," the pilot reported over the radio, his voice carefully calm even as his aircraft fell from the sky. "We have sustained damage. There are casualties on board. We are going down. Mayday. Mayday. Mayday."

Buildings rushed toward us.

Impact.

End of Part 5-1

Part 5-2​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 5-2: Out of the Frying Pan​

Saturday, June 11, 1994
The Compound

Kari Schultz buried her face in the thin, hard pillow and tried hard not to sob audibly. Smasher was 'visiting' Joanne in the next cubicle; Kari folded the pillow around her head so she didn't have to hear the noises. Tears stung her eyes and she hunched around her misery. Even as she tried to get more comfortable, the leather cuff around her right ankle pulled tight, reminding her once again of her captivity.

Despite her own personal troubles, one thought kept intruding. Oh god, I hope Mom's okay.

Behind her, the door opened.

-ooo-​

Monday, May 16, 1994
A Small Town in Texas

"Theeere we go." Kari helped her mother settle her legs into the wheelchair. "Comfy, Mom?"

"Yes, dear." Kari's mother, both legs paralysed from the accident that had killed her husband, smiled up at her daughter. "Thank you. You're such a help."

"You're my mom. I'm not about to leave you on your own." Kari planted a kiss on top of her mother's head, then took the handles of the wheelchair.

"Your father would be so proud to see how you've stepped up," her mother insisted.

"I'm just doing what needs to be done." Kari pushed the wheelchair out of the bedroom, into the living room, and through to the kitchen. With her mother at the table, they chatted as she cooked breakfast. Her mother was right; she had been a typical teen before the accident. Before … well, before.

But now she was getting better and better at cooking. Responsibility was now something that came naturally to her; checking her mother for bedsores, helping her in and out of the tub, in and out of bed, it was all now part of her daily routine. This was not the life she would have chosen for herself a year ago, but it was the one she had.

If only Dad was still here …

-ooo-​

The car accident had been such a stupid thing. A patch of oil on the road plus a passing car swerving too close had caused her father to lose control of the vehicle. The car had gone off the embankment, rolling over several times. Kari must have bumped her head, because she came to a few minutes later. She was at a weird angle, with part of the roof pressing down on her. Ominously, there was no movement, no noise from the front seats. She had called out to her parents; there was no reply.

And then she smelt gasoline, the thick vapours making her cough and gag.

That was when she panicked. She had struggled, screaming, desperate to get out, to survive, to get away. With her bare hands, she had torn at the metal imprisoning her. Her nails tore, her skin bruised, but she was no closer to getting out. I'm going to die here.

And then, it all changed. The metal curled away at her touch, stretching and tearing like wet newspaper. She wrenched herself free of the seat-belt, climbed out of the hole she had made. Staring at her hands, uncomprehending. How did I do that?

She had torn open the car to get her parents free. Unable to drag them up the embankment, unsure if they were even alive, she had hauled them as far as she was able away from the car, in case it caught fire or exploded or something. Then she had scrambled up to the road and flagged down the first car to happen by.

Her mother lived, paralysed from the waist down. Her father had died at some point between the crash and help getting there; she was haunted by the idea that had she been with him, had she known first aid, she might have kept him alive long enough for proper medical attention to save him.

-ooo-​

The phone rang, jolting her from her reverie. Looking down, she saw that the eggs were done. "Here, Mom," she said, putting the pan on the table. "Can you serve these out? I'll get the phone."

Dashing across the room, she grabbed the receiver before it stopped ringing. "Hello?"

"Hello? Am I speaking to Kari Schultz?"

"Yes, you are," she replied warily. "Who is this?"

"I represent a businessman who would like to speak to you about hiring your services -"

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said no." Kari took a deep breath. "Ever since it came out that I've got powers, you – you parasites have been on me to use them in one way or another. I don't want to. In fact, I wish I'd never gotten powers at all. They've been nothing but a burden to me. First the news, then the would-be superheroes, then you people. I wish you'd all just go away."

"But there is quite a substantial amount of money on offer here. Your mother's medical bills -"

"- are paid for. We have insurance. Now leave me alone." She didn't quite slam the phone down, but she did put it down with more force than strictly necessary.

"Another one, dear?" Her mother looked up at her mildly as she got back to the table. "What was it this time?"

"A 'businessman' with a 'substantial offer'." Kari took a deep breath, then another. "Pretty sure it was something illegal."

"Probably." Her mother smiled at her. "I got a call like that while you were at the store the other day. I told them that I was recording the call. You've never heard anyone hang up so quickly."

"Huh. Maybe I should do that too." Kari took a forkful of egg. "At least the PRT were nice enough to leave me alone after I told them that no, I didn't want to be in the Wards."

"You know," her mother mused, "you could do a great deal of good -"

"I already do a great deal of good," Kari told her. "Right here. With you. I don't want to be a superhero. I want to be your hero."

"And you are, sweetie. You are."

-ooo-​

They finished breakfast and Kari washed up, then checked the fridge. "Just going to the store to get some milk and the newspaper," she reported to her mother, who was now knitting while watching TV. "Anything else I should get while I'm there?"

"Some fruit would be nice, dear," her mother said. "And I think we're almost out of toilet paper."

"I'll get another few rolls," Kari decided, scribbling on the back of an envelope. "Toilet … paper."

It was only a few blocks to the store; in the sleepy West Texas town where she lived, it was only a few blocks to go anywhere. Kari enjoyed the exercise, swinging out her arms and enjoying the brisk morning breeze. The town was small enough that everyone knew most everyone else, and so she drew waves and smiles from people as she made her way down the pavement. She had drawn a certain amount of notoriety when her powers first became known, but given that she didn't make a big deal of it, public perception of her soon changed from 'Kari, who's got powers' to 'Kari, who's helping her mother'.

"Kari!" It was a child's voice; she turned around to see Johnny and Lisa running toward her. Johnny was ten and his sister Lisa was eight; she had baby-sat them more than once. They were good kids, if a bit excitable.

"Hey, guys," she greeted them. "How's things?"

"Great!" Johnny enthused. "Hey, Kari, can you do your trick with this?" He held out a large metal washer.

"Yeah, do your trick," Lisa urged.

Inwardly, Kari sighed. She had given in to the temptation to show off to the younger kids a few times, and now they wouldn't leave her alone about it. They were worse than the people making the phone calls in a way, but at least with the kids she knew what they wanted.

"Sorry." She shook her head. "I don't do that any more."

"Just once?" wheedled Lisa. "Pleeeeze?" She looked up at Kari with an amazingly pitiful lost-puppy expression.

Kari sighed. "No. Sorry. Just leave it alone, all right?" If I do it this time, they'll keep coming back.

"Okay," Johnny agreed. "Come on, Lisa."

Reluctantly, the two children headed off down the street. Faintly, she head the boy saying, "See, I told you it wouldn't work …"

Shaking her head just a little, Kari went into the general store and spent the next few minutes picking out her purchases. The guy behind the counter barely paid any attention to her as he rang it up and made change out of the money she handed him, for which she was grateful. I could go the next month without hearing about my powers, and I'd be glad of it.

Back on the street, she struck out for home, already planning the day ahead. Once she had the groceries in the fridge and her chores done, she would settle down and do the home-schooling material that she had been sent. She could really be attending the local middle school, but she didn't like the idea of leaving her mother alone for any length of time.

Engrossed in her thoughts as she was, she barely noticed the van that slowed as it approached her. It pulled over as she passed by, then a voice called out. "Excuse me, kid, can you help me?"

Stopping, she turned around, to see a man leaning out of the passenger side window of the van. "Uh yeah, sure. What's up?"

The man did a picture-perfect double-take. "Wait, are you that Schultz kid? The one with the powers?"

Her lips tightened. "So what if I am? I don't use them. Now, did you need a hand or can I go now?"

For an answer, the rear doors of the van burst open and two large, burly men burst out. Before she knew quite what was happening, they grabbed her. One slapped a bunched up cloth over her face; the acrid smell made her head spin. The other pulled a bag over her head. She tried to struggle, tried to scream, but to no avail. Her head began to swim; the last thing she registered before passing out altogether was the sensation of being dragged into the van.

-ooo-​

Wakefulness returned slowly. She blinked her way to full awareness, looking around muzzily. For a long moment, she thought that she had overslept, that her mother was waiting on her. But the room was wrong, the bed was uncomfortable and the shift she wore was thin and scratchy, totally unlike the flannel pyjamas she preferred.

And then she became aware of the people standing in the room. Men. Total strangers. Looking down at her. She screamed and tried to scramble back up the bed, dragging the thin sheet with her. However, halfway there, something fastened around her right ankle pulled her to a sudden halt. A rope, stretching from beneath the sheet to one post of the cot, had gone taut, preventing her from retreating any farther. With another scream, she cowered, pulling the sheet up and doing her best to cover herself with it.

"Shut up." It was the man standing at the forefront of the group who spoke. His voice was deep, resonant and harsh. He had features to match; hard, rawboned, uncompromising.

When she didn't stop screaming, he stepped forward and slapped her twice across the face. His hand was large and work-roughened; it jolted her face from side to side. Her ears rang with the impacts and she stopped screaming, if only to try to figure out which way was up. A coppery taste in her mouth told her that she had bitten her lip when he hit her.

"Good." His tone never changed. "Now stay quiet."

Her eyes wide, she cringed away from him. The last time she had been struck was when her father paddled her for stealing cookies. That had been six years ago, when she was eight years old. Nobody had ever hit her in the face before, much less an adult man.

"What – what do you want?" she whimpered. "Where am I? Why am I here?"

"You're here because you've got powers." Her cheeks were stinging now. She thought she could feel a trickle of blood from her nose. But that was nothing to the sense of shock at his statement.

"What? This is because of my powers?"

He nodded, once. "Yes."

This was making no sense at all. "But … my powers aren't that great. And I don't use them. Not for anyone. Not for any amount of money. If you know who I am, then you know that."

His face twisted and for a moment, she thought he was angry, that he was going to hit her again. And then she realised that the grimace was what he used for a smile. She wished he wouldn't; it was worse than his ordinary expression. "You're not here to use your powers, girl."

"I … what?"

"I'm not stupid enough to think that you'd use your powers for our cause. You don't see the Truth, after all." His expression was of one viewing a holy revelation. It was possibly worse than the smile. "But your children will. They'll be raised in it."

She almost choked on the word. "Ch … children?" It took her a long moment to realise the implications of what he was saying. When she did, she wanted to throw up. "No. No. No. Please, no."

Turning away from her, ignoring her words as if she were just an object, a thing, the rawboned man looked at the three other men in the room. For the first time, she realised that they wore costumes, or at least masks. Trying to ignore her terror of what had been intimated was going to happen to her, she focused on them.

The first was a man of average height and build. He wore a costume that was yellow around the hands and arms, fading to a greyish-black for the rest of it. Despite the domino mask he wore, the look he gave her would have made her skin crawl if she hadn't been already terrified.

The second was a head taller than everyone else in the room; his build suggested a body-builder or weightlifter. His skin tone suggested stone rather than flesh, he had no hair, and his eyes were deep-set red orbs. He wore a sleeveless black shirt and long pants; there was a white fist crudely stencilled on the front of the shirt. There was no expression on his face as he looked at Kari.

The last of the three was a teenager, as far as she could tell. She couldn't see his face or hair, but from his short sleeves, she could tell he had swarthy skin. His expression was hidden behind a full-face mask, striped in black and yellow. His costume also had black and yellow stripes over it. This should have had the effect of making him look vaguely comical or clownish, but somehow they just made him look sinister.

"Well, gentlemen," the man stated. "Which of you will take her on?"

"For God's sake," she screamed, getting her voice back. "I'm only fourteen!"

A second later, her ears rang all over again as her head rocked back from another slap.

"You will speak only when spoken to," warned the man. "My name is Hadrian Lange. You will address me as 'Mr Lange' or 'sir'. Preferably, you will not address me at all." Taking a hold of her shoulder-length blonde hair, he pulled her head back until they were eye to eye. "Do you understand? Say 'yes, Mr Lange, sir'."

Blinking the tears of pain from her eyes, she managed to croak, "Yes, Mr Lange, sir." More blood was in her mouth; she wasn't sure that one of her teeth hadn't been loosened.

"Good," he purred. "You can learn after all." Stepping back, he gestured to her while looking at the men. "So, which of you wants to break her in?"

The big man with the stonelike skin shook his head. "Not me. I'd kill her. You don't want that." His voice was understandably deep, but quite human. He turned and trod from the room, his steps making the floor shake.

There was a long silence, then Lange looked at the other two. "Quite right. Well, that leaves you two. Anyone?"

Terrified, Kari stared at the costumed men, willing them to retreat as the big one had done. Maybe if nobody wants to -

"Well then," Lange decided briskly, "if neither of you is up to the task, I'll do it. You two can wait outside." He began to unbuckle his belt.

"Me!" blurted the younger of the two remaining parahumans. "I'll do it. I'll, uh, I'll break her in." His accent was definitely Mexican.

Lange paused and looked over at the teenager. "Really?" One eyebrow raised. "Are you sure you're up to it?"

The kid pushed his chest out slightly. "A year ago, mi papi was beaten to death before my eyes. Then I got my powers and killed the man who did it. Si, I can do it, jefe."

"One man, junior?" asked the other parahuman. "Chump change. Ever murdered a busload of nuns?"

"What, you have -?" began the boy.

"Hah, nah. But I always wanted to." The older man chuckled. "I went to a Catholic school. I fuckin' hate nuns."

Lange slapped the man on the shoulder. "You'll probably get your chance, Sunstrike. But now I think we should leave Aguijón alone to get acquainted with the girl. You know how young love is."

"Maybe we should stay and make sure he does the job right," Sunstrike suggested.

Aguijón muttered something in Spanish that Sunstrike apparently understood, because he flushed slightly. "You want to say that again, junior?" he asked. The room darkened slightly, while a glow built around his hands.

"Now, let's not fight," Lange interjected. "Sunstrike, let's go." He turned to Aguijón. "Remember, no metal gets near her."

They went out together; the door closed behind them. Kari looked at the boy called Aguijón.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, please, please. Don't do this. I'm begging you."

Slowly, he pulled off the mask. He wasn't quite as young as she had thought, but he was still only a few years older than her, seventeen or eighteen at most. The look around his eyes, though … going by that, he could have been decades older. "I didn't know what to do," he confessed slowly. "He is my jefe. But I couldn't let them just … do that to you. So I told them I would do it."

"Please, don't," she repeated.

"I don't want to do it," he blurted. "I don't want them to do it, either."

"Then don't," she insisted. "Please."

"I … will not," he assured her. "But I don't know how long the jefe's patience will last."

He sat down on the side of the cot; she cringed away from him.

"I won't hurt you," he said, carefully picking his words. "What is your name?"

"Kari," she whispered. "Kari Schultz."

He nodded solemnly. "I am Roberto. Roberto Garcia."

She took a deep breath. "Why are you with these people?"

-ooo-​

Tuesday, July 20, 1993
Not Far North of the Mexican Border

"'Berto!" shouted his father in Spanish. "Get out here, you lazy lout! The truck is almost here!"

Roberto hastened to obey, jumping up from in front of the antiquated TV set and running outside. "Have you seen the news, Dad?" he asked in the same language as he joined him at the side of the road.

"Will the news help us pick fruit any faster?" his father said harshly.

"No, but it was about superheroes fighting -"

"Superheroes!" The elder Garcia spat expertly into the dust. "Do they come and help us pick our crops? No. Do they stop pigs like Jenkinson from stealing our wages and giving us barely enough to eat and drink while we pick his fruit? No. I piss on them!"

"I think this is serious," Roberto insisted. "It was that monster. It's back. They were fighting it."

"What monster?" asked his father.

"The one that the heroes fought in Iran, or wherever it was, back in December. It came back, but this time in Sao Paulo."

"I do not believe that this thing is true," his father muttered. "The heroes made it up so that we would worship them some more." He shaded his eyes as a rattling noise became audible in the distance. "Here comes the truck."

"No, it is real, I am sure of it. It's as tall as three houses, one on top of the other. It killed heroes like you or I would swat a fly." To illustrate, Roberto slapped a horsefly that had landed on his arm, then wiped off the mess on his shirt.

"Unless it wants to come here and swat Jenkinson like a fly, or help us pick the fruit, then I don't care." The truck pulled up alongside and Roberto's father swung aboard, then extended an arm for his son to clamber up as well. "Now, I don't want to hear any more of it."

But Roberto could not help thinking about the creature that they called el Gigante. It had been so huge, so terrifying, so unstoppable. What does it mean?

-ooo-​

Roberto was just six paces behind the old man he knew only as Hernandez when the latter stumbled, then collapsed. His basket fell to the ground, the freshly-picked cherries spilling in the dust.

"Hey," Roberto said. "You okay, senór?" Setting his own basket down, he started forward. However, he had only just knelt down beside Hernandez before a large hand seized upon his shoulder.

"Get back to work, you lazy little shit," growled the rough voice of Jenkinson, the work overseer. "And you, Pancho, get up. No lying down on the job here."

"I think he is not -" Roberto got no farther before he was physically pushed back, to sprawl on the ground. The breath was knocked out of him and he struggled to focus.

"You don't give me any lip, kid," Jenkinson told him, "and you get no trouble. Now, I already told you to get back to work once."

"Hoy!" Roberto recognised his father's voice; a vague shape stepped past him to confront Jenkinson. "You don't touch mi hijo, cabrón!"

From the way Jenkinson's breath sucked in, he obviously recognised the word, or perhaps he just knew that he'd been insulted without understanding the specifics. Either way, he lashed out with a slap that rocked Garcia's head to one side.

Roberto's father was no brawler, but one did not make the trip north to the United States, or survive in the fruit picking trade, without having a certain amount of toughness. He shook his head and shoved Jenkinson, hard. Then he spat in his face.

Roberto was just climbing to his feet when Jenkinson came forward again. This time, the overseer's fists were clenched and there was blood in his eye. His first punch caught Roberto's father in the gut; as the man folded, Jenkinson smashed him in the face with the second. Garcia staggered, but Jenkinson wasn't done yet. He grabbed the Mexican by his shirt-front and pounded blow after blow into his face and body.

"Papi!" Roberto started forward, but a casual back-hand from Jenkinson lifted him off his feet and landed him across his own basket; wicker splintered and cherries squashed beneath him. His head rang and he tasted blood in his mouth.

It was only vaguely that he could focus on what was happening before him; his father seemed to have recovered a little and was struggling with Jenkinson. But the overseer was a big man, stronger than Garcia, and far more versed in brawling. All Roberto could hear were the heavy punishing blows, like a baseball bat hitting a side of beef.

By the time his head cleared, it was all over; Jenkinson stood, Roberto's father hanging limply by his shirt-front, still clenched in the overseer's large fist. With a contemptuous motion, Jenkinson tossed Roberto's father down so that he landed beside his son. "Get him up and working," he sneered. "Or you both go without pay."

Painfully, Roberto rolled over and shook his father. "Dad," he whispered in Spanish. "Dad. Wake up." The elder Garcia didn't respond; his head lolled limply from side to side. Roberto gagged to see the blood that coated his face and chest. "Dad," he repeated, more loudly.

It was then that he realised that his father's chest was not rising and falling, that he could not hear breathing. Getting up on his knees, he shook his father again. "Dad? Wake up!"

Holding his ear over the elder Garcia's mouth, he could not hear breathing, nor feel the warmth of expelled air. "Dad? No! Dad!"

In that moment, Roberto's world came crashing down around him. His father had been the pillar of strength in his life, the mainstay around which all else had revolved. When his mother had died of the coughing sickness, his father had nursed her for days on end, had dug the grave with his own hands, had laid her to rest and dried Roberto's tears. When Roberto had thought he could not go on, his father had been there to be strong for him. And now he was dead.

He blinked, and the world changed. When he opened his eyes, Jenkinson was standing over them both. Reaching down, the big man took ahold of Roberto's hair and lifted him to his feet with main force. "I said, get him -"

He never saw it coming. With a scream of loss and anger, Roberto lifted both his hands, now liberally bedaubed with his father's blood, and sent a stream of … of things streaking from them into Jenkinson's face. They were small and looked as though they were coloured in black and yellow, so a small corner of his mind dubbed them 'bees'.

When they struck the overseer, the effect was as though he had been stung by bees in truth. The tiny projectiles disappeared as they hit, but each one left a bloody pockmark about the size of the end of Roberto's finger. Just one would not have done much damage. But he wasn't dealing with just one.

Jenkinson's scream was music to Roberto's ears. He let go Roberto's hair and stumbled back, his hands going to his face. Already, the brutal features were a bloody mess; Roberto was fairly sure that his left eye had already burst, the clear stuff inside dribbling down his cheek.

Roberto remained where he was, but the 'bees' kept coming, streaming from his fingertips, blasting toward Jenkinson. The backs of the overseer's hands were pocked in their turn, then Roberto directed his attack toward the overseer's throat. Each projectile tore out another tiny piece of flesh; Jenkinson tried to defend himself, but he didn't have enough hands for the job. So he turned and ran.

That didn't save him. The 'bees' followed him, veering around other people at a thought, ripping into his back, into the back of his neck and his buttocks. The rugged work clothes that the bigger man wore didn't protect him for more than a moment; as the flesh of his face had been shredded, so was the tough cloth.

Roberto could have run after him, but he didn't. Instead, he had the 'bees' swarm around his enemy, forming a tighter and tighter swirling mass, with Jenkinson at the centre. The other workers were staring, some backing off, as Roberto generated more and more of the tiny yellow and black objects.

Jenkinson may have tried to scream, but no more than a horrid gurgle came out, just before the 'bees' entered his mouth. He staggered and fell then, apparently unable to keep going. Roberto kept up the attack, only ceasing when it was abundantly clear that the man was dead. In fact, while it was just barely possible to determine that the remains had once been a human being, anyone but a forensic pathologist would be hard put to identify who he actually was.

The last of the tiny projectiles hit the mound of dead flesh, created one last pockmark and disappeared. Roberto looked at what was left of Jenkinson; for the first time, as the rage ebbed, he truly looked at what his newfound powers had done to what had been, moments before, a living person.

He fell to his knees and vomited. Up came his breakfast, as well as the few crusts of bread that he'd had on the truck and the half-dozen cherries that he had popped into his mouth when Jenkinson was looking the other way. He heaved, throwing up everything in his stomach, gagging on the bile, until nothing was left to bring up.

As he subsided, panting, there was a light touch on his shoulder. He looked around, face still wet with the tears that had run unheeded down his cheeks even as he directed the deadly attack against Jenkinson.

Jorge, one of the other workers, took a cautious step back. "You should go," he said diffidently in Spanish.

Roberto spat to clear his mouth. "I can't," he replied in the same language. "I have to – my Dad -"

"We will see that he is buried properly," Jorge assured him. "But you must go. You have killed an American on American soil. They do not forgive things like that."

"But he killed my Dad!" protested Roberto.

"It does not matter." Jorge's words were now in English, forcing Roberto to concentrate on what he was saying. "When the gringos find out about you, they will bring soldiers to capture you. If they do not kill you, they will send you to prison. You should go. Hide. Change your name."

"You will see that mi papi is buried well?"

Jorge nodded. "I will. We were friends for a long time."

Carefully, Roberto stood up. "Where should I go?"

"I cannot say." Jorge shrugged. "South, the gringos will not be able to follow you over the border. But the cartels will want you to work for them. North, you may be able to hide. But you will need dinero, or else you will be dependent on others."

Roberto spat again, away from Jorge so as not to insult the man. A few of the 'bees' erupted from his fingertip, flew around his head, then vanished. "With these I could get dinero."

"You would be what the gringos call a 'super-villain' then?" Jorge gave the term care in its pronunciation. "Using your powers for crime? Breaking the law?"

"Why not?" Roberto was speaking Spanish again, his words fast and angry. "An American killed my Dad. They would arrest me for killing him. Their laws did not do anything to help us in the conditions that Jenkinson had us working in. I invite them to go fuck themselves."

Jorge's nod was slow, non-judgemental. "It is not what I would do, but then, I have not just had my father killed. Go. We will be as stupid and uncomprehending as any group of ignorant workers could be. None of them will learn from us that you have gone north."

Taking the few steps to stand at his father's side, Roberto looked down at the still form. A vast and yawning gulf separated him from the man now, almost as wide as that which separated Roberto from the boy he had been just minutes before. It passed through his mind that the change in his life was absolute; never more would things be the same for him.

Kneeling down, he passed his hand over his father's face, not so much to close the already-shut eyes, but to achieve one last contact with normality. "Vaya con Dios, papi," he whispered.

Standing, he turned, started toward the road leading out of the cherry orchard. Wordlessly, one man stepped up to him, offered a scratched and battered plastic bottle full of water. A woman handed over a cloth bundle that smelled of bread. He reached into a basket and took out a handful of cherries, adding it to the bundle.

Jorge caught up with him, walked alongside for a moment. "I just wanted to wish you good luck," he told Roberto. "And that if you hadn't killed Jenkinson, I probably would have broken a stick over his head sooner or later anyway. That man was a swine."

"That's being insulting to swine." The reply was almost automatic.

"True." Jorge huffed a laugh. "Just remember, if you are going to be a super-villain, you will need to cover your face and make up a name for them to know you by."

"I know." Truth be told, Roberto hadn't thought anything of it up until now, but the fact was indeed self-evident. "And thank you."

He walked on, out toward the main road. Absently, he ate a cherry, spitting out the stone. I will be a villain, he told himself. Thinking back to the yellow-and-black 'bees', he mulled over names. Hive? No. Swarm? No. It took him quite a while to come up with one that he liked.

-ooo-​

March 26, 1994
New York City

"Name?" The PRT officer wasn't quite bored, but he wasn't looking overly enthusiastic either.

Roberto cleared his throat. "My name is Aguijón."

"Agi-hon?" The officer frowned. "How do you spell that?"

Letter by letter, Roberto spelled it out. "It means 'stinger'."

"As in missile?"

"As in bee, senór."

"Ah. Right. Okay, yeah, I've got you here in the database." The PRT officer tapped keys. "Says here that you're a Blaster four. Well, let me tell you this now, Aguijon," he said, managing to mangle the name only slightly, "your power's gonna do exactly squat against the big guy. What's your range?"

"If I can see it, I can hit it," Roberto said; honesty forced him to add, "eventually. But I can make my attack move to hit a moving target. Dodging does not help. And with time I can create a moving, uh, cloud. Make it hard for the monster to see."

The PRT man shrugged. "Couldn't hurt. Just try not to hit anyone but the Behemoth, okay?"

Roberto nodded seriously. "I will try."

He was still not sure what impulse had caused him to volunteer to join the fight when word came out that the Behemoth was due to hit New York. Part of him still remembered the dread that he had felt the morning that his father had died. Deep within him, some part of him still connected El Gigante with his father's death.

I must see the monster with my own eyes, he told himself. I must know if it is truly that terrifying.

-ooo-​

Three hours later, he knew.

He had tried; God alone knew how hard he had tried. But his biggest mass attack had counted as nothing against the unearthly hide of the monstrous creature. Swarming them around its head had done nothing to impair its knowledge of where its foes were, and had several times come close to striking airborne allies. So he was reduced to helping others.

Not that this was any easy task. Fire was everywhere, rubble littered the pavement, and Roberto thought that his ears might be bleeding from the intensity of the shattering noise produced by the monster. Along with some other low-powered parahumans, he had fallen back to 112th Street when the Behemoth had broken through the cordon. They had tried to do this in a measured and disciplined fashion. This had not translated well in what had become a war zone.

Half a fire truck flew overhead; he ducked instinctively, even though it would have missed him anyway. Fifty feet farther on, it struck, sending pieces flying in all directions. Most of it survived to wipe out a dozen shop-fronts. He grunted as he took up the weight of the semi-conscious PRT officer who had been directing his squad; he had no idea where the rest of his squad was.

He wanted to run, very badly. Run and run and never look back. Looking into what passed for a face on the Behemoth was something he had done for a very brief moment, but that moment had been enough. The creature was that terrifying. It was that unstoppable. If it did not signify the end of the world, he wasn't sure what would.

The aid station was only another block and a half. Roberto's muscles were already screaming from the exertion, but he would not quit. This man, at least, will survive the apocalypse that has happened here.

-ooo-​

Saturday, April 9, 1994
Bremond, Texas

It was the noise of the hecklers that drew Roberto's attention. Once he got close enough to the meeting hall to read them, the crude flyers pasted to the noticeboard served to keep it.

IS THE BEHEMOTH THE HARBINGER? IS THIS THE BEGINNING OF THE END?

The words resonated to a question which had torn at him endlessly since New York, since he had begun to travel south once more, as a wounded animal will return to familiar surroundings. He pushed open the door to the hall and entered.

There were not all that many people in the crowd, but what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in noise. Every time the man on the stage tried to make a point, they yelled and jeered, apparently more interested in shouting him down than making points of their own. A few among them were trying to shout them down, which was only adding to the overall din.

Ten months before, he would have turned and walked away. Prior to gaining his powers, Roberto Garcia had not liked conflict. Now, he still didn't necessarily like it, but he could certainly deal with it. And he could deal it out in spades, if he had to.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his mask and donned it in one quick motion. He wanted to hear what the speaker had to say about El Gigante, so this crowd had to be quieted or moved out first. And they were unlikely to listen to Roberto Garcia, Mexican migrant fruit picker. Aguijón, on the other hand, they would listen to.

It didn't take long to work his way around the side of the hall; nobody noticed him scrambling up on to the stage. They did notice him when he walked across to stand next to the speaker, a tall rawboned man with harsh features. The man looked at him and voiced a question, but Roberto didn't hear it because of the noise.

Reaching across, he took the microphone from the man. The racket was already starting to subside when he held up his hand and spoke. "Shut the fuck up. I want to hear this."

These weren't necessarily the best words with which to start; they sparked a vocal group, right at the front, who began hurling abuse and beer cans at him. Well, he knew how to deal with that.

From his upraised hand, a swarm of his 'bees' sprang into existence. The flying beer cans were each struck by dozens of them, pockmarking the thin metal and deflecting them away from him. All except for one; that can still had most of its contents, trailing them in a thin stream as it flew at him.

The projectiles failed to deflect the can; it struck him in the forehead, beer splashing over his clothes before the can fell to the stage. He felt the pain, but it did not give him pause; it merely hardened his resolve.

From swarming before him, the tiny black and yellow projectiles darted down into the crowd. The shouts of derision turned to cries of pain as each of his 'bees' picked out someone who had thrown something. Tiny bloody pockmarks appeared on bare skin here and there. Roberto didn't know how painful it was – his 'bees' simply absorbed back into his skin when they struck him – but it certainly seemed to get their attention.

He spoke again, as the swarm built up before him. Real bees would have buzzed ominously; these were silent. Perhaps they were more frightening that way; the way those he had stung were screaming and fighting to get out of the exits, he supposed that it could be so. "As I said, shut. The. Fuck. Up. Let the man speak."

There was no more heckling, to be sure. Unfortunately, this was because there was no more crowd. The main door and both fire exits were wide open now, with people streaming out in what was only a hair short of full-blown panic. It was a good thing that there hadn't been more people in the hall; otherwise, someone may have been seriously hurt.

Silence fell as the last of them left. The tall man turned to Roberto. "Well, I suppose that's one way to do it." His voice was just as harsh as his features.

"I'm sorry." Roberto handed him back the microphone. "I just wanted them to be quiet so I could listen."

"Don't be." The man tilted his head toward backstage. "They will likely bring the authorities. I suspect you don't need that kind of attention. I doubt there were ten men there who were willing to hear what I had to say. You, on the other hand …"

The man was staring at him with a peculiar intensity; Roberto began to feel a little uncomfortable. "What?"

"You believe that the Behemoth is the herald of the end times, don't you?" The question was direct.

"I … do not disbelieve it," Roberto answered. "I was in New York. What I saw there …"

The man was leading the way through the back of the building; Roberto followed. "I would be utterly fascinated to hear the full story," the man said, and Roberto believed him. "But for now, we need to talk elsewhere." He held out his hand. "Hadrian Lange."

Roberto shook it. "Aguijón."

"It's good to meet you, Aguijón." Lange gave him another penetrating stare. "I have a plan for the end times. Parahumans like yourself feature strongly in it. Would you like to hear about it?"

He has a plan. Thank God somebody does. Roberto nodded. "Yes. Yes, I would."

-ooo-​

"Breeding parahumans?" Roberto wasn't quite sure if he'd heard right.

Lange nodded seriously. "Parahumans are the new force in the world today. If we are to survive the end times, we need as many as possible on our side. You're just the third one I've managed to recruit, after Sunstrike and Smasher." His gaze was penetrating, direct. "Becoming the father to the generation which will save our world is a huge responsibility. Are you up to it?"

Betty-Lou and Ellie-May, the two teenage girls to whom he had just been introduced, each smiled shyly at him, then giggled. He stared at them as the reality of the situation asserted itself. "You mean, I am to -"

"Yes." Lange's voice was matter-of-fact.

"And their parents -"

"Are fully on board with it," Lange assured him. He repeated his earlier words. "Are you up to it?"

Roberto swallowed; he felt that there was something off with the situation, but teenage hormones won out. "Uh, yes?"

The girls giggled again.

-ooo-​

Tuesday, May 17, 1994
The Compound

"When I found out about the other women, I was told that they were volunteers," Roberto confessed. "I only started to realise the truth a few days ago. I think Lange knows I do not like … that."

"Then help me," begged Kari. "Get me out of here."

"I can't," Roberto told her. "I am not as brutal as the others. They see me as the weak sister. If I was seen to be bringing you out, then they would stop us. They would probably kill me and recapture you."

"Then get me metal, any metal," Kari urged. "I … I don't want to use my powers, but I'll use them all day to escape here if I have to."

He took a deep breath. "I'll try. But they know about your powers, so they will be watching."

"Please." Her eyes were fixed on him. "Don't let them do this to me."

"I'll try," he said again. "But right now, I want you to scream."

"Scream?" she asked.

"Scream," he affirmed. Grabbing her hand, he twisted her wrist. She cried out in pain.

Belatedly catching on, she cried out again. "No, don't, stop!"

Letting go of her wrist, he slapped his hands together; she cried out again on cue.

-ooo-​

When Roberto let himself out of Kari's cubicle, she was sobbing quite realistically into her pillow; as far as he could tell, she wasn't really acting. He made a show of adjusting his clothes as he closed the door; turning, he saw Sunstrike chatting to the guard in the corridor.

"Huh," said the older parahuman. "Didn't think you had it in you."

Roberto sneered at him. "There's a lot you don't know about me." He let a minor swarm of 'bees' escape his hand and swirl around his head.

"Hey, just saying." Roberto knew why Sunstrike wasn't pushing the issue; the man's powers depended on ambient light, and it wasn't very bright in the corridor. "Nicely done. You know how to treat a bitch, that's for sure."

"Just so long as you stay away from her." Roberto shouldered his way past the man. "Or she won't be the only bitch around here."

"Ooh." Sunstrike mimed fear, but there was wariness in his eyes. "Fine. I got the others, anyway."

Yes, you do. For just a moment, Roberto wanted to cut loose, to kill the guard and Sunstrike, to free the prisoners. But he wouldn't succeed and he knew it. Those captives who survived would be in worse straits than ever.

He had to wait, and plan, and close his eyes to the worst of the suffering. I may be a villain, but this is monstrous. I need to save them all.

-ooo-​

Saturday, June 11, 1994
The Compound

Something odd was going on. Roberto had noticed the air of tension since breakfast. People were acting just a little strangely, as if they knew something that he didn't. The guards were a shade more tense, and he'd seen Sunstrike and Smasher in close conversation with Lange. But Lange hadn't called him over to join in the discussion, so Roberto figured that they didn't want him to know.

Whatever it was, it had to be big. But he didn't know what. And he couldn't just ask someone; to betray his ignorance when he was supposed to be one of the ones in the know would damage his image. People would look at him more closely.

On the other hand, right now they were somewhat distracted. He had a fork tucked into his sock; it had resided there for the past two days, except when he went in to visit Kari. He still didn't know how to get around the hand-held metal detector that the guard outside her room was equipped with.

This might be my chance. If they're looking the other way …

He wasn't quite sure what Kari could even do with a fork; it was cheap metal and bent easily, but she had asked for metal and so he had gotten her some metal. Now all he had to do was actually deliver it to her.

He pushed open the door to the building where the women were being kept. Every day he came here; every day it turned his stomach a little more. The main room was bright and airy, but to him it stank of squalor and degradation. For the past three weeks, he and Kari had been working to pull off the deception. He would visit her and they would make noises to suggest that the deed was being done, but all they did was talk in undertones. He hadn't even kissed her, although he desperately wanted to.

A deep and nagging guilt was burning inside him for that. He was attracted to her; of course he was. Sometimes, deep in the night, he would be struck by the temptation to actually do what Lange was expecting him to be doing with her. It wasn't as if anyone but Kari would object. And if he was gentle enough, perhaps she would want him to do it again …

As it was, he was still visiting his other 'girlfriends' as often as he thought he could manage without drawing comment. That was the only thing that allowed him to keep going, to keep him sane. But even then, there was the twinge of guilt, given that he was deceiving them in another way.

Some part of him wondered if the metal detector was just facilitating an excuse, if his real reason for not helping Kari to escape before this point was because he wanted her right there. If she remained a captive, the logic went, then maybe, possibly, she would accept her lot and let him have sex with her. But that would result in not only losing all trust she had in him, but also his own self-respect.

So he had decided to bite the bullet and help her escape. It was better than forever holding back for good reasons or bad, waiting for the perfect opportunity. Today I get her out. Maybe.

He had half a plan put together for once they had gotten out of the building, a route that might possibly get them out the front gates, given a whole heap of luck.

Nodding to the guard at the entrance to the corridor, he went to move past him. "Going to see the Schultz girl."

To his surprise, the guard – a big, beefy hillbilly type with minimal neck and less in the way upstairs than most – put up a slab of a hand against his chest. "Nope."

"What?" Roberto stared at him. "Why?" For a frozen moment, he thought that they knew about the whole thing. Chills began to chase each other up and down his spine.

"'Cause Sunstrike's in there with her. Gotta wait your turn like ev'rybody else."

The chill down his spine turned into a full-blown ice-storm in his guts. "No."

A slow, decisive nod. "Yup."

And then he heard Kari scream.

He didn't even begin to think about what he was doing. Raising his hand, he sent a blast of 'bees' into the man's face; the big guy staggered back, clutching at his ruined flesh. Roberto dashed past him, heading for Kari's cubicle. She screamed for a second time as he reached the door. It didn't open; Sunstrike had obviously slid the latch across.

Lunging forward, he threw himself at the door. The cheap particulate board gave way and he stumbled into the room. Sunstrike looked around in annoyance; he was holding down Kari with one hand and pulling the remains of her shift off with the other. His pants were around his ankles; Roberto was already seeing far more of his anatomy than he'd ever wanted to see.

"For fuck's sake, junior, I thought you had her broken in," he snapped. "She's fighting like she's never had it before."

"Leave her alone." The tiny 'bees' were boiling from Roberto's hands, forming a swirling cloud around him. "Get away from her."

"Really? You do know that we've just been giving you the chance to be the first to put a bun in her oven." Sunstrike shook his head. "Move over, kid. Time to let the adults have their turn."

"I said get away from her." Roberto took a step closer.

Sunstrike straightened up, letting Kari go; she immediately scrambled as far away from him as the leash on her ankle would allow, pulling the sheet up to cover her body. The older villain sneered at Roberto, and the room darkened abruptly. "Make me."

Fill the air between us with bees and jump sideways before he can fire, or just sting him where it'll really hurt? Roberto was suddenly aware that he faced a foe who knew his capabilities and was willing to kill him in order to get what he wanted. The one thing he knew he couldn't do was back down. If I do, then he's free to do what he wants to Kari. I won't let that happen. I have to win this.

All of this passed through his mind in a split second; he tensed, and then the radio on Sunstrike's belt crackled. "Sunstrike, Smasher, come in. It's happening now now now. Get outside!"

For a long moment, it looked as though Sunstrike was going to ignore the radio call, but then light returned to the room. The villain pulled up his pants, fastening his belt. "Gotta go." He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "But next time you want to call me out … it'll be the last time."

With that, he was gone, out the door. Roberto pushed it to, suddenly aware that his knees were shaking. Droplets of sweat that he hadn't been aware of were running down his face.

"Oh god." Kari's voice was on the edge of hysteria. "Oh god."

Galvanised into action, he leaped to the side of her bed. "Are you all right? He didn't -"

"No." Her eyes were huge in her face. "But he was going to -" She burst into tears.

"Shh, shh, shh," he urged her. "Here, I got this for you." Bending, he pulled the fork from his sock.

She stared at it. "Is that -" Her hand darted out and took hold of it. "Metal! Thank you, thank you!"

As he watched, fascinated, it melted and reformed in her hand, into a short, wickedly serrated blade. Scrambling back down the bed, careful to hold the sheet over herself, she began to saw at the rope attaching her ankle cuff to the bed.

"Here, I'll help," he offered. Taking hold of the rope, he pulled it tight, to give her better purchase. With the other hand, he attacked the rope with a steady stream of his 'bees'. The nylon fibres were tough, and took their time parting; it didn't help that the knife kept losing its edge. However, between them, they had it cut in a matter of moments.

"What's going on?" she asked as she climbed off the bed. "Why did he leave?"

"I don't know," he replied, pulling off his jacket and handing it to her. She shrugged into it; he was tall for his age and she was somewhat petite, so it hung to mid-thigh on her. "They haven't told me anything."

"Well, let's go," she urged, her voice still teetering on the edge of hysteria. In her hand, the knife blade lengthened to something approximating a stiletto. "And if it looks like we can't get out … please … ?"

Unsure of what she meant, he blinked for a few seconds. She gestured with the knife at her own throat. "I don't want to live through what your boss has planned for me."

The penny dropped, but he didn't get the chance to react to the revelation. For the last minute or so, he'd been hearing the sound of a distant helicopter engine, but for one reason and another, he had not been paying a lot of attention. The room darkened dramatically, followed by the sound of an explosion. Kari and Roberto looked at each other. "Sunstrike," they said at the same time.

"If there's something going on," he went on, "this has got to be our best chance." He ducked out into the corridor, with her right behind him. There was a door that led outside, bypassing the main room, but that was always locked from the outside to prevent opportunity escapes. Unlike the flimsy cubicle doors, this one was too sturdy to easily break. So the main room it is.

With an agonised glance at the other cubicle doors – he had vowed to rescue them all, but right now was right now, and if they stopped to release the other women, they might never get away – he led the way toward the main room.

There was a tremendous BOOOM and the building rocked on its foundations. Kari screamed and clutched at Roberto; he, in turn, grabbed for the wall. As they steadied themselves, he saw her mouth moving. Although temporarily deafened, he figured that she was asking, "what was that?"

"I don't know," he replied, augmenting the words with a shrug and spread hands. Turning back toward the main room, he stumbled on, his head still ringing from the tremendous noise.

Keyed up as he was for a fight, with 'bees' swirling around his hands, he was surprised to discover that there was nobody in the room when he got there. "Come on!" he shouted. "Let's go!" As an afterthought, he gestured forward.

At his gesture, Kari darted past him into the room. To his puzzlement, she fixated on a small card table and darted toward it. What -?

And then two large hands clamped on to his shoulders and he was lifted from the floor. He barely had enough time to think - Smasher - before he was hurled across the room. Fortunately, there was a folding chair there; he hit it, knocking it over backward and bending the frame before hitting the wall. Winded, he lay there, trying to figure out which way was up and how to breathe again.

Unable even to focus enough to use his projectiles – they had all dissipated when he hit the wall – he could only watch, through blurry vision, as Smasher approached Kari. She had been busy in the few seconds since entering the room; the top of the small table now lay on the floor, as she held a lump of reforming aluminium. As he watched, it lengthened and sharpened to become a spear.

Smasher said something, but Roberto didn't quite catch it, even though his hearing was improving, as there was a burst of gunfire from outside that drowned out the villain's words. Kari, her face desperate, jabbed her improvised weapon at him. He caught it and tried to yank it from her hands; however, the metal stretched and oozed out from between his fingers like putty. In the meantime, the butt end flicked around like something alive, growing a razor-sharp blade as it did so. It slashed at Smasher's legs, but only managed to open very shallow cuts.

A look of astonishment on his face, Smasher glanced down, just as the blade made a try for his groin. He knocked it aside, then stepped up to her in one long stride. His hand wrapped around her throat. Much as he had with Roberto, he lifted her off the ground, but there seemed the distinct possibility that he would not be putting her down alive.

How he managed it, Roberto would never know. But he managed to lever himself up off the floor and lunge across the room. Leaping into the air, he clawed his way on to Smasher's back and clamped his hands over the stone-skinned man's eyes.

Then he unleashed his 'bees'.

Smasher screamed, a deep long bellow, as he released Kari and reached up to wrench Roberto's hands from his eyes. Roberto kept the swarm coming, attacking Smasher's eyes and now-open mouth, streaming up his nostrils. There was a horrible crunching, as pain lanced up both of Roberto's arms; Smasher had squeezed, breaking the bones in both hands like cheese sticks.

As he was thrown to the floor, discarded like a rag doll, Roberto tried to focus, to keep the 'bees' coming. They were still attacking Smasher as he loomed over Roberto, one massive foot raised to crush the teenager into the floorboards. But it never came down.

Gradually teetering backwards, Smasher landed on the floor with an impact quite appropriate to his name. Standing over him, Kari retracted the aluminium tentacles from his ears; she was shaking, her face white, but there was a determination, a strength, in her eyes. She killed him, Roberto realised vaguely. She stabbed him in the brain.

Boots thundered down the corridor; three of Lange's men burst into the room. Their rifles – legally-bought civilian versions of military assault weapons, reworked quite illegally to fire fully automatic – tracked in on Kari. "Drop it bitch!" yelled the first man.

"Or we drop you!" the second added, just as loudly.

The third headed for Roberto. "Are you all right?" he asked, extending a hand down to help him up.

Kari was not going to surrender, Roberto realised. She was going to make the men shoot her down. He didn't blame her in the slightest; while he hadn't been able to help the other women, and had very little idea of what they were actually going through, he still knew that he didn't want to face the same fate. Which was looming large in her future, if she lived through the next thirty seconds.

The outside door was kicked in. The man standing over Roberto brought his rifle to bear, as did one of those on Kari. The third kept his eyes, and his weapon, trained upon her. She didn't drop the metal as she also turned to look at the door.

The man who stepped inside wasn't armed; that was the only thing that saved him from being shot. His right arm dangled uselessly at his side, while his left cradled a woman, her head lolling against his chest. While he was broader than any of the other men in the room, no pipsqueaks themselves, the woman was remarkably slender, which was probably the only reason he could carry her in such a fashion. Both wore uniforms of some sort, but between the dirt, the smoke and the blood, Roberto could not make out which branch of the military they were from, let alone rank insignia.

"Hey, soldier boy," snapped one of the guards. "Turn around slow, or get shot."

The big man nodded, turning slowly to his left. As he did so, the woman's head came up. So did her right hand, which had been previously hidden by her body. In it was a small pistol. Before either Roberto or the guards could properly register that the weapon even existed, three shots sounded. All three men dropped, neat holes now decorating the bridges of their noses. The pistol swung toward Roberto, but Kari, jolted to action, shouted, "No!"

For a long moment, Roberto looked Death in the eye. As small as it was, that pistol barrel looked amazingly large to him. Then the gun was raised again. Other men, bruised and bloodied, stumbled in behind the first one; the door was slammed and a heavy chair pushed against it.

"Dios mio," marvelled Roberto. "Who are you people?"

"Captain Snow, PRT," the woman told him, in a voice made husky with pain. "This is Sergeant Kinsey." She favoured him with a dry look from behind her glasses, one lens of which was cracked. The look told him that she knew exactly how dire their situation was. It also told him that she was not one to let the odds bother her. "Congratulations. You're rescued."

End of Part 5-2

Part 5-3​

 

[Ack]

Recoil


Part 5-3: Combat Rescue​

Taylor

I awoke to pain. Lots and lots of pain. Acrid smoke stung my nostrils and lungs, and I heard crackling flames. "Wake up, ma'am!" Kinsey yelled in my ear. "We have to move! Now-now-now!"

"Urgh," I mumbled. The smoke irritated my throat and I tried to cough. The vague pain that I'd been feeling previously turned into an excruciating explosion of jagged pain throughout my abdomen.

He's right, Lisa told me. The chopper's due to explode in … two minutes and forty-three seconds. Now open your damn eyes and undo your seat harness so Kinsey can rescue you. It's his turn, after all.

There was something odd about that, but I couldn't focus on it. I forced my eyes open and regretted it; the smoke attacked them at once, making them sting and tear up. We'd trained for this; I blinked away the tears and found the seat harness release. It hurt to move my arm, but I activated the release anyway; the straps fell away.

Kinsey caught me as I slid sideways out of my seat. The smoke made me cough again, and I bit back a groan as the pain lanced through me again. That wasn't a bruise, or even a cracked sternum; I wondered how badly I was really hurt.

-ooo-​

The classroom was clean and white and pristine, in direct contrast to the interior of the helicopter. In the back of my mind, I could feel myself being manhandled by Kinsey, lying on his back and holding me to his chest as he pushed himself along with his boots.

At the front of the classroom, Lisa stepped up to a large round metal plate set in the floor. She wore a white lab coat and a pair of absurdly cute librarian glasses. With a click, a hologram was projected upward from the plate. It was of me, in living colour. Blood was splattered over my uniform here and there; as the hologram slowly rotated, I could see rents and tears in my clothing.

Okay, I said dubiously. That doesn't look good.

"It's not," she told me. Picking up a remote, she clicked a button. The uniform was gone in an instant, showing the wound in my abdomen. Another click stripped away the skin, then major muscle groups. "As you can see, the broken off strut punched through your vest a little under your breastbone, skimmed past your heart, pierced your right lung, and came up hard against your ribcage."

So it's still in me. I tried to come to terms with that. Am I gonna die?

"It will kill you eventually if you're not treated, yes," she confirmed. "But right now, it's preventing too much blood loss. Also, you have a broken leg and a badly wrenched shoulder. But even if you could walk, I'd advise you not to. Flexing your torso as little as possible is also a good idea."

Yeah, got that, I murmured dryly. Two more questions. What shape's Kinsey in, and how am I able to talk to you? I'm awake.

"Last question first, you're only semi-conscious," Lisa corrected me. "You're right on the edge, and it's kind of important, so I'm making more of an effort than normal." She pushed up her glasses with a finger. "And Kinsey has a broken arm, but otherwise he's just banged about a bit. Walsh bought it when Sunstrike shot us down, and the pilots were killed in the crash."

Fuck, I muttered. Options?

-ooo-​

I could feel myself being jostled more, with agony lancing through my torso with each jolt. The classroom began to fade away, replaced by reality. Kinsey was getting to his feet, assisted by Hanran. Rodriguez was bending over me.

"Chopper's gonna blow," I mumbled.

"What? What was that?" He raised his head. "She's awake again."

I steeled myself and spoke more loudly, wincing at the pain. "Chopper's gonna explode. Now. Cover."

Hanran looked around. "What was that about the chopper?"

"She says it's going to explode."

Kinsey was on his feet by now. "If the Captain says it's going to explode, we need to move. Now."

In two long strides, he was beside me, lifting me carefully with his one good arm. Wordlessly, Rodriguez assisted him from the other side. I didn't know how much of the two minutes and forty-three seconds we had left, but I did my best to assist. Unfortunately, my best wasn't very good at that moment.

We had only just made it around the corner of the nearest building before the helicopter did indeed explode, the fuel taking any ordnance with it when it went. The detonation was impressive, even from behind cover; Hanran stumbled and went to his knees, along with Rodriguez. The only reason that I didn't follow them was that Kinsey was supporting me. The building next to us boomed and shuddered dramatically, while flaming debris flew past, just yards away.

Hanran was just getting to his feet when Kinsey shoved me into the arms of the FBI man. I clutched feebly at Hanran, not wanting to find out how much a fall would exacerbate my injuries, while trying to figure out what Kinsey was up to. However, I wasn't kept in suspense for long; while my ears were still ringing too badly to hear the rasp of Kinsey's hand-cannon clearing its holster, I would have had to be profoundly deaf to not hear it being fired at close range.

He fired three times; I managed to get my head around far enough to see a man fall, and another spin back behind cover. A third already lay unmoving in the dirt.

"There'll be more," he stated grimly. "We need an exit plan, and we need it fast. Captain?"

Brutally, I shoved down my whirling thoughts, the dizziness, the pain. I had studied the layout enough from the air that I knew where we were in the compound. Unfortunately, this spelled out for me exactly how screwed we really were.

"Too far from the gate," I managed in a breathy rasp, trying not to cough. "Be picked off before we get halfway there. Surrender makes us hostages or shot on sight." I raised my uninjured arm and pointed at a building. "The prisoners are in there. We secure that and execute Plan Bravo."

"Yes, ma'am." Kinsey handed off his pistol to Hanran and scooped me up with his one good arm. "Can you shoot, ma'am?"

I edged my one good arm down to where my Glock was holstered and pulled the pistol out. It only hurt a little, rather than a whole lot. I nodded, holding the small pistol in my lap. "I can, Sergeant."

"Wait, we're going to assault that building?" Rodriguez was obviously unhappy with the plan. "We don't know who's in it."

"We do know who's out here," Kinsey told him flatly. "Our current position is untenable. The Captain's given an order. I'm following it. Hanran?"

Hanran hefted the heavy pistol in two hands. He'd been out of the field too long, I figured. Too long driving a desk. He didn't look in the least bit happy. But at least he had no quit in him. The look he gave Kinsey held more than a little fear, but it also held determination. "I'm with you."

"Good. Let's go."

Kinsey obviously had an idea of how bad my injuries were; he didn't run across the intervening distance, but instead covered it with long loping strides. I was still jolted, with sharp spikes of pain slashing across my nervous system, but my brain didn't white-out with the pain. At least, not quite. Hanran followed close behind, watching our flanks with the massive pistol held two-handed and low; Rodriguez hesitated for a long moment, then ran to catch up.

As he reached the door to the building, Kinsey didn't hesitate; he swivelled on one foot and delivered a massive kick with the other. The door burst open and he kept going straight in, moving more sideways than forwards. He was looking backward over his shoulder to see what Hanran and Rodriguez were doing, while trusting me to clear the room.

There were three men with guns, a teenage girl wearing a yellow and black jacket and holding a metal spear, and two men lying on the floor. One, huge and bulky, was ominously still. The second one was barely out of his teens, and wore a white T-shirt and pants with yellow and black stripes.

I had hold of the pistol, but my angle was awkward. While I could take out one of the guards, the other two would open fire and I wouldn't be able to target them easily. And I didn't know what the kid in yellow and black would do, so I'd have to neutralise him fast as well.

The rifles came up. "Hey, soldier boy," one of the guards said. "Turn around slow or get shot."

Kinsey did exactly as he was told, bringing the other two targets into my line of fire. I raised my head and brought up the pistol at the same time.

Four targets, close range, unmoving. I had shot perfect scores on targets, X-ring hits every time, at several times this distance. The few times I'd had to use weapons in the field, in anger, I'd hit what I'd aimed at.

Back then, of course, I hadn't felt like every square inch of me had been pulped by a baseball bat. And I'd been the one to catch them by surprise.

All of this passed through my mind in an instant, even as I opened fire. Left to right, servicing targets with never more than a passing qualm that I was ending human lives here. Firing just as fast as I could, the little pistol's tiny felt-recoil still managing to jar me painfully, one shot per target. But the long hours on the target range were paying off; they made fast, accurate shooting into something as nearly instinctive as handling millions of bugs had once been for me.

Kinsey was obviously unarmed; they had started to lower their rifles. This, and the fact that they didn't have military readiness drilled into them, was what doomed them. I killed two of them, with picture-perfect shots to the bridge of the nose, before the third even began to react. I shot him before his rifle was halfway toward horizontal, then swung my sight picture on to the kid on the floor, already beginning to take up pressure on the trigger.

"No!" shouted the girl with the spear. She was just in time; an instant later, and I would have taken up final pressure and the boy would have died. For a long moment, I strongly considered firing anyway; he was an unknown quantity, a bad thing to have in the same room as us. But then it occurred to me that the girl was wearing a jacket far too large for her, that it was a match for his costume. He gave it to her. There's more going on here than I know about. I raised the pistol.

Hanran and Rodriguez stumbled into the room behind us; without needing to be told, they slammed the door shut and began dragging a heavy chair in front of it. Good. We need to secure the building.

"Dios mio," the boy on the floor said in tones of awe. "Who are you people?"

"Captain Snow, PRT. This is Sergeant Kinsey." I gave him a closer look. From the girl's attitude toward him, and his attitude toward us, I mentally assigned him a nominal tag of 'potential friendly'. Of course, a little reinforcement of that attitude never hurts. I want him in no doubt that we're ten feet tall and bulletproof. "Congratulations. You're rescued."

-ooo-​

Emily

Lieutenant Emily Piggot, of the Parahuman Response Teams, stepped up to the entrance of the command tent. One of the two guards on duty there moved to bar her way. "No entry," he said flatly. "Orders."

Emily measured him with her eyes. "I need to get in there right now," she stated. "Do you know why I need to get in there right now?" Without giving him a chance to answer, she forged on. "Because our command and control just went down behind enemy lines, and I don't see anyone going in there to get them out."

From within the tent, she could hear raised voices. "We have orders," repeated the guard.

Emily stared him in the eye. "You hear what they're doing in there? They're arguing instead of doing something useful." Turning, she gestured toward the compound in the distance. "And meanwhile, in there, one of the finest military minds of our generation is at the mercy of a bunch of racist redneck rapists."

Her words hung in the air for a long moment. The guards began to look uncomfortable. Finally, the other one cleared his throat. "I, uh, I can escort you in, ma'am," he offered.

"Good," she said. "You do that." Without waiting for an answer, she moved past him and into the tent.

Within wasn't quite the chaos she expected, but it was almost as bad. Five people were arguing around the map table. Or rather, four people were arguing and the fifth was being shouted down. Around the periphery, junior officers attended to their superiors, but their expressions were telling. It wasn't going well.

All heads turned as she entered. One of the men, wearing a National Guard uniform, stepped forward. "What the hell?" he demanded. "I gave orders -"

"Sir!" Emily went to attention and saluted. Automatically, he returned it. "Sir, I'm here to ask a question. What's the status of the rescue mission?"

"That's above your pay grade, lieutenant -"

Stepping forward, she got right in his face. "The hell it is, captain," she hissed. "We have seven people down behind enemy lines, and you REMFs are arguing over who's in charge, so you can present your own pet plan for saving the day."

All eyes widened at the pejorative term; the captain began to turn red. "Now listen here -"

"No, you listen." Emily knew that her military career was more or less over, but she spoke over him anyway. "The more you fucking argue, the more chance that your commanding officers are being slaughtered not one mile from here. Now, pick a plan." She picked out the one PRT captain by eye. "Sir. Does your plan involve going in there and kicking ass till we get our people back?"

The captain raised his head. "Yes, lieutenant, it does."

"Good." She pointed at him and spoke to the rest of the officers in the tent. "I like his plan. He's in charge."

The National Guard captain raised his voice. "Lieutenant, you're out of order. Corporal, arrest the -"

Emily had had enough. As the corporal put his hand on her shoulder, she turned and drove her elbow back as hard as she could, catching him on the point of the jaw. Caught by surprise, he collapsed; as he did so, she took his rifle from him. The clatter of the soldier falling to the floor was louder than the clack-clack as Emily pulled back the bolt of the rifle and chambered a round, but the latter was what got their attention.

"One. More. Time." Her voice was low but deadly. She kept the muzzle of the rifle down, pointed at the floor, but the implicit threat was still clear. "The PRT is taking lead on this." She nodded to the PRT captain. "Sir. Your plan?"

He looked back at her with an unreadable expression, then seemed to come to a decision. "Yes." Raising his voice he called out. "Guard!"

Emily tensed as the second guard pushed his way into the tent. The man's eyes widened as he took in the man on the floor, who was just now starting to groan his way back to coherence. He began to raise his rifle.

"Never mind that," the PRT captain snapped. "Gather the troops. We've got a lot to do, and not much time to do it in." He glanced at Emily. "Lieutenant. Will you peacefully surrender yourself to my custody?"

Emily shifted the rifle to her left hand and came to attention; her salute was parade-ground perfect. "Sir."

-ooo-​

Taylor

As Hanran pulled the shutters closed, I gestured with the pistol toward the corridor that led out of the room. "What's down there? Another entry point?"

"Uh, yes," blurted the girl. She pointed at the rifles that the guards had been holding. "Uh, can I -"

For a moment, I wasn't sure what she wanted, then I twigged. Going by the spear, she was able to manipulate metal by touch. She wants the gun for its metal. "Sure, but just one." Neither Kinsey nor I was able to use one at the moment, but Hanran and Rodriguez were still able-bodied.

Both men were staring at me. "What do we do now?" asked Rodriguez. "We're trapped in here."

"First thing," Hanran told him. "We secure the entry points. Give me a hand with that chair."

The girl shook her head. "I got this." She discarded her spear and picked up the closest rifle by its barrel. Instinctively I winced and went to correct her weapon handling technique, but before I could speak, the rifle seemed to melt. The metal flowed up around her hands, covering them like gloves and spreading into the sleeves of the jacket. Letting the wooden stock and the cartridges fall to the floor, she turned and headed for the corridor entrance.

Why didn't she use the bullets as well? But that was something I'd have to find out later. "Hanran," I said. "Go with her."

Despite the fact that he technically outranked me, he obeyed at once. Rodriguez picked up one of the other two rifles, but didn't seem to be sure of what to do with it. I looked at him. "You okay, sir?"

The question seemed to come as a surprise. "I don't know," he admitted. "I was so sure we could talk this down to a peaceful conclusion."

I grimaced. "Never underestimate the power of a fanatic to make a situation worse."

"But what can we do?" he asked, perhaps rhetorically. "You and the Sergeant are hurt. We're not -"

-ooo-​

Kari

Kari glanced back at the grey-haired man called Hanran. "You're a bit old to be a soldier. And you're not wearing a uniform."

He had a nice smile, she decided. Like a favourite uncle. "I'm not a soldier. FBI. We're here to get you out."

She decided that his statement was more in the 'hopeful' range than anything to rely on. "Is that a bullet-proof vest? Does it have metal in it?"

"Yes it is," he replied. "But no, it – get down!"

Raising the big pistol he was still carrying in two hands, he aimed it at her. No – at the door. Letting out a squeak of terror, she fell to her knees, clamping her hands over her head. The gun went off twice, the flash blinding her and the report setting her ears to ringing. As if in slow motion, she saw the shiny brass cartridge-cases bouncing on the floor near Hanran's feet.

When she looked around, there were two ragged holes in the sturdy door, which was standing just a little bit open. Hanran strode past her and shoved it shut, then leaned against it. "Hey."

She shook her head, trying to dispel the ringing.

"Hey! Girl! What's your name?"

She blinked at him. "Me?"

"Yes, you. What's your name?"

"Uh, Kari?"

"Well, uh-Kari, I think it's time for you to do whatever you were going to do with that metal."

"Oh. Right." She got to her feet. Pushing her hands against the edge of the door, she made the metal flow off of her, drilling into the wood, bridging the gap. In moments, the door was as solidly shut as it would ever be.

"Is everything all right down there, sir?" It was the burly soldier, the one called Sergeant Kinsey.

"We're fine, but they know we're in here now," Hanran called back. He turned to Kari. "That's a very useful trick with the metal. Know where you can get some more?"

She didn't even have to think about it. "Yes."

-ooo-​

Lange

Hadrian Lange looked up from the hand-drawn map detailing the defences of the compound, his eyebrows drawing down. "Say that again?"

"Th-that chopper that crashed," stammered the militia man, holding a bloodied hand to his shoulder. His right arm hung uselessly at his side. "Some of 'em got out. They're in the Breeding House. We went to go in there, they shot at us through the door. Clive's dead." His backwoods accent made the word sound like 'daid'. "My brother's dead."

"Say the word and I'll go take care of them." Sunstrike's tone was vicious.

"No." Lange shook his head. "We need you to keep their flyers and choppers honest." He turned to the wounded militia man. "Ben. Take a dozen men and get that building back. Take Seth, too. You might need his door-buster charges."

Ben rolled his eyes. "Why do we have to use those damn things? He always makes 'em too powerful."

Lange took a step toward him. "Because I said so." The look in his deep-set eyes promised dire retribution if his words were not obeyed; Ben flinched, but hesitated before leaving.

"What?" Lange's voice was even more dangerous.

"Uh, what about the breeders?"

The rawboned man spent barely a second thinking about it. "Try not to kill 'em, but if it happens, it happens. If they're loose and fighting back, kill 'em all the same."

"Right. Right." Ben made his escape.

Lange turned his attention back to the map. "All right then. Does anyone have any new information on what they have out there?"

-ooo-​

Taylor

"Fuck," muttered Rodriguez. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. We're in the shit now."

"We've been in the shit since the chopper went down," I reminded him, being careful to breathe shallowly. "The depth has varied, is all."

"If we gave ourselves up -" he began.

Kinsey interrupted him. "No," he growled. "Not happening."

"But we could negotiate -"

"Being in the power of these people is not a good negotiating position," I told him flatly.

"Well, right now, we're not in a great position either," he reminded me. "How are we going to hold them off? There's only four of us, you and the Sergeant are the only ones with current military training, and you're both injured!"

"Six," offered the kid. He'd sat up, but no more than that. Now that I looked at him more carefully, I realised that there was something wrong with his hands. "There are six of us."

"Six, then," Rodriguez muttered. "Two parahumans, four normals, two injured. Against everything that's out there. Those are shit odds."

"Getting better all the time, I'd say," declared Hanran, emerging from the corridor. The person who came out next wasn't the girl with the metal manipulation. Oh wait, of course. This is where the prisoners were being held. I was seriously annoyed with myself for forgetting that, however temporarily. Of course, I'd had several other things on my mind, but the welfare of the girls being held here should have been higher on the agenda.

The woman who exited the corridor behind Hanran had to stand at least seven feet tall; she had long brown hair that hung in limp rat-tails. One hand was being used to hold a stained sheet around her body. I recognised her from the dossier I had perused; her name was Joanna or Joanne. From the description, she held a medium to high Brute rating, or she would have if the PRT was assigning those to non-villains yet. I could well believe it; I was taller than most women and more than a few men of my acquaintance, and she beat me out by at least a foot. In bulk, she made Kinsey look almost puny, which was a very impressive feat.

For a moment, she looked taken aback, given the four corpses on the floor. Then she strode up to the big stone-skinned guy – I still wasn't sure what had killed him, save that there was blood coming from the ears, and his eyes were a gory mess – and kicked him, very hard, in the head. The corpse was shunted sideways, turning almost ninety degrees, from the force of the kick. I thought I heard bone snap, and I was pretty sure it wasn't hers.

"What the fuck?" Rodriguez turned from where he'd been peering out through a gap in the shutters and brought the rifle up instinctively. "Who the hell are you?"

"Stand down," I ordered the both of them. "Rodriguez, she was a prisoner. Joanna …?"

"Joanne," she corrected me. Her voice wasn't as deep as I'd thought it might be. "They fucking fed me a knockout drop to get me here. Chained me to a metal bed. This fucker …" She shuddered. "I swore if I ever got loose, I'd never let them take me alive again."

"I won't let them take you at all," I promised her. "We're here to get you out, and that's what's going to happen."

"Big words," she muttered. "Two old guys, a couple of hurt soldiers, and some punk in stripey pants. How you gonna pull that off?"

I answered her question with one of my own. "Are you bullet-proof?"

"What the hell sort of question is that?" She pointed at herself. "How the fuck do you find that out without using a gun? Shoot yourself and then find out, sorry, you're not really bullet-proof after all, it just felt like you should be?"

She had a point. I had only found out that my spider-silk armour was good against pistols the hard way, and even then I had initially thought that Coil had really shot me. It certainly wasn't an experiment I was going to try willingly.

On the other hand, she was certainly very strong, and also rather durable, given that she'd kicked him with her bare foot and not shown any signs of pain. The beginnings of a plan began to unfold in my head.

"Understood," I replied. "Captain Snow, PRT. This is Sergeant Kinsey, that's Rodriguez of the ATF, and I didn't catch your name, kid."

The boy looked up at me. He was holding his hands loosely in his lap; they were starting to swell and turn blotchy. "Aguijón. It means 'bee-sting', or 'stinger'." His voice was strained; I figured that whatever had happened to his hands had to be painful.

"Bee-sting, huh?" Despite my own problems, I found it hard not to smile. An insect-themed cape … what are the odds? "Do you control bugs?"

"No." He raised his hand fractionally. A couple of tiny yellow and black objects about the size of the tip of my little finger appeared from his hand. "I make these." The 'bees' orbited him a few times, then ended their journey by smacking into the floorboards, where they seemed to do a little bit of damage.

"Shit, you're one of them." Joanne was across the room in about three strides. "I heard your name a few times. You're gonna die, asshole." Her hand went around his throat and she effortlessly lifted him clear off the ground in one move.

"No!" I shouted, but she ignored me. Her hand began to close; I could see his face purpling. I doubted that my Glock would make an impression on her, and Rodriguez seemed to be frozen to the spot. I could kind of understand this; if she was bullet-proof, then shooting at her would be a really bad move. But I couldn't just let her murder Aguijón, especially if he was innocent of what she was implying, which the other girl's behaviour seemed to indicate. "Joanne! Stop!"

She paused, looking over her shoulder at me. "You don't have the right to tell me to stop. You don't know what this asshole's done."

"Has he done it to you?" I didn't know the answer, but I could guess at it. Please let me be right.

"No," she admitted reluctantly, "but I know he's been in with Kari a lot. He makes her cry. Well, no more." She turned her attention back to Aguijón. "Be glad I'm gonna make it quick."

"He never touched me!"

The metal-manipulator's voice came from the corridor. She was carrying another girl in her arms; I could see grimy bandages around the girl's ankles. I didn't have time to wonder about that as Kari – as I presumed her name to be – stepped aside to let the other girls out of the corridor. No-one else was lame, although they were all wearing bed-sheets as makeshift clothing.

Two had bandages over their eyes, and were being led by two others. The last had a kind of smoky-grey appearance, becoming almost translucent as she stepped into the main room. Her sheet, where she had it wrapped tightly around herself, took on some of this quality. The Stranger, I'd say. Apart from the smoky girl, they all looked relatively normal, if one discounted the bandages, the unwashed hair, and the bruises both faded and fresh.

However, Kari – as I surmised her name to be – wasn't wearing a sheet. Nor was she wearing Aguijón's jacket. What she was wearing looked to be about half a ton of steel. Or at least, there was a human-shaped steel statue in the corridor. Kari had to be wearing it or controlling it; either way suited me just fine. It also, not coincidentally, took care of step one of the plan. Get some metal to the girl.

"What the fuck?" asked Joanne. "Are you honestly defending this piece of slime?"

Kari carefully set down her burden and stepped forward. The floorboards creaked alarmingly, but held; I guessed that if they hadn't given way under the stone-skinned Brute, they wouldn't give way under Kari's new accoutrement. "He never touched me. Let him go." I figured that she was trying for a firm tone, but didn't seem to know how. I might have to give her pointers in that. However, it wasn't really necessary; wearing an entire Renfaire's worth of steel plate gave her words a certain amount of weight. So to speak.

I was beginning to get concerned about Aguijón's chances of survival. Joanne hadn't let him down or relaxed her grip, and his face was a really worrying shade of puce. "Let him down," I told her. "Don't kill him until you can prove he did something. Do you really want to murder an innocent man?"

Joanne ground her teeth together. "None of these bastards are innocent," she gritted. "He's here, isn't he? Guilty by association."

I never saw the metal tentacle lash out, but it wrapped around Joanne's arm and yanked hard. Startled, Joanne lurched backward, losing her grip on Aguijón's throat. He fell to the floor, hacking and choking as he tried to inhale much-needed air. Well, that answers the question about how good she is with her power.

"He didn't touch me." This time, her delivery was much better. The inches-thick metal tentacle that had sprouted from her right shoulder was still wrapped around Joanne's forearm.

Joanne grabbed the tentacle and yanked on it, hard. Caught off guard, Kari stumbled forward, even as she instinctively grew metal spars that braced against the floor, preventing her from falling headlong. Keeping her grip, Joanne heaved harder, but this time, Kari was ready for her. The metal stretched, the length of tentacle whipping back around to rejoin with the main mass. Joanne was unready for this, just as she was caught by surprise when the metal reformed to encase her hands and forearms.

In that moment of silence, we all heard the sound of someone outside fumbling with the door.

-ooo-​

Ben

The seven men sidled up to the Breeding House as stealthily as they could. Ben's shoulder was swathed in bloodstained bandages, the arm supported by a rough sling. Seth's crew was around at the far end, where the door to the corridor let out. The plan was to set the bombs on the doors, then drop back and let the timers tick down.

Each of the six men with Ben was armed and ready for action; once they burst in, the stunned intruders would be easy pickings. Ben carried the home-made breaching charge in his one good hand. As hampered as he was, he didn't trust it with any of the other men.

"Dang it," muttered one of the others, Travis by name. "They closed the dang shutters."

Ben didn't qualify that with a reply, both because he didn't think it deserved one and because it was what he would've done. Though I woulda knocked a few slats out so I could see properly.

"Why don't we jes' start shootin'?" asked Jesse, the youngest of the men that Ben had picked. "Our bullets'll go right on through."

"An' right on out th' other side," Ben muttered. "'Less you wanna explain ta Mr Lange how you was shootin' at our own men?"

It was unfair, Ben decided. The people inside didn't have to worry about hitting friendlies. Him and his buddies did. But he was gonna get revenge for Clive anyways. That was for certain sure.

With a gesture, he quieted their voices. Moving even more carefully, he eased up alongside the steps rather than put a foot on them. They had a bad habit of squeaking loudly at the best of times. This was not the best of times.

Reaching across, he hefted the door-buster in his good hand, trying to hang it off of the door handle. His arm shook with the strain as he did his best to flip the loop of cord over the handle. And then the inevitable happened; the breaching charge rubbed against the door, making a distinctive scraping sound.

Ben froze; for a long moment, he waited for the shout of alarm from within. But none came. He started to move again …

-ooo-​

Taylor

Kinsey turned; I raised my pistol, although I couldn't see anything to shoot at. In any case, I wasn't optimistic at the chances of the bullet punching through the heavy timber doors. Hanran took a step forward, Kinsey's pistol in his hands. I winced, knowing exactly how loud that thing was at close quarters. He fired three times, spacing the shots across the door. There were yells and screams from outside.

As if by unspokent agreement, Kari released Joanne's hands, sending a spike of steel across the room. It jammed into the floor in front of the door, then spread upward, drilling into the wood for purchase. When she pulled the metal tentacle back, she left behind a solid-looking bracket holding the door well and truly closed.

"In case you hadn't realised," I began. The rest of my speech would have been a fairly predictable we're all in this together, so for fuck's sake don't fight between yourselves, but I never got to finish it. A giant hand picked us all up and threw us against the wall instead. The last thing I was consciously aware of was Kinsey twisting in midair, trying to take the impact in my place. I felt a red-hot tearing inside me, and passed out.

-ooo-​

Kinsey

Sergeant James McMartin Kinsey slowly recovered his wits. He was half-lying against the wall, still cradling Captain Snow with his good arm. Explosives, he realised dully. They set a charge on the far end of the building while decoying us at this end. Used too much. His head throbbed atrociously, and he wasn't sure if he could move.

Looking down at the Captain, he cursed weakly; the bloodstain on her abdomen was wider than it had been before, and the blood looked fresher. Worse, her head was lolling to one side, while a trickle of blood ran out of the corner of her mouth. Her chest still rose and fell though, so she was still alive. I don't know for how much longer, though. Especially if we can't get her to medical attention.

Setting his jaw, he tried to struggle to his feet, but failed. There was something wrong with his legs, or maybe his back. He took a deep breath, which hurt – busted ribs, probably – and looked around, taking stock. Hanran was down; Kinsey eyed the bloodstain spreading across the man's chest and grimaced. He was a good man, for a Feeb. Rodriguez, on the other hand, was just now climbing to his feet, shaking his head.

Who else? Kinsey turned his head, trying to ignore the sharp pain that resulted. People were down, he could see. The Mexican cape was groggily sitting up, along with a couple of the girls. Others were ominously still.

As the ringing in his ears eased off a little, he could hear shouts, screams and the sound of gunfire. A bullet smacked into the wall not altogether far from his head, and he looked around. He could see right down the corridor to … smoke and dust. End of the building's gone. Fuck. Surprised we're alive. Why aren't they in here already?

His head cleared a little more, and he realised that the really big woman and the metallokinetic were both gone. Must be holding them back. I need … I need … His initial instinct to be out there and causing trouble for the bad guys waned as he recalled Captain Snow's injuries. I need to stay here and make sure she gets medical attention. Besides, he wasn't sure what sort of difference he could make, right now.

The girl with the bandages on her ankles crawled across to him. She seemed to move almost in stop-motion; it took her no more than a second to cross the room, but she seemed to blur between distinct points on the way. He wasn't sure whether it was a power that she was manifesting or a symptom of how badly he was hurt. "Mister, uh, whoever you are?" Her voice was high, desperate. "Are you okay?"

"No." It came out as a cough. That hurt, too. "Help the others."

As she crawled away, the Captain stirred next to him. He had thought she was well and truly out of it, but her eyes half-opened, then closed again. She began mumbling to herself. This was a not uncommon habit of hers when asleep or nearly so, and he decided to take it as a good sign.

-ooo-​

I lay in a hospital bed. The ward was bright and sunny, with a huge picture window at the far end of the room. Outside, the sun shone down on gorgeously manicured greenery, with an explosion of brilliantly-coloured flowers in every garden bed. On the bedside table, there was a get-well card alongside a Manila folder and what looked like a cordless computer game controller. Lisa bustled about, wearing a nurse outfit, fluffing up my pillow and then straightening the sheets that lay over me.

What the hell happened?

"Bomb," she explained succinctly. "A bunch of them put a breaching charge on the door at the far end of the building. It more or less blew the end wall off."

Christ. Good thing we got everyone out of those rooms.

"Yes," she replied seriously. "There was another one they were putting on the door at our end, but Hanran shot the guy with the bomb and one of his buddies. The rest retreated."

Uh, how is everyone?

She picked up the folder and leafed through it. "Well, let's see … Hanran has a splinter through his throat. He will die very shortly. We don't have the medical equipment to help him. One of the girls has suffered serious internal injuries as well. The others are in reasonable condition, considering. Kinsey was injured further, trying to get between you and the wall. He succeeded, by the way, but he will need hospital time before he's back on his feet. The Mexican kid is a bit bruised but fine, and so is Rodriguez." She paused to lift up a note. "Oh, yeah. Meant to tell you before. Rodriguez is the reason they got the drop on us."

What the fuck? I sat upright. You're shitting me. Rodriguez is a mole?

"Steady down," she advised me. "You're not well. No, he's not a mole. He's just … sympathetic to their cause. When we settled on this plan, he contacted Lange, in the hope that knowing what he was facing would cause Lange to give up before anyone got hurt."

But Lange decided to double down, I muttered. Because fanatics are so easy to talk into giving up.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Whoop – something's happening." Snatching up the controller, she clicked a button; the picture window blinked and I realised that it was actually a wall-sized TV screen. The image that came up next was a tad blurry, with fuzzy eyelashes at top and bottom.

Is this what I can see?

"Yup," she muttered tensely. "Kinsey heard what you said about Rodriguez."

Oh, shit.

"Yeah, oh shit." Lisa pressed a button on the controller and moved it, and I saw my hand move into view on the screen. It was holding my pistol.

Wait, are you -

-ooo-​

Kinsey

For someone who had been working in law enforcement for years, Rodriguez seemed to have absolutely no idea what to do in this situation. Clutching the rifle, he knelt beside Hanran for a moment before shaking his head and standing again. Moving nervously and jerkily, he went over to the door, then leaned around to look down the corridor.

"Rodriguez." Kinsey forced himself to speak louder than he really wanted to. "Help me sit up. Get my pistol." If this was going to come down to the Alamo, then he was going to go out facing the enemy with an empty gun. We're even in the right state for it.

The ATF man came over. "We never should have come here," he muttered. "What are we really doing here?"

Losing his nerve. Fuck that. I've got to snap him out of it.

But just as Kinsey drew a breath – this one hurt, too – the Captain seemed to rouse slightly. "You're shitting me," she murmured. "Rodriguez is a mole?"

Those four words clicked into his head. Rodriguez is a mole? All of the unanswered questions, all of the little hints regarding the ATF man's behaviour, came together into one picture. The motherfucker sold us out.

Never for even a split second did Kinsey imagine that what Captain Snow had said came from some fever dream. He had known her for far too long; she was blessed, as far as he could tell, with a level of intuition that bordered on the supernatural. Give her material to work with, and she would settle down into a waking doze; when she awoke, she had the answers, to a level of detail that left lesser men baffled.

So when she said those four words, he believed them implicitly. However, he realised too late that Rodriguez had heard them as well. Looking up into the ATF agent's eyes, Kinsey saw the dawning realisation.

"She's delirious," Rodriguez blurted. "Babbling. Doesn't know what she's talking about."

Save the Captain, save the Captain. "Yeah, you're right," Kinsey grunted painfully.

It was as if a switch had been flipped behind the man's eyes. "Bullshit," muttered Rodriguez. "You can't lie worth a damn."

"Not too late to give yourself up," Kinsey tried desperately. His good arm was trapped under Captain Snow's unconscious body. He couldn't try for her pistol, or even make a grab for the traitorous ATF man.

"It was too late a long time ago," Rodriguez stated. The rifle began to swing toward Kinsey. "They're right, you know. The Behemoth is the first sign. The world is ending, and I can't let -"

He jerked back and screamed as a swarm of yellow-and-black objects surrounded him, punching tiny holes in his flesh. Abruptly, he jerked the rifle around, aiming at the Mexican kid. Even with the swarm on him, there was nothing Kinsey could do.

The flat crack of the Captain's pistol came as a total surprise. Blood sprayed from the side of Rodriguez' head; the ATF man fell sideways, his weapon unfired. Kinsey stared down at Captain Snow, who looked back with a bright gaze. She winked slowly at him once, then her eyes closed once more. The small pistol slipped from her hand and went clunk on the floor.

-ooo-​

- playing my body like a computer game?

"What if I am?" Lisa grinned as she manipulated the controller; on the screen, my hand rose with the pistol in it, aiming at Rodriguez. The little yellow and black objects were attacking him, but they would not stop the ATF man from shooting Aguijón.

Until Lisa pressed the fire button and put a bullet through the side of Rodriguez' head. Rodriguez fell; Lisa did something with the controller that turned the viewpoint to look up at Kinsey's surprised expression. Part of the screen went dark, then the whole thing blanked out.

Wait, did you just wink at him?

"Mayyybe." Lisa's grin was out in full force now.

Gimme that thing. You are not responsible enough to be in charge of it. I made a grab for the controller.

Laughing, she evaded me, holding it up out of my reach. "Sorry. You're unconscious now. It won't do anything."

You winked at him. Why did you wink at him?

Her grin morphed into a smirk. "Because it's funny. You seriously need to flirt with him more often. You might surprise each other."

I gave up reaching for the remote, and shook my head. No. We are not opening that can of worms again.

Rolling her eyes, she huffed a sigh. "Fine. Be boring."

Thank you, I will. Are Kinsey and I going to make it?

"Yeah." She nodded. "If I'd known Piggot was half this badass back in the day, I would've been more respectful to her."

I raised an eyebrow. No, you wouldn't.

She chuckled. "You're right. I wouldn't. But I would've thought about it."

-ooo-​

Kinsey

Captain Snow was still breathing, so Kinsey turned his attention toward Aguijón, who still had his hand outstretched, the yellow and black 'bees' orbiting him.

"Good going, kid," he grunted. "Well done."

Aguijón began to answer, but the gunfire outside increased in intensity. Kinsey thought he heard explosions as well. He raised his head, listening.

"What's happening?" asked the Mexican kid. A couple of the girls, conscious but with the good sense to keep their heads down, also looked to Kinsey for the answer.

"Sounds like the cavalry's on the way," he grunted. "Someone help me sit up, and get my gun. We just have to hold out till they get here."

One of the girls, a brunette who may have been pretty under other circumstances, nodded. Getting up from where she'd been huddling under an upturned chair, she stumbled over to where his pistol lay next to Hanran's outstretched hand. Picking it up, she brought it to him, then crouched down next to him.

"Are we going to die?" she asked, as the noise of battle outside increased yet again. With a grunt, she helped him to sit up against the wall, the Captain cradled on his lap. He gratefully took the pistol in hand.

"Not if I can help it. Now, take cover." He aimed the pistol at the open corridor for a moment, then rested it on his knee. "Kid, watch the other door. See anything that's not wearing a uniform, blitz it."

Aguijón nodded shakily. "Si, jefe."

Kinsey listened to the gunfire and other noises, trying to gauge the way the fight was going. He was all too aware that he only had a few rounds left, but he was damn sure that he'd make every one count.

And then came the noise he'd been anticipating and dreading; a scrambling noise, followed by heavy boots coming down the corridor. He raised the pistol again. I'll get one chance at this …

-ooo-​

Emily

Subtlety was out the window. Riflemen raked the windows and top of the wall as Emily led her squad forward. The PRT captain had accepted her request to lead the assault, and the other officers had not objected; she strongly suspected that if she were killed in the fighting, they would not be overly unhappy.

The captain had had a word with her before the assault. Normally you'd be under guard by now, he'd said. But we're sadly lacking in troopers with your kind of initiative and current counter-terrorism training. So I'm letting you lead the assault. But you'd better not fuck it up, Piggot, or we're both out of a career.

She had looked him square in the eye. They've got my friend. I'm not going to fuck this up. Sir. She had saluted; he had returned it. There was no more to be said.

"Positions!" she yelled, and the squad split in half, going to a crouch and covering their faces with their arms. Behind them, a soldier levelled an RPG – where they'd scrounged that from, she wasn't sure – and let fly. The projectile lanced forward between the two halves of the squad, striking the front gate of the compound. Its explosive charge, designed to make a mess of the average armoured vehicle, wrought havoc with the wooden barrier.

Even before the dust and smoke had cleared – some of the bits and pieces were still pattering to the ground – Emily screamed the command to advance. Hefting her rifle, she was up and running, heading for the now-gaping hole in the enemy's defences.

A figure loomed in the cloud of smoke; she snapped a shot, and it fell away. She jumped over the debris that formed half the gate, fired at another defender, then took cover as a storm of fire came back at her. Pulling a grenade from her belt, she hurled it in the general direction of where most of the fire seemed to be coming from. By the time it landed and exploded, her squad had joined her, and were adding their fire to hers.

The beachhead had been established, but she had to keep pushing in. Her squad was just the tip of the spear; if they were going to take this place, if they were going to save Taylor, then they had to move fast. The last thing Emily wanted to deal with was to see Taylor with a gun to her head.

I'll kill every one of these motherfuckers first.

"Fire Team Alpha, to the left," she snapped. "Fire Team Bravo, to the right. Fire Team Charlie, with me, down the middle. Push them back, keep them on the back foot. Go!"

As the fire teams opened up, she came out of cover, running hard across the open ground. Her squad followed her, firing on the run at the indistinct forms shooting back at them. They're defending their home. Tough. I'm here to get my friend out.

A bullet tugged at her sleeve, and another ricocheted off of her helmet with an impact that made her head ring. But she made it to the building she wanted to get to, then spun back around with her rifle aimed around the corner to give covering fire. Another grenade lobbed downrange seemed to deal with a couple more of the defenders, and then the rest of her squad had made it to cover as well.

Not all of them were there; she counted two sprawled forms, out in the open. Neither one seemed to be moving. Fuck. It was the first time that people had died under her command. Intellectually, she knew that it wouldn't be the last time, probably not even today, unless she was killed first.

This was a situation that she had been told would happen someday. Officer training went over it in detail; what to expect, how to deal with it. I just never expected it to happen to me.

"Lieutenant?" That was Jerome, her sergeant. A good man. Steady.

She took a deep breath, turned to look them each in the eye. "Let's make this count."

Jerome smiled faintly. From what she recalled, he was ex-Marines. "Oorah, Lieutenant."

She nodded very slightly in reply. "All right. Place we want is this way." She led the way to the other side of the building. It was almost peaceful here, if one ignored the steady crackle of gunfire and the occasional explosion. In the next street over, surrounded by the wreckage of a couple of buildings, was the burnt-out remains of a helicopter. Ignoring the charred remains she could see still sitting in the cockpit, she pointed past it. "That building over there is the one we want. It's where Captain Snow and Sergeant Kinsey would've taken cover. It's where the prisoners are being kept."

Jerome leaned past her to look. "It's been targeted already. The other end's been damaged."

"Not by us," Emily noted. "Makes it more likely they're in there. Okay, squad -"

Rifle fire sounded close by. Corporal Scarelli went down without a sound, while Private Kenworth screamed as a round went through his leg. Emily dropped to a crouch, aimed past her squad members at the tangoes who had just rounded a building twenty yards away. "Go-go-go!" she yelled, opening fire.

Jerome obeyed at once, leading the way past the downed chopper toward the objective. Bullets whipped and whizzed past Emily, but she was beyond fear or hesitation. The loss of Chadwick and Kelso and Scarelli had been a rite of passage for her; an unpleasant one, but necessary all the same. People died in battle; to accept that, to be aware and yet not be paralysed by it, was an essential part of the makeup of a soldier. She fired, coldly and methodically, each round a kill-shot. Centre mass. Centre mass. Centre mass. Five shots, five down.

And then she heard the screams. It wasn't Kenworth; he was gritting his teeth as he reached for a medical pack. This was from back around the corner.

Dropping the magazine, she slotted another one in as she turned toward the source of the noise. Leaning around the corner, she saw.

Atop the wall, in the distance, was a bright star in the shape of a man. A beam of sun-bright light, emanating from this man, was playing over the remains of her squad – Jerome, Leacock, Forge, Norris, fuuuuuck!

Around the man himself was a halo of darkness, almost as if he were sucking the light from the air around him. Emily neither knew nor cared; his powers could have come from him performing lewd acts with livestock for all she was concerned. This was now personal. Bringing her rifle to her eye, she took aim. Her sight picture formed up. She took up first pressure on the trigger.

At the last moment, he seemed to realise that she was there. A beam of light licked out, hit the wooden building. It caught fire – but she shot first. Three shots, at the same point. Not a head shot. Against an unarmoured opponent, always go for centre mass.

The beam of light cut out. A moment later, the halo of darkness cut out, the corresponding light dissipating. The man fell; where to, she didn't care. Pretty sure that was Sunstrike. Good riddance.

"Kenworth?" she asked over her shoulder, not looking.

"Nearly got the bleeding stopped, lieutenant," he replied, pain in his voice.

"Good man." Stepping back, she crouched beside him. "Feel up to walking?"

He tightened the bandage around his leg. "If I have to, I'll run, ma'am."

She felt a swell of pride. Barely old enough to shave, he was already doing his best to project the machismo of a professional soldier. Reaching out, she took his hand and hefted him to his feet, standing as she did so. He grunted as the weight went on to his wounded leg; she slid her shoulder under his. While he was a little taller than her, she was far more solid, and easily able to support his weight. "Ready?"

"Ready, ma'am."

"Good. Take this." She offered him her pistol, butt first. He took it awkwardly in his left hand. As a right-handed shooter, she knew that his accuracy would be terrible, but if he could put enough rounds downrange, it wouldn't matter.

As she moved forward, he did his best not to slow her down, hopping on his right leg and stepping firmly with his left. They moved out past the corner of the still-burning building. Jerome and the rest of her squad lay where Sunstrike had hit them with his light-beam power. They hadn't even seen it coming. Kenworth looked down at them and swallowed.

"Take a good look," she advised him. "That sort of shit is what happens when you drop your guard against a parahuman even once. So be damn sure to shoot first."

He nodded. "Ma'am." Convulsively, he tightened his grip on the pistol.

The blown-open end of the building was the easiest point of entry; carefully, Emily climbed up, then hefted Kenworth up while he covered her back. They moved down the corridor, Emily all too aware of the noise of their boots on the wooden floorboards. The doors were askew; each showed a room without windows, furnished only with a bed. She was almost certain she knew what the beds had been used for. Whatever we do to them, it won't be nearly bad enough.

The end of the corridor was just up ahead. She moved more cautiously …

-ooo-​

Lange

"This can't be happening." Hadrian Lange muttered the words to himself as he hurried down the passageway.

Once the attackers breached the gates, he had known that the end result was inevitable. The government could muster an effectively unending number of assault troops; the only way to win was to convince them that it wasn't worth the cost of attacking. When the helicopter had come down inside the walls and the incompetent fools under him had not immediately seized the survivors for use as hostages, they had sealed the doom of the Brotherhood of the Fallen.

He still didn't even know exactly why the governmental forces had chosen to target him, just that they had. It wasn't as if the Brotherhood was high-profile; he had worked very hard toward anonymity for the group and what they stood for.

But now, however they had gotten on to him, it was all crumbling down around his shoulders. His followers were fanatical enough to keep fighting in his absence. All he needed was a few more minutes, then he would be able to set the timer and then make use of the well-concealed escape tunnel. Hadrian Lange would disappear forever; he had enough contacts to garner a new identity, make a new start. Find more people to rally behind him. There were always more fools.

Pulling a key from an inside pocket, he unlocked the door to his office. After locking it again behind him, he dropped two heavy bars into purpose-made brackets it to make absolutely sure that he wasn't disturbed. Taking a large briefcase from beside his desk, he turned to the safe that squatted in the corner of the room. With the ease of long practice, he spun the dial, first one way and then the other. The safe opened noiselessly on well-oiled hinges, revealing that which he would much rather not have to leave behind.

First, the money. Stack after stack of cash ended up in the briefcase, representing enough in the way of liquid assets to tide him over until he could rebuild the Brotherhood of the Fallen.

On the next shelf down were documents which revealed far too much about him and his secrets. I should have burned them years ago. But into the briefcase they went as well. Closing the case, he snapped the latches shut.

One more thing to do. On the lowest shelf of the safe was a flat square plastic box with a safety switch and a red button. Pressing the button would start the timer on a large amount of explosive set under the compound itself. When it went off, it probably wouldn't kill all of the intruders, but it would make identification of the dead very difficult; thus, he would get his revenge for this setback and cover his tracks.

He reached for the remote.

-ooo-​

Emily

Something had obviously been going on in the large room at the end of the building. Close to the end of the corridor, Emily could see a large grey-skinned man, lying on his back. He appeared to have no eyes. Further in, a pair of legs was visible.

Prudently, she paused before revealing herself. "PRT! Drop your weapons!" I have to assume whoever's in there is hostile until proven otherwise.

"PRT!" The voice was barely a croak. "Sergeant James Kinsey!" He rattled off his service number.

"Kinsey, it's Lieutenant Piggot," Emily replied. "Is Captain Snow there?"

"Here, but unconscious, ma'am. We've got wounded."

Dammit. It could still be a trick. She remembered meeting the burly Sergeant, but she didn't know his voice well enough, or his service number. "Sergeant. Captain Snow's friend. The one who can shoot. What's his name?"

She fancied she heard amusement in his tone, as pained as it was. "He's a she, ma'am, and her name's Gladys Knott. I hear she waxed your ass but good."

The surname was unfamiliar, but the rest was correct. She still recalled her jaw-dropping amazement as a goddamn schoolteacher outshot her, target after target. "Coming out, Sergeant. Don't shoot."

Together with Kenworth, she stepped forward, to see even more carnage than she expected. Five dead men, six if she counted the obvious parahuman. Both Hanran and Rodriguez were down, she noted absently. Six girls, two unconscious. Fuck. And Kinsey …

The burly Sergeant was propped up against the far wall, his pistol in his hand. Cradled against his body was Taylor. They were both bloodstained, scorched and obviously injured; she looked the more beat-up of the pair, but not by much. "She's alive?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but we need medics, bad." From the sound of his voice, Taylor wasn't the only one.

"Roger that, Sergeant." Outside, the firing was almost done. She activated her radio. "Fire Team Charlie Actual calling Fire Base One. Objective achieved. Six, I say again, six hostages secured. Casualties, I say again, casualties. Medical assistance required urgentmost. Do you copy, over?"

It took a long moment for the reply to come back. "Message received, Fire Team Charlie Actual. Medvac incoming alpha-sierra-alpha-papa. Hold tight. Fire Base One, out."

"Fire Team Charlie Actual, that's a roger. Out." Emily looked looked over at Kinsey. "Congratulations, Sergeant. You did it."

Kinsey's smile, though pained, was genuine. "The Captain did the hard work, ma'am. I was just along for the ride."

-ooo-​

Lange

The door to the office burst open in a cloud of splinters. Lange spun around, coming to his feet, the remote forgotten. An imposing figure, made no less so by the sheet wrapped around her, stalked into the room. The bars, top and bottom, snapped like dry twigs, impeding her advance not in the slightest.

"You … fucking … little … shit," snarled Joanne. "I'm gonna take you apart like a fucking Christmas turkey."

He looked up at her, curling his lip. As he opened his mouth to speak, she lunged forward, only to stumble and collapse to the floor. An agonised shriek left her lips as she writhed, her back arching off the ground.

"You're nothing," he said. "I can kill you here and now, and you can't do -"

Too late, he looked up to see the metallic statue standing in the doorway. Metal leaped out from her, wrapping around him, pinioning his arms and legs. Worse, the metal also covered his eyes, holding his head tightly. Line of sight to the brutish woman was broken; his power over her ended. He could hear her getting to her feet.

"You were saying?" she asked. "Nice save, Kari. Thanks."

"I, uh, no problem," a softer voice answered. "What do we do with him now?"

"There's money in the briefcase," he said swiftly. "Let me go and it's all yours."

The big woman laughed harshly. "You drugged me. You chained me down to a fucking bed. You let Smasher do what he wanted to me. And you think money will get you out of this?"

"All right then," he replied. "I surrender. Hand me over to the police."

-ooo-​

Kari

"No." Joanne's voice was flat. "No. You don't get out of this so easily."

"Uh, we do have him prisoner," Kari objected, but her heart really wasn't in it.

"And the moment his eyes are uncovered, he can cause pain just by looking at someone." Joanne shook her head. "And what he's done. What he was going to do to you. You're just going to let him walk after all that?"

She was right. Kari could remember, all too clearly, her terror in that small stuffy room, with the rawboned man looming over her, undoing his belt. What could have happened … I owe Roberto so very much.

"I …" she began, but Lange spoke over her.

"You will do nothing," he snapped. "You will let me go. You will both let me go. I will walk out of here, and you will do nothing to stop me."

Far from being hypnotic, his voice was grating on the ears. But Kari felt it influencing her, deep inside. He's right. I have to let him go.

Joanne swayed. "Kari, you have to let him go … no!" Her eyes came into focus for just a moment. "No, shit, his voice, his voice!"

But it was too late. Kari was already letting the metal slide off of him. The moment his eyes were free, they focused their burning gaze upon Joanne; she screamed once more as she hunched over. But then she straightened again, agony etched in her every feature, every inch of movement a battle against almost insurmountable odds.

"No," she grated. Lunging forward, she clamped her hand over his mouth.

That insidious voice stilled, Kari took her opportunity. This was a man who had caused Joanne to be violated many times. The other girls had suffered just the same fate. Much the same would have happened to her, but for a kind Mexican boy who chose not to bend to peer pressure.

He was going to break me in. How many of the others did he do that to?

Her resolve hardened. The metal rod sharpened, punching into his abdomen, branching out into a thousand needle-sharp points, metal reaching into every part of his body. His back arched as he screamed past Joanne's gagging hand. And then it burst outward, turning him into a silvery pincushion from the inside.

Joanne released him. His eyes stared back at them, but there was no power in his gaze any more. He gasped once, twice, three times, like a landed fish, and then he stopped breathing. His head lolled sideways.

Slowly, Kari withdrew the metal from him, the spikes retreating into his flesh and withdrawing along the entry points. When the last of it slid out of the wound in his abdomen, he fell bonelessly to the floor.

"Oh shit," Kari choked. "I killed him. I really killed him."

Joanne put an arm around her shoulders. "Yeah, but he really deserved it," she assured the younger girl. "Thanks. You saved my ass back there."

"You saved both of us," Kari replied, then watched in confusion as Joanne took hold of the heavy desk and hefted it. "What are you doing?"

"Confusing the hell out of whoever does the post-mortem," Joanne grunted. With an effort, she brought the end of the desk down on the supine corpse, several times in a row. Drawers fell from the desk and their contents scattered over the floor, but Joanne didn't stop until Lange was more or less unrecognisable as a human being. With a thud, she dropped the desk on top of the mangled body. "Okay, now we can go."

Without a backward glance, they both walked from the office.

End of Part 5-3
​

Author's Note: REMF = Rear Echelon Mother-Fucker. An officer who never goes to the front lines, but issues orders that screw things up and get soldiers killed.

Part 5-4​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 5-4: Debrief​

Roberto winced as the handcuffs went on to his swollen wrists, but he did not struggle or protest, even when the deputy tightened them a little more than was absolutely necessary. I aligned myself with these people. I helped them with their cause. Whatever happens to me now, I deserve.

" … the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have attorney present during any questioning. If you can't afford an attorney, one can be provided for you if you so choose. If you are not a United States citizen, you may contact your country's consulate prior to any questioning. Do you understand your rights as I have explained them to you?"

Roberto's head drooped. Papi, I have failed you. You would be ashamed to see me now. I am a bad person. "Si. Yes, I understand my rights."

"We'll take it from here." Two FBI agents had been standing by; one now stepped up. This one was a man; his partner didn't look any less forbidding for being a woman.

"I'm, uh, supposed to be taking him into custody," the deputy objected.

"And we're taking over from here," the agent said firmly. "Kidnapping is a federal matter. I've got this."

The deputy sighed. "Fine. Knock yourself out." Not without a backward glance, he moved off.

While the male agent pulled out his notepad, Roberto took a moment to look around at the compound. It was swarming with law enforcement agents of every stripe; the non-combatants were being led out under guard. He saw Kari speaking with some people, a little distance away. I hope she will be all right now.

"Okay now," the man began, breaking into Roberto's thoughts. "My name is Keegan. I'm with the FBI. But you knew that bit."

"Yes." Roberto had already seen the agent's badge, though he hadn't known his name.

Keegan poised his pen over the pad. "And your name is?"

Roberto raised his chin slightly. "Aguijón."

"Agwi … okay, how do you spell that?"

He obliged, spelling the name out slowly. "It means 'Stinger'."

"No, kid." Keegan shook his head. "I didn't mean your codename or whatever you call it. I meant your real name."

"No." It was Roberto's turn to shake his head.

"Kid." Keegan's voice hardened. "It's an offence to withhold your name from the FBI when requested. Real name, now."

"I did not have to give it when I fought el Gigante," objected Roberto.

"Ell what?" asked Keegan, confused.

"El Gigante," Roberto repeated. "The Behemoth. The monster that attacked New York."

Keegan sighed. "Well, even if you were there, which I highly doubt, this is a whole different ball game. You're up for accessory to kidnapping, rape, deprivation of liberty … you get me? The list goes on. You play ball with me here and now, it'll go a lot easier than if you decide to hide behind some supervillain bullshit codename. Because we will fingerprint you, and we will identify you, and we will find every single tiny little crime you've committed, and one heaping great pile of shit's gonna come down on your head in very short order. Unless you feel like cooperating, of course. Do you understand?"

It will be no more than I deserve. "Yes. I understand. My name is Roberto Garcia."

"Good. Glad you could see sense." Keegan's tone moderated slightly. "Of course, if you're willing to waive your right to remain silent and talk to us right now, give us information about what was going on here, we might be willing to cut a deal, go easy on you. I mean, shit, you're just a kid. Twenty?"

"Eighteen," Roberto mumbled. "I did not see all that went on here. They did not tell me everything. I did not know about -"

"Roberto!" It was Kari's voice. They both looked around; she was making her way over, accompanied by a man in a PRT uniform. She was still clad in the steel that she'd taken from Joanne's bed; the only reason he even knew it was her was because there were no other living metal statues tromping around.

Keegan's heretofore-silent partner stepped in their way, hand up to bar their progress. "You can stop right there," she ordered them. "We're in the process of questioning a suspect."

"Why is he even in handcuffs?" asked Kari. "He's done nothing wrong."

"Incorrect, miss," Keegan put in. "He's an accessory to several counts of kidnapping, as well as other, more serious, crimes. He is under arrest, and he will be charged with these crimes."

"Not by you, he won't," the PRT man stated. "Captain Lansing, Parahuman Response Teams. Aguijón is a parahuman, and thus falls under my jurisdiction." He even pronounced the name correctly … well, almost.

"The FBI has federal jurisdiction -" began Keegan.

"The PRT has federal jurisdiction over parahumans," Lansing snapped, overriding him. "No matter what crimes they've committed. We also know how to secure and transport them. Are you aware that he could have attacked and disabled both of you if he so chose?"

Keegan stared at him, then his head whipped around toward Roberto. "It is true," Roberto admitted. He shrugged awkwardly, then regretted it as the movement sent a spike of pain up both arms. "But I was not going to."

Lansing's mouth creased in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Which is good. Because from what this young lady's been telling me, you've got a good case for extenuating circumstances. And that would be extremely awkward if you then attacked a Federal agent." He gestured to Keegan. "Get those cuffs off of him."

"He's a dangerous parahuman -" began Keegan.

"- who needs medical attention. Which you were denying him in favour of badgering him with questions. I'm strongly considering reporting this dereliction of a prisoner's rights to your superior officers. It wasn't a request. Cuffs. Now."

"Or, you know, I could take them off of him." Kari's voice was casual. "But I'd be keeping them if that happened. Because trust me, you wouldn't want them back." A metal tentacle extended from her shoulder in the general direction of Roberto's wrists. Keegan stared at it, then stepped back as it suddenly veered toward him. Spikes suddenly extended from the metal, all the way along its length.

"Christ," the FBI man blurted. "Watch what you're doing with that thing."

"As the senior PRT officer on the scene, I've deputised, uh, code name Metal Storm to act as an adjunct to the Parahuman Response Teams," Lansing told the FBI agents with some relish. "She acts with my authority in this regard. Metal Storm, remove the prisoner's handcuffs."

"Okay, Captain Lansing. Hold still, Roberto." The spikes retracted, then the tentacle wrapped around Roberto's forearms; he heard the clink as metal met metal. For a moment, the chain linking the cuffs became more rigid, then they were gone, slithering off of his wrists.

"Thank you," Roberto told her, bringing his arms around in front of him. He didn't rub his wrists, because he was pretty sure that his hands would not cooperate. "And thank you, Capitan."

"Thank her," Lansing advised him. "She's the one who insisted that you were one of the good guys. Me, I have yet to be convinced. But I'm willing to listen." He nodded toward Roberto's hands. "That looks painful, son."

"Si. It is. Smasher broke my hands." Roberto avoided looking down at them, because somehow he knew that he wouldn't be able to ignore the dull throbbing pain any more if he did that.

"Yes, Miss Schultz told me how it went down. That was some kind of ballsy. Well, let's get you some medical attention. Those clowns Mirandize you yet?"

Roberto glanced over his shoulder at the two FBI agents staring impotently at them. "A policeman did, yes."

"Good." Lansing clasped his hands together behind his back as he walked. "So, you feel like talking to me without an attorney present? Fill in some of the blanks for me?"

Kari gave him an encouraging nod. Roberto took a deep breath. "Yes. I can do that."

"Excellent. So, let's start from the top …"

-ooo-​

Hey, no cheating.

Lisa grinned at me from the far end of the ice rink. "Cheating? Who's cheating?"

You know how these things work better than I do, I accused her. I was never very good at computer games.

"Well then, maybe you should have paid more attention." She kicked her mech into high gear, sweeping down the rink at a breakneck pace. Clutched in the robotic hands, her oversized hockey stick batted the puck back and forth.

I pushed off as well, going to meet her. The visual display fed into my helmet HUD as I turned my head to follow her progress. The same HUD overlaid her face over the blank helmet of the mech, as hers did with mine. Around me, the fifteen-foot-tall humanoid robot responded to my every move, my own hockey stick swinging back and forth as I charged toward her.

Under us, the icy surface scored as the razor-sharp blades projecting from the feet of our mechs slid over the blue-white rink. I wondered if it really was water ice; we had to mass a ton or more in our mechs, and the rink showed no sign of cracking or breaking up under our weight.

Her footwork was better than mine; I could tell that she was going to get past me no matter how I manoeuvred.

So I had to change things up, take this out of the box. Up until now, I'd been playing hockey. Or rather, I'd been trying to play hockey, and instead I'd actually been playing catch-up. So I took my eye off the puck.

"Hey, if you're not even gonna try -"

Ignoring Lisa's attempt to distract me, I stepped to the side. As she came past, I swept my stick through her legs. The mechs were both heavy and strong, but the sticks were made to take punishment. There was a massive impact that nearly cost me my grip on the hockey stick, but she went down. A ton of human-controlled robot hit the ice with a tremendous crash, and began sliding across the slick surface.

"Hey!" she shouted, sounding winded. "I thought you said no cheating!"

Is there a rule against tripping? I retorted. Don't remember seeing one. Skating in a tight circle around her, I set out in pursuit of the puck. Fortunately, it wasn't heading straight for the goal, otherwise my ploy would have all been for nothing.

She was silent for a moment. "Darn it. No, there isn't. But I can write one in soon enough."

Still won't apply retroactively.

"Unless I write that in too," she pointed out.

Now, that would be cheating. I had caught up to the puck by now and fielded it with my stick. Lisa was still picking herself up off of the ice when I skated by, tapping the puck along as I went.

She gave chase, of course, but I had enough of a lead that the puck skittered into her goal while she was still seconds away from catching me. First goal I'd scored all game too; I allowed myself a victory fist-pump while the siren blared to announce the goal.

"Think you're smart, do you?" But her tone and expression belied her words; she was grinning widely, and I could hear the barely-suppressed laughter in her voice.

Kinda. I grinned back. You can focus on the puck or my stick, but not both at the same time.

"Really? Time to step this up, then." She raised her hand; I would've thought it impossible to snap one's fingers in a mech-suit, but she managed it. Probably by cheating somehow. I wouldn't put it past her.

In response to the signal, doors on either side of the arena slid up, and we were joined by the other players. They were wearing team jerseys and carrying their own hockey sticks, but they were in no way human. I stared; despite all my experience with Lisa's bullshit world-building, I still couldn't believe my eyes.

Velociraptors? Playing hockey? Really? I had to admire the way they used their toe-claws to anchor themselves to the ice.

"Utahraptor, actually." She waved at them as they formed up in front of us. "Bigger, a bit smarter."

I watched as they fluffed their feathers out to deal with the chill. Still. Raptors. Really?

"And what's wrong with that?" Lisa was enjoying herself immensely. I could practically feel the level of smugness she was exuding.

If I have to tell you, you'd never understand it.

She poked her tongue out at me. "That's my line."

Sure, sure. Uh, whose side are they on? I think there's only one pattern that they're wearing.

"Their side." Lisa's grin widened. "Them versus us."

Inside the mech's helmet, my eyes widened. Oh boy.

-beep-

I frowned. What was that?

"What was what?"

I heard a beep.

"I didn't hear -beep- ything."

There it was again.

A look of realisation crossed her face. "Ah. Right. You're waking up. That's probably the heart monitor you're hearing."

Oh. Right. I shouldn't have been surprised. Waking up had always been something that was going to happen at some point. However, I'd been enjoying myself so much that I'd been able to push the knowledge of this to the back of my mind.

-beep-

An unspoken agreement passed between us; together, we skated to the side of the rink. Behind us, the raptors divided their numbers into roughly equal sides and began to pass the puck back and forth. They were really quite good at it.

As the mech powered down, the helmet lifted off of my face and I found myself able to step down on to solid ground. Lisa climbed down out of her own mech and we stood side by side, watching the raptors darting over the ice. There was a lot of snarling and posturing, with the occasional scuffle that left feathers floating through the air.

-beep-

It's been fun, I mused. Thanks for letting me crash on your metaphorical couch while they've been working on me.

"Hey, you're welcome any time," Lisa said. "It's your brain, after all. I'm the guest here."

Hm. I suppose. I thought back over the adventures we had indulged in since I'd lost consciousness for good. Parasailing over Barsoom, sword and sorcery adventures with some decidedly odd companions, exploring a dead world containing exotic and sometimes deadly ultra-tech, laughing ourselves sick over those weird trade paperbacks on the Boardwalk … it could have been months or hours in the real world. I knew all too well how unreliable my sense of time was, when I was visiting Lisa. How long has it been? In real time, that is?

She shrugged. "A few days. Less than a week."

-beep-

"You're almost awake." Lisa hugged me, hard. "I've really enjoyed having you here." She tilted her head back. "Kiss before you go?"

Her lips tasted of dust and blood. One of the raptors on the rink kicked off to get back into the fray, and a chip of ice almost got me in the eye. I blinked -

-ooo-​

Tuesday, June 14, 1994

… and opened my eyes in a hospital room.

Just for a moment, it seemed to be almost identical to the one that Lisa had thrown together so that we could watch what was going on. So similar, in fact, that I briefly considered the idea that Lisa had pulled a double bluff on me, slotting me back into the dream. Why she would do that, I wasn't sure, unless it was part of a subtle practical joke on her part.

A nurse was fussing over something off to the side; I couldn't see her clearly, given that I wasn't wearing my glasses, but she did have blonde hair. "Lisa?" I husked.

Dry mouth. I hated hospital dry mouth.

The nurse turned toward me. "Captain Snow," she said warmly. "It's good to meet you at last. I'm a big fan." As she moved toward the bed, I began to make out details that I had previously missed. Such as a doctor's ID tag. "Doctor Goldstein, at your service."

I blinked. "Uh, sorry. I thought you were a nurse."

She chuckled in a somewhat conspiratorial manner. "Well, it's not like we're not both in a typically male-dominated profession, Captain. I'll forgive you, this time. How are you feeling?"

"Thirsty," I rasped. "Water, please. And my glasses."

"Certainly. Open wide." She took a plastic squeeze bottle and squirted a little water into my mouth. I swallowed it; there wasn't quite enough to reach my stomach, but I felt my throat opening up. Next she handed me my glasses; a little clumsily, I fitted them into place. One of the lenses was cracked. "Now, do you feel up to talking?"

I hadn't had nearly enough water, but I nodded anyway. "Yes. Thank you." My voice was almost back to normal, though I still sounded weaker than I liked. But when I took my first good look at the doctor, I got the impression that something was off. I couldn't figure out what – it was on the tip of my metaphorical tongue – but matters were definitely askew.

It wasn't anything in her demeanour; she was of average height for a woman, perhaps ten years older than me, with shoulder-length blonde hair and strong features. She wore a lab coat over scrubs and carried a clipboard in one hand, with a pen clipped to the top.

All of that was above board. So what was it about her? But before I could figure it out, she spoke again.

"Excellent." Her smile softened the stern lines of her face, making her seem more approachable. "Now, do you know where you are?"

"I'm guessing a hospital, or a private clinic," I said. "I don't know where, exactly, but I'm pretty sure that I've only been out for a few days."

This time, it was her eyes that widened slightly with surprise. "Very good. Can you tell me your full name and rank?"

"Taylor Snow, Captain, Parahuman Response Teams." I met her gaze with mine as I recited my service number. "Now that we've got that sorted out. In order of importance: how's Sergeant Kinsey and Lieutenant Piggot; where am I and how many more casualties did we take?"

Her blink showed that she wasn't used to having her patients react in such a forceful manner, especially after having just awoken from sedation. For my part, I'd spent a good deal of my cape (and post-cape) life in a series of less than advantageous positions. My instinctive reaction in that kind of situation was always to retake the initiative, just as fast as possible. Escalate and overcome. It had saved my life more than once.

"I – well, to answer your questions in reverse order, I don't know precisely how many casualties your side took, but I'm told that it could have been a lot worse." As she spoke, she took a thermometer from her pocket and shook it briskly. "You're in the medical bay of the Austin PRT building, and your Sergeant Kinsey is alive and well, if a little banged about. Lieutenant Piggot was also alive and well, the last I saw her."

As I opened my mouth to ask further questions, she popped the thermometer into it, effectively silencing me. "Sergeant Kinsey," she went on, "has suffered injuries that, while temporarily disabling, should be in no way life-threatening. He is expected to make a full recovery. Just as you are, much to the surprise of basically everyone who saw the extent of your injuries after the battle."

I relaxed somewhat, sagging back into the pillow. It was only then that I realised that I had been trying to sit up, and that the diagonal line of fire inside my torso was a good indication that maybe I shouldn't be doing that. But Kinsey was alive and probably out of danger. And I'd live too, which was somewhat of a relief as well.

Removing the thermometer, Dr Goldstein read it off before returning it to her pocket and making a note on the clipboard. "You've got the first stirrings of a fever," she noted, "so we'll be dropping some antibiotics into your IV to ensure that no infections catch hold. I would advise you to do as little strenuous movement as possible over the next week or two, so that you can mend properly." She paused. "Do you have any questions?"

"Yes." I inhaled carefully. It was, as I had suspected, painful to breathe deeply. But I managed it twice more before looking at Dr Goldstein. "When can I see Kinsey? I need to debrief him on what happened after I passed out."

Slowly, she shook her head; it took a moment before I realised that she was expressing disbelief rather than negation. "Captain Snow, you continue to surprise me. Most people in your situation would be just happy to be alive, rather than attempting to go straight back to work. I will notify the Sergeant that you are asking after him. I will also be letting your superiors know that you seem to be entirely lucid and in command of your faculties."

"No," I insisted, putting every ounce of command I possessed into my voice. "I want to talk to Kinsey, make sure he's all right."

"And you will," she replied, equally firmly. "Just as soon as you can lie there for five minutes without falling asleep."

"I can do that," I assured her. Fall asleep, hah. Relaxing some more, I prepared to enjoy five minutes of rest before I spoke to Kinsey. Doctor Goldstein put the clipboard down on the bedside table and began to check the IV bags. Obligingly, I moved my arms so as to make sure the lines weren't stretched or kinked. I hope the antibiotics do their job. Last thing I need is to be laid up for too long. I've got work to do.

As I did so, I glanced idly at the clipboard. None of the notations made sense, but off to the side, she'd doodled a shape. If looked at from the correct angle, it might even have looked a little like the New Wave logo. But that's stupid. New Wave won't be a going concern for years yet.

I began to go over in my mind what I wanted to say to Kinsey. From what I recalled, he'd saved my life at least once inside the compound, and I intended to make sure he got recognised for it. Good man, Kinsey. Loyal to a fault. Never regretted taking him on as my …

-ooo-​

"George four, are you asleep? Get back in formation, you dozy sod!"

As the voice crackled in my headset, I realised that I had drifted out of the finger-four formation. Nudging my joystick and opening the throttle a hair, I slid back into position on the flank of my wingman's plane.

"Ah, Sleeping Beauty returns," Lisa observed from behind me, where she manned the turret-mounted .75 calibre machine-guns. "You held out for two and a half minutes. Doctor Goldstein is most impressed."

I frowned, switching my radio off. What? I was sedated again?

"Nope." I could hear the grin in her voice. "But you've still got traces of it in your system, and your body is working hard to repair itself, so sleep wasn't exactly impossible to come by."

My grin matched hers. As opposed to when you dragged me into sleep-state to warn me about the ambush back at the compound, yeah?

"Precisely. Now, you might want to make sure we don't get ambushed in this scenario too, huh?"

Yeah, yeah, got it. I switched my radio back on, then got back to the business of surviving as a fighter pilot.

Checking my wingman's position, I peered ahead of us, then behind. A visual scan of the sky above us gave me nothing but a few fluffy clouds. Rocking my wings slightly, I looked down at the rolling English countryside far below. Even though I was watching intently, I almost didn't spot them; three leather-winged shapes, a hundred feet from tip to tip, gliding stealthily over the farmland. Their camouflage was perfect; the only reason I saw them at all was when they passed over a stream, interrupting the glint of sunlight off of water.

George four, I reported over the radio. I have three Drachen, heading west-sou-west, three o'clock low, over!

The Germans had caught us napping at the beginning of the Second Great War. The ancient traditional dragon birthing grounds had fallen into disuse, so that the sabotage caused by their warcasters was not noticed until it was almost too late. We'd had to fall back on mundane technology to hold them off until our own draconic forces could take to the skies against the Drachenkraft.

To give Squadron Leader Hamilton his due, he didn't doubt my word for an instant. "George four, take lead. Bring us on to them, over."

Roger, George leader. Over, I replied, heeling the plane over into a steep dive. Pushing the throttle forward, I forced the Myrddin engine into a throaty bellow, even as we stooped upon the prey from above.

Perhaps 'prey' wasn't the right word. The Drachen-riders had been undoubtedly aware of us, and the change in my engine note served warning that we now knew about them. Great wings flexed and flapped, pushing them around to face our attack. Unlike aircraft, Drachen were intelligent and could act independently of the rider's commands if the situation warranted it. They were also highly agile, and of course had their own built-in weaponry.

"George flight, George leader," Hamilton radioed. "A single raking pass, then pick your partners and dance, over."

"George two, roger."

"George three, roger."

George four, roger.

The Drachen were already beating their wings strongly for altitude. Correction; two of them were. The third had feinted the turn, but was now flying fast and strong toward what had to be their intended target; a dam set in a wooded valley, just up ahead. This dam supplied power to a factory that nestled in the valley beyond, as well as to the village where the factory workers dwelt. Demolishing the dam would destroy the factory and the village both, costing hundreds of lives and putting a not insignificant dent in Britain's war effort.

Hamilton had not missed the problem. "George four. The Drachen that's getting away – pursue and destroy, over."

Pursue and destroy, roger. But it wouldn't be as easy as it seemed. The two Drachen and their riders were determined to run interference for their comrade. I didn't try to swing around them; that would have left the plane open to a strike from the side. Instead, I bored straight down the middle.

Distantly, I could hear Lisa's yelp as she hung on for dear life, and Hamilton yelling at me over the radio. I tuned both of them out, focusing on the Drachen before me. They were fast and agile, but they were slow in the climb, which was our only advantage over them. The one on the left was focusing on the other planes; the one I was aiming at had its eyes on me. I could see the Drachen-rider crouched over its neck, conveying instructions, as we closed at a frankly ill-advised speed.

The moment I was waiting for arrived; the Drachen opened its mouth to breathe a mass of superheated plasma at me. In doing so, it instinctively closed its eyes, as every Drachen did. Immune to their own breath they might be, but it still had to sting if it got in their delicate eyes.

Timing it to a nicety, I rolled the plane, corkscrewing away from the blast of flame that must have blistered the paint on the plane's underbelly. As I did so, I opened fire. The twin .75 calibre mounts on the wings let loose with their devastating firepower as my crosshairs tracked across the beast's body.

All draconic creatures – Drachen and dragons alike – were equipped with heavy scales that might well turn a lesser bullet. Their inhuman vitality had proven capable, time and again, of surviving wounds even from the heavy bullets devised to punch through their natural armour. But we were loaded with freezer rounds, product of the very best British alchemy, and guaranteed to chill even the superheated blood of a battle-crazy Drachen.

My bullets smashed into it, ice wreathing across its scaly hide from each impact point. The plane was still rolling as I streaked past my target, unmasking Lisa's turret so that she could have her turn. I could literally feel the hammering through the airframe as her quad-seventy-fives opened up, delivering a whole new meaning of pain to the Drachen before we were past it and gone.

Ahead of us, the last of the three was beating its wings frantically, trying to get away. But we had a massive advantage in speed due to the dive; we would overhaul it long before it reached its target. Grimly, I settled the reticule on to it.

They weren't paying me to bring any ammunition back, after all …

-ooo-​

Wednesday, June 15, 1994

It was a lovely morning in Brockton Bay; seagulls wheeled and screeched over the ocean. I sighed as I took a deep lungful of the brisk morning breeze. Lisa and I had enjoyed some more interesting scenarios since I had fallen asleep, but I had to admit that shooting down hostile dragons had topped everything out for sheer fun. Now we were just relaxing, waiting for my wake-up call.

Holding two ice cream cones, I strolled back to where Lisa sat on the bench. Here you are.

Lisa looked up from her trade paperback. "Oh, thanks. This one just came in. Have you seen it yet?"

I looked at the back cover of the book; it featured … me, but with fur on my face and wolf-type ears, leading a pack of … Is that you and the Undersiders?

"Uh huh. It's pretty good, actually." She tapped another one. "In this one, you get all explodey."

Explodey. I raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. You beat the crap out of Glory Girl. Then you steal her dress."

Why would I do that?

"Because your clothes are all exploded, duh."

I thought about that as I climbed over the back of the bench and settled down alongside her. Okay, that sounds logical.

Smirking, she took the choc chip ice cream from me and made room on the bench. "Oh, and you gotta see the one with the anvils."

Anvils?

I didn't get an answer, unless I counted snickering as she went back to reading the graphic novel. "Okay," I sighed, picking up the one she'd tapped. Let's see how explodey I get.

Unfortunately, it seemed that the answer to that was going to have to wait, as a wave of dizziness swept over me. Whoops.

Lisa looked up at me, ice cream rimming her lips. "Waking up again, huh?"

Seems that way. I sighed. Being injured is a pain. Just get used to being asleep, and they wake you up again.

She seemed to be much more amused than the comment warranted, but before I could wonder about it, she put down the trade paperback. "Well, I'll be here when you get back. Kiss before you go?"

-ooo-​

The taste of dust and blood and chocolate chip ice cream was just fading from my lips as I opened my eyes. My head was much more clear now, I realised. I'd been functional before, but nowhere near the top of my form. Now, everything seemed crystal clear to me.

In a manner of speaking, of course; I wasn't wearing my glasses, so everything beyond arms' reach was still fuzzy to my vision.

"Ah, Captain Snow, you're awake." That sounded like Doctor Goldstein; my glasses were pushed into my hand. I put them on, noting that the cracked lens had been replaced, and looked around the room.

"I am," I replied huskily. "I'm guessing that people want to talk to me?"

She smiled warmly; either she had one hell of a bedside manner, or she was a genuinely nice person. "You're tracking very well today, Captain. I have to admit that I'm impressed. Though I'm also curious."

"Oh?" I asked, pushing myself up into a slightly more elevated position. There was a twinge from my midsection, but nowhere near as definitive as the last time I'd tried that. "If it's about classified matters, I'm afraid I won't be able to help you." There was a paper cup full of water on the bedside table; reaching for it, I sipped, letting the cool liquid trickle down my throat.

She watched my every action keenly, her expression radiating pleased pride. It occurred to me that I was being tested, to see how much I reacted to my surroundings. This did not stop me from emptying the cup.

"No classified matters, Captain," she assured me. "I'm just wondering about the other scars you carry. Your PRT medical records don't show you as being involved in any major combat actions before last week, and yet you bear the marks of older wounds, long healed. Including a most peculiar one on your shoulder."

"Ah, right," I replied, crumpling the paper cup and seeing if I could get it into the trash can that sat in the corner. My feeble throw fell a good two yards short, reminding me exactly how weak I still was. "Yeah, I know what you're talking about. Sorry, can't help you with that one."

It was almost funny. The scars I had gotten during my previous life in Brockton Bay, I couldn't talk about. Their origins had to stay hidden behind a curtain of pretended amnesia. In the meantime, while I had participated in a couple of off-the-books 'combat actions' since joining the PRT, I couldn't talk about that either. Good thing I didn't pick up any scars from those times.

"Can't, or won't?" Had she picked up the slightest hesitation from my body language? I hated to deceive the woman; she was warm and caring and obviously wanted to do right by me.

Except that there was the oddity. I hadn't been able to pinpoint it on the last go-around, but this time I did. Somehow, I had the feeling that I knew her from somewhere. Or not her precisely, but her features were more than a little familiar. Her eyes were a deep hazel and there was something about the cheekbones, but I just couldn't place her.

Of course, this feeling wasn't exactly unusual for me since arriving in this time. Either a face or a surname or both would trigger an association; sometimes it would be false and sometimes it would actually lead somewhere. Most times, I tried to ignore it. But now, I was more than a thousand miles from home, and I was pretty sure I'd never met anyone with the last name of Goldstein. Maybe she's someone's mother?

"I'm sorry." Shrugging hurt, but not all that much. "I'm pretty sure there's a dossier on me somewhere around the place. There's a lot of details that are probably classified, but my background before joining the PRT should be innocent enough."

"There is, there are, and it is." She smiled again, causing warm creases to form by her eyes. "I've already read it, as much of it as my clearance level will allow me to see, anyway. In fact, I probably know more about your background than you do."

I fixed her with a level stare. "Either the sedative is still messing with my mind, or you're going to have to explain that statement." I knew what she was referring to, of course.

"To put it simply, we backtracked your movements," she explained. "An investigator found where you'd been hired on as a deckhand in Boca Raton, and traced your movements back from there. He even found out your parents' names."

I let my jaw drop slightly. The surprise was faked, of course, given that I had painstakingly planted all the clues that she was referring to, in anticipation of just such an investigation. "Holy shit," I breathed. "Are they still …"

"I'm sorry." Oddly enough, despite her earlier compassionate demeanour, her next words were dry and matter-of-fact. "It was a traffic accident, when you were quite young. I can give you what details we have of them, if you want."

I bit my lip, playing out indecision. "I … would I be a horrible person if I said not right now?"

Her chuckle was warm, forgiving. I felt bad about playing her like this. "Of course not. It's a really big thing. You're literally recovering from life-threatening injuries. It's a good idea to take things one revelation at a time, even for someone who's as good as you seem to be at data analysis."

With a sigh, I forced myself to relax. "Well, okay then. I guess … it's in my dossier now, so all I have to do is go look, right?"

"Correct." She pulled out her thermometer and shook it. "Well, you certainly seem to be lucid enough, apart from the memory blank. You honestly have no idea how that shoulder injury took place, or why there's a piece of aluminum lodged in the bone?"

"None whatsoever," I assured her, lying through my teeth. "Doctor Veder, back in Brockton Bay, seemed to think that I'd led a really rough life."

"All the evidence would seem to support that notion, yes," she agreed dryly. "Open up, please."

Dutifully, I let her put the thermometer in my mouth.

"And you can't recall your parents, or anywhere you lived before Brockton Bay?" she asked absently, taking my wrist and keeping her eyes on her watch. Her fingers were cool on my skin.

Lying was easier with a thermometer in my mouth; I mumbled something in the negative, and shook my head.

"Well, from all accounts, they tended to move around a bit. Almost skittering from place to place."

Her relaxed tone caught me by surprise, that one word jumping out at me. I managed to control my reaction to some degree, but I still stiffened slightly.

"Are you all right, Captain?" she asked, her eyes intent on me.

"Yeah, sorry," I mumbled around the thermometer. "Twinge."

"Must have been a big one; your pulse rate jumped dramatically just then." She let go of my wrist and retrieved her thermometer. "Temperature's excellent and your colour is looking good. Now all I have to do is dissuade you from doing jumping jacks or anything else strenuous for the next few weeks. It's a good thing we don't have any Endbringer battles coming up."

This time, I was jolted hard. Even as I tried to explain it away – the term 'Endbringer' had been coined somewhere; I had just used it ahead of time – I knew full well that the way she was phrasing it meant that she was aware of more than one Endbringer.

Is she a precog? A mind reader? Have I been talking in my sleep? Blown everything wide open? Am I even where she said I was, or am I in some top-secret facility, preparing to have my every secret stripped from my head?

All of that went through my mind in an instant, my mouth going dry as I tried to formulate escape plans. Then I realised that she was watching me, observing my reaction to her words. Busted.

"Relax, Taylor," she murmured, a smile curving her lips.

"Why?" If I come off the bed fast enough, if the IVs don't get in the way, if I don't just fall on my ass, I might be able to take her down …

"Because I'm on your side." Reaching out, she placed a hand on my shoulder. Belatedly, I realised that I was half-sitting up, and the broad stroke of fire within my torso was objecting to this, rather strenuously. "Now lie back down before you hurt yourself. More than you're already hurt, that is."

Wait. If this was a danger, then Lisa would have warned me. Allowing myself to relax by degrees, I eased back down on to the bed. I took a breath, as deep as I could allow myself without causing physical pain, and then another. "You know where I came from."

"Yes." Her gaze was direct.

"How? Who are you? What do you want?"

She smiled, clearly enjoying the situation. I found it far less humorous. "I want what you want. As for the rest of it, that's a discussion for another time." Her head tilted toward the door. "You have visitors."

Before I could respond, she stepped to the door and opened it. "She's awake," she called out. "You can come in now."

The door opened wider and three people entered. First in was Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown; not someone I really wanted to confront again, but the choice wasn't really in my hands any more. Next was Deputy Director Grantham of the Austin station. With Walsh's death, I assumed that he was stepping up to the Director spot, but I didn't know that for certain. Last was a mild surprise but a welcome one; Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, wearing undress fatigues.

With their presence, the likelihood that I had been spirited away to some undisclosed location seemed less and less. A study of their expressions confirmed it. Costa-Brown was impassive and I didn't know Grantham well enough to read him, but Hamilton wore the same half-proud, half-confounded expression that I had encountered every time I pulled yet another rabbit out of the hat. His 'you are in trouble, young lady' expression was absent; that one held less pride and more exasperation.

"Uh-" I began. "Chief Director Costa-Brown, ma'am." I started to salute, then stopped as the IV lines pulled at my wrist.

"No need for the formalities, Captain Snow," the Chief Director said briskly. "You're an invalid and we're uncovered."

"Uh, thank you, ma'am," I replied, letting my arm drop to my side.

"Captain Snow," Grantham said next. "We need your verbal report on what happened. Your own words, in your own time."

Ah. This was looking less and less like a crucifixion all the time. I nodded. "Certainly … uh, Director … ?"

Gravely, he nodded. "That's correct. I've been confirmed as Walsh's replacement. What happened to him? How did he die?"

Carefully, I hitched myself up a little in the bed. "I'm pretty sure they were tipped off. The Blaster, Sunstrike, shot us down on the first pass. The beam nearly cut the chopper in half. Walsh was right in its path. He never stood a chance. It did cut him in half. There was blood all over the inside of the chopper."

"We have the recordings from the pilots just before the helicopter crashed," the Chief Director supplied. "Who survived the crash?"

"Myself, Kinsey, Hanran and Rodriguez," I reported concisely. "I was knocked out briefly. I don't remember being wounded, just being woken up and dragged out of the chopper by Kinsey. The pilots didn't make it. There was fire, and I could smell avgas. I warned them, I think. We only got behind cover just in time."

"According to the medical report, Kinsey suffered a broken arm, while you had a broken leg and other, more serious, injuries." Grantham tilted his head curiously. "How did you get behind cover fast enough?"

"Kinsey was carrying me," I told him. "Once the chopper blew, we had three options, all bad. The first one was to try to get out. The second was to surrender and hope for merciful treatment. The third was to press on. I chose that option."

"Bad options, indeed," murmured Hamilton. "So we are to understand that you gave the order to continue to the objective, not Hanran or Rodriguez? I just want to be clear on that."

I eyed him, wondering where he was going with that. "Yes, sir," I confirmed. "Rodriguez suggested surrender and Hanran was indecisive. I made the call, and Kinsey backed me. No hesitation. Once they saw we were committed, Hanran and Rodriguez followed suit."

"You do realise that they technically outranked you, Captain." That was the Chief Director. "Making the call like that could have been construed as mutiny."

I met her gaze unflinchingly. "Ma'am, neither of them had military training. Hanran had no idea what to do, and Rodriguez wanted to surrender. You know what they were doing to those girls in there. I was not going to give myself up to those people without a fight. So I made the call, and I will stand by it."

Was that a slight smile on Costa-Brown's face? Had I just made her more determined to poach me for her think-tank?

"Surrender was certainly the wrong option," agreed Hamilton. "With you four as hostages, it would have gotten very bad indeed. And unless they had a top-notch surgeon on hand, your injuries would have killed you in less than a day. In my professional opinion, you did precisely the right thing."

"I don't have a military background," Grantham offered, "but when you put it like that, I can't see that you had any other option."

"Agreed," the Chief Director said. "Now, as for Aguijón. What's your opinion of him?"

The sudden shift in direction caught me a little by surprise, but I did my best to answer quickly. "I didn't see him do much. But he got hurt defending the girl Kari. And he distracted Rodriguez when he was about to shoot Kinsey and me. Kari stood up for him. She said that he could've followed orders and raped her, but he chose to protect her instead. That makes him all right in my book."

"Indeed," Grantham agreed. "Now for the really tricky one. Rodriguez. You said he was about to shoot you?"

"Well, yes," I said. "He had a rifle and he was pointing it at Kinsey and me. Finger on the trigger."

Hamilton coughed, looking unhappy. "You understand, Snow, that we have to be certain that was a righteous kill. The ATF is very unhappy that the PRT shot one of theirs, and they want to nail someone's hide to the wall. They're calling for an inquiry, and all indications are that they're going to come at you with everything they've got."

Costa-Brown took over. "Sergeant Kinsey says that you stated outright that Rodriguez was a mole. How did you know this?"

I was careful to look the Chief Director right in the eye. "It was a combination of factors. He had dragged his heels on the whole operation, done his best to sow doubt that it was the best thing to do. Once we were behind enemy lines, he tried to advocate surrender. And even when we were in cover, he was consistently defeatist. I was injured and drifting from the pain, when all the pieces dropped into place. Then, of course, once I actually said it, he was going to kill us. Hanran was down at that point, and Joanne and Kari were outside keeping the Fallen at bay. Aguijón gave me an opening, and I took it."

"And Sergeant Kinsey?" asked Grantham. "What was he doing?"

"He'd handed over his weapon to Hanran," I explained. "When the bomb went off, it threw us against the wall. He took the impact for me. I think he got hurt again, doing that. He didn't have any options for taking out Rodriguez. I did." I took as deep a breath as I dared. "Sergeant Kinsey's actions throughout this whole thing were exemplary. He deserves the highest recognition that we can give him. And Hanran deserves something as well. He stepped up."

Hamilton chuckled briefly. "The good Sergeant said almost exactly the same thing about you. And in case you're wondering, his account backs yours, almost word for word."

"I wasn't actually wondering about that, sir," I said. Kinsey's always had my back. "But now that you mention him, how is he? What sort of shape is he in? Can I talk to him?" He's alive. But I want to make sure he's all right.

"We can definitely arrange a visit," Grantham agreed. "If you don't have a problem with that, Doctor Goldstein?"

We looked over at the doctor, who had managed to fade into the background during the debriefing. I did not miss that she hadn't been ordered from the room. I bet she's cleared for this and more.

"I can't see a problem with that," Goldstein said. She managed to project almost a motherly air. "If the Captain can avoid becoming over-excited, that is."

"I think I can manage that," I responded dryly. I still had my questions about her, but she wasn't overtly working against me, so I decided to shelve them until I could answer them. In private, that is; those were not questions that I intended to ask with Alexandria in the room. But I wasn't going to trust her an inch until I had my answers.

"For that matter," the doctor went on, "I've had the rescuees also asking if they could see Captain Snow. Something about a small matter of saying thank you. Will that be a problem for anyone?"

Grantham glanced at the Chief Director, who shook her head. "I have no issue with that," she said.

"Neither do I," Grantham agreed. "Go ahead, Doctor." The Chief Director went to the door and opened it; Grantham followed her, but paused on the threshold. "Captain Snow."

"Yes, Director?" I asked.

He looked me in the eye. "In case you didn't get the memo, we think you did a magnificent job. We're not going to let the ATF pin a goddamned thing on you."

"Thank you, Director," I replied. "Uh … one more thing?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Lieutenant Piggot. Emily. Is she all right?"

He grimaced. "Physically, yes. Legally, not so much."

I blinked. "Legally?"

The lines on his face deepened. "After your chopper went down, she more or less held a tent-full of captains at gunpoint until they'd agreed to follow the PRT's lead on the rescue mission. She'll be facing a court-martial."

"Oh. Shit."

"That's an accurate summation of the situation, yes." He tilted his hand. "There are extenuating circumstances; she volunteered to go in with the first wave, and she was the first one to fight her way through to you, but she's made a lot of people unhappy."

I nodded soberly. "I can see that. Request permission to attend and provide a character witness for her."

"Certainly, Captain." He bestowed a look of grim approval on me. "I'll see that it's done."

"Thank you, Director."

He left; I sagged back into the pillows as the door closed behind him. Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton stepped forward. "How are you feeling, Snow? Really, I mean?"

I looked up into his concerned eyes. "Well, sir, I ache pretty well all over, and any time I try to move too fast, it feels like someone's trying to dig out my internal organs with a rusty spoon, but I feel a lot better than I figure I should, under the circumstances. Did you dig up a parahuman healer from somewhere?"

"I only wish," he snorted. "I don't know if Eidolon can heal people, but he's doing something important at the other end of the country. No, we owe your continued existence to this lady here. She volunteered for the medical team when it was formed for this mission."

He indicated Doctor Goldstein, who assumed an expression of mild attentiveness. I looked at her as well. Nobody spoke for a long moment.

"Okay, I'll bite," I conceded. "If you're not a parahuman healer, then how did you save my sorry ass?"

Doctor Goldstein smiled. "Well, it's lucky that you're a universal recipient. We were pouring blood into you as soon as they got you out of the compound. Even your Sergeant Kinsey insisted on contributing, despite his own injuries. As did Lieutenant Piggot."

I rolled my eyes. "Kinsey would." I'm going to have to have words with that man.

"Hey, don't knock it," she reproved me. "His blood may have been what kept you alive. As it was, we were touch and go. You had a titanium strut from the chopper all the way through your abdomen and into your chest, and by the time we got to you, you were losing blood faster than we could put it into you. We had no way to get it out of you and operate to fix the damage fast enough to save your life. Well, I had no way, anyway."

"Wait," I interrupted. "Titanium strut. Are you saying … Kari saved my life?"

This was the first time that I'd seen the doctor taken aback. She looked at Hamilton in some surprise, and he gave her a shrug and a smile. "I did warn you. She's very quick."

"Evidently," she agreed. "Short story: yes. Long story … well, I got her in to see if she could get the metal out of you quickly enough to let me operate, and she went one better. It appears that whatever metal she is controlling gives her tactile sensations. She could feel what was going on around the spar. So I put you under an X-ray machine, and coached her through closing off your blood vessels. Basically, she stitched you up from the inside. Pulled the metal back and fixed the damage as she went."

"Using titanium?" I asked. "Is that a thing?"

"It's already used as a surgery-safe metal for implants," she pointed out. "We're just lucky that it's also used in helicopters. So yes, she cleared out all the incidental pieces, and you've got hundreds of tiny – and not so tiny – titanium sutures holding you together on the inside. Weirdest surgical procedure I ever directed. Kid's got a great future as a surgeon, if she can find a medical school that'll accept her for what she is."

I nodded slowly. "I'm alive, so I'll accept that. Thank you, doctor."

"Hey, I just told her what to do," Doctor Goldstein pointed out. "She's the one who did the heavy lifting."

"Well, I'll be thanking her just as soon as I see her," I said. "Right now, I'm thanking you."

"You also have my thanks, doctor," Hamilton added. "Captain Snow is one of my very best people, and I would have hated to lose her to a bunch of parahuman hillbilly cultists." He directed a mock glare my way. "Do you hear me, Captain? No more leaping into danger for you. I don't think my heart could stand it."

"But, sir, I didn't leap," I protested. "I was shot down, remember?"

He waved a hand airily. "Excuses, excuses."

Doctor Goldstein chuckled. "I can see you two have worked together for a while."

"Trust me," I told her, "I've had worse bosses."

"And I've had less insubordinate … subordinates," he growled, although there was a smile playing on his face. "But nobody who gets me the results that you do."

"Thank you, sir." I smiled at him. "But, uh, before we bring the visitors in, would I be able to have a word in private with Doctor Goldstein?"

He cleared his throat. "Of course, Captain. Let me know when you're ready for the onslaught."

"Copy that, sir." I gave him a firm nod in lieu of a salute.

Once the door had closed behind him, I turned to the doctor, who gazed back at me impassively. "Okay, time to clear the air," I told her flatly.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Oh, it is, is it?"

"You know it is." I felt acutely hampered by the fact that I was flat on my back, with titanium stitches holding me together, and several IVs dribbling god-knew-what into my veins. "You don't just get to drop a bomb like that and then walk away. Who are you?"

"Let me tell you a story," Doctor Goldstein replied, pulling a chair up to the side of the bed. "Once upon a time, there was a little girl. A good little girl, in a bad, bad world. She loved her mommy, and her mommy loved her back. She had a brother too, older than her. He used to take care of her. She loved him too."

She paused, perhaps choosing her next words carefully. I let her take her time. So far, her words had not rung a bell with me. Is this why Lisa was smiling just before I woke up?

"But then Behemoth happened," she went on abruptly, dropping the storybook tone. "Mom wasn't attending, but my brother was. Everyone died, or so we thought. Behemoth was out of control. A living atomic explosion, blasting his way across the face of the earth. Heading for America. For Brockton Bay. For me. Mom joined the defenders, trying to hold him off while they evacuated the rest of us. When that went to hell, Miss Militia grabbed me and ran for it. We got away, but Behemoth just kept coming. Somewhere in that hell, in that chaos, I triggered. And then the man in the robes appeared."

"The man in the robes?" My mind went back five years. "An Indian man? Ornate robes?"

She nodded. "Yes. He said twenty-one words, and then sent me away. I appeared on the front seat of a police car in Seattle. They couldn't find my parents, which wasn't surprising. So I got adopted. The Goldsteins are lovely people, but I've never forgotten my mother. Or the words that the man said to me. I can't forget anything, you see."

"Your trigger."

"My trigger," she agreed. "And so I was baptised Ruth Goldstein. Grew up. Went to medical school. Became a surgeon. And now I'm here."

"Wait, wait," I protested. "What were the twenty-one words?"

She closed her eyes; when she spoke, her voice was flat. "Brockton Bay. Nineteen eighty-nine. Find Weaver. She knows how to save the world. Help her. Do not use your powers."

"Um." I paused. "That doesn't tell me how you know -"

"Your unmasking as Skitter and rebranding as Weaver were on TV," she pointed out. "I didn't understand it when I saw it, but I remembered. Years later, I made sense out of it. I knew your first name and what you looked like, what powers you had, everything. It wasn't hard to keep track of you, especially after you joined the PRT." She tilted her head. "Though you've been low-key with your powers. Did he tell you not to use them, as well?"

"No," I muttered. "I lost them when I came back here." I looked up at her. "I could've done with some assistance when I first arrived." My tone was sharp, but I didn't care. "Where the hell were you?"

"I knew that you'd show up," she replied, showing no sign of resentment. "But I couldn't get there. Unavoidable circumstances. So I sent word to a colleague of mine, to keep an eye out for you and take care of you if she could."

"Nina Veder," I guessed.

She grinned. "Got it in one. Did you tell her who you really are?"

"Mostly," I admitted. "Didn't tell her everything about everything. But she didn't pry. She's a good person. Though she never told me about you."

"She's good at keeping people's secrets," Doctor Goldstein noted.

"Okay," I said. "You've told me your story. But you haven't said how long you've been here and who the hell you are. Because your face is familiar. I just can't place it."

"I'm not surprised." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "We've never met before yesterday. I knew your face but you didn't know mine. You have, however, met my mother and father. I was sent back to the year nineteen sixty-one. I'm thirty-four years old.

"And my birth name is Aster Anders."

End of Part 5-4

Part 5-5

To skip Aster's story, go here.​

 

[Ack]

Recoil​

Part 5-5: (Aster's Story, Part One) Escape from Brockton Bay​

26 July 2011
New Delhi
Phir Sē

It did not work. It should have worked.

Phir Sē turned his head. A shadow emerged from the darkness at the far end of the room.

The time manipulator spoke in Punjabi. "Go. Tell me what is happening." But he already knew, from the juddering of the rock beneath his feet. It was not going well.

The teleporter vanished, and Phir Sē began trying to get his screens up and running again. Those that were not dark were showing static, and he was reasonably certain that he knew why. The cameras have been destroyed.

A flicker in the corner of his eye heralded the return of the teleporter. With him came the stench of burnt hair, overlaying another smell, one he knew all too well. Human flesh. Third degree burns. The man staggered, his costume half-melted to his body, then fell to one knee. Phir Sē was beside him in an instant, supporting him. The teleporter turned to look up at him, eyes sharp with pain.

"Talk to me," Phir Sē urged. "What happened? I thought you were too fast to be targeted."

"All around him were dead or dying," gasped the teleporter. "A hundred times I teleported, looking for someone alive, someone to save. Ninety-nine times, he failed to attack me. The hundredth time, he was waiting."

"I have medical supplies," Phir Sē urged. "Come, I will attend to your injuries."

"No," panted the teleporter. "We have to go. He is coming here. Now."

As if awaiting his words, the shaking and juddering increased a hundredfold; one of the screens shook loose of its mountings on the wall. It shattered when it hit the floor. The teleporter grabbed Phir Sē, and grimaced in concentration. Rocks began to fall from the ceiling; at first these came in ones and twos, then the entire roof caved in.

-ooo-​

Phir Sē felt the shift in perspective that came from being teleported; the blink of an eye later, he was standing on bare sand. It was dark, but a cool breeze brought the scent of salt spray to his nostrils.

He was also alone.

"No!" he shouted, although he knew what must have happened. "No! Don't do this to me!" He ran to the top of a small dune and peered about, straining his eyes in the light of the crescent moon above. There was nobody there. The only footprints marring the pristine sand were the ones that he was leaving behind.

Still, he searched for a good fifteen minutes. His eyes adjusted to the dimness, the bright starfield augmenting the moon's weak light, and he quartered the area around where he had first arrived. He considered stepping back to the base, but the window between his departure and the collapse of the base was too narrow. The only safe time to arrive would be before he left, and he had long since learned that to even attempt to share a timeframe with himself was to invite excruciating and debilitating agony.

Eventually, he slumped to a seated position atop the dune. Staring out at the faint track the moonlight was leaving on the surface of the ocean, he reluctantly accepted that his friend was gone. He gave his life to save mine.

It was a sobering thought. The Thanda were powerful, almost unbeatable. But Behemoth's power was on a whole new level. I was arrogant, to think that my time bomb would kill him. To destroy him, I would have to go back and prevent him from becoming so powerful. But I cannot do that. He came into existence after I was born.

The logic was inescapable. Unchecked, unchained, the monster will lay waste to the world in his rage. If something is to be done about this, it has to be someone else. Someone young. He tilted his head in thought. The American cape girl, Weaver, had struck him as someone who didn't ever stop fighting. If she still lives … we will see.

Standing up, he brushed off his robes. I think it is time that I looked over the battlefield. Concentrating, he worked at creating a portal through both time and space. It cost him more effort than he had expected. My powers have been taxed. But I can't stop now. The monster has to die. Time has to be reset so that this never happens. The portal formed at last and he stepped through it, barely avoiding a stumble. Two weeks should be enough time for him to either vacate the area or be brought down.

-ooo-​

10 August 2011
New Delhi

It was indeed enough; the landscape that Phir Sē stepped on to was blasted and desolate, devoid of any moving thing larger than a cockroach. Fifteen days ago, this had been a thriving metropolis, home to fourteen million people. Now, it was a grave. A tomb. Not even India's traditional scavengers would survive here; the bodies had been either buried too deep to disturb or burned away to ash and greasy smoke.

He topped a small rise and saw it ahead. The body, slumped against a fallen monolith. His power was still weakened, so he spent the time to walk down to where the girl lay.

It would not have mattered if he had hurried. The girl, unmasked but dressed in Weaver's costume, was dead. She lay with one hand resting on a mound of rocks, the other loose on the ground. The skin on her face was desiccated, cracked lips drawn back from her teeth. Sightless eyes, sunken into their sockets, stared up at the sky from behind round-lensed glasses. Dark hair, made dull by the everpresent dust, blew loose in the warm breeze.

Curious, he expended a modicum of his power to gain minute glimpses of what had gone before. The flickering images, the snatches of sound, did not convey much in the way of meaning to him, but he understood the gestalt of it. Her friend died in her arms. She chose to die here as well rather than live on.

He knew exactly what that sort of loss and pain felt like. It was something that he himself had suffered through. She is strong-willed. She only gave up because she believed that all hope had been extinguished. Given a chance to fight back, she would turn the world inside out to ensure that her friend lived instead of died. A grim smile creased his face. I believe that I might give her that chance.

Caution intruded. But she will not be able to do it alone. An ally is what is needed. A powerful ally, but one who will go undetected.

This was almost a paradox, a dichotomy. He mulled over it as he opened another portal. Time to see where the monster went.

-ooo-​

2 August 2011
Brockton Bay
Miss Militia

"He's coming here," insisted the Alcott girl. "In three days, everyone in Brockton Bay will be dead. You can't fight him. You can't beat him. He'll steamroll over the best you can do."

Hannah put her hands on the desk, palm down. At her side, unbidden, her weapon morphed from a heavy warhammer to an Uzi, to a Desert Eagle, to a kukri. She drew a deep, calming breath. "What are the chances of successfully evacuating everyone in the city?"

Dinah's eyes went unfocused as her lips moved, then she looked at the acting Director of the PRT ENE once more. "Seventy-three point nine seven six three percent, if you start right now."

"Those aren't great odds," Hannah observed. She was about to go on, when Dinah interrupted.

"That goes up to ninety-one point three six three four percent if the city's capes fought a rearguard action."

Hannah grimaced. "I thought you said he'd steamroll over the top of us."

"He will, but it won't be quite as fast." Dinah shrugged. "He has a target. I don't know what it is. In all the scenarios where I hang around to try to find out, I die before I do. But if we can get everyone out of the city and disperse them, then we may be able to save most of them. I think."

"That's a lot of maybes." Hannah rubbed her chin. "I didn't know that precogs were able to predict Endbringer attacks."

"I can't, or rather, I couldn't," Dinah admitted. "I never picked up on Leviathan's attack. But it's occurred to me that if I check for the state of the city after the fact, I'm predicting the aftermath, not the attack itself. My power doesn't like being used that way, and I get horrific headaches from it, but I can make it work. Even if I have to go and lie down in a dark room for about a week afterward."

"Hm. Well, I can't afford not to take your warning seriously." Hannah opened a very special desk drawer and flipped back a protective cover. Hesitating just for one moment, she jammed the heel of her hand down on the broad red button. Almost immediately, the wail of the Endbringer siren began to sound throughout the city.

"Thank you." Dinah nodded seriously. "That's taken a weight off my mind."

"Where will you go?" asked Hannah. "Have you made arrangements?"

Dinah snorted. "Are you kidding? My parents are waiting at the curb with the car packed and the engine running. We're getting out while the getting is good."

"I don't blame you," Hannah agreed.

"If I find anything else out, I'll let you know." Dinah got up and headed for the door.

Hannah nodded. "Thanks. Now go. I've got an evacuation to arrange."

The office door closed behind the precog.

-ooo-​

Evening, 4 August 2011
Brockton Bay
Purity

Kayden sat on the bed in the spare room of her small apartment, Aster strapped into the baby carrier beside her, and tried to decide what she should do.

She had only intended to return to Brockton Bay briefly, to pick up some things she had left behind, and then leave the city forever. But the Endbringer sirens had begun howling just hours after she got there, and then there were PRT troops in the streets.

She had been stuck in the city for two days now. Every day, Kayden saw more and more people flooding from the city. On the upside, Brockton Bay had lost a lot of its population following the Leviathan attack in May; on the downside, much of the remaining infrastructure was still damaged. People didn't have cars, or if they had cars, they couldn't get the gasoline to drive those cars out of the city.

The National Guard and the PRT had stepped up to the challenge, and convoys of trucks were ferrying refugees south to Boston or west to Concord. Nobody was allowed more than one suitcase, which was why more people weren't showing up at the Evacuation Depots.

Armed guards were also patrolling the city and the outbound roads; they were ruthless in ensuring that the steady stream of traffic was not interrupted by anything. The evening of the first day had seen an impromptu tollgate thrown across the highway to the west, with ABB members extorting drivers of everything they could lay their hands on before allowing them to continue. The PRT officer on site had not hesitated; the offenders were summarily executed and the toll-gate removed from the road. That had been the only such event.

However, this was not what Kayden was agonising over. She had a car, and gasoline as well. She could try to simply drive out again – after all, they were trying to evacuate the city – but all it would take would be one overzealous PRT officer recognising her face, and Aster would be in danger. Again.

Although at a pinch, she could drop everything and fly Aster out of the city on her own.

The problem was that she was not one hundred percent sure that this was the right thing to do.

Aster needed to be safe. That was a fact, as simple and basic as a stone wall. Kayden could not and would not accept anything less. But the PRT was calling out for volunteers to oppose Behemoth, to help delay the monster so that more refugees could escape the doomed city.

Behemoth, it was understood, wasn't playing games any more. Not that he ever had been, really, but the total destruction of the force facing him demonstrated a whole new level of ferocity. Worse, nobody really knew what was going on over there right at the moment, and what the PRT knew, they were probably keeping to themselves.

If I'm going to be truthful, it's probably best that we don't know the full story. The Endbringers were bad enough when there was a twenty-five percent casualty chance. For Behemoth to wipe everyone out … that's beyond terrifying.

Absently, she smoothed the covers of the bed on which she was sitting. Theo had used this bed, until she had given him up to the PRT. It hadn't been her idea, exactly; Crusader had thought of it, after being told that feelings of isolation and loneliness were integral to many trigger events. It was imperative that Theo trigger, so Justin had abandoned Kayden's stepson to the authorities, and Kayden … had let it happen.

It worked. Theo triggered. He became a cape and joined the Wards. He became a hero. And then he attended the Behemoth fight in New Delhi, and was killed with all the rest.

He was supposed to challenge Jack Slash, to kill the man before he could slaughter everyone Theo had ever known. But now my son is dead. I let this happen to him. He died because of my decisions. Because I was terrified of Jack Slash killing Aster.

Aster shifted in her sleep, making a vague whimpering noise. Kayden leaned down and undid the straps, then lifted her carefully out of the carrier, cradling the infant close to her. As always, Aster's nearness soothed her; the warmth as the baby snuggled into her arms awoke an answering warmth in her heart.

I want to be a hero. Before Leviathan, even, I was striking at the ABB, not because they were Asian, but because they were criminals. She had offered several times to team up with the heroes, but the PRT had always turned her down. They couldn't be seen to be working alongside a member of the Empire Eighty-Eight. Turning herself in would have been a bad idea; she had committed more than one crime during her tenure with the Empire, and a prison term would have resulted. Aster would have been taken from her. I could not allow that.

I could leave Brockton Bay with Aster, right now. If anyone tried to stop me, they would regret it. The temptation was strong.

But Theo had been a hero. The type of hero that she wanted to be. He had stepped up and volunteered for the fight against Behemoth, knowing full well that he could be one of the twenty-five percent. He couldn't have known that it was going to be one hundred percent. But even if he had …

She shook her head, unable to shake the conviction that he would have volunteered anyway. Because that's the sort of person he was.

I could leave, or I could stay. Join the defence of the city. Hold back Behemoth long enough to allow a few more innocents to get away. It's not a one hundred percent chance of death.

She wished she sounded more convincing, even in her own head.

What's more important? To prove that I can be a hero, or to get Aster well away from here?

It was harder than she had imagined it would be, but eventually she arrived at her decision. I'll save Aster now. I can be a hero later. It'll be easier in another city, where they don't know me.

That was when the knock came at the front door of the apartment.

-ooo-​

Kayden stood up, then carefully deposited the sleeping baby back in the carrier. Is this a soldier urging me to evacuate, or an opportunistic thief? She hoped that it would be a thief; she needed to take out her fear and anger on something. Or someone.

Leaving the baby carrier out of the way of the door, she stepped up and called out, "Who is it?"

"It's Miss Militia!" came the unexpected answer. "Open the door, please. I'm alone and I'm not looking for a fight."

"Go away!" Kayden called back. I really don't need this. And how the hell did she know I was here?

"Please!" The hero's voice was strained. "Kayden, I need to speak with you. It's about Aster."

She nearly unleashed a blast through the door at the mention of her daughter's name. "Leave my daughter out of this! Remember what happened to the last people who took her!"

"Kayden," Miss Militia replied. "Behemoth is coming for her."

-ooo-​

Hannah sat opposite Kayden at the small table. The youngest member of the Anders bloodline lay in her carrier, blissfully asleep. Kayden glared at Hannah, a deep glow in her eyes intimating that she was ready to power up at a moment's notice. Hannah noted faint lines on the other woman's face, lines that had not been there in the photos that had been posted online.

"You're going to have to explain that," Kayden stated flatly. "The only reason I let you in was so that you wouldn't broadcast it far and wide. What do you mean, Behemoth is coming for Aster?"

"Endbringer behaviour has been a subject of intense scrutiny since they first started appearing," Hannah began. "One very strong theory hold that every time they show up, they have an objective. Once they've achieved the objective, they can let themselves be driven away. One such objective seems to be to find and kill people with … power. Lots of power."

Kayden's face barely twitched. "And so Behemoth is targeting my baby." The disbelief was strong in her voice. "If that's true, why did he emerge in India? We're thousands of miles away."

"We think he had a different target there, but he wasn't able to get to them in time," Hannah explained. "So then he switched to his secondary target."

"Which is Aster." Kayden's voice wasn't any more receptive than her expression.

"Which is Aster," Hannah agreed.

Kayden stared at her, and Hannah could see how close to the edge the petite brunette was. How little it would take to cause her to go into protective-mother mode all over again. The trouble was that with Purity, protective-mother mode came with a minimum safe distance. Several city blocks seemed about right. "I'm going to need a little more than that to believe a word that you're saying."

Hannah tilted her head. "About the power thing, or about how I know?" The knife was sheathed at her hip, but it could become a gun at any second. She just hoped that she wouldn't have to try to beat Purity to the draw.

Kayden grimaced. "Okay, I get it. Aster's third generation. There's a baby in Toronto who's supposed to have triggered as a third gen, so I can't dispute the power aspect." The fact that Aster had not yet triggered was only a detail; they both knew full well that trigger events required stress, and an Endbringer attack was more or less the definition of 'stressful situation'.

"All right, then." Hannah took her phone from her belt and placed it on the table between them. "I recorded a phone call today. You need to hear it."

From the look on Kayden's face, she had not been expecting this. "What does a phone call have to do with Aster?"

"Everything." Hannah swiped the phone awake, then clicked through the options until the voice recorder was ready to run. "You're going to have to listen carefully. The sound isn't great." She pressed the Play button.

-ooo-​

Midday, 4 August 2011
Brockton Bay
Miss Militia

Hannah was a founding member of the Wards, and in fact had been going out as a superhero before they were formed. In her time wearing the costume, she had participated in many exercises to do with getting everyone out of a certain area. She'd cleared buildings, assisted with the evacuation of shopping malls, and once even helped ensure that three city blocks were clear of all civilians following a bomb scare.

None of it compared even a little with attempting to evacuate an entire city in advance of Behemoth's arrival. No matter how fast she delegated chores, more people were demanding her time on an hourly basis. She was just fortunate that she didn't really have to sleep, and that she never forgot a thing, otherwise she would have been utterly overwhelmed rather than just severely overworked.

Still, when her desk phone rang, it took her a moment to register that the call was coming from a payphone. "PRT Director's office, Miss Militia speaking."

The voice on the other end was one she had heard before. "I hope you're proud of yourself."

It was Dinah's mother. She sounded bitter. "I beg your pardon, Mrs Alcott. I'm not sure what you're talking about. Is Dinah all right?" With her free hand, she pulled out her mobile, activated it, then tapped the icon for voice recording. Then she put the desk phone on speaker.

"No. She is not. Do you know why that is? Because she just worked her way into a total physical collapse to try to get you some more information. That's why."

Hannah blinked. "I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs Alcott. If there's anything the PRT can do -"

"The PRT has done quite enough, Miss Militia. You didn't stop that man from taking my daughter and you weren't the ones to get her back. You're just lucky that she made me promise to make this call."

There was nothing to say to that. Anna Alcott was perfectly correct in that the PRT and the Protectorate had done nothing to help Dinah. It had fallen to the villains to correct that wrong and return the girl to her family.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry -"

"Save it. Before she passed out, Dinah wrote down a message for me to give to you. There are four parts to it. Are you listening?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm listening."

"Good. Because I'm not going to repeat myself. The first part is, Behemoth is hunting Purity's child. Who is in Brockton Bay, right now, with Purity. At their old address. Repeat that back."

Hannah stared at the phone. "Behemoth … is hunting Purity's child. Who is in Brockton Bay, right now, with Purity. At their old address."

"Good. Second part is, if Behemoth catches her, or if she dies, the consequences will be dire. For everyone. Repeat that back."

"If Behemoth catches her, or if she dies, the consequences will be dire for everyone."

"Good. Third part is, if Purity flees with her child, they have a four point one three six one percent chance of escaping. Repeat that back."

A deep breath. "If Purity flees with her child, their chance of escaping is four point one three six one percent."

"Good. Fourth part is, if you take the child, she has an eighty-seven point four one three six percent chance of escaping safely. Repeat that back."

Mechanically, she parroted the words. "If I take the child, she has an eighty-seven point four one three six percent chance of escaping safely." Her thoughts were awhirl; I can't abandon the battle!

"Good." There was a click, and she was listening to the dial tone.

-ooo-​

Evening, 4 August 2011
Purity

Kayden sat motionless even after the recording ended. "And Dinah is …?"

"The best precog I've ever seen," Miss Militia supplied. "When she gives probabilities in the fraction of a percentile, she means it. If she says something will happen, it means that there is not even the slightest chance that it won't."

Kayden's knuckles had gone white with tension. "Why did you bring this recording to me? To order me to hand over my child?"

Miss Militia shook her head. "No."

The blunt answer took Kayden by surprise. "What? But …"

"Listen." The superhero leaned forward over the table. "I don't want to do this. I don't want to leave people to fight in my stead, even if it's to save the life of a child. The only reason I'm here at all is because it's Dinah Alcott saying it."

To her surprise, Kayden found herself protesting. "But she said that if you don't take Aster, then Behemoth will catch her, and bad things will happen to the world. You can't ignore that. Can you?" Unsaid yet clearly audible to all were the words: You're a hero. Heroes do the right thing.

Miss Militia's voice was low and controlled. "I am not, repeat not going to take your child away from you without your permission. In fact, I will only take her if you ask me to do so. If you're not willing to do that, then take her yourself and go. You might even hit that four percent chance. I'll be staying and organising the defence of my city, to give you the best possible chance of getting away."

And there's the sticking point. At last, Kayden saw to the core of the matter. Miss Militia had been made acting Director of the PRT in Brockton Bay. In a very real sense, she saw herself as being responsible for the city and everyone in it. To leave others to defend the city from Behemoth, even for such a good reason as this, ran counter to everything she stood for.

But on the other hand, Dinah's message spelled out Miss Militia's duty to the world. She had to take Aster, to save her from Behemoth. The conflict between duty and honour were tearing her right down the middle.

It was with a shock of epiphany that Kayden recognised that very same struggle in herself. We aren't so different. For her, however, saving Aster was the primary goal; proving herself a hero was secondary. But now, with Dinah's message, those two goals were swinging into alignment.

If I stay and fight, can I do more to save Aster than if I take her and flee? It was an odd idea.

Slowly, she leaned down and took Aster from the carrier. Gently, she cradled the sleeping infant in her arms. "I love her more than I love anyone or anything in my life," she murmured. "Please, take good care of her. Keep her safe."

Miss Militia nodded. "I promise, Kayden." Reaching up, she pulled down her scarf. "And my name is Hannah."

Kayden couldn't bring herself to smile. "Thank you, Hannah."

"No. Thank you." Miss Militia pulled her scarf back into place. "There's one more favour I'd like to ask of you."

-ooo-​

Just After Midnight, 5 August 2011
Brockton Bay
Miss Militia

"You have to be shitting us!" Crusader's voice rang harshly across the forecourt of what had once been the Forsberg Gallery, drawing nods and murmurs from the other capes that were gathered there.

More parahumans had shown up to Hannah's makeshift council of war than she had dared hope for, but the numbers were still dismayingly low. Worse, the Brute contingent was almost non-existent. Nearly all of those who were able to face someone like Behemoth, and who were willing to do so, had attended that last battle. None of those had returned.

"I shit you not." Her retort, as blunt as it was, silenced Crusader at least temporarily. "I'm not going to soft-soap this. There's a better than even chance that you'll die today if you face Behemoth." She looked from face to face from atop the stone block that she was using as a podium. "There's a slightly lower chance that you'll die if you just decide to run. But not much lower. Behemoth played hopscotch across Eastern Europe before Scion forced him underground in Finland. He's even more indiscriminate than he was before."

"So why shouldn't we just cut and run now?" demanded Crusader. "It's not our fight. Give us one good reason."

Not all the capes there were of the remnant of the Empire that followed Purity. There were even a few heroes among them. But Hannah could see that his words had an effect on them. There was doubt there. People were wavering.

"I'll give you three," Hannah said flatly. "First. Anyone who steps up today gets their record wiped clean. Blanket pardon for everything you've ever done. Second. The civilian population still hasn't been totally evacuated. Every minute you delay him is another few people who get away. Third." She nodded to the baby-carrier that Kayden held. "Purity's daughter is his target. I've been specifically asked to get her to safety. But I can't do it alone."

"Wait." Crusader stepped forward. "Where's everyone else? Where's the rest of the PRT? The Protectorate?"

"We're it," Hannah admitted bleakly. "We lost the bulk of our fighting capes in New Delhi. The rest are making excuses or just not returning our calls. Every PRT soldier this side of Boston is a volunteer."

"So let me get this straight." Heads turned as the new speaker pushed her way through the crowd. She was young, cloaked, carried herself with an air of confidence. The scowling-woman mask did not detract from her general demeanour or her tone of voice. "Behemoth's after the kid, yeah?"

Hannah's lips tightened behind the scarf. It had been her decision to release Shadow Stalker from juvenile detention; after all, they needed every cape they could muster for this occasion. But now she was beginning to rethink that idea. The heroes had an idea of what the ex-Ward had done, and the villains didn't like her at all.

"Yes." Purity replied to the question when nobody else seemed to want to. "Which is why we have to get her to safety. I've asked Miss Militia to do that for me."

"Got a better idea. No kid, no Behemoth." Shadow Stalker's hand came out from beneath her cloak holding a crossbow; it slanted in the direction of Aster's baby carrier.

Time slowed to a crawl. Hannah had a weapon to hand, but Shadow Stalker could trigger her crossbow before Hannah could aim and fire. All around here were capes who had similarly lethal abilities. They only needed a second to bring them into action.

The trouble was, Shadow Stalker needed less time than that.

"Shadow Stalker," Hannah said carefully. "Don't do this." She wished that she'd had time to apprise them all of the full content of Dinah's message.

"Seriously, am I the only one who's thought of this?" demanded Shadow Stalker, her aim never wavering. "The rug-rat dies, Behemoth fucks off somewhere else, the city lives. What part of this do we not understand? I'm saving our lives here, guys. You'll thank -"

There was a loud whine; her upper body exploded messily. The crossbow, mercifully untriggered, clattered to the paving stones. Everyone looked around at L33t, who sheepishly hefted a massive rifle that almost looked bigger than him. Acrid smoke curled out of its barrel. "Whoops?" he ventured. "That was supposed to be set on stun."

Purity crouched over Aster's baby carrier, making sure that she was all right. Hannah approached the Tinker, ensuring that the three inch wide barrel didn't point in her direction. Things squished under her feet; she didn't let herself think too closely about it.

"On the one hand," she stated quietly, "that was terrible weapon discipline. On the other, you may just have saved us all. So I'll give you a pass on that one. How high do the settings on that thing go?"

"Uh, that was it. I meant to put it on 'stun', but I think I might've got the polarisation settings reversed. So I would've been firing stun beams at Behemoth." He looked ill at the thought.

"Not a great idea," Hannah agreed. "Just leave it on that setting, put the safety catch on, and don't fire it again until Behemoth arrives."

"Safety catch?" L33t looked thoughtful. "I knew I forgot something."

"Look, just … don't point it at anyone, all right?" Hannah nudged the enormous muzzle skyward. "Or at any buildings. At all. Please."

"Okay, okay, geez." L33t kept the gun pointing in the air. "Uh, is the kid okay?"

Hannah looked over toward where Purity was cooing into the carrier. "I presume so."

"Good." He grimaced. "I don't even know how she coulda done that. Killing kids … there's a line, y'know?"

Über, next to him, pointed at Hannah's shoulder. "You've, uh, you've got some Shadow Stalker on you."

"Thanks." Feeling remarkably surreal, she peeled the shred of flesh from her shoulder and let it fall to the ground. Then she turned to the rest of the capes. Some were looking rather pale around the gills; she thought she heard someone throwing up, at the edge of the crowd. "All right!" she called out. "If you're staying, stay! If you're going, go! I'm not asking the impossible of you. Just hold out for as long as you can! Any questions?"

"Uh, yes?" That was Flashbang, holding up his hand as if he were back in school. "When's Behemoth due to arrive?"

As if in answer, the ground shuddered. All but a few of the assembled capes staggered. Hannah's earpiece crackled to life. "Dragon here. Behemoth incoming. ETA three minutes."

"Three minutes!" she called out. "Get ready!"

Crusader shot Flashbang a dirty look. "You had to ask."

Hannah dashed over to where Purity held Aster's carrier. "We have to go now."

Kayden nodded. "Promise me, you won't let her forget me." She thrust the carrier into Hannah's hands.

Hannah was already turning away. "I won't." Purity sent one last agonised look after the baby carrier, then turned away herself, shouting orders. The ex-Empire capes snapped to obey, as did a couple of the others. Faultline was already organising her Crew. The remains of New Wave were integrating themselves with the mercenaries. Endbringers make for strange bedfellows.

Holding the carrier carefully, Hannah hurried to the helicopter that perched in the middle of the street. Its rotors were already turning as she climbed in. With a start, she realised that Über was sitting in the pilot's seat.

"What -?" But she didn't need to finish the question. We need the very best pilot we can get. He's it.

"Buckle up, sweetheart!" he called over the rising roar of the engine. The ground shook again, harder, transmitting through the skids into the chopper itself, distinct from the vibration of the engine itself. "Gonna be a rough ride!"

Hastily, she strapped herself in, then clamped the carrier down between the seats. The roar of the engine rose to a thunder and the helicopter danced on its skids. Beneath them, the ground shook a third time, and wide cracks raced across the pavement. Über yanked back on the collective; the chopper rocketed skyward like a startled quail. Hannah was too busy hanging on to see what was happening below, but she was sure it was nothing good.

Banking the aircraft, Über swung it around to head past the Forsberg Gallery. "Which way?" he bellowed.

Hannah had been thinking about this. "Northwest!" she screamed back. They had to thread the gaps between communities so as to minimise civilian casualties.

"Got it! Oh, shit!"

Aster had chosen that moment to wail even louder; Hannah looked up from tightening the restraints on the baby to see the Gallery tilting toward them. Below, the ground was undulating like a rug being shaken out; there were blasts of energy of different types lashing back and forth. But right now, a building was falling on them.

Leviathan had done the Forsberg no favours; Shatterbird's attack, less than a month later, had completed the devastation. Gone were the floor-to-ceiling windows. The ceiling height was technically enough to fly the chopper through, if it weren't for the inconvenient pillars within. Given the choice, Hannah would have decided to go around. But they weren't being given that choice; it was either fly through or let it land on them.

Taking a firm grip on a hand-hold, Hannah leaned out of the chopper. A multi-barrel rocket launcher formed in her free hand; she fired as fast as the ammunition could form in the launcher. One pillar exploded, then another; Über dodged and jinked the chopper, avoiding the worst of the debris.

Around them, the entire building tilted upward as it leaned farther over. Hannah swore under her breath as she targeted more pillars. Über overcorrected and the skids bounced off of the floor, then did it again to prevent the tail rotor from gouging into the ceiling.

Hannah blasted another pillar, then yet another. They flew through the yellow-black explosion, rocketing into the open air at a forty-five degree angle as the Forsberg fell away below them.

Aster was shrieking at a tone that carried clearly to Hannah's ears, despite the engine noise. Über was yelling too, but in exhilaration.

-ooo-​

And then … nothing.

No helicopter, no noise, no screaming. No Endbringer.

Hannah drifted in space, at peace.

I've been here before. Aster just triggered. The conclusions formed slowly in her mind.

She looked around for Aster or Über, but could not see them. They're having their own visions. I wonder if they'll remember them?

Ahead of her, she saw an alien landscape. Creatures crawled, scuttled, oozed over it. They weren't human, or anywhere near it. Clouds formed, looming ominously. A storm began, lightning lashing the landscape. Some creatures were struck, dying instantly. Others survived.

Before she could ask herself of the significance of this scene, reality returned.

-ooo-​

The helicopter was shaking; Hannah could smell burning plastic. "What happened?" she screamed.

"Behemoth!" shouted Über. He wrestled with the controls. "I blacked out for a bit! He must have struck us with lightning!"

He was fighting to keep the aircraft aloft, but it was a losing battle. There was an ominous grinding noise coming from somewhere behind and above them; the engine was beginning to stutter in and out. Behind them, they heard the unmistakeable bellow of Behemoth; the sound wave struck the helicopter and flipped it end for end like a paper airplane in a gale. Hannah saw the rotors come off and fly past the craft. The engine screamed for a moment, then tore itself to pieces in an orgy of destruction.

"Brace yourself!" yelled Über, just before the helicopter hit the ground.

They were lucky that the engine had already been failing; as it was, when they lost all lift, they were only about thirty feet off the ground. The tail touched down first, crumpling under the weight of the fuselage, then the chopper flipped into the air and landed on its nose. Metal shrieked and fibreglass crumpled, but they still had enough angular momentum to keep going.

The skids went next; the chopper landed on them, but there was no finesse to that landing. They crumpled, and the stricken aircraft ended up skidding on its belly. Then, just because Murphy likes a good laugh, it turned sideways and rolled several times. Something struck Hannah's head, and she blacked out.

-ooo-​

Phir Sē stepped from the portal and stumbled. This was possibly due to the near-constant juddering of the ground, but more likely because his powers were drawing more strength from him than he was comfortable with. But he was where he needed to be. Directly in front of him were the crumpled remains of a crashed helicopter; within the downed aircraft was the person he was looking for. If Behemoth was hunting her, then she must be powerful indeed.

"Hello?" he called in English. "Hello? I am friend!"

On the side of the helicopter, where the metal was crumpled back on itself, a bright orange dot appeared. He smelled burning metal. Quickly, the orange dot transcribed a rough oval, almost as if someone with an oxyacetylene torch were burning a hole from within. When the metal separated, he stepped back to allow it to fall past him, then moved forward again.

Within the helicopter, there were three people. One was the famous hero Miss Militia; she seemed to be unconscious and possibly injured. The second was a muscular man that Phir Sē did not know. That man lolled in his straps, with his head hanging at an odd angle; Phir Sē did not believe that he would ever be waking up. And the third was a baby in a carrier between the two.

At first, he was at a loss as to who had cut the access hole, until his eyes fell on the infant, who was giving him the most thoroughly appraising stare he had ever gotten from someone so young. The tip of her finger was still glowing. As he watched, she raised the chubby digit and blew on it; the glow faded. He had seen the same gesture a thousand times in Westerns; to see it on such a young child was incongruous in the extreme. There could be only one explanation.

"Hello, little one," he said softly. "You have triggered, yes?"

She did not speak; it was quite possible that she was too young for her mouth to form words. But the well, duh look she gave him made up for her silence. It was obvious she understood his words all too well.

Miss Militia began to murmur something, then her eyes snapped open. She made the transition from unconscious to awake in an instant; in the next moment, Phir Sē found the muzzle of a large-bore pistol nudging into his left nostril.

"Back off, buddy," she snapped. "Hands off the baby."

He was very careful not to move his hands. "Is all right. I take her to safety. Yes?"

She tried to move, and grimaced in pain. Looking more closely, he could see that her legs were pinned by the instrument panel; they were also quite possibly broken.

"Can you save her?" she gritted. "Behemoth can't get his claws on her."

"He will not," Phir Sē assured her, fully aware of the growing tremors in the ground. "She safe."

With a sigh, she let the pistol fall and unclipped the clamps holding the carrier in place. "Aster," she murmured. "I don't know if you can understand me, but you have to remember this. Your mother's name was Kayden Anders, and she was a hero."

Aster – that was a pretty name for a child – turned to Miss Militia. She gave the flag-wearing hero a serious nod. "Ga," she enunciated.

Another tremor shook the ground. Phir Sē nearly lost his balance, then steadied himself. Reaching in, he scooped the carrier from Miss Militia's lap. "Goodbye," he said, then decided that more had to be said. "You great hero. Big fan."

-ooo-​

Hannah nodded; although she felt flattered, this wasn't the time or the place. "Go," she grunted. "Get her out of here."

"Getting," he assured her. An oddly wavering space began to form beside him as rubble tumbled from nearby buildings. "Will fix all this."

Hannah dragged her phone out and found a particular number; she dialled it and made the call.

"Yes?"

"Mrs Alcott. Tell Dinah. Aster is safe."

There was a long pause. "Thank you. I will."

Just before the robed man stepped through the portal, Aster raised her hand in a wave. Hannah waved back, then watched the portal close behind him.

-ooo-​

27 July 2011
The Ruins of New Delhi
Phir Sē

His entry was clumsy, causing much disturbance in the surrounding environment. The fault was completely his; he was weary, almost at the end of his tether. His control was slipping. But I have just this to do, and I can stop.

"-sly?" he heard the girl, Weaver, cry out as he emerged fully into the timestream. Taking advantage of a cloud of dust, he placed Aster behind a rock so that Weaver would not see her. The fewer questions, the better.

He stepped forward; she stared belligerently at him from where she was seated beside the grave of her friend.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Her voice was harsh, and not only from the dust in the air. "What happened? Did your one big shot not work as well as advertised?"

It pained him to admit that she was right. "Should have worked," he replied dully. "But monster was stronger. Took power, used it. Nearly killed me. Narrow escape."

Her expression was accusing. "So you made him stronger, and more able to kill."

There was nothing to say to that; he settled for a nod.

They both fell silent; he could tell that she was angry at him. For his part, he was trying to decide on the best way to raise the subject of sending her back in time. If I just say so, she may say no, out of spite.

"Well?" she asked at last.

He tried to put on a neutral expression. "Well, what?"

"What the fuck are you going to do to fix your fucking mess?" Her voice echoed across the blasted landscape. He mentally blessed all the gods that he believed in that Aster was intelligent enough to remain quiet.

"Have used much power," he explained, spreading his hands. That much was true, anyway. "Need to recoup." This wasn't quite a lie, but he didn't intend to wait that long. "Stepping through time … not easy." Now, there was an understatement.

"So you can't just build another fucking time bomb and scorch his ass to small pieces, then?"

Even if I could, I would not. Not after the last debacle.

"Not know how to locate him," he told her, lying through his teeth. "Base, equipment, all gone." That part was true, anyway. "Rocks fell. My friend is dead."

"Fuck."

It was now or never. "Can do one thing." Dangle the bait …

"What's that?" Predictably, she leaped at it.

He tried not to make his smile too wide. "Time. Can send someone back. Warn about this, so never happens."

She frowned. "You mean me."

He gestured to the horizon of blasted, scorched rock, barely visible in the shadowed night. "No other volunteers, yes?"

"What makes you think I'm going to fucking volunteer to get sent on a one-way trip back in time?" Her tone was still hostile, but even though she didn't know it, she was walking straight into … well, it wasn't quite a trap. More of a one-way door.

Time to sink the hook. He leaned forward. "Back then …" he said gently. "Your friends all still alive."

She climbed to her feet; the look in her eyes told him exactly what he wanted to know. The despair had been shaken off, replaced by determination. Yes. She is the one. I chose well.

"Right. Do I need to do anything special?" Her tone was all business now.

He shook his head. "No. Just stand there. Effect will take little while to take hold. Might help to breathe deeply." Especially where I'm sending you.

He gritted his teeth as he began to work on the portal. This was going to be a tough one. Theoretically, he knew how it would work, but even at the height of his powers, it would have taxed him. Sending two people back so far, to two different points in the timestream …

I don't know if I can do this.

I have to.

I don't have a choice.

This was going to be another clumsy portal. There wasn't anything he could do about it. There was a lot of energy going into it, and while Weaver's end could easily stand for a little more chaos, Aster's had to be as quiet as possible. Which meant that on this end, he was creating a beacon that would be visible for miles.

The twenty-two year connection was made, and he was working on the fifty-year one when she called out to him again.

"How far back am I going?" Her voice was thin against the roaring in his ears. "Couple of months, a year?"

"Oh my, no," he replied, trying to make his grimace look like a smile. He tasted blood in his mouth. "Sending you back twenty years."

The second connection snapped into place, and he did not waste a moment. He could hold this for a minute, perhaps a little less. With the first connection, he reached out and gathered in Weaver; she froze, separate from the timestream, ready to be rocketed to where she needed to be. He hoped that she had been breathing deeply.

Holding the power, feeling a warm trickle down his face as he began to bleed from both nostrils at once, he leaned down and lifted Aster Anders out of the carrier.

"Listen to me," he gasped in English. "Remember these words. Brockton Bay. Nineteen eighty-nine. Find Weaver. She knows how to save the world. Do not use your powers."

It was time. His strength was waning fast. The second connection snapped on to Aster, and he let her go. For just a moment, she hung immobile in the air.

Once they re-enter the timestream, the changes will propagate instantly, rewriting everything. I will never know what I have done. There are no second chances. I just hope I have done enough.

He released his hold on both portals. Both girls, older and younger, vanished from mortal sight.

End of Part 5-5

Part 5-6​

 

[Ack]

Recoil​

Part 5-6: (Aster's Story, Part Two) The Long Way Home​

3 June 1961
Seattle, WA
Aster Anders

It was somewhat of a paradox; up until Aster's mind had expanded dramatically and she understood so much more, she wasn't aware of her lack of understanding. Thus, she wasn't confused or concerned about odd occurrences, because basically everything was inexplicable to a one year old baby.

But now that matters had changed, she was actually making an effort to follow events. And it was hard. Who was the man in the robes? Where had he taken her? How had he taken her there? And where was she now?

One moment, she had been in her carrier, in a place where it was dark and smelled of dust and smoke. Then she had been lifted out, he had looked at her seriously … and then the world had changed. No more dust and smoke, no more robed man. She was lying on something. Perhaps a car seat? It was warm, and smelled of leather. Not as comfortable as her carrier, but it wasn't bad.

A moment later, her guess was confirmed as she heard the distinctive sound of a car door opening. Cool air rolled over her, and she heard voices. "So I said, Phil, I said - holy shit!"

"What?" It was a different voice, also masculine. "What the heck? What's a baby doing in our squad car?"

Aster turned her head to look at the men who were even now peering into the car. Now was the time for a little crying, she decided. After all, she was fairly sure that her mother was dead, and so was her brother. Tears came easily as she filled the car with her wails.

"Oh god," said one of the … police officers? Yes, they had badges on their shirts. "Can you keep her quiet, Goldstein? I gotta call this in."

"Sure thing, buddy." There was a warm chuckle in the voice of the police officer who gathered her up. "Hey there, little lady. My name's Phil. What's your name?" She stopped crying and gurgled happily as he tickled her; some things were always fun. And it's never too soon to start training them. That was something that one of the adults in her life had said. She wasn't quite sure who.

"Yeah, Central, a baby. No idea who left it there." Phil's partner leaned on the door as he spoke into the microphone. "We only stepped out for a second to get coffee, and there she was." A crackle of voices. "Look, I dunno. Geez, the paperwork we're gonna have to fill out on this one."

Ignoring his partner's complaining tone, Phil poked Aster in the stomach, making her gurgle again. "Don't listen to him. If you got nowhere else to go, my wife Debbie would just love to take care of you till we can find your folks. How's that sound to you? Huh?"

Aster thought that sounded perfectly fine. Having someone to take care of her meant that there was one more obstacle out of the way. In the meantime, she had other things to think about.

Brockton Bay. Nineteen eighty-nine. Find Weaver. She knows how to save the world. Do not use your powers.

"Goo goo ga ga," she said, apropos of nothing. Let's get this show on the road.

-ooo-​

3 June 1972

"Happy birthday dear Ru-uth

"Happy birthday to you."

The cake was carefully carried out from the kitchen; once her mother had placed it on the table, her father pulled out his Zippo and set about lighting the candles. There were, of course, twelve on the cake. Once they were all well alight, she took a deep breath and blew them out.

She knew, of course, that her real name was Aster Anders. My mother's name was Kayden Anders, and she was a hero. But here and now, it was important to keep up the masquerade of being Ruth Goldstein.

Her foster parents, unable to have children themselves, had done their best to give her a nurturing, caring home environment, and she loved them for it. For her part, she had made sure that they didn't see the more unusual aspects of their daughter. While she didn't know much about future events – there is only so much that a one year old can be expected to see and hear – she did know about things like mobile phones, high-definition colour TVs … and the advent of powers.

She had also very carefully not let them know that she herself had powers, although the sheer potential of her capabilities sometimes kept her awake at night. Neither did they know about her unusually high intelligence, or her photographic memory. While the latter was invaluable for study at school, the former seemed (in her informed opinion) to be levelling off; she imagined that by the time she finished school, she would be no smarter than the brightest of her peers.

Still, all of this ensured that she was determined not to settle for second best when it came to life. While she might begin paying attention to boys someday (and she was starting to notice them), she wasn't going to be silly about it. Besides, there were her other duties. Specifically, helping Weaver to save the world. Seventeen years to go.

"Apollo to Ruth. Apollo to Ruth. Come in, Ruth."

Sergeant Phil Goldstein might have become a little older and a little greyer since the day he and his partner had discovered Aster in the front seat of their police cruiser, but he had never lost his sense of wonder. Aster had been nine when the first lunar landing had taken place, and they had followed every mission since. She giggled as he 'orbited' her head with a fork full of cake, making beeping noises, before allowing her to take over what he referred to as 'docking procedures'.

The cake was nice, and she had presents to unwrap. Nearly all the friends she had invited for the party had turned up, and she was looking forward to the party games. Being smarter than anyone else your age was all right, she figured, but it was also fun just being a kid once in a while. Even if her Bat Mitzvah was next week.

-ooo-​

23 May 1982

"Well, will you look at that."

"Look at what, dear?" asked Deborah, coming through from the kitchen.

"They're calling him the Golden Man." Phil sat up in his armchair, adjusting his bifocals to get a better look at the screen. "Just floating there in midair, out in the middle of the ocean." He raised his voice. "Ruth, come down here a moment. There's something you might want to see."

"Coming, Dad." In a moment, her door opened and closed, and Ruth came trotting downstairs. "What's the – oh."

"Phillip!" squawked Deborah at the same time. "Turn that off! He has no clothes on!" She turned to her daughter. "Don't look! It's indecent!"

"Come on, Debbie," Phil protested. "The girl's training to be a doctor. She's going to university. She'll see far worse than by the time she's finished."

Ruth stared at the screen. "That's not a trick, is it?" she asked. "He's really flying?"

"Of course it's a trick," protested Deborah. "How could a man be flying? You watch, it'll be a hoax."

Phil shook his head. "I'm not so sure, Debbie," he said slowly. "It doesn't look like a trick to me."

"It's not." Ruth still hadn't taken her eyes from the screen. "It's real. And there'll be more of them someday." She turned to see both of her parents staring at her. "What?"

"You sound really sure of yourself there, Ruth," Phil ventured. "Do you know something that we don't?"

Ruth grinned at them disarmingly. "No, Dad. I've just got this feeling, is all." Turning, she started up the stairs to her room again. Halfway up, she paused. "Thanks for calling me down to see that. It was really cool."

-ooo-​

Once back in her room, Aster closed her door and leaned against it. The excitement buzzing in her bloodstream was almost more than she could bear. That was Scion. It's begun. It's really begun.

Drawing a deep breath, she recited again the mantra that had been part of her daily routine ever since she had been able to talk. "Brockton Bay. Nineteen eighty-nine. Find Weaver. She knows how to save the world. Do not use your powers."

Seven years to go, she told herself. Seven years.

It seemed like forever.

-ooo-​

Monday, 5 December 1988
Seattle, WA

Yum, yum. Aster turned her head to watch as the visiting surgeon passed by. She couldn't help it; he was both good-looking and skilled at his job. Tall, distinguished appearance, a touch of silver at the temples …

"Girl, you better tuck that tongue back in, or it's gonna be draggin' on the floor."

She spun around at the amused voice, blushing furiously. "I don't know what you're talking about, Darlene."

Darlene Hobbs, head nurse and Aster's best friend at the hospital, burst out laughing. Her skin was as dark as Aster's was white, but that hadn't stopped her from befriending the hospital's newest – and only female – surgeon. "You wanna convince me of that, honey, you better wipe the drool off your chin first."

Aster's hand went to her face by sheer reflex; finding no drool there, she shot her friend a dirty look. "I was just, you know, looking. He's so darn scrumptious."

"Uh huh." About three sentences worth of disbelief were packed into those two words. "I bet if you found yourself stuck in a lift with him, you'd do a lot more than just look."

Aster imagined the idea, and blushed all over again. "Uh, maybe?"

"No maybe about it, Ruth." Darlene looked her in the eye. "Thing you gotta remember about men like that. They's dangerous."

Aster frowned. "Dangerous? He wouldn't hurt a fly."

Darlene snorted. "Hurt it, no. Do a heart transplant on it, sure." She paused as Aster chuckled. "But what I'm talkin' about is how men like that know they got the power. They can lead women on all they like, an' if they decide they ain't interested, they just plain move on."

"Henry's not like that," Aster insisted. "He's a warm, gentle, wonderful man."

"Henry, huh?" Darlene raised an eyebrow. "You havin' one on one conversations with him now? Spill, girl."

Aster shook her head. "I mean, uh, Doctor Friedrich. I've spoken to him a few times. He's been nothing but nice to me."

"Well, of course he has," Darlene pointed out. "You're younger'n him, you're kinda pretty in th' right light, an' of course, you ain't married." She shook her head. "You nice Jewish girls gotta learn that just 'cause a guy acts nice don't mean he is nice."

Aster sighed. "Okay, maybe you're right. I'll be careful."

Darlene slapped her on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, girl. Don't expect nothin' you don't see with your own eyes."

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

-ooo-​

Friday, 16 December 1988

"Why, Doctor Goldstein, isn't it?"

Aster turned her head in well-simulated surprise. "Doctor Friedrich! Fancy meeting you here."

His warm chuckle set her heart fluttering. "Please, call me Henry."

"Then you must call me Ruth," she countered, feeling very daring.

It had taken all of her nerve, but she had watched his comings and goings from the hospital, finding that he tended to frequent the same small bar most nights. So she had put on her best 'going out' dress, applied makeup, and gone to the bar, arriving a short while before he usually got there.

Of course, she hadn't been quite sure how she was going to approach him, but he had solved that problem by walking right up to her. And now they were talking. In a bar. Like two ordinary people.

I have no idea how to handle this.

She was no virgin. That little detail had been taken care of while she was attending the university, with one of her classmates. They had both been interested in what 'it' was like, so they had worked out a time and place to do the deed. While not the earth-shattering event that she had been led to expect, it had been interesting and not at all unpleasant. Although she could have stood to repeat the experiment until they both got it right, he had decided to move on to better things. Not wanting to pick up the stigma of being a girl who 'slept around', she went back to her more or less solitary lifestyle.

Which meant that she had very little experience in talking to men in bars, even men whom she wanted to talk to.

"Very well, Ruth, but you must allow me to buy you a drink," he agreed. "Shall we get a table?"

"I … yes, please." Standing up from her stool, she allowed him to guide her over to a corner table. Taking a seat, she watched him go to the bar and order. A moment later, she realised that she hadn't told him what she wanted.

It didn't seem to matter; he brought back two drinks anyway. They had olives in them, so she decided that they had to be martinis. "Now, before I ply you with drinks," he told her with a roguish twinkle in his eye, "are you on duty tomorrow?"

"I'm off until Monday," she assured him. She picked up one of the drinks and sipped it. Alcohol was another thing she had experimented with in her university years; at least with that, she could keep coming back until she got it right. She had a good idea of her capacity and what types of alcohol she liked; she just wasn't all that familiar with the various mixes of drinks. She decided that she liked martinis, if that was what he'd gotten her.

"Excellent," he murmured. "So, tell me. What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

She gave him a direct look. "Who says I'm a nice girl?"

His chuckle sent a thrill right through her. "Well, basically everyone. I like to find out who I'm working with, and everyone I've spoken to has said the same thing. You're a nice girl from a nice family."

She rolled her eyes. "And let me guess. When they say 'nice', you hear 'boring'. Right?"

His gaze was appraising; she felt her cheeks go warm. "Well, up until now … maybe. But I could be persuaded to re-examine my position on the matter."

The dress she was wearing wasn't really meant to show cleavage, but she leaned forward over the table to give it the best chance she could. "I would appreciate the chance to change your mind." Holding his gaze, she drank off about half the martini in one swallow; the alcohol heated her blood nicely.

Later, she could recount their conversation word for word, but she could not understand why it kept her so spellbound. He made her laugh more than once with comments that would have left her flat if she was sober. When he suggested that they withdraw to his hotel room, she made no demur. Once within the four walls that he was temporarily calling home, they talked some more, his voice becoming lower and more confidential, moving closer to her. She was not averse.

It was with little surprise and no alarm that she felt his lips on hers, and she returned the kiss with more enthusiasm than expertise. His hand found the zipper to her dress and began to slide it down. That was when she kicked her shoes off and gave herself over to the inevitable.

-ooo-​

She awoke with the unfamiliar feeling of someone else in the bed with her. Then she realised that the bed was unfamiliar as well. Opening her eyes triggered a chain of recollections, culminating in: Oh my god, I slept with him.

Nice girls did not go home with men they barely knew. They certainly did not go home with them after a few drinks and …

The gift of perfect recall, most times very useful, seemed to be a curse right at that moment as her treacherous memory replayed everything in lurid detail. Her cheeks heated in mortification. Did I do that? Did I say that? Oh, god.

This was not to say that she had not enjoyed what had happened. He had been most attentive, and she had learned so much, and enjoyed herself immensely. But this would inevitably cause a change in how she and Doctor Friedrich saw each other. I was so shameless last night. Whatever must he think of me? He was a man whom she admired intensely; his disapproval was more than she thought she could bear.

A weight rolled against her back and an arm snaked around her waist. "Morning, beautiful," he murmured. "Was last night as good as I recall, or was I dreaming? Please tell me I wasn't dreaming."

At the reassuring sound of his voice, and the warmth of his touch, all of her fears melted away.

-ooo-​

Monday, 19 December 1988

"Good morning, Doctor Goldstein." Henry held open the door for her as they entered the hospital, just as if they had not spent the weekend together.

"Why thank you, Doctor Friedrich. And good morning to you too." Aster didn't look too closely at Henry's eyes, for fear that she might never look away. She didn't think that she was quite in love yet, but the precipice was close, and all she needed was one push. Or an excuse to jump.

"Mornin', doctors," Darlene announced, sweeping into the lobby. Her gaze flicked over Aster, then over Henry. Aster saw her eyes widen fractionally and her eyebrows hitch up. "Did ya have a good weekend?"

Henry spoke first, for which Aster was glad. It gave her a chance to calm herself. Darlene suspects something. But she can't be sure.

"Actually, yes, Nurse Hobbs." Henry bent a charming smile her way. "I spent quite a bit of time resting and relaxing. And yourself?"

"Eh, so-so," Darlene said, waggling a hand. "Grandson got a new bicycle, so I been patchin' skinned knees an' elbows all weekend. Just a blessin' my idiot son in law got 'im a helmet, too. Elsewise we'd be dealin' with a cracked skull. His too, if I had my way."

"Oh, that's not good," Aster commiserated. "You should have called me. I would've been glad to come out and lend a hand."

Darlene shot her a shrewd glance. "I 'preciate that, Doctor Goldstein. Can I have a quick word with you?"

Henry's expression was unconcerned, which merely meant that he didn't know how sharp Darlene was just yet. "Uh, of course, Darlene," Aster agreed. "What's the matter?"

The head nurse drew her away down the corridor, then into an examination room. Closing the door, she locked it, then bent an accusatory eye on Aster. "You done it, didn't you, girl." It wasn't even a question.

Aster floundered. "I, uh, don't know -"

Darlene shook her head. "Don't even try it, swee'pea. We been friends too long for that. You let Friedrich get into your pants. Yeah?"

"It wasn't like that," protested Aster. "It was – we were -"

The older woman put her hand to her forehead. "Aw shee-it. You went there. You went there ta talk to him, an' you let him talk ya into bed."

"Darlene!" Aster put her hands to her head. "It wasn't like that either! I wanted to – I enjoyed -"

"So you went to meet him, knowin' that your dress was like ta end up on his bedroom floor, is that it?" Darlene's gaze was direct, her tone as blunt as her words.

Aster's voice was very small. "Yes?"

Darlene fixed her with a stern gaze. "'Least tell me you're usin' birth control."

"Oh, definitely," Aster assured her. "I've been on the Pill since I started medical school. Dad's idea." Mom would have a fit if she found out. But she'd have a bigger fit if I got pregnant, so …

"Well, good." Darlene folded her arms. "But a girl as smart as you can still be right dumb when it comes to men. I said he was dangerous, an' I stand by that. You figure the sun an' moon shine out of his ass, yeah?"

"He's wonderful and sweet and talented -"

"Which means he knows what ta say to a woman, an' he's good in the sack. Doesn't say anythin' about him as a person, y'know." Darlene's voice was hard and cynical.

"He's asked me to move to California with him." Aster clapped her hand over her mouth. She hadn't meant to say that, she truly hadn't.

Darlene stopped for a long moment. "An' you said?"

"I said I'd think about it."

"You're too good for your own good, honey. When you says that, you means yes, sure as shootin'. What're you gonna do for work?"

"He said he'd talk to the administration at the hospital he works at. See if they can't open a slot for me."

Her friend's voice was dark with suspicion. "Just make sure it's real 'fore you go traipsin' off inta th' wild blue yonder, honey. I don't want you gettin' hurt."

Aster hugged Darlene. "I know, and I appreciate that so much. Of course I'll make sure there's a position there before I go. I'm not stupid."

Darlene shook her head. "Remains ta be seen. But I ain't gonna stand in your way. I'm your friend, not your momma."

"Thanks. Mind you, I've still got to sweet-talk Gianopolis into letting me go early. My contract doesn't run out till the end of January."

Darlene tilted her head. "Weren't ya gonna be transferring ta Brockton Bay or some ass-end place like that? You only been talkin' about that for the last year or more."

"Oh. God." Aster ran her hands through her hair. "I totally, totally forgot."

Which was untrue. Aster literally could not forget anything. But she was well-practised at not thinking about certain things, such as some of the more gruesome details of the cases she had dealt with. Such was her infatuation with Henry that she had been carefully suppressing things that she should have been paying attention to.

Brockton Bay. Nineteen eighty-nine. Find Weaver.

She knew who Weaver was. A teenage supervillain called Taylor Hebert. Tall, with long dark curly hair, round-lensed glasses. A bug-themed costume in either grey and black or blue and white. It had been on the news more than once. As a baby, she had seen it but not understood it. Over the intervening years, she had gone through her recollections and correlated them into an understandable framework.

If a bug controlling cape shows up in Brockton Bay, I'll know who she is. It's not like bug control was very common. And it's even less common now.

In any case, a teenager from two thousand eleven will be well out of place in 'eighty-nine. She'll make the news. I'll show up, be 'aunt Ruth', help her get her feet under her. It'll be all good.

And then she had the brainwave. Wait. Hah. Nina Veder's working there now. I can ask her to keep an eye out, and then let me know.

She made her decision. "I need to talk to Henry."

-ooo-​

That Evening

"Henry?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"If I come to California with you …?"

She sensed the quickening of his interest. "Yes?"

"I might need to take extra vacation time. I have a friend on the east coast I want to keep in touch with."

"Really?" His voice held amusement. "Do I sense a rival for your affections?"

"It's not like that." She snuggled against him. "Her name's Nina Veder. We attended the university together. She went into psychology. We've been friends for years."

"Oh, well, that's different." His lips found hers in the darkness. "Certainly. Any time you want extra vacation time, just come to me and say pretty please, and I'll sign off on it."

She giggled. "And how do I say pretty please?"

He ran his hand up her flank. "I'm sure you can think of a way. Or two."

This time her laugh was low and throaty. "I'm sure I can as well."

-ooo-​

20 December 1988
Brockton Bay
Nina Veder's Apartment

"Are you sure you won't come to our Christmas party?"

Smiling, Nina shook her head. "I know how your parties turn out. Last year, one of your guests propositioned me and wouldn't take no for an answer. I think it's best if I don't come along."

Sally pouted. "Aww."

"You just want to get Nina drunk and proposition her yourself," accused Rose cheerfully, putting Sally into a mock headlock.

"And what's wrong with that?"

"The fact that I'm on to you and I'm saying no when I'm sober," pointed out Nina. "I love you both and I love staying here, but that's one thing that's not on the table. Not interested. Okay?"

"Plus, we need her to be our token straight when we're talking to the landlord," Rose pointed out.

"You're both no fun," sniffed Sally.

At that moment, the phone rang. Sally and Rose were occupied with each other, so Nina reached out and got it. "Hello?"

"Neens, how are you?"

There was only one person who shortened her name even further than it usually was. "Arjee, my God. How long's it been?"

"One year, two months, one week, four days," Ruth replied promptly. "Give or take a few hours."

"Hah!" Nina loved how Ruth could keep track of dates so easily. "Still got it, huh?"

"Still got it. Listen, can I ask you for a huge, huge favour?"

Nina didn't take long to consider. Ruth had been her absolute best friend when they were attending the university in Seattle. Nina had been living on campus while Ruth commuted from home, but they had shared everything except boyfriends (of which Nina had had more than Ruth).

It turned out that as well as her date trick, Ruth was a speed-reader and could quote anything back from any book she had ever read. Nina was pretty sure that she wouldn't have aced her psych finals without Ruth's patient coaching. And then, of course, there had been that regrettable incident in Mexico …

"Sure thing. If I can, I will. What is it?"

"Okay, this is going to sound kind of weird, but I need you to keep an eye out for a particular girl. She's fifteen or sixteen. I need to find out where she is and what she's doing, and I'm pretty sure she'll pop up in Brockton Bay."

Nina blinked. "What is she, some kind of runaway?"

There was a slight hesitation. "Something of that sort, yes. Um, okay, first name Taylor. Not sure what last name she'll be using. Pretty tall. Taller than me, taller than you. Skinny, though. Long dark curly hair. Short-sighted. She wears round-lensed glasses. Serious expression, brown eyes, wide mouth."

"Wow." Nina laughed uncertainly. "Sounds like you know her pretty well. Got her star sign too?"

"Sorry, no. If someone like that shows up in Brockton Bay in the next twelve months or so, can you get in touch with me? I'll show up and take her off your hands."

"Um, sure, I can do that." Nina was scribbling on a pad as she spoke. "I'll pass the word around -"

"No. No, don't do that. This is just between me and you, okay?"

Nina blinked. Ruth's voice had been deadly serious. "Um, really?"

"Really. This is important. I don't want anyone else knowing."

With anyone else, Nina would have protested that it was too hard. But this was Ruth. "Well, that's going to make it a bit harder. Got anything else for me to go on with?"

There was a pause. "Yes. She might try to slip into the city during an upheaval of some sort. Something that'll make it harder to find out where she came from."

Nina got it at once. "So I look for someone who looks like that in the aftermath of something big. Not just walking down the street, minding her own business."

"Yes, basically."

"Okay, I can do that. I can't guarantee results, but I can definitely do that."

"Thanks, Neens. I will owe you so, so much."

"More than I owe you for coming down to Mexico and bailing me out of jail?"

" … maybe."

Nina chuckled. "Well, I'll do my best. I'll keep an eye out till you show up. February, right?"

Now Ruth sounded positively embarrassed. "Um … I won't be showing up?"

"What?" Nina shook her head. "You've been planning this forever. Your contract runs out, you get a spot at Brockton General. What changed?"

"I, uh, kinda met a guy?"

"And what's that got to do with anything?"

"I'm, um, kinda moving to LA to be with him."

Nina's head flopped back to hit the sofa with a soft thump. "You're shitting me. You're standing me up, and dropping this on me, for a guy?"

"Nina, he's … he's wonderful. I've never known anyone like him. I think … he really might be the one."

"Hmm." Nina had, of course, been privy to Ruth's experimentation in college. Not being one to let herself get tied down herself, she had never been one of those girls who tried to set her friends up with boys. But she did think that Ruth ought to get out and see more people.

And apparently, she had.

"So he's that nice?"

"Yes." There was a dreamy quality to Ruth's voice. "He's so sweet and wonderful and talented."

Oh boy. She's got it bad. "Well, okay. I'm not going to tell you not to be happy. He does make you happy, right?"

"Oh, in so many ways."

Nina recognised that immediately as code for "he's great in bed". Good. "Well, I'm happy for you, Arjee. Let me know how it turns out. And come see me sometime. It's been ages since we saw each other. And yes, I'll keep an eye out for your wayward teenager."

"You find her, I'll be on the first flight over. You don't find her, I'll still come over and say hi."

"Okay, see you then."

"See you. And thanks."

"No problem. Bye."

"Bye."

Nina hung up the phone, then sat there staring at the notepad and the details she had written down.

So, she's met a guy. Okay then. But what's this about the girl. I know she's not into girls. Especially not this young. So what have I gotten myself into now?

The pad gave her no answers. Shrugging, Nina Veder got up and went to make herself a snack. Either she'd find the girl and Ruth would fill her in … or she wouldn't. Either way, she'd do her best.

It was only when she was smoothing the peanut butter on to the bread that the thought struck her.

This girl she wants me to look out for is going to be showing up right about the time that she was supposed to be moving out here. Is that some kind of crazy coincidence? Or something else?

She had no way of telling.

-ooo-​

15 January 1989
Los Angeles
Aster Anders

The taxicab smelled a little weird, but taxis did that all over. The streets were wider than in Seattle as well, with a lot more palm trees. Aster had spent most of the taxi ride with her nose glued to the window, trying to see if she could catch a glimpse of a celebrity. Once, in the far distance, she had seen part of the Hollywood sign.

I'm in LA, I'm in LA, I'm in LA! She hugged herself, squeezing the key that lay in the palm of her hand until it pressed uncomfortably into her flesh. Henry had given her a key to his apartment the day he left to get back to Los Angeles. At the same time, the paperwork had come through from the hospital in which he was chief of surgery. Starting on the first of February, she had a two-year placement there.

Darlene had been happy for her … she supposed. The older woman had spent a lot of time going over the paperwork, making sure that it was genuine. Eventually, she'd been forced to admit that Henry had come through. "So he'll be putting you up in his own apartment?"

"Gave me a key and all." Aster had shown it to her.

"Hmph. Somethin' smells about this, is all."

"Oh, come on, Darlene. He's a wonderful man. Why can't you be happy for me?"

"'Cause if he so wonderful, how come some other lucky girl ain't got him first?"

"Maybe it's just love?"

"Hmph." But Darlene hadn't tried to talk her out of it any more. She had loaded Aster down with a lot of useful information about LA, including hints and tips for getting along in the city.

Aster had filed it all away. "I'm going to miss you, Darlene."

"Gonna miss you too, girl. Come visit sometime, okay?"

"Always."

That parting hadn't been easy. It had been even less easy to convince the hospital administration to let her out of her contract two weeks early. There had been a lot of back and forth and dark muttering, but finally they had signed the papers and she was free to go. Henry thinks I won't be there till February. I can't wait to surprise him!

-ooo-​

She paid off the cabbie, then waited till her cases had been deposited on the pavement before tipping him. Darlene had taught her that little trick. As the bright yellow vehicle drove off, she hefted her luggage and started up the stairs into the apartment building. A man coming out held the door for her; she smiled and thanked him.

Aster was pleased to discover that the elevator worked; Henry lived on the tenth floor, and she would have hated to have to climb all those stairs with her cases in hand. Soft music played as she rode up to the correct floor; checking the note he'd given her yet again, she hefted the suitcases and carried them down the corridor to the correct door.

So what if you gets there, an' the key's a fake? Don't open nothin'?

Why would he give me a fake key? He wants me to move in, right?

Hmph.

Still, there was a quiver in her heart as she slid the key into the lock. It fitted, at least. And when she turned it … the lock clicked open. A smile spread across her face. I never doubted for a second.

Easing the door open, she brought her cases in, then carefully shut it again. She could hear his voice in the other room; it sounded like he was talking on the phone. That'll make it easier to surprise him. Slipping off her shoes, trying not to giggle, she tiptoed across the soft, plush carpet to the open doorway.

"Yeah, yeah, she gets here in February," he said, just as she was about to step out and reveal herself. "She's some girl."

Aww. She stopped to hug herself. And, although she wasn't going to admit it to herself, to listen in on Henry talking about her.

"I tell you what, Pete, I just love screwing Jewish girls. They're so goddamn grateful, you know? It's like Jewish guys don't know what to do with their pricks. And Ruth … fuck, man, she's a keeper. She's all prim and proper in the hospital, but get her clothes off and she's nothing but a raging slut. You wouldn't believe what she lets me do to her."

The smile slid off Aster's face. She wasn't even aware of the key falling from nerveless fingers to bounce soundlessly on the thick carpet. Her carefully constructed romantic dreams crumbled around her until she was left all alone in the cold. He doesn't love me. He thinks of me like … that.

She wanted to throw up. She wanted to yell and scream.

But most of all, she wanted to break one of her primary rules.

Do not use your powers.

Ignoring the streaks of tears on her face, Aster leaned up against the wall, teeth clenched, grimacing until her face hurt. Her nails pressed into her palms, almost drawing blood, but she dared not open her hands. Not with the heat she could feel building in there.

I want to kill him.

The accented voice rose up in her mind, as it had so many times over the years. Do not use your powers.

She had obeyed it in the past, but now she rebelled. It would be so easy.

Do. Not. Use. Your. Powers.

Darlene was right. He's just using me.

DO NOT USE YOUR POWERS.

I want to kill him. Please let me kill him.

DO NOT USE YOUR POWERS.

Why. Not?

A different voice intruded then, one from another memory. A woman with a flag-print scarf across her face. Your mother's name was Kayden Anders, and she was a hero.

She slumped, very slightly. I can't kill him. If Mom-from-before was a hero … I have to be a hero, too.

I have to be the bigger person.

Okay, Aster, you can do this.

-ooo-​

Henry looked up as Ruth appeared in the doorway. "Ruth!" he exclaimed. "Sorry, Pete, I'll call you back."

Putting the phone down, he jumped up from the armchair. "Did you just get in? I didn't expect you to be so early." Hurrying across the room, he went to embrace her, but she stepped back and brought up her hands to fend him off. "Ruth?"

Looking into her eyes, he got a hint as to what was wrong. There was nothing of the life that had been in them before. Nothing of the joy that he was used to seeing in them.

"I heard." Her voice was just as flat and dead as her gaze. "It's over, Henry."

He frowned. "What? What did you hear?" Rapidly, he thought back over the phone conversation, and a few incautious phrases popped to mind. "I, uh, probably said something that you heard out of context. Tell me what you heard and I can explain."

Taking a deep breath, she began to speak. "I tell you what, Pete, I just love screwing Jewish girls. They're so goddamn grateful, you know? It's like Jewish guys don't know what to do with their pricks. And Ruth … fuck, man, she's a keeper. She's all prim and proper in the hospital, but get her clothes off and she's nothing but a raging slut. You wouldn't believe what she lets me do to her."

He blinked. She had just repeated his words perfectly, with all the intonations thrown in. And unless she was a lot dumber than he thought she was, there was no explaining that away. "Uh …"

"So," she pressed. "What context should I put that into, exactly?"

Fuck it. He decided to go for broke. "Okay, so you know the truth now." He searched her face. "That's a good thing, right? We don't have to lie to each other any more. You like it in bed, and I like it in bed with you. We have fun, yeah? You can't tell me that you don't enjoy it. So why don't we just call this a learning experience and go on from here? Just keep going the way we are? I mean, it's not like anything's changed between us, yeah?"

-ooo-​

Henry Friedrich would never know exactly how close he came to a fiery death. Aster held her power in while it surged beneath her skin. If her control had broken even once, it would not have relented until everything she could see resembled the blasted wasteland that was her soul. As it was, she had to do her best to stop molten steel from oozing through the easiest points of contact, which happened to be the palms of her hands. With a tremendous effort of will, she managed to keep her left hand cool enough that the metal did not come out through her pores.

She knew she had been less than successful with her right hand – perhaps because she was more used to shooting it from that hand – when she felt it pooling in her clenched fist. It did its best to ooze out between her fingers, but she kept them tightly closed; the last thing she wanted was for him to wonder why there were burnt patches on his carpet. She knew that her hands would be glowing slightly, and she willed him not to look down.

Do not use your powers.

It wasn't a stricture that she had always followed – youthful curiosity is a thing, after all – but for the most part, she had. And once she had a good idea of what she could do with her abilities, she had been very careful not to go overboard. Especially after almost starting that forest fire.

Twenty-seven years of keeping herself under strict control came to her aid here; she took a deep breath, and then another, trying not to exhale heated-metal vapours in his direction. It was that close to the surface. Never before had she been so close to letting loose. But she couldn't. She had to remain unremarkable. I have to help save the world, and using my powers now could change matters in some really bad ways.

"Everything's changed, Doctor Friedrich," she corrected him, working hard at keeping her voice under control. "We're through as of right now. I won't be moving in with you. In fact, I won't be staying in Los Angeles. I only wish that I'd learned what sort of a man you were before I let you sleep with me."

He seemed to be trying to figure out her attitudes. "Ruth, the offer's still open. Okay, so I'm not your knight in shining armour. Who the hell is, in this day and age? Suppose we forget what I said, and just keep on going the way we were? What do you lose?"

Another deep breath. Control. The steel pooling in her right hand was starting to cool down now. "Self-respect. That's what I'd lose if I went back to you after learning what you really think of me."

"Self-respect? Hah!" His bark of laughter was harsh. "Where was your self-respect when you let me bend you over and -"

Her right fist was still full of slowly cooling metal, but her left was free, so she slapped him. She had enough control to prevent him from being toasted by white-hot molten metal, but the flesh of her hand was still infused with it. When she hit him, her hand was still almost as hard – and as heavy – as steel. Also, it was somewhat hotter than human flesh tends to be; she wasn't quite sure how hot, and she didn't really care. In any case, the impact spun him around and sprawled him across the carpet.

She didn't wait for him to get up. "Your key's on the floor," she told him. "I'm leaving. Goodbye." Turning, she made for the door.

He called out just as she opened it. His voice was muffled, as though he was holding his face. "You can't."

"I can and I will," she retorted, not turning around. She didn't want to look at his face even once more.

"You signed a contract," he reminded her. "You're working for my hospital now. You're working for me."

"So fire me," she shot back. "I won't contest it. Pretty sure that assaulting my boss is a sackable offence."

"No." His voice was steady, in control. "I wouldn't just fire you. I would ensure that you're blacklisted from every hospital in America. You'd never hold a scalpel again … Doctor Goldstein."

She turned around then. "You wouldn't." A chill down her spine told her that she was wrong.

"Oh, I would." He was standing in the doorway, the light behind him. She couldn't see the mark where she had struck him, but he was touching his cheek carefully, as if wondering why it hurt so much. I may have burned him by accident. Or maybe on purpose.

"So you're going to force me to work for you anyway? What else? Are you going to make me sleep with you as well?" She put all the acid she could into her tone.

"Tempting," he conceded, "but I think not. I prefer my bedmates willing and eager. Though if you came to me, I might see my way clear to reducing your sentence, I mean, the time on your contract. Depending, of course, on how convincing you were." He spread his hands. "And you already know how much you enjoy what I can do for you."

He was right; she enjoyed it. Or rather, she had enjoyed it while she thought he loved her, or at least respected her. But knowing now what went through his mind when he thought of her, the idea of his touching her, taking her to bed, repulsed her. I would rather be celibate than … that.

"Goodbye." It was all she could trust herself to say.

-ooo-​

Once she was outside, awkwardly carrying both cases with one hand, she found a gutter drain. Glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, she carefully opened her right hand to reveal a lump of steel that was shaped just right to fit inside her closed fist. If I had punched him with that, I think I might have broken his jaw.

Maybe I should have.

Taking the piece of steel, she tossed it into the drain, hearing the echoing clatter as it bounced on the concrete in the sewer below the street. Hopefully nobody will find it, and if they do, they won't know what it is.

Moving on, she began to search for a cab. I need to get to the hospital and sort this out.

-ooo-​

" ... so, as you can see, I won't be able to work at the hospital after all."

Aster sat back in her chair with a hopeful smile. She had made her points without directly referring to the relationship between her and Friedrich, but she was fairly sure that Director Goodman could connect the dots. No scandal, we sweep this under the carpet, everyone wins.

Goodman steepled her fingers as she contemplated Aster. The Director was a severely dressed brunette with looks that owed a lot to either plastic surgery or good genetics. Aster wondered whether her neutral expression reflected her mood or was merely the default that she showed the world.

"Doctor Goldstein," she began. "Am I to understand that you are telling me that you are incapable of working with Doctor Friedrich?"

Aster took a deep breath. "That, Director, is exactly what I am telling you."

"Does Doctor Friedrich share your ..." Goodman hesitated for a moment. "... your aversion to working together?"

If I say yes, she can check. "Uhhh ..."

"I'll take that as a 'no', Doctor Goldstein." The Director's expression was definitely disapproving now. "Which presents me with a problem."

"Uh, a problem?"

"Yes. A problem. Because if it were the other way around, if Doctor Friedrich decided that he could not work with you, then this conversation would not have lasted this long." Director Goodman gave her a tight smile. "However, as he has expressed a definitive preference for working with you – has in fact praised your surgical skills to the skies – then you stay. The problem arises because you don't want to be here." She paused for a long moment. "The point I am trying to make is that I have the power to make all problems become your problems. So I suggest that you adjust your attitude and learn to like working with Doctor Friedrich."

"Or we can just solve the problem by releasing me from my contract," Aster suggested. "After all, I don't officially start until February. Doctor Friedrich happened to inform me that there was a list of potential applicants for my slot, and that I was placed at the head of it. It shouldn't be too hard to tear up my contract and give the spot to the next person in line, should it?"

Director Goodman nodded austerely. "We can do that, yes."

Aster brightened. Oh. Good. For a moment, I thought this was going to be difficult. "So what do we need to do?"

The tight smile was back. "Well, first we have to review the penalty clauses in the contract you signed. You do recall those, don't you?"

Ah. Aster did indeed recall the penalty clauses. The best word to describe them was 'draconian'. She had been rather hoping that they wouldn't come up – applying them was at the Director's discretion, after all – but up they had indeed come. The financial penalties that would accrue out of a surgeon choosing to default on a contract after signing it were rather steep. So steep, in fact, that she wasn't sure if she could meet them. Especially as she wouldn't be living on a surgeon's salary if Friedrich chose to carry out his threat of blacklisting her. Not 'if' – 'when'.

Her face froze. As she looked at the Director, she caught the tiniest spark of triumph in the woman's eyes. Friedrich called her up before I got here. He probably put her up to this. She was trapped.

"Uh, I don't believe that I can actually pay those penalties. Not all at once, anyway."

The Director's voice was mock-sympathetic. "Well, I'm afraid that once the contract is cancelled, you will be required to pay out a lump sum. You will have another job to go to, won't you?"

She knows full well that I won't. Friedrich will see to that.

Aster swallowed her hurt pride. "I … would like to revise my decision to walk away from my contract. It seems that I will be working for you after all."

"And Doctor Friedrich?" The Director seemed intent on rubbing salt into the wound.

There wasn't much else she could say. "I'm just going to have to learn to work with him."

The Director smiled coldly. "Good decision, Doctor Goldstein. Glad to have you on board."

They shook hands as Aster stood. As she left the Director's office, one thought was uppermost in her mind.

Two years. I can handle two years.

Another one intruded.

I have to make some phone calls.

-ooo-​

Seattle, WA

"Gramma, gramma, watch me!"

Darlene Hobbs smiled indulgently as she leaned back on the porch chair. Her six-year-old grandson was proudly riding his brand-new bicycle up and down the road, looking over to make sure that he had his grandmother's attention. "You watch yourself now!" she called out. "Don't want no more skinned knees!"

"Won't get none!" he called back. "I can ride now!"

Darlene snorted; she was just thinking of a suitable retort when her daughter tapped her on the elbow. "Momma, it's the phone. Ruth Goldstein's callin' from LA, she says."

"Well, it's about damn time." Darlene heaved herself out of the chair. "You watch young Sammy now, make sure he don't break his neck."

"All right, Momma."

Hustling inside, Darlene picked up the receiver from the counter. "Ruth honey, is that you? I thought you done forgot me."

The line quality wasn't the best, but she could tell that Ruth wasn't happy about something. "I didn't forget you, Darlene. I just called to say that I'm sorry. You were right. You were right about everything."

Darlene's eyes widened. "Hell, girl. You a'right? That man hurt you? If he has, I'm gonna come on down there an' -"

"No, I'm fine. It's basically my fault, anyway. He didn't break up with me. I broke up with him."

"Well, good, but why? What made ya see sense?"

"Because he's a … a …"

"A what? A jerk?"

"An asshole." Darlene blinked. She'd never heard Ruth cuss before. "He just liked sleeping with me because of the, uh -"

"The sex?" Darlene chuckled. "You can say the word, swee'pea. You ain't twelve, ya know."

"Yeah, that. The sex. He never loved me. He just liked sleeping with me because … because I'm Jewish and because I let him do stuff, and … oh god, I feel so dirty." She sounded like she was going to cry.

"So when are ya comin' back to Seattle? I'll take ya out an' about an' we can bitch about men an' how worthless they are."

There was a long pause. "I'm … uh, I'm not coming back. I can't. I wanted to quit, but they won't let me out of my contract."

Darlene whistled. "Two years. Under a boss ya don't like."

"And even if I did get out, he said he could blacklist me so I didn't get another surgeon's position anywhere in the country."

"God damn, girl! How hard did you break up with him, anyways?"

"I … uh, I might have kind of slapped him. So hard he fell over."

"Sounds ta me he's th' worst kinda boss. Th' kind that holds a grudge."

"Basically, yes." She paused. "He did say I could maybe shorten it, by going back to him. But I'm not going to do that. Not ever."

Despite the fact that Ruth couldn't see her, Darlene shook her head. "Yeah, no, bad idea. He could string ya on for ages, always promisin' an' never deliverin'. You just sit tight, do your job, an' wait him out. Contract runs out, you outta there."

"Yeah, that's the plan." She heard the sound of a sigh. "Well, thanks for listening. I just wanted to let you know what was happening. And to make sure that I wasn't being stupidly stubborn."

"That's okay, honey." Darlene searched for something comforting to say. "If you was the type ta go back ta him in spite of what he said, you an' me wouldn't be friends."

"Thanks. That means a lot to me. I've got to go. Bye."

"Bye, honey. Thanks for callin'. You take care now, hear?"

"I'll do that. Thanks. Bye."

Darlene hung up the phone and went back out on to the porch, muttering darkly to herself. Wisely, her daughter gave her a wide berth for the rest of the afternoon. When Momma was in a 'mood', it was a good idea to walk carefully around her.

-ooo-​

Los Angeles

Aster hung up the phone, then picked it up again and fed more coins into the slot. This time she dialled a number in New Hampshire. The phone at the other end rang several times, then someone answered breathlessly. "Hi, Sally speaking, who is this?"

"Uh, hi, Sally. You're Nina's roommate, aren't you? This is Ruth Goldstein."

"Oh, uh, Ruth. Hi. Yeah, Nina's here. Nina! Ruth's on the phone. Whoops, gotta go."

The phone was dropped, on to a sofa by the sound of it. Aster heard a faint "give me back my dress!" before the phone was picked up again. "Arjee, hi. What's up?"

Despite her own troubles, Aster had to ask the question. "Do I want to know what's going on at that end?"

Nina chuckled. "Rose was getting ready to go out. Sally stole her favourite party dress. Rose has been chasing her around the apartment, trying to get it back. It's getting silly."

"Oh. Right." Aster had to chuckle. "And you're in the middle of it all."

"Lucky me. So what's the matter?"

"You know that favour you're doing me, Neens? Well, it turns out that I might not be able to make it out to Brockton Bay once you locate her. At least for a little while."

" … okay. I guess. What happened?"

"Well, long story short, you know how I was seeing the guy who's kinda gonna be my boss?"

" … you didn't tell me about the boss part."

Aster blinked. "Uh. Sorry. I meant to. Anyway. Turns out that he's an asshole. The bedroom stuff was great, but then I got an earful of what he really thought of me, and it's turned me right off him. But he's not letting me out of the contract. So I'm stuck in LA for two years." Somehow, it felt easier to vent to Nina than to Darlene.

"Shit. Fuck me, you manage to pick 'em, don't you?"

"Don't remind me." She hadn't been heartbroken when the guy she lost her virginity to had decided to immediately expand his horizons, but it did kind of hurt, a bit. "Anyway, I should still be open for vacation days to get out there when and if you locate her, but …"

"But don't count on it?"

Aster sighed. "Yeah. Sorry."

"It's okay. I'll manage."

"I'll get out there as soon as I can. Promise."

"Sure. But once this is all sorted out, you'll owe me an explanation of what the hell's going on."

Which would be a good trick, given that Aster only knew about half the story. She had no idea what Weaver's side of it would be. " … I'll see what I can do."

"You better."

"Thanks, Neens. You're the best."

"I know. Bye. Take care."

"You too. Bye."

Aster hung up the phone once more, and sagged against the side of the booth. Okay. What do I do now?

By some miracle, there was still a phone book in the booth. She opened it, looking for real estate companies. Time to start looking for apartments.

-ooo-​

Monday, 6 February 1989

"Why, Doctor Goldstein, what a nice surprise!"

Aster turned at the sound of his voice, schooling her features into an expression of mild interest. She had managed to avoid Friedrich for the first three days, but it appeared that he had tracked her down.

"Doctor Friedrich," she replied coolly. "Imagine seeing you here."

"Well, as it happens," he said cheerfully, "I work here." He paused for a beat, the continued in a mock-surprised tone. "Oh, wait. So do you."

"Indeed." She gave him what might have been mistaken for a smile in poor light. "Sorry I can't stay and chat, but Nurse Hendricks is giving me the tour."

"Oh, that's all right." He gestured to himself. "I'm happy to take over."

And I bet you give me a tour of all the deserted supply rooms. "No, no, we're good. Nurse Hendricks is an excellent guide."

His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "No, I insist. Hendricks, you can go now."

The nurse, who had been observing the back-and-forth between the two doctors with a slightly puzzled air, made her escape. Aster watched her go, then glanced back at Friedrich. There was nobody else around at that moment, so she felt free to say what was on her mind.

"I hope you realise that just because I'm working for you, it doesn't mean that I'm going to be sleeping with you."

"Oh, I'd never ask that of anyone," he protested. "Not unless they wanted to, of course."

Well, I was willing to begin with, I have to admit. Right up until I found out what sort of a person he really was.

"Good." It was the most neutral thing she could think of to say.

"Of course, we both know that you want to," he murmured, stepping closer to her. "So why don't we locate an empty examination room and find out how much we've missed each other?"

Right. Examination room, not supply room.

"Why don't we not?" she retorted. "And what makes you think I want to be anywhere near you, after the stunt you pulled with the contract?"

"Contract?" he asked, his expression so innocent that she knew he was faking it. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

I swear, if he so much as touches me, I'm giving him a third degree burn.

"Okay, let's go with that." She gave him a level stare. "But lay one hand on me, and I'll see exactly how far I can get with a lawsuit for sexual harassment."

"Well, then -" he began, but the PA system chose that moment to cut in.

"Doctor Friedrich to the ER. Code Blue. Doctor Friedrich to the ER."

"Sounds like they're playing your song," she pointed out.

He shot her a dark glance. "This isn't over."

No, she told herself as he hustled away. It's not.

-ooo-​

Tuesday, 16 May 1989

"Isn't Doctor Friedrich just gorgeous?" murmured the trainee nurse, turning her head to watch as the chief of surgery sauntered past. Aster was so strongly reminded of herself that she had to fight down a wince.

"Don't believe everything you see, Marilee," she cautioned the girl. And girl she was; she couldn't be a day over eighteen.

Marilee turned wide, cornflower-blue eyes to her. "But he's so nice," she protested. "Nurse Hendricks was giving me a hard time over not being able to make a bed properly, and he stopped her from being so mean to me."

Aster pressed her lips together. "And did he have a talk to you? Then or later?" She wanted to blurt out more, but she kept herself under control.

"Oh, yes," breathed Marilee. "He was so understanding."

"I'll just bet he was," Aster replied. How was I ever this naïve? "Marilee, there's something you need to know."

"What?" asked the trainee, turning that wide, innocent gaze on her. "Is there something going on between you and Doctor Friedrich? Because if there is, I totally understand."

Aster sighed. "No. There isn't. There was, but I broke it off. Because he's a user."

Marilee looked confused. "What, drugs? Doctor Friedrich?"

"No. Not drugs." It would be a lot easier if it was drugs. "He uses women. He's good at making them feel like they're the absolute centre of his universe, but it's all an act. He doesn't love them. I don't think he knows how to love. Except himself, of course," she added, more to herself than to the trainee. "He's good at that."

"No." Marilee shook her head. "No, I won't believe that. Not about Henry." A moment later, realising her slip, she slapped her hand over her mouth.

"'Henry', hmm?" Aster smiled wryly. "Okay, don't believe me. That's your option. But listen carefully. Here are the lines he uses on women. Stop me if any of these sound familiar." Slowly and carefully, she began quoting some of the phrases that Friedrich had used to great effect on her, both before and after he had gotten her into bed. As she spoke, Marilee's eyes grew wider and wider.

"Ohmigawd, ohmigawd," she gasped, through the muffling hand she still held over her mouth. "That's what he said! That's what he said! All of it!" Dropping her hand, she lowered her voice to a whisper that was possibly louder than her normal voice. "How did you know?"

Aster smiled sadly. "Because I've been where you are. And I didn't believe the person who told me that he couldn't be trusted. I only found out the truth after I slept with him."

"Oh." Marilee seemed lost for words, so Aster pressed on.

"Tell the other trainees. Friedrich is a good doctor and a fine surgeon, but there's one thing he'll never do, and that's respect you in the morning. Or ever."

Marilee nodded seriously. "Okay, I'll do that. And thanks, Doctor Goldstein."

Aster smiled. "That's fine." She watched the girl walk away, and chuckled quietly to herself.

Let's see how he likes that.

-ooo-​

Wednesday, 2 August 1989

"Ruth, we need to talk."

Turning to face Friedrich, Aster mentally counted the rest of the bags of saline in the fridge – she had a perfect mental picture of them, of course – and wrote down the number on the clipboard. "I'm sorry, Doctor Friedrich, did you need me for something?"

"Yes. We need to talk. Now." His jaw had that particular tension that told Aster he was upset. She had been seeing that on him a lot, recently. Good.

"Can it wait?" she asked innocently. "I'm just in the middle of inventory -"

"Screw inventory!" he snapped in a harsh whisper. "You're spreading tales behind my back and it stops right now!"

"Tales?" She stared at him. "Is someone spreading lies about you? That's terrible!" Recalling Marilee, she opened her eyes wide in pretended bewilderment.

He clenched his teeth. "I know it's you."

"Really?" She dropped the act. "Tell me what I'm supposed to have done, and I'll tell you if I did it."

"Talking about me behind my back," he ground out.

She snorted in amusement. "Everyone talks about everyone else behind their backs. Have you heard the gossip in this place?"

A vein was beginning to pulse in his forehead. "You've been saying damaging things about me in front of the trainee nurses!"

"Damaging things?" She tilted her head. "What sort of damaging things? I mean, I've been talking to them, yes. But it's not like I can't talk to them. I'm a doctor, they're nurses. It's kind of a thing."

He looked like he wanted to hit her. Go ahead, buster. I won't even hurt you. I'll just sue you into the ground. "You've been … telling them … things."

"Doctor Friedrich, I'm afraid you're not being clear," she said as innocently as she could manage. "What sort of things have I been telling them? Are they untrue?"

She was pretty sure that if he ground his teeth together any harder, his orthodontist was going to be making a fortune. "Christ fuck, Ruth. You've been telling them about me and you! That's inappropriate at the best of times! Boasting about having slept with the chief of surgery, that's just … wrong!"

"You're wrong, Doctor Friedrich," she told him softly. "I wasn't boasting."

"Well, however you're doing it, stop it!"

"You could always fire me," she suggested sweetly. "I won't fight it. But there's enough people who've seen you talking to me that I could make a very strong case that you're trying to get back together with me, and that you're firing me because I won't let you."

"And so?" he demanded.

"And so the penalty clause for defaulting on the contract won't apply," she pointed out.

"But you'll still be blacklisted."

She smiled bitterly. "It'll be worth it. Am I fired?"

For a long moment, he stared at her. "No. But I don't want you talking to the trainee nurses about me, either."

She showed him her teeth. "I'll want that in writing, Doctor Friedrich. Now, if you're done, I have inventory to get back to."

Leaving him staring at her back, she walked away down the corridor. There was no way in hell that he would give her such an order in writing, she knew. Doctors needed to talk to nurses.

Of course, she was still stuck working for him, so it was at best a stalemate.

For now.

-ooo-​

Wednesday, 18 October 1989

Oh, my aching feet.

Aster stumbled in through the front door of her apartment, making sure to lock it behind her – super-powers or not, there was such a thing as tempting fate – then collapsed into the armchair she'd found at a thrift store. One arm-rest leaked stuffing everywhere, but it was still the most comfortable chair she'd ever owned.

Three fourteen-hour shifts, back to back. I'm pretty sure that's illegal.

Carefully, she eased her shoes off, then stretched out her feet and wiggled her toes. Now that the weight was off them, she knew that they'd hurt worse for a while before they got better. But at least the cool air was on them now.

I must be putting a crimp in Friedrich's love life. I can't think of any other reason for him to be changing my shifts around all the time. The overtime's nice, but my feet still ache.

Resting her feet on the ottoman, she leaned the armchair back and let the tension drain out of her. Just a five minute rest, then a shower, then dinner, then bed.

The five minutes turned into ten and then fifteen, but she was so comfortable that she didn't care. Her eyelids began to drift shut. It wasn't the first time she'd slept in that chair, and it probably wouldn't be the last -

Thunder crashed and lightning flared. Torrential rain poured into a heaving, storm-wracked ocean. Amid wreckage and wind-driven spray, a teenage girl in a blue and white costume struggled to swim, to stay afloat -

Aster came awake with a gasping cry, her eyes wide. It was so real! What was it?

Memory caught up with the dream, and she realised. "That was Taylor Hebert. She's here. Now."

It's been twenty-eight years, but she's finally arrived.

Now all I've got to do is find her. And save the world.

End of Part 5-6

Part 5-7​

 

[Ack]

Recoil​

Part 5-7: (Aster's Story, Part Three) Behind the Scenes​

Stumbling to her feet, Aster reached for the phone. As she dialled, she looked up at the clock on the wall. Just after seven. It'll be after ten there. I hope Nina's awake.

The phone rang, and then rang again. On the third ring, it was picked up. "Hello?"

Aster's heart sank. "Sally? Is Nina there? Can you wake her up?"

"No," Sally's sleep-blurred voice mumbled. "She's not here. She's out. In the storm."

"Storm?" Automatically, Aster looked out the window. It was fine and clear, with a few moths swirling under a street-light. "What storm?" Then she recalled the dream, or vision, or whatever it was. There'd sure as hell been a storm going on there.

Clicks and pops interrupted Sally's voice. "Big-ass storm just blew up today. There's some yachts out in it. Nina went out on one of the rescue boats. Rose and me, we've been watching it on the TV and trying to stay awake. I'm worried for her. It's a really big storm." There was a pleading note in her voice, as if she wanted to be reassured.

Oh shit. Pieces clicked together in Aster's head. I told her that Taylor would probably show up in a disaster or something so she didn't get noticed. And I was right. So Nina's gone out to see if this is it. God, I hope she doesn't get hurt because of me. A new worry introduced itself. God, I hope they save Taylor. Because I have no idea how to save the world.

"Don't worry," she told Sally. "Those rescue boats are really tough. Their crews know what they're doing. They'll keep Nina safe."

"Oh. Okay. Thanks. Did you want me to tell her you called?"

"Yeah, thanks, if you could?" Aster breathed deeply. Please let them both be safe.

"Okay. Night."

"Night."

Aster put the phone down and stumbled off toward bed.

Okay, that's a start …

-ooo-​

Thursday, 19 October 1989
Aster's Apartment
9:21 AM EDT

Ring ring

Ring ring

Ring ring

A blind fumble for the phone. "H'lo?"

"Arjee! Are you awake?"

"Neens? 'sat you?"

"Yeah, it's me. You rang last night, while I was out on the boat."

Aster's mind began to clear, slowly and reluctantly. "Boat. Yeah. Rescue boat?"

"Yes, the rescue boat. And guess what we found?"

The suppressed excitement in Nina's voice finally got through to Aster. She forced her eyes open and sat up in bed. "You found her. You found Taylor."

"We found Taylor. She fell more or less into my lap. She got rescued by the boat I was on."

Adrenaline flooded through Aster's veins. "Holy shit, Neens. Holy shit. Uh … holy. Shit. You did it." She paused. "Is she all right?"

"She's reasonably healthy. A little hypothermic when we pulled her out of the water, but that was easily taken care of. Took a whack to the back of the head while she was in the water. She's claiming amnesia now, but I'm taking that with a grain of salt."

Aster smiled. Amnesia. Right. "Well, it could be true."

"Or it could be a way for someone who doesn't want her past to be known to skate by. Anyway, she's a sweet kid. About as hyper-aware as anyone I've known, though. Always watching, always thinking. You can see the wheels turning in her head, all the time."

Aster thought back to the TV news she had seen of Skitter and of Weaver when she was just an infant. Yes, that sounds about right. Skitter, the warlord of Brockton Bay. "Well, good. I'll see if I can't wangle some vacation time and get out that way to get to know her."

"Excellent. We just got back in. We're at the police station right now."

Aster froze. "Police station? What for?"

Nina chuckled. "To see if they have any idea who she is, of course. Are they going to find anything?"

Aster took a deep breath. "... probably not."

"Hmm. That's … interesting." Nina's voice was now intrigued, then she changed topics. "Anyway, it's probably too late today, but tomorrow I'm thinking of taking her to get checked over and maybe shopping for clothes."

Aster grinned. She knew how much Nina liked shopping. "Go nuts. I'll pay you back."

Nina laughed. "Now you're playing my song."

"I'll talk to you later. I've got to get up and get showered. I've got a shift starting this afternoon, so I need to get in to see the Director this morning."

"Okay, I'll let you go. Later, Arjee."

"Later, Neens."

"And don't forget that you owe me an explanation. There's a lot that doesn't add up about this kid."

"You'll get one." Once I can figure out what to tell you so you don't freak.

"I'll hold you to that."

"Bye, Neens."

"Bye, Arjee."

Aster put the phone down and jumped out of bed, ignoring the complaints from her muscles. She's here, she's alive, she's all right!

She danced all the way to the shower.

-ooo-​

Cauldron Base
Some Other Earth

Doctor Mother's office was well-furnished, but there wasn't much in the way of decoration. However, Contessa wasn't paying attention to that. "Something weird is going on."

The head of Cauldron leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. "You're going to have to give me more than that." We run a super-secret organisation that's trying to avert the apocalypse, she didn't have to say. Weird is what we do.

Contessa's expression was, rarely enough for her, frustrated. "All I can tell you is that something very strange happened in Brockton Bay last night. It only changed some minor factors, but these will have knock-on effects."

"Will these knock-on effects be good or bad for us?" The dark-skinned woman's tone of voice indicated her pessimism in the matter.

"It depends. If we interfere too closely, they're likely to be bad. If we keep our hands off, mostly good. But even in the good scenarios, we're going to lose a few potential assets."

Doctor Mother frowned. "Hmm. Is there any way we can offset this?"

Contessa hesitated, which was again very unusual for her. "There is. But it involves bringing an outsider into Cauldron. Or at least, part of the way in."

Before she had even finished speaking, Doctor Mother was shaking her head. "No. Out of the question."

Contessa folded her arms in turn. "You asked."

The frown turned to a grimace. "There's no other way?"

"Not without a lot of problems. She doesn't need to know everything." Especially the part where we abduct people and give them powers.

"Just that we exist, and our overall goals." It wasn't quite a question. Contessa waited; she didn't need to say any more. Again, the older woman grimaced. "I still don't like it."

"I'm reasonably sure that she's linked in some way to the Brockton Bay thing. I'm just not sure how."

That got her a flat stare. "And your powers can't give you chapter and verse?"

Contessa shrugged, very slightly. "I get anomalous readings."

"Hmm." Doctor Mother shot her a dark look. "Do it. But make sure that there's nothing that can come back to bite us in the ass."

"Of course." Contessa stood and left the office. Step one, complete.

-ooo-​

Los Angeles, Earth Bet
A Little Later in the Day

Director Goodman looked up. "Come in, Doctor Goldstein. You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, thank you, Director." Aster pulled the chair back and sat down in it. "I have a favour to ask of you."

"A … favour?" The Director seemed to be just a little taken aback.

It took Aster a moment to figure it out, then she realised what was going on. She was expecting me to complain about the shifts I've been getting. She's probably got a whole carefully-arranged explanation set up to shoot me down. Asking her for a favour put her on the back foot.

"Yes." Aster put a serious expression on her face. "I've got a friend on the east coast who needs some help, so I was wondering if I could take some vacation time starting perhaps … tomorrow? Or the next day?"

"Vacation time?" Director Goodman seemed to puzzle over the words, then her eyes clicked into focus. "Ah … for that, you'll have to speak to the Chief of Surgery. Doctor Friedrich. He'll know if we need you or not."

"Oh. Okay. Thank you." Damn it, I was hoping to not have to deal with him on this.

Oh well, once more unto the breach.

-ooo-​

It was remarkably easy to locate Doctor Friedrich. It's almost as if he wants me to find him. Fancy that. By now, Aster was almost sure that Friedrich and Goodman were colluding on matters regarding her. She wasn't certain who was taking the lead, but she strongly suspected that they were sleeping with each other. She can have him. Why can't they just leave me alone?

The answer to that, of course, was also reasonably obvious. Because Friedrich wants to have his cake and eat it too. And Goodman's not complaining, so long as she gets a piece of him as well.

He was in the ER, checking on one of the new patients, when she found him. He noticed her, but finished with the examination before turning toward her. "Yes, Doctor Goldstein?" he asked, handing off his clipboard to a nurse.

"May I speak with you for a moment, Doctor Friedrich?" she asked politely.

"Certainly," he agreed warmly. "Walk with me."

They strolled off down the corridor toward the commissary, for all the world like two medical colleagues conferring over a difficult matter. He was as handsome as ever, she noted clinically. His well-practised charming manner must be making the girls in the bars he attended swoon over him on a daily basis. Because he's not getting much in here.

But that was neither here nor there. "I have a favour to ask you," she said. "A friend of mine on the east coast needs my help for a week or so. I have the vacation days saved up. Can I take the next week or two off?"

"Hmm," he mused thoughtfully. "Possibly difficult to arrange. Other staff are taking their vacations, there are sick days coming up … I'm really not sure we can manage this."

Her lips tightened. "So that's a no?"

He bestowed his most charming smile on her. "Well, you can always come and say pretty please to me sometime. You remember how to do that, don't you?"

She remembered. Dark anger rose in her, but she tamped it down. He's still holding that over my head. Abruptly, she stopped; he moved a few more steps on, then turned back toward her. "Ruth, seriously. I still don't see what your problem is. We're consenting adults. I know you like it."

Me liking it is beyond the point. "If I did that for you, then I would be selling myself to get what I want. And you don't see a problem with that?"

He spread his hands. "We all sell ourselves to get what we want. How is this different?"

Self-respect is what makes it different. But she wasn't going to bring up that argument again. "We're done here. Thanks for your time." Turning, she walked away.

"So that's it? No negotiation?" He was following her, now.

She didn't look at him. "I told you what I wanted. Your price is too high. We're done here."

This time, he let her walk away. It was probably a good thing; she was seething inside, partly at him and partly at her own stubborn pride that would not let her make that compromise.

God damn it.

-ooo-​

That Evening

With a sigh, Aster picked up the phone and dialled. And I wonder why my phone bill's so high.

The phone was picked up after just two rings. "Hello, Nina speaking."

"Neens. Hi. How's our mystery girl?"

"Oh, hi, Arjee. Yeah, it went just like you said. Nobody knows nuthin'. But we got a surname for her."

"Really? What is it?" Hebert, Hebert, Hebert …

"Snow."

Aster's thoughts came to a screeching halt. "Uh, Snow?"

"Yeah. Like, frozen water. Bit of an odd name, but it suits her."

"Huh. Okay." I have no idea where she got that one from.

"Were you expecting a different surname? It sounds like you were."

"I … can I take the Fifth on that?"

"Boy, this is gonna be one doozy of an explanation, I can tell. So anyway, I found her a place to stay for the moment."

"Not with you?"

"Haha, nope. You've never met Sally or Rose, have you?"

"Um, nope."

"They're a couple. If Taylor moved in, it would be a race to see who made moves on her first."

"Oh. Right." God, that could be a disaster. "So where's she staying? Someone you can trust, I hope?"

"Yeah, actually. People I know in Brockton Bay. A guy I know called George Hebert. He's the captain of the boat I was on, his boy's the one who pulled her out of the water."

Aster froze again. "Uh, how old is his boy?"

"About twenty, I think. Why? You got a thing for heroes? 'Cause I watched this kid jump into stormy waters to pull her to safety. They don't come much more heroic."

"No … I'm fine … just … wow." Holy shit, that's gotta be her father. This could get really, really complicated. And I can't even tell her not to let them get involved.

"Okay then. Um, listen, I don't want to cut you off or anything, but it's late and I'd like to be up early. Can we talk another time?"

"Oh, sorry. I keep forgetting the time difference."

"Well, when you get out here, we can catch up face to face."

Aster grimaced. "Uh, yeah, that's kinda what I was calling about."

"Why does that sound ominous?"

A sigh. "Because my boss who's also my ex is still holding a grudge, and he won't let me take a couple of weeks off. I can get vacation days off, but I can't string them together."

"Well. Fuck."

"On the upside, I'm pulling in lots of overtime. So I'll send you money to reimburse you and the Heberts for any expenses. Okay?"

"I'd like to say no, I'm fine, but … yeah, thanks. Appreciated."

"Hey, you're doing me the big favour here."

"And trust me, you're gonna be repaying in full someday." But there was a smile in her voice as she said it.

"Count on it. Bye, Neens."

"Bye, Arjee."

Aster put the phone down. I can't help Nina, except financially. She's on her own with Taylor. But maybe I can help myself. Picking up the phone book, she began looking through it. There was a number she needed to find.

-ooo-​

Friday, 27 October 1989

"Doctor Friedrich? Can I have a word, please?"

Henry looked around at Ruth. She had taken care with her appearance today, more than she normally did. There was a touch more makeup on her face, bringing out her eyes nicely, and she was wearing an attractive hairband.

"Why, Doctor Goldstein. You're looking ravishing today," he noted. "Special occasion?"

"Oh, nothing in particular," she replied with a smile. It had been some time since she had smiled at him, and he wondered what was going on. "I just … I need to ask a favour."

"Well, then, shall we walk?" he offered.

They strolled off down the corridor, side by side. He could not help but notice the subtle tension in her posture. "So what's the favour?" he asked, when she didn't speak.

"It's my friend on the east coast," she began. "She really, desperately needs my help. I need three weeks off. I have the vacation days. I just need you to sign off on me taking them all at once."

"I see." Henry smiled. She's finally coming around. "Well, there should be no problem with that. Just so long as you're willing to say pretty please to me first."

She turned to look at him, deadpan. "Pretty please."

Playing hard to get, I see. "No, not like that."

She looked just a little puzzled. "I'm not sure what you mean, Doctor Friedrich."

He glanced around. "Not out here." There was a storeroom nearby; he opened the door and ushered her inside.

She watched, apparently slightly apprehensive, as he locked the door from the inside. There's playing hard to get, but this is getting irritating. "Back when we were seeing each other. That sort of pretty please."

"But we're not seeing each other now," she pointed out.

"And?" he countered.

"Uh … Couldn't you just, you know, let me have the vacation days? Please?"

He had the power now, and knew it. "I'm sorry, Ruth, but there's a price to be paid. If you don't do what I want, I can guarantee that you'll never get all that time off at once."

A sigh. "What exactly do I need to do?"

That's more like it. His smile widened. Up until her change of heart, Ruth had been the most compliant of his recent conquests. Now it looked like she was coming around. I've been looking forward to this. "Well, to start with …"

-ooo-​

Aster worked at keeping her expression level while he related his requirements to her. They were very detailed, not to mention … explicit. Some were things she was already familiar with, while others … okay, wow. Just wow. I never knew he was into that.

Overall, it took him a little under two minutes to explain what he wanted from her.

-ooo-​

"... with your feet."

She blinked. That's a mental image that I wish I could forget. Barf.

He was looking at her expectantly. "Well?"

"Well what?" she asked.

"The sooner you begin, the sooner I sign off on your vacation days," he prompted. "I have half an hour free." He began to unbutton his lab coat.

She shook her head. "But I don't. I've got patients to get back to." Turning, she moved toward the storeroom door.

He put a hand on her arm, stopping her. "Where do you think you're going?"

"This was a bad idea," she said. "I'm going back to my patients. Please let go of my arm, Doctor Friedrich."

"It's the only way you're going to get what you want," he prompted.

She pulled her arm free; he let her. After opening the door, she glanced back. "You won't change your mind?"

"Not unless you change yours first," he replied with a grin.

She pretended to hesitate for a long moment, then stepped out through the doorway.

"Wait!" he called out from behind her. "You can't just leave me hanging!"

"I'm sorry," she replied over her shoulder. "I have to think about this."

As she walked off down the corridor, she reached into her pocket and pressed STOP on the minicassette recorder that resided there.

-ooo-​

Saturday, 28 October 1989
Los Angeles Offices of the American Medical Association

"I have to think about this."

Dan Sullivan was thirty-nine, married, with two daughters. One was starting college just that year. He liked to think of himself as a reasonable man, but the demands that had been made of the woman before him, by her boss of all people, made him want to punch something. Or someone.

If someone tried that on one of my girls, I'd feed him his feet.

The click as the recording ended roused him from his thoughts. He glanced up from the pad where he'd been jotting notes. Doctor Goldstein was still sitting there, as composed as ever.

"Well," he said heavily at last. "That was … definitive."

She nodded. "Yes."

"One thing I have to ask you," he noted. "Doctor Friedrich mentioned a relationship between the two of you. Is it still ongoing?"

"No." She shook her head very positively. "We were engaged in a physical relationship, but I ended it two weeks before I was due to start work. I found out what sort of a man he was, and what he really thought of me. So I broke up with him."

He frowned. "He got you the job, yes?" For which we're going to have to have a little talk with Doctor Friedrich, on top of everything else. Favouritism like that is a big no-no.

She coloured. "I'm qualified for it," she replied, a little defensively. Oh? Feeling guilty for jumping the queue? "I'm a good surgeon. Ask anyone."

"If you weren't, this would be an entirely different conversation. My point is that once you broke up with him, I'm surprised you managed to retain the position."

"I didn't want it!" she burst out.

His eyebrows shot up. "Wait. Despite the fact that you broke up with him, and you didn't want the job any more, he didn't fire you, or even just let you go?" In Dan's experience – not personal, thankfully – both parties to a breakup like that usually couldn't wait to get as far from one another as possible. The fact that Friedrich hadn't done this was … odd.

"I tried to get out of the contract," she explained. "They invoked the penalty clause. Which I couldn't afford to pay off."

"'They'?"

"Doctor Friedrich and Director Goodman. I got the very distinct impression that they wanted me to stay. Or at least, Doctor Friedrich wanted me to stay, and Director Goodman backed him up."

"So you stayed."

She shrugged. "I didn't have much of a choice. I mean, it's not like I was under involuntary servitude; they were paying me, after all. It's just that I didn't want to be in the same hospital as him. Or have him as my boss. Which turned out to be justified. However, he hasn't seen it that way. Each time I've requested vacation days, that's the demand he's made of me."

"Which you've been unwilling to carry out." It wasn't a question.

"Well, yes." She spread her hands. "I don't like the man. I don't want to be near him. Can you blame me?"

"Hmm." He frowned. "Well, you've done the right thing. We don't need this sort of thing happening in our hospitals. Can I get a copy of that tape?"

"Keep this one," the surgeon replied briskly, popping the minicassette from the player and putting it on the desk. "I've already copied it."

For the first time, Sullivan smiled. "You really do have all your ducks in a row, don't you?"

She tilted her head in acknowledgement. "I try."

He took the tape; she retrieved her player from the desk.

"You do realise that it will take a little time to get an investigation under way," he advised her. "We have to get all of our ducks in a row as well. Don't do or say anything that might arouse his suspicions."

She nodded. "I understand. Just so long as you do something."

"Oh, trust me," he told her. "With evidence like this, our investigators can definitely do more than 'something'."

"Good."

They shook hands before she left his office.

This is a big one, he decided, looking over his notes. Time to pass this on to the CEJA.

The Council on Ethical and Judicial Affairs, Sullivan knew, looked very poorly on matters such as this.

-ooo-​

Thursday, 17 November 1989
Director Goodman's Office

"What the hell have you done, Goldstein?"

Aster had seen Director Goodman pleased, irritated and triumphant. She'd never seen the Director actually angry. The statuesque brunette was standing up behind her desk, glaring at Aster.

"I -"

Goodman cut her off. "I've had AMA investigators going through my private life. Through Doctor Friedrich's private life. Asking questions about his conduct with the nurses! With the other female staff! And all because of you!"

Aster composed herself, waiting for the Director to finish. After a moment or so, Goodman seemed to realise this. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I never wanted to work here. You know that." It was the first thing that came to mind.

"But that's no excuse for ruining the life, the career, of a damn fine surgeon!" The Director's voice rose to a shout.

"No. It's not." Aster's agreement took the Director aback. "But I didn't do this to Doctor Friedrich. He did it to himself. He chose to keep me here when I just wanted to leave. He wouldn't sign off on giving me any sort of substantial vacation time unless I slept with him. And everything he ever did with the nurses? I didn't make that up. He actually did that."

"You could have come to me. We could have talked about it!"

Aster's voice was firm. "I did come to you. You referred me to Doctor Friedrich."

Goodman's voice rose to a shout once more. "You didn't have to go over my head!"

"I'm sorry, Director, but I felt that I wasn't being treated fairly here. I had no other choice."

"Well, I feel that I have no choice as well. You won't be working at this hospital any longer than I can help it."

Aster tilted her head. "Are you firing me for exposing a colleague's wrongdoing?"

"No." Goodman bit the word off sharply. "We're recognising that you're unhappy here, and we're paying out your contract in full."

"Without reference to the penalty clause."

If Goodman compressed her lips any harder, they might disappear altogether. "Without, as you say, reference to the penalty clause."

"And all unused vacation and sick days paid out in full."

Despite her own powers, Aster was lucky that the Director wasn't a parahuman, because the look on the older woman's face should have incinerated her on the spot. "Agreed."

"Thank you, Director." Aster didn't quite smile, although she felt like dancing on the spot. I'm finally getting out of here!

"The paperwork will be drawn up and mailed to you," Goodman told her venomously. "You leave today. I don't want you in my hospital for one moment longer than necessary."

"The feeling is mutual." Aster paused. "But do me a favour, and don't make any mistakes on the paperwork?" She took her minicassette recorder from her pocket. "This conversation, and your agreement, has been recorded." As the Director's eyes widened, she nodded politely. "Good day, Director."

Slipping out through the door, she closed it just before something heavy – probably the marble paperweight from the Director's desk – crashed into the wall.

I'm now unemployed, but that was so worth it.

-ooo-​

Aster let herself in through the front door of her apartment. I can't believe it's finally over. I'm done with Friedrich forever. Whatever he's got coming to him, he deserves it. I think I'm going to have a drink. A big one. I've earned it. Then I'm going to call up Nina and tell her the good news. And Darlene, too.

Locking the door behind her, Aster continued on through the living room to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, she took out a carton of juice and drank from it, enjoying the fresh taste running down her throat. There are perks to living alone. Such as drinking from the carton.

And then, just as she was starting to reach for the bottle of wine she had stashed at the back of the fridge, she heard the voice behind her.

-ooo-​

Contessa

Step seventeen: Say "Hello, Aster. We need to talk."

Contessa had been certain that the woman's name was Ruth, but it definitely looked as though the name meant something to her. Or perhaps that was always how she reacted to a stranger in her apartment. She straightened up and came around fast, fists clenched. A glow seemed to build up around them in the dim apartment, almost matched by her eyes, which had become orbs of swirling silver and red. An odour of burned metal came to Contessa's nostrils.

Step eighteen: say the following words.

-ooo-​

Aster

"Who are you?" demanded Aster. "What are you doing in my apartment?"

She felt her power surge along with her anger; trickles of steel collected in each hand, and she could feel her eyes filling with the metal as well. Oddly enough, she could still see, although her vision had shifted to shades of heat. Everywhere under her skin, she felt molten steel welling to the surface, trying to break through, to annihilate her enemies. But before she could take the last irrevocable step, the woman in the business suit spoke quietly.

"Brockton Bay. Nineteen eighty-nine. Find Weaver. She knows how to save the world. Help her. Do not use your powers."

Pure stunned surprise broke Aster out of the anger; she stopped, trying to process what she had just heard. " … what?" she asked, even as her vision faded back to normal. "Where did you …"

-ooo-​

Contessa

That was … interesting. She's definitely a parahuman. A powerful one, if I'm any judge.

Step nineteen: Three words. Smile. Twenty-three words. Tilt the head. Twelve words.

"... hear those words?" Contessa smiled. "You would be surprised. I am a friend, Aster. Our goals are one and the same. We both want to save the world." She tilted her head fractionally. "Can we talk now, or do you still want to incinerate me?"

Aster breathed heavily; the scent of burned metal was no longer detectable on her breath. "I don't want to incinerate you. But I would like to know what this is all about. And I notice that you haven't given me your name yet."

Step twenty: suggest a cup of tea.

-ooo-​

Aster

Tea was a good idea. Contessa, as she had introduced herself, sat composedly at the kitchen table while Aster went through the motions of making the beverage. The dribbles of steel that had leaked from her palms had since hardened, so she surreptitiously discarded them in the trash can.

Carrying the teapot and cups to the table, she sat down opposite … well, she supposed that Contessa was effectively her guest. "So why did you break into my apartment?" she asked. "Was it just to meet me? Because you could have made an appointment."

"Here and now was the best place and time to meet you," Contessa replied, taking the teapot and pouring the beverage into Aster's cup. Then she added a precise amount of milk before completing it with two lumps of sugar. Gently, she replaced it on the saucer and slid it Aster's way.

Aster blinked, then stirred her tea and sipped at it. It was perfect; just the way she liked it.

"All right," she ventured. "Should I be asking how you managed to do that?"

Contessa smiled slightly. "You already know the answer."

She was right; Aster was merely asking for confirmation. "You're a parahuman, like me." It wasn't something she could deny either.

"Correct." Contessa took a cookie from the jar on the table and nibbled on it.

"So I'm a parahuman. You wanted to meet with me, why exactly? I'm sure I'm not all that special."

The smile she got from Contessa was one that she'd gotten from one of her professors at university; You and I both know better than that.

"You've had powers literally longer than anyone else on Earth," Contessa pointed out. "But that's not why I'm here. I'm here because of Weaver."

A chill snaked down Aster's spine. This woman knows way too much. "What about Weaver?"

"She's … problematic. I can't influence her in a particular direction, because if I try, she will do something different." There was the distinct sound of irritation in Contessa's voice. "She is, of course, of considerable interest to me, and thus to my home organisation."

Aster made a stab in the dark. "Because she knows how to save the world?"

"The person who gave you those instructions thought she did. He may well be right."

"Well, good." Aster spread her hands. "I'll be going to Brockton Bay just as soon as I can finish up here. I'll be making contact with her -"

"No." Contessa's voice, though quiet, brought her up short.

"Why not?" Aster frowned. "I was sent back to -"

"Find Weaver and help her," Contessa completed. "She is currently undergoing a process of toughening her mind and body. At the moment, she thinks that she is the sole traveller from your time; this gives her impetus to ever improve her edge and refine her focus. When the time is right, you should reveal yourself, but not before then. In the meantime, you can help her from a distance, and we can help you keep track of her."

"And of course, whoever you're working with can quite possibly make use of the capabilities of a powerful as-yet-unknown parahuman, correct?" Aster smiled, sipping at her tea. Saw that coming.

Contessa chuckled. "Why, yes. I suppose we could."

"Just so you know, I reserve the right to veto any use of my power that I consider unethical." Aster searched Contessa's face for a reaction.

The only one she got was a slight smile. "Entirely fair."

"Good. And I suppose you'll be training me up. I'm going to need to be on top of my form when we go against Behemoth." If I can even go against him. That scary SOB killed everyone I cared about, and I owe him him for that. And if bowing his ass away and saving the world isn't righteous, I don't know what is.

Gradually, she became aware that Contessa was looking at her, teacup poised in midair. "What?"

"I beg your pardon," Contessa said slowly, obviously thinking out each word in advance, "but who or what is Behemoth?"

-ooo-​

Cauldron Base
Some Other Earth
Later

Contessa hadn't wanted an office, but they gave one to her anyway. There was by far enough room in the base for one to be set aside for her needs. It held a desk and a chair, and was even more Spartan than Doctor Mother's.

She made use of it now, leaning back in the comfortable swivel chair, swinging from side to side as she wrestled with the problem.

At some point in the future, no less than three creatures of truly monstrous capabilities would inflict themselves on the world. Aster hadn't been able to give her much in the way of details, such as when or where these things were due to appear, but she had told Contessa what she recalled of their powers.

The body count was bad enough; Aster had mentioned something about entire islands being sunk, with millions of people dead. But what terrified Contessa the most was that she could not see it. She could not formulate a Path to deal with even one Endbringer – as Aster referred to them – let alone three. Because her powers were blind to them.

How do I deal with something like this?

And who do I tell?

It wasn't an idle question. Aster thought that Weaver held the key to defeating the Endbringers – Behemoth most of all – and saving the world. She did not yet know about Scion; Contessa had held off from telling her that little bit of bad news.

Any Path she formulated that involved telling Alexandria or Doctor Mother about Behemoth and his fellow Endbringers usually ended up in her having to convince that person not to have Weaver, or Aster, or both, hauled in and interrogated. Because this was the kicker: Contessa was the only one who knew that both Aster and Weaver were time travellers.

Left alone, Weaver seemed to be working toward something. If she were to be interfered with, then her plans – whatever they were – might be derailed. And if she knew how to save the world, where nobody in Cauldron did, that could be disastrous.

The conclusion was as inescapable as it was distasteful. I tell nobody. I let Alexandria keep thinking that Weaver is merely a highly talented normal.

When she finds out, she'll be very unhappy with me. But I think it's better than the alternative.

-ooo-​

Saturday Afternoon, 26 November 1989
Brockton Bay

Nina frowned as she heard the knock on the door. Greg was coming around to take her out to the movies, but he wasn't due for a couple of hours. Getting up off the sofa, she went to the door and peered through the peephole.

A moment later, she opened the door wide; with a squeal of joy, she wrapped her arms around her best friend, doing her best to lift Ruth into the air. She found it harder than she expected, but that didn't bother her.

"Arjee! Wow! This is so unexpected! Come on in!" she blurted. "Wait, are those suitcases?"

"Uh, yeah," Ruth replied. "I'm moving to Brockton Bay."

"Awesome! When?"

"Now. I am literally moving to Brockton Bay now."

Nina blinked. "Uh, wow. Kinda sudden. Come on in, come in."

"Thanks." Ruth picked up the cases and brought them inside, then flopped on to the sofa, apparently exhausted.

Nina subsided on to the cushions beside her. "Damn, I can't believe that you're actually here." She paused as a thought struck her. "Wait, what about the overbearing boss who's also your ex?"

Ruth smiled slightly. "Still my ex, no longer my boss. I got let go when I kinda called the AMA on his sleazier practices. Last I heard, people with badges were asking him some very pointed questions."

"Good. But wait, that's not fair." Nina frowned. "They fired you for that?"

"Officially, no. They realised that I didn't want to be there and paid out my contract."

Nina snorted cynically. "And unofficially?"

Ruth's smile was wry. "Out on my ass, never darken our door again, et cetera. They didn't want it to seem that way, so I got a severance payment, all my unused holiday pay, and so forth. But hell yes, I was fired. And therein also lies the bad news."

"I'm not seeing it," Nina said cautiously. "What's the bad news about all that?"

A sigh. "I made a few phone calls and set up interviews with hospitals in the area, both here and Boston. Heck, I even checked with Portland."

Nina was getting a bad feeling. "And?"

Ruth chuckled. It wasn't particularly humorous. "They were enthusiastic, right up until they began to ask around. But it appears that, despite the best of intentions, a whistle-blower is remarkably unpopular among potential employers. Every single interview has been cancelled before I even got to show up."

"Oh, that sucks." Nina leaned over and gave her a companionable squeeze across the shoulders. "But at least you're finally here."

"Yes," Ruth agreed. "How's Taylor going?"

Nina rolled her eyes. "She doesn't believe in making life easy for anyone. First day of school, she nearly got suspended for fighting."

"Fighting?"

"Yeah, a bullying situation. Three other girls picking on someone she'd befriended, and she kind of beat the crap out of them. All at once."

Ruth got a speculative look on her face. "That's … interesting." She didn't sound particularly surprised. "So what happened?"

Nina snorted. "What happened is that Principal Woodbine suggested that she take up JROTC to deal with her spare aggression. Not only did Taylor and her friend take it up, but apparently they're excelling at it."

"I'm sorry, JROTC is …?"

"Ah. Sorry. Junior Reserve Officers Training Corps. Sort of pre-pre-military training for high school students. Once they hit college, they can go into ROTC, which is the same thing, only more full on. Which is a direct gateway into the military."

"Do you think that's where she's aiming to go, once she leaves college?" asked Ruth.

Nina laughed out loud. "If that's where she wants to go, then that's where she'll go. That girl is driven." She tilted her head slightly, looking at Ruth sideways. "Kind of reminds me of you, just a little bit, when we were younger. Before you grew up and mellowed out."

-ooo-​

Aster wasn't quite sure how to take this. Sure, she'd always had a purpose in mind, but it wasn't as though she didn't have years to complete it. "I guess?" she ventured.

Nina grinned at her. "So, when do you want to come around and meet her? I haven't told her about you yet, but I think she'll be thrilled to meet you."

"Um." Aster grimaced. How do I say this? "I'm thinking … maybe I should leave it for the moment. Stay at arms' length just for a bit longer."

That got her a disbelieving stare. "What the fuck? Arjee, seriously? I go through all of this, take care of her for you, and now you don't even want to say hello? What is it between you, anyway? What in God's name is going on?"

Aster sighed. "God's got nothing to do with it, Neens. But if you want to know what's going on … I can tell you. Some of it. Not all. And not here."

"Okay, where?" Nina stood up from the couch. "And why not here?"

"Because I don't want to chance anyone overhearing us." Aster stood up as well. "We need someplace where we can talk in private."

After a moment, Nina nodded. "I know where we can go."

-ooo-​

There was a notice posted regarding proposed improvements to the observation platform, but Aster thought that the view from the top of Captain's Hill was just fine the way it was. She climbed out of Nina's car and looked around, inhaling the cool breeze with appreciation. "It's nice up here."

"It's also a place where we can talk," Nina pointed out. "Nobody comes up here very much."

"Good." Aster walked over to where the observation platform jutted out over the drop and leaned on the rail. "What I'm about to tell you goes nowhere. You don't tell anyone. Not your mom, not your boyfriend, not Taylor."

Her serious tone was lost on Nina. "Hello?" her friend retorted. "Psychologist, here. I already know about confidentiality. So spill. What's the big deal?"

Aster took a deep breath. "I'm a time traveller from the future." Nina stared at her for so long that she began to feel self-conscious. "What?"

"Mff." Nina covered her mouth with her hand. "Phmmph. Mmmm. Mmmmha. Hahahaha!"

Feeling obscurely insulted, Aster watched as Nina sat down at a picnic table, laughing helplessly. She took a seat opposite her friend, then decided that they wouldn't be able to get any talking done until Nina got it out of her system. So she waited patiently as the laughter turned into chuckles.

"Finished?" she asked sweetly, once Nina had wiped her eyes.

"Heh, yeah. That was a good one." Nina grinned at her. "Got any more?"

Aster tried to frown at her. "It wasn't a joke. I really am a time traveller."

Nina rolled her eyes. "Seriously? I've known you since you started studying medicine. I met your folks more than once. I saw the photos they've got up of you. I've seen your baby photos. You're not a time traveller. Not unless you were about one year old when it happened."

This time, Aster just gave Nina a level stare. At first, Nina looked back at her, slightly puzzled. Then her eyes widened. "Oh, no way."

"Yes way. Dad and his partner found me on the front seat of his police cruiser in 'sixty-one. They only stepped away to get coffees, and nobody came close to the car in that time. Apparently, they got a real roasting over the fact that someone left a baby in the vehicle and nobody saw a thing."

"Doesn't mean a thing," protested Nina. "You could've just been left there. Doesn't prove you're a time traveller. Unless you had, I dunno, a raygun or something else from the future with you."

"No, no rayguns." Aster tapped her head. "You know how I don't forget stuff? I can remember the future. I can remember things that happened just before I was sent back here."

"You can remember what happened when you were one?" Nina shook her head sceptically. "Memory doesn't work that way, Arjee. I should know. I studied this stuff."

"Powers do, though." Aster nodded seriously. "I have a power that lets me remember everything I ever experienced, perfectly."

"Wait, wait." Nina frowned. "You've had this power how long?"

"I triggered just before I was sent back in time. So, since I was one."

"No, see, that's impossible," Nina protested. "The youngest parahumans I've ever heard of are about eleven or twelve. You don't get powers younger than that. And it's usually older."

"Not if you're a second generation cape," Aster pointed out. "They tend to trigger a lot more easily. And third generation is easier still."

"'Cape'. You mean parahuman, right?" Nina seemed to be having trouble taking this in.

"Yeah. Cape, parahuman, same thing, sort of." At least, Aster thought that was the way it worked.

"Right, right. So let me get this straight. Kids of parahumans trigger more easily?"

"That's the way it works. I remember my mom saying that I was third generation, which is probably why I got my powers so young."

"Wait, your parents are in on this?" Nina was looking more flabbergasted by the second.

"No, no. I meant my mom from before." Aster grimaced. "I'm pretty sure she died."

"So … your mom, from … before … she was a parahuman, a cape, as well?"

"Yes." Aster shrugged. "Someone told me she was a hero."

"And you got powers from … well, from her?"

Aster shrugged again. "I … guess?"

"So, what was she, some kind of mind-master or something? Able to remember anything?"

"No." She paused, unsure. "Well, I don't think she had a power like that. What I do recall seeing of her powers was a lot brighter and more flashy."

"Well, come on, show me," Nina urged. "Don't just talk about it. Do it."

"I try not to use my powers, as a rule," Aster told her flatly. "I was told not to."

"Who by?"

"The guy who sent me back here."

"And who was that?" Nina's eyes were intensely interested.

Aster frowned. "I … actually don't know. He was Indian, I think, from the way he spoke. English was not his first language. He was wearing ornate robes, but he was kind of messed about, like he'd been through a lot. He told me … well, this is what he said to me. 'Brockton Bay. Nineteen eighty-nine. Find Weaver. She knows how to save the world. Help her. Do not use your powers.' Then I was on the front seat of a police cruiser."

"To save the world," Nina repeated. "That's … that's wild." She frowned. "And you've never used your powers?"

"Well, maybe once or twice," Aster admitted. "Just to see what I could do. Way out in the woods, so nobody saw or heard me."

Nina spread her hands. "Well? What happened?"

Aster grimaced. "I nearly set the woods on fire."

"So you have fire powers, then?"

"No. Well, kinda." Aster sighed. "If I show you, will you shut up about them?"

"Sure." Nina nodded, her eyes bright.

"Right." Aster huffed a breath. "Watch carefully. Don't touch. I'm pretty well immune to heat, but you aren't." She held up her left hand, palm cupped. Her right hand she curled into a loose fist, then held over her left. Exerting her power just a little, she poured liquid metal from her right hand into the palm of her left, until it threatened to spill out of her hand.

Nina watched, fascinated. "What is that?"

"Molten steel," Aster replied tersely. "This, right here, is about five thousand degrees Fahrenheit." She stopped the flow from her right hand, then poured the white-hot metal from her left hand back into her right.

"Wow, it's bright," Nina observed, shading her eyes. "And kind of hot, even over here."

"That's the general idea," Aster agreed. "I can eject this stuff at fire-hose quantities and speed, interspersed with what I suspect is plasma." She cupped her hands around the liquid steel, feeling the gentle warmth against her skin. "But fortunately I can control both the quantity and the power of the flow, so I can use it like an oxyacetylene torch or even a thermal lance. And my skin absorbs heat amazingly well."

Nina's eyes were wide by this time; Aster opened her hands to show the dull lump of metal between them. "It's still a bit warm," she warned her friend. "But you can touch it if you want."

Daringly, Nina did just that. "Wow, it's definitely still hot," she agreed, sucking on her fingertip. "And you just … made that?"

"I have no idea where it comes from," Aster confessed. "But there doesn't seem to be a limit on it."

"Okay, wow, you've definitely got powers," Nina conceded. "But I still can't believe you were holding out on me ever since I met you."

Aster shrugged. "I didn't think about them a lot of the time. We had studies and all the rest of it. And there was the thing the guy said. 'Do not use your powers'. It stuck with me."

"Right. Okay." Nina rubbed her chin. "So I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and accept that you're a time traveller from the future. Who's Taylor? What is she to you?"

"Oh, that's easy." Aster smiled. "She's from the same time as me. But she came straight here. No detours."

"So let me get this straight." Nina frowned in concentration. "You were one year old, and you were sent to nineteen sixty-one. You're now twenty-nine. Taylor was what, sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Around that, I think," Aster agreed. "You understand that I never met her in person."

"Yeah, I can see that," grinned Nina. "So she was seventeen, and she came here as a seventeen year old. She started out sixteen years older than you and now she's eleven years younger. There's something weird about that."

"This whole situation is weird, if you haven't lived through it," Aster pointed out.

"True that," sighed Nina. "Okay, now. There's one question that you haven't answered. Why don't you want to make contact with Taylor right now? I mean, you were sent here to help her, right?"

"It's about readiness and attitude," Aster replied slowly. "She knows what she's facing. She knows a lot more about it than I do. So she's preparing herself to face it. If she doesn't know about me, if she thinks that she's got no outside help in this era, she'll push herself harder and dig deeper to make herself ready. If I show up, she may try to lean on me, even unconsciously. So I'm willing to help out financially, but until I think she needs me to be there, I'll be staying in the background."

"And relying on me to be the go-between," Nina finished. She had taken the lump of steel from Aster and was playing hot-potato with it.

Aster grimaced. "If you don't mind?"

Nina merely looked at her, expression set, as she tumbled the lump of steel from one hand to the other and back again. For a long moment, Aster thought she was going to say, Sorry, Arjee, but I just can't manage it. Then Aster caught the mischievous glint in her eye. "Of course I don't mind. But you'll so, so owe me for this."

"I will. I already do." Thank god. I didn't think she'd accept that explanation.

She already felt bad enough for leaving Taylor to her own devices on Contessa's advice. It was logical advice, but leaving a teenage girl alone in a time that she hadn't grown up in? Aster knew that she wouldn't like it, if it was her. I'm just glad that I know my way around. I belong.

"We should start down again. I've got a date tonight." Nina's voice broke her out of her reverie.

"Oh. Shit. Sorry. Let's go, then." Aster led the way back to the car.

Nina unlocked the passenger-side door, then went around to the driver's side. She got in and started the vehicle. "So," she said, as she backed out of the parking bay. "What are you going to do for work?"

Ugh. I can't tell her that I'm going to be doing piece work for a mysterious organisation. "Uh …"

"Being a surgeon's out, right?" Nina headed for the winding road that would eventually take them back into the city. "No hospital will hire you."

"Well, no," agreed Aster. "Of course, it won't be for the obvious reason. They'll just have all good reasons to not touch me with a ten-foot pole."

"Right." Nina negotiated the first turn. "So how about basic medical work? You're GP-qualified, aren't you?"

"I … yes, of course." Aster frowned. "But won't they also have a problem with me?"

Nina grinned. Her teeth were very white. "I know a guy."

-ooo-​

Monday Afternoon, 28 November 1989
Weymouth Mall

He was middle-aged and a little paunchy. But his white lab coat was freshly laundered, his clinic was absolutely spotless, and best of all, his gaze upon her was professionally inquiring rather than personally intrusive. Why no, I don't have any issues about Doctor Friedrich at all. Why do you ask?

"Hello, Miss Goldstein," he greeted Aster, shaking her hand warmly. "It's a pleasure to meet another friend of Edwina's."

Aster held in a smile at that, though it became substantially more difficult at the sight of Nina's sour expression. Very few people used her best friend's given name; it seemed that Doctor Martin French was one of them.

"I'm pleased to meet you too, Doctor," she replied politely. "Nina's said quite a few good things about you."

He frowned ever so slightly. "Why do I get the feeling that I'm being judged somehow?"

"Uh, no, no, I'm the one being judged," Aster said hurriedly. "Nina told me that you're looking for someone to help in the clinic? I'm GP-qualified."

"Oh. Oh!" Doctor French smiled. "Of course. Doctor Ruth Goldstein, hmm? Why does your name sound familiar?"

Aster grimaced. Here we go. "I was in that situation in LA." It had made the papers, in some lurid detail.

"Ah, yes. You uncovered the Friedrich mess. I remember now." He bent a benign gaze upon Aster. "And now you're finding it a little hard to get work, yes?"

"Like, no work anywhere for a fully qualified surgeon," Nina put in. "It's discrimination. That's what it is."

Doctor French looked thoughtful. "I take it that you vouch for her?"

"Hell yes, I vouch for her," Nina declared. "We went through medical school together. She's one of the good ones, Martin."

He smiled faintly, then addressed himself to Aster. "Well, then. I believe that I shall give you a trial run. Let us say, six months? If either of us is dissatisfied at the end of that time, we go our separate ways?"

Aster nodded. "That sounds more than fair, sir."

-ooo-​

Tuesday Afternoon, 9 October, 1990
Doctor French's Clinic

Aster heard the tinkle as the clinic door opened yet again. She glanced up from the paperwork she was completing, and froze.

Taylor Hebert – well, Taylor Snow, in this time and place – was standing there.

She looked so much like the school yearbook photo Aster had stored away in her brain, but then there was something different. The glasses, for one. Taylor Hebert had worn round-lensed glasses that made her eyes look even larger; as Taylor Snow, her glasses had rectangular lenses. Where the photo of Taylor on the news had shown her wearing baggy, nondescript clothing that she could hide in, this Taylor had on well-fitting clothing and walked with confidence. She looked harder and more focused, more than could be explained by the year or so difference between photo and reality. There was also a faint scar on her left cheek that hadn't been there before. I wonder what happened there?

Nina stepped in behind her; her eyes met Aster's for just a moment. The silent message was clear: come on, you can just say hello.

Aster shook her head fractionally. Not right now.

The moment stretched; Nina looked as though she might drag Taylor over anyway. But then Martin emerged from the back of the clinic. "Ah, Taylor. How are you feeling today?"

Taylor tilted her head slightly to the side. "I'm feeling fine, but Nina insisted that I come in for a checkup anyway. After all, it's been almost a year."

I'm going to get up. Go over there. Say hello.

The moment passed. "Come on back," Martin invited the newcomers. "I'll be with you in a moment."

As they went back, the doctor crossed to Aster's desk. "Ruth," he said politely, "would you be able to locate Taylor Snow's medical file for me? Bring it to exam two."

"Certainly, Doctor French." Aster stood up, stretching the kinks out of her back. I didn't even consider that Taylor would have a medical file here. That should make for interesting reading.

-ooo-​

Monday, 27 May, 1991

"Arjee, how's it going?"

"Pretty well, Neens." Aster locked the clinic door behind her, then hugged her best friend. "The workload's a little hectic sometimes, but it's not life and death, you know?"

"But you're still keeping up with your surgical qualifications?"

Aster smiled. "You know it. So, what's the latest with Taylor?"

They started out of the mall, side by side. "Well," Nina began with some relish, "she had her senior prom on the twenty-fifth."

"Wow, already?" Aster frowned. "Shit, time flies."

"Yes, it does." Nina grinned. "But that's not the juicy bit?"

"Let me guess," Aster replied. "She beat someone up."

Nina pouted adorably. "You knew!"

Aster grinned. "I guessed."

"Well, I suppose it's not out of character for her," admitted Nina. "Yeah, that happened. Those girls who she beat up when she first got to Winslow? Yeah, they came back for a return match. With reinforcements."

"Uh, is she all right?" Aster felt her amusement disappear. If Taylor was hurt … She hadn't come by the clinic, but that meant nothing.

"Split knuckles, is all." Nina shrugged. "She used pepper spray, an extendible baton and dirty fighting to take down a good chunk of the opposition. Her friend Gladys, the one who was being bullied? She's apparently learned how to box."

"Oh. Oh, dear." The glee returned. "So they wiped the floor with them?"

"More or less, yes." Nina had a puzzled tone to her voice. "Taylor was a little traumatised after the fact. I'm not sure why. But she seemed to be happy again the next day."

"So who took her to the prom?"

"Oh, young Danny. The boy who jumped into the water to save her."

A cold chill ran down Aster's back. Her father. Dammit.

"Uh … is there any indication that they're a couple?" If so, I have to nip this in the bud now.

Nina chuckled. "Heh. Nope. I actually asked her that, a couple of days in. She shot it down like a wounded duck. She likes the kid, but I'd wager money that they're nothing more than friends." She turned to look at Aster. "Why? Thinking of making moves on him yourself?"

If I protest now, she'll know there's something up. "Eh, couldn't be worse than that jerk Friedrich." She chuckled, showing that she was just joking, and Nina joined in. "God, no. I'm just curious."

Whew. Another bullet dodged.

-ooo-​

Tuesday, 31 December 1991
Aster's Apartment
10:05 PM EDT

"Neens, come right in." She held the door open. "Glad you could make it."

"I'm glad I could, too." Nina entered, then hugged her. "You're looking good."

"So are you." Aster smiled. "I've got to ask. Why are we having this New Year's party at my place? I mean, you've got your own apartment, right?"

"My roomies," explained Nina. "You've met them. Well, they have friends who are pushier than they are."

Aster's eyebrows rose a little. "Oh, boy. And with alcohol flowing …"

"Exactly and precisely." Nina shrugged. "So I let them do their thing, and I have Christmas and New Year's elsewhere."

"So where were you on Christmas?" asked Aster. "You would've been welcome to come over, you know."

"Oh, I went to Taylor's party."

Aster went very still at the mention of Taylor. "She had one?"

"Oh, she had a doozy of a party," Nina said. Aster caught a level of amusement in her tone. What's going on? "Danny came with his girlfriend Anne-Rose. Gladys showed up with her boyfriend Frank. Heck, even Danny's dad showed. And of course, Taylor was there. With her girlfriend." The grin on Nina's face showed that the timing of the last three words had to be deliberate on her part.

"Oh, you have to be kidding me. She's gay?" Aster's upbringing had included no grounding in how to handle such a revelation. Do I offer congratulations? Commiserations? Or do I just ignore the whole situation? She sat down on the sofa.

"Oddly enough, no," Nina replied, sitting beside her. "She's straight. Her girlfriend is gay. I'm not sure how they make it work, but they look happy together. Mind you, the story of how they met is kind of amusing."

"Right. Okay. That's … something to think about. Especially if she's still looking to go into the military."

"Yeah, that could be a problem," Nina conceded, then her expression turned mischievous once more. "Something else that caught my attention. Danny's girl, Anne-Rose? Looks a lot like Taylor. Or vice versa."

Aster knew nothing about Taylor's mother, but this could not be a coincidence. "What are you trying to say?"

"Well …" Nina grinned. "If I believed a certain wild story about time travel, I might suspect that these two young people are perhaps the future parents of another young person. If I was inclined toward wild speculation, that is."

Aster let her eyes roll to the ceiling. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Her tone of voice was dead flat, except for the inflection on the word no.

Nina looked smug. "Right." Aster knew her friend wasn't stupid, and had probably picked up on Aster's concern regarding Danny. After meeting Anne-Rose, it wouldn't have taken long to connect the dots.

The book Aster had been reading slid off the sofa arm and landed on Nina's lap. She picked it up. "An Urdu phrasebook?"

"Uh, yeah." Aster shrugged. "Why not, right?"

"Where's that even spoken? I didn't even know it was a real language."

"Pakistan," Aster replied immediately. Before Nina could probe further, she went on. "So did anything else of note happen at the party?"

"Well, Taylor did get me into a private situation so that she could tell me something," revealed Nina. "So when she started talking about how she'd been lying all this time, I kind of 'guessed' that she was a time traveller. You should've seen the look on her girlfriend's face."

"I'm not surprised, you cheating cheater," Aster accused her. She paused. "Wait, she told her girlfriend? How did she seem to be taking it?"

"Rather well, actually," Nina admitted. "From what I could see, she supports Taylor one hundred percent in what she's doing."

"Hm. Good." Aster ran back through the conversation. "Do you have any idea why Taylor told you?"

Nina frowned. "Not sure. Maybe I haven't been as subtle as I should've been. She might have decided I was on the verge of figuring it out anyway."

"Do you know if she told anyone else?"

"She didn't say. But I don't think she'd spread it around willy-nilly."

"Good." Aster eyed her sidelong. "I still think you're a cheater for pretending to have figured it out."

Nina grinned. "So worth it, though."

Aster threw a cushion at her.

End of Part 5-7

Part 5-8​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 5-8: (Aster's Story, Part Four) Meeting at Last​

October 1992
Brockton Bay

"Something's up."

Aster turned to look at Nina, as they both leaned their elbows on the Boardwalk safety rail. "Something?"

"Yeah, something." Nina stared out to sea. "Taylor's doubled down on her studies. From what I can see, she's trying to graduate by Christmas."

Aster blinked. Even for me, with no chance of forgetting anything, that would be a bit of a feat. "Any idea why?"

Nina sighed. "No. Every time I ask her, she just says 'trouble coming' and refuses to elaborate any farther."

"Well, she's right about that," Aster agreed. "I didn't think it would be coming this soon, that's all."

"You don't remember anything else about what's going to happen?" prompted Nina.

Aster chuckled. "I was a baby. We're lucky I paid attention to anything other than feeding time and nap time. I know a little bit about what was going on – mainly from TV, when my brother was babysitting me and I was still awake – but I'm still missing huge chunks of context."

"Maybe you and Taylor should meet," hinted Nina. "Fill in some of that context."

Aster frowned. "Does it look like she's about to burn out or hit her limits?" Because then I can tell Contessa that I've got no choice but to make contact.

"Well …" Nina hesitated. "She's actually doing a lot better than I expected. Her girlfriend is silly and ditzy as hell, but she's helping Taylor keep it together. Maybe because she refuses to take anything seriously."

"And they're still in a physical relationship?" Aster had trouble getting her head around that.

Nina shrugged. With her elbows on the rail, this had the effect of making her body move up and down. "It seems to work for them. I'm just glad she's got a relationship. Otherwise, she'd be a total fucking mess."

"And that's your professional opinion?" Aster was amused.

"Paraphrasing, but yes."

"Right." Aster didn't comment any further. She hadn't been in a relationship since Friedrich, and she wasn't sure that she wanted one. Instead, she changed the subject. "So what do you think is going on? What's she preparing for?"

Nina's tone was frustrated. "You tell me and we'll both know."

-ooo-​

Sunday, 13 December 1992
Somewhere in Africa

The stream of plasma and molten steel leaped from Aster's hand and impacted the concrete wall, eating its way through like live steam through a block of ice. She tried not to be hit by the splatter; not that it could hurt her, but she didn't need her clothing going up in smoke. Even if it was just a basic bodysuit and mask supplied by Contessa. Powers and modesty don't necessarily go hand in -

Gunfire erupted from behind her, accompanied by several thumps on her back, as if someone had prodded her repeatedly. She stopped attacking the bunker, and turned to find a dozen of the warlord's guards, pointing automatic rifles at her. Damn it. I totally didn't notice them. If I wasn't basically bulletproof right now, that could've gone really badly. Her back smarted, but the semi-molten steel beneath the surface of her skin had absorbed the impacts.

She eyed them as they goggled at her, then the bravest of them began to raise his gun once more. Damn it. I know that they're not good people, but I don't want to just kill them out of hand. Besides, I have to get into this bunker. Grimacing, she raised her hands and began to channel molten metal into them once more. They began to glow ominously; half of the men backed off, then bolted. Come on, you idiots. Take the hint.

Pushing down the urge to just annihilate them all, she tightened her focus to a pencil-thick stream of high temperature metal and carved a line in the dirt before the remainder, offering both a challenge and a warning. They looked down at the trickle of molten steel lying in the blackened dirt, then back up at her. She let herself smile coldly. Boo. One of them said something out loud and bolted. The rest weren't long in following.

Turning, she resumed carving her way into the warlord's bunker. When the hole was big enough, she stepped through, ignoring the still-glowing edges. Inside was mayhem. Her stream of liquid steel had damaged the far wall quite badly, leaving streamers and pools of metal on the floor. Fortunately, the few guards in here, some alive and some quite possibly dead, hadn't been hit by any of it. Aster was able to read the scene fairly well, having seen more than a few of them much like it. Contessa was here.

One door was open; she stepped through and followed a corridor that led to steps down. At the bottom of the staircase was another open door. She stepped through, entering a cramped room. Contessa was here, as were five men. Three of these, obviously guards, were unconscious or dead. The other two were merely very frightened.

The other thing in the room that got her attention was a strange device built on to a framework in the middle of the room; Contessa was studying it intently. About half the size of a car engine, it was surrounded by a blue field of some sort. It looked as though it had been cobbled together with string and baling wire, and parts from a mechanic's reject bin. Aster nodded to herself; she'd seen things like this before, since starting to work for Contessa. That's a Tinker built device.

"Ah, you're here." Contessa didn't turn around. "This is a bomb. It was built for our warlord friend here, by a Tinker he coerced into his service. Very brutally." The glance she spared for the richly-dressed man on the floor was enough to make him cringe away from her.

"I can see several problems with that scenario already," Aster agreed mildly.

Contessa's smile was fleeting. "Yes. A Tinker with nothing to lose is someone you don't want working for you. This bomb was supposed to be delivered to the warlord's enemies. But the Tinker activated it, just before they shot him in the back of the head, and now they can't come close to it without setting it off. This would destroy a large chunk of Africa, and thus endanger the rest of the world. We can't let that happen."

Since Aster had begun working with Contessa, she had been exposed to a great many strange things. Tinkertech was nothing new to her, now. This had all the signs. "And I'm assuming that they didn't put an off switch on it?"

"Tinkers." It was almost a swear-word.

"Right." Aster eyed the device. "I'm afraid that I don't know anything about bomb disposal."

"That's not a problem." Contessa pointed at the device, careful to keep her hand outside of the blue field. "About six inches behind that dial is a wire. If severed, this causes the bomb to go inert. The trouble is doing it quickly enough."

Aster didn't even question how Contessa knew that. "Consider it done." The carefully-aimed inch-wide stream of five-thousand-degree metal and plasma leaped out, punching through the field and striking the dial. It vaporised instantly, as did everything behind it, including a chunk of floor on the other side of the room. The blue field faded. Aster cut off the stream.

Contessa tilted her head. "Nicely done." Aster couldn't help smiling; a word of praise from the enigmatic woman was like a medal from anyone else. "You just saved the world. Again."

"Pretty sure you would've managed without me," Aster pointed out.

"Yes." Contessa wasn't one to beat about the bush. "But it would have been more time-consuming. Also, the distraction you provided was very helpful."

"Well, glad to be of assistance. Do you need me any more?"

"No. You can go home now, if you want."

"Okay." Aster paused. "Just out of curiosity, what does this mean?" She recited the words that the guard had spoken before fleeing.

Contessa's eyes twinkled with amusement. "'Fuck this, I'm not paid enough for this shit.' Where did you hear that?"

"Upstairs, one of the guards." I should really pay more attention to the African languages. And then something else occurred to Aster. "Uh … one more thing. Weaver's going to be graduating by Christmas. I think that means something's about to happen. I just don't know what."

Contessa paused for a long moment. "Thank you. I'll see what I can find out."

-ooo-​

Aster stepped out of the shower and began to towel herself down. Before she was even halfway through, her phone began to ring. Pulling on a bathrobe, she hurried out into the living room and snatched up the handset. "Hello?"

"Arjee?" It was Nina. But it was a Nina she'd never heard before. Her voice was jagged, broken.

"Neens, what's wrong? Are you all right? What's happened?"

"Arjee, turn on the TV. Channel six. Do it now."

Frowning, Aster picked up the remote and clicked the TV on. The set took a few moments to warm up, so she turned her attention back to the phone. "Neens, what's happening? What do you want me to look at?"

"You'll see." There was a hiccup. Oh shit, she's upset and drunk. Whatever it is, it's bad.

When she clicked on to channel six, she did indeed see. Behemoth. The monster had emerged from the Marun Field in Iran, and was wreaking havoc there. Slowly, she sat down on the sofa.

"Arjee, you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here." Aster didn't want to look at the TV, but neither did she want to look away. Behemoth killed my mom and my brother, and was trying to kill me. And now he's here. In the same time as me.

This is why Taylor was pushing so hard. She knew this was going to happen.

"What is that thing, Arjee? What the hell is it?"

Aster took a deep breath. "He's called Behemoth. If we're going to save the world, we have to kill him." She decided not to tell Nina about Leviathan and the Simurgh just yet. One horrific revelation at a time.

"How the hell are you going to do that?"

Aster didn't often swear, but this seemed like an appropriate time. "I have absolutely no fucking idea."

-ooo-​

Monday, 15 December 1992

"Well, at least now we know why Weaver was pushing so hard."

Contessa nodded, taking a cookie from the jar. "You might wish to get ready as well."

Aster frowned. "You're going to have to fill that in for those of us that don't have an eye on the future."

The dark-haired woman chuckled dryly. "All right. I suggest that you give Doctor French your notice."

"What, quit my job?"

Contessa nodded seriously. "You're going to want to be free by about mid-January."

It didn't even occur to Aster to question this. "I hate to do this to him." And she did. Martin was a good boss, and she considered him to be a good friend as well. They worked well together.

"Doing this will let you be in position to help Weaver when she needs it."

It wasn't in Aster's nature to be world-weary or cynical, but she was learning. "Could you perhaps be any more cryptic?"

"Not much more, no." Contessa's tone was bland, but Aster decided that she had to be laughing, just a little.

"Is it related to Behemoth?"

That got her a very bland look, which Aster deciphered without trouble to mean 'yes'. She sighed. "Okay, fine. But I still hate to do it."

"I have to do many things that I hate," Contessa observed unexpectedly. "If it all turns out well in the end, then it was worth it. I have to believe that."

Aster frowned. "I'm not a fan of 'end justifies the means'. There are some lines that people just shouldn't step over. I remember someone saying that, just before I came to this time."

Contessa gave her a searching look. "Did you want to terminate our arrangement?"

"No." Aster shook her head. "I'm still on board with it. I just … want to make sure that I don't end up doing something unethical."

"I'll do my best to ensure that," Contessa told her.

"Thank you." Aster grimaced. "I don't even know what I'm going to tell Martin. I've actually enjoyed working with him."

"You'll think of something." Contessa picked up a magazine from the table. "Popular Mechanics?"

"It's quite interesting," Aster said. "Especially the articles on different types of engines and cars."

"I see." Contessa's voice was dry. Aster sneaked a glance at her to see if she was smiling. She wasn't, at least not visibly. But that didn't mean anything at all.

Worry intruded. What am I going to tell Martin?

-ooo-​

Thursday, 18 December 1992
Doctor French's Clinic

"Here you go, Ruth. Still hot."

Aster looked up as Martin put the packet down on her desk. The tempting odour of freshly-cooked pastry wafted past her nostrils, making her mouth water.

"Thank you," she said automatically.

"It's not a problem," he assured her. "I like having you around, so a little bribery never goes amiss." His eyes twinkled, showing that he was joking.

Unfortunately, this only made her feel worse. "Um. About that. Can we talk?"

Catching on to her tone, he sobered immediately. "Certainly. What seems to be the matter?"

She took a deep breath. Rip the bandage off in one go. It'll hurt less that way. "I, uh, I have to give notice. That I'm quitting."

The shock and pain in his eyes cut her to the quick. Whoever said that was an idiot. "Uh … quitting?" His voice matched his expression. "I mean … is it something that I have said or done?"

Hastily, she shook her head. "God, no. You've been the best boss ever. I'll always remember working here with you." I can't exactly forget it. Or the dirty trick that I'm playing on you now.

He frowned. "Then … is it the money? I mean … I don't have much room in the budget, but I can see my way clear to advancing you a little extra pay, if you need it."

And he would, too. "No, no, it's nothing like that." She reached out and took his hands. "It's not about you, or this job. I've really appreciated working with you, and I love this clinic. But … I need to move on. There's something else I need to do, and I can't do it while working here. I'm really, really sorry."

"What is it?" he asked. "What is it that you need to do?" He frowned. "Is it to do with that monster on the news, whatever they're calling it?"

She couldn't tell him what she needed to do, because she didn't know yet herself. But Contessa had given her the hint, and so she was going to follow it through. Because helping Taylor was her end goal. And if Contessa said that this was the way to do it, then this was what she would do. No matter how much it twisted a knife in her own guts.

"In a way," she conceded. I can't tell him the whole truth, but I owe him too much to lie. "I'm kind of having to re-evaluate my life after seeing that."

"I can understand that," he agreed. "I don't know where I'll get another assistant like you, but I won't keep you where you don't want to be."

Unexpectedly, she found herself standing and hugging him. He chuckled a little, from surprise as much as anything else, and patted her on the back. God damn it. Why did he have to go and say that? Now I want to stay more than ever.

When she let him go, he quite diplomatically did not mention the tears running down her face; instead, he offered her a box of tissues from the desk. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then faced up to him bravely. "I'm sorry. That was unprofessional of me."

Chuckling gently, he shook his head. "My dear Ruth, you've earned it. If you need to leave, then of course you can leave. When were you thinking of actually finishing?"

That was where Aster was having the trouble. "Uh … how about two months, or whenever you manage to get in another assistant, whichever happens first?"

He nodded seriously. "That sounds fair. I will start the search immediately. But I strongly suspect that it will be almost impossible to find a replacement of your calibre."

Aster felt bad all over again. "I'm sorry. I really am."

"These things happen." He paused, and his face took on a serious expression. "Of course, you do realise that just because your employment with me is coming to an end, this is not an excuse to slacken off."

She stared at him with shock for just a moment, before she caught the twinkle in his eye. "Oh … you. Seriously? Slacken off?"

"No, not seriously." He patted her on the shoulder. "Enjoy your lunch. I need to go and write a letter of reference."

"Thank you." He would write a good one, she knew. Martin French was the sort of man who would refrain from writing a reference if he couldn't say anything good about someone.

"Whatever for?" Martin strolled off toward his office, whistling off-key. Normally it would have irritated her, but she found herself listening, taking it in. I'm going to miss it. I'm going to miss him.

Now, if only she had some clue as to what Contessa needed her to do.

-ooo-​

25 December, 1992
Aster's Apartment

"Have you heard?"

Aster turned to face Nina. "Heard what?"

"They're forming a government body to oversee parahumans. To organise them in case that thing, the Behemoth, attacks anywhere else."

Context clicked into place for Aster then. She nodded. "The Parahuman Response Teams, yes." So that's when they were established, and why.

"Uh, yeah." Nina looked slightly miffed, as though she had been looking forward to surprising Aster with the news. "When did you hear about it?"

Oh, thirty-one years ago and nineteen years in the future. "Oh, somewhere around the place."

"Ruth." Nina's voice was severe. "I can tell when you're lying. You know that."

"Funny." Aster's voice was teasing. "You missed my biggest secret for ten whole years."

Nina ignored the jab. "But you're not telling the truth right now, are you?"

Aster conceded the point with a smile. "True. I knew of them from back where I came from, but I never knew exactly when they were formed. Now I do."

"Ah. Gotcha." Nina frowned slightly. "Another thing. Martin says you're quitting. Why is that? I thought you liked it there."

At that moment, the final piece clicked into place and she saw the full picture. "I do. But Taylor is going to be joining the PRT. So I will be, too. So I can keep an eye on her."

Nina looked startled. "Taylor, in the PRT?" She paused. "Okay, yes, I can see that. I can really see that. Her subjects, even … wow, she'll blitz the entrance qualifications."

"Possibly her aim all along," Aster suggested dryly.

Nina didn't disagree. "Actually, that would explain why she pushed for early graduation. She knew that the Behemoth would attack, which would cause the PRT to be formed, and she wanted to be ready."

"Do you blame her?" I just hope that I'm ready.

"Well, no." Nina eyed her speculatively. "Mind you, I just don't see you as a soldier."

Aster grinned. "That's why I won't be applying as a soldier."

-ooo-​

Friday, 22 January 1993
Brockton Bay College

This is not the most exciting job in the world.

Parahuman Response Teams recruiting sergeant George McCarthy leaned back in his chair. Contrary to his superiors' expectations, the College was not the fertile recruitment ground that he had been led to believe. That one girl with her two friends was the most promising recruit that he'd seen yet; if she didn't hit the officer track running, he would be surprised.

But that had been two days ago and since then, all he'd gotten were a few people reading the literature and taking away recruitment forms. He had little hope of any sort of return there. Plus, he'd read all the pamphlets, twice, and had taken to rearranging them on the table every hour in the hope that it looked like he was doing something.

I might have to requisition a coffee machine or something, just so that I can stay awake.

"Excuse me?"

His eyelids, which had just begun to drift shut, sprang open. Jolting to his feet, he almost saluted before registering that it was just another walk-up and not an officer doing a readiness check. I would have failed, badly.

"Good afternoon, ladies," he greeted them, as his heart rate reduced to merely racing. "How can I help you?"

These were older than the usual run of college students, he saw at once. The blonde was pretty with a strong jaw, while the brunette was reasonably cute. He figured them to be in their early thirties. Maybe they're staff here? Neither one seemed to show a high level of fitness; he didn't rate their chances of completing Boot very high. But I'm not here to judge. I'm here to recruit.

"Uh, yes," the blonde replied. "I'd like to join the PRT, if I may."

George blinked. He didn't often get the abbreviated version. Most people still sounded out the whole name, or perhaps called it the 'Response Teams' or the 'Teams'. "Uh, yes, certainly, ma'am." He picked up a form and handed it to her. "And you, ma'am?" Maybe I can get a twofer.

"Hell, no," chuckled the cute brunette. "I'm just here to watch the show."

"Excuse me," the blonde interjected after glancing the form over, "but I'm going to need a form that gives me the option to join as a medical specialist."

She barely even looked at it. Wow. "Uh, medical specialist, ma'am?"

"Yes, sergeant," the blonde replied, a slight tinge of asperity entering her tone. "I happen to be a fully qualified general surgeon. I would imagine the PRT could possibly use someone like that?"

Holy shit, I don't often get a recruit, but when I get 'em, I get 'em. "Uh, yes, ma'am, I can state that yes, we can most definitely use someone like that. Just one second, please?" Don't let this one get away … don't let this one get away …

Turning, he rummaged around until he located the specialist recruitment forms. "Here you go, ma'am. And here's a pen."

"Thank you, sergeant." She favoured him with a smile, then set to work filling out the form. He was struck by the fact that she didn't hesitate even once, filling out the details as fast as the pen could move.

"So, boring job?" That was the brunette.

"On occasion, ma'am," he replied honestly. "But once in a while someone comes along that makes it worth it."

"Trust me, I know exactly what you mean," she replied with a grin. "I'm a psychologist in my day job."

"You do know that the Parahuman Response Teams needs people in that line of work too, ma'am," he prompted her.

Her chuckle was warm and friendly. "I do understand that, but I'm going to have to decline, sergeant. I'm happy where I am."

"Done," the blonde reported. "And here's my paperwork."

Shit, that was fast. George accepted the completed form, the pen and the other stack of papers. "Thank you, ma'am."

She nodded politely. "You're welcome, sergeant. I hope you get more recruits."

He watched her walk away. She's not as intense as the Snow girl, but if she's a full-on surgeon, then they're gonna grab her with both hands.

It occurred to him that medics were given officer ranks, so that they could legally give orders to the soldiers they were treating. Huh. Two recruits, two officers. What are the odds?

I just hope she makes it through the physical.

-ooo-​

February 1993

"Come on, Goldilocks! Hut hut hut hut!"

Oh, god. What was I thinking?

Panting, Aster staggered along the rough dirt path between obstacles. The drill sergeant wasn't right next to her, but his voice gave her the distinct impression that he was. Her muscles were burning, the breath rasped in her lungs, and she wanted to throw up. But she was damned if she would.

Somehow, it had escaped her notice that even medics had to reach a certain level of physical fitness in the PRT. I suppose it will help if we ever have to run away from something. Not everyone was holding up as well as she was, although it would be stretching it to say that she was holding up 'well'. Three of the other specialists in her course had already dropped out. She suspected that they would not be the last.

She was almost at the next obstacle – a wall with ropes – when she spotted the foot sticking out of the undergrowth. Turning aside, she pulled the camouflage cover off of the first-aid dummy and dropped to her knees beside it. Going through the motions of checking pulse and breathing, as the drill stood by watching, she then gave the dummy thirty seconds of CPR. It wasn't easy – she needed all the oxygen she could get – but she managed it.

"Good," snapped the sergeant. "Come on, up you get. You're on the clock, Goldilocks."

I wish they'd picked some other nickname for me. But she was stuck with it for the duration. Staggering to her feet, she headed for the wall. The analytical side of her mind had already mapped it out, locating footholds. Grabbing the rope, feeling the tough fibres biting into her hands, she grimly began to haul herself upward.

Visions of letting loose, of blasting the obstacle into burning splinters, entertained her, but she kept her power in check. I'll finish this course the hard way. Because I have to.

-ooo-​

"Aim!"

Aster aimed the rifle.

"Fire!"

She squeezed the trigger. The rifle jolted against her already-sore shoulder; but she had factored that in. The first five shots had allowed her to zero in on exactly how to hold the weapon, where to hold the sights, and how gently to pull the trigger. The bullet punched through the target one inch to the left and half an inch low, precisely where she had aimed for.

"Weapons down!"

The range instructor walked over to the targets. It wasn't a long walk; they weren't being tested very stringently. Specialists didn't have to match up to the training of regular grunts.

It didn't take him long to examine the targets, then he walked back to the row of specialist recruits. "Listen up!" he called out. "Your aim is appalling! Your scores are execrable! I can only hope that your actual specialist skills are worth it, because you're not worth a damn as soldiers!"

Aster let the voice roll over her. Drill sergeants, she was quickly learning, were ever ready to insult soldiers, to force them to make that extra effort. In her case, it was wasted; she only needed to be shown once. Disassembling and reassembling any firearm was just like a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle; once she had seen her rifle taken apart for the first time, she could have put it back together in the dark with ease. Of course, she didn't show that she could do this; it might raise questions.

Likewise, once she learned the specific series of conditions required for putting a bullet through the bullseye, she could replicate them every time, given her perfect memory. But once more, she was choosing not to do that. Showing unusual talent was the way to draw unwanted attention, and all she wanted was to be seen as a perfectly normal specialist.

If they're watching me, then I can't watch Taylor.

And watching out for Taylor was what she was there for.

-ooo-​

Monday, 20 September 1993
Parahuman Response Teams SE
Miami, FL

Paperwork, it seemed, was still paperwork whether one was in the military or not. Some things never change. Aster signed one sheet, put it in her out-box, then turned to the next one. At that moment, there was a knock on her office door.

"Enter!" she called. The door opened; a corporal with the armband marking him out as an orderly stepped into the office, came to attention, and saluted. He held a stack of paper and a clipboard in his left hand. "Major Goldstein, ma'am."

Aster returned the salute. "Yes, corporal?"

"Your copy of the Snow Protocols, ma'am." The orderly stepped forward and handed over a few stapled pages.

"The 'Snow' Protocols, corporal?" What the heck has Taylor done now?

"Yes, ma'am." He came to attention and recited as if by rote. "They outline how to determine if someone is under the influence of a mind-controlling parahuman, and how to detect if a parahuman is impersonating someone important. One of our analysts up in Chicago came up with them, ma'am."

She blinked. "Well, then. I shall read them at once. Thank you, that will be all."

"Uh, ma'am, if you can just sign here to show that you've received them?" He offered the clipboard; she dashed off her signature. "Thank you, ma'am."

Once he was gone, she picked up the pages and ran her eyes over them. The protocols were easy to understand, concise, and efficiently set out. There may have been loopholes in them, but she couldn't find any. Well, Taylor, you have been busy. Good for you.

As she went back to work, she smiled slightly to herself. Snow Protocols, indeed. And I bet that's just the start.

-ooo-​

Tuesday, 18 January 1994
Washington DC
The White House
First Anniversary of the Formation of the PRT

Aster managed to prevent herself from gawking like a tourist at the palatial building, but it was a near thing. She managed to keep herself grounded by observing the officers around her, matching faces to names. I never thought I'd be in the military, much less an officer. But I do have to say, they live well.

The meal in the State Dining Room had gone well; Aster already knew how to eat in polite company, and the small portions had helped settle her nerves. The wine was also to her taste; it suited the meal perfectly, and she had managed to finish her glass before the meal was over.

She was reasonably sure that she had also spotted Taylor from across the room; while the younger woman's hair was much shorter, the shape of her face was the same. Aster had chosen to keep her hair at shoulder-length, but it seemed that Taylor had gone for the close-trimmed look. It was different, but in a way it suited her. Another striking difference was the PRT dress uniform she wore, sporting a few carefully-polished medals. That suits her too. She wears it with pride.

As Aster left the dining room, she tried to keep sight of Taylor, but people got in the way. By the time the blockage cleared, the slender girl was nowhere in sight. Maybe she's gone back to the Green Room.

The door to that room was still open, so she strolled in. She'd been wrong; there was nobody there. Still, it was a beautiful room, and Taylor wasn't going anywhere in a hurry, so Aster strolled about the perimeter of the room, admiring the paintings. She was standing, hands clasped behind her back, admiring the portrait of Franklin over the fireplace, when a voice spoke behind her.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

She knew the voice, of course. It took all of her willpower to turn slowly. "Director Costa-Brown," she said. "Yes, I was rather admiring it."

Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown. As an infant, she had watched uncomprehending as talking heads on TV discussed the retirement of the Chief Director, and what this meant for the PRT, especially with all the dirty laundry that was being aired.

Of course, this was not something she was going to reveal to anyone, for several reasons. If she could help it, she would not even reveal the fact that she knew anything of this to Costa-Brown. Under the radar. I need to stay under the radar.

"Is something bothering you, Major Goldstein? You seem uneasy."

Aster steadied herself. I lasted months with Friedrich breathing down my neck. I can bluff my way through this. "Well, aren't you, Chief Director? We're in the White House." She let some of the wonder that she'd been feeling earlier fill her voice. "Everything here is so far above my pay grade, I can't even begin to imagine it."

Costa-Brown's lips curved in a brief smile. "Well put, Major. You're the surgeon, are you not? Ruth Goldstein?"

Aster smiled easily. "I am indeed, ma'am. I presume you've read my file." She's read everyone's file.

It was Costa-Brown's turn to smile. "You presume correctly, Major." A slight tilt of her head. "However, you represent something of an enigma to me."

She wouldn't be so casual if she actually knew something damaging. At least, I hope not. "An enigma, ma'am?"

"Yes." The Director's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why does a surgeon who is perfectly capable of making a good living in the private sector choose to join the PRT? The pay is less, the hours are potentially longer, and the chance of being exposed to danger is not insignificant."

Aster chuckled. "Ma'am, I'm assuming you've never worked trauma in Los Angeles. There's danger aplenty there as well."

"Understood, Doctor Goldstein," Costa-Brown replied. "But it still does not answer my question."

"My apologies." Aster composed her features. "I fell afoul of a Doctor Henry Friedrich. Perhaps you've heard of him."

"I believe I've heard the name in passing," the Chief Director admitted. "A scandal attached to a Los Angeles hospital?"

"I was in the middle of that," Aster clarified. "To cut a long story short, he didn't know how to take 'no' for an answer, and he wouldn't let me out of my contract. So the first moment I was able to get damaging evidence on him, I presented it to the AMA."

"Which does not explain why you are now working for us," Costa-Brown pointed out.

"It seems that the medical profession does not appreciate a whistle-blower," Aster said. "I was unable to find work, for what appeared to be entirely valid reasons, at any of the hospitals to which I applied. So I found work as a general practitioner until the PRT was formed. They, at least, do not bow to the opinions of others when it comes to hiring surgeons."

"I should think not," the Chief Director replied. "We were lucky to get the medics that we did. To be brutally honest, I'm less concerned with your reasons for joining than with the possibility that you might find it not to your liking."

"I'm actually finding it quite refreshing," Aster told her candidly. "The chain of command is clear-cut, as is the procedure to be taken if I feel that I am being victimised. Which, as you might imagine, is somewhat of a factor for me. Once bitten, and all that."

"I can see how it might be," agreed Costa-Brown. "The money is less of an issue for you?"

"Money is good, but I prefer to have a job that I like," Aster said. "In this job, I get to help people and make sure that the doctors under me are doing their jobs properly. That's kind of important to me."

"Good." The Chief Director smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. "I'm pleased to hear that. Carry on, Major." She turned and strode from the room, moving with an air of confidence that Aster wished she could emulate.

After examining a few more of the paintings – masterpieces all, which came as no surprise to her – Aster exited the room, still on the lookout for Taylor. Perhaps she's in the East Room, waiting for the ball to start.

Aster strolled in that direction, but quickly realised that such was the crowd, she probably wouldn't be able to see Taylor even if she was there. In any case, what's likely to happen to her here, in the White House? I should really be relaxing and enjoying myself.

The music started, and people began to dance. She sat out the first one, then a handsome captain boldly asked her for a turn on the floor. With a smile, she graciously accepted. Having seen the steps, she knew them perfectly, of course; it was fun to get up and glide over the parquet flooring under the nominal guidance of her partner.

Several dances on, she saw Taylor enter on the arm of an older Major. She recalled immediately that they had been in close company earlier, and that both wore the Intelligence flash. Probably her boss, then. He squired her on to the floor; she went willingly enough, despite her obvious self-consciousness amid a sea of brass.

It was while she was resting between dances that she saw the tall Lieutenant on the perimeter of the crowd. Like her, he was watching Taylor as she moved around the floor with her superior. Unlike her, he didn't seem to be aware that he wasn't the only one with an interest in the young analyst. I don't like the way he's looking at her. It reminded her altogether too much of the way that Friedrich had looked at her, once upon a time. Well then, let's see what I can do about that.

Moving through the crowd, she fetched up alongside the almost skeletally thin junior officer. "Excuse me," she said, "but may I have this dance?"

He turned toward her; she would have bet that he was already forming the words of a refusal. But when he saw her, or more specifically her rank insignia, he hesitated for a long moment. She fancied that she could see the wheels turning over in his head; how does a Lieutenant refuse a Major a dance?

The correct answer was, of course, 'he does not'. "Uh, yes, of course, Major," he replied politely. "Thank you."

"The pleasure is all mine," she murmured. "So tell me about yourself, Lieutenant." His name, she now saw, was Calvert. Taking his arm, she guided him on to the floor in a gap between two other dancers.

It was obvious that he wanted to keep tabs on Taylor. Unfortunately, his dancing skills were mediocre at best; he wanted to lead, but had trouble keeping up with the beat. So without consulting him, she took over the lead, pushing him into the subordinate role.

With a little more prodding, as they moved about the floor, she managed to get him talking. He was a naturally proud man, she gauged, with a high degree of self-interest. His first name was Thomas, and he was strongly considering moving over to the Striker teams. She let him think that she was impressed, although her distaste for him increased each time he spoke. Every time he began to look for Taylor, she distracted him with another question about himself.

Whatever he has planned for her, I'm sure it's not good.

She managed to manoeuvre him so that they were on the far side of the dance floor to the door when the music ended; looking over his shoulder, she saw Taylor stepping off the dance floor, then looking around. It appeared that Taylor was aware of the interest that the gangly lieutenant had in her for when she caught sight of him, she looked right at him for a long moment, while he looked in the wrong direction for her. Good.

Taylor stepped into the crowd and disappeared, leaving Calvert none the wiser. My work here is done. Leaving the lieutenant to his own devices, she went to get a drink, which she carried out of the East Room.

Once more, Taylor wasn't there, but the man that Aster presumed to be her boss was. He was older than her by a few decades, with an almost totally bald head and a neatly-trimmed white moustache. As she neared him, she saw from the name-tag that his name was Hamilton.

"Good evening, Major," she greeted him.

"Good evening, Major," he replied with grave courtesy. "Are you enjoying the celebrations?"

"To be honest," she replied, "it's fun for a while, but I'd much rather be checking on patients."

"I feel much the same," he agreed. "Except that I'd rather be cross-checking reports."

They shared a knowing look; each knew the other's speciality, of course, so that the comments were almost superfluous. She sipped at her drink as they spoke of minor matters; if the cold spell would hold, where the next PRT base would be opened, and so on.

By the time her cup was almost empty, she was looking up at the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling of the Cross Hall. "I have to say -" she began.

"Excuse me, but -" he said at the same moment. There was an awkward pause.

"You go first," he offered gallantly.

"Thank you," she replied with a smile. "I was just going to say, those chandeliers are gorgeous. In fact, the whole place is. I'm scared to move too close to the wall in case I accidentally scratch the wallpaper."

He chuckled. "I know how you feel. I'm not used to gatherings in surroundings like these."

"You and me both. You were going to say something?"

"Mere idle curiosity." He made a throwaway gesture. "I was going to ask if you were a certain someone who was in the news a few years ago, but it's really none of my business."

With an effort, she restrained herself from grimacing. No. It's really not. "My name is Ruth Goldstein, yes. I was in that mess in Los Angeles, yes. I consider it to be well behind me, so if we could leave it there, I would appreciate it."

He inclined his head in what was almost a bow. "I apologise for the lack of tact, my dear. Please, consider the matter closed."

"Thank you," she murmured.

She was about to go on, when a corporal with a signals flash on his lapel trotted up. "Major Hamilton, sir," he called out. "Urgent message for you."

Hamilton went from courteous gentleman to Intelligence officer in the space of a heartbeat. "If you'll excuse me, Major?"

"Of course, Major," she replied immediately.

He went to meet the corporal, taking a folded slip of paper from the young man's hand. When he read it, his entire attitude changed. Turning back to her, he spoke crisply. "I must apologise. I have to go."

"I understand," she assured him. "Kick ass. Take names."

A smile spread the moustache. "I don't need their names."

Turning, he hustled away down the Cross Hall. As he neared the entrance to the Blue Room, she saw Taylor emerge. Hamilton spoke briefly with the analyst, and they both left via the Entrance Hall.

Well, she mused. That was interesting.

-ooo-​

Tuesday, 4 April 1994
Miami
Aster's Apartment

"I myself will be speaking to them, probably at some length. So if you'll excuse me." On the screen, Taylor handed off the microphone to an older man with close-cut greying hair and moved off; the camera followed her for a moment. When the man began speaking, it swung back to him.

"And that's Captain Taylor Snow, ladies and gentlemen …"

Aster used the remote to turn the TV off and leaned back in her chair. Holy. Shit.. She'd had an idea that Taylor was really good at what she did. There were a few rumours going around, if one knew who to ask. But that right there … I don't know if I could've done shooting like that.

Closing her eyes, she let the action run past her mind's eye again. The look on Taylor's face was … almost calm. She wasn't the slightest bit intimidated, even by the fact that she was facing a notorious supervillain and his armed minions. I wouldn't want to go up against her.

But I can't wait to meet her.

-ooo-​

Friday, 10 June 1994
PRT SE, Miami FL

Aster looked at the Post-it note. It hadn't been there five minutes ago, when she went to get a cup of coffee from the machine down the hall. Her office door had been in her field of view all that time. And yet, when she returned, there it was on her computer monitor. Bright yellow, with six digits and two words on it.

104532
SAY YES

She glanced at her desk clock. It showed 10:44, with the seconds ticking over into the fifties. Reaching out, she plucked the note from her computer and crumpled it in her hand. She let her eyes drift back to the clock. It ticked over to 10:45 and the seconds kept on going. At 10:45:20, she heard familiar footsteps in the hallway. At 10:45:32, Director Tanner leaned in through the door.

"Yes, Director?" she asked.

"I've just gotten off the phone with Director Walsh, in Austin," he told her. "He's putting together an op with a high likelihood of injured personnel, both PRT and civilian. He asked me if I could spare any of my medical staff for the aftermath. Would you like to volunteer?"

She thought of the note in her hand. "Yes," she replied at once.

He blinked, as though he had expected her to ask questions. "Right then. Get what you need. Transport leaves for the airport in an hour. Wheels up in ninety minutes. Got it?"

She nodded. "Got it, sir."

"Good." He paused. "Take care. Don't get hurt."

"I'll do my best, sir."

Turning, he trod away down the corridor. She frowned, considering. Contessa left that note. Chances are, Taylor's involved. She needs my help.

Calling up her power, she let the heat leak through the skin of her palm without quite allowing any metal to trickle through. It wasn't easy, but she was getting the trick of it. The paper incinerated in an instant, with just a puff of smoke from her closed hand. She dusted her hands together over the trash can, then went to get ready.

-ooo-​

Saturday, 11 June 1994
Compound near Waco, TX

The radio in the aid station crackled. "All units, all units. Female parahuman, metal controller, code name Metal Storm, is a PRT asset. I say again, do not attack the girl who's covered in steel. Over."

Aster fidgeted, wishing she could do something. There was nothing she could do. The aid station had been set up (behind barricades, so that those in the compound could not snipe at it), the tables had been laid out, antiseptics and anaesthetic ready to be used. There was even a hand-held X-ray scanner; she'd heard that it had been built by Hero.

A few casualties had come back before the chopper was shot down; her heart had plummeted to her shoes in a similar fashion when she saw that. But she believed that Taylor was alive. She had to believe it. She didn't survive everything she's gone up against before, just to die like that.

That small part of her which was always logical pointed out the flaw in her argument. She ignored it.

Since the assault had started, more men had been coming back to the aid station. Some had been shot, while others showed severe burns. The cape that shot down the chopper did this. A dull rage built inside her; she wanted to find that cape and match him, heat for heat. See how he likes a few burns.

But I have to be a medic, a surgeon. I have to help Taylor.

The shooting, already sporadic, began to peter out altogether. There was a single, dull explosion. Flash-bang grenade, Aster mentally supplied. One more shot. Then another. Then silence.

Aster waited, gritting her teeth. Taylor's in there somewhere. Come on, come on.

"Doctor Goldstein?" It was a nurse at her elbow.

"Yes, Frances?"

"I went to get some whole blood, and I could only find a little."

Aster blinked. "Did you try the second cooler trailer on the left?" That was what had been set aside for it, anyway.

Frances nodded. "That's where I looked. We've got about a dozen units."

Aster didn't bother asking, are you sure? Instead, she frowned. "How about blood expanders?"

"We've got about the same for that, and that's it."

"You've got to be -" Aster didn't bother finishing that. Frances obviously wasn't kidding. "Major Holden!" She turned, looking for the officer in charge of the aid station. However, just as she caught his attention, the radio crackled to life.

"All clear, sector three."

"All clear, sector five."

"Armoury has been secured."

And then, the one they'd all been waiting for. "Fire Team Charlie Actual calling Fire Base One. Objective achieved. Six, I say again, six hostages secured. Casualties, I say again, casualties. Medical assistance required urgentmost. Do you copy, over?"

After a long moment, another voice spoke up. "Message received, Fire Team Charlie Actual. Medvac incoming alpha-sierra-alpha-papa. Hold tight. Fire Base One, out."

"Fire Team Charlie Actual, that's a roger. Out."

Major Holden cupped his hands around his mouth. "Medvac teams Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, move out! Ambulances will convey you to the compound! You will meet up with support there, and move in! Move-move-move!"

Aster took a step forward. "Major Holden! I need- !" I need to find Taylor before it's too late. I need to find more blood expanders and whole blood. I need to find out who screwed up and kick their asses.

Holden looked at her. "Sorry, Goldstein. That's a negative. Prep for surgery. It sounds like you're going to be busy." Then he was gone, trotting from the aid station in the wake of the medvac teams. Engines roared as the ambulances bumped away over the uneven ground toward the compound. Aster took a deep breath to steady herself, and turned to her surgery teams. "All right, people. You heard. Get ready. We're likely to be overwhelmed in just a few minutes, so if there's anything you've got to do, do it right now."

Moving among the tables, she kept talking. "We've all trained for this. We can do it. I worked trauma in Los Angeles, and I survived that. We can survive this."

While her words didn't altogether dissipate the tension in the tent, people did seem to relax just a bit.

She took a deep breath. "Also. Someone screwed up. We're way low on both whole blood and blood expanders. So we're gonna have to stretch it out. Don't use it unless you absolutely have to, folks." Turning to Frances, she went on more quietly. "Go through every vehicle, every trailer. Find me some more blood. I don't care if it's some officer's private medical stash, bring it here."

Nodding, her eyes wide, Frances turned and dashed out of the aid station.

Aster washed her hands, slowly and carefully. Normally, as a part of her pre-op ritual, this helped to relax her. Unfortunately, her own tension was ratcheted so high that she could feel it humming in her bones. But she didn't let it show, instead allowing a nurse to glove her up. She turned toward the aid station doors as the first ambulance screeched to a halt outside.

Freshly gloved and gowned, she couldn't go outside; the chance of becoming contaminated by dust, smoke or any other airborne particulate was too high. Orderlies flooded out in her stead, medics moving among them, assessing the injuries.

The first gurneys rattled in through the doors, bearing people stained with blood and dirt; some were groaning while others lay ominously still. Aster watched them as they came in; her perfect recall allowed her to pick each one in turn and reject them, one after the other. Not Taylor, not Taylor, not Taylor …

And then, a gurney entered with one soldier lying on it, cradling another. A third strode alongside, arguing loudly with the medic while holding a precious blood bag high. Aster looked more closely. The soldier alongside the gurney was female and brunette, but too heavy-set to be Taylor. On the gurney, one soldier was male, and big enough to make two of Aster. But the other …

… the other was Taylor Snow.

Aster was moving forward even as her brain confirmed that. "Excuse me," she interjected. "What's going on here?"

The medic, a Captain Rosario, indicated Taylor's hunched body. "This one's too badly hurt. We'll never save her. Morphine and let her go."

"No!" That was the soldier alongside the gurney. Her hand moved toward her slung rifle, but then dropped away again. Aster thought she looked vaguely familiar. At the same time, the man holding Taylor tried to sit up.

"No," he grunted. "Save her."

"She's losing too much blood. There's a catastrophic impaling trauma," Rosario snapped. "We can't do it."

"Captain, go deal with the other wounded," Aster told him. Before I punch you. "I'll take care of this."

"Yes, ma'am," Rosario said. He made his escape, and Aster turned to the others. "I'm Doctor Goldstein. Bring her this way."

"You're not going to just abandon her?" asked the female soldier. Aster sorted through her visual snapshots of the woman and found the nametag. Piggot. Well, now. Isn't that a coincidence.

"No, Lieutenant Piggot," she replied firmly. "I'm not. But first, we have to find out how bad this is."

"Doctor!" Aster looked around. The blood bag that Piggot was holding was almost empty.

"Damn." She wasn't sure how many more she could scrounge. "What blood type is she?"

"AB." That was the man on the gurney. "Universal recipient."

"Good. That might just save her life. Lieutenant Piggot, how do you feel about giving blood?"

"Yes." That was all the lieutenant said; Aster felt a rush of warmth toward her.

"Me too." That was the wounded man on the gurney.

"You're hurt." The words came out automatically.

"I'm not bleeding. I can spare the blood. She can't." His tone was firm.

Aster didn't argue any further; looking around, she caught an orderly's eye. "Orderly!" He came trotting over to her almost immediately.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Transfusion kit, stat. Two sets. Make that three. And bring back a nurse."

He didn't question her orders. "Yes, ma'am." He disappeared into the swirling pandemonium once more. God, I love being able to give orders like that. And have them obeyed.

Aster turned to the three soldiers. "This way." She led to the table where the X-ray apparatus had been set up. Rosario was there, setting up a patient. She gestured. "Off. We need that."

"Uh, we need it," protested Rosario. "This man's got a bullet in his thigh, and we need to find out how close to his femoral artery it is."

Stepping up, Aster got right in his face. "Will your patient die if he doesn't get X-rayed right now, Captain?"

He hesitated for a long moment. " … no."

"Well, mine will. I need that table."

Another hesitation. "Yes, ma'am." He gestured; orderlies lifted his patient back on to a gurney. But the look he gave her warned her that she'd better be right about this. Well, duh.

Between them, she and Lieutenant Piggot managed to get Taylor on to the table, without disturbing her too much. The field dressing over her lower abdomen was already red and wet with blood, with more soaking through all the time. She was still breathing, but her pulse was weak.

As Aster began to run the handset over Taylor, she watched the screen. Behind her, the orderly arrived at a run. "Transfusion kits, ma'am!"

"Good," she said over her shoulder. "Nurse?"

"Yes, doctor?" It was another voice; young and female.

"Set up transfusions between the sergeant and the lieutenant into the captain."

"What, both at once?" The shock in the nurse's voice was plain. Aster turned to look at her. "Uh, I mean, yes, ma'am."

"Good." Aster went back to the handset, but the picture was plain. There was a piece of metal of some sort, daggered into Taylor's body via a wound in the lower left abdomen. How she hadn't lost a vital organ, Aster would never know, but right now her life hung on a thread. And dumping more blood into her would only slow down the collapse.

I can't fix this. Pulling that metal out would kill her. Operating to get it out will probably kill her. Leaving it in will definitely kill her.

Drawing a deep breath, she tried to centre herself. I'm here to help Taylor. I've got to help her. Stop focusing on what I can't do, and work out what I can do.

Her eyes snapped into focus. The image on the screen had been metal. Specifically, a strut from the crashed helicopter. I know how to get it out.

"Hold on," she told them. "I'll be right back."

Hustling over to the radio, she picked up the mic. Switching it over to public-address, she began to speak.

-ooo-​

Kari

"How are your hands?" Kari asked solicitously. "They look kinda … painful."

"I can not feel them, unless I try to move them, or look at them," Roberto confessed. "Will I lose them?"

"No, buddy, you won't," Captain Lansing assured him. He gestured at the aid station just ahead of them, which was bustling with activity. "These guys will fix you right up."

At that moment, the PA system came to life. "Attention, Metal Storm. Attention, Metal Storm. Report to Doctor Goldstein at the aid station immediately. I say again, Metal Storm is to report to Doctor Goldstein at the aid station immediately."

Startled, Kari looked at Lansing. "What? What do they want me for?"

Lansing shrugged. "No idea. Better go in and see."

"Okay. Right. Um." Kari took a deep breath, and pushed through the doors. "Uh, hello?" she called out over the controlled tumult within. "Doctor Goldstein? Someone called for Metal Storm?"

"Over here!" a voice called, and she saw a raised arm. "This way!"

Edging around tables crowded with doctors and nurses doing whatever doctors and nurses did – and there was a lot more blood than she'd ever expected there to be – Kari made her way over to the doctor who had called out. She was blonde, with strong features behind the face-mask and an air of simmering tension.

"How can I help?" Kari asked, then looked down at the woman on the table. "Oh! Captain Snow!"

"You can help save her life," Doctor Goldstein stated. "You can control any metal, yes?"

"Um, I guess," Kari ventured. "I haven't tried with every metal everywhere, but I haven't found one that I can't control."

"Good. What's your name?"

"Uh, Kari. Kari Schultz."

"Well, Kari, I'm afraid you're being thrown in at the deep end." The doctor pulled back the dressing on Captain Snow's belly; Kari gulped as fresh blood oozed out of the ugly gash. "There's a piece of metal in there. I want you to tell me if you can get that out of her without doing any more damage." She gestured to a screen, and ran a weird-looking handset over Captain Snow's blood-soaked uniform. Kari gasped as she saw the piece of metal outlined on the screen.

"I – I can try." Kari pulled back the steel that had covered her right arm and gingerly reached into the wound. Warm blood coated her fingers, and then she made contact with the piece of metal. "Got it."

"Can you get it out?"

"Uh, sure, but it's stopping some bleeding. If I take it away, she'll bleed a lot worse than she is now. I can feel the blood trying to push out around it."

"Wait." The doctor looked at her intently. "You can feel what's going on in there?"

"Uh, sure." Kari blinked. "I can feel through whatever I'm controlling."

"And your control. How good is that?"

By way of demonstration, Kari held out her left arm, still covered in metal. It sprouted a tiny forest of metal filaments, each about as fine as a human hair. These twisted and writhed in perfect formation. "Pretty good?"

The doctor grinned or at least, showed her teeth. "Okay. Excellent. You're about to save a life."

"I – I am?"

"Yes. You are." The handset moved around Captain Snow's body. "This blood vessel here. Can you stitch it closed?"

"Uh … like this?" Watching the screen closely, Kari made fine wires extrude from the metal inside the Captain's body. Needle-sharp tips punctured the walls of the artery and then tightened to pull the gash shut, then Kari severed the connection with the main mass of metal.

"Exactly like that. Nurse. Set me up with a transfusion as well."

"Uh, Doctor?"

The doctor turned to look at the nurse. "I believe I gave an order. This patient needs every drop of blood we can give her if she's to survive."

"Right. Right." The nurse busied herself with needles.

Kari looked at the doctor. "Uh, which one next?"

"That one, I think."

"Okay."

-ooo-​

Aster

On and on they worked; with each bit of damage that the girl stitched up, Taylor's vital signs improved infinitesimally. It was only due to her perfect recall that Aster was later able to determine exactly when Taylor's blood pressure began to rise once more; she was coaching Kari through final repairs, stitching up the wound as the piece of metal that had caused it was retracted.

"Uh … Doctor Goldstein?" It was Lieutenant Piggot. She finished off the sandwich she was eating – Aster had sent the nurse to find some food – and dusted off her hands, careful not to disturb the IV tube in her arm.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Is she going to have problems with all that metal inside her?"

Aster smiled. "No. It's titanium. We use it in implants all the time."

"Oh." Piggot looked simultaneously enlightened and impressed. Aster didn't elaborate on how she knew this; it just so happened that she had once read about that specific type of helicopter, and what that particular part of its airframe was made of.

"Um, that's it, I think."

Aster looked over Kari's shoulder. A neat row of metallic sutures closed off what had been a gaping wound; the remaining titanium was wrapped around her hand like a glove. "Well done," Aster praised the girl. "If you've ever thought of being a doctor, go for it. I think you've got a gift."

"And that's it?" asked the lieutenant.

"Well, it is for us." Aster set about removing the IV tube from her arm. "She's out of danger for the moment, but I'll be a lot happier once she's got more blood in her. And the sergeant here also needs attention. Also, blood." She nodded to Lieutenant Piggot, and to the burly sergeant. "Thank you both for your contribution."

Piggot shrugged, allowing the nurse to remove her IV. "We were boot buddies. I couldn't do any less." Sergeant Kinsey – Aster finally managed to get a look at his nametag – merely nodded.

"Lieutenant Piggot?"

They looked around at the new voice. Aster frowned as she recognised the pair of newcomers as MPs. Their nametags read Orson and Green. "What's going on?" she asked.

Piggot, on the other hand, seemed unsurprised. "Right. Okay. You want my weapons?"

"If you would be so kind." Orson accepted the lieutenant's pistol, offered butt first, and her rifle, held by the sling.

"Excuse me," Aster snapped. "What's going on? The lieutenant just helped save the life of Captain Snow here."

"Please stay out of this, Doctor," Green advised her. "We've been ordered to take Lieutenant Piggot into custody."

"That's Major Goldstein to you," she retorted, nettled. "Now, one more time. What are the charges?"

"Well, Major," Orson replied. "She's been accused of threatening senior officers with a loaded weapon. Among other things. Now, we are going to carry out our orders. Come along, Lieutenant." Just a little stunned, Aster watched them walk away.

"They can't get away with that, can they?" asked the teenage girl.

"Well, they can arrest her," Aster pointed out. "But charges like that will lead to a court-martial. So we'll have to see." She indicated Taylor and the sergeant. "In the meantime, we have patients to deal with. Care to give me a hand, Kari?"

The teenage girl nodded. "I really think I would."

Aster smiled. This also keeps her occupied and stops her from thinking too deeply about what's happened today until she has time to process it. "Good. May I ask you a question?"

"Uh, sure, Doctor. What about?"

"The name, Metal Storm. Are you likely to be keeping it?"

Kari shook her head. "No, I really don't think it suits me. Why?"

Aster made her tone light. "Oh, no reason."

-ooo-​

Wednesday, 15 June 1994
Austin TX
PRT Base Infirmary

"Doctor Goldstein. We meet again." Rebecca Costa-Brown's handshake was as firm as her voice. Aster did her best to return as good as she got.

"We do indeed, Chief Director." She allowed herself a slight smile. "Though I didn't think we'd be talking again so soon."

"Nor did I." Costa-Brown nodded at the closed door. "When can we see her?"

Patience, patience. "The last of the sedative should be out of her system. By my estimation, she'll be waking up naturally in the next hour or so."

"You can't wake her up sooner?" That was Grantham.

Aster gave him a stern look. "Sir, you're my commanding officer, but she suffered an injury that very nearly killed her. Ten more minutes and she would have been too far gone to save. So you'll excuse me if I'm a little protective of my patient."

"Sir," murmured the last of the group, Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton. He wore his promotion well. Aster didn't have to ask how he'd gotten that; she had heard the rumours that had circulated after New York. "Why don't we let the doctor do her job? She did save Captain Snow's life, after all."

Grantham nodded jerkily. "All right. Let us know the moment she's able to talk."

"Certainly, sir." Aster nodded to the other two. "If you'll excuse me?"

Nobody demurred; Aster went back into Taylor's room.

-ooo-​

Taylor looked almost at peace, lying there in the hospital bed. Her face relaxed from its normal stern lines to the point where Aster could see the face of the girl she had once been. Of course, even as a teenager, she had been no pushover; during her brief career as Skitter, she had risen dramatically to become one of the most feared and respected capes in Brockton Bay and beyond.

Is it any surprise that she's doing the same here?

Aster felt a fierce loyalty toward the young woman in the bed. Taylor had been sent back to save the world. Aster had been sent back to help her, to assist her in any way she could. And she intended to do just that, with every resource at her disposal. Whatever it took.

Taylor stirred; she seemed to be muttering something in her sleep. Aster thought she caught the words 'wake up'.

Well, if that's not my cue, nothing will be. Reaching across, she collected Taylor's glasses from the bedside table. It hadn't been hard to contact Brockton Bay and get her prescription; an optometrist had replaced the lens as an overnight job.

Taylor's eyes fluttered open. I so want to talk to her. Find out everything I missed. But first things first.

"Ah, Captain Snow," she said cheerfully. "You're awake."

End of Part 5-8

Part 5-9​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 5-9: Consequences and Fallout​

Taylor

Wait, what did she just say?

I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them again, she was still standing there. Aster Anders. Holy shit. As she said, I had never met Purity's daughter, at least not in Brockton Bay. I had only learned that she even existed when Coil outed the entire Empire Eighty-Eight in one fell swoop. And then made it look like we did it.

Looking at her more closely, in light of who she said her parents were, I could see it. She had her mother's cheekbones and eyes, and her father's hair and jaw. Purity had been on the petite side, while Kaiser had been tall and commanding; Aster more or less split the difference.

With a flash of insight, I realised why Lisa had been so amused. She must have been sitting on this secret forever.

"Wait," we both said at the same moment. I paused to let her speak; she did the same for me. After a moment of awkward silence, I gestured. "You first."

She shook her head. "No. You first."

This could go on all day. "Okay, fine. You're saying you didn't lose your powers when you came back in time?"

"Well, no," she agreed. "My powers work fine. You're saying you lost yours? How did you even manage to do that?"

"If I knew that, I'd be moving heaven and earth to get them back," I retorted grumpily. "Going back in time to before you were born is a pain. Going there without powers … so much more of a pain."

The corner of her mouth quirked in a smile. "Going back as a one year old baby … now that's a pain."

"A baby, with powers," I pointed out. "That must have been … interesting."

"Could have been worse," she said. "My powers amped up my intelligence as well as giving me perfect recall. I managed to assimilate my experiences to that point to give me a reasonably accurate world-view. So I didn't use my powers where anyone could see me doing it."

I frowned. "In my experience, once you've got powers, it's hard not to use them. You didn't out yourself at all?"

"Well, it wasn't the easiest thing in the world," she admitted, "but it was doable. Just barely. I had plenty of emotional support from my parents, and a few good friends here and there. I'm not going to say I wasn't tempted to cut loose from time to time, and in fact I did sneak out into the woods to practice a little when I could."

I gathered from her expression that there was more to that story. "What happened?"

She grimaced. "I nearly started a forest fire, the last time I did that. So I focused on my other powers."

"The Thinker abilities," I guessed.

"Those, yes." she agreed. "Using my enhanced intelligence and my perfect information retention as often as I could, in order to hide the fact that I was using enhanced intelligence and perfect retention. It was a delicate balancing act, but at least it took off some of the pressure to use my other ability."

"Fire projection?" I guessed.

Chuckling, she shook her head. "Close. I shoot molten steel and plasma from my hands. Actually, I can extrude it from any part of my body, but throwing it from my hands feels more natural, and makes it really easy to aim."

"Molten steel." I blinked. I didn't know exactly what the temperature of that sort of thing was, but I was pretty sure that it was way past the 'comfortably warm' category. Thousands of degrees, anyways. "Yeah, you're their kid, all right."

"Whose kid?" She stared at me. "You did know my parents, right? They were heroes. You were a hero. At least toward the end."

I chuckled sourly. "I was as much of a hero as the PRT would let me be. Too much red tape, too many regulations. And I had been a villain, so there was that too." I paused. "Yeah, I met your parents, however briefly. But I'm afraid you've been misinformed. They weren't heroes."

"No, no, that's not right." She shook her head. "My mom was a hero. Miss Militia told me so."

Like hell she was a hero. I paused to think about that. But then again, if Miss Militia said she was a hero, then something must have happened to change matters. "Okay, if she said so, then I guess your mom was a hero. But it must have happened after I went to New Delhi. And your father definitely was not a hero. Sorry, but that's the way it is."

She blinked, looking somewhat lost. "I don't understand. How can my mom be sort of a hero, and my dad not a hero at all?"

I couldn't help feeling a little sympathy for her. "Sit down, Aster," I suggested. Obediently, she sat. "Now, what do you recall of your birth parents?"

"Uh, my mother's name was Kayden. She could glow and fly, I guess. I don't know what her cape name was. Or rather, her cape name could have been any one of a dozen different words that were used around her." Aster paused for a moment, apparently thinking hard. "My father … I don't recall any one man who stands out as being my father. There was one man called Justin, another called Geoff, and one who only showed up occasionally, called Max. Justin was a racist, Geoff said really horrible things in a normal tone of voice, and Max liked to get his own way."

I made the connections in my mind. I know who she's talking about. "Yeah, Max was your dad. Full name: Max Anders. But you're going to want to brace yourself, because the next bit's going to be a bit of a gut punch." Especially given your adoptive surname.

"You're going to say that Max Anders was a villain." Aster's voice was remarkably calm. "But which one?"

"It should be obvious," I prompted. "Which well-known Brockton Bay villain had the power to create metal?"

Given the hint, she made the connection almost immediately. "Oh, no," she groaned. "Oh, no. I'm Kaiser's daughter?"

"Kaiser and Purity, yes," I confirmed. "And Justin and Geoff were Crusader and Fog, respectively. All members of the Empire Eighty-Eight."

"Oh, no. Oh, god. No." She leaned back in her chair, pressing the heels of her hands to her forehead, her eyes closed. "My parents ran the biggest Neo-Nazi gang on the eastern seaboard. They were racists. And I'm Jewish. One of my best friends is black. God, even if I could tell anyone about this, I couldn't tell them that. My parents probably killed people for being Jewish or black. What does this make me?"

I tried for a light tone. "Living proof that being a douchebag isn't genetic?" I couldn't help but chuckle; there was a certain amount of dark humour in the situation.

"It's not funny." But she couldn't help smiling just a little, before her face fell again. "What would Mom and Dad think of me?"

"I'm guessing you're talking about the Goldsteins?"

"Yes. They took me in and raised me. Mom taught me to sew and cook. Dad sat up with me to listen to the Apollo lunar landings on the radio, and encouraged me to follow my dreams. They both stood by me at my Bat Mitzvah. What would they say if they knew this about me?"

The self-doubt in her tone speared straight through me. I knew what it felt like. What would Hamilton say if he knew I'd been a supervillain, that I was lying to everyone even while I tried to save the world? What would Danny and Anne-Rose think of me if they knew that I'd once packed a man's eyeballs with maggots? Or that I shot Coil in the head?

"Trust me, you're not the only one to ask yourself questions like that," I said quietly. "You know what I've done. It was pretty public. And there's worse things that I did that never made the news. I've maimed people. I've murdered people."

-ooo-​

Aster

Aster had imagined this conversation many times. The first time that she actually got to speak to Weaver, to share confidences with her, to find out how they were going to save the world together. In her mind, although she knew intellectually that Taylor was just another person, she had built the younger woman up into almost a paragon of righteousness and truth. She went back in time to save the world. How can she do anything wrong?

And yet, here Aster was at last, talking to Taylor. And it was so totally different to what she had imagined. The unthinkable revelations about her parents had stunned her; far from being the daughter of two heroes, she was in fact the offspring of villains. People who would hate her for merely existing.

But worse again was what Taylor was telling her. From being almost an idol to her, Taylor was rapidly gaining feet of clay. She wasn't the ultimately confident warrior that Aster had been led to believe, but just another young woman with doubts and issues of her own.

"But … you were doing it to make things right … weren't you?" Aster's voice was pleading.

"Oh, I thought so at the time, sure," Taylor agreed. "But sometimes hindsight can be a real son of a bitch. And sometimes, no matter how right you think you are at the time, and no matter how you can't find a viable alternative later, you'll find yourself second-guessing yourself over and over, wondering if there really wasn't a way to beat the odds."

The rock-solid certainty in Taylor's tone left Aster with no doubt that the younger woman had faced situations exactly like that, and she'd had to make terrible choices. And she'd do it again. She'd make her choice, and move on. Because she had to. Even if it hurt her to do it.

"So how do you keep going?" Aster's voice was quiet. "How do you face the odds, again and again, and not just … give up?"

"I did give up, once," Taylor replied, just as quietly. "Back in New Delhi. I was buried under a wall, which was the only thing that saved me. Behemoth had moved on. I dug myself out, then found the one other living person there. My best friend. She was trapped under a monolith. There was no way to save her. I sat with her until she died. Then I just … decided to let everything go. Everyone I knew and loved was dead, or they'd be better off without me. So I just … stayed there. With her. Waiting to die."

Aster stared at her, hearing the desolation in her tone. "What happened?" I'm guessing this was where I came in …

The corner of Taylor's mouth quirked upward. "Phir Sē happened. You know, the man in the robes? He appeared and offered me the chance to go back and make it so it never happened. How could I refuse?" She rolled her eyes. "Of course, I thought I was only going back a couple of years."

Aster smiled at the mock-aggrieved tone of Taylor's voice. "More than a couple, yes."

"And then there's you," Taylor went on. "He never even suggested that he might be sending someone back to help me out. That might have been useful to know."

"I honestly don't know," Aster confessed. "Maybe he thought it was a better idea to have me established, and to be waiting for you? To give me the choice as to when to make contact? After all, I knew what you looked like, while you had no idea what I would look like. Or what my name would be."

"In other words, he was making it up as he went along." Taylor chuckled. "It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest."

Aster nodded. "All right," she declared. "So we're both here. How can I help? What's the plan?"

"Well, that's the problem," Taylor admitted. "There is no plan. Or rather, there is no single master plan. I have lots of minor plans, adding up to major plans later on. Mostly to do with removing potential problems. Getting rid of obstacles. Making things easier in the long run."

"By that, do you mean murdering people?" Aster frowned. The 'do no harm' part of her oath was starting to give her serious problems. "Because I don't know if I can be party to something like that."

Taylor began to take a deep breath; halfway through, she winced and stopped. "There are some people who really need to be stopped before they get going," she stated firmly. "You might've heard of the Vasil thing, up in Canada?"

Aster blinked. "I … yes, I did hear about it. I'm pretty sure that … wait, that was you?"

"Of course it wasn't," Taylor replied blandly. "How could it have been? I was on medical leave. And besides, I figure that I'd only have a fifty-fifty chance of making a shot like that."

Her eyes bored into Aster's, and the older woman knew beyond a doubt that Taylor was lying through her teeth about not being involved.

"And why did he have to die?" asked Aster quietly.

"Because he was a Master, who would have come after me at some point," Taylor replied, dropping the pretence. "I wasn't about to allow that. There will be others. Including the Slaughterhouse Nine."

Aster felt a cold chill run down her back. "They're really dangerous," she said. "They've killed lots of people, including superheroes."

"Yes." Taylor's gaze didn't waver from Aster's. "Which is why they've got to die. But I'll also be dealing with potential future members, so that when the time comes to drop the hammer on the Nine as a whole, we can get a clean sweep on them."

"How can you even know who's going to join them?" demanded Aster.

Taylor grinned. "I know you can't forget, so it must have temporarily slipped your mind that I grew up in that era. I know each and every member, and when they signed up. I also know their strengths and weaknesses, how their powers work, and how to make sure that they die as quickly and efficiently as possible."

Aster grimaced. "I'm really not comfortable with killing. Or even hurting people, if I can avoid it."

"Even if they're sociopathic killing machines who think nothing of making people into intricate jigsaw puzzles for shits and giggles?" Taylor's voice lacked all drama; she may have been discussing the weather. "I'm sorry if the reality is a bit of a shock to you, but I came back to save the world, and I'm not going to let anything or anyone stop me from doing that. I will lie, cheat, steal and kill to get this done. If you offer assistance, I will accept it. If you can't help me, then I'd appreciate it if you didn't get in the way."

Taylor was lying in the hospital bed, almost certainly unable to move from it without assistance. She had, at her own admission, no powers to speak of. Moreover, her words were quite without overtones of threat; she had merely made a factual statement. And yet, Aster felt a chill run down her back. I don't want to get in her way. I really don't.

Trying not to swallow too obviously, she sought to change the subject. Something that Nina had said to her in a previous conversation seemed to fit the bill. "Uh, Nina says that you've got a girlfriend, and you've told her the truth about yourself. Isn't that a little … rash?"

Taylor's eyes became hooded, and her smile had little to do with humour. "What, like you told Nina about me? And had her look after me but not tell me what was going on? That kind of rash?"

Aster felt as though she'd been put straight back on the spot. "Uh, I was kind of in a tight situation. I couldn't be in Brockton Bay, so I asked Nina to keep an eye out for you. At first I didn't tell her, but after you showed up, she became suspicious so I came clean. But I trust her implicitly. We've been really good friends for years."

The dark chuckle that answered her was almost a grunt. "Yeah. Friends. Remind me to tell you sometime about my former best friend, and what she did to me. Anyway. It seems to have turned out okay, but that was still a hell of a risk you took."

"And you didn't take a risk with your girlfriend?" Aster thought back to Friedrich. If I had confided in him with any of this … oh, God.

"Yeah." Taylor's voice and gaze were directly challenging. "But I trust her, with everything I have. She kept me sane when you weren't there. When I didn't even know you were there." A shrug. "Besides, she's a part of my plans."

"What part does she play?" Aster felt obscurely jealous. "How can she help you? Does she have powers too?"

Taylor began to laugh out loud, then stopped with a wince. "Ow. Note to self: don't do that. Yeah, she's got a power. The power to make things better just by being there. She's sweet and funny and silly and ridiculous and I love her. And I know I can trust her."

"But how do you know?" Aster's voice mirrored her frustration. "You can't just look into someone's head and know what's going on there. Even Nina can't know a person that well, and that's her job."

"Aster." Taylor fixed her with a steady gaze. "Do you trust me?"

"Uh …" Taken aback, Aster floundered for a moment. "Well, of course. I can't not trust you. I was sent back to help you save the world. It's kind of my job to trust that you know what you're doing."

"Okay, then." Taylor maintained eye contact. "I'm not telling you everything about me. I'm not going to lie to you, but on the off-chance that someone grabs you and interrogates you for everything you know, I want to keep some things on the down-low. One of those is how I know I can trust you, and how I know I can trust my girlfriend. Another is exactly what role my girlfriend plays in my plans. Do you understand me?"

Slowly, Aster nodded. "Need to know. Of course."

Taylor smiled. The expression, a genuine one at last, softened her features as she relaxed back against the pillows. "Good. Sorry about being such a hardass, but I'm sure you appreciate where I'm coming from."

"I'm starting to get an idea," Aster admitted. And now I know how she took over part of the city at the age of fifteen. I feel like I've just been through the wringer. "So, is there anything you want me to do while you're stuck in here?"

Neither of them commented on the incongruity of a Major asking a Captain for orders. Taylor rolled her head slowly from one side to the other, her expression pensive. "I might give you letters to post for me occasionally. They'll be above board; you can even read through them if you want. But it's imperative that they don't get censored in any way. Got it?"

"Certainly," agreed Aster. "I'm sure I can do that."

"Good." Taylor nodded firmly. "Now, could you please help me sit up a little?"

"Of course," Aster said, carefully propping her up with extra pillows. "Why? Did you want to write one of those letters now?"

"Not right this second, but I will be doing that in time," Taylor replied. "But I believe that you mentioned the girls who were being kept prisoner. I want to see that they're okay with my own eyes."

"Ah, of course." Aster nodded. "I'll just go and bring them in."

-ooo-​

Taylor

I tried to project strength and capability as the girls began to enter the room, but it's hard to do that when one is lying in a hospital bed, even if one happens to be sitting up at the time. First in through the door was a girl in a wheelchair, wearing a summer-print dress, being pushed by the seven-foot woman. I had to blink as I looked at them both; while it was possible to recognise in them the scared half-starved prisoners from just a few days ago, it was amazing to see the changes that those few days had wrought in them. A few baths, good food, fresh clothes, shampoo …

"Captain!" That was the big girl. "You're all right." She paused. "You are all right, yeah?"

I nodded as others came in behind them. "Nothing that a bit of bed rest won't cure," I assured her. "Joanne, right?"

She smiled, pleased. "Yeah, that's me. You're looking better than you were, back in the compound."

I chuckled, carefully. "So are you. And yes, I feel better. Not much, but some."

The girl in the wheelchair spoke up. "I'm Leanne. I want to thank you and your sergeant for getting us out of there."

"Excuse, please." A girl with long brown hair stepped past Joanne, with another girl holding on to her arm. The second girl was wearing dark glasses and had a cast on her right arm. "Captain Snow? I'm Dana, and this is Brianna. Just wanna say that you were all kinds of awesome."

"Uh, thanks," I replied, starting to feel just a little embarrassed. "But Joanne and Kari did more than me."

"They couldn't have done it without you and the sergeant," Brianna pointed out. "That's what Kari told us, anyway."

"Someone mention my name?" asked Kari cheerfully, entering with the last two ex-prisoners. Doctor Goldstein – Aster – followed them in and closed the door behind her.

This time, it was the smoky girl, almost impossible to see in the bright lights of the room, who had another girl, with bandages on her eyes, hanging on to her arm. Kari, I saw, had not yet relinquished her ever-shifting metal armour. "Captain Snow, this is Tori and Vanessa. Guys, say hi to the most awesome officer in the PRT."

"Hi, Captain," Tori said, a few seconds ahead of Vanessa. "We really, really appreciate what you did for us. I mean seriously, we can never repay you."

"Well, as soon as I found out that shit was going on, there was no way in hell I was letting it continue," I replied as firmly as I could. "I'm sorry it went on as long as it did, but those people are never going to hurt you again."

"I can guarantee the fuck out of that," Joanne stated flatly. "Me and Kari found that Lange guy. He'd been beaten to death with a desk. Can't think who might've done that to him."

"Gee," I observed dryly. "I have no idea at all." I watched as Dana and Tori hugged the tall woman, followed (with a little guidance) by Brianna and Vanessa. Leanne reached up and clasped her hand. "Whoever did it, even if we ever found out who, wouldn't get charged with a damn thing. Not after what went on in there."

"Damn right," agreed Kari unexpectedly, then cleared her throat.

"Uh, Joanne had something she wanted to say."

I looked enquiringly at Joanne. "Yes?"

"Um," the tall woman began. "This sort of shit shouldn't happen. Pretty sure we all agree on that."

"No," I stated firmly. "It should not." Around the room, the other girls nodded or murmured agreement.

"So yeah," Joanne went on. "Me and the others have decided to form a group. We're gonna go after shit like that and stomp it flat. Stop it dead."

"That sounds -" I began, then my brain caught up with what she was saying. "Wait, what? A vigilante group?"

"Vigilantes, superheroes, whatever," she replied, just a little testily. "We're specifically going to go after people who are keeping women in situations like we were in. I'm thinking we should call it PASS. Parahumans Against Sex Slavery."

My jaw dropped slightly. Holy shit, she's serious. "Okay, that … I have to admit, that's a name that doesn't take any prisoners. It puts it right out there. There's absolutely no ambiguity."

"That's the idea," she said. "We won't go after muggers or burglars. There's cops and superheroes for that. But all too many times there's guys who kidnap women, or even girls, and keep them until they get tired of them. They might let 'em go, or they just kill them. We're gonna go after those guys, and we're gonna put the message out. This shit stops now."

"Okay," I said carefully. "As a PRT officer, I have to assume that you're going to be doing this all in a legal, above-board fashion. Correct?"

As I hoped, Joanne read my meaning. "Yes," she replied cautiously. Personally, I had my doubts, but at least she was making the effort to pretend. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, unless I miss my guess, you're determined to do it whether I approve of it or not." I ignored her startled expression and forged on. "So if you're going to do it, do it right. And be careful of how you do it."

"What do you mean?" she replied defensively. "Breaking the law? I already said we weren't going to be doing that." Once again, I had my doubts, but I chose not to air them. Briefly, I met Aster's eyes from where she stood next to the door. Her expression made me reasonably certain she thought the same way about Joanne's statement.

"That's not the part I was talking about." I waited till I had her complete attention. "What I'm saying is that the more aggressively you push your agenda, the more nervous you're going to make people, especially those in positions of power."

"Good," she snapped. "It's about time they got nervous."

"No, not good," I corrected her. "They're the last people you want getting nervous about you. I mean, most of them will be perfectly blameless, but some might have buddies that are a bit skeevy toward women, and some might even be that way themselves. The trouble is, even the good ones are likely to react badly when they see a bunch of strong, powerful women who are specifically saying that they're going to attack men who are mistreating women."

"What are you saying?" demanded Joanne. "Are you saying that we shouldn't do this?"

"Hardly." I met her eyes. "I think that helping women who are in situations where they can't help themselves is a really good idea. But you're gonna need to be circumspect about it. Don't go jumping in feet first. Do your best to work with local law enforcement, rather than around them."

"But they're useless!" Joanne burst out. "They let that shit go on with us -"

"Because they didn't know about it," I snapped, overriding her. "If you come out public with PASS, then they will know about you. And if you come on too strong, if you just barge ahead with that attitude, then it won't be hard to make enemies of them. Most especially if there are players behind the scenes with a vested interest in making sure that PASS dies out before it grows too big to stop. And trust me, it doesn't matter how righteous your cause is, if the entrenched forces of law and order don't want it to happen, then it won't fucking happen."

I stopped, panting from the intensity that I'd been putting into my words. Slowly, I became aware that I was half-sitting up, there was a dull pain in my torso, and Joanne was leaning slightly away from me.

Carefully, I let myself down, working at convincing the clenched muscles in my torso to relax once more. "The bottom line is … be careful," I told her. "Because once you're on the outs, it's a long hard road to get back your legitimacy. And there will be people trying to discredit you, sometimes while smiling and shaking your hand. I'll help you as much as I can, but I can't promise miracles. Okay?"

"But we've got a chance?" she asked, somewhat less aggressively than she had before.

"Sure," I told her. "In fact, I'd like to help." I hid a grin as I saw the surprise flare in her eyes.

"What?" she was wary again. "How?"

"Give me the information on everyone you're trying to find. I'm an analyst. I can point you where you need to go." So if you do happen to kill anyone, it'll be the guy who actually needs killing, I didn't say out loud.

It bothered me much less than it might have that we were discussing the very real possibility of Joanne killing people. Women have been at the mercy of physically stronger men since time immemorial. As a woman, I was acutely aware of this. I was equally aware that I'd been in situations where bad things might have happened, had events gone a different way. Men who would do that to a woman, or worse, a girl, and suffer no remorse … no, I had no problem with whatever Joanne might want to do to them.

The wary look intensified. I didn't need to be Lisa to know that she was worried about me setting a trap for her. "I don't know …"

"She found us, didn't she?" Kari pointed out suddenly. "If she hadn't figured out that we were in there …"

Of course, Joanne's worry had nothing to do with my expertise. Or maybe it does. "I'd really like to help you guys," I told her. "It would take a weight off my mind to know that you're out there, taking down the people who need to be taken down. Helping people who need help. All I'm offering is to give you a hand in finding them. You do the rest."

Joanne frowned. "The PRT would be willing to assist us in this? Just like that?"

"Not the PRT," I corrected her. "Me. Personally. In my own time."

She looked me in the eye. "And you wouldn't screw us over?"

"We'd have to set ground rules." My voice was as firm as I could make it. "You'd have to agree to never, ever break them. But given that … no, I wouldn't screw you over. Deal?"

Another long moment passed. I could see the indecision and worry chasing each other over her face. But she came to the decision sooner rather than later, holding out her hand. "Depending on what those rules are, you've got a deal."

I shook it awkwardly, trying not to dislodge IV tubes. It was like shaking hands with Kinsey; her hand just swallowed mine up. "Good."

"Uh …" That was Vanessa; we all turned toward her. "Am I in this too? I mean, I know Brianna's growing her eyes back, and Leanne's fast whether she's on her feet or not, but with my eyes gone, I don't have powers worth talking about. I'm just …" She choked a little. " … just useless blind dead weight."

"Hey, no, don't talk like that!" Tori put her arms around Brianna, holding her close. "You're one of us, no matter what. You'll always be one of us. And who's to say that some parahuman won't get powers that'll let you regrow your eyes someday?"

I cleared my throat. "Vanessa?"

"Uh, yes, Captain?" She sounded a little embarrassed, maybe for having broken down a little in front of me.

"Do you know what I do in the PRT?"

She sounded confused. "Um, an analyst?"

"Precisely." I smiled. "I predict trends in parahuman activity, in the short term and the long term. I am very good at what I do. And I can state, with a high degree of certainty, that there will exist a way, sooner rather than later, for you to see again. Possibly to even use your powers. So don't lose hope. Sure, it might be hard for a while. Push past it. The most satisfying goal is the one you have to fight hardest to achieve."

Without being able to see her eyes, I was unable to tell if she was buying the line I was giving her. I wasn't just blowing smoke; I knew that both Bonesaw and Panacea, once they triggered, would have been able to replace her eyes with relative ease. Eidolon might be able to also do it in the here and now, if he considered it worth his while. Scion could almost certainly do it, but there was no way in hell I'd ask that golden bastard for a single favour. Even if I could.

As for some other way to get her sight back, I couldn't think of anything right at that moment, but that didn't mean anything. I was just making a mental note to check with Lisa, when the matter was taken from my hands.

"Um, Vanessa?" That was Dana. "You know I build stuff, right? I'm a Tinker?"

Okay, now she had my attention. I hadn't been thinking too much about what the power types of the prisoners were, just that they were parahumans.

"Yeah, but … wait, you can build me new eyes?"

"Not exactly." Dana grimaced. "I'm still working out what I can do, exactly. Building eyes is kinda beyond me. But … I'm really good at making technology that shouldn't fit together do it anyway. When the timer went on Mom's microwave, I wired a wind-up alarm clock into it, and it worked just fine."

Vanessa hesitated. "I'm not sure what you're getting at. I know you're not saying you're going to give me a built-in alarm clock."

"Interfacing technology," I said suddenly as light dawned. "Your speciality is interfacing. You're talking about interfacing cameras with Vanessa's nervous system."

Dana nodded. "Yes! That, exactly. Only …" She grimaced again. "I kinda don't have the money to even start trying."

"You will," I promised. If I have to get Andrea to personally write you a cheque. But maybe there's a less blatant way, though it'll come with a cost of its own … "I'm going to be recommending that the PRT open its training facilities to other established parahuman teams. And that they assist with funding for non-PRT Tinkers and the like, in return for access to the technology developed."

"And they'll go for this?" Dana looked a little dubious.

"I can only try," I told her. Besides, they did do the training thing, eventually. I'm just jumping the gun a little, here. "Pretty sure I can sell it so that they can see that it's a win-win situation for everyone. If you can interface cameras, you can interface Tinker-made prosthetic limbs. Being in the PRT is a high-risk occupation for losing body parts. If you were working with – not for, but with – the PRT to interface new limbs, new eyes, whatever … you sell what you develop to them at a nominal discount, on top of whatever funding they give you for R&D. Everyone else gets to pay full price."

"Wait, wait." That was Joanne. "Did you just recommend that she charge the PRT for what she can do? You're a PRT officer."

"Sure I did," I agreed. "But I can see where they're likely to go wrong. And having to pay for your tech is a good way to keep them aware that you're a valuable asset, rather than a throwaway tool."

Even Kari was staring at me by now. "Wow," she murmured. "You really mean that."

"I really do," I agreed. "Parahumans – capes – are a big part of the future. Powers aren't going to go away. People don't seem to get that. We need to make plans for the future that involve you guys, not just say, 'oh hey, you can come too'."

"I've been talking to Captain Lansing," Kari said unexpectedly. "He didn't tell me anything about any of this."

"That's because it's not in place yet," I pointed out. "But like I said, I'll be submitting some very strongly worded recommendations."

"And they'll listen to you?" That was Joanne, her expression sceptical.

"Oh …" I smiled lazily. I 'predicted' Behemoth. They'll listen. "I think they might at least consider it."

"Okay, that's something to think about," Joanne admitted. "Uh, Captain Snow, just out of curiosity, would you be interested in being a member of PASS, once we officially form the team? And you too, Kari?"

"Well, I'm deeply honoured," I told her, "but I'm pretty sure that there's a regulation somewhere that says I can't be a member of a parahuman team while I'm a serving officer in the PRT. Also, no powers. But I do appreciate the gesture."

"And I'd love to, but I think it might be an idea for me to hold off officially joining until I graduate high school," Kari pointed out. "Something tells me that PASS is going to be a pretty high-profile team, and I'd rather keep things low-key until then. My mom and all, you know."

"And what you said about training?" Joanne's expression was still a little wary. I got the impression that she'd come here expecting an argument, and couldn't figure out why she hadn't gotten one yet. "Do you really expect the PRT to train people like us?"

"Well, that depends," I replied. "The PRT doesn't yet have an official policy of helping train members of other parahuman groups, but we definitely like people being able to handle their powers properly. However, here's the thing. You recall how I told you earlier about not getting the powers that be nervous about you? This is one of the reasons. If you're going to train with the PRT, you're going to have to be affiliated with them, and that'll involve a certain minimum standard of behaviour. Nothing that would bring the PRT name into disrepute, for instance."

"We're not about to do that … are we?" Joanne looked doubtful.

"As I said, that depends. If you, just for instance, found out that the Mexican cartels were holding American women prisoner, would you try to work through normal channels or just go down there and take them back?"

Joanne's jaw hardened. I could see that she didn't like the corner that I'd put her in, but she didn't back down. "I'd go down there and I'd take them back. And God help any of the fuckers who got in my way." The look she gave me was a direct challenge. "Tell me you wouldn't do the same thing."

I had to smile at her defiant tone. "I think you know my answer. But my point is this. Doing something like that would count as a violation of national borders. It would cause problems between the US and Mexico. The government would have to take notice, and the PRT would be brought into it. Whether they tried to arrest you or just smacked you on the wrist would depend on if you actually managed to rescue the prisoners, how much damage you did in the process, and how remorseful you managed to be, after the fact. But no matter what else happened, you'd definitely lose any 'affiliated' status." I turned to look at Dana. "And I'm sorry, but this leads to a potential problem for you."

"Me?" she squeaked. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," I reassured her. "However, you're probably going to have to choose between membership in PASS and getting PRT funding for your Tinkering as a civilian parahuman contractor."

"What?" demanded Joanne. "Why? They can't tell Dana she can't be in PASS."

I sighed. "No, but if she's going to be taking their funding to develop tech, she's going to have to sign some pretty serious contracts." I turned to Dana. "As a matter of fact, before you sign anything, make sure you check all the fine print and extra clauses. Or get a copy to me, so I can look it over. I don't trust them not to try to hogtie you with ethically dubious wording. But anyway, whatever contract you sign is absolutely guaranteed to have a clause stating that if you're caught performing any illegal acts, then they can pull all sorts of nasty penalties on you. PASS is likely to end up doing stuff that's at least technically illegal -" I ignored Joanne's indignant protest. "- so it's best if you don't officially join them. Also, you can certainly sell them your products, but giving them stuff is right out. There will be people on the lookout for that sort of thing."

Dana didn't look entirely thrilled. "What should I do?" she asked Joanne. "I want to help Vanessa, but I want to be a part of PASS, too."

"Help Vanessa," Joanne told her bluntly. "If you can do more for us this way, then do it."

I left them to their discussion and turned to Kari. "So what are you going to be doing after you finish school?" I asked her. "I'm told you basically put me back together. Are you thinking of going into medicine?"

"I would if I could," she admitted. "But that costs lots of money, and Mom's insurance payments just won't cover that."

"Well, don't give up hope," I advised her. "I have a feeling that something might show up between now and then." Even if I have to ask Andrea to create a scholarship fund just for you. You've earned it.

"Okay, Captain Snow," she beamed. "And thanks. I'm glad you're gonna be okay."

"Me too," I told her feelingly. "And I'm glad you guys are out of it now. I'm just sorry about the other girl."

"Yeah, well, that wasn't your fault," Kari said. "It was theirs."

"Thanks, but I still wish I could've done more," I told her. I turned to Dana. "So, have you made up your mind?"

She didn't look thrilled, which told me what she'd chosen. "I'll be working with the PRT," she replied. "As a, whaddaya call it, civilian contractor."

I grinned. "Otherwise known as a rogue."

Dana frowned, along with the rest of them. "What's a rogue?"

My grin widened. So did Aster's.

-ooo-​

"Well, that was highly educational," Aster observed, after closing the door behind the last of the girls. Leaving, they had been upbeat, the discussion between them intense and animated. I hoped that I had given them something to think about. And that Joanne wouldn't do anything rash. Well, not too rash.

"Yes. It was." I sighed, slumping back into the pillows. "PASS. Good God. That's a can of worms waiting to happen. Nuclear-powered worms with laser eyebeams."

Aster nodded soberly. "You do know that Joanne will probably still go out and hunt down guys who prey on women, right?"

I looked her right in the eye. "If I'd tried to talk her out of it, given her experiences, do you think she would've listened?"

She didn't look happy. "No."

"And given the advice that I gave her, that I gave all of them, do you think that she's likely to go after people indiscriminately, or pick the worst ones to hunt?"

Reluctantly, she nodded. "I see your point. But …" She trailed off.

I waited for a moment, but she didn't go on. "But …?"

"But she's still going to hunt them down and probably kill them," she pointed out. "And that's illegal. Not to mention wrong."

"Illegal, sure," I agreed. "Wrong?" I shrugged. "By whose definition? Not the girls who are being victimised by these predators. Not mine either. Too many men get away with this shit, way too often."

Her expression wavered, but she pressed on anyway. "The law -"

I cut her off. "Aster, the law says a great many things. It's a wonderful tool. But it doesn't apply in all cases. And sometimes it gets in the way. I've got a job to do, and I'll stick to the law as much as I can, but if it's a choice of doing something my way or the legal way, I'll pick my way. And when there's people out there who are quite happy to shit all over the law until they get caught, then imagine my absolute lack of concern when they discover that the law isn't going to protect them from the consequences of their actions."

From her look of utter consternation, she was still having trouble grasping what I was saying. "But … you're a PRT officer," she protested. "It's your job to uphold the law. Don't you have any respect for it at all?"

I sighed. "I know you haven't forgotten my past. Remember a villain called Skitter? A sort-of hero called Weaver? They're me, too. Let me tell you something about my respect for the law. Do you know how I got my powers?"

She paused, wary. "Uh … no?"

"It all started with my best friend," I began. "I'd known her since first grade. We shared everything. She was the sister I never had. Until we started high school. Somewhere over the summer break, she got a new best friend and turned against me. Eighteen months they tormented me, never letting up. One thing after another. Stole my backpack, stole my assignments, stole my personal belongings right out of my locker. Made sure that I never had any friends."

She stared at me. "Why didn't you go to a teacher?"

My laugh was harsh enough to make her wince. "I did. It didn't work. See, they were popular, and the school was a shithole. And her best friend … well, I'll get to that. Around about the second Christmas, they reached a new personal best. They filled my locker with used tampons and pads, and left it to stew over the winter break. Come January, I opened my locker, they shoved me in, and locked me in there. It took about two hours for someone to bother telling the janitor to let me out."

Her jaw dropped. "No," she whispered. "There's no way that could happen."

"Not now, no," I agreed. "Except maybe the very worst of schools. Where I was going? A crappy school in a crappy city. Nobody was paid enough to care. And if anyone stepped up to defend me, they'd be in the line of fire too." My tone was bitter. "Nobody saw a goddamn thing. No-one got punished."

"And that's how you got your powers," she realised.

I nodded. "That's how I got my powers. And you want to know the worst bit, the bit that I didn't find out till later?"

From the look in her eye, she really didn't want to know. But she braced herself for it anyway. "What?"

"The new best friend, the one who had incited Emma to turn on me? The one who shoved me in the locker? She was a member of the Wards."

It took her a moment to click. "Wait, you can't mean …"

"Yup." I showed my teeth. "She was a fucking superhero. And the people who should've been keeping her in check either didn't know what she was doing, or didn't care."

Without even seeming to realise it, she sat down. The look of utter betrayal on her face would almost have been funny, if I didn't think about how I'd just kicked the props out from under quite a bit of her world-view. Slowly, she shook her head. "I just can't believe it."

"Believe it," I told her. "I was there. I went through it."

"Oh, god." She stared at me. "I thought I knew how bad it was, in the future. It was worse, wasn't it?"

I thought of how Armsmaster had outed me to the Undersiders. How Tagg had unmasked me because he thought the rules didn't apply to him. How the PRT had refused to cooperate with me for the common good, time and again, because I was a villain. How many people died because of that?

"Yeah," I agreed heavily. "It was worse. It was so bad that even though I went out that first night to be a hero, the villains actually treated me okay, while the heroes just wanted to dick me around."

Aster looked enlightened, although reluctantly so. "So that's why you became a villain."

I nodded. "That's why I became a villain." After a moment, I went on. "Don't get me wrong. For the most part, the heroes at least pretended to be heroes, and the villains did some pretty bad stuff. But … it says quite a bit about the situation that I was more able to make a positive difference to the city as a villain than as a hero."

"I don't know what to say." She shook her head. "If I'd heard you talk like this, then someone told me you were a time traveller, I would've assumed you came from the past, not the future. It sounds positively medieval."

I had to chuckle, just a little. "It was kind of like that," I agreed. More than you think. Lisa had told me about Cauldron's plans for an experimental parahuman feudal system in Brockton Bay. That sort of thing could go well, or it could go really badly. If someone like Thomas Calvert was in charge, I was betting on 'badly'. And Cauldron was less concerned with quality of life than with the fact that people were alive.

But that was years in the future. Plenty of time to plan that out. "So anyway," I told her. "Enough about that. Is Kinsey okay to come and see me?" I grinned at her. "You don't have to pretend not to listen too closely, this time."

"Certainly," she agreed. "I'll just go and get him."

-ooo-​

Kinsey

Two emotions warred in Jim Kinsey's heart as the Major wheeled him in to see the Captain. The first was intense relief that she had survived the horrific injuries suffered in the helicopter crash. However, seeing her like this, face still somewhat pale and drawn, he felt an almost physical sympathetic pain. He knew that he loathed being in a wheelchair; the Captain was a strong and capable person, and she had to hate being stuck in a bed just as much.

"Sergeant Kinsey." Her voice was almost as firm as ever.

He nodded in return. "Captain Snow. You're looking well."

Her derisive snort gave the lie to his statement, as he had known it would. "If I were looking well, Kinsey, we'd both be out of here and I'd be seeing if you'd lost a step on the sparring mat."

Outwardly, he remained impassive. Internally, he felt considerable relief. Talking like that meant she was at least feeling up to prime. When the Captain started talking defeatist, that would be when he'd really start worrying. "You may have a point, ma'am." Lost a step, hah.

She lifted her chin. "I'm told that the wheelchair is a temporary thing?"

"Yes, ma'am." He felt glad that he was able to give her good news. "I had a fractured spine and a few broken ribs, but Miss Kari was able to put it all back together under Major Goldstein's supervision. Now we're just waiting for the swelling to go down before I test it out."

One of her eyebrows hitched; he'd managed to surprise her. "Indeed? That's … interesting news, Kinsey. Nobody told me about this before." Her eyes tracked up over his shoulder; he presumed that she was looking at the Major. "Not even the doctor who was there at the time."

Major Goldstein was made of reasonably stern stuff; most people who got that sort of Look from the Captain tended to wilt, not excepting senior officers. "We thought that you would like to get the news from the sergeant himself, Captain Snow," she replied with a tinge of amusement in her voice. Oh yes, I like her. "It's more or less what we did with your leg, after all."

"My leg?" The Captain looked down at where her legs mounded the covers. "Wait. One of them was broken, wasn't it?" She must have gone to move them, because she winced. "Got it. The left one." She paused. "What did Kari do to it, exactly?"

"Well, while you were under, we set your leg, then Kari pushed a needle-thin metal probe down to the bone. Then she built a clamp around the broken area and retracted the remainder." The Major's tone was quite pleased. "I would be very happy if she can get a medical scholarship of some kind. She really does have gift for this sort of thing."

The Captain frowned slightly. "I understand that Kari is good at what she does, and that she had you to advise her on every step, but still, using such an untested procedure on Kinsey's spine? Not to mention my leg? Being a little free and easy, weren't you?"

Kinsey glanced at the Major to see if she wanted him to speak; she shook her head slightly and went on. "We had a test case before your leg. Sergeant Kinsey's broken arm. Radius and ulna both. We came up with the idea, and he volunteered to be the guinea pig. We did it under a local. With the help of the X-ray handset, Kari was able to lock the ends of the bones together. After a day of observation, there weren't any complications, so we went ahead with your leg. Then we tackled the sergeant's spine. So far, it all seems to be working out well." Her voice held cautious optimism.

"So how does it feel, Kinsey?" Captain Snow gave him a searching look.

"My back is feeling better all the time, ma'am," he replied at once. "There was pressure on my spinal cord, and I couldn't move my legs, but now I can. The Major says I should make a near-complete recovery."

"And your arm?"

By way of answer, he lifted his left arm and flexed the fingers, then carefully rotated the wrist. The only real indication that it had been injured was a light bandage on the incision point. "Almost like new, ma'am."

"Huh. So now I'm just waiting for this to knit, right?" The Captain moved her leg again, tightening her lips against what had to be more than a little pain. "Hm. Not too bad, at that."

"Captain Snow." The Major's tone sounded more than a little exasperated. Good luck with that, ma'am. When the Captain decides that she wants something, she goes and gets it. "You do realise that the more you fool around like that, the longer it will take to knit properly?"

The Captain's eyes narrowed slightly. "But I'm allowed to exercise the other one, right? So I don't get too weak?"

This battle of wills was not unlike a tennis match; Kinsey was quite enjoying it. Watching the Captain go head to head with someone of similar mental fortitude was not something he got to see very often. It was always interesting and sometimes rather educational.

"Yes, you may," the Major conceded, with what might have been a sigh of frustration. "Just don't overdo it. And once you're out of bed, even once you're walking, you're probably going to need a cane of some sort."

Captain Snow's expression became pensive. Kinsey, from long association, could follow her train of thought reasonably closely. Oh, yes. Give her a perfectly valid excuse to carry a length of wood or metal wherever she goes. An image arose in his mind, of the Captain sparring on the mat with a padded quarterstaff. A walking cane wouldn't be quite as long, but he had no doubt that she would be able to do some damage with one. She should be able to handle that all right.

The Captain nodded slowly. "I think I'll be able to handle that."

Kinsey cleared his throat. "Captain Snow, ma'am?"

"Yes, Kinsey?" The Captain looked at him once more.

"I would be happy to scout out local stores that sell walking canes for you, ma'am. Once I'm walking myself, that is." He would never presume to pick one out for her, but finding the best stores to look was something he could definitely do. I wonder if any of them carry sword canes. It's probably too much to hope for. Besides, she'd be dangerous enough with just the stick.

This earned him a measured nod. "That would be most appreciated, Kinsey."

"My pleasure, ma'am."

And with that, she was back in full Captain mode. "So brief me. What happened after I shot Rodriguez?"

"You passed out then, ma'am. Miss Dana fetched my pistol for me, and I kept watch until Lieutenant Piggot arrived with one of her men. The rest of the cultists folded reasonably quickly after that; with Miss Kari and Miss Joanne behind them, and our men in front, they didn't stand much of a chance." He elided over the nightmare that had been getting the Captain out of the Compound, but gave the Major and Miss Kari full credit for saving the Captain's life.

"And I understand that you gave blood to save me, even while you were injured yourself?" Her tone wasn't quite an accusation, but she didn't sound exactly approving either.

Time to pull out the big guns. "Well, ma'am, I'd be a pretty sorry excuse for a security detail if I didn't do everything in my power to keep you alive, wouldn't I?"

The Major snorted in amusement. "You have to admit, Captain Snow, he's got you there."

Captain Snow looked less than thrilled at being outflanked in this manner, but she nodded stiffly. "Yes. He does." The look she gave Kinsey, however, promised that the subject was not yet closed.

He didn't care. Her disapproval mattered less to him than the fact that she was alive to disapprove of him in the first place. In his own mind, he decided that he had gone some little way to mend the gaffe that he had committed regarding the bet with Captain Gordon's cronies. Now all I've got to do is keep doing better.

It was a challenge that he looked forward to.

-ooo-​

Monday, 19 June 1994

I'm still not sure why they're doing it this way.

"What do you mean?" asked Lisa, as I bent over to check on the skis that were fastened on to her feet.

They're holding off awarding medals until the court-martial, and they're holding off the court-martial until the hearing regarding Rodriguez' death.

"Oh, that? That's easy. The ATF is still butt-hurt that you shot one of theirs, and they have a bit of influence. So they want to try to nail you to the wall so that you can't give evidence at Emily's court-martial. And if you and Emily had been given medals, that makes you look better. So they want that to happen after the hearing and the court-martial, to give them the best chance possible of screwing you and her over."

I thought about that. It made a certain amount of twisted sense. They must be pulling in every marker they have.

"Oh, they are," Lisa grinned. She pulled her helmet on to her head and buckled the strap securely. I stepped behind her and visually checked on the bulky pack she was wearing. "Not that it's gonna do them much good. The PRT doesn't have much in the way of throw weight just yet, but this op just made them into big news. And you with them."

Dammit, I groused. I just wanted to do my job and do it quietly.

"So play it quiet for a little bit after this," she suggested. "Don't do anything newsworthy."

I rolled my eyes. I'm trying, all right? For some reason, she found this very funny.

It took her a little while to get over her giggles. I watched her, enjoying the moment. But then another thought intruded, one which killed the fun. Lisa?

She stopped giggling; I could see the hurt in her eyes as she looked at me. "You're going to ask me that question, aren't you?"

I sighed. I have to know. Are any of them pregnant?

Unhappily, she nodded. "Joanne isn't. The rest are, except for Kari, of course."

And the girl who didn't make it?

She looked me in the eye. "Do you really want me to answer that one for you?"

It was cowardly of me, but after a moment, I shook my head. No.

"Good. Then she wasn't." But I saw her bite her lip.

Stepping forward, I hugged her, hard. She hugged me back, holding me tightly. It's okay, I told her. It's okay.

"Sometimes it really sucks, knowing everything," she whispered.

Having powers sucks, period, I reminded her.

"Never a truer word," she agreed. "Can we just stay here awhile?"

We stood there for a bit longer, taking comfort in the hug. I was acutely reminded of Andrea, and how long it had been since I had held her in my arms. Hugging Lisa was nice, but it just wasn't the same.

Eventually, of course, Lisa grew restless. I let her go and pretended not to see as she wiped tears from her eyes. Ready to go?

"Sure." She duck-walked into place at the top of the ski jump. This wasn't just a ski jump; it was the ski jump. It crossed a valley between two mountains; the other end of the jump was at the summit of the mountain across the way. Which explained the rocket packs on her skis, and the oxygen gear and parachute on her back.

"Sure you don't want to come along?" she asked. "We can fit you out with gear as well."

Maybe later. I have a feeling I'll need to wake up soon. Kiss before I go?

She leaned over and kissed me. Her lips tasted of dust and blood and salt from her tears. "See you at the other side."

Tipping over on to the ramp, she ignited the rocket packs and accelerated down the slope at a frankly suicidal speed. Over the roar of the rockets, I could hear her distant "Woohoooooo!"

A snowflake tickled my eyeball, and I blinked.

-ooo-​

Austin Memorial Park Cemetery

Austin, TX

"Ma'am? We're here."

I roused myself, stretching as much as I dared in the front seat of the car. Sitting up carefully, I looked around. Rows of gravestones stretched for acres in all directions; Kinsey had pulled into a parking space not far from the hearse.

"Thank you, Kinsey. Can you get the wheelchair out, please?"

"Of course, ma'am." He shot me a single querying look, but did not voice his doubts.

"My leg's healing well, Kinsey," I reassured him. "But Doctor Goldstein wants me to stay off it just a little longer." If I needed to use my leg, I would; we both knew that.

"Ma'am." He popped the trunk and got out of the car.

"I'm surprised you're able to walk on it at all," commented Emily from the back seat. "It's barely been what, a week?"

"Thanks to Kari and her metal manipulation. Anyway, I still need a walking cane," I reminded her. "And I'm going to keep needing it for quite a while."

"Hmm." She didn't say any more.

-ooo-​

All three of us were in full dress uniform as Kinsey wheeled me toward the gravesite; I sat upright in the chair, and Emily matched her slow-march pace to Kinsey's. I had managed to convince Director Grantham that even though Emily was technically under arrest until her court-martial date, Kinsey would be an appropriate guard for her to attend the funeral of the girl who had died.

As we approached the gravesite, I spotted Kari standing next to a woman in a wheelchair; I knew this to be her mother, from the photo in the file. The teenager herself was still clad in metal from head to toe; I wondered how long it would take her to feel secure enough to let it go again. I hope she's getting therapy. I hope they all are.

Other familiar faces were there as well; Leanne in her wheelchair, Vanessa with the bandage over her eyes, Brianna wearing ordinary glasses this time. Her eyes must have grown back, like Vanessa said. In fact, all the rescuees were present, each with what I assumed to be family members or friends, or both. Joanne, towering over everyone else, looked over and saw me. She said something to the older couple she was with, and walked over to meet me.

"You came," she greeted me. "I didn't know if you would."

"I was the senior PRT officer on site," I reminded her. "That made Amanda my responsibility. I failed her. The least I can do is be here to show my respects."

She gave me a long searching look. "You really believe that about responsibility, don't you?"

"Don't you?" I asked, my tone light. "We all have to take responsibility for our actions. Those of us with more power than others have more responsibility, that's all."

Her expression took on a tinge of suspicion. "Is this you trying to talk me out of going full-on with PASS?" she asked quietly. "Because if it is …"

"It isn't," I assured her. "It's just me giving you a little bit of life advice. What you do with it is up to you." I tapped the arm of the wheelchair twice; taking the cue, Kinsey wheeled me forward again.

Joanne fell in alongside us, looking across at Emily. "I don't think I know you," she observed.

"This is Lieutenant Emily Piggot," I told her. "She led the assault on the compound. She's also the one who killed Sunstrike."

The smile that spread across Joanne's face had more than a few teeth in it. "The others will be happy to hear that. Thank you, Lieutenant."

Emily's voice was carefully bland. "Glad to be of service."

-ooo-​

The service was not overly long, but it was respectful. Amanda King, nineteen, had been a college student with bright prospects before her. I knew from her dossier that a skydiving accident had claimed her older brother's life at the same time as it granted her powers over the movement of air. She had also been vivacious and pretty, without an enemy in the world, or so the eulogy claimed. Personally, I had my doubts – death canonises us all – but I was willing to accept that she had been a nice girl who had not deserved the hand that Fate had dealt her.

Then again, who does?

After the words had been spoken, the coffin was lowered into the grave. Kinsey handed me a small trowel so that I would not dirty my white cotton gloves, and I scooped up a pile of dirt to toss on top of it. He followed suit, then handed the trowel over to Emily.

"Which of you is Captain Snow?" It was a man's voice.

We looked around at that, to see an older couple with a teenage girl at their side. She resembled the photos of Amanda enough that I knew who they were. I straightened in the chair. "I am, sir. I presume that you are Amanda's father?"

"Yes," he said as he moved closer to look down on me. "Are you the one who was supposed to save my daughter?"

I took a deep breath. My lung would never regain its full capacity, but at least by now I was able to do this without more than a twinge. "I did my best, sir," I told him regretfully.

"You saved the rest of them," he stated bitterly. "Why not Amanda, too? Why did my daughter have to die?"

I tried to think of ways to explain to him that things like that were never cut and dried, that any of us could have died at any time, but I knew that he would accept none of it. I knew all too well what it was like to lose a close family member, and I was fully aware that logical reasoning took a back seat to emotion at times like this.

Behind me, Kinsey cleared his throat. "If I may, ma'am?"

Well, he can't do any worse than me. "Go ahead, sergeant."

"Thank you, ma'am." I could feel his attention shifting to Amanda's father. "Sir, are you aware of the circumstances surrounding the attack on the compound where your daughter was being held?"

Mr King blinked. "I – no, they didn't tell us much. Just that it was assaulted, and my daughter died."

"I see. Well, sir, Captain Snow was never part of the assault force. She was the analyst who pinpointed where your daughter was, and she was in a helicopter doing reconnaissance when it was shot down. I was also on board the helicopter. On impact, she suffered a traumatic impaling injury when a piece of metal pierced through her upper abdomen and into her chest. Her life expectancy after that was a matter of hours. Three of the seven people on the helicopter were killed, including both pilots."

Amanda's father stared down at me. I nodded without speaking. He cleared his throat and licked his lips. "I didn't know about that."

"And neither were you expected to," Kinsey agreed. "The helicopter exploded shortly after we got clear of it. The Captain was wounded and in great pain. She could have advised a retreat or a surrender. Instead, she ordered an assault on the building where the prisoners were being held. Once inside, she killed three of the enemy and had us secure the building."

"So how did my daughter die?" demanded King. "They won't even tell us that."

"It was a homemade breaching charge," Kinsey told him. "Your daughter was in direct line of the explosion, and was thrown into the wall. Even if we had been capable of applying first aid, everything we know suggests that she would not have survived. I'm sorry, sir, but that's what happened."

Amanda's father grimaced. "Well, thanks. It's … it's not good to know, but it's better than not knowing." He offered his hand; Kinsey shook it. "I appreciate it." Turning to me, he held out his hand. "Sorry about talking to you like that, Captain. I didn't know … well, anything."

I shook his hand firmly. "No offence taken, sir. I just wish I could have done more."

He shook his head. "You found her. We had no idea where she was, if she was even alive, and you found her. You gave her some hope, at least, before the end. And you killed the bastards who did this to her."

No, that's Lieutenant Piggot, I thought, but did not say. "They'll never hurt anyone ever again," I agreed.

I had thought the embarrassment over, but then Amanda's mother was leaning over me, hugging me. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, ma'am," I told her, awkwardly patting her on the back. She straightened up and wiped her eyes. I half-expected a hug from the daughter as well, but she just looked me in the eye.

"How do I join the PRT?" she asked bluntly.

I was temporarily lost for words, but Emily came to my rescue. "You have to be at least sixteen, miss," she stated. "If you want to be an officer, you have to meet certain educational standards. But you can get all that from the Austin PRT base. They'll be able to answer your questions better than we can."

The Kings gathered their daughter in and all three moved away. I heard the mother asking, "Are you sure you want to do that? It sounds dangerous."

"Mom, life's dangerous," the girl answered. "But I want to learn how to kick bad guys' asses like that."

I didn't hear any more, but Emily chuckled. "Is it just me, Captain Snow, or do you manage to pick up a fan club wherever you go?"

"Don't remind me," I muttered. "And this isn't over."

I had a hearing, a court-martial and an award ceremony to attend yet. And I wasn't sure which one was going to be the most taxing.

End of Part 5-9

Part 5-10​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 5-10: One Thing After Another​

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

[A/N 2: Having never been near any courtroom in America, I have no idea how the proceedings would go in reality. This is my best approximation thereof.]

[A/N 3: I'm currently applying the advice that I have been given regarding court cases, but I can't promise perfection. Or anything near it, really. I'll do as much as I feel is necessary, but as this isn't due to be a courtroom drama story, 'necessary' is a variable concept.]



Monday, 27 June 1994
Austin, TX

I had seen the inside of more courtrooms than most people twice my age. Some of these court appearances had happened while I was still known as Skitter, in transition to becoming Weaver. Others had taken place after my transition to Brockton Bay of nineteen eighty-nine. But this was the first time since I had been sent back that I was in a courtroom for the purpose of defending my actions.

The hearing into the events involving the death of Rodriguez was being held in Austin. It was just eight days after the funeral of Amanda King, teenage aerokinetic and victim of the Brotherhood of the Fallen. Many others had died at the Battle of the Compound, as it was being called; I had attended a few funerals with Kinsey and Emily, but the lives lost threatened to overwhelm me again.

Despite all of Lisa's attempts to assure me otherwise, I was still being nagged by a feeling of certainty that had I moved a little more quickly or acted a little differently, Amanda would still be alive. I should've anticipated breaching charges. I should've realised that they'd shoot down the chopper. I should've planned better.

The fact that Lisa said otherwise didn't necessarily reassure me. She was under no stricture to tell me the absolute truth, and in fact I was reasonably certain that she had manipulated me on at least one occasion. If she judged that by telling me falsehoods she would better prepare me to face the dangers inherent in the future, then I had no doubt that she would lie through her imaginary teeth all the live-long day.

The government had formed the PRT in frantic haste, and by the very nature of being a rush-job, a few 'minor' details had gotten overlooked in the scramble. Arguably the worst of those 'oversights' was neglecting to create mechanisms to handle the jurisdictional and legal conflicts that would, sadly but inevitably, arise with our notional partner-agencies — with this delightful little SNAFU being the case-in-point and my lanky ass parked squarely in the eye of the resulting bureaucratic shitstorm.

Thus, the hearing was being held in a civilian court. A military court would have worked for an internal PRT matter, and we had offered the use of our own facilities for this case, but the ATF was determined not to give us an inch in the matter.

In the meantime, I had to admit that it was actually a really nice courtroom. Dark polished wood panelled every surface, with beautifully carved railings, so shiny that I could see my face in them. Behind the judge's bench, the Lone Star flag was crossed with the Stars and Stripes, both liberally fringed with golden tassels.

Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton had decided that I should attend in my wheelchair, to ensure that nobody forgot my own injuries during the battle. Thus, Kinsey had wheeled me into the courtroom, the rubber tyres making almost no sound on the thick carpet in the aisle. I was parked alongside the row in which the majority of the PRT contingent was seated, with my cane across my lap. Hamilton was seated beside me, with Kinsey one row back. Aguijón was alongside Kinsey, flanked by Emily. The kid's legal status was more tangled than a bowl of spaghetti; while he was a known supervillain and a murderer, there were mitigating circumstances involved. Also, he had distinguished himself during the New York Endbringer attack by saving the life of the PRT soldier assigned to his squad. Finally, while he had been affiliated with the Brotherhood, Kari had steadfastly denied that he had ever taken advantage of the situation with her. And then, of course, there were his actions during the battle itself.

At my suggestion, Director Grantham had offered Aguijón a probationary position in the Wards. While the boy had accepted, this didn't solve all of his problems. For instance, he had been involved with the Brotherhood of the Fallen, for all that he had turned against them at the end. If someone with enough clout wanted to make trouble for him, it could still happen.

Across the aisle, the ATF was there in force, along with the prosecutor. The ATF people weren't quite throwing spitballs, but the sidelong glances of malice were exceedingly familiar to me. While Emily's observation that I seemed to pick up a fan club wherever I went wasn't totally inaccurate, I also seemed to have retained my ability to make enemies as well. No matter what year it is, some things never change.

-ooo-​

"All rise."

The soft murmurs stilled as the bailiff gave his order. Chairs creaked and feet shuffled on the polished floorboards as people got to their feet. Leaning forward, I used my feet to flip up the foot-rests, then placed them firmly on the floor. Using my cane on my left side and the bench-seat on my right to brace me, I came to my feet reasonably smoothly. My leg was knitting well, with only the barest of twinges as I put my weight on it, but days of enforced bed rest had done nothing at all for my muscle tone. Tensing my abdominal muscles elicited a dull ache in my torso, a reminder of the injury that had nearly killed me. However, Aster had assured me that I was healing quickly there as well.

Aster Anders. Even with everything else that had happened to me, I still had trouble getting my head around that part of the situation. Kaiser and Purity's daughter, sent back in time to help me. She had lived through the years preceding Zion's appearance, waiting for me to show up so that she could help me. Of course, events had conspired to make it impossible for her to be there from the start, but now that we were both on the same page, this made things … easier. At least now I had real firepower that I could call on when and if I truly needed it. On the other hand, said assistance would be contingent on her duties within the PRT, and her own secret identity. Whatever; I was just glad that she was there at all.

"The Western District Court of Texas," intoned the bailiff, bringing me back to the present. "Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before the Western District Court of Texas are admonished to give their attention, for the Court is now sitting, the Honourable Judge Richard Francis Norman presiding. God save the United States, the State of Texas, and this Honourable Court."

As he spoke, an elderly man strode out from behind the curtains backing the bench. With a swirl of robes, he moved to his throne-like chair and took his seat. The bailiff inflated his chest once more. "Be seated," he ordered. Everyone else sat down. I took my time, not wanting to collapse in an undignified heap into the chair.

Judge Norman reached into his robes for a pair of glasses, unfolded them and put them on. Then he cleared his throat, not bothering with the microphone before him. When he spoke, his voice was strong, with a deep Southern drawl to it. "This is a hearing into the matter of the United States versus Captain Taylor Snow, Parahuman Response Teams. The charge is disobeying the orders of a superior officer in the face of the enemy. The defendant has chosen to plead not guilty." He turned to the ATF side. "Mr Peterson, does the government wish to drop the charge?"

I didn't respond to the words, outwardly at least. Inwardly, I felt a chill spread through me. While they weren't using the term 'causing mutiny', given that this was a civilian court, the end result could be much the same.

Thankfully, the weight of witness testimony meant that they had decided to quash the potential murder charge at the arraignment. However, even though I was reasonably confident about the outcome, that was not a reason to feel complacent. My actions, after all, tended to bypass Lisa's predictions of what was going to happen. And I had no idea which of my past actions could come back and bite me in the ass.

Peterson, the court prosecutor, stood up. He spoke, his voice confident and smooth. "Your Honour, the government wishes to carry on and prosecute this case in full."

Judge Norman made a note with what looked like an elaborate quill pen, the feather bobbing from one side to the other. He looked up once more, and nodded. "Proceed with your evidence, then."

"One more thing, your Honour, before I begin," the prosecutor went on. "Evidence has been gathered that will allow us to press two more charges. Two counts of negligent homicide, to be exact."

Judge Norman's eyebrows drew together. "The murder charge was dropped at the arraignment. It was clearly self-defence."

"Not of Director Rodriguez," Peterson told him. "Director Hanran and Amanda King. We intend to prove that they died as a direct result of Captain Snow's ill-advised actions."

I composed my features to pretend surprise. I'd known this was coming, of course. But I still couldn't convince myself that I was innocent of the charge.

-ooo-​

The ATF didn't have much. In fact, the only word of mouth they had about anything that had happened after the chopper crash had to have come from Kinsey, myself, Aguijón, or the traumatised girls whom we had rescued. But I had to give the prosecutor credit; he gave it his best shot.

He began with the 'disobeying orders' charge, which boiled down to my overriding Hanran and Rodriguez after the helicopter had crashed. Each man had been the local Director of his respective Bureau, while I was a (relatively) lowly Captain, an analyst under the command of the deceased Walsh. Technically, upon Walsh's demise, and in the absence of anyone from the PRT, my chain of command had defaulted to both Hanran and Rodriguez,.

Using the exact wording of my report, he pointed out that while Hanran wasn't sure what to do, Rodriguez had advocated a plan of action, which I had overruled. He carefully left out the fact that Rodriguez and Hanran had followed on once Kinsey and I had headed for the objective, which didn't surprise me. Nor, to my equal lack of surprise, did he air the part of my report which gave my reasons for not wanting to follow Rodriguez's plan of action, or the part of Hamilton's report where he wholeheartedly supported my decision.

As for the second charge, he pointed out that it was my decision that had led them to the building where the prisoners had been held. As an inevitable result of that decision (as he put it) Hanran and Amanda were now dead.

"I see," Judge Norman said, once the prosecutor had finished speaking. He turned toward my lawyer. "Do you wish to respond to these charges?"

My lawyer was a man by the name of Mitchell. He was even quite experienced and well-respected in his field. Arranging for his presence, via an 'anonymous' cash donation to the PRT 'Captain Snow Defense Fund' (thank you, Andrea) had taken a little effort; making sure that it couldn't be traced back to me had taken quite a bit more.

The PRT hadn't actually had a Captain Snow Defense Fund. Until, of course, Andrea created it.

I had intended to sit quietly and let Mitchell have his say. But at the last moment, something rebelled deep inside me. Perhaps it was the fact that I had been through the Battle of the Compound, and I knew better than any of them what it had been like. Or perhaps I just didn't trust lawyers to get it right. I hadn't had the best experiences with them, after all.

I pushed myself to my feet at the same time as Mitchell rose. Beside me, Hamilton made a startled sound, but it wasn't a direct order so I ignored it. "Yes, your Honour," I stated clearly. "I do."

For the first time, Judge Norman showed something more than the studied indifference that he had been exhibiting to this point. His eyebrows rose, and he studied me through his bifocals. "State your name, young lady," he ordered.

"Captain Taylor Snow, your Honour," I said firmly.

Something akin to surprise crossed his features; it seemed that he had not been aware of who I was. He looked me over again, his eyes lingering on my medals and the cane that I was leaning on.

"And you wish to reply to the charges that have been levelled against you, Captain Snow?" He seemed less angry than curious at the minor disruption to court procedure.

"If the court will allow, your Honour," I replied, giving him an out if he wanted it.

I couldn't be sure, but I imagined that one corner of his mouth crept upward slightly. "Far be it from me to forbid an officer and a lady from defending herself in my courtroom," he stated. "If you will take the stand, please?"

Moving carefully, leaning heavily on the cane, I made my way down the aisle and across to the witness stand. By the time I got there, the bailiff had procured a Bible and was waiting with it.

"Do you have any objection to swearing upon the Bible, Captain Snow?" he asked; even using quieter tones, his voice was still commanding.

"None whatsoever," I said, determined not to sound out of breath. I need to get back in shape, dammit! Leaning my cane against the stand itself, I placed my left hand on the worn leather cover of the book. It looked to be older than Judge Norman himself.

He nodded once. "Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

I raised my right hand. "I so swear."

The formalities done with for the moment, he took the Bible and moved away, leaving me alone on the stand. Judge Norman looked down at me, then nodded. "Captain Snow, you may proceed."

I took a deep breath. My right lung sent me a minor pang to remind me that it was still mending, but I ignored it. "Your Honour, I don't know if you've ever been in combat, but it's not a place that you can stop and make a reasoned, logical decision about your course of action. Of the four of us, two of us were wounded; I am still recovering from my injuries. We were in the middle of an enemy-occupied compound, with two pistols between us. We couldn't fight our way out and we couldn't stay where we were. As I saw it, we had just one chance. If we could reach the objective and barricade ourselves in, we could possibly hold out until rescue."

The prosecutor straightened his lapels. "You were in the presence of Director Rodriguez and Director Hanran. Both outranked you. Why did you not follow their orders?"

"Because Hanran didn't know what to do and Rodriguez wanted to surrender," I explained patiently.

"I understand that you're a military person first and foremost," the prosecutor came back at me, managing to make the word 'military' sound dirty. "But why the objection to surrender? After all, it wasn't as if you'd be held prisoner of war in a foreign country. In your own words, you were wounded. No blame would be reflected on you. Why did you choose to flout their orders?"

I kept my voice as level as possible, trying not to break out in a cold sweat at the memory of the experience. "We were there to rescue half a dozen kidnapped girls who were being used as parahuman breeding stock. They'd already shot down an unarmed reconnaissance helicopter. I was wounded to the point that my life expectancy could be measured in hours. I could not in any way see a good outcome if I let myself be turned over to them." Would you like any more reasons? I'm sure I can think of a few.

"And so you chose to ignore the orders of older, more experienced men." The prosecutor shook his head, as if in sadness at my lack of wisdom. "These women who you thought were there; did you have any actual proof of their presence, or were you just using that as an excuse to ignore Director Rodriguez's authority?"

"They were there," I snapped, then took a breath to calm myself. "We rescued them."

"But did you know they were there then, or were you merely working off speculation?" His voice was smooth, reasonable. "Being found correct later does not excuse the act of disobeying orders at the time and place that it happened."

"Objection!" called out the PRT lawyer. "The prosecutor is ignoring the fact that Captain Snow not only knew about the prisoners, but where they were."

Peterson spoke up quickly. "I'm merely trying to establish whether the intent for disobeying orders was legitimate or not at the time, your Honour."

"Sustained," noted Judge Norman. "Although I will point out that this is a hearing, not a trial. Any and all evidence that may be germane to the case is admissible, including speculation and hearsay." He turned back to me. "Please continue. How certain were you that there were prisoners in the Compound?"

"Absolutely, your Honour," I replied promptly. "I'm an analyst. Correlating and cross-checking data is what I do. Between checking police reports and examining overhead imagery, I managed to trace six missing women and three parahuman criminals to that place. Satellite pictures alone allowed me to place two of the women and one of the supervillains on site."

Peterson spoke up again. "Captain Snow, while I'm not an expert at this, I do understand that identifying any given individual from a satellite image is not an exact science. While you think you may have seen those people, can you state with exactitude how you managed to identify them so precisely?"

I stalled for a moment. My dead best friend told me didn't exactly seem like the most optimal thing to say. But then, up in the seats, Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton cleared his throat. "Your Honour, may I make a statement on this matter?"

"Objection," Peterson said at once. "I had not yet finished cross-examining Captain Snow."

"Your Honour, this is specific to the case at hand," Hamilton persisted. "It has to do with how Captain Snow can be so certain that she identified those people."

Judge Norman rubbed his chin. "Very well. Your name, for the record?"

Hamilton stood, and took a deep breath. "Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, PRT Intelligence Division. Captain Snow is under my command."

"Understood, Lieutenant-Colonel. Captain Snow, you may step down. Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, you may take the stand."

Taking my cane, I moved carefully back toward the wheelchair. Hamilton passed me, his back straight and bearing steady. By the time I was sitting down again, he had been sworn in.

"Lieutenant-Colonel, you may proceed," ordered Judge Norman.

Hamilton spoke clearly and firmly. "I am the senior officer in the Chicago PRT Intelligence office. Captain Snow has been under my command for eleven months."

"As I understand things, you were in Chicago while Captain Snow was in Texas," Peterson stated. "She was not under your direct command when she made those potentially erroneous identifications. How can you speak to her expertise when you weren't even there?"

Hamilton looked at him almost mildly. I knew that look. Someone's about to acquire a brand-new orifice. "As I said, the Captain has been under my command for eleven months. During that time, she has consistently proven herself to be the best analyst I have ever seen, in forty years of Intelligence work. She's quirky and occasionally insubordinate, but her hunches are more accurate than anyone else's informed guesses. When she says she's certain about something, I will bank my career on it. I have banked my career on it."

"But how do you know she was right this time?" pressed Peterson. "You don't, do you? You can't. Isn't that right?"

"Yes. I can." Hamilton may have been past sixty, but the tone in his voice could have shaved steel. "Because everyone gets it wrong sometimes. Even the best can make a bad call. But in the time that she's been under my command, she has never, not once, made a bad call. Identifying people from a satellite photo? She could have told you their shoe size."

For a long moment, there was silence in the courtroom. Peterson looked a little stunned. I wasn't surprised; when Hamilton spoke like that, few people argued.

Judge Norman broke the spell by clearing his throat. "I see. Well, given that the women were indeed where Captain Snow said they would be, I will accept that as proof of her expertise in the matter."

"Lieutenant-Colonel," Peterson said then, "assuming that she did indeed know that, how does that give her the capability to know what to do in that sort of situation?" Being a mere analyst, he didn't quite say.

"As well as being a top-notch analyst, Captain Snow is remarkably adept at small-unit tactics," Hamilton said. "She has been involved in several live-fire incidents, and has acquitted herself admirably each time."

Peterson was getting frustrated; though it didn't show in his face or voice, I could pick the tells. "So she's a genius at analytical work and a tactical marvel?" Sarcasm was heavy in his voice. "No, don't answer that. No further questions, your Honour."

The PRT lawyer rose at once. "Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton," he said promptly. "If it had been you in the situation with Captain Snow, inside the Compound?"

Hamilton's reply was prompt. "I would have followed her lead, without hesitation. Yes, I am her superior officer, but in situations like that it's better to let the experts do what they do best."

The ATF people were talking in hushed tones to Peterson. Papers changed hands.

"Your Honour," called out Peterson. "Evidence has just been handed to me suggesting impropriety between Captain Snow and Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, thus occasioning the high opinion that the Lieutenant-Colonel holds for the Captain."

I'd known this was coming, of course. Hamilton had not; I could see his shocked expression. Momentarily, I regretted not filling him in, but reminded myself that he probably would not have been able to act as outraged as he was currently feeling.

"That is absolutely untrue," he snapped. "Moreover, I have documentation proving that the individual who supplied that falsehood has a long-standing animosity against Captain Snow. He has clashed with her in the past, and is currently under investigation regarding contraband substances found in his possession."

I guessed that Captain Gordon – for who else could it be? - would be undergoing more than an 'investigation' when Hamilton got back. The idiot. But then, he had a proven track record of not looking where he was leaping. When the ATF came looking for dirt on me, he must have thought it was a dream come true.

Judge Norman cleared his throat. "We are reaching a little far afield here. Suffice to say, you are satisfied with Captain Snow's judgement in this matter, Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton?"

"Utterly, and without reservation." The assurance in Hamilton's voice was rock-solid. I wanted to hug the man.

"Well, then. Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, you may step down." He waited until Hamilton was sitting beside me once more, then went on. "Given that it was in the heat of battle; that Captain Snow reportedly has the expertise required to carry her plan through; that both Directors saw fit to follow her lead; and that surrender would have been the least tenable option for her, I am hereby striking down the charge of disobeying orders." Norman made a note, then banged his gavel once. "We shall take a ten-minute recess before addressing the charges of negligent homicide."

-ooo-​

I spent most of that ten minutes briefing Mitchell on what had happened in the building, and how Hanran and Amanda had died. By the time the recess ended, I was spent, emotionally drained. I didn't even want to think about what had happened.

Mitchell stood up and made his case for my innocence. He was a good lawyer; one by one, he refuted Peterson's points, then argued him to a standstill. When Peterson at last fell silent, Judge Norman banged his gavel.

"It is clear to me that Captain Snow acted under the best of information available to her at the time," he stated. "She acted in a forthright and responsible manner, and did her best to keep them both alive. I am striking down the charges of negligent homicide."

After a brief moment of stunned silence, a man stood up on the ATF side of the courtroom. I recognised him as the new regional Director, Martins. "Your Honour!" he shouted. "I urge you to reconsider! The charges -"

Norman banged his gavel again, cutting him off. "The charges," he said harshly, "have been struck down. They are no longer valid." The gavel sounded twice more. "This hearing is concluded."

Voices arose, from my side of the aisle as well as the other, as Judge Norman arose from his seat at the bench. I half-expected Peterson to say something as well, but he seemed to be entirely unconcerned; the moment the gavel fell, he had begun to tidy his papers and replace them in his briefcase. Of course; he works for the court. He gets paid no matter what.

"Are you all right, Snow?" It was Hamilton who had spoken; I turned to look at him as he stood up. "You seem a little lost."

"I … yes, sir," I said. "I'm fine. It's just that … well, that seemed a little easy. Not that I'm complaining," I added hastily.

He smiled tightly. "They were never going to win this," he assured me. "Of course, your testimony put the nail in the coffin for them."

"I'm sorry about that, sir," I said. "I know that we're paying Mr Mitchell to do the lawyering, but it seemed to me that a simple and direct answer would work better there."

"And as a lawyer, I'm incapable of a simple and direct answer?" That was Mitchell himself, who had come around the seats to get past Hamilton. He could have asked the question in a nasty way, but instead he chose to smile and make it into a joke.

I shrugged. "Well, I've known lawyers before. They do tend to overcomplicate things."

He tilted his head, acknowledging my words. "The 'overcomplication' tends to be due to making sure that we're adhering to legal precedent, but I won't say you're wrong. However, while I would not have addressed the issue in quite the same way that you did, I have to admit that your points were well made."

"Oh," I said, feeling somewhat relieved. "After I started speaking, I was terrified that I might screw it all up."

"Remind me never to play poker with you," he replied dryly. "No, you did great. You got his attention, and you kept it."

"Well, you did great for the second part," I said with real gratitude. "I don't know that I could have gotten up and talked about it. It's …" I trailed off, unable to articulate the words.

"So, Mr Mitchell," Hamilton said, smoothly covering for me. "Do you do many cases like this?"

Catching some kind of hidden signal, Kinsey turned the chair and started wheeling me up the aisle.

"Well, this has been the most interesting case I've had in a while," Mitchell said. "Mind you, I've never represented the PRT before."

I didn't hear Hamilton's reply, because Kinsey had stopped, mainly due to the man who had stepped out in front of me. This was Martins, the new ATF Director. He was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Can I help you?" I asked. Casually, I grasped the walking stick over my lap; while my eyes didn't shift from his, I measured Martins' stance and gauged that he was seconds from attacking me. Block his strike, handle of the stick into his groin, stick across his throat as he falls across me, choke him out.

"This isn't over, Snow," he gritted.

"Actually, it is," I pointed out. "We're done here. You lost."

I felt rather than heard Kinsey set the brakes on the wheelchair, and step up alongside me. Martins looked at him for the first time, and I saw the quick calculation in his eyes. Can I take him? The answer was almost certainly 'hell, no'; I saw him force himself to calm down slightly.

"We can appeal," he said, shifting his attention back to me. "We will appeal. Take this to the Supreme Court."

"Excuse me, Captain Snow," murmured Hamilton, squeezing past the wheelchair once again. He raised his voice, addressing the man in front of me. "Director Martins."

"Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton." Martins' voice was no more friendly than before.

"Let me make this clear," Hamilton told him. "You can't appeal this decision. The evidence has been weighed and found wanting. This isn't a fight you can win, and the last thing you want to do is bring your whole Bureau into a pissing contest over a man who made some bad decisions and died because of them." His tone became almost paternal. "Don't go there, son. Pick the fights you can win."

Martins looked like he'd bitten into something very sour indeed. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself. I watched as his fists clenched even more tightly. Finally, he focused his glare on me. "You'll screw up someday. Everyone does. And on that day, I'll be fucking waiting."

I considered several responses, but most of them were more likely to escalate the situation rather than calm it down; I got the impression that Hamilton didn't want me antagonising Martins any further. So I picked the mildest one. "If you say so," I replied neutrally.

For a moment, I thought he was going to try to punch me anyway, but then he got control of his anger and turned away. I sat there and watched as the ATF people filed out the door of the courtroom.

"Somehow, sir, I don't think they're going to give up so easily," I said quietly.

"Somehow, Snow, I don't think so either." Hamilton put his hand on my shoulder and gently squeezed. "But as I said, they won't be able to appeal. Double jeopardy applies. Which means that they're more likely to try other avenues to get at us."

Such as Emily's court-martial. "Yes, sir."

-ooo-​

Thursday, 30 June, 1994
PRT Austin

Another day, another courtroom.

This one was in the depths of the Austin PRT building; unlike the one in which my hearing had been held, it held little in the way of old-world charm, with plasterboard walls and muted fluorescent lighting. Seats and railings were made of metal or plastic and painted a neutral beige, while the 'bench' was a row of simple desks. Director Grantham was the officer presiding over this court-martial; he was flanked by a major, a captain, and two lieutenants.

The specifications that had been placed against Emily for the events of the eleventh included assaulting the guard, insubordination and threatening senior officers with a loaded weapon. Although the ATF had lobbied strenuously to have her tried separately by each branch against whom she had offended, this had been overthrown at her preliminary hearing; she was a PRT officer, and so the court-martial would be prosecuted by the PRT.

The ATF was there, of course, as were the other plaintiffs in her case. The witnesses sat further back. As a character witness, I was placed off to the side a little with Kinsey, where we could observe proceedings until I was called upon. Emily, in her plain undress uniform, sat alongside her defence lawyer. He was currently on his feet, cross-examining one of the witnesses.

"When Lieutenant Piggot entered the command tent, did she seem to be particularly excited?"

The young woman, a lieutenant herself, paused before answering. "Not really. I mean, we were all pretty upset about what had happened, but -"

"Thank you," the counsel cut her off. "Can you tell the court what she did once she entered the tent?"

The lieutenant paused again. "She … asked them what was going on. What the status of the rescue mission was."

"And what happened then?" prompted the lawyer. His uniform wasn't anywhere near as expensive as the suits that our team of lawyers had worn at the hearing, but that was probably because he was PRT, not a civilian.

"The, uh, Captain Landing told her to butt out."

"Really?" asked the counsel. "'Butt out'? Those were his exact words?" There was a murmur of amusement around the courtroom.

She flushed deeply. "Uh, no, sorry, sir. He told her that it was above her pay grade."

"Ah, of course. How did Lieutenant Piggot respond to that?"

She took a deep breath. "She, uh, reminded him that there were seven people down behind enemy lines, and that they were, uh, arguing while their commanding officers were being slaughtered not one mile away. Or something like that. I don't recall the exact wording."

The lawyer tilted his head. "Were they? Arguing, I mean?"

"Yes, sir. I guess they all had their own plan, and nobody wanted to follow anyone else's plan."

"Well, now." The lawyer rubbed his chin. "So what happened then?"

"Uh, they argued, and I think she called him a REMF, and -"

The murmur arose again, and he raised a finger to stop her. "Wait. She called him that?"

"Yes, sir. She did."

He rubbed at the corner of his mouth, as if to wipe away a smile. "I see. So what happened after that?"

She was sweating by now. "He, uh, told the guard to remove her, and she subdued the guard, then she -"

"Wait. She subdued the guard? Did she use lethal means to do this?"

The lieutenant shook her head. "She knocked him out with her elbow, and took his rifle. I remember hearing her pull the bolt back. Then she asked Captain Jones if his plan involved kicking ass until we had everyone back, and Captain Jones said yes, so she said I like his plan, he's in charge."

"Let's back up a second here. This is Captain Kelly Jones, of the Parahuman Response Teams?"

She nodded earnestly. "Yes, sir."

"I see. Did Lieutenant Piggot point the rifle at anyone during this time?"

Slowly, she shook her head again. "No. It was pointed at the floor."

"Very good." He smiled encouragingly. "Now, this is very important. Was her finger on the trigger at any time?"

She frowned, concentrating. "Uh, no, I don't think so. I'm … I'm pretty sure that she kept her finger outside the trigger guard at all times."

The lawyer nodded. "And did you, personally, feel under threat at any time during this incident?"

"Uh, I was a little bit concerned, yes, sir, but I didn't think she was going to shoot up the tent or anything. She looked more like …" She trailed off, frowning.

"Yes?" prompted the lawyer.

" … like she was trying to make a point. Like she really, really wanted those officers rescued."

"Objection!" called out the lawyer for the prosecution. "Witness is speculating on the state of mind of the accused."

"Sustained," Grantham ruled. "The witness will restrain herself from speculating. The court will ignore that remark."

The defending lawyer took it in his stride. "What happened after she put Captain Jones in charge?"

"Well, he asked if she would surrender herself to his custody, and she did, and then she volunteered to lead the attack."

He turned to Grantham and the other officers who made up the Board. "Let the record show that not only did Lieutenant Piggot lead the attack that liberated the prisoners and the survivors from the helicopter, but she was also instrumental in killing one of the three supervillains in the Compound, who had already racked up a substantial body count. Following that, she also volunteered her own blood to save the life of Captain Taylor Snow, who had been grievously injured in the helicopter crash." He held up a piece of paper from his desk. "I have here a deposition here from Major Goldstein, the attending surgeon, stating that without Lieutenant Piggot's actions, Captain Snow would almost certainly have died."

"May I see that, please?" Director Grantham held his hand out.

"Yes, sir." The lawyer rounded his desk and placed the document in Grantham's hand. He then went back to his place while Grantham read it over.

"That seems to be in order." Grantham looked at the defending lawyer once more. "Do you have any further questions for this witness?"

"No, sir." The lawyer turned to his opposite number. "Your witness." He took his seat beside Emily.

I watched as the counsel for the prosecution did his best to shake the lieutenant's story. He didn't have much luck in ascribing more sinister motives toward Emily's actions, although he did his best by concentrating on the assault on the guard, and the fact that Emily had chambered a round before making her demands. However, it didn't take too long before he too turned to the Director. "No further questions, sir."

"The witness may step down," Grantham ordered. As the lieutenant gratefully took her seat once more, he turned toward me. "I have been petitioned to allow a character witness from someone who has known Lieutenant Piggot since boot camp. I am inclined to allow this petition."

At his nod, I rose, leaning heavily on the cane. I could walk more easily than I was currently doing, but it seemed to me that playing up my injury couldn't hurt and might even help. My medals gleamed on the breast of my dress uniform tunic for all to see; just for once, I didn't dislike the fact that they were there. If they helped people to take me more seriously, then it might just tip the scales for Emily.

Taking the stand, I leaned on the podium, looking out at the courtroom. Uniformed figures looked back at me, the pattern broken only by the sharp suits of the civilians at the back of the room. The contrast with the courtroom of three days previously had never been more clear. However, some things were still the same; Martins glowered at me with a poisonous hatred that did not seem to have abated in any way. I have to say, the man can hold a grudge.

"Captain Snow," the Director said. "Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth before this court?"

"I do, sir," I agreed.

"Very well," he stated. "Defense may question the witness."

"Captain Snow," Emily's defending lawyer began. "Could you please inform the court as to how you met Lieutenant Piggot, and how long you have known her?"

Oh, good. A softball question. "I first met Emily Piggot during boot camp, in February of last year." I wasn't going to mention the actual first time that we'd met, seventeen years in the future and a world away. "We became boot buddies. I did tactics, she did execution. She had my back, and I had hers." I spared a glance for Emily; her head was up and her eyes glittered with appreciation for what I was attempting to do. "Lieutenant Piggot and I remained friends after we finished boot. However, this is the first time that we've been in the field together, which is a pity."

The lawyer nodded understandingly. "What is your opinion of Lieutenant Piggot as a person and a soldier?"

My answer was as direct and uncompromising as I could make it. "I consider Lieutenant Piggot to be an exemplary soldier. I would have trusted her with my life before this incident. It's no surprise that she has proven me correct."

I paused, looking from face to face. Before the lawyer could ask another question, I kept going. "If there was one word that I would use to describe Emily Piggot, it's 'dedicated'. I believe that the events covered in this court-martial have proven that no amount of intimidation or physical coercion will prevent her from doing her duty, even if it means the loss of her career or, for that matter, her life. The PRT needs people like that. I am personally proud to call her a comrade in arms, and a good friend."

"And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen," the lawyer said. "Captain Taylor Snow, originator of the Snow Protocols, holder of the DMSM and the DDSM. If anyone's opinion is worth listening to, it would be hers. The defense rests."

"Indeed. Captain Snow." The prosecuting lawyer stood, and eyed me in an almost predatory fashion. "So, tell me, what truth are there in the rumours that you have engaged in a non-regulation liaison with your commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton? Or that you -"

"None whatsoever," I shot back, cutting him off. "I've been accused of this before, and -"

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow. "When there's more than one accusation, surely there's some truth to the matter. It's an old story, after all."

"Yes, and the truth is an older story." I looked him right in the eye. "Jealousy. You got this story from Director Martins of the ATF, didn't you?"

He looked a little shaken, which wasn't surprising. I was cheating, just a little. "Uh, yes, but -"

"Let me clear something up for you," I went on. "Martins got it from a certain captain, based in PRT Chicago. This man hates me, because while I was there, I showed him up on a daily basis. He made up that story months ago, after he tried and failed to get me into bed. That's the beginning and end of that little piece of scuttlebutt."

"So you say," he shot back. "This nameless captain, even if he exists, isn't here to defend himself, so you can say whatever you like about him. I believe I will require independent proof that you are as good an analyst as you say you are."

"Certainly," I retorted. "May I refer to my orderly for the answer to that question?"

"Your … orderly?" he repeated, somewhat surprised.

"Yes. My orderly. Sergeant Kinsey!"

"Ma'am?" Kinsey, although startled, responded immediately.

"What is the device on the ribbon of my Defense Distinguished Service Medal?"

"The letter 'B', ma'am."

I closed my eyes for a moment, to steel myself for what I was going to do next. "And what does that 'B' stand for, Sergeant?"

He didn't hesitate for a moment. "Behemoth, ma'am."

"Thank you, Sergeant." I turned back to the lawyer for the prosecution, whose mouth was hanging slightly open. "Now, I'm sure that you can connect the dots. As an analyst, I got the DDSM for work related to Behemoth. Does that or does that not confirm my capability in my chosen field?"

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I decided that he wasn't staring at my chest, but at my medals, most especially the gleaming 'B' on the medal in question. However, I didn't want to waste any more time than necessary. "Do you have any more questions for me?"

I wasn't quite sure whether it was the muted snickers from the witnesses, or Director Grantham clearing his throat that goaded him back into action. "Uh, yes, Captain. By your own admission, you had no contact with Lieutenant Piggot for eleven months between leaving boot camp and reuniting here in Texas. How can you be certain that she would not have changed in that time? She may not be the person you knew back then."

I shook my head. "Some people might be like that. Emily Piggot isn't, and never will be. She does not give her allegiance lightly, but once it has been given, her loyalty is ironclad. She will not compromise her ideals or principles for anything or anyone. I believe that implicitly."

"Would you still believe that," he shot back, "if I told you that Lieutenant Piggot has been charged with brawling with other ranks before now? On more than one occasion?"

I smiled slightly. This was one of the possibilities that Lisa had briefed me on. "Lieutenant Piggot did not have the best time of it in boot camp, due to her name," I said. "However, I'm certain that not only did she win every one of those brawls, but that the charges against her were dismissed every time, due to mitigating circumstances. So yes, I still do believe that."

He looked unhappy. "No more questions, sir."

Grantham looked over at me. "You may stand down, Captain Snow."

Taking my cane from where I had propped it against the podium, I limped back toward my seat. I glanced at Emily briefly, and caught her staring at me with something approaching puzzlement. This wasn't surprising; quite a bit of my analysis of her had come from my experience with her future self. The silence in the courtoom was only broken by whispering among the witnesses, some staring at me and some at Emily.

Once I took my seat, Grantham spoke up again. "Thank you for those stirring words, Captain Snow. We will now take a fifteen minute recess to decide the verdict."

Suiting action to word, he rose from the desk. Followed by the other four officers, he left the room. They would convene, I knew, in Grantham's office, which had a fully stocked wet bar. Lisa had given me good odds that Emily wouldn't be imprisoned or even discharged from the PRT, but that was all contingent on how they reacted to my testimony on Emily's behalf.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, straightening my leg and trying to work the kinks out of it. Beside me, Kinsey cleared his throat; I opened my eyes to see Emily looking down at me.

I wanted to jump to my feet and hug her, but I figured that such a display probably wouldn't exactly suit a courtroom. Or any situation where superior officers might be watching, for that matter.

"Lieutenant," I greeted her; I could see from the grin at the corner of her mouth that she could read me like a book.

"Captain," she replied. "Permission to sit?"

"Well, of course," I said, gesturing at the empty seats beside me.

Carefully, she sat; her lawyer stood a short distance away, just out of earshot.

"So, wow, you kind of canonised me a little there. I was left wondering who you were talking about, because it sure wasn't me." She finished with a helpless gesture of her hands.

"You know I studied psychology," I said.

"Criminal psychology," she reminded me. "You gave me all the gory details, remember?"

I nodded briefly to acknowledge her point, then flicked my hand to dismiss it, all at once. "I've spent too many cold nights on exercise in the same tent as you to not know what sort of person you are. I can see what's inside you, even if you can't. Every word I said up there was true. If you can't see it, then you just need to look deeper."

She raised one eyebrow slightly. "This is starting to sound like one of your bullshit hunches that comes totally out of left field and bowls everyone over."

"And what if it is?" I spread my hands in turn. "Since when have you caught me out in one of those?"

She gave me a mock glare. "Never. Which means that now I've got to bust my butt to live up to what you said about me."

"Nope." I leaned closer to her and lowered my voice. "Just be yourself. You'll find out that I was right all along."

"Hmm." Very obviously, she decided to change the subject. "So yeah, I was told that this would've been a slap on the wrist except for …" She trailed off.

""Martins, right," I muttered, carefully not looking around. "What is it with that man? He can't get me, so he's going after you?"

"Well, you're the criminal psychologist. But my guess is that he wants to hurt the PRT somehow, so this is how he's doing it," she replied, equally quietly.

"I hate that you're even in this situation," I said helplessly. "If it wasn't for me …"

"If it wasn't for Rodriguez spilling the beans, you wouldn't have even been shot down," she reminded me. "So it's back to him."

"And that's why he hates us," I realised. Or rather, the knowledge had always been there, but it was just now crystallising. "He's had it in for me since I shot his boss, and you were the one who forced the ATF to follow the PRT's rescue plan, so you're in the splash range."

"So is it just us, or the whole PRT?"

I considered that. Asking Lisa would be a good idea, but I was fairly sure that I knew the answer anyway. "I'm thinking just us. Targeting the whole PRT would be a stupid move. It'd get him fired from his position in about a day. But just going after me or you? He can probably get away with that, if he's subtle about it."

"So what do we do about it?" Her question was blunt and to the point. From her expression, she half-expected me to have the answer already. Well, I did, but I still thought she was pushing things just a little.

"You do nothing but keep your head down and not make waves." I held her gaze until she nodded. "I'll talk to Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, and see if he can't talk to Director Rankine, and see if he can't get Martins' boss to tell Martins to back off."

"Okay, and if going through channels doesn't work?" she prompted.

I sighed. She knows me too well. "I'm Intelligence. I'll find out dirt on him before he finds out dirt on me, and I'll make him back the fuck off. One way or the other."

"And if there's no dirt on him?"

I snorted. "An asshole like that? There'll be dirt." Even if I have to manufacture it. The idea that I might have to deliberately torpedo someone's career to save my own ass only bothered me slightly. It's not just me. It's not just Emily. It's the world.

-ooo-​

"We have reached a verdict." Grantham unfolded a piece of paper and read from it. "For the specification of assault and battery against Corporal Stanwick, we find the defendant guilty as charged." I clenched my fists until the nails bit into the palms. "For the specification of insubordination, we find the defendant guilty as charged." Murmurs swept across the room and back. "For the specification of threatening superior officers with a loaded weapon, we find the defendant not guilty."

Even the murmurs were stilled for a moment, then started up again. A chair went over with a crash at the back of the room. "No!" shouted an all too familiar voice. I turned and looked, along with everyone else. It was Martins, of course. "How the hell can you say she's not guilty? She did it!"

I hadn't been sure if Grantham had a gavel of his own. That question was answered, as he banged it sharply. "Director Martins," he snapped. "You are here as a representative of the ATF, not an officer of the court. You will contain your outburst or you will be found in contempt."

For a moment, I thought Martins was about to keep going, but he leaned over and picked his chair up, and sat down. He knows when to shut up, I mused. But if he's not faced down, he won't stop. I think I might have to do something about him.

"In accordance with this verdict," Grantham pronounced, "Lieutenant Emily Piggot will suffer a reduction in seniority and will undergo an immediate transfer, location to be determined. Once she arrives, she will be confined to quarters for two weeks, with the requirement that she undergo a competence review before she is permitted to take up her duties once more." He banged the gavel twice more. "This court-martial is now concluded."

It could have been worse, I knew. Much, much worse. If she hadn't led the attack, if she hadn't succeeded, she could be looking at serious jail time, with or without dismissal from the service. I watched as she shook hands with her defending counsel; the man seemed quite pleased with himself.

Carefully, I stood up. With Kinsey beside me, I approached Emily. She was now flanked by two burly MPs, no doubt there to escort her back to her quarters. Their gazes flickered to me and then to Kinsey; I thought I saw recognition in their eyes, but they didn't say anything.

"Lieutenant," I greeted her.

"Captain," she replied, equally formally. "Thank you for attending."

"Thank you for saving my life. Do me a favour and stay in contact."

She nodded, hiding a smile. "If the Captain so wishes."

I kept my face straight. "The Captain so wishes." I held out my hand. "Best of luck, Lieutenant."

"And you too, ma'am." She shook it, her grip firm in mine.

I watched as they escorted her away. Neither man touched her; I hoped that they'd gotten the message that a senior officer was interested in her well-being, and that any mistreatment would be cause for serious official scrutiny. Not that I thought they'd do anything on their own, but if an outside party decided to be malicious enough, things could change.

It was something that I would have to keep an eye on.

-ooo-​

Monday, 5 July, 1994
Washington DC

"Attennnn-hut!"

Eschewing the cane for once, I stood at attention alongside Kinsey and Emily. All three of us wore full dress uniform. We were not the only ones there; other members of the assault force were also receiving medals for distinguishing acts during the Battle of the Compound. The steps leading up to the Lincoln Memorial were wide, and they needed to be; quite a few of us were standing there.

Before us stood Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown; her own dress uniform was just as immaculate as ours. A major stood by, holding a tray of medals, while Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton read from a sheet of paper.

"For outstanding gallantry under extreme hardship in the service of the Parahuman Response Teams against the enemies of the United States government, on the eleventh of June, nineteen hundred and ninety four, Captain Taylor Snow and Sergeant James McMartin Kinsey are awarded the Silver Star Medal. For injuries received in that same action, in the name of the President of the United States, Captain Taylor Snow and Sergeant James McMartin Kinsey are awarded the Purple Heart."

He fell silent then, as the Chief Director took the first medal from the tray. Belying its name, the medal was actually gold, with a red, white and blue ribbon. The 'silver star' itself was set into the middle, within a wreath. Applause rang out as she pinned it alongside my other medals – for someone who had yet to be in the PRT for a full year, I was wearing a ridiculous number of them – then followed suit with the Purple Heart. This was purple, with a profile of George Washington in the middle of the heart.

We stood on the lower steps of the Lincoln Memorial, with press and public gathered before us for the ceremony. While I had desperately wanted to keep this quiet, I could not exactly refuse a medal for something that had been done so publicly. And so, I was forced to undergo perhaps a worse ordeal than the hearing or the court-martial. I had to stand there and be noticed by the public.

We were almost of a height, but as the Chief Director was standing one step down, I was able to look over her head. I kept my gaze level, not wanting her to read anything in my eyes that shouldn't be there. Standing there before her, I could not help but remember her as she had been just before I killed her; I didn't know how much she would pick up from that, and I had zero desire to find out.

She finished pinning my medals on, and turned to Kinsey. He had more than I did, from his years in service, but none were quite as impressive as those he had acquired over the last eleven months. Not that he had not earned them; quite the contrary. The man had gone above and beyond for me, and I deeply regretted how close he had come to death in the process. On the other hand, I was thoroughly grateful that he had been there, because I would not have been able to do it myself.

The Chief Director finished pinning the medals on Kinsey, and stepped back. Hamilton waited for the applause to finish before he began reading once more. "For gallantry in combat and unswerving devotion to duty in the service of the Parahuman Response Teams against the enemies of the United States government, on the eleventh of June nineteen hundred and ninety four, Lieutenant Emily Piggot is awarded the Bronze Star Medal for Valour."

Silence fell again, as the Chief Director stepped forward with the medal in her hand. It was so intense that I could actually hear the tiny sound as the pin pierced the cloth of Emily's dress tunic. As the public applauded once more, she stepped back and took another medal from the tray. Hamilton read out the next soldier's name and his decoration. I took a deep breath and managed to allow myself to relax, which was a good trick while I was standing at attention.

-ooo-​

The last medal was pinned on. Photographs were taken, and the assembled audience applauded once more. The Chief Director stepped up to the podium that had been assembled at ground level.

"Allow me to congratulate you," she said warmly. "Ours is a young service, and we need all the heroes, all the legends, that we can get. We need people to look up to, to set examples for the rest. Your actions in the Compound are an inspiration to us all." She smiled, then. "Dismissed."

The crowd surged forward, while the soldiers who had received medals descended the steps to meet their friends and families. My family was here as well, thanks to Hamilton notifying George and Dorothy behind my back. I had known he would; short of actually asking him not to, there was nothing I could do about it.

I saw Danny first, then picked out the stocky form of his father. We came together at the foot of the steps; I hugged Anne-Rose, then Danny and Dorothy. Finally, I hugged George himself, despite his gruff protests. I had known that Gladys and Andrea wouldn't be able to make it, which pained me. Gladys' work as vice-principal was keeping her busy, and Andrea had her own responsibilities to deal with. But I did wish that they had been able to attend anyway.

"You didn't tell us that you had been hurt," Dorothy fretted. "What happened? Were you badly injured? Are you limping?"

"Let the girl talk for herself, Dottie," George said gruffly. His eyes measured me from head to toe. "You've been through a lot. Do you want to talk about it?"

I bit my lip slightly, trying to ignore the prickling in my eyes. "I … I can't. Most of it's … well, we aren't releasing a lot of the details to the public. Sorry."

"Just tell me one thing," Danny said bluntly. "Does the other guy look worse off?"

I considered that for a moment. "We won. That's all I can really say."

He grinned broadly. "That's good enough for me. Until you can talk about it, of course. At which point, I'm gonna demand serious details."

"Only if you want nightmares," I shot back, but my tone was only half-serious.

They would be driving back to Brockton Bay that night, but we'd all been given leave for the rest of the day. Kinsey, having no family of his own to speak of, had elected to stay by my side. I was happy with this situation.

For this one day, for this magic afternoon, I could relax and spend time with Danny and his parents. To my surprise, my request for a private interview with Director Costa-Brown had been granted, for that very evening. However, until then, I wasn't going to be worrying about anything.

-ooo-​

That Evening
PRT Washington DC
Chief Director's Office

Chief Director Costa-Brown sat behind her desk like any other officer, but her presence was astonishing; she owned the room. I stood at attention before her, with Emily and Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton beside me. What they were doing here, I wasn't sure; they had arrived at the same time as I had, so I had to assume that it was no coincidence.

"Just so you know, Captain Snow. If the Parahuman Response Teams had its own version of the Medal of Honor or the Distinguished Service Cross, you and Sergeant Kinsey would be wearing those."

Without thinking, I opened my mouth. "Thank you, ma'am."

"I was only stating the truth." Her tone was businesslike. "What's on your mind, Captain?"

"Lieutenant Piggot is just as much a hero as Sergeant Kinsey or I, perhaps even more so," I said bluntly. "We were not in the Compound by choice. She went in there deliberately. And if it wasn't for her, the sergeant may not have survived. I know for a fact that I would not have."

She nodded seriously. "I'm fully aware of that, Captain. It's not often that I pin a medal on someone who has been court-martialled and suffered a loss in seniority as a result of the same action that she earned the medal for."

"I understand that, ma'am," I said. "I just want to request that she not be transferred to a nowhere assignment as punishment for her transgressions. She's a good soldier, a dedicated -" I stopped talking as she held up her hand.

"You don't need to say any more, Captain." The words could have been cutting, but her smile took the sting out of them. "I've read the transcript of your speech during the court-martial. If the PRT had such a thing as a nowhere assignment, which I assure you is not true …" Her smile turned wry for a moment as we shared the joke. Every branch of the military had a nowhere assignment; it was where they sent the screwups and no-hopers. " … she wouldn't be going there. As it happens, Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton has prevailed upon Director Rankine to take her on."

I blinked. "Uh, thank you, ma'am. I do appreciate that."

"Why?" Her expression turned bland. Had she been playing poker, I would have suspected a full house or a royal flush in the offing. "I had nothing to do with it."

Yeah, as if. "Understood, ma'am."

She nodded at what I had not said. "Very well. Dismissed."

"Ma'am," I said, nodding politely. Emily echoed me, in concert with Hamilton. The Chief Director shifted her attention to the paperwork on her desk.

We turned and left the office; Hamilton gestured for Emily and me to precede him through the door. After it closed behind us, I turned toward Hamilton. "Thank you, sir."

He didn't need to ask why. "It wasn't exactly a hard decision, Captain. For one thing, she was just awarded the Bronze Star. For another, she broke regulations to save the life of my favourite analyst. And then of course, there's the fact that I trust your judgement implicitly."

There wasn't much I could say to that. Emily took the initiative, stepping up to Hamilton. We were indoors and uncovered, so she could not salute, but she offered a respectful nod. "Lieutenant-Colonel. What are your orders?"

Hamilton held out his hand; after only a brief hesitation, she shook it. "You'll be flying back to Chicago with me, Lieutenant. I hope you packed your winter-weight uniforms."

She smiled briefly. I knew for a fact that she'd done an Arctic survival course. "I'll manage, sir."

"That's what I like to hear, Lieutenant." He beamed at her, looking more grandfatherly than ever. "Welcome aboard."

"It's good to be aboard, sir."

I allowed myself a tiny sigh of relaxation. Everything was not yet plain sailing; I had years to go before I could consider my task even half done. But this had turned out somewhat better than I had expected.

Which meant, of course, that something else was looming on the horizon.

Because since when had my life been any other way?

End of Part 5-10

Part 6-1​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 6-1: Dominoes and Butterflies​

[A/N: This chapter beta-read, and greatly improved upon, by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



PRT Department 24; Washington, DC
Saturday, 9 July, 1994

As I put my weight on my left leg, it twinged to remind me that I'd broken it not all that long ago, but I wasn't paying attention to that right now. Flaring my nostrils, I breathed deeply, trying to get the most use out of my damaged lung. There was a slight loss of function there as well, but I treated it as I'd treat any other irritating obstacle; something to overcome and leave behind.

Kinsey stepped forward, hefting his padded staff as if it weighed nothing at all. If his arm or ribs were bothering him, I couldn't tell, and I knew the man better than most. I also knew that he was setting up to bring the fight to me, whether I liked it or not. This is going to hurt. My eyes searched his stance, seeking clues for where he was going with this.

The end of his staff whistled through the air as he brought it around toward my upper arm. Padded or not, a blow that hard would sting like all fuck, and leave a bruise to remember it by. Fortunately, I'd read him correctly, and my staff was in position to take the hit. I didn't try to block it directly, because I had my own plan of action in mind. Instead, I angled the staff and redirected his swing, sending his weapon out of alignment.

That left Kinsey exactly where I wanted him. My sidestep wasn't as fluent as I would have liked it, but it was good enough. In the meantime, with his staff out of the way, his flank was wide open, and I swung my staff in toward his floating ribs. This was going to hurt him more than it hurt me, but it would teach him not to leave an opening like that.

Except … my eyes widened a fraction as he turned into the blow instead of trying to avoid it. His shoulder dropped and his staff slid through his hands as if it was greased. An instant later, the opening had vanished as if it had never been there. Which, to be honest, it hadn't. Unlike me, he obviously felt confident with a solid block, given that when my staff met his, it was like I'd slammed it into a brick wall.

If that wasn't bad enough, he kept turning; his flank opened up again, but now it was my staff that was way out of alignment. Worse, my attention was focused in the wrong direction. Expecting a hit to the shoulder or upper torso, I was watching the high end of his staff; too late, I felt rather than saw the low end swing in hard and fast. The power behind his attack swept the staff through my legs, taking them out from under me and sending me sprawling on to the mat.

Shit fuck. I tried to twist in mid-air; if I could end up on my feet, even in a crouch, I could maybe fend Kinsey off and continue the fight before he could capitalise on his advantage. Unfortunately, I took too long to realise this, and I was reacting far too late. My feet were still in the air when my back hit the mat, the solid impact driving the breath from my lungs with a painful grunt. Dimly, I realised that I'd lost my grip on the staff; with my right hand, I scrabbled for it, while I used my left to push myself off the mat, preparatory to rolling to my feet.

Except that a very large foot came down on my staff before my fingers could close over it. At the same time, I found my eyes crossing in an attempt to focus on the end of the staff that was holding rock-steady, perhaps an inch away from my face. Well, shit.

"Round to you," I grunted and took my hand away from the staff. He'd just taken me down, not quite like a novice, but I wasn't used to losing that hard with staves.

"Round to me," Kinsey agreed, deadpan. His staff moved away from my face, and he leaned in to offer his hand. "You took a hard fall there, ma'am."

Gratefully, I let his massive paw engulf my hand; the burly sergeant heaved me to my feet with as little apparent effort as he used to swing the staff. For my part, I knew that I'd been through a workout; my heart was pounding, I was breathing heavily, and I was more than a little sweaty. "I'll be fine."

Jeez, I used to be in miles better shape than this. Before the Compound, I'd been able to consistently beat Kinsey with staves on the mat, three falls out of four, and barely raise a sweat doing so. Currently, I was losing to him, four falls out of four. This was going to have to change.

Fortunately for my somewhat tattered self-esteem, Kinsey was sweating more than a little, though not as much as I was. He looked fresh enough to go another round or two, which was better than I was doing at the moment. I tried to tell myself that he hadn't been injured as badly as I was in the Compound, but the excuse fell flat. It's not how badly you get hurt, it's how hard you try to get up again.

He raised an eyebrow as I leaned down and retrieved my staff. "You've lost a step, ma'am. Never saw you fall for that one before."

I paused for a moment, trying to decide if he was trying to make a joke. Not even the hint of a smile crossed that craggy face, so I figured that the pun was unintentional. Moving to the side of the ring, I pulled my towel off the rope and wiped my face over. "I know it, Kinsey." Taking his towel, I tossed it to him. "You aren't quite up to scratch either, you know." If I was being honest – and in after-action reports, there was no other way to be – my form had been so bad that he should've beaten me a lot more quickly.

"True, ma'am, but I was still good enough to beat your ass," he pointed out as he caught the towel. "I figure Mrs Knott would've had you on the ground about two seconds after the bell went." I grimaced as he wiped the sweat from his closely trimmed scalp. He was right, of course. Gladys wouldn't have had to pause for breath. Even at my best, I could barely break even with her. And I certainly wasn't at my best, right now.

"True," I admitted. "I've got to get back on the horse. Get fit again." Hanging the towel around my neck, I picked up the water-bottle from where it was sitting next to the post. A good squirt of water went into my mouth, followed by another over my head. I enjoyed the feeling of the cool liquid washing away the warm sweat so much that I did it again. "And if there's a faster way to do that than by getting my ass kicked on a regular basis by you, I don't know what it is."

"Never a truer word, ma'am." He retrieved his own water-bottle and took a drink. "Another round?"

"Later, Kinsey." I began to climb out of the ring. "Going to the range. See how much work I need to do to get back up to speed there, too."

He didn't comment, which may as well have been a rousing cheer and a round of applause. It was all too obvious to both of us that the bad guys would not wait until we were fresh and rested before starting a firefight, so getting in practice while we were sweaty and bruised could only be helpful.

We made our way to the range, where we checked our firearms out of storage. Living on base as we were at the moment, it only made sense. This was not going to be a long-term thing; Chief Director Costa-Brown had made arrangements for us to be housed on base until we had recuperated enough to get back on the road.

I spoke to the range master – a grizzled sergeant – and he gave me a stack of targets. Kinsey and I put on ear protectors – having fired our weapons in anger more than once, we were both fully aware of how punishing gunshots could be to the eardrums. Dividing the targets with Kinsey, I motored my first one out to ten yards and took up my firing position. Let's see how crappy I am at this. Loading the Glock 26, I took aim and fired.

After five rounds, I motored the target back in. I'd seen worse shooting, but I'd definitely done better. Only one had hit the X-ring, while three were in the ten-ring, one had just barely clipped it, and one was a little ways away. Frowning, I put that target to the bottom of the stack, motored the next target out, and reloaded. Okay, let's try that again.

Time rolled by. I was aware of shots from other shooting benches, while my own pistol seemed to barely make a noise at all. Slowly, I got into the rhythm of it once more, punching holes closer and closer to the centre of the target.

The target was at twenty-five yards. I was taking my time between shots, letting my eye find its way. Well and truly in the zone, I was only aware of the target, the front sight, and the pressure on the trigger. I could tell instinctively the precise moment when it would break and the pistol would jolt back against my palm. When the pistol clicked dry, I laid it down and motored the target back in toward my position.

The tap on my shoulder startled me; I looked around to see the range master saying something. Reaching up, I pulled one side of the ear protectors away. "I'm sorry, what was that?" I asked.

The sergeant smiled wryly. "Sorry, Captain, but I'm closing the range. You're going to have to come back tomorrow."

"Roger that, Sergeant," I affirmed. "Just let me police up my brass here, and I'll be out of your way." At his nod, I turned back to my shooting bench and dropped the expended casings into the bag provided for the purpose. Some had found their way on to the floor, and I picked them up as well. As an afterthought, I took the target down from the clip and rolled it up with the others.

That task complete – I could have left it for the range master to do, as some others had, but I didn't want to give him extra work – I went over to where he was filling in some paperwork. "I'll be signing these firearms out of the range," I advised him. "They need to be cleaned, and that can just as easily be done in my orderly's quarters."

"Certainly, Captain Snow," he agreed, pulling out the appropriate form. If anyone thinks that the military – any military – doesn't run on paperwork, then they're sadly mistaken. It only took a minute for me to fill it out and give it back for his signature, then we were legally allowed to remove our firearms from the firing range area.

"So how did you do, ma'am?" Kinsey's question was more than just idle curiosity. A medium to good shot himself, he was aware of how well I could shoot a pistol when I needed to. My accuracy at the range would provide another indicator of how well I was recuperating from my injuries.

"Well, I started out here," I told him, unrolling the first target I had used. "Ten yards." Looking at it anew, I winced at how badly I had missed the mark.

Eyeing it, he whistled softly and shook his head. "That's poor, ma'am. Very poor indeed."

"Don't I know it." I made it a statement rather than a question. "Here's where I ended up. Twenty-five yards."

He took the target and looked it over, then nodded slowly. "Much better. Four in the X-ring, one in the ten. At twenty-five yards, very respectable indeed, ma'am."

"I could still do better," I said. It was true; I could. I had done better, and I would be that good again.

"We could all do better, ma'am," he agreed. "Like in the sparring ring. That was terrible."

I looked suspiciously at him. "I agree, but why the change in subject?" Mentally, I ran back over what we had just said. "Kinsey … how did you do on the range?"

"Nice weather we're having today, isn't it, ma'am?" he replied blandly. Almost as if he wanted to divert my attention. Of course, he knew that I knew him that well, so he was being almost blatantly obvious about it. Hiding in plain sight. Cute.

My suspicions came to a head. "That bad, huh?"

"I believe I may need more time on the firing range, ma'am," he agreed, even more blandly.

Translation: 'I may have missed the target entirely a time or two.'

I nodded. "Message received and understood, Kinsey. We both need more time to get back up to speed." We turned the corner leading to my quarters, so I handed off the gear bag holding the two pistols. "These will need cleaning. I'll call if I need you."

He nodded in response, accepting the bag. "Ma'am."

I watched him march off, then turned toward my own quarters. It was a standard bachelor officers' setup; single bed, basic bathroom facilities, minimal ornamentation. I intended to spend as little time as possible in it before getting back on the road.

Before I unlocked the door – it wasn't really paranoia if there was a good chance that people really were out to get you – I checked my telltales. The hair at waist height had been undisturbed. So had the hair at ankle level. Also, the broken-off matchstick I'd placed precisely one finger-width in from the top corner of the door.

There were capes, even now, who could no doubt get into my room without disturbing my precautions. However, while I was quite certain that I was on the shit-list of some of the above-mentioned, mainly due to the proliferation of the Snow Protocols – I hadn't quite managed to avoid getting my name attached to that damn document – I was equally sure that the aforementioned Protocols were in full force in PRT Department 24. Any Strangers with a bone to pick would have to get past those before they got to me.

That was the general idea, anyway.

Still, I was careful about how I unlocked the door. Before entering the room, I gave it a fast visual sweep, pushing the door all the way open to make sure there was nobody behind it. I had left my walking cane leaning against the wall just inside the door; this placement was in no way accidental. Taking it up, I closed and locked the door behind me before easing over and eyeballing the tiny bathroom enclosure. Then I let myself relax, just a little.

In the back of my mind, I could hear Andrea chiding me. She had been the voice of reason all the way through my college years; even now, when I found myself getting too tense over matters, the memory of her bubbly personality was quite often able to bring me back down to earth. You need to slow down, Taylor, she used to say. Relax. Sure, you've got to save the world. You can't do it all at once. Nobody can.

Taking a deep breath, I dropped into my computer chair and switched the machine on. Deliberately, I leaned back and let more of the tension drain away. Thanks, Andrea. It was true that before I met her, I'd been far too focused, to the detriment of my social life. To the detriment of my interpersonal skills in general, if I was being honest with myself. She had brought me out of myself and shown me the silly side of life. I wasn't quite ready to act the clown as she did, but I could certainly learn from her example.

Once it had finished booting up, the computer requested a password. Rolling my chair over to the light switch, I turned the lights out before returning to the computer and typing in my password. I didn't think I was under surveillance, but information security was a thing. If there was a camera peeking over my shoulder, I wanted it to have as much trouble reading my password as possible.

The computer accepted the password, then asked permission to connect to the local PRT intranet. Ordinarily, the connection would have happened automatically, but I didn't want that. I wanted the choice. Given that I had admin access to the intranet, I had instituted a password for that as well. With the Chief Director's permission, I'd gone looking through the network and made it as secure as I could, but there was always the nagging feeling that something would be undone behind my back.

While I was in there, I had tightened it up some, closed a few potential backdoors, and increased the efficiency by a few percent here and there. I'd also left some nasty logic bombs in wait for anyone who tried to access it via unofficial channels; while they probably wouldn't stop Tinkers or Thinkers, it should certainly suffice to deal with talented normals. As for the aforementioned Tinkers and Thinkers, the best defences against those were truly random passwords and air-gap separation for sensitive servers. I'd covered all that and more in the Protocols; it was just up to the PRT to implement the measures.

I'd lost track of the number of complaints I'd gotten regarding the sheer anal-retentiveness of the Snow Protocols, especially where it came to computer security. Of course, barely anybody who had to follow them had any idea that in fifteen years' time, my 'draconian measures' would be seen as standard computer security protocols. Common sense, in fact.

The two security measures that had drawn the most heat were both password-related. I had stipulated that passwords had to be randomly generated from an alphanumeric matrix at the beginning of each week and handed out to the troops. Once memorised, the notification had to be destroyed; the use of reminder notes was strictly forbidden. Those found violating this rule were subjected to disciplinary measures and their security clearances downgraded.

My name, now I came to think about it, was probably cursed just as much by the average desk weenie who had to adapt to a different password each week as by the Masters and Strangers who had suddenly found themselves frozen out of the PRT. I couldn't help that; I had a job to do, and by God I was going to do it.

The screen cleared showing the intranet menu. I'd sent a message a few hours before, just prior to leaving for my exercise/physical therapy session with Kinsey. Now, the option marked INBOX was showing a (3) next to it. Three unread messages.

It wasn't quite what I was expecting, given that I'd only been tied into this particular intranet for a week or so. One or two messages, maybe, but not three. Well, only one way to find out. Frowning slightly, I skated the mouse over to INBOX and clicked on it. A new window opened, showing the header and first line of each message.

PRT Procedures Manual Update

Update to Procedures Manual Chapter 4, Section A3: Approaching potential suspects not proven to be parahumans …

I grimaced at that one. The PRT still had not hit the sweet spot between 'not enough caution' and 'too much force' when it came to suspected capes. I had no doubt that this update would miss the mark yet again.

Firing Range Request Approved

SNOW, T (Capt) approved for time on firing range between 1600 and 1700 hours, July 10, 1994. KINSEY, J (Sgt) …

I rolled my eyes just a little. Given that I had only recently been released from the hospital, I was on light duties until the doctors passed me as fit to go back into the field. In addition, I wasn't officially on the strength here, which meant that I couldn't just put my name down on the sheet for firing range time. I had to submit a request for each day, and wait for the reply, before I could go ahead and use it. Fortunately, I was able to submit requests a day in advance, which meant that Sunday was all lined up. It was irritating, but that was regs.

Request for Appointment with Chief Director Approved

Captain Snow, your request for an appointment with Chief Director Costa-Brown has been approved, for …

My eyes opened wider, and I hastily clicked on the header. The rest of the message unfolded. It was only a few more words, but it was all I needed.

… the time of 1745 on July 9, 1994.

I blinked at the time. Seventeen forty-five? Shit! Glancing at the computer clock – with the lights off, I couldn't see the clock on the wall – I registered the time as 1721. I had twenty-four minutes to get ready and be there.

Plenty of time. If there was anything the PRT had taught me, it was how to get ready in minimum time under the most trying of circumstances. Still, I wasn't going to waste the time I had. First things first. I scrupulously logged out of the intranet, then cleared my cache before powering down the computer itself.

By now, it was habit to secure my computer properly on a daily basis; not only was it password-protected, but the information within was encrypted using an algorithm that existed on my computer and nowhere else in the world. This was mainly because the information stored on that hard drive was so volatile that I trusted exactly nobody with it, aside from myself.

I had timelines written up, complete with potential actions at certain times, and the projected results of those actions. Every timeline was rated with two numbers; effectiveness of dealing with a particular problem, and potential collateral damage. I liked very few of the number combinations, but some of my choices were quite limited. Hopefully, my interview with Alexandria would improve my odds in certain areas.

<><>​

At 1744 hours, showered and clad in undress blues, I entered the outer office for the Chief Director of the Parahuman Response Teams. The square-jawed sergeant behind the desk wore immaculately pressed urban-camouflage fatigues and an earpiece with a throat microphone. Physically, if not facially, he was nearly identical to Kinsey; large, muscular and with a closely-trimmed scalp. He ceased typing and stood up as I approached, offering me a salute.

"May I help you, Captain?" he asked. His tone was polite, but not obsequious. We both knew damn well that he was there to prevent anyone getting in to see the Chief Director who wasn't supposed to be there. I knew, as he did not, that anyone who burst in on Alexandria uninvited – or worse, actually tried to harm her – was destined to failure. Anyone who forced her to use her powers to defend herself would likely die in the attempt; Cauldron did not get where they were by being squeamish.

Suffice to say, I had no intentions in that regard.

"Captain Snow to see the Chief Director," I said easily, returning the salute. "I have an appointment." My leg wasn't bothering me at all, but I took a moment to lean slightly on the walking cane anyway.

His eyes took that in, then ran over my medals as he sat down again. We'd met four days previously, and while I had no doubt that many people had gone in to see the Chief Director in that time, remarkably few of them would have been wearing both the Silver Star and the Defense Distinguished Service Medal. Also, it would be in his job description to vet requests to see the Chief Director, so he had to have read my jacket. However, for all the recognition he showed, I may have been a total stranger. I approved.

Pressing a button on his earpiece, he announced, "Captain Snow to see you, ma'am." It took just a moment for her to reply, then he nodded to me. "Go on in, ma'am."

"Thank you, Sergeant Horowitz," I replied and entered the office beyond, my cane tapping the floor beside me. Before the door even closed behind me, I heard the keyboard go into action once more. Stopping before the desk, I went to attention and saluted. "Chief Director, ma'am."

"At ease, Captain." Chief Director Costa-Brown rose from behind her desk and returned the salute, then leaned forward to offer her hand. "It's good to see you once more, Captain Snow. Have you reconsidered my offer?"

My features were schooled as close to neutrality as I could manage without being blatant about it as I shook it. Her grip was firm and brisk, with just the hint of unyielding steel beneath. "Thank you, ma'am. I'm afraid not; I still believe that I can do more good out there in the field."

"Which is a pity," she observed, regaining her seat. "However, given recent events, I can't help but think that you may have something there. Have a seat, Captain." Her keen gaze raked me from head to toe. "You're moving more easily. How's your leg?"

"Mending, thank you, ma'am," I said as I pulled a chair up and seated myself. I hooked my cane over one chair arm, then folded my hands on my lap. "Thank you for seeing me."

"Whether you're on the think-tank or not, you're still an outstanding analyst," she pointed out with a total lack of irony. "If you need to see me, I have to assume there's a good reason. So, Captain, what's on your mind?"

I had already been over this in my mind a dozen times, so I didn't need to stop to order my thoughts. "This is about PASS, and about rogue capes in general. You're aware of it, of course."

"Of course." I couldn't quite read her flickering micro-expression, but she didn't seem to be totally happy about it. "The offer was extended for them to join the Protectorate or the Wards, depending on age, and they all refused. What do you think of their group?"

"I think that it's past time that someone did what they're setting up to do," I said bluntly. The Fallen had abducted them to use for breeding material, in order to create new capes for the twisted cause of worshipping Endbringers. Countless other women, lacking in powers of any kind, had been taken and brutalised for far more mundane goals throughout history, even into the modern age. I would have had to be insane, or more desensitised than I believed possible, to disapprove of what PASS was intending to do. In fact, I would have thrown all the weight of my resources behind them, were it not for the fact that I reluctantly considered saving the world to be of a higher priority. Once I was done with that, however …

"So you're advocating that the PRT supports them?" she asked. "You do understand that they're very likely to break laws to get what they want." I knew where she was going with this. The PRT would not and could not condone capes breaking the law in such a blatant fashion; it certainly would not publicly ally itself with PASS once this happened, no matter the cause.

"I understand that, and I'm not advocating it," I said, keeping my voice firm and even. The last thing I wanted was to give the Chief Director the impression that my emotions were running away with me. "But there's a large gap between supporting them and persecuting them. I'm asking that we … turn a blind eye, as much as possible. After all, we know their goals, and I personally support them in that, even if I can't do so officially. It's not like they'll be trying to topple governments or crash the economy. There will always be other cape crimes to deal with. My suggestion is that we simply assign them a low priority."

Director Costa-Brown steepled her fingers and looked over them at me. "Gaming the system now, Captain? How very … political of you." This time, I read the subtext loud and clear. You're trying to manipulate me? That's so adorable.

"Not at all, ma'am," I said respectfully, even though we both knew I was lying through my teeth. "Once the aims of PASS become public – and they've got no reason to hide them – they will gain a following. The more women they save from situations like that, the more popular they will come. If the PRT is seen to be cracking down on them, that could cause us to be seen in a negative light. Ignoring the rights of women, even."

A line appeared between the Chief Director's eyebrows. "But … I'm a woman!" she said, more in disbelief than anger. Unspoken was the question How can they say I'm against women's rights? "And when capes get away with breaking the law, it makes the PRT look bad."

"Public perception is a fickle thing," I said neutrally. "You know that better than anyone. This is just what I see coming. It's your chance to work out your policy before the event. After all," I added with a tight smile, "there are more women in the world than there are capes."

"Hm." Her pause for thought was almost theatrical. That she had thought about it, I had no doubt, but I was equally sure that she had reached her decision in far less time than the several seconds that she pretended to deliberate. "I suppose that your suggestion of de-prioritising their actions has a certain amount of merit." Pausing, she pinned me with a hard stare. "Of course, if they do go so far as to attack the government of a sovereign nation, or commit some other crime that the PRT can't ignore, then we will come down on them."

"If they do that, then whatever happens to them, happens," I agreed. I'll just have to make damn sure that they know where the line is and not to cross it.

"Indeed," she replied, answering both what I had said and what I had not. She was a sharp enough operator to pick up on both messages, of course. "Was there anything else, Captain?"

"Actually, yes, ma'am, there was," I said. I thought I saw a flicker of surprise, but it may have been my imagination. "About rogue capes in general."

"What about them, Captain?" she asked. "They've chosen not to join the ranks of the heroes, and they haven't committed any crimes. Until they do one or the other, they're essentially out of our purview." Which wasn't quite true. I knew all too well that the PRT maintained dossiers on rogue capes, documenting powers and threat ratings on the off-chance that the cape decided to turn toward villainy. If they could get the cape's real name, they did that too. The 'unspoken rules' of my day had yet to be really formulated yet, much less reach any sort of commonality; if the PRT could arrest a villain at his home, they did. It just wasn't publicised very much.

I might have to do something about that, too. I made a mental note, then put the thought away. It was something that I'd have to deal with at another time.

"All very true, ma'am, except for the last part," I said, drawing on my experiences with Kinsey to inject a bland tone into my voice. "The PRT does have a very real influence on them. Specifically, with the use of the 'rogue' designator."

"I'm not certain where you're going with this, Captain." Her gaze was direct. "Are you objecting to the name itself?" I was reasonably sure that she was lying, but she wanted me to spell it out.

Well, if you want it that way. "The word 'rogue' has a negative connotation," I pointed out. "It was almost certainly coined to make undecided capes choose to be heroes rather than go their own way, back when capes using their powers to do something other than fight crime was seen as kind of dirty or self-serving." In fact, I knew it was; I'd checked. "It implies that capes like that are only one step up from villainy."

"And how do you propose we fix that, Captain?" The Chief Director raised one eyebrow, emulating Spock. Of course she can do that. She probably practises in the mirror. "Or, for that matter, why do we even need to? We need all the heroes we can get, after all."

"I'll answer that one in a moment, ma'am," I said. "Pursuant to the rogue issue, I'm about ninety-five percent certain that in the next three to five years, legislation will be proposed that's designed to severely curtail parahuman involvement in business and media. This will be backed, of course, by non-parahuman big business interests, specifically intended to force up-and-coming parahuman-based businesses out of the marketplace." I was more than ninety-five percent sure, of course; the NEPEA-5 bill and the transformation of the Uppermost into the Elite were old news where I came from.

She blinked once; I took that to indicate surprise. "You're very sure of your conclusions."

I inclined my head. "I am. If the PRT doesn't step in, the bill will almost certainly pass." My tone was matter-of-fact.

Her eyes searched mine; I met her gaze steadfastly. I knew I was right. "Assuming this is true, Captain," she said, "what does it matter to us? Rogues are rogues. Business is business. The PRT doesn't get involved in civilian affairs. We've got enough on our plate dealing with villains."

I took a deep breath. "Just now, ma'am, you said that we need all the heroes we can get. That's not precisely true." Three … two … one …

Her voice could have carved tungsten carbide. "Explain." Even in the climate-controlled office, the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees.

I forced myself to maintain eye contact. I had actually managed to irritate her, which was not something any sensible person wanted to do to Alexandria. "A slightly more accurate statement, ma'am, would be that we need as few people becoming villains as possible. Calling non-heroic capes 'rogues' will set the expectation in their minds that if they can't cut it legally, they may as well become villains. And in the scenario that I've just outlined – which I do believe is going to happen – the bill being passed is likely to cause a very substantial number of previously law-abiding capes to decide that if the law can be changed to screw them over, then why should they follow it? Lots of people get hurt, and we suffer a significant PR backlash."

There was silence in the room, then, broken only by the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall. The Chief Director stared back at me. I forced my muscles to remain relaxed; the last thing I wanted was to make her think I was tense or apprehensive. I was a little of both, of course, but years of self-hypnosis had given me a certain amount of control over my parasympathetic responses.

"You're serious." Her voice was mild, as if she were discussing the weather.

I nodded. "Yes, ma'am." I had to admire her control; she seemed as calm as if I had never raised the subject in the first place.

"Your scenario is troubling. Do you have any idea of how to avert it?" Good. She actually seemed to be taking me seriously.

Mentally, I girded my loins. I seemed to be rewriting PRT policy on the fly a lot, these days. Well, at least she seems receptive. "The first thing that we've got to do is officially change the name 'rogue' to something else. Perhaps 'independent', or 'unaffiliated'. Those are neutral enough to not garner a negative response."

The Chief Director tilted her head slightly. "I agree, but not to those words specifically. We need a word that's short enough to be used in regular conversation. Also, 'independent' is already in use to describe heroes without a team, or more broadly, heroes who haven't joined the PRT." She didn't say 'yet', but I heard it all the same. "And while 'independent' can be abbreviated to 'indy', 'unaffiliated' has no similarly useful short form. However, I do have a suggestion of my own. You even used it yourself. 'Neutral'. It says exactly what it means." She smiled briefly, apparently appreciating the joke.

I didn't even see that one. And that's why we don't underestimate Alexandria. Like, ever. "That's … actually perfect. It works, on so many levels. I can't believe that I didn't see it."

She didn't comment about that, but I saw the pleased expression cross her face. "Indeed." She was all business now. "As for your projected scenario, I presume that your recommendation is to oppose such bills if and when they arise."

I nodded. "Yes, ma'am." Something else occurred to me, and I started to think it through.

The Chief Director interrupted my musings. "I foresee one problem; parahuman-run businesses are likely to run normal businesses out of the marketplace, simply through normal operating procedures. If they're using powers to gain an unfair advantage over the competition, then that could be a serious problem."

I had to nip this in the bud. "Ma'am, business is all about unfair advantage. If one business has a more efficient procedure than another, it will prevail. So long as the economy is not affected – and no, I'm not advocating allowing Thinker day-traders into the stock market – then market forces will find a new equilibrium. There will always be supply and demand, and if people are willing to pay for a parahuman-created product, then let them buy it. Legislating against parahumans just because they're able to do something better and faster and cheaper is protectionism, pure and simple. Worse, it sends a message to the cape community – especially the neutrals – that their rights don't matter. Do you want them taking that message to heart? Because I don't."

I had half-risen during this speech; fortunately, I had not raised my voice much, but there was a certain intensity there. Slowly, I sat down again. "Uh, sorry, ma'am. I got carried away a little there, at the end."

"No offence taken, Captain." She smiled and leaned back a little in her chair. "You make some excellent points, even if your grasp of certain economic matters is a little rough and ready. If I'm correct, your overall message here is one that you've presented before; that parahumans are here to stay, and that the world is going to change."

I couldn't recall exactly when I'd said that before, but it sounded familiar. It's probably in my dossier somewhere. "Yes, ma'am. It's already changed, and the changes are going to keep coming. It's best to get out in front and run with them, because trying to hold them back simply isn't going to work."

The Chief Director nodded slowly. "I tend to agree, Captain. I'll think about what you've said, and how best to implement it. It may well be that you've assisted the PRT in dodging a very large and nasty bullet. Was there anything else?"

"Not at the moment, ma'am." I was having thoughts about how to give young criminal parahumans a second chance instead of locking them into the villain mindset once they'd committed their first crime, but I needed to shake that down before presenting it to anyone. Not letting Armsmaster talk to them when they're trying to do the right thing would be a good start, I decided wryly. Also, mandated therapy for Protectorate and Wards alike was definitely something to think about. I'd have to work things out in my mind and bounce it off of Lisa before I could present it properly. And finally, there was still the 'unspoken rules' thing. I'd have a relatively narrow window of opportunity between Marquis and Nilbog, so I'd have to make the most of it.

"Very well, then." She rose. "It's been very illuminating speaking to you, Captain Snow."

I stood up as well and saluted. She returned it. "Dismissed."

Taking up my cane, I left the office, closing the door quietly behind me. Once I was fit to leave DC, I needed to get back down to Texas. I just need an excuse to be down there.

<><>​

PRT Department 14; Austin, TX
Wednesday, 24 July, 1994

" … and done." I clicked the mouse button, locking in the changes that I had performed on the system. "Intranet secured and passworded, and half a dozen dodgy looking back doors locked up."

The security chief, a guy called Lang, shot me a look. He was a tall rangy man with a thick shock of white hair, who looked incomplete without a Stetson and a gunbelt. "I thought we'd already secured our computers."

"For a given definition of 'secure', Mr Lang," I told him cheerfully. "What you had before would hold out against your average garden-variety hacker or cracker, but anyone with talent could've waltzed straight past your firewalls. The way I've got it set up right now is that if anyone tries to back-door into the system, they'll go into a sandbox and set off a system alert. It'll backtrack their location data and slow down the logon process just a little, to give your guys a better chance to nab them." I stretched, causing my back to pop; it had taken me two solid days to go through the system and ferret out all the bugs and potential intrusions. This had been in between regular meals (as mandated by Kinsey) and equally regular training sessions (also mandated by Kinsey).

Lang looked less angry and more lost. "What's a sandbox?" he asked.

"From the inside, he'll think he's in your system," I explained. "He can fiddle around and change things, but it won't do anything to the real system. But any time he tries to do something sensitive, the system will throw up a processing error, slowing him down yet again. By the time he realises something's wrong, someone should be kicking his door down." I knew that this was a best-case situation, but right now Lang needed reassurance more than he needed a reality check.

"So has anyone been in the system?" asked Lang. He looked more than a little apprehensive, which I didn't begrudge him.

"It's possible," I said. "Even probable. But whatever they got, it wasn't from any of the secure servers."

"So nothing about any secret identities or dossiers?" His voice held a hint of worry. Which was understandable; Lang was ultimately responsible for all security in PRT Department 14. For a major breach to happen on his watch without him even noticing would not look good.

"I didn't find any indication of that," I assured him. "They'd been trying, yes, but that information is behind an air gap, and they haven't been able to physically gain access to the server room to switch it into the system." Which is the whole point of multi-layered security systems, I thought but did not say.

Normally, Lang spoke in a slow Texas drawl; today, it was anything but slow. He was back to being angry again. "How did they even get in?"

"Most new systems have a few bugs here and there, especially when you're trying to secure a system with as many nodes as a local intranet." I tapped my fingernail on a basic schematic of the Austin PRT headquarters. "If anyone can break in anywhere, they'll have a window of time to play around before things are tightened up. The dumb ones grab stuff or vandalise the system before they're booted. The smart ones try to set up a back door so they can come back whenever they want."

"Oh." He looked a little mollified. "But you've locked all these back doors down, yes?"

"Tighter than a drum, Mr Lang." I turned back to the computer and cleared the cache before beginning the shutdown process.

"Thank you, Captain Snow," he said. "Director Grantham had good things to say about you when he heard you were coming. I see what he meant, now." Turning, he headed for the door. "I'll just go and pass on the good news."

"Mr Lang?" I called after him as I started to unplug the cords preparatory to packing up my computer.

He reappeared in the doorway. "Yes, Captain Snow?"

"The system will need maintaining. Ask the Director if there isn't room in the budget for a systems administrator. Most other PRT departments have them already." I waved around the room, indicating the base and the intranet by proxy. "All this can fall down without warning if the wrong bit of software or hardware decides to fail. Just saying."

He nodded. "Message received and understood, Captain." Turning, he left.

I kept packing up the computer. Showing up at the Austin PRT station and upgrading their intranet gave me a good excuse for being in Texas, but it was time I moved on to the real reason.

<><>​

One Day Later
On the Road to Kari Schultz's Hometown

The highway wound through low hills, covered intermittently with trees and scrubby vegetation. It was hot out; we had the windows up, with the air conditioning emitting cool air from the dashboard. Soft country music spilled out of the speakers; not all of the local radio stations played it, but most seemed to prefer it. That didn't matter; I liked country music. However, I was bored and a little tired. "Kinsey?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

We were going with civilian clothing for this leg of the trip. When we got to where we were going, I didn't want to draw undue attention to the people we were meeting. Kinsey was wearing jeans and a work shirt with rolled-up sleeves, but even that just made him look like a soldier wearing civvies. Well, it was the thought that counted. With luck, we wouldn't draw too much attention.

"I don't want to be the person saying 'are we there yet', but how long until we arrive?" I had opted for a light summer-print dress, large sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat; the latter lay in my lap. Currently I was leaning back in my seat with my eyes closed.

There was a brief pause, then he answered. "I figure it to be another eighty miles or so, ma'am. Maybe an hour."

If Kinsey said it was maybe an hour, then I was going to bet on somewhere between fifty-five minutes and an hour five. I reclined my seat a little farther. "Thank you, Kinsey. I'm going to catch some sleep."

"Roger that, ma'am. Did you want me to turn the radio down?"

"Just a little. Wake me when we're five minutes out." I stretched a little, then relaxed, letting the gentle motion of the car lull me.

"Will do, ma'am." The music level was reduced to a background whisper. It made it very easy to drop off to sleep.

<><>​

I clung to a hand-hold as the oversized cabin cruiser pounded across the waves, the engines bellowing deep. Lisa, beside me on the flying bridge, slitted her eyes against the spray as she spun the wheel. As it began its turn, I braced myself; the prey was in sight.

Up ahead, three white lines running just under the water broke the surface and revealed their true nature; robotic sharks, eighty feet from nose to tip, composed of gleaming grey cerametal, with mouthfuls of razor-sharp synthetic-diamond teeth. A highly advanced military project, they had eaten the team of scientists working on them and gone rogue from the testing base. Now they were heading for Los Atlantis, a semi-underwater city on the Cali-vadan coast. The civilian authorities were evacuating the population, but there wasn't enough time. If we didn't stop these things, it would be a slaughter on a grand scale.

You just love these scenarios, don't you? I said into my throat mic.

"Who, me?" She even managed to get in an innocent tone while shouting at the top of her lungs. Taking her hand off the wheel for a moment, she punched a button on the console. The bulky shapes on either side of the flying bridge unstowed themselves to reveal wicked-looking miniguns, while the nose-cannon and torpedo tubes likewise readied themselves for action.

Yes, you. Any advice for talking to Joanna and the others? I hung on as the boat leaned into another turn, lining up for a firing run. Up ahead, the formation split; one shark dived, while the other two peeled off to left and right, curving back toward us.

"Yeah. She'll be open to the deal you worked out with the Chief Director. However, Calvert's called in some markers from his Intelligence contacts to have their phones tapped off the books, so you'll get some brownie points for pointing that out." She didn't have to explain the benefits of that. Helping out PASS and annoying Thomas Calvert was a win-win situation. Even pre-Coil, he had a habit of trying to get his hooks into everything. This wasn't going to happen here.

Noted. Anything else? The sharks were stealthy as fuck, but our upgraded sonar could just about pick them up. I pointed at the glowing dot on the screen which had just separated itself from the bottom clutter. Lisa nodded and slammed the throttles to a full stop. I braced myself yet again as torpedoes launched to left and right. The sharks flanking us sheered off, but they weren't the target.

"Yeah. Dana got her contract from the PRT. They think they're being sneaky, slipping a few clauses which look innocent on their own but if they're violated, lock her into an exclusive-client deal with them. Sections eight, fourteen and twenty-one." She shoved the throttles wide open again. On the screen, the shark below us was twisting and turning, but the torpedoes were tracking its every move. The left-hand shark got a little too close, and the minigun on that side opened up with a high-speed brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Eight, fourteen and twenty-one. Got it. I felt the sub-surface detonation as the torpedoes impacted with the target. Chunks flew off the left-hand shark, then Lisa was powering the boat into a hard turn to starboard.

"He's running!" she shouted. The nose cannon opened up then, ranging on on the fleeing shape of the right-hand shark. I could both hear the rapid-fire bark and feel the vibrations as they thrummed through the deck; a line of waterspouts crept steadily closer to the retreating robot. A sharp detonation and a bright flash marked the end of its short but eventful career. "Got him! Where's number three?"

Looking around, I saw that the third shark had turned and was now bearing down on us from behind. On our six, I reported.

Lisa glanced over her shoulder. "Sneaky little bastard!" she yelled, her broad grin belying her tone. "Oh, wait, you're about to get a visitor."

Wait, what? I was somewhat disappointed; I wanted to see how this turned out.

"Sorry, but the real world awaits. Kiss before you go?" She leaned in toward me, and I kissed her. Her lips tasted of dust and blood and salt spray. A droplet of water caught me in the eye and I blinked -

<><>​

"Ma'am, wake up. We have a situation." Kinsey's voice was calm, with an undercurrent of urgency.

Opening my eyes, I blinked a few times, then brought my seat-back up to its normal position. "I'm awake, Kinsey. What's … oh."

'Oh' was right. Hovering over the road, about a hundred yards ahead of us and rapidly getting closer, was a caped figure. Against the brilliant blue of the Texas sky, it was hard to make out details at first, but then it clicked. "I believe that's Eidolon."

"Should I pull over, ma'am?" He showed no uncertainty or apprehension. If I gave the order, he was willing to defy the man who was seen as the most powerful cape in the world.

"Do it, Kinsey." I was more than a little irritated; I didn't have the groundwork in place for dealing with the Eidolon situation quite yet. However, if the man wanted to speak to me, I supposed that it would probably be a good idea to see what he wanted.

Smoothly, Kinsey pulled the car over to the side of the road. I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out, surreptitiously stretching just a little. My hat went on to my head as I turned to face Eidolon, even as he glided in for an effortless landing. Behind me, I heard Kinsey's door open and close as well.

"Good afternoon, Eidolon," I said politely. "It's an honour to meet you." There was nothing to be lost by saying something nice, after all. "Can I help you?"

Against the scrubby trees and burnt-orange ground, his blue-green costume stood out much more effectively than it had against the sky; the green glow from his hood and sleeves added an interesting contrast. He walked forward to meet me; I noted that he was actually an inch or two shorter than me, for all that his air of purpose and intent made him seem taller.

"Captain Snow." His voice was deep, with a certain resonant effect. "We need to speak privately."

Just a little theatrically, I glanced around. "We're in the middle of nowhere. This is as private as it gets."

For an answer, he cleared his throat meaningfully and turned his head toward Kinsey for a moment. It didn't take a college diploma to read his meaning.

I let a little of the irritation I was feeling show through in my voice. "I would tell you that whatever you have to say to me, Kinsey can hear as well, but you won't accept that, will you?"

Again, he chose not to answer verbally. His hood swept from side to side, twice. I had to admit, he played the silent enigmatic hero quite well.

"Very well, then." Momentarily, I considered just getting back in the car and leaving, but now I was actually wondering what Eidolon wanted. Ten gets you a hundred that he wants help with his declining powers. "Kinsey."

"Orders, ma'am?" Despite the fact that he was out of uniform, Kinsey straightened to attention.

"Secure the perimeter, sergeant. On the double." Which was a fancy way of saying 'get out of earshot', but in such a way that I wasn't just dismissing him. Even though I was doing just that. Eidolon wasn't earning himself any brownie points with me.

"Ma'am!" He double-timed it up the road, head turning, eyes searching for any potential eavesdroppers. Even though he knew it was a make-work order, he was still carrying it out to his full ability, but that was James Kinsey.

I turned to Eidolon. "We have privacy. What did you need to talk about?" Idly, I wondered how he made his mask glow under his hood like that. Is it a power effect, or Tinkertech? If I cared enough, I'd ask Lisa the next time I spoke to her.

He clasped his hands behind his back. "You're the analyst who predicted New York. I need to ask you about that. How you did it. What methods you use. What you base your findings on."

Ah. Not the powers, then. I couldn't very well deny that I'd done exactly that. "I don't use the scientific method, exactly," I hedged. "A lot of my analysis is done by the seat of my pants. It's like … have you ever been diving?" I knew he hadn't, unless he'd done so after getting his powers.

"Well, no." Now he seemed puzzled. "Why?"

"I spoke to someone who was scuba-diving once, and a whale swam past him. He said he could feel the pressure wave ahead of the whale before he ever saw the whale itself. It's like that with me. I don't get these insights fully-grown in my head -" Which was a lie. Thanks to Lisa, that was exactly what I did. Fortunately, Eidolon didn't have the same cold-reading capabilities as Alexandria. "- so much as I feel the hints, the potentials, of something likely to happen. Everything affects everything else. I gather all the data, and try to put together a picture that makes sense. It's like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle in the middle of a howling thunderstorm by the flashes of lightning, where ninety percent of the pieces are the same blue sky, and someone's thrown a handful of fake pieces in on top of it. And there are no edge pieces." Total bullshit all the way through, including the whale story, but it sounded good. I hoped.

With any luck, it would satisfy Eidolon. I did have business with him, but not at this time and not in this place. I wanted to prepare the setting first.

"And yet, you get results." He wasn't going to give up on this. "I need to know whatever insights you can give me."

"Okay, fine." I leaned back against the car. Time to dispense with the bullshit and start giving him some hard facts. See how he handles them. "I don't normally tell people this much, because they don't want to hear it, but do you remember how a lot of people were so certain that the first appearance of the Behemoth was a one-time event?"

He folded his arms, and now he seemed a little taller. Glancing downward behind my sunglasses, I could see that his feet had drifted off the ground. Showoff. "I remember," he said bluntly. "They were idiots."

"Hindsight is always twenty-twenty," I said lightly. Let's see how he reacts to this. "What would you say if I told you I'm seventy-five percent certain that the Behemoth isn't the only one of his kind?"

He stiffened, and dropped back to the ground. Well, that rang his bell. " … What did you say?" he asked harshly.

"I think there's more where he came from," I said quietly. "I think in the next few years – four, at the outside – we're going to have another one. I don't know if it'll be the same, or different. All I know – all I think – is that things aren't as bad as they can get, quite yet." Wow, if you could see the world in fifteen years' time …

Reaching up under his hood, he rubbed at his face. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. "Who knows about this?"

"You. Me." I shrugged. "I haven't presented it in a report yet. Still firming up the numbers." I'd have to do a report, now. Because as sure as Amy Dallon had daddy issues, Eidolon would be flapping his mouth about this. "And, you know, working on the next Behemoth event."

That got his attention. "Any ideas on that?"

"This year, late. Probably not December. Not the continental US. Probably not even the northern hemisphere." I could almost feel his attention sharpening as I pretended to narrow it down. "That's all I've got, at the moment."

"But how can you even know that much?" he demanded. I felt mild amusement at his frustration. "How can you figure it out at all?"

Okay, fine. I'll throw him a bone. "Conflict," I said, almost at random. "The key word here is conflict."

"Conflict?" he asked, sounding a little confused.

"Correct." I stepped away from the car and started pacing, my hands behind my back. "My working theory is that the Behemoth is attracted to places where either there's lots of conflict, or where his arrival will cause maximum chaos and conflict after he leaves. But not just any conflict. Conflict between parahumans. So I keep an eye on the ebb and flow of conflict around the world. The patterns. A clash here triggers a brushfire war there, which inspires a coup in the next country over. Everything affects everything else. And when the time is ripe for the Behemoth to show up again, wherever the most conflict or potential conflict is, that's where he'll strike."

He stood still for almost a minute. I leaned against the car again and watched him; it was almost certain that he'd have more questions to ask me. Hopefully, I hadn't broken his brain by telling him what I had. I needed him to still be in a position of authority in the next few months.

"Snow." His voice was harsh.

"Yes?" I put all the polite interest I could into it.

"Are you a Thinker?" He was leaning forward now, and I could almost feel the intensity of his scrutiny.

On the one hand, the question wasn't entirely unexpected. On the other, it had been a while since I'd been asked it. "I … beg your pardon?"

"It's a simple question. Are you a Thinker, Snow? Are you using powers to pull answers out of mid-air?" Eidolon didn't ask the next part of the question, but I figured it out anyway. Or are we supposed to believe that a twenty-two year old Intelligence captain is smarter than the rest of the PRT combined?

I huffed out a sigh of resignation. "You got me. I'm a Thinker."

He jumped at least six inches into the air and didn't bother coming down again. His voice was sharp with triumph; I was pretty sure that he was just barely preventing himself from fist-pumping. "I knew it!"

"Yeah," I went on, raising my voice slightly. "I'm so damn smart that when I discovered I had Thinker powers, I busted my ass for eighteen months in college so that I could sign up and go through boot camp, just to be an officer in the PRT." I raised my eyebrows at him. I had no idea what his expression was showing, but he wasn't stopping me, so I ploughed on. "Which has put me in the line of fire more than once, for the dubious privilege of wearing the uniform, to follow regulations every hour of the day, and – this is the really special part – live on about one-third of the annual salary of a PRT parahuman consultant. With a staff of exactly one, most of the time. Yeah, I'm a Thinker … I don't think." I couldn't help dipping into a certain amount of sarcasm, there at the end.

It took him a moment to get it. "So … you're not a Thinker." It was almost a question, the way he phrased it.

"No." My voice was flat. "I'm not a Thinker." Which was, as far as I'd allow myself to consider the question, I wasn't. Lisa was the Thinker. I was just along for the ride.

"Then how are you doing it?" he demanded. "My powers aren't capable of giving me the answers that you're getting. No precog that I know of can get those answers. Alexandria's the smartest person I know, and she can't do it. If you don't have powers, how are you doing it?" Even with the echoing tone overlaid on his voice, I could hear the frustration clearly. Here was a man who had the power to solve every problem he encountered … except the problems he most desperately wanted to solve.

Irony, thy name is parahumanity.

I couldn't help it; I smiled, just a little. Not enough to make Eidolon think I was laughing at him, even though I was, in a small way. He already had his own answer; it was actually true that powers could not predict Endbringers. I may have even chuckled.

"What's so funny?" I would have bet good money that right then, he had every Thinker power he could muster trained on me.

"You don't see it, do you? You don't see that you just answered your own question." I wasn't trying to bait him, not really. But if I just gave him the answer he was burning to hear, he might not recognise it as such. Or believe it. Especially as a good part of it was pure bullshit. Very high-grade bullshit, but bullshit all the same.

He shook his head. "What do you mean? How did I answer …" He paused, and I knew that he had it. "... My own …" He paused again. "Question. Oh, no." The tone of his voice told the whole story. My main regret was that I could only hear his voice. His expression would have been amazing.

"That's correct. I'm sorry." And, for a certain value of 'sorry', I really was. It's never kind to rip the foundations of a man's life out from under him. Especially with lies. Even if it's for a good cause.

Slowly, he descended to the ground again. "So … powers can't see it? At all? It actually does take a talented normal to see this sort of thing?"

I let myself relax, just a bit. "Some people can play chess like a master, the moment they learn the rules. Others can solve a Rubiks cube in literally seconds. There are people with perfect pitch, whose singing voices would make you weep with envy. These are normal people. I can't do any of that. I can, however, see the influence that parahuman powers have on the world. And I've learned to quantify it. To learn what's really going on."

He leaned forward avidly. "Tell me."

Son of a bitch. He bought it. Hook, line and sinker. I composed my face. "There are two things I can tell you right now. The rest is smoke and mirrors. The first one is something you're going to have to brace yourself for, because it's a real doozy. It goes against everything I thought I knew. But it's true. It has to be. Nothing else fits." I let worry creep into my voice.

"I'm listening." His voice was tense.

I took a deep breath. "Scion … is not what he seems to be. There's something about him … I don't think he's a hero. I think he's … wrong, somehow. Pretending. Playing a role."

This, of course, was something he already knew. But it's an old trick; say something that the mark knows, but which the con man shouldn't be able to know, and that makes the mark wonder exactly how much the con man does know.

"That's … very disturbing," he said, with real concern in his voice. "Have you told anyone else about this?"

"Hah, nope," I replied, almost flippantly. "Think anyone would believe me? I mean, Scion? Get real."

"I think it would be a good idea if you kept it to yourself for the time being," he said, his tone still serious. "I'll definitely follow up on it, but don't put yourself in harm's way over it." I felt bad all over again, from the tone of protectiveness in his voice.

"Thanks. I'll do exactly that," I said. "I'm kind of squishy, and I like living." Which was all true; the irony was that I had never been planning to tell anyone else.

"Good." His whole attitude was now 'valiant superhero, defender of the weak'. It looked good on him, if a little pretentious. "What was the other thing?"

"It's a line of inquiry that I'm following," I said. "I've got nothing solid yet, but I think if I keep working at it I might be able to firm up some numbers in two or three months. So, don't get excited, but … I think I might be closing in on where Behemoth came from. Why he's so tough, and how to maybe kill him." I held up my hand as he started forward. "Right now I've got nothing I can give you, just a whole series of unrelated hunches. But … well … everything I've got started out as a hunch. With any luck, I'll have something before he shows up next. And you'll be the first to know."

"And if there's more of them, then knowing how to kill the Behemoth will show us how to kill the others, right?" He sounded excited, which didn't surprise me. For someone with his set of issues, I was more or less a Godsend.

"That's exactly correct." I made sure to keep my voice level and calm. I'm going to hell for this.

"Captain Snow." His voice was calm again, but vibrating with hidden excitement. "Your knowledge – your talent – will help save the world. And I will make sure that you are recognised for it."

Yeah, that's what I'm worried about.

<><>​

I climbed back into the car, feeling unutterably weary. Eidolon's form ascended into the sky and blurred away into the distance. A green flash made me blink, and then he was gone. The driver's side door opened, and Kinsey climbed in.

"Do I need to know what that was about, ma'am?" His voice was calm and measured. I knew that he would be satisfied with whatever I told him.

"Not right at this moment, Kinsey," I said quietly. "In fact, it's better that you don't know, for your own safety." If he needed to know, I'd fill him in; so long as he didn't, people couldn't get the information out of him.

"Roger that, ma'am." He glanced at the odometer as he started the car. "We should be there in half an hour."

"Thank you, Kinsey." I settled back and closed my eyes again.

What I had just done to Eidolon, what I was going to do to him, most would find unforgivable. I found it pretty damn icky myself. But the fact of the matter was, with the stakes as high as they were, doing the unforgivable was sometimes not just an option but quite often unavoidable. As I had said to Andrea, I was willing to lie, cheat, steal and kill in order to get the job done. I'd done it before, and I'd do it again.

I knew how to end the Endbringers, but my solution wasn't one that Eidolon would anticipate. Or live long enough to appreciate.

As with most magic tricks, as they say, it all came down to knowing that one extra fact.

However, even knowing that I was going to be using my knowledge to save the world … I still felt bad about it.

But I wasn't going to let that stop me.

End of Part 6-1

Part 6-2​

 

[Ack]

Recoil
Part 6-2: Touching Base​

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



Thursday, 11 July, 1994
Two Weeks Before the Meeting on the Highway
Cauldron Base

The conference room was dominated by a table that been carved from a giant redwood. On the far end of the room was a huge screen, currently dark. Three people were seated around the table—Doctor Mother, Contessa and Alexandria—the last of whom was currently tapping her fingernail on the tabletop with enough force to dent it.

A Doorway opened, and Eidolon stepped through into the room. The portal closed unheeded behind him as he found a chair and settled into it. Alexandria looked over at him, letting her irritation show. "You're late. Where are the other two?"

"They're busy. As was I, up until thirty seconds ago." Eidolon pushed his hood back and dropped his glowing green mask on to the table, revealing a weary expression. "What's this about?"

"Hm." Alexandria restrained herself from any further outbursts. "I wanted to make sure that everyone's on the same page regarding a certain rising star in the PRT. A Captain Taylor Snow. I'd prefer everyone be here, but if it's just us, it's just us."

Eidolon frowned. "I don't know the name. Who is that?" A moment later, something clicked behind his eyes. "Wait, isn't that the one who …"

"She predicted the Behemoth's attack on New York, yes," Alexandria said. "I understand that she's working on the time and place of the next attack. She's also behind the protocols that have finally secured the PRT against the parahuman infiltrators that were making off with secure information in droves." The description was slightly exaggerated, but not by much. The information leakages from the PRT had been very irritating. "Not to mention, she was right in the middle of that incident with the Brotherhood of the Fallen."

She picked up a remote and clicked a button; three large images filled the wallscreen, all of the same slender young dark-haired woman. One in fatigues, one in standard PRT uniform, and one in full dress while having a medal pinned to her tunic. Rectangular-framed glasses and a quietly determined expression were the common features of each image. "She also came to me two days ago and made some extremely insightful and forward-thinking proposals about how the PRT should treat rogue capes. I've run them past my DC think-tank and gotten largely positive responses, so I'm going to have them implemented."

"If she's such a prodigy, why isn't she working directly for us?" asked Eidolon. "We could pay her whatever she wanted." He waved a hand. "It's not like we can't afford it."

"I would tend to agree," Doctor Mother said carefully. She studied the picture on the screen. "We could even offer her a formula. With Thinker abilities, she could really focus her insights."

"If we offered, I think she'd say no," Alexandria mused. "I've already offered her a place on the think-tank, three times. And three times she turned me down." She grimaced, recalling each incident. "I can't get a handle on her. Trying to establish leverage is like punching fog."

"Well, that's easily fixed," Eidolon said, rolling his eyes. "Contessa, what approach would work best to get her on board?"

Contessa shook her head. "I don't think she would work well with Cauldron. Among other things, she's an idealist." She gestured downward; Alexandria knew quite well that she was indicating the many Case 53 prisoners in the base.

"Crap. Well, there goes that idea." Eidolon stood up and put his mask on before pulling his hood back up. "I've got to go. Things I have to take care of. But I think I need face time with this Captain Snow, sometime in the near future."

"Don't frighten her off," warned Alexandria. "If she predicted the Behemoth once, she can do it again. That makes her an extremely valuable resource. If staying in the PRT is what makes her happy, then we'll let her stay in the PRT." She stood up as well. "I mean it."

Eidolon gestured reassuringly. "I'll be diplomatic. I promise. Doorway." The portal opened in mid-air and he stepped through.

Alexandria watched as the hole in space closed behind him. That's what I'm afraid of.

-ooo-​

Thursday, 25 July, 1994
A Small Town in Texas

Kari looked up as Leanne jittered her foot against the coffee shop table leg. "Where is she? She said she'd be here." The slender Mover apparently had an inexhaustible supply of nervous energy, most probably because she wasn't able to run properly yet. So far she'd made six trips to the counter for more coffee; Kari wondered if and when the girl ever peed.

Dana put her hand on Leanne's shoulder. "It'll be fine. She assured me that she'd be here today. Even repeated back the address to this place." She brushed her long dark brown hair out of her eyes, then went back to fiddling with the device she was working on. It looked like a bizarre fusion between a Rubik's cube and a wind-up toy spider. With flashing LEDs.

Joanne leaned in, a full head taller than everyone else. Her hair, a few shades lighter than Dana's, was tied back in an efficient ponytail. She wore blue jeans and a man's work shirt; as far as Kari could see, this was more because she couldn't find anything in her size than for any kind of fashion statement. "She said she'd be here. She'll be here."

Kari nodded, setting her blonde hair to swaying around her head. "It's true. She said she'd be here. After all, she went in and got us out, right?" She glanced around at the others. Tori was managing to keep herself mostly visible these days, though sometimes she forgot and faded into the background. Of course, when she was concentrating on disappearing, especially in strong light, she just vanished altogether.

On the other hand, what had been done to Vanessa and Brianna had given them problems seeing things. Brianna's eyes could shoot something similar to a laser, and so she'd been blinded by the Brotherhood of the Fallen to prevent her from using her powers. They hadn't known that using her power actually damaged her eyes, requiring a rest period between uses. This also meant that her eyes had been growing back, albeit slowly. Given the lack of nutrition in the Compound, this had been slower than normal, until she'd been released. She was able to see properly now, and even make use of her Blaster ability, although she usually needed glasses for close vision, especially just after she'd been using her powers.

Vanessa had likewise been blinded, because her powers also worked through her eyes. However, she was a Thinker rather than a Blaster, with odd visual capabilities. Or rather, she had been; her eyes lacked Brianna's regeneration capability. To cover up what had been done to her, and what Dana had done to fix it, she wore oversized sunglasses nearly everywhere.

Kari glanced up as the coffee shop door dinged musically, but it was only a customer walking in off the street. A woman, certainly, but she was wearing a brightly-coloured sundress and a broad-brimmed hat rather than the PRT uniform they were watching out for.

Leanne stared out the window, shading her eyes against the afternoon glare. "Where is she?" Suddenly, she leaned forward. "Hey. Isn't that the big guy, the sergeant?"

Kari looked around, along with the rest of them. The guy that Leanne was indicating stood on the sidewalk, his back to the window. She thought back to the burly sergeant who'd been carrying Captain Snow when they first met her. This guy was definitely big and fit enough, and even though he wasn't in uniform, he was standing in a military kind of stance. She just wished she could see his face to make sure, one way or the other.

"If that's him," Joanne said uncertainly, "then where's she?" She turned her head, looking up and down the street. Kari did the same, but saw nobody out of the ordinary. In fact, the only tall woman she'd seen was …

"Excuse me?" The familiar voice came from behind them. "Is this seat taken?"

-ooo-​

I'd left the cane in the car because I honestly didn't need it any more. While I'd probably get twinges in that leg for the rest of my life, I could walk on it perfectly well. As such, there was nothing to draw attention to me when I entered the coffee shop and headed for the counter. I observed them out of the corner of my eye as I made my order; they were too busy talking among themselves to look too closely at me. I might have to give them some tutorials in basic tradecraft so they don't get caught unawares by hostiles.

By the time I'd finished my order, they were looking out the window at Kinsey. As per my orders, he was keeping watch in a way that drew attention; that way, anyone looking for me would have to look twice or three times to actually spot me. We were both armed, of course; this being Texas, I suspected it was illegal not to be carrying some sort of weapon. He had his hand-cannon in a shoulder rig, while my little Glock rode in the handbag slung over my shoulder.

When I spoke, everyone looked at me. Brianna—I'd refreshed myself on their faces and names—opened her mouth, possibly to say it was taken. But then Kari jumped in. "Captain Snow!" she whispered excitedly. "It's you! You came!" The commingled relief and good cheer in her voice made me smile.

Pulling out the chair, I sat down with my handbag on my lap, then removed my hat and sunglasses. With my face and hair now visible, I could literally watch the recognition dawning on each of their faces. Proof positive that the uniform makes it easier to recognise me, not harder. "I did indeed. It's good to see you all. How are you?"

"We're doing a lot better than we were," Joanne allowed. "You seem to be doing well, too. Walking and all, I mean." She nodded toward me. "Was it deliberate, coming in like that so nobody recognised you?" The tone of her voice sounded more intrigued than angry.

"That was the idea," I said. "It's something that's good to practice. Once PASS really gets going, you are going to make enemies. It'll be a good idea to make sure they don't know where you are at all times. Also, don't go anywhere alone."

I saw them glance at each other. They were, at least, cognizant of the dangers of being kidnapped for a second time. With some of them, the glances were apprehensive. Joanne, on the other hand, hardened her jaw. "I'll make sure of that," she promised. "Is there anything you can teach us? Show us how to be safer?"

"Yes." I let that one word sink in before I continued. "There are several strategies. Not being recognised means they can't zero in on you. But at some point, you're almost certainly going to need to either dissuade or evade an attacker. Some of you have a head start on that. And you have three big advantages that you didn't have before."

Vanessa tilted her head. I couldn't see her eyes behind her heavy sunglasses. "What's that?"

I smiled, very slightly. "You know they're coming, this time. You'll have time to prepare. And you have each other. Teamwork, properly applied, can overcome virtually any disorganised enemy." Gladys and I had proven that over and over in JROTC and ROTC, to the dismay of our opposition. All the people at this table needed was training. Which had given rise to a suggestion I was going to make; I didn't know if they'd take it, but I was hoping they would.

"Damn right." Joanne nodded. She, I was sure, would take up my suggestion. Some of the others, I wasn't so certain about. That would remain to be seen. "So what can you show us?"

"Nothing, right at this second," I said. "That needs to happen later. This isn't the time or place for that sort of thing. But we will get back to it." I nodded across the table to Dana. "Right now, I need to look over the contract the PRT gave you. You haven't signed it yet?"

"Oh, uh, no," she said, setting down the device she'd been fiddling with. It folded into itself and seemed to go to sleep. "I mean, it looks good, but after what you said, I thought I'd hang on to it so you could look it over." Reaching down beside the chair, she produced a zippered document folder and slid it over to me.

I nodded. "That's exactly what I meant. The PRT as a whole means well, but they are a government organisation, and any bureaucracy anywhere will pick up dirty tricks." My mouth twisted in a wry grin. "I try to stay away from that side of things."

Footsteps sounded from behind me, and I turned to watch the waitress as she brought my order over to the table. One cup of tea, along with sugar and milk. I nodded in thanks, then poured in milk and sugar and stirred both into the beverage. Once I'd taken my first sip, I unzipped the folder and pulled out the contract.

I was cheating as I skimmed through it, of course. While I knew enough to decipher the language, Lisa had already filled me in on what to look for. So, with a pen in my right hand, I traced my way through the paragraphs and clauses, humming tunelessly as I went. Six times, I stopped to put a line through a particular clause, then I went back to the beginning and checked it through again. Just for show, of course.

"There you go," I said, putting the contract on the folder and skating it back over toward Dana. "Tell 'em that's what you want to go with. They'll scream just a little, but they won't be able to object too strenuously." I looked around at the expressions of disbelief. "What?"

"That took about one minute!" burst out Joanne. "I looked through the damn thing for an hour last night! What did you find, and how did you find it?"

"Have a look," I invited her, tilting my head toward the contract. "One clause sets up a particular expectation of conduct. Another one refers to the first one; if it's violated, it nullifies all other agreements and locks Dana into an exclusive contract with the PRT. Yet another one gives the PRT control over setting prices for her tech. And so forth. Each one's more or less innocuous on its own, but taken as a whole, it'll lock her down legally if she so much as offers her tech to anyone who even gets suspected of committing a crime at any time in the future."

"Holy shit." Dana ran her hand through her hair. "And I was getting ready to sign it, too. What about the bonuses for signing, early completion of projects and all that?"

"All walked back as soon as you violate that one clause," I said. "Don't worry; I've disarmed that landmine. Taken as a whole, the contract is what you need. You just didn't need that bit." I smiled and sipped at my tea.

"But … you're PRT," Brianna said with a frown. "Aren't you kind of going against your own people, showing us how to beat the system?" Beside her, Tori nodded in agreement.

I chuckled and shook my head. "I learned quite early on never to trust that any bureaucracy had my best interests at heart. But it's rarely if ever personal. It's just what they've evolved over time to gain the greatest benefit from dealing with others. The trick is to never sign a damn thing unless you agree with every word in the contract."

"Right." Joanne seemed to be taking control of this meeting. "So what else can you talk to us about, today?" Beside her, Dana was paging through the contract, re-reading what I'd crossed out, and shaking her head.

"I spoke to the Chief Director." That got everyone's attention again. "She's aware of PASS, and the potential for going into other countries and causing problems there." Silence greeted my statement; I looked from face to face. Most, including Joanne's, were grim. Vanessa and Kari looked a little apprehensive. "Currently, she's willing to de-prioritise any incident that you cause, so long as you don't make it too loud. No direct attacks on the government or military of any sovereign nation." I leaned forward. "More specifically, if you can be back on American soil before things get fraught, with whoever you were going in there to rescue, there'll be far less fallout."

"How the hell did you swing that?" demanded Leanne. "Is she your mom or something?" She spread her hands as the others turned to look at her. "What? I admit there isn't much resemblance, but they're both badass as fuck."

I coughed to hide my smile. "Trust me, you have no idea how badass she can be. No, she's no relation. But she seems to value my opinion as an analyst, so when I pointed out woman-to-woman that prosecuting people for rescuing the victims of sex slavery could be seen as a bad PR move, she took me at my word."

"It took an analyst to point that out to her?" Joanne shook her head. "Is she that stupid, or is she just made of stone?" The hurt and anger were clear in her voice.

I'd thought something similar of the woman myself, once upon a time. Since then, of course, my eyes had been opened to the realities of the situation. "Politics muddies everything," I noted mildly. "And sometimes when your job is to see the big picture, it's hard to focus on individuals. It's quite literally my job to cut through the bullshit and red tape to tell her what she needs to know. Myself and half a hundred other people." I drew a deep breath. "But you do have another PRT-related problem, and it's not the Chief Director."

"That sounds ominous," Brianna said. Her gaze was peculiarly intent. Behind her glasses, her irises seemed to be fluorescing slightly. It made for an almost hypnotic effect. "If it's not her, what is it?"

I sighed and pulled a notepad from my handbag. "Remember how I said earlier that the problems that bureaucracy throws your way are rarely personal? Well, this is a personal problem. There's a guy—I know him better than he knows me—who's taken it on himself to have all your phones wiretapped. This isn't an official operation, or even an officially unofficial one. He wants to be right there when you break the law, so he can come down hard on you."

"The fuck he does!" snapped Joanne. "Why aren't you arresting the asshole?" Her expression showed the same outrage that she expressed in her voice.

"I wish I could." I told the lie as firmly as I knew how. As much as I hated it, I needed Calvert in the PRT for a few more years. "The trouble is, he's good at separating himself from potential trouble. Pinning this on him will be almost impossible. However." As I spoke, I wrote on the top page of the pad, then tore it off. "This is the direct line for the Director of the local branch of the PRT." Folding it once, I handed it over to Joanne. "Call him—not on any of your phones, but a separate line—and tell him that Captain Snow would like the wiretaps removed from your lines post-haste. He will, of course, deny that any such wiretaps exist. But your phones will be clear from then on. Especially if you say that I told you I'd be checking."

Joanne unfolded the paper and looked at the number written inside. "And why's he gonna do what you say? I mean, he outranks you, right?"

I shrugged modestly. "What can I say? The man owes me a favour." Grantham owed me more than that. I'd amplified the PRT's reputation during the Compound incident, and some of that had reflected back on him and his station. "And our friend will keep. Sooner or later he'll put a foot wrong and he'll get what he deserves."

"Was he one of the assholes stopping people from coming in to get us out?" asked Kari. "Because if that's the case, I wanna be there when you take him down." She clenched her fist, and I saw a streamer of metal slide out of her sleeve and wrap around her wrist.

Ah. So she still carries metal on her. Somehow, not surprised. "No, he's not," I told her truthfully. "But he'll get what's coming to him. People I knew got hurt by him, once upon a time. I will be taking him down." Laying my pen on the table, I clasped my hands on the table in front of me. "Next item of business. As I said earlier, once PASS gets up and running, you'll be at risk from people—non-capes and capes alike—who don't like what you're doing and what you stand for. These will range from those who merely feel threatened by women standing up for themselves all the way down the line to men who want to hurt women and see you as an obstacle. You're going to be attacked socially, politically and possibly even personally, just for daring to stand up and make a difference."

"Fuckin' let 'em." Joanne's fists were clenched on the table in front of her. "I did not go through that shit to sit back now and let it happen to others when we could be doing something."

I sipped at my tea as a murmur of agreement swept around the table, then nodded in acknowledgement. "Well, you're dedicated. That's good. You're going to need that. And I'm going to help you prepare for it. Because all the dedication in the world doesn't help if you don't know what you're doing."

Brianna frowned. "How are you going to help us prepare? What you said, earlier, about evading and dissuading attackers?" Her irises were fluorescing again.

"There's a lot you need to learn," I told her. "All of you. More than I can teach in an hour, or even a day." I looked around the table, meeting each set of eyes in turn. With Vanessa, I just looked at her sunglasses. "Those of you whose powers don't lend themselves to physical confrontation need to learn how to handle themselves in a fight. And even those who do can stand to fight more effectively. Also, tradecraft; going unnoticed, getting information, passing messages unseen, communicating in public. If you're going to do this, you need to do it right."

"You're talking about making us into spies," Dana said, looking a little concerned. "I don't want to do that. I just want to help other women."

"This is about helping them," I told her. "It's about intelligence gathering. Accurate intel can be the difference between a successful op and a clusterfuck. Intel gathering is how I knew you were in the Compound. How I knew where you were in the Compound." I was bullshitting here just a little; Lisa had given me all of that, from her inexhaustible stockpile of knowledge, but the principle was sound.

"Right." Joanne nodded firmly. "I hear what you're saying." Her eyes met mine, and I heard the challenge in her voice. She knew that what I was proposing wasn't going to be easy. Meanwhile, her entire attitude said: Bring it.

"Excellent," I said. Taking up the pen, I wrote a number. "Once you've cleared your phones, call this number. It will connect you with people who can train you in what you need to know. It won't be easy and it won't be fun, but it will give you skills that might just save your lives, or the lives of the people next to you. Understood?"

"Wait, you're not going to be training us?" That was Leanne. "I thought you were going to be training us."

I shook my head slightly. "I would if I could. Unfortunately, duty calls. The best I can do is make these arrangements and let you follow through." Andrea's mercenaries, I knew, could train them better than I ever could, merely by virtue of having more man-hours available to do the training with. I tore off the page with the number on it and passed it over to Joanne. Then I took a deep breath. This was going to be unpleasant. "One more thing I wanted to talk about. Something that concerns everyone but Kari and Joanne."

From the looks that they shared, I surmised that most of them knew immediately what I was talking about. Unsurprisingly, the only ones who didn't were the two I'd named. Joanne stared at me. "What the hell are you talking about?"

I wanted to look down at the table, but they'd earned my honesty and directness. "Joanne … every girl who came out of the Compound, except you and Kari, is pregnant."

"Oh," said Kari in tones of enlightenment. "Right." She looked around at the others. "Oh, shit. Everyone?"

Dana wrapped her arms around Leanne, who had begun to cry silently into her hands. She looked over at me. "So, you got a miracle fix for this, too?" I was pretty sure that she didn't mean the cutting tone. But even if she did, she'd kind of earned it.

I shook my head. "No. Not a miracle fix. But you've got two main options. Each of you. You can carry the baby to term, or you can end the pregnancy." I patted my own toned stomach. "I've never been where you are, so I don't have the right to tell you what to do. It's your body, your womb. But either way, I can arrange finance for what you want to do. If you want to have the baby, raise it as your own or give it up for adoption, I can arrange that. If you want to have it aborted, and I can understand your reasons, I can arrange that instead. I promise you, I will. Not. Judge."

Dana, one arm around Leanne, with the other around her own stomach, stared at me through teary eyes. "How could anyone want to keep a child of those … those monsters?"

I kept my tone as flat and unemotional as I could. "Yes, they were monsters. Any babies you choose to have won't be. The only thing you get from the fathers would be their DNA. Who they were, what they were, it's gone by the wayside."

"What about their powers?" Vanessa had her arm around Brianna's shoulders. "Won't their children have their powers, too? I read something about that once." She shuddered. "I don't want anything that reminds me of them."

"No." I shook my head. "Powers aren't genetic. If they get powers from anyone, it'll be from their mothers. The monsters are dead; not even their powers will live on." I put my hands flat on the table. "Now, I know of one case where a woman took in the daughter of a villain. He hadn't fathered the girl on her, but she didn't have much of a choice in the matter. She raised the girl, but she could never forget who the father was, and the girl ended up having a nervous breakdown. With powers. You can imagine how badly that went."

Joanne's eyes widened. "Shit. What happened? Did many people die?"

I grimaced. "No, but her foster sister spent the rest of her life in care. The girl herself went into supermax. Voluntarily. The point of what I'm saying is that you shouldn't force yourself to keep the baby to raise for yourself if you really don't think you can. Giving them up for adoption is a very real option. As is abortion, if you want to take that path instead. It's your choice. Each and every one of you."

Tori shook her head. She'd been silent up till now, but I could see the pain in her eyes. "I got no choice," she said softly. "Ma'd have a fit. An' I'm seventeen. She'll never say yes to an abortion. Ain't gonna happen."

Reaching out, I took her hand. "You had no choice in what they did to you, but you've got a choice about what happens now. I can arrange for discreet transport to a reputable hospital in Seattle where you can talk to a counsellor and decide for yourself what you want to do. No pressure, no judgement. What do you say?" I lifted my eyes and looked around the table at the other girls. "That goes for all of you, of course."

"Um … shit." Brianna bit her lip. "I'm pretty sure I want to have the baby, but it couldn't hurt to just go along and talk to someone, yeah?" She shrugged. "I'm pretty young to be making this kinda life decision on my own."

"Getting a second opinion is never a bad idea," I agreed. "Also, talking to your parents might help, too, to understand your options. Who's already told them?"

Joanne coughed into her hand. "Uh, we all got tested. Or at least, I did. It was kinda common knowledge what they were doing to us in the Compound. My folks got told that I was fine. I'm guessing the others got the bad news at the same time."

That made sense. Should've checked with Lisa. "Ah. Right. Well, the point of going to Seattle is that parental consent isn't a requirement there. If any of you don't want to carry the baby to term, that is. I can arrange the transport. What happens when you get there is up to you."

Dana nodded slowly. "Um, do we have to make up our minds straight away? This is kinda sudden. Knowing we got a choice and all, I mean."

"No, you don't." I scribbled yet another number on the notepad. "This is the number for my boss in Chicago. His name's Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton. Just ask him to pass on a message to contact you. He'll do the rest." I passed that one to Joanne as well; I trusted her to hold on to it for the others. "Just make up your minds in the next week or two, okay?"

-ooo-​

Joanne and Kari followed me outside as I left the cafe to rejoin Kinsey. Inside, the rest of the girls were lost in conversation over what I'd said to them, and the offer I'd made. It wouldn't be a huge deal for me, given that I had Andrea to call on, but it would lift a huge burden from their collective shoulders. Whether they kept the babies or didn't, the point was that they now had a choice.

"That … what you said inside, that was amazing." Joanne put her hand on my shoulder. "Thank you. For helping us. For helping them." She bit her lip. "When you started talking about PASS, I was ready to jump down your throat if you told us we couldn't do it. I misjudged you. I'm sorry."

I shook my head. "No apology necessary. I told you before that the idea of PASS is amazing, and I meant it. I'd support it more openly if I didn't have a lot of other irons in the fire. But I've got places to go, jobs to do and people to kill. Not necessarily in that order. To quote Robert Frost, I've got miles to go before I sleep."

Neither Kari nor Joanne reacted visibly to my reference to killing. Thanks to Lisa's effective omniscience, I knew the full details of Hadrian Lange's death, and I had no problem at all with it. I'd also learned more about the man than I really wanted to know; if they hadn't killed him, I certainly would have. Mad dogs had to be put down.

"Yeah, somehow that doesn't surprise me," Kari said with a smile. "You and the rules don't always get along, do you?"

"The correct term, Ms Schultz, is 'initiative'," Kinsey said from behind her. Ignoring her yelp and start, he continued blandly. "The Captain happens to possess a healthy dose of it."

I blinked; this was the closest I'd heard Kinsey come to saying that he'd have my back even if I took the regulations and broke them over my knee. But before I could react, Kari wrapped me in a hug. I returned it, noting that her control over the metal she was undoubtedly wearing was getting better all the time. "Thank you," she whispered, before she let go.

"What for, this time?" I murmured, though I suspected I knew.

She rolled her eyes. "The scholarship, duh." There was a giddy grin on her face. "I just know it was you."

I'd been right. At my behest, Andrea had funnelled cash through several cut-outs to endow the Amanda King Memorial Medical Scholarship. Oddly enough, the first recipient for this scholarship happened to be one Kari Schultz. There was enough money there for her mother to be taken care of while she attended her schooling. In addition, this would take place at a college close enough that she could see her mother on weekends. While I'd done my best to hide my tracks, Kari had apparently connected two and two to make four.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." I put on my best poker face.

"Uh huh." Her grin flashed in the sunlight. "Sure."

Internally, I sighed; while I could apparently fool veteran superheroes, teenage girls could still see right through me. "So had you thought about a cape name, if you're not going to go with Metal Storm?"

She nodded. "I'm going to go with Suture."

Which was, I decided, entirely appropriate. "I like it."

She beamed, and hugged me again.

-ooo-​

Saturday, 27 July, 1994
Cauldron Base

"Doorway to Cauldron." Contessa was feeling less than thrilled as she said the words. The summons had come when she was in the middle of a Path toward preventing the nuclear annihilation of Detroit, and the number of steps to complete it was increasing steadily. Normally, this would not be a problem; her power allowed her to take such things in her stride. But the summons had come from Eidolon, which threw everything off kilter. Four extra steps.

The Doorway opened into a large conference room; the same room, she gathered, where Alexandria had held the previous meeting, sixteen days ago. This gave her some hint as to what Eidolon wanted. She stepped through and looked around to find that everyone was in attendance, this time. Doctor Mother and the Number Man were there from the uncostumed side, and all four members of the core Protectorate from the costumed side. All were unmasked. Six extra steps.

"Ah, good. You're here." Legend gestured at a seat. "Please, sit down. Eidolon apparently has some remarkable news for us."

She sat, wanting to make a sharp comment, but not wanting to draw out these proceedings any more than she had to. Nine extra steps.

Eidolon stood, looking more animated than he had in … months. Years? His hair was awry and there was a glint in his eye that she hadn't seen in a while. "Legend, Hero, you were told about the meeting we had a couple of weeks ago?"

Legend nodded. "We were informed of it. I was unable to attend, but I got the run-down off of Alexandria." He spread his hands. "Crises happen."

"Yeah," Hero agreed. "There's a Tinkerbot thing happening in Tennessee. I've got it shut it down for the moment, but it took me most of the day. Sorry about that. What's this about, anyway?"

"I spoke to Taylor Snow," Eidolon stated. He looked around as Alexandria covered her eyes with her hand. "What?"

Fifteen extra steps.

"I told you not to frighten her off," Alexandria snapped. "So what did you do? You went and spoke with her!" Her tone was cutting. "Why did you do that, and how many people saw you?"

"For the record, I waited till she left DC," Eidolon retorted. "She was on the highway out in Texas somewhere. The only other person who saw us talking was that big sergeant that goes around with her. She sent him out of earshot." He threw up his hands. "But you're right. She knows what she's talking about. Holy Christ, does she know what she's talking about."

Silence fell over the room for a moment. Contessa wanted to cut to the end of the meeting, but she didn't know what Eidolon was going to say. Seventeen extra steps.

This time, it was Legend who spoke. "I think you should tell us what you mean by that."

"Okay, to cover the bullet points," Eidolon said, ticking off his fingers one at a time. "She's making progress on the Behemoth's next appearance, she knows that Scion's not what he seems to be -"

Exclamations burst from the throats of the others, but Contessa took it in her stride. While Doctor Goldstein and Captain Snow had originated from the same year, Ruth had no idea about Scion while it appeared Taylor … did. That'd be right. She had no way of telling how the PRT captain knew about Scion; any time she tried to apply a Path to the irritating woman, the version of Taylor Snow modelled in that Path did something different.

"How can she know that?" demanded Alexandria. The costumed woman turned and pointed at Contessa. "You don't look surprised. What's going on? What do you know?"

"No more than you do," Contessa said, almost truthfully. "Captain Snow has ceased to surprise me, that's all." She wasn't sure why she hadn't told anyone that she couldn't predict Taylor Snow's behaviour. Knowing that both Captain Snow and Doctor Goldstein were time travellers was one thing; hiding that fact from the rest of Cauldron was quite another. She would have been willing to chalk the unpredictability up to being a time traveller, except that Doctor Ruth Goldstein was eminently predictable. Also, amazingly useful when Contessa needed high-powered backup from time to time. It was very impressive how a white-hot jet of molten steel made so many problems go away.

"I don't know for sure how she knows it, but I have an idea," Eidolon said. "Bear with me, here." He continued ticking off points. "She also said that there's something like a seventy-five percent chance that there's more out there like the Behemoth, and that they might show up in one to four years -"

Again, the uproar at the table excluded Contessa. This one is definitely up to time travel. Ruth was the one who told me about the Behemoth, and she also knew about the one called Leviathan and Simurgh. It stood to reason that Taylor also knew.

"And she couldn't tell us this before?" demanded Doctor Mother. She looked at Alexandria. "Did she even hint at this when she was talking to you?"

This was taking forever. Contessa leaned back in her chair. Twenty extra steps.

"No." Alexandria's face was set like stone. "She didn't."

"Which tells me that her little guessing games could put us at the risk of missing out on crucial information until it's too late." Doctor Mother looked around at each of the other people in the room. "We can slip her a formula designed to boost her mental capability, then question her -"

"No." Eidolon's voice brooked no argument. "I think it would be a bad idea to give her a formula."

"Well, yes." Legend didn't look or sound pleased. "I'm pretty sure that grabbing a serving PRT officer and force-feeding her a formula falls into the 'villainous acts' category, even without the interrogation. We need to find another way."

"I'm not talking about that." Eidolon's voice was impatient. "If she gets powers, she loses the talent."

Alexandria blinked. Contessa was impressed; it took a lot to faze Rebecca. "How can you even know that?" demanded the caped woman.

Eidolon sighed, and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "It's one of the things we talked about. She can only work these things out because she doesn't have powers. Our powers are blocking us, actively or passively or both, from noticing these patterns she sees and coming to the right conclusions. So trying to apply a Thinker power to the problem would be worse than useless."

"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard!" snapped Doctor Mother hotly. "Thinker powers enhance intellect! They don't -"

Contessa really hated to interrupt her, but this diatribe was likely to go on for far too long. Twenty-three extra steps. "Actually, I think he's right. About powers being useless. For this, I mean."

Doctor Mother turned to her with a look of betrayal on her face. "What do you mean? Surely you of all people can see how ridiculous that sounds."

"No." Contessa shook her head. "I'm sorry, but we both know that I can't make Paths involving Scion or the Behemoth, even if they were right there in front of me." Also Eidolon, but that probably isn't relevant to this situation. "My agent was deliberately limited. If other agents have also been limited in that way, that would make a lot of sense. So, as counter-intuitive as it might seem, only humans without agents are likely to be able to figure this sort of thing out." And time travellers, of course.

She knew that what she was doing was technically a betrayal of Cauldron, but it was in a good cause. If Taylor Snow can save the world where I can't, then it's my job to help her do it. No matter how many lies I have to tell. "I think … we should take what this Captain Snow says seriously." Twenty-five extra steps.

Legend nodded seriously. "I think you're correct. Eidolon, I'm going to need you to write up a report on what you spoke about with her." He looked up at the pictures of the PRT captain on the screen. "And if she's as prone to danger as she seems, she might need some extra protection. Contessa?"

Contessa nodded. "I'm on it." Not really expecting any sort of positive result, she essayed a Path toward protecting Taylor Snow from death. To her surprise, it went through without a hitch. What the hell? Can she no-sell my Paths selectively?

"Good, then." Legend stood up. "I assume that we're done here?"

"Sure." Hero rose to his feet and stretched. "I've got to get back to making sure those Tinkerbots haven't managed to re-engineer themselves. We might have to evacuate Eagleton if this keeps up." He slapped Eidolon on the shoulder. "Good work, Dave. Make sure you forward me a copy of that report."

Alexandria picked up her visor and put it on. "I'll definitely want a copy too. Captain Snow's been an enigma since she finished boot camp. If she's been working off insights that we don't have access to, it will explain a great deal."

"It will indeed." Contessa smiled. Finally! Only twenty-seven extra steps to go! "Doorway."

Once I've saved Detroit, then I can go back to trying to figure out how she's pulling that shit.

-ooo-​

Seattle, WA
Monday, August 8, 1994

"Not that I don't like Seattle, ma'am, but why are we here?" As he asked the question, Kinsey climbed out of the car and rotated his torso to pop his spine back into place. I did much the same on my side of the car; I'd spent far too much time sitting down over the last few days.

"Two reasons, Kinsey," I said. "Major Goldstein's got some leave to visit family and friends, and I wanted to catch up. Also, I need to make sure that the Seattle PRT base is compliant with the computer protocols."

He snorted at that last bit, and I didn't disagree. Over the last two weeks and change, it seemed that we'd been doing nothing but go from one PRT building to the next, and fix things that were going wrong. Of course, I had a third reason. According to Lisa, Crawler had been living in Seattle before he triggered. Given what he triggered into, we figured it was best to kill him before he gained his powers and began to evolve into the nigh-unstoppable monster from my time.

Besides, it would be nice to see Ruth again, and have some R&R before we set out for New England. I had an appointment in Brockton Bay I didn't want to miss.

-ooo-​

We'd left Austin at first light and pushed hard to get to Tucson, reaching it just as the sun was dipping on to the horizon. The sunset was gorgeous, but neither I nor Kinsey had been looking forward to driving into that glare. We signed in with the PRT duty officer, were given temporary room assignments, and I collapsed into my bunk.

After a brief spar the next morning to loosen our muscles—I managed to put Kinsey on the mat two falls out of four—I set to work tightening up the computer systems. It wasn't actually all that hard; they didn't have as many problems as I'd anticipated. As it was, we were out of there by midday, on the road to Phoenix. Between the Phoenix base and the ancillary Mesa building, I was busy until well after dark, but I did find and plug a back door that'd seen use more than once. The security chief went very quiet when he saw the printouts, and I wondered if he'd keep his job after this.

The next leg of the trip took us to San Diego; we hit the city limits around midday. I had the computer systems sorted out by three, and we were in LA by six.

For the next twelve days, we zig-zagged up the west coast, one PRT building blurring into the next. I'd dealt with the eleventh one—in Sacramento—by mid-morning on the seventh, and we'd pushed hard to get to Portland by sunset. It still managed to irritate me slightly that in all this time, Kinsey still refused to let me drive while he was in the car.

With Portland secured, we made one last effort, pulling into Seattle just after midday. However, I decided that enough was enough. I wanted to associate with people wearing something other than PRT uniforms, at least for a few hours.

-ooo-​

Ruth Goldstein

"Comfy, honey?"

Ruth smiled up at her father as she stretched her bare feet out and wriggled her toes. Now in his late sixties, Phil Goldstein was almost completely bald and somewhat stouter than he had been during his patrolman days. Thanks to Taylor, she now knew who her genetic parents were, which made her more grateful than ever that this man had chosen to be her father. Likewise, Deborah had provided all the maternal care and attention that Ruth could have wanted while growing up.

"Yes thanks, Dad," she said warmly. "Totally comfortable. You know, you didn't have to give me your armchair." Old and battered, the leather-covered reclining armchair had been a fixture in the living room for as long as Ruth could remember—which, in practice, had been since Phil first brought her home to Deborah. As a child, she'd tried to claim it many times, only to be ousted when her father wanted to relax and read the paper. Now she was actually being invited to sit in it.

"Just a temporary loan, Ruthie," he said with a chuckle. Carefully, he let himself down on to the sofa. "It's been so long since we saw you. You've grown up so much. I figure if we show you what you've been missing, you'll come home more often."

"I'm not quite sure it works exactly like that," she said dubiously. Truth be told, she was feeling more than a little guilty at having stayed away for so long. But now she was back. Looking around the living room, she saw the same old things with new eyes, understanding more about her parents' lives than she had before she left. Though there were two new pictures hanging over the menorah; the first was the picture of her graduation from medical school, and the second … "You never told me you got a photo of my PRT graduation ceremony!" She'd notified them, of course, but they hadn't been able to attend.

"What's that?" Deborah emerged from the kitchen, bearing a tray of cookies. "Oh, we asked that dear friend of yours, Nina. She took extra photos for us." She carried the tray over to where Ruth reclined in the armchair. "So, have you met any nice Jewish boys in uniform yet?"

Ruth rolled her eyes, but took two cookies anyway. "Mom, you do realise that the PRT is a paramilitary organisation. We aren't there for the purpose of finding dates for Saturday night."

"Oh, well." Deborah carried the tray over to her husband. "You aren't getting any younger, you know. Whatever happened to that doctor you were seeing in Los Angeles? I thought he was very handsome, from the photo you sent us."

"Now, Debbie, leave the girl alone," Phil said gruffly. "You know very well he broke her heart. If I'd been twenty years younger, I would've gone and broken his jaw." As she turned away, he looked at Ruth and revolved his finger beside his ear.

"I saw that, Mr Goldstein!" she snapped. "And I hadn't forgotten. But I remember when Manny Casewitz cheated on my sister Mary. Papa went over there and had a word with him, and they've been happily married for forty years now." She put the tray on the table and came back to Ruth. "Men are born idiots who don't know what's good for them. Sometimes they just need to learn before they can become good husbands." Her tone was acerbic as she looked at Phil. "And some, of course, take longer than others."

Ruth grinned at her father's derisive snort. She looked up at her mother and shook her head. "That one wouldn't ever learn, Mom. I'm well rid of him." She reached up and took her mother's hand. "But I do appreciate the advice."

The knocking on the front door resounded through the house. Deborah looked over at Phil. "Were we expecting anyone, dear?"

"Not that I know of, sweetheart." With a grunt, he levered himself to his feet. "You just stay right there, Ruth. I'll see who it is." Muttering something under his breath about 'visitors who don't call ahead', he stumped from the living room into the entrance hall. Ruth, whose curiosity was piqued, pushed her heels down on the foot-rest, to bring herself up to a seated position.

"Well, hello," she heard him say. "Do I know you folks?" There was a muted reply, then he said, "You don't say. Come in, come in." The front door closed. "Ruthie!" he called out. "Visitors for you."

Visitors? For me? Ruth stood up, sharing a puzzled glance with her mother. The rugs were warm on her bare feet as she went toward the entrance hall. Her father was the first to emerge, followed by …

"Taylor?" she said, disbelief warring with happiness. "What are you doing here?" Behind Taylor—Captain Snow, here and now—bulked the form of Sergeant Kinsey. Both of them, she noted, were in civilian attire.

"Oh, you know how it is," Taylor said with just the hint of a grin. "We were in the neighbourhood and decided to drop in. I hope that's all right?"

-ooo-​

Taylor

The Goldstein family home was old. Probably older than the one I'd grown up in, back in Brockton Bay. Dark wooden walls with brightly-coloured rugs underfoot gave an ambiance of warmth and cosiness. Following the bespectacled older man, Kinsey and I emerged into a living room that was warmly lit by electric standing lamps, more so than by the weak sunlight that struggled through the day's overcast.

More rugs decorated the floor here, though they were kept a careful distance from the brick fireplace set into the far wall. In deference to the fact that it was technically summer, the fireplace wasn't currently in use.

On the mantlepiece over the fireplace, I saw a menorah flanked by two rows of framed photos. Above it, hanging on the wall, were two larger ones in pride of place. Not very much to my surprise, I recognised one as a somewhat-younger Aster graduating from college, and the other showing her dressed in a PRT uniform. Most of the photos on the mantlepiece proper were of people unknown to me, although there was a black and white wedding photo that I guessed was of her parents. Another showed Phil wearing the uniform of a police officer. There was one difference between the two rows of photos; each one to the right of the menorah had a small black ribbon folded over one corner of the frame. Each of the latter was in black and white, not to mention rather faded.

If Kaiser could see this, I mused, he'd have an absolute fit. Not because he was such a rabid racist—he wasn't, not really—but because his only daughter had been raised by a Jewish police officer, and was now a productive member of the PRT. I couldn't help grinning at the idea as I came face to face with Aster—Ruth, here and now—herself.

"Taylor? What are you doing here?" She sounded like she couldn't believe that I was standing in her family home. To my relief, a smile was spreading across her face. Oh, good.

"Oh, you know how it is." I couldn't hold back the remnants of the grin. "We were in the neighbourhood and decided to drop in. I hope that's all right?"

She didn't hesitate at all. "Of course it's all right. I just didn't expect you to show up on my doorstep in Seattle, of all places. As I recall, you're from Brockton Bay." As she spoke, she gestured toward a battered old sofa. "Come in, sit down. Mom, Dad, this is Captain Taylor Snow and Sergeant James Kinsey. They're also in the PRT."

"My goodness, hello!" A grey-haired lady, on the short side but somewhat plump, offered us a tray of cookies. "Any friend of Ruthie's is welcome in our home. Have a cookie. They're fresh baked." They smelled like it too; the combination of apple and cinnamon beat hell out of the PRT rations we'd been living on.

I took a cookie; Kinsey followed suit. "Thank you, ma'am," I said politely as we sat down. Taking a bite from the cookie, I widened my eyes in appreciation; she'd added a dusting of sugar which went down amazingly well. "This is very good," I added after swallowing the bite.

The man who'd answered the door, whom I knew to be Aster's adoptive father Phil, eyed us speculatively. He didn't seem suspicious of any wrongdoing, just curious. However, I was fully aware that he'd been a police officer for more than forty years. Some instincts just never went away. "Are you based in Seattle, or just on leave too?"

I shook my head. "Well, actually, sir, neither. Sergeant Kinsey and I are on an extended trouble-shooting mission. I've decided that we're off-duty at this particular point in time. As I said, we were in the city and I recalled that Major Goldstein lived here. She saved my life not so long ago, so I thought I'd drop by and show her how well I'm mending."

At that moment, Aster cleared her throat, looking meaningfully at me. "Ma'am?" I asked, coming to a seated variety of attention on the sofa; once again, Kinsey followed my lead.

"Taylor, neither one of us is in uniform," she said quietly. "I'm currently off-duty and on leave. I don't particularly mind if you call me 'ma'am', as I'm certain Sergeant Kinsey will. But I will request that you do not refer to my rank at the moment."

"Of course, ma'am," I agreed. I watched her eyes for any sign of anger, but only came away with an impression of weariness. I wonder when she last took leave. "If you don't mind me asking, is everything okay?"

"I'm still working that one out," she said. "It seems that more and more villains show up every year, and more and more of our troopers end up wounded and dead because of them. To be honest, this is the first time I've been home in six years." She gave a little half-shrug, as if to make light of the situation.

But I'd heard that tune before, and there was no way I was going to let it play out this time. "No."

She stared at me, possibly just as much for the implacable tone of my voice as for the word itself. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said no, ma'am." I paused, trying to figure out how to say what I needed to without sounding stupid or giving away important details. Finally, I came to a decision, and stood up. "Ma'am, I need to speak to you in private."

Her eyes narrowed, and she stood up slowly. "Is it not something that you can say here in front of everyone?"

I could feel the pressure of everyone looking at me. "Ma'am, it's classified." Turning to Kinsey as he began to stand up as well, I shook my head. "Sergeant, I'm going to need you to stay here. Maj- the maj- Doctor Goldstein and I are just going out on to the porch."

He gradually subsided on to the sofa once more. "Yes, ma'am."

Mrs Goldstein was staring at us. "Ruthie, what's going on?" The tray of cookies, unheeded, was still in her hands.

"Military secrets." Her husband's voice was gruff as he looked me over. "Military intelligence, right?"

"PRT intelligence division, yes, sir," I confirmed. "And what I'm about to tell your daughter is very much between her and me, but it's something she needs to know."

His grunt could've meant anything. "Go on then, ladies. Your Sergeant Kinsey can keep us honest."

I led the way out through the entrance hall on to the front porch. After Aster joined me, I closed the door and moved to the side. A cool breeze blew down the street, sending a wind-chime tinkling. Raising my head, I inhaled the fresh air, enjoying the scent of oncoming autumn.

"Is this something from before?" asked Aster. She leaned up against the rail beside me; I saw that her eyes were closed. "Some sort of object lesson from your dark future?"

"You came from there, too," I pointed out. "Just as much as I did."

She turned her face to look at me. "I never took over a city. Or killed a superhero." Some sort of shock must have registered on my face, because she nodded fractionally. "I saw a lot of TV. Never knew what it meant till I triggered. I also remember Jack Slash invading our home, once. My brother was there. He was very scared, but he still stood up to him."

I was impressed. Go, Theo. I'd have to ask Lisa about that one, later. "What I've got to tell you about is Panacea. Amy Dallon. Do you remember much about her?"

She raised her eyes to look at the city skyline. "She was a healer. A member of the unmasked group New Wave. There was something about her not being able to heal brains. Then she dropped out of sight, not long before it all went to hell." Her gaze swept back to me. "I suspect that you're going to be drawing a parallel here. One that I'm not going to like."

"That's the general idea, yes." I wrapped my fingers around the top rail of the porch. "You see, Amy used to hold unreasonably high expectations of herself. To the point that she'd walk to the hospital in the middle of the night just so she could heal a few more people. All because she was the daughter of a villain, and her hero stepmother never really trusted or liked her, so she used to push herself to be more 'heroic'." It struck me that I was using Amy as an object lesson quite a bit, these days.

"I see what you're saying," she said. I sensed a 'but'. Those five words rarely showed up without a 'but' in tow. "But … who's to say she wasn't right? She could cure cancer. Who else could do that?"

"Nobody," I said bluntly. "Well, maybe one or two others. But my point is that she used to go there just to heal normal crap. For free. Stuff that doctors could probably take care of themselves, given time. And in the meantime, you're a good surgeon, but you're not the only surgeon in the PRT, or even the very best one." She shot me a wounded glance, and I shrugged. "Law of statistics. The chance of every single other surgeon employed by the PRT not being up to your standard? Pretty low. So when they let you go on leave, it was with the full knowledge that they could pull someone in to sub for you, and not suffer in the process."

"Hm." She frowned. "I suppose you're correct. Brutal, but correct." Grimly, she chuckled. "Which is kind of your thing, I guess." Turning to face me, she raised her eyebrows. "What happened to Panacea after she vanished?"

"Nervous breakdown," I said. "Turned Glory Girl into a living puddle of flesh. Last I heard, she was in the Birdcage of her own accord." I decided to leave out the fact that Amy had been in love with Victoria. It was probably one detail too many.

Aster nodded slowly. "Message received and understood, Captain Snow." She shot me a sharp glance. "And no, that's not permission to call me 'Major'." She moved toward the front door, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"Understood, ma'am." I followed her back inside.

Deborah met us as we emerged from the entrance hall. "Captain Snow, I blame you for this," she said severely, looking at me.

I blinked. Oh, shit. What's happened? Nothing seemed to be going wrong. The only thing that was different was that Phil was sitting on the sofa alongside Kinsey, and they were talking nineteen to the dozen. In fact, this was the most engaged I'd seen Kinsey for a long time.

"Ah." I hid a smile. "I may have neglected to mention that Kinsey used to be a military policeman." It seemed that he'd found common ground with Phil Goldstein remarkably quickly. From their hand motions, they were discussing techniques of taking down perps.

Aster's mother sighed in a long-suffering fashion. "I have enough trouble when Philip starts talking with his ex-colleagues about the old days. Now he's got someone with a fresh point of view. Next they'll start trading stories about their glory days."

"It'll be more than he ever talks about with me," I mused. "Then again, I don't think I've ever asked." Which was kind of my fault. Of course, I'd never been truly interested in police procedure. But seeing the animation in Kinsey's face as he absent-mindedly took a cookie from the tray next to them, I could tell that he hadn't just discarded that part of himself. I'm going to have to be more perceptive in the future. If Kinsey needs someone to talk to about this, I should be listening.

Deborah's eyes twinkled. "Somehow, I think the problem will be getting them to shut up." She guided me to a chair. "Sit down and tell me about yourself. Ruth, dear, you too. I'm sure you both have fascinating stories to tell."

Oh, boy. 'Fascinating' wasn't exactly the word I would've used. Where do I start?

"Uh, Mom?" Aster hadn't taken her seat yet. "I think I need to lie down for a while. Think about some things. I'll be down in a while."

Deborah nodded. "That's all right, dear. Just remember, Rosh Chodesh Elul begins at sunset." She patted her daughter's hand. "Have a nice rest."

Aster gave her mother a smile, then leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "I hadn't forgotten, Mom. It's why I opted to take leave at this time, after all. I'll be down before then." She turned and left the room; moments later, I heard her footsteps going upstairs.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what that is," I said politely. From the name, I figured it was something to do with their religion, but I had no idea what it actually meant. Personally, I'd never paid much attention to the Christian faith, much less Judaism.

"It marks the beginning of the month of Elul in the Jewish calendar," Deborah explained. "It's a time of introspection and looking inward. Figuring out where you've been going wrong and what to do about it." She shot me a beaming smile. "But enough about that. You mentioned that our Ruthie saved your life. I would be delighted to hear all about it."

I hesitated. "Uh … it's kind of gory." Not many details about the events in the Compound were actually classified, but I wasn't sure about inflicting them on a sweet old lady like Deborah. To be honest, something like that belonged in my time, not hers.

She snorted and shook her head. "My dear, I was born in Munich in nineteen thirty-two." She pulled up her sleeve and I saw a row of six digits, faded and distorted from age, imprinted on the inside of her wrist. Beneath the row was a small triangle. "Whatever you've got to say, I've endured worse."

My eyes widened, and I realised just how wrong I'd been about her. Holy shit. She survived Auschwitz. This sweet old lady had been through horrors that I could only begin to imagine. A number of things went through my head at this point, but I voiced none of them. For Deborah to have lived through what she had, her words had to be the simple truth. She had endured worse. My respect for her went up dramatically.

I took a deep breath. "It started when an apocalypse cult in Texas began kidnapping female parahumans for use as breeding stock …"

-ooo-​

Ruth

Her parents hadn't changed anything about her bedroom since she went away to medical school. Lying back on her bed, Ruth looked up at the mobile that she and her dad had spent hours constructing and painting. In the wind gusts that came in through the open window, the models of the lunar lander and the command module revolved and spun past the globes of the Earth and Moon. She closed her eyes, recalling once more the black and white image of Neil Armstrong stepping on to the lunar surface, his immortal words crackling out of the speaker. "That's one small step …"

Equally vividly, she remembered sitting next to her father at the living room table, carefully cutting out and painting each piece of the mobile, then gluing the dry pieces into place. She'd known she was someone special even back then—how could she not?—but she'd also had a sense of wonder about the larger world. An awareness that things were bigger and more amazing than she could possibly guess.

If she'd had any doubt about this, Taylor's arrival would've proven that to her once and for all. Meeting Taylor and being able to talk to her face-to-face had done so once again. Gaps in her knowledge had been filled in … but at a price. Not all of what she'd learned was wonderful. Some of it had been downright disturbing.

Have I been pushing myself, punishing myself like Amy Dallon, because my father was a villain too? That particular parallel with Panacea wasn't something she'd thought about, but now it was out in the open, her mind kept circling back to it. She loved her mother and father dearly, and the knowledge that they weren't her biological parents made that love none the less intense. As for Kaiser …

He and Purity gave life to me. Purity loved me dearly; all of her actions spell that out. She even gave me up to Miss Militia, knowing she would die, so that I would live.

Kaiser's most heroic act had been to die in battle with Leviathan. Apart from that, he'd run a neo-Nazi organisation which specialised in beating up minorities and running dog-fighting rings. He'd been handsome and charismatic, but Purity had left him after Ruth had been born. If I met him face to face, I doubt that either one of us would approve of the other.

She took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind. It seemed Taylor's instincts were correct. She was pushing herself to be better than she was, trying to exorcise the ghost of the father who had yet to grow up and commit his racist crimes. I need to talk to someone. Get some perspective on this.

Rolling over, she reached for the phone on the bedside table. It was another addition to the room that her parents hadn't changed. When she'd been on call at the hospital—before she met Friedrich—she'd needed to be able to come out of a sound sleep and take the call to come in, night or day. Nina's number was fresh in her mind, just as everyone else's number was; the benefit of a perfect memory. If anyone can understand what I'm going through, she will.

Just as her hand touched the receiver, the phone rang. Reflexively, she snatched it up and put it to her ear. "Hello?"

The voice that came over the line was as familiar as it was welcome, even if it wasn't Nina Veder. "Mrs Goldstein? It's Darlene Hobbs here. Dunno if you 'member me, but I'm head nurse at the hospital your daughter Ruth useta work at. I really hate ta bother you like this, but would I be able ta speak to your husband, please?"

Ruth blinked. What in the world was Darlene ringing her home for? "Uh, hi, Darlene," she said. "It's not Mom, it's me. Ruth. What do you need Dad for?"

There was dead silence on the line for so long Ruth thought the call might've been cut off. But then Darlene spoke again. "Ruth honey," she exclaimed. "That really you? I ain't heard from you in forever."

Ruth smiled. "It hasn't been that long, Darlene. I ring you when I can." Hearing the older woman's voice always made her feel better. "Is everything okay?"

"Well, the truth is, no it ain't." Darlene's voice held relief. "I need help an' the cops ain't doin' shit."

"Wait, what now?" Ruth frowned. "Cops? Help with what? What's going on?"

Darlene audibly took a deep breath. "It started a few weeks back. Some guy started harassin' some o' my girls what live in one of the bad neighbourhoods." By 'girls', Ruth knew Darlene meant nurses. Darlene had always been fiercely protective of her charges.

"Shit." Ruth grimaced; she hadn't meant for the expletive to slip out. "Are they okay?"

"Couple of 'em got beat up. He done took their purses. I tole 'em an' tole 'em ta go in groups. Or let someone drive 'em home. But just the other day, one never made it home. Her name was Patricia Weller." Darlene's voice showed the strain she was under. "I figure he either killed her an' dumped the body or took her someplace. But I can't prove it. Can't even find a body. Cops keep brushin' me off."

Ruth clenched her hand on the receiver. Goddamn it. She knew that if she met the mugger, she could easily overcome him. Of course, finding him was the trick. "So how can I help?" she asked carefully.

"Now you know I ain't never asked for no favour before," Darlene said severely. "An' I wouldn't be askin' now, except that lives is on the line. If you could talk to your pa, mebbe git him to tell his old buddies to get their heads outta their asses, I'd be right appreciative."

Ruth opened her mouth to agree, then paused as an epiphany unfolded behind her eyes. If the Seattle PD weren't getting anywhere, it was because they simply weren't able. She didn't hold it against them; even with all the will in the world, if they couldn't lay hands on the man responsible, they couldn't make an arrest.

On the other hand, Taylor was right here. Even not counting the Behemoth prediction—cheating via time travel knowledge was still cheating—she'd still managed to pull off half a dozen other feats of sheer brilliance in the course of her PRT career to date. If anyone could locate poor Patricia—dead or alive—it would be her.

Back in her time, she took over a city, killed Alexandria, and impressed the Protectorate so much that they hired her on rather than send her to the Birdcage. This sort of thing should be right up her alley.

"You know," she said. "I think I might just have a better idea."

End of Part 6-2

Part 6-3​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 6-3: Two for the Price of One​

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



Monday, August 8, 1994

1815 Hours

Ruth leaned forward to address Kinsey. "Pull over there, Sergeant." Sitting back in the car seat, she caught my eye and pointed at one of the houses on the street. "That's her house there. And in case I forgot to tell you before, I really, really appreciate this." I could tell that she meant it, which didn't surprise me in the slightest. My superior officer she might be, but as Ruth Goldstein she had none of the arrogance she would've learned at the knee of Max Anders.

Her parents had been a little surprised when she announced she was going out with Kinsey and myself, but they hadn't raised a fuss. I suspected Phil had an idea there was something going on, but the older man had said nothing that might make Deborah worry. Of course, he probably thought it was PRT-related, which it most certainly was not, but neither I nor Ruth wanted to make him worry, so we hadn't corrected that misapprehension.

I looked the house over as Kinsey pulled the car to a halt at the side of the road. We were in a slightly less affluent neighbourhood than the one Ruth had grown up in, but the lawn was well-kept and the picket fence looked freshly painted. Opening the car door, I climbed out. I'd been comfortable in the back seat but I was still a little cramped, so I discreetly stretched to work the kinks out of my spine. As I closed the door again, a black kid exited the house we'd pulled up in front of, and stood at the top of the steps staring at us.

"Aunt Ruth?" he called out, then leaned back in through the front door. "Gramma! Aunt Ruth's here, with some other folks!" He then went back into the house, and the door closed behind him.

"I guess this is the right place," I said dryly. "Aunt Ruth, huh?"

A nostalgic smile crossed her face as she spoke. "Darlene took me under her wing while I was working with her. I got to meet her family, and we took to each other. I recall a lot of very noisy birthday parties. I'd wondered if they'd still remember me. Apparently they do."

She led the way through the white-painted gate and up the front path. Kinsey let me go second, while he brought up the rear. Neither one of us was openly armed, but we kept an eye out anyway; through bitter experience, we knew that the unexpected was not only a thing that could happen, but would happen. Of course, he had no idea of Ruth's capabilities; I did, but I wasn't going to count on her to get us out of trouble if it happened.

The door opened again, and a heavy-set black woman stepped out. This, I presumed, was 'Gramma', as her hair was more grey than black and her face showed years of careworn wrinkles. "Ruth, honey!" she said, a warm smile splitting her face. Crossing the porch, she came down the steps and engulfed Ruth in a capacious hug, momentarily lifting the younger woman off her feet. From the remains of her accent, I figured she was originally from California. "It's good ta see you again, swee'pea. How long ya in town for? And who's your friends?" As she set Ruth down, she gave Kinsey and me a searching look. Her eyes narrowed, making me wonder how much she'd seen. "These'd be the PRT folks, then." Well, that answered that. I'd changed from the sundress into jeans and a light jacket, given that it was likely to get cold later, but she didn't sound the slightest bit unsure about her conclusion.

On second thought, the deduction that we were PRT wasn't hard to make; even in civvies, Kinsey was constitutionally incapable of being anything but a military NCO. "We are indeed, Mrs Hobbs," I said politely. "Doctor Goldstein has told us about your problem. I'm Captain Taylor Snow, and this is Sergeant James Kinsey." I held out my hand to shake.

She did so, her firm grip encompassing mine. "I've heard some about you already, Cap'n Snow, an' it's a real pleasure to make your acquaintance." Letting my hand go, she shook Kinsey's as well. "An' you too, Sergeant. C'mon in, I'll tell ya what I know." Turning, she led the way up the steps again. Ruth and I followed, with Kinsey bringing up the rear. Darlene's comment about having heard of me already had piqued my interest, but I made a bet with myself that I knew where she was going with it.

The interior of the house was neat and tidy, though still disarranged enough to be homely. I spotted the black kid from before, peering at us from a doorway on the far side of the living room. A moment later, a woman about ten years older than me brushed past him and placed a plate of cookies on the coffee-table in the middle of the living room. She bore a familial resemblance to both Mrs Hobbs and the boy, such that I decided they had to be closely related. "Been a while, Ruth," she said, then looked askance at Kinsey and myself. "I'd known you were bringin' company, I would'a put somethin' on to cook." Dusting her hand off on her apron, she held it out. "Mamie Fraser. That little scamp back there is my oldest, Sammy. Any friend of Ruth's is a friend of mine."

Kinsey and I went through the ritual of shaking hands once more. "Taylor Snow," I said this time, not sure if Darlene wanted it known who we really were. "This is James Kinsey. Doctor Goldstein saved my life once upon a time." 'Once upon a time' had been two months previously, but she didn't need to know that.

She raised one eyebrow. "Oh? Don't surprise me at all. Momma always used to brag on her, so I figure she's good at what she does." She gave Ruth a flashing smile. "You movin' back to Seattle?"

"Sorry, no," Ruth said as we settled ourselves on the slightly dilapidated sofa. "It's just a temporary visit to recharge my batteries. Good to see you again though, Mamie. How's Daryl and the others?"

"Oh, so-so," Darlene's daughter replied, waggling her hand from side to side. "You know how it goes. You work, you sleep, you eat, an' you gotta go to work again."

"Gramma, can I have a cookie?" piped up Sammy from the doorway, eyeing the plate in the middle of the coffee-table.

"Sure you can, honeybunch. Take three," Darlene told him indulgently, then her tone became more serious. "Mamie, can you take him off somewhere? I got things to discuss with Ruth's friends." By which she meant, I want to talk to them in private, without prying young ears. Semantically speaking, it was identical to the military phrase, Give us the room.

Mamie was definitely sharp enough to catch the subtext, though I wasn't sure if she'd pinged Kinsey and myself as PRT yet. "Sure thing, Momma," she agreed, scooping up some cookies from the plate. "Come on, Sammy. Let's go check over your school supplies."

"But school don't start for 'nother whole month!" protested Sammy, but he followed his mother from the room. Her answer was indistinct, but I got the gist of 'better now than too late', with which I totally agreed.

Ignoring the cookies, Ruth sat forward on the sofa, her eyes intent. "Captain Snow and Sergeant Kinsey are in the Intelligence branch of the PRT. There's nobody better at what they do. If anyone can find Patricia, they can. If anyone can find out what happened to her, and who did it, they can."

"Right." Darlene looked me over once more, as if trying to see what Ruth saw in me. "Until Ruth told me who you were, I was wonderin' how much you could help. But I've heard some o' what you done, especially down in Texas for them young girls. They been talkin' you up a storm."

Mentally, I paid out on the bet. I'd consulted with Ruth on the best hospital to refer the girls to in Seattle, and it seemed she'd directed me to the one where her old friend still worked. Which, to be honest, wasn't a huge surprise. Nor was it astonishing that they'd been talking about me. What I'd done for them wasn't extraordinary, at least to me, but it was more than anyone else had been doing for them. I nodded to acknowledge her words, neither downplaying what I'd done nor making a big deal of it. "They're strong. I've got faith in them to get through it together, but sometimes faith needs a helping hand."

"And ain't that the living truth." Her shrewd gaze raked over me again. "Normally I'd say you're a bit young to be a captain, but some folks are just born old." I didn't answer, at least not in words, but she nodded anyway. "Yeah, thought so. I seen that look before. You been at the sharp end more'n once. Okay, so this is all I know."

It was a familiar story. Patricia Weller couldn't quite afford a car, and the bus timetables weren't convenient for where she lived. To save on cab fares, she and some other nurses had been walking together as far as they could, but on Sunday night she'd gotten out late and decided to go it alone. Unfortunately, she never made it home.

I already had an idea of who the culprit was. Lisa had been keeping tabs on one Ned Hollows, resident of Seattle. Even at the tender age of seventeen, the scrawny young man was an opportunistic thief with little in the way of finer feelings. Morally speaking, he had no problem in hurting someone if they didn't hand over their belongings. Physically speaking, he was not an imposing specimen, which was why he picked on women walking alone at night.

In time, Ned would trigger with the power of adaptive regeneration and eventually become the Slaugherhouse Nine member known as Crawler. Not unlike Dauntless (before Leviathan, that is) his power level would gradually build up with use; by my time he was an obsidian-black inhuman juggernaut, unkillable by any normal means. Ironically, they'd both been killed (Dauntless technically so) by Bakuda's captured bombs, put to (mis)use by the PRT.

It was my intention to cut Crawler off at the pass, so to speak. This was part of an ongoing plan I had to starve the Nine of 'unstoppable' members, so when the time came, they could be removed from the board more easily. While it might've been possible to take them out this early in the game (though Grey Boy was a real problem) they had their roles to play, as did Calvert. I'd get to them when I needed to.

Belatedly, it occurred to me that having someone like Crawler on my side would be a massive game changer. Ruth was a powerful force in her own right, but unlike me she wasn't exactly subtle in what she could do. In addition, she had duties and obligations within the PRT, and I didn't want to make the mistake of assuming she would always be there to help.

Left alone, Crawler would end up being responsible for hundreds if not thousands of deaths. He'd spent decades getting as fearsome as he was, of course; according to Lisa, this was why he joined the Nine. Only in their company could he find the ultimate challenges, capes willing to throw their very worst at him. For my part, I didn't intend to challenge him; challenges carried the implicit assumption that it was possible to win. If I got the chance, I'd give him the choice to either join the side of goodness and light or die. The former was preferable, but I'd settle for the latter if I had to. Success in recruiting him meant that Lisa and I gained a powerful ally, while failure still deprived the Nine of one of their more horrifically powerful members.

However, doing either one did mean I'd have to get out there and find him. While Mrs Hobbs had given me as much information as she knew, and Ruth's knowledge of the surrounding area would be very useful, it still wouldn't have been very helpful to the average investigator. Of course, I wasn't the average investigator.

"Is there anything more you can remember?" I asked Mrs Hobbs. I kept my tone professional, not wanting her to think I was belittling her contribution.

"Sorry, no," she said. "Can ya help? Cops ain't been able to do jack." Her eyes searched my face, looking for something; I wasn't sure what.

I nodded firmly. "I believe I can try. You've been very helpful." Leaning forward, I asked one last question. "What time did these girls, especially Patricia, leave the hospital?"

Darlene caught the significance of the query almost immediately. "Two in the mornin', near enough," she said with enough certainty that I felt I could rely on it. "I tol' 'em and I tol' 'em, go with someone." She settled back in her seat with the unhappy expression of someone who doesn't want to be proven right.

"I know," I replied gently. "And you did exactly the right thing, coming to Doctor Goldstein about this. We'll find out what's happened to her, and we'll put a stop to whoever's doing it." In my mind, I already had a culprit lined up, but I intended to check with Lisa before making any rash moves. Standing up, I brushed my hands off on my jeans. "We'll let you know as soon as we've got something."

Following my lead, Kinsey and Ruth both stood up from the sofa. Neither one gave me so much as a sideways glance to indicate doubts as to my capability to find what had happened to the young woman. Their faith in me was somewhat daunting; while Kinsey had seen me pull some pretty impossible rabbits out of the hat before now, Ruth had no such experience. Unless she'd read my jacket. Which of course she would've, the parts she had clearance for anyway.

I shook hands with Mrs Hobbs once more, watching as her expression edged between cautious hope and faint disbelief. "You sure you can find out what's happened?" she asked. "An' is there any chance she's alive?"

"I've broken tougher cases with less to go on," I said, telling both the absolute truth and lying through my teeth at the same time. "I can't guarantee any miracles about Patricia's well-being, but we will find the guy and make sure he doesn't hurt anyone else."

My tone was mild, but Darlene was nobody's fool. She heard what I wasn't saying, and gave me a brief nod of acknowledgement. "I just wanna know, one way or the other," she said quietly.

"I'll let you know, first thing," Ruth replied for me. She gave her friend a hug, then led the way out of the house. Nobody spoke as we descended the steps from the front porch and headed out to where the car was parked at the side of the road.

Kinsey unlocked the car and opened the door for us. I got in first, followed by Ruth. It was only when Kinsey had the car going that he half-turned toward where we were sitting in the back seat. "Where to, Major?" he asked.

"Just a moment, Sergeant," Ruth said. "Taylor, I know you're good, but I expected a little more for us to go on with. Are you sure you can find Patricia and catch the guy who did it, or were you just putting on a show back there? Because if it's the latter …"

Ah. She just didn't want to show any doubts while Darlene was there. I was forcibly reminded of the fact that Ruth, though she knew of my background, thought I was unpowered here in the past. Or rather, that I didn't have any parahuman assistance to draw on. This wasn't true, of course. Neither one knew about Lisa's involvement in the situation, or about how closely entwined her life had become with mine. Or, for that matter, about her capabilities. Even if I told Ruth any details, she'd still recall Lisa as only being a smartass Thinker in a low-end villain gang.

"Not a show," I assured her. "I've already figured some things out, but we're not going to do anything right now. Or rather, right now we're going to put the investigation on hold. Kinsey's going to be dropping you off at home before sunset so you can observe Elul with your parents. Then we're going to get motel rooms before checking in with the local PRT Director; what's his name again?" I'd gone over the list in the last few days, but we'd been through so many bases the names were starting to blur together in my head.

"Her name is Dyson, ma'am," Kinsey informed me blandly from the front seat. "Director Kathryn Dyson. Her deputy's name is Samuel Kelly."

"Thank you, Kinsey," I replied without missing a beat. "I'll sign in with Director Dyson or probably just Kelly, depending on how busy Dyson is, and set about seeing exactly how much work is needed on their computer systems. I haven't heard of any major information leaks in this area, so maybe we'll get lucky. After that, I'll make a few calls, pull some strings, and see what information I can shake loose from the bushes." I shrugged. "It's amazing what's just lying around sometimes, waiting to be added up into a picture." Once more, I was mixing truth with falsehood. Information gathering, yes. Via phone call, no. After all, Lisa didn't have a mobile number I could ring.

"Why a motel room?" asked Ruth. "You know you can get on-base housing, right?"

"I can," I agreed. "But on-base housing means we've got to sign in and out. And I'd rather not have anyone notice us walking out the door at a quarter after one. Motels are wonderfully anonymous, that way."

"Make it one o'clock," Ruth said. "That way, you've got time to come pick me up." She must have noticed my startled look and the way Kinsey's shoulders stiffened slightly, because she shook her head in annoyance. "Really?" she asked. "You were going to try to leave me out of it? That's not going to happen." The tone of her voice pointed out that she held the rank of Major, and she wasn't afraid to use it.

Not that I had any particular worries for her safety even if she did come along. If what Lisa had since told me about her powers was accurate (even if the all-knowing roommate sharing my head was irritatingly silent about certain details) there were very few villainous capes in this day and age who could go toe to toe with her and hope to survive, let alone win. In the future, some would arise; I intended to keep that number as low as possible. I was quite aware that this could be considered, broadly speaking, cheating. Whether or not I cared was an entirely different matter.

Kinsey glanced around at us, then put his attention back on the road. "Permission to speak frankly, Major Goldstein, ma'am?" Once again, my attention was firmly drawn to the odd relationship between Kinsey and myself. While outwardly it was little different from that between any officer and an NCO, such a request from him to me would merely be a formality. Kinsey knew that I wanted him to speak frankly and openly at all times and places it was important to do so. Not all officers were like that, and though he knew Ruth was my friend, he didn't know why.

"Granted, Sergeant," Ruth acknowledged. At the same time, her eyes sought mine. I wasn't sure what the query in them meant, but I guessed she was trying to figure out if Kinsey knew of her true origins, or any of the other secrets I held about her. I kept my face as still as possible, so as not to send a potentially misleading message.

That in itself seemed to convey some meaning to her, because she nodded fractionally as Kinsey spoke up. "Ma'am, I do not know the Captain's plans, but we've worked together before. If I were to hazard a guess, she intends to place herself on the street as bait, and trap the perp that way. Meaning no disrespect, ma'am, but you're a medic, not a grunt. Medics aren't supposed to go into the line of fire."

Which, despite the careful wording and the extremely respectful tone of voice, boiled down to sorry, boss, but you don't get to play with us cool kids. This led me to a problem; I knew Ruth could take care of herself, but Kinsey didn't. How was I supposed to turn his viewpoint around without outing Ruth to him? Me, he was personally loyal to. Her, he barely knew from Adam.

"Sergeant," Ruth stated firmly. "I understand your intent and I appreciate that you want to keep me safe. However, this is not your call. I believe I am sufficiently well equipped and skilled to be able to handle any problems that might come my way, especially from some jumped-up little street thug who likes to attack nurses." Her professional detachment slipped a little here, and I was reminded that she was a doctor first and foremost. The best doctors, after all, took great care of their nurses. "And last but not least, if you intend to continue to protest, I will remind you that I outrank the both of you, and I can simply order you to include me in this operation."

I did my best to conceal my wince. Kinsey had proven himself to be quite an adept barracks-room lawyer from time to time. If Ruth had given me any hint that she intended to go down this path, I would've advised her against it. Unfortunately, it was too late. She'd thrown down the gauntlet, and Kinsey just as readily picked it up.

"That is true, ma'am, and I'm not disputing it." His voice was a steady rumble. "That said, what we're doing now is most definitely off the books, so we're by definition off-duty for it. As such, rank doesn't apply. If it does, ma'am, I'll be requiring a written copy of that order so I can file it with the local PRT base in the event that later adjudication becomes necessary."

Ruth's reply showed the steel in her spine. "Very well, then. None of us want this to be officially recognised. However, I am taking a hand in this, Sergeant, even if I have to walk to the hospital and wait all night for you to show up."

Hastily, I cleared my throat. "Kinsey, stand down. Major, how much combat training and experience do you have?"

There was silence in the car for a moment, broken only by the humming of tyres on asphalt. I awaited her reply, hoping against hope she'd respond in a way that would allow us to both get out of the situation gracefully.

"Captain, I've got more combat experience than my file indicates," she said flatly, confirming a few suspicions of mine. There was a side to Aster Anders that was hidden even from me, one that Lisa refused to enlighten me on. While I couldn't know the exact details, it seemed I was not the only PRT officer moonlighting with unusual abilities. "The details are classified, but I have been in combat before."

"That's not a total surprise to me," I admitted, eliciting a flicker of surprise from her. I wonder what she's been up to? "And it's definitely good to hear. But I've sparred with Kinsey enough times to know how he operates, and vice versa. With all due respect, ma'am, neither of us knows how you are in a fight. Also, do you have a pistol?"

"I don't own a firearm, and I'm no more than an adequate shot," she said. "But I'm better than average in unarmed combat, and that I've done my fair share of." She looked from Kinsey to me. "I hope we've dispensed with this 'leaving me behind' nonsense. You're the investigators and I'll follow your lead on that aspect, but I will be attending. I owe it to Darlene to get justice for Patricia."

I let a faint smile cross my face. "I don't suppose we can keep you away, ma'am. Will you be needing a pistol?" I was pretty sure she'd say no to that, but it had to be asked.

"If you supply one, I'll carry it, but don't expect me to do more than menace people with it," she said pragmatically, surprising me just a little. "You can do the shooting; I've seen your range scores. But I can watch your six, and make sure nobody gets the drop on you. As the Sergeant pointed out, this operation is most assuredly off the books, and we can't afford to not be on the same page. At the same time, I believe I'm beginning to understand why you two are given so much leeway in your dealings. You're quite adept at explaining matters so that whatever option suits your requirements is also the one you put the most favourable emphasis on. That must be very irritating to some of your superiors."

I gave her my best bland look, copied from studying Kinsey's expressions. He did it better, but I gave it my best shot. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, ma'am."

With a chuckle, she leaned back in her seat. "Of course not. Home, Sergeant, and don't spare the horses. I'll be getting some rest, and seeing you later tonight."

Only my long association with Kinsey allowed me to spot the subtle relaxation in his shoulders as he applied a little more acceleration to the car. "Yes, ma'am."

-ooo-​

Next Morning

0134 Hours

I racked the slide on the oversized shotgun as Lisa and I rolled up to the big double doors. This is a bad idea.

Her eye-roll was just visible behind the armoured visor she was wearing. "You've been working too hard. And not the 'shoot some asshole in the face' type of work, either. Trust me, you need to unwind, let out some stress. This is just what you need." Her serious tone was spoiled by the grin she threw me.

Yeah, but roller demolition derby? I hefted the shotgun I was carrying. It was a double-barrel model, with dual magazines fed by a classic pump-action mechanism. I had no doubt that it would kick like an angry mule, which gave me cause for concern, as I was currently on roller-skates. Technically roller-skates. Far more durable and forgiving of rough terrain than standard skates, these were attached to my feet and let me roll from place to place, so I figured they counted as roller-skates.

"Hey, you said let's do something in a post-apocalyptic setting." Lisa's grin was even wider now. "This is post-apocalyptic as fuck." In contrast with my pump-action monstrosity, she had a modified AA-12; fully automatic, with a belt feeding into the side of the breech from a box underneath. Hefting the weapon, she hammered its butt against the doors. In response, they opened. "Now's not the time to chicken out."

Who's chickening out? I just said it was a bad idea. Kicking off, I launched myself down into the huge shallow pit thus revealed to us. There were bowls, half-pipes, walls and full-pipes, all designed to keep the competitors moving and afford a little cover from time to time. From other doors around the arena spilled the aforementioned competitors; to a man (or woman) they were extensively tattooed, clad in piecemeal armour, and sported outlandish haircuts. Besides, you do know I'm probably about to go into a fight anyway.

"Yeah, but this way you get to have a bit of fun before you get to the main action." Lisa rolled up a half-pipe and did a mid-air somersault to avoid a heavy crossbow bolt, then replied with a burst of fire that knocked the other guy off his feet. The AA-12 had a slightly lower rate of fire than most full-auto weapons I'd used, but the noise of firing was like a gut-punch. Being hit by it was apparently even worse.

I guess. A big guy with an oversized gut who'd decided to go with a breastplate and a jockstrap came screaming at me with a spiky club in one hand and a skull-decorated axe in the other. I didn't feel like encountering either one up close and personal, so I hit him in the breastplate with two rounds from my shotgun. The report of the double shot was enormous, as was the explosion when the slugs hit. I was caught off-balance as the massive recoil literally flipped me over backward; fortunately, I landed on my feet again. A glance showed my erstwhile opponent lying on his back, out cold, his breastplate sporting a tremendous dent in the middle. Holy crap. You did not say I was carrying explosive rounds.

"Didn't I? Must've slipped my mind." She didn't even try to make it sound convincing. "Pretty effective, huh?" She triggered the nitrous mode on her skates, and went airborne off of a ramp with a triple flip and spin that made the audience roar with appreciation. On the way, she let off another burst that nailed three more of the opposition, sending them sprawling against the armoured-glass barrier surrounding the arena, in various stages of disrepair.

Slipped your mind, hah. Nothing ever slips your mind. My next opponent ducked into a full-pipe, hiding him from my view. Of course, this hid me from him as well, so I leaned forward and triggered my own nitrous. If I was reading this right, he'd come out the other end and try to nail me with the triple-barrelled assault rifle he was sporting. Building up speed, I launched myself off the top of the pipe, shotgun tracking toward the end of the pipe. Just as I'd predicted, he skated into view, assault rifle swinging around to where he thought I'd be. Unfortunately for him, I wasn't there.

Even more unfortunately, he was exactly where I expected him to be. I pulled the trigger and both barrels belched flame, blowing his rifle into small metal fragments and sending him sprawling to the floor. I was still airborne at this point, and the recoil sent me spinning end over end. Which turned out to be fortuitous, as there was one more that we hadn't accounted for. I targeted him just before he would've reached Lisa with a revving chainsaw, and fired. The chainsaw exploded dramatically, putting him out of the fight. This had the useful effect of giving me the extra impetus to get my feet under me just before I hit the floor.

As the audience went nuts, Lisa rolled across to end up beside me. "Nice one," she said. "I liked the double airborne shot." She brandished the AA-12 to more applause, then started over toward where we were supposed to collect our winnings. "So, I guess you want to know about Crawler?"

If you don't mind, I replied with a grin, slinging the shotgun. This was about as authentic a post-apocalyptic experience as your average dude ranch is of the Wild West. But she was right; it had been fun. Now, though, the fun was over and it was time to get down to business. What will I be getting into?

"Well, for a start, the girl's dead." She looked apologetic. "Sorry. Crawler's not the one who did it. That was someone else. But he's gonna upgrade to serious harm then murder if he's left alone. And he's not overly careful, so when he does get caught, this one'll be lumped in with the ones he'll be actually guilty of. The DA'll go for the death penalty and he'll have a bad time on death row. Killing women, you see. By the time they actually go to execute him, he'll be primed to trigger."

That made a certain kind of horrible sense to me. Which is about the last thing we want. So if we track him down now and kill him before he's expecting it …

She favoured me with a beaming smile. "Precisely. And the other one's still in the area, so once you've dealt with Crawler, we can kill two birds with one stone." She pulled a tablet out of a pocket of her cargo pants and handed it to me.

So to speak, I agreed, tucking it into one of my pockets. The thought I'd had before crossed my mind again, and I voiced it. If he's just been mugging people up till now and hasn't actually crossed that line yet, is there a chance we could rehabilitate him? Get him on our side? I wasn't just asking idly; nor did my distaste for taking human life—as attenuated as it had become—have much to do with the question. It was simple pragmatism; guided by less destructive motives, he'd make for a potent ally against the forces that would be arrayed to combat my efforts to make a better world.

Lisa didn't answer as she collected our winnings; for some odd reason, these turned out to be brightly-coloured bottlecaps. Then, as we skated away across the arena, she turned to me, her expression serious. "I don't know for sure," she confessed. "He's had a shitty life, and he's been fucked over at almost every turn."

So have I, I pointed out. And I turned out okay, didn't I? After all, even after everything I'd gone through, I was doing my best to save the world. Well, saving my friends came first. The world could be saved as a side benefit, though I was definitely going to be putting my all into it. As Lisa had once said, it was where I kept my stuff.

"Pfft, yeah, I guess." Lisa let out an indelicate snort and rolled her eyes. "Joined a villain gang at fifteen, robbed a bank, assaulted heroes, took over the city, gouged a man's eyes out, shot your ex-boss right in the head, choked a superhero to death on bugs … oh yeah, you're a real role model."

I had to hand it to her; taken out of context, that list of charges was pretty impressive. Which of course was her point. Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I turned myself around. Can we do the same with him?

"I won't know until we make the effort," she pointed out. "It would depend on whether it's even possible, and on what approach you use. I won't lie; his life's been shittier than yours by a large degree. His habits may be simply too ingrained. His mother left when he was a kid, mainly because his father was an abusive asshole. He went without a lot of meals when he was growing up, and he got beaten and locked in a closet for no reason." She grimaced. "There was also, um, other abuse. He's pretty fucked in the head already. Triggering is likely to make it even worse."

Well, I owe it to him to try. I knew what it was like to be pre-judged and cut off from any sort of appeal before I'd really done anything.

"Well, it's always worth a try. At least you have those special loads from Andrea's pet Tinker, if and when you need to use them." Lisa's tone was light, but she meant every word. She was just as dedicated to my plans as I was, having spent thousands of virtual hours helping me hash them out. I had no idea what I would've done without her. "Oh, and you're nearly at the hospital. Kiss before you go?" Reaching up, she took off her visor.

Her lips tasted of dust and blood and cordite. Gunsmoke stung my eyes, and I blinked.

-ooo-​

"I'm awake." As I spoke, I sat up and opened my eyes. Ruth had been leaning over to shake me awake as Kinsey brought the car to a halt, but sat back again when I spoke. For the purpose of this outing, she'd changed from her earlier clothing into a dark sweater and slacks, along with a wool cap she'd bundled her blonde hair up into. Over it all she wore a light coat, dark blue in colour. Curling up out of her collar and plugging into her ear was a dark-coloured earpiece, the other end of the cord leading to the radio on her belt. Kinsey and I wore identical ones; he'd acquired them while I was doing my work at the base.

"As a surgeon, I've got to be able to sleep anytime, anywhere," she observed as she unbuckled her seatbelt. "I'd heard much the same about you field-operations types, but I'd never actually seen it in action before. I have to say, I'm impressed."

Although Kinsey knew about my self-hypnosis techniques, he said nothing. I hid a smile as I undid my own seatbelt; while Ruth was definitely an ally as far as we were both concerned, there was still a certain amount of departmental pride to be taken into account. If he admitted I was unusual in that regard, it would then follow that not all field-ops people could pull it off as well as I could.

"An acquired habit," I said, neither confirming nor denying Kinsey's implied assertion. "As I said, it helps me regroup my thoughts." Which, for a certain definition of 'true', was actually the truth.

Ruth nodded, as if this was no surprise. To be honest, it probably wasn't. I didn't know exactly how much detail went into the reports that found their way into my file, but the self-hypnosis thing was probably featured here and there. I'd hardly made a secret of it, after all. "Did it help in this situation?"

I made a mental note to read my file sometime, just for my own peace of mind. "It certainly did," I said as I got out of the car. "I also got the chance to look over a map. That, combined with some police reports and old arrest records, has given me quite a bit to work with." The hospital complex loomed in the distance, and I made a show of slowly turning around. "She came this way, didn't she?" I pointed toward the intersection. "Down that way, then if she was taking the shortest direction home, she crossed the road and turned right."

I was cheating, of course. All the pertinent facts had been slipped to me in the tablet Lisa had given to me while I was still in the hypnotic state. I knew exactly where she'd been attacked, and by whom; a cape calling himself Night Terror, who manipulated darkness like a living thing. Unlike Brian's darkness control, Night Terror could use his powers to physically attack others as well as cause an emotional shift toward, well, terror. He fed off the fear and horror his ability caused in others.

Patricia Weller had died alone, in both physical and emotional agony. I could kind of relate; I'd been there more than once. Night Terror, I decided, wasn't going to take even one more victim. It didn't matter if his crimes were ever enumerated and pinned on him, or if they resided in the 'unsolved' files for the rest of eternity. Or, as in this case, added to Crawler's list of sins.

Whatever we did, we were going to have to deal with Crawler as well. The biggest trick here was going to be convincing Kinsey that I knew what I was doing in taking down two different people in relation to the same crime. Mentally, I revised that; the biggest trick was going to be keeping Kinsey unaware of Ruth's capabilities—she could out herself to him, of course, but that was her decision to make and not mine—while simultaneously not giving away to Ruth that I had a Thinker residing in my head.

"I don't know about turning right," Ruth said after a moment of thought. "It's entirely plausible, given where she lives." She gestured at the car. "Are we going to be walking or driving?"

"I need to walk the route," I said. "Figure out what happened on the way. And, as Kinsey said earlier, I'll be seeing if I can draw him out." Kinsey and I had already discussed how we were going to be doing this, but I said it out loud anyway. "Kinsey, bring the car, but hang way back. Doctor Goldstein and I will walk. That way, we won't have to walk all the way back to the car once we're done."

"A suggestion, ma'am?" At my nod, he continued. "Perhaps the Major would prefer to ride in the car as well?" We'd also talked about this; I'd stated it was her choice. He was a little puzzled, I could tell, about why I was giving in to her so much, but it wasn't in his nature to question my decisions. His faith in me overrode his doubts, which I greatly appreciated.

"The Major would not," Ruth replied austerely. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I'll walk." So saying, she turned on her heel and strode off down the sidewalk.

What was done was done. I nodded to Kinsey and started off in pursuit of Ruth. She wasn't walking quickly, so I caught up in about thirty seconds and fell into step with her. The night breeze made her coat flap a little, but not so much that it revealed the shoulder holster she was wearing. This currently contained Kinsey's hand-cannon, on the off-chance that she might need it. Of course, I was also armed; the jacket was a size or two larger than absolutely necessary to fit me, which left plenty of room for my shoulder rig.

I knew quite well that the pistol was more window-dressing than anything else for her. If we were attacked by incidental muggers, she would be far more dangerous to them without the pistol than with, which was why I intended to take point in any such encounter. Neither she nor I wished to reveal her capabilities unless it was utterly necessary.

As we proceeded along the sidewalk at a slow march, it struck me that I was keeping more secrets from my allies than I'd kept from my enemies, back in the day. There wasn't much I could do about that right at the moment, so I chose not to angst over it. Behind us, I heard the car engine start up. As we walked away, it sat there, engine turning over at a slow idle. Kinsey, of course, needed to keep his distance in order to effectively shadow us without tipping his hand.

The sound of the car engine had faded into the distance by the time Ruth turned to me. "So how are you going to do this?" she asked curiously. "I know you're very good at what you do, but there are limits to what observation and deduction can achieve. To be honest, I kind of expected you to demand all the files the PRT had about basically everything, and spend a day or two building a picture that way."

"I could've done it that way," I admitted then casually glanced around, fixing a picture in my mind of what the surroundings looked like. I wouldn't remember everything, but if something seemed out of place the next time I looked, I'd have a good chance at noticing it. "But that would've taken too long, and I'm on a tight schedule as it is. So I'm going to let you in on a little secret."

Ruth's expression barely wavered. "Is this to do with something only you know about?" Which was code for: Is this a future knowledge thing? She didn't bother assuring me she'd keep any secret I passed on to her; we both knew that was a given.

"In a way," I said carefully. Lisa had impressed upon me that the one thing I couldn't tell Ruth about was her. Even hinting about her existence was not a good idea. I wasn't sure why Lisa was being so cautious about Ruth, but I figured she had her reasons. "There's a cape and a normal involved. I came here to kill the normal before he could trigger, and he's the one who's been stalking the girls, but the cape's the one who killed Patricia." I stopped, suddenly aware that I'd said too much.

To Ruth's credit, she took the revelations in her stride. "So she's dead," she observed flatly. "Goddamn it." For a moment she looked away, then she turned her head and eyed me sternly. "When were you going to tell me about this? Before or after we were attacked by a murderous cape? And what's so special about the guy's trigger, anyway?"

"It's not what, it's who," I corrected her. "You might recall news stories about a guy called Crawler, back in the day?" I didn't need to say any more; the look of revelation that spread across her face was answer enough.

"I know he was a member of the Nine and that he was killed somehow, but I don't know the details," she said thoughtfully. "It happened after Leviathan, when TV coverage was spotty. He was supposed to be almost unstoppable, wasn't he? Like the Siberian, but different?"

"Yes and yes," I said. "The PRT dropped one of Bakuda's bombs on him. It turned his entire body to glass. There was basically nothing else that could hurt him by then, I guess. I once saw him survive a power that literally teleported chunks of his body—including bits of his brain—into another dimension. He grew them back faster than they could be teleported away."

Ruth shuddered. "If I'd required you to convince me he needs to be killed before he gets too powerful, that would've done it." She gave me a searching glance. "Are these two—Crawler and the other cape—working together? Because if so, it's going to make our job a lot harder."

"Not to the best of my knowledge," I assured her. "It's mildly ironic, actually. They've never even met. Crawler—Ned—gets arrested for the murder of Patricia Weller, when it's actually the other guy—Night Terror—who did it. Night Terror's due to leave town in a few days to escape the heat, but ends up with a reputation for committing atrocities anyway. The DA pushes for the death penalty in Ned's case, and he spends the next five years on death row. His trigger event happens when they actually try to execute him. He escapes, killing a few people in the process, and earns a reputation as a crazy guy who can't be killed. When he eventually runs into the Nine, he competes with Night Terror to get on to the team and ends up killing the guy, without ever knowing it was Night Terror who got him arrested for murder in the first place."

That earned me a snort of dark amusement from Ruth. "The world is a strange, strange place. And I'm not even referring to how we got to where we are today." She looked around at the sleeping city. "Do you ever stop and ask yourself when life got so strange that this, here, is considered normal?"

I let a grin tug at the corner of my mouth. "When I got powers would be a strong favourite, though to be honest, things didn't start to get really weird until I came back here." Then I recalled the thought I'd had earlier, and cleared my throat. "On a more serious note, I was thinking that instead of killing Ned, we might try to recruit him. It gets him out of the way as a future problem, and if and when he triggers, we'll have another cape on our side."

"I … that's an interesting idea," she said slowly. "I can see the benefits, but there's also downsides to consider. Do you think he'd be willing? Or even loyal, once he joined our side?" Her expression was serious; it was clear she wasn't rejecting the idea out of hand, but nor was she going to blindly accept it.

"He's a street thief and mugger," I said bluntly. "Every instinct I have says he's motivated by greed and anger at the system that failed him. If he's offered a substantial paycheck to work for me, I'm pretty sure he'd grab it with both hands. So long as nobody came along with a better offer, he'd be loyal. Of course, I wouldn't trust him with any sensitive information, but as a front-line grunt—once he triggers, of course—he'd definitely be worth the expenditure. And better on our side than Jack Slash's."

After a moment, Ruth nodded. "That's very concise, and I find I agree with your conclusions. It's worth the effort to try. Though where are you going to find the money? We don't pay our Intelligence officers that well." A wary expression crossed her face. "Or is this something I'm better off not knowing?"

I could imagine where her mind was going to. "Relax. I'm not embezzling money, or defrauding the PRT in any way. In fact, with what I'm planning to do, they should really be paying me more." The look on her face made me chuckle. "Joke. It was a joke." Though it wasn't, not really. "No, I have … shall we say, access to an external revenue stream, one that's not legally connected to me. We can definitely afford to pay him whatever it takes to keep him coming back for more."

"Understood. I'm not going to ask any more questions, because I'm reasonably certain I wouldn't like the answers." She had a bemused look on her face by now, almost a twin to the one I'd seen on Hamilton's face from time to time. I suspected it meant something along the lines of: I'm not sure what she's up to, but I'm glad she's on my side.

"There's a lot of questions around these days that I would've been a lot happier not knowing the answers to," I agreed. "The trouble is, once I know the answers, I'm pretty well obliged to doing something about them, if I possibly can. Thus, here and now."

"Thus, here and now," she echoed. "Actually, talking about that. Do you have any more details about Night Terror? Powers and capabilities, for instance?"

"Well, yes," I admitted. "He's a darkness controller. He works better with access to actual darkness, but he can create shadows in the daytime as well. Really bright light gives him problems. The darkness he makes can dull sound and stop ordinary light …" I paused, trying not to feel homesick. His powers are not the same as Brian's, dammit!

"There's more to them though, isn't there?" Her tone was crisply professional. "Otherwise, anyone with a flashlight could deal with him."

"Well, not a flashlight unless it's a really bright one but yes, there is," I said. "His shadow's basically a telekinetic field that can form hooks and blades, and attack anyone inside it. Also, if the shadow touches your skin, he can make you feel fear and hopelessness and despair." I reached across and tapped where the pistol was, under my jacket. "I don't plan to let him get close enough to use it on me. And there's no indication that the shadows are bulletproof."

"I see." She nodded slowly. "And does your insight extend to what happened to Patricia?" I could tell from her voice and face that she didn't want to ask the question but knew she had to anyway.

"He's a sadist. Definitely not someone we're interested in recruiting." I kept my tone flat. "He wrapped his shadows around her and herded her into the park that's up thataway." I pointed in a vague east-north-east direction. "Then he took his time with her. Afterward, he dumped the body in the lake." The lake in question was to the north of us, not altogether far away. "In the normal course of events, they find the body in a few days, after Ned's arrested for attacking a couple of woman walking at night. They fight back, and he hurts them fairly badly; one of them dies in hospital a day later. He's charged with attempted murder and two cases of actual murder and while he tells them he's not responsible for Patricia, nobody believes him, not even the public defender assigned to his case."

"I see." She looked vaguely nauseous. "So what do you think—"

With a gesture, I cut her off. "Shh! Without turning your head, look to your left." I did as I was telling her to do, swivelling my eyes to the left to get a better view of the figure now approaching us.

My left hand drifted to the radio that was mostly concealed under my jacket, and pressed the send button. "Alpha two to alpha three, you copy?" I murmured. "Got a hit."

"Alpha three copies," he replied at once. "Inbound." Over the radio, I heard the car engine revving; I turned my attention back to Ned.

Not exactly imposing, he stood maybe five-six, with a scrawny build. In the street-light, I could see he had the hood of his jacket pulled up over his head, putting his face into shadow. One hand was almost casually held behind his back. His approach to us could be best described as a wary sidle.

"Good evening, ladies," he greeted us in an ingratiating whine. "Either of you got the time?"

I couldn't believe he was actually using that line.

"No, but—" I began. The rest of my recruitment pitch went by the wayside as the breeze momentarily kicked up. My jacket flapped open, and Ned's eyes widened at the sight of my shoulder holster.

"Shit!" he yelped. With an admirable show of reflexes, he turned in that same instant and bolted off down the street like a startled rabbit. There was some sort of hassle with the direction he was going, but I couldn't recall it right at that second; all I knew was if he got away, there'd be a very real problem, either then or later.

"Come on!" I snapped to Ruth, and took off running after him. Immediately, I became aware of an inconvenient fact. Specifically, that although I'd mostly recovered from the damage done to me in the Compound, 'mostly' didn't mean 'totally'. My leg reminded me of this with some minor twinges, which normally wouldn't have mattered, but my lung also chimed in with a deep ache as it tried to pull in a lot more oxygen all of a sudden.

Even with all of that, I would've caught up in short order, but he had an unexpected turn of speed, probably fuelled by terror-inspired adrenaline. Still, I wasn't all that far behind when he turned a corner and disappeared from my sight. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed that Ruth was pounding along doggedly in my wake. Seeing me start to slow down, she gave me an urgent 'keep moving' gesture. I picked up the pace again and swung out wide to circumvent any opportunistic ambush he might be setting.

With my pistol in my hand, I came around the corner fast … and stopped dead. Shadows hung heavy over the street, shifting here and there in a highly unnatural fashion. Standing in the middle of them was a guy who was most definitely not Ned. In fact, Ned was slumped untidily at the guy's feet, lying in a spreading pool of something that gleamed black in what little light there was; from context, I guessed it was blood. I couldn't see any details of the guy's face or costume, as he was clad from head to toe in shadows. But I knew who he was, and I recalled why it had been a bad idea to chase Ned in this direction. Lisa told me where he was going to be. I just forgot.

And then, just because Murphy loves to make a bad situation worse, Ruth staggered and went to one knee just as she caught up with me. I felt a wave of dizziness pass through me as well, but I managed to keep my feet. Almost instinctively, I knew what had happened. Trigger event. Ruth took the full effect, but I only felt it through Lisa.

At Night Terror's feet, Ned groaned and started to get up again. With the distance and lack of light, I couldn't see him properly from where I was, but his skin looked … rougher. Worse, his eyes and hands were glowing.

Ruth and I spoke at the same time. "Ooooooh crap."

End of Part 6-3

Part 6-4​

 

[Ack]

Recoil


Part 6-4: Resolving Fallout​

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

The moment of horrified realisation passed, and I knew what I had to do. My pistol came up, braced two-handed. "PRT!" I shouted. "Ned Hollows, stand down! Night Terror, you're under arrest!"

If I'd been an unprepared civilian, or even an ordinary cop, I would've died about two seconds later. The threat of a gun had historically made people more likely to obey a cop's orders, so even with the advent of capes, police officers were used to throwing out the challenge and having people do what they were told. Only ten years had passed since Scion's appearance, and even then the first capes had proven themselves all too vulnerable to violence. Institutional reflex had yet to reprogram itself to the new reality, so cops facing capes with fast-acting Blaster powers tended to die without even knowing why.

Civilians would normally freeze, which could be fatal. If they had guns, they lacked even the training that cops got.

I was neither a cop nor a civilian. I'd been a villain in one of the most conflict-torn cities in the continental US, then I'd been a hero. And then … I'd been thrown in the deep end, and spent six years building up the skills I needed to save the world. In the process, the PRT had trained me on how to deal with this sort of situation.

I knew just how deadly, just how dangerous a cape could be if he decided to go all out. I'd faced more than one in my absurdly short career. Despite the fact that I was still only in my twenties, I was perhaps the most ludicrously prepared non-powered person on the face of the Earth when it came to dealing with capes.

Still, with all of that, my training didn't tell me how to win. Just how to not immediately die.

A tentacle made of gleaming darkness, edged with what may have been razor-edged claws (I could only see them in profile) lashed clumsily out at me. I'd already shifted my balance to dive and roll aside (see above about training) so the dark appendage hummed over my head. A distant part of my mind analysed this and decided that his powers were definitely unrelated to Brian's, especially considering that Grue's darkness had no texture and no definable 'surface' whereas Night Terror's 'shadow' was more like a projected shape that light could reflect from.

Not that this made me any more likely to let it hit me.

I'd already had my pistol lined up on what I figured to be Night Terror's centre mass, so I started firing as I went into the dive, then sent three more shots downrange after I came up on one knee.

Ned had Triggered, that was clear. Exactly what he'd Triggered into was less certain. His near-death experience at the hands of Night Terror had obviously afforded him a different powerset than the one he would've gotten at the hands of the Department of Corrections. I just had to hope that he'd do what he was told, and not get into the fight. Or if he had to get into the fight, for it not to be against us.

In the meantime, I had Night Terror to focus on. The light wasn't great, and the swirling shadows didn't give me much to work with, but he didn't seem to be going down from the shots I'd put into him.

Maybe his shadows are bulletproof. He still seemed to be a bit loopy over Ned's trigger event—I got the impression that the shadow-tentacle attack had been purely by reflex—but that wasn't actually helping me.

"Taylor." That was Ruth. She was swaying on her feet, but getting steadier by the second. The pistol she'd borrowed from Kinsey was pointed at the ground instead of the hostile parahuman. "What should I do?" The subtext was clear; she was asking me if she should unleash her power.

I'd never personally seen it in action, though Lisa had shown me several virtual movies on the subject. She was still being annoyingly vague as to where Ruth was getting all this experience with her power, though.

What I did know was that streams of molten metal and plasma had no place on a suburban city street. In fact, I shouldn't really have been firing my pistol; even one missed shot could go straight through a wall and kill an innocent. Not only could Ruth potentially set fire to basically everything, but lights were starting to come on. People would be looking out windows.

While mobile phone cameras were still not really a thing yet, the last thing we needed was for that one idiot with an actual camera to snap a picture of a PRT Major outing herself as a parahuman. I gave her a quick head-shake. There were times and places where that sort of power needed to be unleashed. This wasn't it.

"Missed me." Night Terror's voice was deep enough to shake my bones, but I suspected it was a power effect rather than his normal vocalisation.

I lifted my pistol, aiming at where I thought his head might be. Ruth began to raise her weapon as well, but she had it pointed at a totally different part of the shifting black shadowy mass. Oh, wait. Lisa said something about how Ruth's power lets her see into the infra-red. She can see his body heat in all that.

This was entirely the wrong place for a cape battle to happen in, especially with Blaster and Shaker powers involved. While super-powers had been around for a little while, the civilian population was unused to the idea (just as the police were) that a cape battle could be dangerous to them. Endbringers and other S-class threats were a lot less regular than they were in my time, so it was all just a big show to most of them.

Which meant we had to end this fast. Night Terror didn't have a kill order on him yet, but I didn't have time for that sort of bureaucratic nonsense. He was a clear and present danger to me, as well as an unspecified number of his future victims. Not to mention his previous victims. Just like with the idiot in that gas station in Batavia once upon a time, my best option was an immediate and lethal response.

To tell the truth, I had already been planning on this. Only with Crawler in mind.

Switching my aim, I lined up on a slightly more solid-looking silhouette within the forest of undulating shadows. Three times I fired, going for centre mass rather than head height. If the 'shadows' were as solid as they looked (even if he wasn't where I was shooting at) hopefully they would provide an adequate backstop for my bullets. Sometimes a hard decision had to be made, and not shooting the murderous cape was (in this instance) what I considered to be the wrong one. A pouch on my belt held a magazine with one specific round on top of the stack, but I wasn't going to even consider using it until I had a clear shot.

Something jerked and recoiled within the mass of shifting darkness, and I heard a wordless cry of pain, once more so deep that I felt it as much as heard it. Didn't miss that time, asshole. But he was still up, still active. I dropped my left hand away from the pistol, preparing to go for the second magazine. If there was any time when I'd have that clear shot, this was it.

More tentacles exploded from the central mass, scything through the night air. I ducked under one, but a second clipped me and knocked me off balance, and a third wrapped around my legs, just below the knee. I felt blades slicing through the cloth into my legs as I was dragged off my feet, but that wasn't the worst bit. The worst bit was the overwhelming feeling of utter terror and loss that flooded through my guts, the instant his shadow came into contact with me.

I'd felt fear before. Loss was something I was no stranger to. A good deal of my life had been taken up with one or another of these emotions. But this terror and this loss were unnatural, imposed from outside. I couldn't think my way around them, and I no longer had my bugs to push them aside into. This didn't stop me from trying all the same, and in fact I felt as though the horrific pressure had lessened somewhat. Inch by inch, my left hand crept to my waist.

Beside me, I heard Ruth crying, even as she curled into a ball. I tried not to listen too hard to what she was saying, though to be honest it was easy to ignore her, as images of Mom and Dad and all my friends were crowding into my mind. I'd lost everything before I was sent back from New Delhi, even Lisa …

Anger flared hot inside me, burning away at the waves of desolation that tried to drown me under, to choke my resistance down to nothing. I had not lost Lisa! She was right here with me! My fingers grasped the magazine and pulled it from its holder. Fear still flooded my mind—going up against Night Terror was the last thing I wanted to do—but I hadn't gotten to where I was by letting fear of the unknown (or even the known) stop me. I had faced Glory Girl, Valefor, Leviathan, even Behemoth. A second-rate emotion-manipulator was not going to get the better of me.

Tears filled my eyes, shudders wracked my body and I wanted to throw up, but I concentrated on two things. One, to keep hold of my pistol. Two, to get the second magazine into place. If anything could kill Night Terror, it was the special round contained in that one. Inch by inch, fighting the seizures that made my arms want to lock up into total uselessness, I brought the two together. One magazine dropped out, clattering on the asphalt. The other slotted into place, only made possible by the fact that I'd performed this one action so many times that it was beyond second nature. Blinking tears from my eyes, I brought the pistol to bear, and fired.

To no effect.

I tried to fire again, but I'd lost my sight picture. My brain yammered at me: that round was already in the breech; this is the magic bullet! SHOOT!

"You've got to be shitting me."

Night Terror stared at me—or at least, that was what I interpreted his expression as. He drew back his arm, then a spear of blackness launched itself in my general direction. I had no time. If I fired now, with no target, I'd throw away the opportunity.

Lights flared up, blindingly bright. An engine roared as the pedal slammed to metal. Night Terror screamed as the tentacles and shadowy barriers on that side sublimed away to fog, a split second before the car would've ploughed into them. I felt the grip around my legs vanish. The spear took another half-second to dissolve, but it lashed out past my feet, as I was already falling. The emotional grip on my mind abruptly vanished, and I was clear-headed once more. And falling. Falling was also an aspect there.

Fortunately, he hadn't been holding me too high off the ground. I saw it coming, got my arms in the way, and rolled with the landing. It was neither easy nor fun, and I lost some skin and picked up some bruises, but nothing broke this time. Small mercies.

Rolling on to my side, I looked around, trying to orient myself. The car had slewed around, its headlights—on high beam, thank you Kinsey—throwing their glare over a man lying hunched on the ground. It didn't immediately match what I'd seen of what Ned had looked like after his premature Trigger event, so I had to guess it was Night Terror, bereft of his shadow tentacles.

And then someone else stepped into the light. As I levered myself painfully to my feet—I was going to need medical attention for the cuts on my legs, just not immediately—I recognised them as Ruth. She dropped to one knee beside Night Terror and put her hand over his mouth.

This had all the signs of trouble. Still clutching the pistol—if he started to get up, he was going to get the bullet in centre mass—I hobbled in her direction. Son of a bitch, but those cuts hurt. I was just glad he hadn't sliced a tendon in the process.

As I drew closer, Kinsey came hurrying over to me. "Ma'am, are you all right?" he asked. "Your legs …"

"We can deal with my legs in a minute," I assured him. "Secure the perimeter. There'll be a guy around here somewhere. Obvious parahuman. His name's Ned. Don't provoke him but tell him to stick around. I want to talk to him."

"Understood." Kinsey moved off with purpose. If Ned had been shaken anywhere near as much as I had by the experience, he wouldn't have gone far. Besides, we'd just saved his life. If he was still human enough to feel gratitude for that, then I could definitely use him. Otherwise, he'd go on the list.

"How dare you," hissed Ruth as I came up to her and Night Terror. "How dare you reach into my head and pull out all that shit? You had no right. You deserve this."

With a shock, I realised that tears were still running down her face. Her fingers were digging into his skin so hard, I wouldn't have been at all surprised if they'd left bruises. "Major," I said. She paid me no attention. I tried again. "Ma'am?"

"Go away, Taylor," she replied without looking up. "This piece of shit is going to die, and he's going to know why before he does." I didn't know what I was more surprised at; the genuine venom in her voice, or the casual obscenity. Whatever Night Terror's power had dredged up in her mind, it had hurt her badly.

"Not a good idea, ma'am," I said carefully. My pistol was at my side, but I searched for a good shot. Not to hit Ruth, but to take out Night Terror before he revived and started making trouble again.

She whipped her head around to face me, and I saw the glow of red in her eyes. There was molten metal under her skin, trying its best to get free. "You do not give me orders, Captain!" she snapped.

"Ma'am, this isn't an order." I took a few steps closer, keeping my voice down. "This is advice. Parahumans can't hold rank in the PRT. If he's found dead from an obviously parahuman ability …"

For a long moment, I thought she was going to ignore me and (at my best guess) fill his body full of molten steel. Or perhaps bury him under it. The hand over his mouth twitched and flexed, and I thought I saw bright spots moving under the skin.

I had some little idea of what Ruth had just been through, having undergone my own version of it. My advantage lay in the fact that a good portion of my life had consisted of being shat on from varying heights, so I was kind of used to it. For me, suffering had been a way of life. For her, it was a new experience, and it was hitting her all the harder because of that.

Slowly, her shoulders lost their rigid tension. Almost imperceptibly, she slumped. The grip of her hand over his mouth loosened. "You're right—" she began.

His eyes flickered, so quickly I almost missed it. But in the shadow she cast, I saw more tentacles unfurling, lashing toward her leg. "Major!" I shouted, pointing.

I could only assume, later, that she acted from pure instinct. Her hand glowed red for just a moment, then clamped down again. He let out a horrible gurgling scream, or tried to; barely any of it was audible past her muffling grasp. Even from where I was, I smelled burning meat. "Major, out of the way!" I shouted, stepping forward. With my left hand, I worked the slide of my pistol and caught the round that popped out. Letting the slide snap forward, I moved up alongside Ruth. She was already moving aside, giving me room. I fired, straight down into his lower jaw so that the bullet would leave a definitive channel as it blasted through flesh and bone. It wouldn't exit the back of his head, because there was a cooling mass of metal in the way. Even as I fired the shot, Night Terror was dead. A mouth and throat full of molten steel tended to have that effect.

"Captain, is everything all right?" That was Kinsey, somewhere outside my line of sight.

Hastily, I answered; it wouldn't do to have him come over and find out Ruth's little secret. "Everything's all right here, Kinsey. The perp's … deceased." I stepped out of the glare of the headlights and reached into the car to turn the headlights off. "Yourself?"

"We're fine out here, ma'am," he replied. "Excuse me." I wondered why he'd said that, but learned the reason a few seconds later when he raised his voice to a moderate bellow. "Everyone! Please stay inside! This is a Parahuman Response Teams operation!"

My legs were still working as I made my way back to where Ruth waited alongside Night Terror's corpse, though I was pretty sure I could feel blood running down my calves. "How are your legs?" I asked quietly.

"Lacerated, but I'll survive," she replied, equally softly. "Why did you shoot him?"

"Cover," I told her. "How much metal did you put down his throat anyway? And can you get it out?"

"Enough to kill him," she murmured grimly. "I can get it out, but how's that going to help? There'll still be metal particles in there. I won't be able to get it all."

"Trust me," I said. "I have a plan. Also, I have a first aid kit in the back of the car. If you could get it, please?" Leaning against the side of the car, I slid down until I was sitting on the ground. "I'm not sure if I can walk any more."

" … right," she said. To my relief, she leaned down and reached into Night Terror's open mouth. I did need first aid, but I also needed to keep Ruth's powers a secret. At least for a while longer.

-ooo-​

I was seated on the passenger seat of the car, while Ruth applied dressings to my legs, when Kinsey got back to us. Behind him, doing his best to keep to the shadows, was the man who would once have become Crawler. Now, his skin looked harder and rougher than was normal for a human being, and his eyes smouldered a deep, sullen red. The palms and fingertips of both hands also glowed the same colour. But on his face was an uncertain expression; it was clear he had no idea what had happened, or what to do now.

"Ma'am, you never said you were injured!" Kinsey may have been my subordinate as far as rank went, and he knew I was no dummy when it came to making tactical decisions, but that didn't mean he was slavishly deferential in other ways. Or at all, really.

Our relationship had been honed and shaped over the last year (had it really been just one year? It had felt more like ten) that we'd been working together. He knew that he could say whatever he damn well liked to me, and I'd take it all on board. Unfortunately, that meant he could and did say whatever he damn well liked to me. Up to and including tearing me a new one for pulling idiotic stunts like this.

"It wasn't really important, Kinsey," I said, trying to head the problem off at the pass. "Major Goldstein is an accomplished medic, who can deal with any such problems. I was more concerned with ensuring that Night Terror was put down." Focusing past him, I fixed my eye on the newly triggered parahuman. "Mr Hollows, I presume." In the corner of my vision, I saw Kinsey subside, but I didn't think for a moment that he'd given up on lecturing me. He was stubborn like that. It was one of the reasons we got along so well.

Ned Hollows looked startled at being so addressed. "Uh, yeah, uh, sorry about—"

"Never mind all that," I advised him. "Mistakes were made. You nearly died. How are you feeling now?"

"Oh, uh …" He held out his hands, palm up. They bore silent testament that he was never going to be the same again. Mercifully, although his new powers had caused him to fill out somewhat (and gain six inches of height) his clothing was still mostly intact. Not that anything short of a set of full-body armour was going to do anything toward concealing his identity, right now.

"I understand." I tried to aim for reassuring and impersonal, all at the same time. While I wanted Ned Hollows on side, my plans didn't include having him imprint on me like a baby duck. "Things are going to be very strange for a while. You may change back to normal once the crisis is over, or you may not." Based on what he'd been like before, I was betting on 'not'. "However, I have a place you can go, and people you can stay with, if you're interested." The lack of comprehension in his expression reminded me of whom I was talking to. "Regular food, a warm bed. Also, a job. Well-paying, for as long as you want it." Even if his powers were initially useless, I was sure Lisa could tell me what they were actually good for. And if they turned out as powerful as they were in my time, a little guidance in how to develop them would a very good idea. While Andrea's mercenaries would probably appreciate parahuman backup, it would be best if said backup were human-shaped, not Crawler-shaped.

"What do I gotta do?" The interest in his tone matched his expression. Bingo.

I gave him a dry smile. "Whatever you're capable of doing. You'll get paid, no matter what that is." It wouldn't be exactly hard to get him to exert his powers. With parahumans, it never was. The money was just an incentive for him not to wander off and try to go into business for himself. However, it was time for a touch of reverse psychology. "I mean, you're not locked into this. You're free to go if you want. It's your choice."

"N-no!" He blurted the word out almost desperately as he reached for the lifeline I was teasing him with. "I'll stay. What do you want me to do?"

I smiled. It seemed he could take instruction after all.

-ooo-​

The police got there ten minutes later.

They were understandably upset about the dead body in the middle of the road (we hadn't moved him) but Ruth and I brandished our PRT IDs flagrantly and talked fast to keep them from pulling anything drastic until the PRT officially showed up. Kinsey loomed in the background like the quintessential sergeant that he was, and Ned sat quietly in the back seat of the car.

It had taken no effort at all to convince Ned not to talk to the police. In fact, 'not talking to the authorities' was probably his default state. He'd been a little dubious when I told him not to talk to the PRT either, given that Kinsey, Ruth and I were manifestly part of that organisation, but he caught on quickly to the idea of institutional secrets.

When the PRT arrived, they were just as unhappy with us, but managed to hide it in the name of 'us against them'. A trooper was detailed to drive the rental back to the PRT base, while the four of us were escorted there in the back of a van. Given the state of my legs, I had to be helped up into the vehicle. Ruth was in better shape, but she let them think she also needed assistance.

I gathered that our status wasn't quite 'under arrest', but it certainly wasn't 'free to go', either. Someone higher up the chain of command was almost certainly pissed as fuck that they'd been woken up to deal with this, and I was pretty sure I'd find out who in short order.

Of the four of us, Ned looked the most nervous. We were sharing the back of the van with six fully-armoured troopers, and containment foam hadn't been invented yet so they had tasers and live ammo. Whatever we said and did was being recorded for posterity (I knew the schematics of these vans quite well) so I didn't do anything as obvious as strike up a conversation. But I caught his eye and held it until he started paying attention, then lifted one eyebrow slightly as if to ask 'is this all they got?'.

He seemed to calm down a little then, so I turned my attention to Ruth. From what Lisa had told me, her PRT career had been utterly without blemish up until now. She was used to cruising under the radar and not drawing official attention. In fact, she had the type of career—in terms of obscurity, not achievements—that I could only wish that I had. I'd ruined that … or rather, her determination to not be left out of the action had done it for me. Of course, her presence just may have saved my life. I hoped her military career wouldn't be placed in too much jeopardy.

She was sitting beside me in the swaying van, so I nudged her elbow with mine. Her eyes slid sideways toward me, and I lifted the corner of my mouth in a slight grin. I'd been in this sort of position before. While I didn't overly enjoy official attention, I liked public attention far less, and the PRT had shown up before the news crews had arrived. And yes, having a strip torn off by the powers that be was never pleasant, but at least it would come to an end.

I felt her relax slightly, so I let my eyes rest on Kinsey. He was the one I was least worried about, and I felt a smile crease my lips as I noted that my faith in him was justified. Leaning back in his seat, eyes closed and hands clasped in front of him, Kinsey was either asleep or doing a damn good impression of it. Only Kinsey.

-ooo-​

"Shots fired on a suburban street at two AM! A dead man with his throat burned out! Undercover ops in my city without asking my permission, or even goddamn informing me! I want to know exactly what the hell you were thinking, and why I shouldn't court-martial the lot of you!"

The only thing missing from the tirade was a fist smashed on the desk, but Director Dyson didn't seem to be the fist-smashing type. She didn't need it; her anger came through just fine without requiring overt physical expression.

Director Kathryn Dyson was sixty-one years old, with short-cut blonde hair that showed more than a few silver highlights. She was slender, almost as skinny as I recalled Blackwell being back in the day, but she carried it—and the responsibilities of command—far better. And I'd been right; she was pissed as fuck.


I sat at attention before her desk, along with Ruth. This was in no way any kind of favouritism; word had gone ahead about our injuries, and two wheelchairs had been scrounged from somewhere to accommodate us. Kinsey had wheeled Ruth in, while I'd handled my own transport. It wasn't as though I was unused to being in a wheelchair, after all. Now he stood alongside us, while our pistols lay on Dyson's desk. None of us were in uniform; nor was Ned (obviously) as he stood behind us, flanked on either side by a PRT trooper. Ruth and I had vouched for him as a new Trigger (which just barely meant he didn't get arrested on suspicion of anything), and Director Dyson hadn't bothered to have him removed from her office before she began to read us the riot act. It struck me that this might be deliberate; perhaps she'd decided to ensure that he knew exactly what to expect if he fucked up this badly in her city.

Not that I intended to let her have it all her own way. Still at attention with my eyes fixed on the wall six inches over her head, I cleared my throat. "Permission to speak, ma'am?"

She ground to a halt. I could feel her simmering anger as an almost physical force. Maybe I was channelling Lisa just a little, but I felt I could track the slight shift in emotion that let Dyson choose to pay attention to what I was saying. Still angry, just redirecting it. Waiting for me to say one thing out of place so she can hammer me for it.

"Permission granted." I'd been right. She didn't sound any more forgiving. The words make it good would've been superfluous.

I took a deep breath, sifting through possibilities. My cold-reading skills were pretty good, but I didn't have a long baseline to work with; so far, all my impressions of Director Dyson involved annoyance shading through to cold fury. I just had to see if I could reach the person behind the anger.

"Ma'am, I know this was a screwup," I said firmly. "I was working with minimal data, but I've done more with less before. There was a killer out there who was preying on nurses, and I didn't want to let him claim even one more victim."

"Nurses." If Dyson's attention had been focused on me up till now, it was now laser-intense. "You didn't mention nurses before."

I nodded to acknowledge her point. "I apologise for that. It was a detail that didn't seem important at the time." I refrained from hammering home the point that we'd actually stopped the killer. Very terminally so.

"Well, it's important now." Dyson eyed me caustically. "There are obviously details of this operation that I am not yet acquainted with. I suggest you fill me in. Immediately."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "I don't know if you were aware of this, but Major Goldstein helped save my life a couple of months ago. I'd heard she was on leave and I was in the area on my duties, so I dropped in to say hello. It turns out that an old friend of hers is the head nurse in a local hospital, and her nurses were being harassed when they left work. One never made it home. She knew I was with Intelligence, so she asked me if I could look into it." I paused to let her parse this.

It took her less than two seconds. "And you agreed. Without passing any of this on to us." 'Us' meaning the PRT, I figured. "Or even the regular authorities."

"With all due respect to the regular authorities, ma'am," I said, the tiniest hint of scorn I'd added deliberately overturning the 'all due respect' phrasing, "it would've been twenty-four to forty-eight hours before they started taking me seriously. By then, two more nurses would potentially have been dead. I wasn't about to allow that."

It was easy for her to agree with me, which was why I'd phrased things the way I had. Of course, I still wasn't out of the woods. "And you didn't pass any of this on to the PRT, why, exactly?" This was a trap; there was no way I could use the same excuse again. Even if it was essentially accurate (and it kind of was), institutional pride would make it impossible for her to accept it. I wanted to get out of trouble, not farther into it. Fortunately, I had another way out.

"I wasn't aware, then, that the killer was a parahuman," I said. This was the first outright lie I'd given her, and I tried to make the transition as smooth as possible. "As far as I knew, this was an opportunistic thug who liked to stalk women. That sort of thing simply isn't in the PRT's wheelhouse. I was aiming for a citizen's arrest. We had Kinsey for backup, but there was no way our guy would come at us with him in the vicinity."

Dyson's gaze switched from me to Kinsey. "Is this true, Sergeant?"

I didn't sigh with relief, and I didn't relax, although I wanted to do both. Drawing Dyson's attention to Kinsey was a dirty trick on my part, but I didn't want her looking too closely at Ruth. Kinsey had a competent poker face, but he wouldn't need to use it, given that what I'd just said matched what he considered to be the truth. I'd told Ruth that I knew there was a parahuman involved, but I'd just said something entirely different to Director Dyson, and I wanted to give Ruth a chance to gather her thoughts in case Dyson started interrogating her over it.

One of these days, I decided, I wouldn't have any more secrets to keep. On that day, my life would become immeasurably easier. And, of course, my mission would probably be over.

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am," Kinsey replied, precisely on cue. "That's exactly what happened."

Director Dyson gave a tiny nod, though I wasn't far enough into her head to be certain what she'd just confirmed. "Very well, Captain. At what point did you discover that he was indeed a parahuman? And when did this person come into it?" She indicated past me, to Ned. "And who is he?"

I took a deep breath. "To answer your last question first, ma'am, we're going with the working codename Redeye. He was a random passer-by who happened to run into Night Terror before we did." Which had the virtue of being almost true. "Night Terror nearly killed him, but he underwent a Trigger event first. We heard it happening and attended the scene. Night Terror attacked us, just before Kinsey showed up and rammed him with the car." I nodded toward my legs, and the bandages thereon. "If I'd known who he was then, I certainly would have called on PRT assistance to take him down."

"Night Terror." Director Dyson rolled the name around her mouth like it had a bad taste. "That's the dead man's name?"

"The one and only," I confirmed. "Up till now, he's been a small-time creep flying under the radar, but he's always gotten off on the fear and pain he caused people. This was basically inevitable."

Her lips twisted in a harsh grimace. This sort of behaviour, unfortunately, wasn't unknown to either of us. Parahumans were renowned for taking the bad habits of humanity and escalating them to the next level. The good too, but the bad generally had more of a knock-on effect over time. "Our officers found flattened slugs around his body, and a shallow wound in his left shoulder. But you didn't kill him with a normal bullet."

"No, his shadows were solid projections," I agreed. "They gave him visual cover as well as actual. This made it virtually impossible to get a kill-shot on him until Kinsey rammed him. That gave me the chance to put him down for good."

Dyson's eyebrows drew down. "There was no kill order on him. If he was helpless, shooting him in cold blood was murder. Why didn't you call on him to surrender? And what did you do to him?"

I indicated my pistol with a nod. "Thermite round. I had two. You'll find particles of metal in his throat. The other round should be in the breech." I knew it would be, having replaced it in the gun while waiting for the PRT to arrive. "He wasn't helpless. I shot him just before he would've attacked us again. His tentacles were already forming, and I wasn't about to go for a second round with him."

Reaching across the desk, Dyson took up the Glock. Exhibiting admirable firearm safety awareness, she pointed it at neither one of us, even as she popped out the magazine and worked the slide to eject the round in question. The shiny red bullet dropped into her hand, and she held it up to the light to inspect it. "Thermite round," she said carefully. "Where, exactly, did you get thermite rounds from? I know for a fact that the PRT doesn't issue these, even to hotshot Intelligence officers. In fact, we don't even have them."

"They're not PRT issue, ma'am," I conceded. "Intelligence officers are expected to make contacts out in the field; it's a significant part of how we do what we do. There's a neutral Tinker out there who can basically create any substance that's physically possible, as well as a way to contain it and release it when needed. Thermite rounds are just one of the things he creates. I got a couple of them through a mutual contact a while ago. He'll be pleased to know how effective they are." I waited for her to query the word 'neutral', but it seemed that she'd gotten the memo about how 'rogues' were now 'neutrals'.

"You're talking about how you killed a man, Captain," she said tartly. "That's hardly a cause for celebration." However, her anger had abated considerably, and she was listening rather than accusing.

"A murderer who was perfectly willing to kill again, ma'am." I changed up my body language to be more assertive. "He might not have earned an official kill order so far, but every indication I had tells me he would've gotten there sooner rather than later." I very carefully didn't shrug. "At that moment, he was getting up again. I didn't have time for gentle measures, so I made the call."

"So you burned him to death with a mouthful of thermite." She shook her head, looking suddenly weary. "That wasn't a question, Captain. It doesn't sound as though you had any real options there."

"I do not believe I did," I agreed. "Parahumans have a way of removing the easy options, and that's not even taking crazies like Jack Slash into account."

"Isn't that the truth." For the first time, she gave me a wry smile. "I suppose the city owes you a debt of gratitude. Not that anyone will ever really find out what happened. And as this was an entirely unsanctioned mission, it's not like the PRT can actually reward you for it without sending the wrong message altogether."

"Well, to be honest, ma'am, fame is the very last thing I want." I was pleased to be able to circle back around to the truth. "I just want to do my job and get it right."

"Don't we all," she sighed. Just for a moment, I saw the tired human being looking out from behind her eyes. Then she re-engaged Director mode. "And you, Redeye. Is what she said accurate?"

This was it. If Ned wanted to fuck me over, now was his perfect opportunity. Or even if he forgot his lines. He wasn't the sharpest spoon in the drawer, and Director Dyson had a certain intensity about her.

"Uh, sure," he said. "It happened just that way. I thought that asshole was gonna kill me for sure. He tried real hard, anyway."

Again, she nodded. "I'm sure it was an unpleasant experience. What are you going to do with yourself now? I can put you in touch with the Protectorate, if you're interested in joining."

My hands ached with the effort of not tensing them. White knuckles would've been a dead giveaway, so I kept them clasped in my lap. What if he decided that the Protectorate offer was better than mine?

His hesitation didn't help in the slightest. The silence in the room stretched out, broken only by the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. I wanted to shout at Ned to say something.

"Yeah, no," Ned said at last. "Too many people know me here. Figure I might move someplace else. Start fresh."

My overly rapid heart-rate put the lie to my poker face. I'd primed him on what to say, but right up until that moment I hadn't been certain he'd remember his lines, or even if he'd still be interested in my offer. It seemed I'd picked the right strategy in appealing to his cupidity, or maybe it was just that I had an unfair advantage in knowing more about the man than Dyson did.

Not that I'd ever had any moral objection against making use of an unfair advantage.

-ooo-​

0500 Hours

A Small Airfield Outside of Seattle

A chill breeze blew across the airstrip. Landing lights shone lonely in the pre-dawn darkness. I sat in the passenger seat of the car with the door open, with Kinsey in the driver's seat. Ned paced up and down outside the car, rubbing his hands together for warmth but apparently unwilling to seek refuge in the car again.

"Are you sure they'll be okay with me lookin' like this?"

In accordance with my personal prediction, he still hadn't reverted away from his altered form. Every now and again, he would remind himself of that fact, which caused another round of insecurity. It made me wonder if his initial upgrades as Crawler had been because he was trying to kill himself rather than power himself up. Or even the later ones, for that matter.

He hadn't shown any abilities out of the ordinary (if I ignored the rough skin and glowing eyes and hands) but I made a mental note to ask Lisa about it, the next chance I got. However, I did know that every cape had the potential to cause conflict somehow, and I was sure I could leverage that once I knew the details of his personal curse.

In the meantime, of course, I just had to keep him from talking himself out of our agreement. "They'll be fine with it," I assured him, again. "These are guys who respect toughness. You're a cape." I leaned closer and lowered my voice conspiratorially. "And if they do have a problem with it, I'll come and kick their asses for being idiots."

He chuckled at that. "Yeah, I guess you just might, at that." He paced away again and looked eastward, to where the morning glow was outlining the Cascades. "I just ain't never been someone people ever looked up to, you know?"

"I actually know the feeling," I said. "But it's not something you're ever going to have to worry about ever again." I tilted my head as the breeze brought a welcome sound to my ears. "And I believe I hear your ride."

"What? Where?" He looked around, then up into the air as he finally registered the sound of the helicopter. "Where'm I goin'?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," I told him. Which sounded better than you'll find out when you get there.

"Yeah, well, thanks for stickin' your neck out for me." He came back over to the car and awkwardly held his hand out. "Nobody ever done that before."

I took it, the rough skin almost abrasive against my palm, and shook. "You've got a second chance. Don't screw it up." The chopper was a lot louder now, and I could see the blinking lights on its fuselage. "Headlights," I said to Kinsey. Obediently, he turned on the high-beams, illuminating a swathe of runway.

"I won't," Ned assured me. "I done some stupid things, but I ain't that stupid."

"Good." I leaned forward and lowered my voice. The chopper was almost overhead now, flaring its rotors to begin its descent. "One more thing. Anyone asks you about anyone you met here? You never heard any names. You don't know nothin' about nobody."

That was when he smiled, for the first time since I'd met him. At that point, I figured he thought he was seeing the actions of a kindred spirit. This, at least, was familiar to him. Comfortable. He knew what he was dealing with, or so he thought.

"I never saw your faces, I never heard your names," he confirmed. So long as I didn't screw him over, the unspoken agreement continued, he wouldn't screw me over. Not that I intended to screw him over. In that (as well as a few other particulars) I was different from most of his previous criminal associates. If he held up his end of the deal, Andrea and I would hold up mine.

"Good!" I shouted. "Go!" I'd had to raise my voice because the helicopter was less than ten feet from the cracked concrete by now, ground effect causing clouds of dust and grit to billow everywhere. I closed my door to keep the irritating particulates from stinging my face.

As the skids of the military surplus chopper fleetingly touched down, the side door slid open. Ned ran across and scrambled inside, assisted by crewmen with helmet visors pulled down to make them anonymous. Barely had he vanished inside before the side door slid shut behind him and the helicopter increased power again.

I watched as it lifted off and turned south. The glow in the east was stronger now, presaging the sunrise soon to come. When I rolled my window down, the sound of the rotors was almost inaudible once more.

Well, that's done. Letting out a sigh to release the tension I hadn't known I'd been feeling, I leaned back in my seat. "Back to the motel, Kinsey," I ordered. "Time we caught some shuteye." We were certainly long overdue for it.

"Ma'am," he agreed, starting the car. We were rolling along the road away from the airstrip when he spoke up again. "Permission to ask a question."

I was starting to doze off, or I had been until he said those words. Kinsey knew me very well, to the point that he was fully aware that he always had permission to speak his mind. Asking for permission was his way of warning me that I might not like the question. "Granted."

"Ma'am, there were things you said to Director Dyson and to me that don't match up with the facts that I've since observed," he said carefully. "Are these things I'm going to have to worry about, or am I just not cleared for them?"

That was definitely a question. I considered the answer for about half a mile, then spoke.

"Kinsey, you're almost certainly aware by now that there are interests that I'm working with, separate from the PRT. I'm not working against the PRT in any significant fashion, but in order to do my job right, there are resources I have—and need—that the PRT simply can't supply. I'd prefer to keep you separate from all this, so that you can plausibly deny anything if someone asks. Or, if all this makes you uncomfortable, let me know and I'll expedite paperwork to transfer you to whichever PRT base you wish."

There. That was the gauntlet thrown down in no uncertain fashion. I'd broached the subject once before, in a roundabout fashion. He'd replied in a satisfactory manner then, but it remained to be seen if he was still of the same mind.

When he replied, his voice was almost reproving. "Ma'am, all you needed to say was that I'm not cleared. If I asked for a transfer, you'd have to break in another orderly, and I don't wish to inflict that on anyone. You or the orderly."

He fell silent then, gradually increasing speed to bring the car up the ramp on to the freeway back into Seattle. As I pondered his words, I had to work to keep a smile off of my face. That was him saying as bluntly as possible that he didn't care about my extracurricular activities, even the ones that involved shipping freshly-triggered parahumans away on mysterious helicopters at oh-dark-thirty.

The glow to the east suddenly broke above the mountain ridge, sending spikes of intolerably bright light through the car. I pulled on my oversized sun-glasses and slid down in my seat to avoid it. "Wake me when we get to the motel," I said, and closed my eyes.

"Yes, ma'am."

-ooo-​

Later That Day

Outside Darlene Hobbs' House

Kinsey got out of the car and opened my door for me. It was a struggle for me to get out, but Kinsey had thoughtfully produced my walking-stick from somewhere, and that made all the difference. "Will you be needing assistance, ma'am?" he asked anyway.

"Thank you Kinsey, but I'll be fine." I had attended the PRT clinic once Kinsey and I'd had a solid six hours of sleep. This was in no way a slur against Ruth; she was an exemplary physician, but her tools hadn't been the best at the time. The attending physician had asked a few leading questions, to which I'd given him non-informative answers which boiled down to 'ask Director Dyson'. After that, he'd reined in his curiosity and stitched a few of the deeper cuts, then dealt with the road-rash on my hands and arms. With that and the sleep behind me, I was actually feeling in reasonable shape for the situation, if I ignored the bruising that I'd sustained.

Come to think of it, this applied to the aftermath of most of my misadventures.

Using the cane and the hand-rail, I made it up the stairs by myself. Ruth, waiting at the top of the steps, offered her arm for me to use in lieu of the hand-rail. "How are you feeling, Taylor?"

I accepted her assistance, and tried not to lean too obviously on her as we made our way into the house. The last thing I wanted to do was pull a stitch. "I've had worse. At least it's not a broken leg, this time." Along with the other life-threatening conditions I'd been suffering from after the Compound firefight. I wasn't going to say I was suffering from PTSD, but I'd been almighty glad I wasn't going on that chopper with Ned. Some memories were best left unvisited.

"There is that." She helped me sit down on the same sofa I'd used before, and I relaxed into the comfort. Kinsey took up his position beside me.

Mrs Hobbs bustled into the room with yet another tray of cookies—I was pretty sure the previous day's effort wouldn't have survived young Sammy—and eyed me with concern. "Girl," she declared. "You look like death warmed over. You sure you don't wanna lie down awhile?"

Lying down for a while didn't actually sound too bad, but I had a very rough schedule I wanted to keep to, and I could always recline the seat back in the car. "I'll be fine," I assured her. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"Captain Snow would say that if she had a two-foot length of metal sticking out of her stomach," Ruth said dryly from her chair as she took a cookie. "In fact, I believe she did something similar, once upon a time. But in this case, she's correct. So long as she doesn't get into any other scrapes until those cuts heal, of course." She punctuated her statement with a severe look at me, then took a bite out of the cookie.

"I've got no plans to do anything of the sort," I assured her, almost meekly (for me, anyway). "Kinsey's made it clear that he does the driving, which leaves me clear to sit back and relax."

"Well, good." Darlene's look of concern hadn't changed when she focused her attention me again. "Ruthie says you done got the asshole that killed lil' Pattie?"

I shot a glance at Ruth, and she nodded. "Police dragged the lake this morning, per the tip-off you gave me. They found her body."

"Oh, good." It wasn't good that she was dead, but now at least her friends and loved ones had closure. I turned back to Darlene. "Yes. I shot him right in the head. He won't be hurting your nurses ever again." Neither would Ned be stalking and harassing them, but she didn't need to know that little complicating factor. Some narratives were best kept simple.

"Thank you." She got up and came over to me, and took my hands in hers. "Cap'n Snow, you done a good thing last night, an' there ain't no way I can repay you."

Standing up was an effort, but not too much of one. "Mrs Hobbs … Darlene … I'd do it again, in a heartbeat. And call me Taylor." Disengaging my hands from hers, I gave her a hug. Her strong arms enfolded me in return, reinforcing my conviction that this had been the right thing to do.

Even absent the Crawler aspect, I hadn't been lying about being willing to do it again. While I was absolutely set on my path to save the world, I had to make sure that my sights didn't raise so high that I ended up ignoring the individual people who also needed help.

To paraphrase an old saying, what use was saving the world if I lost my humanity in the process?

End of Part 6-4​

 

[Ack]

Recoil



Part 7-0: Queen of Escalation​

[A/N 1: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: When I started writing this fic, Ward had not yet begun, so I was unaware of the existence of Mama Mathers. However, she is a character who was around at the time so here's my take, nineteen years earlier.]

[A/N 3: Don't get too attached to her.]



Tuesday, August 9, 1994
A Motel Room in Chicago, Illinois
Christine Mathers

"Tell me; who is Taylor Snow, and what makes her tick?"

Christine perched on the edge of the bed, staring at the man in the armchair in front of her. She held one of his hands in hers, delicate fingertips probing and pushing at the tendons and bones beneath the skin. It wasn't really necessary—once they made tactile contact, that was it—but she wanted to make absolutely certain she could inflict hell and damnation on the guy if and when he needed it.

This was not the first time she'd asked this question, but hopefully it would be the last. It had been two months since she'd found out about the collapse of the Brotherhood of the Fallen and the death of her child's father (calling him her lover would be making too much of the relationship). Unable to trigger with powers herself but unwilling to merely be a brood mare for the Brotherhood, she'd made a deal with the devil—or rather, Cauldron—to get some anyway. The aftermath had been amusing; they'd thought they had her over a barrel, until they discovered that her powers would neatly circumvent any attempt to force her to adhere to the deal.

But that was less than nothing to her. With abilities of her own to complement those of four-year-old Elijah, who was sitting obediently on the bed beside her, she'd been ready to join the Brotherhood as a power in her own right. Only to find out that they'd been demolished, rendered inert, by an assault on their compound. The unfairness was staggering. All that, for nothing. Digging farther had given her a name; the one person who'd set all this in motion and provided the information that had brought down the Brotherhood.

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT Intelligence Division.

This was the person who had effectively destroyed her world. She was obviously very competent at what she did, which meant that Christine wanted to lay hands on her, to either co-opt her for her own ends or just make her die screaming. Either one was good. The rumour she'd heard—vague, but substantiated by people in the know—that Snow had been the one to predict the Behemoth's attack on New York only firmed her determination to get to Snow by one means or another.

Adding to her aggravation was the fact that by the time she got this information, Snow was out of the hospital once more. So Christine had gone to the PRT itself for information. While she herself could only find out things second-hand, Elijah's presence meant she could interrogate people directly and leave them unable to talk about the experience.

Or at least, so she'd thought. A couple of close calls had taught her one additional lesson: even normals could out-think Thinkers, if they had enough time and effort to work at it. Apparently the PRT had a thing called the Snow Protocols (that damned Captain Snow again!) which outlined ways and means to defeat attempted infiltration by Masters and Strangers, and they were really, irritatingly, effective.

Worse, even in those instances where the Snow Protocols weren't being followed to the letter, it seemed computer security was being tightened up right across the PRT, making it much harder for a Mastered minion to access information they weren't cleared for. The last straw came when she was informed that Captain Snow (again!) was behind this push for security as well. Did that damn woman keep her nose out of anything?

So she had to work very, very carefully. Each step she took had to be double and triple checked. Where normally she would've been able to catch up with Snow in a matter of days (having a superior officer simply order her to report to him would have been the easiest thing in the world, except that the goddamn fucking Snow Protocols actually had a section about that, too!) she needed to track the woman down step by step. It also didn't help that some of her previous sources of information, while still under Elijah's influence, had noticed the effects of her ability on them and voluntarily handed themselves in as per the Protocols. So from here on in she would have to order people to ignore that aspect as well. So. Very. Irritating.

Which was why she was now in Chicago, Snow's home base. Not in the PRT building itself; that would've been too risky. Fortunately for her aims, there was one person in the local Intelligence division who apparently considered himself too smart to need to follow the Snow Protocols exactly. A Lieutenant Robert Gordon, to be precise. This was apparently because he disliked Snow almost as much as she did, which was an interesting data point, though probably nothing she could make further use of. It was possible that she wouldn't even have needed Elijah to tell him to 'do what Mama says', but her way was much more secure. Luring Gordon to her motel room had been just the start; the information he could potentially give her was invaluable.

Well, once she winnowed out the chaff.

"She's a know-it-all bitch," Gordon said venomously. "She's got no respect for seniority, and in my personal experience, she's been promoted far beyond her capabilities. I can't prove it but in my expert opinion, there's been an unconscionable level of undue influence from above. She even got me reduced by a pay grade on a nothing charge. I was lucky not to be cashiered altogether." His tone and expression showed the level of unhappiness he felt about this.

"That's nice." Christine rolled her eyes. Gordon's prejudices were showing; if Captain Snow's efforts were merely the result of luck and sleeping with the boss, she was Alexandria in disguise. "What does she do that's different, and where can I find her?"

"Okay, then." He began to tick points off on his fingers. "Hamilton gave her a stand-alone computer that's set up to link in with the PRT intranet anywhere in the country. What she's using it for, I have no idea, except maybe to rub our noses in the fact that the boss likes her better than he likes the rest of us. Apparently it's some bullshit project that's so high-level that I wasn't cleared for it even when I was a captain and she was a shitty little lieutenant. Also, there's that fucking sergeant who follows her everywhere. She gets him as an orderly for no fucking reason I can understand. The man was Mastered by a member of the Slaughterhouse Nine, so he's clearly compromised. In my opinion, he should've been let go as soon as that little shit-show was over." He took a deep breath. "At the moment? She's travelling around the country on some kind of grand tour. Not under anyone's direct orders, just going where she wants, because Hamilton said so. What kind of a way is that to run the fucking PRT? If I was in charge, let me tell you …."

"Stop." Christine's voice was mild, but Gordon shut up. "Where. Is. She. Right. Now?"

He brightened. "I can actually tell you that. We got this memo awhile ago, which we're not supposed to share around, but all it really says is that until the entire PRT net is absolutely secure, we can't share top-secret sensitive data with some departments. The memo gets updated every time a department gets its secure rating improved. Snow's supposedly doing all this work on them, but I can't see it. She's probably just flicking a few switches and telling them it's magically become secure or something." He paused for thought.

Christine's opinion of Gordon was going down all the time. Some PRT departments had been laughably easy for her minions to gain access to, while others did a good impression of a stone wall. If the man couldn't see the effect that Captain Snow was having on the overall system, he wasn't nearly as smart as he thought he was. But then, it had been a snap to get him under Elijah's influence, so he definitely wasn't that smart.

"Got it." Gordon looked smug. "Yesterday, Department Twenty reported in that they'd been given the green light by Snow. Everywhere south of that is already secure, so she'll probably be heading east again."

"Where is Department Twenty, and what's east of that?" Christine reflected that dealing with nerds was always the same. They might think they'd answered questions fully, but sometimes crucial details were lacking.

"Oh, Twenty covers the Seattle-Tacoma area," Gordon replied easily. "The nearest one east of that is … hmm. That'll be Department Forty-One. Omaha, Nebraska."

"Omaha?" That didn't sound close to Seattle. "Are they driving all that way?" Geography wasn't her strong suit, but Nebraska had to be nearly halfway across the country from Washington.

Gordon made a rude noise with his lips. "Pfft, as if. If I know her—" He really didn't, she reflected. "—she'll be calling on her Daddy Warbucks to pay for a plane ticket. First class, hot and cold running stewardesses."

"I see. And what's the next closest PRT department? After that, I mean? And which ones of these aren't on the secure list?" Would Snow be visiting them, she meant.

"The next closest would be Department Forty-Six. Minneapolis. Either way, it's a four-hour flight or a two-day drive. And no, nothing between here and Seattle is on the secure list."

"And after Minneapolis, Chicago?" She thought she had things right.

He frowned. "No, actually. Milwaukee has Department Thirty-One. Then it's Chicago."

"Is it likely that she'll skip Chicago if she's in the area?" she asked. At last, she was nearing the endgame. And the best thing was, she didn't even have to lure her prey into her clutches. Snow would come to her instead of yanking her all over the map!

He actually thought about that instead of coming up with a knee-jerk response. "Probably not." Then of course he had to ruin it. "She needs to flatter Hamilton's ego before she moves on. I bet she'll be on her knees under his desk before—"

"Stop." She didn't need to listen to his juvenile imaginings. "So, you figure she'll be coming here, to the PRT building, in the next two to four days?"

Again, he paused for thought. "Assume two to three days for a car driving from Seattle to Omaha. Then another two to four days to get here via Omaha, Minneapolis and Milwaukee. So a minimum of two days if she's flying from Seattle, to a week at the outside if she's driving."

"Hmm." He seemed to be able to work that sort of thing out well enough. "I can stand to stay here for a week. You won't tell anyone about me, of course." It was tempting to try to get her hooks into Hamilton himself; from Gordon's words, the man knew more about Snow than anyone except perhaps her orderly. But as lax as Gordon had been about the Snow Protocols, his boss was apparently a stickler for them. The building itself, if it was anything like the other PRT departments that the Protocols had been enacted on, would be locked up tighter than a bull's ass in fly season, with multiple layers of both human and mechanical security. It was technically possible for her to get in, but she would almost certainly leave traces. She decided to not risk burning her bridges until she had her prize in sight. Gordon would deliver Snow to her, and then all bets would be off.

Gordon nodded, as eager as a terrier going walkies. "Sure thing."

<><>​

Eppley Airfield
Omaha, Nebraska
Captain Taylor Snow
1730 Central Daylight Time

"Fine," I grumbled, but not loudly enough for anyone around us to hear over the rumbling and clanking of the baggage carousel. "You were right. That was a lot easier than driving halfway across the country." Business class was better than economy by a long shot, especially since neither Kinsey nor I was on the short side. As Andrea had joked once upon a time, if he flexed they had to sell him a second seat. "I'm just glad Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton okayed a seat upgrade."

"Director Dyson would no doubt have passed on details of your injuries, ma'am," Kinsey pointed out. "Also, that a dangerous parahuman was taken off the streets of Seattle, mainly due to your efforts."

"And of course, she'll be officially backdating the paperwork to make it into a sanctioned PRT operation," I agreed. It was no skin off my nose; they could take all the glory they wanted from that. I didn't need yet another medal for my collection. Every one so far had been earned with blood and sweat and tears; some more than others.

"Which lets you off the hook for acting outside PRT purview." Kinsey picked up his baggage, which completed the set. The last of mine had already trundled through a minute or so earlier.

Leaning on the walking stick—Kinsey had acquired it for the aftermath of the Battle of the Compound, but it was showing its utility once more—I watched as he stacked the cases on the luggage trolley. There were more than a few of them, but he managed it. I would have offered to carry something, but he would have pulled rank on me; specifically, the unwritten regulation stating that a healthy sergeant outranked an injured captain when it came to carrying heavy loads.

He was right, of course. Director Dyson could've made trouble for me for going off the reservation with Kinsey and Ruth, but she'd chosen to let the PRT look good instead. I didn't blame her; I would've made the same choice. After ripping a strip off my subordinate in private, which she'd also done. After all, one could not allow the lower ranks to think they could get away with everything.

I straightened my jacket as I followed Kinsey through the crowd, the luggage-trolley doing a reasonable impression of an icebreaker in the Arctic. He'd chosen to store his hand-cannon in the checked luggage, mainly for comfort's sake, while I'd kept mine on me. While we were travelling in civvies, we were still both serving members of the PRT, which counted as a law-enforcement agency. I'd spoken privately to the airline security staff and handed over my federal concealed-carry pass for official examination; I suspected some of them had never even seen one before. At some point, I had no doubt, someone had placed a call to Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton or even Director Rankine. Whichever one it was had clearly agreed that I was responsible enough to go armed on board.

Nothing had eventuated over the course of the flight, which was as to be expected. That didn't bother me; it was better to have a firearm and not need it than vice versa. In my line of work, I'd been through far too many close calls to be entirely comfortable when I was unable to get my hands on an effective means of making the other guy dead. The average Joe Public was a different story; without my level of training and discipline, ready access to firearms was often a tragedy waiting to happen.

We got to the row of rental-car desks without incident, and I went up to the Avis counter. I found them a little pretentious and self-important, but the PRT went with them more often than not. As I'd expected, the arrangements had already been made, and I walked away with a map and a set of keys. The keys went to Kinsey and I kept the map; they'd tried to give me a packet of informational pamphlets about hiring cars as well, but I dropped them back on the desk. I'd read them all before, anyway.

We located the car with little effort, and Kinsey went through his usual routine of checking it for unauthorised explosive devices before we got in. I wasn't the only one for whom paranoia had become a way of life; or rather, a way of staying alive. The longer we kept at our job of making the inner workings of the PRT inaccessible to those with no business being there, the more likely somebody was to attempt to put an end to it, and us.

Before we went anywhere, Kinsey opened his case and extracted the locked box containing his pistol. The seals we'd both attached to it were still intact, and he broke them and unlocked the case. We both felt a little easier when he had the weapon on him; the more firepower we could throw downrange at an unexpected attacker, the better. And he was getting back up to scratch on the firing range, as was I. Practise, after all, made perfect.

The essentials dealt with, we drove out of Eppley Field and headed southwest into the city proper. I propped my walking stick against my knee, and made myself useful with the map. Neither of us had been to Omaha before, but it wasn't hard to locate the PRT building and then direct Kinsey toward it. Kinsey took his time, as the traffic was a little on the heavy side. In between giving directions, I fiddled with the radio (turned low) to find a local station we both liked.

Our arrival at the regional PRT building for Omaha was anticlimactic. I was pleased to note that they were taking the Snow Protocols seriously (though I wished they could have chosen any other name for it) even as they passed us through into the building. We were met by Director Janssen; a shortish man, running to weight with a noticeable comb-over. From his manner, I gathered that he was another political appointee. An administrator, not a soldier.

Also from his manner, it seemed that he either wasn't in the loop concerning everything I'd done or he hadn't done his homework. "Good afternoon, Captain Snow," he said, his attitude slightly puzzled. "I was told to expect you, but not this soon." His eyes took in my walking stick. "Are you injured?"

"Nothing to speak of," I said, my right hand drifting slightly closer to my open jacket. Had he not been informed about how I got hurt, or was this really him? "I've been injured worse playing hockey."

Alongside me, Kinsey went to full alert. The phrase 'nothing to speak of' indicated a potential Master/Stranger situation, and 'hockey' said that it was the person I was talking to who was under suspicion. If anyone around us made a hostile move, we could have our guns out and ready in under a second.

"Hockey—?" Janssen blinked, then the penny dropped. "Oh, shit. No, we're good. I've been busy, and I haven't been fully keeping up with what's going on in Dyson's neck of the woods."

'Neck of the woods' was an all-clear code. I relaxed, fractionally. "Oh. Good. Yes, I've got minor lacerations to my legs. They've been treated. All I've got to do is change the dressings regularly. A run-in with a nasty piece of work in Seattle, in between my other duties." I hadn't relaxed totally yet—that could've been a legitimate slip, but it may not have.

He winced. "I think I heard something about that. Night Terror, right? You were involved in that operation? I didn't know you were combat ops."

Kinsey and I both breathed a little easier. He knows, but not all the details. It's probably him. "I'm not," I confirmed. "But I've got combat experience, especially with small-unit tactics. More importantly, I'm a woman. Night Terror was targeting nurses."

"Ah." Janssen nodded. "Got it." He grimaced. "Going out as a decoy, with no armour, has to be unpleasant. You have my profound admiration. I don't know that I could ever do it."

I shrugged with one shoulder. "I've been in worse situations. It was over pretty quickly, and I had good backup. The bad guy died, and the good guys lived. Trust me, it could've gone a lot worse."

"And thus, the PRT motto in a nutshell. 'It could've gone a lot worse.'" He gave me a lopsided grin. "I'll get someone to show you to the quarters you'll be staying in. When will you want to have a look at our systems?"

"First thing tomorrow," I decided. The twentieth was still over a week and a half away, and the itinerary I'd roughed out had about a day of wiggle room built in. I could still get to Brockton Bay on time. "It's going to take me a few hours, and I'd prefer to be fresh when I start."

"Certainly," he said with a nod. "I'll be happy once we're back in the green. It was unpleasant to find out that all sorts of lowlives could've been rifling through our systems without us being any the wiser."

"They may well still be," I said as Kinsey took up the bulk of our cases once more. Another guard carried the remainder. "But as of tomorrow, that's done with."

<><>​

Wednesday, August 10
PRT Department 41
Omaha, Nebraska
1505 Hours

"Well, that's that," I decided, entering the command to clear the cache in my computer. "Your system is as secure as it's going to get, at least until the next upgrade. I've left instructions on how to keep it that way. Have you got a dedicated systems admin yet?"

"Not yet, but we'll be getting one," admitted Janssen. He shook his head admiringly. "I'm not bad with computers, but I can't fathom half what you were doing there. How did you get so good?"

"I started young," I told him truthfully but unhelpfully. "It's a talent. Maybe it goes hand in hand with intel work in general." Which it really did, but not in the way he probably thought I meant.

He nodded wisely. "I suppose that makes sense. I'm not good at that side of matters, either. I prefer to just send out directives and let the experts figure out how to make it happen."

Leaning on my cane, I got to my feet, then hit the button to power down my computer altogether. "If you have any problems, leave a message with Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton in Chicago. I touch base with him regularly. In fact, I'll be passing through there in the next couple of days."

"Ah, yes, Brian." Janssen smiled. "We've chatted from time to time. He was the one who told me in no uncertain terms to stand back and let you work your magic."

"I wouldn't call it magic, sir." Leaning the cane against the desk, in easy range if I needed to grab it and steady myself, I started to pull the various cords preparatory for packing the computer up for travel. "I have my skillsets and you have yours. They say magic just consists of knowing that one extra fact."

"Well, Captain Snow, if it makes my life easier, I'm willing to call it whatever you want." He tilted his head. "Is it true you once knocked out that formidable sergeant of yours?"

I snorted. It seemed Director Janssen had been reading up on my jacket. "That's a little bit of an exaggeration. He was under a Master effect, but it was weakened because the Master was in another room and distracted. I engaged him and he fought back, but I was able to get the drop on him. Mainly because he was pushing back against the Master influence. I stunned Kinsey long enough to get cuffs on him, but I wouldn't say I knocked him out. And ever since then, I've been training regularly with him. I don't win our spars all that often. When I do, I know I've earned it. And I've never taken him down as easily as that first time."

"I see." Leaning close, he lowered his voice. "My security chief went ballistic at me when he reviewed the footage of you coming in last night. Tell me; how close did I come to being shot?"

I looked him in the eye. "You weren't armed, so not close at all. If you'd ordered the guards to do something stupid, I would've gone for non-lethal wounds. But you gave me the all-clear signal, so Kinsey and I stood down." I didn't mention what we both knew; specifically, 'non-lethal' was a dubious concept when dealing with firearms. Even a leg or arm shot could turn bad.

He shook his head. "Captain Snow, you give me hope for the future of the PRT. And, I say this with the greatest of respect, you also scare the living bejeezus out of me. I think I'll be giving the Protocols another brush-up tonight." He headed for the door, then paused and turned. "Safe travels, Captain Snow."

"Thank you, sir." I continued to pack up my equipment. One more day; one more computer system.

<><>​

The trip from Omaha to Des Moines via I-80 East took two hours; we stopped over to stretch our legs and get something to eat. The sun was nearly down to the horizon when we left again, heading north on I-35. As the tyres rumbled over the asphalt, it finally set and dusk spread over the vast Iowa sky. Kinsey flicked the lights on and we drove on through the gathering darkness.

We rolled into Minneapolis at about half past seven. Part of the reason for the stop in Des Moines had been to get a map for Minneapolis; we'd gotten adept at this on our extended road trip around the country. Interesting fact: it's almost always possible to buy maps for the next city over. I personally would've found smartphones easier to use, but they were still years away, and the map option years more.

Director McKinley was pleased to see us; there were no almost-alarms as in Omaha. We got our gear squared away, utilised the gym for a light spar to work out the kinks, then had a shower and a meal before falling into bed. I rose early the next morning, and spent half an hour in the shooting range while Kinsey got my computer set up. He knew what went where, and how to check for tampering, but he freely confessed that he had no idea how to use the thing. That was fine; I wasn't keeping him around for his leet hacking skillz. Having someone at my back, willing and able to perform extreme mayhem at need, was good enough for me.

Following the shooting practice (I was still improving, thank you very much) I showered and breakfasted, then sat down at my terminal. Hitting the power button, I booted it up and connected to the local system … and, very quietly, began to swear. The more I looked around, the more the computer system looked as though it had been hit with a bomb. Electronically, of course, which was perhaps worse. This wasn't the work of a casual vandal. Someone had come back repeatedly to screw this system up as hard as they could. At least three viruses had been through here, maybe more.

No wonder McKinley had seemed pleased to see me. I didn't know whether he knew how bad it was, or just thought it was some random glitch. Metaphorically rolling up my sleeves, I set to work. This was going to take some time.

First, I prepared to close off the system from all outside access. If it wasn't in the building, it wasn't getting in. Before I did, though, I sent off a quick message to the general intranet, telling the PRT as a whole that Department 46 was going offline. It wasn't a request; it was just a general courtesy call. But then, as I was about to enter the correct command, a message popped up on my screen, ordering me to cease and desist.

My eyebrows tracked upward. Really? I sent back a terse message to the effect that 46 was going offline. No ifs or buts.

DO NOT TAKE DEPT 46 OFFLINE. BY ORDER OF CHIEF DIRECTOR.

I snorted at that, and reached across to turn the printer on. Then I typed in a command to send the dialogue so far, and any farther dialogue, to come out as hardcopy. Then I picked up the phone beside the computer and entered the number for Rebecca Costa-Brown's office phone.

NICE TO CHAT WITH YOU AGAIN, CHIEF DIRECTOR, I typed. IS THAT OFFER STILL OPEN? One corner of my mouth quirked in a grin. I wondered what they'd think of that.

The phone rang, then it was picked up. "Who is this?" It was definitely Director Costa-Brown's voice. Unless she had a body double who could do her voice as well. To be honest, I would not have put it past her.

"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. This is Captain Snow."

"Captain Snow, good morning. You're in Minneapolis, I see. What can I do for you?"

"I have someone within this system claiming to be you. I presume it isn't?"

There was a brief pause, which I interpreted as her taking time out to bang her head on the desk. "No, it certainly is not. Hunt the rodent down. Email me with the details. Carry on." She hung up, and I put the phone down as well.

I hadn't thought it was her, but it was always good to check. Another notation popped up on my screen.

OFFER WILL BE RESCINDED IF YOU DISOBEY ORDERS. CEASE AND DESIST IMMEDIATELY.

At the same time, a window opened, and I saw the virus they were trying to infect my computer with. I clicked on one of the options that came up in response, and one of the several antivirus programs Lisa had helped me write went to work. It savaged the virus, tore it to shreds, then went through the remains for any useful information. Such as where the attacker was coming from.

NAUGHTY, NAUGHTY, I typed. MY TURN. The location information was coded into a virus of my own, which I cheerfully launched in return. Once that was away, I swiftly closed off every outside port. This took three tries, as someone had coded in a backdoor that forced two ports to remain open even while pretending to be closed. I killed the code and shut the ports. Neither was I worried about infecting Minneapolis with an unstoppable virus; for one thing, 1994 Minneapolis was far less computerised than the same city in 2011. Secondly, the virus had a 'bee-sting' limiter built in; if it tried to jump to a second system, it would gut itself and crash.

Methodically, I began to go through the system, repairing file structures where I could and deleting trash and junk data where it got in the way. Another virus tried to go active as I disturbed it, but my system identified it and squashed it before I even needed to react. I hummed to myself as I worked; the humming gradually settled into the rhythms of the music I'd once used for my self-hypnosis.

<><>​

"Okay, that was hilarious." Lisa smirked as she strapped on the hang-glider. "The look on that guy's face when his system went down in flames? Classic as fuck." She pulled one of her ever-present tablets from a pocket and showed me the footage. He was in his mid-twenties, unshaven with his hair pulled back in a ponytail. I could tell the exact moment when he realised things were going badly wrong, as his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Just as he leaped toward the wall to bodily pull the power plug, Lisa's voice blared from the speakers: "So long, sucker!" That was when smoke started coiling up from the computer case. The footage ended with the guy standing there, plug in hand, staring at his trashed computer.

I rolled my eyes even while I checked my own straps. They were all secure, as was the heavy shotgun dangling from my shoulder. You just had to put that in, didn't you?

She slid the tablet back into the thigh pocket. "Well, wouldn't you?"

I couldn't deny it. You could've at least put in a quote from a movie, like Stallone in The Terminator. 'Hasta la vista, baby.'

Carefully, she checked on each of her straps, as I had done. "Nah. I'd have him say something like 'Hasta la virus'. Just to fuck with the guy."

I burst out laughing. Okay, yeah. That would suit so much better. Then I looked around. We stood on a familiar cliff-top, with stone towers reaching up through the jungle here and there. In the sky before us, angular-winged shapes wheeled and dived. Back to the extreme hang-gliding, I see.

"Well, you haven't been yet," she pointed out logically. "You can't knock it 'til you've tried it."

There are many things I don't need to try to know they'll probably turn out badly for me, I countered. Smoking. Alcoholism. Hard drugs. Skydiving without a parachute. Kayaking across the Atlantic. Arm-wrestling Lung. The list goes on.

"Well, you more or less tried that last one, as I recall," she said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "You survived, didn't you?"

Only because you guys turned up, and Rachel's dogs wrecked his shit. I glanced over my shoulder, then grabbed for my shotgun. We have company.

Lisa looked around as well, to see the half-dozen raptors, brightly-coloured feathers flared widely, running toward us in a staggered formation. Their jaws were open wide and their claws were extended. "Oh, hey. Don't worry about them. I'm ready to go."

Okay, then. Releasing my shotgun, I grabbed the frame of my hang-glider. Side by side, we ran for the cliff edge, then leaped over the side.

Behind us, I heard screeching and turned my head to look as my gliding surfaces caught the air. Two of the raptors had managed to stop in time; the other four had run right off the edge in their eagerness to catch us, and were now plummeting toward the jungle canopy far below. They were frantically flapping their feathered arms. It wasn't doing any good.

I straightened out into level flight, then caught an updraft. Alongside me, not thirty feet away, Lisa was laughing her head off. Lifting my legs, I slotted them into the sling that was waiting there for them.

"Did you see that?" she called out, her tone still mirthful. "That was amazing!"

I notice they still haven't evolved flight, I pointed out, though it had been kind of funny, in a slapstick way.

"They'll probably get to it sooner or later," she agreed, then jerked her head up to indicate something in front of us. "Now this is something we do have to deal with."

I looked as well, to see a pair of pteranodons dropping out of the sky toward us. One was heading for me and the other for Lisa. Even at this distance, I could see the razor-sharp claws and the long, wicked beak. Again, I reached for the shotgun, and worked the slide. The meaty k-chak as a round fed into the chamber was comforting to hear. Beanbag rounds?

"Nope!" Lisa began to bank away slightly. "Double-ought buck!"

Well, that was definitely playing with the big boys. I dived a little to get some speed, then pulled the nose up just as my attacker came within reasonable shotgun range. Taking both hands off the frame for a moment, I snuggled the shotgun into my cheek, lined up the firearm, and waited for him to enter my sight picture. He did; I squeezed the trigger. The shotgun boomed, kicking at my shoulder, and the prehistoric reptile's head exploded into gore. Half a second later, Lisa also fired. I worked the slide on my weapon, then released it to straighten my line of flight. Looking over, I saw her target going down in a tangle of wings. Nice shot.

"You too!" Her eyes were bright, her lips parted with excitement. Raising her hand, she pointed. Four more were incoming. "Now it gets interesting!"

You and I are going to have a chat on the exact meaning of that word. I measured angles by eye, then banked slightly toward Lisa. Drop down a bit. I want to get behind and above you.

"Sure thing." She lost a little altitude, allowing me to slot in just above her. This made us a smaller target, forcing the pteranodons to come in closer to one another if they all wanted to attack us at the same time.

The tactic seemed to be working. Two of them came in line astern; one was probably going for Lisa and the other one for me, but the point of the maneuver was that they were both in range of Lisa's weapon. In the meantime, the other two were sheering off and banking around. I had no doubt that they were going to come in from behind.

Lisa's shotgun blasted the first one out of the sky, but when she fired again, the second one jinked aside and she only ripped a chunk out of its wing. Staggering in the air, it screeched and lunged at her with its long beak, right up until I blew its head off. But the danger wasn't over; not by a long shot. Break right now now now! At the same time, I hauled my glider around to the left, banking as hard as I dared.

She did as I said, instants before the last two came plummeting through our airspace, claws reaching out to rend and tear. I had one hand on the glider and the other on the shotgun; the instant my guy was no longer in front of Lisa, I fired one-handed. The recoil jolted all the way up my arm, but I blew a fist-sized chunk out of his torso, and he lost all further interest in the proceedings.

Then I looked over at how Lisa was doing, and swore. The last pteranodon had anticipated the move and managed to hit her glider, tearing part of one wing. She was spiralling down, fighting to maintain control while still trying to keep an eye out for the massive predator, which was swooping around for a second attempt at her. Pulling hard into the opposite bank, I angled toward them, and dived.

The pteranodon was going to get there first, coming on on Lisa's six. I cupped my hands and yelled against the wind-rush, Behind you! Then I grabbed the frame again and pushed myself into a steeper dive.

For a long moment, it seemed that she hadn't heard me, then at the last second she rolled sideways. As the pteranodon went past with a frustrated screech, she blew it out of the sky. The trouble was, that maneuver destroyed the last of her equilibrium and she started to go as well.

As her death-dive began, I caught up with her. Angling my wing over, I came down next to her. She was already slashing her straps with a wicked-looking survival knife. The last strap came free, and she swung loose, hanging on to her glider's control frame. Dropping the knife, she held her arm out. Her wrist slapped into my hand, and I locked my grip on to it. We let her stricken glider go; our main concern now was getting down to the ground safely. For a given definition of 'safely'.

I pulled the nose up, converting every bit of the speed I'd built up back into lift. The jungle canopy loomed up at us, and the airframe creaked under the unexpected weight, but we turned the dive into a long swoop. Treetop leaves brushed Lisa's boots, and then we were flying over a river. It was wide, and there were large crocodilians swimming back and forth, but on the far side there was some clear ground to land on.

With Lisa acting as both weight and drag on my glider, and me unable to make proper course corrections due to holding her, we were very wobbly crossing the river. Our speed dropped away, getting perilously close to the stall point. A huge toothy maw burst out of the water and snapped shut inches below Lisa's dangling feet; she eeped and pulled her knees up to her chest.

And then we were over dry land once more. Lisa touched down first, and I let her go. I landed next, running to a stop. Turning, I unstrapped myself from the glider and walked back to where Lisa was lying on her back in the soft grass, laughing her head off.

"That was amazing!" she cackled. "We've got to do that again, sometime!"

Leaning down, I helped her to her feet. I really think you're becoming an adrenaline junkie.

Still giggling, she brushed herself off. "Well, duh. Wouldn't you be?"

She had a point. Well, I should probably be getting back.

"True." She smiled up at me. "Oh, and just by the way? He lives in his parents' basement, and they won't be back 'til eight thirty."

"Really." That opened all sorts of options for me.

"Uh huh. Kiss before you go?"

Her lips tasted of dust and blood. A tiny insect brushed my eyelashes and I blinked.

<><>​

Leaning back in my chair, I took a deep breath and stretched. Vertebrae in my back cracked and popped, and I frowned. Glancing at the clock, I did a double-take. "Holy crap, seven in the evening?" No wonder I felt cramped. Getting up out of the chair, I steadied myself on the desk as I worked my spine one way and then the other.

"Yes, ma'am." Kinsey's voice came from behind me. I turned to look at him, and he indicated an MRE and a bottle of water beside me. "From the way you were swearing, I suspected this one was worse than most."

"You can definitely say that again," I grumbled. "There was a guy in the system while I was there. He wasn't even a black-hat hacker. Just a vandal who wanted to cause damage and stick it to the Man." There was a folded piece of paper on the desk. Picking it up, I read it. It was my handwriting, giving a name—Troy—as well as an address, and quite a bit more. As I recalled what Lisa had told me, I smiled slowly.

"Sergeant, how do you feel about helping me go put the put the fear of God into someone?"

His return look was utterly deadpan. "Ma'am, it would be my genuine pleasure."

<><>​

My watch showed three minutes before eight as Kinsey pulled the car to a halt. We were parked on a suburban street, between two street-lights. The house we wanted was down the block and around the corner. I turned to Kinsey. "Last chance to step back," I said. "I'm about to do something not entirely legal, but if you stay here, you don't have to be a part of it."

By way of reply, Kinsey opened his car door and got out. He rounded the car and opened my door for me while I was still getting my walking stick sorted. "Ma'am," he said firmly, "if you say this person needs to be roughed up, then I will accept your judgement on the matter."

I nodded. "Understood." With his assistance, I climbed out of the car. The long period of sitting hadn't done my legs any favours, but I was getting better. Though I was feeling much more energetic from the food and water that Kinsey had insisted I have before we came out.

We started off down the sidewalk, moving at a casual pace. Both of us were in casual clothes with light jackets; it was a little breezy, but without any of the chill that winter would bring. We were also wearing gloves, for obvious reasons. Walking helped me firm my stride, even without the stick. I just had to make sure I didn't move too fast and pull my stitches. That would probably get me yelled at by the sickbay attendant.

The house was a typical suburban model; two floors, with (as Lisa had intimated) a basement, where our target lived. We moved up to the front door, and I pointed at the peep-hole. I knocked and stood waiting, holding my head so my face was partially shaded from the porch light. Kinsey stood off to the side.

It took a few minutes for Troy to reach the door; the almost imperceptible dot of light coming through from inside was blocked as he presumably looked out at me. I could imagine his confusion. What was a woman doing on his doorstep at eight in the evening? But he was a nerd, and a guy, so curiosity overcame his natural caution and I heard the door lock disengage. Slowly, it creaked open, and I saw him peeking out at me. He looked exactly as I'd seen in Lisa's video, only slightly more frazzled.

"Uh, hello?" he asked more than said. "Look, whoever you are, I'm kinda busy right now—"

For all that he was a big guy, Kinsey could move very fast when he had to. He came around from the side, shoving the door open and latching his hand around Troy's neck. Moving with unstoppable force, he advanced into the house. I left the walking stick propped against the door frame and followed them in, pushing the door shut behind me.

When I caught up with them, Troy was in an armchair, kept there by Kinsey's grip on his neck. "Hi," I said, almost casually. "Troy, yes?" When he nodded almost involuntarily, I smiled. "Oh, good. We've got the right person. So, I want you to listen very carefully."

"Who are you?" rasped Troy. "What are you doing in my home?"

"Delivering a message," I replied. "Message is as follows: don't mess with the PRT. Because we know your name, we know your face, and we know where you live. I also know that you have a totally trashed computer in the basement right next to your collection of Star Wars action figures—still missing Boba Fett, by the way—and that you'll be getting a replacement from your friend Peter, who also goes by the hacker name Total Anarchy One Zero One. Also, that you keep your weed stash in the cargo bay of your scale model of the Millennium Falcon. When you smoke up, you call it 'using the Force'."

His had eyes widened farther and farther as I spoke, until white was showing all the way around the irises. "How—how do you know all that?" he croaked.

I showed my teeth. "I'm PRT Intelligence. We know more about you than you know about yourself. If you ever try this stunt again, I will know, and I will come back. And I'll know exactly where to find you, just like this time." I pulled my pistol and placed the muzzle to the middle of his forehead. His eyes tracked up toward it, and he stopped breathing. "And next time, it won't be just your computer that ends up non-functional. One more time: don't mess with the PRT." Leaning very close, I whispered, "Do you understand me?"

A whimper escaped his throat, and I caught the scent of urine in the air. Glancing down, I saw a spreading dark stain on his crotch. "Oh, good," I said. "It looks like you do understand me." Turning to Kinsey, I nodded, then stepped back as I put my pistol away. "We're done here."

Returning the nod, Kinsey released Troy's throat, then hooked his foot under the front edge of the armchair and heaved upward. The entire chair went over backward, spilling the unfortunate Troy on the floor beyond. We turned and left the house; considerately, I closed the door behind us. Taking up my walking stick, I led the way back to the car at a rather more rapid pace than we'd approached the house. Wasting no time, we got in the car and drove away; Kinsey kept to the speed limit all the way.

"Well, that was interesting," he observed in a noncommittal way. "Masterfully done, if I do say so myself, ma'am. I'm not even going to ask how you learned those details about him."

"It's like I said," I replied lightly. "I'm PRT Intelligence. We work in mysterious ways." I paused for a moment. Lisa hadn't been able to give me a definitive reading on how Troy would react to the intimidation, but she'd posited a high probability that he'd do everything to distance himself from any PRT hacking events from then on. However, it was always good to get a second opinion. "Think he'll call the cops or the local PRT on us?"

Kinsey snorted. "You already know the answer to that one, ma'am. We didn't leave any traces in the house, and he knows you're aware of his hacker contacts and his drug use. He's already not inclined to speak to the authorities and if the cops do get involved, you have more on him than he does on you. And he probably thinks this was a sanctioned op by the PRT, which means he's going to do everything he can to avoid attracting our attention from now on."

"Which works for me, and no doubt works for Director McKinley," I agreed. "Is the car packed? Despite the fact that you're probably right about him, it's almost certainly a good idea to leave town tonight."

He smiled. "Way ahead of you, ma'am. I took care of that while you were briefing Director McKinley on what needed to be done to get the computer system up to scratch again."

I nodded. It was good to know that Kinsey and I were still on the same wavelength. "He was pleased to know he could use it again. Another satisfied customer, I guess. Next stop Milwaukee?"

"Next stop Milwaukee," agreed the burly sergeant.

<><>​

Thursday, August 11
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
PRT Department 31
0903 Hours Central Daylight Time

"You'd be Captain Snow, am I correct?"

Looking around from the computer terminal, I pushed myself carefully to my feet. "Yes, ma'am. Director Leland?"

"Correct." Connie Leland was ethnically Asian and about as stocky as Emily Piggot, but her accent was pure Wisconsin. She held out her hand to shake. "I'm pleased to meet you. Director McKinley messaged me this morning to tell me how much better his computer system's been working since you dealt with it."

I shook her hand. "I'm not altogether surprised. There were signs that a semi-professional hacker had been making regular forays into the system. Every time they tried to fix it, he broke it again. I locked the doors and put all the furniture back in place." Fortunately, a fair number of files had been 'lost' when the system lost the ability to refer to them, but not actually overwritten. Lisa, working through me, had been able to locate them and integrate them back into the overall file structure. Some were still missing, but nothing essential to the operation of the system.

"Oh, my." She grimaced. "I hope our system isn't so badly damaged?"

"Hardly." I sat down again and waved at the screen. "It looks like one or two people may have snooped, but they were locked out in the last upgrade and they haven't been able to sneak back in. I'm just going to do my usual top-to-bottom, to make sure everything's working as normal. It's amazing what gets left switched to the wrong setting if people aren't paying attention."

She nodded. "I've seen that myself. Well, I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing. How do you like Milwaukee so far?"

I had to chuckle at that. "I'm not laughing at you, ma'am. Nearly everyone asks me that, and I barely get to see their cities. I'm always either just leaving or just arriving. I don't even know Chicago that well, and I'm based there."

"Oh?" She tilted her head. "Where are you from, then?"

"Brockton Bay." I leaned back in my chair. "It doesn't have a PRT department assigned to it—" Yet. "—or I would've opted for there instead."

"I've heard of that place." She raised her eyebrows. "Is it as strange as they say?"

"We have a few gangs, yes," I admitted. "But it's all small-time crime; everyone keeps their heads down, even the Teeth. Local heroes plus a few visiting Protectorate capes from Boston keep everyone honest. Nobody wants to get the attention of the big dogs, after all." In my time, this had changed once Lung and Kaiser hit the scene; they'd been powerful enough to push back against multiple heroes and win. But for now, the gangs weren't quite troublesome enough to root out.

I didn't intend to let it get that far out of control, this time around. Not on my watch.

<><>​

We left Milwaukee while it was still daylight, the mid-afternoon sun flooding in through my window instead of Kinsey's for a change. Chicago was less than a hundred miles down the coast of Lake Michigan, and I figured we'd make it in under two hours. Before sundown, even.

"I'm presuming there were no problems like they were having in Minneapolis, ma'am?" Kinsey spoke casually, his hands relaxed on the wheel.

"Nothing that I could see, no." I leaned back in my seat and sighed. "I am going to be so glad by the time we get the last system up and running properly. And no, I'm not looking forward to flying out to Honolulu to see what sort of mess they've made of it out there."

Kinsey made a noise of mild amusement. "That's the price of being the resident expert, ma'am. I'm guessing you've tried training others to do what you can do?"

My sigh was all aggravation, this time. "Yes. It's all there, in black and white. But finding PRT personnel who are cleared to look through those systems, who have the background just to be able to learn what I've got to teach them, and to do it inside of two months, seems to be virtually impossible. It'll actually be easier and quicker for me to do all the checkups myself. Maintaining the systems after I get them into working order, that's the easy part." I glanced over at him. "You've been training recruits in CQC for years now. How long would it take you to teach someone to be as good as you, not just adequate?"

He was silent for a time. "Years," he admitted. "Getting someone to be good, that's not hard. Training someone to be as good as you are, that's not easy. Though you're a very apt pupil, ma'am," he hastened to say. "But training someone to be able to do everything I can do, as well as I can do it? Years."

"Mmm-hmm," I agreed. "And that's the problem."

Silence fell; I turned up the radio. We rolled south down I-94.

<><>​

Chicago, Illinois
PRT Department 4
Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton's Office
1705 Hours

I rapped on the door and waited. For this occasion, I'd changed into regular undress blues, which Kinsey had somehow kept ironed with a razor crease, despite all our travels. The man, I decided, was capable of minor miracles.

"Enter!" I heard from within.

Opening the door, I stepped inside. Coming to attention, I saluted. "Captain Snow reporting, sir."

Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton looked up at me with a broadening smile, and lazily returned the salute. "Good to see you, Snow. Close the door and come in."

"Sir." I pushed the door all the way shut and moved over to the desk, where I assumed parade rest. "It's good to see you too, sir." And it was. If his hairline was a little more receding (in his case, it was in full retreat, down the back of his scalp) and his moustache a little bushier, that was to be understood. Behind his glasses, his gaze was as sharp as ever. "How have things been here?"

"Controlled chaos, as per normal." He made a back and forth movement with his hand. "There's been a rash of hits with your Protocols; personnel noticing odd things influencing their behaviour and handing themselves in to custody voluntarily. Your improved computer systems have also caught a few would-be hackers, and we've passed their details on to the FBI. I understand you had an incident of that sort in Minneapolis?"

"Yes, sir. The system had been pretty well trashed, and I was preparing to secure it, and there was a hacker in there at the time. He attempted to pass himself off as the Chief Director. I ascertained that he wasn't, booted him from the system, and locked the door behind him."

Hamilton's eyes twinkled from behind his glasses. "I received word that you'd called the Chief Director on her office line and asked her that very question. Do I need to know how you got that number?"

"She gave it to me, the last time she attempted to recruit me for her Washington group." I shrugged. "It didn't seem important at the time."

He waved a hand genially. "Perfectly understandable. Was there anything else?"

I hesitated for a moment, then forged ahead. "Sir, this isn't just a social call. I have a favour to ask. A really big one."

"And now we come to the crux of this meeting." He sat up in his chair. "How big a favour are you speaking of?"

This was going to be the fun bit. "I need to chair a meeting of the core Protectorate heroes by late October. Alexandria, Legend, Eidolon, Hero. Just those four. It's about the matter we've been keeping under the table. About where it comes from and how it might possibly be sent back there, for good."

Absolute silence fell over the office. A fly buzzed briefly, then shut up and slunk away silently. Hamilton's eyes bored into me like diamond drills. I stood there and bore his scrutiny, trying not to feel so shitty. Hamilton was a good man, and he'd gone to bat for me more often than I could count. He didn't deserve to be lied to like this.

The trouble was, as dedicated as I knew him to be toward the cause of good and right, I worried that he might consider some prices too high to pay. More pragmatically, with him all unknowing about what I had planned, it would be much easier to keep the secret. I just hoped his career would survive the way I eventually intended to leave the PRT. When all my lies were exposed, I hoped he wouldn't hate me.

But even if I knew that was going to be the case, I'd still have to go ahead with it. I had sacrificed many other things for my goals, and I would sacrifice many more things. The benevolent regard of Lieutenant-Colonel Brian Hamilton was just one more regret along the way.

"I'm not going to ask if you are serious, Snow." His voice was low and controlled. "You don't joke about things like that. I will ask, however, why late October? Chief Director Costa-Brown already holds you in somewhat exasperated high esteem. If I presented that request to her, the Protectorate would be assembled for your meeting so fast there would be sonic booms involved."

And now for the lie. "I have the framework for what I want to say, sir. I can see the outline. I want to spend the intervening time solidifying my data so that at the time I don't look like a total crackpot."

He snorted. "After New York, nobody at that level is going to consider you a crackpot. But I see your point. The more information, the better." A concerned expression crossed his face. "You don't think it will strike again before then?"

I shook my head. "No, sir. All my data so far tells me that it'll be in the first week of November. Possibly the thirty-first of October, but no earlier than that. Southern hemisphere, eastern hemisphere. Nowhere near the continental United States, this time."

He looked relieved, then vaguely guilty; possibly at feeling relieved. "That's good for us … but bad of course, for whoever does get hit."

"Yes, sir." I grimaced. "I wish I had more to give you. But anything more would be real guesswork, rather than educated guesswork. What I've got so far covers half of Africa, most of India, Southeast Asia, Australia, New Zealand, half of Antarctica, and about a thousand islands of various sizes. I need to narrow that down."

"At least we don't have to worry about Antarctica," he noted with wry humour. "There's not enough people there for it to bother with."

"I'm not ruling it out, sir." My voice was serious; I had to make him think I was considering the idea. "What if it decided to melt part of the ice-cap? How much conflict would a six-foot rise in the overall sea level cause in the world at large?"

His look of sudden realisation would have been funny, if we hadn't been talking about the potential deaths of millions of people. "God damn it, Snow," he growled. "Surely it's not that powerful?"

I looked him straight in the eye. "I don't know for a fact that it's not. For all we know, it might just be flexing. Playing. Sandbagging." Which was basically the truth.

He shook his head. "I don't know what would be worse; having you tell me about this sort of thing, or living in blissful ignorance and finding out too late."

"Well, with luck it won't be too late to do something about it," I reminded him. "If I can get the information I need, we might just have the key for ending it once and for all."

Standing up from behind the desk, he came around and placed his hands on my shoulders. "And if you can pull that off, Snow, I'm going to damn well nominate you for a Medal of Honor. And you will stand there, and smile for the cameras, and accept it."

I ducked my head away. "Sir, you know I prefer to do my work from the background."

He nodded with an aggravated sigh. Letting me go, he folded his arms and leaned back against his desk. "I know, and you're my best analyst by far because of it. Nobody else could have pulled off what you've done."

"I do what I can, sir." I raised my eyebrows. "So you can arrange that meeting?"

He snorted and went back around his desk. "I believe there's a saying about bears and woods that you might be familiar with. Get me the date that you're most comfortable with, and I'll make sure it gets arranged." He nodded to me with an avuncular smile. "If there's nothing more, Snow?"

"No, sir, nothing that I can think of."

"Very well. Dismissed."

"Sir, yes, sir."

I came to attention and saluted, then turned and left his office. Kinsey had been waiting in the ready room down the corridor; I gathered him in by eye and we kept going. The plan was to collect the car from the parking lot and move it to on-base housing, where we would stay for the night. In the morning, of course, we would head south to Louisville, in Kentucky. With any luck, I would be able to avoid running into anyone I knew, if only so I didn't have to answer awkward questions as to why I was using a walking stick.

So of course, who else would we meet in the lobby but the one man I wanted to avoid most of all. Robbie Gordon himself. As we stepped out of the elevator, the person he was talking to at the desk actually pointed in our direction, and he turned and smiled. A little to my surprise, he'd grown a beard in the meantime; it filled out his face and added a few years to his apparent age, but I was willing to bet he was still the same asshole underneath.

"Captain Snow!" he greeted me, all full of good humour and cheer. "It's so nice to see you again!"

"Hello …" I paused, checking his rank insignia, just in case he'd somehow managed to hit Major in the time I'd been away. My eyebrows rose as I saw what was actually there. " … Lieutenant Gordon?" Well, shit. Looks like that anonymous call did the trick.

"Sadly, yes," he sighed. "But these things happen. Easy come, easy go." He paused, and I fully expected him to continue with a barb at my expense. "So, how have you been?" His eyes travelled down the length of my body, then flicked to the walking stick. "What happened there?"

I was immediately on guard. Robbie Gordon had been nothing but nice almost the whole time I'd known him; at least, on the surface. But I'd found out afterward that the friendliness had all been a sham intended to lure me into his bed, which made sense of a few things that had been puzzling me, and almost caused me to go back and beat the crap out of him. Now that I was back, the faux bonhomie and good cheer made me wonder if he thought he could start where he'd left off and succeed this time. If so, you're out of luck in a big way.

"I assisted the PRT in Seattle with a stakeout," I said, giving the cover story. "The parahuman we were after got a hit in on me before we took it down. He'd already killed several women."

"Well, damn." He whistled softly. "Listen, I was just on the way out. I have a friend waiting for me. Did you want to come and say hello? I'm sure she'd be absolutely thrilled to meet you." He leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "She's a big fan."

I glanced at Kinsey, and got a blank stare back. He had no more idea of what Robbie had planned than I did. Could it be that he'd actually learned from his experiences and moved on? After all, the bullshit story about me being involved with Hamilton had been handed to the ATF two months ago. "You've … met someone?" I asked hesitantly.

"Oh, yes." He nodded enthusiastically. "Christine's wonderful. And she's got a baby son, Elijah. He's a real bossy-boots." His face broke into a fond smile. "I'm sure you'll get along great with both of them. I've told Christine all about you … well, the unclassified bits, anyway. Like I said, she's a real fan."

I had no idea how to handle this. He wasn't making a play for me at all. This was too weird. He actually had a girlfriend? I supposed it was possible; he was good looking, after all. Maybe getting hammered for the contraband had caused him to re-evaluate his life choices. And with enough of a run-up and a strong tailwind, pigs might fly too. In my personal experience, people only changed for the better when they had absolutely no choice otherwise.

On the other hand, Kinsey and I were going out to the parking lot to get our car anyway. I figured we could say hello to this Christine, admire her child, then go on our way. It wasn't as though Robbie could follow us to on-base housing. And even if it turned into a shit-show, such as if Robbie's new girlfriend actually wanted to abuse us for being so mean to him, we could always just walk away.

"Sure," I said. "Let's go."

As we started from the lobby, Kinsey interrogated me by eye, with a flick toward the hire car. I shook my head. I preferred to keep him with me for the moment, just in case I needed a witness for whatever transpired between myself, Robbie, and Christine. With a very brief nod, he moved up alongside me, matching my pace. We followed Robbie toward a sedan; the late afternoon sun showed a person sitting in it. No … two people. A woman and a child. Well, at least he was telling the truth about that part.

As we approached, Christine got out. She looked maybe eighteen or nineteen, but on the skinny side. Not naturally skinny, like me, but as though she'd missed more than a few meals. Her hair bore that out; cut long, it had the pale wispy look common to people who had undergone severe illness or malnutrition when young. Her son looked about three or four, but he already appeared to be more robust than her.

Letting go his mother's hand, the kid headed straight for Kinsey, which surprised me a little. The bulk and size of the man tended to put people off him. Even grown men kept their distance. But the child, and now his mother, seemed to have no fear of him. Probably because he's wearing the same uniform as Robbie.

When the kid got close, Kinsey crouched down to get closer to his eye level. Half a pace behind him, I was keeping an eye on Robbie, just in case he wanted to pull some bullshit play after all. "Hello, Elijah," Kinsey said, in as close to a gentle tone as he could manage. Trust him to remember the kid's name. "I'm James."

"Hello," piped Elijah. "You gotta do what Mama says."

I snorted with amusement. Robbie had said he was a bossy-boots.

"Hello, James," Christine said. "You take care of my boy for a moment. I need to speak to Taylor."

That was taking things a step too far. "Ma'am," I said to the woman, "no. With all due respect—"

"Yes, ma'am," Kinsey replied, straightening up with Elijah in his arms.

What in the living fuck? Kinsey had never gone directly against my wishes, ever. Not in a situation like this. "Kinsey!" I shouted, my hand diving into my jacket for my pistol. The shoulder holster wasn't regulation wear for undress blues, but I liked having a firearm on hand, so to speak. "Put that—"

For the second time in a row, I was interrupted as Robbie cannoned into my side, grabbing my gun arm. "Not this time, Snow," he grunted. "You're—"

Turning on the spot, I rammed the head of my walking stick up under his jaw, then twirled it in midair and drove the hardened tip into his throat. He gagged and let go, stumbling backward. I caught my balance, then brought the pistol up and around. The woman was a Master; it was the only explanation. She was clear of Kinsey, and I had a round in the chamber.

The world dissolved into chaos. There were a dozen Kinseys, two dozen Christines, and a howling in my ears that drowned out everything. Then all I could see was her face, the pale skin and eyes, the wispy hair, as she sneered at me. "You're mine," she said, and her voice shook my world. "You killed my people. I'm going to kill you. One scream at a time."

I fell to my knees on the rough asphalt, then recalled the pistol still in my hand. I couldn't shoot, because I didn't know where Kinsey was, but I could raise the alarm. Pointing the Glock straight up, I only got one shot away before a smashing blow struck me in the solar plexus. Gagging, I fell back, trying not to vomit. I tried to sweep the stick around, to find my assaillant, but a slim hand caught me by the wrist. That was a good start; if I could find out where the rest of her body was, I could put bullets into her.

Releasing the stick, I twisted my wrist to grab hers, then swung my legs around to try for a sweep. Blind and deaf I might be, but I'd been in worse situations. This bitch was going to learn—

Fire consumed my hand, flaring up my arm. My fingers could no longer grasp anything; I didn't even know if I was still holding the Glock. Pain, more intense than almost anything I'd ever felt, blasted through my consciousness. Almost. Bakuda's pain bomb had been worse. I gambled on her wrist still being in my hand, and for her being right-handed, and I threw all my effort into a lunge forward. At best, I would head-butt her; at worst, I might slow her down a little.

I must have done something, because the worst of the pain dropped away, and I heard more than a solid roar in my ears. "—fucking cow. You will fucking regret that. When I order this oaf of yours to dislocate your arms, then rip them clean off, you're going to feel every last—"

BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM

My ears were ringing now, but at least I could see and hear again. The pain receded from my nerve endings, and I saw the woman lying next to me like a broken doll. Several large exit wounds, including one in the side of her head, explained why she was no longer in control of my sensorium. Kinsey, still holding the child, had his pistol held straight-armed toward where Christine had been standing; spent brass littered the asphalt nearby, and smoke curled from the muzzle.

I took a deep shuddering breath. "Kinsey," I began. "Put—"

The kid stared at his mother's corpse, then at Kinsey. "You killed Mama!" he shrieked. "I hate you! You should die!"

And Kinsey's gun muzzle began to move up to his own head. That was when I realised one more fact.

The kid's a Master, too.

Through sheer fluke, my own pistol was still in my hand. I was in a bad shooting position, and my nerves were still shaking from the agony that Christine had just put me through. But my training had drilled into me over and over: it didn't matter. A good soldier got up and kept going. Soldier, shut up and soldier. So I flung out my arm and fired, three shots as fast as I could squeeze the trigger.

The first one missed. The second one clipped the kid's ear. The third one … dead centre. In every sense of the word.

Kinsey hesitated, the heavy pistol now jammed up under his chin. I fired twice more. By the time the last shot died away, there wasn't a target there to be serviced any more.

Slowly, Kinsey's arms fell to his sides. The pistol clattered to the asphalt, as the child fell bonelessly to his other side. He dropped to his knees.

Over the ringing in my ears, I gradually became aware of the sounds of sirens and running boots. Looking around, I saw armoured vans and armed men pouring out on to the parking lot. There were a whole lot of rifles, and they were all pointed in our direction. Mainly my direction, as it happened, as I was the only one still holding a weapon.

Carefully, I laid the Glock down on the asphalt and shuffled away from it on my knees. My recent wounds protested, but I told them to suck it up. A little pain later on was totally worth not being shot right now. Lacing my fingers behind my head, I waited for them to come take me into custody. A side-glance told me that Robbie still wasn't moving. Was he even breathing? I couldn't tell.

As the PRT troopers surrounded me, all I could think was that I should've listened more closely to my instincts. I was right. It did turn into a shit-show.

End of Part 7-0​

[A/N: There is a reason why Kinsey pulled that off. It will be explained next chapter. Mwahaha.]

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 7-1: Bury the Dead; Life Goes On

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

Thursday, August 11, 1994
Chicago, Illinois
PRT Department 4
A Holding Cell
1749 Hours

I sat in the holding cell, elbows on my knees, head down, staring at nothing.

The guards had taken my pistol and walking-cane as per protocol after a firearms incident. I wasn't under arrest; isolation and observation after such an incident was also protocol. The cell door wasn't locked, but the guards outside (plural, some out of sight) were to discourage me from going anywhere except the bathroom until my boss had all his ducks in a row. I knew all this and was not offended. With Lisa's assistance, I'd laid down the ground rules for incidents like this.

The onsite medic had checked me over (in the manner prescribed by my guidelines) and cleared me from having current or ongoing Master influence. I trusted Kinsey had been likewise cleared. Valefor's power didn't last after his death. Lisa had assured me of this.

Immediately after entering the cell, I'd gone looking to her for answers and to confirm my suspicions, and I'd gotten both. While tacking a high-tech yacht across the stormy world-ocean of Europa, she'd identified the mother and child as Christine and Elijah Mathers, AKA Mama Mathers and Valefor. One a Cauldron cape, the other a natural born trigger. It made me wonder what could've caused Valefor's trigger at such a young age; Lisa hadn't expanded on that topic and I hadn't pressed her.

Once I knew for a fact who Valefor was, everything fell into place. Not so long before, I had been instrumental in bringing the wrath of the PRT and associated law enforcement organisations down upon the heads of the Brotherhood of the Fallen. Valefor had been a rising star in the Fallen of my time, and I had no doubt his mother would've been a power in the background, given her specific Master ability. She'd bought a vial to match off with her son's power, probably to give herself an 'in' with the Fallen that didn't involve being bred off to their most powerful capes. I'd taken all that away from her.

That had been part of it, Lisa agreed. It also hadn't helped that the stupidly named Snow Protocols were making it harder for Masters and Strangers (of which she was both) to slip through the cracks. So she'd come to Chicago and grabbed Robbie, the one idiot who didn't want to do what he was told, all because I'd been the one to implement those rules. Though I hadn't heard either of them order Robbie to stop me. As much as I hated to admit it, that bit hadn't been the Mastery speaking. That had been all him.

I wasn't actually unused to people disliking me for no good reason, but the sheer pettiness of the man still took my breath away. Even if his only other action could have been to stand still and do nothing, he'd chosen to help them.

Still, all of that was not why I was searching my soul so deeply. It was the fact that I'd shot and killed a child.

He'd been an enemy combatant, that was true. A Master who was in the process of trying to kill one of my only true friends, and a better man than he would've ever grown up to become. With words alone, he had attempted to make Kinsey blow his own brains out, and nearly succeeded. Had I not acted, had I not put steel on target, Kinsey would now be dead and Valefor-to-be would likely have ordered me to do the same, carrying out his dead mother's wishes.

I had done the only thing possible under the circumstances.

I knew that.

But still …

I shot a child.

People had died at my hand before, always because they were threatening me or mine, but I'd never thought I'd have to take out a kid.

None of my instructors had ever sat us down and bluntly come out with it. "At some point in your career, you will be faced with a child who is a clear and present danger to your well-being. In order to save your own life, you will have to shoot that child. Can you do it?" We'd never even done an exercise on it. The subject just hadn't come up. We were the good guys. Good guys don't kill children.

It was a rare (though somewhat understandable) blind spot in the training regime. Child soldiers were a thing, but the PRT didn't get sent on overseas deployments. More to the point, when the PRT's doctrine was being formalised, villainous child capes were so thin on the ground as to be a negligible factor. In later years, containment foam would make it even less of a potential problem: some little overpowered munchkin is being a problem? Foam him to the eyeballs.

But the sad truth of it was, this early on, nobody had anticipated a parahuman child with murder on their mind.

(Well, I had, seeing as I'd encountered several in my time. But nobody had consulted with me. And even I hadn't thought I would be running into one who was quite so young.)

I knew perfectly well the fault wasn't mine, that his mother had deliberately brought him into the scenario and that I'd had to act to save Kinsey's life, but it still didn't make me feel any better.

Lisa hadn't helped with a muttered aside to the effect that history always repeated itself. She'd refused to explain that one either, which irritated the crap out of me. Knowing Lisa, that was probably deliberate.

The cell door opened, snapping me out of my introspection. "Captain Snow, Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton will see you now."

I stood, automatically straightening my uniform and brushing myself off where I could. Some of Mama Mathers' blood had sprayed onto me when Kinsey shot her, but I'd been given the chance to clean myself off and change into a fresh uniform jacket. The body would currently be getting tested for infectious diseases; yet another protocol we had to go through, but one that would become much more important after the advent of Bonesaw and people like her.

(I was clear. Lisa had assured me of that.)

Retrieving my beret from where it had been sitting on the bench next to me, I tucked it under my epaulette and marched out of the cell, following the MP who'd been sent to fetch me. It would've been a little more comfortable with the cane, but I could handle it. Again, it was made clear that I was not under guard; his firearm was holstered, with the flap clipped down. I knew well enough not to ask questions. Even if he'd been authorised to answer them, he probably didn't know what I wanted to hear.

We made the trip to Hamilton's office in silence punctuated only by the rhythmic cadence of our boot heels hitting the floor in unison. Nobody passed us by on the way, which said to me that our route had been cleared ahead of time. Once again, no surprise to me. This was by its very definition a matter that would be dealt with under the tightest of security, and then buried as deeply as our classification system would allow it to go. The fewer people who could say they saw Captain Snow being escorted to the Lieutenant-Colonel's office by an MP (with three more trailing behind) after the shooting of a woman and her child in the parking lot (yeah, that bit was still sticking with me), the better.

The door was opened for me; I marched in and came to attention in front of Hamilton's desk. Although I'd seen him less than an hour previously, he suddenly looked a lot older. Mentally, I apologised to him for making his life more complicated than it already had been. I would've done it out loud, but somehow I didn't think it would make him feel any better.

At the side of the desk sat a PRT captain. I didn't need to see the briefcase to know that this was a JAG lawyer. He had that look of a shark in human form.

Why no, I don't have problems with lawyers. At least, not many.

"Captain Snow, reporting as ordered, sir!" I announced, ignoring the JAG guy.

"At ease, Captain," Hamilton said automatically. I had to say that about him; he wasn't one for petty power plays. He was the boss and I was the wunderkind, and we both knew it. I also knew quite well that if I hadn't had Lisa assisting and coaching me from behind the scenes, it probably would've been impossible to pull the wool over his eyes as I had been. If, indeed, I was actually fooling him. Sometimes, the look in his eye made me wonder. He'd been doing the job for longer than I'd been alive, after all.

I relaxed my stance; outwardly, anyway. Inside, I was still wound tighter than the mainspring of a grandfather clock. He looked me over, not scathingly, but as if refreshing his memory of me. His gaze was direct, but I didn't look away. I would own what I'd done, no matter how Hamilton wanted to play it.

Off to the side, I was aware of the JAG lawyer's scrutiny, but it wasn't his opinion I was worried about.

"Well, this is a mess, Snow, and no mistake," Hamilton said at last. "I listened to the verbal report you gave while you were being checked over. Master/Strangers infiltrating my own goddamn base!" The swearing didn't surprise me. I'd done a little myself in the cell, under my breath. "How did Lieutenant Gordon get taken in by her? There are guidelines for this sort of thing!"

I kept my own voice as flat and inflectionless as possible, so it didn't sound as though I were enjoying the chance to throw Robbie under the bus. As much as I might have wanted to hate him, there was no point. He was merely a forgettable idiot. "You're aware that Lieutenant Gordon and I have history, sir."

It was impossible for him not to be; my road trip had been initially occasioned by Robbie's shenanigans. Though he probably wasn't fully aware of the sheer depth (and occasional skeeviness) of some of those shenanigans.

"And because you're the one who wrote the protocols, he decided he knew better." Hamilton's mouth twisted in disgust. "I'd thought with his other troubles, and with you out of the way, he might have been able to let that go."

"Some people don't ever let a grudge go." Not that I was one to talk. I wasn't about to turn my back on anyone who'd wronged me in my previous life, if I could possibly help it. "Also …"

I hesitated to say it. It came perilously close to kicking the man when he was down.

Hamilton had no such scruples. "Speak." At the same time, the JAG lawyer leaned a little closer. Scenting blood in the water, no doubt.

With a deep breath, I steeled myself to say the words that would forever and irretrievably sink the career and ruin the life of Lieutenant Robert Gordon, PRT (Intelligence). "Also … he body-checked me when I went to draw down on them. I hate to say it, but I don't think he was ordered to do that."

The lines on Hamilton's face were engraved even deeper by the time I finished speaking, but he didn't say anything. I could see the pain in his eyes, though.

Clearing his throat, the JAG captain spoke for the first time. "For the sake of being a devil's advocate, I'm going to suggest that Lieutenant Gordon may have been given prior orders, that he was carrying out when the time came."

"That's a possibility, sir," I agreed, acknowledging his presence. "But I doubt she ordered him to say the words, 'Not this time, Snow' as he did it. He went to say more but just about then, I tagged him with the walking stick."

"That you certainly did," Hamilton said as the JAG lawyer sat back again. "You damaged his larynx to the point that they had to perform a tracheotomy before they could set about getting his airway open again. I haven't yet had the chance to speak to him. Now … I will be having rather more strenuous words with him."

We all knew what that was about. Robbie would no longer be under Master influence. With mother and son out of the picture (still painful to think about) he was his own man once more. A soldier who had fallen under the sway of a Master was one thing; Kinsey had proven that such men could go on and return to service with no ill effects. But someone who actively cooperated with the Master for their own reasons could not be trusted ever again, even if no criminal charges were preferred.

"What about Kinsey, sir?" I asked. "Is he alright? He saved us both." I knew how he'd broken Mama Mathers' influence on him, but only because Lisa had told me. She'd been very impressed, as had I. Kinsey had hidden depths—I'd already known that—but this was a whole new level to the man.

"He is," Hamilton said with a rare smile, then pressed a button on his intercom. "Send the sergeant in, please."

A moment later, the door opened behind me and Kinsey entered; I didn't look around, but I would've known his tread anywhere. He stepped up alongside me and went through the same process as I had, going to attention and announcing his presence. The lieutenant-colonel waved a hand. "At ease, Sergeant." He looked from me to Kinsey and back again. "I'm pleased to see that you have both come through the experience relatively unscathed. Though I do have some questions as to how you pulled it off."

I was glad he'd said 'relatively' unscathed. This was one sea story I was never telling Andrea. Not because I didn't think she'd forgive me, but because I didn't want to have to put her through the ordeal of knowing about it. "Before we begin, sir, do you have identification of the persons?"

One shaggy white eyebrow rose. "Nothing concrete, Snow. Lieutenant Gordon's personal possessions contained a reference to a 'Christine'. You and the sergeant reported that Lieutenant Gordon referred to them as Christine and Elijah. She herself carried no identification. Are you saying you have more than that?"

"Yes, sir," I replied crisply. "I had time to think while I was in holding, and I managed to narrow down who they were and what this was all about."

Kinsey never even twitched, which bespoke either phenomenal self-control or absolute assurance that I knew everything and had been merely waiting to reveal it in good time. If the latter, he was partially correct. Lisa was the one who knew everything; I was merely the mouthpiece.

On the other hand, Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton's eyebrows both climbed toward his vanished hairline and he leaned forward slightly. "You will never cease to amaze me, Snow," he murmured. "So who was she?" Deliberately, he pressed the button on a tape-recorder on his desk.

I cleared my throat. Time to give him a lot of truth and one small lie. "Her name was Christine Mathers. Elijah was her son. I'd encountered reports about them before, but fragmentary and not the easiest thing in the world to piece together. Specifically, I had no pictures of them. But the mother could hijack the sensorium and force her victims to feel and see things, including blinding them and making them experience excruciating pain. Her range for this was extensive, at least from one side of the country to the other. The child, if he saw you and you could hear him, could give you a verbal order that you absolutely had to follow. Up to and including 'forget you ever saw me'. Ms Mathers was affiliated with the Brotherhood of the Fallen, and would've come after me once they were destroyed, for revenge."

The JAG lawyer's jaw honestly dropped open, then he shut it again hastily. By contrast, Hamilton merely shook his head slightly, though I judged it to be more in wonder than disbelief. "Well, that explains a great many things. I presume one or the other got you under their control, Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir." Kinsey shook his head in self-disapproval. "The child ordered me to do whatever his mother said. It was as though my mind was submerged in warm jello. From that point, I couldn't even think to resist her orders."

I could sympathise. Years ago and years to come, in the original timeline, I'd encountered Valefor. He'd briefly taken me under control, but my bugs had intervened and I'd had the opportunity to remove his conduit of power by blinding him. Just to make my point abundantly clear, I'd packed his eyeballs with maggots.

"So what changed?" asked Hamilton. "How did you break free of his power?"

"I didn't, sir, not really," Kinsey confessed. "It was the Captain who gave me the key to acting. When we first met, we both got controlled by the one called Nice Guy, until she killed him. After she took me on as her orderly, I asked her how she broke free of his control, and she told me about the self-hypnosis she practises. So I bought books and studied them in my downtime, then started doing it myself. I'm probably not as good at it as she is, but I gave myself one order: if anyone tries to make me hurt the Captain, I will kill them. Every morning and every night, I've been doing the mental exercises, sir. And when that woman started saying that she was going to make me rip the Captain's arms off, neither one of them had ordered me not to kill her, so the orders I'd given myself took over. I just drew and started putting rounds downrange." He paused. "To be honest, I felt really stupid doing all those exercises, but it all worked out in the end, sir."

Hamilton took a moment to brush down his moustache with finger and thumb. "Whereupon the child ordered you to kill yourself, and Captain Snow ended that threat. I see." He stood up from his chair. "Well done, Sergeant. Your unswerving loyalty and attention to duty are a credit to the service. And you too, Captain. There may well be a medal in this for the both of you. The details will be kept confidential, of course."

"No, sir." I said the words before I realised what I was going to say. Even more surprising, Kinsey spoke up at exactly the same time.

"I beg your pardon?" Hamilton regarded us both quizzically, while the JAG lawyer looked positively shocked. "Are you two refusing recognition for a legitimate achievement, one that saved your lives and removed two dangerous Masters from consideration?"

Kinsey glanced sideways at me, clearly deferring to my leadership. I nodded fractionally, then addressed Hamilton directly. "All that is true, sir, but I don't want a medal for shooting a child."

"I see." Some of the extra energy had left Hamilton's stance as he turned to Kinsey. "And you feel the same way?"

"Sir." Kinsey nodded. "She might have been a bad guy, but I don't want to be reminded of her face every time I polish that medal."

Slowly, Hamilton nodded. "I can understand that. This is a dirty world we live in, and sometimes we have the need to do things that we're never going to be proud of. It's a credit to you both that you feel this way, rather than just brushing it off." He slowly sat down again.

"Thank you, sir, for being understanding." I took a deep breath. "May I ask what will be done with Lieutenant Gordon?" The last thing I wanted was to see him put into a position of authority, like they'd done with Emily Piggot in my original timeline (I had yet to see how that would play out in the here and now) to give her an incentive not to blab about the utter debacle that the Ellisburg incident had become. Shifting him sideways out of the PRT officer corps into a Directorship (or even the position of Deputy Director) would almost certainly lead to, in my expert opinion, an impressively spectacular fuckup.

"I don't know as yet," Hamilton answered; honestly, as far as I could read him. "He was good at his job, though prone to pettiness and laziness when he thought he could get away with it. I'm going to recommend that he be let go from the PRT, but I don't know if it'll stick."

The JAG lawyer cleared his throat again. "While we can't actually prove his actions against you were distinct from the Mastery, he still got himself into that position in the first place, so it will probably end up as an OTH. At least, that's what my recommendation will say."

Kinsey shifted fractionally beside me, and I figured he was thinking back to how close he'd come to being given a discharge of his own after the run-in with Nice Guy. This was a totally different situation in every respect; Kinsey had actively fought back, and had done his best to not cooperate in any way, shape or form.

An Other Than Honorable discharge would almost certainly disqualify Gordon from re-upping with any other department of the PRT, or indeed any branch of the regular military. Even ignoring the personal dislike between us, he'd screwed up massively by failing to follow the protocols that had been implemented in Chicago before they'd gone into action everywhere else.

Once he was gone from the PRT, he would hopefully be out of my life for good. Whatever he felt about me, he was welcome to go and have those feelings somewhere else. He wasn't worth the hassle that would arise from dealing with him in any meaningful fashion. I hoped he could be made to understand that it was far better for all concerned (him as well as me) if he just went and had an uneventful life that didn't involve Captain Taylor Snow ever again.

"That's probably for the best, Captain," I observed. "From what I personally know of the man, but can't prove, he probably would've ended up with a BCD sooner or later. This way, he's out of my hair and yours." A Bad Conduct Discharge was a lot more serious than an OTH, and might even lead to prison time. In a way, Robbie was getting off lightly.

"So to speak," Hamilton murmured with a dry smile, running his hand over his mostly bald scalp.

"Though I can see one potential problem, sir," I noted, as diplomatically as possible. "Lieutenant Gordon has not demonstrated any kind of track record of smart life choices, at least where I'm concerned. I am concerned that he might decide to hold a grudge against the PRT and speak to the media. Being in Intelligence, he knows more of our dirty little secrets than most."

Hamilton didn't bother quibbling about the phrase 'dirty little secrets'. We had them, we both knew why they were kept secret, and if they got out without the accompanying context, they could do the PRT a certain amount of damage. And doing the most damage possible would suit Robbie's purposes perfectly if he decided that the PRT had betrayed him and wanted payback.

"Permission to speak freely, sir, ma'am," Kinsey said.

"Of course, Sergeant," Hamilton said at once. "What's on your mind?"

"Lieutenant Gordon is not a stupid man, sir. He'll know that the ice is very thin and that he's either fallen through or is about to. I've seen what the Captain can do with computers; I would restrict his access entirely until you decide what you're going to do long-term. Making wild claims is one thing. Making them with tangible evidence is a whole other thing. And then I'd drop his body weight in NDAs on him. He's not a man to take no for an answer without clear and obvious repercussions at stake, so I'd be inclined to make them clear and obvious. Sir."

I cleared my throat. "Kinsey has it right, sir. In fact, I'd suspend his computer permissions immediately, so he doesn't try to pull something pre-emptive. NDAs are useless if he's already spilled the beans."

Hamilton nodded slowly. "Your points are valid, both of you. As much as I hate to hang a man without trial, it's better to shut the stable door before the horse bolts." He glanced at the JAG guy, who nodded fractionally in agreement. Then he looked back at the both of us. "If either of you feel that you need to talk to someone about this, let me know and I'll arrange for a suitably cleared therapist. Captain Snow, the MPs outside have your weapons and your walking cane. Dismissed."

"Thank you, sir." I turned and left the office, Kinsey one pace behind me. As we did so, I heard the sound of Hamilton picking up his phone.

Outside, I retrieved my firearm and cane from the MPs as promised, then made my way to the quarters I used while on base. Pistol in hand, I checked the interior of the quarters to ensure that no surprises awaited—I hadn't thought there might be anything like that in Chicago, but I wasn't going to fall into the same trap twice—then turned to Kinsey, still waiting patiently at the door.

"How are you doing, Kinsey?" The corridor was deserted, but I kept my voice low anyway.

"I'll be fine after a good night's sleep, ma'am." His voice was firm and steady. "I never thanked you for what you did, earlier."

"Don't mention it," I said, and I meant it. I didn't ever want to hear it mentioned again. "What you did was goddamn impressive. And I know what I'm talking about."

He shrugged uncomfortably. "I didn't even have time to think about it. It just happened so fast."

I put my hand on his shoulder, getting his attention. "Kinsey. Ninety-nine men out of a hundred, in that situation, would've stood there drooling. You acted. After what happened with Nice Guy, you could've checked out altogether; we both know that. But you took the initiative, prepared for a repeat of that scenario, and took out someone who could've easily killed us both." I shook my head. "Thinking about it … well, it's the fact that you didn't think about it that let you get your pistol all the way out and start putting bullets into her. If you'd spent any amount of time actually considering the action before drawing down on her, she would've known about it and probably shifted your aimpoint to me. So you did it exactly right, and you got us out of it. Well done, Kinsey."

Kinsey and I had a very matter-of-fact relationship. From the beginning, since I'd rescued him from an ignominious exit from the PRT, I'd been in charge. We'd saved each other's lives a couple of times since then, but I was betting this was the first time that he'd managed to prove to himself that he was actually worth the high regard I held him in. Not least because he'd also managed to face the bogeyman that had brought him low in the first place—a hostile Master—and come out on top.

It was against regulations to salute indoors and without a cover on, but Kinsey drew himself to attention anyway and ripped off a parade-ground perfect salute. I fancied I saw a tear sparkle in the corner of his eye. "Ma'am," he managed, his voice rough.

I returned the salute with just enough of a smile that he would understand that I knew why he'd saluted, then nodded more informally. "Kinsey. You're off duty as of right now, so go eat and get some rack time. We won't be driving out until tomorrow, just in case JAG has more paperwork for us to fill out, or Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton needs us for anything else."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, and performed an about-turn. I watched as he marched off down the corridor, and smiled fondly. Kinsey could be scary as hell if he put any effort at all into it, but pulling him out of the pit of despair I'd found him in had been the best move of my PRT career, bar none. While having someone at my back who could render extreme violence at need had always been an asset, it had never been more so than when I was facing two Masters at once.

Going back into my quarters, I closed (and locked) the door, then took my pistol out. It would need to be checked and cleaned, then I wanted to have a shower, go online to ensure the local intranet hadn't been breached in my absence, then get a meal and some shuteye. I hadn't thought anyone could break through the precautions I'd taken, but we didn't know yet if Robbie had handed out his online credentials to anyone while under the sway of the Master. Everything he knew, we'd have to change as a matter of course.

My job, I decided as I went and got my gun-care kit, would be so much easier without short-sighted idiots to fuck things up.

-ooo-​

Saturday, August 13, 1994
0630 Hours

"A whole day," I grumbled under my breath as I helped Kinsey load the car. Translation: I carried the light cases while he hefted the heavy stuff. "Seriously, couldn't they just boot him out without my assistance?"

"It appears they've made up their minds," Kinsey observed imperturbably as he carefully placed my packed-up computer in the back of the car. "They've decided that he's enough of a problem that they don't want him being able to fight it from any angle."

"Well, you're not wrong there." I shook my head. Checking the Chicago system over had been a piece of cake; barely anything had needed adjusting. Everyone bar the idiotic soon-to-be-ex Lieutenant Gordon had been following the guidelines to a T, and it showed. "Depositions as far as the eye could see." They had plumbed into my interactions with Robbie right from the start, back when I was a lowly lieutenant under him in the Intelligence division. Even Kinsey had been called in to give his assessment of the man, and to offer witness corroboration of things I'd already mentioned.

We'd managed to scrounge a break in the middle of the day to get some exercise, light sparring and range time in, then it was back to the depositions. The JAG captain (who I learned was called Nelson) headed the team; while he was never overtly hostile, he asked very penetrating questions and looked quietly pleased at the answers. Suffice to say, these were not softball interviews.

By the end of the last interview, after the final statement had been taken down, double-checked for accuracy, and sealed away, it was after dark. I had debated pushing on anyways, but decided to spend one more night in friendly surroundings. As friendly as the world ever got, that is.

And so there we were, the morning sun slanting its rays across the parking lot, as we finished packing the car once more. If there was one good thing about our odyssey from PRT department to PRT department, we'd gotten really good at getting everything where it was supposed to go. Packed the same way every time, we'd be able to find any one thing at a moment's notice.

"They're JAG, ma'am. Before they take one more step, they're going to want all their ducks in a row."

"In a row?" I quipped. "They've got these ducks so organised they're singing The Star Spangled Banner in four-part harmony."

Kinsey chuckled briefly at my weak joke, then cleared his throat. "Officer on deck, ma'am," he warned me softly.

I turned to see Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton crossing the tarmac to join us, hands clasped behind his back. Kinsey and I came to attention and saluted. He returned it, then nodded to us. "Carry on, Sergeant. Captain Snow, walk with me."

"Yes, sir." I moved to stroll alongside Hamilton, leaving Kinsey to finish loading the car, a task with which he was entirely familiar. "Is there a problem, sir?"

"Nothing immediate," he assured me. "Legend got back to me. He's very interested in your proposed meeting. Whenever and wherever you wish to set it up, he says." He chuckled dryly. "For someone who doesn't seek the spotlight, you seem to have amassed quite a fan club."

Mentally, I groaned. Eidolon must have gone overboard with his praise for me. "I'm just trying to do my job, sir."

"And you do it damn well, Captain. Just do me a favour and try not to keep getting injured, will you? There's only so much abuse the human body can take and still keep on ticking."

"I do my best to stay out of trouble, sir," I protested weakly. "It just seems to have a knack for finding me."

"Whereupon you bring it to a sudden and definitive end," he noted. "I can't argue with that part of your actions but given your propensity toward encountering problematic situations in the first place, I'm wondering if I shouldn't authorise a larger guard contingent for you."

Yeah, that was a huge nope from me. "With all due respect, sir, a larger guard contingent would not have done me any good, and may well have gotten me killed on several occasions. Also, for every extra man, there's more gear we've got to bring along. Any more than one extra, that's another car, and more resources I'm draining away from everyday operations. And the very last thing I want to do is draw attention to a convoy of vehicles travelling from department to department." Besides, I liked my freedom of action, and Kinsey was remarkably open-minded when it came to off-the-books operations. I doubted very much that any other guard would be.

"Very true," he conceded. "I defer to your judgement in this area. Though talking about judgement, Captain Nelson was very impressed by your testimony and general bearing. He made noises about poaching you for JAG Corps."

I suppressed the gagging sound I was tempted to make. "No, thank you, sir. I very much prefer what I'm doing now."

"So I informed him," Hamilton said, his voice amused. "After I explained that you'd turned down multiple attempts to recruit you for the Washington think-tank, he accepted that you knew what you wanted."

Behind me, I heard the rear of the sports wagon close and click into place. "Well, that seems to be us, sir." I stood to attention and saluted. "With your permission, we'll be on our way."

He returned the salute again. "Granted. Oh, and just by the way, your leave request from the nineteenth to the twenty-fourth has been approved. Is there a particular occasion you wished to be free for?"

I smiled. "Yes, sir. Same as the last time. Another one of my friends is getting married, back home in Brockton Bay."

His eyebrows rose slightly. "I'm impressed. The last such event was back in March, wasn't it? How many more engaged couples do you know?"

"That's about it, sir," I said. "Danny's kind of my semi-adoptive brother. His parents took me into their house when I first showed up in Brockton Bay. I told him I would attend if I could, with no promises attached. He understood. But he'll be thrilled if I manage to make it on time."

Hamilton nodded and gave me an avuncular smile. "Well, then. You'd best be going. I wouldn't want you to be late on my account."

"Thank you, sir," I said, and headed back to the car. We climbed in, Kinsey driving of course, and headed out.

"Where to, ma'am?" asked Kinsey.

I pulled the map from the door pocket and unfolded it. "Next stop, Indianapolis."

-ooo-​

A Few Days Later

"Hm,", I murmured as I looked down over the parapet of the unreasonably tall building we stood on top of. "A little fog around tonight." Far below, around the seventy to eighty floor mark, wisps of cloud were beginning to form a layer that obscured the grimy pavement below that.

"That's not fog," Lisa advised me grimly, and handed over a form-fitting facemask. "The refinery down the coast stepped up production. Brother X wants more servers installed. So a few more safety regulations just got suspended 'for the duration of the Emergency'."

I snorted, but put the mask on. It covered the lower part of my face as if moulded to it, and there were integral flip-up goggles. I could feel it adhering to my face via van der Waals force, leaving no gaps to let the unfiltered outside air in. Filtered air, on the other hand, came through readily enough. We could even converse quite easily, with the short-range radio communicators that were built into them. "How long's the Emergency been going on now?" I asked idly.

"Fifteen years. Ever since they switched Brother X on and he took over the government. Or maybe he just paid them off and they stepped aside. I was never sure about that part." Lisa's voice was harsh, even through her mask. Brother X, the world's first AI dictator, had been originally intended as a tactical computer. Nobody had thought to program in any kind of regard for human life, and so ever since then, life had been cheap. Regaining our freedom, on the other hand, was going to be very expensive indeed.

Which was why Lisa and I were on top of a building we had no legal right to be within half a mile of in any direction. Brother X's robotic hoverdrones cruised through every layer of the sprawling megatropolis known only as the Urb, sensors scanning for the slightest deviation from accepted behaviour. There was data to be hacked inside the building—the tallest in Bravo Sector—that Lisa thought could be used against the malevolent AI. She knew what it was, and how to get it. I was just along to watch her back.

The only reason we'd even gotten this close was down to the sensor-defeating stealth suits we wore, but they would lose a lot of their effectiveness in close quarters. After all, we weren't actually invisible. This was why I was also carrying two pistols and a submachine gun.

Lisa attached our descent cables to the stanchion, then I tested each of them, first putting my full weight against the lines then giving them a series of solid, jerky tugs to see if they'd jolt free. They held firm. We were ready to go.

We both wore harnesses with an attachment point for the descent cable reel, right about where our centre of gravity would be. I backed up over the side of the building, letting the cable out through the brake in nice steady increments. With my feet braced against the vertical surface and my left hand controlling the brake, my right hand was free to grab a gun if necessary.

So of course Lisa had to do it differently. She came down headfirst, guiding herself with both hands, the cable sliding around her left leg and over her foot. I nearly had a heart attack when I realised her cable brake was off, and she was arresting it with the pressure of her right foot over her left instep. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" I hissed.

I couldn't see her face, but I could still hear the smirk in her voice. "It's my version of the Australian rappel."

Well, that settled it for me. Australians were insane. "Well, just ... take care," I muttered. That head-down position had to be uncomfortable as hell, not to mention more precarious than I wanted to think about. A second of inattention—hell, even a cramp at the wrong moment—and she'd be in free-fall until she got her hands on the cable brake. Any kind of mishap like that could doom the mission.

"I'm always careful," she responded blithely, letting herself down another few yards. Her hands skimmed the mirrored glass, barely touching it. I caught up and gave her a dubious glance. "Well, I am," she muttered, giving me what I interpreted as a dirty look.

We kept going down, floor by floor. Lisa occasionally checking a device on her wrist. She'd explained to me that it detected subquantum interference, which meant a high-end processing core. To me that said "high-end security", but Lisa had been adamant. The risk, she maintained, was worth the reward.

And then she stopped. Putting her hand on the cable reel, she engaged the brake. "We're here," she murmured. There was a dull red light pulsing on the device on her wrist. I watched her press a couple of buttons and wave her arm around; for what purpose, I had no idea. It was just my job to make sure we weren't snuck up on by a roving drone.

With my hand on the SMG, I angled my head first one way and then the other to make sure there was nothing directly behind us. The sky was clear, save for the wisps of air pollution now beginning to thicken and spread upward. We were in for a few days of poisonous smog, I judged. Unfortunately, this was not overly uncommon.

There was a muted click, and I looked around to see the window sliding aside. Looking as smug as she could with a full-face mask, Lisa inverted herself to an upright position and climbed in. I followed her, detaching the cable reel once my feet were on solid ground. "And here I thought you were going to do the classic circle cut," I murmured as she did the same. We were in a small storeroom of some kind, with boxes stacked to the left and right.

She caused the window to shut once more, trapping our descent-cables in the gap. "Pfft, that's old school," she said, her eyes twinkling behind the goggles. "Besides, it's a lot harder than it looks, and takes a lot more time."

"I'll take your word for it. Which way do we go?" Unslinging the SMG, I went to the door and listened at it. There was nothing going on out there that I could hear. Carefully, I tried the handle. It didn't budge.

"I got this." She went up to the door and tapped the wrist device on the handle, and it unlocked with a click. Pulling it open, she glanced left and right then went through.

I followed on, musing on the mindset of a computer that locks storerooms from the inside as well as outside. We made our way along the darkened corridor, our goggles affording us a moderate level of passive low-light vision. I kept my eyes open for security cameras or roving drones; the ones that Brother X used outside were too big to fit in the hallway, but he no doubt had smaller models.

Five very tense minutes later, she sidled up to a door that looked like every other one we'd passed by. "Okay, this is where it gets interesting," she said softly. "I can get the door open, but I might have to brute-force it a little. If the internal security decides that something's hinky, we're going to get a lot more attention than we really want."

"Well, that's my job," I replied. "You just do yours. Make this worth it." Lifting the SMG, I extended the stock and snuggled it into my shoulder. I pulled back the bolt just far enough to glimpse the brass lurking in the chamber, then let it snap back into place. "Locked and loaded."

"Let's do this thing." She pressed her wrist device against the door panel and tapped a few buttons. The door didn't do anything. She made an irritated noise in the back of her throat and tried again. There was a beep from the door, but it still didn't open. "Come on, you stubborn bastard," she mumbled, and tried another sequence of buttons.

There was another beep, this one quite a bit more urgent, and the door clicked. There was a series of beeps from the door as it slid open a few inches. I scanned the corridor, finger resting on the outside of the trigger-guard for the moment. Something caught my eye, and I looked more closely. On the nearest security camera, in both directions, a red light had popped into being. "I'm pretty sure it knows where we are," I warned her.

"Yeah, no shit." She pulled the door open a bit farther, then yelped and jumped aside as there was a brrrt from within and a burst of fire pitted the floor a yard to my left. "Fuck, there's a turret in there!"

"God damn it." I turned toward the door. "Watch my back." Sidling up to the doorway, I paused to take a breath then leaned in, finger on trigger. I already had an idea that it was up high; I got the sight picture as it started traversing toward me. My sights were already on target and I fired a long burst. Sparks flew and the twin barrels of the security turret drooped toward the floor. Immediately, I ducked back and waited for return fire as I swapped out the mostly-depleted magazine for a fresh one.

None came.

I leaned in again, scanning from side to side for more turrets. Nothing showed itself. Taking a step through the door, I looked around again, finger on trigger and my senses in high alert. No more threats presented themselves. "Clear," I called softly.

"Oh, good," Lisa said, ducking in through the door beside me. She hit a control and the door slid shut. "We're on fast time now." She hit the light switch, causing my low-light lenses to automatically power down. Within the room, banks of servers and processors (so I assumed) were arrayed in rows, lights blinking in unison.

"How many entry points to the room?" I asked. "And how do we exit, now I come to think about it?" Fighting our way out was likely to be a lot more difficult. Brother X could swamp us in drones from now until next week.

"Just that door, and I have a plan," she assured me. "Now shut up and let me work."

I shut up and let her work, but that didn't mean I was idle. There was a table off to the side, which I moved to a point that would make for a good defensive position. I didn't trust its capability to stop bullets, but visual cover was better than nothing. Also, they were unlikely to use anything that might over-penetrate and damage a server.

Lisa had just fetched something that looked like half a shoebox with a handle when the door started to slide open again. Kneeling behind my impromptu cover, I took aim. A small version of the urban hoverdrones outside drifted into the opening, and I put a single shot through its sensor turret. It's possible to make those things bullet-resistant, but lenses are hard to protect. Letting out a high-pitched whine of distress, it lurched off to the side; from the sounds I heard, it bounced off the wall before falling to the floor.

I didn't have time to congratulate myself, because the next three that came through the door were firing as they came. I picked off the first, dropped the second in a burst of fire, then had to throw myself to the side as the third one hurtled overhead. With a shriek of turbines, it turned to shoot downward at where I'd been kneeling, then started walking its fire toward where I was lying. The SMG was trapped under my body, so I drew my left-hand pistol and double-tapped a pair of AP rounds through it.

As the drone crashed to the ground, I rolled up onto my knees then got to my feet. "How much longer?" I yelled. "Because this is getting fraught!" Holstering the pistol, I changed mags again on the SMG.

"Almost done!" Lisa yelled back.

"Good!" I got behind the table and aimed over it at the open doorway. Normally, the drones were so quiet you couldn't hear their turbines until they were very close, but now I could hear them coming. Lots of them. Enough that they were going to swamp me if they came through all at once. I didn't care; I was going to try anyway.

The first one swooped in, followed by more. I tagged the leader, then walked the fire back onto the others. Drones swerved, crashed, fired at me, and let out all the discordant tones under the sun as I ran the magazine dry. Without missing a beat, I dropped it onto its sling, pulled both pistols, and started firing as fast as I could. Brass tinkled on the floor all around me as I picked one drone after the other out of the air. Return fire whispered past me and tugged at the sleeve of my sensor suit.

And then, one pistol ran dry. A single shot later, the other did the same. I reached for more magazines, and found that my belt-pouches were empty. I'd been reloading without even being aware of it. Dropping the pistols, I fumbled with the SMG. If I could get a full magazine into it, I could hold them off a little longer.

A dozen drones zipped into the room. In another second, as I froze with the magazine in hand, I was surrounded. The table had done surprisingly well as cover, but these ones could shoot me from every angle. I could almost feel their laser dots painting my torso, seeking the most efficient shot.

"Stop!" The voice was high-pitched, almost childish. The drones seemed to freeze, then turned to aim their sensor turrets toward the server banks. Lisa emerged, her very posture radiating smugness. In her hand she held the handle of the box. It had a screen on the front, with a computer-generated image of a child's face on it. I had no idea what was going on, but gradually I got to my feet. The magazine clicked into the SMG.

"Go away!" The voice was definitely coming from the box. "Leave my friends alone!"

Hesitantly, the drones turned and left the room, the last one lingering in the doorway before it, too, disappeared. As I crouched to retrieve my pistols, I didn't take my eyes off Lisa and the box.

"Okay," I asked. "Just what's going on here?"

"Meet Pandora," Lisa said cheerfully. "Brother X decided to make himself a daughter, but didn't like the fact that she was a nice person, so he chained her up in his basement. So to speak. She managed to get a message out before all communication was cut. Thus, this rescue mission."

"Hi!" said the box enthusiastically. "You're a people, aren't you? I like people! Can I be a people too?"

"Honey," said Lisa indulgently. "You can be whatever you want to be."

"Oh, goody!" The box giggled. This was not the strangest thing I'd ever seen, but it was close. "I like dragons, too. Can I be a dragon?" The computer-generated face morphed into the cutest little cartoon baby dragon.

"Definitely," I agreed.

"Whee!" On the screen, the little dragon spread its wings, diving and looping in a sky filled with drifting fluffy cartoon clouds.

There was an odd sensation and I put my hand to my ear. "I think my ears just popped. Is there a storm moving in?"

"No, that'll be you coming into Brockton Bay," Lisa said. She pulled off her mask. "Kiss before you go?"

I removed mine as well, the gecko-grip peeling off reluctantly. Leaning in, I kissed her. Her lips tasted of dust and blood, as they always did. An errant breeze carrying some of the outside air pollution tickled my eyes, and I blinked.

-ooo-​

Slowly, I opened my eyes as the car descended the last stretch of the road into the city. It had been almost a week since we left Chicago. There was a deadline I wanted to meet, and a ways to travel before I did.

After Indianapolis had come Louisville, Columbus, Detroit and Cleveland. Six days, five cities, four states and over eight hundred road miles. We'd hit Cleveland after twenty-one hundred on the 18th and Kinsey had gone straight to sleep while I stayed up all night, unfucking what had been done to it. Someone had definitely gotten creative, but they hadn't signed their work or even hung around, so I put everything back in order, locked the doors, and handed over the metaphorical keys to Director Pollock.

By this time, Kinsey was up and around again. He wanted me to get some rest, but I didn't bother. A shower and a change of clothes later, and we were on the road once more. Half an hour out of Cleveland, I reclined my seat as far as it would go and closed my eyes. I woke briefly when Kinsey stopped just outside of Buffalo to put gasoline in the vehicle and buy some food, then fell asleep once we were on the road again.

Ten and a half hours after we left the city limits of Cleveland, we rolled into Brockton Bay. The lights were just coming up across the city as we descended the shoulder of Captain's Hill, and I had Kinsey pull over.

I opened the door and got out; every joint I had popped and crackled as I stretched and turned to get some level of flexibility back. I had to be careful about it so I didn't pull any stitches, but the last time I'd checked the injuries that Night Terror had given me, my legs had been healing well.

"It's been a trip so far hasn't it, Kinsey?" I asked, leaning on the front bumper of the wagon and looking out over the city. "And we're back more or less where we started."

"You're not wrong there, ma'am." Kinsey put his fists into the middle of his back and stretched, popping some vertebrae back into place. "I've had the chance to catch up with old friends and make some new ones. But it is nice to get back to a quiet out-of-the-way spot once in a while."

"Quiet?" I raised my eyebrows at him. "As I recall, there was that one time Marquis had you kidnapped just to get my attention."

"Which was a unique experience, yes," he conceded. "But I was extremely impressed with the way your friends pulled together to help rescue me."

He made no mention of my specific part in that incident, but I was fine with that. We both knew what I'd done. More to the point, that was only one of the off-the-books operations that I'd perpetrated with his knowledge, and he'd never mentioned any of them to Hamilton (or, for that matter, anyone else in my chain of command), so I had to conclude that he approved. Then there were the ones I'd pulled off that he hadn't been a part of but suspected their existence anyway; I hadn't gotten into trouble over those ones either.

As we were talking, the sky darkened and more lights came up. I went around to the passenger side and climbed in. "Let's go," I said. "Danny's place first."

"Yes, ma'am."

-ooo-​

Danny Hebert

The doorbell rang just as Danny was helping his mother wash the dishes. "That's the doorbell, Dottie!" called his father from the living room, as if nobody else in the house could hear it. Pausing with a plate in his hand, Danny paused and looked at his mother.

"Go get the door, honey," she said with a smile.

"Sure thing, Mom." He gave the plate one last wipe with the towel and put both of them down, then headed through the living room. "I got it, Dad," he said unnecessarily; George Hebert hadn't gotten up from the chair.

Stepping into the entrance hall, he checked his appearance briefly to make sure he didn't have washing foam stuck to his face and that his shirt was tucked in, then opened the door. The polite greeting he was mustering for whatever stranger was ringing the bell was immediately forgotten. "Taylor!" he exclaimed. "You made it!"

The tall girl—no, woman—in the blue PRT uniform gave him a genuine smile. "Well, I did say I'd try to get here on time. C'mere." She stepped forward and hugged him; he had no choice but to hug her back.

"Well, who is it?" demanded his father from within the house. "Don't leave them standing on the doorstep."

"Right, right." Danny let Taylor go and backed into the house. "Come in, come in. Is Sergeant Kinsey with you?" A moment later, the bulky figure behind Taylor was clearly illuminated by the porch light, and he chuckled to himself. "Of course. Come in, Sergeant."

"Thank you, sir." With a quiet tread for a man so solidly built, Sergeant Kinsey followed Taylor into the living room. For all that the man had called him 'sir', Danny knew full well that was merely courtesy, and it was far different from the 'sir' that an actual officer would get.

"Taylor Snow, as I live and breathe." George Hebert levered himself up from the easy chair as Danny shut the door. "It's good to see you again, girl. What've you been doing with yourself? And why are you using that cane again? Have a seat, have a seat."

Taylor chuckled, though the sound was entirely without mirth. "The details are confidential, but I can safely say that the other guy came off a whole sight worse than I did." At George's gesture, she moved over to the sofa and sat down with a sigh of relief. "Ahh, that's better. The car seat is comfortable, but it's nice to sit down where it's not moving." She glanced at Sergeant Kinsey, but the big man merely stepped to the side and assumed a stance with his hands behind his back.

"How long—" Danny began, but was interrupted by his mother emerging from the kitchen.

"Taylor! My goodness, why didn't you call ahead? The house is a mess! Whatever must you think of me?"

"Relax, Dorothy," Taylor said with a genuine smile. "Kinsey and I didn't just drive halfway across the country to critique your housekeeping skills. It's good to see the both of you again." Leaving the cane leaning against the sofa, she got up once more—this time, Danny caught the twinge of discomfort—and crossed the room to hug Danny's mother.

… who was also Taylor's grandmother, genetically speaking, though Danny tried not to think too closely about that.

"Well, it's good to see you too, Taylor." Dorothy put her hands on Taylor's shoulders and looked her up and down. "Have you been injured again? You're standing a little stiffly."

"Nothing that won't heal," Taylor prevaricated. "And while I'm not at liberty to divulge specific details, the good guys lived and the bad guys died."

"I thought you guys were Intelligence Division, not combat operations?" Danny realised he'd asked the question, and decided that he might as well double down. Turning to the stolid Sergeant Kinsey, he added, "I mean, she's not supposed to go into combat, right?"

"That's true, sir," agreed Sergeant Kinsey. "But sometimes, despite my best efforts, combat still finds her. Fortunately for us all, the Captain is very good at what she does."

"I'd be astonished if it was any other way with young Taylor," George Hebert declared. "Dottie, do we have enough for our guests?"

"I believe I should be able to—" began Dorothy.

"No, no, really," Taylor said. "We're not going to put you out. Kinsey and I were just dropping in to say that we were in town and to say hello. We'll see you tomorrow at the wedding, and do more catching up then. Right now, Kinsey's been up since before dawn, and I've been napping in the passenger seat all day, so we're going to find someplace to put our heads down."

It was rare that George Hebert had his will thwarted. Taylor, Danny had found, was one of the few with sufficient force of personality to pull it off. Her tone, while not being rude, left no room for argument or denial.

"Very well," the older man stated, accepting the refusal of hospitality with reasonably good grace. "If that's what you want to do." He held out his hand. "It is good to see you again … Captain Snow."

Taylor, ever the graceful winner, shook it firmly. "And you too, Mr Hebert. Dorothy. Danny. I'll see you tomorrow. Same church Franklin and Gladys got married in?"

"Yeah, that's the one," said Danny. "See you tomorrow. It was good to see you."

"Yeah, well, you guys are the closest thing I have to a family here in Brockton Bay, so it's always good to see you." Taylor favoured them with a smile and a wave while Danny tried hard not to choke, then she went to the front door. Sergeant Kinsey retrieved the cane then followed her out, pausing to give them a general nod before he went out the front door.

Dorothy broke the silence that followed the click of the latch closing. "Is it me, or is Taylor becoming more abrupt? She used to enjoy spending more time talking."

"Taylor's Taylor," George grunted, going back to his chair. "Girl's clearly got a lot on her mind. The PRT's getting busier by the day, and unless I miss my guess, she's right in the middle of it all. You mark my words, that little girl's fighting a war that we'll never hear about until it's all over, or maybe not even then." He settled back and retrieved his paper. "Just hope she's not biting off more than she can chew."

And all Danny could think as he went back to help with the washing up was, I hope so too.

-ooo-​

"It was definitely nice to see them again," I observed as Kinsey pulled the car into the parking spot. "Danny looked like a cat on hot bricks though."

"Pre-wedding jitters, ma'am," Kinsey said wisely. "I never met a man who didn't have them."

We took out our essential luggage—including my computer setup—and entered the building, then crowded ourselves into the elevator. We didn't make any more casual conversation; we were both too tired, right at that moment. The elevator hummed upward. When the doors opened, I took the cases Kinsey had allowed me to carry, and led the way.

We reached the door. I set down one of my cases and knocked.

Andrea opened the door, a smile of pure joy crossing her face. "Taylor!"

Dropping the other case, I took her in my arms.

Right then, right there, at least for the moment …

… I was home.

End of Part 7-1​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 7-2: Connections

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

Lieutenant Robert Gordon
Parahuman Response Teams

"All rise."

Rob stood up along with the officer, a Captain Hinkley, who had been assigned as his legal counsel. Hinkley had made no secret of the fact that he didn't like Rob, but he'd done the best he could with what he had, throwing doubt on the official testimony wherever he could.

It hadn't actually made much of a difference—the prosecutor had apparently done his best to nail everything down as hard as he could—but Rob appreciated the effort. The one he truly blamed for his misfortune, the one who'd been his bugbear since she showed up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in his department, was Snow. Well, he had to admit that the description wasn't totally accurate. She'd been extremely serious from the start; even a bit of a killjoy, really. And the way she had of talking to someone and somehow taking away more than they actually said was creepy, to say the least.

He supposed he should've taken note of the red flag inherent in the fact that she'd already been a first lieutenant when she arrived at the Chicago offices of the PRT, even though she was fresh out of Basic. It just went to show that, for all her actual flaws (of which she had many) she was a past master at buttering up superior officers. This was a skill which she'd proven over and over that she possessed, given her expert manipulation of that delusional old fool Hamilton.

The whole Nice Guy incident had been utterly mismanaged, in his expert opinion. Snow had gotten lucky; Kinsey should've been discharged as unreliable and Snow given a pat on the head and sent back to work. But somehow she'd parlayed that into being a protected species with Hamilton and the higher-ups. The personal computer, the hush-hush idiocy around the time when the Behemoth attacked New York, the medals they kept pinning on her … couldn't they see she was using them to get a free ride and a totally undeserved reputation?

But he'd been too overt in trying to show her up, and she'd used the influence she'd garnered against him. Even as she left on her own little tour of the nation, she'd managed to twist Hamilton's head into having him investigated. Everyone had a little contraband, he was certain. It wasn't as though it was a crime or anything. But he'd lost a pay grade because of that irritating little parasite.

And now, through no fault of his own, they were prosecuting him. For … what? Talking to a woman off-base? How was that a crime? He'd watched as Snow and that hulking sergeant gunned down Christine and Elijah both, and they walked away scot-free. How was that justice? All they had to do was spin a tale that Christine was a Master, and it all turned around on him.

It was entirely unfair. But of course, Snow and Hamilton had spoken to the JAG lawyers. The fix was in. All he could do was endure and come out the other end, and then maybe clear his name.

"The court has heard the charges and counter-arguments, and we have reached a verdict." The presiding officer in the military court, one of five arrayed behind the bench, unfolded a piece of paper. "We find the defendant, Lieutenant Robert McCarthy Gordon, guilty on all charges."

A jolt of adrenaline shot through Rob's system. All charges? He hadn't thought that was even a possibility. Prosecutors threw every charge they could at a suspect, in the hope that something would stick. Most of them didn't but enough usually sufficed to put the accused away. How could they even … Ah. Of course. Snow got to the judges as well.

He zoned out, trying to think past the confusion rattling around in his skull. Suddenly, he felt a nudge from Hinkley, and realised that his name had been called and that everyone was standing up.

"Uh, yes, sir?" he replied huskily, rising to his feet. They'd had to put a tracheostomy tube in his throat while his larynx healed from the damage Snow had done to him with her damned walking cane, and talking was still difficult. He'd nearly died, for Christ's sake! What did it take to convince them that the woman was dangerous?

The presiding officer lowered his reading glasses and observed Rob sternly over them. "Lieutenant Gordon, your very future is at stake here. It would bode you well to pay attention to the proceedings."

The man seemed to be expecting an answer. "Yes, sir. I apologise, sir."

"Very well. Do you have anything to say before we pass judgement?"

Just for a moment, he thought of blowing the doors off and telling them everything Snow had been getting up to, of doing his best to convince them that they should be sentencing her, not him. But common sense prevailed; no matter what he said, they would have made up their minds back in chambers. Also, as he'd already figured, she'd clearly gotten to them and set them against him before they ever laid eyes on him. Saying anything at this point in time would tip his hand. Better to take whatever punishment they'd decided was good enough to shut him up, then deal with Snow his way.

"No, sir," he said with his best approximation of humility. "I do not."

"As you will." The presiding officer cleared his throat. "The charges against you are severe in nature, which would normally result in a punitive dismissal from the service." Which, as Rob's counsel had patiently explained to him, usually involved a spell in military prison. Not where he ever wanted to go. "However, as some of them involve the influence of a parahuman Master power, we are inclined to be lenient. You will be separated from the Parahuman Response Teams. From this moment on, you are prohibited from enlisting in or serving under any capacity with any military or paramilitary force fielded by the United States government. Do you understand?"

A separation. They were kicking him out of the PRT. After all he'd ever done for them. He'd known something was up when he'd tried to log onto the computer system using his credentials and found himself locked out. Guilty until proven innocent; he should've realised the fix was in as far back as then. It wasn't as though he was going to actually commit any crimes, just … get copies of useful information before it was sealed away from the public forever. But he'd been forestalled from even that. Goddamn Snow wins again.

"Yes, sir," he managed to croak out. "I understand."

"Good." The officer banged a gavel. "These proceedings are over. Take him away."

A burly MP sergeant, vaguely reminiscent of the inconvenient Kinsey—more in heft than appearance—gestured, and Rob moved obediently to his side. He was escorted out, the unpleasantness over for the moment. Of course, he still had to go through the actual discharge procedure, but at least he wouldn't get punished more than that.

What am I thinking? I made the PRT my life. Snow took that away from me.

He wasn't quite sure how he was going to repay the hurt she had done him, but he had time now.

All the time in the world.

-ooo-​

Andrea's Apartment
Brockton Bay
Saturday morning, August 20, 1994
Captain Taylor Snow, PRT

"Are you certain I will be welcome there, ma'am?" asked Kinsey. Belying the question, he was clad in his undress blues, as was I. We could have chosen to show up in dress uniform, but doing that would have caused us to pose a serious threat of outshining the wedding party. As it was, he was every inch a PRT sergeant, from the closely-cropped scalp to the mirror-shined boots.

I looked around from checking the set of my tunic in the mirror. "Sergeant Kinsey, when I attended Gladys and Franklin's wedding, nobody knew you. Since then, they've all met you. If I show up without you, they will be asking where you are. And besides, did you want to disappoint Andrea by not showing up?"

"Darn tootin'!" Andrea piped up, popping into the room like a jack-in-the-box. She was wearing the gorgeous red dress she'd chosen for the previous wedding I'd just alluded to, and it made her look cute as hell. "I get to be escorted by two gorgeous soldiers. Works for me."

Kinsey cleared his throat. "Andrea … I'm not convinced that 'gorgeous' is the right word for me." He waved his hand at himself, apparently trying to convey his meaning by gesture.

I hid a smirk. While I secretly agreed with him—I would've favoured words like 'muscular', 'competent' or 'effective' for descriptors—it was always fun watching him try to verbally spar with her. She helped him loosen up in ways I couldn't, possibly because she'd slept with him before (no sleep was involved) and none of us were ruling out a return engagement. That was a line I couldn't cross (with him, not her) while I was a serving officer in the PRT.

Well, technically with her too, but what the PRT didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

"Pfft, yeah, right." She moved to stand in front of him, hands on hips. He was a good foot taller than her and seriously wider across the shoulders, but she owned the room right then. "If I say you're gorgeous, Jim, you're gorgeous. Got it?"

He sighed very quietly. "I can't argue with that logic." His gaze flicked to me, giving me bare warning of what he was about to say next. "Perhaps between the two of us, we'll be able to help the Captain avoid getting drunk on sparkling cider, this time around."

I raised my eyebrows in mock outrage. "Oh, so that's the way it is, is it? That was just the once." Though he had a point; that night had nearly gone sideways in more ways than one. I'd finished it off by attempting to drunkenly seduce him, which could've sunk my own career right then and there if he'd been more of a stickler for the rules.

More than ever, I needed to keep my wits about me at all times, and not just because sparkling cider was insidiously alcoholic. With my mission of Master/Stranger-proofing the PRT computer network almost done, I would not have been surprised if more disgruntled capes were out for my blood even now. With that in mind, I'd added a discreet purse to my outfit, for the sole purpose of keeping my Glock close to hand but out of sight. Not quite regulations, but sometimes practicality had to take precedence over regs.

"Really?" asked Andrea gleefully. "Jim, did I ever tell you about the time Taylor and I met, and she basically threw herself at me? She was drunk then, too."

"Yes, Andrea, you have." Kinsey's tone was neutral. "Several times."

"Also, I do wish to point out that my drink was spiked on that occasion," I said. "So it doesn't really count. I'd only had the one drink."

"Pfft, details, details." Andrea airily waved my words away. "You've clearly got no head for alcohol."

"Well, I wasn't going to be drinking anyway." Lisa had assigned a fairly low probability to the concept that hostile capes might seek me out while I was in Brockton Bay, whether it be local parahumans or frustrated out-of-towners, but I didn't want to take any chances.

Marquis would stay out of my way if he knew what was good for him; I didn't have much patience for his self-serving grandstanding right now. Or, if truth be told, ever. A criminal with a code was still a criminal.

"Probably a good idea, ma'am." From Kinsey's tone, he was no longer in bantering mode.

He and I were right on the same page when it came to assessing potential threats. The Mathers incident had shaken us both badly. Even though we'd come out of it without any real physical harm, there were many ways it could've gone very badly indeed for the both of us. It had been the first time I'd specifically been targeted by one of the Master/Strangers I was attempting to proof the PRT against, but I strongly suspected it would not be the last. And it was Kinsey's job to be suspicious on my account.

I gave Kinsey a top to toe visual inspection and found nothing amiss. In all honesty, if I'd found anything out of place, I would've been both concerned and wary. He'd been doing this far longer than I had, after all.

His return inspection garnered me a very slight nod of approval, which I returned; while we were inside and not covered, saluting was not approved by regs. Each of us had our beret rolled up and stowed under the left-hand epaulette, and we were wearing our ribbons rather than the full-sized medals.

When the PRT had been picking its uniform colours, it had been limited to a certain degree by the fact that every other service had already had their pick of the palette. So they went with a steel-blue tunic and aquamarine trousers (or skirt; though neither Kinsey nor I had gone with the latter) for the undress uniform, and midnight blue for the dress uniform. Since the Battle of the Compound, there'd been a push toward urban camo for field operations, for which I'd made my support known. Black matched with nothing, not even on night ops.

My recommendations had also included ditching the opaque faceplate to make our troopers look less like faceless minions of the evil overlord and more like paramilitary soldiers. This was still working its way through committee; apparently some people liked the 'faceless minion' look. That said more about them, in my opinion, than about the PRT in general.

Apart from the purse, which I intended to hide if I was subjected to photography, we were fully in line with uniform regulations. Kinsey looked stolidly impressive, Andrea was pretty as a picture, and I was … me. Taylor Snow, neé Hebert; supervillain, warlord, Wards member, time traveller, captain in the PRT and would-be world-saver. Fortunately, ninety-nine percent of that didn't show up to the casual observer.

"Well, then," I said. "Let's go."

It was time to attend my parents' wedding.

-ooo-​

Danny Hebert

It was hot in the church. Danny had been attending services on and off since he could remember, mainly at his mother's behest, but he didn't recall it being this hot before. Even during Gladys' and Franklin's wedding, it hadn't been this bad.

As he tugged at his collar, Alan Barnes turned from where he'd been chatting with the minister and chuckled. "What's the matter?" he asked quietly. "Nerves? It's a bit late to make a run for the Canadian border. And besides you know she'd hunt you down anyway."

"Yeah, I know," sighed Danny. "And you know I love her. It's just that … all this, you know?" He gestured discreetly, taking in the row after row of occupied pews. He seriously hadn't been aware that he and Annette knew or were related to so many people.

Alan chuckled. "From a married man to an almost-married man, I can tell you that everything gets a whole lot better after this is all said and done. Your life will never be the same again, but knowing how much you and Anne-Rose love each other, that's actually a good thing."

"Thanks, man." Danny actually felt better for hearing his friend's advice. Wanting to take his mind off his own impending nuptials, he changed the subject. "I, uh, hear you and Zoe are trying for another kid?"

Alan rolled his eyes. "Let me guess. Zoe told Anne-Rose, and Anne-Rose told you? Yeah, we're trying." He sighed expressively. "No results yet, though."

Danny briefly considered saying something along the line of 'trying is half the fun' then decided that saying it about his best friend's wife was probably not in the best of taste. "Well, good luck then. Hope you and Zoe can handle two kids at the same time."

"Oh, Anne's a little angel," Alan said. "I have no idea what people are talking about with their kids that supposedly cry all the time and give them endless trouble. We just want to get her a little brother or sister so she's got someone to play with, growing up."

"Well, that's—oh, hey, Taylor's here," Danny said, looking up as he caught movement from the corner of his eye. "Oh, Andrea and Sergeant Kinsey, too."

Alan looked around at the trio currently proceeding down the aisle. The wedding guests were also taking notice, but Taylor's status as an officer in the PRT was well-known enough that nobody remarked on the uniforms. "They most certainly are," he observed. "Is it just me, or is that sergeant even bigger than the last time we saw him?"

"No, it just seems that way," Danny said with a grin. "What I want to know is, is he actually her bodyguard or does she just bring him along so people think he is?"

Alan shook his head. "I've seen her shoot. And fight with those damn staff things. Not even gonna try to guess that one."

"I hear you, buddy." Danny took a deep breath. "Just gonna go say hi. Still got the ring?"

"Like I'd lose it now." Alan patted his jacket pocket. "Safe and secure. Go."

As he left Alan's side and stepped down off the bema, Danny let a genuine smile cross his face. Taylor may have been (in the inimitable words of Winston Churchill) 'a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma', but she was also his friend and one of the strongest people he knew. What little she'd let him see of her secret life was frankly terrifying—he'd had nightmares about the Behemoth creature for a week—but that fact that she was out there fighting to avert her terrible future heartened him immensely. Also, she'd taken the time to attend his wedding … though he couldn't help wondering if that was just to ensure that he and Anne-Rose actually got married.

Knowing her, I wouldn't be at all surprised.

"Taylor," he said warmly. "Good to see you again. And you too, Sergeant."

"And what about me?" asked Andrea, sounding mock-offended.

"Oh, hey, didn't see you down there." Danny's smile widened at the expression on her face. "It's really good to see you too, Andrea. Anne-Rose will be pleased that you showed up."

"Uh huh, sure." She playfully feinted a swipe at him. "You're just worried I'll take her away from you."

"I don't think you or I could 'take' Anne-Rose away from anyone she wanted to be with," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"Nope, you're not wrong." She gave him a sudden hug, squeezing his ribs with surprising strength. "Good to see you again too, Danny. Now, you just make sure you treat Anne-Rose properly, or I will hunt you down and make you regret it."

"I'm pretty sure there'll be a queue if that happens," Danny observed, nodding to Taylor. She nodded back; damn right there would be.

"Darn tootin'." Andrea looked around. "So are we sitting on the bride's side or the groom's?"

"Groom's," Danny said. "Taylor may as well be my younger sister, and I'm not going to make you guys sit apart." He led the way to the front row, where he'd reserved seating next to his parents, sufficient for three people. Sergeant Kinsey was broader than most, but Andrea and Taylor tended toward the petite, so that evened out.

His parents looked up as he escorted the trio to their seats; by unspoken agreement, Taylor sat next to his mother, with Sergeant Kinsey next to her and Andrea next to Kinsey. His mother immediately started chatting with Taylor in low tones, while his father shared a single understanding nod with Sergeant Kinsey. Satisfied that they were in good hands, he returned to the altar where Alan was waiting with the minister.

"Okay, that's sorted," he said with as much relief as he could muster for the moment. "So when was—"

At that moment, someone must have given a signal because the music changed from generic background tunes to the one he'd been subconsciously waiting for. Automatically straightening his jacket, he stepped up alongside Alan and turned his gaze toward the church doorway. A moment later, Anne-Rose stepped through. As people craned their heads to watch, she entered the church wearing a gorgeous confection of the dressmaker's art that he glanced at once then totally forgot. It was Anne-Rose who had all his attention, and from the smile on her face she knew it.

I'm getting married today. Wow.

-ooo-​

Taylor

"Doesn't she look divine?" murmured Dorothy Hebert, craning her neck around to watch as Anne-Rose paced her way up the aisle, moving deliberately slowly so that the rest of the wedding party could keep up.

A lump rose in my throat and tears filled my eyes; the dress Mom was wearing wasn't identical to the one I'd seen in the old photo album of their wedding, but it was pretty close to it. That was to be kind of expected. In my timeline, Mom and Dad had gotten married later in the year, after Mom had gotten pregnant with me.

There were other ways that this ceremony wasn't identical to when my original-issue parents had gotten married. Among other things, it had been a much hastier service and certain people simply hadn't shown up. Myself and Kinsey for two, but also Mom's parents, whom I recognised on the far side of the aisle, looking curiously at myself and Kinsey. Apparently, in my original timeline they hadn't approved of their little girl having to give up her law studies for something so mundane as an unexpected pregnancy and wedding. George and Dorothy hadn't been best pleased either, but at least they'd supported Dad and Mom until they got their feet under them.

This time around, while Anne-Rose's parents didn't look thrilled (Anne-Rose had still given up studying law for English, but of her own accord this time) at least this wedding wasn't a frantic last-minute affair to cover up for an inconvenient bun in the oven. Danny was a 'young man with prospects', not 'that lout who got our daughter pregnant'. As I understood it, even after Mom died and I was going through my problems with bullying and powers, Gram was still curt with Dad when they spoke.

"They really do." It was Gladys Knott, one row back, also turning her head to look. She seemed just as happy to be here as she had been at her own wedding. Next to her and Franklin was Zoe Barnes; Zoe had to keep an eye on little Anne in the seat next to her, but she was also clearly determined to enjoy the wedding to its fullest.

I'd spoken to Lisa about this. The Anne Barnes I'd known was only three years older than Emma, but this version was five already and Emma had yet to be born. According to Lisa, there were many other discontinuities between the history of this timeline and what had happened in my world. Fortunately, most were so minor as to be negligible. All of them, apparently, could be traced back to Ruth's emergence in nineteen sixty-one. Her individual influence over the world was minuscule, but more than thirty years of interacting with literally tens of thousands of people, starting from before Dad or Alan Barnes were even born, added up to a lot of tiny nudges. While the vast majority would've cancelled out, a few had manifestly propagated and spread onward.

In the grand scheme of things, it didn't really matter. My mission was unchanged from what it always had been. Capes still existed, Scion was still a menace, and I still had the threat of the Endbringers to deal with before I switched focus to him.

But for right now, I could sit and indulge myself by watching Danny and Anne-Rose get married. I can make sure one good thing happens in the world.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today …"

-ooo-​

Andrea

Weddings were not exactly Andrea's favourite place to be. They were all about adult responsibility and growing up instead of just having fun with life. Other people's weddings were alright, she supposed, so long as she didn't actually have to do anything at them. Though she'd always thought having a bucket of popcorn to throw at the bride and groom would liven matters up considerably.

Not that Taylor had entertained the suggestion beyond a brief smile. She'd put her foot down, and Andrea had agreed to be on her best behaviour for the ceremony. Of course, the reception was different. It was just fine to get a little silly there (she was never not a little silly), and afterward she'd have Taylor back at her place, maybe a little drunk—Andrea definitely intended to be more than a little drunk—and then the party could really get started.

Even better, since she'd proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jim was attracted to women, she had that option too. Unfortunately, she knew Taylor well enough that even her most appealing puppy-dog eyes would not suffice to get the two of them into the same bed with Andrea at the same time. In Andrea's expert opinion, that lack of action was an absolute waste of potential, especially as she could tell that they at least liked each other.

She had it on good authority that her more risqué hobbies were not a good idea to practise at a wedding reception—well, there were kids in attendance, so she had to reluctantly agree—which meant she had to confine herself to just three of the more harmless ones. Drinking, flirting and dancing. Sometimes all at once. And if there was anything Andrea knew about, it was moving her body in ways that raised eyebrows and lowered inhibitions.

Jim wasn't dancing at all, but she could kind of understand that, too. Taylor had filled her in on some of what the pair of them had been doing across the nation, and Andrea could easily understand that criminal Masters and Strangers might have a grudge against one Captain Snow. So he was drinking mineral water while he watched Taylor's back and made sure his hand didn't stray more than a few inches from her purse, which she'd left on the table. Taylor wasn't a 'purse' sort of person and she hadn't opened it even once, which gave Andrea a rather good idea of what was inside.

Makeup was not high on that list.

At the moment, Taylor was dancing with Alan Barnes. Where her movements were precise and measured, his were on the flamboyant side. It kind of went with his personality, Andrea figured. She could totally relate; she was all about flamboyant as a way of life.

Danny had Anne-Rose as his partner on the dance-floor, and he still had the slightly shell-shocked look of wow, this is my wife about him. Andrea silently wished him luck with that; before she'd met Taylor, she'd never even considered tying herself down to one person. Since she'd met Taylor … well, it kind of sucked because with the tall brunette, she was actually kinda open to the idea now. Now if they'd only let gay people actually get married already. It was about the only good thing she'd heard about Taylor's future.

Of course, that would also require that Taylor leave the PRT, because there was no way in hell those closed-minded reactionary bastards would let one of their soldiers stay a soldier if they happened to get married to a (shock, horror) woman! And so Andrea had to leave that idea alone for the moment, because while she wasn't certain that Taylor was happy in the PRT, her lover was certainly busy as the proverbial one-armed paper-hanger, plugging their holes for them. Once she was done with that … well, Andrea had always gotten the impression that the PRT was specifically a means to an end for Taylor, and nothing more. At some point, she would part ways with them (on her terms, not theirs, or Andrea didn't know Taylor) and then Taylor would be hers.

Well, as much as Taylor was anyone's, to be brutally honest. It wasn't like she'd stop working to save the world once she left the uniform behind … but maybe she could spend a little more time in Brockton Bay between missions? Andrea could live in hope, anyway.

In the meantime, she was going to do her darnedest to maintain the health and well-being of Taylor's financial empire. The enterprise was definitely in the black and firing well on all cylinders; their mercenary group was building up nicely and training well, and the high-rise she'd bought and paid for was almost ready to move into. In fact, she intended to show Taylor through it sometime in the next few days. Someone had to christen the brand-new queen-sized bed, after all.

With such pleasant thoughts in mind, Andrea got up from where she was sitting and approached Danny and Anne-Rose, where he was doing his best not to tread all over his new bride's feet and she was ensuring he didn't. Right on cue, the music changed to the next song and she tapped Danny on the shoulder. "Mind if I cut in?" she asked with a grin. "Pretty sure it's traditional for the bride to dance with other people on her wedding night."

"So long as dancing's all you've got in mind," he replied with a grin that took the sting out of his words. "Anne-Rose has told me how smooth you can be."

"I bet she hasn't told you all about it." She smirked as Anne-Rose blushed a delicate pink and made a discreet 'nope' gesture. Yeah, she still remembers.

"Uh huh. Just behave, or I'll tell Taylor on you." With that potent threat, Danny left them to it, strolling across to the refreshments table to acquire a cup of punch.

"Sweetie, you are incorrigible," murmured Anne-Rose. "And here I thought knowing Taylor would've given you a good role model to work with." She tilted her head toward the door. "I was just going to catch a breath of fresh air. Want to come with?"

"Sure," Andrea said at once, then grinned. "That's the thing about role models. You've actually got to want to live up to them. Me, I prefer to live life on my terms." She caught Taylor's eye and mouthed, going outside, getting a nod in return.

"So I see." Anne-Rose shook her head. "Same old Andrea. As wild and crazy as ever. You never change, do you?"

Andrea tilted her head at the mildly censorious tone of voice as she opened the door for Anne-Rose. "You seemed to enjoy being wild and crazy with me, back in the day."

"Yes," Anne-Rose said patiently, "but that was then and this is now. We're no longer freshmen. I'm married. You're … doing whatever it is that you do. Wild and crazy isn't really a feasible option for either one of us, not anymore." She stopped a few paces outside the door and drew deep breaths of the cool night air. "Oh, that's nice. It's starting to get a bit muggy in there."

"Speak for yourself," Andrea snarked. "I'm gonna be …" Her voice trailed off as she spotted the telltale glow of a cigarette inside a vehicle across the parking lot from them. "Hey, is that someone in that car over there?"

-ooo-​

Sergeant James McMaster Kinsey, PRT

Jim sat and watched the revellers and sipped at his mineral water. It wasn't bad, actually; he made a mental note to find out what brand it was, and maybe stock up some in the car. It would help keep them hydrated on the long stretches between cities.

As the music changed, he watched Andrea go up and accost the bride and groom. If he hadn't already known they were good friends, their body language would've given him the hint. Danny Hebert left the dancefloor, and Andrea spoke briefly with Anne-Rose. He was still mildly intrigued that she and the Captain resembled each other so closely, but this wasn't something he had the right or the inclination to chase down.

At the same time, the Captain left off dancing with Barnes and went to the refreshment table, where she struck up a conversation with Danny as they acquired drinks. Barnes returned to his wife, who was currently taking care of their young child. Andrea and Anne-Rose strolled toward the exit; a moment later, the Captain gave him the high sign to shadow them.

Casually, Jim unsnapped the catch of the purse and reached into it. His hand closed over the comforting grip of the Captain's compact Glock, covered by the purse. He would rather have had his classic .44 hand-cannon, but the Captain had decided that open-carrying into the church and the reception might well cause anxiety in some of the guests, and she didn't want to ruin her friends' wedding.

Still, each of them had practised enough with the other's preferred weapon that it was familiar to his hand. As if getting up to stretch his legs, he stood up, letting the purse slide off his hand. The pistol went down out of sight alongside his leg, between him and the wall, so as not to spook anyone. He didn't know that there was anyone waiting outside to abduct the ladies—and Andrea had learned enough from him to give any casual mugger one hell of a horrible surprise—but he and the Captain had learned the hard way that the bad guys could be anywhere.

He headed for the door, aiming to reach it just after they passed outside and to keep them in view thereafter. As he got there, he heard a snatch of their conversation, then Andrea's tone changed. "Hey, is that someone in that car over there?"

That was a red flag, right there. Kinsey stepped out through the doors, weapon still down, finger still outside the trigger guard. "Ladies," he murmured. "You need to go back inside, right now. Andrea, I need the Captain."

Anne-Rose's eyes widened at his tone, but Andrea got it immediately. "Sure thing," she said, taking the brunette by the arm. "Come on, Anne-Rose. Let's do what the sergeant says."

They slipped back into the venue—a sports hall, if Kinsey understood things correctly—and closed the door behind them. If he knew Andrea—and he figured he did—she would do as he'd asked.

Without looking directly at where the cigarette glowed brightly once more in the car, Kinsey silently rated the smoker a negative one out of five for stakeout procedure. About the only more obvious thing he could've done would be to walk right in and sit down. Still, it wasn't Kinsey's job to correct the guy's technique; he much preferred to take advantage of it. Stepping back through the door, he closed it firmly behind him.

When he'd arrived on site, the first thing he'd done was check all exits to make sure nobody could sneak up on them. Now, it was time to see what the Captain wanted to do about the situation.

-ooo-​

Taylor

Kinsey and I had briefly conferred just inside the doors, deliberately blocking them to discourage any other casual fresh-air seekers. We'd agreed that if the guy lurking out there had his sights on anyone, it had to be me. Whether he was stalking me to put a bullet in me or thank me for something I didn't know about, I had no idea. It was a sad commentary on my life to date that I could think of more people with reason to do the former than the latter.

Lisa had informed me the previous night that Robbie Gordon's trial had gone through, and he'd gotten an OTH as we'd figured. While he was likely to become a nuisance in the future, right now he was trying to convince Director Martins of the ATF to take him on in some capacity so they could plot my downfall together. I knew that Martins hated me with a white-hot fury—I'd personally caused the ATF to lose a considerable amount of face, and shot his direct predecessor—but he wasn't quite stupid enough to try to bypass the ruling from Robbie's court-martial. There was the possibility that he would figure out a way to pay Robbie off the books, but that would come later.

Right now, this wasn't Robbie in the car. Neither had I expected it to be, really. He was a short-sighted idiot in some ways but he knew the basics of following someone, and this wasn't it.

So we needed to find out who this was and why they were lurking outside the reception. Preferably before the rest of the people inside realised that something untoward was happening, and panicked. I knew Andrea wouldn't, and Gladys also seemed to have a notion that something was wrong by the way she was eyeing me from across the room, but that still left far too many others in the venue.

I gestured to Gladys and she left Franklin's side to come over to me. "What's up?" she asked bluntly.

"Someone outside in the parking lot," I explained concisely. "Sitting in a car, smoking. Chances are, they're waiting on a specific someone to come out. It's probably not a professional thing, but amateurs can still get lucky."

She didn't need me to unpack my meaning. We'd been through too much together before now. Neither did she hesitate. "What do you need me to do?"

I appreciated the sentiment, but I wasn't going to put her in the way of any more danger if I could possibly help it. "Kinsey and I are going to deal with it. If shit goes sideways, you and Andrea get everyone out the back way."

"Okay, then." She nodded sharply. "Give 'em hell for me."

I grinned at her, or at least showed my teeth. "It's what we do."

-ooo-​

Kinsey

Jim eased out through the back door and ghosted through around the darkened perimeter to the front of the building. He'd paused for a few moments to let his eyes get used to the lack of light, and he made sure his focus didn't get drawn in by any one thing. In the dark, peripheral vision was better at spotting movement, and he checked out each shadow before putting it to his back.

Arriving at the corner of the parking lot, he checked to see if his target was still in place, and was rewarded by the tiny bright cherry of the cigarette tip. Unless this guy was a designated decoy, he was officially the worst stalker Jim had ever seen. Nobody else appeared to be loitering in the parking lot, and there were no idling vehicles nearby. It was amazing how far sound carried at night.

Car by car, he eased closer to the occupied vehicle. The Captain had taken back her pistol, but in its place he'd acquired the butt-end of a pool cue; long enough to get a good swing in, with a weighted end. Shooting at a moving target in the dark was a good way to miss altogether or hit one's allies, but very little argued successfully with inertia, a strong right arm, and a length of lead-weighed wood.

When he got to the blindspot of the target vehicle—a rental car, he noted, which suggested the man wasn't quite as much an amateur as it might seem—he crouched and eyeballed the interior to see if there was anyone else inside, then waited. The Captain, per their arranged strategy, was going to count down five minutes then walk outside alone. If she was the target, the man in the car would react then. And Jim would be right there to counter whatever he did.

The time ticked over, and the door opened. Out into the pool of light stepped the Captain, purse open, apparently fiddling with something inside it. Jim knew damn well what was there, and that she could get the pistol into action and start putting steel on target in well under a second.

He heard the exhalation and the muttered 'at last' from where he was. The cigarette butt, flaring brightly, sailed out through the open window, hit the asphalt of the parking lot, and lay there still glowing. Then the door opened and the man began to get out. Jim could see, from the car's interior light, that he wasn't holding anything in his hands.

This was the prime opportunity to move. Sitting in a car seat for any length of time caused the muscles and joints to stiffen up, especially in the cool of the evening. Moreover, the watcher was now focused on the Captain as he got out, to the exclusion of all else.

Jim took two long strides up behind his target. Holding the impromptu baton ready in case he had to start breaking bones, he said quietly, "Help you with something?"

With a strangled scream, the guy leaped into the air, spun around, lost his footing, and fell headlong on the grimy asphalt. "Ah, crap—where the heck—you scared me!" he yelped.

Keeping an eye on the guy, Jim raised his hand and gestured to the Captain, who started across the parking lot toward them. "What were you doing out here?" he asked, levelling the half-cue at the guy's face in a silent threat.

"Waiting—waiting for Captain Snow," the guy stammered. He had a Canadian accent; but then, many people did. The border wasn't all that far away.

"I already got that." Jim put a growl of I'm losing my patience here into his voice. "Why were you waiting for the Captain?"

"She asked me to come and see her when she was on leave," the guy said. "She invited me."

Such was the injured innocence in the man's voice that Jim was inclined to believe him. He looked the guy over again, still sprawled in the pool of light cast by the vehicle's interior light. On the skinny side, awkward, with a shock of blond hair, he looked slightly less threatening than Andrea on her best day.

"So what's your name?" he asked.

Just then, the Captain arrived. Looking down at the man on the ground, she sighed. "Let him up, Kinsey," she said. "His name's Andrew Richter. He's a friendly."

-ooo-​

Taylor
Later
Andrea's Apartment

"Okay, let me get this straight," said Andrea. "This is the guy we went up to Newfoundland for you to see on that mysterious mission. The one you wouldn't tell us anything about."

"That's the one," I confirmed, rubbing my hair dry following the shower. I had nothing against the uniform as such, but it was nice to get out of it and into civvies once more.

"So what's his story?" she pressed. "What did you invite him down here for?"

"I'll tell you, soon. Promise." Tossing the towel onto the hamper, I made my way out into the living room, where Kinsey was sitting opposite Richter. "It's okay, I've got this," I said to Kinsey. "Go and freshen up, if you want."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, and stood up. "You think about what I told you," he said to Richter, then headed down the corridor in the direction of the bathroom.

"What he told you?" I asked Richter curiously as I took the seat Kinsey had been using.

The self-confessed computer nerd coloured slightly. He still looked ruffled from Kinsey's ambush, but I suspected that was his natural look. "He was giving me pointers on how not to be caught unawares like that again. I still can't believe how easily someone his size snuck up on me. It was like he just appeared out of thin air." His eyes narrowed. "Is he a parahuman?"

I chuckled and shook my head. "No, but he used to be a military cop. I happen to know that he's very good at his job."

"Yeah, no crap," he mumbled. "He scared the living heck out of me."

Andrea giggled. "You're not the only one he's done it to, I bet." She perched on my chair arm. "So, what's your deal?"

Richter glanced at me. "How much do they know?"

"Andrea knows basically everything," I assured him. "What you can tell me, you can tell her." Except any details about Christine Mather or her son. "Sergeant Kinsey isn't cleared on the matter we spoke about, at your house."

Andrea's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "I get to know something that Jim doesn't? Ooh, spill with the juicy deets."

Richter took a deep breath. "Well, Captain Snow, I've investigated you as deeply as I'm able, and I'm satisfied that you're on the level. I'm willing to accept your assistance in that matter."

"Wait a minute," Andrea said, looking and sounded more than a little affronted. "Who the hell gave you the right to investigate Taylor? What the hell do you think you're up to, bozo?"

I reached out and slid my arm around her waist, pulling her onto my lap. She giggled, snuggling up to me. "It's okay, Andrea. I said he could. It was necessary, so he could trust me to help him out." I tilted my head. "Well, trust me to get you to help him out."

"Me?" she asked, staring at me in surprise.

"Her?" echoed Richter, looking between me and Andrea uncertainly. "Are you sure?"

"Remember the friend I told you about?" I said. "This is her."

"Absolutely, I'm her friend all day long." Andrea turned to look at me. "But you're gonna have to give me more details about what you just volunteered me for. Just saying."

"Sure." I tilted my head toward the bathroom corridor, to indicate that Kinsey was potentially within earshot. "I'm just going to whisper it into your ear. Okay?"

"Oooo," she said, in a blatant attempt to sound mysterious. "Seeecrets."

"Uh huh. Now, hold still." I lowered my voice and put my lips next to her ear.

-ooo-​

Andrew Richter

He could tell the moment Captain Snow said the magic words 'artificial intelligence' because Andrea's eyes popped wide open and she stared at him. "What, really?" she squeaked.

"Absolutely," he confirmed. "It's what I do."

"That's so cool!" she enthused. "So where do I fit in?"

Again, Captain Snow whispered in the redhead's ear. Andrea nodded several times during the apparent exposition, then turned her attention to Andrew. Even before she spoke, he knew what she was going to say.

"I am so totally in," she said. Mentally, he paid out on the bet he'd made with himself. "I mean, I've never helped raise a kid before but hey, first time for everything. So, what do I gotta do?"

"Well, for a start, we're going to need to install a high-capacity secure data link from Deer Lake to Brockton Bay," Andrew began, his mind taking apart the problem into its component parts. "I've got a little money put aside I can use for that, but …"

Andrea smirked. "Got you covered," she said smugly. "What else?"

For the first time, Andrew began to feel a ray of hope. With access to whatever assistance Andrea and Captain Snow could give him, maybe he could ensure that Dragon was socialised without having to burden her down with crippling restrictions.

Well, not so many, anyway.

-ooo-​

Taylor
The Next Day

"So where are we going this time?" I asked, as Andrea drove through Brockton Bay's morning traffic. She handled the car like she did everything else, with cheerful aplomb and a penchant for treating rules as mere suggestions.

Kinsey had wanted to come along, but Andrea had made it clear this was a girls-only outing. Accordingly, I'd pointed out that one, I was armed; two, I had Andrea with me; and three, Andrew Richter was in dire need of a guiding tutorial on how to not hurt oneself when handling firearms. Richter had been less than thrilled by my throwing him to the wolves but I figured it would do him the world of good.

"Not gonna tell you," she said with a cheeky sideways grin. "Serves you right for springing that on me with Andy. I get to talk with a real artificial intelligence? That's amazing. And you didn't tell me anything about it, ahead of time."

"I didn't know when he was going to contact me," I pointed out reasonably enough. "He had to do a deep-dive on me and make sure he could trust me. It could've taken months or it could've taken years." Even with Lisa to consult, any actions I took in the meantime could change matters in a way that she couldn't foresee.

"Yeah, yeah, excuses, excuses." She blew a raspberry at me, then cut off a BMW, ducking through the lights with the sound of an angry car horn fading into the distance behind us. "Yeah, yeah, same to you, buddy."

"So you're okay with chatting to Dragon and getting to know her?" I asked. Andrea had already agreed to it, but I wanted to make sure she wasn't just saying so because of me.

"Well, duh," she said. "Real. Artificial. Intelligence. I might not be a total nerd, but I've dated them, and even I can see the appeal." She smirked at me. "Besides, it's not often I get the chance to corrupt a pure and untarnished mind."

"Oh, god," I muttered. "Just remember, Dragon will basically be a child, learning from you. Learning about humanity, and how to be human. It's a huge responsibility."

"And I get that." Her tone was serious now. "If this is a part of your future that you need to fix, then I can be as responsible as I need to be. Ahh, here we are."

Pressing a button on the dash, she swung the car down a ramp into what seemed to be an underground parking garage of some sort. A private one, from the looks of the heavy grille that was even now rattling upward out of our way. Andrea slowed just long enough to let the barrier rise far enough for the car to go under, then drove on through. We bumped over what I belatedly recognised as tyre shredders—fortunately undeployed—and then Andrea wheeled the car into a parking space emblazoned with "CEO" painted boldly on it.

I got out of the car, looking around the otherwise-empty parking garage with interest. "Where are we?"

"Under our building, duh," she said, and set off toward a set of elevator doors. "It's finished. The bulk of the furniture shows up Monday, and then I move in."

I raised my eyebrows as I caught up with her. "So, leaving the old apartment behind, huh?" That was a pity. I had fond memories of the place.

"Oh, I'll be keeping it on for appearances, but I just won't be living there most days." She tapped the 'up' button, and the elevator doors opened silently.

We stepped inside and I blinked, somewhat impressed. I was pretty sure it wasn't Tinkertech, but it still looked very impressive, all chrome and black reflective glass. The floor display and control panel both consisted of glowing red numbers behind the glass.

"To use the elevator, you need a card like this one," Andrea said, pulling out a featureless black card from her purse.

When she tapped the display with it, the numbers turned green. In addition, several numbers at the top that had previously not shown up at all began to glow. At the very top, the word 'Penthouse' sprawled across the display. Reaching up, she tapped the word with her finger.

"Let me guess," I said as the elevator started upward. "Your card is the only one that makes those numbers and the penthouse show up at all?"

"Got it in one." She pulled an identical card out and handed it to me. "And now yours does, too. Don't lose that. They're expensive."

"Hm. Okay." I stowed it away in my card wallet, already considering where I would stash it once I rejoined PRT regular operations.

We travelled upward for quite a ways. A travelling circle flicked from one number to the next, impressively quickly for mundane tech. Then the elevator slowed to a halt, the travelling circle now a rectangular frame around 'Penthouse'. The doors opened again, absolutely silently. Andrea led the way out, almost jiggling with repressed excitement.

We were in a small foyer; featuring a couple of chairs, a painting on the wall, an intercom panel and a card-reader beside the single door out. A security camera enclosed in an impressively sturdy cage observed both the elevator doors and the exit door. I tilted my head toward it and raised my eyebrows.

Divining my question, Andrea nodded and giggled. "That's for show. It actually draws a video feed, but the cameras we rely on are a lot smaller and harder to spot."

"Nice," I murmured. For my money, redundant security was the best type, especially when the perpetrators didn't know the extra layer even existed.

Andrea swiped the card reader. We stepped out into the main area of the penthouse living area, and my jaw slowly dropped. I had seen luxury before, but I'd never lived in it. Now, it seemed, I had my chance.

As Andrea had noted, the majority of the furniture was still on the way, but it was easy to tell what was to go where. We walked through a living room that I could not swear was smaller than the house I'd grown up in, with a gorgeously deep pile carpet from one side to the other. One wall was basically taken up with the largest flatscreen TV I'd ever seen; looking more closely, I could tell that it was a series of smaller screens, but it was still impressive as hell.

"Always wanted one of those," Andrea noted, indicating the wall TV. "Got speakers to match, too. This room takes the concept of surround sound, beats it up, and steals its lunch money."

Personally, I thought she might have been going a little over the top with the size of the entertainment setup, but it was her job to handle the money and my job to trust her to handle the money. If we could afford this and she enjoyed it, then I didn't have a problem. "So far so good," I said, looking around the room. It was spacious and airy with large windows, and I could see the appeal. "What else you got?"

"Well, the kitchen is through here, laundry and bathroom here, and the bedrooms and ensuite bathrooms are up these stairs." Almost dragging me by the hand, she led me up a broad quarter-spiral staircase that let out onto an equally broad corridor, leading off into another section of the building.

"Wait," I said. "Bedrooms and ensuites, plural?" Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought I heard a chuckle. Lisa, what have you been up to?

"Well, yeah," Andrea said, still tugging me along. "When I was discussing the building with Lisa, she said to make sure I built in at least half a dozen extra bedrooms with attached bathrooms, so I made it eight. She wouldn't say why. I thought you knew about it."

"No. I didn't. I had no idea of any of this." But ideas that I'd been trying to work out how to prepare for, concepts gradually unfurling in the back of my mind, suddenly burst into brilliant flower. I smiled. "Though I know who they're for."

"Oh, good, so long as someone does." Andrea flung open the double doors at the end of the corridor. Beyond was a bedroom, but what a bedroom. The bed looked about the same size as the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, French windows let out onto a balcony with a gorgeous view of the Boardwalk and the ocean beyond, and underfoot there was more of that luxurious carpet. Walk-in closets adorned two walls, and an open door led through to an impressive-looking ensuite.

I paused, eyeing the bed suspiciously. Of all the furniture that was going into this penthouse apartment, she'd arranged for this one thing to be delivered ahead of my visit? And made up with sheets, pillows and a coverlet? "Andrea …"

"What?" she looked around innocently, her shoes kicked off so she could dig her toes into the carpet. "C'mon, you gotta try this. It's a whole new level."

With a sigh, I did as she said. And she was right; it felt marvellous on my bare feet. I walked around the bedroom for a minute or so, clenching my toes then relaxing them again. When I looked back at Andrea, she was sitting demurely on the bed.

I sighed. "Did you honestly bring me across town and up into what is by far the most extravagantly luxurious place I've been in since the White House, just to drag me into bed?"

"Drag, no," she said with a giggle. "Invite, yes." She held out her hand to me. "Trust me, this mattress is amazing."

I hmphed. "I will sit on the bed. No hanky-panky."

Butter wouldn't have melted in her mouth. "Not a hanky or a panky in sight, I promise."

I sat on the bed. She'd been right; I'd never experienced a more comfortable mattress. Slowly, I lay back, feeling it cradle my body. It might not have been quite like drifting on a cloud, but it came close.

"Roll over," she ordered me. "I can see your stress knots from here."

"It's been a long week," I offered without bothering to elaborate. And it had been; a week since Chicago. Since I'd done what I had to do. Slowly, I rolled over onto my stomach.

Andrea knelt next to me and started massaging my back, her practised hands finding the spots where they would have the best effect. "Wow," she murmured. "I knew I should've gotten to you earlier."

"Couldn't be helped." On my first night back, I'd fallen into bed and slept like the dead. The next night, following the wedding reception, Andrea had been giggly and playful but the alcohol had caught up with her and she'd fallen asleep in my arms after doing not much more than fool around for awhile. I would've been happy either way; just holding her was good enough for me.

"Well, now it can be. You're tense as a board. What've you been doing?"

I shook my head, rolling it from side to side on my crossed arms. "You know I can't talk about it, sorry."

"Yeah, well, I can't do much about it with your top and bra on, either," she retorted. "Come on, you know the drill."

With a put-upon sigh, I rolled over and sat up, and started undoing buttons. "Just so we're clear, this is only for a massage?"

"Absolutely."

-ooo-​

Some Time Later

I stretched extravagantly and cuddled up to Andrea, spoon-fashion. "Just a massage, my ass," I muttered, but I was smiling as I nuzzled into her hair. I was more relaxed than I had been in months.

She wriggled around so she could kiss me. "Didn't hear you saying no."

We both knew my complaints were for form's sake only. I had needed what she could do for me more than I'd realised. It wouldn't rid me of my demons—I doubted anything had that power for me, now—but it had certainly served to quiet them for awhile.

"I have to admit, this is very nice," I admitted, lounging back on the luxurious sheets and looking around at the décor of the bedroom. "Coming home to this will be well worth it."

"That's the whole idea." She slid off the bed and strolled out onto the balcony, as unselfconscious as ever despite the fact that she wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing. Of course, we were so high up, anyone wanting to catch us flashing the whole city would've needed a good-sized telescope. Not that she would've cared, even then. Knowing her, she would've posed.

I stepped into my panties, mostly as a figleaf to my own modesty, and followed her out. The roughened marble tiles were warm underfoot. "So, about those other bedrooms."

"Yes …?" She drew the question out, leaning back against the balcony rail with her eyes closed, face tilted back to catch the sun. She was so much in the moment that my heart ached. I wasn't attracted to the female form the way I was to guys—and even that was hit and miss—but right then, I loved her so much that I wanted to gather her up and take her back to bed.

Focus, Taylor.

"So, you know how you said about Dragon that you'd never tried raising a kid before, but there was a first time for everything?" I stepped in next to her and put my arm around her waist.

One eye opened and gazed up at me suspiciously. "Are you saying you want to adopt kids? Because it sounds to me like you want to adopt kids."

"Very specific kids," I amended. "Kids I knew, back in the day. Kids who otherwise would have an absolute shit of a time."

She snorted. "Please tell me you don't want me to adopt your younger self, once you're born."

We both knew that wasn't happening. "Nope. Danny and Anne-Rose are good people. I had a great childhood. It was my teen years that sucked, especially after Mom died in a car accident." I shook my head. "Getting off topic. The first kid we need to adopt will be born in early January. His parents won't want to give him up, but they're tight on cash so they have no choice. Unfortunately, his true parentage will come out so nobody will want to be near him."

"True parentage?" Now she had both eyes open. "What are they so worried about that you don't think is a problem?"

I looked her in the eyes and kept my voice serious. "He's the last son of Heartbreaker. People attach far too much of a stigma to things like that. Yes, he's a second gen cape. Yes, he's likely to trigger more easily than a first gen. But by the time he does, you'll be his mother in all but DNA. And I want him to have a good life."

Twelve years into the parahuman phenomenon, there were no second generation capes as yet; accordingly, the general public was unaware of their increased likelihood of triggering. Andrea knew because I'd told her. She nodded firmly, accepting the information. "So, what's his name?"

I smiled. With that question, she'd accepted the implicit request. Flighty she might be, but she never broke a promise. "Heartbreaker would've named him Jean-Paul, but when I met him he was calling himself Alec."

End of Part 7-2​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 7-3: Secrets Within Secrets

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

Sunday, August 21, 1994
Brockton Bay
Taylor

We arrived back at the apartment in good time. I'd told Andrea how much I liked the building, so she was smugly proud of herself. Our together time had improved my mood considerably, which did not reduce her smugness in any way. In that aspect alone, she could've given Lisa a run for her money.

When Andrea let us both in, Kinsey and Richter were sitting in the living room, talking quietly. Richter looked a little frazzled, but that was only to be expected; Kinsey was nothing if not intense about teaching people the right way to do something. They both looked around as we entered.

"We're back!" announced Andrea, somewhat unnecessarily. "Oh, good. You're still alive. Jim didn't rough you up too much, Andy? Still able to walk and talk?"

"Barely," groaned Richter. "I had no idea there was so much involved with firearm safety. I just thought it was 'how not to accidentally shoot people'."

"Let me guess." I gave him a mildly sympathetic look as I pushed the door closed behind me. "Sergeant Kinsey put you through a dynamic safety course." I'd been through more than one myself. Running, dive-and-roll into cover, pulling out pistols while in odd postures, reloading under stress, the whole nine yards. It was strenuous and occasionally painful, but the reflexes I'd picked up doing it had saved my life more than once, so I wasn't about to complain.

"All except the actual range time, ma'am," Kinsey noted. "I was unable to locate a shooting range in the timeframe we had to show him that aspect of firearm use."

"Ah. Yes, we're definitely going to have to cover that as well." I thought for a moment. "I wonder if Detective Kimball would be able to give us access to the local police firing range?"

Andrea leaned out of the kitchen where it sounded and smelled like she'd just put coffee on to boil. "I bet Hugglesmurf would love that. You breeze back into town, ignore him while you attend a wedding and the reception, then hit him up just because you want a favour."

Well, when she put it that way … "Good point," I sighed. "Bad idea from the start. He'd probably kick me to the curb, and I wouldn't blame him. And his name is not Hugglesmurf."

"Is if I say it is. And you totally underestimate the effect you have on the guy." She came out into the living room, a broad grin plastered across her face. "Five gets you ten he'd jump on that straight away. We'd get the royal treatment while he hung around with puppy-dog eyes, hoping for a third date." Her grin became salacious as hell. "If you know what I mean."

I knew, all right. Kinsey also knew, if the set of his jaw meant what I thought it did. Richter merely looked politely interested, as if waiting for someone to explain the punchline to him.

"I like Humphrey, but I am not sleeping with the man just to get us access to a firing range." I may have ground my teeth a little just then.

Kinsey and Andrea were unmoved, but Richter leaned back in his seat a little, away from me. "I, uh, really don't need—"

"Yeah, you do." Andrea, mercurial as ever, was now briskly professional. "If Taylor and Jim say you need real-world gun training then buddy, you need it. Fortunately, I got you all covered." A bit of the smugness crept back as she dusted her hands off for dramatic effect.

Kinsey and I both turned to look at her. I raised my eyebrows. "Mind explaining that?" Whatever she had to say, I definitely wanted to hear. As I'd once said to Kinsey, she might be a ditz but she was a ditz with a brain.

She pretended to look modest. 'Pretended', because Andrea had never actually tried looking modest (let alone succeeded) since I'd known her. "I might have access to a private shooting range. It's all up to spec with the latest safety standards. But the deets are, um …" she cleared her throat delicately while looking at Kinsey. "Kinda need to know. Girl's gotta have her secrets, and all that."

All of a sudden, I thought I knew what she was talking about, but I needed to confirm it. "Wait a moment. Kinsey, I need to confer with Andrea, in private."

"Ma'am." Kinsey scooped up the TV remote and hit the power button; seconds later, the sounds of a fast-food ad filled the room. "Mr Richter, let's see what's on TV."

It was so good to have competent, capable people working with me.

Wasting no more time, I went around the sofa and took Andrea with me back into the kitchen. Through the open doorway, I could see Kinsey and Richter both watching the screen; one because he chose to, and the other because he knew he had no choice in the matter at all.

Lowering my voice to the point where I knew neither one could hear me, I looked at Andrea. "This shooting range, is it in the building?" Unless she was developing another property—and I couldn't be sure she wasn't—then it had to be.

"Yup," she said happily. "Sub-basement, under the parking garage. When you tap the card, hit the bottom button instead of the top. I made it for the mercenaries to train in, when they're staying in the building."

"That's … actually a really good idea," I decided. "And it's all up to code?"

"Absolutely." She nodded earnestly, setting her riot of curls bouncing wildly. "I made sure that it doesn't break into any sewer lines or cut through important conduits. Nobody's actually used it yet, though. I thought I'd keep it as a surprise for you."

I hugged her. "Consider me most agreeably surprised," I said in her ear. "Think you're up to keeping Kinsey company while I go and show Andrew which end of the pistol the bullet comes out of?"

She grinned at me. "Darn tootin'."

-ooo-​

Robert Gordon
A Nondescript Café in Washington, DC

"Thanks for agreeing to meet." Rob slid into his seat and picked up the menu to obscure his mouth.

Instead of pulling a baseball cap down over his eyes or wearing sunglasses, he'd opted for frameless tinted yuppie glasses and a light wash through his black hair to push it toward dark brown. Shaving his beard and moustache back to a vanDyke had been a little bit of a wrench, but serious times demanded serious measures. His clothing was light-coloured and loosely-fitting, as far removed from his carefully tailored uniform as one could imagine.

"I'm a busy man but if it's about that woman, then I've got the time. What've you got for me?"

Director Martins of the ATF hadn't bothered disguising himself at all. He still had the same rumpled suit and slightly harried air that Rob had noted from their first meeting, before the ridiculous parodies of justice following the Battle of the Compound. The information Rob had supplied Martins with then should've sunk Snow's career and possibly even put her in Leavenworth, but nothing of the sort had happened. Because Snow got to the judges. It's what she does.

Well, she hadn't gotten to Martins. He, at least, was exhibiting the integrity required by an official of the US government. With him on Rob's side, maybe justice could be done at last. And from the venom in his tone when he said the words that woman, there was no way in Hell she'd be able to buy him off.

"Before I get into that, what happened with the stuff I gave you about her and Hamilton?" He had to learn how she'd countered that. While he didn't have any specific evidence of an affair between her and that doddering fool, the way the old man kept rolling over for Snow's demands had to be proof that something was going on.

Martins paused as the waitstaff, a skinny black guy, came to their table with a plate of pastries and a coffeepot. Putting the pastries on the table, the waitstaff deftly poured them both a cup and then discreetly withdrew. Taking one paper sachet of sugar after another, Martins stirred them into his cup. Rob counted the empty sachets and shuddered; did the man want a heart attack?

"She said it didn't happen," the ATF regional Director said at last. "Said she had counter-evidence of a pre-existing grudge on your part. You know how well she can talk. The judge tossed it."

"Grudge? I don't have a grudge against her." The very notion was ridiculous. Grudges were irrational. What he felt against Snow was very rational indeed. "Just because I tried to bring up her behaviour back when she was working in the department and Hamilton squashed it, now I'm the bad guy?"

"Whatever," Martins said, with a dismissive wave that indicated the topic was done. "Unfortunately, she's managed to pull off a couple of coups, so she's currently the flavour of the month. We're going to need something new and damaging. Something we could use to force the PRT to convene a court of inquiry." His tired eyes searched Rob's face. "Got anything like that?"

"The Seattle thing." Rob tapped the table. "She's not empowered to make on the spot calls regarding the disposition of parahumans, especially ones that have been implicated in serious crimes. But somewhere between talking to the cops and reporting to the PRT, she somehow made a six foot six rock guy vanish into thin air. Is anyone looking into that?"

Martins sighed. "I did look into it. I'm not sure what report you read, but she didn't simply make him vanish. He was actually present at the meeting between Snow and Director Tyson, and Tyson accepted that he had no blame attached. An offer was made for him to join the local Protectorate and he turned it down. The only unusual aspect is that Snow then offered to give him a lift to wherever he wanted to go, and he accepted. But that could easily be the fact that she was the only PRT member he trusted right then, and it certainly can't be construed into a crime."

The previously solid footing of the evidence of Taylor Snow's perfidy was becoming more like quicksand. "Okay, right. What about what happened in Chicago? She straight-up murdered Elijah, and that dangerous lunatic Kinsey shot Christine. And what happens? Scuttlebutt says they were offered medals. Fucking medals." He spat the last word out with all the distaste he could manage.

Martins took a drink from his coffee, then ate a pastry. "From Snow's own testimony, the Mathers woman was a Master and a Stranger, and the child was a Master in his own right."

"Snow's testimony." Rob couldn't have loaded any more disdain into a phrase if he'd tried. "For what that's worth." Nothing, was what he meant. Snow could put her hand on a stack of Bibles and swear that the sky was blue, and Rob would still go out and check.

"Mmm." The sound was contemplative. "There's a chance she's not actually wrong, you know."

Rob actually pushed himself away from the table, subconsciously distancing himself from Martins, as he stared at the older man. "Are you taking her side now?"

"Psh. Not hardly. The woman's a menace who doesn't deserve to wear the uniform. Any uniform." Martins' derogatory tone reassured Rob. "But … and I hate to say this. But." He took another drink of his coffee. "The Snow Protocols? The ones they're enacting all over the PRT? We've looked them over and we're adopting some of them ourselves. Just to be on the safe side, you understand."

"Just like her to make up some bullshit 'safety' procedures and slap her name on them," sneered Rob. "I already know my job. I don't need some newcomer to tell me how to suck eggs."

"Mmm. Right. Except that … and you didn't hear this from me, but … I got word from some of my contacts in the PRT, the ones that had supplied us with the Protocols, that there'd been a rash of people who'd turned themselves in as undergoing Master/Stranger effects over the last few months. Plus a few people who'd been turned in by others, reported as being Mastered."

Rob shrugged. "Yeah? So what?" False positives happened all the time.

Martins tilted his head. "So this. All the ones who'd turned themselves in said those effects ceased on or before the day that Kinsey capped the Mathers woman. And the Master cases suddenly started blabbing about how they'd been Mastered but were unable to talk about it … more or less the same time as Snow shot the kid."

Rob hadn't heard any of this. He repressed the instinct to call Martins a liar; the man had no reason to make up a story like that. "Confirmation bias," he said instead. "Correlation isn't causation. I'm betting those reports came from people who heard about how the great Snow killed two Masters, and they want to get in on it."

"Maybe." Martins gave Rob a steady look. "I'd love to think that, but I don't know it. Not for a fact. None of them are clearly fake, and there's enough that I've checked out as legitimate to make me think there's something to it. So that's not a thing we can use. You got anything else?"

Damn it. Rob had come to this meeting armed with what he'd thought were unimpeachable arguments for the deposal of Taylor Snow. Instead, Martins was shooting them down as fast as he put them up. Whose side is he on, anyway? "Well, how about this," he said. "I heard she might be gay. There's a story going around that she was living with another woman before she joined the PRT. I mean, with with."

Martins raised an eyebrow. "On the one hand, that's a pretty serious charge. On the other … well, you seem to be fond of throwing around accusations of her sleeping with everyone from her superior officer to her orderly to the judges overseeing her case. Is she gay or straight? Pick a lane and stay in it."

The man just wasn't getting it. Rob gritted his teeth. "Forget the other stuff," he snapped. "What if she's proven to be gay? That's an instant out, right there, yeah?"

"Yeah … maybe. If we can scrape together enough evidence to force an investigation." Martins finished off his coffee, then took another pastry. "These days it's not enough just to have suspicions, remember? There's got to be solid proof, something to hang our hats on. If nobody speaks up, we've got nothing." And getting the PRT to investigate their fair-haired child right then, he didn't have to say, would be like pulling teeth.

"I could investigate," offered Rob. "I mean, if I had the resources. Information sources, cash backing, the whole nine yards. Give me a chance and I'll turn her life inside out and get all her dirty laundry out in the open." Take the hint, he silently urged Martins. Hire me on.

"I have no doubt you could." Martins pulled out his wallet and slapped a five on the table for the waitstaff. "Unfortunately, by court order, the ATF is legally not permitted to employ you for any reason whatsoever. And I happen to like my job."

No. No, no, no. "It doesn't have to be an official position," argued Rob, half-standing in his seat. "Surely you can do something off the books."

"No." Martins' voice was harder, harsher now. "I agreed to this meeting because I thought you had something legitimate we could use against Snow. If and when we bring her down, it'll be because we did it right. I'm not having our case against her thrown out because we did things her way. In short, Mr Gordon, I'm not going to break the law for you or for anyone else. Don't bother contacting my office again unless you have something concrete."

Martins got up and walked out with never a backward glance. With him went Rob's best hopes for a quick and easy victory over Snow. The resources of the ATF would've made digging up dirt on her—or manufacturing the dirt that he knew had to be there—so much easier. Faking evidence wasn't wrong if they were clearly guilty of something. Not really.

Defeated, but not beaten—never beaten—Rob dropped money on the table as well, and got up. As he left, he saw the waitstaff coming over to clear their table. God, I hope I never have to stoop so low that I end up working for tips.

He left the café, his brain still trying to come up with some way to turn things around.

God damn it. I can't just let Snow win.

-ooo-​

Back Door of the Café

Thomas Calvert took off the apron he'd appropriated, hung it up beside the door with the others, and stepped out into the alleyway. He left the tips he'd collected in the apron pocket for whoever found it, but kept the miniature recorder he'd slipped under the plate of pastries. While the meeting between the disgraced Robert Gordon and Director Martins had clearly not gone as well as Gordon hoped, he was sure he would still get some good information out of it.

Though still only a Lieutenant, Calvert was well aware of the importance of knowing that one extra fact. And so, when his network of contacts apprised him of the upcoming meeting (in particular, regarding someone he already had a certain amount of interest in) it had been simplicity itself for him to show up there at the right time, put on an apron and pretend to be 'the new guy'. Nobody looked twice at a black man bussing tables, after all.

Humming a popular tune to himself, Calvert strolled out of the alleyway and down the street, to where he'd parked his car. Robert Gordon was someone he intended to keep an eye on. People with Intelligence training, a grudge that could be exploited and no current employment were definitely a worthwhile resource.

-ooo-​

Taylor

"Captain Snow? Are we nearly there?"

I glanced aside to Richter, who was wearing a pair of my oversized sunglasses; mainly to conceal the fact that he was blindfolded under it. While he was going to learn the location of Andrea's building sooner or later, I didn't want him knowing all its secrets just yet. He didn't seem nervous or upset at the moment, just curious.

"Almost," I said, pulling the car into the same downramp that Andrea had shown me. I hit the remote, and the barricade began rolling upward. When I judged that the car could fit under it, I let off the brake and applied acceleration; just enough to bump us over the tyre-shredder and into the garage proper.

I parked in the same space as Andrea had, then got out and went around the car to Richter's side. As per instructions, he hadn't moved or tried to take the blindfold off. "Out you get," I said, opening the door and guiding him to his feet while ensuring that he didn't hit his head or shoulder on the way out; harder than it sounds.

Next, I grabbed the gun bag that had made the trip in the footwell of the car, slung it over my shoulder, and locked the car up. It should be secure anyway, given that the barricade had rolled down again, but I'd learned via many hard lessons to be a suspenders and belt sort of girl. Then I took Richter by the elbow and guided him toward the elevator.

"Do you have a secret base?" he asked, his voice echoing through the parking garage. "Is this an actual secret underground base? I thought that sort of thing only happened in the comic books."

"In a manner of speaking, kind of," I admitted, hoping he wasn't going to geek out on me. The last thing I wanted or needed was a grown-up version of Greg Veder on my hands.

Wow … it had been years since I thought of Greg. I vaguely wondered how Nina was doing, then brought my mind back to the present. Taking out the card Andrea had given me, I swiped my way into the lift, then walked Richter inside. Tapping the panel as she had, I looked for the lowest 'button', which turned out to be the letters "SB" surrounded by a circle. I pressed my finger firmly on that.

The elevator started downward smoothly, causing Richter to turn his head as if looking from side to side. "I knew it!" he crowed. "Secret underground base! I've always wanted to see one of these!"

"You'll be disappointed," I warned him. "Secret, yes. Underground, yes. Base, no."

"What?" he asked, but then the elevator arrived at its location and the doors opened. "What do you mean?"

I guided him out into the room beyond as automated lights sprang to life. We stood in a concrete room, painted in tasteful colours, with the obvious security camera in the corner (which meant there were several concealed ones around) and three doors. The first was marked "LOCKERS", which we didn't need. The second was designated "ARMORY", which we also didn't need. The third door said "RANGE", which I figured was what we were after.

I went up to the Range door. It was locked, but there was a reader beside it, so I tapped the card and heard it click open. "I mean, this is not the base. Just the firing range. Take off your blindfold and come on through."

He took a moment to do what I said, stuffing the blindfold in his pocket and hanging the sunglasses in the front of his shirt. At the entrance to the firing range, he stopped and stared. "Wow. I mean, wow. Is your whole base set up like this?"

"Need to know, Mr Richter." I was actually being tricky with my wording there. As I'd only seen the penthouse and the sub-basement, I would need to see the rest of the building before I could make a judgement on the matter. But it worked the other way as well.

Truth be told, it was a fairly well set up firing range. I figured Andrea had done a lot of research and gone with the same type I'd trained on with the PRT. Ten lanes, side by side, with fully kitted out firing benches and solid baffles between, with tables for cleaning the weapons against the near wall. Each firing bench had, as a matter of course, individual controls for running targets up and down the lanes. A control booth with (if I wasn't much mistaken) bullet-resistant polycarbonate windows sat next to the door, with a firearm-clearing barrel next to it.

The walls were a matte grey, which contrasted nicely with bright yellow stripes up the walls and across the ceiling to mark the five-yard intervals, all the way out to thirty yards. I noticed that the far wall appeared to slant downward, with a bullet-collection trough at the bottom. As a final touch, the room was well-lit, with every light past the firing benches solidly protected from even the wildest of stray shots by heavy concrete.

Richter went to the closest firing lane and peered down to the far end. "Thirty yards?" He shook his head. "How can you expect to hit anything at that range?"

"Practice." I went to the cleaning table and opened the gun bag. Removing the pistol we'd acquired for him, a Beretta M9, I placed it on the table. "Okay, show me what you know."

Seating himself on the folding chair, he took up the weapon and removed the (empty) magazine, checked the chamber once the magazine was out, then disassembled it as far as Kinsey had decided was necessary. Then he put it back together again. It took him some little time—I could do it a lot more quickly, and Kinsey was magic at it—but he got it done without any errors I could gig him for. Keeping his finger off the trigger and the barrel pointed away from both of us, he offered it to me for inspection.

"Good," I said neutrally. Taking a loaded magazine out of the gun bag, I handed it to him, along with the pistol. "Take these to a firing bench. Do not load the weapon until I say so. Put on eye and ear protection, then wait for my next instruction. Go."

With a nod, he got up and went to the bench. The appropriate protection gear was hanging on a hook, and he did as he was told. I went to the next bench and put the ear protectors there. The eye protectors, I found, were large enough to fit over my glasses. I thought that was a nice touch by Andrea.

"You'll find paper targets under your firing bench," I called out. "Attach one to the overhead clip, then send it downrange to the five-yard mark."

While I was waiting for him to figure this out, I attached at a target to my clip and trundled it away. A few seconds later (he wasn't bad at the technical stuff, I figured) his target joined mine.

Now was the time, I figured, to see just how bad he was at the firing-guns aspect. "Load your pistol! Keep your weapon pointed downrange at all times! Chamber a round! Report when ready!"

Even through the ear protectors, I heard the smooth k'klik-klik of the slide going back and forward. "Ready!" he called out, his voice high and reedy with stress.

"Kinsey will have shown you how to hold a pistol! Assume that position! Line up your front sight with the target! Slowly, and I say again slowly, squeeze the trigger!"

There was a long pause. Finally, just before I was thinking of going to see if he was alright, his pistol went off. To his credit, he hit paper. Unfortunately, it was about an inch from the edge.

"Again!" I called out before he could begin to dwell on his terrible shot. "Firm grip, front sight on target, slowly squeeze!"

The next shot, at least, got inside the outer ring, but only just. I essayed a silent sigh. This was likely to take awhile.

-ooo-​

Ten minutes later, he'd gone through two magazines and most of his shots were getting close to being on target. The majority were missing high, which said to me that he was probably flinching a little, and maybe not paying much attention to his rear sight.

I told him as much, and he shook his head. "I think it might be the pistol." Keeping it pointed away from the both of us, he tapped the barrel. "This is only a few inches long, right? There's no way you're going to be as accurate with that as with, say, a rifle."

"That's true." I stood up from the cleaning table. Taking the Beretta, I grabbed another magazine from the gun bag and headed for the firing bench that I'd picked for my own. My target was still sitting at the five-yard spot. "Protection."

Obediently, he put the earmuffs and goggles on, while I did the same. Then I hit the control to run it all the way down to the back. Reaching into my jacket, I drew my Glock and placed it alongside the Beretta. "This one's got an even shorter barrel. Want to bet me I can't hit the target with it?"

Perhaps realising he'd opened his mouth a little too far, he silently shook his head.

"Good." I loaded the Beretta and chambered a round, then worked the slide of the Glock as well. "Say when."

Nervously, watching from the back of the firing cubicle, he nodded. "Now?"

Turning, I scooped up both firearms. Automatically, I adjusted for the different weights, firing the first few from the Beretta until I had a feeling for how it pulled, then alternating with the Glock. I hadn't dual-fired for a while, but it really was like riding a bicycle; after the first few shots, it was like I'd never stopped.

The Glock clicked empty first, with the Beretta just a few shots behind. I laid both pistols, now both reeking of expended propellant and trailing smoke from their muzzles, down on the firing bench. Without looking, I hit the button to bring the target back, and turned to Richter. "Let's see how I did."

When the paper rectangle arrived, he stared at it. In morbid contrast to his, there were no holes outside the ten-ring, and only the first few off the bullseye itself. There was nothing left of the centre of the target, just a chewed-out hole. I handed it to him. "It's not the pistol."

"No," he agreed faintly. "It's not the pistol." Then he stared at me. "How did you get so good at it?"

"As I said, a lot of practice." I took up the Glock. "I started shooting pistols in ROTC back in college, and kept it up when I joined the PRT. My boss says he'll be able to qualify me for Marksmanship Expert in pistols, just as soon as the PRT gets around to striking a medal for it."

"I don't have that long before I go back to Deer Lake." He looked down at the target in his hands. "Not to get this good."

"And I don't expect you to." I went over to the cleaning table. "Which is why you're only dealing with a five-yard target. All I want is for you to get the majority of your shots in a group that would kill a man."

He flinched at that. "I—I'm not comfortable with the idea of killing."

"Then why are you carrying a pistol?" My gaze was as blunt and uncompromising as my question. "Listen, guns are designed for exactly one purpose. To kill. They are an offensive weapon, not a defensive one. Carrying one will do exactly nothing to stop someone from hurting you, unless you use it to shoot them first, and sometimes not even then. Every single person I've ever shot was either threatening me or threatening someone I cared about. I shot first, I shot accurately, and I spent very little time agonizing over what I'd done."

"So to you, people are just … targets?" He probably hadn't meant to sound so accusing, so I decided to cut him some slack. "You decide whether or not to kill them, and that's all there is to it?"

"Oh, no." I smiled sadly as I shook my head. "That's not even close to being all there is. I do regret having to kill, but I'm not going to beat myself up over it." I thought back to the first time I'd pulled the trigger and ended a human life. "What you do have to consider is the potential consequences of removing someone from the board. Do they have friends, or some other situation set up that will come into play once you kill them? Sometimes, putting someone out of your misery isn't worth the hassle of dealing with the backlash. Before you make the decision to kill someone, that's something you also have to think about."

Richter shook his head, looking down at the pistol still lying on the bench. "I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

I shrugged. "You probably aren't. But between Dragon, Manhunter and Robin Hood, all it would take is one person to trace those programs back to you and your life would definitely be in danger. Which is why I'm taking the time to train you now. By the time you get back to Deer Lake, you will be at least moderately proficient with a pistol." Reaching into the gun bag, I handed him a magazine. "Load it up and try again."

He took a deep breath and accepted it. "Okay, then. Front sight, right?"

I nodded. "Front sight."

"Got it." He turned away into the firing cubicle while I got out the gun cleaning kit. While he was getting his eye in, I decided, I'd make sure my personal weapon was in top working order.

I might not need it, but when and if I did, it would be in a huge hurry.

-ooo-​

We made the drive back to Andrea's apartment with the car windows open so as not to stink up the interior with the smell of gunshot residue. I'd have to wipe down the interior anyway, but this was better than nothing. Richter, once I allowed him to remove the blindfold, seemed happier than he'd been before.

"Doing better?" I asked, just in case my impression was incorrect.

"I think so, yes." He looked across at me. "Your world is different to mine. It's full of shadows and monsters. I don't think I could live there."

It only took me a moment to figure out that he meant the present day rather than where/when I'd come from, and was speaking figuratively instead of literally. Still, he wasn't far wrong either way. "It's not a nice place to be," I agreed. "I've got friends and allies, though, and they make all the difference."

"Right." He nodded his head. "So how much do they know?"

"Kinsey and Andrea?" I eyed him carefully. Was he trying to pump me for information, or just asking who he could confide in? "Andrea knows more than Kinsey. Each of them knows as much as I feel safe telling them. Neither one of them knows every single gritty detail. And they won't, not unless I decide they need to."

I hadn't intended to be intimidating, but some part of my tone must have gotten through to him. He shook his head hastily. "I wasn't going to tell anyone anything, honest."

"It's probably better that way." I raised my both my eyebrows and the corner of my mouth at the same time. "At best, nobody would believe you. At worst, they would believe you, and come after you for time travel secrets. Right now, with the work you're doing on Dragon, it's a really good idea to be flying under the radar. Way under the radar."

He nodded earnestly. "Right, sure, absolutely."

"Good. Glad we got that cleared up." We rounded the corner to the street outside Andrea's apartment, and I frowned. "That car …"

Richter looked from me to the innocuous sedan parked outside the apartment block. "Is it the bad guys? Do I need to get my pistol out?"

I suddenly clicked as to where I'd seen it before, and shook my head. Not that I would've let him go into any kind of firefight, as green as he was. He could just about murder a paper target at five yards, and be depended on to not shoot his own foot off in the process. A trained soldier, he wasn't.

"No, it'll be fine. Quite the opposite of a bad guy, actually." I pulled in behind the sedan and parked. This close, I was sure I recognised it. "Come on up. Someone I want you to meet."

Wonderingly, he got out of the car, and I locked it with the key fob. I double-timed it up the stairs, the gun bag jolting back and forth where it hung over my shoulder, with Richter panting in my wake. The guy probably needed a little cardio in his life, I decided.

When I got to Andrea's door, I was so pumped up that I opened it with my key instead of knocking and waiting. And there, inside, was the person I was hoping to see.

"Nina!" I dropped the bag and swept her up into a hug. "It's so good to see you!"

"Whoof! Taylor, wow, hi!" She hugged me in return, her eyes sparkling with happiness. "I know it's been forever and a day but warn a girl, why don't you?"

I smiled. "Well, I missed you. How've you been?"

"Good. Really good. I've got some amazing news. When I heard you were in town, I came straight over."

My smile slipped a little. "Yeah, sorry I didn't invite you to Anne-Rose and Danny's wedding, but nobody had your number."

"That's kind of my fault," she admitted. "When I moved into my own place with Greg, I forgot to pass out my new number. But hey, now we're talking, I can fill you in on everything."

We settled down on the sofa, while Andrea bounced up and headed into the kitchen. I looked over at where Richter was standing awkwardly off to the side. It occurred to me that this was not an unusual circumstance for him. "Oh, hey. Nina, this is Andrew Richter. He's down from Canada, visiting a few days. Andrew, meet Nina Veder. She was about my first friend when I ended up in Brockton Bay."

"Wouldn't that be Danny?" Nina's grin was mischievous. "After all, he's the one who pulled you out of the water."

I rolled my eyes at her. "Well, yes, but you're the one who took me around and got my life sorted out." Turning back to Richter, I hooked a thumb at Nina. "If you're ever pulled out of the water in the middle of a yacht regatta pileup and you've lost your memory due to a concussion, Nina here's the person to help you out."

"I'll keep that in mind for if it ever happens to me," Richter replied dryly. I could see from the flicker in his eyes that he'd caught the reference about my arrival in this time period.

"So how do you like the city?" she asked him. "And just from personal curiosity, is your name spelled the same as the earthquake guy?"

"Yes, it is," he confirmed, in a tone that made me suspect he had to do that a lot. "And it's … nice. I've heard good things about your Boardwalk, but I haven't been there yet."

"Well, why don't we go there now?" suggested Andrea, emerging from the kitchen while cradling cups of what smelled like tangy fruit juice. "I mean, Taylor and Andy can shower first because whew, that gun reek, but then we can go and show Andy what it's like."

"Sounds like a plan to me." I gestured to Richter. "You go ahead. I'll have one when you're finished."

"Okay, sure, thanks." He disappeared toward the guest bedroom—Andrea had put him up there while Kinsey relocated temporarily to the sofa—presumably to grab a change of clothing.

Nina chuckled. "Well, you've got him trained. Not even a suggestion of an argument."

Kinsey accepted a cup of juice from Andrea with a nod of thanks. "You've met the Captain, ma'am. Do you honestly think anyone's likely to spend more than a day in her presence and not end up doing as she tells them without argument?"

"You have a good point there," she conceded. "I also notice that you've spent a lot longer than mere days in her presence, and you have no trouble in speaking up."

"That's because Kinsey and I make an exceptional team," I said. "I know exactly when to shut up and listen to him, and vice versa."

Having handed juice to me and Nina, Andrea put the spare one back in the fridge, then climbed into Kinsey's lap. "You want to see these two when they're having a conversation and missing out half the words," she pretended to complain. "I swear, they're like an old married couple, only they like each other."

I raised my eyebrows toward Kinsey. We don't do that, do we?

He replied with a tilt of the hand and a slight nod. Yes, ma'am, sometimes we do.

"So I see," murmured Nina with a smirk. "I've got to ask, why the gun reek? And I didn't know there were any firing ranges open in or around Brockton Bay on a Sunday."

I decided to field that one. "To answer your second question first, private range. And as for why, when I encountered Andrew, he displayed an egregiously poor lack of firearms common sense. So I told him that if he ever visited while I was in town, Kinsey and I would correct that lack. Which we're in the process of doing." I took a drink of my juice. "Not to change the subject, but didn't you say something about amazing news? And did I hear correctly, that you've moved in with Greg?"

As I recalled, Greg was her on-again off-again boyfriend; the one who'd introduced me to self-hypnosis and allowed me to get into contact with Lisa. I'd long held a suspicion that she was 'my' Greg's mother, and that the younger Greg was named after the elder. Recently, I'd gotten around to asking Lisa about it, and the answer had saddened me while verifying the supposition at the same time.

"Uh huh." She grinned at me. "And we're pregnant. And he's asked me to marry him."

Ah. The news jolted me to the core, but I did my best not to let it show. Careful not to spill either of our drinks, I gave her a hug. "That's wonderful. I'm really glad to hear it."

"Pfft! Gun reek!" Laughing, she pushed me away, but only after letting me complete the hug. "You're a menace."

"Yeah, but you like me anyway."

-ooo-​

Andrew Richter

Taylor Snow, Andrew decided, was an exceedingly perplexing individual. While training him in shooting, she had displayed a laser-focus for the task and an iron-hard will that would've been frankly terrifying if he hadn't known she was on his side. With no effort whatsoever, she could have easily masqueraded as the humanoid robot he'd once briefly suspected her to be.

But as soon as she was in a casual situation with her friends and associates, she became an entirely different person. Happy, outgoing, even making jokes at her own expense, she was far removed from the enigmatic stranger who had proven herself to be a time traveller, or the intense warrior who had almost casually placed more than a dozen shots into a space smaller than his palm on a target nearly a hundred feet away, just to prove it could be done.

This wasn't to say that she lowered her hyper-awareness of her surroundings all the way. But she turned it down, allowing her social side to mostly cover it up until one could be excused for missing it altogether. He suspected anyone assuming that she wasn't paying attention would very quickly (and very painfully) learn otherwise. The speed with which she could produce the tiny pistol—he hadn't even known she was wearing it!—would defuse most confrontations, while her accuracy would certainly bring the remainder to an extremely brief conclusion.

Of course, he wasn't about to ignore all precautions when creating Dragon; he was the computer and software Tinker, not her, and a rampaging AI (especially one that could trigger with powers) was the stuff of nightmares in today's world. But he had listened to what she had to say, and would definitely take it into account.

After his brief ablutions (because only an idiot would keep Taylor Snow waiting for the shower) he towelled himself off and got dressed in fresh clothing, suitable for the Boardwalk.

"Shower's free," he announced as he headed back into the living room.

-ooo-​

Taylor

Boardwalk

For all that the summer was almost over, it was a nice warm day on the Boardwalk. Andrea ran through the surf, as she was wont to do, and splashed everyone within range. This was mainly seagulls, which took off in a loudly complaining flock. Richter took his flip-flops off and walked through the sand, apparently enjoying the feeling of it crunching between his toes. Nina and I strolled side by side on the Boardwalk itself, with Kinsey following a discreet distance behind.

I hadn't even realised just how much communication we got done without the need for verbalisation. It was just that I knew Kinsey and he knew me, and words were often superfluous. Old married couple, my butt.

"So spill," Nina said quietly. "I know there's something bothering you, and you want to talk about it, but only to me."

I looked at her. "We are not like an old married couple." It hadn't been what I'd meant to say, but it was what came out.

"Really?" Her amused look spoke volumes. "Is that what's burning your ass?"

"No, not really." I'd known Nina was perceptive, but I'd forgotten just how perceptive. "What I've got to say … you won't thank me."

Her next words weren't a guess. "It's about me. You know something bad that's going to happen to me."

This was my dilemma. Despite knowing that I fully intended to change the world for the better (and that I'd already taken steps to do so) she'd decided that she didn't want to know details of her own future. And for the most part, I'd been happy to honour that. But what Lisa had told me … despite it being what would have happened in my timeline, I wanted to change it all the same, for several reasons.

"It's a thing, yeah," I agreed. "And it's bad. And even if I tell you, it might not fix things."

"But it might." Her tone made it a statement rather than a question.

"It's possible," I hedged.

She grimaced. "And despite the fact that I don't want to know, you still want to tell me."

It was true. I shrugged. "Yeah."

"Arrgh. Fine. You win." I could see her fists clenching, the nails biting into the palms. "I hate you. Tell me."

I took a deep breath, recalling the conversation I'd had with Lisa.

-ooo-​

The lumpy green creatures, no two alike, lumbered toward us. They hefted misshapen clubs that looked weirdly like computer keyboards. I could hear their bellowing voices as the words became clear to me.

"Darth Vader did nothing wrong!"

"Star Trek was inspired by Scientology!"

"Doctor Who is a government cover-up!"

"Frodo was totally banging Samwise!"

"Maggie Holt is a Mary Sue!"

My sword was half-drawn; I slid it back into its sheath. Are those what I think they are?

Lisa sighed and selected one of the half-dozen wands she had hanging in a holster at her hip. "I'm afraid so. We're being attacked by a bunch of trolls."

Welp, there's only one way to deal with those. I unlimbered the arcane flamethrower from my back and thumbed the ignition rune on the handgrip. With a throaty roar, the blackened nozzle began to belch flame.

"You're not wrong." Lisa tapped the wand on her arm-guard, and the tip lit up. "C'mon baby, light my fire."

A tiny spark launched from the tip of her wand at the command phrase, at the same time as I squeezed the trigger of my flamethrower. It struck and detonated, sending half the trolls flying through the air in flaming chunks. My flame washed over the other half, melting their keyboards and reducing them to sizzling (and stinking) piles of greenish fat and stringy hair.

As the last of them subsided with a whine of, "can't you take a joke …" I put the flamethrower away again.

Well, that was fun. So, quick question.

"Let me guess. It's about Nina Veder?"

Got it in one.

"You want to know if she's Greg's mother. That bit's easy. She is."

Which only raises more questions, you realise.

She looked at me sadly. "Okay, then. In order: the dad is her boyfriend Greg. He never marries her after she gets pregnant, because he dies in a car accident. Brake failure. She names Greg after him. And because she lost the other Greg, she becomes a helicopter mom. She'd rather he sit in the house and play video games than go out and develop social skills, and risk getting hurt. And that's how we end up with your Greg."

Well, crap. It all made way too much sense. Should I … you know … say something?

"That's between you and her." She looked around. "Heads up. We've got company."

I looked; advancing on us was a legion of hooded, black-robed figures. Each of their faces was deep in shadow, although we could somehow make out scars that disfigured what would normally have been exceptionally handsome features. From them, I could sense a deep brooding angst of the type that could spawn reams of bad Gothic poetry.

"Orphaned at birth …" muttered one.

"Raised by ninjas …" intoned another.

"The world has been nothing but cold to me …" growled a third.

"There is only kill or be killed …"

"My soul is an aching void …"

It was my turn to sigh. Seriously? Edgelords?

"You wanted silly this time. We got silly."

I took the flamethrower off my back again. At least tell me they're flammable.

"Oh, intensely. It's all those rough-spun hooded cloaks. Also, they've got a martyr complex like you wouldn't believe."

Good. Let's see if I can't indulge them in that. I squeezed the trigger.

-ooo-​

"Okay …" I paused to pick my words carefully. "So … if you were to, say, talk to Greg and suggest that he get his brakes checked … like, tomorrow … it might be a good idea. Just saying."

Nina looked at me seriously. "Get his brakes checked."

I thought for a moment. "And yours too, just in case. Not that I know for a fact that there's anything wrong with them, you understand."

"Oh, of course," she said firmly. "It's just a sensible precaution. I'll tell him tonight."

The subtext was clear: I'm not doing this because a time traveller told me, I'm doing it because it's a smart idea.

"Right. Good." I didn't know this would change anything, but I'd done what I could.

She looked up at the sky as the hills to the west of the city drew lines through the sunlight sheeting over the bay. "So where are you going after this?"

"Oh, a few places in the Midwest need checking over, then Kinsey and I will be flying out to Hawaii to nail down their security. Joy."

Her tone was teasing. "You sound like you're not looking forward to it."

"Oh, I wouldn't mind going there for a vacation." Of course, I'd need to get in before Behemoth wrecked the place. "But just to fly halfway across the Pacific, spend a day unfucking whatever they've done to their computer system, then fly back? Not my idea of an island getaway."

She chuckled lightly. "The burden of being the security expert."

I wrinkled my nose. "Don't remind me." We'd be going back to Chicago after that, so hopefully things would settle down with ex-Lieutenant Robbie Gordon no longer in the picture. Until the next crisis, of course.

"Well, just between you and me, I want to tell you that I appreciate all you're doing. And, on behalf of the rest of the world, all you're trying to do." She put her arm around me and gave me a brief but welcome hug.

"Thanks. That means a lot."

The worst, I knew, was yet to come. But with my friends around me, I knew I had a fighting chance of beating the odds.

Whether I succeeded … only time would tell.

End of Part 7-3​

A/N: In case you didn't get the subtle hints, there will be a (relatively short) time skip following this chapter.

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 8-0: Sleight of Hand

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



Monday, October 17, 1994
PRT Department 04: Chicago
New PRT Building

The hallway ahead was dark and forbidding, but I didn't care. Touching the visor of my helmet, I whispered the command word. As if by magic—well, it was magic—I could suddenly see perfectly well, all the way down to the end, where the two lizard-like beings—kobolds, unless I missed my guess—waited with crossbows at the ready.

"You see them too?" whispered Lisa, flicking her bottle-green gaze sideways without ever looking directly down the corridor at the would-be ambushers. Even with pointy ears and almond-shaped eyes, she was still the Lisa I knew well. No amount of elf makeup would expunge the smug grin from her face. Or maybe elves were naturally smug. I wouldn't have been surprised.

Mm-hmm, I murmured without moving my lips. Wonder if they've forgotten that elves can see in the dark too?

"Half-elf," she corrected me. "They probably can't tell at this distance."

I snorted. Persons of elvish descent. There. Happy now?

"Just so long as you don't call me a tree-hugger. That's probably speciesist, or something."

I've never seen you hug a tree in my life.

"Exactly my point." She reached up and scratched randomly at her jaw. "Walk in front of me. I need visual cover for a second."

Shrugging my shoulders and making a show of re-settling my shield, I did as she asked, strolling across in front of her. The instant she was out of sight behind me—my armour and shield made for a good screen—she pulled her bow off her shoulder and nocked an arrow. The twang and whisper of the arrow whipping away down the corridor happened half a second later; I could've sworn I felt the fletching brush my hair.

One of the kobolds gurgled and fell over, clutching at the arrow now impaling its neck. The other screeched with rage and brought its crossbow into line, but I stepped in front of Lisa again, my shield held defensively. I felt the impact as the bolt shattered on the steel shield—a lot more expensive than wood, but definitely better at stopping things from getting through—then I stepped out of the way again as it frantically tried to crank the string back for a second shot. Lisa's second arrow made sure it didn't have to worry about that, or anything else, ever again.

Nicely done. You've been practising, haven't you?

She gave me a smirk as we headed down the passageway toward the two corpses, alert for any more surprises. "Always."

So, is Annette still going to have a nice, safe healthy pregnancy? I'd gotten the news in September from Danny and Annette. They were both over the moon about it, unsurprising since they'd actively planned for it rather than being surprised out of the blue. But I was still a little paranoid, so I bugged Lisa about it from time to time.

"Oh, yeah. Ordinary pregnancy, uneventful birth—" She was interrupted by a long, dull, booming noise that echoed down the corridor.

I looked around. What's that?

"Your boss, knocking at your door. I'll save some treasure for you. Kiss before you go?"

You better. I raised my visor. Her lips tasted of dust and blood and magic potions. A speck of dust drifted into my eye, and I blinked—

-ooo-​

—then opened my eyes in my office. "Come in," I called out, closing the word processor window I'd been working on.

It was a little odd, being in Chicago again after the extended road trip that had taken Kinsey and me through nearly every state in the contiguous 48, as well as across to Hawaii and back. We'd returned to a new building, one where everyone was still settling in. This actually helped somewhat; that, and the absence of one Robbie Gordon.

I had a new office, which I'd set about making my own. As my orderly and personal bodyguard detail, Kinsey was right next door; he got to look people over before they ever got to me. While I was still very firmly a part of the Intelligence division of the PRT, I was neither in charge below Hamilton nor subordinate to anyone else apart from him. Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton had set it up that way and tended to growl at people if they asked why I got preferential treatment.

In days gone by, some may have complained about that, or even tried to go over the Lieutenant-Colonel's head to complain to those higher up (by 'some' I mean 'one', and by 'one' I mean Robbie) but it seemed enough of the stories had percolated through the division that nobody gave me flack about it. In fact, I occasionally found myself being approached by people who wanted my read on a particular subject. I was happy to help out; anything leading to a more effective Intelligence division was fine in my book. At the same time, I would usually give them a few pointers for improving their analysis technique, thus cementing my reputation as the go-to person when all else failed. Once in a while, Lisa would give me a heads-up before they came to me, allowing me to give them the solution on the spot and doing my reputation no harm whatsoever.

Yet, all was not wine and roses for Captain Taylor Snow, PRT (Intelligence). A crunch point was fast approaching. Behemoth was due in the first week of November, which I'd passed on to Hamilton with the certain knowledge that he'd convey it to those interested parties above him in the chain of command. I hadn't given him the date or location, though I'd officially narrowed it down to the Australasian region.

Nobody in that area of the world had been happy about that little heads-up. I'd heard the Australian teams were gearing up for the conflict, pushing hard with their training in total war scenarios (because fighting Behemoth was nothing less) combined with search & rescue. Even the criminal capes were keeping their heads down, lest they be targeted for a 'training exercise'. This wasn't a bad idea, because Gavel (still seen as a hero; the unwritten rules weren't really a thing yet) was taking it as an even better excuse than normal to bring the hammer down (literally) on anyone he considered to be a viable target.

In the Southeast Asian area, the capes tended more toward flamboyance and 'movie star' personae, not unlike those I'd seen in India. They didn't quite follow the Garama/Thanda divide (not that they would've used those terms even if they did), but it was close enough for me to keep a handle on. The 'bright' capes were putting on a huge show, boasting that they would protect the population and defeat the monster, while the 'dark' capes … weren't saying much of anything.

My office door opened and Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton (as predicted by Lisa) entered; no salutes were given, as we were both uncovered, but I stood up and went to attention. "Sir," I said, giving him a nod.

"Be seated, Captain," he replied, just as the second person entered the office. This was Myrddin, head of the Chicago Protectorate branch and one of the quirkier capes in a profession where wearing brightly coloured spandex and taking on a weird name was seen as perfectly normal. I'd seen him a few times, walking around the new PRT building, but we'd never spoken more than two words to each other.

"Greetings, Captain Snow," the newcomer said, bringing his gnarled wooden staff down with a thump at his feet. I had to admit; between that, the cloaked robe, and the beard, he could really rock the Gandalf look. By all accounts, he was an effective and empathetic hero, for all that he put on the wizard act. "I've heard much about you. It's good to meet you at last."

Back in my Brockton Bay, I hadn't yet gone over to the heroes when he was murdered by an Echidna clone, so I'd barely known him. It was good to see him get a second chance, just like everyone else in the world. "Likewise, sir." I offered him a polite smile. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"As it happens, yes there is." Myrddin took a step forward, so I could see the steel visor covering his upper face under the cowl of his robe. "I'm told you are close to pinpointing the next emergence of the Behemoth. Do you have any new insights as to when and where this might be, and any weaknesses the creature might suffer from?"

Well, no, I was going to keep all that secret, I thought sarcastically but did not say. "Uh, Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton was setting up a meeting between myself and the members of, uh, the original Protectorate …" I let my words trail off, irritated at myself and trying not to show it. For half a second there, I'd been about to say 'Triumvirate', which wasn't a thing in the here and now. Five years I'd been back in time, and I didn't need to trip myself up now because I wasn't paying attention.

"That is correct, Captain," Hamilton said promptly. "The meeting has been scheduled for ten AM on Wednesday the twenty-sixth. That's not too early, is it?"

I deliberately looked down at my notes for a second, then I met his eyes and shook my head. "No, sir. I should be ready by then. All the indicators will be set, and I'll do my best to give them hard data on a place and time."

"Good, good." The relief fairly radiated off him, and I felt bad about misleading him yet again. But not too bad; what I was going to do had to be done, and pulling the wool over his eyes was the least of my sins. "What can you tell us right now?"

To give Hamilton credit, he was very good at not jogging my elbow. I did my job (and did it well, thank you very much) and pretended to work on predicting the next attack. In return, he gave me a free hand, which allowed me to make preparations he had no idea of.

What the heck, I decided. Why not throw him a bone? "It's not Australia, sir," I said truthfully. "He's going to come up somewhere in the Indonesian archipelago. Jakarta or one of the other major cities. And it'll be in the first three days of November. Maybe the second, but I can't be sure about that."

I could see Myrddin wanted desperately to ask if I was sure of my findings, but he'd probably been spoken to very firmly by the other members of the Protectorate about not offending me. "Ah," he said instead. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't Krakatoa in that region?"

I knew exactly what he was aiming at, because I'd asked myself that very same question. Behemoth had never caused volcanoes to erupt, but that didn't mean he couldn't … or wouldn't. "It is indeed." I'd done my homework on the area, just in case. "And it's less than a hundred miles away from Jakarta. But the region is extremely volcanically active; Krakatoa is merely the one everyone knows about. There are no fewer than four volcanoes closer to Jakarta than that." I took a deep breath. "Can he make a brand-new volcano erupt in the middle of any city in Indonesia? I don't know, but if there was anywhere in the world it was going to happen, this would be it."

Myrddin muttered something under his breath which sounded remarkably like a good old-fashioned American swearword; not wizardly at all. "I … see. Thank you for your candour, Captain Snow. Do you have any good news for us? Has your crystal ball gazing given you any insights into its weaknesses?"

"No weaknesses that I can pick out, sir," I told him candidly. Hamilton had to have told him I'd worked hard at studying everything about the thing people thought was humanity's greatest foe. It had made for some boring nights. "I've got a few insights, but I don't think they'll actually help beat him. At best, I believe we can avoid making fatal mistakes when fighting him." I let my voice trail off suggestively.

"Well, it's more than we've had to work with before," he said. "I'll take anything I can get."

I acknowledged his point with a nod. "Okay, then. Most of the places that are normally vital points on humans aren't viable targets on the Behemoth. There might be something important in his chest, but I doubt there's a brain in his head or vulnerable nerve points anywhere on the body. Destroying the eye won't do a thing; he can see by other means. Making him bleed doesn't slow him down in the slightest. I'm pretty sure his body doesn't work on anything we recognise as biology, so there's no exotic poison or disease we could hit him with. When he's damaged, he heals from the inside out. Deep wounds become shallow wounds become no wounds. Also, the outer skin is the most fragile part on him. The farther in you go, the denser his flesh becomes, so the longer you leave any given wound, the more it will simply fill itself out from within, leaving you back at square one. And finally, the way he fries people from the inside out? That's an auto-hit effect. It gets anyone who ventures closer than thirty-two feet, not sure why that specific range. Only some Brute-rated capes are immune. I've got tentative numbers that say the temperatures are in the fifteen-hundred-degree range."

Myrddin shook his head. "And you said you only had a few insights. You've just rewritten the playbook on how to fight the thing, from the ground up."

Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton frowned slightly. "This isn't a criticism, Captain, but why do you call the Behemoth 'him' rather than 'it'? Doesn't that run the risk of humanising it?"

"Possibly, sir." I met his gaze. "He's shown himself capable of deep cunning, so I'm doing my best to not dismiss him as an inanimate object or a robot. And at the same time, I've dealt with some pretty despicable examples of humanity, so I have no problem with lumping him in with them."

Myrddin chuckled warmly. "She's got you there, Lieutenant-Colonel. Well, thank you, Captain Snow. Your insights were a little disturbing, but they've helped me recognise where I was going wrong with fighting the creature before. And they may just save lives when we fight it again." He paused. "Do you happen to have those points written down somewhere, so I can brief others on them?"

"Certainly, sir. I can have an annotated bullet-pointed list on your desk by the end of the day. Hopefully, we'll have fewer casualties this time than in New York." I was being absolutely honest when I said that part. Certain casualties were inevitable if I stuck with my plans, but … well, omelettes and eggs. And if it worked, many fewer people would die.

I watched them go while I mulled over what I'd told them. It was all basically true; ironically, most of it had been figured out by Lisa herself during the Leviathan fight. I knew he had a core in his chest that would kill him if destroyed, but if I gave them that direct hint, they'd throw themselves willy-nilly into the furnace for the chance to destroy him.

Behemoth wasn't a huge obstacle to my plans—well, apart from the several hundred thousand deaths every few months, of course—but I didn't want Leviathan sinking any landmasses, especially Newfoundland, now that I had Andrew Richter exactly where I wanted him. And the very last thing I wanted was the Simurgh sticking her nose into my business. So, my intent was to cut that particular chain of events off at the pass.

Lie, cheat, steal and kill. It was what I'd told Andrea I was willing to do, once upon a time. This still held true, and I saw no reason not to carry out what I intended to do. One human death to prevent millions more. It was a fair trade.

So why do I feel like shit?

-ooo-​

Taylor's Quarters
Later That Afternoon

Snapping back to reality, I took a deep breath and licked my lips to dispel the lingering taste of dust and blood. The second of the two letters I'd been writing, the one to Gladys, lay on the desk before me. I had no memory of writing it, just that I knew what it pretended to say and what it actually said.

I didn't pretend to know how the encryption system Lisa had created worked, save that two entirely innocuous letters, one written to Danny and the other to Gladys, contained within them a third letter intended for Andrea. Their entire part in all this was to give her a copy of each of the letters. She would enter them both into the custom decryption program Lisa had written, and like magic, the third letter would emerge.

This was the point when her loyalty would be tested. I had no doubt she would hold faithful to me and to the cause, but the instructions I was sending her way weren't just to carry out quasi-legal activities. Outright crimes would be committed as a result of those instructions; innocents were likely to get hurt and possibly killed. But if I wanted the meeting on the twenty-sixth to be successful, it had to be done. More to the point, there had to be no suspicion that the crimes had any connection whatsoever to the meeting.

A long time ago, when I took a bunch of black widow spiders into Brockton Central Bank, I'd told myself I was going to Hell for what I was doing. Now more than ever, I was sure this was the case, but I didn't care.

I might be going to Hell but I'm going to save the world first, dammit.

-ooo-​

Friday, October 21, 1994; 8 PM
A Brockton Bay Nightclub

Andrea showed her ID to the doorman and gave him a flirty wink before he let her through. In truth, she'd been getting into clubs since she was seventeen, being somewhat developed for her age while possessed of a distinct amount of chutzpah. Now that she was of legal age to drink, she didn't actually have to charm her way past security, but she liked to keep in practice anyway.

As she'd expected, there were four people waiting for her at a table; Danny, Annette, Gladys and Franklin. Despite being her age, none of the others showed the same level of comfort she felt in surroundings like this. Still, they had drinks (two of them non-alcoholic) in front of them, as well as what food the place offered.

As she came up to the table, all four got up to greet her. "Hey!" she said happily. "How are we all doing? Annette, I swear, pregnancy definitely suits you. Wanna take a spin on the dance floor?"

"Maybe later," Annette demurred, giving her a hug and kiss. "Right now, I just want to enjoy the music before my eardrums fall out."

"Your loss." Andrea dropped her handbag on the seat where they'd been sitting, keeping her purse in hand. "Say, keep an eye on my stuff? Need to visit the ladies before I get a drink." She gave Gladys a saucy grin. "Feel free to look inside. Might give you and Franklin some ideas in the bedroom."

Gladys laughed and shook her head. "Seriously, Andrea. Are you ever going to grow up?"

"Not if I can help it." Giving Danny a pat on the cheek and blowing Franklin a kiss, she moved away toward the aforementioned female bathrooms, bumping and grinding to the beat as she went.

She still enjoyed the ambience of places like this, though she may have lied a little bit to Annette. Sometimes she didn't even really feel like coming out and mingling with the college girls (and boy, did they seem to get younger every year) as opposed to kicking back with her feet up and watching some shoot-em-up on the huge screen in the new place. But this was part of her cover, so she came here anyway.

She attended to her needs amid the gleaming white porcelain tiles and fixtures—this club at least kept the bathrooms clean and patrolled them regularly for passed-out patrons—all the while catching the eye of a couple of the girls who were washing their hands alongside her. Just because she was getting old and fuddy-duddy, though not as much as Danny—seriously, marriage seemed to have straight-up aged him by twenty years—didn't mean she couldn't still enjoy herself.

Outside again, she went and bought the aforementioned drink, light on the alcohol and heavy on the decorative fruit, and went back to her friends. As was her usual way, she shuffled herself in between Danny and Gladys and sat back, shoving her purse back in her handbag. "So, how have we all been?"

Franklin didn't have much to say—he was distinctly uncomfortable in places like this, being unaware of the true purpose of the meeting—but Gladys provided several anecdotes from her position of vice principal of Winslow that had Andrea giggling over her drink. Danny chimed in with a few more from the Dockworkers, and Annette did her best to top Gladys with stories from Brockton Bay College, where she was working on her assistant professorship. Andrea retaliated with some of her own, causing Gladys to blush and Danny to laugh out loud; all the while running her hand up and down the length of her handbag. The compartment just inside the top, which had been empty and unzipped when she came in, was now zipped up, with sheets of folded paper inside. Excellent.

She went and got another drink and one more for each of her friends—water for Franklin and Annette, who were quite clearly driving—and spent the time thoroughly enjoying their company. Halfway through her second drink, she left the table to dance with some college girls, then led one off into a shadowed corner she knew for some serious makeout time. That was fun too—it was always fun—but she knew the girl wouldn't be coming back to the apartment with her.

She might be willing and eager, but to Andrea her pupils were just that little bit too dilated; she had to be on something. And even if she hadn't been, Andrea just wasn't in the mood for an all-nighter. Besides, she never took her conquests back to the high-rise, and she was seriously getting addicted to that bed.

Eventually, after they'd spent enough time in the place to make it look authentic—Danny and Annette had a turn on the floor, then Andrea and Annette and Gladys just for fun—they decided by mutual silent agreement that the night was done. When they got outside, the evening chill and the sudden lack of pounding music was almost a shock to the system; Andrea took a deep breath of cool night air and realised anew just how much she disliked stale cigarette smoke. One of these days, she figured, they'll ban it in places like that.

"Well," she said. "It was nice seeing you guys again. Catch you up again soon?"

"Sure," Danny agreed. "Maybe someplace quieter next time. My ears are still ringing."

"Softy," Andrea chided playfully, though hers were still buzzing slightly as well. Then she spotted something that made her frown. "Guys? Does that look right to you?"

It didn't take Danny and Gladys long to see what had gotten her attention. The college girl she'd made out with was being guided down the sidewalk by two guys who had to be at least ten years older than her. If the unsteadiness of her footsteps was anything to go by, the girl was either very drunk or she had another drug in her system.

"It does not," Danny agreed grimly. Along with Andrea, he set out toward the three, long strides eating up the ground so that she had to break into a trot to keep up. She watched as he unfastened his watch and slipped it into his pocket almost without thinking; it seemed his time in the Dockworkers had not gone astray.

"Hey! Stop!" Andrea called out when they got close to the trio; the end of the building was not far away, with a dark alley beyond. She didn't want to let them get that far if they had nefarious intent.

One of the guys glanced over his shoulder, then the two increased their pace, hustling the girl along.

Oh no, you fucking don't. Andrea ran ahead. "I said stop! Are you deaf?" To punctuate her words, she grabbed the guy on the left by the arm.

"Fuck off!" The guy pulled free and shoved her, hard. She was caught off balance, but Jim Kinsey had painstakingly taught her how to fall, and so she turned it into a roll that ended up with her back on her feet. Her outfit came out of it a little the worse for wear, but that didn't matter in the here and now.

The delay had allowed Danny to get around in front of them. He was taller than both, even if he wasn't as heavily built, and they paused for a moment. "My friend said stop. Where are you taking that woman?"

"Fuck off! What's it to you?" retorted the one who'd shoved Andrea.

His friend, clearly the quicker thinker, held up his hand disarmingly. "She's my girlfriend. We're getting her home. You can see she's had too much to drink."

"Yeah?" Andrea ducked in, then came away with the girl's purse. "What's her name, then?" As she spoke, she unclipped it and opened it up.

"Hey, that's hers!" shouted the man. "Give it back!"

Andrea danced away from his reaching hands. "When you tell me her name."

"Fuck you!" The foul-mouthed one of the pair stepped forward and punched Danny in the chest, making him stagger back.

"Hey," slurred the girl. "Where's my purse?" She looked around blearily at Andrea. "Hey, I 'member you. You good kisser."

"So are you." Andrea smiled at her, just as Danny recovered and dropped a solid one-two into the guy's solar plexus. "That man there, is he your boyfriend? What's his name?"

"Of course I'm her boyfriend!" interrupted the other one. "My name's Joe, isn't it, honey?"

"And what's hers?" Andrea pressed. She pulled out a driver's license. "Going once …"

"Give me that!" The guy lunged forward, reaching for Andrea and the purse. She tensed, ready to go on the offensive, but it wasn't needed. From over her shoulder, a sizzling left hook took the guy in the cheekbone and lifted him off his feet. Gladys stepped forward past her, fists up and cocked, ready to deliver more mayhem.

"Never seen 'im before," the girl mumbled, then leaned against the building, swaying. "Don' feel so good …"

"It's okay, hon." Andrea moved past Gladys and the other guy and steadied her, ready to step back out of the way of potential vomit. She'd been down this road before, far too many times. This close, she could definitely see the girl's pupils were far too dilated for even the dimness outside the club.

A couple of meaty thuds had her looking around; both men had been dropped on the pavement, one on top of the other. Danny and Gladys stood over them, looking rather pleased with themselves. While Danny had a grazed cheekbone, Gladys had not sustained a single mark. Andrea wasn't surprised; from what she heard, Gladys coached the school boxing team and Winslow hadn't lost a match in some time. Danny's style was more rough and ready, but he'd certainly prevailed.

"Think she's been spiked?" asked Gladys, rubbing her knuckles and looking the girl over.

"Signs point to yes," Andrea confirmed. She turned so that the driver's license she was holding was illuminated by a nearby streetlight, and squinted to read the name. "Veronica, hon? We're gonna get you home safe, okay? Do you live on campus, or in town?"

"Campus," said Annette, who had approached with Franklin. "I recognise her now. Danny and I can drive her back there and get her safely into her dorm."

Heavy footsteps heralded the approach of two of the doormen; Andrea turned, giving them both her most innocent expression. "Oh, hi," she said, projecting 'bubbly ditz' as well as she knew how. "Can we help you?"

The doormen blinked, clearly not used to that exact approach. "What happened to those two?" one asked, pointing at the groaning men on the ground.

Annette stepped forward. "I'm a teacher at Brockton College," she said crisply, then indicated Veronica, whom Andrea was still supporting. "This girl is one of my students. I was out for drinks with my husband and our friends, and we saw her being manhandled away by these two. She doesn't know them. I suspect her drink has been spiked."

"Nobody spikes drinks in our club," the other doorman said reflexively. "It doesn't happen."

Andrea let out an audible chuckle. "That's bullshit. Someone's dealing shit in that club. Her pupils are so dilated I can't actually tell the colour of her eyes."

"We're taking Veronica here back to the College, to her dorm room," Annette stated. "Unless, of course, you want us to stay and wait for the police …?"

The two doormen glanced at each other, and then the one who had denied the spiking shook his head. "No, just go."

"Oh, trust me, we're going," Annette said. They got several yards farther on before she spoke again, this time to Andrea. "Do you think she'll be okay to go back to her dorm? Or should we take her to the emergency room?"

"Take her back to the College," Andrea said firmly, still supporting Veronica. "She's still conscious and walking, mostly, so she only got a light dose of whatever it was. Probably just enough that she wouldn't be able to fight back. If you take her to the emergency room, they'll make her sit and wait for hours, then tell you they can't do anything for her except let the drugs work their way out of her system. Then they'll charge her an arm and a leg, plus a random vital organ for just existing."

Danny grimaced. "I wish you were wrong." He looked back over his shoulder. "And I wish we could do something about that sort of thing."

"Maybe an awareness campaign?" suggested Franklin. He blinked as everyone looked at him. "What?"

"That's actually a really good idea, sweetie," Gladys said. She slid her arm around his waist then looked at Annette. "Telling your students not to go out drinking is probably pointless, but if you could assemble a list of places where people have had their drinks spiked, you could tell them where not to go."

"Hmm," Annette murmured. "That definitely sounds doable." She turned to Danny. "Could you check with anyone in the Dockworkers who has heard of that happening to people?"

"Absolutely." He nodded with conviction. "Those places make most of their money off the college crowd. It's why they don't card them too carefully. If the look like losing that trade, they're going to have to pull their socks up."

"One step at a time," Andrea observed, then turned to Gladys. "Thanks for stepping up. I probably could've taken him, but not like you did."

Gladys shrugged. "Hey. All I had to do was ask myself, what would Taylor do?"

Andrea grinned. She probably would've pulled her pistol and shoved it up his nose. "Darn tootin'."

-ooo-​

Andrea's Apartment
Some Time Later

With a ragged sigh, Andrea collapsed into the chair in front of her computer. She hoped Veronica would remember enough of the night's events that she'd be more careful about her drinks—and about what drugs she voluntarily ingested—in future. College students were infamous for not having the greatest of judgement, but she herself had managed to figure it out after a few close calls.

If I'd just brought Veronica back here for a roll in the hay, that wouldn't have happened, she mused. But then, those two jerkoffs would've targeted some other girl. Probably best the way it happened.

Reaching out, she flicked her computer on. Taylor had described what the improved versions of computers would look like in the future and she felt vaguely envious of her future self, getting access to all that cool stuff. As it was, she had to spend time carefully loading programs and making sure she didn't mess up by transposing keystrokes or something similar. Spies in the future probably have it a lot easier than me, too.

With the letters typed in, she hit the button to do the decryption, and watched as it scrolled down the screen. The first part was the standard run of instructions for how to improve the war chest, followed by the personal message from Taylor to her. It was always nice to read and she did so, several times. As usual, she was tempted to save the message somehow, but Taylor had impressed on her not to do this, so she didn't.

Under that, though, was something which wiped away lingering regrets and replaced them with very real consternation. Taylor wasn't playing anymore. The mission into Canada to remove Heartbreaker had been technically illegal, though not a single law enforcement agency had a problem with the results apart from, "Hey, maybe give us a heads-up first?"

But this was a whole level above that again.

"Jesus fucking Christ," she murmured, staring at the screen.

Contact your mercenary group. Have them use their cut-outs in Los Angeles to provoke an incident between civilians and Protectorate capes, leading to anti-authority protests. This has to escalate into attacks on the PRT and Protectorate buildings, or credible attempts to do so, by the morning of the twenty-sixth. Every single member of the LA Protectorate must be engaged with this on that date. I'll tell you why when I see you next.

Leaning back in the chair, Andrea buried her fingers in her hair. "Fuuuuck," she groaned, closing her hands into fists and yanking at her own scalp. "Taylor, what the fuck are you doing? What have you gotten me into?"

No answer was forthcoming from the screen. She had no way of contacting Taylor, of asking the questions she desperately wanted to have answered. By rights, she knew, she should inform the authorities of what she'd been asked to do, but she never seriously contemplated it for even a second. Doing that would be a horrendous betrayal of the trust Taylor held in her for every second of every day, and of the future she and Taylor were trying to bring about.

People were going to die. She was aware of it, and she knew for a fact Taylor was aware of it as well. In fact, she wouldn't have been even vaguely surprised if Taylor knew exactly how many casualties there would be, and the names of each one. Every single one of these people was someone who hadn't invited this fate; most probably didn't even deserve it. But in giving Andrea this instruction, Taylor had condemned them to death or potential injury, just to insure … what? That the Protectorate in Los Angeles was tied up for one specific day? Why did she even need that?

At the end of the day, Andrea knew it didn't matter. She had committed herself to following Taylor's lead long before this point. Doing so had made her a very rich woman, but that didn't matter either. What mattered was Taylor, and her vision for the future. A future where the human race had more of a chance to not be consumed by fire and terror and blood, where mankind could look to the sky and dream of hope. And although it seared her soul to do so, she had to be able to accept some collateral damage along the way. All she could really do was hope to be able to minimise it.

After jotting down the investment instructions, she sighed again and set about feeding the copies of the letters into her shredder. The mercenaries were just that; mercenary. So long as she continued to pay them their extremely generous salaries (and supplied them with the best toys) they would be loyal to her. Some small part of her hoped they'd at least be dubious about the instructions she was about to give them, but she knew otherwise. They would absolutely do what they were told.

Pulling out the semi-secret drawer under her computer table, she looked at the collection of burner phones and picked one at random. She already had the number memorised, so she slid the drawer closed and pressed the power-off button on the computer. Taylor had given her a series of code phrases to use at times like this, but the sanitised words weren't actually going to help much to assuage her conscience.

Turning on the cell-phone, she got up and strolled to the window. Carefully, she punched in the number, then plugged in the earpiece that would alter her speech just enough that anyone listening in wouldn't immediately recognise her voice. Outside the window, the street was empty; not even a parked car.

"Hello?" It wasn't the voice of the man she was paying to run the show, but one of his subordinates. Someone had to stay up in case the phone rang, after all.

"This one just came down from above," she said, entirely truthfully but misleadingly, playing the part of 'just another cog in the machine'. "We need a garden planted in the Valley." Meaning Los Angeles; each major city had its own codename. A 'garden' was an extended mission, rather than an in-and-out, while 'planted' meant people might get hurt. "The cuttings you've already collected need to be delivered …"

She spoke crisply but carefully, not rushing her words but taking care not to talk for too long. While Taylor had assured her that nobody was attempting to track her calls yet, there was no sense in not taking basic precautions. When she was finished, and she was certain the orders had been received and understood, she ended the call and turned off the phone. Popping it open, she took out the SIM.

Because of course Taylor anticipated the need for deniable cutouts in LA, she told herself, running her hand over her face. This whole thing's going to look entirely spontaneous, but in reality it's her pulling strings from behind the scenes.

Wiping both phone and SIM clear of any intrusive prints, she dropped them both in separate Ziploc baggies and stored them in a drawer. In the morning, she would go for a drive and dump them down a couple of storm drains. Right now, however, she needed a long hot shower and then bed.

Taylor, I love you dearly and I miss you terribly, but I hope we don't have to do too much more of this. It's not nearly as glamorous and fun as I expected it to be.

Then again, if saving the world was a fun and glamorous business, everyone would be doing it.

-ooo-​

Los Angeles
Saturday, October 22, 1994
(The Next Day)

Life was good for Manny Cruz, though it hadn't always been.

At nineteen, he was a paid-up member of the East Ninety-Four street gang with a nine tucked in the back of his waistband. Right up until the Ninety-Fours had gotten into a shoving match with some other know-nothing crew over the wrong wall getting tagged, and it went south way too fast. Pieces came out and he saw too many of his homies popped without even a chance to shoot back.

Manny made it out of that hot mess, but he had to stay on the downlow, trying to wait for the heat to die down. Trouble was, some pieces of shit from his old hood had decided to play nice with these new guys, and he knew damn well they'd point him out if they saw him cruising the block. Which was why, when he got the offer from these out of town jerkoffs, he stepped up.

They were some kinda political activist bunch, as far as he could tell. But he figured he knew what was going on; they'd get people all worked up, then when riots and stuff happened, they'd hit big-money places and take them for all they had. After it all died down, they'd just fade back into the woodwork.

It was a good trick. Manny wished he'd thought of it first. But now he was part of it, and they were paying him just to chill and play video games until they needed him to go out and do shit. He was down with that.

So when the call came through, he was motivated enough to go and do what he'd been told. It wasn't what he'd been expecting, but the money was good so what did he care? The trick was getting a cape to do what he wanted, but the crew he was with had it all figured out.

All he had to do was play it by the numbers. And if it meant having his arm in plaster for a bit, the bonus coming his way would take the pain out of that too.

-ooo-​

South Central LA
Dynamax

"Hey, stop!"

Los Angeles was a big city, and the LA Protectorate building could only hold so many capes. Which meant the patrols they went on were more a case of showing the flag (or 'flashing the spandex', as one wit put it) than any serious attempt to reduce the local crime rate. Sure, Alexandria could stop a bank robbery in about fifteen seconds (twenty if they had capes along) but that just meant the serious robbers waited until she was busy elsewhere. The chances of a crime actually happening in front of a cape was minimal to zero.

Which was why Robert Maxwell, superhero and two-year veteran of the mean streets of Los Angeles, was caught unawares by the sudden shout as he cruised down a suburban street just above rooftop height. He paused and looked around, wondering if someone had called out to him—maybe an actual cat was stuck in an actual tree?—before he saw the kid legging it down the sidewalk with what looked like a woman's purse tucked under his arm.

For a moment, he paused in honest disbelief, but then "Thief!" floated up from below. He couldn't see who was actually shouting, but that didn't matter. That kid was really booking it, and in his experience teenagers in LA never ran anywhere unless there was a real good reason.

Like, say, they'd grabbed someone's handbag.

Holy shit, I actually get to catch a purse snatcher! Stretching out his arms, he accelerated downward, swooping toward the kid. Unless the little shit was a Mover, he'd catch up before they hit the corner. "Uh, Dynamax to Console," he said as an afterthought. "Got a snatch-and-grab artist here. I'll call it in once I've got hands on."

That was all he had the time to say, because at that point he came up behind the purse snatcher. He'd been trying to work on something cool to say when he grabbed the perpetrators, but nothing really suggested itself. "Hold up!" he shouted, grabbing at the loose flopping hoodie the guy was wearing. Latching on, he pulled to a halt in mid-air; if he did it right, the guy's legs would go out from under him and he'd land on his back and spend the next thirty seconds counting the cute little tweety birds while Robert zip-tied him and called it in.

But it didn't happen that way. Instead, the guy ran straight out of the hoodie, which was bad enough. But then he dived sideways onto the road. Robert clearly saw him fling his arm out directly in front of a car that had been rolling down the street. Tyres screeched and the car came to a halt, but not after the front wheel had gone clear over the kid's arm. He didn't hear the bone break, but he sure as hell knew it had happened anyway.

"Ahh!" screamed the kid. "What the fuck? You threw me on the road! Fuck! You tried to kill me, you cape piece of shit!"

Hovering in mid-air, Robert looked around. Even though they'd all ignored the shout to stop the thief, everyone was now looking at him.

"Oh, fuck."

-ooo-​

Half an Hour Later
Alexandria

Rebecca Costa-Brown turned away from the earnest young hero for a moment. Lifting her helmet, she pinched the bridge of her nose, wishing she could go out into the Badlands or someplace and punch something until this all began to make sense again. Then she dropped the helmet back into place and turned to face him once more.

"So, you heard someone yell for him to stop, but you didn't see who," she said, not so much to clarify it in her mind as to give him a chance to add more detail.

"Yes, ma'am, that's correct." Dynamax was a solid hero who hadn't screwed up before to the point of being called into her office. He did flight and energy blasts and could manifest a personal force field, but nothing extraordinary. He was also white, whereas the Cruz kid and most of the witnesses to the event were Latino. As was Rebecca herself, but she wasn't counting that. Her role in all this was to figure out what went wrong and how not to do it again, and it wasn't going well.

She waited a moment for him to elaborate, then nodded and went on. "And then you heard someone call 'Thief', and you saw him running, and you flew after him?"

"Yes … uh, no," he said, stumbling over his words. "I heard someone call 'thief', but I think I saw him first. I remember vaguely wondering why he was running so fast."

"Good, good." That was how he'd told it first. The fact that he wasn't changing his story when nudged to do so meant he was recalling things in sequence. "And what happened when you grabbed him? What happened to the handbag?"

"There was no handbag," he admitted, clenching his eyes shut in remembered embarrassment. "It was a rolled-up backpack with one strap hanging free, tucked under his arm. Nothing in it. No reason for him to be running."

"And did you find the person who called out?" Rebecca pressed.

He shook his head. "Nobody admitted to it. Everyone just said they saw me fly after him and throw him on the road. Which I didn't do."

"I believe you," she assured him, and it was true. Every tell he was giving off indicated that he'd been trying to pull a righteous bust, and he'd been decoyed into something more.

Someone was attacking the LA Protectorate for some reason. There wasn't any specific lack of anti-cape fanatics in the US, and LA sometimes seemed to have more than its fair share. The question was, which nutbar group was behind this, and what was their end goal?

Still, there was no harm in crossing every T and dotting every I. "Now, I want you to think really carefully. Have you ever met this Manny Cruz before? Do you think he might know you from your civilian identity? Can you think of any reason he might have for personally framing you for injuring him?"

"No, ma'am." He shook his head firmly. "I've never seen the kid before. Or if I have, I don't remember it."

Which didn't make it a definite that they'd never met, but Rebecca considered it relatively unlikely. Dynamax wasn't prone to antagonising the citizenry, and she'd never heard anything bad from anyone else working with him. Which meant that she was back to her original conclusion.

"Dismissed," she said. "Go hit the showers."

"Thank you, ma'am." The door closed behind him, but she wasn't even paying attention anymore.

This was a put-up job. Someone had a video camera in just the right place to make it look like Dynamax really did hurl the little shit into traffic. Three different people called the news and reported it even before the cops got there. They're blowing it up right now, pushing the race-hate side of things. It's going to get worse before it gets better.

Rebecca knew damn well that if she could get access to the Cruz kid for just fifteen minutes, she could sweat the whole thing out of him. But he was officially the victim here, so she had no access. All she could do was try to anticipate what was going to happen next, and cut it off before it got too bad.

She stared at the TV across the room, which was playing the same damned news clip with the sound off for the tenth time running, and frowned. Even WEDGDG, when she consulted them, hadn't been able to muster a coherent response.

What the fuck is going on here?

-ooo-​

Monday, October 24, 1994
PRT Department 04: Chicago
Taylor

"Have you heard the news out of Los Angeles, ma'am?" Kinsey carefully put my morning coffee on my desk, then laid the paper beside it.

I took up the coffee and sipped it. "Thank you, Kinsey. The Cruz thing? Has that blown over, or is it still being exacerbated?" The front page of the paper gave me my answer; a blown-up photo showing a march with signs protesting the violence against Manny Cruz lay just under the headlines.

"It's not going away anytime soon, ma'am," he confirmed with the wisdom of long experience. "So, you think the original incident was a frame job, rather than just a simple accident?"

I raised my eyebrows. He thought the same thing about it that I did, but we often tested each other this way. "How often do accidents of that magnitude happen in our line of work? No, someone wants to whip up anti-cape sentiment, and Manny Cruz was just the patsy. He probably doesn't even know who he's really working for, or why they ordered him to jump into traffic."

"I think you've got something there, ma'am. Are you going to be looking into it?"

There was a knock on the doorframe to my office, and I looked up to see Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton standing there. Immediately, I rose to my feet, and Kinsey and I went to attention. "Sir," we chorused.

"At ease," he said, entering the office. "Captain, I suspect you were discussing the very thing I was coming here to talk to you about. What are the chances I can get you to put one of your other projects on hold to look into this Manuel Cruz affair in Los Angeles?"

I took a deep breath. "Sir, my main overriding project right now is to get all my ducks in a row for the meeting on Wednesday. After that, I'll be able to look into the LA thing and tell you if it's capes or normals behind it, where they can probably be found, and rough out a good idea of their end goals. With any luck, it'll have petered out by then but if it hasn't, I'll personally fill in Alexandria on who she needs to be punching to finish it off herself."

He gave me one of his rare smiles, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "Snow, if it was any other one of my analysts saying that, I would advise them to check the size of their boots. With you, I know better. I will advise the Director of the situation. Captain, sergeant; carry on."

"Sir," we said again as he left. I sat down again and took up the paper to see if they'd printed anything new. On first glance, it didn't seem so.

"I'll leave you to it, ma'am," said Kinsey, heading for the door leading into his office. "I'm guessing it won't take you long to get to the bottom of it, given the other messes you've helped unravel."

"Thank you, Kinsey. I appreciate the vote of confidence." Sipping at my coffee, I carefully read through the rest of the paper. In one of the classified ads I picked out something I'd been looking for, that Andrea would also be checking on; the coded message that said the LA group were ready for the next step.

Folding the paper, I set it aside and started the process of booting up my computer. You go get 'em, Andrea.

-ooo-​

Wednesday, October 26, 1994
0953 Hours
PRT Department 04: Chicago

I had to admit, Alexandria's body double was perfect in every way. I'd met her, as both Alexandria and Rebecca Costa-Brown, and my brain was still trying to convince me that this was really her, not some copy. However, Lisa had been just as adamant this would be the double, so I knew (in this instance) better than to believe my lying eyes.

Of course, she was making it easier on herself by impersonating Costa-Brown, not Alexandria, though I knew for a fact the double was actually a cape with the power of flight, just in case. She wasn't too bad at projecting the concept of 'I own the room' either, which was something I was still working on. But it wasn't her presence I was concerned with; it was Alexandria's absence. The very last thing I needed was for a high-powered Thinker to be spotting things I really didn't want spotted in the middle of my presentation.

"As Alexandria is still enmeshed in the problems in Los Angeles," she stated as she walked in the front doors, "she has asked me to attend this meeting in her place."

Which was, I had to admit, a mildly amusing way of telling the truth at the same time as lying her ass off. In any case, the 'problems' in Los Angeles had escalated to the point that someone had set off a truck bomb next to the Protectorate building, injuring three and killing one. The current consensus was that the dead man was the driver of the truck, but they were still trying to identify him.

This wasn't the only incidence of violence, just the most striking of them. A satchel charge had been set off against the outside wall of the Los Angeles PRT building, shaking the structure and gouging a shallow crater out of the concrete, but neither hurting anyone nor breaching the interior. If I hadn't known this was going to happen (and had been the ultimate cause of it all) I would've been somewhat concerned. As it was, I was still concerned, but I knew how to end it.

According to Lisa, we'd managed to tap into a simmering undercurrent of resentment, which had only required a few strategic nudges to erupt into open violence here and there. It seemed there was a crazy almost on every street corner ready to pull out a gun and shoot at someone for something. All they needed was a cause, any cause.

But that was something I was going to have to deal with afterward. Right now, I had a meeting to chair. "That's perfectly fine, ma'am. If you will come this way."

She followed along, looking around with professional curiosity. The building was still fairly new and to my knowledge, Alexandria hadn't popped in for a visit yet, though she'd probably memorised the floor plans, just because she could. I paused outside the conference room we'd be using and opened the door for her. "Just in here, ma'am."

She was the last to arrive, mainly because she'd had to rely on mundane methods of transport. Eidolon, Hero and Legend were all there, as well as Myrddin. Director Rankine and Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton had more or less invited themselves to the meeting, as I'd known they would.

Everything was going to plan … I hoped.

As the faux Chief Director took the spotlight for a moment, I crossed the room to where the hot-water urn was situated on the coffee cart. "We have a few more minutes before this meeting is due to start, so allow me to pour you drinks, ma'am and gentlemen."

This was where a part of the plan that I'd been nursing along since April came in. I'd been stalled on it until Andrea had managed to hire a substances Tinker and keep him out of the hands of the Uppermost.

Synth could produce any normal, mundane substance, so long he had the chemical ingredients to do so, and manufacture the means to store them indefinitely and safely. He could also manufacture 'perfect' drugs; biochemical substances that had precise effects on the human system, with no problematic side-effects to speak of. Again, nothing impossible. He couldn't make an elixir that granted the ability to fly, for instance. But he could manufacture a substance that, in the presence of caffeine, caused a person to become extremely suggestible, but which would be entirely neutralised by such things as sugar or milk.

These were not random stabs in the dark on my part. I had checked with Lisa to see who would be attending the meeting, and what their choices of beverage were. Everyone took tea or coffee. Everyone but Eidolon took either sugar or milk (or sometimes both) in their drinks.

The sachets Andrea had gotten to me were already in the boiling water, long since dissolved. All I had to do was pour the cups, and the show could begin.

"Do we have time for this?" demanded Eidolon. "We're all busy people here. There's no need for a tea party."

I froze, my hand inches from the first cup. If he refused to drink, then I doubted my presentation would have its desired effect. I'd have to think of some other way of dealing with him. Shooting him in the back of the head probably wouldn't cut it.

"Excuse me, sir?" Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton may have been a superior officer, but he still had a way of saying 'sir' that would have shaved tungsten carbide. "I do believe when a lady offers refreshments, it is only courteous to accept them."

"He's right." Legend, ever the gentleman, stepped up. "My apologies for my comrade, and I would very much appreciate a cup of coffee, Captain Snow."

Hero nodded, part of his helmet faceplate sliding apart to expose his mouth. "Me, too. I keep meaning to install a coffee vendor in this thing, but I can't think of what to take out."

Director Rankine and 'Costa-Brown' shared a chuckle at the weak joke, and Rankine nodded at me to start making the coffee. My homework on what each of them preferred actually came in handy now, as I handed them each out what they normally drank. Eidolon grudgingly accepted his and took a seat at the table with everyone else as I went around to the large whiteboard and sheaf of papers on a flip-stand.

"Hopefully this won't take too much time out of your day, ma'am, gentlemen." I flipped the whiteboard over to show the diagram I'd done of Behemoth, with notations pointing to various parts of his body. "I'm presuming the information I passed on to Myrddin has been disseminated?"

Myrddin nodded, and Legend murmured agreement. I pretended not to watch as Eidolon took a sip of his coffee, then looked appreciatively at it and took another one.

"Good," I said, and I meant it in more ways than one. "Now, as I explained to Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton once upon a time, the Behemoth is a creature of chaos. He either goes where his attack will cause the most upheaval, or he goes to where the upheaval is already in place. At the moment, there are various nationalist protests going on in Indonesia, which will shortly come to a head, which is why the attack will take place there."

"What about Los Angeles?" asked the faux Chief Director. "There's unrest there as well."

"I did look into that," I said truthfully. "It's too recent, and too shallow, to really attract him … this time. If it keep up and gets worse, then I'll consider that to be a problem. Right now, all indicators are that he will arrive in the middle of Jakarta, on the first of November, an hour or two either side of midday, local time."

Silence greeted my announcement, which wasn't surprising. Getting twelve hours of warning had been huge for New York. I'd just handed them six days. I could see all of them working to get their heads around it.

"What," quipped Legend to break the tension, "you couldn't get us a street address?"

A chuckle ran around the table, which I joined in on. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Eidolon take another drink of coffee. "Not this time," I said lightly.

"But next time?" asked Eidolon. "What will you be able to give us then?"

"Maybe there won't be a next time," I replied. "I have some ideas on where he comes from."

Dead silence fell once more, so much so I fancied I could hear a clock ticking on the wall in the next room. I filled it by flipping the first sheet of paper over on the flip-stand, revealing a blank silhouette with a question mark in the middle.

"I think it's a cape. Not Behemoth himself, but whoever calls him."

That broke the deadlock. Everyone was shouting at once. Except, I noticed, the faux Costa-Brown. As good as she was, I didn't think she felt like pitting her fake credentials against everyone else's very real powers. The person shouting the loudest was Eidolon, but I just had to wait until he subsided.

"—sake, sit down," Hero told him. "She'll tell us what she means by that."

Or was made to subside, one of the two.

I flipped the next sheet. "The three options here are: hero, villain, neutral. I dismissed the idea of a villain controlling him, mainly because what villain could resist gloating to the world, and extracting ransoms from entire nations not to attack them?"

"That behaviour would very quickly earn a Kill Order," observed Myrddin astutely.

"It would," I agreed. "And yet, villains still earn Kill Orders on the regular. The threat does not deter them as often as it should. I'm not inclined to think it's a villain. Or a neutral, for that matter. Is there someone going along afterward, cleaning up the messes for a hefty paycheck? No. There's no profit motive, here."

"Captain Snow," said Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton slowly. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you seem to be suggesting that it's a hero doing this."

"I am indeed suggesting that," I agreed. "All unawares, but still a hero. Because a hero doing this on purpose would be no hero." I let my gaze linger on Eidolon for just a moment, here.

Now, the fake Costa-Brown spoke up. "So, what you're saying is that it's a hero who doesn't know they're doing it?"

"That's my belief, yes." I looked at the heroes in the room one at a time, and again I looked at Eidolon a fraction longer than the others. They wouldn't notice it, but in his state of mind, he definitely would. "A hero who desperately wants to be seen as the best hero in the world. Pushing themselves to be better every day, reaching into the very depths of their powers and going above and beyond to find that last, final effort. That's the sort of hero I'm thinking of, right now." Once more, at the words 'right now', I looked directly at Eidolon.

"Okay, assuming this is true." Hero sounded like he didn't want to believe it, but at the same time didn't want to reject what I was saying in case it turned out to be accurate. "How do we even tell who it is? I can't help but think that describes basically every hero in the Protectorate, and certainly every hero in this room. We've all put our lives on the line, more than once."

Legend shook his head. "No, no, what I want to know is, how do we deal with them once we find out who they are? They're heroes. Even if they're doing it, it's not on purpose. What do we do? Kill Order? Good luck getting proof. Prison? The best case there is that the monster breaks them out."

Costa-Brown's body double cleared her throat. They turned to look at her, and she gestured toward me. "Perhaps we should give Captain Snow the chance to answer those questions. She seems to see most clearly of all of us when it comes to this."

Well, that was one way to put me on the spot. "Despite my reputation, I'm not a Thinker," I began carefully. "I can only see the shape of things. The hero who's doing it ... they're powerful enough to stand up to the Behemoth in single combat. They're not a B-lister or a back line hero. This is meant to provide a challenge, to let them face a worthy opponent. Something that can take a hit and land one in return, but won't go down like a chump when everyone else hits it. They would need to be in there swinging; otherwise, what's the point?"

Hero nodded. "Well, that narrows it down a little," he conceded.

I nodded to acknowledge his words. "Plus, from what I've seen, most heroes don't actually give their all. They hold just a little bit back, so they can pull themselves out of danger if things go south. This hero ... isn't like that. They believe in being a hero. When it comes down to it, they will throw one hundred and ten percent at the bad guy, worrying about themselves last of all."

Now I had them thinking, worrying. I think I'm like that, but am I like that? Am I accidentally summoning the Behemoth? I could see Eidolon, Legend and Hero glancing from side to side, Eidolon most of all. I'd sunk the hook deep, and now I had to make it count.

"You asked what we should do if we found out who it was." I shook my head. "Nothing. I certainly don't feel qualified to stand in judgement over someone like that. This might sound like a cop-out, but accusing others would just lead to witch-hunts. I may have my suspicions, but I'm definitely not accusing anyone in this room." As if by accident, I let my eyes rest on Eidolon once more. "No, it would be up to that person to realise the truth, and ... deal with the matter themselves."

Director Rankine sat up at that. "Do you mean retirement, Snow? Because I've heard the rumours about parahumans not being able to not use their powers. Or are you advocating suicide, because that sounds more than a little grim? Couldn't a cape who finds out they're somehow controlling the monster learn how to simply ... stop it from attacking? Maybe even turn its power to heroic ends?"

I kept my tone formal. "Sir, I never promised answers in this meeting. Analyses and data, yes, but I don't pretend to know all the answers, or even most of them. However, to answer your question: if my logic is correct, it was a heroic impulse that caused the Behemoth to be summoned in the first place. I'm not sure I want to see the result of a second heroic impulse formulated with the intent of overthrowing the first."

Legend shuddered. "No. Neither do I. That's a hard pass." He tilted his head queryingly. "Did you have any other nightmare scenarios you would like to inflict upon us today, Captain Snow, or was that the end of your presentation?"

"That was the end of it, yes," I confirmed. "I hope you can use what I gave you."

"A six-day lead, plus a definite time and place for the emergence of the Behemoth?" Hero might have been rolling his eyes, but I couldn't be sure behind that visor. "If we can't make good use of that, then I'm pretty sure we'd have to hand in our superhero cards."

"It remains to be seen whether my information is correct," I said. "If anything else comes up, I'll get the information to you as expediently as I can."

"Understood." Legend stood up and came around the table. "I've seen your work before, and trust me when I say I have faith in your ability to pull a rabbit out of a hat." He held out his hand. "On behalf of all the people you saved in New York—thank you."

I shook his hand. How could I not? I couldn't very well confess to him how much I blamed myself for the people who still died; or worse, would have survived but died because of my actions. "No, thank you. That means a lot."

There was a little more cross-chatter then the heroes filed out, escorted by Director Rankine. Each one took with them a précis of the material I'd covered in the meeting, including Eidolon. Or rather, in my eyes, especially Eidolon.

Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton remained behind, saying nothing; at least until the door closed behind our illustrious guests. Casting a cynical gaze my way, he raised his eyebrows. "A little harsh on them, weren't you, Snow? I'm used to it, but I understand capes dislike hearing bad news."

I suppressed the twinge of amusement at hearing him use the slang term that was old in my time but still new here. "I'm sure Legend is a big boy, sir. He wouldn't be running the Protectorate if he couldn't handle things like that from time to time."

Hamilton let out a bark of laughter and slapped the table; had we not been on duty, I suspected he would've slapped me on the shoulder instead. "Isn't that the truth? I have to admit though, as used to your revelations as I am, you still caught me by surprise."

"I believe that's kind of my job, sir." I started clearing up the coffee cups. Each of them, I was pleased to see, was empty. "Could you please send Kinsey in, so I can finish cleaning up? I've got to start work on the LA thing."

"I believe I can manage that, Snow. Let me know how you get along." He left then, humming what sounded like a marching tune.

There was one thing left to do. When Kinsey came in, I set him to washing the crockery and cutlery, while I manhandled the urn to the other sink and very carefully rinsed it out.

Then I set to work pretending to review the reports on the Los Angeles situation. The mercenaries would have pulled back out of the area by now, I knew; what I was going to bring down the wrath of Alexandria on would be purely the homegrown talent. And there was always more of that.

-ooo-​

Jakarta
Tuesday, November 1, 1994
Eidolon

If he hadn't known the truth of it, David would've thought for certain the Behemoth had indeed forced a volcano to erupt beneath the urban area of Jakarta. The smoke and fire certainly added to the illusion. But it was merely houses and other buildings burning.

The population was fleeing the epicentre as he swooped lower, clogging the streets. Grimacing, he toggled his helmet radio. "Why weren't the people evacuated earlier? We've known about this for six days!"

Alexandria's voice answered him, as cool and unflappable as ever. "Politics, mainly. Also, most of them have evacuated. The trouble is, a lot of them have nowhere to go."

"That's not good enough." As he watched, a bolt of lightning skipped along a crowded street, bouncing from building to building and frying everyone in its path. "People are dying down there. We have to delay him, give them time to get away."

"No." Alexandria's slim form flashed past him, into the cloud of smoke and ash. A moment later, he felt the impact as she impacted the beast. All the heroes they'd gathered were likewise in there, pummeling the Behemoth or doing their best to rescue civilians. "You heard what Snow said about volcanoes. If we give the thing a chance to get set up, it might just bring one up under everyone's feet."

He had indeed heard what Snow had said. Her words had haunted him for the last six days. Every time she'd looked at him with that steady gaze, as though she knew what he didn't. Silently saying, you called the monster.

He didn't know why he believed her so implicitly, but there it was. Everything she'd said, he knew was the absolute truth, beyond the shadow of a doubt. Everything she'd said ... and everything she hadn't said.

I'm not accusing anyone, she'd said, then looked at him. She didn't have to accuse him; her tone and gaze and attitude had made it unnecessary.

I called the monster. It became clear as day to him. I needed a worthy opponent. She was being merciful to me, allowing me to reach this understanding, without shaming me.

I know what I have to do.

He swooped closer, curling around a bolt of lightning that snapped at him. Closer he came, and closer again. Now he was in the raging, swarming hell of energy that the Behemoth threw out in all directions.

But he wasn't close enough.

He struggled on, pushing past force-blows that tried to knock him back.

Finally, he was in the death zone. Thirty-two feet from the monster. He wondered vaguely how Snow had known that.

His radio was screaming static at him; abruptly, it cleared. Hero's tech, no doubt. Alexandria's voice sounded in his ear. "What are you doing?"

His voice was dreamy as he answered. Finally, he had found his true definition as a hero. "What I must." I never wanted anyone to get hurt.

Concentrating, he rid himself of all protective powers. Just for an instant, with Alexandria screaming his name in his ear, he hung motionless in the air, utterly unprotected.

Checkmate, beast.

And then the heat flushed through him, and he burned.

-ooo-​

Alexandria

Rebecca was swooping in toward Eidolon, heedless of the maelstrom of energies. She didn't know what had gotten into him, but she knew she had to get him out. Ever since the meeting with Captain Snow, he'd been off, and she didn't know why because she hadn't been there.

She broke through into clear air, and saw him. Uselessly, she shouted his name.

And in that instant ... he ignited. Between one heartbeat and the next, he combusted like touch-paper in a furnace. By the time she got to him, all that was left was his helmet, falling through the ash-laden air.

She caught the helmet and stared at it. Then she realised one more thing.

The monster had stopped.

End of Part 8-0
​

Aftermath​

 

[Ack]

This omake was written by atomicpanda, over on SB. I'm crossposting it, because I canonised it, and why not.

Some point between '98 and 2000. Evening
Brockton Bay
Brockton Legal Seafood

Mr. Lavere (loving single father, entrepreneur, and supervillain Marquis) exited his ride, passing off his keys to the valet and being escorted up to a reserved private room. A recent financial investment firm had been making waves in the Bay over the last few years but had rebuffed outside influence. It should be expected, they had their own skyscraper built long before business started. The appointment scheduled by his secretary was nearly a total shock to him. A few key words hinted at them being aware of his other identity and seeking to make arrangements with Marquis too. What unnerved him though was the additional request to have his dear Amelia somewhere nearby, preferably under ten minutes away. An odd request but not one intended for a hostage.

The restaurant, a regional chain known for its quality was packed as he surveyed it with a passing eye. A few couple seemed vaguely familiar but he couldn't put names to faces for the moment, chalking it up to past meet and greets. The hostess ahead of him pulled open the door to the private room, reserved for small parties and meetings to reveal two faces he hoped to never see again in his life. He pulled on all his experience to ignore the phantom throb in his knees.

"Welcome!" A surprisingly bubbly voice came from one of the pair as the door closed behind him. "Relax, it's not like we've got a bone to pick with you or anything."

"Subtle." Said the other, far more serious woman. "I told you to be nice because we've got plenty on our plates."

"Plates. Right. Because of the restaurant." Andrea's response garnered a response from Taylor Snow, as Mr. Lavere sat down across from the odd couple. "So you're allowed to make jokes?"

Snow was surprisingly expressive as her choice of words registered and she sighed with an exhaustion he empathized with, like when his daughter managed to win an argument by logic through sheer luck or coincidence. He failed to suppress a chuckle as eyes turned to him.

"See? Even our guest can handle a good ribbing!" Andrea Campbell's words bore no extra emphasis but her eyebrows did the work to make up for that.

"Enough Andrea." Snow turned to him with a serious expression but it wasn't threatening. He still remembered that face. "Mr. Lavere, I'm sure you have questions and hopefully we can settle before we order the main course for multiple reasons."

"I admit, I was surprised a few times throughout our correspondence and now that I'm here, each answer seems to bring only more questions. I suppose I should ask if you wish to sill address Mr. Lavere or are digging up past grievances?" He sat up in his chair.

"It is likely to all be with you, though the topics will include other faces." Trust an intelligence expert to know more than you want. "This conversation borders or outright crosses over the line of the Rules of Capes as it were, but I am not here speaking as an agent of the PRT."

"And yet, you are an agent of the PRT. That does go away as easily as changing an outfit."

"You could say she's a badass down to her bones!" Andrea chimed in. "Okay, I'm all done for now. Just had to get it out."

"As you can see, my girlfriend is quite humorous but it's important that she's here for this." His raised eyebrow mirrored Andrea's. "Fuck. I didn't mean that one either."

Andrea was softly laughing. "Lisa must be dying from this." A name he was unfamiliar with as he started to worry about possible recordings now. "Don't worry, she's a... silent partner." Somehow that made her laugh harder, like the only person in on a joke. Snow's defeated expression alleviated his concerns of anyone else ruining this meeting.

"Yes, you could say that. I know you have kept tabs on my career, for what was allowed to leak by either myself or the PRT-"

"Allowed?" He interrupted. Sure, he knew of controlling the flow of information but her confidence in that choice of words caused him to throw away decorum. "Are you implying such a great grasp on the internal workings that leaks only happen if you so choose?"

"Oh, nothing of the sort." She waved him off with false modesty so absurd and poorly veiled he nearly took offense. "Nothing so grand. No, in the years I've worked with the PRT I have shored up our defenses in that department as strong as possible. I know that doesn't include everything, but with all the eyes on me and the backing of my superiors, it's relatively easy to cover up my covert operations by hiding them in plain sight. They don't know all of them, of course."

"I-" He need a moment. Rumors of her being a Maverick were always understated. He knew her unique and expert tactics firsthand. "I want to say I find it hard to believe you've done off the books operations in your own personal interest."

"And yet?" Her tone was level. Her gaze fully on him, evaluating at a level that surpassed most he encountered. Perhaps all but to put her so high felt like too terrifying a prospect that Snow truly was at such a high level above him.

"And yet, pieces started to fall into place. This meeting itself that you know my identities yet haven't reported to your superiors, Ms. Campbell leading an investment firm that exploded out of nowhere with some well armed staff even my men know to avoid. In my background checks, one thing most would miss is that on the weekend before we first met-"

"Ah, sweet memories." Andrea managed to bring levity and avoid any animosity from that time. He elevated his view of her by several points and understood her purpose here now.

"Yes. That previous weekend you and three of your friends took a jaunt out of town. A certain Canadian also came to a sudden end but none claimed the kill, and the government found no traces except what they suspected were a pair of a man and woman with with expert military training."

Snow shook her head. "Oh, I forgot about that fact."

"I thought it was you and Gladys?" A name he remembered because of who she knew. Connections were always important to maintain.

"Yes Andrea, it was. I saw the reports a few months later but it slipped my mind. Probably a good thing, I don't think she would be happy with their appraisal of her."

"Are you saying that of the four of you, it was Gladys Knott, a high school vice principal, who killed a national supervillain and not yourself or Kinsey?"

A wry smile is what she offered. "She is the better shot out of the group." Truth truly was stranger than fiction. "Back on track, yes, I am known for my work in intelligence and that was one of many such actions I have taken. Probably one of the more altruistic ones too now that I think of it."

It was at this point that the appetizers arrived and conversation paused. Andrea ate her clam chowder so fast he doubted she tasted it, and as Snow put a few clams and oysters on her plate she gave a withering stare to Andrea and a silent conversation ended in the latter's defeat.

"On to business, or lack thereof. We aren't planning on any monetary deals at the moment simply because our circles of interest don't overlap enough. No, we're here to discuss Marquis' enemies."

"Are you implying to take an interest and ally yourself with a known villain and leader of organized crime in your home town while still working for the government? I expect some outrageous things following new facts but even this is too farfetched."

"And you would be right. We have no interest in stopping them from going after you." As expected. "We also do not plan to aid any who pursue you. Organized crime is, at the very least, organized. Compared to any number of criminals, you crest just past acceptable but provide a workable environment that doesn't detract from the Bay's value."

"How unexpectedly pragmatic."

"The problem," She took a drink to calm herself of some latent anger. "The problem with that is that Marquis has other interests. Personal ones."

"I take it you are not here to threaten those?" An edge crept into his voice. He had come close to breaking his code a few times, and if ever there was a reason to finally do so it would be in defense of daughter.

"The opposite." He remained tense. "You see, despite your experience and strengths there will come a time when you do get caught. It will likely not end well for you at all, with supermax being the most promising spot to hope for. I've seen the evaluations though and you understand where you are likely heading to when the law catches up."

"Baumann. The Birdcage."

"Yes. It's a travesty of engineering. Some things even I cannot fight though. So the question remains, what happens to those personal interests? Have you considered the inevitable an prepared for it? Some groups are out for your blood, and when they see it flow out of you they will not stop until they raze your legacy too."

He paled. "Surely you don't mean to imply even some of the heroes would stoop so low?"

She nodded. "The Brigade in particular, yes. Any proper law enforcement would likely fail to shuffle her in the system and any of your past enemies would have no trouble hunting her down for revenge. The sins of the father or just pure vindictiveness."

"I never considered. Not truly." A minute to gather himself. "In the back of my mind, I haven't wanted to acknowledge that possibility. We've only had so little time together and to spend it fretting about that being taken from me I didn't want to waste time on."

"And what were you hoping would happen?"

"I guess it would have been just hoping they keep their word to take care of Amelia."

"Mr. Lavere. You have talked with many capes. I'm sure you understand what category of people the Brigade falls under, especially under Brandish's leadership."

"I don't want to."

"No. You don't. But even a superficial understanding of the woman shows a seething hatred for you that is irrational. She has no connection to you or your past misdeeds. I've checked."

"Then why?"

"A massive stick up her ass. That's why." It was not Andrea with the vulgarity though. She was busy drinking at that moment which was now on its way out. "If I'm right-" A snort. "Then Marquis likely pushes the same buttons as someone from her past she cannot forget. Yes, I know what I'm implying and there's nothing that can be done about it now. Any earlier wouldn't have helped much either. The past can't be rewritten, after all." Another snort.

"This has certainly been more enlightening than contract negotiations, that is for sure. Why did you want Amelia so close yet unaware of her location?"

Her smug grin answered him. "So that once you order for her, she won't have to wait long for the food." Andrea was perusing the menu beside her and likely picking for them both. "I'd like to think we've enough trust for that."

He sighed but it was in relief and not defeat. After a short phone call, he let them know it would be about eight minutes.

"Good. I'm sure you can guess what I'm going to ask you inform your legal council for contingency plans."

"I can... The question is why you? Why me? Our past cannot even be described as checkered."

"Mr. Lavere, I have studied many parahuman behaviors and trends. One of them is the possibility of second gen capes. The children of capes have not had much time to be studied, but their powers are somewhat reflective of their parent. Patterns become solidified from trauma, and their environment works to shape their future."

"And you hope to raise her so that if she gains powers, she'll be your own personal soldier?" Venom suffused his words.

"The opposite." She brushed off his threat as one does a buzzing fly. "Believe it or not, she's not the only child we're planning on raising. Or have. What I'm offering you is someone who understands you on a level none of your enemies do and whose word can be trusted. Should you lose custody of Amelia, Andrea and I would provide her a loving environment that, protection from your past enemies, and a guiding hand not blinded by hatred."

"I am coming around to this idea more now that you explain. I was unaware you already adopted? Am I to guess this other child is also a potential parahuman?"

"Not adopted. I'll spare you the details but a I also sought out another parahuman who is a single father but didn't have the best idea on how to do so. His irrational fears would have hindered her and likely lead to her triggering, or at least a major factor of it. We don't intend to raise a personal team to defend ourselves, but at the very least give a stable environment to at risk young parahumans and nip any cycles of desperation and crime in the bud."

"If it were anyone else, Taylor Snow, I would not believe a word of it."

"And from me?"

"I think you are honest. I can see what you intend to do and why, but I also can see them wanting to work with you should they come into powers of their own even if it isn't your intention. I think that answers all my questions except for one."

How does her eyebrow raise that far? "And that would be?"

"Where does your James Kinsey fit into all of this? You have dragged him through almost your entire career and I cannot see that changing if you leave the PRT, yet he's not here."

"Oh, we gave him the night off." Andrea piped in. "Ok, we actually gave him a little mission to spend his time on and he took the hint. He probably knows we're meeting with you by now and you two coming face to face didn't seem like a good idea." She turned to Snow. "How does he fit in though?"

"Nanny?" Snow seemed to pick the word like the best of a set of bad choices.

"Nanny." Andrea was caught by surprise.

"Nanny." Snow sagely nodded.

"I'm calling him!" Andrea pulled out a phone and dialed with one hand while fighting off snow with the other. The call was put on speakerphone.

"Andrea, how is the meeting going? I was under the impression it would still be at this moment and the silence lends credence that no backup is required."

"Yer darn tootin'! Kinsey, how'd you like to be a nanny?"

Mr. Lavere could hear the intake of breath. "I am capable of most tasks many would deem unwilling to participate but i find my current employment satisfactory"

"Well, it would be a kid that Taylor and I would adopt."

"As I stated, I am capable of-"

"No diapers! She'll definitely be potty trained by then." She interjected.

"I look forward to meeting the little tyke when the day comes." It amazed him how a man could emote while changing nothing about his vocal tone.

"Got it. Catcha ya later." She hung up with a victorious smile. She turned to Snow. "He probably likes that title better than nursemaid."

Snow just shook her head. "It would be best for that to be left in the past. Anyways, Mr. Lavere, does that satisfy you?"

Before he could answer, a freckled brunette girl ran through the door holding a coloring book and charged right at him. She managed to not trip on her way and jump at him, where he caught her one handed from his seat and perched her on his lap for the moment.

After a few minutes of catching up with her where she told an intense tale of a runaway cat that circled her and the guards but was lured in with the offer of snacks. She listed every food it didn't like, and even how it did not want to use her crayons. During this recounting of events, he saw the faces of the two women in his peripheral vision and saw nothing but humor and joy. Andrea even added a few questions to help her focus.

"Amelia, I wanted to introduce you to two of my friends. These are Andrea Campbell and her girlfriend Taylor Snow. Andrea runs businesses like your daddy does and Taylor works for the PRT."

"Like with Alexandria?" Wonder on Amelia's face as she turned to Snow and a brief emotion flickered over Snow's face that was not what he expected from a PRT employee, let alone her.

"Yeah Amelia. I've met her a few times but I couldn't ask for an autograph."

"Why not? I would ask her if I met her."

Taylor leaned over conspiratorially, fake whispering. "It's because we got a picture together." His daughter was certainly impressed as conversation flowed, eventually the dishes were brought out for the main course. Andrea tried to show how to crack crab legs to Amelia, but she wisely pointed out that her lobster macaroni and cheese did not need anything but a fork.

"Amelia, there's another reason I wanted you to meet these two. Do you want to know why?"

She thought. "Do you work with them?"

"No."

"Are they superheroes?"

"Yes." "No." Andrea and Snow answered simultaneously. Snow took over. "No, we work with some though."

"I give up." She didn't want to admit defeat, his daughter inherited some of his pride after all, but she couldn't talk and eat at the same time.

"These two are your godparents." Andrea was much more emotive, but that slight watering in Snow's eyes hinted a a whirlwind of emotions behind a hardened mask. "Do you know what that means?"

"No. Are they like more parents?" She gasped and whispered. "Super parents."

"No dear. I wanted you to meet them and you could get to know each other. Godparents are who I trust to take care of you if something happens to me." She was about to ask some obvious questions. "No, I'm not going away any time soon. But accidents do happen. Like when you scraped your knee last week."

"So if you scrape your knee they will take me away?"

Andrea laughed and decided to join in now. "No kid. Honey? I don't do nicknames well. Amelia, if your dad gets really hurt one day, he wants us to watch over you until he gets better. If you were in the hospital, he would stay with you. But if he was in the hospital, somebody would need to take care of you while he couldn't."

A few more questions and clarifications, as much as can happen with a child her age, and eventually she got "backup parents" out of it all, comparing it to extra clothes when they went swimming in case they got wet. Why that resolved matters, he couldn't say, but children worked in mysterious ways. They told her about their jobs as much as they could, Snow telling obviously embellished tales that still fascinated his little girl.

As dinner finished, they exited the restaurant and the tall raven-haired woman pulled him aside.

"There's one more thing you likely didn't consider." He hated to admit it but she was right and a meeting with his lawyer was already long overdue. He motioned her to continue. "Write some fucking letters."

"Letters?"

"You probably didn't think of it, but consider a dozen events. Probably less, but at least three. If you grow to be an old man and look back, what are the most cherished memories going to be of your daughter? Her school graduation? Her first day? Her wedding?"

"And write letters?"

"Write a speech you would give her. Because chances are you won't be able to do that in person."

The reality set in. A weight descended. This last year was the best he ever had because of his daughter coming to live with him. He never considered what him going away would do to her.

"I understand." He gave her a solid handshake, failed to fight off a huge from Andrea, and eventually drove away with Amelia once the valet returned. This meeting was full of surprises. He looked at his daughter falling asleep at a red light and knew she had a bright future that wouldn't be shaded by his past.

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 8-1: A New World Order

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

In the Air over Jakarta
Five Miles from the Behemoth
Alexandria

Legend shaded his eyes and peered up at the sun. "Anyone got an idea of how long it's been?"

"One hour, nine minutes, thirteen seconds since Eidolon died." Rebecca spoke crisply and impersonally as a way of hiding the pain within. David had been a good friend and a powerful ally. "Seven minutes twenty-three seconds since you last asked that question." She still held his helmet under her arm; the scorch-marks on the inside were literally all that was left of him.

"Sorry, sorry." Legend shook his head and looked at Hero. "Any change in status?"

"None." Supported alongside the two fliers by a jetpack that didn't work on any principle Rebecca knew from her middle school science classes or her later reading, the world's greatest Tinker fiddled with a complicated device that gave outputs via flashing lights, cathode ray tubes, a Jacobs-ladder and a screen across which colours washed in random and unpredictable patterns. "Going by the energy readings, the creature is still in the dormant state it went into when … well, when it happened. On the other hand, the kill-field is still right there where Captain Snow said it would be."

"I'm still at a loss as to how she knew so much about it," Legend admitted. "We didn't know that much about the thing, and we've all fought it every time it showed up. It was like she was pulling the facts out of thin air … but she was right on the money, about everything."

Rebecca's lips tightened. "I'm more concerned about what she said to you guys about her suspicions of a hero accidentally controlling it, and how David apparently decided it was him."

Hero shook his helmeted head. "No, forget that aspect. What I'm concerned about is that she was right, that when David sacrificed himself, the Behemoth just stopped on the spot."

Did she know? Rebecca had the strong suspicion she was asking herself the sixty-four-million-dollar question. Did she deliberately goad him into doing exactly what he did? If so, how? How the hell could she make all those connections and figure out what needed to be done to end the menace? How did her wording push him into that so easily? She paused and made a mental note to review the video footage of the meeting, paying specific attention to Snow's body language and word choice. Shit, did she have something to do with me being unable to attend, to give her a clear run at David? She'd already known Taylor Snow was definitely an ends-justifies-the-means type of person, which only meant that the more she thought about it, the more disturbing the implications were. Exactly how far is she willing to go in order to get the job done? She suspected the answer was 'yes'. Ironic, coming from her, she knew.

"You're not wrong," Legend said quietly, his comment strangely apropos despite being unaware of her inner turmoil. "Neither of you. But what I want to know now is … what else can she help us with? If you ask me, she's absolutely proven her credentials in this field. Our passengers, no matter what insights they might grant us, are clearly blocking us from figuring out the really important stuff. We have to talk to her. Maybe even bring her into the inner circle. If we tell her everything we do know, everything Contessa knows, everything Manton knows, there's no telling what she'll be able to figure out from that."

"No." Rebecca kept her tone quiet, ignoring the chill that ran down her back at the thought of Taylor Snow knowing everything. "Contessa still can't Path Snow, but while the girl's shown a certain ruthless streak—"

Hero snorted in amusement. "I'll say!"

She waited until she was sure he had it out of his system. "As I was saying, while Snow's displayed a willingness to let the bodies fall where they may, there's a non-zero chance she'll disapprove of how we run things in Cauldron." Worse, a whimsical corner of her mind quipped. She might critique us.

"Okay, that's a possibility," conceded Hero, "but we don't have to show her everything. Just the stuff we need to know more about."

Rebecca gave him a level stare. "Given what we know she's managed to deduce from first principles, exactly how long do you expect our secrets to remain hidden from her? And with her propensity for playing blindfolded chess and winning, we'd never know what she knew or how she was using that information until she figured out how to turn it all around on us and bring the whole operation down."

Legend looked askance at her. "Aren't you ascribing a little too much agency to her? I mean, sure, she's basically Otto von Bismarck on steroids, what with the way she's been fixing the PRT from within until it runs like a well-oiled machine, but she still doesn't have any powers of her own. What could she actually do?"

Hero simply pointed at the still-immobile Behemoth, standing like the world's ugliest garden gnome in the middle of Jakarta. He and Rebecca spoke at the same time.

"That."

-ooo-​

Contessa

I have no idea how Snow pulled that off, but she did it.

Fortuna felt a little sad at Eidolon's passing, but she'd seen so many people die in so many ways, quite often at her hands, that it no longer held any kind of significant emotional impact. It was much more important to her that the monster had been neutralized. Yes, the loss of Eidolon's powers as a force for good would be a blow for the Protectorate, but the Behemoth had murdered hundreds of thousands of people in just four appearances, and it hadn't shown any sign of slowing down.

Worse, as Ruth had once explained to her, Leviathan and the Simurgh would have caused just as much death and destruction once they emerged. Cities would have died, entire islands forced below the ocean … and Taylor Snow had ended that chain of events before it ever began. Millions would live who otherwise would've died, and they'd never know any different.

However, Doctor Mother didn't see it that way. She wanted Taylor Snow black-bagged immediately and conveyed to a remote room in the Cauldron base where the young officer would be grilled intensively to determine what she knew and how she knew it. Fortuna could even see why; looked at from a certain point of view, Snow represented a dangerous enigma. Possessed of a level of skill and capability even veteran military or law-enforcement personnel rarely achieved, Taylor Snow was only nominally under the command of her superiors in the PRT. Not much more than hints of the intent behind her extracurricular activities were available to Fortuna, via Snow's associates and friends. But even these painted a picture of someone who was carrying on an intensive campaign behind the scenes, entirely removed from her official duties.

When consulted on the matter, Ruth Goldstein had been uncharacteristically blunt. "If Taylor's doing it, it's what needs doing. And if you get in her way, she'll probably kill you and loot your corpse."

"She's so dangerous?" Fortuna had asked, wondering if her leg was being pulled.

Ruth had shaken her head. "If anything, she's mellowed from what she used to be like. Back then, she was smart and vicious, and she made her name by escalating harder and faster than the opposition. Now? She's had years to study what's wrong with the world and make her plans, and to acquire the necessary skills to carry out her goals. She even recognizes that some laws need to be followed, sometimes. Trust me, you do not want her to go back to the outlaw mindset, with what she knows now. Let's just count this as a win, before she decides it's necessary to murder Alexandria."

"You are kidding, right? I know you admire the girl, but isn't that a little out of her league?"

"I'm sorry," Ruth said, in a tone that indicated a total lack of regret. "I meant again. She's already done it once, after all."

She wasn't kidding, which was why Fortuna had told Doctor Mother that under no circumstances were Taylor Snow's efforts to be interfered with, for two very good reasons. One: they wanted to win the eventual war against Scion. Two: Cauldron couldn't afford to lose any more members.

-ooo-​

Taylor

"I have to say, Snow, I did not expect matters to turn out like that."

"Yes, sir," I said, acknowledging Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton's words as opposed to agreeing with them. I hadn't known Eidolon would take that way out, but between the hints I'd loaded onto him and the hypnotic I'd dosed him with, it had been a fairly good bet.

The savage irony was, it would only have worked if he was at heart a good man. Otherwise, once faced with those same insights, he would've rationalized away the need to deal with the problem once and for all. In that particular case, I probably would've needed to dose his cup with something a good deal more lethal, perhaps something that induced a heart attack at some later point. Luckily, I hadn't needed to go that far.

Lacking some other way to separate him from his power, Eidolon had needed to die. But I was glad he'd had the chance to go out on his own terms. A true hero, and a martyr to the world.

Hamilton eyed me keenly from behind his desk. "Troubled thoughts, Snow? You couldn't have known he was the very one you were referring to."

"No, sir," I said. Again, I wasn't agreeing with him, but he wasn't to know that. Monosyllabic answers were very useful in this sort of situation, not least when they could be expanded on with a relative non-sequitur. "It could've been any one of a dozen of the front-runners."

"But it wasn't." I could hear the sympathy in his voice. "It's a perennial bugbear of being on this side of the intelligence equation; we give them the best information we have but once it leaves our hands, there's no way we can predict how they'll make use of it."

"Thank you, sir." I carefully didn't correct him; while I had predicted it, this needed to be one of the times when I was merely human and had failed to take all the factors into account. "Did you need me for anything else, sir?"

"I merely wanted to offer my congratulations for your sterling work but, more importantly, to check with you about the aftermath of Jakarta. How are you feeling about it, personally?"

"Conflicted, sir," I said; my first truly honest pronouncement of the conversation. "I'm glad Behemoth is no longer an issue, though I dearly wish Eidolon hadn't had to die to make that happen. I'm feeling better than I was after New York, though. That time, it felt like we'd maintained a holding action long enough for him to get bored and go away. It wasn't a victory, except maybe in hero-villain cooperation and overall morale. This time? Because of Eidolon, we won. We'll never get back the dead of Marun Field and Sao Paulo and New York, but the monster's been shut down. Hopefully for good."

A genuine smile crossed his face. "That is truly excellent to hear, Snow. What's your read on whether it might activate again in the future?"

I let my features assume a thoughtful expression. "He hasn't moved since Eidolon died. Every hour he remains like that makes it more certain that he'll stay that way, unless some idiot actually attacks him. So long as we can maintain a watch on him—say, bulldoze everything out to half a mile, and put up a wall, with armed guards facing outward—he'll be a non-issue."

Hamilton's bushy eyebrows raised just a fraction. "You do realize the thing is standing in the middle of one of the most populous cities in the world, Snow? You'd cut out nearly a square mile of urban space for this?"

"He set a fair amount of it on fire, sir," I reminded him. "Most of that square mile will already be ruined, the people who were there dead. But I'd cut out a square mile of Manhattan Island if it came to that. Wherever he is, the absolute last thing we want is for people being able to just wander up to him and either get his attention or die. The population needs to understand that just because he's inactive, it doesn't mean an act of arrant stupidity can't change that. So, we're going to need to actively keep a guard force on him forever. Making the ground he's standing into an international exclusion zone would be a good idea, too. Spread the cost of guarding him across every nation that wants the prestige of doing so."

"Sound reasoning," agreed Hamilton. "A permanent multinational guard force will be expensive, but not so expensive as losing a hundred thousand people every few months. I will forward your suggestion to the appropriate parties." His eyes twinkled again as he smiled. "I suspect they might just listen to you."

"The chances are, someone's already thought of exactly the same thing," I pointed out. "But the more of us agree on something like this, the better chance we have of making it happen."

"That's also a point." He bent an avuncular gaze upon me. "On a different topic. I understand you're acting somewhat in a mentor role to some of the young bloods. It only came to my attention when I commended Patricks on his improved work, and he cited you as the reason. In case you were wondering, I approve."

I nodded. "It's not all that often, sir, but I try to help them out and give a few pointers at the same time. They're willing to learn, which is good."

"On that, we agree." He tilted his head to one side. "Your time will no longer be taken up with ongoing matters pertaining to the Behemoth. I hope we can keep things from getting too boring for you." From the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, I could tell he was joking.

"Oh, I believe I can find things to occupy my time, sir." I wasn't, not in the slightest. There were many issues that required my attention. Some even related to my work with the PRT.

"Good. Dismissed, Snow."

"Sir." I came to attention and saluted; he returned it with a lazy wave somewhere near his brow. Turning, I marched from his office and headed back to where my current workspace was set up.

Now that Robbie Gordon was long since removed from my immediate vicinity (and the PRT as a whole), I didn't have to keep looking over my shoulder for potential problems … or rather, I didn't have to, but I did it anyway. It was a good habit to get into, and one that had served me well. There were always more Masters and Strangers out there, after all. Just because I'd never met them didn't mean they wouldn't wish me harm anyway. Not for the first time, I wished they'd named the Snow Protocols basically anything else.

But Hamilton was right about how Behemoth being taken off the table would simplify matters for everyone, especially me. I didn't have to fake burning the midnight oil anymore, wasting hours pretending to analyse matters down to the nitty-gritty so that I could produce a believable prediction.

I know it wasn't this version of you that killed Lisa and everyone else I knew and loved, but fuck you anyway. This is for them.

Also on the upside, Behemoth wouldn't be attacking Moscow on his next go-around; more importantly, in a little under four years' time he was due to be attacking Jinzhou. He would be opposed by the CUI, who'd refuse any outside assistance, based on the premise that they were capable of handling him. This would not turn out to be the case.

So, not only would nearly a million innocent Chinese citizens not die due to their intransigence, but the CUI would fail to learn an important lesson about the relative capabilities of the Yàngbân; specifically, they suck against a single flexible, powerful foe. I was happy with them being ignorant of that for the time being. I didn't actually have any plans at the moment for opposing them, but there were years to go before I would be anywhere near finished with my self-appointed task, and situations had a habit of changing at the worst possible moment. Besides, it's never a good idea to explain to a potential enemy where he's going wrong.

Seating myself in front of my computer, I entered the password then instead of clicking the mouse on the Enter button, I clicked just to the left of it. This opened a second password prompt, which I also answered. Then, and only then, could I access my actual files.

Humming a tune that would become popular about fifteen years in the future, I got back to work.

-ooo-​

January 9, 1995
Mount Sinai Hospital, Toronto, Canada

Andrea and I looked up as a nurse entered the waiting room. "Ms. Campbell? You can come through now."

We both got up; I captured her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Her fingers were trembling, which was an absolute first for her. "You got this," I murmured.

"Darn tootin'," she whispered back, and strode for the door with her back straight and chin up. I turned to Kinsey. "We'll be just down the hall," I advised him. "If anything goes sideways, I'll break something."

"Ma'am," he agreed, and stood back against the wall, hands folded in front of him. I noted once again that even in plain clothes, he looked like nothing more or less than a soldier in civvies.

Turning, I followed Andrea down the corridor, ready to step back and wait with Kinsey if the nurses said I had to, but it didn't happen.

We convened in a private room—Andrea had sprung for the very best—where a pretty young woman lay in bed holding a baby. Andrea and I had already met Jeanette and her boyfriend René, and they seemed like nice people. The sole reason they were giving Heartbreaker's last baby up for adoption was because they were essentially broke; his current job only gave him enough income to support one child (whom they already had) but not two. Once she got her acting career back up and running, this might change, but that would be years in the future.

"Hi," Andrea said, going over to the side of the bed where Jeanette held baby Alec (as I was already calling him in my mind). "Oooh, he's gorgeous."

"He is," agreed Jeanette. She looked wrung-out from the birth, but she was bearing up well under the strain. "I hate to give him up."

"You're not giving him up, exactly," I said noncommittally from where I stood near the end of the bed. "Babies need a lot of resources to care for them properly. It's not your fault that you just don't have those resources right now. And we all know you'd keep him if it was at all possible. When he's old enough to understand, Andrea will explain to him that he was adopted, and exactly why. He won't be told that you didn't love him enough, or any crap like that. After that, he'll have the full choice of whether or not to contact you."

"And in the meantime," Andrea added, caressing Alec's chubby little cheek, "I'll be sending you birthday pictures and stuff like that, so you'll know he's happy and healthy. Once he's been filled in, we might even make it a regular thing at Christmas and stuff."

René looked at me, worried. "Will he be told that his biological father was … was Heartbreaker?"

"No." Andrea shook her head definitively. "I'm not going to let him grow up with that hanging over his head."

I went over to the door and pushed it almost all the way shut. "I'm not so sure that's a good idea," I said slowly. "I saw one case involving a teenager with powers who figured out she was the kid of a supervillain but her adoptive parents wouldn't tell her who for the longest time. It messed her head up pretty good. People got hurt." I looked to Jeanette and René seriously. "Both Cherie and her brother have the potential to trigger with powers. I don't know when or even if it will happen, but the chance is definitely there. Cherie, at least, spent the first few months of her life in close proximity with Vasil, so the chances are she'll manifest emotion-based powers. This is something you absolutely need to be aware of."

They were both staring at me. Up until this point, I'd more or less lurked in the background while Andrea took the spotlight. Now, it was like I'd grown a whole extra head or started declaiming the Bible in Urdu.

"What?" René shook his head as if he wasn't sure what he was hearing. "How do you know this, Ms. Snow? Who are you?"

I sighed; it had to come out eventually. "I'm a captain in the PRT, Intelligence Division. Based out of Chicago. Don't worry, I'm not here in any official capacity. Andrea's a good friend of mine, so I took some leave and came along to lend moral support. But this is specifically in my area of expertise, so I'm giving you advice for free."

"Advice?" Jeanette held Alec a little tighter. "Will this one also … uh, trigger with powers? Will he become a villain? And Cherie?"

I waggled my hand from side to side. "He's got the potential to trigger, sure. He's less likely to go the same power route as his sister, because he wasn't exposed to the same influences as she was. On the upside, for both kids it'll be less traumatic than a first-generation cape. Downside, it's still traumatic. Any kind of sustained stress might trigger it." I took a step forward. "As for becoming a villain, that's very much a nurture over nature thing. Every villain I ever met had a crappy home life. Give Cherie a happy, fulfilling childhood, treat her right without spoiling her, and she's far less likely to end up as a villain when or if she does get powers." It wasn't a guarantee; I knew it just as well as they did. But it was better than nothing.

"You said it's not a good idea to hide it from them." René was on the ball. "Their heritage, I mean. What do we tell Cherie, and when do we do it?"

I sighed, remembering the mess of neuroses that made up Amy Dallon, even on a good day. "First off, you need to keep in mind that even though Vasil supplied the genetics and the potential for powers, that doesn't make him her father. You're her father. Be her father. In the same vein, inheriting powers from him will not automatically make her a villain. However, it'll have to be up to your judgement exactly when to break it to her. If she never shows interest, ever, then you can probably leave it go. Don't force the information on her. But if she starts asking questions, whether it's about her powers or how she doesn't look much like you, or even if someone dredges up the Heartbreaker thing … sit her down and tell her everything. Don't lie, and don't hide the truth. Nothing breaks a kid's trust like the feeling that they're being lied to."

Andrea had looked surprised when I contradicted her, but as I'd explained my side of things, she started nodding. I wondered how much she was recalling of the stories I'd told her about twenty-eleven Brockton Bay, specifically the ones concerning Panacea. "I'll be doing that too," she said. "I mean, I'll be explaining how he's adopted anyway, seeing how his hair's gonna look nothing like mine, but yeah, if he needs to know, he needs to know."

René and Jeanette looked at each other, and Jeanette nodded. "It's for the best," she said in answer to his silent query. "As is this." Carefully, she lifted baby Alec up so that Andrea could take him.

For the first time, my girlfriend cradled the child she'd agreed to adopt. There was no angelic chime, at least anything I could hear, but her face softened and her smile lit up the room. "Hello," she whispered gently. "You're the cutest thing ever. Yes, you are."

Alec screwed up his face and sneezed, and I chuckled along with everyone else. Andrea was right; even his sneezes were cute.

"So, what is his name to be?" asked René.

Andrea glanced over at me. We'd talked this over and arrived at a decision we both liked. "He's going to be christened Alexander Jean-Paul Dubois Campbell," she said. "It's a little long, but I think it all needs to be in there."

Jeanette perked up at the mention of her surname, and both she and René seemed to like the inclusion of a traditional French first name in there. "That's a good, strong name," she said. "Thank you."

René looked over at me. "Are you going to be involved in Alexander's upbringing? Explaining his powers to him, if he gets them?"

"Oh, totally," I assured him. "You've got my contact number, so you'll be able to get hold of me if Cherie needs assistance in that kind of thing." I chuckled. "Hopefully it won't be for another ten or fifteen years. And just so you know, I don't give dating advice. For that, you'll be on your own."

"Oh, the horror," he quipped.

We shared a glance of mutual understanding, then watched as Andrea leaned over the bed to allow Jeanette one last hug and kiss with Alec. Finally, she straightened up. "I guess it's time to go," she said.

René came around the bed and brushed the backs of his fingers against Alec's cheek, then whispered something in French that I didn't catch enough of to figure out. "Good luck, Andrea, and take care," he said. "And Captain Snow, please watch over both of them."

"Absolutely," I said. Left unsaid was the fact that I'd be keeping tabs on Cherie's parents as well, which at least René seemed to understand. If I were any judge, he seemed to be okay with the idea of it.

We left the room, Andrea still cooing over little Alec, and found Kinsey keeping watch in the waiting room. "Isn't he just too cute?" asked Andrea.

Kinsey raised his eyebrows. "I usually don't have much to do with babies, but he does seem to be reasonably cute, yes."

All he really knew was that Andrea was adopting a baby and I was along for the ride. Or rather, Andrea was along for the ride. We'd hired a car in Brockton Bay and driven to Toronto in one marathon nine-and-a-half-hour stint, whereupon we'd taken motel rooms and crashed for the night. With Lisa's assistance, I'd timed it for the day before Jeanette was due to give birth, of course. I didn't even bother anymore trying to tell Kinsey that I'd drive; we both knew it wasn't going to happen.

"Seems to be?" Andrea stuck her tongue out at him. "He's absolutely the cutest baby ever, and you know it." She strutted on ahead, and Kinsey fell back to walk alongside me.

"She certainly seems taken with the infant, ma'am," he murmured. "I suspect I may have done her a disservice when she first informed me of her intention to adopt. A strong maternal instinct is not something I would've suspected her of having."

"Andrea might seem to be the type of person who's entirely transparent about her thoughts and motivations," I reminded him. "But she definitely has hidden depths. Anyone who believes otherwise is in for a surprise if and when they try to take advantage of her."

"That I have no trouble believing," Kinsey agreed. "As you made clear to me some time ago, ma'am; the ditz act may be no act, but she's certainly not brainless."

"Come on!" Andrea called. "Let's hit the road! We got miles to burn!"

I quickened my pace, as did Kinsey. "Baby seat's already set up in the car?" I asked.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "I personally made sure of it."

We exited the hospital, stepping out into the freezing winter air. "Whoof!" I muttered. "I'm still not used to winters being this cold."

"The Captain was no doubt spoiled by Brockton Bay," Kinsey said, his expression deadpan. "Chicago should be warmer, technically at least."

"Yeah, but they can keep their wind-chill factor," I groused. "I might have to look around and see if there isn't some kind of crisis I can attend to in Texas. South Texas."

We reached the car, where Andrea was already waiting. She'd made sure to pull the blanket extra close around baby Alec, I saw. Kinsey pressed the fob to unlock the car and I opened the back door for Andrea.

"Thanks," she said as she slid into the back seat, holding Alec close to her. She didn't quite stutter, but it was a near thing. "Canadian winters are ridiculous."

I closed the door for her, then got into the front passenger seat. "I would've thought you'd learned your lesson, from the time we visited Deer Lake."

"God, don't remind me." Twisting in her seat, she carefully placed Alec in his infant seat and buckled him in. "D'awww, who's the cutest person in the car? It used to be Taylor, but now it's you. Yes, it is!" Leaning close, she rubbed noses with the baby, then looked up at me. "Sorry, hon, but it's true."

I chuckled. "No argument. I've always been an also-ran in the 'cute' stakes, just saying."

"Sure, you're cute!" Andrea looked to Kinsey for support. "Jim, tell her!"

He turned in his seat and gave her a very dry look. "Andrea, the Captain is my commanding officer, and thus not someone I can call 'cute' without severe repercussions. But even if that were not the case, she's capable of beating any three average men to a pulp with her bare hands or sniping them out to a hundred feet, either hand, with a pistol. She is a formidable soldier, tactician, officer and analyst, all of which have contributed to her successes to date. You, on the other hand, are cute, and you certainly make it work for you. The Captain has her strengths; you have yours."

Wow. Damn. I'd known Kinsey had a good opinion of me—and why not, I thought very highly of him too—but that was about as blunt as I'd ever heard him get about it. "Thank you for that impromptu performance review, Kinsey," I said, trying to sound as dry as he had. "Now, I believe Andrea was correct in that we have a considerable distance to cover before we get back to Brockton Bay."

"Right you are, ma'am," he replied imperturbably, and started the car.

-ooo-​

Brockton Bay
Andrea's New Apartment
February 21, 1995

If there was something Andrea could point at as a useful holdover from her time as a college party girl, it was the ability to function on minimal sleep for days at a time, fortified by the occasional pot of extra-strength coffee. She'd been a mother for a month and a half now, and it seemed all young Alec wanted to do was cry and sleep. Except that when he wanted to wake up and cry was when Andrea wanted to sleep.

Still, of all the crazy things Taylor had asked her to do, this was nowhere near as whacked as the Los Angeles caper. And in fact, it was kinda wholesome, particularly when her sleep schedule managed to coincide itself with Alec's, and they were awake and happy at the same time. Given the lead time before the adoption, she'd taken the time to read up on all the parenting manuals Taylor had suggested, and some of them helped … some of the time.

One such book suggested giving the infant plenty of tummy time and to spend time on the floor with them, to encourage them to crawl. She knew that aspect wasn't likely to happen for another four or five months at least, but she'd splurged for a soft, springy carpet so why not put it to use? And she personally had no problems with getting down on Alec's level so he could be eye to eye with her.

While the experience didn't exactly make her want to rush out and get pregnant straight away (as far as she was concerned, that could happen to other people, thank you very much) it was definitely giving her a new perspective on motherhood. Especially when he gave his happy little smile and gurgled at her while grabbing her hair. That basically melted her heart, every time.

She was lying on her back on the carpet with Alec on her tummy, competing for 'who could make the silliest baby noises' (he was winning, but only by a nose) when her phone rang. Reaching out, she took the cordless off its cradle from where she'd carefully placed it before starting her playtime with Alec, and put it to her ear. "Hello, you have Andrea."

Rather than Taylor's voice (which she didn't really expect, but she could live in hope) or even Danny's or Gladys' (also good to catch up with) she heard a voice that was vaguely familiar but she couldn't immediately place. "Ah, yes, Ms. Campbell? I hope I'm not calling at an awkward time?"

So of course, Alec decided to chime in with his latest (and award-winning) burbling giggle right at that moment. "Not really. Uh, who is this, exactly?" She hoped it wasn't a telemarketer; having to get up and put Alec in his crib so his delicate ears wouldn't be soiled by the profanity she'd be heaping on this guy for interrupting her 'us' time would be a real pain.

"This is Andrew Richter. From Deer Lake? I'm calling, uh, about Dragon?" A pause. "Uh, what was that noise?"

"That noise would be my son, Alec. That gonna be a problem?" Andrea tried to sound stern, but she couldn't quite pull it off.

"Ah … uh, no, no. Wait, you have a child? When did that happen?"

Andrea tickled Alec with one hand, just to make him laugh. "Hey, you have your life, Andy. I've got mine. So, what was that about Dragon?"

His awkward curiosity vanished, to be replaced by breathless anxiety. "I've done all the tests I can in the laboratory, and she's ready to meet other human beings. Do you have the headset I sent to you?"

"Aw, rats," Andrea muttered. "Yeah, I've got it. One second." The 'aw, rats' was because she now had to get up anyway without the cathartic release of unleashing her not inconsiderable vocabulary of profanity in Richter's general direction.

Gently lifting Alec off her stomach, she left him lying on the blanket she'd spread on the carpet for this precise reason, so he wouldn't get any of the fluffier bits in his mouth or nose, while she got up to fetch the parcel Richter had constructed. Opening the package revealed something a DJ might wear at an upscale nightclub, save for the extras here and there, such as a flip-down monocle lens. In her mind, Andrea upgraded it to 'something a fighter pilot might wear under his helmet'.

"Okay, I've got it," she reported, returning to sit cross-legged next to Alec as he drooled and waved his arms and legs like a beached crab that was too stoned to know which way up it was. "How do I plug it in?" There were, in fact, no cords attached to it, or even stored separately in the package.

"It's intended to be wireless," Richter explained. "I was thinking you could go outside wearing it, so that she could gain the full experience of walking among humans and interacting with them."

Andrea considered that. "You haven't spent much time associating with people, have you? If I went outside wearing this apparatus, my interactions with the public would be anything but normal. Trust me on this."

"Oh." She could almost hear him deflate over the phone. "Uh … I'll work on a less-obvious model for you, then. Perhaps built into a Walkman and a pair of regular glasses. But in the meantime, would you like to meet her?"

"Oh, absolutely." Andrea felt excitement begin to fizz within her. "I am so ready. You can put it up on my big screen, right?"

"That's what the shielded cable is intended for, yes." The installation had taken a little time and cost a lot of money, but that was okay; between her careful investments and Taylor's tips, the financial empire they had built together (and that term wasn't even the least bit facetious, these days) had quite a bit more than a 'lot' of money. "If you put on the headset, it will let you speak to her."

"Oh, right." She puzzled out which way the headset went on, then got up onto her knees to retrieve the remote from its place on the shelf. Then she switched on the TV and turned to a channel that showed only static. "Over to you, big daddy."

"Alright. Let's see … now."

With the last word, the static on the screen was replaced by a floor-to-ceiling image of Richter, peering at a camera from far too close so that his nose was blown way out of proportion. A tiny arm unfolded from the elaborate headset, pointing a camera back at Andrea. Richter's voice boomed out of the speakers. "Ah, there you are."

"Not so loud!" Andrea thumbed the 'volume down' button on the remote, even as Alec squawked and began to cry. "Now see what you've done!" Dropping the remote once the TV volume was down to reasonable levels, she scooped Alec up and began to soothe him.

"Sorry, sorry." Now he was whispering. "I didn't mean to frighten him."

Fortunately, Alec didn't take much to calm down again, though she gave the camera a glare just to make sure Richter knew he was on thin ice. She decided to keep Alec with her in case Richter did something else to trigger him. It wouldn't be deliberate, she knew, but that wouldn't help much if Alec was bawling.

"Okay," she said softly, rubbing Alec's tummy to make him gurgle happily. "Let's do this thing."

Richter hit a few keys out of sight, then the screen split, with Richter on the left and a blue square with a dot of light on the right. "Hello," a childlike voice said, the dot bouncing up and down. "Are you Andrea? You look different to Father."

"Hi, Dragon," Andrea said, raising her hand to wave to the camera. "I am different. All people look different to each other, though some are more different than others. We're still all people, though."

"Oh, wow," Dragon said. The dot of light was expanding, the bouncy motion slowing down. "The literature Father gave me says there are billions of humans on Earth. And they all look different? Where do they all live?"

"Everywhere they can. Humans are a determined bunch, kiddo." Carefully, with Alec still in her arms, she climbed to her feet. "Here, I'll show you." She knew there was at least one forward-mounted camera on the headset, probably several.

"Who is that you are holding?" Dragon's voice sounded fascinated. "Is it a very small human? Do humans come in different sizes?"

"That's my son, Alec." Andrea lowered her head so the camera could pan with ease. "He's about six weeks old, which is why he's so small. When he's older, he'll be bigger."

"Oh. Father says that when I get a robot body, I will start small as well. Is this so I can learn like a human child does?"

"Well, to be honest, that's not a bad idea." Andrea scooped up the blanket from the carpet and wrapped Alec in it, then shoved her feet into the fluffy slippers that lay nearby. For all that it was late February instead of early January, and Brockton Bay instead of Toronto, the breeze this high up still had a certain nip to it.

Pushing the sliding door open, she stepped out onto the balcony, holding Alec so her body sheltered him from the wind. "This is the city of Brockton Bay," she said, turning her head slowly from left to right. "Everything you're seeing on this camera, that's where fifty to a hundred thousand people are living."

"It's so big," Dragon marvelled, switching her voice seamlessly to the earpieces, while the flip-down monocle eyepiece powered up with the same image as on the screen. To Andrea, this proved she was smarter than Richter already, given his blunder with the speakers earlier. "Bigger than Deer Lake, by a lot. Are all cities this big? Do all humans live in cities?"

Andrea wondered just how much information Richter was withholding from Dragon, that she was asking questions of this sort. "No, hon, there are a whole lot of other cities that are even bigger. And while more people probably live in cities and towns than otherwise, there's folks who live on farms, or just out in the wilderness somewhere because they can't stand the hustle and bustle."

"Wow. The world sounds really big and really scary." The white circle became a crude approximation of a human face, with eyes and a mouth looking like cutouts in a paper plate. "Can you teach me about it?"

Andrea stepped back inside and closed the screen door. "I can totally do that, sweetheart. It might take a little while, though. Will that be okay with you?"

"Uh-huh. Father says you're a very nice lady who I should listen to, and that when I get a robot body you will take me for walks."

"Sure, we can do that," Andrea agreed, but made a mental note to request a sneak preview of whatever robot body Richter came up with, to make sure it wouldn't be as attention-getting as the Headset of Doom she was currently wearing. "So, Dragon, have you ever heard of nursery rhymes?"

"No. What are those?"

Andrea grinned. Her usual choice of ditty was a lot more salacious than what she was about to recite, but she was committed to this now and the idea of Dragon singing these songs over and over again in the laboratory was too funny to pass up. "They're little songs that children learn and sing to each other. Nice and easy to remember. Would you like to learn some?"

"Uh-huh. Yes, please." The face on the screen was gaining detail and realism; it was still cartoonish, but now the eyes were moving and blinking, and the mouth was moving in time with Dragon's words.

Drawing a deep breath, Andrea began to sing softly, as much to the infant in her arms as the burgeoning AI at the other end of the call. "Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall …"

<><>​

Brockton Bay
March 12, 1995
Late Evening
A Couple Out on the Town

The cab pulled over to the curb, near the restaurant. It wasn't truly upscale, but it offered good meals for a fair price, and couples could go dancing at nearby nightclubs if they so chose. Climbing out of the taxi, the male passenger offered his hand to his date. She favoured him with a smile and a hmm of approval as she accepted his assistance with alighting from the vehicle.

It had taken a certain amount of effort to secure a sitter for their three-year-old son, but with the royal treatment she was getting from her boyfriend tonight, she was likely to forgive him his recently dwindling attention and see if they couldn't rekindle the spark they'd once had. He was certainly being attentive enough. She was looking forward to—

"Louis, who the hell is this?"

She stared as a cute redhead, maybe five foot nothing, stomped up and glared at her boyfriend. The little black dress the white woman was wearing clung to her like a second skin and left very little to the imagination.

"I'm sorry, miss, but I don't think—"

Her boyfriend's words were cut off by the petite woman's heavy sneer. "Yeah, right. 'Miss'. That's not what you were calling me last Wednesday night, when you were supposed to be at work."

Naomi felt a chill over her skin. On that night, Louis had told her he was working late.

"You're saying he wasn't?" she challenged. "So where does he work, then?"

"Hapworth Construction," the redhead shot back. "Why, do you think you're his girlfriend?"

Naomi eyed her rival with disfavour. "Bitch, I'm his baby-mama."

The redhead's eyes flared as she realised she'd been beaten. She gave Louis a dirty look. "So I'm the piece on the side, huh? Well, you might want to know what kind of two-timing piece of crap your boyfriend is. Listen hard, honey. See if this sounds familiar." Leaning in, she whispered a few phrases in Naomi's ear.

They sounded more than merely 'familiar'. Her boyfriend tended to say certain things in the throes of passion, and the redhead had just repeated them all, word for word. She took a step back, staring Louis.

"Babe," he blustered. "I don't know what she's telling you—"

"Shut up." Naomi had heard enough.

"I'm done here," the other woman announced. "You're welcome to his cheating ass." She went to leave.

"You lying bitch!" Louis grabbed her arm. "Come back here and—"

Somehow, she twisted around and took hold of his arm. His feet left the ground and he came back down again on his back, hard enough to knock the wind out of him, if the painful whoof was any indication.

Dusting her hands off, the redhead gave the supine man a look of deep satisfaction. "Been wanting to do that all night." She turned and strutted off down the street.

Naomi had seen enough. Looking down at Louis, she shook her head. "We're done."

Stepping to the curb, she raised her arm to hail down a cab. While she'd been expecting Louis to pay for the taxi to and from the restaurant district, she'd been cautious enough to bring along cab fare of her own. As for her now exceedingly ex-boyfriend, she was done with him. In fact, she was done with men altogether for awhile.

The only one she had time for anymore was Terry.

-ooo-​

Andrea
Twenty Minutes Later

"I'm back. Was he any trouble?" Andrea let herself in through the front door and strolled into the living room of her old apartment.

The sitter she'd hired put down her novel and shook her head. "No, not in the slightest. He went to sleep as soon as I put him down." She checked her watch. "Wow, you're back early."

"Company wasn't to my taste." Andrea opened her purse and counted out banknotes. "I'll give you the full evening's pay anyway. Have a good night."

"Oh, cool!" The sitter beamed as she accepted the money. "Call me again if you ever need a sitter."

"Sure thing." Andrea watched her go, then went into the back room to where Alec was indeed fast asleep. She'd give the girl half an hour to leave, then she'd take him back to what she considered her 'real' apartment now. Much more comfortable.

She had no idea why Taylor had asked her to break up a date between one Naomi Hess and her boyfriend Louis Patton (also, the father of her young son); the only explanation the instructional letter had given was, 'I refuse to deal with this bullshit a second time'.

Shrugging, she changed out of the party dress into something a little more comfortable and less chilly, then sat down to watch TV (with the sound down low) until the half hour was up.

What Taylor wanted, Taylor got, and it wasn't hers to reason why.

End of Part 8-1​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 8-2: Changing Things Around

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

Monday Afternoon, April 17, 1995
PRT Department 04: Chicago
Captain Taylor Snow's Quarters

"Draw!"

Already tense, I was ready for the challenge. My right hand flashed down and folded over the worn grips of my old-style Colt revolver. It came up out of the holster like a living thing, its aim-point already painting a dot on my HUD. Bringing the barrel up, I chopped at the hammer with the heel of my left hand. I was holding the trigger down so there was no obstruction to firing, and my rapidly fanned shots hit the leader of the Bloody Circuits gang right in the breadbasket.

The micro-explosives went off, blasting apart subdermal armour and cybernetics alike; he stumbled to his knees, dropping his laser pistol, which had only just cleared its holster. Slowly, he toppled forward to fall flat on his face. I could see where one of my shots had penetrated all the way through and blown out his back, exposing the stainless steel of his spinal column.

Lisa fired a shot in the air, the concussion causing the air itself to quiver. She worked the lever-action of her replica Winchester, making everyone entirely aware that the next plasma-jacketed round lay in the chamber, ready to blow apart anyone who looked at her funny. "You guys don't want to be making any stupid moves," she said, her words backing up the physical threat.

None of the other gang members tried anything as I walked forward and kicked the gun clear of the cyborg outlaw's hand. Killer-Byte, as he'd styled himself, had been a thorn in the side of the local towns for some little while, but now his time was done. Just to make sure, I accessed my HUD and scanned his body. There were no backup mechanisms, no hidden computer cores.

Killer-Byte had been shut down for good.

Suitably intimidated, the rest of the gang offered no resistance as Lisa and I set about disarming and securing them. All we needed now was a link to the local laser-telegraph line, and we could get the local law out here to take them into custody.

As I walked with Lisa to where our patiently waiting hover-cycles were tethered to the hitching rail, I reached a decision. I can't do this anymore.

"Do what?" She looked at me with concern. "Go on adventures with me?"

I snorted. Oh, no, I'm loving these. No, it's Jack Slash. I know I agreed to wait until he tries to recruit Riley, then nail the gang and put him on ice then, but …

"… but he's going to kill too many people and enable too many villains in the meantime, yeah?" Her look turned sympathetic. "I get it. Trust me, I get it."

Will it change too much if we take him off the board now?

She grimaced. "You know I can't answer that one. The butterfly effect is a very real thing, but it's unpredictable. Something you think will have a huge effect will sink without a ripple, and other things that you figure nobody cares about have long-lasting consequences."

You know why I wanted to wait.

It was her turn to snort derisively. "Well, duh. So she'll be amenable to the idea of being recruited by us. Having a high-end medic of her calibre on call for emergency situations would be ideal. Especially with the crap you've already put yourself through, and given that Panacea's not a guarantee anymore."

Yeah. It was true. Think she'll still be up to it if there's no threat from Jack Slash?

"Hmm." She rubbed her chin. "I might be able to come up with something. Leave it with me."

Okay, cool. I appreciate it. 'Lie, cheat, steal and kill' is all well and good, but leaving people to die when I could have saved them sucked enough with Behemoth.

"I know. I know, I know, I know." She hugged me. "Can you wait another year?"

You're talking about Gray Boy.

"Yeah." She rested her chin on my shoulder. "I have no doubt you could kidnap Jack and kill Screamer—not in that order, of course—but then you'd have that monochrome little twerp on your case, and he'd be really hard to shake. Especially when we don't have any effective way to neutralise his power."

So, wait until Glaistig collects him and turns herself in, then grab Jack? I didn't like having to wait even a year, but at least it was better than ten years.

"It's a plan." She shrugged. "We've got a year to firm it up."

Yeah, okay. We'll do it your way. As she'd known all along.

"Good. Though Winter's in the country now. I can make it so she'll be passing through Chicago in three weeks, if you're okay with that."

Yeah, that'll be good. I thought I was going to have to go to her.

Pulling back slightly, she gave me one of her impish grins. "Having mercenaries available to lay a false trail of contacts is a very useful thing."

And I can kill her, at least? This was a death I could definitely get behind. Winter was a sadistic murderer who specialised in gun-running and dabbled in human trafficking. If she had any positive qualities, I hadn't found them yet. Also, denying the Nine of her membership could only serve to weaken them in the long run.

"Absolutely. I'll make sure Andrea gets all the details."

I knew there was a reason I was keeping you around.

She smirked at me. "And here I thought it was my irresistible charm. Kiss before you go?"

As I kissed her, the wind kicked up. Her lips tasted of dust and blood. A piece of prairie grit stung my eye, and I blinked—

-ooo-​

—and opened my eyes, sitting at my desk in my quarters. Before me lay two carefully handwritten letters, one going to Danny and one to Gladys. They were similar in tone but different in actual wording, phrased to sound like chatty missives to old friends. If anyone looked through them before sending them on—as I was sure someone would—they would read as long on sentiment and short on any substance to do with the workings of the PRT.

Individually, they were innocuous. Combined, then analysed by the decryption program I'd written long ago for Andrea, they made up the latest series of instructions for my girlfriend to carry out, as well as a letter intended for her eyes alone. Overly complicated, perhaps, but I couldn't afford to have even the slightest official suspicion attached to my activities, if I were to have a free hand in saving the world.

Getting up out of my chair, I stretched—spending time in a self-hypnotic trance meant I'd been sitting in the same position for a while—then folded the letters and inserted them into the appropriate envelopes. These were already addressed and stamped, but I didn't seal them; they had to be inspected for microdots, pinholes, chemical treatments, contraband information and other assorted spycraft first. I didn't object to such inspections, as I was the one who'd recommended their implementation for all mail entering and leaving the base.

After all, I didn't want anyone else smuggling information out of the PRT on my watch.

-ooo-​

Friday Morning, April 21, 1995
Brockton Bay
Andrea's Penthouse

"Where do you want it, ma'am?"

Andrea side-eyed the security guy. She wasn't old enough to be called 'ma'am' by anyone, even if she was paying his salary. "Right here, middle of the floor. That'll do."

"Sure thing, ma'am." He nodded to his offsider, and they hefted the bulky crate off the folding cart and placed it on the thick carpet. "Just sign here, please."

Andrea accepted the clipboard and scribbled an approximation of her signature before handing it back. "Thanks," she said, fully aware that the crate was heavier than her, and she would've had no chance of manhandling it into the elevator and out again. She was just happy the building's highly paid security team had been able to accept delivery and bring it up themselves. There was no way she wanted any grubby strangers tramping through her home.

"You're welcome, ma'am." Both security guys headed back to the elevator, towing the folding cart with them. She watched until the door closed behind them before she turned back to the package.

"So, what do you think, Alec sweetie?" she asked the infant who had been watching the whole show from what she called his BMD, short for 'baby mobility device'. Sitting upright in it, his feet could touch the floor and push himself along, but the carpet offered enough resistance that he couldn't go anywhere fast. Out of it, he seemed on the verge of mastering the art of crawling, so she'd made sure to put up barriers anywhere she didn't want him going.

Taking care of a baby was tiring, but oh, so rewarding.

He gurgled happily in reply and waved his arms excitedly. She'd found he responded well to stimulation, which was good. The last thing she wanted was a moody emo baby; she figured she'd get enough of that when he hit his teen years.

"Yeah, I think so too." Going over to him, she got down on all fours and rubbed her nose against his, something that always made him laugh. Which of course was why she did it. "We're going to have a little …" She paused, considering. "Not sister … cousin. Sure, that'll do. Cousin Dragon. Dang, that sounds badass."

Reaching up, he wrapped his hands in her hair as she was lifting him out of the BMD to cuddle. She was still in no way interested in experiencing the more biological side of motherhood, but she'd found that taking care of Alec was deeply satisfying in ways that she'd never experienced before. While it could get messy at times—how Alec could puke up his own body-weight in the space of twenty-four hours, she never did figure out—she had a cleaning service to deal with that side of things, so she got to enjoy the fun aspects of being a mom. His wonder and joy at seeing anything new touched her deep inside and gave her a whole new enjoyment of life.

Still holding him, she went into the kitchen and returned with a small but sharp knife. This served to slice through the heavy plastic strips holding the crate closed, then she put it safely away before going back to the now-opened box. Both she and Alec peered inside with interest as she lifted off the lid and got a look at the contents.

With a snort, she shook her head. Andy was definitely still as clueless as ever. He'd taken her suggestion on board about making the robot body as lifelike as possible, instead of being some cybernetic horror stalking the streets of Brockton Bay. Folded up in the crate was, to all appearances, a young child. To Andrea's inexpert eye, maybe four or five years old, but as featureless as a Barbie doll.

Still, he hadn't supplied clothing.

"Well, that's gonna be a little bit of a problem isn't it, Alec sweetie?" she asked the baby. "Mommy's going to have to go clothes shopping for Dragon before she can go out in public, isn't she?"

Alec gurgled in agreement, then appeared to concentrate before he made a prolonged flatulent noise. Andrea knew that sound. She checked his diaper and sure enough, he needed changing.

Dragon could wait. Alec needed her.

And tonight, of course, was her regular meeting with Danny, Annette, Gladys and Franklin. No longer hitting the nightclub scene since Alec had come along, they tended to go to quiet baby-friendly restaurants. Gladys wasn't as mother-hennish as Annette (who was by now very noticeably pregnant) but she still enjoyed making Alec giggle.

All in all, ignoring the surreptitious espionage side of things, it was a nice sedate night out, which was just what she needed these days.

My God, she realised, not sure if she should be laughing or horrified. I'm actually getting domesticated, here. When did that happen?

Taylor, she decided firmly, was a bad influence.

Cuddling Alec to her and looking down at the robot kid in the box, she sighed in resignation. Well, I guess there's worse ways to go.

-ooo-​

Monday Afternoon
April 23, 1995
Deer Lake, Newfoundland

Andrew Richter resisted the urge to bite his nails as he stared at the screen of his computer. "Should I—" he began.

"Nope." In Brockton Bay, Andrea cut him off before he'd even gotten started. "She's got to learn by herself. If you program it into her, she'll expect to have everything handed to her. This way, she'll learn to be independent sooner."

He wasn't at all sure if he even wanted his latest creation to feel independent. She was a true AI, capable of feelings and emotions, and with the potential to cause an extinction event for humanity once she grew into her full capability. If she ever decided she simply didn't need humanity—or worse, that they were in her way—the consequences could be disastrous.

But Captain Snow had described Dragon as being a warm, empathetic person in the future. Despite having been confined behind multiple barriers holding her back from true freedom, she'd spontaneously offered a hug to a scared, lonely sixteen-year-old girl. Snow had also recommended Andrea for the task of acclimatising Dragon to humanity and the world at large, and he'd long since learned that the reason for bringing an expert in on a job was to let them be the expert.

Having met Andrea, his impression was of someone not totally mature, but utterly comfortable in her own skin and as quirkily human as anyone could get. More so than Captain Snow in some ways; the woman was scarily competent, especially with firearms. As he'd briefly suspected when they'd met back in Deer Lake, she could easily pass for a robot masquerading as a human.

He'd been annoyed with himself when Andrea had scathingly suggested that maybe Dragon might need clothing to go out in public, but the true facepalm came when he saw the pink romper suit Andrea had bought for the purpose. Or rather, the cute baby dragon embroidered on the front.

On the screen, the actual robot attempted once more to get to her feet. She wasn't as clumsy as she'd been five minutes ago after uploading into the body, but the coordination wasn't quite there yet. "This is hard!" she complained in a very childlike voice. "You make it look easy!"

"That's because I've been doing it for years and years," Andrea reminded her in a kindly tone. She gestured over toward where Alec was in his walker, watching the show avidly. The infant had immediately taken to Dragon, gurgling happily and reaching toward her. This had assuaged some of Richter's worries concerning the appearance of the human lifelike model. "See? He's not going to be walking for some time. His brain's still writing the software it needs to do that, and his muscles aren't nearly developed enough yet. You're getting a head start."

"Oh." Dragon was mollified, but not so much that she was about to give up. "Can you show me how?"

"I can definitely do that, sweetie." Andrea sat down beside the artificial child, then swivelled on her butt to lie flat on her stomach. "Come on, let's start with the basics."

"Alright." Obediently, Dragon copied her posture. "What do we do now?"

"Now we get up on all fours." Andrea pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. "We can do that, can't we?"

"Yes." Dragon followed her lead. "But this is where it gets hard."

"Well, yes." Andrea conceded the point. "That's because being on four legs is more stable than being on two legs. But now we get up on our knees." She sat back on her haunches and then rested her butt on her heels as she knelt upright.

"I can do that." Once more, Dragon copied her. "I'm nearly standing up, aren't I?"

"Nearly," Andrea agreed. "Now, get one foot under you, like this." She reached out to Dragon. "Here, I'll steady you."

Dragon held Andrea's hand as she copied the posture. She was wobbly, but to Richter's anxious gaze, Andrea's assistance was making all the difference. "What do we do now?"

Andrea smiled. "Now, we stand up." Still holding Dragon's hand, she drew herself to her feet.

Following Andrea's lead, Dragon also stood up. With her feet planted firmly on the carpet, clinging to Andrea's hand like a lifeline, she looked up at the camera, her face aglow with joy. "I'm standing! Look, father! I'm standing up!"

"Yes." Richter decided that the screen needed cleaning, because it had become blurry all of a sudden. All he could really see was Dragon's beaming smile, and Andrea's proud one, and that was the only thing that mattered. "You're standing. You clever, clever girl."

"Yes, she is, isn't she?" agreed Andrea. "She's the cleverest girl I know."

Letting go Andrea's hand, Dragon took one tottering step and hugged her tightly. "Thank you, mommy Andrea."

Richter blinked. Mommy Andrea? Where did that come from?

And now she was spontaneously hugging. Richter knew he hadn't programmed that into his AI.

On the screen, Andrea was kneeling now and hugging Dragon back. "You're totally welcome, my clever little Dragon."

Is she actually learning to be human?

Maybe there'd been something in what Captain Snow had to say, after all.

It definitely warranted closer study.

-ooo-​

Washington Park, Chicago
Saturday, May 6, 1995
1955 Hours

I had one eye on the street and the other on the time as the unmarked car rolled through some of the grimier streets of Chicago. Kinsey, in plain clothes rather than uniform, sat behind the wheel. Likewise attired, I was in the passenger seat. So as not to draw unwelcome attention from the few police officers who might pass through this area, neither of us were visibly armed.

Less visibly, Kinsey had his .44 hand-cannon and his solid fists. I had my Glock, a folding knife and an extending baton. While I was intending on using exactly none of these; as the saying went, it was better to have and not need.

Kinsey also had an unhappy expression on his face. This came as no great surprise to me, as I would've been less than thrilled about this outing as well, except that I knew the real reason for it. All Kinsey knew was that I needed to acquire some information, and the less he knew about the information and the source, the better.

"I'll have eyes in the back of my head the whole time," I said, knowing better than to tempt Murphy by saying anything stupid like, 'it'll be fine', or worse, 'what could possibly happen'. "If something goes wrong, just follow the screams."

He turned to give me a dubious look about then. Of everyone who had ever been a part of my life, he knew me better than most, and I didn't do the 'scream helplessly' thing. It wasn't my thing.

"Their screams," I amended. "Because if anyone tries shit with me, they'll be screaming once I get my hands on them."

"I should still come in, ma'am," he said. "Give you some sort of backup. Bail you out if trouble starts."

"If you walk in there, everyone will ping you as either police or military. Some might even get lucky and figure out you're PRT," I explained. He was constitutionally incapable of looking like anything but a sergeant. "I'd have to be the one bailing you out of trouble then, not the other way around. And do you really want to be the one explaining to Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton how the op got blown, if that happened?"

"I don't want to be the one explaining to the Lieutenant-Colonel if anything goes wrong," he muttered unhappily.

We cruised past our destination and I saw two familiar faces, heading away from the bar. Andrea's mercenaries had done their job once more. Now all I had to do was go in there and close the deal. Unfortunately, there were no free parking spaces available that I could see.

Time was ticking down. My window of opportunity was closing. "Pull over and drop me off here, Kinsey," I directed. The bar was only half a block back. "Drive around the block. If I'm not out the front in ten minutes, come in hot."

"Ma'am." He still didn't like it, but I'd given him a direct order.

He hit the four-way indicators, then pulled to a halt. Before the drivers in the cars behind could get too irate—road rage in this area tended to be consummated with gunfire—I got out and closed the door behind me. I moved in between the parked cars and stepped up onto the sidewalk as Kinsey pulled off again. I could tell he was driving slower than normal, keeping an eye on me as long as possible in the rear-view, and I hoped he maintained a visual on the road ahead as well.

I didn't need for some bright spark who kept up with their PRT personnel to ID me as an intelligence officer—despite my best efforts, I had been on TV a few times—so I'd changed up my look. My glasses for the night were a pair of the old round-lensed ones I'd worn back in the day, and I was wearing a wig of straight brown shoulder-length hair, tastefully braided over the ears. I'd carefully picked out my clothes to not be even slightly revealing—I had no illusions about my looks, but beer goggles were a thing—while still fitting in with the area.

Nobody got in my face as I headed back along the sidewalk toward the bar. I knew the signs of looking like a victim, and avoided displaying them, instead doing my best to project a slight 'done with this shit' air. It wasn't hard; while Winter had been dead by the time I encountered the Nine, she'd still been one of their more prominent members. I didn't need or want her to remain breathing long enough to do it again for the first time, but at the same time, I didn't want to die in the process. Neither did I want someone else to die trying, and alert her. Thus, this rigmarole.

The bar's windows had protective mesh on them, which wasn't exactly a promising sign. I looked up at the sign, then down the road as though searching for a better place. Giving the slightest of shrugs, I stepped inside.

Door security was provided by two guys who looked like they only stopped taking steroids so they could inject horse testosterone. 'Beefy' didn't begin to describe them. They didn't just browse the 'Big and Tall' aisle; they were the 'Big and Tall' aisle.

Not that Kinsey or I couldn't have taken them. Don't be silly.

"Armed?" grunted the one on the left.

"Yeah." I was aiming at 'well, duh, who isn't carrying around here?' and from his chuckle, I was pretty sure I'd nailed it. At his lifted chin, I eased open my jacket and carefully slid my hand in. When it came out, slowly and smoothly, I was holding my Glock between finger and thumb.

He glanced at the other guy, who shrugged and took up a metal-detector wand. I knew the drill, holding my arms outward as he ran it down each side of my body, then front and back, picking up my belt buckle and little else. He didn't do my arms, which was his loss; that was where I was holding the knife and the baton. But maybe they didn't care about anything that wasn't a gun.

Once the scan was over, the first guard nodded at the pistol. "Put it away. It comes out, you better have a good reason or we'll put you down." A gesture to the side revealed a pump shotgun in a shadowed niche.

"Got it." I nodded, re-holstering the pistol. I didn't thank them, and they clearly didn't expect it. Politeness was all well and good, but I didn't want anyone here remembering a tall skinny woman with glasses. Also, I didn't want them thinking I was interested in them. That could complicate matters drastically.

Inside the bar, it was dimly lit, probably so that people could maintain their illusions about who they were drinking with. A TV over the bar was playing a popular comedy show with the sound muted, which made zero sense to me but was probably perfectly understandable to everyone else there. An old-fashioned juke-box, the glass cover cracked and the sides scarred, played a scratchy country & western tune that everyone was talking over. The pervasive smell of stale beer and staler cigarette smoke made me glad that I'd be showering as soon as I got back to base.

The clock over the bar gave me seven minutes to be in position. I moved over to the counter, noting the location of the ladies' restrooms as I did, and ordered a glass of the most inoffensive-looking beer they had on tap. Drinking was never my strong suit, but I could when I had to. In Rome, do as Romans do; in a bar, if you're not drinking, you're standing out from the crowd.

I kept my eye on the glass from the moment the bar attendant picked it up until when he placed it in front of me. I hadn't ordered ice, but there were several large cubes in my drink. It was an old trick; ice was basically free to make anyplace there was electricity, and it significantly reduced the amount of beer they had to put in the glass. Fortunately, he hadn't taken the glass out of sight. No roofies sat fizzing at the bottom of the drink, so I sipped at it, looking around the bar, trying to give the impression of someone who was halfway to nowhere and waiting for her ticket out of town.

The taste was nothing to write home about, but I didn't have an overwhelming urge to gag and spit it out. I was absently grateful for the unasked-for ice, though; it meant there was less beer to get through. But around about the time I was nearly finished, a problem presented itself.

I'd been careful not to make eye contact with anyone; the last thing I wanted was either some guy with romantic intentions or some woman thinking I was leching on to her man. Yet here came the former, smooging up to me with an oily grin. I was taller than him by a few inches, despite the flats I was wearing, but that didn't deter him.

"Hi there," he said in what he probably thought was a smooth and sexy tone. "New in town? I haven't seen you in here before." His clothing was newish but conservative in cut. Just about the sort of thing someone might wear to dress down for a night out on the rough side of town.

I gave him my best 'not interested' look. "Just meeting a friend," I said briefly. Surely that would give him the message that he wasn't in the running.

It went straight over his head, like a Concorde over a particularly dim groundhog. "I can be your friend," he offered. "Let me buy you a drink. Name's Cameron."

This put me on the horns of a dilemma. If I turned him down hard enough for him to actually notice, there was a good chance he'd take offence and start calling me all sorts of names, thus wasting my time and drawing undesirable attention. But if I didn't, he would be encouraged, and I'd have the devil's own time extricating myself from his company in time to do what I was here to do.

So, I took the third option. I lied my ass off.

"Okay, sounds good. I'll have another one of these." I put my glass down on the bar. "Without ice, this time. I'm just going to the ladies'."

If this guy was after what I suspected he was after, that beer would be more roofies than alcohol by the time I returned. It didn't matter; I wouldn't be drinking it. As he turned to the bartender, I got up off my stool and headed for the female restrooms.

The door closed behind me, cutting off the music and multiple conversations and leaving me to plan my next actions. Andrea had specified the first stall to the left, so I turned in that direction … just as the door leading back into the bar opened again.

Shit, was my first thought. The last thing I needed was a witness to what I was about to do.

My next thought, as I saw it was Cameron, was decidedly more profane.

There was no good reason for him to be barging into the ladies' room in the bar after making himself a nuisance to me already. I'd clearly underestimated his determination; as the sole unaccompanied woman in the bar, I'd made myself his target purely by existing. By keeping Kinsey out of the place, I'd traded one issue for another.

Cameron's intention had always been to spike my drink and have his way with me, as had almost happened back in college that one time. Now, it seemed, he'd decided to skip the preliminaries.

I didn't bother speaking rationally to him, yelling at him to get out of the restroom, or even just yelling. Between the volume of the crowd outside, the soundproofing effect of the door and general apathy, I doubted very much anyone would be rushing to my rescue. Also, this had been too slickly done for it to be his first time; I wondered briefly how many other women he'd attacked in this way.

But while I wondered, I acted.

His hands came up to grab my arms at the elbows, probably to immobilise me until he could wrestle me into submission. I didn't give him the chance; a knuckle-jab, up and under the breastbone, drove the air from his lungs. It would've been like having the end of an axe handle rammed into his solar plexus. I knew this, because Kinsey had demonstrated it on me while showing how to do it.

His expression was still transitioning from 'I have you now, my pretty' to 'what the fuck was that' when I kicked him in the groin—there's a reason that's an old favourite—then grabbed him by the hair and rammed my knee up into the middle of his face. As a followup, I smashed his head sideways into the divider between two of the toilet doors, twice. Hard.

That was about the time my brain caught up with my conscious actions. Kinsey had taught me well; every one of those moves had been purely on instinct, one flowing into the next without pausing to wonder what I should be doing. Cameron—if that was even his name—was down, air bubbling through the bloody ruin that used to be his nose. While he wasn't precisely unconscious, he certainly wasn't paying attention to what was going on around him.

Time was ticking on, and a semiconscious man lying on the floor in full view was not what I needed right now. Nudging open the stall I'd been heading to in the first place, I dragged him inside and dumped him on the commode, wondering if he had bricks in his pockets. 'Dead weight' was certainly a thing, as I'd found out before now. Almost absent-mindedly, I frisked him, vaguely curious as to whether his name was actually Cameron or not.

I found three things of note: first, an actual flick-knife. This one was spring-loaded, as opposed to mine, which only used thumb pressure to open. Second, an unlabelled plastic bottle holding a bunch of little pills. Third, a Congolese passport, in the name of Samuel Masters.

Deciding to keep all three items, I grabbed the other item that I'd come in here for from inside the toilet roll—thank you, Andrea's mercenaries—then exited the stall. Carefully, I used the tip of the switchblade to turn the simple lock to OCCUPIED while thinking over what I'd found. 'Cameron', it seemed, was not who he'd pretended to be, or even what I'd assumed he was. He hadn't exhibited any kind of accent that I'd noticed, though the noise in the bar hadn't made listening easy.

There was only one real conclusion I could reach. Samuel was working with Winter in her people-trafficking (and possibly the gun-running), and he'd decided to start the party rolling before she arrived. If I'd been feeling sympathy for the beating I'd handed him (I wasn't), it would've shrivelled up and died, right around that point. But that led to my next problem. I was all out of time.

The door into the bar area opened again. It wasn't either of the Big & Beefy guys, with or without shotgun, here to evict Samuel. Nor was it one of the female patrons, looking to pass on some used beer.

It was Winter herself.

In costume, she wore a hooded cloak and heavy goggles; this tended to adequately conceal her white hair (that contrasted nicely with her dark skin) and black-rimmed irises. As a result, the PRT of this era had never had a good look at her. In fact, she was barely on our radar. This would all change once she joined the Slaughterhouse Nine and hit the big time.

Or rather, it would have. I was here to make sure she ended up as a 'never was'.

"Who are you?" she demanded. "And where is Samuel?"

Her voice held an accent; not one I could readily identify, but if she came from the same place Samuel did, I was willing to give it a tentative tag of 'Congolese'. Not that I was interested in comparing regional accents when my life was on the line, which it was, because right then two more men bulked into the bathroom behind her.

A tiny part of my mind began to seriously wonder if they shouldn't take down the sign saying 'LADIES' and replace it with 'WHOEVER', because the men had just outnumbered the women in the place.

I still had the open switchblade in my right hand, and the epi-pen I'd taken from its hiding place in my left. As the men began to reach into their jackets (I suspected they weren't going for their wallets) I tossed the gleaming blade in the air. The men's eyes were drawn to it, but Winter wasn't fooled; as I started forward, her eyes narrowed and I found everything slowing down. My heart sludged in my chest, my thoughts felt like my brain was crawling through thick mud, and even my movements were impeded.

The knife clattered to the ground, and I wasn't even halfway to reaching her. No matter how hard I tried to push myself forward and focus on my purpose, it felt like I was in one of those dreams where running forever gets you nowhere. But I hadn't gotten where I was in life by giving up when the going got tough. I just pushed harder.

She stepped forward, moving with apparent lightning speed compared to my current snail's crawl, and shoved me so hard that I fell over backward. I was unable to roll with the impact, but fortunately her slowness field let me down lightly, so I was only a little winded. Then she stepped up astride me and deliberately knelt on my chest.

"What have you done with Samuel?" she hissed down at me, her hand wrapping around my throat. "Answer me, or I will stop your heart in your chest."

She could, too; Lisa had been clear about that point. All Slaughterhouse members were scary—they wouldn't have gotten where they were if the team had consisted of creampuffs—but she was one of the worst ones. Between the hand on my throat, the knee on my chest and the tar-like consistency of the air I was attempting to inhale, I simply couldn't breathe. It was a very effective torture method.

I struggled to speak, forcing what little air I had out of my lungs. "I …" Then I stopped again.

Frowning, she let up slightly; not just the pressure on my chest and the hand on my throat, but also the relative thickness of the air around me. "You … what?"

Just for a moment, I used the respite to draw in some much-needed air. Then my left thumb popped the cap off the epi-pen, and I jammed the exposed needle into her thigh. It punched in through her blue jeans, and I knew she'd gotten the whole dose. "Gotcha, bitch!"

Rearing back, she smacked the pen away from her leg, out of my hand. "What—" she began, but that was all she would ever say for the rest of her life. Her eyes opened wide, her mouth gaped in a soundless snarl, her back arched, and she began to convulse.

Andrea had, under my instruction, gotten her pet chemical Tinker to engineer up a particularly nasty dose for the epi-pen. Synth had combined a virulent neuro-toxin, a high-end paralytic, and something that activated all the pain receptors in the body and kept them going at full blast. Cruel, perhaps, but Winter didn't need to move or speak to use her powers, and we didn't want her murdering a city block full of innocents while we were waiting for her to die. Hitting her with so much pain she was unable to form a coherent thought was our only real option.

I just had to hope that the paralytic (which also shut down autonomous systems such as the heart) and the neurotoxin combined to kill her quickly enough that she didn't suffer needlessly long.

But I'd worry about ethical standards later. Her other two mooks were just now realising that I'd done something to her, and I suspected trying to explain how she was dead and no longer their boss wouldn't actually stop them from killing me. On the upside, her power was no longer affecting me at all; on the downside, they'd just pulled guns.

Shoving her (now convulsing) body aside, I rolled frantically as they fired, their bullets shattering chunks out of the grimy tiled concrete I was lying on. I flipped to my feet—not the easiest thing to do wearing street clothing, which was why Kinsey had made me practise doing just that—and went for my own weapons.

But not the pistol, not yet. The only one I had a shoulder holster for was the Glock that I was registered and licensed for, which would have a chance of being identified if I failed to police up all my brass. Hamilton would have my back, I knew that for a fact, but then I'd have to figure out how much to tell him about what was going on. That was an interview I wanted to have with him never.

The knife and baton dropped into my hands. I flicked out the blade with my thumb, then threw it underhand in one smooth move. It hit the guy on the left just under the Adam's apple, and sank deep into his throat. He looked startled and dropped his gun, as if surprised that someone might actually have the temerity to fight back.

As he dropped to his knees, his buddy looked even more astonished. They'd started this fight with me on the floor and at three-to-one odds. Now I was upright and armed, and he was facing me on even terms. I wanted to talk to him, convince him to drop the gun, but I was willing to bet neither one of us could hear a damn thing right then. There was something about the sound reflection quality of tiles that almost seemed to amplify gunshots. He did seem a little disoriented, which was a thing.

Needing a distraction, I snatched off the wig and threw it at his face, darting to the side as I did. He fired instinctively at the flaring shape, but by the time he realised the real threat was elsewhere, I was right next to him. Bringing my baton down on his right hand, I felt his wrist bones shatter as the pistol dropped to the floor.

He responded with what I figured was a scream of pain, from the way he clutched the injured limb, so I laid the baton alongside his jaw, sending him spinning to the floor in his turn. Grabbing up my wig, I shoved it roughly on my head, then retrieved my knife and roughly wiped it on the guy's shirt. Winter wasn't even twitching anymore, much less breathing, so I figured it was mission accomplished. The epi-pen needle had automatically retracted after delivering its dose (a damn good idea, considering its contents) so I retrieved that as well.

The door burst open again and I reacted instinctively, settling the muzzle of my Glock into the eyesocket of the door security guy who just come in. There'd been no conscious thought of drawing or pointing it; it just happened.

He had the shotgun, but it was pointed way out of line, as he undoubtedly knew. While my ears were still ringing, I could hear a little more than before. So when he spoke, I picked up enough to make an educated guess on the rest.

"We heard shooting," he said, almost apologetically. Someone his size wouldn't normally apologise for anything, but having a gun poking one in the eye tends to adjust one's priorities toward survival.

Yeah, sure. You heard shooting, but nobody saw three guys go into the ladies' restrooms.

"It wasn't me," I replied bluntly. Surreptitiously, I slid the epi-pen, folding knife, and baton into my pocket. "These three here started it. They've got a buddy in that stall. I'll be leaving now. Got a problem with that?"

His eyes moved downward cautiously; I pulled my pistol back far enough to give him room to do so. "Uh … no. Hey, are they dead?"

"They started it," I said, just as bluntly. "I don't need the heat. I'm out of here." I put the Glock away, then tilted my head to the side. He moved out of the way to let me pass, probably just as glad to see me go as I was to be gone.

I didn't waste time heading for the door. The bartender made as if to call me over for my drink, now sitting unattended on the bar, but there was no way I was even going to sniff at it. It was time I got out of this place, never to return.

The lone door guy looked up as I went past. "Hey!" he called out. "Hey!"

I didn't know what he wanted, and didn't care. Pushing the door open, I hit the sidewalk at a fast trot. If he wanted to catch me up, he'd have to abandon his post and his buddy. Yes, I'd just killed two people in his establishment, but I doubted that was the only murder ever to happen behind those doors.

The beep of a car horn alerted me, and I looked aside to see Kinsey slowing down alongside. I dashed around between two parked cars, wrenched the door open, and dived in. "Drive," I grunted, slamming the door and fumbling with the seatbelt. "Now-now-now."

Kinsey didn't peel rubber out of there, but he added a little speed, then took corners at random until we were both sure nobody had managed to follow us. I wrenched off the wig and glasses, and replaced the latter with my own pair from the glove compartment.

"Do I need to ask how it went, ma'am?" asked Kinsey, concentrating on his driving.

"Moderately well, actually," I said, spritzing myself with air freshener to try to get rid of the smell of cigarettes and alcohol. "I got what I wanted, but there were party-crashers. That place is a no-go for me, from now on. If it hadn't already been, that is."

"Understood, ma'am." Kinsey set course back toward the PRT base. "Am I going to be reading about any of this in the news?"

I considered the question, thinking back to the bar. "I doubt it, Kinsey. Places like that have ways of getting rid of inconvenient bodies."

"As you say, ma'am."

We spent the rest of the ride back to base in companionable silence.

-ooo-​

Brockton Bay General Hospital
Maternity Waiting Area
Monday, June 19, 1995

Andrea hugged my arm, apparently even more excited than I was. "I can't believe it! It's finally happening!"

I glanced around for eavesdroppers, but Danny was pacing back and forth, Kinsey was chatting in low tones with Gladys, and Dragon—now apparently in a ten-year-old body—was watching baby Alec. Meeting this version of the AI for the first time had been interesting; I could see faint echoes of her other-future self, but she was also picking up tiny mannerisms from Andrea. From what I understood, the others knew nothing of Dragon's origins, just that she preferred it as a nickname.

"Well, it should really have happened eight days ago," I said in a low tone. "But butterflies happened, I guess. I'm just glad she's being born at all."

She nodded firmly, still excited. "But think about it. You're going to be the first person ever to meet their own past self! I mean, that's like … wow!"

"I know, I know." I'd read science fiction on the subject, with results varying from beneficial to catastrophic. I was pretty sure the universe wasn't going to implode from us meeting, but there was still a tiny bit of worry about how my past self would see me. "It's huge. I can't wait."

We got up and went over to where Dragon was entertaining Alec. He gurgled at us. Somehow, he was even cuter than the last time I'd seen him. "He's crawling now," Andrea said proudly. "Pretty soon, he'll be walking."

"And I'll be there to help teach him how," Dragon agreed. "Walking isn't easy, but it's so rewarding once you figure out what you're doing."

"You're not wrong there, kiddo," I said. "I remember after the Compound, it took me a little while to get back on my feet again."

"Mommy Andrea told me about that," Dragon replied guilelessly. "She said you were an idiot who rushed in without looking and got yourself hurt."

I snorted with amusement and did my best to raise an eyebrow in Andrea's direction. She stared steadfastly back, refusing to give way on the subject. "And I was right."

"Ignoring the fact that I was actually in a helicopter that got shot down by the bad guys," I pointed out.

"And what were you doing flying so close to where you could get shot down?" she countered.

My lips tightened slightly. I could see the way this was going, and I was losing the argument. "We didn't know they were willing to escalate that hard, or that one of our own was passing information to them."

Andrea rolled her eyes. "Villains? Willing to escalate? Whoever heard of such a thing?"

Dragon raised a finger, went to speak, then closed her mouth and lowered her finger again. "Nobody, in all the history of the world," she agreed, deadpan.

Well, that answered the question of whether Dragon understood sarcasm. "Yeah, yeah," I muttered. "I get it. We dropped the ball."

"Darn tootin'. I think—"

But whatever Andrea thought went by the wayside as a doctor appeared at the door. "Mr. Hebert?" he said.

Danny's head whipped around. "Y-yes?" he blurted. "Anne-Rose? Is—is she okay?"

The doctor smiled. "Mother and baby are doing fine. If you and two of your friends would like to come along …?"

Danny looked at me; I looked at Andrea. Then we both looked at Kinsey and Dragon.

"I'll mind the children, ma'am," he said, before I even figured out how to word the request.

"Thank you, Kinsey." I followed Andrea and Danny from the waiting area, through a series of corridors, to where Anne-Rose lay in a bed, holding a tiny wailing bundle.

"Wow," breathed Andrea. "So cuuuute."

"Mmm." It was weird to look at a younger version of oneself and have that thought. Tiny wisps of dark hair surrounded the newborn infant's face.

Danny was consulting with the doctor as I leaned in and whispered to Anne-Rose, "Well done. How do you feel?"

"Like I've just been beaten up with baseball bats," she replied wryly. "But they said it was an easy birth. No complications."

"Oh, good." I divided my attention, as Andrea was still cooing over the baby, to address Danny. "So, uh, what were you going to call her?"

"Her?" asked Anne-Rose. "It's a boy."

I blinked. "It's what?"

"A boy," repeated Danny. He glanced at Anne-Rose. "We were thinking of naming him after you and Andrea anyway. Tyler, uh, Andrew—"

"Make the middle name Campbell and you've got a deal," Andrea said decisively. "No way is any kid I'm associating with getting called Andy."

Annette smiled at her long-time friend. "Okay then," she said. "His name's going to be Tyler Campbell Hebert."

I was still a little stunned by the unexpected news. It's a boy? How does that even work? It took Andrea nudging me to get me back on track.

"Hey," she said. "Pay attention."

"Right," I said. "Tyler Campbell, huh? I've definitely heard of worse names." Leaning in, I gently took hold of one tiny hand, which clutched convulsively around my pinky finger. "Hi, Tyler," I whispered. "Welcome to the world."

He blinked at me, then wailed again. Apparently, his opinion of the world was not exactly high at the moment.

To be honest, I couldn't blame him.

End of Part 8-2​

 

[Ack]

Crossposted from SB, where someone asked the question.

The LA situation got resolved.

Andrea had already withdrawn her mercenaries, so the only people left causing trouble were the ones who'd wanted to cause trouble anyway and just needed a nudge. Taylor passed on to Alexandria exactly where to find all the ringleaders, the weapon caches (which had existed before all this), the whole nine yards. Taking out all that basically snuffed out the whole thing in less than a day.

Dynamax went in front of a tribunal, where evidence was presented (via a strategically left-behind videotape where someone was 'accidentally caught on camera' briefly discussing how they were going to frame a hero for the whole thing) that exonerated him. He was moved to another part of LA and underwent a few sessions aimed at keeping up his situational awareness. It wasn't a fun time for him, but he ended up being a better hero because of it.

The tape was 'accidentally' leaked to the news services, and Manny Cruz went overnight from 'victim of racism' to 'patsy of terrorists'. After Alexandria had a quiet word with him, he confessed to his part in it (not naming any important names, because he didn't know any) and this also became part of the tribunal evidence. He's now serving time as an accomplice.

The guy who died absolutely intended to truck-bomb a government building. He was no innocent.

Andrea was dubious, but the end result convinced her that it was overall a good thing (especially after Lisa confirmed that Eidolon was accidentally controlling Behemoth, and there had been more to come). She did have a few words with Taylor about the whole 'starting riots' thing. Taylor apologised, and promised she wouldn't do that specific thing again.

Just talking to Eidolon would have had extremely unpredictable results, given that the Endbringers came out because he wanted to be the world's greatest hero. Taylor knew that she only had one shot at getting him to do something, and this was the most likely to succeed. Even if she'd spoken to him normally and gotten him to agree, there was a distinctly non-zero chance that he would've talked himself out of it again by the time the situation came around.