Recoil (a Worm fanfic)

[Thief of Words]

Have you read the Cenotaph/Wake/Legacy series? There's a scene where Taylor is up against Valefor. She knows he can control people via eye contact... so she unhesitatingly pops out her own eyes with her thumb. 'Rip off the bandage quickly' indeed...

Click to shrink...

I think your invisitext broke there.

Ack Wow. My alerts dropped the ball on three consecutive updates here. Great stuff. I swear eventually the repetition of the blood on her lips in the "kiss before you go?" bit will fail to make me cry. Maybe. Probably not. Probably will just get worse because of whammy. Still not as bad as the original run of that scene did. And nowhere near as bad as reading the end of the last full non-epilogue update to Worm did.

To be fair, I might have cried myself to sleep to a mantra of "Fuck you, Wildbow" that night.

Still havent been been able to bring myself to start Pact or Twig because of how hard that hit me. It's like Grave of the Fireflies that way, I suppose. I don't for an instant regret the experience that was reading Worm, but I don't know that I'd have it in me to survive that sort of brutally emotional moment in fiction I read so soon thereafter without at least getting back on my antidepressants for two weeks beforehand, "catharsis is good for the soul" be damned.

Anyway, the point of all this was to say that of all the collective of we Wildbow imitators and fans out here drawing more madness from that font the Great Northern Heart-Trampler Boar rooted open, you're among the three or four that manage to succeed the most at hitting that same emotional vein for me.

You still write some of the most canon-consistent stuff in or around them in terms of their voices (when you try to), and that helps.

 

[Ack]

I think your invisitext broke there.

Ack Wow. My alerts dropped the ball on three consecutive updates here. Great stuff. I swear eventually the repetition of the blood on her lips in the "kiss before you go?" bit will fail to make me cry. Maybe. Probably not. Probably will just get worse because of whammy. Still not as bad as the original run of that scene did. And nowhere near as bad as reading the end of the last full non-epilogue update to Worm did.

To be fair, I might have cried myself to sleep to a mantra of "Fuck you, Wildbow" that night.

Still havent been been able to bring myself to start Pact or Twig because of how hard that hit me. It's like Grave of the Fireflies that way, I suppose. I don't for an instant regret the experience that was reading Worm, but I don't know that I'd have it in me to survive that sort of brutally emotional moment in fiction I read so soon thereafter without at least getting back on my antidepressants for two weeks beforehand, "catharsis is good for the soul" be damned.

Anyway, the point of all this was to say that of all the collective of we Wildbow imitators and fans out here drawing more madness from that font the Great Northern Heart-Trampler Boar rooted open, you're among the three or four that manage to succeed the most at hitting that same emotional vein for me.

You still write some of the most canon-consistent stuff in or around them in terms of their voices (when you try to), and that helps.

Click to shrink...

Thank you. I try.

 

[Thief of Words]

Thank you. I try.

Click to shrink...

You succeed better than most. And your resources thread helps me keep things canon-consistent where possible, so thank you for it as well.

 

[macdjord]

I think your invisitext broke there.

Click to shrink...

How? It looks fine to me.

 

[Thief of Words]

How? It looks fine to me.

Click to shrink...

It isn't showing up at all for me. Not even when I quote it. *shrug*

 

[macdjord]

It isn't showing up at all for me. Not even when I quote it. *shrug*

Click to shrink...

Let's try a spoiler box instead:

Spoiler: Spoilers for Cenotaph

Have you read the Cenotaph/Wake/Legacy series? There's a scene where Taylor is up against Valefor. She knows he can control people via eye contact... so she unhesitatingly pops out her own eyes with her thumb. 'Rip off the bandage quickly' indeed...

 

[Thief of Words]

Let's try a spoiler box instead:

Spoiler: Spoilers for Cenotaph

Have you read the Cenotaph/Wake/Legacy series? There's a scene where Taylor is up against Valefor. She knows he can control people via eye contact... so she unhesitatingly pops out her own eyes with her thumb. 'Rip off the bandage quickly' indeed...

Click to shrink...

That worked. Also, agreed. Then again, Widow is one of the more deliberately cold-blooded fan-Skitters out there.

 

[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​

 

[lordhighalnder]

Fantastic read, excellent work. This is one of the best Taylor stories ive read, and it keeps getting better.

 

[Starfox5]

Quite the trials in this chapter. Martins looks like a serious problem - I wonder what Lisa will advise regarding him. A fine end to this arc.

 

[Ack]

Incidentally, removed the reference to wigs. because apparently the US judicial system doesn't use them.

 

[Ack]

The chapter has been considerably rewritten, following a large amount of constructive criticism. End result is still the same.

 

[pepperjack]

Incidentally, removed the reference to wigs. because apparently the US judicial system doesn't use them.

Click to shrink...

With a shocking lack of anachronism, yes. You'd rather expect it of us.

 

[Ack]

With a shocking lack of anachronism, yes. You'd rather expect it of us.

Click to shrink...

Australia uses them (sometimes) and we only got our independence a bit over a century ago.

Sometimes, anachronisms are good.

 

[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​

 

[macdjord]

My sidestep wasn't as fluent as I would have liked it,

Click to shrink...

I think you mean 'fluid'.

 

[Ack]

I think you mean 'fluid'.

Click to shrink...

fluid would work as well, but I actually meant 'fluent'.

 

[GladiusLucix]

Lisa was the Thinker.

Click to shrink...

And Taylor's the Warrior.

 

[adaer]

I knew how to end the Endbringers, but my solution wasn't one that Eidolon would anticipate. Or live long enough to appreciate.

Click to shrink...

Poor bastard. Especially this early, it's hard not to feel bad for Cauldron. Yeah, they did some fucked up stuff later on, but they are a group of random civilians whose reaction to finding out about Zion was to almost immediately dedicate their lives to stopping it and saving the multiverse. I rather doubt most people would have done half as well as them, and that's assuming they even bothered to make the effort.

 

[seeing_octarine]

I knew how to end the Endbringers, but my solution wasn't one that Eidolon would anticipate. Or live long enough to appreciate.

Click to shrink...

Are you planning on killing Eidolon, Taylor? Because it sounds like you're planning on killing Eidolon. Most people wouldn't consider that optimal play.

 

[Fishyface]

But I wasn't going to let that stop me.

Click to shrink...

You know what would be funny? In her doing the wrong things for the right reasons way she somehow kills Eidolon. And through some unknown means the Endbringers go on an all out rampage and stop holding back, killing everyone. Turns out they respond to his emotional state at the time of his death and he died angry. So Taylor has now doomed all the earths. (By acting like Alexandria and Dr. Mother too)​

 

[Ack]

You know what would be funny? In her doing the wrong things for the right reasons way she somehow kills Eidolon. And through some unknown means the Endbringers go on an all out rampage and stop holding back, killing everyone. Turns out they respond to his emotional state at the time of his death and he died angry. So Taylor has now doomed all the earths. (By acting like Alexandria and Dr. Mother too)​

Click to shrink...

That's 'Joker' funny, not 'actual' funny.

 

[tenchifew]

Nice chapter.

And poor Eidolon.
He actually wants to be the strongest hero.

Too bad his subconscious wishes had such grave consequences.

 

[Ack]

Are you planning on killing Eidolon, Taylor? Because it sounds like you're planning on killing Eidolon. Most people wouldn't consider that optimal play.

Click to shrink...

Pretty sure Eidolon wouldn't.

 

[tenchifew]

Pretty sure Eidolon wouldn't.

Click to shrink...

I actually hope she will find a different solution.

i am not a fan of Eidolon, but he is surely a tragic character.

And he also can be an asset.
But with how limited Taylor are, I would not be too surprised if killing him would be the only way forward she saw.

 

[gaouw]

So, Ack, how far did Lisa can see.

In the very beginning, she declares that she can see EVERYTHING, IIRC.

How far is this everything?

Because if she does see that far, there is no need for killing Eidolon.

You can even go Mike's route.

By forcing Eidolon go to therapy.

Or even better, making Scion go to therapy.

Anyway, can't wait for the next chapter.

Keep up the good work.

 

[Malcanthet]

Problem with that is Scion only seems to listen to one person at a time. And I am not sure that there are enough Therapists to even begin to help Scion ...

 

[Ack]

So, Ack, how far did Lisa can see.

In the very beginning, she declares that she can see EVERYTHING, IIRC.

How far is this everything?

Because if she does see that far, there is no need for killing Eidolon.

You can even go Mike's route.

By forcing Eidolon go to therapy.

Or even better, making Scion go to therapy.

Anyway, can't wait for the next chapter.

Keep up the good work.

Click to shrink...

Knowing everything is one thing. Getting people to listen is another.

 

[Fishyface]

Knowing everything is one thing. Getting people to listen is another.

Click to shrink...

What about knowing how to get people to listen?

 

[Ack]

What about knowing how to get people to listen?

Click to shrink...

That falls into the category of "What are people likely to do in response to a stimulus from me?" To which Lisa's power goes, "Weeble weeble weeble."