Recoil (a Worm fanfic)

[Lovro]

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 8-9: Heroes and Villains

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

Tuesday Morning, November 5, 1996
The Balcony of Andrea's Apartment

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT (Intelligence)

The view from the apartment balcony was nice, but it had nothing on the one from Andrea's building. Still, so long as I had Kinsey with me, some sacrifices had to be made. Andrea and I sat side by side on folding chairs, each of us holding a cup of hot cocoa. While winters in Brockton Bay were relatively mild (especially compared with Chicago, and absolutely when compared with Toronto), they still weren't warm.

Technically, it was late fall, but cold was still cold.

"So, exactly what happened with the Medhall building back in February?" Andrea lowered her voice and glanced back into the living room as she said this, at where Dragon was keeping an eye on Alec while they both watched a moderately educational kids' TV show. "You mentioned once that they had ties to the Empire Eighty-Eight so it was a bad idea to invest with them, but not much past that."

"Ah. Right." I took a sip of cocoa. "So, you remember Ruth Goldstein?"

"Uh-huh. Yup." Andrea and Ruth had never actually met, but Andrea knew quite a bit about Ruth. The opposite was not true, of course; I was a firm believer in 'need to know', and there was a lot that Ruth didn't need to know. "She was the time-travelling Nazi baby from the future, right? Aster Anders?"

"One and the same," I confirmed. "Except that she was never a Nazi."

She wrinkled her nose at me. "Yeah, but it sounds funnier."

I declined to engage with that statement. "So anyway, she was the daughter of Max and Kayden Anders in the future. Otherwise known as Kaiser and Purity. After the fuckup that basically killed everyone in New Delhi apart from me, Behemoth headed for Brockton Bay with the intent of causing Aster to trigger and creating even more chaos. Phir Sē pulled her out of that mess, then jumped back in time to where Lisa had just died in New Delhi. I didn't know it at the time, but he sent both of us back from the same moment. I went back twenty-two years, and she went back fifty years."

"Huh." By now, all of Andrea's attention was on me. "You've told me bits and pieces, but that's the first time I heard all of it in one sitting. So, Aster was adopted by a Jewish cop, right? He and his wife brought her up?"

"Yeah." I sipped at my cocoa. "Because of her powerset, she remembered her previous life, but from the point of view of a baby. She grew up as Ruth Goldstein, knowing she had powers, but also knowing she had to keep them under wraps. Phir Sē told her to find me in 'eighty-nine, and that I'd know how to save the world."

She snorted in amusement. "So, then she finds out that you're just winging it. Must've come as a massive shock to the system."

"Mm." It wasn't like I could blame Ruth for being surprised. "Just as much of a shock as it was to find out her parents were white supremacist supervillains."

"Ouch." Andrea frowned momentarily, as she visibly connected the dots in her head. "I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume that Richard Anders, aka the deceased—and decapitated—Allfather, was the dad of Max Anders, aka the no-longer-future Kaiser. So, the head of Medhall was also the head of the Empire Eighty-Eight."

"Correct. So, in February, Ruth couldn't accept it anymore. She came to Brockton Bay with the specific aim of shutting down the Empire Eighty-Eight. By the time she was done, Allfather and his daughter Heidi—Iron Rain—were dead, and the Medhall building was on fire. Then she told Max to behave, or else. He went to New York, rebranded as a hero, and joined the Wards. His wife went with him too, and she's recently given birth to their son Theo."

"Oh. Right. Wow." Andrea looked somewhat enlightened. "Now I know all the details, it makes a lot more sense than it did before. Oh, uh, you know how you told me not to invest in Medhall, because Nazis?"

"Yes." I gave her a sidelong glance. "Why?"

She replied with one that was notably shifty. "After the Allfather story broke and their stock started falling through the floor, they were scrambling to sell off their assets to put off the final collapse. I basically jumped in and bought up every bit of it that I could. As soon as the building itself went on the market, I grabbed it too. So yeah, by the time the dust settled, we owned the building plus the land it's on, while the stocks themselves have gone the way of the dodo."

"Really." If anyone knew Andrea, it was me. "So, what wild and crazy thing did you do with the building?"

Notably, she knew me well enough in return to not even try to deny my implicit accusation. "Not so much wild and crazy as … well … karmic." She grinned broadly. "One of the organisations Lisa wanted me to invest in for the tax breaks was a non-profit dedicated to assisting displaced refugees from war-torn nations. Also, there's a Holocaust museum. Pretty sure if we dug up Richard Anders right now, he'd be spinning in his grave hard enough to power the whole damn building."

"Oof." I chuckled as I toasted her with the cocoa mug. "Not to mention the rage emanating through time from Hookwolf and the rest of them. Nicely done." I made a note to ask Lisa what Krieg was doing at this point in time. If he's attempting to rebuild his connections in America, I might just have to do something about that.

"Why, thank you." Andrea preened, looking remarkably pleased with herself.

"So, what were your plans for the day?"

She arched an eyebrow. "What, lying around in bed with you all day isn't an option?"

"Sorry, Kinsey and I have to be on the way back to Chicago in the next hour or so." I said it with some regret. "Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton didn't even hesitate to give me clearance to come on through to Brockton Bay when I needed it, so I'm not going to abuse that."

"Yeah, okay." She sighed wistfully. "I miss our college days. Adulting's harder than it looks. But it's been nice having you here. And I'm pretty sure Alec's happy to see you and Kinsey."

I snorted gently. "Alec's happy to see any adult who'll pay him attention. I'm just glad he's getting a better upbringing than he had in my timeline. His parental and sibling situations were … thoroughly problematic."

"Yeah." She nodded, then took another drink of cocoa. "You filled me in on most of it. By the time he triggers, if he ever does, he's gonna be the happiest, most well-adjusted kid on the block, or I'm gonna know the reason why not. Anyway, I was gonna head over to Winslow later and say hi to Gladys. We get together for coffee occasionally, instead of going out for drinks."

Reaching over, I took her hand. "That's nice. Being vice-principal can't be easy, so she needs all the moral support she can get. Tell her hi from me."

Just then, I heard the sound I'd been listening for: Kinsey opening the bathroom door after taking his morning shower. This was the signal to drop any potentially incriminating subjects. No sense in complicating his life any more than it already was.

"I'll totally do that." Her irrepressible grin broke through. "Meanwhile, back in the day, I was one of the people who made the vice-principal's job harder."

"What was that about adulting, again?" My tone was gently teasing. "Are we actually growing up, these days?"

She blew a raspberry. "Bite your tongue. I might have to grow old, but I'll never grow up."

I grinned and settled back into my chair. Soon enough, I'd have to make a start back toward Chicago. For now, though, it was enough to relax next to my girlfriend and enjoy my morning cocoa.

-ooo-​

At That Same Time
Protectorate Department 01, New York City

Black Prince

"Heeey, Maxie!" Diane caught up with him just as he was entering the elevator. From her beaming expression, she was pleased with the whole world. "Big day today. And just by the way: congrats. You really rocked the review board." She gave him a quick side-hug.

"Thanks. I appreciate it." Max returned the affectionate gesture, then hit the button for the appropriate floor. "And thanks for all the coaching. I'm not sure I would've made it without your help."

"Pfft, hardly. I should be thanking you for the fencing training. Now I can really wreck the bad guys' day with my sword. Anyway, you're a natural for this sort of thing." Reaching up—he stood more than six feet, while she barely made five-six—she ruffled his perfectly coiffed hair. "First time I saw you, I knew you could be a hero if you just had powers. And what do you know, you did."

He raised his eyebrows as the elevator travelled upward. "You do recall who my father was, yes?" While that information was under wraps in the Protectorate files, he'd also filled her in about it one quiet night on patrol. She'd been surprisingly sympathetic about it, alluding vaguely to how 'asshole parents are assholes first and parents second'.

"Yeah, and I also recall how you never really bought into that master-race bullshit." She grinned impishly as he took out a comb and tidied his hair up in the mirrored wall of the elevator. "You work together really well with Torrance, so there's that."

Torrance, also known as Dropforge, was Max's age, built like a brick outhouse, and black as the ace of spades. They'd discovered a certain amount of synergy during training, and Max found he enjoyed working with the other young hero. "Well, it's easy. He's smart and motivated, and he knows what he doesn't know. That last bit's actually rare, these days. Especially among capes."

"Especially among everyone," she corrected him. "People aren't nearly as smart as they think they are."

The elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. They stepped out at the same moment. "Even you, too?" he asked, amused.

"Oh, totally me, too." Despite the admission, she sounded totally cheerful about it. "I figured out a long time ago that I'll never know everything about any given situation. So, I'm always looking, always listening, always trying to figure out what's really going on."

"And is that why you make bad mouse puns, or why you're such a smartass?" With most people, he would've hesitated to ask that question, but Diane would always give him a straight answer. It might not be the answer he expected or wanted, but she never gave him the runaround.

"Hah, nope. That's just my natural charm coming out." She jabbed his arm with her elbow. "And my mouse puns are awesome, you ignoramus." She held up a finger. "Ignoray-mouse."

"Opinions vary." He deftly sidestepped the next jab. "Anyway, I've got to go get ready. You need to be down in the audience."

She made a rude noise, then crossed her eyes before making an 'I'm watching you' gesture. "I still don't see why you're so willing to sign up to the adults' table. Six months to go, then I'm outta here."

"And that's the difference between us." He was no longer smiling, because this wasn't a joking matter. "You're a hero. You always were and you always will be, no matter what stresses are put on you. I can't guarantee that, so I prefer to have someone there to keep an eye on me."

She put her hand on his arm. "I get it. I still think you're being too hard on yourself, but whatever helps you get to sleep at night. For what it's worth, you're totally a hero in my book. Go knock 'em dead, tiger." Stretching up on tiptoes, she gave him a kiss on the cheek, then tousled his hair again.

He growled deep in his throat as she teleported away, then shook his head with a fond smile. She'd picked up on his vanity on their first meeting as capes, and never passed up an opportunity to puncture it in some way. It was one of her little habits; combined with her never-ending attempts to think up ever cheesier puns, this could have made her terminally irritating. But he saw it as endearing.

Diane was living her life her way, never taking a step back for anyone. At the same time, she was always ready to lend a helping hand, offer a sympathetic ear, or just be there when he wasn't ready to talk. The contrast between her and basically any powered member of his family or the Empire Eighty-Eight, could not have been more stark.

His wife Heith liked her too, and she'd baby-sat young Theo more than once to give the brand-new parents a chance to just have a night on their own. All told, Diane was one of the several reasons Max considered his decision to come to New York to have been a wise one. What she'd do once she went independent he wasn't sure, but she would absolutely do it in her own inimitable style.

Heading down the corridor, he entered the room where Torrance was waiting, like him, for the call to come out onto the stage. "Hey, dude." Torrance put his fist out for a bump. "Is it just me, or is this more nerve-wracking than going up against the villains?"

Max completed the fist-bump. "Villains can only kill you. If you screw up on stage, you have to live with that forever. Remember Kickstart?" As he spoke, he began creating and forming his armour over his body. It was subtly contoured, with input from Image, to present an impression of authority as opposed to threat.

Torrance chuckled hollowly. "Oh, man, yeah. Haha, wow, that was a shitshow."

"Literally." About three months into Max's tenure with the Wards, Kickstart had joined as a new Ward. At the press conference announcing his debut, his brain had seized up and he'd introduced himself as Kickstand, then Kickstarter, then he'd actually muttered a swearword just loudly enough for the microphone to catch. The Image rep whose job it was to cut the feed for instances like that didn't catch it in time, and Kickstart ended up as Shitkicker on social media until he was discreetly transferred to the LA department.

Media presence at PRT and Protectorate events tripled thereafter.

"So, you changing your name for this, or sticking with Black Prince?" Torrance shrugged. "Ain't none of my never-mind, but I'm just checking."

"I've decided to keep it." As far as Max was concerned, it was a good reminder of what he'd been given a reprieve from by his daughter. He would forever be both the black sheep and the runaway 'prince' of the Anders legacy. "You?" Finished with his armour, he completed the ritual by extruding a solid bar of iron and passing it over to Torrance.

"Thanks, man. Appreciate it." Torrance began shaping and forming the metal with his hands, using it to create a domino mask as well as wrist bracers. Given a supply of metal, he could form it into semi-liquid armour, or even fire it like bullets. Max, of course, was a ready source of iron at all times. "Yeah, I'm keeping mine too."

A buzzer sounded, and an amber light over the door flashed. This was the 'get ready' signal, usually to let people know they had thirty seconds to go. Max knew they'd be called out in alphabetical order, so he'd go first; he checked his armour over then turned his back to Torrance. "All looking good?"

"Ready to kick ass and take names, bro." Torrance gave him a firm nod, a gesture of comradeship that he'd never gotten from anyone back in Brockton Bay.

He returned it. "Thanks." Despite his best attempts at self-control, his nerves were jangling hard. It felt like butterflies the size of B-52s were multiplying at an exponential rate in his stomach. Having someone along to share the experience helped, but only a little.

The buzzer sounded again, and the light turned green. This was it.

Torrance slapped him on the shoulder. "You got this, dude. Kick ass."

Not trusting himself to speak, he took a deep breath and opened the door. There was a short corridor before the open stage, and at the microphone was the Director of the New York PRT department, a political appointee called Robbins. In fairness, Robbins wasn't bad at being Director, and he was exceptionally adept at the political aspect of the job, too.

As Max stepped through the doorway, Legend took Robbins' place. "Thank you for those kind words, Director Robbins. And now, what you've all been waiting for, here's a young man who has distinguished himself during his time in the Wards. Allow me to welcome into the ranks of the Protectorate, our very own Black Prince!" Music began to play as Max strode out onto the stage. The applause began immediately, and didn't let up until he was actually at the podium. Legend held out his hand. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, sir." Legend was a good boss, ready with public praise when people did well and keeping critiques behind closed doors. Max had learned a lot from him about running teams, far more than he ever had from his father. "It's good to be here." Max shook his hand.

Legend offered him the same type of nod that Torrance had. "All yours, son." He patted Max on the back lightly—Max merely felt a tap on the armour—then stepped away from the microphones.

Taking a deep breath, Max turned toward the audience. Dimly, against the lights, he thought he saw Heith, holding Theo. Diane was beside her, grinning broadly.

"Good morning," he began. Thankfully, public speaking was one of the skills his father had seen fit to have him trained in. "As you're all probably aware, I joined the Wards at the beginning of the year. A lot's happened since then, but I'm still just as determined to be the best hero I can possibly be …"

-ooo-​

A Little Later On the Same Day
Outside Winslow High School

Robert Gordon

Okay, this is my last throw of the dice. The last lead.

Lieutenant Calvert was depending on Robbie to locate the dirt on Captain Snow that both of them knew was there. Nobody got through life squeaky clean, especially considering the sheer mind-boggling number of shenanigans she'd been involved in, and he owed it to … well everyone … to make sure the world knew about her misdeeds. There were very few people who knew the depth of her crimes as well as he did, and also possessed the willingness to go digging for the information.

Robbie's main worry was that if he failed this important assignment, Calvert would cut him loose, to be unemployed and unemployable once more. It would also ring the death knell for any chance he had of bringing long-awaited justice down on her head. Certainly, Calvert could (and probably would) bring in another investigator, and they might even nail her to the wall … but it wouldn't be him doing it.

I want to be the one. I want to look her in the eye when I'm reinstated in the PRT, after that miscarriage of justice is rendered null and void.

It wasn't quite true that Gladys Knott, née Harvey, was his very last lead. There was also Andrea Campbell, Snow's college roommate, with whom (if anyone) she would've been carrying on an illicit relationship. However, each time he'd reconsidered pumping her for information, he'd discarded the idea again for several reasons.

First was the fact that she was likely to be the core of any homosexual activities perpetrated by Snow, which meant she would've been carefully coached to keep her mouth shut.

Second, according to the information he already had, Campbell had separated from Snow before the latter ever joined the PRT. The letters that had passed between them, if somewhat stilted, betrayed no lingering feelings—or, which would've been far more useful to him, resentment.

Third, and most important, the woman was almost impossible to pin down. She had a habit of vanishing entirely for days at a time, nowhere to be seen.

Gladys Knott, on the other hand, was eminently locatable, holding down as she did the position of vice-principal of a local high school. All he had to do was show up during working hours, and she would be there. The question was, would she give him the information he sought, or would she clam up like the Heberts had?

Again, he was dressed in the uniform of a captain in the PRT. They didn't have a department set up in Brockton Bay as yet, but from what he'd heard through the grapevine, there was one due in the next four or five years. Until then, he could walk around in the uniform he deserved to be able to wear, goddamn it, without anyone challenging him on it.

The school looked to be in good condition as he approached the front steps. No graffiti defaced the frontage, the bronze letters had been recently cleaned, and there was no litter to speak of. All this bespoke a pride in the school and its place in the city.

Robbie smiled. He could use that.

-ooo-​

Vice Principal's Office, Winslow High

Gladys Knott, Vice Principal

"Well, hello." A warm smile blossoming on her face, Gladys stood up and rounded the desk to give Andrea a hug. Andrea returned it with interest (of course), and they shared cheek-kisses before they separated. "Is it that time again?"

"Any time's a good time to see you." Andrea grinned and shared a meaningful glance with her. They'd been through more together than most good friends, including one memorable camping trip that had involved a covert insertion into Canada and the assassination of Heartbreaker.

Though Taylor had never said so in as many words, Gladys was certain Andrea knew all the pertinent details of what had happened that day. She was equally sure that the redoubtable Kinsey did not know the details, though he surely had to have his suspicions. Neither one was likely to speak a word out of hand about what they did know of Taylor Snow's off-the-books operations (and she was convinced there was far more going on than she or Kinsey were aware of) but that was only par for the course, when it came to the people in Taylor's ambit. Where Taylor was concerned, 'need to know' was ironclad and set in concrete, and had nothing to do with informing her nominal superiors of her activities.

"Hello, Vice Principal Knott," Dragon said politely. She was pushing a stroller with young Alec (he and Gladys were already acquainted) and wearing a backpack which no doubt held all the supplies he was likely to need during the excursion. "You're looking well."

"Thank you, Dragon." Gladys liked the girl, though her extensive experience with teenagers caused her instincts to nudge her every time they came into contact. There was something about Dragon: not wrong, but different. As though she were an alien, learning how to be human by immersion.

Or maybe it was just that Gladys had never met a teenager who was so consistently polite. The offbeat name didn't help, though she'd garnered the fact that Dragon was somehow related to Andrew Richter, whom Taylor knew from Newfoundland. People from that region had a reputation for weirdness, so naming a kid after a mythological beast was probably not all that uncommon.

"By the way, Taylor says hi." Andrea's tone was mildly apologetic. "She'd be here with me, but the PRT has this whole thing about needing their officers to do stuff occasionally." She rolled her eyes as she said this. "I mean, it's not like Taylor isn't running the show there already."

"D'agon," Alec said clearly. "Poo-poo." He still wasn't really articulating his R's, but he could definitely get his message across.

Dragon immediately scooped him up out of the stroller and checked his diaper. Glancing at Andrea, she nodded. "He needs changing."

"The nearest girls' restroom is—" began Gladys, but Dragon held up her free hand.

"Thank you, I've got this. I made sure I knew where they were before we came here. If you'll excuse me?"

"You've got this," agreed Andrea. "We'll be here."

Pushing the stroller with her free hand, Dragon exited the office, humming a gentle tune to the infant she was carrying.

Gladys raised her eyebrows. "She's very self-sufficient, isn't she?" She wasn't even sure how Dragon had gotten the information as to where the girls' restrooms were.

The corner of Andrea's mouth quirked a grin. "She is all of that. Andy's really pleased with how she's getting along."

"What is that all about, anyway?" Gladys didn't have a lot of natural curiosity, but what she did have was piqued by the puzzle before her. What she'd seen of Andrew Richter on their one meeting—very briefly, at the reception for Danny and Anne-Rose's wedding—had not given her the impression that he was fatherhood material.

"It's not all that complicated." Andrea took hold of the guest chair, spun it around, and sat down with her arms crossed over the back. "There's no mom in the picture, Dragon needs human companionship and parenting, and Andy's your stereotypical scientist who'd rather cuddle up to a circuit board than a human being. So, Taylor asked me if I could step up, and I said yes."

"Oh." It answered quite a few questions, including the reason for Dragon's slight quirkiness. Being raised by a single, emotionally absent parent in the wilds of Newfoundland would account for a lot. Of course, another question then presented itself. "Does she have anything to do with Taylor's … well, mission?" She wasn't hopeful for an answer, but if anyone was to know the truth, it would be Andrea. "And wasn't that basically over?" She'd seen the pictures of the Behemoth standing in Jakarta, surrounded by the exclusion zone.

I have no idea how Taylor pulled that off, but she did.

"Behemoth was a big part of it, sure, but he was just one threat." Andrea's voice had become uncharacteristically serious. "I don't know all the details, but she's not ramping down any time soon."

Gladys stared at her, tendrils of horror sending chills down her spine. "Just one threat? There are more threats as bad as the Behemoth?" She recalled the news footage she'd watched with the others on that fateful day, and the other imagery she'd seen of the devastation wreaked by the monster before whatever Taylor had done had stopped him. "How bad can it get?"

Andrea shook her head. "All she'll say about it is 'world-ending'. And her prep to deal with it is taking decades."

That didn't give Gladys any kind of good feeling at all. "But—"

A knock on the office door interrupted her. She turned, frowning. As polite as Dragon was, surely she wouldn't knock to come back in. In any case, unless she was an absolute master at changing a diaper, there was no way she'd be back so soon. "Come in?"

The door opened, and a man wearing PRT undress blues stepped into her office. She'd been correct; it wasn't Dragon. Neither was it Taylor or Kinsey, though the sight of the PRT uniform gave her pause. The nametape on the uniform read McCARTHY, which was a name she definitely didn't know. From the insignia, the newcomer was a captain, which made her none the wiser as to why he was here.

Barely sparing a glance for Andrea, he fixed his attention on her. "Vice Principal Knott? Gladys Knott?" he asked. There was a particular intensity to his demeanour and to the question which bode ill for whatever was going on.

"Yes." She hadn't yet gone back behind her desk, so now she was almost face to face with him. Squaring her shoulders, she looked him in the eye. "Who are you, and how can I help you?"

He smiled slightly and brought out an ID wallet. "Captain McCarthy, PRT Internal Affairs. Am I correct in assuming that you know Taylor Snow?"

"I should say so." Gladys still had no idea what the situation was, but if this Captain McCarthy had Taylor's best interests at heart, she had a bridge to sell him in Boston. "I attended this very school with her, as well as college. We went through JROTC and ROTC together, and we still keep in contact. What's your interest in her?"

-ooo-​

Robert Gordon

From the crisp way she was speaking, Mrs Knott had twigged that he wasn't there for Snow's benefit. Accordingly, he lost the smile as he tucked away the fake ID.

"I'm not at liberty to divulge the specifics of the case, but troubling allegations have arisen regarding Captain Snow, allegations that could see her in serious trouble." He paused, and directed a meaningful glance toward the red-headed student. If Vice Principal Knott could send her away, they could really get down to brass tacks. The woman didn't seem to get the idea, so he cleared his throat and tilted his head fractionally toward the girl. Hadn't Knott ever heard of discretion?

It appeared not, as she ignored every hint he sent her way. "What allegations? Please be exact, Captain McCarthy."

He thought fast, reassessing his strategy on the fly. If she went through ROTC, she'll know about DADT. Okay, then … "If you know anything about Captain Snow, you'll be aware that she's involved in the highest level of decision-making for the intelligence division of the PRT." Undeservedly so, but I intend to fix that. "However, this means that if she's compromised in any way, it could spell disaster for the PRT and perhaps the nation."

She didn't take the bait. "I have yet to hear an allegation, Captain McCarthy."

He took a deep breath. "As a close associate of Captain Snow, if I were to have you testify under oath before a military court as to Captain Snow's proclivities, what would you have to say for yourself?"

"Absolutely fuckin' nothing." The redheaded girl stood up from her chair—Christ almighty, it's Campbell!—and gave him a look of sheer contempt. "You couldn't force her to show up for a traffic ticket. Your name isn't McCarthy. It's Robert Gordon. You aren't in Internal Affairs, or a captain, or even in the PRT anymore. Taylor told me about you. You got booted out because of your own stupidity, and now you're trying to smear her name so you can get back in."

He stared at her, trying to figure out how he could've mistaken her for a high school student. Sure, she was short, and she'd been sitting down, and he just hadn't expected her to be there, but … fuck it, I'll deal with that shit later.

Vice Principal Knott's veiled dislike was no longer veiled, and had metastasized from 'dislike' to full-on outrage. "Is this true?"

All he had left was bluff (well, not all he had, but bluff was the best good option), so he pushed that as hard as he could. "Of course not! Snow lied to her. She lies to everyone."

Slowly, Knott shook her head, her lips compressed to a thin line. "I think not. I've seen proof of Taylor's bona fides. You, I don't know from Adam. But I trust Taylor and Andrea far more than I trust you." She pointed at the door, and her voice rose to a commanding bellow. "Get out! Get out NOW!"

"No!" he shouted right back at her. "Not until you tell me what I want to know!"

She locked eyes with him. "Andrea, call the police."

"You got it." The Campbell woman started around behind the desk.

This was shaping up to be a complete cluster-fuck. All Robbie needed was for them to just tell him the goddamn truth, and he'd be reinstated, all charges quashed. But if the police came, the PRT would be informed. Even with Calvert's intervention, they would likely take a dim view of his wearing the uniform and employing a false identity.

With a convulsive movement—he hadn't wanted to do this; why did people have to be goddamn unreasonable?—he reached into his jacket and pulled out the suppressed Smith & Wesson Model 52 automatic pistol that he'd acquired just on general principles. "Don't touch that phone," he warned.

The Campbell woman froze, and pulled her hand back from the instrument. "This is a really bad fuckin' move," she said, apparently unaware that the person looking down the gun barrel wasn't the one who was supposed to be making the threats. "Taylor hears about this, Jim Kinsey will roll you up like a basketball and bounce you down the street."

"Or you can put that thing away, walk out that door, and nobody says a word." Knott's tone was calm and reasonable.

He shook his head, and gestured with the pistol. "Out from behind the desk, now." Campbell obeyed, but the glint in her eye showed that she was far from cowed. It wasn't like he had anything to fear from her, of course. Even without the pistol, she'd be no match for him. "Start talking. Tell me about Snow."

"What about her?" Knott seemed to think she was in no danger from him. "She's a decorated officer, which doesn't surprise me. When we were in ROTC, she used to cream the opposition in every exercise she took part in."

Robbie gritted his teeth and waved the pistol at the Campbell girl. "Okay, I only need one of you to give me the dirt on Snow. Which one's it going to be?"

The redhead raised her chin. "I bet I can tell you stuff about Taylor that you've never heard."

Now, this was more like it. He twitched the pistol. "Keep talking."

Her glare should've been reclassified as a lethal weapon. "She's a time traveller who came back from the year two thousand and eleven, to kill Behemoth. And she did it."

Just for a second, the analytical side of Robbie's brain stuttered on that one. That … would actually make a lot of … no! Don't listen to their bullshit!

The door suddenly opened, startling him into action. Out of the corner of his eye, he registered a human figure with a long black object—rifle! He whirled, finger tightening reflexively on the trigger. The pistol went off as the object—a folded stroller—clattered to the ground.

He had just long enough to realise that he'd shot a teenage girl before the women got to him. Knott's fist rang his bell so hard that he didn't even register Campbell coming past him and taking the pistol out of his hand. He tried to fight back, but every move he made was countered before it got properly started.

Punch after punch landed on him; he was bigger and stronger, but she had technique and anger on her side, and she pummelled him unmercifully. His last thought before he passed out, somewhat undramatically, went, where did she learn to hit like—

-ooo-​

Andrea

"Dragon! Alec!" After taking the pistol away from Gordon, Andrea left him to Gladys' untender mercies. She'd been trying to get him off-balance the whole time, but he'd been just a little too much on the ball. Dragon's entry had provided a sufficient distraction, but the price was way too high.

Dragon was lying face-down; kneeling down, Andrea carefully turned her over. Alec was cradled in her arms, unharmed (though he was just now starting to cry from fright). She'd seen it happen, as the door opened. The pistol angling toward Dragon, who had turned to shield Alec with her own body.

"Is he … is he alright?" Dragon's voice, thin and thready, startled her.

"Yeah, he's fine. Are you alright?" Andrea didn't think so, and the thought brought a lump to her throat.

"Critical … systems … damaged. Running down. When they fail … my processors will go offline."

Cradling Alec, Andrea felt tears welling in her eyes. "So … you'll die? You can't die!"

Dragon shook her head fractionally. "My backup in Deer Lake will survive, but without today's experiences."

"No. No." Andrea shook her head fiercely. She wasn't going to let that level of selflessness go by the wayside. "I'm not going to let that happen." She turned her head; Gladys had Gordon on his stomach, and she was tying his arms together. "I need some help here!"

In another moment, Gladys was beside her. "What can I do? We need to get her to the hospital!"

"Not the hospital." Andrea stood, still holding Alec. "Take her to my car. I've got to get her back home. It's her only chance."

"She's … she's right," husked Dragon. "The … backpack took much of the shot. I might last long enough."

Gladys stared at them both for a moment, then crouched and scooped Dragon into her arms. "I don't understand, but I'm assuming you've got a good reason for this."

"Yeah, I do." Andrea retrieved the stroller, then led the way at a fast trot toward the parking lot. Gladys matched the pace, her longer legs eating up the distance.

When they got to the car, Andrea busied herself strapping Alec into his car seat, while Gladys got Dragon's backpack off and put her into the front seat. Andrea noted—and was sure Gladys did too—that the liquid staining the bullet entry wound was not blood, or even blood-coloured. She met Gladys' eyes as she climbed into the driver's seat. "I'll explain later. When you talk to the cops, don't mention Dragon. Or me."

"Don't worry," Gladys assured her grimly. "I've got enough to get him on already."

"Thanks." Andrea started the car, even as she fastened her seatbelt. Dragon was still alive, still responding, but how long that would continue to be the case, she had no idea. She didn't intend to wait around to find out. Popping the clutch as Gladys stepped back, she peeled out of the parking lot.

As part of her collaboration with Andy, she'd had a hands-free phone system installed in her car. It had cost more than a little, but that was fine: she had more than a little money at her fingertips. And this was definitely something that Taylor would approve of.

"Call Andy," she ordered the system, holding down a particular button on the steering wheel, even as she weaved through late-morning traffic at somewhat over the speed limit.

"Hello, Andrea. Is there a problem?" He sounded distracted, which meant he was probably working on something.

"Yeah, there's a problem. Dragon's been shot. Low-calibre pistol, middle of the back, went through a backpack first. Saved Alec's life. I'm getting her back home now. Set up the emergency download system, because I'm damn sure she isn't going to last much longer."

He didn't answer for a few seconds, which Andrea used to dart around an eighteen-wheeler, leaving its outraged horn-blast far behind her. "Why was she—no, never mind that. Dragon, are you there? Can you hear me?"

"I can hear you," Dragon whispered. "What do you need, Father?" She sounded even weaker than before.

"Analysis of damage, and time to final shutdown." He'd pivoted from bewilderment to intent scientist, all business.

As Dragon began to reel off a list of damaged systems, Andrea concentrated on driving. She was good, and the building wasn't that far away; all she had to do was get Dragon there before the clock ran down.

Hang on. Just hang on.

-ooo-​

Gladys

Gladys headed back inside as Andrea rocketed out of the parking lot. She'd gotten some of the odd fluid on her hand and now she sniffed at it; it smelled like some kind of lubricant, not blood or other bodily fluid. Is Dragon a robot? Is that why she always seemed a little off to me?

She had no idea where a sapient teenage robot came into Taylor's plans—that Dragon was a part of Taylor's plans, she had no doubt at all—but the kid was more than a machine. As oddly polite as she was, she showed real humanity, and she'd turned at the last instant to get between Alec and the bullet. God, I hope Andrea gets where she's going in time.

She'd left the pistol in a desk drawer, and Gordon tied up with his own belt. As it was, she got back just in time; he'd wriggled over next to the desk and used the leg to dislodge the belt and free his arms. She entered the room as he sat up, rubbing his wrists.

"Stay down," she warned him, shutting the door behind her. "Or I will put you on the floor again."

"You have no idea what you're doing—" He began to clamber to his feet again, so she stepped in and gave him a right cross that dropped him onto his back with his eyes momentarily crossed.

With the respite that gave her, she retrieved the pistol, wrapping a tissue around the butt to preserve his fingerprints, and aimed it at him. "Stay down, I said. I will kill you if I have to."

He paused, looking cautiously at the pistol. "Do you even know how to use that?"

"I went through ROTC," she reminded him. "The only person who could outshoot me on the pistol range was Taylor Snow. If I have to shoot, I will hit you, and I will kill you. So, lie face down on the carpet and put your hands behind your head. And shut the hell up," she added as he opened his mouth again. "I have zero interest in anything you might want to tell me."

He shut up, and did as he was told. She sat there on the edge of the desk, thinking. Keeping a close eye on him, she went to the window and opened it, then skirted around him and kicked the brass casing across the carpet so it ended up against the wall. Finally, she returned to the desk and looked down at him, going through all the ramifications of the situation in her head.

"Where is it?" she asked eventually.

"Where's what?" He squirmed his head around to peer up at her out of one eye.

"Your recorder. You wanted to interrogate us to get proof of Taylor's purported criminal activity. All you wanted was for us to say it out loud. This says to me that you've got a recorder. Where is it?"

He set his jaw and stayed stubbornly silent.

"Oh, no, officer." She made her voice tremulous. "I was just calling you and he came for me. I was forced to defend myself." She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. "After you're dead, I can search your body to my heart's content. Or, you can give it up now. Your choice."

The internal struggle was evident. He desperately wanted to keep the recorder, but he'd also picked up on how she was quite willing to shoot him to get what she wanted. Eventually, he slumped. "Breast pocket, left hand side."

"Roll over," she ordered, gesturing with the pistol. "Get it out with your left hand, thumb and forefinger only. Toss it over here. Then roll back over."

His jaw muscles could have been used to crack granite, but he did as he was told. Each movement was a study in reluctance. If the pistol had wavered off line for more than a second, she was certain he would've tried something.

But self-preservation won out over desperation, and he obeyed her directives. Once he was flat on his face again, she retrieved the recorder from where he'd tossed it. It was a neat little device, and she wondered where he'd gotten it from. Oh, well, it doesn't matter. I'm sure Taylor will figure it out, once I mail it to her. She pressed the off button and stowed it in her pocket.

"If you'll just—" he tried again.

"I'm not a medical expert," she interrupted him. "I don't know where to shoot you to shut you up that won't kill you. But I'm willing to experiment."

Audibly gritting his teeth, he subsided again.

Picking up the phone with her free hand, she wedged it between her shoulder and ear—something she'd long since mastered—and tapped in three numbers. "Police, please. I've just had a disturbed individual threaten me with a gun. Yes, he's still here. I've got the gun now." She gave her details to the operator. "Yes, I'll stay on the line. Please tell them to hurry. I don't feel safe at all."

-ooo-​

Andrea

"Nearly there, nearly there." By now, it was a mantra. Andrea's hands were clenched on the wheel, when she wasn't upshifting or downshifting through the gears. She was sure she'd left a trail of broken traffic laws behind her, but her care factor was minimal.

Jabbing the remote button as she barrelled along the street behind her building, she drifted around the corner and speared down the ramp. The door was trundling upward, possibly not quite high enough, but she didn't care. There was a brief screech of metal on metal and the windshield cracked, and then they were through.

Gunning the accelerator, she rocketed the length of the underground parking lot and brought the car to a sliding halt next to the elevator. A jab of her thumb on the remote started the door rumbling down again, but she was already unfastening her belt and getting out of the car.

Not even bothering with the stroller, she gathered Alec in one arm and hoisted Dragon out of the car with the other. Her card was in the hand holding Alec as they staggered toward the elevator. Dragon was doing her best to help, but she was almost gone by now.

The elevator doors opened, and Andrea hauled them inside. Briefly, she glanced down at both arms, occupied at waist level, then leaned forward and hit the penthouse button with her nose. It worked; the doors slid shut and the elevator started upward. "Nearly there, nearly there," she said once more. "Just hold on, baby. A few more seconds."

"Thirty," mumbled Dragon. "Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight."

A chill traced its way down Andrea's spine as she realised that Dragon was counting down the seconds to her imminent demise. The elevator had always seemed lightning-fast to her before, but now it felt like it was creeping between floors. Come on, come on, she silently urged it.

"Twenty …"

The doors opened again, and they spilled out. Dragon's macabre countdown continued as Andrea lugged her and Alec together into the apartment and across to the closet that had been marked out as Dragon's base station. She lowered Dragon down onto her stomach, yanked the closet open, and grabbed the charge cord. A full inch thick, it had a complex plug head and LEDs running its length for some reason.

"Dragon," Andrea said urgently. "You need to open your charge port, honey."

"Seven … six …"

The charge port in the back of Dragon's neck opened. Andrea tried to plug the cord in, but then she had to twist it to make sure it connected properly. Every second seemed to stretch into eternity.

"Three ..." It was almost inaudible.

Click.

The wall-screen lit up, with Andy's face front and centre. "Okay, okay, I've got connectivity. Providing emergency backup power. Systems are still failing, but download is commencing now."

Andrea sagged to the floor, Alec (mercifully quiet) still cradled on her other arm. She took hold of Dragon's unresponsive fingers. "So, she'll be okay?"

"We don't know that for sure. There might be damage we don't know about. But … we have a fighting chance now." He gave her a cautious thumb's up.

"Good." A fighting chance was better than no chance at all. "Imma just sit here for a bit, if that's okay." Paying for the damages to the car and the door could come later.

"D'agon?" asked Alec plaintively, pointing at his big sister.

"She's sleeping, hon. She'll be okay." Andrea hugged him more tightly. She saved your life.

-ooo-​

Gladys

"Vice Principal Knott?" The voice coincided with a heavy knock on the door. "This is the police! Are you in there?"

Gladys raised her voice. "Yes, I am. Be aware, I'm armed."

There was a pause. "Please put the weapon down and step away from it. We're coming in."

She applied the safety, then laid the pistol on the desk and moved back. "Weapon is down. Come on in."

The door opened and two officers entered. Their hands were on their pistols, but the firearms remained holstered. They were followed by a man in plainclothes with a badge on his belt.

The first cop—his badge read BROOKS—approached the desk and secured the pistol, pulling back the slide to check the breech, then ensuring that the safety was on. "Loaded. Safety is on. Whose weapon is this, ma'am, and are you otherwise armed?"

"His." She nodded toward Gordon. "I'm not armed. You'll find it's been fired recently, and he'll have GSR on his right hand and sleeve."

"Sir." The other cop went to stand next to Gordon. "Is this true, and are you armed?"

"It's not true, and no, I'm not." Gordon started to get up, glaring daggers at Gladys. "She's lying. As you can see, I'm with the PRT. I'm investigating a rogue officer, and when I confronted her with her association with that officer, she pulled a gun on me."

The cops and the detective all looked toward Gladys again, who shrugged. "He's lying. If you search him, you'll find a holster for that pistol, as well as a set of PRT ID and probably normal ID. His real name is Robert Gordon, but the ID is in the name of Robert McCarthy."

"Henderson, check that out. Ma'am, who fired the pistol, and why was it fired?" The detective glanced around her office, possibly looking for a bullet hole.

Gladys gestured toward the open window. "He did, to intimidate me, I think. But I'm pretty sure he didn't want to leave evidence he was ever here, so he fired it out the window. When he fired the shot, I think he realised that the shell casing would be evidence too so he turned to look for it, and that's when I hit him."

"I didn't fire it out the window, I fired it out the door—!" A moment later, Gordon shut up again. The cops all looked at the door, which was (of course) unmarked.

"Well, that's odd," the detective observed. "Automatic pistols generally eject their casings back and to the right." He stepped over to the wall and bent down with a pen, to pick up the discarded casing. "If you fired this one out the door, it would've gone to the other side of the room. Go on, Ms Knott. You said you hit him. With what?"

"My fists." She held up her hands, skinned knuckles in clear view. "I used to box in college, and I still keep in practice."

"I'll say." Henderson put Gordon up against the wall. "Sir, I'm going to be checking you thoroughly, starting with your waistband."

"But this isn't necessary," Gordon protested. "I'm a serving PRT officer, and she's just a jumped-up teacher! Snow could be running rampant across the country right now!"

The detective's head turned at that. "Snow? As in Captain Taylor Snow? Intelligence division?"

"Uh, yes." Gladys frowned. "Do you know her?"

"We're acquainted. How's it going there, Henderson?"

"The lady called it, sir. A PRT ID wallet for Robert McCarthy, and a standard wallet with a driver's license in the name of Robert McCarthy Gordon."

Henderson held up both items, and the detective snagged them off him. "Thank you. Keep looking for that holster, and any other interesting items he might have on him." He looked over the IDs, handling them carefully in his gloved hands. "These are damn good. If I didn't know better, I'd say they were legitimate."

"That's because I'm undercover, you idiots!" yelled Gordon. "If you don't let me go right now, a ton of shit is going to land on you from a great height. It'll be your badges for sure!"

"Now, see, undercover operations don't work that way." The detective took on a lecturing tone. "You don't carry an official ID with your fake name on it. Unless your real name is Robert McCarthy, not Gordon?"

"Yes! That's me! Robert McCarthy!" Gordon was evidently grasping at any straw. "Now let me go!"

"In a minute. I need to make a phone call." Pulling a bulky mobile phone from his pocket, the detective extended the aerial and began to punch in a number as he headed for the door. "Captain Snow gave me her boss's contact number, once upon a time. I'm sure he'll be able to verify your story in short order, Captain." The door closed behind him as he put the phone to his ear.

"Hamilton's in on it too." Gordon's voice held a tone of desperation now. "He'll back anything Snow says. You've got to listen to me."

"Buddy, we're giving the orders here. We'll get to your side of things in a moment. In the meantime, that holster I just found, and the lack of a concealed carry license, says you're being detained until we can straighten all this out."

While Henderson proceeded with handcuffing Gordon, Brooks turned to Gladys. "Would you mind answering a few questions?" By which he meant, 'you will answer a few questions, whether you mind or not'.

"Ask away." She propped her hip on the corner of the desk, the better to look unworried.

"Okay, then." He turned to a new page in his notebook. "What's this all about? Why was he here?"

Gladys refrained from rolling her eyes. "I went to school with Taylor Snow. We're old friends. After she joined the PRT, that guy there started getting on her case, because she's really good at her job. He went so far off the rails that they ended up court-martialling him, but he's never given up the grudge. I'm pretty sure he showed up here to force me to 'reveal' that she's gay or something, to get her kicked out."

He scribbled in the notebook. "Okay, yeah, that all tracks. So, it's basically just a workplace grudge, then?"

For this part, she could tell the truth, interspersed with a few lies. "It might've started that way, but he seemed pretty unhinged about it. He even said she was a time traveller from the future or some such."

"Ask her why his belt's on the floor," Henderson called out from where he was cuffing Gordon.

Brooks glanced down, then leaned over to pick up the item. "Yeah, what is that about?"

Gladys was happy she'd had time to think about that. "Oh, after I had him subdued, I tried to tie him up with it, but he got free, so I had to hold his gun on him."

"Right, right." More scribbling.

The door opened, and the detective came back in. "Well, that all checks out. Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton was very terse on the subject of Mr Gordon here. The PRT are sending some people to liaise with us." He handed her a card. "If we need any further information, we'll be in contact. In the meantime, if you remember any other pertinent details, here's my number." He paused. "And give Captain Snow my regards, the next time you talk to her."

"Sure, I can do that …" She glanced at the card. "… Detective Kimball. Huh. I think we've met once before. Extremely briefly."

He frowned. "I think I would've remembered that."

"It was a couple of years ago." She looked at him expectantly. He didn't seem to have figured it out. "We were having a get-together at a friend's place, and you, uh, came over." She didn't mention that he'd been carrying flowers, or that he and Taylor had been on a date. There was no sense in embarrassing him in front of Brooks and Henderson, after all.

"Oh." His expression cleared. "You were there? Sorry, I was kind of distracted that day."

She shrugged. "It's okay. Not having the attention of the police is my favourite state of affairs." The officers had escorted Gordon out of the office by now. She had no doubt that he'd be running his mouth to any potentially sympathetic ear he could find, but she figured she'd poisoned the well sufficiently there.

"I suppose." Kimball offered his hand. "Well, take care of yourself. We'll be in touch if we need anything more from you."

"I totally understand. Thank you again for being so prompt." She watched him leave, closing the door behind him. Slowly, she sagged back in her chair. Well, that happened. I wonder how Andrea went with Dragon?

-ooo-​

Deer Lake, Newfoundland

Andrew Richter

As the timer ticked down to zero, the message showed on his primary screen: DOWNLOAD SUCCESSFUL. Andrew leaned back in his seat and sighed. "Done," he said out loud. "She's back here, in one piece."

"Oh, thank God." Andrea seemed to be almost emotional about the situation, which wasn't really surprising. The events she'd been through had to have been traumatic. Also, she appeared to have formed a strong attachment to Dragon, which he hadn't anticipated. "So, she will be okay, then?"

"Certainly. I'll be freighting a replacement body to you. You can use the same packaging to send the damaged one back. I'll be wanting to look it over in detail." He paused. "And you're saying she deliberately shielded your son from being shot, with her own body?"

"That's what I'm saying." Andrea's tone was definite. "It wasn't an accident."

"I see." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Thank you. And thank you for getting her to the download facility in time. This is valuable data."

He cut the call, and sat there looking at the innocuous storage bank where Dragon now slumbered. I never programmed that into her, and yet she risked her life to save a human.

It really does seem as though Captain Snow was on to something there.

End of Part 8-9​

 

[Gaemnomut]

Excellent update, a great read as always!
Looks like Dragon is developing wonderfully. She hopefully won't trigger this time around, it would be nice if she were spared the trauma.
Good riddance to Gordon, although with Calvert lurking around I get the feeling this isn't over yet.

 

[Priapus]

Or maybe it was just that Gladys had never met a teenager who was so consistently polite. The offbeat name didn't help, though she'd garnered the fact that Dragon was somehow related to Andrew Richter, whom Taylor knew from Newfoundland. People from that region had a reputation for weirdness, so naming a kid after a mythological beast was probably not all that uncommon.

Click to shrink...

kek.

"This 'Dragon' kid has a weird name and weirder vibes."
"She's a Newfie."
"'Nuff said."

Loved this update.

 

[macdjord]

"Buddy, we're giving the orders here. We'll get to your side of things in a moment. In the meantime, that holster I just found, and the lack of a concealed carry license, says you're being detained until we can straighten all this out. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right …"

Click to shrink...

FYI: Reading someone their Miranda rights as they're being arrested is a Hollywoodism. In reality, it happens after they are arrested, usually immediately before interrogation.

 

[Ack]

FYI: Reading someone their Miranda rights as they're being arrested is a Hollywoodism. In reality, it happens after they are arrested, usually immediately before interrogation.

Click to shrink...

As recall, police officers are required to carry a Miranda card on them.

 

[macdjord]

As recall, police officers are required to carry a Miranda card on them.

Click to shrink...

Such cards do exist, because sometimes an officer does have to read them, but they are not routinely read at the point of arrest. The law is that a suspect must be properly advised of their rights before any custodial interrogation.

 

[Ack]

Such cards do exist, because sometimes an officer does have to read them, but they are not routinely read at the point of arrest. The law is that a suspect must be properly advised of their rights before any custodial interrogation.

Click to shrink...

It's entirely plausible that the cop has also watched too many movies.

 

[macdjord]

It's entirely plausible that the cop has also watched too many movies.

Click to shrink...

What, and so have all of his training officers, his sergeant, and his partner~?

 

[Ack]

What, and so have all of his training officers, his sergeant, and his partner~?

Click to shrink...

Okay, I've removed the reference. Doesn't change anything.

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 8-10: Old Friends, New Beginnings

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

Thursday Morning, November 7, 1996
PRT Department 04 (Chicago)

Captain Taylor Snow (Intelligence)

"Captain Snow, reporting as ordered." I came to a halt in front of Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton's desk, braced to attention and saluted.

Looking up from his paperwork, he casually returned the salute. "At ease, Snow."

"Sir." I relaxed as much as any on-duty member of the PRT could relax around a superior officer. "What's this about, sir?"

I'd been strongly tempted to ask if it was about Robbie Gordon, but second thoughts convinced me that it was a bad idea. Hamilton already knew I was a top-flight analyst, but to always know what he was going to talk to me about before he told me would only serve to draw unwanted questions. Besides, I'd only just gotten over my entirely reasonable and rational urge to hop the first flight back East, talk my way through the security surrounding Robbie, and beat him to within an inch of his life.

The only reason I didn't want to kill him outright was that he hadn't killed anyone, though Dragon had been a very close call indeed. Maiming was still very much on the table, and I wanted to break all of his fingers for the mere act of pointing a gun at Andrea. On the other hand, it seemed Gladys hadn't lost any steps, from the way she'd taken him down. I hoped that the memory of being beaten up by a schoolteacher hurt even more than the bruising.

Lisa assured me that Dragon's personality matrix had fully transmitted through to Deer Lake before her robotic body ceased functioning, and that another body (this one with a little more subdermal protection and redundant systems) was being shipped to Brockton Bay via express post. Andrea's mad dash across the city had ended up with a few fines being levied in her direction, but she'd alluded to a medical emergency for her child and paid the sums without demur. And now it seemed I had been called in by Hamilton so that he could brief me on what the PRT knew about the situation.

"Have you been in recent contact with your friends in Brockton Bay, Captain?" he asked.

I allowed a slightly puzzled frown to cross my brow. "Not in the last two days, sir. Mr Hebert's passing was a great blow to all of us, but Danny and his family seem to be bearing up well. Why?"

He let out an almost soundless Ah. "You may wish to call them soon. There was an incident on the day you left, involving Robert Gordon."

I widened my eyes and drew myself up almost to attention. "Gordon? What did he do? Uh, sir." The anger I'd felt when Lisa told me went into my voice now, as genuine as it would ever be.

Hamilton drew a deep breath. "He apparently approached your friend Mrs Knott at her workplace and threatened her with a firearm, attempting to force her to agree with unfounded accusations against you. A shot was fired, but nobody was harmed. Fortunately, she was able to overpower him, take his weapon away, and call the police. He's currently under guard, awaiting trial. As I understand, Mrs Knott is shaken but entirely willing to testify against him." There was a note of admiration in his voice.

"That definitely sounds like Gladys, sir." I breathed deeply a few times, as though trying to calm and centre myself. "She boxed in college, and over the past few years Kinsey's taught her a few tricks. I guess they took, thank God."

He nodded judiciously. "It certainly sounds like it. Back to the matter at hand: you clashed with Gordon more than once before his court-martial. Therefore, in the next few days, investigators for the prosecution will be coming to take down any statements you might wish to give them about any interactions with him that are germane to the case."

"That might take some time, sir." I made my tone blunt and unapologetic. "Once he realised that he couldn't push me down or inveigle me into his bed, he made it his mission to force me out of the PRT altogether, by any means possible. You're aware of some of our clashes. There were others. He even went so far as to accuse you of unfairly elevating me, for any one of a number of sordid reasons."

This time he shook his head, his expression grim. "Yes, you've mentioned that before. It's a real pity. He had a fine analytical mind, but he always thought he was better than he was. He could have gone far if he'd simply accepted his limitations for what they were, and worked within them."

I allowed myself a slight smile. "He's not the first person that could be said about, sir, and he won't be the last. Thanks for the heads-up about the investigators, and I'll be giving Gladys a call as soon as I can."

"Entirely my pleasure, Captain Snow." His moustache shifted as a grim smile spread across his face. "If I'm any judge of people like Mr Gordon, he will be attempting to spread the blame for his wrongdoings far and wide, and you are his most obvious target. I'd prefer not to lose my best analyst to scurrilous rumours spread by someone like that." A sharp nod. "Dismissed."

"Sir." I saluted again, turned, and marched from the room.

Kinsey was waiting in the corridor, of course. He fell into step with me as I headed for my quarters. Neither of us spoke until we reached our destination.

"We have a potential problem." I didn't make a huge song and dance about it, but Kinsey was on alert anyway.

"Ma'am?" His eyes searched mine.

"You know that Robbie Gordon's been sniffing around Brockton Bay for a while, trying to dig up or manufacture dirt about me. Well, the day we left, he literally walked into Winslow and threatened Gladys with a pistol."

His eyes widened slightly, and his fists clenched. Kinsey and Gladys got along quite well, and that didn't even count the time she'd killed Heartbreaker. While he suspected her involvement in that, he'd never done any digging into the matter. As far as he was concerned, it was a righteous kill. "Was she hurt, ma'am?"

"No, actually." I kept my tone light. "She took the gun away from him and beat hell out of him before calling the cops. But now he's up for trial, so he's going to be throwing mud in every direction he can to try to discredit the evidence for the prosecution."

Slowly, Kinsey nodded in understanding. "And because a large amount of the evidence will be coming from you, he'll be targeting you with the majority of his slander, correct?"

"That's my understanding, yes." I raised my eyebrows slightly. "So when you're off-duty, don't be at all surprised if friendly strangers just happen to offer to buy you drinks and listen to your woes."

He snorted. As an ex-MP, he was well aware of all the ways an unwary soldier could be targeted. "What would you suggest I do, ma'am? Call them on it, or be so boring that they just walk away?"

That was a good question. "I'll leave it up to your discretion, but if they happen to step over the line and ask a question that would make an MP take notice, I wouldn't be unhappy if some of them ended up under arrest."

Not that I was automatically assuming that Robbie's defence lawyer would jump straight to illegal or unethical methods of gathering evidence, but he was charismatic as fuck. If he managed to persuade his counsel that he was being railroaded, they might decide to go the extra mile to ensure that 'justice' was done. Also, private investigators had occasionally been known to overstep the rules if they were being pushed hard to come back with results.

Over and above all that, I knew damn well that Calvert had been bankrolling Robbie in his quest to get any and all kinds of dirt on me. It wasn't beyond the realms of probability that he'd try to keep his catspaw out of prison, and I knew he was just fine with making use of illegal means to do so. Fortunately, there was a lot of official scrutiny going on right now, so he didn't have much leeway to operate out of the shadows.

On the upside, I'd be getting a heads-up from Lisa if any plans like that were being seriously considered. The downside was that I would then have to figure out how to scupper them without blowing my own cover as a dutiful analyst in the Chicago department of the PRT. Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton was solidly on my side in all this, and a great boss in general, but there were still limits to how far off the reservation I could go without his say-so.

If it wasn't one balancing act, it was another. Yay.

-ooo-​

Friday Morning, November 22, 1996
Strafford County Department of Corrections, Dover, NH

Robert Gordon

The slot in the metal cell door opened, and one of the correctional officers spoke from the other side. "Gordon. Visitor." Rob thought the man's name might be Potter—he hadn't been able to memorise all their names yet, and they didn't react well to someone peering at their nametags—but they all treated him with the same impersonal 'if you fuck around, I will beat your ass into the ground' hostility, so there wasn't much to distinguish one from another.

Visitor? Glad of the distraction, he stood up. "Uh, who is it? Who's visiting?"

"Says he's your lawyer. Hands." There was the distinct rattle of handcuffs.

Rob would have protested—it wasn't like he was a real criminal, after all—but he slid his hands out through the slot anyway. Nobody under Federal indictment left these cells without cuffs and an escort. Which meant that if Rob was going to find out what was going on, he had to wear cuffs and like it.

Lafferty, his lawyer, seemed to know his business and was reasonably optimistic about Rob's chances of beating the charges. However, he was very much a nine-to-five sort of guy, and he wasn't due to come back and see Rob until Monday at the earliest. So either something serious had come up or Rob's visitor was someone else altogether.

Which meant that something out of the ordinary was happening.

Lieutenant Calvert. It's got to be.

As the cuffs closed around his wrists with the crisp click-click-click of metal ratcheting into place, he felt a surge of hope. He's gotten something on Snow! I'm getting out of here!

Potter waited for him to pull his hands back, then the door unlocked and opened. As he stepped out of the cell, a firm hand grasped his right bicep, and he knew without looking that the guard had his nightstick in the other hand. If Rob tried anything stupid, things would get very unpleasant for him, very quickly.

"Interview room two," Potter said. Potter's partner, who'd been standing by the doorway silently as Rob came out, nodded. They set off down the corridor, Rob moving between them as a matter of course. Their lack of care factor was absolute: he either went to Interview Two, or he went back in his cell. The only other option was the infirmary, as a patient.

As much as it grated against his personal need for agency, he followed their instructions until they reached Interview Two. The second guard opened the door, and Potter walked him in. There was somebody already there, a man in a suit … but it wasn't Lieutenant Calvert.

The room was all concrete and bad acoustics, with no cameras and no one-way glass. Just a narrow table bolted to the floor, with a chair on either side of it. His visitor was seated in the left-hand chair, so Rob was unceremoniously placed in its mate. The walls were painted the same beige as the rest of the jail, as though even the colour was serving a life sentence.

His cuffs were locked onto the anchor point in the middle of the table, then Potter turned to the supposed lawyer. "Ninety minutes, tops. We'll be checking every thirty minutes. Do not pass the prisoner any contraband items." Basically, as far as Rob understood matters, everything was contraband. "Do not initiate physical contact with the prisoner. If we hear raised voices or other loud noises, we are coming in. Is any of that not understood?"

The visitor's suit was high-quality, with tiny insignias on the tie that might have indicated some prestigious institute of higher learning. He wore it like a second skin, his whole attitude indicating that he was entirely at home in whatever high-pressure environment he found himself in. Clean-shaven, he kept his dark hair impeccably combed; had it not been for the absolute lack of emotion in his eyes, his expression might have been mistaken for mild politeness. "I understand perfectly, thank you."

"Good." Potter and the other CO left the room; a moment later, the lock clicked solidly behind them.

Rob took a moment to compose himself. He disliked being so far out of his element, but here he was. Next to the visitor's immaculate clothing, his orange coverall was positively drab and disreputable. "Uh … you're not my lawyer … right?"

"As of twenty-four hours ago, I am indeed your lawyer." The visitor smiled, almost shark-like. "Richard Carlisle. Pleased to meet you. I'd shake hands, but rules are rules."

"… okay." Rob's wheels were still spinning as he tried to catch up with the new situation. "Why are you my new lawyer? Lafferty seemed to have my case well in hand."

Carlisle's smile widened fractionally. "Mr Lafferty was optimistic enough to think he could throw enough chaff at a grand jury that they would be convinced to give you the benefit of the doubt. Except that the evidence he hoped to gain for your side wouldn't be nearly as convincing as he thinks it is."

Rob shook his head urgently. "But Snow can't get to everyone in the judiciary, surely. Someone's got to see the truth!"

"Mr Gordon." Somewhere along the line, Carlisle had lost his friendly air, and his smile now looked a good deal more shark-like. "Allow me to lay my cards on the table. We have a mutual friend who does not wish for any of the names to come out that you might attempt to use to exonerate yourself. Least of all, his. Not only would this cause him personal embarrassment, but you will almost certainly lose. That's ten to fifteen years in Federal incarceration, twenty if the judge wants to throw the PRT a bone." He raised a cultured eyebrow. "That's in medium security. All it would take is one paperwork error to put you in gen pop, where anyone could find out that you used to be PRT."

The implied threat floated in the air between them. Rob felt his throat tighten. He was good at taking care of himself, or so he figured, but fifteen years of watching his back, with all hands turned against him, would simply not be feasible. What came out through those gates, if he came out at all, would not be remotely close to the same man who went in.

"And the alternative?" While he didn't want to ask the question, Carlisle was all but waving a lit-up sign showing the way.

As if a switch had been flipped, the friendliness was back. "You plead out. Maybe work in a little diminished responsibility due to trauma from being Mastered and so abruptly dismissed from the PRT. Three years tops in a minimum-security facility, among white-collar offenders and other low-risk inmates. Zero paperwork errors. You don't drop any names to any listening ears, especially anything connected to our mutual friend, don't start any tell-all memoirs, and there'll be a job waiting for you when you come out the other side."

And there it was, in black and white. His future had been planned out for him, at least for the next three years. Lieutenant Calvert was either unwilling or unable to expend the resources to get him free and clear, so he was going to prison.

"And Snow?" Again, he had to ask.

Carlisle shrugged, his care factor clearly minimal. "Captain Snow's fate is not within my purview. If she's indeed breaking the rules, then you may take solace in the fact that she'll be sitting where you are someday. But with all your efforts, you were unable to dig up even a single teaspoon of dirt to use against her, so cease attempting to do so." With the last five words, he tapped his fingernail on the table in time with the syllables. "Attend to your own affairs. Once I announce that you intend to plead out, things will move quickly. The PRT is anxious for this matter to be over and done with quietly. If you push back against that, any chance of a plea deal might vanish altogether. Do you understand me?"

"Yeah. I get it." Rob nodded. The message was clear. Shut up and do your time.

"Good." Carlisle beamed at Rob, an expression that reached no higher than his cheekbones. "I'm so glad we were able to reach an agreement." Getting up from his chair, he knocked on the door. "We're done here, thank you."

Rob didn't speak then, or when he was being escorted back to his cell. Even after the door clanged shut behind him, he merely sat on his bunk and stared at the far wall.

The visit from Carlisle—if that was even the man's name—had been one hell of a wake-up call. In hindsight, he had to admit to himself that Lafferty probably wouldn't have been able to get all the charges dismissed. And if Snow managed to gin up more and add them to the list, he would've been screwed, nine ways from Sunday.

Pleading guilty for a lesser sentence, as unpalatable as it was, seemed the only viable option. He wasn't beating the charges. Prison time was looming on his horizon.

But one thing was for certain.

When I get out of here, Snow, we're going to have a reckoning.

-ooo-​

Monday, January 8, 1997
Cauldron Base

Jacob "Jack Slash" Black

Such was the preternatural stillness permeating his cell, Jacob could literally hear the crackle as the electronic display behind the bulletproof Perspex screen came to life. Both were as starkly functional as everything else in the cell, and just as impossible to break or even chip off a shard. He knew; he'd tried.

His power could do a lot with a shard of Perspex.

He wasn't sure what the wall, floor and ceiling were composed of, either. They looked and felt like ceramic, but betrayed no fracture points that he could take advantage of. It was threatening to put a severe dent in his self-confidence.

It had been so much easier the last time.

-ooo-​

A year or so ago, he had ventured into a small town without the rest of the Nine, secure in his power and his anonymity. It had been his intent to scout the locale (and, it had to be admitted, indulge in a little private gloating before the doom descended on them all), but things had gone badly wrong. He would never quite be sure what had triggered the local lout in the bar to challenge him to a fight; when he tried to pull out his knife, it was slapped from his hand, and he'd been comprehensively beaten to a pulp.

Events went from bad to worse when it transpired that one of the young thugs was the son of the local sheriff, who promptly tossed him in a cell for starting the fight and threatening the other young men with a knife. The most aggravating aspect of all this, as far as he was concerned, was the fact that they had no idea who he really was. He'd been frisked before going into the cell, but only in the most slapdash manner, entirely missing the cut-throat razor strapped to his ankle. His wallet, of course, ended up in the sheriff's possession, and his cash went into the sheriff's pocket.

Escape was simplicity itself; within the hour, the sheriff and his deputy lay dead in the jail, and Jacob was on his way back to the Nine. A day later, the town had been razed to the ground, the last to die being the young hooligans who had picked the fight and beaten him senseless. Actions, after all, had consequences.

The experience had left him with a certain amount of caution about going anywhere without the Nine; paradoxically, it had also inflated his self-esteem where it came to escaping from imprisonment. No jail constructed by the hand of man, he'd declared that day, could hold Jack Slash if he did not wish to be held.

And yet, nearly six months since his capture (if the day/night schedule of the lighting was to be trusted), here he was, still incarcerated.

It was almost enough to make a man start doubting himself.

-ooo-​

At the first crackle, he rolled over on his bunk and sat up. His hands were folded innocuously in his lap, his right thumbnail hidden from view. This was because he was working to file that nail to an edge, as close to razor-sharp as he could get it, using whatever abrasive surfaces he could find. And he had a lot of time on his hands.

While he had yet to speak to anyone face to face over the weeks and months of his captivity, it would happen sooner or later. And when it did, they would die, and he'd be able to make good on his boast.

Nobody holds Jack Slash.

But nothing of this showed on his face or in his manner as he faced up to the display. "Good afternoon. Is this to be the day that I find out precisely who is holding me without benefit of counsel or appeal? Or are you once again going to try to delve into my headspace without so much as the offer of some quid pro quo?"

-ooo-​

The woman known as Doctor Mother spoke firmly into the microphone, aware that her words would be translated into text by Hero's algorithms, marching across the screen of Jack Slash's electronic display. "You are in no position to make demands. There is nothing you can do or say that will induce us to release you. However, if you cooperate, I will allow you to view current events on your screen."

CURRENT EVENTS? His reply formed on her screen; although she could hear none of it, the subsidiary screen showing a visual of his cell showed his eye-roll quite well. BORING. HOW ABOUT ENTERTAINMENT? MUSIC? MOVIES? There was a very brief pause. BOOKS?

"Nice try." She didn't know how accurate the pop-culture concept of folding paper to form a blade was, but she didn't want to bet that he hadn't brushed up on it just in case. "You're not getting books. Music and movies are a possibility, but once again, you need to cooperate with us on this. You don't get it for free."

HMM. ACTUALLY, TALKING ABOUT CURRENT EVENTS. I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO BREED AND CRIMSON, BUT WHAT ABOUT SCREAMER? WHY DIDN'T SHE INTERVENE WITH MY CAPTURE?

Doctor Mother drew a deep breath and glanced around. Technically she wasn't supposed to be talking to Jack Slash without one of the others knowing about it, but the opportunities were few and far between. The last conversation, a couple of weeks ago, had been cut short due to an issue cropping up; as she saw it, this was merely a continuation. Also, everyone was busy at that exact moment, so there was nobody to tell her not to give Slash the information.

If it provoked a reaction, she decided, it would be worth it.

"She was already dead." Let him chew on that one. "Captain Snow stabbed her in the heart with a poisoned knitting needle. Then she killed the rest of your minions, captured you, and handed you over to us."

He sat back on his bunk at that, surprise briefly evident on his face. OKAY, THAT'S BALLSY, I'LL GIVE HER THAT. WHO IS THIS CAPTAIN SNOW, ANYWAY? SOME KIND OF SPECIAL-OPS HOTSHOT? FROM THE WAY SHE TOOK ME DOWN, SHE'S VERY GOOD AT WHAT SHE DOES.

Doctor Mother briefly gritted her teeth at the praise. "She's a loose cannon, is what she is. She refuses any kind of oversight, and goes ahead with her own plans without considering the consequences. Eidolon's already dead because of her."

He leaned forward again, his expression intent. REALLY? I WAS SURE I'D HEARD THAT THE BEHEMOTH WAS THE ONE WHO KILLED EIDOLON. HOW DOES THIS CAPTAIN SNOW FACTOR INTO HIS DEATH?

"She's an analyst in the PRT." Doctor Mother didn't care anymore about what she told Slash. Just having a sympathetic ear was worth all the shit Alexandria would give her if she found out. "A few days before the attack, she gave a briefing where she strongly implied that a powerful hero was behind the attacks …"

-ooo-​

Sunday, March 2, 1997
Yokohama, Japan

Contessa

Fortuna moved forward into the fight. Except that it wouldn't really be a fight. The seven juvenile gangsters who had thought to interrupt Doctor Mother's deal with the Chinese 'businessmen' would be intercepted, and they would die.

Two of them were parahumans, but that didn't matter. She knew exactly how to deflect their attacks and beat them anyway. However, there was one thing that she had to keep in mind: a message from Captain Taylor Snow, via Ruth Goldstein.

The tall half-Chinese one needs to die quickly, not slowly.

Ruth hadn't been certain about the reasoning behind the message, though she'd shared her suspicions with Fortuna. In the future that once was, there would have been an infamous Asian gang leader called Lung, whose main claim to fame was that the more he fought, the bigger and stronger he got. Before Ruth was born, he'd gone toe-to-toe with the Endbringer called Leviathan—which would hopefully never even exist in the current timeline—and survived, then gone on to establish a modest criminal empire in Snow's hometown of Brockton Bay.

Fortuna had connected the remainder of the dots readily enough. Snow neither wanted nor needed Lung's presence within the Brockton Bay underworld scene, so she was removing him as a factor before he ever came to power. It was both pragmatic and ruthless, in a way that Fortuna had to admire.

More to the point, considering that Snow had already removed the Behemoth from the equation, thus making Fortuna's job that much easier, the return favour was not particularly onerous. And then, of course, there was the other factor.

It's preferable that she considers us allies, or at least useful tools. Having her as an enemy would be … problematic.

As the seven interlopers began their massed charge, she danced between the raindrops. No single movement had the force to incapacitate, but she hurt them, put them off balance, took their weapons away. Then the tall half-Chinese one was looming in front of her.

She could tell he'd realised the folly of pressing the attack, but pride kept him moving forward. That actually made him more dangerous than the others; they might break and flee in a moment of fear, but he already knew they were outmatched and was coming on anyway.

So instead of taking him in the diaphragm, the edge of her foot caught him in the throat, crushing his larynx. The follow-up kick found his diaphragm, paralysing it; as he bent over from the blow, she shoved him to the ground. The other young thug's pistol was in her hand by that point, and she fired a single shot into the back of his head.

She kept an eye on his body as she brought down the rest of the wannabe gangsters, forcing white powder into their mouths and driving bone splinters into their brains. Although they died more slowly than he had, they died all the same. Nobody started breathing again, nobody regenerated their injuries, and nobody got up.

Mission accomplished.

She wasn't quite sure what effect this would have on the future, but as far as she was concerned, the fewer regenerating rage monsters she had to Path around, the better.

-ooo-​

Thursday Evening, June 19, 1997
Hebert Household Back Yard

Danny Hebert

"Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Tyler, happy birthday to you!"

Danny had to grin as the kids attacked the tune with gleeful chaos. Anne Barnes, at eight, could follow along pretty well (if very enthusiastically), while her sister Emma waved her arms in her high chair and babbled loudly. Alec's second birthday had only been five months ago, so he knew most of the words, but they tended to get jumbled up when he got excited. And Dragon (Danny wasn't quite sure how old she was, but she was an amazing babysitter) sang with perfect timing and every evidence of enjoyment.

The singing broke down into cheers and laughter, punctuated by Andrea (of course) blowing into a party noisemaker like a raucous steam whistle. Danny's mother started at the noise and gave her a moderate glare, only for Andrea to grin and hand her another one. Dorothy paused, looked around at everyone, then deliberately raised it to her lips and blew a blast in counterpoint.

"Here, give me one of those!" Surprised, Danny realised it was his mother-in-law who had spoken. Giving Dorothy a defiant 'you don't get to have all the fun' look, Gram held out her hand to Andrea, who cheerfully slapped a third noisemaker into it. Danny wasn't sure where Tyler got his from, though he strongly suspected Andrea of pulling some sleight of hand. By the time Anne-Rose descended the back steps with the cake, all four were enthusiastically engaged in a war of sound.

"Oh, my," Anne-Rose said when they all ran out of breath at the same time. "Maybe I should come back with this later?" She hefted the cake for emphasis, smiling more than a little mischievously.

"Nope!" Danny might have been the first to say it, but he certainly wasn't the last. Protests arose from all the people around the table, with Tyler's "Mommyyy!" rising highest of all.

Anne-Rose's smile widened. "Well, then, it looks like we're having cake. Also, surprise guests." Behind her in the doorway appeared Taylor and then Kinsey, both in civilian attire. For Taylor, this kind of worked (offset only by her close-cut hair), but Danny still thought Kinsey would look like a soldier no matter what. Kinsey was carrying a large flat box, wrapped in gaudy paper.

"Aun'Taylor!" Alec slid down from his booster seat and ran across to give her a hug.

Leaning down, she scooped him up and swung him around with a grunt of exertion that had to be mostly put on for show. "Wow, you're getting big! What are you feeding him, Andrea? Lead bricks?"

"Probably." Andrea herself got up and went over to give Taylor a hug and a quick kiss. "He just inhales everything I put in front of him. Hey, Jim. She been behaving?"

Kinsey leaned the parcel against his leg so he could give her a hug as well. "The Captain has managed to not get herself shot, stabbed or otherwise injured since the last time we saw each other, so I'll count that as a 'yes'."

From anyone else, Danny would've taken that as a joke. Having some awareness of what Taylor had been up to over the last few years, and what had happened to her as a result, he knew damn well it wasn't. Getting up himself, he went over to Taylor and gave her a hug, then shook hands with Kinsey. "It's good to hear that, and amazing to see you both. Leave the present on the porch, and come sit down. We've got spare chairs around here somewhere."

"I'm just glad you made it here on the day." Anne-Rose carefully conveyed the cake over to the table, and set it down in a spot that had been hastily cleared for it. "Did your boss have any problems with you showing up?"

"Oh, we were already due in Boston for a totally unrelated matter, so he okayed the side trip." Taylor paused at Dorothy's chair so she could lean down and give her a hug. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine, dear." Danny's mother exchanged cheek-kisses with her. "It's a little hectic with a growing boy underfoot all the time, but we're managing." Her fond smile gave the lie to the faux complaint. "It is good to see you again, dear."

"Yeah, well, I missed his first birthday, but I sure as heck wasn't going to miss this one." Taylor clasped Gladys' hand on the way past, squeezed Dragon's shoulder, then leaned down to give Tyler a kiss on the top of the head. "And how's the birthday boy going? Having a good day?"

Danny watched as his son looked up at Taylor, wide-eyed; for most of the people at the table, it was a perfectly normal interaction, but for a chosen few it was something else altogether. Taylor was apparently getting an absolute kick out of interacting with her alt-timeline self, while Tyler clearly had no idea how to react. "Uhhh …"

"Aun'Taylor," Alec explained authoritatively as Dragon helped him back up into his booster seat. "She's nice."

"Aun'Taylor?" Tyler ventured. "Auntie Taylor?"

Danny caught Dragon's muttered, "Or 'Captain Snow', but okay."

So did Taylor, because she grinned. "Sure, I'm your Auntie Taylor. And this is Kinsey." She gestured toward the burly sergeant.

"Tyler," Kinsey acknowledged. "Happy birthday."

"And with that," announced Andrea, "let's light the candles. Because we can't have cake until the candles are blown out, and Tyler can't blow out the candles until we light them. And I want some cake, darn it!"

"I've got a lighter," offered Franklin. Digging it out of his pocket, he handed it over to Danny.

"Thanks, man." Half-standing, Danny flicked the wheel and ignited a small flame; solemnly, he carried out the minor ritual of lighting the candles while everyone held their breath. Once they were both burning steadily, he made way for Tyler. "Okay, son. All yours. Blow hard, now."

Having been coached beforehand on the intricacies of blowing out birthday candles, Tyler took a deep breath and blew mightily. The first one was snuffed out immediately, but he was almost out of breath by the time the second one flickered and died; Danny wasn't certain if it was his effort or a passing breeze that had done the job, but nobody really cared. A little red in the face from the effort, Tyler sat back to enjoy the cheering and clapping from his victory over the flames.

The dismantling of the cake followed, with each person receiving a slice as was right and proper. Even little Emma got a tiny piece that she happily stuffed into her mouth, smearing icing over her face in the process. Zoe Barnes, having come well equipped with wipes and cloths, managed to contain most of the mess, but it was definitely an ongoing effort.

Once Danny had received his slice on a paper plate, he caught Taylor's eye. "Can I ask you something?"

She nodded, of course, and stood up. "Sure. This about Rob Gordon?"

"Ah." Gladys also got up from her chair. "I'll be back in a moment, Franklin." She joined Danny and Taylor as they strolled a few yards away from the table. Andrea, leaving Alec in Dragon's capable hands, caught up with them a moment later.

"Yeah, it's about him." Danny took a deep breath. "You said he was going to trial, so we had to watch out for people trying to dig up dirt about you. But that never happened."

"Yeah," agreed Gladys. "I got a phone call from someone who wanted to do a whole sit-down interview about what he did, but they never followed up. It just … went away."

Andrea set her jaw, looking adorably fierce. "I had a whole thing lined up for anyone who tried to come at me about you. But like Danny said, it never happened."

"Yeah." Taylor nodded. "He pled out. Took a deal for a reduced sentence. My guess is, whoever was pulling his strings decided to cut their losses and told him to take it on the chin. He'll be out in three years or so."

Danny frowned, worried. "And what about this mysterious boss? Should we be concerned about him?"

"Not so far." Taylor shook her head. "Right now, he'll be playing it low-key, because Rob was one of his major pieces on the board. I can't act against him directly, but I'm keeping tabs on him. If he makes a move, I'll be ready."

"Okay, good." Andrea shook her head. "Is this what people in those spy movies feel like all the time?"

"Probably." Gladys chuckled ruefully. "In all the time I've known you, Taylor, I may have had my doubts in the moment, but I've never regretted trusting you."

"Same here." Danny came to a decision. "Not to change the subject, but what did you get Tyler?"

Andrea pounced on the subject. "I know, right? I've been trying to figure it out since you guys walked in."

Taylor grinned. "So, there's this bicycle company in Germany that's brought out something called Like-a-Bike. It's basically a kid-sized bicycle, but without pedals or gears. Foot-powered, so he can learn the basics before he graduates to the real thing. Kinsey heard about it, and I was able to pull a few strings and get one shipped over. Some assembly required."

"Like-a-Bike, huh?" Andrea looked thoughtful. "I might just get one for Alec. He'll totally love taking it to the park."

"Huh," mused Gladys. "What'll they think of next?" She nodded to Taylor. "Thanks for the update about that asshole. Is it really true you can get someone beaten up inside for a pack of cigarettes?"

Taylor smiled lazily. "You don't even need the smokes if you spread the rumour that he got beaten up by a schoolteacher."

Danny blinked. "You didn't."

Andrea was grinning all over her face by now. "You did. Tell me you did."

The smile became a smirk. "Mayyyybe."

Danny was still laughing when he got back to the table.

-ooo-​

September 23, 1997
Boston, Massachusetts

Rachel Lindt (age 4)

Mr Silly was arguing with Princess Sparkle over who had eaten the last cookie. Rachel thought it was dumb, because anyone could see that Ruff Ruff had done it. And Mr Silly should know that because even though he was missing an ear and an eye, he was still an effalant and effalants were the smartest animals ever.

"Rachel!"

She looked up from her tea party. Each of her toys had a little teacup in front of them, with a pink plastic teapot full of pretend tea in the middle, along with a plate of pretend cookies. "Yes, Mommy?" she called back.

"Rachel, I'm going out for a little while. I might be late getting back. You can be a good girl, can't you?" Normally when she said this, she sounded angry, like when she caught Rachel taking money from her purse to buy food. But this time, she sounded happy.

"Yes, Mommy." Rachel was going to be a good girl and not make a mess. She knew how to make a sammich and how to get water at the sink. She was a big girl now.

"Good." The front door clicked shut.

Rachel went back to playing with her toys. Mr Silly finally realised that Ruff Ruff had eaten the last cookie. Ruff Ruff was a doggie, and doggies were the bestest boys, but doggies got hungry too. So Mr Silly and Princess Sparkle told him to say he was sorry, and he said it, and everything was good now.

All the talk of cookies had made Rachel feel hungry, so she went into the kitchen. There were no cookies, but there was some bread in the fridge, and some peanut butter, and some butter. Rachel fetched a chair and pushed it up to the counter, and got a knife out of the drawer. Mommy had told her never to touch the knives because you could cut yourself, but Rachel knew some knives were cutty and some weren't, and she got one of the not-cutty ones.

There wasn't much butter and there wasn't much peanut butter either, but she carefully made her sammich, then put the butter and peanut butter back in the fridge. She didn't want Mommy knowing that she'd used a knife, even a not-cutty one, so she washed it and dried it and put it back in the drawer. Then she went and sat at the table, because that was where you sat if you were eating not-pretend food, and ate her sammich.

When it got dark, Rachel turned on the lights so that when Mommy came home she wouldn't be in the dark. There was still butter and peanut butter in the fridge, but no more bread. She looked in the cupboards and found a tin of peaches and a bag of rice.

Making rice was a Mommy thing, not a Rachel thing, so she put the rice back. But she knew where the can opener was, so she sat on the floor with the can and grunted and strained and twisted the little butterfly thing until her fingers hurt, and opened it a little bit. It wasn't enough to get the bits of peach out, and the edges looked real cutty, so she poured the juice into a glass and drank that. It wasn't as good as eating peaches would be, but it was what she had.

Besides, Mommy would be home in the morning.

She was hungry most of the night, and drinking water only helped a little bit. When she went to sleep, she spent all night running down long hallways, trying to catch up with Mommy, but Mommy never stopped, no matter how loud she called out. She was still tired in the morning when she woke up, like she'd really been running.

When she realised it was morning, she jumped out of bed and ran to Mommy's room. Mommy would be home now, and Rachel would be able to have breakfast. But the lights were still on, and Mommy wasn't in bed. Mommy wasn't in the kitchen either, or the living room, or even the bathroom.

Mommy wasn't anywhere.

Rachel thought Mommy might have bought food and left it in the fridge before she went out again. But there was no food in the fridge either, just the can of peaches that she hadn't been able to open. She tried to open it more with a not-cutty knife, but she cut her finger a little bit on the edge of the can, so she put the can back in the fridge and went to the bathroom and got a Band-Aid and put it on her finger.

Then she pushed the chair up against the sink and got herself some water. After a while, she went and got the can of peaches and put the not-cutty knife into the can and cut up the peaches as much as she could. Then she put water in the can and poured it out into a cup. Little tiny bits of peach came out, and the water tasted like peach and she drank it.

After that, she went back into Mommy's room. Sometimes when she'd been hungry before, she'd taken money from Mommy's purse and gone to the shop on the corner and bought food. Maybe Mommy left money in her room that she could buy food with.

She looked everywhere in the room that money could be, but there was nothing there. Rachel even got down and looked under her bed and her dresser to see if she'd dropped any coins. There was no money, just a lot of dust that started Rachel sneezing.

When she got hungry again, she went and got the can of peaches again and drank some more peach water. Then she put the can back in the fridge and moved a chair to right in front of the door so when Mommy came in, Rachel could yell at her for frightening her.

She sat in the chair until it got dark again.

The door never opened.

Rachel drank some more peach water and left the lights on so Mommy would not be in the dark when she came home. Then she had a bath and put on her pyjamas and cleaned her teeth, so Mommy would know she'd been a good girl when she got home. She'd forgotten last night, and she wondered if Mommy had known, and that's why she hadn't come home.

Trying to ignore the rumbly feeling in her tummy, Rachel went to bed, leaving her bedroom door wide open so she'd know when Mommy came home.

This time she dreamed about all the yummy food in the world up on a high table, but all the chairs she could find were too short.

When Rachel woke up in the morning, she knew Mommy wasn't there. The lights were still on, and she'd left the can of peaches on the counter, and flies were buzzing in and out of it. They were probably eating the bits of peach that she hadn't eaten yet.

Mommy had taught her that food with flies on it was bad for her, so she put the can in the trash. Her tummy rumbled a lot, but even though she looked really hard in the fridge and the cupboards, there wasn't any food, except for the rice. Rachel had never made rice, so she put it away again and took the butter and peanut butter out of the fridge and scraped it all clean with a spoon. It wasn't much, but she felt a bit less hungry after.

Rachel had been playing with her toys when Mommy left, so she went and started playing with them again. Maybe Mommy would come home if she did that. She played for hours, doing all the voices, listening for Mommy's key in the door, but nothing happened.

When it got dark again, Rachel was feeling really hungry, so she opened the bag of rice and put a big handful in her mouth. But it was dry and hard and too crunchy to eat. She drank lots of water to help her eat it, but she didn't feel any better after.

She didn't have a bath this time, because Mommy wasn't there to tell her to have one. She ran into Mommy's room and pulled all the sheets off the bed and jumped up and down on the mattress, yelling at Mommy to come home. Every other time she'd jumped on the bed, Mommy had yelled at her. She even kicked the pillow across the room.

But Mommy didn't come home. Someone banged on the wall and yelled at her to shut up.

Rachel was feeling too hungry to jump on the bed for long, so she went and had another drink of water, then went to bed. She left the lights on because she didn't want to go out into the apartment and see that Mommy wasn't there. Surely Mommy would be home in the morning.

She wasn't.

Rachel didn't really sleep that night. Her tummy kept waking her up.

When she got up, her tummy was so empty it was hurting. She went and drank some water, then looked in the fridge and cupboards again for food. There was only rice, and uncooked rice was yucky.

She looked all through the living room for any money under chairs or in beside cushions, but there was none. Then she went back into the kitchen and looked at the bag of rice. When Mommy cooked it, it was nice. But Mommy wasn't here to cook it.

Rachel was really, really hungry.

She sat down on the floor and closed her eyes, trying to remember how Mommy cooked the rice. It wasn't in the oven, and it wasn't in a frying pan. Maybe a saucepan? Rachel looked in the cupboards and found one that looked the same as what she remembered.

She looked hard at the bag. She couldn't read yet, but there were little pictures showing a lady putting water in the saucepan, then putting the saucepan on top of the stove. She poured a lot of rice in the saucepan, then stood on a chair to put water in the saucepan.

When Mommy got home, she was going to be so surprised to find out that Rachel could cook rice all by herself!

Moving the chair to the stove, she climbed up again. She put the saucepan on one of the dark round things, then turned the knob on the front of the stove. A little red light turned on, which Rachel thought meant that it was getting hot and was going to cook the rice for her.

But it was taking so long. She moved the chair and got a glass of water, then sat on the chair watching the saucepan as she drank it. Mommy would have known how long to cook rice for.

She was really, really hungry by now, and she could feel herself getting weaker. Mommy really should have been home by now. Rachel could almost taste the cooked rice.

She got off the chair and shoved it back to in front of the stove. As she climbed up, she slipped. Mommy had always told her to never ever touch the stove top, because it might be hot, so instead she grabbed the saucepan handle.

The saucepan tipped, and hot water went all over her arm.

It hurt.

Rachel fell back on the floor, in a mess of hot water and rice, and wailed.

Footsteps sounded in the kitchen, and two people came in, a woman and a man. The woman wasn't Mommy, but from the way she picked Rachel up and comforted her, she was someone's mommy. The woman took her straight to the sink and ran cold water over her arm and it stopped hurting. Rachel stopped crying.

"Hi, Rachel," said the woman. "We're here to take care of you. Would you like something to eat and drink?" She had a granola bar in her hand, and she gave it to Rachel. Rachel ate it all up straight away. She was really hungry.

The big man—he looked angry, but Rachel didn't think he was mad at her—handed the woman a juice pack, to give to her. Rachel drank that too, and it tasted really yummy. Her tummy wasn't rumbling anymore. By now, the woman was sitting on the sofa, with Rachel on her lap.

"Who are you?" asked Rachel.

The woman smiled. "My name's Taylor, and I'm here to take you to your new mommy."

That didn't sound right. "I a'ready have a mommy."

Taylor's smile looked sad now. "Your mommy had to go away. She asked us to help you. I have a friend, a very nice lady, called Andrea, who will be your new mommy. And you'll have a big sister and a little brother, and they'll all be nice to you."

This was all getting too much for Rachel. "M-Mommy doesn't want me?" Her eyes filled with tears. She knew it. She'd been bad, and Mommy had gone away.

Taylor hugged her tightly. "She had to go and do something very important. That's why she sent us to help you."

Rachel wasn't totally convinced, but Taylor and the big man had food, and she was still hungry. "C'n I have …"

"Another bar? Sure." Taylor unwrapped it and gave it to her. Rachel ate it carefully. It was just as good as the first one.

"C'n I take Mr Silly an' Princess Sparkle an' Ruff Ruff with me?" If she couldn't take her toys …

Taylor nodded. "Kinsey is packing up your toys and your clothes now. He's really good at packing."

By the time they left the apartment, Kinsey had mopped up the mess, turned the stove off, and switched the lights off. He even closed the front door, then picked up Rachel's little suitcase. He didn't talk much, but Rachel liked him anyway.

"Where's Mama Andr'a?" asked Rachel as they went down the stairs. Taylor had given her another food bar. "Is she far away?"

"She'll be meeting us outside." Taylor smiled at her. "Everything's going to be alright."

And for the first time since Mommy hadn't come home on that first day, Rachel thought it might be true.

-ooo-​

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT (Intelligence)

Andrea met us in the parking lot. As she got out of her car, I could see Alec in his toddler seat, next to Dragon. Her expression softened with concern as she reached for Rachel. "Aww, aren't you a little cutie?"

Rachel seemed okay with being handed over, not least because Andrea had a juice pack for her. From the way she wrapped her arm around Andrea's neck, she was also starved for attention. "Are you Mama Andr'a?"

"If you want me to be, sweetie, yes." As Kinsey and I watched, Andrea carefully put Rachel in the car seat that had been prepared for her. "We'll be going for a fun drive to your new home. Dragon will be riding in back to make sure that you're okay." She glanced over her shoulder at me. "I made sure to pack plenty of kiddie snacks. Alec taught me that one, early on."

Kinsey finally voiced what was on his mind. "Andrea … are you certain you're up for this? You already have two children to take care of."

Andrea finished strapping Rachel in, then gave her a kiss on the cheek. Standing up and gently closing the car door, she turned to us. "Jim, seriously, wow. Since when have you ever known me to take on something I couldn't handle? Anyway, Dragon's more of an adult than most kids her age. She's wonderful with Alec, and I'm pretty sure we can take care of Rachel between us."

"She is quite mature, yes." Kinsey nodded in reluctant agreement. "Okay, yes, I withdraw my objection."

After giving him a hug, she turned to me for a hug and kiss. It was good to hold her, even if it was just for a little bit. "When she gets older, she might like a dog," I suggested.

"I'll totally keep that in mind." She gave me a grin. "You take care of yourself. I've got this."

"So I see." I let go of her and watched her get in the car. Dragon leaned forward between the seats and gave us a wave, which Kinsey and I returned. Then Andrea started the car and drove off. The last I saw of them was Alec waving at us out the window.

We got in our hire car and started back toward the Boston PRT building. I was already composing the report in my mind about the strengths and dispositions of the Boston supervillain gangs that this outing had supposedly given me information about. Director Torrance would be happy to get that.

"Ma'am." Kinsey didn't look around, but that didn't mean he had nothing to say. "I understand this is one of your deniable missions, but am I permitted to ask a few questions?"

"Ask away." I relaxed back into my seat. "I might even answer them."

He nodded once, as if to himself. "Her mother?"

"Went to Atlantic City to gamble. Lost all her money on the first night, then got picked up for soliciting, trying to score gas money. Currently warming a cell, waiting for her court date. She hasn't told them she's got a child." I reeled off the facts dispassionately. According to Lisa, the woman had intended to stay in Atlantic City until she'd made her fortune, no matter how long it took. And no matter how long she had to leave her daughter in that little roach motel of an apartment. In my timeline, she hadn't even tried to retain custody of Rachel after the fact.

"I see." He frowned slightly as he puzzled over the next question. "Why her, exactly? There must be a thousand children every day who need assistance like this. Why did we need to be in Boston, and pick the lock on that particular apartment, at the very moment that she needed us?"

I glanced over at him. "Because my analysis says that she's important, somehow. It could be that she's got the potential to trigger with powers, and we do not want a kid of that age, who's been starving for days, to end up with commensurate powers. So, we give her a good home." I was dancing right on the knife edge between truth and lies, here. "Was that it?"

"Actually, ma'am, I have one more question. Where did you learn to pick locks?"

This time, I chuckled. "Andrea taught me."

"Now that, ma'am, I can totally believe."

Which only proved my personal suspicion that he didn't take everything I told him at face value.

End of Part 8-10​

 

[woodzrox]

I really hope Hero gets the idea/told to check the logs on Jack's prison communicator before Doctor Mother can make things more worse (as per her usual). Reading Rachel's perspective hurt so I'm glad it didn't last long, you are a really excellent writer. Thanks for the chapter.

 

[Wivk]

If you put them into a good home they will have a support network they can rely on and learn good coping skills. The shards will not pick someone like that to be a host. They want people without coping skills and support networks so the answer to every situation is always use magical powers and never talk it out or get help from others.

 

[Gaemnomut]

Doc Mom, what are you dooooiiiing?

And yeah, that Rachel part was painful.

Great update, thanks!

 

[silentorphan]

I'm a little surprised Fortuna's PtV surrounding Jack Slash (or, alternately, her Path to keeping Taylor Snow safe) doesn't have her storming back to base and shooting Doctor Mother in the face herself, rather than leaving that to Taylor.

 

[Zackarix]

How do I reach through the screen and give Rachel a big hug?

 

[Rukatin]

Okay midway through reading the Rachel segment I had to stop because I was tearing up so bad. Props to you Ack, you made me cry.

 

[Ack]

I'm a little surprised Fortuna's PtV surrounding Jack Slash (or, alternately, her Path to keeping Taylor Snow safe) doesn't have her storming back to base and shooting Doctor Mother in the face herself, rather than leaving that to Taylor.

Click to shrink...

Broadcast has arranged for Contessa to be distracted.

How do I reach through the screen and give Rachel a big hug?

Click to shrink...

Your request has been passed on to Andrea, and she will carry it out for you.

Okay midway through reading the Rachel segment I had to stop because I was tearing up so bad. Props to you Ack, you made me cry.

Click to shrink...

Thank you. That means I got it right.

 

[Priapus]

Mr Silly was arguing with Princess Sparkle over who had eaten the last cookie. Rachel thought it was dumb, because anyone could see that Ruff Ruff had done it. And Mr Silly should know that because even though he was missing an ear and an eye, he was still an effalant and effalants were the smartest animals ever.

Click to shrink...

adorable

Then she had a bath and put on her pyjamas and cleaned her teeth, so Mommy would know she'd been a good girl when she got home. She'd forgotten last night, and she wondered if Mommy had known, and that's why she hadn't come home.

Click to shrink...

heartbreaking

Which only proved my personal suspicion that he didn't take everything I told him at face value.

Click to shrink...

which makes sense, because she's a peculiar existence who constantly does things for reasons that are completely obtuse to observers.

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 9-1: Preventative Measures

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

Saturday, June 27, 1998

On the Open Road

Kayden Russel, Age 16

The afternoon sun was warm on her skin. Kayden pressed a little harder on the accelerator and grinned in exhilaration as the engine of the Honda Civic growled in response; the car shot forward down the highway. She'd been dropping hints to her parents for ages that she wanted a car for her birthday, and they'd finally delivered. The endless hours of training and testing to get her license were paying off. When she woke up just that morning and looked out the window to see the cherry-red Civic sitting in the driveway, her shriek had set the neighbours' dogs barking.

The rest of the morning had passed by in a blur. There'd been other presents, sure, but the only one she really cared about was parked outside the house, just waiting for her to take it for a spin. Even family and friends coming over for a party (complete with cake) hadn't dimmed her enthusiasm; as soon as the last ones had said their goodbyes and left, she'd been looking for her shoes.

Be careful, her father had said. Don't drive too fast.

I will, she'd answered. She was a careful driver. He had to know that. He was the one who'd tutored her through the intricacies of the manual gearbox, after all.

Do you want one of us to come with you? her mother had asked. Just in case?

She'd restrained the impulse to roll her eyes. I'm not a kid anymore, Mom. I'm not going to suddenly forget how to drive.

Her father had had one more thing to say. You know what to do if a police officer pulls you over? Because if they see a teenage girl driving a new car, they will pull you over.

Didn't she know it. Kayden was petite at the best of times; at four foot ten, she'd been mistaken for a seventh or eighth grader more than once. If the cops thought she'd boosted the car, they would totally target her.

Stop the car. Apply the parking brake. Switch off the engine. Have licence and registration on the dashboard. Hands on the steering wheel, in plain view. Don't sass them. Be polite. Explain that it's my birthday, and the car is my present. She'd rattled off the advice he'd given her, trying not to sound like a smartass.

He'd nodded. That's correct. But don't volunteer the information. They're looking for that. People with guilty consciences volunteer information, to try to build an alibi. If they ask you, tell them. If, God forbid, they take you in and won't listen to your side, don't fight it. Nobody ever argued themselves out of a court date, but many people have argued themselves into one. Just go with them, and call us as soon as you get the chance.

She'd nodded, knowing the advice wasn't necessary. Not for her. That sort of thing didn't happen to her. Nothing really bad ever happened to her. Her family had money, she went to a good school, got better than average marks, and she was already guaranteed a placement at Brockton Bay College once she finished her senior year.

The world, as an old saying went, was her oyster.

With her shoes on, she'd gone outside and spent a few minutes admiring the car from all angles. It was beautiful, sleek, and hers. Then she'd opened the door and gotten in.

The new-car smell was invigorating, almost intoxicating. She'd spent another minute or two adjusting the seat and mirrors to her personal liking—another issue of being nearly a foot shorter than most of her peers—and admiring the interior. It was roomy, comfortable, and (when she started the engine) powerful.

Her last sight of her parents was them waving to her as she carefully backed out of the driveway. Shifting it into first, she'd cruised slowly out of view before changing up and adding a little more speed.

The thrill of having her own car quickly started to fade when she found herself stopping at red light after red light. Other cars crowded in around her, and she watched the mirrors anxiously. Nothing bumped into her, but she'd known it was only a matter of time.

So, she'd taken US-4 out of town, heading west. No particular destination, just her and the open road. Less traffic to worry about, and no lights to slow her down. She'd seen only one state trooper, and he'd passed her by.

As the speedometer needle crept up the dial and the sun lowered into the west, she felt a rush of glee. Now this was what owning a car was all about.

-ooo-​

Around the Same Time

State Trooper Gavin Temple

The sun was at Gavin's back as he pushed the cruiser at a steady fifty-five along US-4, heading east toward Brockton Bay. It was still early in the shift, and he felt ready for whatever the night might throw at him. Once the sun set all the way, he'd turn around and head west again, covering the same territory but without the glare to worry about.

"Dispatch calling A-seventeen. A-seventeen, you copy?"

Without looking, he keyed the mic in its holder. "A-seventeen copies. Talk to me, Dispatch. Over."

"Dispatch to A-seventeen." The Dispatch operator maintained her clipped professional tone. "Have you seen a cherry-red Accord go past you in the last fifteen minutes?"

He blinked. "Ah, that's a roger, Dispatch. Honda Accord, cherry-red, came past me heading west, about twelve minutes ago. Female driver, white." He recalled registering that she might have been pushing the speed limit a little, but without a definitive radar gun reading, it wouldn't hold up for a ticket. "What's the issue, over?"

"Be advised: we've got a possible 10-25 with that car. Single-vehicle MVC, off-road, occupant trapped. Location's near a large culvert. Investigate and advise, over."

His stomach tensed. Shit. "Copy that. Attending, over." Checking his mirrors, he waited for a van to pass by before throwing the cruiser into a tyre-howling U-turn. The van driver damn near dived all the way off the road when Gavin's lightbar came to life and the siren kicked over, but he whipped past the vehicle without a second glance.

He'd just hit top gear, running Code 3 at a good clip, when a question occurred to him. "A-seventeen to Dispatch. Is the RP still on scene? Can they give any more details, over?"

"Negative, A-seventeen. RP has ended call, over."

"Copy that." Gavin squinted into the sunset glare, trying to remember where the deepest culvert was in the next thirty miles of road. "A-seventeen, out."

-ooo-​

Kayden Russel

Ow. What happened?

Kayden stirred, realising that she was lying at an uncomfortable angle against her door. The car was tilted sideways and backward at the same time. Instinctively, she tried to hit the brakes, but her feet could hardly move. There was something in her eyes; she brought up her right hand—her left was trapped between her and the door—and rubbed at them. It came away wet and sticky, and she recognised the smell of blood.

Her blood.

She forced herself not to freak out but it wasn't easy, especially when she heard the sound of running liquid. Was it water, or was it gasoline?

Is the car going to explode? What happened to me? Where am I?

Even when she got her eyes clear, she could still barely see. It looked like there were tree branches brushing the windshield, and the sky beyond them, darkening.

Is my car in a tree? Why is my car in a tree? How is my car in a tree?

Desperately, she tried to wriggle around so her left hand could reach the door handle. The trickling sound got louder. Her groping fingers finally achieved their goal, but when they tugged on it, nothing happened. The door certainly didn't open.

The window, then.

Fortunately, the electric window switch wasn't far from the door handle. She wriggled her hand into place and pressed it, waiting for the welcome buzz.

Nothing.

She tried again, rocking the switch back and forth in case she'd somehow forgotten which way it went.

The window didn't even twitch.

"No!" she shouted, her own voice startling her. "No! Let me out!"

The window ignored her.

Reaching over with her right hand, she pushed at the window, trying to pull it down. It failed to budge, even a little bit. Then she punched it; that merely served to bruise her knuckles.

She tried the door handle again, just in case it had changed its mind. This was not the case. "Let me out," she whispered. "Please. I just want to go home."

Her cell-phone rang, and relief hit her like a wave. That'll be Dad or Mom, wondering where I am. I can tell them to send help.

But it wasn't in her pocket, or in the centre console. As she twisted her head around, trying to locate it, she finally realised that the sound was coming from the back seat. But when she went to climb back there and retrieve it, she hit the next snag in her plan.

Her legs were pinned.

Either the dashboard had crushed backward or her seat had slammed forward; either way, her body was pinned in her seat by the steering wheel and the dash. No matter how she twisted or wriggled, she couldn't pull herself free.

The cell-phone rang and rang, taunting her with its proximity. She strained to get her right arm back around the seat, to grab it, but she was flailing blindly. Once she thought she'd brushed it with her fingertip, but that only moved it farther away from her.

It rang again. And again. She wrenched and twisted and bruised herself, trying to get back to it, but she was wedged into the front seat as firmly as if her legs were encased in concrete.

By the time the phone stopped ringing, she was sobbing with the effort and the frustration. She subsided into the seat, trying to catch her breath. Calm, she told herself. Calm. Getting upset isn't going to get me out of this. I have to think through this one step at a time.

She remembered watching a guy she'd had a crush on at basketball practice. Tall, blond haired, what was his name? Oh, yeah. Max Anders. He'd always been methodical, very much 'one step at a time'. She'd admired that about him.

Shortly after Max graduated, the rumour had gotten around Winslow that his dad had actually been Allfather, but nobody had seen him since. She wondered if he was a villain now.

I can't be thinking about that now. I have to concentrate on getting out of this!

What even happened, anyway?

She breathed deeply, trying to relax and slow her hammering heartbeat. Gradually, memories began to surface.

The car handled well. Too well, in fact. She felt totally in control, even as her speed crept up past sixty and began encroaching on sixty-five. She was the queen of the road, the mistress of the asphalt.

Her confidence grew to the point that she decided to change radio stations. Something with less old folks' music and more of what she liked. But she didn't know the dashboard layout yet, so she had to take her eyes off the road to see what she was doing. Up ahead, the highway curved to the left, with a bridge over a culvert. This still might have been okay, except that just as she looked back up, there was a deer in the middle of the road.

With a scream, she grabbed the wheel with both hands and tried to swerve. Her foot, at the same time, stabbed at the brake pedal. But she missed and hit the accelerator again, just as the car veered hard right. The guardrail for the bridge loomed in her vision like an oncoming battering ram.

She was vaguely aware of the deer bounding off to the left as she swerved the car even harder to the right; her wheels lost traction and she felt the car swinging wildly out of control, the engine revving like thunder. There was a smashing blow and her airbag went off, hammering her face and chest. Another blow, her inner ear going wild as she lost all track of up and down.

Despite the airbag, she was thrown around in her seat. Something hit her in the forehead hard enough to draw blood. The car tumbled over again. She tried to cry out, but just then the car came to an abrupt halt, driving the breath from her lungs.

As the airbag slowly deflated, she passed out.

-ooo-​

State Trooper Gavin Temple

Forty miles onward, Gavin frowned. Unless the girl in the car had been going like a bat out of hell after she passed him, there was no way in creation she would've made it this far before crashing. He'd passed a couple of deep watercourses, but none that obviously had a crashed car in the bottom of them.

Which meant that either someone had deliberately called in a false report (which was not entirely unheard of) or he'd missed it on the first pass. He alerted Dispatch to this effect, pulled a U-turn, and started back. However, this time he took it easy. He knew his search perimeter, and if there was something to be found, he'd find it. He just had to hope and pray she was still alive by the time he located her.

At the first big creek, he pulled up at the side of the road, lights still flashing. Then he got out and walked the length of the bridge, shining his flashlight down into the watercourse itself, looking as much for disturbed vegetation as for the car itself. Crossing over the road, he did the same on the other side. No flashes of cherry-red came back to him, and he was pretty sure there wasn't enough plant growth down there to hide something the size of a Honda Accord.

Getting back in the cruiser, he started off again, moving fast but keeping an eye out for more watercourses. It was nearly an hour now since he'd been informed of the crash, which was a hell of a long time to wait if you were badly injured.

Christ, I hope she's okay.

If she wasn't … he didn't know if he'd be able to forgive himself.

-ooo-​

Kayden

The road was just up there. Kayden knew this, because when cars came past, their headlights would provide a brief passing glow. But she couldn't see them, nor they her. The horn didn't work; it had gone the way of the rest of the car's electrical system. In fact, the only electronic thing in the car that worked was her phone, still out of reach, still maddeningly ringing every now and again.

A cop car had come past at one point. Red and blue flashing lights had lit up the trees, the side-spot glared in a cone of brightness, and the siren brought her hope. But it had gone on again, just like everyone else, leaving her slumped in despair. She punched the window again, punched the windshield, even punched the roof.

It hadn't actually helped.

When her phone rang again, she had an inspiration. If she could break off the sunshade, maybe she could reach back behind her and drag the phone closer to her hand. But no matter how she wrenched and tore at it, the goddamn thing refused to even bend, much less come loose. All she achieved was two broken nails and a new level of hatred for the people who'd built her car so well.

I'm gonna die here. In this car. With people going past not twenty yards away.

She knew it, as well as she knew anything at all.

And then light flashed on her face. This wasn't the reflected light of cars going past; this was direct light hitting the windshield. Not bright, but definitely there. She could see the glare of it, moving, obscured occasionally by the leaves in front of the windshield.

Slowly, it came closer. She screamed and laughed and cried, beating at the roof and window with her palms, not to break them but to make noise. "I'm here!" she shouted. "Don't go away! I'm here! Please! Help me! I'm here!"

She didn't know if the person with the light could hear her, but they kept on coming closer, and the light kept shining in her face. It didn't matter to her. That was the light of her salvation, and she wept with joy even as she shaded her eyes.

And then there was a man standing by her window, bending to peer in through the glass. "Hello!" His voice was faint but audible. "Can you hear me, miss?"

She nodded extravagantly. "Yes! I can hear you! Please help me! I'm stuck!"

He gave her a thumb's up, then pointed at the window. "Cover your face! I'm going to break the window!"

If someone had said that to her two hours previously, she would've been horrified. Now, she was downright thrilled to hear it. Leaning away from the window as much as she could, she closed her eyes and brought up her left arm to shield her face.

There was a brief shattering sound, and tiny cubes of safety glass rained around her. Cool night air, heavily scented with mud and rot and crushed grass, flooded into the car. Kayden breathed deeply of it; to her, it was perfume. The smell of life itself.

"Thank you." She looked up at the man; now she could tell he was a state trooper from his uniform, though he was soaked from the thighs down and standing ankle-deep in water. The gurgling of a running stream was much more audible now as well. Behind him, she thought she could see the trunk of a fallen tree. "You have no idea how thankful I am to see you."

He chuckled. "Miss, I could say I wish more people said that to me, but I understand perfectly. Are you hurt? Bleeding anywhere? Broken bones? When you breathe deeply, does it hurt?"

"Um, not really. Just this, I think." She touched her forehead gingerly, where the cut had since clotted over. "I can't move. The seat's got me pinned in pretty good."

He frowned in concentration and leaned in. "So I see, but tell me this. Do you have feeling in your feet? Wriggle your toes?"

"Uh, yeah. It's cramped down there, but I can still feel everything." Just to reassure herself, she moved her toes around inside her shoes. "I'm just pinned, is all."

This time, his smile reached his eyes. "Okay, then. I've already called for a tow truck and an ambulance. Hang tight; I'm just going back up to the cruiser, and call in that I've found you and that we need specialised extraction gear."

"Okay." She nodded. "Just one thing before you go?"

"Sure thing. What is it?"

She hooked her thumb over her shoulder to the back seat. "My cell-phone. Can you grab it for me?"

"One sec." He moved to the rear door. Predictably, it opened easily; a moment later, he was back at her window. "Your phone."

"Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you." She cradled it in her hands. "You're totally a lifesaver."

Again, that flash of teeth against dark skin as he smiled. "And you're totally welcome. I'll be back in a jiffy."

He turned and started up out of the creek; she lost sight of him almost immediately, though she could still see the flashlight in her mirrors. But that didn't matter now. Help was on the way. Turning her attention to the cell-phone, she shakily called her dad's number.

Everything was going to be alright.

-ooo-​

A Few Minutes Later

Brockton Bay

Andrea Campbell

With a sigh of satisfaction, Andrea turned off the radio receiver and dropped it on the sofa next to her. "Well, that worked out okay."

Dragon looked up from the tea party that Rachel was presiding over with several stuffed animals, her, and Alec in attendance. "Is it legal to be listening into the emergency services radio channels like that?"

"Not exactly," Andrea admitted with a grin. "Now ask me if I care."

"Ah." Dragon accepted that. "And how did you know to make the phone call at the right time?"

"That was Taylor." Which ended the need for any more questions as far as they were concerned. Andrea got up off the sofa. "Room for one more, Rachel?"

Rachel's smile was still small and shy, but it was definitely a smile. "Yes, Mommy Andrea."

"Excellent." Andrea waited for a couple of the stuffed animals to be moved aside, then plonked herself down on the lush carpet. "So, who ate the last cookie this time?"

Rachel pointed at Dragon. "She did."

"Why, Dragon." Andrea grinned as Dragon blinked in an 'I did what now?' manner. "I am shocked and surprised at you."

"D'agon ate it! D'agon ate it!" Alec bounced in place and clapped his hands gleefully.

Dragon let out a long-suffering (and quite realistic) sigh. "Very well, it seems I have been caught. I ate the last cookie. I apologise to everyone."

This was always a staple of Rachel's tea parties. At some point, someone would be found to have eaten the last cookie (even if there were no cookies), they would apologise, everyone would forgive them, and the party would go on.

Alec was really big on the forgiveness, and on the hugs that went with it.

"That's okay, hon. It was an honest mistake." She leaned over and hugged Dragon. "Anyway, there's more in the kitchen."

Dragon returned the hug. "Thanks, mom."

"You're totally welcome, kiddo."

-ooo-​

Tuesday, March 16, 1999

Cauldron Base, Some Other Earth

Dr William Manton

The walls and ceiling of the facility glowed with the same even white light no matter what time of day it was outside. There were few windows, so clocks were the only way to reliably keep track of time. The one on the wall of William's lab was reading ten thirty PM as he finished the chemical analysis. It was the latest serum they'd created from the flesh garden; he had a reasonable idea of what it would do, though it still needed to be tested on a live subject.

The door opened and Doctor Mother entered. As always, she wore her own lab coat, though in her case it was more performative than functional. They were still establishing the process of selling powers to the desperate and extremely rich, but it had been clear from the start that they needed someone to front for them. That person had to look trustworthy and couldn't be already recognisable to anyone who had more than a passing familiarity with cape research; thus, the faux-scientific Doctor Mother.

"Please tell me you're getting ready to finish for the night." She gave him a stern look that might have been more effective if he didn't already have an ex-wife who glared at him every chance she got.

"Nearly." He gave her a bland smile. "Sample nine six three one is in the bag. I know what it'll do, to within two standard deviations. There may be some outliers, but we'll only know from testing."

"Alright." She nodded, resignation shading her voice. "You're not celebrating, so I'll assume it's not an Eidolon-class manifestation of powers."

"Depending on what we cut it with, mid to high range." He waggled his hand from side to side. "But not Eidolon-class, no. Not unless you forgo all safeguards. And if you do that, there's a better than even chance of significant problems."

She nibbled her thumbnail. "Do you think it's worth the chance?"

"I think it might kill the subject." He shrugged. "But that's not my side of things. I just develop them for you."

"Understood." She turned back toward the door. "Well, don't be long then."

"Wait, I'm coming with you." He shut down the analyser and headed for the door. On the way, he brushed past a bench on which a rack held a single vial. Deftly, he took the vial and pocketed it before joining her at the door.

"Probably a smart idea." She smiled as they exited the lab. "The last thing we want you doing is overworking yourself. After all, you're trying to formulate the magic bullet that will save the world."

"That would indeed be a tragedy." He didn't share her fervent belief in what they were doing, but their money was good and it was one way to try to save the world. But if he was being totally honest, his family was more important. Specifically, Laurel.

Miranda had already cut him out of her life, but he still had a chance to win his daughter's respect back. He was certain that his ex had been poisoning Laurel against him at every opportunity, but he had access to opportunities that she never would.

All that was needed was for him to make the decision. To step over the last line. Cauldron existed outside any laws, any jurisdiction, but they had their own unspoken rules, and he was about to break those as well.

Doctor Mother cleared her throat. "Doorway to Paris."

Without any fuss or bother, the doorway opened before her and she stepped through. It closed again, leaving him standing alone in the hallway.

He knew this was his last chance to change his mind. Once he left Cauldron with the vial, he was committed. He took a deep breath. "Doorway to Oregon."

The doorway formed in front of him, showing a darkened apartment. He stepped through, and it closed behind him. In his pocket, the vial felt like a lead weight.

His heart was hammering in his chest. I did it. I got the vial. Now, all he had to do was call up Laurel and arrange to meet her—

The standing lamp beside his armchair clicked on, and there was someone sitting in the chair. Every sphincter he had clenched up in that instant. His mouth opened, but his throat was dry. Contessa had figured out what he was going to do, and she was going to kill him—

The woman in his chair sat forward, and he recognised her face. It wasn't Contessa … but it was Captain Taylor Snow. The PRT wunderkind who had managed to outmanoeuvre all of Cauldron while keeping them at arm's length, more than once. He'd seen the pictures that had been circulating among the inner circle enough times.

In those pictures, she had been wearing the PRT uniform, either fatigues or formal; or once, a patterned sundress. Somehow, even in the sundress, she'd managed to look both competent and dangerous. Here, she wore a long coat over dark clothing, and held a suppressed pistol with easy familiarity. The danger she radiated now was off the charts. Even the light glinting from her glasses looked menacing. "Let's not do anything stupid, Doctor Manton."

He recognised the tactic for what it was, a ploy to intimidate him. And it was working. He was terrified.

"Wh – what do you want? Why are you in my apartment?" All he had access to was bluster. The vial in his pocket offered a potential solution, but that required her to actually let him drink the damned thing, and not shoot him in the head the instant he reached for it.

Her mouth curved slightly in what might have been a smile. "I notice you're not asking me who I am. That means you already know. As for the answers to your actual questions, think about it for a moment. I'm certain it'll come to you."

"You want the vial." He didn't bother making it into a question. "But how did you know? Are you Cauldron, after all? An outer layer of security?"

She flowed up out of the chair, and he realised with a shock that she was slightly taller than he was. The pistol was now down by her side, hidden in shadow, but he had no illusions that he was out of peril. Holding out her free hand, she snapped her fingers once. "Do you really want to know the answers to those questions?"

With the question asked, he found that he actually didn't. She brought the pistol into view; it still wasn't pointed at him, but the threat was easily enough for him to bring out the vial and hand it to her. He watched as she stashed it in a padded pouch on her belt.

"Now what?" He felt justified in asking the question. "You know you could've asked them for any vial, and they would've given you one. Why did you have to take it like this?"

She sighed, and put the pistol away. Then she hit him.

It was a solid punch to the solar plexus that sent him gasping to his knees; as he stared uncomprehendingly up at her, she slammed her knee into his face, shattering his nose and sending him sprawling backward onto the floor. She stood over him and he curled weakly into a defensive ball, but she didn't follow up with any kind of finishing move.

"It was never about the vial, you idiot. It's about the results of what you were going to do with it. The lives you'd ruin. The people you'd kill. I'm choosing to not let that happen."

While he was still trying to figure out what she meant, and how to breathe properly again, she moved over to where his phone sat on a nearby side table. Picking it up, she tapped in a number.

"I have a question for you." Her tone was curt and clipped. "Do you prefer William Manton dead or alive? Your choice." Then she put the phone down.

A moment later, a Doorway appeared in midair, and Contessa stepped through. She stared at Snow, then at William. "I presume there's a logical explanation for all this." Despite her even tone, her expression indicated that she was still searching for one.

"She … she … attacked … me …" William managed.

"He stole this from the lab tonight." Snow produced the vial and held it out to Contessa, with a piece of paper wrapped around it. "The idea was to give his daughter powers, to win her affections away from her mother. This is a bad mix. She would've ended up needing care for the rest of her life. Then he would've doubled down by stealing another vial and drinking it himself. Thousands would die as a result, including Hero."

"Siberian." Contessa seemed to know what she was talking about, which was more than William did. "You're talking about Siberian."

Snow nodded once. "I'd prefer that not happen. You've got him from here?"

"Yes." Contessa deliberately turned her back on Snow, focusing her attention on William.

Baffled, William watched as Snow left the apartment, closing the door behind her. "What … are you … doing …" Snow clearly knew far more about the workings of Cauldron than any outsider should, and Contessa was just letting her walk out the damn door.

"Shut up, you moron." Contessa managed to wrestle him into a halfway standing position. "She could've killed you, but she decided to let me handle the situation. So, let me explain things to you. One, you say as little as possible about what she's said and done tonight, to anyone at all. Two, you will always be under surveillance from now on. If you want our trust back, you're going to have to earn it. Is that understood?"

There was only one thing to be said. The handover from Captain Snow to Contessa had been very much a case of frying pan to fire. All thoughts of his family were gone from his head. He just wanted to survive. "Yes."

"Good. Doorway to Cauldron."

It opened, and they went through.

-ooo-​

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT (Intelligence)

I let myself out of the apartment building and crossed the road to where the rental car was parked. Kinsey turned to me as I climbed into the passenger seat. "Business completed, ma'am?"

"It is now." I fastened my seatbelt and leaned back. "We're done here. Airport, please."

He started the car and drove smoothly off down the street. "Am I allowed to ask who you beat up, ma'am?"

I didn't bother asking how he'd figured that out. His past experience as an MP had left him with a bunch of useful skills. "The who and the why are the reason I left you in the car. Not only is it need-to-know, but the mere act of possessing the knowledge would pose an active threat to your health and wellbeing. Suffice to say, the situation has been resolved for the moment."

He nodded slowly. "Understood, ma'am. So, this entire security scare in Portland was arranged to place you here, at this point in time?"

Well, Kinsey wasn't stupid. It had taken me three months of carefully working behind the scenes to trigger an alert in Portland, requiring Kinsey and me to fly out to 'deal' with it. Once completed, we had performed a minor detour on the way back to PDX. "Of course not, Kinsey. That would be an improper use of PRT funding, and that would be wrong."

A muscle twitched in his jaw as he did his best not to smile. "Message received and understood, ma'am."

"Good." I lifted up a corner of my long coat as we drove. "This worked quite well tonight. I think I'll keep it."

"It does have a certain flair, ma'am."

I paused, mentally comparing 'flair' and 'flare', then shook my head. "That was bad, Kinsey."

His expression was as bland as his tone. "Thank you, ma'am."

-ooo-​

The Next Day

Cauldron Base

Legend

Keith had seen Alexandria focused; he'd seen her angry. Rarely, he'd seen her smile. But she always, always kept a lid on her deeper emotions. Nobody got to her.

Except, apparently, Taylor Snow.

She sat, facing the rest of them, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. Keith could hear the friction from three yards away; he suspected that high-grade steel would flatten like play-doh under that kind of pressure. Her face was drawn into a grimace that threatened doom to someone.

"From the top, please." The word sounded more like a threat than a pleasantry. "Again."

Contessa cleared her throat. "Captain Snow called me, asking if I wanted Manton alive or dead. I dropped what I was doing, and Doorwayed to where she was. She had Manton down, in his apartment. He was showing signs of damage. She was unmarked. She told me that he'd stolen a vial, and gave me the vial. Explained how the theft of the vial would've led to the Siberian incident. Left Manton for me to deal with. Went on her way."

Keith shared a glance with Hero. Siberian. The name still had the ability to send chills down his back.

Doctor Mother went to speak, but Alexandria waved her to silence. "Evidence of her claims?"

Contessa ticked off points on her fingers. "It's one of our vials. One of our formulas. Marked in the logs as 'unsatisfactory/destroyed' with Manton's sign-in. It's even got Manton's fingerprints on it. If Snow hadn't intercepted it, we would never have known."

The Number Man rubbed his lower lip. "That sounds pretty well cut and dry to me. Did Snow say how she even knew this was going to happen? Because that sounds like Thinker shenanigans to me. And I know of which I speak."

"Never mind that!" Doctor Mother spoke sharply. "This Captain Snow keeps interfering in our operations! I don't care how she's doing it, but something needs to be done about her!"

"You know what, I agree." Hero nodded brightly. "Do you think a medal of appreciation would be enough, or should we throw in a marching band as well?"

Doctor Mother leaned forward. "This is serious! We're trying to save the world here—"

"And so is Captain Snow." Contessa spoke quietly but firmly. "While we've been struggling to maintain the status quo, she's been quietly removing major threats from the board. Threats that would have passed under my radar until it was too late to confront them directly."

"She's policing us!" screamed Doctor Mother. "We don't get policed! We do the policing!"

Keith felt it was time to speak up. "You might call it 'policing'. I call it 'saving us from major fuckups'. She's done it at least twice now, maybe more, I don't know. And if that sort of oversight helps us do our job and prevents lives from being lost, then … maybe we just let her keep doing it?"

"What he said." The Number Man shrugged. "I'd really like to know how she's doing it, though, if she's not a cape."

Everyone looked at Contessa, except Doctor Mother, who was glaring at Legend. Contessa shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you. Everything I've got on her says she's not. David was certain of it."

Doctor Mother's head came around. "David trusted her, and now he's dead."

"And the Behemoth is still static." Hero spread his hands. "Thanks to Captain Snow, David went into that fight knowing what he had to do to stop the monster, and he willingly did it."

The Behemoth exclusion zone had, in the four and a half years since Eidolon's death, become a major tourist attraction as well as a semi-official shrine to the hero's sacrifice. A transparent dome a hundred yards across and fifty yards high had been erected over the creature, with apertures to allow all the sensory devices known to science to be trained on it. Nobody was allowed to venture within the half-mile exclusion zone, which had been bulldozed flat then concreted over, per the unofficial suggestion from Captain Snow. Any litter that ended up in said exclusion zone was cleaned up by robotic sweepers. An honour guard chosen from volunteers from a dozen nations kept an outward watch on the perimeter; nobody wanted the sleeping giant to be disturbed from its rest.

Contessa hesitated. "There is one other thing."

Keith sat up. Thus far, they'd been going over familiar ground. If Contessa had been holding something back until now, he wanted to hear it. A glance around the table told him that everyone else was of a similar mindset.

Alexandria's expression indicated that she would not be favourable toward any more unpleasant revelations, but then she firmed her jaw. "Let's hear it."

"When Captain Snow gave the vial back to me, there was a note wrapped around it." Contessa actually produced the scrap of paper and unrolled it. "It says, 'And tell Doctor Mother to stop talking to Jack Slash about me, or I'll shoot her in the face myself'."

"Fucking what?" That was the Number Man, who was now staring at Doctor Mother. So was Keith, though without the profanity. Hero was on his feet, hands on the table. Alexandria was just leaning forward, though the intensity of her glare should have immolated the other woman without requiring powers.

Following that one question, the room fell so quiet that Keith was pretty sure he could hear the edge of the table creaking in Alexandria's grasp. Doctor Mother's face had gone so pale she could've made a good match for the walls. The faint rustle as Contessa tucked the paper away was clearly audible.

"Please tell me this is not the case." Alexandria's whisper may as well have been a shout.

Half-defiant, half-terrified, Doctor Mother stared back at her. "What do you want me to say? She's a loose cannon! Jack Slash is the only person in this facility who I know for a fact isn't dancing to her tune!"

"We had an agreement." Keith felt a surge of anger. He'd trusted her, and she'd betrayed that trust. "You agreed to the restrictions. Why risk everything like this?"

She fell silent then; not crumbling, but not responding either.

Hero grimaced. "Okay, I've got no choice in the matter."

"What are you going to do?" She stood up, glaring at him. "Throw me in the cell next to Manton?"

He shook his head. "Don't make this harder than it already is. I'm revoking your clearances. If you want to get anywhere beyond basic admin access, you're going to need one of us to sign you in, and observe until you're done."

"What about Captain Snow?" Her anger flared up again. "Can't you see she's picking us off, one at a time? Which of you is next?"

Alexandria clenched her eyes shut, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. Her other hand, resting on the table, was knotted so tightly into a fist that her knuckles were white. "If I thought she'd take me up on it, I'd give her access to your fucking clearances. You and Manton brought this on yourselves. She just uncovered the rot before it could spread too far."

"You're wrong!" Doctor Mother shook her head, her voice rising into a shriek. "You're wrong, all of you, and you can't see it! She wants to bring us down!" She looked around wildly. "Doorway to Jack Slash—"

Keith realised what she was doing an instant too late. He triggered his laser; flashing across the table, it locked up all her muscles, but the doorway opened beside her anyway. And through it, Jack Slash stepped into the room.

Alexandria launched herself across the table, at the same time that Keith fired another freeze-laser and Hero loosed a shot from his stun-pistol. At the same time, the Number Man drew a pistol from a shoulder holster and fired a shot as well.

Jack Slash dropped out of sight; Keith wasn't sure if they'd hit him or—

Agony flared across his legs; the bastard had somehow cut him. Where did he get the knife? The Number Man was also down, clutching his legs. Bright blood sprayed from ugly wounds. Contessa was on top of the table, sprinting across, pistol at the ready.

Keith triggered his freeze-laser again, but this time he branched it out in all directions, filling the room from side to side, leaving no gap large enough for a human being to fit through. Feeling the loss of blood—because of course Jack Slash had gotten an artery—he went to his energy state.

Everything went blurry.

When he reverted to human form again, only a few minutes had passed according to the clock on the wall. Contessa was tending to the Number Man, and Alexandria and Hero were nowhere to be seen. Neither was Doctor Mother.

"What happened?" he asked. "Did we get him?"

Contessa looked up. "He nearly got out in time, but yes, you tagged him. Alexandria shoved him back into holding. He'd grown one of his thumbnails out and sharpened it. Hero's checking to make sure Doctor Mother didn't alter the security settings on the cell."

"And where's she?" He had a bad feeling about this.

She grimaced. "He was slashing in all directions just before your lasers got him. She bled out before Alexandria got to her."

"God damn it." He leaned against the table, feeling unutterably weary. "What a fucking mess."

"Trust me," she said soberly, "it could've been a whole lot worse."

"Ain't that the truth."

End of Part 9-1​

 

[cosoco]

Huh, that's an interesting butterfly.

The canon treatment of Manton always seemed strange to me. For an organization with the strongest precog in the world, they seem to get caught off guard an awful lot.

 

[SurprisedMilitant]

Huh, that's an interesting butterfly.

The canon treatment of Manton always seemed strange to me. For an organization with the strongest precog in the world, they seem to get caught off guard an awful lot.

Click to shrink...

IIRC trigger events and their outcomes are a blind spot. It stands to reason the same is true of vial "triggers". Contessa can't detect vial thefts that don't also cause secrecy issues because the outcome of that is "inconsequential" to all her active paths.