Recoil (a Worm fanfic)

[Ack]

Hi, Ned. Glad to see you're still hanging around with Taylor's crew, and a little surprised to see you show back up in the story proper again.

Click to shrink...

Well, he's a member of Andrea's mercs, and a damn useful one.

 

[Zackarix]

Lisa is OP and needs to be nerfed for game balance reasons.
Actually, she's just using a walkthrough.

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 8-5: Changing the Future

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

Somewhere in Florida

Kinsey and I stepped off the ramp of the tilt-rotor and stood aside as the mercenaries, the members of PASS, and their rescuees congregated in their various groups. There were a couple of buses waiting for the latter, but they were understandably reluctant to be parted from their recent saviours. The capes were mingling with the mercenaries, apparently catching up on old times, and I saw Joanne trade a high-five with Crag.

A fuel truck pulled up to the tilt-rotors and began the refuelling procedure under the harsh glare of portable floodlights. We'd almost run the tanks dry in a nap-of-the-earth dash over the last hundred miles or so, after Air National Guard jets had started sniffing around. They hadn't caught more than a whisper on radar, and none at all once we got down on the deck. It was good to see the low radar cross-section construction paying for itself.

Kinsey, observing the coordinated activity, turned to me. "Ma'am, would I be remiss in assuming that this airfield wouldn't appear on any official registry?"

"Why, Kinsey, I'm surprised at you," I replied, deadpan. "It's registered as a defunct installation, with several layers of obfuscation before anyone will get to the true owner."

"Ah, of course. I stand corrected." He raised his head as the leader of PASS started in our direction. "It seems Ms Sanderson would like a word with you."

She was moving a little stiffly as she came up to us, which didn't surprise me in the slightest. Near-impervious skin or otherwise, the sheer number of bullet impacts she'd absorbed had to have left her with significant bruising. "Hail the conquering heroes," I said lightly.

"We're hardly the heroes of the piece." Her voice was upbeat, but I could see the drag of fatigue in her step. She was feeling the post-adrenaline crash, and I couldn't really blame her. "It's you and the mercenaries that pulled our asses out of the fire."

"You did the real work," I reminded her. "You found the girls and got them clear. If these guys had gone in cold, against a prepared position, there would've been losses. Maybe serious ones. Your plan was a good one; you just failed to anticipate the bad guys having access to attack choppers."

She nodded. "It's not really something we had to worry about, here in the States. So, what happens now?"

"In general?" I smiled slightly. "You've sent a serious message to overseas interests that they aren't immune to being hit and raided if they mess with American citizens, just because they're outside our borders. This all turned out even better than it might have; sneaking away would've left them wondering exactly what happened, but coming in loud like we did and utterly wrecking the pursuit force will leave a lasting impression on everyone in that region."

"Huh." She looked thoughtful. "I didn't realise we'd do that much damage. I just wish I'd gotten my hands on Señor Asshole himself."

"No need," I assured her. "He won't be getting any more assistance from local law enforcement after losing that chopper. Also, you hurt him badly, just by taking the girls away from him. The fact that you got away clean lost him a ton of respect from his peers, but that's not the only backlash he'll be getting from this. See, he was leveraging access to the girls for unfair deals, and everyone resented him for it. Now, nobody's going to want to do business with him; or rather, they're all going to want some payback. The pound of flesh closest to his heart, and then some."

"Oh." She blinked. "I hadn't thought about it like that."

"Mmm-hmm." I grinned. "Add to that the fact that one of the buildings you torched held a major chunk of his current drug stockpile, and I figure his entire operation will be going into a tailspin fairly shortly. He'll crash and burn harder than the chopper did, in maybe six months to a year. Shortly after that, he'll be arrested on some bogus charge trumped up by one of his competitors, and then he'll be shot while 'attempting to escape' by one of the cops he's unable to bribe anymore." I didn't need to make the air quotes.

Joanne brightened right up at that. "Good," she said fiercely. "He deserves nothing less. The others will be pleased to hear that." Such was the faith she held in me, she didn't even question the prediction. "I just want to know one other thing."

I was pretty sure I already knew what that was. "Why was I there, when I could've stayed Stateside and given orders from afar?"

"A question I'm interested in getting an answer for as well, ma'am," Kinsey observed.

Joanne glanced at Kinsey then back at me, and nodded herself. "That's basically it, yeah. You didn't have to put yourself in danger along with the rest of us. That's twice you've personally gone into a hot zone to get us out. Why?"

I chewed the inside of my lip as I thought about my answer. It had originally been intended to be brief and facile, but the way she'd phrased it made me wonder about my own motivations. "Part of it's about having skin in the game. Someone giving orders from two thousand miles away can more easily write off the wounded or dead left behind. Even though the guys absolutely had it in hand, me being eyes-on would've given me a lot better chance to step in if shit went sideways. Also, the guys think Kinsey and I are observers from the big boss, so us just being there gave them a morale boost. And …" I paused, unsure how to explain it. "The last time I went into a hot zone in a rotorcraft, I nearly died. I suppose, deep down, I wanted to make sure I had the nerve to do it again. Turns out, I do."

"Damn." She shook her head. "I nearly forgot about that. I'm glad you were there for us, though. We'll be sure to do more deep-diving next time, make sure there aren't any other nasty surprises waiting for us."

I almost smiled. PASS was turning out to be quite the nasty surprise for the people they went up against. However, there was something else I had to address that wasn't going to be any kind of laughing matter. "That's a very good idea. But there's something else as well."

"Yeah?" she tilted her head queryingly.

"Medical issues," I said bluntly. "They're all going to need checking over. You know who to take them to about the pregnancies, to decide what they want to do about it. The funds for all that will be in the usual account, plus extra for counselling." I didn't say anything stupid like 'if they need it'. Of course they'd damn well need it.

"Gotcha." Joanne hadn't had to make that decision for herself in the aftermath of the Compound, but she'd been there for every one of her teammates when they had. And of course, she'd gone through the counselling for what had happened to her. I hoped that helping others the same way she'd been helped would be another step on her own healing journey. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

"All in a day's work." I glanced across the tarmac at the jet still waiting for us. "We've got to get back now. Say hi to the others for us." I paused. "And just in case it didn't come across before: damn good work. We're seriously proud of you all." I held out my hand.

She shook it, careful not to crush my fingers in her iron grip. "Thanks," she said again. "For everything. Both of you." Then she shook hands with Kinsey, who afforded her a measured nod of approval.

We headed across the tarmac to the jet. At our approach, the engines began to spool up. The steps were down, so we climbed on board and strapped ourselves into the seats we'd occupied on the way down. Moments later, the hatch swung up and locked into place.

I looked out the window as the jet taxied down the airstrip and began its take-off run. It was still dark out, but it would be broad daylight by the time we got back to Brockton Bay. I wasn't exactly looking forward to Andrea's displeasure at my sudden absence, but it was something I'd weather. And it was all for a good cause.

With the howl of the engines barely audible in the cabin, the jet reached lift-off speed and the nose tilted skyward. I breathed steadily, even as the acceleration pushed me back into the seat cushions. "They're really shaping up well, aren't they?" I asked. The question was only partly rhetorical; Kinsey had far more breadth of experience than I did, and if he had any concerns, I wanted to hear them.

"Yes, ma'am." Kinsey looked like a man with many questions, few of which he knew he'd get straight answers to at that moment. "And now I know where they got the training from. Also, where the gentleman with the rocky skin vanished to."

"Correct on both counts." I smiled, reclining my seat. "It was nice to see them again."

He followed my lead. "Have you put any thought into how you will deal with the redoubtable Ms Campbell, ma'am?"

I chuckled and closed my eyes. "I'm pretty sure I'll go straight to 'grovelling'."

"A wise course, ma'am."

"I thought so."

-ooo-​

Brockton Bay, 10:05 AM, Saturday Morning

The sun was (as predicted) well up when Kinsey pulled the car up into its usual parking spot. I got out and stretched, trying to get the kinks out of my spine. Comfortable though the plane and the car might be, it was wearying to spend so much time sitting still.

"What are our plans for the rest of this vacation, ma'am?" asked Kinsey as he locked the car and came around to the footpath. "Will there be any more unannounced invasions of sovereign nations that I need to prepare for?"

I glanced sideways at him. To anyone else, his face would've been as deadpan as ever, but I could tell that he was joking. Mostly. "With luck, that was a one-off. It was good to have you along, though. If the op had gone pear-shaped, you're one of the very few people I know I can trust to have my back without second-guessing me."

"Lieutenant Piggot being one of the others, no doubt, ma'am?" Since Emily's transfer to the Chicago department of the PRT, Kinsey had associated with her from time to time during the normal course of their duties. As far as I understood things, they'd already formed a strong mutual respect following the incidents of the Compound, and the intervening time hadn't changed any of that.

We started up the stairs. "Yeah, she's one of them. Before you ask, she's not in the know about this sort of thing." I had no doubt she'd throw her hat in the ring if I asked her, though. Emily never left a fellow soldier in the lurch if she could possibly help it. One of her defining traits, it had saved my life once upon a time.

Gladys was the third person on my very short list. Although she wasn't career military by trade, she was still the best hand with a rifle I'd ever seen, and her long-range sniper kill on Heartbreaker had dealt with a great many potential problems, going forward. I was glad we'd patched up our differences over that particular incident; quite apart from being a great shot, she was also a good friend.

Of course, her current position as vice-principal of Winslow (to Carrie Blackwell's impotent fury) would limit her availability, but I wasn't expecting to need the services of a deniable sniper any time soon. Besides, while she probably could snipe Screamer from outside the latter's one-mile range, I had other plans in mind for that one.

My musings were cut off as the door opened in front of me, just before I would've put the key in the lock. Andrea stood there, silently fuming at me. I essayed a wave. "Hi, we're back?"

"Yes," she said freezingly. "You are. Get in here."

"Yes, ma'am." I wasn't being facetious; this was a point where she definitely outranked me. Kinsey and I entered the apartment, and she closed the door behind us.

"You're not bleeding or bandaged," she continued in that same tone of voice. "No sharp bits of metal that I don't know about? No hidden bullet wounds? Kinsey?"

"No, ma'am." He clearly had the same thought process that I did, about who was in charge right then. It wasn't either one of us. "We stayed out of the action. The mission was a resounding success. All assets secured and retrieved, only minor injuries, all easily treated." Trust him to keep track of details like that.

She seemed to lose a little of the tension out of her shoulders. "Well, good. I'm glad." Her gaze fixed on mine as some of the previous glare returned. "If they didn't need you, why did you have to go racing down there? Why couldn't you have stayed in Brockton Bay and handled things from here?"

"Technically I could have, yes," I admitted. "But I had several reasons for doing it this way. Soldiers react more positively and cut fewer corners when the higher-up who's sending them into harm's way is going into the hot zone along with them. Also, if the shit hit the fan and their leadership got wounded or killed, I could've taken over on the spot. And I wanted to evaluate their performance first-hand."

The look on her face suggested that while she wanted to be angry at me, my logic was defeating her gripes. "So they got Joanne and the others out of there, with the girls they were rescuing?"

"All fifty-three, yes," I confirmed. "Beamer blew her eyes out shooting down an attack chopper, but they'll regenerate in good time. Jazz was literally wading through concentrated autofire when we arrived, so she's going to bruised to hell and back for the next week or so. Nobody else got worse than scratches and bruises. The ones they rescued are essentially healthy, but they're going to need full medical workups for physical maltreatment, STIs, and things like that. There will be pregnancies. And of course, everyone's going to need counselling."

"I've already put money in their account for that," she assured me. "If it looks like running low, I'll top it up."

Kinsey was looking between us like a spectator at a tennis match. Andrea raised an eyebrow. "You've got something to say, Jim?"

"No, ma'am," he hastened to say. "I know when something is well above my pay grade, and this is one of those times."

She huffed and rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Jim? I'm not your commanding officer. I'm not a ma'am to you. I'm Andrea. You know, your boss's ditzy redheaded girlfriend?"

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Even without the events of the last twenty-four hours, Andrea, our relationship is far more complicated than that."

"Only if you want to make it complicated." She wrinkled her nose. "You've both slept with me, but you've never slept with each other. See? Not complicated at all. Silly, but not complicated."

"It's absolutely complicated when you factor in that I'm Kinsey's commanding officer, and I'm not supposed to be sleeping with women at all," I noted. "Also with my subordinates, so the fact that I'm not sleeping with him is about the only non-problematic aspect of this whole thing. Legally speaking, he should be reporting me for that specific breach of regs."

"I have witnessed nothing of the sort, ma'am," Kinsey returned blandly. "Any rumours to the contrary are merely scurrilous gossip, easily discounted."

"Well, I'm definitely scurrilous, so you got that part right." Andrea smirked at the both of us, apparently in a better mood now.

"You know that's not how that word is used," I said carefully, then looked around. Alec wasn't in evidence, but he was still a young child so I figured he was asleep. However … "Where's Dragon?"

"Is if I say it is. She's with her dad for the weekend." Andrea tossed off the deceptive statement so smoothly that I wouldn't have twigged if I didn't already know what was going on. The ongoing arrangement was that Dragon spent most days with Andrea, learning how to be a person, then transmitted her personality back to Richter's lab of an evening so he could analyse and record her progress. According to Lisa, he was fascinated by the networked associations she was creating within her own mental matrix, which were informing his ongoing research into artificial intelligence.

It wasn't the weirdest relationship I'd ever encountered, but that was life on Earth Bet.

"I see." Unzipping my jacket, I took it off then removed the shoulder holster. I hadn't had to fire it, or even draw it, but such things were far better to have in time of no need than vice versa. "Did you stay up all night, waiting for us?"

"Went to bed, after I dropped Dragon off." She gave me the eagle eye. "What about you? You don't look as half-dead as you should, running in and out of war zones all night."

"The jet had really comfortable seating, and in this business you learn to sleep when you can." I stretched. "But I do need another shower, and maybe an hour to lie down and get my head back in the game."

"I believe I'll do the same, ma'am, once you've finished your shower." Kinsey had his own jacket and shoulder holster slung over his arm, and was reaching for mine. "In the meantime, I'll get these squared away."

"Somewhere high up, please." There was a note in Andrea's voice that I hadn't heard before: maternal concern. "Alec isn't really walking yet, but he still manages to get around like wildfire."

"High up and in securely locked cases," Kinsey assured her. "The Captain thought ahead."

I snorted as I handed over my paraphernalia. "I told Kinsey to make sure we were prepped for staying in an apartment with a potentially inquisitive child, and without even missing a beat he handed me the requisition forms for the gun cases, already filled out and waiting for my signature."

"Which is why you two would be perfect together," Andrea said blithely. "You're already more in tune than most married couples I know."

I met Kinsey's eyes for a brief moment, and he shook his head fractionally. He was correct, of course: there was no way I was going to win that argument, for all that we'd hashed out every possible variation of it long ago. Andrea just didn't consider my points logical or viable. 'Not allowed to' only existed in her world as a precursor to 'challenge accepted'.

"Whatever you say," I sighed. "I'm going for that shower. I'll be out in five, Kinsey."

"Ma'am."

-ooo-​

Two Days Later

Hebert Household

"And you're sure this is going to happen?" George Hebert leaned forward over the kitchen table with an intent expression on his face.

I met his gaze without flinching. "As sure as I can be. I've done the analysis, and it's got a better than eighty percent chance of going down the way I said it would."

Danny, sitting in the living room with young Tyler in his arms, cleared his throat. "Dad, I'd listen to her. She's really, really good at that sort of thing."

"So I've been told." George frowned deeply. "It's just hard to believe that it could get so bad."

"The unions are starting to push harder," I reminded him. "You told me so yourself. Well, the shipping companies don't want to pay the extra wages, so they're pushing back. There are firebrands on both sides, and it's entirely too likely that it will escalate to a point where both sides lose. My money's on some idiot bringing guns along, and maybe a container ship being scuttled in a way that blocks the entire port from being used."

"That would be bad." His expression set hard, into forbidding lines. "A lot of people would go out of work."

"They would," I agreed. "The economy would nosedive, crime would go up, and the gangs would go from just getting by to flourishing. Supervillains would move into town. Upper-middle income areas such as where you live right now would become lower-middle. Schools and businesses that depend on these areas would either fold or cut too many corners just to stay afloat. The ferry would be mothballed by the city as an unneeded expense."

"And the Dockworkers' Association?" His question was almost a plea.

"It would probably hang on, but only as a shadow of what it's like right now."

He took a deep breath. "Can the PRT do anything? To stop this, I mean?"

"I'm sorry, but no." I gave him a sympathetic look. "What I'm telling you is based on research and analysis I did on my own dime, because I care about this city. We don't have an official presence here, except for one recruiting sergeant. Even if things do go down the gurgler, the earliest we're projected to establish a department here is 'ninety-nine, early two thousand. And that'll be far too late to pull things back into line."

"What if you told them?" His keen gaze bored into mine. "You're their golden child right now, aren't you?"

I chuckled. "More like enriched uranium. Valuable, but most Directors want to keep me at arms' length. However, even if I took it to my boss, he wouldn't be able to act on it, because the PRT's jurisdiction begins and ends with parahuman-related crime."

His jaw squared. "Then it's up to us to make sure it never gets that far."

"That's why I'm telling you." I tapped the Manila folder on the table between us. "These are the people on both sides who are most likely to go too far. I can't guarantee to be here when it happens, but I can get the information to the people who can do something about it. Starting with you."

Placing one large hand on the folder, he drew it over the table toward himself. "Thank you, Captain Snow. I appreciate it."

I chuckled lightly. "I have no idea what you're talking about. This is just a family visit, nothing more. The PRT isn't allowed to intervene, remember?"

From the grim smile on his face, he got my point. The information I was giving him was totally deniable, and I was washing my hands of whatever he did with it. "Understood. We'll deal with it."

I got up as he opened the folder and started perusing the information within. Kinsey was sitting in the living room with Danny; Anne-Rose had gone out shopping with Dorothy.

"The ferry?" asked Danny. "They'll stop that, too?"

"The Mayor's office will be looking at everything they can possibly cut costs on." I shrugged. "Plus, once crime starts to rise, they'll use the excuse that they don't want criminals riding the ferry to the Downtown area."

He squared his jaw in the same way his father had. "I'm not going to let that happen."

I nodded. "Didn't think so."

-ooo-​

Friday, February 23, 1996

Brockton Bay

Aster Anders

Ruth stood looking up at the Medhall frontage through the oversized sunglasses she was using to conceal her mask. She'd been meaning to do this for some time, but between the needs of the service and the reluctance to interrupt matters until certain things happened, this was the first time when all the ducks had lined up in a reasonably steady row. Her actions here were almost certainly going to cause problems in Brockton Bay but as the saying went, a woman had to do what a woman had to do.

Also, Taylor almost certainly knew of her intentions in this situation and she hadn't said not to do it, so … full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes, I guess.

Drawing in a deep breath and resisting the temptation to check that her black wig was sitting correctly, she pushed open the heavy glass door with little effort and strode into the building. Deep within her, the wellspring of molten steel boiled and bubbled, ready to be unleashed at her whim. She'd never walked into the building back in the future, and the décor was entirely unlike what it would've been fifteen years hence, but it still felt oddly familiar.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" asked one of the two (white; no surprise there) security guards sitting at the front desk.

"Yes, you can." She smiled politely at him. "I need to speak to Richard Anders, please. It's very important."

His expression never changed. "Do you have an appointment, Miss …?"

"Anders. Aster Anders. I believe he'll see me." With all the confidence she was able to muster, she stood foursquare before the desk, clasping her hands behind her back.

His eyebrows hitched up a notch, and he picked up a phone. "This is Peter, on the front desk. There's a lady here who wants to speak to Mr Anders. No, the Mr Anders. She says her surname is Anders, too."

There was a pause. Ruth didn't take her eyes off the man. She felt vaguely bad for putting him in this situation, but she was fairly certain he at least subscribed to some of the beliefs of the Empire Eighty-Eight.

"Aster, she says. Aster Anders." He scrutinised her features. "No, she hasn't said. But she kinda looks like she could be related to him. Maybe?"

Ruth didn't let the smile she felt cross her features. Taylor had told her at one point that she did take after her father to a certain extent, mainly in the hair and the chin. It seemed the Anders jaw was a thing. Though Theo hadn't inherited it, which made her wonder briefly if that was why their father had been so hard on him.

The guard put his hand over the mouthpiece. "What's your business with Mr Anders?"

Putting the old bastard and his gang out of business permanently. Of course, she couldn't say that, not out loud. "Catching up on old times. He is my cousin, after all." Given her age, she couldn't realistically pull off being his daughter, but a slightly more distant relationship was perfectly possible.

The guard relayed that information, then listened some more. When he focused on her again, his expression was harder. "Ma'am, I'm informed that Mr Anders has no cousin called Aster. I'm going to need you to leave the building, or we will be calling the police."

It was time to play some of the cards she'd been holding closer to her chest. "Sure, I'll leave. But before I do, please pass on a message to Max Anders that I know all about his father. Exactly as I've said it, please." She favoured him with a brilliant smile.

He gave her a dubious look, but she hadn't been argumentative, so he repeated her words into the phone. There was a long pause, and he sat up straighter in his chair. Aster breathed deeply; she wasn't as comfortable with physical conflict as Taylor was, but she'd been in a few scuffles while helping Contessa out. These had mainly ended with her spraying molten steel and plasma over whatever the problem was, thereafter rendering it no longer a problem.

A conflict was brewing here, but she didn't want it to spread too far, or for innocents to get hurt. So she was going to have to play this one out carefully.

The guard, Peter, stood up from the desk and picked up a metal-detector wand, leaving his colleague at the desk. "Step on through the archway, ma'am. Mr Anders is on the way down."

"Thank you." Her heart was pounding, but she forced herself to speak normally and repress her powers as much as possible. Carefully, she stepped through the archway; the detector lights shimmied, but no specific alarm went off.

The guard eyed the archway dubiously. "Hmm. Arms out to the side, please." When she complied, he ran the wand over her arms and torso, then down her legs. It buzzed, but only intermittently. "Do you have any metal on you, ma'am? Watch, jewellery?"

"No." She pushed back the sleeve on her jacket, at the same time shoving her costume sleeve out of the way before he could get a good look at it. "I set those damn things off all the time. My doctor says I have too much iron in my blood. Here, check my arm, you'll see what I mean."

When he ran the device over her forearm, she let molten steel surge through, but stopped it before it would reach her hand. She knew right now that an IR scan would show her arm lighting up like a flare, but fortunately they were only checking for metal.

The wand buzzed, causing the guard to frown as he stared at her bare arm. "That's ridiculous," he muttered. "Shouldn't work like that." He ran the wand over her proffered arm again, getting the same result.

"Told you. It's a family thing, apparently." She raised her eyebrows. "Richard's got the same thing, and I'm pretty sure Max does too."

"I've never heard that about them before." But the guard was wavering, not helped by the way she was casually dropping the names of the boss and his son.

She leaned into his indecision. "How would you know? Have you ever actually checked them through, or do they get to skip that bit?"

This was a gamble on her part, but a calculated one all the same. While she'd been born long after her grandfather died and had no personal knowledge of him, someone who called himself Allfather had to have a certain amount of ego. It also helped that he'd named his gang an Empire. Richard Anders was a man with ambition. Someone like that would be unlikely to lower himself to the status of a common worker by going through regular security screening like everyone else.

"Fine," he said sharply, and pointed at a chair across from the security station. "Sit there and wait for Mr Anders."

"Thank you." Pulling her sleeve down, she did as she was told. She had what she wanted: a personal audience with the leader of the Empire Eighty-Eight.

Only a minute or so later, the elevator dinged and two men entered the lobby. Ruth knew who they were immediately; there was no mistaking them. Leading the way was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Ruth fancied there might be a little gray mixed in with the blond, but it would take very close inspection to find it. Hi, Grandpa. I really wish you'd been a nicer person.

Walking at his shoulder and a little behind was a more familiar face, though it was odd to see Max Anders as a teenager. His stride lacked the confidence he would take on in later years, and he had yet to reach his adult bulk, but Ruth would've known her biological father anywhere. (Her real father would always be Phil Goldstein, but that was neither here nor there.)

"Ah," she said. "It's good to see you, Richard. And this must be Max." Rising from the chair, she stepped forward and held out her hand out in greeting.

Richard Anders was a sharp operator. "Aster. Huh. I never thought I'd run into someone from your branch of the family." Taking her hand, he shook it firmly.

What, the Seattle Goldsteins? Ruth suppressed the random thought and kept the smile on her face, even as Anders maintained the grip on her hand until he could take hold of her elbow. "Oh, you know how it goes," she said lightly. "I was in town, and I thought I'd drop in and introduce myself."

Max was switched-on even at nineteen, because he stepped in without needing his father's prompting, flanking her on the other side. If she'd had the intention of doing anything other than going with them, she would've had to pull some violence out of the hat. As it was, she did nothing of the sort.

"Well, that's just fine," Anders declared heartily. "Come on through and we'll compare notes."

They hustled her into the elevator and Anders stabbed a button with his forefinger, then jabbed the 'door close' button. The elevator began to move—downward, not upward.

"Huh," she said. "Concealed base under the building? I hadn't actually anticipated that. It must come in handy."

"Shut up!" snapped Max, but Richard shook his head.

"Let her talk," he advised. "She'll be telling us everything she knows anyway, including who sent her."

Ruth smiled coldly. "Yes. Yes, I will." Anders' head would probably explode if she told him everything about her, including the fact that his granddaughter was a practicing Jew, but she had enough ammunition even without that.

The elevator stopped and the two men hustled her out into an echoing room, composed mainly of raw concrete. She got the impression that construction was still ongoing. That was fine. She was where she wanted to be.

"That's far enough." She flexed her power and broke Anders' grip on her elbow. It didn't even require much strength to throw off Max's hold on her forearm. She got the impression that they simply hadn't expected her to resist effectively. "Time for some home truths."

"Truths? What truths?" Anders was watching her warily, apparently aware of the change in her body language. Max hadn't picked up on that yet, but he was young. There was still time for him to learn. "You're going to be telling us where you learned about—"

"Oh, put a sock in it." Her tone was deliberately abrupt. Control freaks hated being cut off, which was why she did it. "My name really is Aster Anders. Richard, I'm your granddaughter from the future, and I'm here to shut down the Empire Eighty-Eight before it can do any more damage than it's already done."

"Future?" Max glanced at Anders. "Dad, do you even believe this?"

Richard's lips thinned. "If you're telling the truth, my only male offspring is Max. His wife is pregnant right now. I could order her to have the baby aborted—"

He couldn't see it, but she rolled her eyes anyway. "Wouldn't do a damn thing. Time travel creates an overlay. Rewrites reality. I'm here to stay. Besides, she's having a boy. I don't come along for another fifteen years or so, after Heith gets killed and Max remarries. If any of that even happens in this timeline."

"So if I'm to believe this …" Richard paused for a moment. "You've come back from what, fifty years in the future? To tell me to stop now?"

No, I went back fifty years into the past. Idiot. "That's what I'm here for. Except that I'm not here to tell you to stop. I'm here to stop you. One way or the other." She flexed her power, letting the liquid metal fill the spaces within her without quite oozing through the skin. Her movements became a little more ponderous, and her eyesight changed, becoming shades of heat. "You can give yourselves up to the cops … or we can do this the other way."

"Dad, we can't just—" began Max.

"Shut up!" Anders glared at Ruth, his fists flexing. "And if I decline your generous offer? Are you going to simply attack us unprovoked?"

Ruth snorted, recalling the faded photos of the Goldsteins and their relatives who had perished in the Holocaust. "You're a Nazi. That should be provocation enough. But I don't have to. I know your secret identities. If I drop the heroes enough clues, they should be able to figure it out for themselves." She gestured at the unfinished base around them. "I'm sure they'd be extremely interested in this place. I doubt it's on any plans held by the city."

Anders folded his arms. "I see. Well, I have or two more questions. Are all people in the future idiots, or is the suicidal bravery confined to you? Or did you somehow think that the claim of being my grandchild would somehow move me to take your side in all this?"

"None of the above." Ruth flexed her fingers, the heated metal lurking just beneath the surface. "I came here mainly to appeal to Max. He never does buy into the Nazi bullshit that you're feeding him, not like his sister does. He dies a hero in the future, did you know? So does my mother." She looked at the boy who would have potentially been her father. "It's not too late."

Max acquired a sudden hunted expression, then flinched away as his father stared at him. "What?"

"Tell me it's not true, boy. Tell me she's lying through her teeth." Richard Anders' tone promised no mercy.

"Of course she's lying!" Max's voice was desperate. "I'd never betray you like that! She's just trying to divide us!"

For a long moment, Anders stared at him. "… very well. But we will be having a talk, later."

The elevator door dinged, and a woman emerged. Aster had never met her, but her features were vaguely familiar, even seeing her via shadings of heat. She looked to be in her early twenties, and exuded an air of menace. "Got your call. Who's this?"

"You are never going to believe this," Anders said heavily. "She calls herself Aster Anders, and claims to be Max's daughter from the future. Wants us to shut the Empire Eighty-Eight down, or she'll do it for us."

"Really." The woman came to a stop in front of Ruth, hands on her hips. "You know who I am, honey?"

"Heidi Ferguson, born Heidi Anders," Ruth said promptly. "Otherwise known as Iron Rain. My aunt, once upon a time. You died before I was born." She glanced at Richard Anders, then back to Heidi. "Your dad is grooming you to take over the Empire Eighty-Eight for when he dies or steps down. Max is due to take over Medhall. How am I doing so far?"

Heidi's eyes narrowed, then her hand lashed out in a slap that would've rocked Ruth's head sideways if she hadn't already been flexing her powers. Her sunglasses were knocked off, clattering to the ground. The wig was askew after the blow, so she discarded that as well.

"Son of a bitch!" Heidi shook her hand vigorously. "What the fuck … oh, shit. Dad, you didn't say she had powers!"

Aster, aware that her mask was now visible, smiled coldly. "I'm third generation, you moron. I've had powers almost from birth." She cracked her knuckles, her powers giving it a sharp, metallic sound. "One more time: are you going to give yourselves up to the authorities, or do I get to do this the fun way?"

Richard Anders replied the way she'd been half-expecting since she stepped into the underground base. No words were spoken, but a heavy-bladed short-spear emerged from a hole in space, aimed directly at her throat. She caught it with one hand, held it still in the air, and directed the heat from her hand through it. Within seconds, the blade around her hand was glowing red, even as other metal items pattered off her back and fell to the floor.

Iron Rain was the next to aggress on her; a series of needle-pointed spikes appeared in the air above her and fell toward her apparently unprotected head and shoulders. The way they dug into her skin was a little painful, but they didn't get any farther than that, falling off and clattering to the ground. As the blade in her right hand began to melt from the heat she was applying to it, she held out her left hand, palm out. "Hey, Iron Rain! Think quick!"

<><>​

Kaiser

Max Anders was no stranger to super-powered combat, but there was little enough of it in Brockton Bay. His main sparring partner was Heidi, and she kicked his ass nine times out of ten. The combat started before he was properly ready for it, though he'd seen these moves before. Between them, Heidi and his dad tended to clean the clocks of everyone who faced them, and Max was rarely needed.

This time … was different.

He wasn't sure where she'd got the name Aster from. It wasn't a name he'd ever thought he might give to his daughter. That was if she really was his daughter from another timeline, and not just pulling a massive con on them all.

But all the mental meandering went out the window when she caught the spear Allfather sent at her from the front, ignored the multiple knives clattering off her back, and weathered the literal iron rain delivered by his sister. And then the spear began to melt in her fucking hand.

They'd never been up against a foe who could melt metal before. Max was starting to get a really bad feeling about this, which only intensified when 'Aster' held out her hand toward Heidi. That was so obviously a threat that Heidi was already moving when the jet of molten steel shot out toward her. She yelped, undignified, and retreated a whole lot faster.

Max's brain finally caught up with the action, and he threw up a rough square box of metal around the intruder, growing a two-inch-thick wall directly out of the concrete floor, all the way to the ceiling, then bracing it on all sides. Panting from the stress, he looked at his father and sister for guidance on what to do next.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, boy?" demanded his father.

"Yeah!" His sister clenched her fists. "Now we can't get at her!"

It wasn't like you were 'getting at her' before, he wanted to say, but wisely kept that bit silent. "But … she fires molten metal! How are we supposed to fight that?"

Iron Rain shook her head. "Don't ask stupid questions. Just stay back. We'll handle this."

Allfather pointed at the elevator. "Go on up to the first floor. Tell security there's a problem and they have to evacuate the building. We can't risk anyone witnessing this fight before we put this pretender down for good."

"But … I can stay. I can help!" He knew he was the younger child, but he wished just for once they'd treat him with the respect he deserved. And he'd seen the woman's eyes just before he trapped her; glowing with their own inner light, they gave him reason to believe she was anything but a pretender.

"No, you'll just be in the way!" Iron Rain echoed her father's gesture. "Get out of here, squirt!"

"Go!" bellowed Allfather, even as the metal box began to glow faintly red. "For once in your life, do as you're told!"

God damn it. It's like I'm a kid all over again. This is because of what she said, I'd put money on it.

But he didn't have a choice. Retreating into the elevator, he hit the button for the first floor, then checked himself over for any telltale signs of battle. Nothing; he hadn't been touched.

When the elevator doors opened, he hustled to the front desk. Peter, the senior guard, glanced around. "Yes, sir?" he asked.

Not 'yes, Mr Anders?', because Mr Anders is my dad. Dammit. But that was the least of his problems.

"We need to evacuate the building," he said, trying to keep his voice calm and level. "It's an emergency."

Peter stared at him for a moment. "Evacuate the … whole … building, sir? What's the emergency? Why weren't we informed?"

Max gritted his teeth. "I'm informing you now. Evacuate the building right now. That's an order." Was that a tremor he'd felt through the soles of his shoes? He thought he saw ripples in Peter's coffee cup.

"Does Mr Anders know about this?" asked the other guard; Max didn't know his name. "Is this some kind of drill?"

God fucking damn it. I can't do anything right. Max took two steps away from the desk, flipped the handle out from the fire alarm on the wall, and yanked hard on it. Sirens blared and red lights flashed over the doors. "Now evacuate the god damn building!" he bellowed.

The two guards glanced at each other, then Peter shrugged. "Looks like we're evacuating the building," he decided, pitching his voice to be heard over the sirens. "But you're wearing this, not us."

"Do I look like I give a fuck?" Max pointed at the phones, which were now ringing. "Do your damn jobs! Get everyone out of here!"

It was more than just sirens, he realised as he stomped away toward the elevators again. There was a voice repeating the word 'Emergency', then directing people to leave the building in a 'safe and orderly' fashion. Yeah, right. If he knew people, 'safe and orderly' would last all of ten seconds.

There was a deeper rumble through the floor as he neared the elevators. It seemed like the woman calling herself Aster Anders was still up and fighting, which was a worry. His father and sister were good at what they did, and if they couldn't double-team a single opponent into defeat in just a few minutes—

Another rumble, accompanied by a scorched section of carpet, gave him just enough warning before the floor erupted, blasting hot masonry in all directions. He yelped, instinctively growing a metal shield out of the wall to take the impacts. Somewhere, something was on fire; he could smell the smoke from where he was. Who is this person? How is she doing this?

Whatever had burst through the floor had also wrecked the elevator; the doors were half open, and the cable hung limply in the shaft within. More smoke billowed upward out of the hole that had been blasted in the floor. Suddenly, the sprinklers kicked into action, drenching him within seconds.

I have to find them. I have to help. No longer caring if anyone saw him—between the smoke and the sprinklers, the security cameras would be picking up minimal imagery right now—he pulled back his sleeve so he could get access to his watch and grow the armour that he'd spent so much time figuring out. In time, he knew he'd be faster at it, but right now he just wanted to make sure the joints worked right. Heidi had laughed herself sick and called him 'Derpio' after his first few attempts left him barely able to shuffle along.

There was more rumbling, then the floor shook badly enough that he fell over. Bits of ceiling panel crashed to the floor all around him, spraying water everywhere. As he pulled himself to his feet, using the wall for assistance, he saw a figure climbing the pile of rubble partly blocking the hole in the floor. Flames flickered farther back, outlining the person like an escapee from Hell.

Aster Anders climbed the last few yards, carrying something in her hands that he couldn't quite make out. Despite the water spraying down over them both, she was dry, all the water hissing off her in billowing clouds of steam. Her eyes were still red-lit from within, giving her a supremely dangerous appearance. She tossed the two objects to the floor at his feet; they rolled to a stop, and he recognised them with a lurch of his stomach as his father's and sister's heads. The neck-stumps, as far as he could tell, had been seared off rather than sliced with a blade.

"You—" he began, before she lunged forward, grabbing the front of his shirt and lifting him off his feet, up against the wall.

"You will not speak." Her voice, almost metallic in nature, was clearly audible over the sounds of crackling flame, the sirens, and the hiss of the sprinklers. "You will listen. Allfather and Iron Rain are dead. So is the Empire Eighty-Eight. You will be a good man, and a good father to your son. Or I'll be back. Is that understood?"

He didn't even try to kid himself that she wouldn't do it because she was theoretically his daughter. She'd killed his father and sister already, and he could feel the heat radiating from her skin, even through the soaked cloth. With an effort, he nodded.

She held him there for another moment, then let him down onto his feet. The moment she released him, he collapsed to all fours. Vaguely, he was aware of her turning and walking away, but he was too busy retching up his last meal.

There was no future for the Empire Eighty-Eight anymore, that was a given. Medhall itself might not survive, if the investigations turned up Allfather's true identity. Max Anders would have to survive and go forward on his own merits.

It was just lucky that his identity as Kaiser hadn't really hit the public eye yet, mainly because Allfather and Iron Rain had overshadowed him so completely. So he could claim to have known nothing about it.

Climbing to his feet, he staggered toward the main entrance, barely noticing when one of the security guards grabbed his arm and hustled him onward.

If I go villain again after this, she'll come back and kill me. But what else is there for me to do?

Could I be a hero?

He had no idea. But there was only one way to find out.

End of Part 8-5​

 

[Dragonslayer Ornstein]

Yes! Thank you for the chappy! Always a good read and I look forward to more.

 

[Zackarix]

Could I be a hero?

He had no idea. But there was only one way to find out.

Click to shrink...

Max really isn't the kind of guy who deserves a second chance. But I guess he's more salvageable than Allfather or Iron Rain? Was Aster right to spare him? Maybe, probably not, but she probably really wants him to turn his life around, so it makes sense that she'd give him the chance that most people wouldn't.

 

[Gaemnomut]

Damn, Ruth kicking ass. She really isn't to be messed with apparently.

Max really isn't the kind of guy who deserves a second chance. But I guess he's more salvageable than Allfather or Iron Rain? Was Aster right to spare him? Maybe, probably not, but she probably really wants him to turn his life around, so it makes sense that she'd give him the chance that most people wouldn't.

Click to shrink...

Also, he is still a teenager if I understood correctly, who was groomed into doing terrible things. (Not that that entirely absolves him of course) Even though she knows he will turn into a monster if he continues on this path, perhaps this version still deserves a shot at redemption in her opinion.
And, if he truly turns around, who better to make sure the remnants of the Empire are never allowed to resurface. If she had just killed him, Gesellschaft might have just rebuilt the operations from the shattered pieces. Most of the unpowered members, the safe houses, and the connections are still here after all, even with the leaders and the HQ dead.

 

[vinzzz001]

"The unions are starting to push harder," I reminded him. "You told me so yourself. Well, the shipping companies don't want to pay the extra wages, so they're pushing back. There are firebrands on both sides, and it's entirely too likely that it will escalate to a point where both sides lose. My money's on some idiot bringing guns along, and maybe a container ship being scuttled in a way that blocks the entire port from being used."

Click to shrink...

I am not entirely sure but wasn't the decline of the shipping industry (caused by Leviathan) one of the root causes for what the unions did?

With Leviathan never appearing the shipping industry shouldn't be damaged. With Behemoth's death, and the Simurgh not showing up, advancements in technology and out-of-country mass production should still be a thing. Both these should be preventing the decline in international trading which would eventually cause the poor conditions that pushed the unions so far.

Am I confused with fanon?

 

[Ack]

Max really isn't the kind of guy who deserves a second chance. But I guess he's more salvageable than Allfather or Iron Rain? Was Aster right to spare him? Maybe, probably not, but she probably really wants him to turn his life around, so it makes sense that she'd give him the chance that most people wouldn't.

Click to shrink...

Damn, Ruth kicking ass. She really isn't to be messed with apparently.


Also, he is still a teenager if I understood correctly, who was groomed into doing terrible things. (Not that that entirely absolves him of course) Even though she knows he will turn into a monster if he continues on this path, perhaps this version still deserves a shot at redemption in her opinion.
And, if he truly turns around, who better to make sure the remnants of the Empire are never allowed to resurface. If she had just killed him, Gesellschaft might have just rebuilt the operations from the shattered pieces. Most of the unpowered members, the safe houses, and the connections are still here after all, even with the leaders and the HQ dead.

Click to shrink...

This early in his life (he's 19 going on 20) he has the chance to turn himself around, especially without his father and sister pouring poison in his ear all the time, and the sheer expectation that he'll carry on the family business (that is, being a neo-Nazi asshole). He'll just be a regular asshole instead. And there's no shortage of asshole heroes in Worm.

I am not entirely sure but wasn't the decline of the shipping industry (caused by Leviathan) one of the root causes for what the unions did?

With Leviathan never appearing the shipping industry shouldn't be damaged. With Behemoth's death, and the Simurgh not showing up, advancements in technology and out-of-country mass production should still be a thing. Both these should be preventing the decline in international trading which would eventually cause the poor conditions that pushed the unions so far.

Am I confused with fanon?

Click to shrink...

Bit of fanon going on there. From the timeline hints I have, the Lord's Port incident and the Boat Graveyard happened before Leviathan showed.

 

[Death by Chains]

"I'm sorry, but no." I gave him a sympathetic look. "What I'm telling you is based on research and analysis I did on my own dime, because I care about this city. We don't have an official presence here, except for one recruiting sergeant. Even if things do go down the gurgler, the earliest we're projected to establish a department here is 'ninety-nine, early two thousand. And that'll be far too late to pull things back into line."

Click to shrink...

Do Americans use 'gurgler' as a synonym/in that phrase? Or are they more likely to word it as 'down the toilet'?

Welp... can't blame Ruth for her venom on that particular topic, and she did handle the matter herself — loathsome or not, family deals with family — and giving Max a chance to change his mind and his path in life is possibly more mercy than others would've had in her shoes. I just hope that Taylor/Head!Lisa weren't building any specific plans around Richard and/or the Empire being a significant factor in Brockton Bay, because you can stick a fork in 'em: they're done.

 

[Impartial Panic]

I am not entirely sure but wasn't the decline of the shipping industry (caused by Leviathan) one of the root causes for what the unions did?

With Leviathan never appearing the shipping industry shouldn't be damaged. With Behemoth's death, and the Simurgh not showing up, advancements in technology and out-of-country mass production should still be a thing. Both these should be preventing the decline in international trading which would eventually cause the poor conditions that pushed the unions so far.

Am I confused with fanon?

Click to shrink...

Businesses have been working at eroding unions for decades,
Leviathan causing destruction to shipping infrastructure just kicked things into turbo.

Good old fashioned greed on the shipping industry and a few outside parties looking to profit from the chaos.
Thinkers are a thing and while Taylor has and will continue to throw stones in the pond can cause massive ripples
there may well be a counter weight to her actions, push and the universe pushes back.

Bit of fanon going on there. From the timeline hints I have, the Lord's Port incident and the Boat Graveyard happened before Leviathan showed.

Click to shrink...

by the time anyone would have gathered the resources to fix the mess Leviathan appears and wrecks things so bad the bay got sent to the bottom of the list of things to fix.

Here with the endbringers out of the picture possibly permanently the bay could have recovered from the riots in a few decades if the villain situation could be contained.

 

[Ack]

Do Americans use 'gurgler' as a synonym/in that phrase? Or are they more likely to word it as 'down the toilet'?

Welp... can't blame Ruth for her venom on that particular topic, and she did handle the matter herself — loathsome or not, family deals with family — and giving Max a chance to change his mind and his path in life is possibly more mercy than others would've had in her shoes. I just hope that Taylor/Head!Lisa weren't building any specific plans around Richard and/or the Empire being a significant factor in Brockton Bay, because you can stick a fork in 'em: they're done.

Click to shrink...

Oh, she would've dealt with them in her own time. Aster just did it more forcefully.

Businesses have been working at eroding unions for decades,
Leviathan causing destruction to shipping infrastructure just kicked things into turbo.

Good old fashioned greed on the shipping industry and a few outside parties looking to profit from the chaos.
Thinkers are a thing and while Taylor has and will continue to throw stones in the pond can cause massive ripples
there may well be a counter weight to her actions, push and the universe pushes back.


by the time anyone would have gathered the resources to fix the mess Leviathan appears and wrecks things so bad the bay got sent to the bottom of the list of things to fix.

Here with the endbringers out of the picture possibly permanently the bay could have recovered from the riots in a few decades if the villain situation could be contained.

Click to shrink...

Yeah, it was all a perfect storm of shitty circumstances. If the economy hadn't nosedived and crime increased and villains came into the city, they might have been able to recover Lord's Port. Levi just put the stamp on that one.

 

[Prince Charon]

Do Americans use 'gurgler' as a synonym/in that phrase? Or are they more likely to word it as 'down the toilet'?

Click to shrink...

'Toilet' especially that far back. As an American, I didn't know what was meant by 'gurgler' until you pointed that out, though I probably could have guessed from context.

 

[Ack]

Do Americans use 'gurgler' as a synonym/in that phrase? Or are they more likely to word it as 'down the toilet'?

Welp... can't blame Ruth for her venom on that particular topic, and she did handle the matter herself — loathsome or not, family deals with family — and giving Max a chance to change his mind and his path in life is possibly more mercy than others would've had in her shoes. I just hope that Taylor/Head!Lisa weren't building any specific plans around Richard and/or the Empire being a significant factor in Brockton Bay, because you can stick a fork in 'em: they're done.

Click to shrink...

'Toilet' especially that far back. As an American, I didn't know what was meant by 'gurgler' until you pointed that out, though I probably could have guessed from context.

Click to shrink...

It's actually supposed to be a reference to 'down the drain'.

But toilet works too, I guess.

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 8-6: More Changes

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

Sunday, February 25, 1996
On a Bus, Heading South

Max Anders

Heith had had trouble getting comfortable on the Greyhound seat, not least because she was almost nine months along. Still, Max had done his best, paying for all three seats and bringing along extra pillows for her to rest on. She'd fallen into an uneasy sleep about an hour south of Brockton Bay while he sat up and fretted about the future.

He was content to let her sleep. The pregnancy had been hard on her—the baby was a large one, the ob/gyn had informed them—and the sheer chaos of the last two days had caused her to lose even more sleep than normal. They were going to have a son, or so the enigmatic Aster Anders had informed him, which was also something to think about.

He still recalled the sheer terror he had felt when his daughter from the future—thinking back about the powers he'd seen her using, he had little doubt she was telling the truth about that—had confronted him directly. 'Allfather and Iron Rain are dead. So is the Empire Eighty-Eight. You will be a good man, and a good father to your son. Or I'll be back. Is that understood?'

He'd understood it implicitly. There was no doubt in his mind that if he ignored any part of her directive, he would suffer the same fate as his father and sister. The only thing that had saved his life was ironically the disregard they'd held him in, refusing to allow him any active part in the operational side of the Empire Eighty-Eight.

Treating him like a callow youth, disparaging his efforts to prove himself worthy of the Anders name, they'd roused enough resentment in him that he personally began to reject the values that the Empire held dear. He was observant enough to see that mere skin colour made little difference to a man's physical and mental capabilities; access to proper nutrition and good education had far more to do with it. Of course, he was also smart enough to never speak aloud of this, and was quite willing to pay lip service to such views if it could just grant him access to the power and influence that he'd craved.

Had craved. Past tense. The look of stark horror on his father's and sister's burned and decapitated heads had cured that urge in him, perhaps permanently. He just wanted to live; and if that meant giving up the money and celebrity lifestyle that went with being an Anders of Brockton Bay, then that was what he would do.

He wasn't sure if it was the turn to the west that woke her up, but Heith roused as the bus rolled across the Alexander Hamilton Bridge. Blinking muzzily at him, she peered out the window. "Where are we?"

"New York," he said with a smile that was only partly forced. "We're nearly there."

"I hope so." She put her hands on her swollen belly. "He's started kicking again. He's really not happy in there."

"He's probably as bored as I am," Max said lightly. "Long bus rides aren't my thing, either."

"Yeah, talking about that." She gestured toward the aisle. "I need to go to the restroom. He just landed a good one on my bladder."

"Okay." He got out of his seat and helped her to her feet. "You can handle it from here?"

"If I'm not, you'll know about it." She put her hand on his cheek. "And we'll be okay. I know we will. A lot's happened, but we'll get through it. Together."

"Together," he echoed, then sat back in his seat while she made her way down the aisle toward the restroom at the back of the bus.

Her love was one of the things that had allowed him to keep it together over the last forty-eight hours. The secret about Medhall wasn't quite out yet, but the damage to the building had been extensive, and emergency services had uncovered a few anomalies which he knew they were looking into. It really was only a matter of time.

He'd contacted the few members of the Empire he knew how to get in touch with—Krieg, Blitzen, Panzer—and told them what had happened. Their enthusiasm for him to step into Allfather's shoes would've been encouraging, were it not for their previous lack of recognition of his talents, not to mention his daughter's chilling words. The very last thing he wanted was to inherit the leadership of the Empire Eighty-Eight, for the very good reason that he had no desire to die.

Even absent that, he knew damn well that the authorities would link the Empire to Medhall, and thus the Anders family, sooner rather than later. When that happened, no matter how he concealed his identity, Max would be outed as Kaiser and the Empire Eighty-Eight would lose its biggest cash haven. The writing was on the wall: there was no real future for the Empire, and especially not for himself if he maintained ties to it.

Thus, the move to New York.

The bus slowed as it negotiated the crowded streets of Manhattan Island; even on a Sunday, there were almost as many people out and about in a normal Brockton Bay weekday. And then, after taking a few turns that he would've sworn no bus could negotiate, they drove into what the signage proclaimed as being the George Washington Bridge Bus Terminal. Finally, after far too many hours on the road, it pulled to a halt and the driver killed the engine.

They waited until everyone in the rows behind them had passed by before he got out of his seat and helped Heith to her feet. Once off the bus, he found a seat for her so she could rest her feet, then located a luggage cart. The unloading of the luggage was well under way by the time he had that sorted out, so it was easy enough to pick out the two suitcases each of them had packed. It wasn't much to start a new life with, but he figured they'd just have to make do.

Making their way downstairs with the luggage was an adventure unto itself, but they succeeded without running over anyone's feet. Max was fully aware of the hazard of pickpockets and bag-snatchers, so he made sure his wallet was in the inside pocket of his zipped-up jacket, and kept between Heith and anyone who seemed to be trying to get too close to her. Finally, they made it to the cab rank that serviced the terminal, and he assisted the driver with getting the suitcases into the trunk of the taxi.

The first stop was to be a hotel; Heith needed her rest. Max had made a close scrutiny of the Yellow Pages and written out a list of the ones that seemed to fit his requirements, but he didn't know enough to make the final choice. The cabbie, however, plied with careful questions, was a wealth of information about which places were good to stay at and which were just roach motels with good publicity.

As they got closer to the city centre, Max began to see the scars of Behemoth's rampage, and the new construction that was taking place in the wake of the monster's attack. It had only been two years, but most of the essential repairs were complete and new skyscrapers were already reaching for the heavens to replace what Behemoth had destroyed.

He turned to gaze out the window at a mural painted across the broad face of a building, showing the heroes driving the creature out of the city. Heith leaned across and looked as well. "They say the PRT warned the capes he was coming," she said quietly.

"What, really?" Max hadn't heard anything about that.

Heith nodded. "I've got a distant cousin who lives down here. She says there was a crack team of analysts working on it day and night for weeks until they figured out it was New York, about a day before it happened. She was warned to evacuate ahead of time, so she did. When she came back, her apartment building looked like a bomb hit it. They totally saved her life."

"Well, damn." He shook his head. "I'm impressed."

"Me too." She fell silent then, as the cab rolled through the streets of Midtown.

When they reached the hotel that the cab driver had recommended, they unloaded the suitcases and Max tipped the driver ten bucks over the fare. Taking up two cases with each hand—not impossible, just difficult, but he wasn't going to leave them on the footpath for any length of time—he struggled inside with them while Heith helpfully held the door open.

The hotel did actually look quite nice, but Max rode up with Heith and the bellhop all the same, to ensure that the room was up to the standard that she deserved. While it couldn't match up to the luxury of the Anders mansion back in Brockton Bay—he suspected quite a bit of that ostentatious wealth would just go away once the government figured out just how much stemmed from criminal dealings—it was neat and clean, with a nice view out the window. As soon as Heith saw the expansive double bed, she collapsed on it with a sigh and waved vaguely to let Max know it was good enough.

Once he'd tipped the bellhop and sent him on his way, Max sat down on the bed next to Heith. "I'll be heading out in a moment," he said softly, putting his hand on hers. "Is there anything you need before I go?"

"Pillow," she said, gesturing up behind her head from where she lay on her left side. "Tuck me in, please?"

"I can do that." He retrieved the pillow and carefully tucked it under her belly until she nodded. "I'll order room service when I get back."

"You're amazing." Her eyes were already drifting shut. "I'm gonna be stupid hungry in a few hours but right now, I just wanna sleep."

He squeezed her hand, feeling the return pressure. "You do that. I'll be back soon."

He'd just reached the door when she called out, her voice drowsy. "Max?"

"Yes?" He paused, his hand on the knob.

"Love you."

"Love you, too."

I should say that more often, he chastised himself as he opened the door and let himself out of the room. Heith could have cut loose from him and gone back to the Herren Clan, where there would surely have been someone willing to take care of her and their son. Or she could've insisted that he stay and take up the mantle of the Empire Eighty-Eight, come what may. But instead, once she'd heard what had happened, she'd chosen to up stakes and go with him, throwing away her old life just as thoroughly as he was.

He knew of members of the Empire, capes and non-capes alike, who were so dedicated to the cause that they would stop at nothing to carry out its ends. There was no atrocity too horrific, no line that could not be crossed. But not one of them would have followed him to New York like she had; not one would've been willing to walk away from the Empire just because he asked them to.

Still ruminating over the difference, he paused in the lobby to buy a tourist map from the spinner in the corner. Heith and he had been married for barely a year, and they'd been lucky; for all that theirs had been an arranged match, there had been an attraction and a liking between them even before the wedding. They barely argued, even about trivial things like asking for directions if they were lost. Not that they'd had the chance to get lost in Brockton Bay, with his father watching over the both of them like a hawk.

A chilly breeze was sweeping down the street as he stepped out through the front doors; he turned his back to it before carefully unfolding the map one section at a time. It took a little juggling of the unwieldy folds, but he located his destination after a little scrutiny. If he was reading matters correctly, his goal was two blocks west and three north.

I need to stretch my legs anyway. Refolding the map as best he could, he shoved it into his jacket pocket, re-checked the landmarks, and started walking.

It was actually kind of pleasant, just walking somewhere. His father had always made sure he stayed fit with various types of athletic training, though he'd never been as good at them as Heidi. He was at least partially convinced that this was the reason why she'd been picked to run the Empire instead of him.

That, and she'd had no idea how to run a business, or even how to relate to people who weren't already obliged to listen to what she had to say. His father had always been fond of the quote, 'Diplomacy is the art of telling someone to go to hell in such a way that they ask for directions,' and Max had taken it to heart. Heidi was just good at telling people to go to hell.

A moment later, he was jolted by the direction of his thoughts. Had been. Jeez, I'm thinking of her like she's still alive. Coming to a halt, he leaned against the wall with both hands, head down, eyes tight shut. They were assholes to me, but every time I remember they're dead, it still hits me right where it hurts.

He'd been right there, he'd talked to Aster, had seen the distaste in her expression when talking to Allfather and Iron Rain, but he still had trouble assimilating the fact that his daughter from the future had killed his father and sister. Even when telling the other members of the Empire about it, he'd left out her relationship to him, just that she'd known who Allfather and Iron Rain were and had given him the warning after killing them. He had no idea how they'd react if he told them, but belief would probably be worse than disbelief.

"Hey."

Jolted out of his thoughts by the voice, he looked around to see a rough-looking guy holding something in his hand. Max blinked, staring. "What?"

The guy took half a step closer. There was the snik of a switchblade opening, and he gestured with the gleaming blade. "Wallet and watch, rich boy. Don't try to run. I'll be on your ass like white on rice."

The hell? I'm being mugged? Max couldn't believe it. He'd never had to worry about anything like this happening back in Brockton Bay, because every mugger in Empire territory knew not to touch the rich people. The trouble was, he was no longer in Brockton Bay. Worse, if he used his powers to protect himself, the guy had already seen his face.

For any other member of the Empire, that wouldn't have been a problem; 'leave no witnesses' was a time-honoured tactic. But he was actively trying to be a good man, as per Aster's directive, and he didn't think killing someone to protect his secret identity fell under the description of 'good'. What do I do? I can't just let him take my stuff. But I can't reveal I'm a cape either.

"Good citizen, never fear!" He jumped, startled, when the chirpy voice came from just behind him. A hand fell on his shoulder, then someone vaulted over him to land in front of the mugger. He registered that it was a teenage girl, probably a couple of years younger than him, wearing a short cape and a helmet sporting large mouse ears. "Be of good cheer! Mouse Protector is here!"

As the mugger took a step back, either in fear or total disbelief in what was happening, she whipped out a rapier and pointed it at the guy, then shot Max a cheeky grin.

"Oh, shit." The mugger's tone suggested resignation and fear. "Fuck off, why don't you? Just fuck off."

"You know I can't do that, with rats like you scurrying around and stealing all the good cheese." She advanced on him, waving the rapier in a way that suggested she had no real idea of how one was used and was making it up as she went along. "Now drop your stupid little knife, and I won't poke any more holes in you like I did the last time you tried to stab me."

"Hey, you hear that?" The mugger looked past Mouse Protector (that had to be the stupidest name he'd ever heard for a hero) to appeal to Max. "She said she was going to stick me with that sword of hers."

"I suggest you drop your knife, and she won't." It seemed clear enough to him. Stupid name aside, there was no way he was going to undermine the authority of someone who'd just bailed him out of the reveal-or-be-robbed dilemma.

"Oh." The switchblade clattered on the grimy concrete, and Mouse Protector soon had the mugger sitting up against the wall with his hands flex-cuffed behind him.

"May I ask you a question?" he asked quietly, after they'd been waiting a few minutes for the police.

"Absolutely, citizen," she declared. "You mouse certainly can."

He tried not to wince at the bad pun. "Your name is really Mouse Protector? Did you lose a bet or something?"

"I said that, the first time you arrested me!" blurted the guy on the ground. "Didn't I say that?"

She shot him a dirty look, then drew her rapier and tapped him sharply on top of the head with the tip. "Shut up, nobody asked you." Composing her features, she looked at Max. "I chose the name myself. For I am the protector of all mouseys, large and small. With my trusty sword—" she flourished the rapier with more enthusiasm than skill, making Max step back a pace, "—I keep the vicious rats and mangy cats of society at bay!"

"Um …" He hesitated, but the fencing lessons his father had paid for in years past were causing him almost physical pain at this point. "Have you actually had any training with that?"

"Training?" she asked artlessly. "It's a sword. Not that complicated. The pointy bit goes in the bad guy."

"Yes, granted, but—" He broke off as a police cruiser chirped its siren before pulling to a halt next to them.

It seemed the officers had a certain amount of respect for Mouse Protector, taking the mugger off her hands and getting a statement from him. He told them what had happened, only varying from the truth when he backed up her assertion that she'd never threatened to stab the mugger. Eventually, protesting that he was being railroaded, the mugger was loaded in the back seat of the cruiser, and it headed off down the road.

"Thanks for that," she said briskly. "I wouldn't get in real trouble over it, but Legend's got a way of being disappointed at you that's even worse than console duty, ugh." She gave an all-over shudder to express her feelings about that sort of thing.

"Hey, you saved my bacon, so I figured I'd return the favour." He gave her a grin and a shrug. "Does that happen often, around here?"

"No, actually." She leaned down to pick up a small rubber puck from the ground, tucking it into her utility belt. He wasn't sure what that was all about. "I was just on my way back to base when I saw him and you, and I decided to wreck his whole day yet again."

"Well, I'm glad you did." He decided to pretend ignorance. "How far away is it? I think I might just go there and put in a favourable review about your performance. Just in case there's anything else you've done that Legend might be disappointed at you over."

She grinned. "You know me so well. But it doesn't really matter. Soon as I turn eighteen, I age out of the Wards, and Legend can pout at me all he likes."

"They're not letting you join the Protectorate?" He tilted his head curiously. "I thought it was basically a formality at that point."

"No, no, they've asked and I've told 'em. The day after my eighteenth birthday, bam! I'm outta here." She gestured vaguely down the street. "Still gonna be a hero, but on my terms, not theirs."

"Should you even be telling me about this?" He frowned, not sure what was going on. "I mean, you have no idea who I am."

She waved off his concern. "Pfft, I can tell you're trustworthy from across the street. Besides, it's not exactly a secret. I'm basically telling everyone. The Mouse will be leaving the House."

"Right. So … if I wanted to get to the Protectorate building, where would I need to go?"

"Oh, that's easy." She pointed. "Down to the end of the block, then turn right. It's three blocks up."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." He hoped she wouldn't notice the map in his pocket; since his life had been turned upside down, he'd decided that being cagey was his best bet. It was a habit that was hard to break, even when talking to someone like Mouse Protector. Some part of his mind wondered if it was because she was a hero and he'd been on the cusp of becoming a supervillain in his own right.

"You're welcome, citizen. Mouse Protector, away!" She drew her rapier, flourished it again, and vanished.

Well, that was interesting. He continued his walk, paying much more attention to his surroundings than he had been before. Dad would've torn me a whole new asshole if he saw me get blindsided like that. Again came the mental wince when he recalled once more that Richard Anders would never again chastise him for a real or imagined lapse in his vigilance.

Turning right at the end of the block, it was easy to see his goal, even three blocks away. The New York Protectorate building featured on the news on a weekly basis, was cameoed occasionally in TV shows, and had even shown up in one or two movies. Here, now, in real life, it seemed to loom larger in reality than it had on the TV screen.

With every step closer, now that he could actually see it, he found doubts crowding around him yet again. My father was Allfather, my sister was Iron Rain. I am a supervillain, born into a family of villains. What the hell am I doing here? But he forged his way onward anyway.

At last, he stood in front of it, looking up at the frontage with just as much apprehension as anticipation. Again, he asked himself the question. What am I doing?

The answer was simple. Making a good life for my wife and child.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward. The heavy glass doors slid aside; as he entered the lobby, the first thing he saw was a garish standee of Legend, slightly larger than life-size, bearing the hero's trademark grin and wave. Next, he saw the PRT troopers doing their best to be inconspicuous here and there. Interestingly enough, it seemed that their uniforms had been updated, featuring urban camo and transparent faceplates. This didn't make them look friendly, but it gave them a more human appearance.

Here and there around the lobby were images of the more prominent members of the Protectorate, as well as a whole corner devoted to Behemoth; images from each time he'd attacked, and a bronze plaque inset into the wall with the names of all the capes who'd been killed by him. Max took his time looking over the exhibit, so as not to appear too eager. He had no doubt there was discreet surveillance on every person who entered here, in an attempt to get an inside line on would-be recruits. Walking in and going straight up to the receptionist would be like waving a flare and shouting, 'here I am!'.

Finally, after several others had gone before him, he strolled over and fronted up to the desk. The receptionist, an attractive black girl with the nametag MELODY, smiled at him. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Well, I hope you can." He tried to smile back, but it didn't really come out right. When he spoke, he lowered his voice. "Who do I speak to about recruitment?"

Her expression never changed, but her voice also became quieter. "Wait five minutes then go to door one-one-two, just down the corridor past the restrooms."

"Thank you." He stepped away from the counter and went back to his examination of the various exhibits, then took the time to read each of the cape names on the list of the dead, one by one.

When he judged five minutes had passed—checking his watch or looking at the clock on the wall would've been a giveaway that he was actually waiting for something to happen—he looked around then wandered down the corridor. Room 112 was just another innocuous door, but when he tried the handle, it opened. Within, he saw an armoured figure with a distinctive weapon; a sword with a cannon barrel incorporated into the blade.

"Come on in and close the door." The hero held out his hand. "I'm Chevalier. You're the one who wanted to talk about recruitment?"

Max shook it, impressed by the articulation of his armour. "Yes, I am. I'm a cape …" He paused, then grimaced. There was no way he'd be able to hide who he really was, who he'd nearly become. Not if the PRT did any kind of due diligence. "Okay, cards on the table. My name's Max Anders. My father was Richard Anders, from Brockton Bay. In the next couple of days, it's going to come out that he was Allfather, and that my sister Heidi was Iron Rain."

Chevalier's head came up. "I'd heard about something happening in Brockton Bay. Are you saying Allfather and Iron Rain are dead? Were you … part of their organisation?" Are you a member of the Empire Eighty-Eight, he was asking.

"I never was one of them." Max knew he was skating the line between truth and lies now, but his course was set and he had to see it through. "I'm not a Nazi. I don't believe in that stuff. My father wanted to force me to become something I'm not. Then a cape came in the day before yesterday, killed them both, and told me to be a good man." He spread his hands. "So here I am."

"Who was this cape?" asked Chevalier. "Had you seen them before? Do you know who they are?"

"I'd never met her before in my life," Max answered truthfully enough. "She made claims that I've got no way to verify."

Chevalier said nothing. The silence stretched between them.

Max took a deep breath. "She said she was my daughter from the future. Her powers seemed to bear that out. She fought Allfather and Iron Rain at the same time and killed them both, then told me to be a good man and a good father to my son. After that, she just walked away. I haven't seen her since."

"Wait." Chevalier tilted his head slightly. "She said she was your daughter, but she told you to be a good father to your son?"

"That's what she said." Max shrugged; I have no idea either. "My wife is pregnant. I'm assuming it's a boy. I've got no real future in Brockton Bay, not as Max Anders. I want to be a hero. Do you think that's got a chance of happening?"

Chevalier nodded, and clapped him on the shoulder. "I do. Welcome to the Protectorate."

-ooo-​

Monday, July 29, 1996
Twin Falls, Idaho

Jack Slash

Something was going wrong, and Jack didn't like it. Not one little bit.

While the Slaughterhouse Nine had not been his creation, he'd taken up leadership after King died and Harbinger left for greener pastures, and he liked to think he'd done damned well at it. A few members had come and gone in the nearly-a-decade since he'd assumed command, but in the last couple of years it had been more 'gone' than 'come'.

Capes died in battle: that was a given. But unless he could replenish the numbers, the Nine would soon find itself nickel-and-dimed down to just himself. And maybe Crimson; the man was as durable as they came, when he was full up on blood.

That part he could handle. But the most irritating aspect was that he somehow seemed to be running out of potential recruits. Or perhaps that was the second most irritating; losing Gray Boy to the fucking Faerie Queen was all the way up there.

Nicholas had been one of his heaviest hitters, and to have her simply swoop in and harvest him when Jack wasn't even there was nothing short of infuriating. Now, recruiting her would be the coup of a lifetime, but she'd apparently gone and handed herself over to the authorities afterward. What her play was there, he couldn't figure it out.

At the end of the day, there was exactly damn-all he could do about that, or about her. Which left the other problem: that of the dwindling supply of recruits. Or rather, of recruits who could make the grade. He'd had his eye on Winter for the last few years, looking to cross paths with her and make his pitch, only for her to die in mysterious circumstances in a grimy dive bar in Chicago.

The last three people he had been able to bring onto the team hadn't lasted past their first encounter with the heroes, which meant the Nine was down to the Slaughterhouse Four. Himself, Crimson, Screamer and Breed. He had to pull more talent onto the team, and make sure they could take care of themselves—the last idiot had accidentally taken Nyx with him when his powersuit had unexpectedly exploded—or they were done for.

It was faint consolation, but part of the reason for his loss of members could be laid at the feet of the PRT, not his own lack of leadership capability. Over the last few years, their operational security and the quality of their analysts had improved dramatically, making it harder and harder to slip through the cracks. He still wasn't sure what had happened to Nice Guy, but none of the other attempted infiltrations had worked either.

Still, he was Jack Slash. There was nobody like him in the continental United States, and certainly nobody who had headed a villain team for nine years to such devastating effect. If anyone could turn this around and get the team back on top, he could.

"Jack." It was Screamer's voice, resounding in his ears. "I need new clothes. I'm going shopping. Did you want anything?"

"No, I'm fine." He shook his head, aware she wouldn't hear the gesture but doing it anyway. "Keep an ear out."

"Oh, ha ha."

She went silent then and he returned to his ruminations, trying to think more broadly. The world had been changing in recent months. Eidolon was dead, and Behemoth apparently neutralised as a result. Idly, he wondered if it was possible to get to Indonesia; if the monster could be shut down, it could be woken up again.

Now, that would put the Nine on the map once and for all.

-ooo-​

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT

Screamer posed a distinct problem for anyone wishing to take her down with standard special-ops tactics. She could clearly hear any sound within one mile of her, and could modify those sounds at will into anything … or nothing. Inside that radius, there was no such thing as 'soundproof' or 'secure'.

If I'd been heading a strike team, comms would've been compromised the instant we stepped inside her range of effect—which covered a large portion of the town of Twin Falls, just saying—giving her the ability to both listen in and make us hear whatever she wanted us to. She'd done that more than once with the PRT and Protectorate both, sometimes leading teams to ambush each other with tragic results. So I bypassed all that by going in alone, leaving Kinsey waiting at the edge of town for me to give the all-clear.

He didn't like it, a fact he'd made extremely clear when we spoke on the subject, but he'd acceded to my expertise in the matter. I personally didn't like it myself, but the first part of the op had to be up close and personal, and he was constitutionally incapable of appearing to be anything but a PRT sergeant, even when in civvies. The last thing we wanted was for Screamer to make us and warn Jack remotely; if that happened, many people would die.

Which meant that I was already in the clothing store when she walked in. I was out of uniform, of course, wearing a light denim jacket and jeans, as well as a baseball cap. My Glock was holstered in the small of my back just in case, but I had no intention of using it outside of a dire emergency.

As she strolled around the store, picking out the items she intended to steal—I was pretty sure that no member of the Slaughterhouse Nine even bothered to carry money anymore—I got ahead of her, meandering toward the changing booths. Inside my left sleeve was a long narrow sheath that I'd spent most of one night carefully stitching into place; up until a few minutes ago, there'd been what looked like an ordinary knitting needle in the sheath. Spoilers: it wasn't an ordinary knitting needle.

Screamer undoubtedly knew all the myriad sounds of a firearm being readied for action and would be put on high alert by any of them. Lisa had assured me that she could even discern the whine of an electronic targeting system powering up, or the gentle creak of pressure being taken up on a trigger. So, I wasn't using guns at all.

I got to the changing booths just at the same time as she did, and started opening my door. Giving me a cursory glance, she opened hers, and that was when I cannoned into her. I smashed her into the booth and caused her to drop her intended bounty, then flicked the needle around from where I'd been holding it against my sleeve and stabbed her with it.

On its own, as a random stab, it wouldn't have done a great deal. I had it angled up through her heart, which made it more problematic but unlikely to be lethal if she was given immediate medical care. Unfortunately for her, I didn't leave anything to random chance that I possibly could. So the needle was coated with a batrachotoxin paste whipped up by Andrea's pet chemical Tinker; just a scratch would've afforded Screamer a fifty-fifty chance of survival, and she had a hell of a lot more in her bloodstream than a mere scratch would've given her.

Her eyes widened as she stared at me. The irony was that the toxin had numbed her system as fast as I'd stabbed her, so she honestly didn't understand that she was already dead until it was far too late. By the time the realisation hit her brain that she was paralysed and unable to breathe, her body was in convulsions. I watched as the life left her eyes, trying to ask me a question that she would never now be able to articulate.

Seating her in the cubicle, I pulled the needle out of the tiny wound and carefully slid it into the sheath once more. I'd dispose of the needle and the jacket safely later on, but right now we had the rest of the Nine to deal with. Casually meandering from the store, I took out the lightweight walkie-talkie from my jacket pocket and turned it on. "Daylight Actual to Daylight One. Sun has risen, over."

Kinsey replied at once. "Daylight One copies sunrise. Proceeding to Point Midday. Daylight One, out."

"Daylight Actual copies. Out." I put the radio away and started down the sidewalk to where I'd arranged to meet with Kinsey.

Even though Screamer had been dealt with, there were still two other members of the Nine I needed to take care of before I confronted Jack Slash. Breed wouldn't be a huge problem, but Crimson couldn't be easily beaten down. Even when not powered up by drinking blood—seriously, what the fuck was his shard thinking?—he still had a moderate Brute rating, both in strength and durability. Not unlike Lung, in fact.

I got to the parking spot I'd already picked out about thirty seconds ahead of Kinsey; as he pulled around the corner, I was removing the traffic cones I'd left there to reserve the spot. I'd found a long time ago that people rarely seemed to question the veracity of traffic cones, once placed. He nosed the van into the spot and came to a halt, then killed the engine.

Opening the side door, I climbed in then closed it behind me. "Ma'am," Kinsey greeted me from the driver's seat.

"Kinsey," I acknowledged. I slipped out of the jacket, wrapped it around the length of the needle, and stashed it off to one side. Kneeling next to the case containing the .308 Winchester hunting rifle, I opened the clasps holding the lid closed, then opened it and lifted the rifle out.

This rifle didn't have nearly as much power or range as the .50 cal Gladys had used to assassinate Heartbreaker, but neither was it needed. The rear window of the van had a one-by-two-inch notch cut out of it, shielded by a piece of black cloth I could pull out of the way when I needed to. Kneeling, I pulled it out of the way and aimed out through the notch, then peered through the scope.

Flicking the switch on the scope that turned on the IR capability, I watched as the picture formed and steadied. It had taken a little work to ensure that I could still get usable results, even in the heat of the day. The effort had been well spent; I could make out three distinct forms inside the motel room in question. Jack and Breed I couldn't tell apart, but Crimson was bigger and bulkier than either one.

Lowering the butt of the rifle to the floor of the van, I took the bulky suppressor out of the case and set about screwing it onto the muzzle. It wouldn't make the damn thing silent—nothing made a bullet silent except reducing it to subsonic velocity, and usually not even then—but it would get rid of a lot of the initial report, and make firing the rifle in an enclosed space a lot more tolerable to our ears. With that taken care of, I took up my firing position again and worked the bolt to chamber a round.

"Police," Kinsey warned.

I lifted my finger away from the trigger. While it would've been nice to get the assistance, or at least the cooperation, of the local cops to take down Jack Slash and his crew, that path held two major stumbling blocks.

First: I was technically on a fact-finding mission, sniffing out any chance that another Endbringer could arise; my remit did not include eradicating roving murderhobo bands. Hamilton would be somewhat displeased with me if he found out how creatively I was interpreting his orders.

Second: I didn't want Jack dead, but instead handed over to Cauldron for safekeeping. That little aspect would involve a whole lot of explaining that I just didn't feel like getting into.

"Do they look like they're in a hurry?" I asked, without turning my head. Kinsey's job was to be the lookout, and mine was to be the shooter.

"No, ma'am. Going by the police scanner, it doesn't sound like anyone's found the body yet."

"Good. Let's hope it stays that way for a little longer." There were no two ways about it; my little killing spree here in quiet Twin Falls was absolutely going to be the talk of the town. I just wanted to be out of the town before they got around to asking me difficult questions.

Once Kinsey reported the police car to be out of sight, I lined up the scope once more on the motel room. The electronics dutifully gave me a picture of what was on the other side of the flimsy wall, and I panned over what was either Jack or Breed to the bulk of Crimson. Drawing in a deep breath, I let it trickle out of my lungs as I stroked my finger across the trigger. I told myself calm, calm, calm, and I could feel my heartbeat slow.

The crosshairs steadied on his head. There was no more air in my lungs. My heart rate slowed even further. And then, in the interval between beats, I tightened my finger, squeezing smoothly.

The rifle went off; even with the suppressor, it was nearly deafening. In my scope, I saw Crimson's head rock sideways with the impact. Dropping the rifle—not on the scope, I'm not a monster—I pulled in a huge breath of gunsmoke-laden air and yelled, "Go, go, go!"

Kinsey and I erupted from the van and bolted toward the motel.

-ooo-​

Jack Slash

"Cop car." Crimson gestured toward the thin curtains covering the window. The bright sunlight outside made it possible to see out without anyone being able to see in, exactly the way Jack liked it.

"Are they slowing down?" Jack asked, flicking a butterfly knife through its paces without looking.

Crimson shaded his eyes, peering. "Nope. No idea we're here."

"So what are we doing here, anyway?" asked Breed. He had one of his little horror-pets on his lap, and he was petting it like a Bond villain's cat.

"Lying low," Jack said patiently. "Taking the temperature of the region. If there's a cape in the region we can bend to our will, then we'll hear about it and strike. If not, we'll raise our usual mayhem and carnage, then move along."

"Sounds like a plan." Crimson sighed. "Pity about that Winter chick. She was one hot—"

The side of his head exploded, brains and shards of bone spraying out all over Breed, Jack and the wall. Accompanying it was a muted crack, but Jack wasn't sure if that was the original gunshot or the sound of the bullet coming in through the window or the wall. "Down!" he yelled, diving behind one of the beds.

Breed, who had been sitting on the floor, had just gotten to his feet and was moving toward the other bed when the door crashed inward, propelled by a huge boot. The bug that had been on his lap let out a high-pitched skree, but instead of heading for Crimson's corpse as it normally would have, it launched itself toward the open door. Two shots sounded, almost as one; the first exploded the bug in a mess of insectoid guts, and the second took Breed in the middle of the face. His brains joined Crimson's on the wall, and he fell bonelessly, dead before he hit the floor.

Lying flat behind the bed, a knife in each hand, Jack readied himself to strike at the first glimpse of the enemy. Two shooters meant two targets, but that was okay; he had two knives. He'd taken out multiple targets before.

"Jack Slash!" The voice was that of a woman. "Drop the knives and raise your hands! I'm here to take you alive, but there's a whole lot of leeway between unharmed and dead!"

He smiled. He'd always been able to charm the women. Some even said he had the looks of a movie star. "What guarantee do I have of that?"

Something flew over his head and hit the wall, then dropped to the floor. A moment later, a thunderclap caused his eardrums to meet in the middle of his head, and a flashbulb seared his retinas to the back of his skull. As he writhed in agony, he was vaguely aware of someone disarming him then securing his hands behind his back, but he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Then he was roughly carried out the door, bundled into what he figured was a van, and they peeled out of there.

Although he was still alive, he had a really bad feeling about this.

-ooo-​

Taylor

We stopped an hour out of town. Jack had recovered from the flashbang Kinsey had tossed his way, but I'd gagged him and put a bag over his head because the asshole just kept talking. Kinsey had suggested breaking a bone for each time he opened his mouth, but the sad truth was, nobody had that many bones.

"Kinsey, secure the perimeter. This next bit, you're not cleared to know about." The less he knew about Cauldron, the better.

Lesser men would have argued. Kinsey just nodded. "Ma'am." Picking a direction along the highway, he paced off a hundred yards then stood, observing the horizon in that direction.

"Okay," I said out loud. "I know you're here. Ruth would've given you the right time and place. Come on out."

I'd never seen Contessa before, not in the flesh, but Lisa had shown me pictures. She walked around the side of the van and faced me directly. "You're not going to tell me what this is all about." It was a prediction, not a command.

"Nope." I pulled open the van doors and dragged Jack Slash partially out. He struggled and mumbled through the gag and the bag, but I didn't give a shit. "Just keep him on ice until I need him back. Also, two things you need to know."

She barely spared a glance at him before looking back at me. "I'm listening."

"His agent is called Broadcast, just as yours is called The Eye. It's higher ranking than yours, and it will bend yours to its will if you give him a chance to speak to you or influence you in any way. Face to face, given anything like an equal chance, he will beat the snot out of you, and maybe even twist your viewpoint to join him. But his powers work only on capes. Don't let the Custodian listen to him either. She's even easier to influence than you are."

She blinked, assimilating that, while clearly suppressing the urge to ask me how the hell I knew that. "And the second?"

I snorted. "Don't let Doctor Mother near him either. She already hates me. He won't need powers to twist her into letting him come after me."

Her jaw honestly dropped. "Okay, what the hell? How do you even know that name?"

"I'm PRT Intelligence," I told her evenly. "It's my job to know. Don't let him talk to capes. Not even you. Understood?"

"Understood." She glared at me. "And I call bullshit on that being PRT Intelligence. Nobody should know about that. Who's been talking?"

I gave her a bland look in return. "Tick tock, Contessa."

Getting a good grip on Jack Slash, she shot me a lethal glare. "Doorway."

A portal opened in front of her, and I thoughtfully gave her a hand to lift him through. Then I waved as the portal closed again.

That hadn't necessarily been the wisest thing for me to say, I figured, but I doubted very much that she would tell anyone. She'd be much more invested in finding out who was feeding me backchannel information. It would keep her busy while I was doing other stuff.

After all, everyone needed a hobby.

End of Part 8-6​

 

[PerfectaCellerator]

I'd never seen Contessa before, not in the flesh, but Lisa had shown me pictures.

Click to shrink...

Hah I've forgotten that this Taylor came from a bad Behemoth and never saw Contessa

 

[macdjord]

"Be of good cheer! Mouse Protector is here!"

Click to shrink...

Kaiser owing Mouse the save is truly wonderful.

 

[Gaemnomut]

Cool update, very satisfying seeing the s9 get eliminated.

 

[Priapus]

How do you kill the Slaughterhouse 9 without superpowers?
Meticulously.

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 8-7: Ripples

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

Monday, 29 July 1996
Cauldron Base

Legend

"What is that noise?" Alexandria, pausing in the middle of giving a status update, turned and stared at the door of the conference room. "And where's Contessa? She should be here."

"She said she had to go and see someone about a thing," the Number Man observed helpfully. "I asked her if she could be any more obscure, and she actually growled at me."

Hero's head came up. "It must have something to do with Captain Snow. I've never seen anyone or anything get under Contessa's skin so thoroughly as her." He sounded amused by the concept.

Now Keith could hear the same noise Alexandria had mentioned. It sounded like a squeaky wheel. The trouble was, he didn't think they actually had anything in the base that used wheels, especially wheels that squeaked.

"Entirely understandable." Doctor Mother's tone was tart. "Captain Snow is a loose cannon who should be—"

"Yes, yes, we get it. You dislike the woman because she knows more than she should." Alexandria left her position at the head of the table and went to the door. "But the fact is, she does what she sets out to do, and she's currently our best chance of achieving our aims." Reaching the door, she opened it and stared out. "Contessa? What in God's name are you doing? Who is that?" She paused. "Please tell me it's not—"

"It's not Captain Snow, no." Contessa sounded aggravated. "If you must know, it's Jack Slash."

Seriously? This was suddenly a lot more interesting than a status update meeting. Keith rose into the air and flew over the table, beating the Number Man and Hero to the door only by virtue of superior mobility. When he stepped outside in Alexandria's wake, Contessa was there with a hospital gurney, strapped onto which was a figure bound hand and foot, with a bag over its head.

"Well, I'll be damned. She actually did it." The Number Man, crowding out after Keith, rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm actually kind of impressed. Sure, she's good at what she does, but so is he. Plus, he's usually got a bunch of like-minded capes standing between him and anyone who wants to take him down."

"He did," Contessa corrected him, keeping one hand on the gurney. "I had a little insight while I was bringing him in, and I looked into it. Over the last few years, every time a suitably unpleasant villain has cropped up that might have ended up under his sway, they've been killed off by some person or persons unknown. And the ones he has recruited have proved inadequate to the task."

"You're saying Snow's been doing this," Alexandria said in tones of enlightenment. "Thinning out his recruitment pool."

"It's the best guess I've got so far, lacking a direct line into her actions," Contessa agreed. "He only had three people along when she caught up with him. Screamer, Crimson and Breed. She cornered Screamer in a department store and stabbed her through the heart with a poisoned knitting needle, sniped Crimson at fifty yards through a motel window with a high-powered rifle, shot Breed in the face, and incapacitated Jack Slash with a flashbang."

Keith blinked. "A poisoned knitting needle?" He shook his head. "Has she been reading too many Agatha Christie novels or something? What was the poison? Arsenic?"

"Batrachotoxin," Contessa corrected him. "Poison dart frog toxin. There was enough on the needle to kill Screamer fifty times over. It caused almost instant paralysis, then convulsions, then she died when her heart and lungs just seized up altogether. She didn't even have time to call for help."

The Number Man nodded judiciously. "That does seem to be Snow's MO, yes. Instant overwhelming force, and fuck the opposition."

"So now we have him, what's the plan?" asked Hero.

Contessa raised her eyebrows, as if surprised that he'd forgotten. "We keep him in solitary and feed him extremely bland food until Captain Snow asks for him back. This is her plan, remember?"

"No." Predictably, this was Doctor Mother; late to the party, and contrary to everyone else. "Absolutely not. We are not her minions, or whatever else you want to call it. She does not dictate terms to us."

"Except when she does." Contessa gestured at Jack Slash's bound form. "She clearly sees him as being far more significant to the fate of the world than we do. Every time—every time—I've gone into a situation thinking I knew more than she did about what was going on, I've been wrong. Did you know Eidolon's death would cause the Behemoth to go dormant? She clearly did. So when she indicates he is more important than we think he is, we need to assume she knows exactly what she's talking about, and that we're the ones who are missing something."

"So we interrogate him," Doctor Mother countered. "Find out what he knows and what his powers really are. If he's so important, perhaps he can give us insights as to the inner workings of Captain Snow's mind."

Keith blinked. Hey, that's not such a bad idea—

Contessa shook her head. "No. Absolutely not. Under no circumstance is that going to happen. She made it abundantly clear. We do not talk to him."

"Really?" Doctor Mother turned to the other members of Cauldron, her hands spread in apparent disbelief. "Does nobody find that even slightly suspicious? We're to hold him in our cells, literally keep him incommunicado for ten years, yet the most powerful capes on Earth are not permitted to even talk to him and find out his version of events?"

"Yes, that is exactly correct." Contessa looked as though she wanted to either pinch the bridge of her nose, or punch Doctor Mother. "According to Snow, his passenger is called Broadcast, whereas mine is called the Eye. If he talks to a cape, he can low-level Master them, often twisting them to his point of view. In combat, he can anticipate their moves and gain insights in how to beat them, and they are given bad data on how to defeat him. Snow told me straight-up that if I was facing him on a level playing field, he would likely clean my clock."

"Well then, our course is clear." Doctor Mother tapped herself on the chest. "I'm not a cape. I can handle the interrogation."

"Again, no." Contessa shook her head. "One, you're not even remotely a trained interrogator. Two, she specifically told me that you were not to be allowed access to him. You might not be a cape, but you hate Snow's guts, and he'd be able to convince you to let him free to 'keep her in check' even more easily than he'd be able to talk us into letting him out." She looked around at the group. "That includes everyone here, even the Custodian. He will know if someone can hear him, and he will keep talking until he hits the right buttons."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard—"

"I ran the Paths," Contessa interrupted. "Every single Path where you are given access to him, he ends up coaxing you into letting him go, and giving him Doormaker privileges. Half of those times, he kills you. If he gets the drop on her, things end badly for the world. If he doesn't, Snow either kills him or brings him back, along with some extremely unkind words about our security. On at least one of those occasions, she shoots you in the face, and nobody tries to stop her. So you do not speak with him. Is that understood?"

Hero cleared his throat. "That's as may be, but if he's confined to a cell, I'm fairly certain that one conversation isn't going to force one of us to let him go."

"No, that's true," Contessa said with what sounded like forced patience, "but one conversation would inevitably become two, and then three, and then ten. He'll be in our cells for ten years. Every time he talks to you, he gets to wear away at your resistance, and to capes he is persuasive. So we're not having that first conversation. I'm not having it, and none of you are having it. Nobody in this facility is permitted within earshot of him. End of story." She raised her head. "Like I said, that also goes for you."

There was a brush of wind past her, and then the air fell still again.

Doctor Mother shook her head. "I can't believe all of you are buying so hard into this. He's just a jumped-up street thug, for crying out loud!"

"No, no, she's got a point," the Number Man interjected. "We were only kids when I left the Nine, but he's really got a way with words when it comes to capes. If I went into a cell where he was and talked to him, even knowing what he's like, I couldn't guarantee not being on his side when I came out."

"That's because you were friends with him!"

Keith stepped in front of Doctor Mother and gave her a level stare. "Are you opposing this because of Jack Slash, or because it's Captain Snow doing it? Because if Jack Slash really is just a jumped-up thug, he should be beneath your notice. Putting him in a cell for ten years shouldn't be a problem. He is a serial killer, after all. But if on the other hand, he's as dangerous as Snow and Contessa say, then we shouldn't take the slightest chances with him. He needs to be locked away until Snow asks for him back. Your personal opinion of Snow should have zero bearing on that decision."

Alexandria sighed. "Okay, this argument is starting to get circular. We've all got our heels dug in, and nobody is willing to entertain the other side's point of view, so I'm making an executive decision. We're going to dump him in a soundproof cell for the moment, with nothing that could be even remotely fashioned into a blade. Hero rigs a cell with scanners to check him over daily for health problems, and a remote delivery apparatus for food and other amenities. Access to radio and TV channels can be added as needed. If we need to take him out of the cell for any reason, we render him unconscious first. If he's needed to be conscious, we gag him before we wake him up."

"And if we need to talk to him for some reason?" Doctor Mother pressed.

"Why would you want him to talk?" asked the Number Man.

"I don't know!" she flared at him. "I can't see the future!"

"I can," Contessa reminded her. "There is no applicable Path where we actually need to hear what he has to say."

"We both know your Paths aren't omniscient. You could've missed something."

"Okay, let's all take it easy," Hero offered. "I can rig a system that records his voice then translates it to text, with a ten-second delay so that even if there's a Master effect when he's speaking, we'll be reading his words after the fact."

Contessa shook her head. "It's not a voice effect. It's a him effect. His voice just tells you what he wants you to do. We're going to need to keep him at a distance from us, even when we read the messages."

Alexandria tilted her head slightly. "She's right. I just envisaged snapping his neck for all the people he's killed, and I was actually reluctant to do it. My mind kept throwing up reasons not to."

"Goddamn it," complained Hero. "That's creepy as hell. Okay, I'll get to work on the cell right now."

"Good." Alexandria turned to Doctor Mother. "And can I trust you to be professional about this, or do I have to make it official that you're not to interact with him in any way?"

Legend silently counted the seconds. He was up to ten when Doctor Mother grudgingly nodded.

"Fine," she muttered, with bad grace. "I won't talk to him, about Snow or anyone else, without letting one of you know first."

"Thank you." Alexandria nodded to Contessa. "Go dump him in that cell. Hero, let us know when the new cell is ready. We're taking no chances with this one."

As Contessa wheeled the gurney off down the corridor, Keith couldn't help wondering just how big a ticking time bomb Captain Snow had handed them, if he caused this much discord just by existing.

-ooo-​

Saturday, August 17, 1996
Brockton Bay

Ex-PRT Captain Robert Gordon

It had been nearly nine months since Rob had accepted the totally-not-a-job from Lieutenant Calvert. His reports, carefully coded to be entirely innocuous to the untrained eye, had so far been a whole heap of nothing. This was because so far, he'd found a whole heap of nothing.

He'd started by establishing himself in the city, finding an apartment to live in, then putting out his feelers. Intelligence work was something he was actually good at, and he was very familiar with the doctrine of 'softly softly catchee monkey'.

Hollywood liked to put forth epics where the hard-drinking hard-partying so-called secret agents intercepted the stolen nuclear secrets in between seducing the gorgeous-but-treacherous female enemy agent and having a running gunfight down Main Street with the other enemy agents, all in the space of a couple of days. That wasn't intelligence work; as one of his tutors would've called it, that was called hanging a target on one's back.

The smart intelligence agent was the one who took things one step at a time and never, ever drew attention to himself. This was especially important for two extra reasons here. First, he was technically not supposed to be working in any capacity for the PRT, even as an unofficial source for Internal Affairs. Second, Snow had demonstrated an astounding reach throughout all levels of the PRT command structure. He didn't know how many people she had the goods on, but if he was going to give Lieutenant Calvert enough evidence to bring her down, it had to be so incontestable that even her former protectors would wash their hands of her.

He'd started off by going to the Brockton Bay Central Library and delving through their newspaper archives. A long and tedious task, it had rewarded him with the occasional nugget of information. The envelope Calvert had given him had covered what they knew of her early life, including her arrival in the city in 1989; he'd added some to that, mainly dated after the initial investigation had taken place.

None of it had been even remotely incriminating.

A part-time job as a janitor at Winslow (using faked credentials, of course) had given him access to her school records, and he noted a friendship with the current vice-principal, Gladys Knott. He also found out that Snow had joined the school's JROTC program after a scuffle occurred where she sent no fewer than three of her opponents to the school nurse. Not the last time she would injure or incapacitate her fellow students, either. They clearly saw how dangerous she was, even back then, and what did they do? They taught her how to fucking shoot, and gave her a leg-up on her recruitment into the PRT. Goddamn it.

Her medical practitioner at the time had been a Doctor French. There were no positions going for work in French's clinic, and he wasn't able to fake enough medical knowledge to get any kind of employment there, but when he sent a message to Calvert, enough cash was advanced on the expense account to grease the right palm and he got hold of her medical records anyway. While her PRT records contained the broad strokes, the ones he got from Dr French just added weirdness to the situation.

Even as a teen, Snow had been marked up more than some PRT veterans Rob knew. There were scars on her—the type that came from combat, not physical abuse—that even her own doctor didn't know the origin of. He added this data to the ever-growing list of 'who the fuck is this bitch anyway?' and moved on.

Intriguingly enough, he also discovered that Major Ruth Goldstein, who had been Snow's attending surgeon following the debacle with the Brotherhood of the Fallen, had been working for Doctor French just before the first appearance of the Behemoth: and yes, that had been while Snow had been seeing French as her doctor. An odd coincidence, if coincidence it was, but he couldn't read anything deeper into it just yet. Leaving it to one side for later dissection, he moved on.

Having exhausted all written records, it was time to get the truth from the people who had known Taylor Snow during her time in Brockton Bay. Someone had to know something damaging about her, and all he needed was that first string. One tug, and he could unravel the entire overwrought reputation that she'd managed to build up around herself. At long last, once he brought the truth to bear on her, people would see her for who and what she really was.

The suggestion had been bandied about that she was carrying on an illicit relationship with one Andrea Campbell, with whom she had roomed in college. It didn't take much digging to reveal that Ms Campbell was a party girl of the highest order, who apparently slept with anyone who caught her eye. Even with Snow away in the PRT, the Campbell woman was maintaining a friendship with Danny and Annette Hebert, respectively the son of the people she'd lived with before striking out on her own, and his wife. The fourth member of this odd quartet was Gladys Knott, which was also interesting, though it didn't actually give Rob any extra data.

The previous investigation, as authorised by Lieutenant-Colonel (then Major) Hamilton, had established that she'd had a brief fling with Ms Campbell, but that the relationship was over and done with before she joined the PRT. All correspondence between the two (Calvert had supplied copies of them in the envelope) indicated that this was the case, and that the two were only friends from this point onward. If this was indeed the case, it would be just another dead end.

However, if he could prove it a lie, then it would provide blatant evidence of her carrying on a homosexual relationship while a serving member of the PRT, thus bypassing the Don't Ask Don't Tell policy. While this wouldn't be as satisfying as catching her out in any one of the many other illegal activities he knew she absolutely had to be dabbling in, it would definitely open the door to further investigation and cause her protectors to back the fuck off, lest they be caught in the splash zone.

The problem was, he had to find someone willing to spill the beans.

The Campbell woman, though initially promising, was a no-go once he thought about it. Bitter exes could be an absolute treasure trove of dirt on the people they saw as having betrayed them, but the correspondence between them was entirely cordial, which very likely meant she wasn't any kind of ex, especially not the bitter kind. Snow would've explained PRT regulations to her (Snow was very much the type to explain stuff, even when the people she was talking to already knew it) so Campbell would know to deny everything.

But there were other people in Snow's life, people who didn't necessarily understand the ramifications of that particular 'lifestyle'. More importantly, people who disapproved of it. Everything he'd seen from his careful surveillance of the Hebert parents (Danny was a total loss, as he clearly worshipped the ground she walked upon) told Rob that they were strongly religious and very conservative.

Still, he doubted George Hebert would open up to a relative stranger about what he saw as family issues; after all, Snow had lived under their roof for several years. Dorothy Hebert, on the other hand, was outspoken and fearless with her opinions. Rob figured it would be easier to get her started than to shut her up on the topic.

He considered introducing himself at their church, but after three Sundays went by and they didn't so much as glance at him, he decided that they didn't attend to socialise with others. Finally, he decided to bite the bullet and talk to them directly. Which was why he was walking up the front path of the Hebert house at midmorning on a Saturday, dressed in the PRT undress blues that he really should have handed back in, carrying the Internal Affairs ID that Calvert had prepped for him (which he absolutely had no business holding) and looking every inch like a soldier who was there to carry out a routine yet necessary duty. To offset the chance that they'd recognise him from church, he'd shaved his beard off and had his hair trimmed back to military length.

He took a breath and went to attention to get himself back into the mindset, then relaxed into 'at ease'. Then he raised his right hand and rapped twice on the door: one-two. Initially there was no reaction from within the house, but then he heard footsteps approaching. The door opened, and Dorothy Hebert peered out at him.

"Hello?" she greeted him. Then she clearly recognised the uniform, because her hand went to her mouth. "Oh, dear. Has something happened to Taylor?"

"Not to my knowledge," he said smoothly, concealing his internal thoughts on the matter. We can only hope. "But I am here to talk to you about her, yes."

"Oh, my goodness." She turned and raised her voice to a genteel shout. "George, honey, it's a captain from the PRT! He's here to talk to us about Taylor!"

A masculine bellow sounded through the house. "Well, ask him in already, Dottie!"

As if neither one had heard the command, Dorothy turned and smiled at Rob. "Would you please come in? I'm sure we will be more comfortable sitting down while we hear what you have to say."

"Thank you, Mrs Hebert." Rob nodded politely to acknowledge the invitation and removed his peaked cap as he entered the house. He'd never actually liked the berets, preferring the more formal cap, even though it was really supposed to go with the dress uniform.

She led him through into the living room, where George Hebert was getting up from his armchair. Older than Rob by at least ten years, the Hebert patriarch was a large man, solid and muscular with brawny forearms. His handshake was firm, with just a hint of 'I could break your hand if I really wanted to, so don't try me' in the mix.

"Well, Captain … McCarthy, was it?" Hebert asked, barely hesitating as he glanced at Rob's name-tape. "What's this about Taylor, then? And is this something she should be here for?"

"McCarthy, yes, sir." The honorific slipped out without his meaning it to, but it seemed to put them more at ease. "This is merely a routine investigation into her background, speaking to the people who know her the best. We do them all the time."

"Well, have a seat then." Dorothy bustled into the kitchen. "Do you like oatmeal cookies, Captain?"

"Yes, please." Rob sat down on the sofa, his mood buoyed by how well this was going so far. All I need is that one bit of information …

"Do you know Taylor?" asked George, while Dorothy was in the kitchen. "We've only met her Sergeant Kinsey. A reliable man, I thought." He lowered himself back into his armchair.

Rob shook his head as Dorothy came back into the living room, with a plate of cookies. "Thank you, ma'am. No, if I knew her, I wouldn't have been picked for this investigation. Too much chance of a conflict of interest, you see." He took a cookie and bit into it to stop himself from talking too much. It was delicious.

"I know about that sort of thing, yes," George agreed. "So, what's this about?"

"What I'm about to tell you doesn't go any farther than this room." Rob paused for a moment to let that sink in. "You may be aware that Captain Snow has achieved remarkable deeds in the service of the PRT." Well, some people seem to think so, anyway. Personally, I think she stole glory from a lot of other people.

"She's said a few things, but only after we asked her about them, and that was only after we'd heard about it from others," Dorothy ventured. "She's never been the boastful type, and we know all about how most of what she's done is classified."

George cleared his throat. "If you're here to ask if Taylor's been talking about things she shouldn't have been, you're looking in the wrong place. It's hard enough to get her to talk about the things she's allowed to discuss."

Goddamn it. Rob had been hopeful, but that wasn't his plan A. "Not in the slightest," he lied through his teeth. "What I was going to say is that she's being considered for a project at the very highest level of classification. Merely telling you the name of the project would see me court-martialled. However, in order to ensure that she's a good fit for the project, we need to be certain that she hasn't got any potential vulnerabilities that would allow hostile elements to gain a hold over her and get access to the project."

George frowned. "Vulnerabilities?" he asked. "What are you driving at there, Captain McCarthy?"

His wife, by contrast, shook her head firmly. "You clearly don't understand our Taylor, Captain. She's the most stubborn, hard-headed, self-confident person I know, and I've been married to George here for over twenty years. The person who could gain a hold over her and bend her to their will hasn't been born yet, and never will."

"That's been said about other people, too," Rob said, nettled that she was dismissing his line of attack before he really got started. "But if they've got a lifestyle or unsavoury habit that could be held over their head, even the most independent people can fold. Especially if they want to maintain a high-ranking position."

"You're clearly leading up to something, Captain," George stated in a bullish tone. "How about you quit beating about the bush and just come out with it?"

Rob hadn't wanted to jump straight into it, but the Heberts struck him as people who preferred straight talk, and he wanted to keep them amenable to what he was saying. "Alright, I will. First, have you ever witnessed her to be under the influence of illicit substances? Marijuana, or any of the harder drugs? Did she ever drink while she lived here?" He didn't think the answer would be positive, but this would give them a sense of security and establish a precedent for them answering his questions.

George snorted derisively, while Dorothy shook her head. She glanced at her husband, but he simply waved at her to speak.

"Young man, that's even less likely than the other. Taylor was always extremely responsible, in every aspect of her life. Do your records show that she was gainfully employed even before she left high school, maintaining the computers in the Port Authority building?"

"Yes, they do," he said, though he had no idea whether that was true or not. "She has a reputation for being good with computers." He'd thought he was good with them, until he tried to break past her passwords to see what she was working on, and utterly failed to make any headway whatsoever. Worse, she had somehow detected the attempt after the fact, and called him out on it.

"Was there anything else you wanted to know about her?" asked George, his shaggy brows lowering.

"Yes, actually." Rob forced himself to clear his throat in a nervous-sounding gesture. "Now, this may seem harmless in the real world, but above a certain clearance level it is strictly forbidden for men or women to indulge in same-sex relationships. Where she is now, this doesn't affect her …" He was lying through his teeth again, of course, "… but if she were to be placed into that project and then it was found after the fact to be the case, she could get into a great deal of trouble." He looked Dorothy in the eye. "Ma'am, has Taylor ever, to your knowledge, had a relationship with another woman?"

Mentally, he braced himself for the thicket of excuses Dorothy Hebert would doubtless throw up for Snow's behaviour, which would at the same time assist him in finally nailing that damned woman to the wall. Either that, or she would crack and throw Snow to the wolves. She did not give the impression of someone who readily accepted someone else breaking the rules she set for them.

Three or four seconds passed while she looked him over, then she spoke in icy tones. "No. She has not, Captain, and you should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking otherwise. Taylor's behaviour, for all the time I have known her, has been nothing short of impeccable."

For the first time since he'd entered the Hebert house, Rob was taken entirely off guard. "What? But … are you sure? Andrea Campbell—"

"—is a delightful young lady, and is welcome in this household any time she wishes to visit." Dorothy stood up from the other end of the sofa. "You, on the other hand, have outstayed yours. Please leave this house, immediately."

"No." Rob tried to argue. "You don't understand. This is serious. Snow is dangerous. If she—"

George came to his feet as well, his expression thunderous. "PRT officer or no, when a lady says you are no longer welcome, then you should already be on the way out. Dottie, get the door. Mr McCarthy is leaving now." He took a step toward Rob, his hands flexing with intent.

Rob weighed the possibility that he wasn't about to be bodily thrown out on his ear, and found it distinctly lacking. "I'm going, I'm going," he said hastily, jumping up and snatching his cap from the coffee table in front of him. Under George's glowering eye, he beat a judicious retreat toward the front door.

He didn't stop moving until he was down the front path and at his car; only then did he turn and look back at the house. George Hebert stood on the front porch, his arms folded in a time-honoured stance: and stay out.

While it would've been emotionally satisfying to throw some stinging retort at the man, perhaps telling him that they had endangered their precious Taylor's career, he refrained. He got in the car, carefully telling himself that this was because he didn't want to give away sensitive information and not because he was physically intimidated by Snow's foster father, and started the engine.

As he drove out of there, he was aware of one fact.

If he was going to get dirt on Taylor Snow, he would have to look elsewhere.

-ooo-​

Sunday, September 1, 1996, 5:46 PM
Brockton Bay General Hospital
Maternity Waiting Area

Danny

"—and as Mom put it, she sent him away with a flea in his ear."

"Ha!" Alan Barnes shook his head and grinned. "I love your parents to death, but I will never, ever see them as pushovers. So, did you ever find out who he really was?"

"Yeah. Dad contacted Taylor, and she asked a few basic questions then ID'ed him as a guy who got booted out of the PRT for what amounts to terminal idiocy. Also, he's tried to torpedo her career on multiple occasions, so this was basically karma in action. It sounds like he was pulling one last throw of the dice to discredit her so he could get back in."

"And your folks just kicked that door shut in his face. Good." Alan leaned back in his chair, looking deeply satisfied.

"Yeah." Danny took a deep breath and looked toward the doors through which they'd taken Zoe. "Does it ever get easier? This right here, I mean? Not knowing what's going on?"

Across the other side of the room, Anne-Rose and Andrea were distracting young Anne (just turned seven, due to start third grade in the next day or so) with some kind of silly counting game. Dragon, who had shot up in height since the last time Danny had seen her, was sitting off to the side, reading a book and watching fourteen-month-old Tyler and nineteen-month-old Alec as they napped in their respective strollers.

The whole scene looked amazingly domestic; a word Danny never would've picked to associate with Andrea. But now she was a mom to Alec, a part-time mother to Dragon, and a volunteer aunt for Tyler, and apparently enjoying it immensely.

With the neon pink dye job (which could have looked a lot worse than it did) and the pigtails, Dragon looked like a typical teen, though she was remarkably mature for her age. However, he did have to wonder what people were thinking these days when it came to naming their children. It was true that Dragon's father was a Newfoundlander (his dad would've used the pejorative term 'Newfie'), but that didn't exactly excuse such naming practices. On the other hand, he had heard of people called Reindeer or Snowflake hailing from those parts, so he supposed 'Dragon' was at least more imaginative than most.

"Well, I know Zoe's up to the task," Alan admitted, taking up the change in topic without hesitation. "She's very much a take-charge sort of person. With Anne, when I started going green around the gills, she ordered me out of the room. So this time I'll be waiting out here until they let me know I'm allowed back in."

"Right." It made a certain amount of sense. After the rough time Anne-Rose had had with Tyler's birth (the doctors had said it was easy, but she begged to differ) he was pretty sure they were going to stop at one. He hadn't been in the room for Tyler's birth, but he suspected his presence wouldn't have done a blind bit of good, in the moment. "So, uh, how are you going to handle birthdays, coming just before the start of school?"

Despite the strain, Alan was still able to muster a smile. "Oh, it'll give her every chance in the world to show off her new stuff to all her friends. Talking about friends, you think our kids will get along?"

Danny considered what Taylor had told him over the course of several long and involved conversations. "Totally. So it's a girl, is it?"

"Oh, we haven't been telling anyone, but yeah. That's what the test said." Alan leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, and let out a groan of aggravation. "But do you think we can agree on a name? Like hell we can. Everything I suggest, she shoots down, and everything she comes up with, I can't stand."

Danny shrugged, recalling the conversation. "How about Emma? Emma's a nice name."

"Emma." Alan tested the name, saying it slowly. "Emma Barnes. Emma. Hm, I like it." He raised his voice slightly. "Hey, Anne-Rose. Danny says Emma would be a nice name. What do you think?"

Anne-Rose nodded. "I agree." She, of course, had been privy to the same conversation. "Andrea?"

Danny knew from Andrea's smirk that a smartass answer was incoming. "Well, so long as Gothic High Priestess of Almighty Cthulhu is already taken, I guess Emma's okay for a second choice."

To his credit, Alan took it in his stride. "Uh, yeah, we'd already decided against that one. Far too common, you understand."

Dragon snorted with amusement and turned the page of her book, but didn't otherwise comment.

-ooo-​

7:36 PM, Sunday, November 3, 1996
A Modest House in the Suburbs

Vice-Principal Gladys Knott

The duties of a vice-principal were many and varied; more were being laid on Gladys' shoulders every year as Principal Woodbine got closer to retiring, but she didn't mind. She still had the chance to teach Computer Studies, and Paul (once she got to be his vice-principal, they were on a first name basis when in private) held the strong opinion that if she was going to be running the school one day, she needed to know how it all ran.

Winslow was a good school, in her opinion. She hadn't had a great time in the first couple of years, but meeting Taylor Snow had turned that all around. With Taylor's encouragement, she'd learned to stand up for herself and even acquired useful skills such as staff-fighting, boxing and shooting.

Amusingly enough, this had had some unforeseen knock-on effects. She liked to get in some bag work in the gym most mornings before she showered and went to home room, and word had gotten around that Vice Principal Knott could knock you on your ass if you disrespected her. Also, she had a standing invitation from Joe Campbell to attend the JROTC firing range at any time, to show the little snot-noses (his term, not hers) how to really shoot.

As a result, she was thoroughly respected by the vast majority of the student body, and everyone in her Computer Studies class paid close attention to what she had to say. Even the would-be tough guys from the poor side of town spoke quietly in her presence. For her part, she made sure to treat everyone equally and did her best to ensure bullying of any kind was stepped on, hard.

Outside of school hours, her marriage to Franklin was the other highlight of her life. For obvious reasons, he knew only the safe-for-civilians version of the 'camping' trip she'd been on with Taylor; the part where they'd snuck out, crossed the border, and sniped a supervillain was entirely unknown to him. Even though that one act had undoubtedly saved an unknown number of other women from being victimised by him, she still wasn't proud of having taken a human life, and would happily have lived the rest of her days having never done it.

As far as her devoted husband was concerned, she was nicely predictable (or perhaps that was predictably nice), dedicated to her students, albeit with a few impressively athletic hobbies. She knew this because he'd said so himself, on more than one occasion. Their home life was a reflection of that; quiet, orderly, and predictable.

Which made the phone call all the more of a shock when she picked up the phone halfway through sorting out Tuesday morning's pop quiz. "Hello?"

"Hey, Gladys," Taylor said breezily. "Can you talk?"

The question could have only one meaning. Taylor wanted to discuss something Gladys would not want Franklin knowing about, and she was checking to see if free conversation was possible.

Gladys pretended to stretch, looking around as she did so. Franklin was in the living room, visible through her study door though not in earshot, especially as he was engrossed in his favourite car show. She wanted to say no, but she was also aware that Taylor wouldn't have called if it wasn't serious. "I can talk."

"Excellent. You might be aware of the ongoing labour dispute at Lord's Port. It's going to come to a head tomorrow morning. There are agents provocateur in the city, seeking to stir up trouble for their own ends, so there will be violence. I can't get there in time—I'm in the middle of dismantling a plot to bomb the Kansas City PRT building—but Danny is going to need sniper overwatch, come sunrise."

On the verge of speaking, Gladys closed her mouth again. She was not law enforcement. This was not her job. Taylor was law enforcement … but she wasn't here, and the PRT didn't oversee labour disputes, and she was talking about Danny.

She liked Danny and Anne-Rose. They were really nice people, and young Tyler was a sweet kid who had a hug for her every time she visited them in their apartment. From the way Taylor was talking, Danny's life was going to be in jeopardy.

Aaargh. Why me?

Taking a deep breath, she let it out again, slowly. "I'm not killing anyone for you. Not again. Not this time." Even as she spoke, she could feel herself retreating toward a compromise. She hadn't said she wasn't shooting anyone, just not going for a kill shot. Arguing with Taylor was irritating like that.

"No deaths are required," Taylor agreed. "But someone is going to be pointing a gun at Danny, and they will pull the trigger unless you do it first. A flesh wound is entirely acceptable."

And that was the big question, wasn't it? Am I willing to hurt a stranger to save a friend?

She pondered on the problem for several more seconds, aware Taylor was waiting for an answer, but equally aware that she wasn't being pushed into the decision. What finally tipped the balance was the memory of the last time she and Franklin had visited the younger Heberts, and the look of joy on Tyler's face as he came to her for a hug. There was no way in hell 'Aunt Gladdy' was willing to let that kid get hurt by losing his dad so young in life.

"Okay, fine," she grumbled, fully aware that she'd been manipulated but unwilling to hold a grudge on the matter. "Details?"

"Bring wire cutters. Site security will be down toward the southern end of Lord's Port, containing the protestors. The northernmost crane will be farthest from the action. If you park on Wilson Street, you can cut a hole in the fence to get through. Climb the crane and keep an eye on the big container ship that's anchored across the mouth of the harbour. That's where Danny's going to be. Once you've dealt with the threat, climb down and exfiltrate, the way they taught us. Got all that?"

"Yes, but I don't have to like it." She grimaced. "Can't we just tell Danny not to be there?"

"If he sends one of his friends and they get killed, he'll wear the guilt for that for the rest of his life. I trust you to get it right."

Slowly, Gladys nodded. "Okay, yeah. Gotcha. You owe me big-time for this, you do know that, yeah?"

There was a smile in Taylor's voice as she answered. "Next time I'm in Brockton Bay, I'll take you and Franklin out to the fanciest restaurant in town and let you spend as big as you like."

"I'll hold you to that." Gladys sighed. "When does it all end? When can we relax and say, enough?"

Taylor paused before answering, almost long enough that Gladys thought she wasn't going to. "When I figure it out, I'll let you know."

"Yeah, I hear that. Later, Taylor."

"Later." There was a beep as the call ended, and Gladys put the phone down.

She sat there thinking for a few minutes, then she got up and headed into the living room. "Hey, hon?"

Franklin looked around from the TV. "Yeah?"

"I was just about to make myself a hot drink. You want one too?"

He nodded, giving her the big goofy smile she'd fallen in love with. "Thanks, dear. That would be amazing."

"No problem." She started past his chair toward the kitchen, then he reached out and grabbed her hand. Stopping, she looked back at him.

"I love you so much." He squeezed her hand, causing a sharp pang of guilt to pierce her chest, all the way through her heart and out the other side.

Forcing herself to smile, she squeezed back. "Love you more."

Once in the kitchen, she started preparing the hot drinks, adding an extra spoonful of sugar to his, the way he liked it. While the water was still heating in the electric jug, she ducked into the bathroom and grabbed a sleeping pill from the medicine cabinet.

She crushed it easily into a white powder with the help of a pair of spoons, and dosed his cup with it. As much as she hated doing this, and hated herself for doing it, it was the only way she could think of keeping him separate from any repercussions that might happen as a result.

If this is the right thing to do, why do I feel like shit?

-ooo-​

5:45 AM, Monday, November 4, 1996
Lord's Port

Danny

The sun had yet to rise, though there was a distinct glow on the eastern horizon that told Danny it wasn't far off. A chill wind cut through the port, making the high-vis vest he was donning flap briefly before he fastened it shut. His father stood a little distance away, giving orders to the other members of the Dockworkers' Association.

They'd been given ample warning of this via Taylor's dossier, and George had been able to weed out the troublemakers from among his own ranks, sending them home or pairing them with men who'd make sure they didn't do anything stupid. But that didn't help much when the other side also had people who were more interested in causing chaos than reaching an equitable agreement. However, forewarned was forearmed, and men were being sent to each of the potential trouble spots that Taylor had warned them about.

They hadn't been able to do much about the container ship NES Puckatawney moving during the night and anchoring across the mouth of the harbour. Even with the influence Danny's father had with the Association, he couldn't give orders to ship captains, not if someone with more perceived authority gave a conflicting order. However, that wasn't to say he didn't intend to do something about it. Whatever it was, Danny had faith in him.

The men he'd been talking to moved off on their appointed tasks, and George turned to Danny. "Son, you'll be taking a crew out to the Puck."

"What?" Danny stared at him. "But you'll need me here—"

"I need a reliable man out there on that ship, one I can trust to use his head and get it right." A solid forefinger prodded Danny in the middle of the chest. "That's you. Don't do anything rash once you get out there, and don't let them do anything rash either. Where that ship's placed, if something happens to it, it'll block the whole harbour in." They both knew that was one of the potential events Taylor had included in her folder of information. "I'm depending on you to not let that happen."

"Right." Danny still half-suspected his father was sending him out of harm's way, but it was also a vital task. "I won't let you down, Dad."

George slapped him heavily on the shoulder. "I know, son." He pointed at the launch tied up at the bottom of the steps, with the men in it waiting for Danny. "Now get out there."

Danny headed down the steps and climbed into the launch; the men, nearly all of them older than him, respectfully made way for him. "Are we going now, sir?" asked Burkholt, a rugged Dockworker who was at least twice his age.

He nodded, then found a seat. "Cast off. Let's get out there before anyone does anything stupid."

"Aye, sir."

-ooo-​

Gladys

The cranes were goddamn tall; Gladys blessed the regular exercise she'd been taking, which ensured that by the time she got to the top, she wasn't a totally useless mess. Still, it took her several valuable minutes to ease the quivers out of her hands and open the rifle case. Wind whistled through the framework around her, making her glad that the heavy black clothing she'd picked for the excursion was winterproofed. She'd shot under worse conditions, but it was never fun.

The .308 Winchester she'd gotten from Taylor for a wedding present shot clean and true every time, especially with the 20x scope she kept carefully zeroed. Lifting it out of its padded home, she looked it over minutely for any problems, then pulled the bolt back. The breech was empty, so she took the magazine and slotted it into place, then worked the bolt crisply to chamber a round for real.

When she rested the rifle on a rail and peered down at the harbour, the only thing moving was a small boat apparently heading out to the container ship. That was where Taylor had said Danny was going to be, so she snuggled her cheek up to the cold stock—it would warm up with her body heat—and peered through the scope, her finger well outside the trigger-guard. Sure enough, the skinny form of Danny was easy to see among the other Dockworkers as the boat forged its steady way across the expanse of water.

"Overwatch in place," she whispered to herself. "Let's do this."

-ooo-​

Danny

The trip across the harbour was almost peaceful. This close to the water, there was barely any wind, so the surface was like glass. Later, he knew, the heat of the day (such as it was) would stir up more wind, and what few swells could get in past the Puckatawney would start the ships in the harbour rolling gently, but right now it could've been a still life.

As they got closer to the massive container ship, he watched the huge rusty hull rise cliff-like before him, and he began to feel very much inadequate to the task. However, this was the first time he'd been trusted with a job of this magnitude and there was no way in hell he was letting his father down. "Get in close," he said, just loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the launch's engine. "The pilot's gangway is still down. We'll go up that way."

Burkholt, who was manning the tiller, had already been steering in that direction, but the nod of approval he gave Danny told him that he'd made the right decision. More importantly, he'd made it before it needed to be hinted to him. Maybe I can actually do this. It was something he clung to.

As they pulled in next to the pilot's gangway—a mobile stair that would be let down for the harbour pilot to board—a shout of alarm came down from above, and the noise of cranking ensued. Gradually, the gangway began to rise. It appeared that the crew of the NES Puckatawney were not welcoming to visitors.

"Go!" Danny snapped. "Get up there! Burkholt, once we're on, sheer off and hold position!" He didn't know where the words had come from, but they sounded right.

The other men thought so too, because they grabbed the rising gangway and swarmed onto it. Danny tried to climb up, nearly lost his grip, then a brawny arm grabbed his and hauled him up and onto the gangway. "Careful there, sir. Don't want to go swimming. It's mucky in there."

And then they were bolting up the gangway, racing the crew who were trying to get to the head of the stair and block Danny's men from coming on board. Something solid was thrust into Danny's hand, and he looked down to find that he was holding a length of wood that had been sanded and smoothed off to a useful length. The other men were already holding their own weapons of choice; he was the only one who hadn't thought to bring one along.

"Don't start anything!" he tried to shout as he ran. "We're here to keep things peaceful!"

He couldn't tell if they'd heard him or not, but when he got to the top, he found his men in a tense standoff with the crew of the Puckatawney. Nobody had swung a weapon yet, thankfully. He pushed his way to the front, looking around for somebody who might be in charge.

"What is this?" The man who stepped forward held himself with a certain amount of authority. "I'm the master of this vessel. What are you doing here?"

"I'm Danny Hebert. My father's the head of the Dockworkers' Association, George Hebert." Danny felt the man's attention centre on him, and forced himself to keep talking. "We're not here to cause problems, but we got word that things are going to heat up today, and we wanted to make sure nothing went wrong on this ship. Who gave the order to anchor across the harbour mouth, anyway?"

The man didn't answer, but instead glanced sideways. Danny followed his eyes and saw someone whose expression held real hostility, rather than the dull dislike from the rest of them. "I did. What are you going to do about it?"

"And you are?" Danny stepped forward. He was taller than the man, though skinnier.

The new speaker also moved into the empty space between the two groups. "None of your business. You and your men are leaving this ship, right now."

The first rays of sunlight struck across the harbour, but Danny had no eyes for it. "That's not going to happen. We're here to make sure nobody sabotages this ship, and the port stays open." He clenched his hand around the length of wood he'd been given.

Reaching into his jacket, the man pulled an automatic pistol and pointed it at him. "You will get off this goddamn ship, or I will shoot you and throw you off it."

All of a sudden, the club Danny was holding felt remarkably inadequate to the task at hand. He tried to think of what Taylor would do. She'd already have a pistol pointed at him. Or Sergeant Kinsey would grab him and drive him into the deck like a tent peg. Yeah, neither of those things is going to happen.

He took a deep breath. "Put the gun down. We can talk about this."

"Nope." The man's expression became a sneer. "By the time we're done, your Association will be finished." His finger began to tighten on the trigger.

Danny realised he was going to shoot far too late to do anything about it. So, he did the only thing he could think of. He launched himself forward, knowing he was going to be shot but determined to bowl the bastard over anyway.

-ooo-​

Gladys

"Fuck," she murmured, as the fresh sunlight glinted on the pistol. Her crosshairs drifted over the gunman, then steadied. There was no single place in the human body that a high-powered rifle bullet could incapacitate with a guarantee of not killing, but she could definitely aim for a less than instantly lethal shot.

Her target selected, she breathed out as she took up pressure on the trigger. Half a mile away, a paid saboteur did the same. She got there first; the rifle let out a spiteful crack as it jolted against her shoulder. Holding her aim, she watched to see if she needed a second shot.

-ooo-​

Danny

Suddenly, the guy lurched sideways; he let out a high-pitched scream as his kneecap exploded in blood and gore. The pistol jerked off at an angle and fired, the bullet punching into a shipping container. Danny stumbled to a halt as one of the other men darted forward and kicked the weapon free from the hand of the stricken man. Distantly, a rifle-crack echoed over the harbour.

"What the hell?" he asked. "Who fired?"

The master of the Puckatawney shrugged, his hands carefully held out away from his body. "I don't know. We don't carry guns."

Danny looked back at his crew. None of them seemed to have a clue, either.

"Okay, secure him and give him medical attention." He nodded to his men. "Then go through this ship. Keep an eye out for any of his friends and make sure they haven't already done something to screw things up." Looking in the general direction of where the shot seemed to have come from, he waved his arms in a general 'no more shooting, please' gesture. As no other shots were fired, he figured he'd gotten the message across.

"Aye, sir."

-ooo-​

Gladys

Nobody seemed to have figured out where the shot came from by the time she climbed back through the hole in the fence, her rifle securely in its case over her shoulder. Once back to her car, she pulled off the watch cap and dark sweater, then drove sedately home. Franklin would be still asleep, thanks to the sleeping pill in his drink; if he did wake earlier than expected, she'd be able to pass off her absence as an early morning jog.

This was just one more thing she'd never be able to talk about, except maybe to Taylor herself.

Gee, thanks a bunch.

-ooo-​

Danny

With the harbour pilot on board this time, the NES Puckatawney was returning to its place in the harbour anchorage as Danny rode the launch back across the port. They'd located scuttling charges placed here and there on the ship, and disarmed them, and the ship's crew had pointed out several more members of the saboteur's group. These were all under close guard, which made the launch somewhat crowded, but he didn't care. He'd been sent to do a dangerous job, and he'd succeeded.

Dad's going to be so proud of me!

Already phrasing the question in his head for his father about the sniper—for there was nobody else he knew of who could've arranged for one—he was the first to jump out of the launch onto the cracked concrete steps of the jetty. Catching the rope that was slung to him, he tied the boat off, then hauled it in so that others could climb out. He waited until it was properly secure, then headed up the steps, two at a time.

"Where's Dad?" he asked the first Dockworker he encountered. "We got a big one."

The surprised look in the man's eyes should have warned him. "Jesus, Danny. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" He frowned. "What for?"

"You don't know?" Now the guy was looking guilty.

"No!" Worry flooded across him, sending ice-water through his veins. "What happened? Tell me?"

The story came out in fits and starts. Most of the troublemakers had been locked down, but one bunch had broken out and tried to cause real damage. George Hebert had been in the forefront of those who met them head-on and stopped them in their tracks, but he'd gone down in the fray and not gotten up again.

"They say he's alive," the Dockworker told him. "But they've taken him to the hospital. It was his heart. I thought you knew."

"No," Danny said wretchedly, all his elation gone; drained away and turned to ash. "No, I didn't know."

He stumbled off toward where he'd left his car, because there was no way in hell he was going to let someone else break the news to his mother, and get her to the hospital.

And when his father woke up, he intended to be standing by the bed.

Please be okay, Dad.

Please.

End of Part 8-7​

 

[Dragonslayer Ornstein]

Glad to see another chapter for this fine fic, thanks for your efforts!

 

[Gaemnomut]

Great update! Really enjoyed it.

 

[LuridThrone]

(his dad would've used the pejorative term 'Newfie')

Click to shrink...

Worth noting this isnt really a insult, i understand that it was one back in like ww2 or something? But as someone born and raised in newfoundland people use it all the time and no one finds it insulting that ive ever met (including my parent's generation which are aging into retirement). It might be a 'our word' sort of situation, taking pride in what was once a insult, but honestly by the time i was born (in the 80s) it not longer even really has that sort of mystique to it. The idea that its offensive is honestly something ive only ever heard of in third person, like if someone called me a newfie in casual conversation it would never even cross my mind that they were trying to be insulting.

So its always a bit werid to encounter it on the internet with someone carefully signalling that its a offensive term and im like wha?

 

[Zackarix]

How do I reach through the screen and strangle Gordon?

 

[Mr Zoat]

How do I reach through the screen and strangle Gordon?

Click to shrink...

I was thinking about that, and I'm honestly not sure it would help.

Unless he gets... Ah, 'overwhelming evidence' on video, the PRT will turn a blind eye because they NEED her and because removing her would be politically inconvenient. But if he gets a video, what exactly happens? They still need her expertise, only now they have to hire her as an independent contractor at a much higher hourly rate on the hours of her choice. She's already rich, so now she gets to work as much or as little as she wants and ignore stupid orders if she feels like it because she's independent.

 

[Simonbob]

"No," Danny said wretchedly, all his elation gone; drained away and turned to ash. "No, I didn't know."

He stumbled off toward where he'd left his car, because there was no way in hell he was going to let someone else break the news to his mother, and get her to the hospital.

And when his father woke up, he intended to be standing by the bed.

Please be okay, Dad.

Please.

Click to shrink...

Ok. Now I really want to see a chunk with Danny on a tear, going after the forces behind his dad being out. No Taylor, no major capes, just a side story of assholes and conflicting interests, with a pissed off bunch of dockworkers backing their guy.


Sounds like a great movie, now I'm thinking about it.

 

[Ack]

Worth noting this isnt really a insult, i understand that it was one back in like ww2 or something? But as someone born and raised in newfoundland people use it all the time and no one finds it insulting that ive ever met (including my parent's generation which are aging into retirement). It might be a 'our word' sort of situation, taking pride in what was once a insult, but honestly by the time i was born (in the 80s) it not longer even really has that sort of mystique to it. The idea that its offensive is honestly something ive only ever heard of in third person, like if someone called me a newfie in casual conversation it would never even cross my mind that they were trying to be insulting.

So its always a bit werid to encounter it on the internet with someone carefully signalling that its a offensive term and im like wha?

Click to shrink...

I wasn't sure, but a few of the references I looked up said it had negative connotations denoting stupidity, like in the classic Irish jokes. So I figured that he wouldn't use it because of that.

Note that this is '96; George was born in the late 1940s or early 1950s. He could easily have picked up the derogatory version from his father.