Recoil (a Worm fanfic)

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 8-8: Requiem for a Dockworker

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

Monday Morning, November 4, 1996
Kansas City, Missouri

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT (Intelligence)

The oversized mechanical T-rex stumbled and lost its footing, mainly due to the fact that Lisa had shot out the steam-line providing power to its left leg. Live steam hissing in great blasts every which way, it tried to maintain its balance, but its gyro systems proved unequal to the task and it collapsed to the ground, shedding parts here and there.

I skidded my motorbike to a halt and stepped off it; Lisa joined me a moment later as we moved cautiously up to our fallen prey. One large mechanical eye swivelled to track us. There would have been two, but I'd blasted the other one out of its socket halfway through the chase.

These mechanical dinosaurs had a weak spot, but it was on the chest, directly under the jaw, not easy to target if it was running away or charging with its mouth open. Lisa unslung her shotgun and worked a steel-cored slug into the breech, then took aim. "Any last words, ugly?"

It tried to move, but enough steam had leaked from its perforated systems that there wasn't enough pressure to do anything except activate the vocal emulator. "Rrrrrrarrrrr …"

"Sure, that'll do." She fired, and the big red button on its chest disintegrated. Immediately, the mecha-dino slumped, all imitation of life gone.

Well, that was fun, I said with a grin. Got that information on the bombers?

"Chapter and verse." She handed me a tablet. "Also, you're going to need to brace yourself. There's some bad news incoming from Brockton Bay."

My head came up, and ice-cold worry deluged through my guts. The Lord's Port thing. Who got hurt? Danny? Gladys?

"Neither one." She put her hand on my shoulder. "It's George."

George? When I'd first found myself cast up on a shore far distant in time if not space, I hadn't imagined I would become close to the irascible patriarch of the Hebert family. But after our initially rocky beginning, we'd bonded over my joining the PRT, of all things. What happened? How bad?

"Heart attack in the middle of a fight. They saved Lord's Port. Danny was actually kinda badass. But George isn't likely to survive, sorry. I know you liked him."

God damn it. I clenched my fists. There's always something.

"I know, I know. Kiss before you go?"

Her lips tasted of dust and blood. I closed my eyes tightly, already mourning George.

-ooo-​

When I opened them, I had several stacks of photos in front of me, and a map with markings on it. A bunch of people from the Kansas City PRT building were looking at me expectantly. It had taken time to convince them that I needed access to the entire body of their intel, and time to process it all; apparently, some of them either hadn't read my file or didn't believe what was in there.

It wasn't that I wanted to bask in the glory of my accomplishments—staying low-key was still a major aspect of my modus operandi—but when small-minded bureaucrats decided to dig their heels in and query my every need, it made it much harder to do my job. In addition, the last time I'd been through here, I'd had sharp words with them about the state I'd found their security system in. For those that knew of me, it seemed that a combination of resentment at having to call me in again and 'what have you done for us recently?' syndrome was at work.

"Well, Captain Snow?" asked Director Pettigrew. "You've been going through all that data and ignoring us for the last hour. I've heard stories about your analytical abilities from Chicago and other points, but I still don't necessarily believe them."

I stood up, just as the door to the conference room opened. I was pretty sure it was going to be Kinsey, and I was correct. Given Lisa's words to me, I had a very good idea of why he was there.

One of the officers alongside Pettigrew frowned. "Sergeant, you're not cleared to be in here."

"On the contrary, Major." I knew I was drawing this out, but there were some things I would not stand for, and anyone disrespecting Kinsey was one of them. "Standing orders from Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton are that Sergeant Kinsey has access to me, all hours. He's my bodyguard as well as my orderly."

"Oh, come now." Pettigrew shook his head. "You're in a PRT building, in a room full of PRT officers. What possible danger could you face here?"

"Two years ago, I was attacked by a PRT officer and the Master who was giving him orders, in a PRT parking lot," I reminded him crisply. "Just because it hasn't happened since, doesn't mean it can't. We're all human beings here, which means we're all fallible. Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton's orders have been endorsed by both Director Rankine and the Chief Director. Sergeant Kinsey automatically has clearance to go wherever I do, and to go armed while he does it. Now, Kinsey, what was it?"

"There's an urgent phone call from Brockton Bay, ma'am." His tone never changed, but I saw the flicker of expression that showed deep concern. "Mr Hebert is in the hospital."

"Thank you, Kinsey. I'll be there in a moment." I returned my attention to Pettigrew. "I have a location for your strike squads." My fingertip prodded a point on the map, which I'd marked with a helpful X. "After the first abortive attempt to bomb your building, the conspirators retreated here and regrouped. But they've since moved on and are now here, on the first floor." I tapped another X, this one with a circle around it. "They have a hundred pounds of C-4 that they liberated from a military convoy last year, and an access swipe card that they stole from one of your janitorial staff."

There was a moment of stunned silence, before the major who had tried to order Kinsey from the room spoke. "How the goddamn hell do you know all that? You were only looking over the material for an hour!"

"This is why I requested all the data. I also made some phone calls before I got here." I tapped one stack of photos: mugshots and security camera stills. "These are the people involved. They'll be armed with pistols and assault rifles, and the C-4 of course." Taking my jacket off the back of the chair, I began to put it on. "I leave the rest up to you, gentlemen. Director Pettigrew?"

He jerked his eyes off the map and the photos, and back to me. "Yes, Captain?"

"After I finish my phone call, I'm going to need a helicopter to get me back to Chicago. Could you have your people prep one for me, please?" Once I was in the air, I'd call ahead to Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton to okay my travel onto Brockton Bay. Splashing out a bit with my accumulated pay would allow me to charter a jet (Andrea's money would allow me to charter it fast) that would get us to Boston in time for a PRT chopper to deliver us to Brockton Bay just in time (because we were on a deadline).

While Hamilton had never met the Heberts, he knew enough about them to understand that George Hebert was as close to being my father as anyone could be (in this era, anyway). Absent another crisis, he would hurry me on my way.

"Certainly, Captain. Uh, dismissed."

"Thank you, sir." I drew myself to attention, about-faced, and marched from the room.

Kinsey was waiting outside, of course. "This way, ma'am." He led me to the desk where he'd taken the call, the receiver still lying on the desk. Mobile phones were on the market even now, but they hadn't hit their stride yet; I didn't own one, and neither did Kinsey. That would change, once I found one that was versatile and dependable enough for my needs.

"Thank you, Kinsey." I took up the receiver. "Captain Snow speaking."

"Oh, Taylor, thank God." Danny sounded like he was running on adrenaline and coffee. "Did Sergeant Kinsey tell you?"

"Just that your dad's in the hospital." I knew a lot more from Lisa, of course, but I'd have to let him fill me in all over again. Pulling out the chair, I sat down. "What happened?"

"It's all my fault." His voice was wretched. "If I'd been there instead of on the Puck, I could've—"

"Slow down, slow down. If there's anything that working for the PRT has taught me, it's that ifs, buts and could-have-beens are a good way to stress yourself out for no good reason. First off, what's the Puck, and why were you on it?"

Slowly, I coaxed out of him how he'd been detailed to make sure nothing untoward happened on the ship anchored across the mouth of Lord's Port. With Gladys' help (though he had no idea of the identity of the mysterious sniper) he'd succeeded, but he was blaming himself for not being there when his father succumbed to the heart attack.

"If I'd been there …"

"Then you wouldn't have been where he told you to be, and that might just have turned out a lot worse than it did." I hardened my tone as much as I dared, considering his fragile state of mind. "You did what you had to, and he did what he chose to. Do you think you could've stopped him?"

"Well, no, but …"

"Listen, we'll talk more when I get there. What's the current situation?"

"Right now, they've got him on life support, but the doctors aren't optimistic," he concluded. "I just … I just thought you needed to know."

"No, no, I absolutely appreciate you letting me know. I'll be there as soon as I can." I breathed deeply, trying to assuage the ache in my own chest. Even with the warning, the news still hit hard.

I put the phone down, and stood up. "Kinsey, there should be a chopper in prep for us. How soon can we be packed and on it?"

"Any time you wish to leave, ma'am. I commenced packing as soon as you walked into that room."

Because of course he had. "You know something, Kinsey? You're depriving some over-indulged member of the rich and famous of having an amazing butler."

"I believe I'll pass, ma'am. I prefer the peace and quiet of the PRT."

The funny thing was, I couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. "I guess that makes two of us. Let's get airborne, Kinsey."

"Ma'am."

-ooo-​

Four and a Half Hours Later

Brockton Bay General Hospital

Danny Hebert

The gentle beeping of the machines keeping Danny's father alive was gradually drilling into his head. He'd sat by George's bedside with his mother for hours, only taking a break to make the phone call to let Taylor know what was going on. That had been more problematic than he'd expected, though they'd patched the call through once he explained the situation.

It had been a relief to speak to the stolid, reliable Sergeant Kinsey, and even more of a relief to hear Taylor herself on the line. While she wasn't the first one to tell him that he wasn't at fault, she'd been the only one to make him believe it. This was mainly because of all his friends, she was the one least likely to feed him a line of bullshit, and she'd understood his father as well as anyone of their generation he knew.

Anne-Rose came back into the room with Tyler riding on her hip. A bright kid, he was already walking and picking up toys (but not putting them away, though it was still a start). Of late, he was even making it clear when he needed to go to the bathroom, so they were leaving him out of diapers except at night.

"Mamaw," Tyler said clearly, pointing to where Dorothy was sitting by George's bed, his weathered hand clasped in both of hers. "Want. Go."

"Okay, hon. Go to Mamaw." Carefully, Anne-Rose set Tyler down.

He toddled over to his grandmother and tugged at her sleeve. "Mamaw?"

She turned and looked at him, as if for the first time. "Oh, Tyler honey. Come to Mamaw." Bending over, she picked him up and set her on his lap before reclaiming her grasp of George's hand. But her arm went around him, as he hugged her in turn, consoling each other across the generations.

Anne-Rose turned to Danny. "If you want to catch a breath of fresh air, go right ahead," she whispered. "We'll be here when you get back."

He nodded. "Okay. Thanks." Leaning in for a kiss, he stood up and gave her his chair. His back creaked and his legs felt as though they were about to fall asleep, which showed just how long he'd been sitting there.

Once he got out into the corridor, he went over to the nurses' desk. "Excuse me?"

The closest nurse, her nametag reading STELLA, looked up from her terminal. "Can I help you?"

"Uh, is it possible to get onto the roof? I just want to clear my head."

"Well, visitors to the hospital aren't really supposed to go up there …" Stella paused, looking at his expression. "Listen, I go on break soon, and I really need a smoke. Do you smoke?"

The conversation had taken an unexpected turn. "No, uh, no. I don't. Sorry."

She smiled briefly. "Don't be. It's a terrible habit and I really should quit. But you can come up with me and talk while I'm wrecking my lungs. You're in five zero six, right? Hebert? The heart attack?"

"Uh, yes, my father."

She nodded sympathetically, or at least with as much sympathy as someone who dealt with people in his situation every hour of every day could muster. "Sorry to hear that. Your mom's a nice person."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." He waited until Stella had shut down her terminal and put on her coat, then followed her to the stairwell door. They climbed the concrete stairs in echoing silence, the musty smell of the little-used space impinging on his nostrils and providing a welcome distraction.

When they reached the roof, he was almost surprised by the fact that the sun was past its zenith and starting on its long slow decline toward the evening horizon. Taking a few steps away from the door, he drew a deep breath of the cool air, feeling the bite of the breeze this far up. He was vaguely aware of Stella taking out a cigarette and lighting it up as he tried to get a handle on his emotions, but he paid no attention otherwise.

"Sure you don't want one?" she asked, blowing out a cloud of smoke that got whipped away by the breeze. "Helps me keep my head together when everything's going to shit."

He shook his head. "Never started, and I've got a small child. Besides, my wife would kill me if I showed up smelling like an ashtray." Not to mention the lecture he would undoubtedly get from Taylor, the moment she found out.

"Smart man." She took a few steps downwind then went back to smoking, while Danny surveyed the horizon, huddled his arms against the sharper-than-expected breeze, and tried to compose himself.

At the other end of the roof there was a proper exit, along with a large H in a circle painted on the roof. "What's that?" he asked, pointing. "Why didn't we come up there?"

"That's the official helipad entry." She shook her head. "Remember, we're not supposed to be up here. If we tried using that entry, there'd be hell to pay."

"Right, right." He huddled his arms again, regretting the fact that he'd left his jacket back in the ward. "I don't want to hurry you, but are you nearly done? I'm starting to get cold, here."

Stella shrugged. "You know, you can just go down yourself."

"Oh, okay. Good point." He started toward the door, then stopped as a distinct repetitive sound reached his ears. Turning and straining his eyes to the south, he made out the silhouette of a helicopter, heading straight for the hospital. "Wow, do you have many people come in by chopper?"

Frowning, she looked around. "A few. But I never heard about any today." She shaded her eyes, peering at the oncoming aircraft. "And that's not a HEMS chopper anyway. What's going on?"

"No, it's not." Danny copied her gesture. "Does that look like PRT paintwork to you?"

"You know, it does." Stella frowned. "Why would the PRT be landing a helicopter on our roof?"

Her confusion was understandable. With the relatively low level of parahuman crime in Brockton Bay—though the battle at the Medhall building had caught the public awareness in no uncertain terms—there wasn't even a dedicated PRT building in the city yet, much less a Protectorate base. According to Taylor, all that would change in just a few years.

He blinked, the chill forgotten. "Shit, I know why. They're dropping someone off."

She stared at him. "Dropping someone off? Who?"

There wasn't much to smile about right now, but he managed a grin anyway. "Only the coolest person I've ever met."

Holy shit, Taylor made it.

-ooo-​

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT (Intelligence)

As the chopper rested lightly on the helipad, rotors still turning, Kinsey and I decamped with our luggage. Fortunately, we hadn't needed anywhere near the amount required for our near-endless odyssey around the continental United States, so we didn't have to go back for more. Kinsey slammed the side door loudly enough for the pilot to hear, and we duck-walked out of the arc of danger before the chopper lifted off again.

We headed for the roof entrance, with automatic sliding glass doors that opened for us. Within was a door for a stairwell, and a large set of elevator doors, of a size to admit a patient on a gurney or a stretcher. The down button had a card reader next to it—no sense in allowing free entry to anyone who could scale the building—so I pressed the alert buzzer next to it.

Thirty seconds later, the elevator doors opened to reveal an orderly—hospital, not military—standing inside. "Uh, you're the PRT folks?" he asked. "I'm, uh, Benjamin."

As Kinsey and I were both in full uniform—slightly creased, unavoidably so, due to the four hours and change of helicopter transit between Kansas City and Brockton Bay—I just gave him a couple of seconds to think about what he had just said, then nodded. "Yes, thank you, Benjamin. We're here to visit George Hebert."

"Oh, uh, right." His eyes opened a little wider as we lugged our gear into the elevator. "Director Portman said to give you every assistance. Can I help you with those?"

Kinsey and I didn't even have to check with each other; we both shook our heads in unison. "We're good," I assured him. "Just get us to Mr Hebert's room, and we'll be out of your hair."

"Uh, yes, ma'am." He prodded a button on the control panel and we rode down a few floors, then the elevator stopped and the doors slid open. "Sorry, this is the only floor it goes to. Just let me, uh, find out where …" Benjamin scurried out of the elevator in the middle of his speech; I shrugged, and we took up our luggage again and followed him out.

In the bustle of the hospital, with scrubs-wearing orderlies and nurses (and doctors, for all I knew) we were more out of place than a sore thumb would've been. Heads turned as we followed in Benjamin's wake, but then they got back to business because after all, this was a hospital. We caught up with him at a nurses' station where the number of ringing phones outnumbered the number of people capable of answering them.

"Sorry," said someone who had to be a senior nurse from the sheer aura of 'aggravated sergeant' that radiated from her, and from the way she said 'sorry' without meaning it in the slightest. "Who exactly are you looking for again?"

"George Hebert," I said clearly; my command voice was still coming along, but it cut through the cross-chatter at the desk well enough. "If you don't mind."

Once again, all eyes turned to us. Tall as I was, my size would never win prizes for being imposing. However, Kinsey could loom very effectively indeed, sometimes even when seated.

It also helped that we'd both donned our medal ribbons for the occasion when travelling down to Kansas. Even if the viewer was ignorant of the actual significance, they indicated that the wearer had done things of consequence, and perhaps some of the bullshit could be bypassed. In this specific instance, they had the desired effect. Within thirty seconds, we had our directions; Benjamin was dismissed, and we were on our way.

It turned out that George wasn't on the same floor as we'd ended up on, but that was hardly a surprise. I'd excelled in orienteering and map-reading back in boot and officer training (there was no way I'd wanted to become the 'idiot lieutenant with a map' stereotype) so we forged our way through the maze in search of our goal. I may have overdone the whole 'on a mission' air, though; people flattened themselves to the wall as we bore down on them, but I didn't care.

I'd already known we were on the right track, but when we turned a corner and I saw Danny, it was confirmed for us. He spotted me at the same time, and his careworn appearance—seriously, it looked like he'd aged twenty years overnight—brightened into the ghost of a smile. "Taylor! It's good to see you!"

"And you too, Danny." I put my luggage down and hugged him, uniform or no uniform. "How's he doing? And how are you doing?"

Still hugging me, he tried to put on a brave tone, though I could feel the quivers in his chest as he spoke. "He's the same as when we got him here. On life support. I'm … god, I'm not sure how I am."

Kinsey spoke quietly from behind me. "Ma'am, I'll just go in and see Mr Hebert, if that's all right?"

"Sure," I said without turning around. "Go right ahead, Kinsey. Leave your luggage here. We'll watch it."

"Thank you, ma'am." He put his cases down and headed into Room 506, which was where we'd been told to go.

"Danny," I said as we let go of each other. "You need to listen to me. There's something important I have to tell you."

He took a deep breath and looked at me with eyes that were reddened with tears already shed, and the promise of more to come. "Before you say what you've got to say … did you know? Was this going to happen, no matter what?"

"What?" I was taken aback for a moment, but then I got his gist. "No. No, I didn't know. I knew what would happen if I didn't do anything, so I armed you against it as best I could, but I didn't know this would happen to George."

"Why not?" His voice, pitched low for privacy, still managed to convey a world of hurt. Behind his glasses, his eyes searched mine for any sign that I had a way out of this. "I thought—your friend—"

I took a deep breath. "Danny, she can't tell me the outcomes of my own actions. I can only advise and step back, or jump in and handle it myself. Anything I do even peripheral to what's going on muddies the waters."

"But … you could've checked—" He was grasping for straws, not that I blamed him in the slightest. However, it was time for some hard truths.

"Not easily. If I get Lisa to scope out a situation too soon after I've laid the groundwork, it muddies the waters again. Sometimes I've just got to trust people to get it right. And besides, have you met your dad? If he'd known this was his time, but he could die making a difference, he would've been right in there swinging without a moment's hesitation."

His expression tortured, he looked down and away. I was right, and he knew it, but he didn't have to like it. "God damn it," he muttered, then looked up at me again. "Did he make a difference? Or would we have won anyway?"

Did my father throw his life away for nothing, he was asking.

"Lord's Port was saved," I said carefully. "Mainly due to him sending you out to oversee the interdiction of the Puckatawney. Without you there to inspire the men, things may have gone badly. As for what he did … well, the group he led the fight against was determined to sabotage the port. If they'd been left to their own devices, or if he hadn't been there to lead his men, they could've knocked the whole port out of operation for quite some time. Giving their paymasters breathing room to sneak in more saboteurs at a later date. So yeah, what he did absolutely made a difference."

"Oh." He seemed to draw some comfort from that. "That's … good to know. I guess."

"I know this is cold comfort, but here's something else to think about." I waited until he was paying attention again. "His death makes every one of the saboteurs guilty of felony murder. More than a few of them will take plea bargains and rat out the entire operation, just so they don't have to face that sort of charge. The people who arranged this will be going down, all because of George Hebert."

"So, he is going to die, then?" Some tiny part of him broke, at that moment. I could see it in his face. "You know it for a fact? Mom says he's been drifting in and out."

I nodded. "I checked with Lisa, yes, on the way here. He's going to wake up again, in about …" I checked my watch. "Eight to ten minutes. He'll be lucid and talking for a few minutes, but it'll be his body's last gasp. Say your goodbyes then, because after that he will be gone."

"Oh. Oh, God." He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "How long … how long would he have lived …?"

"If this hadn't happened?" I paused to think back. "I know he made it to retirement age, but the loss of Lord's Port embittered him. He was always angry. I'm pretty sure he had a heart attack or a stroke in his sleep, but I'd have to check with Lisa to make sure."

Danny shook his head. "Don't bother. This is what's happening, here and now, not some what-might-have-been." He squared his shoulders and faced up to me. "So, you had something you wanted to tell me? Or was that it?"

"A little bit of it was that." I put my hand on his shoulder. "The rest of it, you're not going to like. Your life is never going to be the same again. You're the 'man of the house' now, whatever that means for you. Dorothy's not going to be in any fit state to make decisions for quite some time, so you're going to have to step up. Ask her for input, sure, but try to take as much of the load off her as possible. And you and Anne-Rose are going to have to move back home again, to take care of her."

"What?" He shook his head. "She's strong. She won't need me—"

I talked over the top of him. "In my timeline, she insisted that she was fine on her own, and everyone took her at her word. But she never stopped grieving, and she passed away less than a month after he did."

"Oh." He stared into nothingness as he no doubt wrestled with the logistics of the move. "My room—"

"—will be extremely cramped, with both of you plus Tyler, I know." I nodded. "If you tough it out, in time she'll suggest of her own accord that you swap rooms. But she has to make the suggestion. The last thing you want is for her to start feeling like a guest in her own home."

"Right, right." He ran his hand through his hair; thick now, it hadn't started to thin out as it would in fifteen years' time. "Thanks. I needed to hear that. So, what—"

Whatever he was about to ask next was broken off when several people came around the corner. Andrea was leading the charge, pushing Alec in his stroller, with Dragon alongside her. Behind them was Gladys, looking equally determined.

"Ah, good." I went to meet Andrea. "You made it."

"Of course I made it, you big doofus." Andrea hugged me, but refrained from too obvious an expression of public affection. Her expression told me that she'd make up for her restraint once she got me in private. "How is he?"

I shook my head briefly. "Not good." I turned to Gladys, who had just finished hugging Danny. "It's good to see you, too."

Her hug cracked the few vertebrae in my back that hadn't fully popped back into place after the helicopter ride from Boston, and I reflected that life as a vice principal seemed to agree with her. "How've you been, Taylor? Still keeping the free world safe for the rest of us to live in?"

"Doing my best," I replied once I got air back in my lungs. It was only true, though she was unlikely to ever find out the full extent of what I was getting into. "Blackwell behaving herself?"

She rolled her eyes. "Most of the time. She tries to stir trouble behind my back, but Principal Woodbine likes me more than he likes her." It was interesting that Carrie Blackwell had given us both problems during our respective times in Winslow, but now that Gladys was vice principal, history was unlikely to repeat itself. Especially since Gladys had proven herself entirely capable of punching Blackwell out if the need arose.

"Good to hear. It's when they go totally quiet that you need to worry." I lowered my voice so that only she could hear my words. "Nice shooting, by the way. You saved Danny's life, and you helped save Lord's Port from being shut down altogether."

"Oh." The tinge of surprise in her voice told me that she hadn't been fully aware of that. "Good. Thanks. I was wondering. The one I, uh, the one I shot?"

I shrugged. "He'll walk again, once he receives the appropriate physiotherapy." My demeanour and tone evidently communicated my lack of care factor regarding the asshole's well-being. After all, he had tried to shoot Danny. "Depending on which prison he gets sent to, he might even get it in the next few years."

"I see." Gladys still didn't look happy about having shot someone, and I could sympathise with her. She was a teacher, not a soldier or a trained sniper, and she lacked the emotional toolkit to handle that sort of burden. Or to put it another way, she still hadn't internalised the simple truth that some people just plain needed shooting. "Thanks for letting me know."

"Not a problem." I looked over to see Dragon standing with Alec, Andrea having gone to greet Anne-Rose, who had come out of the room to see what was going on. "Hi, kids. How's things?"

"It's good to see you again, Captain Snow." Dragon gave me a hug, which I returned. "Mom Andrea says that we should call you Aunt Taylor, but I think you deserve to be addressed by your rank."

"Aun'taylor!" announced Alec, pointing at me. "Aun'taylor!" He burst into giggles.

I tilted my head and grinned. "It seems he's made his decision."

She let out a remarkably realistic sigh. "He does that, a lot. Every time I get frustrated with him, Mom Andrea reminds me that everyone has the right to make their own mistakes. It's the only way some people learn."

I raised my eyebrows slightly. "And you can honestly say you've never, ever made an error in judgement?"

Either Andrew Richter was a genius programmer (okay, yeah, he was) or teenagerhood was a universal constant (also a distinct possibility) because she actually looked shifty for a second. "I didn't say that," she prevaricated. "And note, I'm only admitting that much because you'd probably ask Father for my experiential recordings if I denied ever being wrong about anything."

I was about to make a joke about that when Anne-Rose stepped into the conversation. "Hi, Taylor, Dragon." She gave me a one-armed side-hug, then switched Tyler to her other hip so she could do the same with Dragon. "Taylor, thank God you're here. Danny's been as twitchy as a mouse at a cat convention, but now that he's spoken to you, he's calmed right down. What did you say to him?"

"Just what he needed to hear." I shrugged to show how inconsequential it was in the grand scheme of things. "So, how's my other nephew doing today?"

"A little young to be here, but I couldn't find a sitter on short notice, so here we are." She looked around at the hospital corridor. "Not exactly where either one of us wanted to spend our day, to be honest."

"I know, I know." I put out my hands, and she passed Tyler over to me. "Hi, Tyler. You don't know me, but you were named after me. You can call me Aunt Taylor if you want."

Tyler didn't fight back against being held, but he stared at me with wide eyes while sucking his thumb. I hadn't expected him to leap into my arms with a cry of recognition—the last time I'd seen him, he'd only been six months old—but I figured he'd come around eventually. Once certain plans I had in play came to fruition, I would probably be spending a lot more time in Brockton Bay.

But just for the moment, looking at him, it was almost like staring at a distorted mirror image of what I'd been at that age. His mop of curly black hair was almost the same as mine, and he already had my long face and serious expression. From the slightly unfocused look in his eyes, he probably needed glasses too, but that would come in time.

Danny stuck his head out of the room. "He's waking up!" he announced.

We all crowded into the room, while Kinsey stepped to the door where he could observe the proceedings and keep an eye on our luggage at the same time. Anne-Rose ended up sitting next to Dorothy, who was holding onto George's hand. Dorothy looked around and smiled to see me holding Tyler, then returned her attention to her husband.

George wasn't all that old, I realised with a shock. When I first entered his household as a traumatised teenager, my vague memories of him as a retiree had been aided and abetted by his irascible mood to make him seem as ancient as the hills. But now, with a few more years under my belt (seven years, hah) my view of him was suddenly morphing to show me a man who was only in his early fifties.

A big man in a profession where big men prospered, he was broad and solid through the chest and shoulders. He'd worked hard all his life, and had resisted every suggestion that he might want to slow down. But lying there in the hospital bed, hooked up to all the lines and tubes that were keeping him alive for the moment, he looked downright frail.

His eyelids, which had been flickering, opened fully and he turned his gaze to take in his surroundings. "Dottie," he rasped through what experience told me would've been a phenomenal case of dry-mouth.

"I'm here, George," she said, squeezing his hand and leaning forward. "Save your strength. The doctor's on the way."

"Don't bother." His voice was barely audible over the beeping of the machines. I was almost holding my breath trying to hear him. For a miracle, Alec and Tyler were also quiet. "Just tell me. The Puck?"

"It's all good, Dad," Danny answered. I could hear the catch in his voice, but he pushed through nonetheless. "They had scuttling charges, but we dealt with them. We saved the port. Everyone's still got a job tomorrow."

"Good work, son." He took another couple of laboured breaths. "Dottie, I'm going soon. You let Danny and Annette help you. Don't try to do it all yourself. You hear me?"

Dorothy hunched her shoulders, squeezing his hand tightly with both of hers. "George, don't you talk like that. You're going to come back to us. You're going to get better. Please come back to me." My heart ached at the anguish I could hear in her voice.

"No help for it, Dottie." He rasped another few breaths, in and out. "I can feel it. Not long now." His eyes turned to me. "Captain Snow. Taylor."

"Yes, sir," I said automatically. George Hebert was one of the few civilians I knew who rated that level of respect from me.

Unsurprisingly, he took it as his due. "Honor to have known you and your sergeant. Credit to your profession. Do me a favour, Captain?"

"If it's in my power, yes." I nodded firmly, in case he hadn't heard me.

"The boy respects you. Be there for him and Annette. And Captain?"

"Yes, sir?" I'd thought I would be able to get through this without tearing up, but there was a lump in my throat now.

"Win your war. For all of us." He took another few breaths while I assimilated that, then he turned his gaze to Anne-Rose. "Annette girl. Are you there?"

"I'm here." Anne-Rose leaned forward and put her hand on his wrist.

"There you are." He forced another laboured breath. "Staunch girl. Never prouder of you. Stand by Danny and Dottie. Listen to Captain Snow. Head on her shoulders, that one."

In the midst of my grief, my brain was awhirl with questions. I'd gotten along with George better since I'd joined the PRT, but I had no idea he respected me that much. Or that he'd intuited so much about my work with the PRT.

But George wasn't done yet. "Miss Campbell."

Andrea almost certainly hadn't forgotten his rudeness at the Christmas party, but she nudged my hip with hers and raised her chin slightly. "Yes, Mr Hebert?"

He seemed to take longer with what he wanted to say to her, though I suspected that was more due to dwindling strength than any hesitation. Whatever George Hebert's other faults, a lack of nerve wasn't one of them. "We've had our differences. But you were a good friend to our Taylor. Took her in. Now you're a mother, raising fine children. I admire that."

He subsided then. I could tell, even without knowing what the traces on the machines meant, that his strength was nearly at an end. Andrea, beside me, was blinking back tears. So was I.

"Tyler." It appeared he had one last burst in him. I stepped forward, so that he and his grandson could see each other.

Tyler stared at George, thumb forgotten, his eyes as wide as they'd been when he first saw me. "Papaw?" I could tell he knew something was wrong, but not what.

"Strong lad. Be good for Danny and Annette." George paused for breath. "I'm going away now, Tyler. Not coming back. But I'll always be there for you. Inside." Another pause; they were coming more frequently now. "Wish I could've seen …" He faded out, and his eyelids drifted shut.

An alarm began to sound on one of the multitude of machines he was connected up to, then another. Kinsey stepped aside as a doctor burst in through the doorway, and we all moved back to give him room. Anne-Rose helped Dorothy up, as the older woman seemed incapable of independent movement right then.

"Papaw …" Tyler said, holding on to me as if to a lifeline, but looking toward where the medical professionals were working on George.

"It's okay, Tyler," I said, trying to soothe him. "It'll be okay." It wouldn't, not really, but tiny lies like that were necessary to deal with children of a certain age.

In silent shock, we trooped out of the hospital. Tyler continued to cling to me, which actually served to comfort me in some small way, while Danny and Anne-Rose shepherded the distraught Dorothy along. Gladys assisted Kinsey with our luggage.

Gladys peeled off once we reached the parking lot, mainly because she still had duties at Winslow to cover, but she hugged me and promised to catch up as soon as she could. But it was then that we hit our next snag, in the unlikely shape of Kinsey himself.

"Ma'am, if you'll excuse me, not one of you is in a fit state to drive." He stood firm as we all turned to look at him. Danny opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. I didn't even get that far; he was right, and that was all there was to it. Once a military cop, always a military cop.

Andrea looked at Danny's car, and then at hers. "Jim, I love you dearly. But there's no way we can fit everyone in either car."

He nodded. "Understood. That's why I'm going to drive the Captain, the children, and one other adult to the Hebert home in Andrea's car, while everyone else follows in a cab. Then I will return in the cab to fetch the other car."

Danny blinked at him, then finally nodded. Like me, he was all out of energy to argue. "Okay. We'll do that."

-ooo-​

The mood was still grim as we reconvened in the Heberts' living room. Tyler was beginning to get restive so I held him while Anne-Rose got Dorothy upstairs and convinced her to lie down for a while. I gritted my teeth and tried not to hear the heartbroken sobs of the woman who'd been my mother in all but name since I'd arrived in this era. It was at this time that Tyler, to my discomfiture, began to cry in sympathy; I rocked him in my arms, but nothing seemed to work.

I was still trying to figure out what had served to calm me down back when I was very young (and failing) when Andrea stepped up in front of me. "Here, I'll take him."

"Thank you." Sobbing in my arms, my namesake felt like one more reminder that the world had changed yet again, and all I wanted was a distraction, something—anything—to take my mind off the hollow ache that had taken root ever since George had passed.

With some relief, I handed him over to her—so much for the rapport that I thought we'd built—whereupon she pulled some bullshit trickery that had him calmed down in about ten seconds. "Okay, how did you pull that off?" I wasn't really all that curious, but I was desperate for anything to distract me from my personal grief.

Despite the tears yet standing in her eyes, her snarky personality managed to shine through as she gave me a superior look. "If you were a mother, you wouldn't need to ask."

"Don't listen to her." Anne-Rose appeared beside me, having come silently back down the stairs. "She's got a talent for this. Probably because she never grew up herself." Her smile was forced at best, but I could tell she was trying to lighten the atmosphere. I had to give her props for the effort, however flat it fell.

Andrea was more successful; her reply, consisting of the thoroughly mature and grown-up expedient of poking her tongue out at Anne-Rose, seemed almost natural. "You see if I ever volunteer to babysit this little tyke again." She stopped and visibly reconsidered. "Scratch that. I'll take him as long as you need me to, while you're taking care of Dorothy."

Anne-Rose wrapped her in a hug, and Tyler as well. "Thank you," she whispered, then turned to me. "She loves having Tyler over, and so does Alec. Dragon dotes on him."

"It's true," confirmed Dragon. "While Mom Andrea didn't start taking care of me until Alec was several months old, I was able to meet Tyler shortly after his birth. Being part of both their lives has been very rewarding."

It was truly nice to see that Anne-Rose and Andrea were still close friends, though it was still painful to smile about anything. "I'm glad." I glanced at Andrea, still trying to distract myself. "What's Dragon's dad think of her spending so much time with the kids?" Had he eased up on the idea of AIs being dangerous to humanity, I meant.

Andrea rolled her eyes and issued a wan smile. "You know scientist types. Always going off into side tangents about 'emergent socialisation behaviour' and stuff like that. Though from the basic gist of what he says, I'm pretty sure he's in favour of it."

"Good. I'm glad to hear that." I pulled Dragon in for a hug; I needed it, and she returned it as though she did too. "You're doing well, kiddo."

"Thank you." She glanced up toward the ceiling, and deliberately took a breath. I wasn't sure if this was a learned mannerism or something that had been programmed in (I suspected the former) but it still served to humanise her as she lowered her voice. "This was the first time I've been present at the death of a person. It affected me more than I expected it to. I did not know Mr Hebert except by anecdote, but I still feel a sense of loss. Is this normal?"

"Very." I tightened the hug for a moment, then let her go. "If you're lucky, you won't have to experience it too often."

"Darn tootin'." Andrea passed Tyler back to his mother, then leaned over to check on Alec in his stroller. "Taylor, if you and Kinsey want to come with us, we're about to head home. It's about time Alec went down for a nap, and I'm pretty beat myself."

"Copy that." I looked around for Kinsey—he'd just returned with Danny's car—and gave him the nod that meant 'get ready to move out'. "I'll just say goodbye to Danny, and we'll be set to go."

"Good." Andrea freed one arm briefly to give me a quick hug. "The reason for it's crappy, but it'll be good to have you home again."

Closing my eyes, I rested my forehead against hers for a moment. "I can't argue with any of that."

End of Part 8-8​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 8-9: Heroes and Villains

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

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

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT (Intelligence)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

At That Same Time
Protectorate Department 01, New York City

Black Prince

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Media presence at PRT and Protectorate events tripled thereafter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

A Little Later On the Same Day
Outside Winslow High School

Robert Gordon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robbie smiled. He could use that.

-ooo-​

Vice Principal's Office, Winslow High

Gladys Knott, Vice Principal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

Robert Gordon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

Andrea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hang on. Just hang on.

-ooo-​

Gladys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where is it?" she asked eventually.

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

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

He set his jaw and stayed stubbornly silent.

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

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

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

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

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

"If you'll just—" he tried again.

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

Audibly gritting his teeth, he subsided again.

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

-ooo-​

Andrea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Twenty …"

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

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

"Seven … six …"

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

"Three ..." It was almost inaudible.

Click.

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

Gladys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right, right." More scribbling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

Deer Lake, Newfoundland

Andrew Richter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

End of Part 8-9​

 

[Ack]

Recoil

Part 8-10: Old Friends, New Beginnings

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

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

Captain Taylor Snow (Intelligence)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ma'am?" His eyes searched mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

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

Robert Gordon

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

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

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

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

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

Which meant that something out of the ordinary was happening.

Lieutenant Calvert. It's got to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But one thing was for certain.

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

-ooo-​

Monday, January 8, 1997
Cauldron Base

Jacob "Jack Slash" Black

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

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

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

It had been so much easier the last time.

-ooo-​

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

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

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

Nobody holds Jack Slash.

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

-ooo-​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

Sunday, March 2, 1997
Yokohama, Japan

Contessa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mission accomplished.

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

-ooo-​

Thursday Evening, June 19, 1997
Hebert Household Back Yard

Danny Hebert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Danny blinked. "You didn't."

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

The smile became a smirk. "Mayyyybe."

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

-ooo-​

September 23, 1997
Boston, Massachusetts

Rachel Lindt (age 4)

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

"Rachel!"

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

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

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

"Good." The front door clicked shut.

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

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

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

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

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

Besides, Mommy would be home in the morning.

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

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

Mommy wasn't anywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

She sat in the chair until it got dark again.

The door never opened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wasn't.

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

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

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

Rachel was really, really hungry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It hurt.

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

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

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

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

"Who are you?" asked Rachel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT (Intelligence)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

End of Part 8-10​