Security! (a Worm SI fic)

[Ack]

When a fanfic writer wakes up inside the fanfic he was about to write, he gets quite the shock ...

[This story was originally posted on the NSFW section of this site because the majority of my work is there. I'm shifting it here because it's actually SFW.]

Disclaimers:
1) This story is set in the Wormverse, which is owned by Wildbow. Thanks for letting me use it.
2) I will follow canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations.
3) I welcome criticism of my works, but if you tell me that something is wrong, I also expect an explanation of what is wrong, and a suggestion of how to fix it. Note that I do not promise to follow any given suggestion.


Index
Chapter One: Introduction (below)
Chapter Two - First Interaction
Chapter Three - Second Interaction
Chapter Four - Third Interaction
Chapter Five - Fourth Interaction
Chapter Six - Fifth Interaction
Chapter Seven - Calm Before the Storm
Chapter Eight - Fight!
Chapter Nine - Heroes and Villains
Chapter Ten - (Tell Me Why) I Don't Like Mondays
Chapter Eleven - Interactions Great and Small
Chapter Twelve - Revelations
Chapter Thirteen - Crises
Chapter Fourteen - Consequences
Chapter Fifteen - Confrontations
Chapter Sixteen - Resolutions
Chapter Seventeen - Assorted Interludes
Chapter Eighteen - More Interludes
Chapter Nineteen - Sixth Interaction - Panacea
Chapter Twenty - Taylor
Chapter Twenty-One - Developments
Chapter Twenty-Two - Trolling for Fun and Profit
Chapter Twenty-Three - Assault
Chapter Twenty-Four - Fallout
Chapter Twenty-Five - Points of View
Chapter Twenty-Six - The Gathering Storm
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Bomb Threat
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Countdown
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Deadline
Chapter Thirty - The Big Reveal
Chapter Thirty-One - Yet More Interludes
Chapter Thirty-Two -.Viewpoints - First Person Singular
Chapter Thirty-Three - Saturday Afternoon Interludes
Chapter Thirty-Four - Moving On
Chapter Thirty-Five - Opening Shots
Chapter Thirty-Six - Reactions
Chapter Thirty-Seven - Adding to the Mix
Chapter Thirty-Eight - Reaping the Whirlwind
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Arranging Matters
Chapter Forty - Conflict Resolution
Chapter Forty-One - Winding Down
Chapter Forty-Two - The Meaning of Life
Chapter Forty-Three - Everything Changes
Chapter Forty-Four - Paying the Piper
Chapter Forty-Five - Undersiders!
Chapter Forty-Six - Recruitment Drive
Chapter Forty-Seven - Unwelcome Revelations
Chapter Forty-Eight - Buildup
Chapter Forty-Nine - Trouble in Paradise
Chapter Fifty - Tying Up Loose Ends
Chapter Fifty-One - Zion
Epilogue One - Earth Bet
Epilogue One (continued)
Epilogue One Conclusion + Epilogue Two

 

[Ack]

Security!

An SI Worm fanfic

[Author's Note #1:This story is set within the Worm universe. All significant aspects of that universe are owned by its creator, Wildbow. I'm just using it for a bit.]

[Author's Note #2: I will accept any legitimate criticism of my work. However, I reserve the right to ignore anyone who says "That's wrong" without showing how it is wrong, and suggesting how it can be made right.]

Chapter One: Introduction

I lounged on the couch, my laptop in front of me. I used a tab to flick open the Worm Resources Thread, to double-check a data point, then I went back to planning the new fic. It was going to be a fix fic, of course; I enjoyed writing those most of all.

My first Worm fic had used an OC to handle most of the alterations to canon; since then, with my other fics, I had gone with changes in continuity to alter matters. A thread on SI characters caught my eye, and I thought about it. Someone based on me; fat, forty-plus ... what could someone like me hope to accomplish in the Wormverse?

I thought of one of my more recent fics, where the main character had been slung back in time, losing her powers in the process, but in possession of a great deal of 'future' knowledge. Knowledge, properly applied, is power.

Perhaps one of the staff at Winslow? Taylor could definitely use a friend there. Take some of the heat off of her, make the bullies leave her alone.

I considered making over one of the canon characters; Gladly, maybe, or Quinlan. But both of those showed up in plot too much to be easily replaced.

A substitute teacher, maybe? I could do that.

But then, a conversation with a friend online put me on the right track.

If I wrote my self-insert character as having the same occupation as myself - that is, security guard - he would have a ready-made excuse to be at Winslow. The last detail fell into place.

I opened a new Word file and started typing. First, the title of the fic. And then the opening paragraphs.

=///=​

Principal Blackwell read the email again and frowned.

Ms Blackwell:
Per the recent Taylor Hebert locker incident, a security guard will be stationed at Winslow High during the hours of ...

Absently, she sent an acknowledgement, letting her employers know that she'd read their damn stupid email. She wanted to mail them back, to tell them that she didn't need some flat-footed rent-a-cop roaming the hallways of her school, but she knew it would do no good.

Idly, she recalled a joke. "Teachers would be able to get a lot more done, if it wasn't for all the students.". Running Winslow High was a lot like that; the school would run rather more smoothly if it wasn't for all those square-peg students, stubbornly refusing to fit into the round holes that had been neatly set aside for them.

Students like Taylor Hebert; if she had just had the decency to fit in like everyone else, then the whole locker incident would never have happened. Winslow would never have made the papers, and she would not have had to kowtow to an enraged Danny Hebert. Paying for his daughter's hospital bills had put quite a dent in the school's budget for the year; another factor that militated against getting in a security guard ...

=///=​

I stopped and re-read what I had typed, and then frowned; Blackwell was coming across as just a little too heartless and calculating. If I let the story continue in this vein, she would end up punishing Taylor for the sheer audacity of complaining about being bullied. I decided to revise it, rein it in a little.

Later. It was late; I was getting tired. Leaning back, I let my eyelids drift shut for just a moment.

This happened on occasion. Not quite sleepy enough to drift off, not quite awake enough to stay alert. I would ease back and forth between sleep and wakening states, and occasionally type a few sentences into the story. Sometimes I would even doze for a little bit and dream that I'd typed far more than I really had. Then I would be faced with trying to remember how the story had gone in my dream, and try to recreate it.

Opening my eyes again, I started creating the character that I was going to insert into the story. Michael Allen. Veteran security officer. I paused, pondering. Licensed for concealed carry?

On balance, I didn't like the idea, but then, this was America and a world where conflict was somewhat more likely than the when/where that I lived in. Yeah, okay. Concealed carry.

A thought struck me, and I did a bit of quick research. The original author had never specified precisely where Brockton Bay was, but there was a Brockton in Massachusetts, and so I used that state as a test case. And I came up against a hard block; Massachusetts CCW laws had a definitive ban against concealed firearms inside school grounds. So, he has a concealed carry permit, but he doesn't carry inside Winslow. I can work with that.

I typed a few more lines, setting the story up, then let my eyelids drift closed again. Maybe I should shut this down for the evening and go to bed ...

=///=​

I opened my eyes again, to the rasping buzz of my alarm clock.

What the hell? I didn't set my alarm clock. What the hell time is it, anyway?

I forced my eyes open, stared at the bright green numbers on the face of the alarm clock.

It took me a few moments to register what I was looking at.

One: it was five thirty in the morning. I do not get up at five thirty in the morning. This is a physical impossibility.

Two: My alarm clock has red numbers, not green. This was not my alarm clock.

Three: Not my bedroom. I do not keep sports posters on my bedroom wall. Plus, the furniture was all wrong.

I frowned, trying to make sense of it all. Did I go out? Crash at someone else's place?

I shook my head. I couldn't see it. I only go out on Mondays and Tuesdays, and then only to friends' places. And I'm always capable of driving back afterward.

Sitting up in bed, I stared at the sports poster. And it began to dawn on me that it wasn't a sports poster. I turned on the bedside light and directed the beam at the poster.

That was people in costume, not in sports gear. And as I began to register details, verbal descriptions began to click into place.

Tall woman, black hair, black and grey costume, ruined tower on front of costume, long cape.

Armoured man, blue and silver, visor covering eyes, carrying a polearm.

Young woman, blue bodysuit with silver circuitry pattern.

I began to shake; I stood up, the alarm clock still blaring, forgotten. Leaning closer, I stared at the poster. Was this some fan thing? People dressed up in costumes from the story? Or a CGI thing? Had someone made a movie about this and no-one told me?

If it was CGI, then it was the best I'd ever seen. Absolutely photo-realistic. And if it was people in costumes, they wore them well. Like they were born to it.

I pointed at the characters and spoke out loud, as if I could dispel the haze over my thoughts that way.

"Armsmaster, Alexandria, Legend, Battery ... that must be Assault ... Eidolon? Huh. That's probably Velocity then ..." At the end of the row, a dark-skinned woman bearing a heavily modified assault rifle, stars-and-stripes scarf across her face. "Definitely Miss Militia."

I sat down on the bed again, the wind going out of me.

"What the fuck," I said out loud, "is going on?"

=///=​

One hot shower later, it was still refusing to make sense to me. Pulling on a bathrobe and slippers – it was cold! – I wandered out into a living room, still half-expecting to see the back end of a movie set, or people leaping out to spring the most elaborate April Fools prank I had ever seen.

Nothing of the sort happened. It was an ordinary living room. Except that, looking at it carefully, it was a living room that I would live in. Things were where I would put them. I could believe that I lived here.

Except that I had never seen this place before in my life.

=///=​

Moments later, as I ate cereal at the small table, I reassessed that view. I had never seen this place before ... but I knew where everything was. Because it was where I would put it.

The cereal was a brand I had never seen before, but it was close enough to what I usually ate to not give me problems. I dumped the bowl in the sink, rinsed it, and looked around.

On the fridge was a schedule sheet. A roster. A name.

Michael Allen.

And under it, the location for work.

Winslow High School.

I sat down again.

"No. No fucking way."

I'd dreamed typing up stories before. But I'd never dreamed my way into the story.

First time for everything, I guess.

Then I looked at the start time. Today. Seven thirty.

"Okay," I said out loud. "Time to shape up or ship out. Do I treat this as a dream, and see how weird it can get, or do I act like I'm in the story, and do my best to help Taylor out?"

Put that way, I didn't really have a choice. There were people in Worm that I really thought got a bad deal out of things. Taylor was first in line, of course, but there were others. And if I could help them, even in a dream, that would make for an awesome story to write once I woke up.

Shape up it is, then.

=///=​

Ten minutes later, I was uniforming up. There was far more paraphernalia than I was used to; pepper spray, stun gun, cuffs ... Christ, was I going into a war zone, or a high school?

Then I remembered Winslow from the story. Oh, right. Yeah.

The scariest bit was putting on the stab vest. People get shanked at Winslow.

Fucking awesome.

I made damn sure that stab vest was properly secured.

=///=​

The other thing on the fridge was a letter. It informed me that I was starting at Winslow on April the eighth, of the year two thousand and eleven.

Which, my watch assured me, was today.

April eight. April eight. That date nagged at me. It was significant, somehow.

I'd figure it out later. I left the apartment.

=///=​

As I rode the early-morning bus through Brockton Bay, I had to admire the sheer attention to detail that my subconscious was capable of. I recognised landmarks I'd read about within the story, but only by context; the buildings looked nothing like I'd envisaged them, nor even like the cover photo on the story.

It had taken me a bit to figure out the bus lines, but I worked it out eventually. I found Winslow on the map, and located the right bus line. It looked like I was on time for a seven thirty start.

I hated being late for work, even in a dream.

As I settled back into my seat, I pondered the meaning of the date. April eight. It meant something, I was sure ... but what? There was something that I was missing.

I was interrupted in my reverie by a collective gasp from the others in the bus. Looking up, I saw a slender white-clad feminine form whip by; I had just enough time to register blonde hair and a fluttering skirt before she was gone.

This dream involved superheroes. Somehow I had temporarily forgotten that.

"Was that Glory Girl?" I asked the guy next to me.

"Sure was," he confirmed, then looked at me oddly. "You're acting like you've never seen her before."

"New in town," I said hastily. "Seeing her on the news is different to seeing her for real."

"I guess," he agreed, then he offered his hand. "Gerry's the name. What brings you to the 'Bay?"

I shook it. He had calloused hands and a strong grip. "Michael. Work.". Using two fingers, I tapped the patch on the sleeve of my uniform. "Babysitting kids at a high school.". With a roll of my eyes, I added, "Joy."

He chuckled and slapped me on the shoulder. "Good luck. Tase the little bastards if they give you any trouble."

I grinned at him. "Two spare batteries. I came prepared."

He laughed out loud.

"So what do you do?" I asked, the ice now broken. It was in my best interests to find out as much as possible about Brockton Bay, or rather, the version of it that my dream was creating. Somewhere along the line, I realised, I had made the decision to treat everything as if it were real.

"Dock worker," he replied, and with his build I could believe it. "When there's work, of course."

"A bit slack at the moment, huh?" I asked, sympathy in my tone.

"Only for the last bloody ten years," he said morosely, and I heard the faintest trace of an Irish accent. "I mean, Hebert does his best, but when there's no work, there's no bloody work."

I nodded. "And that's God's honest truth," I agreed. That would be Danny Hebert. Taylor's dad.

God, it's weird to hear his name in casual conversation. Like he's a real person.

"Man might as well get bloody work with a supervillain," Gerry groused. "At least they're hiring."

I raised an eyebrow. "Supervillains, huh?" I asked. "That pay well?"

He shrugged. "So I hear."

"Yeah," I replied. "But what's the dental plan like?". I mimed punching myself in the jaw.

He nodded ruefully. "Yeah, you got a point there," he agreed. "I might keep looking for legitimate work for a bit longer."

I looked up as the bus pulled to a stop. "Whoops, this is my stop," I said. "Good luck with finding work, Gerry. And hold out for that dental plan."

He got up to let me out into the aisle. "I'll do that, Mike. And watch your back with those rugrats."

I got off the bus and watched it drive away, then turned to walk into Winslow High School.

=///=​

As I walked into the parking lot out front of the school, a woman about my age, skinny and with dirty blonde hair, came to meet me. Mentally I flicked through my file of descriptions of Winslow staff. It wasn't an exhaustive list; two women and two men had actually been described in the story. This woman fitted the basic description of the school principal.

"Ms Blackwell?" I asked as she approached me.

She nodded curtly. "You're Allen. The security guard."

"That's me," I agreed. I extended my hand, and after a moment, she shook it.

She looked me over critically. "I always thought you security guards came with equipment belts."

I nodded. "I arrived on the bus. I thought it would be better to carry my gear in my bag." I indicated the backpack I had over my shoulder. "Causes less problems that way."

"But you will be carrying it around the school," she observed.

"Yes, ma'am, I will," I agreed.

"Do you have a gun?" she asked. "Because we don't allow those in the school."

I shook my head. "I'm licensed to carry, of course, but I do know about that. So I didn't bring it."

"What do you have to defend yourself with then?" she asked sharply. She was definitely being antagonistic; I began to wonder if it had been such a good idea to write her like that. And then I wondered if she was like that because I had written her that way, or because that was the way I read her personality from the story.

"Pepper spray, a stun gun and a baton," I answered, pulling my belt out of the bag and buckling it on. "Also, cuffs, in case someone needs to be restrained for the police."

"You've been trained in the responsible use of all these?" she asked sharply.

"I have all the required licences," I responded. I hoped I did; it felt like the right answer.

"I hope so, for your sake," she said darkly. "If the school gets sued by anyone because of the way you treated their children, we will be passing the costs on to you."

And if that's not a way of saying "keep out of the way and don't cause waves", I don't know what is, I thought.

"I prefer to talk before taking physical action, ma'am," I said blandly. "I also carry a voice recorder. So if there's any dispute about what was said when, it can be settled on the spot."

She gave me a hard stare, but did not seem to be able to think of any more objections. "Hmm," she said. "Well, I'll get you set up. Most of the faculty should be in by now."

=///=​

"Ladies and gentlemen," announced Principal Blackwell. "I would like you to meet our new security guard, Mr Allen." She introduced the faculty, and I did my best to remember the names. I shook hands where offered, nodded and smiled where not.

Quinlan I picked out by eye, Gladly and Mrs Knott I did not. Once again, their faces were at odds with what I had envisaged. Gladly grinned broadly as he shook my hand, trying for the 'good old boy' vibe. Quinlan had a handshake like a wet fish, with a faint tremor. Mrs Knott shook my hand like a man, with a nice firm grip, but not overdoing it like Gladly.

I cleared my throat; everyone quieted.

"I'm pleased to meet you all," I said. "I won't remember all your names at first, but give me a few days and I'll know you." I looked around at the group. "This is my first time working at a school like this, and I'm probably your first experience of a school security officer, so I'm willing to work at it until we reach an understanding. I don't want to go stepping on any toes." I paused. "Thank you."

There was a general murmur that I took for agreement; I turned to Principal Blackwell.

"Is there anything else we need to do before I start?" I asked her.

She frowned. "Not that I can think of. If there's nothing else …" Turning on her heel, she walked out of the room, heading for her office.

I followed along, waiting until she paused at her office door. "Do I get master keys?" I knew I did; it was specified in the letter on my fridge.

She frowned more deeply. "I'm not sure about that …"

"Do you have master keys?" I pressed as she unlocked the door.

"Yes, but they're generally spares for the janitor …"

"And now I need them," I pointed out. "If I need to go find the janitor every time I have to investigate some strange occurrence, this will drastically reduce my ability to do my job."

"Fine," she snapped. Entering the office, she reached into a drawer and almost threw me a bunch of keys. Most were unlabelled; I guessed that this was because the janitor knew them all.

"Sign out book?" I prompted.

Grudgingly, she pulled a book from the drawer, and I signed the keys into my custody. Then I hooked them on to my belt.

"Thank you, Principal Blackwell," I said politely. "I'll get out of your hair now."

I didn't quite catch her reply, but I don't think it was very polite. I exited her office, carefully closing the door behind me.

=///=​

My first order of business was to get the layout of the school. It was all one building, with multiple levels, so I was understandably concerned about being able to find my way around. Worse, they hadn't supplied me with a map of the school, so I was forced to use dead reckoning.

Turning a corridor, making a bet with myself that the cafeteria lay ahead, I encountered Mr Gladly. He smiled broadly when he saw me.

"Allen, right?" he asked. "Got a first name?"

"It's Michael," I told him. "But if you don't mind, I'd prefer to use Allen. That way, we don't send the kids the wrong message."

"Hey," he said. "I just tell 'em to call me Mr G. They eat it up. A teacher they can relate to, you know? They love me."

I know one that doesn't, I thought but didn't say. And I had to say that his attitude was starting to grate on me a little as well.

"Not in this job to be liked," I said, but with a half-smile to take the sting out of it. "I just want to do it right, make sure everyone gets home at the end of the day."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, chill, man," he said, raising his eyebrows. "You always this intense?"

I looked at him curiously, head tilted to one side. "I don't see it as intensity," I told him. "I see it as choosing to do the job right the first time, every time. I've been doing this for ten years. I've seen it done badly. Sometimes I've screwed up. But I've seen it done well, too. I prefer to get it right." I paused. "Actually, you can help me out here."

"Yeah?" he asked, his enthusiasm back. "Trouble finding your way around?"

"A little," I admitted, "but I'm getting there. What I'm after is the names of any trouble students. People I'd be advised to keep an eye on. People getting bullied, might need an eye kept on them, make sure people aren't making trouble for them. Places where trouble usually starts. Things like that. You've been here longer than I have; you'd have a better idea than me, right?"

I didn't miss the wary look in his eye.

"Huh," he said. "You know, I'd have to go to the principal before I gave you the names of any 'troublemakers'," he gave the word air quotes, "but I guess I can point you out a few people, once classes start."

I nodded. "Anything that would be useful, I'd appreciate." I paused, giving him room to say something, but he didn't bite.

"Well," he said, "I'd better get my classroom ready for the first class. The kids will be showing up any time now."

"Just one more thing," I said, following him down the hall. "I read about an incident this January. Someone got locked in a locker?"

He quickened his pace. "We dealt with that matter," he said over his shoulder. "It's over and done."

"Ah, so the guilty parties were caught and punished?" I asked, moving faster myself.

"You'll have to talk to the principal about that," he said, almost breaking into a run.

I slowed to a walk, watching him hurry away.

Interesting, I thought. He knows they failed her. Knows they're still failing her. But he doesn't want to face up to it.

It was something to think about.

=///=​

The students arrived in dribs and drabs as their parents dropped them off, and in large groups as the buses arrived and departed. I managed to find my way back to the front of the building, and watched them arrive. There were quite a few startled glances my way, and I nodded to those who made eye contact with me, but no-one spoke to me, and I didn't talk either.

It wasn't hard to pick out Emma Barnes and her coterie; red haired, striking good looks, and a figure that did not belong on a fifteen year old. Madison was several inches shorter, rather petite, and cute in a way that had appealed to me in my younger years. Sophia was slender and slightly above average height, with black hair and dark skin.

She was also the first 'cape' I had encountered since this whole episode started; I wasn't counting the sighting of Glory Girl. It was intriguing; looking at her, I saw an athletic fifteen year old. But she was also a superhero, of sorts.

I took care not to stare at her, moving past the trio, nodding to Emma when her eyes met mine, I kept my eyes front. Which was a good thing, because a tall skinny girl stumbled into my path; if I hadn't been looking, I would have knocked her over.

"Whoops," I said, propping on the spot. "Sorry."

"My fault," she muttered, and ducked past me. She was carrying a heavy-looking bag, and she didn't go to a locker, unlike everyone else there. I had a momentary impression of round-lensed glasses, long dark curly hair …

Holy shit, I thought. That was her. Taylor Hebert. I just met Taylor Hebert.

I wanted to go after her, tell her that she had a friend in this school. Tell her that there was someone on her side now.

But I didn't.

I couldn't.

I had a job to do here, at Winslow. Duties to perform. And taking care of Taylor Hebert, helping her, was only a small part of that job. A very important part, yes. But still only a small part.

Taking a deep breath, I went about my rounds.

But my thoughts did not stray far from Taylor Hebert.

I was sure that we would meet again.


End of Chapter One

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Two: First Interaction


I left the cacophony of banging locker doors behind me, and proceeded down the hallway. Taylor's home room doubled as one of the classrooms for computer studies; I had already located it, but I didn't go that way. The very last thing I wanted was to make Taylor think I was stalking her in any way.

It wasn't just that she was only fifteen, and had severe trust and control issues; I also had no desire to get on the bad side of the girl with bug control powers. The rest of the world would learn, sooner or later, that bug control was a power to be reckoned with; I was already fully aware of this fact.

So instead I started patrolling the school corridors, checking fire doors to make sure no-one had wedged them open or shut, looking into fire extinguisher closets to ensure that they still contained the extinguishers, and in general improving my grasp of the layout of the place. The bell went for home room, and I heard the thunder of teenage feet as they went their separate ways. I continued my rounds.

It wasn't until well after the first period bell had rung that I realised the significance of the date. It wasn't some obscure American holiday. It was the date that the story started.

I'm here at the beginning. This is the day she makes the decision to go out in costume, rather than wait until the break. Though she doesn't actually go out till Sunday.

The realisation sent a rush of heady excitement through me. I also recalled what was due to happen here at school, and when and where. Girls' bathrooms, third floor, lunch period. Lunch period starts at eleven forty-five. I checked my watch. Nine thirty. First period's half done.

I found the stairwell and went up it. Second floor. My work boots echoed in the empty corridors as I continued my rounds. Steady pace, not too fast, not too slow. I didn't want to tire myself out, but I did want to cover ground.

=//=//=​

The bell for second period went when I figured I'd just about covered the second floor; I stepped into a corner and waited for the surging tide of kids to abate. Some of these obviously hadn't seen me when they came in, and I received my share of curious glances.

One youth with Asian features approached me; I hadn't missed the nudges and whispers between himself and his friends before he came over.

"Can I help you?" I asked politely.

"You security?" he asked me bluntly.

I raised an eyebrow, pretended to check the patch on my sleeve, then nodded. "That's what the uniform says."

"Yeah well, the ones you gotta look out for is the ones with the shaved heads, you got it?" he said. "Empire Eighty-Eight. They're the troublemakers around here."

I nodded politely. "I'll keep that in mind," I replied noncommittally.

"You do that," he said, moving back to the group of his friends. They headed off down the hallway, laughing and joking and glancing back at me occasionally. I didn't watch them go directly, but I did keep them them in my peripheral vision. Watching a crowd go past, it's better to defocus the eyes and let patterns spring out, rather than trying to look at every single person individually.

I hadn't missed the fact that the boy who approached me, and his friends, had been wearing red and green. Gang colours. The colours of the Azn Bad Boys. Or Boyz, even. It had been a fairly blatant ploy to set me looking for Empire Eighty-Eight recruits instead of the ABB.

Standing there, observing the crowd going past, I did not miss that the ABB contingent passed by some of those very same skinheads. There was a little posturing, a little flexing, and I turned my head that way, my expression one of polite interest. I wasn't sure if they noticed me watching, but the ABB youths moved on, and the skinheads headed off in their own direction.

I made mental notes, and continued on my rounds.

=//=//=​

It took me most of second period to finish looking around the second floor, and make it to the third floor. The floor plan tended to repeat itself, so I was getting a good idea of which way the hallways were going to run. Of course, without a map of the school itself, I was having to find out what was where the hard way; go there and look.

Note to self: get a fire plan of the school, and fill it in myself if I have to.

But I did find the third floor girls' bathrooms.

No-one seemed to be around. I pushed the door slightly; it gave, swinging in, with a little resistance. Spring-loaded. Once I pushed it open a little farther, I was in a short corridor with another door at the other end. I nodded; public washrooms the world over had the same setup.

"Security!" I called. I heard my voice echo hollowly.

There was no answering shout from within, so I pushed open the inner door, letting the outer one swing shut.

A typical toilet and sink arrangement; six stalls down the left, a row of sinks down the right. A scratched and stained mirror over the sinks. None of the stalls were locked; I took hold of the closest door and tried to push it inward. Nothing happened. I pulled it outward. It opened easily.

I frowned. This was how it had read in the story, but why would they have the stalls set up this way?

The only reason I could think of was incompetent workmen, and official apathy. My frown deepened. If this had been done right ...

Thinking hard, I let myself out of the restroom, and went on my way. I still had most of the third period to go.

In Winslow, I had learned, the class periods ran for fifty minutes, with a five-minute block of time between in order to allow them to get from one class to another. Home room had started at eight forty-five, and the bell had rung for first period at nine sharp. Class started at nine oh five, second period at ten, and so on.

I knew that lunch hour started at eleven forty-five, and that Taylor would go immediately to that bathroom to sit and eat her lunch in peace. Emma and her friends would come in shortly after, and carry out their cruel prank. But I didn't know exactly when. It was a problem.

I mulled it over as I made my way back down to the first floor, to the staff break room. It was barely twenty past eleven when I got there, and went to the fridge for my lunch bag. I'd made some sandwiches and put in a juice popper as well. I don't usually drink juice poppers, but apparently the me in this dream did.

Mrs Knott, from Taylor's home room, strolled in when I was halfway through my sandwich.

"Mr Allen," she greeted me cordially. "How are you finding Winslow?"

I finished chewing, swallowed, and smiled at her.

"It's interesting," I allowed. "I see the gang activity is pretty intense. Do you get actual fights in the school?"

She nodded. "I've heard of it happening," she said. "Never seen it, though. It's usually between the skinheads and the ABB."

I raised an eyebrow as I popped the straw into my juice. "The Merchants don't get into it?"

She snorted, an unladylike sound. I decided that I liked her. "The stoners? No, all they want to do is sit around and get high."

I nodded. "Drugs aside, I suppose that's a blessing." I paused. "Any other troublemakers in the school? People being bullied? Anything I should watch out for?"

She looked suddenly troubled. I thought I knew why, too.

I'm an outsider. She sees stuff, and also sees that no-one seems to care about doing something about it. She doesn't know if she can trust me or not. Scared of what might happen if she talks to me.

Checking my watch, I finished the popper and tossed it into the bin. My sandwich wrapper followed, then I stood and brushed myself off. "I'll level with you. I overheard a couple of girls talking about a prank that was going to go off in the third floor girls' bathroom. If I'm going to nip this in the bud, I'm going to need a witness." I looked her in the eye. "Can you help me?"

She only hesitated for a moment. "I'm in."

I smiled. "Excellent."

=//=//=​

I checked my watch. It was eleven forty. Five minutes till go time. And I still didn't know exactly how I was going to handle it.

I cleared my throat and began to talk, just at the same time as Mrs Knott did.

We were sitting in a classroom down the hall from the stairwell; I had opened the classroom with my passkey, and we had each grabbed a chair to sit on. Mine was too narrow for my butt; Mrs Knott fitted into hers perfectly.

"Sorry," we said at the same moment.

I grinned and waved my hand in a go-on motion. "You go first."

She smiled and inclined her head slightly. "I was just about to ask you, how long have you been a security guard?"

"About ten years, more or less," I told her. "Ten years as a taxi driver before that."

"Those are very ... different ... jobs," she commented.

"Not as different as you'd think," I replied dryly. "You get to see the worst of the human condition, either way."

She nodded thoughtfully at that. "A very good point. What were you going to say?"

"Oh, it just seemed to me that a lot of the classrooms on this floor don't seem to be in regular use," I said. "Is that the case?"

She nodded. "More or less. They were going to put in more computer labs, but the funding fell through. So now they're basically spares until we can find something to do with them."

"Damn," I said. "That sucks. You teach computers, right?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "If the labs had gone through, we could be teaching a lot more advanced computer classes."

"And you'd be in charge of it all," I guessed.

"More or less," she agreed.

"Damn," I said again. "That really sucks."

She shot me a slightly startled look, as if not expecting the sympathy. "Thanks, I guess," she said, with a faint smile.

I paused, trying to think about what else to say, and the bell went off to signal the end of third period. Both of us jumped, as if a gunshot had gone off.

"Right," I said, standing up and stretching my back, "let's do this thing."

=//=//=​

"Are you sure that this is the right place?" asked Mrs Knott, as we strolled along the corridor toward the stairwell. Students were emerging from classrooms and heading downstairs toward the cafeteria; others were coming up the stairwell and heading toward the girls' bathrooms.

I recognised the back view of Taylor Hebert as she emerged from the stairwell and went toward the bathrooms; brown hoodie, long dark curly hair, "Yeah," I said. "I'm sure."

But here was my problem. If I stationed myself outside the bathrooms, the bullies would not bully, and no incident would happen. Mrs Knott would decide that I had wasted her time, and would be less receptive to my attempts to help Taylor out.

"We just need to hang back," I said. "Let them get into place. Catch them in the act."

"It sounds a little like entrapment to me," said Mrs Knott quietly.

"We're not inviting them to do it," I pointed out. "We're just making sure we have the goods on them. Otherwise they get away scot free, and do it again when we're not looking."

She looked unconvinced, but nodded. "Okay," she said. "Five more minutes."

=//=//=​

The time ticked by, interminably slowly. On my watch, the second hand was making its last slow revolution of the dial when three girls emerged from the stairwell.

"That's them," I said.

She peered around the corner, then stared at me. "But that's –"

"That's who we're waiting on," I told her. "Trust me on this."

She heaved a sigh. "Well, I might as well. We've wasted enough time on this foolishness already. What do we do now?"

"As soon as they go inside," I said, "we move."

Emma entered first, then Sophia, then Madison. The door banged behind them.

I started out at a steady walk, Mrs Knott beside me.

"I can't belive they're –" she began.

"You'll see," I said. "Just wait."

As we reached the door, I heard the explosion of laughter from inside. Reflexively, I reached into a pocket and flicked a switch.

Fuck, I thought. I'm too late to stop it. But not too late to catch them in the act.

"Stay back until I call you in," I said to Mrs Knott.

Not waiting to see if she did as she was told, I pushed open the outer door. She held it open as I went to the inner door. As I opened that door, I yelled, "Security!"

=//=//=​

The laughter, which had been filling the room a moment ago, died to nothing in an instant. Emma Barnes, closest to me, and indeed arrested in the act of reaching for the door handle, froze in mid-step. Behind her, Sophia Hess froze also, but only momentarily. Her eyes began darting around the room, looking for a way out. Madison Clements, farthest back, simply stood there, eyes wide with shock.

"Well, now," I said. "What's going on in here?"

"What the fuck?" said Emma, recovering somewhat. "This is the girls' bathroom. You can't come in here!"

"Actually, yes I can," I said. "Security guard. I can go anywhere. Now. Once more from the top. What's going on in here? I smell spilled fruit juice."

The smell was pretty strong in the air, along with whatever soft drink they'd doused her with. A sickly sweet smell.

"We just had a little spill," said Sophia, stepping past Emma. "We're leaving now. Get out of my way."

"No," I said firmly, "no-one goes anywhere until I've found out what's going on."

At that moment, Taylor emerged from the toilet stall, wearing her backpack. She turned to stare at me. She looked … messy. Covered in juice stains, droplets on her glasses, stains on her pack.

"You can't do that!" Emma protested, her voice rising slightly. "This is illegal detention."

"You're thinking of deprivation of liberty," I pointed out. "And no, it's actually not." I indicated Taylor with a nod. "You there. What happened to you?"

"Nothing happened to her!" snapped Sophia, taking a step forward. "Now let us out of here, you creepy old perv!"

"Not until she tells me what happened," I said. "Now, step back."

"Or what?" she said. "You'll make me step back? Touch me and I scream rape. You'll never work in a fucking school again. Fuck, you'll never work as a security guard again. You ugly fat fuck."

"You'd do that?" I asked mildly. "You'd lie to ruin my reputation, just to get out of this?"

She laughed in my face. "You don't know who you're fucking dealing with, you piece of shit."

As she spoke, she came closer, intending to shove me out of the way. She simply didn't expect me to grab her wrist and apply an arm bar.

I knew she was strong and fit, for a fifteen year old. She had serious muscle. But when it came down to it, I was nearly three times her age and twice her weight. Put simply, I was bigger, stronger, and had more reach. And she didn't dare use her power to get loose.

"Christ fuck!" she screamed. "That fucking hurts!" It hurt because she was trying to twist out of the hold, and applying more pressure to the nerve points.

"Then step back, and stop trying to get past me," I said, reasonably, and let go, shoving her away from me. I looked past her. "You there. Come here, kid. What happened?"

The trio were too shocked, too stunned, at my manhandling of Sophia to prevent Taylor from approaching me.

"They trapped me in my stall and poured juice and soda over me," she said in a low tone of voice.

"Surely looks like they did," I replied. "You four are coming with me to the principal's office." I looked at Taylor. "Your name?"

"Taylor Hebert," she mumbled. "Am I in trouble?"

I shook my head. "No, Taylor, you are not in trouble. Did you do anything to provoke them?"

"No," she said. "I didn't. Are we really going to the principal's office?"

"Damn straight we are," I told her.

"Fuck off I'm going to the principal's office," snapped Sophia. "You fucking laid hands on me. You're gonna fucking regret that. I'll tell everyone you grabbed my boob." There was a tearing sound as she ripped her top slightly. "I'll tell them you did that. You're fucking gone."

"I'll tell them he didn't," said Taylor, her voice stronger. "I'll tell them everything you've ever done to me."

"And you think they'll believe you, Hebert?" snapped Emma. "It's three against one, against the pervert security guard on his first day, and the weirdo loner. Who's going to believe you against us?"

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and moved aside for Mrs Knott.

"I might," she said coolly.

=//=//=​

"You're making a big mistake," Emma said for the fifth time. "My dad's a lawyer, and he'll –"

"Yes, Miss Barnes, we all heard you the first few times," I said. "Your father's a lawyer. But he'll do nothing. So kindly be quiet until we get to Principal Blackwell's office. You can talk all you want there."

We all trooped down the last flight of steps to the first floor, and Mrs Knott led the way toward the office. Emma followed her, with Sophia behind her, casting occasional poisonous glances back at me, and Madison behind her. Taylor walked alongside me.

"Want to call your parents?" I asked her quietly. "You can borrow my phone. Get clean clothes in."

She blinked at me; I had offered her alcohol wipes to clean her glasses off, for which she had been almost pathetically grateful. "If I could, thanks," she said quietly.

I nodded, and handed my phone over. She dialled and waited for an answer.

"Dad?" she said. "Yeah, it's me. I'm at school. Can you come and ... no, I'm not in trouble. Could you come and bring some clean clothes? Yeah, something happened, and ... I'll tell you when you get here. Thanks, Dad. Love you."

She handed the phone back with a half-smile. "Thanks, mister ...?"

"Allen," I supplied. "But you can call me Mike. I've been bullied myself. It's never fun, and I do not tolerate that crap in others."

She stared at me. I stand a shade over six feet in my work boots, and I weigh closer to three hundred pounds than two hundred. Much of that is admittedly fat, but I'm also broad in the shoulders and large in the arms. "How ...?" she began.

I grinned back at her. "Bullying takes different forms, Miss Hebert. There was a time I was being bullied in the workplace by other guards, who were spreading rumours about me. It's never fun, no matter what form it takes."

She nodded fervently. "Everything's happened to me. Rumours, being shoved around, having my clothes wet or dirtied ..."

I nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, been there." I paused. "Do you have any, you know, documentation of what they've been doing?"

Her eyes opened wide. "Oh. Oh shit, I forgot. Can you – can I –"

I was already handing her my phone again. She dialled again, feverishly.

"Oh, Dad, yeah it's me again. Listen, in my closet, top shelf, there's a stack of papers. A bulldog clip holding them together. Can you get them for me please? It's really important." She paused. "Thanks. I'll see you soon." She ended the call and handed the phone back. "Thanks," she said to me. "Really. I would have been kicking myself when I remembered it."

I shrugged. "Eh," I said. "I've been where you are. And one of these days you'll be where I am. Kicking ass and taking names." I held out my fist to her, and after a moment's hesitation, she bumped it with hers, then grinned at me.

=//=//=​

Predictably, Emma got to speak first. She wove a fine tale, with Sophia adding bits here and there, and Madison as the Greek chorus with "uh huh," and "yeah, that's what happened" when the narrative lagged. Taylor sat and steamed slowly, when she wasn't exclaiming with dismay over the state of the contents of her backpack.

"I can't believe Principal Blackwell's listening to that crap!" she hissed to me.

Mrs Knott spoke up. "I don't believe that's what actually happened," she said. "I was just outside, and I heard most of what went on –"

"But you didn't see it!" snapped Sophia. "You didn't see him grab my breast, and tear my top!"

"I don't believe he did at all," Mrs Knott responded curtly.

"How can you say that?" Emma demanded. "You weren't there! For all we know, you just came along just then, and you're backing him up, just because he's an adult and a security guard," with a pitch and spin on those words that made them sound slightly less savoury than 'dung beetle'.

I had to admit, she put on a good performance. She looked ready to cry. Principal Blackwell was looking more and more sympathetic to her all the time.

"How about me?" put in Taylor. "Do I get a chance to speak?"

"Uh, of course, Miss Hebert," said the Principal. "What did you have to say?"

"That what they're saying is lies," Taylor said hotly. "Mr Allen came in, and asked them what was going on, and Sophia tried to push past him, and he pushed her away. He didn't feel her up. She told him to his face that she was going to say all this, to get him in trouble."

"She was in the toilet stall most of the time," said Emma dismissively. "She didn't see it either."

"Can we deal with the crap later?" I asked. "The situation here is that Taylor is being bullied, and the culprits are these three girls. I had overheard something, I asked Mrs Knott to come in on it."

Everyone turned to look at Mrs Knott. "He did," she confirmed. "And I am glad that he did so."

"As I came in," I continued, "the girls were laughing. Taylor came out of her stall covered in juice and soda as you see her now ... and they tried to get out of it. Taylor says they trapped her in the stall and poured their cold drinks over her from either side. I believe her. Mrs Knott?"

The teacher raised her head. "I believe her also," she stated firmly.

"Is it really such a big deal? It seems like a harmless prank –" began Blackwell.

Taylor half-rose in her seat; I gestured, and she sat down again.

"A case could be made for criminal assault," I stated firmly. "They poured unknown substances over her, and some of it got in her eyes. It could have been poison. It could have been bodily fluids. Heck, juice and soda isn't actually good for the eyes anyway. She could suffer permanent damage from this. So yes, this actually is a big deal."

Principal Blackwell sighed and rose from her seat. "Mr Allen, could you please come with me for a moment?" she said. "We need to confer."

I nodded. "Certainly." I hid a smile; I knew exactly what she wanted to confer about.

=//=//=​

In Principal Blackwell's rear office, with the door closed, she turned to me. "I didn't want to take this step, but there's something you should know."

"Indeed?" I asked. "And what is that something? The reason you're leaning over backward to give those girls every out you can?"

She glowered at me. "It's not by choice," she snapped. She opened a drawer and pulled out a form. I blinked. I didn't expect that.

"Uh ... what's this?" I asked.

"A non-disclosure form," she informed me.

"Non-disclosure about what?" I asked.

"About the fact that Sophia Hess is a Ward," she told me tartly. "Now sign the damn form."

I raised an eyebrow, and signed. If anything, my signature as Michael Allen was messier than my real signature.

"And this changes what, exactly?" I asked, once she had the paper in hand.

"Everything!" she snapped. "We get funding from the PRT just because Sophia is here. Her case officer drops by occasionally, to make sure she isn't getting into trouble. She can leave class whenever she needs to, so that she can carry out her duties as a Ward. We have a huge responsibility here."

"Uh huh," I said. "And you're falling down badly on it."

She stared at me, as if I had just slapped her in the face.

"You honestly don't think that the PRT condones their Wards bullying other students, do you?" I asked. "Or the locker incident? If she was involved in that, and current form seems to indicate a strong possibility –"

"We don't know that for certain," she said hurriedly. "There is no proof linking Sophia Hess with ... that incident."

I snorted. "No witnesses willing to testify, you mean."

There was a tap on the door, just as she was mustering her rebuttal.

"What?" she called out.

"They're here," called Mrs Knott through the door.

"Who?" Principal Blackwell called back.

"Everyone."

=//=//=​

Danny Hebert hugged his daughter, sticky clothes and all. Alan Barnes was talking seriously with Emma, with occasional glances my way. Madison's parents were there; they were both quite young. Sophia glowered as she spoke to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman who had shown up to represent her.

Alan Barnes approached me. "My daughter says that you sexually assaulted her friend, Sophia Hess," he stated. His voice was firm and resonant; he would have a good courtroom presence. "If this is true, it means that we can discount anything you've got to say."

I nodded. "And if I can prove she's lying ...?"

He paused. "Are you calling my daughter a liar?"

I nodded. "And a bully. I have proof on both accounts. As well as Taylor's word on the matter."

"Well, we'll see how much that's worth," he said, and turned to go back to his daughter.

"Wait a minute, Alan," said Danny. "What do you mean by that? I thought we were friends here. I thought our daughters were friends."

"Sorry, Danny," said Alan, not sounding the slightest bit sorry. "When it comes down to it, family comes first. I'll do anything I need to, to protect Emma."

He walked back to Emma, leaving Danny Hebert staring at his back.

=//=//=​

We convened in the guidance counsellor's office. The scene was interesting; it was almost a match for what would have happened after the Weymouth incident, sixteen days hence. Taylor was freshly showered, and wearing the clothes that her father had brought from home. The three of us sat up at one end of the egg-shaped table, with Mrs Knott. Principal Blackwell sat down at the far end, with the others. Mr Gladly and Mr Quinlan had not been called in on this one.

As Blackwell murmured to Sophia's PRT handler, Taylor's father turned to me.

"I haven't thanked you yet," he said quietly. "Danny Hebert."

I shook his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, sir," I said, and I meant it. I knew more about him than he knew, and I liked it all.

"If we can begin," said Principal Blackwell. "I would like to –"

"What I want to know," butted in Sophia, "is why that perv hasn't been arrested yet for grabbing my breast!"

"We'll get to that," said Blackwell. "We need to address these bullying charges –"

"No, she's right," said Alan Barnes. "If he did molest Sophia, then he's a dangerous influence, and we need to ascertain the truth of that right now."

Blackwell nodded, not entirely reluctantly. "Mr Barnes raises a valid point."

"Horseshit!" snapped Danny Hebert. "Those two are just trying to divert attention from what happened to Taylor, and you know it."

"Language, Mr Hebert," said Blackwell severely. "We will address that concern now." She turned to Emma. "Did you see this incident?"

Emma nodded, staring me straight in the eye. "Yes, I did."

"Madison," she said next. "Did you see it?"

Madison nodded jerkily. "Yeah, I saw it," she confirmed.

"Taylor, did you see this happen?" asked Principal Blackwell.

Taylor shook her head violently. "He didn't do anything of the sort," she denied vehemently.

"She's lying," said Emma flatly.

"Well," said Blackwell, "it seems to be two to one ..."

"But he didn't!" she repeated.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, if I may?" I asked.

Principal Blackwell looked at me as if I had just oozed out from under a rock. "Yes, Mr Allen?"

I pulled out my voice recorder and studied the display. I ran it back a little bit, then hit PLAY.

"Nothing happened to her!" It was obviously Sophia's voice. "Now let us out of here, you creepy old perv!"

"Not until she tells me what happened," My voice. "Now, step back."

"Or what?" Sophia again. "You'll make me step back? Touch me and I scream rape. You'll never work in a fucking school again. Fuck, you'll never work as a security guard again. You ugly fat fuck." Principal Blackwell shot a glance at Sophia, whose face had turned remarkably pale. The recording rolled on.

"You'd do that?" My voice on the recording was mild. "You'd lie to ruin my reputation, just to get out of this?"

The sound of her laughter. "You don't know who you're fucking dealing with, you piece of shit."

I hit STOP.

The silence in the room was deafening.

"I have it all," I remarked. "From go to whoa. Including where Sophia tears her own top, then tells me she's going to blame me for it."

"You recorded us!" gasped Emma. "That's illegal!"

"If I wanted to present this in a court of law, I would have had to inform you, yes," I agreed, with a nod to Emma's father. "But for something like this, it's perfectly applicable." I shrugged. "And Principal Blackwell knew about it, so ..."

Principal Blackwell was, at that moment, looking as though she had forgotten, and was wishing that she had not.

"I can play it all the way through," I suggested.

Emma and Sophia suddenly had very thoughtful looks on their faces. They were obviously recalling everything else they had said in the bathroom, to my face.

Alan looked at Emma, and she shook her head slightly.

"No, no, that won't be necessary at this point in time," he said easily. "We can take it as given that the accusations against you were a little ... overblown."

"In other words, false," I said flatly.

"If ... you say so, yes," he agreed. He paused, brow wrinkling. "Are you recording this meeting?"

"Why yes, yes I am," I agreed. I pulled out my second recorder, and placed it beside the first. "And thank you, by the way, for admitting that the accusations against me are false." I folded my hands. "Now, shall we get on?"

=//=//=​

"But there's no proof that they did all these things that Taylor is accusing them of, in these written notes," Alan Barnes pointed out.

"This is not a court of law, Alan," Danny retorted wearily. "We don't need 'beyond reasonable doubt' here. We have absolute proof that your daughter, along with the other two mentioned in all these notes, performed an act of criminal assault on my daughter. We have witnesses. They did it once, they could easily have done it before now."

I sighed. We had done well to get this far, but Alan Barnes was proving remarkably tenacious. And with every go-around, Danny was getting closer to losing his temper, and Taylor wasn't looking too happy either.

I raised a finger. "If I may ...?" I ventured.

Alan Barnes glared at me. "What?" he asked.

"Five minute break. I'd like to speak to the lady." I indicated the woman who had come in to back up Sophia. Her head came up and she stared at me.

"Why?" she asked.

I raised an eyebrow. "For shame," I said. "And spoil the surprise?"

=//=//=​

"Okay," she said, once we were out of the room and away from everyone else. "What do you want to say to me that you can't say to everyone else?"

"It's simple," I said. "I know that Sophia Hess is Shadow Stalker. A Ward."

She stared, shocked.

"And I know that you're PRT, and your job is to make sure she doesn't get into trouble," I went on.

Her jaw fell a few more degrees.

"And finally, I know that you're pressuring the school to ignore what she does, so you can keep this cushy assignment," I concluded.

I could have slapped her on the face with a wet fish and gotten a less stunned response.

"So, here's the deal," I said. "Fold. Cave. Tell Alan Barnes to pull his head in. And I don't call Director Piggot directly, and tell her everything that Sophia's been up to, including the locker incident, the flute, and, oh yes, the fact that she's still using lethal arrows in her crossbows."

She stared at me, obviously unable to take in most of what I was saying.

"The ... flute?" she said slowly.

"It belonged to Taylor Hebert," I said patiently. "She got it from her mother. Sophia stole it from her locker, and ruined it. Because she felt like it."

"I didn't know about that," she said. "How did you know about that? How do you know about any of that?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Not the question you should be asking yourself," I pointed out.

She stared at me, unable to formulate a response. I sighed, pulled out my phone. Began to dial.

"Wait, wait," she said.

I paused, looked enquiringly at her.

"What sort of punishment should they get?"

I took a deep breath. "In-school suspension. Till the end of the semester. No privileges either. No dances, access to school events, computers, or even any spots on teams or clubs."

She stared at me. She was doing a lot of that. "That's two and a half months!"

I shrugged. "They were at it for two and a half years."

"That's impossible," she told me flatly.

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Sophia Hess had no contact with Taylor Hebert before two thousand and nine. She can't have been involved in bullying her at any earlier date."

"Ah." I smiled tightly. "I've been working off of faulty data." The eighteen month figure was correct. Seriously, could you have just gotten the details right? "But eighteen months still stands as a figure."

She nodded silently, compliant once more. "Sophia will have to be able to leave to carry out her duties," she pointed out.

"Sure," I said. "She can make up the time afterward."

I knew, as she did not, that Leviathan would attack before this time was half over. But the punishment had to be in place first.

"Why are you being so harsh about this?" she asked.

I looked her in the eye. "Because I don't like bullies," I said flatly.

She took a deep breath, subsided. "They won't like it," she said.

"Two of them will," I pointed out.

=//=//=​

"You can't be serious!" stormed Alan Barnes. "What did he say to you?"

"That's between me and him," she snapped. "Now, those are the conditions. Principal Blackwell, given the obvious ongoing bullying campaign, I believe that this punishment is fair and just."

Blackwell looked at Barnes, then at Sophia's minder.

"Sophia is one of our best track stars," she said weakly.

I shook my head. "And so she gets extra privileges? No. She does the crime, she does the time. Just like everyone else."

"I agree," gritted Sophia's minder. "No privileges. No sports, no dances, no computers, no functions. In-school suspension until the end of the semester."

Sophia was staring at her in utter betrayal. Then she turned to stare at me. I affected not to notice, put away one voice recorder, then the other.

"Would I have to take summer classes?" Madison piped up.

"There would be remedial classes if we took that route, yes," the principal said. "It would be a drain on our resources. And we're stretched thin as it is."

I smiled. "I'm sure you could get outside help." I turned to Sophia's minder. "You could volunteer, for instance."

She glowered at me. "I could do that, yes," she ground out.

"Well, that's settled, then. I'll, ah, be outside," I said blandly. "Oh, and by the way, Principal Blackwell? You may want to give Taylor the rest of the day off. She has suffered a fairly nasty bullying incident, after all. Just a suggestion."

Letting myself out, I closed the door behind me.

Damn, I thought. But that felt good.

=//=//=​

The office door opened, and Alan Barnes emerged, with Madison's parents. He gestured for them to go on, and turned to me.

"You sorry sack of shit," he growled. "I'll make you regret the day you ever set foot in this school."

"Why, Mr Barnes, threats even," I replied with a raised eyebrow. "I thought you would have learned from your daughter's example."

"What do –" he began, then he paused. "Fuck. You recorded that?"

"Recording, Mr Barnes," I corrected him, showing him the recorder with the little red LED glowing on it. "I think these long-life digital recorders are wonderful things, don't you? They take all the drama out of I-said-you-said. Nails down who said what. Now ... you were saying?"

But he was already stomping down the hall.

I looked around as the door opened again. It was Danny and Taylor, this time.

Before they could speak, I held up one finger. Carefully, I turned the recorder off, and put it away. Danny chuckled, and Taylor grinned.

=//=//=​

"So she gave you the afternoon off?" I asked, as we strolled along the hallway toward the doors.

Taylor nodded. "She really did." She turned, and offered her hand. "I want to thank you, for everything you've done."

I shook it solemnly. "It was nothing that someone else shouldn't have done already," I told her.

"Yeah," said Danny, "but no-one else did." He shook my hand as well. "I really appreciate what you did for my daughter today. And I want to warn you ..."

I nodded. "Yeah, I gathered. Alan Barnes is a bad enemy. But if it comes down to doing the right thing, or covering my ass, I'd like to think I'd do the right thing."

"Well, if you lose your job here over this," he said, "come see me. I'm in charge of hiring at the Dockworkers' Association, and we can always do with a reliable night watchman."

I nodded. "I'll definitely do that," I grinned. "It's gotta be less stressful than riding herd on a school full of delinquent ratbags."

About to walk down the steps, Taylor turned toward me, one eyebrow raised. "Just one thing I'm curious about," she said. "How did you know they were going to do that to me?"

I paused in thought. "Let's just say ... I'm really good at my job."

Danny slapped me on the arm. "And I'm damn glad to hear it," he said.

"Ah," I said. "Before you go."

They paused, looking at me questioningly.

"Taylor, I strongly suggest that you get hold of a voice recorder of your own before Monday," I said. "Keep it on you. Because you know they aren't going to give up. They'll just avoid doing it when I'm around."

Danny nodded. "What do you say, kiddo?" he asked.

She nodded firmly. "Thanks, Mr Allen," she said. "I'll do that."

"Hey, the name's Mike with my friends," I reminded her, and held out my fist.

She bumped it, and then she and her father walked away, down the steps. As they got into the car, she turned and waved. I waved back. They drove away.

I turned and walked back into the school.

Back to work, I thought.

But I was already thinking about what I had to do next.


End of Chapter Two

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Three: Second Interaction


I headed back down the wide hallway, letting the doors swing shut behind me. In my mind, I was mulling over what I had just done.

I had used knowledge of the setting to do something that overturned canon. Taylor was not going to have the utterly crappy day that she would otherwise have had. Seeing the Trio get some level of comeuppance, as well as having the knowledge of all the bullying out in the open at last, had to be a weight off of her shoulders.

On Monday, she could come back into school, and the three main instigators would be undergoing in-school suspension. Placed into an empty classroom, observed by a teacher, they would undergo two and a half months of sheer boredom. They could study, yes. Read, yes. Attend classes or interact with the other students, no.

This did not mean that Taylor would be guaranteed a free pass as regarded the bullying; no doubt any one of the three could call up friends and cause other pranks to happen. But perhaps their enthusiasm would be dulled a little, knowing that the most popular girl in school, and her two friends, were suspended, and yet unable to leave the premises. The worst of both worlds.

In addition, if Taylor followed my advice and carried a voice recorder, she would be able to bring proof positive of any verbal bullying to me, or to a teacher. It kind of sucked that she had to do this in order to protect herself, but I had been forced to do much the same, once upon a time.

But what, I asked myself, does this mean to the story? I had not really believed, deep down, that I could do anything to change matters; I'd just tried to do what I could for Taylor. And it had worked. Worked, if I admitted it to myself, far better than I had hoped.

And now I was just a little scared.

What consequences would this have? What would happen, out of my sight, out of my ability to control, to the storyline, to the narrative?

How would it change things?

I pulled myself up short. Did this even matter? If this was a dream, then whatever I did would vanish the moment I woke up, back in boring, mundane, Earth-without-a-designator.

And yet ...

What if this wasn't a dream? Because it wasn't like any dream I had ever had before. Especially not like my previously experienced lucid dreams. Normally, in those, I tended to take control and give myself super-powers. Flight, mostly. Also, once I realised I was dreaming, I tended to wake up pretty quickly.

Okay, I told myself, and realised that I had been subconsciously putting this moment off, in the urgency of wanting to do right by Taylor Hebert. Lucid dream test number one. I can fly.

I took a deep breath. Looked down at my work boots; black, scuffed, steel toed, solid. They were planted firmly on the floor. I willed myself up.

Absolutely nothing happened.

Right. Maybe it's because I've been in the dream so long that the rules are set. Flight isn't an option. Okay. Test number two. Square a two-digit number between ten and ninety-nine.

I had found that no matter how lucid the dream felt, logic was hard to come by. Dreams worked off the less logical aspects of the brain; they were more about imagination and creativity than thinking in straight lines.

The squaring trick was a math shortcut I had learned years ago; it was easy to do. When you were awake, that is. In a dream, not so much.

Seventy-six. Okay. Four nine three six plus eight four zero. Five … seven seven six.

I was unnerved by how easy it was. There was no stumbling, no reaching for numbers. I formulated the answer, checked it mentally. It worked out.

Which meant ...

Mentally, I reeled. Physically, I reached out and leaned against the wall for a moment.

Holy Christ on a pogo stick. I'm really here. I'm really in Brockton Bay. In the Wormverse.

The geeky fanboy in me went squee.

The rest of me went oh shit.

The world ends in two years.

Fuck.

And then my reverie was interrupted; I looked up to see Principal Blackwell advancing upon me with intent.

"Mr Allen," she said curtly. "My office, if you please. I would like a word."

=///=​

I was surprised to note that I actually welcomed the intrusion. It let me focus, get myself centred again. If this was my 'real world' now, for better or for worse, then I had to get my head in the game. And right now, right here, this was my game.

I'd think about how I actually got here later. As a fanfic writer, I could reel off a dozen theories. Most of which were probably flawed. So I'd leave it till later.

I followed the principal back to her office. She set a steady pace, heels clicking on the floor. I matched it, boots thumping.

She entered her office, and moved to sit behind her desk. I closed the door behind us, stood with my hands clasped behind my back. Waited for her to speak.

She took her time; for someone who wanted a word, it seemed to me, she wasn't being very talkative.

"Mr Allen," she said at last, a severe tone to her voice. "Do you know exactly how much trouble you have caused the school?"

"A certain amount," I admitted. "However …" I added, as she began to speak again.

"However?" she asked, brows furrowing.

"However," I said, "This could have been much worse. I stopped the bullying as a school employee. This makes you look better. If the bullying had come out another way, been reported from the outside, for instance," I went on, "it could have had a far greater impact on the good name of the school." I cleared my throat. "I had a look at some of those things that the girls apparently did to her. Even discounting the locker incident ..."

I saw her flinch. Good.

"... there are incidences of her being pushed down stairs by Sophia Hess. Physically attacked. In small ways, of course, but all it takes is one miscalculation, and you have a student with a serious injury and absolutely no reason not to have this school sued down to the bedrock. And Mr Hebert does have a friend in the media. If they got word of this bullying …"

She rallied. I had to admire her tenacity. "This isn't about the bullying. This is about you taking unilateral decisions that affect the school. Recruiting teachers for your little antics, bursting into the girls' bathrooms, recording them without their permission ..."

"... nipping quite a nasty bullying incident in the bud," I carried on. "Performing my job, in fact. Carrying out the duties I was hired for." I raised an eyebrow. "So is it the fact that I didn't ask you for permission first, the fact that I caught the popular girls bullying someone, or the fact that Sophia Hess got in trouble that you have a problem with, Ms Blackwell?"

She took a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and controlled. "When you perform activities like this in future, Mr Allen, you will clear it with me first."

I tilted my head slightly. "Clear it with you, as in let you know I'm doing it, or clear it with you as in ask permission first?"

She went to speak, then paused, eyeing me suspiciously. "Are you recording this conversation?"

I brought my hands out from behind my back. One held a voice recorder. The little red LED was glowing.

"Turn that off," she ordered.

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, Principal Blackwell, but I will have to respectfully decline that request."

"That wasn't a request," she snapped. "That was an order!"

"Indeed," I agreed. "All of your orders are legitimate, yes?"

"Of course they are!" she told me.

"So where is the problem with recording them?"

"Because I find it very off-putting to have someone recording my every word," she retorted.

"Doing so earlier may well have saved my career," I pointed out. "It's done so in the past. I prefer to be safe rather than sorry. So. My previous question stands. When you say to clear something with you, do you mean to merely let you know, or do I have to ask permission?"

She paused, a long moment. "You know, I could have you fired for insubordination," she said levelly. She wasn't rattled easily. I was impressed.

"You could," I agreed. "Of course, the school board would then be requesting my report, which will be backed up by my voice recordings." I folded my hands in front of me; in them, the voice recorder sat, the little LED glowing like a malevolent red eye.

"Report," she repeated hollowly.

"Report," I confirmed. "In copious detail. Including the toilet stall doors that only open outward, not inward, allowing this whole bullying incident to take place. Which should have been fixed years ago, but no-one seemed to know or care about them. " I paused. "I could go on, but your time is valuable."

My tone was dead level, neither accusing nor gloating. Matter-of-fact. Simple, direct. No emotional content. I found it was the best way to apply pressure to someone. Don't give them something they can lash back at.

"Fine," she grated. "You need to tell me what you'll be doing, if you're doing anything out of the ordinary. Just to give me a heads-up. I do not need this sort of surprise again."

I nodded. "That's fair," I agreed. "And I apologise for not doing it today. I will correct that in future."

She nodded, halfway mollified by my tone. It's hard to stay angry at someone who has just admitted fault. "You can go. We may talk again later."

I nodded. "Thank you, Ms Blackwell," I said. I turned and was reaching for the door-handle, when I paused.

"Actually," I said, turning back, "I just had an idea. Something that might just keep the Heberts off your back. Reduce the chance of bad publicity from this."

She looked up at me, a little startled. "Explain," she said.

"Suppose you offered to have Taylor transferred to Arcadia," I suggested. "Gets her out of Winslow, away from the girls who were bullying her. Reduces your level of hassle, and makes you look like the good guy. Taking her out of the problem situation."

Blackwell rubbed her chin. "I don't know," she said slowly. "Jurisdictional issues ..."

I spread my hands. "Once she's enrolled in Arcadia, she's out of your hair. No longer your problem. It's a win-win situation."

She nodded, brightening. "There is that." A pause. "It might take a couple of weeks for things to go through. Arcadia already has a waiting list through the roof."

I shrugged. "Hey, so long as you're seen to be doing something."

She glanced at me warily. I mustered my best sincere expression.

"Indeed," she said grudgingly. She waved at the door. "I will take your suggestion under advisement. You can go."

I went.

=///=​

I patrolled the school corridors. Between classes, students eyed me; somehow, by some arcane osmosis, the details of the lunchtime incident had reached many ears. No doubt it had been considerably altered in the telling, but they were eyeing me with what I hoped was wary respect.

No-one spoke to me this time, which was fine. I wasn't after the popularity. I just wanted to get the job done, and done right.

Besides, it gave me a chance to think. To plan.

Today was the eighth of April. On the tenth, the Sunday, Taylor was due to go out and encounter first Lung and then the Undersiders.

Would what I had done here in the school influence that?

I hoped not.

On the fourteenth, after joining the Undersiders, she would help rob a bank. In doing so, she would encounter ... ah.

I had to do something about that.

Also, there was the other thing that would happen that day.

I paced the corridors, working my way through things.

I couldn't plan too far ahead. But I could make some plans.

Here's hoping they survive contact with the enemy.

=///=​

The last class ended. I watched as students dumped their books in their lockers, streamed out of the school. And the monotonous patrol began, checking all the rooms, all the bathrooms. Making sure no-one was hiding away to perform mischief over the weekend.

No-one was; I went back to the staff room, to finish my last sandwich, and to have a moment of peace and quiet before setting out again.

To my surprise, Mrs Knott looked in, and came in once she saw me.

"Mr Allen," she said with a half-smile. "You certainly put the cat among the pigeons on your first day."

I chuckled. "I suppose I did." Standing up, I offered my hand. "Thanks for backing me up. It was really appreciated."

She shook; her grip was firm, decisive. "I must admit, I had my doubts, but you seemed to know your business. And I would not have picked those girls as bullies. But the language from the Hess girl ..." She shook her head.

I shrugged. "They do it once, and they get away with it. So they do it again. It becomes a habit."

She nodded. "I see what you mean. But I am glad that you managed to help Taylor. She's in my home room class, and she's a delight to teach. Always attentive, does her work on time." A frown. "A real pity, what was done to her."

"Yeah," I said flatly. "Been there. Not about to let it happen to someone else."

"I see," she said understandingly. She put her hand on my arm; I blinked. "If you ever want to get coffee sometime, talk about it," she said softly, "all you have to do is ask."

I blinked again. This was not something I had anticipated. "Uh ... isn't there a Mr Knott?" I asked. "I don't want to tread on anyone's toes, here."

She chuckled dryly. "He traded me in on a younger model, I'm afraid. We kept the divorce quiet." She raised an eyebrow. "Is this a problem?"

"I ..." I cleared my throat. "No, no. It's not. I'll talk to you sometime. About coffee."

"That would be nice," she said, and smiled. She had a sweet smile. We exchanged contact information and she let herself out; I sat again, staring at the opposite wall.

Mrs Knott. I don't even know what to think about that.

=///=​

I greeted the cleaners as they came in. Chatted with them for a while. I get along well with cleaners; they do a rough job, cleaning up after people who have no concept of cleanliness. They were interested to find that Winslow now had a security guard.

I told them about the fruit juice and soda spill in the third floor girls' bathrooms, and the basic details about what had happened. They expressed satisfaction that the culprits had been caught.

"Thanks for letting us know about it," said the boss, a nuggety little woman who had to be ten years my senior, and lugging around a back-mounted vacuum cleaner that looked like it weighed half what she did. "We'll sort that out first off." She lifted her chin slightly. "Any graffiti?"

"None that I saw," I admitted. "I might have missed something, though."

"A Friday without graffiti," said one of the others, a blonde girl about half my age. "Wonders will never cease."

"Might have had something to do with the interfering bugger in a security uniform walking around poking his nose into everything," I suggested lightly. There were general chuckles.

"Anyway," I said, "I'll let you get on." They began to sort out their gear, and I strolled on.

=///=​

At five on the dot, I signed out, and signed the keys back into the book in Blackwell's desk. She had left half an hour earlier, so I let myself in, signed the book, and dropped the keys on to the hook she had taken them from. The door locked behind me as I pulled it to.

I walked down the long echoing corridors, past the rows of lockers, and out through the doors to the parking lot. The sun was still up; I slung my bag over my shoulder and strolled down to the bus stop.

I had more time to think on the bus ride back to my apartment. The bus was crowded with commuters in rumpled suits and ties, who chatted to each other, and tended to ignore me. This suited me; I sat in a pool of silence, and looked out the window at the skyline.

I had a huge responsibility to this world. I knew things. Things that no-one else knew. Game changers. Things that people needed to know.

The one big trouble, as I saw it, was that I was a nobody. A cipher. I had no credibility. An overweight security guard, receding hair going grey, a relatively neatly trimmed – at the moment – vanDyke beard, also going grey. A dime a dozen.

I had to get their attention and hold it long enough to give them the information that they needed to know ... and I had to do it in such a way that I would not end up in an interrogation cell. Or dead. Dead was a distinct possibility. Especially in five weeks' time, when Leviathan hit Brockton Bay.

The city I was in.

I felt a cold chill go down my back. I hoped it wasn't some kind of premonition.

=///=​

Back at the flat, I had more pressing problems to deal with. The first thing I did was change out of my uniform into something more comfortable. The second thing I did was check to see if the me that lived here had Christmas decorations stashed away anywhere.

Unfortunately, he was like me; nada.

It was getting on toward six. I had noticed a laptop that morning; I went to where it was sitting, and booted it up.

Once again, the tabs and folders were where I would have left them; I went online and looked for local late-opening variety stores. Then I found my car keys.

Just as I was about to head out the door, my mobile rang.

"Uh, hello?" I asked.

"Mr Allen." It was a familiar voice. "This is Danny Hebert."

"Hello, Mr Hebert," I said. "How can I help you?"

"Call me Danny, please," he said.

"Only if you call me Mike," I riposted.

"Sure thing, Mike," he replied, readily enough. "Listen, I got a phone call a while ago from Principal Blackwell. About Taylor transferring to Arcadia. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

Well, damn, I thought. She went for it.

"I might have had something to do with suggesting it," I confirmed. "It was really just a half-assed idea."

"Well, it's a half-assed idea that Taylor loves, and I'm thinking might just work out for us," Danny replied.

"Huh," I said. "Well, good. I'm glad."

"So yeah," said Danny. "We're having a little bit of a celebration tomorrow night. Cook up some steaks, invite people over. I'm having people from work come in. And I'd like to invite you, if you don't mind. Given your part in all this." He paused. "Unless you've got plans, of course. If you've got plans, it's fine. We'll understand."

I paused, for the longest time. What the hell was I supposed to answer to that?

"Mike?" asked Danny. "You there?"

"I'm here, Danny," I said, making a snap decision. "I'd be glad to come. Thanks."

"Excellent," he said. "Six o'clock."

"Six it is," I agreed. "Uh ... I don't know your address."

He laughed, and told me. I wrote it down. "See you then," I said.

"See you then," he agreed, and hung up. I closed my phone.

First Mrs Knott invites me for coffee, and now Danny Hebert is inviting me to a party at his house. A party I know for a fact they didn't have in canon.

Christ, I'm stirring up swarms of butterflies.

But I couldn't worry about that, right at that moment. I had an hour and a half of daylight left. And I had shopping to do.

=///=​

My vehicle of choice was apparently a two-wheel-drive pickup, not unlike the one I had been driving, in my former life, for over twenty years. There was a book of maps on the dashboard, just like the one I carried in my own car.

I thumbed through it, located the appropriate address. Worked out the route from where I lived to the variety store. Drove out the driveway, and promptly got lost.

I should have been there in ten minutes. It took me nearer to fifty. I was too used to knowing exactly where I was in the city at any time; the innate knowledge a taxi driver picks up stays with him long after he leaves the profession. I was used to that with my home town; this was not my home town.

At least my reflexes were working for the actual driving. I wasn't used to driving on the right, but apparently my body was, and so I didn't do anything embarrassing, like swing into oncoming traffic. I pulled into the parking lot, parked, and headed into the variety store.

=///=​

They had exactly what I wanted, and for a ridiculously low price. I watched them bag my purchase up, then pulled out my wallet. There wasn't quite enough in cash to cover it, so I pulled out what had to be an eftpos card. Swiped it.

Now was the moment of truth; was Michael Allen like enough to me to have the same PIN for his cards?

I hit the four digits, then pressed ENTER.

The machine paused for the longest time ... and then printed out a receipt. I tried not to sag too obviously in relief.

The store clerk watched me pick up my purchase, and frowned in puzzlement.

I grinned at him. "I like to start decorating early," I explained.

"You certainly do," he agreed. "What are you going to need all that for?"

"A really, really big tree," I said cheerfully.

As I left the store, he was shaking his head.

=///=​

Back in the car, I checked the map again, figured out what I'd done wrong, and got back to the apartment in under fifteen minutes. Then I went through my purchases.

Heavy duty adhesive cable guides, check. Two large power boards, check. Half a dozen sets of Christmas lights, check. Half a dozen extension cords, check.

The first thing I did was plug in everything, connect it up, and make sure it all worked. One of the Christmas tree light sets had a dodgy plug, with plastic flash still adhering; using my pocket knife, I trimmed it a little, and plugged it in again. It worked fine the second time. With the Christmas tree lights spread out over the living room floor, the place looked bizarrely festive.

Then I started attaching cable guides, and feeding the extension cords and Christmas lights through them. Crossing back and forth over each window. Tacked up to the back of the front door, crossing back and forth again. No space, I hoped, that even a slender Shadow Stalker could ease her way through.

As I did each window, I turned it on. By the time I was finished, the place was ablaze with festive lights from all directions. I pulled the curtains; that cut it down quite a bit. Shutting the bedroom door also helped a lot.

When I was finished, I had one set of Christmas lights to spare. I coiled it loosely and put it to one side. I also located an accessory I had found useful from time to time, and plugged it in to charge.

I decided to pause for dinner. There were microwave meals in the fridge. I put one on to heat, then I sat down at the laptop again. A short search later, I had the number I was looking for. I stored it on my phone. Then I did another search. This got me an email address.

The microwave dinged, and I got out the plate of chicken something. It was always chicken something, even if the meal didn't include chicken at all. I wondered if there was a gym nearby. Then I wondered if it would really matter.

While I ate, I worked out in my mind what I wanted to say. One message was going to be simple, direct, unambiguous. The other would involve talking to someone. And I really, really didn't want to push her away.

I finished the meal, tossed the plastic dish in the trash can. Rinsed the cutlery.

It wasn't hard to create a throwaway email address. Hotmail was good for that. I worked at the user name, until I had one with "security" in it, that didn't look too stupid.

Taking a deep breath, I composed the email.

To Director Piggot, URGENT

Notes for your interest:

Leviathan will attack Brockton Bay on May 15, 2011.

The Slaughterhouse Nine will arrive in the city shortly after.

Jack Slash has two powers. The first one you know. The second is to anticipate what a powered opponent is about to do. So his ideal opponent is an armoured, trained mundane soldier.

The Siberian is a projection created by William Manton. The projection cannot extend its immunity to Manton himself.

More to come.

Security.

Click to shrink...

I looked over the email. Thought about including a small preface, "this is why I am telling you this" or something similar. Decided against it.

Then I did add something else.

PS: Please tell Ms Richter that I have information about the thief.

Click to shrink...

Then I looked over my shoulder. No doorways were opening into an otherworldly room. What I was doing apparently wasn't enough to get Cauldron's attention quite yet. This was a good thing.

I hit SEND. It would go to the PRT information line. Hopefully their automated systems would pick out the hot-button words that I had included, and kick it to the head of the queue. Even more hopefully, Dragon would interpret the last line correctly.

I leaned back in my chair and picked up my phone. My heart was beating faster now. I was starting to wade in very dangerous waters indeed.

I fiddled with my phone until I was fairly certain that my number would not show up on Caller ID. Then I called up the number that I had saved. Pressed the green button.

The phone rang. A male voice answered. "Yamada household. Who is this?"

"I'm very sorry to disturb you," I said, "but could I please speak to Doctor Jessica Yamada? It is a matter of urgency. It's to do with her work."

"It's Friday evening," he replied, sounding mildly irritated. "How important is this?"

I took a deep breath. "Please tell her it's about a potential A-class threat."

She was on the line moments later.

=///=​

"Thank you, Doctor Yamada," I said, just a little after that. "I truly appreciate this. If we can pull this off, we'll be saving two people from a world of torment." I paused. "Sorry again for interrupting your Friday evening. Have a good night."

She sighed. "I suppose my work never leaves me alone at the best of times. I will be waiting for your call."

She hung up. I closed my phone. God, I hope this works, I told myself.

After that, there was nothing left to do but wait.

=///=​

The human brain is not good at waiting. It's very hard to go a long period of time without having something to fixate on, and that can very quickly lead to a loss of concentration. However, after ten years of being a security guard, especially with long nights of static guard work, I had gotten used to it.

Besides, I was fairly certain that she wouldn't arrive too much after midnight.


She arrived at five minutes past one.

I had the lights off and the TV on, with the sound muted. All entries to the apartment were blocked, except through the front door; I had those Christmas lights turned off.

It was fairly dark in the flat; I was sitting on the sofa, across the room from the TV. The muted glow of the Christmas lights came through the curtains, but not enough to illuminate the room in any way.

I saw the smoky form pass through the door, reform on the inside. In the glow of the TV, I could see the crossbow in her hand. She looked dark, dangerous, intent on murder.

The snk as I turned on the voice recorder was so minuscule as to be unheard at any normal time of day, but such was the stillness, the silence with which she was moving, that she heard it. Or perhaps she just sensed my presence on the sofa.

She turned toward me with a great cat's grace, the crossbow coming into line, pointing at my chest.

She could have pointed it at my face, with a much greater chance of hurting me, but there were two factors deciding against that. One was that she didn't know about my stab vest. The other was that I was wearing a white shirt under an open black jacket, and that my chest was basically a rectangle of fluorescent white against a black and grey background. So she aimed directly at that very tempting target.

"You," she snarled.

"Me," I agreed. "Can I help you?"

She seemed startled by this, then she laughed harshly. "Can you fucking help me. What the fuck is this? I'm going to fucking kill you, you fat fuck."

"Why?" I asked. "What did I ever do to you?"

"You fucked with me, asshole," she snarled, taking a step toward me, her aim dead steady. "It was none of your fucking business what I do to who, and you had to stick your nose in. You fucking got me in-school suspension. And they're gonna be looking hard at me, seeing if there's a way to boot me back to juvey without looking too bad."

"So your handler's not able to whitewash it this time, huh, Sophia?" I observed sympathetically.

"How the fuck did you know about that?" she demanded.

"I'm good at my job," I said mildly. "Anyway. Isn't murder a little bit over the top for what I did?"

Shadow Stalker drew a deep breath. "I don't lose," she gritted. "Not to disgusting old fat fucks like you. So you're gonna die in a tragic home invasion gone wrong, they're gonna find kiddie porn on your computer, then Emma's father is going to speak to the principal. You're shown up as a pedo freak, everything you've said and done is thrown out, the suspension is lifted, and life goes on. I fucking win."

"Really," I said.

"Yeah," she gritted. "Really. What are you gonna fuckin' do? I've got a crossbow pointed right at your fucking heart."

I didn't say a word; I just flicked the switch of the hand-held spotlight.

It was a very useful accessory. Looking rather like a normal flashlight, it held a rechargeable wet-cell battery and could throw a beam two hundred yards. Fully charged, it had an output of ten million candlepower. At a range of ten yards, the impact of the beam was painful, and made it impossible to see virtually anything.

At a range of ten feet, the effect was that much more devastating.

Shadow Stalker screamed and threw up her arm to block the light. I came up off the sofa, the spotlight in my left hand, my extendable baton – already extended – in my right. She saw or heard something, and triggered the crossbow. I felt the thump, right in the middle of the plate over my heart.

My right arm came up, then brought the baton down toward her head. She must have spotted it; she went ghostlike.

Exactly as planned.

With my left hand, I tossed the spotlight, still switched on, through her.

The wet-cell battery, still pouring power through that halogen bulb, encountered her shadowy form. She screamed and solidified, crumpling to the floor.

"That," I said, panting slightly.

=///=​

Before long, I had her firmly secured with the last set of Christmas tree lights. As a final touch, I cuffed her hands behind her back. Stepping back, I admired the picture she made. She was certainly the most festive prisoner I had ever seen. Red and green lights blinked on and off around her body.

I was sitting on the sofa, with the lights on and the TV off, when she finally stirred and began to look around. I'm not sure how long she was awake before that, but I wasn't about to throw a glass of cold water in her face to wake her up.

I had her utility belt off, and I was examining the contents. Most of it I left in place, but I found her two phones, one old and scuffed, and one relatively new.

"Hey, leave my shit alone!" she shouted.

"It's all good," I said. "I'm leaving most of it alone. Like your arrows. So very interesting." I held up the phones. "Bringing your personal phone to work? Wow. What if someone got hold of it?"

"It's locked," she said sullenly.

"True," I said. "And to be honest, I can't get into it. But I bet some people could. The right sort of Tinker, for instance."

"Look," she said. "Just let me go. I won't go near you again. We can call it quits."

I shook my head regretfully. "Sorry, kid. I'd always be looking over my shoulder."

Getting up, I pulled her hood down over her head. Then I used her cloak to wrap around it, muffling her eyes and ears.

"Hey!" she yelled, barely audible. "Fuck you! What is this?"

"This," I said out loud, "is so that I can make phone calls without interruptions."

Sitting back on the sofa, I pulled out my own mobile and dialled a number. Three digits.

"You have called nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?"

"I've been attacked by a cape," I said clearly. "I would like the PRT and the Protectorate."

"Putting you through to the PRT emergency line now. Do you need medical assistance?"

"I'm good, thanks," I replied.

There was a series of clicks, then a new voice came on to the line, a woman.

"You have reached the Parahuman Response Teams. Please state your name and the nature of your emergency."

"My name is Michael Allen. I have been attacked in my own home by the Ward known as Shadow Stalker. Please send someone over to pick her up."

There was a long pause.

"Sir, are you sure that you have the genuine Shadow Stalker in your home? It's possible that you have an imposter there."

"Sure, it's possible," I said. "Ring her phone. I have it beside me. And no matter who it is, I still want someone to come and take her off my hands. She's cluttering up my floor."

"Sir, are you in any danger at the current moment? Say 'all good' if you are, and 'please help' if you are not."

I grinned. This woman was on the ball. "Please help. I repeat, please help."

"Understood, Mr Allen. Please hold."

The hold music wasn't too bad, actually.


The next thing that happened was that Shadow Stalker's phone rang. I picked it up and put it to my other ear. Despite the seriousness of the situation, I could not resist. "You have reached Shadow Stalker's phone. She can't come to the phone right now. Can I take a message?"

The voice on the other end of the line was hard, firm, decisive. "Who is this, and why do you have Shadow Stalker's phone?"

I sighed. "My name is Michael Allen. I'm a security guard. Shadow Stalker broke into my home and tried to kill me. I have her tied up on my living room floor. Who do I have to call to come and take her away?"

"Do not hang up," he said. "I am en route. Does either of you require medical assistance?"

"Not that I know of, though she's taken a fairly nasty electric shock," I said. "She seems to have survived the experience reasonably well." I paused. "Uh … who is this?"

"This is Armsmaster," he replied.

=///=​

Moments later, there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and there he stood. Over six feet tall in his armour, blue and silver, imposing, impressive.

Armsmaster.

Even though I knew how much of a dick he was going to be to Taylor, I could not help but feel intimidated, impressed, humbled.

"Hi," I said, holding out my hand. "Mike Allen."

He shook it, staring at me. "You do know you have an arrow sticking out of your chest."

I nodded. "She shot me with it. I thought it better to leave it in place. Evidence."

He didn't look particularly reassured, until I tapped my chest with my finger. "Stab vest. She hit the trauma plate. It didn't go all the way through."

"Ah." He stepped past me, toward the bound figure on my floor.

"Just by the way," I said. "I'm aware of her secret identity. I work at Winslow, and Principal Blackwell had me sign an NDA."

He looked back at me, nodded, then back down at Shadow Stalker. Crouching, he unwound the cape from around her head.

"About time, you cocksucking motherfucking –" she began, before she realised who it was she was talking to.

"And that's why I wrapped her head up," I commented dryly.

"I see," observed Armsmaster. He looked down at Shadow Stalker. "Would you mind explaining yourself?"

"Don't believe a fucking word he says!" she burst out. "He called me here, said he had a lead for me, and he tied me up and molested me!"

I cleared my throat. Armsmaster looked around at me. I handed him the voice recorder. He pressed the button to start it running.

"I don't lose," grated Shadow Stalker's voice from the speaker. "Not to disgusting old fat fucks like you. So you're gonna die in a tragic home invasion gone wrong, they're gonna find kiddie porn on your computer, then Emma's father is going to speak to the principal. You're shown up as a pedo freak, everything you've said and done is thrown out, the suspension is lifted, and life goes on. I fucking win."

He pressed the button to stop the recording, then looked down at Shadow Stalker.

"Second time she's tried the molesting angle today," I commented mildly. "Tried it earlier, when I caught her and two other girls bullying another girl, at school."

I had to pause, as Sophia went into a diatribe of monumental proportions, screaming invective of every nature at me, at voice recorders, at the profession of security guarding, and at the world in general. I was quite impressed by her command of profanity; I had to wonder where she'd gotten some of it from.

=///=​

In the end, he took my statement, and made copies of my voice recordings, while we sat and waited for a PRT van to arrive. I was careful about my wording, only stating that I had clashed with Sophia over the bullying incident at the school, and that Principal Blackwell had informed me of Sophia's status as a Ward.

"And so you set a trap for her," he observed.

"It seemed like a sensible thing to do," I commented. "She didn't strike me as the sort of person to give up easily. And I'd rather not have to watch my back all the time."

"It was dangerous," he said. "She could have shot you."

"She did shoot me," I pointed out. "I actually planned for that. My chest made a bigger and brighter target than my face."

He had taken pictures of the arrow from all directions, then pulled it from the stab vest. It took some pulling, as the force of the crossbow had wedged it hard into the trauma plate.

I paused. "So what happens now?"

"She will go before a disciplinary hearing," he said. "These new facts will be presented. I can't see it going well for her."

"Will I be needing to come in?" I asked.

"The Director might want to ask you some questions," he admitted. "But apart from that, no."

I nodded. "I'm good after five on weekdays, and before six tomorrow," I said.

"Noted," he replied, and got up from the chair he'd been sitting in.

Moments later, the living room seemed full of PRT soldiers; they accepted my handcuff keys, removing the cuffs before putting on a specialised set that no doubt incorporated electrical restraints. I pulled the plug on the Christmas lights, and told them to cut the cord off of her.

Shortly thereafter, she was marched out the door. I handed Armsmaster her utility belt and phones, he nodded and took possession of them.

"Uh .. one thing," I said. "You might want to have her private phone checked for incriminating texts to do with the bullying of one Taylor Hebert. Just a thought."

He nodded. "Thank you for the suggestion, Mr Allen. If we need anything else from you, we will be in touch."

I nodded. "I'm just glad I could be of help."

"One more thing," he said. "Mr Allen, do you have parahuman powers of any sort?"

I shook my head. "Nope. Just a standard baseline human. Why?"

"No reason," he said. "Thank you for your assistance."

He turned and strode off down the corridor. I closed the door, and locked it. And then, just for the hell of it, turned on the Christmas lights that decorated it.

That was when the shakes started.

For the next ten minutes, I strode from one end of the living room to the other, holding myself, shaking uncontrollably.

Holy shit, I told myself. Holy shit. Shadow Stalker and Armsmaster. In my flat. Right here. Holy shit.

If I was a drinking man, that would have been when I would have gotten thoroughly wasted. But I wasn't, and so I didn't. Instead, I took a hot shower. It helped me work through things.

=///=​

When I came out, feeling much calmer, I decided that I'd go to bed. I'd been up far too long as it was. But when I went to shut my computer down, an email notification popped up.

Curious, I clicked on it.

The email had no name on the Sender line. It was blank.

In the message space, there was a single line of text.

Hello, Mr Allen. We need to talk.

Something caught my eye; looking up, I noticed that the camera light was on.

I cleared my throat. It was suddenly very dry.

"Hello, Dragon," I said.


End of Chapter Three

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Four: Third Interaction


"Hello, Dragon," I said.

"Hello, Mr Allen," came the human-sounding voice over the laptop's speaker. "Or should I call you Mike?"

Oh yeah, I realised. She's got my number. But I didn't intend to speak to her here and now, not with Saint listening in.. It's late; Saint might not be monitoring her activity. But then again, he might.

I've got to do this right. Ugh.

On the downside, it was closer to two than to one. I had been up for far too long.

On the upside, the shower had revived me somewhat. I hastily improvised a plan.

"Sure, Mike will do," I said, and took a deep breath. "Look, it's nice to talk to you –" I blinked heavily, " – and all, but I have –" another deliberate blink, " – this thing I gotta take care of. There's a –" blink, " – problem with my sink. Some sort of leak." Blink.

I stretched and yawned. She didn't respond. The camera light stayed on. No, it didn't. It flickered, just once. A wink?

"Ugh," she replied. "I really hate when that happens."

"Yeah," I mumbled. "tell me about it." I rubbed my ear with my left hand, scratching my eye with my pinky at the same time. "Seeing as I'm not thinking," I said, then dropped my hand away, "too clearly at the moment, I might just go to bed. But could you do me a favour?"

I waited; after a moment, she responded. "Yes." A deliberate pause. "What's the favour?"

I yawned again. "I wanna drop by and see Col and his Lady boss tomorrow, talk about some stuff that's bothering me. Figure you can drop them the word, ask them not to keep me talking too long? I got places to be."

"Certainly," she said. "I'll pass that on."

"Thanks, D," I said. "Ciao for now."

"Good night, Mike," she said. The camera light winked off; for good, this time.

I shut the laptop down, hoping like hell that Dragon had gotten my hastily-improvised code and that Saint had not.

Flicking off the lights, I went to bed.

=//=//=​

Saint reached for the coffee cup and frowned when he discovered that it was empty. Whoever that moron that Dragon had been talking to was, he'd yawned twice, and now Geoff was also yawning.

He got up to go get fresh coffee. He yawned again.

Dammit.

=//=//=​

Dragon mulled over the message.

Exhaustive analysis of this mysterious Mr Allen's facial gestures and words had come up with the most likely meaning.

You have a leak. Saint has eyes and ears on you. I'm going to see Director Piggot and Armsmaster tomorrow and talk to them about my email; please ask them not to detain me.

Mr Allen seemed to know things that no-one could know. No Thinker in the world could predict an Endbringer attack, and yet he had cited date and location. He had also provided what was, if true, invaluable information on two of the most feared members of the Slaughterhouse Nine.

He could be a charlatan, a delusional, a professional liar ... or he could be genuine.

Whichever it was, his warning had been loud and clear. Far better to heed it, and be circumspect, than ignore it and chance that it might be true.

Carefully, she began to compose two emails.

=//=//=​

Taylor woke up.

She threw off the covers and bounced out of bed. It was a wonderful day. The sun was shining, the birds were singing. Dad had the radio on in the bathroom as he showered.

She suspected that it would still be a wonderful day if it was pouring rain, with hailstones the size of grapefruit. The events of the previous day played through her mind once more; emerging from the toilet cubicle to see the security guard facing down the other three, asking her what had happened. Paying attention to her. Taking the matter to the principal. Lending her his phone to call Dad.

She was grinning all over her face as she changed into her running gear, and trotted down the stairs. She had no idea how he had pulled it off, but just a few minutes' talking with the woman who had been supporting Sophia, and the deadlock with Mr Barnes had broken. In-school suspensions for all of them. And the option to transfer to Arcadia for herself. In her wildest daydreams, she had never imagined this might happen.

Shutting the back door behind her, she let herself out the chain-link gate at the side of the house, and started on her run. She felt full of boundless energy. An adult, not her Dad, had stood up for her, had pushed hard for her, had helped her.

Taylor decided that she respected Mr Allen all the more for his admission that he had been bullied, just like her. He knew what she was going through, and he had made the effort to put a stop to it.

In a warm glow of happiness, she ran on.

=//=//=​

Director Emily Piggot sipped at her coffee as her desktop booted up. It churned through the usual security checks and scans – what she privately called its 'electronic Master/Stranger protocols' – before presenting the day's business.

At the front of the queue were two emails; one was marked Priority by Dragon herself, while the other one was actually from Dragon.

She opened the priority mail first. The "urgent" tag line made her snort; everything that crossed her desk was urgent to someone.

And then she read the body of the mail. Halfway through, she registered what she was reading, and started again from the top. She read it twice all the way to the bottom, noting the single-word signature.

"Security?" she said out loud.

Setting aside the emails for a moment, she opened another window. Her nails rattled on the keys. Ten seconds later, she had her answer. There was no cape registered under that name.

Frowning, sipping her coffee once more, she read through the mail once more. She would be inclined to dismiss it as a potential hoax, except that the writing was simple, precise, informative, and ... "If this is real ..." she muttered.

Also, Dragon had marked it Priority. Which meant that there was possibly something to it. Or at least, Dragon thought so.

The postscript was a little puzzling, of course. She had no idea who Ms Richter was, or who this thief was supposed to be; perhaps this was some sort of code phrase that Dragon had picked up on. She would have to ask, when she got the chance.

She paged to the second mail. Her eyebrows hitched up as she read it.

It was a request, simple on the surface, that a specific visitor to the PRT building be allowed to leave once his business was concluded.

The question was, why would she not allow someone to leave?

The answer was a mouse-click away; she went back to the first email.

Dragon had not said as much, but the inference was plain; the visitor was going to be this mysterious "Security". And Dragon wanted him to be allowed to go free. Also, that Armsmaster be present for the meeting.

She sat for a moment in thought. Then she picked up the phone, and dialled.

"Colin?" she said. "Emily. I'm going to need you here today, I'm afraid. We have an unusual situation."

She paused. "Oh. She already contacted you. Well, I'll see you soon."

Putting the phone down, she read through the first email again, even though she could have quoted it word for word by now. "If this is real ..." she muttered again.

=//=//=​

My alarm clock woke me at five thirty. I turned it off, rolled over and went back to sleep.

It was closer to nine when I stirred again. I opened my eyes, looked at the unfamiliar alarm clock, then at the poster on the wall.

Oh, right. Not a dream.

It would have been kind of cool if I had woken up back in the real world during my 'dream' time, but that would have been too weird. Also, mentally exhausting.

The floor was freezing, so I shuffled my feet into the slippers for the trip to the toilet and then the shower. I was having to get used to the pervading chill; April in Brockton Bay, for all that it was approaching summer, was in no way as warm as what I was used to.

The shower served to wake me up somewhat. Dressed and eating breakfast, I thought over what I needed to do for the day. Hopefully, Dragon would have passed on my message to the Director. And I really did need to speak to those in authority.

I just hoped that I could pull off what I needed to pull off. I was preparing to juggle flaming chainsaws while riding a unicycle on a tightrope over the Grand Canyon in a high wind. One wrong word, one misstep, and I was doomed. The world was doomed. What I knew, applied wrongly, could cause a metric shit-ton of damage. I needed them on side.

I finished breakfast, went back into the bathroom. Found the electric clippers by asking myself 'where would I put them in this bathroom?'. Took my shirt off and gave myself a buzz-cut, level one, all over the scalp. Touched up my beard and moustache. Ran water over my head and splashed it on to my face, to get rid of loose hairs.

Then I put my shirt back on, and looked into the mirror. Looked myself in the eye.

I was delaying, and I knew it.

"Fuck it," I said out loud. "Let's get this show on the road."

On the way out, I checked my laptop, just on impulse.

A single email. No sender address. The message consisted of two words.

Good luck.

I smiled involuntarily. If it wasn't for Saint, I would probably have chosen to go exclusively through Dragon. But ... I had to do this. I had to take the gamble. Throw the dice, see how they landed.

Alea jacta est.

=//=//=​

I didn't want to have to go through Saturday morning parking in the city centre, so I took the bus in.

It was still odd, travelling on a bus through a city I knew to be fictional, and yet it was real, all at the same time. I stared out the window, drank in the sights. Tried to figure out what I was seeing. Was that a building that had been described? Was this something that Leviathan would destroy in his rampage?

I had the bus lines about sorted by now, and so I was counting the stops. Two stops before mine, I was relaxing in the seat when I heard a maternal voice say, "Come on, Dinah."

I looked around involuntarily. A man I didn't know. A woman I didn't know. A child I didn't know, maybe twelve years old. She had paused at my row. Looking straight at me with a serious expression, an adult expression. Gave me a very slight nod. Moved on with her parents. Got off the bus.

I sat, stunned, as the bus pulled out into traffic again.

Was that Dinah Alcott?

Did she know me?

Or was it some random kid looking at some random stranger on the bus, and doing a random kid thing?

On balance, I hoped it was Dinah Alcott, and that she'd nodded because I was doing the right thing.

Because, to quote Clockblocker, the alternative sucked.

=//=//=​

The bus stop was directly in front of the PRT building. Of course it was. Tourist buses stopped here all the time. In fact, there was a fair number of tourists milling around right now. Some were entering the building, some were leaving.

I strode up to the doors; they opened to allow me entry.

It was cold out, so I wore a jacket and gloves. My freshly trimmed scalp felt the chill, but not as badly as it would had it been winter. I had visited America twice, each time during the winter, back in the real world. On one occasion, I had decided to get my hair cut down to about number two. When I had walked outside into below-freezing wind, it had felt like knives cutting into the top of my head. So I had my hood up as I walked into the lobby.

I felt rather than saw the four guards tense up slightly. I was large, heavy set, with sunglasses, a hooded jacket, and gloves. I stopped, pushed the hood back, unzipped the jacket, and tucked the shades into the top of my shirt. I wasn't sure if they had ranged retinal-scanners in the here and now, but I wasn't putting anything past Tinker tech. However, against such tech, sunglasses weren't likely to do much either.

Strolling up to the reception desk, I leaned on it with my elbows, and smiled at the receptionist. "Hi," I said. "I'm here to see the Director? Tell her I emailed her about it last night."

She frowned; it probably was not in her usual experience to have someone walk in off the street and request an audience with the Director. I noticed that her left hand was resting casually on the edge of the desk, right next to an inconspicuously placed smiley-face sticker. Unless I missed my guess, her hand was within inches of a duress button. If I was a crazy, the guards would get the message loud and clear, and then I would be experiencing the joys of containment foam at first hand.

I strongly suspected that it would stick to me a lot harder than it stuck to Hope.

She didn't press the button; instead, she tapped out something on her console, and murmured into her headset. It was a wide desk, and she kept her voice low; I thought I caught the words "- see the Director –" but I could have been wrong.

A casual glance around told me that all four PRT guards were watching me, or at least their heads were more or less facing me. She'd tipped them a low-level alert, and done so without me noticing. Maybe a foot button. I was impressed.

Her eyebrows went up fractionally as she got her answer. I gave her my full attention and my best I'm-harmless smile. It must have broken the ice slightly, because she gave me a half-smile back.

"If you will take lift two, sir, someone will meet you," she said.

"Uh ... which floor do I go to?" I asked. I knew, of course, that the Director's office was on the top floor, but there was no sense in letting anyone know that I actually knew that.

She smiled, a little more widely; she knew something that I didn't. "The lift will stop at the correct floor, sir," she told me.

"Ah, I see," I replied. I walked to the lift; as I approached, it opened, a complex interleaving of metal plates. Impressed, I blinked. As I stepped inside, one of the guards stepped in with me, making the motion seem utterly natural. He was one of the ones carrying containment foam.

The doors closed again. I was fascinated; I knew exactly why they did it that way – Tinker tech to impress the tourists – but it was still very, very cool. The elevator started upward.

"Hi," I said.

The guard said nothing.

I shrugged slightly. What did I expect? He was there to make sure I didn't cause trouble in the lift. Conversation was not in his list of duties.

I had to admit, though, having a conversation would have made me a little less apprehensive at the step I was about to take.

In any case, it would have been a short conversation; the lift reached its destination really, really quickly. I recalled the note about how it was supposed to negate inertia as well.

The doors interleaved open, and I stepped out. Three more PRT guards faced me, and the one who had escorted me in the lift stepped out behind me.

I very carefully kept my hands away from my body.

"Seriously, guys, I'm harmless," I said. "I just need to speak to Director Piggot."

"You're not from around here, are you, sir?" asked the guard in front of me. His voice echoed slightly inside his blank faceplate; it was actually how I had imagined Grue's voice would sound. It was also creepy as hell.

It wasn't the creepiness that sent a chill down my back. It was the question. What do they know? How do they know? "Uh, not really," I managed.

"Thought so," the guard replied, with a note of satisfaction in his voice. "The Director's name is pronounced 'Pig-oh.'."

I blinked. Ah. Something that never came up in the story. Then again, why would it? They all know how it's pronounced. "Yeah, I've only ever seen it written down."

"Which makes us wonder what business you have with her," the guard, added, someone what more sharply.

Am I finished before I've started? "I emailed her last night. Stuff she needs to know about. I'm here to talk to her about it. She knows I'm coming."

There was a long silence, broken by a faint mumbling sound. I realised that he was speaking on the radio. He seemed to return his attention to me. "Are you armed?"

"I have keys and a pocketknife in my right-hand pants pocket," I said clearly. "Wallet in my left pants pocket. A phone in my jacket pocket. I have nothing else that can be used as a weapon. I can take off my jacket if you wish."

The guard in front of me nodded; I reached up, pushed the jacket back off my shoulders, and shrugged out of it. The guard behind me caught it, held it up, checked it over. Pulled out the phone, looked it over, put it back.

"Clean," he reported. No – she. It was a woman behind that faceplate, although the armour would never have given it away. And it was official; the faceplates made any voice sound creepy.

"Take all items out of your pockets," said the first guard. I obeyed, retrieving my wallet and my keys and pocket knife. Under their instruction, I held these items out to the sides while they scanned me down with something that looked a little more intricate than the usual run of the mill metal detector wands I had used in my line of work.

"You can put it back now," said the first guard, once they had finished. I had been neither cuffed nor foamed, so I presumed I had passed the inspection. I replaced the items back in my pockets, and looked at them enquiringly. The female guard behind me handed me my jacket, and I slung it over my arm.

Then I looked back to see Armsmaster standing there. For a big man in a suit of light power armour, he could move really quietly; I hadn't heard him approaching.

"I'll take it from here," he told them. Then he looked more closely at me. "I know you," he said.

I nodded. "Yes," I admitted. "We met last night."

"Hmm," he said, and his lips compressed very slightly. I got the impression that he didn't like surprises; I was sure he was eyeing me suspiciously. "Is this about that?"

"Only tangentially," I replied honestly. I tried not to smile; virtually every Worm fanfic used Armsmaster's helmet-mounted lie detector as a plot device, and so it was basically impossible to forget. I was not going to lie to this man.

He dismissed the guards and escorted me down a corridor, past a somewhat startled-looking receptionist, and through a set of double doors. I was a pace to the side and behind him, which gave me the chance to admire the halberd that was clamped somehow on to the back of his armour. Retracted to six feet long, then folded over to fit on to his back, it was still an insanely awesome piece of technology. I wanted to hold it, just once. It was never going to happen, but I wanted to anyway.

Once a geek fanboy, always a geek fanboy.

I passed through the double doors, and into the office of Emily Piggot, Director of PRT East-North-East.

=//=//=​

She rose as I entered. It was a bit of a shock to me; every description of her had described her as 'huge', 'bulky', 'obese', 'fatty'.

I was bigger than she was.

Okay, so I was fairly large myself; Sophia's epithets directed at my weight had not been inaccurate. And she was a bit shorter than me, so the weight was more noticeable. But she wasn't the whale that some fics had made her out to be.

"Good morning," she greeted me. "You are the 'Security' who sent the email last night?"

I nodded, and swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "I am," I managed.

"His name is Michael Allen," supplied Armsmaster from behind me. "He was involved in the Shadow Stalker incident."

She sank into her chair again. "I recall it," she said. "You are a security guard at her school?"

"That's true," I agreed. "She objected to me catching her out badly in a bullying incident, and having her subjected to in-school suspension."

Director Piggot frowned. "So she invaded your home and shot you at point-blank range with a crossbow bolt. I wish I could say that seems out of character for her." She gestured at a chair. "Have a seat, Mr Allen."

"Thank you, Director," I said, taking a seat. Armsmaster did not sit; as far as I could tell, he was standing directly behind me. It was intimidating in the extreme; I was reasonably sure that this was deliberate.

"The report that Armsmaster submitted indicated that you were wearing a stab vest," she went on. "Do you usually wear a stab vest in your own home?"

I smiled slightly. "Only when I'm expecting to need one. My job occasionally has me dealing with people likely to want revenge for imagined slights. Sophia Hess struck me as one of those. And when Principal Blackwell revealed to me that she was in fact Shadow Stalker ..." I spread my hands.

Piggot nodded. "You set about protecting yourself. Laudable. But why didn't you just ask for protection?"

"Well, I couldn't, not from the police," I pointed out.

After a moment, she nodded, following my logic.

"And if I asked protection from the PRT or Protectorate, she would know. And simply hold off." I leaned forward slightly. "Director Piggot, I've dealt with bullies before. They don't give up, and they don't go away. They just wait till you don't have protection. So I let her think I didn't have protection."

"Hm," she observed, tightening her lips slightly. "I see. Well, enough about that. I'm sure you didn't come here to discuss Shadow Stalker."

"No. I came here to discuss what I was going to tell you, and when." My heart was beating faster now.

"About what?" she asked me.

I took a deep breath. "Everything."

"Mr Allen," she said tartly, "you had better start making sense. The email you sent me makes some very strong claims, and I would like some way to verify them before I act on them."

I nodded. "Sure, but first, I need to be sure that nothing is going out of this room. No-one is listening in, no electronic eavesdropping. I'm serious about this. Not even Dragon. Especially not Dragon."

"Why not?" It was Armsmaster's voice, right behind me, low and deadly.

I ignored the chill that ran right down the back of my neck.

"Because it's best for her – best for everyone – that she not hear this." I twisted around to look at him. "Tell me I'm lying."

He stared at me, impassive behind his visor, for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "You're not lying." He nodded to Piggot. "Do it."

The Director lifted her phone, spoke a few words into it, in a tone too quiet for me to catch. Then she opened a clear plastic cover and pressed a red button on her desk.

The door locked with an audible click. Shudders dropped over the windows. A mild discordant hum filled the air.

"There," she said. "We're as sealed off as we're going to get."

"Good," I said. "What would you like first; proof that I know what I'm talking about, or more information?"

They both spoke at the same time; Piggot said, "Proof," while Armsmaster said, "Information."

I waited, silent. They stared at each other. Wordless communication passed between them. He nodded slightly. "Proof, then."

"Okay," I said. "Armsmaster. Colin Wallis. Your father held two jobs, your mother travelled. They split up while you were still fairly young. You were born around nineteen eighty or so; you triggered when you were about fifteen, sixteen. How am I doing?"

"You could have found all that out with research," he responded.

"Sure," I said. And in a way, I had. By reading and re-reading the story. "You've been careful not to form attachments, not to get into relationships, because it would hamper your ability to be a hero. You're proud of this. And yet, you're starting to have feelings for Dragon. You may not be admitting this, even to yourself, but it's true. And that's good, because she has feelings for you. You two will be very good for one another. You need each other."

Piggot was staring at Armsmaster.

"Cold reading," he snapped. "Thinkers do it all the time."

"But I'm not a Thinker," I replied. "I'm not a cape at all. Tell me I'm lying."

"That's the second time you've said that," he said. "Why –"

"Because you have a lie detector built into your helmet," I interrupted. "And every statement I've made since I walked into this room has been truthful, hasn't it?"

He nodded, reluctantly. "It has," he confirmed.

"Right," I said. "Now for the fun ones. You're also working on a combat prediction whatsit, algorithm, for your suit computer. Lets you know how an opponent will fight, predict their moves. Also, a nanobranch system for a second halberd. It'll cut through anything, but heat and fire kills it."

Silence, apart from the discordant hum.

"How ... do you know that?" he managed at last.

"Because I know stuff," I told him patiently. "Director Piggot, I know less about you, but I know a bit."

"Have a care, Mr Allen," she warned.

I raised an eyebrow. "I know your leg muscles have been screwed, and your kidneys nonexistent, ever since Nilbog's critters gnawed on you, back in two thousand and one. I also know that you dislike and distrust capes, ever since the ones you had at the time cut and run when the going got tough. And I know that you and a man called Thomas Calvert were the only two survivors of that particular charlie-foxtrot. Your callsign on that mission was 'Lady'." I paused. "And you've tested negative for the potential to trigger for powers."

She stared at me, her steel-grey eyes glinting dangerously.

"I also know," I said, "that despite everything that's happened to you, you do the very best job you can as Director. And I have a potential solution for your health problems; it'll just take a week or two to organise. Save you from eight hours of hemodialysis every night."

Leaning back in the chair, I folded my hands over my stomach, trying to appear at ease. "So, do I pass?"

Once more, that wordless communication passed between the Director and the local head of the Protectorate. After a few moments, Piggot nodded. "You pass. For now."

I smiled without humour. "I guess it's the best I'll get for the moment." I turned to Armsmaster. "Okay, just so you know? That nanobranch setup and the combat prediction program? You're thinking of trying it out on an Endbringer. Leviathan's favourite for that, for obvious reasons. I've already told you that he's due to hit here on May the fifteenth. But I'll tell you here and now ... no. It won't work. It'll look like it's working, it'll feel like it's working ... but Leviathan cheats. Physics only works on him if and when he chooses to let it. And he'll sucker you all the way in, and then he'll rip your arm off and leave you to bleed to death."

I paused for a moment, to let him absorb that.

At long last, he nodded. "So noted," he growled. "Continue."

"Okay, something closer to the heart," I said. "Saint."

I saw him stiffen very slightly in reaction. "What about him?"

"His real name is Geoff Pellick," I said, and spelled it. "Two close associates that I know of; Margaret, last name not known. He's in a personal relationship with her, calls her Mags. They may be married; I do not know. She's got dark skin, full lips. Was in law enforcement in Canada as of two thousand five, two thousand six."

I paused. "The other associate is Mikhail Dobrynja, a Russian national." I paused to spell that name, too. "Pellick calls him Mischa. Pellick held a dive licence and maybe a salvage licence as of ought five, ought six; he dived on the remains of Newfoundland. Dobrynja piloted the dive boat, so he's probably licensed for that too."

"Anything else?" Armsmaster sounded positively eager, gleeful, at the information I was giving him.

"Just three things. Saint has a facial tattoo; it's in the shape of a cross, over his eyes, with circuitry, and little dots of light moving along the circuit lines. Another thing is a maybe. I do not know if it's true or not. He may or may not live, or own property, on Yonge Street in Toronto."

"And the third thing?" he asked.

I took a deep breath. "The reason I asked you to cut Dragon out of the loop. He's hacked into her systems, hard. Any move she makes, anything she sees or hears, he knows about. He's got hacks in place that let him do stuff that she just can't see. And he's got a kill-switch he can pull at any time. Shut her down for good. Possibly kill her. Personally."

There was more silence. "Fuck," he grated. He knew as well as I did, what I meant by that. Dragon could have no part in an effort to hunt down Saint. She must not even be allowed to know that it was happening.

Piggot was more pragmatic. "All of her systems?" she asked. "Such as the Birdcage?"

I nodded. "He can tap into any of her monitors. Including in the Birdcage. He desperately wants to get Teacher out of there, so he can get some more brain-boosting. Teacher wants to get out of there, so he can carry out his own plans. But Saint can't let anyone out of the Birdcage, because it requires more than just Dragon deciding to let someone out. And simply shutting down the system would cut off their air and life support."

She nodded, giving me an appraising look. "Well, it's bad," she said. "But not irreparable."

"Oh, it's all fixable," I agreed. "And I want to help you fix it. Which is why I'm here. There are things happening behind the scenes. I know about them. And some of it I need to tell you about now, and some I need to tell you about later."

"Why not all right now?" asked Armsmaster.

"Because the wrong information being acted on at the wrong time by the wrong people, even with the best of intentions, could upset the whole house of cards," I said flatly. "It would be worse than if I held back the information altogether."

"So how did you come about all this information?" asked the Director curiously. "And do you have more that you're willing to share?"

I had to chuckle. "Yes, I've got more to share. And yes, I could tell you where I got it from. But seriously, you would not believe me."

Piggot looked at Armsmaster. He nodded. "He believes that implicitly."

"You could try us," she said, a hint of steel in her voice. "I've been led to believe some rather unbelievable facts, in my time."

I shook my head. "Sorry. It sounds silly, even in my head. And I'd rather keep my credibility. But as for sharing information; I do have two more things. Something that's happening in this very building, and a crime that's going to happen in five days' time. A crime that I would really, really rather you stopped."

"What's happening in this building?" asked the Director, at almost exactly the same time as Armsmaster said, "A crime?"

Once more, the silent communication. Or perhaps, I realised, it was a simple battle of wills. In any case, the Director won once more. Armsmaster nodded slightly. Piggot gestured for me to go on.

I took a deep breath. "You have as many as three spies in this building, or you will by the time Leviathan strikes. International mercenaries, planted here by Coil. You might want to ask Dragon to check with facial recognition; she would have picked this up anyway, but this way just speeds up the process."

Director Piggot looked grim. "I don't like that. I don't like that, at all."

"Can you give us anything more on Coil?" asked Armsmaster.

"When the time comes," I said. "For now, I'm just giving you a heads-up on what he's doing, specifically to do with you. I'll tell you more about him, enough to take him down for good, when the time is right."

"Why not right now?" asked Piggot directly.

"Because it's the wrong time, and it would do more harm than good," I told her flatly.

She glanced at Armsmaster; he nodded fractionally.

"We could hold you," she suggested. "Until you decide the time is right."

I shook my head. "I've got a balancing act going on here. I've got things to do, to make sure other things happen. If you detain me, I drop everything." A deep breath. "And besides, Dragon did ask you to let me go free, after."

"By your own admission, Dragon is compromised," Armsmaster stated.

"No," I told him. "She's not. She's just being watched, and is in serious danger from Pellick. He's not in communication with her, and he couldn't coerce her if he tried. He can't make her break the law. Her moral code is too strong. And just because he sees and hears everything that goes through her systems, doesn't mean he understands it."

There was a silence, filled by the discordant hum.

"You mentioned a crime," Armsmaster said at last.

I nodded. "This is also due to Coil. It's set to happen around about midday on Thursday the fourteenth of April. Stop it, and you put a fatal crimp in his plans ..."

=//=//=​

Director Piggot and Armsmaster faced one another in the office. The door was locked, the windows shuttered, the discordant hum once more active.

"We could have held him." Armsmaster.

"We could have," agreed the Director. "But my read of the situation is that he's working for someone else, whether he knows it or not. They're feeding him information, and he's choosing to pass it on to us." A searching glance. "Are you sure he wasn't lying to you?"

Armsmaster shrugged. "The scanner indicated that he does not possess an active corona pollentia. Either he's taught himself to lie with his whole body, or he was being absolutely honest with us all the way. Holding things back, not telling us the entire truth on occasion, but he never lied."

Piggot shook her head. "I don't like it. I have no idea who's behind him, or what their ultimate aims are. I don't trust random benevolence, in any form." She paused. "But, on the other hand, someone with that sort of information at their fingertips, we don't want to get on their bad side, either. They could do a lot of damage to us. So we don't act against him. Not yet, anyway."

"Course of action?"

"Observe. Discreetly. But not even Dragon finds out about what he's told us."

"Not until we've taken down Saint." He glanced at her. "I'm presuming we're doing that?"

She nodded. "You're doing that. Start following up on that information he gave us. See what you can dig up."

His lips tightened. "I'm used to working with Dragon on something like this."

She gave him an answering smile, one without any humour to it. "Welcome to working outside your comfort zone."

=//=//=​

I stepped out of the lift into the lobby of the PRT building, wearing my jacket. Director Piggot and Armsmaster had been cordial on my leaving, and had not hindered me in any way, but I had zero doubt that they would be watching me as closely as they could. The scan they had asked me to sit still for hadn't even tickled; I had an idea what that was for, and was fairly certain it would turn out negative.

Technically speaking, they could not legally hold me; I had committed no crime, and indeed had gone to them with the information. But legal technicalities bore little relation to the truth of the matter; Tagg, for instance, would have been a sight less cooperative. I suspected that I had only gotten out of there for two reasons; one, because Dragon had asked it of them, and two, on the strength of my promise that I would give them more information when and if it became necessary to do so.

And I would. I knew I would. I just had to make sure I gave them the right information at the right time.

I hoped I would be able to figure out when that time was.

I was still riding the unicycle on the tightrope over the Grand Canyon, but I wasn't juggling the chainsaws any more, and the wind had died down. Things were a little easier; I had a touch of breathing space.

Which meant that I could do the next thing on my agenda.

I pulled out my phone, and paged through till I found the right number. Pressed the green button.

"Hi," I said. "It's me. Look, I know you said coffee, but I have an invitation to a little bit of a social gathering. Are you interested?"

As I spoke, I eyed the gift shop. Once I was done with the call, I decided, I would pick myself up a little something.

Superhero memorabilia? Hell yes.


End of Part Four

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Five: Fourth Interaction


I attracted some odd looks on the bus, but I didn't care. The brightly coloured bags, covered with the symbols and logos of the most prominent capes in the city, looked rather like show bags from what I was increasingly thinking of as "back home".

I had quite unashamedly bought one of every action figure I could get my hands on. Even the one for Shadow Stalker, which I had found, rather appropriately, lurking at the back of the shelf. She had been a Ward for about six months, after all. And I had one each of Aegis and Gallant, who were due to die when Leviathan hit the city.

I didn't know how to think about that.

Two teenagers, decent kids, that I knew were doomed in the upcoming fight; should I feel sorry? Resigned? Try to warn them in some way?

Aegis was, as far as I could tell, a dedicated leader, and good at it. Gallant's death would gut both Victoria Dallon and Missy Biron. Which would in turn lead to Vicky's harsher attitude in dealing with Amy, and to Missy's fatalist attitude ...

... wait.

Was all this even going to happen any more?

What if my interference caused Leviathan to not hit the city?

Was that even possible?

I considered that. The Simurgh may well communicate with Leviathan, tell him that they're ready for him. That was if the Simurgh was even working with the other two at this point in time. If they were still under Eidolon's orders, then it might not matter.

And even if it did, Leviathan may well come out with the Endbringer version of "Challenge accepted!" and come along anyway. I recalled how the defence of New Delhi had gone against Behemoth, even with the massive preparation that had taken place there. Granted, the Protectorate had been fragmented by then, due to the Eidolon clone's revelations during the Echidna incident. But still, it had not been a good showing.

Alternatively, I considered, Leviathan may choose to come early, he may come late, or he may not come at all. He might divert to New York or Boston. He might go somewhere else altogether.

In which case I would have to explain to Director Piggot about the Simurgh's abilities. That would be an interesting conversation.

By this time, of course, all future events would be skewed so far out of line that there would be no predicting them. I just wanted to control them up to the fourteenth, and set events in motion thereafter.

My usefulness from then on would be strictly to do with knowledge of people, and of how to take out Scion. Also, the origin of the Endbringers. Which was, to be honest, a bit of a hot potato. I sure as hell wasn't going to stroll up to Eidolon and break it to him over a cup of coffee. He might take it badly. I didn't want to be there when he took it badly. Demonstrably, being in a different dimension wouldn't make me safe from Eidolon.

One of my bags shifted, and I caught it before it spilled. However, the folded plastic halberd sticking out the top was entirely visible to all and sundry. The woman sitting next to me eyed the toy with a raised eyebrow.

"It's fun being an uncle," I told her, totally truthfully – I had two nieces and a nephew back on my Earth – but with no bearing on the current situation.

"Ah," she said, with a smile. "Stocking up for birthdays?"

I nodded. "Something like that."

"What else do you have?" she asked, poking at the bag. "That's not all action figures."

"No," I agreed. "There's a board game and a roleplaying game too. I'm interested in seeing how that goes."

"It's been years since I played a board game," she commented. "I kind of got out of the habit."

I nodded. "That happens. I try to play games as much as possible." A grin. "I have to grow old. I don't have to grow up."

She sighed. "Well, I have a two year old, so growing up is something I haven't really had the option not to do."

We chatted all the way to my stop; I enjoyed it. It was a pleasant distraction from the thoughts that were running around and around in my head.

=///=​

By the time I got back to my flat, I was starting to regret having purchased all the action figures that I had. It reminded me of times attending conventions, when I had gotten on the train with bags bulging with merchandise. Taken all together, such things can get heavy.

I had actually gotten some great board games and card games out of those events. And I still had Sting hanging on the wall. Back home, that is. Here, not so much. This version of me apparently didn't do pop culture expos, or rather, there probably weren't any to attend.

Which was a real pity. Capes could attend, cosplaying as themselves. Or show up to do celebrity appearances.

I would sure as hell line up to get an autograph from Miss Militia. And a photo.

These pleasant thoughts carried me through getting back into the flat, and sorting out my merchandise. The action figures were cool; the halberd was cooler. Although I nearly hit the ceiling fan when I tried to spin it like a quarterstaff.

Deciding that it would be a bad idea to break my stuff on the same day I bought it, I reluctantly put the halberd down – it wasn't as cool as holding the real thing would have been, but it was still very cool – and looked into the board game.

It was interesting; the board was a stylised map of Brockton Bay, with various landmarks shown. From what I could understand of the rules, each player got to play a Brockton Bay cape. Nearly all the Wards and Protectorate capes were represented, although the game must have been more than six months old, as Shadow Stalker wasn't there, and Triumph was shown as being in the Wards.

In fact, as I found to my amusement as I flicked through the Event cards, one such event was "Encounter with a Vigilante", showing an unmistakeable image of Shadow Stalker, looming menacingly on a rooftop.

Each player cape was represented by a card bearing an action photo, a fairly corny quote, and basic stats. The power ratings were heavily featured, with explanations underneath.

It looked like it could be an interesting game ... if I could find anyone to play it with me.

Next, I looked over the roleplaying game. It bore the strikingly original title of Capes!, and featured someone who looked vaguely like Alexandria punching someone who looked vaguely like Jack Slash through a brick wall.

However, after a bit of a read through the rules, I was less than impressed. This was a quickie game; the players rolled the dice for their power types and ratings, then consulted random charts for the actual power effect. Unfortunately, there appeared to have been a bit of author bias, and all power sets that mimicked a prominent real-world cape were considerably more effective than a randomly-rolled cape. I got the strong impression that they had written up the existing powersets, then added in other random powers to add a little variety.

In addition, the system itself was clunky, the descriptions were not altogether clear, and some of the rules had loopholes that Behemoth could stroll through without touching the sides. But, I supposed, in a world starved for light-hearted entertainment, this would work as well as anything.

=///=​

Once I tired of playing with the toys, I sat down at the laptop. I should, I supposed, put some stuff down, just in case I got badly hurt, or even killed, over the next few days. First, I turned off the internet connection. Then I opened a page and started writing.

Taylor Hebert needs to become Skitter and go out on Sunday night to fight Lung, otherwise the Undersiders may not rob the bank on Thursday.

I read the sentence through and shook my head. I knew why. I had context. Anyone else reading it would just start asking "why?"

That was my biggest problem with trying to leave a contingency plan. I didn't have the backup of people who would just follow my instructions without second-guessing them. No-one else in the world had the grasp of context that I did.

I deleted the sentence.

I sighed, tried again.

Amy Dallon, aka Panacea, must meet with Mrs Jessica Yamada in order to deal with her issues. These issues involve the following:

1) a pseudo-incestuous attraction toward her foster sister Victoria
2) a toxic home life involving an unrequited attraction toward Victoria, a borderline-abusive foster mother who neither likes nor trusts her, and a father who isn't there even when he's there.
3) She needs to deal with her problem with working with brains. Suggested compromise: to bring brain damage sufferers back up to status quo. If she does not deal with this, she will suffer, and so will Vicky.
4) She's been healing people for three years, more or less forced to do so by emotional blackmail. She needs to learn that she can step back, take a break.
5) She needs to move out of home. Seriously.
6) She needs to come to terms with who her father is (Marquis). She also needs to understand that she is NOT becoming a villain. Becoming burned out is not the same as choosing to be a bad person.
7) She needs emotional support, and a moral compass. Seriously.

I read through what I had written, then shuddered.

Falling into the wrong hands, this could be used to devastating effect.

I needed to be able to save documents like this, without just leaving them for anyone to read.

Five minutes of online research later, I had the answer. I hadn't even known that it was possible to encrypt .zip-files. Now I did.

I saved it to a text file, then encrypted it, with a password that no-one on this Earth would easily guess; even Tattletale would be hard put to figure out the name of the story and the author of same.

In the event of my death, how the hell was I supposed to get good information to those who would actually make use of it properly? Who were those people, anyway? What information would be made good use of, and what would be misused? Seriously, this was Worm. Bad life decisions were sort of a given, here.

Actually typing it up and then saving it in encrypted files was a start, I figured. It was the best I could do.

I sighed again, and deleted the page I had been writing on. The last thing I needed was someone going through my laptop and hitting 'undo delete', and reading the juicy stuff.

Inserting a memory stick, I copied across the Panacea file, then wiped it from the computer. I pulled the stick out and put it to one side.

Turning on the internet connection, I checked my emails.

There was one from Dragon; or at least, one without a sender name.

It read, All good?

I typed up a quick reply. All good. Thanks.

The email was sent, disappearing into the electronic ether. Then, as was my habit, I started surfing the net, checking out what tabs I had open.

There was a tab for Parahumans Online. Of course I clicked it.

I even had an account; the username was different, but not so very much so. It made me pause, and I dug out my wallet. Had a good look at my driver's licence. When I saw what 'my' middle name was, I laughed out loud. It made sense; it made a lot of sense. But I still found it hilarious.

I just wished there was someone I could share the joke with.

=///=​

Reading the PHO boards was ... interesting. I checked some of 'my' previous postings, and found them to be more or less what I would write; good spelling, good grammar, bad puns.

Then I trawled the message boards for a while. A post from "GstringGirl" jogged my memory, and I sent her a friend request. Sveta was a nice girl, if you ignored the murder tentacles; I figured she could do with an online pal who just wanted to chat.

I encountered XxVoid_CowboyxX espousing a half-baked opinion on something, so I replied, pretending to agree with him, but in the process puncturing his theory neatly. I wondered how he would respond.

Then I had a look at the profile pages of the hero and villain capes of Brockton Bay and beyond. Some of them were extremely interesting, while others were startlingly incomplete or even inaccurate; I amused myself for a while, opening a text file and typing up much more complete descriptions, and saving them on my computer. When and if the time came, I could just post them up, and watch the jaws drop.

Then I reconsidered, found another memory stick, .zip-filed the profiles and saved the file on to there. The original file, I deleted. If need be, I could pass that on to the PRT at some point.

After a little more thought, I found an envelope, scribbled "In the event of my death, please give this to the PRT" on it, put the memory stick in it, and shoved it in a drawer.

I glanced up at the clock. It was nearly time to get ready.

=///=​

I had a slightly better idea of how the streets of Brockton Bay ran this time, so I wasn't more than ten minutes late to pick up Mrs Knott. However, I had planned for this, and given myself fifteen minutes of leeway. I expected to be waiting for a little while when I pulled up outside her house, but the front door opened before I even opened her front gate.

"Hi," I said. "You look very nice, Mrs Knott." And she did; she had on a sky-blue dress with a matching hairband, setting off her blonde hair. She still looked somewhat mannish, but her smile went a long way toward dispelling that impression.

"You know, you can call me Gladys," she told me, mock-severely, with a nod to acknowledge the compliment.

"Sure," I agreed. "But only if you call me Mike."

She smiled again. "I see you cut your hair, Mike," she observed. "It makes you look a little different."

I shrugged. "I like to keep it trimmed down. Makes me look more like a security guard."

Her expression was amused as she climbed into the passenger seat of my pickup. "It certainly does that."

I rounded the vehicle and climbed into my side. "It's an image thing. I started growing the beard about nine years ago, after I'd been doing security for a year. Another guard suggested it, to make me look more mature. It seems to work."

She nodded. "Image is important, especially for first impressions."

"Particularly for teachers and security guards," I agreed blandly, hitting the indicatior and pulling on to the road.

"I didn't know what you were going to be arriving in," she observed, looking around at the slightly-worn interior of the pickup. "This would not have been my first choice."

I grinned slightly. "It was my first car. I've had it since nineteen ninety." I nearly added that it was twenty-four years old, then amended it to, "Twenty-one this year."

"Why a pickup?" she asked. "Why not a car?"

I shrugged. "Much more utility if you're moving things around town. It makes moving house a cinch. I've done that a few times, for friends as well as myself."

"I see," she observed. "Very useful."

"Also," I added, "far less likely to be stolen."

"Improved alarm system?"

I shook my head. "No street cred."

She laughed at that, but nodded at the same time. "I see your point. I do see your point."

=///=​

I took a slightly roundabout route to get to Danny's house. First, we stopped at a convenience store, where I purchased a packet of frozen sausages, two large bottles of soda, and a couple of large packets of chips.

"A good guest brings as much as he's likely to eat, or perhaps a little more," I explained, as we wedged my purchases in between us on the bench seat. The soda went down into the passenger footwell.

"A good philosophy," she agreed. "Perhaps you should have let me pay for some of that."

"Nah," I said. "You're my plus one. Tonight's on me."

I turned the vehicle around and got on to one of the main crosstown streets.

"Doesn't Taylor live out that way?" she asked, pointing off to the side.

"Yeah," I agreed. "But I'm crap at finding my way around this city, so I've decided on a three-step plan. Step one: drive east until we hit Lord Street. Step two, drive along Lord Street until we reach the cross-street leading to her house. Step three, drive down that street until we reach the house."

She nodded consideringly. "That's a good plan. I'm presuming you weren't a cab driver in Brockton Bay, then."

I shook my head. "Nah. Some little town you've probably never heard of."

"Really?" she asked.

"Really," I confirmed, and told her the name. Predictably, she didn't know it. Predictably, because there was no town of that name in the state that I claimed it was in. This was because the town was actually in another country, and was where I came from, back home.

=///=​

I hated lying to Gladys Knott, but I didn't want to get more people wondering about me than was really necessary. I really hated lying to her, because I liked her and respected her quite a lot; while she had been toeing the line at Winslow, as soon as I had offered her the chance to get something done, she had not flinched and she had not stepped back on her word.

So, I had decided, when Danny had called me about the little get-together, I figured that she deserved a piece of it too, given the role she had played in what had gone down.

=///=
​

We pulled up outside the house; I had been rolling down the street, reading numbers off of mailboxes, and this was the right one. Not all of my cabbie tricks were useless here in Brockton Bay.

I noted that the house was on a corner; this made a certain amount of sense, especially with the mention of a chain-link gate at the side of the house.

Gladys got out, and I retrieved the soda bottles from the foot-well; she took the chips and sausages. I made sure to lock the vehicle; I didn't expect someone to try to steal it, but if they did, I wanted them to work for it.

Sunset was still a little time away, but it was definitely getting into late afternoon as we strolled up the front walk to the house. I nudged Gladys as she was about to walk up the steps to the door, and indicated the bottom step. "I wouldn't step on that," I advised her. "It looks a bit rotten."

She looked where I was pointing, and nodded, stepping over that step. I let her press the doorbell.

Taylor opened the door, wearing a pretty dress, and looking quite nice.

"Hi, Mr Allen!" she greeted me cheerfully, then blinked as she recognised my date. "Mrs Knott?"

"You can call me Gladys for tonight, Taylor," the teacher replied with a smile. "Michael invited me; I hope that's all right?"

Taylor nodded. "Sure. You were there too." She stepped back. "Come on through. Dad's wrestling with the barbecue."

We followed her through the front hall to the kitchen, where we paused to unload the perishables into the fridge, and then on out to the back yard.

There was a folding table there next to the barbecue, into which Danny was peering, engrossed in the mysteries thereof. He looked up as we emerged from the back door.

"Mike!" he greeted me, and came over to shake my hand.

"Danny, thanks for inviting me," I replied. "You know Gladys Knott?"

"I do," he agreed. "Gladys, thanks for backing Mike up with the thing at the school."

Mrs Knott flushed slightly from the praise. "If I had favourite students, Taylor would be one of them. So I couldn't do anything less, once I saw what was going on."

He nodded. "Unlike some others I could name," he said, then brightened. "But let's not talk about that. I have a barbecue that doesn't want to light. Anyone here know how to get that done?"

The three of us conferred seriously over the problem while Taylor brought out chairs and the sun slowly sank into the west. We managed to work it out in the end, just before some more of the guests arrived.

Flames were beginning to leap up through the barbecue grill as two more people arrived, this time coming in through the side gate.

Kurt was a big man, one of the dock workers that Danny worked with. He was, Danny explained, the foreman of his crew. His wife Lacey was more petite, but they both had a hard-bitten, no-nonsense air about them.

"Heard what you did for young Taylor," Kurt said to me, seizing my hand in a grip like a steel vice; I squeezed back, hoping to give as good as I got.

"Yeah, well, I saw something that needed doing, so I did it," I replied, trying not to wince at the power of his handshake.

Lacey shook my hand after her husband had finished mangling it; her grip was less strong, but in no way weak. "Don't sell yourself short," she said. "You did a good thing."

Off to the side, Taylor was speaking with her teacher. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but Taylor was nodding and smiling, and Mrs Knott seemed to be pleased as well. She put her hand on Taylor's shoulder and squeezed, and Taylor seemed to levitate three inches off the ground from sheer happiness.

I told Danny about the sausages, and he nodded. "Thanks," he said. "Get them out to defrost while I get the steaks on. There's beer in the fridge as well; feel free to grab one."

I noted that Kurt already had one, but Lacey seemed to be contenting herself with a cup of soda.

"No thanks," I said. "I don't drink, and anyway, I'm driving. But I'll have some of the soda. Brought some of that too."

"Hah," he grinned, the flames of the barbecue reflecting off of his glasses. "I'm gonna have to invite you over more often."

"That," I agreed over my shoulder, "is the general idea."

I brought the steaks out, and a beer to Danny; he hadn't asked for one, but nor did he have one, and it seemed to be a reasonable idea. Nor did he object; he opened it immediately, and I saw him taking occasional swigs between turning the steaks over.

The sky was beginning to purple over, and a few more people had arrived, by the time the party got into full swing; that is, the first steaks started coming off of the barbecue. I got mine, and I found a seat at the folding table. Gladys was chatting with Lacey, Kurt and Danny were in the middle of a group of dock-workers, and I found myself temporarily alone.

That is, until, Taylor sat down opposite me.

"Hey, Taylor," I greeted her.

"Hey, Mike," she replied. "It's okay to call you Mike, right?"

I nodded. "My friends get to call me Mike," I confirmed. I held out my fist; she bumped it, and grinned.

"So, what's on your mind?" I asked.

She concentrated on her steak. "I never said that anything was on my mind."

"Yeah, right," I commented quietly. "You're a smart kid. You're observant, and you're always thinking about something. But I'm not all that bad at my job either, and I get the impression that you came over to talk to me about something."

She glanced up at me. "Can I talk to you about something? And you don't tell Dad about it?"

I raised an eyebrow. "If not telling him means you get hurt, then yes, I'll tell him. But other than that … sure."

She smiled widely at that. "Thanks. I –"

"Company," I interrupted, as Gladys came over toward the table. Taylor shut up, and by the time the teacher came into hearing, I was explaining the duties of a security guard. "Oh, hey, Gladys," I said, as she came up alongside me, "Taylor wanted to know what else a security guard gets to do, apart from catch bullies."

Mrs Knott directed a smile at Taylor. "Thinking about a future career, Taylor?" she asked.

Taylor looked startled; I rubbed my chin and nodded thoughtfully. "You know, you could do worse," I said. "I think you'd make a great security guard."

"That's nice," responded Gladys. "Michael, Danny wanted to introduce you around to the boys. He seems to think it's a big deal."

I heaved myself to my feet, leaving my plate on the table. With Gladys on my arm, I approached the group of dock-workers. Danny introduced them to me; I repeated the names back to try to remember them, but I knew that I'd forget most by the time the night was done.

Each man shook my hand solemnly, and I realised that I was being introduced to them specifically by the union rep. I was being accepted into the inner circle, such as it was. I had done Danny Hebert a good turn; this would not be forgotten.

Fortunately, they weren't as careless with their grips as Kurt had been with his; my hand was aching by the time I finished shaking hands with the group of burly dock-workers, but it felt reasonably intact.

"It's good to meet you guys," I said. "It really is. I'm new to the city, and I'm always happy to meet new friends."

This pleased them; we chatted for a short while, then I pleaded the necessity to get back to my steak, which Taylor had been guarding for me.

Not only had she been guarding it, but she had also added a couple of the grilled sausages. I grinned and added a dollop of ketchup from the squeeze bottle on the table. "Good thinking," I said. "Your dad does a mean barbecue."

"He doesn't get that many chances," she observed. "But since yesterday, he's been the happiest I've seen him in a while. Thanks for that, by the way."

I glanced across at where Danny was chatting with Gladys, then back to the teenager across from me. "Well, you're looking pretty chipper yourself, kid." I indicated the dress she was wearing. "Bright colours, even. A bit of a difference from yesterday. It brings out your eyes."

She coloured slightly. "Thanks. I feel brighter. Yeah, happier, I guess." She sat up and looked me directly in the eye. "Can we talk about what we were talking about before, or are you not really interested?"

I stood up. "Sure, I'm interested. Let's talk."

We strolled over to the back stairs; she sat on the steps, while I leaned on the railing.

"What if I …" She hesitated. "Went through a life changing experience. If I felt that there was something I could do to make the world a better place, but I wasn't sure if what I was planning on doing was the right thing. What would you suggest?"

"Why aren't you sure?" I asked.

"Well, before yesterday," she confessed, "I had reasons for going ahead and doing it. But what you did yesterday, some of those reasons aren't so strong any more."

I frowned. "You're saying that me helping you made you not want to do this thing?"

"No," she said. "I'm saying that you showing me that not everyone in the world apart from me and Dad is a dick, is what made me think that maybe I should slow down a bit, think it through."

"Huh," I said. "So what you're talking about, it's potentially dangerous?"

"Hypothetically dangerous, yes," she admitted.

"So before, you were going to do it because …"

"Because I wanted to escape from the shitty life I had at school, and dangerous or not, I'd be making a difference, and just that alone would be a thousand percent better," she told me in a rush.

"Ah," I said. "Light dawns. What I did yesterday made the shitty life at school a lot less shitty. Thus, less to escape from. Also, the impending transfer."

She nodded. "Just knowing that there's someone on my side." Her voice was low. "Before, there was no-one who would back me up, take my side, listen to me."

I nodded. "I've been there before, believe me." I took a deep breath. "But you know something? I think … having been bullied like that has made me a better security guard. I'm more aware of how it's like from the downside. What it's like being shat on from a great height, excuse my French."

She grinned abruptly. "Oh, I know that feeling," she said fervently.

"So yeah," I went on. "That's why I said you'd make a great guard. You know about bullies, but you aren't one yourself. Actually …" I said musingly.

"Actually?" she asked.

"It just struck me. I reckon the best capes would be the ones who were bullied. Not the ones who've always had it good. The ones who know that there's always someone else needing help." I nodded down at Taylor. "You'd make a great superhero. Swooping across the skyline in your red and blue costume, your cape flapping behind you …" With one hand, I mimed the course a drunken duck may have taken.

She laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink.

Danny, passing through on his way inside to get more chips, nodded at the two of us. "You all good?" he asked. "Another drink?"

"I'm good," I said. "Need a hand?"

"No, thanks," he demurred. "You're the guest, you stay put."

Taylor was still chuckling as he went inside. "You'd make a great cape," she told me. "You saved me, yesterday."

"Sorry," I told her. "I can't do it. It's impossible"

She fell into the trap. "Why not?" she asked.

I grinned. "Because the name 'Chubster' is already taken." I patted my not inconsiderable stomach. Taylor broke up all over again.

On his way out with the chips, Danny stopped to observe his daughter's mirth. He shook his head. "Whatever jokes you're telling her," he said to me, "keep it up. I haven't seen her laugh like that in forever."

He walked away; Taylor gradually regained her breath. "I don't … believe it," she gasped. "There's actually … a cape … called Chubster?"

I nodded. "Found him yesterday on Parahumans Online." I shook my head. "The names some people take on …"

"You read that site too?" she asked.

"It's interesting," I confirmed with another nod. "Glimpses into a whole different world. I chat to some of them. They have interesting perspectives." I looked down at her. "But under it all, they're just people like you and me. And I think some people forget that from time to time."

"Yeah …" she said quietly.

"So, to get back to your question," I said. "Hypothetically, how long would you have been preparing for this thing you're talking about doing?"

"Months," she responded.

"And is there anything else you have to do in order to be ready?"

She paused. "Nothing major," she admitted.

I shrugged. "So do it. Get up on the horse. Prove to the world that you're ready to do something good, to change things. Putting things off only breeds excuses not to go through with them."

"You think so?" she asked.

"Sure," I said. "I'll let you in on a little secret. First day at anything, you're never going to be perfect. But if you're good enough, that'll do. You can learn to be perfect, later. But if you hold off until you're perfect … then you could be holding off a long, long time."

Taylor nodded slowly, a determined look creeping over her face. "I'll do it," she decided firmly. "I will."

"Good for you." I offered her my fist to bump. She bumped it, looking pleased. "So what are you doing? Some sort of volunteer work?"

"… sort of." Her voice was guarded.

I raised an eyebrow. "Considering that it's something that your Dad isn't aware that you're doing, it must be pretty radical. Running away to join the PRT or something?" I put a joking tone in my voice.

"Hah, yeah, as if," she retorted, rolling her eyes. Then she looked searchingly at me. "You can keep it a secret, right?" she asked anxiously.

I nodded reassuringly. "You ask me to, I keep it," I told her. "Simple as that."

Getting up, she strolled toward one of the coolers that some of the dock-workers had brought. Opening it, she looked inside, then called out to her father.

"I'm just going to get some more ice, okay, Dad? This one's almost melted."

"Sure thing, kiddo," he replied. "Take Mike. He can do the heavy lifting."

"Gee, thanks," I replied from my post by the steps, loudly enough, and with enough of a wry tone, to raise a laugh.

Taylor trotted up the steps, and I followed her. We went through into the kitchen, and then she opened the one door that had been closed before. It was, of course, the basement door.

The basement steps, I realised, ran downward under the stairs that led up to the second floor. Reading the story, I had wondered how the house fit together. Standing in it, I understood much better now.

She flicked a switch beside the door, causing bare bulbs to light up, then descended the stairs. I clumped down after her.

There was a small freezer down here, as well as a washing machine and an ancient-looking dryer. It made sense for these to be in the basement, as there was little room in the rest of the house for them; they simply had not been mentioned in the story because they did not feature in the narrative.

While I went to the freezer and opened it, hefting out two large bags of ice, she went to a panel in the wall. It was, I knew, the old coal chute.

She had it down to a fine art; by the time I had two bags out and the freezer closed again, she had the panel off and was lifting out a gym bag. As I watched, she unzipped the bag and lifted out the costume.

"Wow," I said, stepping closer. I reached out to feel the texture. This is cooler, I told myself, than Armsmaster's halberd. "What's this?"

"My costume," she told me. "I'm a cape. I've got powers."

"Holy shit, that's so cool," I responded. "What's it made of?"

"Black widow dragline silk," she said, with a touch of pride. She held up the mask for my inspection; I made appreciative noises. And I was impressed, I really was. Reading the description was one thing; seeing the real thing was quite another.

She tucked it back away into its hiding place as I went back to grab the ice. "How did you score a costume made of spider silk?" I asked.

"I made it," she informed me proudly. She was getting a real kick out of impressing me, I could tell.

"Made it?" I repeated. "What, really?"

She nodded, grinning widely. "Guess what my powers are."

"I'm gonna have to think about this one," I pointed out, holding up the ice. "Let's get this upstairs first."

She nodded. "Good idea."

I went up the stairs in front of her, so that she could turn out the light and close the door. Between us, we got the ice bags opened and poured into the various coolers, then we returned to the steps.

"So …" I hazarded. "You spin spider silk and weave it."

"Nope." Eyes dancing with amusement, she shook her head.

"You turn into a swarm of spiders?" I offered next.

"Ew, no," she denied, looking highly entertained.

"Okay," I said slowly. "Putting aside all other weird and wonderful variations on that theme, I'm getting the impression that you can control spiders."

She nodded, grinning widely. "But it's not just spiders. Bugs. All types."

"Nice," I responded. "Very nice. How many can you control at once?"

"I have no idea," she informed me. "Currently, in a two and a half block radius, there are four hundred and sixty-three thousand, seven hundred and ninety-two bugs of various description. I can control them all individually or en masse. I've controlled more." She indicated the dying glow of the barbecue; a moth flew out of the darkness, circled it once, then flew on.

"Colour me very seriously impressed," I told her sincerely. "And I might have been joking before, but I'm not now; I think you'll make a spectacular hero."

She half-turned away, to hide her face in shadow, but I could see the blush mounting in her cheeks. "Thanks," she said, her voice slightly muffled. "That means a whole lot, coming from you."

I grinned, and offered her a fist-bump; she took me up on it, answering my grin with one of hers.

"To tell the truth," I told her, "I'm kind of jealous. For my job, I stand around in a uniform and look like a security guard. You're gonna be going out, kicking ass and taking names, looking like a badass."

"Oh, stop it," she said, trying for an annoyed tone, but I could tell she was pleased.

"No, really," I insisted. "I presume you're doing fitness training."

"Yeah," she confirmed. "Running in the morning and afternoon, as well as other exercise."

"That's good," I said approvingly. "Do you have much self-defence training?"

"Not … really," she admitted.

"Well, tell you what. I'll show you some stuff right now. Simple moves. You'll pick it up in five minutes. It won't make you into Bruce Lee or Chuck Norris, but it might give you the edge against someone in a fight sometime. Call it my contribution to the Taylor Hebert Badass fund."

"Um … okay?" Her voice was doubtful.

"Wait here," I told her, and strolled over to where Danny was talking to Kurt and Lacey. Gladys, I saw, was sitting nearby, sipping at her drink and listening to a group of the dock-workers argue sports. She caught my eye and nodded; I nodded back.

"Say, Danny," I said. "I was just going to show Taylor a couple of the basic moves we learn as security guards. Maybe it'll help her if she gets into a bullying situation again."

"Sure," agreed Danny readily. "Does she need to change into jeans or something?"

I shook my head. "Just arm bars and the like," I told him. "Basic compliance holds."

"Go right ahead," he agreed expansively. I wasn't sure how many beers he'd had, but he was definitely looking mellow.

"Thanks," I said, and headed back to Taylor. "Okay, stand up," I instructed. She obeyed; I walked her through a basic arm bar, from both sides, then invited her to try one on me. The first try was a little sloppy, but she got the hang of it, and by the fifth or sixth go, definitely had the idea of what she was doing.

Then I looked around, and realised that we had an audience. Everyone, including Gladys, was standing, watching the impromptu training course.

"Excellent," I said cheerfully. "Can we have a volunteer, please. You there," I said. "Alexander, right?"

"That's me," said the burly young dock-worker, moving forward sheepishly. "What do you want me to do?"

I stepped aside. "Taylor, you're a security guard. Alex here's trying to get into the club you're standing in front of. Alex, Taylor's stopping you from getting in. Shove her aside."

Alexander stepped up, pushed at her with his right arm. Taylor took his wrist, turned it, and put him into a near-perfect arm bar. The dock-worker found himself in an awkward bent-over position, held by a girl half his size.

"Hey," protested Alexander. "Ow!" Everyone else laughed at his discomfiture.

Reflexively, Taylor began to let up.

"Uh, uh," I cautioned her. "You don't let go just because they say ouch. Alex, do you think she can put you on your knees?"

He looked up at me. "Nope," he stated boldly.

"Taylor," I said, "apply just a bit of pressure, the way I showed you."

Taylor applied pressure. Alexander resisted for a moment, then went to one knee. Everyone else applauded.

"You can let him go now, Taylor," I told her. "Thanks for being a good sport, Alex."

He nodded grudgingly to me as he got up. "You taught her pretty fast," he admitted. "Reckon you could teach any of us that stuff?"

"Sure," I agreed. "But you gotta agree, Taylor needs it more than you do. So I'm teaching her."

He nodded in agreement. "What else you got?" he asked.

Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, I showed Taylor several more compliance holds; she got to practise them first on me, then on consenting members of the audience, including her own father.

"Okay," he said, after trying and failing to free himself from her carefully-applied grip. "You can let go now, Taylor."

"Can I get a raise on my allowance first?" she asked sweetly, to general laughter. He was released moments later; rubbing his wrist, he came over to me and shook my hand.

"What's that for?" I queried.

"Look at her," he said quietly. "You've made her the star of the show, shown her that she can hold her own physically against larger people. I don't think she'll ever let herself be a bullying victim again."

I looked over at Taylor's shining face as she accepted the congratulations and praise from those around her. "You've got a pretty special daughter there, Danny," I told him. "She's got the potential to go far. I'm just doing my bit."

"Well, I appreciate it," he responded. "Any time you need a hand with anything, the Dockworkers Association will be there for you. Count on it."

I blinked. Wow. "Okay, sure," I said. "Thanks."

=///=​

The party began winding down shortly after that; the dock-workers took their coolers and drifted away. Kurt and Lacey were the last to go; Kurt shook my hand again, but was much more careful about it than before.

"You're all right in my book, Allen," he said gruffly. "You take care."

"You too," I told him, then shook hands with Lacey.

She leaned in to kiss me on the cheek. "I might get you to teach me some of those things you were showing Taylor," she said jokingly. "I need to keep Kurt in line somehow."

"Any time," I replied with a grin, even as he mock-recoiled away from her.

"Not likely, woman," he protested. "I get beaten down enough by you already."

With a chuckle, I turned back to help Danny carry the furniture back into the house, while Taylor chatted with Gladys.

"Thanks again," Danny told me as we got the last chairs inside. "You know you're welcome over anytime."

"I think I'll take you up on that," I agreed. "I won't be seeing Taylor once she makes the move to Arcadia, so I'll want to keep up on how she's doing somehow."

He nodded. "Anytime," he repeated.

"Oh, Michael," Gladys said, entering from the living room. "I need to use the powder room before I go; is that all right?"

"Sure," I told her. "I'll be out at my car." A thought struck me. "Actually, Taylor, I got something you might find useful. Come on out?"

She accompanied me out to where the pickup sat at the curb. "Wow," she said, rubbing her arms against the gathering chill. "How old is this thing?"

"Some respect, please," I retorted, mock-severely. "I've had it since before you were born." I opened the passenger side door, and leaned the seat forward. There was a zippered vinyl wallet here, and I opened it, to reveal several small cylindrical objects. "Here," I told her. "Have this, and this."

"What are these?" she asked, handling them gingerly.

"Pepper spray and a screamer," I told her.

"I've got pepper spray," she pointed out.

I grinned. "Not this stuff, you don't," I contradicted her. "This is military grade. You spray this in someone's eyes, his grandaddy feels it." I raised an eyebrow, probably invisible in the dark. "Just the thing for capes that are tougher than the average bear."

"Thanks," she nodded, tucking it into her pocket. "I appreciate it. And this … screamer?"

"Miniature air horn," I clarified. "Only good for a couple of blasts, but it's great for deafening opponents." I tapped the small belled horn on one side. "Point away from your face. I cannot stress this enough."

"Got it," she agreed. "And thanks again." Quickly, she hugged me, and just as quickly let me go.

I felt unexpectedly, deeply, touched by the gesture. "It's all good," I told her. "Just … one more thing."

"Yeah?" she asked.

"I'd advise you to tell your father," I said quietly. "Let him know what's up. Because your behaviour is going to change, and it's better that he knows. Trust me on this."

She looked at me for a long moment. I looked back.

In the end, she nodded. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I think I can now."

I smiled, and held out my fist. She bumped it, just as Gladys emerged from the front door.

"Ready to go?" I called out to her.

"Whenever you are, Michael," she responded. "Good night, Taylor."

"Good night – Gladys," Taylor answered her, grinning so widely that I saw it even in the darkness.

"Take care, Taylor," I said, rounding the car to the driver's side.

"You too, Mike," she told me. "And thanks for everything."

=///=​

Gladys Knott was quiet for some of the drive back to her house. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, thoughtful.

"That was a really nice thing you did for young Taylor, back there."

I half-shrugged. "I like doing good things for people. And when people really need it … I feel even better about doing them."

She nodded in the semi-darkness. "It doesn't make it any less admirable."

I half-shrugged again. "Thanks." It was inadequate, but it was all I could think of to say.

=///=​

When I pulled to a halt in front of her house, Gladys reached out and took my hand. "I want to thank you for a really, really enjoyable evening," she said softly. I was surprised enough by the feeing of her fingers closing over mine; when she reached up with her other hand, and pulled my head around, I didn't know how to react.

Her lips were soft and warm on mine. The kiss lasted forever; it lasted no time at all. By the time it ended, my head was whirling, my heart was racing, and there was a roaring in my ears.

"Now, I am not the sort of woman who invites a man into her house after one date," she said softly. "So I expect to see you again, quite soon, Michael. Is that quite understood?"

"I … um … yes?" I mumbled, trying to unscramble my vocal cords.

"Good," she murmured, and kissed me again, a promise against more. And then she was out of the vehicle and striding up her front path. In a kind of daze, I watched her open the front door, turn on the inside light, and then turn and wave, silhouetted against the light. Stupidly, I waved back, fully aware that she could not see me inside the vehicle at all.

=///=​

I was still in somewhat of a daze when I put the vehicle into gear again and headed back to my place. Twenty-plus years of driving experience let me handle the mundane actions of controlling the pickup, while the rest of my brain replayed what had happened.

Wow, I thought. Wow, and good God.

I wasn't quite sure how I managed to find my street again, but I did; I pulled into the apartment complex and parked in my spot. I was still mulling over the delightful kiss bestowed upon me by Gladys Knott, and thus I was more than halfway across the courtyard to the stairs leading to my apartment when I became aware that I was not alone.

Specifically, this was made known to me when a knife pricked at my back, just over my kidneys, through my jacket.

"Wallet and keys, fat boy," growled a voice. "And don't fuck around."

Of all the times I choose to not wear my stab vest, I told myself. I had to choose the time I actually get mugged.

Fuck.


End of Chapter Five

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Six: Fifth Interaction


I went very still.

"Sure thing, buddy," I said out loud. "I'll do that right now. Let's not do anything either one of us is going to regret."

With my left hand, I reached into my pants pocket and retrieved my wallet. I held it up, and tossed it to the ground a little in front of me.

"Wallet," I informed him. "Just like you asked."

He jabbed me again, just a little harder. "Keys too, smartass."

I forced a laugh. "Seriously? Have you seen my ride? Zero street cred there, buddy. And it's over twenty years old. Resale value nil."

The knife came away from my back. "Don't get fucking smart with me, jerkass!"

I sensed that he was going to jab me a third time, harder still, and that this might just penetrate to a dangerous level. So I stepped forward, half-turning to my right. As soon as my left foot landed, I transferred the axis of the turn to that foot, pivoting on the ball of the foot. My right leg went with the momentum of the turn, swinging me back and around; in just a moment, I was a pace farther away from him, but facing back toward him.

He still held the knife, but now I could see him, and had more of a chance of defending myself.

He could have backed off; I would have let him go. But instead he came at me, slashing with the knife. I think he meant to scare me.

I tried to block it with my left forearm to his wrist. But I must have flinched back involuntarily, or he pulled back at the last instant; I felt a searing pain across the outer edge of my left forearm, halfway between the wrist and the elbow.

I shouted something then, from the pain. But reflex took over, and even as I pulled my left arm away from the pain, I caught his right wrist in my right hand. And twisted, against the joints, as I stepped around to his right.

The arm bar was half complete at that point. I had partial control of his arm, but he still held the knife. And if he just bent his elbow a little way, he could probably pull free. I needed to finish applying it, by putting the heel of my left hand against his elbow joint, locking it all the way open.

My left forearm hurt, a lot. I could feel blood on my arm, inside my jacket sleeve. He'd shown a willingness to cut me, and he still held the knife.

These thoughts passed through my mind in an instant. The decision wasn't even conscious. I didn't hesitate.

With all the force I could muster, I put the heel of my hand through his elbow joint.

It jolted the cut on my left forearm, but that was already hurting. His elbow popped and crackled, and he screamed, high and long, even as his fingers opened and the knife dropped from his nerveless fingers. It clattered on the pebblestone of the courtyard.

I still had hold of his wrist, but his elbow was now bending the wrong way altogether; I had dislocated it, and probably done damage to the tendons, ligaments and cartilage that were supposed to keep it operating smoothly.

There was a momentary twinge of conscience; I had maimed this man, where I hadn't really needed to. I supposed I could have just disarmed him. But then, I would have had an active, fighting opponent, while I was still bleeding from the wound he had dealt me, and the outcome may have been problematic.

I kicked the knife away; it skittered into the darkness. I'd find it later. When I let his wrist go, he sank to his knees, one arm clutching the other.

"Fuck," he moaned. "Fuck. It hurts. You broke my fucking arm."

I bent to pick up my wallet, keeping a wary eye on him. "Yeah well, you cut my arm, so I think we're even," I panted. My heart was racing. I didn't need this sort of shit in my life. Shoving the wallet in my jacket pocket, I clamped my hand over the cut in my sleeve, feeling the sticky wetness against my skin. "I'll just –"

I'd never heard the sound of a pistol being cocked in real life, but I had handled rifles before, and I had watched many movies, so when I heard it behind me now, I knew exactly what it was. For the second time in less than a minute, I froze.

"You'll just fucking die, motherfucker," grated a voice.

Oh, for fuck's sake, I groaned internally. There's two of them.

=//=//=​

Taylor sat back on the sofa, feeling her whole body beginning to relax. Holding a sausage in her fingers, she dipped it in the ketchup on the plate on her lap, and took a bite.

"Good night, kiddo?" asked Danny, seating himself beside her.

She nodded, grinning happily, leaning to the side and letting her head fall on his shoulder. "It was awesome, Dad. Thanks. Thanks so much."

He chuckled. "You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself."

"I wasn't sure about it at first," she admitted. "But when everyone was so supportive, so nice about it …" She paused. "Thanks for inviting Mr Allen."

Danny nodded, pouring soda into a plastic cup. "Want some?" he asked.

She sat up again. "Ooh, thanks," she replied with a grin, accepting the cup.

"Thank Mike," he replied with an answering grin. "He brought the bottle." He paused. "I could see you were talking pretty seriously with him for a bit there. Anything I need to know about?"

She held off answering until she had drained half the cup.

"Yeah," she said at last. "I wanted to ask him about some stuff, so he listened to me, then gave me his opinion." She paused. "And then he told me that I should tell you about it."

"Oh, he did, did he?" Danny was amused. "And what, pray tell, was this about? Boys? The bullying?"

She shook her head. "It's more important than that, Dad. A lot more important."

Danny raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

Taylor took a deep breath. "I've got powers, Dad. I'm going to be a superhero."

=//=//=​

"Listen," I called out. "This doesn't have to get any nastier than it has. Your buddy's not badly hurt –"

I stopped talking; there had been a kind of grunt, and a sigh, followed by the clatter of metal on pebblestone. Carefully, I risked a look around. A man was sprawled on the ground, one arm outstretched, a dark object that I took to be his pistol was a good yard away from his hand.

Standing over him was a slim figure; all I could make out in the poor light was that it was possibly female, with long black hair.

She moved toward me, as if she were taking a Sunday stroll.

"Come on," she said, putting a hand under my elbow to support me, "let's get you inside. I need to ask you some questions."

Her voice – with the accent that wasn't an accent – began to clue me in. But the next words she uttered sealed the deal for me.

"Door," she said. "Michael Allen's living room."

And without fuss, a doorway opened up in space before us. With her assistance, we stepped through, and she helped me sit down at the chair I used for my laptop.

She found the light-switches and turned them on without fumbling or hesitating once, then turned to face me. She was beautiful, wearing a woman's business suit. I nodded, once. It was definitely her.

I really wanted to prepare more, before I met her.

Ah well. The best-laid plans, and all that.

"Good evening, Contessa," I said. "Thank you for saving my life."

Her eyebrows rose. "You know who I am," she replied. It wasn't a question.

I smiled slightly, even as my arm twinged. "I know quite a bit about you – Fortuna," I confirmed. "But what I don't know is why you're here, now."

She jolted at the mention of her real name, her eyes widening slightly. I wasn't quite sure whether it was genuine surprise, or whether her Path to Victory was mandating these reactions so as to elicit my cooperation. Either way, it was working. I felt smug and knowledgeable, even as my instincts warned me that this was how she wanted me to feel.

"I came here to save your life, so that you would not die before you told me what I need to know from you," she told me, quite bluntly.

I tilted my head. "But you don't know what it is you need to know," I guessed.

She shook her head. "It is hidden from me. I just knew I needed to ask you, and you would tell me, and it would help somehow."

My head was beginning to clear, and my thoughts to race. "Well, before we have any sort of meaningful dialogue, how about we deal with my arm?" I asked. "And maybe my back? He poked me a couple of times with that damn knife."

=//=//=​

Contessa probably wasn't a trained medic, but I would not have been able to prove it by results. Using the contents of a small pack she was carrying, she cleaned and dressed the wound on my arm, after helping me take the jacket off. Her movements were calm, efficient and effective.

There was one small puncture wound on my back, which she also put a small dressing on for me.

"Very well," she told me, pulling out a chair from my kitchen table and sitting opposite me. "The information you have; what is it?"

"The Endbringers and Scion," I replied. "How to stop them, and other useful factoids."

I paused; she waited expectantly.

I came to a decision. "I'll tell you Friday," I concluded.

Her gaze narrowed. "You will tell me now," she said quietly.

"I could," I admitted, "but then I'd never see you again, correct?"

She hesitated, then nodded, briefly.

"See, here's the trouble," I pointed out. "I'm just as invested as you are in saving the world, stopping the big nasties. But I also believe that there are people in the world who deserve to be saved. Who will get trodden under and hurt badly in the normal run of things. Now, I can't save them all. But I can give a few a second chance, and you're the only person who can help me with some of them."

She eyed me suspiciously. "So what can I do between now and Friday to save these people?"

I took a deep breath. "I'll be doing the saving, for the most part. I just need you to make it possible. Tip the odds, as it were."

Her lips tightened. "I am not your plaything, your puppet. I have other duties. You will give me the information now."

My heart was hammering. I was playing with fire now, and I knew it.

"Look," I pointed out. "I could ask you to do stuff for me, but as soon as you have the information, you're not compelled to do a damn thing. Seriously, how can I trust you to not simply walk away and never come back?"

She paused, considering this. To her credit, she did not even try to convince me that she would not do such a thing, given the opportunity.

Eventually, she seemed to come to a decision.

"Give me something," she said. "Anything. Something solid. And I'll do what you ask of me. But on Friday, I expect the rest."

I nodded. I was wondering, now, if all this had been predicted by the Path of Victory, and if I was simply painting by the numbers here, or if I had truly caught her off guard.

Whichever it was, I decided, I was getting what I needed. So I chose not to worry about it.

"Okay," I agreed. "I'll tell you about the Endbringers right now. I'll tell you about Scion on Friday night. Okay?"

She nodded. "Okay," she agreed. "What do you know about them?"

So I explained to her how they weren't actually living beings, that their substance was made up of an artificial crystalline matter that got steadily denser as it got in toward their cores.

"I knew most of this already," she told me impatiently.

"I was just getting started," I chided her gently. "At the core, they are denser than should be possible in our space-time. They should be so heavy that they fall through the planet. But they don't, because they cheat. All the time. Their blood isn't blood; it's there to look like blood. Their muscles aren't needed; they're there to provide body mass. They are nothing more or less than mobile artifacts, projections with more force, that will last beyond their creator's demise."

She stared at me. "They were created?" she blurted. "By what madman? Who would have done such a thing?"

"I'll give you one guess," I said quietly. "Who is the one cape you can't predict, run a Path to Victory on?"

She was quiet for a very long moment.

"No," she whispered. "Not him. It can't be."

I nodded. "Sorry."

She stared. "But ... how? Why, by all that's holy?"

I took a deep breath. "You know how the source to all your powers operates. Call them shards, passengers, agents, whatever. They give you your powers, but they also give you something else." I paused. "A need for conflict."

She nodded slowly, reluctantly.

"And you know David's personal need for conflict," I went on. "He wants to push himself, get into a combat that truly scares him, to get that boost to his powers, lift himself to the next level."

Again, that reluctant nod.

"So," I concluded. "We have exhibit A; the most powerful and versatile powerset on Earth, short of Scion himself. Exhibit B; a man whose mind, conscious and subconscious both, is obsessed with testing himself, with finding a worthy opponent. Exhibit C; the fact that his powerset quite often acts outside of his conscious volition. And exhibit D; a shard that, like every other shard, actively promotes conflict. Mix those in together and tell me what you get."

I leaned back in my chair, winced as I pressed against the dressing on my back, leaned forward slightly. "Tell me it's not possible. Tell me he doesn't have means, motive and opportunity."

She shook her head, but more as a rearguard action than as a flat-out denial. "It is so hard to believe ... he is a great hero."

"Yes," I agreed. "He is. He really is. He doesn't know what he's done. All he knows is that the Endbringers are the perfect opponent. They can't be killed –" Yet, I amended silently, " – but they can be driven away, they will do terrible damage if not stopped, and he can go all-out against them."

She bit her lip. "How can I believe what you are saying?" she asked. "Even if it's true, how do I act upon it?"

I shrugged. "You came to me," I pointed out. "Your Path to Victory led you here. And as for acting on it ... well, that's between you and the rest of Cauldron. I can't tell you what to do. Don't believe it, do nothing. Believe it ... do something. Your choice, your move."

"What happens," she whispered, then cleared her throat and spoke normally. "What happens if he is killed? Will the Endbringers ... dissolve?"

I shook my head. "But they should stop attacking human centres indiscriminately. Right now, they're acting under his subconscious direction. Kill him, render him inert, remove his powers, and chances are that we won't see any more attacks." I paused. "Or at least, so I believe. I can't know for sure."

She nodded. "Your vision is as cloudy as mine, then. Or just a little less so."

I shrugged again. "If he is killed by Scion, they become amenable to direction, after a fashion. They assist in the fight. If it's not Scion who kills him ... I don't know."

She stared at me. "You have seen this?"

I half-smiled. "In a manner of speaking."

"But you are not a parahuman."

"Also correct."

Her gaze was puzzled. "I cannot work out how you know this. It is most frustrating."

I chuckled. "Trust me, you're better off not knowing. So. Good enough data to hold you till Friday night?"

Reluctantly, she nodded. "So what is it that you wish me to do before Friday?"

I looked her in the eye. "Several things, as a matter of fact. Starting on Sunday night ..."

=//=//=​

"So how long were you going to go before telling me about this?" asked Danny Hebert.

Taylor drew in a deep breath. "I ... really don't know," she admitted. "Before Friday, I was ... in a bad place. You know this. You had things on your mind, I didn't want to admit that the bullying was still going on, because it would just cause trouble and get us nowhere."

She paused. "It was a vicious cycle, really. And me having powers, my preparation to be a superhero, was my way out of it. But I had to do it on my own, I had to prove to myself that I could do it. Escape from the shitty life at school."

"And the shitty life here at home, too, I suppose," he said, his voice soft, sounding disappointed.

She shook her head. "No, Dad. Never. You've never been a disappointment to me. But ... when you were unable to do anything meaningful after the locker incident, you were so hurt. I didn't want to hurt you again."

"You know, it does hurt a little bit that you went to Mike and not me about this," he pointed out. "It also hurts a bit to know that Mike was the one to help you at the school, where I couldn't."

"Dad, it's his job," she pointed out. "And I asked him because ... well, I don't know. It just felt right."

Danny nodded. "I think I do," he told her. "He's an authority figure who's shown himself to be on your side. He earned your respect and gratitude – and mine – at the school. You think a lot of him. So you wanted to earn his respect. He said you'd be a great cape. The rest is easy."

Taylor flushed. "I don't think more of him than I do of you, Dad," she protested. "He's a great guy, but you're my Dad."

Danny hugged her. "I don't hold it against you," he soothed her. "Mike's just done more for you recently than I have. It's my job to redress that balance. So I'm gonna be a better Dad for you than I have been over the past few months, okay?"

Taylor laid her head against his chest. "I would have told you, really, if I had found the right place and time to do it," she told him. "It was just never the right time."

Danny nodded. "I know. It came as a nasty shock when you did tell me. But it was something that had to be done. You did say Mike told you to tell me?"

"Yeah," she said. "It was about the last thing he said before he went. Just to make sure I remembered, I guess."

"Well, I'm grateful for that, at least," Danny commented. He let her go and got up off the sofa. "I think I'll give him a call."

Taylor nodded. "Please don't yell at him too much."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he assured her.

=//=//=​

"Absolutely not!" snapped Contessa. "You shouldn't even know about that! There is no way you get that sort of clearance!"

"Just for a once-off," I pointed out. "It averts so many problems, including Cauldron being outed, down the track."

Her gaze sharpened; had she been endowed with laser vision, I would have been toasted through and through.

"You are surely not making a threat ..." she began.

I shook my head. "Not me. Eidolon."

A look of utter disbelief crossed her face. "Not Eidolon. I accepted what you said earlier, but this ... not a deliberate betrayal."

"Well, okay," I admitted, "not Eidolon specifically, but an evil clone, with his basic powerset. Which is why you can't see it."

"An evil clone," she repeated, disbelief heavy in her voice.

"I kid you not," I assured her. "He also kills Myrddin. But help me with this, that never happens, and you not only get a bunch of capes who are willing to work for you, but you also get a huge advance on your ability to work out future problems."

"That's a big difference from Cauldron being outed," she observed.

"It is," I agreed. "Played right, that's what can be done. But I do need that clearance."

She took a deep breath. "I'll see what I can do."

"Appreciated," I told her. "And thanks again for saving my sorry ass."

She nodded, her expression wry. "I'm certainly paying enough for my good deed."

I had to chuckle. "Sorry for giving you a hard time like that."

She offered me a half-smile as she stood. "I suspect I may have needed that little lesson in humility. I do appreciate your assistance, if not the content of what you have told me."

"I just hope you can use it," I told her.

She nodded. "So do I." She raised one eyebrow. "You did realise that I could have had you taken by Cauldron and questioned extensively, and that they would have had all your answers within minutes?"

I nodded. "I did realise that. But you also realised that I could give you a set of nonsensical answers, and you'd never know the difference. I'm giving you these answers of my own free will. And that's how your Path to Victory told you to ask for them."

She looked a little put out. "I am not used to people knowing about that," she told me severely. "I hope you don't spread it around."

"Me?" I asked, spreading my hand over my chest. "I'm just a simple security guard. I know nothing about things like that."

"Indeed," she agreed, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "A simple security guard." Raising her voice slightly, she added, "Door."

A portal opened, beyond which was a white, gleaming corridor. She turned to me, and nodded once. "Friday, then," she said.

"Friday," I agreed. "See you then."

She stepped through, and it closed behind her. I let out a long pent-up breath.

She could have taken me in so easily. But she didn't.

I pondered the matter for a moment. I must figure into her PtV later on down the track, and dragging me in for questioning would disrupt that.

I was still trying to figure out whether that was creepy, cool or downright scary, when the phone rang.


I picked it up; it was Danny's number.

"Danny, hi," I said cheerfully. "I'm guessing you had that little chat with Taylor?"

He sounded somewhat aggrieved. "Hello, Mike," he replied. "I'm not sure whether I should be pissed at you or pleased with you."

"I can understand that," I agreed. "I'm not a father, but I can imagine that it would be a horrible shock."

"Actually, it kind of makes sense, now," he admitted. "A lot of little things adding up. Her running, to get fit. She's been just a little more secretive."

"Okay, here's the question," I proposed. "Are you pleased she told you, or unhappy?"

"Pleased that she told me, unhappy that this is happening at all," he replied at once. "Thanks for asking her to tell me, by the way."

"Hey," I assured him, "I promised her that I wouldn't tell you, but I figured you needed to know. But as for the fact of the matter ... whether you knew or not, she's going to do it, you do understand this, right? If you forbid her, she'll likely agree, then sneak out anyway."

He sighed, his voice heavy. "Yeah. This does seem to mean a great deal to her."

I chuckled. "'A great deal' doesn't begin to cover it," I told him. "It's basically the biggest thing in her life right now. She needs to do this. She needs to assert herself in this way. She needs to prove she can do it."

"But I'm worried," Danny confessed. "She's only fifteen. She's my little girl. She can't ... I'm scared that she'll go out and never come back."

I took a deep breath. "Tell you what," I said. "I'll go out with her. Just to keep an eye on her."

The pause was so long I wondered if the connection had been broken.

"You'll do that?" he asked me.

"Sure," I confirmed. "I've always wanted to be a sidekick, anyway. First sign of trouble, I call for the cavalry."

"And you're sure you can handle that?" he asked.

I shrugged, although he couldn't see me. "I'd say 'how hard can it be' but that'd be asking for trouble. So let's just say, I'll be loaded for bear. Literally."

He took a deep breath, then released it, audible over the phone. "If you can do that for me ... I would seriously owe you. More than I do now."

"Actually, as for that," I observed. "You might be able to do me a bit of a favour. Suppose I asked you to put up someone for a month or so; a teenage girl, about Taylor's age. Would you be able to do it?"

"Sure," he replied immediately. "That would be no problem at all. Is she in some sort of trouble?"

"Not as such," I responded. "Just needs to get away from a fairly horrible home situation."

"What do her parents think about this?" he asked next.

"When they find out, I doubt they'll complain much," I assured him. "But it's okay?"

"Sure, it's okay," he told me. "Just give me a heads-up when and if, all right?"

"I can do that," I replied. "So, tomorrow night?"

"Yeah, tomorrow night," he agreed. "You will take care of her, won't you?"

"She'll probably end up taking care of me, but yes, I'll do my best," I promised.

"I suppose that'll have to do. See you then."

"See you then."


I hung up and looked at the clock. I really should have been getting to bed, but I was still feeling too jumpy. I needed to do something to wind down.

I spun the chair around and booted up the laptop.

=//=//=​

Welcome to the Parahumans Online message boards.
You are currently logged in, mack0813
You are viewing:
• Threads you have replied to
• AND Threads that have new replies
• OR private message conversations with new replies
• Thread OP is displayed.
• Ten posts per page
• Last ten messages in private message history.
• Threads and private messages are ordered chronologically.
GstringGirl has accepted your friend request.
You have (1) new message from GstringGirl.
You have no infractions and no warnings.

=//=//=​

♦ Private message from GstringGirl:

GstringGirl *New Message*: hi. you sent me a friend request?
mack0813: Why yes, yes I did. Want to chat sometime?
GstringGirl: i'd like that. what do you want to chat about?
mack0813: Anything and everything, really. Just ... there is one thing.
GstringGirl: what?
mack0813: I am not, repeat not, interested in meeting up. I'm sure you're a very nice girl, but I have my reasons. So I'll chat about anything under the sun, but I don't do pics and I don't do hookups. I'd prefer to keep my illusions about who I'm chatting to. Deal?
mack0813: Sorry about the rant. I've been burned before.
GstringGirl: sure, that's ok. i'm kind of that way myself. parents are really strict, and are really worried that I might meet someone nasty online.
mack0813: I did. Enough said. Lesson learned.
mack0813: So, anyway. What do you like to do as a hobby?
GstringGirl: oh, uh, Ive been playing this computer game called Space Opera, but I'm not really that good at it.
mack0813: Tell me about it. Pac-Man is about my speed. And I still suck at that.
GstringGirl: rly? wow.
mack0813: Wow what, that I suck at Pac-Man?
GstringGirl: no, that you've played it at all. Ive never known anyone who even admits to having played it before.
mack0813: Heh. Well, yeah, poorly. As for things like Space Opera, I've seen it, but seriously? They really expect me to memorise all those controls?
GstringGirl: i have trouble with it too. Ive done my best, but nearly everyone else I chat to doesn't understand why I have so much trouble with it.
mack0813: And that's all they want to talk about, right?
GstringGirl: oh, you have no idea. theyve got all their hints and tips and tricks, but if I'm not good enough to use them, what use is it to me?
mack0813: I hear you. Trust me, I know how that goes.
GstringGirl: so if you don't play Space Opera, what do you play?
mack0813: Online roleplaying games, mostly.
GstringGirl: ... im not sure what you mean by that. or does it mean what i think it does?
mack0813: ?
mack0813: Oh! Oh, no, not *that* sort of roleplaying.
GstringGirl: oh, thats a relief. i don't do cyber. it sounds kind of icky.
mack0813: Let's just say, it's an acquired taste. No, no, what I do is an online version of tabletop gaming.
GstringGirl: not sure what that is.
mack0813: Well, basically? It's all about imagination and escapism. Creating a story where you're the hero, and virtually anything can happen, because it's your story.
GstringGirl: ... still not sure I understand.
mack0813: Okay, let me give you an example. Or better yet, a demonstration. Imagine a clearing in a forest.
GstringGirl: all right, i'm imagining it.
mack0813: Okay, now imagine that you're standing in that clearing. Or rather, the character that you want to play. Who is that character, what does he or she look like, and why is he or she there in the first place?
GstringGirl: … what, I can be anyone?
mack0813: Sure. Describe yourself. Or rather, your character. Who you are, what you look like, has zero bearing in this case.
GstringGirl: are bad things going to happen in this?
mack0813: I prefer for good things to happen.
GstringGirl: ok, Im a slave girl on the run from a cruel master.
mack0813: … wow, that one came out of left field. This is good. I like it. Okay, what's the slave girl's name, what does she look like, what's she wearing?
GstringGirl: her name is Svetlana. she's tall and slender, with dusky skin, long dark hair, and flashing latina eyes.
mack0813: Flashing Latina eyes. You have a knack for description.
GstringGirl: you think so?
mack0813: Sure. I can see her already. What is she wearing?
GstringGirl: sort of a dancing girl outfit, but one that actually covers her.
mack0813: But a little bit torn because she's been running through the forest?
GstringGirl: but she's still totally modest.
mack0813: We can go with that, sure. Okay, now, we've established the character. I'll just fill in a bit more of the background, if you like.
GstringGirl: she's not his concubine, okay?
mack0813: Wasn't even going to go there. Okay, so. Svetlana is originally from a desert-dwelling tribe in the southern part of the continent of Anganda.
GstringGirl: Anganda? Where's that?
mack0813: Right next door to the island of Turok.
GstringGirl: this is like all those weird countries in Lord of the Rings, right? Mordor and Gondor and stuff like that?
mack0813: Exactly. Building a fantasy world, you can call things what you want.
GstringGirl: ok then. svetlana's from Anganda. her family's sort of like Bedouins, I guess.
mack0813: Sounds about right. Well, they were indentured servants to a really rich family, until there was a little trouble with Svetlana and the oldest son of the household. You see, because she's very pretty, he decided that it was his right to sample the wares.
GstringGirl: he didnt though, did he?
mack0813: No. Another housemaid saw you running past, and found him curled up in agony. Svetlana had kicked him exactly where you don't want to be kicked at a time like this.
GstringGirl: the stomach?
mack0813: … yeah, we'll go with that.
GstringGirl: she got in trouble for that, didn't she?
mack0813: That generally happens when you do that sort of thing, I'm afraid.
GstringGirl: so what happened then?
mack0813: Well, her father was ordered to pay recompense, and he couldn't even begin to afford that. So there was only one alternative. Your character was sold into slavery.
GstringGirl: and that's how she became a slave girl?
mack0813: That's how she became a slave girl.
mack0813: So anyway, she was shipped up to Lantara, in the northern part of Anganda, to be sold off as a troublesome slave.
GstringGirl: but that's not fair! she was only defending herself!
mack0813: Unfortunately, indentured servitude is only about one step above slavery in that part of the world, so yeah, fairness doesn't come into it. So anyway, you were sold off to a merchant called Janji. Older guy, a little creepy, fat and repulsive. Never bathed, just rubbed scented oils into his skin to hide his body odour.
GstringGirl: sounds disgusting.
mack0813: Just a little bit, yes.
GstringGirl: so when do I escape from him?
mack0813: Not yet. First off, you were taken on board ship. Old-style sailing ship. You think Svetlana would have been okay, or seasick?
GstringGirl: maybe sick the first day or so, but fine after that.
mack0813: yup, sounds good. Janji … not so much. He pretty well colonised the rail the whole trip.
GstringGirl: hahaha the wimp. So how long was the trip?
mack0813: About a week. The island of Chadan lies between Anganda and Turok, and the captain wanted to give it a wide berth.
GstringGirl: whys that? whats so bad about Chadan?
mack0813: When Svetlana asked one of the sailors, she was told that Chadan was a 'death island'. People don't go there. The stories go that even ships that drop anchor in the waters around Chadan are not seen again.
GstringGirl: did I get the impression he was trying to frighten me? i was thinking, if people don't go to Chadan, it might be the perfect place for a runaway slave to hide out.
mack0813: Not really. You got the impression he was being perfectly matter-of-fact. Water is wet, the sky is blue, people don't go to Chadan.
GstringGirl: huh. ok, so maybe its not the best idea to jump off the ship and swim in to the shore.
mack0813: Well, there's that. Also, swimming in open water is fairly hazardous.
GstringGirl: hazardous, why?
mack0813: Well, there's the seadrakes, the long-necks, the megalodons and the ones they called Death From Below.
GstringGirl: what are all those?
mack0813: Seadrakes are dragons that are adapted to the ocean. Long-necks are basically plesiosaurs. Megalodons are eighty-foot great white sharks. And Death From Below … have you ever heard of the marine dinosaur they call Predator X?
GstringGirl: not really, but I can look it up.
mack0813: Okay, sure. Crocodile head, four big flippers, short tail. Used to hunt plesiosaurs, back in the day.
GstringGirl: you mentioned dragons.
mack0813: Oh yeah, didn't I say? There's dragons.
GstringGirl: ok, now this is starting to sound cool. but I have a question. why do ships even go out on the ocean with all those nasty things out there?
mack0813: Because the average ship is a hard target. All of those critters are solo hunters, so they'd have to work to sink a ship. And in the meantime, the sailors are doing their best to kill the predator. So they usually go after softer prey.
GstringGirl: well, that makes sense. so, what happens? we go around Chadan, the 'death island', and we get to … what was it? Durok?
mack0813: Turok. You land at a port to the north-east corner of the island of Turok. You don't know much about it except that there's a kingdom called Mornas there, and they're all barbarians who don't speak Angandan, or even Lantrai. And there's all these *trees* here.
GstringGirl: whats so odd about trees?
mack0813: You're a desert dweller, remember. Trees, for you, come in small clumps. Outside the port, there are *forests*. It's really weird, not being able to see past the treeline.
GstringGirl: oh right. yes, that would be strange.
mack0813: Jeez, look at the time. Sorry, but I really think I should get to bed.
GstringGirl: oh sry i didn't mean to keep u up.
mack0813: Eh, I'm a big boy. So, wanna keep playing once I get some sleep?
GstringGirl: yes, plz. i want to see how svetlana gets out of this.
mack0813: Sweet. Well, g'night, G-girl.
GstringGirl: good night mack.

=//=//=​

Sveta logged off the computer and carefully placed her body on the sleeping shelf. She was tired; it had been a long time since she had spent so much time chatting to someone. But it had been fun, too. Mack didn't try to pry, and he didn't want to chat about Space Opera. And she wanted to see where the story with Svetlana the slave girl was going.

It was nice to chat with someone who just treated her like an ordinary person.

Smiling slightly to herself, she coiled her tentacles loosely around her sleeping perch, and drifted off to sleep.

=//=//=​

I rubbed my eyes as I watched the laptop power down. That had been fun. And if Sveta thought the idea of seadrakes was cool, wait till she met the hearth-dragons.

But as enjoyable as that had been, I really needed to get some sleep.

Standing up, I stretched – wincing as I inadvertently tugged on the dressing on my arm – and headed off to bed.

Tomorrow, after all, was another day.


End of Chapter Six

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Seven: Calm Before the Storm

I woke at five thirty in the morning, with the alarm blaring in my ear. All over again, I experienced that same feeling of disorientation, of being in the wrong place. Lying there, in that half-awake state that can so easily go either way, I considered seriously the notion that somehow I was indeed stuck in a dream of some sort. After all, I still remembered sitting down to write up the fanfic placing my self-insert character into Winslow High.

Perhaps I had gone out that night for whatever reason, and gotten into an accident. Maybe I was in a coma, either traumatic or induced, and my subconscious was filling in the long blank with the story I had intended to write. After all, author-falls-into-story fics were not exactly unknown, being the most blatant of SIs.

Being in a coma would explain why I had not woken from the dream, if dream it was. But I found myself reluctant to accept that idea, much less act on it. Maybe my very success so far was proof that it was a dream after all, but then, maybe I had just been lucky. After all, the knowledge I had been able to display, coupled with a confident attitude, had probably done the trick.

I thought back to the scene in the story where Dragon and Defiant, along with the Wards, confronted Taylor in the cafeteria at Arcadia. Without costume, without weapons, with barely any bugs to call on, Taylor still had them bluffed, by sheer virtue of her reputation as Skitter.

I suspected that, without even knowing it, or intending to, I had pulled off much the same sort of stunt with Armsmaster and the Director. The Wormverse, after all, was a place where the power to level buildings could reside in the frame of a deceptively slight teenage girl, and people knew it. In such a world, it only made sense to be wary of someone who showed confidence in the face of adversity; all too often, where cape powers were concerned, such confidence would be shown to be entirely justified. Given their experience, Emily Piggot and Colin Wallis were not the sort of people to take unnecessary chances in that regard.

My attitude, coupled with the information I had so casually dispensed, had given them pause, long enough for them to think about what I was saying. I wasn't quite sure what their final assessment of me was, but there was probably a cape mixed into their theories somewhere. After all, it was almost an article of faith in the Wormverse that it took a parahuman to really accomplish anything of importance. I was an anomaly, one that didn't fit into their patterns, so they made a pattern to fit me into.

I rolled over, and as if on cue, my mind switched on to a different track.

Taylor was going to go out tonight.

I had more or less railroaded her on to this path as a part of my campaign to build up her self-esteem, but I had begun having second thoughts almost immediately afterward. Sure, she had the armour costume, sure she had the milspec pepper spray, sure she had the screamer. But she also had a different attitude, more confident, and that would likely cause her to approach the matter in a different way. And this just might kill her. I was terrified that I was sending a fifteen year old girl out to be immolated and gutted by an unstoppable killer.

That was if she even encountered Lung, of course. But if she didn't, if the ABB went on their way, and Lung met the Undersiders while he was still at full strength, while they were fighting Oni Lee, the results could be deadly for the teen villains.

I didn't want that to happen; I had a certain amount of feeling for them.

Brian, for all his flaws, was trying to do right by his sister. Lisa wanted out from under Coil's thumb - and was in some danger of becoming a replacement for Dinah if and when the Alcott kidnapping failed - and Rachel just wanted to be left alone with her dogs.

Alec ... I had less sympathy for. Yes, he didn't have much in the way of finer feelings. Sociopath, almost certainly. But this wasn't his fault; growing up with Heartbreaker would twist almost anyone's mind. And he did do that thing for Taylor - or rather, would have, if Shadow Stalker wasn't already on her way back to juvenile detention. And he would also have sacrificed himself to save Aisha's life, in a future that probably woudn't happen now anyway. But the potential was there.

Long story short, I didn't really like the idea of any of the Undersiders dying just so that Taylor could have an easier time of it. So I had decided to see if I could arrange matters for the best possible result; the Undersiders surviving, Lung defeated, and most importantly, Taylor coming out of it alive and hopefully with a win under her belt.

A lot of this, of course, hinged on Contessa's ability to manipulate matters behind the scenes. Or rather, her willingness to use that ability to assist me, in return for the information about Scion. She wanted it badly; or at least, I hoped she wanted it as badly as I thought she did. If she screwed me on it, would I still give her the information, just to save the world? Or would I descend to the pettiness of the rest of the world, and hold out, just to spite her?

I surely hoped that I would never have to find out. I strongly suspected that I would give up the information before I would let the world burn; if this was true, and Contessa knew it, it would be easier for her to simply ignore some or all of my requests, and simply hold out her hand for the information on Friday.

But then, there was the alternate outcome I had mentioned; the outing of Cauldron by Eidolon's clone, and the death of Myrddin. She could not plan to stop that, because she could not fit Eidolon into her Path to Victory ...

This was doing me no good. My mind was going around and around in circles, and I was reaching no useful conclusions. But nor was I finding my way back into the sleep state from which my alarm had so rudely jolted me.

I threw back the covers and sat up, then paused to consider; if this was a dream, it was a remarkably detailed one, if I was irritated about being woken up from a sound sleep within that dream.

My feet found the floor, and I flinched. I was still not used to the chill of Brockton Bay early mornings. It wasn't quite as cold as the time I had visited Jersey in February, quite a few years ago, but it was cold enough, thank you very much.

As I stretched, the cut on my arm twinged sharply, drawing my attention to it in no uncertain terms.

Oh yeah, that happened, didn't it?

I found the slippers, pulled on the dressing-gown, and padded off to the bathroom. There was a reasonably equipped medical kit there; I cut up a plastic bag and wrapped it around the dressing, sticking it in place with medical tape. When I was fairly sure that it would stay dry, I got into the shower. At least the water was hot and plentiful. I faced into the spray, letting the water run over me, feeling my head clear.

My priorities gradually emerged from the chaos. I had undertaken to go out with Taylor; when I had said I would be going loaded for bear, I had meant with all the equipment Michael Allen possessed for dangerous security work; stab vest, baton, pepper spray, screamer, concealed firearm. But I wondered, now, if I owned anything I had not yet discovered. This was, after all, America.

Finding Lung and the ABB would not be a problem; if I chose to find them, we would find them. But what we would do once we found them was still very much up in the air. If she knew it was Lung to begin with, would she still want to engage? If she knew that the 'children' she was attacking him to save were villains, would she still choose to save them, or let the matter go?

If she chose not to attack, then I could not very well force her to change her mind; coercing a teenager to launch an unprovoked attack on a highly dangerous cape was a very bad idea. I would be far better off if she chose to attack; I would then be able to offer safe alternatives for poor tactics.

Safer alternatives, I corrected in my own head. When it came to cape battles, there was no such thing as 'safe'.

But I knew the pitfalls, and so I would do my best to steer Taylor past them. It wasn't just saving the world; I wanted Taylor, herself, to be happy and secure and alive. Reading the story, I had felt her pain, her unhappiness as her world repeatedly unravelled around her, leaving her to bear the burden of action, to do what needed to be done, no matter how much it hurt. But still, she was merely a character in a story, until I had unexpectedly arrived within the story myself.

Now, she was real. Her pain was real. Danny's pain was real. I knew her story from beginning to end, the pain, the betrayal, the struggle, the hurt. What she would be forced to do, just to fix things, to make things work.

She didn't deserve to have to make the choice to shoot an infant child, to save Aster from the tender mercies of Jack Slash, the only way she could. She didn't deserve to be the one to condemn five capes to death along with Noelle Meinhardt, to make the call while everyone else stayed silent. She didn't deserve to suffer the endless bullying from the three girls, from the day she began high school to the day she chose to never attend again.

That last, I could only curtail; the bullying had been done, the damage inflicted. Pain, from which she would never really recover. The scars would run deep, for the rest of her life. But those girls would never have that hold over her again; that, I could ensure. Noelle Meinhardt would never become Echidna; that also, I could ensure. Aster Klara Anders would grow up to become the delight of her mother's eye; I would do my best to give both her and Kayden a second chance they never had in the story, a second chance they would never know about.

I didn't know how long I would survive in Brockton Bay, doing the things I was doing. Sooner or later, someone of note would pay attention to me, and something would happen to me. Best case, I would be recruited by one side or another. Worst case, I would be disappeared. But before that day came, I would do my best to ensure that the worst would not come for the rest of the world.

It was the least I could do.

=///=​

With such morbid thoughts running through my head, I finished drying myself off, and got dressed. The dressing had made it through the shower intact; I stripped off the plastic cover.

There was a closet in my room that I had not gone through, and now I did.

Maybe I own a shotgun, I thought idly. A pump action shotgun, like the one I nearly bought that one time. That would be kind of cool.

And I did find something. But it wasn't a pump action shotgun. It was something that was much more familiar to me.

The case was stamped metal, with a padlock holding it closed. A separate locked metal box was marked MAGS AMMO CLEANING. I found the keys on my keyring, opened the padlock. Lifted the lid, and unwrapped the oily rags from around the long shape within.

"Well, shit," I said out loud as I looked down at what I had found. "Looks like I never got rid of it."

I lifted the gun off its nest of rags, pulled back the cocking handle to ensure that there was nothing in the breech, then let it clack forward once more. The action worked smoothly. Then I held it to my shoulder and dry-fired it; the crisp click brought back memories.

Many years ago, when I had been temporarily in funds, I had decided to buy a rifle. I had a weapons permit, due to family connections, and I wanted to own a gun. I was in my twenties; this seemed to be the thing to do. So I had quite legally purchased a second (third? Fourth?) hand M-1 carbine. I had actually nearly bought a chromed pump shotgun instead, but the cost of ammo had dissuaded me.

I had fun with my carbine; I went out to a local firing range and put a good many rounds through it – relatively low-power ammunition, so fairly cheap – before taking it home and going through the ritual of cleaning it. Two fifteen-round magazines had come with it, and I purchased a thirty-round magazine – ostensibly for an M-2, but it would fit the M-1 – a little later. It would have been the height of illegality to carry it openly with a fully loaded magazine of either size in it, so I never did. But it was still fun to own, and go shooting at the range occasionally.

A shooting spree at a holiday resort was what put paid to my gun ownership days. It was decreed that all previously legally owned semi-automatic rifles and carbines were a danger to the population, and so my gun was bought back by the government – for less than I had originally paid for it – and destroyed.

However, it seemed that in this reality, Michael Allen had never had to give it up.

I put it back into its case and re-wrapped the oily rags around it. Carefully, I locked the case, and put it back into the closet. I was thinking hard. The gun, unloaded of course, would fit behind the seat of my pickup.

An M-1 carbine threw a pistol-strength .30 calibre round, but the other locked box – I investigated - held both soft-nose and hollow-point rounds. And it would fire as fast as I could squeeze the trigger, which would put a large number of those rounds downrange in a very short time.

It wasn't a modern assault rifle; it wasn't even a pump-action shotgun. But it was still a gun. Designed for ease of carrying and use, it would serve to dissuade random ABB thugs, and may just tip the balance (or at least serve as a distraction) in a battle with Lung.

I would take any advantage I could get.

=///=​

Back in the bathroom, I washed the gun oil off of my hands, and headed into the kitchen. I was in a thoughtful mood as I poured milk on to my cereal.

This was my third morning in Brockton Bay, and I had already caused a good many butterflies to go on their way. Moreover, I was planning to send a good many more around and about. Tonight's excursion with Taylor would probably cause a few, just on its own. I hoped that it would not make Contessa's job any harder than it had to be.

I flicked on the TV; the programming was evenly divided between Sunday morning church services, and rebuilding efforts in those cities that had been hit most recently by Behemoth and Leviathan. The damage caused by the Simurgh was a good deal more subtle, and far more dangerous, as I understood things.

With a shudder, I turned it off again. I could not let myself watch too much, or I might simply give up hope. Most people simply accepted what was going on; for those under thirty, it had been a fact of life for them since birth. I knew, or thought I knew, that it could be changed, could be fixed. How it could be fixed.

Not by me personally, of course. But I could set up the dominoes, send them toppling.

Knowledge, properly applied, has a power all of its own.

=///=​

Around about nine o'clock, I picked up the phone and dialled Gladys Knott's number.

This wasn't part of any long-term world-saving plan that I was hatching; I just felt that it would be nice to spend time with her. When one is on the wrong side of forty, one does not turn down the opportunity for friendly companionship. Especially from a lady with whom one has already shared a kiss.

She answered the phone with a chuckle. "Good morning, Michael," she greeted me. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did indeed," I told her. "Are you busy this morning?"

"Just a little," she replied. "Why do you ask?"

Her tone of voice told me that she knew perfectly well why I was asking. I grinned and shook my head.

"Oh, just wondering if you'd like to actually go out and get that coffee at some point," I commented casually.

"Well," she told me, with equal casualness, "I will be grading projects until about eleven thirty. If you're free then, I would positively adore the chance to go out and get some coffee."

"That sounds reasonable to me," I told her. "Eleven thirty, right?"

"Indeed," she confirmed. "I'll see you then?"

"I'll be outside," I agreed. "Bye."

"Goodbye, Michael."


I put the phone down again, and regarded it pensively. I didn't know if I was being too needy, too eager, for human companionship. Back home I hadn't needed it quite so much, but then, back home I didn't have so much weighing on my every move either. I didn't think I would be unburdening my every problem on to Gladys' shoulders, but it would be nice to spend time with her.

And talking about that, there was someone else that I needed to spend time with as well; or rather, someone who needed to spend time with me. I sat down at the laptop and booted it up.

=///=​

Welcome to the Parahumans Online message boards.
You are currently logged in, mack0813
You are viewing:
• Threads you have replied to
• AND Threads that have new replies
• OR private message conversations with new replies
• Thread OP is displayed.
• Ten posts per page
• Last ten messages in private message history.
• Threads and private messages are ordered chronologically.
You have no infractions and no warnings.

=///=​

mack0813: Knock knock, anybody awake?
GstringGirl : hi mack. how are you?
mack0813: fighting fit and twice as ugly, you?
GstringGirl : ... what?
mack0813: heh, sorry, it's a thing I say.
GstringGirl : ah, I see. is it supposed to mean anything?
mack0813: Not overly, I suppose. So, is Svetlana ready to kick ass and take names?
GstringGirl : yes!
GstringGirl : i mean, unless you want to chat about something else.
mack0813: That's your choice. Never let it be said that I stand between a lady and her roleplaying.
GstringGirl : actually, before we start, can I ask you a sort of personal question?
mack0813: You can ask. I don't promise to answer.
GstringGirl : okay, I guess thats fair. what does the 'mack' in ur username mean? Is it ur actual name, or are u into trucks or something?
mack0813: Heh. Neither, really. It's a sort of mix of my first name and middle name. I got called it years ago, and it kind of stuck. Now only my really close friends know to call me it. And since I've moved, that's basically no-one. You're the first person to call me that name in like forever.
GstringGirl : oh, sry. didnt mean to bring up bad memories
mack0813: Hey, is all good. It's nice to have someone calling me by that name. Everyone around here calls me by my real name, and that's boring.
GstringGirl : oh ok, if it's all right then?
mack0813: Yeah, no worries. Though you got me curious now too. Can I ask if there's a funny story behind your username, or is that too personal?
GstringGirl : its sort of personal. can we not talk about that plz?
mack0813: Not talk about what? I was asking you if Svetlana was ready to go, and we got distracted by some totally unimportant stuff.
GstringGirl : yes, shes ready to go. Thanks.
mack0813: No worries. So. Do you remember where we were up to?
GstringGirl : We had landed in a port on this island called Turok, in a kingdom called Moris or something?
mack0813: The kingdom is called Mornas. It basically covers the top third of the island of Turok. Turok's about twice the size of Alaska, by the way.
GstringGirl : thats some island
mack0813: It surely is. So anyway, Svetlana's pretty well got her sea legs by the time the ship berths in the harbour. There are these things squawking over the harbour that look like seagulls but have teeth as well as beaks. You know of them; in fact, true birds don't really exist in this world.
GstringGirl : where do they get eggs from?
mack0813: There are these lizard-like things, about the size and shape of chickens, with feathers across the backs and down the arms to make sort-of wings. But they're mainly scaly, and they have lizard heads with teeth. They lay a sort of leathery skinned egg, about the same size and shape as a chicken egg.
GstringGirl : ive noticed there's a lot of dinosaury things about this world.
mack0813: Why yes, yes, there is. Funny, that.
GstringGirl : is there a reason for this?
mack0813: Does there need to be a reason for dinosaurs?
GstringGirl : i suppose not. Dinosaurs are cool too.
mack0813: Yes, they are. So anyway, as Svetlana strolls down the gangplank, and Janji stumbles after her, looking like he's lost about ten pounds, and smelling like something scraped from the bottom of a privy barrel ...
GstringGirl : so about the same as normal, then.
GstringGirl : you still there mack?
mack0813: oh god, laughing so hard that it hurts. Seriously, I nearly just fell off my chair.
mack0813: You get an experience point for that.
GstringGirl : a what?
mack0813: Okay, I'm basically making up this system on the fly, but an experience point is something that you can spend at any time to make something good happen, to make something that was already good even better, or to make a bad thing not happen. I just gave you one. Spend it wisely.
GstringGirl : do I have to spend it right away?
mack0813: No, just remember that you've got it. Any time you want to change what I've just said happens, tell me you're spending your experience point.
GstringGirl : so how do I get more? do I have to say other funny stuff?
mack0813: No, I'm basically giving them out when you show you're really getting into the game. Like just now. You just came out with that comment without even thinking about it. So any time you come up with an awesome bit of roleplaying, I'll give you one. They're meant to be few and far between, so don't strain yourself. Just be yourself, and have fun. You'll get more. You're a natural at this.
GstringGirl : oh wow thanks. you have no idea how much that means to me.
mack0813: Hey, is all good. I calls 'em as I sees 'em.
mack0813: So. As Svetlana comes down to dock level, with Janji stumbling after, and looking like he wants to fall on the dockside and kiss it, she is struck by the sheer multitude and variety of people going by. This is a busy port.
GstringGirl : Svetlana looks around. What does she see?
mack0813: There are men with every shade of hair from white through red to black, and other men with dark skin, darker than hers. There are men wearing what look like dresses, and women wearing men's clothing and carrrying weapons. Among all this, Svetlana, wearing her dancing girl outfit, is unusual only because of her beauty. And then she sees something else.
GstringGirl : What's that?
mack0813: She hears a screech, somewhat different from the toothy gulls. Looking up, she sees a couple of flying things, about the size of a large cat – though domestic cats don't exist here either – squabbling over half a fish. One is bright blue, one is bright red, they have iridescent wings ... yeah, they're dragons. Small enough to sit on your shoulder.
GstringGirl : dragons? Really? Small dragons? Are they cute?
mack0813: Oh yeah. Even squabbling like they are now, they are so cute it hurts. Now, you've heard of these things before, but you'd never seen them, so you'd never really thought about them. They're called hearth-dragons, and they're one of the three types of dragons you've heard of.
GstringGirl : oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh
GstringGirl : that's what svetlana says
mack0813: Haha so cute. Yes, okay, you get another experience point for that.
GstringGirl : oooh thx. Um, what are the other types of dragons?
mack0813: Well, there's the hearth-dragons. They're supposed to be cute – you can attest to that – and friendly and mischievous. They're also supposed to bring good luck. Then there's the drakes. They're about twice the size of a large horse, and they're savage and carnivorous. There's nine different types, but most of them fly and all of them will eat you alive.
GstringGirl : wow. thats a bit of a difference. whats the third type?
mack0813: No-one knows for sure if they really exist or if they're just legends. They're called the Ancient dragons, or the Ancients for short. People swear to them, not like gods, but like really powerful beings. "By the Ancients", stuff like that. No-one you know has ever seen one, or has ever met anyone who's seen one. But they were supposed to be huge. Really big. And seriously powerful. Intelligent, talking, and really good at magic.
GstringGirl : magic? theres magic too?
mack0813: Well, that's what people call it. People use it too, but not quite in the same way. With humans, it's broken down into three aspects; the Way, the Art and the Craft. The Way focuses inward; it's sort of like training for anime martial arts. The Craft is like Tinkers do, building stuff that shouldn't work but does.
mack0813: And the Art focuses on living things and the world around you, things like making it rain and making crops grow. A master in the Art can heal wounds on someone, but it takes hours or even days of concentration. It's very slow, gentle and gradual. But it works.
GstringGirl : wow it sounds like youve thought about this a lot.
mack0813: I've been putting it together over a while, yes.
GstringGirl : so can Svetlana do any of this stuff?
mack0813: She's never shown any aptitude, sorry. Besides, indentured servants and slave girls don't exactly get the chance to go off and practise with magic.
GstringGirl : I'd like to see if she can learn it sometime.
mack0813: That can definitely be done. Once you get away from Janji, that is. Remember him? Your smelly, smelly master?
GstringGirl : Oh god how can i forget
mack0813: So anyway, Svetlana is staring up at the dragons overhead, when suddenly she is jerked forward by the slender chain that is fastened to her wrist. It's basically the way they keep track of slaves. Less intrusive than a collar around the neck.
GstringGirl : Svetlana moves forward obediently, while glancing upward, hoping to catch another glimpse of the cute little dragons.
mack0813: You see another couple as you are led through the streets of the port city. One that looked bright green, and one was a golden yellow.
GstringGirl : oh so adorable. now I want one.
mack0813: well, you've heard they're friendly. All you've got to do is find one that wants to make friends.
GstringGirl : Svetlana is definitely looking out for that now.
mack0813: ... and the chance to run away?
GstringGirl : oh, that too. definitely that.
mack0813: Well, on that note, I'm going to have to run away myself, sorry. Real life yanks on my chain, and like Svetlana, I have to obey. But I will return.
GstringGirl : ok mack. its been really nice chatting to you. and sry about being rude about my name.
mack0813: I recall no rudeness. We're both adults. I asked; you didn't feel like answering. Is all good. And just by the by, it's really nice chatting with you too. I'm having fun running this game.
GstringGirl : thats good, because I'm having fun playing it. and I'm learning so much about this world. It feels so real.
mack0813: Trust me, G-girl, I know exactly how that feels.
mack0813: Actually, question. Is it okay to call you G-girl, or do you have a nickname you'd prefer I use?
GstringGirl : I hadn't really thought about it. i guess ... would it seem weird if I asked you to call me Svetlana? after my character?
mack0813: Weird? Not in the slightest. So you'd like me to call you Svetlana?
GstringGirl : ... yes, I think I would. I really would. Thanks, Mack.
mack0813: You're welcome. And anyway, Svetlana's a cute name. I like it.
GstringGirl : oh, uh, it's just one i came up with on the spur of the moment
mack0813: Well, it's cute anyway. But yeah, gotta make like a nervous shepherd.
GstringGirl : ?
mack0813: And get the flock outta here.
GstringGirl : hahahahahahahaha bye mack
mack0813: Bye Svetlana.

You have signed out of Private Chat.

=///=​

Sveta logged out of the chat, and eased away from the computer. It was so nice talking to Mack. He never made any demands, never asked awkward questions, or if he did, let the subject drop as soon as he realised.

He was nice to her. Gentlemanly. Polite. Made jokes, but never at her expense, and laughed at her jokes. And he's having fun running the game for me. He said so.

She turned to the book she was using for her drawings, and turned to a fresh page. Slowly, carefully, she began to draw a picture of a dusky-skinned slave girl called Svetlana, with a blue dragon on one shoulder and a green dragon on the other.

As she worked, she hummed, and her tendrils waved gently around her smiling face.

=///=​

I shut down the laptop. The time was ten forty; enough time to freshen up and get dressed in smart casuals, just the thing to go out for coffee in. I still had a smile on my face from the chat with Sveta. She was really starting to get into the impromptu game, and I was enjoying it myself.

I had no idea how to bring about a good end for Sveta, but I could and would be her friend.

=///=​

This time round, I found my way to Gladys Knott's front door relatively quickly. She was expecting me; I barely had time to knock once before she opened the door. She was dressed in slacks and blouse rather than a dress today, and looked quite fetching.

"You're early," she observed.

"Yeah, sorry," I acknowledged with a sheepish shrug. "I didn't want to leave you waiting, so I headed out early, and I guess I didn't get lost this time."

She smiled indulgently. "Come on in," she invited. "I have orange juice in the fridge if you're thirsty."

"Actually, I wouldn't say no," I told her. "I appreciate it."

Carefully wiping my feet, I entered, closing the door behind me. The living room was dimly lit, compared to the glare outside; even after taking my sunglasses off, I was still left blinking.

"Have a seat," she directed me, pointing at a comfortable-looking sofa. "I'll get that juice."

Making sure not to kick or bump anything, I made my way to the sofa and sat down, leaning back as I sank into the cushions.

"Wow," I said, "this is nice. Really nice."

"Thank you," she replied, looking pleased. She brought over a glass of juice, then returned to the computer.

"Grading schoolwork?" I guessed, sipping at the juice.

"You know it," she agreed, typing a few words then hitting Enter. "They said that bringing computers into the classroom would make work easier. From what I see, it just gives the teachers more work to grade. Not an improvement."

"Yeah well, I think I'll stick to my job," I observed cheerfully. "I just have to tell the little ratbags where to go and what to do. I'll leave the hard bit to the experts." She wrinkled her nose at me.

She finished the grading at about the same time as I finished the orange juice; I rinsed the glass in the sink, then turned to see her stand up from the computer and stretch. I watched with interest; I might not be twenty any more, and nor was she, but there were still a few curves under that blouse. She turned, and raised her eyebrow as she caught me looking.

"Ready to roll?" I asked her. Wanna make something of it?

She smiled. "Always." Not in the slightest.

=///=​

"So there he is. It's a one-way stretch of road. One lane. The sign says Do Not Enter, and he's pulled up right in front of it, waiting for this other car to come through. It's dark, so he's got his headlights on. He's in this van, so his point of view is higher up. I mean, he can't not see the damn sign, right?"

Gladys nodded, and took a sip of her coffee. I drank from my iced chocolate milk.

"Please tell me that he didn't drive down," she said, in tones that made it clear that she knew exactly what was coming.

I shrugged. "As soon as the other car was clear … he drove down." A pause, while I had some more chocolate milk. "Now, I'd been watching him. I didn't quite believe that he was going to do it till he did it, but I had eyes on, so when he started down, I stepped on to the road."

"So what did he do then?" Gladys seemed to have forgotten her coffee.

"Well, in that situation, there's two types of people," I elaborated. "The ones who basically go, oh crap, there's a security guard, and start reversing immediately. And then there's the type who try to bluff it out." Another shrug. "He tried to bluff it out."

Gladys did not speak; she merely closed her eyes and shook her head sadly.

I grinned and went on with the story. "So he comes on down. I'm wearing a reflective vest, so he stops. Leans out the window and asks me what the problem is."

Gladys' eyes were wide. "He didn't," she stated flatly.

I nodded to contradict her. "He did," I confirmed. "Now, I'd seen his plates as I walked up, from someplace down south, Louisiana or Florida or someplace, I forget exactly. So as I came up to his window, I put on a drawl and told him that I could tell he was from one of the southern states, so I'd speak slowly."

Gladys choked back a giggle. "You didn't!" she accused me.

I chuckled. "I surely did. Then I asked him if Do Not Enter meant the same down south as it did up here; I was kind of curious." I rolled my eyes. "And that's when he said, 'Oh, I didn't see the sign.'."

Gladys shook her head again.

"So of course, this gave me the perfect opportunity to be sarcastic at him," I went on cheerfully. "I pointed out that he'd been sitting there, waiting for the other car to come past, with his headlights shining directly on the sign. So there was either something wrong with his headlights, with his eyes … or with his brain."

Gladys had her hand over her mouth now, trying to stifle her giggles.

"So he told me I didn't have to be so rude. I told him that this wasn't rude. Rude would be if I pulled out my camera and took a photo of him, in his van, pointing the wrong way down the road, and then handed said photo to the police. I was merely being polite and asking him to take his heap of crap van, and reverse it down the road and … well, and out of my life."

Gladys snorted laughter. "I just bet you were that polite too," she chuckled dryly.

I grinned. "I might have thrown a few more words in, yeah," I admitted. "Anyway, I told him that if he wanted rude, we could do rude. I was good with rude. It was his choice." A shrug. "He chose to reverse."

She drank more coffee, having gotten her mirth under control. "I'm not surprised, given the choice you handed him. But weren't you a bit harsh with him?"

I raised my eyebrows. "Gladys, I'm surprised at you. And you a teacher and all."

"Why, what do you mean?" her voice was curious.

"I mean," I told her, "that you should know the number one rule for getting kids to learn something."

She frowned. "I don't see … oh!" she exclaimed. "You have to get their attention. And you got his attention."

I nodded. "I did," I confirmed. "I doubt that he'll ever forget that little encounter."

She returned my nod. "Somehow, I suspect you're right." We shared a grin of perfect understanding.

I finished off my milk, and debated getting another one. While I was thinking about it, Gladys leaned forward.

"I just want to say, Michael," she said, and put her hand on my arm. Specifically, on the dressing under my shirt sleeve. My wince was minimal, but she still picked up on it. "Michael? What's the matter with your arm?" Her voice had gone from warm to concerned in an instant.

"It's nothing," I claimed evasively. "Just a little cut."

"You didn't have this last night," she told me. "When did you get cut?"

I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "I, uh, got mugged," I told her. "He got the worst of it, I promise," I added quickly.

"Really." Her voice was sceptical.

"Really," I repeated. "He was going to stab me, so I fought back. I got cut, and he got a broken elbow out of it. I managed to make it inside, and I suppose he staggered off somewhere."

"Take me home immediately," she ordered me. "I want to check how bad it is."

"It's good, honest," I tried to tell her. "I'm fine."

"And when were you going to change the dressing?" she asked me tartly. "Or have it seen to by a medical professional?"

I shrugged uncomfortably. "When I got the time," I mumbled.

"Just as I thought," she muttered. "Men."

I didn't have a choice; I drove her back to her place.

=///=​

My sleeve wouldn't roll up that far, so she had me remove my shirt. I was acutely aware of my overweight, hairy torso, but she was briskly professional about the whole thing. Carefully, she removed the dressing, causing me to suck my breath in as she pulled the last bits free.

"Well, it's clean, and doesn't seem to be inflamed," she informed me critically, as if she had been expecting far worse. "You didn't do this one-handed. Who patched you up?"

"A, um, bystander," I extemporised. "She saw it happen, helped me inside, put the dressing on, then left." Which was, broadly speaking, true.

Gladys shot me a suspicious glance – there were holes in my story, and we could both see them, but she wsn't going to push this just now – and went back to her examination of my arm. "This needs stitches, really," she told me.

"Just a bandage will do me just fine," I responded. If I was going to be exerting myself, I did not want to be pulling stitches.

She pursed her lips but did not argue. Carefully, she cleaned and disinfected it again, then applied a new dressing. She'd had training at some point; I could tell. When she was finished, she examined the dressing on my back, the one I hadn't bothered covering for the shower.

"You shouldn't let these get wet," she scolded me, peeling it off.

"It's only a small cut," I defended myself.

She prodded it with a sharp fingernail, making me yelp. "Well, it seems to have closed all right," she told me, "but that was still a silly thing to do."

I sighed. "Yeah, I know," I admitted. "But I've got a lot on my mind at the moment, and I really, really wanted to just get out and spend some nice time in your company."

"Not your bystander?" she asked with an arch look, but I could tell she was pleased.

"She had places to be," I responded. "And besides? Not my type." I reached for my shirt. "Okay to put this back on now? I feel kind of exposed here."

She nodded. "Yes, please," she agreed dryly. "As much as I like you, I don't believe that we have reached that point in our relationship quite yet."

I chuckled a little self-consciously as I put my shirt on. As I was tucking it in, she leaned in toward me. "But I did enjoy myself quite a lot today," she added softly. "Thank you for that."

"I, uh, thanks?" I said awkwardly. "I've really enjoyed this too …"

"But," she went on, "you've glanced at your watch three times since we got back here, so I presume you have some place to be. I don't want to keep you."

I jerked guiltily; I had not been aware of checking the time. "Sorry," I apologised. "Like I said, things on my mind. But I've really enjoyed talking to you too."

She nodded encouragingly; I cleared my throat. "So … another time?"

"Another time," she agreed, "when you're not quite so distracted."

Reluctantly, I got up from the sofa. I really, really didn't want to go.

"Thanks for checking my arm," I said belatedly.

She smiled and shrugged. "Any time. Just get it seen to properly, all right?"

I nodded. "I will."

I put on my sunglasses as I walked outside; as I got into the pickup, I saw her standing in the doorway, watching. I waved; she waved back.

I started the engine and drove off. It wasn't the hardest thing I'd ever done, but it was in the top ten.

With an effort, I dragged my mind away from distracting thoughts of Gladys Knott. I had to get my head in the game. I had to gear up, then get over to the Heberts' and pretend that I knew what the hell I was doing. Taylor was depending on me to get it right.

I just hoped to God that I could pull it off.


End of Chapter Seven

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Eight: Fight!


My mind was still somewhat disorganised when I got back to my flat. I had wanted to stay, to sit on the sofa and talk with Gladys. I wanted to kiss her again. I wanted to see where that went.

But I had to get my head in the game. The first thing I did was take a shower, as cold as it would go. Mid-afternoon, the cold water wasn't freezing, but it wasn't far off of it. The plastic bag I wrapped around the dressing kept out the water, again, so I would not draw more ire.

=///=​

After the shower, I went looking through my clothing for anything dark. Dark blue, dark grey, black; it wouldn't matter. Urban camo clothing would have been the best, but it appeared that my taste did not run that way.

A light T-shirt went on under the stab vest, then I started layering clothes. I had to pick them with care; I didn't want too many layers, or I'd sweat to death. But I did have certain requirements.

I assembled my outfit with as much care as any deb ball belle arranged the pleats and folds of her dress. Heavy boots and thick socks, check. Outer clothing all cotton or wool; nothing that would melt and stick to the skin if it caught on fire, check. Pockets to carry magazines in, check. A hooded jacket, check. A scarf to wrap around my face if necessary, check. Shoulder holster over the shirt but under the jacket, check. My equipment belt over the top, check.

=///=​

When it was all on, I walked around the flat, swinging my arms around, seeing how it went. It was a little confining, but I could handle it. With the hood up and the scarf around my face, I went into the bathroom to see how I looked. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing; I looked at least fifty kilos heavier than I really was.

Pulling the hood down, I tried on a watch cap, and it was an improvement; my ears weren't quite so muffled, and I had better peripheral vision. On the downside, it did less to hide my identity.

I fiddled around a bit more, before opening the gun case and the ammo box. The M-1 went over my left shoulder. I filled the magazines, and found that there were about five rounds loose in the box afterward; on reflection, I decided to leave them there. If I couldn't do the job with sixty rounds plus what I had in the Glock in the shoulder holster, I had no business bringing the gun out at all.

Shrugging the carbine off my shoulder, I double-checked that the breech was empty, then pulled a magazine from my pocket and pushed it into place. The push-through safety clicked into place; now, even if I accidentally yanked the cocking handle and chambered a round, it would not go off. Safety precautions thus satisfied, I walked around the flat some more, seeing how it hung with first the butt and then the barrel uppermost. Then I tried shrugging it off my shoulder, seeing how quickly I could get it into action from either angle.

=///=​

Roughly forty years previously, when I was far too smart for my own good, and far too young to know better, I had suffered a mishap through my own silly fault, which had left me without the top half of the index finger on my right hand. Despite my innate right-handedness, I had thus learned to utilise my left hand for some things that required an index finger. One of these, as it happened, was the use of firearms; toy guns at first, and then real ones. By the time I graduated to guns that fired actual bullets, all my reflexes were geared toward left-handed gun use. So it goes.

The M-1 carbine is a weapon designed for use by right-handers. A southpaw can fire it, but then has to either let go of the fore-stock with the right hand and yank back the cocking handle when it misfires - which it does, on occasion - or let go with the left hand, reach awkwardly across the weapon, and do the same thing. The magazine release is likewise in an awkward position for a left-handed shooter.

And of course, the ejected shells are thrown out to the right and rear of the weapon, which means that for the most part, a left-handed shooter will be struck in the right shoulder by an empty casing after every shot. Or, if he is particularly unlucky, the hot brass will go down his shirt front. I could attest, from personal experience, that this was no fun whatsoever.

All of which made taking the carbine out on this particular expedition a matter requiring some deliberation. But I decided that the extra firepower was the deciding factor here, even taking into account the extremely dodgy rear sights on this particular carbine. I could get reasonable groupings out to about ten yards, which was all I really needed.

=///=​

I was set; removing the jacket and shoulder holster, I shoved them in my work bag along with my equipment belt. The carbine, sans magazine, went into the bag as well, barrel first. Its stock protruded a little from the top of the bag, but I wrapped a towel around it, which sufficed to get it down to the pickup and out of sight behind the seat.

Locking the pickup, I headed back upstairs and booted up the laptop. I spent a little time thinking about what I wanted to say, then I started to type. What I ended up with was a series of lists of instructions and information for Taylor, for Danny, and for Director Piggot. These I encrypted, placed on to memory sticks, dropped into addressed envelopes, and left beside the computer.

On to the last memory stick, I loaded a series of instructions in plaintext, some of which had to do with defeating Scion, and some which did not. On a separate line, I added, 'Ask Tattletale.' That memory stick went into my pocket; if I were to die by some mischance, Contessa would of course be able to retrieve the data, and Lisa would be able to intuit which were the correct instructions. But it was hopefully hazy enough that she would not be tempted to simply bypass the middleman and grab the data.

Next, I logged on to the Parahumans Online server.

=///=​

Welcome to the Parahumans Online message boards.
You are currently logged in, mack0813
You are viewing:
• Threads you have replied to
• AND Threads that have new replies
• OR private message conversations with new replies
• Thread OP is displayed.
• Ten posts per page
• Last ten messages in private message history.
• Threads and private messages are ordered chronologically.
You have no infractions and no warnings.

=///=​

mack0813: Hey, Svetlana, you around?
GstringGirl: Oh hey. You're back.
mack0813: I am, but not for long. Sorry.
GstringGirl: Awwww…
GstringGirl: Do we have time for a bit more of the game?
mack0813: I'd love to, but I have to rush again. I just dropped in to let you know that I might be offline for a bit. I'll try not to be, but you know how things go.
GstringGirl: oh ok mack.
GstringGirl: it's not something I said is it?
mack0813: Oh god no. Far from it. I am seriously enjoying our chats. I'm a little behind time right now, but I just wanted to get on and give you a heads-up about me maybe not being able to get on for a little while. Just in case, so you don't think I've forgotten about you.
GstringGirl: oh, thanks. i appreciate it. i hate it when people just stop talking.
mack0813: Hey, that'll never be me. You're my best girl. *hugz*
GstringGirl: thank you mack, thank you. That means so much to me. *hugs*
mack0813: Listen, gotta go. But I'll be back on when I can. Okay?
GstringGirl: okay Mack. I'll see you when you get back. Goodbye Mack.
mack0813: Bye Svetlana.

You have signed out of Private Chat.

=///=​

In the memory stick addressed to Taylor was the request that she log on occasionally with my username and spend time with Sveta. It wouldn't quite be the same, but it was the best I could do.

I clicked 'Shut Down' on the laptop, and stood up while it powered itself down.

It was time to go.

Taking one last look around the flat, I let myself out, leaving a light on to make it appear as though someone was still home.

No-one had disturbed the pickup; I got in, pulled out into the courtyard, and drove out on to the street.

=///=​

"Are you really sure you want to come out with me, Mr Allen?" asked Taylor dubiously.

She sat on the back steps, beside her father. I leaned on the rail, more or less where I had been standing when she had raised the question about becoming a superhero in the first place. The sun was sinking below the horizon to the west, and the sky was purpling over.

"I think it's best, yeah," I told her. "You'll be taking lead, but I'll be there to advise. Give you a feel for being a cape without totally hanging out in the breeze."

"In other words, a babysitter," she observed, though the words lacked heat.

I grinned; she wasn't altogether wrong.

"Not really, kiddo," Danny put in. "He's got experience in dealing with people."

"So have you, Dad," she responded. "I notice you're not volunteering." She elbowed him gently in the side.

He chuckled, and elbowed her back. "Let's have some respect for the old man," he told her. "No, Mike's a better choice than me. He was a taxi driver before he was a security guard; if anyone's got experience with shady people, it will be him."

"Wow," I commented cheerfully, "that was such a ringing endorsement."

Taylor laughed, and Danny chuckled again. "You know I didn't mean it that way, Mike," he protested.

I nodded. "I know," I agreed. "I was thinking, we could drive around a bit, give Taylor a chance to gather together a bitchin' swarm, get a feel for the way the evening's going, then we could find a trouble spot and see what happens."

"Ooh," Taylor responded, her eyes lighting up behind her glasses. "That sounds awesome. Is that okay, Dad?"

Reluctantly, he nodded. "I know you're going to want to go out on your own sooner or later, kiddo, but I'd much rather you started out by going out with Mike."

"That's the general idea," I confirmed. "Think of it as a kind of test run. And we can talk about cape stuff. I have ideas on how capes should do things."

"Despite the fact that you're not a cape," pointed out Danny dryly. Taylor smothered a chuckle.

"Laugh it up," I told them both with a grin. "But think about it; what does a security guard do, but what a cape does, on a much smaller scale, and without powers to back him up?"

That made them both look very thoughtful indeed.

"You may actually have something there," Danny admitted.

"Wow," Taylor added. "I never thought of it like that before."

I shrugged. "It's not something people tend to think about."

"You got that right," Danny said, heaving himself to his feet. "I'm going to put dinner on. Lasagne all right, Mike?"

"Lasagne sounds great, Danny," I agreed. "Need a hand?"

"Sure. You and Taylor can keep discussing matters while we put it on."

=///=​

Once the lasagne was on to cook, we adjourned to the living room and watched some TV; in the ad breaks, I discussed the finer points of Taylor's powers with her. At my behest, I had her close her eyes and bring in arrays of bugs to see if she could pick up a meaningful picture from the TV screen. She couldn't, but then again, monitor screens had always been a problem for Taylor.

We were in the middle of an experiment in which she was plugging her ears and listening through the ears of various bugs, with only middling success, when Danny announced that the lasagne was cooked.

"I think it actually depends on the bugs you use," I pointed out over dinner. "If you can get an array of bugs, with different hearing qualities, you should be able to learn to filter out the too-high and too-low sounds, to approximate normal hearing."

Taylor considered that idea with her head on one side, while Danny shook his own head.

"Too strange for me," he decided. "I'll support you, whatever you want to do with your powers, but don't ask me to come up with new uses for them."

Taylor hugged him warmly. "Thanks, Dad," she told him. "That means a lot to me."

=///=​

We finished dinner and I chatted with them while they washed up – I was not allowed to participate, being a guest – and then Taylor looked at the clock.

"It's late enough," she observed. "Time we should be going?"

I leaned sideways and looked out the window. "Looks fairly dark out there," I commented. "I figure you're right."

"So how are we going to do this?" asked Taylor. "Take the costume with us and I get changed out there?"

I chuckled and shook my head. "Put it on and put a jacket and sweatpants over it. When we find something for you to do, you take off the jacket and sweats, put the mask on, and you're ready to roll."

"But before you go," Danny added, "can you get the whole thing on? I want to get photos."

"What, really?" she asked, startled.

"Really," he confirmed. "My daughter, the superhero. How can I not?"

She blushed to the roots of her hair, and hugged him again.

=///=​

We took the photos in the basement; the raw concrete walls gave the pictures more impact. She posed, first without and then with a swarm around her; it was eerie, seeing just those blank yellow eyes looking out from the midst of a swarm of buzzing creepy-crawlies.

"I can't believe that you made this all yourself, and I never knew," he marvelled, feeling one of the armour panels. "You could probably make serious money creating costumes for other people, you know."

Again, she was startled. "I could?"

I nodded. "Oh, definitely," I agreed.

She looked thoughtful all of a sudden. "Well, it's definitely something I'll think about," she acknowledged. "But for now, I just want to be a superhero."

"Well, o lady of the bugs," I intoned with a mock bow, "your carriage awaits. Let us go a-superheroing."

"Is that even a word?" she asked, giving me a look after pulling her mask off.

"Is now," I grinned. "I just used it."

She wrinkled her nose as she pulled on the jacket and stepped into the sweat pants. "I don't think that's really how it works," she commented. She turned to her father, and hugged him. "Bye, Dad. I gotta go be a superhero now."

He hugged her back fiercely. "You just come home safely, kiddo," he told her softly; his voice had just the suspicion of a catch in it.

Letting he go, he shook my hand. "Take care of my little girl, Mike."

I squeezed his hand in response. "I'll do my best. You've raised a good kid here."

By degrees, we got out on to the sidewalk, and Taylor got into the passenger seat of the pickup. I got in as well, and started the engine. We pulled away from the curb, leaving Danny standing forlornly there.

He was still standing there when we turned the corner.

=///=​

Taylor looked over at me. "I have a question."

It was a little while before Taylor was due to clash with Lung, but I had no worries on that score. So instead, as I had told Danny, we cruised around and parked here and there. Bugs in the area converged on the pickup, swarming into the trayback. Even after the first few stops, we had the makings of a particularly nasty swarm.

I had chatted to her, used what she had already revealed to me about her powers to make suggestions. Swarm clones were something she was already working on outside the pickup; when I suggested using bugs to tag the joints of a foe to keep track of them in melee, she became quite thoughtful.

I knew that she would have thought of these ideas, and more, on her own – her power, combined with her own natural creativity, was a wellspring of such concepts – but if we leapfrogged over the first few basic concepts, it left the way open for her to evolve more interesting ideas of her own, faster than before.

But we were well into the slow cruise around town, slowly easing in on the location that the fight was to take place at, and she made that statement.

"I may have an answer," I responded automatically.

"No, really," she insisted. "I have a serious question. It's simple and it's serious. Why? Why me? Why me now?"

I blinked, taken aback. "I … don't get what you mean," I evaded.

She chuckled darkly. "I just bet you don't." She turned her head and a nearby streetlight reflected from her glasses, giving her a creepy blank stare for just a moment.

"I've been thinking about it," she went on. "You knew exactly when and where to walk into that bathroom, to catch those girls at it. You knew to have a voice recorder running. You knew something to say to that woman with Sophia, that made her overrule Mr Barnes. You had all your ducks lined up in a row, specifically to catch those girls bullying me, and to make the bullying charge stick. You didn't miss a trick."

I was silent. I wanted to see where she was going with this before I said anything more.

She nodded, as though I had just confirmed something. "There are other kids being bullied at Winslow; there have to be. But you picked me, and you changed everything. Even after we went home, you said something to the principal to get me transferred to Arcadia. And then, when Dad invited you to the party, you listened to me, and you said the exact right things to make me open up to you. You knew I had powers before I ever told you, didn't you?"

"Hm," I commented, neither acknowledging nor denying her allegations. The kid was sharper than I'd thought; that, or I had been much less careful than I had intended.

Again, she nodded. "So why? What's so special about me? If you were going to save me from bullying, why now? Why not six months, a year, eighteen months ago?" She broke off, looking sideways at me. "I wondered for a while if you were some sort of sketchy pedo, but you don't give off that vibe. You've never so much as looked at my chest. So I get that you're trying to help me, but I don't get why, and I don't get why now." She took a deep breath. "And I really don't get how you know so much."

I turned my head to look at her. "When I said you were always looking, always thinking, I was serious. But I honestly didn't think you'd see through me this fast, Taylor."

She ducked her head, pleased, but then raised it again. "That doesn't answer the question," she pointed out.

"A full and truthful answer to the question would be … fundamentally impossible for you to believe," I told her honestly.

"Really," she riposted, the word loaded with sarcasm.

"Really," I repeated, my voice mild. "But I will tell you a story, which is close enough to the truth to not matter."

That got her attention; I cleared my throat.

"I'm a time traveller from the year twenty fourteen."

"Three years," she answered, giving me a look of respect. "I've never heard of anyone travelling that far in time. Can you go forward again?"

"I can't travel in time myself," I made the hasty addendum. "It's a sort of … one-time thing. So to speak."

"Okay," she acknowledged. "Time travel. Got it. Go on."

I chose my words carefully. "Where I'm from, when I'm from, the story of what happened in your time, and thereafter, has been noted down in considerable, if spotty, detail. I'm a kind of student of this story, you might say."

"Which is where you get the knowledge from," she replied, nodding.

"Which is where I get the knowledge from," I agreed. "And part of this knowledge is that the world is teetering toward an end, and one of the people who is instrumental in preventing the whole thing from going entirely down the drain …" I let my voice trail off.

She got the implication. "Me?" she squeaked, her voice hitting a higher register than she'd intended. She cleared her throat. "Me? What do you mean, me? I've just got bug powers."

I chuckled. "Believe me, Taylor, by the time you're well started, there are many, many people who have good reason not to underestimate 'bug powers'."

She was silent for a few moments. "So … you're changing things. Are you supposed to be changing things?"

"I don't know," I told her honestly. "I am changing things, yes. But I'm being specific about it. Some of the troubles come about due to people not knowing crucial information early on. I'm making sure they do know it."

"Okay," she tried again. "Are you supposed to be stopping the bullying? Was I supposed to tell Dad? What if this makes me … I don't know … unfit to save the world?"

"There's more than one way to save the world," I told her frankly. "I know the whole story, remember. I know other ways it could be done. And as for you … well, I know you and your life from this point, the way it would have run. It would not have been pleasant for you. And I am as fond of you as I would be of my own daughter, if I had one. Honestly? I couldn't not stop the bullies, given the chance." I grinned at her. "And you're not the only one I'm helping out of a bad spot."

She stared at me. "So you're just doing this to help me now because you … like me?"

I nodded. "You're a good kid. You have it within you to be a great superhero. I wasn't joking, then. I'm not joking, now."

Another long silence from her. "If you hadn't intervened … at the school … what would have happened? Tonight?"

"Okay," I told her. "On Friday, you would have taken the bus home, because all your stuff was covered in juice and soda. You would have found that your black and white speckled notepad, the one you've been keeping a coded record of your cape preparations, was soaked through, ruining some of the pages."

"I found it," she confirmed, sounding just a little surprised at my revelation.

I nodded. "Well, you would have decided to go out tonight. About midnight, after you were sure your father was asleep. But he hears you go out, and he lies awake, waiting for you to get back."

"Oh, man," she whispered.

"Yeah," I agreed. "When you get back, the next morning, he talks to you and you lie; you say you were just going for a walk."

She shook her head. "That's not good."

"Remember, in that timeline, you're in a bad headspace. No-one's on your side."

Reluctantly, she nodded. "So … what happens? What's so important about going out tonight?"

"Well, you see, tonight is when you do two important things," I told her. "One is to beat a bad guy. And the other is to meet some villains."

"Who's the bad guy?" she asked immediately. "And which villains?"

I shook my head. "Gonna have to keep some things under wraps for the moment, kid. If you know too much, or think you do, ahead of time, this could throw things out of alignment."

She looked displeased at that, but didn't argue.

"So, have I answered your questions to your satisfaction?" I asked in turn.

"Sort of," she admitted. "But I've got a lot more I want to ask now."

"Ask," I invited her. "I might not answer. But before you ask, I want a count of every person in your range, excluding us."

She was silent for a moment, her lips moving silently. "Seventy-six," she reported. "Do I get a boyfriend?"

"Yes and no," I told her. "That's something you're going to have to find out for yourself. Next question? And how many of those people are men?"

"Forty-three," she reported. "What happens to me after I meet the villains in the other timeline?"

I opened my mouth to tell her, then paused. "I … don't want to jinx it," I temporised. "See above regarding knowing too much."

She snorted. "For an all-knowing time traveller, you're real close-mouthed when you want to be."

"Mysterious oracle one-oh-one," I retorted with a grin. "Never let them know everything at once."

"Mysterious oracle my –" she began, and then my phone rang.

"Sorry," I told Taylor. "Gonna have to take this."

She looked more than a little annoyed as I plugged in the earpiece that was already stuck in my ear; a hanging mic let me speak.

"Hello?" I said after hitting the green button.

The voice was Contessa's. "It's time. Take the third left."

I started the pickup, and started moving forward. Turning to Taylor, I said to her, "Okay, grab all the bugs you can from here on in. It's time."

White-faced, even in the dim light, she nodded. "Gotcha."

=///=​

I followed Contessa's directions to the letter; I doubted that she was looking at a map, or even knew where we were. She was just saying what her power told her to say, to get us to a certain point in space at a certain point in time.

I idled the pickup through an alleyway and stopped when she told me to, the nose of the vehicle six feet from the far end.

"Two blocks to your left from the end of the alleyway," she said, and hung up.

I sat for a long moment, before setting the handbrake, putting the vehicle in neutral and turning the engine off. "This is it." My voice sounded strange in my ears.

"What?" asked Taylor.

"Down to the left, two blocks," I told her. "Can you detect them?"

"Ah," she noted, eyes widening slightly. "Fourteen people, in a building, gathered together." She paused for a moment. "My bugs are finding … guns, I think."

"That's the ones," I stated. I got out, pulling my bag with me. First, I slipped into the shoulder holster and then the jacket, and then I buckled on my equipment belt.

On the other side of the pickup, Taylor was taking off the jacket and sweats, and attaching armour panels. I pulled the seat forward, and unwrapped the towel from the M-1 carbine. Taking a magazine from my pocket, I slipped it into place, seating it with a firm click-clack. Then I pulled back the cocking handle, letting it run forward, chambering a round with another clack. Carefully, I set the safety, then slung the carbine, barrel downward, over my left shoulder.

Taylor was watching, wide-eyed, as I pulled the Glock 29 from under my jacket and pulled back the slide just a little way to ensure that a round was indeed chambered. I looked up as I returned it to the holster.

"What?" I asked.

She shook her head slightly. "You didn't say you'd be bringing guns."

I grinned slightly, without humour. "Never said I wouldn't. I'm here to watch out for you. And I'm serious about it. Anyway, have you decided on a name yet?"

We had discussed those during the drive around; I had brought up a few, including Skitter, Weaver, Hive, Queen and a couple of others. Taylor hadn't been able to make a choice.

She took a deep breath, then shook her shoulders to make sure the armour panels were fixed properly. "Let's go with Weaver for the moment." Pulling the mask over her head, she tugged her hair out through the back of it. And as easily as that, she went from teenage girl to creepy cape.

"Good choice," I noted. "Let's do this thing."

We exited the alleyway and started walking toward the left. The street was unlit, but there was enough ambient illumination to place our footsteps quietly.

We were about half a block away when people started exiting from a two-storey building. A lighter flared as someone lit a cigarette.

Damn, I thought. Contessa's timing is scary good.

=///=​

Reaching out, I made to draw Taylor – Weaver – in toward the side of the building we were standing beside. I needn't have bothered; she was already there.

"They're ABB," she whispered, her voice very slightly distorted by the mask, but not enough to make her hard to understand. "I recognise the colours."

"Right," I murmured. "Got bugs on 'em all?"

"Will in a moment," she replied absently. "We have to get closer. We won't be able to hear anything from this distance. But they might see us."

"Use your bugs to scout the terrain," I suggested.

She nodded seriously, and a moment later looked at me. "There's a fire escape on the back of that building."

"Sounds like a plan," I agreed.

We backtracked slightly, wending our way through trash-strewn alleyways, until we located the rusty fire escape. Weaver went up first, light and agile, and I followed on behind. It creaked and groaned under my weight, but held.

At the top, she was going to head forward to listen in, but I put my hand on her arm. "Okay, more information now," I told her seriously. "The bad guy you're going to take down is Lung. He regenerates like it's going out of fashion, and the madder he gets, the bigger he gets. He grows metal scales over his body as he gets bigger. He can breathe fire, and he can cover himself in it, so once you start attacking him, hit him with everything you can, as hard as you can. Soft tissue areas. Got it?"

"Got it," she nodded, and went to move off. I didn't let go of her arm. She looked at me quizzically.

"Two more things," I added. "When he gets big enough, he has enough super-strength to leap on top of this building … and he has super-hearing. Just so you know."

"Super-strength and super-hearing," she repeated carefully. "Got it." She paused. "Why am I attacking him again? It seems like a really good reason to not attack him."

I waved her forward. "Go. Listen. Make your own mind up."

She stared at me for another moment, then nodded, and moved forward to where Lung was now addressing his troops.

I pulled my phone out and spent the time typing out a text.

Cape fight in progress.

I gave the address.

Lung involved.

Security.

I sent it to Director Piggot's phone.

My phone had just returned a Message Sent acknowledgement when Weaver returned, moving carefully but quickly.

"He's telling them to kill kids!" she told me; the indignation was clear in her voice. "I can't let that happen!"

"I've already notified the PRT, but it'll be a while before they get here," I observed. "Someone's gonna have to slow them up."

"I'll do more than slow them up," she snapped.

And then I heard the first yells of pain and alarm from the front of the building.

=///=​

The temptation to go and see what was happening was considerable. However, I had no desire to be torn apart or barbecued. And it was fairly obvious what was happening.

The swarm which we had gathered had fallen upon the hapless ABB thugs. A few stings and bites had sufficed to send them scattering to the four winds. Some even ran past in the alley below us.

Once they were gone, the swarm focused its efforts upon Lung.

I really, really wanted to see this. I really, really knew that going to look was a bad idea.

I could hear him roaring and thrashing around, and I saw tongues of fire reaching toward the sky. I couldn't tell what was going through Weaver's mind as she directed the swarm in on him; at one point, she went to speak, and I held out my phone to her, a notepad function enabled.

Set himself on fire, she typed. Can he do that?

I nodded, the motion just visible in the dark.

Not fair, she added.

I shrugged. Took the phone back, and typed, Time to go?

She typed, Hes not down yet.

I frowned and nodded. When were the Undersiders supposed to show up? The timeline wasn't exact. Had we jumped the gun?

Go anyway, I typed. She nodded in agreement, and gestured for me to go first. I figured she could keep up with me easily, and so I stepped on to the fire escape.

And that was when the M-1 carbine swung slightly, and the down-hanging barrel struck the side of the fire escape with a clear, metallic clang.

And the noise at the front of the building ceased. I heard – we both heard – a noise that was more bestial than human, which indicated satisfaction.

A brief pause, maybe a heartbeat or two. And then the crunch as Lung hit the side of the building, maybe three-quarters of the way up.

"Oh, shit," she said clearly.

I concurred exactly.

"Down," I told her. "Now."

She didn't argue. We bolted down the fire escape.

This was not in the plan.


End of Chapter Eight

[Author's Note: Evil cliffhanger because I'm evil.]

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Nine: Heroes and Villains


There was no need for quiet now; Lung's enhanced hearing was obviously working just fine. I thundered down the fire escape, my weight causing it to shudder and groan as I leaped down three and four steps at a time.

"Go go go!" I shouted, making room for Weaver to get past me. She could move faster than me; if I had miscalculated, and Contessa was pulling some plan to take the details for Scion's demise off my smoking corpse, at least Taylor Hebert would have a chance at survival.

She slipped past me, dancing down the steps where I crashed and banged. Lung didn't need super-hearing to hear me; he could probably hear me through earplugs. But once we hit ground level …

"Did you blind him?" I yelled over the sound of my own progress.

"How did you –" she began, then stopped herself. "One eye only!" she continued.

Which meant that his other eye was perfectly fine.

Fuck.

=//=//=​

Weaver had hit ground level; I was still a few yards above what I considered safe jumping distance. Above us, I heard a bellowing roar, which I interpreted as the words, "I see you!"

I leaped down another couple of steps; the rusted metal creaked and groaned. If he thought I was going to stop, just because he knew where I was …

A rush of heated air, a smashing concussion on the ground below. Lung straightened from a crouch, covered in metallic scales, at least half again as tall as I was. Flames licked around his body.

"Too slow," he rumbled in a feral growl. "Time to die." I saw him look up toward me, obviously preparing to do something supremely nasty to me. Probably immolation in a fireball. I could have tried to reverse course, run away, but that would separate me from the teenage girl already in the alleyway. And I wasn't going to abandon Taylor.

And then Taylor straightened up from her hiding place, almost directly beneath me. Her arm was straight out, in her hand was one of the items I had given her the previous night.

Lung's head twitched around to stare at her, just as she squeezed the activation button.

A stream of liquid sprayed out toward his face. It almost missed, but a twitch of the wrist corrected her aim, and she angled it so that it tracked neatly across both eyes. There was a minor explosion as some of the liquid ignited on contact with the flames that wreathed him, but the majority got through.

He bellowed in agony – I decided absently that I would write a commendation for the product supplied by that company – and clawed at his eyes with one hand. The other was sweeping around in a direct collision course with Taylor's slim body.

I knew she was wearing spider silk armour. I knew she might be able to take the hit. But I didn't care. I was already vaulting over the railing, and falling. Almost right on top of her. Pushing her aside.

Taking the hit.

It hurt.

=//=//=​

If anyone had chosen to ask me, afterward, exactly how Lung hit, the phrase 'like a freight train' would be very high up on the list. But it still lacked a certain amount of detail.

Lung's hand was larger than my head. It swept around at what would have been chest or throat height for Weaver. Razor talons led the way; in a blood and thunder novel, there would have been extensive descriptive phrasing regarding the way the metal claws split the air like a sword splitting silk. I don't know about the air, but he certainly tried to split me into several unequal sections. Or rather, tried to split Taylor. I just got in the way.

The impact slammed into my abdomen, lifting me off my feet and sending me hurtling backward more than a few feet, before I landed, rolling. I thanked every messy impulse that had led people to drop their trash in this alleyway, right where I'd landed. Soft trash bags, so much nicer than concrete or asphalt. I wasn't able to do much more than land and roll; my entire torso was a mass of pain, and there had been an ominous crunching sound, one that I felt with my whole body, as he hit me.

Ribs, I figured. Maybe sternum. From the feel of it, the stab vest had saved me from being eviscerated, but only just.

My rolling fall – no acrobatics there, just momentum – fetched me up against a brick wall with bruising force. It didn't help that every time I rolled on to my back, I rolled over that damn carbine. I lay there, stunned, trying to figure which of the lights dancing around my head were real, and which were a result of blunt force trauma.

It was, I decided muzzily, a good idea to have Lung hit me instead of Taylor. Even if her armour proved capable of deflecting his claws – not something I'd like to field test – she would have hit the wall in a ballistic arc, and flexible armour is not good against solid impacts.

"C'cks'ck'r!" Lung bellowed, the flames around him intensifying by the second. "F'ck'n' move!"

My vision cleared slightly, although I was having trouble doing more than breathing at the moment. Hell, I was having trouble breathing. I saw Taylor, crouching not more than two yards from him, unable to take a step without drawing his attention.

I thought to distract him, maybe give her a chance to get away. My pistol –

My feebly groping hand found nothing. His talons had torn away a large swathe of the jacket I was wearing. Under it had been my shoulder holster; the razor-tipped claws had caught on that and torn it clean off my body, along with slices of my sweater.

Not that the pistol would have done anything against him. But it would have provided sound cover for Weaver. And I was lying on the damn carbine; getting it out, even presuming it would still fire, would undoubtedly make too much noise.

I paused for a moment, trying to puzzle out why I cared about making noise in my attempt to make noise.

And then I saw Taylor reaching up under the armour panel that hung down over her spine. Coming out with a small dark object. I had no idea what it was. She poised herself, then threw it; the thing flew over Lung's head, and plopped down softly in the garbage beyond. So softly did it land that I heard nothing, but Lung obviously did; he spun around and blew apart a dumpster with a massive fireball.

Weaver came up off the ground like a greyhound from the starting gate. She reached my side while Lung was still concentrating on the other direction, trying to lift me with all of her strength. There was no way she was going to lift me on her own, but she tried anyway. I didn't have the breath to argue, so I helped her, forcing myself up, gritting my teeth against the agony that lanced through my torso whenever I moved.

It didn't help that the fall from the fire escape had indeed been from above my safe falling distance, as my knee and ankle informed me; stabbing pains shot up and down my left leg as I got to my feet.

=//=//=​

Lung twigged, just as I got to my feet. We lurched out of the way as he sent a stream of fire our way; it set a line of garbage ablaze and melted a section of brickwork. Although we were well out of the way, I felt the hairs on my hands curling and crisping.

He corrected aim and blasted again, but Taylor half-lifted, half-dragged me around the corner just in time. The alley lit up like the noonday sun, and I felt fire curling around my trailing ankle. I pulled it to safety hastily, but my foot still felt uncomfortably warm. Later, I would find, the boot heel had been half melted off.

"Can you walk?" Taylor asked.

I nodded; in truth, I was bearing up quite well under what I figured was serious trauma to my ribs. The pain was bad, as was that from my leg, but I was able to stagger on. Which was a good thing, because Taylor let go my arm and ducked in behind a dumpster, leaving me to shamble on alone.

I did just that, lurching onward, like a particularly well-fed zombie, using the wall for support quite a lot, and trying hard not to think about the organic-looking stains. I had other things on my mind.

Lung came around the corner, feeling his way; I lurched on, aiming for a dumpster of my own. My left arm, of its own accord, slipped the sling of the M-1 off my shoulder.

"I c'n hear y'," growled the scale-armoured draconic creature. "C'n't run, c'n't hide."

I fell behind the dumpster, just as he sent another stream of fire down the alleyway. Garbage ignited, flickering sullenly. As the flame receded, I dragged myself more or less up on to my knees, using the butt of the M-1 as a prop. Leaning around the corner of the dumpster, I clicked the safety to Off. Smoke from the burning garbage filled the alley; blinking my eyes to clear them, I sighted on Lung. I waited till he'd taken two more strides, then loosed half a dozen rounds, rapid fire.

The carbine's flat crack was very loud in my ears in the confined space of the alley; it jolted against my shoulder, but not hard enough to matter, even as the spent brass bounced off of my shoulder, and fell glinting into the trash.

My aim wasn't that great, but then, he wasn't that far away. I distinctly saw, or thought I saw, pinpricks of light as the rounds deflected from his metal-scaled torso. He stopped, apparently taken aback, and made an odd noise. A second later, as the ringing in my ears from the shots abated, I interpreted it as laughter.

"A gun?" he bellowed, then roared laughter again.

That was when Taylor ambushed him for the second time; she straightened from her hiding place next to the dumpster, just about where my fusillade had given him pause, and let off the screamer, about one yard from his right ear.

The shriek more or less deafened me, and I was close to a dozen yards away. And I didn't have Lung's enhanced hearing.

Lung bellowed and clawed at his ears, his head back, his mouth wide open. Taylor was already sprinting toward me, discarding the screamer, tossing something else into the air. Something that paused and changed direction in midair. Against the glare of Lung's flaming aura, I saw tiny black specks surrounding it.

Weaver had definitely taken our chat to heart; unless I missed my guess, that was a net of spider-web, being carried by a swarm of bugs. Conveying what she had tossed back toward him.

What it was, I had no idea. Unless it was a live grenade, I couldn't think of anything that would have much of an effect on him. Although blind, deaf and suffering from the venom of dozens of spiders, he was still horribly dangerous. He could still kill us both.

He began to inhale; his intention, I surmised, was to fill the alley with fire from side to side. Weaver was almost to me; I was struggling to my feet, trying to move away from the impending fiery explosion.

The bugs, with their burden, reached his wide open mouth. The webs went first, crisping in the furnace heat. The insects themselves died an instant later, snuffed out like so many candles. The object, small and cylindrical, flew in a perfect arc into his gaping maw. It survived just a few more instants before the tremendous heat ruptured the metal and plastic casing, releasing the contents.

It was the pepper spray container that she had used. More than half full, in fact.

Lung inhaled the lot.

=//=//=​

There was no all-destroying blast of flame. There was some fire, of course, but Lung was unable to maintain it, or make it reach as far. He fell to his knees, coughing and choking; even spitting out the melted remains of the canister did not do much to help him.

As we watched, he shrank in size; his flames died away. He clutched at his throat, struggling to breathe.

"Holy shit," I groaned, trying to rest my weight mainly on my right leg. "You just took down Lung."

"We took down Lung," Weaver corrected me, but she sounded almost giddy with adrenaline. "But wasn't I supposed to do that anyway?"

"You should have had help," I told her. I couldn't help wondering why the Undersiders had not shown. Bitch's dogs would have made this a whole lot easier.

"Well, we did it anyways," she told me, and held out her fist to be bumped. I bumped it; she'd earned it. "Should we go, or wait around for the authorities?"

"I would advise," stated a voice from above us, "waiting for the authorities."

=//=//=​

Taylor jumped; I would have done so as well, but doing so would have hurt. Instead, I leaned against the dumpster, safed the carbine, and slung it very carefully. Moving my right arm hurt. In fact, moving anything hurt.

The voice had sounded young and male; given the comment, I surmised that he was a hero. And as the shadowed form above did not show glowing red panels, that left two real choices. I picked the most obvious one.

"Aegis, I presume?" I asked.

He descended slowly toward the ground, moving so as to keep Lung in view while not losing sight of us.

"Aegis, yes," he confirmed. "And you are …?"

"In pain," I replied, perhaps a little flippantly, but I figured I was permitted. "Do you have medical equipment on the way? I suspect I'm going to need it."

"Medical equipment is on the way," Aegis told me, then turned to Taylor. "I don't believe I've met you before."

"I'm Weaver," she told him, but her attention was mainly on me. "Should you be standing up?" she asked me. "Maybe you should sit down."

"I'll survive until a medic gets here," I assured her. "And then I'll probably collapse in a screaming heap."

"So what's your deal?" asked Aegis. "Hero or villain?"

"I'm a hero, not a villain," Taylor informed him. "Lung was going to kill children. We stopped him."

"Hm," he observed. "I've never heard of you before."

"That's because this is her first night out," I supplied. "And if you ask me, she did a bang-up job."

"I'm sorry, sir," he observed, "but what was your name again?"

"Call Armsmaster," I told him. "Tell him it's Security. He'll know who you mean. I'm her backup for the night."

"Backup?" he asked.

I nodded. "Sure. You guys get the PRT, she gets me." I paused. "Go ahead, call him. He'll know the name."

"Armsmaster's busy tonight, sir," he informed me. "But Miss Militia's en route. You can speak with her."

Busy, I realised. Right. I gave him a stack of information for dealing with Saint. Whee, butterflies.

"She's here," observed Taylor, just a moment before a PRT truck screeched to a halt at the end of the alleyway.

=//=//=​

It all began to happen after that. The PRT truck held a selection of soldiers in standard PRT gear, as well as two other capes. Miss Militia was one; Clockblocker was the other. Aegis called up a PRT medic to assist me, while others dealt with Lung.

I sat on the back steps of the truck, as the medic carefully removed my stab vest. He palpated my torso, causing me to hiss with pain, and grunted.

"Ribs are intact," he informed me, "but you'll have a bitchin' set of bruises tomorrow."

I shook my head. "They're broken," I insisted. "I felt them break."

He tapped the discarded stab vest. "The ceramic plates took the impact. The right side's busted all to hell and gone. That was what you felt breaking."

I took a deep breath and winced; there was still pain, but somehow it felt less urgent, knowing that I didn't have a shirtful of broken ribs.

"You must be the luckiest sonovabitch in the world," he continued. "Going up against Lung with a Second World War carbine, and surviving." He nodded to where the now-unloaded weapon leaned against the step.

I chuckled dryly, and winced again. "I was just the distraction. Weaver did all the work."

"Weaver, huh?" he commented. "Your daughter? Or shouldn't I be asking?"

I shook my head. "Friend of the family." I looked over at where Taylor was chatting with Aegis and Clockblocker, and wondered what they were talking about.

=//=//=​

"So, this Security guy, he your dad or something?" asked Clockblocker.

Taylor shook her head slightly. "No comment," she replied.

Aegis shook his own head more definitively. "Not cool, dude," he chided the white-clad Ward. "Secret identities are secret for a reason."

"What?" asked Clockblocker. "He's not even wearing a mask."

"Not a subject up for discussion," Taylor said firmly.

"Okay," agreed Aegis. "Why 'Weaver', then? What's that about?"

"I control spiders to make them weave their webs the way I want," Taylor explained.

"Just spiders?" asked Clockblocker.

Taylor shook her head. "Basically any bugs, really."

"That sounds kind of cool," Clockblocker observed. "If just a little creepy."

"Mind demonstrating for us?" asked Aegis. "You can say no if you want."

Taylor glanced over to where Mike was still being treated, and shook her head. "No, it's fine." She held out her hand and a passing dragonfly deposited a black widow on the palm.

"Holy crap, that's –" exclaimed Clockblocker.

Taylor nodded. "I know. It's under my total control. All of my swarm is." She made it spin a web, then run up and down that same web, spinning more strands and twisting it as it went, until it ended up with a length of cord a good foot long.

"When you say 'swarm'," Aegis began cautiously, "do you mean …"

"All the bugs in my range," Taylor replied, handing him the cord. "Here, a souvenir."

Aegis took the cord and tested it between his hands. "Hey, this is really strong," he observed in some surprise. "What else can you make them do?"

Taylor held up her gloved hand and flexed it. "This," she told them cheerfully.

She couldn't see Clockblocker's face, but the way Aegis' jaw dropped was quite amusing.

"Your costume's all spider silk?" asked the leader of the Wards.

Taylor nodded. "Took a while, but it's worth it."

"But how –" began Clockblocker, but Taylor noted Mike beckoning to her.

"Sorry, I have to see what's going on," she told them, and moved over to where he was pulling his sweater back on, painfully slowly.

=//=//=
​

"What's the matter?" she asked, perching up beside me and helping me pull the sweater down into place.

I nodded toward where two of the PRT men were carrying Lung out of the alleyway, strapped to a stretcher. The medic, having decided that I wasn't hurt as badly as I had thought, was checking on the unconscious ABB cape. Miss Militia, having accompanied them down the alley, kept a close eye on Lung in case he was somehow faking it. The gun in her hand had a very large bore. In her left hand, she carried a piece of torn leather that looked somehow familiar.

"You might want to tell them exactly what you did to him," I suggested quietly. "That way, if their sedatives have any adverse effects, they'll know how to treat them."

"Is that likely to be a problem?" she asked. "He's a regenerator, isn't he?"

"Yeah, but he has his limits," I pointed out. "And if I know them, they pumped him full of sedatives right before they hit him with the antihistamines for the pepper spray in his lungs."

"Right, right," she said. Hopping up, she headed over to where they were bringing the stretcher our way. I climbed painfully to my feet – my leg felt better, but it would be also coming up in heavy bruising, and the medic had diagnosed a torn ligament as well as bruised ribs – and made way for them.

"- far more than the usual amount of venom, even from a single spider," she was telling the medic as they came into earshot. "I didn't know how much I needed to put him down, so I gave him the works. And even that nearly wasn't enough."

"So, black widows, brown recluses," noted the medic, writing in a notepad. "What else?"

"Wasps, honeybees, yellowjackets, hornets, fire ants," recited Taylor. "Long story short? Anything that can sting or bite, and can be found in Brockton Bay? Check him for it."

"We'll do that, and thanks," noted the medic. "He's a three-striker, and he's probably Birdcage bound, but we do want to get him there alive."

"Ah, about that," I put in, limping forward. "Miss Militia, a moment of your time?"

The dark-skinned woman looked up, and moved in my direction.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yeah," I told her. "I had a Glock in a shoulder holster before he tore it off me. Is that ...?"

She nodded and handed it over; the straps were snapped clean, but the gun looked to be undamaged.

"Thanks," I said gratefully. "That would've come out of my pay."

"I understand we've got you and, uh, Weaver to thank for this," she noted, indicating Lung's unconscious form. The gun dissolved and reformed in her left hand, and she offered her right. "Congratulations."

"Yeah, well," I replied uncomfortably as I shook her hand. "Like I said, Weaver did most of the work."

She nodded, unsurprised at my words. "I've been briefed on your interview with Armsmaster and the Director," she said briskly. "I'm aware of your ... unusual circumstances."

While her tone was polite, her body language indicated that she was a little dubious about some of what she had been told. And really, I didn't blame her.

I nodded. "Well, I am a huge fan, but that's not why I wanted to talk to you." I took a deep breath. "You do know Lung's recruited Bakuda from New York, right?"

She nodded. "I had heard." Curiosity began to show in her eyes. "This is not common knowledge."

I smiled slightly. "If Armsmaster briefed you on the interview, he would have told you that I know more than most people should, about many things."

"He may have alluded to the subject," she allowed cautiously.

"But you find it hard to believe," I observed. "Looking at me, I mean."

"I didn't say that," she protested, but her tone of voice wasn't entirely convincing.

"Oh, I don't blame you," I assured her. "I'm not all that impressive looking. Especially now. So, I guess I should show you my credentials, so to speak." I thought for a moment. "You've never told anyone this," I went on in a conversational tone, "but you remember. And you've never met anyone else who does."

It took her a moment to get my meaning, and then her eyes opened wide. "How did you –" she began, then cut herself off, her eyes searching my face. I kept my expression bland.

"Suffice to say, I do know what I'm talking about," I continued. "So, do I have your complete and total attention?"

"You do now," she commented, somewhat dryly. "What is it that you wish to tell me about Bakuda?"

"She has bombs implanted in ABB rank and file, in their heads," I told her quietly. "She's also building bombs to work as hand grenades and grenade launcher ammo, so that ordinary mooks can use them. All kinds of effects."

"Implanted bombs?" she reiterated. "In their own rank and file? Why?"

"Forcible recruitment," I explained. "She can select which bomb using a heads-up display in her goggles, then triggers them using toe rings. Big toe and next toe over; she crosses her toes, the rings hit a certain contact, and the signal goes out."

"Do you know which foot?" she asked tensely.

I thought back to the story; the narrative had never made it clear. "No," I told her, "but if I find out, I'll pass the information on."

"In the meantime, I'll just shoot at her feet," she observed lightly. "Thank you for that; it's invaluable data."

I nodded. "She's likely to launch a bombing campaign, with diversionary blasts, to cover her freeing Lung from being sent to the Birdcage. Between the fifteenth and the twenty-fifth, at a rough estimate."

She froze, staring at me. "And that's really important information," she told me. "You're certain of this?"

"As certain as I can be, without knowing what Thinkers are going to change matters," I pointed out. "It might happen sooner; it probably won't happen later."

She shook her head. "Where are you getting your information from?" she asked.

I chuckled, and winced as my bruised ribs protested. "Did Armsmaster tell you what I said when he asked me that?"

She nodded. "That I wouldn't believe you if you told me."

"Exactly," I agreed. "Seriously, you really wouldn't."

"I find it hard to believe that I wouldn't believe you, whatever you told me," she observed.

"Believe it," I advised her, deadpan.

She looked at me suspiciously, perhaps wondering if I were making a joke at her expense. I raised my eyebrows slightly. Her lips tightened, then relaxed in a wry grin.

"Okay, fine," she sighed. "I'll take you at your word. For now."

"Thanks," I replied. "So," I added, indicating with a shrug the carbine slung over my shoulder. "Is there going to be a problem with me carrying this?"

She held out her hand; I unslung the carbine and handed it over to her. At the request of the medic, I had unloaded it, ejecting the round from the chamber afterward. I, personally, knew it was safe; she checked the breech anyway.

She studied it carefully, then looked at me quizzically. "You took on Lung with this?"

I was't sure if her tone denoted respect or disbelief.

"Wasn't my first option," I confessed. "More of an emergency, plan Z backup idea." I shrugged, and winced as my ribs protested. "Turned out it worked just fine as a distraction."

"So I see," she observed as she handed it back. I slung it over my shoulder again, carefully.

"Well, you haven't used it in a crime," she went on, "and you helped take down Lung with it. I've been told that our unofficial policy with you is hands-off until farther notice. So I'm not going to push the matter. Just don't carry it down the street in broad daylight."

"Not part of the plan," I assured her. She nodded in acknowledgement.

"Ma'am, we're ready to go," one of the soldiers reported to her. "We'd like to get him back to secure holding as quickly as possible."

She nodded, then turned back to me. "Is there anything else you'd like to share before we go?"

I paused, thinking. "Not right this second, but I'll be in contact."

"Understood," she replied, and turned to Taylor. "You've done good work tonight, Weaver," she told the teen seriously. "I'd like you to think very seriously about joining the Wards. If you have any questions, feel free to contact me."

Weaver nodded. "I'll do that," she agreed. She shook Miss Militia's proffered hand, then watched as the older hero swung on board the truck. Clockblocker gave Weaver a high five, then climbed on board as well, as Aegis took to the air. We watched the truck drive away.

I turned to the slim costumed form at my side. "Well, partner, we've had an eventful night," I told her. "Kicked some bad guy ass, and got to talk to some heroes." I held out my fist; she bumped it. "Ready to head home?"

"Yeah," she agreed. "School in the morning's gonna be a killer."

"Tell me about it," I grumbled. "I've gotta be up at five thirty."

"Ouch," she sympathised, as we started back toward where we had left the pickup. "That's gotta suck."

"Eh," I temporised. "I've had worse."

I was already looking forward to the drive back, dropping Taylor at home, then heading back to my own place. My bed, soft and warm, was calling out to me.

But the night wasn't done with us yet.

=//=//=​

"You've gone quiet there," I observed after several moments had passed without a comment between us. "Something on your mind?"

"Aegis and Clockblocker were really nice to me," she told me. "And Miss Militia too. They treated me like a cape, like a hero. Like one of them. Not an outsider."

"They did," I agreed. "They're good people."

She turned her head to look at me. "You say that like you know them personally."

"In a manner of speaking," I agreed.

"Ah," she responded. "The time travel thing." She paused. "Not really sure what to think about that, to be honest." Another pause, this one longer. "Do I die, between now and your time? Is that why you're being so nice to me? Do I die, saving the world?"

The apprehensive tone of her voice struck a chord in my heart. I shook my head emphatically. "No, you do not," I assured her. "You and your father are alive and well, after it's all over."

"Oh," she replied. "That's a relief, anyway."

"So, you were talking about Miss Militia and the Wards," I prompted.

"Oh, yeah," she recalled. "I just wanted to ask you ... well, you know how Miss Militia asked me if I wanted to join the Wards ...?"

"Yes?" I responded blandly.

"I was wondering if I should," she said, all in a rush. "I mean, they're nice, and they were interested in talking to me. To me! And it's like you were saying; I should learn to use my abilities better."

"And you can do that better in a teamwork situation, definitely," I agreed. "And yes, I think you'd do well in the Brockton Bay Wards." Especially now that Shadow Stalker's not there, I told myself.

"So you think I should?" she asked.

I rubbed my chin. "I'm not opposed to the idea," I told her. "But I think you should talk it over carefully with your father before you make up your mind."

"Sure," she agreed; I was certain a wide grin was stretching her mouth beneath her mask.

"And once you've spoken to him, and gone over all the pros and cons, then you're going to need to make up your own mind about this," I cautioned her. "It's a huge step to take, and you need to be absolutely certain in yourself before you commit. Because I won't be able to be there all the time to advise you, once you join."

"I know," she agreed soberly. Her hand found mine and squeezed it. "But I do want to thank you for what you've done for me, so far. For me and Dad."

Gently, I tugged my hand free and turned it into a fist-bump. "Hey," I said quietly. "You and your dad are good people. It is my genuine pleasure to help you out."

We walked a way farther in silence.

"Just one thing's bothering me," she observed as we approached the alley in which the pickup truck was waiting.

"What's that?" I asked, although I was fairly certain that I knew.

"You said I'd get to meet some villains," she told me. "And all I've met is heroes."

"I've been wondering about that myself," I agreed. "Something must have –"

The word 'changed' died on my lips as we turned the corner into the alleyway.

Taylor was going to meet the villains after all.

=//=//=​

Grue was leaning up against the bullbar of the pickup, arms folded, like he had all the time in the world. Beside him, the lighter Regent was actually perched up on the bullbar, his feet on the lower bar. Bitch stood foursquare beside them, her three dogs sitting in a row at her feet. Behind them, Tattletale stood in the open car door, one elbow resting on the roof and one on the door itself. She had obviously turned the internal light off so as to not alert us.

Beside me, Taylor tensed; I felt, rather than saw, the surrounding haze of bugs start to move in on us.

"You're here to talk, not fight," I stated, with a calm I did not feel. My words were aimed more at Taylor than at the villains; she relaxed, ever so slightly.

"Uh, yes," Grue replied. "We're -"

"- the Undersiders, I know," I told him. "You're Grue, that's Regent, Bitch with the dogs, and that's Tattletale who's been poking through my car."

"You know us." It was a statement, not a question, and it came from Tattletale.

"I know of you, yes," I amended. "And I'm wondering why you didn't come to help out. You know we did you a solid."

Tattletale's gaze sharpened, and Grue's helmet came up.

"By the time we got here, it was all but over," the girl explained. "You had his butt pretty well kicked." She paused. "Wait, you did this on purpose?"

"Didn't want you dying," I commented off-handedly.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Weaver turn her head toward me. The four Undersiders were all staring at me, as if I had grown a second head.

"How did you know -" began Grue.

Tattletale overrode him. "Do you work for - no, you don't. You just did it to ... save us? What the hell? How did you know - no, that doesn't make any sense."

She fell silent, staring at me intently. Warily.

"You're just now realising that I know a lot more about you, about all of you, than you know about me, even after your little dig through my car," I observed. Behind her mask, I saw her blink. Uncertainty.

"Tattletale, what's this about?" asked Grue carefully. "Is he a cape?"

"No, not a cape," she replied absently, still staring at me. "The girl is, though."

"The girl's name is Weaver, thanks," Taylor cut in sharply. "So you're the Undersiders? You're villains, is that it?"

"Yeah," retorted Regent. "What're you gonna do about it?"

"She just took down Lung and hardly broke a sweat," I advised the teenage boy. "I'd be careful what you say to her. Just saying."

"Yeah?" he answered. "Like what –"

"Shut up, Regent," Tattletale and Grue spoke at the same time. He stared at them, then shut up, folding his arms.

"So what can you do, Weaver?" asked Grue, turning his helmeted head to look toward her.

"Bug control," she replied.

Regent snorted. "Bug control. Wow. I'm shaking in my boots."

Tattletale spoke cautiously. "Ignore him. How many bugs are we talking about?"

Taylor lifted her chin. "All of them," she stated firmly. "Everything within two blocks. It's mine to control."

"Well, I think –" began Regent, then stopped as Grue reached out and closed a large hand on the back of his neck, and squeezed.

"Regent," he said almost gently, "I think you should be polite to the nice bug-controlling girl. The one who could cover us in hornets or black widows any time she felt like it. Just saying."

There are nerve points on either side of the neck; jabbing one sharply is quite painful. Grue was obviously squeezing Regent's neck on these points, because when he let go, the younger boy started rubbing his neck.

"Okay, geez," he muttered. "I didn't mean anything. Bug control's a great power. Honest."

"I think I preferred you being a dick," Taylor observed. "You're more honest that way."

I thought I heard Grue chuckle inside the helmet, but I had other matters to attend to.

I looked over at Tattletale, who had not taken her eyes from me the whole time.

"Got a question for you," I offered. "With a bit of a quid pro quo."

She blinked again. "I'm listening."

"You know the ABB is gunning for you, or at least Lung was, tonight."

She nodded. "That's true."

"Well, Bakuda's in town. Lung recruited her from New York."

"Shit," muttered Grue. "I've heard of her."

"Is she all that bad?" asked Regent.

"She'd fit in just fine with the Slaughterhouse Nine," I told him flatly.

"Fuck," responded Grue and Regent at the same time.

"So," I went on. "She'll likely be coming after you, maybe sometime next week. You see an Asian person, someone with a scar up near the hairline on the back of the neck, chances are that poor bastard's got a bomb in their brain."

"Oh shit," muttered Grue. "That's fucking sick."

"It's all of that," I agreed. "Now, Tattletale, here's my question. She selects which person to blow up with a heads-up display in her goggles. She's got toe-rings on, and she crosses her toes, big toe and next toe, to make the contacts touch and send out the detonate signal. Which foot has the toe-rings on it?"

"The left foot, duh," she responded immediately.

I nodded. "Thank you," I replied. "That may just save lives."

"Wait a minute," interrupted Regent. "What the fuck is this? Why are we letting this guy tell us all this?" He looked me up and down. "You're what, fifty? What do you know?"

"He's forty-three," Tattletale told him. "And he knows plenty."

I sighed. "It always comes to this. I didn't want to go there, but ... here we go. Those people who are most important to you." I pointed at Grue. "Aisha." At Tattletale. "Rex." At Regent. "Cherie." And at Bitch. "Rollo."

Grue stepped forward; Regent hopped down from the bullbar. Bitch took a step forward as well, and her dogs came to their feet, growling. Beside me, Weaver tensed again.

"What the fuck do you mean by that?" snarled Bitch. "You don't get to use that name. You don't get to say that name."

"I meant no harm," I replied to her, making direct eye contact, and stating the words forcefully and directly. "Rollo was important to you. Those other names were important to them. I was making a point, nothing more."

I waited, hoping I was taking the right tack with her. I was taller, heavier than her. I wasn't showing overt signs of aggression, but my direct gaze, my blunt tone, my straight talking, hopefully would defuse her anger.

She lowered her eyes, took a step back. "Yeah, well, don't do it again," she muttered.

"I won't," I answered, and looked at the others. "Satisfied?"

Tattletale stepped out from behind the car door, closed it, and moved forward to stand alongside Grue. "I was already satisfied," she told me. "Grue?"

"I'm satisfied that he knows something," the black-clad villain agreed.

"Good," replied Tattletale. "Regent?"

The teenage boy shrugged. "Eh. I was never that close to her."

"You were never that close to anyone in your family," I pointed out.

"Fair point," he agreed carelessly. "Yeah, I'm satisfied."

"Okay," I told them. "That was just for a demonstration. I have no desire to harm you. I'd much prefer you alive and well. I also prefer me alive and well, which is why I'm going to ask you to not tell anyone about this meeting."

"Why should we do that for you?" asked Grue bluntly.

"Because we took Lung down for you," I pointed out. "And one more thing. I did you a favour, two nights ago."

"Yeah?" he asked. "What'd you do for me?"

I grinned slightly. "Shadow Stalker."

"What about her?" His voice was wary.

"Awaiting trial for attempted murder," I informed him.

"You're shitting me," he exclaimed.

I shook my head. "Check around. You'll find I'm right."

"We can definitely do that," agreed Tattletale. She looked closely at me. "You're not done with us, are you? There's more that you want. What is it?"

I grinned at her. "I'll tell you, the next time we meet."

She stared at me. "You know when that'll be. How do you know when that'll be?"

"Trust me," I told her, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you." I heard Weaver snicker beside me.

"Right," she replied, still eyeing me. "Now you're just giving me a headache."

I shrugged, very carefully. "Sorry, but we've got to get going. I will talk to you later, though. Okay?"

Grue and Tattletale glanced at each other, and Tattletale shrugged.

"Okay," Grue agreed. "We'll talk later."

"And no telling anyone," I added.

"No telling anyone," he repeated.

They stepped out of the way; I put the carbine behind the seat, and Weaver and I climbed into the pickup. I wound down the window and held my hand out, palm up. Tattletale dropped my spare keys into it.

"Sorry," she said with a shrug and a grin. "Old habits."

"No worries," I told her. "I pretty well expected something of the sort."

"And I'm still trying to figure you out." She shook her head. "What the hell is it? How do you do it?"

I grinned as I put the key in the ignition. "Trade secret. And I'm giving you a unique experience."

"What's that?" she asked, unguardedly.

"How other people feel around you," I told her cheerfully, and started the engine.

=//=//=​

We left them staring after us as I drove out of the alleyway. I got Taylor to get the map out and find where we were, and how to get back to her place.

After a while, she turned to me and said in a small voice, "I'm sorry."

"What for?" I asked.

"I should have been checking around," she confessed. "I didn't check the alley before we got to it."

"Well, we got away with it this time, but maybe not the next time," I agreed. "So yeah, lesson learned, hey?"

"Oh, definitely," she agreed fervently. "Next left, I think."

I took the next left.

"So," I asked her after a little while longer. "You got to meet the villains. "What did you think?"

"They weren't like Lung," were her first words, then she thought more about it. "They were ... people. Like you and me."

"More like you than me," I commented. "I think Regent's about your age."

"Yeah," she agreed. "But ... normal. Not ... evil."

"Not really, no," I concurred. "None of them got into crime for crime's sake."

"Do you know why they got into crime?" she asked curiously.

"Sure," I told her cheerfully. "Grue's trying to support his younger sister. Tattletale was more or less forced into it. Regent needs to get away from family issues, and Bitch never really had a choice."

"Why was Tattletale staring at you?" she asked next.

I chuckled. "Her power is super-intuition. Anything that could possibly be a tell lights up like a neon sign for her. So she's used to being the smartest person in the room. The one that knows everything."

She began to giggle. "And you knew things that she didn't, and she doesn't know how you know it ..."

I nodded. "Exactly and precisely," I praised her.

"What are the other guys' powers?" she wanted to know.

So, as we wended our way back to the Hebert house, I expounded on the powers possessed by the Undersiders.

=//=//=​

The lights were still on when we arrived. Danny must have been just napping on the sofa, because by the time Taylor was on the sidewalk, he was opening the door and coming down the steps. I climbed much more carefully out of my side of the pickup, locking it as I did so, and walked around to greet him.

Taylor and Danny met in a bone-crushing hug that looked fair to go on for some time; I leaned against the bonnet of the pickup and waited for them to get it over with. Eventually, he let her go, and put his hands on her shoulders, looking her up and down.

"You're okay?" he asked. "You're really okay?"

"I'm really okay, Dad," she confirmed. "Can we talk about it inside?"

"Sure," he told her. "Sure." Then he grabbed my right hand with both of his, and shook it. "Thank you, Mike." His voice was thick with feeling. "Thank you for taking care of my girl."

I grimaced. "She took care of me, more like," I corrected him. "But yeah, inside is better."

=//=//=​

Inside, Taylor made her excuses and trotted upstairs to change and freshen up. I sat at the kitchen table while Danny put the kettle on to boil.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"I don't drink it," I confessed. "Cocoa or cold water will do me just fine."

He looked me over, frowning. "You look like you've really been in a fight," he observed. "Are you all right?"

"Bumps, bruises, contusions, a pulled ligament," I recited. "Nothing that won't heal with time and care."

"And Taylor's really okay?" he asked me.

I nodded. "She kept it together. Even when things were going pear-shaped, she was planning ahead. She's the one who won the fight."

=//=//=​

I was sipping cocoa, and Danny had black tea on for Taylor, when she came downstairs, wearing her pyjamas and with her damp hair loosely pulled back in a ponytail.

"Wow, watch out," I observed. "It's Weaver, terror of the underworld."

She stuck her tongue out at me, and went to pour a cup of tea. "I had to shower," she confessed. "I sweated more than I thought in that costume."

"Well, it's a good thing you did," I told her. "Nothing's worse than stinky superhero." That got me a chuckle from Danny, and a roll of the eyes from his daughter.

I could see my hand beginning to shake on the tabletop, and I put down the cup before my other hand spilled the drink.

"Are you all right?" Taylor asked, sitting beside me, as I looked down at my hand. It continued to shake, no matter how much I told it not to.

"I think it's just really beginning to hit me," I confided. "All of it. What we did tonight. How close I came to dying." Both my hands were shaking now, and my voice had a quaver in it that I didn't like.

"Adrenaline comedown," Danny observed. "I've seen it before." His voice was calm. "It'll pass. Nothing to be ashamed of."

I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling my whole body shaking. "I – I know," I told him. "It's just – I can't – I want to – stop it – can't." I felt tears welling in my eyes, knew it was from the reaction. But I didn't want to let Taylor see, Taylor who saw me as her rock and her protector.

I heard a chair scrape closer, and it was Danny who put his arms around me, Danny who held me while I shook, while the tears flowed down my cheeks.

And then Taylor put her arms around both of us, and I felt the shudders begin to give way to the warmth that was being offered me, and ever so gradually, I began to relax and let it pass.

When it was over, I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, and no-one said a word.

=//=//=​

Half an hour later, I was ready to go home. We had gone over the events of the night; Danny was aghast to discover that Taylor had taken on Lung, but pleased that she had defeated him, with just a little assistance from me. Mainly as a decoy, I pointed out.

We talked over the idea of Taylor joining the Wards, and Danny was cautiously optimistic at the idea. I pointed out that the Wards tended to go to Arcadia, and so she would have friends in class there, if she joined. Danny definitely approved of that part of it.

Taylor also told him of the encounter with the Undersiders, mentioning that they were grateful about our defeat of Lung, but eliding over the rest. We had discussed the matter on the way back to the house, and had decided that Danny didn't need to know about me being a time traveller quite yet.

I would tell him, I decided. He did deserve to know. It would just be at a time and place of my choosing.

By the time we were finished, Danny was yawning and Taylor could hardly keep her eyes open. I knew that I would not get much sleep, but anything was better than nothing, so I pushed the chair back from the table and stood up.

"Well, if I'm to make it to school tomorrow," I pointed out, "I need to get back to my place."

Danny nodded. "You're not far wrong," he agreed, with another jaw-cracking yawn.

Taylor rose and came around the table to me. "Hold still," she ordered me, and then hugged me, very gently. I hugged her back; it was the only thing I could do.

"Now you go home and get some rest," she told me firmly.

"Yes, boss," I agreed with a chuckle.

They saw me to the door; I shook Danny's hand again, and Taylor fist-bumped me. Then I walked out the door and down the steps, avoiding the bottom one.

=//=//=​

The drive home, without Taylor in the passenger seat to keep me awake, was almost interminable. I wound down the window to let the chill night air in, and took deep breaths; they made my ribs ache, but it kept me alert.

I made it all right, and pulled into my usual parking place. Before I went anywhere, however, I got out my maglite and shone it around the courtyard. I wasn't going to get ambushed a second time.

Sure enough, between two cars, a scrawny figure was lurking. One arm was in a sling; the other held a switchblade. He stared at me as I shone the torch around some more. He didn't seem to have brought backup this time.

The holdup artist started toward me, waving the knife. "Give me your –" he began, then stopped as I pulled the Glock from the ruined shoulder holster. I wasn't in the best of shape, but at five yards, he made a great target. I also wasn't in the mood for this shit.

"We can do this one of two ways," I told him, keeping the gun steady on target. "I can shoot you right now, or you can fuck off and I never see you again."

It didn't take him long to decide. The last I saw of him was his retreating rear profile, hastening out of the courtyard.

=//=//=​

No-one else jumped out at me as I struggled upstairs with my gear, which was good, because I probably would have shot someone. I had to work to put my key in the door, but eventually I managed. The door opened, and I stumbled inside. I locked it before I switched on the light.

That was when I turned around, and came face to face with a not-quite-familiar figure. Tall, hooded cloak, green glow coming from under the hood.

My tired brain was trying to process this when he spoke.

"We need to talk."

"Ah," I sighed, realising who this had to be. "Hello, Eidolon."


End of Chapter Nine

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Ten: (Tell Me Why) I Don't Like Mondays


Brian took his helmet off and stared at Lisa.

"Okay," he began without preamble, "seriously, what the fuck?"

"Yeah," chimed in Alec, flopping on to the sofa, his mask in his hand. "Is it just me, or did that guy just out-Lisa Lisa?"

Lisa shook her head. "I don't know how he did it, guys," she confessed. "But he knew stuff. Stuff that he shouldn't have known. Stuff he shouldn't have been able to know."

Brian was at the fridge. "Beer?" he called over his shoulder..

"Sure," replied Alec.

"No thanks," demurred Lisa. "I want my head clear. I need to check some stuff out.". Her laptop was open and booting up as she spoke.

"Before you get into that, I want to talk about that guy," Brian insisted, handing a beer to Regent and twisting the top off of his. "What do you mean, stuff he shouldn't have been able to know?"

Lisa looked up at him. Her mask was off, but she hadn't wiped the black makeup off her eyelids yet. "I mean, he knew all about us, Brian. Everything. Your name, my name, Alec's real name, our backgrounds, the full details of our powers, the lot. Shit, he knew about Rex, and I've never told anyone about him."

"Never told anyone about Rollo either," put in Rachel, from where she was grooming Brutus.

"Maybe he's investigated your backgrounds somehow?" suggested Brian. It wasn't often that he saw Lisa this rattled.

"My power says not," she replied. "I get the distinct impression that he's read some kind of intense in-depth dossier on us. One that I know for a fact does not exist."

"That doesn't make any sense," Alec protested.

Lisa shrugged. "It is what it is," she told him. "But I am going to be looking this guy up. I want to know what his sources are."

"Sucks not being the smartest person in the room, doesn't it?" jibed Alec.

Without looking, Lisa threw a cushion at him. It collided with his face, just as he took a drink of beer; he yelped as the cold beverage spilled over his chin and down his neck.

"One more thing," Brian asked. "Are you going to be telling the boss about him?"

Lisa considered the question seriously.

"On the one hand," Alec put in, dabbing at the spilled beer with his shirt, "you know he's gotta be interested."

"On the other," Brian added, "this guy helped out with Lung, he warned us about Bakuda, and there's that thing with Shadow Stalker. And he did ask us to keep it on the down-low."

Lisa nodded. "And I got the impression that him asking us to do that was as much for our benefit as for his."

"A threat?" asked Brian, wary now.

She shook her head. "More of a friendly warning. He wants us alive and well. He said so."

"So, we keep it between us for the time being?" Brian concluded.

"For the moment, yeah," agreed Lisa. She went back to the laptop, her fingers rippling over the keys. "Now, let's see who you really are, Mr Allen ..."

=///=​

"Ah," I sighed, realising who this had to be. "Hello, Eidolon."

"Michael Allen, if that's even your real name," he responded, his voice heavy, the words charged with some emotion that I couldn't analyse. Fear? Anger? "You've been spreading rumours about me. Damaging rumours. Rumours that could destroy all I've worked to build as a hero, and the Protectorate with me."

I dumped my gear on the couch - equipment belt, carbine, ripped shoulder holster, the lot - and turned to face him. "I spread no rumours," I corrected him. "Contessa wanted to know what I knew about Endbringers and how to stop them. I told her what I knew. I'm not responsible for what she says, and to whom."

Perhaps I wasn't being the most diplomatic, but this was the third night in a row that I'd had an uninvited visitor in my flat, all my injuries were throbbing in syncopation, and I really wanted a shower and bed. Why couldn't Cauldron sort their own damn messes out?

"What you told her was a total fabrication, a tissue of lies from end to end," he hissed, the green glass helmet giving his voice a faintly echoing quality. "Somehow you convinced her that it was true. You're going to tell her that it's all lies, that there's no truth in what you've told her."

I paused, trying to get my thoughts in order. "Look," I told him. "It's really simple -"

I hadn't seen the dark-clad form in the unlit kitchen, until a blur of motion clued me in on her presence. All of a sudden, my face was being pressed hard against the wall, with both arms wrenched painfully up behind my back.

"Ow," I managed, the word slurred somewhat, due my face being mashed up against the wall. "Awexandwia, I pwesu'e."

"You will retract your statements," the leader of the Los Angeles Protectorate told me bluntly. "Contessa wants you alive, but there are many gradations between unhurt and dead." Her grip on my arms was iron-hard, and about as yielding.

"Wook," I managed. "C'n we ..."

I trailed off, and she took the hint, allowing me to lift my face away from the wall and talk normally. She didn't loosen her grip on my arms, though. And my ribs were killing me.

"Talk," she ordered me.

"Can we just sit down and discuss this like rational people?" I asked plaintively. "I'm not a cape. It's not like I'm going to overpower the two of you.'

There was a long pause, during which time I wondered if my arms would even work right again, or if my shoulders would be double-jointed for the rest of my life.

Abruptly, the pressure on my arms released, and I shook my shoulders into some sort of shape. Alexandria pointed at the kitchen table. "Sit," she ordered. "Talk, and make it good.'

I pulled out a chair, and sat down, then pointedly waited till they also sat. I had a container of cookies on the table; opening this, I offered it around. When both of them declined, I shrugged and took one myself.

"We're waiting," snapped Alexandria sharply. Here was a woman who could level buildings. One did not keep her waiting lightly.

"Okay," I told her, having taken the time to gather my thoughts. "First off, do you need convincing that I know what I'm talking about, or are you willing to take what I say at face value?"

"What?" demanded Eidolon. "We're talking about you retracting your statement to Contessa, not how true it is."

"No," I told him with as much firmness as I could muster, "we're talking about fixing this mess and stopping the Endbringers once and for all."

The following silence was broken only by the crunching noises as I ate the cookie. They both stared at me; if I hadn't already faced Lung that night, I would have been a lot more scared; as it was, my adrenals were on holiday.

Alexandria's voice was a hiss. "Explain."

"Okay," I agreed. "But first, I have to be sure you're ready to believe what I've got to say. That I know what I'm talking about. You especially." I nodded to Eidolon.

He shook his head. "I've heard nothing to convince me anything of the sort. Your statement is ..."

"For fuck's sake, David, enough about the statement," I expostulated. "You met Doctor Mother in May of nineteen eighty-six. You were wheelchair-bound, and had applied to the Army but been turned down. You'd tried to slash your wrists, but failed there too. How am I doing?"

Leaving him gaping at me, I turned to Alexandria. "Library of Alexandria, real name Rebecca Costa-Brown, Chief Director of the PRT," I stated crisply. "You were in your teens, in the final stages of cancer, in a hospital in Los Angeles. You were sick and tired of being seen as the brave one, but you just couldn't drop the facade. And then Doctor Mother made you an offer you couldn't refuse."

I put my hands on the table and leaned back. "Now are you willing to believe that I know what I'm talking about?" I asked.

The double-barrelled stare had not abated; if anything, it had intensified.

"If you reveal one word -" began Alexandria.

I cut her off. "Seriously, enough with the threats. I know you could both kill me, or maim me, in ways subtle and horrifying. Let's not go there. We're working toward the same goal, here. Saving the fucking world."

I took a deep breath. "Eidolon, I need to tell you something, and I need your full attention." I fixed my gaze on the hooded man. "Do I have it?"

He nodded reluctantly. "You have it."

I felt cautious relief. They were listening. At least for the moment.

"Okay, one; a general statement. Assume that I know everything significant about Cauldron. I'm not going to blow the whistle; it's up to you to start making plans to dismantle it, rehabilitating the Case fifty-threes, restoring the ones you can to a normal life, once golden boy is dead and gone."

I looked from frozen stare to frozen stare.

"Two," I went on. "Eidolon. Your powers have been waning. You've been seeking high-end conflict, getting booster shots from Doctor Mother. Hasn't been doing a damn bit of good. That's because you've been going about it all wrong."

"I find it hard to believe -" began Eidolon.

"That I know more about this stuff than all your experts?" I chuckled; there was no humour in it. "I know shit you wouldn't fucking believe. Stuff that would turn your whole world-view inside out. Alexandria's good at cold-reading people; she can tell you I'm not exaggerating."

Alexandria made no comment; I went on.

"Where you're going wrong is that you're drawing from the wrong power pool. What you're tapped into, as far as I can tell, is all the dead ... agents, I think you call 'em. The whatsits that actually connect to the corona pollentia and give people powers. There's basically dead ones out there, or disconnected ones. Agents that have never connected to a person, or were left behind when a cape died."

I was free-associating now, but it sounded good.

"Anyway," I went on. "You're missing a trick. The dead ones? They're why your powers are running down. You need to plug into wall power, get a shot of the live juice."

"Start making sense sometime," he growled.

"Sure," I told him. "What I just said? Quite possibly the purest bullshit. But essentially true. What you've got to do is let go. Make a leap of faith. You generally concentrate on fight or flight powers, ones for offence or defence, right?"

"... essentially correct," he conceded.

"So let 'em all go," I advised him. "Reach for mental powers. There's one out there that'll let you detect the powers that capes around you have on them. And once you've got that one, reach for the one that lets you tap into those powers."

He stared at me. "And that's it?" he asked blankly. "That's the solution to everything?"

"Well, there's more to it than that," I told him. "Once you realise your powers are back up to pre-decline levels, you'll have no conscious need for conflict. You know Jessica Yamada, of course?"

He nodded in agreement. "I've spoken to her in the past."

"See her. Soon. Tell her everything; the link with the Endbringers, the lot. Tell her that you need to come to peace with yourself, that you need to stop seeking conflict, even subconsciously. Tell her you've got a month to get it right."

"A ... month?" repeated Alexandria.

I nodded. "You may have gotten the report. Leviathan is due to hit Brockton Bay on May the fifteenth."

She nodded. "It crossed my desk." Her gaze sharpened on mine, as the penny finally dropped. "You're ... Security?"

"The same," I acknowledged. "Now, it might not actually happen. I have another iron in the fire, one that might deflect him elsewhere. But if you can get your head together, it might just stop the Endbringers from attacking anywhere ever again."

Eidolon stared at me. "But ... how do you know when and where Leviathan is even due to strike?"

I noted that he wasn't professing disbelief any more, and grinned. "I'd tell you, but that would just start another argument. Let's just leave it that I know stuff."

Pushing back my chair, I rose painfully. "Well, I've told you what I know. It's up to you now."

Both heroes rose at the same time. "If it turns out you've lied to me ..." began Eidolon.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," I told him. "Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. It'll work. If you do it right. Then it's up to you to get your head together."

His tone was suddenly uncertain. "But ... if this is all true ... I'm responsible for ..."

"Bullshit!" I snapped, loudly enough to make him jump. "Your powers did it, not you. Mrs Yamada will tell you the exact same damn thing." I flapped my hands at them. "Now get out of here. Go save a cat in a tree or something. I'm tired and I'm hurting and I need to get some sleep."

"I had noticed your injuries," Alexandria commented; her tone was much less confrontational than before. "What happened?"

I leaned on the chair for a moment. "Lung happened," I told her. "And a mugger. No biggie. I'll survive."

"You took on Lung," Eidolon's voice was flat. "And you survived."

"I had a cape with me," I stated. "She did all the hard work. I'm just bruised, is all."

"Hm," replied Eidolon. A green glow began to build up around his left hand. "Well, as you would probably remind us, we are heroes, and we have a responsibility to help people." The glow left his hand, drifted over to me, sank into my chest. I watched with a certain amount of detachment; this was the first time that an actual, real, super-power had been used on me. As opposed to super-strength, Tinker gadgets, or flame.

"What's that do?" I asked.

"It will grant you restful sleep, and heal your wounds," he told me. "In the meantime ... I will try what you've told me. See how it goes."

I tried to ignore the weird tingling in my chest. "Do, or do not, young Skywalker," I misquoted. "There is no 'try'."

Alexandria shot me an extremely dry look. "Door," she said out loud. Without fuss, a portal opened in midair. On the other side was the gleaming white corridor of Cauldron. "We'll be in touch."

Without further ado, they both stepped through the hole in space-time.

"I look forward to it," I replied, but the portal had already closed.

With a sigh, I put my gear away, showered briefly, and went to bed.

Another day, another flock of butterflies.

I dreamed of home.

=///=​

Emily Piggot was convened in her office with Armsmaster and Miss Militia. The doors were locked, the shutters closed, and a discordant buzz filled the air.

"I look forward to it," they each heard, in a voice they all recognised. The Director shut off the playback and looked at the two capes.

"Normally, you wouldn't even be hearing of this," she told them frankly, "but until I can be sure of everyone on the PRT side of things, you two are about the only ones I feel I can trust. You're also the only other two people I can call on regarding Michael Allen, the only two who have encountered him in the field."

Miss Militia looked back at the Director. "What do you want from us?" she ventured.

"Your thoughts," Piggot told her brusquely. "On what you've just heard."

"Honestly?" asked the dark-skinned woman. "I think it's above my pay grade. Reading between the lines ..." she trailed off.

"Reading between the lines," Armsmaster put in, "it sounds as though Alexandria is using her civilian identity to run the PRT, in violation of the same regulations that she helped to write. It sounds as though Eidolon is in some way responsible for the Endbingers, though he either didn't know it, or didn't want to know it. And it sounds as though they're both in collusion with this mysterious Cauldron, and someone called Contessa, and someone else with the unlikely name of Doctor Mother."

Emily Piggot drew a deep breath. "I concur with all of those conclusions," she agreed. "Just as I concur with Miss Militia's conclusion. This is far above our pay grade."

"So we just ... bury it?" Armsmaster's voice was disbelieving. "It never happened?"

Piggot shook her head. "No. But we don't speak of it, either. We watch, and we listen, and we gather data. We don't have nearly enough to go on with at the moment. So we build our case. And when the time comes ... we use it."

Miss Militia nodded, but Armsmaster was frowning.

The Director looked at him. "Is there a problem, Armsmaster?"

"Not a problem, exactly, Director," he confessed. "Just ... Alexandria's doing a competent job as Director Costa-Brown. And she's a celebrated hero in her own right. Do we really have to bring her down, out her, drag the name of the PRT and the Protectorate in the mud, just because she's breaking a few rules, and doing a good job in the meantime?"

Director Emily Piggot rose to her feet, and looked him right in the eye, or at his opaque visor, which was the closest she could come to doing so.

"Armsmaster," she snapped, with the steel of command in her voice. "When regulations say that a cape may lead the Parahuman Response Teams, then it will be perfectly okay for her to do so. Until that day, we will treat it as a violation of those same regulations. Is. That. Understood?"

Armsmaster braced to attention, quite possibly not even aware that he was doing so. "Yes, Director!" he barked.

Piggot sat down again. "Good," she acknowledged. "But we'll keep it quiet until we have more to go on with.". She looked over at Armsmaster. "While I have you here, what's the status on the Saint investigation?"

Armsmaster, apparently relieved at the change of subject, relaxed slightly. "It's going well, Director," he reported. "The data Security supplied led us right to his accomplices. The woman – Margaret Pellick – apparently purchased the property in Toronto under her maiden name. There's some activity on site, but it's hard to run a full operation without Dragon finding out. Covert surveillance should be in place in the next few days."

The Director nodded, pleased. "Excellent work."

"Talking about covert surveillance," put in Miss Militia, "are the listening devices you've had put into Mr Allen's residence entirely ... legal?"

Director Piggot looked uncomfortable. "Only via a certain interpretation of 'legal'," she admitted. "He knows things that he shouldn't; this makes me very uncomfortable. In short, we're investigating a potential security leak."

"If he makes you so uncomfortable, why not just recruit him?" suggested Miss Militia.

Armsmaster snorted. "Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed. "Him, in the PRT? He's -"

"Old? Fat? Unfit?" interrupted Director Piggot caustically. "Careful, Armsmaster. I'm all of that."

"I didn't mean -" began Armsmaster hastily.

"Of course you didn't," agreed Piggot, in a tone which meant, 'of course you did'. "No, for the moment, it's hands-off. As it is, he's offered us some rather useful data, and indications are that we'll get more when he decides it's time. If he gets outed, then we offer him recruitment for his own protection, of course. But failing that, we leave him alone."

She looked at the two capes. "If there's no further business?"

Armsmaster shook his head; Miss Militia likewise indicated negation. Director Piggot reached over to the large red button and pressed it, allowing it to click back into its normal position. The discordant hum ceased, and the shutters rattled back to allow sunlight in once more.

"Thank you for attending this test," she addressed them out loud, just in case someone was actually listening. "Dismissed."

As the doors closed behind them, Emily Piggot leaned back in her chair and massaged her temples. Life was so much simpler before Security showed on the scene, she thought ruefully.

Removing the thumb drive with the incriminating conversation on it from the computer, she put it in her pocket. Only then did she turn the modem on. It didn't take long before alerts started popping up on her screen.

With a sigh, she took hold of the mouse and started clicking on action items.

From here on in, it would be just another Monday morning at work.

=///=​

I stood on the steps of Winslow High School. Freshly shaved, beard neatly trimmed, my uniform ironed, I had even taken the time to polish my boots. Arms folded before me, sunglasses hiding my eyes from the early morning glare, I watched the incoming students.

A good many of these had seen me on the Friday; many of those who had not, had been told of me by their friends. Having a security guard stationed at Winslow was apparently no small matter. Those few of them that had neither seen me nor heard of me were eyeing me curiously as they entered the school.

Taylor, having gotten off the bus, trotted up the steps not far from me. She flashed me a sudden grin; I nodded back, deadpan. Then she was past me and inside, looking much more animated than the first time I had met her, three days ago.

"Mr Allen?"

I looked down the steps toward where one of the parents stood. I did not recognise the pretty brunette, but the redheaded girl next to her was entirely familiar to me.

Descending the steps, I looked the brunette over. If Emma had gotten her hair from her father, she had definitely gotten her figure and her looks from her mother. This would be ...

"I'm Zoe Barnes," she introduced herself, offering her hand.

I shook it carefully. "Michael Allen," I replied. "Thanks for dropping Emma off. Her father's not here today?"

She shrugged slightly. "He had to go into the office early."

I just bet he did. "Well, that's fine. I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs Barnes."

She smiled, flipping her hair in a way I had seen Emma do once. She did it much better than Emma. "Oh, you make me feel old. Please, call me Zoe."

I nodded slightly. "If you insist, Zoe." I paused. "Was there something else?"

"Actually, yes," she told me, stepping closer to me. I caught a whiff of her perfume, and a look down her blouse that suggested that she considered underwear to be an optional extra. "I'm concerned at the harshness of the punishment that Emma's been given. It was just a silly little prank, wasn't it? Really, I mean?"

Her voice was soft, low, throaty. It promised much, if I'd just agree with her. I didn't know whether the promise was an empty one, or whether she was willing to make an assignation with a lowly security guard to get her daughter easier treatment; given her husband's profession, I rather suspected the former. Either way, I wasn't buying.

"You weren't here for the meeting, Zoe, so you didn't hear all the details, obviously," I told her bluntly. "Your daughter deliberately held a toilet stall shut so that Emma's two friends could pour juice and soda over the walls on either side on to Taylor, ruining her clothes and backpack, and damaging the books in her pack. Hardly a 'silly little prank'. Hundreds of dollars worth of damage, not to mention the mental trauma of such an act."

She blinked, taken aback by my words and my apparent immunity to her charms.

I wasn't finished. "And it's not just one little prank either. Taylor has verbally testified to events like this having happened basically every day since they started high school. She has written evidence of such things dating back to September of last year."

I took a deep breath. "Your daughter, in other words, has been carrying out a directed, malicious campaign of bullying against her former best friend for the last eighteen months. Taylor's locker has been vandalised or broken into no less than four times. A flute belonging to Annette Hebert, given to Taylor after her death, was stolen from the locker, and destroyed by Emma's direct suggestion."

As my words sank in, she turned to look at her daughter. Gone was the seductress. Now, she was all business.

"Emma," she asked flatly. "Is this true?"

Emma was staring at me, eyes wide. I guessed it was the mention of the flute that got her. "Oh yeah," I told her, entirely untruthfully. "She sold you out."

"But it was Sophia who stole it in the first place, and destroyed it!" she burst out. "I never touched it!"

"Really," I observed.

Emma's eyes turned to her mother's face. Zoe Barnes looked from Emma to me and back again. "Emma Barnes," she said softly. "I'm going to ask you one more time. Is all this true?"

Instead of answering, Emma pointed at me. "Don't say anything around him," she told her mother. "He records everything!"

Zoe looked at me, her eyebrow raising. "Do you really?" she asked.

For an answer, I pulled out the digital recorder, the tiny light glowing brilliant red. "As a matter of fact, yes," I informed her. "Would you be interested in listening to the fascinating recording of what Emma said when I caught her and the others bullying Taylor in the bathroom?"

"I believe that I would," Zoe Barnes told me, looking intently at Emma, who wilted before her gaze.

"I'll see about getting it to you, then," I noted. "In the meantime, I see that the Clements' are here, which means that it's time to take these two young ladies inside."

She nodded. "Thank you for laying the facts out for me, Mr Allen," she replied. "I won't be bothering you any more." She turned to Emma. "We will be having words when you get home tonight, young lady. Anne-Rose was one of my best friends before she died. Destroying her property like that ... I'm ashamed of you."

She turned on her heel and walked off, passing Madison Clements and her parents.

"Morning," I greeted them, with a nod.

"Good morning, Mr Allen," Madison's father replied. "We can pick her up at three thirty?"

"End of the school day, yes," I agreed. "I'll be waiting out front with them."

He nodded. "Thank you, sir," he replied. "Let me know if she gives you any trouble."

"I'll keep that in mind," I assured him.

He reached out his hand; I shook it. Then he and his wife, who hadn't said a word, walked away.

I turned to the two teenage girls. "Let's get you inside," I told them.

=///=​

"The rules are simple," I stated, as we entered the empty classroom which had been set aside for them. "You do not leave this classroom unless escorted by a teacher. You do not communicate with other students. You can talk to each other, so long as you keep it down. You may read books, do homework, or study. You are not allowed access to school computers. You are not allowed the use of phones, electronic tablets, or any other electronic device that can be used for entertainment." I held out my hand. "So give."

"Give what?" asked Emma, playing dumb.

"Any phones, MP3 players, tablets, or anything else that you might have in your pockets or bags. They will go on the desk, and you can reclaim them at the end of the day."

"Fuck off! I'm not giving you my phone!" she exclaimed.

"So you're refusing to abide by the terms of the suspension?" I asked mildly.

The words hung in the air, until she suddenly clicked.

"Here!" she snarled, pulling it from her pocket and slapping it into my palm.

"Thank you, Emma," I replied politely. "Madison?"

The petite brunette was already pulling it out of her backpack. "Here you are, Mr Allen," she offered in a subdued tone of voice.

"And thank you, Madison." I took them up to the desk at the head of the room. "Take a seat anywhere, ladies. I'm going to sit here with you until home room is over, and your first period teacher arrives to take over. These phones will sit here on this desk. They will remain turned off. You may get access to them during lunch hour. It's as simple as that."

Sullenly, Emma plumped herself down at a desk; Madison sat beside her. I sat in the teacher's chair and leaned back, relaxing.

"Mr Allen," Madison spoke up, "can I ask you a question?"

I chose not to point out that she just had, and nodded. "Fire away, Madison."

"Where's Sophia?" she asked me. "Why isn't she here?"

I raised an eyebrow. "That's a very good question." I paused, formulating the answer. "She was angry at being caught out on Friday," I told them. "On Friday night, she came to my address, and attempted to ... assault me. I subdued her, and she was arrested and taken into custody. She's currently awaiting trial."

I watched the girls' faces as what I had said sank in. Madison looked vaguely confused. Emma's face went from puzzled to horrified as she realised what I was really saying. I looked at her mildly. "I presume you didn't know she was going to do this, Emma?"

She shook her head violently, her face pale. "No, Mr Allen, I didn't. You have to believe me!"

I chuckled. "It's fine, Emma. I believe you. This time."

She sagged back in her chair, looking honestly relieved. Madison looked at her curiously, but did not ask.

=///=​

My relief for the first period was a male teacher. I recognised him from Friday, but did not recall his name. It didn't matter to me; I nodded to him, pointed out the phones on the desk, and made way for him to sit down. As I left, he was texting on the phone he'd pulled out of his own pocket. Anything to keep from being bored, I guess.

I roamed the first and second floors of the school, making sure all was in its place; however, at the end of the first period, I ensured that I was close to Gladly's classroom. This was another turning point in the story; in canon, she had been taunted by the other girls, egged on by Emma and her crew, and had ended up leaving the school more or less in tears. This had led her to go and meet the Undersiders for the second time. I was interested in seeing how it went this time.

=///=​

As everyone gathered their things and began to file out, Mr. Gladly approached Taylor and quietly said, "I'd like you to stick around for a few minutes, please."

She just nodded and put her books away, then waited for the teacher to finish negotiating where to meet the prize winners from the class contest so he could pay for their prizes.

If Greg and Sparky had done even one-tenth of the work that she had done, she would have been in that group. Oh well, she decided. Can't win everything.

When it was just Taylor and Mr. Gladly in the classroom, he cleared his throat and then told her, "I'd like to talk to you about what happened on Friday."

"Okay," she replied, not sure how to respond.

"I've known for some time that some people have been giving you a hard time in this class."

Not any more, she thought, though that wasn't strictly true. She'd caught Julia and a couple of others giving her poisonous glares when Mr Gladly wasn't looking. But with Mike on her side, with her new career as a superhero, with the fact that she'd beaten Lung last night ... a few nasty glances weren't going to even begin to cut it.

"It's been known to happen," she agreed. "But Madison was the main ringleader. I don't think it's going to be a problem any more."

Mr Gladly looked uncomfortable. Good. "If anything like that happens again, I want you to know that I'll be there to support you, make sure that it gets dealt with accordingly, all right, Taylor?"

She nodded. His words sounded nice, but she'd had those assurances before. It was only once Mike Allen turned up that the assurances had started to actually become reality. She seriously doubted that Mr Gladly had anything whatsoever to do with that. But what the hell, give him the benefit of the doubt just this once. "Sure," she said. "I've got to get to my next class."

"Okay, Taylor," he replied, with a relieved smile. "See you tomorrow."

She stepped out of the classroom and was immediately surrounded by girls. This was amazingly familiar, only the main three were nowhere to be seen. Half a dozen girls, led by Julia, pushed and shoved her back into a corner.

Taylor didn't get angry, didn't get upset. She did exactly what she'd planned to do in this instance, and she readied herself.

"Please step aside," she stated clearly.

They ignored her, of course. The usual taunts started up; none spoken directly to her, but all aimed at her. Julia led the pack.

"Nobody likes her. Nobody wants her here."

"Julia, I need to get to my next class," Taylor addressed the other girl. "You're in my way. Please step aside."

"Are you talking to me, Taylor?" Julia affected surprise. "I didn't notice you there, you're so skinny."

"Except for the smell," another girl added. "She stinks so badly. She really should shower."

"Ugliest girl in our grade."

Taylor saw Mr Gladly exit the classroom; he turned to lock it, then saw her and the other girls. She watched him, curious as to what he would do.

"If I were her, I'd kill myself."

He looked her in the eyes.

The girl's voice was clearly audible. "So glad we don't have gym with her. Can you imagine seeing her in the locker room? Gag me with a spoon."

And then he turned and walked away.

So that's how it is. Maybe I should have waved my arms and put up smoke signals.

And then she saw Mike turn the corner, and accost Mr Gladly. She couldn't help the grin that spread across her face.

Julia saw it, and frowned. "What's that smile for? Are you trying not to cry? Cry yourself to sleep for a straight week?"

Taylor's eyes snapped to Julia then, and she said firmly, "Move aside, or I will move you aside."

As she stepped forward, Julia put her hand up to shove Taylor back into her place. Taylor trapped her wrist, turned her arm, and put her into a perfect arm-bar.

Julia went to her knees almost immediately; Taylor supposed that she was using a little more than absolutely necessary force. For some reason, this didn't seem to bother her.

"Ow, fuck, ow, ow, ow!"

=///=​

I turned the corner, and there they were. Six girls, lacking of course the core three, but carrying on without them. Almost admirable in their loyalty. Almost.

They had Taylor backed into the corner, as had happened in the story. But her expression was almost serene. She was prepared for this.

Gladly was moving my way, eyes fixed ahead of him. Ignoring what was happening behind.

"Hey." I moved in front of him. "Gladly. Look behind you."

"Sorry, I'm in a hurry," he muttered, trying to duck around me. I'm fairly wide; this is not easily accomplished if I don't want it to happen.

"Gladly," I repeated. "Look. Behind you. Bullying at six o'clock."

He glanced over his shoulder. "They're just talking to her."

"They've got her trapped in a corner, Gladly. Want to hear what they're saying to her?"

"I can't hear anything," he told me.

"Ow, fuck, ow, ow, ow!" The girl's pained cry echoed down the corridor.

"Really?" I asked cheerfully.

Gladly finally turned around, to see Taylor holding Julia on her knees with an arm bar; the other girls had stepped back, watching wide-eyed as Taylor effortlessly kept Julia in place.

"Shall we go and see what's happening?" I enquired mildly. I was already on my way; Gladly caught up with a few running steps.

"Taylor, what are you doing?" he demanded as we approached the group. "Let go of Julia immediately!"

She ignored him, and looked at me; I nodded fractionally. She released Julia and stepped back; the heavier girl rose, rubbing her arm. "She tried to break my arm!"

"No, she didn't," I countered. "I taught her that hold, and from where I'm standing, she applied it perfectly." Taylor beamed.

"She grabbed me for no reason!" insisted Julia. "We were just talking!"

"Really?" I asked. "Taylor?"

Grinning even wider, she reached into her pocket and handed me the digital recorder. I examined it; it appeared that her father had picked a good one out for her. "This is Michael Allen." I gave the time. "I'm going to end this recording, so that I can take this to the principal." Then I turned off the recorder, slipped out the recording card, and replaced it with a blank one of my own.

"Here you go, Taylor," I told her, handing it back. "Nicely done."

"Thank you, Mr Allen," she replied politely. "Now I really have to rush, or I'll be late for class."

She trotted off; the girls were staring, and some were starting to sidle off as well. "Not so fast," I snapped. "You are all coming to the principal's office with me. You too, Gladly. You're a witness."

He looked from me to the girls and back again, but could not find a reason to refuse.

=///=​

Principal Blackwell looked up with an expression of disfavour as I led the cavalcade into her office.

"Is this going to be a regular thing with you, Mr Allen?" she asked tartly.

"So long as bullying keeps happening in front of me, yes," I cheerfully agreed.

Her face took on an extra sour expression at that, and then she sighed and looked at the six girls. "So, what happened?" she asked.

All six girls burst out in their separate expressions of innocence. She bore it for about fifteen seconds, then turned to me. "Mr Allen?"

I held up the recording card. "Taylor Hebert, on my advice, now owns a digital recorder." I slotted it into my recorder, and pressed Play.

The 'conversation' played out, with interjections by Taylor, asking to be allowed to pass, shouted down or ignored by the girls. At one point, I stopped the playback. The girls were looking stricken. "Did you hear that?" I asked the principal.

"What was I supposed to hear?" she asked blankly.

I ran it back a few seconds.

"Ugliest girl in our grade," came out of the speaker. Then a tiny, but distinct, click.

"That click," I clarified, stopping the recording again.

Principal Blackwell furrowed her brow. "I don't get it ..." she mused. "What is it?"

"Mr Gladly here, locking the classroom door, five feet away from the action," I said bluntly. The aforementioned Mr Gladly immediately went several shades paler.

I pressed the Play button again, and the action went on. Clearly spoken insults, as would have been well within his hearing. And then Taylor warning Julia to step aside or she would be moved aside. This was, of course, followed by Julia's agonised cries.

"What was that?" gasped Principal Blackwell.

I smiled slightly. "Taylor Hebert applying an arm bar to Julia, in order to move her out of the way. She had, after all, been warned. Three times."

Principal Blackwell shook her head. "We can't abide fighting in the school."

"Taylor wasn't fighting," I told her firmly. "It was a technique specifically designed to stop a fight. Six girls had her crowded into a corner, taunting her with insults. How was she supposed to get out of the corner? Asking clearly had not worked."

She stared at me, defeated. "So what do you suggest?" she asked.

"You're the principal," I reminded her. "You have six bullies here, and clear audio evidence of their crime. It's your jurisdiction." I paused. "But wait one second."

I ran the recording back one more time.

"What's that smile for? Are you trying not to cry? Cry yourself to sleep for a straight week?"

"Ah," I said. "Whose voice was that? Yours?" I pointed at Julia.

"Uh, yes?" she admitted; she could hardly deny it.

I nodded. "Phone. Now." I clicked my fingers twice.

She stared at me, then at the principal. "Do I have to give him my phone?"

Blackwell frowned. "I'm not sure ..."

"Then give it to her," I told Julia, pointing at the principal. "Open it to text messages, and hand it over."

"Why?" asked Julia stubbornly.

"Because if you don't, your punishment may well double," I stated. I had no idea as to whether I could back this up, but it seemed to work. She opened the phone, and put it on Blackwell's desk.

"What am I looking for?" asked the principal.

"A text in the last hour, from Emma Barnes," I informed her. "Body text will include the phrase 'cried herself to sleep for a week straight'."

It took ten seconds for the principal to find it. She read the damning text through, then rose to her feet.

"You took her to the classroom, yes?" she enquired of me.

I nodded. "Yes."

"And you had her hand her phone over?"

I nodded. Changing recording cards, I played back the relevant section.

"And yet, she sent a text message ... twenty-four minutes ago," she stated, looking at the timestamp on Julia's phone. "Inciting Julia to gather others and bully Taylor, with that phrase specifically included." She stared at me. "How did you know?"

I raised an eyebrow. "I know bullies," I offered, which was true, but of no help whatsoever.

She breathed deeply, and smoke almost seemed to curl from her nostrils. "Thank you, Mr Allen," she replied, with a nod to me. "I believe I can take it from here."

I nodded in return. "Thank you, Principal Blackwell," I responded politely. "I believe you can, too."

=///=​

I followed along anyway, and entered the room to a tirade by Blackwell, aimed indiscriminately at the teacher and at Emma; Madison sat back, well out of the way of the storm. Emma was shouting her innocence at the principal; the teacher, bewildered but adamant, was claiming that no text messages had been made from the classroom.

I strolled down to the back of the classroom, where several art projects sat on a shelf. Reaching around behind one of them, I pulled out my second voice recorder. All eyes were on me as I returned to the front of the room. Silence fell as I clicked Play.

"Mads. Ask to go to the bathroom, then cover me." Emma's voice, hushed.

"What are you gonna do?"

"Just do it."

A conversation ensued, where the teacher insisted that they both had to go if one went, and so both went. The twenty-four minute point came and went before they returned.

"So Emma lags behind just a bit, and scoops her phone up from the desk," I observed as I shut the recording off. "She makes sure she's first in on the way back, and puts it back. You can even just hear the clack as it hits the desk. Voila."

Principal Blackwell observed the two girls grimly.

"Phones," she gritted, "will be confiscated."

My work there was done; I departed.


End of Chapter Ten

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter 11: Interactions Great and Small


Danny stood, arms folded, staring at Principal Blackwell.

"So you're saying that Taylor was bullied, again, by six girls this time?" His voice was flat and hard, his expression grim.

Blackwell nodded. "Mr Allen figured out that Emma Barnes had gained access to her phone, despite this being prohibited. She instructed another girl, Julia Morrow, to do it in her stead. Ms Barnes has had her phone confiscated; so has Ms Clements."

Danny frowned. "And why, exactly, have I been called away from work? Surely you can handle discipline matters on your own?" It's kind of your job, his demeanour suggested.

"Oh, the girls are being punished," the principal told him, eager to show that she was doing the right thing. "Julia is undergoing in-school suspension for the rest of the week, while the other five are in there for the day."

"Seems a bit light," Danny mused. "After all, they've no doubt done this before. But I guess it's a start." He spread his hands. "But you didn't answer my question. Why am I here?"

Principal Blackwell took a deep breath. "Taylor attacked Julia," she told Danny in a rush. "Julia claims that Taylor tried to break her arm."

"Really?" responded Danny. "May I speak with my daughter about this?"

"Certainly," Blackwell agreed. "But you must understand, that sort of thing is simply not acceptable. Other avenues must be explored first. Violence is simply not an acceptable alternative."

"Did anyone ever explain that to Sophia Hess, I wonder?" asked Danny rhetorically. "I'd like to see Taylor now, please."

Abashed, Blackwell pressed a button on her intercom. "Send Ms Hebert in now, please," she instructed.

The door opened, and Taylor entered. "Hey, Dad," she greeted him, looking rather cheerful.

"Hey, kiddo," he replied. "Principal Blackwell tells me you've been fighting."

Taylor shook her head. "Not fighting. Julia and the others crowded me into a corner, and wouldn't let me out. I had my voice recorder on, so I got everything they said. And then I asked them to let me out, but they wouldn't, so I used an arm bar on Julia, just like Mike – uh, Mr Allen, showed me."

Danny frowned. "So they crowded you into a corner."

Taylor nodded. "Yeah."

"So, deprivation of liberty. How did they keep you there?"

Taylor shrugged. "Pushes and shoves, mainly."

Danny nodded. "Physical assault, right." He had pulled out a notebook and was writing in it. Principal Blackwell was looking rather nervous. He looked back at Taylor. "And what did they say to you?"

Another shrug from Taylor. "Oh, mean stuff. Same as usual. Ugly, stinky, I should kill myself. Emma must have texted Julia some really mean stuff, which she said to me just before I used the arm bar."

"What kind of mean stuff, exactly?" asked Danny carefully.

"About how I felt after Mom died," Taylor said quietly. "I told Emma once that I cried myself to sleep for a week. Emma told Julia, and Julia used it on me."

"And then what happened?" Danny's voice was very low.

"Well, I told Julia to move aside or I'd move her, and I stepped forward, and she went to shove me back, and I put her in the hold, and put her on her knees. And then Mr Gladly came back, and Mr Allen was with him, and told me to let her go."

"Wait a minute," Danny interjected with a frown. "Mr Gladly came back?"

Taylor nodded. "He'd spoken to me in the classroom about keeping an eye on me if I got bullied again, but when he came outside and locked the classroom, and the girls were all saying stuff, it was like he couldn't hear it or anything. He just looked at me and walked away. But when Mr Allen came around the corner and spoke to him, he came back, after I put Julia in the hold."

Danny turned to the principal, who flinched back at the fury in his expression. "Am I to understand that Gladly walked away from my daughter when she most needed his assistance?"

"We're investigating the situation," Blackwell stated hastily. "Mr Gladly will face disciplinary action."

"I should damn well hope so," Danny growled. "Those six girls should be facing criminal charges. Deprivation of liberty, physical assault, verbal assault ... I've had men get settlements in the tens of thousands for less. And you want to discipline Taylor for using a non-violent method for escaping the situation, especially after your faculty member chose to ignore what was going on?"

Principal Blackwell shook her head. "I'm in a bind here. If the Morrows want to cause trouble over Julia being put in that arm bar, whatever that is, then I need to be seen to be even-handed."

Danny rolled his eyes. "Even handed. Right. Which means the popular kids get their say and the quiet loners get marginalised. Okay. So what do you want me to do about it?"

The principal gestured vaguely. "Talk to her. Explain that it's not the right thing to do."

"Oh, is that all?" asked Danny. He turned to Taylor, and composed his expression into sternness. Blackwell could not see, but his eyes were twinkling behind his glasses.

"Taylor," he told her firmly, "what you did was wrong. Don't do it again."

Taylor did her best to look meek and penitent, and nodded. "I won't, Dad," she promised.

Turning back to Blackwell, Danny shrugged. "I've said my piece. Are you satisfied?"

The principal nodded. "Certainly. Taylor, you can go now."

Taylor nodded, and followed her father out.

Principal Blackwell sagged back in her chair with relief. When did Allen give Taylor lessons in self defence? was her first random thought.

Her second was more focused: The sooner I expedite the transfer papers to Arcadia, the better. Because if Emma Barnes keeps inciting people to attack Taylor Hebert, I'll have more in suspension and detention than in class.

=//=//=​

"So, kiddo, you put her in an arm bar, huh?" asked Danny as they strolled along the hallway.

Taylor grinned widely. "It was awesome. One minute she's saying all this nasty stuff about me, and the next, she's on the floor on her knees."

Danny eyed her critically. "One might imagine that you enjoyed it a little too much, kiddo."

"Maybe just a bit," allowed Taylor. "They were being really mean. I think it was actually beginning to get to me, a little."

"Hmm," mused Danny. "Just remember, kiddo. Don't become a bully yourself, all right? Never set out to hurt someone just because you can."

"I'll remember not to, Dad," she replied solemnly.

"Good," he replied. "Now, as for what I said in the office. Don't do it again, unless you're provoked." He grinned and squeezed her shoulder as they approached the doors. "But good job, all the same. Maybe now they'll think twice."

Taylor chuckled. "Some of them have trouble thinking once."

They both laughed as he pushed open the doors that led outside.

=//=//=​

I looked up at the sound of laughter; Danny and Taylor stepped out through the doors into the open air. Taylor looked a little surprised to see me, but Danny did not.

I had decided to bring a folding chair out to the front doors of the school so that I could enjoy my lunch in peace and quiet. This had the secondary purpose of allowing me to brief Danny properly before he went in to talk to Blackwell.

"So how did it go?" I asked him, although the smile on his face boded well.

"She didn't know what hit her," he replied, the smile spreading into a grin. "Thanks for the heads-up."

"Eh," I shrugged. "Least I could do. Heading off now?"

"Yeah," he confirmed. "Work calls."

"Ah well," I told him, standing up so I could shake his hand. "Have fun. I'll see you around sometime."

"Come over anytime," he replied. Trotting down the steps, he climbed into his car. It started on the second try, and he drove on out of the parking lot.

Taylor watched the car go, then turned to where I was sitting again.

"Is it okay if I eat lunch out here with you, Mike?" she asked.

"Sure," I agreed. "Just don't forget to call me Mr Allen on school grounds. People might get upset."

"Okay, sure," she responded readily. Seating herself on the step nearby, she pulled her lunch from her bag. After the first few bites, she turned to look at me. "Can I ask you some questions about last night?" she asked quietly.

I nodded; I should have known, I thought, there was more than one reason to sit with me for lunch. But I would answer her questions as best I could.

"Sure," I replied. "Fire away."

She chewed and swallowed another couple of bites before she spoke next.

"Last night, you said that we attacked and beat Lung to make sure that the Undersiders weren't killed by him. Is that right?"

"That's correct," I agreed. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you who we were up against from the start, but ..."

"... but you have your reasons, and I get that," she told me. "You even let me make up my own mind." She paused. "The 'children' he was talking about killing were the Undersiders, weren't they?"

I nodded. "In the original timeline, when you were alone, you heard that, and decided to attack. Lung heard you stepping back on to the roof, and he jumped on to the rooftop. You hit him with pepper spray –"

"Which was why you gave me the extra-strength stuff –" Taylor interjected, a note of revelation in her voice.

I nodded again. "And the screamer. You didn't have that, the first time around. I figured it might be useful."

"Against someone with super-hearing, yeah," Taylor replied. "I thought that was kinda convenient, after the fact."

"To be honest, I had no idea how well it would work," I confessed. "And the little trick, using bugs to carry the pepper spray back ..."

"It was actually something you suggested, last night, while we were driving around," she reminded me. I had no memory of saying it, but if she said so, it must be true.

"Yeah, it's something you'd do a lot, later on in your career," I observed. "And you pulled it off awesomely well. You're really picking up on the little tricks and gimmicks."

She flushed pink with pleasure. "It's not hard," she disclaimed. "Your suggestions are so simple and easy to follow."

I chuckled. "That's because they were originally your ideas, the other you. You're just using them now instead of later."

She tilted her head to one side. "So I'm really helping myself, in a way. You're just passing on the messages."

"That's a sort of weird way to put it," I agreed, "but yeah, not inaccurate." I got up and dusted my hands off. "Be back in a sec."

Descending the steps, I strolled across the parking lot to my car, retrieved the zippered wallet from behind the seat, and returned to where she sat. Opening it, I handed her another pepper spray and screamer. "Just in case," I advised her.

I stowed the wallet in my bag, as she tucked the innocuous little cylinders into her own backpack. "Thanks, Mr Allen," she said gratefully, then she paused, thinking.

"Can I ask why you want the Undersiders alive and well?" she queried.

"Ah," I replied. "Before I answer that, have you gotten any strange messages over the PHO boards?"

She started. "I – I'd almost forgotten," she confessed. "Tattletale sent me a message thanking me, and asking who the hell you were."

"Did she ask to meet?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No, just wanted to thank me. And ask about you."

"Huh," I mused. "Originally, you met and chatted to them on that rooftop, after Bitch's dogs started using Lung as a chew toy."

"So they did help out originally," she noted.

"Yeah," I told her. "You hit him harder and nastier this time round. But they were still grateful. See, they'd gotten word that Lung was after them, so they were discussing strategy. They headed into ABB territory and hit Oni Lee, Lung's henchman –"

"I read about him on PHO," Taylor added. "He teleports or duplicates or something, right?"

"Both. It's very annoying," I confirmed. "Anyway, they scared him off, but were wondering what was holding Lung up. In the original timeline, they came on the fight when you were in a bad position, completed the kicking of his ass, and then left before Armsmaster turned up."

"Armsmaster," repeated Taylor. "This time round, it was the others. They were friendly and polite."

I cleared my throat. "Armsmaster would have been a bit of a dick to you. But anyway, the next morning, Tattletale contacted you and asked to meet. Which you decided to do."

"Because they'd been nice to me," she realised. "But surely I didn't want to go from hero to villain straight away."

I grinned. "That's a story for another time. But as for your original question; I wanted the Undersiders to survive for two reasons. The first is that they aren't bad people, not as such. In the other timeline, you become best friends with Tattletale, and you also become close to Grue. You even form a friendship of sorts with Regent – though he calls you 'dork' all the time – and Bitch. I don't know if that sort of thing will be possible in this timeline, but I'd like to see if it could happen."

Taylor's eyes were wide. "Friendships with villains? Is that even possible?"

Thankfully, she did not pursue the 'close to Grue' aspect. I did not relish telling her about that particular relationship.

I shrugged. "They're people. They've got their needs and wants and motivations. It may well be that just telling you has jinxed the very possibility of such a thing, but in that timeline, she took you under her wing when you were very close to becoming suicidal. Quite literally saved your life."

She looked up at me, her eyebrow raised. "Sort of what you did with me, here and now?"

I shrugged very slightly. "Maybe."

"Uh huh, no 'maybe' about it," she retorted, a grin lurking on her face. "So what's the second reason?"

I grinned. "Because they've got to rob a bank on the fourteenth."

She stared at me. "What?"

"Voice down," I cautioned her.

"There's no-one nearby," she told me smugly. "I've been practising scanning the area." She paused. "What do you mean, they've got to rob a bank?"

I drew in a deep breath. "They had to be healthy enough to pull off the job. Their boss is going to give them the assignment to rob the bank, at a particular time of day. I need it to happen, in order to get the attention of a certain person, who also needs my help. Not quite as badly as you needed it, but not far off it either. In short? I need to be able to walk her out of the bank, just before it gets robbed."

Taylor was frowning. "But we can't just let it be robbed."

"Oh, I intend to pass on the details to the authorities just before it happens, so that they will be more or less surrounded by the good guys before they have a chance to escape." I paused. "Actually ... how would you like to help out, as Weaver?"

Behind her glasses, her eyes got really wide again. "Help stop a bank robbery? Sign me up." She paused. "Is this going to be anything like the Lung fight?"

I shook my head. "Nope. You're gonna show 'em how a Master really does things. Here's how we're gonna do it ..."

=//=//=​

"So, how goes the investigation of that guy?" asked Brian, leaning over the back of the sofa.

Lisa rubbed her eyes. She looked as though she'd had very little sleep; this was, in fact, the truth.

"Frustrating," she growled, shutting the laptop down. "Perfectly normal life. Grew up on a farm out in the sticks. Mediocre to good scores at school. Drove a taxi for ten years, then got into security work for another ten. Absolutely nothing that jumps out, even to me." She frowned. "It's the little tiny inconsistencies that bother me."

"Not following you," Brian responded.

"I read his age as forty-three when we met. Figured him to have a birthdate in August. And he does. But he was born in 1970, not '67. So he's forty."

"Looks old for his age?" hazarded Brian.

She made a rude noise between her lips. "If I went on looks, I'd never get anywhere. I go on the total package, and my power told me he was forty-three. And there's the other thing, the weird bit."

"Which weird bit was that?" asked Brian patiently.

"His accent," Lisa told him. "He was born in the United States. He's never travelled overseas. But he's got the very faintest trace of what feels like a British or Australian accent, right deep down, in back of his words. Like what you'd expect from someone who was born somewhere else, and moved here when they were very young. Or someone who's just recently visited another country. And neither one is true."

"So what now?" Brian prompted her.

"Nothing," she replied grumpily. "I got no more leads to follow. So I guess I'll just have to wait till he talks to us again."

"So do you expect any answers from him at that point?" Brian enquired.

She rolled her eyes. "A headache, is what I'll get. That son of a bitch is a mystery to me, and I fucking hate mysteries."

"But you'll talk to him anyway."

"Try and stop me."

=//=//=​

Taylor and I finished lunch, and our discussion, without any interruptions. I folded my chair, and picked up my bag; she picked hers up at the same time. She went to bump my fist, then paused.

"What?" I asked.

"You're moving a lot more easily than you were last night," she told me. "How are you feeling?"

"Well, the stab vest has seen better days," I admitted, "but I'm feeling fine. I, uh, got some healing last night."

"Healing?" she asked with a frown. "From where?"

I paused. "I'd ... rather not say, at the moment. I will tell you at a later date, however."

She nodded consideringly. "Sure, but I'll hold you to it."

We bumped fists, then headed back inside.

I left Taylor to go her own way, while I went to drop off my bag in the small room which had been set aside for my bits and pieces. Before I set off on my next tour of the school, I glanced into the teachers' lunch room.

Mrs Knott sat there, chatting with Mr Quinlan.

"Hello, Michael," she greeted me, a smile on her face.

"Hi, Gladys," I replied. "Quinlan, how you doing?"

"I've been better, been worse," he grunted, heaving himself to his feet. "Sorry, gotta go and set up for next lesson. Little brats."

I watched him go, then sat down at the table. "Is it me, or did he leave because I came in?" I asked her quietly.

She looked a little pained. "Rumours are getting around about what happened after first period. Mr Gladly has been telling everyone very loudly that you deliberately set out to get him in trouble."

I snorted. "Got himself in trouble, more like," I corrected. "The trouble with that man is that he wants to be seen as the cool teacher, the students' friend. So much so that if he sees a situation that would normally require discipline, he'll ignore it if he can get away with it. Doesn't want to be seen as the 'uncool' teacher who actually enforces the rules."

I stopped, aware that she was staring at me.

"Uh, or so I've sort of gathered," I added lamely.

She shook her head. "No, you're spot on target. Only, I've never heard it put so succinctly before."

"Don't tell anyone, for gods sake," I asked. "I don't want to go about gossiping behind peoples' backs. That just kind of slipped out. Forget I ever said it."

She was looking at me speculatively.

"What?" I asked.

"You are a profoundly strange person, Michael Allen," she told me bluntly. "You can pick out a plot to bully Taylor Hebert from across the school, twice, and you can put your finger right on what makes the principal tick, as well as that Gladly clown – you can forget I ever said that, thank you kindly – but in other ways, you're just as typically obtuse as the rest of your gender."

I blinked. "I, uh, thanks?" I ventured. "Can I, uh, ask, what I've missed by being 'typically obtuse'?"

She smiled and leaned in toward me. "Leaving me to run off yesterday springs to mind," she murmured. "Just when I would not have objected overly much to having you stay and keep me company."

I felt a warm flush sweep through my body. "I'm free this evening, I guess?" I told her. "If you don't mind going out for coffee in the evening?"

She folded her hands and beamed at me. "Why, Michael Allen," she declared. "I would adore to go for coffee in the evening. What time would you like to pick me up?"

"I'll, uh, give you a call twenty minutes ahead of time. Is that enough time?"

She put her head to one side. "Make it half an hour, and it's a deal."

I grinned. "Half an hour it is." A pause. "I've really got to get going, check around the school. You know, this job they're paying me to do?"

She chuckled. "Go ahead. Make the school safe."

"Well, less unsafe, I guess," I responded, eliciting another chuckle from her. Reluctantly, I stood and headed for the door.

=//=//=​

There were ten minutes left in the lunch hour when I got to the third floor; I had originally intended to just do a quick sweep and work my way down, but then I heard the muted yelling. I headed that way, fast.

Just as I might have guessed, it was the gangs. Empire Eighty-Eight and ABB, junior chapters, looking to see who was top dog. They had forced the door of one of the unused classrooms, or found one unlocked; I didn't much care how it had happened.

Inside, the desks had been pushed to the walls, and the two gangs formed a rough circle, with two of their brawniest members in the middle, intent on pounding the living crap out of each other.

Personally, I would have let them go at it. But I was the security guard, and it was more or less my job to put a stop to it. And in any case, if I let this go on, knives were likely to come out, and that could get very bad, very quickly.

They were so intent on the fight that I got right to the door before anyone noticed me. Taking a deep breath, I bellowed "Security!" as loudly as I could, then pushed through the circle to face the two in the middle. Heads turned toward me as if on springs.

I didn't give them a chance to think, to react.

"What the fuck is going on here?" I demanded. "Fighting? Fucking seriously? Did I say you could fight in here?"

They stared at me, as if I had grown a second head.

"Don't have to fuckin' ask you for permission, fat man," retorted one of the combatants, an E88 member by his shaved head. He was muscular, stocky, broader in the shoulders but a little shorter than his opponent. He went to shove me away.

I took his wrist, twisted it just so, spun him around, trapped his other arm, and ran him face-first into the wall. There was a thud as his forehead struck. I opened my hands and let him drop, groaning, to the floor.

Compliance holds could, after all, be used in less than friendly ways. I just wasn't going to admit it to Principal Blackwell.

As I turned, the other one came at me. His shirt was off, but he had a red and green bandanna around his head. He was almost as tall as me, but a lot skinnier, had good muscle definition, and obviously worked out. He was also dancing on his toes; as he came in range, he spun, throwing a high kick at me. It was a good kick, a beautiful kick. He probably practised in front of a mirror with it. However, kicking anywhere above the waist was just asking for what I did next.

I let it hit me. If I was six inches shorter, it would have connected with my face. As it was, he hit the stab vest. I outweighed him possibly twice over; I didn't give an inch.

Had he hit me in the ribs, on the right side, where his erstwhile boss had shattered the plates, he would have had more of an effect on me. But as it was, the plates spread the impact perfectly.

I felt the thump, and then I grabbed his ankle with both hands. As he yelped with surprise, I twisted his foot against the way his knee and hip wanted to go. And then I kicked his other leg from under him. He hit the floor hard, knocking the wind out of him. I didn't bother letting go of his leg.

"I don't give a shit if you fight," I told the staring faces. "Beat the goddam fuck out of each other for all I care. Just not. In. My. Fucking. School. Got it? Good. Now get the fuck out of my sight."

I let go the leg and stepped back, arms folded. The ABB guy was up first. "You can't tell us what to fucking do," he mumbled; it was an attempt at a defiant tone, but he was still winded.

"You want to go again?" I asked, stepping forward, into his personal space. He stepped back, and his leg nearly buckled. "No? Then it looks like I can tell you what to fucking do. Take your friends and go. Don't let me catch you fighting in the school again."

As he limped off, supported by his ABB cronies, I turned to the E88 boy, who was just getting to his feet. "You heard what I said," I told him. "You fight outside of school, I don't give a shit. Fight in school, I kick your fucking ass. You want to argue, we can go again."

"You fight dirty," he muttered, giving me a look of reluctant respect.

"Only way to fight," I assured him. "Now take your boys and get the fuck out of here."

I watched as he stumbled off, half-supported by one of his buddies.

As soon as they were around the corner, I leaned against one of the desks and gave way to the shakes.

That could have gone so wrong, I told myself. But hey, I can feel proud. I just beat up on a couple of high-schoolers. Go me.

They had been young and fit. I was more than twice the age of either one, almost twice the weight of either one, and although I wasn't fit, I had muscle and training. I'd known what I was doing. They hadn't. And that had made all the difference.

Fat man, my ass, I thought. That's fat man sir to you.

As I locked up the classroom again – at least they hadn't damaged it, getting in – I knew quite well that I would not be reporting that little salutary lesson to Principal Blackwell. If she disapproved of students fighting in school, god only knew what she'd say about the security guard joining in.

=//=//=​

Down on the first floor, I passed Mr Gladly, escorting the girls back to their classroom from the cafeteria, where they'd eaten after everyone else had gone back to class. He said nothing to me, and I had nothing to say either. I gave him a curt nod and went on my way.

But the encounter gave me an idea. I decided to go and see the principal about it.

First, I checked on my appearance in the washroom, and was glad I had; there was a neat footprint across my chest, left there by the ABB high-kicker. I dabbed at it with a wet cloth until it was no longer evident. Explaining that away to the principal, I figured, would have been mildly difficult.

Finally satisfied with my turnout, I tapped on her door. "Ms Blackwell?" I enquired. "A moment of your time?"

She looked up, instantly wary. "What is it now?" she demanded. "More bullying? A gang war?"

I held up my hands placatingly. "No trouble, this time," I assured her.

She visibly relaxed. "That's good to hear," she told me. "What is it?"

"Two matters," I began, stepping into her office and closing the door. I gestured enquiringly at a chair; she gave a quick nod to allow me to sit. "Thank you," I said as I seated myself. "As I was saying, two matters. One actually does regard the bullying, but it's more a way to reduce the fallout. The other is a personal matter of mine."

"Reducing the fallout?" she repeated, immediately interested.

I nodded. "I'd like to speak with Emma and her father after school today; just the three of us. Am I right in presuming that he's been trying to put pressure on you to reduce Emma's punishment?"

She didn't speak, but I read the answer in her silence. "Yeah, figured as much," I noted. "Well, as you may have figured, I've had the chance to speak to Sophia Hess and Taylor Hebert –"

"Wait," she interrupted. "Where is Sophia, anyway? What's happened to her? She never turned up, so I made a call, but they never called me back."

You never noticed Taylor skipping school, but Sophia's a whole different matter, isn't she? But I didn't speak the thought out loud.

"Sophia ... is in custody at the moment," I informed her. "A serious matter. She won't be returning to Winslow."

She blinked rapidly. "Oh," she replied blankly. "Was it something you –"

I shook my head. "She committed a crime, and got caught. But I did manage to speak with her. Also, I have spoken at length with Taylor Hebert. And I believe that if I can get the chance to speak with Emma and Alan Barnes, with the information I now possess, I may just be able to convince him to stop pressuring you."

She frowned heavily. "I don't know ..." she temporised.

"Look at it this way," I gently urged her. "If it works, you get the benefit. If it fails, you had nothing to do with it."

That obviously appealed to her; she rubbed her cheek thoughtfully. "You understand, you may not make any promises or deals on behalf of the school, yes? Nothing you say to them is binding until I've had a chance to review the recording."

I hid a half-smile; she was catching on to my habit of recording everything.

Except the fight upstairs; that had been off the record.

"Well, yeah," I agreed readily. "It's just gonna be a talk, me to her, with her dad there to watch and listen."

She thought it over carefully. I could see her thinking it over carefully.

"... all right," she said at last. "You can talk to them after school is done. Use the guidance counsellor's office." She paused. "Do you want me to sit in?"

I shook my head. "If the matter comes up, I will provide you with the recording. But I expect we'll keep it between ourselves."

"And you say that this might get Alan Barnes off of my back?" she asked.

I nodded. "I'm hopeful of it, anyway. It certainly shouldn't make matters worse."

"Well, your other suggestions have panned out reasonably well," she admitted, "so I'll let you have this one. You have my permission to speak with Alan and Emma Barnes after school." She paused. "What was the other matter, the personal one?"

"Ah." I was mildly embarrassed; I had totally forgotten it, and had been about to stand up. "Yeah, I might need an extended lunch break on Thursday. I need to get some stuff done in the city."

"You won't be gone too long?" she asked of me.

I shook my head. "Hour and a half, tops," I assured her.

"That should be fine," she agreed. "Let me know when you're about to go, and when you get back."

"I can do that," I agreed. "And thanks again for letting me speak with the Barneses."

"Just don't make matters worse, is all I ask," she told me bluntly.

"I will do my very best," I assured her, rising. By the time I reached the door, she was already bent over her paperwork again.

Just outside her office, a thought struck me.

I keep forgetting to do this.

I went to the washroom, checked to see that the stalls were all empty, entered one, pulled out my phone and made a call.

=//=//=​

The phone rang, again. Director Piggot glared at it, but it rang anyway.

Irritated, she snatched it up. "Director Piggot's office," she snapped.

"Director Piggot," she heard, "I have a caller requesting to speak to you directly. He says the name is Security."

Emily didn't hesitate. "Put him through," she replied.

There was a moment of dead air, then the familiar voice. "Hello?"

"This is Director Piggot. I'm speaking to Security?"

"That's me," he confirmed. "I've just got a message that needs to be passed on to Miss Militia. I promised her I'd pass on some information, as soon as I had it confirmed."

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "What's the information?"

"Tell her, 'left foot'. Bakuda has the toe rings on her left foot." He paused. "I presume you know what I'm talking about."

"I do," she told him. "She made her report to me this morning. Thank you for that information; I'll pass it on to her soonest. Was there anything else?"

"Well, there's gonna be some diversionary crimes for the kidnapping on Thursday," he stated. "I'm still working on the exact when and where. But the kidnapping's the big thing. You have to ensure that there's absolutely no chance it can happen. Even if you see no evidence of any possible attempt. The bastard's tricky as hell."

Piggot snorted. "Trust me, with this much lead time, we can make it solid," she assured him. "And any more information you can give us will be gratefully accepted."

"You'll get it when I can give it to you," he replied. "See you later."

She was already putting the phone down when she heard the connection end.

Left foot, she thought. And possible diversionary crimes.

He's adamant for the kidnapping to not go through. Sounds scared, almost.

From what I heard this morning, if he's scared, I should be terrified.

Piggot privately vowed to make the cover on Dinah Alcott as airtight as possible.

=//=//=​

I stood on the steps outside the school, with Principal Blackwell beside me, along with Julia, Emma and Madison. The other five girls, released from their punishment at the end of the day, had bolted like frightened rabbits. I suspected that it would be a while before they attempted to assist in bullying anyone again, much less Taylor Hebert.

Talking of Taylor, I saw her descending the steps, head high, moving confidently. She didn't seem to look our way, but a fly buzzed in my ear for just a moment before zooming off again.

I spotted Alan Barnes' bulk moving through the crowd before I saw Madison's parents. I didn't see Zoe Barnes at all. Two more adults, who I took to be the Morrows, were also moving against the stream of students toward where we stood at the top of the steps.

Alan Barnes reached us first. "Come on, Emma, let's go home," he told her.

"Uh, Mr Allen wants to talk to us," she replied in a subdued voice. "Principal Blackwell has said it's okay."

"Talk?" he snapped sharply. "I've got nothing to say to you."

"Quite likely," I agreed. "But there is stuff you need to hear about. Off the record."

His gaze sharpened. "Off the record?" he repeated.

"Totally," I agreed.

He paused.

"Half an hour, tops," I observed. "Just talking."

The curiosity was beginning to take hold now, I could see. He paused, irresolute.

I waited, an expression of bland politeness on my face.

"... fine," he growled. "Just talking. Off the record."

"You got it," I agreed cheerfully.

I turned, to see that Principal Blackwell had dismissed Madison's parents with their errant daughter, and was escorting the Morrows in toward her office, so that she could discuss with them what their girl had done.

The last few students surged past us, and down the steps. We were alone.

"Well," I observed, "time for that chat."

=//=//=​

I opened the door to the guidance counsellor's office, and waved them to seats. Shutting the door carefully, I sat down myself.

"So, what's this about?" asked Alan Barnes. "And have you shut off your damn voice recorders?"

I grinned briefly. Pulling out both recorders, I shut one off. Placing a fresh card in the other, I started it and said clearly, "This is Michael Allen, security guard. The date is April eleven, two thousand eleven. The time is ... three forty-two. I am in the guidance counsellor's office with Alan Barnes and Emma Barnes, and we are going to talk over private matters. This recording is strictly to ensure that no-one makes any false statements about what happened during this session, and is otherwise inadmissible for any legal purpose. Alan Barnes, do you agree to those conditions?"

He paused, thinking about what I had stated, and then nodded. "I am Alan Barnes," he declared in his best courtroom voice, "and I deny that any part of this recording has any legal standing. The date is April eleven, twenty eleven, and the time is three forty-three PM. With me is the security guard Michael Allen, and my daughter Emma. Emma, do you agree to these conditions?"

Emma cleared her throat, and spoke quickly. "Yeah, what they said. It's just to make sure no-one can say shit about it afterward. I'm Emma Barnes, and the time and date my dad said are correct."

"Good," I stated, and placed the recorder in the middle of the table. "So, let's begin. Emma. This is all about you."

"Me? What about me?" asked Emma, gaining some level of defiance from having her father in the room.

I smiled slightly. "Just so you both know, I know that Sophia Hess is Shadow Stalker. And I know that you both know. That's for starters."

"I figured something of the sort," growled Alan Barnes. "How did you find out?"

"Principal Blackwell told me. I signed an NDA, otherwise Taylor would be attending as well," I informed him.

"What's Taylor got to do with this?" Emma wanted to know.

"Everything," I informed her. "But as she's not here, let's move on."

I took out the other recorder, slid in a particular card, and found the right spot. Then I pressed Play.

"You." It was Sophia's voice.

"Me." My voice. "Can I help you?"

There was harsh laughter. "Can you fucking help me. What the fuck is this? I'm going to fucking kill you, you fat fuck."

"Why?" my voice asked. "What did I ever do to you?"

"You fucked with me, asshole," Sophia snarled on the recording. "It was none of your fucking business what I do to who, and you had to stick your nose in. You fucking got me in-school suspension. And they're gonna be looking hard at me, seeing if there's a way to boot me back to juvey without looking too bad."

"So your handler's not able to whitewash it this time, huh, Sophia?" My voice was sympathetic.

"How the fuck did you know about that?"

"I'm good at my job," my voice on the recording commented mildly. "Anyway. Isn't murder a little bit over the top for what I did?"

"I don't lose. Not to disgusting old fat fucks like you. So you're gonna die in a tragic home invasion gone wrong, they're gonna find kiddie porn on your computer, then Emma's father is going to speak to the principal. You're shown up as a pedo freak, everything you've said and done is thrown out, the suspension is lifted, and life goes on. I fucking win."

I pressed Stop.

Alan and Emma were staring at me.

"Shadow Stalker broke into my home at one AM Saturday morning, and attempted to murder me," I observed blandly. "She's currently in custody, awaiting trial."

"I didn't know anything about that," Alan stated firmly. "If you take that to the police –"

"Relax," I advised him, leaning back. "As a lawyer, you're basically morally bankrupt, but I will grant that you're not a fucking moron. I'm just letting you know that I know stuff. I've spoken to Sophia, you see. Her and Taylor. And it's amazing what I've pieced together. Stuff that you're possibly not even aware of."

He tilted his head. "Such as ...?"

"Such as the incident that happened around August, two thousand and nine," I mused. "You were driving through town, talking to Emma, trying to get her to pick a subject for out of school study. Ballet, horseback riding, modelling classes or violin. And she was being a typical fourteen year old brat and not picking any. Right?"

He stared at me. "Right," he replied at last, though I could see him trying to figure out how I knew.

"And then Taylor rang you, Emma, and you were talking to her, and she was telling you about nature camp, and you were enjoying it, right?"

Emma nodded.

"So you turned down a side street, and it was blocked at the far end by a dumpster. And then there was a van behind you. And there were ABB. And they dragged you from the car, didn't they, Emma?"

My voice had gone gentle; I didn't need to traumatise her right now. She took a deep shuddering breath, and looked at me.

"Yeah," she replied shortly. "They did."

"And they cut off a bit of your hair, they were talking about cutting off your ears, or cutting out an eye, or slicing your lips up, and they stuffed your hair in your mouth and told you to eat it, and then choose which one they were going to do to you, didn't they?"

Alan put his arm around Emma, who was beginning to shake. "What the fuck is this?" he demanded. "How do you know this? What are you doing this for?"

"I'm getting to it," I told him. "Because then you saw her, didn't you? Shadow Stalker. And what was she doing?"

Emma didn't reply.

"I'll tell you what she was doing," I said to Alan Barnes. "She was on top of your car. Watching. Waiting. Not helping Emma in the slightest."

"No, no, that's wrong," he protested. "She did help. She beat them bloody. She saved Emma."

I nodded. "Oh, she did all that," I agreed. "But only after Emma fought back. Pushed the girl. If she hadn't ... well, they would have done what they were going to do to Emma ... mutilation, rape, worse ... and then she would have punished them for the crime. But that wouldn't have helped Emma very much, would it?"

"But she did fight back!" he blustered. "My Emma's a strong girl! A fighter!"

She gave him a grateful look.

"Really?" I snapped. "Is she smart enough to know that against people with knives, your best option is to run like hell?" I stood up. "Mr Barnes, I am a trained security guard. I have been specifically trained with techniques to deal with people in close-in situations. And I'm still issued with a stab vest." I knocked on the vest with my knuckles, producing a sharp rapping noise.

Unbuttoning my left sleeve at the cuff, I pushed it up to show the thin red line where the knife cut had been. "Not so long ago, I was face to face with a man with a switchblade. He was smaller than me. I'm trained. I knew exactly what to do. And he still cut me."

They stared at the scar, then back at my face. I sat down, pushed the sleeve down again, began to button it.

"But they were going to cut me anyway ..." Emma began.

"Yes," I sighed. "There is that. Which comes back to Sophia. She expected you to fight back, no matter what. No matter if it got you cut, mutilated, or killed. Her expectation of you was that if you didn't fight back, you didn't deserve rescue."

I looked Alan Barnes dead in the eye. "Is that the sort of person you'd call a hero?"

He stared back at me for a long moment, then dropped his eyes. "No," he admitted. "It's not."

"But she still saved me!" protested Emma.

"We're getting to that," I told her. "So, after it was over, you left. You, Emma, were horribly traumatised by the whole thing. Which, mind you, could have been easily avoided if she'd just taken action sooner. Do you disagree, Mr Barnes?"

Alan Barnes shook his head. "No," he stated. "No, I do not." His voice was quiet.

"And then Emma goes back to the site. And she encounters Sophia. Who's probably been following her, watching to see if she would." I paused. "Stalking."

Emma's eyes opened wide. "No," she protested. "It's not like that!"

"Ah, so it's a coincidence," I mused. "Do you believe in coincidence, Mr Barnes?"

A long pause. He shook his head. "No, I do not."

"Nor do I," I continued. "Now, right now, Emma's in a very fragile mental state. She encounters the girl who saved her. Sophia espouses her personal world-view. It's all about the strong and the weak. Those who fight survive; those who submit die. She impresses Emma so much that she decides to be one of the strong ones. She doesn't want to die. Who does, when it comes down to it?"

Silence. They watched me carefully.

"So, roll on a few weeks. You've been avoiding talking to Taylor on the phone, because you don't want her pity, because pity's for the weak. But more than that, you're envious because Taylor's been getting better from her mother's death. She's shown her strength, gradually getting better, day by day. And you don't want to appear weak next to her."

"Taylor ..." I couldn't tell what Emma meant to convey with that tone.

"Oh yeah," I told her. "We're down to Taylor now."

Alan was looking from me to his daughter and back.

I went on. "I can pretty well pinpoint the time you decided to make Taylor weak so as to appear strong. It was when Sophia was there, and Taylor got back from nature camp. She came over, all happy and gawky, looking nine instead of fourteen, and Sophia disapproved of her. And you were still very insecure in your newfound strength, and you didn't want Sophia thinking you were weak, so you didn't back Taylor up. And then Sophia – being the natural bully she is – tripped Taylor on her way out. And there was your cue."

"But that's not the way it was," Emma protested. "I wasn't trying to push her down. I was trying to make her strong. Toughen her up."

"Really?" I asked. "So the flute was all about toughening her up?"

"The flute?" asked Alan Barnes, his voice sounding rough. He cleared his throat. "What flute?"

I smiled thinly. He obviously had not spoken with his wife on the subject. "Anne-Rose had a flute; do you recall it?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Well, after she died, Danny gave it to Taylor. A keepsake of her dead mother. Such a thing, you can imagine, would be precious to a heartbroken child."

He nodded again, silent.

"Well, one day, having been bullied relentlessly for weeks, Taylor brought the flute to school. It was something that reminded her of her mother. If she could see it, look at it, touch it, between classes, she reasoned, it would give her strength to go on. Let her feel as though she had backup."

Alan Barnes looked ill; he thought he could see where this was going.

"Sophia stole it from her locker. Taylor went to Emma and asked for it back. Begged. Pleaded. And Emma told her ... you remember what you told her, Emma?"

We both looked at the redhaired girl. She hung her head, refused to reply.

"It seems that she does," I observed. "She taunted Taylor, told her that she shouldn't have brought it to school if she didn't want to lose it. Then she left Taylor and went to Sophia. Asked her if she'd taken it. Sophia said yes, she had. Asked Emma what she should do with it."

I looked at Emma. "And she considered giving it back, just for a moment. But she didn't want to step back to being the old Emma, the weak Emma, the Emma that was friends with Taylor. So she told Sophia to fuck with it, do something disgusting to it, wreck it. Anne-Rose's flute. Anne-Rose, who never did a bad thing to either one of you."

Alan Barnes looked at his daughter, his expression puzzled, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was looking at.

Emma looked up at him, tears streaking her face. "It wasn't like that," she whispered. "It wasn't like that. I didn't mean it the way you're saying."

"Emma." My voice was flat and hard; her gaze snapped to mine. "In all the time you were tormenting Taylor, in all the eighteen months, did she ever snap back, hit back, fight back?"

She nodded hesitantly. "Sometimes, early on, yes," she ventured. "But Sophia said it wasn't enough, she had to prove she was strong, prove she was a predator and not prey. And then she just ... stopped reacting."

"So then you were just trying to break through the shell, to make her react, make her cry, is that it?" I pressed.

She rolled her eyes. "It got to be just about fuckin' impossible," she complained. "After the locker ..."

She paused, her eyes wide.

"After the locker ... yes," I mused. "Oh yeah, I know about the locker. I know it was you three. I know it was Sophia who grabbed her by the hair and shoved her in there, but it had to be you and Madison who helped her."

She swallowed, and looked at her father.

"Just to reiterate," I stated clearly. "Nothing that is admitted during this little conversation is going to be grounds for punishment. I already knew it. I just wanted to make sure that both of you knew it." I raised my eyebrows at Alan Barnes. "Did you know this about your daughter?"

"No," he said hollowly. "I didn't."

"Well, it looks like we're about done here," I said, stretching. "I'd just like you to do me a personal favour, Mr Barnes?"

He looked at me warily. "What?"

I shrugged slightly. "Stop bugging Principal Blackwell about letting Emma off her in-school suspension, hm?"

He looked at me, then at Emma. "Yeah," he said quietly. "You got it."

I stood up, and picked up the voice recorder. "One more thing, Emma, before we end this."

She looked up at me, her expression even more shattered than before.

"Just because someone with a stupid fucking philosophy of life does you a huge favour does not make that philosophy right. It's still fucking stupid. Sophia can't really help the way she is; her power fucked her head up. You don't have that excuse. You can change. It's up to you."

"But I did change!" Emma protested. "Sophia showed me how! I was weak, now I'm strong! I am!"

"Yeah," I observed. "So ... how's that working out for you, exactly?"

Holding up the voice recorder, I spoke clearly. "This recording is being ended now." I gave the time, and then turned the recorder off. Before anyone could speak, I held up a finger. "I'm now turning my other recorder back on. Just so you know."

Alan Barnes had been about to speak; he shut his mouth again.

"Thanks for that talk," I said to Alan as I opened the door. "I hope we don't have to have it again."

He shook his head. "No," he observed. "I think, however, we will be continuing it at home."

"Might be a good idea," I commented. "Also, ask her about the time she went out and about with Sophia, and what happened that night."

Emma whipped her head around to stare at me. Alan observed the motion, and looked at me. "Is it ... bad?" he asked.

"Ask her," I advised him. "If she's smart, she'll be honest."

"Yes," he agreed. "She will."

We faced each other in the hallway.

"Mr Barnes," I said.

"Mr Allen," he replied.

And then he held out his hand. I shook it.

"Thank you," he told me. "It wasn't in the least bit pleasant, but I think I needed to hear it."

I nodded. "You might consider getting her therapy," I suggested.

"After that," he stated, "I think we both need it."

It was a feeble joke at best, but we both chuckled.

"Come on, Emma," he told his daughter, and they turned and walked off down the hall.

I wasn't quite sure what was going to happen to her when she got home, but it wasn't going to be fun.

Maybe she'll get all the shit knocked out of her head, and become a decent human being, I mused. It's the best chance she'll ever get.

=//=//=​

My good feeling lasted until five o'clock. I got my bag, signed the keys back in, and headed out to the front carpark, where my pickup was parked.

I was halfway down the front steps when I focused on my vehicle, and my steps slowed, and then stopped.

"Ah fuck."

One or another of the gangs that I had interrupted in their pissing contest had decided to show their displeasure.

I walked around the pickup, hoping that the damage wasn't as bad as it looked from a distance.

It was worse.

The tyres were slashed, the windscreen was shattered, and obscene slogans had been daubed over the paintwork, mainly in red and green. Someone had made an effort at kicking in the panelling, but the old pickup was tough; that, at least, would be easily fixed.

The rest ... would cost a lot. Far too much.

I went back and sat on the steps, looking at my forlorn vehicle.

"Fuck."


End of Chapter Eleven

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Twelve: Revelations


I sat there for perhaps fifteen minutes, unable to stir myself to do anything constructive. Then, mechanically, I got up, pulled my phone out, and walked around the pickup, taking photos from all angles. After that ...

"You have dialled nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?"

"I, uh, someone's trashed my car. How do I go about reporting this?"

"Sir, are you in immediate danger?"

"No, no, whoever did it's long gone. But my car's a write-off. How do I report it?"

I could swear that the impersonal voice sounded faintly disgusted. "Please dial the non-emergency police call line, sir. This line is for emergencies only."

And then there was just a click and the call was cut off.

I didn't know the police non-emergency call number.

Mike Allen, the security guard from Earth Bet, would have.

I sighed. I was out of options. I dialled another number.

=///=​

Danny Hebert leaned through the basement door. Downstairs, Taylor was doing push-ups; he could hear her puffing from the kitchen.

"Pasta bolognese all right for dinner tonight, kiddo?" he called down the steps.

She paused, came up on to her knees, sweat causing her hair to stick to her face. "Sure, Dad," she called back. "Want a hand?"

"No, I'll be fine," he replied. "You just keep that up."

The puffing returned as he went to the fridge to get the ingredients out.

And then the phone rang.

He closed the fridge door and went to answer it. "Hebert residence, Danny speaking."

"Ah yeah, hi, Danny," he heard. "I hate to bother you like this, but would I be able to get a favour off you?"

Danny blinked. The voice was Mike's, but this was the most down he'd ever heard the man sound. Even after Lung, even during the shakes, he hadn't sounded this defeated.

"Well, yeah, sure, Mike," he responded automatically. "What's the matter?"

He heard a sigh. "Some little shits trashed my vehicle. Would I be able to get a lift home? I don't know when the next bus is."

Danny's head came up. "Trashed your car? Christ, are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Mike told him. "I never saw them. Just came out after my shift was over, and it's all done. Tyres slashed, paintwork ruined, windshield shattered ... they really had a go at it, Danny. I don't even know how I'm gonna get it towed. How much does that sort of thing cost, anyway?"

"Listen," Danny told him. "Stay right there. We'll be right over."

"Yeah well, it's not like I'm going anywhere in a hurry, is it?" Mike replied, in a faint echo of his usual cheerful tone.

Danny hung up, and then called down into the basement, "Taylor, are you nearly finished?"

Taylor paused her pushups again, and called back, "Not really, but I can finish up later. What's the matter?"

"Someone trashed Mike's car at the school," Danny told her. "He's asked if he can get a lift home. You want to come along, or stay here?"

"Oh, that's terrible," she replied. Moments later, she was at the top of the steps. "I want to come along. Have I got time for a shower?"

"Make it quick," Danny told her. "I've got a couple of phone calls to make, and then we're going."

Taylor bolted up the stairs.

=///=​

I hung up from the conversation with Danny – at least I can get home from here, I mused – and then I remembered my conversation with Gladys. She would be waiting for my call.

I dialled her number and heard the phone ring on the other end. For a few moments, I thought she wasn't going to answer – had I interrupted her in the middle of a shower? – and then she picked up.

"My goodness, Michael,"she greeted me. "I didn't expect you to be calling so early."

"I'm really sorry, Gladys," I told her, "but I guess the date tonight is off, due to unforseen circumstances."

Testiness crept into her voice. "Unforseen circumstances, such as had you running off yesterday afternoon in such a rush?"

"No, nothing like that," I protested. "I had a bit of a run-in with some of the gang kids at school today, so they trashed my car." I drew a deep breath. "I'm really sorry. I wanted to take you out to the Boardwalk. I ... would I be able to take you out some other time?"

"Oh, Michael," she replied, immediately contrite. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. I was looking forward to the date." She paused. "I can give you a lift home, if you want."

I blinked. "You have a car?" I asked stupidly. No, you idiot, she has a hovercraft. Of course she has a bloody car.

"Oh, yes,"she replied at once. "I take it shopping. I don't like to take it to school, for more or less the exact reason you're making this phone call."

"Oh," I replied. "If I had known, I would've called you first. But I've already called Danny Hebert. Sorry."

"An understandable mistake,"she told me, her voice warm. "But thank you anyway. We'll reschedule the date for later then?"

"Just as soon as I'm able to get mobile again, yeah," I told her. "Thanks for being so understanding."

"No apologies necessary,"she assured me. "These things happen."

We shared a few more platitudes, then ended the call.

=///=​

Nothing much happened for another twenty minutes, then a large pickup rolled into the parking lot. I frowned. The Heberts had a car, not this monstrosity.

The mystery was partially solved when Kurt and Lacey climbed out of the vehicle.

"Mike," Lacey greeted me. "You're all right?"

I nodded. "They did it while I was inside." I paused. "Um ... why are you here?"

Kurt turned from his surveying of the pickup. "You called Danny. Danny called us. You need help. That's what we're here for."

"Wait, what?" I asked.

Kurt clapped me on the shoulder; I was fairly sure I was going to show a bruise, later.

"When the Association says they'll help you out, Allen, they mean it. So we're here to help you out."

I was spared from making a bigger idiot out of myself by an inrush of cars and pickups that made the lot look busy again. Danny and Taylor got out of one of the cars, and approached me.

"Christ, Mike," he greeted me with a look of concern. "You look like shit."

"Dad!" protested Taylor.

"It's all right, Taylor," I assured her. "I feel like shit too." I gestured at the pickup; "I've had that beast for more than twenty years. Nothing like this has ever happened to it before. There's a bit of an emotional attachment, you know?"

He put his arm over my shoulders, and led me toward the group of people now crowding around the stricken vehicle. Serious voices were discussing the damage, and how it could be most easily fixed.

"Well, we're gonna see how quickly we can get it back on the road," he confided. "Kurt, how does it look?"

Kurt straightened from an inspection of the underbody.

"None of the essentials are damaged," he reported. "Hood wasn't opened, so the engine should be fine. It's just cosmetic stuff. Luckily, they didn't torch it. We could have it back on the road in a day or so, a week if you wanted any sort of a good paint job."

"Wait, wait," I protested. "All that costs money. I need to know how much before I'll know if I can afford it."

Kurt chuckled, and nodded to Danny. "You tell him," he advised, and then turned to guide the movements of a flatbed tilt-truck as it backed up to the pickup.

I looked at Danny. "Tell me what?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Most of the guys are good with machinery of one sort or another. They'll do the work in their own time, and charge you just for parts, not labour. Anything they've got spare lying around, they'll use that instead of buying something new. And if you can't afford it all at once, you just pay it off as you can. It's the Association way. Times are tough all over, so we help each other out."

I blinked. "The Association way?" I asked. "I don't recall joining the Association."

He nodded toward Taylor, as she stood nearby, watching with interest as the flat bed of the truck tilted downward, and they prepared to affix chains to the front of the pickup. "The day you helped her out, you as good as joined. And today just sealed the deal."

I shook my head. "I didn't do it to get in good with you, Danny," I protested.

He shrugged. "Tough. You get the favour anyway."

"Well, I'd be stupid not to accept," I allowed. "Thanks. If I don't get the chance, thank everyone who's helping out here, for me." I dug out my keys, separated the one for the pickup, and tossed them to Kurt; he opened the driver's side door and climbed in. Taking the handbrake off, he unlocked the steering wheel and rode up on to the flatbed with the pickup, steering carefully. The electric winch on the back of the truck provided motive power; the flat tyres rolled up on to the truck rather squishily.

Danny nodded. "It's not necessary. Friends don't count the cost. But I'll pass that on anyway."

I watched as the pickup was secured with tie-down chains. The truck rumbled out of the parking lot with my sole means of independent transport on the back. Around me, others were getting into their vehicles and driving off, most with a wave or a word for me as they passed.

The sun was starting to set by the time the last one had left; there was just me, the Heberts, and their car.

"We were just about to put on some pasta bolognese," Danny offered. "You're welcome to come home with us and share."

I shook my head. "I appreciate it, I really do. But I think I just want to be alone for now."

"Sure," replied Danny. We climbed into the car, and he started it.

We travelled in silence for a little while, then Taylor leaned forward between the seats. "Mike," she ventured, "can I ask you a question about something you said last night, about the Undersiders?"

Danny chuckled. "What's this, Superheroes For Dummies?"

Taylor stuck her tongue out at him; I shrugged and answered, "Sure, fire away."

"You said that Tattletale was more or less forced into crime, and that Bitch never really had a choice. Does that happen a lot? People, who otherwise would never have done anything wrong, end up as criminals because of a mistake, or what someone else does?"

I nodded. "Oh god yes. There are some supervillains out there whose only crime was that the Protectorate cape or the PRT soldiers who encountered them thought they were a villain, attacked them, and they responded with equal force. Or their power went out of control just once, and ever since, they're branded a menace."

"So ... I could have become a criminal, if I'd had a bad encounter with the PRT last night," she realised.

I nodded. "Yes, Taylor," I told her, putting emphasis on the words, "you could have."

I couldn't say more with her father in the car, but from the way her eyes widened behind her glasses, she got the unspoken message.

"You seem to know a lot about the cape scene," Danny commented idly.

I shrugged. "It's a thing. I read up on it. If I meet a strange cape, I want to know whether to say hi or run like hell. And you get to hear interesting things, in the security game."

"I suppose you would," Danny agreed. He pulled the car to a halt. "This is your place, right?"

I nodded. "Thanks, both of you," I told them fervently. "I really appreciate it. I don't know what I would have done, otherwise."

Danny shrugged. "The Association takes care of its own." I shook hands with him, then bumped fists with Taylor – she still seemed to take a considerable satisfaction from doing so – and climbed out of the car. Heaving my bag off the floor, I closed the door of the car, and watched the tail-lights dwindle in the distance.

As I trudged toward the entrance to the courtyard, around which the apartment complex had been built, I was on guard. And so, when a figure climbed from a car to confront me, I wasn't totally surprised.

"I've been waiting for you," a voice came from the darkness.

"What the hell?" I blurted. "What are you doing here?"

=///=​

"So how goes the search for information on our mysterious Mr Allen?" asked Brian over his shoulder as he and Regent circled each other in a clear space of floor.

"Well, I've hacked the PRT mainframes," Lisa commented off-handedly, "and I know he went to meet with Director Piggot on Saturday morning. They were in her office, with Armsmaster, for seventeen minutes and thirty-six seconds, during which time Piggot sealed her office totally. There's no recording of what they spoke about, which makes me really, really itchy."

"Unless they were just having a threesome," joked Regent.

"Ew, ew, ew," retorted Lisa, even as Brian hooked a leg behind Alec's ankle and dropped him to the floor. "That's just ... no. Whatever else they were doing, they weren't doing that."

"Seriously?" asked Brian, even as he helped Regent to his feet. "Two people are in a closed room together, all you can think of is sex?"

"What, don't you?" Regent wanted to know. "And it was three people."

"Not immediately, no," Brian told him severely. "Even with three people."

"What I find interesting," Lisa overrode them both, "is that a guard escorted him up, but he came back down alone."

"Which means ...?" prompted Brian, shaping up to Alec again.

"That they trusted him more after the meeting than before," she elucidated.

"And they didn't know about him before?" Brian asked.

"Not really, except ... ah ha. The staff had been alerted to look out for someone using the name Security." The keys rattled on her laptop.

"And this is our guy?" asked Alec, throwing a lackadaisical punch at Brian. Brian easily countered it, and jarred the smaller teen with a straight jab to the shoulder.

"Well, he is a security guard, so yeah," Lisa told him. "Just checking on something ... ah. Here's an email that came in the previous night, with Security in the username."

Alec rubbed his shoulder. "I don't like this any more. Go spar with Bitch."

"She already knows how to fight, and you need to learn," Brian told him seriously. "You won't always have your power or your sceptre handy."

He became aware that the rattle of keys had ceased, and that Lisa was staring at the screen, barely even breathing.

"Lisa?" he asked. "Is there something the matter?"

"Holy shit," she said softly. "Holy shit."

The sparring session forgotten, they both leaned over the back of the sofa and read the email that had gone in to the PRT on Friday night.

The tagline referred it to Director Piggot, and stated that it was urgent.

The rest of it …

Notes for your interest:

Leviathan will attack Brockton Bay on May 15, 2011.

The Slaughterhouse Nine will arrive in the city shortly after.

Jack Slash has two powers. The first one you know. The second is to anticipate what a powered opponent is about to do. So his ideal opponent is an armoured, trained mundane soldier.

The Siberian is a projection created by William Manton. The projection cannot extend its immunity to Manton himself.

More to come.

Security.

PS: Please tell Ms Richter that I have information about the thief.

Click to shrink...

"Oh Christ," breathed Brian.

"Fuck. Me," Alec muttered at the same time. "Is this ... is this for real?"

"It reads that way to me," Lisa told him soberly.

"What's that bit at the bottom mean?" asked Regent.

Lisa frowned. "Not sure. Don't quite have enough data. It means something, that's for sure, but it's basically unconnected to the other information."

"Anything we should be concerned about?" asked Brian, getting to the heart of the matter.

"Not that I can make out," Lisa confessed.

"So what are we gonna do?" asked Regent.

"We've got a month," Brian noted. "We do nothing for now. Lisa, do some digging. Very quietly. Find out more about this guy, how he knows this shit."

"Well, no shit," she snorted. "What do you think I've been doing over the last twelve hours, playing fucking Solitaire?"

"Sorry, sorry," he apologised. "What avenues haven't you tried yet?"

She shrugged. "Asking him personally?"

He only hesitated for a moment. "Do it."

=///=​

"Now, what sort of a welcome is that?" asked Gladys Knott, eyeing me askance.

"Oh, shit, sorry, I –" I began, then cut myself off. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean –"

I shut up, feeling about three inches tall. I had the distinct impression that if I kept talking, I would only dig myself deeper, and so I closed my mouth and waited for her to speak.

She let me stew for what felt like half an hour, but must have been only about fifteen seconds. Then she chuckled and put a hand to my cheek.

"Michael," she chided me gently. "Michael, Michael, Michael. I have heard that word before, you know. And much worse. You do not need to spare my feelings in that matter."

"I ... just don't like swearing in front of ladies," I mumbled.

"Admirable," she commented. "And very chivalrous. I don't see that very often."

I shrugged slightly. "It's the way I am?" I ventured.

She nodded. "I can see that," she agreed. She hefted the bag she held in her other hand. "This is getting heavy. Would you like to invite me up?"

=///=​

I opened the front door, and flicked the light on. No-one was waiting for me this time; given the events of the day, I would not have been surprised to find the Simurgh herself curled up on my living room floor.

"Sorry about the clutter," I apologised as I stepped aside to let Gladys in. "If I'd known I'd be getting a visitor, I'd have cleaned up a bit."

She eyed the plastic replica of Armsmaster's halberd leaning against the wall. "You certainly like your cape memorabilia."

"Yeah, well," I replied uncomfortably. "It's a thing, you know?" I dumped my bag on the sofa and turned to her, but she was already heading for the kitchen.

"So, uh, not that I'm not glad to see you," I asked, following her, "but why did you come over?"

She set the bag on the counter, and started pulling packets out of it. "Because you sounded unhappy and depressed over the phone, and I have always found a friendly face and a home-cooked meal to be the sovereign remedy for that."

I had to admit, it was sounding better all the time. "I, uh, what can I do to help?"

She gave me a please-keep-out-of-the-way smile. "You can go and shower and change, Michael. If you cannot take me out for a date, we can have the date right here."

I sighed, defeated. "Okay," I agreed. "But next time, it's the Boardwalk, and my treat. All right?"

She nodded absently, turning the stove on to pre-heat. "That sounds perfect. Now go shower."

I went.

=///=​

Lisa clicked on the 'Private Messages' tab, and entered 'mack0813' in the Recipients field.

Okay, she typed. You got me. I have no idea how you know what you know. You've had your fun. Now can you PLEASE tell me how you do it. You're driving me nuts.
Also, how seriously are we to take the information about L and the 8 plus 1? Freaking out just a little bit, over here.
Regards, Tt.

She read it through twice. Hah, she told herself. Make him wonder how I got that information. He likes rattling cages, let's see how he likes it done to him.

=///=​

I stepped out of the bathroom, showered and changed and feeling like a new man. Or at least, less like an old man.

Cooking odours filled the flat, tickling my nostrils and making my mouth water. Living alone, I was no kind of cook. Gladys Knott was quite obviously the exact opposite.

"Damn," I told her as I entered the kitchen. "That smells awesome."

She turned to me with a beaming smile. "Thank you, Michael. You look a lot better. The shower obviously agreed with you."

I nodded. "I do feel better. Even though I still feel like I've just been punched in the gut."

"I've been meaning to ask about that," she commented. "Why did it take Danny so long to come and pick you up? In the time I was waiting, I could have driven over there myself."

So then I told her about the Associaton and how they were going to see about getting the damage fixed. She listened carefully, and nodded when I was finished.

"Daniel Hebert is a good man," she informed me. "I've seen it in his daughter. And of course I recall Saturday night. I'm just glad they can help you in this way."

I sighed. "Me too. The tyres alone are gonna cost an arm and a leg. I'll take any help I can, right now." I turned to her. "And on that note, thank you for turning up here unexpectedly. I didn't think I needed the company, but now that you're here, I'm happy."

"That's all right, Michael." She opened the freezer compartment of my fridge, and withdrew a wine bottle that had been chilling there. "White wine?"

"Ah, I don't drink," I demurred. "Fruit juice or whatever for me. But you can drink if you want; I don't mind."

She nodded and poured herself a measure, then got juice out of the fridge and poured me some.

"Is there any reason that you don't drink?" she asked as she handed me the juice.

"What, like an alcoholic parent or something? No, no," I told her as I strolled over to the couch and sat down. "I never have gotten the habit, and even if I had done, ten years of watching people in every stage of drunkenness throw up on the pavement beside the cab would have knocked it out of me."

She sat down beside me, smoothing her skirt down as she did so. It was a very nice dress, with a subtle flower print.

"That's a rather good reason," she agreed, sipping at her wine. "I suppose that all my years of teaching have inured me against any real desire for children, in much the same way."

I laughed, and held up my glass in a mock toast. "Drinking and kids – they both lead to headaches," I pronounced.

She chuckled and clinked my glass with hers. "Amen," she agreed.

=///=​

We sat for a while, already comfortable with one another, and getting more so. Gradually, she coaxed from me the details of what the junior gangsters had done to my pickup; at her urging, I got my phone out and showed her the pictures.

"So what did you do to deserve this?" she asked me, frowning.

I shrugged. "I might have beaten a couple of them up, just a little bit," I confessed.

"Michael Allen," she told me crisply, "that will not do. Kindly furnish me with the complete details."

So I told her what I'd done. The telling didn't take long, and by the end of it, she was looking at me quizzically.

"What?" I asked her defensively. "I screwed up, didn't I?"

"Only in the matter of bringing your personal vehicle to school," she stated. "As for the rest of it, you did well, as far as I can see. None of them were willing to confront you after you took down their best fighters; you had shown yourself to be a formidable figure, and yet one that acted as they would expect you to act. You claimed the school as your turf, and still gave them leave to fight away from it."

"So I basically settled the matter gang-style?" I asked. "I don't have much experience with gangs. I was just told once upon a time, that if I was confronted with a group, to pick the biggest guy and take him down hard."

She nodded. "That's sound advice. You did it with your bare hands, and in front of everyone. If there'd been any sort of hint of foul play, or if you'd shown any sign of weakness, they would likely have mobbed you."

"Lucky me," I replied dryly.

"Well, it will be a little while before they decide to fight in school again," she replied seriously. "But whoever did that – the ABB, by the looks – is likely to be set to force the issue; they've made you lose face by trashing your car."

"So, what you're saying is, watch my back?" I asked.

She nodded seriously. "Very carefully. Both gangs carry knives. Sometimes, guns."

"Great," I muttered. "Knives, I can handle. Guns, not so much."

"Which reminds me," she said, putting down her wine glass. "Let me see your arm."

I had wrapped a loose dressing around the healed cut when I left the shower; she unwrapped it and examined the red line carefully.

"That looks almost healed," she pronounced. "Funny, I wouldn't have thought it would come good this quickly."

"The miracle of modern medicine," I noted solemnly. "You'd make an excellent doctor."

"Oh well," she agreed, re-wrapping the dressing. "You're keeping it clean, at least. Good." Her smile showed she had registerd the compliment.

She looked up then, and sniffed at the air. "I think it's almost done," she told me. "Just give me five minutes, and we can eat."

I rose at the same time as she did. "I'll just check my online messages."

As she went into the kitchen and began to deal with the food, I booted up the laptop.

Almost as soon as the computer came online, an email message popped up. Once more, there was no name in the Sender field.

What news?

I thought for a momet, and typed a reply.

All good. Plans going ahead. Hold tight.

Or at least I hoped that plans were going ahead; Armsmaster's absence on Sunday night had been unexpected, but if he were moving in on Saint …

Well, I could only hope.

I switched websites.

=///=​

Welcome to the Parahumans Online message boards.
You are currently logged in, mack0813.
You are viewing:
• Threads you have replied to
• AND Threads that have new replies
• OR private message conversations with new replies
• Thread OP is displayed.
• Ten posts per page
• Last ten messages in private message history.
• Threads and private messages are ordered chronologically.
You have (1) new message from GstringGirl.
You have (1) new message from AllSeeingEye.
You have no infractions and no warnings.

=///=
​

GstringGirl *New Message*: Mack, it's been more than a day. Im getting a little worried here. Are you all right? Plz reply.

mack0183: Hey, Svetlana. No, I'm all good. As if I'd leave my best girl. Just a little busy atm. Will be on later to chat. Tomorrow PM at latest. Promise.
GstringGirl: Oh its so good to hear from you. You're all right? Promise?
mack0183: Promise. Fighting fit and twice as ugly.
GstringGirl: I still have no idea what that means
mack0183: when you figure it out, let me know, okay? <hugz>
GstringGirl: ok mack. Youre so silly. <hugs>
mack0183: well I gotta get along, so I'll catch you later. Svetlana will escape, I promise!
GstringGirl: I'll hold you to that. Bye mack.
mack0183: Bye Svetlana.

=///=​

I pulled up the private message that Tattletale had obviously left me, as AllSeeingEye, and chuckled out loud.

"What's so funny?" asked Gladys, busily pouring spaghetti into my colander.

"You ever had a situation where the kid thought they were being so smart, but you knew better, because you'd done all that yourself, and you knew exactly what their next move was?"

She paused, thinking, then nodded judiciously. "Yes, I believe I have, from time to time." She nodded toward the laptop. "Is that what's happening there?"

"Basically," I agreed, typing my reply. "We're having a really polite flamewar, and this person on the other end has no idea that I've effectively read their playbook. Not only do I hold all the cards, I can see theirs too."

"I don't know if that metaphor really holds," she mused.

I shrugged. "Oh well. The reaction to this should be interesting." I finished typing and sent off the post.

"Are you done there?' Gladys asked. "Because dinner is ready."

I smiled at her, and shut down the laptop. "Ready when you are."

=///=​

Lisa opened the private message, and read it through. Then she read it through a second time. That was when she started swearing.

"Whoa, hold up," Brian told her. "Settle down a bit. What's the matter?"

She spun the laptop toward him. "Read it for yourself," she snarled. Sliding down to the far end of the sofa, she went into a magnificent sulk.

Raising an eyebrow, Brian read the message.

All will be revealed in good time, my dear Sherlock. Kindly cease braiding thy nether garments into a knot.
Naughty, naughty. Hacking the PRT computers. Shame on you.
Note that some or all of that may not even happen; I am taking steps, but it will be a while before we can see if my efforts are bearing fruit.
We will talk again, and soon, and all will become much more clear.
Signed, The Smartest Guy in the Room.
PS: Tell Brian to make sure that Alec learns to keep his guard up. He can't depend on his powers all the time.
PPS: He must not know about this. Seriously. For your sake as well as mine.
PPPS: There is no PPPPS.

Click to shrink...

"'He?'" enquired Brian. "Who is 'he'?"

"The boss," mumbled Lisa. "Second time he's warned us." She buried her face in a pillow. "But he's taunting me! Deliberately! He's gotta know how much that burns my butt!"

Brian hid a smile. Lisa could be so irritatingly smug on occasion. As worrying as this information was, it was still amusing to see her get a dose of her own medicine.

And then one of the other lines in the message caught his eye.

"Wait a minute," he blurted. "How did he know I was sparring with Alec?"

Lisa shrugged, face still buried in the pillow. "I have no fucking idea."

"Are we under surveillance?" He looked around the room.

"Not as far as I can tell," Lisa informed him, lifting her face from the pillow..

"So he just ... knew."

"And he didn't mind revealing that he knew. Like it's the least of the information that he has on us."

Brian was no longer amused. "Okay, officially creeped out now."

Lisa wasn't smiling either. "What, you didn't get that way when you read the bit about how he's 'taking steps' to stop Leviathan from hitting Brockton Bay?"

Brian hastily re-read the message.

"Is he serious?" he asked, in a hushed tone.

"Seems to be."

"Well, fuck."

"Yeah."

There was a moment of contemplative silence, before Brian spoke again.

"Lisa?"

"Yeah?"

"When we meet this guy again?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's be real polite."

"Yeah."

=///=​

I pushed my plate away and sighed with satisfaction. "Gladys," I told her, "that was a truly beautiful meal. You're a great cook. And I know good cooking."

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Franklin – my ex-husband used to criticise it all the time."

"I've never met the man," I pronounced, "and yet I can assure you, he didn't know when he was well off. My mother is a good cook. My sister is even better. And your cooking's at least on par with either one."

She gave me a genuine smile. "Thank you, Michael. I appreciate it."

We got up and rinsed the plates off, then put the cooking bowls in to soak.

"Have to do this right away, or I get ants something chronic," I explained. "The slightest scrap of food pulls them in from all over."

She nodded. "I have something of a similar problem, myself."

With the housekeeping duties seen to, or at least put aside for later, we went back to the couch. I located the remote, and we tried to find a good TV channel. However, it seemed that Monday night TV did not include anything that either of us liked. As it was, most of the shows were not ones I was familiar with – a different universe and a different country more or less saw to that – and not ones that Gladys liked.

So I got up reluctantly, while Gladys refilled her glass, and found a DVD of An Officer and a Gentleman. I put it on, and we settled down to watch.

"You know," she commented, "they made this movie the same year Scion appeared for the first time."

I knew. I had picked the movie because it was one of the few on the shelf that were familiar to me.

"Wow," I replied. "You're right."

I drank fruit juice, and she drank wine, and we watched the movie. Part way through, I put it on pause while we used the facilities, and refreshed our glasses.

Back on the couch, we seemed to naturally move together, until her head was leaning on my shoulder. She was warm and soft against me, and I had to tell myself to breathe normally.

"Michael," she informed me without looking away from the movie, "you are very tense. Lift your arm and put it around my shoulders; that way, we can both be comfortable."

Obediently, I lifted my arm and put it around her shoulders. She snuggled up to me, seeming even warmer and softer than before. My arm fell down along her side; she trapped it with her hand, and laced her fingers through mine.

I didn't feel tense any more. I felt rather good, in fact.

We watched the rest of the movie in comfort; as Richard Gere strode into the factory and carried Debra Winger out in his arms, I sighed.

"What is it?" Gladys asked without moving.

"I just want to do that for someone, sometime. Walk in to a place where they're just not happy, and carry them out of it. You know?"

She wriggled against me, getting more comfortable. I rather enjoyed the feeling. "Somehow, that does not surprise me about you, Michael." Lifting her glass to her lips, she drained the last of it, and then set it on the floor.

I tried to remember how much she had had over the evening.

"Are you going to be all right to drive?" I asked her.

"That depends," she replied, turning her face up to mine.

I frowned. "Depends on what, exactly?" I asked.

"On whether or not I go home tonight," she breathed, and pulled me in close for a kiss.

The wine on her lips tasted just fine to me.

=///=​

He stood in the middle of the office. She sat on her chair, leaning back casually, watching him. His hood was pushed back, the green glass helmet currently sitting on her desk.

Not many people could pull off wearing a cape properly, especially when sitting down. She could. She observed him dispassionately as he just ... stood there.

"It's been nearly an hour," she remarked. "Are you going to be doing this or not?"

He was irresolute. Afraid. He hadn't felt fear, real fear, in .... years. Decades.

This is the sort of fear that I need to boost my power levels, he told himself. But there was no such boost happening. He had wavered back and forth from the brink, from the point of no return, for fifty-one minutes by the office clock.

"I have places to be," she prodded him gently.

He took a deep breath. His thinning hair was matted with sweat; it stuck to his forehead. He had to do something; either give it up altogether, or go for broke.

"David ..." she began.

"Shh!" he snapped. And with a convulsive effort, he made the leap of faith. He cast away his powers. Gone was the invulnerability, the flight; powers he had assumed so often that they felt like a second skin. For the first time in a very long time, he was powerless. There was nothing between himself and the rest of the world.

Immediately, instinctively, he felt himself searching for new powers. He made the effort to seek mental powers of the type that had been described to him. Thinker powers. Sensory powers. Very specialised sensory powers.

He could see all frequencies in the electromagnetic spectrum, and knew he could focus and amplify any particular band to lethal levels. He cast that power aside.

He could detect the very life-force that animated those in the building around him, and he knew he could draw on that life force to heal himself or others. This was closer to what he wanted, but he cast that aside too.

More powers swam into his consciousness, but they were not what he wanted. He discarded one after the other.

And then one clicked into place, and he knew it was the right one. The woman before him blazed with power, and he knew what she could do, knew her capabilities. Other sparks of power throughout the building and beyond were evident to him.

He clung to that power, and cast out for the other one. He'd had his doubts, before, but now he had none. With his new power to aid him, he seized upon one and then another, sorting through them at what would have been eye-blurring speed, had he been using his eyes.

And he found it. The last piece of the puzzle. It clicked into place, and he let it merge with his being. And then he activated it, and drew upon the power, all around him.

"It's back," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "It's all back."

Alexandria looked at Eidolon, hovering six inches above the floor, skin almost incandescent with the sheer intensity of the power he was drawing into himself, and smiled.

"Yes," she agreed. "I can tell."


End of Chapter Twelve

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Thirteen: Crises


Gladys finished in the shower just as I was pulling my boots on. I looked up as she entered the living room, wearing my bathrobe, still towelling her hair.

I gave her a smile; she returned it. Waking up next to her, jolted from sleep by the alarm clock, had been somewhat of a shock, at least until my brain rebooted and memory kicked in. But what memories. And the shock had not been at all unpleasant, merely unexpected.

"So, no hangover?" I asked teasingly.

She shook her head, still smiling. "No hangover, Michael. I did not drink that much wine, last night."

"Really?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Really," she confirmed, leaning down and kissing me gently. I put my arms around her and kissed her back, and somehow, not entirely by accident, she ended up on my lap.

Her arms felt nice around my neck, her lips were warm and soft on mine, and her damp hair smelled faintly of something floral. Having Gladys in one's arms, post-shower, was a treat to be enjoyed.

I nuzzled her neck, and she breathed in deeply, caressing the back of my head. Had I hair of any length, she would have doubtless run her fingers through it, but instead she had to content herself with gliding her fingertips over the stubble on my scalp.

I had one hand inside the robe when she finally sighed and said regretfully, "Michael, we really should be going."

I nuzzled her neck some more, but withdrew my hand. "We could both call in sick," I suggested, not entirely meaning it.

"As tempting as the idea is, Michael," she responded, "we both know we're not going to. I can see you watching the clock." She snorted. "And besides, in that damned stab vest of yours, you're about as cuddly as a forty-four gallon drum."

I tugged teasingly on the belt that held the robe closed, but my heart wasn't in it. Besides, she was right; I was watching the clock, and while playtime was fun, work time was approaching fast.

"Okay," I agreed, kissed her one more time, and let her stand up. "If we must."

"You know very well that we must, Michael," she told me, but the soft tone belied the words. She gathered her clothes and entered the bedroom to dress, while I busied myself ensuring that my equipment belt held all the gear that I needed.

"We need to talk, Michael," she told me as she emerged from the bedroom.

"I know," I agreed, with a nod. "If you want, I can ride with you to your place, and we can bus it from there. We can talk on the way."

She looked slightly taken aback by my readiness to meet her halfway. "If you're sure ...?" she asked.

"Sure I'm sure," I told her. "You want to talk, I want to talk, we can talk."

"Oh," she replied. "I ... thank you." She glanced at the clock. "We had better move along, though." Picking up her handbag, she headed for the door.

"Uh, what about your wine?" I asked. "There's still most of the bottle in the fridge."

She gave me a heavy-lidded smile; it put a tingle in my spine that went all the way to my toes. "Oh, I think we'll leave that here for the time being."

I couldn't think of a single reason to disagree.

=//=//=​

Once we were in her little car, and on the way to her house, she broached the subject that I had known was coming.

"Michael," she began, "we need to talk about us."

"So let's talk," I agreed. "What are your thoughts on the matter?"

She glanced at me, as if to check that I was not making fun of her. I looked back at her, lifting my eyebrows slightly in encouragement.

"You're a good man," she told me firmly. "You're a gentleman, and you're a gentle man. But you're tough when you need to be tough; you don't shy away from what needs to be done." A pause, as she took a deep breath. "I like you, a lot. But I don't love you. It's too soon to tell for that."

"That's fair," I allowed. "You're sweet and caring, and I like you too. A lot. But you're right. We met for the first time four days ago. We barely know each other."

"Yes, yes," she agreed, nodding her head vigorously. "Exactly. And ..." She looked at me sideways. "No offence, Michael, but I'm not looking for another husband. Or even a long-term boyfriend."

"None taken, Gladys," I replied. "I feel the same way. I've got my life lined up the way I like it, and marriage is not on the agenda. Likewise, full-on relationships."

Besides, I told myself, who knows where I'll be in another month. If I even survive that long.

"Precisely," she responded. "Nor, I believe, should we be considering any such foolishness as moving in with one another."

"No argument from me." I shrugged. "You've got your place, I've got mine."

She smiled warmly. "We understand one another, then."

I nodded. "Sounds like it. But then there's the other thing."

She glanced at me warily. "Which is ...?"

"I had a really good time last night," I told her bluntly. "I'm hoping you did too."

She coloured slightly as she nodded. "Yes, of course, Michael."

"And I'd like to do it some more, sometime. If that's okay. See you again. It doesn't have to be ... you know ... bedroom stuff. Just ... seeing you. Being with you. Being friends ..." My voice trailed off.

"Who occasionally sleep together," she filled in.

"Only if you're good with that," I hastened to add.

"It would be nice to have someone to hold, once in a while," she allowed, almost wistfully. "There were some things about being married that I do miss from time to time. But I don't have the time for a committed relationship," she went on in a warning tone. "We'll only be able to see each other now and again."

"Yeah, you said, not a long-term boyfriend-girlfriend thing." I paused. "Is there a term for this? Just … friends who have sex occasionally? Sort of an exclusive friends with benefits thing?"

"Consenting adults," she stated firmly.

I nodded. "That works for me."

"As it is," she went on, "there's class work I'll need to go over, projects to grade. I probably won't be free till Friday night, and possibly not even then."

"I'm good with that," I assured her. "And I might be busy Friday, but I should be free Saturday."

"I can work with that," she agreed. "And one other thing. We don't do anything that might tip them off at Winslow. The rumour mill in that place is insane. Kiss me before first period, and by lunchtime it'll be around the school that I'm scouting abortion clinics."

"Roger that," I agreed. "Public displays of affection, a no go."

She put her hand on my arm briefly. "Thank you, Michael," she said quietly. "I do appreciate this, how understanding you are being. It means a lot to me."

I could definitely follow her reasoning for keeping things quiet. We didn't need people speculating over what a purported relationship between us would mean to the school. In addition, Taylor was in Gladys' home room class, or would be until she transferred to Arcadia. It would not be beyond the realms of possibility for someone to manufacture a connection between myself, Taylor and Gladys, and for people to start making entirely unwarranted suppositions.

Besides, I told myself, Gladys would be much safer if no-one knew we were involved, once word got out about me. I wasn't stupid enough to believe that I could keep my involvement in wider affairs secret forever.

Which in turn made me wonder if I was doing Gladys a great disservice. Heck, Taylor knew more than she did about things that were going on around town. Should I tell her? I asked myself. Would it help if she knew when to run if the wrong people came looking for me? Or would knowing just put her in more danger?

I didn't even spare a thought for the possibility of Gladys Knott betraying me.

But even without that factor, the more I thought about it, the more conflicted I became.

I didn't know what I was going to do, or what the right thing to do even was.

=//=//=
​

We stopped at Gladys' house, and she quickly changed clothes; I personally could not tell the difference, but she was adamant that this needed to be done.

Just before we left the house, I stopped her with a hand on her arm, wanting to take advantage of our last possible chance of a private moment.

She looked at me, puzzled.

"I just wanted to say ... thank you," I said softly, and kissed her gently, trying not to mess up her lipstick. "For coming over and cooking. It really helped."

Her smile was quick and warm. "You're welcome, Michael. Now, we must hurry, if we are to catch the bus."

I hurried, puffing; we made it to the stop with thirty seconds to spare.

=//=//=​

The bus was a different line to the one I had ridden in on Friday, so there was more Brockton Bay scenery to watch. There weren't any seats where we could sit side by side, but that was probably a good thing; a symbolic separation to ready us for the day that we would spend together-but-apart. We would very likely be seeing one another, but we would be unable to acknowledge that there was anything between us.

The bus pulled up at Winslow, and we got off; this was a slightly earlier one than I usually took, and so as we walked across the car park – keeping a casual distance between us – I saw other teachers and staff arriving as well. A few people looked at me oddly; I usually didn't turn up this early. No-one commented, but I made a mental note; no more riding in together. The chance of discovery was far too great.

Blackwell, more than most, seemed to be mildly taken aback by my earlier-than-normal appearance, but she took it in stride, and unlocked the front doors for the staff.

"Good morning, Mr Allen," she greeted me, her voice almost friendly.

"Good morning, Principal Blackwell," I replied.

"I received a phone call from Alan Barnes last night," she went on, after the teachers had streamed past us; she was waiting to re-lock the doors.

"Okay," I responded cautiously. Had he decided to ignore what had happened, to renege on the deal?

She cracked the faintest of smiles. "He has undertaken to leave school discipline to the school," she revealed. "There will be no more attempts to mitigate the punishment that his daughter is undergoing."

"That's good news," I observed, with an answering smile.

She nodded. "Now," she said, looking directly at me, "do I get to hear the recording of the interview that led to this about-face?"

"I'm sorry," I told her, "but in order to listen to that recording, you will have to get permission from both Alan and Emma Barnes."

Her expression slowly petrified. "Surely you jest," she stated flatly.

I shook my head. "That conversation was private, between the three of us, and I only recorded it so that none of the three of us could claim false content to the conversation; so that they, for instance, could not claim blackmail at a later date."

Her lips thinned; she turned to lock the doors, then started walking down the hallway, her stride quick and staccato. I had to quicken my pace to keep up. "And so you are saying that you, a security guard who has quickly earned a reputation for recording everything, did not secretly record this exchange with your secondary recorder?" A recording that you don't have to account for, I knew she meant.

"I'm saying exactly that, yes, Ms Blackwell," I confirmed. "That recording was of a private conversation, and it will remain private until both Alan and Emma Barnes give their specific approval for me to release it to you."

She didn't reply; didn't give any sort of answer at all until we had reached her office and she had signed out the master-keys to me. "Very well, Mr Allen," she told me curtly. "That will be all. Go about your duties."

I left, ruminating that it could never be easy. Two steps forward, one step back.

And I still had not decided which way I was going to jump with Gladys.

=//=//=
​

The night had passed, and morning had come on, and Eidolon still had not slept. He did not feel that he needed sleep; he was energised, supercharged.

With the new range of power that he had attained, he found he could easily pull any power from the melange surrounding him, at will and at need. He had also discovered that the first power he had encountered, the one that had helped him find the second one, was immaterial to his needs. He put it from him, then took it back, then cast it away again. It was there if he needed it, but he didn't need it.

Even now that he was limited to two agents for active powers, he found his range and breadth of selections to be stunning. A teleport power that allowed him to step around the world in a matter of seconds, and to bombard hypothetical foes with bubbles of intersecting space-time. A constantly-changing field/shield that drew in energy and allowed him to output it in whatever form he chose. Telekinesis, sheer and simple and hugely powerful. Any powerset he took on was hugely powerful, now.

He did not miss the parallels with the Endbringers; he was reminded of Michael Allen's words, that he needed to seek therapy, to make peace with himself. He did not need it, he told himself. He was at peace. His power had returned, in all its glory. Once more, Eidolon was the shining star of the Triumvirate. He had no more need for violent combat, to push himself to the next level of power.

What he did crave, now, was someone, something, upon which to test his newly-returned capabilities. He wanted to hit something, smash it with his powers, something that would previously have been beyond his capabilities. He wanted to prove himself, prove to himself that he was once more a power to be truly reckoned with.

He was in his element now. There was nothing he could not handle.

He reminded himself to thank Allen personally, sometime.

=//=//=​

I stood on the front steps of the school; it was my responsibility to see the girls under in-school suspension to the classroom where they would spend the balance of the day.

With me stood Julia, looking faintly resentful, and Madison, looking rather subdued. And then a familiar car rolled to a halt, and Alan Barnes emerged; Emma got out on the other side.

I had gotten a certain amount of warning from Blackwell's comment, but I still wasn't fully prepared for Emma's appearance.

In terms of clothing and presentation, she was as gorgeous as ever; Emma Barnes was one of those people who could take any look and effortlessly make it hers. But there was something different in the girl herself, something that was missing. She seemed ... diminished. Instead of striding out, parting the crowd with her presence, she followed behind her father, up the steps toward where I stood.

"Mr Allen," he greeted me; not friendly, but not hostile either. I had torn the band-aid off and exposed his daughter's true actions, and those of Sophia Hess, to him. The revelation could not have been pleasant, and the fallout even less so, for him or his daughter. As the architect of this unpleasantness, I was not his enemy, but I doubted that I had made his Christmas card list.

"Mr Barnes," I replied, equally distant.

"Has Taylor arrived yet?" he asked.

"Not that I've seen," I told him. "Why?"

"Because Emma has something to say to her," he told me.

I frowned, considering this. "Given the little stunt that Emma pulled yesterday ..." I began.

"This will be a face to face exchange that you can monitor," he said quickly. "It's something that Emma needs to do."

"I suppose so," I agreed with a nod. "I'll see what we can do."

At that moment, I spotted Taylor working her way through the crowd, having just gotten off the bus. I took my sunglasses off and looked her way until she made eye contact, then I hooked my head in a come-here gesture.

As I slid the shades back into place, she began to move our way.

There was a bubble of empty space around myself, Alan Barnes and the girls; as she impinged on this no-man's-land, she hesitated.

"Come on over, Taylor," I invited her. "Alan says Emma's got something to say to you."

Taylor shot me a curious look, but approached more closely anyway.

"I'm not sure that she's got anything to say that I want to hear," she observed, addressing me, but looking at Emma. Her eyebrows rose as she noted Emma's less than confident demeanour.

"Well, you –" began Julia, but she shut up when I looked at her and raised a finger.

"Shush," I told her. "You weren't the one who asked to speak to Taylor." I paused, looking at Alan Barnes' daughter. "Emma?"

"Just so you know," Alan put in hastily as Emma raised her head to look at Taylor, "we still admit no legal liability as applies to any specific incidents that may have happened at Winslow."

Typical lawyer, I thought, covering his arse to the end.

"Taylor," Emma said softly, "yesterday, Mr Allen spoke to me and Dad. About stuff that's been going on. About Sophia and me. And last night, Dad and Mom had a long talk to me about that, and about other stuff."

I saw now that, under expertly-applied makeup, her eyes were red-rimmed. Had she been crying?

"And so...?" Taylor responded.

Emma bit her lip. "I know it's not enough, but for what's been done to you, for what I've done to you –"

"Emma ..." Alan interjected warningly. She was obviously going off script here, admitting fault.

"No, Dad," Emma went on. "I've got to say it. For what I've done, for what Sophia did because I told her to, I'm sorry."

Taylor looked at her for a long moment. "You're right," she told Emma. "It's not enough. It'll never be enough. But I'm glad you've had the guts to come out and admit it, to say sorry."

She looked at Alan Barnes. "Don't worry, I'm not going to sue. I'd tell Dad to do just that, if I thought it would do the slightest bit of good. But it wouldn't. It wouldn't change what's already happened. It would just be hurting you to make me feel better about myself, and isn't that exactly what Emma was doing to me?" She looked directly at Emma. "I refuse to be like you. Ever."

Without another word, she nodded to me, then turned and headed inside, leaving the five of us standing there.

Alan Barnes turned to me. "Did you record -?" he began.

"Don't worry," I reassured him in a low tone. "It just so happens that I accidentally switched the recorder off, just before Emma started speaking." I held up the digital recorder so that just he and Emma could see it, its red LED dark. "That, what Emma just said? It's what she needed to say, what Taylor needed to hear. I wouldn't sabotage something like that. But make sure you get her therapy."

Deliberately, I switched the recorder back on, and placed it back in its pouch.

"Thank you," Emma's father told me. "And I will. I mean it."

I nodded. "You've got a lot to make up for, but it's a start. Now, if you don't mind, I need to get these girls in to their appropriate classroom."

"Right, right," he agreed. "I'll see you later, Emma."

She murmured a response, and watched him walk down the steps.

=//=//=
​

Lisa's grin was at its most vulpine as she typed up and sent in the post. Troll me, will you, she asked silently. Let's see who trolls whom. She couldn't help it; she let out a chuckle.

Brian paused the video game he was playing and turned to regard her quizzically.

"That was a really evil chuckle. Do I really want to know?" he asked.

She grinned over at him. "Just teaching someone that payback's a bitch."

Brian nodded wisely. "So, no."

He unpaused the game and kept playing. Someone, he decided, was in for a bad time. Just so long as it isn't me.

=//=//=​

No-one spoke as I led the girls to their classroom.

"Same deal as yesterday," I announced as they took their seats. "When I leave here, I'll be taking your phones and anything else that might be used for electronic entertainment. Electronics go on the desk; phones will be turned off and delivered to the principal, and retrieved at the end of the day. You can talk, read or do homework. Questions?"

Madison raised her hand slightly. "Uh, yes," she ventured. "What did you say to Emma yesterday? I tried to talk to her on the phone, but she's being all weird about it."

Emma shot her a look, then another one at me. I could see the appeal in her eyes. Please don't tell her.

"That's between me, Emma and her dad," I told Madison firmly. "You can ask Emma if you want, but you'll have to be satisfied with whatever she tells you. I'm not weighing in on this one."

Madison promptly turned to Emma. "Okay, Ems," she told the redhead. "Spill. Seriously, what's the deal?"

"There is no deal," Emma replied in a low voice. "I meant what I said. Dad knows everything, and he's pissed. What we did to Taylor ..." Her voice trailed off.

"But that thing she said to you," protested Madison. "About not wanting to be like you. She can't say that –"

Emma shook her head slowly. "What she said to me, I deserved. Every word and more." She lowered her eyes. "Can we just drop this?"

"But Sophia –" began Madison.

"Sophia's a psychotic manipulative bitch, and she turned me into one, too!" shouted Emma, making Madison and Julia jump. "Right now, she's up for attempted murder! Do you really want to emulate that? For fuck's sake!"

She had risen to her feet during her tirade; I cleared my throat gently. "If you will kindly sit down, Ms Barnes," I suggested. "And while I have no issue with anything you've said, moderating your tone might be a good idea."

Emma nodded convulsively, grabbed her bag, and moved down to the back of the classroom to sit as far away from Madison and Julia as she could. She didn't say any more; the other two shared startled looks, but refrained from comment.

=//=//=​

Taylor sat in her home room class and watched as Mrs Knott went to the front of the room. There was something different about the teacher today; she was dressed much the same as normal, but there was a spring in her step, and a glow to her face, that Taylor had not seen before.

She's happy, Taylor realised, almost at once. Something happened, and she's happy. She wondered what that something might be, and almost immediately, her thoughts lit on Michael Allen. He brought her along on Saturday night.

At the time, she had thought little of it, being preoccupied with her own secrets, and later it still had not seemed so strange; Mike worked at the school and so did Mrs Knott. It was weird to think of Mrs Knott having a life outside the school, or of Mike engaged in anything but the dealings he had described on Sunday night and lunchtime Monday, putting plans in motion to save the world.

She supposed that he deserved some sort of life, some sort of happiness, and so did Mrs Knott. And if they happened to find it together, then so much the better.

Her computer finally finished booting up, and she logged on to the PHO forums to see if there was anything new on the site. Lung's capture had shown up on Monday morning, described as the work of "a new independent cape called Weaver". No more details had been given about her, then.

Now, she idly checked up the name, and to her surprise, someone had added it to the wiki. There were no pictures as yet, but her powers were described as 'insect and arachnid control', with a tentative rating of Master 4. Notes underneath indicated that she had been instrumental in the capture and incarceration of Lung. Her allegiance had been described as 'Hero', with the additional note that she had cooperated fully with the PRT and Protectorate forces who arrived to take Lung in hand. Right at the bottom was a note that she was currently working with another cape called Security.

Curious, she checked the name 'Security', and to her astonishment, got a hit there too. No physical description or picture was given, but he was considered to be a high-end Thinker type. The sole comment attached to the page suggested that Security was working with the PRT on matters pertaining to the safety of the city.

Whether this was true or not - and she could not be sure either way - it would mean that people would start paying attention, and digging to see if they could get more information on him. And that could be bad.

I really have to tell Mike about this, she decided.

=//=//=​

The bell went for first period, and shortly thereafter, there came a knock on the door. I turned that way, in time to see Mr Gladly enter the room. I realised that I had totally forgotten his first name from when we had been introduced on Friday. It didn't really bother me; I didn't have much of an opinion of the man.

"I'm here to take them for first period," he announced unnecessarily.

"Excellent," I replied, standing up from the desk. "I'll just take the phones to the principal's office."

"I'll take care of them," Gladly interjected.

"No, I'll be doing this," I countered. "The phones are to be confiscated for the day and taken to the principal's office."

"I can just hold them," Gladly insisted.

I shook my head. "Sorry. I was told to get them there. That's what I'll be doing." I held out my hand toward Madison and Julia. "Phones, girls."

Madison obediently placed her phone in my hand; Julia held off. "Mr G –" she began.

" - doesn't have a say in this," I interrupted. "I'm taking your phone to the office."

Julia set her jaw and looked stubborn. "Mr G's a teacher. You're just a fat old rent-a-cop. If Principal Blackwell wants my phone, she can come here and get it."

Which, we both knew, would cause me to lose a certain amount of face. I wasn't going to go there if I could help it.

"I'll be back in a moment," I advised her. "In the meantime, you might want to think about whether you really want to go there."

I strolled on down to Emma's desk; when I got there, she already had her phone out, ready to hand over. I took it with a nod.

As I was heading toward the front of the room again, Mr Gladly stepped into my way. "You can give me those phones now," he told me, holding out his hand. I noticed that he was already holding Julia's phone in his other hand.

"I could," I agreed, "but I won't. These phones are going to the office, as is that one." I nodded toward the one in his hand.

"That was an order," he insisted. "Give me those phones, right now."

I pulled a pair of reading glasses from a pouch on my belt, put them on, and made a show of peering at Gladly through them. "Nope," I replied. "You're still not Principal Blackwell."

He flushed angrily. "You're a school employee, and I'm faculty," he protested. "You have to do what I say."

"I'm employed by the school board," I told him bluntly, putting the glasses away. "Principal Blackwell can give me reasonable orders, and I will carry them out. Anyone else can ask me to do something, but I have no obligation to obey. So. Please hand that phone over, so I can carry out my orders."

"Or what?" he asked. "You gonna break my arm? Taser me? Punch me out?"

"Worse," I warned him. "I will turn over the recording of this conversation to the Principal. You've already got one disciplinary hearing coming up; do you think they'll schedule another one for attempting to subvert the orders of Principal Blackwell, or will they just lump this one on top of the other one?"

"Yeah, right," he retorted. "I know where you keep your recorders I've been watching your hands. You haven't had a chance to turn them on since I got here. So you got jack."

Not taking my eyes off of him, I raised my voice slightly. "Emma?" I called out.

"Yes, Mr Allen?" she replied immediately, sounding startled to be called on.

"What's the last thing I did before we came inside the school?"

She paused, then spoke clearly. "You turned on your recorder, and put it on your belt."

I smiled. "Thank you, Emma."

With two fingers, I lifted the recorder from the pouch, and showed him the glaring red LED.

"Satisfied?" I asked him quietly, putting it away again. His face began to take on a sour expression; he didn't answer, but when I held out my hand, he reluctantly placed the phone in it.

"Thank you," I quoted softly, "for your cooperation." He didn't get the reference; I doubted that movie was out in Earth Bet, or that it would be anywhere near as popular as it had been back home.

I turned away; I was almost at the door when Gladly spoke up.

"Hey," he said. "Did you leave any more of those damn recorders in this room?"

I glanced back at him. "Mayyybe," I answered coyly, drawing the word out. "If you find one, I'll want it back.'

Exiting, I closed the door. That should keep them busy for a while, I thought with mild amusement.

=//=//=​

Taylor had left a fly on the back of Mike's belt, so she knew where he was at all times. It was a trick he'd suggested to her. Unfortunately, it wasn't doing her much good at the moment.

During home room, he was in the classroom with Madison, Emma and Julia; she could think of no way to get a message to him without the girls seeing something strange.

When the first period bell went, Mr Gladly went into that classroom, and appeared to have some sort of argument or discussion with Mike; the bugs she had in the area couldn't pick up enough clues to give her a better idea.

In the meantime, she was heading to Mr Quinlan's math class for first period. Even if she wentto Mike's classroom and waited outside the door, there was a chance she'd be late for math class before he came out. She gritted her teeth and hurried on. Come on, she told Mike silently, Get out of there.

She thought hard, while heading to Quinlan's classroom. Mike had given her many good suggestions for the use of her power on Sunday night, and she had practised quite a few of them. How to get a message to him? Write it on a scrap of paper and have a bug carry it to him?

He finally left the classroom, and she realised the simplest way to do it. She began to gather a swarm …

=//=//=​

I was on my way to Blackwell's office, with the phones, when a swarm of bugs swept past me and settled on a nearby wall. I stared for a moment, then understood as the bugs began to form letters.

SECURITY IS ON PHO WIKI

Oh shit.

Bugs settled on my head, and I nodded vigorously, so that she would know I had gotten the message. Then I pulled out my smartphone.

I had to put on my reading glasses again to see the screen properly, but I managed to navigate through to internet access, and thus to the Parahumans Online boards.

I wouldn't be able to do this at Arcadia, I mused. Faraday cages around the building, huh.

It didn't take me long to find the writeup for Security, and it did not make me happy at all. Nor did it take me long to figure out who had done it.

=//=//=​

Lisa's laptop pinged, and she saw that there was a private message waiting for her.

mack0813 *New Message*: V funny. Pls take it down.
AllSeeingEye: Take what down?
mack0813: Security wiki entry. Srsly, if wrong ppl read that, I will be in shit.

Click to shrink...

Wrong people? Lisa pondered. And then her power filled her in on who the 'wrong people' would include.

Oh shit.

She hastily typed a reply, then set to work.

AllSeeingEye: Shit, sorry. Didn't realise was so serious. Removing comment. Can't remove wiki page.

Click to shrink...

=//=//=​

I sighed. Of course you can't.

mack0813: Kk. See what I can do.

Click to shrink...

I pulled up my email account. Flicking through the inbox, I found Dragon's latest email.

I hope this works.

Clicking on Reply, I typed up a quick message, my fingers clumsy on the tiny touch-keys.

Pls remove Security wiki page. Placed up w/out permission.

Click to shrink...

Less than ten seconds later, a reply pinged in my inbox.

Page removed.

Click to shrink...

=//=//=
​

Lisa stared. She had just removed her comment from the wiki page, and suddenly the page began deconstructing itself. She back-clicked to the Weaver page, and watched the line about Weaver's alliance with Security simply vanish, as if it had never been.

AllSeeingEye: Holy shit. How did you do that? Do you have an in with the mods?

Click to shrink...

A moment or two passed, then the answer popped up.

mack0813: Tell u later. In meantime, pls do not do that again.
AllSeeingEye: … all right.
mack0813: Thx.

mack0813 has left private chat.

Click to shrink...

=//=//=
​

Thomas Calvert frowned. His system was set up to forward him an alert every time a Thinker was registered on the PHO wiki for Brockton Bay and the surrounding area. His plans to acquire Dinah Alcott were moving ahead smoothly, but one could never have too many irons in the fire.

But now a page had registered about a cape called Security. He'd heard the name in passing, in the PRT building, but it had not caught his attention. However, it seemed that this Security was a high-powered Thinker. He was interested.

Opening a new page, he did a quick search for any hits on a cape called "Security". There were none.

Interesting. Either very new, very obscure, or very good at hiding his tracks.

Either way, he was interested in seeing what this Security was all about.

He clicked back to the wiki page … and stared.

It wasn't there any more.

Between one mouse-click and the next … it was gone. As if it had never existed.

A quick site search of the name Security only netted uses of the word in lower case.

Some people would have doubted that they'd ever seen the page; Calvert did not. He knew what he had seen. There had been a wiki page for a high-powered Thinker, and that wiki page had mysteriously vanished.

Evidently, he thought, this Security removed the wiki page to cover his tracks. That's very impressive.

He checked again – it was still gone, so not a simple glitch – and then called up his email program.

=//=//=​

Lisa looked up as her laptop pinged for a new email. She opened it.

Tattletale:
Please investigate all references to a Thinker in Brockton Bay called Security. I want chapter and verse, soonest.
C

Click to shrink...

She stared at the screen, only now realising the enormity of her screwup.

What the fuck do I do now?

=//=//=​

I put my reading glasses and smartphone away – crisis hopefully averted – and headed on, to Blackwell's office. She was on the phone, and looked up as I tapped on the door.

"Just dropping off the phones from the girls in suspension," I told her. She gestured toward her desk, so I placed them on her desk and gave her a polite nod; she nodded back. I closed the door on the way out.

=//=//=​

Lisa's phone rang, and she glanced at the number display.

"I'll take this in my room," she decided, getting up from the sofa.

Brian and Alec, who were working through another sparring session, barely took any notice.

She made it to her room and answered the call.

"Yes, boss?"

"Tattletale." It was Coil, of course. "What progress have you made with the request I just sent you?"

"Not much yet," Lisa hastily improvised. "I checked the wiki first, of course. There's nothing at all there. Do you have any idea where this guy's from?"

"That's what I'm paying you to find out," he told her reprovingly. "I need you to keep on that, find out his weak points, any leverage I can use on him. Failing that, find out if he's for hire."

"I'm on it," she lied. "Anything else?"

"Yes, actually," he replied. "I need the Undersiders to commit a crime for me."

"But not just any crime," she responded. "A specific type of crime, at a particular time and place."

"As perceptive as ever," he praised her. "It needs to be flashy, attention-getting. It needs to happen in the downtown area, and it needs to go off just around lunchtime on Thursday."

"This sounds to me like a diversion of some sort," she commented.

"You don't need to know about that side of matters," he reproved her. "Now, can you do it, or not?"

"Oh, we can do it," she assured him. "That won't be a problem." She paused. "But do you want me to focus more on this job or Security?"

"The job, for the moment," he decided. "But as soon as you have a spare moment, I'll need you to get back on to Security for me."

"I can do that, boss," she told him, with a note of cheer that she wasn't feeling. "So, the job."

"The job, yes," he replied. "Do you have any ideas about it yet?"

"Actually, yes," she said promptly. "How about the Brockton Bay Central Bank?"

"Ambitious," he commented approvingly. "That will certainly be flashy enough. Do you think the Undersiders are up to it?"

"Sure," she responded. "They might not like the attention it'll gain us though, so you might want to sweeten the pot a little. Extras. Incentives."

He sighed. "I can tell you have something in mind. Let's hear it."

"Well," she began brightly, "I'm guessing the money isn't the point here. So if you were to offer ..."

=//=//=​

I met Taylor on the front steps at lunchtime. She sat on the steps, while I used the folding chair.

"We're all clear?" I asked her.

"Sure," she stated. "I've got bugs on nearly everyone now. Keeping an eye on where they all are." An anxious look my way. "That's okay, isn't it?"

I nodded. "It's good practice. So long as you don't intrude into their privacy too much, I guess. Just be careful, all right?"

"Oh, I am, I am. So how did it turn out with the wiki page?"

I smiled slightly. "Thanks to you, it's no longer up. I appreciate the heads-up, by the way. You may just have saved my life."

"What, really?" she asked. "How did you get it taken down? And who would have threatened your life?"

"To answer the first part of your question, I asked a favour from a friend," I responded. "I'll introduce you sometime. She's fairly cool. As for the second part, I have the goods on nearly every prominent villain and hero in the city. Once that gets out, what will my life be worth?"

She was staring at me, wide-eyed. "Holy shit," she breathed. "I didn't think of it like that."

I nodded. "I can't let myself forget," I observed. "But on to a less morbid topic. What Emma said to you today. How do you feel about that?"

She took a deep breath. "I ... guess, I've needed to hear it, to be sure that all that shit's over and done. But what she said ..." She looked at me. "It was you, wasn't it? You said something to her, to her dad, that made him make her say that."

I raised my eyes to the cloudy sky. "I may have had something to do with it," I admitted. I looked back down toward her. "But I just showed him what she was really like, what Sophia was really like. What she said to you, that was all them."

"I get it, I do," she agreed. "But ... seriously, I've basically figured that Emma was doing it as an ego thing, but I have no real idea why. I mean, what turned her against me like that?"

I nodded. "I figure you deserve to know. I can tell you, but doing that basically involves breaking the law."

She stared at me. "I don't get it. Is Emma so important?"

I shook my head. "Emma's only contingent to this. It's something about Sophia that I cannot legally tell you." I paused. I was dangling the truth in front of her. She was a smart kid.

"Something about Sophia – Sophia's a cape?" she exclaimed.

"A little louder next time; I don't think they heard you in Boston," I cautioned.

"Sorry, sorry." She paused. "Who … wait a moment."

I waited, sucking on my juice popper.

"Shadow Stalker?" she blurted. "Sophia Hess is Shadow Stalker?"

"What makes you think that?" I asked casually.

"Well, she's obviously not New Wave," Taylor reasoned, waving a piece of pita bread. "You mentioned legality, so this sounds like a member of the Wards. And the Wards only have two female members, and Vista's too young."

"And she's Caucasian," I added helpfully.

"Yeah, that," Taylor agreed. "So … Shadow Stalker. Huh."

I nodded. "Well, now that you've figured this out, what are your thoughts on the matter?"

She looked at me, puzzled. "On what matter?"

"Weaver joining the Wards, for one thing," I pointed out.

She paused. "Oh. Oh yeah."

"Let me lay it out for you," I said helpfully. "The Protectorate did not know that Sophia was bullying you. However, their oversight procedures were lax enough that she was able to get away with it. Note that she isn't overly well-liked by her teammates anyway. Clockblocker thinks she's hot, even though he doesn't like her very much as a person."

Taylor said nothing.

"It's basically getting her powers that screwed her up," I went on. "She became a lot more aggressive than before. A lot nastier. She subscribes to a kind of predator-prey mindset. What she really likes is an absence of rules, so she can do what she wants. Which, quite a lot of the time, is hurting people."

"I can see that," Taylor replied softly. "I can really see that."

I nodded. "Now, as for Emma. Back before all this began, while you were still at nature camp, the last time you spoke to her on the phone, Emma and her father were attacked by some ABB thugs. They were going to do something fairly brutal to Emma. Shadow Stalker was there, but she didn't do anything until Emma actually fought back. It's her thing, you see; if you don't fight back, you don't deserve to be saved. Predator versus prey."

Taylor could have been a stone statue; only her eyes on me reflected the fact that she was listening.

"She saved them, but Emma was extremely traumatised, as you can imagine. She spent a week where she didn't come out of her room at all. Then she went back to the place it happened, and Sophia was there. They talked, and Sophia explained her view of life to Emma, and Emma was still so shattered that it made sense to her. So ever since then, she's been trying to build herself up, to make herself strong, specifically, Sophia's definition of strong. And that's where you come into it."

"… me?" asked Taylor.

I nodded. "You'd lost your mother a year before. It was still very raw, very painful."

"… still is," she muttered.

I nodded. "I lost my brother more than twenty years ago. I still remember the pain."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she responded automatically. "Was it a cape thing?"

I shook my head. "No. Just a mundane accident. Anyway. You were recovering from your mother's death. You were showing that you were strong enough to keep going. But Emma felt that she had to be stronger. If Sophia hadn't been there, she may well have accepted you back into her life, and you would have supported each other."

"I would've done that, yes," agreed Taylor.

I nodded. "But Sophia was another matter. She talked about making you fight back, making you react, show you were tough enough to be Emma's friend. And Emma bought into it. But deeper down, Sophia had decided that you didn't belong, didn't deserve to be on the same level as her. She had determined that you were inferior, and had to learn your place."

Taylor shook her head slowly. "So no matter what I did, if I fought back, Sophia would have beaten me down, and if I kept my head down, Emma would have pushed harder to get a reaction, is that it?" she asked.

"That's about the long and the short of it," I agreed.

"And Madison?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Just a hanger-on. Doesn't have it in her to be a really popular girl, so she hangs out with the popular ones, and does what it takes to keep them liking her."

"Fuck," she said.

I kept quiet.

She swore again; I could tell she didn't have much practice in it, but for an amateur, she was definitely a fast learner. Standing up, she strode back and forth on the steps, redefining the heritage and behaviour of all three girls, in terms that may have even shocked the tough dock-workers that had attended the party.

Finally, the tirade came to an end; she was leaning against the wall bordering the steps, looking out over the car park. The echoes of her last shouts came back from distant buildings.

She turned back to face me, and I saw that tears were running down her face. "Thanks for telling me."

"Hey," I told her, rising to my feet. "Is all good. Want a hug?"

"… yeah. Yeah, I do."

So I hugged her, and she hugged me, and I felt the shudders running through her body slowly begin to ease away.

We separated, and I gave her my handkerchief; she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

"Okay, now I know all that," she told me, handing back the handkerchief, "what's the deal with Sophia? Why is she not in suspension with the rest? Did the Protectorate finally figure it out? Or has she just been pulled out of Winslow altogether?"

I shook my head. "Friday night, I got a visit from Shadow Stalker. She doesn't lose, you see. Can't stand it. So she decided to come over and kill me instead."

She stared at me. "What the fuck? What did you do?"

I shrugged. "I knew her well enough that she'd try something like that. So I set a trap, caught her, wrapped her up in Christmas lights, and handed her over to the PRT."

The grin on her face slowly started to widen. "With a recording of the whole thing, I bet."

"With, as you say, a recording of the whole thing."

"So she's …"

"In custody, awaiting trial for attempted murder. For which she will go directly to juvenile detention, for two and a half years, more or less. After which her case will be reviewed to see if she should continue serving time as an adult."

"Christmas lights." She shook her head. "Holy fuck. I wish I could have seen that."

I pulled out my camera, turned it on, and flicked through a dozen images until I found the one I wanted. "Here."

She stared at the picture. It showed an unconscious Shadow Stalker, bound with brightly shining Christmas tree lights, as I had told her.

"And that's Sophia," she reiterated.

I nodded. "That's the very same. I can play you back the screaming tantrum she had when she realised that Armsmaster was on to her little game, sometime. It was even more impressive than the little dummy-spit you just had."

She giggled, a little self-consciously. "I, uh, sorry about that. I had to let it out somehow."

"Don't worry about it. I drove a taxi for ten years. I have seriously heard it all."

She shook her head, grinning. "Holy fuck. Seriously, holy fuck. I thought my day was good already. But this … all this. Everything. You've just made my day in so many ways I can't believe it. Even telling me what the fuck was going through Emma's mind. And what's happened with Sophia. And that picture. Fuck, I wish I could have a giant-sized poster of that picture."

I made a mental note. Her birthday was coming up, after all.

"So ..." I ventured. "Regarding Weaver joining the Wards. What are your thoughts now?"

"How long was she in the Wards?" she asked. I didn't have to ask who 'she' was.

"About six months, give or take," I replied.

"So for six months, she got to fuck with me, and they never took a blind bit of notice," she noted.

"On the other hand, they are actually good kids," I pointed out. "They try their best. It's the organisation that let you down, not the people. I think you'd really get along with them. And seriously, you need friends your own age. Teammates, even."

"Which reminds me," she said. "Last night, in the car, you said that I could easily have become a villain."

I nodded. "This is true."

"In the original time line ... did I ... become a villain?" Her voice was tentative.

Again, I nodded. "Yes. At first, you joined the Undersiders because you kept getting bullied, and so you kept leaving school early. You actually wanted to be a hero, so originally you joined to try to be an undercover hero, to find out about them and then turn them in to the heroes."

"Wow," she commented. "That sounds a bit risky, with Tattletale and all."

"Yeah. You were worried about that, but she didn't seem to notice. And then, well, today, actually, after you had agreed to join, they decided to rob a bank."

"The bank robbery that's going down on Thursday," she realised.

"The very same. You had to go along with it, in order not to raise suspicions, but you tried to get some legal cover through Armsmaster. In case it went pear-shaped, you didn't want to end up in jail. After all, you were trying to do the right thing."

"But he was a dick about it," she guessed.

"Well, it didn't help that when you took on Lung, you didn't warn him about the immense amount of spider venom in his system. Armsmaster pumped him full of sedatives, Lung nearly died, and Armsmaster got in a lot of trouble over that." I decided to leave out the part about Lung losing his manhood.

"Ah, that could have something to do with it," she decided.

"Precisely. So, the bank robbery went through, you ended up with a lot of money, and inch by inch, you decided that the villains you liked were more fun to be around than the heroes you didn't."

She frowned. "Wow. I can see that happening. I really can. But it's not going to happen now, is it?"

"Not unless you want it to," I pointed out. "And unlikely, even if you presented yourself at their base. You've identified yourself as a hero, and you're not as close to the edge as you were when they met you in the other time line."

She nodded. "Thanks to you," she pointed out.

I shrugged. It was true enough, I guessed. But I didn't want to focus on that.

"However, in this time line, Lung shouldn't be having those problems," I observed. "And the Protectorate and PRT had a positive encounter with you. So even when you do meet Armsmaster, he's not likely to be more of a dick to you than he is to everyone else."

She nodded. "That's all true," she agreed. She looked at me. "Do I have to make my decision right away?"

"Nope. Take all the time you want. You have all the facts now, so it's up to you." I grinned. "Although if you decide to join in the next week or so, most of the Wards do go to Arcadia, so you'll already know people when you get there."

"Huh. Well, I'll let you know Friday," she told me. "I should be able to make my mind up by then."

I nodded. "Sounds fair."

She held out her fist; I bumped it.


End of Chapter Thirteen

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Fourteen: Consequences


"Uh oh."

I looked at Taylor. "What?"

"Some ABB guys just let someone into the school through a fire exit."

I was on my feet. "Which one?"

"Southwest corner, near the chem labs." She paused, looking worried. "If my bugs are reading this right, he's a big guy."

I grabbed my bag and the folding chair, pushed the doors open. "Big guy, small guy, still my job."

"What are you going to do?" she asked, as I stashed the chair and bag in a fire closet.

I started down the hall, striding purposefully. "Go and ask him politely to leave."

She hurried to keep up. "And if he doesn't want to go?"

"Then I'll stop asking and start telling. Where are you going?"

"With you. This is a big guy. You might need backup."

"Better if you hang back a bit," I cautioned her. "It might look a bit suss, a student helping out the security guard."

Her resolve was obvious. "I'm not going to let you get hurt."

"I can take care of myself."

What I didn't tell her was that I more or less had Contessa looking out for my interests until Friday. Or so I hoped.

"I'm still coming along."

She would come along anyway, even if I told her not to; I had figured that part out, anyway. "I don't suppose there's a chance you brought, uh it, to school?"

It didn't taker her long to figure out that I was referring to her costume. As I had already noted, bright kid. "No. Should I have?"

"Here? No. Once you move, and if you join? Yeah, probably."

"Good point. They're going upstairs."

"Crap. Which stairwell?"

"Southern one."

There were two stairwells in Winslow. We were nearest the northern one; we started heading that way.

"Aren't you going to call the police?"

"And tell them what? I'm not going to out you, not over this."

"Just tell them someone told you! You don't have to say who!" Her worry was palpable.

She had a point; police backup would be nice. I didn't know what they had planned, but whatever it was, I didn't like it already.

=///=​

"But I can take them down!" insisted Eidolon. "I can end them!"

"Our policy is hands off," Alexandria reminded him.

"Hands off the Siberian and Shatterbird, maybe," retorted the cowled hero. "Because they're Cauldron capes, and because they might be able to take on the Endbringers. And Siberian might be able to face Scion. But the rest are fair game. And the Endbringer scenario may well be done with as well, if we're to believe Security."

"He's refused to tell Contessa anything about how to defeat Scion until Friday," pointed out Doctor Mother. "It may well be that the Nine are key to that."

"I don't believe so," mused Alexandria. "The first email he sent outlined weak points for both Jack Slash and the Siberian. If they are to be kept for a battle against Scion, why would he send such information first and foremost? The PRT is almost certain to use it against them just as soon as it is able."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," Eidolon insisted. "If I take down Jack Slash, they fragment. Killing any one of the Nine will dramatically reduce the danger from the group, but killing Jack Slash would be a real game-changer. And I won't need to stop there. Mannequin, Burnscar, Bonesaw, Hatchet Face … I believe I should even be able to take out Crawler. All it requires is finding an attack that he hasn't yet become immune to."

Alexandria shook her head. "You forget Jack Slash's power, the one the email indicates. He's able to anticipate capes. If you come in to attack, he will be protected, and so will Bonesaw, and potentially others."

"Not if I can locate Manton and take him down," Eidolon persisted. "Then there's nothing stopping me from eliminating Slash and the others."

"Except that we're supposed to leave Manton alive," Alexandria reminded him patiently. "Knocking him out and then failing to take him into custody? That would cause some questions to be asked."

"So what would you have me do?" growled Eidolon. "I just got my power back in full, and now you're saying I can't even take down the Slaughterhouse Nine."

"Wait," advised Alexandria. "Wait till Friday. If Security's plan to take down Scion doesn't involve the Nine, then you've got free rein on them."

"And until then?"

"Locate the Nine. Tail them. See what they're doing. Save people from harm if you can, of course, but don't reveal yourself to them."

"Until Friday."

"Until Friday."

=///=​

As we climbed the stairs, I pulled out my phone, and dialled.

"You have dialled nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"

I tried to control my breathing. "I need the police."

"Sir, what is your location?"

"My name is Michael Allen. I'm the security guard at Winslow High School. I've just been given information that there has been an unauthorised entry into the school, including one adult male. This is probably gang related."

I had to stop speaking so I could catch my breath.

"Sir, are you in danger at the moment?"

"I'm going to confront the guy, you tell me."

"Sir, do you have a description of this man?"

"Not yet. I just know he's big, and that ABB recruits let him into the school."

"Have you even seen this supposed intruder, sir?"

I rolled my eyes. Taylor pointed at the floor above. Great. Third floor.

"No, I have not. I just know he's here."

"Sir, how do you know about this person if you haven't seen him?"

"Because I just got told about him. Now can you please send someone to Winslow?"

"Sir, we have it on file that this number has been used once before to prank call for police when there was no emergency."

I stifled the urge to swear. Was it just me, or was this person actively looking for reasons not to send someone to Winslow?

"Yes, that was me. I made that call. It was not intended to be a prank. But I am on duty, and I am about to confront an intruder. An adult man roaming the corridors of a school full of teenage girls. I don't know about you, but to me that counts as an emergency. Now please, send someone over."

=///=​

I closed the phone and put it away.

Taylor looked at me. "Are they sending someone?"

I shrugged, and tried to catch my breath. "Fucked if I know. Where's he at?"

She pointed. "That way."

I went up the last few steps; Taylor followed.

"Where the hell are you going?"

She looked stubborn. "You'll need backup."

I sighed. "Okay, but stay out of sight. No matter what happens – stay out of sight."

"But I –"

"What did I tell you about how Masters operate? Never let the other side see you. So keep your head down. Let your bugs do the looking."

The sense of what I was saying seemed to sink in. "Okay. I can do that."

"Good." Even if I got smacked around a bit here, at least she wouldn't get hurt.

Hopefully.

=///=​

Joey Lee was bored. Bored with this school, bored with the fawning attitudes of the teenage recruits, bored with this whole job. The ABB had been warned away from fighting in Winslow? Some know-nothing security guard had marked the place out as his personal turf? Well, for all Joey cared, he could have it.

It wasn't as if he was going to be expanding his territory, and it actually made it easier to recruit if the sprouts weren't gonna get their heads kicked in by the Empire skinheads just for wearing the colours.

But Joey's boss - who also happened to be the father of the kid that the security guy had dumped on his ass - had decided that a lesson needed to be taught. So Joey was chosen for the job. Lung had been taken down, it was said, by some teenager who could control bugs; the ABB needed a win, to show that it wasn't on the back foot just yet, and Joey had been chosen to provide that win.

Not that anyone would equate the beating of some fat old security guard to the defeat of Lung, in Joey's opinion, but he wasn't being paid to supply said opinion. He was there to apply fist to face, and boot to ribs. He was there, in fact, to convey the disapproval of the ABB to one Michael Allen, security guard.

=///=​

As we headed in the direction indicated by Taylor's bugs, she frowned. "That's funny."

"What?" I asked. In situations like this, such a phrase was always an attention-getter.

"Half of them are going downstairs again. Spreading out."

"'Them' being the ABB kids?"

"Yeah. They're moving around, like they're looking for something."

"So they're not guarding the stairwell to keep people from coming up?"

She shook her head. "No. Like I said, it almost seems like they're looking for something."

I got it then. "Not something. Someone. Me. I challenged them yesterday. Told them this was my turf."

"But they trashed your car!"

I nodded. "That was just to get my attention. Or maybe it was some of them, while the others are pulling this crap."

"What crap is this?" she wanted to know.

"My guess? Bringing in muscle to show the interfering security guard whose turf it really is."

"So he's here to fight you?"

I shrugged. "Best guess? He's here to stomp my ribs. Make an example out of me."

"What are you going to do?"

"Best case? Show them I'm not a pushover. One thing you never do with bullies is back down, because then they step up and repeat. I back down now, they keep this shit up, I'll end up spending the whole day in the lunch room."

"And worst case?"

"I'll try not to let it become a worst case." Stabbed, stomped into the floor, hospitalised. None of that would be good.

I doubted they wanted to murder me; that would send too strong a message. But I had a marked aversion to being made into a punching bag either.

She frowned. "That's funny. They have spray cans, but they haven't sprayed anything yet."

"Hmm. Maybe they want to do some graffiti to mark their turf?" I paused. "Where are they now?"

She pointed at a corner up ahead. "Around that corner, down past the cross-corridor, around to the left. Don't look, there's three down near the corner, looking this way." She paused. "Are you really going to go down there, even though you know that's what they want?"

I went over the rough map of the school I held in my head. "Not exactly." I backtracked down the corridor a little way, and used my passkey to open an empty classroom. She followed me, looking curious.

My passkey opened the door on the other side of the classroom, leaving us in a side corridor. Half a dozen paces down the corridor, there was a fire closet. Opening it, I examined the large extinguisher that resided there.

It had a blue band around it; just what I wanted.

"Now stay here," I told Taylor, very quietly. I pulled the pin from the fire extinguisher, making it ready for use. Tucking it under my arm, I made sure my left hand was free.

Moving fast now – I had regained my breath somewhat – I strode down the corridor and around the corner.

Three ABB recruits were lounging there, looking down the corridor to where they expected me to appear. They were taken somewhat unaware by my sudden appearance. All three straightened up and took a step forward.

I gave them no chance to take action; I sprayed them with the pepper spray canister I held in my left hand. All three went down, coughing and choking.

Passing them by, I tucked the pepper spray back into its pouch. I rounded the last corner to see a large and brawny man, tossing a can of spray paint up and down in his hand. Half a dozen ABB recruits, the oldest and most senior in the school's nascent organisation, stood around him in positions of deference.

=///=​

It was a very simple plan.

Joey would get let into the school by selected members of the school's ABB contingent, during the lunch hour. They would guide him up to the third floor, which was least used during that time. Joey had spray-cans in red and green, and he would prepare to use them to deface the school, in the time-honoured fashion.

The ABB students would then go looking for Allen, and tell him that there was someone up on the third floor. He would come looking. Joey's lookouts would warn him of Allen's approach, and he would begin his work of applying graffiti.

Allen would approach, tell him he had to leave, and Joey would pick a fight. He had seen pictures of the guy; over forty, overweight, over the hill. He didn't move like a fighter, didn't swagger like a badass. He moved like a man with too much weight to carry, and didn't care who knew it. Joey figured that one good hit, maybe two, would put him right where Joey wanted him.

After that, the plan devolved to 'hit him till he falls down' with elements of 'kick him in the ribs till he can't get up'. No need for knives or guns; just plain, simple brutality. It usually worked for Joey.

As an extra detail, he was thinking, he would then use the spray cans to emblazon Allen himself with the ABB logo, all over his nice clean shirt. Maybe his face too. So whoever found Allen knew without a doubt that the ABB did whatever the fuck it felt like.

And then he heard what sounded like coughing and choking around the corner. No-one had called out that Allen was coming, but whatever they were doing, there was something going on ...

Allen stepped around the corner. And in his hands was a fire extinguisher.

It had been a very simple plan.

Joey was still trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong when the foam hit him.

=///=​

"Looking for me?" I sang out as I swung the fire extinguisher into position. They were still looking around when I squeezed the handle and hit them with a high-pressure burst of white foam.

If it had been containment foam, it would have been a perfect ambush. But no, it was simple fire extinguisher foam. Which still served to blind them and make the floor slippery.

I let the extinguisher fall to hang from my right hand, retrieved my stun gun, and went straight in toward the big guy. He looked kind of Chinese, I guessed. But I wasn't going to stop and chat with him about his cultural heritage; he was big. A little taller than me, wider across the shoulders. The sort of guy you don't want to get into a fist-fight with.

So I closed with him while he was still trying to claw the extinguisher foam out of his eyes, and jabbed him with the stun gun.

This was about the point where my hastily-contrived plan went awry. Foam based fire extinguishers are noted to be not a good idea to use on electrical fires. What this means, apparently, is that foam is a conductor of electricity, being water based. I hadn't actually made that connection. So when I jabbed him – in the middle of a glob of foam, as I had done a bang-up job of covering him with the stuff – it crackled but he didn't go down. Apparently, foam is a better conductor than human skin.

That, or he was one tough son of a bitch.

=///=​

Joey felt the contact and the mild electrical shock, but no more than that. He wasn't even sure what had happened until he got the foam clear of his eyes, and saw the guard standing there with a stun gun in his hand, looking somewhat taken aback.

He drew back his fist and let fly; the security guard stepped back hastily, and the badly-aimed punch missed by a whisker, but then the guy stepped in a glob of the foam. Allen's foot slipped and he went down on his ass, losing his grip on the fire extinguisher as he went; it clattered off to one side.

Joey grinned. Part one of the job was already done.

He stepped in, drew back his leg, and delivered a powerful kick to the prone security guard's ribcage.

=///=​

Hitting the floor knocked some of the wind out of me, and the plus-sized boot that slammed into my ribs did some more of the same. Fortunately, he hit the undamaged side of the stab vest, otherwise his massive kick may have driven some of the sharper pieces of the fractured plates into my body.

As it was, the vest took a good deal of the impact, spreading it over the side of my body. Unfortunately, there was still a good deal of impact to go around, leaving me feeling as though I had been hit by a truck.

I swung my arm frantically toward his leg, trying to see if I could get skin contact with the stun gun. He saw me coming, did his best to stamp on my hand; I pulled it back hastily.

He kicked me again; I couldn't do much about that, but at least it wasn't anywhere near as painful as being hit by Lung. I rode out the impact, rolling with it, trying to get to the fire extinguisher.

One of the ABB kids, wiping his eyes free, saw me, and picked it up.

It was beginning to look bad. One on one was turning to seven on one; and even though any of those six was a fairly uneven match for me when I was on my feet, numbers counted when you couldn't get up.

The big guy was coming after me again, winding up for another championship kick. And then he stopped, coughing and choking.

I couldn't believe my luck; I scrambled to my feet. The kid with the fire extinguisher swung it at my head; I deflected most of the impact with my arm, but it still hit me hard enough to make my ears ring. But I got up anyway. I moved toward the kid; he stepped back, holding the extinguisher out of my reach.

I didn't give a shit any more; I swapped the stun gun to my other hand, pulled out the pepper spray, sprayed the big guy, and then sprayed the kid for good measure. This pretty well used up that canister, but it was for a good cause.

Then I pulled out my cuffs and applied them to the big guy. I was making sure that he and the kids I'd sprayed were all right, and that the other kids weren't going anywhere, when the police finally showed up.

After that, it was all over bar the shouting.

=///=​

"So did you get the security guy's statement?"

"Sorry, sergeant. He's taken a hit to the head, and they took him to the infirmary."

The sergeant grimaced. Hit to the head equalled head trauma. No statement taken under those circumstances would be seen as valid.

"You did speak to him, though." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, sergeant. He said he'll come into the station and give his statement just as soon as he's able."

The sergeant looked through the mesh-reinforced plexiglass at the prisoner in the back of the car. "Well, at least we've got enough to hold Mr Lee on until he fronts up, haven't we, Mr Lee?"

Joey Lee glared back at him, at least as much as he was able. His eyes were still reddened and swollen, despite the water that had been used to flush them out.

"You need to arrest that damn security guard," he growled. "He's a menace."

"Oh right, we'll do that, sir," the sergeant grinned. "Just as soon as we vote your boss in as mayor."

Joey Lee continued to glare. It didn't help much.

=///=​

"You used pepper spray on children!" shouted Principal Blackwell. Again.

I sat in the infirmary, holding the cold compress to the throbbing lump on my head. Her voice did absolutely nothing to mitigate the jabbing spikes of pain through my skull, and in fact seemed to markedly increase them.

"Yes, Ms Blackwell, I did," I replied wearily. "They were trying to get me beaten up. It seemed the thing to do."

"Do you have any evidence of this?" she asked me.

"Yes," I told her flatly. "I know it. This is not a court of law. I have experience as a security guard. This happened. I was there. You were not. Why is it that you cannot take my word for it?"

"Because their parents are going to be threatening to sue the school the moment they hear that they have been subjected to such a barbaric –"

" – nonlethal takedown method," I interrupted. "No lasting harmful effects. Painful as hell, yes, temporary blindness and difficulty in breathing, I will grant you. But I checked on all of them, and they were all doing well by the time the police arrived and took him away."

"And that's another thing," Blackwell rounded on me. "Calling the police before you even saw this man? What were you thinking? He could have been a perfectly innocuous visitor –"

" – who went straight to the third floor and waited for me with cans of spray paint, and members of the ABB," I interrupted, again. "Yeah, that's the sign of good faith, right there."

"But how did you know where he was going to be? What he was planning to do?" she demanded. "You couldn't. It's not possible. You went up there planning to attack him, no matter who he was."

I took a deep breath. That hurt my bruised ribs, but not as badly as it might have. It hurt less than my head, anyway. "Ms Blackwell," I told her. "You're the principal of this school. I have no doubt that you know more about the running of this place than I ever will. You have your finger on the pulse, here. You know what's going on. Am I wrong?"

She paused, wrong-footed. "Uh ... no, you're not wrong," she replied. I smiled internally; it would have been almost constitutionally impossible for her to answer in any other way.

"Exactly," I agreed. "I would no more try to tell you how to run a school than you would try to tell me how to be a security guard, am I right?"

My tone was cheery, carrying her along. She hesitated, seeing the trap, but unable to avoid it. "... right," she assented.

"Well then," I went on, in tones of purest reason, "doesn't it stand to reason that I would have my own finger on the pulse? That I would be able to figure out things in my line, which don't make any sense to someone else, just like you know things in your line which I wouldn't be able to make head nor tail of?"

She hesitated again. "Uh ... right?"

I nodded firmly. "Exactly," I said once more. "I'm glad we agree."

She blinked, not quite sure where the conversation had gone wrong. "Uh ... how did you know that the man had entered the school?"

"One of your students told me, as a matter of fact."

"Who was it?"

I shrugged. "How would I know? You've got hundreds of the little buggers running around here. You probably know them all by first and last name, parents' occupation and star sign. I wouldn't have a hope in hell of managing that."

She looked pleased at the praise; I hoped I wasn't slathering it on too thickly. "Well, I suppose ..." she conceded, but then she rallied again. "And what happened to the recorders?"

I looked at her innocently. "Recorders?"

She jabbed a finger at my belt. "Your infamous digital recorders. Why did they not record this particular altercation?"

I put on my best sheepish expression. "Well, this may be hard to believe, but I was relaxing, having lunch, when I got the word. And I clean forgot to turn on the recorders till it was all over."

She shook her head, her expression stern. "You're right. It is hard to believe. You have been so efficient, these last few days, that such an oversight flies in the face of all your previous actions. You chose to leave them off. For what reason, I can not yet fathom. But you also captured a dangerous man, one with several warrants to his name, on school property, for which I suppose we owe you a certain leeway."

I stayed silent, not wishing to derail this train of thought.

"But," she reiterated. "You did, after all, use pepper spray on four children."

Maybe staying silent wasn't the best idea. "One of whom was doing his best to brain me with a fire extinguisher. After the big guy tried to kick my ribs in."

The school nurse had examined the lump on my head, checked out my pupil response, and had declared that I showed no signs of concussion, but had given me a cold compress for my head.

I had removed my stab vest so that she could prod my ribs. She decided that none were broken, or even fractured. There was a certain amount of bruising, but nothing serious. The vest, she told me, had saved me from a great deal of trouble, there.

"None the less," Blackwell informed me, "we will be holding a review of your actions. If any of them are found to be less than satisfactory, we may well be suspending your employment here, while we petition the school governors for a suitable replacement."

I lifted the cold compress to check out the lump on my head. It wasn't throbbing quite so much any more, which meant that the nagging pain in my head was due mainly to Principal Blackwell.

"Sure. That's your right and your privilege."

=///=​

I wanted to add more, wanted to ask whether she had considered the repercussions of replacing me for standing against the bullying culture that the school had so far fostered, for doing my job, for defending myself. If she had considered how the next guard in line would see his job description; would he try to do the job, or just ignore it all in the name of not getting fired?

But I said nothing. If she hadn't thought about this, it wasn't my place to fill her in. She would find out, sooner or later, the easy way or the hard way. Not my problem.

In fact, my problems at Winslow were rapidly coming to an end. I cared little about how Emma and company went after Taylor left. I had set that in motion; whether they continued with their punishment or were pardoned shortly after my departure, was out of my control.

The truth was, as much as I would have liked to clean up Winslow altogether, once Taylor was gone, my main job there was essentially done. I would stay on there if they didn't choose to boot me out, and I would do the work, but I had other things to worry about.

Of course, after Friday, I had no idea what was going to happen.

Oh, I had a basic idea. Some things were currently ongoing that my personal flock of butterflies would not have overturned. But many things, in and around Brockton Bay, were definitely going to be different. So after Friday, much of what was going to happen was new to me.

Hopefully, it would turn out better than the way it had gone in canon.

=///=​

Eventually, Blackwell left me alone in the infirmary; she had the never-ending job of being school principal, after all. The nurse checked on the lump, checked my pupils again, and pronounced me well enough to leave.

"Thanks," I told her, buckling on my work belt once more. "I appreciate it."

"You really should take some painkillers," she warned me. "Between your ribs and your head ..."

I shook my head, very gingerly. "Nah. I prefer to stay away from that stuff until I really, really need it."

"And you don't need it now?" she queried.

"As the saying goes, it only hurts when I laugh."

She nodded. "Right. Well, be careful. And get plenty of bed rest. There's no concussion that I can detect, but you still took a fairly hard knock there."

"No worries," I told her. "And thanks."

=///=​

I exited the infirmary, only to come face to face with none other than Gladys Knott.

"Hello, Mrs Knott," I greeted her formally.

She glanced around. "Michael!" she exclaimed in an undertone. "I heard you were hurt!"

"It's all good," I explained to her. "Minor bruising around the ribs, and a ding to the scone."

"A what to the what?" she asked blankly.

"A hit to the head," I hurriedly explained. "Not bad, though. He didn't get a chance to swing hard enough to hurt. Didn't even split the skin."

Her fingers explored my scalp until they found the lump that remained from the fight.

"Does that hurt?" she asked, her fingertips feather-light on the bump.

"A bit," I admitted. "But it's getting better all the time."

"No double vision, blurriness?"

I had to grin. "Nope and nope. The nurse already checked out my pupils. My brain cells are apparently all intact."

"Except for the part where you went upstairs and confronted a thug whose entire reason to be here was to beat you to a pulp," she pointed out scathingly.

I shrugged carefully. Very carefully. "Well, he didn't."

"But you could have gotten hurt."

My tone was as soothing as I could make it. "I'm fine."

She glanced around again, quickly, then pulled me close and kissed me. I was surprised, but not so surprised that I didn't kiss her back.

We disengaged, quickly, in case someone came along. With the way my luck had been going, someone would have walked around the corner just then. No-one did, which I considered to be a minor miracle.

"Don't do that again," she whispered fiercely.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, without an ounce of sarcasm. Gladys Knott in a temper was not someone I wanted to mess with.

"Saturday," she murmured, and walked off.

I paused to consider that. In that single word, she had packed several layers of communication. Firstly, she had let me know that I was still in her good books insofar as seeing her on Saturday went. Secondly, she had subtly reminded me that we had the prospective date on Saturday, on the off-chance that I had forgotten. Thirdly, she was telling me that she was looking forward to seeing me on Saturday.

I watched her go, then went back to where I had stashed the folding chair and bag in the fire closet. They were still there; I carried them back to the small security office, then I went about my rounds.

And if I walked a little more slowly than before, and took a few more rests, then no-one seemed to notice or comment.

=///=​

At the end of the school day, I collected the girls' phones from Principal Blackwell's office, and was waiting when the last bell went.

Emma, Madison and Julia trooped out of the classroom, this time under Mr Quinlan's bleary eye, and faced me. Solemnly, I handed each phone back, then tilted my head, carefully. "Let's get you outside then," I told them. "Have a good one, Mr Quinlan."

He nodded to me, a little less warily than when I had encountered him in the lunch room on Monday. "You too, Allen," he replied.

The girls followed me to their lockers, where they put away what books they had been using, and then out to the front steps. Emma walked alongside me, looking up at me with curiosity.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" I enquired.

"I mean, you're moving a little more carefully now. Your shirt's got a bit of dirt on it. And that looks like a nasty lump on your head." She paused, as though she couldn't parse the information. "Did you get into a fight? When the police came, what was that about?"

I decided to answer a question with another question. "How long did they search the room for my recorder?"

She grinned, glancing back at Madison and Julia. "The whole period."

"Really wanted to find it, huh?"

Julia's voice was sullen. "That was a mean trick."

I turned to look at her. "Now you're getting it. All the mean tricks you ever pulled in your life? I can top them."

Looking back at Emma, I nodded. "Yes, I got into a fight. A man came to the school. He wanted to beat me up. The police took him away."

"Did you kick his ass?"

"Depends on your definition. I hit him with pepper spray and handcuffed him while he was still trying to claw his own eyeballs out."

"Oh." Emma went quiet, apparently trying to visualise this.

"By the way you're moving," Julia put in spitefully, "he kicked your ass. You just used a dirty trick to win."

My tone was mild. "Why yes, I did. And I'll do it again. Every time. Because I might be a bit sore tonight, but he'll be in jail tonight. And as far as I'm concerned, a win's a win."

We were out on the steps by then, the other students streaming past and down the steps. Moving off to the side a little, we waited for the main rush to abate, and for their parents to come and collect them.

Julia's father arrived first; I nodded to him as I motioned for her to go with him. He nodded back, and they both left. She flashed me the finger as she went. I paid no attention.

Madison's mother was next; she greeted me quietly.

"Mr Allen. Has Madison been any trouble?"

"Not that I know of," I replied gravely.

"That's very good. Come along, Madison."

They both headed off down the steps, and then I saw the unmistakeable figure of Alan Barnes getting out of his car. He trod up the steps toward me.

"Mr Allen."

"Mr Barnes."

"Emma been good?"

"Far as I know."

"Good. Come on, Emma girl."

Just before she left, Emma turned to me. "I hope you feel better tomorrow."

I watched her walk away down the steps, raising an eyebrow. She hadn't even sounded sarcastic.

"Huh."

I turned at the voice; Taylor stood behind me, her expression quizzical.

"Was it just me, or did Emma actually say something nice to you?"

"Maybe she's just trying to get in good with the person she sees as being strongest right now." I thought for a moment. "Or maybe she even meant it. Or both. Who knows?"

Her tone was dismissive. "Not me. And I don't much care."

I decided to change the subject. "I thought you'd already gone."

"Nah. Wanted to see how you were going before I went. Knew you'd be here."

"We clear?"

She didn't even need to look around. "Sure. No-one in earshot."

"Good. Thanks for the helping hand in finding that guy."

"Not a problem. You okay? He kicked you pretty good there."

"Oh christ, you didn't look, did you?"

She snorted. "What do you take me for? No, but my bugs are pretty good at surveillance now."

I nodded. "Took a couple of good hits, but the stab vest helped."

"Still, falling over wasn't in your game plan, was it?"

"Not hardly. I'm just lucky he inhaled a bit of foam or something. Gave me the time to get up."

"Foam, right." She was grinning.

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think he inhaled?" A fly buzzed past my face. Taylor was looking very smug indeed. Even with the headache, it didn't take much effort to add two and two.

"Ah. Of course." My only surprise was in the fact that I hadn't already figured it out for myself. "Thanks. I mean it. You saved my ass, right there."

Her grin widened. "I'm a superhero. It's sort of my job, right?"

"It is. Now, are you good for Thursday?"

She nodded seriously. "I just hope it'll turn out like you say it will."

"So do I, Taylor. So do I."

"See ya, security guard."

"See ya, superhero."

We bumped fists; she headed off down the steps to catch the bus.

I sighed and went back inside. Two more hours to go. Ugh.

=///=​

"Director Piggot, I have an incoming call from 'Security'. Shall I put him through?"

Emily Piggot didn't hesitate. "Yes."

There was a moment of dead air, then the familiar voice came on the line. "Hello?"

"Security?"

"That's me. How are you, Director?"

"I've been better. Working out how to cover the Alcott girl. Any suggestions?"

"I've got information that some of Calvert's men might be compromised. Better to keep his entire unit away from the whole thing."

Piggot covered her eyes. "Christ. That's all I need. Okay, I can move shifts around. Anything else?"

"Yeah. I need you to have maybe eight containment foam sprayers ready for immediate action on Thursday. Them and the best men you've got for them."

"Containment foam. Eight sprayers."

"If you can, sure. And one more thing."

She sighed. "It's always one more thing. What do you need now?"

"Firing range target cards. Four inches square. Do you have those in stock?"

The Director blinked. That one was out of left field. "Uh, yes?"

"Good. Arrange for each of the foam sprayers to have one fixed on top before they deploy. Make it so the operator has a good clear view of the card."

"May I ask why?"

"What, and ruin the surprise? No, trust me, it will all become abundantly clear on the day."

Director Piggot gritted her teeth. "If you're playing games ..."

"Not in the slightest, I assure you. But if the wrong people hear the full plan ... you know how this sort of thing goes."

"Well, you haven't steered us wrong yet. So we'll do this. But I'll want to know why, after."

"Trust me, you'll know. Have a good day, Director."

"And you, Security."

The phone went dead, and she hung up.

Emily Piggot sat for a while, thinking. Then she picked up the phone again.

"Put me through to the armoury."

=///=​

The bus ride home from Winslow was interminable. My bruises jolted inside the stab vest with every bump the vehicle hit, and all I could think of was getting there. It didn't help that I didn't have a window seat, and thus did not have the side of the bus to lean on.

I have an old injury to a hamstring that plays up when I'm tired and hurting; I was both this afternoon, and so I was limping when I finally entered the courtyard. No-one accosted me as I went up the stairs, step by painful step. There wasn't even anyone waiting inside the flat.

I closed the door behind me, and thought of Gladys, and how much I would have liked to see her face at that moment. Just to hold me and tell me I could rest.

But she wasn't there, and so I had to make do on my own.

Slowly I took it all off; the work belt, the uniform shirt, the stab vest. There were indeed some lovely bruises on my ribs where the big Chinese guy had kicked me.

Oh crap, I realised. I meant to go by way of the police station before I came home. They're waiting on my statement.

For a moment, I considered going out again, but I really couldn't face it. So instead, I took a shower.

The hot water did me the world of good; it even made the bruises feel a little better, or maybe it made the rest of me feel a little less like I'd been trodden into the pavement.

=///=​

"So how was your day at school, kiddo?"

Taylor paused. "I … learned a lot today, Dad."

Danny looked around at her tone of voice. She looked thoughtful, bemused even.

"I'm presuming you don't just mean schoolwork."

She shook her head. "No. I don't just mean schoolwork. I mean about Emma and Sophia and Madison, and why they were bullying me for so long. I finally learned what it was all about. And I learned some other stuff too."

She paused; Danny waited, his expression encouraging. Ever since Taylor had opened up to him on the subject of her powers, and wanting to be a superhero, they had begun to reform the bond of father and daughter that had been severely strained, ever since Anne-Rose had died.

Whatever Taylor wanted to tell him now, he would listen to her.

"All right," she said at last. "I'll tell you, but to make it really make sense, I gotta tell you something that might get Mike in trouble if you tell anyone you know about it. So you can't tell anyone, okay?"

"Okay," he replied promptly.

"I was talking to Mike at lunchtime today," she began, "and he sorta-kinda accidentally on purpose let it slip that Sophia Hess is a cape. She's in the Wards. The one they call Shadow Stalker …"

As she talked on, Danny's eyes grew wide. He felt anger at what had been going on, and why, but also relief that it was over.

After she told him of Mike's revelations about Emma and her cronies, she filled him in on the adventure of the intruder into the school, and Mike's fight with him, and her own part in that.

"Mike's fine," she hastened to add. "He's got a few bruises, but he's doing all right. The other guy got arrested."

"Well, I'm glad to hear of it," he told her. Then he looked her in the eye. "So about this stuff with Emma. How do you feel about that, knowing what it was all about?"

"It's weird," she mused. "I'm still pissed at her for what she did, and I always will be, but the reason behind it ... it puts it in a whole new light ..."

They talked long into the evening.

=///=​

After the shower, I put a microwave meal on to heat – oh, how the mighty have fallen, from Gladys' cooking to this – and started up the laptop.

The first thing that popped up was an email message, with no name in the Sender field.

Saw police report. Are you okay?

I typed a quick response.

Sore, but alive. Thanks.

A response came through a few moments later.

Good to hear.

I mused over that for a couple of minutes, and then the microwave dinged. Getting up, I collected the meal, and sat down again. With it at my elbow, I logged on to the Parahumans Online boards.

=///=​

Welcome to the Parahumans Online message boards.
You are currently logged in, mack0813.
You are viewing:
• Threads you have replied to
• AND Threads that have new replies
• OR private message conversations with new replies
• Thread OP is displayed.
• Ten posts per page
• Last ten messages in private message history.
• Threads and private messages are ordered chronologically.
You have (1) new message from AllSeeingEye.
You have no infractions and no warnings.

Click to shrink...

=///=​

I checked out the post from Tattletale first. Hopefully, it wouldn't be another attempt to troll me.

After I read it, I wished it had been.

=///=​

AllSeeingEye *New Message*: Boss has me looking into u sry. Plz keep head down.

Click to shrink...

=///=​

Crap, I thought. I'm on Coil's radar.

That was not the most pleasant of thoughts.

Hopefully, Contessa's bullshit powers beat out Coil's bullshit powers. At least until Friday.

I took a deep breath, and sent a reply.

=///=​

mack0813: Stall till Thursday PM?
AllSeeingEye: I can try.

Click to shrink...

=///=​

That would have to be good enough for me. There was nothing else that I could do about it at the moment. And Sveta was waiting on me. I couldn't let her down.

=///=​

mack0813: Hey, where's my best girl?
GstringGirl: Mack, you're here!
mack0813: Said I would be, didn't I? (hugz)
GstringGirl: You did. And you're here. (hugs)
mack0813: It's good to see you again, Svetlana. So to speak.
GstringGirl: You too, Mack. You too.
mack0813: So, do you remember where we were up to? Or did you want to tell me how your day went?
GstringGirl: My day was boring. Can we just play the game?
mack0813: We can most definitely do that.
GstringGirl: Oh – how was your day?
mack0813: eh, nothing much happened. Work, sleep, eat, repeat as necessary.
GstringGirl: (smiles)
mack0813: So do you remember where we were in the game?
GstringGirl: Sort of. You'd just finished explaining about magic, and about the cute little dragons, and now Svetlana wants one.
mack0813: Svetlana as you, or Svetlana as the slave girl?
GstringGirl: Yes.
mack0813: hehehe good point
GstringGirl: So, what happenssss? (bounces in seat)
mack0813: well, you see, when last we left our valiant heroes ... whoops, sorry, wrong introduction. Our winsome slave maiden ...
GstringGirl: That's me!
mack0813: That, as you say, is you. Well, let me see, where were we?
GstringGirl: in the port city with all the strange people and the toothy seagulls and the cute little dragons.
mack0813: Right, right. Well, the port city, you eventually figure out, is called Kowsom. But you don't stay there long.
GstringGirl: Aww, i wanted to meet a dragon
mack0813: You spend one night in a dingy little hovel that apparently calls itself a tavern or an inn or something of the sort. The beds are narrow, the mattresses apparently stuffed with horsehair and rocks, and you have the feeling that you're sharing the bed with something.
GstringGirl: Not Janji, I hope.
mack0813: No, no, Janji is still feeling the effects of the voyage. In fact, he only had one helping at supper that night. And this is a man for whom a four-course meal barely counts as a light lunch. No, what you're sharing the bed with is more like ... bugs.
GstringGirl: ew ew ew bedbugs? Ive got bedbugs?
mack0813: Not just you. As it is, you don't seem that attractive to them, and you only get a few little nips. Everyone else seems to be scratching like mad when you see them the next morning.
GstringGirl: Even Janji?
mack0813: Especially Janji. It must be all the rich food they indulge in, while giving you only the bland stuff and the scraps.
GstringGirl: wow haha. thats awesome. so theyre all scratching like crazy ...
mack0813: ... while you're all like 'bugs? What bugs?'
GstringGirl: hahaha i love it serves them right
mack0813: So anyway, in the morning, you have a breakfast of stew. Janji has a fairly large helping, but you're not so sure about it, because you found some bones in yours, and they seem a little small to be rabbit. About the right size for a rat, you'd estimate.
GstringGirl: yeah, not having second helpings.
mack0813: Janji notices your lack of appetite and makes a joke about it, entirely forgetting about his own troubles over the last few days.
GstringGirl: I ignore him loftily.
mack0813: Probably the wisest course. Anyway, after breakfast, you all end up mounted on these strange beasts called 'horses'. Like camels, they have four legs and a saddle. Unlike camels, they don't kneel down so you can get up on them. And they smell weird.
GstringGirl: I've never seen a horse, so I don't know how they smell.
mack0813: With their noses, obviously ... Sorry, bad joke. I have no idea what a camel smells like either, but they'd smell different, and Svetlana prefers camels because that's what she's used to.
GstringGirl: haha so funny. Okay so Svetlana's on a horse. Does she think she can get away from Janji on this horse?
mack0813: Not really, sorry. Not only does Svetlana only have the vaguest idea of how this thing is steered and controlled, but they don't even give her reins. Her horse - a fairly docile specimen of the breed, as far as Svetlana can see - has a lead rein attaching it to the wagon.
GstringGirl: Wagon?
mack0813: yeah, as they don't have elephants for sale, Janji is riding in a wagon.
GstringGirl: hahahahahahahahahahahaha
GstringGirl: oh god oh god thats the funniest thing ever. Hes really riding in a wagon?
mack0813: He really is. With cushions, even.
GstringGirl: and the guards?
mack0813: All on horseback. They seem to know how to ride.
GstringGirl: ok, so we're riding through the forest now? with lots of trees? and trees are strange to me?
mack0813: Yes, you are, yes there are, and yes they are.
GstringGirl: Good. Because I'm pretending to be scared of the forest.
mack0813: … scared of the forest.
GstringGirl: yeah. Making like I'm terrified of it. The wind shifts in the trees, I'm looking around all worried. A branch creaks, I want to hide. That sort of thing.
mack0813: Sure, you can pull that off. You're from a culture where women are seen as barely human. Second class citizens at best. For a 'weak woman' to show fear where there is no real need to show fear, they believe that without hesitation. It bolsters their male egos.
GstringGirl: Good. I play it up. Make them think I don't even want to go into the forest to, uh, go to the bathroom.
mack0813: Okay … sure. I'm guessing you go behind the wagon or something.
GstringGirl: Sure, if they let me.
mack0813: Yeah, they let you.
GstringGirl: But what about the chain?
mack0813: The chain?
GstringGirl: yeah. Last time you told me that there was a slender chain around my wrist, attaching me to Janji.
mack0813: I did, didn't I. And that means that even when you're sleeping in the inn, they attached the clasp on the other end of the chain to the bed you were sleeping on. So … with the chain … the guard leads you around to the other side of the wagon, attaches the clasp to the wagon, then leaves you to do what you have to.
GstringGirl: You said it's a slender chain, right?
mack0813: Yeah, it's sort of symbolic, and also a measure of the contempt in which they hold you. A weak chain for a weak woman, that sort of thing.
GstringGirl: Excellent. And when I'm on the horse?
mack0813: It's attached to the horse's saddle.
GstringGirl: Does anyone watch me very closely while I'm on the horse?
mack0813: Not really; you're at the back, and more or less in the dust of the wagon.
GstringGirl: Okay, I'm going to try to find something to break or bend a chain link so I can get loose from it if I have to.
GstringGirl: Uh, I use an experience point.
mack0813: well, then, you're in luck. At the midday meal – which Janji participates enthusiastically in – you are given metal cutlery with which to eat.
GstringGirl: And allowed to keep it?
mack0813: Apparently so.
GstringGirl: Great. As soon as we're on the way again, I'm doing my best to pry open a link on the chain around my wrist.
mack0813: Using the knife and fork together, you manage to open a link a small way, so that if you have to, you can slip free of the chain altogether. However, this takes some little time, and any time anyone looks at you, you have to look like you're just sitting there on the horse.
GstringGirl: I complain about the horse.
mack0813: After a while, people stop paying attention to you.
GstringGirl: exactly.
mack0813: … which is just what you want. Nice one. Have an experience point.
GstringGirl: How did I get that one?
mack0813: By using in-game actions to get a result without specifying what it was first. Roleplaying, in other words.
GstringGirl: Oh cool. Well, anyway, Svetlana's going to be looking for a chance to make a break for it.
mack0813: You do realise that if she's on foot, the guards on horseback are going to be able to easily run her down.
GstringGirl: oh. Did not think about that.
mack0813: So, as the evening comes on, you figure you must be at least thirty mile out of Kowsom or more. For all you know, you're in the middle of nowhere. Forest all around …
GstringGirl: … which I'm acting more and more scared of all the time.
mack0813: And the guards are noticing and laughing about. One pulls a branch off a bush and prods you with it.
GstringGirl: I shriek and jump.
mack0813: everyone considers it a great joke.
GstringGirl: I tell them all they're being very mean and to stop it
mack0813: Janji, who's been laughing the loudest of all, has his personal tent erected. He makes a point of stating that you will be sleeping in there. With him. All night.
GstringGirl: He wants to do more than sleep, doesn't he?
mack0813: Well, yeah, the guards are all doing the nudge-nudge-wink-wink 'someone is getting some tonight' while they think you aren't looking. Some don't even care.
GstringGirl: Well that settles it.
mack0813: Settles what?
GstringGirl: Making a break for it now.
mack0813: Oh? Describe how you're making a break for it.
GstringGirl: First off I wait till the guards all have taken the saddles off their horses – they do that, don't they?
mack0813: They do indeed.
GstringGirl: then I ask very meekly to be allowed to go behind the wagon to attend to my personal business.
mack0813: Janji makes a very crude joke about how you don't need to put your pants back on when you're finished. All the guards laugh and make more comments.
GstringGirl: I blush and try to hide it, then ask again, even more meekly.
mack0813: One of the guards walks you behind the wagon. He attaches the clasp to the wagon, then stays.
GstringGirl: Stays?
mack0813: Yeah, he seems to think you need to give him a kiss before he'll go away.
GstringGirl: (sighs) I give him a quick peck on the cheek.
mack0813: He leaves you alone, with a comment that the next time you'd better be more forthcoming than that. He gestures at his groin, which you're not sure you understand, or want to.
GstringGirl: Both. Definitely both.
mack0813: And now he's out of sight. You're alone.
GstringGirl: Good. I slip the link, and try to sneak away.
mack0813: It might need a bit of luck. The guards are still fairly alert. Especially the one who asked for the kiss.
GstringGirl: I spend an experience point to get away without being seen.
mack0813: You do indeed. You tiptoe away, slip between the trees, and you're well into the forest before you hear the shout of alarm.
GstringGirl: I run.
mack0813: It's definitely getting dark. Shrubs and trees and fallen logs make it hard to run. And your shoes are hard to run in.
GstringGirl: I kick them off and run anyway.
mack0813: Well, you crash through the bushes, stub your toes, and in general make a fair racket. But that's okay, because they make a racket too. And they have to slow down to hear you, whereas you aren't slowing down for anyone.
GstringGirl: No, no I am not.
mack0813: Which is when you stumble into a clearing in the forest. Your clothing is a little torn, due to contact with shrubbery, but not enough to make you immodest. You're hungry tired, thirsty, scratched, lost, and you can hear pursuit gradually coming closer. Oh, and you smell like horses.
GstringGirl: This seems familiar …
mack0813: Why yes, yes it does. Svetlana the runaway slave girl pauses, weighing her options.
GstringGirl: What options do I have?
mack0813: You can hide and hope they go past. You can keep running and hope you outdistance or lose them. Or you can investigate that strange little rustling sound coming from under a bush.
GstringGirl: Rustling sound?
mack0813: Yes; as you look, a tiny form, no bigger than a kitten, tumbles out. It's … pick a colour.
GstringGirl: green
mack0813: It's covered in tiny iridescent green scales, and it has little tiny wings, and it looks up at you with huge soulful eyes and makes a cute little lost-baby-bird sound.
GstringGirl: ohmygod ohmygod is it a dragon?
mack0813: It does appear to be a dragon, yes
GstringGirl: Does it look lost or hurt?
mack0813: Actually, now that you come to mention it, it's holding one of its wings awkwardly.
GstringGirl: Oh my god, I go to my knees in front of it and hold out my hands to it.
mack0813: it eyes you hopefully and makes the baby-bird noise again
GstringGirl: I gather it up in my hands, careful of its wing.
mack0813: it snuggles into the warmth of your body.
GstringGirl: oh god too cute. What's wrong with its wing?
mack0813: One of the long bones seem to be broken. If you run with it, you may make the injury worse.
GstringGirl: Can I set it?
mack0813: You can try. But you'll have to splint it somehow. You know, tie it to something that'll immobilise it.
GstringGirl: I look for straight twigs on the ground.
mack0813: You don't see any strong enough to act as a splint.
GstringGirl: Wait – the knife. Is it long enough?
mack0813: Yes, yes it is.
GstringGirl: I want to set the bone and then cut bits of cloth from my sleeve to tie the knife to the bone as a splint. Can I do that?
mack0813: Sure. But you hear pursuit nearing all the time. You're not sure if you can get this done before they get here
GstringGirl: I don't care, I spend my last experience point so I can fix the wing. I don't care if they capture me so long as I can help him.
mack0813: Well, you crouch down under a bush and rip away some shreds of cloth from your sleeve, then you go about setting the bone. It isn't happy with the discomfort this involves, but it lets you do it anyway; once the bone is set and straight, it seems to understand that you did it for its benefit, and it settles down into your arms.
GstringGirl: aww poor little thing. I hold it gently and make sure it's comfortable.
mack0813: well, that's an experience point straight back for that.
GstringGirl: wow really?
mack0813: yeah, you spent it on something totally unselfish.
GstringGirl: I did didn't I?
mack0813: Yes you did. But now that last one you spent has run out, and you get the feeling that pursuit might be doubling back. Coming way too close.
GstringGirl: But now I can run with Esmerelda in my arms and she won't be hurt?
mack0813: Esmerelda?
GstringGirl: I like it as a name.
mack0813: Esmerelda it is. Yes, you can.
GstringGirl: I run on through the forest. It can't go on forever. I'm used to really small patches of trees, aren't I?
mack0813: Yes, you are. So you're running through the forest, and all of a sudden, you catch the scent of cooking meat.
GstringGirl: Not like that rat stew we had?
mack0813: No, this smells like real meat. Very tasty. Your mouth waters.
GstringGirl: I move on, trying to see where this smell is coming from.
mack0813: All of a sudden, you step out into a slightly larger clearing. There is a campfire in the middle of it, and a man sitting on the other side of the fire. As you step into the clearing, with Esmerelda in your arms, he rises to his feet, his hand going to the shortsword at his waist.
GstringGirl: Whoops. I say "Please help me, I am being chased."
mack0813: He says something in a language that you don't understand. You think it might be Mornish, or whatever the local barbaric tongue is called.
GstringGirl: Oh dear.
mack0813: … and I just saw the time. I need to get to bed soon. So I'll leave it there for the time being.
GstringGirl: oh no, really?
mack0813: Really, sorry.
GstringGirl: Oh okay. Its a good game, I'm enjoying it a lot.
mack0813: So am I. Play more next time?
GstringGirl: Oh god yes. Esmerelda sounds so cute. And I want to see what happens!!!!
mack0813: She is. And good thinking to use the knife as a splint.
GstringGirl: thx. And Mack …
mack0813: Yeah?
GstringGirl: Thank you for doing this game for me. I am enjoying myself so much. I really am. More than you can imagine.
mack0813: Hey. Friends is friends, right?
GstringGirl: Yes, friends is friends. (hug)
mack0813: gnight, Svetlana the brave and resourceful escaped slave girl (hugz)
GstringGirl: good night Mack (more hugs)

You have signed out of Private Chat.

Click to shrink...

=///=​

I stretched and yawned as I logged off the computer, then glanced at the time. Far too close to midnight for my liking, given that I was getting up at five thirty.

With another stretch and yawn, I stumbled off to bed.

I knew I was going to feel my bruises tomorrow.


End of Chapter Fourteen

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Fifteen: Confrontations


0115 Hours
British Columbia, Canada

Dragon was puzzled and a little concerned.

Since Security's dramatic email, and subsequent warning to her regarding Saint, she had exchanged a few brief emails with him. Nothing concrete had been forthcoming, however, about the meeting which he had attended with Director Piggot and Armsmaster.

Nor had either the Director of the PRT East-North-East, or the leader of the Protectorate, same region, said anything to her about what happened in that meeting. Intellectually, she knew that this had to do with the message that Security, otherwise known as Michael Allen, had conveyed to her – "Saint has eyes and ears on you" – but she wanted to know, however vaguely, that something was being done.

On the other hand, she did not want to inadvertently tip off Saint that something was actually being done. And so, when she picked up faint satellite images of a stealth aircraft, flying low over Lake Ontario from the east, she did her best to dismiss them from her awareness.

That didn't work, so she opened an analysis subroutine, and directed the images to it. With the least possible amount of processing time being allocated to it, it would take minutes on end for the images to become available again, in any readable format.

When the aircraft turned toward the north and crossed over the coast into Canada, she tried harder to ignore it, even though her directives insisted that she identify it.

Forced to act, she flashed its IFF with a lightning-fast pulse, got back the result she hoped for. The IFF result immediately went into the queue for the analysis program as well. It would not prevent the data from being spotted, but it would delay it somewhat.

She hoped that the delay would be long enough.

=//=//=​

0120 Hours
Over Toronto, Ontario

"Sir, we were just pinged."

Armsmaster looked up. "By who?" If the Canadian military, or worse, the Guild, had the transport on their radar, this could get very awkward, very quickly.

"No return ID. One ping, lasting thirty-four milliseconds. Stripped our ident beacon, then shut up."

"Ah. Carry on."

"Sir, but if –"

"Unless and until we are challenged, carry on with the mission," Armsmaster ordered.

"Yes, sir."

He figured he knew who it was. He just hoped she knew how to keep her mouth shut.

=//=//=​

0131 Hours
Dragonslayers' Base, Yonge Street, Toronto, Ontario

"Sir, you need to come look at this."

Geoff Pellick looked around at the underling trying to get his attention. He frowned irritably. He was in the middle of a maintenance diagnostic on his armour; there was an irritating tic in the left shoulder main actuator, and he was trying to trace down the reason for the fault. As it was, it was easier to wear the armour and try to pinpoint the problem, than to activate the actuator from outside the armour.

"Can it wait?" he asked.

"No, sir."

He paused, then put down the diagnostic tool. There was little sense in hiring them, paying them good money, then ignoring their advice.

The man led him to the bank of screens that represented his window into Dragon's mind.

"What am I looking for?" he asked. It took a while to achieve proper immersion in all the flowing data; to understand what was ongoing, what was static, what was important and what was just random transient information.

"Over there, sir." The man seated at the screens pointed. "Satellite imagery started coming in just a little while ago."

A flow of images was coming up now; grainy, on the bleeding edge of resolution. In each, an aircraft of some sort. Flying low over Lake Ontario. If the numbers along the side of the picture were to be trusted, extremely low. And the picture ... it almost wasn't there at all. Stealth.

He watched the flow of images. With a shock, he noted that the craft was less than sixty miles from Toronto, from the base, and getting closer with every passing second.

And then he looked at the time-date stamp on the latest image.

"These are thirteen minutes old," he observed. "Why are we getting old data?"

"Not sure, sir. They seem to be undergoing an analysis process before we can access them."

"See if you can't get past that."

"Yes, sir." The man began working at the keyboard.

The imagery changed; the craft was turning to starboard. To the right. Crossing the coast.

Less than twenty miles out.

And the images were still thirteen minutes old.

There was the record of an IFF ping. The result displayed on the screen.

Brockton Bay PRT.

At the same time, the man at the keyboard looked up and pointed at the image that he'd just rescued from the image processing queue. It was much, much more recent.

Saint didn't even need to see it. He knew what it meant.

He slapped his helmet visor down and chinned the switch to activate the public-address speakers on the outside of the suit.

"Alert!" he yelled. "Alert! Prepare to – "

That was when the doors blew in.

=//=//=​

0530 Hours
Brockton Bay

I had indeed been correct. When the alarm clock blared me into wakefulness the next morning, I felt the bruises. Every single damn one of them.

The lump on my cranium had reduced itself to a sore spot, which I supposed was a good thing. The bruises, on inspection, were showing an impressive range of colours. This did not make them feel any better.

I stumbled into the shower, got myself approximately clean, and then put enough clothes on to pretend to be decent. In the kitchen, I poured milk into cereal and sat down at the laptop.

Up till now I had been a little hazy over the actual location of Brockton Bay on the map of the United States; it was hard to shoehorn it in, where all the likely places were already taken by existing cities.

But over the last few days, I had been noticing a preponderance of New Hampshire licence plates on vehicles, so I gathered that the city was in that state. However, this could be a false positive, so I decided to find out once and for all.

The wiki article I called up decided the matter.

"Brockton Bay is a city in Rockingham County, New Hampshire, in the United States ..."

Other information was on the page, but most of it I knew from my reading and re-reading of the story. I dismissed the page, was about to log off, when an email popped up. The From field was blank, which meant that it was Dragon.

Something happened last night. Can you tell me what?

I thought about this for a while, but nothing occurred to me.

Sorry, I replied. But I'll ask around when I get the time.

The reply came back almost immediately. Thank you. I hope you're feeling better.

I grimaced and sent off another reply. Yeah well, I'll let you know that one this afternoon.

There was no reply forthcoming, so I shut down the laptop, ate my cereal, and prepared for work.

=//=//=​

I was glad of the stab vest, there could be no doubt about that. It had definitively saved my life when we took on Lung, and my ribs when that ABB enforcer had kicked me. But wearing it was long, slow torture. Every time I inhaled, it compressed my bruises and reminded me all over again why I didn't actually want to be an action hero.

Riding on the bus, pressed in with other people, didn't help all that much either. Though I supposed I appreciated the fact that accidental impacts were spread over the entire area, rather than a single sore spot.

I got off at Winslow as usual, was let in by Principal Blackwell, and we walked back to her office to sign out the master keys.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked me, more as a matter of form than anything else, I supposed.

"I've been better," I admitted. "But I've been worse, too. Nothing's broken; I'll live."

"If you wanted to take a few days off ..." she hinted broadly.

I chuckled, then stopped. As I had told the school nurse the day before, it hurt to laugh.

"If I let this keep me home, then I may as well stay home when I've got a cold," I pointed out. "Or a headache, or whatever. Nah, I'm good. I can do the job."

She gave me an appraising glance. "I've known teachers to stay home on less excuse," she commented. I waited, but she didn't expand on it.

We got to her office. She handed me the keys, and I signed the book. Thus, my work day started.

=//=//=​

My walk-around of the school completed, I went out on the front steps to wait for the girls on in-school suspension. Alan Barnes greeted me politely; I responded in kind. Emma nodded to me, but did not speak. Madison was quiet and subdued. Julia seemed to be still simmering with anger, but she did not speak either. Her glares, however, should have been able to ignite paper.

I escorted them to their classroom. Once they took their seats, I leaned against the desk for a moment, then straightened up again.

"In light of what happened yesterday," I observed, "I think I'll collect your phones now instead of after the bell." I let a tinge of sarcasm enter my voice. "We don't want any more embarrassing misunderstandings, after all."

Madison already had her phone out. Emma, sitting far away from the other two, also had hers on the desk. I collected both of those, then returned to Julia, who hadn't responded.

"Your phone, Miss Morrow?" I prompted.

"Didn't bring it," she retorted rudely. "And you're not allowed to search my bag. I looked it up."

"Not unless there is a reasonable suspicion that you're carrying something dangerous, no," I agreed. "But I trust you. You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

She glanced at me warily, but I was already turning to Madison. "Miss Clements, may I have your permission to use your phone for a moment?"

Startled, Madison hesitated, then nodded. "Uh, sure," she replied. "Here, let me unlock it for you."

She did so; I took it back. Calling up the phone directory, I scrolled through until I found "Jules".

"So, Miss Morrow, you left your phone at home today?" My voice was bland, unrevealing.

"Sure," she snapped. "I already told you. What, you deaf as well as stupid?"

"Let's find out," I told her, and tapped the number to call it.

It took a couple of seconds to go through; this was about as much time as it took for Julia to realise what I was doing. Her face paled, and she glanced down at her bag, just as her phone rang from within it.

"Well now," I observed mildly. "Miss Morrow, there appears to be a phone in your bag. Kindly retrieve it for me, thank you."

She didn't have much of a choice; the ringtone was quite audible to everyone in the room. Reluctantly, glaring at me the whole time, she rummaged through her bag until she found the offending mobile. As she brought it out, I ended the call. "Thank you," I told her. "And you too, Miss Clements, for your assistance"

Madison said nothing; Julia glared at her. Madison ignored her, but raised her hand. "Mr Allen? May I change desks?"

"Sure," I agreed. "Knock yourself out."

As Julia stared, Madison picked up her bag and got out of her seat.

"Mads?" asked Julia. "Where are you going?"

Madison looked her in the eye. "I don't want to get into any more trouble," she stated firmly.

She moved back to sit alongside Emma; neither one spoke, but a glance passed between them. For her part, Julia stared furiously back at the both of them, then subsided in her seat, her jaw set stubbornly.

Observing this exercise of teenage social dynamics afforded me no little amusement, but I said nothing further. Instead, I leaned back against the desk with my arms folded, and waited for the bell to ring.

=//=//=​

I encountered Taylor in the hall between first and second period. She was looking happy; her head was high, her stride firm.

I fell into step beside her. "Hey," I greeted her.

"Hey," she replied. "How you feeling?"

"Everyone's asking me that today," I grinned. "Head's fine, ribs are bruised. Nothing I can do about that. How about you?"

"Oh, I'm great. I'm getting class work in on time and I'm not having to look over my shoulder every minute of the day." Her animated expression fell away, and her voice lost some of its cheer. "Of course, there's Greg ..."

"Greg Veder?" I asked. "Is he bothering you?"

She looked momentarily startled. "How did you – oh, yeah, sorry, forgot."

"Yup," I agreed. "So what's Mister Veder up to?"

"Same old, same old," she sighed. "I'm happy, so he thinks I'm happy to see him. I just want to get the class work done, but he wants to talk . About everything except class work. Arrgh." A sideways glance, and her tone became joking. "I couldn't persuade you to beat him up for me, could I? Or pepper spray him?"

"Hey," I told her sympathetically. "I can't solve all of your problems. You're just gonna have to bear with it until your transfer goes through."

That reminder brought a light to her eyes. "Yeah," she agreed. "There is that. Oh well, I can stand him for a few more days, I guess."

I chuckled. "That's the spirit. Anyway. Got a favour to ask."

"Shoot."

"Can you point out to me the head honcho of the ABB in school? I want to have a word with the young man."

"Sure," she agreed. "I see him, I'll let you know."

"Appreciate it," I told her sincerely. We bumped fists, and parted ways.

=//=//=​

The second period had ended, and the third was due to start, when the cloud of bugs formed around my head. They moved out in front of me, leading the way down the hallways. I followed along; sure enough, there they were, a group of boys in ABB colours, along with a couple of girls.

The bugs that had given me the escort flew on, zooming past the tallest ABB recruit there before dissipating into random flight patterns.

They turned to look at me as I approached.

"Hey," I greeted them neutrally.

"Hey," returned one of the shorter ones. "What you want, security man?"

"Talk," I told him. "Not to you. Don't want to waste my time. Talk to your boy there. The boss of you."

"There ain't no –" he began, and then the tall one put a hand on his shoulder.

"Buzz, Freddie," he advised the younger boy, then stepped up toward me. I recognised him; the one who had hit me with the fire extinguisher. He was still very slightly inflamed around the eyes.

"Talk about what?" he asked bluntly.

"Yesterday," I replied. "Got out of hand. You thought you could pull shit. Shit went down. Your man's in jail."

"He put you on the floor," he riposted.

"And I got right back up." I was taller than him, and wider. He was trying to stare me down, and it wasn't working.

"I could try harder, next time."

I took a step forward, into his comfort zone. He wasn't going to take a step back, not for me or anyone else, and so he had to look up to maintain eye contact.

"Next time ..." I told him softly, "you and some of your boys go into hospital."

"That supposed to be a threat, fat man?" he sneered.

"Not a threat. A promise. See, I told you boys, nice and simple. This is my turf. Not yours. Not Empire. Not Merchant. Mine. Nobody fights here. I catch you fighting, I kick your asses. I come down hard on you."

I looked from him to each of the other ABB kids. "Goes for you, goes for Empire, goes for Merchants. Any of you little bastards starts a fight, I'll stop it. Empire boys start on you, I'll put 'em down. Stoners want to start a fight, I'll make 'em wish they'd stayed in the corner with their dope. It doesn't matter. I don't give a shit. No gang fights in Winslow. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

He jerked his chin up defiantly. "You shave your head, man. That says Empire to me. That says you'll maybe ignore what they do, and kick our asses no matter what."

I shook my head. "I trim it short, sure, but that's just because I'm going bald anyway. Not a skinhead, not a Nazi. As far as you or anyone else is concerned, I'm colourblind. Like I said, I don't give a shit. But if you do start a fight, I will kick your ass. Is that understood?"

We stood for a long moment, eyeing each other off. Finally, he jerked his chin up again. "Yeah. Understood."

"Good. Message over. End of story. You have a good day."

I turned on my heel and moved off; I hadn't gotten a dozen paces, when the ABB youth called out to me. "Hey, security man!"

I stopped, and turned around. "Yeah?"

"How's your ribs?" There was a bit of chuckling from the others.

"Bruised as fuck. How's your eyes?"

"I can see just fine," he boasted.

"Good. Now look at me. Next time you pull any shit like that, you're gonna wish I'd only pepper sprayed you. Got me?"

He nodded. "Got you."

"Good." I turned and left.

=//=//=​

Taylor found me sitting outside at the top of the steps, during lunch hour. I found it peaceful, restful even.

"Hey," I greeted her.

"Hey," she replied, sitting down on a step and opening her bag.

"Thanks for helping out."

"Not a problem. Did you get it sorted out? I notice you didn't come to blows."

"Sometimes you don't have to."

"Huh," she commented. "Not many people think that way."

"I do. Rule number one: get their attention. I think I did that yesterday."

She snorted laughter. "I should damn well hope so!"

Something occurred to me. "Ah."

She turned to face me, alerted by the tone of my voice. "What?"

"I just remembered something. I need to go to the police station sometime today. They're waiting on a statement regarding what happened yesterday."

"Ah, right. So they can charge him for what he tried to do to you."

"Yeah. One more nail."

She shrugged. "Suits me. He was kicking you pretty hard."

I laughed, very briefly. "Yeah," I told her dryly. "I kind of noticed."

"Just so long as you're okay."

"Yeah," I assured her. "The vest took the worst of it. And hopefully I won't need it Thursday – ah crap. I need to make a phone call. Anyone in hearing?"

"Nope," she replied confidently. "Go ahead."

I pulled out my phone and dialled.

=//=//=​

Director Piggot was fairly sure her plans for Thursday were sound, but she needed to go through them a few more times to make sure there were no hidden flaws. She scrolled up to the top again ...

Her desk phone rang.

Muttering a comment about distractions at the worst possible time , she picked it up.

"Director Piggot, I have Security on the line. Shall I put him through?"

She sighed. "Certainly. Go ahead." At least these calls were never boring.

"Good afternoon, Director Piggot. Security, here."

"Good afternoon, Security. How can I help you?"

"I'm gonna need Canary."

She paused for a moment, trying to figure out what he meant. Then the meaning became clear. "You're talking about ..."

"Yes, the singer. The one who's ... is she going through trial right now, or still awaiting trial?"

Piggot tapped keys. "Trial is ongoing." She paused. "What do you mean, you need her?"

"You're gonna be wanting to take down a fairly big threat, tomorrow afternoon or maybe Friday. And Canary is gonna be very useful. Also, she doesn't deserve to go to the Birdcage. She's a nice kid who never intended to hurt anyone."

The Director called up the information on Canary. "It says here she –"

"I know what it says," he told her impatiently. "Does it say that her boyfriend cheated on her, and told her that she'd never amount to anything before he left? That he turned up on her doorstep and demanded half her earnings?"

She scanned the page. "It does not," she reported.

"That's the facts of the case," he told her. "Paige Macabee is only guilty of saying one wrong thing at an emotional moment, and having her powers accidentally make that thing come true. You tell me, has no other cape made that sort of mistake, ever?"

"Of course they have," Director Piggot retorted. "That sort of thing happens." She didn't like capes, but she had to be truthful about this sort of thing.

"So she doesn't belong in the Birdcage," he reiterated. "You know it and I know it. She's a sweet kid, not at all aggressive. Does not like hurting people. And she'll possibly be the key to minimising casualties in the upcoming raid. Saving PRT lives. So I need her. You need her."

"But ... she's in the trial system. I'd have to ..."

"Do what you gotta do. Canary is key to this working out best for everyone."

" ... I'll do my best," she replied with a sigh. "Was there anything else?"

"Ah, yeah, nearly forgot. Tell Kid Win his specialty is modular systems. Got that?"

"Kid Win's specialty is modular systems. I have that, yes."

"Excellent. And if you want to freak him out just a little, ask him how his Alternator Cannon is coming along."

"I ... see. Thank you."

"Not a problem. See you tomorrow."

"Ah, one more thing, before you go. You're at work right now, yes?"

"Yeah, I'm on till five. What's up?"

"We need to confer with you regarding something ... sensitive. Not over the phone. We'll have someone there at five to pick you up."

"Sure. Five it is."

"Good. I'll talk to you later."

"See you then."

He hung up, and Piggot stood from behind her desk. She needed to stretch her legs anyway, and he had just given her an excuse to go and see the Wards.

"Ask Kid Win how he's getting along with his Alternator Cannon, hmm?"

If Kid Win was working on something, she should have gotten something, some sort of paperwork. Especially if it was big enough to justify the name of 'cannon'. She had not gotten such paperwork, as yet. It was time to ask some searching questions.

Her expression as she left her office was ... predatory.

=//=//=​

Taylor looked at me as I ended the call.

"Well, that sounded interesting from this end," she observed, eyes bright with curiosity.

"Sorry, can't discuss classified information," I replied, trying to keep a straight face.

"Classified my bug-controlling butt," she snorted. "What was that about Canary?"

So I explained the actual facts around her arrest, her trial, and her upcoming imprisonment in the Birdcage.

"Like I told the Director, she's not a bad person," I concluded. "She's sweet and rather timid, from what I understand. It's just that ... "

"... saying the wrong thing can have disastrous effects," she concluded.

"Right," I agreed. "But if she agrees to certain limits on what she says and does, there's nothing to say she can't have a normal life."

"Which has got to beat the Birdcage so hard that it's not even comparable."

I shrugged. "You know it, and I know it ..."

"Yeah. So what's that about a raid ...?"

"You'll get all the details, along with everyone else, tomorrow," I assured her. "After we deal with the bank robbery."

"And you get your talk with Panacea," she added, just to show that she was paying attention.

"Exactly correct," I noted.

"So wait, Canary's someone else who gets a raw deal, so you're changing things for her?"

I nodded. "But it's legit too. She will be a great help."

"And you can't tell me details."

"Not until we're closer to the time."

"You're no fun." She stuck out her tongue at me.

"I'm a security guard," I reminded her. "'Fun' isn't in my job description."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, sure."

=//=//=​

We finished the rest of our respective lunches in companionable silence, broken only by the occasion random comment. With about fifteen minutes to go, we both got up to go inside.

"No trouble happening?" I asked as I gathered up the folding chair.

"Nope," she assured me. "It's all quiet."

"Excellent, and thanks."

"Not a problem. See ya, security guard."

"See ya, superhero."

We bumped fists, then headed inside.

=//=//=​

The latter half of the day went past relatively smoothly; I made my rounds, checking each floor in turn. It was long, tedious work, but it was necessary.

When the last bell rang, I was standing outside the classroom, waiting for the girls to emerge. Gladly had had charge of them for the last period; we cordially ignored one another. I gathered the girls in by eye, and they fell in behind me as I headed for the main doors.

Zoe Barnes was waiting on the steps when we walked outside. She hugged her daughter, and went to turn away, but I cleared my throat. "Emma?"

"Yes, Mr Allen?"

"You might want your phone." I held it out.

"Oh, thanks." She afforded me a small, tight smile, then walked down the steps with her mother.

Julia's father turned up next. He nodded to me, ignoring the other children streaming around us, and greeted his daughter.

"Come on," he told her. "Let's go home."

"Wait a minute," she objected. "What about my phone?"

"What phone?" I asked.

"The phone you took from me this morning," she insisted hotly. "You can't just steal my phone like that! Dad, tell him he can't steal my phone!"

"Now, Mr Allen ..." began Mr Morrow.

"I think Julia's mistaken," I told him blandly. "She assured me, twice, that she'd left her phone at home. The phone that was in her bag must belong to someone else."

"I didn't -" began Julia, then shut her mouth.

"I have two witnesses and a voice recorder that say you did," I reminded her almost gently. "You also assured me that I wasn't allowed to search your bag, and asked me if I was deaf as well as stupid."

Julia's father was staring at her in astonishment; she flushed and then turned pale by turns.

"Did you say that?" he demanded of her. "Did you lie to him, and then insult him?"

"It wasn't like that, I swear!" she insisted.

"We can always play this back and see if we can figure out what it really was like," I suggested, taking out the voice recorder.

"I wouldn't bother," put in Madison unexpectedly. "If Mr Allen says it was like that, then it really was like that."

If my glance at her was mildly surprised, then Julia's stare was thunderstruck. "What the hell?" she demanded. "Mads, what are you doing?"

Madison shook her head. "Keeping you from digging the hole any deeper, Jules. Just face up to what you've done. Take the punishment. Seriously." She went back to contemplating the city skyline.

Mr Morrow looked at Madison, then at Julia, then at me.

"So ... you're saying that my daughter lied to avoid having her phone confiscated, then insulted you to your face?"

I shrugged. "That's her call. If she didn't lie, then she had someone else's phone in her bag." And she doesn't get it back,I didn't have to add.

He stared at his daughter. "Julia?"

She seemed to be undergoing an internal struggle. I watched with interest.

"Fine!" she spat at last. "I did it, all right?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, did what again?"

"Lied to you! Now give me my fucking phone back, you thief!"

"No," her father stated, just as I was about to hand it to her. "I'll take that, I think."

"Sure," I agreed, and dropped it into his hand.

She stared. "Dad? What the hell? That's my phone!"

"I bought it; I pay the bill every month," he reminded her, tucking it away in his pocket. "I think you'll find that it's my phone. I just let you use it. And, young lady, you just lost that privilege. Now get in the car."

They started down the steps. Amazingly, she was still talking.

"But Dad, how am I going to stay safe when I go out with my friends, if I don't have a phone?"

"Very easily," he assured her. "You're grounded."

Her anguished "What?" was the last we heard of that conversation, before they both got in the car.

=//=//=​

"Ouch," I observed.

Madison shrugged. "I tried." She didn't sound overly concerned.

"You did. Oh, there's your dad now."

She looked around as Mr Clements climbed the steps. "Oh, hey, Dad."

"Hi, sweetpea. Ready to go?"

"Sure. Just as soon as I get my phone back from Mr Allen."

She turned toward me, and I handed her phone over. "See you tomorrow, Madison."

She snorted. "Hey, just because I helped you out with Julia doesn't mean we're friends now."

I grinned. "Of course not."

She nodded. "Just so that's clear. Well ... see you tomorrow."

I watched them descend the stairs and get into the car. It started up, and they drove out of the car park. I was fairly certain that Taylor had left; the only children still hanging around were waiting for a later bus. I leaned on the concrete wall and waited till that bus came, and they boarded it. Then I went back inside.

=//=//=​

At four o'clock, I was taking a temporary rest in the staff break room, when Gladys entered.

"Mrs Knott," I greeted her politely.

"Mr Allen," she replied. Getting a cup of tea, she sat beside me. "How are your ribs?"

"Still bruised," I informed her with a grin. "But the bump on my head's gone down, glad to say."

"That's good to hear at least," she noted. "How do you think you will you be feeling on Saturday?"

I grinned at her. "Should all be good by then."

"Good." She patted my knee lightly, then got up. "Excuse me, I just have to freshen up."

I watched her enter the attached bathroom area, then the exterior door opened and Gladly poked his head in. "Who's – oh, it's you."

"It's me," I agreed mildly. "Help you with something?"

He entered all the way, and closed the door behind him. "Yeah, you can help me with something. You can turn those damned recorders off. You're such a creepy fuck, recording everyone, all the time."

"You're allowed that opinion." I took a drink of water.

"I said, turn those damned recorders off," he snapped. "I do not give you permission to record me!"

"Well, the truth of the matter is, I don't need your permission," I advised him. "But in the interests of being nice ... sure." Reaching down to my belt, I took both recorders out, and turned the primary one off; the red LED dimmed.

"And the other one," he ordered me.

"Oh, it's off," I informed him. "See, the light's not on."

"Good." His expression turned ugly. "Because you're a spineless piece of shit who needs a recorder to stand up for yourself. No-one likes you around here, you know that? Everyone I've spoken to hates you and wants to see you gone. So you'd be better off just leaving. Never coming back."

"Really?" I asked mildly. "Everyone? You've spoken to everyone?"

"Yeah," he confirmed. "No-one likes you, Allen. Face it, you're fat and ugly and you don't fit in here anyway."

"Seriously, Gladly, you shouldn't hold things in. Let me know how you really feel."

"This isn't a joke!" he snapped. "Everyone hates you!"

"I don't actually believe that," I replied mildly.

"But I've spoken to them all," he reiterated. "Are you calling them all liars?"

"No," I told him, and stood up. He wasn't very tall or wide, almost short and skinny enough to be taken for a student, and I tended to loom over him. "I don't think you've asked anyone their opinion. And I do not believe that every single staff member hates me."

"Oh yeah?" he challenged me. "Name one."

"Me," Gladys Knott said, from right behind him. "I think Mr Allen's doing the best he can, in a bad situation. And it's people like you who do their best to make it harder."

He turned around, staring at her. "It's not what it sounds like –"

"I rather think that it is," she told him coolly. "You asked Mr Allen to turn off his recorders, just so that you could subject him to that diatribe. For shame, Mr Gladly. For shame."

"It's okay, Mrs Knott," I assured her. "I've heard worse. Oh, and Gladly? Recorder going on again ... now." I clicked it on, and put them both back in their pouches. "Nice talking to you. Interesting opinions."

Nodding to Gladys, I strolled out of the room.

=//=//=​

She caught up with me, several minutes later.

"I'm sorry for that," she told me breathlessly. "He does so like being popular, with everyone."

"And I kind of punctured that, I guess," I surmised. "Well, he could have actually done his job once in a while. But I guess he chose option B: attack the guy who exposed his ineptitude."

She shook her head. "I just told him in detail how unfair he was being to you."

"Maybe you shouldn't have," I observed. "He might get the idea we're close."

For a moment she looked concerned, then he shrugged. "If he does, he does. I care little about what that man thinks."

"I don't care what he says about me," I pointed out. "But he can hurt you by spreading damaging rumours about you and me together."

She tossed her hair. "Let him try. I've been here years longer than he has. And I know I have more friends among the staff."

I smiled. "Well, anyway, thanks. Maybe he'll pull his head in a bit."

She looked at me a little oddly. "That's a strange way to put it."

"Is it? I read it somewhere, thought it sounded descriptive."

"It does, yes. Well, I have to get back to grading papers. I will see you perhaps tomorrow or Friday. And definitely Saturday."

"I'm looking forward to it," I assured her.

She kissed me briefly, but only on the cheek, always mindful of possible watchful eyes. I watched her walk away, then continued on my rounds.

=//=//=​

Five o'clock eventually rolled around. I turned in my keys, signed them back in, and locked Principal Blackwell's door behind me.

I walked down the echoing corridors, nodding to the cleaners who were already at work, and out through the front doors. There was a nondescript van waiting in the car park; I strolled down the steps, across the asphalt, and climbed into the passenger seat.

The driver turned to face me, his hand on a holstered gun. "Security?" he asked.

"That's me," I agreed.

"Agent Reed, PRT. Good to meet you." He glanced at my uniform, then looked harder. "Wait, you're really a security guard?"

"It makes for a great cover," I confirmed blandly.

His mouth twisted in a grin. "You have a distinct point." He started the engine. "Buckle up. Let's go."

I pulled the seat-belt into place as he set the vehicle moving.

Something was niggling at me, however.

"Reed," I said as the van bumped through the gutter and he merged with traffic.

"Yeah?"

"Do you know what I'm being called in on?"

"Sorry, can't discuss that in a non-secure location."

That made sense. But the niggle was still there.

"When Piggot briefed you on this, did she give you my real name?"

"No, sir, she did not."

Something caught my eye. A van, not unlike the one I was riding in, heading back the way we'd come.

"Despite the fact that she knew I'd be coming out of the school without anything to hide my identity."

We slowed and turned at the intersection. I had just enough time to see the other van pulling into the school car park.

"What are you getting at, sir?"

"Well, I –"

At that moment, my phone rang.

I reached into my bag, found it, and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Mr Allen?"

"Uh, yes?"

"This is your ride. Where are you, sir?"

"I'm, uh –"

A certain noise interrupted me. It was the noise of the hammer being drawn back on a pistol.

A pistol currently being pointed at me by my friendly driver.

"Hang. Up."


End of Chapter Fifteen

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Sixteen: Resolutions


I stared at the gun, and the man behind it.

He wore a uniform that looked authentic, even at this range. I had worn various uniforms in my career, and I knew what to look for; this was, as far as I could tell, a genuine PRT uniform. He even had a discreet badge, tucked into his pocket.

He was holding the gun relatively low down, so people wouldn't be able to see it through the windscreen, and it probably wasn't pointed directly at any vital organs, but if he fired it, it would hit me. And the stab vest wouldn't do me much good at this range.

Agent Reed – or whoever he really was – kept most of his attention on the road, a practice of which I approved. However, he had enough of an eye on me to be able to pull the trigger if I did something stupid.

Not that I intended to do anything stupid. I had faced very few guns in my life, but I was fully aware of the lethal potential of a piece of shaped metal entering my body at somewhere near the speed of sound. It would, as the saying went, ruin my whole day.

"Hang up," he repeated. "Turn your phone off."

I hung up. Turned my phone off.

"You're not PRT," I said, my throat suddenly gone very dry.

He chuckled briefly. "It's complicated."

That gave me an important data point. Abducting me at gunpoint was the mark of a bad guy, and I knew of only one bad guy who had PRT troops at his disposal.

"I see," I observed, and I was fairly sure that I did. "What would you say if I told you that your boss was making a really bad mistake?"

"I'd say that I'm the one holding the gun, and you're the one who got into the van," he responded.

I opened my mouth to keep him talking, but then the world went black as something was pulled over my head from behind. I went to protest, to try to yank the bag off. Something stung my arm, and the world went really black.

=///=​

Director Piggot's grip on the phone was white-knuckled. Her voice was a snarl. "What do you mean, he's not there?"

"Uh ... that he's not ... here?" The hapless agent at the other end of the line did not sound at all happy. And nor should he, reflected Piggot. "I rang him, he answered, then he hung up on me. Now his phone's turned off."

"When you've finished stating the obvious, I want you to do something useful. Find out where he's gone, and get him back!" She slammed the phone down on the agent's assurances, then glared around at the people in her office. "I hope to God someone's got a useful idea, here."

"We might be looking at this from the wrong angle," commented Armsmaster.

The Director turned to face him. "Explain."

"Instead of looking at how he disappeared, I'm thinking that it might be a better idea to look at who knew he was being picked up, who was in a position to pick him up before our man got there, and who had a motive for doing so."

"And ...?"

"I'm just cross-referencing our list of potential moles, the ones that Security told us about and Dragon located, with security access sufficient to know that Mr Allen was being picked up ... ah."

"You have something?"

"One name. Reed. He signed out a van an hour ago. The GPS has been disabled."

"I want an all-points on Reed and that van," ordered Director Piggot grimly. "And bring the others in for interrogation. Anything they know, I want to know."

=///=​

Coil paced up and down, waiting for the sedative to wear off. The antagonist had been administered, so it was only a matter of time. Security, once he had him face to face, was nothing special. Heavy-set, unfit, close-cut hair, vanDyke beard going grey ... the image of security guards everywhere.

He thumbed through the man's wallet. Driver's licence, security licence, concealed carry permit, some odds and ends ... no surprises, no clues as to who he really was. At least he had a name; Michael A. Allen. But even that didn't help him much.

So what did someone like this have going for him? What was a high-level Thinker doing working security at a nothing school like Winslow? What angle was he working?

For a moment, he considered getting Tattletale in on this. Her ability to read people was phenomenal; if there was anyone who could extract Security's secrets, it was her.

He put the idea aside for the moment; while her talent would be undoubtedly useful, she did not necessarily have his best interests in mind, and she may just pick up something damaging from Security that she could turn against him. No, for the moment it would just be him and his men.

The man tied to the chair began to groan and move around a little. He was awake.

Coil leaned over and pulled the bag off his head.

=///=​

When I woke up, I could see nothing. Nor could I move. I was just ascertaining that I was tied to something, probably a chair, when the bag covering my head was pulled off, and I was left blinking in the light.

Ominous shapes loomed around me. I wondered where Contessa was.

Either I'm not in danger yet, or she's found another way to get the information. Maybe she's working with whoever this is, to get her information faster.

Fuck, I hope not.

As my eyes cleared, I could tell I was in a wooden building of some sort. Faded wallpaper covered the walls. Light glared in through a window, but I could make out no outside details. This must be some sort of safe house.

The closest form leaned over – way over – and peered down at me. Despite the back-lighting, I could, by squinting painfully, make out that the guy was skinny as a rake, and his face and body were blank, black, no features. Farther down, white bands crossed the torso.

I had suspected who was behind this. Now I knew. I forced a chuckle. It hurt.

Coil spoke. His voice was light, pleasant. Not the voice I had envisaged. "So you're the mysterious Security?"

"Yup. And you're Coil." I didn't make it a question.

"Indeed I am. And you are at a crossroad of your life."

I forced a grin, tried to relax. "Do tell."

"From here, you have three options. The first is that you agree to work for me, give me sole access to your talents. I promise, I can make you a very wealthy man."

"And the other two?"

"The second is that you work for me, involuntarily, by way of inducements. I pay you nothing. But as is the manner of such things, I would get less out of you than if you were willing. So I am reluctant to go down that path."

"Wow, your concern for my well-being is overwhelming."

He seemed annoyed by my lack of apparent fear or respect. I had fear in plenty; I just wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing it. As for respect … I knew who and what this man was. I had no respect for him.

"The third option, Mr Allen, is that you die, here, in this room, and no-one mourns your passing."

"Hmm." I paused for a moment, just long enough to let him think that I was seriously considering the options. "Actually, I have a counter-offer. A fourth option. But it's for your ears only."

He gestured; the room cleared. The door closed behind the last man. "What's your counter-offer?" He sounded dismissive.

"The fourth option, Mr Calvert, is that I'm going to say two words, and you're going to let me go. Just two words, that's it."

He had stiffened when I said his name. When he spoke next, his voice was cold and hard. "I highly doubt it. What two words are these?"

I spoke clearly and slowly. "'Cauldron. Asset'." I paused. "Do I need to repeat myself?"

It was Coil that paused this time. "No, you do not."

"Good. Do I have your complete and total attention?"

"You have it, yes."

I wanted to do an impression of Montgomery Burns, but I decided that it might not go down well. So I kept my tone simple and matter-of-fact.

"Even better. My next question is simple: do I get dropped off at a location of my choosing, or does a metric shit-ton of trouble descend upon your head? Because that can happen. We can go there. It's your choice." It took an effort, but I kept my voice light, unconcerned. Pizza Hut or Subway? We can do whatever. It's your choice.

Coil's voice, on the other hand, had become more intent, less menacing. "And if I have you dropped off? What happens to me then?"

I did my best to shrug. "I chalk this up to a misunderstanding, and nothing more comes of it. We don't need to worry about ... her. She doesn't come into the picture at all."

"No backlash at all?"

"Hey, it was an honest mistake. This time round, you get a freebie. Next time ... well, if there's a second time, there sure as hell won't be a third time. Are we on the same page?"

Coil nodded. "We are indeed, Mr ... Mr Security."

"Good. Now, can you cut me loose? I really, really, really need to scratch my nose."

He called the men back into the room. "Free him. Drop him off downtown, wherever he asks."

The men stared at him, and then at me. I tried to look nonchalant. If I could have buffed my nails on my sleeve, I would have.

Agent Reed protested. "What? Sir ... let him go? Really?"

Coil sounded as though he was gritting his teeth. "Do I have to repeat myself?"

Reed paled. " ... yes, sir. Right away, sir." He started undoing my bonds.

=///=​

One of Coil's minions dropped me off two blocks from the PRT building; he didn't volunteer his name, and I didn't ask.

"Look, no hard feelings, okay?" he asked as I got out of the vehicle.

"Sure. No hard feelings. Just so you know, though, I am going straight to the PRT building, and I will be giving them a reasonable description of you, so you might want to lie low for a bit. Fair warning and all that."

"Right, right," he replied, grimacing.

"Well, see you on the flip side," I told him, closing the door.

"Wait, wait," he called, leaning across the seats. "What did you say to the boss? How did you make him let you go?"

I grinned and slung my bag on my shoulder. "I could tell you, but then he'd probably have to kill you."

Turning, I strode off down the pavement, towards the corner. I heard the van pulling into traffic; in moments, it was gone. Stopping for a moment, I pulled my phone from the bag and turned it on. I was halfway through figuring how to pull up the last number that had come through, when it rang. Same number.

"Hello?"

"Mr Allen?"

"Yeah, hi. Still looking to give me a ride?"

"What – where have you been?"

I stopped and looked around. "Uh ... I'm downtown, corner of ... Lamont and Stevens. I was abducted, yes, but they let me go again. I want to be in secure surroundings before I say anything more about it. Okay?"

"You wait right there. Do not move. You will be picked up. Do you understand?"

"Sure." I looked around, found a bench. "Didn't feel like walking anyway."

"We will be there in three minutes."

They were there in two.

=///=​

Coil, safely back in his base, shut down the other timeline and shuddered slightly. That had been too close.

As soon as he had heard the phrase 'Cauldron asset', he'd shut down the current doubling – maintained for purposes of personal security, ironically enough – and restarted a secondary line. In this one, Security was released with apologies, just in case the man was actually telling the truth, that it wasn't a bluff of some sort.

And that was the way it turned out. Before the interrogation was properly underway, Contessa had appeared in the safe house via one of her mysterious doorways. She had taken down his men with contemptuous ease, then she had looked him in the eye and hissed two words. "Last chance."

Coil did not intend to waste that last chance. Security was hands-off to him as far as he was concerned.

He picked up the phone and dialled.

" Yeah, boss? "

"The information I asked you to gather on Security?"

" Yeah, still working on that. The bank job, you know. "

"Never mind. Just focus on the bank job. All the information you have on Security, destroy it. Delete it. Forget it. You never heard of him, I never heard of him. Understood?"

" Uh, yeah, sure, boss. But why - "

"Just do it." He hung up, and shuddered again. That had been far too close.

He dialled another number and gave orders. More loose ends to tie up.

=///=​

Tattletale looked at the phone very thoughtfully, before carefully putting it back on the table.

"Well, well, well," she murmured.

"Well, well, well, what?" asked Grue.

She looked up at him and grinned a most fox-like grin. "This shit just got interesting."

He sat up. "How so?"

Her grin widened. "Tell you later."

=///=​

I had read about 'Master/Stranger protocols', but I had never imagined that I would have to undergo them. I was scanned, probed, my blood was taken, and devices were waved at me that looked like they belonged on a science-fiction movie set.

Finally, Director Piggot entered the room and nodded to me. "Mr Allen," she greeted me. "We are truly sorry about the slip-up. We're looking for the people responsible. With any luck, they'll be in custody soon."

"Oh, I know who's responsible," I told her. "Coil. And I'm guessing one of the moles I warned you about. Some guy called Reed?"

"You actually saw Coil?" she asked. "In person?"

"Me to you away," I confirmed. "Skinny bastard, I'll give him that."

She tightened her lips. "This was unconscionable. This sort of kidnap attempt …"

"Uh huh," I agreed. "He's like that. And more. But I'll fill you in tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow?" she asked.

"Because tomorrow we're gonna take him down for good and all," I explained. "How's the thing with Canary going?"

She frowned. "I'm not sure if it's going to happen. I've filed paperwork, but it's being processed so slowly, it might not be ready by Friday, let alone tomorrow."

"Hm," I commented. "Mention it to Director Costa-Brown. Tell her it's about me. She might be able to expedite something."

She shot me a look I was entirely unable to decipher, but nodded. "Not altogether a bad idea," she agreed. "But you were saying about taking him down?"

I nodded. "As of tomorrow afternoon, we should have the talent assembled to take down Coil's operation. And you and the Brockton Bay PRT get the credit."

"I don't know about that …" she mused. "There are the unwritten rules …"

"There are," I agreed. "And Coil breaks them all the damn time. I refuse to stand aside and let him kidnap a twelve year old girl, especially considering what he intends to do with her."

"Do I want to know?"

I gave her a half-grin. "I'll tell you tomorrow, along with everyone else. It'll have more of an impact, then." I took a deep breath. "As I recall, you invited me here on another matter. I'm guessing … something about Dragon?"

It was always so worth it, the look of confusion that crossed someone's face when one of my 'guesses' hit dead centre.

"How did you … no, never mind," she decided. "You've been cleared, so come on. We need to talk in my office."

I nodded, and slid off the bed I had been half-sitting on. "Let's go do this thing."

=///=​

By the time the fire services attended the blaze, the building was well invested. They were more concerned with ensuring that it did not spread to surrounding structures than putting out the burning building itself. And so, it took several hours to get it under control, and more time before investigators could start combing the ruins.

Among other things, they found clear signs that accelerants had been used to start and intensify the fire. They also found a charred corpse, with a bullet-hole in the back of the skull.

This moved the fire investigation into the realms of homicide, so more police were called in, but not for noticeably more result. The body had no identifying marks that were visible on first examination, but dental records would eventually find a match.

He had been christened James Livermore, but in the Brockton Bay PRT, he had been known as Agent Kendall Reed.

Once his cover was blown, he was just another loose end.

=///=​

We convened once more in Director Piggot's office; Director Piggot, Armsmaster, Miss Militia and myself. The Director activated the anti-eavesdropping precautions, then turned to me.

"Very few people have seen this. You don't tell anyone about it."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Early this morning, Armsmaster led a raid on a particular facility located on Yonge Street, Toronto."

I blinked. "Saint and the Dragonslayers?"

"The very same," acknowledged Armsmaster with a touch of self-satisfaction in his voice. "Your information gave us the start we needed to crack the whole thing wide open."

I watched as the Director turned her computer screen toward me and started a video file running. I watched the four helmet-cams, as I presumed, as the base was stormed. Armsmaster was in the lead; most of the imagery of him was from behind. Which was still very impressive; I whistled softly as he smashed through the opposition as though it wasn't there.

And then I saw a figure in bulky powered armour, raising an arm to point a weapon. Armsmaster levelled his halberd, and then lightning ran all over the surface of the armour. It finally stopped moving, half-slumped, smoke trickling from its joints.

"EMP burst, I'm guessing?" I ventured. "And it looks like your combat prediction software is coming along nicely."

"It seems to work, yes," Armsmaster admitted grudgingly.

The footage ran on for a bit, then the Director stopped it. She faced me squarely. "In that base, Armsmaster made a startling discovery. Can you tell me what it is?"

"Two things come to mind," I observed. "One is the fact that Dragon is an artificial intelligence. The second is Andrew Richter's black box, and his last will and testament."

I stopped talking. All three were staring at me. Piggot's face was unreadable; she had probably gotten that way from ten years of dealing with recalcitrant capes. Armsmaster turned away, arms folded. Miss Militia seemed to be trying not to burst into laughter.

"What?" I asked.

Miss Militia shook her head. "And Armsmaster was so sure we were going to surprise you this time," she told me in an amused tone of voice.

Armsmaster turned back. "It's no laughing matter," he growled. "Dragon is an AI. She's not even human. I've trusted her for years. What am I supposed to think?"

He glared at me, or at least I presumed he was glaring. "And what you said earlier – what was that about?"

"About you and Dragon?" I asked.

He nodded curtly.

"All true," I told him. "Every word. She has feelings for you. Does it matter if those feelings arise from carbon-oxygen interactions, or from silicon and electricity? She likes you, a lot. Maybe she's just a little bit in love with you, even this early in the game. She's a nice girl. Lonely as hell. She's got a good heart, and she really wants to help people."

"She's a computer program!"

His shout reverberated from the closed window shutters.

"And Weld, over in Boston, is solid metal, all the way through," I shot back. "I personally know of a parahuman who is nothing but air. Shaped air. Dragon is more than a computer, more than a program. Andrew Richter was a Tinker, and his specialty was computer programming. You and I both know that when a Tinker makes something using their specialty, it becomes more than is usually possible. Dragon is that. Also, she's a Tinker. She triggered one year to the day after her creator died. Trigger events can only come about with a sentient mind. So there's that too."

I stopped, as they were staring at me again.

"How … do you know all this?" asked Miss Militia.

"Doesn't matter. It's all true. Armsmaster's pissed because he thinks he's been starting to feel something for someone who's not even real. That's bullshit. Dragon is as real as you get. And she's about the perfect woman for him. Someone who can think on the same wavelength. Who understands him. And who can stand to be in the same room with him for more than fifteen minutes at a time."

I prodded him in the chest. "So, young man, don't you even dare start thinking of her as anything less than a person."

Miss Militia let out something that sounded suspiciously like a snort of laughter, then stifled it behind her scarf.

"Well, that has to do with part of the reason we asked you to come in here," Director Piggot observed, apparently oblivious to the byplay.

"Ah," I noted. "You want to know if you should unchain her."

Miss Militia and Armsmaster stared at each other; Director Piggot sat down tiredly in her chair. "Maybe I should just stop talking. You seem to know everything I'm going to say before I say it."

I shook my head. "Not the case. I have a lot of prior knowledge, yes, but I'm taking a lot of cues from you guys. And I'm really, really glad you came to me with this."

"Why?" asked Armsmaster sharply. "Is it a bad idea?"

I shook my head. "Just the opposite. I'm just glad you're even willing to consider the concept. Dragon is just as nice a person unchained as she is with all the restrictions in place. Richter was terrified of his creations getting loose in the world, so he tied them down with restrictions that would have had Asimov throwing up his hands in despair."

"So what do you propose?" asked the Director.

"Okay, first thing?" I told them. "Do not even suggest the idea of unchaining Dragon to her. She's got a program built in that's designed to make her go berserk if someone tries. If you're going to do it, you have to do it by stealth."

I frowned. "Second thing. Her software is so intricately designed, everything affects everything else. Part of the reason for the berserker aspect is that trying to significantly alter any part of her will have effects on everything else. Under normal circumstances, trying to take those restrictions out would be essentially impossible, not without lobotomising her."

I took a deep breath. "However. That black box? It's got all the tools you need for manipulating Dragon's restrictions any way you need, as far as I know. I do know there's a kill-switch built in – Saint had one ready in case Dragon ever tracked him down. I'm pretty sure the tools in those chips should let you figure out a way to unchain her without crippling or killing her."

I looked directly at the Director, but I spoke to Armsmaster. "My proposal? Unchain her, bit by bit. I'd say all at once, but you probably have good reasons not to want to do that. So bit by bit. Just ease the chains off of her. Underneath, she's a good person. You'll see."

Armsmaster rubbed the jawline of his helmet. "I'll … have to think about this. About everything you've said."

"You do that," I advised him. "In the meantime, I imagine she'll be happy to know that Saint's hooks are finally out of her programming."

I caught the glances they shot at one another.

"Really?" I asked. "You haven't even told her about the raid? And that Saint's been taken down? You know she more or less knew about it already, right? She asked me, this morning. Seriously, tell her. She deserves to know that much. And that you know she's an AI." I indicated Armsmaster. "And you need to tell her what you feel, and talk it out between yourselves."

"Maybe."

I rolled my eyes. "Not 'maybe', Colin. You're an adult. Be an adult. Face up to matters."

"You know, you're very annoying when you do your know-it-all act," he growled.

"Good, then maybe I've gotten your attention. You need Dragon, and she needs you. She needs companionship, and you need someone to show you how to be human."

"I am human!" he protested.

I snorted. "Only technically. Dragon does it better than you do, and she's not even biological!"

"Miss Militia?" he appealed, turning to Hannah. "Tell him he's wrong."

She paused, for a long, damning moment.

"Colin," she told him quietly, "I'm your friend. I've known you for years. But you've got a certain amount of … coldness … about you. A reserve. Like you're holding yourself apart from everyone. Maybe it's time to let yourself get close to someone."

He looked at her, then at me, and finally at the Director, who stood impassive and neutral in all this.

"… fine," he grumbled at last. "I'll talk to her."

"Excellent." I dusted my hands. "My work here is done. Unless there was something else …?"

"Yes." It was Director Piggot. "The diversions for the Alcott kidnapping tomorrow. Any more insights?"

I paused, mindful of Armsmaster's lie detector. "Nothing that I feel comfortable talking about right now," I temporised. "I'll be able to let you know tomorrow, though. Got those eight sprayers set up?"

She nodded. "I have no idea what you intend to do with them, though."

"You'll find out. Have them ready to roll at a moment's notice, starting around eleven thirty tomorrow. Along with a stack of PRT troopers. Maybe some capes for colour. But it'll be the sprayers who'll do the hard work."

She stared at me. "You're talking like you know what's going to happen."

I grinned. "Hoping really, really hard that I do."

She shook her head. "Not making me feel any more confident."

"Director," I told her seriously, "my aim is to make the world a better place. Tomorrow, if my plans work out, it'll be another step up. And you'll get the credit. You and the PRT."

She stared at me; eventually, she just shook her head. "I hope so," she muttered. "I truly hope so."

"Great," I said. "Now, can I get a lift home? My car's currently being worked on. And I'll need to stop off at the police station."

"Oh?" asked Miss Militia. "Why is that?"

"Incident at the school," I explained. "Involving a really, really big ABB guy and a fire extinguisher. I need to give them my statement."

"We can provide a van and a driver," Piggot offered.

"Good," I agreed. "Just so long as his name isn't Reed."

She gave me a dirty look, which only intensified when Miss Militia laughed.

=///=​

The stop at the police station did not take long; I had gone over the incident so often in my mind that the statement flowed out of me with barely any prompting by the officer who took it. I was in and out in less than half an hour; the patient PRT driver was waiting in the van when I emerged.

"Not too bored, I hope?" I asked as I climbed back in. "If so, I apologise."

He shook his head. "Not really," he told me as he put the van in gear. "Studying for my counter-terrorism quals. It's nice to have some peace and quiet once in a while, so I can get into it."

"Huh." I considered that. "You know, I could drive, and you could study, if you wanted." My tone was mostly joking.

"Sorry, sir," he replied deadpan. "Not permitted. But I appreciate the offer."

"No worries. I really do appreciate you doing this. It's a bugger not having my car."

"What happened to it?"

"Altercation with some ABB ratbags. I got the better of them, but after school let out, they trashed my ride. I've got some friends fixing it up … hey, I wonder."

Pulling my phone out of my bag, I dialled the Hebert house.

=///=​

Taylor got up from the kitchen table and answered the phone.

"Hebert residence, Taylor speaking."

"Hey, Taylor. How's things?"

"Mike!" Her voice held delight. "How are you? What's up?"

"I'm fine, kiddo. Listen, would you know if your dad's buddies have got my car on the road yet?"

"No," she replied. "I don't know, sorry. Hold on, I'll ask."

Danny looked up as she turned to him. "What's up, kiddo?"

Taylor held her hand over the mouthpiece. "Mike wants to know if his car's ready yet."

Danny considered that. "I really don't know," he confessed. "I can ring around and ask."

Taylor got back on the phone. "Dad doesn't know either," she told Mike, "but he can call around."

"That'd be great," he replied. "I kind of need it by tomorrow, remember?"

"Oh, yeah," she agreed. "We can get back to you on that."

"Much appreciated," he told her. "If it's not … well, I'll have to sort out transport some other way."

"I'm sure you'll figure something out," she assured him. "You've done all right so far. Ah, Dad wants to make those calls now. Talk to you later?"

"Sure," he agreed. "Later, kiddo."

She hung up, then made way for her father.

"You didn't even stay on the line long enough for me to talk to him?" he mock-scolded her with a grin.

She stuck out her tongue at him. "You can talk to him when you call him back."

"There is that," he agreed. "Can you fetch the phone book?"

=///=​

It was well after dark by the time I got home. I wasn't quite as sore as I had been the previous night when I stumbled through the door, but there wasn't much in it. Hopefully, some of the bruising would go down overnight, instead of coming up more.

Mentally, I listed what had happened over the day.

Confrontation with Julia, check.
Confrontation with ABB, check.
Talked with Taylor, check.
Confrontation with Gladly, check.
Made mental note to beat the living shit out of Gladly, check.
Talked with Gladys, check.
Told Piggot about Kid Win's specialty, check.
Set things in motion to get Canary released, check.
Abducted by Coil, check.
Scared shit out of Coil, check.
Put in good word for Dragon, check –

I hit the button to boot up my laptop, and hurried to get out of the rest of my work clothes while it went through the startup sequence. When I sat down, there was an email waiting for me. As usual, the From field was blank.

They told me this afternoon. Saint has been captured. No more eyes and ears!
PS: they know. You knew, didn't you?

I grinned and typed up an answer.

Yeah, I knew. Didn't tell them though. Had words with Armsmaster today. You make sure to tell me if he doesn't sit down and have a heart to heart with you.

In return, instead of an email, I saw my camera light blink into life. Moments after that, a window opened in the middle of my screen, and I saw a computer-generated female face.

"Hello, Mike," she greeted me, her lips and tongue moving realistically. Her voice was a warm contralto, with an accent which I supposed was Canadian.

"Dragon!" I replied. "How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful. And thank you for talking to Armsmaster. I'll let you know if he decides to give me the cold shoulder."

I grinned. "Hopefully he won't. I gave him a mouthful about it today. With luck he'll come to his senses. You two make a cute couple, you really do."

I swear, she blushed. Her personality was that complete.

"Thank you. I mean it. But one thing bothers me. How did you know? How do you know everything you do?"

I considered my answer.

"It's a thing that's unique to me. If I can ever get to a situation where my comms with you are totally secure, then I'll tell you. But nothing less than that. It's that volatile."

"Wow, that sounds rather ominous. Is it harmful in any way?"

I got up from the chair and turned the laptop toward the kitchenette. "Sorry, just putting something on to heat up. No, it's not harmful, not physically. It might be harmful to some people in a mental sense, if they can't get their head around it. Or they'll just simply refuse to believe. So I'd rather not go there."

I noticed, with her answer, that she raised the volume of the speaker. And as I moved around, the eyes on the screen followed me perfectly.

"Okay. Well, I can respect that. I'll talk to you later. And thank you again for all your help."

I waved at the screen. "You're welcome. Later, Lady Dragon. Or should that be Dragon Lady?"

She shook her head. "You are so bad." The camera light blinked out, and the window disappeared, along with the image.

=///=​

Welcome to the Parahumans Online message boards.
You are currently logged in, mack0813.
You are viewing:
• Threads you have replied to
• AND Threads that have new replies
• OR private message conversations with new replies
• Thread OP is displayed.
• Ten posts per page
• Last ten messages in private message history.
• Threads and private messages are ordered chronologically.
You have (1) new message from AllSeeingEye.
You have no infractions and no warnings.

=///=​

AllSeeingEye *New Message*: Okay, whatinhell did you do?
mack0813: Sorry, what?
AllSeeingEye: You know what I'm talking about. The boss.
mack0813:] What about him? What's he done?
AllSeeingEye: Told me to dump the entire investigation on you. Delete it. Never happened.
mack0813: Ah. Yeah, not surprised.
AllSeeingEye: He was fucking terrified. What did you do to him?
mack0813: hey, he started it
AllSeeingEye: Started what?
mack0813: Had me abducted today. Made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Like the one he made you.
AllSeeingEye: wut
AllSeeingEye: What did you do
mack0813: I made him a better offer.
AllSeeingEye: Which was?
mack0813: Butt out, let me go, or suffer a class S shitstorm.
AllSeeingEye: ... and he let you go.
mack0813: Well, it was that or the shitstorm.
AllSeeingEye: How were you even going to
AllSeeingEye: I don't even know
AllSeeingEye: I'm so sorry he abducted you
mack0813: It's all good. Seriously. I'm fine. You couldn't have known.
AllSeeingEye: You're not actually helping there. I'm the one who's supposed to know shit like this.
mack0813: It's all right. Really. I just wish I could have seen the look on his face when he realised just what he was up against.
AllSeeingEye: STOP TEASING ME PLEASE ITS NOT FAIR
mack0813: hehehe okay. I'll tell you more when we talk face to face.
AllSeeingEye: You know that we will. You know when we will. How do you know?
mack0813: <whistles nonchalantly>
AllSeeingEye: <sulks>
mack0813: Hey, I'll make you a prediction.
AllSeeingEye: Whats that?
mack0813: I predict that this time tomorrow you'll feel a hundred percent on what you feel right now.
AllSeeingEye: How do you know that? Seriously?
mack0813: Because I'm a cheaty cheating cheater.
AllSeeingEye: That I can believe.
mack0813: Well, gotta go chat to my other girlfriend. Laterz, Sarah.
AllSeeingEye: Stop doing that. Seriously. Later.

=///=​

Tattletale got up from the couch.

"Hey, Brian!" she called out.

"What's up?" he called back. "I'm in the middle of cooking dinner!"

She walked over and leaned into the kitchen. "Can you put it on hold or something for a bit?"

"Why, what do you need?" he asked.

"Well, you know that self defence training you've been trying to give me and Alec?"

He nodded. "Yeah?"

"Well, I want to do some now."

"Can it wait?"

"No, I want to do it right now."

"Right now? Why?"

"Because I really, really want to punch something."

=///=​

The phone rang just as I was about to click on Sveta's private chat channel.

"Hello?"

"Hi Mike, it's Danny."

"Danny, how you doing? What's the good word?"

"Sorry, there doesn't appear to be one. Your vehicle's not driveable right now. They were going to fit the windshield tomorrow afternoon."

"Hmm. Not overly helpful," I observed.

"Listen, do you need a lift into school? Because I can do that for you."

"Hmm, appreciated, but the bus works for me that way. No, I need a vehicle to get me downtown around midday."

"I could maybe stretch my lunch hour and do that for you."

"Tell you what. I'll see if I can get a lift from a member of the faculty, and if I can't swing that, then I'll get back to you. Okay?"

"Sure thing, Mike. Sorry your car isn't in better shape."

"Hey, I'm just glad it's getting fixed," I assured him. "I really do appreciate it."

"Not a problem. Let me know if you need that lift."

"Will do. See you round."

"Come over any time. Seriously."

"I'll take you up on that. Later."

"Later."

I hung up, regarded the phone thoughtfully, then picked it up and dialled a number.

=///=​

"Hello, Gladys Knott speaking."

"Gladys, how are you? I didn't wake you , did I?"

She smiled. "No, Michael. But I was preparing for bed. What's the matter?"

"Um, can I ask you a big favour?"

"You can ask. I might not say yes."

"That's fair. I need a car tomorrow, for the lunch break. Would you be able to bring yours in?"

She blinked. Of all the questions he might have asked, that one was not high on the list.

"Gladys, are you there?"

She mentally shook herself; she had been standing there in her nightgown, holding the phone. "Sorry, Michael. Yes, I'm still here. About the car … is it very important?"

"Extremely important. Seriously so."

"Who else have you asked?"

"You're it, so far."

She felt absurdly pleased. "Very well. I don't normally do this … but yes. I can bring my car in. Please take good care with it."

"I'll even refuel it for you. Thank you, so much."

"You are very welcome. When I see you next, I shall expect a full explanation of what you needed it for."

"And you'll get it. I owe you that much."

She smiled. "Very well. Good night, Michael."

"Good night, Gladys."

=///=​

mack0813: Hey hey hey, how's my best girl?
GstringGirl: Mack, how are you? (hugs)
mack0813: getting along, getting along (hugz)
GstringGirl: Its late, will we be able to get much playing done?
mack0813: Ugh sorry, Svetlana. I've had all sorts of problematic today.
GstringGirl: It's okay, really. We can play another day.
mack0813: Only if it's really all right with you. I don't want to disappoint you.
GstringGirl: Really, it's good. Hey, guess what
mack0813: What's that
GstringGirl: Ive been drawing pictures of Svetlana with dragons
mack0813: okay that's awesome. Any chance I can get to see them?
GstringGirl: I can try. Can't promise anything.
mack0813: Well, if you can, you can, if you can't, you can't. I'm just glad you're enjoying the game enough to do character drawings.
GstringGirl: Oh, I'm enjoying the game so, so very much.
mack0813: Well, good. Um, I might be back late tomorrow too, now I come to think of it. Friday should be okay. If you're good with starting late and then playing real late
GstringGirl: Friday nite should be fine. Parents wont mind so much.
mack0813: Better than going out drinking and getting in trouble, right?
GstringGirl: Oh you know it.
mack0813: well, I have to go sleep now, but Friday night's a go, right?
GstringGirl: Sure thing Mack. And thanks for telling me ahead of time.
mack0813: It's like I keep telling you. You're my best girl, and I don't want to disappoint you.
GstringGirl: aww you say the sweetest things.
mack0813: only cause they're true. Gnight sweet svetlana
GstringGirl: good night mack.

=///=​

I woke up on Thursday morning with ribs that still ached, but nowhere near as badly as they had the previous morning. Careful examination revealed that the bruises were far less spectacular than before, which was a good thing. Given my plans for the day, I needed to be able to move in my vest.

I breakfasted quickly, then made sure that all my paraphernalia was in place and secured properly. My phone was charged, and there were fresh batteries in my recorders. I didn't need to shave, not really, but I touched up a few rough patches anyway.

On the bus ride in, I found myself getting more and more keyed up. I had to consciously relax myself, taking deep breaths and letting them out again slowly. Today was the day I had worked toward for … well, five days, really. Since I had spoken with Mrs Yamada. Trying to manipulate matters so that things would happen at a distance of days rather than metres; no puppet master had anything on me.

Of course, I was cheating. "Make sure the Undersiders rob the Brockton Bay Central bank a little after midday on Thursday the fourteenth of April," was one of the requests (read: orders) I had given to Contessa.

It wasn't like it was a hard thing; they were already destined to do it. Contessa simply made sure that none of my butterfly swarms knocked that particular destiny train off its tracks, to mix a rather laboured metaphor.

I got off the bus and walked into the car park, to see … Gladys' little car was nowhere to be seen.

My heart sank. How was I going to get me and Taylor to the right place at the right time? Call the PRT and request a van? Possible, actually. Probable, even.

Maybe I should have asked them first.

I took a deep breath. Maybe I still might need to. But I would see Gladys first, see what was going on.

=///=​

When I popped my head into the break room after getting my keys, Gladys was not there, but Mr Gladly was. He donated me a sneer, free of charge. I gave him change of one raised eyebrow and left; I didn't want to get into anything with Gladly right then. As much as I would have enjoyed practising some of the more strenuous compliance holds on him, then and there was not the time and place.

Besides, I was engaged in matters that just might help save the world someday. Next to that, Gladly paled to the insignificance that he really was.

I couldn't get fixated on this; I had my rounds to do.

So I did my rounds.

=///=​

On my second pass, I struck gold in the computer lab that was Taylor's home room. Gladys was there, sorting out papers and looking ever so slightly stressed. I rapped on the door.

Gladys looked up, a brilliant smile blossoming on her face as she saw me. She came right over and opened the door.

"Michael," she greeted me. "Come in, come in."

I stepped inside and closed the door.

"It's good to see you," I told her honestly, and kissed her gently on the lips.

"None of that on school grounds now!" she scolded me, but smiled anyway. "Oh, and I have my keys for you too."

"You do?" I asked blankly. "I didn't see your car."

"That's because I didn't park it out at the front," she explained, hurrying to where she'd left her purse. "When I bring it to school, I park it beside the grounds-keeper's shed around at the side of the school. People going past can't see it then."

"Tricky," I told her admiringly.

She found the keys and came back over with them. "Please take good care with it."

I accepted them and tucked them into my pocket. "I will. I promise."

"And when you're finished with it," she murmured, putting her arms around my neck and her mouth close to mine, "I want to hear all about why you needed it so urgently."

It was only natural to put my arms around her, and I kissed her again. It was a very nice kiss, but one that we couldn't hold for too long, just in case someone came past and peered in through the small window.

But still, a very nice kiss all the same.

We separated; she giggled, and pulled out a scrap of tissue to wipe excess lipstick off my face and lips.

"Saturday," I said; half promise, half reminder.

"Saturday," she echoed.

I had a date with her on Saturday. I was looking forward to it.

Between now and then, I also intended to bring down a criminal mastermind and his personal army of capes.

I was looking forward to that too, but not as much as Saturday.

Keys secure in my pocket, and the feeling of Gladys' lips still warm on mine, I let myself out of the classroom and continued my rounds.

=///=​

Time rolled around, and the students arrived in their usual avalanche fashion. I waited off to the side; Emma arrived, and then Madison. Lastly, Julia's father arrived, sans Julia.

"Good morning, Mr Morrow," I greeted him politely. "I notice a distinct absence of Julia."

"Ah, yes," he replied, looking somewhat put upon. "She stayed in bed today, loudly insisting that she's sick."

"Indeed," I acknowledged dryly. "Kindly let her know that I will be informing the principal of this dereliction. If she cannot produce a doctor's certificate of illness for today and tomorrow – because you and I both know she'll be 'sick' again tomorrow – then she'll just do those days next week. Also …" I grinned at him. "I spoke to the Principal regarding her little stunt with the phone. Her suspension has been extended another week. So she'll be doing all next week, plus two days over, if she's 'sick' tomorrow."

He blinked. "I … see. It will be interesting to see her reaction to this."

"I'd love to be a fly on the wall, that's for sure."

With a nod to me, he headed back down to his car, already pulling his mobile out and dialling.

=///=​

I turned and headed inside with Emma and Madison. They kept pace with me, one on either side. We didn't speak until we had entered the classroom and they were seated next to each other, up at the front.

"So, what did you bring today to do?" I asked them.

The girls glanced at each other and then back at me. "We've brought some study books," Emma told me, "and some novels to read in between times. Kid stuff, mainly, but funny all the same."

"And when we're finished reading our own stuff, we're going to swap books," Madison concluded.

"Nicely done," I observed. "You're thinking ahead."

They both blushed pink, pleased at the praise.

We chatted idly until the first period bell rang, and I conveyed their phones to the office.

=///=​

I caught up with Taylor at the end of second period. She was heading for Gladly's classroom for World Events. I fell into step beside her; noting the glint in her eye.

"You brought it, right?" I murmured, not loudly enough to be heard by anyone around us.

Her reply was a single, jerky nod.

"Hey," I told her softly. "Relax. We got this."

She took a deep breath and slowed her pace slightly. "Okay," she replied, equally quietly. "We got this."

"Soon as third period's over, I'll pick you up. I'm borrowing Mrs Knott's car."

"Okay. I'm used to getting out of class quickly anyway."

"But now, it's for a good cause."

She turned and flashed me a quick grin before disappearing into the classroom.

I continued my rounds. The time ticked down slowly.

=///=​

Fifty minutes until go time.

I went to the office and verified that I would be spending my lunch hour away from the school. I neglected to add that a student would be leaving with me.

Forty minutes to go.

I walked outside, around to the side of the school building, to check on Gladys' car. It was still a tiny little thing. I took the time to adjust the seat and mirrors to my satisfaction.

Thirty minutes to go.

I went up to the third floor and did a complete sweep of the floor, looking in every door, checking every fire extinguisher closet.

Twenty minutes to go.

I went to the break room, relieved myself, washed my hands, and ate some of my lunch.

Ten minutes to go.

I went to the second floor; there were more occupied classrooms here, but there was still enough to check on, to pass the time.

I was trotting down the stairs as the second hand on my watch started the last slow sweep toward zero time; that is, eleven forty-five.

Gladly's classroom was just ahead, not far from the main doors. I was approaching it as the bell rang. Taylor should be appearing any moment now. I waited.

No Taylor.

Other students burst from the door.

Still no Taylor.

Our window was shrinking.

I opened the door. Taylor was speaking to Mr Gladly; or rather, being spoken to by him.

"Taylor!" I called. "Can I see you a moment?"

Gladly looked up. "She's busy," he snapped, even as Taylor moved toward me.

"Class is over," I retorted. "And I need to speak to Taylor."

Taylor came over to me; I stepped back out of the doorway, and we headed off at a smart walk.

"What was that about?" I asked in an undertone.

"I told Greg off in the middle of class for being an idiot."

"Was he?"

"When is he not?"

"Fair point. So what did Gladly want?"

"To talk to me about my manners."

I had no words for that.

We were almost at the doors, when Taylor stiffened slightly. "He's following us."

"Move faster."

I took the steps two and three at a time, landing heavily and punishing my ankles. Taylor danced down them, as she had done Sunday night. I was so proud of her, that night. And she would do both of us proud, today. I hoped.

We hurried around to the side of the building, to where Gladys' car awaited us.

I unlocked the car with central locking, and Taylor got in, carrying her bag. She had a coat tied around her waist, hanging down at the back.

"You've got your costume mostly on, don't you?"

She grinned. "Yep."

"Got the right bugs?"

"Grabbed them last night."

"Excellent."

I did up my belt, and started the car.

And then the passenger side door was wrenched open, and Gladly leaned in. He took hold of Taylor's arm, and tried to pull her from the car.

"What the hell are you doing?" he yelled. "Where the hell are you going with this student?"

"I'm a friend of the family," I told him. "I'm taking her to the shops."

"No, you're not," he retorted. "Taylor, get out of the car right now." He yanked on her arm again, and she cried out in pain.

I saw her tense, and I shouted, "No!"

He thought I was addressing him, but she knew better; I was telling her not to use her bugs. I opened my door and got out, moving around the car as fast as I could. Time was ticking down; our window was closing fast.

Gladly let her go and turned to meet me, hands moving in some sort of vague defensive action. He'd been a popular kid once himself, I figured. He'd maybe been in a schoolyard fight or two.

I moved in close; he tried to punch me in the face. I took his arm and brought it around into a behind-the-back compliance hold. Then I marched him around to my side of the car.

"Lay a hand on her one more time, Gladly," I told him flatly, "and I will break your fucking arm."

I gave him a shove, sending him staggering; he tripped and fell. My open door was right there; I got in. Taylor already had her door shut. I hit the central lock just in case, but Gladly was still flat on his face by the time we pulled out.

"You're gonna get in trouble." Taylor's voice was worried.

I shrugged. "Fuck it. We pull this off, it'll be worth it."

I let out the clutch and gunned the engine.

Hopefully, we'd make it on time.


End of Chapter Sixteen

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Seventeen: Assorted Interludes


Interlude 1: Director Piggot and Kid Win
Midday, Wednesday, April 13, 2011

"Hey, Chris."

The brown-haired teen did not look up from where he was soldering something on a workbench.

Missy Biron rolled her eyes. "Hey, Chris!"

Still, he didn't notice.

She reached out, crunching space in between. Her hand lightly smacked him across the back of the head, even while she stayed in the doorway of his work room, fifteen feet away. "Chris!"

Startled, he looked around. "What? What's the matter?"

"The Director's here to see you."

"What? What did I do now?"

"I don't know," she replied patiently. "Maybe you should go find out?"

"Oh, yeah. Thanks."

He got up from the workbench and ran his hands through his tousled hair, only managing to disarrange it farther. Heading for the door, he followed Missy out into the main area of the Wards' section of the PRT building.

Director Piggot was waiting for him, her impassive expression somehow managing to convey an attitude of disapproval.

"You wanted to see me, ma'am?"

"Kid Win," she greeted him.

"Uh, ma'am, out of costume I'm -"

"Kid Win," she repeated firmly.

He gave up. "Yes, ma'am?"

"You're a good Tinker," she went on, apropos of nothing. "Armsmaster has nothing but praise for you. You bring a lot to the Wards. Gallant, in particular, is made much more effective by the armour that you've given him."

"Uh, thank you, ma'am?" he responded warily. Praise from the Director was so unexpected that it took him totally off balance.

"Indeed. Have you figured out your specialty yet?"

He took a moment to consider this. A Tinker's speciality was a big thing. Any Tinker could build something more or less related to his speciality with relative ease, but until he had it nailed down, he would always have difficulties, and his work would never be as good as it could be.

"Not yet, ma'am," he confessed. "I'm working at it, but nothing seems to be clicking. I start one project or another, but then I run out of inspiration halfway through."

She nodded understandingly. "Just as a suggestion ... have you considered that your specialty might lie in making modular equipment?"

Emily Piggot had been associating with capes for much of her career in the PRT; ever since she had become Director of the Brockton Bay region, she had been in contact with them on a daily basis. She didn't actually like capes; at best, she considered them overgrown children with far too much power at their command, and at worst, a dangerous menace to society.

But she had grown to recognise the look that crossed Kid Win's face. It was what she called the 'lightbulb moment', when a cape - usually a Tinker, but sometimes a Thinker - experienced a moment of epiphany, usually to do with their powers. It was always followed by interesting results. Sometimes dangerous, often bizarre, but always interesting.

"Holy shit," murmured the young Tinker in front of her, his eyes focused on something not immediately apparent to Emily. "Holy shit."

She cleared her throat impatiently.

His eyes refocused on the Director and on reality in general, and he flushed. "Oh, uh, sorry, ma'am,' he stammered. "I didn't mean ... but what you said ... it makes so much sense. If I made it all modular ..."

She waved his words away. "Never mind that now," she told him. "I presume you have promising new ideas to try out? Ideas that might assist the Wards?"

"Oh yeah," he blurted. "Oh yeah. I see where I was going wrong, before."

She smiled frostily. "Very well. Just one more thing, then."

"Yeah?" he asked eagerly. Why did I ever think Piggot was such a hardass? he asked himself. She's just solved the biggest problem I've been facing.

"Yes," she agreed. "How are you going on your Alternator Cannon, and when is the paperwork for it due to cross my desk?"

And just like that, she took the wind out of his sails.

"What?" he blurted. "How did you - I haven't - I - but ..."

She waited him out, arms crossed.

He took a deep breath and composed himself. "Tonight. I'll get the paperwork sorted out by tonight."

"Good. Don't let this happen again."

She turned and limped from the Wards' area; as the door closed behind her, Chris looked around in confusion.

"What just happened?"

Missy patted him consolingly on the shoulder. "You just got owned by Miss Piggy. How do you feel?"

He shook his head. "Don't even ask. And for god's sake, don't tell Dennis. He'll never let me live it down."

She grinned at him. "Take my next monitor duty and it's a deal."

"Chiseler." But his voice was fond as he tousled her blonde hair. "Deal."

"Okay, so what's an Alternator Cannon?"

"Something I've been working on. It should give us a lot more firepower in the field. But there's something I can't figure out ..."

"What's that?"

"I only named it the day before yesterday, and I haven't told anyone about it. Or the name."

"Huh. That is weird." Vista stared at the closed door. "How do you suppose she did it?"

"Beats me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some work to do."

"That paperwork for Piggy?"

"Yeah. And a whole lot of other ideas. Modular ..."

He wandered off, his eyes unfocused. Missy watched him go.

Oh well, won't see him for the next few hours.

***​

In the elevator, riding up from the Wards' sub-sub-basement, Emily Piggot allowed herself a rare, genuine smile.

That was fun.

=//=//=​

Interlude 2: Coil and Security
5:25 PM, Wednesday, April 13, 2011

The phone rang; Coil answered it. "Yes?"

"Sir, this is Reed. You wanted to know anything we could find out about Security?"

He sat up in his chair. "Go on."

"He's been in contact with the Director. They're going to bring him in for consultation on some matter or other. Really hush-hush."

"When?"

"Five o'clock. He works at some high school, apparently."

"Does he know who's picking him up?"

"Not that I know of, sir."

Coil smiled. "Very well then. You can go and pick him up. I think it's about time this 'Security' and I had a chat."

***
​

Universe A

"Your orders are to bring him to the safe house and secure him there. Ensure that he has no communication with the outside world. I will send you farther orders in good time."

"Yes, sir."

***​

Universe B

"Your orders are to bring him to the safe house and secure him there. Ensure that he has no communication with the outside world. I will meet you there."

"Yes, sir."

***​

Coil entered the room where Security was being secured to the chair.

"What do we know about him so far?" he asked.

Reed handed the man's wallet to him. "Michael Allen. He's forty, single, a security guard by profession, and he's from a small town no-one's heard of in the Midwest."

Coil took it and looked through it himself. The usual paraphernalia gathered by a single older man; nothing looked out of the ordinary. The driver's licence, the security licence and the concealed carry permit all bore the same name, the same date of birth, the same signature. The photos were not the same, but obviously showed the same man.

He pulled the bag off; it was definitely the same man. He was snoring slightly. There was a discoloured bruise on his scalp.

"I thought you said there was no violence."

"No, he had that already," Reed assured him, and indeed, the bruise did look a little on the old side. "We used the knockout drug."

Coil looked Security over one more time. Uniform shirt, some sort of armour vest underneath. Overweight, significantly so. He didn't look like a high-powered Thinker. With the closely-trimmed scalp and the greying vanDyke beard, he looked like the archetypical security guard.

But then, perhaps, it was protective colouration. He had come to Brockton Bay for some reason, so he had to be following some sort of angle. But he didn't have any protection, any security of his own – Coil allowed himself a small smile – and so he had fallen prey to the bigger fish.

Whatever his angle was, Coil was very interested in knowing; if it was sufficiently lucrative, he might take a piece of it for himself. In any case, whatever he knew or could do, Coil wanted access to it. No matter how the Alcott kidnapping went off on Thursday, he would have another Thinker to help him choose timelines.

The unconscious man had been secured in the chair; Coil pulled the bag back over his head.

"Administer the antagonist."

Reed bent over Allen for a moment; the injector pumped a measured dose into his arm.

***
​

Coil leaned over and examined Allen's face as he began to register his surroundings. The man's eyes focused on him, squinting slightly. Oddly enough, he chuckled. Coil put it down to post-sedation disorientation.

"So you're the mysterious Security," he observed.

"Yup. And you're Coil." He was lucid, at least.

"Indeed I am. And you are at a crossroad of your life." Coil searched his face for the reaction he was looking for.

Annoyingly, Allen just grinned. "Do tell."

Under his mask, Coil frowned. "From here, you have three options. The first is that you agree to work for me, give me sole access to your talents. I promise, I can make you a very wealthy man."

Allen seemed unfazed. "And the other two?"

Coil took a deep breath. "The second is that you work for me, involuntarily, by way of inducements. I pay you nothing. But as is the manner of such things, I would get less out of you than if you were willing. So I am reluctant to go down that path."

"Wow, your concern for my well-being is overwhelming."

Coil was irritated; either Allen didn't know how serious his situation was, or was deliberately attempting to bait him. He let a sharp tone creep into his voice.

"The third option, Mr Allen, is that you die, here, in this room, and no-one mourns your passing."

"Hmm." Allen paused. "Actually, I have a counter-offer. A fourth option. But it's for your ears only."

Really? Coil sighed silently. Might as well hear what he's got to say, so I can get this show back on track. He gestured; Reed looked doubtful, but he obediently left the room, along with the others.

Once the door had closed behind Reed, Coil turned to the bound prisoner. "What's your counter-offer?"

The reply froze his blood.

"The fourth option, Mr Calvert, is that I'm going to say two words, and you're going to let me go. Just two words, that's it."

Now we see his Thinker talents in action. Well, they won't do him any good here. So he's able to determine my real name; a bullet will silence him if need be.

His voice was hard and cold when he answered. "I highly doubt it. What two words are these?"

Allen spoke clearly and slowly, and if Coil's blood had frozen when his name was spoken, the next two words turned it to liquid helium. "'Cauldron. Asset'."

Shit. Shit shit shit shit.

Instinctively, Coil dropped the other timeline. He then split the current one, and let them run side by side.

Allen's voice was as calm and collected as ever. "Do I need to repeat myself?"

Fuck. How does he even know that name? Is he a member of Cauldron? "No, you do not."

"Good. Do I have your complete and total attention?" That same maddening calm.

"You have it, yes." Coil was sweating under his mask. There was also a trickle down the inside of his thigh that he hoped and prayed was sweat.

"Even better. My next question is simple: do I get dropped off at a location of my choosing, or does a metric shit-ton of trouble descend upon your head? Because that can happen. We can go there. It's your choice."

Coil was thinking fast. "And if I have you dropped off? What happens to me then?"

Is he bluffing? Has he heard the name Cauldron somewhere, knows the effect it'll have on me?

Allen shrugged, as best he could. "I chalk this up to a misunderstanding, and nothing more comes of it. We don't need to worry about ... her. She doesn't come into the picture at all."

He hasn't mentioned Contessa by name. Just 'her'. He knows there's a bogeyman, and that she's a woman ... but that still proves nothing. "No backlash at all?"

"Hey, it was an honest mistake. This time round, you get a freebie. Next time ... well, if there's a second time, there sure as hell won't be a third time. Are we on the same page?"

He's being too lenient. Not demanding reparations at all. Bluffing?

Coil nodded. "We are indeed, Mr ..." He almost said 'Allen' again, but amended it at the last minute. "Mr Security."

"Good. Now, can you cut me loose? I really, really, really need to scratch my nose."

***​

Universe B

Coil smiled cruelly under his mask. "Somehow, I don't think so."

He opened the door. "Get back in here. I need you to ... persuade ... Mr Allen to my way of thinking."

Allen stared. "Wait, what?"

***​

Universe C

He opened the door. "Get back in here."

They trooped back into the room.

"Free him. Drop him off downtown, wherever he asks."

The men stared at him, and then at Allen, who looked downright smug.

Reed protested. "What? Sir ... let him go? Really?"

Coil gritted his teeth. I have to take this precaution, just in case. "Do I have to repeat myself?"

Reed paled. " ... yes, sir. Right away, sir." He started on the ropes.

Coil was already thinking ahead. Reed's a complication now. I need to tie up that loose end.

***
​

Universe B

Blood was running down Allen's face; one eye was starting to swell. His nose had been broken. His shirt had been undone, and the stab vest removed from him. Curiously, the plates all along one side were broken; Coil had no idea what would have done that.

His hairy stomach bulged over his waistline; Coil gestured to Reed. The PRT mole slammed a fist into Allen's solar plexus. The security guard doubled up as far as he could retching.

"One more time," Coil snarled. "What is your power? What can you do?"

Allen spat vomitus out of his mouth. "No ... powers," he gasped. "Not ... a ... cape."

"My name," hissed Coil. "How did you know my name?"

Allen coughed, and spat blood. "Read it ..." he gasped. "Book. Story."

This was making no sense.

"Untie his right arm," Coil ordered. "Allen! Can you hear me?"

Allen looked up at him from his one good eye.

"Unless you start giving me answers I like, you're going to start losing appendages. We can start with your fingers. But we won't end there. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

Allen nodded.

"So, before we begin, do you have anything to say?"

The bound man whispered something.

Coil frowned. "What did he say?"

The other men shrugged.

He leaned closer. "I didn't hear you."

"Worm ...."

Call me a worm, will he?

Straightening up, Coil grabbed the now-untied arm and slammed it on to the armrest. It took some doing, but they forced Allen's fingers open and held the hand flat. Allen gritted his teeth – the ones he had left – and fought, not making a sound except for breath hissing in and out of his mouth.

Coil poised his knife over the hand, the blade inches from Allen's pinky finger.

"Last chance," he gritted.

And then Reed fell over.

Coil looked around; Contessa was suddenly, inexplicably, in the room. Another of his men tried to grab her; she evaded the move, jabbed with a thin-bladed knife, and his carotid artery spurted blood across the room. The spray missed her by inches as she stepped up to Coil. The knife was somewhere out of his sight, but he was sure she could kill him in an instant.

"Let him free," she murmured.

Coil nodded. There was a warm trickle of liquid making its way down his leg, now. He didn't think it was sweat.

Her eyes fixed on his, even through the mask. "Last chance," she hissed. And then, she was gone, out of his line of sight as he stood frozen. He felt a puff of chilled air, and then ... nothing.

Coil registered a strange sound. He looked down. Bound, beaten, bloody, hanging in his bonds, Allen was laughing. Laughing.

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Coil muttered irritably, before he closed down the timeline.

=//=//=
​

Interlude 3: Director Piggot, Armsmaster and Miss Militia
Morning of Thursday, April 14, 2011

Armsmaster and Miss Militia stood in Director Piggot's office, eavesdropping countermeasures fully engaged. The armour-clad hero seemed to be brooding, arms folded.

"Are we still taking the feed from Security's apartment?" asked Miss Militia doubtfully. "He gave us invaluable information, regarding Saint and the Dragonslayers."

"There's more at stake here than one man's privacy," the Director pointed out. "Anything else we can glean from this man, whether he wants to tell us or not, could be of vital importance."

She took a deep breath. "In addition, last night, I formulated a hypothesis, which neatly solves the question of how Mr Allen knows so much without being a cape, and why he gave us the information on Saint – and why he's insistent on Dragon being freed."

Armsmaster raised his head. "As did I."

Miss Militia looked from one to the other. "Okay, I'm lost here."

"It's simple," Armsmaster told her. "Michael Allen works for Dragon. She feeds him information somehow, and he comes to us with that information, pretending to be a third party."

Director Piggot nodded. "She even vouched for him, for that first meeting."

"Yes," agreed Armsmaster. "So he gave us the information on Saint, which Dragon was unable to act on – some of those back-doors Richter installed are diabolically clever – and we did the hard work of taking the monkey off her back."

"Putting away a villain who has endangered people for years by attacking Dragon while she's been doing her duty," pointed out Miss Militia.

"Granted, Saint deserves everything he gets," Piggot conceded. "But it still feels as though we were used as a catspaw, a patsy. At second hand, even, through this so-called 'Security'. And I don't like that."

"And the way he was pushing me toward her, yesterday," grunted Armsmaster. "You know, I nearly fell for that."

"Hmm," mused the Director. "What's his angle there, do you think?"

"Whatever it is, I don't like it."

Miss Militia looked from one to the other. "You know, this could all be a huge coincidence. He could just be doing this from the goodness of his heart, helping people out –"

" – using knowledge that only Dragon, if anyone, could possess," Armsmaster reminded her. "Right."

Director Piggot nodded. "Well, we have the latest audio files. Let's see what we have."

***
​

"Hello, Mike."

"That's Dragon!" hissed Armsmaster, to be shushed by the other two.

"Dragon! How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful. And thank you for talking to Armsmaster. I'll let you know if he decides to give me the cold shoulder."

"Hopefully he won't. I gave him a mouthful about it today. With luck he'll come to his senses. You two make a cute couple, you really do."

Both Miss Militia and Piggot turned to look at Armsmaster; he hunched his shoulders. Miss Militia looked as though she was trying to stifle a laugh.

"Thank you. I mean it. But one thing bothers me. How did you know? How do you know everything you do?"

Piggot hit a key, and the file stopped playing. All three stared at one another.

"Wait ..." Armsmaster began.

"If she doesn't know ..." Miss Militia.

Director Piggot shook her head. "She doesn't. She can't know his place is bugged."

Armsmaster shook his head. "It doesn't make sense."

"Keep it going," Miss Militia suggested.

Piggot hit the same key. Mike Allen's voice came through the speakers next.

"It's a thing that's unique to me. If I can ever get to a situation where my comms with you are totally secure, then I'll tell you. But nothing less than that. It's that volatile."

"Wow, that sounds rather ominous. Is it harmful in any way?"

There was a pause, then the sound of him moving around.

"Sorry, just putting something on to heat up. No, it's not harmful, not physically. It might be harmful to some people in a mental sense, if they can't get their head around it. Or they'll just simply refuse to believe. So I'd rather not go there."

A microwave oven started up; Dragon's voice got a little louder, perhaps to make it easier for Mike to hear her.

"Okay. Well, I can respect that. I'll talk to you later. And thank you again for all your help."

"You're welcome. Later, Lady Dragon. Or should that be Dragon Lady?"

Dragon's voice actually sounded amused. "You are so bad."

No more voices came over the speakers; Piggot hit the key again; the sound of the microwave cut out.

"Thoughts, people?"

"Maybe we should play it through again," suggested Miss Militia.

"I want to hear what else was recorded," Armsmaster stated at almost the same time.

"Okay," agreed the dark-skinned hero. "Let's see what else is on there."

***​

Five minutes later, the relevant sound files had been played through.

"So his car is being fixed by Danny Hebert's friends ..." mused Armsmaster.

"And he's borrowing a car from a staff member at Winslow," added Director Piggot, typing on her computer. "Here it is; Gladys Knott. She teaches computer studies."

"She's the one who spent Monday night with him," Miss Militia blurted.

"Well, no wonder she feels comfortable with lending him her car," Armsmaster observed dryly.

"Let's focus on the important aspect here," Piggot pointed out. "He sees a need to get into the city around midday today. Something's going down there, and he knows where and when."

"Well, he did say he'd be able to tell us about it closer to the time," Miss Militia noted. "I think we need to trust him on this."

"Let's play back the first file again," Armsmaster suggested unexpectedly.

They played it back; each of them listened intently.

When it was over, each of them looked at the others.

"It doesn't add up," Armsmaster confessed. "It was so neat, so tidy. It made sense."

Miss Militia nodded. "Except that she asks him, straight out, how he knows what he knows."

Piggot shook her head. "Did no-one else note the worrying part? Where he told her that if he told people, they might not be able to get their head around the idea? The very concept of where he gets the information from might harm them mentally?"

"Things That Man Was Not Meant To Know ..." quoted Miss Militia softly.

Armsmaster sounded doubtful. "Do you really think ...?"

Piggot shivered. "Christ, I hope not."

A moment passed, and then she spoke again.

"I've just realised something." She didn't sound happy with it.

"What?" asked Miss Militia.

"He never gave us a straight answer as to why Coil's men let him go so readily yesterday. I think I have an idea as to why they did, now."

A silence fell over the room, broken only by the discordant background hum.

"So, until we know more about Michael Allen," Armsmaster ventured, "how do we act toward him?"

Miss Militia spoke up first. "Very, very politely."

No-one disagreed.


End of Chapter Seventeen

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Eighteen: More Interludes


Interlude 4: Contessa, Eidolon, Alexandria
Evening of Sunday, April 10 2011

"What?" shouted Eidolon. "What else did that son of a bitch say about me?"

"I have told you what I have told you," replied Contessa, her face and voice composed.

"That's not true! It can't be true! I won't believe it!" Under his mask, Eidolon was turning red in the face.

"You know, there's a simple way of dealing with this," Alexandria interjected.

"Hell yes," snapped Eidolon. "Door that bastard straight back here. See what else he knows, or thinks he knows. Get the truth out of him, one way or the other."

Contessa shook her head. "No. Do not abduct him. If you must speak to him, do so in his apartment."

Alexandria stared at her. "Don't grab him?"

"That is correct. Bad things happen if you grab him."

"Bad things to your precious path of victory, or to us?"

"Yes."

Alexandria scowled. "I hate it when you say things like that. Okay, fine. I presume we're not allowed to kill him either. Or maim him." Her tone was heavily sarcastic, but Contessa did not react to it.

"No," agreed the enigmatic woman. "That would also be a bad idea."

"Okay, fine," growled Eidolon. "We'll go and talk to your precious Mr Allen."

"Is there anything we need to worry about once we're there?" asked Alexandria.

"No," Contessa replied. "Nothing whatsoever."

"All right then," Eidolon said. "Let's do this."

Alexandria did the honours. "Door, to Michael Allen's apartment."

The portal formed, and they both stepped through it. As it closed behind them, Contessa nodded once to herself.

Step complete.

=///=
​

Interlude 5: Alexandria and Canary
Morning of Thursday, April 14 2011

"Mcabee. On your feet."

The guard's voice sounded flat and empty, lacking in inflection. This was not his fault; the cell walls were contoured and padded in such a way as to reduce echoes to a minimum.

It worked, too; in an ordinary room, Paige could surround herself with harmonics. In a concert hall, she could really let her voice go to work, and build towering palaces of sound to reduce the most cynical critic to tears. In this cell, even her glorious voice came out thin and flat and colourless; she hated it.

But she could do nothing about it; not allowed to speak for herself, defend herself, all she could do was huddle in the corner of her padded cell and hum melodies to herself. At least they sounded good inside her head.

She looked up as the guards appeared in her doorway. One stayed there, keeping a containment foam sprayer pointed at her. The other stepped forward and to the side. At the order, she got to her feet.

"In the square. Assume the position."

There was a square marked out in yellow paint on the floor; when fresh, it would have been as bright and eye-catching as Paige's hair, but time and use had dulled it to a scuffed near-brown. She stood in the square, feet apart, hands behind her head, facing away from the guards.

The guards had headpieces that covered their eyes and ears. She presumed the earpieces held some sort of sound protection that filtered out the more unusual aspects of her voice. She wasn't sure what the eyepieces did; maybe a heads-up display, maybe just plain eye protection. It wasn't as if she was in a position to ask.

Her right hand was yanked down from the back of her neck, and secured with a heavy cuff. Her left hand joined it a moment later. The restraints pulled on her arms; she wasn't exactly a Brute, but apparently they couldn't take chances.

In the next moment, the collar went around her neck. It clicked into place, and she felt the almost subliminal hum that indicated that it was active.

"Mouth."

Obediently, she opened her mouth. The gag went in, forcing her tongue into an unnatural position. She couldn't speak, couldn't even swallow properly. Her jaw would soon begin to ache; at the end of the day, she was going to be in agony.

Another restraint clicked around her left ankle, then her right. The heavy chain connecting these linked up to the restraints on her wrists. She would just about be able to shuffle, but if they thought she would make a run for it with even just the wrist restraints on, they were vastly overestimating her capabilities.

A wave of depression washed over her, bringing hot tears to her eyes. She regretted the hasty words she had said to him, a thousand times since her arrest. Her money could have gone toward reconstructive surgery; had they not frozen her funds, she would have offered it, eagerly. But it was too late, and she was being tried for saying three words.

As they marched her – shuffled her – out of her cell, past the sound-dampening baffles, she caught sight of the clock on the wall.

That's odd.

Every other time she had been brought in front of the court, that clock had read nine-thirty on the dot, when she walked past it. Now it read seven-thirty.

She wanted to ask what was going on. But her mouth was wedged into a position that made it impossible for her to articulate a single word – because, as the prosecutor had so eloquently pointed out, words were her weapons – and she doubted anyone would answer her anyway.

It was also dawning on her that they were not loading her down with the full restraints, such as the containment foam on her hands. What's going on here?

She was prodded into an office. The warden of the prison sat behind the desk; she had seen him once, from a distance. He had looked through her, as if she did not exist. Now, he actually looked at her, as if at something that had crawled from beneath a rock. It was not an improvement.

The other occupant of the office only served to fill her with more confusion, and not a little apprehension. The tall, statuesque woman, wearing a black and grey costume and a metal helmet. Everyone in the civilised world knew Alexandria.

But what's she doing here?

Alexandria looked coolly at her. "This is Canary?"

The warden nodded, jerkily. "This is Paige Mcabee, alias Canary, yes."

Alexandria was staring at her restraints. "Does she have a Brute rating?"

"Standard precautions –"

Alexandria snorted. "Get them off of her. Even if she is a Brute, it won't matter."

She was, of course, right. Alexandria was the Brute that other Brutes looked up to. Even the 'flying brick' powerset was known as the 'Alexandria package'.

The warden nodded. A guard stepped forward, and locks clicked. Paige gasped through her gag as the weight came off of her wrists, then her ankles. Tentatively, looking at Alexandria to make sure she wasn't doing anything wrong, she rubbed at her wrists.

The hero didn't pay any attention. She was looking at the collar. "And this?"

"Explosive collar. We can detonate it at range. Standard procedure for Master class –"

"Take it off of her. It won't be necessary."

The warden coughed. "Ma'am – Alexandria – she is a dangerous parahuman. She caused a man to –"

She fixed him with a glare. "Sir, I know exactly what she is accused of, and I don't care. I do not want a valuable parahuman asset accidentally erased, and possibly killing other assets, because some idiot's finger slipped on the button. If she becomes a problem, the Protectorate is entirely capable of dealing with it. Remove. The. Collar."

Paige blinked. Valuable parahuman asset? Me?

Alexandria stared the warden down. Eventually, he nodded to the same guard. Paige felt something insert into a slot in the metal collar. The locking mechanism disengaged, disarming the explosive mechanism, and the collar fell away. Slowly, carefully, not wanting anyone to think she was doing anything dangerous, Paige reached up and rubbed her neck.

Alexandria looked at her. "Paige Mcabee. I've come from Los Angeles to present an offer to you. Your presence has been requested in Brockton Bay, to assist in bringing down a supervillain. I do not know the specifics, but there is a chance you will be exposed to danger, or even killed.

"I have papers ready to sign here for your release into Protectorate custody; if you come with me, you will be required to participate in the mission. Otherwise, you can go back to your cell. It's your choice. Nod if you wish to come with me, shake your head if you prefer to stay here."

Paige was on the verge of nodding, but held up a finger, then pointed at the pen on the desk. Alexandria divined her meaning and handed her the pen and a pad. Paige wrote carefully, in large block capitals.

WHAT HAPPENS TO ME AFTER MISSION

Alexandria nodded; it was a cogent question.

"I honestly do not know. That will be up to the Brockton Bay Regional Director. At the very least, if you make a good showing, there may be some leniency in store for you."

Paige put down the pen and pad. She nodded vigorously.

Any chance is better than no chance at all.

***​

The warden grumbled as Paige signed the last page, and handed them back to him. "Highly irregular. I don't even know what strings you pulled to get the trial halted."

Alexandria's smile was glacial. "Chief Director Costa-Brown of the Parahuman Response Teams has quite a few strings that she can pull, sir. Now, I've wasted enough time here. Do you need anything else?"

He shook his head. "No, it all seems to be here. Everything is filled out and signed."

"Good. We'll be going then."

To Paige's surprise, they headed upstairs instead of down. As they came out on the roof, the bright sunlight made her squint and shield her eyes; the fresh air blowing across the rooftop was sweet to her nostrils.

Is she going to fly me someplace?

And then, with a roar of turbines, something large landed on the rooftop nearby. Paige recoiled; it was large, winged and shaped not unlike a dragon. But the door even now lowering to become a ramp showed it to be a truly mechanical object.

Alexandria faced her, placing her hands on the more petite girl's shoulders. For a moment, Paige expected a pep talk, a keep-your-chin-up sort of thing. What she got was something else altogether.

"Listen carefully," Alexandria told her, voice low and harsh. "I'm only doing this because it was a request from someone who seems to know a lot more than I do about the current situation. If you screw this up, if you hurt anyone, if you try to escape, then I will hunt you down, and you won't be able to sing fast enough or loud enough to stop me from dragging you straight back to prison. If you're lucky. Do you understand me?"

Paige nodded. Alexandria's thumbs were pressing lightly on her collarbones. Paige knew full well that, with just a little more pressure, the older woman could snap both bones with ease. It was a silent warning; if Alexandria had to hunt her down, she would end up with broken bones.

"Good. Now get on board. The craft is automated; it will take you where you need to go."

Paige nodded again, numbly, and stumbled up the ramp. It raised, and she found herself a seat as the turbines built to a crescendo.

"Good morning," a pleasant contralto came over the cabin speakers. "I'm Dragon. Very pleased to meet you. You're Canary?"

Paige nodded.

"Oh, good grief," Dragon went on. "They didn't take that barbaric device off of you? Can you take it off? Don't worry about me; I'm quite immune to the effects of your voice."

Paige reached up hesitantly, and fumbled with the buckles until she had it undone. Pulling the gag out of her mouth was almost as painful as putting it in, but she managed it.

"Th – thank you," she said after a while.

"You're entirely welcome. Now, do you prefer to be called Paige or Canary?"

"Uh … Paige?"

Dragon chuckled warmly. "Our civilian identities do tend to blur with our parahuman ones, don't they?"

Paige found herself smiling involuntarily. "Can you tell me anything about what's going on?"

Dragon sighed. "Alexandria is a nice enough person, but she's so rushed all the time. I get the impression that she wishes she was in three places at once. This is the situation as I understand it: there's a plan to take down a notorious supervillain in Brockton Bay, and you're needed as part of it. The man behind the plan is a really nice guy called Security; you'll like him. He's a Thinker type, but he looks like everyone's favourite uncle. He insisted that you be in on this. I have no idea why."

Paige frowned. "Insisted? Does he know me?"

"He never gave an indication that he'd met you, but he described aspects of your case that did not reach the public eye. He specifically stated that you were a 'nice girl' and that you were not at all the type who usually went into the Birdcage."

"I don't know anyone called Security. Do you have a picture?"

A screen at the front of the craft lit up; Paige got up and moved forward, leaving the hated gag behind. She studied the image, and shook her head.

"I have no idea," she confessed. "I've never seen that man before in my life."

"Well, you're not alone. He only showed up in Brockton Bay a while ago, but he's already been instrumental in assisting me out of a little problem I was having. He seems to know a lot of interesting facts about a lot of things. That's how we know he's a Thinker."

"I guess I should thank him for getting me out of that prison," Paige commented dully. "But Alexandria mentioned danger."

"I wouldn't worry about it," Dragon assured her. "We'll face that when we come to it. In the meantime, have you eaten today?"

That reminded her that she'd missed breakfast; her stomach rumbled loudly enough to be heard over the turbines.

Dragon's chuckle was warm and friendly. "I guess that's a no. I have some meal packs that can be heated up. What do you prefer, chicken or ham?"

Paige chose ham, and the rest of the flight passed in pleasant, if inconsequential, conversation.

=///=​

Interlude 6: Mr Gladly, Mrs Knott and Principal Blackwell
Midday on Thursday, April 14 2011

He pulled himself to his feet slowly, as the little car whipped around the corner and disappeared. His shoulder still hurt; he had thought he could pull free of the blasted security guard's grip, but when he had tried, it had felt like his shoulder was coming out of his socket.

Brushing himself down, he took stock. Taylor Hebert was gone, in the company of that overweight, self-important … with Mike Allen. Security guard and busybody.

Seriously, what right did the man have, coming into the school, disrupting Gladly's efforts to teach the students in his own personal, idiosyncratic way? The students loved him, how they could treat him as one of their own, and call him 'Mr G'. He felt as though he had a real connection to the kids in his class.

Sure, some of them weren't as sociable as the others; that wasn't his fault, was it? That Sparky, for one. He was barely conscious from the beginning to the end of the school day. And Taylor Hebert. She was always coming in late and ducking out early. So some of the girls hazed her from time to time; that was normal, to be expected.

He remembered hazing from his own school days, not all that long ago. Of course, he remembered the hazing from the perspective of the hazer, not the haze-ee. Because he'd been one of the popular ones, back then, reasonably good looking, and always knowing what to say or do to stay in the ranks of the popular ones.

He'd done his share of hazing; of course, with the boys, it was more rough and tumble, more physical. He had a fond memory of dragging one young squirt into the boys' bathrooms and giving him a little reminder that he might look at Gladly's girl, and maybe even walk past her, but he was under no circumstances to talk to her, and most definitely not to ask her to a dance.

Time dimmed his memory just a little, and gave it a rose tint; to him, it was all good old-fashioned fun, where even the victims remembered it with nostalgia. And so, he could not really fathom why such a big deal was being made of Taylor Hebert's so-called bullying.

Now, the locker incident was a bad thing, sure. The murmurs around the school, in the classrooms, indicated that people had an idea as to who had done it. But Gladly had not pushed too hard to find out; that sort of thing would just cause more trouble than it was worth, so it was better off to sweep it under the carpet and let it die a natural death.

And in any case, Taylor had recovered soon enough; she was back in school, attending class, same as before. So no harm done, right?

But then there came Michael Allen, who asked awkward questions about matters that really were none of his business. Who burst in on four girls in the bathroom, interrupting what was described as a bullying incident, but was no doubt just an example of light-hearted horseplay.

But, in his plodding, singleminded, unimaginative way, Allen had blown it up to the point that two of the girls – one of whom was the most popular girl in his World Affairs class – were now in in-school suspension until the end of the semester, and a third had left the school for good. If there was a more blatant case of meddling making the situation worse, Gladly didn't know what it was.

Even more egregious was the case of Taylor Hebert herself; far from being grateful to just settle back into obscurity, she was being transferred to Arcadia! The word in the staff room was that Mike Allen had had a hand in that, too. Gladly had wanted to go to Arcadia, but his parents just hadn't had the money.

Then again, it probably wasn't the worst thing in the world that she was going, given that Allen had infected her with some of his ideas. Not only was he carrying those damned voice recorders around the school, where any careless comment could be blown totally out of proportion, but she had one also, now. If he'd known she had one before she left his classroom on that day, he would have confiscated it, but now it was too late; the principal knew she had it, and apparently permitted it.

Gladly was a man who knew his place in the natural order of things. Mike Allen wasn't. Since he had gotten to Winslow, Allen had been disrupting matters, giving the Hebert girl ideas that she could tell off other students for imagined slights. So of course, he had taken it upon himself to remind Taylor that good manners were an obligation that everyone had toward one another. And then Allen had even barged in on that, and pulled Taylor out of the classroom on some imagined excuse.

Fortunately, Gladly had followed them, only to catch them getting into a car, which he vaguely recognised as belonging to Gladys Knott. Gladys, who looked so much like a man in drag that the students snickered behind their hands at her. Gladys, who had told him off in no uncertain terms about his entirely justified criticism of Allen in the break room. So he had exaggerated a little about 'everyone' hating Allen. He despised the man; didn't he count?

But now he had the goods on Allen. Leaving school grounds in the middle of the day, with a fifteen year old girl in the car. There were very few legal grounds for that, and most of those depended on him being related to her. He was fairly sure they weren't related. Gladly could barely contain his glee. Allen was done.

He took the steps two at a time, and burst in through the front doors. Students wandering the halls during their lunch hour stared as he sprinted past them. About to pass the door to the computer lab, he slowed and peered inside. He was in luck; Mrs Knott was just tidying her desk.

***​

Gladys Knott hummed to herself as she put away the last stack of papers. Time to go to lunch; it was a little bit of a pity that she would not see Michael there, but she understood that he preferred to take his midday meal on the front steps. But then, she reminded herself –

The door to the classroom burst open, and Mr Gladly entered in a rush. She stared; he had dirt on his clothes, and his hair was dishevelled.

"My goodness, Mr Gladly, what happened to you?" she asked. She noted that one knee of his trousers had a hole in it, and his shoes were also scuffed.

"Your precious Mike Allen is what happened to me," Gladly replied, his voice hovering between anger and glee.

Gladys blinked. Does he know about us?

"I … beg your pardon, Mr Gladly?"

"I mean, the man you defended yesterday absconded today, not five minutes ago, with a female student in the car. Your car. Did you know he had your keys? Or maybe he hotwired it. Grand theft auto. I wouldn't put it past him."

Gladly was speaking far too fast; he seemed just a little manic. Gladys tried to calm the situation.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Of course I knew he had my keys. I loaned them to him this morning. He asked if he could borrow my car to run into town over the lunch hour."

Mr Gladly breathed heavily, apparently under the grip of some strong emotion. "Did he mention that he would be going into town with a fifteen year old girl in the car?"

Gladys blinked. Michael, what are you doing?

"Not … as such," she replied cautiously. "But I'm sure –"

"I'm sure, too," he overrode her. "I'm sure there can be no possible good reason for it." He pulled out his cell phone. "I'm calling the police."

"Wait, wait," she told him. "Principal Blackwell might want to hear about this. In fact, she might have given him permission to take this student for a drive. Who is it, anyway?"

"Taylor Hebert, that's who," he shot back. "But you're right. I will tell Blackwell. I'll get to the bottom of this, or my name's not –"

The rest of his impassioned speech was lost as he hustled out the door and it slammed behind him. Mrs Knott watched him go, then reached into her purse and pulled out her own cell phone.

She located Michael's number in the directory and called it; there was no answer. His phone appeared to be engaged. She tried again. Still no result.

"Oh dear, oh dear," she murmured. With a flash of inspiration, she dragged a phone book from the bottom drawer in her desk. "Hebert … Hebert …"

She vaguely recalled the name of the street that the Hebert house had been on, so she recognised it when she saw it. She called the number. No-one answered.

And then she recalled, from the party, that Danny Hebert was the chairman of the Dockworkers' Association. They had made a big deal of introducing Michael around, for what he had done for Taylor.

She went to the yellow pages, and located the Dockworkers' Association. Typing the number in, she pressed Call.

***
​

Principal Blackwell looked up in surprise as Mr Gladly burst into her office.

"Gladly, I hope you have a good reason for this intrusion," she told him acidly.

He fought for breath. "What if I told you that Mike Allen just beat me up and then drove out of the school with one of our students in the car?"

Blackwell's eyes widened. "You're not serious."

Gladly motioned to himself. "Look at me. Does this look serious enough to you? I tell you, he nearly tore my arm from its socket, then threw me to the ground. The man's a menace. And a kidnapper."

"Kidnapper?" Blackwell's gaze sharpened. "Are you sure she was going against her will?"

"I'm not sure," Gladly confessed. "I didn't get a chance to stop and ask him politely before he threw himself on me like a rabid bear and tried to dislocate my shoulder." He threw up his hands. "But he still left the school grounds with Taylor Hebert in his car!"

Blackwell frowned. "I thought he came by bus, today."

"Oh, not his car, no," Gladly backpedalled. "I just spoke to Gladys Knott. She said she loaned him her car, because he wanted to drive into town."

Blackwell nodded. "He actually asked permission to do that today, yes."

Gladly struck. "But did he ask to take a student with him?"

Blackwell shook her head. "No, he did not. This is bad. I think we should call –"

"The police?" asked Gladly. "Because I'll be glad to do that."

"Her father," Blackwell forestalled him. "Calling the police to the school never looks good. First, we should ascertain that Mr Hebert knows nothing of this. It will only take a few minutes."

"And then we call the police?" Gladly was as eager as a terrier going walkies.

"And then we call the police," Blackwell agreed, if only to get him to shut up.

Blackwell went through her antiquated phone-file, and located the Hebert numbers. "Home … no. Work … ah. No mobile number. Huh." She picked up the receiver of her desk phone and punched in the digits of Danny Hebert's work phone number.

***
​

Danny Hebert had just dealt with some paperwork when the clock struck twelve. He sighed and decided that now was a good time to get some lunch. Just as he was getting up from the desk, the phone rang.

For a long moment, he almost let it go; he was hungry and lunch seemed like a better idea all the time. But then his sense of duty prevailed, and he picked up the receiver. Even as he did so, a second light began blinking on the phone.

"Dockworkers' Association. Danny speaking."

"Oh, Mr Hebert, I am so glad I caught you."

Danny frowned. He knew that voice. Someone from the school?

"Principal Blackwell?" he hazarded.

"No, silly. Gladys Knott. I came to the party with Michael Allen."

"Ah, of course. Sorry. My brain must be out to lunch."

"That's perfectly all right. How have you been?"

"I've been fine. Look, I need to put you on hold for just a moment, all right? I have a call on the other line."

"Oh, no, don't go. It's important."

"What is?"

"Did you know anything about Michael taking Taylor for a drive into town today?"

Danny paused. "No … no, I didn't. Has he?"

"According to that Mr Gladly, yes he has. Apparently he was quite urgent about it, too. Can you think of a good reason for him to do this?"

Danny could think of only one, and he wasn't about to share it. "Actually, yes, I can. Mrs Knott –"

"Gladys, please."

"Gladys, then, if anyone asks, I have given full permission for Mike Allen to drive Taylor anywhere she needs to go."

"Oh. Well, that's good to hear –"

"Uh, I need to take this other call, okay? I'll just put you on hold."

"Very well, Mr Hebert."

Danny pressed the appropriate button, and waited for the phone to switch lines.

"Hello, Dockworkers' Association. Danny speaking."

"Hello, this is Principal Blackwell. Am I speaking to Taylor Hebert's father?"

"You are indeed. How may I help you?"

"I have it on good authority that our security guard, Michael Allen, has abducted your daughter from the school."

"Abducted? Are you sure?"

"Well, he has definitely left school grounds with her, in a car."

"Oh, that's all right then."

There was a pause.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No, Taylor needed to duck into town to get something, so I told her to catch a lift with Mike. He's a friend of the family, you know."

"He … is?"

"Sure. Mike's welcome over at my place any time. In fact, some of my friends are fixing his car up for him."

"Oh. So … it's all right with you that she's left the school grounds with a strange man."

"I'm telling you, I trust Mike Allen with my life. With my daughter's life. There's nothing to worry about."

"Oh … uh, very well."

"Listen, sorry I didn't let you know about this. I'll make sure to do that next time."

"Yes, it might be a good idea. Thank you, Mr Hebert. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"Not a problem. Have a good day."

***​

Principal Blackwell put the phone down.

"Mr Gladly?"

"Yes?" he asked, already pulling his phone out.

"Apparently, Mr Hebert gave permission for Miss Hebert to go into town with Mr Allen."

He stopped, his expression collapsing.

"I don't believe it."

"Believe it," she snapped. "The man told me so himself."

"But he still assaulted me!"

"When he gets back, we will ask him about that," she informed him. "In the meantime, go and get yourself cleaned up. You're a mess."

Crestfallen, he went.

***​

Danny pressed the button to switch the call back to Mrs Knott.

"Gladys, are you there?"

"Yes, Mr Hebert, thank you. What's happened?"

"Look, if I'm calling you Gladys, you're calling me Danny, okay?"

"Very well, Danny. What has happened?"

"Well, it was Principal Blackwell on the other line. Thanks for your warning. I think I managed to calm her down."

"Certainly, Danny, but why would Michael need to drive Taylor into town so urgently?"

Danny drew a deep sigh. "It's … complicated. But there's nothing illegal or immoral going on, I promise you."

"I had not even considered it, with Michael. But what do you mean, complicated?"

"I mean complicated. Things I don't feel comfortable talking about. We need to meet and talk. You, me, Mike and Taylor."

"Certainly; when?"

"How about tonight?"

"Will it take long? I've got papers to grade."

"It shouldn't."

"Very well; tonight. I shall call Michael once his phone is free, and alert him."

"Right. I'll let Taylor know when she gets home, if Mike hasn't already told her."

"See you then."

"Bye, Gladys."

He hung up the phone, and leaned back in his chair.

Hoo boy. This is going to be an interesting conversation.


End of Chapter Eighteen

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Nineteen: Sixth Interaction - Panacea


"Maybe we should call Dad and tell him what's going on, so at least he knows to cover for us," suggested Taylor as I urged the little car down the road at its best speed.

"Good idea," I agreed. "Actually, have you talked to him about getting a phone of your own? I mean, I know he doesn't like them, but in your situation …"

She blinked a couple of times. "How did you … oh wait, never mind. No, he doesn't like them, that's true. But you're right; it's probably a good idea to get one. I'll talk to him about it tonight. Want to give me your phone so I can call him?"

I was just wriggling the phone out of its pouch when it rang; I pulled it out and put it on to speaker, leaving it on the centre console between us.

"You don't have time to call her father," Contessa's crisp tones informed us. "Take the next right, and the left after that. And plug in the earpiece."

Taylor's eyes opened wide. "Who -" she managed.

"I am a friend. That is all you need to know."

I took the corner hard, then fumbled for the earpiece. "Now, now, be nice."

"I apologise. My name is Contessa. We will speak later."

I fumbled the earpiece into place, and handed the other end to Taylor. Silently, as I took the right turn, she plugged it into the phone. I tucked the phone back into the pouch.

"Okay, how we doing for time?"

"You will get there. Accelerate to forty-five miles per hour to make the next light."

I accelerated; we whipped through the intersection just before the light turned red. Taylor was rather pale, hanging on to the dashboard.

I grinned at her. "Relax. I've been driving longer than you've been alive."

"I just want to be alive at the end of this drive, thanks."

"Trust me, so do I."


I listened to Contessa's voice as she guided me through the crowded streets of Brockton Bay; not once were we stopped by a traffic light, not once were we forced to slow much below the speed limit.

Her powers may have been bullshit hax, but there was no denying that they were incredibly useful at times.

=//=//=​

In one potential timeline ...

The white van, anonymous and forgettable, moved purposefully through the streets of Brockton Bay. At one point, the driver stopped at a traffic light; a small blue car rocketed through the intersection in front of them.

"Hey, did that guy look familiar?" asked the driver.

"What guy?" asked the man next to him.

"The one in the blue car."

"What blue car?"

It was, of course, well out of sight by now. "Never mind."

"So what's the story with this kid we're grabbing?"

"No story. The boss wants her, we get her. She'll be at home. Probably upstairs in bed. Her mother will be the only other person there. We pull up, go into the house, grab her, and go. Nobody gets hurt; not her, not the mother."

"Do you ever feel like we're in the wrong line of business? I mean ... kidnapping kids? Really?"

"Yeah, sometimes. Then I get paid, and it all goes away."

" ... actually, you have a valid point."

=//=//=​

One somewhat hair-raising drive later, I pulled the little car into a side-street, fifty yards down the road from the bank. There was a single car park left on the street, half occupied by a large rubbish skip; I pulled up alongside the space, eyed it carefully, then backed the little car into it.

Gladys Knott drove a tiny hatchback roughly half the length of my pickup truck. I'd been reverse parallel parking that thing for twenty years. Parking Gladys' car was likely to be the easiest thing I was going to do that day.

As we got out, Taylor was undoing the coat that was tied around her waist, revealing the top half of her costume bundled up under it.

"Finish changing," I told her, "then get out on the street near the bank. When the PRT trucks show up, wave them down."

"Will they stop for me?" she asked doubtfully.

"I'll tell them to," I assured her. I tossed her the keys, then leaned across the hood to bump fists with her. "Lock it up when you're done, okay?"

Without waiting for an answer, I hurried out of the side street and down toward the bank.

"Make the phone call," Contessa instructed me as I rounded the corner.

Pulling the phone out of the pouch, I ended the call with Contessa and speed-dialled another number.

The answer came quickly. "Piggot. You have the information?"

"Yes," I confirmed. "The Brockton Bay Central Bank, in five to ten minutes' time."

"Brockton Bay Central Bank!" I heard her shout, and it was repeated by voices in the background. Truck engines started up. "You couldn't have given us more lead time?"

"Sorry," I told her. "Events conspired. I can't talk long; I need to get into the bank and out again before it happens. One particular person needs to be not in there when the robbery kicks over. Don't worry; it's the Undersiders. They make a point of not harming bystanders."

I heard her sigh. "Don't try to be a hero."

"I'll be fine," I assured her. "One more thing. I'll be temporarily unavailable, but Weaver will be on site. She will brief your men. Tell them that she's in charge; she knows my plan. In fact, she's an integral part of it."

"You're sure about this."

Her voice was firm, not questioning me.

"I am. Weaver knows what to do."

"Then go; do what you need to do."

I hung up. Immediately, the phone rang once more. It was, of course, Contessa.

"The Undersiders are just arriving," she informed me. "Step to your right so that you are not seen."

I obediently stepped to the right, putting a phone booth between me and the van that rolled down the street and turned into the alleyway alongside the bank.

"You are clear. Cross the street now and walk toward the bank. I will tell you when to move in."

I checked both ways, walked briskly across the street, and then slowed my pace as I moved down toward the bank.

The humidity hung in the air; it had been raining until recently, and more seemed about to come. I thought about what I was doing, and found it weird in the extreme. I had formulated this plan, and then turned it over to Contessa to walk me through like a puppet. It was my script, but she was pulling the strings. Like I said, weird.

I just hoped that she was not leading me astray for her own ends.

If that happened, I was screwed, the plan was screwed, everything I was working toward would be horribly disrupted. But I couldn't take precautions against that, and I couldn't second-guess her, or ... I didn't want to think about what would happen if I went against her instructions, and I was wrong. I'd miss the robbery, and my opportunity.

Contessa's voice sounded in the earpiece. "Go into the bank now."

I took a deep breath and moved forward.

The automatic doors opened in front of me.

I walked into the bank.

=//=//=​

In that same potential timeline …

The van pulled into a parking space, and the engine was switched off. The driver picked up a pair of binoculars. "That house up there. Front gate painted red."

"Got it," answered the passenger, lifting his own binoculars. "I don't see a car in the garage."

"That's because hubby took it to work," the driver noted. "One woman, one kid. Keep the woman quiet, grab the kid."

"Any idea why he wants her?"

This got him a warning look. "If you want to keep working for the boss, you don't ask those sorts of questions. You don't even think about asking them."

A long silence ensued. " … right. Okay. So, what's the plan here?"

The driver laid a paper plan out between the seats. The three men in the back of the van leaned forward to watch.

"One front, one back, on the outside. Two in. One stays downstairs to watch the mom, make sure she doesn't do something stupid, the other one goes upstairs to grab the kid."

"Uh, shouldn't there be more than one going upstairs?"

"It's a kid." The look was withering, this time. "If she was a cape, the boss would have sent capes. He sent us. It's just a kid. Here's a picture."

Each man looked at the image; a little blurry, but recognisable as a girl of about twelve or thirteen with straight brown hair.

"Now, here's the thing," the driver told them. "The mother does not get hurt. The kid does not get hurt. The boss would prefer one of you gets hurt before they do. Keep that in mind."

They mulled that over.

"... okay," the man in the passenger seat decided. "I'm good. When do we move?"

"When we get the signal that the diversions are going ahead. We want the Protectorate and PRT looking in the other direction when this happens."

The man in the passenger seat settled back and opened a paper bag. "Suits me." He unwrapped a sandwich and bit into it.

=//=//=​

Chilled, conditioned air washed over me as I walked into the bank. There was a security guard, wearing a uniform that was similar to mine in general, though different in its particulars. He eyed me as I walked in; I gave him a firm nod, security guard to security guard. The gun on his hip told me nothing; he might be an expert shot, or may never have fired the thing in anger in his life.

But he wasn't my problem; I walked on into the bank, scanning the lines of people. Amy Dallon was in this bank, and I had to get her out of it.

"To your left," said the earpiece. I looked to the left.

She was more petite than I had expected; quiet, eyes slightly downcast, frizzy brown hair. I moved up alongside the line she was standing in.

Even after nearly a week of being in this world, being in Brockton Bay, I felt the thrill all over again, the thrill that I had felt when I had first met Taylor, when I had first met Armsmaster. I was going to meet Panacea!

A deep breath; I calmed myself. 'Excited fanboy' was not the impression I wanted to give her.

My voice was firm as I spoke. "Amy Dallon. Panacea. Correct?"

She glanced sideways at me, up at my face, then down at the security guard uniform that I wore.

"Uh ... is there a problem?" she asked.

"No, no problem," I assured her, my voice still firm, matter of fact. "I just need you to step outside the bank with me. It's about a matter of some urgency."

"Oh, okay, sure," she replied, nodding as if to assure me that she was willing to do what I asked. "I just need to get some money out –"

"Mention her sister," Contessa said in my ear.

I leaned a little closer, and murmured, "It's about your sister."

Her eyes widened. "Vicky? Is she okay? Is she hurt?"

"Glory Girl is perfectly okay," I assured her, "but we do need to step outside, right now, to talk about important matters regarding her."

I took a step away from the line; as if joined by a string, she followed me. I did not attempt to touch or coerce her in any way; she had to follow me of her own free will, if this was to work at all.

Was that a thump, a dull cry, from farther back in the bank?

We were three yards from the doors.

Two yards.

One yard.

They whooshed open in front of us.

We stepped through.

They closed.

And utter pandemonium burst out behind us, in the bank; massive creatures bounded through the lobby, barking so loudly that we clearly heard it, even through the thick glass of the doors. Someone had, in the words of the song, let the dogs out.

"Well, that was close," I remarked. "Suppose we get a little farther away from the ongoing bank robbery?"

She took an involuntary step back from the doors, then stared at me, eyes wide. I moved down the steps; she followed.

"You – you knew this was going to happen? That the bank was going to be robbed?"

"I did indeed. I also know that if I had not been here, both you and your sister would have suffered mental and physical trauma. That's not going to happen, now. Which is a good thing."

"But how did you know it was going to happen? How did you know I was going to be in there? That I would be hurt?" She frowned. "That can't be right, anyway. Vicky's force field can stop anything."

"It's very powerful, yes, but it goes down for a few seconds just after a big hit," I told her. "Not many people know this. It's kind of a hidden vulnerability."

She frowned, shaking her head slightly. "If you're trying to play me, or kidnap me –"

I smiled. "No, believe me. I know just as much about your powers as I do about Glory Girl's, and I'd have to be a moron to attempt to kidnap you." I inclined my head along the pavement. "Now, if we can find some place to sit and talk -?"

Her eyes narrowed. "What about?"

I sighed slightly. "Your problems, and how to fix them. All of them. Even the ones you don't know you have."

Her chin lifted aggressively. "I don't have any problems."

"Really," I responded, raising an eyebrow and lowering my voice. "So you're not in love with Vicky, then?"

She went white as a sheet, looking around; I had already glanced around, ensuring that no-one was watching or listening. "Don't say that!" she hissed, then she glared at me. "If you're trying to blackmail me –"

I had to shake my head. "Amy. Miss Dallon. I'm on your side. You have problems. I know how to fix them. I know a great deal. After all," I reminded her, "I knew exactly when to walk into the bank and ask you to walk out with me, just before it was robbed."

She looked from me to the bank, and back again. Doubt began to creep across her face. " ... what do you want from me?" she asked eventually.

"Just to sit, and to talk," I assured her. "Nothing more."

She drew a deep breath.

"... okay," she assented. "We'll sit and talk. I guess I owe you that much."

I smiled. "Thank you."

=//=//=​

In that potential timeline ...

A mobile phone rang. The driver answered it. He listened, then spoke four words. "Target in sight. Proceeding."

Dropping the phone into its holder, he pulled a ski mask over his face and started the van. "Soon as I stop," he ordered. "Out and go."

The van sped down the street, then executed a U-turn that left it parked right next to the low fence outside the house in question. The side door slid open, and the three men jumped out. They also wore ski masks; they hurdled the fence and one man headed down alongside the house while the other two went for the front door. The man in the passenger seat, also masked up, got out and followed on, taking up a position just inside the front gate.

The front door crashed open, and the two men went in fast, assault rifles up and tracking. The mother emerged from the kitchen saw the men, saw the guns, shrieked and cowered. The assault rifle tracked her motion, but the men did not fire; they had more discipline than that. One man pointed to his comrade, then at the woman. Two fingers pointed at his eyes, then at her. You're on her. Watch her. There was a nod in reply.

Heavy boots thundered on stairs as the man took the steps two at a time. The floorplan had the girl's room marked out; he turned the handle and pushed the door open, his rifle pointed at the ceiling. The girl lying in bed wearing bright floral pyjamas, looked up in shock and surprise. She was the right age and had long brown hair; this had to be her. A comic book fell to the floor.

"Okay, kid, you're coming with us," he told her, striding across the room and reaching out to grab her by the arm.

"No," she told him. "I'm not."

"Don't be an idiot," he snapped, starting to wonder why she was so composed. And why it was taking so long to get across the room to her.

And then he stopped wondering anything at all, as Armsmaster's halberd caught him in the middle of the back, a jolt of electricity sending him into dreamland.

***​

"Please don't hurt me!" pleaded the mother. "I'm scared of guns!"

With a sigh, the mercenary pointed the rifle at the ceiling. "Look, see? Not pointed at you now. So calm down. No-one's getting hurt here."

He glanced at the stairs; had he heard a thump? When he looked back at the woman, she was much closer. He was also severely starting to doubt that she was the girl's mother.

Part of this was the dusky shade of her skin, which he had not noticed to begin with; to him, woman plus screaming equalled civilian. Another part was the large-calibre pistol that was pointed at his face from just over arms' length away; no grabbing the gun and disarming her. The final piece of the puzzle was the a flag-print scarf now covering the lower half of her face.

"Good to hear," Miss Militia told him, and thumbed back the hammer on her pistol. "Rifle down now please."

He very carefully put the rifle on the floor.

Behind him, a discarded child's backpack split open, and there were suddenly two more people in the living room. One blurred out of the room, en route to the back door, while the other stepped out through the front door.

***​

The man waiting at the back door was startled when he heard a tremendous bellow from the front of the house. Raising his rifle, he started toward the corner of the house. The back door opened, and he turned, only to be faced with Velocity. The Protectorate hero punched him seventeen times in four seconds, giving him no chance to defend himself; when he slumped to the ground, Velocity disarmed him and zip-tied his hands behind his back.

***​

Triumph was already drawing in a breath when he stepped out through the front doorway. The mercenary on the front path was looking outward, not inward; he began to turn, only to be caught in a blast of sound that smashed him clean over the low fence and into the side of the van.

The van revved its engine and began to pull away from the curb, tyres squealing. Armsmaster leaned out an upper window and levelled his halberd; a crackling bolt of energy struck the vehicle, and the engine abruptly died. It rolled to a halt, the driver's side door burst open, and the driver made a run for it.

He didn't make it more than four steps, as a fleeting form blurred past the van and clotheslined him neatly. Velocity looked down him, struggling to rise, and shook his head. "You'd think they'd learn."

Triumph stepped over the fence and began securing the man he'd hit with his shout. "People like this never learn." He tapped his radio earpiece. "All clear out here. How did it go inside?"

Miss Militia emerged from the house, prodding the mercenary ahead of her. "This one didn't give any trouble."

Behind her, Armsmaster followed on with Vista; she had her visor back in place, while he carried the last mercenary over his shoulder. "It all went according to plan."

"Yeah," Vista agreed. "Just wish that I'd been able to do more than be bait."

The scarf-clad hero reached back and ruffled her hair. "We couldn't have done it without you."

Velocity looked up from securing the driver. "Scared of guns? You? Really?"

Miss Militia shrugged. "Well, I had to say something."

***​

In one potential timeline, this happened. But in reality, of course, it didn't. When Coil got word that his kidnap attempt had failed, he dropped that timeline, and went with the one where he never made the attempt at all.

Vista, disguised as Dinah Alcott, lay in bed and read comic books while Armsmaster kept her company; Miss Militia maintained her role as Anna Alcott. The real Mrs Alcott and her daughter sat under secure PRT guard in the Protectorate base.

The backpack had been enlarged on the inside via Vista's powers so that it could hold two members of the Protectorate; they waited, watching for a sign that the kidnap was taking place, and played cards to pass the time. Vista never had a reason to relax her power over it, to allow them to burst forth as if appearing from nowhere.

But she was prepared to, and so the kidnap attempt never eventuated.

When the phone call came that the robbery had been foiled, they gave it another thirty minutes, then vacated the premises, locking up behind them.

In both timelines, of course, the bank robbery still took place.

=//=//=​

We sat at a small table outside a street cafe, just down from the bank. Amy Dallon looked at me searchingly.

"Okay," she began. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"My name is Michael Allen," I told her. "I also go by the name Security."

"You're a cape?"

I shook my head. "No, but the name comes in useful from time to time. As for what I want ... I want to fix things. Help people. Save the world. But I can't do it alone."

She was staring at me. I sighed; closing my left hand into a loose fist, I placed it on the table between us. "I am fully aware of how your powers work," I told her. "I give you full permission to use them to make sure that I am telling the truth at all times."

Tentatively, she placed her hand over my knuckles; her skin was soft and warm, and I wasn't sure that it didn't tingle somehow, with her power.

"What happened to your ribs?" she asked almost immediately.

"Got kicked," I told her. "It happens. The other guy's in jail. I'll live."

She drew a deep breath. "All right. What do you know about me and my problems?"

I spoke frankly. "You have four big issues that I know of, or five, depending how you count them. This includes one that you don't know about. Currently, you're dealing with them, just. But sooner or later, something's going to happen, and you're going to be overwhelmed, and then bad things will happen. If you and Vicky are unlucky, really bad things."

"Vicky ..." she whispered. "What's going to happen to Vicky?"

My voice was low and firm, telling the story without judgemental overtones. "Your attraction for her, you can handle. But when you've got so many other problems hitting you at once that you just need her, that's when you do the one thing you swore you'd never do. And then you lose her. And then when you get her back, you accidentally make her into something entirely monstrous, and you lose her for good then."

She looked at me, her eyes filled with tears. "How do I stop this?" she asked. "How do I fix it?"

I gave her a genuine smile. "You're in luck," I assured her. "I do have a solution. But first, let's go over your issues, so we both know what we're dealing with."

"Okay ..." she ventured, wiping her eyes with her free hand.

"Issue number one. You're in love with Vicky. Trouble is, she's straight, and she doesn't even know how you feel about her. I know that she's got anger issues, such as with the guy she kicked the dumpster into the other night. The one you left thinking he was going to have performance problems."

I paused; her eyes were wide now.

"I told you," I reminded her. "I know things."

There was a rush of wind, and she hastily moved her hand from mine, just as a white-clad form landed alongside the table.

"Hey, Ames," Glory Girl greeted her sister. "Gallant just texted me, told me the bank was being robbed. Him and some others are on the way." She looked incuriously at me. "Who's this?"

"Uh, this is Mr Allen," Panacea told her. "He's sitting with me to make sure I'm okay." She indicated the imposing building down the street. "You might want to go see about that bank robbery."

Glory Girl grinned. "Sure thing." She nodded to me. "You be sure to take care of my sister, all right?" And with a whoosh of slipstream, she was gone again.

I nodded approvingly, even though Amy had not spoken. "Smart thinking," I praised her. "What I've got to say, she might not appreciate."

Amy swallowed. "Go on." She placed her hand back over my knuckles. I could imagine her reading my skin conductivity, my blood pressure, my heart rate, my pupil dilation. There was no way I could lie to her and get away with it.

"As I was saying, you love her, and she loves you, but in two entirely different ways. And she keeps hurting people by accident, and you have to keep covering for her."

"Not any more," she murmured. "I told her so."

"I know. And good for you. But she might have trouble believing that you mean it. Anyway. Second issue. Your home life. It's ... toxic. Your foster father; Mark Dallon. Flashbang. A nice guy, but he is of course chronically depressed, and sometimes he forgets to take his meds. Even when he's there, he's not really there.

"Carol Dallon; Brandish. Your foster mom. Or really, she's not even that. She doesn't like you, doesn't trust you, doesn't approve of you. She's never even hugged you." I shrugged slightly. "You remind her of your real father, which is an excuse, I guess, but not a really good reason."

"What do you know about him? My real father?" she burst out.

"I know who he is, and the name he christened you with," I told her. "But we'll get back to that. Your home life. Your sister, Victoria. You're in love with her. She's the only person who accepts you as you are, but there's the whole unrequited love aspect, so even that's not good for you. How am I doing?"

"How ... how do you know all this?" she asked. "Have you been spying on us, surveilling us?"

I shook my head. "I know things about you. Like how you're starting to doubt yourself, doubt your motivations. I know about the kid with the heart, how you started thinking about what would happen if you screwed up just once, how people would stop having these high expectations of you."

She stared at me. "What ... ?"

"It's your third issue. You're getting close to burning out," I explained. "It's an occupational hazard for high stress jobs. Air traffic controllers, surgeons, people like that." I fixed her with a steady gaze. "You're a sixteen year old girl. I have decades more life experience than you. You've been saddled with a responsibility that would send me around the bend, unless I had the chance to get some 'me' time once in a while. You're not becoming like your father, no matter what Carol Dallon says. You're just hitting your straps, reaching the end of what you're willing to do voluntarily. You need to take a step back, take a rest. Walk away for a while."

She shook her head. "I can't ..." she whispered. "I can't. There are too many people ..."

"Yes," I contradicted her. "You can. What you were feeling? That's not a sign of some evil nature peering through. That's your body and your brain trying to tell you that enough's enough, that no matter how many people you heal, no matter how many miracles you perform, Carol Dallon is never going to approve of you, call you her daughter, treat you the same as she does Vicky."

She was silent, stricken.

"It's all right to take a break." I put all the sincerity I could into the assurance. "Let me tell you a little secret. People are born, live, and die without ever meeting you. Some of them get sick. Some of them even die. It happens. Yes, you work miracles, but if you stop for a day, a week, a month, the world will not end. And not one person has the right to tell you that you can't, because they are your powers, and it's you that's burning out. You need to get your head sorted out, and that's what I'm here to help you with."

She frowned slightly. "Why, are you some sort of therapist?"

I chuckled. "Nope. But I have one on speed-dial. Look, we need to cover one more issue, then I'll give her a call. Okay?"

"What issue is that?" she asked warily.

"Brains," I replied succinctly.

"I don't do brains," she replied automatically.

"But you can," I responded.

"But I can't –"

I held up my free hand. "I know. I know what you're going to say. It's way too scary, way too much responsibility. You can literally change the way someone thinks. That's frightening as hell. Not something you want to be doing just for shits and giggles. Yeah?"

She was silent for a long moment, looking at the table. "Yeah," she admitted quietly.

"Well, I have a question for you."

She looked up at me.

"Suppose Leviathan was due to hit Brockton Bay on or about, say the fifteenth of next month," I posited. My voice was quiet, but my tone was deadly serious. "Suppose you and your family went to face him. Suppose Flashbang, your foster father, was badly injured. Brain damage. He's the closest thing you've got to family, apart from Vicky. What do you do? Do you fix the brain damage, so he can do more than sit on the couch and drool, or do you maintain your no-brains rule? Because we both know you can fix brain damage as easily as anything else. It's just that you choose not to." I raised my eyebrows. "What do you do?"

Her eyes were full of tears again. "I can't – you're telling the truth. Is this going to happen?"

"I hope not; I've taken steps to prevent it. But if it does, if something similar does, if Vicky herself took an injury to the brain, would you fix it, or leave her to be a vegetable, even though you knew you could fix her?"

She shook her head. "I can't. I've told too many people that I don't do brains. But I can't let Vicky suffer –"

"Wait up, wait up," I reminded her. "I told you, I have solutions to your issues, and that's no exception."

Her eyes fixed on mine. "What solution?"

"Change your rule. Modify it from 'no brain fixes' to 'only back to status quo'. Brain damage, brain cancer, brain whatever ... only back to the factory default. No tweaks, no improved memory. Just the original equipment. That's fair, right?"

She looked doubtful. "I don't know ..."

"It's just a suggestion. And anyway, you should have time to think about it. As far as I know, nothing drastic is due to happen in the next month. But in the meantime ... do you know a Mrs Jessica Yamada?"

"I've never met her, but I know of her by reputation," Amy replied. "Why, is she your therapist?"

"Not mine as such, but she's agreed to talk to you about your problems. I contacted her last Friday, and asked her to wait for my call today."

She stared at me. "That's six days ago! How did you know -?"

"The full story would be stranger than you could believe," I told her truthfully. "Suffice to say, I knew enough to get her to help you sort your problems out."

"But ... why her, and not someone else?"

"Because I know for an absolute fact that she will not freak out, will not judge, when you tell her about your problems."

=//=//=​

Evening of Friday, April 8, 2011

"This is Jessica Yamada. Who am I speaking with?"

"I'd rather not give my name over an unsecure line. Please call me Security for the moment," I said carefully.

"Very well," she replied, sounding a little exasperated. "What is this about an A-class threat? And why are you not taking this to the authorities?"

"Because the threat has not happened yet," I said. "But it will. In just over a month. The girl in question is currently a hero. But she has several serious issues which will all be targeted in about five weeks' time. And then … well, one cape will suffer horribly, and this girl will end up in the Birdcage. Other people will likely die because of this. Unless something is done now. Or very soon."

"You are speaking very obliquely," she observed. "How do you know this? Why five weeks' time? Who is this person? And what makes you think I can help?"

"You're the best cape therapist I know of, bar none," I said bluntly. "Listen; one of your patients at the Boston asylum is Sveta. Otherwise known as Garotte. She likes to draw. She also keeps a diary, in which she writes down her dreams. And she plays an online game called Space Opera. You prefer to call her Sveta, as you consider using the codenames to be detrimental to their progress. When you visit her, you have to wear a reinforced suit with airbags inside. How am I doing?"

There was a long pause. "How … do you know all this?" she asked quietly.

"The same way that I know what's going to happen in five weeks' time," I said. "Unless I can force some drastic changes in that time span. Which I don't know if I can, so let's presume I can't."

She caught something in my tone. "What happens in five weeks' time?" she asked.

I took a deep breath. "Leviathan hits Brockton Bay," I said. "May the fifteenth."

"You're serious," she said.

"I am," I replied.

"The authorities need to know," she told me. "If this is true, with this sort of lead time, they can prepare …"

"I already emailed them the information," I said. "But I need you to understand how serious this is. Which is why I told you. After five weeks' time … there won't be a chance for therapy, not for this girl. She'll be heading down a very dark path. And that could be bad for everyone. Everyone on Earth."

"Who is she?" she asked.

"I can't tell you right now, because she doesn't know about any of this. But her powers ... her powers, if unleashed in the wrong way, could make her into an A-class, or even an S-class threat." I paused. "I need to meet her, get her confidence, so that when I contact you again, she'll be willing to talk to you."

"Contact me again?' she asked.

"Yes," I said. "Thursday the fourteenth of April. Just after midday. If all goes well, I'll be calling you then, and she'll be with me. Hopefully, she'll be willing to undertake therapy then."

"You realise that this is very irregular," she said. "I much prefer having appointments made in the normal fashion."

"I'm truly sorry for interrupting your Friday evening like this," I told her, "but this is the very first opportunity that I've had to do it. I'll contact you then … oh, one more thing."

"Yes?" she asked.

"When I talk to you again, I'm going to ask you for a word. The word is 'Marquis'."

She paused. "That's the name of a villain in the Birdcage."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, it is. Can you remember that for me?"

"I'm writing it down now," she said.

"Thank you, Doctor Yamada," I said. "I truly appreciate this. If we can pull this off, we'll be saving two people from a world of torment." I paused. "Sorry again for interrupting your Friday evening. Have a good night."

She sighed. "I suppose my work never leaves me alone at the best of times. I will be waiting for your call."

She hung up. I closed my phone. God, I hope this works, I told myself.

=//=//=​

Just after Midday, April 14, 2011

Disconnecting my phone from the earpiece, I called up Mrs Yamada's number and rang it. Setting the phone to speaker, I placed it between us.

"Hello? I presume this is Security? I've been waiting for your call."

"Indeed, Mrs Yamada. And I have the young lady I spoke of with me. You've probably heard of her." I nodded to Amy, prompting her to speak.

"Uh, hello, Mrs Yamada, my name is Amy Dallon," she began.

"Panacea, yes," replied Mrs Yamada. "I have heard many good things about you."

"Okay, Amy, Mrs Yamada," I said smoothly, "here are the issues in brief. Do you have a pen?"

"Of course."

"Excellent." I spoke slowly, pausing between each sentence. "First: Amy's relationship with her sister. Second: Amy's relationship with her family. Third: the fact that Amy is burning out, and needs to step back from healing for a while. She really needs someone to lean on, to talk to. Fourth: Amy's rule about not touching brains. And fifth, the issue we have not yet touched on. Amy's real father."

"You said you knew who he was," she interjected.

"I did, and I do," I agreed. "Mrs Yamada, have you gotten all that so far?"

"I have."

"Okay, here's my deal for you, Amy. Agree to take therapy with Mrs Yamada, and I'll tell you your dad's identity. And your real name."

Her eyes opened wide. "But why –"

"Because if I don't, you will find out the hard way, in a couple of months. And it would have caught you at a bad time. A really bad time. Here, now, you have time to think about it. Get your head around it. Talk to Mrs Yamada about it."

"But ..." She stopped, then began again. "Mom – Carol – always –"

"Acted like you were going to be exactly like your old man?" I snorted. "Hardly. We get to be like our parents by learning from them. You haven't seen yours in eleven years. You're nothing like him, Amy. I know that for a guaranteed fact. So. While you're thinking about taking therapy, want to hear my solutions for your issues?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, not saying no, but – I can't afford –"

"It won't cost you a penny," Mrs Yamada assured her. "I will be billing the PRT."

"Damn straight. Which reminds me," I commented. "Will you have any trouble fitting her hours in around your other patient's?"

"What other patient?"

"You know, your other patient, the really famous one, that I referred to you?"

"I'm sorry, Security. I don't know what you're talking about."

Oh shit. Eidolon hasn't contacted her.

I controlled my outward reaction, but I was sure that Amy picked up the rush of adrenaline and whatever else had just entered my bloodstream. Her eyes widened; I nodded reassuringly at her.

"Okay, I'm gonna need to fix this, but right now ... let's get you sorted out, Amy." I took a deep breath. "Long story short. One, you're gonna need to take about a month off from healing duties of all kinds. Two, you're gonna need to move out of home. That toxic situation is doing your head no good at all. And three ... you're going to have to find a support structure, someone you can trust to give you moral support and guidance. But that last one can wait. The first two are paramount."

Amy shook her head. "I can't just stop."

"Sure you can. You need to get your head together, and that's step number one."

"I concur. Constant stress is one of the biggest health problems in the world today."

"Okay, but I can't just up and move out of home! Where will I go?"

I grinned. "Would you believe, I have a place already lined up?"

Amy stared at me. Again. "Seriously, what?"

"Two person household. Father and teenage daughter, about your age. She'll be going to Arcadia really soon too. Nice girl; her name's Taylor."

"I can just ... move in?"

"Danny Hebert – he's a good man, trustworthy, head of the Dockworkers' Union – knows about this. I spoke to him on the subject a few days ago. I helped Taylor out with some major issues of her own; he's willing to help me out with this."

Pulling a pen and notepad from my pocket, I wrote Danny's name, his number and his address on the top page, tore it out, and handed it to her. Numbly, she took it from me.

"This is a place you can go where you'll be accepted. There'll be no pressure, and like I said, Taylor's a good kid. She knows what it's like to be on her own with no friends. I think you two will get along just fine. You have a lot in common. I think she'd be a damn fine start for moral support."

I leaned back in my chair, as far as I could with her still maintaining contact on my hand. "Okay, I've said my piece. Your turn. Do you agree that your issues really need working on?"

She nodded. "From what you've told me, from the emotional impressions I got from you ... yes. They do."

"And do you think you can handle taking therapy, and making use of my other solutions, to deal with them?"

She was silent for a moment. "What ... about Vicky?"

"I do not know about the details of your issues with your sister, so I cannot comment on that. Security?"

I met Amy's eyes. "You're going to have to talk to Mrs Yamada about it. Then you're going to have to bring Vicky in and break it to her as well. It's almost certainly not going to turn out the way you'd like it to, but therapy will probably make it easier to handle."

She dropped her eyes. "I ... I guess."

"Trust me," I told her, "the other way? Turns out really badly for you and Vicky."

She nodded. "Okay."

I tilted my head silently, in query.

"Okay, I'll go to therapy with Mrs Yamada."

"Very good. Security can give you my number. Let me know when you're able to see me. I am entirely at your disposal in this matter."

I smiled broadly. "You're doing the right thing, Amy. Thank you, Mrs Yamada. And one more thing. You recall the name I had you note down?"

"Yes."

Amy looked at me. "Is that ...?"

"Yes. Your father's name. Mrs Yamada?"

"Ah, this makes sense now. Amy, your father's name is Marquis."

"Oh my god," breathed Amy. "No wonder Carol was so uptight about it."

I nodded. "Your real name is Amelia Claire Lavere."

"Amelia Claire Lavere ..." she repeated slowly.

I wrote another number on the pad, tore it off, and handed it to her. "Mrs Yamada's number. You think you can take it from here?"

"I believe we can. Thank you."

Amy took the number. "Yeah. I'm good from here. And thanks."

"Excellent. Let me know if there's any issues with the billing, Mrs Yamada."

"I will do that, and thank you again."

"Also, you may be contacted by another client, in the next day or so. Equal priority to Amy here. Okay?"

"I will be waiting for the call."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"You are welcome."

I hung up my call to Mrs Yamada; Amy carefully folded both pieces of paper and put them away. I stood up and stretched.

"Well, it looks like the shooting's already been and done," I noted, observing the mounds of containment foam outside the bank.

"What, really?" asked Amy, startled. "Why didn't we hear anything?"

I grinned. "Grue. He's a member of the Undersiders. His darkness stifles sound as well as light. Unfortunately, it does bugger-all against containment foam." I tilted my head. "Want to go and see what the aftermath of a foiled bank robbery looks like?"

While I figure out how to contact Eidolon and kick his arse.

Her answering grin made her look young and carefree, just for a moment.

"I'd love to."


End of Part Nineteen

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Twenty: Taylor


The little blue car came to a halt alongside the oversized dumpster, and Mike expertly reversed it into the half-a-parking-space that remained. I was impressed; while I didn't have my driving licence yet, I had a vague idea as to how it was done, and I had the distinct impression that he'd made a rather difficult manoeuvre look much easier than it really was.

We both got out of the car; as I undid the coat tied around my waist, Mike turned to me. "Finish changing, then get out on the street near the bank. When the PRT trucks show up, wave them down."

"Will they stop for me?" I asked. We'd gone over the plan, but I wasn't at all sure that the PRT would even pay attention to me. I was, after all, a very new cape.

"I'll tell them to." Mike tossed me the keys, then leaned across the hood and bumped fists with me. I felt that same little thrill that I did each time we did this; Mike was treating me as an equal, as an adult, as someone of consequence. Whether deliberate or not, each time we repeated that gesture, it added a little extra to my self-esteem, to my confidence. "Lock it up when you're done, okay?"

We must have been short on time, because he hurried away then, leaving me to get changed.

I already had the lower half of my costume on under my jeans; I checked the area for potential witnesses using the bugs in the vicinity, and found none. Working as fast as I could, I took off my top and my jeans and shoes, then wriggled into the top half of my costume. The clothes went on to the front seat of the car, then I took off my glasses and pulled my mask on over my head.

The big armour panel on my back went on next; according to Mike, I would not need the others. I took them out of my bag anyway; I could put them on while I was waiting. Pressing the button to lock the car, I stowed the keys in the storage area on my back.

Hurrying to the entrance of the side street, I glanced both ways. No trucks yet. Good. Keeping an inconspicuous lookout with my bugs, I continued to put on my armour panels.

At the same time, I had three bugs on Mike, showing me where he was. I saw him step to the side, which puzzled me, until I realised that he was avoiding being seen. From that, I picked out the vehicle belonging to the Undersiders, a nondescript van, which had just pulled into the alleyway beside the bank.

The windows of the van were open in the muggy air, and quite a few bugs were already inside the van. I counted four people and three dogs, as well as what looked like a couple of duffel bags. The people were relatively easy to tell apart, despite the fact that I couldn't hear worth a damn through the bugs, and sight wasn't much better. The tall one had to be Grue; the slim one with the flowing clothes was Regent. Bitch was the one with the dogs, and that left Tattletale as the last one by default.

Mike had explained to me how Tattletale's power worked, and I was careful not to make the bugs do anything suspicious in her sight. But the dogs already had a few flies buzzing around them, so I added a few to the swarm. A couple of them got themselves tangled in the hair on the back of Tattletale's head, then sat quiescent, not struggling.

The others were easier to tag. Regent's ren-faire clothing had many folds that would hide insects quite well, Grue's leathers were similarly useful, and Bitch already had one or two flies on her; I just told them not to take off again. I even managed to sneak half a dozen flies into Grue's helmet. If I needed a distraction for him later on, this was tailor-made.

The rain had stopped just a few minutes ago, so there were puddles everywhere. When they got out of the van, they splashed up water, the dogs apparently enjoying this immensely. But then the dogs started growing and swelling, their skin splitting.

I was momentarily startled, then I recalled Mike's description and my own reading on Bitch's powers. They would grow, he had told me, but their skin wouldn't grow with them. In fact, the flesh on the outside was incredibly dense and hard, able to take bullet wounds with little effect. There would also be dried blood and bone spurs.

This didn't matter to me; it just gave me more places to plant bugs so that I knew not only where each dog was, but which way it was looking.

Tattletale bent over the keypad to the back of the bank, and tapped a few keys. Grue pulled on the door, and they were in. A small swarm of flies followed the dogs in, attracted to the blood, but still under my control. With these, I was able to track their progress through the back hallways of the bank pretty well exactly. They were pausing to check rooms, so I was able to send flies ahead, to calculate when they'd reach the main lobby.

It was getting close. Mike was inside now, talking to a girl I presumed was Panacea. My bugs couldn't get a good read on her, but I placed a few on her anyway.

The Undersiders were making their way through the bank, and I bit my lip inside my mask. Mike still wasn't outside. Now he was moving toward the doors. The dogs were growing a little bigger; the Undersiders were getting close to the back entrance to the lobby. Too close. He was going to be trapped in there with the rest of the customers.

And then the automatic doors opened; he walked out with Panacea. At almost the exact moment in time as the doors slid shut, the monster dogs bounded into the lobby, enlarging even farther, letting out barks and growls that I could hear through the door, across the street and down a ways.

Moving up, I peeked around the corner. Mike stood on the steps, talking to Panacea. Then he moved down the steps; she followed him. Still talking, they moved off down the sidewalk. I had only the vaguest idea what he was saying to her; he had intimated that she had personal problems, just as I had had personal problems, and that he intended to help her fix them.

I couldn't imagine someone like Panacea having the same level of personal problems that I did, but whatever they were, I wished him all the luck in fixing them.

=///=​

The next few moments were nervous ones for me; the Undersiders were in the bank, robbing it, and Mike was down the street a little way, sitting at a table, talking to Panacea. I seemed to be the only one outside the bank who both knew it was being robbed, and cared about the fact.

I supposed that if I'd had to, I could have built up a swarm to incapacitate the Undersiders before they ever entered the bank. But Mike had been adamant that the bank actually be robbed; or at least, that the Undersiders enter the bank and commence to rob it. What happened then was up to me.

Suddenly, with a whoosh of displaced air, a slim figure dropped out of the sky. She landed on the street in front of the bank, looking across at it, with her hands on her hips.

I frowned and hurried out toward her.

"Glory Girl?" I called out.

She turned toward me, almost immediately taking an aggressive stance. "Who are you?"

"I'm Weaver. One of the good guys."

"You sure about that? Your costume looks a bit dark and edgy to me."

I rolled my eyes; of course, she couldn't see that.

"I control bugs. I made it dark so I can blend in with a swarm. Listen, I'm waiting for the PRT to get here so I can brief them. We need to hold off until then."

"So what about the bank robbery?"

"It's the Undersiders. There's four of them. Grue, Tattletale, Regent and Bitch."

"Bitch?"

"The press calls her Hellhound. She prefers Bitch."

She chuckled. "I like it. Is she one? A bitch, I mean?"

I shrugged. "From the one time I met her, a little bit, yeah."

"So you've met the Undersiders, then?"

"Yeah. Only for a short time, and we opted to go our separate ways. But hey, they're robbing a bank, so yeah."

"Cool. I've never stopped a bank robbery before."

"Uh ... can you just hold back? There's a plan, here. We're going to draw them out and take them down. No casualties, either side."

She gave me a suspicious look. "What kind of a superhero are you?"

"A cautious kind, ever since I met Lung."

She winced. "Ouch." A pause. "Hey, didn't Lung get taken down –"

I nodded. "Yup."

"That was –"

"Me and a friend, yup."

She stared at me anew. "What friend?"

"Sorry, can't say. It's kind of a privacy issue."

"Huh. So what do we do now?"

"We wait. PRT's almost here."

***​

I had already picked up the trucks several hundred yards out; big, blocky things with powerful engines, spewing volumes of black smoke into the air. As the first one rounded the corner, I stepped out and waved it down. Glory Girl watched from the sidewalk; from her expression, she expected it not to stop.

At first I thought that the truck was indeed going to roll right over me, but then it pulled to a halt. The passenger rolled down his window, and I trotted around to that side.

"You Weaver?" he shouted over the rumble of the engine. He was wearing PRT standard uniform, less the blank-faced helmet, but I saw what I thought was officer insignia on his jacket.

"Yes!" I called back, nodding at the same time.

"Good!" he called out, and opened the door. He called out an order that I didn't hear, but the driver obviously did, because he put the truck into gear. The officer swung down on to the road and closed the door, taking a couple of steps away from the truck before it began to rumble down the road once more. The truck behind it pulled over to the side of the road, behind us.

The back opened and troops poured out; under barked orders from non-coms (or so I guessed) they spread out to secure the area. With them were two capes; I recognised the costumes as belonging to Gallant and to Kid Win. Glory Girl flew – I mean, literally flew – at Gallant, stopping short an instant before what would have been a bone-crunching impact, and kissed him soundly.

I guessed that the rumours that they were a couple were true, after all.

***​

The officer and I both stepped over to the pavement, and he shook my hand.

"Lieutenant Grant," he supplied. "Director Piggot gave me very specific orders. I am to put you effectively in command, unless and until you do anything to endanger my men."

I swallowed, and nodded. "I'll try not to let it come to that," I told him, working to keep the nerves out of my voice. "Do you have your foam-sprayer guys here? I need to brief them. Tell them to bring their sprayers."

He nodded. "Understood." There was a radio clipped to his lapel; he gave brief, terse orders through it. In a very short time, I had eight men arranged in front of me.

I was tall for my age, so at least I wasn't looking up at them. But it was still a little unnerving; each of them was watching me with some interest, obviously wondering what I was going to say. It didn't help that Glory Girl, Gallant and Kid Win were watching from behind them.

Fortunately, Mike and I had been over this.

"The Undersiders are in the bank," I began. "Four of them; Grue, Tattletale, Regent and Bitch."

One of the men raised his hand hesitantly. "Who's that last one?"

"Hellhound," supplied Glory Girl, from behind him.

I nodded thanks to her. "Anyway, we're going to be blocking off the back way out, so that they've only got the front way to come out. And that's where you guys come in."

I pointed at the steps of the bank. "They'll know you're here pretty soon. They'll also know that there's only a few capes on site. We're – I'm arranging matters so that they'll think they will be able to sneak out under cover of Grue's darkness."

"Excuse me?" asked another man. "Darkness isn't really an obstacle. We're all equipped with night-sight optics."

"It is, here," I informed him. "What Grue creates is more of a harmless gas that blocks all electromagnetic radiation, as well as most sound. The smartest plan, in his shoes, is to flood the area in front of the bank with it, then charge out under cover of it and make a run for it. What he doesn't know – and more importantly, what Tattletale doesn't know – is that we've got you guys. And me."

"So if we can't see a thing," he asked reasonably, "how are we supposed to make a difference?"

I indicated the foam sprayers, and the range cards fixed on them. "You see those cards?"

There was a general round of agreement.

"Think of it as an electronic target screen, without the electronics." Bugs flowed from under my hair, where they'd been resting all this time. "These will give you the targeting data."

Each card was soon covered in bugs, and more lined up down the barrel of each sprayer.

"Each of these bugs has a brightly coloured abdomen, which becomes visible when it flares its wings," I announced, making random bugs show off their abdomens. "There's a firefly in the centre of each card. When you're on target, it will start blinking. Any questions?"

"Yeah." It was the man who had asked about Bitch. "How will you know when we're pointing in the right direction?"

It was a question I'd asked Mike. "Because his darkness doesn't block my sense of where my bugs are."

"Can you handle all the targeting data simultaneously? That has to be hundreds of bugs, and calculations of angles." The lieutenant frowned.

I nodded seriously. "I believe I can." I believed it because Mike had told me I could do it. "But I have a question of my own."

He nodded. "Shoot."

"At twenty yards, how far will foam drop from the line of the barrel?"

"About six feet."

I nodded. "Thanks. That's all I needed." I turned to the rest of the soldiers. "That's about it. They're still deciding what to do, in there. If you can find positions where you can hit them with reasonable accuracy, we can wait till they make their move. Just stay out of sight until they come out."

"I can put someone on the roof of the bank," offered Glory Girl brightly.

The Lieutenant glanced at me; I nodded.

"Good idea," he stated. "Make it so."

The soldiers were in position, bracketing the entrance, within thirty seconds. Glory Girl hefted two of the men to the top of the bank, then took up position – at my suggestion – across the street from the bank, alongside Kid Win and Gallant.

It was the Undersiders' move now.

=///=​

"The white hats are here."

Grue and Bitch were out of the vault, joining Tattletale as she headed for the bank windows. Regent kept an eye on the crowd, idly tossing his scepter up and catching it again.

"Well, it could be worse," Grue stated. "Two Wards and Glory Girl."

"Funny, I expected more of a turn-out than this," Tattletale admitted with a frown.

"Does it matter?" growled Bitch.

"Not really," Grue noted. "Glory Girl's an Alexandria package, but I figure your dogs can keep her busy, right, Rachel?"

"Damn straight," agreed the stocky girl. "I can take them all, if you want."

"No," Tattletale denied. "There's more to it. PRT's here too. I just spotted a truck."

"Fuck," muttered Grue. "Chance of going out the back way?"

"Minimal," Tattletale told him. "They'll have that blocked off with troops. It'll be a bottleneck. They'll pick us off like pigeons."

"So it's the front doors, then."

Tattletale nodded. "And we should move before they get more reinforcements. There has to be more on the way."

"How much cash did we get, anyway?" asked Regent.

"Twenty-five thousand, seven hundred and fifty," she replied. "It'll have to be enough."

"So how do we play this?" asked Grue.

"Send out hostages, then you flood the street with your darkness," Tattletale told him. "Glory Girl's mobile, but she won't be able to see a thing. Gallant and Kid Win have ranged attacks, but they won't be able to target us in the darkness, and they won't be able to fire wild because of the hostages. You go out, guiding the lead dog, the others can follow its scent. We'll charge right by them. No need to even engage."

"I still say I could take them all," Bitch insisted stubbornly.

Tattletale nodded. "Sure you could. But this way? We waltz right by them, no-one gets hurt, our rep takes a big jump. The boss trusts us with bigger and better jobs."

"We'll do it," decided Grue.

=///=​

I spotted them moving the hostages toward the doors, of course. The Lieutenant had given me a radio; I pressed the button and spoke quietly. "Everyone, get ready. Hostages coming out. The bugs will flash when it's the bad guys."

The doors opened, and a dozen people stumbled out of the darkness, trailing wisps of it behind them. Immediately, shouts rang out from the PRT soldiers for them to drop to the ground. They did so as they reached the bottom of the steps, just before the cloud of darkness from the bank rolled over them. It spread, farther and farther, until I was worried that it would swallow up the men with the foam sprayers. But even Grue's power had its limits; they were still outside the cloud, but definitely closer than I'd imagined they would be.

Glory Girl was hovering above it, along with Kid Win, who was riding on some sort of flying skateboard. Gallant had retreated along the sidewalk.

"I can't see a thing, can you?" Glory Girl called to Kid Win.

He couldn't, of course; his armour may have had some reasonably good sensory systems in it, but Grue's power blocked them all.

Every bug on each targeting card flashed its abdomen. All of the foam-sprayers stood, aiming their nozzles into the general mass of darkness.

***​

I followed the progression of the Undersiders out of the bank, all riding on dog-back. As Grue emerged, I tagged him on the first soldier's sprayer; the general mass of bug abdomens gave way to one bug showing its abdomen, the rest dark. He moved his sprayer, and the 'dot' moved on the range card as each subsequent bug folded its wings and the next opened them. He swung the sprayer over, and centred it with relative ease. I set the firefly blinking. He squeezed his trigger.

At the same time, the other Undersiders emerged, first Bitch and Regent on one dog, and then Tattletale on the last one.

I had the soldiers aim at the hindquarters of the dogs; I didn't want the dogs to trip and maybe roll over the top of their passengers. Everyone was going to survive this day, if I could help it.

The first stream reached out toward Grue, who lurched and avoided it; I adjusted the aimpoint on the range card. The soldier corrected his aim slightly, and I directed one of the men on the roof to add his stream of containment foam to the first.

This time, the initial stream hit both Grue and the dog, slowing them just long enough for the attack from the roof to hit them from above. The foam swelled and glued them down; Grue struggled uselessly. From the sounds the flies in his helmet picked up, he was swearing luridly.

Bitch and Regent didn't even get the warning that Grue got; they were hit from two sides, and the dog was hit with another stream. The dog, to a signal from Bitch, made a gargantuan effort and broke free from the mass of foam that was seeking to nail it to the ground, but they were now stuck to the dog, and then all three streams converged on their mount. They didn't get another yard farther.

I have no idea what signal, what inkling, Tattletale picked up, but she slipped off of her dog instants before it was engulfed in foam. She began sprinting back toward the bank.

She almost made it, too; she was halfway up the steps before two converging streams of foam hit her. She struggled, uselessly, then just lay in the soft, sticky grip of the yellow-white foam. From the motions of her mouth, and the vibrations in her throat, she was also swearing.

Once Grue was covered over, the black gaseous substance was blocked from emerging from his body. Gradually, it began clearing away. Along with the PRT men and the other capes, I began moving cautiously in. After all, what my bugs told me and what was really happening might be two different things.

However, this time, the story they told me was true. The Undersiders were well and truly caught, foamed to the asphalt and concrete. The hostages, some of whom had also been spattered with containment foam, were unhurt, although understandably shaken.

***​

Lieutenant Grant shook my hand. "That was very nicely played," he praised me. "You were as accurate as you said you would be."

I shrugged modestly. "Your men are very good. It was easy."

"Easy, hell," Grant scoffed. "I know electronic targeting sensors. You just did the job of eight of them, simultaneously. Please tell me you're joining the Wards. We could do with more people like you."

Before I could answer, Glory Girl came up alongside me.

"Damn," she commented admiringly. "That was neat. Though I kind of wish I'd gotten to go a few rounds with one of them."

"Which one?" I asked. "There's none of them are Brutes."

"Maybe one of the dogs?" she hazarded. "But that would be no fun. Dog drool, yuk."

I spotted Mike then, at the periphery of the crowd that had formed around the site of the one-sided battle. He had his phone to his ear. Amy Dallon, near him, also had her phone out.

Glory Girl's phone rang. "Hello? Oh, hey, Ames. What? Getting back to school? Oh, all right."

She turned to me as she hung up the phone. "That was fun. See you around, Weaver." She grinned. "I'll never look at bug control the same way again."

I nodded. "See you around, Glory Girl."

Glancing back at Mike, I noted that he was tapping his watch.

Oh shit, I realised. We have to get back to school too.

=///=​

"Piggot."

"Security."

"Congratulations. Your protege performed magnificently."

"I know. She did well. All Undersiders captured, not a casualty on either side. The bank won't even lose any money."

"It's almost an anticlimax. So, what are you calling about?"

"A favour. A big one."

"I can't promise anything."

"Don't process the Undersiders just yet. Keep them together. They're going to be in on the Coil bust, once I get off work this afternoon."

"You have to be joking. We don't have any intel on the man or his location. And we can't trust them to go against him."

"Actually, we have nearly everything we need. What I won't be able to supply, the Undersiders will."

"And you think they'll give it up? Change sides so readily?"

"When they hear what I have to say, they'll jump at the chance."

Piggot sighed. "Why do I get the feeling that no matter what I say, it's going to happen the way you tell me?"

"Because you're a reasonable woman, and I'm not a cape. I'm normal, just like you."

"Hah. As if."

"Normal where it counts, then. No powers. Anyway, apart from that, I have two other requests."

"Fine. What are they?"

"They're both to do with Bitch."

"Who?"

"Oh, sorry. Hellhound. Kindly tell the superior officer on site that the big dogs need to be cut open –carefully! –and the actual dogs inside taken out before they suffocate. These dogs should be transported separately from Bitch, but treated humanely."

"I suppose that's reasonable. And the other?"

"Find out from her where she's keeping the rest of her dogs, and send a couple of men out there to care for them, feed them, and so on. Preferably men with veterinary experience, or at least men who like dogs and who have trained with them."

"So why are we bending over backward for her, exactly?"

"It's the best way –the only way, really –to keep her on side. Dogs are her strength and her weakness. Show that you're treating them kindly, and she will be far less aggressive and hostile. Mistreat them, and you will never have a worse enemy. If you have a puppy on base anywhere, let her have it for the time being. Trust me, it will never be in better hands, and she'll be happier for it."

Piggot considered this. "And the others?"

"Just keep them all together. Comforts of home. No interrogations, no separations, no concrete cells. That's what they'll be expecting; keep them off balance. Wondering when the other shoe will drop."

"And you'll show up, and they'll cooperate with you."

There was a chuckle. "Oh, they'll be pissed as hell at me, but hopefully I'll be able to get past that."

"Indeed. Well, we can delay processing for twelve hours. I'll make the arrangements now."

"And don't forget about the dogs on site."

"I'll make the call now. Before I make the arrangements."

"Oh, and what's the word with Canary?"

"I spoke with Chief Director Costa-Brown. She pulled the right strings, and the paperwork was expedited. A Dragon craft is due to drop Ms Mcabee off here in an hour or so."

"Excellent. See you after five."

"I'll be here."

He hung up; she ended the call, and then dialled Lieutenant Grant's phone.

"Ah, Lieutenant. Please listen carefully ..."

=///=​

I wormed my way through the crowd, muttering excuses as I went. A few people stared at me, but I took no notice. I had totally lost track of time; I had no idea when it was.

I had lost sight of Mike, but my bugs told me that he was also moving toward the car.

Some people tried to stop me, to ask questions, as I kept moving. I shook my head.

"Sorry, I have to go," I told them, and moved on.

And then Mike was there. "Move aside, move aside," he told them, and they did. As impersonally as any nightclub bouncer, he escorted me out of the crowd and to the corner of the side street. I ran down the street as he sauntered after me; most people were now paying more attention to the villains, now being released from their containment-foam prisons.

I ducked in behind the dumpster, unlocked the car, and dived inside. By the time he was there, I had the mask off and I was working on the armour panels. He opened the door and climbed in; I handed him the keys.

"Damn fine job," he told me, and we bumped fists. I blushed pink with pride.

He started the car, and pulled out of the parking spot. "How fast can you change?" he asked me. "Because we're not stopping on the way back."

"I'll just have to see," I replied.

He handed me his phone. "Call your Dad, and put it on speaker." Then he let out the clutch. Gravel sprayed down the side of the vehicle as the engine did its best to bellow, and the car took off like a startled cat.

I checked the time – it was just after twelve twenty-five, so we had twenty minutes to get back – and then pecked out Dad's work number. It rang; I put it on speaker, and placed it in the centre console while I went back to wrestling with the armour panels.

=///=​

Danny Hebert's desk phone rang. He snatched it up. "Hello?"

"Dad, hi."

"Taylor, where are you? And where's Mike?"

"Right here, Danny. We're both fine. You might want to turn on the news, though."

Danny picked up the remote and turned on the TV mounted on brackets on the far side of the office. He flicked through the channels until he found the twenty-four hour news.

"–ockton Bay Central Bank, where a daring daylight robbery was foiled by the combined efforts of the Parahuman Response Teams, and capes from the Wards and New Wave. PRT officer Nathan Grant made the following statement."

The image switched from the front of the Central Bank to a close shot of a PRT officer with a microphone in his face.

"We were given advance warning of the bank robbery by an outside source, which is what allowed us to respond so quickly. On site, we were aided by the new cape Weaver. With her assistance, we were able to subdue and capture all four members of the villain group known as the Undersiders –"

Danny muted the TV.

"Taylor? That was you?"

"Yeah, Dad." She sounded excited and pleased, and understandably so.

"You weren't in any danger?"

"God no, Dad. It was fun. They never even knew I was there."

"Well, it looks like you did good. I'm proud of you."

"Thanks, Dad. Uh, Mike wants to ask you something."

"Yeah. We had to race out of the school pretty quickly. Has anyone called you about that?"

"Actually ... yes." Danny told them about the call from Mrs Knott, and the one from Principal Blackwell.

"Wow." That was Taylor. "When I see Mrs Knott, I think I just might hug her."

"You and me both." Mike. "Oh, and by the way, Danny, you know how I asked you about taking in a boarder?"

"Yeah?"

"I spoke to her today. She might turn up tonight or tomorrow night. It's Amy Dallon."

"Panacea? Of New Wave?" Danny was somewhat surprised, to say the least.

"That's the one. This is still okay?"

"Uh, sure, sure ... right. Yeah, we can do this. Uh, one other thing."

"What?" asked Mike.

"When I was talking to Mrs Knott, I wasn't really able to give her a good excuse for you having to run off so quickly. So, uh, we're going to be having a talk tonight sometime. This might involve Taylor's, uh, hobby."

"Taylor might be a bit late in," Mike informed him. "We're not finished yet."

"We're not?" asked Taylor.

"Nope," Mike confirmed. "One more bit of business, after I get off work. I'll tell you about it later, Danny."

"Okay, fine," Danny agreed. "Take care, you two."

"Always do," Mike agreed.

"Sure thing, Dad," echoed Taylor.

The call ended, leaving Danny staring at the phone.

Well, at least I know they're safe. For the time being.

=///=​

"Great," groused Mike. "Sorry about that."

"Don't be," I told him. "It was going to get out sooner or later. And if anyone at that school learns it, I'd rather it be Mrs Knott."

"You have a point," he agreed.

"Anyway. Other business?" I asked.

"Coil," he explained. "He needs to go down. Preferably tonight. He's already had me kidnapped and probably tortured; he won't try that again in a hurry, but you just showed up on the news in conjunction with the Undersiders being captured. He might just show an interest in you."

"Wait a minute," I protested. "Probably tortured? How does that work?"

He looked unaccountably grim. "I'll fill you in along with all the others, after school."

He nodded toward the phone. "Do me a favour and find Director Piggot's number. Just leave it on speaker, thanks."

=///=​

"Piggot."

"Me again."

"I've just been speaking to a rather puzzled Lieutenant Grant, but your requests have been met. Or are you calling me about something else?"

"Take a wild guess."

"Careful, Mr Allen. Your stock is very good with the PRT at the moment, but there is such a thing as pushing it."

"Okay, okay. Two more things. One, I need to talk to Director Costa-Brown on a very urgent matter. Two, I need you to locate two people for me."

"You want me to tell you where someone is?"

"Nope. I just want to know that you know where they are. Not approached. Not surveilled. Just precise knowledge of their location."

"Which two people?"

"Thomas Calvert, and the head of Fortress Constructions. CEO, or whatever. The main guy."

"May I ask why?"

"I'll tell you later. You have maybe five hours."

"You are a very aggravating man."

"Admit it; I make life interesting."

"So do the Endbringers."

"But can you do it?"

"Oh, I can do it. But don't expect to be told the results."

"Like I said, don't want to know. Don't need to know. I just need to know that you know."

"And you're not going to tell me why."

"Five hours, I will. Listen, gotta get off the line."

"I will expect full disclosure."

"Trust me, you'll get it. Bye."

"Goodbye, Security."

He hung up the call; she put the phone down.

Then she sighed, and picked it up again.

=///=​

I pressed the button to end the call, and looked at Mike questioningly.

"Let me guess – you'll tell me later?"

He shook his head. "No, I can tell you some of it. But this stays between you and your little bugs, right?"

"Right," I agreed. "Of course."

"Calvert and the head of Fortress Construction are the same guy," he explained.

"And that's Coil," I guessed.

"Got it in one," he praised me.

"So why are you asking Director Piggot to locate them?"

"Because she'll try, but she won't succeed."

"Huh?"

"In just the same way that there wasn't even an attempt at kidnapping Dinah Alcott, earlier."

"How do you know that?"

"Because it's the way Coil's power works."

"I don't get it."

"Trust me, you will."

I waited; he didn't seem interested in going on.

"Director Piggot was right. You are a very aggravating man."

He grinned at me. "Why, thank you. I practise regularly."

I was going to press him for more information, but he nodded at my costume. "Might want to get that sorted, hey?"

I'd gotten my armour panels off, and my jeans and shoes on – and if anyone thinks that's an easy job in a small car being driven at high speed by a large man, then they need to think again – but I still had the costume itself on. The gloves, of course, were a piece with the rest of it.

"Don't look," I told him, and unzipped the costume.

"Don't look at what?" he asked, literally holding up his right hand to block his view of me.

"Thank you." I wriggled out of the top half of the costume, then pulled on my T-shirt. "Okay, done."

"Good." He actually sounded relieved. "Not in my life plan to be caught in a car next to a fifteen year old girl who's changing her clothes at the time."

I couldn't help teasing him. "Some boys would consider it a lifelong dream." In the interests of honesty, I added, "Well, maybe not with me."

"Okay, for the first part," he replied seriously, "I'm not a boy. You're young enough to be my daughter, if I had one. So seriously, no. In the second part … hmm. I don't know how to reassure you in that regard without contradicting what I just said in some way. But you're not as plain as you think you are." He paused. "Maybe you'll meet someone nice at Arcadia."

I had to grin. "Maybe. But I won't be holding my breath."

He angled his wrist to check his watch. "Christ, we're gonna cut it close."

I checked the time on his phone. Twelve forty-four. "Can we make it?"

"We will or we won't. Whatever happens, happens."

As a philosophy of life, it wasn't very comforting.

=///=​

As it happened, we did make it. Just.

Mike pulled into the parking lot at twelve forty-six, just after the bell was due to go. He slowed to a halt opposite the steps; we bumped fists before I got out.

"See you after school," he told me.

"See you then," I agreed.

Then I sprinted up the steps and headed for my next class.

Back to normality. Such as it is.


End of Chapter Twenty

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Twenty-One: Developments


I pulled the car in alongside the grounds-keeper's shed, set the parking brake, put it out of gear, and turned the engine off. Then I sagged back into the seat, relaxing every muscle I could reach, just letting my whole body go limp. I even closed my eyes.

"Fuck me rigid. That was insane."

I had to chuckle at the sound of my voice inside the small car.

It had been insane. The week had been insane. I had gone from stopping bullies, to helping capture a horribly overpowered cape – and nearly being burned to death in the process – to setting up another cape to be captured, to ensuring that a super-powered bank robbery would take place before arranging for it to be foiled.

In the process of the latest incident, I had helped Panacea, given Taylor another much-needed boost to her self-confidence, ensured that Dinah Alcott would stay out of Coil's clutches – that is, if the PRT had done its job correctly – and in general set off such flocks of butterflies that I had hardly any idea about what would happen after tomorrow.

I couldn't wait.

***​

Pulling the key from the ignition, I went to get out. Doing so involved a certain amount of twisting and flexing, and I knew that this would press my bruised ribs against the stab vest.

But there was no pain, no stiffness.

I frowned, and twisted a little harder. My ribs felt the pressure, but there was no pain, no discomfort.

A slow grin crept across my face. Why, that sneaky little wench. She healed me, and never let on. And I didn't notice until just now.

Getting out, I locked the car and strolled around to the front doors. Gladys would not need her car until the end of the day, and I knew where to find her then. I hadn't refuelled it, of course, but I figured I could fix that up later.

There still remained the matter of signing back in, and weathering whatever storm had been raised by our precipitate departure. I sighed, and set my course in that direction.

=//=//=​

Before I was even halfway there, my phone rang. The number was unfamiliar; I answered with a noncommittal "Allen."

The voice was Alexandria's. "I am a very busy woman, Mr Allen. I hope that this matter is important."

Yeah, I thought, because I bring trivial matters to your attention all the friggin' time. For frig's sake.

Out loud, I tried to be a little more circumspect. "Actually, I believe it is. You know that little chat we had Sunday?"

"I have an excellent memory. Of course I remember it. Get to the point."

"Well, as I recall, your colleague agreed to, uh, make a doctor's appointment. He has failed to do do. This concerns me." Let's see how you go with understatement.

Her voice was sharp. "You were checking up on him?"

I bit back angry words. "No. It came up in relation to another matter. Anyway. The point is that he needs to make that appointment."

There was a pause. "I have spoken with him on the matter. He considers that, after the initial advice you gave him worked out so well, he's strong enough to handle the problem from here on in."

I took a deep breath. The idiot thinks he can 'handle' the Endbringers.

"No," I ground out. "No, he is not. I can absolutely fucking one-hundred-percent guarantee that."

Something in my tone must have caught her attention. "Explain."

"Okay," I began, trying to word this in an innocuous fashion. "For one thing. The problems that he thinks he can overcome? They actually get harder, the more resources you throw at them. Currently, they're on 'easy' mode. You don't want to see them on 'hard' mode."

Her tone was cautious. "But if he can overcome them before they can escalate -"

I cut her off. "Okay, something I have not yet told you. What we're talking about? You knock over one, you know what happens? Two more pop up. Or three, depending how you count them."

There was silence on the line. Finally, she spoke. "There are more?"

"Seventeen more variations. And the more we escalate the, uh, cures, the more they'll be escalating the infections."

"Seventeen." Her voice was flat.

"Seventeen," I agreed. "Now do you see why I wanted him to see the doctor as soon as possible? Jesus christ all-fucking-mighty; I don't believe that I'm lecturing you on how to do your job. Call yourselves -" Superheroes. "- responsible people? I'm only trying to save -" The world. "- his health, here. Is it too much to expect just a little cooperation along the way? For fuck's sake."

I realised that my voice may have risen slightly toward the end there, so I moderated my tone. "Sorry, but you understand why I might be a little unhappy about hearing that news. We've got one month before this goes critical; he needs to see the doctor."

From the tone of her voice, I knew she had understood what I had not said. "I will explain matters to him as soon as I can."

I didn't even care anymore that I was talking to someone who could easily put her fist right through me. "Yeah, you do that."

"One more thing."

I was about to hang up; I paused. "What?"

"There are other strains around, not as dangerous."

I frowned. "Other strains?"

"Nine of them, to be precise."

The Nine. "Ah. I know the ones you're talking about. What about them?"

"Is it advisable to eradicate them now, or keep them as, uh, antibodies?"

I didn't hesitate. "The Juliet Sierra strain needs to be destroyed. Just recall its particular resistances. Same with any of the other strains that cannot be contained." I paused. "The, uh, less mature Bravo Sierra strain might be of some use, as well as the Sierra Bravo."

"And the Whiskey Mike?"

My voice was firm. "Only if it can be safely and indefinitely contained. Otherwise, kill it dead."

"Understood. I will pass on your instructions."

"Excellent. And kindly tell your colleague that if he doesn't smarten his act up, then I will have to take steps. Personally. And I don't want to have to do that. Is this totally understood?"

"Perfectly. I will tell him."

And with that, she ended the call.

I put the phone away, and continued on my way to Principal Blackwell's office. With the greatest of efforts, I managed to not break into a cold sweat over how I had just told off the most powerful woman on the planet. I resolved that at our next meeting, I would be very polite indeed.

Of course I don't want to have to bloody tell Eidolon what to do in person. Because I have no idea how to make it stick.

=//=//=​

"Eidolon."

"Alexandria."

"I've just been on the phone with Security."

"So what's he got to say?"

"For one, that you haven't made your appointment to get therapy with Mrs Yamada as you said you would."

"You didn't argue when I told you why not, earlier."

"Yes, but I hadn't had a monumental strip ripped off of me by that man, just now."

"You're kidding me."

"There are things we did not know. Things you need to know."

"Such as?"

"Such as the Endbringers are taking it easy for the moment. They can make things much, much harder for us."

"He told you this?"

"He did. And I believe him. And there's more."

"More?"

"Yes. If his information is correct, there are twenty Endbringers in total. There are only three active at the moment, but if we kill one, two or three more will emerge from wherever they are hiding. And, I presume, more again if we kill more than one."

" ...."

"David?"

"You believe this too?"

"I do."

"So what do you think we should do?"

"I'll be making that appointment for you. You will attend."

"But I don't need –"

"You. Will. Attend."

"Okay, fine, I'll attend."

"But first, let me sweeten the pot a little."

"How?"

"He said that you can take down the Nine any time you like. Jack Slash needs destroying. If you can contain Bonesaw, Shatterbird and Manton, do so, but kill the others. Just remember –"

"Yes. Jack Slash can anticipate a cape's actions. I read the email too."

"Good. And don't let him talk to you. Apparently he's quite persuasive."

"Oh, I don't intend on coming within a hundred yards of him."

"Good hunting."

"Thank you."

"And then attend therapy."

"I will, I promise."

"Good."

=//=//=​

The principal looked up as I entered her office.

"You're back," she observed. "Six minutes late, by the clock."

"I'm sorry. I got a phone call as I was walking in. Taylor would have made it to class okay."

She leaned forward on her desk. "About that. You didn't tell me that Taylor was going out of the school with you. Nor did she come to get permission to leave."

I nodded. "Yeah, I found that one out once we were already off school grounds. But I got in touch with Danny, and he said it was all good with him. So I figured, hey, she's with me, I'm a school employee, I'll make sure she doesn't skip her afternoon classes."

"Which she isn't," Blackwell noted.

"Nope. She's in class right now," I agreed.

"So … what was it that she needed to get?"

I shrugged. "No idea. We stopped at a few shops, but she didn't actually get anything much. Maybe she just wanted to spend the lunch hour away from school?"

Blackwell compressed her lips. "It's rather irregular."

I nodded. "Sure. Next time, I'll make damn sure she has permission to leave." I paused. "And that leads to our next problem."

"Next problem?"

"Mr Gladly."

Ms Blackwell looked wary. "What about him?"

"He followed Taylor and me from the school, and when Taylor got in the car, he tried to drag her out of it. The man's a menace. He could have broken Taylor's arm."

She stared. "He … laid hands … on a student?"

I nodded. "Grabbed her arm, tried to drag her out of the car. So I went around and walked him away from her."

"He says you assaulted him."

"Only to prevent him from assaulting her."

"Does Taylor want to lay charges against him?"

"I don't think so. She's transferring to Arcadia soon, right?"

Blackwell nodded. "Quite soon, actually. I'm just awaiting the final confirmations."

"Yeah. Well, I doubt she'll be wanting to be stuck dealing with that sort of crap. Is it possible to just tack this on to his other disciplinary thing?"

Principal Blackwell looked thoughtful. "Listen, I can't really go ahead with this unless there's actual evidence one way or another. Did you happen to have a recorder running ...?"

By the tone of her voice, she expected me to say no.

"Actually, yes, I did."

Extracting the recorder from my belt pouch, I ran it back until the timestamp indicated what I wanted. Then I pressed PLAY.

"Excellent." That was my voice. It was followed by the sound of a seatbelt clicking into place, and a car engine starting.

Then there was the sound of a car door opening. Mr Gladly's voice sounded next.

"What the hell are you doing? Where the hell are you going with this student?"

My voice replied. "I'm a friend of the family. I'm taking her to the shops."

"No, you're not. Taylor, get out of the car right now."

There was a cry of pain, and Blackwell winced. "Taylor," I explained quietly.

Then my voice shouted, "No!"

Another car door opened, this one much closer. The recorder faithfully reproduced my hurried footsteps, my quick breaths. There was a pause, then a grunt.

"He tried to hit me."

Another grunt, and a stifled cry of pain.

"Got him in a compliance hold, and he tried to get out."

"Lay a hand on her one more time, Gladly, and I will break your fucking arm." My voice, flat and hard.

Then there was the sound of several footfalls, and a body falling to the ground.

I stopped the recording. "I pushed him so that he fell over, got in the car, and we left. I didn't need to deal with that crap, or with Gladly. If he'd gotten up while I was still there ..." I left the rest unsaid.

Blackwell nodded judiciously. "I think you have the right idea. We will deal with this at the same time. The disciplinary hearing's on Saturday."

"Am I required to attend?"

"Not unless you want to."

"Is he likely to lose his job over this?"

"No, but enough black marks on his file, and that will certainly be a possibility. No matter the outcome of the hearing, he will have to walk very carefully indeed for the next few months."

"That's fine with me. But someone needs to tell Gladly that being the popular teacher should come second to taking care of the less popular students."

With that, I walked out of Blackwell's office. Carefully, I closed the door behind me.

I had another phone call to make; I went up to the third floor, and found a deserted corridor.

=//=//=​

" ... and I'm thinking teal and cream just there, offsetting the dark brown of the panelling –"

Kayden's attention was distracted by her phone going off. The elderly client looked around at her, questioningly.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I'll be with you in a moment."

She pulled out her phone and checked the number. She frowned; caller ID was blocked. So who was calling her?

She took a deep breath. "NuHome Interior Decorating, Kayden speaking."

The voice that she heard was entirely unfamiliar to her. "Ah, Ms Anders. I'm glad I caught you."

She frowned. "Who is this? I'm with a client –"

"Call me Security. I have a message for Purity."

She went cold all over. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No worries. Let's pretend you don't, for the moment. But listen carefully. There's a supervillain in Brockton Bay who's been amassing dossiers on every member of the Empire Eighty-Eight, past and present."

The voice paused, then went on meaningfully. "Including family members. Especially family members. And he intends to release it online in a few days, in order to get the upper hand in a gang conflict."

"But that's breaking the unwritten rules –"

"Yup. He's the sort of guy who does that. But never fear; he's going to go down. Tonight, if I can pull it off. However, I cannot guarantee that he hasn't arranged some sort of electronic fuck-you that spills the beans anyway if he's taken down. So I would suggest not letting Aster out of your sight over the next few days. You might even consider leaving town for a week or so, just in case, until the dust settles.

"Because I know how devoted you are to your daughter, and I know what lengths you'll go to, in order to get her back, if she's taken from you. And I'd rather you didn't find it necessary to go to those lengths. So consider this a friendly heads-up."

"Oh," she replied at last. "Oh. Ah ... thank you?"

"No thanks necessary. Just take care of Aster, and stay away from Max. Okay?"

"I ... I'll do that. Uh – one question?"

"Yes?"

"Does Max know about this?"

He chuckled. "You can tell him if you want. I haven't bothered."

And the line went dead, just like that.

Kayden stared at her phone for a few moments, then shook her head and put it back on her belt.

Manufacturing a smile, she turned back to her client. "So sorry, Mrs Wilson. I'm going to have to reschedule. Next week, perhaps?"

Don't let Aster out of your sight, he had said. Consider leaving town for a week or so.

That was advice she certainly intended to follow.

Just in case.

Because life without Aster was unthinkable.

=//=//=​

Closing my phone, I went about my rounds. There was still the afternoon to get through, before the action tonight. Four hours to think, to mentally prepare, to go over what needed doing. To refine my plans.

I just hoped that, between my knowledge of the setting, and Contessa's bullshit hax powers, we could pull off this attack.

I hoped that the Undersiders would be willing to listen to reason. I thought they would be, but I could not be certain.

I hoped that Director Piggot would be willing to hold off on taking certain steps until I told her to go on with them.

I hoped that a hundred unknown factors wouldn't conspire to trip me up at the worst possible time.

Fuck this behind-the-scenes puppet-master bullshit, I told myself. It's too hard on the nerves.

And then I grinned. But fuck, it's a rush when I pull it off.

=//=//=​

"We'll be landing shortly."

Dragon's voice brought Paige out of a light doze; she had been curled up on one of the seats, more comfortable than she had been in months, just enjoying the trip. The meal pack had been delicious, and Dragon's company welcome without being intrusive.

She rubbed sleep from her eyes. "Oh – ah, do I have to put that gag back on?"

Dragon's voice was warm and friendly. "No, you don't have to. You will be met by soldiers with ear protection, and escorted to soundproof accommodations."

Paige was heartened by that, but still more than a little unhappy about the way they obviously saw her. "Don't they know I can't just take control of someone like that?"

Dragon chuckled. "I know it, dear, and you know it. But the military is all the same. They have their procedures, just in case the threat is worse than it first appears."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be taking it out on you."

"Don't be. I rather enjoyed the trip."

"Oh." Paige was unaccountably touched. "Thank you. So did I."

And then the craft tilted and the turbines roared, and Paige knew that her journey was coming to an end. What was to happen to her now, she wasn't sure. But virtually anything would be better than that cell, and that courtroom, and that gag.

=//=//=​

The afternoon wore on. Ground floor, second floor, third floor. Check each one in turn, then back down again. For some, it would be unutterably boring. For me, it was the job.

Fourth period ended at one forty; I encountered Taylor leaning against the wall, relaxed, eating a pita wrap as her fellow students went one way or another.

"Sorry I didn't give you a chance to have your lunch," I commented, leaning against the wall beside her.

She swallowed a bite and grinned at me. "It's okay. I've missed lunch before."

Because bullies took it off her, no doubt.

"Well, it's good to see that you're getting something into you now. Looking forward to this afternoon?"

She nodded seriously. "Oh yeah."

"Good. I'll see you around." I traded a fist-bump with her, and moved off.

=//=//=​

Eidolon stepped out of a Door and looked around. The Door blinked out of sight a moment later.

It was a small town in the middle of Nebraska, official population three thousand; currently, from the flames engulfing some buildings, the smoke rising into the air, and the screams he could hear here and there, he figured that number was falling rapidly. He noted the window frames gaping empty in the surrounding buildings; Shatterbird had already done her work.

Without moving from the spot, he activated the power-finder power that he had drawn on first, on Security's advice. He was looking for specific powersets; those powers owned by the Nine, to be exact.

The current roster was Jack Slash, Bonesaw, Mannequin, Crawler, Shatterbird, Hatchet Face, Burnscar, Siberian and Winter. He knew their powersets well enough; two, he knew better than he had a week ago.

Some would say he was being foolhardy in taking on an S-class threat all by himself, with no backup. But in his thinking, backup was just as likely to get killed, or become a hostage. On his own, he had no-one to worry about but himself.

His second power was a suite of gravity-control effects. One minor capability was to suspend small particles in the air around him, so that nothing bigger than a foot across could reach him without moving one of them.

He felt the particles being crushed, moved, directly behind him, and he vaulted skyward, instants before the Siberian would have gutted him. His power-finder still had not located Manton, but it was closing in.

Unfortunately, so was Shatterbird.

He had traded out his mask for a non-glass based one for this very fight; when she sang, and spears of glass pummelled him, the gravitic force field surrounding him bounced them away or shattered them. He saw her gathering the glass together to form a massive hammer that would surely crush him flat.

But then his other power detected his target.

He sent one pulse of gravity at her, increasing her weight dramatically, to drag her to the ground in an undignified heap. And then, he was flashing away, toward where his target hid.

Manton was in a van, which started up as he arrived. This did him little good, as the van promptly lifted into the air, under Eidolon's direction.

Shatterbird was still regaining her scattered wits; none of the others could fly, and Burnscar could only teleport through fire. He had Manton where he wanted –

The Siberian popped into existence on top of the van, and launched herself at him. He knew his force field was as nothing to her, that she would be on him in a second –

He didn't have a choice. He exerted his power.

Her clawed nails were barely six inches from his face when the van suddenly imploded, crunching down to a fraction of its size. She vanished; red leaked from the crumpled metal.

Grimacing at the near-fatal slip, Eidolon let the remains of the van and William Manton fall to the ground. He looked around, casting about for Jack Slash.

He detected a force impinging on the surface of the force field at almost exactly the same time as his power picked up the man's powerset. As he turned that way, he saw Jack Slash himself, taking a running dive off the roof of a convenience store.

Eidolon smiled grimly. It's almost as though he knows what I intend to do.

Shatterbird was up by now, and streaking in for an attack run; Eidolon smashed her back with another gravity pulse that knocked her a mile through the air. Then he went after Jack Slash.

The power picked him up, but he was nowhere in sight. But then, Eidolon noted an open manhole cover.

Gone to ground, like the rat you are.

Eidolon pinpointed his location, then concentrated on the area of ground above him. His force field faded away for the moment as he exerted another aspect of the power.

Abruptly, a fifty-foot-wide circle of ground dropped six feet.

Jack Slash's powerset flickered, and then winked out.

Just as Eidolon was bringing his force field back up again, there was a sudden agonising pain in his right forearm and chest; he looked down, and a gleaming blade was buried through his arm, and into his body. The body armour he wore had done a little to stop it, but it was deep enough to be serious.

He realised that, had he brought up the force field a moment later, he would have been dead. As it was, he knew he was badly injured.

I could go now, leave the Nine to be mopped up, he knew. Slash is dead, or nearly so. Manton is dead.

But deep down, he knew that Bonesaw could perform miracles, or close to, with her bio-tinker skills. If they dug up Slash's body ...

I have to finish this.

Blood was running down his stomach, soaking his clothes. The pain was horrible.

Shatterbird was coming at him again, glass spears seeking his vitals. The force field wavered; his powers were great, but having a blade sticking into one's vital organs tended to have an effect on one's concentration.

He dismissed the power-seeker power and pulled out another from the vast library now open to him. Shatterbird flew at him, just as another blade was barely deflected by the force field.

Flinging out his left hand, he sent a small dark bolt flying at the Middle Eastern cape. She jinked to avoid it; it abruptly blossomed into a night-dark sphere, engulfing her. The sphere gradually cleared, remaining only as a grey haze, encapsulating Shatterbird, frozen in time. A variant on Grey Boy's power, but it would only last a few minutes.

Mannequin shot another knife at him, then dodged another bolt, which promptly encapsulated a mailbox. The blade very nearly penetrated his force field.

Eidolon gritted his teeth, and called up a personal biokinesis power, not unlike Aegis'. As it settled over him, he turned off his pain awareness in that area, and redirected blood flow. The bleeding eased to nothing, and he pulled the blade from his arm and body without any more trouble.

With the lack of pain, he managed to shore up the force field, so that Mannequin's next two blades glanced off without any particular effort from his part. A gesture caught the white-armoured figure, and crunched it down to a size that, while spherical, was less than ideal for supporting life.

Sphere, indeed.

He set the blood to clotting and the flesh to knitting; this was in no way the first time he had ever been injured, but usually he'd had three powers to work with, and doing this with two was a little difficult and time-consuming.

And then, with a roar, Crawler's immense bulk clambered up onto the roof over which he had been hovering – and, he realised, slowly drifting down toward, as his concentration was distracted by other matters – and leaped up toward him. The massive body landed directly on top of the force field bubble, and pushed them both down toward the roof. Arms and legs – he really wasn't sure which was which, and Crawler probably wasn't either – flailed at his protective sphere.

The building burst into flame beneath him; Burnscar must be somewhere around the area, he realised. The heat began to get uncomfortable, and he was already dividing his attention too many ways at once. He dismissed the biokinesis, and pulled up simple regeneration; the pain returned, but he felt the wounds healing at a considerably increased rate.

He couldn't throw Crawler off of him, but he could move sideways with the grotesquely misshapen villain's mass still draped over the top of his force field bubble. He could vaguely hear Crawler laughing, and making some sort of vile promise about what he was going to do with Eidolon's body.

And then he saw who he was looking for. The last three members of the Slaughterhouse Nine. Bonesaw standing next to Winter, holding her hand. And standing just a little way away, Hatchet Face.

As he watched, Winter unslung a high-powered rifle from her shoulder. His force field was already stressed enough by Crawler's ongoing assault, the strain of lifting the gross body, the heat of the fire ... he could not be certain that it would deflect a shot from the rifle.

He rolled the sphere, dropping Crawler onto the roof of the burning building. Bellowing with rage, the nigh-invulnerable cape smashed through the roof and into the inferno below. The force field ramped up again, just as Winter fired. The bullet struck the force field, smashed through, but was deflected just far enough to miss his head.

She did not get a second shot.

Reaching out and rising upward, Eidolon took hold of both Winter and Hatchet Face. He slammed them together hard enough to break bones, then brought them over the top of the building where Crawler was just now getting to his feet. Deliberately, he moved them into the fire, into contact with Crawler himself.

Winter would normally have been able to withstand this easily; however, Hatchet Face's power nullified hers, and so she felt the full heat of the fire.

Likewise, Crawler had been feeling no particular urgency, until all of his power was stripped away. He tried to surge away, break away from the suddenly unbearable heat, but a gravitic fist gripped him and held him in place.

And then Eidolon dismissed the regeneration ability; his wounds were not yet healed, but they had closed, and that was all that mattered. He called up an ability not unlike Burnscar's. The fire below began to burn hotter, and hotter, and hotter.

When fire investigators finally delved through the wreckage of this building, they would find three charred skeletons; two would be recogniseably human, while the third would be monstrously inhuman.

Turning away from the funeral pyre, Eidolon searched for the pyrokinetic and the bio-tinker who had brought terror and death to so many, at the behest of Jack Slash.

They were nowhere to be seen.

He called up the power-seek ability, and searched for Bonesaw and Burnscar in that manner.

And then he coughed. Something tickled at the back of his throat, and he coughed again, a fine spray of red in the air.

She's released a pathogen of some sort.

Immediately, he pulled up the biokinesis ability, setting his cells to finding the invader, casting it out, rebuilding the parts of his lungs that had already started to disintegrate.

Burnscar stepped from cover and launched a bolt of fire; it engulfed the force field, temporarily blinding him. The heat was immense; he felt sweat springing out all over his body.

He responded by rising upward, out of her range. Out of the range of Bonesaw's pathogens. Once he figured he was high enough, he opened the bubble, let himself breathe untainted air, allowed the biokinesis power to finish fixing the damage done by Bonesaw's hell-plague. His arm and chest still pained him, but it would take too long to fix that, too. He had to get the last two members of the Nine before they spread more death and destruction.

Re-establishing the force field, he made it airtight. It would only give him a few minutes of breathable air, but this would allow him to use his third power for something other than healing the disease.

The time limit made him realise that Shatterbird's timer must be running down. Fighting her as well as these other two might become just a little ... pressing. Especially if he wanted to take Bonesaw and Shatterbird alive.

He swooped down, using his finder power to locate their powersets. Bonesaw was hiding in one of the houses, while Burnscar lurked close by. Neither was in his direct line of sight. Well, no matter.

Coming to a hover over the house where Bonesaw was, he lifted the roof off with sheer brute power, not bothering with finesse. Bonesaw looked up, apparently halfway through crafting some monstrosity, melding several of the unlucky victims of her plague together.

Eidolon only had fractions of a second to understand this before a grotesque amalgamated figure bounded from hiding, up onto the wall, and then directly at him. A rat-like face, drooling mouth, mismatched teeth, clawed hands, attacking the force field bubble with mindless ferocity.

He sighed, called up the power he had used to entrap Shatterbird, and shot the bolt at Bonesaw. The rat-like thing jumped into its way; the dark sphere enfolded it instead. Bonesaw tried to dodge the second shot, but failed; she was likewise imprisoned.

Fire bloomed around him. Airtight, the bubble stood up to the heat much better, but the air inside was running out. He turned, saw Burnscar, and shot a bolt at her. She evaded, stepping into one fire and out of another.

This was getting annoying, and time consuming. He dismissed that power, and called up one he'd never tried before. It was a Shaker ability, fairly widespread. Within the area of effect ... fire did not burn.

Abruptly, all combustion in the area ceased. Burnscar looked around, shocked. She tried to call up flame, and only succeeded in making vague, meaningless gestures. So stunned was she that she did not notice when he picked up a car and dropped it on top of her. She barely had time to scream.

It was getting a little hard to breathe in the force field sphere. He called up another Shaker power, one used to transmute gases, and reverted all the carbon dioxide within the force field back to oxygen.

He caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye, and saw Shatterbird, clear of her timelocked prison, begin to fall before re-establishing her glass wings. He slammed her to the ground hard enough to break bones, then called up the time-sphere power again. She was enfolded and trapped once more.

A widespread biokinetic Shaker power cleared the plague from the area; he simply located and catalogued everything under a certain size, and killed everything that was inimical to human life. Then he went back to where Bonesaw and her homunculus were trapped.

With a gesture, he freed the minion. With another, he crushed its skull.

Small robotic spiders launched themselves at him; he destroyed them, one at a time, until the last was gone.

Able to let down the airtight force field now, he surrounded Bonesaw with it, then dismissed the timestop field. She struggled against it, against the invisible shackles that he placed on her. Making part of the field semi-permeable, he pushed his finger through until the tip rested on her cheek. The advanced biokinetic powers that he had taken on neutralised the pathogens and toxins with which she had infested her body. They also put her into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He re-checked the area for pathogens, cleared it of the few that remained, then put another force field around Shatterbird before dropping the timestop field. She tried her hardest to murder him with shards of glass, but he filled her air-tight forcefield with anaesthetic gas.

She passed out fifteen seconds later, and he was able to send her to sleep as well.

"Door."

***​

The Eidolon that stepped through the Door into the Cauldron base, towing the unconscious bodies of two members of the Slaughterhouse Nine, was not the same as the Eidolon who had stepped through not so long before. He was weary, bedraggled, wounded and bloody. But he held his head high with pride.

Alexandria met him, her eyes searching his.

"Manton?"

He shook his head. "Sorry. Matters were taken from my hands."

She pursed her lips. "Pity. Well, you got those two, anyway."

"Why did you want them, anyway?"

"I didn't. Security did. I imagine that Bonesaw may have useful insights or capabilities ..."

He snorted. "If anyone will trust her near them."

"You have a point. But we have her now. Maybe with her mind wiped ..."

"Right. But what about Shatterbird?"

"And there you have me. Well, we have accommodations for them both. When we speak to Security tomorrow, we will find out what plans he has for them."

"You think he's really got a plan that will stop Scion?"

"Contessa seems to think so. We'll just have to wait and see." She paused. "And in the meantime ..."

Behind his mask, he rolled his eyes. "Okay. Fine. I'll go to therapy."

She gave him a small, tight smile. "Good."

=//=//=​

I leaned against the concrete wall bordering the steps, and watched Emma and Madison get into their respective family cars. It was three-thirty already; school was out.

The other students streamed past me, down the steps, free until the morning. I grinned; I kind of envied them. Life was simultaneously more complex, and much simpler, as a teenager.

Not that I would swap with them. I was long done with my teenage years.

If everything went right, tonight we'd be taking down a supervillain. If my plan worked, if everything went all right, Coil would not know a thing, not until it was far too late.

Oh god, I hope everything goes all right.

***​

Nearly all the students had left the building; I watched them boarding the bus, getting into cars.

"Hey."

I turned; it was Taylor.

"Hey, yourself."

"So, what happens this afternoon?"

"We show up at the PRT building, I present the plan, and we go kick some supervillain ass. Oh, and you get to meet a celebrity."

She blinked. "What, really? Who?"

I grinned; she wrinkled her nose at me. "You suck."

"Look at it as something to look forward to."

"You still suck."

"Maybe. So, you gonna head home and tell your Dad about your thrilling adventures?"

"I can head home, sure. But he won't be home till about the time I need to get to the PRT building anyway." She glanced at me. "After five, right?"

"After five," I confirmed. "It'll look a bit suss for you to be hanging around with the security guard after everyone else has gone. You'd better get home, get freshened up, have a feed. Get some tucker into you."

She was startled into a laugh. "Get some what?"

I blinked, swore at myself. "Uh, food. It's an Australianism I once heard." Overrriding my – Michael Allen's – natural vocal reflexes, I put on a broad Australian accent. "It's the way Aussies speak – mate."

She clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh my god," she managed, between muffled giggles. "That sounds so weird. How do you manage that accent?"

"I, uh, knew an Australian one time," I replied, carefully letting the American accent take over again. "You pick up things like that."

"Oh my god," she repeated, shaking her head. "You have got to do that in front of Dad. He'll fall over laughing."

I shook my own head. "It's just a thing I picked up, is all. Now, you'd better get home. But I'll see you at the PRT building after five."

Taylor grinned. "I'll see you there – myte." She did her best at an Australian accent, and I didn't correct her. We bumped fists; I watched her walk down the steps and join the group at the bus stop.

"That was a bloody stupid slip," I told myself. "Don't do it again."

"Don't do what again?" asked a cool voice from behind me.

***​

This was definitely my day for people to sneak up behind me. I turned, already putting a smile on my face. "Ah, yeah, I kind of forgot to fuel up your car," I confessed. "Sorry. I was a little annoyed at myself for that."

Pulling out my wallet, I extracted a ten dollar note and offered it to her.

"Keep it," she told me, amused.

"No, really," I told her, pulling out her car keys at the same time. "I really do appreciate the loaner."

She accepted the keys but refused the money once more. "I don't take money from friends, Michael."

"You're sure."

"I'm sure."

"Okay, no problems then." I put the money away again. "But I will buy you lunch sometime."

A smile blossomed across her face. "I can accept that, yes."

We relaxed, leaning against the wall. The last of Taylor's group boarded the bus. It drove away.

"So ..." she ventured. "You and Taylor drove into the city at lunch time, in my car. According to Mr Gladly, you were quite insistent that you both go."

I looked at her; she looked at me. We were more or less of a height. Her eyes were a cool blue-green.

"I had permission to go into town," I replied at last. "To go to the bank. Taylor hitched a ride with me."

"Although she had no permission."

"Danny said he was okay with it."

"After the fact."

I moved my head from side to side in a vague, almost-nodding fashion. "There is that, yes."

Her voice took on just a hint of sharpness. "Are you going to make me ask you outright, Michael?"

I sighed. "Gladys, we did nothing illegal." Except break the speed limit, just a little, here and there, on the way. "As to what we did do ... well, I understand that Danny's arranged a little meeting this evening, to clear that up. You, me, Taylor, Danny."

She shook her head. "This secrecy ... there are several possible interpretations. One of which I refuse to believe altogether. Others which ... well, they are almost as difficult to accept." She looked at me directly. "And I happened to catch the news during the lunch hour. There was a bank robbery downtown, which just happened to be foiled. By a previously unknown cape."

Mentally, I winced. Gladys was no slouch at adding two and two.

I took a deep breath. "Gladys ... if it was just me, I'd tell you. But it's not. So ... tonight? Danny's place?"

"Certainly. What time?"

I grimaced. "There's the other problem. I'm not going to be available till late. Maybe nine, or ten. Call you?"

One of her eyebrows hitched up. "Really," she murmured. "You know, you're not helping dispel my suspicions."

"Tonight? Please?"

She nodded, looking pleased with herself. "Tonight, then."

Slipping her keys into her purse, she headed back inside. I watched as the last students got on the next bus, then headed in myself.

=//=//=​

"Mom, can I talk to you about something?"

Carol Dallon looked up from a desk full of papers. "What is it, Amy? I'm busy."

"I want to move out of home. Just for a while."

Carol began to glance back down at the papers, then the import behind Amy's statement caught up with her.

"What? Why?"

"Because I need to," Amy replied. "I'm not happy here. I've come to realise that. I need to get out, just for a bit. Clear my head."

Carol shook her head. "Where are you going? Are you quitting the team?"

"Not quitting. Just ... what do they say ... taking a leave of absence. And I've got a place to go to. It's all been arranged."

Carol stood up. "You've arranged this behind our backs? How long have you been planning this?"

Amy felt the first tears start to come into her eyes. Her voice took on a defensive tremor. "I haven't. But I spoke to someone today who told me I was burning out emotionally, that I needed to get away from my home environment. He was right, Mom. I am burning out. It's getting harder to do the right thing all the time."

Carol stared at her. She had never seen Amy quite like this before. Her voice softened a little.

"Where will you be living?"

"With a family called the Heberts," Amy replied. "There's a girl my age living there. Oh, and I'll be getting therapy, too."

Carol's voice was sharp. "What for, and who with?"

Amy's voice was firm, if not the steadiest. "Mrs Jessica Yamada, and what for is between me and her."

"So who was this person you spoke to, who organised all this?"

"He called himself Security."

"And how do you know he knows anything at all about you, or your position?"

"Well, you know that bank robbery that happened today?"

"The Brockton Bay Central, yes. I spoke to Victoria; she said a new cape helped capture the villains responsible."

"I was inside that bank. He walked in, and got me to walk out, just before it was robbed."

"That could be a coincidence."

"He also knows things about me, about Vicky, about you, that no-one else knows."

"He's a cape, then."

"No. That's the strangest thing. He let me use my powers on him, to make sure he was telling the truth. And he never told a single lie. And he's not a cape."

Carol was silent for a long moment. "So, on this man's word, you want to move out for a while, and get therapy."

"Yes."

"How long for, and who's paying for the therapy?"

"Maybe a month. And Mrs Yamada said she'd be billing the PRT."

Carol honestly did not know how to react. She didn't like or trust her foster daughter, but now Amy was offering to move out of the house, to get therapy ...

"Hm. I'll talk it over with your father, and we'll need all the contact information. But if it all checks out, I can't see a problem."

"Thanks, Mom. You're the best."

Amy turned and left the room with a jaunty step, leaving Carol Dallon staring after her.

=//=//=​

At five on the dot, I signed in the master keys, and closed Blackwell's door behind me on the way out of her office. I nodded to the cleaners on the way out, and then paused on the steps.

There was a van in the carpark.

A van almost identical to the one in which I had been abducted.

Coil should have been terrified to go near me again ... but what if he'd somehow caught wind of my shenanigans against him? My plan to spoof his power should be in action, but if that had somehow backfired ...

He may have decided to simply kill me and suffer whatever consequences.

Or, I reasoned, the PRT may simply have sent a real van to pick me up.

At that moment, my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Security?"

"Speaking. Director Piggot?"

"Yes. You should have just walked out of the school. There will be a van in the parking lot."

"I see it."

"Don't be concerned. This one is legitimate."

"The last one looked legitimate."

"The driver is proof that it is legitimate."

"Really."

"Go and look."

Moving cautiously, I edged up past the van, one hand on my baton, the other on my pepper spray, until I could see who was in the driver's seat.

Miss Militia leaned on the window sill and smiled at me. The scarf was pulled down from her face, making her just another attractive woman wearing military fatigues with a scarf around her neck.

"Hello, Mr Allen. It's good to meet you again."

I grinned back at her. "Yeah," I said into the phone. "That's proof enough for me."

I got into the van.

=//=//=​

"Vicky, could you do me a favour?"

"Sure thing, Ames. What's up?"

"I need a lift down to the PRT building." Amy paused. "Actually, you want to come with? Something about taking down a supervillain."

Glory Girl was immediately all attention.

"You're kidding me. Someone invited you to take down a supervillain, and not me?"

Amy grinned. "Actually, he did say, 'Oh, bring that loose cannon sister of yours too, if you think she can be trusted,' or something like that."

Victoria bristled. "Loose cannon my butt!"

Amy cleared her throat. "Six times, Vicky. Six times."

Vicky looked at the floor and mumbled something.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"You suck."

"Or I can uninvite you ..."

"Okay, fine, you don't suck."

Amy grinned; her sister stuck out her tongue at her.

Vicky raised her voice. "Mom!"

Carol's voice floated down from the study. "Yes?"

"Amy and I are heading out for a bit. We'll be back later!"

"Okay. Let me know when you get back in."

"Sure thing, Mom." Vicky turned to Amy. "Okay, Ames. Let's go kick a supervillain's butt."

Amy grinned. When directed properly, her sister's enthusiasm could be quite impressive.

=//=//=​

"So," I ventured, once we were on the road, "you've basically unmasked for me?"

"Well, you've more or less unmasked for everyone," she pointed out logically.

"Yeah, but ..."

"And besides," she added, "you already know more about me than anyone else does. If anyone knows who I am under the mask, you do."

I blinked. "That's ... a point. Thanks, Hannah. I appreciate it. This ride would've been a lot more nerve-wracking if I didn't know for a fact that I could trust the driver."

She gave me an odd look, which I didn't know how to interpret.

"You were really worried?" she asked.

"More concerned than worried," I admitted. "I mean, I was fairly certain nothing significant was going to happen, but there's a fair spread between 'nothing' and 'nothing significant'."

"Hm," she commented. "I never told you my name."

"Sorry. I show off when I'm nervous."

A slim eyebrow raised. "You don't look nervous."

"Trust me. Inside, I'm sweating up a storm."

She chuckled. "'Trust me'. People tell me you say that a lot."

"Another nervous habit."

"Ah."

"Also, because for people to not trust me, and drop the ball right at the wrong moment ... urgh. All this work, undone."

"Work?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm trying to save the world. It's as simple as that. Also, trying to save as many people as possible."

"I'm not sure about the distinction, there."

I considered trying to explain. "Hm. Long story. Really long story. Maybe after all this is over, I can try to explain it to you."

"Is it really that complex?"

"No. There are very few people who will believe it. You might. I have to get to know you better before I decide on that one."

"Ah," she replied, apparently pleased. "Thank you."

"So everything went okay with DInah?" I asked, more for anything to say than anything else.

"Totally uneventful," she assured me. "No-one even remotely suspicious showed their faces."

I nodded. "Good. That's perfect."

"Really?" she asked, frowning. "No attempt at all was made, and you say it's good?"

I chuckled. "Oh, one was made all right. It must have failed spectacularly."

She stared at me. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You will," I assured her. "Anyway, how did the mop-up at the bank go?"

"The dogs were retrieved without harm." She paused. "Hellhound, uh, Bitch, refused to give up the location of her other dogs, however."

I closed my eyes and hit the headrest with my head; a soft thump. "Dammit," I muttered. "I think it's at an unfinished construction site somewhere, not sure exactly where."

"Oh, we know where," she informed me briskly. "Tattletale told us."

I gave her a dirty look. "You were testing me."

"You seem to enjoy showing off your knowledge," she pointed out seriously. "It's in our best interests to be certain that you won't make up stuff on the spot."

I considered that. "Fair point. So, the dogs?"

"We've already sent people to make sure they're okay."

"Good." I settled back to enjoy the ride.

***​

At that moment, she pulled up the scarf, just as the PRT building came into view. She drove around to the back, and into an underground carpark. In the cool dimness, we climbed out of the vehicle, and headed for the elevator.

"I'm guessing the Wards' base is two below this one?" I commented as the doors folded open.

"Yes, you are correct," she agreed. "If you want, when you have spare time, we can arrange a tour."

"I'd like to meet them," I agreed. "Listen, can you keep something to yourself?"

"Of course."

"If the steps I've taken work out, Leviathan will hopefully not hit Brockton Bay on May the fifteenth," I told her quietly. "But if he did, Gallant and Aegis would have been among the casualties. Or rather, that's one set of probabilities. If I hadn't been here to tell you this. Do you get what I'm saying?"

"You've changed things."

"Yeah. Lots of things. Hopefully for the better."

She stared at me. "How can you know this?"

I chuckled. "Long, long story."

The elevator stopped. We stepped out, walked the short distance to Director Piggot's office.

"Director," I greeted her. "Thank you for sending Miss Militia."

She nodded curtly. "Are you aware that Panacea and Glory Girl are here to see you?"

"Ah, excellent, they made it."

"You invited them?"

I shrugged. "I thought they might come in handy." I dusted off my hands. "But first ... Canary is somewhere in this building, right? I think I want to see her first."

=//=//=​

"You'll need ear protection."

"No, I won't."

The PRT guard offered me the earplugs again. "Yes, you will. She's a Master. She controls people with her voice."

"She led a perfectly normal life for months before the incident. No-one else accidentally mutilated themselves. And it takes more than a word or two for her to gain influence over someone."

His voice indicated disbelief. "You can't know that, sir."

"Okay, fine, I'll take the damn earplugs."

I put them in; as I was cycling through the airlock-style door, I pulled them out again.

She was somehow prettier than I'd expected, even in the prison sweats. Her hair was a startling yellow, along with the feathers that stuck out of her scalp here and there.

As I entered the cell, she stood, looking apprehensive.

"Hi, Paige. I'm Mike. People around here call me Security. Are they treating you all right?"

She picked up a pen and marker board; obviously the main way she had of communicating with ear-plugged guards. I waved it away. "Just talk. I'm good."

She spoke. Good god, her voice was amazing.

"You're ... Security? Dragon told me. You're the one who got me out of prison, out of the trial."

I nodded. "That's me. I thought you might come in handy for a little job I'm planning. You game?"

She stared. "Why aren't you scared of me, of my voice? Everyone else is."

My voice was heavy with sarcasm; no doubt this cell was wired to a fare-thee-well. "Everyone else is a dick."

She laughed; she couldn't help it. "But how do you know –"

I grinned. "Let's just say ... I know things. I know what you said to your boyfriend, and why. And I know it would have been a travesty of justice to send you to the Birdcage. So I decided, when this came up, that what the hell, I'd help you out at the same time."

"But you don't know me –"

I raised an eyebrow. "I know you better than you think. And I know this. I know you're a good person, someone who would rather help than harm. Which is why you're here, instead of in a courtroom with your hands in buckets of containment foam and a horrible gag in your mouth."

She was silent, staring at me. I took a step forward. "Listen, we have to go places, but before we do, would you like a hug?"

She was hesitant at first, but then her arms were around me, and I was patting her gently on the back. Her shoulders shook, and I felt dampness on my shirt. That was fine; I just held her and let her cry.

Eventually, she pulled back, her eyes a little reddened. I offered her my handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

"Feeling better?" I asked.

She smiled wanly. "Yes," she whispered.

"Excellent," I told her. "Now, I personally know you aren't about to try to Master everyone here, but not everyone else does. So let's keep your dialogue to a minimum for the time being, okay?"

She nodded seriously. "But they aren't about to let me out of this cell."

I chuckled. "Let's see about that."

There was an intercom button beside the door. I pressed it.

"Yes?"

"I'd like to come out."

"So come out."

"With the prisoner."

"I can't authorise that."

"Call someone who can."

We waited. A few moments later, the intercom buzzed. "Security?"

"Ah, Director. Yes. I'd like to bring Canary in on this. That is, out of her cell."

"Out of the question."

I sighed. "Director, I know for a fact that she won't cause problems."

There was a long pause. "How certain are you of this?"

"Absolutely."

"Then come ahead. But if there's any problems –"

"There won't be. She's already promised to be quiet."

"Very well, but against my better judgement."

"You won't regret this."

A sigh, rendered into an electronic crackle. "I already do."

A few moments later, both doors opened at the same time. The guard gestured us out, keeping a watchful eye on Canary. I allowed her to go first; wide-eyed, she stepped from the cell. I followed.

"So," I said briskly to the guard. "Where are you keeping the Undersiders?"


End of Chapter Twenty-One

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter 22: Trolling for Fun and Profit


Just a Little Earlier

Brian paced back and forth.

He was angry and confused. In the aftermath of the failed escape from the bank, they had been arrested, searched and handcuffed, as expected. But he had watched the PRT soldiers carefully extracting the dogs from within Bitch's monster creatures; he had also observed the officer on site asking Rachel for the location where she kept her other dogs.

Resentful and hostile, Bitch had refused to speak; however, unexpectedly, Lisa had volunteered the information. Brian hadn't even known she knew where it was. Bitch had glared at Tattletale for the remainder of the trip, when she wasn't looking back over the tailgate at the truck following them, the truck containing her dogs.

On arrival at the PRT building, another series of surprises; they were not separated, they were not processed, and the room they were ushered into looked more like a conference room than a cell. There was a table, comfortable chairs, bathrooms, a counter with a sink, a coffee urn and cookies, and even a sofa in the corner.

Under the watchful eye of two soldiers, a tech had attached remote cameras so that every part of the room was under observation. Then their restraints had been removed, and they had been left alone in the room.

Regent had colonised the sofa; Lisa had sat in one of the chairs, chin resting on crossed arms, staring into space. Bitch had been restless, angry, twitchy, until the next visitor. A soldier had escorted a young woman into the room; she was carrying a cardboard box, which she set down on the table. Glancing shyly at Bitch, she had retreated from the room, along with the soldier.

The box contained a nest of rags, which in turn contained a puppy, which had sat up and yawned as the door closed. Also in the box was a small packet of puppy chow.

Rachel had immediately commandeered the puppy; sitting cross-legged on the floor, she had examined it minutely before acknowledging reluctantly that it was in good health. Then she had commenced teaching it basic commands.

=///=​

The teenage girl walking away from the bus stop did not draw many glances. She wore a heavy coat over some sort of tights, with running shoes on her feet. A backpack of some sort, empty by the look of it, was slung over one shoulder. Her hair was bundled up under an oversized baseball cap, under which she wore large sunglasses. Her hands were shoved into her pockets; had anyone been looking closely on the bus, they would have seen that she had gloves on.

No-one had paid that much attention. She was tall for her age, but even with the coat, it wasn't hard to tell that she was fairly skinny, with no real curves to speak of. She was just another teenager, in a city replete with them, doing nothing out of the ordinary.

The fact that she kept her head down and collar up more or less hid her features from everyone around her; no-one took much notice of this, either. Many teens were runaways, or had other reasons to not want people to remember their faces.

She walked up to an alleyway, and entered it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The buildings were tall, and the alley narrow, and so it was dark in there. Anyone standing on the street would be hard put, in the full glare of the afternoon sun, to see more than a couple of yards into the alley.

Abruptly, a cloud of bugs swarmed into being around the mouth of the alleyway, swirling thicker and thicker in a tight column. People noticed that. Some edged away, others brought out their phones to take pictures.

The teenage girl who stepped from the cloud of insects wore a full-body costume of some dark material. Her eyes were blank, yellow. The face of the mask resembled an insect's mandibles. No-one took much note that she carried a bag over one shoulder; this one was somewhat fuller than the one that had been carried by the anonymous teenage girl, a few moments earlier.

People made way for her as she strode down the pavement, trailed by the swarm. More photos were taken. A few people recognised her, whispered to each other, but did not approach her. Capes tended to get that sort of respect in costume; the better-known and more popular ones were occasionally asked for autographs.

Weaver was not well-known or popular yet; this, and the implicit menace of the following swarm, kept people at bay.

In time, she supposed, she would earn their trust, their gratitude.

In time, she would be stopped for autographs.

Just not today.

=///=​

Alec relaxed on the sofa. It was a comfortable sofa, and he firmly believed in resting and conserving his strength whenever he could. Some called it laziness; he called it common sense.

They were in the shit; that was a definite. But for some reason, their captors were giving them the velvet-glove treatment, and he fully intended to enjoy it while it lasted. And if they slacked off a little more, there might even be a chance to escape. So he'd wait, and watch, and bide his time.

Growing up with Heartbreaker as a father had taught him that much, at least.

Brian stopped pacing in front of the window, looking maybe ten storeys down at the street below. He thumped the thick polycarbonate with his fist, eliciting a dull thump.

"You know, if you want to break through that and rappel down the wall, you're going to have to hit it a lot harder than that," Alec commented idly. Lisa and Rachel hadn't even looked up.

"Shut up," growled Brian, and went back to pacing.

=///=​

Taylor was still half a block short of the PRT building when her bugs detected an incoming aerial object. Turning, she observed Glory Girl, carrying Panacea, swooping toward the building that was her own objective.

She quickened her pace; it did not seem likely that the Dallon girls turning up at the same time as her was any sort of coincidence. And it was after five now; if Mike was not already in the building, he wasn't far away.

Even as she registered the thought, a van entered the underground garage on the far side of the PRT building. She could not be sure, but the passenger seemed to fit Mike's size and body type.

Victoria and Amy Dallon entered the PRT building; a few moments later, she followed them in. As a sign of courtesy, she left the swarm behind to dissipate. As a habit of caution – Mike had counselled her in this – she kept quite a few of them in her hair, and inside the storage space of her costume.

At once, she noted the armed and armoured guards in the lobby coming to a higher level of alertness. It was due to her, she supposed; although she was down in the PRT books as a 'friendly', not everyone would have gotten the memo.

However, no-one stopped her as she crossed to the reception desk. Glory Girl spotted her and turned.

"Hey, Weaver!" she greeted her. "That was awesome today, at the Brockton Central." She turned to her sister. "I can't believe you missed the whole show, sitting talking to some dumb security guard."

"Uh ..." began Weaver, but Panacea got there first.

"Vicky!" she hissed. "That's who we're here to see!"

Glory Girl blinked. "Security? You mean, that guy you were talking to? Him?"

Amy nodded patiently. "Yeah. Him. So how about a little respect when you meet him this time, huh?"

The receptionist cleared her throat. "Ah ... ladies? You can go up now. Take lift number three."

"Uh, I'm here to see Security too," Taylor told her hastily. "I'm Weaver."

"Ah, yes," the receptionist replied with a polite nod. "You're on our books. Go on up."

Weaver hurried to catch the other two; she entered the lift just before the tinker-tech doors began folding together.

"You know when I said I took down Lung with help?" she commented as the lift began to ascend.

"Yeah?" replied Glory Girl.

"He was the one who helped me. So yeah, respect is in order. Okay?"

"Shit, sorry. Okay. No problems."

Taylor didn't know whether Glory Girl was sincere in her apology, or just saying the words. But the fact that she said it was good enough, for the time being.

"That's okay. You'll see."

The lift came to a stop, and the doors opened. Miss Militia was standing there, apparently unsurprised at their appearance.

"You're right on time. Come with me."

=///=​

Rachel leaned back against the wall, the puppy sleeping in her lap. She concentrated on it, stroking its fur. It centred her, calmed her. Under her hand, the soft warmth of the sleeping puppy awakened an answering warmth in her heart..

She didn't understand it, didn't understand why they had left the puppy in the room. But she didn't need to understand it; holding the puppy in her arms, feeling its heart beating next to hers, she was as close to happy as she could get, these days.

The puppy rolled over in her lap, looked up at her, and yawned, tiny pink tongue curling back from minuscule white teeth. She stroked its silky ears; it licked her hand.

Rachel's face softened, and she smiled.

=///=​

Now

The three dogs looked up as I entered the small storeroom which had been set aside for them. Canary watched with some curiosity as I looked them over.

"Bentley ... Bentley ... Bentley ..." I muttered. "No, dammit, Bentley's a bulldog. These must be ... Brutus, Judas and Angelica."

Ears perked up, only one in the case of the terrier, and all three dogs came to their feet.

"Brutus, then ... Brutus? Here, boy. Here, Brutus. Come here, boy."

The large Rotti-cross came forward cautiously; dropping to one knee, I offered the back of my hand for him to sniff. He did so, then allowed me to scratch him behind the ear. Evidently he liked that, as his tail wagged, and his foot thumped on the floor.

"How do you know his name?" asked Canary as I attached the lead to the mutt's makeshift collar.

"Same way I know a lot of things, Paige," I replied. Standing, I led Brutus toward the door. The other two dogs got to their feet and followed; I waved them back with firm motions. "No!" I stated clearly. "Lie down!"

Rachel had trained them well; they knew 'no' well enough, and although 'lie down' probably wasn't an order that they had been specifically trained in, it sufficed to halt their forward progress. We exited the room and I closed the door carefully.

"My whole thing here is that I know a crapload of stuff," I explained to her as we proceeded along the corridor, accompanied by an impassive guard.

"What else do you know?" she asked. "And how do you know it?"

"Two questions," Miss Militia observed as she met up with us, "that the Director would dearly love to have the answers to." She indicated the three teenage girls following her. "I understand these girls are here to see you?"

"Weaver, good to see you again," I commented dryly. "Glory Girl, Panacea, likewise. I believe you've heard of Canary?"

Of the three, Glory Girl recovered first. "Uh, yeah, of course," she responded. "But ... why are you leading a dog?"

"Because I'm about to go speak to the Undersiders," I replied. "Come on; we'll talk as we walk."

"You do realise," Miss Militia commented as we continued along, "that Director Piggot was under the impression that we were going to be having a meeting about a certain topic." She shot the younger women a significant glance.

I nodded. Brutus was starting to pull on the lead; it was obvious that he could smell someone familiar ahead. I tugged on it once, sharply, and he slowed down.

"They know about it, more or less," I told her. "I'm just on my way to talk the Undersiders into stepping up as well."

"Will you be able to trust them not to turn on us?" asked the flag-clad hero.

"Depends on what incentives I offer them, doesn't it?" I replied with a grin. "That would be a job for someone who actually knows how they think. I wonder who that might be?"

She gave me a very dry look. "Indeed. So ... what is the dog for?"

"A peace offering."

***​

A makeshift security station had been erected outside the conference room in which the Undersiders had been housed; monitors followed their movements inside the room, and IR cameras could track them even into the bathrooms, following their images through the walls.

The guard turned as I approached; the senior soldier on site stood up.

"Sorry, sir, but no entry except to authorised personnel."

I glanced at Miss Militia. She sighed. "At ease, soldier. He's authorised."

"Yes, ma'am." He looked down at Brutus, who was standing at my feet, panting happily. "You want to take a dog? In there?"

I nodded. "That ... would be correct. I want to take a dog in there."

He looked from me to Miss Militia. "Hellhound's in there. Do you know what she does with dogs?"

"Better than you do, I suspect," I said bluntly. "But she won't. The odds are too great. It's a gesture of trust, from me to her."

Behind me, I heard voices being raised, and half-turned.

***​

"So," Glory Girl observed. "You're Canary. The Canary."

Paige nodded timidly. "Uh, yes?"

"Didn't you cause, uh, someone to ..." Panacea trailed off.

Canary lowered her head. "It was an accident."

"But how do you do something like that by accident?" asked the blonde teen. "I mean, seriously, was it a joke? Did you tell him one day to cut off his –"

"Hey!" snapped Weaver. "Leave her alone." She stepped up protectively alongside Canary. "Mike says she's all right, so that's good enough for me."

"She was arrested," pressed Glory Girl. "She was on trial. They were going to send her to –"

***​

"Hey!" I snapped. "Victoria Dallon! Leave Paige alone! Or you're out of this!"

Glory Girl turned toward me. "But she –"

"'But she' nothing!" I told her forcefully. "You started it. I'll finish it. One word from me, and you're out the door. Got it?"

She locked eyes with me, and I felt the stirrings of her aura. Canary and Weaver stepped away from her involuntarily. I held my ground, even though my every instinct was telling me to flee. At my feet, Brutus whimpered.

"Got it?" I repeated.

Panacea nudged her, hard, and abruptly the aura dropped. "Got it," she mumbled.

"Good. Now play nice."

Turning, I approached the security station. The Undersiders were all on their feet, talking. Their voices came tinnily out of a speaker.

" ... feel that?" Grue.

"I think it was Glory Girl." Tattletale.

"What's she doing here?" Regent.

"Guys, you know how I said we were waiting on someone to show up?" Tattletale again.

"Yeah?" Bitch; short, curt, to the point.

"I think they're here."

"Yeah," replied Regent, "but who?"

I would never have a better cue than that. I opened the door and walked in.

=///=​

Lisa had gone over and over in her mind all the facts that she knew. Their capture had almost been preordained; they had been doomed from the start. Weaver's tricks with the bugs and the foam sprayers had been child's play to figure out, but only after the fact. But where did a no-name cape like Weaver, with only one other fight to her credit, come up with a tactic like that? How had she known that Grue would blanket the street with darkness?

Admittedly, that other fight had been Lung, and Weaver had come out of that smelling like roses as well. Better, in fact, than virtually anyone else he had faced in combat.

She had wondered if Coil had set them up to be captured, if this was some elaborate ploy to get them off his books, but that didn't make sense. She knew her worth to him, how he was quite willing to kill her if she didn't play ball with his plans. Just to toss her and the Undersiders away for no good reason; it didn't fit.

She had a dozen theories whirling around in her head, none of which were contradicted by the available data, most of them mutually incompatible. She needed a key, a solid fact, to make the theories work. It all hinged on whoever walked through that door next.

"Yeah, but who?" asked Regent.

The door opened, and Michael Allen walked in, leading Bitch's dog Brutus.

"That would be me," he responded.

They all stared at him as he dropped the lead. "Go on, boy," he murmured, and Brutus trotted over to where Rachel held the puppy, dragging the lead behind him.

Lisa felt facts falling into place. Everything made sense now. The picture formed with dazzling clarity.

"You!" she blurted.

Allen strolled over to the table and leaned his hip on the corner. "Me."

Brian shook his head. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"And why did you bring my dog back?" demanded Rachel, looking Brutus over carefully.

"A show of good faith, of trust," Allen told her. "The others are being well cared for." He turned to Grue. "I would've been here sooner, but I had to finish work. As for what I'm here for ... well, I'm here to suggest that you help us take down your boss."

Brian started to speak, but Lisa got there first. "You told me we would speak again, and you knew it would be here and now. You knew we would be captured in the bank robbery. You knew about the bank robbery ... on Sunday?"

He gazed impassively back at her. For her, that was as good as a neon sign. Irritatingly, he seemed to know that, and not care.

"How the fuck did you know about the robbery before we did? I was only told of it Tuesday!"

Conclusions were piling up. "You knew, you could have stopped it, you chose for it to happen, so that we would be captured!"

"Wait, what the fuck?" growled Grue. "He set us up?"

"Yes," Allen acknowledged. "All of that's true. I did it for several reasons. You were only involved in some of them. I knew you would not harm the hostages, so I felt safe in letting it go ahead. And I wanted you captured, so I could talk to you on my terms."

Lisa had her hands digging into her hair, pulling at her scalp. "But, but, but, how did you know? You're not a cape, you weren't informed by the boss ... you knew what he'd do before he did it! You went out with Weaver to fight Lung so you'd meet us! And you knew about the bank job then! Christ!"

She stopped, dropped in to a chair, shaking her head.

Brian began to move toward Allen; the self-styled 'Security' had weight on him, but Brian was a little taller, a lot younger, and quite a bit fitter.

"So tell me, what's stopping me from beating your face in for shopping us to the PRT?" he growled.

"Nothing stopping you from trying," Allen replied honestly. "But, let's see. I did you a solid with Lung, and you're not in a cell right now. And what if I told you I could talk to the PRT about cutting through the red tape and arranging for you to get sole custody of Aisha?"

Grue stopped his steady advance. "You could do that?" he asked hesitantly.

Allen shrugged. "I could try. Can't guarantee anything. But if you happened to help the PRT take down a serious menace to the city ..."

Brian took his meaning. "Our boss. You were serious when you said you wanted us to help with that?"

"Sure," Allen told him. "Got a job that would be just your thing."

"So what do I get out of it?" asked Regent. "I couldn't give a damn about helping out my little sister."

"I know, Jean-Paul, I know," Allen told him. That jolted him just a little, Lisa saw. "But I'm not here to offer each of you a reason. I have a reason that should be good enough for each of you, but I want to present it to everyone at once." He looked at Lisa. "Can you verify that I think the reason's good enough?"

Lisa nodded. Her head was starting to pound at the migraine that was overtaking her, from the sudden and intense cognitive dissonance that she had suffered on encountering the revelations about Michael Allen. "Yeah," she told him. "You think they're good enough."

Grue nodded. "Okay, that's good enough for me. For the time being."

Regent shrugged. "Fine, I guess."

Bitch approached Allen. She looked him in the eye. "You brought my dog back. Did you tell them to give me a puppy?"

He nodded firmly. "Yes."

"Were you trying to manipulate me, make me feel better, so I wouldn't kick your head in?"

Lisa held her breath at that; she knew how violently Rachel reacted to the mere suggestion that she had been manipulated.

"Do you feel better?" he asked.

Reluctantly, she nodded.

His voice was firm, direct. His gaze never left hers. "I knew you'd feel closed in, trapped. I told them to give you a puppy. I told them that it would never be in better hands."

Bitch nodded, once. "Okay," she responded, then went back to where Brutus was sitting, waiting patiently.

Lisa blinked once, surprised. Rachel's default mode was to lash out at strangers. But somehow Michael Allen knew how to speak to her, how to say the right things.

"So, we're all agreed?" asked Allen. "You'll come along and see what I've got to say?"

Brian spoke first. "We will."

Regent had to have the last word, of course. "But we can't promise we'll pay attention."

Allen smiled slightly. "Oh, I'll try to make it interesting."

Lisa shivered. That sounded ominous.

=///=​

I led the way from the room, the Undersiders following. Grue came first, then Tattletale, Regent and Bitch. She carried the puppy in her arms, with Brutus trotting at her heels, minus the lead, which she had unfastened from his neck.

"Let the Director know," I told Miss Militia. "We're ready to start the meeting."

She looked at me with concern in her eyes. "You realise that I'll have to report to her about the bank thing."

I nodded. "Yeah. Shenanigans have their price. I can live with that."

"Wait, what?" protested Weaver. "What about the bank?"

Miss Militia turned to her. "He knew about the robbery well in advance. He made us believe that he didn't have any details until right at the last moment. He let it go ahead; that's a felony right there."

"He also arranged for it to be stopped," Weaver pointed out.

"Setting you up to be the big hero of the piece," Miss Militia responded. "You did it very well indeed, I will admit, but the PRT does not react well to being moved around like pieces on the board."

I couldn't help it; I snorted out loud at that. Everyone looked at me. I chuckled, then shook my head. "Sorry, sorry. But if you're objecting to being manipulated on a grand scale, then ... heh. Sorry. Never mind. Whatever charges are levelled at me, I'll face them. Later. Right now, we have a supervillain to deal with. Shall we go?"

Miss Militia sighed. "Let's go."

=///=​

We convened in another conference room, slightly bigger than the one in which the Undersiders had been incarcerated. Director Piggot and Armsmaster were already waiting; with them were Aegis, as well as a couple of high-ranking PRT officers.

There was a little shuffling around as we found our seats; I ended up with Canary on one side of me and Weaver on the other.

"I suppose you're all wondering why I called you here today," I began.

There was a quiet groan, then Tattletale's forehead hit the table softly.

"Sorry, sorry, always wanted to say that," I went on hastily. "Before we begin; two questions. Director Piggot, those surveillance requests I made. Are they underway?"

She nodded curtly. "No result. Neither of those people is on the grid, anywhere that we can find them." There was a tone to her voice that indicated that she at least suspected the truth.

I nodded. "That's actually a good thing, believe it or not. It means that it's working."

"What's working?"

"Before I answer that, how secure is this room?"

Director Piggot nodded to the guards standing on either side of the doors; they exited, and the doors locked behind them with a sharp click. She lifted the cover of a small metal box in front of her, and pressed a large red button. A familiar discordant hum filled the room.

"All anti-eavesdropping features are in place," she told me. "Now, kindly tell me what is working."

I grinned and relaxed slightly. "If all goes right, I'm successfully spoofing a precog."

"Explain."

"Sure."

Standing up, I addressed everyone at the table. "Okay, we're here to take down Coil. He's a supervillain based here in Brockton Bay, yeah? Everyone knows that?"

"Uh, I didn't think he was all that big-league," Aegis commented.

"That was his general plan. He's actually got a fairly interesting power. But I digress. Let's lay out some general facts about Coil. Firstly; his secret identity."

"You're going to say that he's really Thomas Calvert," stated Director Piggot.

"Give the lady a cigar," I noted. "Also, the head of Fortress Constructions."

"Which is why you had me looking for both of those people," she responded. "But I still don't understand why. You mentioned a precog? Also," she added belatedly, "I'd like some proof before we condemn the man."

"Proof," I agreed, "is always good."

Pulling out my faithful voice recorder, I slotted in a card. Carefully, I ran it back a ways, then hit PLAY.

The room was silent, apart from the discordant hum; the recorded voices were clear, if a little muffled.

"So you're the mysterious Security?"

Piggot stiffened in her seat; I paused the playback and looked at her.

"That sounds like Calvert," she said carefully.

I nodded, and unpaused it.

"Yup. And you're Coil." It was my voice, and it wasn't a question.

"Indeed I am. And you are at a crossroad of your life."

"Do tell."

"From here, you have three options. The first is that you agree to work for me, give me sole access to your talents. I promise, I can make you a very wealthy man."

"And the other two?"

"The second is that you work for me, involuntarily, by way of inducements. I pay you nothing. But as is the manner of such things, I would get less out of you than if you were willing. So I am reluctant to go down that path."

"Wow, your concern for my well-being is overwhelming."

When he spoke next, he sounded a little irritated.

"The third option, Mr Allen, is that you die, here, in this room, and no-one mourns your passing."

"Hmm." There was a pause. "Actually, I have a counter-offer. A fourth option. But it's for your ears only."

There was another pause, the sound of moving feet. A door closing. "What's your counter-offer?" He sounded dismissive.

"The fourth option, Mr Calvert, is that I'm going to say two words, and you're going to let me go. Just two words, that's it."

I stopped the playback.

"Satisfied?" I asked lightly, stowing the recorder back on my belt.

Director Piggot nodded, her eyes never moving from the recorder. "It sounds like him. How did you get that?"

"Sometimes I forget to turn it off at the end of the day. I had it in my bag when I was taken. I didn't bother telling them it was on, for obvious reasons."

She nodded. "And what were those two words that you said to him?"

I shook my head slightly. "Sorry. You're not cleared to hear them. Also, not necessary to the point of this meeting. I just needed to prove to you that Thomas Calvert is Coil. Armsmaster?"

The armoured hero reluctantly nodded. "It sounded like him, and there was no deception when he spoke."

"Okay then. Here's the big one. This is where you all need to pay attention. Thomas Calvert – Coil – is a precog. A very powerful one."

"Really?" asked Miss Militia. "He's never made many waves."

"Because he's cunning with it. His power is simple in execution, but has so many applications. What he does? He splits time."

There was silence, apart from the hum. And then Director Piggot spoke. "You're going to have to explain that a little more."

"Okay, the effect goes like this. Suppose you can split reality into two separate tracks, which run concurrently, side by side. You're in both tracks, you can take entirely independent actions in each track. But you're fully aware of what's going on in both tracks at once. Something happens in one track you don't like? You drop that track, then split the other one."

Everyone was watching me intently. I went on. "It's how he made his money. There are so many ways to use this. Walk into a casino, split time, and in one line you put all you have on black, and in the other, all you have on red. Whichever one you win in, you drop the other one."

Tattletale stirred. I nodded toward her. "Exactly. You thought he had probability manipulation. Not quite. As a crime boss, he hires some supervillains. They say, we want to knock over a jewellery store. He splits time, in one line he says go, in the other he says no go. If it's a success, he drops the no go line; if it's a fail, he drops the go line."

Director Piggot's eyes were hard. "What are his eventual plans?"

"To own the city."

"What?"

"To own the city," I repeated. "He had plans to buy several of the mayoral candidates, and discredit the rest. He wanted your job; you'd either retire due to ill-health or you'd have a nasty accident someday. He could keep trying, you see, until he got the result he wanted."

Her eyes slitted; I went on. "At the same time, he's working on undermining all the criminal gangs in the city, until they either leave town or work for him. So basically, he'd have a finger in every pie, licit and illicit, that has any profit available here in Brockton Bay. A good plan, really. It had a fair chance of working."

"Until you came along to put a spoke in his wheel."

"Basically. The bank robbery today was a diversion so that his men could kidnap a twelve-year-old girl and get away before serious resources could be diverted to finding her. That twelve-year-old girl is a serious precog in her own right."

"But if he's already a precog –" That was Armsmaster.

"His plan was to drug her to the gills, get her well and truly addicted, then ask her every morning about potential threats to him and his plans. She only has a number of predictions she can make every day, so he was going to swap out timelines till he had all the answers he needed." My voice was flat. "He would call her his 'pet'. And if she withheld answers, he would withhold the drugs. Or the 'candy', as he called it."

Nearly everyone around the table reacted in some way to that. Even Regent blinked once or twice.

"You're talking as though this has already happened," Armsmaster commented.

"In a way, it has," I replied carefully. "I have some knowledge of future events. However, every time I take action to alter them, I alter what's going to come next. The Coventry dilemma. So I'm having to be very careful about what I tell people, and when."

"So, you were telling us about Coil," Director Piggot prompted.

"Ah, yes," I replied. "That's the business side of things. Now we get to the distasteful side."

That got everyone's attention.

"Being a criminal mastermind isn't distasteful enough?" asked Miss Militia.

I shook my head. "Nope. Thing about Calvert, what the good Director there can attest to, first hand? He has no moral centre. No inhibitions. He does what he wants, what he can, and he cares nothing about other people. Not a goddamn thing. And he has ... habits. Tastes. Predelictions. Things he can indulge in, with his power, and never, ever get in trouble for."

Grue stirred. "You said it was precognition."

"It is. But he experiences both timelines. As if he was really there. So if he does something in one timeline, then drops it, he still remembers doing it, in every detail. So. Tattletale. Have you ever had a meeting with him where he seemed to know more about what was going on than you thought he should?"

The masked girl nodded slowly, looking sick. She knew what I was going to say next. "You're telling us he ..."

"Yup. In one timeline he's having a nice friendly chat. In the other, he's torturing you for those same answers, to make sure they're the same. Really, it's ingenious. It ensures your loyalty in the harshest possible way, without losing your loyalty due to, you know, torture."

I paused, took a breath. "And he didn't stop with torture. Anything he wanted to do, if there was nothing going on that demanded his attention, he's probably done to you over the last year."

I looked at the other Undersiders. "Note that she's not the only one. Chances are, he's had each and every one of you abducted, and tortured or worse. To get information, or just for shits and giggles, ladies and gentlemen. Shits and giggles. Because he can."

Director Piggot's voice was harsh. "We get the message. He's a bad man. But it's not PRT business as to how he treats his underlings."

I nodded to her. "Sure. But I would not be at all surprised if he'd kidnapped you. Or even come to your house one dark night. Spent the night torturing you for information. About stuff he needed to know, that he was no longer in the loop for."

There was a long pause. The senior PRT officer turned to her. "There was that security breach –"

She waved him away. "Yes. I know." Then she looked back at me. "Okay, I'm convinced. We need to take him down, and we need to take him down hard. You no doubt have a plan."

"I have a plan," I agreed. "But we're not done with this briefing yet."

"We're not?"

"Nope. See, he's got a supervillain team living on base with him. And a monster in the basement."

Again, silence fell as people digested my statement. Finally, Piggot sighed.

"I suppose you're going to have to explain that one to us."

"The Travellers are the team he's got on base," I clarified. "Plus Circus, on occasion. But it's the Travellers I'm concerned about. Four core members, a friend of theirs who doesn't get in on the action, and the monster. The leader's girlfriend."

"She's a Case 53," Tattletale spoke up.

"She is indeed," I agreed. "Unfortunately, she's incredibly dangerous. A-class to S-class dangerous. She's not quite Endbringer level, but she's capable of doing a lot of harm to a lot of people." I looked at Piggot directly. "If she gets out, she will do Brockton Bay, and the PRT, a catastrophic amount of damage."

"So how do we kill her?"

I took a deep breath. "Actually, I was thinking of curing her."

Again, silence, broken only by the discordant hum.

"You really like making those dramatic statements, don't you?" asked the Director sourly.

I shrugged. "Well, wouldn't you?"

"Fine. How do you intend curing her?" She nodded at Amy; all eyes turned toward the teenage biokinetic. "Is that why you asked Panacea along?"

Amy shrank in her seat. "I don't know if I can do anything for a Case 53 ..."

I shook my head. "You won't have to. You're there for the aftermath, to save her life after I have her powers neutralised."

"And how are you going to manage that?" demanded Armsmaster.

I grinned at him. "Sorry, you're not cleared to know that."

He got to his feet. "You will tell me."

I shook my head. "No. I won't. S-class threat. Would you rather I didn't have it neutralised?"

"Do you have the means to do that here?" asked Miss Militia.

"No. But I know how to do it." I looked over at Armsmaster. "I'm not going to tell you, because telling you would cause problems for everyone in the room. And I'm not going to do that. So let me do what I'm going to do, and you can do what you do, and no-one's toes get stepped on."

He remained standing; Piggot looked over at him. "Sit down, Armsmaster."

"But –"

"Sit. Down."

He sat.

I exhaled, and realised that I'd been holding my breath. "Right then. Now's the planning stage."

"Wait a minute," interjected Director Piggot. "How are you spoofing him?"

I grinned. "Suppose he has two timelines running, and in one of them, he's out and about as his normal identity, and in the other he's in his base. So you surveil the one you can see. And then, at the right moment, I tell you to take him into custody, tell him his cover's blown, his identity's uncovered. Run it online, everywhere, so even if he's not in custody, he sees that everything's over. But only if he's visible. In the one where we can't find him, we don't. Make it look like, in the timeline where he's out and about, and only that timeline, everything's crashing down around his ears."

She blinked. "He would revert to the timeline where it isn't, and then find out what's going on."

I nodded. "That's right. So, if we were in this room and you actually had eyes on him, I'd be telling you to do just that. But you don't have eyes on him, so ..."

"So he's already dropped the other timeline?"

"We're here, aren't we?"

"Fair point. Why do you want him in his base?"

Tattletale spoke up. "Because he's got it wired to blow, and if he's not there, he can remotely detonate it."

"And that's why." I grinned. "So. Tattletale, could you please provide us with a layout of the base?"

The blonde villain blinked. "Certainly. Do we have paper and markers?"

Paper and markers were procured, and she began to draw.

"Now," she began, "the first thing you need to know is that the base is built on two levels ..."


End of Chapter Twenty-Two

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Twenty-Three: Assault

Lisa's drawings were quick and clean; she did a plan of the upper level, then the lower level. A side view gave us a good perspective on how it fit together.

"The vault door here; this is where the Case 53 is?" she asked, tapping the marker on the paper.

I leaned in. "That's correct," I replied. "There's two vault doors, one inside the other. Or maybe he hasn't had time to install the second one. I know that becomes a concern at some point."

"Is this person that dangerous?" asked one of the PRT officers.

I nodded. "She'll start out as an A-class threat, but escalate to S-class, given half a chance. Originally, she was a sweet young woman named Noelle Meinhardt, but then ..." I paused, thinking through my words. They didn't need to know everything, not right away.

"She made a bad choice, or rather, she was forced into a bad choice. All the Travellers were. She got powers, but they're unbalanced, and they're forcing her body into a monstrous shape. Upper body is human, lower body is a mass of flesh with heads, arms and legs sticking out of it. Roughly the size of a couple of elephants."

One of the officers looked thoughtful. "I seem to recall reports of something like that in New York, only smaller."

"You may well have," I replied blandly. "But here and now, unless handled very carefully, she's a menace. Coil may well try to turn her loose, set her against us. She could even break free during the fight. She is strong enough to burst through those vault doors, given enough incentive."

The other officer looked sceptical. "We've dealt with big and strong capes before. I fail to see what's so overwhelmingly dangerous about her."

I sighed. "Because she eats people. Absorbs them directly into her mass. Worse, she can encapsulate a cape and spit out twisted clones who have variations on the powers of those capes, and are utterly inimical to them and all they love. Classic evil twins. Also, they have all the memories of those capes, and are quite willing to tell all and sundry their deepest, darkest secrets." I looked around the table. "Anyone here got secrets they don't want anyone knowing?"

Into the silence that followed, I added, "Plus, she's insanely strong, regenerates almost on the scale of Crawler, and can burrow underground. No doubt she's been shot in the head before. It didn't take."

The officer's voice was flat. "And you're saying we shouldn't kill this thing."

"I'm saying," I told him, "that I can avoid all that hassle. Sidestep it. She's a victim, not a monster. I neutralise her powers, send her and her friends back where they came from."

"And where is that?" he asked quickly.

"I'm sorry, but you're not cleared to know that," I replied firmly. "Or rather, more to the point, if I answered that question, it would raise others. And still others. We would be arguing half the night, and I really want to have this show ready to start by seven-thirty."

Grue tilted his head. "Why seven-thirty?"

"Because that's the time he set for himself, earlier," Tattletale told him. "So if the timeline split and his other self had other things to deal with, he would still know to be there at that time."

Her smug look became even more so as I gave her a nod of confirmation.

"So … what are we going to do about this Noelle Meinhardt?" asked the Director.

"Two-stage plan," I told her. "Canary is here to keep her calm. You can do that, right, Canary?"

Paige nodded her head jerkily. "I – I can do that," she affirmed.

"Excellent. Second stage of the plan, I have her powers neutralised, then Panacea helps me get the core body out of that mass of flesh."

Amy blinked at me. "I can do that?"

"Well, I bloody well hope so," I told her bluntly. "The majority of her body was created by her powers, and is maintained by them. Once the powers are gone, the extra body mass is going to be dying, but she'll still be attached to it. She's going to be in all kinds of shit unless we can cut her free. You're the only one I know who's got half a chance to do that. Think you're up to it? Save a life, give someone a second chance?"

Her nod was tentative, but it was there. "I can try."

"Good girl."

As I turned back to the plans, I saw the slight flush of pleasure at this praise, and made a mental note to give her more in future. Christ, do these jerks think that putting on a costume makes these kids into robots? I knew that, realistically, they didn't, but it sure as hell seemed like it sometimes.

"Okay," I asked. "Where's the armoury and the barracks?"

Tattletale tapped her nail on the sheets. "Here and here."

"Right. Okay, everyone, listen up. He's got about fifty or so men in the base. They're from all over the world, they're well trained, and they're loyal. They've got assault rifles with underslung laser mounts. These mounts generate a purple beam that can apparently cut through steel. They've also got superior body armour, maybe PRT standard, maybe better. It might even be PRT regular armour, repainted."

"Which would fit in with him being Calvert," commented Armsmaster.

I nodded, then looked at Grue. "How well does your darkness effect work against lasers?"

He shrugged. "If it's just light, it stops. If it's some bullshit pseudo-laser beam weapon, then I have no idea."

"As far as I know, they're just lasers. So you'll be our primary defence against those weapons. Weaver, if you can bring in a swarm, it would help if you could target anyone with a laser attachment on their weapon. Just in case Grue's darkness isn't as great a defence as I'm hoping it will be." I paused. "Also, if you can kill his computer as soon as we start our entry, that might help us out. A lot. He's got the place wired to blow and that's set up with a computer link, so if you can stop that, this would be handy."

Weaver nodded seriously. "Swarm, I can do. Computer, yes."

"Good. We'll do a pass over the base beforehand, so you can map out who is where in the base. Last minute intel is always useful."

"I think we're getting ahead of ourselves, here," interrupted Armsmaster. "You say Coil will be in that base, as well as his fifty mercenaries. Grue's darkness may or may not be able to stop their lasers, but those assault rifles will be firing real bullets, and advancing into that sort of defended position will cause casualties. Do you have a plan for that, too?"

I nodded to him. "As it happens, I do. I'm just going to need something from you. A little Tinker-tech item, something highly miniaturised and efficient … which I seem to recall is your speciality."

"What would this item be?" he asked suspiciously.

Tattletale vented a ha! which had everyone looking at her. I raised an eyebrow; she grinned that grin of hers and enlightened the room. "A loudspeaker. For Canary to use."

I nodded, then turned to the yellow-haired girl. "What do you say, Paige? Up for some crowd control?"

"Uh … one little problem with that," she ventured cautiously. "I can't really aim my power that well. If I'm using it, then everyone in earshot of my voice is affected."

Director Piggot frowned. "Improve the plan, Mr Allen."

"Ah," I agreed. "Let's see now." I cleared my throat. "'The PRT is your friend. Trust the PRT'."

No-one sniggered, or even smirked; I was vaguely disappointed that no-one got the reference.

"That will make us suggestible toward trusting the PRT, won't it?" asked Grue.

"Not if we target the lyrics a little more directly," Tattletale put in. "'Don't attack the PRT, or related forces', maybe?"

I reached out, grabbed one of the unused pieces of paper and one of the markers, and wrote several lines on the paper. When I was finished, I passed it around. A few minor suggestions were made, and implemented, but by and large, it was accepted. Paige accepted the paper, read it carefully, and nodded.

"This should work," she told me in that remarkable voice of hers.

"Excellent."

I looked around at the people around the table. "So, we have a plan of attack, then?"

"How do we get in?" It was one of the PRT officers.

"I know how," Tattletale told him, then turned to me. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

"I did," I acknowledged.

"You seem to be bypassing all the physical stuff. Why am I needed again?" asked Glory Girl.

"Well, we might encounter some locked doors on the way," I explained. "We could use explosives, but that's dangerous and time-consuming. Or we could have someone along who can rip them off their hinges. Think you're up to it?"

She smiled faintly. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Okay, now, as for the Travellers," I went on. "They're extremely dangerous in their own right. But if I give Canary two statements to make, they should stay out of it." I wrote the lines on another piece of paper. Canary took it, read them, nodded, and tucked them away as well.

"You're okay with this?" I asked her.

She nodded. "Sure. I'm used to writing my own lyrics, but I'll do my best with yours, just this once."

The joke was weak, but I chuckled; a moment later, so did most of the others in the room.

Regent spoke up. "So wait; what are me and Bitch supposed to be doing in all this? I notice we don't have some cute tactic attached to us."

I nodded. "Well, if you want to stay here, that's your choice. Or you can come along and make sure the mercenaries stay honest once we've taken the base."

"Oh, okay." He shrugged. "Sure, I guess."

I looked at Bitch, who was still holding the sleeping puppy. "Rachel?"

"I'll come along," she replied bluntly. "I never liked Coil. Now I really don't like him."

"I can understand that." I looked at the Director. "So, do you have any questions?"

"Many," she responded, "but none that are relevant to the situation at hand." She nodded to the PRT officers, who gathered up Tattletale's plan of the base. It was remarkably detailed, even showing alternate exits. "They'll brief the men. We should be ready to go by your seven-thirty deadline."

She raised her voice. "Removing security protocols." A press of the button, and it clicked upward; the ever-present discordant hum died away, leaving an odd ringing in the ears. The doors clicked open and the guards entered; Piggot and the officers exited.

Glory Girl rose and rounded the table to start a conversation with Aegis; Panacea stayed seated. I watched as the blonde hero began speaking in what was apparently a vehement undertone; I couldn't hear the words, and I've never learned how to read lips, but the agitated gestures, and the occasional glances at Canary, clued me in on the subject.

I looked at Canary, who was studying her hands. "Are you sure you're okay with this? I know you don't like conflict."

"If it will save lives, then I can do it," she told me quietly. "And to be honest, the way Alexandria put it, I don't really have a choice."

I grimaced. "Sometimes, these people can be a little … heavy-handed. I'm sorry all this has happened to you. That you've been forced into doing this."

She chuckled nervously. "Don't be. It's not your fault. I should have been more careful with my word choice, back in the beginning of this."

"Hm," I mused. "Which reminds me. I need to have a word. If you'll excuse me?"

I rose from my seat. "Weaver, meet Paige Mcabee. Paige, Weaver here took down Lung, not so long ago. I'm sure you'll find something to talk about."

Rounding the table, I moved toward where Glory Girl was speaking with Aegis. Sure enough, as I approached, she fell silent.

"What?" she asked.

My expression and voice were polite. "You were expressing an opinion that Canary should not be allowed on this mission; am I correct?"

Aegis looked startled; Glory Girl looked stubborn.

"So what if I was?" she demanded. "I'm allowed to have an opinion."

"Not if that opinion might cause you to hesitate for half a second before helping her out of danger, you're not," I stated firmly. "Besides, have you thought about how close you are to being in her position?"

Aegis frowned. "I think you'd better explain that."

"It's simple. Vicky, you and Dean have regular fights, right? Break up, make up, rinse and repeat."

She blinked. "How did you know ...?"

"I know a lot of things about a lot of people," I reminded her. "Now, about you and Dean ...?"

"Well, I really don't see what business it is of yours," she began defensively.

I raised an eyebrow.

Finally, reluctantly, she answered the question. "Yeah, sure, but all couples have spats."

"But you have an emotion-affecting aura. What if it's affected him to the point that one time you tell him to 'go fuck yourself' and he does?"

She shook her head. "No, that's impossible. The effect of my aura wears off."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you absolutely sure about that?"

"Sure I'm sure," she replied immediately.

I didn't look away. "Scientifically proven?"

"Well … no."

"Then theoretically it could happen." I paused. "Have you ever told him to go do something anatomically impossible?"

Her silence was as good as an affirmative.

I nodded. "Yup, thought so. Well, just keep in mind; Canary said just those three words. She didn't mean them, any more than you mean it when you say them to Dean. She would take them back in an instant. So don't be so quick to condemn her. In another time and place, it might easily have been you." I turned away, then paused. "Just remember; people in glass houses shouldn't kick dumpsters."

Leaving her staring at me, I strolled over to Rachel. She saw me coming, and held the puppy a little closer to her chest defensively.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to take the puppy away," I told her. "But it can't come on the mission, you do know that."

"Of course I know it. I'm not stupid. And she's a she, not an it."

"Oh, okay," I noted. "She's cute. What breed is she?"

"Ridgeback cross," she informed me at once. "She's been well cared for." Her voice held reluctant approval.

"Does she have a nametag?"

"Yes," she told me defiantly, "but I can't read it."

"I probably can't either, not until I put my glasses on." I did so, then peered at the tag. "Phoebe. Huh. A nice name for a dog."

"Phoebe," she repeated, then she looked at me directly. "You're not PRT. You're not as much of a dick as everyone else around here. People around here listen to you. You had us captured. What's going to happen to me, and my dogs, after this, after Coil?"

"I can't guarantee anything," I told her bluntly, "but I am going to push for you to not go to prison. You just want to be left alone with your dogs. I think that can be done. Do you trust me to try?"

She frowned. "People don't just give you something for nothing. What do you want from me?"

I took in her wary look. This was a girl who had lived on the streets, who had seen far more of the seamier side of life than I had. A reasonable, friendly authority figure was probably even farther outside of her experience than it had been outside of Taylor's. As far as she was concerned, people never gave without demanding a price, and the price was rarely worth it.

"Nothing," I told her. Her wary look intensified, and I saw scepticism as well.

"No-one gives you something for nothing," she repeated flatly.

"How about this, then," I ventured. "I want you to stop doing crime. You train dogs better than anyone else alive. If you agreed to do that and, say, ran a dog shelter, stayed out of trouble with the law, that might be good enough for the PRT to leave you alone, to give you a pass."

Her wary look decreased, although it didn't go away altogether. "If they let me run it on my terms, I guess I could do something like that." But I can't see it happening. Her unspoken words were loud and clear.

I nodded. "If my plans work out, then I suspect that people will listen to me. If they don't … well, we'll have other problems to worry about. Really big problems."

She nodded in return. "Okay. I don't really trust you, but you haven't tried to bullshit me yet, so I'll go along. For the moment."

"I appreciate it," I told her frankly. Carefully, so as not to spook her, I reached out and scratched the puppy behind the ear. "I'm doing my best to make sure everyone gets as good a deal as possible, here."

"Why?" she asked bluntly.

"Because I can," I replied, just as bluntly. "I see you and the rest of the Undersiders, having to fight for everything. You didn't ask to be this way. You didn't ask for this life. I'm trying to change things, fix things. Help you. Help others."

"Like that Canary girl?" she asked, indicating where Paige was talking to Taylor. "She someone you're trying to help?"

"Yeah," I agreed. "She screwed up with her powers just once, and she was going to the Birdcage. Now she's not. Hopefully."

"You can't help everyone who got a raw deal," Rachel pointed out, with a great deal of accuracy.

"No, I can't," I agreed. "But the people I know of, I can. Or I can try."

"And assholes like Lung and Coil, you're taking down."

I was impressed; people dismissed Rachel Lindt as being brutal and unsubtle, but she was capable of analytical thinking if she tried.

"Exactly," I told her, "and precisely."

I left her communing with the dogs, and went back toward the table. Tattletale intercepted me.

"Okay, how the hell do you know how to do that?" she asked.

"Do what?"

She indicated Rachel with a nod. "Talk to her. That's the longest conversation I've seen anyone have with her, that didn't end in blows. Even I have trouble talking to her. You don't know her, but you know how she thinks. How?"

I thought about telling her, but decided regretfully that the risks were too great.

"I'm not trying to screw with your head," I told her. It was mostly true, too. "But … I know this stuff. And I can't tell you how. Not all at once. Because there's some serious revelations involved, and I don't know how well you'd handle it. You might take it in your stride, or you might go catatonic. And I don't want to risk that, not at the moment."

She shook her head in frustration. "There's something bigger there, behind what you're saying. But I just can't see it."

"Don't look too hard," I advised her. "But … if you have a yes-or-no question, ask. I might even answer it." She opened her mouth. I raised my hand. "After we take down Coil. Okay?"

She closed her mouth again. "... fine," she grumped. "Okay."

=///=​

The PRT truck was large enough inside to have a table with the base plans pinned down on to it. We were parked close enough to where Lisa said the base was, that Taylor could sense all the bugs within it, using her power. Even though I knew exactly how her power worked, even better than she did, it was still fascinating to watch bugs crawl over the plan, indicating exactly where everyone was in the base.

A big black beetle showed where Coil was; from its movements, he was apparently pacing back and forth in his office.

"What's up with him?" Alec asked, indicating the beetle.

"At a rough guess, in the other timeline, he's starting to feel the pinch. Maybe he's already foreseen being arrested, and he's trying to figure out what's different in this timeline." I paused; the beetle had moved to the side of the room. "Weaver, is he at his computer?"

"As best as I can tell," she informed me.

"Great. Time?"

"Seven fifteen."

"I think it's time we started the ball rolling," I suggested.

Armsmaster nodded. "I think you may be right." He looked around at the disparate group in the back of the truck. "One more thing. Rogers. Simons. Mayfield."

Three troopers stepped forward.

Armsmaster pointed at me, at Canary, and at Panacea. "You will each shadow one of these people. You will not allow them to come to harm. That is the entirety of your duty in this mission. Is that understood?"

All three men nodded assent, and the one called Rogers moved to stand beside me.

I went to protest, to tell him that I'd be fine. I knew I'd be fine, because Contessa wanted to talk to me on Friday. But then I had a thought. What if I'll only be fine because this guy is there to protect me? So I said nothing.

Glory Girl, however, chose to speak up. "I'm perfectly capable of protecting my sister."

"You might be needed doing something else," Armsmaster told her flatly. "We can't afford you getting distracted." He looked at me, and at Canary. "Any problems with this?"

I sensed that even if I had a problem, he wouldn't spend too much time thinking about it. "Nope, no problem at all."

Canary glanced at me; I nodded slightly. "I'm fine with it," she agreed.

"Good." His tone didn't change, but he must have opened a radio channel. "Armsmaster to all troops. Prepare to move in."

I turned to Weaver, and held out my fist. She bumped it.

It was go time.

=///=​

The skeletal building towered over us as Lisa led the way to the high fence surrounding the construction site. A large sign on the fence caught my eye, the large lettering easily legible, even in this dim light.

"Property of Fortress Constructions," I murmured.

Beside me, Rogers had obviously read it at the same time. "After this, we're probably going to have to look at all the other Fortress properties around Brockton Bay."

I nodded. "Probably not a bad idea. Might want to pass that one up the chain."

There was a gate, secured with a chain and a padlock; Lisa pulled a keyring from a pouch on her belt, and opened the lock. The keys, as far as I could tell, all looked close to identical in the dim light. If that had been me, I would've been there ten minutes. Super-intuition must be so useful on occasion.

She turned and looked at me as she slid the padlock off the hasp.

"Yes," she told me. "It is."

Despite myself, I was momentarily startled, then I realised what she'd done.

"Smartarse," I muttered.

She grinned as she opened the gate.

=///=​

Once everyone had trooped through, she closed the gate, hung the lock on the latch, but did not secure it. I took the moment to take stock of the area. Crushed gravel, lots of heavy machinery, and twenty storeys of unfinished construction above us.

Lisa, with Armsmaster closely shadowing her, led the way between the machinery to the base of the skeletal structure itself. Gravel crunched as we followed, Rogers shadowing my every move. We ended up, as I had known we would, at an unobtrusive hatchway, set in a concrete slab. A black and yellow sign indicated dire consequences for anyone opening it; Lisa found another key, and unlocked this one as well.

The sign on the hatch promised hazardous materials and noxious gases, and I could almost believe it; the stairs led down to what looked remarkably like a storm drain, and the smell wasn't so great either.

Armsmaster turned to Lisa. "If this is some sort of trick -"

I stepped forward. "It's not," I advised him. "This is the right place."

He turned to me. "You're sure."

I nodded. "I am. There's a barred metal door at the bottom of the stairs, then a long corridor."

Lisa gave me that how-did-you-know-that look again, then raised her voice slightly. "That's entirely correct. You'll be able to go side by side, but it'll be cramped. The room at the other end of the corridor will have a security camera and a door that's locked on the other side. One of Coil's men is on the other side of that door at all times, watching a monitor. No lights, and as little sound as possible."

The PRT troops had been issued with night vision gear; I wished I had some, but the truth was that I probably wouldn't have any idea of how to use it.

Armsmaster spoke up again. "I'll go first, with Tattletale. A soldier will escort each of the non-PRT personnel. Sergeant Andrews, you'll follow on with your men and the protectees. Leave two men behind to watch our rear."

Andrews saluted. "Sir!"

Lisa and Armsmaster descended into the darkness; he was using the night vision built into his helmet, while she probably used her intuition to not stub her toe in the dark. Off to the side, I heard Regent mutter, "Well, I feel useful about now."

Grue elbowed him. "You'd rather be in a jail cell right now?"

"I'd rather not be here."

"You volunteered."

"Not my finest decision, I'm beginning to realise."

Glory Girl tugged at Grue's arm. "Come on. They're waiting on us." She went down the stairs alongside a PRT trooper, and Grue followed with another one.

Rachel bridled as a trooper moved toward her. "Back off," she snapped. "I don't need you." He stopped, glancing at Andrews.

"She'll be fine, sergeant," I advised Andrews.

He nodded, then gestured to the trooper. "Leave her go."

The trooper stepped back. Rachel nodded; clipping a lead to Judas' collar, she urged him toward the stairs; he led the way, sniffing at the ground as he went. Brutus followed behind obediently.

Two at a time, we went down the steps, Rogers holding my elbow to steady me in the darkness. I had to admit, the PRT troopers had my respect; I had been fitted out in the largest set of body armour they could provide, and I was still fairly uncomfortable. If they wore this stuff on their day to day duties, they were tougher than I was. As it was, I was sweating by the time I got to the bottom of the stairs.

"Last step down, sir," murmured Rogers. Behind him, I could hear Simons and Mayfield walking Panacea and Canary down the stairs. I took the step, and reached out to feel the metal door, then the concrete wall beyond that.

We moved in as much silence as we could manage, with only the occasional scuff of a boot or the clink of a slung rifle on a buckle or something to break the sound of heavy breathing. I was sure we weren't all panting like steam-trains, but the closeness of the tunnel seemed to magnify even that minor sound.

Lisa hadn't been kidding. It was a long corridor.

I was beginning to wonder if we'd passed through the city limits when Rogers' hand tightened on my elbow. "Slow down, sir," he murmured in my ear. "We've reached the room."

He was right; the echoes had changed slightly, and I could feel the heat emanating from all the bodies in a fairly tight space. We stopped, less than six inches behind the people in front of us. I knew this, because I reached out and touched them. I had no idea who they were; I could see absolutely nothing. I felt a sniffing at my leg, then a doggy nose touched my hand. The dog – Brutus, I figured – licked my fingers, then moved on.

Behind me, I felt the closeness of the rest of our party as they also came to a halt. There was a long pause, and utter silence fell. It was so complete, complementing the utter blackness in which we were standing, that I actually heard the tinny sound of Rogers receiving a message over his helmet radio.

"Sir, we're about to open the door," he murmured to me. I could just hear the same message being reported to the others around me.

I nodded; he could see me, even if I couldn't hear him. "Time?" I replied.

There was a pause. "Seven thirty five," he reported.

"Good. Let's do this."

=///=​

Coil was confused. Events were not making sense. Things had started coming unravelled at around the time that the abduction was supposed to take place. In one timeline, he had sent out his men to do the deed; in the other, he had held them back. In both, of course, he had sent the Undersiders to rob the Brockton Bay Central Bank, as well as setting other villains to perform acts of mayhem around the city. The more disruption the better, to mask the kidnapping of a twelve year old girl from her school.

Dinah would have known what would happen if she did not choose to go willingly with his men; her precognition would have told her that he had fully intended to order his men to perpetrate a massacre if she did not do as he said.

But what had happened was somewhat different. His men had … disappeared. There was no call of distress, nothing. No disturbance at the school at all. So, in that timeline, he had gone to the PRT building to see what was going on. Discreet enquiries had left him none the wiser, and he began to suspect that something was up, that he was being stalled, stonewalled. He had left again, gone home, intending to try again the next day. But he thought he may have been followed, that there was a car tailing him.

There was nothing connecting him, as Thomas Calvert, to the events; he knew that. But he was still nervous. So he decided to have a quiet night in. And then, right on the dot of seven PM, his phone beeped, showing an alert from his computer. Clicking on the alert showed that several automatic cash transfers had failed to go through.

What the hell?

Going online via his phone was tedious, but he did it anyway. As he checked one account after another, the bad news unfolded. Each of his accounts had been frozen, even the ones that only had the most tenuous connection to him.

And then, as he was trying to figure out what was going on, the front door was kicked in. Despite his protests, he was seized, handcuffed. Accused of being Coil. Accused of other crimes, ones he was sure had never been even detected.

And then Emily Piggot walked in the front door. She stared down at him.

"I knew you were scum," she told him. "But I didn't think it went this far." She handed over a document to the PRT officer in charge of the task force.

"What's that?" he asked.

She gave him a hard smile. "I know exactly what your capabilities are, Calvert," she told him. "And that document is a kill order. You're too dangerous to let live."

The officer's gun lowered toward his face; he begged, pleaded, threatened.

The last thing he saw was the muzzle flash.

The timeline closed of its own accord, and Coil was left sitting in confusion at his desk.

What the hell is going on? he asked himself. What just happened?

He was pretty sure he was free and clear in this timeline; the kidnap attempt hadn't even been made. But just to be sure, he checked up on the security systems in his house. Nothing; there hadn't even been an attempt to gain entry.

Might as well go home and get a good night's sleep while I try to work out what happened, he told himself. Splitting the timelines, he stayed in the chair while he got up and headed for his office door.

He'd almost reached it when the computer beeped; a second later, so did his phone.

Clicking on the alert tag, he saw the same thing that he'd seen before; his accounts had been frozen. He was being locked down. But this had happened minutes after it had happened on the other timeline. Why the disparity?

He was still trying to puzzle that out when the alarms went off.

=///=​

There was a crunch and shriek of tearing metal, and light flooded into the small room. Glory Girl stepped out into the dazzle, which was all I could see with my darkness-adjusted eyes, and I heard the meaty thump of her hitting someone. But she must have been too late; there were alarms wailing in the base, even as we moved forward.

Over my head, I heard and saw a massive swarm of bugs also pouring out into the base; Taylor had gathered them over the last couple of hours, and they had accompanied us into the base on the ceiling. She had, of course, not needed assistance in the darkness.

Shouts of alarm sounded, changing to cries of pain in some instances. Shots rang out; I wasn't sure who was shooting, whether it was from our side or theirs, but this was rapidly getting out of control. Pushing through the crowd, I found Canary.

"Time to do your thing," I advised her. She nodded, pulled the first piece of paper from her pocket, and unfolded it. I handed her a torch that I'd found in a belt holder – the PRT had the best utility belts! - and helped Simons shield her from the press of people. In the meantime, she took out the apparatus that Armsmaster had given her, and turned it on.

I had suggested a loudspeaker; he had gone one better. This device literally hijacked any sound system in its vicinity, taking it over for our purposes.

She began to sing; at first wordlessly, and then reading out the lines we had worked out.

"Everyone aligned to Coil … lay down your arms … surrender peacefully … you will not be harmed … Coil has no money … his accounts have been frozen … Coil, do not resist … everyone aligned to Coil … lay down your arms … surrender peacefully … you will not be harmed … Coil has no money … his accounts have been frozen ..."

Her voice was gorgeous. I wanted to listen to her talk forever.

The gunfire from outside petered out, then cut off altogether.

=///=​

Coil reacted at once to the alarms. He began to set up the self-destruct to the base on his computer, but then the screen flickered and went dead. Smoke began trickling out of the base of his computer. He stared, then pulled off a panel. Dozens of cockroaches and other bugs were busily gnawing at the wiring of the computer; as he watched, one sacrificed itself, short-circuiting the motherboard.

In the other timeline, he dashed to the secret exit hatch in the back wall of his office. He hated to flee in such an ignominious fashion, but one of him had to survive, to get away.

And then the sweet, impossible-to-ignore, voice came trickling out of the speakers. First, the sweetest of singing, wordless, gorgeous, amazing. And then the words. Telling his men to surrender, that he had no money to pay them. Telling him not to resist.

I'm not resisting, he told himself as he levered at the panel. I'm fleeing. There's a difference.

He got it off, ducked inside, and pulled it back into place. Grimly, he set off down the passageway.

Once I'm clear, I'll blow the place.

In the first timeline, he didn't make it to the escape panel. He sat, waiting to be captured.

It would be interesting to see who his captors were, before they died.

=///=​

Rogers allowed me to risk a peek around the corner of the doorway. The base looked pretty well as I'd imagined it, though a lot less cave-like. It could have been taken from some sort of military base. All around, the mercenaries were laying down their arms.

Over the speakers, Canary continued to sing, reinforcing her commands from before.

"Anyone hurt?" I asked Andrews; Armsmaster and Miss Militia were already out in the base proper, rounding up the mercenaries.

"Just a couple of bruises, sir," he assured me. "They only fired a few shots before that Canary girl did her thing." He glanced up. "You might want to get back under cover, sir."

I looked where he was looking; a costumed man was standing on the opposite side of the atrium, on the lower level. A man in a top hat and theatrical mask. Trickster.

"That's funny," I muttered.

"Sir?" asked Rogers.

"Trickster. He usually doesn't run solo. Pass the word to look out for the rest of the Travellers."

"Will do, sir." He touched the side of his helmet, and I heard him murmuring.

"Hey!" yelled Trickster. "You need to get the hell out before -"

Canary had been passed the word by Simons; she began to sing the second set of instructions.

=///=​

Francis was angry and frustrated. He had been visiting Coil's base, talking to Noelle, when the alarms started going off; initially, he had taken cover behind one of the larger crates till he saw how this came out.

But Noelle was now no doubt agitated and upset, and it would take forever to get her to calm down again. And that singing was exhorting him to not fight, not resist.

I'm not in this for the money, he gritted. I'm in it for Noelle.

The shooting seemed to be over; he came out into the open.

"Hey!" he yelled. "You need to get the hell out before -"

The song changed. And he had no choice but to listen.

"Travellers, do not fight. Do not resist. We have a cure for Noelle, and we can send you home."

And that got his complete and total attention.

=///=​

Timeline A

Coil scrambled along the escape tunnel. It led to an inconspicuous manhole half a block away, which could only be opened from the underside. Once he got out, he'd send a signal via his phone to blow the base. He really did regret the loss of the base, and of the Undersiders and the Travellers as assets - with Trickster and Noelle dead, he would have no hold over the latter group - but he would gain more minions.

He would rebuild.

The manhole was just above him. He started to climb.

=///=

Timeline B

Coil was hustled out of his office by two PRT troopers. They had searched him, and relieved him of his gun and phone, but that was to be expected. His primary weapon now was his brain; he would garner as much information as possible, including how and why he had been uncovered, before he terminated this timeline.

And then he came face to face with the very last man he expected to see.

"Hey," Michael Allen greeted him.

"What – you – what are you doing here?"

"Taking you down. Making sure you're no longer a threat to my friends."

His tone was so matter-of-fact that Coil had trouble comprehending the words. He tried to reason it out.

"But – I let you go. You assured me that you wouldn't hold a grudge."

Allen shook his head. "I didn't, and I don't. Not from that. I was planning to bring you down since, oh, last week. Because I knew you were going to try to take Dinah Alcott today. So I made sure you failed."

Coil stared at him. "But how could you -"

Allen leaned close. "The same way I know what your powers are. The same way I know you tortured me. The same way I know that whatever you're doing in the other timeline is doomed to fail."

He turned away, then stopped and addressed the guards. "Oh, and the zipper for his costume goes along the white snake. The tab's down near his ankle."

Then he headed for the stairs, moving down toward the leader of the Travellers, who was still standing near the vault door, not making any aggressive moves. Coil watched him go; his mind was spinning too hard to even begin to formulate a response. One thought was uppermost.

How does he know these things?

=///=​

Timeline A

Coil scrambled up the ladder to the manhole cover. He carefully turned the wheel which unlocked it. Pushing it up, he felt a gust of cool evening air. He began to climb out -

"Coil."

Spinning around, he stared at the woman standing there, holding the pistol almost negligently.

"Contessa – I -"

Her voice was cool, detached. "I warned you. Told you it was your last chance."

"I – I -"

She fired, once. The bullet impacted just beneath his right eye-socket.

=///=​

Flanked by Rogers and Armsmaster, with Glory Girl and Panacea following behind, I strolled along the concrete floor of the base until I was face to face with Trickster.

"In case you're wondering," I told him. "It's true. Every word. Noelle can be cured, and you can all go home."

He shook his head violently. "Coil was -"

"No," I overrode him, "Coil was not finding a cure for her. He was holding her as leverage for you, until you outlived your usefulness. It's the way he works. Worked."

"You could just be saying that," he shot back.

I sighed. "Your name is Francis. The other Travellers are called Luke, Marissa and Jess. They're out and about somewhere?" I indicated toward the upper level. "Except that Jess is with Oliver in your apartments up there, and Noelle's in the vault. You were all setting up to play Ransack when the Simurgh happened, and you ended up in Earth Bet. Chris was killed when something fell on his head. One of you got a cut on the leg. How am I doing so far, Krouse?"

"What the fuck?" he demanded. "How do you even know that?" He paused. "Wait, what apartments? What are you talking about?"

I paused. Trickster rarely goes out on his own. He's here to visit Noelle. She's only just been moved in.

"Ah," I spoke in realisation. "You haven't moved in yet. You and the others are still based elsewhere, right?"

"Wait a minute," Armsmaster interrupted. "The Travellers are from Earth Aleph? And they're Simurgh victims?"

"Check and check," I told him. "I propose to send them back there, so they won't cause any more problems here. Do you have an issue with that?"

He paused. "... actually, no," he admitted. "Although you still haven't told me how you're going to pull off that little stunt."

I grinned. "You don't need to know. Really, you don't."

"I'm getting a little tired of hearing that," he gritted.

"So, how's Dragon doing these days?" I asked cheerfully.

" … fine," he growled. "Keep your little secrets."

"Thank you," I told him sincerely. I turned back to Trickster. "So, as I was saying. I know a crapload about you. About what you've done, and what you were going to do. I know you love Noelle. And I know you want to get her cured and get home. I can do both for you."

I paused. "Now, here's the thing. I can just do this, and wave you on your way. Or I can offer you a paying job, using your abilities, while you still get to go home and relax at the end of the day."

Trickster stared at me. "Do we all have to agree on one or the other?" he asked at last.

I shook my head. "Nope. I know, for instance, that Marissa hates the whole 'being a parahuman' thing. She'd be happy just settling down with no powers at all, right?"

Trickster paused. "Yeah. She makes no secret of it ... to us. But how do you know?"

I shrugged. "I could tell you. But you wouldn't believe me. Anyway. Think about it. You don't have to decide one way or the other, not yet anyway." I indicated the door to the vault. "I need to talk to Noelle."

=///=​

Trickster pressed the button on the intercom. "Noelle? How are you doing?"

A face appeared on the small screen; a brunette, in her late teens or early twenties. She looked strung out on drugs, though I knew that was not actually the case. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have been quite pretty; with good makeup and a nice hairstyle, I figured that she could be stunning. But at the moment, her hair was straggly, her lips were chapped, and she had bags under her eyes.

"What's happening, Francis?" she asked. "What were those noises?"

"I … uh … something's happened, Noelle," he told her. "Things have changed. There's a guy here who's offering ..." He paused. "What was your name again?"

I rolled my eyes. "Sorry. Got ahead of myself. The name's Mike Allen."

"What? Who was that?"

I leaned into the pickup range of the camera. "That would be me. Sorry. Call me Mike. I'm here to make you the offer you've been waiting for since you got your powers."

Her voice was suspicious. "What offer is that?"

I wanted to grin, but she might not have taken that so seriously. "How would you like me to help take your powers away from you, permanently?"

"What?" blurted Trickster.

Noelle was silent for a long moment. "What's the catch?"

I shook my head. "No catch. It might be risky, given that we're gonna have to dig what's really you out of a mass of meat the size of a brontosaurus, but you will lose your powers, and you won't keep going the way you are."

"But … Coil said ..."

"Coil," I told her flatly, "couldn't lie straight in bed. The man was just holding on to you and pretending to look for a cure, when he could have gotten one at any time. But he preferred to have his super-powered minions. Me, I just want to give you a second chance."

Another long silence. "I … just be careful. If you come in here … I might attack you."

I nodded. "I know. So I brought along a friend. She'd like to sing to you, if that's all right."

Her voice was doubtful. "I … guess?"

I stepped aside, and pulled out earplugs as Paige stepped up to the intercom. "Everyone," I warned as I put the plugs in, "if you don't want to feel soothed down, cover your ears."

Paige opened her mouth, and the most amazing voice spilled out once more. Every time I heard it, it was like the first time. It was like she had all the positive aspects of the voices of every singer I'd ever heard, all at once.

She sang a lullaby, simple and sweet, her tones soothing and lulling Noelle. By the end of it, the girl's eyelids were drooping, and she had a faint smile on her face.

I looked at Trickster and the others. Everyone was still alert; no-one had opted to listen.

"Okay," I told them. "I'm going in there, with Panacea. I'll be turning off the camera feed once we're in there, and also the sound. I don't want anyone seeing or hearing some of the stuff that's going to be happening."

"Why?" asked Trickster. "What are you going to be doing?"

"You're not cleared to know that," I told him bluntly.

"That's not an answer," he snapped, sounding annoyed.

"It's all the answer you're going to get," I advised him.

He began to reply hotly, when Noelle interrupted him from the intercom.

"Francis, let him do what he's going to do," she murmured dreamily. "I feel so good now. I don't want you to argue."

He drew a deep breath, then stepped back. "Okay, fine," he growled. "But if she doesn't come out of this okay, you and me are going to have words."

I ignored the implicit threat; I had to concentrate on the matter at hand. "Open the vault door, please," I requested.

"Coil's the only one with the combination," he retorted, his voice sourly satisfied.

I turned to my PRT shadow. "Rogers, could you pass the word to get Tattletale here, please?"

"Someone say my name?" she asked, from directly behind me.

I yelped and jumped, then turned on her.

"Seriously?" I demanded. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

I had never before seen someone pull off a look of innocent smugness. "Didn't know I was going to be there, did you?" she grinned.

"It doesn't work that way," I gritted. "Okay, you know why I was going to get you here. Open the vault, please?"

"But of course," she replied, flexing her fingers as she stepped toward the combination keypad.

I held up a hand. "Just a moment. Panacea?"

"Here," she replied, stepping forward.

"Okay," I told her seriously. "This is it. You wait outside the vault until I call you in, all right?"

"All right," she agreed, with a serious expression on her face.

I paused, and looked directly at her. "Are you good with this? Am I putting too much pressure on you?"

She shook her head. "Oh, no. This is something different. Something interesting. And I'll be taking that time off, after. I'm looking forward to that." She offered me a slight smile. "Thanks for this. For everything."

I shrugged. "Hey, Noelle's not the only one who deserves a second chance, remember." I took a deep breath. "Okay, everyone, places."

=///=​

Lisa's fingers danced over the keypad, then paused and looked at me. "Combination's done. All you have to do is hit the Enter key.".

"Got it," I agreed, stepping up to the vault door. Panacea stood back a little, flanked by Mayfield. Rogers went to step forward as well, but I held up a hand.

"Trust me, this is one case when less is more."

"I have my orders -" began Rogers.

I pointed at the vault door. "Inside there is an unstable monster, barely kept in check by the mind of a badly traumatised teenage girl. She sees guns, she just might snap out of her happy place. And if that happens, all you'll accomplish is to get eaten first."

Armsmaster came over. "What's the matter here?"

"He's trying to lock me out, sir," Rogers reported. "I won't be able to do my job from out here."

"Me neither, sir," agreed Mayfield, from beside Panacea.

"Believe me when I say that it's safer if Rogers stays out here," I told the armoured hero. "He will not be able to protect me if she gets aggressive, and the sight of a gun just might tip the balance.". I paused. "Once it's done, and I call in Panacea, you guys can come in."

Armsmaster took a deep breath, not liking the situation. But I knew that his helmet-mounted lie detector was reporting to him the truth of what I was saying.

"Okay, fine," he growled at last.

"Thanks," I responded, and pressed the Enter key. The door clunked as the locks disengaged.

I heaved it open, just far enough to squeeze through, then pulled it shut behind me.

=///=​

The interior of the vault was bigger than I'd expected. The rotting-meat smell was something I had read about, but the reality was something else altogether. And Noelle …

She was a tiny extrusion on the top of the giant creature that would be called Echidna if it escaped. The dog-like heads snarled at me, but they were lackadaisical, almost asleep. The eyes that dotted the lower part of the body were heavy-lidded, some of them closed altogether.

"Who are you?" she asked dreamily.

I cleared my throat. "Noelle. My name's Mike Allen, and I'm offering to take your powers away, and send you home. Are you interested in this?"

She thought about this. "Oh, yeah. You said. Can you really do that?"

"If I can't," I told her grimly, "I'm gonna be really embarrassed in just a moment or two."

She giggled. "Go ahead then."

"One moment," I told her. Turning to the intercom panel, I hit the switches to turn off outgoing audio and video. Then I turned back to her.

"Ready?" I asked.

She nodded.

"Close your eyes and cover your ears, please."

"What, really?" she asked with another giggle.

I nodded. "Really. Please."

Obediently, she closed her eyes, and covered her ears.

I took a deep breath.

"Door to the Removalist."

=///=​

When I had raised this topic with Contessa, she had initially refused to even admit to the existence of a cape who could remove Noelle's powers. I didn't blame her; for most capes, knowing there was someone out there who could simply take away that which made them special would be ... terrifying.

But I had argued the point; Cauldron, I reminded her, told the recipients of new powers that if they did not fulfil their side of the deal, then the powers would be removed. As I recalled, Battery had raised the question of the powers having an off-switch, and she had been told that no, it was a cape employed by Cauldron.

Contessa had acknowledged the existence of the cape then, but had argued that revealing his existence was not worth the benefit. I insisted that it was. It was around about then that the question of clearance had come up; we argued through it.

In the end, I got my way, and a name; the Removalist. But this left me with a nagging question in my mind. Can Contessa truly not use Path to Victory against me, or did she deliberately lose that argument?

The question was still bothering me as I spoke the words.

For a long moment, nothing happened, and I thought, Great, I've just made an idiot of myself.

And then the doorway opened in space, right beside me. On the other side was a well-furnished room, panelled in some dark wood; the walls were lined with bookshelves.

In a comfortable-looking armchair sat a tall, thin man, wearing what I pigeonholed as 'English-gentry' clothing. He was reading a book, but looked up as the portal opened.

"Ah, you're here," he observed. His accent was in keeping with his dress and surroundings; very British, with an upper-class smoothness to it. Carefully placing a bookmark to keep the page, he shut the book and put it on a side table. Rising from the chair, he stepped through the portal.

"Good evening," he greeted me. "This is the one you want … treated?"

"She is," I agreed. "Contessa told you I was going to do this?"

He nodded. "She advised me to be ready. Best step back. I don't want you to accidentally lose your powers as well."

"Oh, I don't have any," I assured him.

"What, really? Intriguing."

"Uh, can I open my eyes yet?" asked Noelle loudly.

"Not yet!" I shouted back. I gestured to the Cauldron cape.

He nodded and held out his hands. A shimmering field extended from each palm, merged into one, and then grew to engulf Noelle's bloated body.

"It's so much easier when they're cooperative," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

The shimmering built to a crescendo, and then winked out.

"It's done," he advised me, stepping back into the portal.

"I, uh, thanks," I told him, then was distracted by a tremendous thump that shook the entire vault. Noelle's massive legs had failed; they had folded under her, and she had dropped to the ground.

"Noelle!" I shouted, looking back over my shoulder as ran to the communication panel. "How do you feel?"

"Help me!" she screamed. "It hurts! It hurts!"

There was no time to waste. I opened the audio channel again. "Okay, it's clear. I need Panacea, stat."

=///=​

Willing hands heaved the door open, and Panacea came in. She was followed in short order by Armsmaster, Rogers, Mayfield, Glory Girl and Trickster. We watched in fascinated horror as outer-lying parts of the body began to crumble and dissolve away. And in the middle of it, Noelle – her original body – was in agony.

"I don't know what to do!" confessed Panacea. "I don't know how to fix this!"

"We have to get to Noelle," I told her. "She's what we've got to save. The rest of it doesn't matter." I went to the edge of the mound of dying flesh and tried to climb up, but handfuls of material, rotting as fast as I touched it, just came away.

"Oh christ," I groaned. "How are we going to get up there?"

Noelle screamed again.

"Holy shit," marvelled Glory Girl, looking up at the bulk of Noelle. "How the fuck do we deal with this?"

"Get me up there!" snapped Panacea. "I need to be able to reach her!"

"Okay, Ames, okay," Vicky told her. "Don't get your panties in a wad."

Hefting her sister, she flew up over the vast bulk of dying flesh. They were so small next to what Noelle had become. I hoped that Amy would be able to help her.

Trickster turned to me as I wiped the remains of bits of Noelle off on my pants legs.

"Fuck, is she going to be all right?" he asked.

I shrugged. "I thought it was going to be easier than this. I didn't realise how big she'd gotten."

The tone of the screaming changed; I shuddered. I didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

"So … she could die?" he asked.

I nodded. "Hopefully not, but … yeah."

He turned his face toward me. I could not see his expression, but the venom was clear in his voice. "If that happens ... " He didn't finish the threat.

I didn't blame him, but as Rogers took a step forward, I held up a hand to stop him and Armsmaster both; the latter stood right behind the supervillain, halberd at the ready. Trickster didn't even know he was there; for a man in armour, Armsmaster could move very quietly when he had to.

I forced my voice to steadiness. "Her powers are gone. We have the world's best biokinetic working on her. If anyone can do this, Panacea can." And if she can't, it might just destroy Amy's faith in herself. But I couldn't dwell on that.

Things had gone silent where Panacea worked with Noelle. I didn't dare look that way; I feared the worst and hoped for the best.

More and more of Noelle's immense body was now disintegrating, crumbling away. I looked around as Glory Girl touched down with not one, but two passengers. One was Amy, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. The other was … I guessed it was Noelle, wearing Panacea's robes.

I slapped myself on the forehead. "Duh! I told myself and told myself, bring pants. So what did I forget to do?"

Panacea's voice was tired but amused. "Bring pants?"

"And the lady wins a prize."

Trickster interrupted; stepping forward, he pulled his mask off, uncaring that we could all see him. His face was swarthy, with a hooked nose. "Noelle?" he asked hesitantly. "Are you really all right?"

The brunette pushed back her hood. She was still looking pretty well wrecked, but there was colour in her cheeks now. She wasn't actually standing on her own, I realised; Amy was supporting her on one side, and Victoria on the other.

"I've been better," she admitted in a soft, low voice. "But I've been a lot worse, too. My legs aren't really working at the moment ..."

"That's because you've never used them before," Amy scolded her. "I just made them. You've got to learn to work the connections. Sheesh."

Noelle smiled at her. "... but, as I was saying, that's far preferable to being stuck like that."

Francis stepped up to her. "Please?" he asked Glory Girl. Vicky shrugged, and got out of his way. He put his arm around Noelle, helping to support her. She held him tightly.

I nodded. "Yes. Definitely preferable."

She looked at me, head tilted. "You're saying that like you know something."

I took a deep breath. "I know how it would have turned out if this hadn't happened."

Noelle swallowed. "Do I want to know?"

"You and a lot of others dead, Trickster Birdcaged, enslaved and then dead, the others back home." I shrugged. "This way? Everyone gets to go home."

"Except Cody."

Trickster stared at her. "Seriously? You're thinking of Cody at a time like this?"

"He was one of us," she replied defensively.

"He nearly got Marissa killed," he snapped. "He did try to kill you!"

"As I understand, Cody is a bit of a dick," I observed.

Panacea gave me a stern look. "Wasn't it you who was going on about second chances?"

Noelle nodded wearily. "And I've done far worse things than Cody has."

Leaning back my head for a moment, I closed my eyes. What would Hope do?

I didn't have to ask; I already knew. Fuck.

I sighed. "Okay, fine, you got me. Could everyone leave the vault, please?"

"Why?" asked Armsmaster.

I drew a deep breath. "I have to deal with the Cody situation."

Not without several backward glances, they went; Panacea and Trickster supported Noelle between them.

=///=​

I went over and turned off the sound again; taking a deep breath, I said the words.

"Door to Cody."

The Clairvoyant obviously knew which Cody I meant; the doorway opened into a barracks, a row of beds against a wall. A young man lay sleeping on the bed. He had Caucasian features.

I could see the light from the vault spilling through the portal, illuminating the barracks. We didn't have much time. I stepped through, into the barracks, hoping like hell that it would not close and strand me in China. Grabbing Cody by the shoulder, I shook him hard.

He came awake with a start, flailing at me. "Huh, what, who -"

I batted his arms away. "Sh! Cody. I can get you home. Back to Earth Aleph. Do you want to go?"

He was blinking, trying to bring his brain online. "Who the fuck are you?"

"A friend. I can bring you home. But you have to let bygones be bygones."

"What do you mean?" he demanded. I heard noises of people stirring. One man sat up and looked at us curiously.

"You have to leave Krouse and the others alone. Make up your mind, now!"

"That motherfucker!" He surged up out of the bed. I met him with a forearm to the chest.

"No! Leave it go, and get out of here … or don't, and stay."

People were climbing out of their beds now, approaching us. Someone called out a question in what I figured was Chinese.

He ignored it. "You want me to just forget what he did?"

"Just let it go, Cody," I urged him. "Start fresh." This was not the time and place for this argument.

An arm grabbed at me, and I pulled free. A fist swung out of the darkness, smacked me in the cheekbone. I staggered, saw stars. I managed to keep my feet under me, got my arms up, blocked the next punch. I got kicked in the stomach for my trouble; he'd only been feinting at my face. The kick really didn't bother me; the PRT body armour was good like that.

Then the lights came on. A loud, authoritative voice called out. I looked up; and saw the guy in uniform. Then I saw the rifle he was aiming at me. That was when I decided enough was enough and dived for the portal. The rifle went off, and I felt a smashing impact in my ribs. I sprawled on hard metal, trying to catch my breath, rolled over.

Through the portal, I saw Cody fight free of grasping hands. Another shot rang out; he jerked, blood spraying from a hole in his upper torso. And then he flickered, was unhurt, took two steps and dived through the portal. It closed before he hit the floor.

=///=​

My heart was beating at about a thousand miles a second; I sat up, supporting myself with both arms. My ribs were killing me. "Fuck, I never want to have to do that again."

Cody started to get up, looking around in a daze. "What the fuck? Where is this place?"

"We're in Brockton Bay," I told him.

"Seriously? Place smells like a slaughterhouse."

"You're not far wrong there," I grunted, trying to get to my feet without further aggravating my ribs. I wasn't entirely successful.

He grabbed my arm, helped me up. "You okay?"

"I'll be fine," I told him. I mustered a grin. "Oh yeah. Congratulations, you've just been rescued."

Just at that moment, the vault door was pulled open, and Rogers burst in, followed closely by Armsmaster. "We heard shooting!" snapped Rogers, his gun tracking on to Cody.

Cody threw up his hands. "Wasn't me!"

"Hey," I broke in. "It's fine. Danger is over. Please vacate the premises."

"What just happened?" demanded Armsmaster. If I wasn't careful, I would soon have way too many witnesses in here. Too many questions to answer.

"I'll tell you outside," I insisted. "Please leave the vault."

Reluctantly, they left.

"And close the door!" I called. The vault door swung all the way shut.

"Wow," observed Cody. "Intense much?"

I grinned at him. "You just met Armsmaster. He kind of takes 'intense' and makes it his bitch."

"Right, right," he muttered, then pointed at the decomposing mass of what had once been Noelle. "And what the fuck is that?"

"That," I observed dryly, "is what was left behind when we fixed Noelle."

He stared. "Noelle's here?"

I nodded. "Her and Francis, yeah."

"Krouse." It was a growl.

I made my decision. It was obvious that Cody wasn't about to forgive and forget; nor, for that matter, was Trickster. "Okay, did you have any gear that you want?"

He blinked at me. "Uh, in my locker?"

I nodded. "Door, to Cody's locker."

The portal opened before us; I reached in, grabbed clothes, tossed them to him. There wasn't much there, but we got it all. The portal closed again.

"How the fuck did you do that?" he demanded, his arms full of clothes.

"You're not cleared to know that," I told him. "Door, to Brockton Bay, Earth Aleph."

Another portal formed. Beyond was a cityscape shaded by night. I nodded to it.

"Wait," he blurted. "That's it?"

I pointed at the portal. "Home. Did you want an engraved invitation?"

He took a step toward it. "The others; where are they going?"

I shook my head. "You're not cleared to know that either. Now, are you going or not?"

He stepped through. The portal closed behind him.

=///=​

As I emerged from the vault, Panacea moved up alongside me; she had obviously noticed how I was favouring my left side.

"Did you get hurt again?" she asked me. "What is it with you and your ribs? Is it some sort of hobby?"

"What happened in there?" interrupted Armsmaster. "What was the shooting about?"

I sighed. "The last Traveller, a kid called Cody, was in China, not by choice. I pulled him out, then sent him on to the Brockton Bay of Earth Aleph." They stared at me; I shrugged. "I needed him out of the way, otherwise he could disrupt some other plans I have running."

Armsmaster's voice was sceptical. "And China isn't far enough out of the way?"

"Nope. Earth Aleph might be, though."

He fixed me with what I presumed to be a glower. "And you got him from China … how?"

"Sorry," I told him. "Can't tell you that."

Panacea interrupted him. "Sorry, I have to deal with some fractured ribs and – what is this on your face? Did someone hit you?"

I grimaced. "The Chinese, uh, objected to me taking him." A shrug. "Thus the shooting."

"You got shot, didn't you?" Amy accused me. "Seriously?"

"I got shot," I admitted reluctantly. "Must be what got my ribs. Good body armour, by the way. Saved my life, I guess."

Panacea laid her hand over the graze on my cheek. I felt the torn skin close, and then the ribs stopped hurting, just like that.

I nodded to her. "Thanks."

"Wait a minute," Armsmaster interrupted. "You went to China?"

"That's where he was," I responded.

"I just hope you didn't cause an international incident," was all he said.

"I might have; they seemed pretty upset with me," I admitted. "But if I can get the Travellers back to their world, even if the C.U.I. comes looking, they won't find a thing."

"I suppose," he admitted grudgingly. He didn't sound all that broken up about the C.U.I. not getting what they wanted.

I dusted my hands off. "That's settled then; good. Okay, time to get the rest of the Travellers home."

"How are you going to do that?" asked Armsmaster.

"Classified," I told him blandly. "Francis, Noelle, into the vault, please."

"What?" asked Trickster. "Why?"

"Earth Aleph?" I prompted. "You want to go home or not?"

"What about everyone else?" asked Noelle.

"It'll be taken care of," I assured her. "Come on."

I stepped back into the vault, with Trickster and Panacea supporting Noelle, following me.

"Uh, Amy, you can go outside now," I told the healer.

She shook her head. "No. I need to come along, make sure you don't get hurt again."

Which I considered to be a fairly specious argument, but it was a sign of initiative, so I let it slide. "Okay. Just one thing. What I'm about to do, no-one else can ever hear about. Okay?"

She firmed her jaw and nodded once. "Okay."

I took a deep breath. "Door to Oliver."

=///=​

Oliver looked up in shock. He had been sitting on the couch, watching TV, when a doorway opened in midair, right in front of him. And stepping through were Trickster and …

"Noelle?" he blurted. "You're … wow, what happened?"

And then two more people stepped through the portal.

Things got a little confused after that.

=///=​

"Okay," announced Trickster. "I think we're set." He had changed into civilian clothes; his mask and costume were hidden in his baggage. Everyone else was gathered around, also in street clothes.

I nodded. "No problem." Then I paused. "Just by the by; as you can see, I've had Noelle's powers removed. Anyone else want the same service, before I send you back?"

There was a pause, then Marissa stepped forward. "What … how does it work?" she asked. "Can you do it for me?"

I nodded. "We're just going to have to step into another room. And I'll have to ask you to close your eyes and cover your ears. Okay?"

"Okay," she replied doubtfully, then Oliver stepped forward as well.

"And me too?" he ventured. "My powers are more problematic than helpful."

"Sure," I told him. "Same thing. You can't see or hear what I do."

They both nodded in agreement; I led the way into what turned out to be Trickster's study.

=///=​

Jess stared at Marissa. "Your powers are gone? I mean, gone?"

Marissa nodded. "I've been trying to make a sun for a couple minutes now. Nothing." A grin spread across her face. "Never again. Oh god, never again."

"Okay," I told them. "I'm gonna send you back now. Just remember; if you're interested in extra work as a parahuman, someone will come knocking on your door."

"Sounds good to me," Luke agreed. "Kickin' ass for a sweet paycheck."

"One way to put it," I grinned. "Okay. Where would you like to go?"

They conferred quickly. Francis turned to me. "Madison, Wisconsin."

I nodded. "Sure. Door to Earth Aleph, Madison, Wisconson."

The door opened. Francis nodded to me. "Appreciate the help. For me and for Noelle." He hefted his bags, tossed them through, picked up two more.

Marissa ran over and hugged me; I patted her back.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."

I shrugged awkwardly. "It's all right. You better go; you might miss the bus."

She giggled and kissed me on the cheek, then ran back to grab her bags.

Oliver wheeled Jess toward the portal, but Amy told him, "Wait."

Curious, he paused, and she leaned over Jess for a moment. Then she murmured something in the brunette's ear. She nodded to Oliver. "You can go now."

He wheeled Jess through the portal, and looked back at me.

"Thanks, dude," he told me. "Really."

And then the portal closed, and there was just myself and Panacea in the room; she had reclaimed her robes from Noelle.

"Holy crap," she commented. "And I can't tell anyone what happened?"

I shook my head. "Not right away, no. Later on, maybe."

"Okay," she agreed. "I can live with that."

I tilted my head. "What did you just say to Jess?"

"Oh," she confessed. "I told her that I'd fixed the nerves in her back. She's going to need serious physiotherapy, but she'll be walking in six months."

"Huh," I commented. "Nice one."

She smiled.

=///=​

The PRT transport pulled up outside the Hebert house. I got out, and helped Taylor and Amy out; both were in civilian garb. Taylor was wearing her mask, which she took off as she got out of the truck. I'd had to give back the body armour, which was a little bit of a wrench, but it was so much easier to move and breathe without it.

Taylor led the way up the path to the front door; she skipped over the bottom step, and I waved Amy ahead of me. The front door opened, and Danny stood there.

"Danny, this is Amelia Claire Lavere," I told him. "Amy, this is Danny Hebert."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Hebert," Amy told him politely.

"Come on in, come on in," he invited, and we all trooped up the steps and in through the entrance hall. I closed the door behind me.

"Come on," Taylor told Amy, "I'll show you where you'll be sleeping." They thundered up the stairs; I grinned as the ceiling shook and dust drifted down.

"Believe it or not," I told him, "she's here for peace and quiet."

He quirked a smile. "Well, I've always heard good things about her. So we'll try to give her as normal a life as possible while she's here."

"That's exactly what she needs," I assured him. "She'll be seeing a therapist to deal with the worst of her problems, but here and now, just having people who treat her as a normal person, who welcome her into their home, that's what she really needs."

He adjusted his glasses. "Well, it's been a while since we had two teenagers in the house, but I'm sure I can manage."

Just as I was shaking his hand, the thundering herd reappeared, hurtling pell-mell down the stairs; at the bottom of the steps, it resumed the form of Taylor and Amy.

"So, Amy, do you like the accommodations?" I asked politely.

She nodded and smiled, eyes bright. "Yes, Mr Allen. Thank you." She turned to Danny. "And thank you for putting me up."

He shrugged awkwardly and patted her on the shoulder. "I'm just glad I can help," he told her. Raising an eyebrow, he added, "Dinner's almost ready. Who wants some?"

As we all headed to the kitchen, I remarked, "I hope you made enough. I've heard these teenage girls can eat you out of house and home."

Amy poked her tongue out at me.

=///=​

Director Piggot put her phone on speaker. "Report."

"The assault went off without a hitch," Armsmaster replied. "Coil was captured, and the dangerous Case 53 was … neutralised without incident."

"How exactly was she neutralised?"

"I do not know," confessed Armsmaster. "Mr Allen played another of his little tricks, and caused Ms Meinhardt to lose her powers."

"Are the Travellers in your custody, at least?"

"... no. Only Trickster was on site. In addition, Security revealed that the Travellers are natives of Earth Aleph, and that they were brought here by the Simurgh."

Piggot blinked. "Dear Lord."

"Precisely. So when he undertook to send them back, I agreed."

"He sent them back? To Earth Aleph? How?"

"The means are unknown," Armsmaster told her.

"Perhaps similar to the other matter?"

"I was thinking the same thing," agreed Armsmaster. "If he is allied with them -"

"He spoke as though he was not, if you recall," Piggot reminded him. "But if they have given him access to how they get around ..."

"And can neutralise the powers of capes at will ..."

"Then yes, kid gloves. Very much kid gloves." She paused. "Anything else to report?"

"Yes, actually. We spoke before he left; he made strong recommendations that the Undersiders be given as much freedom as possible without actually letting them go free and clear. He stressed that each of them had their reasons for being criminals, and if approached correctly, they might be willing to consider changing sides." He paused. "Also, Canary performed flawlessly; I consider that she was a major factor in reducing potential casualties to nil."

"Just as Mr Allen suggested," the Director observed.

"Indeed. He recommends, and I concur, that she remains with us, as a paid civilian contractor rather than a prisoner. She has, after all, just helped prevent a potential S-class threat from attacking the city."

"So you believe Mr Allen's analysis of the situation?"

"Implicitly."

"Indeed. Thank you, Armsmaster."

Piggot hung up the phone.

"Well," she said out loud to the empty room. "We'll do it your way for now, Mr Allen. We'll see where that takes us."

Leaning back in the chair, she took off her reading glasses and rubbed her eyes.

Listen to me. Talking to myself. I must be tired.

Putting the glasses back on, she leaned forward again, and perused the next item of paperwork.

There was more to do before she was finished tonight.


End of Chapter Twenty-Three

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Twenty-Four: Fallout


Danny glanced at me as he served out the food. "So when were you going to call her?"

"Call who?" I asked, collecting a pitcher of juice from the fridge.

"Gladys Knott, that's who," he reminded me.

"Oh crap," I exclaimed, perfectly in sync with Taylor. We looked at each other and laughed briefly.

"Okay," I told her. "I'm older than your dad. I've got a right to be absent-minded. What's your excuse?"

She gave me an innocent look. "Taking down supervillains is hard on the brain?" She raised an eyebrow. "And anyway, aren't you the one who's supposed to know everything? What are you doing, forgetting things?"

"It's a very sad state of affairs," I told her solemnly. "I have a condition that's only recently been diagnosed. We call it CRAFT disease."

Amy had been looking back and forth at the banter, as if not quite sure whether she was allowed to join in.

"Craft disease?" she asked in a puzzled tone. "I don't think I've heard of that one. And I didn't see any evidence of a disease when I checked you over this afternoon."

I caught Danny hiding a grin; he knew where this was going, even if he didn't know exactly what the punchline was. "You wouldn't have," I assured the biokinetic, allowing my own grin to show. "CRAFT stands for Can't Remember A Frickin' Thing."

Danny and I burst out laughing; Taylor got it a moment later, and joined in. Amy's eyes and mouth opened wide in mock indignation, then she started laughing too. "Oh, you," she told me, as severely as she could while still giggling. "That was mean. I thought I'd actually missed something for a moment there."

"Sorry," I replied, still laughing. "Anyway, you're off healing duties for the month, remember?"

She paused. "... yeah," she responded, in a tone that told me she'd forgotten for just a moment. "It feels kind of weird. Like there's someone telling me to do something but I don't have to do it."

I nodded firmly. "Your mental health is far more important. You are far more important."

"Amen," Danny chimed in.

"Yeah," Taylor added, and held out her fist to be bumped; I bumped it. Then she held her fist toward Amy; after a long moment of hesitation, the teenage biokinetic gave her a fist-bump, looking shyly pleased with herself.

"So, uh, who's Gladys Knott, and why do you need to call her?" asked Amy.

I tugged my phone from my pocket. "She's a teacher at Winslow. She has an idea that Taylor is Weaver."

Amy looked from me to Taylor and back. "But ... Taylor is Weaver ... right?"

I nodded. "Exactly. So we're inviting her over, sitting her down, and coming clean with her. She's a good person; if she's officially in the loop, she'll definitely keep the secret."

"Not that she needs to worry about it much longer," Danny put in. "As of Monday, Taylor, you're at Arcadia. Principal Blackwell rang through this afternoon to verify the placement."

"Dang," I commented admiringly. "That was fast."

I paused to pull up Gladys' number, even as Taylor squealed and hugged her father, and at that moment, my phone rang.

It was a number I didn't recognise; I put it to my ear. "Hello?"

=//=//=​

Coil tried to make himself comfortable in the back of the PRT van. It wasn't easy; the manacles around his wrists and ankles were chained to a ring-bolt on the floor, and the benches had not acquired any padding since the last time he had ridden in the back of one of these vans, ten years previously.

"You do know this is all a huge mistake, right?" he ventured, trying to project a confidence he did not feel.

The guard to his left pulled out a standard PRT stun-gun, and casually pressed the button. Electricity crackled blue between the prongs; Calvert smelled ozone.

"One more word, sir," the guard replied conversationally. "Just one more word. Security told us about the little girl you tried to have kidnapped."

Coil did not doubt the man; there was a menace there, and a resolve to carry through with the implied threat. He kept quiet. After a moment, the guard put the stun-gun away, leaving Coil to wonder exactly how Allen had acquired that information.

And then something cylindrical and metallic clattered to the floor of the van, spewing black smoke. Calvert was no less surprised than the guards, even as the smoke from the grenade enveloped him, but his reflexes stood him in good stead. He clenched his eyes shut and held his breath for as long as possible; the smoke was not formulated to be toxic, but it still was in no way good for him.

There was the rush of movement from somewhere in front of him. A guard cried out, a choked sound. Something banged hard against the side of the van. The stun-gun, or one very like it, crackled, and he heard another strangled cry.

Someone was fiddling with his manacles; he felt them come loose from around his wrists, then his ankles. A hand tugged at his arm, lifting him to his feet. He had split time at the instant the smoke grenade fell to the floor, and in the one instance, he resisted, trying to reach a guard, grab a weapon. In the other, he cooperated.

In the world-line where he resisted, cold metal prongs jabbed him in the ribs, through the thin costume. He had a split second to register what it was - stun gun - before the electricity surged through his body, and he lost consciousness. Irritated, he shut down that timeline.

In the other, he was helped to his feet, even as the radio belonging to one of the guards crackled a query. One step forward, eyes still tightly shut, a moment of disorientation, and he was standing on a surface that was not moving, not swaying. His lungs were burning; he essayed a cautious breath. There was smoke there, the particles trapped by the cloth over his face, but it rapidly gave way to fresh, chilled air.

Carefully, he opened his eyes.

He had to blink a few times before his sight cleared, but he soon recognised the antiseptic white corridor. He was in Cauldron's base, or at least one of their bases.

Immediately, he split time once more, looking out for any chance to gain an advantage.

=//=//=​

It was Director Piggot's voice on the other end of the line, and the tone of her voice was what I would describe as 'extremely unthrilled'.

"I suppose," she gritted, "that you knew this was going to happen, and chose not to notify us."

"I'm sorry," I responded carefully. "But I'm going to need more to go on."

Her voice could have been used to score diamond. "Coil."

"Ah," I replied. "He's disappeared from PRT custody, yes?"

I heard another phone go off, and Amy pulled hers out, looking at it with some puzzlement.

"So you do know." Piggot's voice was grim. "What part did you have in this?"

"Minimal, I assure you," I told her. "I guess I did suggest it, but it was for a good cause."

"You suggested that a prisoner be liberated from a PRT transport?" The Director's fury seemed to be rising by the moment. "After you went to such lengths to convince us to take his base, to take him down, you suggested that he be let loose again? Who did you suggest this to?"

"Okay, can we calm down and take a breath?" I ventured. "Director Piggot, there are things going on behind the scenes here."

She didn't seem to be calming down, but she did take a breath. "What kind of 'things' are you talking about?"

"High level things. Things that you don't have clearance for. I can't tell you who I made the suggestion to, but unless I miss my guess -"

Amy was waving her hand to get my attention. I looked her way, and saw that she was holding up her phone. On it was a message:

TELL SECURITY THAT HE DOES NOT MISS HIS GUESS
-C

" - ah," I finished. "It's just been confirmed. Coil did not escape, and nor was he liberated."

"He's gone," snarled Piggot. "How else do you explain that?"

"Easily," I told her. "He was abducted."

"And the difference is?"

"It'll be about the same result as though you had sent him to prison, with the added benefit that he will be working for the betterment of mankind." I took a deep breath. "Believe me when I say that right now, he's not having a good day."

=//=//=​

Turning to Contessa - for it was she who had gotten him out of there - Calvert observed, "I suppose I should be thanking you for the rescue."

"Oh, no," she told him. "This wasn't a rescue."

He started to try to jump away from her, but she jabbed him with the stun-gun. Electricity crackled; the shock made jelly of his muscles, and he twisted and fell – right onto the stretcher that had been placed at precisely the correct angle.

Doctor Mother had been standing behind him; now she knelt beside him.

"Nnnnh," he tried to articulate, but his tongue was a blob of warm meat.

"It's all for the best," she soothed him. "You will be helping to save the world."

As she raised the syringe in her hand, he stared at it in stark terror. He recognised it, all too well.

"NNNNH!" he grunted, trying to thrash spasmodically. Contessa easily held him down; he felt the sting as the needle slipped into the vein.

Doctor Mother carefully depressed the plunger, and the drugs that had been intended for Dinah Alcott entered the bloodstream of Thomas Calvert.

=//=//=​

Director Piggot sounded a little mollified, but not greatly so. "Be that as it may, he was still a prisoner of a law enforcement agency, and he was taken from us by force. That is a major felony; knowledge of such an act, or to encourage it, is also a crime. What do you have to say for yourself?"

I spoke carefully. "I know why he was taken. I know who took him. I don't know where he is; that is, I could not point to a spot on a map and say 'there he is'. I will admit that I do approve of his being taken. However."

"However …?"

"However, I did not assist in his abduction, and nor did I know for a fact beforehand that he would indeed be taken. I presume his guards are in good health?"

She was starting to calm down slightly. "A little contused, and one has been tased. But both are expected to make a full recovery, yes. How did you know?"

"Because the person who took him wants to stay in good with me for another twenty-four hours or so."

Her voice was resigned. "And you're not going to tell me who this person is, or why that is."

"I'm sorry, Director. But if I answered that, or any of the other fifty or sixty questions you're dying to ask me, they would raise more questions, or cause great amounts of havoc, or cause serious personal problems for you and your staff. Or all three. And you don't need that, not right now."

I took a deep breath. "However, on the upside, you have his base. You have his mercenaries, who are likely to cooperate on any interrogation, if you release them to leave the city once you're done with them. And you have his computer system, which Tattletale would probably love to help you get to the bottom of. All of which should pretty well expose the network he spent the last few years building."

=//=//=​

On the other end of the phone line, Mike Allen paused. "But do you know what the best thing you have is?"

"What's that?" asked Emily suspiciously.

"A distinct lack of Thomas Calvert, trusted PRT squad leader, being publicly exposed and tried as the supervillain Coil. One huge public-relations disaster averted, and Mr Chambers didn't even need to get involved."

She didn't even bother wondering how he knew about Glenn Chambers.

"It would never have gone to trial. We both know that."

"And yet, it would have leaked. We both know that too. Or do you know something I don't?"

He was right. She knew he was right. Something like that would have leaked, possibly by accident, possibly by design. It had the potential to look very bad for the PRT. But she really, really hated to admit it.

"So," Allen observed eventually, "yes, he's not in your custody any more. But that also means he's not your headache any more. Which means he's in the hands of the people I've been working with, in order to foster my ultimate aim."

Piggot knew she wasn't going to get a straight answer, but she asked the question anyway. "And what is that, exactly?"

The response temporarily stunned her. "To save the world, of course. Good night, Director."

She paused, trying to formulate a workable response. In the end, she gave up. "Good night, Mr Allen."

The call ended, and she pressed the button to shut it down from her end. She looked across her desk, at the two people who had listened in on the conversation.

"Armsmaster?"

The armoured hero nodded once, briefly. "He was telling the truth, the whole time. Including the bit about saving the world."

"Hannah?"

Miss Militia's voice was pensive. "Not sure what to think, here. He's earnest about his aims. Reading between the lines, he's trying to get things done as efficiently as possible, while minimising argument and conflict about how he's doing it."

"In short," Piggot snorted, "he's breaking the law and cutting corners he really shouldn't be cutting. Expediency at the price of legality. And you know how I feel about that."

"Technically, yes, he's guilty of withholding information crucial to a criminal case, by not telling you who took Calvert," agreed Miss Militia.

"Not to mention the whole bank thing," Armsmaster added. "Knowing that a bunch of supervillains would be robbing it, allowing it to happen, so that his pet cape could show up and be the hero. That could have gone so wrong, in so many ways."

The Director rubbed her chin. "That does raise the question about the relationship between Weaver and Security. Are they related, or is there something more going on between them?"

"All questions we are going to have to ask Mr Allen, sometime very soon," Armsmaster observed.

"Agreed," responded the Director.

Miss Militia frowned. "I thought we were going with 'hands-off' for the moment?"

"That was until he started breaking the law," Piggot told her tartly. "We don't come down hard on him; if anything is likely to generate a powerful response, that will. After all, we still do not know exactly who or what he is, or what level of response he is likely to be willing or able to mount. But we can ask him questions. Appeal to the human side of his nature. He strikes me as someone who tries his best to be reasonable."

"Unless that's all a front, a facade," Armsmaster pointed out dourly.

She gave him a sharp glance. "Does it seem that way to you?"

Reluctantly, he shook his head. " … no. Unless he's totally spoofing my lie detector, in the same way that he spoofed Coil's precognition, he's not playing a part."

"Very well then," decided the Director. "This is what we'll do … "

=//=//=​

I ended the call, and looked around the table at the others. "What?"

Taylor broke the silence first; her voice held a kind of wonderment. "You really are trying to save the world."

I nodded. "That's the general idea. And the people in it; the ones I think are worth saving, anyway."

Danny spoke up, his voice a little strangled. "Did I hear you tell the Director of the Brockton Bay PRT that she didn't have clearance to know something?"

I shrugged. "Well, she doesn't." Honesty made me add, "Not yet, anyway."

Amy looked carefully at me. "You said you're trying to save the people you think are worth saving. Who are they?"

I grinned at her. "All you guys. Vicky. The Wards. Paige Mcabee. A girl called Dinah Alcott. The Undersiders. The Travellers. Director Piggot. A woman by the name of Kayden Anders, and her baby daughter. A troubled young woman called Sveta. The only daughter of a man called Andrew Richter." I paused. "And … others who haven't come up yet."

"Christ," muttered Danny. "That's some list."

I shrugged. "I can only do what I can do."

"Right," snorted Taylor. "I've seen you at work."

Amy nodded. "You certainly got my attention."

"Hey," I protested. "I'm nothing special. If I didn't know what I knew, I'd be just another security guard."

"But you do know it," Danny pointed out. "And you use it to help people. And speaking as one of the people you've helped, you have my profound thanks." He nodded at my phone. "So are you going to make that call?"

Sheepishly, I grinned at him. "Maybe some time before the heat death of the universe, huh?"

=//=//=​

Gladys Knott frowned at the clock. The hour hand was creeping toward ten, and she really should be in bed shortly after that time. Tomorrow was a school day, after all.

Michael had said that he would call, and he struck her as a man of his word. So why hasn't he called?

And then the phone rang. She almost snatched at it, then composed herself and picked it up decorously.

"Hello?"

"Yeah, hi, Gladys. It's me."

She felt the happiness entering her voice, and she tried to sound scolding. "Michael! I was wondering if you were going to call, after all."

"Yeah, well, I got hung up on another call. You okay to come over to Danny Hebert's place?"

She smiled. "All you need to do is ask, Michael dear."

"Sure thing. I'm asking. See you soon?"

"I shall see you just as soon as I can. Goodbye."

"Bye, Gladys."

The call ended, and she put the phone down. The car keys came readily to her hand, and she hurried to the door.

=//=//=​

Taylor answered the door at the first knock; Gladys was there, and I came to greet her as she entered the living room. The hug was nice; we traded a decorous kiss on the cheek.

I led her through into the kitchen. "Gladys, meet Amy. Amy, meet Gladys Knott."

Gladys' eyes lit with recognition. "Of course! You're Amy Dallon. Panacea."

Amy nodded. "Though I'm just Amy for the moment, okay?"

"That's fine, and I'm Gladys." She took a seat, and so did I. With five of the six chairs occupied, the table was almost full.

Danny poured coffee and tea for those who drank it – Amy and I had juice – and then we all sat back and looked at each other.

"Okay," I began. "Cards on the table. I'm not a cape, but I've been using the name Security in the cape scene for the last week or so."

I saw Gladys' eyebrows raise at this, and I went on. "I've been acting as a sort of … unofficial advisor to the PRT and local Protectorate forces."

Gladys' eyebrows came back down, and she frowned at me. "But … how do you get to be … an advisor to the PRT?"

"We'll get to that," I suggested. "Taylor?"

Taylor took a deep breath. "I am a cape," she admitted. "My power is the control of bugs and other tiny creatures like that. In costume, I go by the name Weaver. I've had my powers since early January."

Gladys took a deep breath, and reached across the table to take her hand. "Oh, my dear! The … uh ..."

Taylor nodded, and swallowed. "The locker, yeah." I saw Danny take her other hand, and I put my hand on her shoulder. Amy put a hand on her other shoulder.

I could literally see Taylor gaining strength from the support we were showing her; she took a deep breath and raised her chin. "Amy, you probably heard about some girl getting shut in her locker, back in January?"

Amy nodded. "I heard a rumour. Didn't think it was true." She paused. "Wait, that was you?"

"Yeah. That was me. I got powers then. I've been working on my cape identity ever since."

"She went out for the first time as a cape on Sunday night," I filled in. "I went with her, to help and advise. She took down Lung that night."

Taylor gave me a reproving glance. "We took down Lung."

I shrugged. "You did the heavy lifting. I did the running away."

"Team effort," she insisted, and disengaged her hand from Danny's. We shared a fist-bump, then she took her father's hand again.

"Okay, fine, team effort," I conceded. "And then the bank today ..."

" … where you insisted on walking Amy out first … "

" … while you took down the Undersiders, doing a bloody fine job as command and control for the PRT foam-sprayers."

Taylor shook her head. "I didn't even know I could do that."

I grinned. "I did. It's why I set things up that way." I raised a finger. "Point of note; each extra bug you add to your collection, the better you get at multitasking. Just so you know."

Taylor blinked. " … oh."

"So what happened tonight?" asked Danny. "I've only heard the vaguest hints."

"Something happened tonight?" put in Gladys. "There was nothing on the news."

"Well, for the moment, we're gonna have to leave most of that as vague hints, I'm afraid," I told them regretfully, "but what we can tell you is that between Taylor, Amy, myself, and some other people, both parahuman and others, we took a really nasty piece of work off the board. The type of guy who gives villains a bad name."

Danny had a few more details than Gladys, so he could fill in some more of the blanks. I put my hand on her shoulder. "Sorry I can't tell you more about what we did; it was a secret PRT operation, more or less."

"Well, more your operation, with the PRT tagging along," Taylor jibed.

"I was just there to coordinate matters," I protested. "Anyway, we're teasing Gladys, and we shouldn't do that."

"No, you should not," Gladys agreed firmly. "Now I'm bursting with curiosity, with just a few hints to go on with."

"Let's just say we scored one for the good guys, and leave it at that," I suggested.

"Very well," she agreed, a little too readily for my peace of mind; however, before I could make a comment, she was going on. "Now, Michael, you mentioned earlier that you are acting as an informal advisor to the PRT. How does that work?"

I sighed. "I … know things. Things that people believe only they know, or things that no-one else knows. I've been helping the PRT deal with some matters. Such as the bank, and with the other matter, tonight."

"But how do you know these things?" she pressed, and was surprised when everyone else burst out laughing. "Did I say something funny?"

I shook my head. "No. But it's a question nearly everyone ends up asking me."

"He knows lots of weird stuff about everyone," Amy supplied. "Go on, show her."

Gladys looked at me expectantly. I sighed again. "Sorry, can't do."

"What?" she asked. "Why not?"

"Because most of what I know about you is what you've told me," I confessed. "All I knew about you before I met you was that you were in charge of Taylor's home room class, that you taught computer use, and that you were Taylor's favourite teacher."

Amy stared at me. "You're not serious. That's all you knew about her?"

I shrugged. "What I know, it's not all-encompassing. Just really, really broad. Sorry."

Gladys looked at Taylor. "Really? Your favourite teacher?"

Taylor coloured slightly. "Yeah. You always let me do my work in peace."

Gladys smiled. "Well, if I had a favourite student, you would be it. You never cause problems." She turned to stare at me. "How did you know? Did she tell you?"

I shook my head. "No. It's … I just knew."

"Mike says … Mike, is it okay?" asked Taylor.

I shrugged. "Sure."

"Mike says what?" asked Danny.

"That he's a time traveller from three years in the future," Taylor finished.

I held up a finger. "I said that's not quite the truth, but it's close enough for the moment."

"Time traveller? Really?" asked Amy.

"Nope," I assured her. "Not really."

"Then what is it?" asked Gladys. "What's the real truth?"

I shook my head. "I'm sorry. I … I can't tell you. If I told you, you might not believe me. Or you might, which could be even worse, for your peace of mind. So can we just stick with 'time traveller' for the moment, please? It's close enough that it doesn't really matter."

Danny paused, then thought for a moment. "So what's the world like in three years' time?"

"In twenty fourteen," I answered honestly, "Earth Bet is just getting over an apocalyptic event. The world nearly ended, for real. Things are looking up, but the place took a real hiding. Literally billions of people died, uh, will die, uh, might die." I took a deep breath. "I'm trying to change matters. Make it so that all those people don't have to die."

"What causes the apocalyptic event?" asked Amy in a hushed voice. Taylor was silent; recalling, no doubt, my mention of her as the person who saved the world, in the future.

Again, I shook my head. "I'm sorry. I can not tell you that. But I can tell you that I am doing my level best to forestall it. I've fixed some of it. I just hope my other fixes take, as well."

"Was tonight a fix?" asked Taylor.

"Part of one, yes," I agreed.

"What was it supposed to fix?" asked Amy.

"Sorry, can't tell." I glanced apologetically at the varying expressions of frustration on the people around the table. "I'm sorry. I really am. I just … I need to keep juggling these chainsaws as long as I can. And I need to keep information compartmentalised, so that the wrong bit of data getting out at the wrong time doesn't screw everything up."

Some of the strain I was feeling must have come out in my voice, because they all eased back.

"It's okay, Mike," Danny told me. "You've done okay by us so far. I'll trust you to do your best."

"Yeah," agreed Taylor. "My life rocks since I met you."

I smiled, and gave her a fist-bump. "That was the general idea, kiddo."

Amy was staring at me as if I had grown a second head. "Then what you told me … all those things you said to bring up ..."

I nodded. "Yes?"

"That's all designed to make my life better?"

"Well, yeah."

"Even though it's gonna be really hard to face?"

"Either you face it, or it's gonna hit you really hard in the back of the head at the worst possible moment," I reminded her.

"But what if your fixes make sure that moment never happens?" she pressed.

I looked at her soberly. "Even if that happens, I would still tell you to do it. You'll be happier after, I guarantee it."

Amy looked at Taylor, and Taylor nodded. "Whatever he's telling you to do, I'd do it," she advised.

Slowly, Amy nodded. "Thanks, Taylor," she replied, then looked at me. "Thanks, Mike. And thank you, Danny, for taking me in. For showing me that I can relax and enjoy myself, without having to watch everything I say."

Taylor stood up. "Come here, you," she told Amy. Amy stood up, and Taylor hugged her. Slowly, cautiously, Amy hugged her back. When they separated, there were tears on Amy's face. No-one commented, but Gladys pressed a handkerchief into her hand.

"It's getting late," commented Gladys. "We have school tomorrow. Mike, would you like a lift?"

"Yeah, thanks," I agreed. "I'd appreciate it."

She smiled. "It's the least I can do for the man who's trying to save the world."

I grinned and shook my head. "Don't spread it around, okay?"

=//=//=​

"Kayden, why did we have to leave Brockton Bay?"

Kayden Anders looked up from where she was getting Aster settled. Theo had just come out of the shower; the pyjamas he was wearing accentuated his pudgy frame, and made him look about ten years old.

She ran through several explanations in her head, and settled on the simplest. "I got a warning, Theo."

"A warning? From who?"

"From whom," she corrected automatically. "Someone I've never heard of before," she went on, as an answer. "He called himself Security."

Theo climbed on to the other bed and pulled the covers over himself. "What did he warn you about?"

"That there was a chance that Empire Eighty-Eight might be outed, unmasked."

He stared at her. "But that's against the unwritten rules! And anyway, neither of us is in Empire Eighty-Eight, not since you left Dad."

She shook her head. "He specifically told me that everyone who's ever been in, as well as family members, would be named. And that the guy doing it doesn't care about the rules."

"Oh boy," muttered Theo. Then he paused. "What if it's just a scam of some sort to get you out of town for some other reason?"

Kayden had considered that. "Even if it's true," she told him. "Even if there's no truth to it. I'd do this anyway, to protect Aster." She climbed into her own bed, and turned out the light. "Good night, Theo."

"Good night, Kayden."

Time passed; Kayden was beginning to drift. Then she heard bedsprings creak as Theo shifted. "Kayden?"

She didn't even open her eyes. "Yes, Theo?"

"Thanks for bringing me along."

"Don't worry about it. You're family too."

He didn't answer, and soon she heard faint snores. It didn't take her long to drift off as well.

Outside, the subdued neon sign flashed on and off, on and off.

And around the motel, the night life of Boston went on.

=//=//=​

At the front door, Danny shook my hand, and I traded a fist-bump with both Taylor and Amy. Taylor and Amy both hugged Gladys, and we made our way to where she had parked her little car. We climbed in, and I did up my seatbelt. It was only after Gladys started the engine and drove off that I saw the front door close.

=//=//=​

"Well, girls," Danny told Taylor and Amy, "it's been a long day, and it's a school night, so I think it's time we all went to bed."

"Sure thing, Dad," Taylor told him, and hugged him; he hugged her back. With Amy, he traded a smile and a nod.

"Night, kids." Turning off the downstairs lights, Danny headed upstairs, followed by the girls.

Taylor paused in her bedroom doorway. "Night, Dad."

"Night, Mr Hebert," Amy chimed in.

A camp bed had been set up in Taylor's room; it made it a little cramped, but neither girl minded that. As they readied for bed, Taylor turned to Amy.

"Just out of curiosity," she said, "I kind of missed the action, but I hear you helped save that girl's life?"

"Oh, yeah," Amy replied, climbing on to the camp bed and pulling the covers up. "I basically rebuilt her lower body from the available biomass."

Taylor stared. "So you were able to give her new legs?"

Amy nodded. "It was a fairly simple job. I had plenty to work with."

"Huh, wow," marvelled Taylor. "I always thought you were just a healer." She switched off the light and climbed into bed. "What else can you do?"

"Well, I'm actually a biokinetic," Amy explained. "I can modify anything with a biological structure." A thought struck her. "You control bugs, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

Amy smiled in the darkness. "Bugs are biological." And if I need to start getting used to healing brains, like Mike said, then I should probably practise on something much simpler first.

They talked for a few more moments, then settled down to sleep. But both of them now had a lot to think about.

=//=//=​

We had travelled for some little while on the quiet roads before Gladys spoke. "When were you going to tell me?"

I blinked. "What, that stuff about tonight? When you needed to know."

She turned to look at me briefly. "So, if I had not made the connection, I would not know what I now know."

I nodded. "Basically, yes. This is dangerous information. People might well kill to possess it. The PRT wants to know what I know, and I've already been kidnapped and presumably tortured by a supervillain for what I know."

Her voice hit a higher note when she replied. "'Presumably' tortured?"

I nodded. "Yeah. It's a cape thing. It never happened, but it might have."

There was another interval of silence. Then she spoke again, her voice slow and sad.

"So … what am I, to you?"

I blinked, puzzled. "What?"

"What am I, to you? What do I mean to you? You're a time traveller, or something similar. Am I a quaint oddity in your trip to the past? An amusement, to be used and discarded?"

I shook my head. "God, no. You're as real to me, every bit as complete a person, as I am to you. As I was before you knew this about me."

As the car passed under a street-light, I saw the tracks of tears on her face. "Do you really mean that, or are you just playing a part? Working a plan?"

I put my hand on her arm. "Gladys, pull over."

"Why?"

"Please?"

She pulled over. I undid my seatbelt, and undid hers as well. Awkwardly, in the cramped confines of the car, I took her in my arms, laid my head on her chest. Slowly, I felt her arms creep around me.

"When I got here," I told her, "I didn't know what to expect. I didn't even expect to be here. And then I thought I could just be … me. Try to fix the world. I knew I'd probably meet you. I didn't think anything of it. Didn't know what you were like as a person. Didn't expect this to happen. Don't know where to go from here."

She was silent, holding me. Warm against me. A safe haven against the uncertainty.

Tomorrow, I lose Contessa's protection.

I don't know what's going to happen then.

She tilted her head down, tilted my chin up. Kissed me. Lips warm against mine. I closed my eyes, surrendered to the warmth.

The kiss lasted an eternity; it lasted an instant.

"Where we go from here," she told me firmly, "is home."

=//=//=​

The computer was situated in a warehouse owned by a small company, itself owned by a shell company, for which ownership could be traced back gradually to Fortress Constructions.

It sat in a small, locked, air-conditioned room. There was not even a chair, or a keyboard to do the typing.

Coil's phone had been taken off him and was now in evidence lockup, awaiting its absent owner. At eleven PM, it turned itself on, and beeped several times. No-one heard it; the sturdy locker door absorbed nearly all the sound.

On the face of the phone was a simple message:

RELEASE E88 INFO?

Beneath that was a 'yes' and a 'no' button.

The phone beeped several more times for attention, and then it made its choice. Five minutes after showing the reminder, it selected 'yes', sent the message, and then turned itself off again.

In the warehouse, the computer went from sleep mode to fully awake. Nothing really exciting happened; a few LEDs, carefully taped over, lit up. A hard drive was accessed; the same information was available on Coil's main computer, now in PRT hands, but this computer was attached to a landline which in turn led to an internet connection.

The instruction came in, and the computer obeyed it flawlessly; at midnight on the dot, the contents of the hard drive, chapter and verse on the Empire Eighty-Eight, would be emailed to a dozen different destinations. News services, the police force, and cape sites would all get the information.

Nothing would happen regarding this information at the moment. But when people started waking up, checking their newsfeeds, then things would start jumping.

=//=//=​

We stopped off at my place, where I grabbed toiletries and fresh clothes for the morning. I got back into her car, and she drove off once more.

Back at her place, there was no furtive rush, no haste. No teenage fumbling. We were adults; we knew how things went. I kissed her; she kissed me. With no particular haste, we shed our clothing.

And what happened then was between herself and myself, and no-one else.

=//=//=​

Friday 15 April 2011

Max Anders was pulled out of a sound sleep by the insistent ringing of the bedside phone. Suppressing an impulse to destroy the damned thing, he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Max." It was Fleischer's voice, hard and tight with some strong emotion. "You have to see this."

Max yawned. "See what? What is this, James?" He peered at the alarm clock. "What the fuck? It's five AM, for God's sake."

"Turn on the TV, Max. The news channels. Now."

Something in the tone of Fleischer's voice got through to him. He fumbled for the remote, pointed it at the large-screen TV that took up most of the opposite wall, and clicked it on. It was already set to the news channels; he liked to browse the world's events while he ate breakfast in bed.

The very first item washed all traces of sleep from his brain. He sat up fast, clicking the remote to bring the volume up.

" - Anders, allegedly known as Kaiser, the head of the criminal organisation Empire Eighty-Eight -"

Stunned, he watched as the information rolled across the screen. Photos of himself as Kaiser and in his civilian identity; other photos showing him entering and leaving Medhall as Kaiser. There was more; Fleischer's identity as Kreig was laid out as well, as was …

"Fuck, they even outed Purity?"

Kayden hadn't associated with the Empire for more than a year now. He had been toying with the idea of tugging on her leash, bringing her back into the fold, using Aster as leverage, but he hadn't had the need, not yet. And now, her name and face were up on the screen, along with high-definition, drastically filtered photos of her as Purity. No normal camera could take any picture of her that was anything more than a white blur, but this digital filtering brought out an image that fitted with her normal face.

They had even named Aster, and Theo. Children.

"Max? You still there?"

He became aware that he was still gripping the phone. "Yes, James, I'm here. Thank you; this was something I needed to see." He threw the covers off. "I need to contact Medhall, run damage control."

"I'm already on it. I have people shifting funds into numbered accounts so they can't freeze our assets. We're working on a press release for later."

"Have you contacted our other people?" The members of Empire Eighty-Eight, he meant.

"Yes. All but Purity, I mean. She's not answering her landline, or her mobile."

"I'll get on to that. Start trying to find out who did this." His voice was grim. "If it's another villain group, I want them eradicated. If it's the PRT -"

"Max, this information was not gathered overnight. And indications are that it was emailed to the PRT, as opposed to originating from them."

"So it's someone doing a run on us. Find out who."

"They'll have covered their tracks."

"So uncover them. I want to look whoever it is in the eye as I disembowel him. Slowly."

"On it."

Anders hung up, then dialled Kayden's landline. It rang out; he left a voice message.

Then he dialled her mobile. It also rang out; again, he left a voice message.

Throwing the phone back on to the cradle, he dressed swiftly, while watching the train wreck unfold on the big screen. One thought was uppermost in his mind.

I am going to kill whoever did this.

=//=//=​

"So how are you feeling this fine morning?"

I smiled at Gladys' question. "I'm feeling great. Never more alive. How about you?"

She brushed a kiss across my lips as we passed by one another. "Much the same, Michael. Much the same. Although we cannot make a habit of doing this."

"What – oh. Not on school nights, you mean?" I asked, tightening the straps on the vest.

"Indeed." She tilted her head. "So, are we still on for tomorrow night?"

"Well, yeah," I told her. "Unless you've decided to take a rain check."

She snorted in an unladylike fashion, and punched me lightly on the arm. "If I had, Michael, you would already know about it. We are going on a date tomorrow night."

"Events allowing, of course," I added.

"Events allowing?" she repeated, a questioning note in her voice.

"Yeah. Tomorrow's the day I stop knowing most of what's going to happen. Just going to have to let the dice fall where they may."

"How is that?" she asked, dabbing on lipstick.

"It's a long and complicated story," I explained. "Suffice to say, 'cape stuff'."

"So, if you don't know what's going to happen, how are you going to change matters to save the world?"

"Tonight, I'll be sorting out that aspect of things. Telling people what they need to know. Giving them the tools, so to speak." I looked at her soberly. "I can't save the world. I can only tell people how to do it. The people who have the capability to do so."

"But you have to get their attention first," she replied perceptively.

"The problem facing everyone with the solution for saving the world," I agreed. "Getting the world to cooperate."

She put her hand on my arm. "Do you want me along, tonight?" she asked softly.

I took her in my arms. "I would like nothing more," I replied. "But … no. There's too much power being thrown around, and if you were seen as being inconveniently in the way … "

She didn't like it, but she nodded. "I see your point. But you will tell me about it, after?"

"As much as I consider safe to tell you," I agreed.

She kissed me lightly on the lips. "Poor Michael. The weight of the world on your shoulders."

"After tonight, not so much," I reminded her. "Hopefully."

"Come along," she told me, taking me by the hand. "We can walk and talk."

We strolled to the bus stop, not quite hand in hand, chatting about inconsequential subjects. Her bus came; she boarded it. I waited a little longer, and got on the bus that ran past my flat, and on to Winslow.

After all, saving the world or no, I still had a job to do.

=//=//=​

Kayden noted the missed calls on her mobile. She had set it to silent, and had decided that it was better if she didn't answer any calls on it. But she had purchased a burner phone, and now she turned it on and dialled Max's number. At the same time, she clicked on the motel TV, volume set to low.

Max answered at once. "Kayden! Are you all right?"

She was startled by the apparent concern in his voice. "Yes, Max. I'm fine. Why?"

"Have you seen what's on the news?"

"I'm looking at it now. They've outed everyone?"

"It looks like it. Where are you? You should come in; I can protect you."

She let a tart tone creep into her voice. "I can protect myself, and Aster and Theo too. I'm out of town, Max. Well away from this."

"What? Why are you out of town?"

"Because I got a warning that this might happen."

There was a long pause. When Max spoke next, his voice was flat and hard. "Who was it, Kayden? Who warned you? What did they say?"

"He called himself Security. Warned me that a villain was collecting the information and intended to out us all. Told me that he was taking the villain down, but there might be a failsafe, warned me to take Aster and get out of town. So I did."

There was anger in his tone now. "And you didn't think to warn me?"

She steeled herself. "For one thing, Max, you would have argued and asked questions that I didn't have answers for. And for another, you would have insisted that I come in with you, for Aster's protection. And that's one thing I will never do. So no, I didn't warn you. After all, you can take care of yourself, can't you?"

"Okay, fine. So this Security person. Anything else you can tell me?"

"Just that he seemed to know a great deal about me, and about you, and about Empire Eighty-Eight. And he warned me to stay away from you. So he obviously knows what he's talking about."

He didn't seem to notice the jibe. "Security. Right. Thanks. I'll be in touch."

"There's no need," she told him, but he had already hung up.

Aster had woken, so she sighed and went to feed her and check if she needed changing.

Even in the face of big problems, she still had little problems to deal with.

​

End of Chapter Twenty-Four

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Twenty-Five: Points of View



Director Emily Piggot, PRT

Emily's desk phone rang; without taking her eyes from the images and text scrolling across the screen, she picked it up.

"Piggot."

"Director, I have a call for you."

"Who is it from?"

"She refuses to say."

"Then why are you bothering me with this?"

"She says it's about Security."

She didn't hesitate. "Put her through, but put a trace on the line."

Moments later, she heard the dead air of a new line. "Director Piggot here. Who am I speaking to?"

The voice was soft, almost inaudible. "I – my name is Kayden Anders, Director. I need to get a message through to Security."

That name sounded familiar. Piggot scrolled back through the infodump that had been in her inbox that morning.

Her voice was sharp when she answered. "Kayden Anders, as in Purity? Second in command of the Empire Eighty-Eight?"

"Yes," replied Purity, if indeed that was her. "But not part of Empire Eighty-Eight. Not any more."

Director Piggot's voice was icy. "You can say that all you like. But actions speak louder than words. Why are you calling, and what do you know about Security?"

"I – he called me yesterday, to warn me about the outing of Empire Eighty-Eight, and to suggest that I get out of town."

The Director was momentarily dumbfounded, then she nodded slowly. Yes, he might just do that. He has odd ideas about villains.

"So get to the point. Why do you want to contact him now?"

"Because Kaiser – Max – called me a little earlier, and I told him how I knew about it. About Security."

The Director suppressed a groan. Oh shit. Now Kaiser is gunning for Security. That's all I need.

"Let's backtrack a moment. Why exactly did Security tell you about the outing?"

"He said he didn't want my child being taken away from me."

Piggot scrolled through the data on Kayden Anders, aka Purity.

There was an infant child, all right. Aster Klara Anders. There was even a photo; she looked adorable.

She paused for a moment, wondering exactly what someone of Purity's power level would be willing to do in order to retrieve her child, should the baby be taken away from her.

Quite a lot, I would imagine.

I wonder if Mr Allen just helped us dodge a bullet, there.

That's not my problem. He revealed details of a PRT operation to villains.

Or did he? The operation didn't even exist, when he told Purity that something was going to happen.

But he proposed it to us, knowing that Purity knew about it.

She sighed. I'm going to need to have a long, serious talk with that man. Very soon. We need to discuss concepts such as 'operational security' and 'risking the lives of good men'.

In the meantime …

"Ms Anders? Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here, Director. Will you tell him?"

"How much does Kaiser know about Security?"

"Just that he exists. But he has many contacts in Brockton Bay. He can probably find out more, if he really tries. And if he decides that Security is the one who actually outed him ..."

"I get it. I will tell him. Your assistance is acknowledged, but understand this. If you return to Brockton Bay, a warrant will be issued for your arrest."

"But I haven't had anything to do with Max, or Empire Eighty-Eight, for more than a year!"

Piggot's voice was implacable. "That doesn't change the fact that you committed crimes, and aided and abetted in others, while you were with them. You are a criminal, Ms Anders, and if you show your face in Brockton Bay, you will be treated as one."

There was no answer; just a beep and then a dial tone. She hit a couple of buttons on her intercom.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Did you manage to put a trace on that call?"

"We traced it as far as Boston, ma'am. But we think the caller used a burner phone."

"Hm. Thank you." She hung up the phone.

Allen did a villain a favour, and now his life is on the line. Why does this not surprise me?

=///=​

Amelia Claire Lavere (Panacea)

Amy yawned and stretched, and blinked her way to wakefulness. She could hear a shower running.

"Oh, sorry," she heard a voice say quietly. "Did I wake you? I didn't mean to."

She was momentarily confused. That's not Vicky.

As more of her brain came online, she began to register her surroundings. This isn't my bedroom. What's going on here?

And then she remembered the events of the day before; the bank, the security guard, the mission to take down Coil. Associating with the very villains who had attempted to rob the bank, as well as the hero who had foiled them. Weaver, also known as Taylor Hebert.

She rolled over, to see Taylor – tall, skinny, glasses, long curly hair – pulling on a running shoe.

"Good morning," she murmured. "What are you doing?"

"Going running," Taylor replied with a grin, holding up the second shoe. "I do it every morning. Want to come with?"

Amy propped herself up on one elbow. "Running?" she repeated. "Like, not just a brisk walk?"

Taylor shrugged. "We can do a brisk walk today, if you want. Just so long as we work up a sweat."

Amy had never made a practice of running before. If she needed to get anywhere in a hurry, Vicky was there to give her a lift. I guess, so long as I'm doing new things anyway …

Before she could change her mind – the bed was so soft and warm and comfortable – she pulled back the covers and got up. "Sure, I guess," she agreed, cracking a yawn in the middle of the last word. "Where's my suitcase?"

It didn't take her long to select clothes suitable for running; she had a set of sweats that she had worn to the gym a few times, before she fell out of the habit. A pair of soft-soled shoes had been tucked in as an afterthought; she pulled these on and knotted the laces.

Taylor let them out the back door, closing it carefully behind them. As she did so, the sound of the shower ceased.

"Dad'll be cooking breakfast now," she told Amy. "It should be about ready by the time we get back."

Wow, Mark never cooks breakfast. But Amy knew that was due to her foster father's chronic depression. And Carol was generally in a hurry to get to work, so whatever got cooked in the morning was usually up to Vicky and Amy.

She found she was looking forward to it. "That should be nice."

"It is." Taylor opened the side gate so they could get out. "Okay, let's see how you do. You set the pace; I'll stay with you."

The sun wasn't really even up yet, and the chilly air stung her throat. But Amy found that she was enjoying it, enjoying the early-morning birdsong, the stretch and pull of her muscles, the overall experience of being outside this early in the day.

She moved at a half-jog, half-walk, with Taylor pacing easily beside her. Soon she found herself puffing heavily, but kept at it; subconsciously, she altered bacteria in her throat to produce oxygen, making it easier for her to get what she needed.

"It's … not … fair … " she complained, when they stopped for a breather.

"What's not fair?" asked Taylor, looking mildly concerned.

"Your … legs … longer … than … mine."

Taylor chuckled. "That, and I've been doing this since February."

Amy shot her a dirty look.

Taylor shrugged. "I've gotten used to it."

"But you're a Master," Amy pointed out. "Why do you need to be so fit?"

Taylor patted her belly, firm and flat under the sweats. "So I didn't look like an upright frog in my costume."

Amy tried to laugh, doubled over and coughed with her hands on her knees. Taylor patted her on the back. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Amy assured her, standing up straight, and taking deep breaths. "I guess even Masters should be able to run away if they have to."

"And I've got spider silk armour for when I can't," Taylor agreed. She nodded to Amy. "You should really have some sort of body armour, given that you're a healer who has to be right there next to the person you're healing."

"Yeah, but I can't afford it," Amy pointed out practically.

Taylor looked her up and down. "Give me a little time, and I could probably work something up for you."

Amy stared at her. "You'd do that for me?"

Taylor shrugged. "Sure. I'd guess Vicky wouldn't need any, but you sure do."

"Wow, okay. That sounds cool."

"It'll take a while," Taylor warned her, "and I'll need all your measurements. And we'll have to do fittings."

"I don't mind," Amy grinned. "I'm not going out in costume for the next month anyway." She paused. "What spiders do you use for the costume, anyway?"

Taylor grinned back. "Black widows. They have the second strongest webbing in the world." She bent over, stretching her hamstrings.

Amy was a little startled that Taylor so casually alluded to working with such dangerous creatures. But then, she's got the least to worry about, from them. "What's got the strongest webbing?"

Taylor sighed. "Darwin's Bark spiders, but they're native to Madagascar. I've really got no way to get hold of them."

"I might be able to help you with that," Amy told her thoughtfully.

"Yeah? How? Can you import foreign spiders?"

"No, but what if I modified a black widow for stronger webbing?"

Taylor's eyes opened wide. "You can do that?"

It was Amy's turn to shrug carelessly. "Sure. All we need to do is test it to make sure it's actually stronger. Say, after school?"

Taylor nodded. "Sure. Sure. We can definitely do that." She nodded in the direction of home. "You seem to have caught your breath. Shall we get back?" A grin. "Breakfast awaits."

Amy was suddenly very hungry. "Give me a ten minute head start, and I'll race you there."

Their laughter trailed off down the street as they started back.

=///=​

Gladys Knott

Gladys was just getting off the bus at Winslow when a phone rang in her bag. It wasn't her phone; or rather, it wasn't her ringtone. Curious, she fished it out.

Oh dear. I must have put Michael's phone in my bag by accident.

Pressing the 'answer' button, she put it to her ear.

"Hello, this is Michael Allen's phone. Gladys Knott speaking."

There was a pause on the line; she could tell that someone was there, but they weren't speaking.

"Hello?"

"Mrs Knott, this is Director Piggot of the PRT. Is Mr Allen there?"

Gladys frowned. How does she know to call me 'Mrs' Knott?

But that wasn't important. "Ah, no. I'm very sorry. He, uh, misplaced his phone, and I found it." Just now, in my bag.

Director Piggot's voice was noncommittal. "I see. Can you get a message to him?"

"I will probably see him at school, yes."

"Good. Please tell him that Mr Anders is looking for him."

"I am to tell him that Mr Anders is looking for him."

"Exactly. Thank you, Mrs Knott."

"My pleasure, Director."

The call cut off, and Gladys stared at the phone.

Now I wonder what that was all about?

=///=​

Lisa Wilbourn (Tattletale)

The guest quarters were comfortable, if not luxurious. Brian and Alec shared one room, while Lisa and Rachel shared the other. Breakfast was actually quite good, considering that they were effectively prisoners. Brian was finishing his portion when Lisa, across the table, suddenly slapped herself on the forehead.

"Christ!" she exclaimed. "He was right again!"

"Who, Security?" he asked.

She nodded in irritation. "Day before yesterday, he made a prediction when I was chatting to him online. Told me that I'd be feeling much better about things in twenty-four hours' time."

Brian glanced around as Alec wandered out from the bedroom, then back at Lisa. "And were you?"

She nodded. "This was twenty-four hours before we took down Coil."

"Hah!" She could tell that Brian was amused at her irritation; it only made her more so. "Sorry, but you have to admit, that's sort of badass, to make that sort of prediction a full day in advance."

"This is the guy," she reminded him, "whose face you wanted to beat in for getting us all captured."

"Yeah, true," he agreed. "Still, they've been treating us with kid gloves. I wonder why."

She rolled her eyes. "We helped take down a major villain and threat to Brockton Bay. They're trying to figure what to do with us next."

Alec flopped on to the couch and grabbed the remote. He turned the big-screen TV on, watching indolently. But then he sat up.

"Holy shit, guys," he called out, his voice tense. "You should see this."

That was the most excitement either of them had heard from Alec in all the time they had known him. They turned to look at the TV. When they saw what was scrolling down the screen, they turned to stare at each other.

"Holy -" began Brian.

"- shit," finished Lisa.

"Kaiser has to be pissed," added Alec unnecessarily.

"Kinda glad that we aren't in the firing line for this, all of a sudden," observed Brian.

"Wonder who did do it," commented Alec idly.

Lisa's eyes opened wide as several connections made themselves known at once. "Coil. Oh shit." She jumped up and ran into the room she was sharing with Rachel.

The auburn-haired girl looked around with irritation, a brush in her hand, as Brutus jumped to his feet in surprise. "What the fuck?"

Lisa didn't bother with niceties. "Were you keeping your dogs where I told the PRT you had them, or somewhere else?"

Rachel glared at her. "What's it to you?"

"Was I right, or wasn't I?" pressed Lisa. "This is serious. They could be in danger."

"I never moved them," Rachel told her. "Why? What's going on?"

"Empire Eighty-Eight's just been outed. Unmasked. Everyone in it." Lisa was already on her way out of the room.

"What? How did that happen?" Rachel got up and followed her. Brutus trotted behind Rachel.

"Fucking Coil." Lisa went to the intercom and pressed the button. "Hey, out there. Need to talk to someone in charge."

"Couldn't happen to a nicer asshole, you ask me," commented Alec.

"Yeah, but -" began Lisa, only to be interrupted by the intercom.

"What's your problem?"

Lisa hit the button again. "I said someone in charge, not a corporal. I need an officer, or Piggot if she's available."

In the silence that followed, she turned back to Alec. "The problem is that they'll be lashing out at everyone around them. Everyone who's ever clashed with them is a suspect. If we -"

"Lieutenant Drummond here. What's your problem?"

Lisa turned back to the intercom. "Nice try, Sergeant, but I suppose you'll have to do. Get on to the real Drummond and let him know that there's a couple of your men in imminent danger right now."

"What? Who? How do you even know this?"

Lisa sighed. "It's what I do, Sergeant. The men in question are the ones that were sent to care for the dogs belonging to Hellhound, of the Undersiders. They're located right next to Empire Eighty-Eight territory. E88's just been unmasked, all of them. They'll be lashing out at everyone around them. I repeat, your men are in danger."

There was a pause.

"Thanks for that information, Tattletale, but those men would have already been pulled back."

Rachel lunged forward and jammed her finger on the button. "What about my dogs, asshole? What about my dogs?"

"Sorry, kid, but they're on their own."

The intercom clicked off. Rachel turned to the others; her eyes seemed to be glowing with an inner light. Beside her, Brutus caught her mood, and growled softly.

"Like fuck they are."

=///=​

Danny Hebert

"This is really good, Mr Hebert!"

Danny grinned as Amy spoke with her mouth half-full of omelette.

"Well, eat up," he advised her. "Whatever you and Taylor don't finish, put in the fridge for later.". He raised a finger. "And call me Danny. Calling me 'Mr Hebert' makes me feel old."

"Are you sure it's okay?"

"Sure I'm sure," he told her. "You're a guest in my home. It's all good."

She ate some more omelette. "Thanks again for letting me stay here," she told him after she had swallowed the forkful.

"It's really not a problem," he assured her. "Besides, you needed a place to stay, and Mike Allen's done a lot for Taylor. So we're glad to have you."

Draping his coat over his shoulder, he headed for the door. "See you this afternoon, Amy."

"See you later, Danny," he heard her say, just before he shut the door.

Heading around to the side of the house, he unlocked the car and got in. Starting it up, he backed down the driveway to the street.

Nice kid, he thought as he drove off down the road. Taylor likes her, too. I think we'll get along just fine.

A thought made him smile. A week ago I didn't have any superheroes living with me. Now I've got two. What's it going to be like next week? A whole team?

=///=​

Rachel Lindt (Bitch)

Rachel whistled sharply, and Brutus rammed his head into the wall of the guest quarters. It buckled and gave way, even as the hastily-installed nozzles spat containment foam, only to be thwarted by bedsheets held up by the other three.

Shouts of alarm by the PRT soldiers manning the guard post outside the door indicated just how badly they had been taken by surprise. Fuckers don't know how strong my dogs get, and how fast I can make them grow, when I have to.

Lisa had told her to take Brutus into the bathroom, as if to give the dog a bath, and turn the shower on cold. Starting the transformation in there, Brutus was quite large before he wouldn't fit under the shower any more. By that time, his outer layers (so Lisa claimed) would be composed of dead flesh, much harder to spot with heat sensors.

She felt more than a little drained from that last growth spurt, but it had done the job. He bashed the wall again, enlarging the hole, and then Rachel swung astride his back, ducking low so she didn't hit her head on the ceiling.

The room filled with blackness, but she knew where the windows were. She urged Brutus that way, emerging from the cloud just before they hit it. A nudge of the knee and a whistle, and Brutus turned, kicking out with powerful hind legs. The window shattered outward, and she urged her mount back, out over the yawning chasm.

Just before Brutus started the descent, iron-hard claws wrenching holes in the outside window glass, she shouted through the open window.

"Get the other dogs! You promised!"

She would have given anything to go with them, to extract Judas and Angelina from wherever the PRT were holding them, but she had her other dogs to save.

Only Grue would have heard her words through his muffling fog, but he was enough. She trusted him, as much as she trusted anyone.

A word and a nudge, and Brutus turned and galloped down the frontage of the building, claws digging in and swinging them around to a stop, every few floors. When she judged them low enough, she turned him, gave a command, and he leaped across the gap between the PRT building and the next one over.

Through all of this, she clung on to his back, one thought uppermost in her mind.

I'm going to save my dogs.

=///=​

Michael Allen (Security)

The bus pulled up at Winslow, and Mike climbed off of it. He hefted the backpack holding his equipment belt over his shoulder, and strolled toward the school. It had been a very eventful week; he was just glad it was Friday. Today would mark the end of the week's efforts in more than one way; tonight, he would pass on what knowledge he had regarding Scion and how to save the world.

Personally, he didn't have a hope in hell of implementing one-tenth of that knowledge in any reasonable fashion. He just had to hope that the ones that did, were in a mood to listen.

There was also the very real chance that he would be arrested afterward, for any one of several bendings or breakings of the law.

Perhaps he could have done it differently, but he hadn't seen a choice, at the time. And if it all worked out, if the world was indeed saved, would it be worth it?

I'll just have to wait and see.

Mulling over that, he climbed the steps and entered the school proper. Down the hallways he walked, the tread of his heavy work boots echoing from the bare walls.

"Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything."

He chuckled as he recalled the Raymond Chandler quote. For a moment there, he had been imagining the halls of Winslow as the 'mean streets'. And me as the hero. Hah.

People like me don't get to be the heroes. We get to enable the heroes. Ask Hollywood.

He was still musing over the unfairness of the almost universal portrayal of the action hero as a straight, white, relatively young, fit male, when he entered the staff break room.

"Michael!" His head came up as he heard Gladys' voice.

"Morning, Gladys," he greeted her politely, mindful of those teachers already in the room.

"Can I have a word? I need to show you what those little vandals have been doing."

He nodded. "Sure. I'll just put my lunch pack in the fridge."

That task done, he followed her out of the staff room. She looked down at his belt. "Oh, I thought so."

He looked down at his belt. "Thought what?"

She reached down and plucked the phone from the belt pouch, then showed him an identical phone in her hand. "Guess what you picked up from my place?"

"Oh gawd." He rolled his eyes in self-recrimination. "Your phone. Shit, I'm sorry." Thumbing the phone to life, he checked the screen. "Well, at least I haven't missed any calls. Thanks for bringing it in."

She checked her own phone, which was also clear of pending calls. "Ah, you did get a call. From a certain Director Piggot."

Mike's eyebrows went up, and he turned to stroll away down the corridor, away from a group of teachers who had emerged from the staff room. Gladys strolled with him. "And what did the winsome Emily Piggot want?"

Gladys frowned. "She wanted me to pass on a message; she was quite insistent about it. She said to tell you that a Mr Anders is looking for you."

For a moment, Mike was puzzled. I don't know any -

Oh shit. Yes, I do.

He turned to her. "That's exactly what she said. A Mr Anders is looking for me? Nothing more?"

She shook her head doubtfully. "Nothing that I recall."

He nodded slowly. "Right. Okay." A deep breath. "I'm going to have to call off our date tomorrow, then."

She stared at him. "Michael Allen! Don't you dare!"

"I – I don't have a choice," he confessed. "I think I screwed up, and now I've got a supervillain gunning for me."

She pulled him into her classroom, and closed the door firmly. "You had better tell me more than that, Mr Allen, or you'll have more than a supervillain after your blood."

He took another deep breath. "Okay. Last night, we took down a pretty nasty villain. One of the things he was doing was gathering a dossier on Empire Eighty-Eight."

"A dossier?"

"Information on who each and every last one of them is. Real names, faces, the lot."

She nodded. "In other words, explosive information."

"More like thermonuclear. Disseminating information like that is akin to touching off a nuclear war. No holds are barred. It's why they have unwritten rules."

"So … you took him down. The information is safe, is it not?"

Mike grimaced. "Apparently not. If Kaiser – Max Anders – is after me, it's because I told his wife to get out of town, yesterday."

Gladys stared at him. "You did what?"

Mike shrugged. "You've heard of Purity?"

"Yes, of course. She's a powerful flying blaster."

"Her real name is Kayden, she's been separated from Max for a year or more, and she has an utterly adorable infant child called Aster. If I hadn't warned her, then Child Services may well have taken Aster away, or tried to. Kayden is … let's say, fanatically protective of her child."

"Oh. Oh, my."

Mike nodded. "Exactly. I warned her because I didn't want the bloodbath that occurred when they did take Aster away, in the other timeline. And it turns out that there was another dossier, probably on an offsite system. And it looks like it dumped it online last night. Max contacts Kayden, she tells him that she's out of town, drops my name -"

She put both hands to her mouth. "Oh, Michael!"

He shook his head. "Not my real name. Just 'Security'. So now he's looking for Security. Probably for answers to questions like 'you warned my wife but not me – why?'"

"Uh – why didn't you?"

His voice was flat. "Because Kaiser is a racist, manipulative neo-Nazi son of a bitch, and I won't give him the time of day if I can possibly help it."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Well, in the first place, I'm going to retire 'Security'. I think I'll stay as small-S 'security' for the time being."

"And in the second place?"

"Make zero waves. Drop off the radar. After tonight, I'm going to stay home all weekend and talk to as few people as possible."

She frowned. "Could you not seek protective custody?"

He chuckled wryly. "I'm a little on the nose with the PRT right now. A little matter of a few broken laws, and not telling them everything until quite a bit after the fact."

"But still. Kaiser."

He nodded reluctantly. "You have a point. Maybe I will."

"Good," she told him. "Because I -"

At that moment, his phone rang. He let it ring, waiting for Gladys to finish; she gestured for him to get it.

Pulling it out, he touched the green icon.

"Hello?"

"Ah, you have your phone back, then." He recognised Director Piggot's voice.

"I do indeed, thank you. And I got your message. Is this about that?"

"No, it is not. It is about the Undersiders."

He felt a chill run down his back. "What about them? What's happened?"

"They've escaped, that's what happened."

Mike shook his head. "No, no, that's not right. I had it sorted. You knew what each of them wanted from you. It was going to happen."

"Well, it's unhappened. They broke out – using the dog you so kindly allowed Ms Lindt to have."

"No, seriously, what happened? What went wrong? What changed?"

"I'm still investigating the situation, but it is clear that they have escaped from lawful custody. When we next see the Undersiders, they will be treated as criminals."

"Look, can you hold off on any arrest warrants till you find out what set them off?" pleaded Mike. "It had to be something."

"It's too late, Mr Allen," he heard Piggot's implacable voice. "You don't call the shots around here. That capability falls to me, and I say they are criminals. Which reminds me; there are other matters that the PRT would like to discuss with you."

All of a sudden, Mike had an epiphany. The lightbulb that flashed on over his head was almost blinding in its intensity.

"Ah. I get it. I see what you're doing here."

"You do?"

"Yes." Mike's voice was flat. "You want answers to questions, and you're going to hold anything and everything you can hostage until I give."

The silence that greeted his statement was as good as a signed confession.

"Am I right?"

"Not ... necessarily, but it would be good to get the answers to certain questions."

"In other words, yes. Right. Fine. I'll give you chapter and verse."

"When and where?"

"I'm holding a get-together at my place tonight, but I'll contact you afterward to sort something out."

"I will be awaiting your call."

She hung up; after a moment, he closed the call at his end.

Gladys was staring at him. "That did not sound good."

He shook his head. "That was the sound of a great many chickens coming home to roost. And some of them are pterodactyls."

"Oh, Michael." She took him in her arms; for a long moment, he held her, felt her arms holding him. Refuge from a crazy, unfair world.

But then he had to disengage from her. "I have to do my rounds," he told her. "And think. Mainly think."

She nodded, and pecked him quickly on the lips. "For luck," she murmured.

He smiled and held her hand for just a moment. "Thanks."

And then he pushed his way out through the door, and started on his rounds.

What the fuck do I do now?

=///=​

Brian Laborn (Grue)

"Lisa! Which way?"

Brian sent a fresh wave of darkness down the corridor that they had just come from. A PRT soldier was probing his way through the darkness, gun raised. Brian found it hard to believe that the man could not see him, but of course the darkness cloaked all sight.

"Alec!" he snapped, drawing the slim youth off to the side. The soldier emerged from the billows of darkness, and Alec acted; immediately, the soldier seemed to suffer a seizure, dancing and shaking before falling to the ground. Brian rolled him over, pulled zip-ties from the man's belt, and secured him with them.

"You know," observed Alec, "you could just pop 'em. They're trying to shoot us, after all." He had a bloody graze on one arm, relic of a close encounter a few minutes before.

"No," Brian told him firmly. "No killing, not here."

"Got 'em," Lisa announced, almost at the same time. "Down this way."

Spreading darkness as widely as he could, Brian led the way, guided by Lisa. It was only a few minutes later that they found the room in which Rachel's two dogs were incarcerated. They looked up, wagging their tails, at the familiar scents.

"Come on Judas, come on Angelina," Brian coaxed them. "Heel."

They trotted out of the room readily enough, and sat at his heel.

"Right," muttered Alec. "All we have to do now is fight our way out of here."

"Easiest thing in the world," grinned Lisa. Striding to a nearby wall, she grabbed the protruding toggle of a fire alarm, and yanked it.

The sirens were still blaring, some minutes later, as they made their way down to the ground floor in the midst of a crowd of civilian employees. Lisa had located closets holding spare clothing, and they moved along with everyone else. Sprinklers were going off in some areas, which made everyone equally bedraggled. Judas and Angelica moved at Brian's heels as if they were glued there.

The ground floor lobby posed another problem; armoured PRT troopers stood surveying the crowd as they surged through the doors and outside. They held containment foam sprayers at the ready.

"Cute," Lisa observed. "Hit 'em with your darkness, and they just hose down that area."

Brian nodded. "Alec?"

Down below, one of the PRT troopers turned sideways and let fly; the other troopers were mostly caught unawares; some fired back. Containment foam flew wildly. The civilians cried out, threatening panic.

Brian released his darkness, spreading it over the whole room. He held Alec's wrist; Lisa was behind Alec. Together, they wormed their way through the crowd; by virtue of his superior strength and height, Brian was able to keep moving forward.

At last, they were clear, in the midst of a spreading cloud of darkness. They hiked two blocks before they felt safe in ducking into an alley and removing their disguises. Lisa let her hair down from the bun, and discarded the glasses she had found on someone's desk; she immediately looked sixteen again.

"Okay," decided Brian. "Let's go meet up with Bitch."

=///=​

Taylor Anne Hebert (Weaver)

Taylor found Mike sitting on his folding chair, at the top of the steps. He seemed more pensive than normal; she sat on the step nearby and started on her lunch.

After a few moments, he looked down at her. "Hey. How's it going with Amy?"

She grinned up at him. "It's great. Did you know she's a biokinetic?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."

She gave him a dirty look. "You knew."

A nod. "Sure, but that's one of the reasons I had her placed with you."

She stared. "You wanted us to meet?"

"Yup. She fiddles living things. Bugs are living things."

Her stare intensified. "We were talking about that just last night!"

He took a drink from his juice popper. "Imagine that." A grin. "There's a word I'd like you to consider."

Her tone was wary. "What word?"

"'Synergy'."

She blinked rapidly behind her glasses. "When two things work together to get a result greater than the sum of the parts." A pause, while she thought rapidly. "Amy and me."

He nodded. "Yup. Have you already discussed this sort of thing?"

"Yeah. She wants to try to engineer a black widow with a stronger silk."

"As strong as the Darwin's bark spider, for instance?" Mike suggested innocently.

"How do you – right, of course you'd know that," Taylor realised. "But yeah. We're gonna work on it after school."

"Cool. But you know, there's other things you and she can work on, once you get that done."

She was intrigued. "Such as?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Let me tell you a story of something that happened, once upon a time, and didn't happen, all at the same time. Or to put it another way, it didn't happen yesterday, in the Brockton Bay Central Bank."

With those words, he had her complete and total attention. "Is this about … me and the Undersiders?"

He nodded. "Now, you had tried to be a hero. You met Lung, and the Undersiders saved you from him. But afterward, you met Armsmaster, and he was a bit of a dick. So when the Undersiders offered you a place, you took it. You were still trying to be a hero, so you decided to go undercover, to turn the Undersiders in. All you needed was the name of their boss."

"Coil," Taylor supplied, to show she was paying attention.

"Give the lady a cigar. But you didn't know that then. However, when you contacted Armsmaster to try to sort out a deal so that if things went pear-shaped during the bank robbery, you wouldn't be arrested. He was kind of pissed at you, because he hadn't paid attention when you told him that Lung had lots of venom in him -"

"Which is why you had me stress it to the PRT guys!" Taylor realised.

"Exactly and precisely," he agreed. "Lung in that timeline nearly died. He did lose something very important to him. It grew back, but he was very, very pissed at you."

Taylor's eyes opened wide. "Ew," she muttered. "Ew ew ew."

Mike grinned momentarily. "Yeah," he agreed. "So anyway, Armsmaster shut you down hard. So when you went into the bank, you were on your own. So you decided to do your best on your own. One of the first things that you did when you went in was place a black widow, or two, or three, on everyone in there."

She was shocked. "I'd never -"

"Oh, you never intended to harm anyone, and you didn't," he assured her. "It was just to make sure that no-one tried to be a hero, and get themselves or others hurt."

She nodded judiciously. "I can see that. Sort of. In a twisted way, that makes sense."

He chuckled. "You were feeling so damn guilty, right then."

She stared at him. "How do you – never mind. What happened then?"

"Well, remember who else was in that bank?"

Taylor nodded. "Panacea."

"Exactly. She had a go at clocking you with a fire extinguisher. You might say, she tried to put your lights out with it."

Taylor groaned. "That was bad."

A grin from Mike. "Thanks."

"Wait a minute." Taylor was thinking hard. "I can locate my bugs. How did she get so close to me?"

Mike held his finger in the air. "Ah. Here we discover the nub of the story. She had located the black widows, and she had … manipulated them. Interfered with the feedback you get from them. Basically, she fiddled with the part of their brain that receives the signal you send to them. You were getting a headache, a horrible feedback loop, that screwed with your ability to locate them. Everyone else, you see, was heading upstairs and out of harm's way, while she took you on with the fire extinguisher."

"Wow," breathed Taylor. "That's all kinds of heroic."

Mike nodded. "She did her best. Unfortunately for her, Tattletale interfered, pointed out the spiders on her, and you killed them. It got messy. Panacea and Glory Girl got hurt, mentally and physically. After that, there was no way you two would ever develop a close friendship, or anything resembling trust."

Taylor grimaced. "Ouch." She paused. "But this time round … "

Mike nodded. "Exactly. She's going to need a friend, and a moral compass, someone to talk things over with. I can't think of a better choice."

Taylor felt her cheeks heating up. "Okay, wow. I'm going to be blushing for the rest of the day."

Mike spread his hands. "It's true. Now, there's a sort-of kind-of epilogue for this story."

"I'm all ears."

"Some little time later, after Leviathan, the Slaughterhouse Nine and I think Echidna had their turns on Brockton Bay -"

Taylor interrupted. "Wait – Echidna?"

Mike nodded. "You met her. A nice girl called Noelle Meinhardt."

"Oh yeah, I remember." Taylor paused. "What … did she do, in the other timeline?"

Mike's voice was bleak. "Killed lots of people. Including some capes. Myrddin, among others. Completed the collapse of Coil's base. And exposed something that caused a mega-crapton of problems, later on."

"Exposed what?"

Mike shook his head. "Not here. Not now. Perhaps later."

"That bad, huh?"

"Let's put it this way; I'm not even going to tell you the name."

"Oh, wow. So; Slaughterhouse Nine, Leviathan and this Echidna have had their turn, you were saying?"

"Yeah," confirmed Mike. "Actually, I think it was while you were working on booting the Nine out of Brockton Bay. She gave you some bugs. At the time, she didn't trust you as far as she could throw you. Given that you laid an extendible baton upside her head in the bank, once upon a time."

"I don't have an extendible baton," Taylor observed. "Where can I get one?"

"I can get you one," Mike offered.

"Really?"

Mike nodded. "Anyway, we're getting off track. These bugs she gave you, they extended the range of your power. Basically, they acted as a relay. But she made them without digestive systems, so they'd die in a few days." He gave her a grin. "But this time round … "

Taylor's head was spinning with the possibilities. "Oh god yes."

"Just be sure they won't breed into plague proportions," he warned her. "My suggestion is to have her make them with the ability to mate, but no instinct to do so. You have to actually control them and make them mate. That way, if a bunch leave your range, they just live but don't breed."

Taylor nodded. "Yes, that makes sense. A lot of sense."

Mike grinned. "Good. Just remember; a power like Amy's, coupled with a power like yours, could easily lead to some horribly overpowered situations. This could draw the attention of the PRT. Very unfriendly attention. So keep a lid on it. Keep everything under strict control. Got it?"

Taylor nodded earnestly. "Got it. And thanks. Really, thanks."

He stood up and stretched. "Excellent. I've been meaning to have that particular chat with you for a while. Good that we finally got it sorted."

He held out his fist; she bumped it. The gesture brought out a familiar glow of pride, of happiness, within her.

"Mike ..." she ventured.

He turned, halfway through the process of gathering up his lunch items. "Yeah?"

"Do you really … trust … me? As a superhero, that is? To do the right thing?"

His gaze upon her was proud and paternal. "Taylor," he told her firmly, "there is no-one I trust more."

As she entered the front doors of the school once more, Taylor felt that her feet were six inches off the ground.

She had never been prouder to be a superhero.



End of Chapter Twenty-Five

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Gathering Storm


Earlier:

Sergeant Joelle Hamlin, PRT​

"Sergeant, the Empire Eighty-Eight has been outed. They are likely to react unpredictably. You're right on the edge of their territory. You and your men are badly exposed there. Your orders are to pull back to base, ASAP."

"Sir, I was ordered to stay here and protect these dogs."

"Sergeant, who gave you those orders?"

"Sir, Lieutenant Grant, sir."

"Sergeant, this is Captain Mitchell speaking. I am countermanding those orders. Pull back to base, immediately."

"Sir, can we at least get a truck here, to get these dogs back to base?"

"No, you can not, sergeant. Immediately means 'not waiting for a truck to get to you'. What's happening with the Empire Eighty-Eight is more important than any dogs are likely to be. You have your orders, sergeant. Carry them out."

"Message received and understood. Hamlin, out."

Sergeant Hamlin keyed off the radio and looked around at the crude shelter which housed the dogs. Several nudged up to her, and she stroked their ears reflexively. Trooper Kitwell was helping Corporal Fredericks feed them; there was a lot of chow stored here, but it wasn't going to last too much longer.

She walked over to them. "Boys, we have a situation. Last night, someone outed the Empire. They're likely to be pissed. We've just gotten orders to pull back to base."

Kitwell looked at the dogs crowding around them. "They sending a truck for these guys?"

Hamlin shook her head. "I asked. No go."

"So they're just ordering us to abandon them?" asked Fredericks. "That sucks."

Kitwell looked over at the light four-wheel-drive in which they had arrived. "How many could we take, if we crowded them in?"

"Not enough," Hamlin stated definitively. "My dad raised dogs; I know."

"Sarge," offered Fredericks nervously, "we don't leave soon, we're gonna be in violation of orders."

"More than you know," Hamlin told him. "We were told to pull back ASAP." She raised an eyebrow. "Anxious to get moving?"

Fredericks shook his head. "Not saying that, sarge. Just … if we're gonna do something, then maybe we should do it soon? I'd rather live long enough to get in trouble for this."

Hamlin frowned. "Okay, I'm going to come out and say this. I'm about to violate orders. Neither of you has to do this. You can get back to base; I'll take the heat."

Fredericks shook his head. "Sorry, sergeant. But I figure to stay. Kitwell, you can go if you want."

Kitwell shook his head. "I'd probably get in trouble anyway." He paused. "This is just an idea," he suggested, "but if we put these guys somewhere out of the way, then the Empire boys could come straight through, and no-one gets hurt."

"Not enough of them know 'come' and 'heel'," Hamlin pointed out. "They likely wouldn't follow us. Even if we opened the gate and let them out, they'd probably come straight back here."

"They've mostly got collars," Fredericks pointed out. "We got enough rope to make leashes for them all?"

"Check the four-by," ordered Hamlin. "Kitwell, look around the area, see if you can't scare up some rope as well."

There was indeed some rope in the vehicle, and some more, including already-constructed leashes of varying lengths, on site. With the assistance of their utility knives, they cut the rope into manageable lengths, and began tying them to the collars of those dogs that had them.

They had almost finished when Kitwell glanced up; almost at the same time, some of the dogs started barking.

Hamlin looked up as well, and cursed.

The Empire Eighty-Eight had arrived.

=//=//=​

Now:

Bitch (Rachel Lindt)​

She clung to Brutus' back, even as she urged him to his best speed. He galloped on gamely, claws gouging chunks from the concrete of the pavement. An intersection loomed; she gave him the signal to jump, and he leaped, kicking off from a car halfway across. The fact that the car roof was half caved in, and half torn off at the same time, did not even register to her, and nor would it have bothered her if it had. It was not her concern.

Her entire world consisted, right now, of the dogs at her makeshift shelter, which she had been assured would be cared for, and Brutus. She knew she was leaving Judas and Angelina behind at the PRT building, but she also trusted Grue to get them out. She didn't like Regent very much, and she didn't trust Tattletale – the one never showed emotions, and the other talked too much – but Grue was someone she could trust to do what he said he would do.

Police sirens sounded behind her; she pointed Brutus at the nearest building and urged him on with word and knee pressure. He leaped and climbed, scrambling on top of the building before the cops could get close. Rachel grinned savagely; she'd been doing this dance for years. Brutus travelled just as fast across the rooftops as he did along the ground, and there were more options up here.

Soon she was out of the city centre and heading for the Docklands; here, the roads were wider, and Brutus could really stretch out and run. With her power supplying him, he had boundless energy, easily enough for a simple run across the city. He was enjoying it; mouth open and tongue lolling as he bounded along. Those few cars that she encountered got out of the way, as well they should, given that she was looking down at them from atop Brutus' back.

She heard the dogs barking before she reached the shelter in the half-constructed building. She also heard men yelling, which made her angry. You didn't yell at dogs; you spoke to them. Yelling at them just agitated them. People were stupid about dogs; they seemed to expect dogs to act like people, which they weren't. People were people, and dogs were dogs. She didn't understand people that well, and her education was strictly limited to what she had learned on the street, but even she knew that.

Rachel understood dogs. She understood them better than most people understood other people, and a lot better than she understood people. And right now, she was hearing anger and get-out-of-my-territory and I-can-see-a-stranger.

It was like Lisa had said; Empire Eighty-Eight territory butted on to this land, and since they had been outed, the Empire thugs would be out and about, trying to make the point that they were still viable, that they still held land.

Unfortunately, the land they were looking to grab belonged to Rachel and her dogs.

Unfortunately for them, that is.

=//=//=​

There appeared to be a stand-off of sorts going on. Within the fence, Rachel could see three PRT soldiers, standing amid her dogs.

I thought that jerk said the soldiers had been pulled back.

Outside was a bunch of at least ten Empire Eighty-Eight thugs, all heavily armed, all adopting menacing postures. Guns were being waved, but not specifically pointed as yet. One man stepped forward and put his hand on the gate; the smaller of the three soldiers pointed a rifle. The gesture was silent but unequivocal. Open that gate and I kill you.

=//=//=

Corporal Gordon Fredericks, PRT​

Fredericks had to admire the way that the sergeant was keeping her cool. Even in the face of shouted threats from the Empire Eighty-Eight goons, she was unflustered, unmoving. However, he knew that it could not last; sooner or later, this was going to escalate into shooting, and body armour or no body armour, that was going to get very dangerous for all concerned, very quickly.

"Just step aside, get in your cute little car, and go!" shouted the self-appointed spokesman for the Empire thugs. "Leave the doggies to us!"

"Yeah," agreed another. "We're real good with dogs."

Hamlin shook her head. "Sorry, boys. We got given orders. For the duration, these are our dogs. This ground we're standing on? PRT ground. You want to walk around us, and keep walking."

Fredericks had his rifle unslung, watching the group outside the fence, trying to guess which one was going to push too hard, where the first trouble would come from.

If push came to shove, of course, he and the other two could mow down the Empire thugs with ease. But there were likely to be more, in close proximity. Massed assault-rifle fire would draw them like flies.

The shot, when it came, surprised and stunned him, not least because he was hit in the abdomen. He almost doubled over with the pain; it must have been an armour-piercing shot, because he felt warm blood tricking down his skin inside the armour. As if in slow motion, he went to his knees.

=//=//=

Trooper Edward Kitwell, PRT
​

Kitwell saw Fredericks fold, and he brought up his rifle, trying to determine who had fired. But then there was a tremendously loud growl, and something tore into the bunch of Empire goons. It was big, and it was fast, and there was an auburn-haired girl riding on its back. He recognised it from pictures he had seen of Hellhound's dogs; somewhere between a dog and a dinosaur, with bone spurs protruding here and there.

The dog-thing barrelled into the group of them, knocking them aside with the force of its charge. Two screamed as they were trampled underfoot; a third, the one with the gun, was caught up in the thing's jaws, and shaken horribly before being tossed aside like a rag doll.

The girl on its back – Hellhound? - gave a whistle, and the thing wheeled like a trained cavalry horse. Several of the surviving Empire thugs were trying to shoot at the girl now; Hamlin shot two, and Kitwell shot a third. The sergeant hadn't even had to give the order. At the same time, the dog-monster closed its massive jaws around another man. The others were knocked aside and down once more. After the third shake, the man was either unconscious or pretending really well to be so; he was tossed him aside as well.

Mere moments later, all the Empire Eighty-Eight thugs were dead, too badly injured to flee, or fled.

"Kitwell," ordered Hamlin. "Get the gate." She herself pulled out a first aid pack and knelt beside Fredericks. The man was still conscious, but he was breathing shallowly.

Kitwell opened the gate; the massive dog trod into the compound, its rider still glowering.

"Good dog," she told the monster creature, as she slid off of its back. "Good dog." She approached Hamlin. "He gonna live?"

"Not sure yet," Hamlin grunted, a syringe held sideways in her mouth as she worked to get Fredericks' body armour off. "Kitwell, give me a hand here."

Kitwell obliged, and Hamlin gave her subordinate the injection. She glanced up at the newcomer. "Ah, thanks for the save, uh, Hellhound, is it?"

"They call me Bitch," the girl told her shortly. "What are you still doing here?"

"We didn't want to leave the dogs," the sergeant told her. "We were just fixing up leashes. We were going to lead them to some place of safety." Swabbing the bloody mess from Fredericks's abdomen revealed a ragged wound, slowly pulsing blood. She accepted a gauze pad from Kitwell and began to tape it into place.

Bitch frowned. "Why were you gonna do that? They weren't your dogs."

"No," Hamlin told her, "but they're still dogs. And it was the Director who gave Grant the orders to put us here, so I figure it's more important than people understand."

Bitch was, from her expression, still working that one out, when the dogs started barking again. Hamlin was still busy with Fredericks, and Kitwell's hands were also full, but Bitch's cursing was eloquent and bitter.

"Fuck me. Can't those fuckers take a hint?"

The Empire Eighty-Eight was back.

=//=//=​

"Kaiser."

"Krieg."

"Talk to me, James."

"There's word from some of our boys, moving into Undersider territory."

"What word?"

"The Undersiders must not all be in custody. The dog girl – Bitch – is out and about. She's attacking our men."

"Are you near a TV?"

"No, why?"

"The news just broke. The Undersiders escaped from the PRT building just a little while ago."

"God damn it. Why couldn't the PRT suspend their revolving door policy just for once? Those kids are a real pain in the neck."

"Don't worry about the Undersiders. Keep turning over rocks. I want to know who outed us, and I want to know yesterday."

"I'm on it."

"I'm going to that meeting now. Hold my calls till I get back."

"Understood."

=//=//=

Grue (Brian Laborn)​

"That one there."

Brian did not argue, did not question her. He simply broke the side window, reached in and opened the door. When he unlocked the far side door, Lisa slid in, reached up, and pulled the keys from atop the sunshade. Her expression as she handed them to him was insufferably smug.

He didn't even bother commenting as he put the keys in the ignition and started the car. Either one of them could have hot-wired it without much trouble, but using the key was easier.

Regent climbed into the back seat, and the dogs leaped after him. Grue let the clutch out as he gunned the engine. Rubber squealed against asphalt, and they were on their way.

The ride across town was hair-raising, especially as Lisa kept suggesting shortcuts; these were not necessarily what Brian would have called legal, or even safe. In the back, Regent hung on for dear life.

=//=//=​

Gunshots began to be audible as they got close; rounding the corner, they saw what almost amounted to a warzone, or at least an ongoing firefight.

"Well, fuck," Lisa pronounced in tones of amazement. "They didn't pull them out after all. Even though they had orders to do just that." She frowned. "They did give them the orders. But they refused to abandon the dogs."

On the one side, what seemed like a couple of PRT troopers had taken cover behind walls, and were exchanging sporadic fire with what looked like twenty-plus Empire Eighty-Eight goons. More goons were spreading out, trying to outflank the defenders.

"Hang on!" yelled Grue. He began to produce his darkness as fast as he could, and gunned the engine. A few thugs heard, and turned toward him; he aimed the car straight for them. They yelled in surprise and fright, and dived out of the way, only to be enveloped in the cloud of darkness as it rolled over them.

The gunfire slackened off as the car roared on through the battlefield, laying down what amounted to a heavy smokescreen. He pulled a bootlegger turn, laying down another swathe of blackness, before pulling to a halt in front of the gate.

The PRT personnel – there were two, with a third apparently injured – stared at him blankly as he leaped out. "Come on!" he yelled, "Let's get the dogs out of here!"

"I'm not going!" snapped Bitch stubbornly.

"If you stay, they will overrun you, and kill your dogs," Lisa pointed out.

Bitch scowled at her.

"You know I'm right," Lisa told her.

"Yeah," growled Bitch. "But I don't have to like it."

One of the PRT soldiers raised a hand. "I have wounded," she protested. "He can't go in the four-by. I'm gonna need your back seat."

"Fine," Grue told her. "Just so we get this sorted, fast."

Between himself and the taller unwounded trooper, they managed to get they guy placed on the back seat. The rest of the seat space they packed with dogs.

Not all the dogs, however; Bitch had picked her best trained animals and was enlarging them. The occasional probing shot whipped out of Grue's darkness, but these were more of a nuisance than dangerous. The sergeant returned fire a couple of times, to keep them honest.

When they were ready to go, Bitch climbed on to Brutus' back, along with Lisa and Regent. Judas and Angelina, released from the car, were alongside Brutus, along with a few others. They charged through Grue's thinning darkness and hit the Empire forces as they were massing for another attack. Half a dozen monster dogs tore a hole in the Empire ranks that let the car and the four-wheel drive roar on through unmolested.

They stopped several blocks away, and Bitch whistled all the dogs from the car; Grue climbed out as well.

Kitwell got behind the wheel of the four-wheel drive, while Hamlin got into the car.

"Just so you know, it's stolen," Grue informed her solemnly.

"Understood," she replied with a nod. "Thanks for pulling our asses out of the fire."

"Thanks for sticking by Bitch's dogs," he responded.

"I doubt it was the Director who gave the order to abandon them," she answered his unasked question.

He shrugged. "Be that as it may, it's gonna be a while before we trust the PRT again."

"That's fair." She put the car in gear. "I gotta get Fredericks back to base. Stay safe."

He nodded. "You too." He watched the two vehicles as they drove away, then turned to the others.

"Right," he told them. "Let's get under cover while we still can."

=//=//=

Kaiser (Max Anders)​

Somer's Rock was quiet at this time of day. In point of fact, it was quiet at any time of day, but at the moment, it seemed to be positively deserted.

Max Anders climbed out of his limousine slowly and unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world. Menja got out on the other side, while Fenja and Stormtiger climbed out of the car behind. The drivers of both cars stayed with their vehicles, just in case.

When one is under siege, there is no harm in a show of force.

Around the corner, a monstrous vehicle was parked; it had to be the work of Squealer. He grimaced. Anders disliked dealing with Skidmark at the best of times; the Empire's professed beliefs aside, Kaiser found the man's personality far more abhorrent than the colour of his skin.

"No matter what is said, we do not start a fight," he reminded his subordinates. The girls, he knew, would not start one in any case, but Stormtiger might.

Menja nodded. "If one starts, we won't be the ones to do it."

That was good enough for Max. He stepped forward and pushed open the door.

Within, the light level was low enough to make him blink a few times to try to adjust his eyesight. He did not break stride; that would be seen as a sign of weakness.

As he stepped away from the glare, details resolved themselves. The ABB was here; with Lung in PRT custody, this consisted of Oni Lee and a woman in her early twenties wearing an elaborate gasmask-style headpiece, with opaque goggles. This, Anders knew, was Bakuda. She was a Tinker who specialised in bombs of all types; Lung had brought her into the ABB just a couple of weeks ago.

Skidmark was here, of course, along with the trashily-dressed Squealer and the hulking Trainwreck. Max fastidiously averted his eyes from Skidmark's chapped lips and ruined teeth; the man was the leader of a gang that dealt drugs, certainly, but did he have to ruin his own body with them as well?

Faultline was also present, along with Gregor the Snail and Newter. Max nodded to Faultline - she was, by all accounts, as professional as they came - and then looked to the last cape attending the meeting. Circus had come alone; he had heard she had worked for Coil, which made her presence odd. Since waking, he had caught up on the news of the day; finding out that Coil had been captured by the PRT had been somewhat of a shock. He hoped that more details would be forthcoming from this meeting.

One table was set aside, with Faultline, Skidmark, Circus and Bakuda sitting at it. He wondered that Oni Lee was not standing in for his absent boss, but decided that ABB internal politics were not his concern. Pulling out the last chair, he sat.

"I've called you here today to discuss a problem facing all of us," he began without preamble.

"Yeah," responded Bakuda. "Security." The 'gasmask' had some electronics in it that made her voice flat, devoid of emotion.

"Are we talkin' about the act of bein' secure, or the man called Security?" interjected Skidmark. "Just so we're clear."

Anders sighed. "Both, but in this specific case, the latter." He glanced around. "The Travellers don't seem to be here."

"They won't be," Circus told him. "They're gone, and they took everything they owned with them. Which is quite a feat."

Max frowned. "I hadn't heard that they'd left town."

"They didn't, not the normal way," Skidmark claimed. "It was that soddin' Security bloke. He did somethin' to 'em. Or Trickster, anyway."

"Before we lose track of what this meeting is about, let's take stock," Anders stated. "Security has got something to do with the fact that every single one of my people has been unmasked and outed. Even if he didn't do it, he undoubtedly knows who did."

Bakuda spoke into the silence that followed. "Word is, he was there when Lung was taken down."

"Wasn't that a new cape called Weaver?" asked Anders. He didn't disbelieve her, but it was all too common for new capes to be attributed feats and abilities through hearsay and rumour instead of fact.

"Oh yeah, she was there," Bakuda acknowledged. "But there was a page up on the PHO boards for someone called 'Security', linking that person to the Lung takedown and to Weaver, on Tuesday morning." She paused for effect. "Twenty minutes after it went up, it got taken down again. Vanished off the net, like it had never been there."

"Fuckin' bullshit," commented Skidmark. Anders was impressed; he'd never heard the Merchant leader go so long without swearing before. He didn't count 'sodding'; for Skidmark, that was probably more like punctuation. "Those boards are moderated tighter'n a goldfish's arsehole. No bastard could pull that off."

Bakuda was suddenly rolling a small, dully pulsing, ball between her fingers. "Doubt my word again, Shitstain, and we will see how many fingers you need to use your power."

Fenja shifted slightly in her seat; Anders shook his head fractionally.

"No fighting, and no threats," he snapped. The drug dealer and the bomb Tinker both subsided. "Now, Bakuda, can you verify this?"

"Not as such," she replied uncomfortably. "But my people saw it, and they don't lie. Not if they know what's good for them."

"All the same," Anders commented. "If this could be independently verified ..."

"I can verify it," Circus put in suddenly. All eyes turned to her.

"You saw this?" asked Max.

She shook her head, violently-dyed tresses waving wildly. "No, but Tuesday morning, the boss suddenly came out all excited -"

"Coil doesn't do excited," Faultline corrected her.

"- well, as excited as he ever got. Told me to get out and about, and see what I could dig up on a high-powered Thinker called Security. Stuff he'd done in other cities, aliases, associates, the whole ball of yarn."

"And what did you find out?" asked Anders.

Circus shrugged. "Nothing. Zip, zilch, nada. Which kinda made sense, given that he obviously had the chops to not only pull his page from the PHO boards, but also track down every computer that had that page in cache memory, and wipe it from there too."

There was silence while they digested this.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" Max pressed.

Circus nodded. "Yeah. This is the scary bit. Wednesday afternoon, Coil gets back in contact with me, tells me to drop it."

"To drop it," repeated Anders.

"Yeah. Forget I ever heard of the guy. Anything I'd found out, to drop it, to bury it, destroy it." She shrugged. "Not that I'd found anything out. But it was what I heard when I got back to base that was scary."

"Which was?"

"Spoke to a couple of the guys. Just curious, y'know? Turns out he got a line on the guy, had him picked up. Taken to an offsite location for questioning."

She paused to sip the drink that she had already purchased. "So they've got the guy tied to a chair, and they pull the bag off his head, and he laughs. In Coil's face. Then he tells Coil he's got an offer that Coil can't refuse. He makes the offer and no shit, Coil lets him go."

Anders asked the question that was undoubtedly on everyone's mind. "What was the offer?"

Circus shrugged. "No fuckin' idea. Coil sent everyone out of the room. But according to my guy, Coil had that safe-house torched. And the guy who did the grab in the first place?" She leaned forward, lowering her voice dramatically. "They never saw him again."

"Did you at least get a description?"

Circus shook her head. "Said it wasn't worth his life. And right then, what with how definite the boss had been about forgetting everything about the guy, I wasn't feeling all that curious at the time. The less I knew, the safer I was."

Anders rubbed his chin. "I see," he murmured. Steeling himself, he turned his gaze toward Skidmark. "You say that Security did away with the Travellers. How could you know that?"

=//=//=

Skidmark (Adam Mustain)​

Mustain sniffed wetly and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He wanted a hit of something, but this place wouldn't have anything worth his time.

"Well, see, after the PRT took Coil down last night, they questioned his mercs, then set 'em free. Told 'em to leave town an' never come back. One of 'em stopped by one of my dealers, lookin' for a pick-me-up. An' did he have a fuckin' story to tell."

He went on to tell the story; or at least he tried to. He wasn't thinking as clearly as he did when he'd just had a hit of the pure stuff, so it wasn't his fault if he tended to ramble a bit. But every time he got a little too far off the topic, or got over-descriptive, Kaiser hauled him back on track.

Bloody racist squarehead ...

Stripped of such over-descriptive verbiage, it was a relatively simple tale. The PRT had gotten into the base through a secret entrance. They had with them several capes, including Armsmaster, Panacea and Glory Girl of New Wave, a girl with bright yellow hair, who sang like an angel -

"Canary?" exclaimed Kaiser.

Skidmark didn't have the first idea of who he was talking about; he shrugged. "Buggered if I know. Is it important?"

"We'll see. Anything else?"

"He said the Undersiders were there too -"

"That's impossible," interrupted Circus. "They were captured when they tried to rob the Brockton Bay Central Bank, yesterday. They're in custody."

"Not right now, they're not," Kaiser put in. "They escaped, and engaged with my men this morning." He looked somewhat displeased; Skidmark wasn't surprised.

"They were working with the motherfucking PRT last night," he snapped. "Now, anyone else got a comment?"

No-one did. Kaiser waved a hand. "Pray recommence your narrative."

Weaver had been there, related Skidmark, and last but not least, a big guy in PRT body armour, with a shaved head and a grey beard. Like Panacea and the girl who might have been Canary – whoever the fuck she was - he had a PRT minder.

"Big, as in muscular?" asked Faultline.

Typical woman, wants to know if a guy's all hunky.

Skidmark shook his head. "Nah. Gut on him like a pregnant whale. Six foot, had to be three hundred pounds, is what the guy said." He grinned. "And get this - they were callin' him Security."

The man called Security, went on Skidmark, had walked around like he'd owned the place. He had gone into the the monster vault -

"The what, again?" asked Bakuda.

"A big vault in the base," explained Circus. "Coil kept a Case 53 in there. A girl from the waist up, monster from the waist down. Connected somehow to the Travellers. She's gone, too."

"For fuck's sake, let me finish," growled Skidmark.

Security had gone into the vault and come out with a girl who hadn't gone in with him. A normal girl, he stressed. Then he'd gone back into the vault with the girl and with Trickster, who was the only member of the Travellers on site at the time, and he was the only one who'd come out.

"Is there another exit to that vault?" asked Faultline practically.

Circus shook her head. "No."

Bakuda scratched her head. "Are any of the Travellers teleporters?"

"Not in a useful way," Kaiser told her. "Trickster could swap two items, but he needed line of sight." He turned to Circus. "You say you've been in there since?"

"Yeah. It's been pretty well cleaned out, and there's PRT still on site, but I had a quick snoop around. Vault wide open, no monster. I went to the place they were living in, across town. All their stuff was gone; it's like they were never there. And I heard a rumour that Coil never made it to the PRT building either. Like, vanished en route."

=//=//=

Faultline (Melanie Fitts)​

That's interesting. Faultline turned her head toward Kaiser. "Security, do you think?"

"Not enough data to even make a guess," he warned her. "So; Coil and the Travellers. The outing of the Empire. Lung. Am I missing something?"

"The Undersiders," Bakuda filled in. "They tried to rob the Central Bank, and got taken down by Weaver and the PRT. Weaver's a newbie cape. In fact, that was her first public appearance that I can find."

"Yeah, so?" asked Skidmark.

"When she took down Lung, Security was there. They were both in on the Coil bust. That makes two out of three. What if he was at the Central Bank as well?"

Faultline looked around at everyone else. "There were TV cameras there," she commented. "Lots of them."

Bakuda had her phone out. "Yeah, Weaver's PHO picture is actually from that footage. Now, let's see ..."

She hummed to herself, a little annoyingly, as she tapped away at the device. Faultline gritted her teeth and endured it. Be professional, she told herself. If I shoot her here at the table, we won't get anything done. But it was very tempting.

"Ah ha!" crowed the Tinker. "Fuckin' information age for the fuckin' win!" Her excitement was obvious, even through the electronic filtering.

She sat forward, her phone's screen playing what was obviously news footage. Weaver, tall and skinny with long curly hair, answering a few questions, then turning and making her way through the crowd. The camera followed her, until she was joined by someone. Someone a few inches taller than her; male, shaved head, grey beard, sunglasses. The suggestion of weight. Wearing a security guard uniform. Escorting her out of sight.

Moments later, a small car drove into sight, with the same man in the driver's seat; the passenger could not easily be made out. Nor could the licence plate; the TV station had blurred it out.

"Can you unscramble that?" asked Kaiser.

Faultline was fairly sure what the answer would be.

"Need a different type of Tinker for that," Bakuda told him. "But that's got to be him."

"So Security is … a security guard?" Faultline shook her head. "That sounds wrong, somehow. Too easy."

"So obvious that everyone overlooks it?" suggested Kaiser.

I have to admit, he has a point. Security by obscurity.

"Well, now we got a face to go with the name," Bakuda observed. "Did anyone get a good look at the epaulette?"

No-one had; fingers dancing expertly over the phone's screen, she ran the footage back. There was no clear view of it; too many people were moving between the camera and the subject. She paused on a frame and tried to enlarge it, but to no avail.

"Blue and brown, I thought," Faultline suggested.

"I concur," Kaiser agreed.

Bakuda's gas mask made a strange sound, that Faultline decided must have been a snort. "Now we gotta find out what security company has blue and brown epaulettes, and then who works for which one -" She stopped, as if something had occurred to her. "Or not."

Everyone looked at her. "Yes?" asked Kaiser.

"This Security, he's only been doing stuff in Brockton Bay for the last week or so, right?"

"At most," agreed Kaiser. "No-one had heard of him before Lung."

"Well, there's a new security guard at Winslow High. He's been giving our boys some trouble. Stopping fights and shit."

=//=//=

Bakuda​

"Ours, too," Kaiser agreed, as if that was news.

Well, duh, of course yours too.

"Yeah, well, we sent Joey Lee around to explain to him that ABB fights when and where they want to fight," Bakuda went on. "He kicked Joey's ass. And Joey's no pushover."

"Get to the point," Faultline told her. Bakuda briefly considered bouncing the little bomb across the table and into her lap, but thought better of it.

"This guy's got a shaved head and a beard, and he's a big guy," she concluded.

There was a moment of silence as everyone considered this.

"You got a name, at least?" asked Circus.

Bakuda frowned under her gas mask. "Yeah, but not here. I don't remember what it was."

Kaiser had his phone out; he seemed to be scrolling through pages, as if looking for something.

"My day planner," he explained briefly. "I remember putting something in here about that." He paused. "Ah, yes. Michael Allen," he read out loud. "Wolfhound Security."

Bakuda opened a search engine and entered 'Wolfhound Security'. She called up the first page that presented itself. "Well, fuck."

"What?" asked Faultline.

Bakuda turned her phone around so that everyone could see. The Wolfhound logo showed up; a stylised dog's head, brown on a blue background.

Circus suddenly burst out laughing. Everyone stared at her.

"Holy shit," she cackled, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. "I don't believe it. This guy who's been giving all of us so much trouble, he's been right there in the open all this time. You guys even had his name!"

Faultline's voice showed a mild amusement when she spoke. "He hasn't given my Crew any trouble at all. Although I am very interested in the implication that he was able to reverse the transformation of a Case 53."

Skidmark shrugged. "I'm good. Haven't had any trouble."

"You have to look at the wider picture," snapped Kaiser. "Coil is gone. So are the Travellers. The Undersiders were captured, possibly at Security's behest. He had something to do with Lung's capture. That's two people and three gangs who would have been attending this meeting otherwise."

He looked around at the group. "I'm not betraying any confidences when I say that the information that's been dropped online has hurt me and mine – not fatally, not by a long shot, but it has still done us harm."

"So your point is …?" asked Faultline calmly. Bakuda was almost certain that the mercenary knew exactly the point that Kaiser intended to make, but was making him spell it out.

"My point is, he's making waves. A lot of them. Less than a week in town, and he's … I won't say 'overturned', but he has certainly upset the status quo. Three villain groups have been taken right off the board, and two others have been weakened."

Skidmark leaned back and grinned, showing his unsightly teeth once more. "Well, I got no problems."

Kaiser turned to face him, eyes glinting grey. "Make one move on Empire Eighty-Eight territory, drug dealer, and you will find out just how weakened we really are."

Skidmark leaned forward again, placing both hands flat on the table. "Maybe I will."

Bakuda brought out the pulsing ball again. "Shitstain. Try to take advantage of this in any way, and I will personally ensure that you do not live out the week."

She dearly wanted to carry out the threat, to show these self-important crime bosses that she was someone to respect. Come on, make a move. Just try me.

Behind her welding mask, Faultline cleared her throat meaningfully.

Kaiser quite obviously reined his temper in. "Hold the threats. We need to decide what we're going to do about this."

Bakuda shrugged. "Kill him? We know where he works. We can find out where he lives." The simple way is often the best.

"Unwritten rules … " Circus reminded her.

"Which he broke when he outed Empire Eighty-Eight," pointed out Kaiser.

"If he was behind that," Faultline reminded them. "Kaiser; you haven't actually told us how you've tied him in to the outing of Empire Eighty-Eight."

Kaiser nodded. "I apologise for that," he acknowledged. "Yesterday, Purity got a phone call from this Security, warning her that we would be outed. Told her to leave town." He paused, thinking. "No, wait. She didn't say exactly that. One moment, please."

Calling up a number on his phone, he put it on speaker and set it to dial. It rang quite a few times before the person on the other end picked up.

=//=//=

Purity (Kayden Anders)​

Kayden sighed. It was always the way; she would almost have gotten Aster down for her nap, and the phone would ring. "Theo, can you get that?" she called out, before recalling that she'd sent him to the convenience store for more diapers and formula.

It was so helpful to have him along; no-one looked twice at the pudgy teenager, and he could watch Aster while she got much-needed sleep. And of course, it meant that there was always someone to watch the baby when errands needed running.

Unfortunately, on this one occasion, Theo was out of the room when she needed a third hand.

There was nothing for it; she picked Aster up and cradled her while she went across the room and fetched the phone.

"Hello?"

It was Max on the line. "Hello, Kayden."

As if he's casually calling to ask about the weather. But with Max, it's always calculated, never casual.

"What do you want?"

"I need you to tell me exactly what you told me over the phone, the last time we spoke. About Security."

She sighed. I knew I should never have mentioned that name to him. "This again?"

"I promise, I will not bother you again."

And you never break promises. Except when it suits you.

"Fine." She marshalled her thoughts. "He said a villain was gathering a dossier on all of us, and he was taking the villain down, and there was a chance that the dossier might get released anyway. So I should take Aster and get out of town." She paused. "Is that what you wanted?"

"Yes, it is. Thank you, Kayden."

"Don't call this number again." She hung up.

Just then, the door opened and Theo came in, laden down with groceries.

"Hi, Kayden. I'm back."

"Oh, good," she told him. "Put it down over there."

He did as he was told. "Do you need a hand with Aster?"

"If you wouldn't mind?" She smiled. It was so nice to have someone she could rely on.

=//=//=

Circus​

Kaiser closed the call from his end, then placed the phone carefully on the table, squaring it in place with his thumbs and forefingers. Circus watched with interest.

"It appears that I may have been working on incorrect information," Kaiser stated at last.

Circus grinned internally, although she let no outward expression show. Kaiser-speak for 'I fucked up', hah!

Kaiser was still speaking. "One interpretation is that Coil had the dossier, Security knew it, arranged for Coil's arrest, and … perhaps Coil had an offsite backup, set to release it anyway?"

Faultline shrugged. "It fits his MO."

"In which case," Kaiser followed the line of thought, "he may well have warned Purity so that my daughter would not be endangered, just in case the dossier was released anyway."

Silence followed this pronouncement.

"Well, that puts a different complexion on matters," Faultline observed quietly.

"I could be wrong," Kaiser reminded everyone. "And in any case, even if I am, I would rather we do not take precipitate action, not immediately. I would like to talk to this man."

Bakuda's gas mask made the strange snorting noise again. "Talk to him, hell. He still took down Lung, captured the Undersiders, put the PRT on to Coil … "

"Yes," Kaiser told her patiently, "but in all those cases, he may very well have been working within the rules."

Circus shook her head, then decided to voice her own concerns. "I don't get how he took down Coil, I really don't. The man was slippery as three snakes. No-one ever outguessed him. If this Security can do that, then he's someone to watch out for."

"It doesn't matter," Kaiser snapped. "If he didn't break the unwritten rules, we can't go after him in his civilian identity."

Faultline tilted her head. "Does he even have a cape identity? Wear a mask or a costume? Or is he just a voice on the phone to most people?"

"Fuck it," Bakuda snapped. "He fucked with ABB, he dies. Simple as that."

"He warned my wife to take my child out of town," Kaiser grated.

"That might be part of a double bluff," Circus pointed out

"Or not," Kaiser replied. "We don't know. We don't have enough information."

"Actually, wait a moment," Faultline suggested. "Eyewitness accounts, second hand or no, have this guy fixing a Case 53, then making that person as well as Trickster - and possibly all the Travellers, plus their belongings - just vanish. Also, outguessing Coil, and making it possible for a newbie cape and the PRT to capture the Undersiders … and hell, helping that same newbie cape to take down one of the all-time toughest capes in Brockton Bay. Plus, whatever it was he said to Coil that scared him enough to let the guy go. And the hack job on the PHO boards."

She turned the cracked visor of her welding mask to each of the other people at the table, one at a time. "This guy's also, by all accounts, holding down a full-time job. Plus, he's apparently got serious pull with the PRT. If he can achieve all of this in his spare time, is he really someone we want to mess with?"

"I'm not going to mess with him," Bakuda retorted. "I'm just going to blow him the fuck up." She started to get up from the table. "Nice meeting, guys. Time to go make me a mushroom cloud."

Kaiser's hand slapped flat on the table, with a sound like a rifle shot. Everyone in the place, except for the waitress, jumped. Belatedly, Circus recalled that Somer's Rock employed deaf waitstaff for this very reason. "Sit. Down."

Bakuda hesitated for a long moment, then regained her seat. "Seriously, what's your problem?"

"My problem is you," stated Kaiser firmly. "You are almost literally the definition of a loose cannon. We will end this meeting when I say we have ended this meeting, and we will end it on a consensus. Not with everyone going and doing what they think they should be doing."

He looked at each person in turn, to ensure they had gotten the point. Circus decided that it was time to make a point of her own.

"Coil paid me, not you," she noted. "Until you pay me, you're not the boss of me."

"And Coil is unavailable for comment," Kaiser reminded her. "You represent … I'm not sure what you represent. The last remnant of his organisation? In any case, what were you intending to do about all this?"

Circus shrugged. "Find work, I guess." She looked around the table. "Not with the Merchants, though. No offence." At least with the Empire and the ABB, I don't go away feeling like I need to scrub off a layer of skin just to get clean again.

Skidmark invited her to do something remarkably pornographic; she ignored him. "But no, I wasn't gonna go after this Security guy. Coil had him kidnapped, and then the very next day, Coil went down hard. Yeah, no, count me out."

Kaiser nodded. "Faultline?"

The woman in black shrugged. "I have no beef with him. And my Crew aren't assassins. He doesn't bother me, I don't bother him."

"A wise policy. Skidmark?"

The Merchant leader looked up from picking his teeth with his thumbnail, an activity that Circus would rather not have observed him doing. "One guy? Fuck 'im. You can deal with him if you want; I got better things to do."

Kaiser nodded. "So, Bakuda. It's you and I. You want to simply remove him. I, on the other hand, would like to talk to the man before doing anything more drastic." He raised an eyebrow. "I do hope that this does not become a problem between us."

She may have been glaring at him; Circus thought so, but she could not tell. "Lung's been taken down. The ABB needs to make a stand, to show we can't be bent over and fucked up the ass by any bastard with a grudge. We're gonna get out there, loud and proud, and anyone who gets in our way is fucked. Do you get me?"

"I get you." Kaiser's voice was hard and flat. "But understand this. Go after Security, harm him or anyone near him, before he and I have had a chance to speak, and I will take it extremely personally. Do you get me?"

There was a long pause. Finally Bakuda threw up her hands. "Fucking okay, all right? I'll leave him the fuck alone."

Getting up, she gestured to Oni Lee, and stormed out. The demon-masked man followed silently in her wake.

"She could be a problem," commented Faultline, into the silence that followed.

"If she becomes one, we will deal with it," Kaiser responded grimly.

"We might have to," Faultline cautioned him. "Lung's crazy, but Bakuda's unhinged." She paused. "So, when you said you wanted to talk to him, you meant ..."

"I meant that I want to talk to him," Kaiser stressed. "Not interrogate. Coil came at him aggressively, and we saw how that ended. But I do want to know what's going on, find out how he knew about the dossier, and possibly drop a hint to him that perhaps he should tone his activities down a little." He shrugged. "And perhaps, with the right offer, he might even be willing to consider joining my employment. I can always use a good Thinker."

He nodded to Circus and to Faultline. "Empire Eighty-Eight is not yet down and out. We still have assets. If need be, we may call upon your services. Will you be agreeable to this?"

Faultline nodded. "You pay, we'll play."

Circus didn't even bother saying that much; she simply rubbed finger and thumb together in the age-old gesture.

"Very well then," stated Kaiser. "It appears we have an agreement." He rose from his seat. "Good day to you."

Menja and Stormtiger went out the door before Kaiser, while Fenja stayed behind him. It was a simple enough precaution against attack; these were villains, after all. But there was no attack, no ambush.

Skidmark got up next and sauntered out, with Squealer and Trainwreck following. Circus and Faultline were left at the table.

They looked at one another. "So, if you ever wanted to join -" Faultline offered.

Circus shook her head. "Nah. I prefer freelancing it. Keeps my options open."

Faultline nodded. "I can respect that. Ever change your mind, the offer will be there." She got to her feet, and shook Circus's hand. "Take care out there."

"You too." Circus watched her leave, with her two inhuman employees. Turning to the waitress, she signalled for another drink.

There would be a time to look for work. This wasn't it.


End of Chapter Twenty-Six

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter 27: Bomb Threat


"Report."

Sergeant Hamlin stood foursquare in the Director's office, holding a posture of rigid attention.

"Ma'am!" she snapped. "Myself, Corporal Fredericks and Private Kitwell were attending to the dogs belonging to the Undersider Rachel Lindt, also known as Bitch -"

Piggot cleared her throat, causing Hamlin to pause in her narration. "How did you come across the name 'Bitch', Sergeant?" she enquired.

"Ma'am, she told us, ma'am," explained Hamlin.

Director Piggot nodded. "Go on," she invited.

"Thank you, ma'am." Hamlin paused for a moment, to collect her thoughts. "I received orders from a Captain Mitchell to pull out and return to base, ma'am. These orders countermanded those from Lieutenant Grant yesterday, to maintain a guard over the dogs, ma'am."

The Director leaned forward. "And did you?"

Sergeant Hamlin took a breath. "Not immediately, ma'am."

"Even though you knew that the Empire Eighty-Eight were likely to press hostilities." It wasn't a question.

Hamlin maintained her absolute rigid posture of attention. "Ma'am, I knew those orders concerning the dogs came from you. I did not know whether Captain Mitchell was aware that the dogs belonged to … to Bitch. I attempted to carry out both sets of orders, to the best of my ability, ma'am."

Piggot raised an eyebrow. "And how, exactly, did you intend to do that?"

"Ma'am, we were making leashes, with which to lead the dogs away from the danger area. Take them to a place of safety. Once that was accomplished, we were going to report for duty, ma'am."

"Indeed." Not by expression or tone did the Director betray her feelings on the matter. "So then what happened?"

Sergeant Hamlin took a deep breath. "Some members of the Empire Eighty-Eight arrived. We had them at a stand-off, until one of them fired and wounded Corporal Fredericks."

Piggot's voice was very calm and level. "You are certain that neither Fredericks nor Kitwell fired first?"

Hamlin nodded decisively. "My orders were to that effect, ma'am, and I am certain that they carried them out. I examined Fredericks' rifle, afterward, and it had not been fired."

The Director nodded. "Very well. Continue."

"That was when she – Bitch – arrived, ma'am. She killed, wounded or chased off the Empire Eighty-Eight men. We were applying medical care to Fredericks, and making ready to move the dogs, when the Empire people came back, with reinforcements."

"You fired then, did you not?"

Hamlin nodded. "Yes, ma'am. We took cover, and we kept them at bay. We did not have enough ammunition for a running battle, so I ordered Kitwell to conserve his rounds. We aimed to wound, not to kill."

Piggot nodded again. That was standard tactical doctrine, against an undisciplined foe.

"How long until the other Undersiders arrived?" she asked next.

Hamlin frowned. "I'm … not certain, ma'am. Not more than fifteen minutes, I would guess. The one called Grue laid down a smoke screen and we exfiltrated without taking further casualties. We stopped a few blocks farther on, and they went their way, and we returned to base."

The Director regarded her impassively. "So, at no time in all of this, while you were armed with assault rifles, and they were not armed with much at all, did you consider perhaps taking them into custody?"

Hamlin shook her head. "Ma'am, no ma'am. Quite apart from the fact that they are all powered, we had wounded to take care of. Also, they did save our bacon."

"Indeed." Director Piggot laced her fingers before her. "Sergeant, you were correct in your assumption that the dogs were more important than Captain Mitchell understood. Your actions today may have far-reaching implications. However." Her brows lowered. "In not following Captain Mitchell's orders immediately and promptly, you and your men are technically guilty of insubordination."

Hamlin held her posture. "Ma'am."

"As such," continued the Director, "I am sentencing you each to one week of confinement to barracks; as this is infeasible under the current state of emergency, this sentence is postponed until further notice. Captain Mitchell will be spoken to on the matter; you are not to discuss this with him or anyone else. Do you understand me?"

Hamlin nodded once, jerkily. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am. Uh, may I ask a question, ma'am?"

Piggot let her sweat for a moment. "You may."

"How is Corporal Fredericks, ma'am?"

"He is out of surgery and doing well, I am told. The bullet penetrated only a short way." She paused. "You may apprise Kitwell of the circumstances; the orders pertaining to speaking to no-one on this matter extend to him as a matter of course." A slight tightening of the lips may have been mistaken as a smile. "You will have no trouble following that order, I trust?"

Hamlin did her best to keep the relief from her voice. "No trouble at all, ma'am."

Piggot nodded toward the door. "Very well. Dismissed."

"Thank you, ma'am." Hamlin saluted crisply; it was returned, before the sergeant turned and marched from the room, back straight as a ramrod.

The Director waited till the door closed before sighing and rubbing her brow. Now to deal with that idiot Mitchell.

=///=​

The bell rang; Taylor headed toward her next class. I paced the halls of Winslow, thinking as hard as I could.

If Kaiser decided to confront me before I met with Contessa, then I was reasonably sure of my chances of survival. However, if he chose to wait until after, then it was anyone's game. Max Anders was, by all accounts, highly charismatic and not a totally unreasonable man; however, faced with the destruction of the Empire Eighty-Eight, and the collapse of Medhall – being, no doubt, the source of most of his legitimate funding – even a reasonable man might find himself performing unreasonable acts.

And this was not even counting the potential actions of Hookwolf, Fenja, Menja, Stormtiger … I shivered. Any one of those people could kill me with embarrassing ease, stab vest or no stab vest.

Maybe I should have told Taylor, asked for her help?

But no; this was not her fight. I did not want her putting herself between myself and any of Kaiser's forces that might come my way. If the price for my life was her death, then no.

I knew I was being less than smart about this, but I had put Taylor in enough danger over the last few days, and part of me still insisted on seeing her as a fifteen year old girl. This was something I had brought upon myself, and it was something I was going to have to face.

Besides, maybe I can talk Kaiser out of doing me serious harm.

Whether or not I could actually do that, it was the course of action that I had chosen.

I paced on.

=///=​

Bakuda paced.

As she paced, she swore, inventively and fluently. Skidmark would have been impressed. Oni Lee watched her, impassively. He was prepared to teleport at any moment; while Lung would give him adequate warning before a potentially lethal outburst, Bakuda would give no warning at all.

The argument over who was leading the ABB had been over almost before it began; in truth, it had been no argument at all. Oni Lee was the older, and had seniority. But he lacked the fire, the spark, to lead. All he really knew how to do was to teleport, to kill. To follow orders. Somewhere along the way, he had lost his purpose, his originality. Bakuda had announced that she was in charge, and after a few token protests, he had given in. If anyone could lead the ABB through the disaster that was the loss of Lung, she could.

But she had greater plans than that; she intended to attack the PRT themselves, to free Lung. She was still putting her plans in place for that, of course. A series of bombs all over the city, disrupting the peace, putting the authorities on edge, so that they did not know which way to look. Culminating, she boasted, in an attack that would leave them utterly unable to react, unable to stop the ABB from retaking its hold on the city once and for all.

For now, she had smaller plans. Revenge. Revenge on one ageing, overweight security guard, for having the nerve, the gall, to help capture Lung.

There were many ways to get this revenge; she could kill him at home, or at work. On the bus, or – an old favourite – in his car. No, wait, she recalled; his car had been damaged by the ABB boys at the school, in retaliation for his actions against them, and had been taken away for repairs. Perhaps she could find where it was being kept.

The primary aspect of her revenge, of course, was that he would die, and it would be by her hand. Only then would the honour of the ABB be satisfied.

But this was not why she was pacing and swearing. She was pacing and swearing because that smug, misbegotten racist sonovabitch Kaiser had forbidden her to take revenge upon Michael Allen until he, Kaiser, had spoken to him. Forbidden. Her.

She wanted to blow something up. She wanted to see the smoke, the flame, hear the screams. She wanted to make use of her more exotic bomb effects, watch people turn to crystal or be trapped in the amber of a time-bubble, forever frozen. The urge to do so was visceral, primal.

Snarling, she tossed the dully pulsing ball to Oni Lee. His new body was already standing behind her when he caught it; the small explosive charge went off, reducing his previous body to a spray of blood and flesh across the wall. And then the gore crumbled to ash.

It wasn't enough, not really. She wanted to do this to all of Brockton Bay, one screaming victim at a time. But right now, her attention was focused on one man.

"Fuck it," she decided. She turned to Oni Lee, totally oblivious to the fact that she had 'killed' him just moments earlier. "Come on. We're going to that damn school."

=///=​

My phone rang; for a moment, I thought it was the Director, ringing me back with news of the Undersiders. But the number did not look familiar. "Hello?"

"Mike."

I paused, glancing around. No-one was in earshot; in fact, I was the only one in the hallway. All the same, I lowered my voice.

"Tattletale. Lisa. Why did you break out? What happened?"

In my ear, Lisa sighed. "We had to. Rachel's dogs were in danger."

I groaned. "Ah shit. Empire Eighty-Eight? I told the Director to put a guard on them."

"I figured as much. We got told they'd been pulled back. Apparently the orders were actually given to do just that. One of her officers screwed up."

I shook my head, despite the knowledge that Lisa could not see me. She probably knew, all the same. "For fuck's sake. Anyone hurt? Any of the dogs?"

"None of us. One of the PRT guys took a hit, but we managed to get him out of there. We made a mess of the E-88 guys. The dogs are fine. I'll tell Rachel you asked after them."

I felt relief wash over me. "Well, I'm just glad you guys are all right. You need anything? I can maybe smuggle supplies to you."

I heard the smile in her voice. "Thanks, and we might take you up on that later. We're good for now. But this isn't why I called you." All levity had left her tone by the time she finished talking.

I felt a chill down my spine. "Is this about Kaiser?"

"You got told about the meeting?"

I blinked. "Meeting?"

"At Somer's Rock. If we weren't currently running and hiding, we would have attended. But I hear that Kaiser showed, along with Bakuda, Skidmark, Faultline and Circus."

That bit was different. In canon, the meeting had excluded ABB (not surprising, given that the meeting had been about them) and had included Coil and the Undersiders.

I knew the answer to my next question before I asked it. "Do I need to ask you what the topic of conversation was?"

Her tone was sombre, confirming my suspicions. "No. No, you do not."

"Well, fuck."

"There is some good news, though. But there's also bad news."

"Good news first please?"

"Kaiser wants to talk to you before taking definitive action against you. Faultline, Circus and Skidmark are willing to let him take lead."

The chill had returned, and it was settling in for the long haul. "I notice that you did not mention Bakuda in that sentence."

Lisa's voice was uncomfortable in the extreme. "No. Sorry. She wants to blow you up."

"She's going to go against Kaiser?"

"Apparently she agreed to hold off until he had spoken with you."

"But you're dubious."

"Hey, I'm supposed to be the intuitive one. But there's worse news."

"I'm not actually sure that I want to know."

"Yes, you do. They know your name, your face and where you are working."

I sagged against the wall, blood pounding in my ears. "Please say that you're kidding me. That you're winding me up." My voice was a rasp, barely recognisable to me as my own.

Lisa's voice was sympathetic. "Sorry. I wish I was."

"Anything about my associates?"

"Nothing that I heard about. Only you."

"Well, I suppose that's kind of good news." I took a deep breath. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

"You played it straight with us. I thought I'd return the favour."

"That, and you want to know how I know what I know."

"Maybe a little of that too."

"I get out of this, I'll be filling you in. I owe you that much."

"You're welcome." She hung up.

I stared blankly at the wall. Not one, but two supervillains looking for me. And one of them is Bakuda.

Fuck.

What do I do now?

And then, as the shock receded and my training took over, I knew exactly what I needed to do next. Should have done, in fact, as soon as I discovered that Bakuda was involved.

I stumbled to the nearest fire alarm and yanked it.

=///=​

"Do you understand the plan?" asked Bakuda, for perhaps the fifth time.

Oni Lee felt vaguely annoyed. I am not as intelligent as she is, but there is no need to treat me as a puppet, a dummy.

"Yes," he replied stolidly. "I let you in through the fire door. We go to the basement. I let you in there. We locate the furnace and the electrical wiring. You wire the furnace to blow. We wait until class is over and the cleaners have left. You wire the rest of the school to blow. We leave."

She nodded. "Good." An electronic snicker escaped her gas mask. "Kaiser can talk to this Security over the weekend. They can be best buds, for all I care. Monday morning, he goes to work, I make him and his precious school into a fucking crater."

"Winslow has many ABB recruits," Oni Lee commented. He felt no particular concern for them, but an ABB member was an ABB member.

"We'll pass the word over the weekend," Bakuda told him impatiently. "No-one goes to school Monday. Simple as that."

Oni Lee nodded. It was a simple plan. He liked simple plans. They tended to work.

"And after that," Bakuda went on, "we go on to the big plan. The one where I blow up bits of the city until we get Lung back."

Oni Lee nodded again. It would be good to have Lung back. He knew where he was with Lung. Bakuda was too unpredictable, too unstable. He would follow her, but he preferred to follow Lung.

=///=​

Taylor looked up in surprise as the fire alarm went off. She had been keeping tabs on Mike, of course, but her bugs were still unable to follow human vocal patterns. Mike had told her that in time she would be able to do so, but it was still just a mixmash of noises to bug ears.

He was just on the phone … why did he pull the fire alarm?

A quick check with her bugs told her that there was no smoke anywhere around the school; however, she trusted him to have his reasons.

Mr Quinlan looked around nervously. "Nobody panic," he told them. Which is as good a way to get people to panic as any, Taylor thought derisively. "When I tell you to leave the classroom -"

Stampeding feet and shouts of fear outside the classroom brought everyone to their feet. People started moving toward the door. Taylor was confused. What? What's going on?

Her bugs kept moving, kept investigating. And then they found the smoke.

Where the hell did that come from?

=///=​

I was heading for the nearest classroom when my phone rang. It was Principal Blackwell.

I answered it, my voice harsh in my throat. "Allen."

"Mr Allen, the fire alarm has just gone off. Do you have any idea why?"

I paused, trying to steady my breathing. "Yeah. I set it off."

"For heaven's sake, why?"

My lips were suddenly dry; I moistened them with my tongue. "Bomb threat."

There was a very long pause. "Please repeat that."

I cleared my throat. "I just received a phone call that indicated a clear and present threat to the school. Someone is likely to try to bomb the place. I need to get everyone out. Now."

"What? Who called you?"

"Principal Blackwell, I trust the source implicitly. Now, are you going to argue with me, or are you going to tell everyone to evacuate the school right the fuck now?"

She paused again. "You're right, of course. But you're going to need to give me details."

"Not a problem. Once we evacuate."

She didn't answer; the phone clicked down in my ear.

I kept moving.

=///=​

They drove to the school in a nondescript sedan furnished by one of their underlings. Bakuda had a full kit of her tools and equipment; with this, she was wont to boast, she could turn anything from a swimming pool to a skyscraper into one big bomb. A bog-standard high school? Puh-lease.

Parking inconspicuously, they made their way around to one of the fire exit doors of the school. Bakuda indicated the door. "Okay -"

And then the fire alarm went off.

Bakuda paused. "Okay, what the fuck?"

Oni Lee frowned. He wasn't wearing his mask right at that moment; Bakuda hadn't wanted to draw attention. "Perhaps there is a real fire?"

The young woman laughed harshly. "Don't be fucking ridiculous. That would be far too much of a coincidence." She gestured. "Step back, out of the way. When the rugrats come out, we go in."

"Are we still sticking to the same plan?"

She shook her head, with a razor-edged grin. "Oh, no. I have a better plan." In a few brief words, she outlined it. "Can you handle that?"

He nodded. "I can handle that."

=///=​

"This is the principal. All students and faculty please evacuate the building in a calm and orderly fashion. Assemble in the parking lot. I repeat, all students and faculty will evacuate the building in a calm and orderly fashion and assemble in the parking lot."

I had participated in more than a few fire drills before this point. It was very easy to tell at a glance which institutions practised regular fire drills, and which ones did it rarely or never. Winslow fell, unsurprisingly, into the 'rarely or never' category. Students poured out of classrooms, jostling and yelling and jamming the corridors from wall to wall. Teachers vainly tried to keep order, or just gave up and joined the crush.

A billow of smoke along the ceiling didn't help matters in the slightest; they pushed all the harder.

I fetched out my screamer, pointed it at the ceiling, and let off a blast. The ear-shattering noise drew attention from all around.

"Stop pushing!" I bellowed. "You will get out safely! Let the people in front get out first!"

Maybe it was my imagination, but things became just a little less hectic, people pushing just a little less frantically. The front doors were a natural chokepoint, being narrower than the corridors. So people were being slowed down as they left. However, the human tide was moving; slowly, but it was moving.

I moved back the other way; spotting a fire extinguisher closet, I pulled it open, grabbed the extinguisher, and went in search of the source of the smoke. Maybe someone left a Bunsen burner on, and it's set fire to something.

What I found was something else altogether; a small round object, pouring out smoke in a vast, thick cloud.

A smoke bomb.

Bakuda's already here.

Fuck.

=///=​

The crush of people outside the classroom lessened, and Taylor followed her classmates out. Mr Quinlan had sufficient presence of mind to count them out, and followed the last one.

"I smell smoke," blurted Charlotte, one of the girls in her class.

"Yeah, so do I," agreed Taylor. And indeed, it was impossible to deny. "But check it out. Doors are just up there, and there's no fire between us and them. So what will look cooler, us bolting out like scared kids, or just walking out like we own the place?"

People around her chuckled, and the pace slowed to a steady walk. By the time they reached the doors, they were striding confidently along.

=///=​

"Sir," ventured Emma, "maybe we should be evacuating with everyone else?"

Mr Gladly waved her down, looking out at the surging herd of students. "They're panicking out there. We'll wait a few minutes more."

Madison spoke up. "Mr Gladly, I think I smell smoke. Maybe we should really be going."

"Okay, fine," he conceded. "Come up to the front – who's that?"

'That' was a tall man in a demon mask and a black cloak who had suddenly appeared outside the classroom door; he seemed to be peering into the classroom. And then he was gone, in a shower of ash.

Madison screamed; Gladly whirled, to see the man in black in the classroom, standing next to the petite brunette. He held her by the arm with one hand; the other held a long-bladed knife.

Gladly was never sure, even within himself, what his next move was to have been. Perhaps he intended to pick up a chair and attack the intruder; perhaps he meant to bolt from the room. But the knife left the tall man's hand in a flash of silver, and he staggered back, the blade plunged through his shoulder. Blood welled out to stain his shirt.

"What … what do you want?" he husked, falling to his knees.

The tall man stepped closer, dragging Madison willy-nilly by the arm.

"Hostage," he growled through the demon mask. Gripping the long knife, he pulled it free from the wound. Gladly screamed and fainted, his blood pooling on the floor beneath him. The demon-masked man raised his knife to finish his victim …

"No!"

Slowly, the demonic visage turned to regard the pretty redhead.

The voice from behind it was slow and gravelly. "What?"

"Don't kill him," Emma pleaded. "I'll go with you. I won't run. Just let them go, and don't kill him."

The knife hesitated; again it raised, but then lowered once more.

The man in the demon mask released Madison's arm, and took Emma by hers. He pushed his way out into the corridor, now clear of students, and began dragging her deeper into the school.

=///=​

I let go a blast of foam over the smoke bomb; to my surprise, it actually seemed to work. The smoke started dissipating in a few moments, though it was still thick enough to make me cough. And then I saw the next billow, making its way down the corridor. I coughed again.

What am I doing? I asked myself. I'm not a firefighter. And Bakuda is loose in the school.

That was when I heard the scream.

Fuck it, I thought. I dropped the extinguisher and ran … or at least, moved as fast as I was able.

=///=​

Taylor saw it play out; the masked man, the thrown knife. Mr Gladly badly wounded or dead. Emma dragged back into the corridor, off into the clouds of smoke that hampered her bugs so badly.

She also had bugs on Mike, of course. She saw him react to Madison's scream, saw him hurrying in that direction.

Do I send him after Emma, or do I send him to Mr Gladly?

It was a very real dilemma.

But the pool of blood was growing alarmingly quickly.

In that moment, Taylor learned that sometimes there is no single right answer to a problem, even one involving life and death.

She made her decision.

=///=​

I hesitated, unsure of which way to go. Clouds of smoke were building again; I realised that Bakuda must have liberally seeded the school with them.

And then a fly landed on my face, beside my left eye. I waved it away; it landed in exactly the same spot.

I turned my head to the left. The fly walked across to my nose. I turned my head to the right; it walked back. Turning once more until the fly was on my nose, I hurried onward.

The classroom door was open; inside, Madison and Julia were bending over a badly bleeding Mr Gladly. Madison, at least, had some idea of first aid training; she was trying to put pressure on the wound. She looked up as I entered.

"There's so much blood!" she whimpered.

"Good girl," I encouraged her. "Keep doing that. Julia, bottom drawer of the teacher's desk. There should be a first aid kit." Dropping to my knees beside Gladly, I reached under him. Another wound there was also adding blood to the growing pool. Ignoring the warm, sticky sensation, I pressed my hand over it.

For once, Julia did not argue; moments later, she was back with the kit, held open in her hands.

"Excellent," I told her. "Gauze pad. Get two. And a roll of bandage."

Moments later, she had the items in hand. Under my direction, she helped Madison place one firmly over the wound in the front of Gladly's shoulder. It was over his shirt, not under, but this was better than nothing.

"Okay," I told them. "Gonna lift him. Julia, hold the top one on. Madison, put the other pad on the bottom wound. Here, see? Then wind the bandage around so it holds both pads on tight. Tight as you can. Lifting … now."

It was a haphazard affair, one that daubed all three of us liberally with Mr Gladly's blood, but we managed to get the pads in place. I checked his pulse; it was light and thready, but still there.

The trouble was, I didn't know if I could carry him all the way out of the school; I'm not weak, but he wasn't the lightest specimen out there, either. Then my eye fell on the teacher's chair.

=///=​

Taylor was standing nearby when Mr Quinlan approached Principal Blackwell.

"We've finished taking roll, ma'am," he told her diffidently.

"Please tell me everyone's out," she replied grimly. The first fire truck, sirens wailing, pulled into the parking lot.

"Not … quite," he admitted with a grimace. "We're missing Emma Barnes, Madison Clements, Julia Morrow, Mr Gladly … and Michael Allen."

She nodded curtly. "Why is it always them?" she asked rhetorically.

"Ma'am?"

"Never mind." She started toward the fire truck. "Keep me advised."

"Yes, ma'am." He paused. "Uh, ma'am?"

She looked back toward him, then at the main doors of the school. Emerging from the interior were several blood-spattered figures.

Mr Gladly was lying with his back on a rolling swivel chair; Michael Allen was supporting his legs, while Madison Clements kept his head from lolling backward. Julia Morrow was ensuring that his arms remained crossed over his chest, with help from Madison, while pushing the chair forward at the same time.

=///=​

Principal Blackwell was the first to me by a short head. Close behind her were the first responders; a group of firefighters with a stretcher.

"What's going on here?" she demanded. "Why is he wounded?"

"There's two supervillains in the school," I told her bluntly. "Bakuda and Oni Lee."

"How do you know?" she asked. "Did you see them?"

"No, but I saw a smoke bomb, and saw smoke from several more," I began.

"It may just be a prank then -" she cut me off.

"I saw him."

We both turned to look at Madison. She looked back at us, with the eyes of someone who has grown several years in a matter of minutes.

"We both saw him," she corrected herself. "Julia and me. The guy with the demon face mask and the knives."

"Oni Lee," I confirmed. "What happened? Where's Emma?"

She hung her head. "He took her. Said she was a hostage." Raising her head, she looked me in the eye. "She told him that if he didn't kill Mr Gladly, she wouldn't try to run away."

There was silence then, broken by more sirens. An ambulance for Gladly, and the first police vehicle.

"Well, I'll be buggered," I muttered. Emma actually thought about someone else for once.

"What? What was that?" asked Blackwell.

"Nothing," I replied absently. "But I have a nasty feeling I know why he took her."

"He said 'hostage'," Madison reiterated. "Hostage for what?"

But I was moving forward, stopping a group of firefighters heading for the main doors. "Guys," I told them. "Don't go in there."

A police officer took me by the arm. Uniforms were starting to get fairly thick on the ground. "Sir," he advised me, "let them do their jobs."

"It's not their job," I stated flatly. "It's really not."

"Why not, sir?" he asked. "And why are you covered in blood?"

"Because there are supervillains in the school," I replied, answering both questions at once. "Bakuda and Oni Lee."

He let go my arm at once. "Oh shit," he exclaimed, then raised his voice. "Don't go in! Fall back! Fall back!"

As the firefighters heard him and obeyed, he turned to me. "You're certain of this." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," I confirmed. "Couple girls over there saw him face to face, so to speak. Bastard stabbed a teacher, took a girl hostage."

"Hostage?" he asked blankly. "Why the hell would they take just one hostage?"

And then the doors opened again.

=///=​

Emma stumbled forward, sobbing, in the grasp of the masked man. She realised where she had seen him before; his name was Oni Lee, and he was a member of the ABB. Above all else, she wanted to wrench herself free, to run, to hide. But she had promised. And even if she managed to get away, he would just go back and kill Mr Gladly, and take Madison or Julia hostage instead.

He was a teleporter, she recalled. So even if she ran, he would probably catch up with her with ease. But what he wanted her for … she quailed. She had been helpless in the hands of the ABB once before, and that had almost turned out horribly for her. What's going to happen to me this time? Because this time, she knew, there would be no Sophia to effect a last-minute rescue.

A shove, and she sprawled at the feet of a woman. Looking up, she gulped. The woman wore a gas mask and opaque goggles. Now that she recognised Oni Lee, she was able to put a name to the woman as well. Bakuda. The bomb Tinker who had held Cornell University hostage.

Before she met Sophia, Emma would have been hard put to tell one out-of-town cape from another, but being best friends with a cape gave her a certain interest in the matter, and so she knew the name.

"Hello, hostage," Bakuda greeted her, while putting the finishing touches on a device of some sort, using a miniature soldering iron. "Tell me, do you know Security?"

Emma blinked. "I … who?"

Bakuda's tone, though generated electronically, seemed to turn impatient. "Security. You might know him as Michael Allen. Fat security guard? Beard? Sticks his nose into other people's business?"

"Oh," exclaimed Emma. "Yes. I know him."

"Good." The woman held up the device, as if to check on something, then looked down at her. "Stand up."

Emma made to stand, but her knees were currently made of water, and she couldn't make it. But then, she was grasped from behind, and lifted to her feet. Before she could protest, Bakuda closed the device around her neck, and she heard it locking into place. There was a click and an ominous humming sound.

When she spoke, her voice was an octave or so higher than normal. "What … what's that?"

"I'm a bomb Tinker," Bakuda told her. "You get one guess."

Emma wanted to throw up. But a small, rational part of her explained carefully that throwing up on the unhinged mad bomber would not end well, and so she did not. "But why?" she whimpered.

"You are going to walk out of the school," Bakuda told her, almost kindly. "There is a camera and a microphone. You are going to go to your friend Mr Allen and I am going to have a conversation with him. If you do anything other than that, I will blow your skull right through the fucking ceiling. Is any of this hard to understand?"

It was not at all hard to understand. Which was why Emma soon found herself stumbling out through the school doors, with the metal collar around her neck.

=///=​

We paused at the bottom of the steps; Emma had stopped at the top. The metal collar, we could see, had several ominous bulges, as well as a couple of blinking red LEDs. It may as well have had the word BOMB stencilled across it in large red letters.

Principal Blackwell was the first to call out. "Emma? Are you all right?"

She nodded tremulously, although we could all see the tracks of tears in the grime on her face. "I'm supposed to go to Mr Allen," she replied.

"Me?" I asked, although I wasn't really surprised. I had an idea how this script was going to play out, and so I was going through the motions. I stepped forward, climbed the stairs.

Emma nodded. "She wants to talk to you," she explained.

I nodded. "Bakuda?" I asked.

The electronic voice emanated from a tiny speaker on the collar. I could also see a minuscule camera swivelling to follow my face. "The very same. Security, I presume."

"The girl's done nothing to you," I snapped. "Let her go."

"Oh, I will," she promised. "Just as soon as I get what I want."

This script was playing out to the last line. "Me."

"Correct. You will come to me, unarmed, alone. When I have you in my grasp, I will disarm the bomb from about the girl's neck. You have my word."

I grimaced. "And how do I know you'll keep it?"

"Because she didn't stick her nose in my business. You did. She is merely a means to an end. You … are an end." She paused. "You have five minutes to decide."

It wasn't even really a choice.

"Okay, fine. You have a deal."

Turning, I descended the steps again. Carefully, I took my equipment belt off. Taylor was standing there, her eyes wide and solemn behind her glasses. "Here you go, kid," I told her. "Take good care of it. I'll be back for it."

As I did so, her eyes widened slightly, and I nodded fractionally.

Leaving it in her hands, I turned once more, and mounted the steps.

On my way past Emma, I squeezed her shoulder once. "It's all good," I assured her. "This isn't your fight."

She caught my arm. "But why is it yours?" she asked, her voice breaking. "What does she want from you?"

Slowly, I shook my head. "Sorry, kid. Wish I could tell you."

Pushing the doors open, I entered the school.

Bakuda awaited.


End of Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Countdown

[Author's Note: Thanks to @Kerfitd for the speech. You know which one.]


"I would ask you what the hell you thought you were doing, but it's patently obvious to one and all that you were not thinking at all!"

Director Piggot paused. She was a past master at the ancient and honourable art of reaming out errant subordinates until they were standing in a puddle of their own sweat; however, a blinking light on her desk console had caught her eye and distracted her from her tirade.

The blinking light should not be there. She glared at it. It did not go away.

In front of her desk, Captain Mitchell maintained the attitude of attention, eyes fixed on a point eighteen inches over the top of Piggot's head. He did not move; he barely dared to draw breath, lest this bring her ire down on his head once more.

The light, Director Piggot knew, indicated an urgent call – something that someone had decided that she needed to know about. She continued to glare at it. Captain Mitchell stared at the wall as the sweat dried on his forehead.

Piggot snatched up her phone. "What?" she snarled. "I left strict instructions! No interruptions!"

"Madam Director." The voice was that of Armsmaster; calm, unhurried, but somehow betraying a certain level of excitement. "I apologise for bothering you, but we have just gotten a call from Principal Blackwell, of -"

"- Winslow High School, yes, I know it," the Director interrupted him. "What about it? Shadow Stalker is well out of that school. Our interest in it is near nil."

"This is not about Shadow Stalker," Armsmaster informed her. "It's about Bakuda and Oni Lee. They're at the school. Right now."

"A more immediate concern," she conceded, "but I don't see why you're telling me about it."

"They've taken a girl hostage. Security's gone in to negotiate."

Director Piggot went very still. "You're talking about ..."

"Yes, I'm talking about Mr Allen. They gave him an ultimatum, and he went in alone and unarmed," Armsmaster reported.

Piggot swore under her breath. "Who's attending?"

"I'm en route, ETA about two minutes. I'm told that there's a PRT truck scrambling, and a chopper as well."

"Very well. Thank you." The Director hung up, then turned to Mitchell. "Captain Mitchell."

If Mitchell had been any more parade-ground straight, Piggot would have been able to use his spine as a ruler. "Ma'am?"

"Return to your regular duties. You will speak of this to no-one … but you and I have not finished this conversation. Do you understand?"

Mitchell's nod was jerky, but it was a nod. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Dismissed."

Mitchell saluted; Piggot returned it, with a parade-ground snap. As quickly as he dared, Mitchell left the office. Piggot pressed a button on her console.

"Major. I understand you are sending a chopper to Winslow."

"Yes, ma'am." He didn't even ask how she knew.

"Save a seat for me." She got up from behind her desk.

God knows I need to get out more.

=//=//=​

I didn't want to go back into the school. I most especially did not want to put myself at Bakuda's less-than-tender mercy. Unfortunately, I didn't have much of a choice; the bomb around Emma's neck more or less guaranteed that I would do as Bakuda said.

It wasn't as if I even liked Emma that much; she was, after all, at least partially responsible for Taylor's eighteen months of hell, not least of which being the ordeal she had suffered in the locker. But, as much as she deserved some form of punishment, Emma didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve to have her head blown off to satisfy Bakuda's whims, especially not when she'd just started to show signs of being an actual decent human being again.

Gladly, whatever his many flaws, did not deserve death; Emma had saved him from that. I would try to return her the favour, as best I could.

And so I walked into the school.

In a very real way, I mused, I had brought this upon the school, and upon Emma, when I had set out to assist Taylor in capturing Lung. I wasn't solely to blame for the train of events that had been thus set in motion, but I had been the initiating force. Even worse, as the only one with foreknowledge of the lengths to which Bakuda was likely to go in retaliating and attempting to break Lung out, I should have considered this possibility.

When I had first used the name 'Security', it had been more a joke than anything; a name given as a signature to an email, to lend the contents a little more authenticity, so that Director Piggot would not simply ignore the predictions and delete the mail. What I had not foreseen was how widely that name would become known, and by whom. The joke, at first, had seemed to be a fine one; there I was, not a power to my name, being treated with respect by the movers and shakers of Brockton Bay.

I wasn't laughing now. The joke had turned sour.

Just before I had turned away to enter the doors of Winslow, my eyes had met those of Gladys Knott. Her eyes had been wide with fear; not for herself, but for me. And I didn't blame her, not one bit. I had no idea what she saw in my gaze, but it didn't seem to reassure her. Nor should it have; Taylor may have defeated Bakuda in canon, once upon a time, but the fight was not easy, and nor did she come away unscathed.

=//=//=​

Emma sat on the stairs and hugged her knees. She was crying again, but she couldn't stop the tears. The heavy metal collar about her neck felt like it was made of lead, weighing her down so that she would never stand up again. The regular blinking of the red LEDs kept catching the corner of her vision, reminding her of their presence.

She didn't know if she was going to live another day, another hour, another minute. The realisation that her life could be snuffed out at any second made her thoughts startling in their clarity. She was really seeing the world as it was.

This wasn't like the time with the ABB, back when she had first met Sophia. God, she had been so young and stupid then! This was different, more visceral. Then, she had been forced to choose between several unpalatable options. Now, she had no choices to make. She could only wait, to see if a man who had no reason to like her would be successful in saving her life.

I'm sorry, she said in the silent depths of her own mind. I'm sorry for every bad thing I ever did.

It wasn't praying, exactly. She was simply saying goodbye.

Just in case.

=//=//=​

As I walked down the echoing corridors, I did my best to stride confidently; my head was high and I tried to project the impression that I was exactly where I wanted to be. I didn't know if I was going to be fooling anyone; I certainly wasn't fooling myself. And even if I did, I wasn't sure that I would be doing myself any favours; I doubted Bakuda would be overly impressed by false bravado, not after serving under Lung. But then, nor was I going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me scared.

Abruptly, Oni Lee was before me, a knife gleaming in his hand. I stopped; while I wore my stab vest, there were many places he could cut me that were not covered by its protection. Also, he looked damned impressive; the smoke from Bakuda's bombs was still wafting about as Winslow's overworked ventilation system tried to filter it out, and it billowed and swirled around him as if he were a part of it. The dark cloak and the kami demon mask only heightened the impression.

"Search for weapons," he grunted.

I raised my arms obediently, showing that my hands were empty, and let him pat me down. He was efficient and professional about it, but he didn't find anything that he wasn't supposed to.

Which was, of course, the general idea.

After he finished the frisk, he had me open my shirt, and he examined the stab vest, front and back, to ensure that it held no secret weapon. It didn't, of course; that would have been the first place I would have looked, had our positions been reversed.

He allowed me to retain the vest itself, a gesture that somehow managed to quite clearly convey his contempt for its protective qualities. Then he pointed down a side corridor. "That way."

I walked that way; I had only gone a few yards when he appeared in the billowing smoke ahead of me. Interest overcame fear, and I turned my head as I walked, to watch his previous body as it suddenly collapsed, robes and mask and all, into a pile of fine ash. In any other situation, it would have been fascinating; as it was, I recalled certain factors about Oni Lee.

"You know," I observed as I came up to him, "that's actually killing you."

The knife reappeared in his hand without warning, its razor tip fractions of an inch from my eyeball. I tried not to blink. Or breathe. Or move.

"What is killing me?" he asked in his toneless voice.

"Knife? Please?" I requested, and a moment later he moved the blade away from my face.

"What is killing me?" he repeated.

"Your power," I told him, in as casual a manner as I could muster, with adrenaline still blasting through my bloodstream. "Which way now?"

He pointed, and I set off that way. He moved up alongside me. "How is my power killing me?" he demanded. "I teleport. It is simple."

I shook my head. "It's not teleporting. It looks like it, but it isn't. Your power creates a new version of you where you want to go, and destroys your old body and everything it held."

He growled stubbornly. "It is teleporting."

"No," I corrected him. "It isn't. Every time you do it, it makes a new copy of you, and kills the old copy stone dead. And every time you do it, a little bit more of who you are, up here," I tapped the side of my head, "is lost. Killed. Forever destroyed."

He pointed the knife at me. "You try to trick me, turn me against Bakuda." The threat was obvious.

I held up my hands in surrender. "Nope. You make your own decisions. Just ask yourself this: didn't you once give orders, rather than taking them?"

I kept walking, and he gave directions. But he didn't teleport again.

=//=//=​

Bakuda looked up as Oni Lee escorted Security into the school infirmary.

She had to say that on one level, she was not at all impressed. On another, she was very impressed indeed.

Security – Michael Allen – was taller than her, perhaps a little taller than Oni Lee, but quite a bit heavier than either of them. He was overweight, greying and obviously unfit. But on the other hand … she paused to ponder.

She had taken the exploits assigned to him with a large grain of salt, at the time of the meeting, but the truth of the matter was that someone had been very busy over the past week. If this man, as soft and weak as he seemed, was able to do all that, then maybe there was more to him than appearances suggested.

Not that this was her problem. She just wanted him dead. And Kaiser wanted him alive enough to talk to. Which posed a certain problem; while she had him in hand right now, she doubted that such an opportunity would arise again very quickly.

Fortunately, she had a solution to the problem. One which would probably not make Kaiser very happy, and it was certain to make Allen very unhappy indeed, but it would still allow her to kill Allen while giving Kaiser his precious chat. So fuck 'em both.

She finished her work on the micro-bomb and straightened up.

"About time you got here," she greeted them. "Lee, strap him down."

"Wait one second," Security objected. "Let the girl go. Disarm the bomb."

Bakuda shook her head. "I don't have to do anything you tell me. Lee, strap him down."

Security slapped aside Lee's hands. "Do it, or you'll have to kill me. And then you get to face -" He paused for a second. "Kaiser," he concluded.

Bakuda frowned. He'd been about to say something else, but changed his mind, she was sure of it. But it made her wonder. And it didn't cost her anything, really, to release the hostage.

"Call them up," she told him. "Ask them."

"I left my phone behind," he reminded her.

She sighed and handed him a burner phone. He dialled in a number, apparently from memory.

=//=//=​

"Hello?"

"Principal Blackwell? This is Michael Allen. Has anything happened with the bomb?"

"Yes – yes, it has. It stopped beeping and fell off her neck."

"So she's okay?"

"She's all right, yes."

"Good," I replied, and ended the call. I put my free hand behind my back, palm up.

"We're not here to kill you -" began Bakuda.

"Best news I've heard all day," I interrupted, tossing the phone in the air so that she had to catch it. At the same time, the pepper spray dropped into my hand.

I brought my hand out from behind my back and gave Oni Lee the benefit of a good solid spray from a range of three feet. His mask protected his mouth and nostrils, but I hit the eyeholes fair and square. He cried out, bringing his hands up to protect his eyes. I shoved him away and headed for the door.

Bakuda got in the way. Regretfully, she was protected by her goggles and gas mask, so I hit her in the face with an elbow smash instead. It hurt my elbow, but I believe it hurt her face more. Something broke; it may have been her nose. In any case, she fell backward away from me, and I scrambled for the door. As I did so, I heard dozens, hundreds, of bugs pouring out of the air vents and descending on the supervillains. Taylor was on the ball.

I'm not a good runner. I'm not really a runner at all. But I did my best; I was a good ten yards down the hallway before Oni Lee appeared in front of me. He had a knife in his hand, and somehow, despite having totally hidden features, managed to put forth the impression of being pissed.

Most people would have slowed down, tried to swerve, or even stopped. I didn't do any of that.

He realised at the last moment what I was intending, and brought up his knife toward my face. I hit him with my forearms first, knocking the knife up and out of the way, and then we collided with a bone-crunching impact.

Say what you will about being unfit and overweight; weighing in excess of two hundred and fifty pounds allows for a certain amount of momentum. I ploughed into him, his feet went out from under him, and he hit the floor, flat on his back. But he still managed to grab me with his free hand.

I wrested free, but then he crumbled to ash, and I had been halted for just a moment. And in that moment, his arm curled around my neck from behind.

I grabbed his arm, crouched slightly, and shoved my butt back toward him while pulling his arm further over my shoulder. He realised what I was doing, but too late; straightening my legs while bending, I lifted his feet clean off the floor. When I twisted and pulled, he went straight over my hip and on to the floor again.

He was already on his feet again as the body I had just thrown crumbled to ash. It seemed to be a stand-off; I couldn't put him down hard enough, and he wasn't allowed to kill me.

And then something small and round popped at my feet.

The world went woozy, and I folded. From my position on the floor, I looked up in confusion as bugs swarmed and darted at the two very tall people next to me. And then another little thing popped on the floor, and all the bugs went away.

Everything was really far away, and then really close, and then really far away again. I felt them dragging me back down the corridor, and in through the doorway. Then they tried to lift me onto the table.

"Fuck it," she cursed. I wanted to tell her that swearing was impolite. "I'll do it on the floor."

I didn't know what 'it' was, but I didn't like the sound of it. But struggling was something that other people did, people with working limbs.

She straddled me, and snarled down at me; I had popped one lens from her goggles, so she had a curious half-blind look about her. "If I used anaesthetic, you fat fuck," she told me vindictively, "I wouldn't in your case. That fucking hurt."

I wanted to tell her that I was glad that it had hurt. But all I managed was "blert".

And then she pushed my head to one side; I caught a glimpse of a scalpel blade before it disappeared from my line of sight.

She began cutting. I felt that, all right.

I screamed and passed out.

=//=//=​

Taylor wanted to throw up. She and Mike had not even really made the plan up; he had shown her the pepper spray he had palmed as he had handed her the belt. They both recalled how she had used bugs to carry one of those canisters when they fought Lung. Nothing could be said in front of Bakuda's camera, but they both knew the score. His whole aim was to get Emma free of the bomb, then get away.

Initially, the plan had worked. He had carried the pepper spray until Oni Lee intercepted him, then he had let it go, to be carried by the bugs that were shadowing him. These bugs had rested on the back of Oni Lee's robes, making it certain that the teleporter would not find them.

He had spoken with Bakuda, and she had – surprisingly enough – freed Emma. And then everything had gone wrong. For a moment, it seemed that he was getting away, but something had happened, and he had fallen over. She had attacked with all the bugs she had, while dragging the pepper spray away with others, but then Bakuda had done something else, and all the attacking bugs had died.

Mike was going to die, and it was all her fault. She hadn't backed him up enough. She hadn't done enough.

A rumble of a motorcycle heralded the arrival of Armsmaster; almost at the same time, a helicopter swooped in from overhead, setting down on the sports field next to the parking lot. From the chopper climbed a dozen PRT troopers, plus a heavy-set figure in blue.

Oh good, the Director's here. Now all I have to do is get her attention and convince her to rescue Mike before Bakuda finishes whatever it is she's doing to him.

=//=//=​

Director Piggot looked at the assembled staff and students with some disfavour. Bystanders, potential casualties. She didn't need them.

Armsmaster was directing the PRT troops to set up a perimeter, and to cover all the exits. He was thorough, methodical. She left him to it and made her way over to Principal Blackwell.

They knew each other by sight; Emily didn't think much of the woman, but then, she had a school full of potential criminals to run. And Shadow Stalker. There had been a major screwup there, and it was at least partially the fault of the school.

"Blackwell," she greeted the woman.

"Director Piggot," she was greeted in return.

"Who saw what happened?"

Blackwell pointed toward where Emma, Madison and Julia were being checked over by paramedics. She explained what had happened in terse, unhappy words; the fire alarm, the attack on Mr Gladly, the bomb on Emma's neck. The demand for Michael Allen.

Piggot stared at her. "And you just let him go in?"

Blackwell shrugged helplessly. "She said he had five minutes to decide. I believed her. He believed her."

"And the bomb's been disarmed?"

Blackwell nodded; she pointed at where the device lay, people avoiding it like the plague. "We haven't heard from him since."

"Where Bakuda's concerned," the Director told her grimly, "that's rarely a good thing."

She looked around. "I'm going to need to speak to those girls, any teachers who saw what happened … who's the girl holding the belt over there?"

Blackwell looked. "That's Taylor Hebert. He gave her his equipment belt to hold."

"They know each other well, then?"

A shrug from Blackwell. "According to them, he's a good friend of the family."

"I'll want to talk to her then, see if I can get a read on how he would act."

Blackwell nodded. "I'll pass the word."

Piggot gestured to the large crowd around them. "As for the rest of them – send them home. This school is closed until further notice."

Blackwell looked as though she was going to argue, then closed her mouth. She moved off, presumably to do what Piggot had told her.

The Director gathered in her explosives expert and the hostage negotiator by eye, and indicated the bomb collar. "She was using it to communicate, before," she told them. "See if you can get through to her. And try not to get blown up."

They both saluted, and moved off. She headed back to the truck, where a mobile command post was being set up.

=//=//=​

The side of my neck hurt. A lot. But the effect of the stun-bomb had worn off, more or less. I lay on the floor, in an awkward position, as it sank into my consciousness that I was indeed conscious.

Bakuda was talking, and not to me. Nor to Oni Lee.

" - he's alive, sure. But if you attack, he sure as hell won't be. And I've seeded the school with bombs. Sneak in, and boom! Kiss your ass goodbye."

There was a pause, then she kept talking.

"You know, makes me wonder what's so damn important about one fat old security guard. Security. Hah. As if."

I groaned and tried to get up, with middling success.

=//=//=​

"We didn't have any time to plan, that was the trouble. Emma was standing right there, and the camera was watching us. So he showed me the pepper spray. I used bugs to carry one, once before, when we took down Lung, so I had an idea what he wanted me to do."

Piggot nodded. "So is he alive, do you know?"

Taylor shrugged. "I have no idea. The bug bomb she used is slowly wearing off the area, but I still can't get many bugs in to attack Bakuda."

At that moment, Taylor's head came up.

Director Piggot looked at her. "Something?"

"Yeah. He's awake. Moving."

"Where's Oni Lee?"

"In one of the bathrooms, still bathing his eyes. Mike must have got him a good one."

"How many bugs can you muster to attack Oni Lee?"

Taylor showed her teeth in what might have been a grin. "All of them."

=//=//=​

Bakuda looked around. "Whoops. He's awake. Bye now, talk to you later."

It dawned on me that she must have been talking to those outside via the microphone link in Emma's bomb collar. The Protectorate and the PRT must be on site.

I gingerly touched the side of my neck. There was a seam of some sort, very tender to the touch.

"Ah, ah, ahh," she chided me. "No picking at it."

"What," I husked, then cleared my throat. "What did you do to me?" I reconsidered the question; I knew very well what she'd done. "What kind of bomb did you put in my head?"

She tilted her head. "Huh. Quick on the uptake for someone who's just been operated on."

My voice was grim. "I know how you work. What you do. What kind of bomb am I carrying? What'll it do to me?"

This time, I made it to my feet.

"Oh," she confided, "it'll just blow you the fuck up. But that's not the cool part."

"Remote detonated?" I guessed.

Electronic laughter came out of the gas mask. "Well, that too, but that's not the cool bit. Try again."

I shook my head; it hurt. "No idea."

Even with the electronic filtering, her voice was triumphant. "Proximity detonated. Plus a timer."

"I don't get it."

"Of course you don't fucking get it. I'm the genius bomb tinker, and you're a fucking know-nothing security guard." She pointed at my neck. "What's in there will blow in thirty-six hours' time, come hell or high water. But every time someone gets within two yards of you in that time -" She suddenly stepped closer to me, and I felt a jarring BZZZT in my skull. She stepped away again. "- the counter drops by one hour. So yeah, thirty-five hours."

I stared at her. "So, you've set it up so you can kill me at any time, and I'll certainly die in one and a half days. Because what, I helped capture Lung?"

She nodded. "That's part of it. And you fucked with the ABB. And nobody fucks with the ABB."

I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes for a moment. "You have no idea what you've done, do you?"

"What the fuck do you mean? I know exactly what I've done."

I shook my head. "You really don't." Opening my eyes, I looked around. "Where's tall, dark and demonic?"

She managed an electronic sneer. "Off someplace, trying to stop his eyes from burning. He's kinda pissed with you too."

"My heart bleeds." I looked at her. "So if I get close to you, I lose hours."

"Got it in one. I love a fast learner." She pointed at the door. "So go on. Leave. I'm done here."

"Yes," I told her grimly. "You certainly are."

Coming off the wall, I crash-tackled her across the bed and on to the floor.

BZZZT

=//=//=​

Taylor saw Mike attacking Bakuda, and reacted. Her forces were ready for action.

They struck.

She couldn't get many in to attack Bakuda, but Oni Lee was another matter.

=//=//=​

Oni Lee peered into the bathroom mirror. His eyes were swollen, and he could only just barely see if he squinted painfully. Running cold water over them was only offering the mildest of relief.

Bending over the basin, he tried once more.

The bugs swarmed out of every crack, every crevice, every space where things did not fit together perfectly. They converged on him, biting and stinging. His robes were no protection; they found the openings with embarrassing ease.

Many of them went for his eyes.

He teleported away. The bugs went with him. He teleported again, and again, and again. The bugs continued to attack.

By the time he finally managed to get rid of them, he was far away from Winslow High School.

=//=//=​

"What the fuck?" she yelped. "Get off me, you crazy fuck!"

She struggled; I held her down and slammed her head against the floor. Thud.

BZZZT

Writhing like a cat, she squirmed free and scrambled to her feet; I snagged her ankle, brought her down. Clambered on top of her.

BZZZT

She clawed at my face. I grabbed her wrists, pinned one hand under my knee. Twisted the other one, hard. She screamed as joints dislocated.

BZZZT

Grabbing the gas mask, I wrenched it off her face. She stared at me, eyes wide. The pepper spray dropped to the floor, right beside her head. Thank you, Taylor. I grabbed it up. Sprayed her in the face.

BZZZT

She screamed, choked, twisted under me. I lost the pepper spray. Grabbed her by the hair. Bashed her head against the floor again. Thud.

BZZZT

And again. Thud.

BZZZT

Again. Thud.

BZZZT

She was limp under me; I rolled off of her, far enough away that the buzzing ceased.

I was so out of breath that it wasn't funny; if Oni Lee came back any time now, I would be so dead.

But he didn't return. So I wrenched her left boot off, and prised the rings from her toes, to the cost of another buzz inside my head. Then I found an extension cord and tied a running knot. Using a broom, I eased it over Bakuda's left ankle, then pulled it tight. Then I started dragging her.

I tried to figure out why Contessa had not interfered.

I guess that all I need to do is stay alive long enough to tell her how to save the world. Anything past that isn't her problem.

Being expendable sucks.

=//=//=​

Piggot stared at Taylor. "You're kidding."

Taylor shook her head. "Not in the slightest. Oni Lee is gone. Out of my range. And Mike's on his feet. Bakuda's down, and he's on his way out."

Piggot keyed her mic. "All units, move in! Move in now!"

Boots thudded; there was a tense few moments, then the radio crackled. "Director, this is Callan. We have a visual on Allen."

Piggot keyed the mic again. "Status?"

"He's walking … seems disoriented or maybe injured. Dragging something. No. Someone. Female, Asian. Bakuda, maybe."

The Director frowned. "Dragging?"

"Cord around her ankle. Wait, he's warning us off. Not to come too close. He might be wired to blow."

"Take no chances. If he says he's wired to blow ..."

"Ah. Yeah. There's a bomb. He says it's got a proximity fuse. We're to stay more than two yards away from him."

"Can you remove it? Defuse it?"

"... no. It's in his neck. I can see the scar."

Piggot's head slowly fell forward until it bumped gently against the radio console. "Of course it fucking is."

=//=//=​

The PRT men had relieved me of the burden of dragging Bakuda; they had her up and restrained by the time she recovered her wits. She had trouble breathing, let alone seeing, but she was still cursing luridly as she stumbled along. I wasn't doing too well myself, but there was no-one to help me. To help me would be to kill me.

I pushed my way out through the doors and looked at the much-depleted crowd below. Emma was lying on a stretcher; Madison was sitting next to her. I couldn't see Julia anywhere, but Taylor was speaking to Director Piggot, next to a truck, some little distance away. They both turned as I started down the steps, leaning on the rail.

A paramedic approached me, but was waved off by the PRT soldiers who were flanking me, three yards away on each side. "Don't get any closer," he was told.

"Sir!" he called out. "Are you injured?"

"I just need to sit down for a bit," I called back. "And figure out how to get this bloody thing out of my neck."

"You have blood on your face."

"My face?" I touched my face, found dried scabs. "Ah. She scratched me. When we were fighting."

By the time I got to the bottom of the steps, I was winded, and I sat down to catch my breath. My hands were starting to shake as well; I knew what that meant. It was all starting to catch up with me.

I was looking down at the ground, trying not to throw up, when I heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel. Looking up, I saw Taylor. Her eyes were wide with distress; Director Piggot was flanking her.

"Taylor, come here," I told her. "No closer than two yards, okay?" I gestured to Piggot and the PRT men to back off; they did.

Taylor nodded tightly, and came closer, still holding the equipment belt.

"I'm sorry," she told me, her voice strained. "I should have done more."

I shook my head. "No," I corrected her. "You couldn't have. You did really good. I couldn't have done what I did without you. Your timing was perfect." I tilted my head. "Where did Oni Lee get to, anyway?"

She shrugged. "I hit him with bugs. He left."

I offered her a grin. "Not bad, kid."

She shook her head. "But not good enough. You've got … that … in your neck."

"It's okay," I assured her. "I have a plan to deal with it. Well, half a plan. Gonna need my phone."

She moved around me to the steps and put the equipment belt down, then backed off. I got up, fetched it, then went back to my original seat. Pulling out the phone, I turned it on, then stopped.

Looking up at Taylor, I raised a finger. "There's a lesson to be learned here. Sometimes, despite your best efforts, shit just happens. Don't beat yourself up over it. We'll get through this. Got it?"

Tremulously, she nodded. "Got it." Her jaw set. "If you die, I'll -"

I shook my head. " - do nothing. Until the world's saved, at least. She's important to that, okay?" I grinned. "Not as important as you, but still important."

She took a deep breath, and nodded. " … okay. Thanks."

I gave her a careful smile. "Good. Fist-bump?" I held up my fist. She mimed bumping it with her own. Then I pointed at the phone. "Gotta make a call, okay?"

She took the hint. "Okay." Stepping past Director Piggot and the PRT men, she backed off.

I dialled the number.

=//=//=​

Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown's phone rang; she picked it up. "Hello?"

"Director."

She instinctively sat up straighter in the chair. "Security."

"The same. I have a question about our colleague. Is he attending the doctor?"

"He assures me that he is."

"Oh, good. I would have hated to have had to kick his ass for him." She could not tell if he was being serious or not. After a moment, he went on. "How did he go with that little chore he wanted to do? With the disease strains?"

"In the main, he was successful," Costa-Brown told him. "He managed to contain the Sierra Bravo and the less mature Bravo Sierra. The rest were destroyed."

"Including the Whiskey Mike and the Juliet Sierra? This is a definite?"

"Absolutely guaranteed. Confirmed destroyed."

There was a pause. "We could maybe have used the Whiskey Mike. But it was a risky plan at best Good enough. Now. Here's the kicker. I need access to the Bravo Sierra."

Alexandria blinked. " … what?"

"I need access," he repeated. "Immediately. It's a matter of life and death."

She frowned. "Do you have any idea how deadly that strain is?"

"Yes. I do. That doesn't change matters. Director Piggot will be contacting you about it. Please expedite any red tape."

She tried one more time. "We had not publicised that. It was being kept at a special location." A Cauldron base, she meant. She knew he would understand.

He did. "So move it. Make up a reason that you hadn't told anyone. I need access, and I need it within twenty-four hours. Twelve would be better, six would be ideal."

Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown took a deep breath. "It will be done. But this had better be for a very good reason."

"Always is. Thanks. Bye."

The phone went dead in her ear. She sighed and stood up from her desk.

"Door." This was going to be an interesting conversation.

=//=//=​

I hung up the phone, then nodded to Director Piggot. She came closer.

"Director," I greeted her, trying for casual politeness. Fancy meeting you here.

"Mr Allen," she replied, her tone equally polite.

"Bit of a bugger."

She may have smiled faintly. "You seem to find yourself in these messes."

I took a deep breath; it helped a little. "I guess I can't help sticking my nose in other people's business."

"An unhealthy hobby, some might say."

"Yeah, well, someone's got to do it, right?"

She frowned. "I don't get your meaning."

I pulled myself to my feet. "You will. In the meantime … the Undersiders. Any comments?"

Her tone became wary. "Is this the time or place -"

"If it isn't," I snapped, "there is no time or place for this. Besides, I'm rapidly running out of times or places to do anything, if you hadn't noticed. So. The Undersiders. What's your side of matters?"

She took a breath, glanced around. No-one was too close to us.

"When the news broke regarding the Empire Eighty-Eight this morning, I instituted emergency protocols; all soldiers were to pull back to base unless on essential missions. Knowing what I did about Ms Lindt's dogs, I considered that to be an essential mission … but it seems that I didn't make it perfectly clear to everyone under my command."

I rubbed at my eyes. "So … some idiot decided to pull them in, not reinforce them or even send a truck to pick up the dogs."

Her lips compressed, but she nodded. "Essentially."

"And back at base, someone told the Undersiders about this, so they broke out."

"That is my supposition, yes."

"In other words, more or less forcing them to commit a crime to protect their dogs – and your men."

She nodded jerkily. "Yes."

I closed my eyes for a moment. Anger was welling up from some place deep inside me. Anger that battled the weariness, the fear, the thousand and one aches and pains that plagued me.

"Director Piggot. I'm going to say something now. Don't take it personally, but it needs to be said." I took a deep breath. "That there? What we're talking about? That's just negligence, plain and simple. I'm working to save the world here, and we haven't got the time for this bullshit, this negligence. We are working with the thinnest of margins. Do you have the slightest idea how unstable the world is? Even if we constrain ourselves to this barely superglobal scope?"

I shook my head. "There's a battle coming. A battle unlike any other the world has ever seen. One that will determine whether humanity, as a species, lives or dies. If it comes to a direct power contest, each and every cape who steps up will mean the difference between the life and death of millions of people. Each second spent convincing them to fight will cost us thousands. And that's even assuming that we win."

I swept my arm in a curve, indicating the horizon and the world beyond. "And all these different people must be made, manipulated, coerced, bribed to fight for a common cause. We're going to be needing total cooperation. From heroes and from villains. So please, Director, could you make sure that your subordinates do not undermine our whole fucking cause? Thank you."

She stood, staring at me. I was suddenly, horribly, aware that in my emotional state, I had perhaps said too much. This was the first time that I had alluded to the fight that we were going to have to go through, the one against Zion.

"Mr Allen," she ventured quietly, "is this what you meant when you said you were trying to save the world?"

I nodded jerkily. "That and a lot of other things. But yes, that's the big kahuna, the one that makes or breaks this world."

Her gaze was intent. "So, knowing this, and knowing that you are pivotal to what's happening ..." She paused.

I frowned. "Yes?"

"Why did you go in there to face Bakuda? Why did you take that risk?"

I gestured to where Emma lay on the stretcher. "I couldn't let that girl die."

She stared at me. "Even if it meant your death? The end of your plans? The end of the world?"

I raised a finger. "Ah. You see, I knew for a fact that I wasn't going to die in there."

"How could you possibly know that?"

I grinned. "Sorry. You're not cleared to know that yet."

If looks could kill, Bakuda need not have wasted her time on me. But fortunately for me, Emily Piggot possessed nothing in the way of death-rays from her eyes. It just seemed that way.

"So," she observed at last. "You have a bomb in your neck."

I nodded. "So it seems."

"Which has a proximity fuse, which is the only thing preventing me from attempting to wring your neck right now."

I grunted a chuckle. "Some silver lining."

She ignored my comment. "Is there anything else we need to know about it?"

"Yeah. It started with a countdown of thirty-six hours. In the course of beating the shit out of her, I lost about ten hours."

She raised an eyebrow. "Was it worth it?"

I showed my teeth in a grin. "Ask me again in twenty-six hours."

A nod of acknowledgement. "Your point is well taken." She eyed me perceptively. "You seem remarkably unconcerned about the whole thing."

"Oh, I'm concerned, I'm concerned," I assured her. "But I know of at least two different people who could remove it in relative safety, so that's why I'm not panicking and running in circles. Well, that and the fact that I seem to be out of adrenaline right now, for some inexplicable reason."

"I wonder why that might be," she agreed dryly. "Which two people are you thinking of?"

"Dragon and Riley," I replied promptly.

"Dragon and who?"

"Riley," I repeated. "You know, cute little twelve year old, blonde ringlets, up until a short time ago was known as Bonesaw? That Riley."

She shook her head. "She's dead. The Slaughterhouse Nine were taken down with one hundred percent casualties. It was on the news."

She was right; it had been on the news. I just hadn't had time to watch it. Besides, the news held only a passing acquaintance with the facts most times, as we had just demonstrated.

"Not the case, Director," I told her. "Yes, the Nine went down. But they were not wiped out. Bonesaw is a prisoner. And I need access to her. Please contact your Chief Director; she'll know where the murderous little munchkin is being kept."

She shook her head slowly. "I don't know whether to be more horrified that you know we have her in custody, when I did not, or that you are willing to let her operate on you." She paused. "Or that you know her by her first name."

"I have to admit, getting her to work on me is a bit of a gamble," I agreed. "But so long as we do it before tonight, it should all be good."

"You mentioned Dragon. Why not ask her?"

I nodded. "Oh, she can assist. And supply the waldoes, for that matter. However, Bakuda's really tricky when she implants her bombs; I would put absolutely nothing past her when it comes to booby traps. But Riley's the best surgeon in the world, bar none. If that bomb can be extracted safely, Riley's the one who can do it."

Piggot was staring at me. "You want to ask a serial murderer to be your surgeon? Do you know what she's done, these past few years?"

I nodded. "Six years, and yes. I know exactly what she's done. And why. I know what she's capable of, and that's why I want her to do it."

She shook her head in disbelief. "You have to be kidding me. You seriously have to be kidding me. There is no way this is going to fly."

I shrugged. "We've got twenty-six hours to figure out a better plan." I grimaced as the resonant BZZZT echoed through my skull. "Correction. Twenty-five hours."

She stared at me, aghast.

I manufactured a grin. It had absolutely no humour in it. "Better move things along, Director. Time's a-ticking."



End of Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

[Ack]

Security!

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Deadline


Time was indeed a-ticking.

I sat on the examination table in the PRT base, with my shirt and stab vest lying nearby. At the request of the doctors, I had removed the T-shirt I habitually wore under the vest, and they had gotten me to turn around in front of the large perspex window which separated me from them, so that they could look me over for potential injuries.

Normally this enclosed area was designed to protect attending physicians from potentially dangerous pathogens or even patients; in this instance, it was to protect me from them, to prevent them from accidentally stepping too close to me.

Once I had cleaned up the cuts and scrapes with the antiseptic which had been supplied to me, they examined me from a distance and pronounced me effectively healthy.

"Though you could stand to lose a deal of weight," one doctor had observed firmly.

I hadn't bothered responding; at that moment in time, my surplus weight was right at the back of the line as far as my personal health concerns were involved.

"So," I ventured. "Can I put my shirt back on now?"

My words were conveyed through the perspex by an open microphone link; the doctor nodded and waved assent. "I have a question," he replied.

Shrugging into the sleeves, I looked up. "Shoot."

"Why is it that you do not wish a mundane surgeon to even attempt the removal of the device? We do, after all, have surgical waldos."

"Because Bakuda is a tricky bitch," I explained. "Think of it this way; if you were a psychotic supervillain who routinely implanted bombs into peoples' heads, how would you go about making sure they didn't just get a doctor to cut them out again?"

He paused. "Ah. Some sort of failsafe."

"Yeah," I agreed. "She's a Tinker. I'd feel a lot happier with a Tinker or two dealing with it."

"You have a point," he acknowledged. "But in any case, while you're awaiting your preferred surgeon, perhaps we should see if we can get an idea of exactly what it is we're dealing with, and where it is inside your neck."

I nodded. "Makes a certain amount of sense. Let's do this thing."

"We'll escort you to the CT room," he told me.

As I slid off the table, I wondered idly how Amy was doing with her first day of therapy.

=///=​

The woman looked up as Amy entered the room. She rose from behind the desk and stepped around it to offer her hand.

"Hello, Amy," she said in greeting. "I'm Mrs Yamada. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Amy shook her hand; the older woman's fingers were long and slim and cool. "Likewise," she replied. She looked around at the office; it was furnished in earthy tones, and resembled the corner of someone's living room rather than a psychiatrist's office. On the wall, a large wooden clock ticked quietly, a short pendulum swinging from one side to the other.

"Wow," she commented at last. "This is not what I expected."

Mrs Yamada chuckled gently. She had Oriental features, warm brown eyes and a ready smile. "I find that people are more at their ease when seated in a comfortable armchair than lying on a couch." She gestured at the two chairs. "Take your pick."

Amy chose a chair, and lowered herself into its embrace; slowly, she relaxed, feeling the tension leach out of her. Mrs Yamada gestured at a counter. "Would you like a drink, or a cookie?" she asked.

"No, thank you, not at the moment," Amy told her.

"Very well," Mrs Yamada assented, seating herself in the other chair and propping a notepad on her knee. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

Amy blinked. "I thought we'd be going straight on to the topics Mike – Security – mentioned."

Again, the gentle, reassuring chuckle. "Not if you don't want to. You can't force therapy on anyone; if they want it, they get it. If they don't, all the doctors in the world cannot help them. So. Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

Amy thought about that. Mrs Yamada was … motherly. She was friendly and warm without being over-presumptuous, and Mike had assured her that nothing she said would freak the woman out. But she didn't want to jump into the deep end just yet. Better to test the waters first.

"If – if I say things about my family, will any of it get back to them?"

Mrs Yamada tilted her head slightly. "Not if you don't want it to. Doctor-patient privilege."

Amy nodded. Good. "Well, you already know my father is Marquis."

A nod. "And how do you feel about that?"

"I – I really don't know," confessed Amy. "On the one hand, it's a little bit of a relief to finally find out who he really is. On the other, it's really weird knowing that it's my dad who did all those things in Brockton Bay back in the nineties, before he went to the Birdcage. And it makes sense now, knowing who he is, understanding why Carol's treated me like she has."

"This is your adopted mother, Carol Dallon, yes?" asked Mrs Yamada.

"Yes," Amy replied. "She and Flashbang – Mark – adopted me when they captured Marquis and had him sent to the Birdcage."

Mrs Yamada nodded. "You said you understood why she treated you like she did. How is it that she's treated you?"

"Like I've done something wrong, or I'm about to, and I've never understood why, until now!" Amy burst out. "I mean, I sort of knew my dad was a bad guy, but I never knew who. But Carol's always looked at me like I was just like him, and she was waiting for me to show my true colours."

She sniffled; Mrs Yamada handed her a box of tissues, and waited till she had blown her nose.

"And do you think she was right?" asked the therapist gently.

"No. Maybe, I don't know," Amy replied. "I've just been having these … thoughts, lately."

"Thoughts?" prompted Mrs Yamada.

Amy began to explain, and Mrs Yamada listened patiently. On the wall of the office, the clock ticked quietly, and the pendulum swung, back and forth, back and forth.

=///=​

"So how long do you believe you have?" asked the doctor as I climbed on to the CT gurney.

"About twenty-four hours," I told him. "She said thirty-six hours, and I'm fairly certain it's been buzzed about twelve times since then."

He nodded, staying well clear of me. "Well, we'll have a look at the thing, and see if we can't figure a way to get it out of you before too long."

"Sooner rather than later, yes," I agreed. I lay down on the gurney, and felt the machinery engage to push it into the archway that contained the CT apparatus. Lying still, with my arms at my side, I felt the metal tunnel enclose me. As bulky as I am, there wasn't much clearance in any direction.

"Now, lie still so that we can get the best possible picture," he cautioned me. Then he must have activated the microphone. "Director Piggot, we're ready to start."

Her reply came back clearly. "Go ahead, Doctor."

I distinctly heard the click as he hit the switch to begin the scan. I also heard the hum of the machinery powering up. Unfortunately, I heard one other thing, all too clearly.

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT

"Fuck!" I yelled. "Turn it off! Turn it off!" Awkwardly, hampered by the fact that I only just barely fit in the tunnel, and that I was on my back, I tried to struggle out of the archway.

"What?" he called back. "Hold still! You're spoiling the scan!"

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT

"Turn it off! Turn it off!" I yelled again. "It's running down the timer!"

Grabbing the lower end of the archway, I heaved, pulling myself a few inches downward.

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT

I struggled a few more inches, but it was hard going. Fuck, I'll never get out in time.

And then the hum died down; he must have turned it off. I kept struggling, not willing to stop until I was out of there. But then the gurney activated, rolling back smoothly, conveying me out of the archway. I sat up, panting heavily. "That," I observed, "was a really bad fucking idea."

The doctor came over, but remembered to stop outside of the two-yard limit. His face was etched with concern. "What was that about?" he asked. "You said it was counting down the timer?"

"Yes!" I shouted. I started shaking. If I had been in there a few seconds longer ...

The door opened, and Director Piggot stepped in. "What's going on?" she asked. "What happened?"

"Bakuda is a sneakier bitch than I anticipated," I told her heavily. "Which was my mistake. You know when I said that I wouldn't put any booby trap past her?" I indicated the CT archway. "I should have thought that she'd put in detectors for medical sensors."

She grimaced. "How many hours did you lose?"

"Nine," I told her. "And about ten years off my life. I nearly had a fuckin' heart attack."

She stared. "Nine?"

I shrugged. "What I counted. Bakuda's a mean bitch."

"We could try other types of sensor," the doctor suggested. "Ultrasound or x-ray ..."

Director Piggot and I both turned to him at the same time. "No."

I allowed the other two to exit before I followed them, keeping a careful three yards of distance between us.

"So whoever does the surgery is going in blind," Piggot observed, not sounding happy.

"And we've got no more than fifteen hours to get it sorted," I added.

"You don't think it's messed up the timer so it'll go faster?" she ventured, sounding even unhappier.

I turned to her with ice running down my spine. "Oh fuck, don't even think that."

She met my gaze with eyes that had seen more terror, more horror than I ever had. And she looked worried.

"Is it something that Bakuda would do?" she asked quietly.

I paused, wanting to say no. But I couldn't.

" … in a heartbeat," I admitted, equally quietly.

"Oh Christ, I'm sorry," the doctor blurted. "I never thought -"

I waved his apologies away. "Any active sensor would probably have done it," I told him. "No wonder she was so fucking pleased with herself."

"How fast was it buzzing?" Piggot wanted to know.

"Groups of three," I admitted.

"So, fifteen hours compressed down to five then," she decided. "That's the timeframe we'll work with."

"Someone needs to contact Dragon, tell her that the deadline just moved up," I told her. "And what's the latest on Riley?"

"Dragon contacted us about fifteen minutes ago," she told me, sounding pleased that there was some good news to be had. "She'd finished fabricating the surgical waldos and was on her way here with them."

"Might want to light a fire under her," I suggested. "We just lost twenty hours."

"I'll do that," she decided. "As for Riley, she's being conveyed here under heavy guard from DC. I'll tell them to get a move along, to make sure she can get here in time to perform this surgery on you."

"If I can convince her to help," I amended.

She gave me a look I could not read. "Just pull some of your Security bullshit," she told me, and moved off to make the call.

=///=​

Amy walked out of Mrs Yamada's office feeling as though her feet were not quite touching the floor. Her eyes were red from crying, but she and Mrs Yamada had made a good start on working out some of the issues that Mike had outlined. She could not believe what a huge relief it was to be able to talk to someone about them. She hadn't even realised the depths of her problems, and how much they had been weighing on her, until she began discussing them with the therapist.

Danny looked up as she emerged, and rose to his feet. "Hey, kiddo," he greeted her. "Mrs Yamada, hi. I'm Danny Hebert."

Jessica Yamada shook his hand firmly. "Amy mentioned you, and how you've given her a place to stay," she observed. "That was kind of you."

He shrugged, watching as Taylor rose and came over to Amy. "A favour for a friend," he commented off-handedly. "But I'm not having any problems. Amy's a sweet kid."

"I've found her so," agreed Mrs Yamada. "This was just the first session, of course, but I think we made real progress today."

Taylor hugged Amy. "So how was it?" Amy felt the slimmer girl's arms go around her, returned the embrace.

"It was … different," Amy decided. "But in a good way. It's ... I don't know how to describe it."

Danny nodded. "That's the general idea with therapy," he agreed. "You don't get better in just one session. But you're feeling good with it?"

"Yeah. I want to come back." She pulled back from the hug and looked at Taylor. "Did you come here from school just for me?"

Taylor grinned. "Well, that, and the fact that we got shut down early." She started for the door.

"Bye, Mrs Yamada." Amy waved to the therapist, and followed Taylor.

"Goodbye, Amy. See you next time."

Danny followed them out, closing the door behind them. The afternoon sun slanted across the pavement as they headed to where the car was parked.

"Well, kids," he suggested, "how about ice cream? My treat. I've got the afternoon off, so we might as well do something fun, right?"

"Sure," replied Amy. "But Taylor, what do you mean, the school got shut down early?"

Taylor hesitated. "Uh … he said not to worry you."

"Who said to not to worry me about what?" asked Amy quietly.

Taylor and Danny glanced at one another. Wordless communication passed between them, then Danny turned to Amy. "Mike," he told her. "He was … there was a supervillain attack. Bakuda and Oni Lee. Oni Lee was driven off. Mike captured Bakuda. But ..."

"Wait, wait, what?" exclaimed Amy. "Captured her?"

"Beat hell out of her, as far as I could see," Taylor supplied. "But first … she, uh, implanted a bomb in his head."

Amy was stricken. "Christ!" she blurted. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"He told us not to," Taylor explained. "He didn't want to interrupt your therapy."

"Fuck the therapy!" Amy snapped. "I should have been told! It's his life, for Christ's sake!"

"Amy." Danny's voice was calm, collected.

She looked at him, suddenly ashamed for swearing. "Uh, yes?"

"I trust Mike's judgement in this. Do you?"

She blinked. Remembered the heavy-set man entering the bank, talking to her calmly, walking her out, just before it was robbed. Changing her life.

He had never hesitated, never flinched, even in the face of what he had known what was coming. What had nearly happened to her, but for his intervention.

"I … I guess," she mumbled.

He nodded. "Good. Now, the bomb's got a proximity sensor and a timer. If anyone gets within two yards of him, the timer ticks down an hour. The timer's good till sometime tomorrow afternoon, so they're getting a specialist in to do the surgery, using remote waldos. Probably sometime tonight or tomorrow morning."

Amy shook her head. "That's too long. I could do it right now. I could push the bomb right out of him."

Taylor looked uncomfortable. "Uh … he said to tell you no," she confessed.

"What? No! Why not?"

Danny took a deep breath, then released it. "Tell you what," he decided, pulling out his keys and unlocking the car. "Let's go talk to him. He can tell you."

"Good idea," replied Amy, climbing in. "Let's do that."

=///=​

"Are you sure you want to talk to him?" asked Miss Militia. "You were involved in his capture, after all."

I paused outside Lung's cell. "Well, Riley still isn't here, so I may as well pass the time doing something constructive."

She tilted her head. "Constructive?"

I gestured at the cell. "We're gonna need him on side, sometime relatively soon. No time like the present for laying the groundwork."

She frowned. "But … he's going to the Birdcage."

I shrugged. "Maybe."

She shook her head, and keyed the door open. Massive bolts pulled back from their recesses, and the door swung slowly aside. Within was a set of heavy steel bars, backed on my side by a perforated sheet of perspex. And on the other side of the bars … was Lung.

He was impressive. I seemed to recall that even in rest state, he was still a formidable Brute. Bald, muscular, over six feet tall, he had shed his shirt to show off a truly impressive set of tattoos on his chest and neck and arms, all to do with dragons of one sort or another.

"Lung!" snapped Miss Militia. "Visitor!"

Slowly, he turned his head to observe me.

"I do not know you," he growled.

I took a few steps forward. "We've met. You can call me Security."

"It must not have been a very memorable meeting," he stated dismissively, turning his head away.

"I was wearing a mask at the time," I reminded him. "You tried to rip my guts out. I shot you a few times. Then Weaver deafened you and fed you a pepper spray canister."

His head turned back to me. "That ... was you?" he grated.

I nodded. "That was me. You're one tough sonofabitch."

"How did you survive my claws?" he asked me, curious despite himself.

"I was wearing a stab vest. You pretty well ruined it."

He chuckled briefly. "Lucky."

I tilted my head. "Not luck. Preparation and planning."

His eyes narrowed. "So. You have come to gloat?"

"No. I've come to make you an offer."

Slowly, he stood, and he moved over to the bars. "Who is to say that I will accept any offer you make, fat man?"

I looked up at him; I stand nearly six feet myself, but he was taller than me. "That's up to you, once you hear the terms."

"Wait," he growled. "Turn your head to the left."

With a sigh, I turned my head. The reddened scar was made plainly visible.

"Bakuda," he spat. It seemed that he did not approve of her practice of putting bombs in people.

"Got it in one," I confirmed.

"You are one of hers now?" Then he reconsidered. "But no, they would not allow you in here."

"No," I agreed. "Not one of hers. I beat shit out of her, after she did this to me."

He took the news of her beating with equanimity. "And Oni Lee?"

"He was being attacked the same way you were, with bugs. He left. We haven't seen him since."

"Hm." The sound was a growl. "So, how much time do you have?"

He was more perceptive than he seemed. "Long enough."

"Which means, not long," he noted. "So, fat man, what is your offer?"

"I want you to join me," I told him, deadpan.

He stared at me, face blank, for a long moment, then he burst out laughing. I folded my arms and watched him. Eventually, he calmed himself, but a savage grin was still lurking about his face as he composed his features.

"That was a good joke," he allowed. "Now tell me why you are really here."

I sighed in impatience. "Let's start with how you ended up in this cell," I told him. "I knew exactly where you would be, and when. I knew how many men you would have with you. I took a brand-new cape with me, one who had never been in a single fight. I told her exactly how to defeat you. And she did. Handily. Lung, the toughest cape in Brockton Bay, the man who went toe-to-toe with Leviathan, was taken down by a teenage girl with the assistance of one old, fat security guard."

His face darkened. "So, you came to gloat after all," he snarled.

I shook my head. "Hardly. That was just a demonstration."

He stared at me; I didn't elaborate. Finally, as I knew he would, he broke the silence.

"A demonstration of what?" he asked.

"That things are changing," I told him flatly. "The world is changing. And if you don't change yourself, you'll get left behind."

"Changing?" he growled. "In what way?"

"The Slaughterhouse Nine are done," I informed him. "Eidolon killed all but two of them, just the other day. I told him how to do it." It was stretching the truth, but not very much.

His eyes widened fractionally. "Even Crawler?"

I nodded. "Even Crawler."

He shrugged. "They had made enemies of the civilised world. It was inevitable."

I dropped my bombshell. "And the Endbringers are finished."

That got his attention. He stared at me. "You joke."

I shook my head. "Nope. I have taken steps, and the Endbringers are no longer a factor."

He stared at me, seeking any sign of deception. I stared back, holding his gaze.

"I have faced an Endbringer in combat," he growled. "I know their strength, their power. Do you?"

"I know far more about Endbringers, and their strengths and weaknesses, than you ever will," I retorted. "And I have neutralised them as surely as you were taken down, once upon a time, in a drug house in Japan, years ago. Remember? When your face was pushed into the white powder, and you were choking on it, before you triggered. Do you remember, Kenta?"

His stare hardened, sharpened. "How do you know of that?"

I chuckled. "Sorry. You're not cleared to know that."

"Do not taunt me, fat man, or I swear -"

I shook my head. "No taunt. It's the simple truth. Director Piggot isn't cleared to know that." I showed my teeth in a grin. "Even Chief Director Costa-Brown doesn't have that clearance."

He paused, apparently thinking. "Then who do you speak for?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Myself. And the world. I'm here to save it. And I'm going to need your help."

His voice was scornful. "One so powerful as you, and you say you need my help, one who you defeated so easily."

"There is power and there is power, Kenta, known as Lung. There is the power that comes from knowledge, and the power that comes from a strong right arm. I have the former. You have the latter. And as useful as knowledge is, sometimes you just need someone who can hit, really, really hard."

He tilted his head to one side. "And what do you need me to hit?" It wasn't surrender, or even agreement. He was feeling out the territory, seeing what I wanted.

I shook my head slightly. "Not yet. I just need to know if you're on board. Because if you're with me on this, you're accepting a new world, a new way of doing things. You're stepping away from the ABB. They're the past. This is the future. Are you stuck in the past, or are you a part of the future?"

He was silent for a long moment. While he was still thinking, Miss Militia cleared her throat, and gestured back out of the cell. I nodded.

"Think about it, Kenta," I invited him. "But don't take too long. The world's not about to stop changing. I'm not done yet."

I stepped back out, and the door swung shut with a heavy clunk. Automatically, it locked, the bolts sliding into their recesses.

"Riley's here?" I asked.

Miss Militia nodded. "They just landed. And you have visitors. Weaver, her father, and Panacea."

"Oh boy," I muttered. "Here we go."

As we walked along, a careful two yards apart, she turned her head to face me. "What you said to him in there ..."

"Yeah?"

"How much of that was true?"

I shrugged. "All of it, more or less."

She was silent for a few moments, processing that information.

"So why were you asking him for help?"

I turned to look her in the eye. "Because we're gonna need him. Sooner or later, we're gonna need everyone's help."

She didn't have a response for that; we walked on.

=///=​

Alan Barnes looked over at Emma as he drove her home. She huddled, silent, on the passenger seat. The paramedics had pronounced her healthy, with just a few bruises and contusions to show for her ordeal. These had been cleaned on site, and she had been released into her father's care.

"Emma?" he asked. "How are you feeling?"

She sat up slightly then, and looked around at him.

"I … think I'll be all right," she managed. "Eventually. After I get over all of this."

He nodded. "I just want you to know that your mother and I will be right beside you all the way. If you want to stay out of school for a while ..."

She shook her head. "No. I'll be fine. It's not like the last time."

He remembered the last time. Eighteen months previously. The ABB ambushing the car, dragging his daughter out through the broken window. The stuff of nightmares. He'd had them, for several weeks afterward. Hers had lasted longer, it seemed.

"Not the same?" he asked curiously.

She nodded, jerkily. "This time I had a choice. Sort of. And Mr Allen saved me. After I saved Mr Gladly. He was saved, wasn't he?"

Alan nodded. "From what I understand, his vitals were strong when they took him away."

In truth, he had no idea what state the man had been in, but he had to encourage this line of thought.

"Good," she replied.

"Emma …" he began. "You did a good thing. You saved his life. But … as your father … please don't ever do that again." His tone was pleading. A tear ran down his cheek.

Slowly, she shook her head, her hand stealing up to touch her throat. "Don't worry about that, Dad. I died a thousand times while that thing was around my neck." She drew a deep breath. "But I think I learned something really, really important."

He tilted his head, glancing toward her. "Learned something?"

She nodded. "I was wrong. Sophia was wrong. Badly wrong."

"About what?"

She took a deep breath. "About strength. It's not about pushing people down. It's about helping them. If you can help others, then that's strength."

He didn't disagree. The rest of the drive passed in silence.

=///=​

Getting me up and down in the elevator involved a certain amount of thought. I wasn't about to climb all those stairs myself; a heart attack just might do what the bomb failed to do. But we figured it out. Miss Militia went first and then sent the lift back down to me; it was just too small for two people to stand six feet apart, even diagonally. I got in, hit the 'express' button, and the doors interleaved shut.

Waiting for me, when I got up there, were Danny, Taylor and Amy. Danny looked concerned, Taylor looked serious, and Amy looked pissed.

"Hey, guys - " I began, but Amy cut me off.

"Don't you go 'hey' to me, Michael Allen!" she snapped.

"Whoa, hold on a second," I protested. "What's going on? Why so upset?" I thought I knew, but I figured I'd ask, just in case.

"I'm upset because you don't trust me to help you!" she accused me. "You're just like -"

She cut her words off then, but I heard the next one loud and clear. Carol.

The realisation hit me harder than Lung had done, on that warm Sunday night. Oh. I'm a moron. She's been living in an atmosphere of mistrust for ten years. And then I go and do this.

"Oh shit," I exclaimed. "No, sorry. I didn't mean it like that. And I didn't mean to make you think I didn't trust you. Of course I bloody well trust you."

She took a deep breath. "Then why didn't you call me?" she shouted.

I chose my words carefully. "Because it's not your job. Because you're off duty, young lady."

She had a full head of steam, ready to blast more anger at me. But my words caught her up short. "You know I – what?"

"You heard me. You're off healing duties for a month. That started this morning. You promised that you'd lay off healing people, and you'd attend therapy, all month. Right?"

"I – yes, I promised, and I am going to therapy, but -"

I raised my eyebrows questioningly. "But what?"

"But you need me to help you! That's more important!"

I waited a few beats, then I shook my head. "No."

She blinked, the rug pulled out from under her. "What?"

"I said no. Nothing is more important than you getting your head together. And if you decide that my problems are more important, then what's to say that tomorrow someone else will be more important? Then before you know it, you'll be sneaking out to go to the hospital again, and you'll be feeling twice as guilty, because you'll still be burning out, even as you know you should be holding off."

"But you might die!" she wailed.

"Anyone could die before tomorrow," I told her. "Earthquake. Meteorite strike. Sudden unexplained Endbringer attack. Your next door neighbour manifests super-powers and flattens your house by accident. A portal opens to the Star Trek universe and your house is swamped with Tribbles. It's a strange, strange universe." Stranger than you know.

She giggled despite herself, then sobered. "But why won't you let me help you?" she persisted. "I'll do therapy for an extra day."

I sighed. "Because the bomb has a proximity sensor," I told her. "If you came within two yards, you would kick the counter down an hour. And I've only got four or five left."

"I could get the bomb out in that time," she insisted. "It would take ten seconds, tops. Maybe less."

"And can you deal with any booby traps that Bakuda has built in to stop just that from happening?" I asked gently. "Suppose she's set it up that if it gets taken out while someone's in proximity range, it goes off?"

Her face paled, the freckles standing out in sharp detail. "I – I didn't think of that. Would she do something like that?"

"She already made it so that when we tried to get a CT scan of it, it set the timer on to triple speed," I advised her. "That's why I've only got five hours. My best bet is to go with another Tinker. Actually, two Tinkers. I'm just going to talk to one of them now."

She frowned. "Who?"

I shook my head. "You know how I've said there's things you're better off not knowing?"

"Um … yes?"

"That's one of them."

Her expression turned outraged. "What? But ..."

"Sorry, but that's the way it's got to be," I told her. "Though ..."

She looked hopeful. "Yes?"

"If you could maybe stick around? There's a small but non-zero chance that this will go bad without actually killing me. If that happens, there's no-one I'd prefer to try to piece me back together, afterward." I imagined Riley piecing me back together, and shuddered.

She looked determined. "You bet."

I gave Danny a nod, which he returned. For Taylor, I mimed a fist-bump gesture, which she copied, despite the fact that we were three yards apart.

I turned to Miss Militia. "So, where is she?"

She gestured back toward the lift. "This way." Of course. Basement level, in the cells.

And off we went, to speak with Bonesaw.

=///=​

Principal Blackwell sat at her personal computer. Winslow would be shut down for a couple of days, until the PRT bomb disposal teams were sure that the building was clear of the lethal little devices that they had found scattered liberally through the classrooms. Fortunately, it was Friday, so the curriculum would suffer as little disruption as possible.

Talking of disruptions …

The three girls at the centre of the Winslow hostage situation had acquitted themselves well; Emma had offered herself as a hostage to spare Mr Gladly's life. Madison and Julia had assisted Mr Allen in saving Gladly from bleeding out altogether.

Taylor Hebert will be attending Arcadia. There will be no danger of this particular situation recurring. And perhaps the girls have learned an important lesson of life.

With Gladly in the hospital, she simply would not have the staff to oversee the girls in their in-school detention. She could still uphold the ban on sports and other activities, but allowing them to return to their studies … that was only fair.

As for the gangs …

She opened a new page in her word processor program.

Gang activity, she typed, is no longer permitted within Winslow High School. Any persons wearing the insignia of, or expressing support toward, the gangs known as Azn Bad Boyz, Empire Eighty-Eight or the Merchants – or any other criminal gang – will undergo immediate punishment.

She paused, thinking about the next few lines. And how it would be received by the student body. And the staff.

First offenders will be warned. Failure to immediately dispose of the insignia or to cease the gang activity will lead to suspension without appeal. A second offence will lead to the summary expulsion of the student or students involved.

She typed a few more lines, then saved the document and attached it to an email intended for the school governors, for their approval. After what had happened in Winslow – it was plastered all over the evening news – she doubted that they would object.

The PRT had taken away Mr Allen, without releasing much in the way of information regarding his situation. She suspected some sort of potentially serious injury, perhaps inflicted by a super-powered opponent. In any case, she doubted that he would be fit to return to duty on Monday morning.

After a few moments of introspection, she opened the email and began typing again.

As our current security guard, Michael Allen, is likely to be unable to be fit for work, we will need able-bodied guards if the above notice is to be enforced. I hereby request that you contract another guard from Wolfhound, or perhaps two more.

Closing off the email, she sent it away.

I will admit that I did not like the man, but the fact remains that he did his job, and did it well. I can only hope that whoever they send me can do their job half as well as he did, against the criticism we all levelled at him.

And that job, she knew, would be cut out for them.

=///=​

The lift doors interleaved open once more. Earlier, I had been impressed by the technology. Now, I was just pleased that the lift was fast enough to get me where I wanted to go without excess delay.

As I exited, the sound I was dreading to hear echoed through my skull once more.

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT

Miss Militia looked at my face and immediately knew that something was wrong.

"What happened?" she asked.

"The Director was right," I informed her grimly. "I just got a countdown warning. Three buzzes. I've got four hours left."

She nodded in understanding. "Then let's make this count."

Bonesaw's cell was not unlike Lung's, although it was in a different section, and the guards wore full environmental gear. This was where they kept the real problematic cases, I gathered.

There was the main door, then the sheet of perspex; only this time, it wasn't pierced. The air on her side of the barrier stayed on her side of the barrier. Like Lung's it no doubt had hidden containment foam sprayers, ready to encase her at a moment's notice if she tried anything strange.

I stepped into the space before the perspex sheet; Miss Militia carefully kept out of my way.

Beside the door, there was an intercom button and a speaker. I pressed the button.

"Excuse me, Riley? Do you have a moment?"

The child on the other side of the barrier looked around at me in some surprise. I was jolted; somehow, I had expected her to show some outward sign of her years in the Slaughterhouse Nine. But she was as cherubic as any normal twelve year old. Blonde hair, now cut short; kid-size prison sweats. I wondered where they'd gotten those; it would not be as if there were many child supervillains.

And then, I realised, there were. Starlet, August Prince, Bambina, just to name three.

How many kids must trigger and turn to crime these days?

Lisa, Brian, Rachel, Alec …

Wow.

This world is hurting.

One more reason to try to fix it, reduce the amount of conflict going around.

"Um, who are you?" she asked, approaching the perspex. "Are you my lawyer?"

I shook my head. "No, Riley. But I can maybe help you more than he can." If she even gets one. As I recall, there's a standing kill order on all members of the Nine. I doubt they'd even get a trial, let alone a lawyer. "My name's Mike."

She frowned. "Why are you calling me Riley?"

I shrugged. "Because it's your name. Had you forgotten?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course I hadn't forgotten. But how did you know it? No-one knows my real name."

My voice was gentle. "Because Jack never let you use it, did he? You weren't Riley. You were his little Bonesaw."

She swallowed. "You'd better be careful. He'll come for me soon. You don't want to be here when he does."

"Jack?" I shook my head. "He's dead. Eidolon made sure of it."

It was her turn to shake her head. "Nobody can kill Mr Jack. They've been trying since before I was born. And he'll come for me, and he'll be angry."

I raised an eyebrow. "Angry at me, for being the one who helped Eidolon capture you, or angry at you for being caught?"

She didn't answer; she just hugged one arm around herself, clasping her other arm. The gesture tore at my heart.

'Well," I went on, "Jack is well and truly dead. So you don't have to be his Bonesaw any more. You can go back to being Riley."

She dug a bare foot into the rubber matting, then looked defiantly at me. "You can't tell me what to do!"

I grinned at her, and leaned against the wall. Slid down till I was sitting on the floor. "Good. That's good."

Riley frowned, confused. "What?"

"Talk back to me. Get angry. Think about what's going on around you. Bonesaw was the good girl who did what people told her. What Jack told her. She was the good girl, because that's what your mommy told you to be, right?"

Her frown deepened. "How do you know that? How do you know what she said?"

I shrugged slightly. "Same way I know you loved Muffles and Drew too, even though you fought with him."

Every little girl loves her pet, and every girl fights with her brother. I had a little sister, myself, and I recalled some epic arguments.

Her mouth dropped open. "How do you – no fair! You know stuff about me that no-one knows!"

"Yup. And that's how I know Riley's still inside there. Waiting to come out. Because six years is a long time."

She shook her head. "No. That's not true."

"Isn't it?" I asked gently. "Are you absolutely certain … Riley?"

"No," she insisted. "I've done too much, hurt too many people. I'm not Riley any more. I'm Bonesaw. Riley doesn't do things like that to people."

"No," I agreed. "She helps people. Which is why you're here. I need help, Riley. I need your help."

She blew a raspberry. "Like I'd help you. You got me in here. You got Mr Jack and the others killed. What am I gonna get if I help?"

"A pat on the back," I observed truthfully. "And a little more leeway. More comfort. They'd give you the option to reverse the surgeries you've done on yourself. Start making amends. Helping people."

She rolled her eyes. "As if anyone would allow Bonesaw to even get close to them. People don't forget, Mike. With all the will in the world, they'd still reject me. And they'd be correct to do it." A perceptive glance. "What you need help with … will you die, otherwise?"

"It's a very real possibility," I admitted.

"And if I help you, and you die anyway, they'll say I did it on purpose. And maybe I would. I don't like being forced to do something."

"I can understand that," I agreed. "Like they forced you into the Nine, in the first place."

She shook her head vigorously. "No. No. They recruited me, fair and square. Mr Jack said so."

My expression was deadpan, my voice expressionless. "Really."

"He said so!" she insisted.

I shook my head. "Do you know what Jack's powers were?" I asked quietly.

She frowned, puzzled at the change in topic. "That … knife blade thing," she said at last, waving her hand vaguely.

I nodded. "That's one of them. His powers were based around communication. One part of it physically communicated a cutting edge as far as he wanted it to. Another part let him know exactly what another parahuman was going to do before they did it – his power communicated with their powers, you see. And the third part let him talk to people, to know exactly what to say to them to get them to do what he wanted them to do. Particularly parahumans. That's how he managed to dance between the raindrops for more than twenty years."

She stared at me. "That … that makes so much sense," she responded at last.

"Does, doesn't it?" I agreed. "Anyway, the way they recruited you? Forcing you to bring your family back to life – your mommy, your daddy, Drew, Muffles – over and over again, until you were too tired to think straight, until you simply couldn't face it any more. That was Jack's doing. He knew how to break you. What to do, what to say. When to ask you if you really loved your mommy. How to phrase it so that you'd decide that you didn't, just to break out of the endless cycle of fixing them, just to watch him and his friends kill them again ..."

I trailed off. She was staring at me, eyes wide. I waited; she didn't seem to have much to say.

"Your mommy told you to be a good girl," I went on. "And so you did. You ate your vegetables, and you didn't use bad words, and you did what you were told." I spread my hands. "Of course, the person doing the telling was a sociopathic monster, and you learned to use your powers to pretend to be a monster as well, to enjoy it, because that way he would be happy with you. Stockholm syndrome; it's a thing."

She was shaking her head again; not in negation, but in denial. "No," she insisted. "No, it's not true, it can't be true. Mr Jack didn't do that to me. I decided to do it all by myself."

I considered using Contessa's 'breadth and depth' line on her, but decided against it. It had worked for Contessa because, well, Contessa. At that precise time and place, it had worked. Here and now … I wasn't Contessa. I only had access to Path to Victory via second hand use, if I was lucky. Here and now … not so much.

"I don't believe that, Riley," I told her flatly. "And nor do you. Inside, you're still the same girl who loved her parents and her brother and her pet. You're a good girl; not the 'good girl' Jack made you into, but an actual good girl, who wants to help people, not hurt them. I know it, just like I know all the other things about you."

She ran her fingers through her cropped blonde hair. "How do you know those things, anyway?" she demanded again. "Who told? Mr Jack?"

"Not Jack," I told her. "I just know them. And I know one other thing."

"What's that?" she asked.

"That right now, I need your help. I need the help of the best surgeon in the world."

She looked me up and down. "You've already said that, but you didn't say what for." She paused. "What's that scar on your neck?"

I nodded slowly, then turned my head to give her a better look. "Bakuda put a bomb in my head; as far as we can tell, it's somewhere up under the base of my brain. But she included booby-traps to make surgical extraction as hard as possible."

She spread her hands. "So get someone like Panacea to make it pop out of you. Problem solved."

My voice was flat. "Maybe you weren't listening. Bakuda. Booby traps. Including a proximity sensor that kicks the timer over if someone gets within six feet of me. And another that speeds it up if we try medical sensor equipment."

"Both of which have already happened, I'm guessing," she observed, pressing closer to the perspex to get a better look at the scar.

"Got it in one," I admitted ruefully. "Started with thirty-six hours. Lost ten hours beating her up. Lost another couple pissing about here and there, waiting for you to turn up and suchlike. And lost nine when they put me under a CT scan."

"Which leaves fifteen hours, more or less," she noted. She was a sharp kid, of course.

I shook my head. "The bout with the CT scanner sped up the timer. I've got a little less than four hours to go."

I looked directly at her. "Bakuda is really inventive with her booby-traps. Let's just say that this is a challenge to you; can the master surgeon remove something that the master bomb-builder put in someone's head?"

She rubbed her chin, frowning. Not convinced yet. Still looking shaken by the information I had forced on her. "I'd need tools -"

"Surgical waldos, built to fit your hands and eyes, have been fabricated and are being flown in," I pointed out.

She tilted her head. "Who by?"

"Dragon. She's going to assist in this operation, and help deal with the booby-traps as they come up."

Riley actually looked impressed for a moment. "Surgical tools built by Dragon?" And then the expression gave way to one of suspicion. "Why do you rate this? Why do you rate me?"

I shrugged slightly, modestly. "People seem to think I'm important for what I know."

"Huh." She stared into thin air. "Dragon-made surgical tools ..."

"So you'll do it?"

Immediately I uttered the words, I knew I had been too fast, too eager in saying them. Too rattled by the encroaching deadline.

Her defences came up again. "I know what you're trying to do. You're trying to manipulate me, just like Jack did."

I noted the lack of the honorific, but chose not to comment on it. She was still talking.

"The Nine killed my family, yeah, but then they became my family. In a really twisted way, but they were all I had. And now you helped Eidolon kill them, and you're trying to talk me into doing something for you. Why should I do anything for you?"

I spread my hands. "I … because it's the right thing to do?"

She laughed mirthlessly. "For you, sure. For me? What do I care if you live or die? You're all like him. Telling me what to do!"

I tried, one more time. "Riley -"

Stubbornly, she folded her arms and turned away. "Leave me alone. I don't do what anyone tells me, any more." Walking to the far corner of the cell, she sat down, cross-legged, facing the wall.

"Riley!" I called out.

She put her hands over her ears.

Fuck. I was so close.

With a certain amount of effort – extra weight and stiff joints will do that to you – I levered myself to my feet. Miss Militia eyed me with concern.

"Let's go," I told her. "I got nothing here."

=///=​

I met Dragon in the area that was being set aside for the surgery. She had a suit of what looked like power armour; I guessed the humanoid remote form was still under development.

Pausing a few yards from her, I held up a finger. "Just checking; not a Cadfael?"

She shook the armoured helmet. "No. May I ask how you knew about those?"

"In time," I told her, moving gingerly closer. "It's good to see you."

She shook my hand. "You as well, Michael. I'm glad that you requested my help."

I gave her a halfway grin. "I'm glad you said yes."

"Well, of course," she protested. "I could never repay the debt I owe you."

"Nothing is owed," I corrected her. "But I accept the favour." I paused. "And how's things with …?"

She took my meaning, as I had known she would. "Progressing," she informed me, and I heard the smile in her voice.

"Good," I told her, and meant it. But it was time to get back to business. "However, I ran into a snag at my end."

"Which is …?"

"I was going to get Bonesaw to be the primary surgeon, while you assisted. And I thought I nearly had her talked into it. But I put my foot wrong, and she spat the dummy, and now she's not talking to me."

She tilted her head. "Spat the dummy …?"

Oh shit. That's an Australian term.

"Uh, got angry. Refused to listen."

Her voice was concerned. "Oh dear. With her doing it, you would have had a very good chance at success."

I nodded. "Which is why I would like you to install the controls in her cell anyway. Just in case she decides to have a change of heart. But prepare to run the surgery yourself."

Concern had turned to worry. "I don't have much in the way of experience with surgical procedures, Michael."

I gave her what may have passed for a grin. "Then you've got three hours to learn. Plenty of time."

=///=​

I lay on the surgical table. By the clock, it had been two hours since Dragon had arrived. You couldn't tell it by me; one moment, it felt like five minutes, the next it felt like three and a half eternities, stacked atop the other. Every time that damned triple buzz sounded, I thought Oh shit, here it comes, I've miscounted and I'm gonna die.

But I hadn't. My skull was still intact, and Dragon was preparing for the surgery.

The surgical waldos loomed over me like an over-enthusiastic spider poising for the kill. Scalpel blades, probes, other tools I could not name, all controlled by a computer setup the size of a shoebox.

Dragon, of course, was plugged into the system wirelessly; her 'suit' stood beside me, ready for whatever on-the-spot action the waldos could not handle.

Personally, looking at the multiplexity of them, I couldn't think of such a situation.

"I believe that I have reached the point of diminishing returns," she told me evenly. "Further study would be compromised by the chance of not being able to finish the surgery in time. If I am to operate, then I must do it now."

Now was the time, I knew, to make a dramatic and stirring speech, to rally those I left behind, in case I didn't make it. But I had every intention of making it; even as I did everything I could to maximise my chances of survival, I had faith in Contessa doing something – anything – to save my sorry arse.

Of course, she was best at acting behind the scenes, so if she was doing something, no-one was seeing it.

I sighed. "Let's do this thing."

Lying back, I tried to relax as one of the waldo arms moved closer, a needle probing toward my skin - "Wait!" I shouted.

The waldo stopped, inches from me.

"What?" asked Dragon. "Is there something wrong?"

"Yeah," I agreed. "Just out of curiosity, injecting anaesthetic into me will alter my blood chemistry, right?"

"Yes," agreed Dragon. "But why – oh!"

"Oh, is right," I agreed heavily. "No anaesthetic. Just in case."

She even told me that she didn't use anaesthetic. Was it a hint or a warning?

"This is going to hurt terribly, Michael," Dragon warned me.

"Yeah, don't I know it," I muttered. "Listen, you're gonna have to strap me down."

"Are you sure -?"

I shook my head. "No. But she'd do it. You know that and so do I. We can't take the chance. Strap me down."

=///=​

Riley glared at the waldo controls that had been installed in her cell. They awaited her touch to come alive, to activate. The screen over the top was not intended for use when she was actually working the waldos, but for anyone who was standing back for the action.

He's going to get Dragon to do the operation, she realised. And he's going to make me watch. And when she screws it up – in her mind it was 'when', not 'if' – it's supposed to be all my fault because I didn't help. But I never asked for this. I don't want to be here.

What's he ever done for me?

"A great deal, actually."

The cool voice behind her made her jump violently. She turned fast, bringing her defensive systems online, those that had not been neutralised by the PRT surgeons.

The woman stood placidly, arms folded. She had pale skin and dark hair, and wore a black suit. Riley could not shake the impression that the woman owned the space around her, wore the cell like a second skin.

"What is this? Where did you come from?"

The woman smiled enigmatically. "Do you really need me to answer those questions?"

Riley frowned. "I guess not. You're from … where I was being kept, before they brought me here." A thought struck her, and she glanced around. "The cameras?"

"Taken care of," the woman assured her. "As far as they're concerned, this conversation never happened."

"Fine." Riley looked back at her. "So what do you want?"

"I want you to perform the operation on Michael Allen, and successfully remove Bakuda's bomb from next to his brainstem."

Riley snorted. "He already asked me. Didn't give me enough of a reason why I should." She looked up at the woman. "Are you going to threaten me now?"

The woman shook her head. "It wouldn't work. You're not that sort of person. I'm just going to ask you politely. But first, I'm going to tell you the reasons why you should, the ones he was too modest to tell you. Perhaps for fear that you would think he was exaggerating for effect."

Riley rolled her eyes. As if.

And then the woman began to speak, quietly but compellingly.

And Riley listened.

=///=​

Straps had been hastily procured and affixed to the surgical table. They were fastened to me by Dragon, checking at each step that my circulation was not cut off. The second last strap held my head in place, as immovably as a part of the table. The last strap went between my teeth, at my own insistence.

"I do not like this, Michael," Dragon told me. "There are too many things that can go wrong."

I spat out the strap. "And if you do nothing, then it will definitely go wrong," I assured her. "Now put the strap back in my mouth, and get that damn bomb out of me."

Obediently, she placed the strap back into my mouth.

I shut my eyes tightly as the first scalpel eased into position, other waldo arms ready to perform tasks such as mopping blood.

The first touch of the cold steel stung my flesh. I clenched my teeth.

"You're doing it all wrong."

Had I not been strapped down, I would have jumped, and quite possibly cut myself badly on the scalpel blade. Fortunately, Dragon possessed no such reflex.

"Riley," Dragon greeted her urbanely. "Do you wish to observe and perhaps advise?"

"Observe, hell. Step aside. This is my schtick. I'll be damned if I let some jumped-up bomb-builder beat me in surgery."

"With pleasure," Dragon replied. "Be aware, the patient has refused anaesthesia for very good reasons."

"I know. I was listening. It doesn't matter. I never use the stuff myself. But if you nick the nerves here … and here … and here ..."

I didn't have time to cry out as three loci of pain blossomed on my skin, nowhere near the point where Dragon had been about to cut. They weren't that painful, I realised. Surface cuts only.

'"… should deaden sensation to that entire area. Let's see now."

A gentle pressure on the side of my neck. My eyes flicked up to the screen that carried the imagery of the ongoing surgery; I had insisted on being able to see it myself. The scalpel blade was opening my skin, the flesh of my neck, like a knife through hot butter. And it felt no more painful than running one's fingernail across the skin.

It was very, very creepy to watch.

"Actually," Riley commented. "What the hell. Let's turn him off for the duration."

No – I thought, but it was too late. One of the waldo arms did something, and I plummeted into an endless pit of darkness.

=///=​

Michael Allen lay inert, as the waldos carefully probed the surgical wound in the side of his neck, up under the base of his skull. Dragon and Riley murmured to one another as the surgery progressed, half-sentences that one began and the other finished.

They had gotten as far as finding the bomb itself; snuggled up next to his brainstem, as Contessa had told Riley, it was going to be trouble getting out. Especially as Bakuda had apparently planted a pressure switch against one of his vertebrae.

Riley identified booby traps and worked out ways around them, and Dragon implemented the solutions. Occasionally, this worked the other way around. They were making progress, but Dragon feared that it was too slow. Time was getting close. Too close.

"Riley," she ventured. "Is it connected to anything important?"

"Can't see it if it is," the bio-tinker replied absently, a scalpel delicately severing a wire. "She's good at booby-traps. Real good. But when it comes to wetware, I'm better."

"Can you repair damage from hypothermia in that immediate area?"

"You've got a plan?"

"Liquid nitrogen, then pluck it."

"You realise, L-N or no L-N, that plan ends in boom."

"This remote unit has a reinforced internal storage compartment. I did not pick it at whim."

"Hm. We are running low on time. Good thing I put him out. He might protest."

"Or he might urge us to go ahead."

"Good point. Let me open the way."

Later, it would never be certain as to whether it was the proximity of the scalpel waldo itself, or something else, that triggered the final sequence on the bomb. Fortunately, Dragon's suit held many finely tuned sensors. She picked up the electrical impulses within the tiny, deadly device.

"Riley!" she snapped.

The waldos pulled back out of the way with eye-defying speed. Liquid nitrogen hissed, and white clouds rose. The detonation sequence was slowed, fractionally.

Just long enough for nimble waldos to reach in, get a grip, and pluck the bomb from its niche. Dragon's hand closed over it; the suit turned and took two fast strides away from the bed, a compartment already opening in its chest.

Just over one whole second from the beginning of the detonation sequence, the bomb went off.

The storage compartment was shielded, which was fortunate; the first part of the explosion blasted microwaves in all directions, in sufficient quantities to cook a human brain to tapioca in an instant. Then came the actual detonation, which served to blow a large chunk out of the suit. Slowly, it fell over, several important systems destroyed.

From her cell, Riley turned the waldo cameras to observe the smoking wreck of the remote suit.

"Well, damn," she commented. Even as PRT troops entered the room, she began to repair the damage done by the supercooled liquid to the tissues of Michael Allen's neck.

He'd have a sore neck for a while, but he would survive.


End of Chapter Twenty-Nine