Alea Iacta Est
Part Twenty-Four: Two-Pronged Defence
[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
Midday Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Just Outside Boston
Walter Rajchman, Gesellschaft Operative
The four vehicles had been chosen for their anonymity, mechanical reliability and passenger capacity, not for any Hollywood-esque coolness factor. If this had been a movie, utterly ignoring the need for running under the radar, they would've been identical sleek black SUVs complete with tinted windows and the latest espionage technology.
In reality, one was white, another a peeling green, and the third was brown fading to an off-pink. The last one was actually black, but it was also a panel van with an obviously amateurish paint job. No movie operative worth his double-O code would be seen dead within fifty metres of any one of them, which made them perfect for the job at hand.
They were currently pulled up in the parking lot of a 7-11, and ten of them were discussing their next move while the other two maintained a watch for casual eavesdroppers. To any onlookers, they would've looked like tourists; the map spread out over the hood of the green SUV was intended to bolster that illusion.
Equally important was the fact that they were all dressed casually, even the capes. Ball caps were as far as Walter would allow when it came to hiding their features; used correctly, they blocked security cameras, while none of the people they met would remember their faces if given no reason to. They'd been polite and friendly with the 7-11 attendant while buying their food, which meant he'd forget them as soon as the next customer came along.
He took a bite out of his microwaved hot-dog (tasty, yet filled with God knew how many preservatives) while tapping the map with his fingernail. "Our assets within the PRT have all given us the same information. The Empire Eighty-Eight will be transported to secure holding in a convoy of PRT vehicles travelling along one of these three routes. The timing of these transports means that they'll be leaving town just as we're getting there."
Blitzkrieger spoke up. "Will we be able to intercept them on time? This sudden action sounds suspicious to me."
"Yes, Pauli, we will." Walter was making a point of using real names on this mission, so nobody slipped and used a cape name in casual conversation. Once the costumes came on it would be a different matter, but until then they were all perfectly normal tourists,
ja? "And it makes sense if you look at the larger picture. Their PRT building is good, but it is only intended as short-term holding. Also, they must suspect that we have people within their ranks, even if they do not know who. Thus, the longer they hold the villains captive, the more chance of either an attack on the building or a breakout from within. Moving them to more secure holding is the logical next step."
Hans frowned. A large blunt-featured man, he nonetheless had a keen analytical mind. "So, is it simply alternate routing, or are there decoy convoys?"
And there was the problem. "Decoy convoys," confirmed Walter. "The convoy crews have been told to memorise all three routes, so they won't know which one they'll be following until the time comes, and they won't know who'll be taking the Empire capes until that moment as well. So, as of right now, we don't know which way they'll be going or even if we'll have people in that convoy."
Eisenadler was a Tinker, and thus twitchy when outside his flying powersuit. He looked even less happy than normal. "So how are we supposed to free them?" His tone seemed to suggest that the American PRT should be handing the cape prisoners to them on a platter.
"It's simple." It wasn't simple, but Walter considered himself an optimist. "We hold off until the convoys are on the way and the drivers are informed as to which of them has the Empire capes on board. Our people will be in at least one of the convoys, probably two, hopefully all three. We will thus be able to ignore at least one of the convoys. If we're still looking at two, then you and Pauli will attack one, assisted by myself and Hans. Kessler will take the rest of our force after the other one, mainly to slow it down in the event that the one we hit is a decoy; if that happens, you and Pauli have the speed to catch up with them."
"So, I am heading the attack on one convoy myself?" Sturmsoldat didn't sound thrilled with the idea. "They are likely to have capes, and they are guaranteed to have armed troopers."
"You'll have seven men along with you," Walter reminded him. "And if the Empire Eighty-Eight is on board, they'll count as your allies as well." Sturmsoldat was a low-end Brute-Mover combo whose capabilities increased dramatically with each ally he had on site. Alone, he was a match for maybe one or two PRT troopers; with a bunch of friends present, he could punch far above his weight. "But that's assuming all our assets are concentrated on the one convoy, and it's not the one carrying Night and Fog and the others. The odds are quite favourable that we'll know exactly which one, and reasonably good that our people will be on that one."
Blitzkrieger frowned. "You have just four of us attacking one of the convoys, then transitioning to the one Kessler is attacking if ours turns out to be a decoy, yes?"
Walter wasn't quite sure where he was going with this, but the question was accurate. "Correct. Why?"
"As Kessler depends on allies present, I depend on having
someone present for my speed." Blitzkrieger spread his hands. "If Jürgen flies on ahead, and you are taking a different route because you can't go off-road, who am I supposed to draw upon?"
Eisenadler sighed. "I can carry you." His tone made it clear that he didn't
want to, but that he would if he had no other choice.
"What?" Blitzkrieger brought his head up, clearly offended. "I'm a
verdammter Mover, not some helpless
verfickter civilian. Nobody carries me."
No matter the cape's injured feelings, Walter could not let that pass. "First, you will do as you are ordered, and if being carried gets you there faster, then you will allow yourself to be carried. Second, we are in America. Use English swears only. It doesn't matter what we say, so long as we don't raise our voices or say it in a way that attracts attention. Speaking another language is a prime way to achieve that."
Blitzkrieger muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like '
Jawohl, mein Herr,' but nodded all the same.
"What was that?" asked Walter.
"I said, '
yes sir, as you wish'." Blitzkrieger wouldn't meet his eyes.
Walter didn't feel like pursuing it. "Good. Jürgen, do you have a problem with carrying him?" The words '
there'd better not be a problem' hovered in the air, but didn't need to be said.
"I already said I would, didn't I?" It wasn't quite an answer to Walter's question, but again he didn't feel like pushing matters. The last thing the strike force needed was to tear itself apart over imagined grievances.
I can't wait until this is over and done, and the Empire Eighty-Eight has taken their rightful place in Brockton Bay.
That place would be as a vassal to Gesellschaft, of course. The Empire would
owe them for this.
<><>
Wednesday Evening
Damsel of Distress
I'm going to get it right this time.
Ashley knew this with every fibre of her being.
The abandoned warehouse was decrepit and musty, but she didn't give a shit about that. She'd long since gotten used to dirt and mold and bugs where she lived. Only wimps whined about that sort of thing.
One of the closets held a folded up camp-cot. She'd managed to get it unfolded (fighting against rust and lack of oil all the way) without accidentally blasting it in half, which she considered a win. It was dusty as fuck, and probably had bugs living in it, but they could just lump it.
In the back room of the manager's office, she scored big-time; not only was there a dinky little shower cubicle (she had to pull in her elbows to turn around in it) but they'd also managed to cram in a washer-dryer. If she ever met the guy who'd arranged for this, she figured she might just give him a bit wet kiss. Or at least refrain from murdering him, anyway.
It took a bit of fiddling and swearing and a hole blown through the water heater (fuck it, she'd go with cold) to get the water connected back up to the washer-dryer. An ancient bottle on a shelf, once de-cobwebbed, yielded up lumpy laundry powder. She'd dealt with worse.
The clothing she was going to wear to the recruitment meeting went into the washer, and she carefully crushed the lumps out of the powder before putting that in too. Then she closed the little door, turned the knob, and pressed the go button. Wonder of wonders, water started gurgling into the machine.
Fucking yes! This is gonna be awesome!
Straightening up with a satisfied smile, she got out of the grungy clothing she'd been wearing for the last couple of days and stepped into the shower cubicle. She'd already taken a piss before putting her clothes on to wash, so she wouldn't have to go until after the meeting. While she still had no idea what had caused the toilet in the last place to go berserk, she wasn't about to risk that shit again in a hurry.
As the first trickles of water emerged from the shower head, she closed her eyes and started massaging it into her hair.
<><>
Random
I checked my watch against the number I'd rolled on the dice. "Okay, she's stepping into the shower …
now."
"Excellent." I saw Annette's teeth flash white in the dim light as she whispered the word. "So, where's that unlocked door again?"
"This way." I cupped the flashlight in my hand so the beam illuminated just the floor in front of my feet, and led the way; Annette and Lisa followed along. The door hinges squeaked a little, but I'd anticipated that and opened it slowly.
We made our way to the fusebox, and teased it open. Nobody was saying a word, mainly because we could clearly hear Damsel's voice rising in off-key song over the rumble of the washer-dryer. We wanted her singing, because that way we knew where she was.
I let the beam of the flashlight fall on the interior of the box, and gave Lisa the nod. She pointed out the three fuses we needed to pull, and we each grabbed one. After a soft '
three … two … one', we each yanked hard, pulling the appropriate fuse out. There was a
pop and a spark, and the lights in the manager's office went out. At the same time, the washer-dryer rumbled to a stop.
Damsel of Distress stopped singing and waited for a moment. Then she must have realised that the washer-dryer wasn't operating. "Oh, what the
fuck?"
"Quick!" Lisa hissed, handing out the replacement fuses. Dad had acquired these for us. They were identical to the ones we'd removed, but were utterly burned out and no good for anything.
We shoved them into place, I closed the fuse box, and we started sneaking out of there. It was imperative that we not be seen, because if she even got an
inkling that she was being deliberately sabotaged, it would screw up all our efforts. Worse, if she caught us on site, she would
absolutely murder us out of hand.
This was going to be a lot more difficult than the entrance, for the very simple reason that if she came to the window in the manager's office, she could oversee the entire warehouse. There wasn't a ton of cover, so the only thing I could do was turn off the flashlight when Lisa told me to.
Twice I had to do just that, blessing the fact that we were all wearing dark clothing with our hair tucked under hoods. At a distance, a crouching person in the dark looks just like any other shadow, or at least I hoped we did.
Finally, she found what she was looking for: specifically, a flashlight of her own. But she didn't sweep the warehouse with it, which was good. It was only a matter of time, though, so we didn't hang around; out the door we went, closing it carefully behind us.
We were almost to the car when the anticipated storm hit. "Oh, for
FUCK'S SAKE!" The scream was accompanied by an indigo-hued blast that took out part of one wall.
Giggling, we tumbled into the car. The engine had been idling all this time; Dad simply put it in gear and we cruised off down the street. In the front seat, Janet turned around and offered a high-five. I returned it.
"You are
mean," Lisa said mock-severely to Annette. "I never would've thought of all of that."
"It's like Mom says." Annette leaned back in her seat complacently. "If you're gonna fuck with someone, you gotta do stuff they can't just fix. Turning out the lights on its own was never gonna cut it. She's gonna
remember tonight."
<><>
The Gesellschaft Contingent
Walter knew that the Empire assets couldn't make phone calls, but text messages were entirely possible. As such, code words had been arranged for various contingencies. Which meant that as the four-vehicle group neared Brockton Bay, he was paying very close attention to his phone.
ping
As soon as the chime sounded, he tapped the screen to bring up the message.
Umbrella Charlie 2 Alpha*
That meant the message was from Lieutenant Jasper Reed, that he was in Convoy C, which was following route 2. His message also conveyed that the Empire contingent was in Convoy A, but there was a complication.
"Okay," he said out loud. "We know they're in Convoy A, and that they're on route one or three. Also, there's more information. Pass that on."
"On it," Hans replied immediately.
ping
Dogsled Bravo 1 Alpha 2nd half*
His eyebrows rose as he smiled. "Well, alright then. It seems the PRT is trying to be sneaky. They're cramming the capes into fewer vehicles. If I'm reading this right, they'll be on route three, according to asset Dogsled." He couldn't recall the man's name right now, but that didn't matter. "Also, they're confined to the latter half of the convoy."
"Well, that'll make it a lot easier," agreed Hans.
ping
Mandrake Charlie 2 Alpha 3 DS in 2**
"Hm." He frowned. "Mandrake says they're in Convoy Alpha, and that Night is in the second van …" A moment later, he realised what was going on. "Ah, the second van of the part of the convoy they're in. Eight vans, so she's in van six."
ping
Ladder Alpha 3 Alpha even only**
"Huh. Well, now. They must be really cramming them in." He showed the text to Hans. "Latter half of the convoy, even numbers only? For an eight-van convoy, that's two vans." He recalled Mandrake's message. "And Night's in van
eight, not six."
ping
Purple Alpha 3 Alpha GS in 1**
"Bingo!" He allowed himself a single fist pump. "It's Convoy A, on route three. Fog's in van six, Night's in van eight. We've
got them."
"Excellent." Hans smiled. "I'll pass that on. Route three it is."
Walter shook his head in mild surprise. "And right on the tail-end of the convoy, too. They couldn't have made it easier for us if they'd
tried."
"Playing to our assumptions." Hans sounded thoughtful. "We'd naturally assume the Empire capes would be spread over the entire convoy, or concentrated up the front, because that's the logical assessment."
"It was a trap." The realisation made Walter chuckle with relief. "And we nearly fell for it."
"Damn right."
<><>
Damsel of Distress
You have got to be fucking shitting me. My luck was never this bad in Stafford.
Ashley didn't have a towel to wrap around herself, so she'd gotten dressed in the grungy clothing she had on before. Wet grit shifted between her skin and the cloth, and she suppressed the urge to blast herself clean while she was still wearing it. She would, though, as soon as she got the chance.
Pulling open the fuse box, she glowered at the offending objects, trying to see if they'd somehow shifted. But when she pulled one free, she could clearly see the blackening and charring that told her it was fucked. Hurling it to the ground, she stomped back up the stairs and leaned down to peer through the little window where her best dress floated in water so filled with dirt that she couldn't see through it.
When she'd first gotten out of the shower, she didn't realise what had happened (apart from the lights going out,
duh) until she fetched the flashlight. That was when she saw the streaks of dirt on her skin, and went to check on the dress. Up until then, the night had been salvageable. But when she saw the state it was in, and realised that the washer-dryer door was
locked, that was when she'd obliterated the shower stall and the wall beyond.
How the fuck did that even happen? I tested the water first! It ran clear!
Without electricity, her dress would basically marinate in the gunk that had
somehow gotten stirred up out of the pipes until she managed to lever the damn door off the washer-dryer. And she couldn't simply blow a hole through the washer-dryer, because there was a better than even chance that she'd wreck the dress in the process.
She needed to either find new fuses or a pry-bar, preferably both. Though from the way the water was spraying out of the hole in the wall, she'd just cut the pipes leading to the washer-dryer. Which meant even if she got it going, it still wouldn't be able to clean her dress properly.
And the night just keeps getting fucking better.
Heading into the manager's office, she started delving through the desk drawers and cupboards, but found absolutely nothing to help her out. Even the door marked 'Supply Closet' only yielded up a non-working ballpoint pen. She threw it across the room, then followed up with a blast that destroyed the pen as well as part of the wall behind it.
"Shitfuckmotherfuckerasshole
dingleberry!" Shouting it all in one breath relieved a little of her anger. She tried to think it through.
What do I need to do? How do I fix this shit?
The first thing, she decided, was to get clean herself. The gritty, slimy feeling of the sediment on her skin and in her hair was starting to drive her nuts. Stripping out of her clothing, she left it on a pile on the desk in the manager's office, then went down the stairs barefoot. Dropping the flashlight on the bottom step, she took several paces away, then started blasting herself clean.
The main thing she had to worry about was to make sure she didn't accidentally wreck the stairs. Her blast scoured the dirt off her like it had never existed, leaving her skin and hair clean and dry. Once she was done, she stepped over the shallow crater she'd torn in the concrete floor, picked up the flashlight, and headed back up the stairs.
Once she was dressed again, she returned to the back room and examined the washer/dryer closely. As far as she could tell, there were two ways to get the dress out. The first was to somehow connect the washer-dryer up to electricity and a clean water supply, and let it finish its cycle.
The second was to blow the fuck out of it, while avoiding the dress.
Blow the fuck out of it, it is.
Cupping her hand so that the energy built up in the cradle of her fingers, she did her best to accumulate just enough power to do what she wanted, then let it go right next to the indented window. It detonated, wrecking the door and part of the floor, but not too badly. Filthy water poured out of the washer-dryer, which would never again wash or dry anything, then she wrenched the door open and pulled out her dress.
"Fucking
yes!" she exulted, holding the dress up. Something was finally going her way …
… except that it really wasn't. The dress was still dirty, and now the washer-dryer wasn't even working. Also, her blast at the shower had taken out the tiny wash-basin.
God fucking dammit. The night was a wash, no matter how she looked at it.
<><>
Random
I finished rolling the dice, and sat back. Annette looked over at me expectantly. "So, did she wreck the dress?"
"Not as such, no." I gave her a grin. "But it's filthy, and she's absolutely livid. Taking away her electricity was a genius move. She's gonna be moving again, and she won't find a place to settle down until tomorrow night. Also, her potential recruitment base is starting to lose interest. Two no-shows in a row is not the way to impress them."
"How about the Empire and Gesellschaft?" asked Dad from the front seat of the car.
My head came up. "Right, thanks for the reminder. I need to call Dinah." Handing Lisa the dice tray, I dug out my phone. Dinah's number was, of course, already in my favourites list. As the car rolled down the street, I tapped the icon to call her, then hit speaker as the phone call went through.
"Hi, Taylor. What's the good news?"
I grinned. "Well, Damsel is not having a great night of it. In other news, can you please ping Director Piggot and let her know that the canary trap worked, and Gesellschaft will be attacking the indicated vans in the next five to ten minutes?"
The grin was evident in her voice as she replied.
"I'm pretty sure I can do that. Dunno how thrilled she'll be that we figured out what she's doing to confirm her moles, but that's totally not my problem."
"Well, at least she's taking the notion seriously." I knew that if we'd approached things just a little differently, it would've been all too easy for Piggot to dismiss everything we said as hearsay and wild accusations. Even the idea of sending Leviathan elsewhere came across as pretty crazy, if you didn't know how good we really were.
"Very true. So, what happened with Damsel?"
I snickered. "She wrecked her shower cubicle and damaged the washer-dryer badly, and her dress is loaded down with all the gunk that was just sitting there innocently in the pipes until Janet stirred it up. Without power, the TV in the manager's office won't work, so she'll be moving on in the morning. Again."
"
Awesome. Well, I've gotta message Piggot, so I'll see you guys later."
"Later," I said, just as the call ended. I turned my attention to Annette. "Okay, so what's next in Operation Rage Quit?"
If Annette's grin hadn't been evil enough, the sinister chuckle would've clinched the deal. "Well, so far she's been through two potential home bases which have ended in disaster, but she's hanging on anyway, yeah?"
Lisa nodded, but a little doubtfully, as though she wasn't quite sure where Annette was going with this. "Yeah. So?"
"So, she still thinks she can win." Annette looked around at each of us. "She's fixated on the idea that if she hangs on just a little longer, she'll hit the magical combination of factors that will allow her to stay, to build her gang base, and to start taking over Brockton Bay. Sunk cost fallacy for the win. But the key to beating her …" she paused dramatically, "… is her dress."
Lisa's eyes widened fractionally. "Ah."
"Her dress?" I frowned. "How does that factor in? It's just a dress."
"Says the girl who's never dressed to impress, like
ever." Annette reached past Lisa to ruffle my hair playfully. "If she's gonna recruit, she's gotta meet people and get their attention. She's got to look the part of a successful supervillain. Power she's got in spades, but she also needs presentation. And for that, she's pinning all her hopes on her best dress. Which has gotten soiled twice in a row … but it's still intact."
"Uh huh." Lisa raised an eyebrow. "Something tells me that state of affairs is not going to last much longer."
Annette steepled her fingers, in the very best tradition of Saturday morning cartoon scheming supervillains everywhere. "Mwahahaha."
<><>
Director Piggot, PRT ENE
Sitting at her desk, Emily glowered at her computer screen. The message was good news in a way, in that it didn't signify that something had gone drastically wrong. It still wasn't
good news, though. In fact, it was quite unsettling.
Still, she had a message to pass on.
Taking up her phone, she selected Armsmaster's number; out of everyone on this operation, she knew he could take a call straight to his helmet. It rang exactly once before he accepted the call.
"Director?"
"Armsmaster," she greeted him. "I just got an email from Shadow Team. According to Management, the canary trap worked, and Gesellschaft will be hitting the indicated vans in two to seven minutes."
There was a pause before he responded.
"I wasn't aware we were sharing details of the operation with them."
"We weren't." She gritted her teeth. "The first I knew of it was the message, just now."
"Ah." There was a world of comprehension in that single syllable.
"I'll spread the word. Thank you, ma'am."
"Copy that. Piggot, out." She cut the call, then sat back in her chair.
Thinkers are so goddamn annoying. A moment later, that thought was superseded by another.
What else do they know about our operations that we haven't shared with them yet?
She muttered a few curses under her breath. Intrusive thoughts like that were the type guaranteed to keep her awake at night.
<><>
Walter
"That's the convoy, just up ahead. Right where our intel said it would be." Hans sounded pleased with himself. His announcement had been mostly unnecessary—the eight-strong convoy of heavy PRT vans coming up on the other side of the divided highway was very hard to miss—but Walter appreciated the need to make it. It was always thoroughly satisfying when a plan came together.
"Where can we turn?" As he asked the question, he kept his eyes on the PRT vehicles, alert for any change of pace or other indication that they'd made his group for what they were.
"One hundred metres ahead. There's a turning section for emergency vehicles." Hans sounded entirely unconcerned that they were about to break the law, mainly because he cared as little about it as Walter himself did. The minor traffic misdemeanour would be vastly overshadowed by the felony about to take place.
"I see it." Walter tapped the driver on the shoulder. "Turn there."
The instruction was largely superfluous, just as Hans's comment had been. Walter knew the driver was on the ball, but he couldn't
not say it. Right then, they were all riding the knife-edge of adrenaline, and some things just had to happen.
The SUV slowed and the driver pulled them into a U-turn that put them on the correct side of the highway, with the taillights of the PRT vans fading into the distance. Walter knew that the following vehicles would be executing the same manoeuvre, and he tensed in anticipation. Picking up the handheld radio he'd acquired for communicating with the other vehicles, he thumbed the talk button. "Attention all vehicles. Plan A is in force. I say again, Plan A. Acknowledge." One by one, the replies came back.
Plan A was relatively simple in execution, though 'simple' did not necessarily mean 'easy'. Two vehicles would go up on either side of the convoy, so that they could bracket the two vans carrying the Empire Eighty-Eight capes. Van seven would be riddled with gunfire, and then they'd shoot out the tyres of vans six and eight to bring them to a halt.
When the action started, Walter would activate the radio jammer they'd acquired, so that nobody in the first five vans would have a clear picture of what was happening. By the time they reacted and started turning around to come back and assist their fellows, the prisoner transport vans would be open and the Empire capes would be free to assist their rescuers. At that point, the odds would shift dramatically to the Gesellschaft side; they would easily fight off any counter-attacks, disable the opposition vehicles, and escape in their own transports.
At least, that was the plan. He knew quite well how things could shift and change in the heat of battle, but an attack from surprise had the most chance of succeeding. And it wasn't like the ENE Protectorate had any major league Thinkers to warn them ahead of time.
<><>
Armsmaster
"Steady … steady …" Colin watched the outputs for the discreet cameras that had been emplaced on each of the vans. "It's as we were briefed. They're coming up on either side. Remember the plan and stick to it."
His HUD was displaying a simple diagram which seemed to have been sketched out with pencil, photographed, then emailed to Director Piggot before being forwarded to him. It showed the last four vans in the convoy, with the four attacking vehicles bracketing the sixth and eighth vans. This was something he'd already known was coming; much more useful was the information jotted down next to each car, including which Gesellschaft cape was in which vehicle, and how many unpowered attackers there were.
While he knew how irritated Director Piggot was about the technical security risk of having Thinkers divine her plans before they were made, having data like this to hand was incredibly valuable. He would also have been far more comfortable if Shadow Team had been firmly under PRT command, but he was also fully aware that any attempt to force the issue would
at best turn them off being helpful. At worst … he shuddered to think of how much damage they could do if they decided to actively oppose the PRT's efforts to maintain law and order.
The first two vehicles came up past the last van, then the black panel van on the right held steady next to the second last van, while the green SUV on the left moved onward. As though a switch had been flipped, the sliding door of the panel van slammed open and three men opened fire on the seventh van with assault rifles. High-velocity rounds shattered the driver's side window and punctured lethal patterns of holes in the side of the PRT van.
As the stricken vehicle swerved off the road and into the ditch, Colin keyed his radio. "Tango. Tango. Tango."
<><>
Walter
The rattle of automatic fire was music to his ears, and he watched the van veer off the road, where it ran into the ditch and promptly rolled over several times. It was still rolling by the time his vehicle passed it, but he didn't care enough to watch it. He pressed the button on his radio. "Well done. Now the tyres!"
However, when he released the button, there was no reply; nothing but a dull unmusical warble.
What? What's going on?
That was his first intimation that all was not going as planned.
The next was when the front four PRT vans reacted as one. Two swerved into the ditches and slowed dramatically, while the other two went left and right and hit their brakes while remaining on the road. He was still reacting to that when the panel van and the white car reached the front van and started pouring autofire into the tyres. At the same time, more gunfire was aimed at the tyres of the last van in line.
Blitzkrieger opened the car door and activated his power. Lightning-like streams attached to everyone in the vehicle, and Walter felt his perceptions start to slow down as the cape literally stole his speed. The Mover blurred away toward the rear of the last van and reached for the handle of the rear doors, but then his feet went out from under him and he went down, tumbling over and over; Walter caught a blurred impression of a sheen of oil on the road.
Eisenadler had been airborne all this time, shadowing the vehicles. Now he came streaking down out of the night sky, wing-mounted guns tracking bullets in for a strafing run on the other PRT vans. A hatch in the top of the fifth van popped open and someone stood up out of it. Walter saw a greenish-black cloud coalesce into a long-barrelled rifle, which spat a six-foot muzzle flare a second later.
The airborne Tinker tried to swerve but the heavy bullet hit his right wing, shattering off its mount. Unbalanced, he pinwheeled into the trees at the side of the road. Walter didn't see any more of him after that; in the meantime, the rifle had become two Uzis, which the shooter used to spray bullets at both the bracketing cars at once. Hit repeatedly in the engines, both cars swerved off the road into the ditch.
Sturmsoldat can do it. He has to. If he can free the Empire prisoners …
At the last moment, he saw Sturmsoldat launch himself from his shot-up car to a spot on top of the second-last van, and swing down to the rear doors. Hanging on with one hand, he wrenched at the handle. For a miracle, it opened. Walter held his breath; boosted by his allies within the van, Sturmsoldat would be able to free them, and the Empire capes could fight their way clear …
The stream of containment foam that blasted out of the back of the van, hit Sturmsoldat in the chest, and glued him to the hood of the van behind was the signal that this was not to be. In just seconds, the entire operation had gone from a rousing success to a crippling defeat. The only option left was to retreat. "Get us out of here!" he shouted. "Drive!"
"Uh …" The driver indicated the PRT van directly in front, no longer concealed by the panel van that had been ahead of them.
Walter looked, and blanched.
The rear doors of the van were open to reveal a minigun with spinning barrels, and a trooper crouched behind it. Beside the gun was a sign that his headlights picked up just fine: PULL OVER NOW.
It was a trap, he realised belatedly as the driver began to apply the brakes.
They saw us coming the whole time. But how?
It was a puzzle he would worry over for quite some time to come.
<><>
Hebert Household
Random
"Well, come on," Annette playfully groused as I rolled the dice. "Give us the skinny. The dope. The straight word. What happened?"
"Hush," Amy chided her, equally playfully. "She'll tell us when she's finished rolling." She nuzzled her nose in next to Annette's ear, then blew a raspberry on her neck.
"Eep!" Annette sat up straight, then turned to Amy with vengeance evidently on her mind. "You just wait! I'll—"
"Okay, done." I sat back. "So, the trap went off without a hitch. The Gesellschaft guys shot up the seventh van, which was empty and being driven on remote with a dummy in the driver's seat. Then they tried to shoot out the tyres of the other two vans, but they'd had heavy-duty run-flats installed. Blitzkrieger tried to get into the back of the rear van …" I paused expectantly.
"Oil slick?" Annette was grinning broadly, having apparently forgotten the incipient scuffle with Amy. "Tell me they got to use the oil slick."
"They got to use the oil slick," I confirmed. "He's currently in custody, with a ton of road rash and a broken elbow. Miss Militia shot down Eisenadler, then knocked out the engines of the two front cars. And Armsmaster nailed Sturmsoldat with a containment foam cannon when he opened the rear doors of the other van."
Lisa fist-pumped. "Haha, yes! Score! And the others?"
"Meekly submitted to arrest, mainly because they had a fuck-off big minigun pointed at them." I grinned. "Pretty sure they're still not sure exactly what happened."
"Um …" Theo frowned. "So, if they weren't in those vans, which vans were they in?"
I smirked. "The convoy thing was mostly a bait and switch. They actually had Strider teleport them from the roof yesterday, embedded in containment foam."
Kayden snorted with amusement. "What do you mean by 'mostly'?"
It was Lisa's turn to grin. "Because one of the other convoys did have prisoners on board. Lung and Oni Lee. It was pretty certain that if Gesellschaft hit that one, they wouldn't be freeing them."
Dad shook his head slowly. "All in the name of avoiding conflict. I see."
"Well, the ones who started it didn't get what they wanted." I spread my hands. "And it got shot down
hard. Literally, in Eisenadler's case. He's in custody, too."
"Look at it this way, Mr H." Annette put her arm around Amy's shoulders. "There's a lot of people who've got a vested interest in Brockton Bay remaining a conflict-ridden shithole. They'd put a ton of effort into keeping it that way, if they got the chance. So, it's not surprising that we have to put some effort into making sure that doesn't happen."
"Or, you know, outsource to the PRT." I idly rolled a die across the table, telling it to end up on a 20. "They've got capabilities that we just can't call on."
Amy nodded judiciously. "Well, true. I've seen some of that in action. The PRT only looks like it's ineffectual because it's being hampered in all directions. That Calvert asshole, feeding information to the other gangs. Poor intel in general. Tonight, we've seen what happens when they've got good information. The Gesellschaft wouldn't have known what hit 'em."
"Damn right." I reached out and gave her a high five. "And that's the name of the game."
"And tomorrow night …" Annette chuckled evilly. "We have another run at Damsel."
Amy gave her an exasperated look. "You are enjoying this
way too much."
"Darn tootin'."
<><>
Thursday Night, March 17, 2011
Damsel of Distress
Ashley was nearly at the end of her tether. Two crash-pads had gone sour on her, one after the other. Worse, her best dress was filthy; that would never pass muster for recruiting minions for her eventual takeover of the Brockton Bay criminal underworld.
She'd located an empty storefront and gathered together enough old cardboard boxes to sleep on, but while the place still had running water for basic amenities and electricity (she'd lugged the TV from the last place to there, so there'd damn well better be electricity) there was no place to wash her clothing. And she wasn't about to try to hand wash it, not after the last disastrous attempt (one comforter and one bathtub, ruined). So, it was time to find someplace that would wash the dress for her.
An hour later, she located a laundromat that was open for business. While she would've been tempted to just blast open a change-box and get some quarters that way, there were two customers already on site, both teenagers. The exact target demographic she was looking to recruit, in fact.
Rule number one was to always be confident. It wasn't hard; she was the toughest, smartest person in the room at all times, so she just had to let it show through. "Evening." Marching over to the nearest unoccupied machine, she opened it and emptied the plastic bag holding her dirty laundry into it.
"Hi." The redhead had been doodling on her phone, but now she put it away. "Are you new around here? I love your hair."
"Yeah, just moved in from out of town." Ashley looked around for a detergent dispenser, then spotted a bottle on the machine beside the redhead. "Say, can I borrow some of your detergent? I've only got enough change for the machine itself." She had more than that, but she'd heard somewhere that the best way to get someone to think well of you was to get them to do you a favour. And she was always willing to accept free stuff.
"Oh, that's not mine. That's Lisa's." The redhead gestured to the freckled blonde teen who'd been typing away on her own phone. "Hey, Lisa. Can … what's your name again?"
"Call me Ash." It was a little early in the piece to be coming out with her villain name.
"Cool. Lisa, can Ash borrow some of your detergent?"
Lisa blinked and looked up from her phone, then gave Ashley a grin that shouted to the world, '
I love pulling shit on people!'. She could definitely use that. "Uh, sure. Ash, was it? Go ahead, use as much as you like." Picking up the bottle, she handed it over.
It wasn't a brand Ashley was familiar with, but there was a lavender scent as she poured it into the receptacle, so it would probably do the job. She gave it a solid dose, to make absolutely sure the dress would be as clean as possible, then screwed the cap back on and handed it back. Neither of the girls spoke as she set the wash timer, which was the way she liked it. Finally, she hit the button to set it going.
Turning back to them, she handed the bottle over. "Thanks, Lisa. Sorry, I didn't catch your name …?"
"Oh, I'm Annette." The redhead gave her a finger-wave. "It's nice to meet you, Ash. Most people who come in here just grunt and put their laundry on. Nobody wants to
talk."
Ashley nodded. "Well, I can see how that could be irritating. So, what sort of after-school activities are there around here? Clubs, anything like that?"
Annette shared a glance with Lisa, then they both shook their heads. "No activities, no," Lisa informed her. "It's pretty slack, actually. Annette plays Dungeons & Dragons at a friend's place, and she's been trying to rope me in, but I'm not sure I see the point of it."
While Ashley had
heard of the game, she had no actual understanding of it. "People still play that?" she ventured.
"Oh, totes." Annette grinned broadly. "I've been playing for years, and we picked up a few new players recently. My girlfriend's gonna be joining in the game on Saturday for the first time, and I am totally stoked."
Lisa gave her the side-eye. "You actually talked her into it? Wow, I thought she had more willpower than that."
"Hey." Annette made a top-to-toe gesture at herself. "She knows what she likes. So yeah, she's gonna be playing anything but a healer." They both laughed at some kind of in-joke that Ashley didn't get, and couldn't be bothered asking about.
She had never been interested in girls, but she was fine with other people doing what they wanted (so long as they also did what
she wanted). Besides, a relationship meant a potential extra recruit. "So, uh, how many people play these games? At a time, I mean?"
Annette raised an eyebrow. "Well, let's see. The usual group is about four or five plus the DM. Our group has …" She began counting on her fingers, lips moving silently. "Six all up. Seven, now, with Ames."
That sounded like a good start on recruitment, given that Ashley suspected the last group she'd approached was probably losing interest by now. "What does it take to join a group like that? Do I need to buy stuff? Pay an entrance fee?" That shit would be refunded as soon as she took over, of course.
"Hah, no." Annette giggled and shook her head. "All you need is spare time and the desire to roll some dice and kick ass. If you're interested, you can give me your number. I'll talk it over with the others and get back to you, okay?"
Ashley nodded. "I can do that." She dictated her phone number, and Annette stored it in her own phone. "How long until I find out?"
"Tomorrow night at the latest." Annette gestured airily. "No big."
At that moment, two dryers rumbled to a halt. Lisa and Annette looked around, then opened them and started pulling out clothing, which they stored in cloth bags. "Well, see you later, Ash." Lisa gave her the same sort of fingertip-wave that Annette had, then picked up her bottle of detergent. "It was cool meeting you. If I ever join the game, I'll see you there."
Or maybe sooner. "Yup. See you then."
"See ya!" Annette opened the door of the laundromat and led the way out, Lisa following close behind.
Well, how about that. Ashley leaned back against one of the machines and gave herself a measured nod of approval. She'd definitely laid the groundwork, and six or seven (or maybe eight) recruits was a lot better than zero. While she knew nothing at all about Dungeons and Dragons, the entire internet was hers for the scouring, so it wouldn't hurt to do some basic research before Annette's call.
She was well down the rabbit hole, puzzling through the various esoteric terms used within the game, when her machine came to a halt and beeped at her. Putting her phone down, she opened the glass door and pulled out her dress … and froze. It was
clean, but that was the least of it. The once-pristine black cloth was now slashed with washed-out grey and even splotches of white, dyed with muddy streaks of colours from the other clothes.
"What … the fuck?" She pawed through the rest of her clothing. It had been similarly affected. "What … the
fuck?"
As she stared at the dress, she could
feel her dreams crumbling around her. Ever since she'd come to Brockton Bay, everything she touched had turned to shit. Nothing had turned out right.
Okay, this is it. I've had it. I'm done.
She'd kept back enough money to buy a return ticket to Stafford. Not even 'just in case': ever since Boston, she'd always made sure to maintain an exit strategy. And now Brockton Bay had beaten her. Not with capes or cops, but with pure blind happenstance.
Everything in the city was against her.
Everything.
And then, just to put the shitty cherry on top of the whole fucked-up cake, her power activated accidentally as she was bundling the still-wet clothing into the bag she'd brought it in, shredding the clothing along with the machine she'd pulled it out of. She was blown halfway across the laundromat, but managed to keep her feet. A long, ragged scream of frustration burst from her throat. "
FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCK!" Devastation played across the laundromat until it was nothing but ruins from side to side.
As smoke trailed into the air, she stomped off down the street toward her latest squat. She couldn't even stand to sleep the night there; the bus depot had seats she could doze on.
All I want to do is get out of this God-forsaken hellhole before anything else goes wrong.
As far as she was concerned, Brockton Bay could
keep its shitty luck.
End of Part Twenty-Four
