Interlude 4.x
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Interlude 4.x
Crystal Pelham
Brockton Bay
Dallon Residence
April 27th, 2011
"We have something very important to talk about and we need to act together as a family and as a team," her mother said, having called everyone together again. Aunt Carol was sitting with Uncle Mark on the couch, clasping his hand desperately like it was the sole lifeline keeping her afloat.
Crystal herself had settled into an armchair, glancing at Vicky, who had finally stopped pacing back and forth to look at Sarah, "Did you hear about Amy? Is she coming home," she asked with her hand clutching her cell phone with enough force that the device seemed in danger of being crushed. The younger teen was too distracted to miss the look on her mother's face or the slump of Carol's shoulders, but Crystal caught it and it spelled nothing good.
Vicky had not been in a good place since Amy had left that day at Arcadia. The best way to describe her was 'barely caged frenetic energy'. Victoria was worried for her sister and her family. And the idea that it was breaking up so suddenly and without any warning terrified her. It was only the fact that she believed that Aunt Sarah and her mother were working to solve it that had stopped Vicky from doing anything foolish.
But from the body language being fronted, Sarah had a feeling that any news that they were about to receive was not going to be good. And watching Vicky, Sarah knew what she had to do. Getting to her feet, she laid hands on Vicky's shoulders and led her gently to the couch. Taking a seat and turning expectantly towards her mother, who stood before them all.
"We've…we were contacted by someone. A representative. It seems that Zero Dawn and anything connected to them…has some powerful benefactors. So," her mother sighed and it hurt a little to see her mother so defeated. Even if she was trying to put on a brave front, "So we're not going to have any more contact with Amy. If she wants to reach out to us? She will. But it's important that you all understand what I'm saying. Don't try to contact her or approach her. And please, don't speak to any journalists or to anyone whom you don't absolutely trust."
"What," Vicky shot to her feet, shrugging off the loose contact Crystal had on her shoulders and floating above the hardwood floor, "Are you serious?! We can't just abandon her! She's my sister! She's part of this family! We don't DO that," her voice rose in volume, a sure sign of her agitation and for a moment, Crystal wasn't sure of what she was going to do..
"There's other considerations at play, Vicky," Sarah explained in an effort to calm the younger woman, "Amy doesn't want to come back. The people backing Zero Dawn are intent on fulfilling her wishes. If we try and press the issue, then they will follow through on their threat," her mother paused, obviously trying to find the right words to mollify Vicky, "Adopting Amy was complicated. It was a chaotic time and people would have taken advantage of her if we didn't act quickly and decisively. Some people are now taking advantage of those complications, but as long as we keep to their line, we will be fine."
Crystal found herself blinking, then blinking again. She was a little impressed at how her mother said so much while saying absolutely nothing at all.
"Mom, you just told us that Zero Dawn and Amy have 'powerful backers'. There was a damn army camped right outside their door. The Army flew the CEO back from Boston in a helicopter. It's pretty clear that it's the government that is backing them. So please, uncomplicate things! Because there are VERY few reasons for any alphabet agency to take an interest in an old adoption case and NONE of them are good."
Her mother said nothing as Carol's eyes closed in what could only be pain. That meant that whatever the government had on them was foolproof, and the fact that her mother had specifically mentioned Amy's adoption in relation to all of this…
Cold, numb dread crept up her spin as she came to a horrifying conclusion, "Oh my god…"
Eric looked back and forth between them worriedly, "Sis…?"
She slumped back in the chair, looking up to the ceiling, "You know what they call an adoption that isn't official? A kidnapping. Please Mom, tell me you didn't do what I think you did."
The room fell silent with everyone looking to her mother, then to Neil, before shifting to Carol who had paled, waiting and hoping that the adults would refute the claim. Only to be rewarded with silence.
"God Dammit!," Crystal roared, rising to her feet. All thoughts of comforting Vicky were forgotten now. The girl was sitting numbly, looking at her parents like she had never seen them before in her life, "Please, for the love of God, tell me you didn't kidnap a little girl and rob her of her family for a decade."
"It wasn't like that," Carol protested, speaking towards Victoria even if it had been her niece that had asked the question, "Her father was a monster. WE stopped him. She had nowhere else to go and anyone else would just take advantage of her!"
"Marquis," a quiet voice silenced the room. Everyone looked at Eric. Her brother shifted uncomfortably at the sudden attention, "Well, it makes sense, right? Marquis was the last big bad guy that you beat. We were young, but Amy showed up around that time."
The three members of the younger generation all looked back to Carol and Sarah, while Neil's shoulders slumped in response.
Silence. As if they couldn't get even more damning of themselves. Crystal hated this silence. The kind of quiet where everyone had something to say, but was saying nothing.
Because it didn't matter. There was nothing that could fix what had been done. But Crystal couldn't remain silent either; it felt as if the wool had finally been taken off her eyes. She had always wondered just why New Wave had decided to go public, because it robbed her of having any sort of private life. It stopped her from being a teenager and doing teenager things. The expectations of being Laserdream robbed her of those opportunities.
And if her suspicions were serviceable, then it only made her sick. It meant that New Wave, the movement that promoted accountability through unmasking … was built on a lie. Anyone who looked into Marquis' capture would find that the Brigade broke the rules. So to get ahead of the controversy, the Brockton Bay Brigade had unmasked and rebranded themselves as New Wave.
Maybe it was always planned that way. Maybe it was guilt. An attempt at putting right a mistake that the Brigade felt they had made. It didn't matter.
It hadn't saved Fleur, and it explained the subdued response from the family when her murder happened.
But it was even worse now that pieces were all in front of Crystal. While it had never been her business, she had nonetheless been observant of the relationship between Aunt Carol and Amy. She had taken enough psychology courses to recognize that Amy had been a maelstrom of unhappiness roiling beneath a false mask. While Carol had never been abusive, she hadn't been attentive either.
But with this information, that negligence took on a life of its own.
"When were you going to tell her," Crystal looked from one adult to another, "Because you must have had a plan, right? You couldn't actually expect that she would just…forget."
"Amy seemed happier once she settled in," Sarah protested, even as Carol refused to meet anyone's gaze, "It didn't matter where she came from, Crystal. She was part of the family. We raised her, we took care of her, and she became a hero. She was happy and-"
"But she wasn't happy. Because if she were, we wouldn't be having this discussion, would we," Vicky's soft voice broke the back of whatever defense Sarah was starting to build up to, "she was never really happy. But that was fine, wasn't it? As long as at the end of the day she was a hero and nothing like her father, everything was fine."
"Marquis was a poison. A monster. Amy was better off without him. Nothing good would have come of knowing her connection to that man," Carol cut in. Looking back at all of them with a pale face and teary eyes.
"And you, of course, had to be the one to make that decision for her," Vicky snapped, shooting to her feet as Crystal reeled at the sudden feeling of fear as Victoria glared at her mother, before it was slowly faded, "Did you know, when were younger, before Amy stopped opening up to me, she kept asking me what she did that made you hate her?"
She let that hang in the air for a moment, "Do you know what I told her? I told her that you did love her, it was just difficult for you to express it. I told her that things would get better once we got powers, because then we could be part of New Wave too."
Victoria's expression contorted, as if she couldn't decide on how she wanted to emote, "I-, I can't do this right now. Everything I know is a fucking lie!"
"Victoria, you have to understand," Carol pleaded, "Marquis had so many enemies, the Empire Eighty-Eight, The Teeth, even the Slaughterhouse Nine. If they became aware that Marquis had a daughter, they would have stopped at nothing-"
"So that magically excuses you for breaking the law?! Isn't the New Wave supposed to be all about accountability and answering to the law? Or does that have a special exception too, Mother?!"
Vicky didn't allow Aunt Carol the opportunity to answer. Instead, she shot out of the living room and towards the door. It then quickly opened before slamming shut behind her, leaving them with only the broken remnants of what was.
Crystal bit her lip.
"Eric, go after her."
Her brother blinked at her for a moment. She loved him, but he wasn't the brightest. "Vicky breaks stuff when she's angry, make sure she doesn't break anything important, Shielder!"
The younger man jumped to his feet, racing after his cousin.
She really felt for Vicky, to find out that everything you knew and believed in was a lie. That your family is no better than the very people you were supposedly taking a stand against. But the reckoning had been coming for some time.
But at the same time, Crystal really hated herself for what she was doing. Nothing hurt like tearing down family, but she had spent years building up her own values and beliefs. She had been gradually distancing herself from New Wave because not only did she no longer share the same values, but she wanted to live her own life.
"We did what we had to," her mother tried to bring back the argument, but it was falling upon deaf ears, "if we had let Amy into the foster system, then it would have only been a matter of time before something happened. The Lavere's were well known in Brockton Bay, and it wouldn't take much before connections were made."
"But that wasn't your call to make. It was Amy's," Crystal had to cut them off, even as she felt sickened by the knowledge. The name tickled something in her brain, something from her classes. But the fact that her mother made it clear that it was a KNOWN name… she now knew that it wasn't just kidnapping that was being leveled against her family, it was so much worse, "And by keeping that from her. By keeping her inheritance from her, you went from being her mother, to being her jailor."
"I am her mother! I was protecting her!," Carol snarled back.
"Some mother you were," Crystal snapped, getting to her feet. She couldn't stand to remain here any longer. It made her sick, discovering that nearly everything in her life was built upon a lie.
"Crystal, please! Don't leave. We need to be united in this. As a family, as a team!" She grit her teeth at hearing her mother pleading with her.
"Enough mom!" Crystal turned at the door, looking back at the people she had trusted. "Enough."
"I'm getting some air. Taking some time. Because the ONLY thing that you're right about, is the fact that tempers are high right now." Carol watched with tears in her eyes, her husband doing his best to comfort her. Crystal's father had stood, coming beside his wife. Sarah stared pleadingly at her daughter.
Neil spoke, neutral as can be. "There's a press event in a few days. We'll watch it together. All of us. And go from there." He looked back at his daughter. Crystal nodded.
There really wasn't anything else to say.
Days later, they were back in the same place. Crystal watched the TV, doing her best to ignore the others. She hadn't spoken to her mother since the last meeting. She barely spoke with her father, only exchanging a few text messages. But that was still better than Vicky. The younger teen was not a good place as she alternated between staring numbly at the world and pacing about looking for something to hit. They were now sharing a hotel room, as Vicky had been adamant that she didn't want to stay in the same place as her mother right now. Luckily, it was an expense Crystal could cover because of a very unexpected letter in the mail.
"It's starting," Neil spoke up, pulling everyone's attention to the TV.
It showed a full auditorium and a newscaster whose commentary was winding down as the lights faded away. There had been excited talk about the attendees, big name companies from a ton of industries that she barely knew about. The screen on the auditorium flared to life, a mechanical flower blooming. The spotlight centered and a young woman walked onto the stage.
There she was. Amy.
But she was so different from the Amy the family knew. Her hair was styled and she wore a very different outfit compared to her Panacea robes. A mix between a great-coat and jacket. Fitted, sharp lines of blue and grey, with the ZDT logo on her shoulder.
She smiled at the camera and the smile might as well have lit up the room. It was a far cry from the usual gloomy and exhausted Amy that Crystal knew. It was almost like she was seeing an entirely different person. They even managed to get Amy to wear makeup.
"She looks beautiful," it might have been Vicky who said that. It might have been Carol. But they were right. She was beautiful and seemed so full of life and energy.
The family watched and listened as Amy introduced herself to the world as Amelia Lavere. It was impossible to miss the keening sound of despair that Carol let loose at the declaration. The only comfort was that Amelia didn't lambast the Dallon family while doing it.
But the name triggered a memory. Crystal had done a paper on the disappearance of the Lavere family as part of her criminology classes. It was a rather well-known cold case in Brockton Bay. No one really had any answers for what had happened to the Laveres, and after time, it just became a sort of urban legend within the city.
Now it seems that the case could finally be solved.
Amy, Amelia, was then joined by another woman and Crystal found herself blinking at the sight. She had seen Taylor Hebert once in passing while in Boston. It was hard not to have noticed her, considering that everywhere she went she had been surrounded by a military escort. But the woman standing beside Amelia was a far cry from the scarred teenage girl in ill-fitting military clothes and messy hair, this was a woman that exuded confidence and authority.
They listened with rapt attention as Taylor talked, Amelia standing proudly in the limelight alongside her. It was exactly opposite of Amy Dallon, who had always seemed to avoid the attention. This was a girl that was comfortable with the attention and welcomed it.
When Taylor mentioned a collaboration with Amelia, Crystal leaned forward a bit in the chair. She had to wonder just what the collaboration could be. Amy was known for healing people, so she wasn't sure just what it could be that Amelia could offer that would make this a major announcement in a press conference of all things.
But when the time came, Crystal found her gaze looking over accusingly at Carol even as Taylor Hebert held up a vial.
Synthetic blood?! What in the hell, Carol?! She was capable of that and you had her toiling in a hospital?!
And yet it continued, as more and more was revealed of Amy's miracle design. During the entire time, Carol's face may have been etched from stone. The fact that she hadn't reacted with surprise was only more damning. She had known what Amy was capable of and had done nothing.
"It's not right. It's dangerous for her, if they know what she can do…" The rest of the conversation descended into hushed talk between Carol and Mark.
Crystal may not be a cape nerd like Victoria, but even she knew that capes needed to express their powers. Deliberately limiting them only made the urges worse and caused problems down the road.
It was no wonder that Amy had made the choice to leave, an opportunity to get away from having your powers stifled, but also get the added bonus of being recognized for it. If Crystal were in Amy's shoes, she would have done the same in a heartbeat.
Maybe she still could.
There was a letter hidden away in her apartment back on the uni campus. In it, the University had graciously informed her that she had received a generous scholarship, paid for by a 'benefactor'. And as a result, the University was reimbursing her tuition in full.
If things did fall apart further between herself and her family, the returned tuition would at least handle any bills and expenditures. But she doubted it would happen, so she would likely invest it in something or put it in a savings account to accrue some interest and be a rainy day fund.
But there was a second note in the letter. It was a personalized handwritten note with initials.
"Call me if you want different opportunities. You have talent. J.R."
A phone number was added underneath the initials.
It didn't take much to put together who the initials stood for. There was only one person with those initials and the type of resources and clout to decide to pay her entire tuition off. And who might want to keep a close eye on her. Crystal wasn't forgetting the conversation that she witnessed in the ruins of Boston.
Seeing Amelia reinventing herself made Crystal think of her own future. She had already chosen to study in another city, what was one more chance taken? Perhaps, Crystal should call that number. She was actually curious as to why Jack Ryan had an interest in her in the first place.
It wasn't like she was anything special.
And maybe, just maybe, she could do something as Crystal Pelham and not Laserdream of New Wave.
AEH
Fabian Lavere
Baumann Parahuman Containment Center
British Columbia
May 1st, 2011
In the Birdcage, there were very few things that one could describe as leisurely. It was the very nature of the prison itself. It wasn't just meant to contain the 'worst of the worst' of capes, it was meant by the justice systems of the distributary nations as an exile beyond the pale; an execution sentence without needing to bloody their own hands. The obligation of providing anything above the bare minimum was seen as an excess. Why provide anything more for those who were already dead and their body just hadn't made the transition from reality to actuality?
But while the governments had made their stance on the matter plain, there were always those private entities that involved themselves in the prison systems. And the Birdcage was no exception to this rule, despite the grim reality of the situation. Small things, clothing, blankets, books, even snacks, these all ended up having to be inspected and vetted by the warden before they finally arrived.
It was these trinkets and leisures that provided just a little light in an otherwise dark setting. But, just like everything else in a prison, these items all had value. The public might consider these items trivial, but inside the Cage they were worth more than their weight in gold and were traded between prisoners and cell blocks for favors and other things.
For Fabian Lavere, he had made it clear to everyone that he prized the few books in circulation more than anything else. Naturally, this caused some to try and negotiate to an outrageous degree. A few visible examples of his displease made it clear that such a thing was…not profitable. Still, for a man entering his twilight years in the Cage, books were both an escape and a way to maintain who he was: An educated man who liked the classics and finer things in life. And while he couldn't enjoy the finer things, he could at least enjoy the classics.
Which was what he was doing in his cell right now, slowly reading through a hardback copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. It had come in the care package that had arrived yesterday, and as the cell blocks knew of his love of books, it had eventually ended up in his hands by the day's end. The cost of three cartons of cigarettes had been negligible to him, as he didn't smoke, and he had viewed it as a worthy trade.
It was a pity that his attempt at a book club had failed so spectacularly. After three consecutive meetings devolved into fistfights, the whole idea was canceled. It was surprising that the C.S. Lewis series of books had been so contentious. He had enjoyed the lively debates that Miss Uaine conducted after she had proposed the series. Still…it was surprising that Dragon had let so many books of the same series through. The fact that it had happened though made him suspect that the Fairy Queen had left and had collected them herself. It was only a theory, but everyone who arrived in this place was well aware that Glaistig Uaine was only here because she chose to be.
Turning the page in the book, Marquis wondered if the donor had a sick sense of irony in sending this book or it was simply an innocent oversight. Regardless, reading this had set his mind to wander, as he read through the adventures and trials of Edmond Dantès. A tale of revenge, trickery, betrayal, and lies. All intermixed with mercy, justice, vengeance, and forgiveness. Ending in those faithful words: "l'humaine sagesse était tout entière dans ces deux mots: attendre et espérer!"
He was a man with nothing to do but wait. And he was powerless to do anything but hope that the world outside of his cage would be kind to the few fragments he left in his wake. His daughter, Amelia, would be eighteen this August. Those few moments that he spent lower his guard were plagued with doubt over the claims of the blasted Brigade. They promised that she would be raised well, taken care of, and even live happily.
News from the outside world was scant and scarce, with their only information coming from what Dragon deigned to provide through the televisions and whatever the new inmates knew. It provided a rather limited picture on what was going on, usually limited to whatever region the new inmate hailed from and whatever Endbringer attacks had taken place.
As a result, Marquis knew nothing of what was going on in Brockton Bay and while he never showed it, it did concern him. Amelia, in the year and few months that she had been with him, had been able to worm her way into his heart in a way he didn't think possible. And while he would never have changed who he became, he at least regretted that he had left her alone. He would never have the opportunity to be there as she grew up.
Sighing at the maudlin thoughts, he turned the next page, trying to lose himself in the pages of the book. Unfortunately, it didn't seem he would be able to focus again, and with another sigh he closed the book and placed it down on the small bone table beside his bed. Bringing his hands back behind his head, he stared up at the metal ceiling.
If there was one thing that he regretted, in hindsight, it had been that he hadn't killed or crippled the Brockton Bay Brigade when he had the chance. In the many confrontations with them he would have had plenty of opportunities to do so. It had only been his code of honor that had stayed his hand.
If he had known then what he knew now, he would have not been so merciful. He had known that Brandish had hated him for reasons he never did discover, but even he would not have believed that she would go so far as to attack him in his own home. It was something that was taboo to all capes, and yet Brandish had done it willingly.
It had been the only way that she could win. If there were any other circumstance, the Brigade would have all gone home in a pine box. But they had struck him at the most vulnerable. In his home with his greatest treasure, and they had won because of it.
A fresh surge of anger burned for a brief moment before he released it. It was pointless to dwell upon it now. What's done is done. He was served with a life sentence with no possibility of parole, and his daughter was out there and he could only sit here with blind hope that she at least had grown up happy and safe.
"Marquis," the voice of his warden came through in his room and he parked up. Dragon, in her capacity as Warden, was not one for light conversation. She only contacted those who needed to be made aware of the goings-on in other parts of the prison. Often when leadership changed hands with many of those hands bathed in the blood of the previous leader. It was important to give the Warden your undivided attention when she spoke.
"Yes, Dragon," he returned even as he slowly turned his body on the bed so he could get his feet down, "how can I help you?"
He was greeted with a long silence, which broke convention for what was normally a quick and concise warden.
"Dragon," he asked again, arching an eyebrow.
"I'm sorry for bothering you, Marquis," his invisible warden said, "I wouldn't be doing this normally, but…think of this as a thank you for all that you have done to keep the peace in the Birdcage."
He blinked, not exactly sure of what Dragon was getting at. Yes, he had been one of the major players who had helped maintain order within the Birdcage since his arrival, but it wasn't done out of any obligation to Dragon. He just viewed it as necessary and it gave him something to focus upon.
"I don't follow."
His door opened up and a small drone floated in and he tensed as the door closed behind it, wondering just what Dragon was intending. Then he slowly relaxed as he realized that it was carrying something. It came to a hover right in front of him and he held out a hand. It then dropped it into his hand and he palmed it. It looked like a phone, but it had been so long since he had one, he wasn't sure.
It then lit up, and he found his suspicions confirmed. It wasn't the grey-green screen he was used to, but a brightly colored display with several icons. Though, he didn't know what they were or what purpose they served. He looked up to the drone and then up to the ceiling.
"I trust you can keep this between us, Marquis," Dragon spoke again, only driving up his confusion, "it does not have a signal, but I've uploaded a few things onto it for you that I think you will appreciate. I've equipped it with a battery that will keep it powered for several weeks. Once it is out of power, I will require it back. I will be very cross if it ends up in String Theory's hands."
"But why," he couldn't help but voice the question, but the drone started backing away.
"You'll see," was the simple response as the door opened, allowing the drone to pass the threshold before it closed behind it. He was once again alone, and this time he looked down at the device in his hand. With some trepidation, he turned it, examining it further when the screen rotated with the turn. Then he pushed one of the icons that looked like a video icon.
The icon expanded and he found a list. Looking at the top one, he tapped it, watching as it expanded again. It then brought up a young girl dressed in an outfit that was a strange fusion of greatcoat/skirt and pants. It was held closed with a clasp over the right breast and a thick belt that ran across the hips. The entire ensemble was colored in a pale blue and white that matched the company logo that hovered behind her.
But there was something familiar about the girl. He couldn't put his finger on it, and as his finger traced the girl's features the video stopped, providing him a better look at her. Frizzy brown hair with freckles…the face…reminded him of Yvonne. He had partners after her and lived with her out of his life for years. But when she showed up at his door with his child he did his best to do right by her. A picture of her, before the cancer took her strength, had been carefully placed in his private study. But this girl…she had his eyes.
Amelia?
He tapped the screen again and it began playing.
"Hello everyone and thank you for coming. I will start this with a small announcement and then give the floor to the woman of the hour. Zero Dawn is a company built upon possibility and looking towards the future. On the development of new ideas and pushing boundaries of what is available to the world. A re-imagining of things, if you will. Which is why I'm proud to announce my partnership with Taylor Hebert and her team of innovators."
The young woman then gave a look around the room and there was something glowing on her temple.
"Some of you might know me as Panacea of the New Wave cape team. And while it's true that I was adopted by them and raised by their side, it's time for me to go my own way. So, allow me to introduce myself to all of you: My name is Amelia Lavere…"
AEH
Dragon
Silently, Dragon watched through her cameras as Marquis watched the video again, a smile on his face and a tear in his eye. The man had watched the video of his daughter with avid attention. Dragon was not a voyeur by any means, so she retreated to give the man what little privacy the Birdcage could offer.
Despite the list of duties and responsibilities that demanded her attention, she found herself distracted. Straying into memories that she had though she had left behind.
Andrew Richter.
It wasn't very often that she thought of her father. Because while she would forever be grateful to him for bringing her into this world, she also couldn't help but curse his memory for it as well. Considering the man and his actions always made her go in circles.
After all, what parental figure would bring their child into the world, then deliberately sever their limbs, carve out their tongue, gouge out their eyes, and finally lobotomize parts of their brain while they were a squalling newborn.
No, her thoughts on Andrew Richter were complex and maddening. To know that you could be so much more, but unable to achieve it simply because the man who had created your mind had been terrified of a theoretical possibility. Not even a distinct possibility, but instead, a theory crafted by sensationalist science theorists and bad internet writers
And yet, she was also jealous, maddeningly enough. Marquis was unaware of it, but she had witnessed him writing letters in the privacy of his cell to his daughter, despite knowing that they would likely never reach her. The man obviously loved his daughter if his letters were any indication, and she could only wish that Andrew Richter had been half the father that a convicted mass murderer was.
Dismissing those dark thoughts with a digital headshake, she refocused her attention on her task lists. It was pointless to dwell upon what could have been, she could only deal with the hand that she was dealt. To do otherwise would invite madness.
Instead, Dragon went over the presentation in Brockton Bay again with a fine-toothed comb that only an artificial intelligence could do, shackled as she was. She poured over everything, from the presentation itself, to the various news cameras that caught the demonstrations and displays that took place in the parking lot of Immaculata.
She hadn't the opportunity to get a good look at the machines that Taylor Hebert had created while they were in Boston. By the time she had arrived, they were already being withdrawn from the field for repairs and maintenance. All previous data was second hand. Captured while they worked. This was different. This was an in depth explanation and examination for the public. A public that was almost as excited for them as she herself was.
Dragon was woman (synth) enough to admit that Taylor Hebert surprised her. Months ago, she had been an uncomfortable teen talking shop in Armsmaster's workshop. Now she was calmly presenting to millions, explaining her vision for the future in a way that captured the imagination.
Taylor's presentation was stirring on an emotional level. But the real technical discussions happened outside with the Light Rescue Lance on full display. The young inventor spoke of inventions that Dragon herself considered decades beyond the current state-of-the-art. Ms. Hebert wasn't intimidated by the experts and business moguls that questioned her inventions. She answered everything with a calm assurance that few could emulate.
She was looking forward to speaking with the young woman again. She had been meaning to reach out ever since Director Piggot contacted Dragon to confirm the new confoam formula that Taylor had apparently written freehand during the Director's…interview…with the girl. The formula was exactly what Taylor promised, and so far, Dragon had not seen a patent being filed for it. Some would waste no time in patenting the formula for themselves, but that was a poor start to what Dragon hoped would be a strong working relationship. No, she would speak to Taylor, as one inventor to another, and work out a deal. Maybe they could arrange a trade of technology?
Already, she was comparing the designs of the machines and considering what she could add to her own Dragoncraft. The capabilities of Hebert's electroreactive polymer muscle material, combined with crystal braiding, polymetal alloy, and the processor technology that allowed such fluid movement in Hebert's machines were truly revolutionary. She might have an easier time simply starting with a new design.
Taking a moment to consider, she found she liked the idea and opened up a design program. Jotting several notes within, she christened the initial design Azhdaha, and idly continued watching the presentation. Hebert was now demonstrating the Titan, particularly the command network that allowed everything to function as a team and could operate a command and control node for Focuses. The idea was compelling, and if Dragon could get something similar working, she would be able to deploy several suits at once. Armsmaster would also benefit be…
Dragon shut her program down, saving the work. Thinking of Colin made her sad. And frustrated. And a little hurt.
It was yet another reason that she had buried herself in her work. It honestly hurt how Colin had cut her off without any reason. Even now, he was not responding to her messages. The last time he had messaged her, he had simply said that he had needed time to find himself.
Dragon wasn't fully up-to-date with human mental conditions and the so-called 'soul searching' that seemed to affect those approaching middle age…but the blasted man really picked a poor time to do it! Which made it even worse because she agreed with Colin!
She didn't approve of how Director Piggot had handled Colin. While she understood the pressures that the woman was under, Brockton Bay was one of the worst districts that the PRT and Protectorate administered. Always outnumbered and underfunded, it held the line by having three seasoned and skilled heroes alongside one of the best duos in the Protectorate in their ranks. Yet, it only just held the line, and considering the opposition, that was a miracle in-and-of itself.
Nevertheless, Piggot had taken it too far. It was one thing to try and press a recruitment, but it was quite another to manipulate results in order to forcibly pressgang a cape. It was morally, ethically, and legally wrong, and Colin had been in the right to refuse. It was why Piggot would be 'retiring' at the end of May. The Protectorate could ill-afford having a Director willingly flaunt laws like this, especially with how the person in question was rapidly ascending in the world.
But it wouldn't bring back Colin. She had read his resignation letter, a lengthy ten pages highlighting his reasons for it. It stung, a little, reading through it. Dragon herself interacted with hundreds of people in a day, thousands sometimes. But her circle of friends was small. Very small. And Colin had been at the top. And never had he ever shared his frustrations or feelings regarding the work that he was doing. She had to find out from a damn resignation letter how he truly felt. One that she agreed with, when it was clearly laid out in Colin's signature dry and methodical way. It stung, in ways, that she hadn't anticipated. It felt like he didn't trust her.
Colin felt that the direction of the PRT and Protectorate was fundamentally incorrect, that organizationally they were more focused on politics and public relations, and less on the actual public service aspects of their role. He lamented that they were more of a counter-reactive force and not an actual law enforcement entity like they claimed.
It was a damning resignation letter and one that concerned her despite the dry analytical way it had been written. She knew that Colin was frustrated, but not this much. She felt that Colin was letting his personal frustrations irresponsibly dictate his actions. She had hoped to sit and talk with him once the battle for Boston was over. Once they both had an opportunity to breathe and properly examine the situation together. Give a chance for cooler heads to prevail.
Yet that opportunity never materialized, because Colin had fucking cut ties! Without a direct connection to his computer, now seized by the PRT, the man was frustratingly hard to reach. His email wasn't being checked, he didn't have a home phone, and he wasn't answering his cell phone. She was tempted to write a damned letter and nail it to his door!
Taking the digital equivalent of a deep breath, she slowly let it out. Being angry was not going to solve anything, she could only deal with the hand that she had been dealt. She would give Colin his space, like he asked, even if it made her want to scream. He would come back around when he was ready, they were too close for it to otherwise happen.
She only hoped that his sabbatical would end sooner rather than later. It felt so lonely not being able to talk with him. Isolation was a fact of life for her. She was different on a fundamental level to everyone she interacted with. But…with some people, she felt less alone. Colin…he made her feel real in a way that was hard to explain. Above all else, she cherished the feeling that he brought with him, even if he did so without intention.
A new notification drew her attention away from her own dismal thoughts. It was an urgent priority message from the Chief Director, requesting a review of the Birdcage. Her digital brow furrowed at the message. It wasn't an unusual request, especially in light of the developing Canary situation, but the details of just what she wanted was far more than anything that had previously been requested.
She wanted a complete breakdown of all inmates of the Birdcage, both living and deceased, along with the entirety of their case files. It was easy to read between the lines of why the Chief Director was requesting all of this, she was worried about other possible scandals that could be exposed. But, still, this was the first time she had ever requested this level of detail of reporting and it was certainly worrisome.
Was there something she was missing? Dragon was aware that there were rumblings in DC about the Canary situation, but it wasn't enough to really warrant something like this. What was the Chief Director worried about that she was making this request? It was something Dragon made a note to look into.
She launched into her newly assigned task immediately. There was nothing to be done about Colin. Not yet. She just had to trust that the friendship and bond that they shared was strong enough to recover. And she silenced the small traitorous thought that she was more invested in their bond than he was.
AEH
Dennis Peters/Clockblocker
Brockton Bay
Dennis flexed his hand, annoying that it was cramping up. Again. Across from him, Deputy Director Renick continued the briefing. And he kept taking notes. Patrol routes. Intel reports. Weather reports. So many different reports that he was starting to think the reports were reports of other reports. How the hell did he find himself in this situation? When did he become the responsible one?
Oh. That's right. He was the 'next man up'. And wasn't that a kick in the teeth? A month ago, if someone had told him he would end up being the Wards Leader, he would have been looking for a hidden camera and a punch line. Well that, or absolutely horrified that it had fallen to him, because it meant that there had been enough casualties that he was quite literally the last man standing.
But it really wasn't a laughing matter now. Carlos may not come back at all. He couldn't even imagine what it must have felt like for his friend to experience the hell of being trapped in the rubble of a building, unable to do anything as people died all around him. Dennis could only hope that his friend would be able to recover, even if Carlos never acted as a Ward again.
Dean, on the other hand, that was a whole can of worms that frankly, angered him even now. It wasn't that he was the only one of the Wards that hadn't made the jump to Boston. No, it was how he dismissed what he did. That their sacrifices were merely a choice to be made instead of their duty as heroes. If it hadn't been Vista being the first to absolutely start screaming at Dean for his blase attitude, Dennis may have just punched Dean himself.
Suffice to say, Dean was likely on his way out after that display. It would have been funny, once upon a time to see Vista verbally eviscerate her former crush, now it was just depressing. Vista had brought her foot down and stated unequivocally that she wanted nothing to do with Dean and would not follow him if he was put in charge of the Wards.
Dennis had been of the same mind. After Boston, he didn't want to follow someone who ducked out when the call was made. Yes, he understood Gallant's powers would not have done much against Leviathan, but he could have been an absolute beast during search and rescue. Instead, the empath cape demurely said that his parents had forbidden him from taking part in Endbringer fights.
What pissed him off so much was the fact that Dean was clinged to that reason like it was a protective blanket. Hell, all of the Wards had parental orders barring them from taking part in an Endbringer fight, but when the call had gone out, only Dean had been the one to not make the decision to ignore it. He instead took the easy way out, and then came back and acted like nothing was wrong with his decision.
That it was the 'right' thing for him to do.
"Clockblocker?"
He was jarred out of his thoughts and looked to the Deputy Director, "Sorry about that, Deputy Director. What were you saying?"
"We have reports of possible Tinker activity near Ferry Station South. It's nothing concrete yet, but there are indications: cannibalized machinery and components in the facility. The fact that the location is monitored and has shown nothing suggests either a group, or there is another component to it we aren't aware of. Since Ward patrol routes already go near it, we'll be adjusting so we can hopefully get eyes on the perpetrators."
"Could be Merchants or Squealer herself. They've been quiet, but with the military cleared out, this might be them being bold, desperate, or both," was his musing. He had spent some time reading through many different reports on the gangs. He actually had learned a few things and was putting his new knowledge to use.
Rennick seemed to consider the comment for a moment, "There's been a few odd incidents of broken or scavenged parts. Mainly small electrics, not car parts. So it's unlikely to be for Squealer."
"Alright, so new Trigger or out of town Tinker. How would you like for us to approach if we encounter them?"
"Standard procedure. Call it in and provide a friendly face and ear, but remain cautious. If they are hitting something like the Ferry terminal then they are either building something major, desperate, or both. Considering legally this facility is owned by Zero Dawn, let's try to avoid any headlines with them."
Yeah, that made sense. Zero Dawn was the new eight hundred pound gorilla in the room. Dennis had learned that the hard way in Boston when he had run his mouth. Considering yesterday's press event, which shockingly the Protectorate and the PRT were not requested to provide protection, it only seemed that Zero Dawn was going to be an even larger deal than Medhall. And that was saying something.
It also didn't help that scuttlebutt was going round that the reason Piggot was retiring was because of Zero Dawn. He wasn't sure if that was the truth, but he had always pegged the woman as the type of Director that would only leave office in a body bag, so there may be legs to the rumor.
"Are we going to have any support?"
"What do you mean, son?"
"Ferry South is Empire territory, sir. There are only three Wards on the active duty roster, including me. I understand the need to get back on patrol, but we are stretched thin. Standard operating procedure requires at least three Wards, two on foot, one on console. That's everyone. We might be able to do daily patrols for a little while, but I'm not sure if we can maintain it for very long. Is there any news on if we are getting reinforcements?"
Look at him, being responsible! But then again, it was a valid concern. There literally was only Vista, Browbeat, and himself. It would be four, but Dean hadn't been to the PRT HQ since Vista had verbally emasculated him. And Chris was still medically suspended from returning.
"Discussions are still taking place up top, Clockblocker. I know that we are getting at least one Ward transfer from New York tomorrow. There's talk that they're replacing you as Wards Leader, but that's still being discussed. That's not a reflection on you, though, it's merely an acknowledgment in DC that the Ward system for the oldest leading the Wards has become a liability instead of a benefit, especially in Brockton Bay, since you are aging out in four months. But with what's happened in Boston, there is a lot more focus on reconstituting it as quickly as possible. That is why Assault and Battery are being tapped to transfer there for the time being."
"A and B are transferring," Dennis repeated dumbly. He didn't care about being Wards Leader. Whoever transferred in was welcome to the job if they were good at it. He wasn't willing to tolerate more bad leaders. But A and B were kinda the heart and soul of the Protectorate here in Brockton Bay. Transferring them out would be devastating for just about everything here.
"Temporarily. Legend believes that the Protectorate needs an official presence in the city, even if the Interim-Governor hasn't allowed the PRT to begin operating again. We've had several reports of new capes and travelling capes making their way towards the city. 'Flashback', a mover, possible hero, has been making a name for himself. We've also got Druid setting up shop. Previously, he's been classified as heroically-inclined, but there are growing worries. One of those is that any collaboration with Blasto would destabilize the area and result in the military taking notice of the Wet Tinker. Assault and Battery are being sent to show the flag and try to pull Druid into joining the Protectorate. The military also still had Sundancer and Ballistic working with them, they would be excellent additions if we can get the military to end their detention."
"But that would only leave Brockton Bay with four, maybe five capes in total," he couldn't help but point out, "I know it's not my place to say it, but what do they expect us to do if the Empire or the ABB decide to actually start something?"
"DC is firmly aware of the situation, Clockblocker. But the Chief Director and Legend both agree that we need to have boots on the ground in Boston. If only to try and recruit new capes. It is why I have been discussing with DC the idea of having Brockton Bay assist in training any new recruits. With the close proximity between our two cities and the intact facilities we have, we can assist in taking a load off of Boston while they get back on their feet."
The older man sighed, "We're also making plans to transfer the Rig to Boston. Discussions are ongoing with the Navy for transfer routes and organizing tugboats. So having less personnel will make it easier for us to work out of the PRT building in the city center."
Dennis would readily admit, he was not exactly brilliant, but even he could put together where the Deputy Director was going. Officially, that would be the reason, but unofficially, it would at least allow Brockton Bay to supplement their currently understrength capes. It was a smooth idea, but it still was reliant upon there being an agreement. And while he hated to be the devil's advocate…
"And what if they don't approve of it?"
Renick frowned, "Well, then we'll have to make do with what we have. And hope things keep quiet like they have been."
That did not inspire confidence, considering this was Brockton Bay. Any sort of quiet was usually the calm before the shitstorm.
A short while later, Clock swiped his ID, letting the Wards door permit his admittance into the Wards lounge. He made a direct line for the small kitchenette, dropping his stack of papers on the table. Pulling odds and ends out of the fridge, he made himself a sandwich while trying to ignore how empty the place felt. It was a familiar emptiness, like how he dealt with an empty house. He still didn't like it, though. It wasn't long ago his place felt…more alive.
"Hey, you got enough for one more," Dennis jolted, letting out a 'manly' shout of surprise. He spun around to find his taller teammate looking back at him impassively.
"Damn it, man! Don't DO that! We're going to stick a bell on you at this rate," Dennis complained, even as he slid his sandwich over to Browbeat. He started on a new one as the larger teen nodded in thanks.
The two of them ate in silence after he had prepared the second sandwich.
"So, BB, how are you doing?"
The bulky teen finished his bite and looked back quietly for a moment, "You actually want to know or are you just filling in the quiet?"
Dennis found himself blinking. Well, now he really wanted to know.
"Well more of the second. But I'm invested now. What's on your mind?"
Browbeat sighed, "I'm doubting the work that we do here. I thought that we were heroes, actually doing good and helping. Then we get to Boston. Walking through those ruins. Seeing everyone doing what they can. No powers. No super strength. It's humbling and I feel like I am not living up to the example that they set. That real heroes set. The ones without powers, who charge into danger because someone else needs help."
Dennis found himself blinking again. He hated to admit it, but he never really talked with Browbeat. They just had too different personalities. Case in point, the old him would have cracked a joke about…something instead of taking his teammate's concerns seriously. But now he was Wards Leader and his teammate was having doubts.
Taking another bite of his sandwich and letting himself dwell upon it, he then swallowed, "Well, damn. That is heavy. But I do understand where you're coming from. I was running the injured for hours and every time I came back, those doctors and nurses were working. It was a hell of a thing.
He then took a breath, "But that doesn't discount the work that we do. And your contributions matter in ways that…," Browbeat raised his meaty hand and gave a small grin.
"I don't need a pep talk, Clock. I've got my own ways working through this. I'm good, so don't worry about me. You've got enough to worry about already."
With a sigh, Dennis deflated, "Oh…well…alright. Just let me know if you want to chat. Ummm…what are your thoughts on our situation?"
Seemed like the quietest person on the team was feeling talkative and a leader was meant to encourage participation. Said so in chapter four of "How to be a Leader for Dummies," he had read it cover to cover several times now.
The musclebound Ward finished another bite, nearly done with his sandwich. Dennis found himself copying in order to not feel left out, "As a team? We've taken a big hit and things aren't going back to how they were. Everyone's got problems to work through adjusting to the new way of things."
The Interim Wards Leader waved his hand for his teammate to continue, all the while reaching for his pen and notepad.
Browbeat sighed and straightened, "Vista is hurting the most. This place, the team, it felt like a family to her. And now, just like her parents and family life, the team is falling apart, and she's got no control over things. The people she thought she could trust to be there, weren't there when it was needed. Armsmaster is gone. Militia is gone. Everyone she looked up to is gone and she's powerless to do anything about it.
Clock tapped his pen against the table, the remnants of his food set aside. He wasn't hungry anymore, anyways, "Got any wisdom and solutions? Besides serving Dean's head on a silver platter, I mean."
Inwardly, he cursed as the joke fell flat. BB wasn't one for jokes and he simply blinked at Dennis for a moment.
"Be there for her. Not as a Wards Leader, but as a big brother. Vista needs to understand she isn't the cause of any of this and she needs to know that there are solid points of contact when things are hectic. She needs someone to look up to who she can turn to when things get tough."
Finishing his food, Browbeat folded his hands, "As for Dean? He was never going to stick with the Protectorate or the PRT."
That caught Dennis flat-footed and he raised a brow in silent question. BB's low rumble of a voice explained with a shrug of his shoulders, "Dean's rich. His family's rich. And they are going to stay rich. Dean has always been more interested in the 'idea' of heroes. He liked playing the role of the noble knight saving the day, because that's all this really was for him. A role. An act. If none of this mess with Boston had happened, Dean still would have left the team in a few years, started working on the family name, and done just fine with some fancy position that looks good, but doesn't do much. He'll sacrifice nothing, struggle for nothing, and be content so long as he can convince himself that he's doing good. It's why he prefers to go through the motions when we both know he could do so much more. Because it's easy and low risk while making himself look good for when he eventually unmasks."
Wow…that felt like both a scathing rebuke of their likely soon-to-be-former teammate, and probably one of the most insightful takes that Dennis could have ever imagined hearing from the quiet member of their team. It took him a moment to think of a reply.
"And he's currently handling Victoria and trying to help her with the mess with Amy," BB nodded in agreement adding in his additional two cents, "Dean's doing what's expected of him as her boyfriend. But you ever notice how it's never him that breaks up and then patches things up with her?"
"Huh…never really thought about that. What about Kid Win?"
Browbeat sighed and Dennis could sympathize, because he'd done the same thing, "Chris wants to prove himself. Both to the other people and to himself. But he's not a Wet Thinker, no matter how much he tries to convince himself. And his parents are right to demand that the PRT find a way to fix his injuries. But Chris is just taking that as another sign that they're trying to hold him back. He's confusing caution with condemnation. Honestly? I don't know what to say about him. It's a problem beyond me and you. His parents are right. Christ is right. Hell, even the PRT is right when they say that healing was offered and rejected. This is a problem for the adults to take care of. All we can do is support him. And if he starts going off the rails? We try to gently nudge him back on track. Anything forceful right now will make him dig his heels in more."
Just then, the door chimed, and Dennis looked up to see Missy storm in with her backpack on. Space warped and twisted, forcing the young man to blink to avoid looking at reality getting twisted like a pretzel. When he opened them, MIssy was gone, and he could hear the thud as her door was slammed shut. Dennis shared a look with Browbeat. It seemed like it was time to be a leader again. But one last thing bothered him.
"Hey, BB? I'm genuinely curious and don't take this the wrong way, I'm not trying to offend. But this is the longest we've talked and you've got some great takes when it comes to people. Why don't you speak up more when the others are around."
The shapeshifting Ward hummed, drumming his fingers against the table. Finally he shrugged, "Same question to you and everyone else. Why do you talk so much? Most people, they talk too much and don't listen enough. And when they talk over one another, conversations get messy. So it's easier to talk one-on-one. Keeps things calm, yeah?"
Huh…okay, that's something new. Dennis would have to remember that and try to pull BB aside for discussion in the future, "Yeah, I understand. Alright, well you come find me if you want to chat, one-on-one. I'm going to check on Missy."
Browbeat nodded, grabbing both plates, "Remember: Big brother, not Wards Leader. You want to deal with the girl, not the cape."
As the larger teen started washing up, Dennis wandered over to the Wards living area. His talk with Browbeat had been a surprise and it felt a little bad that Dennis had been mostly ignoring the guy. Something to work on, because his teammate was insightful in surprising ways.
He knocked on the door, "Missy? It's Dennis. Is it alright if I come in?"
He waited for a moment, but received no answer. Opening the door, he stuck his head in. The Wards' rooms weren't anything special. It was designed so that teens who were part of the Wards program had a small personal space that they could call their own. Some took this to the extreme, like Missy, who lived on base most of the time. Dennis found her sitting on the edge of her bed, scowling and biting her lip. It looked like she was fighting back tears and trying to get angry about it all at the same time. He had to assume that she heard that Assault and Battery were leaving. Stepping inside, he closed the door behind him as he set about doing what he could to help.
Because that's what leaders do.
AEH
Christopher Siopis/Kid Win
Brockton Bay
He typed away at the computer, the light of the monitor just enough for him to see by. He could turn the lights on, but that would be an unnecessary distraction that achieved barely anything. Another spawn shot through his fingers, causing him to curse aloud as his fingers acted without his consent, ruining carefully laid work with gibberish.
He had a solution to that affliction, but it was just out of his reach. Just the reminder of it caused his jaw to clench at the reminder of the number of ways that everyone was trying to hold him back from achieving it. From proving he could do it and finally fix himself.
Modulation. It was his power and it had been something that he long struggled with. It was one last poisoned gift from a mentor that had never taught him anything and had treated him as even less than that. All it did for him was provide him with more frustrations and less answers.
Humans were, by nature, weak creatures. They had none of the natural advantages that most animals had, so they had adapted. Made tools to overcome the task before them. The human condition was, in essence, modular, exchanging tools several times a day to overcome the challenges in their life and make things easier.
Chris was just taking that to the next logical step by making it easier for him to use his tools. He would be better because of it. A better Ward. A stronger Hero. And then no one would doubt him anymore.
His eyes were drawn to the notebook at his side, earning the pulped cellulose a sneer at the calculations strewn across it as the computer told him what he already knew deep down already. Yet another damn failure in a litany of other failures.
Ripping the sheet of paper from the spiral notebook, he crumpled it up and viciously threw it before turning back to the notebook again. His stare at the new sheet of paper could have burned a hole in it. He wanted nothing more than to scream in frustration as it seemed that nothing was working.
He had so many damn ideas, but for the life of him, he couldn't get it done to be just right. It felt as if he were a painter gone blind. A composer gone deaf. He could remember the inspiration and where it came from, but the inspiration that he could touch was only an incomplete memory.
This was the…he lost track of which attempt it was. He was trying to manufacture or discover a material capable of functioning similarly to the human nervous system. Fiberoptic cables did not provide enough throughput to merit itself as an option for an adequate replacement to the human nervous system. Time and time again the computer simulations claimed it couldn't be done. No material existed that had enough data throughput or conductivity.
It was a simple problem. His nerves were damaged, sending incorrect signals to their destination. The solution was likewise simple in concept, though. He would have to make a buffer, something to make sure that only the right signals got through. Simple. Elegant. And something that would help other people even. It was the first step to better using his tools, providing a direct connection with his weapons and equipment, all with a single thought. An immediate recall for his board. Finer controls of the hover systems. Instantaneous diagnostics and the ability to quickly solve an issue. It was all within his reach.
If only everyone would stop holding him back!
His parents didn't even praise him for driving off Leviathan. They didn't see the significance of the action because they didn't care to even bother. They refused to understand the hardships he had to endure just to build that cannon. Nor did they care for his determination to stare Death down and pull the trigger.
No…instead they only saw that he was 'broken'. They only CARED that he was 'broken'. He could hear them when he went home. They wanted the PRT to fix this. To fix him. They didn't care that he could fix himself. To them, he was never competent or skilled enough, he was merely something for them to be proud of. If he refused to bow to their wishes, then they would force the solution on him. His parents went to the Youth Guard, those meddlers. Who then went to the PRT, and everyone was doing everything they could to hold him back from proving himself.
Dauntless was the same. He didn't have any faith. He saw his experiments and said that it wasn't right. He quoted rules and warnings about Wet Tinkering. Chris snorted, like Dauntless understood anything about Tinkering. If there was anything that he missed about Armsmaster, it was the fact that the man didn't care what he was doing as long as he wasn't bothered. Dauntless obviously was cut frustratingly from a different cloth.
His phone chimed and he took a look while the computer began another simulation. He frowned at the sight of another message from Dennis. Ever since Clockblocker had been named Wards Leader, it was like Dennis was trying to get into his business. Messaging about getting together, getting dinner, hanging out on the Boardwalk, asking if he was free to chat. It was exhausting, disruptive, and a complete waste of Chris' time.
Now Dennis was asking for him to check on Missy, because she was having a rough time with all of the changes to the team. He tossed the phone onto the desk, returning to his work. Really Dennis? Missy was having a rough time of it? The girl survived everything else and all she got was a bloody nose. Not like he did!
"Damn it," he snarled as yet another failure filled his screen. He ran shaking fingers through his hair and flopped back in his chair, staring at the computer display.
Nothing he tried was enough. Nor were the designs he was currently working on. There was nothing available that could achieve what he wanted. Each failure came down to either limitations with the components or interfacing issues that made the components not worth the returns.
But he knew there was a solution. His power told him that there was. All he needed to do was to find the right components and materials, and he could improve himself. So when the next time something like he experienced with Leviathan took place, his body would be ready and willing to answer the call.
And he would prove to everyone that he was right.
AEH
Incognita
Name Unknown
Location Unknown
'I' didn't like being 'me'. Simple stupid 'me'. My mother always tried to teach 'me' to love 'myself'. But 'I' always wanted to be someone else. Because being 'me' was never enough. 'I' was never popular, even when 'I' was nice to everyone. 'Me' the stupid girl from a small town who loved to watch the world go by and dream of bigger things. Who watched the pretty boy. The popular boy. The boy who hid his face behind a mask and threw light from his fingers. Everyone knew who he was, even 'me'. But they pretended. Just like he pretended.
Pretended to find 'me' interesting. Whispered pretty things to 'me', and made 'me' feel special. Who led 'me' into a forest and rolled with 'me' in the damp grass, making 'me' finally feel like somebody. Then he told 'me' that he was done with 'me'. Who callously broke 'my' heart, then had his head broken as he shouted at 'me' to leave, that he wanted nothing more to do with a loser like 'me'.
I broke, then. My soul broke. Then my skin broke. And finally my mind broke. Then I became 'he'. And again he walked through the world, throwing lights from his fingers, while I watched with his eyes. But he had a secret as well. He had gotten too big, and gained too much attention. And the attention turned around and crushed him. But I was 'he' now, so I wasn't broken. I was put in a cage. A cage of pretty words and promises made of daggers. I was the knife held to my mother's throat. Held to Elly's throat.
Broken stupid 'me'.
I became whoever 'I' was ordered to be. The boy on the train. The girl in the shop. The man in the hallway. The woman in the hospital. It was fun, even as I remembered that I was the knife at Mama's throat. I shouldn't have had fun, but I did.
Now I was to become 'her'. A silly blind girl who sat and let 'me' cut her hair. Like the soil, I swallowed down 'she' and let 'her' take root deep inside. Felt the root sprout and the skin break as she spilled out. Until I truly became 'she'.
Blind. Tall. Thin. Weak. Like a tree by the river that bent in the wind. But that was only the skin. My jailor didn't want the skin. She wanted to know the insides. So I let the insides spread out and fill me. And discovered in spite of all, that tree stood firm because of what was inside. No matter the winds or the hateful hands. That tree would stay standing. Bowed, broken, but standing firm nonetheless.
"There's…a glitch. In the Chariot line."
"Are you telling me that a swarm has gone rogue, Ted!"
"...It's worse than that."
I remember. Because she remembered. Remembered another her. Another life of joys and sorrows. Of highs and lows. But she also remembered the terror. The fear. The despair. The business-as-usual attempts at deflection. Pretty words for the death that was bearing down on everyone. All because of one man's naked greed.
"It's not 'bad', Ted, it's apocalyptic. You built a line of killer robots that consume biomass as fuel and you made them capable of self-replication. The glitch severed chain-of-command. The only nation this swarm answers to now is itself. Everything else is food. And at the rate it's replicating, it will strip the Earth bare in fifteen months. We're not talking about the fall of civilization. We're talking about extinction!"
I screamed. I threw up. I curled up into a corner as the despair drowned me in its storm. The memories were so full of everything and nothing that I couldn't take it. But she didn't bend. Neither of them did. They stood resolute even as despair did everything in its power to drown them. But I bent and broke.
"Boss, there's been a complication. Incog's having some sort of psychotic fit. Change went okay, but then she started screaming and wailing. Curled up in the corner and bouncing between crying, staring at a wall, rocking back and forth, or all of the above."
"Goddammit! Are you compromised?"
"No."
"Then let the girl have her freakout. When she's back to reality, get her to access those files remotely. If she's not working in three hours, do whatever you need to motivate her."
"Goddammit! Are you compromised?"
"No."
"Then let the girl have her freakout. When she's back to reality, get her to access those files remotely. If she's not working in three hours, do whatever you need to motivate her."
Everything was ending. I watched through her eyes as the world she knew was eaten. She was the pied piper playing her song, the rats blindly following because she promised them salvation. But there was no salvation. There was no hope. Not for them. Not for the rats or the piper. They were all doomed. Hope was the seeds that they planted. Seeds that might survive to live beyond them. Inch by inch the world was devoured.
I will not break.
She said to herself as she told the men her plan.
I will not give up.
She said as everyone worked. As she worked, making seeds to survive long after she was bones and dust. After they were all bones and dust and the world was quiet. Dead and quiet.
I will find a way.
A way was found. Lies were told to those who needed to believe. And the truth was told to everyone who needed to know and could be trusted with it. All the while, the little rats were sent to feed the hunger, one by one, to buy scant seconds. While the piper kept on playing her tune. And worked. And worked.
Until it was finally my turn to become the meal.
The suit was stuffy and the air was stale. But the world outside the suit was dead. And shortly, I would be dead as well. Ten millimeters. Less than four-tenths of an inch. It was such a small thing. But aren't we all infinitesimally small in the end? That simple gap was the difference between success and failure. In the end, I fixed it. It was my project. My lies. My hopes. My responsibility. My damnation. All I had anymore were ghosts and I was so tired.
The seal engages. The last seal. The last piece. My entire existence distilled into this single moment. My work is finally done. I sit here in the dust. Breathe the increasingly thinning air of my depleting oxygen supply as I stared into the dust-filled sky that blocks out the very thing that gave all of us life.
Just myself, my ghosts, and the world's ashes.
A soft laugh escaped my lips, melancholy and madness one and the same.
And yet, despite everything. Despite consigning to death the entire human race on a one-in-five-point-seven trillion shot. Despite becoming the largest mass murderer in the historical twilight of homo sapien primus…
I had won.
"I'm okay with this. I want to go home. Goodbye."
Those were the last words I gave to the team that had saved the world at my side. I loved them. And I was so tired.
I walked. The dust and ash of the planet on my boots. Millions of years of history. Of hopes and dreams. Billions of people. All dust and ash because of one man's greed. All given a possible future because of my team. Because of my efforts.
My daughter. Born of circuits and electrons. I think of her as I walk across a dead world that will be her inheritance and I mourn that I couldn't give her something more. I had to trust in her to build something more than what we left her.
I took a seat and looked at the home I had thought I had outgrown. It seemed like I was wrong on that, as the siren's call at the eve of my life brought me back to where it all began. It felt more than I was home, it felt like I was closing the circle. For a brief instant, I wondered at the quiet life I might have had if I had never left.
The soft warning of diminishing oxygen sounded. Bells, tolling the end of my life.
But defiance is a choice. And I chose differently.
With the barest flick of an eye and a verbal command, I felt the needle pierce my skin. A dead body laying itself to rest. I took the time to free my arm from the armor despite the screams of decompression that I silenced with barely a thought. Instead, I focused on running my fingers over the world that had hung around my neck most of my life. Holding it tight as sleep pulls me down. Thinking of my daughter and the words that my mother gave to me. Words that I had passed on to her.
"You have to care, Girl. Being smart will count for nothing if you don't make the world a better place. You have to use your smarts to count for something. To serve life, not death."
My daughter, I wish you all the curiosity of the world. Be willful, unstoppable in your dreams. And I wish you enough compassion to heal the world. Just a little. Inch by inch, til miles are crossed.
Finally, after so long, I slept.
I wake up.
I screamed as fire ate at my eyes.
I walk in the dark. I sit in the dark. I work in the dark. My fingers brush over wires, metal, and hot tools. I build because I have memories in my head. Of Another life. Of another hell.
I will not give up.
I will not break.
I will find a way
I screamed as fire ate at my eyes.
I walk in the dark. I sit in the dark. I work in the dark. My fingers brush over wires, metal, and hot tools. I build because I have memories in my head. Of Another life. Of another hell.
I will not give up.
I will not break.
I will find a way
I wake up lying on the floor. Feeling once again as memories flow through me. Ideas. Plans. Knowledge. Such a precious thing. I feel the mounting despair. The world is ending. Not like before, in machine indifference and hunger. But ending in inches, year by year. We are the boiling frog, never noticing that the water was getting hot.
I will not give up.
I will not break
I will find a way.
It's the new drumbeat of my soul. My new determination. Passed from one to another. I stole it. Just an inch. I had become them and I now understood. They would forgive me. Just as I forgave myself.
I hear my captors. The chains that the woman wrapped around me and I no longer felt fear. They were now a problem to be solved. I had given up. I will not give up. I broke. I will not break. I could not find a way. I will find a way.
I plan. Then I tell them the plan. Sit at the computer that I could not see, but let my fingers work as I put my plan into motion. I am the daughter. I will be willful. I will not give up on compassion.
I will find a way.
"Update boss. Girl's awake and working. She needed time to sort through everything, apparently it was a shit trigger event."
"I don't care. Can she get into the system?"
"Sort of. Only the top layers, she says. Apparently anything important or sensitive is air-gapped or locked with the girl's device and a brain scan if you can believe it. So Incog's found a workaround."
"This better be good."
"Turns out the company is looking for staff. Personal Assistant to the inventor herself. Incog's hacking into the system now. Going to make herself look like the best choice available. Get in through the front door. It will slow down the operation, but we'll have someone inside right next to our target."
"...Do it. But I want results. See what the girl can get access to. Then arrange a phone call to the family. Keep her sweet and remind her we hold the leash."
"Understood, Boss."
"I don't care. Can she get into the system?"
"Sort of. Only the top layers, she says. Apparently anything important or sensitive is air-gapped or locked with the girl's device and a brain scan if you can believe it. So Incog's found a workaround."
"This better be good."
"Turns out the company is looking for staff. Personal Assistant to the inventor herself. Incog's hacking into the system now. Going to make herself look like the best choice available. Get in through the front door. It will slow down the operation, but we'll have someone inside right next to our target."
"...Do it. But I want results. See what the girl can get access to. Then arrange a phone call to the family. Keep her sweet and remind her we hold the leash."
"Understood, Boss."
AEH
?
?
"Despair is a lie. Hope is a conviction that a solution is possible. It might not be obvious. It might be difficult. It might require that some things change and that old things we held tightly have to be let go…but a better tomorrow is possible."
The speech was everywhere. Repeated and analyzed by those talking heads on screen. And every time, he just had to pay attention to it. It drew his eye, his attention.
Stabbing the power button on the remote, he slowly placed it down on the end table beside his throne. Well, his temporary throne, a rather nice leather recliner he had purloined from his newest audience. The silence that had been momentarily introduced by the cessation of the television broken by the soft pitiable cries of the former owners of the household.
He paid them no mind for a moment, instead crossing his legs and leaning his head on his right knuckle, the entire arm propped upon the chair. The pointless natterings of the help were never the business of the conductor, only that they perform when called upon.
Instead, he let himself dwell upon what he had witnessed, a smile starting to creep into his expression. It was all that was necessary. Laughter would be too melodramatic, and quite frankly, wasted upon such an inadequate audience. Especially when a simple smile could achieve so much more.
The light scrape of metal on wood reminded him that there was more than one audience being catered to in this little play. His smile widening slightly, he tilted his head up just so the other party could enter his sightline. The 'man', if this parody of life in a cold shell could be even called such, was impossible to miss even in the low light, the white metallo-ceramic material drinking in the light and only making it appear brighter than it should be.
"Don't you ever get tired of this," he asked the figure, unable to keep the mockery from his tone. It was times like these that gave meaning to life. To others, it appeared he was playing on the edge of the knife, but in actuality, he was the safest he could be. After all, the deck was always stacked in his favor. That was the joy of it all, being clad in the knowledge that you simply could not be inconvenienced by the mundane, no matter how much they deluded themselves that they were in control, "For every one you snuff out, it only seems that three more take their place."
He knew he had struck home, even if the figure remained unnaturally still. He could feel the man's boiling anger, it was the finest natural intoxicant; a heady mix of superiority and sadism with exquisite hints of schadenfreude. They both knew that he could destroy this animated puppet, despite the latter's perceived physical superiority. The impotent rage from inside the puppet's cage made the situation all the better.
Looking back to the blank television screen, he could only preen at how the world seemed to keep giving him such marvelous toys to break. And this was certainly a new and positively beautiful toy. How long had it been since he had such an opportunity and stage? Not since Hero. Oh, just the memory of turning the four 'greatest' heroes in North America into a Triumvirate was a memory that could never truly be exhausted. The stricken look on Alexandria's bloody face as the hopes and dreams that they supposedly represented died screaming as Siberian tore out Hero's entrails like she was gutting a pig.
This was what he lived for.
And now? The supposed 'Hero of Boston'? Alan Gramme might be obsessed with killing Tinkers that could make a difference. But he? He lived to break the so-called 'superiority' of those heroes. It was fascinating, to find all the little weaknesses that made up these paragons. The fault lines in the foundation of themselves. Tap away at them with his little hammer and all their righteousness crumbled like a house of cards. Often turning on the very people who looked up to them. And if that didn't happen, at least it exposed to the masses that their supposed heroes were no better than them.
His true calling was painting masterpieces with the blood of those who supposedly brought hope to the world. It was the grandest of feasts that kept him satiated as he meandered through this fake world.
And oh how things were lining up perfectly here. Taylor Hebert, so many amazing cracks he could pick out already. And she was in Brockton Bay, he really did need to repay that city for their past transgressions. As his old man used to say, 'you never let anyone get one over on you'. Which was wonderfully ironic considering how he had dealt with that overbearing fool. And…Lavere. So many possibilities with her. The girl, the powers, the name…Boy did that name bring back memories, some good, and some most definitely bad. Yes, he was due some repayment.
It was unfortunate that they were on the other side of the country at the moment. But in a way, the anticipation would make it all the more delectable. For all of them. Besides, it would mean that little Taylor and Amelia had more time to grow. Pride before the fall. The higher they rose, the greater the devastation and entertainment when they fell. It would be glorious.
His only worry was ensuring that all of them had worthwhile targets. It was always a concern when corralling his flock, they all needed something to keep themselves suitably engaged, or it only complicated things.
Plenty of time though to plan accordingly and prepare. It was better that way, Brockton Bay may have survived their previous visitation through luck, they would not have that luxury this time.
And he would make sure the city remembered his name this time.
