Another Way
Part Six: Coming to Terms
"Armsmaster. Take a seat."
He did so, looking across the desk at the Director. "What's the problem?" It didn't cross his mind for a moment that there might
not be a problem. "Is it about Mega Girl?"
"Not Mega Girl, no," she informed him. "It's the Tinker you captured. Traction."
He frowned. "I recall her. Has she experienced problems?"
"Not in the way you might be thinking," Piggot stated. "She's escaped from custody. A guard's been murdered."
"Escaped?" he blurted. "Murdered a guard? How? We removed her tech from her. She was under Tinker protocols. I made sure of it myself."
"She had outside assistance." Piggot's voice was cold. "Someone hit her transport. Our best bet right now is Empire Eighty-Eight. Probably Hookwolf. She's gone, two guards are injured, and one is dead. Throat cut."
"Who do you think did the killing? Her or the rescuer?"
"They're not sure yet. But if she did it, we'll nail her to the wall when and if we catch her."
He studied the set of her jaw; she was serious about this. "So what do we do now? Keep an eye out to see if the Empire suddenly acquires a Tinker?"
"Exactly," she replied coldly. "And make a note on her file; she's possibly complicit in the murder of the guard."
"Understood. Was there anything else?"
"Speaking of Mega Girl, how's she turning out?"
"Improving," he observed honestly. "She's taken what happened to Traction to heart, and she's learning to show restraint without holding back too much. Also showing more confidence, which is good."
"Just remember, she has to meet the standards that we hold the Wards to."
"She'll get there, Director."
"Good. Dismissed."
By the time he got up from the chair, she was already scanning her paperwork; leaving the office, he closed the door behind him. The murder of the guard would have her on edge, he knew. She would be hard to work with for a few days. He frowned.
This is a bad business, even for the Empire. Kaiser must really want that Tinker on board.
<><>
Earlier
Sherrel looked up as the prison transport lurched. "What was that?"
"Nothing," grunted the guard. "The roads are shit. We're -"
The truck lurched again, but Sherrel had already braced herself. Her Tinker speciality was vehicles, the bigger and more unwieldy the better, but she had a feel for any vehicle and how it moved. And this one was about to -
The third lurch caught the guard off balance, and as the truck went over, he went with it. Her restraints made it awkward to hold on, but she managed it; in the meantime, the rolling vehicle gave her the distinct impression of being inside a tumble dryer.
It finally skidded to a halt, and she fought to catch her breath. The vehicle was lying on its side, and she carefully let herself down on to what was now the floor. At her feet, the guard groaned but didn't seem about to get up.
If anyone's got the keys for these restraints, he has. Dropping to her knees, she reached for him, only to find her reach coming up short. The restraints on her wrists were connected to a flexible cable, which was in turn connected to a floor bolt right between where her feet would have been resting. Now that she was kneeling on the wall, the cable was attached to a point halfway up the floor, and it was just too short for her to reach the guard.
"Damn it!" Getting up, she kicked the guard in the stomach; he doubled up a little and groaned some more.
Maybe I can search his pockets with my toes? She began to work the shoes off of her feet, but was interrupted when the rear doors were ripped open. Turning, she backed up, stepping over the recumbent guard, as a menacing figure stepped into the back of the truck.
He was tall, shirtless, with greasy hair and an array of tattoos that she couldn't make out with the light in her eyes. Metal protruded from his arms and torso, giving him a certain amount of armour, as well as a nasty set of claws. He wore a metal mask of some kind, but she couldn't quite make it out.
"You're the Tinker, right?" The voice was harsh, demanding.
"Uh, yeah," she replied. "Traction. Who are you?"
Shit, maybe I should've said no.
"Hookwolf. You comin'?"
Ah, so that's a wolf head. Got it.
Raising her hands, she showed him the cable binding her to the floor. "Slight problem with that idea. Who are you with?"
I should know this one …
He sneered. "You're being busted out and you wanna know who's doing it? Kid, your best bet is to come along now and ask questions later."
Oh shit. She had it figured out. "You're with the Empire Eighty-Eight, aren't you?"
"Got it in one." He stepped closer. "You coming with, or not?"
"And if I don't want to go with you?" she asked, with more defiance than she felt.
Abruptly, a blade formed from the end of his hand; she recoiled, but instead of attacking her, he stabbed downward instead. There was a dying gurgle, and a pool of blood spread from the gaping wound in the guard's throat. He would never get up now, she realised.
Oh god. He killed him. Just like that.
The blade dropped from Hookwolf's hand a moment later, and clattered on the wall of the truck. Sherrel backed away to the limit of the cable, trying to avoid the spreading pool.
"I can leave you here with the shank that killed him, and you can try to argue that you didn't do it," Hookwolf offered coldly. "Or you can come with me. Your choice."
Sherrel closed her eyes briefly.
Fuck. Opening them again, she stared at Hookwolf. "Okay, I'll come with."
Can't be worse than prison. I hope.
Another blade formed, extruding from his flesh, then a matching one. She watched, horribly fascinated, as the oversized shears cut through the cable as easily as if it were a cheese stick. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that they would do much the same to her wrist – or her neck – if Hookwolf decided to turn them on her instead. "Come on," he ordered. "Let's go. Boss wants to talk to you."
Numbly, glancing briefly down at the body of the guard, she followed him out of the truck. She didn't even notice when she trod in the pool of drying blood; the footprints she left behind were a silent accusation.
<><>
At About the Same Time
Rey Andino heard the knocking on the door, but ignored it. He wasn't expecting anything in the post, and there was really nobody in Brockton Bay with whom he wanted to talk. Concentrating on his apparatus, he eyed the two specimens currently growing in separate tubes.
Do I want more chimpanzee, or more Rottweiler?
The knocking ceased, and he relaxed slightly.
Obviously a mistake. Leaning closer, he examined both specimens carefully. Gently, as of a concert pianist, his fingertips rested feather-light upon the controls of his cloning device. The one on the left seemed to be heavier in the shoulders, whereas the one on the right had a larger braincase -
The banging on the door was so abrupt, he jerked reflexively. Fingers pressed buttons, and he yelped involuntarily as both specimens were sterilised with boiling water, then flushed away. "Fuck!" he shouted. "That was fucking
hours of work, right there!"
The banging continued; it sounded like someone very large and strong, or perhaps they were using a rock. Gritting his teeth with exasperation, Rey snapped his fingers twice; the large somnolent pile of fur in the corner of his lab stirred and sat up.
"Go," he told the gorilla-lion hybrid. "See who's at the door. If they have business with me, bring them back here."
It grunted in reply; he had made it smart enough to understand words, and use a few of its own, but he'd also made sure that it was utterly subservient to his will. As it knuckled its way from the room, its mane brushing the doorframe, he turned back to his workbench.
Hours of work, literally down the drain … ugh. However, he had a good idea where he'd gone wrong with the last batch.
Not chimp. Orangutan. Smarter and stronger. Opening a canister, he extracted one of his seeds, then began to search through his supply of samples.
I know I've got orangutan around here somewhere …
"They here."
The grunt from his guard-beast took him a little by surprise; he looked around to see a bunch of … "Kids? What the hell?" One of the teens stepped forward; Rey realised belatedly that they were all Asian to one degree or another. "Shit, you let ABB into my house?"
The guard-beast growled, and the kids shrank away from it. "No, no," protested the boy who had come forward. "We're not ABB. Not any more."
Rey looked him over. "Yeah? Prove it."
"Lung wants to kill us," blurted the one girl; she looked about thirteen, if that. "He killed Dao. Burned him to death." She appeared to be close to tears.
"Well, don't come to
me for protection," Rey told her. "Lung and I have an agreement. I don't fuck with his internal policies, and he doesn't come and burn my place down around my ears. I'd like to keep it that way."
"We don't want your protection," the boy told him. "Well, not
just your protection. We want to work for you."
Rey shook his head. "No, you don't get it. I work alone. If I want assistance, I make it. I
grow it. That way I know it's loyal."
"How about if you owed us?" asked the boy suddenly.
"
Owed you?" Rey shook his head. "I don't owe you shit."
"I got two things you'll want for sure," the kid told him, bold as brass. "You want them, you gotta let us stay here. We'll work, clean, whatever. Just let us stay."
This had to be a trick of some kind. "Yeah, like you've got anything that
I want."
The kid grinned. "Okay, how about one of Lung's scales? It got ripped out the last time he fought Kaiser, and I found it."
Rey's eyes widened. "You're
shitting me," he breathed.
"And that's not all," boasted the kid. "I also got a chunk of bone from Marquis."
And it had been going so well, too. "Okay, that's it. I got no time for bullshit." Rey turned to the guard-beast. "Throw 'em out. Make sure
that one bounces." He pointed at the mouthy kid.
"No, wait, no!" yelled the kid. "It's true! I got 'em!" He dodged around the guard-beast's gigantic paw as it swiped at him. "I got 'em right here!"
Rey rolled his eyes. "Marquis left Brockton Bay
years ago, kid. Don't even think about trying to play me."
"But he's
back!" the girl insisted. "We saw him!"
An upraised hand served to halt the guard-beast. "Where did you see him? What was he doing?"
"He was in our territory," the boy told him. "We, uh, tried to rob him."
"It was Dao's idea," the girl added quickly. "He had a girl with him. His daughter or something. She's scary as fuck."
"Yeah," supplied the boy. "They got hold of Dao and told him to tell everyone that Marquis was back, and he
did. And then he told Lung, and Lung killed him for it."
"And he wants to kill us too," another boy put in. "We'll be
your minions. Just give us a chance."
Rey scratched his chin; it was stubbled. He hadn't shaved in a few days. When he was working on something new, he tended to forget about the basics. "I suppose you'll be wanting me to feed you, too."
The kids looked at each other hopefully. "Uh, yes?" ventured the kid with the mouth.
Rey looked them over. "Can any of you cook?"
"Uh, I can, a bit." That was the other boy.
"Right." He held out his hand. "I'll have those samples right now. Once I've determined if they're genuine, you've got a place here. But I'll want people cooking and cleaning and doing laundry and shit like that." No matter how patient he was with them, his creations never quite got the hang of separating lights and darks. "I'm not gonna let you just sit around eating my food."
"Right, right, sure," the kid agreed immediately, pulling a knotted handkerchief from his pocket. "Here."
Rey undid the knot, and the gleaming metal scale was revealed, followed by the piece of bone.
Oh god, if these are genuine, what I can do with them …
Turning to his workbench, he began his tests. But somehow, he knew what the result would be.
If these are genuine, this changes everything.
Blasto was going to become a
name in Brockton Bay.
<><>
A Few Days Later
"I don't recognise the name." Claire looked at her father.
"There's no reason for you to," Marquis told her. "It's not a well-known place, which is deliberate. I certainly never took you there before we left the city."
"Somer's Rock." She pronounced it carefully. "So what's it about?"
"It's neutral ground," he explained. "Back in the days before the PRT set up shop in the city, we needed a place to meet and hash out our differences. Otherwise, we would have spent more time at war with each other than actually running our respective gangs."
"Huh. So who came up with it?"
The car came to a halt; Marquis got out, and offered his hand to Claire. She checked herself over to make sure that she was presenting the appropriate appearance to the world, then accepted it. While her dress wasn't quite as constricting on the legs as it might appear, it could still make getting in and out of a car a little bit of a trial.
The car moved off; Jonas had his instructions already. Marquis offered Claire his arm, and they strolled toward their destination, for all the world as if they were attending the opera.
"As I recall," he went on, "it was Galvanate's idea originally; he was Mob before he was a cape, so he had the background for it. He already owned the restaurant; we each paid him a portion of its value, and he gave it over to the current owners, on the condition that we could hold our business in there at any time. In return, they pay protection to nobody, and they are compensated for keeping their mouths shut."
"Don't the cops ever raid them? Try to shut them down?" She was trying to get her head around the idea.
He chuckled, the humour evident in his mind as well as his voice. "I'm going to presume that you meant the PRT. Because the police would be ill-suited to the task of breaking up a meeting of supervillains."
Her cheeks began to heat, but she suppressed the reaction. "Yeah, that's what I meant."
She could tell from the shape of his thoughts that he knew that she was lying, but neither his expression nor his tone of voice betrayed this, for which she was grateful. "I thought as much. Well, to answer your question, it has been long recognised by the PRT that having a neutral ground for criminal capes is a good idea. So while they
officially don't know about it, unofficially it is left alone."
"I'm still not sure about how this works," she objected. "There are more criminal capes in Brockton Bay than the heroes and rogues put together. Surely the PRT would prefer that the gangs be at one another's throats than working under any sort of agreement?"
"Your point is valid," he agreed. "However, a cape-led gang tends to be an empire unto itself – the Empire Eighty-Eight being a case in point. In that particular situation, it's survived a generational change. Gangs are very insular; they rarely work together, even when they have no arguments with each other. Gang warfare costs the lives of innocents, especially where capes are concerned, so leaving us a place to mediate our differences is a smart move on the part of law and order."
"Okay, I get that," she observed. "But if the gangs are unlikely to work together on anything, what's to stop the PRT and Protectorate from cracking down on any one gang, and taking them down, before starting on the next one?"
"Because such a move, if unprovoked, would bring the gangs into a temporary alliance. Such an alliance would overwhelm the forces of PRT and Protectorate in the city in relatively short order, and once more threaten the citizenry with unbridled violence, an outcome not to be desired on either side." He smiled at her and continued. "I suspect that you're about to ask why the criminal element does not simply combine to eject the PRT and Protectorate from the city, if we are capable of doing just that?"
"Uh, yes," she admitted. "Why is that?"
"Because that
would start a war," he informed her. "PRT and Protectorate forces from all over the nation would converge on Brockton Bay. There would be fighting in the streets, and many, many people would get hurt. Including those citizens who are the basis for our ongoing profits. Thus, it is far better for all concerned to maintain the balance which we hold today. We get our crime; they get their law and order. Everybody is happy."
"So it's not as haphazard as it looks," she realised, the moment of insight stunning her temporarily. "There's a
reason it is the way it is. It's all a series of checks and balances."
"Very good, my dear," he praised her. "Very good indeed. You see it now."
"I do," she agreed. "I really do. Wow."
"Not many do, you know, not at first," he commented, bringing them to a halt before an unprepossessing building. "We're here."
"Really?" She stared at the frontage, with its fading off-white paint, green curtains dimly visible through grimy windows, the windows set behind rusting iron bars. Some of the rust had bled into the white paint that coated the window sill. "I … thought it would look more impressive. More upscale."
"That's part of the deal," he explained. "They can't improve the property in any significant way. We don't want more clientele being attracted to the place, as this might make things difficult when we're meeting here." At her expression, he raised an eyebrow. "I never said that it was a
fair deal."
"Oh." Claire blinked. "I see." She concentrated. "I count … five people inside. Three men, two women." More details were showing up in her mind's eye, but she tried to stick to the relevant ones. "Nobody is hyped up on adrenaline; they're all conscious and healthy." She paused. "No firearms; or at least, nobody can smell gun oil."
"Very good." He drew himself up and pushed open the faded wooden door; she followed him in.
The word that immediately came to mind was 'dingy'. The bulbs were old and seemingly on the verge of burning out, and did not seem capable of supplying the amount of light currently flooding the place. In that light, she saw that the curtains were indeed green, but a faded, tired sort of green. Underfoot, the floorboards were a greyish colour, matching the countertop. Dirt gritted under her shoes; she wasn't quite sure when the place had been last swept, and didn't want to know.
Of the five people in her range, two were seated at a table, and three were near the bar. She was reasonably certain that the two at the table were the people with whom her father was here to meet; one was wearing metal armour and the other was glowing like a flashbulb, supplying the extra illumination. Given that they were there to meet with the Empire Eighty-Eight, identification was more or less automatic.
Kaiser and Purity.
Claire decided that the other three, at the counter, were waitstaff. The two guys were near-identical, both in appearance and biometrics, while the girl was also related to them, but -
"The waitress is deaf," she murmured.
"Hm," he replied, just as quietly. "That's new. Also, useful to know."
Kaiser and Purity rose at their approach. "Marquis," Kaiser stated courteously. "It's been a while."
"It has indeed, Kaiser," Marquis replied, equally politely. "I heard about your father's passing while I was out of town. I hope you received the sympathy card I sent."
"I did, thank you," Kaiser responded. He reached out; they shook hands. Claire kept an internal eye on the crime lord for suppressed tension, and only found a moderate amount. At this range, she knew, she could affect him if necessary, especially if he attacked her father. Darkening her corneas, she observed Purity with a certain amount of curiosity; the woman seemed to be in her mid twenties, and was looking back at Claire with what seemed to be equal interest.
"Marquis, do you recall Purity?" asked Kaiser.
"I believe so," Marquis confirmed; he addressed Purity directly. "I believe that you joined the Empire very shortly before I left the city."
"Yes, I did," Purity agreed. "I don't think we ever met, though."
"I think I would have remembered, yes." Marquis took her hand and bowed over it; Claire knew that he had shut his eyes so as not to be dazzled by her radiance. "Normally I would kiss a lady's hand, but I do not wish to give offence."
Kaiser inclined his head. "None taken, either way." Turning, he looked at Claire. "And this is … Marchioness, I believe? The feminine form of Marquis?"
"Yes, I am," Claire replied. "I've heard a lot about you too, sir." Not elaborating on exactly what she'd heard, she offered her hand; he bent over it to about one degree lower than her father had with Purity's.
One-upmanship, hah. Having grown up with her father's impeccable manners, she felt no more than a slight flutter in her stomach at the attention.
The contact also gave her access to his mental state; he was calculating, observant, his mind clicking over like cogs made of the same steel that clad his body; this effectively quelled the flutter.
He's trying to overawe me with manners. Keep me off guard.
She could also read his attitude toward her; the respect was pretended, to make a good impression on her father. Mentally, he had already dismissed her as a significant factor.
I should turn you black, you supercilious bastard. Or Asian. Or Asian and black.
But she didn't; they were meeting under an agreement of truce, and she would respect that. However, as her attitude toward him shifted toward dislike, her powers began to reassess him as a potential threat. Carefully, she suppressed any outward tells that would let him know how she felt about him. At the same time, she also stifled the semi-autonomous reaction from her powers that would cause him discomfort or even pain while they were in close proximity.
A whole-body itch. I could do that. Let's see him scratch through steel armour. But no; Dad would not be happy.
And then she was facing Purity; absently, she decided that darkening her corneas made her close to blind, so she restored them to normal and instead enlarged and moved her blind spots to cover the glowing supervillain. "I'm pleased to meet you," she offered, holding out her hand.
"Likewise," Purity responded, shaking her hand. "You're Marquis' daughter? I didn't even know that he had one."
"Yes, I am." Claire found the older woman to be more spontaneous, less calculating than Kaiser. She was also somewhat in love with her boss, or Claire was totally misreading the chemical signals in her brain. "There was an incident, so he took me away. But now we're back."
"Oh, I see." Purity released her hand. She was curious, Claire knew, but her manners won out. "Well, I hope you like it here in Brockton Bay." She was actually being sincere; Claire's attitude swung toward liking her.
"Thank you; I'm sure I will." Claire allowed her father to pull out her chair for her; on the other side of the table, Kaiser likewise seated Purity.
"Now then," Kaiser stated, once they were all settled, "shall we get refreshments first?"
Claire opted for a bottle of soda, while Marquis had a cup of tea, Kaiser got coffee, and Purity asked for a glass of water. Kaiser said nothing about the waitress' disability, but both he and Purity wrote on the pad that she carried. Claire also wrote her order, as did Marquis; Kaiser showed no reaction either way, but Claire caught a tinge of disappointment.
Did he expect us to make fools of ourselves? Is everything a power play with him? It seemed so.
"Before we commence our business here," began Kaiser, "I have a question." He looked at Marquis enquiringly. "Neither you nor Marchioness are masked. Does this indicate a change in the way that you will be doing business? Or do you simply consider yourself too powerful to be captured?"
Marquis smiled thinly; he was, of course, wearing the features and hair of the Marquis of old. "I no longer need to go masked," he explained enigmatically. "My real identity was uncovered and I was attacked once before. This will not happen again."
"But your daughter," protested Purity. "She can't be more than fourteen."
Claire read the concern in her mind; it matched that in her voice, whereas Kaiser was fishing for information. "It's fine," she assured the woman. "My father and I know what we are doing."
"You do realise that the PRT has closed-circuit TV cameras and facial recognition technology now," Kaiser pointed out. "They don't actively seek to unmask villains, but anyone showing their face is fair game."
Marquis's smile widened very slightly. "I wish them all the luck of the hunt. They won't get far." And they wouldn't; Claire was adept now at changing both herself and her father from their cape faces to their private faces and back again. Hair length and colour, eye colour, even bone structure; everything that 'Earl Marchant' had achieved via cosmetics and coloured contacts, Claire could make real in seconds.
Kaiser, frustrated but refusing to show it, changed the topic. "Very well. You say that you have returned to reclaim your old territory."
Marquis inclined his head. "That's what I've said, and that's what I'm going to do."
There was a dangerous edge to Kaiser's voice when he spoke next. "You do realise that when you left, the Empire Eighty-Eight took over some of the territory that you
abandoned?"
Marquis, unruffled, sipped at his tea. "I'm aware. I'm also aware that a large section of it is in ABB hands. And that some of it is in the hands of the Merchants."
"And you propose to take it back from
all of them?" Kaiser's voice was, if not flat-out disbelieving, at least a little dubious.
"Not all at once, of course," Marquis assured him. "But I do intend to rebuild what was once mine." His gaze upon Kaiser was calm. "I won't simply walk into your territory and take over, of course. As reasonable men, we can negotiate on the matter. Your father and I always maintained a professional standard, even when we had our differences."
"I think you will find that Brockton Bay is different today. Seven years is a long time." Kaiser, though still polite, had been slightly rattled by Marquis' casual reference to his father. Claire had to admire his control; he showed no sign of his disquiet.
"Yes. It is." Marquis sipped at his tea again. "Back
then, we had Butcher and the Teeth. Galvanate. And the Nine dropped in for a visit once in a while. Today? A foul-mouthed
drug dealer holds territory, and you allow him to keep it."
<><>
Kaiser controlled his inward wince. Marquis' tone had been polite and friendly, and had cut like a razorblade hidden in a silk scarf. "It's not worth the trouble to dislodge him … " He paused, reminded of something. "Speaking of drugs."
"Yes?" Marquis' gaze was frank and open, and Kaiser mistrusted it utterly. He had met the man a few times while still in Allfather's entourage, after he had triggered but before Marquis had moved away. Marquis had a reputation; he was honourable, trustworthy and absolutely true to his word, but he could also be utterly ruthless when the need arose.
As for Marchioness – not that Kaiser was totally sure that the girl was indeed Marquis' daughter, given the almost complete lack of family resemblance – her steady gaze should not be unsettling him the way it was, but damn it, it was. Something about her made him want to avoid her gaze.
Is she a Master?
"Are you aware that your daughter encountered Armsmaster in the Brockton Bay General Hospital, when she went there to exercise her healing talents?"
There, chew on that.
"Of course," Marquis replied urbanely. "She told me all about it when she got home."
"Then you will know that Armsmaster had an injured prisoner, and that your daughter -"
I will not use that name for her " - healed her."
"She told me about that too, yes. Your point?"
"My point," Kaiser stated, "is that -"
<><>
Earlier
Sherrel still had the restraints on her when she was ushered – or rather shoved – into Kaiser's presence. She stopped, panting, and pushed her hair back from her face.
The room looked for all the world like a regular office, albeit with a rather oversized desk. Sherrel could easily envisage landing a helicopter on it. Kaiser himself was clad in contoured steel armour, fitting him like a second skin. Albeit, a second skin that would turn small-arms fire.
He rose from what had to be a reinforced chair – her Tinker instincts wanted to look it over – and stepped around the desk to meet her. "You would be Traction, I believe," he stated.
"Uh, yeah?" It wasn't as though she could deny it, now. She also had the impression that of all the dangerous men she had met in her life, including Hookwolf, this was the most dangerous.
I don't cross this guy for any reason. Ever.
"Welcome." His voice was warm. "I hope that my men have not been too rough with you?"
She held up her arms and rattled the restraints. "Not really, but offing a guard just to make me come along, and then not letting me out of these, wasn't too friendly either."
He clucked his tongue sympathetically. "I understand fully. You've been through quite a bit since you reached Brockton Bay, haven't you?" He held up his hand, a metal strip protruding from the armoured gauntlet. "May I see your cuffs?"
"Be my guest." She allowed him to take hold of them, as he continued talking.
"Thank you. I'm afraid that my men may have been slightly overzealous, mainly because I gave them very firm instructions. Once I found out about your existence, speaking with you became my highest priority. You see, my organisation lacks a Tinker." He paused, looking her over. "I understand that your speciality allows you to create power armour?"
"It's vehicles, actually," she corrected him with a scowl as one of the cuffs popped free. "Heavy vehicles. Heavier the better."
He set to work on the other. "Well, all the better. Ms Traction, I'm willing to offer you quite a generous employment package if you will work exclusively for me."
Shit, what do I say? "I'm not … " She paused, trying to figure how to say it most diplomatically. "Uh, I don't feel the way you guys do about blacks and Asians." She braced herself for the tirade of anger.
It didn't seem to bother him. "Do you feel any particular need to protect them?" he asked, popping the second restraint free. "Blacks and Asians, I mean. Other minorities."
She snorted. "Hell no. Let 'em take their chances."
His tone was approving. "Well then, we can work together. Because, just between you and me? I find fanaticism to be quite an impediment to sound business practice. Build me vehicles and quibble not on the manner in which they are used, and I will – well, not shower you with gold, not unless you request to be paid in that fashion. But I will certainly pay you most handsomely."
His tone was reasonable, and the offer was … well, more than reasonable. Much more. She felt her objections to working with 'that racist gang' fading away.
Her mercenary instincts, scared into submission until now, kicked back into gear. "Will I get a workshop?"
"My dear, I will allow you to
design a workshop, to your specifications. All expenses paid." He paused. "And speaking of expenses."
Sherrel hesitated, visions of the workshop she'd always wanted dancing in her head.
No more scrounging in garbage dumps and wrecking yards for what I need. Everything laid on. All expenses paid. "Uh … what?" She had a horrible feeling that the other shoe was about to drop.
He was watching her intently. "You were attempting to steal from a pharmacy when you were captured. What is your stimulant of choice?"
She hesitated.
Shit, he knows I'm an addict. "Oxy," she admitted at last in a low tone.
"Oxycontin, yes?" His tone was non-judgemental.
"Uh, yeah."
"Well, then, that can also be supplied to you. However," his tone hardened, "I will require that you keep your head clear when you are building vehicles for me. Your drug use happens on your time, not mine."
"Sure, sure," she agreed, nodding her head.
"When was the last time you took some?" She got the impression that he was eyeing her carefully.
"Uh, a week ago," she told him.
"Hm. You don't appear to be suffering any sort of withdrawal."
"The girl in the hospital," she told him. "She … she fixed it. Made it so I wasn't feeling addicted any more. That's what Armsmaster said, anyway."
"What girl in the hospital?" His voice was intent.
"The healer. Girl in black. She said she was Marquis' daughter."
"Marchioness?" He asked the question sharply.
"Uh, maybe. I don't remember. I was kind of unconscious for part of it. He said she'd fixed my addiction."
"But you still want some."
"Hell yes. No bitch is gonna tell me what I can and can't be addicted to."
"Well spoken," he praised her. Going back to the desk, he pressed a button on the intercom and gave orders. "Now, then," he told her. "Tell me everything you're going to need for this workshop of yours. Leave nothing out."
"Uh, okay," she agreed, and began to talk.
<><>
Just a few minutes later, a skinhead trotted in with a paper packet in his hand. Kaiser pointed at the girl, who was now seated in a chair. "Give it to her."
As the skinhead left the room, she ripped open the packet and shook a pill out into her hand. There was a look on her face, midway between yearning and apprehension.
If she had any sort of willpower, he told himself,
she would throw that packet far away. To have the monkey of addiction riding on your back, day after day, and then have the chance to be done with it, and not take it? That's why I'm in charge and she will be doing my bidding.
Tilting her head back, she popped the pill and dry-swallowed it. "I've been waiting for this ..." she mumbled, more to herself than to him.
And then she heaved, vomiting up the pill, along with a mix of what must have been prison food. Sliding from the chair, she ended up on all fours, heaving out her stomach contents on to his expensive carpet.
He started toward her, but the damage was already done. He would have to have the entire carpet taken up and burned. As for her …
Grabbing her by the arm, he jerked her to her feet. She was groggy, almost unable to stand, but with his support, she managed it. "What the hell was
that?" he demanded.
If she's suffering from something, and she hasn't told me …
"What the hell
was that?" she shot back, then belched uneasily.
"Are you ill?" he asked. "Do you need a doctor?"
"No, I was feeling fine. Until I took your fucking oxy. What sort of shit was that?"
He took the packet from her limp fingers and examined the label. It held the appropriate information. "It was oxycontin. High grade oxycontin."
"Can't have been." She shook her head and swayed. "It was like poison."
"I assure you, I have absolute confidence about the quality of our drugs." That was because much of them were refined in the Medhall labs, after hours. He paused. "If it's not the drug, then … you were cured of your addiction, yes? By Marquis' daughter?"
"Yeah, why?" Her dull eyes fixed on him, then cleared as the penny dropped. "That
bitch!"
"Hmm," he mused. "I'll have to have the rest of the batch tested, but if it's really the case … this is most interesting. Most interesting indeed."
<><>
Somer's Rock
"Yes, I did that," Claire confirmed. "I knew that if I just left things the way they were, she would be addicted again as soon as she got access to drugs, so I put in a physiological aversion to the drug. It'll wear off, but in the meantime, she can't indulge without suffering a violent reaction."
"So I am to understand, then, that you can affect brain chemistry?" His voice was hard. "Instil compulsions?"
"No, I can't affect the brain," she lied smoothly. "This was merely a temporary modification to her digestive system. And for that, I needed skin to skin contact for several minutes."
"Indeed," Marquis observed, picking up the ball without missing a beat. "It's not exactly subtle. Her main focus is on healing.
That, she can do from a foot or so away, if she concentrates."
As he spoke, she blessed him in her mind, but mostly she was focusing on Kaiser. To remove his disbelief would be too heavy-handed; she instead leaned on his critical faculties, amplifying the lack of respect he already felt for her, reducing her importance in his mind. Subtly, she encouraged his brain to build corroborating arguments in his mind. And last but not least, she dulled the critical faculties watching over his own thought processes.
Everything's perfectly fine.
"That's all well and good," he decided, "but the problem here is that she can cure addicts, and make it stick."
"I don't see the problem with that," Marquis commented mildly.
Claire read an agreement within Purity's thought processes, but Kaiser was speaking again. "The problem is that each of the major gangs relies on drug distribution for a significant proportion of our profits. Curing addicts, permanently, removes that from us."
"I still fail to see the problem," Marquis observed. "I never sold drugs, and I'm not about to start."
Attention was well and truly off of Claire now. Kaiser stared at Marquis. "No drugs? Really?"
"Really. I despise the practice, especially where drugs are sold to schoolchildren, or women are forcibly addicted to drive them into a life of prostitution." Marquis put down his teacup. "If Marchioness proposes to cure every addict in the city, I will support her in this, one hundred percent."
Kaiser put his hands on the table. "You propose to do away with a significant percentage of the profits of the Empire Eighty-Eight." His tone was dangerous.
"On the contrary," Marquis pointed out. "You are now ahead of the curve. If you sell your stockpiled drugs to your competitors right now, at a discount but above cost, you make a profit and you're no longer saddled with a commodity that's going to have far more supply than demand in the near future."
"And in the long term?" He didn't sound convinced. "What is to replace it?"
"Well, I intend to go and have a heart-to-heart talk with this Skidmark fellow, in the Merchants. Explain to him why he can't deal drugs to children any more." Marquis' tone was deceptively mild. "I suspect that he'll see reason. It won't be a choice that's hard for even him to understand; leave the city or ... don't." He raised an eyebrow. "I'll only want some of the territory. Would you be interested in the rest?"
"Hmm. An interesting offer. One I'll have to think about." Kaiser rose to his feet, followed by Purity; Marquis and Claire followed suit.
"Don't take too long about it," Marquis advised him cordially. "The offer won't last forever."
Kaiser nodded. "I understand. Thank you; it's been an interesting meeting."
"Likewise." Marquis shook his hand politely. "Do give my best to Krieg."
In the meantime, Purity was speaking with Claire. "Can you really cure addictions?"
"Sure. It's easier than cancer."
It wasn't easy to tell, but the glowing woman's eyes may have widened. Her tone was certainly startled. "You can cure
cancer?"
Claire gave her a smile. "Go check with the oncology ward at Brockton Bay General. Tell 'em I sent you." She extracted a card from the small handbag that hung from her wrist. "My card."
Purity examined it, then put it away. "Thank you."
"No problems. See you around."
"I look forward to it."
Claire watched as Purity and Kaiser walked out; Marquis came to stand beside her.
"Well," she declared cheerfully, "I think
that went well." He gave her a distinctly appraising stare. "What?"
"How much of that was you affecting his brain?" His tone was not quite censorious, but sounded as though it could turn that way in a moment.
"Some, but not all that much," she admitted. "When he was asking if I could affect brain chemistry. Also, I was keeping him off balance so that he couldn't concentrate fully on everything you were saying. And I may have tweaked him just a little so that he's more accepting of your no-drugs policy."
"Marchioness, my dear," he replied, his voice mildly reproving, "that
was neutral ground."
"And he came to the table determined not to give you any kind of concession," she pointed out. "He was just after information on you. On us." She shrugged. "And besides. It's
Kaiser. He's a douche. Trust me, I saw it in his mind."
As they exited the restaurant, he cleared his throat. "A young lady does not use language like that."
"Sorry." She looked up at him. "But I couldn't think of anything else strong enough for him."
"Hmm." He rubbed his chin. "Next time? Clear anything like that with me first."
"Sure thing." She slid her arm through his. "Where to now?"
"Now?" He smiled slightly. "Are you up for a visit to the Merchants?"
Her answering smile was razor-edged. "I thought you'd never ask."
End of Part Six
Part Seven
(Sarah: "That table didn't deserve it either Carol...")
