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Recoil (a Worm fanfic)

Part 8-3: Plotting and Planning
Recoil


Part 8-3: Plotting and Planning

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


Saturday, August 26, 1995
Chicago
Taylor


The diner was nicely appointed, with solid partitions between the booths. I hadn't been here before, but if the food was worthwhile, I figured I might come back. However, as I pushed on the door, I wasn't thinking about the food. Kinsey, as ordered, waited out near the car, ostensibly watching the road.

Ruth—Major Goldstein—was seated in the far end booth, where it would be almost impossible to eavesdrop on our conversation without either of us knowing. This was a good thing, because I didn't want this conversation going any farther than the Major. As it was, I wasn't quite sure what her reaction would be, because I was about to drop a bombshell in her lap.

The trouble was, I couldn't really see a palatable alternative.

"Hello, Taylor," she said as I slid into the seat opposite her. "How've you been?" She was in civilian wear, as was I. I had to admit, she could carry off the look better than me.

"Pretty good, recently," I said, and reached into my bag. A hand mirror, cupped in my palm, let me survey the underside of the table. There was nothing attached to the wood that didn't look like it belonged. "Danny and Annette had a kid back in June. A son. Five pounds, three ounces. They're calling him Tyler. I wasn't able to stick around for the christening, but I'm the unofficial godmother."

"A son?" She blinked. Ruth Goldstein knew enough of my history that the significance of the date and the name were clear to her. "I … understand."

I gave her a smile as I put the mirror away. "Cute little tyke. Can't wait to see what he grows up like. How are your folks?"

"Fit and healthy, the last I heard," she allowed, her raised eyebrows the only sign that she'd seen my surreptitious examination. "They both enjoyed meeting you and Sergeant Kinsey very much. You know you're welcome to visit, any chance you get."

"If I'm ever back in Seattle, I'll make a point of it," I promised, and I meant it. The Goldsteins were genuinely nice people, and so was Darlene Hobbs.

A waitress approached our booth. "Good afternoon," she said brightly. "Would you ladies like menus, or are you okay to order now?"

It would be a good idea to order something, or we'd draw notice. I scanned the menu written on the chalkboard above the counter. "I'll have a pot of tea and a slice of your pecan pie, thanks."

Ruth nodded. "And I'll have coffee, and a plate of your home-baked cookies. Thank you very much."

"Coming right up." The waitress hastened away.

Leaning back in my seat, I composed my features into 'nothing to see here' blandness. "So, how's things been with you?" I already knew, of course, but it was only polite to ask.

"I've been doing well," she said; her words and tone said one thing, but the curiosity in her eyes told another story altogether. It said a lot for her faith in me that she'd come up to Chicago on the strength of a simple request without asking for any real kind of details. Of course, now that she was here, I would totally have to give her some. "How has the redoubtable Lieutenant Piggot been faring?"

"Thriving, actually," I said truthfully. I didn't spend a lot of time socialising with Emily, mainly because I didn't want any suggestion of favouritism to be bandied about, but we crossed paths from time to time. "She's fitting in well. Kinsey says there's been no grumbling in the lower ranks about her."

Ruth chuckled. "Ahh, yes. The infamous E-4 mafia. You're lucky to have Sergeant Kinsey, you know. He must be a tremendous asset to you."

"I'd say oh, you have no idea, but you do have a good idea," I agreed. "I remember when you went head-to-head with him over you coming along on that thing in Seattle."

She nodded complacently. "I've had my unfair share of dealing with people who want to stop me from doing something I need to do."

"I just bet you have." Thanks to Lisa, I'd looked over a comprehensive dossier on Ruth Goldstein, neé Aster Anders, and I knew more about her than she did about herself. A little unfair, some might have called it; I personally held the view that every advantage is a fair advantage when you absolutely had to win.

Not that Ruth was the enemy; far from it. She was just as dedicated to the cause of saving the world from Scion as I was. (Well, originally I'd agreed to go back in time to save everyone from Behemoth. That was done and dusted, and now I faced the real end-of-level boss, as Regent would put it). But sometimes I had to manipulate even the people I saw as allies to get what I wanted.

Did I like it? Absolutely not. But my likes and dislikes hadn't factored into my important decisions for … well, for years now. If the answer to will it help save the world? was unequivocally 'yes' then the chances were that I'd go ahead and do it.

The waitress returned with a tray and a practised smile. With quick, efficient motions, she unloaded everything onto the table. "Here you go, ladies. Pecan pie and cookies fresh out of the oven, one pot of coffee, and one of tea, plus chilled milk. Holler if you need anything."

"Thank you," I said. "We'll do that."

With one last beaming smile—were rude customers so uncommon that she wasn't used to civility?—she hurried off again. Ruth began to open her mouth, but I made a shushing motion and took her plate of cookies. With my fingertips, I explored the bottom of that as well as the smaller plate holding the slice of pecan pie. Then I eyeballed the teacup, the coffee cup, the saucers and the actual pots. There were no intrusive electronic devices; not that I'd expected any, but I'd rather check for bugs and be wrong than not check for bugs and be wrong.

"Okay, now I'm officially intrigued," Ruth said quietly. "Checking the table is one thing; assuming that the crockery might be compromised is quite another. What's on your mind?"

"Two people," I said, keeping my voice equally low as I poured myself a cup of tea. It wouldn't help matters if someone had a laser-mic aimed at the window from anywhere along the street. All I could really do was rely on Lisa's assurance that nobody who knew about this meeting had any plans to do anything about it. "The first one is Jack Slash."

"I'm aware of his existence," Ruth allowed. "Are you going after him next?"

Not once did the tone of her voice suggest that such would be acutely perilous (which it would). I'd told her that I was there to take down Behemoth, and Behemoth was still immobile in the middle of Jakarta.

"I'm going to leave that until next year," I said. Pouring just a little milk in, I stirred my cup. "Gray Boy is a distinct problem, so I have to wait until he's out of the way."

"I remember something about that …" Ruth frowned. "Isn't it Glaistig Uaine who takes him down? Then gets herself admitted to the Birdcage?"

"Correct on both counts," I agreed. Cauldron, I knew, was actually behind the first event. The second would be all her idea. "But once he's gone, I've got a clear run at Jack Slash. Well, a mostly clear run. Screamer's still a stumbling block. Fortunately, one that can be solved with a bullet at the correct time and place. Gray Boy's just not that convenient."

"And are you going to 'solve' Jack Slash with a bullet as well?" Ruth raised an eyebrow. "You know, you could probably do that now, even with Gray Boy in the picture. Just do it from a great enough range and you'll be fine."

I shook my head, then took a sip of tea. "I hate it that I've let him go so far, and there's nothing I'd love more than to introduce his skull to a piece of high-velocity copper-jacketed lead. But I can't kill him, and I can't let anyone else kill him, either. What I need is to get him away from the Nine, alive and able to talk, and find a way to put him on ice for …" I frowned, calculating in my head. "… about nine years, give or take a couple of months. Then I can make alternate arrangements for the next six years after that."

Ruth fixed me with a stare, and took up a cookie. She ate it, still giving me that dead-level no-shit stare, then poured herself a coffee and added creamer. Finally, she took a sip of the coffee.

"I've got perfect memory," she said eventually.

"Yes," I said. "I know."

"I've just been over every significant interaction we've ever had, and never once have you mentioned the need to abduct the man who is possibly America's most detestable serial killer, and keep him alive for the next fifteen years? Why this, and why now?"

I took a deep breath. "Because originally I had intended to leave him run his path for the next ten years while I whittled away at the strongest members of his potential crew, so that by the time I confronted him, he wouldn't have strong enough backup to stop me. At that point, I wouldn't have need of your help. But it turns out my stomach isn't strong enough to green-light ten years of mass murder and other atrocities, so now I'm just going to wait until Gray Boy's out of the way. Which, like I said, will be next year."

"And what makes you think I've got the capability to just … 'put him on ice', as you so succinctly phrase it?" asked Ruth. "Yes, I'm a doctor, but …" She let her voice trail off. We both knew what she wasn't saying. Ice wasn't her thing. Molten steel and high-temperature plasma, certainly, but not ice.

I tilted my head slightly. "I was hoping you could ask Contessa for a favour."

She froze. I'd timed my words so she wouldn't spill coffee on herself, but her hand shook briefly as she put her cup down. I could see the concentric ripples on the surface of her drink.

"How, exactly, do you know that name?" she asked carefully.

"The same way I know a lot of other stuff," I said. I knew I wasn't being helpful, but I had to assume that Contessa could intuit any knowledge she possessed, so I was keeping the extraneous information to a minimum.

I was fully aware that the next time Contessa met with Ruth, the Cauldron enforcer would find out that I was aware of her shenanigans. How she'd react, I wasn't sure. Hopefully, ending the threat of the Endbringers had earned me some goodwill in that regard. The fact that since Eidolon's demise I'd had zero encounters with stylishly dressed strangers, with or without fedoras, seemed to indicate that Cauldron considered my ongoing progress to be a net positive. It would be nice if this continued to be the case.

Ruth frowned. "That makes no sense. You know a lot of things, but that's because you basically cheated." Which was kind of a harsh way to describe using my future knowledge to alter events in the here and now, but I couldn't argue with it. If you're losing, you aren't cheating hard enough. "But this isn't something …"

"No," I agreed. "It's not. I'm still cheating. And I'll continue to cheat. Can you accept the fact of my knowledge without me telling you how I know?" Because I respected Ruth Goldstein to the ends of the Earth and back again, but there were some things I didn't want getting out.

She let out an unhappy sigh. "I can accept that 'need to know' is a thing. I don't have to like it, but I can accept it. So, what about her? Wait." Her brow furrowed as she clearly recalled my wording. "A favour? How's she likely to be able to put him on ice?"

Well, that was interesting. I knew for a fact that Cauldron had any number of cells they could use to dump Case 53 prisoners into, no matter what powers they had. Ruth, apparently, didn't. Which suggested to me that Contessa had never told her about Cauldron.

I was going to have to play my cards close to the chest on this one. Telling Ruth about Cauldron could very well get her killed, and I didn't want that to happen. But maybe I didn't have to.

"That's not my place to say." I took a sip of my tea. "But the next time you see her, could you ask her if she's willing to put a troublesome parahuman away for ten years, no questions asked? If she says no, that's fine. I can think of other options. But if she says yes, it'll be a great help to me."

"I can ask her, certainly." Ruth sounded troubled, for which I couldn't exactly blame her. "What do I tell her when she asks me why?"

I affected an unconcerned shrug. "Tell her exactly what I said to you about needing to put Jack Slash away. But don't press her on the subject of whether or not she's able to, or how or why or where. She's got her secrets, too."

She gave me an irritated look. "You know, Taylor, you're really not making this easy for me. I know your whole thing is all about saving the world, but look around; it's been saved. Behemoth hasn't so much as twitched a finger in months, the stock market is up, people are actually stepping back and taking a breath. You won."

While I hadn't actually confided in her that I was the one behind Behemoth's defeat, I wasn't overly surprised that she'd made the deduction (or maybe just assumption) herself. I was literally the person who'd been sent back in time to do that exact thing. Of course, she was almost certainly unaware of ninety-nine percent of what had gone on behind the scenes to make it happen, but she was still personally certain I was ultimately responsible. Because, as it just so happened, I was.

"That battle's done," I said. "The war isn't over yet." I was being oblique again, and I knew it.

She frowned. "What do you mean? Do you think the others will still be showing up? I thought you'd managed to do something to stop them for good."

If by 'do something' she meant 'kill Eidolon' she was spot on the money, but this conversation was going in directions I hadn't wanted it to.

"They weren't the only threat," I said, trying to keep things as minimal as possible. "When I first came back, I thought they were. Then I learned differently. There's something else I've got to beat. In order to do this, I need Jack Slash alive and well in sixteen years' time. I would also much rather he didn't kill anyone during that interval. You see my dilemma."

"Wait, another threat?" Ruth kept her voice down, but the intensity in her tone could've etched glass. "When, exactly, were you going to fill me in on this?"

I met her eyes and matched her, tone for tone. "When and if it became necessary to do so. This is not a bear I want anyone poking, if I can possibly manage it."

"What's more powerful than—" She paused, her eyes widening, and I knew she'd figured it out. "No."

I gritted my teeth. "Ruth—"

"No," she said again, and shook her head. "You can't be serious. Sci—"

"Do. Not. Say. The. Name." I put every ounce of command voice I had into those five words. "Don't even think it, if you can possibly avoid doing so. Our only chance of survival involves not getting his attention until all my pieces are in place, plus backup plans."

She stared at me. "You've got a plan to …" Getting ahold of herself, she cut off her own words. "What am I saying? You're Taylor Snow. Of course you've got a plan."

"Something that can pass for one in poor light, at least," I admitted. "But like I said, it's going to take about sixteen years to carry out, and Jack Slash is required to be alive and well at the far end of it."

Her gaze was intense. "Does she know?"

It only took me a couple of seconds of thought to figure out which 'she' Ruth meant. "About the threat, yes. About my plans, no."

Her knuckles whitened around the handle of the coffee cup. I hoped the tension wouldn't overcome her natural self-control; the last thing we needed was to draw attention by breaking stuff. "So … what do I tell her if she asks about this meeting?"

I knew damn well that Contessa would be able to learn everything Ruth knew without asking, but I didn't want to endanger Ruth by telling her that. "Everything. We're on the same side, in the end. She wants to save the world; I want to save the world." I just had a better idea of how to do it, and I didn't have Path to Victory nudging me toward conflict with every suggestion I followed.

"And what if she can't or won't help with … with imprisoning Jack Slash?" She sounded like she couldn't really believe she was saying his name like that.

I shrugged. "I have other options. She's just the best one."

"Hmm." She tilted her head. "Maybe you should … I don't know … join forces? Team up? I mean, you have your thing going, and she has hers going, and if you're both working toward the same goal, why don't you combine your efforts?"

"No." I took a sip of my tea. "Several reasons, some of which I'm not going to share with you. The major one is that there would be a clash as to who was in charge. This would get in the way of efficiency."

"And if you chose to … well, swallow your pride, and let her be in charge?" She let go the coffee cup and spread her hands. "Would it kill you to let someone else actually give the orders for once? God knows you've never gotten into that habit yet."

I gave her a level stare, over the top of my glasses. "I reiterate. This would get in the way of efficiency."

She frowned slightly. "I don't know. She seems pretty efficient to me."

"There's short-term efficiency and long-term efficiency." I took up my spoon and cut into my slice of pecan pie. "I know what I'm doing, for the most part. I've done the math. The probabilities are on my side. She's throwing stuff at the wall to see what works. I already know what won't. All I have to figure out now is what's got the best chance of working, and how to apply it most effectively."

"And you'll know it when you see it?" I could tell she was trying to sound hopeful. "Do you have any options at all, right now?"

"Three, at the moment," I told her. "More may arise. The shortest time to implementation is sixteen years; that's the Jack Slash one. Fortunately, neutralising Behemoth pushed our time-scale all the way out. With him and the others pushing matters, we had about fifty years before the inevitable collapse of civilisation as we knew it. Now, we've got about three centuries." I put the piece of pie in my mouth and sat back. It was actually quite nice.

She stared at me. "So, it's going to be just like that?"

I wasn't quite sure what she meant, but I waited until I had finished the piece of pie before I spoke. "Just like what, exactly?"

Her tone was more than a little exasperated. "When you asked me to come and meet you, I wasn't sure why. I thought perhaps you were going to inform me of what we both already knew; that the threat of Behemoth was done with, and that we could afford to relax and live our best lives. But instead, you unload an entirely new threat on me. I believe I could possibly have faced off against Leviathan, but I have no chance against him."

"Nobody does," I said quietly. "Even Eidolon, on his best day, had a weak point. This isn't a battle scenario. This is a preparation scenario. Of course, along the way, I'll be removing the odd threat from society, so by the time we do get around to being able to doing something about him, there'll be fewer problems all round." I gave her a tight smile. "And that's where you'll be coming in, if and when you're able to help out. High-temperature jets of molten steel make so many problems just … go away."

Ruth sighed. "That's basically what she said. My life would be so much simpler if you two could learn to work together."

I raised an eyebrow. "Can you see her following my orders without creatively reinterpreting them? Honestly?"

"Much like you'd do with her?" Ruth considered that for a moment, then shook her head. "No. I really can't. You two are scarily alike."

"I'm nothing like—" I tamped down the hot anger that rose in my chest. "I'm nothing like her. Any similarities are cosmetic at best."

"If you say so." It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "I had to play hardball to make sure she backed away from any suggestion of doing something stupid like abducting you, you know."

I was aware of the incident; Lisa, hugely amused, had related the entire conversation to me. But Contessa didn't need to know about Lisa, and so neither did Ruth. "That was nice of you. I appreciate it."

She snorted indelicately. "I did it as much for her protection as yours. While I think there would be an immense benefit to the two of you working together, having you go head-to-head … it would not go well, for anyone."

"It certainly would not," I agreed. My best bet, if confronted with a Contessa who was determined to enforce her will on mine, would be to go into a self-hypnotic state and hope Lisa could jam her ability long enough for me to disable her. I couldn't guarantee it working, and I really didn't want to find out the hard way that it wouldn't. "So, you'll ask her?"

"I will," she agreed. "I can't guarantee a positive answer, or even any answer straight away. Right now, I suspect she doesn't know you're aware of her existence. I certainly didn't know you were, though in hindsight it makes sense, considering she was around then, too."

"She was," I confirmed, without actually making it clear whether or not I'd met the woman then. I hadn't, but there had been some close encounters.

"I thought so." Ruth nodded, as if I'd said more. "So, uh, just to be clear, I think she'll be happier if I can tell her straight-out that you're not planning to instigate the deaths of any more members of the Protectorate."

"Not planning on it, no." I stole one of her cookies. "If they look like getting in my way, I'll try to give adequate warning."

"I'd appreciate that." She held the coffee cup between her palms and looked down pensively into its depths. "As I recall, it was Hero who died originally, to make the first Triumvirate. Is he still …?"

"No," I told her firmly. "I know exactly how and where to stop that from happening. That's one of the things that's on my to-do list to prevent."

"Oh," she said, looking a little taken aback. "Good."

I grinned at her. "What, did you think I was going to say no?"

"Quite possibly, yes," she confessed. "With how serious this discussion had become, I half-expected you to explain that his death was necessary for a certain thing to happen in the future."

"Hah, no." I shook my head. "As the saying goes, sometimes shit just happens because it feels like happening. In this case, it's gonna un-happen."

She smiled. "Well, that is good to hear."

"I thought so, too." I checked my watch. "I think it's time for me to start back to base. Thanks for the talk."

She rose, as did I. "Thank you for being so candid. I'll pass on your request."

"Much appreciated." I waved at the table. "I've got this." Pulling out my wallet, I wedged enough notes under the pie plate to cover the bill plus a substantial tip.

Ruth preceded me out of the diner, giving Kinsey a measured nod on the way past. He returned the gesture as I joined him. Together, we watched her as she headed off down the sidewalk.

"So, how did it go, ma'am?" he asked as we got into the car.

"Very well indeed, Kinsey." I smiled as I strapped myself in. "It's always nice to see Major Goldstein again."

The message had been sent. Now, all I had to do was await the answer.

-ooo-​

Sunday, September 17, 1995
Cauldron Base
Contessa


"Wait, I was going to die?" Hero sounded uncertain of himself. "Why am I only hearing about this now?"

Contessa rolled her eyes. "Because I had other priorities than to ask her for a day-by-day detailing of a possibly inaccurate future history. Congratulations; you're no longer going to be torn in half by a naked tiger-striped monochrome woman."

"And I was going to lose my eye." If anything, Alexandria seemed even more disturbed by this knowledge. "Just how powerful was … is … will be … this 'Siberian'? Other capes have gone after my eyes before, thinking they were weak points. They're really not."

"Remember, Metal Storm was just an infant, back then," Contessa said. "Her memory of events is patchy, because she only knows what she saw on the news. But she recalls the Siberian as being unstoppable in a very definitive way. The woman had a truly horrific body count and was impervious to basically everything."

"So how was she stopped? How was she killed?" Legend spread his hands. "How does Captain Snow, an unpowered PRT officer, intend to stop her?"

"I don't know," said Contessa simply. "Because Metal Storm doesn't know. She just said that if Taylor Snow promised it wasn't going to happen, we could take that to the bank."

Doctor Mother glowered. "The more I hear about this woman, the more I want her sequestered away in a quiet room, where I can get access to every last secret she's keeping from us. If it could help us stop Scion—"

"She's already working on that," Contessa interrupted her. "She knows about Scion, and she knows about me. I got the strong inference that she knows about Cauldron, but she did not reveal that information to Metal Storm."

Absolute dead silence fell across the room, while everyone stared at her. If dust particles had been allowed to fall, the minuscule impacts would have been audible.

Alexandria broke the deadlock with a yell that echoed off all four walls of the cavernous meeting room. "You could have led with that!"

"There were several things I could have led with," Contessa replied calmly. "I considered the news that we would not be losing yet another member to be a little more significant. Also, I wanted to get the subsequent discussion out of the way before opening the subject of Scion. According to Metal Storm, Snow has a tentative plan in mind, with a couple of alternate possibilities in case the first one fails."

"Well, given the good Captain's track record to date," remarked Legend, "I'd be willing to back a tentative plan from her over anything we've come up with so far."

"So, what do these plans consist of?" asked Hero. "Because I'll happily assist with anything that's got more than 'throw capes at him and hope' as a tagline."

"Again, she was frustratingly vague," Contessa confessed. She'd already decided not to share the discussion regarding how well she and Captain Snow would be likely to work together. If both Ruth Goldstein and Snow herself felt that way, then it was probably a done deal. "But she did pass on a request in relation to the initial plan, which was apparently the reason for the entire meeting. Snow intends to capture Jack Slash sometime next year, and she wants us to hold him incommunicado for the next nine years, then return him to her, alive and well."

"Next year …" Legend rubbed his thumbnail across his lips. "Right about when we're planning to have Glaistig Uaine remove Gray Boy from the playing field, perhaps?"

"It would seem so, yes," Contessa agreed. She'd already made that connection, and assumed that Captain Snow was aware of the machinations she had in motion to kill the problematic cape.

It occurred to her a moment later that in the normal run of things, they would have removed one devastatingly dangerous monochrome cape from the roster of the Nine, only to have him replaced with an even more lethal one. In this particular case, she was happy to leave the pattern broken.

"What I want to know," Hero commented, "is how does Jack Slash fit into all this? He's basically one step above a common street thug. Now I grant you, his ability to keep that bunch of murderous misfits all marching to the beat of his drum is impressive, but some people just have that sort of charisma. However, the ability to cut someone's throat from across the street is not going to help with Scion, not even a little bit."

Contessa frowned. "Metal Storm said that Captain Snow would be able to take him back about nine years after she handed him over; there was a mention of 'alternate arrangements' for the next six years, presumably until the rest of her preparations were complete. Then, apparently, she'll be doing whatever she intends to do, and … the Scion problem goes away."

"How are matters going to change in sixteen years?" asked Legend blankly.

"A new cape," Alexandria decided. "It has to be."

"Two new capes," Hero corrected her, holding up that number of fingers. "One at the ten-year mark, and one at the sixteen-year mark."

"And Snow intends to leverage that into somehow killing or disabling Scion?" Legend shook his head. "I don't buy it. Right here in this room, we're four of the most powerful capes in existence, and I doubt we could put him down for good."

"From what I've been able to guess at his capabilities," Contessa advised him, "we really could not."

"So, how's she going to do it with three?" wondered Hero. "Especially with Jack Slash involved. I'm willing to bet that if we offered the man a million dollars to kill Scion—and he was capable of doing so—he'd make the fight look great, but throw it at the last moment, just to see the looks on our faces. He's that kind of vindictive asshole. Even if Snow brings in these other capes."

"Alright then, enough discussion." Legend looked around the table at the others. "Show of hands; who's willing to accede to Captain Snow's request? At least for the moment?"

Contessa put her hand up at once. Doctor Mother, her face set in a grim scowl, kept her hands flat on the table. "This is a bad idea," she stated flatly. "Letting an outsider dictate terms to us. It sets a terrible precedent."

Slowly, Alexandria put her hand up. "I think maybe we should take this chance."

"What?" Doctor Mother stared at her. "You yourself told me that you couldn't read her, no matter how hard you tried! How can we trust someone like that?"

"She stopped Behemoth," Contessa said. "It's what she set out to do, and she did it."

Hero looked undecided. "And she killed Eidolon in the process."

Contessa shook her head. "No, Eidolon killed himself, once he figured out what she was trying to tell him—without, mind you, alerting anyone else in the room. And she was right. Once he died, Behemoth stopped."

"She killed him!" shouted Doctor Mother. "What part of that are you not understanding?"

"How many people would Behemoth have killed since, if we didn't come up with some other way of stopping him?" retorted Alexandria. "We weren't exactly covering ourselves with glory on that front, were we? Also, I'm pretty sure that she's balanced the scales by arranging matters to save Hero's life. He would have died, yes?"

"That's what Metal Storm remembers," Contessa confirmed. "You became known as the Triumvirate then, too."

Hero nodded. "Yeah, okay, good point. I'm in." He raised his hand.

Legend nodded. "And that makes three votes for, one against, and I'm abstaining. Motion is carried."

"This is a mistake," insisted Doctor Mother. "You're all making a mistake."

"If it's a mistake, then we'll correct it," Alexandria told her. "But I've done something you haven't."

"What's that?" asked Doctor Mother incautiously.

Alexandria smiled briefly. "I've looked into her eyes, and I've taken her measure. I'm inclined to go along with what Contessa says. We carry on with our own plans, but we assist Taylor Snow with hers when convenient. And as Metal Storm says, we don't get in her way."

"Especially when it comes to saving my own sorry ass," Hero quipped.

Contessa chuckled along with Legend and Alexandria, but she was already thinking of the next step in the Path.

-ooo-​

Friday, November 24, 1995
A Café in Springfield, Illinois
Robert Gordon


It's just not fair.

A brisk wind blew down the sidewalk outside, fluttering the last of the fallen autumn leaves from one place to another, but its chill was as nothing to the bleakness filling Rob's soul. He'd had a good career—a great career—doing what he loved, and he'd been better than anyone else there. People had looked up to him and respected him.

And then she had intruded into his rightful domain. Too young to really know what she was doing (certainly too young to be promoted to Captain), she'd somehow managed to fake it well enough to fool Hamilton, or perhaps the old man allowed himself to be fooled for the sake of a little feminine attention. Not that she was really good-looking; too tall and skinny to be really attractive. Rob had only turned his interest in her direction out of pity. Show her a good time, improve her self-image, that sort of thing. But she'd ignored his every hint, and somehow fluked her way to a win with every bet he made that was aimed to get her into bed.

Worse, she'd turned on him. Even when he thought he was rid of her, she'd somehow intuited the existence of his stash of harmless contraband, and had him punished because of it. And then, when she returned from exile, she and that damned sergeant had murdered both Christine and Elijah, in cold blood, right in front of him. And then he'd been the one court-martialled and booted out of the PRT. And because of the trumped-up accusations of being Mastered, he was banned from serving his country!

He'd walked away from the PRT, vowing and declaring that he didn't need them. Robert Gordon was a winner, a survivor. He could make his own way, so long as that way led to a path where he could finally see justice done for the persecution he'd suffered.

He hadn't anticipated much trouble in getting a job that would let him get back on his feet. After all, his skills in information analysis were up to the minute, and he was good with computers. Also, he had good people skills; better than Snow, any day of the week.

Unfortunately, that damned court-martial and the separation from the PRT now hung around his neck like a putrefying albatross, stinking up every job interview he attended. No matter how he attempted to draw attention to his years of service and his many positive fitness reviews, they insisted on asking why he'd been separated from the PRT. Even when he elided over that fact (after all, it wasn't really important, was it?) they somehow found out; after that, it was always the same. So sorry, but we can't really see fit to employ you at this time. Best of luck, and so on and so forth.

Rock bottom came when he accepted a job working in a fast-food restaurant. His manager was a spotty teen at least ten years his junior, who called him 'old guy' and didn't appreciate the fact that Rob had once been a Captain in the PRT. Worse, Rob's attention to detail allowed him to notice the numerous health code violations that the manager either didn't see or (more likely) didn't care about.

The numerous indignities mounted—washing dishes was bad, but scrubbing the restrooms was worse—and there was no end in sight. Rob's breaking point came when he was on the register and three teenage girls were spending forever deciding exactly what sides they wanted with their burgers. In a calm, concise, firm military tone, he requested that they decide on their orders. Now.

So, of course, they were friends with the manager, and they flocked to him to complain how the 'creepy old guy' had yelled at them. The manager had confronted him, backed by all the McAuthority his McManagement position afforded him. Not only was Rob supposed to apologise to the girls, the snotty little brat declared, but he was now expected to pay for their meals.

Rob decked the guy, took the shitty apron off and dropped it on top of him, and walked out.

That had been half an hour ago. His knuckles were still sore.

He sat in the café, cradling the cup of coffee he'd bought when he walked in. He had savings, but without regular income (or really, any income at all) they were gradually dwindling, even in the el-cheapo accommodations he was living in. The coffee wasn't really warm anymore, and the heating in the café wasn't so great, but he didn't notice. What kept him warm, or at least afforded him the illusion of warmth, was his seething anger at the system that had failed him, and most of all the person who had turned the system against him.

Taylor Snow.

He didn't know how he was going to avenge Christine and Elijah's deaths, or punish Snow for her myriad of lesser (but still significant) crimes, but it was going to happen. I just have to find a way.

He was so wrapped up in his revenge fantasies that he didn't notice for a moment when someone dropped into the seat opposite his. A plate of hot pastries, the enticing smell tickling his nostrils, ensured that this state did not last for long. It had been a long time since breakfast, and his stomach woke up and started paying attention.

Still, Rob hadn't been an intelligence officer for nothing. Nobody sat down at a stranger's table without wanting something from them. He lifted his gaze to the person opposite and said, "This table's taken."

The newcomer was a tall, skinny black man. He also held himself with a certain amount of authority. "I can go if you want," he said, his eyebrow lifting in amusement, "but I believe there's a person of interest we have in common."

Rob also knew about leading questions. His expression didn't change as he looked back at his interlocutor. "And who might that be? Also, more to the point, who might you be?"

Interlacing his fingers before him, the other guy gave Rob a look as if to say who are you trying to bullshit here, we both know who we're talking about. "I'm Lieutenant Thomas Calvert, PRT Internal Affairs. Currently, I'm investigating Taylor Snow."

The last three words were what grabbed Rob's attention by the throat and refused to let it go. "Investigating her? What for?" Finally! he exulted. Someone's doing what needed to be done long ago!

Calvert cleared his throat. "Captain Taylor Snow is an enigma that I'm trying to unravel. Far too much about her doesn't add up, but you're the only person I've encountered who's actually interested in finding out what's going on with her." He gestured discreetly at their surroundings. "And see what happened when you got too close."

"The fix was in from the beginning," Rob spat. "I never had a chance. They wouldn't listen to a word I said."

"Trust me, I know what you're talking about." Calvert smiled, a warm and reassuring expression. "You were railroaded so hard I'm surprised they didn't fit you out with a steam whistle. To make sure that didn't happen to me, I've had to take a more discreet approach. Right now, I'm digging into her background to see what she's really about. But I can't stray too far from Chicago, so I need someone to do the legwork for me. Are you interested?"

Rob tried to keep his excitement in check. This sounded too good to be true, and every trained instinct he had told him that 'too good' meant just that. But … Snow. He leaned forward slightly in his chair. "I'm listening."

-ooo-​

Calvert

Lieutenant Thomas Calvert, PRT (but not Internal Affairs, for all that he was carrying ID to say he was) took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and passed it across. "Here, look this over."

Gordon took it, but his expression drooped a little. "Uh … isn't it against regulations to hire me to work for the PRT?"

Tom chuckled. "Hire you? No such thing. Have you signed a contract? No, I'm talking about a gentleman's agreement. I give you access to an expense account, and you look up matters entirely on your own volition."

Pretending a supreme lack of concern, he sat back and ate a pastry as Gordon went through the contents of the envelope. Everything he knew about Taylor Snow was there, assuredly enough to give Gordon a head start on delving into her deeper secrets back in Brockton Bay. That she had secrets, he was certain. Even the most transparent of individuals had them, and she was more enigmatic than most.

What he sought was blackmail. Anything he could hold over Snow's head and make her dance to his tune would be worth his time and money. Her star was still rising, he could tell, and although she'd done her best to shrug him off before, Thomas Calvert was nothing if not persistent.

Still, he'd had no way to force a chink in her armour until the slow-motion self-destruction of Robert Gordon came to his attention. Tom had followed the case with interest, then kept tabs on him once he was separated from the PRT. Each time it looked like Gordon would land secure employment, Calvert had quietly contacted them with the real details of why the man was no longer with the PRT. The idea had been to keep him hungry and desperate, and (like many of Calvert's plans) it had worked beautifully.

The pièce de résistance had been when he'd slipped the fast-food restaurant manager a couple of hundred bucks, not to fire Gordon but to make his life unpleasant. He wasn't even sure it had been necessary; from what he'd heard, working fast-food retail was one step down from the nine levels of Hell. But Tom had always been a suspenders-and-belt type of person.

And now it had panned out. The moment Gordon accepted the envelope instead of turning it down—they both knew the line about not officially hiring him was a fig leaf at best—he'd been hooked. Tom could see it in his eyes. All Gordon had to do now was admit it to himself.

Finally, the ex-Intelligence officer closed the envelope and put it on the table in front of him. Tellingly, his hands stayed on top of it, as though preventing it from being taken away. He looked Tom in the eye.

"I'm in."

Thomas Calvert smiled, as though this had not been a sinecure from the beginning. "Good to hear it."



End of Part 8-3​
 
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Part 8-4: Combat Rescue from Hell
Recoil

Part 8-4: Combat Rescue from Hell

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

21:45; Friday, December 22, 1995
Somewhere in Colombia, South America

Joanne Sanderson, AKA 'Jazz'


Two of the buildings were on fire, but Joanne didn't give a fuck. If the asshole who owned this compound thought it was a good idea to take kidnapped girls from the States and farm them out as whores, then he deserved whatever was coming to him. She was bulletproof—she'd learned that the hard way—but Brianna (AKA 'Beamer') wasn't, so as far as she was concerned her Blaster teammate was fully justified in shooting first.

Making sure she kept a lookout for any new assholes—they seemed to have discouraged the latest lot, but that could change at any moment—she let the assault rifle fall back onto its sling and reached up to the pressel that hung beside her neck. "Jazz to Shade, how are we doing on the loading, over?" The familiar action served to keep her calm, when she really wanted to be getting the fuck out of there.

PASS—Parahumans Against Sex Slavery—had been a big, beautiful idea when she and the other rescuees from the Compound had come up with it in the days and weeks following. The concept of them being able to use their powers—the very reason they'd been victimised in the first place—to strike back against the oppression of women by men had seemed so right, so proper. And they'd been poised to jump straight into it, until they spoke to Taylor Snow about it.

Some members of the group were disinclined to give her their full trust, because she was a captain in the PRT, and the PRT's job was to oversee parahumans and make sure they didn't do anything stupid … like, say, go where they weren't supposed to go, and rescue kidnapped women. But she'd voiced her personal support for their mission, as well as offering support in a totally different way for the other girls, which had taken a huge worry off their minds. While she couldn't officially endorse PASS, she'd pulled strings in the PRT to ensure that their methods weren't scrutinised too closely, so long as they didn't make a great deal of noise in what they did.

The other thing Taylor had done was to tell them that they weren't ready for what they wanted to do. Having powers was one thing, but powers in conjunction with proper directed training was something else altogether. And as it happened, she was able to refer them on to a bunch of ex-military mercenaries who were willing and able to give them the training they needed.

It had been an interesting experience. Their trainers—mainly women—had been simultaneously hard on them to force them to exceed their limits, while being willing to back off when they hit a sensitive point. Evidently, whoever gave these people their orders knew what Joanne and the others had been through, and was allowing for that. In between times, therapists were on call to talk them through difficult patches, which had helped tremendously.

Initially, Joanne had thought she didn't need much physical training; being able to lift a truck and tank a hit from a moving car was pretty damn good. But she'd never had training in hand-to-hand combat or fired a gun in her life, and her endurance was woeful. Between actual training sessions with an ex-Marine Corps instructor, she sparred with one of the few men set to work with them, a big guy with rock-like skin and glowing red eyes who'd said to call him Crag.

Crag was literally the only person there who could take a full-blooded punch from her and get up as though nothing had happened. Joanne might've used him as a punching bag from time to time when things got too tense in her own head, but he always came back for more punishment, sometimes ribbing her about not hitting him as hard as she could. There was never meanness in it, though, and between the sparring sessions and the long laps of the running track, she'd managed to exorcise some of her own personal demons.

Captain Snow had warned them that there were essential skills that they needed to know before they could be truly effective in their chosen task, and she'd been right on the money. In between the physical training and weapons drills, they'd learned about infiltration, exfiltration (which she hadn't even known was a word), radio procedure, information gathering and so much more. The training had been long and arduous, but they'd learned so much about what they needed to be able to do that in the end, nobody begrudged the time and effort.

Their first two missions had taken place within the borders of the United States; the feelers they'd put out had returned information allowing them to locate missing girls being held captive. Vanessa, who called herself 'Scope', had artificial eyes surgically implanted by their associate Dana (AKA 'Interface') to replace the ones the Brotherhood of the Fallen had cut out. These apparently worked just fine with her powers, allowing her to examine the locations from a distance with what she called her 'penetrating vision' and determine that there were indeed captives on site.

In each case, Joanne had taken point, backed up by the energy blasts generated by Brianna and the high-speed scouting of Leanne (or 'Lightfoot', as she preferred in the field). They'd gone in hard and fast, making good use of their intel to subdue the opposition and free the kidnapped girls. The temptation to hurt the captors more than strictly necessary had always been strong, but Joanne had heeded Captain Snow's warning: the forces of law and order would not necessarily be on the side of PASS, and they did not want to give such people the slightest excuse to come down on them.

In the aftermath of the second such mission, they'd been on top of the world. They were good at what they did, and there were people out there who needed their help. So, they'd spread their net of feelers ever wider, asking in the dark and secret channels that they'd been shown if people knew about vanished girls.

And they got a hit. A gangster, more a celebrity than a criminal in his own country, but a total asshole all the same. He had a compound in Colombia, overlooked by the local authorities (via copious bribes, no doubt) where he ran drugs, guns … and girls. Most of whom, if not all, were there unwillingly from the States. It appeared his clients had certain tastes, and he liked to meet that need.

There'd been no mention of capes on his payroll, which was both a relief and a slight disappointment. A relief because realistically, Joanne knew they'd need to get a few more missions under their belts before facing off against supervillains for real. But also a disappointment, because deep down she wanted to face a criminal cape and punch his goddamn face in for all the times she'd been victimised by the Fallen.

(Yeah, maybe she still had a few issues.)

So here they were now. The raid on the compound had gone well, with their heavy-lift chopper waiting back a ways, its pilot well-paid to ferry them and the rescued girls—all fifty-three of them—across four hundred miles of land and ocean to Panama City. Once there, they'd deliver the girls to the American embassy then make their own way home. It was a simple, effective plan.

Still, she had the jitters. With the guards disabled or driven off—she had no idea what had happened to Señor Asshole himself, though she would've loved to have a word in private with him—they were free to load the girls into the canvas-topped trucks that seemed to be the main form of transport around here, but it was taking so long. And it had been drummed into her that every minute spent standing still in enemy territory made it so much easier for the bad guys to find you.

"Shade to Jazz, we're done," Tori reported suddenly. "Let's go. I'm in the first truck, with Scope." As she spoke, the diesel engine rumbled to life.

"Copy that." Jazz headed for the cab of the third truck. "Lightfoot, take number two. I'll take the third one, with Beamer as tailgunner." The girls would be cramped in the back, with eighteen crammed into each vehicle, but that was something they were just going to have to live with. It would probably be even more uncomfortable in the hold of the Chinook. She certainly wasn't going to complain.

"Beamer, in position, over."

"Lightfoot, in number two, over."


Joanne swung up into the driver's seat and pulled the door closed. Making sure the rifle was on safe, she clipped it into the bracket behind the seat. She turned the key—they'd all been given basic driving training with four-by-fours, trucks, and motorcycles—and shoved in the clutch. As she put it into gear, she hit the pressel again. "Move out, keep your eyes peeled. We're not home free yet. Jazz, out."

"Shade to Jazz. Moving out." The first truck started off, and Leanne's vehicle fell in behind it. Joanne let the handbrake off, and her truck joined the convoy as they rumbled into the darkness.

They'd actually practised this next trick. Vanessa's Thinker ability—various types of special vision—allowed her to see in the dark as well as zooming in and seeing through objects. If she switched too rapidly between vision modes she got nasty headaches, but right now it was a massive boon. Only the first truck needed to run on headlights, and Tori was keeping them on low-beam.

Even without a light on in the cab, Vanessa was able to read the map and see the road ahead with daylight-level clarity, and advise Tori about problems or which way to go on the branching roads. In the meantime, Leanne and Joanne would each drive on parking lights alone, following the taillights of the truck in front. This would theoretically make it harder for them to be spotted from the air.

They rolled on through the forest, turning off the main paved road as soon as Vanessa and Tori found the right side-track. Thereafter, things got a lot bumpier; these clearly didn't get maintained anywhere near as frequently as the one between the compound and the outside world. Joanne was okay with that. The less travelled the road was, the less likely the pursuit would find them down it.

Long minutes stretched by, and Joanne's eyes began to ache from the strain of watching for obstacles in the roadway. Two green dots danced in her vision, after-effects of focusing on the red taillights of the truck in front. They had to be getting close to where the chopper was waiting.

"Beamer here, I hear choppers, plural. Coming up behind us, over."

Ice-water deluged down Joanne's spine. More than one helicopter, and the direction of approach, meant that it wasn't their ride. Someone from the compound had called in serious backup.

I knew they had an in with the local authorities, but geez, being able to call up choppers?

She'd hoped to avoid pursuit altogether by disabling all the other vehicles they'd found at the compound, but that had clearly not been enough.

Reaching up, she squeezed the pressel. "All stop," she ordered. "Lights out. Radio silence. Jazz, out." There was a chance that the opposition could detect their transmissions, or even listen in. No sense in leading the bad guys right to them.

Obediently, Leanne's truck began to slow down; her taillights brightened as she applied the brakes. Joanne downshifted and pulled her truck to a stop as well. With the handbrake set, she killed the engine and switched off the lights. Immediately, darkness rushed in on all sides. Over the ringing of her ears from the constant noise of the engine, she heard the sharp-edged whupwhupwhup of the incoming aircraft.

If the opposition had IR gear, the trucks would stand out like a road flare at fifty feet, and she tensed for that possibility. Brianna would be out of the truck with Tori pointing out the location of the choppers to her. At the first appearance of an attack run, she'd hit them with her best eye-blast.

The one major problem with Brianna's ability was that while it could vastly outrank an assault rifle in damage done, it did cumulative damage to her eyes if she used it at anything above a gentle shove. Her vision deteriorated, as did her aim, the ability to focus the blast, and the overall strength of the attack. While her eyes regenerated this damage, it was slow; she'd performed a few good blasts at the compound, so she wouldn't be back up to scratch yet, but hopefully she'd be able to bring down at least one of the choppers if it became necessary.

Breathing as quietly as she could, as though the men in the choppers above could hear her, Joanne leaned out through the open window and looked upward. The lights in the sky showed her where the choppers were, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief that they didn't seem to be following the road the trucks were on. As one of the choppers banked over, she saw a bright light shining over the trees below it, and knew they didn't have IR; if they did, they wouldn't need a floodlight.

But they were travelling in roughly the same direction as the trucks had gone, which suggested to her that someone from the compound had seen which way they'd turned off, or they had the ability to pick up the radio transmissions, or both. Either way, Joanne and the others weren't out of the woods yet (literally or figuratively), not by a long shot. Just keep going, she told them mentally. Then turn around and miss us again, and go back and report that we were never here.

As the sound of the helicopters faded, she heard a truck door open. There was no accompanying light, mainly because she had personally ensured that the interior lights of each truck were smashed beyond repair; if they wanted light, each of them was carrying a flashlight. Her eyesight was beginning to fill in details; they'd picked a moonless night, but there was still enough light from the boundless stars overhead to see outlines by. Dark figures were now visible, coming back alongside the trucks.

Opening her own door, she climbed out, taking the rifle with her. Behind her, she heard Brianna drop down over the tailgate of her truck. She went forward to meet with Tori and Leanne and Vanessa, between her truck and Leanne's; Brianna joined them a moment later.

"How are they going back there?" she asked Brianna, keeping her voice down from habit.

"Spooked, but quiet," Brianna replied just as softly. "There's a few bruises from the road—I know my butt's gonna be sore—but nobody's complaining."

"I've just been telling them that we're waiting for the search party to go away." That was Vanessa. "How long before we can get going again?"

"They have to pass us by, going in the other direction," Joanne decided. "The last thing we want is to run into them with headlights blazing. They'd be able to strafe us before we ever saw or heard them."

"Our chopper's out that way," Tori pointed out. In the dim light, she seemed to stand out more than the others; it was a quirk of her Stranger powers. "What if they spot it?"

"God, I hope not." Leanne let out a shaky breath. "That'll only happen if they fly right over it, yeah?"

"Or if Manny panics and tries to take off when he hears them coming." Joanne hoped that wouldn't be the case. They'd hired Manuel after going through a few shady connections, as a pilot who was willing to fly them when and where they wanted, irrespective of such minor considerations as national boundaries. He'd been paid half of his handsome fee up front, with the remainder ready to go once they were safe and sound in Panama City. With any kind of luck, the promise of that money would keep him on the ground until the searchers gave up and turned back.

"Fuck, don't jinx us." Brianna's eyes flared briefly. "He'll be there. He promised."

Joanne knew what the promises of most men were like. She'd been thoroughly soured to the gender after her experiences with the Brotherhood of the Fallen, and had only encountered a few since who were worth her time. Crag was one, and Sergeant Kinsey was another. Manuel had come across as a distinctly shifty character, who might well promise far more than he could deliver. She certainly wouldn't trust him in a dark alley.

It was only because she was barefoot that she felt the faint vibration through the ground. "What was that?"

"What was what?" asked Tori and Brianna at the same time.

"I felt something." Joanne pointed uselessly at the ground. "Through my feet."

Just then, she felt it again, this time as a visceral rumble in the air. A few night-birds squawked as they took to the sky.

"Did you hear that?" asked Leanne. "Because I just heard something."

"Shit, give me a boost." Vanessa turned to Joanne. "I need to get up high."

"Gotcha." Joanne moved back alongside the cab of the truck, then leaned down with her hands cupped. "Alley oop."

"Thanks." Vanessa stepped into Joanne's hands and steadied herself with one hand on the truck as Joanne stood up and then hoisted her upward. She climbed onto the cab of the truck, the metal denting inward with a doink, as she stared northward. "Shit."

"What?" But deep down, Joanne knew. "What is it?"

"Something's on fire. Right where we left the chopper."

"Motherfucker." In that moment, Joanne knew what she had to do. "Tori, get everyone out of your truck and into mine and Leanne's. Vanessa, we're taking that truck to check it out. Leanne, you're coming with. Tori and Brianna, if something happens to us, get the girls as far away from here as possible. Don't stop for anything. Got it?"

"But—" Tori bit off her objection before it began. "Okay, got it." That was another one of the things that had been drummed into them; if shit went sideways, doing something was far preferable to arguing about it.

Joanne gave her a brief hug. "We'll be back as soon as we can."

Tori hugged her back. "You better."

Vanessa half-scrambled down from the cab of the truck, and Joanne helped her the rest of the way. "Think it's the chopper?"

"You tell me." Joanne followed her forward to where Tori and Leanne were urging the girls and young women—the youngest was twelve, the oldest nineteen—out of the back of the truck. They didn't make a sound, which Joanna could totally understand. She'd been there herself.

Brianna met them alongside the truck. Her eyes were flickering visibly, as though she wanted to blast something but had no targets to aim at. "You three take care, you hear me?"

"I hear you." Joanne put a hand on her shoulder. "How are your eyes?"

"Nearly back to full." Which meant they were still damaged from the firefight at the compound. "Chopper comes over, I'll drop the sonovabitch." She paused. "Unless … if they've captured you guys …"

Vanessa grabbed her other shoulder. "Even if you see me on board that chopper with a gun to my head, you blast the fucker into a thousand pieces. I am not going back into that."

"Me neither," vowed Leanne, coming up behind them. "Girls are out, let's go."

They climbed into the cab of the truck. The bench seat could fit three across; fortunately, Vanessa and Leanne were somewhat skinnier than Joanne, who was just bigger in all directions. Leanne took the passenger side door, while Joanne clipped the rifle into the rack and got behind the wheel. She started the truck and it rumbled forward, low-beams on once more.

Cautiously, they rolled through the night, barely letting the engine go above an idle as Vanessa stared ahead through the windshield and gave instructions. Joanne felt the tension growing as they neared the rendezvous point. Ahead, only visible when she cut the headlights now and again, was a glow against the sky.

Finally, they trundled up onto a round-topped hill, and Vanessa held up her hand. "Stop."

Joanne jammed on the brakes and clutch at the same time, then killed the lights. "What is it?"

"There." Vanessa took Joanne's hand from the wheel and used it to point with. "Pretty sure it's the chopper."

Joanne peered in that direction. Gradually, details formed out of the darkness. There'd been a large clearing, with some buildings at one end; perhaps an installation of some kind, gone broke. Whatever treatment they'd done to the ground had prevented new trees from growing, so it had been a perfect place to set down the Chinook. Unfortunately, it seemed the bad guys had also known about it, because the twisted wreckage of the heavy-lift helicopter lay burning atop some destroyed trees, and the two new helicopters now sat where it had been.

Leanne opened the passenger side door. "I'll be back in a sec. Just going to get a closer look."

"Be careful." Joanne closed her eyes as the speedster flashed off between the trees, and thumped her head against the butt of the rifle behind her. "Why didn't we pick a spot that was harder to find?"

"Because they already know all the places around here that a chopper can land," Vanessa said from beside her. "Wherever we picked, they'd be looking there pretty damn quickly. Who the hell gives a drug lord access to armed choppers, anyway?"

"People who owe them." It was clear to Joanne in hindsight. "They must've called in all their markers for this."

"Bad news." Leanne climbed back into the truck. "Manny's alive, and it looks like they're interrogating him. I couldn't get too close, but he looked fit enough to spill all the beans."

"And he'll absolutely spill every bean he's got, if it means staying alive." Joanne was already factoring him out of the equation. "Okay, let's get back to the others. Time for plan B."

"Plan B?" asked Vanessa. "What's that one?"

Joanne reached into her thigh pocket and pulled out the bulky satellite phone she'd been carrying there all this time. "We call for help."

"Call for help?" Leanne sounded dubious. "Who the hell can we call?"

-ooo-​

Nine Hours Earlier
Brockton Bay

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT


I stifled a groan as I got out of the hire car Kinsey had driven in from the airport. "Even flying, it's still no fun getting here from Chicago."

"It could be worse, ma'am." Kinsey was as deadpan as ever as he went around to the trunk to fetch the suitcases. "We could still be driving around the country, performing your arcane magic on the computer systems."

"Thanks for the reminder." I twisted one way and then the other to pop my back into place. "I saw more road miles during that time than I ever want to see again."

"Roger that, ma'am." He hefted the cases out and closed the trunk, then picked them both up before I was able to get there and grab mine. "Though if I may say so, it's good that the Lieutenant-Colonel was able to spare you for the next five days."

"Why, Kinsey." I put on a tone of mock censure. "Is that concern I hear in your voice?"

A corner of his mouth quirked up in an unmistakeable smile. "The Captain must be mistaken. I was merely alluding to the fact that Ms Campbell hasn't seen either one of us in quite some time."

In other words, he thought I was working too hard, and needed some time off to relax with Andrea. Which, to be honest, I couldn't disagree with. While my work behind the scenes had slacked off marginally—I still needed to murder Screamer before I could take advantage of Gray Boy's death to remove Jack Slash from the board—there was definitely enough work both in my legitimate role and the sub rosa side of things to keep me busy for a long time.

"I'm actually interested in seeing how Alec is going," I said, leading the way to the door. "In her last letter, she said he's standing, if briefly. I want to see if he's walking yet." Dragon was reportedly fascinated with the whole process, which didn't surprise me. The adolescent AI, indistinguishable from a biological teenager by any but the closest examination, was diving headfirst into learning about humanity by immersion. I had high hopes for her.

We weren't visiting Andrea in her penthouse apartment for the simple reason that Kinsey didn't know about it yet, and I didn't want to give him reason to wonder about exactly where Andrea got the money for it. So, after I let him in through the front doors, I headed up the stairs. It was good exercise, and I could feel my leg muscles uncramping as I climbed.

When I tapped on the apartment door, it was opened a moment later by Dragon herself. "Captain Snow!" she exclaimed delightedly, enfolding me in a hug. "It's so good to see you!"

I hugged her in return, enjoying the spontaneity. Once upon a time, long ago and years to come in a world that would never happen now, Dragon had hugged me when I was at one of my lowest points, as a gesture of comfort and solidarity. Despite all the time that had passed since, I had never forgotten the incident. That Dragon had had her human mannerisms programmed into her, then built upon by careful study of people from afar. This version was learning them first-hand from one of the most human people I knew.

"You can call me Taylor, hon," I said, noting her purple hair with some amusement. I wondered if it was a wig, or if she'd talked Andrea into letting her dye it that shade. Not that Andrea would've needed much convincing; she was very much a 'let's see what happens' sort of person. "I like the hair."

"Thank you." Her carefree grin reminded me a lot of Andrea at that moment. "Mom Andrea and I are watching anime shows at the moment, and she helped me dye it because some of the characters have purple hair and we thought it might look good on me."

"Well, it's certainly striking," Kinsey said diplomatically, coming in behind me. "And is it just me, or have you had a growth spurt? I could swear you've grown six inches in as many months."

Dragon nodded happily. "Something like that. We had to go get whole new outfits for me, just the other day."

Translation: she got a whole-body upgrade. "I remember being like that, back in grade school," I agreed. "Once I started my growth spurt, Dad and Mom said I shot up like a weed."

"Cutest weed ever," Andrea put in from where she'd just entered the room, carrying Alec. At almost a year old—he was just weeks away from his first birthday, which I was seriously regretting having to miss—the little tyke was a lot bigger than when I'd last seen him. "Hi, Taylor. How's it been, Jim? Taylor behaving herself?"

"The Captain has managed to not get herself injured again recently, so I would consider that an affirmative," he replied blandly.

"Hey, I don't get hurt all that much," I protested. "And it's never my fault."

Andrea marched over to Kinsey while Dragon stood aside. She handed Alec to him, then stepped up to me. "You listen to me, Taylor Snow," she said intensely. "You getting hurt even once is once too often. The Brotherhood of the Fallen damn near killed you, and that monster in Seattle would have if Kinsey hadn't been there. And that's not even counting that damn Mathers woman in Chicago, the idiots in that gas station, that thing with Marquis, and …" She trailed off and I realised that she'd been just about to mention the Heartbreaker mission, the one Kinsey still hadn't been filled in on.

"Those ones, I had under control," I pointed out. Okay, the situation with the Mathers mother and child had very nearly gone seriously haywire, but thanks to Kinsey's sheer bulldog willpower and our long practice on the range, we'd come through it. Thankfully, she didn't know about the time I'd killed Winter in a dingy dive-bar restroom, or she'd be twice as pissed at me. "I'm fit again. We both are."

"Well, I want you to stay that way." She stepped closer and turned her head to look up at me, her cheek brushing my chest. "When you finally get around to leaving the PRT for good, you're going to have a family waiting for you, and I want you intact enough to be able to appreciate it."

That was perhaps the sweetest thing anyone had said to me for a long time. I took her in my arms and held her close, feeling her arms slip around my waist. "So do I," I said softly. "But right now I'm a little wiped. So, do you think the three of you could handle entertaining Kinsey while I take a shower and a fifteen-minute nap? I might have stayed up a little late last night."

Andrea's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline as she looked up at me, then over toward Kinsey. "A 'little late', Jim?"

Kinsey glanced up from where he was letting Alec grasp his little finger. "The Captain may have stayed up until four or five this morning, despite several reminders about this trip."

I was shocked at the betrayal. How could Kinsey just throw me under the bus like that? Oh, right. Andrea. She already had him wrapped around her little finger. "I had important preparations to make," I explained. "Making sure our people had an idea what was coming for the next few days."

Andrea snorted and let me go. "Same old Taylor. Go, have your shower and your nap. Maybe later, you might be able to convince me to give you an old-fashioned massage, like I used to do in college."

I knew damn well that her massages were conducted naked and usually preceded a seduction attempt (not that I tended to resist too hard) but at the same time, I probably needed one. Scratch that; I definitely needed one. Though I'd probably disappoint her by falling asleep afterward, like that one time we still both laughed about.

"Like I need to twist your arm," I retorted. While Kinsey's attention was taken up with Alec—for a man who could scare a bunch of recruits into quivering silence, babies seemed to see him as a big teddy bear—I took up my suitcase and headed for Andrea's bedroom. "Fifteen minutes is all I really need. If I'm not out in thirty, come wake me up."

Andrea had other ideas. "If you're not out in thirty, I'm just gonna let you sleep. That'll give me and Dragon more time to find out all the gossip from Jim here."

She totally would, too. That was Andrea all over; no respect for military protocol. The fact that Kinsey would only tell her what he thought she needed to know didn't help. She had ways and means of worming more information out of him about my activities than I felt comfortable with her knowing. Being aware that they both had my best interests at heart didn't actually help.

Still, the shower was amazing. I relaxed as much as I was able and let the hot water ease some of my tense back muscles, but old habits died hard; I found myself out and getting dried in under three minutes. After towelling my hair dry and changing into loose, comfortable clothing, I headed along to Andrea's bedroom. The mattress was almost sinfully soft and comfortable, and the pillow smelled like Andrea's shampoo.

Crawling onto the mattress, I snuggled in and let myself drift. Here, in this place, I was safe and secure. I could relax and afford to let my guard down. With each subsequent breath, I could feel my tensions ebbing away. Maybe Andrea was right, and I did need more than thirty …

-ooo-​

"Finally. It's only taken half a day of prodding to get you to close your eyes long enough."

I looked across from the rather comfortable chair I was reclining in, to where Lisa was sitting in an identical chair. She had a complicated-looking drink in her hand; the glass contained both fruit and an umbrella. Beyond the patio we were sitting was a stunning vista of a gorgeously coloured sandy beach, a deep blue ocean stretching out to a green-clad volcanic island … and beyond it all, a huge ringed planet gradually rising over the horizon.


What, no grand adventures this time? I jibed. Are you settling down?

"Taking a breather," she retorted. "I'll have you know there are megalodon in that ocean, and just down the coast, the surf is amazing."


I'll take your word for it. Lifting myself up on my elbow and gave her a serious look. So why did you pull me in? Is there something going on?

"Yeah." She took another sip of the drink and put it down, then handed me a tablet. "Your protégés are about to land themselves in hot water, and I figured we should maybe do something about it before it's too late."

I accepted the tablet and looked over the data while things that weren't quite seagulls swooped and squawked outside the patio. Joanne and her friends had taken well to the training that Andrea's mercs had given them, and acquitted themselves well with two operations inside the States. But they were in the process of biting off somewhat more than they could chew. If I didn't do something, and quickly, they were likely to end up dead or in the worst kind of captivity.


If I contacted them now, could they abort before they go in-country?

"They could, but they won't." Lisa swung her legs over the side of her chair and sat up. "There's fifty-three captives in that compound. They're committed to going in there and getting those girls out, no matter the odds against them, and I have to kinda admire that. But … they're going to be calling the number that connects to your satellite phone in about nine hours, once they realise how deep they're in it."

Fuck. I ran my hand through my hair. How fast can I get down there?

"Not fast enough to prevent them from getting into trouble." She didn't finish the sentence.


But I can get them out again?

She shrugged. "You've got the resources."

Shit. I grimaced. I'd just weathered one lecture about putting myself in harm's way. Andrea's gonna kill me, isn't she?

Lisa laughed and held up two fingers, close together. "Only a little bit."


Fine. I sighed. Let's do this.

"Go be the big damn hero. You know you want to." She leaned closer. "Kiss before you go?"

Her lips tasted of dust and blood and fruity alcohol. An errant sea breeze tickled my eye, and I blinked.


-ooo-​

Drawing a deep breath, I opened my eyes to see Andrea sitting on the side of the bed. Her expression was unhappy, which gave me the clue as to what was coming next. "You've got to go?" she asked.

"I've got to go," I confirmed, then sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. "How much did you pick up?" When I was conversing with Lisa, I tended to subvocalise my side of the conversation, which meant an outside observer could sometimes figure out the gist.

She shrugged, but didn't look any happier. "Something about you needing to get someone out of somewhere. I know what that means. You're about to go and do something stupid again."

"Technically yes, but no." I moved until I was sitting beside her, and put my arm around her. "I need to get down to Colombia as soon as possible, while not raising any sort of public attention, and I need to bring a significant amount of firepower with me. So, have your mercenaries been training with those tilt-rotors I told you to buy for them?"

"Extended over-water operations and everything, just like you specified." She gave me a suspicious look. "Did you know you were going to be using them to invade a foreign country?"

"Know? No. Suspect enough to prep for it? It was bound to be on the cards, sooner or later." I got up and started rummaging through my suitcase for appropriate clothing. "Besides, we won't be invading, as such. Just extracting. Assisting in the final stages of a rescue."

She stared at me. "Assisting who to rescue who?"

So, I told her.

-ooo-​

Sergeant James McMartin Kinsey, PRT

Jim looked up from his conversation with Dragon as the Captain emerged from the rear of the apartment, somewhat earlier than he'd anticipated. His attention sharpened when he saw her attitude and her stride; her jaw was set, and she was almost marching to cadence. Also, she was wearing a set of hard-wearing fatigues he'd packed in her suitcase in case she needed to attend the police precinct again for any reason. Over them, she was buckling on the shoulder holster for her pistol.

Andrea, behind her, was looking decidedly unhappy but equally determined. He wasn't quite sure what had happened back there, nor was he going to pry—the Captain's private time was private—but he knew something had. "Ma'am?" he asked.

"Kinsey." The Captain stopped in front of where he was seated on the sofa, feet apart and hands clasped behind her back. "You said awhile ago that you were okay with me running off-the-books operations. Is that still the case?" Her tone, like her posture, was almost formal.

He stood up and came to attention, matching the level of gravitas she was projecting. "Ma'am, yes, ma'am."

"Good." She nodded once, thoughtfully. "I've just been alerted to the need for another one. It's going to be considerably more questionable than what you've seen to date, which means you have a choice in the matter. To go along with me and be prepared to forget everything you see and hear, or to remain here for the next twelve hours and cover for my absence."

His curiosity spiked hard at that one—she's been out of my sight for ten damn minutes! Who got a message to her, and how?—but he reined it in. "Ma'am, I'm here for your protection. I can't protect you if I'm here and you're not." He had faith in the Captain that she wouldn't be pulling an operation that he had a moral objection to.

"Understood, and thank you. So, sitrep. Remember the girls we rescued from the Compound last year? They've formed that team they were talking about, gotten some training, and are currently setting up to pull some kidnapped girls out of basically the same situation they were in. However, they are going to find themselves ass-deep in alligators in the next eight hours or so, due to faulty intel. With me so far?"

Jim had already decided not to ask how she knew this. It was a given that the Captain worked in mysterious ways. "Yes, ma'am. I have three questions."

She raised her eyebrows. "No, they wouldn't abort even if I told them the odds. Fifty-three women and girls. Ages twelve and up. They're determined to get them out. Was that one of the questions?"

"It was, yes, ma'am." And it even answered questions he hadn't thought to ask. "The other two are, how are we going to get to wherever it is, and what can we do that they can't?"

That was when she smiled. It was an expression that did not bode well for the opposition. "The answer to both questions is the same. We're bringing the cavalry with us."

"The cavalry, ma'am?" Belatedly, he looked around at Andrea (who seemed to know what was going on) and Dragon (who didn't). "And should we be speaking of this, here, now?"

"You'll see, Kinsey. And yes; it's fine. They know the score."

As a dutiful NCO and subordinate, there was only one thing left for him to say. "Permission to get changed, ma'am." If the Captain was gearing up to go into a combat zone, then he was damn well going with her.

She nodded briefly, and a smile crossed her face. "Granted."

-ooo-​

Taylor

Three hours later, we were airborne and heading south at something over six hundred miles per hour. Kinsey had chosen to wear his fatigues, and we'd both donned light jackets to conceal our respective armaments from the casual observer. Once we were in the privacy of the charter jet we'd boarded at a private airfield—both were owned, via a maze of legal cut-outs, by Andrea herself—we'd unzipped them again.

This wasn't to say we were alone on the aircraft. A little farther back, choosing to stay in their own little clique, were a bunch of Andrea's mercenaries, numbering eight in all. They evidently knew of our presence, but they'd just as clearly been given orders to not interact with us on the flight at least. This apparently suited them; they joked and talked between themselves, enjoying the low-alcohol refreshments that the impassive male flight attendant served them.

They'd gotten on the plane when we made a quick stop at an airfield somewhere south of Brockton Bay; though exactly where it was, the pilot had somehow neglected to mention to us. I could tell Kinsey was less than totally thrilled by all this cloak-and-dagger business, but from the expression on his face, he was also adding two and two together. That was fine. I didn't care what conclusions he came to, so long as he didn't shout them out to the world at large.

"Ma'am," he said quietly, "I seem to recall a trip to another airfield, just outside Seattle. Does this have any connection?"

"Well done," I murmured. "Yes, it does. Also, for the duration of this operation, I will be going by the callsign 'Weaver'. You've been given the callsign 'King', though you can change that if you wish."

"No, ma'am, I'm fine with that." He paused for a moment. "I understand my callsign being easy to recall and similar to my name, but may I ask the significance of the name 'Weaver'?"

I sighed; I didn't need access to Lisa's omniscience to have known that was coming. "It's part of my past, long ago and far away. One day, when we're both out from under the yoke of our current duties, I may share a few tales. Alcohol will absolutely be involved."

His eyebrows rose; he knew how little I liked drinking. Knowing the man as well as I did, I could also tell that he was refraining from mentioning that I'd been barely out of my teens when I joined the PRT. Prior to that, my history was available to anyone who cared to pry, back to nineteen eighty-nine when I'd been hauled out of the water off Brockton Bay.

He did not yet know about my past before then; hell, even Andrea only knew bits and pieces about it. Ruth Goldstein knew the most, having seen me sometimes on TV as a baby. I wasn't yet sure when (or if) I was ever going to tell the whole story to anyone.

In the meantime, I was damn sure going to try to make sure most of it didn't fucking happen.

-ooo-​

The Present

Jazz


Still watching the flickering flames, Joanne woke up the bulky satellite phone. Carefully, she dialled the number that had come with the phone. She didn't know how much good it would do, but right now their options were narrowing down fast.

The phone rang once, then twice. There was a click, and she heard the static of an open line. "You've got Snow." In the background, she could hear the whine of turbines running flat-out.

Hearing Captain Snow's voice, she could have wept from relief, but the shit they were in was far from sorted. "Uh, Joanne Sanderson here. We're kind of in trouble, but if you're busy—"

"I'm aware of the situation, Jazz." Snow's voice, while not curt, was definitely clipped. "We're niner-zero minutes out. The closer you can get to the coast, the better. Find a wide-open area, suitable for rotorcraft, and bunker down. I'll be going by callsign Weaver. My companion will be callsign King. Current status of your people?"

Joanne blinked. "We're all fine. But—you knew? How? I mean—"

Again, Snow cut her off. "PRT Intelligence. It's my job to know. Now, get your people moving. The choppers will be back, and there will be ground pursuit. Weaver, out."

The call ended, leaving Joanne staring at the handset. "What … the fuck?"

"What?" demanded Vanessa. "What do you mean, she knew?"

Joanne shook her head, then started the truck. Carefully, she turned it around and started back toward where they'd left everyone else. "She's already on the way. Said she's an hour and a half out, and that we should head north. Find a place that choppers can land."

"An hour and a half?" Leanne sounded startled. "How the hell …?"

"PRT Intelligence," Joanne recited, as though that explained everything. "But we've got to get moving. She said there's ground pursuit coming. Plus, the choppers."

"On it." Leanne opened the door; an instant later, it closed again, and Joanne briefly saw her zipping ahead in the beam cast by the headlights.

"Okay, I get it that Captain Snow's PRT Intelligence," Vanessa objected. "But we're not even inside the United States right now. How did she specifically know that we were in the shit?"

Joanne shrugged. "Would you prefer she didn't?"

"Well … now that you mention it … no."

They trundled on down the rough track, until they reached the spot where the trucks had halted. Leanne was waiting there, and she swung up into the cab when Joanne stopped. "Done," she reported. "They've gone on ahead. We should be able to catch up with them pretty quickly."

"Good." Joanne started the truck moving again, turning onto the track that Leanne indicated. She knew that even if the road branched, Vanessa would be able to spot the signs of recent passage; her eyesight was bullshit like that.

With that in mind, Joanne pressed on harder, wanting to catch up with the miniature convoy before the hour was up, and definitely before the choppers took to the air again. She wasn't at all sure what Captain Snow was bringing to the party, but the PRT captain probably didn't want to start a firefight on foreign soil. Even for someone with her insane level of connections, it wouldn't look good for her future career prospects.

It took less time than Joanne had thought to catch up with the trucks. This was because they were stopped in the road when she got there. Tori and Brianna were showing signs of readiness to fight, right up until Leanne flashed ahead to reassure them that all was (technically) well.

Pulling the truck to a halt, Joanne climbed down and headed forward. "What's going on? Why've you stopped?" Her palms itched with the need to keep moving.

"Tori broke the front truck." That was Brianna.

"I did not!" Tori turned to Joanna. "There was a really deep pothole. I didn't see it in time. It threw everyone around, and now the wheels are all wonky."

"Let me see." Vanessa went around the trucks to look at the front one, with Joanne following behind. From the way she sucked in her breath between her teeth, Joanne could tell it was bad; even from the glow of the headlights from the second truck, it was possible to see that the front wheel was decidedly off-kilter.

"Busted axle?" guessed Joanne.

"Looks like," agreed Vanessa. "That truck's going nowhere."

"Okay, then." Joanne went to the back of the truck and peered in. The human cargo, packed in as they were, stared back at her silently. "Everyone out. Into the rear truck. We've got to move on, and this one's going nowhere." She dropped the tailgate to emphasise her point.

Silently, stoically, they started climbing out and heading back along the line of trucks. Nobody uttered a word of complaint, despite the fact that they had to be bruised and hurting. She knew this was because right now they were in 'rescue mode'; they were elated that there was a chance they were getting out, while at the same time being terrified that they might be left behind if they complained.

When the last one dropped to the ground, she scanned the interior of the back, then opened the driver's side door and checked for any personal belongings in there. Nothing; it was as clean as when they'd first liberated it.

"How are we gonna get the other trucks past?" asked Leanne, at her elbow. "This isn't exactly a two-lane highway, and there's nowhere to push it off the road to."

"I got this." Joanne flexed her hands. "Get everyone back out of the way." Moving up to the middle of the truck, she crouched and shuffled under the chassis, then began to lift.

The truck wasn't light, but she'd done this before in training. Despite her rational brain telling her that it was far too heavy for her, she gradually straightened her legs and heaved upward. When the tyres left the roadway, she knew she was most of the way there. Gradually, as more and more of the weight passed over the tipping point, the strain became less, until it was balanced, then she gave it one final shove. With a mass crackling and snapping as it overwhelmed a whole thicket of small trees, the truck rolled onto its side, leaving the roadway clear.

"Okay," she said, dusting her hands off. "Now, let's …"

Two sounds interrupted her. The first was the distant yet distinct sound of helicopters taking to the air. Just as unwelcome was the unmistakeable growling of four-by-four engines, more than one or two by her estimation. She couldn't be sure, but she thought they were coming closer. Ground pursuit. Well, she called it.

"Everyone, in the trucks now!" she shouted. "We're leaving!"

"We're loaded!" Vanessa yelled back from the passenger seat of the front truck. "Just waiting on you!"

Right. Bolting past the first truck, she swung around the open door of the second one, and clambered inside. The engine was already running, so she slammed the door and jolted it into gear. Tori was waiting for her, which meant Leanne was driving the front truck. "Brianna?" she asked.

"In the back," Tori confirmed.

"Good." Joanne hated using the girl as mobile artillery but the fact was, she'd volunteered. The truck in front moved off, and she followed.

With Vanessa navigating and Leanne driving, they made some damn good time, especially considering that they were no longer worried about keeping things quiet. Captain Snow had said she was an hour and a half north, which meant that every mile they covered was a mile she didn't have to travel to get to them.

Still, that didn't mean they could be totally reckless. When Brianna spotted the choppers in the distance, they pulled over again. With all lights off, at a standstill, there was a good chance they'd escape notice, unless the choppers went straight over the top of them.

Opening the door, Joanne grasped the frame and jumped upward, heaving herself onto the roof of the cab. Crouching there, she reached back down. "Rifle."

"Copy." From inside the cab, she heard Tori unclipping the assault rifle from its bracket. A moment later, the stock was thrust into her hand.

"Thanks." Going to a kneeling position, she snuggled the rifle butt into her shoulder and let her eye fall in behind the sights. The four-by-fours didn't sound any closer, but that could've been a trick of acoustics. Of course, they'd been hammering the trucks through the forest pretty hard, too.

However, the choppers didn't have to deal with the vagaries of terrain. Joanne could clearly see them; their flight path, unless they veered off, would take them straight over the trucks. Making a split-second decision, she raised her voice. "Lightfoot, move on! Shade, get them out of this truck and send them after Lightfoot! Now!"

Thankfully, there was no argument. She heard the tailgate drop at the same time as the front truck rumbled to life again. Tori was out of the truck and urging the rescuees forward as fast as they could stumble; Joanne tuned them out and focused on the oncoming aircraft.

They couldn't outrun choppers, and those birds were armed with something that could take down a Chinook. The only chance they had was to bloody the nose of the opposition, and leave a roadblock that would hold up ground pursuit. It would be a tight fit, getting all fifty-three girls into the last truck, but they had little choice in the matter.

With less than twenty seconds before the choppers—still not deviating a hair from their course—would pass over the lone truck, Joanne heard Brianna's voice from beside the truck. "Ready when you are."

"What?" Joanne didn't look away from her sight picture, but she pitched her voice so her teammate could hear. "Get back with the others!"

"You can't bring them down with that! I can!" Brianna's voice was full of resolve.

Fuck. Five seconds. The noise was almost deafening. "When I say run, run!" she yelled.

The first chopper swept over the truck, its floodlight almost blinding Joanne even through squinted eyelids. She knew they'd been spotted when it pulled around in a tight circle, its mate standing off a ways. As it came back, she focused on the light itself.

Originally, she'd intended to try to hit the pilot through the windshield, but two problems occurred to her. First, it might well be bulletproof. Second, she couldn't see anything but the floodlight.

Oh, well. Aiming at the brightest point of the blinding glare, she fired off a couple of controlled bursts. The first must have missed, but the second connected; with a shower of sparks, the light went out.

"Down!" yelled Brianna; instinctively, Joanne threw herself flat on the top of the cab.

A crackling, actinic beam blasted up past the truck and—from what she could see—nailed the chopper square in the middle of its fuselage, just as it began to swing away from Joanne's shooting. Joanne could feel the heat from where she was, and everything was lit up for dozens of yards in every direction. The effect on the chopper was even more dramatic; there was a muted explosion, then the rotorcraft began to spin in ever-expanding circles as it started to lose altitude.

And that was when the other one came in for an attack run.

"Fuck!" Diving off the truck cab as the first of the heavy-calibre rounds hit the vehicle, Joanne scooped up Brianna bodily and sprinted off down the road. Behind them, she could hear the thunder of the autocannon as it sprayed ammunition all over the truck and surrounding area. She wasn't slowing down to look back; when it was time to run, it was time to run.

The first chopper blazed overhead, flames pouring off it and briefly giving her the chance to see where she was going, before it vanished again. She heard it hit the trees, followed by another explosion. Good. I hope you all die.

When the second chopper finished its assault on the truck, she felt it was safe to slow to a walk. Besides, she couldn't see a thing, and didn't want to either run into a tree or trip over a rut. "You okay?" she asked Brianna, expecting the girl to tell her that she could walk on her own.

"Yeah." Brianna sounded subdued. "My eyes hurt, though."

Shit. That meant she'd damaged them badly; from the intensity of the blast, Joanne wasn't surprised. "Can you see?"

"Can't really tell."

Double shit. "Okay. That's okay. We've got this."

"Hey, guys?" It was Vanessa. "Over this way." Joanne felt a hand on her arm, guiding her. "Right foot, watch that pothole."

"Thanks. You heard?" Behind her, she heard the second chopper move to hover over the crash site of the other one.

"Yeah. Good news, they're going to be a lot more careful about chasing us now."

"Bad news," Brianna piped up, "I can't see or blast jack shit right now."

"But they don't know that," Joanne reminded her. "Nobody wants to charge a Blaster face-on. Money's good, but they're going to want to live to spend it."

After a few more minutes, they caught up with where Tori was leading the twenty-six rescuees toward the last truck. Joanne's vision had recovered to the point that she could barely make out facial expressions by now, but all she got from them was that they were willing to walk until they dropped, if it meant freedom. Yeah, I get that.

Loading them into the back of the sole remaining truck was a pain, but it had to be done. The youngest were crammed into the cab, half a dozen taking up two-thirds of the bench seat, with Vanessa driving. Brianna went into the back, with Leanne scouting ahead and Joanne and Tori on the running boards to each side.

Off they drove again, on their seemingly endless odyssey. By Joanne's imperfect estimation, it had been about an hour since she'd made the satphone call, so they had half an hour until rescue arrived. Things were getting tight, with the opposition nipping at their heels, but they were still free, and they'd slowed the bastards down.

She couldn't help wondering again exactly how Captain Snow had figured out they were in trouble quickly enough to have incoming assets just ninety minutes off the Colombian coastline. She'd studied charts of the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, and knew it was nearly two thousand miles from Colombia to the US in a straight line northwest, through the Yucatan Channel (from Colombia to Key West was only about a thousand miles, but she was reasonably sure the Cubans would get snippy about Americans overflying their airspace without good reason). This raised an important point; unless Snow was in something that was supersonic, she had to have been over international waters when she took the call.

There was good. There was very good. And then there was damn near miraculous.

She shook her head. It was highly likely that she'd never know.

-ooo-​

Taylor

"We just went feet-dry. Welcome to Colombia, folks."

The pilot's voice, sounding altogether too cheerful, came across the earpieces in the helmets we were each wearing. Kinsey turned to me and leaned close; this wasn't hard, considering the canvas seats we were sitting in were up against each other as it was. But instead of querying our location, he had another question to ask.

"Ma'am, whose tilt-rotors are these, and where did they get them from? Because I'm almost certain no military has adopted them yet. In fact, I thought they were still in trials."

I nodded to acknowledge his points. "Hypothetically, if someone had enough money to field a large mercenary group, would it be a problem for them to also own an aircraft manufacturing concern? And a defence contracting company, where they could get access to the blueprints for the latest prototype designs?" There was more to it than that, of course. Lisa had supplied the appropriate upgrades so that Andrea's aircraft were free of the problematic bugs that would've plagued military tilt-rotors for years after they came out. But Kinsey didn't need to know that part.

"Ah." He nodded. "Thank you, ma'am."

"You're welcome. I'm going to make a call."

"Ma'am."

Hauling out the satellite phone, I unbuckled my helmet and set it in my lap. I set up the call, then held the phone firmly to my ear.

When the call connected through, I heard sporadic gunfire, and distant shouts. "Weaver, if that's you, we need extraction now!"

"Weaver here." I kept my voice calm and controlled. "We just crossed the coast. Sitrep me."

I heard a sigh, as of relief. "Lightfoot found us an old logging camp after the last truck ran out of fuel, and we've bunkered down there. But the bastards found us five minutes ago, and they've been trying to overrun us ever since."

"Logging camp. Got it." I knew where they were now. It was one of several potential locations Lisa's tablet had shown me. "Incoming, five minutes. Hold tight. Weaver, out."

Shutting down the phone, I stowed it away, then pulled my helmet on again. Flicking the intercom to 'pilot', I pressed the talk switch. "Weaver to Shadow One Actual. I've got final coordinates for you."

There was the briefest of pauses. "Shadow One Actual. Go."

Taking a deep breath, I recited the coordinates that danced in front of my eyes, courtesy of my self-hypnosis. "Be aware, it's a hot zone. Hostiles trying to breach the perimeter."

"Shadow One Actual, that's a solid copy, hot zone." I knew he'd be switching channels and passing on the information to the other aircraft, but that was my job done.

In all honesty, I could've done this bit from perfect safety back in the States, but that had never been my style. I felt responsible for Joanne and the others, dammit, and I wasn't going to send men in to get them out—and maybe die trying—without putting some skin in the game myself. It was a habit I was going to have to try to break someday, but not today.

-ooo-​

Jazz

Had it been ten seconds, five minutes, or half an hour? Joanne didn't know, and she didn't have time to check. The last mag on her assault rifle ran dry, causing a four-by-four to run out of control and crash, but she didn't have time to celebrate. More were coming in.

Guns were terrible for throwing; they were lighter for their bulk than any hand-to-hand weapon, and their aerodynamics sucked. Besides, there was the chance she could get more ammo for it, turning it back into a useful tool again. Scooping up a fist-sized rock instead, she hurled it at the closest bunch of bad guys. One went over with a yell, giving the rest pause.

She'd already heaved a bunch of trees that had been felled but never processed around into the equivalent of a fortification. Brianna and the fifty-three rescued girls and women were huddled behind it, while Tori and Vanessa fired through gaps with their pistols. Leanne was out there somewhere, trying to disrupt the oncoming assault, but Joanne had no idea where the speedster actually was.

Grabbing a sizeable branch, Joanne vaulted over the parapet and ran toward the group, screaming at the top of her lungs. A couple stopped and stared, but several shot at her. As hyped up as she was, the bullets did little more than sting. Not bothering to slow down, she went straight up to them and swung the branch like a baseball bat. It splintered, but three of them went down. On the backswing, she got a fourth, destroying the rest of the branch.

One of the men still standing swung a knife at her, and she caught the blade, pulling it from his hand. She moved in, grabbing him by the collar, while she reversed her grip on the knife. As he watched in horror, she stabbed the blade all the way through him, her arm going in up to the elbow.

His last remaining upright comrade screamed in terror and dumped the entire mag into both of them. She felt like she'd been attacked by a swarm of bees, but the guy she'd stabbed was well and truly dead now. Dragging her arm back out of the sucking wound, she pulled the guy's rifle off him, then punched the other guy so hard his jaw disintegrated, along with most of his skull.

She wasn't quite sure if she'd intended to draw their fire this literally, but when the guns opened up all around her, it seemed that she was the sole target. Nothing penetrated her skin, but she could feel herself bruising, and it was really starting to fucking hurt. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she fired back with her captured rifle; some of the men went down, but then she was out of bullets … and they weren't.

And then there was thunder overhead, along with a massive downdraft. She had just enough time to think, 'oh shit, the chopper's back', when there was a "Wooo hoooo!" from above, terminating in a crash that took out three of the opposition. And when she saw the shadowy form get up and the red eyes open, she knew who it was.

"Hey, Jazz!" yelled Crag. "Learn to share, will you?" So saying, he grabbed two men by their arms and swung them around in a circle, hurling them at their comrades.

"Hey, I brought enough for everyone!" she shouted back, grabbing up another one and sending him flying into the trees.

"Good!" He hooked a rough grey thumb back toward the clearing. "Go. We got this." As he spoke, a burst of fire cut down another bunch of assholes, and what looked like an armoured beach buggy roared past, a gunner standing up behind the driver. When she looked around, several more were heading into the forest, firing sporadically as they went.

"Jesus," she said in the sudden quiet. "Where did they come from?"

Crag pointed, and she looked; properly, this time. One of the weirdest helicopters she'd ever seen hovered overhead, while three more sat on the ground back behind the parapet, rear ramps open. The rescuees were being urged on board by helmeted men; standing next to one of the aircraft were two people Joanne would've recognised anywhere.

"Thanks," she said, but she was already heading for the parapet. Behind her, the occasional shot still sounded back in the forest, but it seemed they hadn't been prepared for a determined resistance.

Loping back toward the clearing, she vaulted over the parapet, fully aware that she was going to be feeling every one of those bullet strikes in the morning. Captain Snow, as impassive as ever, nodded to her. "How are you doing?"

"A whole lot better now." Joanne slung the rifle she was holding and spread her hands. "All this … how?"

Sergeant Kinsey fielded that one. "I've learned not to question these things too deeply, miss."

"Okay, okay." Joanne nodded as she accepted that. "So how do we get back to the States? What's the range on these things?" Helicopters, she knew, just couldn't cover that distance, not without refuelling.

"Just far enough." Captain Snow spoke with absolute assurance. "We'll be leaving the gun-buggies behind." She seemed to tilt her head to catch one last burst of firing. "Once they finish having their fun, of course."

"Right." Joanne shook her head. "All I can say is … well, thanks."

"That's okay." Captain Snow gestured at the nearest aircraft. "Shall we?"

"Good idea." Joanne accepted the invitation and they climbed on board, joining the rescuees and the other members of her team. The ramp began to close behind them.

"Let's go home."



End of Part 8-4​
 
Last edited:
Part 8-5: Changing the Future
Recoil

Part 8-5: Changing the Future

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



Somewhere in Florida

Kinsey and I stepped off the ramp of the tilt-rotor and stood aside as the mercenaries, the members of PASS, and their rescuees congregated in their various groups. There were a couple of buses waiting for the latter, but they were understandably reluctant to be parted from their recent saviours. The capes were mingling with the mercenaries, apparently catching up on old times, and I saw Joanne trade a high-five with Crag.

A fuel truck pulled up to the tilt-rotors and began the refuelling procedure under the harsh glare of portable floodlights. We'd almost run the tanks dry in a nap-of-the-earth dash over the last hundred miles or so, after Air National Guard jets had started sniffing around. They hadn't caught more than a whisper on radar, and none at all once we got down on the deck. It was good to see the low radar cross-section construction paying for itself.

Kinsey, observing the coordinated activity, turned to me. "Ma'am, would I be remiss in assuming that this airfield wouldn't appear on any official registry?"

"Why, Kinsey, I'm surprised at you," I replied, deadpan. "It's registered as a defunct installation, with several layers of obfuscation before anyone will get to the true owner."

"Ah, of course. I stand corrected." He raised his head as the leader of PASS started in our direction. "It seems Ms Sanderson would like a word with you."

She was moving a little stiffly as she came up to us, which didn't surprise me in the slightest. Near-impervious skin or otherwise, the sheer number of bullet impacts she'd absorbed had to have left her with significant bruising. "Hail the conquering heroes," I said lightly.

"We're hardly the heroes of the piece." Her voice was upbeat, but I could see the drag of fatigue in her step. She was feeling the post-adrenaline crash, and I couldn't really blame her. "It's you and the mercenaries that pulled our asses out of the fire."

"You did the real work," I reminded her. "You found the girls and got them clear. If these guys had gone in cold, against a prepared position, there would've been losses. Maybe serious ones. Your plan was a good one; you just failed to anticipate the bad guys having access to attack choppers."

She nodded. "It's not really something we had to worry about, here in the States. So, what happens now?"

"In general?" I smiled slightly. "You've sent a serious message to overseas interests that they aren't immune to being hit and raided if they mess with American citizens, just because they're outside our borders. This all turned out even better than it might have; sneaking away would've left them wondering exactly what happened, but coming in loud like we did and utterly wrecking the pursuit force will leave a lasting impression on everyone in that region."

"Huh." She looked thoughtful. "I didn't realise we'd do that much damage. I just wish I'd gotten my hands on Señor Asshole himself."

"No need," I assured her. "He won't be getting any more assistance from local law enforcement after losing that chopper. Also, you hurt him badly, just by taking the girls away from him. The fact that you got away clean lost him a ton of respect from his peers, but that's not the only backlash he'll be getting from this. See, he was leveraging access to the girls for unfair deals, and everyone resented him for it. Now, nobody's going to want to do business with him; or rather, they're all going to want some payback. The pound of flesh closest to his heart, and then some."

"Oh." She blinked. "I hadn't thought about it like that."

"Mmm-hmm." I grinned. "Add to that the fact that one of the buildings you torched held a major chunk of his current drug stockpile, and I figure his entire operation will be going into a tailspin fairly shortly. He'll crash and burn harder than the chopper did, in maybe six months to a year. Shortly after that, he'll be arrested on some bogus charge trumped up by one of his competitors, and then he'll be shot while 'attempting to escape' by one of the cops he's unable to bribe anymore." I didn't need to make the air quotes.

Joanne brightened right up at that. "Good," she said fiercely. "He deserves nothing less. The others will be pleased to hear that." Such was the faith she held in me, she didn't even question the prediction. "I just want to know one other thing."

I was pretty sure I already knew what that was. "Why was I there, when I could've stayed Stateside and given orders from afar?"

"A question I'm interested in getting an answer for as well, ma'am," Kinsey observed.

Joanne glanced at Kinsey then back at me, and nodded herself. "That's basically it, yeah. You didn't have to put yourself in danger along with the rest of us. That's twice you've personally gone into a hot zone to get us out. Why?"

I chewed the inside of my lip as I thought about my answer. It had originally been intended to be brief and facile, but the way she'd phrased it made me wonder about my own motivations. "Part of it's about having skin in the game. Someone giving orders from two thousand miles away can more easily write off the wounded or dead left behind. Even though the guys absolutely had it in hand, me being eyes-on would've given me a lot better chance to step in if shit went sideways. Also, the guys think Kinsey and I are observers from the big boss, so us just being there gave them a morale boost. And …" I paused, unsure how to explain it. "The last time I went into a hot zone in a rotorcraft, I nearly died. I suppose, deep down, I wanted to make sure I had the nerve to do it again. Turns out, I do."

"Damn." She shook her head. "I nearly forgot about that. I'm glad you were there for us, though. We'll be sure to do more deep-diving next time, make sure there aren't any other nasty surprises waiting for us."

I almost smiled. PASS was turning out to be quite the nasty surprise for the people they went up against. However, there was something else I had to address that wasn't going to be any kind of laughing matter. "That's a very good idea. But there's something else as well."

"Yeah?" she tilted her head queryingly.

"Medical issues," I said bluntly. "They're all going to need checking over. You know who to take them to about the pregnancies, to decide what they want to do about it. The funds for all that will be in the usual account, plus extra for counselling." I didn't say anything stupid like 'if they need it'. Of course they'd damn well need it.

"Gotcha." Joanne hadn't had to make that decision for herself in the aftermath of the Compound, but she'd been there for every one of her teammates when they had. And of course, she'd gone through the counselling for what had happened to her. I hoped that helping others the same way she'd been helped would be another step on her own healing journey. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

"All in a day's work." I glanced across the tarmac at the jet still waiting for us. "We've got to get back now. Say hi to the others for us." I paused. "And just in case it didn't come across before: damn good work. We're seriously proud of you all." I held out my hand.

She shook it, careful not to crush my fingers in her iron grip. "Thanks," she said again. "For everything. Both of you." Then she shook hands with Kinsey, who afforded her a measured nod of approval.

We headed across the tarmac to the jet. At our approach, the engines began to spool up. The steps were down, so we climbed on board and strapped ourselves into the seats we'd occupied on the way down. Moments later, the hatch swung up and locked into place.

I looked out the window as the jet taxied down the airstrip and began its take-off run. It was still dark out, but it would be broad daylight by the time we got back to Brockton Bay. I wasn't exactly looking forward to Andrea's displeasure at my sudden absence, but it was something I'd weather. And it was all for a good cause.

With the howl of the engines barely audible in the cabin, the jet reached lift-off speed and the nose tilted skyward. I breathed steadily, even as the acceleration pushed me back into the seat cushions. "They're really shaping up well, aren't they?" I asked. The question was only partly rhetorical; Kinsey had far more breadth of experience than I did, and if he had any concerns, I wanted to hear them.

"Yes, ma'am." Kinsey looked like a man with many questions, few of which he knew he'd get straight answers to at that moment. "And now I know where they got the training from. Also, where the gentleman with the rocky skin vanished to."

"Correct on both counts." I smiled, reclining my seat. "It was nice to see them again."

He followed my lead. "Have you put any thought into how you will deal with the redoubtable Ms Campbell, ma'am?"

I chuckled and closed my eyes. "I'm pretty sure I'll go straight to 'grovelling'."

"A wise course, ma'am."

"I thought so."

-ooo-​

Brockton Bay, 10:05 AM, Saturday Morning

The sun was (as predicted) well up when Kinsey pulled the car up into its usual parking spot. I got out and stretched, trying to get the kinks out of my spine. Comfortable though the plane and the car might be, it was wearying to spend so much time sitting still.

"What are our plans for the rest of this vacation, ma'am?" asked Kinsey as he locked the car and came around to the footpath. "Will there be any more unannounced invasions of sovereign nations that I need to prepare for?"

I glanced sideways at him. To anyone else, his face would've been as deadpan as ever, but I could tell that he was joking. Mostly. "With luck, that was a one-off. It was good to have you along, though. If the op had gone pear-shaped, you're one of the very few people I know I can trust to have my back without second-guessing me."

"Lieutenant Piggot being one of the others, no doubt, ma'am?" Since Emily's transfer to the Chicago department of the PRT, Kinsey had associated with her from time to time during the normal course of their duties. As far as I understood things, they'd already formed a strong mutual respect following the incidents of the Compound, and the intervening time hadn't changed any of that.

We started up the stairs. "Yeah, she's one of them. Before you ask, she's not in the know about this sort of thing." I had no doubt she'd throw her hat in the ring if I asked her, though. Emily never left a fellow soldier in the lurch if she could possibly help it. One of her defining traits, it had saved my life once upon a time.

Gladys was the third person on my very short list. Although she wasn't career military by trade, she was still the best hand with a rifle I'd ever seen, and her long-range sniper kill on Heartbreaker had dealt with a great many potential problems, going forward. I was glad we'd patched up our differences over that particular incident; quite apart from being a great shot, she was also a good friend.

Of course, her current position as vice-principal of Winslow (to Carrie Blackwell's impotent fury) would limit her availability, but I wasn't expecting to need the services of a deniable sniper any time soon. Besides, while she probably could snipe Screamer from outside the latter's one-mile range, I had other plans in mind for that one.

My musings were cut off as the door opened in front of me, just before I would've put the key in the lock. Andrea stood there, silently fuming at me. I essayed a wave. "Hi, we're back?"

"Yes," she said freezingly. "You are. Get in here."

"Yes, ma'am." I wasn't being facetious; this was a point where she definitely outranked me. Kinsey and I entered the apartment, and she closed the door behind us.

"You're not bleeding or bandaged," she continued in that same tone of voice. "No sharp bits of metal that I don't know about? No hidden bullet wounds? Kinsey?"

"No, ma'am." He clearly had the same thought process that I did, about who was in charge right then. It wasn't either one of us. "We stayed out of the action. The mission was a resounding success. All assets secured and retrieved, only minor injuries, all easily treated." Trust him to keep track of details like that.

She seemed to lose a little of the tension out of her shoulders. "Well, good. I'm glad." Her gaze fixed on mine as some of the previous glare returned. "If they didn't need you, why did you have to go racing down there? Why couldn't you have stayed in Brockton Bay and handled things from here?"

"Technically I could have, yes," I admitted. "But I had several reasons for doing it this way. Soldiers react more positively and cut fewer corners when the higher-up who's sending them into harm's way is going into the hot zone along with them. Also, if the shit hit the fan and their leadership got wounded or killed, I could've taken over on the spot. And I wanted to evaluate their performance first-hand."

The look on her face suggested that while she wanted to be angry at me, my logic was defeating her gripes. "So they got Joanne and the others out of there, with the girls they were rescuing?"

"All fifty-three, yes," I confirmed. "Beamer blew her eyes out shooting down an attack chopper, but they'll regenerate in good time. Jazz was literally wading through concentrated autofire when we arrived, so she's going to bruised to hell and back for the next week or so. Nobody else got worse than scratches and bruises. The ones they rescued are essentially healthy, but they're going to need full medical workups for physical maltreatment, STIs, and things like that. There will be pregnancies. And of course, everyone's going to need counselling."

"I've already put money in their account for that," she assured me. "If it looks like running low, I'll top it up."

Kinsey was looking between us like a spectator at a tennis match. Andrea raised an eyebrow. "You've got something to say, Jim?"

"No, ma'am," he hastened to say. "I know when something is well above my pay grade, and this is one of those times."

She huffed and rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Jim? I'm not your commanding officer. I'm not a ma'am to you. I'm Andrea. You know, your boss's ditzy redheaded girlfriend?"

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Even without the events of the last twenty-four hours, Andrea, our relationship is far more complicated than that."

"Only if you want to make it complicated." She wrinkled her nose. "You've both slept with me, but you've never slept with each other. See? Not complicated at all. Silly, but not complicated."

"It's absolutely complicated when you factor in that I'm Kinsey's commanding officer, and I'm not supposed to be sleeping with women at all," I noted. "Also with my subordinates, so the fact that I'm not sleeping with him is about the only non-problematic aspect of this whole thing. Legally speaking, he should be reporting me for that specific breach of regs."

"I have witnessed nothing of the sort, ma'am," Kinsey returned blandly. "Any rumours to the contrary are merely scurrilous gossip, easily discounted."

"Well, I'm definitely scurrilous, so you got that part right." Andrea smirked at the both of us, apparently in a better mood now.

"You know that's not how that word is used," I said carefully, then looked around. Alec wasn't in evidence, but he was still a young child so I figured he was asleep. However … "Where's Dragon?"

"Is if I say it is. She's with her dad for the weekend." Andrea tossed off the deceptive statement so smoothly that I wouldn't have twigged if I didn't already know what was going on. The ongoing arrangement was that Dragon spent most days with Andrea, learning how to be a person, then transmitted her personality back to Richter's lab of an evening so he could analyse and record her progress. According to Lisa, he was fascinated by the networked associations she was creating within her own mental matrix, which were informing his ongoing research into artificial intelligence.

It wasn't the weirdest relationship I'd ever encountered, but that was life on Earth Bet.

"I see." Unzipping my jacket, I took it off then removed the shoulder holster. I hadn't had to fire it, or even draw it, but such things were far better to have in time of no need than vice versa. "Did you stay up all night, waiting for us?"

"Went to bed, after I dropped Dragon off." She gave me the eagle eye. "What about you? You don't look as half-dead as you should, running in and out of war zones all night."

"The jet had really comfortable seating, and in this business you learn to sleep when you can." I stretched. "But I do need another shower, and maybe an hour to lie down and get my head back in the game."

"I believe I'll do the same, ma'am, once you've finished your shower." Kinsey had his own jacket and shoulder holster slung over his arm, and was reaching for mine. "In the meantime, I'll get these squared away."

"Somewhere high up, please." There was a note in Andrea's voice that I hadn't heard before: maternal concern. "Alec isn't really walking yet, but he still manages to get around like wildfire."

"High up and in securely locked cases," Kinsey assured her. "The Captain thought ahead."

I snorted as I handed over my paraphernalia. "I told Kinsey to make sure we were prepped for staying in an apartment with a potentially inquisitive child, and without even missing a beat he handed me the requisition forms for the gun cases, already filled out and waiting for my signature."

"Which is why you two would be perfect together," Andrea said blithely. "You're already more in tune than most married couples I know."

I met Kinsey's eyes for a brief moment, and he shook his head fractionally. He was correct, of course: there was no way I was going to win that argument, for all that we'd hashed out every possible variation of it long ago. Andrea just didn't consider my points logical or viable. 'Not allowed to' only existed in her world as a precursor to 'challenge accepted'.

"Whatever you say," I sighed. "I'm going for that shower. I'll be out in five, Kinsey."

"Ma'am."

-ooo-​

Two Days Later

Hebert Household


"And you're sure this is going to happen?" George Hebert leaned forward over the kitchen table with an intent expression on his face.

I met his gaze without flinching. "As sure as I can be. I've done the analysis, and it's got a better than eighty percent chance of going down the way I said it would."

Danny, sitting in the living room with young Tyler in his arms, cleared his throat. "Dad, I'd listen to her. She's really, really good at that sort of thing."

"So I've been told." George frowned deeply. "It's just hard to believe that it could get so bad."

"The unions are starting to push harder," I reminded him. "You told me so yourself. Well, the shipping companies don't want to pay the extra wages, so they're pushing back. There are firebrands on both sides, and it's entirely too likely that it will escalate to a point where both sides lose. My money's on some idiot bringing guns along, and maybe a container ship being scuttled in a way that blocks the entire port from being used."

"That would be bad." His expression set hard, into forbidding lines. "A lot of people would go out of work."

"They would," I agreed. "The economy would nosedive, crime would go up, and the gangs would go from just getting by to flourishing. Supervillains would move into town. Upper-middle income areas such as where you live right now would become lower-middle. Schools and businesses that depend on these areas would either fold or cut too many corners just to stay afloat. The ferry would be mothballed by the city as an unneeded expense."

"And the Dockworkers' Association?" His question was almost a plea.

"It would probably hang on, but only as a shadow of what it's like right now."

He took a deep breath. "Can the PRT do anything? To stop this, I mean?"

"I'm sorry, but no." I gave him a sympathetic look. "What I'm telling you is based on research and analysis I did on my own dime, because I care about this city. We don't have an official presence here, except for one recruiting sergeant. Even if things do go down the gurgler, the earliest we're projected to establish a department here is 'ninety-nine, early two thousand. And that'll be far too late to pull things back into line."

"What if you told them?" His keen gaze bored into mine. "You're their golden child right now, aren't you?"

I chuckled. "More like enriched uranium. Valuable, but most Directors want to keep me at arms' length. However, even if I took it to my boss, he wouldn't be able to act on it, because the PRT's jurisdiction begins and ends with parahuman-related crime."

His jaw squared. "Then it's up to us to make sure it never gets that far."

"That's why I'm telling you." I tapped the Manila folder on the table between us. "These are the people on both sides who are most likely to go too far. I can't guarantee to be here when it happens, but I can get the information to the people who can do something about it. Starting with you."

Placing one large hand on the folder, he drew it over the table toward himself. "Thank you, Captain Snow. I appreciate it."

I chuckled lightly. "I have no idea what you're talking about. This is just a family visit, nothing more. The PRT isn't allowed to intervene, remember?"

From the grim smile on his face, he got my point. The information I was giving him was totally deniable, and I was washing my hands of whatever he did with it. "Understood. We'll deal with it."

I got up as he opened the folder and started perusing the information within. Kinsey was sitting in the living room with Danny; Anne-Rose had gone out shopping with Dorothy.

"The ferry?" asked Danny. "They'll stop that, too?"

"The Mayor's office will be looking at everything they can possibly cut costs on." I shrugged. "Plus, once crime starts to rise, they'll use the excuse that they don't want criminals riding the ferry to the Downtown area."

He squared his jaw in the same way his father had. "I'm not going to let that happen."

I nodded. "Didn't think so."

-ooo-​

Friday, February 23, 1996

Brockton Bay

Aster Anders


Ruth stood looking up at the Medhall frontage through the oversized sunglasses she was using to conceal her mask. She'd been meaning to do this for some time, but between the needs of the service and the reluctance to interrupt matters until certain things happened, this was the first time when all the ducks had lined up in a reasonably steady row. Her actions here were almost certainly going to cause problems in Brockton Bay but as the saying went, a woman had to do what a woman had to do.

Also, Taylor almost certainly knew of her intentions in this situation and she hadn't said not to do it, so … full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes, I guess.

Drawing in a deep breath and resisting the temptation to check that her black wig was sitting correctly, she pushed open the heavy glass door with little effort and strode into the building. Deep within her, the wellspring of molten steel boiled and bubbled, ready to be unleashed at her whim. She'd never walked into the building back in the future, and the décor was entirely unlike what it would've been fifteen years hence, but it still felt oddly familiar.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" asked one of the two (white; no surprise there) security guards sitting at the front desk.

"Yes, you can." She smiled politely at him. "I need to speak to Richard Anders, please. It's very important."

His expression never changed. "Do you have an appointment, Miss …?"

"Anders. Aster Anders. I believe he'll see me." With all the confidence she was able to muster, she stood foursquare before the desk, clasping her hands behind her back.

His eyebrows hitched up a notch, and he picked up a phone. "This is Peter, on the front desk. There's a lady here who wants to speak to Mr Anders. No, the Mr Anders. She says her surname is Anders, too."

There was a pause. Ruth didn't take her eyes off the man. She felt vaguely bad for putting him in this situation, but she was fairly certain he at least subscribed to some of the beliefs of the Empire Eighty-Eight.

"Aster, she says. Aster Anders." He scrutinised her features. "No, she hasn't said. But she kinda looks like she could be related to him. Maybe?"

Ruth didn't let the smile she felt cross her features. Taylor had told her at one point that she did take after her father to a certain extent, mainly in the hair and the chin. It seemed the Anders jaw was a thing. Though Theo hadn't inherited it, which made her wonder briefly if that was why their father had been so hard on him.

The guard put his hand over the mouthpiece. "What's your business with Mr Anders?"

Putting the old bastard and his gang out of business permanently. Of course, she couldn't say that, not out loud. "Catching up on old times. He is my cousin, after all." Given her age, she couldn't realistically pull off being his daughter, but a slightly more distant relationship was perfectly possible.

The guard relayed that information, then listened some more. When he focused on her again, his expression was harder. "Ma'am, I'm informed that Mr Anders has no cousin called Aster. I'm going to need you to leave the building, or we will be calling the police."

It was time to play some of the cards she'd been holding closer to her chest. "Sure, I'll leave. But before I do, please pass on a message to Max Anders that I know all about his father. Exactly as I've said it, please." She favoured him with a brilliant smile.

He gave her a dubious look, but she hadn't been argumentative, so he repeated her words into the phone. There was a long pause, and he sat up straighter in his chair. Aster breathed deeply; she wasn't as comfortable with physical conflict as Taylor was, but she'd been in a few scuffles while helping Contessa out. These had mainly ended with her spraying molten steel and plasma over whatever the problem was, thereafter rendering it no longer a problem.

A conflict was brewing here, but she didn't want it to spread too far, or for innocents to get hurt. So she was going to have to play this one out carefully.

The guard, Peter, stood up from the desk and picked up a metal-detector wand, leaving his colleague at the desk. "Step on through the archway, ma'am. Mr Anders is on the way down."

"Thank you." Her heart was pounding, but she forced herself to speak normally and repress her powers as much as possible. Carefully, she stepped through the archway; the detector lights shimmied, but no specific alarm went off.

The guard eyed the archway dubiously. "Hmm. Arms out to the side, please." When she complied, he ran the wand over her arms and torso, then down her legs. It buzzed, but only intermittently. "Do you have any metal on you, ma'am? Watch, jewellery?"

"No." She pushed back the sleeve on her jacket, at the same time shoving her costume sleeve out of the way before he could get a good look at it. "I set those damn things off all the time. My doctor says I have too much iron in my blood. Here, check my arm, you'll see what I mean."

When he ran the device over her forearm, she let molten steel surge through, but stopped it before it would reach her hand. She knew right now that an IR scan would show her arm lighting up like a flare, but fortunately they were only checking for metal.

The wand buzzed, causing the guard to frown as he stared at her bare arm. "That's ridiculous," he muttered. "Shouldn't work like that." He ran the wand over her proffered arm again, getting the same result.

"Told you. It's a family thing, apparently." She raised her eyebrows. "Richard's got the same thing, and I'm pretty sure Max does too."

"I've never heard that about them before." But the guard was wavering, not helped by the way she was casually dropping the names of the boss and his son.

She leaned into his indecision. "How would you know? Have you ever actually checked them through, or do they get to skip that bit?"

This was a gamble on her part, but a calculated one all the same. While she'd been born long after her grandfather died and had no personal knowledge of him, someone who called himself Allfather had to have a certain amount of ego. It also helped that he'd named his gang an Empire. Richard Anders was a man with ambition. Someone like that would be unlikely to lower himself to the status of a common worker by going through regular security screening like everyone else.

"Fine," he said sharply, and pointed at a chair across from the security station. "Sit there and wait for Mr Anders."

"Thank you." Pulling her sleeve down, she did as she was told. She had what she wanted: a personal audience with the leader of the Empire Eighty-Eight.

Only a minute or so later, the elevator dinged and two men entered the lobby. Ruth knew who they were immediately; there was no mistaking them. Leading the way was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Ruth fancied there might be a little gray mixed in with the blond, but it would take very close inspection to find it. Hi, Grandpa. I really wish you'd been a nicer person.

Walking at his shoulder and a little behind was a more familiar face, though it was odd to see Max Anders as a teenager. His stride lacked the confidence he would take on in later years, and he had yet to reach his adult bulk, but Ruth would've known her biological father anywhere. (Her real father would always be Phil Goldstein, but that was neither here nor there.)

"Ah," she said. "It's good to see you, Richard. And this must be Max." Rising from the chair, she stepped forward and held out her hand out in greeting.

Richard Anders was a sharp operator. "Aster. Huh. I never thought I'd run into someone from your branch of the family." Taking her hand, he shook it firmly.

What, the Seattle Goldsteins? Ruth suppressed the random thought and kept the smile on her face, even as Anders maintained the grip on her hand until he could take hold of her elbow. "Oh, you know how it goes," she said lightly. "I was in town, and I thought I'd drop in and introduce myself."

Max was switched-on even at nineteen, because he stepped in without needing his father's prompting, flanking her on the other side. If she'd had the intention of doing anything other than going with them, she would've had to pull some violence out of the hat. As it was, she did nothing of the sort.

"Well, that's just fine," Anders declared heartily. "Come on through and we'll compare notes."

They hustled her into the elevator and Anders stabbed a button with his forefinger, then jabbed the 'door close' button. The elevator began to move—downward, not upward.

"Huh," she said. "Concealed base under the building? I hadn't actually anticipated that. It must come in handy."

"Shut up!" snapped Max, but Richard shook his head.

"Let her talk," he advised. "She'll be telling us everything she knows anyway, including who sent her."

Ruth smiled coldly. "Yes. Yes, I will." Anders' head would probably explode if she told him everything about her, including the fact that his granddaughter was a practicing Jew, but she had enough ammunition even without that.

The elevator stopped and the two men hustled her out into an echoing room, composed mainly of raw concrete. She got the impression that construction was still ongoing. That was fine. She was where she wanted to be.

"That's far enough." She flexed her power and broke Anders' grip on her elbow. It didn't even require much strength to throw off Max's hold on her forearm. She got the impression that they simply hadn't expected her to resist effectively. "Time for some home truths."

"Truths? What truths?" Anders was watching her warily, apparently aware of the change in her body language. Max hadn't picked up on that yet, but he was young. There was still time for him to learn. "You're going to be telling us where you learned about—"

"Oh, put a sock in it." Her tone was deliberately abrupt. Control freaks hated being cut off, which was why she did it. "My name really is Aster Anders. Richard, I'm your granddaughter from the future, and I'm here to shut down the Empire Eighty-Eight before it can do any more damage than it's already done."

"Future?" Max glanced at Anders. "Dad, do you even believe this?"

Richard's lips thinned. "If you're telling the truth, my only male offspring is Max. His wife is pregnant right now. I could order her to have the baby aborted—"

He couldn't see it, but she rolled her eyes anyway. "Wouldn't do a damn thing. Time travel creates an overlay. Rewrites reality. I'm here to stay. Besides, she's having a boy. I don't come along for another fifteen years or so, after Heith gets killed and Max remarries. If any of that even happens in this timeline."

"So if I'm to believe this …" Richard paused for a moment. "You've come back from what, fifty years in the future? To tell me to stop now?"

No, I went back fifty years into the past. Idiot. "That's what I'm here for. Except that I'm not here to tell you to stop. I'm here to stop you. One way or the other." She flexed her power, letting the liquid metal fill the spaces within her without quite oozing through the skin. Her movements became a little more ponderous, and her eyesight changed, becoming shades of heat. "You can give yourselves up to the cops … or we can do this the other way."

"Dad, we can't just—" began Max.

"Shut up!" Anders glared at Ruth, his fists flexing. "And if I decline your generous offer? Are you going to simply attack us unprovoked?"

Ruth snorted, recalling the faded photos of the Goldsteins and their relatives who had perished in the Holocaust. "You're a Nazi. That should be provocation enough. But I don't have to. I know your secret identities. If I drop the heroes enough clues, they should be able to figure it out for themselves." She gestured at the unfinished base around them. "I'm sure they'd be extremely interested in this place. I doubt it's on any plans held by the city."

Anders folded his arms. "I see. Well, I have or two more questions. Are all people in the future idiots, or is the suicidal bravery confined to you? Or did you somehow think that the claim of being my grandchild would somehow move me to take your side in all this?"

"None of the above." Ruth flexed her fingers, the heated metal lurking just beneath the surface. "I came here mainly to appeal to Max. He never does buy into the Nazi bullshit that you're feeding him, not like his sister does. He dies a hero in the future, did you know? So does my mother." She looked at the boy who would have potentially been her father. "It's not too late."

Max acquired a sudden hunted expression, then flinched away as his father stared at him. "What?"

"Tell me it's not true, boy. Tell me she's lying through her teeth." Richard Anders' tone promised no mercy.

"Of course she's lying!" Max's voice was desperate. "I'd never betray you like that! She's just trying to divide us!"

For a long moment, Anders stared at him. "… very well. But we will be having a talk, later."

The elevator door dinged, and a woman emerged. Aster had never met her, but her features were vaguely familiar, even seeing her via shadings of heat. She looked to be in her early twenties, and exuded an air of menace. "Got your call. Who's this?"

"You are never going to believe this," Anders said heavily. "She calls herself Aster Anders, and claims to be Max's daughter from the future. Wants us to shut the Empire Eighty-Eight down, or she'll do it for us."

"Really." The woman came to a stop in front of Ruth, hands on her hips. "You know who I am, honey?"

"Heidi Ferguson, born Heidi Anders," Ruth said promptly. "Otherwise known as Iron Rain. My aunt, once upon a time. You died before I was born." She glanced at Richard Anders, then back to Heidi. "Your dad is grooming you to take over the Empire Eighty-Eight for when he dies or steps down. Max is due to take over Medhall. How am I doing so far?"

Heidi's eyes narrowed, then her hand lashed out in a slap that would've rocked Ruth's head sideways if she hadn't already been flexing her powers. Her sunglasses were knocked off, clattering to the ground. The wig was askew after the blow, so she discarded that as well.

"Son of a bitch!" Heidi shook her hand vigorously. "What the fuck … oh, shit. Dad, you didn't say she had powers!"

Aster, aware that her mask was now visible, smiled coldly. "I'm third generation, you moron. I've had powers almost from birth." She cracked her knuckles, her powers giving it a sharp, metallic sound. "One more time: are you going to give yourselves up to the authorities, or do I get to do this the fun way?"

Richard Anders replied the way she'd been half-expecting since she stepped into the underground base. No words were spoken, but a heavy-bladed short-spear emerged from a hole in space, aimed directly at her throat. She caught it with one hand, held it still in the air, and directed the heat from her hand through it. Within seconds, the blade around her hand was glowing red, even as other metal items pattered off her back and fell to the floor.

Iron Rain was the next to aggress on her; a series of needle-pointed spikes appeared in the air above her and fell toward her apparently unprotected head and shoulders. The way they dug into her skin was a little painful, but they didn't get any farther than that, falling off and clattering to the ground. As the blade in her right hand began to melt from the heat she was applying to it, she held out her left hand, palm out. "Hey, Iron Rain! Think quick!"

<><>​

Kaiser

Max Anders was no stranger to super-powered combat, but there was little enough of it in Brockton Bay. His main sparring partner was Heidi, and she kicked his ass nine times out of ten. The combat started before he was properly ready for it, though he'd seen these moves before. Between them, Heidi and his dad tended to clean the clocks of everyone who faced them, and Max was rarely needed.

This time … was different.

He wasn't sure where she'd got the name Aster from. It wasn't a name he'd ever thought he might give to his daughter. That was if she really was his daughter from another timeline, and not just pulling a massive con on them all.

But all the mental meandering went out the window when she caught the spear Allfather sent at her from the front, ignored the multiple knives clattering off her back, and weathered the literal iron rain delivered by his sister. And then the spear began to melt in her fucking hand.

They'd never been up against a foe who could melt metal before. Max was starting to get a really bad feeling about this, which only intensified when 'Aster' held out her hand toward Heidi. That was so obviously a threat that Heidi was already moving when the jet of molten steel shot out toward her. She yelped, undignified, and retreated a whole lot faster.

Max's brain finally caught up with the action, and he threw up a rough square box of metal around the intruder, growing a two-inch-thick wall directly out of the concrete floor, all the way to the ceiling, then bracing it on all sides. Panting from the stress, he looked at his father and sister for guidance on what to do next.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, boy?" demanded his father.

"Yeah!" His sister clenched her fists. "Now we can't get at her!"

It wasn't like you were 'getting at her' before, he wanted to say, but wisely kept that bit silent. "But … she fires molten metal! How are we supposed to fight that?"

Iron Rain shook her head. "Don't ask stupid questions. Just stay back. We'll handle this."

Allfather pointed at the elevator. "Go on up to the first floor. Tell security there's a problem and they have to evacuate the building. We can't risk anyone witnessing this fight before we put this pretender down for good."

"But … I can stay. I can help!" He knew he was the younger child, but he wished just for once they'd treat him with the respect he deserved. And he'd seen the woman's eyes just before he trapped her; glowing with their own inner light, they gave him reason to believe she was anything but a pretender.

"No, you'll just be in the way!" Iron Rain echoed her father's gesture. "Get out of here, squirt!"

"Go!" bellowed Allfather, even as the metal box began to glow faintly red. "For once in your life, do as you're told!"

God damn it. It's like I'm a kid all over again. This is because of what she said, I'd put money on it.

But he didn't have a choice. Retreating into the elevator, he hit the button for the first floor, then checked himself over for any telltale signs of battle. Nothing; he hadn't been touched.

When the elevator doors opened, he hustled to the front desk. Peter, the senior guard, glanced around. "Yes, sir?" he asked.

Not 'yes, Mr Anders?', because Mr Anders is my dad. Dammit. But that was the least of his problems.

"We need to evacuate the building," he said, trying to keep his voice calm and level. "It's an emergency."

Peter stared at him for a moment. "Evacuate the … whole … building, sir? What's the emergency? Why weren't we informed?"

Max gritted his teeth. "I'm informing you now. Evacuate the building right now. That's an order." Was that a tremor he'd felt through the soles of his shoes? He thought he saw ripples in Peter's coffee cup.

"Does Mr Anders know about this?" asked the other guard; Max didn't know his name. "Is this some kind of drill?"

God fucking damn it. I can't do anything right. Max took two steps away from the desk, flipped the handle out from the fire alarm on the wall, and yanked hard on it. Sirens blared and red lights flashed over the doors. "Now evacuate the god damn building!" he bellowed.

The two guards glanced at each other, then Peter shrugged. "Looks like we're evacuating the building," he decided, pitching his voice to be heard over the sirens. "But you're wearing this, not us."

"Do I look like I give a fuck?" Max pointed at the phones, which were now ringing. "Do your damn jobs! Get everyone out of here!"

It was more than just sirens, he realised as he stomped away toward the elevators again. There was a voice repeating the word 'Emergency', then directing people to leave the building in a 'safe and orderly' fashion. Yeah, right. If he knew people, 'safe and orderly' would last all of ten seconds.

There was a deeper rumble through the floor as he neared the elevators. It seemed like the woman calling herself Aster Anders was still up and fighting, which was a worry. His father and sister were good at what they did, and if they couldn't double-team a single opponent into defeat in just a few minutes—

Another rumble, accompanied by a scorched section of carpet, gave him just enough warning before the floor erupted, blasting hot masonry in all directions. He yelped, instinctively growing a metal shield out of the wall to take the impacts. Somewhere, something was on fire; he could smell the smoke from where he was. Who is this person? How is she doing this?

Whatever had burst through the floor had also wrecked the elevator; the doors were half open, and the cable hung limply in the shaft within. More smoke billowed upward out of the hole that had been blasted in the floor. Suddenly, the sprinklers kicked into action, drenching him within seconds.

I have to find them. I have to help. No longer caring if anyone saw him—between the smoke and the sprinklers, the security cameras would be picking up minimal imagery right now—he pulled back his sleeve so he could get access to his watch and grow the armour that he'd spent so much time figuring out. In time, he knew he'd be faster at it, but right now he just wanted to make sure the joints worked right. Heidi had laughed herself sick and called him 'Derpio' after his first few attempts left him barely able to shuffle along.

There was more rumbling, then the floor shook badly enough that he fell over. Bits of ceiling panel crashed to the floor all around him, spraying water everywhere. As he pulled himself to his feet, using the wall for assistance, he saw a figure climbing the pile of rubble partly blocking the hole in the floor. Flames flickered farther back, outlining the person like an escapee from Hell.

Aster Anders climbed the last few yards, carrying something in her hands that he couldn't quite make out. Despite the water spraying down over them both, she was dry, all the water hissing off her in billowing clouds of steam. Her eyes were still red-lit from within, giving her a supremely dangerous appearance. She tossed the two objects to the floor at his feet; they rolled to a stop, and he recognised them with a lurch of his stomach as his father's and sister's heads. The neck-stumps, as far as he could tell, had been seared off rather than sliced with a blade.

"You—" he began, before she lunged forward, grabbing the front of his shirt and lifting him off his feet, up against the wall.

"You will not speak." Her voice, almost metallic in nature, was clearly audible over the sounds of crackling flame, the sirens, and the hiss of the sprinklers. "You will listen. Allfather and Iron Rain are dead. So is the Empire Eighty-Eight. You will be a good man, and a good father to your son. Or I'll be back. Is that understood?"

He didn't even try to kid himself that she wouldn't do it because she was theoretically his daughter. She'd killed his father and sister already, and he could feel the heat radiating from her skin, even through the soaked cloth. With an effort, he nodded.

She held him there for another moment, then let him down onto his feet. The moment she released him, he collapsed to all fours. Vaguely, he was aware of her turning and walking away, but he was too busy retching up his last meal.

There was no future for the Empire Eighty-Eight anymore, that was a given. Medhall itself might not survive, if the investigations turned up Allfather's true identity. Max Anders would have to survive and go forward on his own merits.

It was just lucky that his identity as Kaiser hadn't really hit the public eye yet, mainly because Allfather and Iron Rain had overshadowed him so completely. So he could claim to have known nothing about it.

Climbing to his feet, he staggered toward the main entrance, barely noticing when one of the security guards grabbed his arm and hustled him onward.

If I go villain again after this, she'll come back and kill me. But what else is there for me to do?

Could I be a hero?


He had no idea. But there was only one way to find out.



End of Part 8-5​
 
Last edited:
Part 8-6: More Changes
Recoil

Part 8-6: More Changes

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



Sunday, February 25, 1996
On a Bus, Heading South

Max Anders


Heith had had trouble getting comfortable on the Greyhound seat, not least because she was almost nine months along. Still, Max had done his best, paying for all three seats and bringing along extra pillows for her to rest on. She'd fallen into an uneasy sleep about an hour south of Brockton Bay while he sat up and fretted about the future.

He was content to let her sleep. The pregnancy had been hard on her—the baby was a large one, the ob/gyn had informed them—and the sheer chaos of the last two days had caused her to lose even more sleep than normal. They were going to have a son, or so the enigmatic Aster Anders had informed him, which was also something to think about.

He still recalled the sheer terror he had felt when his daughter from the future—thinking back about the powers he'd seen her using, he had little doubt she was telling the truth about that—had confronted him directly. 'Allfather and Iron Rain are dead. So is the Empire Eighty-Eight. You will be a good man, and a good father to your son. Or I'll be back. Is that understood?'

He'd understood it implicitly. There was no doubt in his mind that if he ignored any part of her directive, he would suffer the same fate as his father and sister. The only thing that had saved his life was ironically the disregard they'd held him in, refusing to allow him any active part in the operational side of the Empire Eighty-Eight.

Treating him like a callow youth, disparaging his efforts to prove himself worthy of the Anders name, they'd roused enough resentment in him that he personally began to reject the values that the Empire held dear. He was observant enough to see that mere skin colour made little difference to a man's physical and mental capabilities; access to proper nutrition and good education had far more to do with it. Of course, he was also smart enough to never speak aloud of this, and was quite willing to pay lip service to such views if it could just grant him access to the power and influence that he'd craved.

Had craved. Past tense. The look of stark horror on his father's and sister's burned and decapitated heads had cured that urge in him, perhaps permanently. He just wanted to live; and if that meant giving up the money and celebrity lifestyle that went with being an Anders of Brockton Bay, then that was what he would do.

He wasn't sure if it was the turn to the west that woke her up, but Heith roused as the bus rolled across the Alexander Hamilton Bridge. Blinking muzzily at him, she peered out the window. "Where are we?"

"New York," he said with a smile that was only partly forced. "We're nearly there."

"I hope so." She put her hands on her swollen belly. "He's started kicking again. He's really not happy in there."

"He's probably as bored as I am," Max said lightly. "Long bus rides aren't my thing, either."

"Yeah, talking about that." She gestured toward the aisle. "I need to go to the restroom. He just landed a good one on my bladder."

"Okay." He got out of his seat and helped her to her feet. "You can handle it from here?"

"If I'm not, you'll know about it." She put her hand on his cheek. "And we'll be okay. I know we will. A lot's happened, but we'll get through it. Together."

"Together," he echoed, then sat back in his seat while she made her way down the aisle toward the restroom at the back of the bus.

Her love was one of the things that had allowed him to keep it together over the last forty-eight hours. The secret about Medhall wasn't quite out yet, but the damage to the building had been extensive, and emergency services had uncovered a few anomalies which he knew they were looking into. It really was only a matter of time.

He'd contacted the few members of the Empire he knew how to get in touch with—Krieg, Blitzen, Panzer—and told them what had happened. Their enthusiasm for him to step into Allfather's shoes would've been encouraging, were it not for their previous lack of recognition of his talents, not to mention his daughter's chilling words. The very last thing he wanted was to inherit the leadership of the Empire Eighty-Eight, for the very good reason that he had no desire to die.

Even absent that, he knew damn well that the authorities would link the Empire to Medhall, and thus the Anders family, sooner rather than later. When that happened, no matter how he concealed his identity, Max would be outed as Kaiser and the Empire Eighty-Eight would lose its biggest cash haven. The writing was on the wall: there was no real future for the Empire, and especially not for himself if he maintained ties to it.

Thus, the move to New York.

The bus slowed as it negotiated the crowded streets of Manhattan Island; even on a Sunday, there were almost as many people out and about in a normal Brockton Bay weekday. And then, after taking a few turns that he would've sworn no bus could negotiate, they drove into what the signage proclaimed as being the George Washington Bridge Bus Terminal. Finally, after far too many hours on the road, it pulled to a halt and the driver killed the engine.

They waited until everyone in the rows behind them had passed by before he got out of his seat and helped Heith to her feet. Once off the bus, he found a seat for her so she could rest her feet, then located a luggage cart. The unloading of the luggage was well under way by the time he had that sorted out, so it was easy enough to pick out the two suitcases each of them had packed. It wasn't much to start a new life with, but he figured they'd just have to make do.

Making their way downstairs with the luggage was an adventure unto itself, but they succeeded without running over anyone's feet. Max was fully aware of the hazard of pickpockets and bag-snatchers, so he made sure his wallet was in the inside pocket of his zipped-up jacket, and kept between Heith and anyone who seemed to be trying to get too close to her. Finally, they made it to the cab rank that serviced the terminal, and he assisted the driver with getting the suitcases into the trunk of the taxi.

The first stop was to be a hotel; Heith needed her rest. Max had made a close scrutiny of the Yellow Pages and written out a list of the ones that seemed to fit his requirements, but he didn't know enough to make the final choice. The cabbie, however, plied with careful questions, was a wealth of information about which places were good to stay at and which were just roach motels with good publicity.

As they got closer to the city centre, Max began to see the scars of Behemoth's rampage, and the new construction that was taking place in the wake of the monster's attack. It had only been two years, but most of the essential repairs were complete and new skyscrapers were already reaching for the heavens to replace what Behemoth had destroyed.

He turned to gaze out the window at a mural painted across the broad face of a building, showing the heroes driving the creature out of the city. Heith leaned across and looked as well. "They say the PRT warned the capes he was coming," she said quietly.

"What, really?" Max hadn't heard anything about that.

Heith nodded. "I've got a distant cousin who lives down here. She says there was a crack team of analysts working on it day and night for weeks until they figured out it was New York, about a day before it happened. She was warned to evacuate ahead of time, so she did. When she came back, her apartment building looked like a bomb hit it. They totally saved her life."

"Well, damn." He shook his head. "I'm impressed."

"Me too." She fell silent then, as the cab rolled through the streets of Midtown.

When they reached the hotel that the cab driver had recommended, they unloaded the suitcases and Max tipped the driver ten bucks over the fare. Taking up two cases with each hand—not impossible, just difficult, but he wasn't going to leave them on the footpath for any length of time—he struggled inside with them while Heith helpfully held the door open.

The hotel did actually look quite nice, but Max rode up with Heith and the bellhop all the same, to ensure that the room was up to the standard that she deserved. While it couldn't match up to the luxury of the Anders mansion back in Brockton Bay—he suspected quite a bit of that ostentatious wealth would just go away once the government figured out just how much stemmed from criminal dealings—it was neat and clean, with a nice view out the window. As soon as Heith saw the expansive double bed, she collapsed on it with a sigh and waved vaguely to let Max know it was good enough.

Once he'd tipped the bellhop and sent him on his way, Max sat down on the bed next to Heith. "I'll be heading out in a moment," he said softly, putting his hand on hers. "Is there anything you need before I go?"

"Pillow," she said, gesturing up behind her head from where she lay on her left side. "Tuck me in, please?"

"I can do that." He retrieved the pillow and carefully tucked it under her belly until she nodded. "I'll order room service when I get back."

"You're amazing." Her eyes were already drifting shut. "I'm gonna be stupid hungry in a few hours but right now, I just wanna sleep."

He squeezed her hand, feeling the return pressure. "You do that. I'll be back soon."

He'd just reached the door when she called out, her voice drowsy. "Max?"

"Yes?" He paused, his hand on the knob.

"Love you."

"Love you, too."

I should say that more often, he chastised himself as he opened the door and let himself out of the room. Heith could have cut loose from him and gone back to the Herren Clan, where there would surely have been someone willing to take care of her and their son. Or she could've insisted that he stay and take up the mantle of the Empire Eighty-Eight, come what may. But instead, once she'd heard what had happened, she'd chosen to up stakes and go with him, throwing away her old life just as thoroughly as he was.

He knew of members of the Empire, capes and non-capes alike, who were so dedicated to the cause that they would stop at nothing to carry out its ends. There was no atrocity too horrific, no line that could not be crossed. But not one of them would have followed him to New York like she had; not one would've been willing to walk away from the Empire just because he asked them to.

Still ruminating over the difference, he paused in the lobby to buy a tourist map from the spinner in the corner. Heith and he had been married for barely a year, and they'd been lucky; for all that theirs had been an arranged match, there had been an attraction and a liking between them even before the wedding. They barely argued, even about trivial things like asking for directions if they were lost. Not that they'd had the chance to get lost in Brockton Bay, with his father watching over the both of them like a hawk.

A chilly breeze was sweeping down the street as he stepped out through the front doors; he turned his back to it before carefully unfolding the map one section at a time. It took a little juggling of the unwieldy folds, but he located his destination after a little scrutiny. If he was reading matters correctly, his goal was two blocks west and three north.

I need to stretch my legs anyway. Refolding the map as best he could, he shoved it into his jacket pocket, re-checked the landmarks, and started walking.

It was actually kind of pleasant, just walking somewhere. His father had always made sure he stayed fit with various types of athletic training, though he'd never been as good at them as Heidi. He was at least partially convinced that this was the reason why she'd been picked to run the Empire instead of him.

That, and she'd had no idea how to run a business, or even how to relate to people who weren't already obliged to listen to what she had to say. His father had always been fond of the quote, 'Diplomacy is the art of telling someone to go to hell in such a way that they ask for directions,' and Max had taken it to heart. Heidi was just good at telling people to go to hell.

A moment later, he was jolted by the direction of his thoughts. Had been. Jeez, I'm thinking of her like she's still alive. Coming to a halt, he leaned against the wall with both hands, head down, eyes tight shut. They were assholes to me, but every time I remember they're dead, it still hits me right where it hurts.

He'd been right there, he'd talked to Aster, had seen the distaste in her expression when talking to Allfather and Iron Rain, but he still had trouble assimilating the fact that his daughter from the future had killed his father and sister. Even when telling the other members of the Empire about it, he'd left out her relationship to him, just that she'd known who Allfather and Iron Rain were and had given him the warning after killing them. He had no idea how they'd react if he told them, but belief would probably be worse than disbelief.

"Hey."

Jolted out of his thoughts by the voice, he looked around to see a rough-looking guy holding something in his hand. Max blinked, staring. "What?"

The guy took half a step closer. There was the snik of a switchblade opening, and he gestured with the gleaming blade. "Wallet and watch, rich boy. Don't try to run. I'll be on your ass like white on rice."

The hell? I'm being mugged? Max couldn't believe it. He'd never had to worry about anything like this happening back in Brockton Bay, because every mugger in Empire territory knew not to touch the rich people. The trouble was, he was no longer in Brockton Bay. Worse, if he used his powers to protect himself, the guy had already seen his face.

For any other member of the Empire, that wouldn't have been a problem; 'leave no witnesses' was a time-honoured tactic. But he was actively trying to be a good man, as per Aster's directive, and he didn't think killing someone to protect his secret identity fell under the description of 'good'. What do I do? I can't just let him take my stuff. But I can't reveal I'm a cape either.

"Good citizen, never fear!" He jumped, startled, when the chirpy voice came from just behind him. A hand fell on his shoulder, then someone vaulted over him to land in front of the mugger. He registered that it was a teenage girl, probably a couple of years younger than him, wearing a short cape and a helmet sporting large mouse ears. "Be of good cheer! Mouse Protector is here!"

As the mugger took a step back, either in fear or total disbelief in what was happening, she whipped out a rapier and pointed it at the guy, then shot Max a cheeky grin.

"Oh, shit." The mugger's tone suggested resignation and fear. "Fuck off, why don't you? Just fuck off."

"You know I can't do that, with rats like you scurrying around and stealing all the good cheese." She advanced on him, waving the rapier in a way that suggested she had no real idea of how one was used and was making it up as she went along. "Now drop your stupid little knife, and I won't poke any more holes in you like I did the last time you tried to stab me."

"Hey, you hear that?" The mugger looked past Mouse Protector (that had to be the stupidest name he'd ever heard for a hero) to appeal to Max. "She said she was going to stick me with that sword of hers."

"I suggest you drop your knife, and she won't." It seemed clear enough to him. Stupid name aside, there was no way he was going to undermine the authority of someone who'd just bailed him out of the reveal-or-be-robbed dilemma.

"Oh." The switchblade clattered on the grimy concrete, and Mouse Protector soon had the mugger sitting up against the wall with his hands flex-cuffed behind him.

"May I ask you a question?" he asked quietly, after they'd been waiting a few minutes for the police.

"Absolutely, citizen," she declared. "You mouse certainly can."

He tried not to wince at the bad pun. "Your name is really Mouse Protector? Did you lose a bet or something?"

"I said that, the first time you arrested me!" blurted the guy on the ground. "Didn't I say that?"

She shot him a dirty look, then drew her rapier and tapped him sharply on top of the head with the tip. "Shut up, nobody asked you." Composing her features, she looked at Max. "I chose the name myself. For I am the protector of all mouseys, large and small. With my trusty sword—" she flourished the rapier with more enthusiasm than skill, making Max step back a pace, "—I keep the vicious rats and mangy cats of society at bay!"

"Um …" He hesitated, but the fencing lessons his father had paid for in years past were causing him almost physical pain at this point. "Have you actually had any training with that?"

"Training?" she asked artlessly. "It's a sword. Not that complicated. The pointy bit goes in the bad guy."

"Yes, granted, but—" He broke off as a police cruiser chirped its siren before pulling to a halt next to them.

It seemed the officers had a certain amount of respect for Mouse Protector, taking the mugger off her hands and getting a statement from him. He told them what had happened, only varying from the truth when he backed up her assertion that she'd never threatened to stab the mugger. Eventually, protesting that he was being railroaded, the mugger was loaded in the back seat of the cruiser, and it headed off down the road.

"Thanks for that," she said briskly. "I wouldn't get in real trouble over it, but Legend's got a way of being disappointed at you that's even worse than console duty, ugh." She gave an all-over shudder to express her feelings about that sort of thing.

"Hey, you saved my bacon, so I figured I'd return the favour." He gave her a grin and a shrug. "Does that happen often, around here?"

"No, actually." She leaned down to pick up a small rubber puck from the ground, tucking it into her utility belt. He wasn't sure what that was all about. "I was just on my way back to base when I saw him and you, and I decided to wreck his whole day yet again."

"Well, I'm glad you did." He decided to pretend ignorance. "How far away is it? I think I might just go there and put in a favourable review about your performance. Just in case there's anything else you've done that Legend might be disappointed at you over."

She grinned. "You know me so well. But it doesn't really matter. Soon as I turn eighteen, I age out of the Wards, and Legend can pout at me all he likes."

"They're not letting you join the Protectorate?" He tilted his head curiously. "I thought it was basically a formality at that point."

"No, no, they've asked and I've told 'em. The day after my eighteenth birthday, bam! I'm outta here." She gestured vaguely down the street. "Still gonna be a hero, but on my terms, not theirs."

"Should you even be telling me about this?" He frowned, not sure what was going on. "I mean, you have no idea who I am."

She waved off his concern. "Pfft, I can tell you're trustworthy from across the street. Besides, it's not exactly a secret. I'm basically telling everyone. The Mouse will be leaving the House."

"Right. So … if I wanted to get to the Protectorate building, where would I need to go?"

"Oh, that's easy." She pointed. "Down to the end of the block, then turn right. It's three blocks up."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." He hoped she wouldn't notice the map in his pocket; since his life had been turned upside down, he'd decided that being cagey was his best bet. It was a habit that was hard to break, even when talking to someone like Mouse Protector. Some part of his mind wondered if it was because she was a hero and he'd been on the cusp of becoming a supervillain in his own right.

"You're welcome, citizen. Mouse Protector, away!" She drew her rapier, flourished it again, and vanished.

Well, that was interesting. He continued his walk, paying much more attention to his surroundings than he had been before. Dad would've torn me a whole new asshole if he saw me get blindsided like that. Again came the mental wince when he recalled once more that Richard Anders would never again chastise him for a real or imagined lapse in his vigilance.

Turning right at the end of the block, it was easy to see his goal, even three blocks away. The New York Protectorate building featured on the news on a weekly basis, was cameoed occasionally in TV shows, and had even shown up in one or two movies. Here, now, in real life, it seemed to loom larger in reality than it had on the TV screen.

With every step closer, now that he could actually see it, he found doubts crowding around him yet again. My father was Allfather, my sister was Iron Rain. I am a supervillain, born into a family of villains. What the hell am I doing here? But he forged his way onward anyway.

At last, he stood in front of it, looking up at the frontage with just as much apprehension as anticipation. Again, he asked himself the question. What am I doing?

The answer was simple. Making a good life for my wife and child.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward. The heavy glass doors slid aside; as he entered the lobby, the first thing he saw was a garish standee of Legend, slightly larger than life-size, bearing the hero's trademark grin and wave. Next, he saw the PRT troopers doing their best to be inconspicuous here and there. Interestingly enough, it seemed that their uniforms had been updated, featuring urban camo and transparent faceplates. This didn't make them look friendly, but it gave them a more human appearance.

Here and there around the lobby were images of the more prominent members of the Protectorate, as well as a whole corner devoted to Behemoth; images from each time he'd attacked, and a bronze plaque inset into the wall with the names of all the capes who'd been killed by him. Max took his time looking over the exhibit, so as not to appear too eager. He had no doubt there was discreet surveillance on every person who entered here, in an attempt to get an inside line on would-be recruits. Walking in and going straight up to the receptionist would be like waving a flare and shouting, 'here I am!'.

Finally, after several others had gone before him, he strolled over and fronted up to the desk. The receptionist, an attractive black girl with the nametag MELODY, smiled at him. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Well, I hope you can." He tried to smile back, but it didn't really come out right. When he spoke, he lowered his voice. "Who do I speak to about recruitment?"

Her expression never changed, but her voice also became quieter. "Wait five minutes then go to door one-one-two, just down the corridor past the restrooms."

"Thank you." He stepped away from the counter and went back to his examination of the various exhibits, then took the time to read each of the cape names on the list of the dead, one by one.

When he judged five minutes had passed—checking his watch or looking at the clock on the wall would've been a giveaway that he was actually waiting for something to happen—he looked around then wandered down the corridor. Room 112 was just another innocuous door, but when he tried the handle, it opened. Within, he saw an armoured figure with a distinctive weapon; a sword with a cannon barrel incorporated into the blade.

"Come on in and close the door." The hero held out his hand. "I'm Chevalier. You're the one who wanted to talk about recruitment?"

Max shook it, impressed by the articulation of his armour. "Yes, I am. I'm a cape …" He paused, then grimaced. There was no way he'd be able to hide who he really was, who he'd nearly become. Not if the PRT did any kind of due diligence. "Okay, cards on the table. My name's Max Anders. My father was Richard Anders, from Brockton Bay. In the next couple of days, it's going to come out that he was Allfather, and that my sister Heidi was Iron Rain."

Chevalier's head came up. "I'd heard about something happening in Brockton Bay. Are you saying Allfather and Iron Rain are dead? Were you … part of their organisation?" Are you a member of the Empire Eighty-Eight, he was asking.

"I never was one of them." Max knew he was skating the line between truth and lies now, but his course was set and he had to see it through. "I'm not a Nazi. I don't believe in that stuff. My father wanted to force me to become something I'm not. Then a cape came in the day before yesterday, killed them both, and told me to be a good man." He spread his hands. "So here I am."

"Who was this cape?" asked Chevalier. "Had you seen them before? Do you know who they are?"

"I'd never met her before in my life," Max answered truthfully enough. "She made claims that I've got no way to verify."

Chevalier said nothing. The silence stretched between them.

Max took a deep breath. "She said she was my daughter from the future. Her powers seemed to bear that out. She fought Allfather and Iron Rain at the same time and killed them both, then told me to be a good man and a good father to my son. After that, she just walked away. I haven't seen her since."

"Wait." Chevalier tilted his head slightly. "She said she was your daughter, but she told you to be a good father to your son?"

"That's what she said." Max shrugged; I have no idea either. "My wife is pregnant. I'm assuming it's a boy. I've got no real future in Brockton Bay, not as Max Anders. I want to be a hero. Do you think that's got a chance of happening?"

Chevalier nodded, and clapped him on the shoulder. "I do. Welcome to the Protectorate."

-ooo-​

Monday, July 29, 1996
Twin Falls, Idaho

Jack Slash


Something was going wrong, and Jack didn't like it. Not one little bit.

While the Slaughterhouse Nine had not been his creation, he'd taken up leadership after King died and Harbinger left for greener pastures, and he liked to think he'd done damned well at it. A few members had come and gone in the nearly-a-decade since he'd assumed command, but in the last couple of years it had been more 'gone' than 'come'.

Capes died in battle: that was a given. But unless he could replenish the numbers, the Nine would soon find itself nickel-and-dimed down to just himself. And maybe Crimson; the man was as durable as they came, when he was full up on blood.

That part he could handle. But the most irritating aspect was that he somehow seemed to be running out of potential recruits. Or perhaps that was the second most irritating; losing Gray Boy to the fucking Faerie Queen was all the way up there.

Nicholas had been one of his heaviest hitters, and to have her simply swoop in and harvest him when Jack wasn't even there was nothing short of infuriating. Now, recruiting her would be the coup of a lifetime, but she'd apparently gone and handed herself over to the authorities afterward. What her play was there, he couldn't figure it out.

At the end of the day, there was exactly damn-all he could do about that, or about her. Which left the other problem: that of the dwindling supply of recruits. Or rather, of recruits who could make the grade. He'd had his eye on Winter for the last few years, looking to cross paths with her and make his pitch, only for her to die in mysterious circumstances in a grimy dive bar in Chicago.

The last three people he had been able to bring onto the team hadn't lasted past their first encounter with the heroes, which meant the Nine was down to the Slaughterhouse Four. Himself, Crimson, Screamer and Breed. He had to pull more talent onto the team, and make sure they could take care of themselves—the last idiot had accidentally taken Nyx with him when his powersuit had unexpectedly exploded—or they were done for.

It was faint consolation, but part of the reason for his loss of members could be laid at the feet of the PRT, not his own lack of leadership capability. Over the last few years, their operational security and the quality of their analysts had improved dramatically, making it harder and harder to slip through the cracks. He still wasn't sure what had happened to Nice Guy, but none of the other attempted infiltrations had worked either.

Still, he was Jack Slash. There was nobody like him in the continental United States, and certainly nobody who had headed a villain team for nine years to such devastating effect. If anyone could turn this around and get the team back on top, he could.

"Jack." It was Screamer's voice, resounding in his ears. "I need new clothes. I'm going shopping. Did you want anything?"

"No, I'm fine." He shook his head, aware she wouldn't hear the gesture but doing it anyway. "Keep an ear out."

"Oh, ha ha."

She went silent then and he returned to his ruminations, trying to think more broadly. The world had been changing in recent months. Eidolon was dead, and Behemoth apparently neutralised as a result. Idly, he wondered if it was possible to get to Indonesia; if the monster could be shut down, it could be woken up again.

Now, that would put the Nine on the map once and for all.

-ooo-​

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT

Screamer posed a distinct problem for anyone wishing to take her down with standard special-ops tactics. She could clearly hear any sound within one mile of her, and could modify those sounds at will into anything … or nothing. Inside that radius, there was no such thing as 'soundproof' or 'secure'.

If I'd been heading a strike team, comms would've been compromised the instant we stepped inside her range of effect—which covered a large portion of the town of Twin Falls, just saying—giving her the ability to both listen in and make us hear whatever she wanted us to. She'd done that more than once with the PRT and Protectorate both, sometimes leading teams to ambush each other with tragic results. So I bypassed all that by going in alone, leaving Kinsey waiting at the edge of town for me to give the all-clear.

He didn't like it, a fact he'd made extremely clear when we spoke on the subject, but he'd acceded to my expertise in the matter. I personally didn't like it myself, but the first part of the op had to be up close and personal, and he was constitutionally incapable of appearing to be anything but a PRT sergeant, even when in civvies. The last thing we wanted was for Screamer to make us and warn Jack remotely; if that happened, many people would die.

Which meant that I was already in the clothing store when she walked in. I was out of uniform, of course, wearing a light denim jacket and jeans, as well as a baseball cap. My Glock was holstered in the small of my back just in case, but I had no intention of using it outside of a dire emergency.

As she strolled around the store, picking out the items she intended to steal—I was pretty sure that no member of the Slaughterhouse Nine even bothered to carry money anymore—I got ahead of her, meandering toward the changing booths. Inside my left sleeve was a long narrow sheath that I'd spent most of one night carefully stitching into place; up until a few minutes ago, there'd been what looked like an ordinary knitting needle in the sheath. Spoilers: it wasn't an ordinary knitting needle.

Screamer undoubtedly knew all the myriad sounds of a firearm being readied for action and would be put on high alert by any of them. Lisa had assured me that she could even discern the whine of an electronic targeting system powering up, or the gentle creak of pressure being taken up on a trigger. So, I wasn't using guns at all.

I got to the changing booths just at the same time as she did, and started opening my door. Giving me a cursory glance, she opened hers, and that was when I cannoned into her. I smashed her into the booth and caused her to drop her intended bounty, then flicked the needle around from where I'd been holding it against my sleeve and stabbed her with it.

On its own, as a random stab, it wouldn't have done a great deal. I had it angled up through her heart, which made it more problematic but unlikely to be lethal if she was given immediate medical care. Unfortunately for her, I didn't leave anything to random chance that I possibly could. So the needle was coated with a batrachotoxin paste whipped up by Andrea's pet chemical Tinker; just a scratch would've afforded Screamer a fifty-fifty chance of survival, and she had a hell of a lot more in her bloodstream than a mere scratch would've given her.

Her eyes widened as she stared at me. The irony was that the toxin had numbed her system as fast as I'd stabbed her, so she honestly didn't understand that she was already dead until it was far too late. By the time the realisation hit her brain that she was paralysed and unable to breathe, her body was in convulsions. I watched as the life left her eyes, trying to ask me a question that she would never now be able to articulate.

Seating her in the cubicle, I pulled the needle out of the tiny wound and carefully slid it into the sheath once more. I'd dispose of the needle and the jacket safely later on, but right now we had the rest of the Nine to deal with. Casually meandering from the store, I took out the lightweight walkie-talkie from my jacket pocket and turned it on. "Daylight Actual to Daylight One. Sun has risen, over."

Kinsey replied at once. "Daylight One copies sunrise. Proceeding to Point Midday. Daylight One, out."

"Daylight Actual copies. Out." I put the radio away and started down the sidewalk to where I'd arranged to meet with Kinsey.

Even though Screamer had been dealt with, there were still two other members of the Nine I needed to take care of before I confronted Jack Slash. Breed wouldn't be a huge problem, but Crimson couldn't be easily beaten down. Even when not powered up by drinking blood—seriously, what the fuck was his shard thinking?—he still had a moderate Brute rating, both in strength and durability. Not unlike Lung, in fact.

I got to the parking spot I'd already picked out about thirty seconds ahead of Kinsey; as he pulled around the corner, I was removing the traffic cones I'd left there to reserve the spot. I'd found a long time ago that people rarely seemed to question the veracity of traffic cones, once placed. He nosed the van into the spot and came to a halt, then killed the engine.

Opening the side door, I climbed in then closed it behind me. "Ma'am," Kinsey greeted me from the driver's seat.

"Kinsey," I acknowledged. I slipped out of the jacket, wrapped it around the length of the needle, and stashed it off to one side. Kneeling next to the case containing the .308 Winchester hunting rifle, I opened the clasps holding the lid closed, then opened it and lifted the rifle out.

This rifle didn't have nearly as much power or range as the .50 cal Gladys had used to assassinate Heartbreaker, but neither was it needed. The rear window of the van had a one-by-two-inch notch cut out of it, shielded by a piece of black cloth I could pull out of the way when I needed to. Kneeling, I pulled it out of the way and aimed out through the notch, then peered through the scope.

Flicking the switch on the scope that turned on the IR capability, I watched as the picture formed and steadied. It had taken a little work to ensure that I could still get usable results, even in the heat of the day. The effort had been well spent; I could make out three distinct forms inside the motel room in question. Jack and Breed I couldn't tell apart, but Crimson was bigger and bulkier than either one.

Lowering the butt of the rifle to the floor of the van, I took the bulky suppressor out of the case and set about screwing it onto the muzzle. It wouldn't make the damn thing silent—nothing made a bullet silent except reducing it to subsonic velocity, and usually not even then—but it would get rid of a lot of the initial report, and make firing the rifle in an enclosed space a lot more tolerable to our ears. With that taken care of, I took up my firing position again and worked the bolt to chamber a round.

"Police," Kinsey warned.

I lifted my finger away from the trigger. While it would've been nice to get the assistance, or at least the cooperation, of the local cops to take down Jack Slash and his crew, that path held two major stumbling blocks.

First: I was technically on a fact-finding mission, sniffing out any chance that another Endbringer could arise; my remit did not include eradicating roving murderhobo bands. Hamilton would be somewhat displeased with me if he found out how creatively I was interpreting his orders.

Second: I didn't want Jack dead, but instead handed over to Cauldron for safekeeping. That little aspect would involve a whole lot of explaining that I just didn't feel like getting into.

"Do they look like they're in a hurry?" I asked, without turning my head. Kinsey's job was to be the lookout, and mine was to be the shooter.

"No, ma'am. Going by the police scanner, it doesn't sound like anyone's found the body yet."

"Good. Let's hope it stays that way for a little longer." There were no two ways about it; my little killing spree here in quiet Twin Falls was absolutely going to be the talk of the town. I just wanted to be out of the town before they got around to asking me difficult questions.

Once Kinsey reported the police car to be out of sight, I lined up the scope once more on the motel room. The electronics dutifully gave me a picture of what was on the other side of the flimsy wall, and I panned over what was either Jack or Breed to the bulk of Crimson. Drawing in a deep breath, I let it trickle out of my lungs as I stroked my finger across the trigger. I told myself calm, calm, calm, and I could feel my heartbeat slow.

The crosshairs steadied on his head. There was no more air in my lungs. My heart rate slowed even further. And then, in the interval between beats, I tightened my finger, squeezing smoothly.

The rifle went off; even with the suppressor, it was nearly deafening. In my scope, I saw Crimson's head rock sideways with the impact. Dropping the rifle—not on the scope, I'm not a monster—I pulled in a huge breath of gunsmoke-laden air and yelled, "Go, go, go!"

Kinsey and I erupted from the van and bolted toward the motel.

-ooo-​

Jack Slash

"Cop car." Crimson gestured toward the thin curtains covering the window. The bright sunlight outside made it possible to see out without anyone being able to see in, exactly the way Jack liked it.

"Are they slowing down?" Jack asked, flicking a butterfly knife through its paces without looking.

Crimson shaded his eyes, peering. "Nope. No idea we're here."

"So what are we doing here, anyway?" asked Breed. He had one of his little horror-pets on his lap, and he was petting it like a Bond villain's cat.

"Lying low," Jack said patiently. "Taking the temperature of the region. If there's a cape in the region we can bend to our will, then we'll hear about it and strike. If not, we'll raise our usual mayhem and carnage, then move along."

"Sounds like a plan." Crimson sighed. "Pity about that Winter chick. She was one hot—"

The side of his head exploded, brains and shards of bone spraying out all over Breed, Jack and the wall. Accompanying it was a muted crack, but Jack wasn't sure if that was the original gunshot or the sound of the bullet coming in through the window or the wall. "Down!" he yelled, diving behind one of the beds.

Breed, who had been sitting on the floor, had just gotten to his feet and was moving toward the other bed when the door crashed inward, propelled by a huge boot. The bug that had been on his lap let out a high-pitched skree, but instead of heading for Crimson's corpse as it normally would have, it launched itself toward the open door. Two shots sounded, almost as one; the first exploded the bug in a mess of insectoid guts, and the second took Breed in the middle of the face. His brains joined Crimson's on the wall, and he fell bonelessly, dead before he hit the floor.

Lying flat behind the bed, a knife in each hand, Jack readied himself to strike at the first glimpse of the enemy. Two shooters meant two targets, but that was okay; he had two knives. He'd taken out multiple targets before.

"Jack Slash!" The voice was that of a woman. "Drop the knives and raise your hands! I'm here to take you alive, but there's a whole lot of leeway between unharmed and dead!"

He smiled. He'd always been able to charm the women. Some even said he had the looks of a movie star. "What guarantee do I have of that?"

Something flew over his head and hit the wall, then dropped to the floor. A moment later, a thunderclap caused his eardrums to meet in the middle of his head, and a flashbulb seared his retinas to the back of his skull. As he writhed in agony, he was vaguely aware of someone disarming him then securing his hands behind his back, but he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Then he was roughly carried out the door, bundled into what he figured was a van, and they peeled out of there.

Although he was still alive, he had a really bad feeling about this.

-ooo-​

Taylor

We stopped an hour out of town. Jack had recovered from the flashbang Kinsey had tossed his way, but I'd gagged him and put a bag over his head because the asshole just kept talking. Kinsey had suggested breaking a bone for each time he opened his mouth, but the sad truth was, nobody had that many bones.

"Kinsey, secure the perimeter. This next bit, you're not cleared to know about." The less he knew about Cauldron, the better.

Lesser men would have argued. Kinsey just nodded. "Ma'am." Picking a direction along the highway, he paced off a hundred yards then stood, observing the horizon in that direction.

"Okay," I said out loud. "I know you're here. Ruth would've given you the right time and place. Come on out."

I'd never seen Contessa before, not in the flesh, but Lisa had shown me pictures. She walked around the side of the van and faced me directly. "You're not going to tell me what this is all about." It was a prediction, not a command.

"Nope." I pulled open the van doors and dragged Jack Slash partially out. He struggled and mumbled through the gag and the bag, but I didn't give a shit. "Just keep him on ice until I need him back. Also, two things you need to know."

She barely spared a glance at him before looking back at me. "I'm listening."

"His agent is called Broadcast, just as yours is called The Eye. It's higher ranking than yours, and it will bend yours to its will if you give him a chance to speak to you or influence you in any way. Face to face, given anything like an equal chance, he will beat the snot out of you, and maybe even twist your viewpoint to join him. But his powers work only on capes. Don't let the Custodian listen to him either. She's even easier to influence than you are."

She blinked, assimilating that, while clearly suppressing the urge to ask me how the hell I knew that. "And the second?"

I snorted. "Don't let Doctor Mother near him either. She already hates me. He won't need powers to twist her into letting him come after me."

Her jaw honestly dropped. "Okay, what the hell? How do you even know that name?"

"I'm PRT Intelligence," I told her evenly. "It's my job to know. Don't let him talk to capes. Not even you. Understood?"

"Understood." She glared at me. "And I call bullshit on that being PRT Intelligence. Nobody should know about that. Who's been talking?"

I gave her a bland look in return. "Tick tock, Contessa."

Getting a good grip on Jack Slash, she shot me a lethal glare. "Doorway."

A portal opened in front of her, and I thoughtfully gave her a hand to lift him through. Then I waved as the portal closed again.

That hadn't necessarily been the wisest thing for me to say, I figured, but I doubted very much that she would tell anyone. She'd be much more invested in finding out who was feeding me backchannel information. It would keep her busy while I was doing other stuff.

After all, everyone needed a hobby.



End of Part 8-6​
 
Part 8-7: Ripples
Recoil

Part 8-7: Ripples

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



Monday, 29 July 1996
Cauldron Base

Legend


"What is that noise?" Alexandria, pausing in the middle of giving a status update, turned and stared at the door of the conference room. "And where's Contessa? She should be here."

"She said she had to go and see someone about a thing," the Number Man observed helpfully. "I asked her if she could be any more obscure, and she actually growled at me."

Hero's head came up. "It must have something to do with Captain Snow. I've never seen anyone or anything get under Contessa's skin so thoroughly as her." He sounded amused by the concept.

Now Keith could hear the same noise Alexandria had mentioned. It sounded like a squeaky wheel. The trouble was, he didn't think they actually had anything in the base that used wheels, especially wheels that squeaked.

"Entirely understandable." Doctor Mother's tone was tart. "Captain Snow is a loose cannon who should be—"

"Yes, yes, we get it. You dislike the woman because she knows more than she should." Alexandria left her position at the head of the table and went to the door. "But the fact is, she does what she sets out to do, and she's currently our best chance of achieving our aims." Reaching the door, she opened it and stared out. "Contessa? What in God's name are you doing? Who is that?" She paused. "Please tell me it's not—"

"It's not Captain Snow, no." Contessa sounded aggravated. "If you must know, it's Jack Slash."

Seriously? This was suddenly a lot more interesting than a status update meeting. Keith rose into the air and flew over the table, beating the Number Man and Hero to the door only by virtue of superior mobility. When he stepped outside in Alexandria's wake, Contessa was there with a hospital gurney, strapped onto which was a figure bound hand and foot, with a bag over its head.

"Well, I'll be damned. She actually did it." The Number Man, crowding out after Keith, rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm actually kind of impressed. Sure, she's good at what she does, but so is he. Plus, he's usually got a bunch of like-minded capes standing between him and anyone who wants to take him down."

"He did," Contessa corrected him, keeping one hand on the gurney. "I had a little insight while I was bringing him in, and I looked into it. Over the last few years, every time a suitably unpleasant villain has cropped up that might have ended up under his sway, they've been killed off by some person or persons unknown. And the ones he has recruited have proved inadequate to the task."

"You're saying Snow's been doing this," Alexandria said in tones of enlightenment. "Thinning out his recruitment pool."

"It's the best guess I've got so far, lacking a direct line into her actions," Contessa agreed. "He only had three people along when she caught up with him. Screamer, Crimson and Breed. She cornered Screamer in a department store and stabbed her through the heart with a poisoned knitting needle, sniped Crimson at fifty yards through a motel window with a high-powered rifle, shot Breed in the face, and incapacitated Jack Slash with a flashbang."

Keith blinked. "A poisoned knitting needle?" He shook his head. "Has she been reading too many Agatha Christie novels or something? What was the poison? Arsenic?"

"Batrachotoxin," Contessa corrected him. "Poison dart frog toxin. There was enough on the needle to kill Screamer fifty times over. It caused almost instant paralysis, then convulsions, then she died when her heart and lungs just seized up altogether. She didn't even have time to call for help."

The Number Man nodded judiciously. "That does seem to be Snow's MO, yes. Instant overwhelming force, and fuck the opposition."

"So now we have him, what's the plan?" asked Hero.

Contessa raised her eyebrows, as if surprised that he'd forgotten. "We keep him in solitary and feed him extremely bland food until Captain Snow asks for him back. This is her plan, remember?"

"No." Predictably, this was Doctor Mother; late to the party, and contrary to everyone else. "Absolutely not. We are not her minions, or whatever else you want to call it. She does not dictate terms to us."

"Except when she does." Contessa gestured at Jack Slash's bound form. "She clearly sees him as being far more significant to the fate of the world than we do. Every time—every time—I've gone into a situation thinking I knew more than she did about what was going on, I've been wrong. Did you know Eidolon's death would cause the Behemoth to go dormant? She clearly did. So when she indicates he is more important than we think he is, we need to assume she knows exactly what she's talking about, and that we're the ones who are missing something."

"So we interrogate him," Doctor Mother countered. "Find out what he knows and what his powers really are. If he's so important, perhaps he can give us insights as to the inner workings of Captain Snow's mind."

Keith blinked. Hey, that's not such a bad idea—

Contessa shook her head. "No. Absolutely not. Under no circumstance is that going to happen. She made it abundantly clear. We do not talk to him."

"Really?" Doctor Mother turned to the other members of Cauldron, her hands spread in apparent disbelief. "Does nobody find that even slightly suspicious? We're to hold him in our cells, literally keep him incommunicado for ten years, yet the most powerful capes on Earth are not permitted to even talk to him and find out his version of events?"

"Yes, that is exactly correct." Contessa looked as though she wanted to either pinch the bridge of her nose, or punch Doctor Mother. "According to Snow, his passenger is called Broadcast, whereas mine is called the Eye. If he talks to a cape, he can low-level Master them, often twisting them to his point of view. In combat, he can anticipate their moves and gain insights in how to beat them, and they are given bad data on how to defeat him. Snow told me straight-up that if I was facing him on a level playing field, he would likely clean my clock."

"Well then, our course is clear." Doctor Mother tapped herself on the chest. "I'm not a cape. I can handle the interrogation."

"Again, no." Contessa shook her head. "One, you're not even remotely a trained interrogator. Two, she specifically told me that you were not to be allowed access to him. You might not be a cape, but you hate Snow's guts, and he'd be able to convince you to let him free to 'keep her in check' even more easily than he'd be able to talk us into letting him out." She looked around at the group. "That includes everyone here, even the Custodian. He will know if someone can hear him, and he will keep talking until he hits the right buttons."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard—"

"I ran the Paths," Contessa interrupted. "Every single Path where you are given access to him, he ends up coaxing you into letting him go, and giving him Doormaker privileges. Half of those times, he kills you. If he gets the drop on her, things end badly for the world. If he doesn't, Snow either kills him or brings him back, along with some extremely unkind words about our security. On at least one of those occasions, she shoots you in the face, and nobody tries to stop her. So you do not speak with him. Is that understood?"

Hero cleared his throat. "That's as may be, but if he's confined to a cell, I'm fairly certain that one conversation isn't going to force one of us to let him go."

"No, that's true," Contessa said with what sounded like forced patience, "but one conversation would inevitably become two, and then three, and then ten. He'll be in our cells for ten years. Every time he talks to you, he gets to wear away at your resistance, and to capes he is persuasive. So we're not having that first conversation. I'm not having it, and none of you are having it. Nobody in this facility is permitted within earshot of him. End of story." She raised her head. "Like I said, that also goes for you."

There was a brush of wind past her, and then the air fell still again.

Doctor Mother shook her head. "I can't believe all of you are buying so hard into this. He's just a jumped-up street thug, for crying out loud!"

"No, no, she's got a point," the Number Man interjected. "We were only kids when I left the Nine, but he's really got a way with words when it comes to capes. If I went into a cell where he was and talked to him, even knowing what he's like, I couldn't guarantee not being on his side when I came out."

"That's because you were friends with him!"

Keith stepped in front of Doctor Mother and gave her a level stare. "Are you opposing this because of Jack Slash, or because it's Captain Snow doing it? Because if Jack Slash really is just a jumped-up thug, he should be beneath your notice. Putting him in a cell for ten years shouldn't be a problem. He is a serial killer, after all. But if on the other hand, he's as dangerous as Snow and Contessa say, then we shouldn't take the slightest chances with him. He needs to be locked away until Snow asks for him back. Your personal opinion of Snow should have zero bearing on that decision."

Alexandria sighed. "Okay, this argument is starting to get circular. We've all got our heels dug in, and nobody is willing to entertain the other side's point of view, so I'm making an executive decision. We're going to dump him in a soundproof cell for the moment, with nothing that could be even remotely fashioned into a blade. Hero rigs a cell with scanners to check him over daily for health problems, and a remote delivery apparatus for food and other amenities. Access to radio and TV channels can be added as needed. If we need to take him out of the cell for any reason, we render him unconscious first. If he's needed to be conscious, we gag him before we wake him up."

"And if we need to talk to him for some reason?" Doctor Mother pressed.

"Why would you want him to talk?" asked the Number Man.

"I don't know!" she flared at him. "I can't see the future!"

"I can," Contessa reminded her. "There is no applicable Path where we actually need to hear what he has to say."

"We both know your Paths aren't omniscient. You could've missed something."

"Okay, let's all take it easy," Hero offered. "I can rig a system that records his voice then translates it to text, with a ten-second delay so that even if there's a Master effect when he's speaking, we'll be reading his words after the fact."

Contessa shook her head. "It's not a voice effect. It's a him effect. His voice just tells you what he wants you to do. We're going to need to keep him at a distance from us, even when we read the messages."

Alexandria tilted her head slightly. "She's right. I just envisaged snapping his neck for all the people he's killed, and I was actually reluctant to do it. My mind kept throwing up reasons not to."

"Goddamn it," complained Hero. "That's creepy as hell. Okay, I'll get to work on the cell right now."

"Good." Alexandria turned to Doctor Mother. "And can I trust you to be professional about this, or do I have to make it official that you're not to interact with him in any way?"

Legend silently counted the seconds. He was up to ten when Doctor Mother grudgingly nodded.

"Fine," she muttered, with bad grace. "I won't talk to him, about Snow or anyone else, without letting one of you know first."

"Thank you." Alexandria nodded to Contessa. "Go dump him in that cell. Hero, let us know when the new cell is ready. We're taking no chances with this one."

As Contessa wheeled the gurney off down the corridor, Keith couldn't help wondering just how big a ticking time bomb Captain Snow had handed them, if he caused this much discord just by existing.

-ooo-​

Saturday, August 17, 1996
Brockton Bay

Ex-PRT Captain Robert Gordon


It had been nearly nine months since Rob had accepted the totally-not-a-job from Lieutenant Calvert. His reports, carefully coded to be entirely innocuous to the untrained eye, had so far been a whole heap of nothing. This was because so far, he'd found a whole heap of nothing.

He'd started by establishing himself in the city, finding an apartment to live in, then putting out his feelers. Intelligence work was something he was actually good at, and he was very familiar with the doctrine of 'softly softly catchee monkey'.

Hollywood liked to put forth epics where the hard-drinking hard-partying so-called secret agents intercepted the stolen nuclear secrets in between seducing the gorgeous-but-treacherous female enemy agent and having a running gunfight down Main Street with the other enemy agents, all in the space of a couple of days. That wasn't intelligence work; as one of his tutors would've called it, that was called hanging a target on one's back.

The smart intelligence agent was the one who took things one step at a time and never, ever drew attention to himself. This was especially important for two extra reasons here. First, he was technically not supposed to be working in any capacity for the PRT, even as an unofficial source for Internal Affairs. Second, Snow had demonstrated an astounding reach throughout all levels of the PRT command structure. He didn't know how many people she had the goods on, but if he was going to give Lieutenant Calvert enough evidence to bring her down, it had to be so incontestable that even her former protectors would wash their hands of her.

He'd started off by going to the Brockton Bay Central Library and delving through their newspaper archives. A long and tedious task, it had rewarded him with the occasional nugget of information. The envelope Calvert had given him had covered what they knew of her early life, including her arrival in the city in 1989; he'd added some to that, mainly dated after the initial investigation had taken place.

None of it had been even remotely incriminating.

A part-time job as a janitor at Winslow (using faked credentials, of course) had given him access to her school records, and he noted a friendship with the current vice-principal, Gladys Knott. He also found out that Snow had joined the school's JROTC program after a scuffle occurred where she sent no fewer than three of her opponents to the school nurse. Not the last time she would injure or incapacitate her fellow students, either. They clearly saw how dangerous she was, even back then, and what did they do? They taught her how to fucking shoot, and gave her a leg-up on her recruitment into the PRT. Goddamn it.

Her medical practitioner at the time had been a Doctor French. There were no positions going for work in French's clinic, and he wasn't able to fake enough medical knowledge to get any kind of employment there, but when he sent a message to Calvert, enough cash was advanced on the expense account to grease the right palm and he got hold of her medical records anyway. While her PRT records contained the broad strokes, the ones he got from Dr French just added weirdness to the situation.

Even as a teen, Snow had been marked up more than some PRT veterans Rob knew. There were scars on her—the type that came from combat, not physical abuse—that even her own doctor didn't know the origin of. He added this data to the ever-growing list of 'who the fuck is this bitch anyway?' and moved on.

Intriguingly enough, he also discovered that Major Ruth Goldstein, who had been Snow's attending surgeon following the debacle with the Brotherhood of the Fallen, had been working for Doctor French just before the first appearance of the Behemoth: and yes, that had been while Snow had been seeing French as her doctor. An odd coincidence, if coincidence it was, but he couldn't read anything deeper into it just yet. Leaving it to one side for later dissection, he moved on.

Having exhausted all written records, it was time to get the truth from the people who had known Taylor Snow during her time in Brockton Bay. Someone had to know something damaging about her, and all he needed was that first string. One tug, and he could unravel the entire overwrought reputation that she'd managed to build up around herself. At long last, once he brought the truth to bear on her, people would see her for who and what she really was.

The suggestion had been bandied about that she was carrying on an illicit relationship with one Andrea Campbell, with whom she had roomed in college. It didn't take much digging to reveal that Ms Campbell was a party girl of the highest order, who apparently slept with anyone who caught her eye. Even with Snow away in the PRT, the Campbell woman was maintaining a friendship with Danny and Annette Hebert, respectively the son of the people she'd lived with before striking out on her own, and his wife. The fourth member of this odd quartet was Gladys Knott, which was also interesting, though it didn't actually give Rob any extra data.

The previous investigation, as authorised by Lieutenant-Colonel (then Major) Hamilton, had established that she'd had a brief fling with Ms Campbell, but that the relationship was over and done with before she joined the PRT. All correspondence between the two (Calvert had supplied copies of them in the envelope) indicated that this was the case, and that the two were only friends from this point onward. If this was indeed the case, it would be just another dead end.

However, if he could prove it a lie, then it would provide blatant evidence of her carrying on a homosexual relationship while a serving member of the PRT, thus bypassing the Don't Ask Don't Tell policy. While this wouldn't be as satisfying as catching her out in any one of the many other illegal activities he knew she absolutely had to be dabbling in, it would definitely open the door to further investigation and cause her protectors to back the fuck off, lest they be caught in the splash zone.

The problem was, he had to find someone willing to spill the beans.

The Campbell woman, though initially promising, was a no-go once he thought about it. Bitter exes could be an absolute treasure trove of dirt on the people they saw as having betrayed them, but the correspondence between them was entirely cordial, which very likely meant she wasn't any kind of ex, especially not the bitter kind. Snow would've explained PRT regulations to her (Snow was very much the type to explain stuff, even when the people she was talking to already knew it) so Campbell would know to deny everything.

But there were other people in Snow's life, people who didn't necessarily understand the ramifications of that particular 'lifestyle'. More importantly, people who disapproved of it. Everything he'd seen from his careful surveillance of the Hebert parents (Danny was a total loss, as he clearly worshipped the ground she walked upon) told Rob that they were strongly religious and very conservative.

Still, he doubted George Hebert would open up to a relative stranger about what he saw as family issues; after all, Snow had lived under their roof for several years. Dorothy Hebert, on the other hand, was outspoken and fearless with her opinions. Rob figured it would be easier to get her started than to shut her up on the topic.

He considered introducing himself at their church, but after three Sundays went by and they didn't so much as glance at him, he decided that they didn't attend to socialise with others. Finally, he decided to bite the bullet and talk to them directly. Which was why he was walking up the front path of the Hebert house at midmorning on a Saturday, dressed in the PRT undress blues that he really should have handed back in, carrying the Internal Affairs ID that Calvert had prepped for him (which he absolutely had no business holding) and looking every inch like a soldier who was there to carry out a routine yet necessary duty. To offset the chance that they'd recognise him from church, he'd shaved his beard off and had his hair trimmed back to military length.

He took a breath and went to attention to get himself back into the mindset, then relaxed into 'at ease'. Then he raised his right hand and rapped twice on the door: one-two. Initially there was no reaction from within the house, but then he heard footsteps approaching. The door opened, and Dorothy Hebert peered out at him.

"Hello?" she greeted him. Then she clearly recognised the uniform, because her hand went to her mouth. "Oh, dear. Has something happened to Taylor?"

"Not to my knowledge," he said smoothly, concealing his internal thoughts on the matter. We can only hope. "But I am here to talk to you about her, yes."

"Oh, my goodness." She turned and raised her voice to a genteel shout. "George, honey, it's a captain from the PRT! He's here to talk to us about Taylor!"

A masculine bellow sounded through the house. "Well, ask him in already, Dottie!"

As if neither one had heard the command, Dorothy turned and smiled at Rob. "Would you please come in? I'm sure we will be more comfortable sitting down while we hear what you have to say."

"Thank you, Mrs Hebert." Rob nodded politely to acknowledge the invitation and removed his peaked cap as he entered the house. He'd never actually liked the berets, preferring the more formal cap, even though it was really supposed to go with the dress uniform.

She led him through into the living room, where George Hebert was getting up from his armchair. Older than Rob by at least ten years, the Hebert patriarch was a large man, solid and muscular with brawny forearms. His handshake was firm, with just a hint of 'I could break your hand if I really wanted to, so don't try me' in the mix.

"Well, Captain … McCarthy, was it?" Hebert asked, barely hesitating as he glanced at Rob's name-tape. "What's this about Taylor, then? And is this something she should be here for?"

"McCarthy, yes, sir." The honorific slipped out without his meaning it to, but it seemed to put them more at ease. "This is merely a routine investigation into her background, speaking to the people who know her the best. We do them all the time."

"Well, have a seat then." Dorothy bustled into the kitchen. "Do you like oatmeal cookies, Captain?"

"Yes, please." Rob sat down on the sofa, his mood buoyed by how well this was going so far. All I need is that one bit of information …

"Do you know Taylor?" asked George, while Dorothy was in the kitchen. "We've only met her Sergeant Kinsey. A reliable man, I thought." He lowered himself back into his armchair.

Rob shook his head as Dorothy came back into the living room, with a plate of cookies. "Thank you, ma'am. No, if I knew her, I wouldn't have been picked for this investigation. Too much chance of a conflict of interest, you see." He took a cookie and bit into it to stop himself from talking too much. It was delicious.

"I know about that sort of thing, yes," George agreed. "So, what's this about?"

"What I'm about to tell you doesn't go any farther than this room." Rob paused for a moment to let that sink in. "You may be aware that Captain Snow has achieved remarkable deeds in the service of the PRT." Well, some people seem to think so, anyway. Personally, I think she stole glory from a lot of other people.

"She's said a few things, but only after we asked her about them, and that was only after we'd heard about it from others," Dorothy ventured. "She's never been the boastful type, and we know all about how most of what she's done is classified."

George cleared his throat. "If you're here to ask if Taylor's been talking about things she shouldn't have been, you're looking in the wrong place. It's hard enough to get her to talk about the things she's allowed to discuss."

Goddamn it. Rob had been hopeful, but that wasn't his plan A. "Not in the slightest," he lied through his teeth. "What I was going to say is that she's being considered for a project at the very highest level of classification. Merely telling you the name of the project would see me court-martialled. However, in order to ensure that she's a good fit for the project, we need to be certain that she hasn't got any potential vulnerabilities that would allow hostile elements to gain a hold over her and get access to the project."

George frowned. "Vulnerabilities?" he asked. "What are you driving at there, Captain McCarthy?"

His wife, by contrast, shook her head firmly. "You clearly don't understand our Taylor, Captain. She's the most stubborn, hard-headed, self-confident person I know, and I've been married to George here for over twenty years. The person who could gain a hold over her and bend her to their will hasn't been born yet, and never will."

"That's been said about other people, too," Rob said, nettled that she was dismissing his line of attack before he really got started. "But if they've got a lifestyle or unsavoury habit that could be held over their head, even the most independent people can fold. Especially if they want to maintain a high-ranking position."

"You're clearly leading up to something, Captain," George stated in a bullish tone. "How about you quit beating about the bush and just come out with it?"

Rob hadn't wanted to jump straight into it, but the Heberts struck him as people who preferred straight talk, and he wanted to keep them amenable to what he was saying. "Alright, I will. First, have you ever witnessed her to be under the influence of illicit substances? Marijuana, or any of the harder drugs? Did she ever drink while she lived here?" He didn't think the answer would be positive, but this would give them a sense of security and establish a precedent for them answering his questions.

George snorted derisively, while Dorothy shook her head. She glanced at her husband, but he simply waved at her to speak.

"Young man, that's even less likely than the other. Taylor was always extremely responsible, in every aspect of her life. Do your records show that she was gainfully employed even before she left high school, maintaining the computers in the Port Authority building?"

"Yes, they do," he said, though he had no idea whether that was true or not. "She has a reputation for being good with computers." He'd thought he was good with them, until he tried to break past her passwords to see what she was working on, and utterly failed to make any headway whatsoever. Worse, she had somehow detected the attempt after the fact, and called him out on it.

"Was there anything else you wanted to know about her?" asked George, his shaggy brows lowering.

"Yes, actually." Rob forced himself to clear his throat in a nervous-sounding gesture. "Now, this may seem harmless in the real world, but above a certain clearance level it is strictly forbidden for men or women to indulge in same-sex relationships. Where she is now, this doesn't affect her …" He was lying through his teeth again, of course, "… but if she were to be placed into that project and then it was found after the fact to be the case, she could get into a great deal of trouble." He looked Dorothy in the eye. "Ma'am, has Taylor ever, to your knowledge, had a relationship with another woman?"

Mentally, he braced himself for the thicket of excuses Dorothy Hebert would doubtless throw up for Snow's behaviour, which would at the same time assist him in finally nailing that damned woman to the wall. Either that, or she would crack and throw Snow to the wolves. She did not give the impression of someone who readily accepted someone else breaking the rules she set for them.

Three or four seconds passed while she looked him over, then she spoke in icy tones. "No. She has not, Captain, and you should be ashamed of yourself for even thinking otherwise. Taylor's behaviour, for all the time I have known her, has been nothing short of impeccable."

For the first time since he'd entered the Hebert house, Rob was taken entirely off guard. "What? But … are you sure? Andrea Campbell—"

"—is a delightful young lady, and is welcome in this household any time she wishes to visit." Dorothy stood up from the other end of the sofa. "You, on the other hand, have outstayed yours. Please leave this house, immediately."

"No." Rob tried to argue. "You don't understand. This is serious. Snow is dangerous. If she—"

George came to his feet as well, his expression thunderous. "PRT officer or no, when a lady says you are no longer welcome, then you should already be on the way out. Dottie, get the door. Mr McCarthy is leaving now." He took a step toward Rob, his hands flexing with intent.

Rob weighed the possibility that he wasn't about to be bodily thrown out on his ear, and found it distinctly lacking. "I'm going, I'm going," he said hastily, jumping up and snatching his cap from the coffee table in front of him. Under George's glowering eye, he beat a judicious retreat toward the front door.

He didn't stop moving until he was down the front path and at his car; only then did he turn and look back at the house. George Hebert stood on the front porch, his arms folded in a time-honoured stance: and stay out.

While it would've been emotionally satisfying to throw some stinging retort at the man, perhaps telling him that they had endangered their precious Taylor's career, he refrained. He got in the car, carefully telling himself that this was because he didn't want to give away sensitive information and not because he was physically intimidated by Snow's foster father, and started the engine.

As he drove out of there, he was aware of one fact.

If he was going to get dirt on Taylor Snow, he would have to look elsewhere.

-ooo-​

Sunday, September 1, 1996, 5:46 PM
Brockton Bay General Hospital
Maternity Waiting Area

Danny


"—and as Mom put it, she sent him away with a flea in his ear."

"Ha!" Alan Barnes shook his head and grinned. "I love your parents to death, but I will never, ever see them as pushovers. So, did you ever find out who he really was?"

"Yeah. Dad contacted Taylor, and she asked a few basic questions then ID'ed him as a guy who got booted out of the PRT for what amounts to terminal idiocy. Also, he's tried to torpedo her career on multiple occasions, so this was basically karma in action. It sounds like he was pulling one last throw of the dice to discredit her so he could get back in."

"And your folks just kicked that door shut in his face. Good." Alan leaned back in his chair, looking deeply satisfied.

"Yeah." Danny took a deep breath and looked toward the doors through which they'd taken Zoe. "Does it ever get easier? This right here, I mean? Not knowing what's going on?"

Across the other side of the room, Anne-Rose and Andrea were distracting young Anne (just turned seven, due to start third grade in the next day or so) with some kind of silly counting game. Dragon, who had shot up in height since the last time Danny had seen her, was sitting off to the side, reading a book and watching fourteen-month-old Tyler and nineteen-month-old Alec as they napped in their respective strollers.

The whole scene looked amazingly domestic; a word Danny never would've picked to associate with Andrea. But now she was a mom to Alec, a part-time mother to Dragon, and a volunteer aunt for Tyler, and apparently enjoying it immensely.

With the neon pink dye job (which could have looked a lot worse than it did) and the pigtails, Dragon looked like a typical teen, though she was remarkably mature for her age. However, he did have to wonder what people were thinking these days when it came to naming their children. It was true that Dragon's father was a Newfoundlander (his dad would've used the pejorative term 'Newfie'), but that didn't exactly excuse such naming practices. On the other hand, he had heard of people called Reindeer or Snowflake hailing from those parts, so he supposed 'Dragon' was at least more imaginative than most.

"Well, I know Zoe's up to the task," Alan admitted, taking up the change in topic without hesitation. "She's very much a take-charge sort of person. With Anne, when I started going green around the gills, she ordered me out of the room. So this time I'll be waiting out here until they let me know I'm allowed back in."

"Right." It made a certain amount of sense. After the rough time Anne-Rose had had with Tyler's birth (the doctors had said it was easy, but she begged to differ) he was pretty sure they were going to stop at one. He hadn't been in the room for Tyler's birth, but he suspected his presence wouldn't have done a blind bit of good, in the moment. "So, uh, how are you going to handle birthdays, coming just before the start of school?"

Despite the strain, Alan was still able to muster a smile. "Oh, it'll give her every chance in the world to show off her new stuff to all her friends. Talking about friends, you think our kids will get along?"

Danny considered what Taylor had told him over the course of several long and involved conversations. "Totally. So it's a girl, is it?"

"Oh, we haven't been telling anyone, but yeah. That's what the test said." Alan leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, and let out a groan of aggravation. "But do you think we can agree on a name? Like hell we can. Everything I suggest, she shoots down, and everything she comes up with, I can't stand."

Danny shrugged, recalling the conversation. "How about Emma? Emma's a nice name."

"Emma." Alan tested the name, saying it slowly. "Emma Barnes. Emma. Hm, I like it." He raised his voice slightly. "Hey, Anne-Rose. Danny says Emma would be a nice name. What do you think?"

Anne-Rose nodded. "I agree." She, of course, had been privy to the same conversation. "Andrea?"

Danny knew from Andrea's smirk that a smartass answer was incoming. "Well, so long as Gothic High Priestess of Almighty Cthulhu is already taken, I guess Emma's okay for a second choice."

To his credit, Alan took it in his stride. "Uh, yeah, we'd already decided against that one. Far too common, you understand."

Dragon snorted with amusement and turned the page of her book, but didn't otherwise comment.

-ooo-​

7:36 PM, Sunday, November 3, 1996
A Modest House in the Suburbs

Vice-Principal Gladys Knott


The duties of a vice-principal were many and varied; more were being laid on Gladys' shoulders every year as Principal Woodbine got closer to retiring, but she didn't mind. She still had the chance to teach Computer Studies, and Paul (once she got to be his vice-principal, they were on a first name basis when in private) held the strong opinion that if she was going to be running the school one day, she needed to know how it all ran.

Winslow was a good school, in her opinion. She hadn't had a great time in the first couple of years, but meeting Taylor Snow had turned that all around. With Taylor's encouragement, she'd learned to stand up for herself and even acquired useful skills such as staff-fighting, boxing and shooting.

Amusingly enough, this had had some unforeseen knock-on effects. She liked to get in some bag work in the gym most mornings before she showered and went to home room, and word had gotten around that Vice Principal Knott could knock you on your ass if you disrespected her. Also, she had a standing invitation from Joe Campbell to attend the JROTC firing range at any time, to show the little snot-noses (his term, not hers) how to really shoot.

As a result, she was thoroughly respected by the vast majority of the student body, and everyone in her Computer Studies class paid close attention to what she had to say. Even the would-be tough guys from the poor side of town spoke quietly in her presence. For her part, she made sure to treat everyone equally and did her best to ensure bullying of any kind was stepped on, hard.

Outside of school hours, her marriage to Franklin was the other highlight of her life. For obvious reasons, he knew only the safe-for-civilians version of the 'camping' trip she'd been on with Taylor; the part where they'd snuck out, crossed the border, and sniped a supervillain was entirely unknown to him. Even though that one act had undoubtedly saved an unknown number of other women from being victimised by him, she still wasn't proud of having taken a human life, and would happily have lived the rest of her days having never done it.

As far as her devoted husband was concerned, she was nicely predictable (or perhaps that was predictably nice), dedicated to her students, albeit with a few impressively athletic hobbies. She knew this because he'd said so himself, on more than one occasion. Their home life was a reflection of that; quiet, orderly, and predictable.

Which made the phone call all the more of a shock when she picked up the phone halfway through sorting out Tuesday morning's pop quiz. "Hello?"

"Hey, Gladys," Taylor said breezily. "Can you talk?"

The question could have only one meaning. Taylor wanted to discuss something Gladys would not want Franklin knowing about, and she was checking to see if free conversation was possible.

Gladys pretended to stretch, looking around as she did so. Franklin was in the living room, visible through her study door though not in earshot, especially as he was engrossed in his favourite car show. She wanted to say no, but she was also aware that Taylor wouldn't have called if it wasn't serious. "I can talk."

"Excellent. You might be aware of the ongoing labour dispute at Lord's Port. It's going to come to a head tomorrow morning. There are agents provocateur in the city, seeking to stir up trouble for their own ends, so there will be violence. I can't get there in time—I'm in the middle of dismantling a plot to bomb the Kansas City PRT building—but Danny is going to need sniper overwatch, come sunrise."

On the verge of speaking, Gladys closed her mouth again. She was not law enforcement. This was not her job. Taylor was law enforcement … but she wasn't here, and the PRT didn't oversee labour disputes, and she was talking about Danny.

She liked Danny and Anne-Rose. They were really nice people, and young Tyler was a sweet kid who had a hug for her every time she visited them in their apartment. From the way Taylor was talking, Danny's life was going to be in jeopardy.

Aaargh. Why me?

Taking a deep breath, she let it out again, slowly. "I'm not killing anyone for you. Not again. Not this time." Even as she spoke, she could feel herself retreating toward a compromise. She hadn't said she wasn't shooting anyone, just not going for a kill shot. Arguing with Taylor was irritating like that.

"No deaths are required," Taylor agreed. "But someone is going to be pointing a gun at Danny, and they will pull the trigger unless you do it first. A flesh wound is entirely acceptable."

And that was the big question, wasn't it? Am I willing to hurt a stranger to save a friend?

She pondered on the problem for several more seconds, aware Taylor was waiting for an answer, but equally aware that she wasn't being pushed into the decision. What finally tipped the balance was the memory of the last time she and Franklin had visited the younger Heberts, and the look of joy on Tyler's face as he came to her for a hug. There was no way in hell 'Aunt Gladdy' was willing to let that kid get hurt by losing his dad so young in life.

"Okay, fine," she grumbled, fully aware that she'd been manipulated but unwilling to hold a grudge on the matter. "Details?"

"Bring wire cutters. Site security will be down toward the southern end of Lord's Port, containing the protestors. The northernmost crane will be farthest from the action. If you park on Wilson Street, you can cut a hole in the fence to get through. Climb the crane and keep an eye on the big container ship that's anchored across the mouth of the harbour. That's where Danny's going to be. Once you've dealt with the threat, climb down and exfiltrate, the way they taught us. Got all that?"

"Yes, but I don't have to like it." She grimaced. "Can't we just tell Danny not to be there?"

"If he sends one of his friends and they get killed, he'll wear the guilt for that for the rest of his life. I trust you to get it right."

Slowly, Gladys nodded. "Okay, yeah. Gotcha. You owe me big-time for this, you do know that, yeah?"

There was a smile in Taylor's voice as she answered. "Next time I'm in Brockton Bay, I'll take you and Franklin out to the fanciest restaurant in town and let you spend as big as you like."

"I'll hold you to that." Gladys sighed. "When does it all end? When can we relax and say, enough?"

Taylor paused before answering, almost long enough that Gladys thought she wasn't going to. "When I figure it out, I'll let you know."

"Yeah, I hear that. Later, Taylor."

"Later." There was a beep as the call ended, and Gladys put the phone down.

She sat there thinking for a few minutes, then she got up and headed into the living room. "Hey, hon?"

Franklin looked around from the TV. "Yeah?"

"I was just about to make myself a hot drink. You want one too?"

He nodded, giving her the big goofy smile she'd fallen in love with. "Thanks, dear. That would be amazing."

"No problem." She started past his chair toward the kitchen, then he reached out and grabbed her hand. Stopping, she looked back at him.

"I love you so much." He squeezed her hand, causing a sharp pang of guilt to pierce her chest, all the way through her heart and out the other side.

Forcing herself to smile, she squeezed back. "Love you more."

Once in the kitchen, she started preparing the hot drinks, adding an extra spoonful of sugar to his, the way he liked it. While the water was still heating in the electric jug, she ducked into the bathroom and grabbed a sleeping pill from the medicine cabinet.

She crushed it easily into a white powder with the help of a pair of spoons, and dosed his cup with it. As much as she hated doing this, and hated herself for doing it, it was the only way she could think of keeping him separate from any repercussions that might happen as a result.

If this is the right thing to do, why do I feel like shit?

-ooo-​

5:45 AM, Monday, November 4, 1996
Lord's Port

Danny


The sun had yet to rise, though there was a distinct glow on the eastern horizon that told Danny it wasn't far off. A chill wind cut through the port, making the high-vis vest he was donning flap briefly before he fastened it shut. His father stood a little distance away, giving orders to the other members of the Dockworkers' Association.

They'd been given ample warning of this via Taylor's dossier, and George had been able to weed out the troublemakers from among his own ranks, sending them home or pairing them with men who'd make sure they didn't do anything stupid. But that didn't help much when the other side also had people who were more interested in causing chaos than reaching an equitable agreement. However, forewarned was forearmed, and men were being sent to each of the potential trouble spots that Taylor had warned them about.

They hadn't been able to do much about the container ship NES Puckatawney moving during the night and anchoring across the mouth of the harbour. Even with the influence Danny's father had with the Association, he couldn't give orders to ship captains, not if someone with more perceived authority gave a conflicting order. However, that wasn't to say he didn't intend to do something about it. Whatever it was, Danny had faith in him.

The men he'd been talking to moved off on their appointed tasks, and George turned to Danny. "Son, you'll be taking a crew out to the Puck."

"What?" Danny stared at him. "But you'll need me here—"

"I need a reliable man out there on that ship, one I can trust to use his head and get it right." A solid forefinger prodded Danny in the middle of the chest. "That's you. Don't do anything rash once you get out there, and don't let them do anything rash either. Where that ship's placed, if something happens to it, it'll block the whole harbour in." They both knew that was one of the potential events Taylor had included in her folder of information. "I'm depending on you to not let that happen."

"Right." Danny still half-suspected his father was sending him out of harm's way, but it was also a vital task. "I won't let you down, Dad."

George slapped him heavily on the shoulder. "I know, son." He pointed at the launch tied up at the bottom of the steps, with the men in it waiting for Danny. "Now get out there."

Danny headed down the steps and climbed into the launch; the men, nearly all of them older than him, respectfully made way for him. "Are we going now, sir?" asked Burkholt, a rugged Dockworker who was at least twice his age.

He nodded, then found a seat. "Cast off. Let's get out there before anyone does anything stupid."

"Aye, sir."

-ooo-​

Gladys

The cranes were goddamn tall; Gladys blessed the regular exercise she'd been taking, which ensured that by the time she got to the top, she wasn't a totally useless mess. Still, it took her several valuable minutes to ease the quivers out of her hands and open the rifle case. Wind whistled through the framework around her, making her glad that the heavy black clothing she'd picked for the excursion was winterproofed. She'd shot under worse conditions, but it was never fun.

The .308 Winchester she'd gotten from Taylor for a wedding present shot clean and true every time, especially with the 20x scope she kept carefully zeroed. Lifting it out of its padded home, she looked it over minutely for any problems, then pulled the bolt back. The breech was empty, so she took the magazine and slotted it into place, then worked the bolt crisply to chamber a round for real.

When she rested the rifle on a rail and peered down at the harbour, the only thing moving was a small boat apparently heading out to the container ship. That was where Taylor had said Danny was going to be, so she snuggled her cheek up to the cold stock—it would warm up with her body heat—and peered through the scope, her finger well outside the trigger-guard. Sure enough, the skinny form of Danny was easy to see among the other Dockworkers as the boat forged its steady way across the expanse of water.

"Overwatch in place," she whispered to herself. "Let's do this."

-ooo-​

Danny

The trip across the harbour was almost peaceful. This close to the water, there was barely any wind, so the surface was like glass. Later, he knew, the heat of the day (such as it was) would stir up more wind, and what few swells could get in past the Puckatawney would start the ships in the harbour rolling gently, but right now it could've been a still life.

As they got closer to the massive container ship, he watched the huge rusty hull rise cliff-like before him, and he began to feel very much inadequate to the task. However, this was the first time he'd been trusted with a job of this magnitude and there was no way in hell he was letting his father down. "Get in close," he said, just loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the launch's engine. "The pilot's gangway is still down. We'll go up that way."

Burkholt, who was manning the tiller, had already been steering in that direction, but the nod of approval he gave Danny told him that he'd made the right decision. More importantly, he'd made it before it needed to be hinted to him. Maybe I can actually do this. It was something he clung to.

As they pulled in next to the pilot's gangway—a mobile stair that would be let down for the harbour pilot to board—a shout of alarm came down from above, and the noise of cranking ensued. Gradually, the gangway began to rise. It appeared that the crew of the NES Puckatawney were not welcoming to visitors.

"Go!" Danny snapped. "Get up there! Burkholt, once we're on, sheer off and hold position!" He didn't know where the words had come from, but they sounded right.

The other men thought so too, because they grabbed the rising gangway and swarmed onto it. Danny tried to climb up, nearly lost his grip, then a brawny arm grabbed his and hauled him up and onto the gangway. "Careful there, sir. Don't want to go swimming. It's mucky in there."

And then they were bolting up the gangway, racing the crew who were trying to get to the head of the stair and block Danny's men from coming on board. Something solid was thrust into Danny's hand, and he looked down to find that he was holding a length of wood that had been sanded and smoothed off to a useful length. The other men were already holding their own weapons of choice; he was the only one who hadn't thought to bring one along.

"Don't start anything!" he tried to shout as he ran. "We're here to keep things peaceful!"

He couldn't tell if they'd heard him or not, but when he got to the top, he found his men in a tense standoff with the crew of the Puckatawney. Nobody had swung a weapon yet, thankfully. He pushed his way to the front, looking around for somebody who might be in charge.

"What is this?" The man who stepped forward held himself with a certain amount of authority. "I'm the master of this vessel. What are you doing here?"

"I'm Danny Hebert. My father's the head of the Dockworkers' Association, George Hebert." Danny felt the man's attention centre on him, and forced himself to keep talking. "We're not here to cause problems, but we got word that things are going to heat up today, and we wanted to make sure nothing went wrong on this ship. Who gave the order to anchor across the harbour mouth, anyway?"

The man didn't answer, but instead glanced sideways. Danny followed his eyes and saw someone whose expression held real hostility, rather than the dull dislike from the rest of them. "I did. What are you going to do about it?"

"And you are?" Danny stepped forward. He was taller than the man, though skinnier.

The new speaker also moved into the empty space between the two groups. "None of your business. You and your men are leaving this ship, right now."

The first rays of sunlight struck across the harbour, but Danny had no eyes for it. "That's not going to happen. We're here to make sure nobody sabotages this ship, and the port stays open." He clenched his hand around the length of wood he'd been given.

Reaching into his jacket, the man pulled an automatic pistol and pointed it at him. "You will get off this goddamn ship, or I will shoot you and throw you off it."

All of a sudden, the club Danny was holding felt remarkably inadequate to the task at hand. He tried to think of what Taylor would do. She'd already have a pistol pointed at him. Or Sergeant Kinsey would grab him and drive him into the deck like a tent peg. Yeah, neither of those things is going to happen.

He took a deep breath. "Put the gun down. We can talk about this."

"Nope." The man's expression became a sneer. "By the time we're done, your Association will be finished." His finger began to tighten on the trigger.

Danny realised he was going to shoot far too late to do anything about it. So, he did the only thing he could think of. He launched himself forward, knowing he was going to be shot but determined to bowl the bastard over anyway.

-ooo-​

Gladys

"Fuck," she murmured, as the fresh sunlight glinted on the pistol. Her crosshairs drifted over the gunman, then steadied. There was no single place in the human body that a high-powered rifle bullet could incapacitate with a guarantee of not killing, but she could definitely aim for a less than instantly lethal shot.

Her target selected, she breathed out as she took up pressure on the trigger. Half a mile away, a paid saboteur did the same. She got there first; the rifle let out a spiteful crack as it jolted against her shoulder. Holding her aim, she watched to see if she needed a second shot.

-ooo-​

Danny

Suddenly, the guy lurched sideways; he let out a high-pitched scream as his kneecap exploded in blood and gore. The pistol jerked off at an angle and fired, the bullet punching into a shipping container. Danny stumbled to a halt as one of the other men darted forward and kicked the weapon free from the hand of the stricken man. Distantly, a rifle-crack echoed over the harbour.

"What the hell?" he asked. "Who fired?"

The master of the Puckatawney shrugged, his hands carefully held out away from his body. "I don't know. We don't carry guns."

Danny looked back at his crew. None of them seemed to have a clue, either.

"Okay, secure him and give him medical attention." He nodded to his men. "Then go through this ship. Keep an eye out for any of his friends and make sure they haven't already done something to screw things up." Looking in the general direction of where the shot seemed to have come from, he waved his arms in a general 'no more shooting, please' gesture. As no other shots were fired, he figured he'd gotten the message across.

"Aye, sir."

-ooo-​

Gladys

Nobody seemed to have figured out where the shot came from by the time she climbed back through the hole in the fence, her rifle securely in its case over her shoulder. Once back to her car, she pulled off the watch cap and dark sweater, then drove sedately home. Franklin would be still asleep, thanks to the sleeping pill in his drink; if he did wake earlier than expected, she'd be able to pass off her absence as an early morning jog.

This was just one more thing she'd never be able to talk about, except maybe to Taylor herself.

Gee, thanks a bunch.

-ooo-​

Danny

With the harbour pilot on board this time, the NES Puckatawney was returning to its place in the harbour anchorage as Danny rode the launch back across the port. They'd located scuttling charges placed here and there on the ship, and disarmed them, and the ship's crew had pointed out several more members of the saboteur's group. These were all under close guard, which made the launch somewhat crowded, but he didn't care. He'd been sent to do a dangerous job, and he'd succeeded.

Dad's going to be so proud of me!

Already phrasing the question in his head for his father about the sniper—for there was nobody else he knew of who could've arranged for one—he was the first to jump out of the launch onto the cracked concrete steps of the jetty. Catching the rope that was slung to him, he tied the boat off, then hauled it in so that others could climb out. He waited until it was properly secure, then headed up the steps, two at a time.

"Where's Dad?" he asked the first Dockworker he encountered. "We got a big one."

The surprised look in the man's eyes should have warned him. "Jesus, Danny. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" He frowned. "What for?"

"You don't know?" Now the guy was looking guilty.

"No!" Worry flooded across him, sending ice-water through his veins. "What happened? Tell me?"

The story came out in fits and starts. Most of the troublemakers had been locked down, but one bunch had broken out and tried to cause real damage. George Hebert had been in the forefront of those who met them head-on and stopped them in their tracks, but he'd gone down in the fray and not gotten up again.

"They say he's alive," the Dockworker told him. "But they've taken him to the hospital. It was his heart. I thought you knew."

"No," Danny said wretchedly, all his elation gone; drained away and turned to ash. "No, I didn't know."

He stumbled off toward where he'd left his car, because there was no way in hell he was going to let someone else break the news to his mother, and get her to the hospital.

And when his father woke up, he intended to be standing by the bed.

Please be okay, Dad.

Please.



End of Part 8-7​
 
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Part 8-8: Requiem for a Dockworker New
Recoil

Part 8-8: Requiem for a Dockworker

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



Monday Morning, November 4, 1996
Kansas City, Missouri

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT (Intelligence)


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


-ooo-​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainly, Captain. Uh, dismissed."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If I'd been there …"

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

"Well, no, but …"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ma'am."

-ooo-​

Four and a Half Hours Later

Brockton Bay General Hospital

Danny Hebert


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Uh, yes, my father."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy shit, Taylor made it.

-ooo-​

Captain Taylor Snow, PRT (Intelligence)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-ooo-​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



End of Part 8-8​
 
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