The Atlantic Ocean laps at the foot of Captain's Hill, washing over an impromptu beach of trash and rubble. Listen to the waves crashing against the hill for long enough and you could lull yourself to sleep.
It isn't a bad place to go out, the coroner decides.
The ruined skyscrapers spoil the scene's bucolic feel, jutting out of the water as they do. They're unreal. Like something out of a science fiction movie. All that's missing is a picturesque monument for Charlton Heston to scream at.
The coroner is still captivated by the seascape when the cop comes back.
"Pack up. This is a PRT scene now."
"Huh?" The coroner turns a half step, rousing. "Why?"
The cop points to the dead vagrant propped up against the obelisk. There's a syringe in one pockmarked arm. "That's Squealer. She's a Merchant."
The edge of the coroner's mouth ticks upward. "A celebrity."
"Yeah. Christ. All those people, and this fucking junkie makes it?"
"Guess she felt the same way."
. . .
The Augustus Country Club. From overhead, its unbroken stretch of verdant golfing greens clashes with the surrounding patchwork lawns of suburbia. Not that Amy can view it from overhead anymore. Today, though, all the humvees and military tents set the grounds apart.
'GUEST' badge pinned to her chest, Amy steps inside the clubhouse. It's a changed place. Gone are the businessmen and women in workout clothes clutching rackets, replaced by PRT and FEMA staffers milling around. No trophy wives brunch in the east wing. A glance at a printout taped to a nearby wall announces it as the PRT's mess hall.
Oversized black and white portraits deck the lobby's walls. Amy pauses for a moment to lay her bouquet at the first spot she can find, keeping her eyes down, too scared to look up at all the frozen smiles. She takes a moment to revitalize some of the wilted offerings, and then one of the desk secretaries assigns her a security escort, but Amy has spent enough time at the Augustus to know the layout.
The Wards aren't set up anywhere special. Just one of those generic conference rooms with one or two nice couches. Even the bookshelves lining one wall are, Amy knows, filled with blank leatherback volumes doubtlessly bought in bulk. The PRT threw in some whiteboards on rollers, a folding table, and some laptops. Wires crisscross the floor haphazardly.
The Wards have their masks on. Two of them, anyway.
Gallant's knightly power armor is back from the shop. Circus is curled up on one of the couches, tapping away at the laptop perched on her knees. The third Ward she doesn't recognize. Gawky and thin and pale, this cape is all dark curls and thin wide lips. No mask. Just big brown eyes peering at her from behind prescription glasses.
It takes a moment for Amy's sleep-deprived brain to make the connection.
Weirdly, aside from a brief fluttering of her heart, she feels...
...nothing.
Skitter is just—just a face, now.
"Panacea," Gallant says. "It's good to see you."
"Y-yeah."
Circus is studying them now, out of the corner of her eye.
Amy fidgets with the strap of her duffle bag. "Can we talk? Privately?"
They move down the hall, to another of the club's generic conference rooms. The windows are open wide, letting in a clean breeze. The steady thip-thip-thip-thip of sprinkles watering the greens wafts in.
Before Gallant has even closed the doors, Amy arms herself.
"This is for you." She holds out a flash drive.
Palming the drive, he asks, "What's on it?"
"Dragon, uh, she made it for me. It's pictures and some videos. Of—of my family. She trawled their email and smartphones accounts, all that stuff."
Dean takes off his helmet. "A copy, right?"
Amy rolls her eyes. "Yes, a copy."
"Okay."
"It's not like I'm giving away my toaster, Dean. I need that to dump in the bathtub." He goes very still. "That was a joke."
Dean nods.
Amy turns her back on him. Not that it matters if he can see her face or not. He'll read her emotions all the same. Fucking thinkers. "It's not everything. Just all the stuff with V-Vicky. I don't know how much you have left b—"
He surprises her from behind with a bear hug.
Dean is mindful enough not to make skin contact, instead pressing his forehead into the crown of her skull, where her frizzy brown hair is thickest. Amy stands still. Being enveloped by limbs covered in power armor will do that. So will memory.
In the place of Dean, she remembers arms as strong as his holding her, but infinitely softer. Good memories.
But now, only memories.
Her cellphone's alarm goes off.
They break apart, hiding their faces from each other. Amy scrambles to silence the clamoring phone. She arranged this face-to-face to be right before her flight. Less chance for awkward conversation. Now...
Once they've collected themselves, Dean offers to walk her outside. They talk business on the way. It's an easier subject.
"Circus doesn't hide their contempt. My guess is that the initial shock was the only reason they even took the deal. Now it's just a matter of waiting for a better opportunity." Amy almost asks about Dean's little pronoun game, but lets it slide. Brockton Bay's affairs aren't her concern anymore. "Weaver... I don't know. It's hard to get a bead on her."
"She wasn't wearing a mask."
"Yeah," he exhales. "I'm working on that."
On the horizon, a dark speck grows bigger. Her ride.
Amy wishes Dean's helmet was off. His close-cropped blond hair would glow in the harsh sunlight, and take away from the dark circles she spotted under his eyes a few minutes ago. That image would make for a better final memory of his face.
She doesn't love him, or even really like him, despite how downright weird today has gotten, but he was Vicky's, and one of the few things left of hers.
"Where will you go?" Amy asks. "Once the condemnation's finished."
His parents, like her adopted family, left enough money to live on comfortably for years.
"Boston? Maybe? Or New York. I'd like to stay close." Dean takes her 'GUEST' pass when she hands it over, prying free the 'GUILD' identification card and handing it back. "So, Vancouver, huh?"
"Eventually."
"Oh?"
"It's... well..."
"Personal."
"Yeah."
The aircraft is close enough she can make out the abnormal shape of it, the too-keen lines vaguely reminiscent of a dragon. Her heartbeat picks up. It's time. It's real. It's now.
"I need a break from superpowers and Endbringers," Amy confesses, as the craft sets down.
"And from your patients?" Dean's question carries a note of hope.
"No. Never. But... I could do more. I'm of age. I want to start making a real difference with my power. I-I think Vicky would've wanted that."
Dean squeezes her shoulder.
He's still standing there, vigilant, as the aircraft rises back into the air. Amy gazes back at him through a porthole window. In the midday sun, Dean's gold and silver armor is like a burning torch. Amy stares. Amy lets the sight of him sear itself into her retinas.
Then the aircraft pivots, and Dean rolls out of sight.
Eyes watery from the caustic light, she settles against the headrest as the Guild craft accelerates, shooting away from Brockton Bay, away from the last two people she knows, even if they were once enemies.
Dean's throbbing afterimage fades eventually.
Amy still doesn't open her eyes for a long, long time.