Exfiltrate 1.2

I beelined for the computer.

When I booted it up, it didn't prompt me for a password. Instead the loading screen displayed an oddly positioned omega—no, a C, turned upward at a forty-five degree angle. The same symbol I'd seen tattooed on Newter and Gregor the Snail.

The Number Man had said Cauldron had a knack for figuring out "mutually beneficial" arrangements. I thought Gregor, Newter, Gully, and Weld would disagree—and that it would not be in my interest to forget that.

The first thing I did when the computer loaded was check the time. Just after midnight. I'd seen daylight through the windows of the warehouse, which meant that I was now in a time zone well ahead of any in North America.

Then I remembered how Alexandria had reacted to our portal in Brockton Bay and compared it with the ease with which Number Man called portals into existence. Maybe I was in a North America, if not the one I recognized as home . . . something to ask about, maybe.

I searched the computer. There were no files that I could see stored on the hard drive and I didn't have access to any of the other computers in the local network. Worse, but not surprisingly, I couldn't find a program to access the web. I knew, rationally, that it had been too much to hope for internet, but there was still a level on which I was disappointed.

Defeated, I put the computer on standby and went to the bathroom.

When I was done, I decided to investigate the refrigerator—this time using my hands instead of my forehead. It held milk and ingredients for a variety of sandwiches. I made a peanut butter and jelly and explored the rest of the room. The closet had a dresser in it. I opened it and found underwear, bras, socks, black jeans, white t-shirts, and black sneakers.

They weren't clothes I'd have picked out for myself, and the fact they were all my size was more than a little unsettling, but they were much better than the orange jumpsuit I was wearing. I changed into one of the t-shirts and prepared to go to bed. A shower was in order, but I chose to hold off on taking one so I wouldn't have to sleep on wet hair.

Not that I expected to get much sleep. I'd slept for most of the trip from Boston, and I felt too anxious and curious to sleep. I'd still go through the motions.

As I settled into the bed, which was much more comfortable than anything owned by a villainous corporation had any right to be, I realized I'd underestimated my exhaustion. Maybe, I thought, I should see if I can use the computer to set an alarm . . .

I awoke to something brushing against my face.

Suddenly alert, I sat up and flipped on the light immediately. Nobody was there.

Maybe the air conditioning? But there wasn't a vent aimed at my bed. I tried to think of alternative explanations, but nothing was forthcoming. I reluctantly chalked it up to my imagination or an uncomfortably realistic dream and set about showering and getting dressed.

As I made myself another sandwich, this one turkey and cheese, I reflected on what I'd seen of Cauldron so far. The whiteness of everything spooked me a little for reasons I still couldn't articulate, but everything else, from the bed to my jeans to the food, struck me as being of extremely high quality. Each thing here had been chosen, I thought, and paid for with a great deal more money than I'd have ever felt comfortable spending.

Then it clicked for me. All of this—the secret base, the money and resources implicit behind everything, the impression of systematic control—it reminded me of Coil, more than anything else. Had he been a Cauldron cape? He was exactly who I thought of when I thought of the kind of person who would purchase a product refined by human experimentation.

I finished the sandwich and checked the time on the computer. Seven-thirty. I wasn't sure what the Number Man had meant when he said he'd pick me up at a little before eight, but I figured that it left me enough time to explore my surroundings.

I'd entered through a portal the night before, but my room had a more usual door. I tried it, found it was unlocked, and stepped through into a white-tiled hallway. I ventured out of my room and tried the other doors I saw. All were unlocked and led to rooms identical to mine. I checked the refrigerators and closets in the first four or five and found them empty. Was I the only one here?

I couldn't be certain that I'd be able to find my way back through the labyrinthine corridors without my bugs, so I didn't go far.

On my way back to my room, I thought about the capes I knew were Cauldron-made. The Siberian, Grey Boy, the Triumvirate. The last three were the most powerful capes around barring Scion, the Siberian had been considered invulnerable until Tattletale had worked out the creator's secret, and Grey Boy . . . everyone knew about Grey Boy. Nobody talked about him, or thought about him if they could help it.

The Travelers had gotten vials, and they'd been as powerful as they'd been difficult to work with. Then there were the Case 53s, the monsters, the "Subjects" mentioned in the contract Faultline's Crew had seized. People like Weld and Newter, physically warped but more than capable of holding their own in a fight.

None of that touched the rest of the power I knew Cauldron wielded. They'd controlled the PRT through Alexandria, the Eidolon clone had said they could manipulate the American media, and the Number Man had been known as a neutral accountant for any supervillain group. I had the impression that they were playing both sides of the game, like arms dealers selling to every country in a conflict and profiting off the collective misery and death of everyone caught in between.

And the person orchestrating all of this wanted to talk to me, had gone to some lengths to obtain me. Why? The Number Man had mentioned the next two years, and it was easy enough to see where that number had come from: Dinah's prophecy about Jack.

Did they know where he was? But if that were so, why would they need me? What could I do that they couldn't? Why did they expect it to take two years? What would happen after that? Did they know what Jack was supposed to do to end the world?

My mind was more active than it had been, which I optimistically took as a sign that the drugs were wearing off, but now it was chasing itself in circles. I needed answers, data, a mission.

I looked at the computer again. It was 7:56. I started to wonder if I'd been forgotten.

Two minutes passed before I heard a knock on the door.

"Good morning," the Number Man said when I opened it. "I hope you slept well?"

"Isn't the meeting supposed to be at eight?" I asked. "Aren't we cutting it a little close?"

He waved a hand and the air behind him parted to reveal a set of double doors.

Of course. Portals would practically eliminate transportation time.

He held his arm out, gesturing me to go through the doors. "After you."

I pushed open one of the doors and found a conference room, again all white and again without windows. There were already two people in the room, and on seeing them my body instantly readied itself for a fight.

The man in the cargo pants and green hoodie who sat in the office chair closest to the doors barely registered. I noticed that he nodded when I came in, though I judged the greeting to be directed more at the Number Man than me because he didn't introduce himself.

I knew who he was, anyway, because I recognized him from fighting Noelle. I saw now that Echidna hadn't warped him much; Eidolon was ugly and he did seem to be so much smaller than his powerset and reputation warranted.

But my attention was arrested by the woman in jeans and a blouse sitting at the other end of the table, in the seat furthest from the doors and consequently me. She'd gone without makeup today, which made the star-shaped scar on the edge of her left eye stand out.

Alexandria.