This is a fanfiction story that takes place in the world setting of Worm. Worm is a Supervillain serial story, with a serious amount of work, world-building, and character depth built into it. You can find it with an appropriate google search, probably by including the keywords "worm", "parahumans", and "wordpress".

Worm is the property of its author, a person who goes by the alias of Wildbow. I intend no infringement upon his property, nor profit from this story. I write this only for fun.

The Devil You Don't Know

1148, 05/23/2012 AMM Compound, West of Sancti

After what seemed like most of an eternity, Callahan's eyes cracked open. He blinked away the blurriness, and waited for them to clear.

His side throbbed, and he moved a hand to it... Rather, he tried. His arm jerked against wire. He tried his other hand, found a similar effect.

Ah.

He turned his neck... That still worked. Dim room, light filtering in through closed blinds. Dark enough, but he could almost see. What he couldn't see, a few test motions confirmed. He was seated on a wooden, high-backed chair. Bound to it with wires, at the ankles and wrists. Knees and elbows bound as well. Someone was taking him seriously, and he had a notion who was to blame.

He found that moving one hand also moved the other. An eyebrow rose. Seriously? They'd bound his hands with a connecting tether, a connecting WIRE tether? Morons. He set his hands to working, sawing the wire against the wood, back and forth, rasping.

His side throbbed again. That was where the taser had struck, he remembered. Hadn't helped that he had been going without body armor for this one. Needed speed to get the pursuit into the killbox. But he'd never reached the killbox.

Camoflaged men had ambushed him on the way there. He'd seen them coming, could have turned, but didn't. Could have killed his way out of the ambush, hadn't. Could have dodged the pointman with the taser, but restrained himself.

All it had cost him was pain and a bit of replaceable equipment, and so far, the plan was inside acceptable parameters.

And his freedom to move, of course, for the time being... But that was fine. He'd stirred the pot, and was in one of the places he'd hoped to get to. Unless they up and shot him, he could probably keep the original plan. And hell, if there was a single big benefit to being Devil Dog, it was that people KNEW that shooting wouldn't stop you.

So long as they kept thinking that, things would probably work out...

After perhaps ten minutes, there were approaching footsteps. A muffled challenge from outside the door. Camera? Ah, there it was, up in the corner. Probably infrared, since the light in here was so poor. He could work with that.

The door opened, revealing a brightly-lit hallway. Three silhouettes looking in. Callahan closed one eye, squinted at them with the other. All male, all dressed similarly. Two were pointing longarms at him. The third walked into the room, moved out of the firing lane from the doorway, and lit a cigar. Light flared, revealing aviator sunglasses, and a green beret atop a broad face that had nary a laugh line on it. The man shook out the match, and puffed, taking a moment to consider Callahan.

"As you were, soldier."

Callahan looked down at his bound form, looked back up again. He kept his mouth shut.

"Devil Dog or Callahan?" Asked the cigar smoker. Callahan didn't answer.

One of the gunmen walked over, casually slammed the butt of his longarm into Callahan's face. He fell backward in the chair, cracking his head against the tiled floor as he went. Pain flared and things went sparky for a few moments... By the time he recovered, both the gunmen were in there, hauling the chair upright again. Callahan grimaced to himself. Sloppy. They'd let the rifles swing back on their slings. There was no one covering him at the minute.

He felt around his teeth with a tongue. All still there. Be one hell of a bruised cheekbone, though.

Amateurs who didn't know enough to keep guns on a dangerous prisoner, but sure as hell knew how to hit one without doing serious damage. Yep, these jackasses were everything he'd expected and less.

"Boys... No need to be so rough. He ain't going nowhere." The cigar smoker exhaled a cloud, and grinned. "Besides, I reckon he'll talk. I ain't one of his targets, after all. I'm Crockett. GENERAL Crockett, to you. I reckon that's got rank on you son, so you tell me how you want me to call you, and answer my questions, and I reckon we'll get on fine."

Callahan considered him for a moment, then flicked his eyes down to the glowing point of the cigar. "Callahan's fine." He shut an eye again. Under the chair, he resumed sawing the wire between his wrists, deeper into the wood.

With his open one, he could make out one of the thugs sneering. Good. Attitudes like that were to be encouraged for now. It'd make things easier later.

The grin again. Crockett motioned with the cigar hand, and the first thug grabbed his chair and backhanded him. He rolled with it, made a show of jerking his head to make it look worse than it was, coughed a bit for effect, and took his time straightening his gaze back to his interrogator. "You answer me with a SIR, understand. You do remember yer trainin', right son?"

"Yes sir."

Another puff of smoke. The grin disappeared. "I must admit to bein' a bit disappointed, sergeant Callahan. I mean, when I heard of you a few years back, I thought now THERE'S a soldier we could use. But seein' how easy my boys took you in, seein' you in this here chair... Well, you're human, just like the rest. Pissed yerself when the taser hit, and out like a light with just a quick injection. Guess your power's made ya sloppy, son. And that's why folks like me are always gonna win over folks like you. There's lots of us, and not so many of y'all, and we KNOW just how mortal we are. We never forget it."

He stood and paced. Callahan turned his head to watch him. Not much to look at, now that his eyes were adjusting. An average-sized man, maybe a little short, with the start of a pot-belly and greying hair. He looked like a store clerk, save for the glasses and the khaki fatigues, and the sidearm holstered at his hip.

"Can't forget it. Country's goin' to hell, after all. It was ruined by them liberal assholes for decades, and a government that's forgotten how to make the hard choices. Capes have risen up to be little gods over men, and the average person is in CONSTANT danger from the whims of folks who the system was never meant to handle."

Crockett faced him, removed the glasses. Dark eyes underneath, Callahan couldn't tell the color in the dim light.

"But you, I don't have to give you the speech. I know what happened to yer family, son. That weren't right."

Callahan closed his eyes, let his head hang.

"And you went for them that did it, and kept on going. Hell, I ought to shake yer hand. Maybe I will, once we're done here, if you come around to my way of thinkin'."

He looked at Crockett again.

Crockett grinned a wry grin. "Don't get me wrong. You got no place in the future of Texas, once we restore the Republic and fly the flag again. Once we kick the fallen mockery of US government to the curb, and run the beaners back over the fences, it'll be native Texans allowed only, and you ain't one. But in the meantime, you COULD be useful ta me."

Crockett moved over to him, squatted down, hands on his knees so he was looking Callahan even in the eye. Callahan fought hard to keep his face impassive. Amateurs, nothing but amateurs. Still, dangerous amateurs right now.

"Yer here huntin' Capes, and we got no shortage of those," said Crockett. "Got a few of those in our army, and they're off limits. But I got a friend tells me you ain't after OURS, anyway."

He didn't mention Occam, but his eyes were studying Callahan closely. He was waiting for a reaction, so Callahan formed his face into the appearance of hurt. Amateurs get more complacent when they see what they expect to see...

Sure enough, "General" Crockett grinned. "Yep. He came to me, told me you asked about all the local capes. But you weren't interested much in our boys. You didn't say that, but your questions spoke volumes, and my GOOD friend the razor is good at paring away falsehoods until the truth remains. He knows you ain't after US. And so, we can maybe come to a deal, here."

"I'm listening. Sir."

Crockett nodded, pulled out a second cigar, offered it to him. Callahan shook his head, ignored the pain. The secondhand smoke he was getting from this talk would be enough of a taint, he'd have to detox later. No sense in adding more to it. The general continued.

"Carbombs and sniping. You hit the Faithful... The Graveyard Gang too, if I'm reading between the lines properly. Nothing came of the one yesterday, but today you took out Stigmata, by the looks of it. She was a healer, a strong one. Also had this trick where she could make your blood run out your body just by lookin' at ya. Powerful. Potent. Now gone, and the Faithful are weakened. Vulnerable."

The General straightened up. "We're too well-known. Everyone knows our headquarters. Everyone knows our methods. Everyone knows who my boys are... Well, except Everyman, most of the time. But he's harder to deploy then you'd think, for reasons I ain't going into. You know how it is. And everyone is our enemy... No friends, not here. Three big gangs full of ruthless criminals, god-damned Marshall's boys in the Protectorate, and the hatred of plenty of ordinary folks who SHOULD BE ON OUR DAMN SIDE!" Spittle flew from Crockett's mouth, as he stubbed his cigar out on one leather-gloved hand.

"Too well known. But that's where YOU come in, son." The general's grin was back.

"Yer DEVIL DOG. Everyone KNOWS you kill capes. And yer methods are similar enough to our own, we can back you up on the hush. Instead a' pulling it alone, we coordinate our teams with you, provide you resources, backup, and everything you need to kill your way across the local scene. Hell, we fake a few deaths on our side, just to muddy the waters a bit, until we've got enough of an advantage that it doesn't matter anyways. We keep doing this, get the other folks chasing you so hard that they ain't lookin' at us, and ensure that EVERY DAMN ONE of those bastards who DESERVES to eat a bullet, gets one."

"And at the end of this, the town'll be cleaned up. It'll be OUR town again, like it was 'fore the oil money drew the vultures in. Damned carpetbaggers... And since Occam confirms my boys aren't targets, well, then we'll part no hard feelin's after it's done."

The general was lying, of course. But that was to be expected. Still, this was better than Callahan had hoped. It would mean working with these racist assholes for a while, or at least pretending to. But he'd done worse, many times over. Many lives ago, and many lives to come.

He felt the gentle sawing of the wire go slack, and the wooden chair sag a bit. Finally, he'd cut through something important... He braced his legs, and tested his balance. Good. This was workable. Time for a demonstration.

He looked at Crockett, smiled a smile that was all teeth and no emotion.

"Here's the deal. I call the shots. You disclose full intel on our targets, INCLUDING the stuff that Occam withheld from me. You give me all the support I request, and when I tell you to stay out of my way, you stay the hell out of my way. And if some of your play soldiers get killed, that's collateral. Do you understand?"

Crockett's eyes popped fully open, angry. It had been a long, long time since ANYONE had spoken to him like this. "I told you! You call me SIR, boy!" He gestured at the first gunman, who stepped forward and tried to slam the rifle butt into Callahan's cheek again!

"Tried to" were the operative words, here. As the gunstock came around, time slowed and Callhan threw himself in the opposite direction, twisting himself to bring the chair around, and slamming it into the wall! Sure enough, the wire-cut supports gave and the chair broke! Wood jabbed him painfully in the back, but he ignored it as he stretched his arms, causing his side to shriek in pain. He jammed his feet behind him into the wire-wrapped arch of his arms, pulling them in, then under, until his arms were in front of him again.

Thug number two shouted in alarm and levelled his rifle as the first man recovered from his missed swing and started after him, but Callahan was already bounding on his knees and hands, loping like a dog, to crash into General Crockett! He bowled the man over, grabbed the collar of the pudgy man's BDUs with his right hand, and raised both himself and the General to a standing position, ignoring the screaming pain in his legs as blood flowed into them again.

As the general fumbled for his sidearm, Callahan let him go. He aimed the general's own pistol at him with his left hand. Somewhere between the initial collision and jerking them both upright, he'd managed to grab it right out of the holster.

General Crockett stared down in amazement at his empty holster.

The whole scene, from the moment the thug had started his swing, to now, couldn't have taken more than three seconds.

The thugs froze.

The General blinked.

Callahan smiled again, and said. "Sir." He flipped the pistol around so that the butt was in the air, and offered it back to General Crockett.

Crockett blinked a few times, pulled out a second cigar, and lit it. The dim light concealed his shaking hands from the thugs, but not from Callahan. He chuckled, and took it back. "Well. That was smooth. Dave, go get some cutters, let's get our guest unbound. Son, looks like you ARE as good as we heard."

He took the pistol back, offered a handshake.

Callahan shook, and the bargain was sealed.

Poor bastards, he thought. Oh, these poor bastards...