Order()
14.0

"Alright, so there I was, facing down an angry cape," I recount, "and there's nothing in between him and me spending several months in traction, if that. So I figured, why not? I stood my ground and faced him down with a calm look, raised the teacup I had rescued from the broken table and said, 'Cheers, Mate' in the fakest Australian accent I can remember.

"And somehow that worked. He calmed down with a bewildered look I can remember even today, we sat down and continued like civilized men, items got themselves hashed out and eventually he gets to continue to live. All's well that ends well…"

… 'in the birdcage.' I fail to mention.

"And that's when I learned the biggest lesson in the biz. A calm, unflappable image is everything. Sure, a rep is worth its weight in gold, but making and staying in a persona of confidence, an aura of knowing exactly what to do at all time, that is worlds better."

My story finished, I look around.

The only sounds in the air are the guitar riff from the cheap speakers, the steady drone of the engine, and the unique doppler-affected sound of passing cars.

And of my audience of two, Paige's sleeping, and Gregor can't hear me from where he is in the driver's seat.

I sigh.

The Tinker-prison cabin fever must be getting to me.

Or maybe it's the sudden "HeYEAH!" of a new song interrupting my thoughts.

A song I am hearing for the eighth time today.

Will it kill someone to change the CD?! While the choice of music is excellent, putting Bad Canary's Greatest Hits on loop for the last five hours is just overdoing it!

Then again, Paige's sleeping. And Gregor can't hear me.

Even if he can, I'll lay 50-50 odds of him refusing, or the car's CD collection having only more of the same.

To hear Paige explain it, he's just a fan.

To hear Faultline agreeing with my girl, he's more than that. A lot more.

The shell-decorated Case-53 denies it of course. He cites the fact he can't go into public, given his non-human appearance.

I've met better liars.

Then again, I'm still a bit skeptical myself; Gregor's doesn't look like the type, and is probably the last person I will peg as a fan of Paige's Jazz-Pop hybrid songs.

But the evidence against Gregor is substantial, if refutable.

Evidence the first, the rest of Gregor's crew, speaking over his constant protests, clearly enjoying the discomfort of their snail-motifed parahuman team member.

The image that the testimony builds in my mind is amusing; an obviously overweight person with every inch of him wrapped up in concealing clothing, standing right at the front of a sweltering, packed concert while holding up large flag printed with the words "BIGGEST FAN!", screaming himself hoarse while jumping and waving about or whatever it is kids do in Paige's pop concerts…

There might be some exaggeration involved. Still… heh.

Evidence the next, the song on the radio changes again, another of Paige's Greatest Hits plays for the eighth time.

And to add one more, there's the simple fact he's here.

Driving a car may not seem like much, even if the car itself looks like a cheap rust bucket recently refloated from Japan's sunken factories.

Driving a car into Boston on the other hand…

Me and my girl, we had been cut off from the news, not entirely through fault of our own. Last night we rectified that, amongst other things.

Boston's an official S-class disaster zone. Some news agencies are starting to parrot the term "Class-SS".

I don't disagree; from the news, the Processes might have actually outmatched the Endbringers in sheer destructive ability, even after dismissing half of the articles for the scaremongering sensationalist moneymakers they are.

There are horror stories of a city being demolished piecemeal, of rushed evacuations and the stampede that resulted, of the war that has suddenly erupted right in the heart of the United States.

Of a death toll in the millions.

As with any other S-class threats, the overwhelmed Protectorate had issued a call to arms. Villains and Heroes gathered, a united front of humanity's best to reclaim Boston from the Processes.

In a single day and night of fighting, they lost badly to an enemy outnumbering them at least twenty to one, about three out of every five participating parahumans dead or disabled.

So, yeah. Driving towards the Boston quarantine zone is, in Faultline's words, "Are you fucking stupid?!"

But Gregor's still here, going into hell's den.

Of course, nowhere around Boston is safe anymore; there are reports of roving Processes beyond its borders. Me and my girl have firsthand evidence of that happening; we've seen the Processes for ourselves in Brockton Bay. Montreal, Ottawa, New York has been hit too, the Processes repelled to varying degrees of success by their local capes.

Some rumors claim they have made it as far as Philadelphia and Toronto.

The Processes are spreading. If they remain unchecked…

Still, despite all that has happened, nobody really knows what the Processes are.

Various theories have been bandied about, from powers run amok to a new villain in town; the current leading theory saying they're out of control automated self-replicating tinkertech of some kind.

We know a bit more than that.

The Transistor is tied to Process in some way. The green and red Tinker broadsword seems to attract them to it somehow, not to mention how easily the device wrecks any Process with only a few attacks, a group all having Brute 5 at the very least.

There's also the way the blade seem to suck in the bits of any destroyed Processes in its vicinity.

But while we know there's a connection, we just don't know exactly how they're tied together.

But now, now we have a name.

Accord. A villain in Boston.

And that's why we're heading into a S-class quarantine zone.

He's in Boston. Maybe.

He knows. Maybe.

And he's willing to help us stop the Process from overrunning the world.

Maybe.

That's a lot of maybes. I am nowhere near being that much of a betting man.

And of course those are Paige's objectives. I am nowhere near being that altruistic.

I've recognized Accord's face the moment I saw the picture of his masked face in the PHO wiki.

It's the guy in the dark that day. The one who locked me in this prison, caused Paige to lose her voice, and set us both on the road, on the run.

He started this.

And he's going to fix this, one way or the other.

And after that, he's going to suffer, one way or the other.

And that's why I am going to Boston, whatever anyone else's objectives might be.

Speaking of which…

"Oh, Gregor," I say out loud, even if he can't hear me, "Stay away from my girl, you fat piece of lard. She's spoken for, you hear. If I see you make moves on her, I'll…"

Tap tap tap

Oh.

Paige's awake, with a sleepy, almost resigned look on her face. And with the knuckles of her left fist she's tapping away at the big crystal circle insert in the middle of its blade.

"Oh, ah, aww, please stop that, it tickles," I exclaim in sync with the sound of the soft taps almost buried within the music.

It's only play-acting, my small exclamations only really for show; being a bodiless consciousness floating inside the Tinker device, I don't really feel anything physical inside of this prison.

At least there's a smile on her face.

"You're awake?" Gregor says from his driver's seat. He probably saw my girl's nod in the rear view mirror, because he continues, "It is good time, we are almost there. About fifteen minutes?"

Paige nods again, as she looks at the Transistor with a small, sad smile. At me.

"Right. Shall we?" I say, "Oh, and can you please tell that fan of yours to stop replaying those songs?"

She nods, but does not speak.

Right.

A yet-again repeated song about love and destiny starts to play as we drive towards the gleaming skyline of white.