In his office, sitting at his desk, he cried.

Tuba City, Arizona, the largest Navajo community, had been visited by the men of Bastard Son.

It started innocently enough. A young Hopi, Charlie Quotskuyva, travelled to Las Vegas with friends for a weekend break, with the intention of playing around and disconnecting from a few weeks of hard work. None of them went with many expectations, only to have a bit of good time together and carrying only a small amount of money to spend in the casinos. Instead, during the last day, he found himself increasingly lucky in his bets.

Satisfied with his good fortune, they shortly left the city to return to their everydayness of their work and families.

Bastard Son took offense. He thought a Thinker had just fooled them, and needed to be made an example.

Charlie had lived a peaceful and happy life until the day he died, surrounded by neighbors that had run to his help. Caucasian, Afro-American, Hispanic, and more importantly, Navajo, as they were the racial majority in town.

One hundred thirty two people, ninety eight of them of the Diné.

He cried for the souls, Navajo and otherwise, that have been lost because of misplaced greed and senseless viciousness.

He cried for a government that were either too weak, apathetic, or corrupt to do anything to stop the violence.

He cried for the abominable upsetting of the hozho, the balance of the world, in such a way that even the war of normal men couldn't manage in millenia.

He cried for his own lost knowledge of the Diné language a century ago, because calling them 'nilch'i' was an offense to the holy concept summoned by that word. But he didn't have any other closer equivalent, damn these parahumans.

But most of all, and admittedly selfishly, he cried for his inability to provide any meaningful help to his people. Confined to a wheelchair, old, barely kept alive by his children, and at the helm of of an intelligence agency down on its luck.

How much more did his people need to suffer?

He slammed his fist on the table in frustration. The papers on his desk floated away, pushed by the blow that cracked the mahogany desk.

His door opened. "Code Talker, sir?", his secretary asked, worried. "I… Can I help?"

He looked up to her, and shook his head. "Can you bring back hope and happiness back to the Diné, Marian? Can you give them what I can't?" It wasn't the frustrated tone of someone trying to get rid of an unwelcome witness, but merely an extension of his sadness, displayed to someone in confidence.

Code Talker had seen and lived long enough to know that petty resentment was wasted energy. The cracked desk, on the other hand… It wasn't strange that his children granted him enough strength for such a feat, but it had been a long time since he did anything similar.

"No, sir, and I'm sorry for your loss." She swallowed, and closed in, putting a hand on his arm. "Sir… you aren't sitting."

Confused, Code Talker looked at himself. He was, indeed up on his feet.

He had been using a wheelchair since the bidee' hólóní rescued him in Africa and brought him to Mother Base. He hadn't stood on his own since the mid Nineties.

Then he saw it, at the back of his mind. He had always been able to communicate with his children, suggest and direct them in ways that were more useful for the both of them in their symbiotic relationship. More so now, that they had replaced so much of his long dead and deceased flesh.

He was now controlling them. Forcing them to keep the amalgamation of entities, formed by the human called Code Talker and the microbial organism that he called The One That Covers, standing up and tall.

That's all? Was this all that was needed?

He sat again on the wheelchair. "Marian, please. Make preparations for parahuman testing. Discreetly", he said in a shaken voice. "I think may have triggered."

When he was still alive, and after disbanding the Diamond Dogs, Kazuhira reserved a reasonable portion of McDonnell Corporation's benefits to help keep HEC's operations active, even in a world that was leaving military conflicts behind. That, plus the funds that the Diamond Dogs had been able to accrue, made for a sizable fortune that hadn't been put to good use in decades. Half of this fortune was administered personally, first by Ocelot during his tenure as HEC overseer during the Eighties, and later Code Talker himself until now.

It wasn't just an expensive nostalgic whim, borne from the wish to return to the PMC business he himself heralded; something that seemed more and more unlikely with the advent of parahumans. He needed to make sure some things were never left to the wrong hands.

One of the first things Kazuhira would have done was a to create series of secure vaults distributed across America. All of them had archives, redundant copies of the research and knowledge developed by the R&D team of the Dogs. Things that could be useful to humanity as a whole, but that Kazuhira didn't want Cipher, and for that matter the Patriots, to find and use to consolidate their grip on the world.

Kazuhira died the same year the Patriots were sabotaged by their successors, who were making every effort to promote parahumans wherever their influence was able to reach.

One year later, one of the vaults was accessed, the intruder presumably taking its knowledge before destroying the place. HEC was able to secure the other vaults before any more were infiltrated, but the damage had already been done.

Code Talker wasn't fooled. If the Patriots hadn't been the ones behind the attack, their successors were to blame. No use of similar technology had been observed anywhere across the globe, but the reason could include a wide variety of possibilities. Parahumans using the knowledge and assets? No, that laid a path too horrible to even theorize about.

It was all the same; in their quest to dominate the PMC business and fight against Cipher, the Dogs were motivated enough to develop technologies far too advanced for their time, and he had no delusions that this unknown group was worthy of wielding these advancements. He made sure that the security of every vault was constantly updated and tested, taking into account known parahumans with powers that might be used to gain entrance.

It was expensive, but necessary. No expense would be spared. He knew far too well the price of failure.

The vault he was just entering was the one closest to his office in Arizona, the one that, rather than trusting to a loyal veteran of the Dogs, he managed personally.

It had to be this way. Besides the archives, other vaults held the more mundane things like military vehicles, armories, records of operations and contracts…

This one wasn't as big as the others. One would say that its contents lacked monetary value.

But it guarded the things that weren't mundane.

He started a brisk pace as he crossed the inner doors, cane in hand, followed by technicians and the caretakers of the vault. Most of them were armed.

Since his trigger, the control over his children provided him the means to reinvigorate the decayed body they were sharing. He refused to utilize the full extent of the power, though, instead using it to fine tune the direction he provided to each of them individually, strengthening his corporal mass until he was able to walk on his own again. Further uses were meditated upon until judged necessary.

His children had given him longevity and fullness of life, and Code Talker would treat them with the respect they were owed. There were limits he wasn't going to cross without good justification. Balance would be observed.

Although the new skill hadn't been received without concern. All the research on parahumans indicated that they were attracted to conflict, and their powers called for violence. He never felt such a predisposition since his trigger, and it made him distrust this ability. But then again, he was already an outlier. The norm for triggers were much younger people going through much more distress. Yes, that was a sad moment for himself, but as much as it ashamed him to admit, it wasn't as bad as many others he went through his long life.

All of it only increased his mistrust of the parahuman power he had received, and all others around the world, even discounting their wielders.

It didn't matter. He was another nilch'i now. How ironic, that he had used the word for the holy wind to refer to the parahumans that were ruining the world, and he had called his savior and friend such an earthly term as bidee' hólóní the day they met. 'Horned one' indeed; the demon that he called himself.

Code Talker stopped at the first door, the men behind him ready for orders. He activated the security system, allowing it to scan his unique physiology; aided by a few tweaks directing his children with his power, his presence was unmistakable. It wasn't the only security test that was run to check he was the one supposed to be opening that door.

Once the checks finished, he took a step back. "Their belongings", he said raising a pointed finger. "Get them ready for transport. With the proper respect."

The technicians closer to the door nodded, and entered the vault to prepare the items along with a pair of caretakers. Code Talker turned and kept walking through the corridor followed by the rest of the men.

They reached a chamber where a group of caretakers were milling around checking their observation equipment. One of them, their manager, moved closer to Code Talker. "Thank you for coming, sir."

Code Talker shook his head. "I was already on my way here when I received your message. What's the matter?"

The manager led him to the center of the chamber, where a great transparent box occupied most of the space. Code Talker could see that every caretaker was afraid; those keeping watch had established water cannons at a distance, while a few had readied the water hoses at the walls.

Code Talker followed the manager to the box. "He's… ah, started stirring, sir", the manager said. "At irregular intervals." He shivered. "Everyone here is scared, sir."

Inside the box, in his damaged and bullet riddled orange rubber suit, a giant of a man was laying down in what should be a sleep as eternal as it had been for two decades and a half. The scarred and immobile, yet still warm and unaged body of the madman who almost caused Armageddon in the Sixties, when the first tl'iish stopped him.

Yevgeny Borisovitch Volgin, GRU Colonel of the Soviet Union. The Thunderbolt. The Man on Fire.

It was the least secured room in the vault against intruders. The only security it needed was to keep the guest inside. Volgin awake would spell death for everyone nearby.

The healthy pink skin tone hid the monstrous burning rage that the man once held. Code Talker saw the light of an ember float up upwards from his breath, and die off.

"He's waking up." Code Talker concluded.

The manager nodded. "We thought the same. The instruments detected an almost imperceptible increase in his brain activity. But we don't know the cause. Twenty six years like this, and suddenly his brain peeks up; as if he got bored of sleeping."

"Ocelot. You have a nerve calling me, after what you did."

"I don't have the time to explain myself right now, George."

"You will very damn well explain why I had to fly to Brockton Bay to tell Daniel Hebert the reasons that John's daughter had been subjected to such -"

"Taylor's dying."

"... What?"

"I might have an idea of why", Code Talker said. "Get in contact with our people at McDonnell's, tell them to prepare a new facility to house our guest as soon as possible. Increased security." He then turned around and signaled the technicians. "Help them."

"Any particular place, sir?" the manager asked as the men around went to do their jobs.

"Anywhere with water", Code Talker answered as the rest of his retinue, only caretakers now, followed him.

Code Talker reached another door. The caretakers took guarding positions around, and he had to repeat the same process as in the first room, though now he had to force his control over his children in a much more extensive and precise direction.

The contents guarded inside merited the added security. He made a mistake once, sharing them, and he swore he wouldn't make it again.

He hoped he wasn't breaking that oath now.

The door opened, and he stepped inside a small room, two of the caretakers stepping behind him. Three piles of refrigerated crates were waiting inside.

"She's dying, George. A local gang burned her house just an hour ago. Daniel is dead. She's delirious, suffering from burns all over her body. The medics don't expect her to last the week, and the PRT refuses to provide her with parahuman healing. But you have something that can save her."

"You… bastard! You planned for this! How could you have not!?"

Code Talker walked closer to the crates in the middle.

"... You want The One That Covers."

"Look. The only important thing right now is this question: would you help me save her?"

"She's not ready. She's not able to consent!"

"Only one sample, George, and the instructions for the parasite therapy, that's all I ask."

"So she can be your pawn."

"Does that matter right now? We both want her to live."

Opening the crate, he took a vial from inside. One of the caretakers brought a security briefcase, and opened it. Code Talker left the vial inside.

"Alright… I'll send a sample there. Have someone you trust receive it."

"Thank you, George. You won't regret it."

"You better make sure I won't. I grow tired of the misfortunes of this age."

"There's something else. Things are… agitated in this city. I'll need an escort to a secure place I've been preparing, where Taylor can be safe while she learns to accept her new situation. And I have my hands tied here for the foreseeable future."

"Where?"

"Have you ever heard of a place called Shadow Moses?"

"Uncle?"

Code Talker came inside the office and closed the door with his cane hand. The other was holding a briefcase closer to his chest. "Hello, Carrie", he said with a smile.

The young woman in a suit sat up from her chair and hurried up to hug him. "I told you to stop calling me that. It's embarrassing."

He patted her on the back. "I'm sorry, Catherine."

She pulled away, her hands still around his shoulders, and stuck out her tongue. "I can't believe you still say the same thing every time. You know you're the only one left I let call me that."

Code Talker shrugged. "I'm just trying to accommodate you. We meet, I call you Carrie, you 'complain'", he said, dragging the last word. "Then we joke, you allow me to say it, I leave, we met and the cycle starts anew."

"It's a good cycle", Catherine said smiling. She had the skin and blonde hair of her father, but everything else, like her face, she took from her mother. Some woman that Kazuhira met in South America before the Dogs.

It was good that she didn't inherit the photosensitivity of her father. Shade never favored her.

"How's the life of CEO treating you today, Carrie?", he said taking a step back and taking a seat in a nearby couch, leaving the briefcase and the cane at one side.

"Like every other day", Catherine said. "Last week I got another call from the Elite. I told them to take a hike already, McDonnell isn't for sale." She moved to her desk, sitting casually at its edge. "Everyone sees someone in her twenties being a CEO, or the biggest shareholder…"

"Or both", Code Talker pointed out.

"Or both, and think they can roll over her just because she's a naive wallflower or something", she finished with a scoff.

"You got your father's temperament, that's for sure", he conceded.

"So, what are you doing here in Virginia now? I thought you'd still be in Arizona for a few months before coming here again?" She narrowed her eyes. "Does it have a connection with that new construction order we received this morning?"

"There's a possibility. That new installation is merely a precaution. Did your father tell you about the Man on Fire?"

"I still don't know why I pushed him until he told me. Remembering still gives me nightmares." Catherine crossed her arms. "I'll make sure it's given priority."

"That would be appreciated, and useful, Carrie." Code Talker rubbed his jaw. "And no, that wasn't the only reason I came to Virginia. An old friend from the Dogs is a judge here, and I came here for his help."

"Old Eye?" she asked, and then inclined her head to one side, looking at the briefcase. "Do I need to know?"

"No, but…" He hesitated for a moment, looking a way. "I might need access to the funds your father reserved. And it would be prudent if you raised the security in the company, and around yourself."

She leaned her head back, looking at him over her nose. "One, done. Two, what the hell, uncle? What's going on? Are you restarting dad's PMC?"

"I'm still not sure myself", he said, turning back at her. "But I'll be in contact. I might need more help from you."

"From me, or the company?"

"Both."

Catherine sat up. "More help than what HEC is capable off by itself? Sounds serious."

"Might be." Code Talker sat up as well, nodding to himself. "Lives are at stake. Maybe more than that."

She moved up to him and took his hands. "You know you can ask me for help, not just the company, right?"

He sighed. "I know. But this… there are risks."

"I'm not helpless, uncle." Catherine smirked. "I'm not a kid anymore. And when I was a kid, I played with dad's trainees. You know, the Green Berets?"

"Then I'm grateful you're better prepared than I am", Code Talker said with a laugh. He then pulled out his hands and turned around to recover his things, but paused for a moment, turning around. "Actually. While I'm opening the vaults. What do you think about McDonnell Corporation having access to those patents your father kept hidden?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "Ok. I was curious, but now I really want to know what's happening."

Code Talker took his cane and briefcase. "I'll call you. When I know for sure that things are safe."