Disjoint sat in her room, one foot tucked beneath the opposite leg as she stared at the laptop screen before her. The quiet that had pervaded Brockton Bay for the past few days had finally been displaced, but the storm that had drifted in wasn't one of violence. Instead, it was a celebration.

The announcement detailing the fate of the Slaughterhouse Nine was short and to the point. The only image the PRT had released was a solitary shot of Jack Slash, slumped ignobly in the chair where she had left him. The accompanying publication carried its standard warnings of graphic content, but evidently the PRT had agreed the magnitude of the news easily outweighed the minuscule concerns of propriety. Along with the image was a short statement, describing the Boston PRT officers' encounter of the devastated band.

Aside from the single image, additional details had been unexpectedly sparse. The PRT had been careful to couch their words on the subject, only commenting that more information would be released as they continued their investigation. Nevertheless, the silence told its own story. Without a claim of responsibility, there was an undercurrent of curiosity to the announcement. Public sentiment said the PRT and Protectorate would be crowing their achievement if they had been the ones to eliminate the infamous band of murderers; the fact that they didn't only fueled further speculation. While a small percentage of the public feared a new villain, the vast majority celebrated whatever group had finally managed to pull it off.

The vagueness of the proclamation drew Disjoint's curiosity. With her own two hands she had killed every member of the Slaughterhouse Nine, the bodies lying in that small forest. Unless the PRT had been unable to find the corpses they should know that as well, and publishing it would only have increased the boost to morale. The fact that they didn't was puzzling, at least until she cast her mind back to the scene.

Manton's presence must have been the culprit, the cause for so much uncertainty and investigation. The officers scouring the scene would have been looking for the Siberian – the final missing member – and discovered an unknown man instead. He was the epicenter of the carnage, and undoubtedly a puzzle for the men and women responsible for figuring out what had happened. Besides determining his purpose with the Nine, there was the chance that someone would identify him. Ten years was a long time, but she could remember Manton's rising fame during his relatively short career. If that happened, it would raise an enormous host of new questions.

Evidently they would keep the situation under wraps until they learned more. Disjoint felt torn; the announcement was the first real opportunity to reveal herself, to stake her claim on a deed that nobody could see as anything but positive. However, not only did she lack definitive proof, but the Siberian was a known murderer, violent and inscrutable. Her killing of the Slaughterhouse Nine might appear as nothing more than a brutal flight of fancy, proclamations of innocence dismissed.

She would hold her peace for now, wait until she had spent enough time as a hero to give the claim sway. The impact of exterminating the Nine would diminish as time passed, but the credit itself wasn't important, just a means to an end. The truth would be unveiled whenever she could finally come free, be that months or years.

The screen dimmed and she refocused, jostling it back to wakefulness. The announcement about the Nine hadn't been her original reason for going online, merely a distraction from her goal of getting in contact with Faultline's Crew. The mercenary group was known for its Case 53 members – monstrous capes, to the public. In her mind, Manton's words echoed. He had known about the Case 53s, known that whatever he had given her might turn her into one of them. If Faultline knew more, she needed to find out as well.

Unfortunately, the difficulty was twofold. First and foremost, finding the group had proved easier said than done. They were no band of amateurs; there was barely any information publicly available. The most useful detail she had found was mention of a nightclub that they apparently frequented.

It proved little use to Disjoint. She needed to secure their cooperation, and ambushing them at what sounded like a place of relaxation would sour any working relationship before it began. She needed a way to reach out to them from a distance, giving them the opportunity to take the initiative. Allowing them to choose a time and place would help maintain the balance between herself and their team, as long as she could offer enough information and reassurance for them to meet in person.

That concern fed into her second issue: the matter of payment. Here she would have to take a gamble. Disjoint didn't know the costs they usually charged, but it would undoubtedly be beyond her limited funds. Instead, she would have to try for an agreement, an exchange of information with the mercenary crew. It was here that she was making a bet, an assumption backed up only by the cravings she bore herself.

Since the very moment of her creation the gaps in her memory had poked at her, small as they were. She had avoided them, distracted herself from them, and in time begun the long process of facing them, but throughout every moment that craving for knowledge had never faded. Even now she maintained that desire to know more, to find out what had happened at the end of one mind and the beginning of another. In comparison, before her lay a team with members missing their entire lives. She didn't know much, in the grand scheme of things, but if they were at all like her every little piece would be welcome.

In the end, however, it was still an indistinct impression.

Adding to the complications, she would have to go into any potential meeting as herself, the hero Disjoint. Trying to disguise herself further would be difficult enough, trying and failing would firmly end any chance at learning what they knew. Beyond that, the idea of further deception was uncomfortable. Her heroic identity was a lie borne of necessity; the subterfuge wasn't something she enjoyed.

Sitting back, she sighed wearily. Her first instinct had been to show up at the nightclub in costume and ask for a meeting, but the more she had contemplated the further she saw her own error. The conclusion left her without a clear way forward, but it was still better than the alternative. Instead she would keep searching.

There was one additional method that had come to mind as she sat pondering how to contact Faultline. Her PRT-issued phone sat on the desk beside her, a reminder. Without a doubt, the PRT would have a way of contacting the mercenary group, simply on principle if nothing else. She felt confident that a call to Battery would get her what she needed in minutes.

The problem lay in what else she would inevitably get, namely the attention. As friendly and helpful as the Protectorate hero was, they had only known each other for less than two weeks. She would want to know why Disjoint was looking for Faultline. Disjoint could deflect, say it was a personal matter, but even if she respected Disjoint's privacy enough not to press, the hero would undoubtedly report it. Increased attention from the Protectorate would be the inevitable result. Faultline's Crew were mercenaries, suspected of taking on all manner of contracts. They had doubtless run afoul of the Protectorate in the past.

She hadn't ruled it out entirely, but it wasn't her first choice. She would keep looking on her own, at least a while longer.

Returning to her research, she continued scanning page after page, looking for any mention of the team and whatever details were contained within. Shadows lengthened through the curtains as she worked, and she intermittently stood up to pace back and forth across the room, tantalized by information just out of reach. The breaks grew more and more frequent as her focus drained, until she finally pushed away from the desk, head bowed. Nothing productive had been done in almost half an hour; she had to write this session off as a failure. Pulling on the outer pieces of her costume she made for the door.

Almost exactly two hours later she returned, shrugging through the entryway as the sky dimmed behind her, sunset a half-hour past. It had been another unremarkable patrol, though here and there decorations had dotted the city. Most took the form of crushed beer cans and a surprising amount of confetti, but she was fairly certain she'd seen an effigy in the distance, burning atop a pile of garbage. A fitting remembrance.

Her walk had given her more time to think about Faultline's Crew, planning out what she would do if and when she got a chance to meet. Payment was the most glaring issue; she had some leftover cash but doubted it would be nearly enough. Instead she would have to hope they could reach an agreement, exchange information for information.

Back in her chair the laptop beckoned, and she retook her seat. There was more work to be done.

It wasn't until she was halfway through an obscure forum that opportunity beckoned. She wasn't the first person looking to contact Faultline, and in the comments of another request was a phone number. The message was accompanied by a warning, the tone setting it aside from the rest. Most importantly, it was only a few months old.

Pausing, she looked at the time. It was getting late, but not that late. The sensible thing would have been to make the call in the morning, but she didn't want to wait. Now that an opportunity had finally presented itself she needed to keep moving. Raising her personal phone, she dialed the number.

The shrill ringing sounded once, twice, before an audible click as the line activated. On the other end was silence, and she composed herself for a moment before speaking.

"I'm looking for Faultline's Crew."

A second later a voice came through the other end, words picked out low and careful with the hint of an accent.

"I do not know this number."

It was a dispassionate statement, but more importantly, it wasn't a denial. She had found them, or someone who worked for them. Now she only needed to convince the man to stay on the line.

"I want to meet, exchange information," she began, moving straight to the point. She needed to get her proposal out quickly, before she could be dismissed out of hand. She had no recommendation, no connections, so she could only hope her proposal would catch the man's attention.

"Faultline is the most likely to know what I'm looking for. I can't pay in cash, but I have knowledge to offer. A trade." It was a risk, announcing that in advance, but the question would come up eventually. Judging by the pause on the other end, he had been about to ask. Instead, a new set of words came out.

"You are offering information." Again the words were slow and calm, barely a question. She could feel the focus from the other end, his attention weighing down the line. At the very least the man didn't seem to be the type to hang up mid-call. He waited, and she spoke up once more.

"It's connected to Case 53s. What I know, and what I'm trying to learn." There was only silence from the other end, and she continued, "You see why I want to talk to Faultline."

As she finished she waited, hoping it would be enough. She was calling out of the blue, ignoring the methodical layers of confirmations and assurances, and looking to meet in person. It was undoubtedly suspicious, but nothing she could say would change that. Instead, she could wait for a response.

Finally the voice on the other end came through. "I will pass on your message. Someone will contact you." He sounded finished, but before he could hang up she interjected.

"Wait. There's one more thing. My name is Disjoint. I'm… a hero. I'm not out to get you, but you deserve to know." She anxiously waited for a reaction, but there was only that same quiet.

"Understood," he said, and the line went dead.

Leaning back, she set down the phone and gazed towards the ceiling in contemplation. The most important part was done, she had made contact and they hadn't rejected her on the spot. She had been worried throughout the entire conversation, as short as it was, but whoever was on the other end had given her a chance. Hopefully her promise of information would be enough to arrange a meeting. She could have offered more on the phone, but everything she revealed now would be one less piece to exchange in the future. It was a fine balance, and she could only hope not to sway too far in either direction.

That would change if and when they met in person. Even if they couldn't deliver what she was looking for, she wouldn't hold back her piece. The crushing pressure inside her was too strong to deny someone else their own respite, should it help them even the slightest.

For now she would wait for a response. There hadn't been any indication of how long it would take, and even though she had hung up only a few minutes prior Disjoint was already waiting for the phone to light up again. It wasn't much more than idle fantasy; she had spent hours reading up on Faultline's Crew, and they would undoubtedly do something similar before agreeing to meet someone new. Especially an unknown hero. Realistically, it might be days before she heard back, as eager as she was.

In the meantime the night stretched out before her, clear of distraction. The soft sound of music spilled across the room as she shuffled through tracks, letting it pass by in the background. On one corner of the desk lay a sketchbook, a recent purchase.

As she had settled into routine her free time had expanded considerably, especially during the nights she wasn't in the mood to patrol. In return she had begun to slowly return to her hobbies, a decade old. Drawing was the latest, the scratch of the pencil a soothing rhythm as she drew broad strokes across the page.

She was halfway through yet another sketch, highlighted by the morning light, when her phone buzzed. It took Disjoint a moment to come to a stop, engrossed in the flow. Finally she set the pencil aside, blinking out of habit. Lifting the phone, she glanced at the message displayed.

A single line stared back at her, displaying an address and time.

The sender's number wasn't familiar, though that wasn't much of a surprise. There was only one person that it could be. Faultline must have thought her information would be valuable; the response was far faster than she had expected. Not that she would complain.

Disjoint wasn't familiar with the location that had been marked down, but that had been a common issue since she arrived in the city. Besides, she had the entire day to find it; the meeting time wasn't until well into the night. Better yet, she would go on patrol in that general direction and get a chance to view the overall area. She doubted there would be any problems – Faultline seemed too professional for that – but it never hurt to be prepared. It would be one less thing to do when she returned at night.

Standing, she tucked in the chair and made for the door. There was plenty of work to be done.

The sun had long since set by the time she reached the corner nearest the provided address. Above her, the moon shined down through a clear sky, giving a faint watery light to the rooftops without doing anything to banish the gloom below her.

At the end of the street she paused, glancing down towards the dark road below. Stepping off the edge she let gravity take hold, dropping towards the ground to impact in silence, cloak rippling gently around her. With one last look at the address on her phone she strode forwards down the street.

The door she was searching for was one of many, tucked under a green and white striped awning interspersed between a handful of other shops that formed tall brick walls on either side of the road. The lights had long since gone out, signs flipped over to 'Closed' as weary workers locked the doors and went home for the night. Instead illumination floated hazily around the light poles and traffic lights, background colors changing from red to green as she walked down the sidewalk.

Ahead of her, a solitary indistinct figure stood at attention next to the doorway, head shifting left and right slowly to unceasingly take in the street. Her clothes shined in the wake of a passing light and he nodded at her, still a ways off, before continuing his vigil.

As she arrived she took in the figure in front of her. A man, not so much tall as simply large, dressed surprisingly well. Perhaps her expectations had been lowered by the sight of so many gang members in loose sweatshirts and oversized coats, but the individual before her wore a collared shirt and slacks, black shoes shining against the dark concrete. It was a professional look, and a good reminder of the people she would be meeting.

With one last look down each side of the street the man turned around, a ring of keys in hand as he unlocked the door. A moment later he reached forwards and pulled, a bell chiming softly as he stepped smartly to the side and beckoned her into the dim interior. Tables and chairs filled the space, set aside by the closing crew, but at the back another entryway beckoned, light streaming out from around the corner. Behind her the door closed softly, and she heard slow footsteps as the man departed, his work complete.

Disjoint allowed her footsteps to sound out as she continued forward, the methodical thump announcing her arrival as she approached. Turning the corner, she was greeted by the sight of a large table in front of her, and the group of people spread out on the opposite side.

In the center of the team of five was a woman, long black hair partially obscured by a thick welding mask covering her face. She rose from her seat calmly, taking in Disjoint's form for a moment before she spoke.

"I go by Faultline; this is my team. I heard you were looking for us."