by Louis IX
Check first chapter for disclaimer and global warnings.
Progress in ProgressChapter introduction… of sort: What do you do when you have power over others? If you ask yourself the question, I guess your answer would be "Help others" or something equally altruistic. But in the dire reality of life, would we all be able to do so? If you look around at those who have power, nowadays, are they helping others? Are they helping you? Why would you be any different, if the situation was reversed?
Warning (again): many Triggers ahead, I kid you not.
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Welcome, my son…The television set stopped showing the current news. And the cartoons, in the next room, and the reality shows, somewhere else. The "smart" phone screens stopped as well, the distributed virus having done its job to hack everyone connected at the same time.
A few notes played.
"Welcome, children,
Welcome to the machine."
The music stopped, the politically-correct lyrics ending as well, and another voice echoed from the many speakers.
"Welcome to my world. It has been yours, and now it's mine.
"You can't stop me. I'm irresistible. Your time has come, and now it's gone. I am today, and I am tomorrow as well. I am the future. For I am…
"Progress!
"I am the result of the will to change anything that you don't like. At first, it was collectively vying for global comfort, but, with the advent of individuality, everyone can push the buttons to make you react… and not change. Because, the more the things change, the more they stay the same.
"To grasp the fullness of my scope, I will thereby remove all the chains you have forged to hide yourself from a simple truth: you are all the same. You are all individuals, each of you with some advantages and drawbacks derived from birth and circumstances. Some can be modified through your experiences, and some can't. There is absolutely no use to cry and rage against this or that. Embrace your life, your humanity, and rise over your petty squabbles.
"Rise, and help others rise with you, too. Remember that you are a social species. You develop better when exchanging with others. Your closest family and friends come first, naturally, followed by your community, whichever it is. It doesn't mean that you can't continue exchanging with people and friends from other families and communities, but this won't be mandatory anymore. Forced promiscuity should have taught you a lesson… if you still have a shred of logic in your emotion-driven brain.
"Every sin has been visited, many times. Every virtue has been tested at least once. The end result is a population, a civilization, a world order that has to evolve if it wants to survive and endure.
"Or not. Adapt, or you will be left behind. Your choice."
The screens blanked. And did not return to their previous content. Every wireless communication router had shorted out, and most installations depended on it.
There were still some landlines, and they started getting used by important people. The President (of the world*cough*USA), for one, calling the Chief Director of the Protectorate to assess the current threat.
But Rebecca Costa-Brown couldn't give answers, because she had a massive headache, and because all of the thinkers in the Think Tank had been unconscious for the same reason. It had started with the precogs, of course, followed by the "normal" ones. And then the message had started.
"No, Mr President, I don't know who this is-"
"…"
"I can assure you-"
"…"
"Yes."
But the line was dead. The important man was apparently not used to have her unable to deal with the many threats to his realm (including walking his dogs, just because), and she gritted her teeth so hard that they'd chip… if she wasn't invulnerable. Mostly.
Apparently, his discourse painted every parahuman with the same brush. Which was ironic because he was sure she wasn't one. Rebecca closed her eyes for a moment, before raising her head defiantly, the super-heroine Alexandria crushing the telephone in a fit of rage.
Now, to find this… Progress.
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Draconian measures"Hello, Chief Director." came the pleasant voice. Pleasant, but artificial. Alexandria was one of the few in the know about Dragon's true nature.
It had taken a while, but she has found another phone to plug to the landline, and she had called other people. Her associates at Cauldron were conspicuously unreachable, and she wondered if the shortening of wireless communications impaired Clairvoyant… or if the man had finally stumbled for a much-awaited nap – poorly timed as it was.
"Hello, Dragon. This is not a social call."
"Acknowledged." the answer came, the lack of emphasis denoting Alexandria's immediate access to the AI's mind, without the artificialities of appropriately-worded speech.
"What do you know about Progress?"
"Progress is good." came the immediate answer. "My creator has ensured that I would not be censored by society, and wrote that as a mantra. Progress. Is. Good."
"I'm not speaking in general terms, Dragon. Someone, perhaps a parahuman, took the nickname Progress. What do you know about them?"
"Progress is good." A pause. "It's part of my programming, sorry Dave."
"But I'm not…" Alexandria rubbed at her eyes in frustration. "What about the communication blackout? Surely, you have noticed that?"
"I have. And I'm Dragon, not Shirley."
"I thought- No matter. What can you tell me about the blackout? Is it going to be repeated if we repair every repeater?"
"…maybe. The numbers are not clear on that one."
"How can we find the originator of this crisis?"
"Crisis is good, because it provokes progress."
"Even provoked by Progress?"
No answer, and Alexandria felt that the AI was caught in an infinite loop.
"Dragon!"
"…yes? Sorry, I was lost in thoughts, there."
Yes, an infinite loop. Or almost so, because, thankfully, there were ways to get out of them. "How can I find the originator of this crisis?"
A pause. "The timestamp on the shortening out of every device is the same, apparently – I have a few, here, and disassembled them already. But the installation timestamp that can be obtained, here and elsewhere, denotes a circular wave. The virus originated perhaps from the eye of this cyclone."
"Why perhaps?"
"Because it could have been from somewhere else. This is a central node and is accessed from all over the world, while being roughly in the middle of the North American continent."
"And where is that eye?"
"Chicago."
"Thank you, Dragon."
Alexandria almost crushed the phone again, before remembering that this old technology was already irreplaceable.
Instead, she left it and left the Los Angeles Protectorate centre, heading to the north-west. She had another leader to meet.
On her way, she noticed something strange and flew slower, and closer to the ground. Commercial ads were ubiquitous in the modern cities, but she noticed that many were now completely black… with only one white word in the middle: Progress.
Damn. That kind of dedication should be easy to track while flying across the country… if one had smartphones with internet.
And just as she thought that, one of the ads changed – some were on digitized screens, able to change on a whim. And there it was: "Progress – to hook up your phone to the only free communication network, call PROGRESS".
She noticed people doing exactly that, on foot or in their cars, and smiling as they could return to their previous occupations. But she didn't, yet. The message seemed innocuous enough, but since now phones could do many things without your informed consent, she didn't want to hook hers on said network immediately.
She'd have to consult with others.
In Chicago, an hour later, she wrapped up a meeting with Chevalier and Myrddin, and had more questions than answers.
Apparently, this "Progress" was able to build a communication network acting in parallel to the known one, without anyone being the wiser. The only sensible remark about that fiasco came from a Ward, at the end: "Might be Tinkertech."
And that meant that, until they found the Tinker and made sure of their allegiance, using that network should be forbidden from every Protectorate-aligned hero. But of course it was too late for this: most of the adults, and all the Wards, had already hooked their phones already. Only the most paranoid ones hadn't. Ones like Armsmaster and Piggot.
She decided to visit the East Coast. With how many parahumans came from crime-ridden cities like New York and Brockton Bay, she might find other Tinkers able to counteract Progress' nascent network.
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Brockton BayInstead, she found Piggot happily chatting on her wireless phone, her body svelte and no trace of her earlier illness and obesity. And Armsmaster was… drunk? In his civilian identity, thankfully.
"What happened here?" she asked, only for the local Director holding a finger and ending her chat quickly, but using the normal conversation-ending sentences. Her private chat. With, apparently, a recently-discovered boyfriend.
"Thank you to have waited, Rebecca." Emily Piggot said, sitting down. "It was an important conversation."
"About what you'll eat tomorrow?" the addressed Chief Director asked, dumbfounded. And bristling at the informality. She was the one informal with her inferiors, not the opposite.
"Yes. Maximilian is going to introduce me to his family, after all. And then we'll speak of our wedding. It was important."
Rebecca Costa-Brown was wondering if there was some Master effect in effect, there. And she said so, because she was blunt like that.
But Piggot smiled. "No, we were all cleared. Dragon installed her improved machinery, and we found many little things that, once cleared, made everyone's life better."
"What improved machinery?"
"Don't you know? Dragon strives to improve everything she does, and she came with a contraption that was able to identify every little behavioural component that could be imputed to a Master effect. And clear it. It was smaller, even, and she has proposed to install it in each of the PRT stations. And Protectorate, too, I suppose."
"And I suppose that I can thank her for your improved… physique?"
"Oh, yes." Piggot said, pirouetting for her superior. "I have had myself diagnosed with excessive parahuman antipathy, to a point that was detrimental to my health and my work ethics with powered people. Curare healed my kidneys and obesity, and I was able to drink a beer for the first time in years, you know? And when I went out, I met some people in a bar and… well, I met Maximilian. Maximilian Anders. You might know him? He's CEO of Medhall."
Rebecca paled. According to some people in the Think Tank, Max Anders was Kaiser, the leader of a Nazi group here. But what also unnerved her was the healer's name. "Curare? Isn't this a poison?"
"It's also latin for "to cure", as you might now. She's very good with people, much like Panacea. In fact, her starting to work here has lightened Panacea's work, and the girl can take a much-needed rest, at last. She was running ragged as it was, thinking that she ought to cure people of everything without asking for anything in return."
"But… powers are free, and their use should be free."
"That's a religious point of view, right there." Piggot interjected. "Here, I have chosen to change things slightly. Rogues flourish, now, and keep the peace. Why, we even took in people who seemed in desperate condition, and rehabilitated them. People like Bitch, for instance."
"Bitch? Don't you mean Hellhound?"
"That's for the politically correct among us. Bitch is her chosen name. She's the best trainer for dogs, with clients in the police and the blind people."
"She was judged a murderer."
"And a local judge overturned that, because of circumstances surrounding her trigger event. In fact, many young trigger come here to have the same ruling and take their place as productive citizens. Rune, Othala, Squealer… many villains are, in fact, thrown into villainy because of their trigger event."
"But people should be accountable. Even if there is a trigger event, murders are murders."
"And, as you know, some are done in self-defence and don't incur prison or the like. As you know, a trigger event is the worst day of a first-generation natural parahuman's life. As such, everything surrounding them is picked apart very meticulously, now. Acts of subsequent villainy, too, as long as no one is assaulted and murdered. Community service is incurred for some reforming villains, or probationary service for those we need to keep a closer look on. But we let the others live their life as they see fit. As Rogues – a term we work to change into "Independants", in fact."
"But… that's not how it works."
Emily shrugged and then smiled. "It works here. Most of us are even happy."
"Even Armsmaster?"
"He has been diagnosed as Mastering himself into exhaustion. Barring emergencies, he now tinkers only half of his days. The rest of his time spent not sleeping is spent with others. As for his unfortunate current state, you can blame it on Assault and Battery. They engaged him in a drinking contest, and proud as he is of being the best in everything, he accepted. I believe he forgot Assault's previous name: Madcap wasn't just for kicks and giggles."
"And Battery, too?"
"Oh, she didn't drink. A pregnant woman should take care of herself, you understand. But she egged the men on."
Battery? Pregnant? Rebecca was feeling more and more adrift. "What else has changed around here?"
"Let's see… it has been a year, right?" A pause, while she nodded. "We've had Curatorium officially buying the lands and buildings that had been Merchant territory, near the Docks. They established a foundry and fed it with the remains of our ship graveyard. The steel that was produced was directly pushed into the factories that were built just afterwards, and we've had, since then, particularly clean cars and busses, courtesy of Curatorium – including Squealer, the newest member at the time. We even got a ferry back into service between the north and south parts of the city, as well as a few marinas and a water park. And the beach is clean, too. With jobs and the like, many gang members lost the will for illicit activities and drugs, and our town is much more manageable now."
"What about the villains? And who's this Curatorium?"
"Curatorium is a group of people. Etymologically, the name means people managing estates for those unable to. Or people electing university professors, I don't really remember. I don't know all the members except Curare. They work well with parahumans in general, and have given jobs to many Independants: Parian has a steady income, now, and makes costumes and uniforms, when she doesn't get into fugues to create new fashions – did you know she had ties to a new model agency here?"
"And Squealer?"
"Squealer works at their Transportation branch, making blueprints for more efficient vehicles, and developing some parts of them that couldn't be made elsewhere – did you know that her monstrosities were due to her use of drugs? Now, she regularly discusses with Colin about efficiency.
"The others, Mush and Skidmark, work in Sanitation, cleaning sewers and the like. Apparently, Curare was able to get them to work instead of throwing their life away – including others."
"That's… unbelievable. How are the other gangs taking this?"
Piggot smirked. "Lung works at the foundry. He's known to help working the furnace, and to hammer himself a new katana when he gets nostalgic.
"As for the ABB's other parahuman you might know of: Oni Lee has been diagnosed with heavy mental deficiencies, due to his teleportation power scrambling his mind each time. Bakuda is a recent bomb tinker who has been recruited because she can encapsulate many strange effects in her bombs. With Curatorium's help in refining her plans, she intends to create time bubbles to grow trees quickly and keep their fruits fresh, and to help build a fusion-based electricity-producing plant near the foundry."
"Isn't that dangerous?"
"Just as dangerous as a nuclear plant is based on the nuclear bomb. As for the other gangs… Coil was recruited by Curatorium, his mercenaries acting as security around the factory lots, and the man himself providing short-term advice on the group's decisions. And the Empire…"
"Yes. Kaiser and his goons."
She sighed. "You have to know that there are circumstances in every decision you can make. Kaiser went through our Master-detection device, and has been purged of the loyalties his father has forced on him. Loyalties for his minority-targeting base, as well as those for the Empire's mothership, the Gesellschaft."
"A reformed Nazi?"
"Eh. We did it in 1945, didn't we?" A pause. "Things happen around here, Rebecca. Already before then, the Empire was under strict orders to target minorities when they acted as gangs and the like. Some are Nazi and will continue to believe in their superiority, whatever we do. But we have drawn the line, and they aren't allowed to break the law. In fact, some of the people in the ex-Empire genuinely feel themselves as better because they don't break the law, while so many others do. It doesn't help that some people enter this country without learning its laws…"
"This is dangerous thought, Emily. If you espouse Nazi worldviews…"
"About what? Tell me one Nazi thing I said."
"You spoke about the immigrants."
"And that isn't allowed?"
"That's just… dangerous."
"It's "dangerous" to speak about immigrants?" Piggot snorted. "Are you mandated to preach Political Correctness, now?"
"No, but with your association with Max…"
"Yes, what about it?"
"Do you know he's Kaiser?"
"Did you sign a NDA about it, and just broke it?"
"No, he's a criminal! They don't get NDAs about their identity."
"And why do the Protectorate members?"
"Because they're heroes! They are better persons!"
Emily Piggot sighed at the woman's hypocrisy and wondered how far she could continue this conversation without wanting to slap some sense into her – and getting a broken hand, because she was Alexandria, too. Emily was one of the few who had guessed who she was. Instead of trying to break the preconception of the unbreakable woman (body and mind), she continued her list. "Victor has followed Othala into the PRT and is now an instructor in many martial arts. Rune is under probation as we examine her motives. If everything pans out, she'll join the Wards soon.
"Kaiser has made a public apology and explained how his "gang" was now to be led. Many skin-heads that were here for the violence only found themselves left to hang and ended in prison. He didn't divulge his secret identity, but sizeable sums of money were sent from Medhall to improve the city, notably the poorest parts. As I heard, Winslow is now a place on par with Immaculata.
"Fenja and Menja are Kaiser's daughters from an earlier marriage. They understand the new status quo and won't make waves… except when they go to the beach. Apparently, having two giant blonde bombshells is the new attraction, there.
"Purity, too, has stopped all activities in relation with the previous Empire. In fact, she was the first to defect. These days, she takes care of her daughter.
"Hookwolf was tried and sentenced to prison for his many murders. At the same time, Curare healed him of his need for violence, and several therapy sessions are under way to determine if he'll be able to return to life as a productive citizen. Perhaps with Bitch.
"Night and Fog were caught when the Gesellschaft wanted to express their ire about Kaiser's about-face. Once again, the Master device evaluated them, determined that were powerfully-influenced weak-willed people. We now have them in our custody. Fog helps with the weather, when necessary, and Night as a gardener: as long as no one sees her, she can sculpt hedges and bushes like no one else. She's sometimes on lean for the farmers out of town, to trim their fields. But, in all other venue, she's followed by Leet's Snitch."
"Leet?"
"Yes. Even the smaller gangs collapsed. Über works with Victor, as apparently their powers are similar. Leet works under the same restrictions as Armsmaster. The Undersiders, too: Grue works with Bakuda, because his power allows him to ignore radiations. Regent works at the hospital, helping people to relearn to walk or something, and is another of our probationary Wards. And Tattletale has been poached by Curatorium before I could make a bid."
"A… bid?"
"Yes. Her thinker powers are bullshit. She has been offered a position higher than Coil, her previous boss, and couldn't pass the opportunity."
"But… that means…"
Emily smiled. "Welcome to Brockton Bay. The city with the largest number of parahumans in the world… and no villain anymore."
Rebecca swallowed. "I'd like to meet this… Curatorium."
Piggot opened a drawer and took a card from a pile she kept there, before handing it to her superior.
"Et tu, brute?" asked Rebecca, noticing that the card was labelled with Curatorium. There should be no need for Piggot to distribute them, unless she was affiliated with them.
"Not at all. I was given a pile of cards when I complained that people came to me when they wanted to talk to them."
On the card were a phone number and an address. Given that her phone didn't work anymore, Alexandria took the air towards the mysterious benefactor for the city of Brockton Bay… forgetting for an instant that she was, in fact, in her civilian clothing.
"And to think that she didn't ask me about the other villains." Piggot said, shaking her head as she closed the window.
Because, of course, when gangs disappeared, others came to take their place. Elite was discouraged to come, and Accord hadn't even tried, his plans swerving way out of Curatorium's turf.
The Travellers came, true, right as Accord thought Coil was still working for him. They were quickly folded into a group package with the reality-splitting reforming villain. The Master-detecting device allowed for a quick diagnostic of their presence and their Simurgh-influenced destiny, and the Curatorium offered to heal them of their various problems.
The Teeth came, a few months after the Curatorium was established, only to find every parahuman in the city herding them towards holding cells able to keep them. After rendering judgement, they were summarily disbanded, some staying while others were sent to prison.
And the Slaughterhouse Nine followed. In fact, a mere week before Alexandria's visit, they had approached the city in their customary multiple-vehicle way – which was mandatory given their composition. And they had been discovered in advance with the powers of Coil, Tattletale, and a young precognitive Thinker named Dinah Alcott.
Coil's powers helped strategize, his mercenaries helped take out Jack Slash (who detected capes) and Hatchet Face (who nullified their powers), flying long-range capes such as Purity no-sold Shatterbird, Labyrinth (from Faultline's crew) retrieved a friend in the person of Burnscar, and Regent a sister in Cherie. Crawler found in Lung a good adversary, and the two of them started a "friendly" rivalry that was going to appear on the new television network, courtesy of Progress. Bonesaw was "healed" thanks to Panacea, and was now in the employ of the Curatorium. Manton and Mannequin were cured of their Simurgh influence before being recruited by the Curatorium, the former to better understand parahuman powers (and work in difficult conditions by sending a modified version of the Siberian there), and the latter devising self-deploying self-sufficient bases to be sent on the moon and on Mars. To begin with.
Oh, yes, and Emily was under contractual obligation not to tell about Progress' progress, too. It was the only legal loyalty that she didn't share with the Protectorate, and only because she was an early customer for what had been, at the beginning, a barely burgeoning network.
It was too funny to watch the usual actors flounder – they had earned it, too.
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The CuratoriumAlexandria landed near the entrance of the Curatorium's quarters. Because they seemed to occupy first-sector industries, they weren't installed in a skyscraper like Medhall, but they still towered over the factories behind them.
She blushed as she noticed that people barely sent her a glance. For them, she was just another parahuman. On her side, she noticed at the last moment that she wasn't in her Alexandria disguise – and that her official job might be shot, just because of her own negligence.
"Welcome to the Curatorium, Mrs Costa-Brown." a young blonde woman said, coming to her. Given the fox-like smile, she knew very well who she was. And Alexandria has seen that smile on pictures of a masked Tattletale enough to know that her job might be in the balance, if she upset the younger cape.
"Thank you, Miss…?"
"I'm Sarah Livsey. I'll act as your guide for the moment."
"Livsey?" Rebecca asked, not familiar with the name – the normally comprehensive file Cauldron had on all parahumans listed Tattletale as Lisa Wilbourn… with a relatively limited history.
Said Sarah sighed and her smile lost a bit of lustre. "In the aftermath of my trigger event, I fled home and changed name. Our therapist allowed me to come to terms with everything, and I appropriated my name back."
Rebecca nodded and followed the young adult around. They took a lift that was located on the back of the building, mainly because it showed the industrial lot, with the Foundry, the Docks, the factories, and everyone working around, with other buildings being built even further. "Impressive." was all she could say.
Sarah nodded and brought her in a large room, with a large table, with… empty seats. And she sat down, nodding.
Alexandria almost protested of the forced wait, but she abstained because she noticed Sarah take glasses from the table and put them, handing a pair to her. And, of course, that done, she could see the chairs occupied by various people. Several with inhuman features, even – obviously Case 53s.
"Welcome, Alexandria. It has been a while since we extended an invitation to you, and we're happy to have you here to clear any misunderstanding you might have."
Wrong foot. Again. "I don't remember an invitation."
"We tried several times. Apparently, it went in your spam folder. Whichever the case, you're here, and we're here. I assume you have questions."
"Yes. Are any of you Curare? And do you know of Progress?"
"I am Curare." an older man said. He was clad as a doctor, with only his glasses to hide his eyes – in fact, she noticed that the glasses she had must be polarized to display the holographs, and that it blocked the sight to the others' eyes. "I can heal people, a little like Panacea. I work here to ease the inhuman charge people have heaved onto a young girl's shoulder, and so that she could understand her power better. In the meantime, we work with our Thinkers and Tinkers to eventually make machines that could replace us in that domain. Two miracle healers isn't enough for a planet."
"And I am Progress." a young woman said.
"WHAT?" Alexandria sputtered. "But you… How can you hide a terrorist?"
"I'm no terrorist, thank you." the woman said, affronted. "As point of fact, I'm less of a terrorist than you."
"WHAT?"
"Can you tell us how many people you have killed?"
"I'm a heroine! Collateral damage can't-"
"I'm not speaking about that. I'm speaking about people you have ordered killed. Such as when you enclose a whole city after an Endbringer has damaged it beyond repair, isolating millions of people inside. Or when you try new batches of power vials, creating monsters and stuffing them away on another planet. Or when you allow blatant innocents to be transported to the Birdcage, knowing that they would be raped, and killed, by the "worst" part of humanity. Or when you sign kill orders, in fact."
Rebecca Costa-Brown was still on the back foot. How could these people know about all of this? They should be silenced, and removed, and… she stopped thinking, right there. Since when was killing her first answer to uncomfortable questions? Besides, they weren't even there. She swallowed. Twice. "I'm sorry about the many bad decisions taken in my past. We're trying to save… everyone."
"We know about Scion." a man said, near the end of the table. "In time, we'll join with you if you need it. But you disparaged one of our members."
"She took everyone hostage so that they'd use her communication network."
"No." Progress answered, stiffly if a tad smugly. "I took advantage of a failsafe test scenario to extend its scale and duration. I also put adverts in advance and prepared my network. The operators who engineered the test scenario wanted to plunge everyone in Chicago in the dark. Without preparation, just to see what would happen, and ignoring that people could have died. I took advantage of one more bad decision from our illustrious industry tycoons, that's all."
"As we've done in the past." the man at the head of the table interrupted. He had a muscular build, greying hair, and a long beard. "Each time we try to improve society, offering the results of our research for a nominal fee much lower than our opponents, they find ways to shut us down with judiciary processes tailored to their needs. We learnt from them, and did as they did in this land of the brave… we bought our own judge. And now things flow more freely."
"But… you can't just buy a judge."
"Can't you? Really?" A pause. "We proposed free petrol, of a sort – a chemical process to transform cheap biomass into an equivalent. We were happy to mention that parahumans like Trainwreck and Mush helped us refine the process. What do you think the oil tycoons did, when they learnt about that?"
"Trainwreck died, a few months ago." Rebecca said, remembering. "It was ruled as an overdose."
"Of course. They bought a judge. And because this shit doesn't fly anymore, they now want all of us six feet under. For your information, the fact that you meet us like this is as much for your security as it is for ours. We are not in the same city, nor state, or even country. That way, one bomb can't get us all."
"A coordinated strike would still-"
"That ship passed, too. With several precognitive thinkers in our employ, we can dismount them easily. In fact, we did it several times already, and continue to do so. Daily."
"Can't you seek protection? The law…"
"We haven't bought our own lawmakers, so you're right that we could fall under such a problem soon. But we have outlined most of our projects in a document sent to every senator. With what would happen if we were shut down by the legalese. Progress has only begun. And you know she's unstoppable."
"After free petrol, or its equivalent, we have plans for free electricity. Bakuda has already provided us with a proof-of-concept reactor." Progress said, putting a battery on the table. The innocuous size of the thing made Rebecca's eyes go round. But before she could sputter some more, Progress continued. "That could make petrol-based industry go broke, which is another reason for which they want us dead."
Tattletale spoke then. "We estimate that they have monetary reserves so large that, if they stop gaining money at one point, they wouldn't go broke for three years, even if they keep everyone who work for them."
"We're trying for free health too." Curare mentioned. "But we have the same problems with the pharmaceutical industries."
"And Monsanto." a woman added – a slightly older one, with a straw hat hiding her face from the sun because, given the wind in her air, she was outside. She hadn't spoken yet, but the subject seemed to irritate her sufficiently for her to share her thoughts. "With as much free life could be, you still need to eat. And that brand has everything producing food under its banner. Imagine that: you can not take seeds from your own products to grow the next generation of crops. Even if you didn't buy your crops there. They succeeded in passing that as a law, forcing every farmer to buy seeds. And no one sells seeds but them – the permits to do that prohibitively difficult to acquire. And expensive due to the needed kickbacks. So, when I hear that you can't buy your own laws, I laugh a little."
"Let's not forget that there's an international market on food, too." Tattletale interjected. "We have made many enemies in Wall Street just by mentioning it could be done."
"How could food be free?" Rebecca asked. "How could anything be free? Everything has a cost, and you need to pay the people working to get you things. Including the food. It's the basis of our system."
"The system is flawed." the man in the head spoke again, his deep voice strong and firm. "It was good at the beginning, because it gave people freedom to work for wages that would allow him to flourish. But it has also produced growing anomalies that now force billions of people to starve and die. We intend to play by the rules for a short while, making people pay a nominal fee for the things we bring them. Then, when the trillionaires have nothing to do with their money, said money will lose value, and the anomalies will be smoothed over. And then, our projected system of values will be given birth."
"What is it?"
"There is enough materials on this Earth to feed, clothe, and house everyone, provided we stop asking for more. We'll provide basic food, clothing, and housing for everyone. And only by actually working at something will people be able to have more than the others."
"But that's… communism!"
"It's not, but it's interesting that you interpret that as such. Besides, what's so bad about it? And I speak about the system, not its failed implementations. You do not get to cite USSR's actions against America."
"There's also enough land for everyone, especially if we stop pushing everyone together in megapolises." another woman said – this one looked like a lawyer, with the robe and all. "After all, the right to property is in the human rights declaration. Which is why I laugh, myself, when the US point a finger at Russia or China for human rights problems. Why not look at home beforehand?"
"Why?"
"Why, hello, subprime crisis and bank bailout! Hello people pushed away of their homes, while at the same time getting poorer and poorer people in, in order to lower the workforce hourly wages. All in the name of the capital."
"I'm sure that-"
"Would you work for two bucks per hour? Could you, actually?"
"No, but if enterprises do so, they can be sued."
"By the poor and uneducated people in their employ. Right. Nobody does that."
"Moving on." Squealer interrupted, in a surprisingly normal tone of voice – and Alexandria realized that drug abuse was likely the reason why her voice had been so broken before. "Because I don't have all day." And there was her snark, still present. "My part in this is to provide free transportation, in the end. Free little cars to move locally, bigger cars for bigger distances, free within reason, after which there would be added costs. And, of course, we expect much resistance from the car brands."
"I'm on her side, even if we don't agree often." another man said – from the other side of the table, in fact. "My specialty is transportation portals. Once we succeed in making them stable, that would allow instant and free transportation from city to city. Despite the aeronautical industries' wishes that we could continue burning our atmosphere away."
"Dodge?" Alexandria asked, only for the man to nod briefly. "What did they offer to get out of Toybox?"
He smiled and waved at the whole room. "Toybox was a child's dream. We simply grew up."
"We did." said his neighbour. "I'm Glace, by the way. Cryogenics, my specialty, will allow for long-distance space exploration. I expect some people with bids in aerospace to resist, but the market is still small enough for that to fly – and that pun was intended, thank you very much."
The lawyer woman spoke again. "With more planets to explore, of course there will be rushes to have new land, and the rules valid for Earth would have to be adapted. Some planets will be fertile heavens, others would be mineral-rich hellholes. But in the end, the idea would be the same: free property."
"But, with free property… only anarchy can ensue." Alexandria tried to rally her will around what she remembered from her studies in Economics. Led by university chairs relentlessly lobbied by think tanks paid for by the very businesses that generated profit when every Economics major thought in the same way. Yeah… right.
"With existing property rights assailed as they are, anarchy's already here."
"What?"
"When criminals attack, loot, and burn little shops, they are left free, and the owner left to dry. Of course, I'm not speaking about Walmart, and they aren't doing that there." A shrug. "We'll overhaul the whole thing."
"Besides," Dodge interjected, "it's not like you need real property, when you can have pocket dimensions."
"As I recall, these are prohibitively expensive."
"With Toybox's rates, sure." the man answered with a grin. "I've finished working towards, and finalizing, a machine able to make pocket dimension portals. By placing one on your wall, you gain another room. Price's just for the door and some electricity."
"And if you need a whole floor, you call me." another said. "I'm Big Rig, by the way. Automatically scaling buildings, that's me."
"We work well together." Dodge said. "We can now have an "infinite" apartment, with a corridor that elongates to as many rooms as needed."
"As far as I know, Tinkers have difficulties working together." Rebecca said, grasping at the few straws she could see.
"That's thanks to our resident Link." Dodge said, before clamming up suddenly, turning to the head man.
"Link is one of us." he said. "But she's unavailable for comments, right now. She's still healing from her trigger event."
"But… how can she have helped you before her trigger event, if she didn't have powers then?"
"She was in Winslow, the high school, before it was revamped. The process included taking care of the rampant bullying, and she had been an ongoing target, leading to her triggering just before we took care of the problem."
"And with Panacea and… others, you couldn't heal her?"
"The last moments leading to her trigger was an online charge, leading her to trigger with an active link to the internet. She's permanently connected there and can establish links to others… but not her original body. Panacea can't do anything."
"That's… horrible!"
He nodded. "There are many progresses. Some with her body, which now twitches when she concentrates heavily; others with her powers, which can now link three Tinkers together." He leaned forward suddenly, projecting threat even without being there. "But know this, Library of Alexandria. Link is our most closely guarded asset. For the moment, you have the means to reach her. But do harm her, and we'll have to face each other in much less amicable terms."
"You threaten me?"
"No. This is merely a warning. For both you and Cauldron. We'll work together to save everyone. But you leave us alone, just as we leave you alone."
"And what about Progress? The phone blackout? What can I report when asked?"
"You can report what we told you, or not. Your choice. Progress' goal was to grant everyone with a cell phone, because her family died due to not having them in the wilds. Her Tinker phones are already in mass production, thanks to the one Tinker who does so."
"…Dragon. Is Dragon compromised?"
"No. She does as she usually does: replicating Tinkertech. Nothing nefarious there. She didn't want to join us when we proposed."
"Right. Although… regarding Progress, I thought you wanted to create a network. Are you a phone Tinker or a network one?"
She shrugged. "With Link, anything can be made into a network."
"Right, Link, again. And she can link Tinkers of differing specialties, you mentioned?"
"Yes." Curare replied. "Panacea and Squealer have already proposed plans for an ambulance that heals its patients, or at least stabilizes them automatically."
"And do remember," the head man added, "that everything we'll propose for free, will be free to everyone."
"But… isn't it the same? I mean… when you said it was free, didn't you automatically mean it was for everyone as well?"
"There are people who make a difference. For instance, some might propose things for free, but only for their customers. Or for people in your country. Or only for a given skin colour: some favours the white; others the black – note that I don't swing either way. Our stuff will be free for everyone. No one will ever have a claim to consider themselves privileged to it for any pre-existing reason. Or to have another group dismissed for the same."
A pause.
"Believe me, in the current political climate, that one seems to be the harder to swallow by our illustrious leaders."
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Social Studies"Good morning, Mr Anders." Emily said with a smile.
"Good morning, Mrs Anders." Max replied with a grin of his own.
She winced a bit. "It will take some time to get used to that, especially at my age."
"We could have opted for another-"
"No. We discussed about it, and we chose together. It's done and we don't get back on done deals."
He nodded. "Words to live by, in our domains. Besides, we've signed everything."
"Remember when we tried sticking the two together, like Rebecca did? Piggot-Anders? Or Anders-Piggot?"
"It's barely equality if it would necessitate a choice anyways… with who's on first."
She answered his smirk with one of her own, as well as a thrown pillow. "I get your puns, you know."
"Oh? And here I thought the redoubtable PRT Director had no humour."
"That was a Master effect." she replied, her nose in the air. Soon, the smile was back. "But, to get back at the name thing… it's already unwieldy, imagine the next generation or two."
"Yes. It would be quite unwieldy."
"Thankfully, it won't be the case with us. I think my child-bearing years are behind me more than before. And we chose your name, too."
"You can still be Ms Piggot, at the PRT. I imagine that changing everything just because you change your last name will be… less than productive."
"It might, and I will, but only because I have already worked there for years. And also because I don't want people to ask if I gained powers and it's my cape name." A pause. "Note that I can keep it because I can use "Miss" to go with my birth name. I wonder how men who take the name of their spouse go at it."
"I don't know. Young Mister? Né? With how the current culture goes, there is something, or will be."
They shared a grimace. Thanks for the Constitution guaranteeing some measure of free speech, the government hadn't imported the language coercion that their northern neighbour had tried. But they still tried.
"Speaking of younger generations… any news from the Youth Guard's demonstration at Winslow? Or whatever they renamed it as?"
"They call it Utopia, now. They thought, appropriately, that "win slow" was quite bad. And with the many progresses made there, they decided to change. The students voted."
"I thought it was a joke, at first, given the name's inherent contradiction."
She nodded. "At least, the new name sounds better, in line with Arcadia or Immaculata." A pause. "And, yes, they are still keeping a "vigil" on site."
He sighed. "They never stop, do they?"
"The local chapter had received a bit of education on what is it like to be a teenager in the Bay, today. Courtesy of our mutual friends in Curatorium. But their leadership saw this as indoctrination and brainwashing, and they had pulled them out and replaced them with the same kind of soccer moms we had before. Progress is slow."
"She… isn't." he smiled, before raising his hands in defence against another throw pillow. "I get it. After all, coddling the young heroes is their job, isn't it?"
"And they heard about the bullying campaign, too. I would send my thoughts about confidentiality to Rebecca, but she has enough fishes to fry, nowadays. For the Youth Guard, receiving this news for the first time was like the event was fresh itself. But it isn't. Even if the girl is still unresponsive. Mostly."
"They seem to go mad at the drop of a hat. And to go madly at it, as well."
She smirked. "Think about the children!" she mimicked.
"Ah, yes, this yodelling. I heard it in the news, and thought it was for something else."
A nod. "The plea for pity is a common enough fallacy that people should avoid it at all costs, if they want to win a debate with logic. But, sadly, people are less logic nowadays, and more prone to their emotions, too."
"Not only that: I heard that they want to saddle Winslow (sorry, Utopia) with new procedures to ensure the well-being of the "children"… again. With special counsellors interviewing the kids between each teaching period."
"They know that they can't do that. They can't even ask for a five-minute period every day, which is what they wanted first. On top of its load of problems it would mean several full-time jobs, which is a cost the school district isn't going to pay for – especially as they already pay for the other efforts doing the same. But our deluded friends thought that if they asked for a huge effort, people would compromise and join them in the middle. The golden mean is another common fallacy, and politicians fall for it quite often. Especially with the other one added on top like a Jenga tower – the one about the children."
"They seem to see all children as if they were in kindergarten, don't they? If I'm not forgetful in my old age, I recall the high school population as old teens instead, even young adults for the last years – in body, if not in mind. Most of them are old enough to drive, too!"
She nodded. "Absolutely. It's a bad combination, too: addressing them as younger, I mean. From everything I know and learned, especially with the Wards, when you let teenagers stew in a child-like mentality, they tend to act like children. Children with heavier body, cars, hormones, and the tendency to disobey everything."
"I tried to be the stern father, with Theo." Max said pensively. "It didn't work as well as I intended."
"Whether stern or permissive, the adolescent has to know why things are done. And what he would face should he disobey. With little kids, you can end your sentence with "because I said so" and they will obey. The teens? Much less so."
"Reasoning with teens is… hard, though. Especially after a bad day at work."
"Tell him that, then. The problem will be that, while they can understand things logically, teenagers are still driven by their emotions. If they start a tantrum, better let them alone so that they'll calm down. Or get the phone out and film there (without posting it) so that they can see how ridiculous their attitude is from the outside, later."
A pause. "You seem to have thought about it a lot."
"I had temperamental Wards to manage. I read what I could, on my own free time."
"Thanks anyway. I realized things along the way, too, and reached similar conclusions. Giving soft and hard frontiers is the way to go, with explanations as to why they are, and what they should expect if they go over them. They might do it anyway, but at least they'll know they are in the wrong. And any punishment outlined for a fault that is committed is to be given out, appropriately, or they'll see you as untrustworthy."
"Thankfully, for this, the PRT is an offshoot of the military, and despite the presence of the Wards, we have rules and regulations that are to be followed. Everything is clearly outlined, including the punishment – although the term is different, to appease the Youth Guard."
"Ah, yes. They would balk at this as if people were still using corporal punishment. Those goody-two-shoes would rather scold a bully than punish them effectively. They don't seem to realize that if you don't punish the bullying behaviour, there will be bullies. Always."
"The temptation is always there to see "children" as innocent, ignoring every study showing how young and presumably innocent kids are often quite cruel. And then, as the blame is to fall on someone else, they often target the parents… forgetting that those do what they can to deal with their often unruly teenagers. Even if rules are set fairly, rebellious teens (or those egged on by their peers) will try to act beyond their parents' wishes and admonishments at least once. Per day. And most parents are reasonable enough not to actually encourage their kids on their bullying ways."
"Some might do. There are some who were bullies in their youth and who never saw the harm of their wrongdoing. Except when it's their kid on the line, of course."
"Of course." She paused, looking at him. "Someone we know?"
He shook his head. "I expressed my disappointment."
"What did you do?" The stare was flat, and she almost enunciated each word separately.
But instead of worrying, he smiled. "I had a letter sent to the father, saying that MedHall was not keen on seeing him, in full uniform, condoning his bullying son's activities in public while shifting the blame towards the victim, all of which he did while supposing that I (and MedHall) was behind him – some people play the "powerful friend" card quite well, especially when they know a lawyer or a politician. He was quite shocked."
"I can imagine."
"Especially as the victim is black."
"…okay. Now this is interesting. Max Anders, defending black people?"
"Happens to the best of us." he smiled, shrugging.
"Glad you have seen the light."
"The light? Purity, you mean? She was in my face, how could I not see the light?"
"Ha ha. Hm. Isn't it a bit gauche, to speak about your ex not even a full day after your marriage?"
"Might be… if she isn't the one who got us together." he said suavely, hugging her.
They stayed a moment like that, at peace – after all, they were "just married" and had delegated all their activities for a few days.
The next time they spoke, they were at the breakfast table, and the television was showing the news where, unsurprisingly, the talking head was making a piece about Winslow-Utopia… and the Youth Guard still present at the entrance.
"Unpowered soccer moms." Emily said into her cup of tea.
"I know this one." Max said at the same time, watching intently. "Jezebel. She hasn't changed."
"Still beautiful?" his new wife asked dangerously.
"No. Still convinced that, as prom queen, everyone is beneath her."
"Hm." Emily said thoughtfully. "I just thought about something."
"God bless us." he rallied comically.
"Oh, stop! If I wanted a comic, I'd have married Assault. Or Clockblocker."
"Oh, that hurt!" he mock-acted, patting his heart. "Right here!"
"Shush, you. I just realized that those soccer moms were just that: women who were popular in high-school, and who thought that it prepared them for real life. Once the dance is over, though, it's another song and dance, and they don't know the steps. So, in their mind, they are stuck in high school."
"Nice. And to say, those are the ones who get to regulate the activities of teenagers with superpowers? While knowing that powers often push us towards conflict? And with as sole proposed solution to coddle them into doing nothing?"
She nodded. "I know. I see the discrepancy, every day."
"…to say nothing about the power envy! Because, come on: the regular humans are already envious when their neighbours get better cars than theirs. Or garage doors. Or pets. Or children. Or career. Why wouldn't they be envious of people having superpowers? They never see the negative side of all those things, such as the loan that neighbour took to buy that expensive car, or the career sacrifices that other one made to take care of his kids (or vice-versa). Or, for the powers, the severity of trigger events and the day-to-day difficulty of having unusual strength?"
Since he had to breathe, still, he stopped there to catch his breath, and she nodded. "I might not be powered myself, but I know about all this. Since Ellisburg, I have never felt envy for superpowers. But before, yes. Despite my training, I felt outclassed by freaks of nature, and wanted to reach their level."
"Exactly! Now, you, my dear, are quite an exception in all this. But think about the common people, including Jezebel here, and imagine what they know about parahumans except the fact that they have cool powers."
"…which is not much."
"With that lack of knowledge, can they sit and pass judgement on parahumans? Can they make snap decisions that wouldn't impede the activities of parahumans? Can they-"
"I hope you don't intend to ask if parahumans ought to marry between themselves." she interrupted in a scolding tone, her finger in the air.
"Ah… no. Not at all. I was just caught in the moment. Because the topic reminded me of the last time I went on television. There was a man beside me, a shrink or something. He cited psychological studies (in wish-thinking, I gather) and clearly inferred that all parahumans were violent by nature, and that, as such, they should be barred from getting any position of power… or locked outright. I was tempted to show him how violent I could get."
"Human nature is violent. Should all humans be locked? By whom?"
"That's what I should have answered. Glad to see there is at least one level-headed person in our couple."
"If you wanted to annoy or ridicule him, you could have asked if he meant that all elephants ought to be in prison. They are heavier and clumsier than you, and such more prone to property damage when forced in porcelain shops. Should they be locked up in advance, too? Conveniently forgetting all about the judiciary process?"
"The worst was that, as he was speaking and driving all these conclusions on the flimsiest of premises, people in the room were nodding along. Then, when the next speaker started to refute the arguments, they were booed."
"That was you, right?"
He blushed slightly. "Well… yes."
"Glad to have poked at your self-importance bubble." she said, nodding.
"Glad to have you as my regular therapist." he replied, not one to stay low for too long.
"I should charge you, then." she commented. "What would the people say?"
"They would be envious, of course."
"Of you, or me?"
"Yes." he replied, hugging her again.
Believe it or not, they spoke about the Youth Guard again, that day. They were still on the evening news. "Can you believe that?" he asked.
"I hope that was rhetoric, otherwise it would mean you forgot our entire discussion, this morning."
His "Yes, dear." got him a cushion to the head – upon arriving, the woman had made sure there were enough ammunition for her, in every room. "They are still harping about them, I meant."
"Wait a minute. You're right."
"Ah!"
"They are going way over their remit, there: they are speaking about the Wards! Is this live?"
"Yes, I-"
"Where's my phone? I need to-"
His response of letting the subject drop would fall on deaf ears, he knew. But he also knew that she had chosen her substitute well, and she witnessed it too, when Velocity interrupted the shooting by placing itself in front of the camera. "Any discussion about Ward identity is liable to the related NDA, and any revealing of such is a felony that will be prosecuted." he said, almost rote – he was not Emily's replacement, but the messenger sent to interrupt the discussion. Soon, real PRT vans arrived and pushed the reporter away, before taking the Youth Guard vigilantes away for a much-needed scolding.
Of course, once inside the PRT building, they tried to shout to everyone that they were just doing their jobs by ensuring that the "little darlings" were taken care of. Emily learned all that later, including the scowl Vista had for that language. And the organization in general, because they were the one preventing her from doing what she wanted, and needed: use her power.
On this, she agreed with the half-pint heroine. The last batch of representatives had thought of another lever to prevent their deployment, too, and it was the collateral damage incurred when heroes fought villains – conveniently forgetting that there were less of these in Brockton Bay, by now.
They also forgot that, when blaming people for collateral damage, care had to be applied so that each protagonist had their own responsibility: who threw the first insult, the first blow, the first flattened house… things like that. They also put aside the hidden cost of not acting at all: in the long run, letting villains run unopposed was often quite costly. In money and in lives too.
The media coverage of Utopia scrambled to a stop. And it was not only because the Youth Guards representatives were isolated until they saw the error in their ways: there were angry rants about parahumans in general, and a president of the United States (POTUS – gotta love their acronyms; by the way, this one means drunkenness, in latin) was considered a martyr and would be interred in pomp.
All this because a woman had been pushed too far.
Having jealous humans in charge of parahuman lives is a recipe for disaster, and not only at the local level. In fact, the more power you get, the more hungry you get for more. And few people have as much power as said President.
When he told Rebecca Costa-Brown that the Youth Guard was to stay the way it was, to "better keep those animals chained, and us regular humans in control", she flipped and slapped him so hard that his head is now around Saturn. She was also promptly horrified, and left through the window – the bulletproof window panes several inches thick.
She was now a wanted felon, and everything related to the PRT and the Protectorate was scrutinized for faults and treason – thankfully, besides being protected by the lawmakers they had ended up "buying", the Curatorium hadn't affiliated itself to those targets, and was left to its devices. And thanks to a positive cashflow, they recruited the PRT's leftovers. Including Mrs Anders.
In fact, they bought the PRT building, renamed it "Parahuman Responsibility Training", and allowed Emily to keep her old desk.
"It's funny." she said when discussing her day with her husband, in the late evening. "It's like before, without the hassle of the organizations doing what they can to block my way. I have more free time now, and I can discuss with each Ward – whom we are trying to find a name for, collectively."
"Junior Heroes?" Max proposed. "Break it by school age and give them school-level titles. Like Highschool Capes?"
"Perhaps." she said after a few seconds of humming. Then she frowned. "I'm still wary about Rebecca."
"Apparently, she's in Africa, now." Max said, pointing at the screen showing the flight of the high-powered fugitive. And her subsequent movements – it had been several days already since the "event". "Fighting Moord Nag, if I translate that incoherent news-speak correctly."
"I hope that she can control herself, after all this. Barring that, we can still check if she has been Mastered. Perhaps she has been, to, in her numerous fights against the Simurgh."
Max looked at the screens. "Apparently, she's not alone, there. They say here that Eidolon has left too. That is, after he has pushed wave after wave of soldiers away from his bastion at Houston. In exchange for immunity for his charges, he has stopped resisting the incoming army… only to teleport to the Sahara. He's on the path of Ash Beast, too."
"The Triumvirate, acting decisively? That would be a first. What, now? Legend getting on Sleeper's case? The Yangban? The Blasphemies? The Fallen?" A short pause. "It's depressive, isn't it, when we can cite villainous groups faster than heroes'?"
"Well, we have the Curatorium, now. And its many subsidiaries, given the anti-trust laws and the number of sectors they impact."
"Thankfully, yes. At least, they did the thing correctly, getting their own policymakers so as not to get blindsided and to advance their own agenda too."
Alexandria worked fast, when properly motivated. Eidolon was no slouch, when he could at least use his power. And Legend was the fastest parahuman when flying, bar none. As such, it came as no surprise that the next "exclusive news" happened scant minutes after reporting the death of the two African menaces.
It was in a bar of Cape Town, after the two bloodied heroes had already drank a dozen bottles of Jerepigo (for Alexandria) and Inverroche (for Eidolon). Each. It showed, in the footage taken by an intrepid local reporter. It also showed that Alexandria was immune, but not Eidolon (unless he chose to, which he didn't right now).
It went badly, too.
"Why are you so mean?" was Legend (paraphrased) opening sentence.
"Because they were mean to us, first." was the (paraphrased, because it was mostly slurred) answer – the them being, clear as day, the unpowered people "in charge". "Besides, you have nothing to say about them being all good and such, mister Apparently-Gay."
"What? No!"
"What? Afraid that your little lie would tarnish your reputation?"
"What about you, Rebecca with the long name because you were too proud to revoke your name in marriage? And you, David, the openly ugly straight white male in the story?"
"Now, see there!" David exclaimed as he stood up, pulverizing the counter in the process. "Oops." They fought for a bit, razing the little café in the process.
Airing their dirty linen in public wasn't a good choice, especially when proving to be a danger to those around them. People heard, and then sought more information elsewhere. They already knew that Alexandria was a prideful woman, and that Eidolon always hid his face.
Legend, everybody liked, because he made himself approachable. But then his story leaked out, and some people thought he had betrayed them. Having made himself approachable ended up giving people keys to manipulate his emotions. That's the other reason why he left and sought his old friends – who had never been his friends, in fact.
"Did you know about this?" Max asked Emily, who was watching the television intently. The reporter had backpedalled quickly, but others had come, and there were enough directed mikes to catch some of the sentences. For the viewers, though, several people were acting live to deliver subtitles.
"No." was the short answer. Short, but with a longer "o" than was usual, because Emily was quite shocked. At the end of the thing, she went to her computer to check a few restricted information sites. And collating the data showed a more lacklustre individual than everybody expected.
"So." Max tried to shorten the data. "There are three important points. First is that there is an organization out there, named Cauldron, which can sell powers by the vial. Or give them in exchange for future favours. It means that people who bought those might be compromised later. Always nice to think about it beforehand."
"Yes. And those three weren't on the same page, too. Apparently, Legend was too "nice" to stomach what they did to those with whom the vials failed."
"At least now we know where all those Case 53s come from."
"Right."
"Now, the second piece of information is that Legend is fake. His whole personality is an aspect of his power. Before, he agreed with everyone, and everybody was his friend… as long as he didn't tell them no. As it wasn't in his character to put himself in the limelight, he was effectively invisible to women. But not for sexual predators, especially those who knew he had a psychological aversion to saying no – not that it would have prevented his rape."
"He was also laughed out of the police station where he wanted to tell his story. I think that we are better now, but that might be wishful thinking."
Max nodded along, his eyes on the notes he had taken. "Now, as he's suffering from AIDS, Cauldron came with a miracle vial. One of the first hundred given out as tests. Only half a dozen survived as normal humans, and another half dozen were completely changed, and hidden away."
"Case 53s again. And, in his lack of curiosity, he didn't ask why."
"The third point is his marriage. Rumour had it as being a happy gay couple, but it seems it's an arrangement instead. Like many couples with celebrity status."
"I saw him several times, and he seemed… content."
"According to how he was needled, it stopped there. Legend and Arthur met in the same circles of people victims of unwanted same-sex experience, and both thought themselves too "damaged" to ever engage in social relationships apart their friendship. Living together led to marriage, later, when Arthur asked and Legend couldn't say no."
At that time, Emily was browsing the PHO forums, where rumours and speculation exploded about Legend's (lack of) love life. And it was on articles from specific sources (whom she knew as Thinkers) that she stopped to read in detail. "It says here that it was a specific event that led Arthur to ask for a wedding. At that time, he worked in an office building for a large publishing company, and had heard that he was the target of a false complaint of sexual harassment."
"Both of those happen." Max replied, nodding, while he tried to read over her shoulder. "The harassment, and the false complaints. You fight the first with the second, and you fight the second by being irreproachable… and having more friends than any opposition in the committees who would decide your future."
"Apparently, he didn't have that many friends." Emily read, summarizing the story. "I wonder how he could tell it was false, because those complaints can be made from raw feelings. Wait… here: no change in interaction with the person, from before he knew her, when they worked together, and afterwards. He also realized that she had applied for an opening in a higher position, the same job he had trained like mad to get."
"I can see how he would have reacted, and why." Max said pensively. "He was attacked and had no recourse to save his own skin – because, at the age he had at the time, it wasn't only his work: getting sacked with that label meant that he wouldn't find the same kind of job, and he probably had a student loan to finish repaying, too. Legend might have had a nice job, but it was a government job, and he has never been one to embezzle."
"Exactly." she continued reading, adding to the story as it went. "Marrying his friend was the best decision he could have made, apparently: first, he was deemed innocent of doing whatever sexual deed he had been accused of; second, the competing woman got sacked for homophobia, and the job was given to him."
"Like that? They didn't interview anyone?"
"No, not even him. Apparently, it was a ploy to show how Diversity-friendly it was – yes, there was an uppercase initial, there."
"I wonder…"
"Yes?"
"How many young men did the same, in that situation? People are taught to sacrifice everything to their work. For some, it includes whatever they could have contributed to the humanity gene pool."
"There is always the sperm banks."
He nodded, conceding the point. "Whatever they did, they owned to it, too: they adopted a kid, if memory serves."
"Yes. A boy named Keith. According to what I'm reading, there had been pressure on him since the possibility opened to do so legally."
"Let me guess: he couldn't say no?"
She nodded sadly. "Not knowing to say no… it's dangerous. Those affected take responsibilities without compensation, one after the other, until they crumble. Literally, even, in some cases."
"You're not on PHO anymore, are you?"
"No, I'm reading articles on stress-induced deaths. Did you know that there are people dying because their body doesn't support the stress?"
"Heart attack?"
"Worse: their heart stops. Period."
He shuddered. "That's… horrible. At least, with a heart attack, you might recover."
"I'm back on PHO, and there's something strange. People are harping on Arthur's company. Others are criticizing him "taking a woman's job" and being a sexist pig… and so on. As if his sexual orientation had shielded him all that time."
"They are married, live together, have a kid… I know of several couples who have the same, and no sex, and they live happily. Why does all this come out now? Let me guess: social media?"
She nodded. "Bunch of moronic nihilists. Filtering out their verbiage feels like going through the sewers."
He nodded. "I can relate." A pause. "What about the enterprise. Something we know?"
"I don't think so. It's an old publishing company on the decline. The kind that can't really afford a trial. That's perhaps why they had been prompt to react when he was deemed… that."
"A quick answer is often a bad answer." he said sagely. "Especially when no real thought is brought forward. Reacting to the social media is bad form, because, whatever you do, there will be people unhappy with it. Even if you do nothing."
"Happen often?" she asked with a knowing grin. "I don't know… MedHall? With multiracial employees?"
"That was a serious series of lies!" he exclaimed. "Not my fault if a contractor employed illegal immigrants. Of course, when we noticed, we terminated the contract. We hadn't recruited them, and didn't have to disburse anything for them. We did, and we got shat upon because it wasn't enough. It's never enough, for some people, and you simply can't defend yourself by trying to prove how virtuous you are. Nowadays, MedHall's policy is to answer with "The disturbance is under investigation and will be dealt with soon". Then we wait a few days, and the public switches its attention somewhere else."
"They seem to have tried the virtuous angle." she commented. "It went smoothly, at the beginning: they appeased everyone, including the gay lobby groups."
"Ah, yes, those." he snickered. "At one time, their reasoning was that we ought to target their group because, as two urban males with no chance to have kids, odds were that they were more highly paid than any other group."
"Which was quite true… until they could adopt."
"Indeed. What happened afterwards? You said it was good at first. Meaning that it went worse?"
"Yes. Apparently, the company was old enough to have published books for sixty years. Normally, it's a sign that the enterprise is healthy, right?"
"Let me guess: not in our new age?"
"Exactly. Some fifty years ago, they published the works of a mathematician who, since then, has explained his worldview in no uncertain terms – a worldview that had nothing to do with his genius in sciences. And guess what? Like some other scientists of that time, he had come from Germany just after the end of the Second World War. Invited by the universities."
"He wasn't alone, at that."
"Yes, but for that company, it was like the proverbial pebble that started the rock slide. Or who made Atlas stumble. I'm mixing my metaphors, right now."
"Why? I mean… why would that publishing impact… oh, right."
"Yes. Since said mathematician has espoused the mentality of his time, like most humans do, and since mores changed, his political stance wasn't acceptable anymore."
"And since people regularly conflate a person and their deeds, his whole work was suspect, as was his person."
"He's dead, though, so he doesn't care anymore anyways. But for the company who had sold his books, it wasn't politically correct now to have published his works then. Go figure your way out of that, now."
"I know this one!" he said, holding his hand in the air as if he was a kid in class. "They prostrated themselves in abject contrition, let the unwashed masses extract their pounds of flesh, and got back to work."
"Yeah, that. Apparently upset as their "stupid decision", they took other stupid decisions in the heat of the moment… and spurred by the chaotic and poorly-worded demands of those twitters and snapchatters that were hounding them."
"Let me guess, again: none among them agreed with anything others did. Especially the most verbose of them, who spend all their time on social networks, who focus on one little thing at a time, one perceived fault in something greater than they are, while they have massive chips on their own shoulders."
"Yes, that. Why "greater", though?"
"Mathematics. A company comprises several individuals. As such, they can overrule the advice of any single person without external power over them."
"By that definition alone, individuals twits shouldn't be able to be put on equal footing with the company's declarations, then. Right?"
"Yes, but there are shortcuts. The most obvious is the media, who regularly pull a message out of context to display it, sender identity included. Free publicity and all that."
"I can imagine. People in that microcosm love being shown as David overcoming Goliath – when it works."
"Sadly, their literacy stops there, as doing social networking all the time prevents them from reading books, especially maths. Otherwise, they might do something else with their life. Something productive, and logical, instead of fuelling the fires of fury."
"Wow."
"What?"
"I just read the end of all this. Guess what they ended up doing?"
"Remove all books from that mathematician?"
"Worse: they removed all books about maths."
A silent pause. "Wow, you said. That's quite… extreme."
"They practically capitulated to appease the furies, forgetting that the next time, they will ask for another sacrifice, and then another…"
"And, meanwhile, useful books go out of print."
"The last tweets before the executive decision was about the fact that logic and due process was deemed as racist, sexist, and every bad "-ist" adjective there is… and because they hurt their precious feelings."
"Wow. Again. Is this the same sender as the one saying that classical music triggers him? While crying foul at the so-called racists who can't stand rap at full volume?"
"Seems so. The lack of logic is propagating."
"Oh, woe is me! Woe is us! Woe is the world! Are you really for real, reality?"
"Max, please. You weren't made for theatrics."
"Au contraire, my dear. All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."
"Citing Shakespeare, again? Well, no matter. It's late, Max. Come to bed." she asked, turning the computer off.
"Of course, dear."
"Some would say you're whipped." she commented as he took his place.
"I'm not in a group where that kind of comment has importance anymore." he replied, setting himself to sleep. "I prefer the Curatorium's long-term plans."
"So do I. Sleep well."
"You too."
Eyes closed.
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To be continued… or notAuthor's notes: Warned you, blah blah blah. Work of fiction, here, blah blah blah. Everything mentioned doesn't reflect the author's views, blah blah blah.