I go out to lunch again with Amy a few days after the Empire-Medhall leak. She picks the venue, an open-air seafood restaurant by the bay. No Victoria this time as she's busy shopping with her boyfriend Dean Stansfield, a rich kid with a heart and wallet of gold. I can't say I'm missing her boisterous presence, but once Amy bans work as a topic of conversation the small talk dries up fast. It takes approximately two seconds after that for me to start wishing for someone with better social skills to show up and save us from the mutual awkwardness.

So when a woman glowing bright enough to be mistaken for a second sun drops out of the sky above the restaurant, I'm almost thankful. Almost.

Fuck fuck fuck, why do the scary Nazi capes always come after me!? I move to cover Amy, who's already backpedaling into the crowd of scattering civilians as she and a half-dozen other people frantically pull out their phones. I desperately try to think of a way to beat a woman who can fly fast, corner better, and hit harder than me, all while staying out of my range. Bone darts, maybe? Hurl them with a catapult arm made of bone? Jump into the sea and wait for New Wave to show up and save me? Flack from a shattered plate of bone could blind her for a bit, but what if she tries to take Amy hostage?

"I'm not here to fight," Purity says, voice tired and sad and distinctly not aggressive.

I stop extending blades of bone and hold myself still inside my shell.

What?

"I'm just here to pass on a message," she says, folding her arms. From anyone else, it would be a sign of aggression and bullheadedness. From her, it's the equivalent of a cop dropping their gun on the ground. I pull the blades back in but keep them at the ready under my armor.

"What message?" I ask, still wary. It could be a Godfather-style message where Kaiser just wants me to know precisely who wanted me whacked.

She sighs, then reaches for something at her side, slowly and carefully. "Kaiser wants you to have this," she says, tossing it onto the table. She then floats there... awkwardly, waiting for me to pick up the letter. I reach over, pick it up with two fingers, then tuck it into my armor, never taking my eyes off perhaps the most dangerous individual cape in the Bay.

Purity nods and moves to fly away before hesitantly turning back. There's a little movement about where her mouth should be, but it stops abruptly after a second or two. I watch her intently, still holding myself at the ready.

"Have a nice day," she says lamely after a minute or so before flying off. I follow her with my eyes as she leaves, then look at Amy, who's wearing an expression somewhere between shock and dismay.

"I have no idea what that was about," I say as honestly as I can.

"Why do you have to go and get approached by Nazis all the time?" Amy asks, shaking her head.

"Should I-" I begin before she slaps a hand over where my mouth would be. A pointless gesture (the fractal ivy-leaf weave that makes up my mask today doesn't really have an opening), but I shut up on reflex anyway.

"Don't speak," she says, staring me in the eye before leaning by my ear and whispering. "Don't tell us heroes anything. Plausible deniability is the name of the game. You definitelyshouldn't read that at home, and teaming up with villains is a terrible idea." I can hear the sarcasm dripping from her words, and I nod along. When the PRT show up, confirm that Purity is gone, and debrief us, Amy says that she couldn't see anything because Purity shined too brightly. I tell them that I couldn't hear Purity over the panicking bystanders and keep the letter hidden in my armor, the thick paper weighing on my conscience.

They let me go and I head straight home. Once I get to the basement and have covered every conceivable entrance with bone (can't be too careful), I open the envelope. From across the room. With a long, thin blade of bone and a thick shield held at the ready across my body.

I don't know if Bakuda has teamed up with the Empire to kill me. I don't know if the Empire has a chemical Tinker who wants me dead. But why take the chance?

When no instantly lethal effects occur, I make some tweezers at the end of the blade and pull out the letter. Still nothing. I poke the letter open. Once I've satisfied my paranoia, I pull back the shield and blade, the letter clenched between the tweezers. I go over the first few lines. Then I sit down, forming a stool before I fall over, and read the rest of it. When I lean back in shock, I reflexively transform the stool into a chair. I read it over one last time, just to be sure my eyes aren't deceiving me.

Dear White Rose,

The Empire has noticed the wrongs done to you by the Tinker Bakuda. Rest assured, you are not the only one to have suffered the wrath of that foul subhuman, nor are you the only one who wishes vengeance upon the wretch.

While the Protectorate and other "heroic" parahumans have been taking token actions against the ABB, the less reputable elements of our fair city have not been inactive and, in fact, have done far more to weaken them. You have of course met Hookwolf at the docks, from which you may have inferred that the Empire has launched other raids to sap the ABB's manpower. The Undersiders have "liberated" most of the ABB's liquid capital, and Coil has systematically eliminated the ABB's intelligence network. Thanks to the actions of these "villains," the ABB only now exists because Bakuda still lives and refuses to move on to greener pastures.

It is to this end that I contact you. At 10 PM on the 7th of May, we will be launching a joint attack on Bakuda's lab to end her once and for all. The Empire, Faultline's Crew, The Undersiders, and Coil will all be contributing to the strike force. If such an event is of interest to you, meet us at the establishment known as Somer's Rock to discuss the assault.

If you truly wish vengeance upon the Mad Bomber, I will see you on Wednesday.

Good Hunting,

Kaiser

That bastard. I memorize the meeting place and time, then tear up the paper and begin to pace, mind racing. Oh look, I've hurt an acceptable target! That means you and I are on the same side! Hey, want to stick your neck out for me?

Please.

I sit back down and start to think.

First, this is going to end with Bakuda dead. Kaiser definitely has a body count, and it's not like any of the other villains are going to bat an eye at him turning Bakuda into a shishkebab. Second, they really don't need me for this. If everyone he listed is really showing up and they only bring half their collective manpower, that's still going to be a force of, like, a dozen capes. Even accounting for bullshit tinkering, those are some lopsided odds. That means that Kaiser wants me there for something other than backup.

I grow a rose and snap it off. Hmm, what could the neo-Nazi gang leader possibly want with the new cape who's presumably not a filthy subhuman?

This is a recruitment pitch. One that will more than likely end in the death of one of my enemies, but a recruitment pitch nonetheless. Fucking Nazis won't take no for an answer, will they?

Knowing that informs my decision, but it sure as hell doesn't make it. Yes, Kaiser is white supremacist scum. Yes, being seen around Empire capes and not attacking them causes all sorts of problems. Yes, the proper response to receiving this letter is probably to inform the Protectorate, ask for them to call in Legend or Alexandria, and cut off the head of the metaphorical snake of villainy in Brockton Bay.

And yet I'm not reaching for the phone Mr. Doe gave me.

I grow another rose.

Why am I not calling the authorities? Is it because they're worthless sacks of shit? No, Armsmaster was polite and didn't press too hard, Vista was sympathetic, and Assault and Battery have been basically decent people, if a bit aggressive. Is it because I just want the ABB gone? In that case, why didn't I talk to Hookwolf after meeting him at the docks? Is it because I just don't see the Empire as that bad?

I grow a rose. Fuck.

I don't see the literal Nazis as worse villains than the mad bomber. Why? Because I haven't been personally harassed by them.

I walk over to the table, tear a piece of paper out of the back of my composition book, and track down a pencil to make a list. "Reasons to call the authorities." After a moment I make another list. "Reasons to attend." I have to think this through, and that means looking at it from all angles.

Reasons for not going: Fuck Kaiser, this is probably villainous, and they don't need me. The first one is a little less rational, but honestly? Giving the metaphorical middle finger to a Nazi is always a good option. I start chewing on my pencil absentmindedly. The villainy is actually the biggest concern. If information about this ever gets out, it wouldn't be great for me. I can still bank on my word versus a villain's, but it wouldn't be ineffective blackmail material. The final reason absolves me from being forced to go. They have enough parahuman muscle to kill Bakuda without my help. Sure, they might take fewer losses if I show up, but hey, they're villains. I can accept a few of them being dead on my conscience.

I stare at the second list. What is driving me to even consider this? This entire mess with the ABB is about to be cleaned up by someone else, at no personal cost to me. I don't need to put myself in harm's way or endanger my reputation.

So why do I want to go?

A stroller comes to mind. As does the smell of salt.

Something goes crack and I taste wood. I pull my pencil out of my mouth and examine it. The end is splintery and broken. I wipe at my mask and my hand comes away with wood chips attached.

Right. Fuck Bakuda. There's the reason. That, and I want this over. No ifs, ands or buts. Just her corpse cooling on the ground, cut up enough that they'll need fucking dental recordsto ID the body, a message to everyone in Brockton Bay that this shit is not okay and will not be tolerated.

I don't shut off that train of thought. Instead, I push it into my armor and seethe.

Yeah. I forgot about the whole point of staying independent. What's the point of being free if I can't decide who I fight and when, even if I base my decision entirely on my desire to cut a bitch?

Looks like I'm going to Somer's Rock.


I spend the next morning on the phone with Mr. Doe. He informs me of which topics are protected by attorney-client privilege and which aren't. I ask some hypotheticals, and we end up hashing out a will. It's nothing fancy (I don't have enough to my name to make it complicated) but I feel... I wouldn't say better after I hang up. Settled, maybe, like I'm running up a hill and I've found my rhythm.

I spend the afternoon with Dad just catching up. We never did go on that picnic in April so we grab some Thai takeout, drive up to the Jeremiah Laysend Memorial Graveyard, and eat by Mom's grave. We don't talk about anything of significance in between mouthfuls of food, but we're both fine with that. The birds are out, singing and warbling, the sun is shining, and it's warm enough that we both take off our jackets about halfway through the Pad Thai.

I can't remember the last time we just sat down and ate together like this.

"This is nice," Dad says suddenly. I finish my bite of food and look at him. He's got quite the look on his face. A mixture of joy and sorrow. "It's..." I see him struggling to describe the tender, painful-but-not feeling that I think I'm mirroring before giving up. I nod sympathetically. Neither of us are very good at sharing. It was Mom's job to pry our emotions out and force us to share. She was pretty good at it, too.

Maybe the gravestone helps.

Annette Hebert

1969-2008

She taught something precious to each of us.

She had a way of making us talk. Of making us want to try and match her verbosity. We never quite got there, but the act of trying helped us both.

I swallow a lump in my throat down and blink away tears.

We wrap up not long after that, most of the food gone. Dad and I turn in at six, emotionally wiped out and ready for rest. I catch a few hours of light, fitful sleep. At nine I roll out of bed, armor up, and head out.

The trip to Somer's Rock is too long and too short at the same time. Long enough that someone has to have seen me running around and short enough that my heart is still trying to beat its way out my chest when I arrive at the bar.

Somer's Rock is a hole. The street-level windows are grimy and barred, the walls above are covered in obscene graffiti, and the stairs descending to the entrance are cracked and strewn with garbage. I imagine that the various gangs that use this dive as a meeting place are paying the lease because I can't imagine anyone eating here of their own free will.

I walk down to the door, a wooden thing that's splintery and worn. I grab the handle, ripple my ribs to steady myself, and push it open into the bar.