Signal to Noise

06

"Repeat that, please. I don't think I heard you correctly."

I sighed, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "I said, if we're going to be labeled as villains, we might as well act like it. Starting with taking territory."

"That's what I thought you said," Taylor grumbled. "I don't want to be a villain—"

"You're working with me, you stole monkeys, so you kind of already are," I pointed out.

She ignored me. "I want to be a hero. Helping people. Stopping the gangs. I'm borrowing the monkeys. I can put them back."

Nodding, I asked, "Okay. How about this? Tell me what it is you want. What you ultimately want for yourself, your career as a hero, and for the city." It helped that I already knew the answer. Had planned for it, in fact.

Crossing her arms, Taylor answered, "I was born here. Seeing the city like it is, it makes me sick. I want to get rid of the gangs. Clean up the streets." She paused, her expression softening as she added, "Clean up the Docks and the Bay. Get the ferry running again. For dad."

"And how do you plan to deal with the gangs. The PRT have been playing whack-a-mole with them for years. Strike one group here, the rest scatter like roaches in the light, then move back in when the light goes away," I pointed out, throwing the PRT firmly under the bus on this one.

Frowning, Taylor shrugged. "I don't know—"

"I do," I interrupted. "If you want to keep them out, you have to maintain a presence. You have to take territory and enforce it. Say 'this is my piece of land' and kick off anyone you don't want there. Gangs, squatters, dealers, addicts—remove the problem. Then turn around and offer jobs. Hire people to clean out the bay. Clean up the buildings. Tear down what can't be salvaged. Let people in again and start making a profit, once people see it's become a nice area now that we've kicked out all the people causing problems. Property values go up, businesses return bringing more money and more jobs, unemployment drops, poverty drops, people start feeling safe again."

Sighing, Taylor nodded. "And how do we keep them physically out? Even with my power, we can't be everywhere."

I grinned. "We build a wall." She raised an eyebrow. "In this case, a force field. I went out and got a place today. Maybe a place for us?" I suggested, but didn't give her time to say one way or another. "Somewhere I can set up a lab and start mass producing tech. Force field generators would be easy peasy. Have them linked, drop them on the ground where they dig down into the concrete—wind up looking like pylons or something sticking out of the ground. Turn on the field and no one gets in. Build some sort of VI or something to recognize people, recognize who is authorized to be there, and let it keep the riff-raff out. Drop new pylons every time we finish cleaning out territory and expand. Repeat until we cover the docks. Lock out the Merchants, the ABB, Empire, and PRT." Taylor frowned. "Okay, maybe not that last one, as a… ugh. Show of trust or something stupid."

Popping up from the couch, she paced the living room silently once, twice, thrice, before finally asking, "And you're sure you can do it?"

"It'd be a lot easier with your help," I pointed out. "Of course, it'd be even easier with some extra manpower. People willing to work for cash, going around and setting down force field pylons, doing the actual cleaning, demolition and construction work—maybe set some pylons out in the Bay to prevent storm surge. You said it yourself, we can't be everywhere."

Taylor paced some more. "Where will we get that kind of money? We probably only got something like twenty grand this morning—"

I cleared my throat. When I had her attention, I gestured beside the coffee table before fishing a pallet of money out of my storage space. Taylor's eyes went wide. "I made a withdrawal while you were talking with your dad's friends."

"You stole—"

"Nope," I grinned. "Well, technically yes. But no. You see, this is my money." Fishing around in a pocket, I pulled out my receipt and the agreement and handed them over. "I even paid an early withdrawal fee. However, because the PRT froze my account, they're definitely going to call it theft even if the bank doesn't—probably theft from themselves."

"What about dye packs? Tracking devices? Were you followed?"

I scoffed. "Firstly, built in scanner suite. It would've alerted me to anything fishy. Secondly, build in scanner suite. I used my eyeballs too, but the system would've alerted me if any people or vehicles followed."

Sighing, Taylor palmed her face. "I leave you to your own devices for two hours and you go rob a bank—"

"Withdraw. I withdrew money from my account," I reiterated. "See? That even says so. And I think it's a big enough chunk of change to get us started."

Dropping back into her seat on the couch, the girl gave me the stink eye. I simply smiled and waited. "You've obviously planned this," she accused.

I held a hand out in a so-so gesture. "Kinda making it up as I go along."

She rolled her eyes. "What's your plan call for next?"

"You. Taylor Hebert. Specifically, you're going to call up your uncle Kurt and ask him for a meeting with your dad's friends tonight. Everyone who's looking for work, living hand to mouth, or just wants a little extra for their families. Tell them to meet us at the… well, it's not exactly a hideout yet. Just give them the address and have them meet you there. We show up, in costume, without masks. I'll write you up a pretty speech… or you can just tell them all about how your dad wanted the best for this city and you just want to give it what he couldn't. We offer them work and offer our services in return—keeping them safe from the gangs. Get the names and addresses of everyone who wants in. Break up the meeting, then we go visibly patrol for a while—maybe draw up a nice route that covers every one of their homes and keep up our end of the deal."

Taylor slowly nodded. "What about school?"

"I'm legally emancipated and have my GED. You can likely get the same for yourself. Or skip the GED and just drop out. School's a waste of time when the skills you need for later in life can't be found there—only out in the streets, where you can sharpen them against the thieves, murderers, rapists, pushers, and other ne'er do wells," I countered.

Biting her lip, the brunette thought on it a minute before rising and padding towards the kitchen. Picking up the phone, she dialed a number and I listened as she made the call. "Hey, Kurt, it's Taylor. I'm fine, but something came up…"

I stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes, tuning her out as she spoke. Eventually, she hung up and came back into the living room. "Kurt said he'll get the word out, but he doesn't know how many can show up on short notice."

"That's fine," I yawned.

"The funeral is tomorrow."

I cracked open an eye and met hers behind her glasses—gray-blue and intense, if a bit large. "Do you want me there?"

She shrugged. "You don't have to."

Closing my eye, I nodded. "I'll be there."

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Taylor muttered.

I turned a critical eye on her, looking her up and down. The girl blushed under my scrutiny. "You look fine."

She should. She was wearing my tech.

After a short nap, I'd convinced her to come with me to a costume shop on the boardwalk. A couple of cheap domino masks concealed our identities when we entered Parian's shop. Some fast talking and unsubltle application of what I was coming to call 'cash no jutsu' (much more effective than talk no jutsu) got us a couple of one-piece body suits in our sizes, plus an upper face mask with lenses in her prescription for Taylor.

After that, we'd made two more stops. First, a used car dealership, where I paid for a black Kawasaki bike in excellent condition with cash—no questions asked—which we rolled up into the back of the truck and secured. Next was a hardware store and I bought a few parts, a soldering iron, and an mp3 player. A bit of effort let me modify the mp3 player and get it to broadcast a carrier wave like my own. Then, I'd just copy and pasted several of the same waveforms I was using onto hers—namely, hardlight hologram projections and power storage. I added in a remote access feature that would allow me to set or change Taylor's disguise for her until I could give her her own interface. All told, it'd taken longer to get the base costumes and parts than it had to rig up a carrier wave generator and projector, then program in her actual costume and hang the holograms off the base layer.

I'd gone for 'classic Skitter' and generally followed Taylor's suggestions from that point. At the moment, she was wearing a hardlight hologram of a tight, silk-looking outfit in light gray with black armor pieces over the feet, knees, elbows, chest, and back. I'd even programmed in what I felt was an approximation of her canon mask, which she held off to one side at the moment.

My own costume was much more minimalist, and had been inspired by Sarah Pelham's own. Black bodysuit, red hollow sun between the breasts, with lines tracing outwards from the sun to my extremities increasing in intensity from 'death ray laser' red to white at my hands, feet, and collar.

I didn't bother with a mask. Instead, I went with a bit of hologram misdirection. I'd pulled my long hair back and tied it off in a ponytail, then hologram'd it the same red as my costume. I'd turned the tan back on and added a dusting of freckles on my cheeks. My eyes glowed the same shade of lurid red as my hair and costume. For further identity confusion, I changed the shape of my ears, effectively giving myself sharp fantasy elf ears.

I temporarily mapped my laser output to my palms, finger tips, and eyes—that last one just for the Superman intimidation effect. Finally, I made my 'halo' visible—a burning red perfect circle, an inch thick with a twelve inch radius, lighting up the area around us.

And then I turned it off, and set it to only appear if I used above a certain power threshold—a sort of false tell, or artificial 'power up.' Not just that, but the psychological 'oh shit' factor of seeing someone even vaguely reminiscent of the 'angel' that was Simurgh.

"You think up a name yet?" I asked, earning a shrug.

"How about Skitter? I mean, I started out controlling bugs…"

I pretended to consider it a moment before shaking my head. "Too 'villain-y.' What about Weaver?"

"Weaver?" she repeated, humming.

"More mature sounding and better connotations than 'ew, bugs.' Weaver of fate, weaver of lies, weaver of stories, weaver of traps," I supplied.

After a bit of thought, Taylor nodded. "Weaver, then. What about you?"

Snorting softly, I admitted, "I am sorely tempted to call myself Azazel. Scapegoat—which they've made me. Gave magic, arms, and armor to mankind—so basically a Tinker. Like the Prometheus of angels. May be a bit on the nose and frowned on by, well, pretty much everyone because Simurgh."

"How about no?" Taylor shot me a flat look.

A knock on the big docking bay door cut off any further argument we may have had, and I grinned. "It's your time to shine," I teased, grabbing the chain that would open the door and giving it a yank. Nothing happened. "Fuck. Is that thing locked?"

"Let me check." She hurried over to the middle of the door and stooped down. "Yeah, there's a padlock here holding it to the ground. And remind me to include a flashlight in my outfit next time we do this."

"Sure. Move back a bit," I instructed. As soon as she was out of the way, I fired off a careful force laser and blasted the lock off, then tried again. The door raised with a clatter that I'm sure was heard in the surrounding three blocks.

Taylor steeled herself and stepped out front and center. Kurt was the first to speak, stepping forward for the group of—I did a quick head count—twenty three men and women. "Taylor? What's going on? Why are you dressed like that?"

I leaned against the wall beside the door and let Taylor work her magic, running partly off the script I'd handed her and eventually abandoning it entirely as she got wound up good and started speaking from the heart. I'll admit, when she stopped doubting herself, she was a natural at this whole 'public speaking' thing. She handled the crowd well. Within the hour, after a bit of 'question and answer,' she had the entire group agreeing to our terms and giving Taylor their contact information, and promising to tell their friends and fellow dockworkers who couldn't make it tonight.

When we finished and the last couple—Lacey and Kurt—left, we closed up the building, Taylor put on her helmet, and we hopped onto my shiny new bike and set out.

"You did good," I praised over the sound of the wind and the engine. I could already feel the urge to pull the bike apart and tinker the shit out of it—make it quieter, faster, give it shields and weapons, maybe some flight capability… "Very good."

"Thanks," she answered, having to speak up a bit from her usual quiet tone. "Patrol now?"

"Yup," I agreed. "I've already got a route plotted. If you can keep a rolling check of the area as we move, we can pass through just under the speed limit and then see about hitting up Merchant territory again."

"We don't have the monkeys," Taylor pointed out.

I shrugged. "It's fine for tonight. We're just scoping things out and maybe stopping some street crime, not ripping them off. Might be better to save that for mornings—when druggies and dealers are more likely to be asleep. We'll get a van or something later for the monkeys, maybe pick up some dogs and birds, and fill up a lot of the space with bugs for you. Too bad we don't have someone else who can drive."

Taylor—or Weaver, rather—considered it for a moment before demanding, "Teach me."

"Okay," I agreed, before turning on my signal scanner and setting it to monitor police and PRT bands, then setting it to broadcast over my audio playback loud enough for her to hear as we drove.

We finished our sweep of the neighborhoods of those people we'd met tonight without turning up anything of note. Merchant territory turned out to be both fruitful in terms of hideouts and stashes of drugs, guns, or money, and frustrating because we couldn't stop long enough for me to give Taylor the same sort of neural interface I had so she could mark out their locations on a map—an oversight I would be correcting as soon as we got home. It was productive though, in terms of getting to beat up assholes. We stopped two convenience store robberies and a mugging.

Dealing with the police was much easier than dealing with the PRT, if a bit awkward for me because I didn't have a cape name yet. That, and I got a few complaints about driving without license plates or a helmet—but at least the second set of complaints evaporated when I explained that I had shields that would do better than any helmet if we were in a crash.

By the time we finished our sweep it was coming up on 11:30. Turning my head enough to look at Weaver's mask, I asked, "So, want to hit up the Boardwalk? It'll be good publicity. We might even meet the Wards. You know, the ones that don't suck."

"Pretty much any of them but Shadow Stalker?" she snarked, and I shrugged. "Are you sure that's a good idea for you?"

I nodded. "Sure. Watch. I bet money they refuse to acknowledge the possibility that this new cape could possibly be connected to Claire."

And so, we found ourselves riding into the Boardwalk, looking for trouble.

I had to drop the bike down to about five miles per hour due to the crowd filling the street, jaywalking as they pleased and stopping to gawk at the new capes as we passed. We were frequently stopped by people requesting selfies or autographs—the latter of which I couldn't give, but I made it a habit of asking for potential names each time I was asked for one. Sadly, none of them were good. A few people asked for demonstrations of our powers, so Weaver and I agreed to show off a little—things that we were planning to use anyway, which wouldn't hurt to expose. I shot off a few low powered lasers into the air, she mastered a few bugs and made them dance around.

During one such demonstration, the crowd expanded around us and suddenly, two new figures were there—a little girl in a visor style mask and a skirt and a guy in a white, clock-themed costume. Vista and Clockblocker. I waved once in greeting, sending the pair a smile, while Weaver dispersed her bugs. "Well, hello there," I greeted.

"Hey. New heroes?" Clockblocker asked, and we nodded. "I'm Clockblocker, this is Vista."

"I don't really have a name yet," I shrugged.

"Weaver," the girl behind me answered/introduced herself.

Vista looked me up and down and asked, "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," I answered. Vista winced. "Pretty sure Weaver stole a foot of height off of me. Can you guys arrest her for that? Maybe get it back for me?"

"Hey," Weaver grumbled, lightly smacking the back of my head and sending my ponytail flipping out to the side briefly. "Finders keepers."

"Ow," I whined. "Help! Abuse!"

The Wards, and the surrounding crowd, shared a laugh before Vista finally asked, "Want to patrol for a bit?"

I cast a glance at Weaver, who nodded. "Sure," I answered. "How are we doing this?"

Space shifted in front of the bike and my view changed from a crowded street to a rooftop. "We're done with our visible patrol, so why don't we take the scenic route?" Vista suggested.

I eased the bike forward, keeping pace with their walking as we transitioned from street to roof. "So," Clockblocker dragged out the word, "Blaster and a Master combo? Master Blaster?"

Sending him a flat look, I said, "That was bad and you should feel bad."

Vista sighed. "Please forgive Clock. He has a condition." She shot a glare at him. "It'll be terminal if he keeps it up."

"Terminally funny," Clockblocker countered. "You guys are the ones who have been hitting the Merchants tonight, right?"

"Yes," Weaver answered.

Clockblocker and Vista waited for more details and I eventually sighed. "Weaver. Woman of few words, ladies and gentlemen."

We moved to another rooftop, my headlights lighting up the area both ahead of us and somewhere above us as we transitioned between a two story building to a five story a block down. 'That is so weird,' I mused.

"You guys run into any trouble tonight?" I asked, and the pair shook their heads.

"No. Just the usual presence patrol," Clockblocker explained.

Vista snorted. "Milk run. We could do more, but they'd rather have us walking up and down the Boardwalk where it's safe. It's," she made an indelicate nose of frustration. "If I can see it, I can move to it. Clock can freeze things with a touch. Give me a set of binoculars or something, turn us loose on any of the gangs, and we can clear out one of their safehouses in five minutes, tops—all while staying safely out of shooting distance."

Weaver tilted her helmeted head. "Sounds like a waste of resources."

"Exactly!" Vista crowed. Sighing, she opened another twist in space across to the next rooftop and we moved on. "Okay. Okay, I'll stop complaining. Tonight's just been especially frustrating."

"How so?" I asked. I mean, I had been hearing EMT chatter for a while now, but beyond that nothing.

Clockblocker shook his head. "New Wave got caught up in a fight between a bunch of Empire capes and the Merchant capes."

My blood ran cold, but I think I managed a good poker face as I asked, "Anyone hurt?"

"Laserdream got a few broken bones, but nothing Panacea couldn't heal. But everyone except Mush got away. If we'd been there, it would have been no contest," Vista sighed.

We patrolled with the Wards for a bit longer before Weaver finally announced that she was getting tired. Reminded of the funeral tomorrow, I agreed, and we got the bike back down to street level before taking off towards Taylor's house. Halfway there, I extended my invisibility/silence field and we disappeared. After a sweep of the surrounding blocks to make sure we weren't being observed, we parked the bike.

With Taylor's help, we loaded up the monkeys and moved them to the hideout using the truck—it would have to do for now.

"It didn't even have the decency to rain," Taylor complained quietly. The words would have been lost in the sound of conversations around us, if I weren't right beside her, plate in hand, fixing my lunch.

"Weather is hardly so convenient as to be thematic upon demand," I pointed out, just as quietly.

We were at Kurt and Lacey's house, where they were holding a wake for Danny, now that the funeral was over. Everyone here had brought a little something from home for the potluck. Casserole, dressing, turkey, ham, chicken, burgers, steak, homemade pizza, pie, cake, cookies, good beer—I snagged one of those for myself, ignoring the frowns from the people around me as I did. Around us, Danny's coworkers and friends—what passed for the man's adopted family, really—exchanged stories that I could occasionally catch snatches of.

Danny got half these people hired.

Danny introduced Bob to his wife Cindy.

Danny was always willing to lend a hand where it was needed, picking up the slack when someone was out sick.

Danny told the mayor to go fuck himself when the jackass laid off half the dockworkers working city contracts.

Danny took a pipe-wrench to a Merchant trying to extort money out of his boys.

Danny drank Hookwolf under the table and that's why the Empire didn't bother them.

And so on.

About half of that sounded like bullshit… but then, it was the sort of 'you had to be there to believe it' bullshit that typically came with roughneck jobs. My type of people, a lifetime ago… less than a month ago.

I ate my lunch in silence, taking it all in as Taylor was shuffled around the room, pulled into probably more hugs than she'd had since her mom died, and was pretty much forced to interact like a normal human being. If she broke down crying at one point, I wasn't paying too much attention… She needed to know she had friends and family, even if they weren't family by blood, who were willing to lend her all the shoulders she needed to cry on.

There was a knock at the door—loud and forceful. 'Cop knock,' I thought.

"PRT," someone from the other side of the door called, and the wake fell silent.

Kurt pushed through the crowd to the door, opening it about a foot and planting his boot behind the door to secure it. "Can I help you?"

I caught sight of a dark-haired Middle Eastern woman in an American flag scarf flanked by a couple of PRT mooks in stormtrooper black and carrying foam guns. "Hello," Miss Militia spoke up, her eyes crinkling slightly at the edges in what might have been the upper half of a smile. "Is Ms. Taylor Hebert here?"

"Why?" Kurt asked. "I'm her legal guardian, as of her father's death in accordance with his will. Anything you need to tell Taylor, you can tell me."

Miss Militia's eyes swept the room behind Kurt, who closed the door slightly to limit her field of view—but not before her brown eyes locked on me, sitting on the couch and eating a slice of cake in my black blouse, skirt, stockings, tasteful shoes, and jacket. I was also wearing the same disguise I'd had on last night, just without the glow from my hair and eyes—a visible confirmation of my existence and partnership with Taylor to any of the dockworkers who wanted to ask about last night. Holograms were damned handy to have, considering I was wearing jeans, boots, and a tee-shirt under it, and my one-piece black 'costume' under that.

No more wardrobe malfunctions for me, thanks. If I wasn't in the shower, I was going to be in at least the one-piece. I'd miss sleeping naked…

"We have reason to believe she's harboring a fugitive," Ms. Militia answered. She dug a sheet out of a pocket and unfolded it, revealing a color print of Claire's face. "Have you seen this girl?"

Kurt shook his head. "No, sorry."

"May we ask Ms. Hebert?" the woman asked.

Kurt frowned. "Look, in case you haven't noticed, this is a wake for Taylor's father—my best friend. Can you do this some other time?"

"Kurt," Taylor called, shaking her head. "It's okay." Moving closer, she looked at my picture. "I know her. She pulled me out of the locker Shadow Stalker stuffed me into," she said, shifting a glare on the Protectorate cape. Ms. Militia had the decency to wince at that. "She came by the other night after my father was killed and said she was attacked by Shadow Stalker."

"Did she say anything else? Where did she go?" Ms. Militia asked.

"She fell asleep on my couch and left yesterday morning." All true, if omitting a few details and dancing around the truth a bit. Good girl.

Ms. Militia's eyes cut over to me again before asking, "Are you aware that a girl matching her height and using her name robbed the First National Bank of Brockton Bay, yesterday?"

Taylor nodded. "I saw it on the news. Doesn't sound like anyone was hurt."

"No, but she still committed a very serious crime," Ms. Militia explained.

Putting on a confused look, Taylor asked, "You said 'matching her height.' But not the rest of her description? And why would someone robbing a bank give their name?"

Eyes narrowing in frustration and again cutting to me, Ms. Militia said, "She's a very versatile Tinker. We believe she has technology that alters her physical appearance, but she never bothers with her height—which is very distinctive. And technically the money she took was deducted from her own account—"

"So she stole… from herself?" Taylor frowned, playing it up. "Is that even possible?"

"Her account was frozen by the PRT as she is a fugitive from justice and wanted under suspicion of the murder of a Ward. She circumvented the law by accessing the money, even if it was hers legally," Ms. Militia clarified.

"The Ward that killed my father, you mean."

The room, which had been full of quiet whispers as people talked, went deathly silent at that.

"Shadow Stalker. Sophia Hess." Taylor's tone was practically glacial. "And you want me to give you, the organization that ignored her bullying of myself and other students for over a year before she finally shut me in a locker full of filth and then killed my father, information on the girl who pulled me out of that locker? I'm sorry, I've said all I'm going to say. I haven't seen Claire since yesterday morning. Please go and leave me alone." She turned away from the door, but paused to turn and regard the Protectorate hero over her shoulder. "This visit has convinced me to take the advice of a friend and speak with Brandish regarding punitive damages against the PRT. Please inform your superiors of that."

As Taylor walked off into the crowd that parted like the Red Sea for her, Kurt attempted to close the door, only for Ms. Militia to lean on it. "I'm sorry, but I'd also like to question that girl," she nodded at me.

I stood from the couch, setting aside my now empty plate, and walked to the door. Putting on my most chipper smile, I asked, "How can I help you, Miss Militia?"

The woman twitched. "What is your name?"

"Joan," I answered easily. "Though, even that may not be right. I don't really remember much of anything before a few days ago. I'm a… what do you people call it?"

"Case 53," Miss Militia supplied, annoyance showing through in her tone.

I nodded, sending my ponytail flying. "Yes. It's very inconvenient. I'm recognizable everywhere I go, to the point where even a mask wouldn't help. Silver lining: I could be even more recognizable and look like the orange lizard guy in town."

"Conveniently inconvenient," the woman muttered. "We would like to bring you into headquarters for questioning. You see, while your facial features and hair color aren't a match for Ms. Carnelian, your height, weight, and voice are."

"Oh dear," I brought a hand up to my mouth. "That's not good. But I thought you said she's a Tinker? I'm a Blaster, with a bit of Mover and Brute thrown in. Kind of like those New Wave guys. I spoke with Vista and Clockblocker last night when I was patrolling with my partner, Weaver. They can verify that—well, most of it. I didn't exactly leave my bike, but I did shoot off a few lasers for fun."

"Ms. Carnelian is believed to be a very versatile Tinker," she repeated herself. "We suspect that yesterday's blackout may not have been an accident, but an act of terrorism against the city on her part—a demonstration of her power."

Blinking, I said, "That seems bad. A cape capable of causing a city-wide blackout? That would put them at least, what, B-tier? Maybe A? Are you sure you guys are safe, running around looking for her with just a few normal guys in armor and one or two hero teams? I mean, if she's so dangerous and violent…"

Miss Militia actually sighed. "Will you come in or not?"

"Sure!" I agreed. "Do you have a warrant? Or a court order? I've been watching a lot of cop and lawyer type TV shows since I wanted to be a hero, and I'm pretty sure you need one of those."

"Not for questioning—" she tried to counter.

I countered the counter with, "Except you said it yourself. You've got a case of potential mistaken identity on your hands, so I'm actually a suspect. Which means that no, I won't be coming with you without a warrant, since it's obviously not enough circumstantial evidence for probable cause. But maybe I'll take my friend Taylor's advice and call up this Brandish lady and have her wave a legal stick at your organization until you stop harassing me. I like the idea of having lots and lots of money taken straight from the pockets of people who are jerks to me and put into mine." Crossing my arms, I added, "Of course, then I'd probably have to worry about you crying about it and doing something silly, like locking away access to my money because you're sore losers."

Miss Militia leaned in, prompting me to do the same. "Claire, you can't hide behind a new face forever. There are those of us there who are on your side, but our hands are tied and we are forced to follow orders we find distasteful until you come in. Please, just come in peacefully. I want to help you but evading arrest compounds the problem."

"I can't help you there. I'm just a Case 53 with no memories of my past. Maybe I look so much like her because I'm an Earth-Alpha alternate version of her? Either way, I won't be coming in until you get the proper paperwork." Turning around, I walked away from the door, keeping an eye on my video feed to make sure no one tried anything.

Kurt closed the door in Miss Militia's face and I found Taylor sitting on the couch, nibbling at a cookie. Once the PRT were gone, I sighed and dropped my holograms. All of them, save for the clothes. Then, I pulled up the recording from the night before last and played it back. I stopped it when the recording whited out. "I killed Shadow Stalker. In self-defense. If that bothers anyone here, speak up now."

Surprisingly, I found a heavy hand on my shoulder and Kurt standing behind me. "A friend of Taylor's is a friend of mine. Besides, the video is pretty damn clear on what went down. I can't say I wouldn't do the same, if someone broke into my house in the middle of the night and pulled a gun—let alone shot me."

There were agreements from around the room. Letting go, Kurt sat down on the couch beside Taylor. "Tell us about the work you need done."

I reapplied my 'Joan' holograms and nodded. "We need to clean out the hideout—that building where we met last night. I've got some floor plans drawn up for modifications we'd like done. Plumbing, partitioning for rooms, lights and ethernet cables run, soundproofing, animal pens, electronic locks, security system, and so on. We need to tear down all the machinery on the bottom floor so I can cut it up into parts and we can make room for fabrication units. With them, I can start turning out the means for keeping the Docks safe. If we get men working on it around the clock, we could have initial modifications done in about two days. Pay is…"