Signal to Noise Chapter 9, a worm fanfic

Signal to Noise

"Squatters," Weaver announced. "Six. Two women, no children."

"Roust 'em," I ordered.

Screams sounded from inside the building and, a moment later, six people came bursting out the front door. I laid down a line of laser fire in front of them, causing them to stop. "Four questions and you can go, folks. One: are any of you drug dealers or affiliated with a gang?"

The six look confused, talking quickly between themselves, before one of them spoke. "Nah, man."

"The one on the end is lying," Tattletale pointed out. "He's with a gang. Low level. Merchant."

"He got anything on him?" I asked, and both Tattletale and Weaver shook their heads. "Question two: are any of you in need of immediate medical attention?"

"Well, I got this rash—"

"No," Panacea denied.

Likewise, Tattletale shook her head. "They're fine."

Nodding, I asked, "Question three: do any of you legally live in this neighborhood—either as either renters or as owner?"

"I—"

"Nope," Tattletale denied.

Weaver spoke up beside me. "Four: do any of you have experience with heavy machinery, welding, carpentry, or any useful skills? And if not, are you willing to get clean, learn, and take a job?"

Tattletale's answer was an immediate, "No."

"Okay. Get the fuck out," I pointed towards the faintly glowing wall of the force field separating the area we were clearing out from the rest of the city. "Stay out of the Docks. Go crawl into a hole with the Merchants."

Once they were across the new border, we took off at a walk for the next building. This was the last of the area we'd secured today and we were nearly through. Once this was done, we could go home for the night. Tomorrow… well, tomorrow, people would probably talk about how access to the Docks had been cut off by forcefields. That was fine, though. I had Enola generating holograms saying the Docks were off limits and closed for repairs, and to direct questions to a specific phone number. That number went to Enola herself and she would answer most questions put to her. We were releasing a pre-recorded press statement tomorrow morning—a joint venture between myself, Lisa, and Taylor—that Enola would be sending to local news stations.

"Are we sure we want to kick the homeless out of the area in the middle of winter?" Panacea asked. "I'm still not comfortable with this."

"You heard it yourself, Panpan," Tattletale sighed. "They don't want to work. They don't want to earn their keep. They don't want anything that isn't handed to them. We own this area now, legally. We're allowed to evict squatters. Where they go after this isn't our problem."

"It's the dead of winter. If they don't find shelter, a lot of those people will freeze to death," Panacea argued.

Tattletale turned a flat look on the healer. "'I refuse to work. I refuse to do anything for myself. It's cold. If you don't let me into your house, I'll freeze to death. If you don't feed me, I'll starve.' How else are you supposed to deal with that except by saying, 'No.' But if it eases your conscience, I can open up a homeless shelter. Free food, warm beds. It'll be swamped, just like every other center, because there's never enough space and always too many people who would rather just opt out of life. For every down on his luck veteran or laid off Dockworker who just needs a hand up, you've got six druggies who just want to fry their brains all day and live on handouts."

Panacea growled quietly. "Do you have some kind of problem with me?"

"No," Tattletale said, sarcasm laid on thick.

"What—"

I cut in before this could devolve. "Tattletale. Panacea's adopted, her mom hates her and is worried she'll go Nilbog on us, and her dad's one good nudge from killing himself. Panacea. Tattletale's brother killed himself and she was forced to work for Coil at gunpoint, and likely raped any time he felt it was convenient to do so in a 'simulated' timeline. Now that you understand each other a little better, shut up and shelve this argument for later."

Quieter, I added, "Amy, you're right. Some of them probably will freeze and we're kicking them out into the cold ourselves. Lisa's also right. They don't want to do any better for themselves. I am not my brother's keeper. Every person must suffer the consequences of their actions or inactions. If they won't do for themselves, then they must accept responsibility for that—no one else can. I know you want to save the world, Amy… but this isn't the time. You're a healer. When an injury is too far gone, too rotten to save, what do you do to keep it from killing the rest of the body?"

Amy sighed, before muttering, "Cut it off. I know. That doesn't mean I like it."

"Last building," Weaver announced. "Three people, coming for the door. One of them is… oh God, that's Hookwolf."

Tattletale, Panacea, and Weaver took several steps back as the area began to buzz with insects and a swarm gathered. The door to the building—a warehouse of some sort—slid open to one side and three parahumans walked out. Woman wearing a bird cage, her power… sound manipulation. Cricket. Man wearing loose pants and chains, and a white/blue tiger mask, his power… atmosphere control. Stormtiger. Man in the middle, barefoot, jeans, and bare chested. Hairy fucker with bits of metal starting to poke through his skin. His power spoke of all the edges, a storm of metal waiting to rain on our heads. Hookwolf.

"What do we have here?" the metal-sprouting man asked.

"Looks like they're responsible for the force fields around the docks," Stormtiger pointed out. "Even got Panacea with them."

"So, what are you brats doing out here, hm?" Hookwolf asked.

Looking over the trio, I considered my options. 'Option 1: open fire. Lasers. Lasers for everyone. Regular goddamn laser fiesta. Might not work on Hookwolf if he goes metal, though. Not unless I go lethal, which is going to either explode, flash fry, or vaporize half a block. Lisa might bite it. It's risky. Option 2: talk no jutsu. Might work, might not. If it works, we walk out of here alive and intact. If it doesn't, back to option 1. And if Hookwolf gets past me, he's going to shred Lisa like a goddamn blender. Or whatever Stormtiger's powers are doing something I can't block with forcefields. Wasn't he atmospheric manipulation? Option 3, run… but then they could just stick around and refuse to leave. Option 2 it is.'

"Cleaning up the Docks. Removing the dealers, the druggies, pimps, Johns, whores, homeless, vagabonds, and gang members," I answered. "Then we're going to start tearing down all the old, broken down buildings that no one's doing anything with now that they're not full of squatters. Then the ship graveyard and the scrap heaps out in the Bay will get torn down. Then, we're going to push up to the train yard and do the same. And once we're done, we're going to open Brockton Bay back up to shipping by rail and get the ferry running, for anyone who wants to pay for passage. Once it's safe—and guaranteed to remain safe, with force fields preventing access by people looking to cause trouble—businesses will return, looking to invest in the city. Inside of two years, the Bay will be one of the most prosperous cities on the Eastern seaboard."

The big man laughed. "I like you, kid. You got balls, for a chick. What's your name?"

"Azazel," I answered. "So, have we got a problem or can we all walk away from this without a limp?"

"I can't speak for the boss," the blond man shrugged. "How do those force fields work? Who gets to come and go?"

"Anyone with known or visible gang affiliations will be denied entry. If someone tries to come in flying the ABB's colors, they're going to run into a solid wall—same with a Merchant or member of the Empire. Now, if some guy with some offensive tattoos but who wasn't wearing a mask or causing trouble wanted to pass through, I imagine they wouldn't stop him—so long as he isn't on a list. It pulls from state and federal databases on criminals and also builds a list of local problems, especially if you cause trouble or were rousted as part of the initial purge for vagrancy. Meaning it's a 'no criminals allowed' zone. It'll scan for weapons, but this is an unlicensed Open Carry state—so long as the weapons are legal to own, you can pass through. As long as people aren't coming in to break the law, I don't care who comes and goes. 'Hookwolf,' 'Stormtiger,' and 'Cricket' are known Empire members and are on the No Fly list. Once you leave, it won't let you back in. The force fields aren't ever coming down. The Docks are off limits for all gangs and criminals from now on, no exceptions. We want to make money and be left alone without having to worry about crime or property damage, not play adult cops and robbers."

The three parahumans exchanged a series of looks. "Leave the trainyard alone for a week and you've got a deal, until the boss says otherwise."

I frowned. "I know what goes on there, but," I sighed, "it's not worth fighting a pointless battle over. Deal."

The trio turned and walked away. I saw Amy open her mouth in my third person camera and held up a hand, signaling her to wait. As soon as they passed through the field, Hookwolf turned around and knocked on it, then pulled back and punched it. His entire arm sprouted blades and he ran it across the field, to no effect. Eventually, he was satisfied and the E88 members walked off. Quietly, I let out the breath it felt like I had been holding that entire time.

'Crisis averted.'

Finally, they could hold it no longer. Weaver was the first to break. "Claire, what the fuck? Those were Nazis!"

I turned around and stared into her yellow lenses. "Could you have taken down Hookwolf? What about Stormtiger? That's two of the Empire's heaviest hitters, right there."

"Maybe. I could drown them in bugs and rats—"

"Before they turned Tattletale into a meat slushy? You and Panacea could have gotten away, but there was a chance she wouldn't." I continued, cutting her off. "No?" I asked, giving her a moment to try to counter. When she shook her head, I nodded. "Didn't think so. Didn't think I could either. Not without lighting up half the block in the resultant explosion and waste energy, which again, Tattletale wouldn't survive. Didn't want to risk it. We weren't in a position to do anything about them. The risk wasn't acceptable."

Panacea nodded slowly. "She's right, Weaver. Learning how to pick your battles is important. Mo—Carol was always going on about that to Vicky and my cousins. Never let the bad guy pick when and where you fight. They were ready and waiting for this."

Weaver sighed. "Are we just going to let them go next time?"

I rolled my eyes. "They're on the 'keep out' list and we can round them up later. When we pick the time and place. When we're ready for a fight and they're not. Preferably when I'm not, you know, being hunted by the guys who we'd want backing us up for that particular trash collection."

"And when I'm not squishy and vulnerable," Tattletale added. "It would have been a dumb move to attack when they didn't attack first."

"And the fact that they're Nazis—" Weaver began.

"Doesn't matter. Would it have changed the situation at all if it was Ryuu, Lung, and Oni Lee?" the blonde countered.

Weaver turned what I was sure would have been an impressive glare under her helmet on Tattletale. "Why are you taking her side?"

"I like to argue."/"She likes to argue," Tattletale and Panacea both answered.

The pair exchanged a look before they shared a quiet laugh. "I hate you all," Weaver grumbled.

Turning my head to send her a knowing look, I said, "World's not black and white, Weaver. It's not even shades of gray. It's in technicolor—you have to decide some things for yourself and sometimes, you don't get a choice. Or, in this case, defending something important—like your friends, allies, or teammates—means letting something or someone you find personally objectionable or offensive go. Don't pick fights you aren't sure you can win. Don't let your personal feelings lead you around by the nose, or they'll get you killed."

We spent the rest of the trip back quietly chatting about what our next moves should be. Expanding further, beginning demolition and construction projects, and so on. Eventually, we made it back to the hideout and I decided to call it a night. As I was getting ready to head upstairs, Lisa asked, "Can I borrow your bike? I got Grue to drive me here and I don't really want to walk…"

Fishing my keys out, I tossed them to her. "Bring it back in one piece. Or don't, and I'll just Tinker up a new one. Tell Brian we said hello."

Lisa twitched. "You're going to tell me how you know that one day soon."

"Sure," I agreed with a smile that said otherwise as I went upstairs. Lisa's quiet noise of frustration was music to my ears.

I took a quick shower and collapsed into my bed. I was just drifting off to sleep when my door opened and closed, and someone sat on the bed. "Really, Amy? Really?"

"Can I uh…" she started, and I nodded.

"Yes. There's a spare bedroom. Bed's already made," I yawned.

"Thanks," she sighed, getting up.

Rolling over, I groaned quietly. "Hey Amy, wait up a minute would you? Can we talk?"

Fear crossed her face briefly before she crushed it. "What about?"

"I think… I'm going to turn myself in."

Amy blinked. "What."

The news of our putting up forcefields and locking down the Docks didn't go over well, if the protesters, PRT, and Protectorate presence was anything to go by.

"They're pissed," Amy said, watching the news feed.

"No shit," Taylor grunted into her cereal.

I finished my breakfast of cinnamon toast and went to brush my teeth. Once I was finished, I stopped in the kitchen long enough to say, "Stick to the plan and we'll be fine. I'll see you… when I see you."

Taylor and Amy said their goodbyes and I made my way downstairs. I stopped long enough to pick up some new items from the fabber—a belt with snap closed loops and a stack of twenty metal discs. The discs looked like miniature chakrams—an inch wide circle of metal with a two inch radius, and all of a quarter inch thick. Of course, they were a bit more than they appeared. I had gotten tired of Taylor having all the drones, so I'd made some for myself… and then stuck a bunch of other features on them. Each one was capable of 360 degree camera views, audio, scanning, flight, shield generation, lasers, and invisibility. And they were all tied into Enola.

I was already in my black one piece, so I turned on my hardlight projectors, then pulled the new belt on and attached the drones to the loops on either side of my hips. Pulling up a third person view of myself, I dropped the holograms disguising my features. Bright red hair was replaced with black, red eyes with gold, tanned skin paled, knife ears rounded.

Stepping outside, I took to the sky. As I left, I spotted Dauntless and Armsmaster prodding at the shield wall separating the Docks from the outside world. I tossed them a cheery wave as I passed over, on my way to PRTHQ.

I dropped down in front of the PRT building like I'd just stepped off a curb, instead of the 'hero landings' I knew people like Vicky preferred. Opening the glass doors, I stepped inside and walked straight up to the receptionist, invisible drones following and recording from all angles. "Hello there. My name is Claire Carnelian. I believe you've been looking for me."

Alarms sounded.

Foam sprayers dropped from the ceiling.

A plexiglas shield raised between myself and the receptionist, and I was promptly foamed.

'Again with the foam,' I mused, watching from third person view as heavily armed PRT troopers surrounded me. A few minutes later, an elevator opened and a trooper came wheeling in some sort of Tinkertech contraption. The device was split apart and positioned to either side of me. Small nozzles applied a spray I was familiar with and mechanical arms sank into the now soft foam on either side of me. After a moment, the foam set again and the device lifted me—foam block and all—off the floor.

A second trooper came running in, carrying an IV bag. The bag was attached to the transport device, and an application of that same chemical softened the foam over my upper arm enough for them to cut away part of my suit, find a vein, and stick me. I felt drowsy and the world began growing dark.

"Control, this is Containment. We're moving the Tango to Prisoner Transport 1."

"All rise. The Honorable Judge Jeremy Pickett presiding over case number…"

"Be seated. It has been brought to my attention that the prosecution believes the defendant is a flight risk and should stand trial… restrained and in a medically induced coma? What could possibly require that sort of response?"

"Well, your honor—"

A high-pitched whine filled the courtroom, followed momentarily by a blinding red light. Muffled screams echoed through the chambers as everyone present was left blinking spots out of their vision. When the crowd's vision began to return, there were gasps as the lump of foam held between a Tinkertech crane assembly had been shattered.

"My apologies, your honor," I called, pulling the IV from my arm and tossing it aside. Pushing away the device meant to carry my foamy prison, I hummed as I saw a lack of chairs on my side of the room—and no defense attorney. Moving over to the prosecution's side of the floor, I picked up the chair the District Attorney had fallen out of. "Thank you," I smiled down at him, before moving back to my side and sitting down, then taking a look around the courtroom.

Gathered were people in the gallery, a few journalists, the judge, DA and his minions, and the PRT and bailiffs. Missing entirely was a lawyer on my side, even a public defender. Also missing was any form of jury. 'So… we've gone full kangaroo court rules?'

About that time, people started overcoming their shock. Some of the crowd gathered to watch panicked and many of them rushed the doors. Bailiffs and PRT agents swarmed me, all screaming orders and pointing guns at me. Judge Pickett began hammering away at his gavel, calling for order. I simply sat still, my hands laced before me, and regarded the judge calmly.

Eventually—seeing that I wasn't moving and no one appeared hurt—the crowd settled down. The prosecutor stole a chair from one of his assistants and sent a surly glare my way. The PRT troopers and bailiffs on the other hand, continued to scream at me to get on the floor, don't move, raise my hands, get on my knees, and many other conflicting orders.

"Settle down!" Picket yelled. "Bailiffs, return to your posts. PRT, stand down."

"Belay that order, PRT," the DA called. "Bring someone in to re-foam the defendant immediately!"

Turning on public address mode, I spoke softly, but my voice was amplified over all the shouting. "May I speak?"

The judge nodded, while the DA immediately shouted his vehement protests. "PRT agents, stand down immediately or you will be rendered unconscious. This is your only warning. I am invoking my right to a fair trial and I will not let the District Attorney make a mockery of the legal system because he's afraid."

There was a bit of an uproar over that and one of the PRT agents attempted to butt-stroke me with his rifle. Every last one of them ate a laser to the face simultaneously and collapsed around me. "Now, as I was saying. I am perfectly willing to sit here and go through with this, but only if I'm allowed to actually have a chance to defend myself."

Pickett frowned. "Young lady, do you believe yourself to be above the laws of this court?"

"No sir, quite the opposite," I denied. "I want what every accused man wants: the ability to exercise his right to defend himself in a court of law. I am, however, informing you that if the District Attorney insists on ignoring the law and violating my rights, that I will be forced to do the same. When the courts become lawless, what point then is the law?"

The older man smiled. "Well said."

"Restrain her! Judge, we have reason to believe this parahuman is a Master, capable of manipulating other humans—"

"Which was a rumor spread by the now deceased Sophia Hess, aka Shadow Stalker, and which has since been thoroughly disproved. I am a Tinker," I cut him off.

"And it's entirely possible she's built a device to emulate Master effects—"

I rolled my eyes. "Baseless speculation and fear-mongering. Is your case so lacking in evidence that it can't stand up on its own and requires you to hamstring me and prevent me from submitting my own evidence? The truth does not fear investigation."

"Mr. Goldstein, that's enough. Ms. Carnelian will have her fair day in court," Pickett said. "Now, carry on."

Standing up, and drawing side-eyed looks from the bailiffs, I said, "A few quick questions, Judge Pickett. If you don't mind?"

The man nodded. "Keep them brief."

"Why am I not being given a trial by jury? I'm not a lawyer, but I'm pretty sure the… sixth? Sixth amendment guaranteed the right to trial by jury. And seeing as I haven't waived that right…"

Picket sent a frown at the DA. "The District Attorney filed for and got approval to waive the right to trial by jury, as allowed due to amendments made to the constitution to deal with parahumans."

Frowning, I nodded. It confirmed something that had bugged me about canon, and the whole 'Canary' trial sham. That wasn't how the American court system was supposed to work. I didn't think anyone would actually be stupid enough to change the law, but no, they went and did it. "Alright. Since I haven't been given any time to prepare for this, any legal defense, nor was it ever in the plan to actually allow me to defend myself, what's the process for evidentiary discovery or submitting evidence? Or are we skipping that whole thing to get this thing moving as quickly as possible? Will I be allowed to submit my own evidence?"

"Absolutely not," the DA cut in, only for a glare from the judge to silence him.

"Normally, discovery can take weeks to months. The prosecution has opted to rush things through and demand a bench trial. The entire thing is unorthodox, by their making. Ms. Carnelian, if you can produce verifiable evidence, I'll accept it."

My grin was shark-like as I began loading up exactly that. "Awesome. Thanks. That's all from me."

I sat down and Pickett turned to the prosecution. "What are the charges presented against her?"

After that, the 'trial' went quickly.

Murder with a parahuman power—for the Asian kid I had defended myself from. I hacked the 911 database and played back the recording, followed by the police database containing the details on my file—specifically, where they found my DNA all over his fingers where he'd gone digging—then the coroner's report about how he'd died by a crushed trachea and suffocation. After explaining that I had simply used martial arts to disable him and Sophia Hess' intervention had prevented me from making the call that would have saved the boy's life, that particular charge disappeared.

Second verse, same as the first. First degree murder of a Ward with a parahuman power. I played back my recording of the incident and Goldstein wilted in his chair under Pickett's fury.

Third charge: grand theft and robbery of a bank. Once more, I played back a recording—this time, of my meeting with the bank manager. Additionally, I produced my signed withdrawal forms and agreements to pay an early withdrawal fee.

Fourth charge: suspected murder of PRT Consultant Thomas Calvert.

"Who?" I asked. "Never heard of him."

And so, evidence was put forth that I had attacked a base belonging to Coil the night of Calvert's death.

"Yeah, but Coil wasn't there and I have two witnesses who can attest to that, if need be," I countered. "Where was Mr. Calvert at the time of my assault on Coil's base?"

As it turned out, Thomas Calvert was at home. Dressed as the villain Coil. And was found dead in his recliner the next morning by his driver, having suffered some sort of brain embolism.

At this point, Pickett was ready to spit nails not just for having his time wasted, but for having his courtroom used as a weapon against an innocent parahuman.

Seeing things weren't going his way, Goldstein tried one last play. "The District Attorney's office withdraws its case against—"

"So you can try this again, before some other judge who may be more willing to buy your line of bull and go along with this miscarriage of justice? No." Pickett's voice overrode Goldstein, forcing the man into silence. After that came the magic words 'acquitted' and 'all counts.' It warmed my black little heart to know that somewhere, someone was screaming over this. They couldn't come after me without running afoul of double jeopardy laws, now.

Shortly thereafter, court adjourned I walked away free and clear.

'This… this isn't how American court systems are supposed to work. At all. The judge wasn't even on my side, I think he was just disgusted at the mockery being made of the legal system and decided to stand up and do something about it. But if people can just be railroaded like this, as described in canon, then we're not living in America anymore. Murder trials are supposed to be serious deliberations that last for weeks, months, sometimes years if the case is high-profile enough—which mine definitely would have been enough to warrant months. This fast track bullshit is unconstitutional and whoever proposed it needs to be hanged as a traitor to the country and everything it stands for. I want off this rock now, please. Well, at least it's over. … Right? It is over, right?'

"Fuck it, take the 'W,' Claire," I muttered, taking to the skies. The sun was starting to go down, but I figured my target was still in her office. Touching down in front of the PRT building, I walked inside and smiled at the receptionist. The blonde woman's eyes went wide and she reached for a button under the desk. Nothing happened. Thank you Enola. "Hello again!" I greeted with a smile.

"Uh, hello," she returned, and I heard a faint clickclickclickclickclick! from under the desk as she desperately mashed her panic button. "How, um, how can I help you?"

"Well, you may not be aware of this, but my trial just let out. As it turns out, I was acquitted on all counts. So you can stop panicking and hitting that button now," my smile shifted, entirely too full of teeth and predatory. "I think your security system might be malfunctioning. You should get that checked out. It probably needs service, given how often you people abuse it. You know, just like the lights and intercoms in the cells, and the hot water heater for the system meant to hose down prisoners."

"I… I see," the woman muttered, taking her hand off the button.

Nodding, I continued. "Now, do me a big favor, would you? Call up Director Piggot and tell her Ms. Carnelian is here to gloat."

The receptionist winced, suddenly looking like she'd rather be anywhere else. "Okay," she whimpered, picking up her phone and dialing. "D-director? Miss… Miss Carnelian is here." She paused, then answered, "She says she's here to gloat." An incredulous expression crossed her face and she hung up the phone. "She says you can go on up. I'll send the elevator straight to her floor."

"Thanks," I said, hurrying to the elevator. I tapped my foot impatiently as the steel box rose, before it eventually opened onto my floor. Hovering out of the door, I sped down the hall and stopped in front of Piggot's office. Knocking twice, I entered. My smile was wide and full of teeth as I walked in. "Director! Good to see you again. How are you doing?"

"Not as well as you, it appears," she shook her head. "It was a bit surprising to hear why you'd come. To be honest, I find the straightforward approach a bit refreshing." Leaning back in her chair, causing it to creak and groan under her weight, she smiled patiently and made a permissive wave of her hand. "Well then, go ahead. Gloat away."

I frowned, crossing my arms and dropping into the chair across from her. "Way to suck all the fun out of it, Emily. Fun Nazi. Put the fun in camps, why don't you?"

"Please. I work with Assault and Clockblocker. You're going to have to try harder to get under my skin, little girl. Now, if you're quite done?" Piggot asked.

"No," I answered petulantly, shaking my head. "How about this?" I called up a hologram. "Claire: 2. PRT: 0. You guys want to go three for three, or just drop it and leave me the hell alone now?"

"It wasn't my decision, as I have previously stated," Piggot denied.

I hummed. "If it wasn't you and it wasn't Rebbecca," Piggot twitched at the use of her boss' first name so casually, "then who…" A thought occurred and I called up a quick search listing all of the PRT directors. He shouldn't be a director yet, but there he was… "Was it Tagg? It was Tagg, wasn't it?"

Emily blinked. "How did you…? Yes. It was Director Tagg."

"Is he going to drop it, or do I need to pay him a house call?"

Frowning, the Director said, "I would strongly advise against that."

I waved her concerns away. "Sorry. I meant 'make a surprise visit to his office.'"

Piggot considered it for a moment, then shook her head. "No, I doubt he's going to drop it and I doubt even a personal visit, no mater how sternly worded within the bounds of the law, would persuade him."

I groaned, palming my face. "So he's just going to keep throwing shit at the wall to see what sticks?" Her lack of an answer was answer enough. Deciding to approach from another angle, I asked, "What about your department. East-Northeast. Are we good?"

"Will you be willing to work with the Protectorate against the gangs and in the event an Endbringer attacks Brockton Bay?"

"Yeah," I agreed. "Conditionally. No Simurgh. I'm going to be over the horizon from her at all times if she drops out of LEO."

"Noted," Piggot nodded. "Then, so long as you keep your act clean, we are as 'good' as orders allow us to be."

Figuring that was the best I was going to get, I took it. "Good enough for me."

"One last thing," Piggot said, stopping my hasty exit. "About the Docks. What exactly are you doing?"

"I'm having a business partner buy up land, then locking the area down with forcefields. Once it's secure, Weaver and I sweep in and kick out vagrants, homeless, pushers, druggies, and so forth. My business partner then contracts out the Dockworkers Union to come in and do demolition, construction, or repair work as needed. We're going to rebuild Brockton Bay, starting with the Bay itself. We've got another Tinker who will be getting us a ferry or two working, then we'll start offering paid ferry service. Hell, I may look into getting an above ground monorail system set up for normal commuter traffic. But until then, the Docks are off limits to everyone who doesn't live or work there. Treat it as one large construction zone. It'd be a liability issue if we let people sleep in buildings we've got explosives set up in for demolition, and I'm sure no one wants to see that happen."

Piggot winced. "No, I'd rather not."

Smiling, I said, "I thought not. However, as a gesture of good faith, I can grant members of the Protectorate-ENE access to non-restricted areas. Obviously hazard areas would require some waivers signed and hoops jumped through, saying they waive liability for any potential injury, yada yada. Maybe let the Wards into the safe areas."

"That is unexpected," Piggot admitted. "Surprisingly mature of you, considering the circumstances. It would be appreciated."

I nodded. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not opening everything up to you. I don't trust you people that much. My base is off limits, except to guests. If someone wants to visit, they can come knock on the shield and request entry, but I won't guarantee it."

"Fair enough," the Director agreed.

Business taken care of, I vacated the premises and shot off for home.

Hurrying through the doors, I took the stairs two at a time. "Honey, I'm home!" I called, laughing.

Amy stood up from the couch, where she'd been playing with her computer interface. "How'd it go—"

Despite being nearly half a head shorter, I picked her up and spun her around—I'll admit, I was using flight to cheat. "You're the best, Amy!" I crowed, planting a kiss on the mousy brunette's lips.

There may have been tongue involved.

Letting her go, I slapped her ass and took off towards the shower. "Get cleaned up and put on something nice. I'm taking you out to celebrate."

I owed Amy thrice over now: my life and my freedom; the second thanks to a few modifications I'd talked her into after explaining my plan to use myself as bait. Amy had only agreed because she thought my 'clever Russian bear' excuse for seeing who'd set the trap for me was stupid, or so she claimed. My liver and kidneys may now be bio-Tinkered to hell and back. Poison? Ha! Sitting quietly in a foot of con-foam was boring, but with a brain-to-internet connection and a third person view they couldn't cut off, I hadn't been too put out.

"O—okay?" Amy called in my wake, one hand coming up to her lips as she blushed.

Smirking, I took a picture and texted it to Vicky, Crystal, and Sarah. 'Let the trolling commence.'