-ooo-
Recoil
Part 8-6: More Changes
[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
Sunday, February 25, 1996
On a Bus, Heading South
Max Anders
Heith had had trouble getting comfortable on the Greyhound seat, not least because she was almost nine months along. Still, Max had done his best, paying for all three seats and bringing along extra pillows for her to rest on. She'd fallen into an uneasy sleep about an hour south of Brockton Bay while he sat up and fretted about the future.
He was content to let her sleep. The pregnancy had been hard on her—the baby was a large one, the ob/gyn had informed them—and the sheer chaos of the last two days had caused her to lose even more sleep than normal. They were going to have a son, or so the enigmatic Aster Anders had informed him, which was also something to think about.
He still recalled the sheer terror he had felt when his daughter from the future—thinking back about the powers he'd seen her using, he had little doubt she was telling the truth about that—had confronted him directly. 'Allfather and Iron Rain are dead. So is the Empire Eighty-Eight. You will be a good man, and a good father to your son. Or I'll be back. Is that understood?'
He'd understood it implicitly. There was no doubt in his mind that if he ignored any part of her directive, he would suffer the same fate as his father and sister. The only thing that had saved his life was ironically the disregard they'd held him in, refusing to allow him any active part in the operational side of the Empire Eighty-Eight.
Treating him like a callow youth, disparaging his efforts to prove himself worthy of the Anders name, they'd roused enough resentment in him that he personally began to reject the values that the Empire held dear. He was observant enough to see that mere skin colour made little difference to a man's physical and mental capabilities; access to proper nutrition and good education had far more to do with it. Of course, he was also smart enough to never speak aloud of this, and was quite willing to pay lip service to such views if it could just grant him access to the power and influence that he'd craved.
Had craved. Past tense. The look of stark horror on his father's and sister's burned and decapitated heads had cured that urge in him, perhaps permanently. He just wanted to live; and if that meant giving up the money and celebrity lifestyle that went with being an Anders of Brockton Bay, then that was what he would do.
He wasn't sure if it was the turn to the west that woke her up, but Heith roused as the bus rolled across the Alexander Hamilton Bridge. Blinking muzzily at him, she peered out the window. "Where are we?"
"New York," he said with a smile that was only partly forced. "We're nearly there."
"I hope so." She put her hands on her swollen belly. "He's started kicking again. He's really not happy in there."
"He's probably as bored as I am," Max said lightly. "Long bus rides aren't my thing, either."
"Yeah, talking about that." She gestured toward the aisle. "I need to go to the restroom. He just landed a good one on my bladder."
"Okay." He got out of his seat and helped her to her feet. "You can handle it from here?"
"If I'm not, you'll know about it." She put her hand on his cheek. "And we'll be okay. I know we will. A lot's happened, but we'll get through it. Together."
"Together," he echoed, then sat back in his seat while she made her way down the aisle toward the restroom at the back of the bus.
Her love was one of the things that had allowed him to keep it together over the last forty-eight hours. The secret about Medhall wasn't quite out yet, but the damage to the building had been extensive, and emergency services had uncovered a few anomalies which he knew they were looking into. It really was only a matter of time.
He'd contacted the few members of the Empire he knew how to get in touch with—Krieg, Blitzen, Panzer—and told them what had happened. Their enthusiasm for him to step into Allfather's shoes would've been encouraging, were it not for their previous lack of recognition of his talents, not to mention his daughter's chilling words. The very last thing he wanted was to inherit the leadership of the Empire Eighty-Eight, for the very good reason that he had no desire to die.
Even absent that, he knew damn well that the authorities would link the Empire to Medhall, and thus the Anders family, sooner rather than later. When that happened, no matter how he concealed his identity, Max would be outed as Kaiser and the Empire Eighty-Eight would lose its biggest cash haven. The writing was on the wall: there was no real future for the Empire, and especially not for himself if he maintained ties to it.
Thus, the move to New York.
The bus slowed as it negotiated the crowded streets of Manhattan Island; even on a Sunday, there were almost as many people out and about in a normal Brockton Bay weekday. And then, after taking a few turns that he would've sworn no bus could negotiate, they drove into what the signage proclaimed as being the George Washington Bridge Bus Terminal. Finally, after far too many hours on the road, it pulled to a halt and the driver killed the engine.
They waited until everyone in the rows behind them had passed by before he got out of his seat and helped Heith to her feet. Once off the bus, he found a seat for her so she could rest her feet, then located a luggage cart. The unloading of the luggage was well under way by the time he had that sorted out, so it was easy enough to pick out the two suitcases each of them had packed. It wasn't much to start a new life with, but he figured they'd just have to make do.
Making their way downstairs with the luggage was an adventure unto itself, but they succeeded without running over anyone's feet. Max was fully aware of the hazard of pickpockets and bag-snatchers, so he made sure his wallet was in the inside pocket of his zipped-up jacket, and kept between Heith and anyone who seemed to be trying to get too close to her. Finally, they made it to the cab rank that serviced the terminal, and he assisted the driver with getting the suitcases into the trunk of the taxi.
The first stop was to be a hotel; Heith needed her rest. Max had made a close scrutiny of the Yellow Pages and written out a list of the ones that seemed to fit his requirements, but he didn't know enough to make the final choice. The cabbie, however, plied with careful questions, was a wealth of information about which places were good to stay at and which were just roach motels with good publicity.
As they got closer to the city centre, Max began to see the scars of Behemoth's rampage, and the new construction that was taking place in the wake of the monster's attack. It had only been two years, but most of the essential repairs were complete and new skyscrapers were already reaching for the heavens to replace what Behemoth had destroyed.
He turned to gaze out the window at a mural painted across the broad face of a building, showing the heroes driving the creature out of the city. Heith leaned across and looked as well. "They say the PRT warned the capes he was coming," she said quietly.
"What, really?" Max hadn't heard anything about that.
Heith nodded. "I've got a distant cousin who lives down here. She says there was a crack team of analysts working on it day and night for weeks until they figured out it was New York, about a day before it happened. She was warned to evacuate ahead of time, so she did. When she came back, her apartment building looked like a bomb hit it. They totally saved her life."
"Well, damn." He shook his head. "I'm impressed."
"Me too." She fell silent then, as the cab rolled through the streets of Midtown.
When they reached the hotel that the cab driver had recommended, they unloaded the suitcases and Max tipped the driver ten bucks over the fare. Taking up two cases with each hand—not impossible, just difficult, but he wasn't going to leave them on the footpath for any length of time—he struggled inside with them while Heith helpfully held the door open.
The hotel did actually look quite nice, but Max rode up with Heith and the bellhop all the same, to ensure that the room was up to the standard that she deserved. While it couldn't match up to the luxury of the Anders mansion back in Brockton Bay—he suspected quite a bit of that ostentatious wealth would just go away once the government figured out just how much stemmed from criminal dealings—it was neat and clean, with a nice view out the window. As soon as Heith saw the expansive double bed, she collapsed on it with a sigh and waved vaguely to let Max know it was good enough.
Once he'd tipped the bellhop and sent him on his way, Max sat down on the bed next to Heith. "I'll be heading out in a moment," he said softly, putting his hand on hers. "Is there anything you need before I go?"
"Pillow," she said, gesturing up behind her head from where she lay on her left side. "Tuck me in, please?"
"I can do that." He retrieved the pillow and carefully tucked it under her belly until she nodded. "I'll order room service when I get back."
"You're amazing." Her eyes were already drifting shut. "I'm gonna be stupid hungry in a few hours but right now, I just wanna sleep."
He squeezed her hand, feeling the return pressure. "You do that. I'll be back soon."
He'd just reached the door when she called out, her voice drowsy. "Max?"
"Yes?" He paused, his hand on the knob.
"Love you."
"Love you, too."
I should say that more often, he chastised himself as he opened the door and let himself out of the room. Heith could have cut loose from him and gone back to the Herren Clan, where there would surely have been someone willing to take care of her and their son. Or she could've insisted that he stay and take up the mantle of the Empire Eighty-Eight, come what may. But instead, once she'd heard what had happened, she'd chosen to up stakes and go with him, throwing away her old life just as thoroughly as he was.
He knew of members of the Empire, capes and non-capes alike, who were so dedicated to the cause that they would stop at nothing to carry out its ends. There was no atrocity too horrific, no line that could not be crossed. But not one of them would have followed him to New York like she had; not one would've been willing to walk away from the Empire just because he asked them to.
Still ruminating over the difference, he paused in the lobby to buy a tourist map from the spinner in the corner. Heith and he had been married for barely a year, and they'd been lucky; for all that theirs had been an arranged match, there had been an attraction and a liking between them even before the wedding. They barely argued, even about trivial things like asking for directions if they were lost. Not that they'd had the chance to get lost in Brockton Bay, with his father watching over the both of them like a hawk.
A chilly breeze was sweeping down the street as he stepped out through the front doors; he turned his back to it before carefully unfolding the map one section at a time. It took a little juggling of the unwieldy folds, but he located his destination after a little scrutiny. If he was reading matters correctly, his goal was two blocks west and three north.
I need to stretch my legs anyway. Refolding the map as best he could, he shoved it into his jacket pocket, re-checked the landmarks, and started walking.
It was actually kind of pleasant, just walking somewhere. His father had always made sure he stayed fit with various types of athletic training, though he'd never been as good at them as Heidi. He was at least partially convinced that this was the reason why she'd been picked to run the Empire instead of him.
That, and she'd had no idea how to run a business, or even how to relate to people who weren't already obliged to listen to what she had to say. His father had always been fond of the quote, 'Diplomacy is the art of telling someone to go to hell in such a way that they ask for directions,' and Max had taken it to heart. Heidi was just good at telling people to go to hell.
A moment later, he was jolted by the direction of his thoughts. Had been. Jeez, I'm thinking of her like she's still alive. Coming to a halt, he leaned against the wall with both hands, head down, eyes tight shut. They were assholes to me, but every time I remember they're dead, it still hits me right where it hurts.
He'd been right there, he'd talked to Aster, had seen the distaste in her expression when talking to Allfather and Iron Rain, but he still had trouble assimilating the fact that his daughter from the future had killed his father and sister. Even when telling the other members of the Empire about it, he'd left out her relationship to him, just that she'd known who Allfather and Iron Rain were and had given him the warning after killing them. He had no idea how they'd react if he told them, but belief would probably be worse than disbelief.
"Hey."
Jolted out of his thoughts by the voice, he looked around to see a rough-looking guy holding something in his hand. Max blinked, staring. "What?"
The guy took half a step closer. There was the snik of a switchblade opening, and he gestured with the gleaming blade. "Wallet and watch, rich boy. Don't try to run. I'll be on your ass like white on rice."
The hell? I'm being mugged? Max couldn't believe it. He'd never had to worry about anything like this happening back in Brockton Bay, because every mugger in Empire territory knew not to touch the rich people. The trouble was, he was no longer in Brockton Bay. Worse, if he used his powers to protect himself, the guy had already seen his face.
For any other member of the Empire, that wouldn't have been a problem; 'leave no witnesses' was a time-honoured tactic. But he was actively trying to be a good man, as per Aster's directive, and he didn't think killing someone to protect his secret identity fell under the description of 'good'. What do I do? I can't just let him take my stuff. But I can't reveal I'm a cape either.
"Good citizen, never fear!" He jumped, startled, when the chirpy voice came from just behind him. A hand fell on his shoulder, then someone vaulted over him to land in front of the mugger. He registered that it was a teenage girl, probably a couple of years younger than him, wearing a short cape and a helmet sporting large mouse ears. "Be of good cheer! Mouse Protector is here!"
As the mugger took a step back, either in fear or total disbelief in what was happening, she whipped out a rapier and pointed it at the guy, then shot Max a cheeky grin.
"Oh, shit." The mugger's tone suggested resignation and fear. "Fuck off, why don't you? Just fuck off."
"You know I can't do that, with rats like you scurrying around and stealing all the good cheese." She advanced on him, waving the rapier in a way that suggested she had no real idea of how one was used and was making it up as she went along. "Now drop your stupid little knife, and I won't poke any more holes in you like I did the last time you tried to stab me."
"Hey, you hear that?" The mugger looked past Mouse Protector (that had to be the stupidest name he'd ever heard for a hero) to appeal to Max. "She said she was going to stick me with that sword of hers."
"I suggest you drop your knife, and she won't." It seemed clear enough to him. Stupid name aside, there was no way he was going to undermine the authority of someone who'd just bailed him out of the reveal-or-be-robbed dilemma.
"Oh." The switchblade clattered on the grimy concrete, and Mouse Protector soon had the mugger sitting up against the wall with his hands flex-cuffed behind him.
"May I ask you a question?" he asked quietly, after they'd been waiting a few minutes for the police.
"Absolutely, citizen," she declared. "You mouse certainly can."
He tried not to wince at the bad pun. "Your name is really Mouse Protector? Did you lose a bet or something?"
"I said that, the first time you arrested me!" blurted the guy on the ground. "Didn't I say that?"
She shot him a dirty look, then drew her rapier and tapped him sharply on top of the head with the tip. "Shut up, nobody asked you." Composing her features, she looked at Max. "I chose the name myself. For I am the protector of all mouseys, large and small. With my trusty sword—" she flourished the rapier with more enthusiasm than skill, making Max step back a pace, "—I keep the vicious rats and mangy cats of society at bay!"
"Um …" He hesitated, but the fencing lessons his father had paid for in years past were causing him almost physical pain at this point. "Have you actually had any training with that?"
"Training?" she asked artlessly. "It's a sword. Not that complicated. The pointy bit goes in the bad guy."
"Yes, granted, but—" He broke off as a police cruiser chirped its siren before pulling to a halt next to them.
It seemed the officers had a certain amount of respect for Mouse Protector, taking the mugger off her hands and getting a statement from him. He told them what had happened, only varying from the truth when he backed up her assertion that she'd never threatened to stab the mugger. Eventually, protesting that he was being railroaded, the mugger was loaded in the back seat of the cruiser, and it headed off down the road.
"Thanks for that," she said briskly. "I wouldn't get in real trouble over it, but Legend's got a way of being disappointed at you that's even worse than console duty, ugh." She gave an all-over shudder to express her feelings about that sort of thing.
"Hey, you saved my bacon, so I figured I'd return the favour." He gave her a grin and a shrug. "Does that happen often, around here?"
"No, actually." She leaned down to pick up a small rubber puck from the ground, tucking it into her utility belt. He wasn't sure what that was all about. "I was just on my way back to base when I saw him and you, and I decided to wreck his whole day yet again."
"Well, I'm glad you did." He decided to pretend ignorance. "How far away is it? I think I might just go there and put in a favourable review about your performance. Just in case there's anything else you've done that Legend might be disappointed at you over."
She grinned. "You know me so well. But it doesn't really matter. Soon as I turn eighteen, I age out of the Wards, and Legend can pout at me all he likes."
"They're not letting you join the Protectorate?" He tilted his head curiously. "I thought it was basically a formality at that point."
"No, no, they've asked and I've told 'em. The day after my eighteenth birthday, bam! I'm outta here." She gestured vaguely down the street. "Still gonna be a hero, but on my terms, not theirs."
"Should you even be telling me about this?" He frowned, not sure what was going on. "I mean, you have no idea who I am."
She waved off his concern. "Pfft, I can tell you're trustworthy from across the street. Besides, it's not exactly a secret. I'm basically telling everyone. The Mouse will be leaving the House."
"Right. So … if I wanted to get to the Protectorate building, where would I need to go?"
"Oh, that's easy." She pointed. "Down to the end of the block, then turn right. It's three blocks up."
"Thanks. I appreciate it." He hoped she wouldn't notice the map in his pocket; since his life had been turned upside down, he'd decided that being cagey was his best bet. It was a habit that was hard to break, even when talking to someone like Mouse Protector. Some part of his mind wondered if it was because she was a hero and he'd been on the cusp of becoming a supervillain in his own right.
"You're welcome, citizen. Mouse Protector, away!" She drew her rapier, flourished it again, and vanished.
Well, that was interesting. He continued his walk, paying much more attention to his surroundings than he had been before. Dad would've torn me a whole new asshole if he saw me get blindsided like that. Again came the mental wince when he recalled once more that Richard Anders would never again chastise him for a real or imagined lapse in his vigilance.
Turning right at the end of the block, it was easy to see his goal, even three blocks away. The New York Protectorate building featured on the news on a weekly basis, was cameoed occasionally in TV shows, and had even shown up in one or two movies. Here, now, in real life, it seemed to loom larger in reality than it had on the TV screen.
With every step closer, now that he could actually see it, he found doubts crowding around him yet again. My father was Allfather, my sister was Iron Rain. I am a supervillain, born into a family of villains. What the hell am I doing here? But he forged his way onward anyway.
At last, he stood in front of it, looking up at the frontage with just as much apprehension as anticipation. Again, he asked himself the question. What am I doing?
The answer was simple. Making a good life for my wife and child.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward. The heavy glass doors slid aside; as he entered the lobby, the first thing he saw was a garish standee of Legend, slightly larger than life-size, bearing the hero's trademark grin and wave. Next, he saw the PRT troopers doing their best to be inconspicuous here and there. Interestingly enough, it seemed that their uniforms had been updated, featuring urban camo and transparent faceplates. This didn't make them look friendly, but it gave them a more human appearance.
Here and there around the lobby were images of the more prominent members of the Protectorate, as well as a whole corner devoted to Behemoth; images from each time he'd attacked, and a bronze plaque inset into the wall with the names of all the capes who'd been killed by him. Max took his time looking over the exhibit, so as not to appear too eager. He had no doubt there was discreet surveillance on every person who entered here, in an attempt to get an inside line on would-be recruits. Walking in and going straight up to the receptionist would be like waving a flare and shouting, 'here I am!'.
Finally, after several others had gone before him, he strolled over and fronted up to the desk. The receptionist, an attractive black girl with the nametag MELODY, smiled at him. "Can I help you, sir?"
"Well, I hope you can." He tried to smile back, but it didn't really come out right. When he spoke, he lowered his voice. "Who do I speak to about recruitment?"
Her expression never changed, but her voice also became quieter. "Wait five minutes then go to door one-one-two, just down the corridor past the restrooms."
"Thank you." He stepped away from the counter and went back to his examination of the various exhibits, then took the time to read each of the cape names on the list of the dead, one by one.
When he judged five minutes had passed—checking his watch or looking at the clock on the wall would've been a giveaway that he was actually waiting for something to happen—he looked around then wandered down the corridor. Room 112 was just another innocuous door, but when he tried the handle, it opened. Within, he saw an armoured figure with a distinctive weapon; a sword with a cannon barrel incorporated into the blade.
"Come on in and close the door." The hero held out his hand. "I'm Chevalier. You're the one who wanted to talk about recruitment?"
Max shook it, impressed by the articulation of his armour. "Yes, I am. I'm a cape …" He paused, then grimaced. There was no way he'd be able to hide who he really was, who he'd nearly become. Not if the PRT did any kind of due diligence. "Okay, cards on the table. My name's Max Anders. My father was Richard Anders, from Brockton Bay. In the next couple of days, it's going to come out that he was Allfather, and that my sister Heidi was Iron Rain."
Chevalier's head came up. "I'd heard about something happening in Brockton Bay. Are you saying Allfather and Iron Rain are dead? Were you … part of their organisation?" Are you a member of the Empire Eighty-Eight, he was asking.
"I never was one of them." Max knew he was skating the line between truth and lies now, but his course was set and he had to see it through. "I'm not a Nazi. I don't believe in that stuff. My father wanted to force me to become something I'm not. Then a cape came in the day before yesterday, killed them both, and told me to be a good man." He spread his hands. "So here I am."
"Who was this cape?" asked Chevalier. "Had you seen them before? Do you know who they are?"
"I'd never met her before in my life," Max answered truthfully enough. "She made claims that I've got no way to verify."
Chevalier said nothing. The silence stretched between them.
Max took a deep breath. "She said she was my daughter from the future. Her powers seemed to bear that out. She fought Allfather and Iron Rain at the same time and killed them both, then told me to be a good man and a good father to my son. After that, she just walked away. I haven't seen her since."
"Wait." Chevalier tilted his head slightly. "She said she was your daughter, but she told you to be a good father to your son?"
"That's what she said." Max shrugged; I have no idea either. "My wife is pregnant. I'm assuming it's a boy. I've got no real future in Brockton Bay, not as Max Anders. I want to be a hero. Do you think that's got a chance of happening?"
Chevalier nodded, and clapped him on the shoulder. "I do. Welcome to the Protectorate."
-ooo-
Monday, July 29, 1996
Twin Falls, Idaho
Jack Slash
Something was going wrong, and Jack didn't like it. Not one little bit.
While the Slaughterhouse Nine had not been his creation, he'd taken up leadership after King died and Harbinger left for greener pastures, and he liked to think he'd done damned well at it. A few members had come and gone in the nearly-a-decade since he'd assumed command, but in the last couple of years it had been more 'gone' than 'come'.
Capes died in battle: that was a given. But unless he could replenish the numbers, the Nine would soon find itself nickel-and-dimed down to just himself. And maybe Crimson; the man was as durable as they came, when he was full up on blood.
That part he could handle. But the most irritating aspect was that he somehow seemed to be running out of potential recruits. Or perhaps that was the second most irritating; losing Gray Boy to the fucking Faerie Queen was all the way up there.
Nicholas had been one of his heaviest hitters, and to have her simply swoop in and harvest him when Jack wasn't even there was nothing short of infuriating. Now, recruiting her would be the coup of a lifetime, but she'd apparently gone and handed herself over to the authorities afterward. What her play was there, he couldn't figure it out.
At the end of the day, there was exactly damn-all he could do about that, or about her. Which left the other problem: that of the dwindling supply of recruits. Or rather, of recruits who could make the grade. He'd had his eye on Winter for the last few years, looking to cross paths with her and make his pitch, only for her to die in mysterious circumstances in a grimy dive bar in Chicago.
The last three people he had been able to bring onto the team hadn't lasted past their first encounter with the heroes, which meant the Nine was down to the Slaughterhouse Four. Himself, Crimson, Screamer and Breed. He had to pull more talent onto the team, and make sure they could take care of themselves—the last idiot had accidentally taken Nyx with him when his powersuit had unexpectedly exploded—or they were done for.
It was faint consolation, but part of the reason for his loss of members could be laid at the feet of the PRT, not his own lack of leadership capability. Over the last few years, their operational security and the quality of their analysts had improved dramatically, making it harder and harder to slip through the cracks. He still wasn't sure what had happened to Nice Guy, but none of the other attempted infiltrations had worked either.
Still, he was Jack Slash. There was nobody like him in the continental United States, and certainly nobody who had headed a villain team for nine years to such devastating effect. If anyone could turn this around and get the team back on top, he could.
"Jack." It was Screamer's voice, resounding in his ears. "I need new clothes. I'm going shopping. Did you want anything?"
"No, I'm fine." He shook his head, aware she wouldn't hear the gesture but doing it anyway. "Keep an ear out."
"Oh, ha ha."
She went silent then and he returned to his ruminations, trying to think more broadly. The world had been changing in recent months. Eidolon was dead, and Behemoth apparently neutralised as a result. Idly, he wondered if it was possible to get to Indonesia; if the monster could be shut down, it could be woken up again.
Now, that would put the Nine on the map once and for all.
-ooo-
Captain Taylor Snow, PRT
Screamer posed a distinct problem for anyone wishing to take her down with standard special-ops tactics. She could clearly hear any sound within one mile of her, and could modify those sounds at will into anything … or nothing. Inside that radius, there was no such thing as 'soundproof' or 'secure'.
If I'd been heading a strike team, comms would've been compromised the instant we stepped inside her range of effect—which covered a large portion of the town of Twin Falls, just saying—giving her the ability to both listen in and make us hear whatever she wanted us to. She'd done that more than once with the PRT and Protectorate both, sometimes leading teams to ambush each other with tragic results. So I bypassed all that by going in alone, leaving Kinsey waiting at the edge of town for me to give the all-clear.
He didn't like it, a fact he'd made extremely clear when we spoke on the subject, but he'd acceded to my expertise in the matter. I personally didn't like it myself, but the first part of the op had to be up close and personal, and he was constitutionally incapable of appearing to be anything but a PRT sergeant, even when in civvies. The last thing we wanted was for Screamer to make us and warn Jack remotely; if that happened, many people would die.
Which meant that I was already in the clothing store when she walked in. I was out of uniform, of course, wearing a light denim jacket and jeans, as well as a baseball cap. My Glock was holstered in the small of my back just in case, but I had no intention of using it outside of a dire emergency.
As she strolled around the store, picking out the items she intended to steal—I was pretty sure that no member of the Slaughterhouse Nine even bothered to carry money anymore—I got ahead of her, meandering toward the changing booths. Inside my left sleeve was a long narrow sheath that I'd spent most of one night carefully stitching into place; up until a few minutes ago, there'd been what looked like an ordinary knitting needle in the sheath. Spoilers: it wasn't an ordinary knitting needle.
Screamer undoubtedly knew all the myriad sounds of a firearm being readied for action and would be put on high alert by any of them. Lisa had assured me that she could even discern the whine of an electronic targeting system powering up, or the gentle creak of pressure being taken up on a trigger. So, I wasn't using guns at all.
I got to the changing booths just at the same time as she did, and started opening my door. Giving me a cursory glance, she opened hers, and that was when I cannoned into her. I smashed her into the booth and caused her to drop her intended bounty, then flicked the needle around from where I'd been holding it against my sleeve and stabbed her with it.
On its own, as a random stab, it wouldn't have done a great deal. I had it angled up through her heart, which made it more problematic but unlikely to be lethal if she was given immediate medical care. Unfortunately for her, I didn't leave anything to random chance that I possibly could. So the needle was coated with a batrachotoxin paste whipped up by Andrea's pet chemical Tinker; just a scratch would've afforded Screamer a fifty-fifty chance of survival, and she had a hell of a lot more in her bloodstream than a mere scratch would've given her.
Her eyes widened as she stared at me. The irony was that the toxin had numbed her system as fast as I'd stabbed her, so she honestly didn't understand that she was already dead until it was far too late. By the time the realisation hit her brain that she was paralysed and unable to breathe, her body was in convulsions. I watched as the life left her eyes, trying to ask me a question that she would never now be able to articulate.
Seating her in the cubicle, I pulled the needle out of the tiny wound and carefully slid it into the sheath once more. I'd dispose of the needle and the jacket safely later on, but right now we had the rest of the Nine to deal with. Casually meandering from the store, I took out the lightweight walkie-talkie from my jacket pocket and turned it on. "Daylight Actual to Daylight One. Sun has risen, over."
Kinsey replied at once. "Daylight One copies sunrise. Proceeding to Point Midday. Daylight One, out."
"Daylight Actual copies. Out." I put the radio away and started down the sidewalk to where I'd arranged to meet with Kinsey.
Even though Screamer had been dealt with, there were still two other members of the Nine I needed to take care of before I confronted Jack Slash. Breed wouldn't be a huge problem, but Crimson couldn't be easily beaten down. Even when not powered up by drinking blood—seriously, what the fuck was his shard thinking?—he still had a moderate Brute rating, both in strength and durability. Not unlike Lung, in fact.
I got to the parking spot I'd already picked out about thirty seconds ahead of Kinsey; as he pulled around the corner, I was removing the traffic cones I'd left there to reserve the spot. I'd found a long time ago that people rarely seemed to question the veracity of traffic cones, once placed. He nosed the van into the spot and came to a halt, then killed the engine.
Opening the side door, I climbed in then closed it behind me. "Ma'am," Kinsey greeted me from the driver's seat.
"Kinsey," I acknowledged. I slipped out of the jacket, wrapped it around the length of the needle, and stashed it off to one side. Kneeling next to the case containing the .308 Winchester hunting rifle, I opened the clasps holding the lid closed, then opened it and lifted the rifle out.
This rifle didn't have nearly as much power or range as the .50 cal Gladys had used to assassinate Heartbreaker, but neither was it needed. The rear window of the van had a one-by-two-inch notch cut out of it, shielded by a piece of black cloth I could pull out of the way when I needed to. Kneeling, I pulled it out of the way and aimed out through the notch, then peered through the scope.
Flicking the switch on the scope that turned on the IR capability, I watched as the picture formed and steadied. It had taken a little work to ensure that I could still get usable results, even in the heat of the day. The effort had been well spent; I could make out three distinct forms inside the motel room in question. Jack and Breed I couldn't tell apart, but Crimson was bigger and bulkier than either one.
Lowering the butt of the rifle to the floor of the van, I took the bulky suppressor out of the case and set about screwing it onto the muzzle. It wouldn't make the damn thing silent—nothing made a bullet silent except reducing it to subsonic velocity, and usually not even then—but it would get rid of a lot of the initial report, and make firing the rifle in an enclosed space a lot more tolerable to our ears. With that taken care of, I took up my firing position again and worked the bolt to chamber a round.
"Police," Kinsey warned.
I lifted my finger away from the trigger. While it would've been nice to get the assistance, or at least the cooperation, of the local cops to take down Jack Slash and his crew, that path held two major stumbling blocks.
First: I was technically on a fact-finding mission, sniffing out any chance that another Endbringer could arise; my remit did not include eradicating roving murderhobo bands. Hamilton would be somewhat displeased with me if he found out how creatively I was interpreting his orders.
Second: I didn't want Jack dead, but instead handed over to Cauldron for safekeeping. That little aspect would involve a whole lot of explaining that I just didn't feel like getting into.
"Do they look like they're in a hurry?" I asked, without turning my head. Kinsey's job was to be the lookout, and mine was to be the shooter.
"No, ma'am. Going by the police scanner, it doesn't sound like anyone's found the body yet."
"Good. Let's hope it stays that way for a little longer." There were no two ways about it; my little killing spree here in quiet Twin Falls was absolutely going to be the talk of the town. I just wanted to be out of the town before they got around to asking me difficult questions.
Once Kinsey reported the police car to be out of sight, I lined up the scope once more on the motel room. The electronics dutifully gave me a picture of what was on the other side of the flimsy wall, and I panned over what was either Jack or Breed to the bulk of Crimson. Drawing in a deep breath, I let it trickle out of my lungs as I stroked my finger across the trigger. I told myself calm, calm, calm, and I could feel my heartbeat slow.
The crosshairs steadied on his head. There was no more air in my lungs. My heart rate slowed even further. And then, in the interval between beats, I tightened my finger, squeezing smoothly.
The rifle went off; even with the suppressor, it was nearly deafening. In my scope, I saw Crimson's head rock sideways with the impact. Dropping the rifle—not on the scope, I'm not a monster—I pulled in a huge breath of gunsmoke-laden air and yelled, "Go, go, go!"
Kinsey and I erupted from the van and bolted toward the motel.
-ooo-
Jack Slash
"Cop car." Crimson gestured toward the thin curtains covering the window. The bright sunlight outside made it possible to see out without anyone being able to see in, exactly the way Jack liked it.
"Are they slowing down?" Jack asked, flicking a butterfly knife through its paces without looking.
Crimson shaded his eyes, peering. "Nope. No idea we're here."
"So what are we doing here, anyway?" asked Breed. He had one of his little horror-pets on his lap, and he was petting it like a Bond villain's cat.
"Lying low," Jack said patiently. "Taking the temperature of the region. If there's a cape in the region we can bend to our will, then we'll hear about it and strike. If not, we'll raise our usual mayhem and carnage, then move along."
"Sounds like a plan." Crimson sighed. "Pity about that Winter chick. She was one hot—"
The side of his head exploded, brains and shards of bone spraying out all over Breed, Jack and the wall. Accompanying it was a muted crack, but Jack wasn't sure if that was the original gunshot or the sound of the bullet coming in through the window or the wall. "Down!" he yelled, diving behind one of the beds.
Breed, who had been sitting on the floor, had just gotten to his feet and was moving toward the other bed when the door crashed inward, propelled by a huge boot. The bug that had been on his lap let out a high-pitched skree, but instead of heading for Crimson's corpse as it normally would have, it launched itself toward the open door. Two shots sounded, almost as one; the first exploded the bug in a mess of insectoid guts, and the second took Breed in the middle of the face. His brains joined Crimson's on the wall, and he fell bonelessly, dead before he hit the floor.
Lying flat behind the bed, a knife in each hand, Jack readied himself to strike at the first glimpse of the enemy. Two shooters meant two targets, but that was okay; he had two knives. He'd taken out multiple targets before.
"Jack Slash!" The voice was that of a woman. "Drop the knives and raise your hands! I'm here to take you alive, but there's a whole lot of leeway between unharmed and dead!"
He smiled. He'd always been able to charm the women. Some even said he had the looks of a movie star. "What guarantee do I have of that?"
Something flew over his head and hit the wall, then dropped to the floor. A moment later, a thunderclap caused his eardrums to meet in the middle of his head, and a flashbulb seared his retinas to the back of his skull. As he writhed in agony, he was vaguely aware of someone disarming him then securing his hands behind his back, but he couldn't do a damn thing about it.
Then he was roughly carried out the door, bundled into what he figured was a van, and they peeled out of there.
Although he was still alive, he had a really bad feeling about this.
-ooo-
Taylor
We stopped an hour out of town. Jack had recovered from the flashbang Kinsey had tossed his way, but I'd gagged him and put a bag over his head because the asshole just kept talking. Kinsey had suggested breaking a bone for each time he opened his mouth, but the sad truth was, nobody had that many bones.
"Kinsey, secure the perimeter. This next bit, you're not cleared to know about." The less he knew about Cauldron, the better.
Lesser men would have argued. Kinsey just nodded. "Ma'am." Picking a direction along the highway, he paced off a hundred yards then stood, observing the horizon in that direction.
"Okay," I said out loud. "I know you're here. Ruth would've given you the right time and place. Come on out."
I'd never seen Contessa before, not in the flesh, but Lisa had shown me pictures. She walked around the side of the van and faced me directly. "You're not going to tell me what this is all about." It was a prediction, not a command.
"Nope." I pulled open the van doors and dragged Jack Slash partially out. He struggled and mumbled through the gag and the bag, but I didn't give a shit. "Just keep him on ice until I need him back. Also, two things you need to know."
She barely spared a glance at him before looking back at me. "I'm listening."
"His agent is called Broadcast, just as yours is called The Eye. It's higher ranking than yours, and it will bend yours to its will if you give him a chance to speak to you or influence you in any way. Face to face, given anything like an equal chance, he will beat the snot out of you, and maybe even twist your viewpoint to join him. But his powers work only on capes. Don't let the Custodian listen to him either. She's even easier to influence than you are."
She blinked, assimilating that, while clearly suppressing the urge to ask me how the hell I knew that. "And the second?"
I snorted. "Don't let Doctor Mother near him either. She already hates me. He won't need powers to twist her into letting him come after me."
Her jaw honestly dropped. "Okay, what the hell? How do you even know that name?"
"I'm PRT Intelligence," I told her evenly. "It's my job to know. Don't let him talk to capes. Not even you. Understood?"
"Understood." She glared at me. "And I call bullshit on that being PRT Intelligence. Nobody should know about that. Who's been talking?"
I gave her a bland look in return. "Tick tock, Contessa."
Getting a good grip on Jack Slash, she shot me a lethal glare. "Doorway."
A portal opened in front of her, and I thoughtfully gave her a hand to lift him through. Then I waved as the portal closed again.
That hadn't necessarily been the wisest thing for me to say, I figured, but I doubted very much that she would tell anyone. She'd be much more invested in finding out who was feeding me backchannel information. It would keep her busy while I was doing other stuff.
After all, everyone needed a hobby.
End of Part 8-6