Another Way
Part Twenty-Seven: The Gathering Darkness
[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
Monday Night, December 10, 2007
Deputy Director Renick
Paul leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let out a long sigh.
Emily was going to be pissed.
Not as angry as she'd been when she found out about the full extent of the Brockton Bay Brigade's idiocy, but still … she was not going to be in the least bit happy.
It wouldn't matter that Lung's death spelled the end of the ABB (he refused to spell out that ridiculous name if he could possibly help it, even in his own head) or that crime was going to go down again once the Mercia engulfed the area of the city previously claimed by the conglomerate gang. Neither would the fact that Lung had been about one murder away from a Birdcage sentence alter her views.
No, Emily would simply be angry that Marquis was once again doing exactly what he wanted to do inside her city, less than four hours after returning from the Leviathan battle, and this evidently included murdering another crime boss and wrapping up his gang … more or less because he could.
And she wouldn't be able to lay a hand on him, especially since Marchioness had by all reports outdone herself in Orlando. Instead of a twenty-five percent death count, or even twenty, her power (and the search-and-rescue efforts of the Mercia) had pushed the death count down to less than ten percent of the capes who had attended the battle. Of the two hundred and eighty-six capes recorded as having shown up, just twenty-seven had died. This number including Stinger, whose astonishing solo stand against the Endbringer had held Leviathan back for nearly fifteen minutes, but ended just before Marchioness got herself established.
Moreover, for every two capes murdered by Leviathan, three others had gone back to the battlefield as good as new where they otherwise would've died, and none at all had succumbed under Marchioness' care. Paul knew for a fact there were capes going back to their families and friends right now who would've been dead but for her efforts.
He liked to think he had a handle on Emily Piggot's motivations, and figured that this would be a cause for conflicting emotions. On the one hand, Marchioness had done what she said she would, and saved lives. But on the other … Marchioness had done what she said she would, and entirely justified the hands-off policy toward Marquis, where Emily would've liked nothing more than to bring the PRT down on his head.
Still, on the upside, as much as he disliked celebrating the fact that a human being had died … Lung was indeed dead. The ABB was finished as a cape gang, and would likely fragment back into its component parts if there were any members left alive and free. That could only be a good thing for Brockton Bay, in the long run.
That being settled, he turned to the next report, which seemed to indicate a fight between Lung and Marquis while the latter was still very much known to be in Florida. What that was about he had no idea, but he would put people on to chasing it down. They could report back to Emily, and it would be out of his hands.
I am so glad I'm not in charge of dealing with this mess anymore.
Tuesday, December 11
Boat Graveyard
Taylor
The guard in the gatehouse nodded in a respectful manner to Danny as the car pulled up to the barrier. "Good afternoon, Mr Hebert. Here to see the boss?"
"And to show my daughter how the reclamation is going," Danny replied, showing his ID so smoothly Taylor barely realised it until after his wallet went away again. "How's the family, Fred?"
"Doing well, sir. Marilyn tried out that lasagne recipe you passed along. It really hit the spot." The guard pressed a button inside the shack, and the barrier rose smoothly. "You know where to go, sir. I'll let Mr Marchant know you're here."
"Thanks, Fred." Danny drove forward, bumped over the speed hump, then turned to follow a series of guide lines painted on the concrete.
Taylor gazed out through her window and the windshield as the car trundled forward at a brisk walking pace, eyes wide. For some weird reason, her eyesight had been getting better over the last few months, so she barely needed glasses anymore. But even if it had been as bad as ever and she hadn't had her current glasses, she still would've been able to see that the mass of ships in the Boat Graveyard was … less massive.
Quite a few of the larger ships were still there, but those were mainly the half-sunken ones. The smaller ships were nearly all gone, making the expanse of water look oddly empty. Floating between them was what she recognised as a dredge—the endless chain of scoops hauling mud from the bottom and dumping it into the body of the ship was unmistakeable—and a couple of heavy-duty tugboats. One of the tugs was just in the process of taking a medium-sized ship under tow.
Danny pulled the car to a halt in a painted-in parking lot, set the park brake and killed the engine. Taylor got out, looking around with interest. It wasn't just the freshly painted parking lot or the lack of derelict ships; the entire dockside area looked as though it had been renewed and even rebuilt in places.
"Danny, Taylor. Good to see you. Pleased you could make it." Taylor turned at the sound of Earl Marchant's voice. The man himself had emerged from a nearby doorway and was coming their way, striding along with a spring in his step and a broad smile on his face. He was wearing a safety helmet and a high-vis vest with the word 'BOSS' on the front, and carrying what looked like two more vests over his arm.
"Earl, how are you?" Danny went to him and shook his hand, then took the vests from him. Handing one to Taylor, he shook the other out and put it on. Following his lead, Taylor slid her arms into it and pulled it together so the Velcro closures came together at the front.
"Doing well, doing well. As you can see, we're making progress." Mr Marchant gestured toward the large container ship that had the mouth of Lord's Port blocked off. "I've got divers checking on that one right now, seeing if there's any serious breaches in the hull, or if she can simply be refloated and towed over."
"Damn." Danny ran his hand through his thinning hair. "That's been there for so long, I have trouble believing it can even be moved."
"With enough of the right kind of persuasion, any obstacle can be removed." Mr Marchant beckoned. "Come on, they've got a ship on the cradle right now."
Taylor trotted alongside her father as they rounded one of the larger buildings, then she stopped, staring. Slowly, her jaw dropped as she took in the scene before her. She'd known something was going on here, but not what, precisely.
The old slipway, when she'd last seen it, had been cracked and crumbling. It was now looking brand-new but well-used at the same time. Immense winches trailed massive cables down into the water.
A ship, clearly one that had very recently been in the water from the collection of barnacles on the side and bottom, rested in a gigantic articulated cradle. Over the ship swarmed workers, sparks from their busy cutting torches visible even from where she was. Chunks of the ship were already missing, hefted away by vulture-like cranes that seemed to hover hungrily, awaiting the next offering.
"Wow …" she murmured, her eyes wide. "That's insane. You're just … chopping the ships up?"
"It seemed the simplest solution," he confirmed, a twinkle in his eye. "It's not easy work, but I've got the best equipment money can buy so it's possible, and I'll say this for your men, Danny. They can do a good day's work."
"Well, for the pay rate you're giving them, I'd be astonished if they weren't giving their all." Danny's gesture covered the ship being disassembled before their eyes, as well as the ships out on the water. "How are they going for injuries? I'm still catching up on my reports."
Taylor caught the merest hint of an approving nod from Mr Marchant. "There's always bad luck, thus a few minor problems, but nothing major enough to send them home. I followed your suggestion about speaking to Marquis. Marchioness was perfectly amenable to the idea, so she's been on call most of the time, and actually on-site when we're cradling another ship, because that's the most dangerous part of the operation. When twenty thousand tons of waterlogged steel decides that it doesn't want to come up into the dry, that's when things can get dicey."
"She's really good at what she does," Taylor declared. "Did Dad tell you how she saved his life?"
He smiled at her. "He did indeed. I'm quite pleased with the idea, to be honest. We're paying her a fair day's wage for her abilities, but the men seem to think she brings luck to this job. Morale is high, and everyone works just a little harder when she's around."
"That's amazing." Taylor was really glad her dad's idea had worked out. "Has Claire met her yet? Is Claire here today?"
Mr Marchant smiled. "Claire knows her, yes, but she's busy right now with an after-school project. If you and Emma wanted to come over later, I'm sure she'd be pleased to go for a swim with you."
"Oh, yeah, that sounds amazing. Can we, Dad?" Taylor did her best impression of puppy-dog eyes.
Danny chuckled. "Fine. Just make sure your homework's finished first. And check with Alan and Zoe before you shanghai Emma into this, okay?"
"Totally." This day was just getting better and better.
Later That Afternoon
Approaching Brockton Bay City Limits
The car was nondescript, several years removed from the latest model, but it ran well. Its licence plates would pass a cursory check by a bored police officer, and there were no obvious defects visible to the casual observer. In short, it was as close to being invisible as a solid object of that size could get without the assistance of Tinker tech.
The driver and passenger were equally unremarkable; while both were white men, one wore glasses as well as a neatly-trimmed brown beard, while the other was clean-shaven with blond hair. They had known each other long enough to have exhausted most topics of conversation involving their mutual interests, and so had spent the majority of the car ride sitting in the silence of their own thoughts. However, while the brown-haired man was content to drive and listen to the music coming from the radio, his companion seemed to be wrestling with a dilemma of some sort.
As the car crested the range of hills surrounding Brockton Bay, the blond man finally spoke up. "Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, really? I've heard stories about Marquis, that's all."
A confident chuckle prefaced the reply. "So have I, but you need to look at the bigger picture here."
"Bigger picture? What bigger picture?" The blond man worried at the fingernail on his left pinky.
"Marquis is formidable, yes, but he's just one man. He can't cover the entirety of a city, all at once. There will be niches and corners where people resent his overlordship, where we will be able to exist outside of his influence and carry on our business. And then there's the other factor."
"Other factor?"
The brown-haired man smiled. "Corruption, my dear fellow. Corruption. The powers that be could not have carried on in this cesspool of a city for so long without the willingness to accept a certain level of you-scratch-my-back, whether it be simply turning a blind eye to illicit dealings or actively reaching out for their cut. Where you find corruption, you will find darker urges. Mark my words, we will find people in high places who will not only allow the Orchard to flourish, but they will also work hard to conceal our presence for their own ends."
Mr Drowsing nodded uncertainly. "I hope you're right. Marquis doesn't really seem the sort of guy we want to cross, that's all."
Mr Bough chuckled again. "Trust me. I've seen it a hundred times before. Our clients will make absolutely certain that he knows nothing of our whereabouts. And if need be?" He shrugged. "He has a daughter. She would make an admirable hostage."
"If you say so."
"I do say so."
Marchioness
That Evening
Claire was halfway down the stairs when Jonas opened the front door. Taylor popped her head in immediately and gave her a wave before turning toward the burly 'bodyguard'. "Hi, Claire! Sorry, Jonas, didn't mean to ignore you."
"That's quite alright, Miss Hebert," the big man replied, favouring her with an avuncular smile. Most would've been intimidated, but she beamed back at him cheerfully.
Emma came in next, along with the guest Taylor had called ahead about. "Hi, Claire, Jonas. Claire, you remember Sophia, right?"
"I … think … so?" Claire was pretty sure she knew the face, but not precisely where from. "We've met. Where did we meet?"
Sophia grinned, her teeth standing out in bright contrast against her dark skin. "Interschool track meet, a few months ago. I got the four-hundred-yard trophy, and Taylor got the one and two hundred. Emma smashed them all in the eight hundred yards."
Smiling just as broadly, Taylor took over. "Sophia loves track, and according to her nobody's ever cleaned her clock so hard with the one hundred, so she got in touch with us through the schools to talk about sports and stuff. When your dad suggested coming over to enjoy the pool, I thought of inviting her."
Sophia nodded. "Y'know, before I saw this place, I wouldn't have believed anyone really had a heated pool in their house. But hey, what do you know. Now I'm a believer."
"Oh, you are gonna love it," Emma promised, then frowned. "Sorry, maybe Taylor should've asked you earlier; do you actually enjoy swimming?"
"Hey," protested Taylor. "Who doesn't like swimming? Weird people, that's who."
"Chill." Sophia chuckled. "She actually did ask me. And I do like it, just for fun. It's not track, but it's still exercise."
"Really." Claire raised her eyebrows. She knew damn well she could dominate any athletic sport she put her mind to, which was why she didn't compete in them. However, she really did enjoy swimming, even when she wasn't adding gills or fins to her repertoire. "I bet I can beat you, two laps out of three."
Jonas cleared his throat diffidently, bringing a pause to the conversation. "Mr Marchant has arranged for a light snack to be supplied immediately, and a more substantial meal after you've finished swimming. He also said to remind you that it is a school night, so Miss Marchant will need to be preparing for bed by ten."
Claire wrinkled her nose. "That's right, be a spoilsport."
It was all an act, of course; she could adjust her metabolism to require minimal sleep, or none at all if she so chose. But being able to pretend that she was just a normal kid alongside her friends was absolutely a good idea, one that her father approved of. While she enjoyed being Marchioness, she also valued her time with Taylor and Emma.
"Well, let's not waste time, then." Taylor gave Jonas a quick wave. "Let's get to it. And holy crap, have I got something to tell you guys about!"
As the four girls headed into the depths of the house, with Sophia doing her best not to stare wide-eyed at the furnishings, Taylor launched into a somewhat-dramatised description of the situation at the Boat Graveyard. Claire shared a grin with Emma. And she's off and running again …
Tonight was going to be fun.
PRT Building ENE
Wednesday Morning
Coil
Thomas Calvert sat in his office, dealing with the routine paperwork required for the operation of a PRT strike squad. It mainly consisted of duty rosters, training schedules, and other matters with which he was already familiar from his previous tenure as a PRT lieutenant. This allowed him to pretend to look busy while his mind was elsewhere.
Thomas Calvert had a problem. Though a supervillain and a Thinker besides, he was new to the city, with no idea of the local underworld dynamics. Marquis had simplified matters considerably when he vanished Kaiser and much of the Empire Eighty-Eight, and literally decapitated the ABB, but Calvert still had less of an idea what was going on beyond the walls of the PRT building than any of the troopers.
Before he initiated operations as Coil, he needed to know more. He needed to know everything.
Getting up from the desk, he left his office and took the elevator upward. Nobody paid him the slightest bit of attention when he stepped out on the top floor, because he was one of them. He belonged.
Piggot looked up with some irritation when he barged into her office. "What is it, Calvert? And haven't you heard of making an appointment?"
He stopped and locked the door behind him. "I don't do appointments." Walking around her desk, he drew his pistol. "Hands away from your desk. Let's not hit the duress button by accident, sh—"
He'd made sure not to come within arm's reach, but what he hadn't thought about was the fact that she walked with canes. In a move that she had to have practised, she snatched up one of the pair leaning against the desk and smashed it into the back of his hand, forcing him to drop the pistol. He dived for it as she scrabbled under the desk for her own holdout weapon; they both came up with a firearm at the same time. She got a shot off just before he did, but he was pretty sure he managed to squeeze the trigger before he died.
Calvert grumbled gently under his breath, and took the time to scribble in his notebook. Watch for canes. Pistol under desk.
He preferred to think of such incidents not as failures but as the best kind of information gathering. As a result of what had just happened—and not happened—he now knew things he hadn't before, which would inform his actions going forward. However, he hadn't advanced his primary agenda, so he had to try again.
The best bit was that he could try again, and again and again, as often as he liked. So long as he kept a safe timeline where he never made the effort, there was literally no way he could be caught interrogating his fellow PRT officers for the information that he needed. Of course, he needed to know what Piggot knew before he could decide it was worth spending more than the minimum time and effort on her. But that was what spare timelines were for.
Thomas Calvert got up from his desk, left his office, and took the elevator up to the top floor. Walking straight into Piggot's office, he drew his pistol and pointed it at her, before feeling behind him to lock the door. "Hands in plain sight," he ordered.
'What the hell is this, Calvert?" Piggot's tone went from irritation at the beginning of the sentence to outright anger at the end. "What are you playing at?" But she did as she was told; Emily Piggot was not a stupid woman. Not as smart as he was, but not stupid either.
"I need to know about the city, about the gangs," he said, moving closer to the desk. His pistol never wavered from her face for an instant. "I need to know who buys stolen goods without asking questions, where muscle can be hired from, the whole nine yards."
"Then what the fuck are you pointing a gun at my face for?" demanded Piggot. "You could submit a request for that information—"
"Because I want it now, you stupid bitch." Calvert aimed at her right shoulder and squeezed off a shot. She staggered backward as dark blood bloomed on her suit jacket. Moving closer, he aimed the pistol at her stomach. "Where I put the next shot, you'll die screaming. So tell me what I want to know."
Blood trickled between her fingers as she pressed her hand on the wound. "Either you've been Mastered, or you're even more fucked in the head than I thought you were. Doesn't matter. Everyone who receives stolen goods? Marquis knows about them and has men watching. I know this because they've tapped my men on the shoulder and asked them to keep the noise down. All the muscle that could've been hired is working for Marquis, or has already been told to leave town. Want to buy drugs in this town? They are very specifically not protected by the Mercia. Rob any place that's under Mercia protection? You'll be lucky to make it a block." She gave him a look that was pure venom. "Congratulations. You just threw away your career for information I would've given you for free."
Thomas Calvert blinked and shook his head, then looked down at the notepad. He'd written one more word, the pen pressing deep into the paper: MARQUIS.
Carefully, he tore the page off, as well as the two following pages, and fed them into the shredder, then he sat back down at his desk. As he went through the motions of checking off reports, his mind turned over the information he'd been given.
Piggot hadn't lied to him; every word she'd spoken had anger and spite behind it. It was glaringly obvious that she hated that Marquis was managing the crime in Brockton Bay better than the BBPD or the PRT ever had before. If ten thousand people paid twenty dollars a month for protection, that was over two million dollars per year of income, and he was probably lowballing both the price of protection and the number of people paying for it.
Calvert had thought his problem was that he didn't have a handle on the underworld. As it turned out, his problem was much more insidious.
He'd volunteered to come to Brockton Bay in the full expectation of being able to camouflage his growing operations behind the crimes of others. A snake in the grass could escape notice when there were more blatant gang leaders drawing attention every day. But without Kaiser, without Lung, without even the Merchants to provide distractions, everything he did would draw attention.
Not from the BBPD; they could be bribed. Nor even from the PRT, when he could use his position to deflect such attention. Marquis, however, was another matter altogether.
Marquis didn't just arrest villains who opposed him, and toss them in the nearest revolving-door prison. He killed them. They died.
Marquis held the high ground, the low ground and all the ground in between. No matter how deftly Calvert were to split time, a single one of Marquis' men could beat him bloody any day of the week, and twice on Sunday. Worse, the veteran crime lord had the advantage of numbers and of powered troops, and Calvert had a sneaking suspicion that the Mercia were immune to the lure of bribery.
There was just one thing to do.
Leaning over, Calvert opened the bottom drawer of his desk and rummaged through the miscellaneous forms he found there until he found the one he wanted. With quick, precise pen strokes, he filled it in. Then he picked up his phone and made a short call.
PRT Director Emily Piggot
Emily raised her eyes as the expected knock came on the door to her office. "Enter."
The door opened and Calvert actually marched in, stopped in front of her desk, and came to attention. "Director, thank you for seeing me," he stated formally.
She raised her eyebrows slightly, but made no comment on his manner. "At ease, Calvert. You requested to see me. What's the situation?"
When he spoke, he retained the formal manner, and directed his eyesight at a point a few feet over her head. "Ma'am, upon further reflection, I have decided that I may not be a good fit for this duty station, and I hereby request a transfer." Leaning forward, he placed a folded sheet of paper on the desk.
Taking up the sheet, she opened it … to find that he had indeed filled out a formal request for transfer. Carefully, she read it through. It all seemed correct.
"Not a good fit for this duty station, Calvert? Explain."
He took a deep breath. "It's our shared history, ma'am. Every day I'm here, I remind you of it. You're a good officer. You don't deserve that kind of distraction. So, I'm requesting the transfer, ma'am."
Emily pressed her lips together. Shared history. There was nothing else he could mean with that phrase. At least he hadn't said the name out loud. Ellisburg …
The sheer irony was that she couldn't give a fuck that he'd been through that particular slice of hell on earth as well. Her problem with him was how he'd gotten out of it.
And why the hell not? She had no intention of looking anywhere near this particular gift horse's mouth. If she'd initiated the transfer, there may have been grounds for accusations of abuse of authority. But he was requesting it, so how could she turn him down?
Whatever his real reason for wanting out of Brockton Bay—she didn't believe his cover story for an instant—he'd be someone else's problem soon enough. Maybe she'd read about his court-martial in the PRT newsletter and figure out his motives for requesting the transfer then.
"On consideration of your request," she said, making him sweat one last time, "I have decided to grant you your transfer. It will take a few days to go through, given that I have to find someone who's willing to transfer in, but I have no doubt that you'll be out of here soon enough." Taking up her pen, she clicked it then carefully signed the form. "Congratulations, Commander Calvert. I wish you good luck in your next posting." If he wanted to layer on the bullshit, so could she.
He drew himself up to attention once more. "Thank you, ma'am. I appreciate it."
She nodded in acknowledgement. "If there was nothing else, you may go."
"Ma'am." Turning, he left the room as formally as he'd entered it.
She waited until the door had closed behind him before taking up the form and reading through it again. And he requested it himself. Wonders will never cease.
There was still the looming threat of Marquis in her city, but at least she could celebrate this small victory.
Cauldron Base
Eidolon
"Oh, for fuck's sake!"
David looked up as Rebecca stormed into the break room; or at least, it was the room they'd outfitted as such. She stomped over to the coffee machine, each footstep hard enough to shake the floor, and set it running.
"Is there a problem?" he asked diffidently. He'd come to the base to clear his head, but Rebecca's entrance threatened to disrupt all that. Legend would be much better at this.
"Fucking Coil," she ground out from between gritted teeth. "He was my goddamn pick for proof of concept of the Terminus project, and Brockton Bay was the perfect place to make it work."
David nodded. More people were triggering every year, especially the children of pre-existing capes, so it was almost a certainty that powers would eventually spread throughout the population of Earth Bet. The Terminus project, set up with the aim of proving that having capes in governmental roles could work, was necessarily a long-term effort.
"So, what happened?" he asked, when she didn't volunteer any more information. "Is he dead?" Things like that could be problematic, but it just meant they'd have to find another test subject.
"No." She spat the word out like it was poisonous. "He was just getting settled when he turned around and requested a transfer out. And Piggot approved it!"
"Hm." David frowned. "Any particular reason? I would've thought she'd want to hang onto every strike squad commander she could, what with Marquis running rough-shod over her city."
Rebecca rolled her eyes theatrically. "Oh, apparently there's some kind of bad blood between them. Maybe because they were both Ellisburg survivors. Bullshit drama, if you ask me. Worse, Camberwell accepted from his end before I could shut it down."
Director Camberwell, David knew, was in charge of running PRT Department 02 in LA and as such was Rebecca's nominal superior when she was in her role as Alexandria. As Chief Director Costa-Brown, she of course outranked him, but she couldn't interfere too blatantly with routine matters (such as personnel transfers) without drawing unwelcome attention. Especially since Calvert had requested it in the first place.
David thought that over as he ate a cookie and sipped at his tea, while Rebecca glowered at the coffee machine. She was just pouring a cup—if he recalled correctly, she preferred it boiling hot and strong enough to grab the spoon and stir itself—when he had an idea.
"If Marquis is all that, why don't we switch the focus of the Terminus project on to him? He's doing what Coil would've done anyway, right?"
Rebecca finished pouring her cup then put the coffee pot down without shattering the handle in her grasp, though by the creaking of the plastic it came close. "That's the first thing I thought of. The one big problem is, he's not doing what Coil would've done."
"What's that?"
She sighed in aggravation. "He's being a villain. The old-fashioned type. Taking territory and holding it, and protecting everyone who pays up, but not actually trying to rule anyone. In his civilian identity, he's pouring money into improving the city, probably to ramp up productivity. What he's not doing is undermining the police or PRT in any significant way. Oh, and he murdered Lung, too."
David blinked at that last piece of news. "Damn." While he could've taken down the Asian crime boss relatively easily—there were ways and means around aggressive escalation—he hadn't thought Marquis capable of such a definitive victory against a more powerful foe.
"Yeah." Rebecca sat down and took a long drink of her coffee. "Plus, I don't want Coil trying to pull his bullshit shenanigans in Los Angeles, but I can't just kick him out again, not without cause." She rubbed her fingernail against her lips. "And I don't want to just disappear him when there's surely some kind of use we can get out of him."
"Well, he doesn't want to be in Brockton Bay," David noted. "But there's many other places he could be of use. Arrange for him to be transferred to Eagleton or something similar, and just leave Marquis in place."
"In place?" Rebecca shook her head. "But he's not doing it right."
"Who's to say what's right and what's not?" David shrugged and finished off his tea. "Maybe he'll make changes later on. Wasn't the whole point of Terminus to be non-interference on our part?"
Rebecca grimaced. "Yes, but I hate to leave things like that to chance."
"Well, we can't always get what we want." David went over to the sink and rinsed his cup out. The Custodian, he knew, would put it away when it was dry. Picking up his helmet, he put it on. "My advice? Leave it go, and see how it's progressing in six months."
Rebecca huffed. "Fine. But I won't like it."
"We're trying to save the world, here. Actually liking it isn't a prerequisite. Doorway to Houston."
Boston
Accord's Headquarters
Détente still wasn't taking care of himself, Accord noted. His one-time partner in crime hadn't done anything about the pot-belly that disturbed the cut of his suit, though he'd kept the mask that was almost a match to Accord's own. He was also working with another cape, who had been left out in the reception area; a teenager, from what Accord could see on the discreet camera feeds on his side of the desk.
This was almost certainly because Détente knew the youngster wasn't capable of maintaining the level of decorum that Accord demanded of all who intruded on his personal space. Any such lapses would lead to the death of the teenaged cape, of course. Accord had little patience for anything that disturbed the neat and orderly running of his operations.
Unfortunately, while he still held the other Thinker in high regard even after their partnership had been dissolved, he was unable to accept the man's current proposition.
"No," he said firmly. "I cannot support any move into Brockton Bay. You may go there on your own, of course, but I will be withholding any support or assistance."
"Are you serious?" Détente tilted his head questioningly. "We were a great team. You know it, and so do I. The Clockwork Dogs—"
"—are no longer extant as a team," Accord interrupted. "We went our separate ways. I feel no need to expand my operations into Brockton Bay, and indeed if I did so, I would be betraying a trust."
"A trust? Who—oh. Marquis?"
Well, Détente was a Thinker.
"Yes. During his time in Boston, he always supported my initiatives and passed on warnings of potential raids on my holdings, even when it wasn't expected of him." Accord spared a momentary glance at the framed picture on the wall. He had another reason for not wanting to attack Marquis and Marchioness, but one he would not share with Détente. Striving for perfection should never be interrupted. "When the time came for him to leave, he handed over his operations to me for a very fair price. I have no desire to repay that with betrayal at this point in time."
Détente nodded. "I guess I can understand that. But I never did business with him, so would you have any problems with me going to Brockton Bay and carving out a chunk of the underworld?"
"Me? No." Accord let a grim smile cross his lips. "But I'm not the one you should be asking. If you are truly set on going to Brockton Bay, I would strongly suggest that you contact Marquis first and politely ask permission to set up operations within his city. If you do not, or if you are rebuffed and still go, you have only yourself to blame for the consequences. Be aware, he is not alone."
"Well, I'm not going alone either." Détente tilted his head toward the door, and the outer office beyond. "The lad calls himself J, and he's as diplomatic as I am. And a whole lot deadlier."
"The Jewel." Accord made the connection quickly enough. The Jewel of Boston was not much more than an urban myth to those without the connections to know for sure. Apparently a teenage boy, he was able to use his mimicry skills to get intimately close to his targets before he assassinated them.
"That's right." A movement of Détente's mask suggested that he had raised his eyebrows. "Still want to sit this one out?"
Accord was almost insulted by the implication that he was holding back from fear. "My position has not changed. It would still be wise of you to seek permission before entering his city."
"Thanks for the advice, but I think we'll be fine." Détente gave him a nod of respect. "I appreciate your time. See you around."
"You're welcome." Accord stood to see him out, wondering when—or if—Détente would realise that he hadn't acknowledged the see you around. In all truth, Accord suspected that if Détente took his young protégé into Brockton Bay uninvited, neither one would emerge a free man. Or possibly, at all.
After the door had closed, he went back and sat at his desk for several minutes without moving. Eventually, he took up his phone and sent a carefully worded text message.
Be careful. Potential trouble incoming.
Placing the phone back on the desk, he considered his actions. Accord believed in balance and completeness above all else, and he paid his debts whenever possible.
The slate between himself and Marquis was now clear.
Stafford, New Hampshire
Damsel of Distress
Ashley Stillons grumbled as she crab-walked the TV in through the doorway of her hideout. It wasn't her fault that her power sometimes kicked off at the exact wrong moment, such as when she was about to have something to eat or go to bed. This generally involved her choosing not to eat or sleep, as her way of proving that her power wasn't the boss of her.
However, going off when she was in the middle of changing channels on the TV, thus obliterating the remote, the TV and the milk crate she'd been using as a TV stand, was something else altogether. She could go without food and sleep, and had done so many times since she got her powers. But she absolutely needed to know what was going on in the world around her. As a supervillain, she couldn't afford not to.
And so, she'd had to go out and break into a warehouse to get another TV. It had taken her some time to find the right warehouse, and more time again to lug the damned thing out through the hole in the wall and get far enough away that the cops hadn't caught her. Getting it back to her home base had looked like an insurmountable challenge until she'd bitten the bullet and called a cab. The taxi driver had given her the stink-eye, but he'd taken her cash and driven her the final ten blocks while she held onto the TV like a lifeline.
Grabbing the sharpest knife from her meagre kitchen, she tore at the wrapping until the TV was uncovered, then attached its base and set it upright. The original milk crate was no longer suitable for anything except scrap, but she stacked some pieces of timber together and put the TV on that, then plugged it into the power outlet. Grabbing the remote, she flopped onto the sofa she'd salvaged from a nearby dumpster and unwrapped the batteries before shoving them into the device.
The TV powered up nicely—it wasn't the same model she'd had before, but that didn't matter—and she quickly flicked through the channels, making sure she could access everything she had before. With a sigh, she settled back on the sofa, pleased that all her hard work had borne fruit. Now, she could keep an eye on what was going on in the local area, and see if there was anything that required her personal attention.
This happened exactly thirty seconds later, when she surfed through onto a news channel. She was about to move on, when a sound bite caught her ear.
"—controversy following the brutal slaying of Lung, the leader of the Asian Bad Boyz. With Lung's death, there are no other cape-led gangs in Brockton Bay, apart from the one led by Marquis himself. Tell me, John, when was the last time you saw a single cape gang take total control of a city's underworld?"
Whatever the other newscaster said, Ashley didn't hear it. Sitting bolt upright on the sofa, she stared fixedly at the screen where a map of Brockton Bay showed the stylised 'M' for Marquis from one end to the other. And right then, right there, she knew where she was going.
Fuck Edict. Fuck Licit. Fuck lurking in an abandoned warehouse and raiding convenience stores for money and food.
She was going to Brockton Bay and carving out a chunk of that action.
Damsel of Distress was hitting the big time.
Finally.
End of Part Twenty-Seven