We are Legion

by Korzark

A parahumans story about a new cape that can clone themselves.

7. Conflict

You wake up on a Saturday morning to find yourself feeling unsure of how the day will go. It's not that you're anxious or anything, but after Uncle Rusty had taken the contract with the PRT, everything had turned into a strange sort of blur where you and Little J had been forced to adapt to the new normal of Uncle Rusty actually having a job.

When you woke up on Thursday, the first day after he took his new contract with the PRT, he gave both of you fifty dollars in lunch money on a daily basis, which you tried to turn down until Little J made it very clear to you that you shouldn't let Uncle Rusty know how much he was overestimating the price of cafeteria food. Fearing for the health and safety of your shins, you decided to give back your share later, or at least buy something nice for Little J with it.

You got a call from Aunt Mackenzie during lunch on that day, asking if you knew how Little J managed to get her hands on fifty dollars. When she's able to convince you that Little J won't be in trouble no matter what your answer is, you admit that Uncle Rusty's been in a spoiling mood recently after getting his new job. Aunt Mackenzie's reaction is strange, and you can't quite interpret what she feels, but when she assures you that she's fine, you stop trying to ask her about it.

You came back home to a very tired, but very satisfied looking Uncle Rusty, who had apparently gone out to the PRT to work in their labs on-site.

While he hadn't been thrilled about having to go outside, or having to work with a mask on, apparently the quality of materials and tools he had been given access had more than made up for it. Having been essentially in a conscious coma ever since he retired, apparently not working for more than twenty minutes in a single day since he destroyed his mask in the fires of his old forge, the day of hard work had turned every muscle in his body into a shaking, aching mess. He had apparently gotten so excited that he'd gone the entire eight hour work day without eating or taking any breaks.

With a laugh, he also told you that "any breaks" also included washroom breaks, and that a very frustrated and befuddled Armsmaster had to carry his aching body across the floor so his bladder wouldn't explode over the fancy PRT computers and robots.

You were a little surprised both at how crass Uncle Rusty is when he's relaxed and at how much he seems to enjoy utilizing his skills as a Tinker, but when you asked him why he ever stopped in the first place, he unsubtly avoided the question by asking you if there's anything you wanted him to add to your arsenal.

You decided not to push the question, but when you tried to suggest that Uncle Rusty might want to go rest instead of helping you out, he insisted that making something for you would be a fun way to relax.

After you suggested a few ideas you have for him, he pondered them. Rejecting a few, agreeing with more, and gleefully admitting that he'd be excited to try some.

A portal gun is impossible, he explained, or at least not something that he could do. His tinker specialty relies on the manipulation of space, by messing with some sort of dimensional crap that he doesn't have the confidence in explaining to you. In application, it only means that he can create pockets of expanded space and can manipulate them to an extent.

This would mean that anything that involves teleporting or expansion of an object is also not possible.

The other items you suggested, however...

Water Gun

When you asked him if a "water gun" would be possible, he was excited as it's something that he used as a common part of his arsenal in his cape days, but realized that it might not suit your style. Red Mettle's style often involved having heroes and rival villains come to him, letting him prepare and utilize heavy machinery as much as he wanted without the need for mobility.

Uncle Rusty warned you that while making a mini version of his old water cannons was possible, loading them up with enough water for them to be effective would make them difficult to carry. He supposed that if he integrated it into your clothes by making it a shoulder cannon or something, you could divide the weight between your clones, but the laws of physics would still cause you to shoot off backwards if you tried to use it.

If you go for this option, make sure you're backed up against a particularly sturdy building when you set it off.

Grenades (General)

Uncle Rusty had no idea what containment foam was, though he promised he'd look it up later, but he did confirm that he could pretty easily make a grenade out of pretty much anything. Even the basic Blackboxes he made as Storage could be used for that purpose, but they were crippled by the fact that he'd put in a safety feature to block any gases from entering them, making them useless as handheld grenades as it would be difficult to pack them with enough material for them to be devastatingly damaging without making them too heavy.

However, he could create Blackbox grenades for you by removing that air filter, allowing you to fill your spaces with enough material that would cause a devastating explosion when released, along with a lighter than air gas, like methane or helium, to decrease the weight of the grenade.

One time use though, obviously.

(Semi) Absolute Guard

Uncle Rusty cut you off as soon as you talked about potentially stuffing your jacket with foam or additional kevlar plates, saying that's not how his tech worked. Stuffing foam into a Blackbox would not give it additional padding, since the "space" that the blackbox expands isn't one that can be interacted with by outside forces.

For all intents and purposes, if you had two identical Blackboxes with one being empty and one being full of padding, they would be functionally identical in terms of durability, assuming that weight had no factor in whatever punishment you were putting them through.

HOWEVER.

There was another way to get a Semi Absolute Guard, Uncle Rusty told you, with a grin on his face.

If you had a Blackbox in your jacket, for example over your heart, and someone tried to assassinate you by shooting you in the heart, as soon as the bullet entered the space of the Blackbox, it would simply go inside, never reaching you.

Uncle Rusty described how, early in his career, he would cover himself in an outfit of Blackboxes and people got so angry when they realized none of their attacks were even reaching him.

Unfortunately, it can't block organic attacks, and at the peak of his career, he was well known enough for his enemies to start utilizing more Brutes and less long ranged machine-based attacks, with some people going as far as attaching bags of blood to their crossbow bolts.

Breather

Easy. Just a custom Blackbox built into a mask.

Capture jacket

When you pitched Uncle Rusty this idea, he thought about it for a moment, and took some time to explain his power in slightly more detail to you.

His tinker tech can be divided into two pretty clear categories. What he called Blackboxes and Worldboxes.

Blackbox was a catch-all term for any of his tech that couldn't surpass the Manton effect, and Worldbox was a catch-all term for any of his tech that could.

All of his Blackboxes had no defense against organic attacks. Though he could put in some filters that could block hairs and floating skin cells from randomly disrupting his tech and accidentally killing him, for the most part, an interaction between an organic object and a Blackbox resulted in a malfunction.

His Worldboxes obviously didn't have that limitation. When something organic interacted with a Worldbox, it could either enter or it was completely forbidden from entering, depending on how it had been set up. The downside of a Worldbox in comparison to a Blackbox was that it wasn't portable once activated. Through whatever force dictated the Manton Effect, it also prevented a Worldbox from ever moving from its spot until it was deactivated or destroyed.

That didn't mean he couldn't build one for you, though. Red Mettle had utilized large Worldbox nets to capture foes and contain them. The limitation simply meant that once they were captured in a certain spot they couldn't be moved, which was occasionally a problem if he wanted to take them to a second location.

He could easily build one for you, in the form of a jacket.

Unbreakable Barrier

After describing the difference between a Blackbox and a Worldbox to you, he also explained that the previous flaw of the Semi Absolute Guard could be circumvented by an unbreakable barrier. By utilizing a Worldbox, you could set up an immovable barrier of "reserved space" that no object can go through. It was still vulnerable to being destroyed if the nodes and/or the Worldbox itself was destroyed, but it's something that Red Mettle had always had on hand to use in a pinch.

Better Item Management

While Uncle Rusty has the ability to navigate through his Blackboxes, to grab whatever he wants, you can only summon whatever you put in last. When you ask him about this, he admits that he'd never had to design a UI for his Blackboxes before his debut as Storage since he only ever built stuff to equip himself as Red Mettle.

He supposed he could build a better UI or just teach you how to use the Blackboxes more efficiently. Either way, it would take about the same time.

Piss Jar.

Unfortunately, the Manton Effect prevents you from storing your organic urine in a Blackbox. You can create a urine-filled Worldbox though, if you want to be disgusting, but that's just an extradimensional porta-potty.

You asked Uncle Rusty to build you a Breather. While it probably wouldn't be too useful in most cases, it was an easy invention that wouldn't take too long to build, and it could mean life or death against a number of the more odd powers.

That was Thursday.

On Friday, when you woke up, it was to an Uncle Rusty, who had apparently made breakfast for you and Little J. He gave you each two pieces of burnt toast, a burnt egg, burnt bacon, and two fifty dollar bills as an apology.

Other than that, you assumed it would be a pretty normal day until Elliot cornered you immediately after you walked into school.

"I'm so sorry, DJ. I'm so sorry, but I just wanted to tell you that I can't hang out tonight," he said. "You want to know why?"

Any disappointment you might have felt at hearing that news was blown away by the giddy grin that Elliot has on his face. Whatever the reason he had for blowing off your usual Friday hangouts must be a good one, and you weren't petty enough to hold it against him, whatever it was.

But you were petty enough to deny him the opportunity to tell you what it is, or at least pretend to. Elliot was bouncing on the spot and it was apparent that he was leading you to ask the obvious question.

You shook your head and said, "Nah. I'm sure it's something important. Have fun!"

"Aww. C'mon, you douche. Aren't you even a little bit curious?"

"Nope," you said, failing to hide a smile at the exasperated eyeroll that Elliot gave you.

"Oh, what's that DJ? You want to know what I'm doing this afternoon, evening, and hopefully night? Oh, twist my arm, why don't you. Fine, I'll tell you," he said, ignoring you as you rolled your eyes at him in return.

"I'm going on a date!" he said.

A genuine smile spread across your lips, glad that your friend had finally gotten the thing that he coveted so badly. Maybe Reagan's constant presence around Ranger recently had pushed him to try harder to find a girlfriend?

"Congrats man," you said, clapping his shoulder. "You deserve it."

"If it was anyone but you, I'd think that was sarcasm," Elliot said back.

"So? Who's the lucky girl?"

Elliot's eyes widened and his smile got even wider, despite you not having thought it possible, right before he opened his phone and shoved the screen into your face.

It took you a second before you were able to wrestle the phone from his hands so you could look at the picture from a reasonable distance away.

What you saw was a picture of a pretty looking girl, posing for the camera in what looked like her bedroom. She was wearing what looked like a high-school uniform, and behind her, piled up on her bed was a small pile of stuffed animals. You didn't recognize the uniform.

"Cute," you commented.

"If by cute, you mean smoking fucking hot, then yeah. Absolutely," Elliot said, uncaring about how the other students in the halls were either trying to take a peek on the phone screen, or staring at Elliot in open disgust or discomfort. You sent your own glares at them before returning your gaze to Elliot, who didn't seem to have noticed. "Look at those fucking legs, man. And those eyes? The only reason why I didn't text you last night was because I wanted to be sure I wasn't dreaming."

"How'd you meet her?" you asked, through the awareness that you probably sounded more like a dad than anything. "It doesn't look like she goes to school around the area. Immaculata's the only school around Brockton Bay with a uniform, right?"

You didn't know how to describe the look he gave you, but if language worked more like math, you would have probably described it as the word "Smug" multiplied by about five hundred.

"Oh, DJ. She's not in high school. She's a college girl. I get to go on a date with a hot college girl! I met her on this new online dating site, and she's totally into me. We even video-chatted last night!"

"Don't you need to be over eighteen to get into those sites?"

"Huh? She's eighteen. I think."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, you mean me," Elliot said, grinning sheepishly. "Well, nobody really checks for ID on those sites, and don't worry. She knows how old I am."

You were about to ask more questions, but the first bell rang and you didn't have the same homeroom class together. You told him you were happy for him before you went to your separate classes, but promised to grill him for more details later.

It wasn't something that needed mentioning, as he seemed more than happy to brag about his upcoming date during lunch and the periods you did share together.

By the end of the day, you decided that you probably would like this new girl, just based on how happy and excited she seemed to make Elliot, not that the rest of his friends agreed, only complaining about how annoying he was being.

After school ended, Elliot's date ended up proving her worth even more by showing up to be a part of Ranger's safety group, even though the government had stopped pushing for them. Ranger's parents were understandably worried for him and he was too nice to try and push them away from the idea, no matter how cumbersome it was to try and find a safety group when a majority of the city had stopped caring about the concept.

You hung out with Ranger and Reagan, while Elliot and his date, Hana, left to go play minigolf or something after helping to escort Ranger home.

At dinner, you went home to find a comatose Uncle Rusty had left four hundred dollars on the table for you and Little J to order takeout. After making a mental note to teach Uncle Rusty about the general prices of food, you lifted him onto the sofa to let him sleep, while you and Little J decided to get fancy fried chicken from a korean restaurant, Uncle Rusty woke up to steal a drumstick before shambling to his room like a self-satisfied zombie.

That was last night.

Now, it's Saturday. You're eager to face the day. In your emails, you've managed to filter out a few emails that seem to be genuine job offers and contacts.

Among the spam emails from a "Void Cowboy" and "Night Ranger" asking for a vigilante partnership, countless emails from random news outlets asking for interviews, and the emails from bakuda that are way too numerous for them not to be sent from a spambot, with each of them requesting that you kill yourself for anywhere between two to eight dollars, there are a few emails that deserve your attention.

Emails from Director Piggot, Roy Christner who you identify as the mayor after a quick google search, a man who claims to be a representative of Coil's, Faultline, and an unknown sender.

Director Piggot's email isn't actually from her, but from a person lower on the chain sending it on her behalf. The letter describes the new "Brockton Bay Vigilante Incentive Program" that apparently gets you an extra 500$ for an arrest of a powered individual, with an extra 500$ bonus if said individual joins the PRT as a part of the Protectorate or the Wards. There isn't an actual job request attached, but it's good to know. You send a thank you email back before continuing to the next.

Roy Christner's email is much more vague, but mentions the promise of a mercenary job. He wants you to contact him for a meetup before giving out any details on how much you would be paid and to see if you would be an appropriate choice for the job as a whole.

Coil seems to have a potential job for you, but tells you that he would like to hold a brief interview with you to better develop an understanding of whether you would be an appropriate person for the job. He apologizes for any implications you might infer from the lack of trust, but assures you that if you prove yourself trustworthy it could open many opportunities for work in the future.

Faultline's email doesn't give you a job offer, but rather it's an invitation for a civil talk between the two of you. Apparently, it's been a while since Brockton Bay has had a significant mercenary presence, with the environment being generally unsustainable for your kind since the people who are highest in power include the E88, ABB, and the PRT, with all of them never having had a history of hiring mercenaries. It's apparently the reason why her company takes many more jobs outside of Brockton Bay rather than taking them within. She hopes to discuss the future of the Brockton Bay Mercenary scene with you.

The last email that sticks out to you is one from an unknown sender, with an email address consisting of a random jumble of letters and numbers, similar to your own. There is no subject line. The only text within is a line of ten numbers with the Brockton Bay area code making up the first three. There are also three attachments, all blurry photos of what seems to be a burning wreckage at first, but you eventually recognize it. Whoever took these photos, they did it from within Heaven.

You decide to contact Faultline first. You know that you're new to the scene and at the very least, it could be helpful to get a more seasoned veteran's input and advice.

You call the number provided in the email. It's 7:25 AM, but you hope that a fellow mercenary wouldn't have the habits of a teenager and isn't sleeping in on a Saturday.

The phone rings five times and you expect your previous assumption to be betrayed, but during the sixth ring, the call connects.

"Faultline," the woman on the other end says.

"Legion," you say, mirroring her curt greeting.

"Oh, so you got my email," she says, her voice immediately taking on a more casual tone to it. "I'm honestly a little impressed that you called so quickly."

It seems to be genuine praise, but you're not sure why you're receiving it. You consider leaving your question unsaid, but you did call with the intention of talking Mercenary talk and potentially getting advice on the topic.

"Why?" you ask. "Is it really that weird for a Mercenary to be punctual?"

"No, but I assume you get a few hundred emails every day. Must be difficult to sort through them all, though I guess you've got as many eyes as you want to sort through that junk. That's what happens when you make your contact public. Mostly necessary to start fresh, but I would not want to do that again."

You nod. "It's a bit of a pain," you agree. "But I couldn't think of another way to get jobs."

"It's a problem that's less common outside of Brockton Bay, which would be the whole point of this conversation. Say, I'm honestly not too big a fan of phones. Are you willing to meet up somewhere? I'll pay for brunch."

You shrug. You still plan to eat with Little J at home, but it's not like you can't do both.

"Sure," you say. "Where and when?"

"My club. Palanquin. You know where that is?"

You do. It came up in your research on the capes of Brockton Bay as being Faultline's business. It's a secret, but an open one, with civilians often posting pictures of themselves hanging out with Faultline's crew on social media.

But it's also her home base and the home to most of her crew, you assume. You'd be walking into her territory.

"Yeah, I know where it is. What time?"

"Choose a time. My morning's relatively free."

You mentally calculate how long it would take you to get there and give her a vague estimate. She's fine with it and lets you know she'll be expecting you.

You have a small bag of your hairs in a storage container that's closer to Palanquin than your condo is, so you strain for about three minutes before a new clone is born and begins walking over to Palanquin, clad in Legion mask.

As usual, a few people try to talk to you on the streets but you don't respond to any of them.

There's a small crowd following you as you walk, apparently having nothing better to do on a Saturday morning, and some trail behind you all the way to Palanquin. The doorman gives you a look as he lets you in while blocking the rest of the people from marching in with you.

There are a few occupied tables, and you're able to recognize two of them quite easily. It helps that Gregor and Newter have extremely distinctive looks.

The rest of the people in the room aren't nearly as distinctive, but you have no problem identifying who you assume to be Faultline. It's just process of elimination, the other two unidentified people are standing behind a bar and handing you a menu respectively.

You thank the lone waitress and walk to Faultline.

You sit across from Faultline and try to gauge her reaction to you as best as you can. She only gives you a polite smile and seems to be trying to stare directly at your eyes through your eyeholes.

You match her gaze as best as you can, but eventually you decide to start reading the menu instead.

"I recommend the eggs benedict," a voice behind you says. You turn to see Newter waving casually to you as he says it. "Actually, I kind of want another one too, Heather."

You shrug and say, "Yeah, I'll have that." You give back the menu when the waitress comes around to collect it.

Faultline is smiling at you for some reason.

"Legion. Would you like to work as a part of my crew?" she asks.

"Geez, Boss," Newter says. "At least take him out to dinner, first."

"We're having brunch," Faultline said casually.

"Hardly sure it counts if you own the place. Plus, he hasn't even had a bite to eat."

"I don't really mind," you say.

Faultline nods at that. "I wanted to start the discussion before the food arrived, since I assume it might be awkward for you to eat and talk with the mask on."

You actually haven't tried it before, but you're appreciative that Faultline had thought of it on your behalf. But the mention of your mask does bring up a question you've had since you walked in to see her sitting casually in the middle of her club without a mask on.

"Is that why you're not wearing your mask?" you ask, more capes are open with their secret identities than you'd previously assumed. First Tattletale, now Faultline.

"I keep my identity an open secret," Faultline admits, ignoring your actual question to answer the underlying one. "Or at least I did ever since I formed this team. Besides, Melanie Fitts barely exists anymore. My old civilian identity's probably more of a mystery than my current one."

You nod, remembering something similar that Uncle Rusty had said.

"Don't worry," she continues. "That's not something that's expected of you if you decide to join my team. We have a pretty recent member whose civilian identity is still intact, assuming you're open to the offer."

You take a moment to think. You haven't ever really considered joining Faultline's crew before, but you suppose it wouldn't hurt to try and understand why she's even offering in the first place.

"You mentioned that in your email, among other things," you say, taking a moment to think about your response. "I'll be honest. I hadn't really thought about joining a mercenary group before, and working solo has been going pretty well for me so far, but I think I just don't know enough to make a decision."

"That's more than fair. And it's not a light decision to be made, either. That being said, if the main problem is a lack of information, would you like to hear my recruitment pitch?"

You nod.

"As I mentioned in my email, Brockton Bay doesn't have a significant mercenary experience. Though we've only made our base here at Brockton Bay about seventeen months ago, a brief glance at the history of Brockton Bay will tell you that we're the only significant mercenary company that's made their home here.

"For whatever reasons, the major villains and heroes in Brockton Bay have had a consistent bias against hiring mercenaries, and that includes the current major powers. The only significant groups in this city that would even consider hiring outside help are Coil, with the Undersiders and the Travellers being the only other potential candidates, though there isn't enough information about them to make a definite conclusion. While the Cartel does seem like a promising newcomer, the leader of that group is somewhat famous for not putting much stock in parahuman abilities."

You decide not to mention anything about how you'd been hired by Tattletale before.

"That's the history and current landscape of mercenary work in the Bay in a nutshell. Who knows what will change during this unexplained influx of new parahumans triggering, but my prediction is that a majority of them will be absorbed by existing organizations or be too weak to provide any significant mercenary jobs, which is why my group operates mostly outside of Brockton Bay.

"We can do this because my group is well known. Not to brag, but we've made a significant enough name for ourselves that we are sought out by powerful groups across the country."

"That sounds a lot like bragging to me, Boss," Newter says. Gregor sighs and Faultline ignores him.

"While it's clear you've made a name for yourself by bruising the ABB's pride so heavily, you still aren't well known outside of Brockton Bay. A benefit of joining us would be the access to a near constant stream of lucrative jobs, if you're willing to travel out of the city."

"Now, just to be clear, I'm not giving you an open invitation to join. I would be vetting you on your abilities and your interactions with the rest of the group. Unfortunately, I founded the group with Gregor and Newter, and the two other members of our group were recruited under special circumstances, so I admit that the process for that isn't exactly hashed out.

"What do you have in mind, then?" you ask.

Faultline shrugs. "To be honest, I'm a lot less concerned about abilities than I am with your interactions with the group. I can't actually see your reaction to seeing Newter and Gregor with your mask on, but you don't seem to be repulsed by their looks."

"Oi, Boss! What the fuck? Rude, much!" Newter yells, though his laugh afterwards ruins the mock anger immediately.

Faultline rolls her eyes and continues. "A superficial reaction wouldn't be all that's needed, obviously, but a basic respect for all my subordinates would be an absolute requirement if you wanted to join us. That's not something that we can figure out or develop over the course of a brunch though, so feel free to drop by Palanquin as a guest whenever you wish. We can figure this out over the course of a while, and I'm sure that the time you use to mingle and chat wouldn't be an issue for you."

"It wouldn't be," you agree. "I'll take you up on the offer."

"That's good," Faultline says, with a genuine smile. "Now unfortunately, I am rather busy this afternoon so I do need to leave as early as possible, but the rest of the crew are free. You know Newter and Gregor, but perhaps you'll be able to meet Spitfire and even Labyrinth if she's feeling well enough today."

"Oh," you say. "Is she sick?"

"Not exactly."

It's at that moment that the waitress drops off a plate in front of you. The timing happens so soon after Faultline's response that it almost seems intentional, to cut off any sort of request for a follow up. You hadn't wanted one anyways, so you don't bother commenting on it, choosing to lift your mask and start eating instead.

"One thing I do have to comment on before I go," Faultline says and you realize that she doesn't have any food in front of her. "But it might be a little rude."

When you realize she's waiting for permission to ask, you shrug. "Go ahead. Not much offends me."

"I could have guessed that myself. You seem to be a very relaxed person," Faultline says, causing you to shrug. Accurate enough, you suppose.

You can't see Faultline's face, as your eyeholes are misaligned from you lifting up your mask high enough to uncover your mouth, but she seems to be taking a moment to either gather her thoughts or to assess you further. Eventually, she does speak up.

"Why did you choose that outfit?" she asks.

"Is there something wrong with it?" you ask.

Newter chuckles behind you, though you don't know why. You take the moment to lower your mask so you can see Faultline's strained smile.

"Yes?" she says, uncertainly. "It's a hoodie, jeans, and a cheap-looking mask with sharpie on it."

"It could use some upgrades," you admit. "But it's easy and it hides my face well enough. I didn't need much else."

Faultline's expression doesn't seem to imply that she fully agrees with you, but she also doesn't voice any disagreement.

"Well, as I've said, I have some business to attend to, so I do apologize but I'll have to leave you here, but feel free to order anything as you like. It's on the house during this pseudo-introductory period, so feel free to keep coming over for the next few weeks if you ever want a decent drink."

You wonder if she thinks you're over 21, but you don't ask her as she nods to you and walks away, through a door that wasn't the entrance that you came from.

Almost immediately, an orange blur drops down onto her now vacant seat, with a plate of food following him shortly after.

Newter waggles his eyebrows at you and shoots you a finger gun.

"Sup."

"Hey," you say, lifting your mask again so you can eat. It's good. "Thanks for the recommendation."

"Yeah, it's the only decent breakfast food here. Richter makes a sick eggs benny, but somehow turns bacon into an inedible pile of crap."

"Fuck you too, Newter," a gruff voice shouts out from one of the back doors that leads to the kitchens.

"I mean how hard can it be? He's a nice guy, though," Newter says, ignoring the shout and digging into his food. A full mouth doesn't seem to be enough to deter him from talking as he continues to speak around it. "So, how does it feel to be the only person to ever see Heaven in person and live?"

You swallow before speaking. "It wasn't anything too spectacular. Pretty modern-looking. A little bit Japanesey. I guess I didn't upload some of the footage I took, but the only thing you wouldn't have seen were the two safes and Dragon's surprisingly edgy bathrobe. Also his two prostitutes."

"Man, I wasn't asking about the layout of the place, but wait. You saw Lung's bathrobe?" he says, laughing loudly. "Surprisingly edgy? You gotta tell me you have a picture of it."

"Sorry, no picture," you say. "But just to describe it, imagine a dragon drawn like a bolt of lightning. But fluffy."

Newter laughs again, but you're struck with a quiet awe when you realize that his plate is empty. Had he inhaled his food?

"Man, I wish I got to see that before you blew it up."

"But what was that about prostitutes?" Newter asks.

You shrug as you eat your brunch at a more reasonable pace. "Maybe they were just live-in maids, but one of them did refer to Lung as Daddy Lung."

"Ah," Newter says, his whole body shifting up and down as he nods vigorously. "And uh, what ended up happening to them?"

"I let them go," you say, earning a sigh of relief from the orange-skinned boy. "I don't know what happened to them, but they had more than enough time to get out of Heaven before I blew it up."

"Phew," Newter says, leaning back in his seat and releasing some tension that you hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Is there a problem?" you ask.

"Nah," he says, waving his hand slowly. "Well, if you were a murderer, then maybe, but you're not so that's good. We basically do anything for money around here 'cept killing."

You nod, mentally filing the information away as being important. You decide not to mention the ABB thugs who you may or may not have indirectly killed by kicking Oni Lee's grenade at them.

"What do you do, then?" you ask, both out of curiosity and a desire to get away from the topic. "You said basically anything, but you probably have some sort of speciality."

"Not really," Newter disagrees. "I mean, I guess we end up fighting people a lot, but that's just Mercenary work in general, right? Most people don't buy a crew like ours to do something that isn't some shade of dirty."

You suppose he's right, but the comment does recontextualize your upcoming job with the mayor. You wonder what sort of task he has for you.

You decide not to mention it as Newter continues to ask you questions about the ABB.

When you finish your brunch, the waitress is quick to pick it up and march it back to the kitchens.

"The boss said everything's on the house for you, right?" Newter says, as his eyes follow the waitress until the door shuts behind her. "You want something else? Maybe a drink?"

"Newter," Gregor says, from his seat nearby. "Is that really the impression you want to make on a potential colleague?"

"Hey, the boss said that we should be hanging out! I'm just following orders," Newter says, holding a hand to his chest in mock drama. "What kind of potential colleague would I be if I didn't offer my boy, Legion, a drink when we're in a club?"

"A kind that can't get intoxicated while others can," Gregor says.

"Way to rub it in," Newter says. "I can still enjoy the taste, though."

Gregor turns to you, smiling gently. "Please do not feel the need to feel pressured into Newter's antics. I understand that Faultline has suggested that you get to know us personally, but I should let you know that none of Spitfire, Labyrinth, nor I join him on his more indulgent behaviours."

"You didn't mention the Boss," Newter points out. "Does that mean she's a party freak like me?"

"I didn't feel it needed to be said," Gregor replies.

You let a chuckle escape your lips.

"So, Legion. You still haven't said no to that drink. Or, if you want to make it a little more interesting, you want to try something a little crazier?"

Gregor frowns. "Newter," he says sternly.

"What?"

"A drink is one thing, but we are not yet part of the same team. I would not assume that Legion would appreciate being incapacitated in an unfamiliar territory."

"Hey, like you just said. It's his choice! So, Legion. What do you say? You want to try it?"

You raise an eyebrow behind your mask. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Newter pauses for a moment. "Huh, I swear I mentioned it. I guess I didn't. Well, basically the question is, you wanna try some drugs? And by drugs I mean my power. Basically, anyone that touches my skin or fluids goes on a psychedelic drug trip. No hangover, no side effects, it's not addictive, and you can't overdose on it. Completely sends people to la-la land for a bit."

"I see," you say, understanding Gregor's concern for you now.

Your immediate instinct is to agree with the older man and decline Newter's offer, as you have no desire to be knocked out in the middle of unfamiliar territory, but as you think about it, you're not sure if that would even be a detriment or not. Though you don't assume that Faultline would call you in just to betray you, even if this was a bold-faced trap, you have your hairlock to potentially pull you out of the situation if necessary.

"Does it put people unconscious?" you ask.

"Eh, depends on what you mean by unconscious," Newter says, with a shrug. "Like if I wave my hand in front of someone I've drugged, they definitely won't respond in any way, but their eyes are also open and they tend to mumble a lot."

It sounds to be good enough for you. You've been meaning to test this sort of thing anyways, since you've been aware of the fact that your clones fall asleep and wake up simultaneously, but you haven't been able to test what happens if you forcibly knock one out.

"Okay, then. I'll try it."

Gregor raises an eyebrow, and Newter grins. "Finally, a teammate who appreciates having a clean drug dispenser around," he says. "I thought I was going to have to defect to the Merchants to fully be appreciated."

Newter's the only one who chuckles at his own joke, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"Alright then, Legion. Take off a glove or roll up your sleeve or something."

"Why?" Gregor asks. "Don't you typically have your friends lick something off of a spoon?"

"That's because they're girls, Gregor," Newter says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I can't touch em, but I can at least enjoy the sight of them licking my spit like it's liquid gold. And I ain't gay, so I'm not gonna go through the trouble for a dude. No offence if you are, of course."

You shrug, not caring enough to answer the question. You take off one of your gloves and hold your hand out to Newter.

Newter in turn sticks out one of his pinkies and taps your knuckle quickly with a vocalised, "Boop."

Immediately, you start to feel strange.

You don't go unconscious, neither the drugged clone nor any of your other clones across the country.

Your body within Palanquin, looks around as you stare around. Nothing is different. You've never taken drugs before, but from the descriptions in movies and books that you've seen, you don't suspect that what you feel is anything like what you should be feeling.

For one, everything is completely normal. You don't feel sluggish. Your vision isn't blurred. Your thoughts are clear. You feel perfectly fine.

What happens is slightly different, or rather, you're not certain if you fully understand what's happening. What you feel is most similar to the mental equivalent of your arm falling asleep, with the space in your minds that had previously been occupied with the senses of the clone in Palanquin turning into a buzzing field of mental static. They can still feel what's going on from the perspective of your body, but it's a little uncomfortable. Not painful, but uncomfortable.

"Huh," you say. "That feels weird."

"Woah, you can talk?" Newter asks you. His voice is completely normal, and yet, your perception of it is somehow... off.

"I guess so," you say, uncertainly.

You inspect your hand, on the spot where Newter touched.

"You're completely immune to my power?" Newter asked, his voice awestruck. "What part of a cloning power would do that?"

"I don't know." You don't mention that you're not completely immune. You don't know how you'd describe it anyways.

When you look up at Newter, he's giving you a complicated expression, with his lips scrunched up in a way that doesn't give his emotions away.

You don't comment on it.

"Hey, man," he says, trailing off for a few seconds before continuing. "Can I ask a quick favour?"

"What is it?" you ask.

His lips twist again, and you have to wait a significant amount of time before he speaks up again.

"I know this is stupid. But can I shake your hand?" he asks.

"Sure," you say, holding out the hand you have yet to put your glove back onto.

For some reason, Newter seems to hesitate before taking it. When he does, he uses a light touch, holding you hand gingerly, as if it were something that would be crushed if he applied too much force.

You grip his hand tighter in reply, shaking it up and down twice before letting go.

If you were shaking his hand for any sort of purpose, you would have said something, but as it is, you're not sure why Newter even made the request in the first place, so your handshake ends in silence.

Newter stares at his hand for a few seconds before letting out a low groan.

"Why couldn't you have been a chick?"

You raise an eyebrow.

"Sorry," he mutters, despite not having been able to see your reaction from behind your mask. "Uh, I'm suddenly feeling a little tired. Sorry for being rude, but I'm going to have to go to my room for a bit. Take a nap."

"If you're tired, you're tired," Gregor says. "I hope I can be adequate company for you, Legion."

"Thanks," Newter mutters. "See you around, Legion."

You nod at him, but you're not sure he noticed as he marches to door near the back of the club, the same one that Faultline had disappeared into. Once the door shuts behind him, you turn to Gregor, who is slowly making his way closer towards you.

"I'm sorry if I did something to upset him," you say, as Gregor lowers himself into one of the seats closeby, pointedly avoiding the seat that Newter had once occupied. He chuckles and shakes his head at your apology.

"There is nothing to apologise for, my friend. I don't speak on behalf of Newter, but as a man who is untouchable for different reasons, I can guess that Newter has been forced to face a harsh reality that falls upon our kind."

"What's that?" you ask.

"The idea that we are limited by our nature. Newter had long since accepted that he cannot be physically intimate with another in the traditional sense. It is a sad reality, and one that Newter is well aware of, but your existence may have acted to give him some hope that perhaps a way to circumvent it does exist or it could drive him into further despair to know that the one person he knows who could handle his nature is of the same sex."

"You make it sound like I should be apologising."

"I would never ask a man to apologise for his existence. Whether Newter interprets this experience as a positive one or a negative one, will be up to him, but in either case it will be a moment of growth."

You're not sure you quite understand, but you shrug it off.

"If you say so."

Gregor smiles at you as he crosses his arms and leans back in his seat. You follow his movement with your eyes, but it's as non-threatening as it can be.

"I wonder if you will give me a similar reminder," Gregor says, chuckling as if amused by the thought. "Tell me. Why do you not seem to care at all about my appearance or Newter's?"

You raise your eyebrow again, taking a moment to look over Gregor for a brief moment before speaking.

"What about your appearance?" you ask.

Gregor laughs, slamming his hand against the table.

"If only the rest of the world were so uncaring about appearances. Please do not be insulted by my question, Legion, but do you genuinely not see why others may be disgusted by my transparent flesh? The growths on my skin? The look of disease and rot on my fingers?"

You take a moment to inspect them.

"Oh yeah, I get why most people would have a problem with it," you admit.

"I am hideous," Gregor says. His smile and tone don't seem to imply he's being self-deprecating or pessimistic in any way. It's more like he's stating a simple fact.

Out of politeness, you hadn't wanted to use that word, but with his admission, you feel comfortable enough to shrug.

"Yup."

Oddly enough, he smiles at that.

"I am a monster," he continues.

"No, that's not true," you correct him.

"Oh? What do you mean by that?"

"You look like something out of a monster movie, but being a monster has nothing to do with looks. People say Jack Slash is a handsome guy, but he's a monster."

"I see."

It's not a question, so you don't feel the need to respond.

"Thank you, Legion, for adding to the precious few who truly think the way that you do. I hope that someday, we can be close enough that you can call me your friend. If you act with a similar level of respect with our other two teammates as you did with Newter and me, I do not foresee there being any problems with a potential membership within our team, but in the case that you do not join us for any reason, I will ask that you come by the club occasionally. I know Faultline's offer of free food and drink will only extend for a short while, but I would gladly cover your charges should you decide to share a drink with me."

You end up talking about your respective lives, after Gregor's odd little speech. You're careful not to give away anything that could possibly be used to identify you, but Gregor seems to be just as careful not to ask any questions that could be perceived as probing. At most, the most intimate detail he learns about you is your favourite colour.

A few minutes later, the door that Faultline and Newter both disappeared through opens once more. The girl who walks out is wearing a sweater, jogging pants, and a gas mask that stretches over her head.

With her obviously being Spitfire, you decide to give her a quick nod in acknowledgement. Gregor didn't notice her entrance, but from your reaction to her, he turns around and gives her a wave.

"Spitfire," he says. "I'm sure you've guessed, but this is Legion. You should sit and chat. I'm curious to see if he will give you an enlightening point of view as well."

"Enlightening? What?" Spitfire says, but she seems to follow Gregor's advice anyways and walks towards your table.

"Not there," Gregor says, when Spitfire moves to sit in the seat across from you. "Newter was just sitting there. It may take a few more minutes for it to be usable."

"Oh, thanks," she says, as she takes another seat.

"Would you like something to eat?" Gregor asks.

"Oh, no. Thanks, Heather, but I just ate," she says, turning to the waitress who seemed to be about to step forward.

"So, it's Legion, is it?" Spitfire says as she turns back to face you, lifting a hand and offering it to you. "Nice to meet you."

"Do not shake his hand either," Gregor comments. "Newter shook it too, and it is possible that his toxins are still present on Legion's skin."

Spitfire tilts her head towards you. "You're immune to his power?" she asks. "Huh. Is that why he's moping around back in his room? He's sad it doesn't work on you?"

"I suppose so," you say.

"That may be the case, and it also may not be," Gregor says, laughing as if enjoying a joke that nobody else in the room has understood. "It seems that our friend here has the potential to be one of the wisest men I have ever met."

"Huh. Really, now. How so?" she asks, voicing your confused thoughts perfectly.

"Legion," Gregor says. "Can you please tell Spitfire here what you told me when I asked you why you did not seem to react to my appearance?"

You briefly scan your memory to remember anything you said to him that could have possibly sounded wise. When you don't find anything, you shrug.

"Did I say even say anything? I don't think I even I answered the question."

Gregor chuckles and shakes his head. "The exact reply you gave me was, 'What about your appearance?'"

You shrug.

"Is that not, wonderful, Spitfire?" Gregor says. "He would get along well with Labyrinth, no?"

Spitfire doesn't respond. You look over at her, and though you can't see her eyes from behind her tinted goggles, you imagine she's looking at you.

"Spitfire?" Gregor asks.

"Huh? Oh, oh. Uh. Yeah, sorry," she says. For some reason, her voice is different than what she sounded like a few seconds before. "Uh, sorry, Gregor. Sorry, Legion. I just. I gotta go."

Gregor frowns at that, glancing between you and her.

It's obvious that something's wrong, so you decide to speak up before Gregor decides that he needs to.

"I'm sorry, Spitfire. Am I making you uncomfortable in any way?" you ask. "I apologise if I did."

"N-no," she says. "Everything's fine."

"Are you sure?" you ask. "I can leave if that's what you want."

"What is the problem, then?" Gregor asks, crossing his arms and frowning at Spitfire, and then at you.

You shrug.

"No," Spitfire says. "But..." She trails off again.

"But, what?" Gregor asks. "As a reminder, Spitfire, we are currently in the process of vetting Legion as a potential member of our team. This will not work if there are any unseen rifts between members."

"No, really. There isn't anything wrong. But," Spitfire stops, cutting herself off with a sigh. "One second," she says, standing up and walking around the table until she's closer to Gregor. Leaning closer to him, she seems to be whispering something in his ear.

Gregor nods along as she speaks, then his eyes widen and they close slowly.

"I see," he says. "And you are certain of this?"

"Like, ninety percent sure," she says in response.

"I see," Gregor repeats. He opens his eyes, looks at you, then sighs.

"Faultline is busy at the moment, and will be until at least midnight tonight," he says. "But if you wish, Spitfire, there is a way that this can be rectified. In this sort of case, a trade of equal measure is often enough."

"You mean, I take off my mask?" she asks.

You raise an eyebrow behind your mask, still having no idea what the two are talking about.

"If you feel comfortable enough. There are other ways that we can fix this, but it would require Faultline's input."

Spitfire seems to think for a moment, and you feel like you should use the opportunity to speak up and ask about what they're talking about, but before you can decide either way, Spitfire shakes her head violently.

"Fuck it," she says. "I've been meaning to kill off Emily Short, for a while. Might as well do it now." She pulls off her mask and revealing a head of curly brown hair accompanying a freckled face.

She stares directly at you, and for a long moment, you don't say anything.

After about ten seconds, her face starts to sag. "Aw, c'mon. All that drama and you don't even know who I am? Was I wrong?"

"I have no idea what's going on," you admit.

Immediately, her face flushes a bright red as she attempts to wordlessly put her mask back on. Apparently, it's a lot more difficult to put on than pull off, and she mumbles some curses as she struggles to stretch out the rubber opening wide enough to put her head back inside.

Gregor laughs, but unlike the pleasant chuckles he let out during your conversation, this one seems nervous and awkward.

"It is quite alright, Emily," he says. "Mistakes are unavoidable in this line of work, sometimes."

"I don't think this counts as an on-the-job mistake," she grumbles, though her voice is slightly muffled by the rubber part of her mask pressing against her lips.

"It still takes a lot of courage to renounce your past, Emily. I am proud of you."

"Please, just shut up," she says, though the words are muttered without any venom.

It's not this that managed to jolt your memory, but after a moment of trying to remember if the name "Emily Short" happened to fit into your history, somehow, it finally clicks.

She's been in your class all throughout grade and middle school, though you don't quite remember if she went to Arcadia. You vaguely remember Mackenzie giggling at her name when she flipped through your yearbook once before.

"Oh," you say. "Emily Short. I know you."

She stops trying to adjust her mask to give you what you imagine to be a withering stare.

"Couldn't have mentioned that a little sooner?" she asks, as she pulls it off again, in one swift motion.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I'll be honest. I don't know why you randomly unmasked yourself."

With her mask now off, you can clearly see Emily's befuddled expression. "Seriously, dude? Context clues?"

"What Emily is trying to say," Gregor says, holding a hand out as if to hold her back. "Is that she revealed her civilian identity in exchange for her belief in having identified yours. I believe the fact that you have been able to identify her means that her assessment was correct?"

It takes you a moment to fully understand what he's saying. When you do, you hear the quiet sound of crinkling leather as your gloved fist clenches unconsciously.

"It's a peace offering, my friend," Gregor says, holding up a hand even as Emily starts to back away from you. "She may know your identity, but now you know hers as well."

"Her dead identity," you say.

Gregor says nothing.

"I'm sorry, J-"

Gregor raises a hand. "I have no identity to give, Emily. I cannot know."

Emily's lips twist into a frown as Gregor sighs.

"The breaking of the unwritten rules is never a good thing, but I hope that you can trust that none of us wish to abuse this new knowledge. While I am not the leader of our group, I very much doubt that Faultline wishes to be blacklisted by every parahuman-run organization in the world."

You cross your arms, gritting your teeth behind your mask as you glare at Emily. Gregor's words make sense, it's completely logical to assume that there's no reason for an established team to throw away their meticulously crafted reputation on a whim. This knowledge doesn't make it any easier to unclench your fists.

Across the city, one of your bodies feeds a pistol and two grenades into a backpack that sits on the floor. You feel your own backpack grow marginally heavier.

"How did you know?" you ask.

Emily shrugs as she shrinks in on herself in an attempt to look as small as possible.

"I recognized your voice," she says.

Her claim is possible, but you're not sure if you believe it. "I barely talk," you say. "You didn't have many opportunities to hear it."

"It adds up over seven years of being in the same classes," Emily mutters, but before you can press her further, she continues. "I also paid a lot more attention when you talked."

Interesting, but still not enough to convince you. "Why?" you ask.

"Because you're fucking terrifying," she says.

Huh. You're not sure how to feel about that. Gregor doesn't seem to either, as he frowns and crosses his arms, alternating between looking at you and Emily.

"Ever since the fifth grade, I've been scared shitless of you. You know how fucking terrifying it was to have you sitting behind me after that day? I had to stop myself from jumping out of my seat and running every time the teacher called on you."

Gregor's frown deepens and he opens his mouth, but closes it soon after.

You stare at Emily, trying to figure out why she has this reaction to you. She gives no clues, with her eyes turned away, desperate not to meet yours. Did you do something to her? Maybe you stole something from her by accident?

You open your mouth to say sorry for whatever it was that you did, but something she said finally clicks with you.

Fifth grade.

"You're talking about what happened with the shithead," you say. With your little fight with Elliot's old bully being the only event that stands out about fifth grade, though you still don't quite understand why it's brought this reaction out of her. "I'm sorry. Were you related to him or something?"

Emily looks back at you, her previous nervousness being replaced by utter shock and confusion.

"No," she says slowly, as if uncertain about her answer.

"Then why do you care?"

Emily blinks twice. "I was there in the class when it happened. I saw what you did."

"Oh," you say. You must've accidentally hit her or something. Possibly a flying tooth. "I'm sorry if you got hit by anything. I guess I wasn't paying attention to any potential collateral damage," you say, laughing awkwardly.

Emily seems to be doing her best owl impression, as she openly gawks at you with wide blinking eyes.

Gregor seems to be confused, but his frown has lessened. You realize that he must have thought that you'd done something to Emily, that he was just being concerned for his teammate. You can respect that.

When he looks at you, as if expecting more of an explanation, you shrug. You're as lost as he is.

"Nevermind," Emily says, trailing off.

You're not going to take that at face value, but you don't think you'll get anything by pushing now. She excuses herself and stands up, leaving you and Gregor alone. While the rest of your conversation with Gregor is a little more awkward than it once was, you find that it's easy enough to maintain a steady dialogue with the man.

You stay for a while, until the doors are opened at 5:00 pm and the regular club-goers start to file inside. A majority of them don't seem to be surprised at Gregor's presence, but many of them openly stare regardless, and Gregor excuses himself while inviting you to stay and take advantage of the night-life at the club, reminding you that you have free drinks and food at Faultline's insistence, even if the members of the mercenary crew likely won't be joining you to socialize further, each for their own reasons.

You thank Gregor for hospitality and ask him to extend the same thanks to Faultline once he sees her. When he disappears into the back rooms, you stand up and make to leave, ignoring the few clubbers who give you looks and warn you that dressing up as Legion is liable to have you killed by the ABB.

Once you're far enough from the club and make sure you have no eyes following you, you create a ladder of clones to climb up a building and turn around until you're laying on top of a rooftop with a good enough view of the entrances and exits to the club.

While Emily likely doesn't have any reason to jeopardize your civilian identity, you know you can always spare a few sets of eyes to keep a lookout for any trouble until you're certain that she's not a threat.

[QM Note: This event is happening on the same day as the previous sections, in parallel with Legion's visit to Palanquin. I sometimes hate that I made this quest about clones.]

After you called Faultline, you immediately turned your attention back to your emails and punched in a new number. Unlike the call to Faultline's number, the other line connects almost immediately.

"Roy Christner's office. How may I be of assistance?" a friendly female voice asks.

"My name is Legion," you say. "The Mayor contacted me through email about a potential job? He didn't put in any more details."

"I see." Though the reply still kept its friendly and professional edge, it still managed to sound neutral, rather than positive. "Would you mind waiting on hold while I contact my supervisors to confirm this?"

"Sure," you say, and the phone line makes a dull static sound before changing to a slow jazzy tune.

The tune stops before you get through the first loop.

"Roy Christner speaking."

"Legion speaking," you reply in turn. "I got your email."

"I see. Please let me know what the sixth word in the second sentence of my email is."

You turn your attention back to the computer screen. "Is that including, "Dear Legion" as it's own sentence?"

"Second sentence in the body of the email, please."

"Sensitive," you say.

"Thank you," the Mayor says. "I hope you don't feel insulted by my need to confirm your identity. While you could easily find my email and office number on the internet, I can't exactly confirm the identity of a man using a burner phone."

"No offense taken," you say. "So your email mentions a mercenary job."

"The email you received mentions the potential for a hiring opportunity," the mayor says.

"Is that a yes or no?" you ask, unsure of why he felt the need to word it so specifically, mirroring the exact phrase used in the email.

"It represents a possibility, should you accept further negotiations in person and should we come to an agreement on what this opportunity would entail."

You hide a sigh as you finally recognize why this all seems so familiar to you. While Mayor Christner sounded nothing like Director Piggot, whether it be in voice or word choice, the vagueness of it all draws a mental link between the two.

"I understand that you need to maintain some level of legalese, but I can't make any decisions if I have no information."

"I would not be hiring you for any purposes that would be infringing on any laws," he says, causing you to roll your eyes. "But I suppose an in-person meeting would be preferable to speaking on the phone, if you would not mind."

"That works for me," you say.

"Excellent," the mayor says. "If you would, there is an address I would like you to go to. There will be someone there to take you to a second location."

"That works for me too," you say, as you mentally note the location he gives you. He hangs up immediately after you confirm the address back to him. A little rude, but you appreciate the bluntness over the liability-dodging language any day.

Similarly to your clone that's heading over to Palanquin, after a moment of intense concentration, you pop out a clone that's closer to the location that the Mayor gave you. It's close enough to walk there in a few minutes, and when you do get to the closed down factory, there isn't a soul there.

A nondescript black sedan pulls up to you soon after.

"Legion?" the man inside says, rather than asks. You suppose it's pretty obvious who you are.

"You work for the Mayor?" you ask.

"No," the man says, but opens his car door anyway.

You shrug to yourself and climb in.

The man is silent as he drives his way back to the downtown core, taking directions that you vaguely recognize as being headed to the nicer parts of the city. The man looks incredibly nervous as he drives, but his mouth is set in a thin line of determination. If he does work for the Mayor, you assume it's a desk job.

You cross your arms and let him drive you in silence. Though his eyes constantly seem to be darting towards the rearview mirror to look at you, he never attempts to say anything himself.

Eventually, he starts to slow down as he pulls close to a large gated property. As he presses some sort of button to let the gates pull open, he seems to be gripping the wheel tight with both hands as he waits, his knuckles turning visibly white against his already pale skin.

When the gates fully open with a dull clunking sound, he drives further in until he parks the car right in front of a mansion.

When he gets out, you push open the door too, and follow as he walks towards the entrance to the mansion.

When he opens the door, he mumbles a quiet, "Please follow me," almost a little redundantly. The mansion looks large enough that you might lose your way if you tried to leave the man.

The man brings you to a small lobby, and motions vaguely towards the large couches that are circled around the general area.

"Would you like anything? Drinks? Snacks?" he asks.

"No thank you," you say, considering whether to sit down or not.

You look at the man, who looks almost physically pained to be there, but doesn't seem to be leaving the room.

Taking the man's suggestion, you take a seat on one of the couches. You're honestly baffled at how comfortable it is. Though you had previously thought you knew luxury from your visits to Elliot's home, his couches hadn't felt nearly as nice as this one does. You imagine sleeping on it would probably give you a more comfortable sleep than your bed would.

You hear a soft noise, drawing your attention away from your new revelation, and you're surprised to see the man sitting down across from you. He nods at you when he notices your attention, but you're quick to realise that he doesn't seem to be actually looking at you, though his eyes are pointed in your general direction.

He doesn't seem to register you at all, but the fact that he's sitting down is a little interesting. Up until this point, it was easy to assume that he was just a driver and nothing more, but if he's sitting down across from you, perhaps he's a negotiator of sorts? A lawyer?

It doesn't seem like he's interested in talking, but you decide to poke a little bit, just to get a better sense of who or what you're dealing with.

"So how's your day been?" you ask.

The man's eyes twitch and finally focus on you. His mouth twists into an ugly grimace before he hangs his head.

For a moment, you think that he'll stay quiet, but eventually you hear a weak voice coming from him.

"I haven't slept properly in days."

You stay silent, waiting to see if he'll continue on his own.

He doesn't speak immediately after, but he does lift his head to look directly at you. He seems a little unfocused, but you suppose that if what he's saying is true, it could just be a product of sleep deprivation.

"The few times that I can sleep, I'm woken almost immediately by my wife. Her nightmares are haunting her. The police keep telling us that our daughter is alive, but it's been weeks without contact from her kidnappers. Wouldn't they have contacted us by now if they wanted a ransom?"

You raise an eyebrow. You expected some small talk, not a whole story, but it's becoming clear why this man has sat down in front of you.

"Is that the job?" you ask. "A kidnapping rescue?"

The man seems to hesitate, but hangs his head again instead of answering.

He's silent.

"Is that the job that the Mayor contacted me for, sir?"

The man nods, but from how slight the movement is, you're barely confident that you saw correctly.

"Sir, I'll need a few more details than that," you say.

"Roy- Mayor Christner will be sending a representative to negotiate on my behalf," the man mutters. "He seems to think that I'm not in an appropriate state of mind to discuss a contract, and I happen to agree with him."

You shrug, though he likely doesn't notice it.

"We don't need to negotiate the contract," you say. "We could discuss the situation, though. For example, answering my question. Would this be a rescue mission?"

The man seems to hesitate before answering. "I hope so," he says. "If not, then anything to give us closure."

When the man starts to sob quietly, you realize what he means. He's not sure if you would be looking for his daughter or for a body.

"When was she taken?" you ask.

"April 14."

"Any info on who took her?"

"No," the man says. After a moment he says, "The police are confident that they were professional. They broke into our home in the middle of the day and were able to disappear without a trace."

"Any idea why anyone would want to take her?"

"My brother-in-law and her uncle is the Mayor."

"But nobody's tried to demand a ransom."

The man doesn't answer, but he doesn't need to as it was more of a statement than a question anyways.

"Is there anything else you can tell me about the case?" you ask.

He shakes his head slowly.

Under your mask, you grimace. It honestly doesn't seem likely that you'll find anything with so little information. From his lacking description of the kidnapping, you don't even know if his daughter is even in Brockton Bay anymore. With the amount of time it's been since the kidnapping, her kidnappers could be across the country by now if they wanted to be.

But there isn't a reason why you should remind him of that fact.

"How much longer will it be before the Mayor arrives?" you ask.

"Soon," the man says, then shakes his head. "I don't know. Within the next two hours at least."

"Okay," you say. "And how much would I be getting paid for this job?"

"I was told not to negotiate this on my own."

"Then don't negotiate," you say. "An estimate will do. Nothing legally binding. I'm sure you've at least discussed a general range with the Mayor."

The man pauses for a moment and looks up at you. For the first time since he picked you up, you see a semblance of intense focus in his eyes.

"Thirty thousand for finding my girl and bringing her back home. Another thirty thousand to make sure this doesn't happen again."

You toy with the specific wording he used in your head. "You want me to kill the guys responsible? Or are you suggesting a more ongoing bodyguard service?" you ask.

The man doesn't say anything, but the look in his eyes is answer enough.

"Got it," you say.

Immediately, the intense look in the man's eyes starts to fade away, replaced by a swift flood of fatigue.

The man goes quiet, and it almost seems like he's passed out in his seat. You decide to leave him alone until you hear a door opening somewhere towards the direction of the entrance of the mansion.

You hear a voice identifying themselves as a representative from Mayor Christner and the man wakes up at the sound. As he seems to be somewhat disoriented, you call for the representative to join you, and eventually a lone male figure with a charismatic smile comes to join you.

The following discussion is short, vague, and filled with multiple repeated assurances that Roy Christner, on behalf of his brother-in-law, Don Alcott, is not hiring you for any services that would be considered illegal, and that any illegal activities that you conduct during or outside of your contracted work is not condoned by the Mayor or Don Alcott.

You take note that the contract itself is not voided if you choose to conduct any illegal activities, but you decide not to mention it out loud. The lawyer doesn't either.

You will be paid 35 thousand dollars upon completion of the contract, provided it's completed within the end of the week. If you do not complete the contract by then, it will not be cancelled outright, but the terms will be renegotiated in a separate meeting. There is no advance payment and no compensation for any costs you may incur if you do not complete the contract. Upon completion of the contract, you will need to conduct another meeting with Roy Christner or a representative to fully determine whether you may go public with your contribution to the return of Dinah Alcott, depending on your general conduct during your contract period.

You are also given a few key pieces of information that Don Alcott failed to tell you, likely due to his sleep-deprived state:

Dinah Alcott has allegedly claimed to her friends that she was able to see the future

The police had noted that the kidnapping of Dinah Alcott was conducted simultaneously to a separate event involving a bank robbery by a group of local supervillains, the Undersiders. It is unclear whether these events are connected.

The security cameras surrounding the Alcott property were all disabled prior to the kidnapping, as part of a routine checkup by the security company. Contact with the security company suggested that this routine checkup was properly scheduled, though the disabling of the cameras shouldn't have lasted as long as it did. Interviews with the technician in charge suggested a problem in the electrical system was at fault, but further investigation found no issues.

There were no signs of forced entries to the Alcott Mansion, but the entrances and exits were typically kept unlocked anyways, as the Alcotts and their house staff were often content with the strength of their security systems.

You take the contract, though you feel a little bit silly when the Mayor's lawyer presents you with a form for you to sign. At first, you didn't think that signing off as "Legion" would be any level of legally binding, but the lawyer flashes you a white smile and assures you that it's fine.

Once you finish signing the papers that the lawyer has for you, he excuses himself for a quick smoke before passing on a thin manila folder to Don Alcott, who slides it to you once the lawyer is out of sight.

You scan the contents quickly and see that the contract is for the "secondary job" that Don mentioned before, though this contract mentions nothing about his connection to Roy Christner. You shrug and sign the spots marked by sticky notes.

[QM Note (again): Parallel events. Clones.]

After you hang up your call with Mayor Christner, you immediately dial a new number, reading it off of the mysterious email with the pictures of Heaven.

It rings five times before the call is picked up.

"Teahouse lobby," a gruff voice says, right before hanging up.

You stare at the receiver for about half a minute. You're not certain whether the reason you had to pause for so long was because you had trouble identifying the voice or if you had trouble believing it.

Lung.

You split off a clone from one that you already created, and start walking towards the Teahouse.

Your walk towards Palanquin had you dogged by a small group of followers as you walked through a crowded area. Your walk to meet up with the Mayor's meet point had been quiet, since the meet point was isolated enough that you could avoid any and all human contact as you made your way there.

Your walk to the Teahouse is a strange mixture of both. The path there takes you to a busy enough street that random civilians flock towards you as you walk. Like with your walk to Palanquin, they don't get in the way enough for you to want to chase them away, but as they begin to realise that you're walking into ABB territory, they seem to be more than eager to make as much distance from you as possible.

A few men and women wearing green and red bandannas notice you as you approach, and you preemptively make a few clones so you won't be caught off guard if one of them tries to start a fight, but none of them make the first move.

Walking alone, with eight of your bodies all looking in different directions, you make your way casually towards the Teahouse.

As you turn the corner towards the teahouse, you're surprised to see that the entire area in front of the Teahouse looks like a bizarre art installation, with a large portion of the streets, buildings, and the front wall of the Teahouse itself looking like it's made of crystalline materials, of a wide assortment of colours.

It's interesting, but you don't spare it more than a second glance before walking towards the main door to the Teahouse, now made of a material that holds an opal-like shimmer. You grab the handles and try to pull it open, but the door doesn't budge.

After a few tries, you look down to realize that the door seems to be fused to the floor somehow. You decide to look for another entrance.

You circle the building until you find another entrance. It's much smaller than the main door, but at least it seems to be made of a normal-looking metal.

You push the door and it opens easily. The door opens to the stairway to the Teahouse, but you don't walk up more than you need to and push the door open to the lobby.

The lobby of the teahouse looks more or less like how you remember it, but instead of the moaning bodies of several ABB gangsters, the only person that you can see is Lung. He is standing with his arms crossed facing towards you. At the sight of you, you swear his eyes flare with a brief orange glow before they simmer down to a level where you can barely see it.

"Legion," Lung says.

"Hey Lung," you call back with one of your bodies, keeping your distance, just in case he decides to lunge for you. Your other bodies scan the room for any sign of bombs or teleporting assassins.

"We are alone," he says. "Are you going to stay there like a coward, or will we discuss this like men?" He motions to a small table near the center of the lobby. On it, sits a teapot and two cups, though you can't tell from the distance you're standing at.

You shrug and absorb your clones before walking forward. When you do, Lung moves to sit down at the table. You take your own seat and a part of you notes how Lung could easily reach you if he wanted to, but the only motion he makes is to grab the teapot and pour you a cup of tea.

He leaves both in front of you, equidistant from you, and only takes the remainder once you make your choice. He downs the entire cup before setting it down and pouring himself another.

"I would not resort to poison to kill you," he says, pointing to your own cup. "Drink."

You shrug. That wasn't why you didn't bother to raise it to your lips. "It's hot. I'll wait for it to cool down."

The orange glow in Lung's eyes flash once more before he sets his cup down.

"I would like nothing more than to kill you." Though you can't actually see his mouth, you imagine him speaking through gritted teeth.

You raise an eyebrow. "This kind of seemed like a peaceful meeting," you say.

"It is," Lung says. "I would not resort to petty tricks and surprise attacks."

You can't help but feel like that's a jab at you, but you also can't help but feel like you don't care.

"So what is this?" you ask.

Lung gives you a long look before tossing his head back and downing his second cup of tea. From the way he's drinking it, a sudden thought occurs to you. You lift your cup closer to you and breathe in through your nose. No. It's not alcohol. Just smells like tea.

You set your cup back down, still finding it too hot to drink just yet.

When Lung finishes pouring himself his third cup of tea, he sets it down on the table.

"You are a mercenary," he says.

"Yes," you say.

"You will do what I ask, for a price."

"Probably."

He looks at you for a moment.

"I fought Armsmaster, Dauntless, Miss Militia, Velocity, Challenger, Assault and Battery," he says. "I walked out victorious. I destroyed them and if I wished, I could have easily killed all of them. It is by my whims that they are still alive."

You're surprised by this information, but you're not sure why he's telling you this.

"That's impressive," you say.

Lung's eyes flash bright with fire, and you notice a small ember falling out of his mouth. You hear a small crack, and your eyes are directed towards the teacup he's holding, but it's intact. A second crack draws your attention to his other hand, which is currently gripping and crushing a small section of the table.

"You," he says. "You are not strong. Your power ensures that you can stay safe, sending out as many disposable puppets as you wish, but even with that safety, you use cowardly tactics and underhanded tricks."

You shrug. It's more a matter of opinion than it is a fact.

Surprisingly, Lung lets go of the table and sets it down gently, cupping his cup with both hands.

"You humiliated me. You humiliated me by pushing me to blind rage and leading me into a trap. You were the second person to battle me in this way."

Lung flexes his arm, and your attention is drawn to his muscles. They're big, you suppose, but nothing special. You notice that your tea has cooled down, so you turn your attention to that instead, taking small sips as you raise your mask as little as possible. It's nice.

"I am strong, but I did not take you seriously, could not take you seriously seeing how weak you were. But now, knowing that you were able to destroy my home while I could do nothing about it, I see how much damage a small rat like you can cause. I know that if I were larger, I might have been able to reach you. If I were faster, I could have caught you. If I were a dragon, I could destroy you in a single breath, no matter how many of you there are."

"But you didn't."

Lung huffs, and a plume of thin smoke and embers comes out of his mouth.

"I could not. If we were as we seemed, simply two regular humans sitting across from one another, I could reach over this table and destroy you with this strength of mine. I am not bragging. Though we may be the same height, I easily weigh twice as much as you. Maybe that's why my power does not see you as a threat. I would like nothing more than to grow larger than the building we are in and crush you in between my forefingers or to spit in your direction and drown you in molten fire. And yet I can't. Even knowing that you've destroyed my home and threatened my life, I cannot summon more than what I am now."

You drink the rest of your tea.

"I called you here, because I plan to change this," he says, lifting up the teapot and waiting for you to set your cup down. Once you do, he starts to pour.

"I was defeated by bugs, not long before my battle with you. My enemies fear me, and I know they would expect me to lash out, kill the bug girl, reclaim my renown as someone who was considered unbeatable. Untouchable. I planned to meet their expectations and enact a hunt to find and kill her, as a warning to the others in the city that it was a simple fluke. And you proved it wasn't, to both them and to me."

He sets the teapot down. It's a surprisingly gentle action.

"I rule my territory through a grip of fear, but you have proven that I am not untouchable. This lessens the fear."

He drinks his third cup, though he doesn't down it like the rest. He takes some time to take smaller sips.

"There is another way to rule," he says. "One that I used once I came to this city, and one that I haven't needed to use once I established my strength. Would you like to guess what it is, Legion?"

You shrug. "I have no clue."

"It's the strength itself. Often, you do not need to use it if you have established a basis of fear, but once my enemies decide to shake of their previous shackles and attempt to attack me in similar ways that both you and the bug girl did, they will not stop until I prove to them, once again, that I could crush them underneath my heel."

"So why am I here?" you ask, deciding that you've let him rant for long enough. While the tea was surprisingly nice, possibly enough for you to ask what brand it is before you leave, you expected something. A fight, a job, a... well, you only really expected one of those two, but a chat over tea was something else entirely.

"You are here to fight me." Lung pauses for a moment then speaks again. "No. You are here to beat me."

You raise an eyebrow. "I'm going to need more info."

Lung nods, then stands up. You stand as well, but your eyes widen once you recognise the object that he's pulling out from his belt. You instinctively clone yourself twice in response to the pistol, but Lung doesn't seem to care. He simply looks at the pistol as he holds it in the palm of his hand.

"This object is a threat, clearly," he says, holding it by the barrel and holding it out towards you. "Apparently more of a threat than you are, according to my power."

You have no idea what he's talking about, but the offer for a free weapon is clear. You reach out and take it from him.

Lung frowns and stares at you. The orange light in the eyes of his mask starts to glow brighter. In the quiet of the lobby, you swear you hear a slight cracking sound.

"You are apparently a much bigger threat now, with just a measly pistol that could barely harm me before my power kicks in. It's funny isn't it? We both know that you alone could cause much more damage than that, and yet my power seems retarded enough to think that you are not an adequate threat."

You only stare, still unsure of what you're supposed to be doing here.

"You will fight me, and you will beat me down until my power learns that it's fucking retarded and that it should be listening to me," he growls. He takes a deep breath, and when he exhales, his breath is accompanied by a curtain of small embers.

"Now fucking SHOOT ME!"

Though you had expected a fight, you're very sure that this is not how you expected it to start. You're not quite sure what the exact terms of the contract are, but it doesn't seem like Lung is in the correct mood for a civil discussion at the moment. You suppose if you don't like where this is going, you could always just leave with the gun and the bullets inside.

And since he asked so politely...

You raise your new pistol up and pull the trigger. You aim for his heart, but Lung moved before your arm was fully raised, and it hits him in the shoulder instead.

He lets out a roar as he sprints towards you, spraying embers over the room as he lunges for you. Not wanting to see what his grip can do to your skull, you toss your pistol backwards, creating a line of clones to cloneshift and catch the falling gun while simultaneously cloneshifting to circle around him.

As Lung grabs the air where an absorbed clone had just been, you lunge forward with five clones behind him, using your experience in the underground fighting rings more than the dojos to seek out weak spots and cheap blows to the kidneys, neck, back of the knees. Five clones become fifteen, as knuckled gloves and boots rain down on Lung for a split second before he turns around to swipe at you.

One clone is hit by the swing, breaking your forearm almost instantly, and the second clone in its path is knocked away, but the third is able to stop Lung's momentum long enough for your clone to take aim and fire a shot at his thigh.

It hits, and for a moment, Lung's leg buckles. It's probably not enough to keep him down for long before he regenerates it completely, but you don't need more than a second.

Three clones sweep their legs towards Lung's thigh, executing a low kick near the point of the bullet's entry, and Lung's leg buckles again, though his knee doesn't touch the floor.

As Lung falls forward, reaching out to brace himself against the floor with his hands, he turns his head towards your mass of clones and roars.

A shower of embers are spit out of his mouth, and all of your clones in the blast are forced to raise their arms over their eyes to prevent themselves from being blinded, but your pistol-wielding body is free to take a shot at the arm that holds Lung up off the floor.

Your long hours at the gun range prove their worth, as you pull the trigger and Lung's arm buckles. It's hard to tell if you actually hit the elbow like you wanted, but the end result is that he's down on the floor.

As your melee clones lower their arms, they watch as Lung falls down with a dull thud.

He's changed since the start of your fight, but with how quick the action was, or with how low of a threat you were perceived as by Lung's power, he doesn't look all too different from how he looked a moment ago. He's slightly taller, slightly broader, and has several scales growing out of his back, but overall looks pretty much the same.

Lung pushes up against the floor, almost as soon as he hits it, but you're ready for it and you fire at the same elbow you shot at before. His arm buckles but doesn't drop at the impact as he tries to push himself up.

Your legion of clones surges forward, striking the weak spots on Lung's body and arms wherever they can find space. Any qualms about potentially killing an employer are quashed as you remind yourself that Lung can probably take it, right as you soccer ball kick his head, simultaneously to a clone stomping on the back of his neck.

Firing a bullet at his thrice hit elbow, while you kick the other with a low sweep, causes Lung to fall forward and hit the ground again, but after only a split second of pause, he growls and he punches the floor, causing a shallow pool of flames to lick at your feet.

He gets up faster than you expect, and you're barely able to react in time before his head punches through the spot where an absorbed clone's head was just a split second before.

You try to stomp on his thigh in response, but frown when it mostly feels like you're trying to kick a brick wall. With his scales constantly growing out of his skin, it's getting more and more difficult to find a spot where he would be vulnerable.

As Lung roars again, you dart back with a series of cloneshifts to avoid his flames while firing your pistol at his neck. His head and chest are way too armored for you to expect any shots there to do any damage at that point.

Lung barely seems to notice it and you might have assumed that you just missed, if it weren't for the sound of bullets ricocheting off of metal, or at least whatever Lung's scales are made of.

You stand back, ready for Lung to charge at you, or spit a ball of flame from afar, but he doesn't move. He seems more interested in examining his own hand instead.

"My transformation was slow, but not that much different than usual," he says. "It doesn't take much to stop bullets and fists no matter how many of you there are. No. This is not what I was looking for."

You shrug, though you don't let your guard down. Though Lung's talking mood seems to clash with the previous roars, you're not going to give him the possibility of a free hit. "You told me to shoot you, and when I did, you attacked me."

"I did," Lung admits, nodding to himself. "For the next time, I would ask you to employ more underhanded tactics. Our previous battle was a good example, though I would prefer if you didn't destroy my home again."

"Are we done here?" you ask. Your gun is still pointed directly at Lung's head, with the only vulnerable spot on his body probably being his eyes at the moment.

"For now," Lung says, walking back to the table that, other than the large spiderweb crack that formed as a result of Lung's grip previously, is surprisingly still intact.

You shrug and absorb your clones before walking up to sit down at the small table. The cups are both toppled over on their sides, their contents spilled, but Lung pays no mind as he rights them and pours more tea into both.

"So how underhanded are we talking here?" you ask.

"Try not to destroy my home or my possessions," he says. "Otherwise, surprise me."

"But if I need to do some collateral damage?"

"Do you think that it will be necessary?" Lung asks, though his tone isn't challenging in any way.

"I'm not sure," you admit. "Don't have a real plan yet, but I'd like to know my limits."

"Then we shall see as time goes on."

You nod.

"So what am I being paid?" you ask. "I'll admit that our fight was fun and all, but I'm still a mercenary."

"Five thousand per fight," Lung says, his voice resolute.

"Sure," you say. "And when will we fight again?"

"I will contact you. I am busy at the moment, as somebody has stolen a large portion of my money."

"Ah. Sounds rough," you say.

Lung glares at you. While his power seems to be quickly leaving him, his remaining scales and height are intimidating enough to cow most people, you'd assume.

"Know this, Legion. We are not friends. If I am given the opportunity to find your true body, your core, I will crush it and kill you without hesitation."

You raise an eyebrow. "Doesn't seem to be smart to try and intimidate someone who you're hiring on a contractual basis."

"I am only speaking the truth. Do not pretend you are motivated by fear."

You nod.

"So how are you going to be paying me?" you ask. "Cash I assume? When can I pick up today's payment?"

"I am not paying you for today's fight," Lung growls.

"Excuse me?" you ask, raising your pistol up towards Lung's eye.

He looks at the weapon with disdain, but doesn't move to disarm you.

"This was an interview," he says. "I will be compensating you for this short visit, but I expect more from you once you've been able to prepare."

You're tempted to pull the trigger, to make him try to reconsider the definition of what a fight is while he has a bullet in his eye, but you eventually lower the weapon. You can have your revenge later.

"What's the compensation?" you ask. "Also, I'm keeping the gun."

"A warning," he says, utterly ignoring your second comment, prompting you to toss it inside of your backpack.

"You just threatened my life," you remind him.

"And another is after you. Bakuda."

"I know. She was pretty clear about that," you say, a little confused as to why Lung feels the need to tell you this. "I assume you won't be calling her off."

"I would not stop her from hunting you, but I would reign her in if she were still under my command. Though I would like nothing more than to kill you myself, she holds a dangerous disrespect of the rules that our kind must follow."

"The unwritten rules?" you ask.

Lung stares at you, as if he's considering whether to dignify your question with a response. "Bakuda's first act after you escaped her trap was one that I did not approve of," he says, eventually choosing not to. "Using the pull of the ABB, she gathered every male within my territory over a certain height and threatened each of their lives until she was satisfied that none of them were your civilian identity. I demanded that she stop and she refused, choosing to leave the gang instead. You dealt a blow to her pride."

You grimace behind your mask. Bakuda was trying to find your civilian identity?

"I assume you don't care if I kill her, if you're telling me this," you say.

"I assume you would not care if I forbade you from it," Lung replies.

You don't feel the need to confirm that out loud.

[QM Note: Clones. You know.]

The call to Coil is the last one you have on your short list, and as soon as you recover from your realization that Lung was the one to contact you, you shrug it off and punch in the number Coil provided you with in his email.

The phone barely rings before it's picked up.

"Pleasant Smiles Travel Agency," a woman's voice says. "How can I help you?"

You pause. "Sorry," you say. "I think I got the wrong number."

"May I know which of our agents referred you to our service, please?"

"I wasn't referred. Sorry."

"Sir," the woman says, her voice a little firmer. "I assure you, it's fine. Please let me know who refered you to our services."

You hesitate for a brief moment. "Coil?" you say, uncertainly.

"Thank you," the woman says. "Please hold."

You blink a few times as the woman's voice cuts to silence, with the occasional beeping sound that indicates that the line is still active.

When the line is picked up again, it's to a man's voice.

"Legion," the man says. "It's nice to finally speak to you."

"Coil, I assume," you say.

"Indeed. I hope you are not one for overindulgent pleasantries. I apologize for being curt, especially when I was the one to reach out to you, but I am a busy man and I am sure you are as well."

"It's fine," you say. "I can appreciate getting to the point quickly."

"Excellent," Coil says. "In that case, I ask if you understood the terms set out in my message to you."

"An interview before you give me any jobs?"

"Would you be amenable to that?"

"Sure."

"Would you be offended if I were to transfer you to my secretary to schedule you in for an in-person meeting?"

"That's fine."

"To note, I would not be conducting the interview myself, but would be observing the process."

"No problem."

"Excellent," Coil says. "I will be transferring you now."

Before you can get another word in, you hear the line ring once before it's picked up again.

"Hello, Legion," a new female voice says. "As you were informed by my employer, I will be scheduling you in for an in-person interview. To note, this interview will be scheduled for a thirty-minute period, but typically does not last more than ten. Depending on the date and time that you choose to conduct this interview, the location of the interview may vary, but while we cannot provide you with the location until you confirm a date and time, we are able to provide transportation should the provided location be inconvenient for you. Is this acceptable?"

"Yup."

"Excellent. Now, sir. Would you happen to have a preference for a time or date within the next few days?"

"The sooner, the better, I guess," you say.

"Would you be able to schedule a meeting for today? I have an opening at 2:30 PM and 11:00 PM."

"2:30's fine."

"Excellent. Just give me a moment, and I can provide you with a location for you to arrive at. Please note that the doors to that location will not be opened until 2:30 PM exactly. We do not expect you to disarm yourself for this interview, but the interviewer and several staff on-site will be armed. Any violence towards any of our staff will not be tolerated."

You nod. "I don't plan to cause trouble."

Your meeting with Coil is the last one of the day, and other than your clone who is still drinking tea with Lung, all of your bodies have dispersed throughout the city to practise your skills or are simply absorbed.

As you have ample time to go to the location that Coil's secretary gave you, you elect to walk there early instead of requesting transportation, not that it's too far anyways.

You stand nearby a small abandoned looking building until your phone at home tells you that it's 2:30. Testing the door, you push it open easily, despite it being locked before. Either someone unlocked it from the inside or they did it electronically.

You suppose it doesn't matter either way.

There's a small piece of paper with an arrow on it that's taped to the wall and you turn towards the direction it points to see an armed guard in a black suit and sunglasses. He doesn't seem to acknowledge you, so you return the gesture, walking past him without a word or a glance.

You navigate yourself through a surprisingly twisting set of hallways and corridors, guided by the sight of armed guards and arrow signs along the way until you find yourself in a cozy-looking office that doesn't match the cold look of the rest of the building.

It reminds you of a combination between a psychologist and a principal's office.

Sitting at the large mahogany table that rests in the very center of the room is a young woman with short black hair and a wide smile that looks somewhat famliar.

"Legion, is it?" she asks, as if there's any question as to who you are. "Please take a seat."

You sit down across from her, still trying to figure out if you've seen her somewhere before.

"My name is Caroline Leiberwitz," she says. "Though Coil has entrusted me with conducting your interview today, I must inform you that he will be observing in real time and occasionally providing me with improvised questions to give you."

Her name doesn't seem familiar, so you decide you must not know her. You drop the idea and focus on the interview ahead.

"He told me," you say. Though the second part of what she said is news to you, it's not important enough to mention. "I'm fine with it."

"Perfect," she says.

"Before we begin, is there anything you would like to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?"

"I'm good."

For some reason, she smiles at that and writes something down on the paper she has in front of her. You decide not to ask what it is.

"Please answer the following question. If a job required you to commit murder, would you be at all hesitant to take a person's life?"

"No."

"I see. As a hypothetical, how would you react if you were hired to take the life of an acquaintance, regardless of your level of familiarity and regardless of whether your acquaintanceship would be through your cape life or your civilian life?"

"I do not have any connections I would regret losing," you lie.

The interviewer gives you a kind smile. "Please note that we would not penalise you for answering otherwise. Any contracts would be amenable to discussion and change, should any loved ones or previous connections be under threat as a result of a contract."

You remain as unmoving as possible. "I gave my answer."

"Very well," she says, nodding slightly. "Next question.

"Do you have any previous experience in stealth and subterfuge? To clarify, this would involve the entering and exiting of guarded areas without being discovered. You do not need to provide specific examples that would give any details on previous contracts, should you provide a positive answer, but I would like to hear what methods you used during any such experiences."

"Does killing everyone in the area that saw me count as stealth?" you ask.

Surprisingly, the interviewer lets out a sudden and loud laugh. She quickly recovers, but keeps her hand over her mouth to hide her smile.

"I'm sorry for the unprofessional attitude," she says. "But is that a legitimate question?"

You shrug.

The interviewer smiles. "Our background checks on you suggest that you have only caused the deaths of two people during your career as Legion. We did not note any significant activity of any parahuman with your power and build operating within North America. Have you had previous experience with stealth and subterfuge before this?"

"No," you admit.

The interviewer gives you a sly smile.

"That wasn't too hard, was it now?" she asks, then pauses and frowns for a moment before returning to her professional smile. "Sorry. Professional decorum."

You don't know what to respond to that. Maybe Coil said something?

"This next part will require a prop," the interviewer says, reaching for something underneath her desk.

When her hand comes back up, it's holding a pistol. She places it gently on the desk.

She steeples her hands in front of you and smiles.

You raise an eyebrow and wait for her to start speaking.

"Next question," she says. "Would you be open to holding an exclusive contract with Coil? This contract can be amended and Coil would be open to discussion at any point, if you so happen to come across a situation where you feel uncomfortable with such a contract."

"No."

The interviewer grins.

"Perfect. To note, while Coil would give preference to any mercenaries that are hired on a more exclusive basis, this would not limit you in any other way. Exclusive contracts are also rewarded with a monthly wage. Anyways, on to the next question.

"If you were to be hired by a party for a job that would hurt Coil's organization in any way, would you be amenable to contacting Coil for up to four times the price of whatever the original contract would pay?"

"No. The only circumstance where I would betray an employer is if I would be implicated in a crime that give me a kill order."

"An admirable trait to have," the interviewer says. "I assume that's why you betrayed Uber and Leet?"

You don't answer. You're a little surprised that they know that they were the ones who hired you, but it seems their intelligence gathering is top notch.

"Of course it is," the interviewer answers for you, though her smile seems a little bit smug. You blink and she's standing up slowly, extending a hand towards you.

"Well, in that case, I believe-" she cuts herself off, pausing for a moment before she sits back down. "My apologies, it seems I have one more question for you before you go."

"Firstly, could you please create nine clones?"

You look around you for a moment. While you certainly could create nine clones, it's a rather small room and as the interviewer's desk sits right in the middle of it, it would be a little uncomfortable to squeeze ten of your bodies into your side of the room.

You create nine clones, spacing them out enough that you have at least some room for maneuvering. This means that your clones are evenly spread out, including in the area behind where the interviewer is sitting.

When they spawn, her eyes dart around quickly as she takes note of the position of each clone in front of her, but she doesn't flinch, nor does she turn around to look at the clones behind her.

She smiles at you, evenly dividing her attention between all your new clones in front of her as well as your body that remains seated in the chair across the desk.

"Thank you," she says. "Now, if you will. What is your favorite food?"

You raise an eyebrow behind your mask.

"I don't have one," you say, speaking only out of the clone that remains sitting in front of the interviewer.

"That's fair," she says, nodding as she writes something down in front of her. When she lifts her head again, she gives you a smile.

"Well, in that case, I believe that's the final question I have for you, unless my employer has any questions that he's forgotten to ask?" she says, though the question very much doesn't seem to be directed at you. After a short moment, she rolls her eyes and stands up, reaching out to you for a handshake.

As you shake her hand, through the eyes of the clones standing behind her, you notice a small pistol holstered to her hip.

"Well, since my boss doesn't seem to have any bonus questions, I guess you're free to go," she says, falling into her chair and reclining until the back of her chair hits the stomach of one of your clones standing behind her. She lazily looks up and behind her, smiling when she locks eyes with the clone. "My bad."

You don't give her a response as you begin to march your clones out of the door.

"Make a right, then go straight. Keep going down the hall. You'll see a door eventually that leads right out. Coil will contact you eventually, yadda, yadda. See you around, Smiley."

Your last clone out the door pauses for a split second to look around at the interviewer. She only grins and waves lazily at you, and for a moment you feel like you vaguely recognize her before you shrug and walk out, letting the door close behind you.

-Interlude 5.a-

Vince Tohen adopted a grim face as he leered down at the arena below him. Seated in the rafters among hooting degenerates, his clean, simple clothes made him stand out heavily, and the first few times he'd taken his place among the general audience of the "Death Ring" as the owners called it, he had been noticed and heckled for it until he had to break a few jaws to be left alone.

He wore a simple tight white shirt and pants that wouldn't inhibit his mobility in a fight. He didn't expect to ever get into a fight in the general audience seats, at least not one that would take him more than a few seconds to finish, but his outfit had been one that he'd stuck to ever since his army days, and the idea of leaving it behind just so overexcited children could recognise him as one of their own left a bad taste in his mouth.

So instead of changing his general outfit, he finally dipped a hand into his finances to buy a custom rolex and a necklace that was so garishly obnoxious that it nearly caused a physical reaction of revulsion when he first held it in his hands.

Though the rolex was inoffensive enough for him to integrate it into his standard "fight watching outfit", he ended up stowing away the necklace into his pants pocket, letting the large diamond on one end dangle out so that it was noticeable, but not far enough that it would fall out.

Unfortunately, it was still big and heavy enough for it to swing into his leg and bother him whenever he moved, but it served it's purpose in deterring the other audience members as they recognised him as a fellow man of wealth.

Of course, Vince could have avoided the trouble by joining the owners in the top box, but he much preferred to view the fights with his own eyes, instead of on a screen. It meant that his employers were perpetually annoyed at him for forcing them to explain to the snot-nosed snobs in the top box that they couldn't meet him, but they could go fuck themselves for all he cared.

They had no sway over him. They controlled nothing he did, aside from his pay, but his only expenses were rent, food, and booze, and he could sustain himself for fifty lifetimes on what they paid him every month. The only thing they could do to sway him would be to threaten to fire him, but he knew they would never do that.

He was the brains behind the underground fighting ring. The manager, the scout, the occasional coach to the fighters, and most importantly, the guy who determined the odds behind all the bets. He supposed if the underground fights of the Death Ring required a referee, he would be that too, but as he watched a light spray of blood showering the first row of bloodthirsty rich folk as they nearly pressed themselves to the cage, it was only followed with more showers of blood as the large unnamed man continued to pound his opponent with his fists, despite the fact that his opponent could barely muster the strength to twitch at each impact.

Vince was a parahuman. A thinker, whatever that meant. All Vince knew was that one day, after he strangled his wife when he mistook their apartment for a jungle and her as a Viet Cong, he just knew that he could see how people worked. He could understand every twitch of every muscle, how strong each punch would be, how fast a person reacted to it.

It was this power that let him understand that the victim of the match was broken enough that he would die in the next one hundred and forty one seconds.

The crowd roared as another meaty impact landed. Twenty two seconds.

Another hit. Zero seconds.

Vince's expression didn't change as the unnamed man continued to beat his opponent down uselessly. Not more than two weeks ago, such a vulgar display of merciless violence might have given him some level of excitement to watch, especially with the added satisfaction of knowing that he had predicted exactly how long the fight would take within ten seconds. With his crippled legs and old age, it was his way of reentering the battlefield through a proxy, by analysing the fighters and knowing who would win after intensive thought.

But now? Something different brought him excitement.

There were two more fights before "Tomahawk" would come out to fight. Tomahawk was one of those fighters who had entered the underground ring, wearing a mask. Though the bosses of the arena chose the name based on his darker skin and the fact that they wanted to introduce a Native gimmick name to a silent fighter who wouldn't complain, Vince couldn't help but think the name was a good fit.

He knew nothing beyond the fact that Tomahawk was the name of a weapon, but that's all he needed to know.

Tomahawk stepped out into the ring, and the crowd went wild. Though Vince didn't join them, he couldn't stop the sadistic grin that spread across his face.

His opponent joined him in the ring, his muscles twitching with a nervousness that only Vince could see. Tomahawk, by comparison, was still as a stone.

The rules were announced. A bare-knuckled fight to the death, with the time limit being one minute.

Tomahawk immediately launched himself forward. His opponent, more than aware of his typical tactic, met him by dodging his first punch and delivering a devastating counter that Tomahawk somehow blocked with his forehead.

Vince grinned.

It was a good move on Tomahawk's part. Though it was dangerous to sustain too much damage to the head over time, the much softer bones of his opponent's fingers, relative to the strength of a skull, caused them to bend back dangerously, but not enough to break.

Tomahawk's opponent was an experienced fighter, and his first punch had been less about knocking his opponent out and more about testing the waters. Instead of injuring his hand, the opponent was able to flow into a follow-up strike directly to Tomahawk's nose.

Invisible to everyone but Vince, electric signals of pain lanced from nerve to nerve, causing what he visualised as a large explosion of white lightning in Tomahawk's brain, even as the muscles in his arms activated once again to lash out at his opponent who had danced back just out of his reach.

To everyone else in the room, it would have seemed like Tomahawk was a berserker, fighting past the pain of having his nose misaligned. Vince knew better, seeing the immense pain that Tomahawk felt.

As the crowd roared in excitement as Tomahawk surged forward once again, Vince couldn't help but roar along with them.

Tomahawk was a fan favourite. He'd been a part of ten matches, and though none of them had resulted in any deaths, all of them had been literal bloodbaths for the front rows.

As the nameless opponent punched Tomahawk, straight in the nose once more, another spray of blood flew into the sky and Vince's power confirmed that Tomahawk's nose had finally broken.

And yet, through his seemingly bloodthirsty charges and through the mist of intense pain, Tomahawk's heartbeat was beating only 10 BPM faster than when the fight started. It would ramp up as the fight went on, but apparently Tomahawk only thought of this as exercise, the actual fight itself not exciting him in any way.

And his opponent knew that.

Vince knew what it felt like to fight a monster, to be stared down and looked at like his life meant nothing.

And from the way that Dark Orange spots of fear started to pop up in the brain of the nameless opponent, he was starting to recognise why Tomahawk's ten previous opponents refused to give him a rematch, despite their victories.

Though the teenage boy fought like he'd only started fighting within the last month, like he'd only just gotten out of puberty and was still getting used to his massive height, he didn't stop.

In his brain, Vince saw no spots of fear of hesitation that often plagued even the most savage of fighters. Tomahawk's decisions were instant and absolute, and even though his opponents were often more experienced, more skilled, and much stronger, Tomahawk was relentless.

Vince watched as Tomahawk threw a powerful haymaker that only clipped the top of his opponent's head as he ducked under the blow.

Vince watched as the opponent threw a punch directly at Tomahawk's chin, a well practiced blow that was scientifically designed to knock a regular human being out almost instantly. With how Tomahawk had overextended, and with how fast the opponent was, there was no way it wasn't going to be a perfect hit.

Vince couldn't help but laugh as he watched the opponent's facial muscles begun to activate to form a smirk, just for Tomahawk's eyes to snap back down and meet his own, fully conscious.

It was that moment of shock and hesitation that allowed Tomahawk to lash out with his elbow, and catch his opponent right on the chin.

It wasn't a perfect blow, but it rattled the opponent enough to stagger back and fall on his ass, an opportunity that Tomahawk was more than willing to exploit by jumping on top of him and pound down on every single vulnerable point on his body that he had access to.

As the opponent tried and failed to block all the blows, Vince continued to laugh as flashes of light coloured his brain. Fear, confusion, fear, anger, confusion.

Even as Tomahawk continued to beat down his opponent to claim his first victory and kill, Vince couldn't help but join in with the crowd's jeering as he watched the opponent slowly try to realise what was happening and why he was slowly dying.

Tomahawk was a parahuman.

A part of Vince's job was to keep parahumans out of the ring, but it was a common question about whether some parahumans could pass off as regular humans or evade Vince's examination.

Most parahumans were easy to spot. Muscles didn't lie, and when Vince could see the exact composition of a human's body, it wasn't difficult to tell when a person was stronger or faster than their body would physically allow.

Some parahumans were more difficult to spot, and they often did make it into the ring. Not because Vince didn't see them, but because he knew that the audience wouldn't notice. It was often small stuff, like someone who reacted to attacks before Vince could even see the muscles activate, or someone who always seemed to make their opponent's blows hurt slightly less.

Vince kept these guys in, because it just made the game a little more interesting for the audience.

But Tomahawk? That was someone he kept in for himself.

As Tomahawk buried his thumbs into his opponent's eyes, Vince was among the many hooting idiots that he often scoffed at, joining them this one time for his newest and most exciting form of entertainment.

Vince hadn't actually noticed that Tomahawk was a parahuman at his first fight. After his initial inspection, he'd set him up against another relative newcomer who he lost to. Though Tomahawk was tenacious and somewhat strong, he had been completely unskilled and the other newcomer's apparent boxing experience had given him an easy win.

It was at his second fight that Vince knew Tomahawk was a parahuman.

It wasn't because of the fight itself, but because Tomahawk had come in a few days after his first fight without any sign of the bruises or damage he accumulated from his first fight.

Still, Vince was feeling lenient on that day, and instead of kicking him out for the rather obvious use of powers, he had pulled Tomahawk aside after his second defeat and told him that parahumans weren't allowed to participate in the Death Ring.

Though Tomahawk had tried to lamely explain that he wasn't one, Vince had simply waved him off, saying that the lack of accumulating damage was a dead giveaway of a regeneration power of some sort.

A few days later, Tomahawk came back with the same bruises he had accumulated from his second fight, which Vince had begrudgingly accepted and allowed Tomahawk to participate in his third fight.

It was at Tomahawk's fifth fight, that Vince became a die hard fan.

On Tomahawk's fourth fight, though he'd been steadily been growing his striking skills at an alarming pace, he was matched up against a grappler who broke his arm right before the end of the time limit. It wasn't too serious, with only two hairline fractures in his forearms, but still not something that could be ignored.

Vince had to pull Tomahawk aside to remind him that there should be no use of powers to heal himself, and that he should take a short hiatus from the fights if he wants to mend his wound with his power.

The bastard showed up two days later to fight with his arm still broken.

After that fight, which ended in a sickening crunch of broken bone, Vince simply instructed Tomahawk to lie about having special access to a parahuman with healing capabilities so that he could enter the next fight relatively fresh.

There was no fucking way that Vince could wait for him to take a long enough break to convincingly have healed through a snapped arm without some sort of powers involved.

As Tomahawk claimed his first kill in the Death Ring, Vince could barely understand the ridiculous amount of joy he was feeling. As Tomahawk stared down at his dead opponent, the strongest "emotion" that Vince's power could detect in the fighter's brain was a vague sense of mild hunger.

Tomahawk was a monster.

Vince couldn't wait to see more.

-Interlude 5.b-

Dinah.

Dinah.

Her name was Dinah.

Dinah.

Dinah.

Her name was Dinah.

It was a maddening mantra to repeat in her head, but with her own thoughts being the only thing that existed in the world, it was the most important thing she could do with her time.

Half the time, she didn't know why it was, but half of the reason she was repeating it in her head was to remember that it existed, rather than why it was important. It was this mantra that kept her from forgetting that her name wasn't "Pet", no matter how much the man insisted it was. Dinah was her. And her name was Dinah. She knew that the moment she forgot that, she would no longer have any hope in returning to what she once was, though she could no longer remember exactly what that was.

What was she? Was she happy? Was life outside even any different from what it was like in this cage? The man gave her food, water, and candy. Candy Candy Candy Candy.

The girl (Dinah, Dinah) suddenly felt a drop of moisture on her left leg. It didn't take much to draw her attention from the outside world. The girl (Dinah, Dinah) scrunched up her eyebrows in concern and frustration as she tried to understand why her leg would be wet.

Oh no. Did she soil herself? It seemed like a silly concern for some reason, like something that there was no way that she would do for some reason, but for some reason, she knew it was bad. Bad bad bad. Why would it be bad?

Oh no. A chill ran down her spine as she remembered why. The man. The man would be angry if she dirtied her cage again. He would be annoyed, and he wouldn't give her any Candy. He didn't give her Candy the last time, even though he'd never made a rule about it. So what would he do if she did it again?

girl rubbed her eyes, trying to make them focus, to see the damage she'd caused, keeping her breath as even as possible to not draw the man's attention.

Rubbing her eyes did nothing, but slowly, she came to the realisation that the wetness was coming from on top of her thigh. Urine didn't come out of there, did it?

girl felt another drop of wet on her thigh and after a moment of thought, she lifted her hand to her mouth to feel the wet coming from there.

That was close. The man didn't like drool, but he never took candy away from her for that. Oh yes. Candy. Was that the reason why she drooled in the first place? She supposed she could forgive it for that.

She let out a quiet sigh of relief at the danger past. Her Candy wouldn't be taken away. She could be happy, much happier than she used to be.

Wait.

Did she know what she used to be?

Wasn't there something she needed to do?

What was it?

Oh yes her name.

What was it again?

Pet?

The girl shook her head. No not that.

Donna? Daisy? Dinah?

That sounded... right?

Maybe the numbers could tell her?

The girl shook her head. No. The numbers were important. She needed to remember something about that too, something just as important as her name, whatever it was, maybe even more.

Three.

Three.

That was... important?

She didn't understand why.

Why was it?

Oh well. It probably wasn't too important.

Maybe she should be thinking of her name instead?

Portia? No. That was silly, for some reason.

Petra? Maybe.

Pet? Hmmm.

"Hmmm," she heard, and for a moment she assumed that maybe she had voiced her thoughts. But wasn't her voice much higher?

"Pet," the voice said, and in that moment, Dinah knew that it wasn't her name as a motley of emotions poured through her. Anger, despair, and even more anger coursed through her as her entire body struggled not to scream at the man.

"What are the odds that a parahuman currently residing within Brockton Bay with the ability to clone themselves that isn't Oni Lee obtain a contract that would directly conflict with my plans within the next six months?"

Despite her anger, the numbers ran through Dinah's head uncontrolled.

"Eight point six five three percent," Dinah heard her voice say, reminding her of what it sounded like.

"Hmm. An acceptably low number," the man said, not to her, but to himself. Dinah knew that the man was named Coil, but she would never think of him as anything aside from the man, in a small act of petty revenge for trying to trick her into thinking her name was "Pet".

"Thank you, Pet," the man said, as Dinah struggled not to growl at the sound of his voice.

She hated him, for reasons that she didn't quite remember or understand, but this was a fact that she rarely had to remind herself of. Every time he spoke, it was a stabbing reminder of what she had lost, despite not knowing what she lost in the first place.

It was also a good reminder of why "Three" was so important.

Three questions.

Three questions that the man would ask before Dinah would stop and demand Candy, even though it wouldn't hurt enough for her to stop. She had decided long before, that she would stop him from using her power as much as possible and lie to him just as much as he lied to her.

That question was the second one.

Though the numbers didn't hurt her head any more than her head always seemed to hurt, she clutched at it and groaned.

"Candy," she muttered.

"Now, now, Pet. One more question, then you get your Candy."

"Candy," she whined, a bit fearful of how little she needed to act to add desperation to her voice.

"No," the man said. His voice firm. "I still have one more question, then you get your Candy."

Dinah let out a low whine, but let the man think he still had one more question when he really had five or more.

Most of the time, Dinah would use those questions for herself, often simple questions like what her name was, or if she'd be okay, but those were questions she asked herself when she couldn't think as well, when she needed a reminder of things.

With the man providing her a burst of angry motivation, her thoughts were clearer than they'd been in a very long time.

Though the source of her clarity was in her anger, she was careful not to think of any questions she already knew the answer to. The last time she had asked what the percentage was that the man would die a painful death, she had gotten a seventy percent and she doubted the numbers would have changed much since.

Instead, she decided to take a page out of the man's book and ask a question about the same strange parahuman that the man was currently curious about.

Power? What is the chance that a parahuman currently residing within Brockton Bay with the ability to clone themselves that isn't Oni Lee will be directly responsible for the man's death?

The numbers revealed themselves to her, and if Dinah still had control over her facial muscles half the time, she assumed her lips would be pulled into a confused frown.

The last time that the man had asked whether a smiling man would prove to be trouble for him, she got sixteen point two one one one three eight nine zero as an answer. Dinah had enough info to know that the smiling man that the man mentioned was likely the same as the cloning man, but why were the numbers so different?

Her power didn't know.

She didn't know, either, but she liked the new numbers a lot.

She hoped they stayed that way.

-Conflict 5.02-

[QM Note: This scene takes place sometime near noon of the same day as chapter 5.01, immediately after your meeting with the Don Alcott and Roy Christner's lawyer.]

You are Legion. While some of your bodies are still busy with talking to Gregor, drinking tea with Lung, and waiting for your interview with Coil. Immediately after your meeting with the mayor's lawyer, you took the time to peruse the information he gave you on the police reports involving Dinah's capture.

What you find isn't much from what they told you before, but you do notice a few discrepancies in what's listed in the police reports and what Alcott and the lawyer told you.

It isn't much, but there is a note in the police reports that states that, other than the fact that the cameras in the Alcott property were disabled during the time of Dinah's disappearance and the fact that the Undersiders were completing a high-profile bank heist at the same time, there was no actual evidence they could find of a kidnapping.

While the disappearance of Dinah Alcott was admittedly suspicious, there were several points in the police reports that suggested the possibility that Dinah had left of her own volition, with notes to contact the school and/or CPS for a potential investigation on Don and Gina Alcott's history for any signs of abusive behaviour.

You frown. You think that Don Alcott's sorrow was genuine, but he could just be a good actor.

You file it away as a possibility as you consider your next moves.

You take a deep breath and nod to yourself. There's a lot to do.

Across the city, using whichever clones are the closest to their respective locations, you split off and attend to your duties.

The first thing you do is try to find the officer that was responsible for writing the report, but while you have her name, you don't have any sort of access to the police network to try and find her. Maybe you could go to her station? Or not. You doubt that walking into a station full of armed officers while wearing a mask is a great idea.

The Undersiders could also be involved in some way, but you're not sure how you could find them. You suppose you know Tattletale's number, but if they're really involved in the kidnapping, is it worth it to give yourself away?

The police report includes the name of the doctor who had been responsible for checking up on Dinah's headaches, who had given her a quick checkup and diagnosed as the potential signs of chronic migraines. Though he did note the possibility of potential parahuman ability, it didn't seem that he took it too seriously. You call the number listed on his online profile.

"Hello, St. Thomas Children's Hospital. How may I help you?"

"Is Dr. Warsh in today?"

"Do you have an appointment, sir?"

"Can I make one?"

"We would need a referral from your family doctor."

You hang up.

"Hey, Gregor."

Gregor looks up at you. Though he was still friendly, he seemed slightly more quiet ever since Emily left to go back to her room after your brief chat with her.

"Yes?"

"Do you guys have any sort of ins with any Thinkers? I'd imagine they'd be useful in a lot of mercenary work."

"It would be," Gregor agrees. "Sadly, any such parahumans are rare."

"So no?"

Gregor shakes his head.

You stand outside of the St. Thomas Children's Hospital, ignoring the staring passerbys as you look up at the building, considering how to approach the situation.

As you jump across rooftops using your parkour-practicing clones, you make sure to keep an eye out for any maniacal bombers.

As you briefly look over the separate report on the Undersiders' bank heist, you don't notice anything significant in terms of what police units were reassigned once the bank heist occurred. It seemed to be proximity-based, and though Dinah's middle school (Little J's middle school, you note) was in the area where the police patrols were reassigned in response to the heist, Dinah had been resting at home on that day.

"Hey Lung. You know who Dinah Alcott is?"

"No."

"Okay."

You take a moment to realize that Uncle Rusty didn't bring his phone to his job at the PRT.

As you slowly start to gather more bits and pieces, you can only come to one conclusion. Dinah was probably kidnapped for her alleged parahuman powers. Whether they were real or not was something that you had yet to decide on, but it ultimately didn't matter to you. The only difference it would make was if you were searching for a girl or a corpse, though you supposed it would be harder to search for a corpse as those would be easier to hide.

Dinah running away didn't make sense to you, not because you didn't believe she would, but because you couldn't imagine it would be difficult for the police to have tracked her down by now.

And so, you decide to operate on the assumption that you're dealing with an organization that has access to professional mercenaries, sabotage, and possibly a separate supervillain team on payroll in the Undersiders.

You do a quick profiling of all the potential villain groups within Brockton Bay and your first thought lands you at identifying Coil's organization as your main suspect. It's not a difficult conclusion to come to, but you suppose that the police might be unable to infiltrate the organization in the same way as you can.

You briefly think on the subject and you can't help but wonder whether the main response to Coil's organization involve the police or the PRT. As far as you know, and from what you can see online, Coil's Organization doesn't seem to have any parahumans under their employ.

While you do have one clone currently waiting to be interviewed by one of Coil's employees, you don't think that that's the time to explore whether he was the one to kidnap Dinah, in case you would somehow give yourself away.

You call the number that was provided to you when you signed on to the Mayor's contract, and when it's picked up, you're surprised to hear the lawyer's voice instead of either the mayor's or Don Alcott's.

"Troy Rainer, speaking," he says.

"Hello Mr. Rainer."

"Legion! We spoke not half an hour ago. Was there something you needed from me? Did you come across anything in our contract that you were unhappy about? And please, call me Troy."

"No, just calling for information some information."

"Ah, I see. Please. Any questions you may have, I am at your disposal."

"Why was Dinah home? Doctor's orders?"

"Indeed. It was a precaution, in case her headaches worsened."

"Oh okay, thanks," you say as you hang up the phone.

You dial another number. Tattletale's.

The phone rings six times before it's picked up.

"Hey. Who is this?" the voice on the other line asks.

It's... not Tattletale. In fact, you have no idea who it is.

"Is this Tattletale's number?" you ask, slightly uncertain about whether you accidentally misdialed.

"Yeah," the voice said. "She's out though. Don't know when she's coming back."

"Where is she?"

"Fuck if I know, dude." After a moment's pause, he continues. "Oh and I probably shouldn't be giving my teammate's info even if I did know, shouldn't I?"

You honestly don't know what else you could investigate for the moment, so you decide to focus your efforts on combing the city for any signs of a mad bomber with your spare clones. You call once every hour, and the first time you call back, it's to the same exasperated boyish voice you heard before.

The next time you call back, nobody bothers to pick it up.

Five minutes before you're about to call back for the third time, you get a call on your phone first.

"Hey, obsessive boyfriend."

You frown at the familiarity of the voice. It's been a while since you've talked to Tattletale so you don't remember what she sounds like, but the voice on the phone is more familiar than you expect.

"Miss Leiberwitz?" you ask, slightly unsure.

The voice on the other end laughs. "I didn't think you figured me out, Smiley. Oh wait. I guess you actually didn't. Just to make it clear, I was your interviewer. Me. Tattletale."

"Ah," you say, the niggling feeling in the back of your mind finally gone as you finally remember what Tattletale sounds like. "You looked different."

"Disguise," Tattletale says.

"Also, obsessive boyfriend?" you ask. "I don't think I see you that way. Sorry."

Tattletale laughs.

"Anyways," she says, choosing not to address your comment. "What's up. Why'd you call?"

"Can we meet in person?" you ask.

"Huh," she says, her voice slightly curious. "What for?"

You think about how to approach the situation. If there had any doubt about the Undersiders' involvement with Coil before, you at least have proof that they have some contact.

"Something that we should discuss in person," you say.

There's a brief pause on the other end before Tattletale lets out a hum.

"Sure," she says eventually. "Mind if I bring a friend? Just as a chaperone. I'll make sure she doesn't get in the way our date."

"I don't mind," you say. "And it's not a date."

Tattletale laughs again.

"What time?" she asks.

"Now," you say.

"Somer's Rock?"

"Sure."

You arrive at Somer's Rock long before Tattletale does, and you pay the price of a ginger ale and take a seat. While the bar had never been what you would consider appealing to look at, it looks absolutely disgusting when you see it in broad daylight.

You ignore the way that the paint of the chair beneath you seems to almost shift around as you sit down, reminding yourself to absorb this particular body before going anywhere that you want to keep clean.

It takes about twenty to thirty minutes for the door of Somer's Rock to open, swinging wide to show both Tattletale and Skitter entering the bar.

Tattletale smiles and waves at you, but Skitter barely acknowledges you though her goggles are pointed directly at you.

You wait for both of them to sit down and order their drinks.

Tattletale takes her seat across from you and lounges back in her chair, while Skitter stiffly sits beside her.

"So, Smiley," Tattletale says. "What's up?"

"I got a job to rescue Dinah Alcott. You know anything about her?"

Skitter sputters something unintelligible and you glance at her before turning to Tattletale, who gives you an awkward smile.

"Wow, Smiley. Give a girl some warning, first."

"So that's a yes."

Tattletale looks at Skitter before she looks at you.

She sighs. "Ready to call in that favour?"

"As long as I can keep in contact with you and potentially hire you in the future," you say. "Is it really big enough to warrant the favour?"

"Yes," Tattletale replies easily.

"Then yes. I'm calling in my favour."

Tattletale's face scrunches up into a twisted face of concern and confusion, replacing her permanently smug grin into an expression of uncertainty before she sighs and looks up at you.

"I know who has Dinah," she says. "It's Coil."

You nod. "Your boss."

As Skitter's head jerks to the side to stare at both you and Tattletale, Tattletale places her head in her hands and lets out a deep sigh.

"Fuck," she mutters under her breath. "This is NOT how I thought I'd be spending my day when I woke up this morning."

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck," Tattletale continues to mutter, right before she slams her palms onto the table and stares up at you.

"Okay, fine. I wasn't planning to do this for a few more months at least, but with everything around here being so fucked anyways. This might be the best chance I'll get in a very long time," she says.

Though she's staring directly at you, you get the feeling that she's talking more to herself. You glance at Skitter, hoping her reaction might tell you something, but she's still staring at Tattletale.

"Do you know where Dinah is being held?" you ask.

Tattletale's mouth sets into a grim line. "Probably," she eventually says. "But if I told you where to look, you and Skitter could probably narrow it down to a point where you could easily find her."

"Okay," you say, then you frown as you replay what she just said. "Wait, Skitter?"

At the sound of your voice, she seems to come to life. "Wait, me?" she asks.

"As if you'd refuse to participate in this sort of thing, Skitter," Tattletale says, a slightly playful edge returning to her voice, but not completely.

"I'm not sharing my pay," is your instinctual response.

"And you won't have to," she says. "In fact, I think this could end up making all of us a lot richer. I would have hoped to have more time to set things up, but you just had to go and accelerate everything to a breakneck speed, didn't you Smiley."

"Wait, what's going on, Tattletale?" Skitter asks, voicing your own thoughts perfectly.

"A fucking coup, that's what," Tattletale says. "And today, too. If I go in to work for Coil tomorrow, he's going to know what's up, so it's either we make our move now or we all run the hell away from Brockton Bay. God fucking dammit, Smiley."

"Wait, run? What?"

"I wasn't aware that my favour extended to include your team's help, Tattletale," you say, not unhappy about the strange turn of events, but still trying to wrap your head around what's going on.

"It doesn't," Tattletale says. "But they'll help."

Skitter seems to be taken aback at that. "Wait, Tattletale, shouldn't we discuss this with the team first? I mean, it's a pretty big decision to make, isn't it?"

Tattletale shakes her head. "Regent won't give a shit, Bitch might oppose it to spite Smiley, but not in any major way. Might be difficult to push Grue to take this, but if it goes through he'll be happier in the end. Might come to hate me for forcing his hand, but I can deal with it. And I don't even need to mention your opinion."

Skitter stares at Tattletale. "And why is that?"

Tattletale simply gives her an incredulous look, and it's seemingly enough of a response for Skitter.

"You haven't told me where Dinah is yet," you say.

"I don't know where she is yet," Tattletale responds instantly. "Like I said, you'll need Skitter's help for this, and no, we can't operate at the same breakneck speed that you do, Smiley. We need at least a few minutes to make a plan before we blow up a fucking building."

Skitter looks rapidly between you and Tattletale, but it seems that she's given up on trying to contribute to the discussion.

You let yourself be lead out of the bar, with Tattletale angrily stomping the entire way and throwing a pair of bills towards the general direction of your table.

You decide not to say anything as you follow behind her. It takes a few more seconds for Skitter to scramble out to catch up to you, but takes a similar stance of silence as Tattletale pulls out her phone and angrily dials a number.

"Get to the Docks rendezvous point now. Bring your mask. I'll explain later. Of course, it's important. Take a cab if you have to. Sorry for being rude."

She hangs up immediately after, not allowing the person on the other side to put in a single word.

She dials another number, walking angrily as it rings in her ear, and swears as you hear a faint dial tone sounding out from the other end. She mumbles something angrily under her breath as she dials another number. You briefly wonder if she's going to try and smash it when you hear a dial tone without the line even ringing.

"She's not usually like this," you hear, whispered from behind you. Skitter shrugs. "Just wanted you to know."

You continue to stare, confused at why Skitter had felt the need to speak up in the first place until Skitter turns her head slightly away, breaking the gaze between your eyeholes and her goggles. You shrug and continue to look where you're walking.

"Change of plans," Tattletale says angrily into her phone. "Go to the base. Regent and Bitch aren't picking up their phones. Just a warning. We'll have a visitor," she says, wincing as the other end explodes in noise, though you can't interpret what's being said. "Well, regardless, we won't be needing the base after today, whether it's a good or bad thing. No, Regent won't care and Bitch's face is already public."

You watch as another wave of loud noise erupts from the other end, and for a while, Tattletale nods along to the sound before eventually hanging up on the other speaker mid-rant.

"Sorry about that," Tattletale grumbles, as she clutches her head. "No, this is not a Thinker headache. This is a very justified normal headache, and I expect it to get worse by the end of the day."

You don't have any reply to offer, so you simply stay silent. Skitter mirrors your choice as the three of you jog in the direction that Tattletale leads you.

Eventually, you end up in a nondescript, but empty part of town, and Tattletale leads you to a small door of a seemingly empty building.

"Stay," she says, right before rushing inside, leaving the door ajar behind her as you hear her running up a set of stairs.

To your surprise, Skitter stays behind with you, seemingly unsure of who Tattletale had been addressing. To be fair, you weren't too certain either.

"Okay," her voice shouts down from the door after a few seconds. "You can come up."

You could have saved a few seconds by cloneporting up the stairs instead of running, but by the time you realise you've already entered a large cozy-looking suite that you wouldn't have expected from how the building looked on the outside.

Standing a short distance away from you are Tattletale, Regent in his casual clothes and his mask, and Bitch without hers.

"Okay, guys. I know you've got some questions and issues with this whole scenario but before we do-"

"Kill!" Bitch screams as she points at you.

For a moment, you don't understand what she means, but it's difficult to ignore the large dog that jumps towards you, previously hidden by the couch near the edge of the room.

"Bitch, no!" you hear Tattletale shout, but the dog doesn't seem to care about her opinion as it races towards you.

The dog is certainly fast, faster than Lung in his base form, for sure, but it's still no trouble for you to create a line of clones and cloneport around the suite, making a wide circle around the dog.

The dog yelps in surprise as its paws skitter across the floor to adjust to your sudden shift in position. It recovers quickly, but takes a moment to spare a glance at the still glaring Bitch before growling and pouncing towards you.

"Stop! Stop!" Tattletale yells as you cloneshift to the other side of the room to avoid the dog's second charge. There's a quiet crack and you're surprised to see what looks like a bone growing out of a split in the dog's flesh.

"Brutus! Kill!" Bitch yells again, right before Tattletale sprints in front of her and pushes a finger up between Bitch's eyes, forcing her to back up slightly.

"No! Shut up! Rachel, call off your dog, right now!"

From your vantage point at the other side of the room, you can't see their expressions clearly, but after another casual cloneport to dodge another attack, you find yourself close enough to see that Bitch is slapping away Tattletale's finger and glowering down at her. In a swift motion, Tattletale rips off her domino mask to meet the stare, her lips peeled back in an almost comical snarl, for some reason.

There's a loud crashing sound from the other end of the room as Bitch's dog fails to stop itself completely.

"Fuck, my TV!" Regent cries out.

Bitch glances away just for a moment at the sound of the crash, and Tattletale uses that opportunity to walk forward, almost pushing herself up against Bitch if Bitch weren't stepping back in response.

Tattletale continues to move forward, and it's only after a few steps that Bitch stops retreating from her, taking a place to stare down on the much short girl. Despite Bitch standing her ground, Tattletale continues to stalk forward until her forehead is almost touching Bitch's.

"Call off your dog," Tattletale says, in almost a growl.

You cloneport away as the dog lunges for you once more. Skitter yelps and jumps back as the now-couch sized dog nearly clips her legs from underneath her as it slides across the wooden floor.

From your new spot, you see that Bitch has once again glanced away to look at her dog, and Tattletale has once again used that opportunity to push herself forward. It's a rather comical sight, as Tattletale has to stand on her tiptoes to put any further pressure on Bitch as she leans away, but eventually, Bitch growls and lets out a low whistle.

The dog looks around at the sound, glances at you for a moment, and trots back to his master's side, pressing itself against her side as it lets out a low growl.

For a moment, its growl is the only sound in the room, as you watch silently at the stare off between Tattletale and Bitch. Eventually, Bitch clicks her tongue and walks away.

"You two stay as far away from each other as you can while we talk about what we do next. And no, Bitch. That is not an invitation to leave. Sit your ass down."

"Jesus, Tats. I gotta say, I'm liking this new side to you. Real edgy," Regent says.

"Shut up, Regent," Tattletale says as she stalks across the room, towards a set of stairs that lead to the upper level. "I'm getting some stuff. Don't kill each other while I'm gone."

The entire room remains silent while Tattletale's aggressive stomping echoes across the suite, until you hear the sound of a door being slammed.

"Nice entry, new guy," Regent says. "Really showing up ole Skits here. She did not handle the dog hazing as well as you did."

"I don't imagine she could deal with them without killing them."

"Dark," Regent says. "I take it you're the guy responsible for our token blonde's new edge? Man, being in a relationship can sure change a person, huh?"

Skitter's head whips around to you once more before she shakes her head.

"Wait, you were just joking," she says, stating it rather than asking a question.

Regent shrugs and walks over to a couch and sits down.

"So. Mind filling the rest of us in on what's even going on?"

"Yes. Somebody tell me what the hell is going on," a new voice says from behind you. You turn around to see a man dressed in a biker outfit, with black smoke clouding around his legs. "Why the hell is Legion in our base?"

"I was invited," you say.

"I'm going to need a little bit more of to work on than that," he says, and though his voice is distorted in a strange way by his power, you get the clear sense that he's speaking through gritted teeth.

After a moment's pause, you create a clone to point at Skitter.

Skitter seems to be unsure of what to do with the responsibility of explaining, but she luckily doesn't have to as Tattletale shouts out from above.

"Grue. I'll explain in a bit. Just give me a fucking second."

Grue's attention is temporarily directed upwards before he looks back at you.

"That time of the month, I guess," Regent helpfully chimes in.

Grue never quite calms down, but after Tattletale quickly tells him that it's a matter of life and death, which you think it a lie but you can't be sure, he begrudgingly folds his arms and lets her know that he'll listen to her whole explanation before deciding on a course of action.

She agrees to let him decide later. You decide not to mention that Tattletale has already mentioned to you and Skitter that this would force his hand.

After a brief explanation about how Coil apparently plans to kill all of the Undersiders after their usefulness to him expires, Grue protests but backs down after Tattletale mentions something about his sister being under constant threat and danger. You can't help but bristle slightly at the idea of Little J being monitored in the same way that Coil is apparently doing to Grue's sister, and you can't help but grow a little more respectful of him when this new information instantly causes him to accept Tattletale's explanation that Coil needs to be brought down.

Tattletale skims through the information she has on Coil, some of which is new only to you and some of which seems to be new information to everybody in the room.

A majority of the Undersiders' missions from Coil within the last few weeks have been involved with the investigation, discovery, and occasional capture of the new parahumans that have been popping up all over Brockton Bay. Though the Undersiders were aware of how many parahumans they'd been responsible for introducing to Coil's organisation, they hadn't been aware of the Travellers' having roles identical to their own, though they seemed to be responsible for dealing with capes that had a higher lethality than what the Undersiders had dealt with.

As a result, Coil's Organisation has approximately twelve capes with an exclusivity contract with Coil, with two being a part of his main team and several more having made contact with him, similar to your own situation.

Tattletale doubts that Coil will be able to call in the twelve capes for assistance, and that the two capes on his main team are primarily non-combatants, but with a bit of bad luck, it's possible that you will be squaring off against a wide variety of capes. In either case, Coil will be surrounded by a group of trained mercenaries that are likely much more threatening than any fresh triggers anyways.

There are several locations that Tattletale points out as being equally possible locations that Coil has made his current base in, which would require careful combing by both you and Skitter without setting off any alarms. Though she points out a few locations for you to be able to scout on your own, a majority of them are left to Skitter, with intense caution being given on ensuring that you're not seen.

With you especially, she gives you intensely specific instructions on camera blind spots, what routes you should take to approach, and what you should be looking for.

You decide to trust her instructions and send out some clones while keeping a clone by her side so you can ask her any questions on behalf of your clones in the field.

As she divides her attention between you and Skitter, who is currently being driven across the city by Grue in a rental car as she similarly directs her over the phone, you begin to see Tattletale calming down as she reenters her comfort zone.

By the time that you've combed through all the locations assigned to you, Tattletale's face has returned to an expression of calm smugness, and seems to be enjoying herself by continuing to imply a relationship with you, laughing as she does. You don't bother correcting her, knowing she won't stop anyways.

It takes about an hour after you've finished your rounds for Tattletale's phone to sound out with Skitter's voice, claiming that she's found Coil.

You, Tattletale, and Regent get up once Tattletale confirms with Skitter that she's got the right place, though Regent makes a few gagging sounds on your way to the car for some reason.

It takes about twenty minutes for Tattletale to drive the three of you to a location where Tattletale stops the car and lets you know that you'll be walking for about ten minutes.

It doesn't take too long before you walk far enough to see the shadowy silhouettes of Grue, Skitter, and Bitch, standing pressed up against a building's wall. At the sight of you, one of Bitches dogs, the one that tried to attack you back in the Undersiders' base, begins to growl softly until Bitch yanks at its chain and makes a quiet tutting noise. Though Bitch's posture seems to be aggressive enough to prompt her dogs to continue to raise their hackles and peel their lips back aggressively, they obediently remain quiet.

It's not quite night time, but it's late enough in the evening that the streetlights are beginning to light up automatically.

"Skitter," Tattletale says, with a low voice. "Before we go in, I need you to do a few things. How many mosquitos do you have near Coil, right now?"

Skitter gives her a response, but her voice is so low that you can't hear it properly. Tattletale doesn't seem to have a problem understanding it, but you find yourself missing the convenience of Armsmaster's earpieces.

"Okay. I want you to make a few of the buzz around Coil's ears for eight seconds, leave him alone for twelve, and have one buzz around for five seconds before making it suck his blood. Make sure you have a bug on his sleeve or something to see how he reacts."

Skitter doesn't respond verbally, but you don't feel like you're alone in your general confusion at Tattletale's request. Despite that, nobody speaks up until Skitter speaks up.

"He killed it once it tried to suck his blood," Skitter says.

"How?"

"He flicked it."

"Okay. It's Coil, then."

"Excuse me?" Grue speaks up, his voice is barely distorted, as he probably realizes that it would be impossible to interpret what he's saying if he's speaking so quietly. "How did you even confirm anything off of that?"

"Skitter's general description of him matches Coil perfectly," Tattletale says, her voice clearly smug despite how quiet it is. "I was just making sure that it wasn't one of the capes he's hired recently. There's a guy, Leech, that can basically turn into people when he drinks their blood, but he's weirdly competitive with other bloodsuckers. Wasn't sure if Coil would have managed to secure him as a body double for tonight."

"Okay," Grue says. "So you're certain it's him?"

"Ninety percent," Tattletale says.

"Last time you made an estimate like that, we were stuck in a bank heist facing twice the amount of Wards than what you guessed. Is this situation anything like that?"

Tattletale shoots Grue a withering glare. "When are you going to let that go?" she hisses. "I never said it was a certainty."

"And you're not saying this is either," Grue says. "I'm not willing to risk our futures on the ten percent chance that you'll be wrong again."

"Well too bad," Tattletale says. "We've passed the point where we can back out a long time ago. Should've said something before we were burnt."

"I would have," Grue growls. "If I had a choice."

Tattletale glares at him. "Well, you can bitch all you want after we're done here. Point is, we're doing this now or we're fucked. I'd rather put my chances on this being Coil than waiting until morning when he has the leisure to hunt us down and assassinate us on his terms. Now are you in, or not?"

"I'm down," Regent pipes in. "I'll stay with you after the divorce, mom."

"Shut up, Regent," Tattletale and Grue whisper simultaneously.

You're content to let the Undersiders do a majority of the planning for this mission, but you do give a few suggestions when you feel the need to.

A majority of her plan involves Skitter's reconnaissance, and waiting for her to give you the signal to move forward from shadow to avoid the apparent snipers that are apparently perched in spots that you can't see, but Skitter easily confirms. As you get closer and closer to the building, Tattletale instructs every single member of Undersiders on what Coil may or may not have prepared to defend his base.

Skitter's reconnaissance details the layout of the building, with armed guards in every hallway, and Coil and Dinah both being situated in a small room at the centre of a veritable maze of twists and turns.

At Skitter's signal, your group makes the final dash to a small blind spot for the snipers that Tattletale points out, the closest you'll get before charging into the building.

"Okay guys," Tattletale whispers. "Like it or not, this is going to be rough. Lots of bullets flying everywhere, not much strategy besides brute force, and not enough quiet for us to be talking all too much. But I've just got to know one thing before we rush in. Smiley," she says, turning to you. "I'll admit there's a lot about your power I don't know. How okay are you with tanking bullets?"

"If that's what it takes, I'll do it," you say.

Tattletale looks at you for a moment and nods.

"Okay everyone, make sure to stay behind a Legion at all times. I don't know what the general reaction will be to seeing Grue's smoke rolling forward, but I assume the mercs will at least try to shoot through it. You can switch places with the dogs once they're big enough, but I don't want to risk starting the process until we've actually gone inside. Grue. Hold on to a Legion's hand and direct him down the halls. He can feel the sensation through all of his bodies at the same time.

"And Smiley," Tattletale says, looking into your eyes before walking forward and giving you a gentle hug. "Sorry in advance for the bullet wounds. I imagine it'll be painful, but it's probably a necessary evil to stop Coil."

While the rest of the Undersiders seem either shocked or uncaring about the sudden display of affection, you feel the familiar weight of what feels like a pistol settling in your jacket pocket.

"It's a necessary evil," Tattletale says again, as she breaks away.

Cool. Another free gun.

-Interlude 5.c-

It had been a while since Lisa had been so flustered, and she didn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed at that. Given how she was literally preparing herself mentally to be shot at by automatic weapons, she was very much leaning towards the latter, but she refused to focus on figuring it out, wanting to focus her power's attention on the current situation.

Lisa knew that she was likely not going to be useful in any way once Legion threw open those doors and rushed inside, but she really had no choice but to be a part of the charge. Staying outside after the alarms were triggered would be even more suicidal, with how the snipers would shoot her down if she were still outdoors.

Still, even without the threat of death, she knew that she would still be running along with the rest of her team. Realistically, she could probably spare the time to get lost in her own thoughts, given how little worth she would have in the upcoming scenario, but she still wanted all of her focus on the upcoming fight on the single off chance that she could pick up on the tiniest piece of information that could save their lives.

"Go!" she shouted in a half-whisper, once her power told her that it was the best time to go, when the snipers watching the doors would have just a split second less to react to the quickly growing smoke that Grue expelled from his pores.

Legion charged forward, pulling the door open.

[Unlocked. Coil wouldn't have locked it, to allow for a smoother transition between guard shifts, lowering any downtime when attentions were focused on finding keys rather than on any potential threats.]

In the same instant, as if the sound of the door being slammed open were a starting gun, a cloud of blask smoke erupted in front of her, masking the sound of crackling bone as Bitch started to work her power through her dogs.

Lisa ran at full speed, which wasn't that much in comparison to the rest of her group, but fast enough that the hand linked with Skitter's wasn't pulled too roughly. With her sight and sense of hearing dampened by Grue's power, her power unconsciously analyzed the feeling of Skitter's hand in her own.

[Shaking. Nervous. Her awareness allows her to navigate through Grue's smoke perfectly, but she doesn't run as fast as she can. Is it because of me? No. Regent is in front of us and is running slower than he can. Possibly because of nervousness about tripping or running into something.]

It was this knowledge that gave Lisa the confidence she needed to run full speed ahead. That and the knowledge that a hallway that was maintained by Coil would never have random obstacles that could unnecessarily clutter the halls.

As Lisa ran, in a sightless soundless trance, turning every time Skitter pulled a certain direction, she couldn't stop herself from wincing as she heard what sounded like a dull thud.

[Gunshots. Grue's smoke can't muffle the sound completely.]

She grit her teeth and continued to run, ignoring the splatter of liquid on her face and chest.

[Blood.]

She tried her best to ignore her power as she sprinted forward. She felt Skitter's hand flinch in her own, but the girl's speed didn't drop so Lisa didn't slow down either. A moment later, the feeling of wet warmth disappeared from her skin as the muffled sound of far away machine guns continued to echo in her ears.

[Not far away. 40 ft. Sounds muffled by Grue's power.]

It wasn't something she wanted to know.

Lisa never imagined she'd be blatantly running towards a hail of bullets instead away. The cover of smoke had almost a distressing effect as she failed to notice if any bullets happened to be whizzing by her head. Even without her power, she knew that the three lines of Legion bodies in front and behind her would cover her completely from any damage, but the fear was something she couldn't fully purge.

[Grue's power will render most of my observations useless or obsolete. Grue and Skitter will know more than I can infer just from their own available senses.]

Lisa hated her power at times.

There was a dull explosion that was louder than the sound of the muffled bullets.

[Grenade. Too far to be effective. Either kicked away or deployed by Coil's men to deal with an advance group of Legions.]

Skitter yanked her body to the side, a bit forcefully.

[Not signalling a turn, but an obstacle.]

The edge of Lisa's foot caught on something, and though it didn't trip her up enough to make her fall, she did slow down for a split second as she stumbled.

[Object was heavy, but flexible enough to shift when I kicked it. A body. Possibly a splayed out leg.]

The thought worried her a bit more than she expected, but she didn't dwell on it as she continued to run. She wondered for a brief moment on what Taylor would think about the casual violence.

[No change in levels of hand tremors. Believes the mercenary is still alive.]

As soon as he power analysed that, she felt Taylor's hand twitch slightly.

[Violence towards the fallen body by the Legions behind me? Possible. Likely.]

Lisa gritted her teeth. Hopefully Taylor could keep her hero complex in check long enough that her disagreement with Legion's methods wouldn't be a problem. Taylor didn't have enough of a force of will to bring it up until they were in a place of relative safety, and until they killed Coil that wouldn't be possible. Grue would bring it up if he believed that Legion was killing needlessly, but it didn't seem like he had turned back to see what had happened.

As Lisa ran forward, and Taylor started to yank her violently more often, she had to slow down to properly step over and around large areas where she expected bodies would be.

"Shit," she suddenly heard, as a section of smoke was instantly cleared before her eyes. It was difficult to tell the difference, as the smoke continued to block the light from the lights above, keeping her in darkness, but there was a tiny pinprick of exposed light that lit up the scene well enough for her to tell what was going on.

Regent had been the one to scream, as a Legion body had fallen backward onto him, pinning him down to the floor.

[Still alive. Losing blood quickly.]

Through her shock, Lisa suddenly felt something roll and hit her foot. Mindlessly, she bent down to pick it up. The light didn't shine in a way that let her see what it was, but her power helpfully supplied the info she lacked.

[Detached arm.]

Lisa couldn't help but flinch as something brushed past her shoulder to reach towards the arm she held in her hands. She didn't know why she was holding it so tight, but when the arm suddenly disappeared, her hands remained in a vice-like position.

"What the fuck?" Regent yelled from his position on the floor, now without another body on top of him.

"They're bringing out the heavier stuff," Grue said, gruffly, though Lisa suspected his power was distorting his voice to make him sound much less shaken than he really was. "Anti-tank rifle if I had to guess, though I don't know guns too well."

"It doesn't matter what it is. All that matters is that it can easily punch a hole through Legion's elbow," Lisa said automatically, surprising herself with how calm she sounded. "How are Bitches dogs coming along?"

"They're ready," Grue said. "She can't hear us right now, but I had her send them forward already. Should I call Legion back?"

"Yes," Lisa said, though she couldn't say she put too much thought into the choice. "Legion. Fall back. Let Bitch handle the rest," she said, to the clone directly behind her.

"Sure," Legion said, shrugging as if she had just asked if he wanted her pick something up for him on her trip to the supermarket. "Getting shot isn't fun anyways."

[Referring to the experience of being shot. Experiences the pain completely.]

It didn't take much to surprise Lisa, but it did take a lot to surprise her enough to break character. Once she realised at how wide-eyed she had gotten at her own realisation, she reverted to her standard smile and nodded.

"Good job out there, though," she said, just to say something.

[Not the Legion I gave the gun to.]

"Thanks," Legion replied with another shrug.

[Coil may be contacting other teams. Not many capes have the capability for instant response. Backup within ten minutes limited to Night Ranger and potentially Fiddlesticks.]

She could easily deal with Night Ranger and Fiddlesticks was too much of a chaotic factor for her to even try and predict, even whether he'd be available for Coil's contact, but she didn't want to waste any more time thinking about it.

"We've got ten minutes to get to Coil, guys!" Lisa shouted. "Let's move!"

While the ten minutes wasn't a definite time limit, it didn't hurt to instil a deeper sense of urgency within her teammates.

After a hundred and ninety-three seconds of straight running, Lisa couldn't help but curse Coil for testing her cardio so heavily. With the hallways being so low, she couldn't revert to the Undersiders' usual tactic of riding Bitch's dogs, not that she'd want to take away from their vanguard.

Bitch's dogs had been merciless in taking down their foes, despite their heavy weaponry. With enough time bought by Smiley, they had grown large enough that there was really nothing that Coil's mercenaries could do to pierce the armour of flesh that surrounded them, and while the force of their high-calibre bullets did prove to be powerful enough to occasionally knock Bitch's dogs over it didn't do much to slow down their pace.

Coil's base was a veritable maze to navigate, but Lisa had been in one of them before and though the exact layout wasn't the same, it still used similar tricks and tactics to confuse and disorient anyone who didn't know the exact layout of the base.

Fortunately for her, she had someone who could figure out the entire layout of the base by her side.

"There's a hidden door upcoming on our left. Thirty feet," Taylor shouted.

Grue had stopped producing smoke so that the rest of the Undersiders, as well as all of the Legions, can hear her speak. With all the lights in the building being shut down, it was mostly dark regardless, lit only by a small handful of bobbing flashlights that Lisa had handed out before entering the building, but the presence of sound allowed her some comfort.

Bitch let out a sharp whistle, causing a loud crashing sound as one of her dogs attempted to make a sharp stop and only ended up a wall.

"I can't get it open," Taylor said, as her fingers scrabbled against what looked like a flat wall.

[Hidden door.]

It was something she already assumed, but her power chimed in anyways, not having much of anything else to provide information on.

"Scoot over a bit," Lisa panted to Taylor, who quickly bounced back to allow Lisa some access to the wall.

[Hidden mechanism. Doesn't require a key or a pin, but does require a specific panel to be pressed.]

Lisa ran her hands over the surface of the door, ignoring the way her body begged to take a few seconds to rest from the cardio, before her fingers felt a minuscule bump.

[Edge of panel.]

Lisa pressed hard on the spot, slamming her palm against it when just pushing it didn't seem to be enough.

There was a small clicking sound before the door opened to reveal a narrow corridor, barely big enough for her to walk through it without having to turn her shoulders sideways.

[Armed guard likely at other end. No need for heavy weaponry. Hallway designed to limit Brute access.]

"Fuck," Lisa couldn't help but mutter.

"Bitch, stay back and cover our retreat," Grue said, as soon as he saw how narrow the corridor was.

"Keep your dogs as max strength for as long as you can," Lisa added. "Fiddlesticks could be coming for us at any time. You might have to fight him off."

Bitch let out a low grunt.

[Confirmation.]

"Smiley," she said, not bothering to turn her head at any specific one. "I hope you're ready to take a few more bullets. We'll be fish in a barrel in there. Won't be any heavy weaponry like out here."

"Sure," Smiley replied, giving her a shrug as he stepped into the hallway.

Reinforcements could arrive soon, and regardless of how uncontrollable Fiddlesticks was and how easy Night Ranger could be dealt with, Lisa knew that speed was still of the essence. "Go!" she shouted.

As Smiley created a line of clones down the narrow hallway, a hail of gunfire instantly barked out and echoed down the halls along with the angry buzzing of bugs and the strange distortion of sound caused by Grue's expanding smoke.

Lisa ran down the hallway immediately after Taylor entered the hallway, with an incredibly exhausted Regent lagging behind her.

"Coil's close!" Taylor barked out, the sound of her voice echoing strangely down the hallways. While Grue hadn't filled the halls completely with his smoke, it did trail over the ground, causing the pockets of dampened sound to create an illusion that Taylor was much further away than she was.

[He likely heard that. Will increase his nervousness. Likely to threaten Dinah's life as soon as Legion enters his room.]

Lisa gritted her teeth as the sound of what sounded like a door being slammed open echoed down the hall from far away, spilling a bright source of light into the hallway the reached up to her despite its distance.

Lisa grimaced at the sight of a line of unconscious guards.

[Concussion. Bruised neck. Impacts from bullets. Possible death if untreated, but unlikely. Possible brain damage. Concussion. Concussion.]

She shook her head to reorient herself and started to speed up to make up for her tired legs. While Smiley, Grue, and Taylor hadn't slowed down, due to their practised athleticism, Lisa had to push herself to catch up to them.

When she turned the final corner, she burst into a brightly lit room that held a small handful of Smiley's clones, a few armed with automatic weapons, Coil, Taylor and Grue. It took her a moment to notice Dinah sitting next to Coil's desk, curled up in a cage and barely cognisant of what was going on around her.

It was at that same moment that Lisa noticed that Coil wasn't pointing a gun at her, though he did have one laid flat on his desk.

[Planned to threaten Dinah, but didn't. Why? He did. Didn't turn out well.]

For a split second, Lisa took the time to wonder what had happened in his other timeline, but in that same split second, she realised something else.

Coil had just used his power to create a timeline and throw it away. That meant that it was really him in front of her.

She couldn't help but give him a smug smile, despite her ragged breath.

[Anger. Frustration. Fear.]

"I surrender," Coil said, raising his hands above his head.

Lisa watched as Smiley reached backwards to press a button on his backpack. The pistol she gave him seemed to appear in his hand as he took aim and pulled the trigger.

[No hesitation. No remorse.]

Lisa glanced over at Coil.

[Dead in three... two... one.]

"What the fuck?!" Grue shouted.

Taylor's head jerked between Smiley and Coil, as if not believing what had just happened in front of her eyes.

Smiley, on the other hand, casually slung away his pistol, back into his backpack, while the other armed clones disarmed themselves similarly.

The clone that was closest to Coil's desk walked forward and reached towards Dinah, recoiling automatically when a large spark jumped from the cage to his fingers when he touched it. He tilted his head in confusion.

"One second, " Lisa said, running forwards to stand behind Coil's desk. She was honestly surprised at how blase she could be standing around a dead body like she was, but maybe she was in shock.

[Dinah's cage controls not important to hide. Plain sight. Coil was a control freak. Liked to taunt. Visible to Dinah?]

Lisa walked around to see a small bright red button on the side of his desk, close enough that he could reach it by leaning over in his chair. It was completely in Dinah's line of sight.

Sick bastard.

Lisa pressed the button and, with a faint click that could only be heard through the thick silence that coated the entire room, the top of Dinah's cage popped open.

"Go ahead," she said, instantly prompting Smiley to lean in and gently pick up Dinah from under her armpits.

[Is used to carrying children of a similar age.]

Huh.

Lisa watched as Smiley scooped Dinah up into his arms to carry her like he would a baby. Once she was settled, Dinah wrapped her arms around his neck and placed her chin on his shoulder with a gentle sigh.

[Isn't aware of what's going on. Reverting to base instincts.]

Paradoxically, it was this quiet sigh of contentedness, possibly a result being starved of human contact for so long, that caused Taylor to tense up and shift into a lower stance.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Though the majority of the Smiley clones turn around to stare blankly at her, the one carrying Dinah simply lets out a quiet shushing noise as Dinah grips the side of her head and buries her face deeper into his shoulder. As Smiley gently patted down her messy hair, and walked towards the exit Taylor's adrenaline seemed to bleed out of her, instantly replaced by confusion.

[Ignored Taylor. Didn't find her question worth answering.]

"You can do what you need to, Smiley," Lisa said. "But leave a clone here? We probably need to talk."

"Okay, I'm here!" Regent shouted as he finally caught up, having apparently taken a break in the corridor to catch his breath.

Ignoring him, a Smiley clone looked at her and shrugged.

"Sure," he said, reaching back towards his backpack.

Grue and Taylor tensed up as a pair of scissors appeared in Smiley's hands.

[Doesn't intend any harm.]

The Smiley clone reached to the side as another clone lifted his hoodie slightly to allow the scissors entry. For a split second, Lisa couldn't help but think some ritualistic shit was going to happen in front of her, but with a quiet snip, Smiley withdrew the scissors, palming something and putting it inside his pocket.

[Device in the mask? Tracker? No. Angle was weird. Hair?]

As if nothing had happened, the scissor wielding clone turned around to follow the Dinah wielding clone, while other clone stayed standing in front of her.

"Oh shit! Coil's dead?!" Regent shouted, prompting a wave of shushes from the Smiley clones.

In the silence that followed, Lisa heard a quiet sound of crinkling leather.

[Grue's gloves. Tight fists. Incredibly furious.]

"Five minutes, Grue," Lisa said, holding up a hand. "We're not out of the woods yet. I still gotta call off whoever the hell Coil called for help, convince his mercs to stand down, and deal with a lot of bullshit before we can calm down enough to have an infight. It's not worth dying to yell at me."

Even without her power, she could tell that Grue was only made more furious by her words, but it was a very real necessity and Grue seemed to acknowledge it.

Lisa wasted no time in kicking Coil's chair backwards, freeing up some space behind his desk to reach a small button on his desk, just below a mic.

There was a small click.

"Hello. This is Tattletale, from the Undersiders. Coil's dead and I suggest you don't throw your lives away trying to fight for a man who can't pay you. I am willing to renegotiate your contracts for higher pay than you had with Coil, if you're willing to stick around. For now, I highly suggest you disarm yourselves and leave the building as quickly as you can. Return to your respective posts tomorrow, as if nothing has happened, and we can discuss further."

Coil's body made a dull thud as it slid off his chair and onto the floor.

Lisa turned off the mic and turned her attention to a handset on Coil's desk.

[Likely connects to the snipers outside.]

She supposed that was a more immediate problem than Night Ranger or Fiddlesticks, so she grabbed the handsets and turned them on.

"Wait," Regent said suddenly. "What was the point of me even being here?"

Lisa ignored him as she talked to the snipers outside, tossing the handsets away after their confirmations.

So many calls to make. She could feel the headache coming in already.

-Conflict 5.03-

You wait idly as the phone rings. Once, twice, thrice. Fourice?

The thought escapes you as the phone is picked up.

"Legion! I apologize for the wait. I was having dinner with the wife."

"Oh, sorry Troy," you say. "Should I call back?" You had wanted to call the mayor's lawyer to ask for a pickup, but you're not sure it's worth interrupting a family dinner for. Though walking all the way back to the Alcott residence would take quite a long time, you suppose you wouldn't mind it too much. The weight of carrying someone like Dinah is familiar to you, though you suppose it's usually a much shorter distance from the living room to Little J's bedroom.

At that thought, your body at home reaches over the table to tousle Little J's head. At first, she gives you a confused look, then pouts. You apologize profusely. You hadn't realized that you tousled her hair with the greasy hand that you were currently in the middle of eating pizza with.

"Oh, no. Not at all. The missus is quite understanding of the hours I hold. Available at all hours, though I will say that my bedtime's usually around 10:30. Might be a bit harder to reach me past that."

You nod. It's a bit useless for you to know, but you suppose you might be calling him again if you ever have another job with the mayor.

"Got it," you say. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Excellent," Troy replies. "Now what was it that you needed me for? More information? I could also set up any interviews if you have anybody of importance that you wish to talk to. I noticed that you were spotted standing outside of the St. Thomas Children's Hospital earlier today. Would you want me to set up a meeting with Dr. Warsh?"

Oh. That could have been useful, but no. "No. Just wanted to ask for a pick up. Dinah's pretty light, but it would be more convenient for me if you could just get a car sent to us."

The line remains silent for several seconds.

"Hello?" you say, unsure of whether the call had dropped. You suppose you don't get great signal from inside a storage unit. "Troy? You there?"

"Excuse me?" he says. "Did you say that you wanted to request a pick up. For you. And Dinah?"

"Yeah."

After he promises to send a car to your location, you toss a phone into your backpack to send it over to yourself and take a photo of yourself holding Dinah, sending it to Troy as per his request.

You hear the phone ping, as you receive a reply, but coincidentally, you get a message from your phone at home a few seconds after.

With it not being from a burner phone, you're a bit more curious about who would be texting you. It had been a lazy Saturday, with Elliot and Ranger being busy with their respective girlfriends, and as a result you hadn't been in close contact with them throughout the day. You check your phone and see it's from Elliot.

You open the text send to your threeway chat.

[James Pagliacci. Jihoo Park. You may now refer to me as Mr. Fischer. I am a man now.]

You frown at the text, wondering what that's supposed to mean, but Ranger seems to interpret it faster than you do.

[Dont make me imagine you having sex retard]

[Now, now. Don't be jealous, my boy. I take it things with Reagan aren't going as well. Want some tips?]

[kys]

You smile, happy that somebody else had an eventful day too, from the sounds of it.

-Interlude 5.d-

I looked up, and Legion was still standing there, across from Tattletale, as she clutched at her head while she tapped away furiously at a computer that she had found in Coil's desk. Grue was gone, having stomped away angrily a while ago, when Tattletale kept excusing herself from conversation by explaining that she needed her entire concentration to try and wrangle all of Coil's assets together so she could try and pose as him and not create a power vacuum in Brockton Bay due to his absence.

I didn't know what to think, and I don't know why I stayed or if anybody even noticed me still standing a few feet away from the spot where Coil's body had been, a small trail of blood still shining, barely dried out.

Coil's killer continued to stand unmoving in front of Tattletale, staring down at her silently as she worked.

I was overwhelmed, which wasn't saying much given the fact that it had been my constant state of being for the past couple of weeks now. Between having the threat of Lung having the ABB looking out for me, acting as Coil's lapdog after he revealed himself to us, and pulling overtime to investigate, recruit, and capture as many other capes as I could for him, I had barely slept.

I knew that if I supplied him with a large enough quantity of capes, it would be enough to compensate for the loss of quality in losing Dinah, so my mind had been razor focused onto that single goal for so long that it was feeling impossible to process what had happened.

A small perverted part of me couldn't help but feel a sort of delirium, like an insane cackle in the back of my mind that was mocking me for trying so hard when I could've solved my problems so easily with the simple application of a bullet to Coil's head.

It had all been so quick, that I had paradoxically been stuck for over an hour, trying to process it. But while I couldn't wrap my head around how the future would be affected and how I would be affected, I knew that what happened in front of me today, what Legion pulled, was evil in its basest form.

Coil had surrendered. And Legion had killed him in cold blood. I couldn't help but wonder if the mask was hiding a smile underneath it, only more sinister and than the one painted over it.

Regardless, it was worrying how easily Tattletale had accepted it. I didn't know if the Undersiders would continue to have a relationship with Legion, or if we would even remain intact as a team after all of this, but I knew that if we did survive, and we did continue to work with Legion, I knew that I had to stay.

I had joined the Undersiders to take down a small group of teenage supervillains. I had stayed with them to take down their boss, Coil. I had stayed with Coil to free Dinah, but now?

Though Legion's head was facing directly towards Tattletale, I couldn't see where his eyes were pointed behind his mask. Taking care not to be caught staring, I made my decision.

I didn't think that there would be anybody within Brockton Bay that would have so easily executed another person's life like Legion did. If his enemy surrendered, would Coil have executed a harmless person? Would Kaiser? Would Lung? I didn't know any of them well enough to be certain, but I knew for certain what Legion would do.

Legion was dangerous. Potentially even more than Coil.

Suddenly, my new goal became even obvious. Though I was more than aware that it might be my sleep deprived delirium doing my thinking for me, the logical steps were so obvious that I couldn't quite fault myself for coming to the conclusion.

I had infiltrated the Undersiders to find information on their boss. I could infiltrate them to find more information on Legion. The plan was the same.

-Interlude 5.e-

Hell.

Piggot was in hell.

In the uppermost drawer of her desk, she knew that there was a large half-empty bottle of caffeine pills. Coffee had been long forgotten, to reduce the time that she would have to waste going to the washroom, and the pills were much more effective at keeping her awake, but a steady headache was growing in her head that only promised further hell.

She knew that enough caffeine could kill her if she wasn't careful, especially with her existing health problems, but a tiny part of her was already craving the sweet release of the hell that would await her, rather than the hell that existed on her desk.

Piggot was aware, that as a director within the PRT, she should be grateful for the influx of superheroes. But even if it weren't associated with an equal influx of supervillains and a whole group of morally dubious mercenaries, she wouldn't have wished her paperwork on her worst enemy.

She wasn't even surprised that a large percentage of her staff had called in sick recently, with how many overtime hours they had been forced to work to process the new mercenary hiring procedures, incentive programs, and to integrate more heroes into the Protectorate and the Wards program.

"Armsmaster," she said into the intercom, not even having realised that she had pressed the button in the first place. "Progress report."

"Five days until Bastion finishes the project. By his estimate," Armsmaster's reply comes from the speaker. It was a rare event when Piggot could detect awe in his voice, no matter how minor it was. She didn't care.

"Do you agree with it?" she asked.

"He knows what he's doing," Armsmaster replied.

It was good enough for her. If she had a moment of time to think for herself, she might have acknowledged the rare instance of Armsmaster having complete confidence in an unknown factor such as a retired supervillain, but she simply didn't have the time.

"Battery," she said, after clicking a different button on her intercom. "Report on that disturbance."

Which disturbance report it was, Piggot didn't even remember, with the events of the past few weeks blurring together dangerously, but as soon as Battery started to speak she remembered.

"Dealt with it."

"Details."

"I confirmed the sighting of Fiddlesticks and dismantled it."

Piggot tried to ignore the childish name for the horrifying monster that was the tinkertech robot.

"Did any civilians see you?"

"Not sure. It wasn't in a crowded area, but it was poorly lit. It's possible that civilians were in the vicinity that I didn't see."

Piggot sighed. Though Fiddlesticks had been sighted by multiple civilians in the past week, with video footage of the terrifying creature have been made public, there would be no doubt in a civilian's mind that the creature was a villain, but the fact that it was tinkertech wasn't common knowledge. If Battery was caught on video, seemingly ripping apart what could be misinterpreted as a human target...

"Report to the PR division."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Piggot sighed a heavy sigh before noticing her hand on the handle of the drawer that held her caffeine pills. She frowned, wondering if she had to invest in some sort of lock to stop her from accidentally killing herself.