Part Four: Revelations
[A/N: this chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
Morrigan
When the bus pulls up in front of the library, I do a double-take. Not sure what I was expecting, exactly, but this sure as shit wasn't it. It's a big old building, almost fucking stately rather than being a run-down shithole like the school I just walked out of. As I get off the bus, I'm revising my opinion of the city of Brockton Bay upward a bit; there's office buildings all around and almost a feeling of prosperity in the air. That's probably an illusion though; I remember the bus rolling through some pretty crappy neighbourhoods before getting to the downtown area.
I climb the stairs and go in through the double glass doors. Inside, it's even more fucking impressive. I put my hands on my hips and look around, trying to figure out exactly how much damage an extended firefight in here would cause. What with the marble pillars and the artwork hung everywhere, I decide that the answer is 'way too fucking much'. If it wasn't for the shelves of books, I'd almost be forgiven for thinking I was in a museum, it's that goddamn fancy in here.
First thing I do is scope out the place for lines of fire and exfil points. I wander from one end of the building to the other, trying not to gawk too much. The last time I was in a place this fancy in the Matrix, I used about a quarter-ton of C-4 to blow it the fuck up. Fucking Agents, they ruin shit for everyone. And of course, I've never been anyplace this fancy outside the Matrix, because that shit hasn't been rebuilt yet.
Once I've finished with the ground floor, I head upstairs. Almost immediately, I strike gold. There's a row of twenty computers, free for use. Better yet, barely any of them are occupied, because all the good boys and girls are in school, and the adults are earning their illusory electronic dollars. I keep moving, making a mental note of which way I'd have to run if some asshole came through the door with overwhelming force. Sure, there aren't supposed to be Agents here, but I still don't really trust that.
It doesn't take me too long to get the layout of the place down, and I head back to the computers. Going online in the Matrix is kind of recursive; you know you're in a computer simulation, and the computer you're using is just an emulation in that simulation. If you know what you're doing, you can coax the system to do things it was never designed to do. This is why nearly all Operatives show up as hackers in the Matrix; even before we get the red pill, we're used to warping reality in a myriad of small ways. Of course, once we get the red pill, we can learn to do a whole lot more, but it's a solid start.
I pick the computer station right at one end from sheer reflex. Less chance of someone looking over my shoulder and scoping out what I'm doing. At the same time, I half-turn my chair so I've got the wall partially covering my back. I don't know that anyone's coming after me, but paranoia is a finely developed survival trait with any Operative. Until I've proven otherwise, I'm not gonna assume that there isn't someone already gunning for me. And even if I do prove it, I'm still not gonna trust it, because that shit can change.
The computer starts up just a little sluggishly, but that's par for the course. I'm tempted to pull a few hacker moves and go into the programming of this thing to speed it up, but I don't want to draw any more attention than I already am. Don't pay attention to me, I'm just a curious teenager looking up some stuff. So I endure the lag and type in my queries.
For "Wards", I get a page of really solid hits. Turns out that Taylor's memories were reasonably accurate; there really is a bunch of government-sponsored kid superheroes in town. Once I figure out how to narrow it down to Brockton Bay, I get a list of names and (masked) faces to go on with. In fact, each of them has a whole portfolio of pictures; turns out that having powers makes you a celebrity. Go figure.
The list is almost identical to the one I read off of Sophia's phone before I had to ditch it. Triumph is the leader, with a gladiator-style costume topped by a lion-head mask/helmet thing. The description says that he can shout loudly enough to break concrete. I guess that's what grafting weird-ass code culled from a fragment of the Mainframe on to your avatar will do. Must make ordering in a restaurant a bit of a tricky situation.
I skim through the rest of the names: Aegis, Clockblocker, Gallant, Kid Win, Shadow Stalker, Vista …
Wait one goddamn moment. Back that shit up.
I recognise most of those names, especially Clockblocker. If he picked that name for himself, I have to give him kudos. Though I'm not really sure what it's in aid of. I quickly check, and find out that he can freeze shit in time. That's actually pretty damn cool, but I still think that whoever was supposed to be checking names fell down on the job.
In any case, I'm not after him. There's one name on the list that I didn't see earlier; Shadow Stalker.
She—it's a teenage girl, looking pretty fit—doesn't have many pics in the profile, like she hasn't been with them for long. But I don't need many pictures to verify my earlier suspicion. Shadow Stalker wears a costume and mask combo that does a good job of covering her hair and skin colour, but she can't change her height and body type, or even the way she stands. That's Sophia Hess, all the fucking way.
I give the images a good long look, so I'll know her when I see her out and about. There's a full-face mask and a hooded cloak, with what looks like body armour on under the cloak. More of interest are the hand-held crossbows she apparently uses as her weapons of choice. Even though they aren't full-sized, they look like they could do some damage. With Sophia's temper, I'm left wondering how many assholes she's killed already.
Looking into her background, I get more of an idea of what she's like. Turns out she used to be a vigilante, but then she volunteered to join the Wards. Knowing what she's like face to face and having skimming through her text conversations with Emma, I get the strong impression she didn't so much volunteer as get shanghaied. Whatever she did to get this done to her, it must've been pretty bad. I know this because from the description she's got a classic "you can't touch me" cheat code grafted on to her. Which nails it down for me; there's no other way she could've gotten out of that hold I had her in. But it also means she could slide away any time she felt like it, unless they were keeping pretty close tabs on her.
Some other hyperlinks are demanding my attention, so I click on them. I start to learn about the Protectorate, which seems to be the adult version of the Wards. I'm hoping that I don't end up clashing with these guys; I'm good, but their avatars have been upgraded with stuff I'll be hard pushed to match off against.
On the other hand, there's also the Parahuman Response Teams, abbreviated to 'PRT'. That's the next link I click on. I'm not sure what to think about them. On the one hand, I'm pretty sure that they're all baseline human, but on the other … well, with the identical faceless appearance of those helmets, I'm reminded of how Agents all look the same.
Clicking onward, I find myself directed on to something called the ParaHuman Online boards, PHO for short. I start reading random threads; five minutes in, I pull out my phone and flip it open. There's nobody sitting close enough to listen in, but I remind myself to keep my voice down before I press the button.
"Operator." For once, Loki isn't coming across like a smug asshole. In fact, he sounds more stunned than anything.
"Yeah, you getting this?" I keep scrolling down the screen. It's a frank and open discussion of superhuman activities in Brockton Bay and across America, if by 'frank and open discussion' you mean 'terrifying references to inhuman capabilities'. In doing so, they're casually tossing around names that I'm going to have to look up if I'm to make any sense of this.
"Fuck yes, we're getting this." For once, he's actually being professional. Well, kinda. "Pretty sure we can strip out every thread you click on. Does it look like there's much more?"
"Uh, yeah." I click on the Home button, and look at the list of options. There's a lot of them; Brockton Bay, New England, America, International, PRT, Triumvirate, S-Class Threats, Scion. "Want me to hit up local events, or go wider?"
"Well, we're gonna want to get basically everything. This is gold, right here. If anything's gonna give us a picture of the world, it's this." There's a murmuring sound in the background. "The Captain wants you to look at that sub-forum titled 'S-Class Threats'. We're not sure what it means, but it can't be good."
Personally, I'm more interested in the one marked 'Scion', for no better reason than it's right at the end. But what the Captain wants, the Captain gets. Unless I get a better idea, of course. "Sure thing. S-Class Threats it is." I move the cursor to the link and click it. "Okay … let's see. Slaughterhouse Nine? Sounds like a bad sequel to a fairly dreary novel. Nilbog? Sounds like a bad fantasy novel. Sleeper? What's he gonna do, snore me to death? Endbringers? Wow, ominous much?"
"Captain says to check out the Endbringer thing, whatever that is. Probably our best bet of figuring out what's got the most chance of ending the world so we can stop it." Loki's voice is tense; I'm not feeling too relaxed right now either.
"I'm starting to wonder exactly how many ways these guys might end the world," I say, but I click the link anyway. The subforum that pops up has four options: General, Behemoth, Leviathan and Simurgh. I shrug and click 'Behemoth'.
And then my mind goes blank, because I've just seen my first Endbringer. The imagery is terrifying, and I say that as someone who's gone toe to toe with Agents. Forty-plus feet tall, dwarfing the people around it, in the air and on the ground. Throwing fire, lightning and even radiation at its opponents, tearing its way through cities like a man wading through a wheatfield. My throat goes dry and closes up altogether as I read the stats attached to the creature, how long it's been active (eighteen years) and the estimated number of casualties it's responsible for. Not thousands. Not tens of thousands. Not even hundreds of thousands. Fucking millions.
Nausea rises in my throat. Loki's saying something in my ear, but I'm not hearing him. I don't even recognise my own voice as I say the only thing that makes sense.
"Fuuuuck."
Winslow
A Little Earlier
Casteli hasn't drawn his gun yet, but his hand isn't too far from it. Someone who'd shove a teenager into a locker packed with rotting crap could just be the sort of asshole who'd bring a gun or a knife to school. French isn't so green around the gills any more. He's got his head up and looking around, so there's hope for him yet. The fact that he's following Casteli's lead without argument is another point in his favour.
The trail of stinking debris, along with the slimy footprints, leads them to a classroom door, which is wide open. Voices come from within. Casteli catches French's eye and points at where the footprints also leave the classroom, heading off down the corridor. "Looks like our vic came and went," he says quietly.
"So what are we waiting for?" French asks. He sounds eager, which is kind of excusable, but Casteli knows better.
"First off, we find out what happened in there," he says. "Then we go looking for the vic. They're obviously up and able to walk. Also, probably traumatised. So we don't go running after them. And we don't go anywhere alone in Winslow. So stick with me."
He moves forward and steps into the doorway, coming face to face with a familiar figure. He's met this woman before. Principal Blackwell has never really impressed him much, but she is the ranking authority in Winslow. Behind her stands one of the teachers; a Mr Gladly. Gladly has managed to impress Casteli even less.
"Oh, good, you're here," Blackwell says. "I demand you arrest her at once!" Her voice is a little sharp, a little high-pitched, and would probably go through the human skull like a bandsaw after a Friday night bender.
Casteli frowns. "Good morning, Principal Blackwell," he says in an attempt to establish a certain level of politeness. "Who do you want us to arrest? And on what charge, exactly?" He knows what charge he wants to arrest someone on, but who that someone is, he's not sure yet.
Blackwell takes a deep breath. "Her name is Taylor Hebert. She barged in here after class started, assaulted several of my students, then dragged Emma Barnes from the classroom by force."
That changes everything. "Is anyone here hurt?" he asks crisply. He waits a bare second for her head-shake, then points into the classroom. "Wait here. We'll be back."
With French at his side, he starts off down the hallway, moving at a steady jog. The footprints are fainter now, but still quite visible, and occasionally accompanied by a horrid blackened thing. As they take the first flight of stairs upward, French clears his throat. "Uh, sergeant, why are we in a hurry now when we weren't before?"
"Because we didn't know the vic had a hostage," Casteli says, taking the steps two at a time. "And dollars to doughnuts this Barnes girl has something to do with the locker. Or the Herbert girl thinks she does. Either way, we've got to stop her before she does something she'll regret."
"I think she said Hebert," French says, between puffs. "Not Herbert."
Casteli wants to say who the fuck cares? but he doesn't, because it would be a dick move to swear at French for picking up on a detail he missed. "Good catch," he says shortly. They come out at the top of the stairs, and he squints to pick up the trail again. It's not hard; the footprints lead directly to a girls' bathroom, not far away. Raised voices are audible from within, though he can't make out the words.
"Call this in," he says quietly. "Gonna see what I can hear." He turns down his radio so he won't be distracted as he eases closer to the bathroom door. Over his shoulder he can hear French murmuring on the radio, but he's concentrating on hearing what's going on inside.
The voices, as far as he can make out, are female and on the young side, but he can't tell more than that. Fits with what they told us. Dollars to doughnuts that's the Hebert girl and the Barnes girl. While there's definitely an argument going on, he can't make out more than a word here or there, and it's not enough to establish context. But it's definitely two voices and there's no screaming or noises of pain, so nobody's hurt yet. He hopes.
French moves up beside him. "They wanted to know if the Hebert girl's armed. I said not as far as we know."
Casteli nods. "Yeah. If she had been, Blackwell'd be demanding we shoot her on sight. Still, no sense in taking chances. If I draw my taser, you draw yours. If I draw my gun, you draw yours. If I shoot, you shoot. You do not do any of that unless I do it first. I'll go left, you go right. Got it?"
He senses rather than sees the return nod. "Got it, sergeant."
"Good." Taking a deep breath, he steps forward to the bathroom door. "BBPD!" he yells. "Police officers! We are coming in! Make no hostile moves!" With his left hand, he slaps the outer door open, then wrenches at the inner door. The instant it's open, he lunges through and moves to the left, clearing the way for French.
Two teenage girls, wearing just underwear, spin around from what looks like a heated discussion to stare at them.
A Couple of Minutes Later
Casteli wriggles his pinky in his ear again. The black girl never made a sound when he burst in with French on his heels, but the redhead turned out to have a really effective screaming voice. This was only amplified by the tiled walls; his ears are still ringing. The redhead now has his jacket draped around her for modesty, while French has given the black girl his own jacket.
"I don't understand why we can't take this elsewhere," Principal Blackwell grumbles. It's obvious she's never been in this bathroom, and the smell of the pile of soiled clothing isn't helping.
"This is a crime scene," Casteli says for the third time. "We need to find out what happened here. Now, you're certain that neither of these girls is Taylor Hebert?" He brushes his hand over his vest to make sure his recorder is running.
"I'm certain," Blackwell informs him frigidly. "That is Emma Barnes. Her father's a lawyer. Sophia Hess is one of our track stars." She gives Casteli a hard stare. "Are they under arrest?"
Casteli shakes his head. "No. But as soon as we can walk through the timeline here, we can move things along. So, Miss Barnes. You came in here with Taylor Hebert?"
Emma turns at his prompting and nods. "Yes," she says thickly. Her nose is swollen and red, and there's a bump on her forehead; plugs of paper adorn her nostrils. "She dook her clothes off."
"That's those clothes there, right?" asks Casteli, pointing at the smelly pile. "Why do you think she did that?"
"Yes, that's themb," she confirms. "She bade be clead themb id the singk."
"She made you clean them in the sink?" he asks. When she nods, he goes on. "What happened then?"
"Sophia cambe id," she says. "Daylor beat her ub add stole her bands."
Casteli considers that. "Sophia came in," he hazards. "Taylor beat her up and stole her pants, is that right?"
Emma's just nodding when Sophia slaps her hands to her hips through the overhanging jacket. "Oh, shid!" the black girl blurts. "Bish took by phodes!" She turns to Blackwell. "I deed to call mby social worker."
"I'll do that for you," Blackwell says hurriedly, reaching into her handbag and pulling out her phone.
Casteli watches curiously as she taps a number into the phone without even consulting with Sophia. Is it just me, or does she have that number memorised? Putting the phone to her ear, Blackwell turns away and begins to speak under her breath, which seems to bear out his supposition. He wonders just how often Blackwell's had to call that number over the last year. Though it's nice to see a teacher so willing to step up for her students.
"So what happened then, Miss Barnes?" French asks.
"She mbade mbe give her mby boots add blouse add she left," Emma says simply. "But she was actig weird. Like she did'd really doe mbe. Cold add mbead." She points at her face. "She broke mby dose add Sophia's doo."
If I got locked into a locker with crap like that, I'd want to break someone's nose too, Casteli thinks. I wouldn't even really blame her for making Emma give her the boots and blouse, if Emma was the one to shut her in there. Not that that changes matters, of course. Assault and battery is still a crime, as is theft.
"Well, that seems to cover the situation here," he says. "Let's get you downstairs so you can wait for your parents." He really should get a description of the stolen clothing, he knows, but he just can't face trying to decipher any more of Emma's nasal mumble right now.
PRT Building ENE
Deputy Director Renick's Office
"Deputy Director Renick speaking."
"Deputy Director, this is Kirsten Bright."
Renick frowns at the phone. "That's nice, Ms Bright, but it doesn't tell me why you're calling me."
"Oh, uh, I'm Shadow Stalker's PRT liaison?" The Bright woman sounds a little flustered. "I've got instructions to call if there's ever anything I can't handle?"
Shadow Stalker. Renick's frown deepens. She's not popular among her fellow Wards, but at least she doesn't cause problems at school. "Understood," he says bluntly. "But what are you calling me about?"
"I just got a call from Blackwell at Winslow," Bright goes on. "Someone beat up Shadow Stalker, knocked her out and took her Wards phone."
He sits bolt upright in his chair. "Status of Shadow Stalker?" he asks crisply.
"Alive and conscious," reports Bright. "She's got a broken nose, though."
Turning toward his computer, Renick puts the phone on speaker and starts typing. "Any indication as to whether this was an attack on the Wards, or on her personally?"
"There was nothing to indicate that it was about her secret identity," Bright says. Which doesn't really mean anything, as he's fully aware. "A friend of hers was being assaulted and she went to their aid. She was apparently taken by surprise and knocked out. While she was unconscious, her phone was stolen. The thief has apparently left Winslow."
"Call Blackwell back," Renick orders. "Get her to put Shadow Stalker on the phone and get a full report from her, broken nose or no broken nose. Call me back when you have more." The press of a button ends the call.
He clicks open a window, revealing a menu titled 'Wards Phones'. Scrolling down the list—it's arranged alphabetically, which puts Shadow Stalker down toward the bottom—he locates the one he wants and clicks on it. Immediately, a second menu pops up. From it, he selects 'Activate Tracker'. A moment later, a map unfolds on the screen. On it, a red dot pops up, crawling south from Winslow. Reaching over to his phone, Renick hits a speed-dial number.
"Operations, Sergeant Lamont speaking."
"This is the Deputy Director." He knows that saying so is probably unnecessary; they've probably got his number memorised. But he still does it anyway. "We've got a ten-eighty-three. The tracking beacon has been activated. I'll be sending the frequency through shortly. I'm going to need a plainclothes detail to track it down discreetly."
"Copy that, sir. We'll get right on it."
Renick sighs and puts the phone down, then hits the key to send the information to the Ops desk. Then he picks the phone up again. The Director's going to want to know about this.
He's not looking forward to the conversation.