I know I said I was planning to get the chapter out sometime this weekend, but I underestimated the need of painkillers post-surgery, so I was not exactly in the greatest of minds to write. Hell, I'm still unhappy with this chapter. Then you throw in some more personal issues, and I am 4 days later than I planned. So I do apologize for that.

I can promise though, next chapter we're back to Taylor.

Seed 1. FCKUC

With a slam of the door, Theodore Faro, Field Agent, Parahuman Response Team, stormed into his flat.

Making a beeline straight for his kitchen, he reached the refrigerator and swung open the door, the appliance protesting the violent action. Retrieving a bottle of beer from it, he unscrewed the cap and drank from it while slamming the door shut.

Drinking only half of it, he then placed the cold bottle against his forehead, even as he fought the urge to throw it in his rage.

The last week had been an exercise in apprehension management. He knew he had fucked up handling Taylor Hebert, but it had been a fuck up done with best intentions. There was no way the Protectorate would have been better off with a blind girl in its ranks, Tinker or not. What even could a blind Tinker do, for that matter?

Hell, he was doing the girl a favor. There's no doubt in his mind that sooner or later, Emily Piggot would have thrown the poor girl onto the field, disability or not. The woman was too much of an uncompromising bitch to do otherwise.

Of course, that's not how his superiors field, the entitled fucking assholes. No, sir, instead of accepting his actions as a good choice, they had made him walk on eggshells all week, all for that bitch Piggot to call him into her office and inform him that he was being reassigned.

To fucking Eagleton.

Effective immediately.

It took all of his effort to not to tell her to shove her dialysis machine up her ass as she had dressed him down in her office. Yes, he was aware that Hebert was on the fucking 'Red List', but that did not mean he shouldn't be looking out for the best interests of the Protectorate and PRT! But of course, Piggot and her fucking ego wouldn't allow any rebuttals or arguments, it was her way of the high way, and he was out.

Finishing off the beer, and feeling his anger cool just a little bit, he placed down the empty bottle and went to retrieve another. Unscrewing the cap, he took a swig of the amber liquid.

The Protectorate and PRT always talked about how Containment Zones were assignments that required the best and brightest in order to ensure that the A- and S- Class threats within were contained, but in practice, the best and the brightest knew to stay away. Only the clinically insane or those who were being punished by their commanders went there, because it was not only considered the place where careers went to die unless you did something suitably heroic or dramatic, you also were going to be the first to die if containment was ever breached.

There was a small part of him that wanted to just resign on the spot and go to the press, but he knew that he would be smothered by NDAs that would destroy him before he could open his mouth. If there was anything the Protectorate and PRT were paranoid about, it was public perception.

No, he'd go to Eagleton, like a good little soldier, and he'd figure out just how to pull his ass out of the fire, then he'd make sure that when he did so, it was Director Emily Piggot who would be the first to pay.

He doubted Hebert was going to live much longer, anyways. Why would he worry about making her pay. A blind cape? He gave her three months max before she ended up just another unremarkable statistic.

AEH

To the people of Brockton Bay, Max Anders was a beacon of the city, one of the few remaining magnates who had chosen to remain when so many of the others had fled with the loss of the port. As the largest employer in Brockton Bay, he was considered by many as the favorite son of the Bay, providing jobs and economic activity to a city that had been limping along for so long.

It was amusingly ironic in an almost Shakeperian way that the man who was viewed by many as a hero to the people of Brockton Bay, and an upstanding citizen to look up to, was also the 'criminal' Kaiser, leader of the Empire EIghty-Eight.

At least, it brought quite a bit of amusement to him.

After all, who would expect Kaiser to be relaxing at his mansion, with only his towel providing him modesty as he received a full-body massage from his two personal assistants, Nessa and Jessica Biermann, better known to the world as Menja and Fenja of the Empire.

Yes, life was going splendidly, especially with the recent information that had fallen into his lap. Who would have believed that the Protectorate would have a Ward with a bullying problem? He would, but that was the nature of people, regardless of race. Sure, he viewed those of non-white origins as being inferior in many ways, but he also understood that there were the same people infesting his own race.

Still, using the misstep with Shadow Stalker would certainly help spread the message, it wasn't worth the risk of playing that card. At least not yet. If he was going to use it, it had to be part of a larger litany of abuses and usurpations by the PRT, and even though with Piggot doing an excellent job providing the tinder with her mismanagement, it was not enough.

If there was one thing his father had instilled in him by the man's failures, it was the art of patience and knowing when to strike, and when to hold back. The time would come. He just had to make sure that when it did, he could execute flawlessly, upon all of his enemies.

A pair of warm oily hands landed on his upper back, drawing out a sigh as Nessa's hands sunk into muscle and released the knots. Nessa had always been good with her hands, and seemed to know just the right places to wring out the knots in his back. Jessica would join sooner or later, usually when she got worked up enough, but for now, it was Nessa's show.

The sound of doors opening dragged him back out of blissful luxury, causing his eyes to open.

"Sorry Max," announced James Fleischer, better known as Krieg, and his nominal second-in-command, "but I figured you'd want to hear this."

Releasing as sigh, as his mood had been sufficiently killed, he rolled on the massage table, ensuring that his modesty was protected, before holding out his arms. Jessica, who had seemed to be reading his mind, was already there, sliding a robe over his shoulder and ensconcing him in the luxurious fabric.

James stood there, at attention, the pedigree and bearing trained into him by Gesellschaft on full display. In his hands was a folder, and obviously the subject on why he would visit this late at night. Ensuring that he kept his irritation at a pleasant night being worried, he plastered a smile on his face.

"Understandable, my friend, you wouldn't bother me if it wasn't important. So what do you have for me?"

"We've been able to identify the mysterious tinker."

Now he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. About a month ago, James had informed him that someone was using a few of their assets to order parts and equipment for what could have been a Tinker project. There had been a slight investigation, identifying the person ordering, and asking questions, but it hadn't amounted to nothing. The fact that the man was part of the Dockworker's Union was noted, but because of that, they hadn't resorted to a more intensive interrogation.

"I'm listening."

Holding out a folder, Max took it, opening it up, and looking at the image of a young woman. A face he immediately recognized thanks to the Shadow Stalker debacle the Brockton Bay Protectorate was trying to keep quiet on.

"This is confirmed," he asked, eyes looking over the report. He took note of the names on the reports, all written up and then typed to be provided to him, each of the observers being those handpicked and trained by Krieg and Victor. It had been an idea that Victor had suggested a few years ago as a means of keeping an eye on the coming and goings of the Protectorate and PRT, but also working to identify the various capes in the event that their plans ever reached a position to where the information would be necessary.

"As best as it can be," was the admission, "Armsmaster visited the Dockworker's Union two days ago, likely to meet with the Tinker. Since then, there really hasn't been any movement by either of them, but Taylor Hebert has been at the Dockworker's Union the last five days, every day."

"Hebert," he murmured, looking up, "Isn't that the Dockworker Union's Head of Hiring."

"Officially. Unofficially, the man pretty much runs the Union after the previous leadership pulled up their stakes and ran about two years ago."

Humming, he leafed through the report, going back to the beginning and reading again. It wouldn't do to miss any details, and he needed to formulate a plan. An unaffiliated Tinker could be the boon for the Empire Eighty-Eight, especially if their technology could be utilized.

Still, this was a subject matter that was…complex, to say the least. Hebert was blind, while he had not seen the video, it had been passed around in the darker corners of the social media that fellow travelers frequented enough for it to reach his ear. Truly a horrific thing, if only Shadow Stalker had only been dumb enough to join in, it would have been a dramatic boost to the message that the Empire espoused. Alas, it was not to be.

Still, a Tinker, blind that she may be, could be an asset. The only complications were the fact that she was blind, which would run into the gamut of many of his fair-weather compatriots who believe in strength and purity, and the fact that she was a daughter of the head of the Dockworker's Union.

"Do we know what her Tinkertech focus is?"

"Nothing definite yet. I have a man on the inside of the Dockworker's Union who noticed Hebert been given a sequestered section in the offices. He hasn't seen what she's been working on, but he has seen her walking around with a weird headset."

He blinked for a second, trying to make sense of the last sentence, before he just had to ask.

"Walking around without difficulty?"

"According to him, yes."

So her tinkertech revolved around vision then, he mused, tapping the closed folder. It was something to keep in mind for the future.

But was it worth making a move?

No, he mentally shook his head, at this juncture, it was not worth the investment of resources to start a fight with the Dockworker's Union. They may not be the powerhouse they were during the time of Marquis, but they were still a sizable threat, and the Empire couldn't afford getting into a protracted conflict at this time. Not with the Dragon lurking and awaiting for a moment of weakness.

"Assign a team to keep observation on the Heberts. Inform our man in the Union to keep an eye on things, but do not expose himself. I'll have further orders for him later if necessary. What about our assets within the PRT, can they get access to what is being said about her?"

"Possibly. I'd have to confirm with Victor, as that's his bailiwick, but I don't see too many complications if we go for the low-hanging fruit."

"See what you can find out, then let me know. The fact that the Protectorate is not making a hard push towards recruiting her right now seems suspicious considering Piggot's penchant. I want to know why and what's being said in the back channels."

"Done. Is there anything else you want?"

"No. I think that's probably all we can do right now. There's no point on making any moves against Hebert unless we know everything. I'm not going to risk our assets for a Tinker of low quality. Let's see what she can do, and then we'll revisit it at a future time."

The answering nod relieved him slightly. James may be his second-in-command, but he was also an agent for the Gesellschaft, everything he decided was reported back to them. While he didn't take orders directly from them, they could make his life difficult if they so felt it.

"Good. Now, leave us. It'd be a horrible thing to let all of this go to waste. I'll see you in the morning"

"Of course," and with that, James left the room, the door closing behind him and leaving the three of them remaining in the room.

Taking a deep breath of the incense to collect himself, he then held out the folder, which was taken out of his hands. He would take another look over and see if he missed anything else tomorrow morning. But for right now, he was going to get his massage, he was going to relax, and he was going to enjoy the delights he knew his valkyries intended to give him.

Further planning could wait until tomorrow.

AEH

Thomas Calvert was destined to rule Brockton Bay. That was the sole unequivocal truth of reality. It would not be disputed nor would it be denied. It just was, and there would be no one who would be able to challenge it once he was done.

It was with this inevitability in mind, that he operated as Coil, slowly moving pieces on the board all the while his enemies were completely unaware of his designs and reach. Their only warning before the end would be when the coils that were his motif were tightly around his prey and there was no escape except capitulation or death.

And that was the true scope of his genius. He wasn't a brute like Lung, or a wannabe Machiavelli like Kaiser. He was something better, and he would ensure that Brockton Bay was better for it.

But right now, he had to figure out how to utilize the newest piece on the board.

When Shadow Stalker had been tangentially connected to the acid attack at Winslow High, he had taken the time to personally pare off a timeline to deposit a bullet into that dumb bitch's face. It had been a cathartic, if ultimately wasteful, investment of his power, but the action alone had provided him a clarity that previously had been fleeting and allowed him to refocus upon trying to salvage the situation.

While a scandal was certainly in his bailiwick of plans to utilize the final elimination of Piggot from the board to cement his rise, the incident was far too soon. If he allowed Piggot to be forced to resign in disgrace, it would force him to reset the board and start from scratch, thereby eliminating almost four years of investment.

So, it was with begrudging frustration, that resulted in him considering doing a runback on Shadow Stalker, that he had moved to distract the FBI from digging too deeply into the situation. It had cost him a handful of contacts and sources, but it looked like the FBI were buying into chasing after a leak within the Brockton Bay Police Department that was providing information to the Azn Bad Boys.

But this new piece, he massaged his chin, grateful that his tap into the systems of both the Protectorate and PRT provided him a real-time flow of information to know exactly what they were thinking and doing. It was an invaluable asset, and one of the core reasons outside of keeping Piggot in place, screwing the pooch by the numbers, that he burned some of his assets.

Taylor Hebert, it seemed that she was the gift that continued to keep on giving, he mused, unable to to ignore the irony of it all. The fact that the thorn that was currently driving Piggot into a frothing frenzy was now adding to her blood pressure was the type of schadenfreude he could enjoy.

Still, enjoyment aside, it was a complication he had to take into account. Not so much the abilities of Hebert, which, according to what information he could glean, were minimal. A device that aids in vision, and an operating system? Not really something that he should invest his assets in.

No, it wasn't Hebert's Tinkertech that garnered his attention, but her connections to the Dockworker's Union. While many had forgotten the 'bad old days', he had made it a point to learn of it when he had transferred in. An unseen threat was the worst threat, and the Dockworker's Union, during the age of Marquis, was an entirely different beast in comparison to today. There were quite a few in the old Empire Eighty-Eight who could attest to that.

The question he had to ask was if the Dockworker's Union was still that beast, lulled into a quiet slumber after the end of Marquis, or if it was truly gone under the management of Danny Hebert. Either way, it had to be taken into account, because if Taylor Hebert did amount to some-

The press of something cylindrical to the back of his head, including in the timeline where he was at home, caused him to freeze.

"Close the timeline you're at home," the owner of said item to the back of his head softly demanded, the lack of inflection uncanny, as if the woman was reading from a script instead of naturally speaking from the heart.

Understanding the futility of the situation, he acquiesced, though it burned enough that he couldn't resist the urge to not keep silent, as he knew that the owner would not appreciate it.

"I had thought that our dealings were finished, Contessa."

"Dealings with Cauldron are never done, Thomas," the named woman responded, before she withdrew the gun from the back of his head. Slowly she walked around from behind him, but took a seat on the edge of his desk, her weapon still trained on him. A Mauser C96, his mind idly noted, trying to decide if her choice red Prohibition-era attire and weapon was style, theme, or she just had read too many pulp novels as a child and found it cool.

Then again, he shouldn't be thinking about that with the cape boogeyman sitting there in front of him. As much as it galled him to admit that he was outclassed and at her mercy, there was no ignoring the fact it was a both reality and certainty.

"What can I do for Cauldron, then?"

"Taylor Hebert."

He frowned, both hiding his surprise and his curiosity at the statement. He had just turned his gaze upon her, but the fact that she was already already on their radar was a surprise. What had he missed? Just why would Cauldron be interested in a blind Tinker with minimal worth? Unless…

"You will not interfere with her."

So there was something more to her that he wasn't seeing. It couldn't be that she was affiliated with Cauldron, they would have told him to back off immediately otherwise. They wouldn't have wasted the effort to send her to his lair and threaten him.

No, they had something invested in this, something that would have a much larger impact on whatever their overall game plan was. The fact that they were specifically targeting him meant that whatever it was that Hebert had in the works, was going to have an impact upon his plans.

"That's a rather vague order," he probed, keeping his attention upon her weapon, "especially with you backing it up with a threat, Contessa. Just how do you define interfering, so I avoid having an intervention from the likes of you."

He knew he was playing a dangerous game by asking this line of questioning, but at the same time, Contessa could have simply killed him and he would have had no warning. So it was obvious that Cauldron still had some use for him.

"You will not interfere with Taylor Hebert's development. Nor will you interfere with the Dockworker's Union. You may continue your other operations, but if either of those two become involved, you are to cease posthaste."

"That doesn't allow me a lot of room to work," he argued, "we made a deal, Contessa. Cauldron would allow me uninterrupted reign of Brockton Bay, now you're coming back and telling me the deal's changed?"

She arched an eyebrow, then motioned with her gun, causing him to quiet.

"I would think you'd appreciate this, Thomas. If you keep yourself out of Hebert's way, then you'll reach your goals far sooner than you could have hoped. You might also benefit from looking a bit closer into her dealings."

Wait, did she mean?

She got to her feet, her weapon still on him as she strode past him, he turned slowly in the chair to watch as a portal appeared in front of her, revealing what a nondescript metal hallway. But before she stepped through the doorway, she stopped.

"Oh. And about Dinah Alcott, do not touch her."

And with that, she stepped through the portal and it slid shut behind her, leaving him back by his lonesome in his office.

AEH

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Forty-sIx. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Forty-

A flurry of coughs abruptly cut off the count, blood flecking the inside of his mask as his body was wracked by spasms. All the while he struggled to breathe through his cough, his body demanding precious oxygen that his lungs were fighting to deny.

And then, after what seemed like an eternity of struggle, it slowly came to an end, his body fighting back into control, as coughs became shorter, breathing that had previously been strained began slowing, before finally, after what seemed like an eternity to their owner, returned to normal.

No overall improvement, the man clinically noted to himself as he tossed the mask aside, ignoring the blood that was drying upon it. Another failure.

Reaching over, he grabbed his original mask, placing it over his face, letting the life-giving oxygen filling his lungs. Once the mask was secure, he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes as the mask performed its job and allowed him to breathe. All the while systems scanned over him to provide him a report on what he already knew

Gene Fontaine bit back a curse as he looked over the data that flashed up on holographic display in front of him, showing that indeed, the biotinker-created regenerative treatment had not been successful in repairing any of the damage to his body.

It was yet another in a long litany of failures in a losing battle where his body was slowly killing itself.

Once upon a time, he had never heard of multiple organ dysfunction syndrome. And now, he wished he had never heard of it. The rare syndrome had wracked his body for the last decade, slowly robbing him of vitality and closer to death, driving him further into accepting more esoteric treatment plans.

It was only because of the various medical devices, treatments, and injections that he invested in that he was still able to function. But even then, such measures had only slowed the inevitable march, not stopped it. No matter what drugs or treatments he put himself through, he was living on borrowed time.

There was one solution to his malady, but there was no way to be able to tap into it. Panacea in Brockton Bay could heal him, but the Protectorate and New Wave would never allow him near her, and the Elite would never allow her to utilize her abilities unless she was made part of the Elite. It was a classic no-win scenario.

It was a frustration without end for Uppercrust of the Elite. In spite of all that he had done, the very government that had benefited off of his toil could not make a simple exception. After all, the Protectorate could not be seen publicly cavorting with villains, in spite of his contributions and status as probably the most heroically inclined branches of the Elite.

Releasing a sigh, he swiped his hand, throwing aside the holographic window and leaned back in his chair.

At best, he had another three years before his body would be too far gone to function. Even with the treatments he was using, it may not even reach that far. He had contingencies in place, but the clock was ticking closer to finality unless he found a solution.

Perhaps it was time to reach out to Agnes Court, as loath as he was to do. While the Elite promoted itself as a singular, united front, the reality couldn't be further from the truth. Each branch operated with its own rules and leadership, meant to foment competition, but in actuality left the organization a loose confederation of individual interests that managed to occasionally cross with one another.

While Agnes Court had in the past shown some level of concern for him, he would be naive to believe that it was a concern out of altruism. Agnes was a vulture at heart, and if he reached out to her, then there was a high probability that she would demand a king's ransom, if not just use it as a means to kill him and take over his operations. Nothing was out of the question in regards to her.

But he could dwell upon his next step forward later, there was still too much work to do for today, and he wasn't going to complete anything unless he got to work.

Opening up his workstation, he brought up several holographic windows, looking over each one, before his attention was drawn by one of the windows. Reaching out with his hand, he brought his hand over the window and it enlarged.

"What the hell is this," he murmured to himself, looking at his email inbox, noting that the newest email was from a sender the system didn't recognize. Which should be impossible, as one of the first things he had been programmed into the system was the ability to block and immediately delete anything of spurious origin or intent.

That, and the only other thing that stopped him from manually deleting it himself was the title of the email, simply labeled "Tinker/Thinker Prospect - Brockton Bay".

His curiosity was now suitably piqued, but he tempered that with caution. He wasn't an idiot who simply opened an email because it hit all the right spots in psychology to make him want to open it, unlike a quarter of the population.

Accessing a security program designed by Fibonacci, another member of his branch of the Elite and a subordinate of his, he began an IP trace upon the email, intent on finding the original sender of it. His eyebrows raised when after almost five minutes it came back with a result.

Just who in the hell would send him an email from the Protectorate Headquarters?

Rerunning the IP Trace just to ensure that…yes, it did come from the Protectorate Headquarters here and New York City, he found himself with a dilemma. The rational, pragmatic part of himself, the part of him that had survived the cutthroat politics and backroom deals that was the Elite, told him to just delete the email and go on with his day: If the Protectorate wanted to contact him, then they could do it through normal channels.

But then there was the part of him that looked at the email and wondered just why someone at the Protectorate would be trying to reach him outside of the standard channels, especially with a subject matter like a prospect. They understood fully what would take place if the Elite decided to approach a prospect…

Curiosity gave away, as he opened the email, a message with a series of attachments.

UC,

Hope the new treatment is going well.

Approached by a former colleague in BB about a promising Thinker/Tinker. Unable to recruit due to conflict of interest, local politics, and T/T not interested in contract. Personal involvement would only worsen the situation according to the Trust.

Attached all documentation, including patents and subordinate's report with standard redactions.

Take a look and see what you think.

Try to avoid the usual SOP. AC is causing me a headache in Seattle.

I'll owe you.

L.

Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the message, considering the purpose and implications behind it. There was only one 'L' that he knew that was within the Protectorate that would even attempt to use a backdoor to communicate with him.

Legend, head of the Protectorate, and one of The Triumvirate.

While this wasn't the first time that Legend had reached out to him in the past, this was certainly a first in that it was through email. Usually, it was through a proxy, or even an 'inspection' led by one of his subordinates. Despite what that faux hippie hack Chamber's claimed on the airwaves, the Protectorate was like any other large organization in that it played cloak and dagger games'. The only difference was that it worked harder to keep the appearance that its hands were clean.

But this was certainly different. And for a moment, he entertained the idea that this could be a trap, but then discarded it. The Legend that he knew, while he understood the need to dirty his hands, still tried to retain his honor in the process. So no, this was too far out of left-field from the standard, something you wouldn't want your target to be on guard.

So this was legitimate. And Legend wanted him to look at it.

But it wouldn't hurt to be cautious, as he filtered all of the attachments through Fibonacci's systems, ensuring that they were as clean as they could be. It only took ten minutes to finish, but it felt like ten minutes of eternity.

Finally done, he opened the first attachment, which was a Protectorate file on Taylor Hebert. The name sounded familiar, but it escaped him why it was. It was as he read through the file, he realized just why the Protectorate would have issues in recruiting Miss Hebert.

Moving over to the next report, this one redacted in several places, it didn't take him very long to recognize the writer as Armsmaster. There was only one Tinker in Brockton Bay who could do an inspection, but could also provide a written report that was so dry you would chafe your eyes.

But as he read through it, he could also see something more. It was hidden between the lines, but there was a noticeable shift in the tone of the report, as Armsmaster into discussing the interview and analysis of the Tinkertech. It was subtle, but he could see that Armsmaster was more invested in Hebert beyond a simple report. Just what would cause this escaped him, but he could see it nonetheless.

He then paused, blinking, looking at the specific line, then backed up and reread the paragraph.

Immediately, he minimized the window, bringing up the email again, this time looking through the rest of the attachments before he found what he was looking for, a file simply titled patent application.

Opening it up, he then maximized the window, taking a look at the schematics of the patent, his eyes darting over the entire document, drinking in every detail of it.

He could see exactly why Legend was reaching out to him. It was subtle, but the pieces, when taking it all together built a web that could not be denied. Every Tinker had a focus, a field, or even a speciality that they hyper-focused around. In his case, his field was hardlight technology. Everything he did was through that medium and understanding, and he was good at it.

Taylor Hebert wasn't limited to one field.

It was insane. It wasn't something that should exist, but it nonetheless did. Even her Focus was the amalgamation of at least three different fields of technology and theory. This wasn't even taking into account the operating system mentioned in the report that wasn't designed solely for the Focus.

Yet his eyes could not deny what he was reading and looking at.

It was with a trembling hand, not out of fear, but excitement, that he reached out and grabbed his phone. From memory he dialed in a number, before hitting the call button.

It rang only a few times before a younger female voice answered him.

"Good evening, Uppercrust, what can the Ambassadors do for you?"

"Good evening, Citrine. I'd like to speak with your boss," he then brought up the patent schematic and maximized it to dominate the entirety of his holographic 'window', "I'll wait."