Brockton Bay had never been a quiet city. Ever since its dual founding by Brock and Lord, the port city had been a hotbed of activity and factional violence. For most residents, the last two bouts of quietude had both involved the Marquis, first when he drove out the Slaughterhouse 9 after they couldn't force him to break his code and second when he was captured by the Brockton Bay Brigade. The Bad Old Days had given way to the Bad New Days, wherein the Bay wasn't in as much danger of outright extinction with the departure of the Teeth, but slowly limped toward death while Lung, Coil and the Empire picked the city apart and the Merchants steadily poisoned it.
Now, for the first time in a decade, the city had grown quiet once again. Everyone held their breath, nervous to see what new hell would be unleashed upon their home. In the aftermath of Wolf Day, crime was at an all-time low. The Empire hadn't been seen, Lung was missing, the Merchants were dead and Coil had been annihilated in a storm of lightning. Even perpetual pests Uber and Leet hadn't poked up their heads, and the few incidents of strange vagrant violence were put down primarily by Owl – who still lurked the dockyards like some kind of dark angel.
For those outside of Brockton, the recent events necessitated a response. For the Gessellschaft, one of their assets slipping the leash demanded redress. Krieg might still fly the colors, but this wasn't simply about Empire 88 maintaining a presence: it was about loyalty, and punishing those who shirk duty. The Gessellschaft had not become one of the major political and paramilitary forces in Europe through simple brute-force tactics, however. Their upper echelons understood the human animal, the human machine, better than nearly anyone else living. Bloodmoon and her subordinates were an unknown, and an unfathomable power. Certainly, they might be able to coax the Three Blasphemies to take a trip, but the Blasphemies' greatest achievements included 'not dying to the Triumvirate.' Bloodmoon had handily (and almost singlehandedly) defeated an opponent which regularly stymied not just the Triumvirate but hundreds of powerful parahumans all at once. Information needed to be gathered.
And so, under the cover of night, several small fishing boats set out ostensibly to fish for crab. Roughly a week later they would arrive across the Atlantic, also under cover of night, to begin gathering firsthand information. Cross-referencing IP addresses, there were a few frequent posters on Parahumans Online who lived in Brockton Bay and seemed to have insight on Bloodmoon and Wolf Day. They would be good targets for interrogation, human machines to be dismantled.
––––––––––
For Accord, Bloodmoon represented chaos. Specifically, the Chinese write out 'Chaos' with a pair of characters: 'danger' and 'opportunity'. Under normal circumstances, chaos was never desirable. It represented an upheaval of order, an undoing of expectation, more work for him. However, all of Brockton Bay's criminal gangs had been excised or decapitated in a matter of weeks. In that upheaval, order could be restored. He resented Coil's death, certainly – the man had been a worthwhile asset and a decent conversational partner. However, if the information he'd managed to compile was at all accurate (and of course it was), Coil had brought it on himself by tampering with things man ought not know. Unless and until evidence was presented to the contrary, Accord was willing to entertain the idea that parahuman powers came from eldritch outer beings. Certainly the powers were not natural, no result of normal human evolution. How many ancient cautionary tales ended with the protagonist suffering eternally for learning what he was not prepared to know? Accord valued information, but information was useless if gaining it meant the loss of one's life or mind.
He tapped his intercom. "Have Citrine sent to me."
In a matter of minutes – punctuality was a virtue Accord would defend to the death, after all – the beautiful and elegant Citrine entered. Her shimmering yellow-orange dress nearly brushed the floor, her crystalline mask shimmered. "What did you need me for, sir?" She didn't bother with pleasantries: they wasted time. Respect and politeness were valuable, extraneous words were not.
"Brockton Bay represents an opportunity," he replied crisply. "Select fewer than ten people: they will be your attaches on this endeavor. You are to travel to Brockton Bay and see if the new power bloc commanded by Bloodmoon is amenable to an alliance. Be open with our goals: she clearly despises criminals. If she is not, emphasize that we will not stand in her way. To do so is clearly suicidal." That great of power, collaborating with him on the Plan...they could truly save the world.
Citrine couldn't hide the working of her throat as she swallowed. "Do you have any recommendations as to how we should approach her, sir? As you say, she despises criminals and we are of a known gang. I understand that she is open to diplomacy, but still I can't help feeling nervous." She wouldn't dare question or second-guess Accord, not if she valued her life, but she could certainly ask for as much help as he'd offer.
Accord shifted in his chair, padded and jacked-up to offset his meager height and help him be visible behind his desk. "I recommend being direct. Address that we work outside the law because we cannot get the bureaucracy to address actual human concerns. She likewise kills criminals when the law demands they be spared, because she recognizes the destruction these people bring. Be entirely forthright about my Plan. Bring a copy, in fact. Other than that, use your discretion. I chose you because you are good with people. You can understand them, intuit their needs. Bloodmoon is not an asset to be acquired, but a potential ally and at the very least a force we wish not to antagonize."
Citrine smiled a bit at that. It was difficult not to be proud when one of the smartest men alive, with a literal plan to save the world, complimented her on her abilities. "I will see it done, sir."
Dismissing her, Accord turned to his computer. This particular Plan got more complicated each time he had to use it, but the PRT's networks still hadn't been rendered impenetrable to him yet. He wrote up an email to Director Armstrong, alerting the man that he could make successful raids on both Blasto and the Teeth within the next week, as both groups were planning to head into Brockton Bay with the majority of their heavy hitters.
With that finished, he put on music, a compilation of Beethoven's mathematically-crafted symphonies, while he began theorizing alterations to the Plan in the wake of Citrine's success or failure.
(BREAK)
Sophia Hess had never expected to be invited to someone's house for dinner. Emma had invited her over, sure, but the girl knew Sophia wasn't the kind of person to deal with pleasantries like that and they had mostly spent time in Emma's room. Unfortunately. Miriam and Henry Veder had pressured their son, and Sophia couldn't stand the expression he gave her, a kicked puppy expecting to be disappointed. So, damn her eyes (and his!), she'd caved and said yes.
Now that she saw both parents, she could say Greg's looks were a hybrid. Henry Veder was skinny and a bit lanky like his wife and son, taller than Greg, with straight-backed posture reminiscent of the military or PRT. While Greg's face was clearly a fusion of his parents, the boy got most of his mannerisms and posture from his mother. Greg's dad wasn't around much, working to keep them living in comfort. It wasn't the same, but Sophia felt some level of kinship with Greg on the point of missing paternal figures.
Of course, Sophia had a good idea why the Veders had insisted on this dinner, and why only her rather than including Taylor. Miriam had it in her mind that Sophia and Greg were dating, or at least had a mutual crush. And so here she sat, in a nice blouse and jeans, hair straightened and pulled back into a ponytail, eating lemon-baked chicken on a bed of couscous.
"Greg's always a little shy when it comes to talking about school," Miriam said in a conciliatory tone. "What do you do at school, Sophia? Any favorite subjects or extracurricular activities?"
Ugh, it sounded so rehearsed. The lady had probably practiced it in the mirror. Extracurricular activities? She bit down her first reply. She and Greg had been through too much for her to bring this crashing down on him like that. "Well, I run track and I'm in an after-school club, sort of a Big Brothers, Big Sisters kinda thing. I do some mixed martial arts and tutor in it a bit." A decent lie. "I've been teaching Greg to fight recently."
Henry quirked a brow at that. "Is he a good student?" The man's voice was deep, a bit unnaturally so. He'd likely been forced to learn to speak deeper, to boom over military crowds.
Greg smiled sheepishly. Sophia didn't miss a beat. "He's no genius but he's better than a lot of people I've tutored. Picks stuff up pretty quickly and doesn't complain when I tag him. I prefer to teach full-contact: it shows you what it really feels like to get hit and to land a hit."
Something rustled outside, a tree branch scraping the window. It took all of Sophia's control not to whip her head toward it. She didn't want to send the wrong message to Greg's family, have them thinking she was dangerous. She… Sophia realized she didn't want Greg to be forbidden from spending time with her.
"I'm glad to hear it," Henry Veder smiled. "I signed Greg up for Taekwondo when he was younger but he never really liked it. Do you have a base style?"
"I'm light and a girl, so I rely on wing chun for speed and impact. Then some tai-chi for dodging, savate, and Old English grappling if all else fails." She saw the exact moment she'd fucked up. Everything else had Veder nodding along, but the last mention, about grappling, was out of left field. French kickboxing made sense for a girl, but that grappling...where would she have found a teacher? How would she apply the weight and pressure? Of course, when she could turn to shadow and slip around to lock a hold, it was much easier. Henry regarded her with a bit of suspicion now.
Miriam felt her husband's mood shift. Craftier than she'd normally appear, she changed the subject while trying to process what exactly twinged Henry's instincts. "Well I have to say you've been a good influence on Greg. He's been making more friends – that Taylor girl seems sweet – and he's been more confident and focused on school overall."
"I don't know how much credit I can take for that," Sophia replied. "Greg's a smart guy, and he's better with people than I am. I guess he just needed that little push?" The compliments came easily and she realized they came so easily because she meant them.
A crunch. This time Sophia let her head whip around. That sounded like a shoe on dirt, someone trying to crouch. "...Do you have a nighttime gardener?"
"No, why?" Miriam was aware that something was possibly wrong, but hadn't caught up just yet. Henry was already standing.
"You hear it too?" Sophia asked.
"No, but I know what it looks like when the lookout hears something," Henry replied smoothly. "What'd you hear?"
She'd address how easily he'd made her later. "Shoe on dirt. Somebody crouching, outside that window I think."
The Veder parents looked at each other and nodded, Miriam dashing upstairs. Greg had been too young to really remember the last time they'd practiced for the event of a home-invasion, but his mother and father still recalled the steps.
Another crunch and thunk, a rock slipping under someone's foot. The upside: they weren't terribly well-trained. The downside: this person was on the other side of the house, meaning this was a planned attack. As Miriam came down with a shotgun and a zipper-pouch of ammunition for her husband, Sophia pulled out her work phone and held down the Emergency button. "New plan," she announced. "They're coming from multiple sides. Wherever you have your hideout planned, go there now. Greg, give me your shirt."
The boy stammered but she roughly snapped her fingers at him. "Now, Veder!" He shrugged it off and passed it over, and she quickly got to work in twisting it to make a makeshift Shemagh. "Call Taylor. I'm calling for help but I guarantee she can get here first." She turned to Henry. "Where do you keep your best knives?"
The Veder patriarch was confused. "I'm sorry?"
"Knives," she repeated, more insistent. "The sharper and longer, the better. Guns don't work for me." She tied the shirt around her head to obscure her features. The powder and residue from gunshots could get mixed in with her when she shadowed around, and it made her feel sick.
Various suspicions about who she was raged in Henry Veder's mind, but he decided to ask later. He directed Sophia to the butcher block in the kitchen, which had its own knife rack. Sophia plucked the largest carving and steak knives, holding them underhand and testing their balance.
While Greg pulled out his phone to dial the Hebert household and Henry escorted his family back upstairs, Sophia answered her work phone. "Yes. Location is accurate. Expected home invasion. Planned. At least two, one at the front and one at the back." She saw one shadow at the front window, another at the door as the handle began to rattle. "At least three," she amended to the operator on the other end of the call.
––––––––––
While dinners at the Hebert home were more comfortable than they had been, they were still quiet affairs. Neither Danny nor Taylor really understood how to communicate with the other. Danny had so many things he wanted to ask, about Taylor's role in the riot, how she got so muscular, what was happening. But he was afraid of losing her, of chasing her away. That fear kept him silent while he stewed in how best to address all of this.
Calls were rare enough that the phone blaring to life mid-meal saw Danny decide to get up and answer it. "Danny Hebert speaking."
"Mr. Hebert?" The boy on the other end sounded breathless and distressed. "It's Greg. Ah, Veder. Could you put Taylor on? It's important!"
"Sure, what's wrong?" he asked as he gestured Taylor over. Hopefully he could get a bit of the story from the boy first.
"Long story, no time. Please, it's urgent!" The desperation in his voice made Danny wince. What could the boy need Taylor for so intensely?
Danny passed the phone over, trying to strain his ears and listen in. His daughter had an expression of curiosity, but not the mild worry that creased his own features.
"Hello?" she asked. "Greg? Yeah. What's wrong?" Her worry suddenly turned stoic, her face carved of marble. "I'll be right there. Sit tight." She hung up, then took a heavy breath before turning to her father.
Taylor's eyes felt like they were burning through him, the gentle hazel a swirled mix of his and Annette's irises. "...I've wanted to talk with you about things for a while, Dad. I didn't know where to start, how to start. I was afraid...afraid I'd scare you off." It was shocking how much that mirrored his own worries. "We'll have to talk about this later. For now, just don't be scared."
Her pupils pinched, deforming like the eyeballs of an octopus. Danny had seen a cuttlefish up close once, when his old man had caught one and hauled it aboard their old fishing boat. The creature had been strange, it confused him how the thing even survived. But those eyes had looked at him with far too much intelligence behind them.
Taylor stepped forward through a sudden curtain of mist, and Bloodmoon smoothly strode to the kitchen window, opening it up and climbing outside. She stooped down behind the old tree, the same one where she used to sit in her mother's lap as Annette would read to her. Bloodmoon reached out and touched something Danny couldn't see, before swirling in on herself and vanishing.
Danny Hebert collapsed to the floor, panting heavily, feeling like his head was going to split open. His Taylor, his baby girl...was Bloodmoon? His daughter had defeated the Simurgh? His Taylor had ended Wolf Day?
"God, Taylor," he whispered to himself. "How did this happen? How did I not see?"