Reality Intrudes


Part Eighteen: Circus Interrupt


[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


Morrigan


Coil is a great font of information, though he's got an unfortunate tendency to become an unreliable narrator if he thinks he can get away with it. His problem is that I already know a lot of details, and I can tell when he's trying to split off a simulation; a sharp smack upside the head discourages both kinds of behaviour. Not for long, however. He's nothing if not persistent.

However, after filtering out all the bullshit and obfuscation, I am left with a lot of very useful data. Coil's got a longer reach, and more people in places of influence, than anyone else in the city credits him with. To put it in the vernacular, he's got a great many fingers in a great many pies, and all of those fingers are sticky as fuck.

"So, what made you do it?" I ask in a lull while I'm thinking up more questions and he's thinking up more ways to lie to me. "Why did you go into crime? What's your win condition?"

It could be, after all, that he's just a misunderstood victim deep down, someone who's seeking to right a long-ago wrong. The Undersiders certainly turned out to be more than two-dimensional cutouts; I want to give their boss the chance to prove the same about himself. Instead, I get the best approximation of a blank stare that he can give me while wearing a morph suit.

"Power and influence," he says, as though these are cornerstones of the universe, and that I'm stupid for not understanding this from the get-go. "By the time I'm done, I'm going to be running the whole damn city. And if you're smart, you won't get in my way."

I've met people like this before, who are so enmeshed in their own personal view of how the world should work that they never stop to consider how other people might have a problem with that. And if someone does try to stop them, they're so used to having provisions in place to forestall any such interference that they will sometimes run headfirst off the cliff in the implicit belief that their machinations will somehow protect them from splatting on the rocks at the bottom. Even if any and all machinations have been long since removed.

Also, they're so enthralled by their own cleverness and ruthlessness, as if they're the only ones who ever figured out how to break the social contract and get ahead by stabbing other people in the back, that they can never conceive of someone else successfully doing the same to them.

Sucks to be him; nobody ever got ahead in the Matrix by being a pushover. We're always having to watch our backs, every second of the day. And while some Operatives are tougher than others, I like to think that I've successfully weaponised being an asshole.

Case in point: the number of complaints against me for any specific mission (and I've never failed one yet) can be taken as a reasonable gauge of just how hard that mission was to complete. When the going gets tough, I stop caring what people are going to think. Not that my care factor was ever that high in the first place.

"Okay, if you say so." I love that phrase; people like Coil think it means 'I surrender to your viewpoint' while what I'm actually saying is 'fuck you and the horse you rode in on'. "So, tell me about the Mayor's office. How many people there are being paid off by organised crime?"

He relaxes a little at that, and begins rattling off names. I'm pretty sure there's a few he's missing out that belong on his payroll, but that's not really something I'm concerned about. The picture he's painting, that Loki is recording for posterity, is complete enough for me.

That said, it's not a good picture overall. Brockton Bay, like Earth Bet, is in decline. It's not going to be a quick end, either. Slow and grinding, disguising the inevitable downward spiral with bursts of false hope here and there. There are just too many forces, too many agendas, aligned against anything that might give it a chance of eventual recovery.

It's not that anyone wants the city to go down the gurgler. But if my cynicism has taught me anything, it's that people are really good at letting greed blind them to the eventual downsides of what makes them money. And even if the danger signs are spotted before the point of no return is reached, they'll do everything they can to walk back whatever promises they're forced to make, just to drag out the profits for a little longer, all the while proclaiming that they're one hundred percent committed to fixing the situation.

The Earth Bet server as a whole has bigger problems. It's got its issues with politics and pollution, sure, but those things pale next to the whole 'Endbringers destroying a city every few months' aspect. Of course, you can rebuild eventually, and maybe you can even rehouse the surviving population in the meantime, but it gets harder and harder to return matters to status quo if it keeps on happening. Worse, while I have zero direct information about the intentions or agenda of the Mainframe sub-program that set up the server, the situation to date isn't making me overly optimistic.

In a nutshell: it could be doing a hell of a lot more to keep the problems in line, and it's not.

But I'm not focusing on the big picture right now. My mission is to get an in-depth analysis of how Brockton Bay ticks. We need a beachhead; like it or not, this gang-ridden shithole of a city is what we've been given to build it out of.

When I get up out of Coil's amazingly comfortable computer chair, he does his best not to look like a problem. Unfortunately for him, I know damn well he's had a good look at Taylor's face. If he's anywhere near as vindictive as I suspect he is, he's been memorising her appearance, down to the placement of individual hair follicles. He will totally try to find her, so as to inflict all sorts of retribution; that, I will not allow for several reasons.

"Well, thanks for the help." I turn to head for the door, then pause. "Quick question: what happened to the guys who built this place, after it was completed and you didn't need them anymore?" I flash him a smile. "Don't bother lying to me. I'm pretty sure I know. Well, this is for them." Leaning over, I press a single key on his computer keyboard. As the computer lets out the ominous 'self-destruct countdown beginning' beep, I unplug the keyboard and head out the door with it.

It takes a moderately determined adult less than a minute to escape from zip-ties, if they know how. I actually used two for his wrists and another two for his ankles, but I'm going to assume that he's really fucking desperate, and gets it done in thirty seconds or less. Having tossed the keyboard over the side of the catwalk—the idea wasn't to have a keyboard, it was to make sure Coil didn't have a keyboard—I'm sprinting for the exit.

Taylor's not all that fit (at least, she didn't used to be, before the emergency upload), but that doesn't matter in the slightest. Right now, with me in full Matrix cheat mode, an Olympic runner would be trailing in my dust. I make it to the exit in twenty seconds, and I've got my leg over Armsmaster's bike in twenty-five.

The self-destruct goes off just as I'm peeling out of the parking garage. I have to say, Coil didn't stint on the boom-stuff when it came to lacing his Bond villain base with it. Between the bike's gyro-stabilising and my Matrix-aided reflexes, I stay upright, but anyone else would've been kissing asphalt. The parking garage collapses behind me in a huge cloud of concrete dust, before the entire partially constructed skyscraper gradually topples over to crash down on top of the whole mess.

I don't quite ride out of the exploding fireball like an avenging angel on two wheels, but the street does buckle slightly so I accelerate up the ramp thus formed and get some air time; that'll have to do for the moment. There's a momentary temptation to pop a wheelie when I land, which I totally indulge. Because why the fuck not.

As my front wheel hits the ground again and I cruise away into the cool night air, I take the time to appreciate the golden moment. For me, it's the interval between when I've just fucked up something that really deserved it, and the inevitable arrival of the forces of law and order (usually including Agents, which I'm still not counting out yet). It's also just preceding the point when I usually jack out, to be yelled at for whatever mayhem I've caused this time around.

Fortunately, I've still got stuff to do, so hopefully the Captain will have a little time to cool down before I'm face to face with her again. Specifically, I've got to dump Armsy's bike someplace the PRT will find it, then get Taylor home safely again.

On the downside, at some point I'm going to have to check in about the information I got from Coil, and if I hold off anymore, they'll know I'm stalling. With a sigh—Captain Hornblower's almost certainly going to get some pre-yelling in on me—I pull my phone out and make the call.

"Holy shit, Monobrow." Loki's voice is bubbling with mirth. "You've outdone yourself for sure now. How many millions of dollars' worth of property damage is that, anyway?"

"Meh, call it civic improvement. Besides, why would he go to all the effort of having a self-destruct installed if he didn't want to see it used? This way, he totally got his money's worth out of it." Well, that's one way to look at it, anyway.

"Morrigan." Now it's the Captain; my finely tuned pissiness sense picks up that she may be a tad upset with me. "Is there any other possible way you could have done that without attracting quite so much attention?"

I'm also fully aware that she's just posed a rhetorical question, but one of my joys in life involves answering such questions as if they'd been asked in total seriousness. Among other reasons, this reduces the number of rhetorical questions asked of me by a significant amount. It also irritates the fuck out of people, but that aspect has never truly bothered me.

"Sure thing, ma'am." I shrug, fully aware she can see me on the screen. "I could've shot him in the head or some other vital area, or stabbed him or garrotted him, but leaving his base intact raised the possibility that someone else coming in could've set off the self-destruct with a lot more casualties. The most effective way of rendering a bomb harmless is to set it off, and this way no innocents were harmed. Also, I felt this was a 'live by the sword' teaching moment. Not that he had long to appreciate the lesson, but it's not a perfect world."

From the Captain's snort, she's not buying it for a second. "We both know that you wanted to set that thing off from the moment you learned about it. I do take your point about excess casualties, though. It could've been a lot worse, and there weren't many ways you could alert their PRT to the danger without exposing yourself to more official scrutiny than you're already going to be under." She leaves unsaid the fact that after boosting Armsmaster's ride, they're not going to be welcoming me with open arms any time soon. Or rather, handcuffs are likely to be involved in any 'welcome' they want to inflict on me.

"Also," I point out as though I haven't just thought of this, "there's no way I could've scrubbed his system of every instance of Taylor's face. Better to turn it into individual bits and pieces, buried under a million tons of rubble."

"Yes, yes, we get it." Captain Hornblower sounds like she's already getting over her irritation. "There were many good reasons to blow that base sky-high. I'll make sure the paperwork reflects that you only had the best intentions in mind. What's your next move?"

"Captain," objects Loki. "With all due respect, this is a huge potential mistake. Morrigan is a dangerous loose cannon. Her record is full of—"

I hide a grin as the Captain cuts Loki off at the pass. She's switched off her own mic, but I can hear her through Loki's headset loud and clear. "I'm fully aware of Morrigan's record. I know exactly what she's capable of. Her out-of-the-box mindset is why she's on this mission. Your level of adaptability and capability as an operator is why you're on this mission. But if you truly believe you can't work with her in a professional capacity, I can and will remove you from that duty, even if I have to put on the headset myself. Do I make myself clear?"

The pause before Loki's answer tells me that he's having to metaphorically carve out the pound of flesh nearest his heart before he answers in the affirmative. I could tell him that there are people in this city who'd be happy to do it to him for real (or whatever passes for 'real' in the Matrix), but that might make him decide to do the stupid thing out of spite, and I figure the Captain's got enough on her plate as it is. "Sure thing, Captain. Crystal clear. If Morrigan can handle it, I can handle it."

I give it a beat so I can pretend I wasn't listening. "Okay, then, Captain. I'm thinking I'll hit the Merchants tomorrow. I know they're not really a gang like the others, but nobody else has much influence in that area, and I want to get a read on them too. Also, they're jerks. But right now, I've got to get Taylor home so we can both get our beauty sleep."

"That's understandable," she says. "You're the operative on the ground. But if you could keep the body count to a minimum, it'll make my paperwork much easier when I make my report to the powers that be."

"You're the captain, Captain." I'm not quite being flippant, but it's pretty damn close. "But just saying, the bad guys might not want to cooperate. So if they come at me, I will put them down."

'Minimum', we both know, doesn't mean 'zero'. Sometimes, it just means 'oh well, I tried'. If I ever have a gravestone, I don't want it to read 'at least she fought fair'. In combat, nice guys end up six feet under, and that's not going to be me.

"Copy that. I'll see you when you jack out." She cuts the call off then, and I put the phone away.

I can almost relax now, cruising on Armsmaster's bike through the back streets of Brockton Bay. The first sirens are just barely audible, all zeroing in on the massive pile of rubble that used to be Coil's base. They're gonna be hustling to get there ASAP, so they'll be using the main roads and depending on their sirens to make everyone else get out of the way.

All of which means I've got a clear run to get relatively close to Taylor's house before I dump the bike and send the PRT an anonymous message telling Armsy where to pick it up. It's a little bit of a pity to have to let it go, but I'm almost sure that Danny won't let Taylor keep it in the basement. Maybe Hookwolf's got one; after I finish kicking the shit out of him for Resting Bitch Face, I'll relieve him of his ride. And I won't even give it back, so there.

Hey, I like dogs too. The fact that the Machines wiped them all out might not be the number one reason why we kicked their asses, but it's definitely up there. So I'll kick Hookworm's ass just on general principles. Being a Nazi is bad enough, but being a Nazi who hurts dogs is just totally unforgiveable on every level.

Just as I'm considering that point, something small and dark but with a bright spark attached flies down out of the shadows right in front of me. I've got just enough time to pop a wheelie before it explodes with impressive force, right where my front wheel would've been. The bike shields me from most of the explosion, but it's thrown up and backward all the same.

Even as it goes irrevocably out of control, I'm bailing out. Ironically, the explosion cancels out nearly all of its forward momentum, so I'm not gonna be risking meat crayon status when I touch down. I go high and wide, pulling Whitey McWhiteface's pistols as I somersault through the air, using the motion to get myself a full three-sixty scan of my surroundings, including who threw that damn bomb. Also, who the fuck uses bombs with fuses anymore?

Tracking the minuscule smoke-trail back to its origin would be basically impossible for anyone else, but my eyes follow it upward anyway. It leads me right to where the clown-costumed form is parkouring down from the nearest rooftop. I would've spotted them anyway in another moment, but this saves me a little time.

To my eyes, all the stupid costumes the capes in this town make them look like clowns, but this one's really trying for the look. My recollection of the costume makes this one Circus, which is totally fitting. The only other thing I remember in the heat of the moment is that nobody's quite sure if it's a girl or a guy inside that costume.

Not that I care, one way or the other. Even if Taylor weren't underage, I'm not exactly chasing a romance inside the Matrix, and not just because Loki would be looking over my shoulder the whole time. I'm more interested in stopping them from placing me at ground zero for another one of those damned bombs.

I've already picked out my landing spot, so I level the left-hand pistol toward Circus, but just as I squeeze the trigger, they twist out of the way of the bullet. I'm actually impressed: that's a trick I've pulled myself more than once. My right-hand pistol angles in their direction, but just as I fire, they bounce off a fire escape, changing direction altogether.

I touch down then, landing on my feet and taking two running steps before bringing myself to a halt. My left-hand pistol is just coming into line when Circus throws two knives at me: one at where I am, and one at where I'm most likely to dodge to. I'm not entirely sure where they got the knives from, unless they've got sheaths up inside those poofy sleeves.

But I lean into the Matrix and shift my weight in the other direction, so the first knife skims past and the second misses by a wide margin. On the downside, my aim's been thrown off, which was probably the whole intention. On the upside, Circus now has two fewer knives on their person.

Regaining my footing, I bring both pistols around to target them, just as they do something funky with spacetime and suddenly they're holding two more of those bombs with the fizzing fuses. That's not sleight of hand; I know sleight of hand. What I just saw was Matrix bullshit.

Acting on instinct, I shoot both bombs before Circus can throw them at me. They're almost fast enough to get rid of them before I get the shots off; the bombs come apart into fragments about two feet from their hands. The lit fuses contact the cloud of powder, and there's a BOOOM that ragdolls them across the street. By the time the shockwave hits me, it's strong enough to make my coat flare out, but that's about it. No shrapnel worth talking about, which I'm perfectly okay with.

I come in fast, which is fortunate, because Circus is already shaking it off when I get there. One leg scythes around to try to take me off my feet, but I see it coming and evade. The move almost distracts me from their hands, but this time I see it happening.

When Circus reaches out in a certain way, the numbers change. In one hand, a Zippo lighter reforms from digital storage, while in the other it's a comically oversized hammer with streamers hanging off it. I'm not sure what they intend to do with those things, but the phrase 'nothing good' is bouncing around in my head.

Of the two items, I decide the hammer is more dangerous, so I kick out at their hand to disarm them of it. I'm disabused of that notion when they flick the lighter, then purse their lips and blow a huge plume of flame at me.

As I limbo under it, I decide that Circus is really, really irritating.

In other words, just like me.

They'd definitely make a good Matrix operative.

But that isn't winning this fight. I shoot the handle of the hammer, just above and below their hand. Then I kick the lighter out of their other hand. While they're still reacting to the hammer being reduced to a stick, I lay my backfist alongside their jaw. With the weight of the pistol behind it, that smack puts Circus on the ground, unconscious.

I've already investigated the storage panniers on the Armscycle, and I grab a couple of flex-cuffs to secure Circus with. There's even a metal cage I can erect on the back to put them in, which I do. Then I jump back on and head off once more. It's running a bit rougher than before, but it's still going, which I consider to be a testament to his bullshit mad-scientist tinker bullshit. (And yes, I said 'bullshit' twice. That was deliberate.)

Despite my best efforts to help it along, the bike dies just off Lord Street, about six blocks from Taylor's home. I park it, write a note for Armsmaster, reconnect the one homing beacon I left on the bike, and set out on foot. By the time I hear the incoming sirens, I'm well away from the area.

The house is quiet and still as I let myself in through the back door, Danny's soft snoring uninterrupted. I ease down into the basement and stash my gear, then come back up and take a quick shower. "Well," I say softly as I prepare for bed. "Time for me to go. I hope you had fun. See you again soon."

Climbing into bed, I pull the covers over myself and open my phone.

"Operator." For once, Loki has no commentary to give.

Nor do I. "Pull me out."

And I'm yanked back up out of the rabbit-hole.


Miss Militia


By the time Hannah got to the site, Armsmaster was already there, glaring at the bike and its involuntary prisoner. His anger wasn't overly surprising; he was wearing a backup helmet with less functionality, and the bike was impressively dented and scratched. But at least it was (mostly) intact.

"Hi," she said quietly. "How are you doing?"

"She handled me like a rag doll, then stole my bike," he gritted. "How do you think I feel? And then there's this." He handed her a note.

Her eyes widened as she read it.


Hi, Armsy.

Thanks for the loaner. Vroom-vroom goes fast. Sorry about the dings. I'm sure they'll buff right out. Anyway, here's a peace offering. They did most of the damage.

In case you're wondering about the big boom and rubble and stuff, Coil's under all that. His Bond villain base had a self-destruct. Sorry, not sorry.

Morrigan (but you can call me Bandit, I don't mind)

PS: Coil was Thomas Calvert. Don't say I never did anything for you.


"Well," she said. "Um." Her eyes fell on Circus, who was glowering just as intensely as Armsmaster was. She wasn't even sure what to say about that.

This was going to be one hell of an interesting write-up.


End of Part Eighteen