(Author's note: Short interlude this week as I didn't have enough writing time for a full chapter, but was able to expand upon one of the preambles I had planned for this week. We'll get back to Joe and rolls next chapter.)
45.1 Interlude Uppercrust
Uppercrust sat in the back of the town car watching through the tinted window as the scenery of the more prosperous area of the city slipped past. Traffic was light and the streets were calm. You could almost believe things were normal. It was an unusual experience following such a brutal attack. Usually that level of destruction would completely traumatize the average citizens. He'd expected hollow-faced and directionless shells wandering the streets or throwing themselves into recovery efforts, not a seeming return to normal operations the morning after a disaster.
All together it didn't say anything particularly complimentary about the character of the city, though he doubted that would be relevant to his upcoming meeting. He couldn't say he regretted the fact that operations were resuming so quickly, particularly if he was going to stay and complete his work, but it was concerning. With the type of projects he oversaw, he normally saw cities before disaster, not after. But the nature of his systems meant he needed to stay apprised of the impact a major disaster had on a city. Usually, it wasn't anything like this.
As cynical as the thought was, he blamed the class divide. Well, not just class. From what he understood, the area known as the Docks has been culturally diverging from the rest of the city for at least a decade now. It was less a region of Brockton Bay than an under or unrepresented neighboring district that was more tolerated than embraced. You saw regional rivalries often enough, you just needed to look at the Five Boroughs for that, but there was at least a sense of connection. Without the faint haze of smoke in the air blowing in from the north of the city you could think nothing had happened. Honestly, for most of the residents of this half of the city, nothing had. At least nothing worse than a little water damage on their favorite seaside shops.
But he wasn't here to analyze the civic divide that had developed in Brockton Bay. Knowing about it was important, but only in the present sense. He had seen enough cities in his work to have become adept at pulling key details to the situation. That said, he'd had more than enough time to sift through the relevant data. Thinking over the situation, he felt a sense of burning impatience. Not the most professional of outlooks, but one he needed to live with. The treatment, or at least the prime benefits of the treatment wouldn't last long, and grew shorter with every subsequent attempt.
He stretched slightly in the roomy backseat. That feeling, the lack of pain, of absence of the mounting deterioration that had defined his existence for so long, it was practically intoxicating. He wanted to push himself, to take advantage of the state, but he knew well enough to restrain himself. The damage was still there. He was feeling comparative health, not any kind of absolute recovery. And it was getting worse.
It was always getting worse. The pressing nature of how it had gotten worse had led him to obtain his powers, and the condition had never really improved. Treatments were becoming less effective, harder to obtain, and more expensive.
Though he couldn't really blame Scapegoat for that. The boy had been a lifeline for him and he appreciated it, even if that lifeline was drying up. William had put up with more for his sake than anyone his age should ever have to. The inflated prices of his services were understandable, and he sincerely hoped the revels the boy indulged in following such treatments could make up for the hours he had to endure. Considering the money involved, Uppercrust liked to think so. There was all kinds of entertaining trouble a teenage boy could get up to with a small mountain of cash.
But really, it was most likely that it was Scapegoat's own medical past that made him willing to repeatedly endure such an experience. They had a common ground of medical based triggers, though at least Scapegoat's powers had allowed him to address the issues Uppercrust had struggled with. It was a point of connection with someone half Uppercrust's age, and probably a welcome one given how much they had seen each other. Honestly, swapping medical jokes was about the best way they had to pass the time. At that thought a particularly sore one jumped into his mind.
The doctor walks in and says 'Do you want the good news or the bad news?'. Classic setup, really. The patient asks for the good news. The doctor replies 'The good news is we're naming a disease after you.'
Things weren't exactly that bad in Uppercrust's case, but it was close enough for the joke to sting. Words like 'unique variance' and 'esoteric expression' were not the kind of thing you wanted defining your medical status. As much as he could enjoy the brief reprieve from his condition, it was always there, looming over him.
It was no wonder the treatments were getting more expensive and less effective. He could afford it, there wasn't an issue there. His margins were tighter than most people assumed, but given the cost of his systems that still left him and his cell supremely well off. No, the problem was that Scapegoat was having a harder time healing him. It was taking more effort for worse results, and he knew what that meant.
Scapegoat worked by searching for alternate versions of a person without the ailment in question. Obviously that was a simpler matter for something like a broken leg than for a congenital disorder. The reason for the reduced effectiveness of treatments was clear. There were fewer versions of Uppercrust that had survived as long as he had, and the ones that did were in worse health. He was riding the edge of the bell curve in terms of survival, but there was no escaping the full weight of what was bearing down on him.
Or so it seemed. He shifted his attention from the window back to the briefing notes that had been prepared overnight by analysts back in New York and delivered to his assistants. Apeiron was a long shot, but one he was willing to place a heavy bet on. There would be some contention with the other directors of the Elite over taking this action unilaterally, but the alternative was clear. The directors were already circling each other, forming power blocs and alliances, ready to exploit the vacuum that his absence would create. That was enough reason to act, lest a brute like Bastard Son rise to prominence and roll back more than a decade of his work.
And if this gamble didn't pay off, well, there was enough potential in this city to make up for anything he had spent in terms of time or resources. Even without getting into the power rebalancing playing out in the local underworld, the city had potential. Prominent business opportunities, multiple rogue prospects and, most interestingly, the highly unpublicized New Wave girl. Without her own entanglement with Apeiron she might have escaped notice, but part of the extensive analysis directed at her had brought the full scope of the girl's abilities into the national spotlight. Possibly the only reason they had escaped notice so far was her refusal to take requests and technical inability to offer her services for payment, at least until her upcoming sixteenth birthday.
Unfortunately, it appeared those abilities would not be a solution to his own issues. A Manton limit on affecting cerebral tissue was both unusual and unfortunate. While she might be able to address some aspects of his deterioration, it wouldn't be the magic bullet he and his organization needed. For that he would need Apeiron.
It was a long shot. Hoping for the help of a biotinker was a nebulous prospect. Most were too limited, too unstable, or too untrustworthy to be worth the attempt. He knew from experience. Before Scapegoat became his primary source of medical treatment he had scoured every possibility, to the point of even independently analyzing some of Bonesaw's work in hope of finding a spark of inspiration. It was a cruel irony that his own specialization was so removed from any application that would be able to address his condition. Able to provide security for millions of people, but unable to save himself.
The click of the car's intercom jarred him out of his musings. "We're approaching the PRT building. I have pre-cleared with security, and we are being directed to the main garage."
"Thank you Jacob." He replied with the press of a button. He idly shuffled away his documents and adjusted items of his costume as the town car turned off the main road towards the garage access of the local PRT headquarters. The costume was exquisite and befitting of his cape moniker. It was also precisely cut to conceal the effects of his deterioration. Gangly limbs covered in embroidered fabric. A precisely cut coat to present definition that had long since departed his torso. Even a mask that was subtly altered to hide hollow cheeks and sunken eyes.
A glance up as they approached the entrance provided an ironic counterpoint to his own physical state. The damage from the recent attacks was still highly visible, including some hasty repairs that had been put in place to restore access to the garage. Part of the specific targeting of the wave of attacks that also triggered the blackout. The ABB had been able to lock down most of the PRT response until their accessway had been cleared. Probably evidence of excessive centralization for a city this size, but once again, he wasn't here to address that.
Inside the PRT building the mood was as far from the peaceful streets as could be imagined. A near constant flow of troopers, vehicles, and technicians buzzed around them. Jacob was carefully directed to a less active section of the garage by haggard looking officers who proceeded with the required checks of their identification and equipment.
After presenting their clearance papers once again Jacob opened the passenger door, letting the smell of gasoline, motor oil, and human sweat waft into the car. Uppercrust climbed out of the vehicle with as much dignity as possible, but the effort was enough to completely convince him of the error of his earlier feelings of vitality. He brought his cane down to the asphalt, triggering the support fields that had let him avoid the need for a wheelchair. Custom fitted energy sheaths gripped his body, reinforcing what his condition had allowed to fail. It eased the strain of standing, but brought additional attention from the PRT agent handling their entry.
All in all, his work was prompt enough, and there was no actual derision in the man's behavior. At least none that couldn't be attributed to the conditions the entire department had been recently working under. Still, Uppercrust found himself annoyed. All of his gear had been pre-cleared several times over and was thoroughly documented at the national level. Also, he noted that the parking bay they had been directed to was in a remote corner of the garage. Understandable given the situation, but if he were in an all-too-common worse state of health it would have been enough to turn the start this meeting into a trial.
After three layers of checks, the issuing of temporary identification, and the assignment of an escort they were on their way to the director's office. The agent accompanying them seemed aloof and impatient and Uppercrust found himself wondering if the director had even alerted her staff about the significance of the meeting.
It was interesting, trying to determine if this was intentional offense or mere oversight. Given the profile of Director Piggot it could very well be the use of one to justify the other. The expectation that everyone should bend over to accommodate her whims due to the disastrous situation present in the city. Also probably hoping that people would overlook that she had no small part in crafting said disaster. It spoke to a particular shade of arrogance that sat poorly with him.
He at least gave them credit for not attempting any juvenile power plays or having them wait outside the office. They had arrived precisely on time of a scheduled meeting. Given the effort necessary for him to attend one of these meetings he had no patience with any power plays over his schedule. Stories about the time he had left a city in response to such games had made the rounds. No doubt it painted him as something of a primadonna, but it had served to end any repeat of such an event.
As such they found the director and the active leader of the local Protectorate both waiting for them in the office. They were quickly shown in by the woman's assistant and Uppercrust found himself assessing the space within the office. Professional and functional, as was expected, though with some interesting details.
The arrangement of the guest chairs to the desk suggested the director engaged in more dressing downs than friendly chats during her work. In addition to the console on the impressive desk there was a wall of screens all displaying news or information feeds of various types. He noticed they were clearly within the view of the desk, but anyone in the seats would need to turn awkwardly to view them. Across from the wall of screens stood a full-length window showing the skyline view of the Downtown region. Uppercrust had to give her credit for not placing the window behind her for the purposes of cliché intimidation, but the space behind the director was otherwise committed.
A dialysis machine whirled away as Director Piggot focused on the stacks of documents that had been piled on her desk. Plastic tubes connected the woman's arm to the machine and there was just enough sense of motion in them to follow the action of the system.
Without glancing up the director addressed them. "Uppercrust, welcome to Brockton Bay. I'm sorry it couldn't be under better circumstances. Please have a seat, and excuse me for double booking this time. Recent events have thrown off my schedule somewhat."
He actually found himself smiling at the woman's tenacity. Miss Militia stood awkwardly next to the desk, far enough back to make her side clear without infringing on the director's space. A united front. Power plays, it always came back to them.
It was laughable that the director would think he would feel any apprehension around medical equipment, but deciding to conduct dialysis during their meeting was a ploy he had never seen before. He stepped forward while Jacob fell into place at the door of the office. When he reached halfway to the desk he adjusted the settings on his cane and brought it down to strike the carpeted floor.
There was a sparking sound that drew the director's gaze up from her paperwork. His body shimmered as support fields solidified around him. Instantly shaky muscles relaxed as the fields took their full weight. The layered effect functioned as medical brace, defensive system and even emergency life support.
And it saved him the awkwardness of having to transition to a chair and back out again.
"Completely understandable." He called to the director. The distance he was holding from the desk disrupted the careful arrangement of the room, causing the director to need to shift her focus to him and conveniently leaving the screens within his field of view, no twisting necessary, thank God, if she wanted to use them to present information. "Forgive me for not accepting your offer of a seat. I find them to be less agreeable with my condition."
The act seemed to throw off whatever plan the director had prepared, leaving a short silence before Miss Militia broke in. "Thank you for prioritizing your visit to our city. With the state of the Rig and the coastal defense systems it will mean a great deal to have your expertise."
"Indeed." He replied, glancing over at the interim leader. Perhaps it showed his age as a cape, or maybe it was just pride as a New Yorker, but he couldn't help but remember the time when the imposing woman flanking the director had been a slip of a girl in the lineup of the original wards. He quickly pulled himself back from the brief flight of nostalgia and shifted back to the director. "So many requests from so many cities. I wish I could stay ahead of them, but with the maintenance commitments and demand for new systems… Well, with my condition, I'm afraid it has thrown off my schedule somewhat."
The director's eyebrow twitched as the dialysis machine slowly worked behind her. "Then I must thank you for your commitment to your work. To insist on holding the time of this meeting in the face of everything that's happened demonstrates a level of dedication I wouldn't expect to see from outside the Protectorate."
"Why director, I would have assumed you would have been pleased with my decision to stay despite the state of recent events." He was sure to deliver it as an idle jab in conversation, but there was significance to that statement.
Getting into a city with an inoperable airport had been a trial that made him regret not commissioning Strider for the task. He was working with a skeleton staff in this city, less than half of which were parahumans. The arrangements for their accommodations had been a disaster, requiring changing hotels three times to find one able to accommodate his security concerns and house his staff on the same floor. All a consequence of the frenetic rush to deploy to the city.
And once he arrived he found himself greeted with a warzone worthy of an S-class threat, the warnings formally designating it such were conspicuously absent both during the event and its aftermath. Even sealed in his hotel rooms it had been a harrowing experience. He doubted he was the only tinker who understood how close the city had come to annihilation even before Lung entered the fray. Were this for any other cause and if he wasn't benefiting from a recent treatment he would most likely have abandoned the city as soon as it was safe to do so.
"Then I suppose I must thank you for your presence." She replied, managing to sound just neutral enough to avoid direct comment.
He smiled as he looked at the director. "If anything, you should apologize to Miami."
"Miami?" Director Piggot looked confused.
"Yes, they weren't happy about having the work on their systems delayed in favor of yours. Their last full test saw structural weaknesses in the secondary shields and a mounting delay in deployment time." He could phrase things neutrally as well. If the Brockton System had been tested the activation delays could have been recognized ahead of time and mitigated enough to allow their deployment. Coastal shields wouldn't have helped the northern half of the city, but they would have been able to shield the downtown from wave damage that was still evident closer to the shore.
"In that case, I'm sorry that Miami will need to endure in favor of more critical situations." Frustration was leaking into the director's tone, though Uppercrust found himself hard pressed to care.
"I find everyone has their own idea of what counts as a critical situation. Some would consider rush service after a major event to be closing the barn door after the horses have left, while the Anthropomancer stands convinced that Miami is a likely target for the next cycle of Endbringer activity." He kept his tone detached and official as he spoke, carefully watching Director Piggot's response.
"The opinions of crime lords are not of particular concern to me." She said with barely contained bitterness.
"Yes, I can see how well that kind of approach has played out." He responded. "Regardless, the Anthropomancer remains as invested in the safety of his city as anyone you could mention, to the point of leveraging considerable influence and resources towards its protection."
"I suppose you would be familiar with such things." Her lip turned down slightly as she spoke.
"Director Piggot, are you making any accusations regarding my legal status or conduct as a parahuman, or similar accusations towards my associates?" In the corner of his vision, he could see Jacob straighten slightly.
The woman shifted her considerable bulk, eliciting a concerned look from Miss Militia. "I think the actions and character of the Elite are well known and warrant no further discussion."
Uppercrust frowned. "My status, director. My actions, my businesses, my employees. Are you making an accusation against any of us?" It was more antagonistic than he wanted to go at this point in the discussion, but there were some things he couldn't let stand.
Miss Militia took half a step forward. "This is getting a little off topic. Perhaps we should focus on…"
The Director's hands struck the heavy surface of her desk, cutting the other woman off. "Formally? No, no accusations, as you know. As I know. You skate around that playing the benevolent tinker while consorting with gang leaders and providing cover for the rest of the Elite."
He narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on his cane. "Director, I am not some freshly triggered street cape who melts at first exposure to government authority. I provide an essential service, one crucial to the safety of millions of people, one conducted at great risk and importance beyond the scope any single city. I am willing to forgive much in light of recent events, but do not think you can act with impunity under the cover of disaster."
"Uppercrust, I'm sure the director…" The Protectorate leader petered out upon seeing her superior's expression. Possibly unconsciously, the weapon at her hip dissolved into a glowing mass that flickered behind the woman. Uppercrust saw Jacob's body tense in the corner of his eye and heard the crackle of electricity.
Piggot froze and then darted her hand towards the side of her desk. Quickly Uppercrust partially released his support fields and raised a hand in a halting gesture.
"My assistant has made a standard display of parahuman abilities. If you would be so good as to access his extensive documentation from the New York Protectorate power evaluation department you will find that galvanic discharge from ocular apertures is an expression of tension, not a sign of offensive power use. Now that these facts have been brought to light, should any action be taken against myself or my assistant I will respond with the full weight of all legal actions available to me."
The room was chillingly silent as his words sank in. The director shifted her attention to her computer console and navigated through some files. After a moment she turned and nodded towards Miss Militia.
"It appears that your staff has not been fully briefed on the capabilities of my assistant. Miss Militia, perhaps you could escort him to your local technicians to ensure your records are up to date." He addressed the woman in military garb.
"Sir?" Jacob asked from behind him.
"It will be fine. I believe a more candid discussion between myself and the director might be more productive." He replied without fully turning his head. His arm was beginning to ache, but he refrained from lowering it, instead turning to the director.
The blond woman turned to the cape by her side. "Go. A round of standard testing should take you to the end of our meeting. And besides," her eyes darted to his trembling hand, "I think I can manage things here."
The woman nodded and led Jacob from the room. As the door shut Uppercrust lowered his arm and reset the fields to full strength. There was a long moment as the two of them held a tense silence.
"Jacob's Ladder?" She finally asked.
Uppercrust felt himself relax slightly into the grip of his fields. "He's a good kid." He offered in defense. "Recent trigger, but dedicated."
"I'm sure." She replied. "But perhaps you would do better with a more experienced assistant in the future." There was a pause as the director curled an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, was something amusing."
"Director, I always endeavor to keep the most recent trigger in my employ as close as possible." He answered in an amused tone.
"Really?" She asked. "I presume you have some reason for that practice beyond introducing inexperienced capes into situations above their abilities."
He ignored the slight on Jacob and smiled slightly wider. "Director Piggot, in the course of my career I have been assaulted by five of the Simurgh's victims." Color drained from the woman's already pale face, a condition that wasn't helped by his follow-up statement. "That is, of course, excluding run-ins with the creature that used to be Alan Gramme."
"I am… sorry for that, but what does it have to do with…?" She asked awkwardly.
"The first attempt would likely have been successful if not for a nearby and conveniently timed trigger. You're familiar with trigger obstruction theory?" He watched her response.
"If you're speaking of the alleged disruption of precognitive powers, then yes, I am familiar." The woman glanced at the door. "You are telling me you base your entire defense strategy around that theory?"
"With the Simurgh, what other options do we have? I am committed that if I am to go out, it will be on my terms, not hers." His hand trembled slightly around his cane. That conviction had carried him through most of his career, but there were some obstacles he couldn't overcome. Still, whether it was the Simurgh or his own illness, he could fight to the end.
The director nodded slowly, the change in topic and lack of an audience seeming to drain some tension from the room. The woman leaned back in her chair and gave him a level look.
"Now," She spoke in a cautious but less confrontational tone. "Can I assume you pushed for this style of meeting in the interest of a more frank and open discussion."
"Indeed." He smiled at the director. "Because I think I can safely say that without some level of intervention, you are fucked."
"Excuse me?" The director blanched.
Uppercrust nodded slightly. "Being fully candid, of course. A significant amount of the responsibility for both the events of the last week and the state of the city is being laid at your feet in the wider Protectorate. Specific actions are being scrutinized as we speak, including moment by moment conduct during the events of last night. There are many who would say that the only reason you avoided removal thus far was the danger of changing directors during an emergency situation. With immediate threats apparently neutralized and the full cost being tallied it would only take a minor incident to set off a suspension and investigation."
The director gave him a cold look. "A minor incident such as costing the city it's chance for restoration of the Protectorate headquarters and coastal defenses."
"Speaking purely hypothetically, yes that could do it." He made sure to draw upon years of experience to prevent any hint of amusement from slipping into his tone.
Director Piggot took a deep breath in a manner that made her nostrils flare in a particularly unpleasant manner. "So, this is extortion?"
"Director, this is a lifeline." He explained calmly.
The woman scoffed. "I'm sure it is. That and nothing else." He watched as she seethed under the reality of the situation.
Taking a breath, he shifted his weight slightly forward towards the woman. "Can you find any flaw in my assessment of your position? I imagine that even with the most masterful handling of the aftermath and the conflicts that will no doubt ensue your chances of remaining unscathed with your job and position intact are fairly remote."
She gave him a cold, hard look. "I will not let this city become a bastion for the Elite. I would see my career burn before that happens."
It took effort for Uppercrust to suppress a sigh. This was a woman who had apparently been proud of keeping larger gangs out of her city. Brockton Bay hosted Nazis, kidnapping drug dealers, and human traffickers, but avoiding the presence of the Elite was supposedly a victory for her. He carefully ordered his thoughts before he replied.
"Director, if you do not pick your enemies they will happily be selected for you." He replied sharply.
She frowned deeply as she responded. "You're are saying I should be happy to have the Elite over other villains?"
Yes, she damn well should, but that wasn't the point here. "The Elite, or at least the branch of it that I oversee, have no interest in villainy…"
"So you say. I've seen the invoices for your work."
"And I would be happy to walk you through the expenses that generate them. But setting that aside, dozens of Protectorate branches have amicable relationships with power blocs in their cities, or at least lines of communication. You did not, and as a consequence not only did you have no established regulating force against the ABB, you received no notice of their intentions and provided no ability for the local community to take counteraction beyond open gang warfare."
The director took a breath through clenched teeth. "I think you may underestimate the complexities of operating a PRT branch."
"And I think you may be ignorant of the utility of being able to contact the criminal elements of your city in a non-confrontational manner. But I'm not here to comment on your earlier decisions. I'm here to offer you help."
The director tensed further, then forced herself to relax. "What kind of 'help' are you suggesting, precisely?"
Uppercrust smiled. "Director, are you a religious woman? Because we find ourselves on Good Friday and I assure you, the press is searching for someone to crucify. And you aren't playing at the local level with friendly networks and reporters you know by name. International eyes are on this city, and your name means nothing to them."
"But yours does?"
"I will admit to having a certain level of influence. Of course, nothing on the level of the Protectorate at large, but tell me, will the organization be leveraging resources to protect a local director with as much controversy as you, or will they be inclined to throw someone under the bus, so to speak, perhaps someone who was already in a contentious position?"
"Uppercrust, I do not like threats."
"I'm sorry director, have I made a threat? The worst thing I can do right now is nothing, and I am perfectly willing to do so. I assure you; Miami would have Strider here within the hour if it meant they could retain their previous position in my schedule."
The director frowned. "Seven figures of civic funding for that?"
"High six, really. And only with the rush charges factored in." And it would be more than just facilitated travel. It was flattering how eager cities could get for his work, or would be if it wasn't so sad. By his estimation he probably had less than twenty rebuilds in him before he needed to shift to remote work, then Lord knew how long he could linger. Cities, or at least the smart members of civic staff…
He was careful to avoid glancing at Director Piggot with that thought.
They knew about his constraints. Large coastal cities with unstable defensive fields would throw just about anything at him to secure a commitment, and that didn't end with the initial offers. Having to arrange his own accommodations had been a novel experience, as had numerous other nuances and irritations involved in this trip. Usually, they were completely taken care of by local civic officers.
It was a set of accommodations that, more than once, had included companionship arrangements. Ostensibly this was for professional reasons, but he knew high class escorts when he saw them. He appreciated the sentiment, but it wasn't something he was comfortable with even if his medical situation made such arrangements effectively impossible.
He did wonder if Director Piggot was truly oblivious to the full demand for his services, or if she was playing up ignorance for some kind of advantage. Regardless, she at least had a grasp on the local situation.
"You leave the city and, statement from you or not, it will come down to your departure following our meeting." She replied. "That will mean delays on the restoration of the Protectorate HQ and a possibly inoperable coastal defense."
He nodded and once again wondered if she understood the implications of that situation. A glance to his left showed the towering skyscrapers of Brockton's Downtown. Skyscrapers that could only exist thanks to his systems, or ones like them.
He remembered the rebuilding of New York. The aftermath of Behemoth's attack had caused billions in damage, mostly overshadowed by the loss of life but still significant for the future of the city. He was freshly triggered at the time and remembered the discussions that were occurring. The cost of just clearing the debris was staggering, let alone rebuilding. The buildings were insured, but it had taken two rounds of government bailouts to prevent the entire American insurance and reinsurance industries from tanking in the aftermath.
That brought the question: Why even rebuild? If something like this could happen, would happen, was it worth putting up new buildings, billions in development that could be lost just as quickly? Leviathan attacking Oslo during the discussions hadn't helped matters.
He had been part of the answer. The solution that let cities recover and continue to live. That was back before NEPEA-5 had gutted most private uses of powers, back when tinkers, shakers, and thinkers were collaborating to save the world, fight back the coming darkness. Even after that damned bill passed he continued his work. He couldn't not. There were entire industries that relied on his systems being in place for their continued existance.
Simply put, with no defense against Endbringer level threats, insurance rates would be set with the full assumption that the building will be lost. That means rates designed to recover the full cost of the property before its expected destruction. To say that was unaffordable would be the understatement of a lifetime. Tinkers like him were the only reason the world still had cities in the form they existed before Endbringer attacks.
Yet this director sat surrounded by the architecture that his work made possible and acted like the loss of the city's coastal fields was a point of minor inconvenience. A black mark on her career rather than a death sentence for the city's commercial districts. There was a very good reason why, no matter how far behind he became in his maintenance commitments no system was ever listed as fully offline. Compromised, sure. Working at reduced efficiency was fine as well, as was a spiel about delayed deployment or coverage gaps, but never offline.
He took a breath and centered himself, his mind skimming back to his briefing documents. Piggot was a former trooper, entirely on the military tract. She had transitioned directly from field work to heading a department with a suddenness that suggested a coverup of some public embarrassment.
She hadn't had significant command experience within her field work, and following the transfer had focused entirely on her own city and department. A decade of experience running a city as turbulent as Brockton Bay spoke to her natural abilities, but he could see the time had left her more than a little myopic on certain issues.
And that wasn't even getting into Apeiron's accusations, or her response to them. He was wisely avoiding mentioning them or any of her actions taken in response to Amy Dallon's aggressive debrief.
"Given the current situation I believe your removal, even temporarily, would be a mistake." He explained carefully. "And as for my motives…"
"You want Apeiron." She said flatly.
He didn't bother to react to the accusation.
"You seriously think you can recruit him? No, too ambitious. What is it? Resources? Mercenary work?" She paused. "Medical technology."
It wasn't a question, and he didn't treat it as such. "My work keeps people safe. I have long pursued anything that would allow me to operate at even a base level of functionality. The prospect of a complete cure is beyond value."
"You…" She took a moment to calm herself, then leaned forward. "You cannot be serious. Apeiron is a suspected mad scientist with demonstrated instability in his biotinker work. Every analysis confirms as much. The prospect of the emergency medical tendrils is troubling enough, but they are certain Apeiron's transformation wasn't triggered intentionally or undergone willingly."
"And yet he was both able to revert safely and recover from beyond horrific injuries while simultaneously fighting at a level that exceeds most entire Protectorate teams. I, for one, am not willing to ignore the prospect of a cure when it presents itself."
"What do you mean by that?" The director's voice was sharp and her eyes were hard. Uppercrust wondered about the wisdom of pushing this point, but relented. It would have to come up eventually.
"Amy Dallon."
"What about her?" The woman asked. "If you are advocating for early release from master stranger protocols I can tell you…"
"I am well aware of the girl's situation, and am sure it will be resolved in due time with adequate assurance and review. And while I would be interested to discuss the prospects before her upon entering the commercial sector after her sixteenth birthday, I have no need to rush the matter."
"Then what are you…"
"It is remarkable how broadly the girl's powers can be applied. No arbitrary limitation in recovery or feedback constraints on her powers. A limitation on brains, and nothing else. I don't think the wider world realized what a treasure you'd been sitting on for the last three years, not until recent events had driven a closer examination of medical records." He paused and leveled his gaze at the director. "Panacea has cured one hundred and twenty-six dialysis patients. She has performed treatment that eliminated the need for thirty-eight knee replacements. And those are just a smattering of her total medical accomplishments."
"Is there something you want to say?"
It was her tone. It drew up years of pain and desperation. Of hospital rooms and hopeless nights. Of the dreaded feeling of an impending end, one that stood implacable against all effort, all will, all ingenuity. This discussion was already contentious, harsher than he would have ever gone on a regional director, but that callousness pushed him too far. If you were going to burn a bridge you might as well let them see the flames from space.
"For three years you have worked with a girl who could have completely cured your medical issues in, by best estimates, between five and nine minutes. Completely resolved, with no lingering effects, but you haven't."
The whirl of the dialysis machine seemed to fill the silence between them like an oppressive presence. Finally, the director began to speak in an overly calm tone of voice. "If you had reviewed the situation as well as you seem to believe you would know that Panacea has a policy against taking requests."
"And yet she does, repeatedly. For both capes and PRT personnel. But not you. Interesting really, no knee replacements after ten years, and are you even on the donor list for a new kidney?" He knew she wasn't, but that data hadn't come from the most legitimate of sources.
"There are complexities…"
"There is complacency." He glared at the dialysis machine while feeling the force fields that both supported and restrained his body. "You parade this out during our meeting like it's supposed to mean something, to me?" He immediately regretted the inflection of his voice and steadied it. "This isn't treatment, it's medical theater. And now everyone who's taken the time to look into the Dallon matter knows it."
This was dangerous ground. Director Piggot had a reputation as an uncompromising battle axe of a woman. Unfortunately, you could only afford to be uncompromising for so long before you found yourself overextended. In all honesty the city had probably reached that point years ago and was coasting on the strength of its heroes and power dynamic between its gangs. A dynamic that had come crashing down the previous night.
"And what are your thoughts on the matter?" She finally asked in a cold voice.
Upper crust saw a crack in the façade of determination that had been pulled over a woman pushed to the brink. It was almost enough to make his heart go out to her, but not in the face of everything else. There were no illusions here, they were playing at opposite sides. The best they could hope for was some arrangement that would allow stability of the city's administration without ruining any prospect for obtaining the help he so sorely needed.
That was the real thing that hardened his resolve. The fact that this woman had the solution to her problems sitting in front of her for years and had ignored it, continuing the dance of treatments, hospitals, and health issues.
"I don't care." He admitted honestly. "There are a thousand reasons you could have for choosing, CHOOSING," He repeated as he saw her expression. "To avoid a cure for your condition. Some of us don't have that luxury. You can justify yourself to whoever decides to pursue the matter…" Likely either the press or a potential disciplinary hearing. It was less a violation and more evidence that something was seriously wrong. "But I see no reason to extend sympathy, or condone any obstruction to those who are seeking recovery."
"Are you counting on Apeiron for that?"
"He has an established record of reliability."
"You think ministering to the Undersiders or facilitating combat transformations makes him a source of miracle solutions?"
"Perhaps." He drawled. "By the way, how is Weld, following his transfer? Taking to the local cuisine well enough?"
The director froze for a moment before continuing. "Of course." She huffed. "I would love to know who your sources are for such rumors."
"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean."
"Of course." She repeated in a bitter tone. "So, what exactly do you want for the courtesy of doing the job you agreed to in the first place?"
"Director, I agreed to prioritize your work with an implicit assumption of safety, one that has been so fully violated that I would be within my legal rights to completely dismiss any obligations to Brockton Bay until such time as an independent assessment guaranteed the stability of the region." He leveled his gaze at her. "Or did you seriously think I was compelled to work within crisis areas?" It was laughable in the extreme, though it did make him wonder how poorly had she been briefed on the terms of his work?
It had been years since he'd last been in this city, though there was a spark of pride in that. A testament to the longevity of his systems, particularly in contrast to tinkers with equipment that would fall apart after a handful of days. Granted, his fields would probably do the same if deployed for that length of time, but they remained operational in short bursts with minimal maintenance well beyond the span of any comparable technology.
And they had been tested as well. Not just against A and S-class threats. The Miami system was considered prohibitively expensive at the time of its deployment, but after holding back the storm surge from three separate hurricanes it was being touted as one of the best investments in the city's history.
The woman's face had soured at the clarification, but she pressed on nonetheless. "Very well. The point stands. What do you want?"
"Apeiron."
The director blinked. "I hope I don't need to clarify that I cannot give him to you?"
"No, but you can take him, and that's what this is about." She gave him a concerned look. "As I said, the press is looking to crucify someone. A cynical person might assume that if a particular person in power had the opportunity to reframe things so that blame became directed at a notoriously uncommunicative figure that the breadth of the nation is seriously concerned about, they might just take it."
He watched her reaction closely. She covered it well, but he was good at reading people. He also had the advantage of talented assistants and extensive contacts that were more than happy to tip him off regarding outreach to particularly friendly contacts in the local media with national connections. The perfect vehicles for reframing a narrative.
Some of those were already set and scheduled. Interviews were to be expected at some point, but for the moment press statements or soundbites from PR managers was all that was really expected, not private meetings with the press. There was a decent chance the display of the dialysis machine had been as much about getting the director in top form for the spin sessions as to attempt to unnerve him at this meeting.
To say the recent news had been contentious would be the understatement of the century. He'd passively watched snippets of the broadcasts, both during the attacks themselves and over the course of the aftermath. Piggot's decision to not declare an S-class crisis did nothing to keep the media from treating it like one.
From the perspective of spectacle and ratings they couldn't have asked for a better week. One incident building on another with details slowly revealed, new capes with dynamic powers premiering with extensive video of their conflicts, gripping interpersonal drama, and an air of mystery over the entire affair. All culminating in a fight worthy of an Endbringer response broadcast live in its entirety and with everything gripping about the previous week condensed into a single event.
And then they were left with nothing. Nothing but speculation and rumor. Of interviewing survivors, of arguing about the response, the motives of the players, and what would come in the future. Any scrap of fresh information was being devoured to edge out the other networks, something made even worse by the format of Apeiron's leaks.
Uppercrust didn't know if Apeiron evenly distributed his information dumps in an attempt to unbalance the networks, but it had certainly worked. When presented with an exclusive they would rush to air. When behind they would comment on other coverage. When given massive scores of information simultaneously with other networks it seemed they either sat paralyzed or began digging frantically trying to find some gem of analysis that would let them edge out their competition.
They were hungry for fresh news, fresh takes, and the local PRT was the best source you could hope for. Despite the might of Apeiron's technology and abilities he appeared to be entirely irreverent to any management of his public persona. Understandable to a degree, given the strength he commanded and the impact of any of his actual appearances, but there were consequences to neglecting the public sphere. The fact that Apeiron could certainly win battles that came his way didn't diminish the fact that many of them could be avoided entirely with minimal effort.
"So that's what this comes down to?" She asked. "If I take a stance on Apeiron you don't like, you walk and take my job with you?"
He took a slow breath. "Caution is understandable, but I think we are past the phase of unfamiliarity with Apeiron. No matter how you attempt to spin this, his actions are clear. The difference he made is clear. You might try to find some corruption in his heart, some hidden motive, but that doesn't change the reality of the situation."
"I wish I shared your confidence."
"What can I say? I may have just entered a hopeful period of my life. But to make myself perfectly clear, if you try to lay the blame for the attack at Apeiron's feet I will happily walk and leave you to pick up the pieces." He lowered his gaze and spoke with a much cooler tone. "But the meeting scheduled for this evening could have far more serious repercussions."
There was only a slight tremble suggesting something was off, but it was enough for him to pick up. "That sounds remarkably like a threat. And as you may imagine, I am heavily pressed for time. There are several meetings scheduled for…"
"Six surrounding PRT directors are being included in the conference, as are representatives from the state supreme court, governor's office, and the Brockton Bay police commissioner. The exact arrangement needed for an abbreviated trial and sentencing in absentia."
"That is quite the assumption. I don't know what kind of rumors you might have been listening to."
"The kind of rumors that suggest that certain individuals are planning to make a push for a pre-signed kill order in response to deployment of weapons of mass destruction. The kind of order that could be proposed as a reasonable precaution, then leveraged to strengthen one's position against a problematic cape. The kind of thing that could easily be leaked to the media in an attempt to divert attention from one's own culpability."
For a woman who had effectively been caught planning to abuse one of the direst aspects of cape justice for the sake of her own career Piggot looked remarkably unconcerned. But really, how desperate did your position need to be for pushing through a borderline illegal contingency order to be step one?
"Are you seriously of the stance that casual use of the weapon that Apeiron deployed against Lung doesn't warrant the strongest response possible?"
"And are you seriously of the stance that having a kill order prepared for such an occasion will make the slightest difference in such response? No, this is a political tool, and a vile one at that." And that is to say nothing of what Apeiron's response could be if details of the order were released. "If you put this through I will leverage every resource at my disposal against it, you, and this department."
His tone left no room for doubt. Piggot returned an equally hard glare. "And if I relent? Reject the proposal?"
Ah, carrot and stick. He could tell the director was unfamiliar being on the receiving end of either, and would probably never forgive him for the experience. That was fine, he was bigger than this petty kingdom of hers, and so was Apeiron. She had the potential to wreak fantastic damage on the situation, but the window for that was vanishingly small. He would be surprised if she was still trusteed to determine policy on this matter a week from now. The trick would be getting to that week.
"I have my own media contacts, not as close as yours, but significantly further reaching. I will be able to divert the popular narrative away from questions of a nature that would lead to destabilization of local command structure." It was the same deal he was prepared to offer Armsmaster, the man who would typically be his primary contact for this kind of work. Unfortunately, the team leader was currently out of the city and, if rumors were to be believed, working aggressively at one of the Protectorate's storage facilities that specialized in tinker tech biomechanics.
Well, at least the man was committed to his recovery.
"Suppose I take you up on this agreement." Piggot offered levelly. "Where do we go from there?"
"We would get back to work. I see to the defensive fields and the PHQ, we do a set of photo ops or whatever media you want to push for this project. I get you a timeline on returning the Rig to service and you have one of those ostentatious fundraisers to celebrate its return."
"That's it? You don't expect me to hand you Apeiron?"
"I don't expect you or anyone else in this organization has the knowledge or ability to 'hand me Apeiron'. I have other sources to pursue for that."
"Of course, your criminal friends."
"Of course. And you might want to try being more open to the idea director. You certainly have no shortage of enemies. You could probably use more friends."
He was met by Jacob on the way out of the office. Surprisingly it was Miss Militia who escorted them back to the garage level.
"I hope they weren't too rough with you, Jacob." He jibed as they rode the elevator down.
"Standard examination Sir, everything matched the records from New York. There was a request to check for interactions with the Dark Zone, at my convenience."
Uppercrust raised an eyebrow and glanced at Miss Militia. "Last night we observed several unique interactions from capes with electrical based powers. As Jacob's Ladder will be operating within the city with potential exposure it would be prudent to find out about any effects under controlled conditions."
"Indeed." He replied. "An excellent idea. Please contact us when you are able to arrange testing. I trust you will be able to provide copies of any findings for our own records?"
"I'm certain that can be arranged." She said as they exited the elevator into the cavernous service garage of the PRT.
Uppercrust smiled as they made their way back to the town car. That field was something he would need to examine eventually, and not just in relation to Apeiron. It garnered as much attention as any other display of technology, with the added mystery of the precise origin of the deployed suit that had been the source of the effect. The superficial similarity to some thirty-year-old Japanese children's show was being trumpeted across the internet, but it was more likely a case of tinkering to matching design. Someone had discovered a particle that matched the nonsense from that series and decided to use the aesthetic.
How closely it matched was a little unnerving, but everything else about the field was firmly grounded and responsive to analysis, quickly dismissing concerns that it might be some persistent shaker effect. Really it was a fascinating effect, and one worthy of study. More than worthy. Emitters 14b and 16f were within the bounds of the field. Either he would need to find a way to work around the effect, or a substantial portion of the defenses would need to be rebuilt.
It wasn't until they were in the car and back on the street before Jacob asked about the meeting. The intercom clicked on as Uppercrust lounged on the wide seat, enjoying a brief bout of relaxation from an unnervingly stressful meeting.
"How did it go, Sir?"
"As well as we could have hoped, Jacob." He replied with the press of a button. His mind worked to balance the unfolding situation, the dynamics of his near standoff with the director, and the full course of work he had before him. He smiled slightly at the thought. He'd always enjoyed the challenge.
"Will there be any trouble, Sir?"
"Undoubtedly." He answered. "That isn't a woman who tolerates weakness or forgets slights. In all likelihood she'll restrain herself from doing something stupid in the aftermath. Now that the media's axe is off her neck we should be able to count on a bit more rationality." He hoped. There were concerning signs, and Apeiron's concerns regarding her stability may not have been entirely misplaced. Still, as bad as she was, a transition in leadership would be worse. He'd seen it happen. Interim or deputy directors coming to the forefront in times of crisis were rarely a stabilizing influence.
"Understood. Should we return to the hotel?"
He nodded. "Yes." He shifted slightly, moving stiff and shaky limbs. The rush of Scapegoat's healing was still there, but he had felt his limits in that meeting. The impossible idea, the hope for a real cure, for effective treatment, that could mean everything.
But there was work to do before that could happen. It wasn't enough to just ensure Apeiron didn't get turned into a pariah or worse, he'd need to take direct action in the situation. The city wasn't stable. That was clear to anyone, but a deeper look revealed just how bad things were likely to become.
A simple inquiry had revealed the Dragonslayers weren't available for contracts. Given Dragon's transition to Brockton Bay and the limited scope of the trio's work it was easy to presume where they were headed. It was a complication to pile on top of the mess already spiraling up in the city.
A mess tied to Dragon. Everyone with eyes could tell there was something strange about her behavior. Theories abounded, but the odds of Apeiron being able to master through a network connection where the Simurgh had consistently failed were laughable. What was clear was Dragon's display of passion, interest, and determination on a level the tinker community had never seen before. While it would seem to indicate various betting pools were coming to a close nothing could be certain, and whatever the reason Dragon had been absolutely adamant in her 'pursuit'.
Moving beyond superfluous additions to the local cape community there sat the very real concern of the ABB's power gap attracting the attention of an external faction, a concern made only worse by the continued presence of ABB capes in the city. Oni Lee, Bakuda, and March were unaccounted for. Yes, consensus was they were seriously injured, terminally ill, and dead, respectively, but at least one of those had the potential to become a serious problem. Even if they weren't, Uber and Leet were still at large and maintaining a threat profile well beyond their previous personas.
He wasn't overly concerned for his own safety. His cell of the Elite was both strong and well known for its neutrality. Jacob was an excellent fighter for his level of experience, and the rest of his staff could be relied upon. It was unlikely any of their activities would attract aggression from any existing faction. Even the traditional overtures to local rogues were likely to be a quiet affair.
It was actually one he was looking forward to, just for the novelty of two fashion capes operating in the same city. The actual approach practiced by Parian and Garment when it came to their craft couldn't have been more different to say nothing of all but the most superficial aspects of their powers. Fans of the established and recently premiered capes had been engaged in near continuous flame wars over the meaningless question of who was superior. When it came down to it they both had incredibly valuable skill sets, and ones the Elite could help to foster.
As impressive as they were, the fashion capes had nothing on Amy Dallon. He had barely touched on the girl's situation during his meeting, and for good reason. That was a train wreck that he would need to be well prepared for before any overtures could be made. One thing that had become clear from various leaked documents and videos was the girl was in a less than ideal situation at her home. Dealing with capes and contentious guardians was difficult, much less both at the same time. Still, the girl had potential for so much more than volunteer work in service of her team's public relations.
His mind shifted over to one final concern. Coil. The thinker was notoriously quiet, but not so quiet to fully escape notice. Nothing could be totally invisible in this line of work, and the amount of technology, supplies, and mercenaries the man acquired cast ripples for anyone who would look. People in the know were adamant that Coil was defensive of his position in Brockton Bay, despite no one being clear exactly what that position was.
It was troubling. Between his own cell and connections to the greater body of the Elite he should be able to manage any obstacles the man could bring to bear, but there was a concerning aspect to his method of operation. Disturbing patterns, a trend of dangerous and deadly operations, and a vague but worrying warning from the Anthropomancer.
Though that last one could very easily have been another attempt to divert him back to Miami.
Regardless, he had his work cut out for him, both officially and unofficially. One long shot, a final gamble that could mean the world, or come crashing down. With what he had on the line he was more than willing to roll the dice and bet everything on Apeiron.