All focus was on Yamamoto, but he refused to deign them with a reply immediately. Instead, his attention drifted back to the single word he had written and his impeccable calligraphy set. He had never truly loved the art, yet that simple word had lit a fire in his breast in a way that was unfamiliar to him.
Two thousand and one hundred years. That was how long he had drawn breath. He was older than most civilizations. Old enough to remember the Original Sin even if he had not partook of it. Old enough to have existed before human souls began to transition into shinigami. Genryūsai Yamamoto Shigekuni was old. Yet was he too old to pick up a hobby?
Those were the thoughts in his head.
"Revered elder. I'm sure you have bigger priorities and more important things on your mind, but I'm certain that the reason Marquis has come here personally, is to see you."
Yamamoto hummed, his gaze drifting back to the brush in his hand. Idly weighing the prospect of indulging in a newfound and quiet hobby against entertaining a feared gang lord, one who ruled half the city and wore a reputation as bloodstained as his territory. It was an easy choice.
"Send him away. I'll summon him at my convenience."
He could feel the hesitation in the woman's posture, the tension in her body. Then, as if she came to a sudden realization, she let out a chuckle before replying, "Of course, revered elder."
With those words, she turned away from him, leaving Yamamoto to contemplate another world-shattering decision. What should he write next?
…
Marquis sat uncomfortably on the sofa he had been offered. Even if by all signs he seemed the very definition of calm and suave, with a lack of fear in his posture, he felt anything but.
It took everything he had to sit still, to keep his fingers from twitching and his eyes from flicking around the room. Thinking back on his logic just two days ago, he almost laughed aloud.
A peer. That is what he had called him. That was exactly how he'd seen the old man. Sure, he'd taken down Allfather's whelp and killed one of his capes, but to a cape of their supposed caliber, that wasn't anything so far out of reach.
Not even his brutal mauling of the Slaughterhouse Nine had made him truly fear the old man; instead, he had been filled with even greater curiosity. A cape as old as that, with the battle scars he could see on his form, had to have had experience. Yet the Slaughterhouse Nine were incomplete, and even at their strongest, there was no reason to fear them. He was certain he was a match for their full roster.
After all, there was a reason he still held the greatest territory, and his gang was so powerful even with a single cape. Marquis was vicious, Marquis was fearless, Marquis was cruel, Marquis was strong. But right now, Marquis was scared shitless.
"All things in the universe, turn to ashes."
The words reverberated in his ears; they refused to leave him, digging and building a foundation in his head aided by the image of the monster of fire, and then there was the scream.
Marquis had lived a… hard life. He had hurt people and had been hurt in turn, long before he even triggered. He had heard screams and had let out those screams as well. Barely days ago, he had restructured the Butcher's spine, cracked his skull, broke his jaw, taken his eyes, and finally ripped out his tongue.
Each of those acts had been enough to elicit heart-wrenching screams that would have brought tears to others' eyes, yet Marquis had done them without flinching. So he knew of screams. Yet the sound that Behemoth had let out...
His grip tightened, and he gently released his hands from where they grasped each other. It was a good thing his mask hid his face so well; if not, the kid that had just stepped into the living room with a plate of cookies and a cup of water would have been scared shitless just by the expression on his face.
"The treats, Marquis-san," the kid called out in heavily accented English, and even though his smile was hidden behind his mask, he gently nodded at the girl.
"Thank you."
She sent him a bright smile before scampering off, to where Marquis knew the other kids peered at him from. Their attempts at being discreet were borderline useless and amusing, but Marquis allowed it. He refused to deprive them of their joy at their stealth.
Although if those older boys kept eyeing him like that...
Footsteps rang out as someone hurried down the stairs, and Marquis was ashamed to admit it and would obviously never reveal it, but for a split second, he froze.
Hand outstretched, reaching forward to collect the glass cup to take a sip. He remained in that position until the footsteps got close enough and revealed the owners—a younger boy who stared at him with suspicion and thin, flinty black eyes, and a more familiar older woman.
"Granny Sachiko," Marquis began, recovering smoothly as if he had not been frozen seconds ago, and rising from his seat to greet the older woman.
"Marquis-sama," the woman replied to him, her own English lacking the heavy accent that the previous girl had. "Forgive the lack of fanfare, but I was not expecting your arrival." With those words, she carefully allowed herself to sink into the cushion opposite him.
"It is fine," Marquis began with a benevolent tone, seeing the older man was not present. He had suspicions but did not call them out. "I gave no forewarning, and while I received your message that the elder would agree to speak whenever he was able, I had a bit of free time on my hands and thought to simply visit."
The woman stared at him, nonplussed, and he was cursed with the feeling that she could see through him and read him like an open book. "Ah, I had wondered why you suddenly visited, but if you were around the area, it would make some sense to pay a visit, considering how much you invested in setting this place up."
Marquis's eyes narrowed behind his mask at the subtle jab. Of course, he had not truly helped to set it up from a completely altruistic point of view. His help had been rendered partially because he felt like it and partially to put a woman he suspected was a cape, who he was certain must have triggered in the Vietnam War, in his debt.
Of course, it was not something he would ever admit or even consider requesting for the debt to be paid. That good deed and favor was the only reason he had the slightest connection to the man who killed an Endbringer, and he was going to nurture it with everything he had, as long as the man stayed in Brockton Bay.
"Ah, it is fine. An act of charity like that should not be taken too seriously, yet I'm happy to have helped." He waved her words away, and his eyes searched about a bit before replying. "I do not see your guest, the older..." He trailed off leadingly, and the old woman replied with a chuckle.
"Unfortunately, the honored elder is busy, working on dire matters, and does not wish to be disturbed." She stared back at him with a smile and continued, "Of course, if you believe it to be very important, enough to rouse him from—"
"Ahh, it's not," he replied in a hurry and took to his feet. "Like I said, I was simply in the area and thought to say hello. So do not disturb him for my sake. I'll be off then."
He knew what it seemed like, and it was obvious to anybody watching. He was running. Yet he doubted anybody would call him out on it.
"If that's all, I'll be taking my leave then. Kindly give the..." It took him a second to remember how the woman had addressed him. "The honored elder my regards."
The woman gave him a simple smile and a nod, and he returned the nod before turning and marching out. The door was opened from the outside by one of his subordinates, and his car door was opened just after.
He glided his way into the seat before letting out a heavy sigh and taking off his mask, covering his face with his hands.
That had not gone according to plan, but all was not lost. After witnessing the short clip from the fight, he had rushed over to be the first person to make a connection with the old man before anybody else, but it seemed like that was in vain. But with another breath, Marquis composed himself as his driver looked at him from the mirror.
"Where to, sir?"
"Back home, but stop at the ice cream shop." The man nodded and started the car, and his entourage got moving.
All was not lost. He already had a meeting with the older man, one that the man had agreed to out of respect for the help he offered the older woman. So he didn't need to rush. He would need to change his plans and rearrange his chessboard. After his fight with Behemoth, he doubted the old man was a chess piece he could play, yet he was beginning to wonder if he needed to move such a piece at all.
The old man's presence could work as enough of a deterrent. There would always be the mad few, but the benefits of his sheer presence outweighed the detriments. His dreams and his plans were not completely useless. He could still make this city a good place for his Amelia. All that remained now was to watch and see how the dice would decide to fall. That was what would decide everything.
…
Colin lay in his hospital bed, positioned directly across from the still-recovering, comatose form of Kudzu. Every few moments, he glanced up at the injured veteran over the edge of his tablet, eyes tracking the slow rise and fall of Kudzu's chest. The seasoned hero had been placed in a medically induced coma due to the severity of his injuries, but the doctors had assured them he should regain consciousness soon.
It had been two days since they'd faced the Nine, two days since Collins had been reduced to a helpless bystander in a battle he should have joined, should have fought with every ounce of strength. Instead, he'd been frozen, his instincts dulled by hesitation and fear. He told himself he'd stayed only to watch over the gravely injured Kudzu—but deep down, he knew it was a lie. That truth gnawed at him, each breath heavy with the bitterness of his own failure.
He had missed an Endbringer's fight, or more accurately, his presence had been discarded, being too far from Strider's reach, the teleporting cape had not bothered to come back, no doubt after seeing how hurt and broken the duo had been.
With a sigh, he refocused on his tablet, his design sketches casting a faint glow over his face. His request to leave the infirmary, citing adequate recovery and a desire to "return to duty," had been denied. But at least they'd sent him a tablet, enough for him to work, even if only on blueprints.
His fingers traced out schematics for improved armor—a design fortified with enhanced servos, hydraulics, and ablative plating, along with a revamped cooling system and a medical patch. He would never again be caught as unprepared, never again left hanging in the balance. The memory of his failures fed his focus, each line drawn with a determination to never face that helplessness again.
But his slowly growing tinker fuge was broken by a shrill beep.
INCOMING TRANSMISSION.
Colin frowned at the alert. The only person with the clearance to send him a message powerful enough to bypass his deep-focus settings was the director, and the last time he checked, the kind man was in the ICU ward following the attack on their base by the S9. His frown deepened as he caught faint voices from outside his room, a muffled urgency seeping through the closed door.
Medical personnel bustled past the narrow window, whispering intently in an unusual display of tension. The staff of Brockton Bay's Protectorate infirmary were consummate professionals, rarely prone to outward panic, so their behavior only heightened his unease.
A second message flashed on the screen.
PRIORITY MESSAGE: ALL ACTIVE AND INACTIVE PROTECTORATE HEROES MUST ASSEMBLE IN 10 MINUTES.
Another frown creased Collins' brow as he shifted his gaze from the window to the message on his tablet. Every hero? He'd assumed the Endbringer fight had ended well—most heroes who'd participated were rushed to rest immediately after, even more quickly than usual, he realized in hindsight.
A final message blinked onto the screen, stark and chilling.
PRIORITY MESSAGE: BEHEMOTH'S DEATH HAS BEEN LEAKED. COUNTERMEASURES AND BRIEFING IN THE MAIN AUDITORIUM IN 9 MINUTES.
SUB PRIORITY: UPDATE ON THE DIRECTOR.
The tablet slipped from Colin's hand as the full weight of the message settled over him. He murmured aloud, voice heavy with disbelief and shock.
"What the hell happened in Lyon?"