by wildbow
“Am I intruding?”
Rachel tensed.
“If you’d like,” Miss Militia said, stepping into view. Her eyes surveyed the scene. “We could talk somewhere else. If you want to respect the sanctity of this place.”
“It’s a good sitting place. If we have to talk, we can talk here.”
“Sounds good.”
Bastard growled. Rachel gestured, giving the order, “Stand down, Bastard.”
Bastard sat, visibly relaxing.
Miss Militia nodded. “Just so you aren’t surprised, you should know I brought Vista. Wanted to cover more ground, catch up to you sooner. Didn’t work out, with us having to stop to double check for your tracks.”
Rachel shrugged.
“Hi,” the blonde girl said. “I’m kind of glad I was brought along. Seeing home again, kind of.”
“Sure,” Rachel said.
“A memorial?” Vista asked, laying a hand against the largest stone.
“Yeah.”
“Can I ask who for? Or is that a dumb question?”
“Dumb question,” Rachel said. She leaned back, resting her head against the stone behind her. When Vista didn’t respond, Rachel relented. She pointed at where the two trees rested against one another by the cliff face. “When the weather was warm, there was a bee’s nest there. The buzzing doesn’t bother me as much as you’d think.”
“Oh. Well, listen, last thing I want to do is disrespect that. I’ve said goodbye to too many people, myself.”
Rachel nodded. “Sure.”
“If you wanted, I could shape them. Been working on the little details. Could do a statue, or letters.”
“No point,” Rachel said. “Anyone who’s been here and seen them knows who they’re for. I don’t care about the others.”
“Gotcha,” Vista said.
Vista found a seat with her back to the rock.
“We need to talk,” Miss Militia said, leaning against the cliff wall, arms folded.
Rachel nodded. “Okay. Talk.”
“I can’t let you handle a custody dispute like you handled… that. Attacking someone, beating him up, hauling him a hundred miles away to another city.”
“Kid was mine to look after. The mom was mine to look after. I’m supposed to just let it happen?”
“There are options. You could talk to us, ask. We’d find a middle ground.”
“Talking is a pain in the ass.”
“It is. I’ve been a team leader for a bit, now, and I agree one hundred percent. Worst part of the job. But it’s better to talk than to make enemies, isn’t it?”
Rachel sighed. “Sometimes I’m not sure.”
“The amnesty is your best friend right now. If you don’t want to do the talking, maybe you can ask Tattletale, and she can?”
“We don’t talk as much. Different places, doing different things.”
People leave.
“It would be an excuse to keep in touch.”
Rachel shrugged. “If I don’t deal with my own stuff, what’s the point? I’d rather be in control.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s all about the rules. Rules you understand, rules you don’t. Being in the city, I was sort of realizing just how many there are. Codes, deals, even the way we dress, apparently. Hard to keep track of.”
“I understand that.”
“You want me to ask Tattletale to handle shit. But I’d prefer to handle my own shit. That way, I know what’s what. There’s no ugly surprises.”
She stopped, rephrased, “There’s less ugly surprises. This asshole that’s working for me? All of a sudden, he tells me he’s not happy. French fries are more important, or something stupid like that. I dunno how to argue with him, because I don’t understand it. They’re supposed to be some symbol or shit like that and I don’t get it.”
“Been there,” Vista said. She looked cold, even with the tights she wore with her costume. She rubbed her legs, then hugged them. “Losing people, not being able to understand why.”
“If you wanted, we could connect you to someone you could talk to,” Miss Militia said.
Rachel shrugged. “Talking bugs me.”
“Okay.”
But as much as it bugged her, she found the words spilling out. “I can get him wanting to go. I don’t understand it, but he says he needs that shit, so long as I’m handling stuff on my own, I can maybe grab him some damn french fries, keep him from leaving for a little while. Maybe give him some more time here and there so he could go buy more. Or whatever.”
“I see what you’re getting at.”
“And some idiots,” Rachel said, banging her head against the rock behind her, a little harder than she’d intended, in a spot where the rock jutted out. The sharp pain brought tears to her eyes. “Are even harder to understand than the motherfucking french fry thing.”
“Yeah,” Miss Militia said.
Rachel rubbed the stone to her right. Brutus. Bastard approached and laid his head down on the rock, and she gave him a good scratch.
“The rules are changing, breaking down,” Miss Militia said. “Powers, groups, between capes.”
“Shit happens,” Rachel said. “I said something like that earlier, didn’t I?”
“You did. But I don’t agree. I don’t want things to break down. I don’t want conflict. We were on opposite sides, but we were there. We went through a lot of the same stuff. Can we not end this as enemies, fighting because of some misunderstanding?”
Vista spoke, looking out at the bay. “Make it a Brockton Bay thing. We’re motherfuckers, we’re survivors.”
“Not sure I get it. But I don’t fucking trust people.”
“She wanted us to work together,” Miss Militia said, emphasizing the ‘she’.
Rachel looked up, but Miss Militia was staring out at the water.
Her voice was a growl. “If you’re fucking manipulating me, I’m going to have Bastard chew you up and spit you out.”
“No manipulation. Look, let’s get down to brass tacks. The basics. What do you want, Rachel?”
“Me and mine get left alone.”
“I can agree to that. We’ll leave you alone, we’ll help make sure others leave you alone. But, if we’re making our own rules, between us, my rule is I want to know before you do anything outside your territory. Let me know, and you can ride along, so you’re clued in and not missing anything.”
Rachel nodded, giving Bastard another scratch. “Sure.”
“A starting point?”
“A starting point,” Rachel agreed.
“I talked to Tattletale before I came. You should get in touch. She had some stuff she wanted to discuss.”
Rachel nodded.
“Can we trust each other?”
Rachel frowned.
Trust.
She’d lost hers right in the beginning. Left alone in an apartment, to starve and scald herself.
Here? Now? Seventeen years later? After any number of betrayals, great and small?
She was aware of the tall stone behind her.
“Sure.”
Teneral e.5
Head high. Shoulders square. Walk like you know where you’re going, like you belong.
He’d had the best teachers around. Public speakers, flirts, con artists, actors, thieves, magicians, and cutthroats. He’d been educated in history, foreign affairs, management and internal affairs, intelligence, and codebreaking. He’d learned from the best in medicine and poisons, in parahuman studies, in accounting and trade, the sciences, strategy and tactics in military, government and business roles. He knew how to make things, and how to fake them.
Even in the little things, hobbies to some and unlikely careers to the foolhardy, he’d achieved some degree of competence. Music, singing, art, prose and dance. All it took was the right teacher, a hungry eagerness to learn, and time.
One could not lead, after all, with one eye closed. Some could lead while admitting some ignorance in one departme
nt or another, but he wasn’t some.
He was a jack of all trades, master of quite a few.
Two of those ‘few’ accompanied him. A woman in a white bodysuit walked just to his left. He’d picked her because she had a natural grace and self-assurance, but her name escaped him. He could remember how he had found her. She’d been a hero, and she’d watched her team die in the aftermath of the attack. Lost, helpless, broken. Now she stood tall, back straight, joking and laughing with her companion.
The real her was numb, locked in a cage, but that was secondary to the point.
The other was numb too, but not in the same way. He was very much himself. If he was disconnected, it was a natural sort of disconnection, the sort that had happened billions of times throughout human history.
But the man was talented. He wasn’t acting like he belonged, because he did belong. He was a free spirit, and the world was his oyster. He could put on a different face, and it wouldn’t be a mask, but a role.
He was a warrior, wearing heavy armor. Gruff, rugged, with a beard and the stylings of a viking, complete with fur as part of his costume. When the woman in white found herself off balance, stumbling, he picked his words to counterbalance it, changing the thrust of their interaction. He teased, leaving the road open for clear and unambiguous responses, making small jokes so she could laugh and find her mental footing.
In a very one sided way, he was sustaining and supporting what appeared to be a very natural dialogue between longtime friends.
A pair of heroes rounded the corner, glancing at them. The ‘viking’ was in the midst of making a joke.
“…six different flavors of sausage.”
The woman frowned. “That’s a non sequi—oh. Oh.”
Watching the woman turn red, seeing the viking laugh, he couldn’t help but join in on the laughter, a chuckle.
The viking slung an armored arm around his shoulders, making him stumble. “You actually laughed!”
“It was a little funny.”
“A little?” the viking asked. He nodded at the pair of heroes as the two groups crossed paths. He offered the words, “Hey, Ironscale. ‘Sup?”
“I know you?” one of the pair asked, stopping in the middle of the hallway.
The viking was still walking, but turned around to walk backwards as he called out, “Costume change to fit in with the new era, my friend! You’ll figure it out, and I’ll be very upset with you if you don’t!”
They rounded the corner.
“Did you know him? This Ironscale?”
The viking smiled. “Ironscale? No. A face in a file, at some point. But I have a good memory.”
Liars have to. “It was dangerous, baiting him. Better if we don’t draw attention.”
“Trying to avoid attention is attention-getting enough. You brought me on board for my skills, Teacher. Trust me to use them.”
Teacher sighed. “Fair.”
The smile disappeared from the viking’s face. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m inclined to think I’m paranoid,” Teacher said. “I try to convince myself otherwise.”
“Why?”
“If I’m going to explain, I have to ask,” Teacher said, “what’s the difference between paranoia and nervousness?”
“One is a state of mind, the other is a temporary state of emotion?”
“The former is a kind of madness,” Teacher said. “Popular culture has twisted it, but popular culture has twisted madness in general. They make it funny, they romanticize it, or they make it exaggerated. But true mental illness is nothing to laugh at. I stayed in the Birdcage for some time, I’ve seen scary things, and I’ve become numb to a great deal, but going mad is perhaps the scariest.”
“Yet you corrected me when I said you were nervous,” the viking said, strangely soft spoken given his frame and earlier demeanor.
“The alternative to being a madman might be worse,” Teacher said. He shook his head, as if stirring himself from a spell. “What were we talking about?”
“Is this your first time in the infiltration role?”
“In a meaningful capacity? Yes,” Teacher admitted.
“You could have stayed behind.”
“I’d like to handle this face to face, build a rapport.”
“You could have let me do that for you, build your rapport for you.”
“I think that’s a dangerous road to travel. Will we do that the next time? And the time after that?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“I could not be a leader if I didn’t actually lead. Besides, I don’t trust you.”
“You think I’ll stab you in the back?” the viking asked.
“I think everyone will stab me in the back,” Teacher said. He sighed. “Paranoia, again.”
“If you keep walking down this road, then they probably will stab you in the back. That joke, ‘it’s not paranoia if everyone really is out to get you’ could be a self-fulfilling prophecy in your case. Maybe you’re even doing it on purpose.”
“You might be even smarter than you let on,” Teacher said. “I’m glad I didn’t brainwash you.”
The man chuckled.
Teacher shook his head. “I aim to change course. If they plan to ambush me at some point down that road, they’ll be waiting a long time.”
“That’s simple enough, when you only have one enemy. But when you have as many as you do…”
“It requires a more blatant change of course to throw them off.”
“If you say so. You seem to have things in hand right now, at least. This way. We’ll be entering an area with higher security, so be on guard.”
Teacher glanced up at the camera.
“You don’t trust your people to handle it?” the viking asked.
Teacher shook his head. “I trust them. Put enough on a job, and the only one who could work around them is Dragon, and Dragon isn’t here, nor is she able to work against me.”
“You think.”
“I think. Let’s not underestimate Big Sister.”
“In case you were wondering, I think that’s intelligence, not paranoia,” the viking said.
The viking tapped his phone against the panel by the door. Teacher tensed. Waiting.
The light went green, and there was a sound as bolts moved. He let himself relax.
The viking spoke in a low voice as they entered. “Level one security. Not cells, exactly, because the people here haven’t technically done anything wrong, and the amnesty protects them, but they can’t be allowed to freely wander the building, with sensitive materials and unmasked heroes around.”
“Yes, they can’t have troublemakers walking about, can they?” Teacher asked, with a note of irony.
“The people staying in the level one security area get chaperones when they want to go somewhere, and cameras keep an eye on them… usually.”
Teacher glanced around. Where there had been offices in the previous area of the complex, this area was residential. Some of the doors here were open, showing clean apartments with everything neat and in order, waiting for an occupant.
Some, though, were inhabited. Each resident had made the space their own. One appeared to be layered in a crusting of junk—bottlecaps and glass shards arranged in kaleidoscopic patterns. Another was all black leather and chrome, smelling faintly of an expensive aftershave.
They stopped at the doorway to another room. There was little doubt in their minds after they saw the interior. A folding screen with a dragon print and women in kimonos on it was below iconic pin up images, modern and dated. 50’s pin up girls alongside recent celebrities. The way they were organized and clustered, it seemed somehow less like decoration and more like… character studies?
From their vantage point, the corner of a four-poster bed was visible.
“Ingenue,” Teacher called out.
Feet swung out over the side of the bed, and she was standing in a moment. She stopped short when saw him, pouting, one fist against her hip. Dr
amatized, artificial. Even the way she dressed, it was the same, a silk bathrobe that was short enough to be borderline indecent. Always putting on a show, and not in the sense of showing skin, but acting, putting on a mask.
“You got my hopes up. It’s you,” she said. “Dressed up like a wizard, maybe, but it’s not that good a disguise.”
“Doesn’t have to be.”
“Shame on you, not even calling a girl before you show up unannounced… but you were never very classy.”
“No, I’m afraid not. If you’d like to talk to Marquis, I’m sure he could oblige on that front.”
“He switches from the aristocrat to the low born commoner as it suits him. Split personality. Is that what this is all about? Are you planning on gathering us all together again? Clinging to the past, Teacher?”
“I was planning on visiting him, but not for the past, and not to gather anyone. Not in that sense. I’m touching base with certain people, nothing more.”
“Why?”
“Getting the lay of the land,” he said. He saw her put on a shocked expression, then cut her off before she could speak, “Assessing the situation, Ingenue. There’s a great deal going on, and I’d rather work with known quantities before I start interacting with foreign ones.”
“Should I ask why now?”
“For someone who is feigning disinterest, you’re asking an awful lot of questions.”
“I’m bored, Teacher. I’m even losing interest in Chevalier, and he doesn’t find time for me, unless it’s to make sure I’m being a good girl.”
“Do you fancy a trip, then? A walk outside?”
“My jailors, who seem very invested in declaring they aren’t actually jailors, might take umbrage.”
“I’ll have you back by curfew, if you’re still interested by then.”
“You’re planning something,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Tell me,” she said. She put her hands into the pockets of her dressing gown, which were too small for her whole hands. “And maybe I’ll go on this field trip of yours.”
The viking leaned in close to Teacher, “Time. If they did notice anything…”
He trailed off. There was no need to spell it out.
Teacher nodded a little, but he continued, unruffled. “I’m looking to put together something bigger.”