Just as the parahumans had invaded the lives of those in the city, the paperwork seemed to dominate Emily’s life. It crept onto the walls, onto bulletin boards and whiteboards. Notes on the local players, timelines, messages and maps.
Insurmountable. Too much work for one woman to handle. She delegated where she could, but too much of the responsibility was hers and hers alone. The humans outnumbered parahumans by eight-thousand to one, give or take, in urban areas. Outside of the more densely populated areas, it dropped to a more manageable one to twenty-six-thousand ratio. But here in Brockton Bay, many had evacuated. Few places in the world, if any, sported the imbalanced proportion that Brockton Bay now featured. What was it now? One parahuman to every two thousand people? One parahuman to every five hundred people? Each parahuman represented their respective interests. She represented everyone else’s. The people without powers.
The whole nation was watching. People across America ate their TV dinners while they watched the news, seeing footage of the slaughters in downtown Brockton Bay, white sheets draped over piles of bodies. The before and after shots of areas devastated by Shatterbird. Flooded streets. Fundraising efforts were launched, many succeeding, while yet others leveraged the situation to cheat the sympathetic out of money. The world waited to see if Brockton Bay would become another Switzerland, another Japan, another region that simply couldn’t recover. Ground lost to the Endbringers in their relentless campaign of attrition against humanity.
So very few of them knew it, but they were counting on her.
She heaved herself out of her chair and made her way to the coffee machine to refill her mug.
“Director?”
She turned to see Kid Win standing in the doorway. He looked intimidated.
“Yes?”
He raised the laptop he carried in his hands. ”The guys in CS asked me to bring this to you.”
She shook her head, refusing the offer, “For now, every computer that comes in is supposed to be used for setting up the consoles and communications.”
“They’re done. Or almost done, for communications. They expect to be up and running in two hours, but they have all the computers they need.”
“Good. Access to the central database is up?”
“Everything except the highest security feeds.”
Disappointing. “I’ll make do, I suppose. Thank you.”
Kid Win seemed almost relieved to hand her the laptop. It meant he could get out of her presence sooner. He was turning to leave the instant the laptop was out of his hands.
“Wait.”
She could see his shoulders drop, slightly, in the same way a dog’s tail drooped when ashamed or expecting reprimand. Emily Piggot wasn’t good with kids, or even young adults. She knew it. Outside of the time she had played with dolls as a small child, she’d never entertained the notion of being a mother. She didn’t even like kids. It was the rare youth that she actually respected, now, and those few tended to be the ones who saw her firm leadership and respected her, first. Now she was in charge of some of the most powerful children in the city.
“The next patrol shift is in…” She turned to find the clock, “Twenty minutes?”
“Twenty minutes, yeah. Vista, with Clockblocker babysitting. Weld and Flechette are out right now, patrolling separately.”
“Postpone the next patrol, and tell Weld and Flechette to take it easy, but to be ready to report at a moment’s notice. With the consoles up, we’ll be ready to act. Pass on word to Miss Militia as well. I believe she’s taking the next patrol shift.”
“Yes ma’am.”
The laptop would do little to help in her war against the paperwork until she had access to a printer. PRT divisions and precincts in neighboring cities were all too willing to send along staff and officers to assist, but her firm requests for the fundamentals -for computers, printers, satellite hookups, electricians and IT teams- were ignored all too often.
She cleared space on her desk and started up the laptop. It would be good to have access to the files on the locals and ‘guests’ alike. She would handle the paperwork better after a moment’s break, while she focused on other things that needed doing. She was barely registering the words, at this point.
This would be a battle won with preparation, and for that, she needed information.
It took her a moment to adjust to the smaller keyboard. She entered her passwords, and answered the personal questions that Dragon’s subsystem posed to her. Why is your nephew named Gavin? Your favorite color? Irritating- she didn’t even know her favorite color, but the algorithms had figured it out before she did. All information divined from the countless pieces of data about her that were in official emails, photographs and surveillance footage from the PRT buildings. It was with a moment of trepidation that she typed in For Gawain, knight of the round table. Silver.
The fact that Dragon’s system could divine these details, as always, unnerved her. This time, in light of recent events, it unsettled her all the more.
She typed in the words ‘Slaughterhouse Nine’ and watched as information began appearing in lists. News items, sorted by relevance and date, profiles, records. Lists of names. Casualty reports.
Emily clicked through the records. Sorting as a timeline, she found the entry muddled with Armsmaster’s simulation records on the fighting abilities of the Nine. He’d been preparing to fight them. A double-check of the modification dates showed he’d seen the entries recently.
So when he’d escaped, he’d done it with the intent of fighting the Nine. She’d suspected as much.
She refined the search to remove the simulations from the results and found video footage.
A video of Winter, an ex-member of the Nine, engaging in a protracted siege against no less than twenty members of the Protectorate. She’d been killed by one of her teammates.
A sighting of Crawler, shortly after he had joined the Nine. He’d been more humanoid, then. Still large.
Another member of the Nine from yesteryear, Chuckles, attacking a police station. No use to her, beyond serving as a testament to what might happen if she consolidated too many forces in one place.
She found a file listed as ‘Case 01′. She clicked it.
“We’ve got her cornered?” the person in the video spoke. Hearing the voice, noting the camera image of an apartment was mounted on a helmet, Emily Piggot knew who it was. She knew the video well enough.
“Think so,” a man replied. The camera focused on Legend, then swung over to Alexandria, and finally Eidolon. ”We’ve got teams covering the drainage and plumbing below the building, and the entire place is surrounded.“
“She hasn’t tried to leave?” the face behind the camera asked. ”Why not?“
Legend couldn’t maintain eye contact. ”She has a victim.“
Alexandria spoke up, “You had better be fucking kidding me, or I swear-“
“Stop, Alexandria. It was the only way to guarantee she’d stay put. If we moved too soon, she’d run, and it would be a matter of time before she racked up a body count elsewhere.“
“Then let’s move,” she responded, “The sooner the better.“
“We’re trying an experimental measure. It’s meant to contain, not kill. Drive her towards main street. We have more trucks over there.“
Emily turned off the sound as the four charged into action. She didn’t want to hear it, but she felt compelled to keep watching. A matter of respect.
It was Siberian. One of the first direct confrontations, more than a decade ago. It hadn’t gone well.
The Protectorate had been smaller, then. The lead group had consisted of four members. Legend, Alexandria, Eidolon and Hero. Hero had been the first tinker to take the spotlight, so early to the game that he could get away with taking a name that basic and iconic. He’d sported golden armor, a jetpack, and a tool for every occasion. His career had been cut short when Siberian tore him limb from limb in a sudden frenzy of blood and savagery. He’d been scooped u
p by Eidolon, who tried to heal him, who continued to hold the man as he joined in the ensuing conflict.
Director Piggot had seen the film before. Several times. It was the screams that haunted her. Even with the sound off, she could have put it all together from the sounds that were engraved in her memory, right down to the cadence, the pitch. Seeing a teammate die so unexpectedly, so suddenly. The noises of panic as some of the strongest capes in the United States realized there was nothing they could do, adjusting their tactics to try to save people, staying one step ahead of Siberian to minimize the damage she did as she waded through any defense they erected, tossing the PRT trucks -modified fire trucks, then- as though they were as light and aerodynamic as throwing knives.
Invincible Alexandria was struck a glancing blow and had one eye socket shattered, the eye coming free in the midst of that bloody ruin. Eidolon had healed her, after, but the scar was still there. Alexandria now wore a helmet whenever she was out in costume.
After that telling blow, Legend’s voice would be ordering the containment foam. Not so much to bind Siberian as to hide the wounded Alexandria from the feral lunatic.
With the sound muted, Piggot would not have to hear Legend crying out over what he had believed was the death of two teammates. It had always made her feel guilty to hear it, as if she were intruding, seeing someone mighty at a moment in their life when they were stripped emotionally bare.
And of course, Siberian had escaped. Slipped past countless PRT officers and a dozen superheroes in the chaos. Nothing in the footage gave a clue as to how.
A shadow passed over her desk. Turning, she saw a silhouette of a flying man against the light of the sun.
Like so many parahumans, he lapsed into intrusiveness and a self-centered mindset. Well, she wouldn’t blame him for being emotional in regards to this.
She composed herself and spoke, “If you’d like to enter my office through the front door, Legend, we can talk there.”
Silently, he disappeared around the side of the building. She couldn’t see through the wall, but she heard the commotion as he flew in through the window. He stepped into her office with the fluid grace one had when they could use their ability to fly to carry their weight. Blue and white costume, boots and gloves. Veteran member and leader of the Protectorate, his lasers carried as much firepower as a battalion of tanks. She had to remind herself that she technically outranked him.
“Siberian?” he asked.
“I’m reading up on our opposition.” She wouldn’t apologize, but she couldn’t keep the sympathy from her face.
“I flew up to check if you were in your office, and I saw the video. My fault for seeing what I did. It wasn’t a good day.”
She nodded curtly. It hadn’t been. One could even suggest it was when things started to go bad. The loss of Hero, the first time a truly dangerous villain made an appearance. ”What did you want to see me for?”
“A note delivered for you at the front door. We gave it a high priority.”
“You’re taking the standard precautions?”
He nodded. ”It’s already on its way to the lab.”
“Join me?” She lifted herself out of the chair, keenly aware of the differences in her and Legend: parahuman and human, male and female, lean muscle and eighty pounds of extra weight, tall and average in height.
“Of course.”
They walked past the reams of public servants, government employees and Piggot’s own people. Emily knew she was not the only one overburdened with work, not the only one sweating, trying and failing to keep cool. The rest of her people were staying awake with the benefits of coffee more than anything else.
She couldn’t turn away everyone that volunteered or was sent to Brockton Bay to assist her PRT division, but there were too many. Space was at a premium, and there were too few places where she could establish secure offices, where buildings didn’t threaten to fall down and where assistance was actively needed. Still, she’d sent people away when she could.
“How’s the family?” She asked. ”You adopted, if I remember right?”
“We did. Arthur was worried that a surrogate parent would give birth to a parahuman, and if that happened, he’d be out of the loop.”
“The odds are still high, even with an adopted child. It’s likely more to do with exposure to parahumans at formative ages than genetics.”
“I know. Arthur knows, but I don’t think he believes it.”
“Or he doesn’t want to believe,” Emily said.
Legend nodded.
“He knew the price of admission,” she said.
Legend smiled. ”You’re always straight to the point, Director.”
“But the child is good? A boy or a girl?”
“A boy. Keith.”
“You’ve heard there are some third generation parahumans on record?”
“For a while now. We knew they were being born anyways, right?”
“We did. But nothing’s official until it’s on record. But the point I was getting at was that there was apparently an incident.”
“Oh?”
“In Toronto. A five-year-old manifested powers. A third generation parahuman.”
Legend nodded, but he didn’t respond right away. He stepped forward to open a door for her.
“Everyone’s alright?” he asked, at last.
“No. But no casualties. The parents were outed in the chaos.”
“Sobering.”
She nodded. ”The perils of being a superhero parent. Your child isn’t a third generation cape, I know, but there are always risks. Still, I envy you.”
“How so?”
“Family. I wonder if it is harder or easier to get through the day if you have people waiting for you at the end.”
“Yes.”
She smiled a little at that.
They entered the lab, and Emily Piggot very carefully measured the expressions of every person in the room when they noticed Legend. Awe, surprise, amazement. Sometimes ambivalence.
What could she take away from that? If she were to promote one of them, should she promote one of the awestruck ones, or one of the taciturn? The starry-eyed might be in the PRT for the wrong reasons, but the ones who were unfazed by the presence of one of the most notable heroes in the United States could easily be plants, hiding their emotion or simply too used to the presence of capes to care.
“The note?”
“No traces of toxins, radiation, powders or transfers.”
“Why the priority? We get letters from cranks every day.”
“The man who delivered the message reported a fairly convoluted series of safeguards to protect the identity of the sender. Apparently the man who gave him his instructions was given the note by a civilian, and ordered to find a random individual to deliver it to the PRT, all with compensation arranged.”
“You’ve tailed him?”
“Of course. We doubt anything will come of it.”
“No. It wouldn’t. Can you make out the contents without touching the envelope? Can’t be too careful.”
“We can and have.” The technician handed Emily a paper.
She read it over twice. ”Burnscar is dead, it seems, and Bonesaw won’t be in the field for the interim. God knows how quickly she’ll recover, but it’s something.”
“Good news,” Legend said.
Emily wasn’t so sure. ”It’s… a change.”
“Not a good one?”
“The closing line reads, ‘Thanks for the help.’ I can’t help but read it in a sarcastic tone.”
“The bug girl? Skitter?”
Emily nodded. ”Exactly. As good as it is to have one more member of the Nine dealt with, this shifts the balance of power towards another group of villains. It also serves to move up our deadline.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Call a meeting. Protectorate and Wards.”
“Alright.”
■
She looked at each of the capes in tu
rn. Legend, Prism, Ursa Aurora and Cache were the outsiders, heroes on loan. Miss Militia’s group was more worn out. Where their costumes had been damaged, stained or torn, pieces had been replaced from the generic costumes the PRT kept in stock. Miss Militia had doffed the jacket but left the scarf with the flag motif in place. She wore a black tank top and camouflage pants with a number of empty holsters and sheaths for her weapons. Battery was wearing a plain black costume and goggles, while Assault had replaced the top half of his costume with similar odds and ends. Triumph still wore his helmet and shoulder pads with the roaring lion style, but his gloves had been replaced with the same utilitarian, generic ones the PRT officers wore in the field.
The Wards, at least, were in better shape. Tired, to be sure, but they hadn’t been directly in the fray. The patrol shifts were unending and they always had something to do. Weld, Flechette, Clockblocker, Vista, Kid Win and Chariot.
She deliberately avoided looking at Chariot. The mole in their midst. Did Coil suspect she knew about the mole he’d planted? Could she afford to assume he didn’t?
Still, it would all be for nothing if she gave the game away. Back to the matter at hand.
“We have three priorities,” she began. “We take down the Nine, we regain control of the city, and we don’t die.”
She stressed the final two words, waiting to see their reactions. Were any of her people thinking of performing a heroic sacrifice?
“There’s no point in winning now if any of you die or get converted to the enemy side by Regent or Bonesaw. Even if we were to defeat the Nine outright, through some stroke of fortune, I harbor concerns that we’d lose the city without the manpower to defend it. It’s a dangerous situation.”
She picked up the remote that sat in front of her and clicked the button. The screen showed a map of the city with the spread of territories.
“The Nine have the advantage of power. Not necessarily in terms of the abilities at their disposal, but in terms of their ability to affect change and shape everything that occurs. They are our number one priority, obviously. With them gone, if nothing else, I can hope that more capes will be willing to venture into the city to help out.”
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