The Magnes painting at the landing between the second and third floor, overlooking the ground floor foyer. Jeremy winced at the realization. He’d only picked it up two months ago. The two million dollar price tag might have given him pause, but it was insured. He’d bought all the furniture for foyer to complement the work, and now he’d have to find another painting to take its place and buy new furniture to match.
Except they were walking by the painting as though it weren’t even there.
A part of him felt offended that they hadn’t even stopped to admire it. Philistines.
No. There was a very good chance they were coming for him.
One by one, they entered his bedroom. It was a blind spot of sorts. He’d wanted his privacy, so the only ways to turn on the security camera in the corner of the room would be to unlock or open the balcony doors, break the glass or input a particular code.
He stepped over to the computer, typed in the code. Simonfoster19931996.
The screen flickered to life, but it wasn’t his bedroom in the picture. A field with four walls approximately where his bedroom walls had been, the six invaders waiting very patiently in the middle as walls stripped away to become tendrils, tendrils became vines and vines twisted together into treelike forms.
The window went quickly. The ‘field’ of knee-length grass rippled as the wind caught it.
The bookcase was slower to degrade. Books were rendered into leaves, shelves into vines. He watched the image on the camera with an increasing sense of dread, glanced at the door.
The screen went black.
“No, no, no, no,” he said.
A crack appeared in the door. Floor to ceiling.
He grabbed the handgun from the counter, double checked it was loaded.
Another crack crossed the door, horizontal, nearly six feet above the ground.
He disabled the safety.
With the third crack, the door fell into the panic room, slamming against the ground. He fired into the opening of the doorway, and the acoustics of the metal-walled room made the shot far, far louder than it had any right to be.
There was nobody standing in the doorway.
He looked around. The layout of the room wasn’t set up for a firefight. Especially not a firefight that involved parahumans. He crouched, kept the gun pointed toward the door.
They didn’t make a move. The floor of the panic room was being finely etched with markings that overlapped and wove into one another. Where lines drew to a taper, points were curling up, strands slowly rising, dividing into finer growths and flaring at the top with the vague cat-tail like ends of wild grass. He could see the clean-cut edges of the door curling, twisting into tendrils. Some had teardrop shaped bulges on the end.
“Elle,” he called out. “Labyrinth?”
All together, the bulges on the tendrils unfurled into tiny, metallic flowers, framing the doorway.
“She’s having one of her bad days, doctor,” the woman who had been on the other side of the radio called back. “She’s not feeling very talkative as a result. If you have something to say, say it to me. I go by Faultline.”
■
Faultline pressed her back to the ‘wall’. Not that it was really a ‘wall’. Labyrinth’s power was slowly working on the metal, gradually twisting it into gnarled textures and branches. Shamrock was beside her, clad in a costume of skintight black leather with a green clover on the chest, her red hair spilling over her shoulders, a combat shotgun directed at the ground. Gregor and Spitfire were on the other side of the door, holding similar positions.
Newter sat with Labyrinth on the bed, his tail circled around the girl’s waist, keeping her from wandering. The bed was barely recognizable, nearly consumed by waist-high strands of hardwood-textured grass.
A cool summer breeze blew in through the opening that had once been the window, scattering dandelion seeds and leaves throughout the room’s interior.
“I don’t know what she told you,” the Doctor called out. “I always treated her professionally, to the best of my ability.”
“We’re not here for revenge on her behalf, Doctor,” Faultline responded. “We’re looking for information.”
“I’m not working with the Asylum anymore. It’s been over a year.”
“I know,” she replied.
“Protocols have changed. I can’t get you past security or anything like that.”
“The Asylum doesn’t really interest me,” Faultline said. “Not why we’re here.”
“Then why?”
“Because we’ve been trying to track down people who can give us answers, and you stood out. Spending a little too much money.”
“I’m a good doctor, that’s all!”
“Doesn’t account for it. Comparing you to your coworkers at the asylum back then, you were spending too much money. Just enough that I think someone was bankrolling you.”
“Your sources are wrong!”
“Don’t think so. I think someone was paying you to keep tabs on certain individuals within the asylum. Was it Cauldron?”
She shut her eyes, listened. She couldn’t make out any telltale gasps or movement.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“The other possibility is that you were working for a foreign government. A spy. Or, to be more specific, you were working as a spy for several foreign agencies.”
“Look at my neighbors! We do the same kind of work, we live at the same level!”
“Your neighbors are in debt, or they’re riding on the capital from smart investments. You aren’t. Just the opposite. Your investments are nil, yet you somehow have enough money sitting in the bank that you can coast into retirement.”
“No,” the Doctor said.
“The difference between you and the other people on my list is that you were stupid about it. Showing too much of the money. If it wasn’t me who noticed, it’d be one of the people paying you.”
“Nobody paid me! Your sources are wrong! I am in debt! Hundreds of thousands!”
“Let’s cut past the lies and bullshit, Doctor Foster. I’m offering you a deal. You and I both know that you won’t be able to maintain this lifestyle if your employers realize you were discovered. Depending on who they are, they might even take offense. Either they terminate their relationship with you or they terminate you.”
More of the house around them was blowing away, dandelion seeds in the wind. The wall surrounding the window was gone, and the roof was well on its way to the same state.
“I don’t- you’re wrong. These people you’re talking about, they don’t exist. I don’t know them.”
“Okay,” Faultline said. “Now, I’d have to double-check whether the person paying for the mission is willing to torture or kill you for the information we want…”
She hesitated, glanced at Gregor. He shook his head.
“…And he isn’t. Isn’t that good news?”
“God. I’m just- I’m a doctor! I work with politicians, sometimes with big name parahumans. The- the president’s friends come to me! But I’m only a doctor! I’m not a spy!”
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” Faultline said, “if we leave and we spread the word that we thought you were involved. If it’s an unfounded rumor, then nothing happens. Maybe your reputation takes a little hit, but a powerful man like you will bounce back, won’t he?”
“Please-”
“But if you’re lying, if you are involved, the people who paid you to keep your eyes open and your mouth shut will be upset. I don’t think you’ll be able to escape them by hopping on a plane to some remote country.”
She let the words hang in the air.
“I… if I told you, I would be in just as bad a situation. Hypothetically.”
“Hypothetically,” she said, “I suppose you’d have to decide whether it was better to trust us and our professional, circumspect demeanor and the possibility that we’d let the details slip or whether you wanted to suffer the
inevitable consequences if we started talking.”
There was another pause. She waited patiently.
“I was supposed to find out just how much the United States knew about what was going on. Like you said, keeping my eyes open. Twice, putting a special thumbdrive into one of the main computers. That was for the United Kingdom. I sent regular reports to another group. I think they were the C.U. I didn’t do anything specific for them. Just describing new inmates, recent hirings and firings, changes in policy.”
The C.U.l China. It was good to be right. “Did you download anything onto the drives, or-”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I was supposed to plug them in, then wait. After, I took them out and destroyed them.”
“Very possible it was putting a backdoor into place, giving your employer remote access,” Faultline said.
“Why does this matter?”
“That’s our business, not yours. Did they ever show particular attention to an individual?”
“Some attention for the more powerful ones. Nothing ever came of it. I gave them more details, they paid me, that was it. The patients stayed in the asylum’s custody.”
“If you had to, how would you get in touch with them?”
“Email. Sometimes phone. They changed handlers. Been a while.”
“When did they last contact you?”
“Two years ago? About?”
“Why?”
“Wisconsin. The Simurgh attack. There was an open call for civilian volunteers. My contact from the U.K. left me a message. Asked me to volunteer my medical expertise, see who was filtering out.”
“Did he have a handle?”
“Christof.”
Her heart leaped. “Spell it.”
“C-H-R-I-S-T-O-F.”
A rare smile spread across Faultline’s face. Finally, after weeks of looking, they’d found a connection between two clues. Christof was a familiar name. She glanced at the others, and Newter gave her a little ‘fist pump’ gesture, smiling.
“How much did he pay you?”
“He didn’t. I refused the deal.”
Every clue points to a greater picture, how they operate and where the priorities are. In a situation where every piece of information was valuable and every avenue of collecting that information crucial, there was a lot to be said for identifying where the major players weren’t looking for clues. It suggested they already knew, they already had agents in play.
If they’d let him go so easily, there might have been others. But it suggested they were interested in what had happened in Madison.
Which meant her crew had reason to be interested.
“Keep talking,” she said. “Let’s talk about some of the other jobs.”
■
“Hate the heat,” Faultline said. “I never thought I’d miss Brockton Bay, but the weather was usually nice. Damn sun’s not even up and I’m sweltering.”
“It might be easier to bear if you wore something more… summery,” Newter commented, eyeing her short-sleeved dress shirt and the black slacks that were tucked into cowboy boots. She glared at him, and he smirked in response.
She’d have to put him in check or he’d be intolerable for the rest of the day. “Maybe I need to get the bullwhip? Or did you forget the drills?”
Newter groaned aloud. “You’re on that again.”
“On the wall. Go.”
Newter leaped across the hotel room and stuck to the wall, one hand planted above his head so he could stay more or less upright, his tail curling around his lower foot. “Pain in the ass. You know I’ll have to scrub the hotel walls after to get rid of the footprints before we go.”
“Deal,” Faultline said. “The practice could make the difference between you dodging a bullet and you moving too slow to avoid it.”
Spitfire and Elle stepped out of the bathroom, Spitfire with a towel in hands, drying Elle’s hair.
“How are we doing?” Faulltine asked.
Elle didn’t respond. She chewed slightly on her lip, and her eyes looked right through Faulltine as she glanced around the room.
“I think we’re about a three,” Spitfire said. “She brushed her teeth after I put the brush in her hands. Why don’t you sit down on the couch, Elle, and I’ll brush your hair?”
“I’ll do that,” Faultline said. “Get me a brush and then go finish getting ready.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Spitfire said. She glanced at Newter, and Faultline suspected she saw an eye roll there. Spitfire led Elle by hand in the direction of the couch, let go as Elle got close enough to Faultline. Faultline led the girl to the couch, then sat on the back of the couch with her feet planted to either side of the girl.
She caught the brush that Spitfire threw across the room and set to brushing Elle’s white-blond hair. “This is badly tangled. Were you sleeping in a tree again?”
Elle nodded slightly.
“I’ll try to be gentle. Let me know if I’m tugging too hard.”
Elle nodded again.
Faultline caught a whiff of hot sand, salt, and humid air.
“Don’t make water, okay, Elle?” Faultline said. “It’s not that we’re paying the deposit for the room, but it’s a matter of principle. We’re professionals. We don’t leave messes.”
The ocean smell faded away by the time Faultline had stroked the brush five more times.
“Thank you,” Faultline said.
The ‘Labyrinth’ power would typically clean itself up. When they’d left Dr. Foster’s estate, much of it had been turned to leaves, grass and flowers with electric blue petals. As the effect faded, the building would be restored.
What Elle’s power didn’t clean up was the aftermath the changes themselves wrought. If a stone pillar toppled onto a car, the pillar might disappear, but the car would remain crushed. A fire quenched by water would remain out, even as the moisture faded.
Gregor and Shamrock entered from the hotel room’s front door, holding hands. Both were in their combat gear, with some adjustments made to adjust for the heat. Shamrock wore black yoga pants and a green sleeveless t-shirt with her clover-leaf symbol on the front in black, her mask dangling from her right front pocket, her shotgun dangling from her free hand.
Gregor wore a fishnet shirt over bare skin, thick canvas pants and a snailshell-spiral mask strapped to his face, with holes worked into the gaps for his eyes. The dark vague shadows of his organs were visible through the flesh of his broad stomach.
“I’m sorry the rest of us aren’t ready to go. Slow start,” Faultline confessed.
“It happens,” Gregor said, in his accented voice. “And I know it is almost always Spitfire, Newter or Elle at fault. Not to say I would fault Elle. But you should not apologize for any of them. Only yourself.”
“Frankly, bro,” Newter said, “I’m surprised you’re even capable of moving. It’s not like you slept a wink, know what I mean?”
Gregor lobbed a glob of goo at Newter, who leaped to the ceiling, cackling. The slime bubbled away to nothingness.
“I took the role of leader,” Faultline said. “It’s my job to kick people’s asses and get them moving when we have a job coming up.”
“And I’m the client,” Gregor said. He’d taken a seat in an armchair, and Shamrock sat in his lap. Almost as an afterthought, he folded his arms around the young woman. “I could ask that you and the team are more casual with this job. Our destination is going to be there whether we leave before dawn or at sunset.”
Faultline shook her head. “I’d rather treat this as I would any job. If nothing else, keeping everyone on the straight and narrow means they won’t get sloppy on our next serious job.”
“Very well,” Gregor said. “Then I’d like to leave within thirty minutes.”
“We’ll make it ten,” Faultline said. “Pack everything up. Spitfire can help Elle get her stuff on. Elle makes us an exit from the balcony so we aren’t walking through the hotel in costume.”
She stood from the ba
ck of the couch, and nearly collided with a statue that had emerged from the wall above and around her. A woman, back arched, hands outstretched to either side of Faultline.
She led Elle to the bedroom, where Spitfire was pulling the last of her fire-retardant gear on. Her own gear was in a separate suitcase.
Faultline was a believer in doing things right. Image came secondary to effect, and doing the job right was better for image than having the best costume. Her own costume blended several functions. A bulletproof vest, lightweight, with a stylized exterior, formed the most expensive single component of the outfit. She tied her hair back into a crude bun, then gingerly drew the ‘ponytail’ from the side of the suitcase. Unfolding the surrounding cover, Faultline slowly and carefully used her fingers to comb the fake hair onto a semblance of order. The bristly hair extension masked a thin, flexible rod in the core, with painted spikes protruding at various angles. It was all too common for an enemy to reach for the ponytail in an attempt to get her. Their hands would be impaled on the waiting spikes, if they weren’t invulnerable, and the hair extension would come free, giving her a chance to escape.
Belts with various tools and weapons were strapped to her upper arms, forearms and thighs, held in place with suspenders. Knives, lockpicks, various pre-prepared hypodermic needles, climbing tools, sticks of chalk, a mirror, a magnifying glass, iron wire and more were on hand if she needed them. She ran her finger over the belts to ensure that each pocket was full.
She checked her semiautomatic, then slid it into the holster at her left hip. A flare gun went into the holster at the right. Flowing sleeves that would mask the belts and their contents were buckled on next, followed by a dress with a side pocket that would let her access the gun in a pinch. The buckles meant that anyone pulling on the fabric would pull it free rather than get hold of her.
It was amusing, just how much of a contrast Labyrinth’s costume was. The robe was easy enough to wear that she could put it on over her clothes. It was green with a ‘maze’ drawn on the fabric. There were no safety measures, only minimal supplies and gear.
Faultline donned her mask, more a welder’s mask with a stylized crack to see through than anything else, then led the other two girls back into the main area of their hotel room.
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