An Imago of Rust and Crimson (Worm crossover)
- Thread starter EarthScorpion
- Start date
Winged One
Not the Simurgh
- Location
- definitely the ground
- Pronouns
- They/Them/It
Not to be confused with a CRAVAT. The piece of clothing is much sturdier.
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SolipsistSerpent
Endlessly Devouring
What? Studier? It's better at studying? Did you mean sturdier? Or studlier?
earthboy
(verified ape)
- Location
- NYC
- Pronouns
- He/Him
"Studier" = has more visible metal attachments and/or structural wooden beams. Obviously.
Winged One
Not the Simurgh
- Location
- definitely the ground
- Pronouns
- They/Them/It
Dopplerdee
Accident Prone(Yes the caps are necessary)
- Location
- Happy Place
- Pronouns
- She/Her
....and i just realized that Jack Slash is going to be a big mess of mixed signals....i don't think it will end well...
Trier
Trying fate
- Location
- Digitally existent
- Location
- UP!
Does that count as a necro? it's like 18 days? Thought necro was 20?
Winged One
Not the Simurgh
- Location
- definitely the ground
- Pronouns
- They/Them/It
Coming near a necro without actually performing necromancy gets people just as 
, from what I've seen.
, from what I've seen.
- Location
- UP!
But is that against the rules?
shepsquared
Erratic Aussie
- Location
- Melbourne, Australia
N, but rules lawyering can lead to the mods making an example out of you, mostly if you aren't contributing anything.
Mind you, I don't remember if I've seen that happen on sv, but it did happen once or twice on sb so I wouldn't take the chance.
Mind you, I don't remember if I've seen that happen on sv, but it did happen once or twice on sb so I wouldn't take the chance.
- Location
- Australia
Necroing a thread is not against the rules. That said, necroing a thread- especially when your post contains little to no substance- is likely to annoy other users, so please refrain from doing so if you don't have anything to contribute.
Piling on another user, however, is against the rules. Please refrain from necro-hunts, everyone.
2.0x - The Chariot
An Imago of Rust and Crimson
Namakarana 2.x
The Chariot
The eastern horizon was painted a dull grey, an industrial shade that slowly brightened as the minutes stretched on. Dawn was coming, and the urban blight of the rusting Brockton Bay docklands sprawled out under an iron sky.
"This is Charlie Niner and we are holding station above the target site."
It wasn't raining. For the police in position around a certain warehouse in the Docks, that was a blessing, but only a small one. Even without rain, the cold nipped at exposed flesh and turned breath into bursts of fog, lit orange by the street lights.
"Roger, Charlie Niner. We have confirmation Charlie One is reading your feed loud and clear. No problems at our end."
Those with sharp ears might have heard the faint whir of the insectoid PPD chopper holding station over the site, but only if they could pick it out from the noise of the waking city. Even then, unless the listener was looking in just right patch of sky with eyes sharp enough to notice a covert vehicle packed with sensor equipment, they would probably just dismiss it as another vaguely electrical hum.
"Understood, Charlie Actual. Visibility isn't great in the optical, but thermal, t-hertz and radar are compensating. Drones are on station and we're awaiting your orders."
Flitting mechanical beetles the size of a man's torso hung up in the night air, whining like oversized mosquitos. Their grey-black flight surfaces were speckled with LEDs, camouflaging them with light. It wouldn't do to be a darker shape against the sky. Most were just carrying more sensor equipment, but a few of them were armed with a single strike missile, the lone sting of a particularly explosive bee.
"Roger, Charlie Niner. Keep your eyes open and look for papa-whiskey signals. Strike Team One is in position and green to go if local forces request it. Charlie Actual out."
And then there was the police van, painted in the same colours as any other. A suspicious observer might note that it was sitting heavy on its wheels, though, and deduce that it was a fully loaded armoured van.
All this force, and all they could do was wait. Wait for a call from the local police which might never come. The PPD was only here as backup in case the tip-off of an on-site parahuman was true. It was up to the police to request a deployment of field units.
And the call came.
Three hours had passed, and it was all over for the Parahuman Protection Division's combat team involvement in the case. All over, that was, apart from a considerable amount of paperwork, and the necessary briefings to one's superiors.
"It was a false alarm?" Director Emily Piggot of the East-North-East branch of the Parahuman Protection Division asked. She reached up and massaged her temples. The servomotors in her black plastic-coated left arm softly whined with the motion, her fingers remaining unmoving through the gesture. She was a stocky blonde woman with a physique which once had been raw muscle, but had long since gone to seed. Half-turning to her slim LCD monitor, she checked the preliminary incident report from the police. "They're saying it's possible the suspect fled." The whine changed in pitch as she reached out, frowning, and closed her mechanical fingers on her coffee mug.
The woman on the other side of the desk shook her head. "No," Hannah – who went by the codename 'Miss Militia' – said. Her dark eyes were alert and professional. It was impossible to tell that the slight woman dressed in the sweat-stained power armour undersuit hadn't slept last night. She seemed disgustingly awake and energetic. "There was no-one on site for the call-in location. Charlie-Niner agrees with my assessment. Barring a teleporter, no one fled the location without being tracked, and they didn't pick up any unusual energy signatures."
Miss Militia looked over at the flatscreen on one of the pale blue walls, showing photographs of the most prominent supervillains in Region I East North East, and clicked her tongue. "And fleeing from the police wouldn't be in character for either of the local confirmed villain teleporters," she added, tapping her feet on the royal blue carpet.
Piggot nodded solidly. "That is true," she agreed. "Although… well, we'll get onto that later." She rose, and limped over to the nanotube reinforced window of her office, each swing of her left leg accompanied by the whine of mechanisms. From here, she could look back toward Brockton Bay over the choppy water which separated the mainland from the local Parahuman Protection Division headquarters, once a converted oil rig. A lone container ship sat at the docks, a rust-red vessel being unloaded even now. "Can you confirm it was an Alpha-Two-One-Nine they reported?" she asked. Every deployment of a combat PRT had to be justified.
"Yes, Director."
"You carried out a full search?"
"We swept the area on foot, and Charlie-Niner was watching. Thermals, t-ray… nothing." Hannah shrugged. "I'm almost certain it was a false alarm. The cops said they'd just got this feeling of… how did they put it? 'Coldness and humidity and a strange smell', so given we had info there was a para possibly on site…" she shook her head. "I'm thinking it was a dehumidifying room that got the cops nervous."
"At least we should be clean on this incident's write-up," Piggot said, resting her hands on the bright metal of the window frame. "You didn't leave the vehicle until requested?"
"Yes, Director," Miss Militia confirmed again. Her voice had a slightly weary note to it. "Charlie-Niner was providing aerial intel as per your orders, but Charlie Team didn't leave the APC until the Two-One-Nine was called in and we had authorisation."
"Good." Piggot paused, turning and looking away from the window. "Anything else to report?" she asked more intently, now the formulaic questions were out of the way.
Miss Militia coughed. "It's going to be an issue. What we found. I mean, this is going to set the pot boiling when it goes public," she said awkwardly. "The workers in here? Japanese. Illegal immigrants, looks like. Shipped in as slave labour. They'd been beaten," she said, her tone disgusted. "One of them threw herself at me – recognised my armour. She was going on about how the gangmasters had killed some men who'd tried to escape. 'Help, help, Miss Milita, help', she kept saying." She narrowed her eyes. "This shouldn't be brushed under the carpet. This isn't how America should be treating refugees," she said, anger in her voice.
Piggot didn't let any of her emotions show. "It's in the hands of the police, now," she said. "As far as I can tell, the whole operation looks like it's a local thing – no obvious links to any parahuman organisations apart from the tip-off. We'll just need to add this to our investigation into PSC parahumans –did you see any evidence of private security contractors on site?"
Miss Militia clenched her jaw, and then sighed. "No. And I understand, Director. It's just…"
"I'm not happy either," Piggot said, "but we don't have jurisdiction there. And we unfortunately have our hands full. The Bomei are going to take this as an excuse when they find out about it. We're going to have to prepare for whatever reprisals they carry out. Even if they were only going to go after the guilty – and they're not – they can't be allowed to… to do what they do." She scowled. "This timing is very bad. Things were quietening down, but they're still worked up from the last riots."
"I understand."
"I'll schedule an action plan meeting for the Region I Response Team tomorrow," Piggot said, returning to her desk and sitting back down. "This time we will be properly ready if the Bomei make trouble. I'll increase our readiness level in case it leaks early. We know they have spies in the police. I hope I won't have to move more PRTs in from the rest of the area, but if this is going to go loud…" she shook her head. "Moving on."
Hannah cleared her throat, shifting on her blue-cushioned seat. "Yes. With regards to the other reason for my onsite presence…"
"Yes. The analysts are looking over the data from Watcher-2 right now," Piggot said. She paused. "That will be all."
Miss Militia stretched, working her shoulders. She rose. "Is Colin in?" she asked, rubbing her wrists together. "I need him to take a look at my armour again."
"Oh?" Piggot said, raising her eyebrows in mild annoyance. Miss Militia's power armour seemed… well, she didn't like to say 'cursed', but whenever there was a problem with gear in the field, hers seemed to be the one playing up more often than not. Piggot suspected that there was something about her powers at the root, but so far no one had been able to get to the bottom of the problem – if it even was a problem, rather than just bad luck, as some of the technicians had suggested. She disagreed. It was much more likely that something about the other woman's capacity to pull weapons from nowhere and move like a Hong Kong action hero made the armour prone to breaking down. "He was in at five this morning. And," she glanced at a window on her second monitor, "he's in the building. What is it this time?"
"Battery's running hot," Miss Militia said, shaking her head. "Useless piece of junk. I preferred my old rig." She smiled faintly. "Don't worry. I won't let Colin know what I think of it. He'd probably have a heart attack at the idea that I'd prefer to not be wearing power armour."
"I would prefer that he remain alive and not in a state of shock, yes," Piggot said drily.
"Time to get out of this undersuit, showered, back into my proper uniform and then I can start the incident report write-up," Hannah said. "Unless you have anything you need done first."
"I'll schedule the meeting for the ENE response team leads," Piggot said, "and you'll need to be there. I'll message you if anything else comes up."
"Got it."
Alone once again in her office, Director Piggot sighed, staring blankly at her sleeping security screen. Another problem in a city – hell, a country – full of them. Another problem on her desk. And she'd need to handle this, because Miss Militia was… sensitive about any mistreatment of immigrants and the last thing she needed was one of her actually reliable parahumans getting disillusioned if some idiot prosecutor decided not to pursue the case. She went to bring her computer out of sleep mode, and winced.
Rolling her sleeve up to the shoulder, she rubbed the flesh of her upper arm where it met the black outer coating of her artificial arm. The humidity combined with the cold weather was making her stumps ache. She tried not to show it in front of her subordinates, but she hated winters in Brockton Bay, and the weather was still miserable. She couldn't wait for spring to properly arrive. Opening one of her desk drawers, she pulled out a foil packet, and popped one of the pills, swallowing it whole. That should do some good.
Getting back to work, Piggot checked her inbox. There was another email from the Army, requesting that she examine the current on-staff parahumans in her region and consider if any wanted the opportunity of serving their country and protecting national interests and energy supplies abroad.
That went straight into her Low Priority folder. None of her fully trained adult parahumans were people she could spare, and much as she wanted to dump a certain troublesome Ward on the occupation forces in Venezuela and make her their problem, she couldn't do that. The Army wouldn't take Wards. A pity. She'd send back her form letter once she'd given them some time to think she was actually checking her records.
Reports, reports, reports. That was what made up her days, and she got to work on trying to clear her backlog even as the painkillers for her arm and leg kicked in. The summary of forwarded minutes from Deputy Director Harrison in Vermont were filed to be handled later. There was a notification of a planned delay in the raids against criminal organisations thought to be linked to Hemlock in Manchester. Deputy Director Jones was handling that. That damn villain had operations all over New Hampshire, but it was proving very difficult to build a case against him – not helped by the murder of their FBI liaison in what had almost certainly been a spoiler attack against evidence. And another reminder about the interviews she would have to carry out to find someone new to handle Massachusetts. Boston, Endbringer-blasted and half-abandoned, was a perpetual pain in her neck and her former Deputy Director had quit.
Piggot narrowed her eyes. Ah, yes. There was Elmthorpe's report on the tip-off which had produced the most recent problem to cross her desk. While she was in theory all in favour of tip-offs, she was not in favour of tip-offs which caused more trouble in a volatile city, and double-not-so when she knew for a fact that the local police chief was sympathetic to the Patriotic Movement. He was itching to be able to get a nice public victory over someone 'taking jobs away from honest hardworking Americans'.
Why did they have to be Japanese? Intellectually, Piggot knew why. The Leviathan's rampage across that island nation had sent migrants fleeing across the world, and the refugees certainly weren't headed for the PRC or the UPRK if they could help it. But that meant that there were large communities of totally unintegrated first generation migrants all across the US who owed no loyalty to America, and in the vacant spaces of society ethnic gangs – like the fucking Bomei – had found an almost state-like role. They ran grey markets, they sold drugs, they smuggled migrants into the US for debts, they offered loan shark services, and they talked about how they were preserving culture and traditions. And, of course, they shot people who 'disrespected' them.
The Bomei just happened to be the local wing of the latest version of the ethnic mobs which always cropped up whenever a large influx of migrants arrived.
It wasn't the Bomei who really worried her. Yes, they were led by a dangerous bastard, but the man who called himself Lung was playing from the same handbook as the Mafia and all the other ethnic mobs had. He was just doing it with parahuman power backing him. They'd get him eventually, when he slipped up and did something stupid enough to let her bring in a proper reinforced assault PRT to smash him and his organisation. The FBI were already working on the network of businesses the Bomei owned or influenced, and they were building a case against him, slowly and surely.
She swirled the dregs in her nearly empty mug of coffee, and downed it.
No, someone had set up this conflict. Someone had tipped them off about a sweatshop filled with Japanese workers, in a city with a powerful ethnic crime presence and a police chief who wanted to be seen cracking down on migrants and those who employed them.
Eyes narrowed, Director Piggot read the analysis which Elmthorpe had got back from the labs. Fingerprints all over the paper, from lots of people – the labs said it was hopelessly contaminated, and had probably been taken from some communal source of paper in an office. That was supported the paper – cheap A4 – and the ink, which was from the kind of commercial printer a small business might have.
Nothing useful for tracking this person down. Emily Piggot personally blamed films and books for teaching criminals to wear gloves and not use their own paper for sending this kind of message. It made everything so much harder. Irritably, she glanced over the scan of the note again.
'Director Emily Piggot," the message read.
'As part of Operation Salesman, Project Crucible has authorised Mockingbird Team to begin operations in Brockton Bay. I have obtained evidence on an illegal parahuman-supported sweatshop operating in the Docks. Information is attached to this cover letter. We are sure that action will be taken out to shut down this criminal organisation.
'We wish you best luck in your efforts, and look forwards to providing more assistance as and when it is appropriate.
'Yours sincerely,
'Panopticon
'Mockingbird Team
'Project Crucible'
A strange symbol was marked beneath, like a hieroglyphic signature. It looked like a tic-tac-toe grid turned forty-five degrees, with an eye in the middle. She could see the pixilation on the diagonal lines – the resolution of the source image was quite poor.
As far as she'd been able to tell, there was no such thing as 'Project Crucible'. So she was operating under the irritated assumption that this was probably a group of vigilante rogues who wanted to pretend they were part of some great government conspiracy or secret superhero team. They might even believe it. This wouldn't be the first rogue team recruited by some villain under the pretence of being a secret conspiracy.
And she had her suspicions. A deniable and anonymous tip-off from a source she'd never heard of before had all the marks of a set-up. Someone wanted the Bomei to go on a rampage. She suspected this 'Panopticon' had Patriotic sympathies – or was being used by someone who had them. Unless it was linked to the Coil… but no, she wasn't going to give too much credit to the over-extrapolated projections of cognitively-enhanced FBI parahumans until they gave her something concrete.
She'd just throw the data over to them, and see what they said. Yes, there did seem to be suspicious links between several major industries and private security contractors, but – Piggot considered wryly – it was far more likely they were using them as hired thugs for good, honest all-American activities. Like union-breaking and carrying out industrial espionage. Which was illegal, but not her problem as long as parahumans weren't involved.
But she wasn't prepared to credit wild extrapolations from too little data, even if they came from parahumans. Especially if they came from parahumans, who had a pronounced tendency to give false positives in their warnings.
Director Piggot massaged her brow, muttering to herself. An impressive budget was allocated to analyzing the various factors contributing to the manifestation of powers. Genetic mapping, demographic studies, psychological profiles. If they asked, she'd be happy to add a common profile to the catalogue; "stupid little self-righteous fools who think that 'good intentions' makes up for being saps for whatever subversive influence glances their way." Hopefully it was just vigilantes this time. She made a note to have someone brief the Wards about it. Such influences often targeted younger, less well-informed parahumans and their hangers-on with the promise of mattering.
Little idiots.
She sighed and got back to work. There was a new message, on the secure mail client. It was marked with 'Urgent', and came directly from Belle Torony, the Secretary of Homeland Security. This was coming right from the top, above even Director Costa-Brown. The Parahuman Protection Division was only part of the larger DHS.
Director Piggot pinched her brow. If it was coming from the Secretary, this might make it political. She really hoped that it wasn't. With the recent events in the East North East, she didn't have the best record. Piggot opened it immediately. It was brief, almost perfunctory.
'Director Emily Piggot,' it read.
'Please be advised, a DHS team operating under the auspices of IRONWALL led by AGENT JANE BAKER will be beginning operations in REGION I EAST NORTH EAST. They are dealing with a possible ORANGE-RED threat and you are to offer them full cooperation.
'They will be arriving at ENE COMMAND to brief you further. Please see them at your earliest convenience.
'Belle Torony
'Secretary for Homeland Security'
Please see them at your earliest convenience. Piggot smiled, her lips a humourless line. Yes, that was a direct order there. And a potential threat investigating the second-highest threat categorisation – only one step below an Endbringer?
What was going on here?
The black helicopter silently descended, the sound of its rotors almost lost in the thrum of machinery from the PPD base and the falling rain. There were troopers up here, armed and ready in case of trouble. This would not be the first time parahuman terrorists intercepted an arrival – although the DHS helicopter was probably advanced enough to fight off all but the most determined assailants. It looked even more insectoid than the standard designs, with a bulbous transport abdomen, two large sensor bulges on its opaque blacked-out front, and smaller bulges which no doubt held foldout weapons systems.
Their base sensors had only picked it up when it had requested permission to land and deployed its landing gear.
Piggot's lip curled up from where she was watching, out of the rain. Tinkertech. You didn't get that kind of performance from hardware which wasn't made by some mad genius in a lab. Only a subset of mad geniuses, too.
Standing next to her, the senior parahuman under her command made an appreciative noise. "Very nice," Armsmaster observed. His high-end self-made power armour whined as he tilted his head. "Full radar stealth, mounted for optic as well, and it's got ultra-low thermal emissions. Looks like some of Cavalcade's work."
They stood in silence for a moment, waiting for it to finish its descent.
"You were in early today," Piggot observed.
"I left something annealing overnight, and I need to check on it. It's for that refit of the observation craft you ordered." He trailed off, switching to another topic. "Miss Militia says her armour's having heating problems again."
"Yes." Armsmaster liked talking about his work, and Piggot was prepared to humour him.
"She says it's hot and uncomfortable. Not so bad when she's not moving about, but that design of battery is prone to overheating, especially when you're as mobile as she is. Not my work. It's a flaw for the 'fab design," the man said bluntly. "I can't do much about that without going 'tech; LiBs run hot. At least at the energy density needed for the armour. Not my fault. If you want me to fix it, we'll have to either strip down her armour for less weight and less protection, or go 'tech for a new battery or a cooling system."
Piggot pursed her lips. "Lower priority," she decided, as the sea wind blew through her hair, carrying a scent of salt with it. "See if you can save some weight, but she's willing to downgrade to non-powered armour if it can't be fixed."
"Understood." And he did understand. For a parahuman, Armsmaster was reliable and stable. He shifted. His armour was more silent than her arm and leg, despite its bulk. "How was the deployment? Any technical problems with the squad's equipment?"
"No. Apart from the problem Miss Militia's having, she says their gear worked to spec."
"Good." She suspected he was smirking under the armour. The conversation was brought to a halt, though, as the chopper finally descended to the point that they would have to raise their voices to be heard, even over the muffled rotor.
A man and a woman stepped out of the cargo abdomen, onto the damp concrete of the helicopter pad. They raised their umbrellas in unison. The government agents were dressed in matching black suits, and wore mirrored sunglasses despite the greyness of the day. They looked around, and saw Piggot and Armsmaster. Their shiny black shoes clicked on the hard surface, as they took a path which avoided the puddles on the black concrete.
"Director Piggot," the woman said in a monotone. She was red-haired, though traces at her roots suggested she might have naturally been blonde. She glanced at Armsmaster's armoured bulk. "Armsmaster."
"Welcome," Piggot said, offering her mechanical hand. Behind them, the ground crews were already at work moving the DHS helicopter into the hanger, out of sight from watchful eyes back in Brockton Bay. "Agent Baker, yes?"
The pale-skinned woman shook it, and gave her an awkward smile. "Greetings, Director Piggot," she said. She had an unidentifiable trace of an accent. "I am Agent Jane Baker. With me is Agent John Butcher," she gestured towards the man, "and we are with the Department for Homeland Security. We understand that this is on short notice, and we wish to thank you for making time in your schedule for us." The two agents folded up their umbrellas, now that they were out of the rain.
"I do not think it was necessary to meet us in person on the landing pad," Agent Butcher observed, in the same faint accent. He was clean shaven, and his brown hair was cropped short. He glanced back towards Brockton Bay. "I do not feel this is a secure meeting place."
Piggot nodded. "This way," she said. "I've already got the secure meeting rooms prepared."
Agent Baker raised her hand. "Alone, please. Mr Armsmaster does not have the clearance for this… briefing."
Even through the armour, Piggot could read the surprise in the other man's posture, and an edge of offence. "I understand," Armsmaster said stiffly.
"We will wish to meet with you separately," Agent Baker said. "We believe your particular, ah, talents may be of use."
"And we may require the aid of your heavy element, should this scenario escalate," Agent Butcher added. "This is a concern, which we will brief you on at the time."
That seemed to mollify him slightly. Slightly.
"Please, lead on, Director Piggot," Agent Baker said, gesturing towards the door. "It is cold and wet out here."
Piggot led them down into the heart of the base, through security cordons and fingerprint scanners and retinal analysis and what felt like a thousand other checks. It was warm in the secure rooms, the waste heat from the computing banks bleeding out regardless of their best effort to keep them cool. The two agents' suits had dried instantly with no crumpling or creasing, a sign that they were made of tinkerfab fabric.
Piggot paused before the final door, hand resting on its black surface. She tilted her head. There was something about these two which were vaguely familiar, especially the man. "I think I've met you before," she told Agent Butcher, as she waited for the sensors to verify the identities of the three people in the corridor.
The man adjusted his mirrorshades. He was still wearing them inside, as was the other agent. "I interviewed some of the survivors from the Ellisberg Incident in the preparation for the summary report," he said. "I did not interview you in person."
The door chimed, and the light on the lock turned green. "That was probably it," Emily Piggot said, keeping her voice level. The room inside was cooler than the corridors, and lit only by the blue glow of the LCD screens within. She reached for the dimmer switch on the inside of the door, bringing the lights up to full power. So he'd been part of the cover-up and clean-up crew for that, had he? Her lips twitched. Well, time to see what bad news they were bringing. She stiffly made her way to a seat and sat heavily, rubbing her aching thigh where the meat met the metal.
Agent Baker set up her laptop, linking it to the projector, while Agent Butcher swept the room for listening devices. It was slightly insulting that they didn't trust her security. Such paranoia was common among the covert operatives and wetwork teams of the Department for Homeland Security and its various subordinate divisions. The PPD handled parahumans, FEMA led the containment and sterilisation of sites attacked by Endbringers and similar disasters, and so on. Still, she would have hoped that they'd not expect one of their own to have forgotten her training, even if she wasn't in the field anymore.
"I must make clear the severity of this case quite clear," Agent Baker said, finally. The light from the projector reflected off her glasses, painting tiny versions of the display over her eyes. "The public release of information would be… adverse."
"Indeed, the knowledge itself may be dangerous," Agent Butcher interjected.
"Thank you, Agent Butcher. Yes. The knowledge itself may be dangerous. I shall now provide some context. There has been an outbreak of the Slaughterhouse in Canada."
Piggot inhaled sharply. "You're certain?" she whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the digital projector. Under the light of the projector, she looked even more wan and pale than the DHS agents.
"Yes," the other woman said in her monotone. "Multiple vectors of harmful information have been isolated and destroyed already. We must keep this news under control. If the news escapes, there will be panic. There is already panic in certain Canadian cities. It is spreading."
"Possibly extending into Region I, the PPD East North East," the man added.
"Yes, Agent Butcher. Region I. There has been an… incident at the Canadian border, and our liaisons in the Royal Canadian Parahuman Regulation Bureau have informed us that they believe at least one carrier of infectious materials has crossed the border into Vermont. This has the potential to spread the…" she paused. "What would you call it?"
"I would call it a 'disease'," Agent Butcher said, a slight note of agitation entering his voice for the first time. "I would call it a 'malady'. I would call it a 'contagion'. A sickness of the mind which leads to… ah, improper thought and action. And this improper thought is caused by improper knowledge. Yes. It is a plague. A plague of unwanted and unwarranted thoughts."
"Well, let us call it a 'contagion'," Agent Baker said, her tongue snapping around the unseen inverted commas. "This is, of course, severe. I do not need to remind you of the effects of the Slaughterhouse 'contagion'. Madness and incorrect action in previously sane parahumans, the triggering of previously unaffected humans who are exposed to the incorrect ideas in infectious materials, and so on. This cannot be tolerated."
Piggot let out a great sigh. No wonder things were being treated like this. Only a few dangers merited this security classification, and the infectious parahuman madness-idea of the Slaughterhouse was one of them. "How many possible living vectors are we looking at?" she asked.
"One seems near probable," Agent Baker said, adjusting her mirrorshades. "The RCPRB report that they have eliminated another one close to the US border, so it is possible more may have fled. We cannot let these harmful ideas penetrate the United States – but I fear they have already done so." She sat. "One of the new submissions to the central PPD icon database has raised… concern."
"Significant concern," Agent Butcher said, folding his hands on the table. His nails, Piggot noticed irrationally, were very cleanly cut, apart from the one on the little finger of his left hand which seemed to be missing entirely.
"Yes, thank you Agent Butcher. Significant concern." Agent Baker opened a new file on her computer. Up on the projector, the scanned image from Pantopticon's letter. The rotated tic-tac-toe grid, with the eye in the central grid and the other eight boxes empty.
One box filled with an eye, out of nine.
Director Piggot blinked. She pinched her brow. "The number nine," she muttered. "Oh… damn. I missed that. One of the recurring themes in Slaughterhouse iconography."
Agent Baker leaned forwards, her hair falling in front of her glasses with the motion. "That is understandable, Director," she said softly. "But we will require your cooperation to stop this spreading. We are already in contact with the FCC and so the necessary media cut-outs are in place. We cannot let a possible Slaughterhouse vector access media sources. Such… incorrect thoughts must be contained. It may be unrelated. Other people can use nines. But we cannot take the risk."
"Symbols are the key to the human mind. Symbols and patterns are everywhere," Agent Butcher said, reaching into his suit and pulling out a slim notebook. He began to write in it, even as he continued talking. "Patterns. Patterns everywhere. If you can detect the patterns, you can extrapolate them to trace chains of causation and correlation. Have you watched the patterns of wind and rain? The graffiti on the walls? Have you put them together and examined their relationships? That is the key, you know. Please keep this in mind for later, Director Piggot, so you do not miss such things again."
Emily Piggot's nose wrinkled in mild disgust. That was parahuman talk. And John Butcher had been at Ellisberg, had he – and he looked familiar? Well. That was a thing. "I'll see about getting you set up with a secure office," she said, covering up her dislike with a businesslike manner.
"No, Director Piggot," Agent Baker said, brushing lint off her sleeve. "We do not intend to operate out of East North East Command. I will lead operations in Vermont, while a small team lead by Agent Butcher will investigate this… anomaly in Brockton Bay."
"I will not require an office. My investigation team will be operating under the auspices of the FBI. It makes sense for us to integrate our operations with them," Agent Butcher added. "We will of course keep you notified, but as it stands this is a preventative measure. We have not pinned down the location of the… ah, contagion yet. Or even confirmed its presence in Brockton Bay."
"Your assistance will be required in containment in Region I," Agent Baker said, crossing her black-gloved hands on her lap. "It is fortunate that you understand the necessities of… ah, containment. You understand the human cost when it is not carried out correctly."
Piggot nodded curtly. She'd served her time on containment teams under the DHS. Her time with them was why she had whining machinery grafted to her stumps, and was on immunosuppressants for the rest of her life, stopping her body from rejecting pig-grown artificial organs.
"Good, good," Agent Baker said, tilting her head to the left slightly. "You will be instructed to brief your teams as needed when and if it is required. Agent Butcher will be responsible for operations in this state, so he will be your primary point of contact."
"I look forwards to working together," Agent Butcher said in his monotone.
Emily Piggot did not look forwards to working with this man.
"If you find a potential Slaughterhouse vector, do not expose yourself to it. That would be a violation of necessary containment," Agent Baker said, leaning forwards slightly. Her lips were locked in a thin line. "Violations will result in mandatory… ah, isolation. Yes. That will be all, Director."
Namakarana 2.x
The Chariot
The eastern horizon was painted a dull grey, an industrial shade that slowly brightened as the minutes stretched on. Dawn was coming, and the urban blight of the rusting Brockton Bay docklands sprawled out under an iron sky.
"This is Charlie Niner and we are holding station above the target site."
It wasn't raining. For the police in position around a certain warehouse in the Docks, that was a blessing, but only a small one. Even without rain, the cold nipped at exposed flesh and turned breath into bursts of fog, lit orange by the street lights.
"Roger, Charlie Niner. We have confirmation Charlie One is reading your feed loud and clear. No problems at our end."
Those with sharp ears might have heard the faint whir of the insectoid PPD chopper holding station over the site, but only if they could pick it out from the noise of the waking city. Even then, unless the listener was looking in just right patch of sky with eyes sharp enough to notice a covert vehicle packed with sensor equipment, they would probably just dismiss it as another vaguely electrical hum.
"Understood, Charlie Actual. Visibility isn't great in the optical, but thermal, t-hertz and radar are compensating. Drones are on station and we're awaiting your orders."
Flitting mechanical beetles the size of a man's torso hung up in the night air, whining like oversized mosquitos. Their grey-black flight surfaces were speckled with LEDs, camouflaging them with light. It wouldn't do to be a darker shape against the sky. Most were just carrying more sensor equipment, but a few of them were armed with a single strike missile, the lone sting of a particularly explosive bee.
"Roger, Charlie Niner. Keep your eyes open and look for papa-whiskey signals. Strike Team One is in position and green to go if local forces request it. Charlie Actual out."
And then there was the police van, painted in the same colours as any other. A suspicious observer might note that it was sitting heavy on its wheels, though, and deduce that it was a fully loaded armoured van.
All this force, and all they could do was wait. Wait for a call from the local police which might never come. The PPD was only here as backup in case the tip-off of an on-site parahuman was true. It was up to the police to request a deployment of field units.
And the call came.
…
Three hours had passed, and it was all over for the Parahuman Protection Division's combat team involvement in the case. All over, that was, apart from a considerable amount of paperwork, and the necessary briefings to one's superiors.
"It was a false alarm?" Director Emily Piggot of the East-North-East branch of the Parahuman Protection Division asked. She reached up and massaged her temples. The servomotors in her black plastic-coated left arm softly whined with the motion, her fingers remaining unmoving through the gesture. She was a stocky blonde woman with a physique which once had been raw muscle, but had long since gone to seed. Half-turning to her slim LCD monitor, she checked the preliminary incident report from the police. "They're saying it's possible the suspect fled." The whine changed in pitch as she reached out, frowning, and closed her mechanical fingers on her coffee mug.
The woman on the other side of the desk shook her head. "No," Hannah – who went by the codename 'Miss Militia' – said. Her dark eyes were alert and professional. It was impossible to tell that the slight woman dressed in the sweat-stained power armour undersuit hadn't slept last night. She seemed disgustingly awake and energetic. "There was no-one on site for the call-in location. Charlie-Niner agrees with my assessment. Barring a teleporter, no one fled the location without being tracked, and they didn't pick up any unusual energy signatures."
Miss Militia looked over at the flatscreen on one of the pale blue walls, showing photographs of the most prominent supervillains in Region I East North East, and clicked her tongue. "And fleeing from the police wouldn't be in character for either of the local confirmed villain teleporters," she added, tapping her feet on the royal blue carpet.
Piggot nodded solidly. "That is true," she agreed. "Although… well, we'll get onto that later." She rose, and limped over to the nanotube reinforced window of her office, each swing of her left leg accompanied by the whine of mechanisms. From here, she could look back toward Brockton Bay over the choppy water which separated the mainland from the local Parahuman Protection Division headquarters, once a converted oil rig. A lone container ship sat at the docks, a rust-red vessel being unloaded even now. "Can you confirm it was an Alpha-Two-One-Nine they reported?" she asked. Every deployment of a combat PRT had to be justified.
"Yes, Director."
"You carried out a full search?"
"We swept the area on foot, and Charlie-Niner was watching. Thermals, t-ray… nothing." Hannah shrugged. "I'm almost certain it was a false alarm. The cops said they'd just got this feeling of… how did they put it? 'Coldness and humidity and a strange smell', so given we had info there was a para possibly on site…" she shook her head. "I'm thinking it was a dehumidifying room that got the cops nervous."
"At least we should be clean on this incident's write-up," Piggot said, resting her hands on the bright metal of the window frame. "You didn't leave the vehicle until requested?"
"Yes, Director," Miss Militia confirmed again. Her voice had a slightly weary note to it. "Charlie-Niner was providing aerial intel as per your orders, but Charlie Team didn't leave the APC until the Two-One-Nine was called in and we had authorisation."
"Good." Piggot paused, turning and looking away from the window. "Anything else to report?" she asked more intently, now the formulaic questions were out of the way.
Miss Militia coughed. "It's going to be an issue. What we found. I mean, this is going to set the pot boiling when it goes public," she said awkwardly. "The workers in here? Japanese. Illegal immigrants, looks like. Shipped in as slave labour. They'd been beaten," she said, her tone disgusted. "One of them threw herself at me – recognised my armour. She was going on about how the gangmasters had killed some men who'd tried to escape. 'Help, help, Miss Milita, help', she kept saying." She narrowed her eyes. "This shouldn't be brushed under the carpet. This isn't how America should be treating refugees," she said, anger in her voice.
Piggot didn't let any of her emotions show. "It's in the hands of the police, now," she said. "As far as I can tell, the whole operation looks like it's a local thing – no obvious links to any parahuman organisations apart from the tip-off. We'll just need to add this to our investigation into PSC parahumans –did you see any evidence of private security contractors on site?"
Miss Militia clenched her jaw, and then sighed. "No. And I understand, Director. It's just…"
"I'm not happy either," Piggot said, "but we don't have jurisdiction there. And we unfortunately have our hands full. The Bomei are going to take this as an excuse when they find out about it. We're going to have to prepare for whatever reprisals they carry out. Even if they were only going to go after the guilty – and they're not – they can't be allowed to… to do what they do." She scowled. "This timing is very bad. Things were quietening down, but they're still worked up from the last riots."
"I understand."
"I'll schedule an action plan meeting for the Region I Response Team tomorrow," Piggot said, returning to her desk and sitting back down. "This time we will be properly ready if the Bomei make trouble. I'll increase our readiness level in case it leaks early. We know they have spies in the police. I hope I won't have to move more PRTs in from the rest of the area, but if this is going to go loud…" she shook her head. "Moving on."
Hannah cleared her throat, shifting on her blue-cushioned seat. "Yes. With regards to the other reason for my onsite presence…"
"Yes. The analysts are looking over the data from Watcher-2 right now," Piggot said. She paused. "That will be all."
Miss Militia stretched, working her shoulders. She rose. "Is Colin in?" she asked, rubbing her wrists together. "I need him to take a look at my armour again."
"Oh?" Piggot said, raising her eyebrows in mild annoyance. Miss Militia's power armour seemed… well, she didn't like to say 'cursed', but whenever there was a problem with gear in the field, hers seemed to be the one playing up more often than not. Piggot suspected that there was something about her powers at the root, but so far no one had been able to get to the bottom of the problem – if it even was a problem, rather than just bad luck, as some of the technicians had suggested. She disagreed. It was much more likely that something about the other woman's capacity to pull weapons from nowhere and move like a Hong Kong action hero made the armour prone to breaking down. "He was in at five this morning. And," she glanced at a window on her second monitor, "he's in the building. What is it this time?"
"Battery's running hot," Miss Militia said, shaking her head. "Useless piece of junk. I preferred my old rig." She smiled faintly. "Don't worry. I won't let Colin know what I think of it. He'd probably have a heart attack at the idea that I'd prefer to not be wearing power armour."
"I would prefer that he remain alive and not in a state of shock, yes," Piggot said drily.
"Time to get out of this undersuit, showered, back into my proper uniform and then I can start the incident report write-up," Hannah said. "Unless you have anything you need done first."
"I'll schedule the meeting for the ENE response team leads," Piggot said, "and you'll need to be there. I'll message you if anything else comes up."
"Got it."
…
Alone once again in her office, Director Piggot sighed, staring blankly at her sleeping security screen. Another problem in a city – hell, a country – full of them. Another problem on her desk. And she'd need to handle this, because Miss Militia was… sensitive about any mistreatment of immigrants and the last thing she needed was one of her actually reliable parahumans getting disillusioned if some idiot prosecutor decided not to pursue the case. She went to bring her computer out of sleep mode, and winced.
Rolling her sleeve up to the shoulder, she rubbed the flesh of her upper arm where it met the black outer coating of her artificial arm. The humidity combined with the cold weather was making her stumps ache. She tried not to show it in front of her subordinates, but she hated winters in Brockton Bay, and the weather was still miserable. She couldn't wait for spring to properly arrive. Opening one of her desk drawers, she pulled out a foil packet, and popped one of the pills, swallowing it whole. That should do some good.
Getting back to work, Piggot checked her inbox. There was another email from the Army, requesting that she examine the current on-staff parahumans in her region and consider if any wanted the opportunity of serving their country and protecting national interests and energy supplies abroad.
That went straight into her Low Priority folder. None of her fully trained adult parahumans were people she could spare, and much as she wanted to dump a certain troublesome Ward on the occupation forces in Venezuela and make her their problem, she couldn't do that. The Army wouldn't take Wards. A pity. She'd send back her form letter once she'd given them some time to think she was actually checking her records.
Reports, reports, reports. That was what made up her days, and she got to work on trying to clear her backlog even as the painkillers for her arm and leg kicked in. The summary of forwarded minutes from Deputy Director Harrison in Vermont were filed to be handled later. There was a notification of a planned delay in the raids against criminal organisations thought to be linked to Hemlock in Manchester. Deputy Director Jones was handling that. That damn villain had operations all over New Hampshire, but it was proving very difficult to build a case against him – not helped by the murder of their FBI liaison in what had almost certainly been a spoiler attack against evidence. And another reminder about the interviews she would have to carry out to find someone new to handle Massachusetts. Boston, Endbringer-blasted and half-abandoned, was a perpetual pain in her neck and her former Deputy Director had quit.
Piggot narrowed her eyes. Ah, yes. There was Elmthorpe's report on the tip-off which had produced the most recent problem to cross her desk. While she was in theory all in favour of tip-offs, she was not in favour of tip-offs which caused more trouble in a volatile city, and double-not-so when she knew for a fact that the local police chief was sympathetic to the Patriotic Movement. He was itching to be able to get a nice public victory over someone 'taking jobs away from honest hardworking Americans'.
Why did they have to be Japanese? Intellectually, Piggot knew why. The Leviathan's rampage across that island nation had sent migrants fleeing across the world, and the refugees certainly weren't headed for the PRC or the UPRK if they could help it. But that meant that there were large communities of totally unintegrated first generation migrants all across the US who owed no loyalty to America, and in the vacant spaces of society ethnic gangs – like the fucking Bomei – had found an almost state-like role. They ran grey markets, they sold drugs, they smuggled migrants into the US for debts, they offered loan shark services, and they talked about how they were preserving culture and traditions. And, of course, they shot people who 'disrespected' them.
The Bomei just happened to be the local wing of the latest version of the ethnic mobs which always cropped up whenever a large influx of migrants arrived.
It wasn't the Bomei who really worried her. Yes, they were led by a dangerous bastard, but the man who called himself Lung was playing from the same handbook as the Mafia and all the other ethnic mobs had. He was just doing it with parahuman power backing him. They'd get him eventually, when he slipped up and did something stupid enough to let her bring in a proper reinforced assault PRT to smash him and his organisation. The FBI were already working on the network of businesses the Bomei owned or influenced, and they were building a case against him, slowly and surely.
She swirled the dregs in her nearly empty mug of coffee, and downed it.
No, someone had set up this conflict. Someone had tipped them off about a sweatshop filled with Japanese workers, in a city with a powerful ethnic crime presence and a police chief who wanted to be seen cracking down on migrants and those who employed them.
Eyes narrowed, Director Piggot read the analysis which Elmthorpe had got back from the labs. Fingerprints all over the paper, from lots of people – the labs said it was hopelessly contaminated, and had probably been taken from some communal source of paper in an office. That was supported the paper – cheap A4 – and the ink, which was from the kind of commercial printer a small business might have.
Nothing useful for tracking this person down. Emily Piggot personally blamed films and books for teaching criminals to wear gloves and not use their own paper for sending this kind of message. It made everything so much harder. Irritably, she glanced over the scan of the note again.
'Director Emily Piggot," the message read.
'As part of Operation Salesman, Project Crucible has authorised Mockingbird Team to begin operations in Brockton Bay. I have obtained evidence on an illegal parahuman-supported sweatshop operating in the Docks. Information is attached to this cover letter. We are sure that action will be taken out to shut down this criminal organisation.
'We wish you best luck in your efforts, and look forwards to providing more assistance as and when it is appropriate.
'Yours sincerely,
'Panopticon
'Mockingbird Team
'Project Crucible'
A strange symbol was marked beneath, like a hieroglyphic signature. It looked like a tic-tac-toe grid turned forty-five degrees, with an eye in the middle. She could see the pixilation on the diagonal lines – the resolution of the source image was quite poor.
As far as she'd been able to tell, there was no such thing as 'Project Crucible'. So she was operating under the irritated assumption that this was probably a group of vigilante rogues who wanted to pretend they were part of some great government conspiracy or secret superhero team. They might even believe it. This wouldn't be the first rogue team recruited by some villain under the pretence of being a secret conspiracy.
And she had her suspicions. A deniable and anonymous tip-off from a source she'd never heard of before had all the marks of a set-up. Someone wanted the Bomei to go on a rampage. She suspected this 'Panopticon' had Patriotic sympathies – or was being used by someone who had them. Unless it was linked to the Coil… but no, she wasn't going to give too much credit to the over-extrapolated projections of cognitively-enhanced FBI parahumans until they gave her something concrete.
She'd just throw the data over to them, and see what they said. Yes, there did seem to be suspicious links between several major industries and private security contractors, but – Piggot considered wryly – it was far more likely they were using them as hired thugs for good, honest all-American activities. Like union-breaking and carrying out industrial espionage. Which was illegal, but not her problem as long as parahumans weren't involved.
But she wasn't prepared to credit wild extrapolations from too little data, even if they came from parahumans. Especially if they came from parahumans, who had a pronounced tendency to give false positives in their warnings.
Director Piggot massaged her brow, muttering to herself. An impressive budget was allocated to analyzing the various factors contributing to the manifestation of powers. Genetic mapping, demographic studies, psychological profiles. If they asked, she'd be happy to add a common profile to the catalogue; "stupid little self-righteous fools who think that 'good intentions' makes up for being saps for whatever subversive influence glances their way." Hopefully it was just vigilantes this time. She made a note to have someone brief the Wards about it. Such influences often targeted younger, less well-informed parahumans and their hangers-on with the promise of mattering.
Little idiots.
She sighed and got back to work. There was a new message, on the secure mail client. It was marked with 'Urgent', and came directly from Belle Torony, the Secretary of Homeland Security. This was coming right from the top, above even Director Costa-Brown. The Parahuman Protection Division was only part of the larger DHS.
Director Piggot pinched her brow. If it was coming from the Secretary, this might make it political. She really hoped that it wasn't. With the recent events in the East North East, she didn't have the best record. Piggot opened it immediately. It was brief, almost perfunctory.
'Director Emily Piggot,' it read.
'Please be advised, a DHS team operating under the auspices of IRONWALL led by AGENT JANE BAKER will be beginning operations in REGION I EAST NORTH EAST. They are dealing with a possible ORANGE-RED threat and you are to offer them full cooperation.
'They will be arriving at ENE COMMAND to brief you further. Please see them at your earliest convenience.
'Belle Torony
'Secretary for Homeland Security'
Please see them at your earliest convenience. Piggot smiled, her lips a humourless line. Yes, that was a direct order there. And a potential threat investigating the second-highest threat categorisation – only one step below an Endbringer?
What was going on here?
...
The black helicopter silently descended, the sound of its rotors almost lost in the thrum of machinery from the PPD base and the falling rain. There were troopers up here, armed and ready in case of trouble. This would not be the first time parahuman terrorists intercepted an arrival – although the DHS helicopter was probably advanced enough to fight off all but the most determined assailants. It looked even more insectoid than the standard designs, with a bulbous transport abdomen, two large sensor bulges on its opaque blacked-out front, and smaller bulges which no doubt held foldout weapons systems.
Their base sensors had only picked it up when it had requested permission to land and deployed its landing gear.
Piggot's lip curled up from where she was watching, out of the rain. Tinkertech. You didn't get that kind of performance from hardware which wasn't made by some mad genius in a lab. Only a subset of mad geniuses, too.
Standing next to her, the senior parahuman under her command made an appreciative noise. "Very nice," Armsmaster observed. His high-end self-made power armour whined as he tilted his head. "Full radar stealth, mounted for optic as well, and it's got ultra-low thermal emissions. Looks like some of Cavalcade's work."
They stood in silence for a moment, waiting for it to finish its descent.
"You were in early today," Piggot observed.
"I left something annealing overnight, and I need to check on it. It's for that refit of the observation craft you ordered." He trailed off, switching to another topic. "Miss Militia says her armour's having heating problems again."
"Yes." Armsmaster liked talking about his work, and Piggot was prepared to humour him.
"She says it's hot and uncomfortable. Not so bad when she's not moving about, but that design of battery is prone to overheating, especially when you're as mobile as she is. Not my work. It's a flaw for the 'fab design," the man said bluntly. "I can't do much about that without going 'tech; LiBs run hot. At least at the energy density needed for the armour. Not my fault. If you want me to fix it, we'll have to either strip down her armour for less weight and less protection, or go 'tech for a new battery or a cooling system."
Piggot pursed her lips. "Lower priority," she decided, as the sea wind blew through her hair, carrying a scent of salt with it. "See if you can save some weight, but she's willing to downgrade to non-powered armour if it can't be fixed."
"Understood." And he did understand. For a parahuman, Armsmaster was reliable and stable. He shifted. His armour was more silent than her arm and leg, despite its bulk. "How was the deployment? Any technical problems with the squad's equipment?"
"No. Apart from the problem Miss Militia's having, she says their gear worked to spec."
"Good." She suspected he was smirking under the armour. The conversation was brought to a halt, though, as the chopper finally descended to the point that they would have to raise their voices to be heard, even over the muffled rotor.
A man and a woman stepped out of the cargo abdomen, onto the damp concrete of the helicopter pad. They raised their umbrellas in unison. The government agents were dressed in matching black suits, and wore mirrored sunglasses despite the greyness of the day. They looked around, and saw Piggot and Armsmaster. Their shiny black shoes clicked on the hard surface, as they took a path which avoided the puddles on the black concrete.
"Director Piggot," the woman said in a monotone. She was red-haired, though traces at her roots suggested she might have naturally been blonde. She glanced at Armsmaster's armoured bulk. "Armsmaster."
"Welcome," Piggot said, offering her mechanical hand. Behind them, the ground crews were already at work moving the DHS helicopter into the hanger, out of sight from watchful eyes back in Brockton Bay. "Agent Baker, yes?"
The pale-skinned woman shook it, and gave her an awkward smile. "Greetings, Director Piggot," she said. She had an unidentifiable trace of an accent. "I am Agent Jane Baker. With me is Agent John Butcher," she gestured towards the man, "and we are with the Department for Homeland Security. We understand that this is on short notice, and we wish to thank you for making time in your schedule for us." The two agents folded up their umbrellas, now that they were out of the rain.
"I do not think it was necessary to meet us in person on the landing pad," Agent Butcher observed, in the same faint accent. He was clean shaven, and his brown hair was cropped short. He glanced back towards Brockton Bay. "I do not feel this is a secure meeting place."
Piggot nodded. "This way," she said. "I've already got the secure meeting rooms prepared."
Agent Baker raised her hand. "Alone, please. Mr Armsmaster does not have the clearance for this… briefing."
Even through the armour, Piggot could read the surprise in the other man's posture, and an edge of offence. "I understand," Armsmaster said stiffly.
"We will wish to meet with you separately," Agent Baker said. "We believe your particular, ah, talents may be of use."
"And we may require the aid of your heavy element, should this scenario escalate," Agent Butcher added. "This is a concern, which we will brief you on at the time."
That seemed to mollify him slightly. Slightly.
"Please, lead on, Director Piggot," Agent Baker said, gesturing towards the door. "It is cold and wet out here."
…
Piggot led them down into the heart of the base, through security cordons and fingerprint scanners and retinal analysis and what felt like a thousand other checks. It was warm in the secure rooms, the waste heat from the computing banks bleeding out regardless of their best effort to keep them cool. The two agents' suits had dried instantly with no crumpling or creasing, a sign that they were made of tinkerfab fabric.
Piggot paused before the final door, hand resting on its black surface. She tilted her head. There was something about these two which were vaguely familiar, especially the man. "I think I've met you before," she told Agent Butcher, as she waited for the sensors to verify the identities of the three people in the corridor.
The man adjusted his mirrorshades. He was still wearing them inside, as was the other agent. "I interviewed some of the survivors from the Ellisberg Incident in the preparation for the summary report," he said. "I did not interview you in person."
The door chimed, and the light on the lock turned green. "That was probably it," Emily Piggot said, keeping her voice level. The room inside was cooler than the corridors, and lit only by the blue glow of the LCD screens within. She reached for the dimmer switch on the inside of the door, bringing the lights up to full power. So he'd been part of the cover-up and clean-up crew for that, had he? Her lips twitched. Well, time to see what bad news they were bringing. She stiffly made her way to a seat and sat heavily, rubbing her aching thigh where the meat met the metal.
Agent Baker set up her laptop, linking it to the projector, while Agent Butcher swept the room for listening devices. It was slightly insulting that they didn't trust her security. Such paranoia was common among the covert operatives and wetwork teams of the Department for Homeland Security and its various subordinate divisions. The PPD handled parahumans, FEMA led the containment and sterilisation of sites attacked by Endbringers and similar disasters, and so on. Still, she would have hoped that they'd not expect one of their own to have forgotten her training, even if she wasn't in the field anymore.
"I must make clear the severity of this case quite clear," Agent Baker said, finally. The light from the projector reflected off her glasses, painting tiny versions of the display over her eyes. "The public release of information would be… adverse."
"Indeed, the knowledge itself may be dangerous," Agent Butcher interjected.
"Thank you, Agent Butcher. Yes. The knowledge itself may be dangerous. I shall now provide some context. There has been an outbreak of the Slaughterhouse in Canada."
Piggot inhaled sharply. "You're certain?" she whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the digital projector. Under the light of the projector, she looked even more wan and pale than the DHS agents.
"Yes," the other woman said in her monotone. "Multiple vectors of harmful information have been isolated and destroyed already. We must keep this news under control. If the news escapes, there will be panic. There is already panic in certain Canadian cities. It is spreading."
"Possibly extending into Region I, the PPD East North East," the man added.
"Yes, Agent Butcher. Region I. There has been an… incident at the Canadian border, and our liaisons in the Royal Canadian Parahuman Regulation Bureau have informed us that they believe at least one carrier of infectious materials has crossed the border into Vermont. This has the potential to spread the…" she paused. "What would you call it?"
"I would call it a 'disease'," Agent Butcher said, a slight note of agitation entering his voice for the first time. "I would call it a 'malady'. I would call it a 'contagion'. A sickness of the mind which leads to… ah, improper thought and action. And this improper thought is caused by improper knowledge. Yes. It is a plague. A plague of unwanted and unwarranted thoughts."
"Well, let us call it a 'contagion'," Agent Baker said, her tongue snapping around the unseen inverted commas. "This is, of course, severe. I do not need to remind you of the effects of the Slaughterhouse 'contagion'. Madness and incorrect action in previously sane parahumans, the triggering of previously unaffected humans who are exposed to the incorrect ideas in infectious materials, and so on. This cannot be tolerated."
Piggot let out a great sigh. No wonder things were being treated like this. Only a few dangers merited this security classification, and the infectious parahuman madness-idea of the Slaughterhouse was one of them. "How many possible living vectors are we looking at?" she asked.
"One seems near probable," Agent Baker said, adjusting her mirrorshades. "The RCPRB report that they have eliminated another one close to the US border, so it is possible more may have fled. We cannot let these harmful ideas penetrate the United States – but I fear they have already done so." She sat. "One of the new submissions to the central PPD icon database has raised… concern."
"Significant concern," Agent Butcher said, folding his hands on the table. His nails, Piggot noticed irrationally, were very cleanly cut, apart from the one on the little finger of his left hand which seemed to be missing entirely.
"Yes, thank you Agent Butcher. Significant concern." Agent Baker opened a new file on her computer. Up on the projector, the scanned image from Pantopticon's letter. The rotated tic-tac-toe grid, with the eye in the central grid and the other eight boxes empty.
One box filled with an eye, out of nine.
Director Piggot blinked. She pinched her brow. "The number nine," she muttered. "Oh… damn. I missed that. One of the recurring themes in Slaughterhouse iconography."
Agent Baker leaned forwards, her hair falling in front of her glasses with the motion. "That is understandable, Director," she said softly. "But we will require your cooperation to stop this spreading. We are already in contact with the FCC and so the necessary media cut-outs are in place. We cannot let a possible Slaughterhouse vector access media sources. Such… incorrect thoughts must be contained. It may be unrelated. Other people can use nines. But we cannot take the risk."
"Symbols are the key to the human mind. Symbols and patterns are everywhere," Agent Butcher said, reaching into his suit and pulling out a slim notebook. He began to write in it, even as he continued talking. "Patterns. Patterns everywhere. If you can detect the patterns, you can extrapolate them to trace chains of causation and correlation. Have you watched the patterns of wind and rain? The graffiti on the walls? Have you put them together and examined their relationships? That is the key, you know. Please keep this in mind for later, Director Piggot, so you do not miss such things again."
Emily Piggot's nose wrinkled in mild disgust. That was parahuman talk. And John Butcher had been at Ellisberg, had he – and he looked familiar? Well. That was a thing. "I'll see about getting you set up with a secure office," she said, covering up her dislike with a businesslike manner.
"No, Director Piggot," Agent Baker said, brushing lint off her sleeve. "We do not intend to operate out of East North East Command. I will lead operations in Vermont, while a small team lead by Agent Butcher will investigate this… anomaly in Brockton Bay."
"I will not require an office. My investigation team will be operating under the auspices of the FBI. It makes sense for us to integrate our operations with them," Agent Butcher added. "We will of course keep you notified, but as it stands this is a preventative measure. We have not pinned down the location of the… ah, contagion yet. Or even confirmed its presence in Brockton Bay."
"Your assistance will be required in containment in Region I," Agent Baker said, crossing her black-gloved hands on her lap. "It is fortunate that you understand the necessities of… ah, containment. You understand the human cost when it is not carried out correctly."
Piggot nodded curtly. She'd served her time on containment teams under the DHS. Her time with them was why she had whining machinery grafted to her stumps, and was on immunosuppressants for the rest of her life, stopping her body from rejecting pig-grown artificial organs.
"Good, good," Agent Baker said, tilting her head to the left slightly. "You will be instructed to brief your teams as needed when and if it is required. Agent Butcher will be responsible for operations in this state, so he will be your primary point of contact."
"I look forwards to working together," Agent Butcher said in his monotone.
Emily Piggot did not look forwards to working with this man.
"If you find a potential Slaughterhouse vector, do not expose yourself to it. That would be a violation of necessary containment," Agent Baker said, leaning forwards slightly. Her lips were locked in a thin line. "Violations will result in mandatory… ah, isolation. Yes. That will be all, Director."
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Bursting Eagerness Soul
Threadwalking Rating Machine
- Location
- Wisconsin
And I see that the NWO is apparently alive and kicking here.
- Location
- The Land of Many Bregrets
- Pronouns
- They/Them
....Yikes.
Well. That has... implications.
And Slaughterhouse as a mental contagion, huh? (Can't tell if actually true, can't tell if doublespeak, but it still makes sense both ways)
Oh dear...
Still. Director Piggot is wonderfully cynical as always, I'm glad to see. I like how all the Protectorate members seem to have power armour. It does make a lot more sense to do that if its available.
Well. That has... implications.
And Slaughterhouse as a mental contagion, huh? (Can't tell if actually true, can't tell if doublespeak, but it still makes sense both ways)
Oh dear...
Still. Director Piggot is wonderfully cynical as always, I'm glad to see. I like how all the Protectorate members seem to have power armour. It does make a lot more sense to do that if its available.
BlackoutSampler
So Easily Forgotten
I almost had hope that Taylor actually accomplished something relatively good in the first few paragraphs. but then I was reminded that, no, this world is the bastard child of two hopeless worlds, and that all good intentions must lead to bad ends for everyone. Of course the police chief has to be a part of the Patriots and is gunning to hang the whole factory for being foreigners.
Ooh, that's interesting. The hints about the Slaughterhouse left me wanting more.
Also, I'm noticing quite a few cyberpunk elements in this chapter.
Also, I'm noticing quite a few cyberpunk elements in this chapter.
- Pronouns
- she/her
Slaughterhouse sounds a lot like something the Simurgh would set up. Or a powerful thinker. Cyborg Piggot is awesome.
Looks like Taylor got into something nasty!
Also, I think you may have put Baker instead of Butcher when he starts writing in the notebook.
Looks like Taylor got into something nasty!
Also, I think you may have put Baker instead of Butcher when he starts writing in the notebook.
But of course. The baseline for the PPD and other such groups is IRL-modern-to-ten-or-twenty-years ahead. And then there are the peaks provided by Tinkertech made by people who have full institutional backing and lots of gear and support teams and so on, and so don't need to build a whole Tinkertech helicopter when they can take a working helicopter and make it better.
Hence, while Taylor runs around in a decaying 1995-tech world lit by static-filled CRTs and power-cut prone lights, the PPD are strolling around in the cyberpunk near future with troopers in (slightly clumsy, prone to overheating) power armour, LCD screens, somewhat-better-than-real-life cyberlimbs, and far less rust everywhere.
(and meanwhile, the US is occupying Venezuela for oil and fascist 'Patriots' are a major political force)
Incidentally, because Worm never bothered to define it, I have declared that the PPD areas of operation are the same as the DHS regions, and hence East North East is Region I, and covers New England.
Mutter mutter mutter missed one of them.
Lexica
Persevere
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Hah, of course things would go horribly!
Of course, at first I thought it was just limited to Taylor not considering certain politics, but no! It's much worse than that, especially now that she's considered a possible infection vector for a memetic virus (which, knowing her luck, she may actually be an infection vector for depending on how exactly it works.).
The whole idea of Slaughterhouse is giving me an SCP kind of vibe too, which is fun.
Of course, at first I thought it was just limited to Taylor not considering certain politics, but no! It's much worse than that, especially now that she's considered a possible infection vector for a memetic virus (which, knowing her luck, she may actually be an infection vector for depending on how exactly it works.).
The whole idea of Slaughterhouse is giving me an SCP kind of vibe too, which is fun.
Obligatory:
All in all, a nice update. The addition to the setting are fairly logical, the plot thickens. My current assumption is Slaughterhouse syndrome being the awakening (or its analog in this story, giving that it's not a formal Mage crossover), with those agents covering it up.
Also, it was amusing to watch how Piggot out-cynic'd Taylor. I guess experience beats raw talent even when it comes to the ability to see the worst in everything.
All in all, a nice update. The addition to the setting are fairly logical, the plot thickens. My current assumption is Slaughterhouse syndrome being the awakening (or its analog in this story, giving that it's not a formal Mage crossover), with those agents covering it up.
Also, it was amusing to watch how Piggot out-cynic'd Taylor. I guess experience beats raw talent even when it comes to the ability to see the worst in everything.
Spectrum
Tell me a secret~
- Location
- Behind you~
The artificiality of it certainly was...something. Speech patterns feel directly influenced by Agents from the Matrix, even, though I'm sure there's other influences.
So glad to see this return. The technological and socioeconomic changes in society brought about by a combination of Endbringers and Tinkers are very interesting. We've already seen it from the bottom through Taylor and now we get to see it from the top.
There's also a hint in chapter 1.07 that it may be a mental contagion.
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