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Weary Wanderer (Final Fantasy 14/Worm Crossover) [Complete]

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Leafy503 said:
The problem is that PRT can't really take credit since he's not affiliated with them.
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And this is a good thing! Now they will actually have to *gasp* HELP people to show they are actually heroes too!

Or not.

Publically acknowledging that the PRT & Protectorate combination isn't actually heroic is definitely something they could do instead. If they can survive the PR department lynching them for it.
 
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Leafy503 said:
The problem is that PRT can't really take credit since he's not affiliated with them.
Click to expand...
Click to shrink...

OH, I would think they would try to, like helping catch villains, meanwhile all they done is to arrive after battle and just to put irons on them...

Now, PRT is organization as such there are good people in it, but in the end.

PRT lives and dies by PR and as such, they would surely try something.

Now, if it's work or no, is another thing, our Warrior of Light, have experiences with organizations and can either ignore their act, or fight against it.
 
To be fair to the PRT, they didn't know that to get Azem's attention you have to set up someone with an MSQ marker. Guy's been running around with the "To Be Continued..." banner in the top-left of his vision for the past week.
 
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In The Walmart Parking Lot
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    • Chapter Ten: In The Walmart Parking Lot​




    Sam stood confidently behind Stampede and Scorch, Ethan and Ben standing next to him. A show of force, though in all honesty, Sam, Ethan, and Ben didn't add much to it. Not that they needed to, when they had two parahumans on their side.

    "This is our territory!" the leader of the opposing gang spat. His name was Frank or something. He faced them down with surprising confidence for a normal human, hands fisted and face set in an ugly snarl. "You can't just come in here and start dealing!"

    "Well," Scorch said thoughtfully, flexing his fingers in a way that might have seemed idle, but was quite deliberate, "I think we can, actually. What are you going to do about it?"

    Stampede crossed her arms pointedly. Were her biceps a bit bulkier than they had been a moment ago?

    Frank's teeth grinded audibly. Or maybe he was actually growling. The three guys behind him that Sam had never bothered to learn the names of were shifting uncertainly. That was fair. Sam wouldn't have wanted to fight Stampede and Scorch with just a small group of regulars. But Frank lifted his chin defiantly.

    "Maybe I'll make you get off my territory," he said.

    Stampede scoffed.

    "You can try," Scorch said, deadly serious, and lifted one hand, palm out towards Frank.

    Frank took half of an aborted step back, looking nervous, and a kid popped out from behind him, standing in front and throwing his arms out like he was going to defend Frank. Even Scorch paused. A kid? He was a head shorter than Frank, who wasn't the tallest to begin with. Stampede was probably over a foot taller than this kid – although, granted, she did use her power to make herself taller while she was in costume.

    The moment of surprise burst like a bubble, and Scorch laughed harshly. "What is this? Are you bringing your twelve-year-old brother to fights now?"

    But unease sent a shiver down the back of Sam's neck. The kid was wearing a scarf to cover the bottom of his face – it was in the colors of Frank's gang, purple and blue, the only form of the colors that the kid was wearing, so it might be nothing, but...

    "I'm fourteen!" the kid said, eyes narrowing.

    "Oh, my bad, fourteen-year-old," Scorch cooed mockingly. "You're still too young to be here, kid! Now scram before I show you why."

    The kid's eyes narrowed to slits. It was pretty dumb-looking, actually. The other guys backed away a few steps.

    "Why don't you make me," the kid hissed.

    "Fine!"

    A beam of sickly green-ish light burst out of Scorch's hand, aimed directly at the kid's chest. Sam counted the seconds; it took less than ten seconds of sustained contact from Scorch's beams to burn people, and he didn't want Scorch to seriously injure the kid.

    One, two, three, four–

    But the kid didn't flinch or cry out. He just stared at Scorch. After eleven seconds, he deigned to look down at his own chest.

    "My shirt!" he complained.

    Scorch cut the beam. Under his elaborate gold-and-green (to match his beams) masquerade mask, he looked unsettled. It was clearly visible now; through the hole in his shirt, the visible skin was only slightly red. Not totally burned like it should be.

    "What the hell is this?" Scorch snapped, masking worry with anger.

    "This is our new parahuman," Frank said smugly, clapping a hand on the kid's shoulder. "Goes by Breach."

    Stampede took a step forward, muscles of her arms and shoulders growing, rippling visibly thanks to her tank top as she gained a few inches in height. "You think this makes us equal? We still outnumber you!"

    "Yeah? You want to find out who comes out on top?" Frank challenged.

    It happened very fast after that. Stampede charged at Breach; Frank and his fellow non-parahuman gang members scattered as Stampede pushed Breach back. Scorch brought his hands back up to aim again – even a minor amount of damage counted for something, Sam supposed.

    Frank dodged around where Stampede and Breach were struggling and ran for Scorch, who was struggling to keep his beam on Breach and not hit Stampede. Realizing his intentions, Sam moved to intercept him before he could attack Scorch, who wasn't that good at close combat. Sam punched Frank, only for Frank to keep running straight into him, almost tackling him to the ground before Sam found his footing and recovered.

    Still grappling with Frank, Sam brought one hand up and grabbed a fistful of Frank's hair, yanking painfully on it, only for Frank to get a good grip on Sam's shoulders and spin them both to slam his back into a nearby car.

    Distantly, Sam observed that it was strange to get into the middle of a fight – including a parahuman fight – in the middle of a Walmart parking lot.

    Then, over Frank's shoulder as the two of them struggled, Sam saw Breach and Stampede approaching quickly. "Duck!" he shouted, hoping to get Frank to let him get out of the way, and threw himself to the side.

    Frank took his advice and dove to the other side, and both of them barely got out of the way before Stampede smashed Breach into the car, hard enough to collapse the chassis of the car and send shattering glass flying everywhere. Breach recovered quickly and flipped upwards, into the air, just before Stampede punched again, further wrecking the poor car. Breach, who could apparently also fly, backed off into the air where Stampede couldn't easily reach him. He couldn't stay still, though. Now that Stampede wasn't at risk of being hit, Scorch could easily aim his beam at Breach, who had to duck and weave to avoid it.

    Stampede, now even bigger and bulkier than a bodybuilder and actually getting a bit grotesque-looking with her bulging muscles, hardly even faltered. She leapt up onto the top of the car, which started bending under her weight, and jumped.

    Breach let out an audible yelp and surged upwards, but it wasn't enough; Stampede was able to grab his ankle, and both of them began falling back to earth as gravity reasserted its grasp on Stampede – who was, it seemed, too heavy for Breach to hold up. Breach flailed as they sank, trying his best to stay up. He slowed their fall, and regained ground – air? – briefly.

    Then Scorch focused his beam on him, directly in Breach's face, causing him to yelp and plummet.

    Then the beam cut out, accompanied by a shout from Scorch, and Sam turned to find him struggling with one of the other guys from Frank's gang. Wholly distracted from Stampede and Breach, Sam rushed over to help, only for Frank to tackle him from the side.

    Sam was still tussling with Frank on the ground when the voice rang out, calm but clear.

    "Stop."

    Almost against his will, Sam froze. Frank did, too, which was good, because it was the only thing that kept Sam from getting his nose broken. Both of them looked over. Standing nearby was a cape. Like, clearly a cape; not at all like Breach, wearing normal clothes and a scarf for a mask, this man had full shining armor, a professional-looking mask, and, well, an actual cape.

    The newcomer stepped forward slowly, metal boots – what were those called? Greaves? – clanking on the asphalt. Everyone seemed to have stopped fighting in the face of the new appearance, even Stampede and Breach, though, except for the armor, the guy didn't really look that impressive. He also didn't look very impressed, Sam couldn't help but note. Granted, they were two small gangs skirmishing in a Walmart parking lot, but there were already three capes present, so it might have deserved some reaction. Nothing.

    "And who the fuck are you?" Scorch said venomously, clearly displeased with the appearance of not one, but two unexpected capes getting in his way today.

    The stranger tilted his head, birdlike, especially with the almost beak-like nose of the mask he was wearing. "I am Azem. And you are destroying other people's property and disturbing the peace," he said coolly.

    Sam had a bad feeling about this. But Scorch burst out laughing, sounding mad-like-crazy rather than just mad-like-angry.

    "Disturbing the peace!? Disturbing the peace!? And what, are you going to stop us, tough guy?" he shouted.

    "...Yes," the cape – Azem – said evenly, after a brief pause.

    "You can try!" Scorch threw up both hands, focusing dual beams on Azem.

    And after that, things returned to going really fast.

    Azem pulled a shield off his back and used it to block Scorch's beams, then started moving closer at what Sam might call a cautious jog – but one that was quicker than Sam could sprint. Stampede moved to intercept, hurling herself into Azem's path and forcing Scorch to cut his beams before he hit her. Stampede swung, and Azem ducked neatly under her bulging arm, lashing out with the sword he was suddenly holding in his other hand – Sam hadn't even seen him draw it. Azem's blow scored a red line across Stampede's belly, and she grunted and reeled back.

    Scorch wasted no time in refocusing his beams on Azem, only to be blocked again. Spinning around Stampede, Azem suddenly shot towards Scorch, sword arm drawn back as though to strike. However, as Scorch stumbled backwards, shocked and terrified, Azem instead bashed him right in the face with his shield.

    Scorch went down hard, and stayed there on the dirty asphalt without even complaining.

    Breach, apparently coming to a decision, dropped out of the air abruptly, trying to punch Azem, who easily brought his shield up to block. Even so, Breach's punch landed with what Sam would swear was a palpable shockwave. Maybe that was just the surprisingly loud clang of Brute-hardened flesh on metal. Azem went skidding back several feet, straight into Stampede. Without even looking, however, he side-stepped her charge, and she instead went sailing into Breach.

    Once they'd picked themselves up, both Stampede and Breach turned on Azem once more – only to tangle themselves up again before they even reached him. Azem didn't close the distance, just let them fumble.

    There was a flash of light, bright enough that Sam reflexively threw up his hands in front of his face, but it was gone in a second. It was just long enough to leave Sam blinking away afterimages. When he could see again, he noted that Azem was no longer holding his sword and shield. Instead, he was now holding what appeared to be a rifle or something. Maybe a shotgun? But in a one-handed grip, more like it was a pistol. Also, Azem's armor was gone, and now he was wearing a white shirt and a dark coat with a long hem.

    That seemed like an odd choice to Sam, who decided not to question the logistics of the sudden outfit change. The logic, however, was still in question. Wouldn't you want armor if you were going up against two Brutes?

    Neither Stampede nor Breach appeared to question it at all, and simply finished pulling themselves apart and then charged one more time – this time successfully. Azem dodged away, then ducked and weaved their successive attacks, moving steadily backwards, occasionally lifting his gun and firing on Stampede or Breach, though none of the attacks seemed to do much to them. They flinched and grunted, but didn't act like they'd been, you know, shot. Sam watched with narrowed eyes, confused. Azem had shown plenty of skill before, it didn't make sense that he was giving ground now. Plus the gun wasn't doing more damage than the sword had, so why the switch?

    Then Azem passed over one of the grassy areas between sections of asphalt parking lot, luring Stampede and Breach over it – and as soon as they were standing in the grass, Azem lashed out with his off hand, the one without the gun in it. Throwing something, possibly?

    And then chains burst out of the ground to wrap around both Stampede and Breach, pulling Stampede heavily to her knees with a thud and pulling Breach, who'd been flying, all the way to the ground, where he landed, undignified, on his belly. Both of them yelled and strained, but could not, apparently, get themselves out of the chains, nor could they pull the chains from the earth. Sam stared, baffled, as Azem, as unruffled as ever, approached the two Brutes, nodded to himself upon presumably coming to the conclusion that they were properly bound, and then continued back towards where the battle had begun.

    Which was also back towards Sam.

    Oh.

    Oh no.

    "I surrender!" he blurted, throwing his hands up. "Don't hurt me!"

    Azem gave him an unreadable look, then nodded.

    There were sirens in the distance, rapidly getting louder, Sam noticed suddenly. He looked around, and oh, there were actually a lot of people around. They were keeping a very careful distance from the site of the cape battles which had just occurred, but they were definitely hanging around. More than a few had phones out.

    That made sense. It was probably a bad idea to get into a fight in the parking lot of a Walmart anyway. Not that the regular cops would have been able to do anything against Scorch and Stampede if they'd shown up before Azem.

    Ethan made a run for it, only for Azem to fire something at his feet, and a moment later, Ethan was toppling forward onto his face with a yelp. Nobody else seemed inclined to try anything after that. Sam sighed and sat down next to Scorch, who was either unconscious or pretending to be. Either way, his nose was definitely broken. Sam didn't think Scorch was going to try his chances against Azem again.

    Together, they all waited quietly for the cops to arrive.

    Except for Stampede, who was still screaming invectives.






    Sergeant Levens didn't think he'd ever driven so fast in his life. Schmidt, in the passenger's seat next to him, had reported no less than a dozen grumpy texts from the agents in the back complaining about the jostling, all of which had gone ignored.

    McMinnville. McMinnville. After mostly only ever traveling in short little fifteen to twenty minute bursts, Azem suddenly popped up over an hour's drive away from his last known location. Of course he would. If Sergeant Levens didn't know better, he would be highly inclined to believe the conspiracy theories floating around the Seattle PRT that Azem was actually a reasonably powerful Thinker and was deliberately evading them. But he did know better, and he knew that was unreasonable. Azem had no reason to avoid them.

    Swinging sharply into the parking lot of the Walmart he'd been directed to, Sergeant Levens immediately caught sight of the evidence of Azem's passing: the clear remains of a cape fight.

    There was a small crowd collecting around a circle of yellow caution tape, and one reporter standing nearby, positioned to catch both the crowd and the tape on camera. Inside the tape, several cars had been damaged or outright smashed, and there were nine or ten cops standing around and over people who were sitting on the ground. Near one side, in a section of grass, there was a mess of giant chains, inside which sat two more people. Also standing with the cops, appearing to be chatting idly – though Sergeant Levens doubted he was doing much of the talking – was Azem himself.

    The sight of the elusive cape was even more of a relief than Sergeant Levens had expected.

    Parking near the caution tape with the back of the van facing it, Sergeant Levens got out and circled around to the back. While his agents were still climbing out, one of the LEOs came over.

    "Hey! You'd be the PRT, right?"

    "Yes, we are," said Sergeant Levens.

    The cop nodded. "Good, good. Well, we've got three parahuman villains for you here," he said, nodding to the two who were wrapped up in chains, and then a third who was sitting with the apparent non-parahumans, nursing a broken nose and looking sullen. "Seems like two of 'em are super strong and the other one has some kind of laser. He hasn't caused any trouble so far, but the girl over there in the chains is pissed. Think she'll probably try something as soon as she's let out. Oh, speaking of which, obviously we also have the hero you wanted to talk to. He agreed to hang around, which was especially nice since we definitely wouldn't be able to contain those two until you guys got here. Says he'll take the chains down when you're ready for it."

    "Thank you," Sergeant Levens said to the cop. Then, to his agents, "Take stock of the situation with the Brutes and take the Blaster into custody. Schmidt, you're in charge. I'll talk to Azem."

    As his agents set about following his orders, Sergeant Levens nodded to the cop and then made his way over to Azem. It was a struggle to maintain a steady expression. They'd all been waiting over a week for this. Azem turned to him as he approached, and seemed, at most, mildly curious. That was fair, Sergeant Levens supposed, given that Azem had no way of knowing the situation.

    "Azem. Can we talk?" Sergeant Levens said, and Azem nodded.

    He did not respond. Normally, one might say something along the lines of I heard you were looking for me. Azem did not seem to feel the need. In a way, Sergeant Levens could appreciate it. He already knew he'd been looking for Azem, after all.

    Sergeant Levens glanced around. There were too many curious ears around for his liking. One did not casually discuss S-class threats like the Siberian.

    "Let's go somewhere more private," he said to Azem, and led him away from the crowds. Some people strained curiously after them, but a sharp look was enough to quell them, and nobody quite dared to follow. Azem was watching him with a faintly expectant air. In a slightly quieter voice than he might normally use, in deference to the fact that they were still in public, Sergeant Levens explained, "The Siberian has reappeared. We believe she is now hunting you to get revenge for her allies."

    Azem's eyebrows furrowed, just enough to show that he was taking this seriously, and he nodded.

    "She's been causing trouble – losing her temper, we think, and the result is sudden bursts of violence. She's killed over a dozen people," Sergeant Levens said. He didn't want to guilt Azem, but at the very least, he intended to impress the seriousness of the situation on him. "You defeated her once before. To our knowledge, you're the only person who's even managed that much. You're the only one who can stop her. Will you face her again?"

    There was no hesitation. Azem nodded. "Do you know where she is?"

    It sounded like he intended to go fight her right that moment. Sergeant Levens blinked despite himself. "Right now? No," he said. "Now that we've found you, we can turn our attention to tracking her down. But it might be easier to have her come to you. If she's hunting you, any indication of your location will bring her here."

    Azem nodded again. "Do you have a plan for conveying that information to her?" he asked, which was a surprisingly intelligent question. Not that Sergeant Levens thought that Azem was stupid, he just came across as... uninterested in details like that.

    Fortunately, Sergeant Levens had an answer. He nodded back and pointed at the reporter. Azem turned to look.

    "We get you on the news," Sergeant Levens said. Azem tilted his head, looking a bit confused, but Sergeant Levens said instead of explaining, "But first, I have something for you."

    He withdrew a cellphone and its charger from one of his pockets and held them out to Azem. It was just a simple, cheap flip phone, but at this point, any phone was better than nothing. Azem took them almost automatically, with the mannerisms of a person who was used to being handed things, but looked at them uncomprehendingly. Sergeant Levens was abruptly reminded of Snubnose's certainty that Azem was an alien.

    "It's a phone," Sergeant Levens said. "Do you… know what that is?"

    He felt stupid just asking it, but Azem shook his head with no embarrassment, so Snubnose's alien theory seemed to be checking out.

    "It's a long-distance communication device, so that we can get into contact with you again in the future," Sergeant Levens said. Understanding dawned on Azem's face, and he nodded. "So, if you flip it open..." He mimed flicking a phone open with his thumb, and Azem imitated him carefully, switching the charger to one hand and flipping his phone open with the other, somehow managing it with little visible effort despite the metal gauntlets he wore. "You can see all the numbers. Each phone has its own set of numbers that you can put in to contact that specific phone. When somebody contacts you, the screen – the top part of the phone – lights up and tells you their number. You answer by pushing the green button on the left."

    Sergeant Levens watched Azem's face intently, looking for any sign of understanding or confusion, but he was impossible to read. Still, Azem nodded, so Sergeant Levens decided not to actually point out the green button. After a long, drawn-out moment of silence during which Azem opted not to actually speak, however, he instead opted for a compromise.

    "How about I call you so you can see what it's like?" he offered, and Azem, of course, nodded.

    So Sergeant Levens pulled out his own work phone and dialed the number for the one he'd given Azem. The phone in Azem's hand started ringing shrilly, unexpectedly loud. Yet Azem didn't so much as jump. Delicately, he tapped the answer button, cutting off the ringtone, and then looked at Sergeant Levens blandly.

    "Then you put it up to your ear so you and the other person can hear each other," Sergeant Levens said, realizing he'd missed a step, and demonstrated with his own phone.

    Azem copied him, and continued staring, unreadable, and yet somehow judgemental. Sergeant Levens felt a bit silly. As though it wasn't bad enough to have a nearly one-sided conversation in the first place.

    "All right, it seems like you've got it," he said, ending the call and putting his phone away. Realizing another thing he'd forgotten, he added, "You can end a call by pushing the red button."

    Azem nodded, hit the button on his own phone, flipped it closed, and stashed the device in the small pouch at his waist. He didn't look like a man who'd been introduced to cellphones less than five minutes ago.

    "Now, the other thing I handed you is a charger for your phone. You'll have to connect your phone to a wall outlet regularly to charge it, or the battery will die," Sergeant Levens said. "Every day or every other day, to be safe. You can see the battery level in the top left of the screen."

    Azem nodded again. Silence. The charger went into the pouch.

    Sergeant Levens cleared his throat. "In any case, let's move on. If you could assist us with securing those villains in our van, we can then see about following through on my plan to catch the Siberian's attention..."






    "...in the parking lot of this Walmart. Their motivations for the battle currently remain unknown. Fortunately, however, a hero was on hand to keep the chaos of their fight from spreading far. The new independent hero, Azem, interrupted the battle..."

    A large portion of Doctor Mother's job required keeping up on the news, at least in Earth Bet. It wouldn't do to rely entirely on Path to Victory – it was not infallible, and Contessa had her own ideas of what was important – nor on The Number Man's willingness to share whatever information he may come across.

    Sometimes the news Doctor Mother watched was more interesting than others.

    In between 'patients' – or perhaps customers was the better term – Doctor Mother was doing paperwork. It was incredible how even being part of a secret society didn't save one from the drudgeries of paperwork. The door opened without a knock. Contessa. Doctor Mother looked up as Contessa strode into the room with the tap tap tap of dress shoes on the tile floor. The Number Man followed her into the room, laptop under his arm, looking a bit disgruntled.

    "We have to do something about Manton," Contessa declared with no preamble.

    Doctor Mother leaned back in her chair, lacing her fingers together in her lap. "All right," she said slowly. "Why is that?"

    Contessa had never seemed to mind following Doctor Mother's orders, but nor did she tend to ask for permission when she decided something was necessary. Furthermore, "do something" was quite vague for Contessa.

    "You know about the deaths of the Slaughterhouse Nine?" Contessa said, looking between Doctor Mother and The Number Man.

    The Number Man's eyes closed in an overly-long blink, any personal feelings about the death of his once-friend Jack Slash perfectly concealed, and nodded.

    "I'm aware," he said.

    "As am I," said Doctor Mother. "As well as the reappearance of 'the Siberian' shortly thereafter."

    "Yes. Since then, Manton and 'the Siberian' have been hunting the man who killed the rest of the Slaughterhouse Nine. The man known as 'Traveler.' A confrontation between the two of them is now imminent, unless we interfere," said Contessa.

    "And you believe we should interfere?" Doctor Mother asked. "What happens if they fight?"

    Contessa paused. She didn't answer for long enough that Doctor Mother shared a look with The Number Man, surprised and concerned. Contessa's eyes narrowed faintly, as Doctor Mother had come to recognize was the expression she made when she was using Path to Victory.

    "I don't know," Contessa said finally.

    The Number Man's eyebrows shot up. Doctor Mother had to maintain careful control to prevent her own from doing the same.

    "You don't know?" The Number Man repeated.

    Contessa shook her head, and her face twisted into a frustrated scowl, an expression she rarely allowed herself these days, in adulthood. An expression Doctor Mother had rarely seen on Contessa even when she was a child.

    "No. It- Path to Victory, it keeps giving me different answers. Every time I look, the result of the fight is different," she muttered.

    It must have been bothering her terribly – very little upset Contessa as much as those occasions where Path to Victory didn't work – but Doctor Mother had no attention to spare for her feelings. A far greater priority was if they'd encountered another roadblock against which Path to Victory didn't work.

    "The future Path to Victory is giving you is changing?" Doctor Mother said, frowning. "That has never happened before."

    "No. I've never seen anything like this." Contessa closed her eyes. "If Traveler and 'the Siberian' fight, Traveler will die. Traveler will put 'the Siberian' and Manton to sleep again. Traveler will manage to destroy 'the Siberian,' and over the course of a dozen reappearances, manage to trace her back to Manton. Traveler will somehow manage to kill Manton through 'the Siberian.'" She shook her head and rubbed at her forehead. "Every time I look, it's like that. Rapid changes. It's almost like Path to Victory is... guessing."

    That was a concerning proposition. They already knew that there were certain restrictions on Path to Victory, but so far, they had no proof of anything the power – or the Agent behind it – didn't know. Only things it wasn't willing to tell Contessa.

    "It seems like this Traveler is the unifying factor between these 'guesses,'" said The Number Man. "And you haven't had trouble Pathing the Siberian in the past, correct?"

    "Right. Manton has never been a problem before," said Contessa.

    "So it is undeniably Traveler who is interfering with Path to Victory somehow," Doctor Mother said.

    Contessa nodded. "It won't give me a coherent answer in regards to any fight with Traveler in it. Before, it couldn't even tell me what his next moves would be. I couldn't tell that Traveler and Manton would fight until, it seems, Traveler decided upon it."

    "Traveler is interfering with Path to Victory, but is not totally immune to it," Doctor Mother said thoughtfully. They had never encountered something like that before. "Traveler is a Trump, is he not?"

    "A Trump 7, yes. Like Eidolon, though it has yet to be seen if Traveler's power level qualifies him as a 7-sub-10," Contessa said.

    "Interesting. In that case, perhaps it is one of Traveler's powers interfering?" Doctor Mother said.

    "Or maybe it's the nature of his power itself," said The Number Man. "If his power is to change itself, then it could be that Path to Victory can't predict what power he'll get at any given point in time."

    "Yet surely Path to Victory would know what his Agent is capable of, and from there be able to predict the most likely result," Doctor Mother said.

    "Unless even his Agent doesn't know what power it will give him ahead of time," Contessa murmured. "Like a Trigger event every time, something Path to Victory can't calculate the probabilities of."

    "That's possible," Doctor Mother conceded.

    Not quite a blind spot, but something even Path to Victory couldn't accurately predict. Path to Victory could predict every aspect of a person's Trigger, from the situation and the pressures required to the type of power they would get, and guide Contessa to it – but even Path to Victory wasn't one hundred percent reliable on the exact power that would result.

    "But unless it's something we can affect, does it really matter?" The Number Man asked. "What about the reason you dragged me in here?"

    "Traveler. And Manton," said Contessa.

    "At this point, we can't afford to lose either of them," said Doctor Mother. "As such, without being able to predict the outcome of a battle between them, we have no choice but to prevent one from occurring in the first place."

    Contessa nodded. "My thoughts exactly. But what do we do?"

    "Why not just drop Manton on an empty earth and leave him there?" The Number Man suggested boredly. "One without humans, at least. He should be fully capable of hunting food for himself with that projection of his, so he won't die. He'll still be there if we need him, and he'll stop causing trouble in the meantime."

    "That could work," said Doctor Mother. She wasn't sure why they hadn't done so earlier. "Manton doesn't have the ability to travel between worlds."

    "Traveler does. He might be able to follow Manton," Contessa said. She frowned. "Path to Victory can't tell if he can. Or even if he would, if he could. But with Clairvoyant and Doormaker, sending Manton to another world wouldn't be hard."

    And that was Contessa's two cents. No readable preference or opinion, just a statement of facts. It would be easy, but it might not achieve their desired result.

    Doctor Mother closed her eyes and considered the problem. Was there any other possible solution? Traveler was the one who possessed the ability to travel between worlds – somehow – so sending him to another Earth wouldn't work. Besides which, the tiny part of Doctor Mother that still believed in morality would rather have Traveler, a hero, running around unchecked than Manton, whose senseless slaughter wasn't even conducive to anything.

    The less sentimental side reasoned that Traveler, so long as his anti-Thinker power was, and remained, limited only to his own abilities and actions, was more useful to have in Earth Bet. They had yet to discover all of his possible powers, or even determine the exact function of his power.

    "It seems there is only one way to find out," Doctor Mother said finally. "We will go through with the plan. If Traveler does manage to follow Manton to whichever Earth we put him, we will attempt further solutions."

    Perhaps Traveler would be open to reason – and if Path to Victory worked on him, Doctor Mother would have no concerns on that front. And if not...

    Well, they would have to decide which was more valuable: the Siberian, or Traveler.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • PinkShadowReader said:
    Doctor Mother: I see no way this could possible go wrong.
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    Click to shrink...
    I mean, it's not like Azem is used to the signs of shady figures in the background manipulating things in suspicious ways... right? *cough*Ascians*cough*

    SmartAlek said:
    "That could work," said Doctor Mother. She wasn't sure why they hadn't done so earlier. "Manton doesn't have the ability to travel between worlds."
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Not Doctor and neither a Mother: "Quick, forget a vital clue into why everything is so shitty!"
     
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    The Warrior of Light in Worm. This can only go well.

    Oh I am so here for this.
     
    Mature and Professional Communication
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter Eleven: Mature and Professional Communication​




    The good news was they'd found Azem. The bad news was that now they couldn't find the Siberian.

    Sergeant Levens had taken the initiative of getting Azem on the news – both by name and face. It was a good idea, so Derek wasn't terribly upset that he hadn't been asked for permission. Given what they knew of the Siberian's actions up to that point, she should have shown up in McMinnville before long, searching for Azem. And yet, she never did.

    After four days of having Sergeant Levens and Azem wait in McMinnville for the Siberian, as well as refocusing their analysts on finding the Siberian rather than Azem, to no avail, Derek gave up, called Sergeant Levens back, and released Azem to return to his wandering. Now that he had the phone Sergeant Levens had delivered to him, at least he'd be much easier to contact in the future if the Siberian did ever decide to show back up again. Surely she would. She hadn't shown much inclination to living peacefully so far.

    There was a knock on Derek's office door.

    "Yes, come in," he called.

    The door opened to admit Sergeant Levens.

    "Director Reynolds," Sergeant Levens said, closing the door and stepping into the room, though he declined to sit, as per usual, instead standing stiffly in front of Derek's desk. Derek was pretty sure Sergeant Levens was former military. He wondered why he'd left the service, when he was so clearly suited to it.

    "Welcome back, Sergeant Levens," Derek said. "Did you have a report for me?"

    Sergeant Levens nodded briskly. "I emailed the written copy to you. Would you like me to give it verbally?" he asked

    Derek could never tell if Sergeant Levens was joking.

    "No, thank you. The highlights would be nice, if you have anything in particular you'd like to draw my attention to," he said, knowing full well what Sergeant Levens' reports were like. Long. Wordy. Dense. He wasn't going to do more than skim Sergeant Levens' written report.

    "Most of the noteworthy aspects you're already aware of. There's just one thing," Sergeant Levens said, frowning. "It sounds crazy just to think it."

    "I think we deal in crazy here at the PRT," Derek said dryly. "Lay it on me."

    "All right. After I encountered Azem for the first time and he assisted us with detaining the villains he'd defeated, I was not in constant contact with him. Although I, Zhao, and JJ stayed behind while Schmidt and the others took the van to deliver the villains to the Portland PRT, I saw no need for Azem to remain with us the entire time, especially before the Siberian could conceivably have caught up to us," Sergeant Levens explained.

    "Right, seems reasonable," Derek said expectantly.

    "In fact, almost immediately afterwards, Azem opted to go off on his own. I presumed that it was his usual MO; he wanders around and finds people to help. However... then the Siberian never appeared," said Sergeant Levens.

    Derek processed what Sergeant Levens was implying. He blinked. "You think Azem went and took out the Siberian on his own ahead of time?"

    Sergeant Levens nodded. "There was a period of several hours in which Azem is not accounted for. He could have been anywhere. Done anything," he said, a bit ominously.

    "Okay, but why?" Derek asked, deciding not to question how. At this point it wasn't even a conspiracy theory to assume Azem had some kind of Thinker power. "He didn't need to do it in secret, he could have just waited for her to show up."

    "That, I don't know. Impatience, perhaps. Or he thought we might disapprove of his method of handling her," said Sergeant Levens.

    "What, because she can't be killed? I suppose most other ways of neutralizing a threat like the Siberian could be considered cruel," Derek said thoughtfully.

    "Exactly. I wouldn't be surprised if the Siberian was sitting at the bottom of a lake right now," Sergeant Levens said darkly. "Without much familiarity with our system, Azem might have been concerned that we would instead try to take the Siberian into custody again, rather than allow him to handle her in such a way."

    Derek couldn't help a snort. "Honestly, sounds like a good solution to me. Couldn't happen to a nicer person," he joked. Now that the rest of the Slaughterhouse Nine were dead, anyway. He sighed. "But we don't have any proof of that, so I have no choice but to submit another internal report saying that the Siberian's missing, sorry! I kind of wish Azem had just told us outright. Then we'd know."

    "Some say ignorance is bliss," Sergeant Levens said. "I say ignorance gets you killed."

    "Well, at the very least, it's very inconvenient," said Derek.

    He scowled at the report he'd been halfway through writing. 'Lost the Siberian again, oops' was not something he wanted to admit to. Maybe he could sneakily add Director Baker into it and make it seem like it was, at least, a shared mistake?






    Rebecca kept up to date on most internal PRT memos. That was part of her job as the Chief-Director of the PRT, a job she'd chosen herself. It was hard to keep up on her work as both the Chief-Director and as Alexandria, leader of her own Protectorate, even with a body double, but she didn't mind. She wanted to do as much as she could.

    As a result of her diligence, she noticed the report on the Siberian quickly – the third in the installment. The Slaughterhouse Nine was dead, but the Siberian was missing. The Siberian had reappeared. Now, Rebecca read that the Siberian was presumed missing yet again, after the Seattle PRT had attempted to find and stop her with the help of the independent hero who had initially killed the rest of the Slaughterhouse.

    Director Reynolds had described the situation in which the Siberian initially disappeared, and as Rebecca knew the truth behind the Siberian's existence, it was clear enough that Traveler had – somehow – put both the Siberian and Manton to sleep, and the PRT had then removed the Siberian from Manton's range, causing the projection to disappear. That made sense.

    What didn't make sense for the Siberian to disappear to the point where the local PRT couldn't locate her for four days, without any impetus, when it seemed as though the Siberian, or perhaps Manton, had a grudge against Traveler.

    This one smacked of something suspicious.

    Rebecca would like to believe that Doctor Mother and Contessa would warn her if they were planning on acting against the Siberian – finally – but she wasn't entirely confident of that. The truth was, they rarely told her, David, or Keith anything they didn't strictly need to know. Not that Rebecca could claim to be innocent of that.

    But Manton was different. Things regarding Manton involved all of them. Rebecca and David, at least. Although Keith deserved better, the fact was that it was too late for him to know the full truth; they'd already hidden too much.

    But it was different with Rebecca. Wasn't it?

    Unless there were things that Doctor Mother and Contessa were keeping from her, too.

    But down that path led paranoia, something Rebecca couldn't afford with the only other people who knew. If there was anyone that Rebecca had to trust, it was the rest of Cauldron.

    ...To an extent.

    That certainly didn't mean she couldn't confront them about important operations involving Manton that they hadn't told her about.

    It was about time to switch from 'Rebecca' to 'Alexandria' anyway, so she decided to take a bit of extra time in between while there was a minimal chance of anybody noticing her absence. She changed into her Alexandria uniform quickly. It wasn't necessary, all of the people she might run into in the Cauldron base knew her by both identities, but the armor and the mask made her feel more confident. She would need it if she was going to face down Doctor Mother and Contessa, queens of icy expressions and sharp words.

    "Door. Cauldron base. Doctor Mother's office."

    Doormaker's portal dropped her off directly in front of the door to Doctor Mother' office, and Alexandria knocked.

    "Enter," Doctor Mother said promptly.

    So promptly that it was impossible to tell if she was incredibly on top of things or if Contessa had warned her of Alexandria's approach. Opening the door and allowing it to swing open, Alexandria walked into the room with a long stride, cape billowing. She knew the image she made; there was a reason she, Eidolon, and Legend had people calling them the 'Triumvirate.' Some people said she was the most imposing of them, too.

    Doctor Mother, sitting behind her desk as usual when she wasn't with a customer (willing or otherwise) didn't seem impressed. Neither did Contessa, who was lounging on the couch against one wall.

    They knew she was coming, Alexandria decided.

    "Alexandria. What can we do for you?" Doctor Mother asked politely.

    "I heard that the Siberian has disappeared again," Alexandria said.

    Doctor Mother raised her eyebrows. "How mysterious."

    "You had something to do with it, didn't you?" Alexandria said, having no patience for playing games.

    "We did," said Contessa.

    "And you didn't feel the need to tell anyone?" To tell me?

    "You were not required for the operation," Contessa said.

    "It might have been nice to know about it," Alexandria said waspishly.

    "And you do know about it," Contessa said, expression and tone so even that Alexandria honestly couldn't tell if she was serious. "Wasn't that the point of being the Chief-Director of the PRT?"

    That massively misrepresented Rebecca's goals – in being the Chief-Director and otherwise – but Alexandria just shook her head rather than start an argument about it. She wouldn't win. For all she knew, Contessa was deliberately baiting her, though for what she didn't know. It was impossible to tell if Contessa was manipulating you or not, anyway. Not that it mattered. If Contessa had used Path to Victory, the course of the conversation was already decided.

    "What did you do to him, then?" she asked instead.

    It was probably too much to hope that they'd changed their mind on killing Manton, but she wasn't sure what else they might have done.

    "We left him on an empty Earth," Doctor Mother said. "I assume this meets with your approval?"

    Alexandria resisted the impulse to reach for her eye, and instead crossed her arms. She had been furious at their refusal to consider killing Manton; he had gouged out Alexandria's eye and killed Hero, then continued causing trouble. How much was the potential of his usefulness worth? This wasn't as good as killing him, but Alexandria couldn't deny a sense of satisfaction at the thought of Manton, all alone, fending for himself with nothing but his projection. He might go even crazier than he already was, but that wasn't Alexandria's problem.

    "It does," she said finally. "But why? Why now?"

    They hadn't been willing to consider anything she said before, so why now? Granted, Alexandria hadn't suggested such a solution – her ideas mostly revolved around Manton's death – but if it was something Doctor Mother and Contessa had considered, why hadn't they done it back then?

    "Circumstances changed. Manton and the new independent, Traveler, would have fought, and the outcome was undesirable. It was best to simply prevent such a thing from ever occurring," Doctor Mother said.

    "The outcome was undesirable?" Alexandria repeated. That could have meant anything. Would Traveler have actually successfully killed 'the Siberian' – Manton? Or did they not want Traveler dead?

    "Yes. Traveler is a point of interest. He may yet be useful to us. Until such a time as we know, we decided it best to preserve both Manton and Traveler for future use," said Doctor Mother.

    Of course. Their typical philosophy. It figured that they would interfere to save somebody who might be useful in the future, when they hadn't kept Hero from dying. ...Granted, this 'Traveler' had defeated the entire Slaughterhouse Nine simultaneously, even the Siberian – albeit only temporarily. Alexandria could see where that got him classified as a point of interest.

    There was no point in complaining. They would listen if they felt like it... and only if they felt like it. And given how the conversation had gone so far, neither Doctor Mother nor Contessa was in a particularly indulgent mood.

    "Fine," Alexandria said, repressing a sigh. She'd gotten her confirmation, but this conversation had not gone the way she wanted. "As long as you don't suddenly reappear him without telling anyone."

    That would be too far.

    "Of course not. Reintroducing an S-class threat would, of course, warrant a warning," said Doctor Mother.

    Of course. Alexandria refrained from rolling her eyes. She was no longer the teenager she'd been when they met, after all.

    "As long as I can count on that much, then, I'll go handle the problems caused by suddenly vanishing an S-class threat without explanation," she said.

    Doctor Mother inclined her head. "By all means," she said, evidently unbothered by the veiled accusation. Contessa looked equally serene. Ugh.

    Alexandria turned away. Fine.

    "Door. Near the Los Angeles Protectorate headquarters."

    She didn't bother to be more specific; Doormaker and Clairvoyant could do a better job of finding her somewhere unseen to portal in than Alexandria could. With that, she stalked out of Doctor Mother's office without looking back. She almost wasn't even sure why she'd bothered.

    Then again...

    She wondered how long it would be before Eidolon found out if she didn't tell him.






    "Well, she did disappear in your district," Derek said – not petulantly, though he was getting tired of being yelled at. Honestly, maybe including Director Baker in his report wasn't even worth it. He hadn't expected to get verbally flayed for it.

    "Don't tell me that like the Siberian wasn't supposed to be your responsibility! You were the one who was supposed to be stopping her, all I agreed to do was help you find Azem, which I did!" Director Baker yelled, voice shrill.

    Derek pulled the phone away from his ear slightly. Director Baker did not have a good yelling voice. Or maybe this was a deliberate assault on his eardrums.

    "The Siberian was going to be your problem whether I drew you into searching for Azem or not. She was in your district, and that would have happened either way," Derek said. "Besides, what's done is done. There's no point in arguing about it now, is there?"

    "Oh, there might be," Director Baker said threateningly. "I might still make the drive up to Seattle just so I can personally shave all your hair off!"

    Derek put a hand on his hair, instinctively protective of it. "Hey, what does my hair have to do with it? Anyway, it's not my fault the Siberian keeps pulling a disappearing act."

    "No, it's just your fault you brought my name into it," Director Baker snapped. She clicked her tongue irritably. "You're right that it's too late to argue about it now. We should be doing something. We should be trying to find the Siberian. If we find her, then it's no longer our fault she's missing."

    "Then she wouldn't be missing," Derek said.

    "Exactly! So where do you think she went?"

    "Quite honestly, I have no idea," Derek said bluntly. "Her behavior when she showed back up doesn't make it seem likely that she went into hiding as the Slaughterhouse would have. She was clearly actively hunting Azem, so why would she suddenly stop?"

    "You are being very unhelpful," Director Baker said.

    "It's not my fault you don't like the truth," Derek said. Director Baker sucked in a sharp breath, probably to start yelling again, but Derek continued before she could, "But if you want my personal opinion, then I'll tell you. I think Azem did get to her. I don't know why he would go out of his way to hide it, but I believe that's the most reasonable explanation."

    "Have you asked him about it?"

    "No, I have not, and I don't intend to," Derek said primly. "I am going to trust that he had a good reason to keep it a secret and not ask him about it."

    "Oooor you could man up and just ask," said Director Baker. "Especially since then we'd know for sure what happened to the Siberian and could tell people about it."

    "You're welcome to ask about it yourself. I'll give you his phone number," Derek said immediately.

    He couldn't deny that it would be nice to know for sure, but he certainly wasn't going to be the one to ask. What if it really was something terrible? Or what if Azem got upset about being asked? Not that he should be able to do anything from wherever he'd gotten to by now, but then, he was a Trump.

    Silence from Director Baker's end. Derek was – unfortunately – familiar enough with her by now to recognize it as meaning that she was feeling awkward and was annoyed by it. She didn't want to ask either.

    "What was that about manning up and asking?" he said lightly.

    Director Baker clicked her tongue irritably. "Well, I'm not a man, so my masculinity isn't at stake," she snapped.

    "No, but what about your pride as a director of the PRT?"

    "What about your pride as a director of the PRT?"

    "I've already decided to forsake it in this matter," Derek said, and had to stifle a snicker when Director Baker actually growled at him.

    Derek's phone beeped, notifying him of another incoming call, and he glanced at the screen idly, then almost fell out of his chair. Why was the Chief-Director calling him? A shiver went down his spine. A call from the Chief-Director was almost certainly bad. Very, very bad.

    "Sorry, Director Baker, I have to go, I'm getting another call," said Derek, and hit the button to accept the new call, hanging up on Director Baker and cutting off the beginnings of a disbelieving shriek from her end.

    Oh, she was going to kill him for this one. If he survived the conversation with Chief-Director Costa-Brown, that was.

    "This is Director Reynolds," Derek said, trying to maintain a cool tone and not sound like he was panicking internally. Well, as long as the panic stayed internal, it was fine. Probably.

    "Director Reynolds. This is Chief-Director Costa-Brown," said the woman on the other end of the line. She had a very calm voice, but intense. Derek could feel himself sitting up straighter in his chair, even though there was no possible way Chief-Director Costa-Brown could see him. It just felt like the thing to do. Any temptation to say that yes, he knew who she was, was entirely gone.

    "Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?" Derek said, and actually managed not to sound like an idiot.

    Chief-Director Costa-Brown let out what could only be described as an elegant scoff. "I saw your latest report on the Siberian," she said, and Derek winced. That was what he was afraid of. "Since she is, after all, an S-class threat, I took the liberty of looking into her whereabouts for myself."

    Derek's jaw dropped. He was glad he wasn't actually in a room with Chief-Director Costa-Brown, as it would be rather embarrassing if she'd seen that. He hadn't expected her to say anything along those lines. More along the lines of how incompetent is your department that you lost an S-class threat, and so on. Especially one like the Siberian. She was hardly Heartbreaker, who at least made sense to be difficult to keep track of.

    "Fortunately, I have good news," Chief-Director Costa-Brown continued.

    "Uh, good news, ma'am?" Derek asked.

    Good news? Did she know what Azem had done? How could Chief-Director Costa-Brown possibly have figured out what happened?

    "Yes. According to anonymous Thinkers, the Siberian has been taken care of. She is no longer a threat," Chief-Director Costa-Brown said evenly, as though this wasn't a huge revelation.

    "What – that's fantastic!" Derek said enthusiastically. He had probably been more relieved in his lifetime, but it was hard to remember. "Wait, anonymous Thinkers?"

    That wasn't a common phrase. Normally, they used 'Protectorate Thinkers' when they didn't want to name names. Derek didn't think he'd ever heard of 'anonymous' Thinkers before.

    "Anonymous Thinkers, yes," Chief-Director Costa-Brown said, tone forbidding. It was clear that she would allow no further questioning.

    Derek quailed before her. "Er, yes, ma'am."

    "I would like you to have a press release drafted. The defeat of the Slaughterhouse Nine has not yet been announced, correct?"

    "Yes, that's correct," Derek said slowly.

    "Good. Then, we will simply announce the deaths of all present Slaughterhouse Nine members simultaneously. Something along the lines of how the Siberian escaped, but was later tracked down and handled with the assistance of the same hero. Naturally, we will have to give credit to Traveler, as it will eventually get out that the bounty was paid to him regardless," Chief-Director Costa-Brown said.

    Whatever the 'anonymous Thinkers' had told her, it sounded very much like they'd confirmed it was Azem behind the Siberian's newest disappearance after all. Or else they were just going to lie and credit it to him anyway. Derek genuinely couldn't tell from the way Chief-Director Costa-Brown spoke.

    "Yeah, that makes sense," Derek said ineloquently, caught off-guard. "I mean, that sounds like a good plan, ma'am. You want my PRT department to release the information?"

    "Yes. It happened in your district, so it's only right. You may include or not include the Portland PRT as you prefer," said Chief-Director Costa-Brown. "Once the press release is drafted, send it to me for approval. This is a major announcement. I'd like to check it over."

    "Yes, ma'am," Derek said automatically. He wasn't offended. It was kind of his job to make sure things like this went smoothly, ultimately, but Chief-Director Costa-Brown had been Chief-Director since the beginning of the PRT, so if anyone would know better, it was her.

    "Good. Get to work."

    And with a click, she hung up on him. Rude.

    But it gave Derek a chance to think. Now he had to handle the announcement of the Slaughterhouse Nine's deaths – which had always been going to happen, of course, though they'd delayed it in the uncertainty around the Siberian. Derek himself probably wouldn't write the press release; that was why the PRT employed George and the rest of the PR department. He still had to go over the contents of the press release with George and then read over the final draft before sending it on to Chief-Director Costa-Brown, though.

    Also, he had to decide whether he was going to tell Director Baker about this and deal with her inevitable demand to be included in the announcement or have her be furious at him as soon as she found out he'd left her out of it.

    A tough decision.

    The logical choice would be to just tell her and let her have a mention in the announcement, probably crediting her PRT as assisting with tracking down the Siberian. Yet it was surprisingly tempting to just not tell her that the answer she'd been demanding from him not ten minutes ago had been dropped in his lap by Chief-Director Costa-Brown. Also, she was probably still pissed at him for hanging up on her... not that keeping it from her would make her any happier in the long run.

    Really, Derek was a PRT director, and he should choose the mature, professional option. Should.







    "REYNOLDS YOU BASTARD HOW DARE YOU NOT EVEN TELL ME–"
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Somehow when I think of 'Director Baker' I get the image of a drenched kitten with all the anger and claws.
     
    You know, given the chapter title I was half-expecting Cauldron to leave the matter of Siberian's disappearance a complete mystery to the PRT at large. Good to see that there is still some sense in the Supposedly Benevolent Conspiracy.
     
    An Elite Pain in the A–
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter Twelve: An Elite Pain in the A–​




    Circuit flipped through the newspaper as the light rail rattled along underneath her. Another Traveler sighting, this one accompanied by a grainy photo. The news loved to cover every tiny thing the hero did; probably just trying to capitalize on having the killer of the Slaughterhouse Nine in the city. Enterprise wouldn't be pleased. He was still hoping Traveler would wander his way back out of San Francisco and remove himself from being their problem.

    Not that Traveler had done anything to them yet, in Circuit's opinion. Enterprise disagreed. Enterprise didn't believe in coincidences, so in his opinion, it was clear and deliberate action against them that Traveler had happened to encounter, and do small chores for, two different rogues that they were trying to force out of business.

    Except Traveler couldn't possibly have known, right? Nobody should know, they were being subtle about it.

    Not that their usual modus operandi was particularly a secret. It was the kind of secret everybody knew but nobody could prove.

    There were three basic stages to their usual recruitment efforts. Stage one was persuasion: they would offer every advantage they could to the new would-be business owner, which, considering that they were the Elite, was quite a few advantages. Startup money, connections, resources, protection, even business advice, and all for only a reasonable percentage of their earnings for the rest of their career. If that wasn't convincing enough, it was onto stage two: the slow strangle-hold. This stage mostly consisted of subtly inconveniencing their target in just about every possible way. Cost of goods would inexplicably go up. Marketing deals would fall through. It would be nearly impossible to find a storefront to rent out, or storage space, or anything else. Bad luck, that. Stage three, if they managed to avoid going out of business without caving to the Elite's generous offers, was the aggressive one. The target's shopfront, if they had one, might end up getting smashed. Crime in the area would inexplicably go up.

    Circuit wasn't a big fan of that stage.

    The point was, both of their current targets were in stage two; it should be next to impossible to tell that there was any deliberate action behind the string of bad luck they'd had. Even if it was well-known that those who refused to join the Elite often had bad luck along those lines, Traveler was an outsider who had only been in San Francisco for a week. He shouldn't have been able to identify their targets.

    The light rail jolted to a stop, jostling the inhabitants, and the door opened to allow for the exchange of people. More people entered than exited, and the overall noise level went up drastically. Circuit tried to block it out and focus on her newspaper. She mostly succeeded until somebody took the seat next to her, and she had to look up and see who it was. Circuit wasn't the most well-known cape, but she was in costume, and most people had the common sense to give any cape a respectable amount of personal space.

    Circuit froze. Her heart just about stopped.

    Sitting next to her was none other than the independent hero she'd just been contemplating. Traveler. No wonder he was willing to sit next to her, she thought, a bit hysterically. He was a cape, too. A powerful cape who was definitely more powerful than her. Did he know who she was? When he noticed her gaze on him, he looked over at her and nodded politely, then looked away again.

    He wasn't acting like he knew who she was.

    But how could he not? How could a hero sit right next to a villain and not know who they were? Circuit wasn't prepared for a fight! Not that she was on the same level as somebody who could defeat the Slaughterhouse Nine even if she was prepared.

    Traveler wasn't looking at her at all, but suddenly Circuit understood Enterprise's position. How could it possibly be a coincidence? It couldn't be. He knew. This was a threat. Traveler was all but declaring, I know who you are, and I can find you wherever you are. Even in the middle of public transportation. But he was a hero, right? He wouldn't start a fight in the middle of the light rail. There were too many civilians around. Unless he was just that strong...

    Deeply shaken, Circuit got off at the next stop. It wasn't where she was supposed to be going, but she didn't care. She had to get away from Traveler. She would just have to wait for the next one.

    Outside on the sidewalk, Circuit watched the light rail trundle off, taking Traveler with it. She had to tell Enterprise about this.






    Some people really just had no common sense.

    "You sold to a PRT agent!?"

    Scramble hunched his shoulders defensively. "It's not like I knew he was a PRT agent!" he argued.

    Flamedash narrowed his eyes. "You're supposed to be careful! Or have you forgotten how selling illegal goods works?"

    "All he wanted was walkie-talkies!" Scramble said, spreading his hands entreatingly.

    "Illegal tinkertech walkie-talkies!" Flamedash hissed.

    "Flame, it's all right." Circuit patted his elbow a few times – oh, she was trying to put out a bit of fire. "If the PRT or Protectorate show up, you can hold them off for a few minutes, right? I should be able to help Scramble get everything out in that time. Less than ten minutes, I promise."

    "Yeah, you had better. If I have to fight the Protectorate, there's no way I'm going in for a drawn-out engagement, they'll beat my ass if I try," said Flamedash. He shook his head. "You're lucky I'm on duty today!"

    He pointed at Scramble, who shrank back. Circuit stepped in between them and turned Scramble away.

    "Come on, let's get to work," she said.

    Flamedash supposed he ought to do the same.

    If the PRT might be coming imminently, it would be best if they didn't see Flamedash coming out of the shop they were trying to bust, so he headed outside to loiter. Flamedash had an interesting position within the San Francisco Elite. His job was to openly be a villain, who was not verifiably tied to the Elite in any way. Normally, his job involved causing 'accidents' to people's stores – having a fire power was good for that. Sometimes, it meant picking a fight with the PRT to allow a more-legitimate – or at least stealthy – member of the Elite to get away or hide.

    All of which was to say, it was for the best if Flamedash couldn't be tied to Scramble at all. He just happened to be in the area. He was just causing trouble for no reason. The PRT wouldn't believe it, but they wouldn't be able to prove otherwise, either.

    Flamedash had been hoping they'd get lucky and the PRT would not immediately send people to arrest Scramble. Unfortunately, it appeared they would not be lucky today. The PRT had probably been waiting for an excuse – for proof that Scramble had been selling tinkertech in addition to the regular technology his store ostensibly sold. He was a known underling of the Elite, after all.

    The PRT did not make a habit of using police sirens. They did when there was a real emergency, certainly. But not for things like making an arrest. When the PRT showed up, it was with little fanfare and less warning.

    As soon as he spotted the PRT vans – two vehicles, so likely twenty people at most, both were PRT, not Protectorate, so it was unlikely there were any heroes, which was good – Flamedash straightened up from his pose against the wall of the building adjacent to Scramble's shop. Across the street and one over. Just far enough away for plausible deniability. Dropping his cigarette and leaving it to smolder on the sidewalk, Flamedash strolled casually towards the PRT vans.

    PRT agents began spilling out of both vans. One van's occupants began preparing for a confrontation – checking weapons, taking heavy riot shields out of their van – while the other spread out to make a perimeter. A few headed in Flamedash's direction, likely aiming for the shops, as it was probably their job to evacuate nearby civilians. Scramble wasn't that dangerous, which was probably why they'd only sent a single PRT squad to deal with him and no heroes, but Tinkers could pull a lot of nonsense out of nowhere, so it only made sense to make sure there were no civilians nearby to be caught in the crossfire.

    "Sir, you need to leave the-" one of the agents called out, before abruptly going silent as he registered Flamedash's costume.

    Flamedash did not wear full flame-patterned spandex to be mistaken for a civilian. He was actually a little surprised it took the agent that long to realize he was a cape. Granted, in the hopes of looking less tacky, he wore a black leather jacket over the spandex, but still. The elaborate full-face masquerade mask should have given it away as well.

    "Cape!" the PRT agent called, backpedaling.

    Flamedash grinned. Too little, too late. Scramble wasn't dangerous... but Flamedash was.

    With the next step, Flamedash activated his power, the flames he was named for starting to collect on his shoulders, then broke into a run. Faster, faster. The flames grew and grew as he sped up. Then he slammed directly into the PRT agent and stopped, and the flames exploded. Both the PRT agent and another nearby one went flying, thrown backwards and set on fire to add insult to injury. Or, well, to add injury to injury, really.

    Flamedash loved his power.

    That was about how long it took for the rest of the PRT agents to notice and start converging on him. Distantly, Flamedash could hear one of them calling frantically for Protectorate backup, which was a little annoying. Scramble and Circuit had better finish up quickly.

    The PRT agents with the shields set themselves up as a defensive wall. Flamedash kicked back into motion before the ones in back could start shooting him, the bullets dashing harmlessly against his fire. He didn't understand that one, but he wasn't going to complain about inexplicably gaining some kind of fire-based forcefield while in motion. Their shield wall didn't do much, unfortunately for them; Flamedash slammed into it like a cannonball – an exploding cannonball – and sent them all flying just like the others. Quickly, he started running again. The one disadvantage of his power was that he was left vulnerable after the explosion that occurred when he stopped moving, and there were still some agents left standing who might just take advantage of the opportunity.

    Flamedash raced towards the remaining agents, who scattered like rats. Too slow, Flamedash thought with a smirk.

    But then somebody dropped out of nowhere to land in front of him, and before Flamedash could even attempt to slow or turn, he crashed directly into – an uplifted kite shield. Not like the highly engineered plastic of the PRT's shields, this one was metal. Flamedash's flame rushed out away from him in the typical explosion, but the shield, and the person holding it, didn't even budge.

    Flamedash threw himself backwards hurriedly as the shield came down and a sword swept around in its place, narrowly avoiding getting his head cut off.

    Oh, shit, shitty shit.

    It was Traveler, in gleaming silver armor, and his pure white cape wasn't even singed. He frowned at Flamedash.

    Fuck no, Flamedash thought, turned, and ran for his life.

    "Stop him!" one of the PRT agents called.

    As if they could. Flamedash's top running speed while using his power was faster than a car. There was no way they'd catch him.

    God, he hoped Traveler couldn't catch him.

    Flamedash ran at full speed in a straight line for several minutes before slowing enough to turn, then ran for a few more minutes, taking turns to confuse the issue of where he'd gone as much as possible. He had no particular destination in mind. There was no way he was leading the PRT or Traveler to any of the Elite's holdings or his own secret bases. Finally, he deactivated his power so that he could jog into a public park without leaving a clear path of burned grass. Once he was deep enough to be sufficiently out of sight from the street, plus somewhere a bit private, he stopped and put his hands on his knees. Using his power wasn't tiring, exactly, but all of the running it required could be.

    Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

    Footsteps in the grass behind him. Flamedash straightened up and whipped around, fully prepared to chase away some unwary park-goer. It wasn't an unwary park-goer. It was Traveler, walking up to him at a sedate, unhurried pace. He looked totally unwinded.

    "What the hell," Flamedash blurted.

    How was Traveler here!? Did he have some kind of Mover power too!? Actually, that would kind of make sense, given the name...

    It was just unfair, because Traveler was undeniably a Brute, and Enterprise theorized that he had some kind of Thinker power as well – it was the only explanation for some of the things he'd done. It also explained how he knew to show up and stop Flamedash. Or chase him off, depending on his goal. Maybe what he wanted was for Scramble to get caught. Flamedash hoped Scramble and Circuit had made it out in time.

    He hoped he made it out.

    Traveler stopped maybe ten feet away from Flamedash and drew his sword and shield. Flamedash put his hands up hurriedly. He only had one chance left.

    "Look, man, I'm not looking for a fight," he said.

    Traveler tilted his head skeptically, but sheathed his sword and slung his shield back over his back. Flamedash took advantage of the opportunity and made a break for it, to hell with the flaming trail his power caused him to leave.

    He ducked back out of the park at the first opportunity and dashed across the city. Even when it got hard to breathe and a stitch developed in his side, Flamedash didn't dare to stop. He kept going until he reached the coast, where he finally stopped on the beach – scaring away a number of people in the process. All of the pathetic civilians fled, screaming their lungs out, and finally left Flamedash in peace once they got far enough away that he couldn't hear them.

    He stood there and panted harshly. He was built for burst running, not marathons!

    Crunch. Crunch.

    "Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Flamedash groaned.

    Sure enough, when he turned around, there was Traveler, striding across the beach following the trail of superheated sand Flamedash had left behind. Flamedash didn't even give him a chance to get close, he just took off running. He obviously couldn't go into the ocean, but he did a big loop around Traveler and headed back away from the coast, and Traveler just tilted his head and watched him go. Flamedash got an ominous feeling from how calm Traveler was about it, but surely there was some limit to Traveler's ability to track him down, right?

    Surely.

    Yet when Flamedash stopped again...

    Clang. Clang. Clang.

    The sound of metal boots on asphalt.

    "No," Flamedash groaned. He turned. Traveler walked towards him at that steady pace. What knight in shining armor? He was some kind of nightmare monster. "How are you doing this!?"

    Traveler tilted his head, looking almost puzzled. As though he had no idea why Flamedash was asking. Of course Traveler could accomplish this. It wasn't like Flamedash had been doing this job for almost six years without anybody being able to keep up with him.

    "L-look, I'm sorry, okay?" Flamedash said, holding his hands up harmlessly. "Just let me go. I swear, I won't cause any more trouble." Today, he amended. Perhaps even a week. He'd be willing to promise a week in exchange for getting out of this situation.

    Traveler eyed him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You should make sure of that," he said in a calm, low voice. "Otherwise... who knows what will happen?"

    Flamedash felt a chill go down his back. That sounded very familiar. How many times had the Elite said something along those lines? Of course you're free to decline, but who knows what will happen without our support? It would be a shame if something bad were to happen...

    And then if the poor soul didn't heed the warning, somebody – often Flamedash – would be sent in to do anything from trashing their shop to setting it on fire, or possibly even injuring them personally.

    Flamedash could easily imagine himself on the receiving end of that treatment. He went pale.

    "Y-yes, sir, absolutely," he stammered. He found himself saluting, absurdly. "I will, I'll be good, I promise."

    He had no intention of drawing Traveler's attention ever again. He was pretty sure Traveler would just pop up in his bedroom or something and murder him. The sound of those footsteps would haunt his nightmares.

    Sorry Enterprise, I can't keep working as one of your enforcers, under threat of death from the guy who killed the Slaughterhouse Nine!

    Traveler nodded again. Flamedash watched him intently for any sign of aggression. Traveler stared back. They stood there for a long moment.

    What is going on here?

    "So... can I go?" Flamedash asked finally, uncertain what else to do.

    Traveler tipped his head to one side, then, eventually, nodded.

    "Okay. Uh, thanks?" Flamedash said, backing away carefully.

    Traveler just watched him go. Ominously. Yet he didn't so much as take a step. Flamedash backed away unhindered – well, except for a parked car that was very rudely behind him, at which point he was forced to turn and inch away sideways, keeping his eyes on Traveler, who, admirably, did not visibly react to even Flamedash bumping into the car.

    As soon as Flamedash could no longer see Traveler, he turned and ran. But at normal speeds, without using his power. Just in case Traveler considered that misbehaving.

    Oh god, was he going to have to figure out how to use public transportation like Circuit?






    Enterprise looked up as Flamedash burst into his office. Flamedash was breathing hard, like he'd run all the way to the office, which was entirely possible, and looked rather frazzled but, ultimately, unharmed.

    "I hope you have a good explanation for your actions," Enterprise said coolly.

    He'd already gotten complaints from Circuit and Scramble about Flamedash abandoning them – it was lucky they'd managed to get away regardless.

    Flamedash gave him a wide, hollow eyed look.

    "A good explanation? Yeah," he said hoarsely. "How about a threat on my life?"

    Sitting up straight in his chair, Enterprise frowned. "A threat on your life? What do you mean?"

    There weren't that many capes in San Francisco who actually posed a threat to Flamedash. If nothing else, he could always run away, and as a bonus, his power made it very difficult to keep him from running away.

    "Traveler showed up," Flamedash said, shuddering.

    "Tch. Of course he did," Enterprise muttered with a scowl. That man had been a thorn in their side since the day he entered San Francisco – even if the others hadn't believed him. Now it seemed Traveler was escalating from the subtle threat he'd delivered through Circuit. "Well? What did he say? Clearly, you didn't get into a fight with him."

    There weren't many clear records of Traveler fighting, but the mere fact that he'd – apparently – defeated the entire Slaughterhouse Nine simultaneously meant that Flamedash wouldn't stand a chance against him.

    Unless he was weak to fire, or something.

    "He showed up while I was trouncing those PRT agents and stopped me," said Flamedash. "Boss, he literally stopped me and didn't even wince at the explosion!"

    "Well, we knew he was strong," Enterprise said. If Traveler was a Brute of that level, that would explain how he'd managed certain feats.

    But Flamedash shook his head. "You don't understand, boss. He threatened to kill me if he caught me causing trouble again! I'm not sure I can keep doing this..."

    "Don't make any hasty decisions," Enterprise said quickly. "We can figure this out."

    Traveler definitely seemed to be escalating, and he wouldn't be surprised if the next step was to start killing people, though it wasn't the style of a hero. But Enterprise definitely couldn't countenance the loss of a cape like Flamedash; he was too useful.

    "He'll know," Flamedash whispered, and then devolved into muttering. All Enterprise could make out was odd phrases, like, "No matter how far I run... " and "Those footsteps!"

    Enterprise blinked a few times, bemused. But this was fine. He could handle this.

    "All right, listen, Flame. Why don't you take a week off to relax?" and recover. "Then we'll readdress the matter."

    Flamedash sighed shakily. "Yeah, okay. My answer's not gonna change, though," he said. "Not while Traveler is still around."

    "I understand," Enterprise said darkly, and he did. If he wanted Flamedash to keep working, not to mention prevent any further interference, he would have to get Traveler out of the city.

    He was going to have to arrange a meeting.






    Enterprise was as prepared as he could be, all things considered. He sat at one end of the conference table in his official cape meeting room. Because it was his cape meeting room, the table itself was heavily reinforced to the point of actually being some kind of tinkertech monstrosity underneath a thin veneer of wood, rated for reliably defending against Blasters up to 5; there was a secret door in the wall behind Enterprise, just a few short steps away; and even the distance from the big floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall to the neighboring building was carefully calculated to be just jumpable by a baseline human if they got a running start.

    On top of that, Rex, Enterprise's personal bodyguard for tense situations, was standing at attention beside him, and Circuit was hiding in the ceiling with a tinkertech rifle, one hundred percent guaranteed to harm any Brute short of Alexandria! Or so went their sales pitch, anyway. Enterprise had his doubts. Still, it was Circuit's best chance of being able to slow Traveler.

    Finding Traveler had been easier than Enterprise had expected. The Elite had many people operating in the city, and the next person to encounter Traveler had delivered Enterprise's message for him.

    1597 E 19th Ave. Room #224. February 8th. 9:00am.

    Enterprise formally requests a meeting.

    That was all. Enterprise hoped that curiosity would be enough to draw Traveler to the meeting, and then they could negotiate.

    Negotiate. Yes. Enterprise was prepared for anything. He could only hope that Traveler would be willing to negotiate at all. ...If he showed up at all.

    Enterprise's phone rang, and he answered.

    "Sir, there's a man here who says he was directed to room two twenty four," said the receptionist, a highly-trained former black ops guard. "Goes by Azem, he says."

    Enterprise frowned. "Azem? Never heard the name," he said.

    "That is the problem," the receptionist agreed. "Otherwise I would have sent him up. Uh, he looks like Traveler, if the pictures in the news were accurate. Dark hair. Armor. Very blue-and-white themed."

    "I see," Enterprise said slowly. He glanced at his watch. 8:57. Punctual. There was no such thing as a coincidence, so a Traveler-like person suddenly appearing at almost exactly the time Enterprise had set must therefore be Traveler. "Let him up. If it's not him, I'll deal with it."

    "Yes, sir."

    Flipping his phone closed, Enterprise exchanged a look with Rex.

    "Ready?" he asked.

    Rex grimaced. "Ready as I'll ever be."

    They waited in a tense silence. Before long, the elevator dinged, announcing Traveler's arrival, and Enterprise rolled his shoulders, settling in his chair so as to appear comfortable and relaxed. He checked his watch. 9:00. There was a knock on the door.

    Incredibly punctual.

    The person on the other side didn't wait for an answer, and simply opened the door, then strode in, cape flaring out behind him. It was undeniably Traveler, or else some kind of shapeshifting Stranger using his face. Enterprise had no idea why anybody would want to impersonate Traveler, so he was left to assume that it was, indeed, the real deal.

    "Traveler, I presume?" said Enterprise.

    Traveler tilted his head to the side, looking almost confused. Not a good sign. Was he actually stupid? Enterprise was fairly certain Traveler had some kind of Thinker power, but he was a Trump, so it was possible he didn't currently have that Thinker power. Which meant he was an idiot who only used his intermittent Thinker power as a crutch.

    "I've been called that," Traveler said finally. "I prefer Azem, though."

    Enterprise hesitated. That would explain the front desk confusion. But if he wanted his cape name to be Azem – whatever that meant – why did so many people know him as Traveler?

    "Is that so?" he said, stalling, and then decided to simply go with it. When an incredibly powerful cape states a preference, you follow it whenever possible. "Azem, then. My name is Enterprise. A pleasure."

    Traveler – or rather, Azem – nodded, which Enterprise had no idea how to interpret. He cleared his throat. Just go with it. Own it. Show no uncertainty. Predators attacked in the face of fear.

    "Please, take a seat," Enterprise said, gesturing to the chairs on the opposite side of the table from himself. Azem seemed to meet his eyes evenly, though both of their eyes were covered, evidently unaffected by the elaborately-decorated, featureless full-face mask Enterprise wore, the only remnants of a human face being the eye holes with black lenses.

    Not that Azem looked like somebody to be easily off put by eerie mask choices; though it only covered half his face, Azem's own mask was quite dangerous-looking, particularly for a hero. He settled into a chair with surprising grace from a man wearing so much armor, maintaining his stare on Enterprise the entire time. It was clear Azem would not be intimidated.

    That was fine. Enterprise wasn't so stupid as to have ever expected to threaten the man who'd defeated the Slaughterhouse Nine.

    "Right, then. Onto business," Enterprise said, maintaining a straight, upright posture.

    He wanted to seem totally in control and confident, though in actuality he was neither of those things. At this point, he was almost willing to accept that Azem could smell fear, but he wasn't willing to give up his image without a fight.

    Enterprise waited.

    ...

    The silence became awkward.

    Azem did not respond. Not even a sounds good or something equally inane, yet indicative of a willingness to listen and contribute to the conversation. Nothing.

    Enterprise cleared his throat. Fine. Expectations adjusted. He didn't need Azem to speak anyway, as long as he was willing to listen. "I am interested in making a deal with you," he said. Naturally, again, Azem did not respond. "I am hoping that we will be able to come to a mutually beneficial agreement. I would like for you to stop bothering my people and my operations and leave San Francisco, and in exchange, I am willing to pay quite a bit. I have many things to offer, from money to information. Even favors," he added, remembering that Azem had, presumably, collected the Slaughterhouse Nine's considerable combined bounty.

    Azem thought about this for a moment, and for that incredibly long moment, seconds stretching on into eternity, Enterprise thought he wouldn't respond at all yet again.

    Then Azem spoke. "Having me leave is that valuable to you?"

    The nerve. Azem comes into Enterprise's city and starts casually wrecking his operations, then asks something like that? He knew exactly what he was doing. Which made Enterprise think of what else Azem could possibly mean by saying that. Was he trying to get Enterprise to up his offer? With his entire business potentially on the line, of course having Azem leave was very valuable.

    With effort, Enterprise reined in his temper. "Yes, it is. I'm willing to pay anything," he said, assuming that was what Azem was after. But he was unable to help himself, and had to say, "Within reason. I'm running a business here, after all."

    The corner of Azem's mouth twitched, and Enterprise couldn't help but overanalyze it. Was it deliberate? What did it mean? Was it a smirk?

    No. It was skepticism. Azem inclined his head slightly, and it was obvious: he was doubting Enterprise's claim of running a business. Well, fair enough, the typical business didn't involve things such as enforcer budgets or the time required to launder their money, but that didn't make Enterprise's business any less valid.

    "I am. I'm a businessman at heart. There are a number of perfectly legitimate businesses under my umbrella," he said.

    It was even true, though arguably many of those legitimate businesses could only function as they did thanks to the protection and support of the less legitimate businesses.

    The skeptical quirk of Azem's lips didn't abate, but he nodded appeasingly, and Enterprise had no choice but to make the executive decision not to argue his point. He did not call Azem here to argue with him, and in fact, Azem's opinion of him and his operations did not matter at all as long as Azem agreed to be bribed into leaving.

    "In any case," Enterprise said firmly, "yes, having less heroic interference in my business is indeed quite valuable to me."

    "Less," said Azem. "Either way, the PRT and Protectorate will continue interfering, won't they?"

    Enterprise flicked his fingers in the air, an elaborate shrug. "Well, yes," he said slowly, unsure where Azem was going with this. If he intended to draw a parallel, Enterprise would have to explain why the average local PRT and Protectorate made for considerably smaller thorns in his side.

    "If it's such an inconvenience, why be a criminal?" Azem asked, with what seemed to be genuine curiosity. "After all, you're a 'businessman,' right?"

    "What? I mean, yes, but–" Enterprise spluttered, caught off guard. "It's not that simple!"

    Azem waited expectantly.

    "Well, it's not like I can be a legitimate businessman! The government made sure of that," Enterprise said, somewhat bitterly.

    Tilting his head to the side, Azem continued waiting expectantly, with a faintly dubious air.

    "Okay, look. I was legitimate. Our whole organization was. And then the government passed fucking NEPEA-5," Enterprise explained. "You don't know what NEPEA-5 is, do you?"

    Azem shook his head.

    "I don't blame you, a lot of people who weren't affected by it never really heard of it, especially after the Elite formed. The government was delighted by how many former members of our old organization joined them, but god forbid they ever admit that they caused the formation of one of the most widespread and influential villain organizations in the country," said Enterprise.

    Not that the Elite was as cohesive a group as the government thought it was, at this point. With each sect driven by a different leader with different goals and operating procedures, they'd been fracturing since the day they were formed.

    "So, NEPEA-5." Enterprise took a breath. This was a dangerous subject, and he'd have to be careful, lest he end up ranting. "It's a law that severely restricts what parahumans can legally do, business-wise. It effectively makes it so that parahumans can't really run businesses, and certainly can't sell goods." He shook his head, irritated by the thought. "Want to be a vigilante? Oh, sure, go ahead! Try not to kill people! Want to be a businessperson? You're on thin ice, better be real fucking careful!"

    Azem nodded slowly. "You feel strongly about this," he commented.

    "Of course I do! It's bullshit!" Enterprise burst out. "It almost ruined my life, and a lot of other people's beside. It did ruin a lot of people's lives."

    All of the people who weren't willing to go villain, who either scattered or did what they were supposed to and joined the Protectorate, and now were miserable for it. The Protectorate was little better than glorified cops, and Enterprise pitied anyone who'd been bullied or tricked into joining.

    "Why be a criminal, then?" Azem asked, and Enterprise gave him a look like, are you stupid.

    Fortunately for Enterprise's chances of surviving this, Azem couldn't see it.

    "I just told you. If I can't do it legally, I might as well do it illegally," Enterprise said.

    And commit some extra crimes on the side. If he was already a criminal, why not?

    "That's all?"

    Enterprise bristled. "What do you mean, 'That's all?'!"

    Azem lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Committing petty crimes isn't going to accomplish anything in the long run. If it matters so much to you, why not change it?"

    "Oh, I tried," Enterprise said bitterly. "We all tried to keep NEPEA-5 from going through in the first place. Nothing we did even mattered."

    "So you gave up?" said Azem, in the blandly judgmental tone of a man who could defeat the entire Slaughterhouse Nine and knew it, and as a result had never given up on anything in his life.

    "I didn't give up! I just... refocused my efforts on things that were actually achievable," said Enterprise.

    Azem gave the most elegantly judgmental head tilt Enterprise had ever seen. Enterprise's figurative hackles went up.

    "We can't all be you! I'm just one person, parahuman or not. I can't change the government's mind," Enterprise said defensively.

    "Why not? One person can make more of a difference than you might expect," Azem said with a steady confidence. "If the government is wrong, then you should change their mind. And if they won't, then you do what you have to do."

    That sounded incredibly ominous.

    "It almost sounds like you're suggesting I overthrow the government," Enterprise joked, hoping to defuse the tension.

    Azem just stared at him silently for long enough that Enterprise realized he was decidedly not disagreeing, and he threw his hands up.

    "Whoa, okay, I thought you were supposed to be a hero," he said, a bit desperately. There was no way Azem was saying what he thought he was. There was no way everyone was so wrong about him. This was the kind of guy who rescued kittens from trees for little girls! He didn't overthrow governments.

    "Some governments should be overthrown," Azem said, completely throwing all of Enterprise's assumptions about his personality out the window.

    "I begin to see why you're an independent hero," Enterprise said weakly. He cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. "You know, committing treason wouldn't actually make me less of a criminal."

    "It's only treason if you lose," Azem said.

    "History is written by the victors, huh?" Enterprise said dryly.

    "Of course. Generally, the loser doesn't get much of a chance to tell their side of the story," Azem said, with all the confidence of somebody speaking from experience.

    Enterprise eyed him warily. "Overthrown a lot of governments, have you?" he asked, mind racing as he tried to think of all of the African, South American, or possibly small European governments that had undergone a significant change of leadership recently.

    "...Just one, really," said Azem, an answer so specific that Enterprise was inclined to believe him.

    Enterprise put a hand over his eyes, where a headache was building. "You make it sound so easy. Then again, I guess if it was you..."

    "It's not easy," Azem said. "But it's worth it."

    "Uh-huh. And what does overthrowing the government look like for you? You're clearly not there running it," Enterprise said.

    "No. It wasn't my country. I left it in the hands of its people. Not all of them agreed with reforming the government, but many did, or it wouldn't have worked."

    "Yeah? How do the rest of them feel now?" Enterprise asked, curious despite himself.

    "It was for the best. I think they understand that," Azem said. "Except for those who were knowingly profiting off of the corrupt system... and those who truly believed that their way was the best."

    "There are always people like that, aren't there?" Enterprise said, and sighed. "What if they were right?"

    What if the state of the US government wasn't quite as bad as he'd made it out to be?

    "I have to believe they weren't," Azem said. "You believe your government is wrong too, don't you?"

    "Well, yes. Wrong enough to kill everybody in charge so I can take over? Maybe not," Enterprise said dryly.

    "Not everybody," Azem said, sounding almost exasperated. "You convince those you can. There are people who will agree with you, or who can at least be convinced, especially if you have the common people on your side. It's not like I wholesale slaughtered their entire working government."

    Why was Azem sounding so convincing!? Enterprise didn't want to overthrow the government! The government didn't even necessarily deserve to be overthrown, and it was possible Enterprise had given Azem a somewhat inaccurate idea of what it was like. Though, it would certainly be nice to change the government.

    "You may have a point..." Enterprise said thoughtfully, then shook his head quickly. "Wait, what are we even talking about? This isn't why I called you here!"

    Azem nodded, looking entirely unrepentant about completely sidetracking the conversation.

    "Look, Azem. I appreciate the advice, but I would still really prefer for you to leave my city. What do I have to do for that to happen?" Enterprise said bluntly.

    Azem looked thoughtful. Finally, he said, "You mentioned a willingness to trade information?"






    Enterprise tossed back his entire glass of brandy, barely tasting it and getting only the burn in his throat to remember it by. That was fine. Hopefully he would soon be too drunk to remember anything. He set the glass down on the table and immediately reached for the bottle to refill it, aware of Rex's horrified stare and Circuit's fascinated expression.

    He ignored them both. They should already understand exactly what his motivation was.

    They'd been there for the meeting with Azem, after all. They knew exactly how hard a bargain Azem drove. Enterprise had ended up telling him just about everything he knew about just about every villain from San Francisco to New York before Azem had been satisfied enough to agree to leave.

    The rest of the Elite were going to be pissed at him when they found out how much he'd told Azem about them. He'd practically painted targets on their backs, if Azem happened to feel like going after them.

    Well, some of them could suck it, Enterprise wasn't sorry. He'd be glad to see Bastard Son get taken out, for one, the stain on the Elite's good name that he was.

    And all of them were going to want to have words with him before long for a matter entirely unrelated to Azem, except in that he'd inspired it. Overthrowing the government might be a bit too far, but some of what Azem said had been helpful. Enterprise wasn't interested in an entire revolution, but Azem was right that some things should be changed, and if nobody else was going to do it, why not him? So Enterprise had come to a decision. He was going to initiate a PR campaign against NEPEA-5 – though it had been years since it was passed, Enterprise refused to believe the battle was over. He would see how the government liked having their shady misdeeds spread across the airwaves.

    Once he sobered up, that was. He didn't think he was drunk yet, and it still seemed like a good idea, but he would wait and see how he felt once he'd fully recovered.

    Both from the alcohol and the experience of dealing with Azem.



    Enterprise is heavily biased, and his explanation and opinion of NEPEA-5 are not necessarily 100% correct. It's never stated for sure in canon what NEPEA-5 is, so I'm leaving it a bit vague, but it's safe to say Enterprise is exaggerating.
     
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    • Fantastic. I can't wait to watch the consequences of this change. I wonder if Azem's presence here will blind Cauldron long enough for this movement to actually gain some momentum?
     
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