Chapter 25
Thomas Calvert
"We've got confirmation, Director. Alabaster's transport has reached its destination," Deputy Director Renick reported.
They sat in the command center, hours after the chaos had subsided. Whether the riots had truly been suppressed or if the Empire had simply achieved their goals and withdrawn was debatable.
Emily ground her teeth in silence.
The frustration was earned. One out of four — a single captured Empire cape — was a pathetic return on what should have been a decisive strike. And she knew it.
Yes, getting all of them out of the city would have been ideal for the PRT, but the disparity in parahuman forces made that extremely unlikely.
The Empire's capes were well-established, organized, and worked together with polished synergy. They also had superior numbers — even with four of theirs captured.
So the PRT made a calculated compromise. Rather than risk a direct seven-versus-eleven clash they couldn't afford to lose, they split the convoys.
The alternative wasn't worth considering. Crusader alone could have occupied the entire Protectorate squad long enough for the others to break out the prisoners. Then the Empire would have fifteen parahumans in the field — and total control of the engagement.
So, instead of gambling everything and potentially losing all the prisoners in one stroke, the Protectorate forces were divided.
Four teams, four routes, four separate targets.
The Empire would be forced to split as well, giving the heroes a better chance of meeting them on even ground.
This approach almost guaranteed that some prisoners would be freed. But it also created a chance — however slim — to snag one or two of the Empire capes in return.
It was a textbook risk-mitigation strategy. Not ideal. But in the lopsided game the PRT had to play in Brockton Bay, it was the best card they had.
Thomas had been the one advocating for it.
"We had four of them. Four!" Emily spat. It was all she could do short of shouting or slamming her fist on the table.
The PRT had failed. Emily had failed. Fate had handed her Hookwolf, Alabaster, Stormtiger, and Cricket on silver platter — and she'd squandered three of them.
It wasn't all her fault. But Thomas had no intention of offering her that comfort.
Kaiser had played it smart and decided to hedge his bets. He split his forces in two: Menja, Night, and Fog hit the softest target — the transport carrying Cricket, guarded by troopers and a lone Velocity.
The real hammer came down on Hookwolf's convoy. Kaiser, Purity, Fenja, Crusader, and Rune — with a pack of armed goons floating on her platform — hit Armsmaster and Miss Militia with overwhelming force.
Naturally, the Protectorate folded under the assault.
As far as Thomas could tell — and as he would eventually frame in his analysis — Kaiser's true play had been simple: force the heroes to choose.
That explained why Krieg, Othala, and Victor weren't part of the assault teams.
Emily couldn't sit back while Empire capes stirred up chaos unchecked. The optics alone would have buried her. Any excuse like "transporting prisoners is more beneficial in the long run" wouldn't have held up with angry citizens watching their homes go up in flames.
Kaiser had even managed to neutralize New Wave by provoking unrest near their homes and Brandish's law firm — never striking their homes, but close enough to endanger their neighbors and friends.
Predictably, they responded. Especially Glory Girl, who saw the nearest mob of white supremacists and dove in headfirst.
That move had been anticipated by the PRT — though they'd expected Kaiser to commit all his capes to freeing his subordinates.
The Wards and New Wave had been designated as riot control. The plan was simple: once the streets were quiet, Emily could have stood at a press conference the next morning and told the city that their heroes — the Protectorate and the New Wave, but mainly the Protectorate — had shielded Brockton Bay from hate and violence.
The press would lap the heroism and the public would feel reassured. It didn't matter that half the capes involved weren't part of the PRT, or that most weren't old enough to vote.
The important thing was image. The PRT would be seen as doing its job.
"It wasn't a total loss, ma'am," Renick said carefully. "Gallant's team managed to apprehend Krieg."
"And that puts us where, exactly?" Emily snapped, voice sharp. "We couldn't stop them when they were down four capes. How the hell are we supposed to win now that they're only down two? Next time, they'll concentrate everything on one convoy."
It was true — capturing Krieg was one of the night's few victories. And that had been thanks to Gallant's team. Or rather, to Argent and Armiger.
The whole Wallis-Danvers family had become a persistent migraine.
It started with Armsmaster's tinker budget — which had mysteriously ballooned without any increase in official funding.
Consequently, Emily declared a holy war of performance reviews, hunting for any excuse to dock wages and squeeze the budget. Every department head was under the microscope, every clerk had been looked at.
Kid Win was the first sacrifice. Thomas came next.
Emily couldn't just slash salaries at random — she needed plausible justification. So she combed through his logs and claimed he wasn't logging enough hours in-office.
The accusation was laughable. Thomas didn't care about the salary. He made more in a week through his investments and criminal holdings than the PRT paid him in a year.
What he did care about was a pristine service record. It needed to be spotless if he wanted to replace Emily when the time came.
His record was already stained by prison time for shooting his commanding officer in Ellisburg, and that alone made the political maneuvering difficult — necessitating favors, blackmail, and discrediting every viable rival in the PRT just to stay in the running.
If it wouldn't have raised every red flag in the department, Thomas would've bankrolled Armsmaster himself — just to avoid being shackled to a desk for half the day.
Instead, he wasted precious hours pretending to care about desk work, then burned what little time remained commanding his organization as Coil, juggling gang politics and contingency plans on three hours of sleep.
Emily had, without realizing it, dismantled his greatest asset: the ability to be in two places at once.
Now his days were locked down. He couldn't coordinate with agents, couldn't run ops, couldn't move funds — not without risking exposure.
Even when he used a timeline to skip work, that path had to be discarded. Meaning every decision, every action taken there, vanished. A ghost life. A waste.
Operations were piling up faster than two timelines could handle. He was behind, running out of flexibility — and still human enough to need sleep.
It had gotten bad enough that he was seriously considering how to get his hands on Armsmaster's witchbrew of custom stimulants.
And Emily, in her infinite wisdom, had dared to comment on his appearance. Suggested he "get some rest."
The temerity!
He couldn't even shoot her for it — not when his alternate timeline was busy digging through Dinah Alcott's medical records.
His grip was slipping, his plots were fraying at the edges, and he hadn't slept properly in weeks — all because Emily had decided to bribe Armsmaster into prying his children out of Wilkins' jurisdiction!
"The Empire still has moles," Emily seethed beside him. "They knew exactly where to hit. They knew which team was guarding Hookwolf."
Of course they still had moles. And of course they knew.
Thomas had leaked that intel himself.
And that was another headache to add to the pile.
One of the kitchen staff had been caught stealing cutlery from the cafeteria.
Apparently, Armiger had been bartering with the cooks — providing full sets of Damascus steel knives in exchange for extra food. And not the modern, decorative kind either. These were genuine wootz-crucible steel blades.
Very valuable as is turned out.
Thomas had to listen to a nice little lecture on the subject, while receiving a report from Tattletale in another timeline, and sorely wishing he could put her on the table and torture that report out of her.
Then the thief's background came to light: a drug problem, connections to the Merchants, and — naturally — a role as an informant.
Emily launched a paranoid internal witch hunt.
Thomas scrambled to secure not just his own intelligence network, but those of every gang in the city — since he'd been leveraging their informants to control their movements.
The most recent example? Orchestrating Hookwolf's ambush on Armsmaster and his kids.
Admittedly, part of it had been pure spite.
He wasn't supposed to let emotions dictate action — not in the timelines he intended to preserve. That was rule one.
But lately? Thomas was breaking his own rules more and more often.
A sign, maybe, of just how thin his self-control had worn.
The timing, however, was far too convenient for Thomas to refuse when the children approached him in the hallways.
Ever since Emily had taken in Argent and Armiger, she'd begun pushing into Empire territory — fast and aggressively. And worse, she was having actual success.
The Empire had been caught off guard. Understandable — the PRT ENE had been defensive for years. Now, suddenly, they were advancing, and Kaiser had no choice but to play it safe while figuring out where the newfound confidence came from.
But Thomas already knew.
It came down to Argent.
The girl brought overwhelming firepower. Enough that Emily, normally cautious to a fault, had started taking risks — calculated ones, but bold nonetheless.
It was something of a tightrope. Emily knew she couldn't lead with her — the optics were too ugly. But with Argent as a failsafe, Emily was willing to gamble — knowing she could always escalate later and frame it as a measured response.
Thomas had to admit: it was smart.
Too smart. Too effective.
Emily was starting to look like an effective Director. That could not be allowed. The more successful she appeared, the harder it would be to remove her when the time came.
He needed the Empire broken, yes, but only if Emily burned political capital doing it.
So he had used Hookwolf's frustration and orchestrated an attack on Armsmaster. The children choosing that night to visit had been pure coincidence, though a welcome one.
Thomas' expectations were that harsh reprisal will slow down the PRT's momentum or else make Emily back off entirely.
It had even worked.
After dropping the siblings off at Protectorate HQ, he'd split timelines again. In one, he went home to get some much-needed sleep. In the other, he lingered and intercepted the Wallis-Danvers family in the hallway, offering to drive the children home.
That second timeline ended with Armsmaster dead.
Thomas had attended the emergency meeting, listened to the report, and even offered the children his condolences. Argent had been visibly shaken. Armiger? Possibly a sociopath.
Then, as he checked his email before bed in the first timeline, Thomas was hit with a blinding headache.
The second timeline vanished. Just gone.
He was left stunned, motionless.
That had never happened before. Timelines didn't just terminate on their own. And worse — his power didn't come back for some time.
All he could do was sit there, nursing the migraine, staring at the report that four Empire capes had been captured.
Thomas still didn't know what had gone wrong.
He'd agonized over it, but events had moved too fast. Too chaotically. Thomas couldn't prove it, but for some reason he had the distinct, gut-deep certainty that those children did something.
There was also a real chance that they had simply killed Thomas in the second timeline. The collapse had occurred during his conversation with them. He hadn't seen a strike coming, and they shouldn't have had a motive — but Thomas knew their records and Emily's concerns. He'd also seen their power testing report with red flags all over it.
Tattletale had said it plainly: those two could — and would — kill without hesitation.
It could have easily been them. Two unstable Thinkers receiving tragic knew and going berserk. There was no warning, especially from Armiger but... There was a reason why Thomas was keeping a safe timeline when he drove them to the Rig.
It could also have been something else entirely. The PRT HQ got blown up. Armsmaster built some new device.
Thomas just didn't have time to test it yet.
All he could do now was move cautiously. Prepare for another failure. And most importantly:
He could no longer fully rely on his power to keep him safe.
This time, the cost was strategic.
Next time, it might be his body on the floor.
But for now, Thomas would press on.
Dinah Alcott had become a top priority. If her power was what he suspected, then she wasn't just an asset — she was a safeguard. A way to avoid unseen dangers like the one that just cost him a timeline.
The Undersiders were still needed to be build up a player in the Bay's underworld. Emily's position would need to be destabilized. The narrative of his own inevitable promotion would need to be carefully laid.
Brockton Bay would be his.
As for Kaiser — that plan might need reworking. Emily's strategy had been effective. It failed only because he sabotaged it. But when he was Director, he could run the same strategy to solidify his position without sacrificing his own pieces.
All he needed now... was time.
-/-/-
Max scanned the table, quietly gauging the mood.
His people were in high spirits, mostly.
He hadn't bothered inviting Night or Fog. The Gesellschaft's living weapons had no emotions worth addressing and thus no morale to manage.
Cricket and Stormtiger were visibly pleased, though Cricket was careful to hide her broken teeth. For someone who wore her battle scars proudly, the girl clearly drew the line at dental damage.
Rune looked quietly stunned. It was her first major battle, and she'd come out intact. Her role had been minor, but vital — thanks to her, they'd made it to Stormtiger's transport after freeing Hookwolf.
She had performed adequately. If Max had been willing to risk more, he might've ordered a third engagement in order to reach Alabaster.
But that would have left Kayden locked in combat with Dauntless. And Max wasn't prepared to lose her so soon after pulling her back into the fold with sweet promises.
Othala and Victor looked spent — hollow-eyed and done with the night after fending off four Wards.
At least Victor had made the right call: he'd disengaged the moment Aegis and Kid Win hit the field. A rare moment of good judgment for skill vampire.
The others were scattered across the room in various states of exhaustion. Bruised, bloodied, but not broken — and still high on the taste of victory.
This was his Empire, such as it was.
Barbarians, rednecks, racists, bimbos and brainwashed.
Presentable enough not to raise eyebrows in a corporate setting with clothes covering the worst of the scars and ink. All seated in a meeting room constructed to match the precise limits of Max's power.
"Tonight was a success," Max said smoothly, addressing the room with effortless control. "Yes, we've lost comrades — but Liam and James won't stay caged for long."
His tone struck the perfect balance: just enough solemnity to acknowledge the cost, just enough confidence to keep morale high.
"You've fought well. You've earned your rest. The celebration will be held tomorrow."
He let the words settle.
"Brad, please stay."
He waited as the others took the dismissal and quietly filed out of the room.
Max stood motionless until the last of his capes had left.
Then, slowly and deliberately, he rose from his chair and made his way to the liquor cabinet.
He poured a glass — neat, precise — and didn't so much as glance in Brad's direction. No offer extended. No acknowledgment given.
For several minutes, he sipped in silence, letting the city's neon haze play across the glass walls.
Part of it was to center himself. The rest was to let Brad stew in silence.
When he finally turned, Brad was reclined in his chair, boots up on the table, wearing a face that practically screamed are we done yet?
It took real effort not to impale him on the spot.
"What were you thinking, Brad?" Max asked, voice low and tight.
"I was thinking that pussyfooting was getting us nowhere," Brad replied, blunt and unrepentant.
Max clenched his teeth. "I was gathering information. Planning our response."
"You were doing nothing," Brad shot back. "And we were bleeding cred until the fucking Undersiders decided it was okay to steal my dogs. Another week and Skidmark would've started dealing on our turf."
"And you thought losing to Armsmaster would restore our image?"
"I didn't lose to him. Five more seconds and Armsy was toast. Fucking brats," Brad shook his head.
Max narrowed his eyes. "You lost to Armsmaster's children?"
"Hey, those kids weren't pushovers. Ask Kathy and Will. I don't know what Armsy's been feeding them, but those two? Stone cold. Straight for the throat. They're the real deal."
"We knew they were Combat Thinkers," he said evenly.
"Yeah, nah," Brad replied. "I've seen Thinkers. This was different. Not just skill — it's the way they move. It's in their eyes. Could be some power tells the kid how to swing, but he's swinging like he means it. Anyway, that's not how we lost."
"Then do explain."
"Alright. We pull the ambush. Will builds this air turbine thing, I blast through it. Everything goes to plan — sent them flying, wrecked Armsy's bike."
"Was your intention to kill?"
"I planned to send a message. The idea was to brutalize Armsy to get the PRT to back off. Maybe he'd die, maybe not. It's kinda hard to tell how much is too much with his armor. Plus the Dallon girl."
Yes, with Panacea and Othala in the picture, the bar for casual violence had risen across the board.
"We didn't know it was family time. Got intel on Armsy's patrol route and set the trap. Kids showing up? Total surprise. Not that we'd have pulled back, mind you — but Will says they attacked first. Turned the corner, almost got a face full of swords. I saw the girl launch him myself."
"By then I was on Armsy. Things were going fine. Sure, our guys got dropped by literal children, but I'm not exactly worried about a couple swords and lasers."
Max stared him down. "And yet you lost."
"How the fuck was I supposed to know the brat was gonna start launching giant swords like he's your old man?"
Max stopped mid-sip. "What?"
"Giant. Fucking. Swords," Brad said slowly. "Had flashbacks to Allfather. Then the kid picks up Armsy's halberd — which I knocked out of his hands, by the way — does something to it, and bang. Next thing I know, I'm out."
"So you went in half-cocked and with bad intel. That's a poor excuse, Brad," Max said after a pause.
"Please," Brad said, rolling his eyes. "Your intel on the brat was trash too."
Max didn't argue. That was why he tolerated Brad. For all his posturing, the man wasn't afraid to point out flaws — and he had the presence of mind to do it behind closed doors. Bootlickers were easier to control, but challengers were more useful.
Brad was a rabid dog. But a dog that bit the right enemies, and only pissed on Max's carpet in private
Yet even then…
"Do you have any idea how much effort and manpower I spent getting you all out? You, Brad — you in particular should be grateful."
Brad had been Birdcage-bound.
"Eh. I've escaped before."
Max didn't blink. Just stared.
This whole conversation Brad had been doing his usual routine where he played dumb to get under Max's skin. The slang, the posture — all calculated irreverence.
Brad raised his hands, relenting. "Alright, fine. I am grateful. Birdcage might've been a good scrap, but I prefer fighting under open sky. You got it done. Respect. So what's the issue?"
For all his posturing, Brad did respect Max — and knew where the invisible lines were.
"The issue," Max said slowly, "is the cost. We lost Alabaster. We lost Krieg. And we lost a lot of soldiers."
"Come on. You know how this works. There's always another batch of meatheads ready to 'fight for the cause.' Throw a rally, flash a few symbols, boom — back in business. Lotta Nazis in this city," Brad said with a roll of his eyes.
Max narrowed his eyes. "Our European partners won't see it that way. Gesellschaft will be on my back about freeing James."
"We'll get him out," Brad said, unconcerned. "Same with Alabaster. I'd worry about Kathy being in prison, but Liam? He'll be fine. Not like he will die on us, right?"
He laughed. Max didn't. He finished his drink in silence.
"Anyway," Brad continued, "what's the plan for Armiger?"
Max raised an eyebrow. "You want retaliation against a Ward?"
"Nah. I've been thinking." Brad grinned. "You sure your pops didn't cuck Armsy?"
Max blinked. "What?"
"Kid's the right age. Shoots swords out of nowhere. From Brockton. I mean… suspicious, right?"
"Coincidence," Max said flatly.
"Like New Wave? Or you, Allfather, and Iron Rain? C'mon. Kid's got Allfather's whole moveset. If he was Armsmaster's, he'd be a Tinker."
Max didn't want to entertain it. But it was… oddly plausible. And it wasn't like his father was short on vices.
"Why the sudden curiosity?"
"You're complaining about losing capes. Maybe the kid will be more into the cause than your own boy. And hell, I wouldn't mind a rematch. Just have Victor dig around. Worst case, it's nothing. Best case?" Brad smirked. "Maybe you got a little brother."
"Outing a Ward is risky," Max said.
"Please." Brad scoffed. "Just find the mom. Ask a few questions. After that — up to you."
Max frowned. Civilian identities were dangerous ground. But five capes down in two fights — and both kids still standing — wasn't sustainable.
Maiming them was pointless. Panacea would undo the damage.
Killing them? That needed the right stage.
But on the off chance that Brad's theory was correct?
Max could simply claim custody and send the boy at some prestigious boarding school across the country. Somewhere quiet.
On the off chance that Brad's theory was correct.
"I'll think about it."
A/N
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