I woke up the next morning, and when I sat down to relieve myself I pissed blood.
Kidney bruise.
A souvenir from Oni Lee to go with the sore throat. Legless, bleeding, and half dead, he'd still nearly killed me.
And Lung...
I'd fought Lung twice, and I'd never seen anything like that. I'd known he got stronger with the passage of time and the intensity of the fight, but I hadn't understood it. Somehow, last night, he'd gone farther than before… and he'd gotten stronger much faster than either time we'd fought. Was it the number of other parahumans nearby? The size of the fight? The fact he'd known it was coming, instead of being caught by surprise?
I had no idea.
I knew this much — if I had to fight him again, it would be by surprise, from ambush, while he was asleep.
With a good escape plan ready just in case.
He really was powerful enough to challenge every other group of capes in the city by himself. But he wasn't unbeatable.
I'd done it once.
I really wasn't looking forward to doing it again.
I consoled myself with the thought that, as long as Lung wasn't reforming the ABB, I could probably focus on E88 for a while first. Or Coil. Maybe the Merchants. I wasn't sure that what I did could make a lasting difference — the ABB had only ever mattered because Lung made them matter, and if he was all that was left… he'd built them up from there before.
On the other hand, depending on the outcome of this morning's meeting, I wouldn't be able to keep working on the gang problem. The PRT had no charges to bring against me, as far as I knew. But being an orphan meant that the government took an interest, and being a parahuman meant that I wouldn't be slipping through the cracks unless I went completely underground.
What I'd read about Hellhound — or Bitch, I guess — on the wiki had said she'd demolished her foster home and been on the run ever since, over half of Maine all the way down to here. And maybe I could do something like that… but I was pretty sure I couldn't do something like that and stay in the city, and this is where I needed to be to do the task I'd set myself.
My clothes hadn't exactly been picked for quality: for days on the bus, and blending into the throngs of people lacking work, they did the job. For a formal meeting with the Protectorate about my future… maybe I should have spent more time shopping for clothes. Pretty much any effort I'd spent in the direction of clothing had been on my costume.
Which, granted, had saved my life last night.
I dressed in my costume underneath my sweats again, and shrugged on my backpack, and looked in the mirror one last time, briefly.
I'd never liked mirrors.
I checked the clock again.
7:40.
Time to catch my bus.
···---···
I looked up at the PRT building, an enormous blunt rectangular structure in concrete, with the windows behind metal bars. Tall as it was, it squatted. This wasn't the sleek, futuristic fortress of the Protectorate's floating, force-fielded base in the Bay — this was a monument to institutional power.
It looked like a school. Or a prison.
Bad associations, either way.
I looked at the large revolving doors, reached out and felt for insects within almost instinctively. Not much to work with, really. More than most people might think, of course — some in the walls, some in the ventilation system, some in what had to be a breakroom with regular spills, and the list went on — but it was clear that this building was occupied and regularly cleaned.
I inhaled, squared my shoulders, and walked toward the entrance… only to feel someone coming toward me. I turned: Quinn Calle, a cup of coffee in his hand, as impeccably dressed as ever, the same professional smile fixed on his face.
"Taylor!"
He paused to look me up and down. It was… odd. Not sexual, more… assessing, somehow.
"First off, you're not going through the front door. That's the public entrance, and you, my dear, are not the public. Second, you're not going in dressed like that. Third… coffee?"
He offered the cup to me.
I took it, cradling the warmth in my hands.
"I don't really have other clothes, right now."
He nodded. "There are really two options here — go in costume, or go in something a little more formal. The first says you're presenting yourself as a cape; the second as a civilian. The clothing you've got on says you're treating this casually, and that's not the message you want to send. Come on" he jerked his head and half turned "I've got a place for you to change."
"Won't we be late? You said 8:30, and…"
"The meeting's at 10:00." He grinned impishly.
"One of the first rules of serving your client well is knowing how to help them effectively. Right now, you need a change of clothing and — unless I miss my guess — a hot breakfast."
I hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon.
"Come on — I'm buying." Again, the smile reached his eyes for a moment.
I hesitated.
"You're certainly paying me enough. Get some of it back while you can."
He gestured, and I followed. He walked me down the street to a small apartment building, buzzing through the door with a fob, and then up an elevator and into an apartment furnished tastefully, if impersonally.
I blinked.
"You live here?"
He shook his head.
"The firm keeps something like this available for use near most PRT offices. It's cheaper than having a partner dedicated to Brockton Bay, and more discreet than a hotel. He gestured toward a door.
"How do you want your eggs?"
"Scrambled's fine."
He nodded.
"Go ahead and get changed — I'd recommend the civilian option laid out for you, for reasons we can discuss while I get you fed. Breakfast will be up by the time you're out."
What was laid out for me in the next room was a very basic black suit and white dress shirt combination, along with four pairs of shoes, each a half-size apart.
I changed, taking my time, and feeling quite awkward. The clothing didn't fit, quite, and the loafers were new, and stiff. I looked at myself in the mirror and felt like an imposter. Dressed for a funeral in someone's hand-me-downs.
I returned, finding the table laid out with paper napkins and a delivery from what looked to be a local diner.
Quinn was seated, and gestured at me to join him.
I paused, smelling the food.
"This… it doesn't really fit."
He nodded.
"Sit down, and eat up. It's supposed to not quite fit. With the kind of money you have available, I could have brought in a tailor and made something to order. That's one of my nephew's old suits — had him overnight it after we met the first time. Wearing a suit says you respect the institution. Wearing a tailored suit says you think you're a big deal, or possibly a dandy. Wearing a slightly ill-fitting suit, in your particular circumstances…"
His smile invited everyone to share the joke.
"Says you're doing your best, but times are hard. Poor, but honest."
He pointed his fork at me.
"And that is the message we want to send them. That they should want to help you. This is the important part. The firm's got solutions for who your guardian ad litem and eventual guardian will need to be. Child Services has enough kids without easy solutions that they won't be a problem… unless the PRT is pulling the strings."
He took a drink of coffee, then swirled the remainder around his cup.
"For this interview, I'll handle being the bad cop where necessary. They expect it of me anyway. You just need to tell the truth — not everything, necessarily, but lying to them is a bad idea. If you're unsure, just ask to talk to me. We've got a very simple strategy here — stay focused on the truths that help you, stay away from anything that wouldn't."
I hesitated.
This made me uncomfortable. In some ways, I'd have been more comfortable trying to storm the PRT building singlehanded. I wouldn't want to — they were the heroes, after all — and it probably wouldn't end well for me, but I couldn't help thinking that I knew how to start going about that. How to map out the building, and find a weak spot; how to identify targets and put them down.
How to fight.
How, hopefully, to win.
Talking to the authorities had never ended well for me before.
I thought back to something Mr. Barnes had once said: "Most lawsuits end when one side runs out of money."
I looked at Quinn, his face still smiling, and thought about the kind of money I had on account with the Number Man, and the kind of money this lawyer charged to take a case.
Fine. This wouldn't be about asking them to do their jobs right. This would be a fight. And if it wasn't the kind of fight I knew — yet — well…
I could learn.
I sat down to breakfast and started asking questions about strategy.
···---···
We entered the PRT headquarters building through a side door at 9:55, and were ushered through an efficient security check to an empty elevator, and from there to a small conference room.
Where we waited for fifteen minutes.
I wasn't worried: Quinn had explained that this kind of posturing wasn't uncommon, that they might well try to unsettle me before offering a solution.
Besides, it gave me time to try and get a sense of the surrounding area. Bugs crawled through ventilation shafts, puddled in cracks and corners, and where I could, I peered out. What I saw was an office, with cubicles and workers.
A little disappointing, actually.
A knock at the door, followed by two people entering. Armsmaster, heavy in his power-armor, unconsciously adjusting his halberd to avoid the door frame, followed by a squat woman in a jacket and skirt, wearing a frown.
Director Piggot. The person I'd have to convince in order to walk out of here.
The introductions were brief, and for all that Quinn's smile never wavered, I got the impression that he wasn't liked here. Given what he did for a living, that wasn't really surprising.
"Well, I'd like to thank you for meeting with us, Director, Armsmaster."
She grunted as she sat, and turned directly to me.
"Why lawyer up?"
We'd prepared for this.
"Two reasons, ma'am. I'm worried about foster care, and I have reasons to worry about joining the Wards."
She raised her eyebrows.
"Bakuda wrote a letter to me. I'd stopped to read it on the way in — probably why I survived at all."
I paused. No one else was willing to break the silence.
"Something Shadow Stalker said gave her my identity — the combination of 'Taylor' and 'locker'."
Armsmaster spoke "We'd considered that possibility. There was no way she could have…"
I interrupted "Shadow Stalker put me in that locker four months ago. Hospitalized me. For weeks."
Piggot met Armsmaster's gaze for a moment, and he nodded.
He did have some way of telling truth from falsehood — I'd thought he had, when we first met. It had been part of the strategy Quinn had shaped.
"You didn't report this to us." His voice was stern, almost accusing. Then again, stern was pretty much how he'd sounded almost every time I'd heard him speak.
"I did report it — to the school authorities. The complaint went nowhere. Now I wonder if I know why."
"You uncovered Shadow Stalker's identity?" Armsmaster was quick on the uptake.
"When I was being treated at the Protectorate base, I woke up once. She was standing over me, told me the death of both my parents was my fault, because I hadn't 'known my place'."
Another glance, another almost imperceptible nod.
Piggot's frown deepened.
I got the impression she frowned a lot.
Quinn wanted them on their back foot from the beginning, and wanted the biggest hits to come in response to their own questioning. He'd spent a couple of minutes talking about how you shouldn't ask a question you didn't know the answer to, especially on cross-examination, and how unexpected answers had more impact than if you just listed your complaints up front… I hadn't tuned him out, but I had tried to boil it down.
Know what they were expecting. Disrupt it. Take advantage.
The director turned her eyes on Quinn, as if she could stare right through him.
"You don't sell yourself cheaply."
He smiled that professional smile, the scar quirking one side up a bit.
"Daniel Hebert had a life-insurance policy. More importantly — I've often been surprised at how parahumans, granted extraordinary abilities, can only see the combative uses. My client's abilities have tremendous applications, from agriculture to textiles and beyond. And these talents command commensurate compensation."
He smiled warmly, hands flat on the table to either side of the blank legal pad before him.
"She can afford my time."
A moment's pause, almost enough to draw a response, and he continued. "Emily — my client isn't interested in a wrongful death lawsuit…"
I broke in. "You're the heroes. I don't want to keep you from doing your job… I just want someone to take a look at Sophia. Make it stop. I don't think I was the only victim at Winslow… just the worst."
That exhausted most of the pre-scripted offense we'd hashed out together. The rest would be contingencies and improvisation.
Armsmaster glanced at Piggot, and turned to me. "I'll look into it." His voice was controlled, but… intense. More than usual, even.
I nodded. "Thanks."
He continued "We did find the body of Oni Lee last night. Burned badly, but additional organic matter about his body…"
Quinn spoke up: "If you're implying that my client…"
I waved him down.
"I was in Memorial Park yesterday afternoon. I noticed the fight start, and tried to get closer — to maybe make things better, somehow. Oni Lee came after me. I think he set himself on fire, trying to kill off the insects I had on him."
"Clear self-defense."
All of it, one of the contingencies we'd prepared, with another mini-lecture from Quinn about how people heard what they expected to hear, unless you shocked them out of it.
"He didn't hurt you?"
He didn't kill you?, I mentally translated. I didn't blame him for the surprise in his voice. Frankly, I was still surprised I'd won too — teleporting clones were simply better than bugs as a power. Pretty much everything was.
I'd just have to work harder.
"My costume is knifeproof. Still ended up with a bruised kidney."
A nod from Armsmaster, and a flicker of something from Piggot. Sympathy? Disgust? It was gone too quickly to tell.
Piggot leaned forward. "You shouldn't have put yourself at risk like that. In the Wards, you'd have training and support."
Quinn's voice was mild and friendly. "Emily, has the PRT changed policy and decided to discourage independent capes from trying to fight crime?"
She sat back, frowning. "No. We encourage them to join the Protectorate or Wards, where we can better help them." She turned to me. "I do believe it to be in your best interest."
I shook my head. "I won't rule it out… but not now. I can't."
There.
That was it.
Quinn had said that if they started asking me, it would be because they no longer thought they could compel me. And if that held true, then I would win on the foster-care and Wards issues. As for Sophia… well, that wrongful death lawsuit was still on the table. I'd rather not play that card, but Quinn was confident that the PRT would really rather not see it played. Too much bad PR.
I sat back while my lawyer dickered with the Director of the Brockton Bay PRT and waited.
···---···
Armsmaster walked us out, stopping for a conversation before the security checkpoint.
"You fought Lung and Lee, and both times you walked away."
I nodded, uncomfortable in my borrowed suit.
He stared at me for a bit. Or maybe he didn't — the visor kept me from really knowing.
"Maybe that was luck — but maybe not. There are plenty of capes whose first, last, and only response to a problem is to use their power. And for some, that's enough. Their power is strong enough."
Again, a heavy silence between us.
I broke it first.
"I know my power isn't anything big. I know I have to work harder. I know how close I came to dying."
I swallowed.
"But I can't…"
I couldn't speak. I thought of Sophia, telling me to know my place. I thought of the little villain fiefdoms throughout the city. I thought of Empire Eighty Eight, and its generation of ruling a chunk of my city. I thought of Lung, ruling through fear. I thought of my father. I thought about letting them win.
I can't.
He nodded.
"I can't tell you effort trumps raw power." He smiled, but it looked bitter.
Another silence, my mind replaying scenes of Purity effortlessly crushing ABB thugs, of Lee, cutting a red path through E88… of Lung as a rampaging dragon, ripping apart any who dared face him, simply powering through any and all opposition.
The way I never could.
Was he trying to demoralize me?
"There's a place for you, if you change your mind."
He turned and left.
Quinn gestured toward the doors, and I followed.
I walked out of the PRT building a free woman.
Somehow, it didn't feel like a triumph right then.