“She’s stronger,” Grue said. He didn’t sound good. “You fed her.”
“Had to. Or she would have escaped before the explosion.”
“But she’s stronger,” Grue repeated himself.
Tattletale nodded.
“Do you have a plan?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not really. Ideas.”
“I have a few too,” I said. “Not good ones, though.”
“I’ll take bad ideas,” she said. She sighed wistfully, “Fuck. I really wanted an evil mastermind headquarters of my own. It’ll be years before I can build one for myself,” Tattletale groused.
“So impatient,” Regent clucked his tongue.
Tattletale pushed herself to her feet. “The next part’s going to be three times as bad. I’m going to go see if we can scrounge up some healing.”
I brought my legs up to my chest and folded my arms on my knees, resting my head on them. The visions I’d seen were swiftly fading into memory, but the ideas behind them lingered. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t sure I wanted to fight, to step up and save others. A large part of me wanted to say it was up to the heroes, to take the unsure thing over doing it myself and knowing I’d done everything I could.
I turned to Grue. “You okay?”
He didn’t respond.
“Grue?” I asked.
Nothing.
I used my bugs to search for someone who might be able to give medical attention. Everyone was milling around, active, busy.
Us Undersiders aside, there were only two people nearby who weren’t active, trying to contain and prepare for a potential second attack. Weld and Miss Militia.
They were talking, and they were looking at me.
Thomas Calvert. My clone had informed them. And they’d seen our faces.
19.02
I wanted nothing more than to stop, to look after Grue and lick my wounds, but I couldn’t let the heroes come to one of their deeply misinformed conclusions at my expense. Not when they were talking about murder.
It took me two attempts to get to my feet. I didn’t like looking anything less than my best when surrounded by so many people who were judging me, and I felt pretty far from my best. My bugs formed a cloak, strategically covering me much in the way that Grue did with his darkness.
I noticed how Miss Militia and Weld went silent as I approached. Other heads turned, but nobody moved to stop me. If anything, they edged out of my way. They didn’t clear a path, exactly, but a number of them found reasons to walk away, shift position or avoid looking at me as I moved through the perimeter they’d formed.
For an instant, I felt like I was among the students at the school. Only this time, instead of drawing attention, with people approaching me and bumping into me, I was pushing them away. Instead of that incessant tolling, there was only quiet, the sound of the wind, a vehicle in the distance, and the buzzing of the insects that cloaked me.
A part of me wondered how much of that was my reputation beyond Brockton Bay, and how much was my innate creepiness.
“Skitter,” Weld said, when I reached him and Miss Militia.
“Thank you for the rescue,” I said. ”I can’t really sum it up in words, but… it was pretty damn heroic. I owe you.”
“Imp got in touch with me, with a message from Tattletale. The two of them made a pretty convincing argument. You’re okay?”
I offered a curt nod. I wasn’t, but it wouldn’t do to say so. Silence was a very effective tool, I was finding, because it spoke volumes and rarely put me into a less advantageous position. The more I talked, the more I risked revealing just how exhausted and battered I was feeling.
“Catastrophic, was the word Imp used,” Weld said, “when describing just what might happen if a clone got your power without any of your restraint. Not to mention the issues posed by the psychotic Grues. Your clones could commit mass murder on the scale of hundreds, but his threaten to lose us the battle.”
“And we suspect at least one survived,” Miss Militia said.
I nodded. ”There’s other capes who are just as dangerous as us. Think in terms of the damage some heroes could do. You?”
Weld looked at Miss Militia. She nodded. ”If anything, this situation is very illuminating, in terms of how bad some parahumans might be in a worst case scenario. There are some powers that are tame at first glance, but utterly disastrous if left unchecked.”
“I take it I have one of the tame powers?” I asked.
“No,” Miss Militia said. “I wouldn’t say that.”
There was a pause in the conversation. I wasn’t going to argue with or agree with her point, and neither she nor Weld were volunteering further information.
“Your team took off your armbands,” Miss Militia said.
“Yes,” I replied.
“You’re playing very loose within the scope of the rules, with the consequences I outlined.”
“That’s somewhat related to what I came here to talk to you about,” I said.
“Go on,” she said.
“The clone told you things,” I ventured. “I wanted to address them before you jumped to conclusions. Or, at least, I wanted to address one major point.”
“You were conscious?” Weld asked.
I nodded.
Weld spoke, “I understand if your clone was lying. Psychological warfare, creating division in the ranks. I’d be willing to believe the clone is capable of it, in light of our past experiences with you. No offense. But I still had to tell my boss.”
I didn’t respond right away. He was giving me a way out. I tried to get a sense of Miss Militia’s body language, using just my bugs: her arms were folded. It was a moment where I desperately wished I could see and get a better read on her.
I’d always hated those parts in the TV shows and movies, where everything could be resolved with the simple truth. It was why I’d never been able to watch romantic comedies. It grated: the sitcom-esque comedic situations which would be resolved if people would only sit down, explain, and listen to one another, the tragedies which could have been prevented with a few simple words.
I didn’t want to be one of those tragedies.
“Thomas Calvert was Coil,” I said. I kept my voice low enough that only the two of them would hear; I didn’t need to provoke a riot.
“Beg pardon?” Weld asked.
Miss Militia’s arms unfolded. She hooked her thumbs in her belt, silent.
“Thomas Calvert got powers,” I said, “The ability to create a parallel reality where he could nudge things to unfold in different ways. He used those powers to make a lot of money with no risk, hired high power mercenaries, and then hired both the Travelers and us. The Undersiders.”
Miss Militia shifted position, leaning against a wall with her arms folded. “A lot of what you say fits with what we know about Coil, but I’m not seeing where Thomas Calvert comes in.”
“His power meant anyone working under him could operate with less risk. Our plans were that much more likely to work, because we got two chances any time he was able to give us his attention. With that, we took over the city. At that point, he’d exhausted the use of the ‘Coil’ persona, so he staged his own death. He staged the deaths of those reporters, rigged the whole scene and set it up so it would play out like it did. And in the end, a body double was set to die in his place. His hired woman gets elected mayor in the aftermath, Piggot loses her job, and Thomas Calvert becomes head of the PRT.”
“You’re giving him a hell of a lot of credit,” Miss Militia said.
“He’s spent years rigging this. If you dig, you’ll probably be able to find some traces of it. Maybe the reporters who were on the scene only started working at a certain point, after he put them in position. Maybe you can follow the money trails. But he set everything up. Think about it.”
I raised one hand, counted off my points. “Through the Undersiders and Travelers, he would control all illicit activity in Brockton Bay, slowly moving on to t
he neighboring cities. Through his money, power and his activity as Coil, he would control local business and industry. Most of the construction companies that are rebuilding, all of the areas that are being bulldozed and rebuilt, he owned the land, he owned the businesses. He could do it all at a loss because he was able to get money in other ways. He was prepared to control the government through his puppets, and he controlled the heroes through his newly acquired position in the PRT. All in all, he was set to have an absolute grip over Brockton Bay and all of the major aspects of the city.”
“And you murdered him?” Miss Militia asked. “Your clone was telling the truth?”
“I think,” I said, and I had to pause to get my thoughts in order, “that this dialogue of ours is going to play out far better if I don’t answer that question.”
“Because you murdered him,” Weld said.
I didn’t answer.
“I’ll have to discuss this with the higher-ups,” Miss Militia said. “The de-facto truce we’ve formed should protect you until this is all over, but I’ll make a strong recommendation that you be left alone for the time being. It might help.”
“I wouldn’t,” I told Miss Militia.
“Wouldn’t what? Make my recommendation?”
“I wouldn’t tell the higher-ups. We took off the armbands because Tattletale had a feeling… complicated to explain.”
“I would really like you to explain,” Miss Militia said.
The problem with explaining was that it threatened to offer insight on Tattletale’s power. Worse, it might get the Chicago Wards in trouble, and they’d been decent.
Maybe changing the subject… “Tattletale had ideas that Eidolon’s motives weren’t entirely pure. And I don’t think they were. When we got closer, I overheard Eidolon talking to Noelle. He knew a few things that suggested he already knew what Coil was doing.”
“Eidolon?” Weld asked.
Miss Militia put a hand on my shoulder, and ushered me away from the perimeter where the heroes were walking around and getting prepared. I was pretty sure nobody was able to hear, but I didn’t object. She leaned close and spoke an order in my ear, “Explain.”
This explanation was having the opposite effect I’d intended. It threatened to get me and the others in deeper trouble.
“Do you know what Cauldron is?” I asked.
“A rumor,” Miss Militia said. “It was an idea that cropped up around the time the first major parahumans did, and occasionally a person or group will use that idea and claim some greater conspiracy or a power connection. In every case, it is investigated and thoroughly debunked.”
I frowned behind my mask. ”If you don’t think Cauldron’s responsible, how do you explain the monstrous parahumans? Like Gregor the Snail or Newter?”
“Or me?” Weld asked. He was just behind us.
“Or you,” I said. “I’ve run into too many situations that involve Cauldron to buy that it’s a series of hoaxes. The Merchants had vials that granted powers, and a suitcase detailing some contract with Cauldron. I read some of it, before Faultline’s crew absconded with the rest of it.”
“Did you actually see someone drink and gain powers?” Miss Militia asked.
“No.”
“It’s a name that’s acquired enough momentum and prestige that people will occasionally use it to their advantage. Nothing more,” Miss Militia said.
“Then why did Eidolon say that Coil was involved with Cauldron, and that Cauldron was responsible for Noelle?” I asked.
Miss Militia pursed her lips. “I don’t know. It could be that you’re lying.”
“If I was going to lie, I’d pick something more believable.”
“Or you’re picking something so unbelievable that it’d take ages to sort through the data. In the meantime, this situation gets resolved and we let you walk away unharmed. I have talked to my team, and I’ve seen your records. You tend to do that. Protect yourself in the present with details and arguments that would take a long time to verify.”
“I’m not looking for an argument,” I said. “If you don’t believe that Calvert was Coil, then that’s fine. I just wanted to put all my cards on the table.”
“Except for actually admitting to the murder,” Weld said.
“Right,” I said.
“Assuming we believed you, what are we supposed to do with this knowledge?” Miss Militia asked.
“For now?” I asked, “Nothing. Operate as you would otherwise. But keep your eyes open, with this information in mind.”
“And if we do? If we keep our eyes open, thoroughly investigate this allegation about Calvert and Coil, and we still decide to arrest you, will you agree to come peacefully into custody?”
I shook my head. “No. I don’t think so.”
“So it’s really selfishness that brings you here,” Miss Militia said. “You don’t expect to change the way you operate, and you expect to get away with acknowledging that you murdered a man, if not outright admitting it… but you want us to change how we handle our end of things, based on your hearsay.”
“If you want to see it as self-serving, that’s your call,” I said. “Maybe that’s how you work. But I don’t have high aspirations, now. I saved Dinah. I want to protect the people in my territory, and stop the forces that might hurt them, be it the Slaughterhouse Nine, Coil or Echidna. Maybe you won’t believe me when I say so, but I’m not trying to argue in my own defense here. I won’t confirm or deny what the clone said, but nothing I’m saying here really gives me an alibi or leverage to escape this situation.”
“You’re giving us excuses to soften the impact of the crime you committed,” Miss Militia said.
“I’m not admitting to anything,” I pointed out.
“You know what I mean.”
“Maybe they are excuses, kind of. It’s one way of looking at it. Another way is that maybe now you can maybe be more wary when talking to Eidolon, or pay more attention when you start looking into Calvert’s daily life, see if anything points to Coil. He wasn’t stupid, but you don’t devote that much time and energy to something without some blurring of the lines. I don’t gain much if you do that, but you could stand to benefit.”
“Maybe,” Miss Militia said.
“Are you speaking from experience?” Weld asked. “When you talk about blurring the lines between identities?”
I turned toward him, remembered that he’d seen my face. “That would be telling.”
“Could be,” he answered. “It’s something I’m interested in. I never had the benefit of a secret identity.”
“Overrated, as far as I can tell,” I told him. I thought of my dad. Was he the victim of a blurring of the lines? Or just a casualty in a long series of events that had affected the whole city? Or both.
“This seems like a good time to cut in,” Tattletale said. She approached from around the corner, turned her head in Miss Militia’s direction, “May I steal Skitter from you?”
Miss Militia waved a hand to one side, silent.
Tattletale was leading me off when Miss Militia spoke up. “I don’t know if you’re speaking the truth…”
She trailed off. I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it. Silence was safer.
“…But if you are, I appreciate it. It’s not like me, to demand evidence, to suspect everything, but I have to. My teams can’t afford for me to give anyone or anything the benefit of a doubt.”
“Being in charge is hard,” I said, without turning her way.
Tattletale gestured in the direction we were going, then walked beside me as we left Weld and Miss Militia behind. Whatever warped disease Noelle had dumped into me to weaken me and leave me unable to fight back after I’d been vomited out was steadily wearing off. That was only a part of the overarching problems, though, and I still felt drained. My stamina was pretty rock bottom, and the recent fight hadn’t helped. I was hungry, thirsty, and I wanted to crash for fifteen or thirty minutes.
Oddly enough, though she no doubt fe
lt far more spry than I did, it was Tattletale who fell a half step behind me as she walked to my left, and it seemed very deliberate in how she did so.
She’d done something very similar when we’d been on the rooftop, a subtle maneuver to help portray me as the leader and as someone to be respected. Tattletale was scary in her own way, in a very different way than I was scary, but scary. That she was showing deference or whichever would suggest something, even if people didn’t consciously realize it.
The alternative interpretation was that she’d been hurt more in the fight than she was letting on.
“Skitter,” Tattletale said, “Meet Scapegoat.”
My bugs passed over the young hero, and he didn’t flinch. He would be one of the Wards, unless his stature was misleading. His costume was a robe, though closer to Myrddin’s in style than Panacea’s. My bugs traced beneath the robe to detect armor that suggested the costume was intended to be worn into a fight. He wore a mask attached to his head by a band that felt like metal, apparently designed to flip up. Two curling horns were attached to the band, at the sides of his forehead.
“Scapegoat?” I asked. “A healer?”
“No,” Scapegoat said. “But I can fix you. Sort of.”
“What do you mean by ‘sort of’?”
“What I do is fragile. It’s not healing. You’ll stop hurting, the wounds will disappear, but it’s a delicate balance, and the duration is limited.”
“I’ll take what I can get,” I said.
“When the duration expires, unless certain conditions are met, the injuries come back. Sometimes not as bad, sometimes worse. And they’re usually slower to heal.”
“What’s the duration?” I asked.
“Anywhere from one hour to six hours.”
“And the condition?” I asked.
“Longer you go without breaking the effect, the better the chance the injuries stay gone.”
“Sit,” Tattletale said. I sat.
Scapegoat touched my hand. I felt a wave of sensations rushing over me. Being hot, being cold, vibrations, the feeling of different fabrics and skin contacting mine, all at once. The feeling of my costume against my skin became intense, sharp, even overwhelming. I jumped and pulled away.
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