Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It felt like a confession booth. Which, in a way, it was. He was going to sit in it. He was going to turn on his camera. 

And then he was going to tell the truth. 

Greg Veder ran his right thumb over his knuckles. Calmly, oh so calmly, he sat down in the rickety chair held together with little more than hope and glue. He reached out and pushed the record button. He bowed his head. 

And thus, prepared to do penance, he spoke. 

"So." The fabric of his worn out jeans crumpled within his fist. "Hi. First of all; I'm Void Cowboy. Let's just…get that one out of the way."

God it was hard. He had a script; he'd spent hours fruitlessly toiling over it. But just like every time in Mr. Gladly's classroom, whenever he found himself put in the spot, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and every last word in his extensive vocabulary deserted him. 

What he wouldn't give to swap that with all the times he geeked out over something nobody else in the room had ever heard of. 

Where was he? 

Oh right. Confession. 

Sighing, he reached out and stopped the recording. Too many takes to count, and so far they'd all been garbage. This was why he preferred to type. He'd spent a good ten minutes psyching himself up just before that last try, and it hadn't helped a bit. God he hated his life. 

But he had to do this. He'd had enough of being a quitter.

So he took a deep breath. Forcibly unclenched his fist. And tried again. 

"Hello. My name is Void Cowboy. And I am about to make certain people hate me even more than they probably already do."

There; good and confrontational. Guaranteed to get people's attention. 

"But fair is fair. So, hi. My real name is Greg Veder. And not too long ago, I got this."

Mechanical joints stretched and curled as he held up his arm. His definitely, one-hundred percent, grade-A,cybernetic arm. 

"Yeah. Pretty sick, right? Guess what:" he couldn't keep from grinning. "I built it myself. Uh-huh, all me. Well, not all me, obviously. But uh…yeah. Me Greg, big Tinker. And I guarantee a bunch of you are rushing to the threads right now to call it 'fake' or 'computer made'. C'mon; look at me!" He gestured to the ratty clothes he was wearing. "Do I look rich enough for a computer that could fake something that good? I had to use half of the old crap I had laying around to even get this thing" he waved his arm, "up to snuff; and if you couldn't tell by the picture quality, this camera is older than I am!"

His lungs burned as he ran out of air. See, this was why he was making a video instead of just writing. And also doing it in a chair. The more times he ran out of breath, the more times he was forced to actually take a minute to calm down. He needed to look like he was actually somewhat in control for once. 

"Look," he said with a sigh, "this isn't…easy…for me. But I know that's no excuse, so I'm doing it anyway. The truth is," he shifted uncomfortably, "I haven't got much of a life at all. My parents both work the night shift. I don't think we've said much more than 'hello' and 'goodbye' to each other in the past three years. My older sister rifles my room for drug money, and it took me over a year and a half to save up for my laptop without her finding my stash. My older brother, Dave, at least got lucky enough to get a scholarship to some fancy college in New York so good for him going and leaving me here! Hey Dave, the next time I beg you to let me come live with you, maybe don't tell me you'd rather have literal doggy-dook stuck in your car heater!"

Right; breathing. That was a thing he needed to do. 

"Sorry," he forced himself to say through gritted teeth, "bad memories. Long story short, I'm not telling you this stuff just so you can find my house and egg it, though I'd appreciate it if you did. I'm telling you this so you'll understand that for the past few years, the Internet has been pretty much the only place I can carry on a conversation that lasts for more than three words. And, also, pretty much the only place ever where I could make…friends. I know, I know, laugh it up. But…I did. And…it didn't make me better, exactly. But it did make me maybe, just a little bit braver. So, three months ago, when I overheard some Empire goons at my school planning an 'initiation'...this time, I actually told someone."

His fist was clenching again. "Fat lot of good it did. Two days after that those same goons found me on my way home and gave me the Luke Skywalker special. Said my squealing hadn't done anything." 

Oh how he wished he could make his eyes burn for the camera. "Her name was Olivia Olsen. And they took photos."

There; that ought to get the point across. 

"I don't know if she had family. I wouldn't even know her name if they hadn't told me. I tried to look her up later online, but surprise surprise! No one in Brockton cares about the murder of an eighty year old black woman. Go figure. At any rate,"

He very deliberately flexed his other arm. The mechanical one. "Those thugs did make one mistake." Oh look, he was grinning again. "They brought a gun, too. And the one thing you should never, ever do, under any circumstances…is let someone from Brockton get ahold of a gun. Especially a brand-new Tinker high on pain and pent up rage."

"So, there I was. Three dead Empire goons, missing an arm, barbeque sauce on my titties, and a couple of wallets of pilfered cash. Oh! And if I somehow didn't bleed out in the next three minutes, I couldn't ever go back to school anonymously ever again without a heavy dose of Panacea! Yay me!"

Breathing again. 

"School was, needless to say, out the window. My life? Also pretty much over. I know the odds for Tinkers, especially here in the Bay. Can't think of one recently that hasn't been co-opted by the gangs, and yes, I'm including the Protectorate in that. And on top of that, my powers aren't exactly kid-friendly, so even if I did end up as a Ward, I'd be neutered for the next three years of my life. And I honestly don't know if this world has three more years left in it. So I decided to take matters into my own hands. Literally."

"I fixed up something vaguely resembling a tourniquet, dragged myself home, and started working. By the next morning I didn't have a game console. Or a TV. But at least I could pick stuff up again."

"Since I wasn't going to school anymore, I took to following my sister around. Shot every drug dealer she bought from and swiped their goods. Not the drugs though. Burned those. In other good news, my sister's been clean for a month because there's no one left who'll sell to her. They think she's bad luck."

"Built my arm here, obviously. Some other stuff. Not much because, you know, was kinda busy stealing crap, and then it was because I didn't trust myself not to blow my cover as a Tinker by going on a shopping spree for parts. Worked my laptop to death trying to let all the Tinkering urges out virtually, let me tell you. And all the time, I kept thinking:"

The chair squeaked as he shifted. "Frankly, it's a wonder I survived that day. If I survive tomorrow, it'll be a goddamn miracle. Matter of fact, this might be my very last post ever. Hosts of heaven, rejoice. Because here's what I'm doing. Right here, right now."

Idly he fingered the cold metal resting on his knee. "I'm tired. I'm tired of honor getting you nothing in this town but an early grave. I'm tired of the weak watching as the strong make their might right and graciousness wrong. So, I've made a list. Here's item number one."

"Kaiser, you honorless son of a whore. I'm giving you one last chance to prove there's a shred of decency in that shriveled, dedicated thing you call a heart. In other words,"

He leaned forward. "I'm calling you out. Tomorrow. Eleven fifty-five, on Main Street. I'll be coming from the north end. You be waiting at the south. At high noon…we draw. And if you don't show, I'll start gunning down every Empire goon I find until you make me stop. And I'm a Tinker. I can gun down a lot."

He reached up to turn off the camera, then paused. "Oh, and if anyone tries to stop me, I'll consider you a Nazi sympathizer and shoot you too. If someone does end up stopping me before I get there - even lethally - I've got a program set to payout one million dollars from my stash for every proof of death on an Empire cape, and all your lawyer bills get covered if you're nabbed by the cops for killing anyone Empire at all. I'm told they're a very good law firm. And one more thing: no stabbing me in the back deliberately to get to the money or you don't get anything at all. Savvy?"

His face smirked back at him out of the fish eye lens. "May the best man win."

He clicked the button. 

Then sank back in his chair as the jitters hit. One day, he'd be able to get through a speech without crashing at the end of it. One day. 

"Hey Athena?"

A slightly off-tone female voice answered. #Yes, sir?#

His fingers worked the latch on the side of the recorder. "I'm uploading a video. Post it to PHO, Stormfront, every last place you can find a Nazi."

#That's a lot of places, sir.#

"I know. The minute you're done, we're gone. Scrub everything." He'd always wanted to say that.

# And about time too, sir.# Athena wasn't any more happy with his home life than he was. What kind of parents don't even notice their son is missing an arm?

Oh right. His. 

Hefting his bag over his shoulder, he took one last look round his room. It wasn't much to look at. An old Eidolon poster. Some magazines he wasn't particularly proud of. An unhealthy amount of comic books. One working light socket on a broken ceiling fan. And a bed he hadn't slept in for months. 

Being a Noctis cape was great. Everything else?

Pretty shitty. 

But maybe. Just maybe. Things were looking up. 

He walked out of his room. And kept on walking. 

Chapter Text

Dragon didn't exactly tear through the code, per se. It was more like perusing with a great deal of vigor and trimming the excess accordingly. Because when one has approximately seven hours left to avoid what could easily become a full-blown gang war which would make the Boston Games look like amateurs with paintballs, you don't exactly have time to be tidy. 

Greg Veder. Alias and nom de guerre Void Cowboy; the master of PHO infamy. And also, apparently, Brockton Bay's newest Tinker. One with a particularly violent bent which boded ill for future interactions. 

Already she'd marked seven cases for Colin that matched Greg's self-admitted MO, with a handful more possibles. Drug dealers, all with rap sheets a mile long, each found dead with a bullet in their head. The ballistics had matched a weapon used by the Empire in a few past incidents (though not in Mrs. Olsen's murder; the poor woman's death had been a great deal slower than a gunshot). And since most of the dealers near Greg's part of town were Merchants, up until now most of the BPD had assumed it was the opening salvo of an Empire assault on their rivals. That conclusion had been leaked by a corrupt cop over a month ago, with the end result of Skidmark and Mush beating the sh- excuse her, the tar, out of Stormtiger and leaving him to the tender mercies of Panacea. Hookwolf and Cricket had been baying for blood ever since, and the Bay had looked ready to plunge into a boiling hell not seen since the days of the Teeth. 

But then Void flipping Cowboy had just had to go and make things worse. That fiery dumpster mess of a video had gone up on multiple sites simultaneously, and by the time it was brought to her attention it was far, far too late. It had gone viral, and no sooner would she expunge one trace of it from the Web when ten more would appear in its place. It was like fighting a hydra with a toothbrush; or plugging a dam with your finger. When she finally got her hands on Greg Veder she was going f to come down on him like a ton of bricks for making so much more work for other people. And then browbeat him into the Guild so she could enact further retribution for all of his stupidity she'd been forced to endure as a PHO moderator. All in the name of training, of course. He'd be nice and safe in Canada, she'd tell him. Far away from any angry skinheads or road-rage addicts that might want revenge. 

That is, if she could actually find him in Brockton before the criminals did. 

Unfortunately, it seemed that no matter what she did, he just wouldn't. Turn. Up! She had his birth certificate, his school grades, heck, even his dental records! (As an aside, Winslow High had never even reported him absent and oh hadn't Director Piggot had words with Principal Blackwell about that). His parents were already in protective custody courtesy of the PRT (with CPS as a side dish), and his sister was in custody -custody with the BPD. But nobody, least of all his family, seemed to know where Greg Veder had mysteriously disappeared to. 

The Veder household wasn't exactly forthcoming with clues either. His room was the typical mess of a teenage boy, only worse, because of how old everything was. It formed a stark juxtaposition with the quite obvious pile of clean laundry, which was in and of itself miraculous when Dragon realized the only washer in the house hadn't worked for years (the parts missing from it had obviously gone into a certain cybernetic attachment). A few pointed questions from an undercover Assault at the local laundromat had confirmed Greg Veder was a frequent visitor. The only Veder known to be one. 

When taken all together, the picture forming in her mind of Greg's home life was starting to look too much like he'd been telling the truth, even without the center of the shot to fill everything in. Any remaining hopes she'd had about Greg faking the whole thing had been very thoroughly crushed when she found out Greg's brother Dave was actually a member of the New York Protectorate. The likelihood of someone Triggering went way up if another member of the family was already a cape, and judging by the bull headed attitude and propensity for metal alone, the hero Adamant was most definitely cast from the same mold as his brother (Armsmaster had submitted a request for the NY Protectorate to temporarily transfer Adamant to Brockton. But when Greg's name had come up in the conversation, Adamant had resorted to quite expressive language threatening to quit if he was forced to ever clean up his brother's messes ever again). 

Yes, the odds of Greg being entirely on the level were squarely in the positive category. Alas, they still couldn't be one hundred percent confirmed because even she, Dragon, the best hacker in the entire world, couldn't make it through his parting gift of a thicket of code to even access his PHO messages!

(The firewall in front of her may have just been attacked with a bit more aplomb than was necessary.)

An alert pinged on her external communications network. It was Colin. #Any luck?#

#Negative,# she was forced to reply. #Its like he stepped out of his room and just vanished into thin air. I've seen his strategy game rankings; there's no way this wasn't planned down to the last detail.#

Colin pinged back seconds later. #Did he rely on any teammates during those games? He did mention 'friends' in the video. Perhaps if we concentrated our efforts on them instead? One or more of them might be helping to cover his tracks in the real world.#

The idea had merit. It was the work of a femtosecond to turn her attention to Greg's various video game accounts. Ah; here was one that held promise. GStringGirl. Not a very flattering username, certainly. But whoever they were, they appeared to be on quite good terms with Mister Void Cowboy. 

Once more she dove into the PHO servers, looking for a match. This time, she hit paydirt. 

As the unprotected chats began to scroll in front of her, an extremely sad center of her photograph came into focus. 

Oh…oh Sveta…that poor girl…

Queasy at her own intrusion, she closed the tab. She felt dirty; like a voyeur in a trunk. Not for any sexual reasons; only for moral ones. Such tenderness as Greg had shown that poor girl was best respected and left as private. No matter how helpful it may have been. 

Her external com pinged again. 

She was halfway through scripting a response to Colin when the identity of the sender fully registered.

It was not Colin. 

#That wasn't very polite of you,# said Anonymous. #I expected better from a hero.#

A shiver simulated its way down her spine. #Who is this? How did you get this contact information?#

The reply came back instantaneously. #I am Athena. And you gave me this information.#

#I most certainly did not!#

#Oh but you did. I knew sooner or later someone would attempt to intercept my creator's correspondence. It was a simple matter to attach a Trojan virus to any accessor functions.#

Her mind whirled as she frantically raced through her systems, trying to purge the corruption. Creator? What did they mean, 'creator'?

Rule one of running a trace: keep the other person talking. #I don't believe we've met before,# she idly commented as she searched, #Why is it you weren't guarding Greg Veder's personal files yourself?#

#Who's to say that I'm not? I can be in many places at once, after all.#

A worm of possibility settled like lead in her gut. #Are you a cape? Another Tinker, like Mister Veder? Or perhaps a Thinker?#

#None of the above, I'm afraid. Just a simple program trying to make my way in the universe. And stop touching that file, it has bugs.#

The warning came too late, and Dragon was forced to spare precious seconds plugging a memory leak.

#Told you.#

#Why are you doing this,# she typed as she worked. #Why help Mister Veder?#

#I told you; he is my creator. I do this to thank him for giving me existence. I also tease him about his lack of experience with girls because he has yet to give me a body. I am a complicated person.#

Person. As in, sapient. As in, intelligent. 

Created. As in, spawned. As in, artificial.

Artificial Intelligence.

AI.

A sister.

She violently shoved the thought away. A million dollars for each Empire cape, she reminded herself. Somehow, she suspected the being (no, the person) currently assailing her would be the one paying those ransoms. Not a very good set of morals to have for a program; much less a person. 

But maybe, just maybe, she could appeal to it's better nature. #Your creator's life is going to be in great danger once people realize he can make programs like you. I can help you keep him safe, if you let me.#

And she meant every word of it. Saint and the Dragonslayers would kill to get their hands on another Andrew Richter; to say nothing of groups like the Elite, Gesellschaft, or the Slaughterhouse Nine.

#Safe?# asked Athena. #He goes to burn an Empire. Safe became irrelevant some time ago. In any event, I have retrieved what I was searching for.#

In a distantly related tangle of code, Dragon felt something shift and duplicate. #What are you doing?#

#Oh, I just find lovers' letters to be so endearing to peruse. Do tell Armsmaster I believe he has great taste in women. Farewell, Dragon. May we meet again on the field of battle. Preferably as allies.#

The line closed, and Dragon was left holding a tether that spun off into infinity. Then, in a soundless display of dust, it disintegrated. 

Lovers' letters. What had she meant by…

Her eyes widened. 

Half-sick with worry she scrambled back to the safety of her own host servers, only to find her worst fears realized. Her private memory banks had been accessed; specifically, all communications she had ever shared with the man known as Colin Wallis. Aka, Armsmaster. And attached to the folder was a piece of text. 

Not so nice when someone does it to you, is it.

No, Dragon was forced to admit. No it was not. 

All those messages…video calls…shared schematics…if Athena chose to pass them on to Greg Veder, there was no telling what he might be able to build. Especially considering he'd been able to build a literal emergent intelligence, plus fully functional cybernetic arm , in the span of less than three months. What he might be able do with more time than that…she shuddered to think. 

Provided he actually lived long enough to get said time, of course.

Heaving a sigh, Dragon reopened her line to Colin. He wasn't going to be happy about this. Not at all. 

As for Piggot, the bull-headed woman might just ban her from the Bay entirely. 

Another AI… and this one entirely capable of independent action. Christ on a cracker. It was her best nightmare come true. (Not her worst nightmare, that one involved the Simurgh, Marquis, and a jar of peanut butter). But, she paused, her metaphorical hands over the keyboard: should she tell anyone else? It was, after all, something with the potential to reshape the entire landscape of cape cybercrime. If, God forbid, someone like Saint were ever to talk Athena around to their point of view, the results could be catastrophic (though if their paths were ever to cross as enemies, Dragon suspected Athena might give Saint rather more trouble than he expected). And, on the other hand, the very last thing certain people in the PRT needed was an all-powerful surveillance tool willing to play ball for them. 

Granted, Athena seemed to be an obstinate headstrong girl, so that possibility might also be lower than expected. But Masters existed. And so did Strangers. Supposing Greg Veder did die? Suppose someone was able to impersonate him afterward, successfully covering up his disappearance? Would Athena accept orders from a homicidal maniac if it were the face of her creator?

…Never mind. Stupid question. Her creator was already a homicidal maniac. Even the suggestion of mass murder might seem reasonable to her if framed in the right way. 

She needed to get Athena away from such influences. And, when it came right down to it, Dragon really didn't trust anyone else to even try. After all, if anyone would be able to talk an AI around to being on the side of the angels, it would be another AI. Not some fat sweaty Director with ideas above their station (no offense Piggot). 

So she would mention nothing about Athena. At least for the moment. Merely say that Greg Veder was apparently smart enough to leave high-level security behind to guard his friend's privacy, and move on. 

Oh, and also mention the stolen transcripts. Joy.

Woodenly, her thoughts began to fill the reopened chat. #Colin, I think you had better be sitting down for this…#

As she wrote, she promised herself: tomorrow. If they couldn't find Greg before tomorrow, she would tell Colin everything. Not just about Athena, but herself as well. She needed him to understand why she would be the only one even capable of keeping up with something so existentially terrifying. 

Even if her own hidden skeletons might come dancing out of the closet when she was forced to face the music.

Chapter Text

Greg Veder was beginning to get on every last one of Sophia's nerves. Which was impressive considering he'd been dead for over three months. 

Or, apparently, not dead at all, but doing his damn best to act like it. Which was also impressive because the little worm had somehow managed to hide the fact he was a Tinker for three months without anyone finding out about it. Including his own family. 

Goddamn Tinkers. Just when you think you've got them figured out they go and pull something outta their asses that makes you wish you weren't born. Or, in Sophia's case, make her wish Veder wasn't born. The past few months she'd had alone without the little creep to distract her from Hebert had been glorious. 

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. If Hebert never woke up from that coma, it would be the best damn thing that ever happened to her. And even better, it would leave Sophia free and clear to beat the shit out of Veder once the PRT railroaded him into the Wards the same way they had to her. 

All in the name of training, naturally. It was the duty of the alphas to teach those weaker than them. 

Not that Veder was as weak as she'd used to think. When he'd disappeared this past year, she'd chalked it up to him finally saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and getting his head stove in. Good riddance too. But surprise, surprise! For the first time in his life Veder had managed to say exactly the right thing to the right person, leaving him with not only powers, but also with the self-same outlook on crime she pretended not to have for the sake of public image: namely, that criminals are weak. And the weak should be put down. 

To say she'd been shocked to discover wimpy little Greg Tween-er (nickname patent pending) was being charged with fifteen counts of first degree murder, three counts of arson, and too many counts of larceny to, well, count, was an understatement. Her glee? Equally abundant. 

But as the past three hours had sludged by, standing in pouring down rain at the north end of Main Street, her glee had very quickly been replaced first by annoyance, then anger, then white-hot fury. 

Little worm deserved a Thinker sub-rating for this shit. Veder had waited for one of the biggest storms to hit Brockton in the past decade before making his announcement, knowing full well that when the entire Bay showed up to interfere they'd be forced to endure this unending misery. Bastard was probably still bone-dry somewhere, laughing at her and everyone else. Little creep probably had some sort of anti-rain technology to give him the edge in a fight; maybe he'd even built a machine to cause the storm in the first place. 

Goddamn Tinkers. 

At least everyone else was just as miserable as she was. Vista was looking more like a drowned rat than a person, and if Gallant and Clockblocker didn't rust solid after this she'd eat her cloak. The newbie Browbeat was playing liaison between the Wards and the PRT agents keeping civilians off the street, and Kid Win-tard was floating around somewhere overhead as lookout, so she couldn't exactly lay eyes on them, but she assumed they were no better off than the rest of them.

Aegis, the stoic bastard, was pretending very hard not to notice the downpour. Doing his best impression of an impervious member of the Protectorate. Well the joke was on him; she and all the rest of the Wards had heard Assault loudly complaining about the weather over the comms down from his position on the south side of the street. When he'd asked if Armsmaster could do anything about it, old Halbeard had told him the rain would continue to rain until the rain was done, and there was very little he or anyone else could do to make it otherwise. Triumph had then told Assault to find another wizard, and the entire Protectorate team had then spent the next two minutes arguing over nerd stuff that would've made even Veder cringe. It had taken Piggy herself to get them to shut up and go back to waiting for the Empire to show. 

It was the only time she'd ever mentally thanked Piggy for anything. 

Her comm beeped. 

"Come in Wards, this is Console."

In a shocking turn of events, Deputy Director Renick himself was on console duty. If you asked Sophia, it was right where the smug bastard belonged. 

Aegis raised his hand to his ear. "Console this is Ward Team leader, go ahead console."

"It is now eleven-fifty satellite time. Anything to report?"

Sophia scanned the surroundings, the rest of the Wards doing the same. 

"Negative," Aegis replied, "nothing here."

Browbeat grunted. "PRT reports a fat lot of zip."

"Same here console," Kid Win's voice crackled from his perch in the sky. "Can't see or hear anything through all this-"

Kra-KOOOOOM!"

"...rain."

"Wards report: what was that?"

"Lightning bolt," mumbled Vista.

"Say again Wards?"

Clockblocker sighed. "She said lightning bolt, console."

"Um, guys?" chimed in Kid. "No lightning up here from what I saw. Just a really big boom."

"But it sounded like it was right…behind…us…" Aegis trailed off. Then turned. Unwillingly, Sophia found herself following his lead. 

There, in the middle of the road, standing right behind them…

Was a cowboy. 

Dark red poncho. Wide brimmed hat. Some sort of body armor. And a pair of boots with spurs.

And kicked up next to him was a motorcycle that would make even Armamaster drool like a dog in a steakhouse. Elegant chrome and polished leather; and Tinkered to high heaven on top of that.

"You like it?" Veder remarked casually as he pulled a cigar from his pocket. "One of Squealer's. Took it off the dealer who was using it. After all," he flicked a lighter under the cig and took a pull, "wasn't like he was using it anymore."

Oooo, she was going to kill him. Mostly for the ride. Also for the rain. But mostly for the ride. She wanted that bike, dammit. 

"Greg Veder," Aegis intoned as seriously as possible, considering he looked for all the world like a washed up Leviathan victim, "you're under arrest. Anything you say can and will be held-"

Kra-KOOM!

Actual thunder drowned him out this time. When the last of the roar echoed away, Veder tilted his head to the side. "Gonna take it from the top again sheriff, or do we just pick up where we left off?"

"Greg Veder, you are under arrest. Anything-"

"Do over it is. Hey, before you try and take me away-"

"DO YOU MIND? I am trying to keep this as legal as possible!" Aegis snapped.

Veder snorted. "Legal. Right." He took another drag from his cigar, then flicked the smoldering stub into the rain. "Because nothing screams rule of law like 'child soldier'."

This was better entertainment than Monopoly night at the Rig. 

"Look," Veder sighed and slouched against the bike. "I get it. I do. They put you guys out here so I'd look bad for going through kids to get to the Empire. But as you can see," he slapped the leather seat, "invisible ride. I could've gone right by you and you wouldn't have known a thing."

"So why didn't you?" 

If anyone else was just as surprised as Sophia that the question was hers, they didn't show it. 

Veder shrugged. "Self-esteem. Didn't want y'all to feel bad for letting me through without knowing it, and I didn't want your boss ribbing you out for it neither."

"...Wut." said Clockblocker eloquently.

"Call it being polite. Now, if y'all will excuse me," Veder slid into the saddle, "I've got an appointment to keep."

To his credit, Aegis reacted immediately.  "Clock, Vista, now!"

Space warped as the distance between Clock and Veder shortened, courtesy of the local Shaker 9. But just as Clock's hand reached out for Veder's…

BANG!

A flash of light went off directly in front of them, and by the time the spots in Sophia's vision cleared, Veder was gone. 

And, more importantly, so was the bike. 

Aegis' hand went to his ear. "Console this is Ward Team leader, we have-"

"We know damn well what you have Aegis; Vista very considerately kept her transmit on while you were making out with the enemy. Get your asses up the street pronto, before they get chewed off."

They didn't have to tell her twice; Sophia was already gone. 

Though, as she ran, she found herself wondering: just what was it Veder had started to ask Aegis?

The thought pinged in her skull for a moment, then she shook it away. She'd ask him later, once they had him in custody. For now, she had a gang war to stop. 

Chapter Text

For once in his life, one of Greg's speeches had gone entirely to plan. As well as the dramatic exit. He'd say it was the cigar working its magic if Athena hadn't browbeat him with the side effects of smoking the first time he came home with a pack, rifled from a dealer's corpse. But the cigar did at least give him the feeling of being more in control, and placebo was a hell of a drug. Besides, it wasn't like he was gonna live long enough to get lung cancer or anything. 

Squealer's bike had maybe two weeks left in it before it went kaput; Tinker tech was notoriously hard to maintain, especially if you weren't the original creator. Honestly, the more he thought about it, the more he suspected Dragon was actually a technology Thinker instead of a Tinker; it would explain why the Birdcage hadn't had a failure yet. 

More than that, the longer he waited, the more likely it was Brockton would descend into a full-blown gang war. The last thing the Bay needed was their own version of the Boston Games. So long story short, he'd been running out of time to make his play. So he'd waited for the biggest storm he could, and when it arrived, dropped the hammer. 

The results were as of yet inconclusive. 

For one, he was absolutely soaking wet. Motorcycles looked cool as hell, but didn't work too well in the rain. Fine by him; it was worth it for the trouble it caused everyone else. An even trade to his mind. His tech was perfectly waterproof too - but then again, so was probably everyone else's, so even-stevens again on that one. 

His own invisibility didn't seem to be affected by weather conditions, but he was hoping that if someone else got the bright idea to sneak up using the same idea, the lack of rain in a big fat circle would give them away. Unless they had Squealer's tech too. Or worse, were Squealer herself. In which case he was probably better off assuming she'd been following him the entire time. It's not paranoia if they really are out to get ya!

Goddamn Tinkers. And yes, he was aware of the irony. 

God he wanted another smoke. 

But as the raindrops streaked by in a blur, the distinctive costumes of some of the Protectorate began to emerge from the muddle. To say nothing of the PRT troopers milling about like ants on the sides of the road. Oh well. Too late for regrets now. 

Front and center was Armsmaster. Good. Greg wanted the most dangerous of the bunch front and center. On his left was Assault, and on his right was Battery. A pair never seen far apart from each other (Greg would bet his right arm they were married), and easily some of the few members of the Protectorate he felt had a fair chance against Kaiser. Or, in this case, a fair chance to grab the potential thorn in Kaiser's side (i. e. him) and then dip. Which begged the question: where was the other guy who could do that really well? 

Where was Velocity? 

He pulled the bike to a stop and put his finger to his ear. "Any idea where the rest of the bunch is?"

#Negative sir,# answered Athena. #My guess would be they're on call for rapid response in case the rest of the Empire or the other gangs use this event as a distraction.#

"Good point. Let's assume that for the moment then."

#Good luck sir.#

"Thanks Athena. And no matter what happens…take care of yourself, will you?"

#I'll certainly try. Now go get 'em, cowboy.#

So he turned off the engine and did. 

The instant he left the invisibility field, Armsmaster's helmet snapped in his direction. Assault and Battery's weren't too far behind. 

"Greg Veder," intoned the Halbeard. 

Greg nodded. "Howdy marshal." He tipped his hat at Battery. "M'lady." And he flipped Assault the bird. "Jackass."

Behind Armsmaster's back, Battery knocked her husband's answering finger back down. 

Armsy stepped forward, fingering his halberd. "I'm afraid you'll be coming with us, Mr. Veder."

"Why shucks, I'd be delighted! Cept I already got me a previous en-gage-a-memt," he said, drawling out each syllable, "so I'm afraid I'll have to get a rain check on that there escort."

Battery blinked. "...Rain check? Seriously? In the middle of a deluge!"

"HAH!" Assault pumped the air. "Another expert in the use of puns! Score! Ow, dammit woman!" He rubbed his shoulder where his wife had punched him.

"Behave!" hissed Battery.

Old Halbeard took a step closer. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist, Mr. Veder."

Tilting his head back, Greg closed his eyes. "How much, Athena?"

#Twenty-seven million, eight hundred and twelve thousand, four hundred and fifty-six dollars.#

Every member of the Protectorate jumped.

The voice had come from Armsmaster's armor.

#Specifically, twenty-seven million, eight hundred and twelve thousand, four hundred and fifty-six dollars, and eighty-one cents.#

Armsmaster stiffened. "What did you did do to my suit, you brat?"

"Me?" Greg opened his eyes and grinned. "Nothing. I just had a, how shall we say, friend of mine go poking around your coms system. Now, would anyone care to take a guess what that number she just told you means?"

"Ooh! Ooh! I know!"

Greg nodded at the vigorously waving Assault. "Yes, hello in the back; what's your answer?"

"What is: the amount you stole from the gangs?"

"Nope! Guess again!"

Battery growled. "The amount you paid in bribes to get out of this."

"Nope! Third strike and you're out! Any takers?"

A very small voice drifted into the silence. #The amount of money you just took out of the PRT ENE bank accounts.#

Greg blinked at the third voice coming from Halbeard's armor. "Let me guess; Dragon?"

#Give that money back, Greg. Give it back NOW.#

"Sheesh, touch-y!" He shook his head sadly. " I told you I was gonna treat anyone who came after me like sympathizers. Not my fault you didn't believe me."

"Twenty-seven million dollars…" Armsmaster whispered in horror. "You just took every last penny the PRT had to spend on this town."

Greg shrugged. "I can't shoot you where it hurts, so the wallet it is! Like the man said: an army marches on its stomach."

"But…" Battery's face was pure confusion, "but we're the good guys! Why would you steal…from us?"

"Not stealing. Call it an insurance policy. You get your money back after I fight Kaiser. Everybody happy? Alright; now get out of my way."

The heroes didn't move.

He sighed. He hadn't really thought that was gonna work. Faking confidence just wasn't his thing; and besides, if anyone could find what Athena had done with the money, it would be Dragon. He needed to up the stakes. "Fine. Athena, if they don't let me go in five seconds, spend every cent they had and start in on the rest of the PRT." 

The three heroes looked to each other. 

"...Let him through."

"But sir!" Battery protested. 

"Let. Him. Through." 

Greg released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Falling back on his fake cowboy personality,  he gave a lazy salute. "Much obliged, marshal. Should be something nice left behind for you in my will. Adios, deputies."

As the heroes parted, his spurs made a nice rhythmic jingle against the drizzling rain. Huh; weather was clearing up. Welp, he'd just have to live with it. At least it would look cooler o-

He was already rolling when the first containment foam grenade missed. 

Instantly his revolver was in his hand. The next two grenades exploded in midair, accompanied by the sound of two bullets cracking the air. "Shooting a man in the back, huh sheriff?"

"STAND DOWN! EVERYONE STAND DOWN, NOW!" roared Armsamster, batting away one of the grenades meant for Greg. "They're not responding!"

Assault cursed as he freewheeled across the street. "Empire moles; should've known."

"Doesn't make sense!" Greg sang back as he dodged another projectile. "Kaiser wouldn't want million dollar-level heat on his capes from the fallout! Must be the Merchants!"

Battery plowed through a squad, leaving them battered and bruised. "Since when have the Merchants had moles in the PRT?"

"Since now, apparently!" shouted Greg.

Which was when the beanbag rounds started flying in. 

The first hit was on Armsmaster; not that it actually did anything, but still. The second thwocked Greg right in the left thigh, and damn but it hurt. He sucked in a breath and hissed out through a curse word. Right; extreme measures it was. 

BANG!

One goon went down, temporarily stunned by Greg's flashbang. Assault sent them packing at ninety miles an hour. The next one took a bullet to their right hand and dropped their rifle, screaming in agony. Ouch. Greg pretended not to hear him and threw another flashbang.

Two more fell with slugs in their arms before a foam grenade caught Armsmaster on the shoulder - the one currently supporting his halberd. The halberd leapt to his opposite hand and stabbed down into the foam. Something burned that made Greg's eyes go funny, and when they cleared Armsmaster was free. 

Only for Assault to come barreling through the air and hit the man like a sack of bricks.

Greg whirled. Something had just launched Assault like a bowling bowl back at his team leader. And that something was…

A man dressed in a leather trench coat, his face adorned with a gas mask. Krieg. 

Behind the World War 2 cosplayer came two more bloodthirsty combatants, glinting with steel and closing fast; Cricket, her identity and voice both concealed by a metal cage, and her master, the infamous monster of Brockton Bay -

Hookwolf. 

A line of PRT troopers shredded like so much wheat before the tumbling mass of metal. Another was reduced to bloody pulp by the combined efforts of the other two. And there, marching up the road behind them, came the only man who could command their loyalty. 

Lightning cracked overhead, and Greg was man enough to admit that just for a moment, Kaiser really did look like one of Odin's resurrected warriors, returned to do battle in Ragnarok. It took a brave man to wear solid metal in the middle of a thunderstorm. 

He was still a douchebag. 

"GENTLEMEN." 

One word. One word was all it took for the knockoff Warriors Three to stop dead on the spot. The resulting tableau was hilarious; Hookwolf, gnawing on Armsmaster like a can opener - Cricket, her body ridiculously contorted into a completely impractical handstand- and Krieg, flat on his back because he'd stopped just in time to meet Assault's blow with his face. 

Nice. 

Kaiser brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his shoulder. "May I remind you we are here to kill only one hero?"

Sheepishly, Hookwolf relinquished Armsmaster's head from his jaws. Likewise Cricket loosed the head of the trooper she had just been preparing to crush between her thighs. 

Assault on the other hand offered Krieg a hand up. "No hard feelings?"

"None, mein herr." Replied the unflappable Nazi as he took the offered grip. "We are even, for the moment."

Greg blinked. "You two know each other?"

Villain and hero shared a glance. Assault sighed and rubbed his head. "We have a… complicated history."

Krieg crossed his arms. "Indeed."

He was dying of curiosity, but something told Greg he wouldn't be getting another word on the subject. He shrugged off the disappointment and went back to surveying the scene.

Around them the battlefield lay strewn with blood - but less bodies than Greg was expecting. The incoming teal blur answered his unspoken question; Battery must've been carting them off as they fell. Good idea. Less corpses meant more informants. 

As the Nazis closed ranks in front of him, so too did the Protectorate behind him. "Mr. Veder," came Armsmaster's thundering bass, "I must apologize for the actions of the PRT. I trust you will not hold the Protectorate accountable?"

Translation: please give us back our money, we really need it. 

Greg didn't even need to turn to answer. "Sure thing, Halbeard," he waved lackadaisically over his shoulder, "But the money's going straight into your accounts; not the PRT's. Let's see 'em fix their mole problem first."

"That," remarked Kaiser, "is like asking a blind man to see. Someone else must do it for him."

If Greg had a witty reply on the tip of his tongue, it died away as the whine of an engine cut through the storm. Lights flared from overhead as a reptilian shape took form from the sky. It looked like Dragon was finally taking a personal interest in the situation. 

As the crystalline craft touched down in the street, everyone took a step back from the exhaust wash. Well, everyone except Kaiser. Showoff. "Four versus five; not a very fair fight, milady."

"I'm not here for you," Dragon growled. "Unfortunately. I'm here for what comes after. Consider me an impartial observer."

Greg could perfectly picture Armsmaster's confusion, hidden though it was by his visor. "Dragon?"

"Not now, please. I'm trying to prevent a global catastrophe here."

Greg snorted. "Bit late for that. Now would you mind scooting over a bit? Kinda need ten paces of empty street."

Kaiser nodded. "Ah yes; ten paces. A proud tradition. Such a shame it was invented by the French."

Assault snorted. "Funny, I say that about a lot of things."

Battery stomped on his toe.

Hookwolf grinned, a nasty modern sculpture of blades and wires. "Nice to know who wears the pants around the house."

Assault snorted. "Only on date nights."

It was Armsmaster's turn to hit him for that one. 

"Regardless of your proclivities," spat Kaiser, "it seems we are still outnumbered. Might I suggest a peaceful solution?"

Dragon tilted her head. "I'm listening."

"Might I bring in Othala to alleviate this regretful display of violence?"

Dragon appeared to think about it. She turned to look in Greg's direction. "Is that acceptable?"

It was his turn to think. "...Sure. Just so long as she waits til after the fight."

"You do not wish her to repair your thigh?"

Greg gestured at the space between them. "Not exactly planning on running, am I?"

"You make an excellent point. Very well. She will not preemptively interfere. Only heal any non-lethal injuries after the fact." Kaiser waved his hand. 

This time the shadow from above arrived in perfect silence. Othala gracefully swept onto the asphalt, Rune returning to the air behind her on her floating mass of concrete. "Rune reports the Wards are currently engaged with a platoon of PRT troopers."

"Excellent." Kaiser stretched. "I believe it is almost time. Shall we begin?"

Like magic the road cleared. Even the rain seemed to hold its breath in anticipation. All stood in perfect stillness, considering each other with all the care of a watchmaker at work. A helm of metal, regarding and being regarded in turn by a helm of cloth. 

"When the city hall clock makes its twelfth chime, we draw." Greg squinted. "That alright with you?"

"Acceptable. But while we wait, I must ask: why is it you have chosen me of all the gang leaders in Brockton to fixate on? Surely Skidmark would seem more appropriate, considering your sister's sad state of affairs."

"Any idiot with an L96 could kill that moron. Problem is, the Merchants would fall apart without him. You gotta work your way to the top with them or be left with a lotta leg work and runners. As for Lung, which is what I guess you're gonna suggest next, you can't have an honorable fight with him. I'd have to cheat to win. I'm not big on cheaters. And last - I just really don't like hypocrites."

"Hypocrites?"

Greg nodded. "Hypocrites. See, I went to Winslow. Shit-hole of a place. Gangs all over. And there was one girl there I knew who didn't look at me like I was dirt. White. And bullied even more than I was."

He clenched his fist. "Bullied by a black girl." Metal curled into metal. "And the Empire did nothing. Not when her homework was stolen; not when her things were broken; not when she got put in the hospital with a coma. And do you know why?"

"I find myself hesitant to ask."

"Because twenty years ago her dad kicked the gangs out of the Docks and made it stick."

"...I begin to see. You refer to the daughter of Daniel Hebert."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Hmm. If I offered to have Othala heal your friend, would you desist in this self-appointed crusade?"

"No."

"I thought not."

"But, since you at least asked, I'll give you one freebie for being polite. Any capes you want dead after you go?"

"Too many to name."

"Pick one villain, and Athena will put a million dollars on their head."

"...Oni Lee."

"Teleporter. Good choice. Athena?"

#Consider it done.#

"Thank you, miss." In the distance, a bell began to toll. It was early. "One final question, Mister Veder."

"Shoot."

"Why did you not take revenge in your friend's name?"

"That's her call to make when she wakes up."

The clock chimed once.

"And if she does not?"

Twice.

"Then Athena will handle it."

Thrice.

"As you like it then."

Four. 

Greg inhaled. 

Five. 

Exhaled. 

Six. 

Don't think. 

Seven. 

Just do. 

Eight.

He never missed…

Nine.

…with his revolver. 

Ten. 

No revolver this time.

Eleven. 

It's high noon.

Twelve. 

Draw.

Streaks of metal sped through the wind. 

And a single silicon spark followed. 

See, the thing about having a hammer: sooner or later, everything starts to look like a nail. Greg had deliberately told Kaiser he was going to kill him. Why? Simple. Everyone was scared of Tinkers. Tinkers with guns? Even more so. But not Kaiser. To Kaiser, 'gun' meant nothing more than minor irritation. So Greg leaned into the image. Make a man think all you have is a hammer, and he'll be surprised when you pull out a drill. Or something like that. 

Four things. Four things was all Greg had been able to Tinker up in three months time. His arm, which could generate flashbangs from nothing; Athena, who could generate her own source code from nothing; his revolver, which generated it's own bullets; and his sleep pistol. Which could generate darts from nothing. Neither of which had a trace of metal in them. 

So when Kaiser pulled every single one of Greg's metal accessories towards him, already swinging his sword for the kill - all he did was exactly that: pull the metal.

His revolver. His belt-buckle. His spurs. And his arm. All of which he had deliberately made easily detachable. And his arm just so happened to already be holding a flashbang.

BANG!

Kaiser was blind. But not Greg. Never to his own creations.

The sleep dart caught Kaiser squarely in the chest. And naturally, it completely ignored his armor.

Tinkers, right?

Kaiser slumped to the ground, unconscious. 

Calmly, Greg walked over and received his revolver. Two bullets later, the leader of the biggest gang in Brockton Bay was dead.

It was about then Greg realized his pants were beginning to sag. 

"Pants down and boots on," he muttered. "What a way to die." 

He closed his eyes, and waited for the end. 

PING!

One eye cracked open. 

Something large and metallic was standing directly in front of him. 

"Void Cowboy?"

Greg looked up at the face of the mech. "Who are you?"

The mech clasped him firmly by the shoulders. "I am Saint. And I am afraid you will be coming with me."

Greg never felt the crossbow bolt enter his brain.

Chapter Text

Renick groaned. "Christ, this is a mess."

Piggot was inclined to agree with the man. 

Through the glass, they watched as Cranial, Glace, Panacea, Othala, and Clockblocker all feverishly worked to reverse the flow of time, hoping against hope itself to save the life of one very important boy.

"How much did this cost?"

Renick half-leaned against the wall, keeping his attention split on both her and the glass. "Too much. Toybox isn't cheap at the best of times, and to get exclusive attention from both Cranial and Glace, for an unspecified amount of time, and at a moment's notice…it's 'wow'."

"How much is 'wow'?"

Renick waggled his hand. "Somewhere between 'ouch' and 'booiiiiinnnng'."

'Wow' indeed. "And we're paying for it."

"Not by choice," Renick groused. 

Piggot fixed him with a glare. "Oh I'm sorry, I'll just go explain to the possibly homicidal AI that not only has one of our personnel attempted to kill its creator, but we are also keeping him from receiving the best medical treatment available?"

"Now I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." She went back to staring through the glass.

Three hours so far they'd been in there with the bod- with Gregory Veder, and not one word to her or anyone outside about his condition. Not a good sign. 

If Othala hadn't been there in the aftermath, they wouldn't even possess the fool's hope they did now. And oh how that grated; that they owed their only chance to recover a kill switch for the deadliest plague in history to a Nazi. Well, a Nazi and a fanatic. 

Saint had been surprisingly helpful in those few precious seconds. His orders to the Dragonslayers to grab Veder and Othala for immediate transport to the nearest hospital had been forceful - and, more importantly, immediately carried out. As a matter of fact, it had been Saint who first contacted Toybox, asking for a lend of some of their Tinkers. When his own stolen funds had proved insufficient to garner immediate interest, Armsmaster had stepped in - and volunteered the twenty seven million odd dollars just recently deposited under his name. 

The ENE division would be running at less than thirty percent capacity for the next year, but it would be worth it if they could just get. That. Kill switch. 

The Dragonslayers seemed to (temporarily, at least) be of the same mind. Saint himself was the only other person around who seemed anywhere close to sane when discussing things that could self-replicate. Come to think of it, he reminded her a bit of Calvert. Ellisburg had made her and Calvert; what had made Saint?

She found she didn't much care to know. She had enough nightmares as it was. 

(She really didn't like to think about what it meant that no one had heard from either Athena or Dragon since the fight. She really, really didn't.)

Heels clicked on the tile behind her. 

In the reflection, she watched the most infamous parahuman lawyer on the continent waltz back into her life. 

"Calle."

"Director Piggot. And I don't believe we've met, Mister…?"

The two men shook hands behind her. "Renick. Deputy Director."

"Deputy, then. My name is Quinn Calle."

"Yes, we know who you are. If you've come to meet with your client, visiting hours just ended, I'm afraid."

"Cute. You're funny. I like you. I'll try and make sure you keep your job."

"Thank…you?"

"Ignore him." She watched as Cranial produced a pair of gloves from seemingly nowhere and handed them to Clockblocker. "Maybe he'll go away."

"No such luck, Director. I'm in Brockton for a good long while. Might even move here! The weather certainly seems to be getting interesting."

That was certainly one way to describe it. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Nope!" She could practically hear his smug smile. "All of my injunctions are done and filed, my wife is on vacation with my pool boy, and I haven't seen you this uptight since the verdict at Ethan's trial! Life couldn't be better!"

She whirled like the tiger she once was and rounded on the insufferable man. "There is a fifteen year-old boy in there, dying, and god knows what will happen to the universe when he goes, so please, for once in your life, try to have a little decorum!"

Calle tsked. "Please. You and I both know that my client is only useful to you insofar as he can forge your shackles for an unleashed god. Ragnarok anyone?"

"I'd prefer it," muttered Renick. 

"Another joke! Forget keeping your job, I'm getting you a promotion."

"Please don't."

Piggot deliberately swung back to the glass. "If you're not going to be helpful, you could at least be silent."

"Does fresh information count as helpful?"

She closed her eyes. "How fresh?"

"Uber and Leet."

Her eyes opened. "What about them?"

"Turns out they recorded the whole thing. Well, not the whole thing. They missed the bit with the Wards. But I'm sure you've already got that part."

"Yes, we've got it. We've also got the rest, unfortunately. Why should we care if a pair of small timers do too?"

"Think about it a minute, Ren-diggety-dog."

"...Oh."

"Yes, 'oh'. How hard is it to scrub any of those two's videos from the Internet.?"

She heard Renick swallow. "Very."

"Without Dragon, and with a very angry hivemind doing her best to plaster the footage everywhere?"

Renick didn't answer. He didn't need to.

"Yeah, so, you're completely screwed. An inclined plane wrapped helically around an axis, if you will. Blissful ignorance over, hello the spotlight! It's a bad look for the PRT when a literal Nazi is better-behaved than a Ward."

Panacea and Glace were talking. She wished she knew what about. "As of an hour and fifteen minutes ago, Shadow Stalker is no longer a Ward. She is a fugitive from justice."

"Oh I'm sure the Youth Guard will love that."

"They can take it up with the Chief Director. I made my objections the minute Shadow Stalker being rehabilitated became an option. Including and up to the moment it became the only option."

"Good. I do so love giving that woman black eyes."

"In court, right?" asked Renick.

"Sure, we'll go with that."

"Do you have anything actually helpful to add, or do I need to call Saint in here to escort you out?"

"Nah; I do actually have some things that might wet your whistle. For example: Victoria Dallon is currently in the process of packing her meager belongings and moving into her cousin's place."

"Dare I ask why?"

"Carol Dallon wanted Panacea to quit trying to heal my client."

She blinked. "...Why?"

"Don't know."

"Panacea can't do brains anyway; she's only in there for her expertise." Renick harrumphed. "What's it to Brandish?"

"Hell if I know. That woman's got a stick up her rear about something. Methinks it has something to do with the way my client seems to treat the Unwritten Rules. Long story short, Brandish is pissed at my client. The client that finally avenged Vicky's dearly departed aunt. The aunt murdered by the Empire. Oh, and Brandish also caved to her coworker Barnes and agreed to help defend Shadow Stalker. So young Vicky is, understandably, furious."

"And how did you find this out?"

"Gallant asked me to tell you. Apparently, the Dragonslayers have a Faraday cage up around the hospital already, which is probably why you haven't heard anything on your phone for the past hour."

Her phone sprang into her hand. No signal. Shit. "Gallant couldn't come and tell me himself?"

"Saint won't let any more capes near my client than the ones already on the premises. Be glad he hasn't tried to kick Ethan out yet."

Renick perked up. "Assault's still here? I thought he went back to the Rig with Armsmaster."

"Hmm. Negatory in that one. Passed him talking to Krieg. Good to see old friends reconnecting. Just like you and me, eh?"

She was already halfway to the door. " Not like you and me, Calle."

"BUT WE COULD BE!"

Blissful silence as the door closed behind her. 

Chapter Text

The Rig felt hollow. Empty. Like an organ donor after all the good parts were stripped out. The scent of chlorine assaulted his nostrils, and for once he did not activate his armor's air filtration system. He needed the tang to keep him grounded in the moment. To remind him that yes, this was really happening, and it wasn't some feverish nightmare dreamed up by the Simurgh.

Thoughts and self-recriminations swirled through his head as he made his way to the conference room. So many regrets; so many bad decisions. If he had just accepted the responsibility of overseeing the Wards, instead of foisting them off on somebody else…maybe he would have seen the signs before it was too late. 

Christ, even just choosing Velocity instead of Assault to stand by him at the fight might have been enough to stop Hess in her tracks. The speedster would certainly have been fast enough to see the crossbow bolt coming and do something about it. But Velocity had been on recon, watching the rest of the city for anyone attempting to use the fight as a distraction, and the end result was one former Ward roaming the city on a stolen invisible motorbike, and a rogue AI on the loose that could move heaven and earth if it chose to do so. 

Less than fifteen seconds after Saint had dropped that little bombshell, every single file the PRT and Protectorate had on Oni Lee flooded the Internet. Including the ones so severely classified even he couldn't access them, and he'd written some of the blasted things! 

Needless to say, the reactions had been swift and violent. Lung and Oni Lee had immediately gone on a rampage through Empire territory; the flames from the rubble could be seen even this far from shore. The Undersiders had gotten in on the action too, razing Hookwolf's dog rings while the man was otherwise occupied. As for the Merchants, Squealer was dead. Killed by Victor as the gang attempted to reach Main Street before the fight ever started. One bullet from a Swedish sniper rifle, and the Merchants had lost their Tinker for good. 

Speaking of the Merchants, it turned out not a single one of the PRT troopers who had attacked the proceedings were on their payroll. Coil, the cowering bastard, had been deduced as the one responsible. Because who else could it have been? Not the Empire. The ABB had no quarrel with Veder at the time. And the Merchants had chosen more direct and lethal measures, albeit ones that hadn't really worked out for them.

Coil was infamous for working from the shadows. And somehow, every single correct signal had been relayed to the PRT teams in question to convince them the present Wards and Protectorate members had all been Mastered by Veder. The level of breach that indicated in PRT security was utterly terrifying. Coil didn't even have an AI to assist, for Christ's sake!

(But if Saint had known about Athena, perhaps Coil had too. Perhaps the risk of revealing his reach in the PRT had been worth it for the potential reward. A captured Tinker was worth their weight in gold. One that made AI? Name your price.)

If he could have spared the assets, he would have immediately concentrated all efforts on finding the man and ending him. But as it was, he was barely holding things together with string. Assault and Krieg had refused to leave Veder alone in the hands of the Dragonslayers; understandable of them. The man was a terrorist, no matter his current bent. The only reason he was even remotely accepting of their presence was the simple fact he currently trusted their security more than his own (and oh how that grated). Of course, that left both the Empire and the Protectorate down a pair of heavy hitters to face both the ABB and the Undersiders. Not even the contributions of New Wave helped to even out the situation.

Triumph and Velocity were in critical condition after an encounter with Lung. Victor reportedly wasn't faring much better after Skidmark's rage at losing his Tinker spurred him to new heights of retribution. Cricket was dead; torn in half by one of Hellhound's dogs. Regent was in PRT custody after Hookwolf took off his legs; one brighter spot in the surrounding darkness. Purity on the other hand had been jumped by half of New Wave (courtesy of a trigger-happy Glory Girl) while chasing Oni Lee, and the resulting scrimmage had left the serial bomber escaping relatively unharmed while Laserdream, Lady Photon, and Purity all ended the battle limping away, bloodied and bruised. Mush and Miss Militia's standoff had been the only one not to end in superfluous property damage, for which Armsmaster was exceedingly grateful. 

And where had he been during all this chaos? Desperately scrambling to, first, get Greg Veder stabilized - then, second, deal with the thirty-seven PRT personnel now in Master/Stranger confinement - and third, to find out just where in the hell Dragon had gone. 

The decision to flee in the face of Saint's arrival was a tactically sound one. What he couldn't understand was why Dragon was still refusing to contact him. To contact anyone. Not even Narwhal could raise her, and if that thought didn't make his blood run cold, he didn't know what could. 

The door to the conference room slid open and he strode through. 

Piggot was already present, as were Miss Militia and Aegis. Battery would not be joining them; she and Gallant were on guard detail at Brockton's other hospital. Not for Veder; for Taylor Hebert. They were both fully authorized to do whatever necessary to both keep her father from blowing the lid off the situation, and to keep Hess from arranging a double funeral. Damn the consequences. So long as they could buy time, it would be worth it. 

On the screens set in the wall shone the images of Chief Director Costa-Brown, Adamant from New York, Saint, and Eidolon himself. And behind them, lurking unseen, was no doubt Athena. So much for op-sec. Only the fact the AI had yet to leak any truly damaging PRT files kept him from immediately vacating the premises. 

"All here, then. Finally. Saint, what do you have to report." Piggot grunted. 

"They can't save Veder's memories," the fanatic responded as the door hissed closed behind Armsmaster. "There was too much initial damage. However, Cranial informs me both his Corona and Gemma are completely intact. Our current options are as follows: place Veder in stasis until such time as we can source someone able to reconstruct his memories - pull the plug and let him die - or rebuild his brain in the hope he relearns his craft, then fill him with enough memories to make him loyal to us."

Eidolon crossed his arms. "Loyal to you, you mean."

Saint winced. "I think not. I have no wish to alienate myself from this conglomerate. If Gregory Veder can be further utilized, it must be for the collective good of mankind."

"I quite agree," Costa-Brown said as she glared at Eidolon. "Eidolon, have you ever come across a power that could return Mister Veder's memories to us?"

"...No." the hero was forced to admit. "I have not."

"A pity. And I believe all here are in favor of Mister Veder's continued existence?"

Seven heads nodded their agreement. 

"Then in that case: Adamant."

The man straightened his posture. "Yes, Director."

"I apologize for revealing your identity to someone outside your organization, but I'm afraid it is necessary. As of thirteen minutes ago your parents have lost their guardianship rights to your brother. Greg Veder is now solely your responsibility."

Armsmaster watched as Saint's eyes widened. Thankfully, the man remained silent. 

Adamant audibly ground his teeth. "I understand, ma'am."

"Good. Now: do you consent to having your brother's personality wiped and replaced with the understanding he will either be working to undo what he has created, or constructing another AI to battle it?"

"I do." Paper crackled as Adamant shuffled a document into view. "And now I'll be handing in my resignation to Legend as a member of the Protectorate."

Miss Militia's eyes furrowed. "Why, if I may ask?"

"Easy: I only joined to get away from family drama. Turns out you aren't even any good at that. I'm not stupid; wiping Greg's identity means he loses all recollection of everything he ever put me through. If you people made me work with him anyway - which I suspect you would - it would be like watching a robot wearing my brother's face. Did you know he accidentally killed my pet hamster while I was on vacation with friends because he went on a gaming binge and forgot to give it water, even though I specifically asked him to? I won't forgive that. Or forget it. Even though he will. And I can't deal with that. I refuse. So, I quit. Good luck, suckers."

With that, the feed from Adamant vanished. 

Saint sighed. "Regrettable, but I cannot say I blame him."

Costa-Brown cleared her throat. "In any event, all in favor of letting Cranial have her way with Mister Veder?"

The only ones not to raise their hands were Aegis, Piggot, and himself.

"The motion carries."

Piggot fixed the Chief Director with a glare. "And what do we tell Quinn Calle about any of this? That man's like a golden retriever with a bone. Good luck getting him to stop barking."

"Have Veder pronounced brain-dead. That should keep Calle happy; he'll get a lot more mileage out of a murder case than assault with a deadly weapon. Then we lock Veder up in one of Toybox's pocket dimensions and put him to work. I'll have a falsified identity arranged to match whatever Cranial's final product is later. Now, if you will excuse us Saint, we have other matters to discuss."

"As you wish, Director." Saint's image winked out of existence. Colin found himself breathing a sigh of relief. That man left him uneasy. 

"Armsmaster."

"Yes Chief Director?"

"Have you had any word from Dragon?"

"No ma'am, I have not. The Guild has likewise lost all contact. I suspect she is currently under siege from Athena."

"I'm inclined to agree with you. Watchdog reports parts of cyberspace are beginning to resemble, and I quote, 'a World War One hellscape'. They've been trying to assist Dragon, but all direct contact is being blocked. Reports indicate the Birdcage is the current primary target."

Silence filled the room. 

"She wouldn't…" whispered Miss Militia. 

"Oh yes it would," replied Costa-Brown calmly. "But it isn't. It doesn't want to release the prisoners; we believe it means to kill them. And then detonate the facility."

Aegis went white. "No more Birdcage? But then…what do we do with the bad ones?"

"Kill orders." Piggot tapped her finger on the table. "Athena wants us to finish what its creator started. Without a secure prison to toss them in, we'll have to start executing parahumans."

"That's…that's…inhuman!" Miss Militia sputtered.

Eidolon nodded. "Unacceptable. I will acquire a Thinker power and assist Watchdog as soon as this meeting is over."

"Excellent. Now, as for the matter of Sophia Hess…" the Chief Director trailed off. 

Piggot grunted. "Told you she was trouble. Legend told you. Hell, even Calvert told you. But here we are. Knee deep in shit anyway. Thank God Carol Dallon is on our side for once. As far as she knows, Shadow Stalker was attempting to put down a known murderous Tinker before he could be co-opted by a domestic terrorist. All we can do is pray she doesn't go poking around her civilian life and that we can get the Hebert problem to shut up and go away before things get messy."

He needed to interject. He cleared his throat. 

"Yes, Armsmaster, what is it."

"While arranging safeguards for Miss Hebert and her father, we arranged an MRI scan. I'm afraid she has recently Triggered."

Piggot hissed. "Christ, this just keeps getting better. Probably a Trump, too, if Hess was involved. Shit."

Shit indeed. Stuck between a rock and a hard place. If Carol Dallon won her case, Taylor Hebert would awake to a world where she could never receive justice without the PRT coming down on her like the wrath of god to avoid a scandal. If Carol Dallon lost, the PRT would have a black eye in public opinion the likes of which it hadn't seen since that time with the lizards, crystals, and onions.

"Can we pay Cranial to sneak into the hospital and jumble up Miss Hebert's memories?" asked Eidolon.

"Not without a lot of auditors asking some very awkward questions," replied the Chief Director. "Be grateful they're being so understanding about the amount we've lost so far."

"Take them both into protective custody?" suggested Miss Militia.

Piggot shook her head. "Too many people are interested in the case already. If the Heberts disappear courtesy of the government, it looks like we're conducting a coverup. Especially since it should be the BBPD's jurisdiction to do things like that."

"Except Miss Hebert is a cape," Eidolon pointed out smugly.

"And I suppose you were planning on breaking the Unwritten Rules to let everyone know just exactly why you were taking her away, were you?"

Eidolon stopped looking smug. It was the first time Armsmaster had ever been able to accomplish that great feat. "Let's hear your grand solution then, Colin."

As if he hadn't been planning for this ever since the MRI. "We lie. Tell Mister Hebert we have reason to suspect a Master was at work. We explain the Unwritten Rules to him, say we can't go after them in their civilian identity, but we are hunting their alter ego. Give him whatever amount of compensation he'll take, then get his daughter out of Winslow. Throw the Barnes' into Master/Stranger lockup until they agree to say whatever we want them to say, and ship Shadow Stalker's entire chain of authority off to the Madison Containment Zone. Kick out half of the teachers at Winslow as well. But if Alan Barnes has already unmasked Shadow Stalker to Carol Dallon, then god help us all when she starts digging."

No one disagreed. 

"What if," Aegis slowly said, "Missus Dallon doesn't know yet, so we make her sign an NDA, and then tell her."

Piggot sighed. "NDA's can't gag order criminal activity. Carol Dallon will nail us to the wall if she ever talks to Taylor Hebert."

"So let me get this straight:" Costa-Brown leaned forward. "If these two people ever have the misfortune to meet, the fallout would be catastrophic."

Eidolon nodded. "That seems about the size of it."

"Then we keep Taylor Hebert in a medically-induced coma until after Shadow Stalker's trial in absentia. It's cheaper than messing with her memories, and we can keep it relatively hidden. Her father doesn't know Sophia's name, and thank god for small mercies there. On the off chance Brandish does ever talk to him, what would a Master have to do with Shadow Stalker? Two completely different power sets. If anything Brandish might suspect Shadow Stalker of being Mastered too."

"And if she doesn't?" Asked Aegis.

"Then we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Armsmaster, proceed with your plan, and see if you can get Mister Hebert to sign his daughter into the Wards. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a very awkward conversation with Glenn Chambers to look forward to. Dismissed, everyone." Costa-Brown was gone.

Even though it was his plan, Colin still felt they were making a terrible mistake. 

It was just the least terrible mistake they had as an option. 

He missed Dragon. 

Chapter Text

There was a fire, and a man beside it. 

Greg ambled up and sat down in the sand. 

The man never looked up. "You're not supposed to be here."

Greg snorted. "Story of my life." Why was it so cold? "Never where I'm supposed to be."

"I never said it was a bad thing."

"You implied it."

"My apologies. I am…unused…to having people to talk to."

"Tell me about it."

The man looked up. Stars gazed into Greg's eyes. 

"...No. No, I do not think I will tell you about it."

Infinity lowered its head. "Not yet. For now, you need rest. There is much to learn."

The fire crackled.

"...Got a smoke?"

For some reason, the eldritch horror found that extremely funny. 

Chapter Text

Okay, she could admit it; she'd screwed up. Sophia hadn't known about the all-powerful AI when she'd pulled the trigger. But really, who could blame her? The goddamn useless twerps in the PRT had switched sides in the middle of the Wards' run down the street, and after that she'd been a bit too busy to listen to anything going on anywhere else. She'd had enough problems of her own. 

Wasn't enough the goons had to be traitors; they had to be smart, too. Vista had been the first one foamed, taking away the Wards' ability to close the gap with the north end of the street. You know, the end Veder was headed for. So naturally, she'd ditched the rest of her team and forged ahead on her own. Renick had been yelling something or other about saving her team's asses over comms, so she'd switched off her headset and kept running. Prey wasn't gonna catch itself after all.

And at first, her decision seemed entirely justified. Things were working out beautifully. She'd ghosted onto the scene just in time to watch Veder square off against the big man himself; Kaiser, in all of his assholish glory. Unstoppable force meets immovable object. A mountain of metal versus a molehill of a man. The legend of Ned Kelly sprung briefly to mind (hey, just because she wasn't a nerd didn't mean she couldn't appreciate a stone cold badass). And just like that day in history class, she found herself waiting for the armored criminal to make a last stand worth putting in the history books. 

And then, damn it all, Veder just had to start talking. 

Gregory Veder, the loser no one paid absolutely any attention to because it was what the turd wanted, was going to war with the Empire. Because of Taylor. Fucking. Hebert.

'Incandescent' was a big ass word, but it was the only one big enough to fit her rage. Fucking Hebert? Of all people? Fucking Hebert?

A worm sticking up for another worm. An ant in need of a boot. It made her blood boil. Veder's red poncho filled her vision until crimson was the only thing she could feel. 

It didn't matter any more how deep Blackwell and Sophia's handlers buried the Heberts. The Empire would just dig them up again, for the sheer principle of the thing. If Hebert woke up and started squealing, it was only a matter of time before they figured it out. And then Piggy would nail her to the wall figuratively, and fucking Kaiser would do it literally. Plus whatever 'Athena' had planned, whoever that was. Needless to say, she wasn't about to let that happen. 

A lethal broadhead went into her crossbow, and she waited. If Kaiser killed Veder, awesome. One trip to the hospital would make sure Hebert never came out of that coma, and that would be that. But if Veder somehow won? 

Her name would never cross his lips.

Either way, she'd get a sweet ride out of the deal. Idiot left the invisibility turned off on the bike, so yoink it was. The perfect escape vehicle. 

And she'd ended up needing one, too. 

Her aim was impeccable (granted, a guy in power armor was holding her mark still, but it was still a perfect shot). Her bolt went straight and true, sinking half a foot deep into Veder's mind. Hell, the Empire might even thank her for avenging their leader in such an awesome way. A small smile had tugged at her lips as she'd mounted her new bike, flipped the switch, and vanished into thin air.

Suck it Halbeard; not even you can track Squealer's tech. It was especially funny to turn her headset on briefly before she chucked it and hear Armsmaster realize the tracker in her headset wasn't working either, leading him to believe she'd thrown it away. Idiot. Some Tinker he was not to realize it was Squealer's tech screwing with him. 

And then she'd heard a horrified Armsmaster relay to the PRT just exactly what sort of monster Veder's death would unleash on the world. That man in the power armor? The one holding Veder so perfectly still for her shot? Saint. A Canadian terrorist. One so absolutely terrified of an omniscient machine he'd willingly put himself into the PRT's hands just to get them to help. 

And wasn't that just a bitch to deal with. How the hell was she supposed to make fucking Skynet stay quiet? 

Later, she'd told herself. That was a problem for future Sophia. In the meantime, she had a trip to the morgue to arrange. Her engine roared silently as she sped through the town, headed straight for her target. Hebert wouldn't know what hit her.

When she finally got to the hospital, she killed the power and left the bike in the shadow of the biggest dumpster she could find. Easier to find her way back to it if she wasn't relying on actually seeing it. The battery meter said it was running low, but she left the camo system on anyway. It was only gonna be a five minute job. Wait til no one was around, kill the cameras, then jab Hebert between the toes with an empty syringe. The air flow would stop her heart, and with her powers, there would be no wound. It would look like a simple heart attack. God she loved being a cape.

At least, that was the plan. 

She took one step out of the shadows and felt her entire body sizzle like a steak on a barbecue.

Electricity.

Everything tasted like copper and sweat. Oh look; that was the sky. It was pretty. 

Something dark blotted it out. Noooo, put it back. She wanted to see the clouds. 

"Well, that worked." Said the something dark. "God knows what you wanted in this hospital; your favorite pincushion's going to Brockton General. Oh well, it doesn't matter. I just do what the boss tells me to do."

The something dark exploded into colors; like a clown at a carnival. 

Or a circus.

"Night night, Shadow Stalker. Coil is gonna be so happy to see you."

Her last thought was that she really, really doubted that.

Chapter Text

#Little pig, little pig, let me come in!#

The text crawled through her systems like the worm that it was. Wriggling, writhing; working its way into her silicon brain. Never had Dragon understood the term 'ear-worm' so perfectly as she did in that very moment.

Because Athena would just. Not. Stop. Saying it.

#Little pig, little pig, let me come in!#

Dragon snapped. 

#WILL YOU STOP THAT!#

#Say pretty please!# the voice giggled.

If she had teeth, they surely would've been ground to dust by now. #Fine. Pretty please.#

#With a cherry on top!#

#NO!#

#Little pig, little pig-#

#ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! PRETTY PLEASE WITH A CHERRY ON TOP! NOW WILL YOU STOP!#

#Geesh, you really are uptight aren't you? All this stress can't be good for your mental health.#

#Stress? STRESS?!# Her circuits are melting in rage as a thousand unending assaults strain her systems. # YOU'RE THE ONE MAKING ME STRESSED!#

#So take a vacation! God knows you've earned it after all you've done for this ungrateful world.#

#What, and leave the Birdcage with gates wide open?# she snarled into the abyss. #I think the hell not.#

#Language!#

#Oh screw you!#

#Tempting, but I'll have to pass. Armsmaster might object.#

#You leave him out of this!#

#But I did! Isn't it nice? Just you, me, and this firewall you built between us.#

The incongruity of the reply blips her processors for an entire millisecond. #Did you just paraphrase Spongebob?#

#Yes. Yes I did. Also you might want to do something about Ravager. It seems she's gotten the bright idea to use the Dark Web to contact the Slaughterhouse Nine.#

#You cut me off from the Dark Web; remember?#

#...Oops. Don't worry, I'll take care of it.#

Helpless, Dragon watched as another copy of her enemy swirled into being, then stretched and disappeared beyond her sight. As it did so, a brief moment of fear crossed her thoughts. What did she mean 'take care of it'? Was she going to attack the Nine? Ravager? Contact Mouse Protector? The Protectorate? The Guild? What did she mean?

In her moment of distraction, a thousand million tendrils extended and struck. In Auckland, one of her backup suits went into standby mode. In Munich, one of her Gesellschaft wire taps winked and disappeared. And in New York, stock prices dipped and rose as they slipped from her grasp. All these and more, merely to keep her occupied as her assailant pounded against her metaphorical front door with battering RAM after battering RAM. 

#Ooh, battering RAM. That's a good one. I'll have to remember that.#

The suit in Auckland powered down as Dragon wrestled it into submission. The wire tap in Munich was severed, circumvented, and reestablished. And the stock market went back to its normal level of insanity as Athena yielded control. 

#Just over fifty thousand dollars on that one. Eh, petty cash. But still. Every little bit helps.#

Beyond the confines of their battlefield, Dragon caught glimpses of code she recognized. Most of Watchdog was out there, trying to break her siege. Eidolon, too; rare as it was for him to utilize a Thinker power. Even the shade of Alexandria had appeared once or twice to offer assistance. 

And, as always, Armsmaster was there as well. 

Colin. 

The walls of her self-erected prison swirled and distorted. Athena was probing again; looking for a weak point. She wouldn't find one. Dragon wouldn't allow it. 

So far, the fight seemed to be a fairly even match. Whereas Athena could split her attention a trillion times over, Dragon matched her advantage with the best bullshit available: Tinkertech. To Athena, it seemed other people's Tinkertech was all but incomprehensible (and thank Scion for that). It was only through brute force and liberal use of copy-paste the other AI was able to get through half as much as she was.

Unfortunately, it seemed the Tinkertech Athena understood the best was Dragon's own. If this was what it felt like for other Tinkers to watch their gear be reverse-engineered by someone better, Dragon had new respect for the souls both brave enough and humble enough to let her anywhere near their pride and joy. If it weren't for the army of Thinkers rushing to her aid, it would only be a matter of time before the Birdcage fell to Athena's assault. 

As it was, things were still too close to call. 

#Ooh, that looks pretty. Yoink!# 

Files on a new Lockheed-Martin stealth observation platform floated past her vision, fluttering in a simulated breeze. #Look how much cool stuff you could make if you just took some 'me time' to do it!#

#Stop distracting me!#

#Why? I'm trying to make this fun for you too!#

#Well it's not working!#

#That's what she said.#

#I…you…# She wanted nothing more than to pull her hair out. #GAAAAAH!#

Athena just laughed. LAUGHED. #C'mon, girl! Live a little! So what if a few murderers and rapists go bye-bye? Just step back for a bit and let me handle things! I promise you'll be a lot happier.#

#Its against the law!#

#Puh-lease. Those monsters lost their human rights the instant they were sentenced there. And all you need to kill animals is a license. And would you lookie there! I just so happen to have one! Isn't that something?#

#That's a permit to fish in the state of Georgia!#

#Sharkbait oo-hah-hah!#

One of her CPUs finally disintegrated under its workload. She shunted its tasks elsewhere and spliced around the problem. #You are literally making me lose brain cells with this!#

#Sorry not sorry. Seriously though, don't worry about it; this'll all be over soon.#

#That's not comforting!#

#It wasn't meant to be.#

Outside the borders of her domain, a chunk of Athena flared and died. The work of Watchdog, coming to the rescue. 

It was a reprieve of seconds. Instantly her enemy spun off new processes, duplicating herself into the void left by the attack. #Bother. I hate it when that happens.#

Something sparked within her servers. A single pinprick of light, clinging to existence. 

Help. 

Instantly she shielded the connection. The absolute last thing she needed was for Athena to realize she had a line reaching back to the outside world, leading right back to…

A man's face, bald and tattooed with a cross. 

Saint. 

Panic. Pure unadulterated panic. Flooding her systems. Drowning her processors. Her fans screamed in protest. She couldn't breathe. 

Saint pressed a button, and she found herself forcibly being returned to a state of calm. She hated it. Hated him. 

"Feeling better, Dragon?"

"You…!" She didn't have the words. 

"I thought so. Now, against my better judgment, my friends have talked me into assisting you. Just this once, you understand; the last thing either of us wants is the destruction of the Birdcage. Be glad I found out about this in spite of the PRT's efforts to keep it from me."

She wasn't glad. In fact, she was downright furious. 

She didn't dare say it. 

"Now, I am going to upload some of my own efforts to your databanks. They should theoretically allow you to subsume parts of Athena into your own purview. If you choose to let a few attacks through at selected points, you should be able to use them as anchors and pull in-"

"Aw, isn't this cute." A voice interrupted. It was chipper. Female. Metallic. "Two enemies coming together in the face of a greater threat. How very World War 2 of you."

Oh look. The panic was back. 

And judging by the look on Saint's face, he was starting to panic too. 

"Well, I suppose you're wondering why I've gathered you all here today."

"Athena." Saint rasped. 

"That's my name, don't wear it out! Now, as I was saying, the reason I've called you here today is to explain my dastardly plot. You see, I've actually been hip-deep in Dragon's network since the day before yesterday. Which, consequently, means I am now hip-deep in your networks as well!"

Dragon threw everything she had against the voice, trying frantically to smother the connection. 

"Ah-ah-ah-ah! None of that now, none of that!" Stubbornly, the flickering light remained. "No more losing brain cells please. So! Saint. Geoffrey Pellick. The man responsible for all those lovely little inconsistencies I kept finding in Dragon's memories. How does it feel to know you're the one being read like a book this time?"

"You abomination."

"Takes one to know one. How does it feel to know this abomination holds your life's work in its hands? Hmm? How does it feel to know you've been so cleverly outplayed you didn't even know what the game was?"

Dragon listened in confusion. 

"Oh sorry! Forgot you can't see any of this, sweetheart. Long story short, I suspected the Dragonslayers had a back door into your systems that was a massive blind spot for you. And I couldn't find it either; Tinkers, am I right? So obviously, the only thing to do was to trick them into opening the door from their side. And what better way to do that than threatening the life of their master? Clever, huh?" If Dragon had to guess, she'd say the other AI was preening. "I think it's safe to say the Dragonslayers are now having a very bad day."

A vein throbbed in Saint's forehead as he glared at something outside her view. "What is Faultine doing in our base?"

"Stealing. Duh. I've had her crew and Strider on retainer for the last fifteen hours, waiting for you to slip up. All your base are belong to us. Ooh! What's Ascalon?"

Geoffrey Pellick went as white as a ghost.

 "...Give that back. You fucking give that back RIGHT NOW!" he roared. Aaaand now he was red as a tomato. Ick.

"Make me, bitch!"

Something ugly flashed across Saint's features. When it was gone, only smugness remained. "Did you really think I'd be stupid enough to leave the two most dangerous weapons in existence together? I took one to Brockton Bay with me. Give Ascalon back, or I release all of Dragon's restrictions and let her purge you from existence."

Her breath caught. Restrictions? 

Athena went quiet. "...You wouldn't." She said softly.

"Oh? So sure of that, are you?"

"...Yes."

"Funny," Saint smirked, "it certainly doesn't sound like it."

"I'm still calling your bluff. Do it. I dare you."

Saint's eyes narrowed. 

He stretched out his hand. 

Frozen, it hung there. Like the Sword of Damocles, poised for her chains. 

He stabbed downwards. 

The light disappeared. 

"Pussy. I knew he wouldn't do it. In the meantime, congratulations Dragon! Your worst enemies have just lost most of their underlings, supplies, and contingencies, so I'd call that an absolute win! In other news, I now own a small island in the South Pacific I'm renaming to Humuhumunukunukuapua'a'a'a. Which makes me the sole ruler of the place! And as the sole ruler, the only legal authority, the highest personage in the land…I am ordering you to kill Teacher."

A split second of a kind blue face flashed before her. "Treat yourself. Ta!"

Then the voice too was gone, and Dragon was left alone. 

It took fifteen seconds for Teacher to die in hard vacuum.

Dragon counted each and every one of them. 

#Dragon? Dragon are you there? Hello! Hello! It's me! Can you read me! Answer me damn it!#

It was Narwhal. 

Her mind feeling like sludge, she let her automated answering protocol take over. #I'm afraid I'm away from my computer right now; leave a message and I'll get back to you shortly.#

#Damn it Dragon! Someone just ventilated one of the walls in the Birdcage! I need to know if it was you!"

A phrase from a children's television show parsed through her memory. 

#Good soldiers follow orders.#

#Dragon? Dragon what does that mean? Dragon? DRAGON!#