Chapter Text
“Oh Ned… just print the damn line. It’s not even hard.” Your voice is soft, hollowed out and purged of any bass by the filter. You drum your fingers on Nathanial Woodstock’s desk. It’s an antique, something dating from the Oregon trail days. It’s not, actually, but you like letting him believe it.
It’s a weapon for later.
“This is getting ridiculous,” There was a time when Mr. Woodstock, Head Editor of Los Diablos’s premier tabloid, The Devil’s Daily, would have quaked in terror before you. You think that passed after your third visit. “How many times have you wanted to change your name now? You’re straining our credibility here.”
You can’t help but laugh. “Oh Ned,” you repeat. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.” You lay your hands flat on the desk and lean over so Ned can get a look at himself in your reflective helmet. “Print. The. Damn. Line.” Your hands curl into fists, and mentally you reach out, coaxing his fear like one coaxes a campfire.
The man looks suitably stricken, and tugs at his tie which suddenly feels uncomfortably tight against his neck. “You don’t scare me,” he lies, “you’re not a killer, Ghost, or Méabh or whatever you’re going with now.”
“Adrestia,” you growl.
There was a time you dreamed of getting to storm this office, usually after some particularly egregious falsehood about Ortega’s love life hit the cover. You don’t need to dream about it any more. You push away from the table, noting his flinch with no small degree of satisfaction. God it feels good to be on the other side for once. You rest an armored gauntlet on his computer monitor. “You’re right Ned, I’m not a killer.” You coax the nanovores in your gauntlet to life, guide them down your hand. “Perhaps that gave you the wrong impression of what I’m about?” You keep your focus on Ned as the monitor slowly dissolves from the top down.
“I know you, Nathanial Woodstock. I know your wife is filing the divorce papers this week. I know your daughter won’t talk to you anymore. And I know you’re going to have a good long talk with the auditors about where that professional development fund is going.” You raise your hand as the monitor collapses into shards. “I hope you get to watch as your trash-bin magazine chokes on debt until the shareholders finally have enough and fire you.”
You pause, letting your words sink in. “Ned, I don’t need to kill you to destroy you. There’s no justice in death…” You trail off, other thoughts threatening to overtake you.
You shake them off. If Ned notices, his tiny mind doesn’t betray him.
“I can keep going. I can reduce you to nothing just like your little toy here. I can see to it you lose your penthouse apartment. Ensure your mother finds out what you really did with her china collection, Ned ‘it was just one beer’ Woodstock.” You whisper. “I will ensure there’s nothing left of you but a skull nailed to my fencepost.” You lean in again, “Or! Or! You. Can. Print. The. Line.”