Chapter Text
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“This is disaster.” Straight, blunt, more than a little rude; In a word, Packrat to a T.
Hiding behind the lockers, I closed my eyes, my shoulders shrinking lower than before. It wasn’t my fault. Not really. Right? At least… I didn’t want it to be my fault, and I didn’t think it was my fault and I- A little niggle of worry tugged at my gut, and among the many things that weren’t my fault, but ended up being my problem, it was one of them.
“This is contact with the enemy.” Despite the low volume, Tetrarch’s reply was even and firm. “No one could have predicted the Simurgh would breach the veil between dimensions. We will handle it where possible.”
“He isn’t ready!”
“That no longer matters.”
I glanced at the open door. With where they were probably standing, I could get out before they realized I’d come to visit. Instead, I sank down, my feathers pinched between my rear and the polished concrete floor. They didn’t want me either. That sorta hurt. It did. But I understood it too. Who did? Well, the Americans. They wanted me. And the Japanese. The Russians too. Winter Star. Vanguard. The works. But I’d hoped- that- well…
That maybe Icarus Squad had cared about me, just a little. I was working hard, trying to prove that I should have a place once I was older, but-
“He’s twelve, you sniveling shit-biscut.”
Bang!
I jumped at the sound of metal denting, so loud it made my ears ring.
In the silence, Tetrarch said, “I understand your concern. It is still irrelevant.”
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President Arnold White strode into the strategic situations briefing room within the White-house, and nodded at the secretary of defense as he passed him by. Sitting down at the head of the table, he set down his steaming mug of coffee, the lighting casting deep bags beneath his eyes. “Talk to me people.”
Alicia Whitmer, nominal head of the CIA, began speaking at once. “This has caught us by surprise. The Aleph incident was never supposed to happen again, but it seems we were worried about the wrong thing.” When she opened the folder in front of her, every person at the table did the same with their own dossier, the sound of rustling paper filling the silence. “We have extensively interviewed every individual known or suspected to have contact with our unexpected guests, and from brief conversations, it appears that not only have they been sending people over to Bet for some time, but they are not happy to see us.”
“None of this matters.” Legend’s face was grim. “What is known about the Endslayer?”
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“Monarch, this is Dead-eye. How copy, Monarch?”
“Dead-eye, this is Monarch, reading you five by five. Send your traffic, over.”
“Monarch, contact, five brigades of enemy footmobiles, ten armored walkers.”
“Understood Dead-eye, standby for further instructions from Nor-Com. Monarch out.”
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Wind rustled through the snow-covered pines, frost covering the dead metalic diodes of a metallic figure slumped against a tree trunk. Above it, dead branches and orange needles provided a patchwork that filtered the moonlight. Twenty feet to the right of the slumped figure, a large, hemispherical husk sat, mounds of snow piled at the base of the sphere. A single warped cannon poked from a gap in the armor.
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The glass doors of the PRT ENE had yet to be replaced, but at least they had swept out the glass. Armsmaster strode into the lobby, and with a passing glance at the new pictures on the wall, made for the elevator.
Underneath one of the pictures was a name; Gallant.
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“Hey, you brought it?” Assault asked with a grin.
Battery walked up to him with the cask of coors in her hand. “Against my better judgment.” It was a shame she took off her ring before getting into costume, but that was PR, wasn’t it?
It was better for both of them if they kept some ambiguity in their relationship. Small things like that kept their mutual fans buzzing about whether they were or weren’t married. Assault stood and took the beer from her. “Wait here.” If this went south, he didn’t want her roped into it by association.
Turning with a grin on his face, he walked.
The asphalt was still cracked, but car husks had been replaced with concrete barriers and barbed wire along with soldiers with rifles. Considering the ten Parahumans standing guard, the army dogs were just for show, but it was an important show. A ring of air fifty feet in diameter shimmered like heat-haze rising from concrete on a blistering summer day, and within it was another world, something he was starting to come to terms with. It was a little weird seeing the pavement end and close-shorn grass begun, and even weirder to see the towering mountains in the distance, sheer, vertical crags unlike the rolling hills of the Appalachians.
Standing next to man in camo fatigues, a spectacled man in a suit who had probably never smiled in his life looked up and saw assault. The constant frown he wore deepened, and he left his table and pals behind. “What do you think you are doing?” he demanded.
Assault raised the beers and nodded at the sandbags on the other side of the portal. He wasn’t quite sure why the Hussars hadn’t started erecting permanent fortifications the way the US Army had, but it didn’t matter. “A gift for our pals.” In the corner of his eye, he noticed a blotch of patriotism approach.
“Is there a problem?” Miss Militia asked.
Oh, it was good to engage in jurisdictional pissing matches, wasn’t it? Assault grinned wider.
“Is there a-” Breaking off, the spectacled man sputtered. “Yes! There is a problem! Do you yokels have any idea how delicate this situation is? Diplomacy is not your job! Only the State Department has the authority to treat with foreign nations!”
“Hey now, that’s not fair!” Assualt raised his free hand, palm facing the diplomat. “I’m not treating anyone. We don’t know each other well enough for that. I’m just tossing some junk over the line. See, I got this beer, I don’t want it, and the portal is right there.” He nodded at the shimmer in the air.
“Do you have any idea how many laws that breaks-”
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Half a mile away, Alexandrev peered through the scope on his rifle, the reticule focused on the brow of the man in red. “Are you getting this?”
“Lasers are rolling and we are getting audio,” Sarah muttered back. “Can you read the words on the side of the box? I’m having trouble with focusing my scope.”
Alexandrev squinted. “Coors, I think.” What was a ‘Coors’? Some kind of canister it seemed, but from this distance he didn’t have as much of the fine detail as he would have liked.
“Orders are orders. I will notify command.”
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Alden Hideaki looked down at the pictures laid out over his desk, and reached for the magnifying glass, then he chuckled and set it aside. It could be argued that such a minor matter was hardly worth his time, and it had, in fact, been argued. Setting down the magnifying glass, he looked up.
Wearing simple jeans and a thin jacket, Maria watched him. It wasn’t her name, of course, but it was what he called her, and what the department knew her as. “And there were twelve cans inside the box?”
“Yes.”
“And there were no alterations? No poison or bugs?”
“No.”
Alden smiled. “A kind gesture.” There was nothing kind about his eyes. “Let us return the overture. The einherjar commissary is well-stocked. Give them twelve bottles of alcohol in a woven basket, ensure there is a variety- And Maria? Make it look nice. First impressions matter.”
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“-maintains that this was a defensive action provoked by the sudden and violent intrusion of the Simurgh into the Hussar Stratocracy.”
Every seat in the long table was filled, but where the left side was filled by well-groomed men and women in suits and business dresses, the right side was not so unified.
Glittering medals were plastered over the chest of the speaker to the point of absurdity, and an old burn had warped much of his left cheek, giving him a perpetual lopsided grin. Sitting in the chair beside him was an armored figure, thick ceramic plates overlapping to form a flexible armor that bit into the soft cushions of their chair. Further along was a women in a conservative dress whose hems reached her ankles, and flanking her was a man in a suit and monocle that could have come from the fifties.
Samuel Klein wanted to sigh. They were getting nowhere fast, and at the rate they were going, today was going to end with nothing meaningful being done. In a sane world, all the ways they had run circles around the Hussars would have seen them come to a quick, advantaguos agreement on the part of the United States, but if there was one thing that had become clear, it was this;
There was not a single person in the room who had the power to negotiate with them.
Samuel didn’t know what to make of it. Picking up his pencil, he wrote something down on his notepad, and tore the paper off before folding it. Handing the slip of paper to his colleage, the note was passed on until it the note reached the head of the American delegation, Jennifer Kaufman, who opened the note and read it.
Leaning forward, the Hussar woman who sat opposite him rested her elbow on the table, and smiled at him.
He smiled back, because it was good diplomacy.
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Missy Biron leaned her head against the wall as her parents screamed downstairs. It all hurt, and she didn’t want to feel anymore. Confusion, grief- it all warred within her, tied to that strange disconnect she had felt for years at this point. She’d never meet them of course. If it hadn’t happened by now, it probably wouldn’t, but what did that matter?
She hurt.
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Erland Halvorsen stepped into the office. “Got a moment, sir?”
Piotr looked up from his computer and grabbed the edge of his desk, reaching for the prosthetic on the oppose edge to clear a space for whatever Elrand had. Behind him, an eye partially hidden by a falling rose petal had been painted on the smooth concrete wall. Most of Piotr’s coworkers liked having an office that reflected how grand and accomplished they were, but most of them were carrier bureaucrats. Piotr was not.
Manila folder in hand, Erland waited until Piotr nodded at one of the chairs before he sat.
“What do you have for me?” Shifting his hand, Piotr twisted his prosthetic until he heard the click of the pins locking his fake leg into place.
“I don’t know.”
Snagging the corner of the folder, Piotr pulled it into his lap. “A girl?” He flipped through to the next photo. “A parahuman.”
“We have been searching for a connection between the Emilton complex and Brockton Bay, and I think I may have found it.”
“Missy Biron,” Piotr read. “American-born… Blonde. Green Eyes. American law enforcment auxillary. Goes to school at-” He skipped ahead. “Parents in the middle of a messy divorce. In the Linker database-” There, Piotr stopped and set the folder down on the desk. “You think she’s Scorch’s link?”
“I think the dates match, sir, and that it bears further investigation.”
Maybe. Blinking in the vain hope it would allow him to shake off some of the fog that clouded his mind- God he was tired. -Piotr pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
Technically speaking, his department had the mandate to investigate this.
Practically speaking, it might very well mean his life if he continued to do so, and it might mean his life if he reported it to his superiors, and it might mean his life if he did not. This matter had become too hot for his section to continue working on it, but remained too strategically relevant to bury. The things he did for his home, as flawed as it had always been. “Speak of this to no one.” Rising to his feet, he picked up the folder, and limped out of the run. The stump of his right leg ached as he put pressure on it.
His boss could deal with it. Whatever happened, Piotr’s hands were clean of whatever decision was ultimately made.
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From space, anyone with a passing familiarity with what the earth truly looked would have pegged the mountain range below them as that of the Rocky Mountains. The product one tectonic plate subducting beneath the other, the Rockies were defined by towering peaks, exposed rocks, and rugged terrain. At their edges were the great plains, a vast explain of flat prairie that stretched from the base of the mountains all the way to the great Mississippi river.
There were no farms on that great plain. Only vegetation that hid the husks of burnt out timbers.
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The walls were flat, made of metal, and featureless. The only furniture in the room was the old wooden table, an uneven thing of logs and two-by-fours screwed into an uneven whole, and the chairs. Compared to the table, the chairs were nicer, well-cushioned, and suitable for long conversations, but were by no means modern. At the center of the table was a single platter piled with sandwiches, and a small collection of black olives to the side. The sandwiches were new a new addition, and not a single one had been touched.
It was not that sort of conversation for the five individuals who sat within that room.
“Why would an Endbringer seek to destroy itself?” one asked.
“Why do Endbringers do anything?”
“A question that perhaps the Americans will be able to answer, once their investigation of the Simurgh’s corpse is complete.”
A fourth person scoffed. “If they discovered that, why would they share it with us?”
The first traced their finger over the wood, and hissed as a sliver got underneath their nail. Jerking their hand away, they pulled the sliver from their skin, and blood welled from the wound. “We have leverage they can’t deny. They would share information about the Endbringers because we asked them to.”
“That is leverage we do not want to give up.”
“Would we have to?” The third asked, resting their meshed fingers in their lap. “Strategic command is keen on utilizing the industrial capacity of the Americans, but that does not mean exchanging a parahuman. A loan, perhaps.”
The fifth member slammed the flat of their hand onto the armrest of their chair, and the sound echoed within the room. “Are we forgetting that our asset was originally an American national? And not just an American, but a child far below the American age of legal majority. The moment they gain physical possession of him, they will deny that the asset had any right to forfeit his own citizenship, or swear allegiance to a foreign power. They will not give him back, and we will be left with nothing.”
“But if he is loyal...” the first murmured.
The fifth spat on the floor, a disgusting habit, but one tolerated without comment. “He is a child. Those are easily swayed at the best of times. I say kill him and be done with it. All evidence suggests the Endbringers are malevolent. If this a plot, then we need to get ahead with it now. Icarus Squad will complain, but it will be too late. None of our parahumans expend political capital on behalf of a dead child. We will tell the Americans that their savior sustained life-threatening injuries during the battle, and has succumbed. They will ask for a body, and we will give them one. Close the portal and seal it.”
“We can take nothing for granted.” Compared to the brashness of the fifth, the third’s tone was firm, and brooked no dissent. “If the asset is capable of killing an Endbringer, then the Simurgh may have arranged this outcome to introduce these doubts to our minds. Two more remain. If one could be sacrificed to save two, is that not a decision we would all make? By reacting to this provocation, we may play into the Endbringer’s hands.”
“An Endbringer is a nightmares, worse than anything the defense grid can produce.” The second reached for the plate in the center of the table, and plucked an olive from the pile beside the sandwiches. “Regardless of what aid the Americans may or may not pour through the portal, if even a single Endbringer comes through that portal, our version of humanity is at an end. Greed cannot blind us to the risk that comes with association.”
“A risk that could be mitigated with the deaths of the Endbringers.” The third offered a tight smile.
“And when the Endbringers are dead, and Bet no longer has need of the asset?” The fifth asked. “Was once not enough? Is this hell we live in not sufficient without entangling ourselves with that cursed reality again? If there is salvation, it will not come from them.”
“We are all the product of their meddling.” The first smeared the bloodied tip of his finger over his jacket. “We could ask for reparations. They would give them, I think.”
The argument continued.
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“Boots!” Throwing his arms wide as if to reveal the ragged titanic T-shirt he wore, Svalinn approached his counterpart within the Hussar Stratocracy and enveloped him in a hug, one Boots returned. Pulling back, Svlaninn rested his hands on Boots’ shoulders. “Finally, you find time to talk to me about recent developments in that valley of yours. I was beginning to feel ignored.”
“You are too big of a bastard for anyone to ignore.” The curl of Boots’ lips revealed too much of his teeth to be entirely friendly. With a flick of his fingers, he brushed Svalinn’s hands from his shoulders.
Svalinn laughed, because it was true. “These schemes of everyone, they tire me. What say you that we get some business done, hmm?”
The lavish surroundings of thick, polished marble columns, a smooth floor inlaid with the seal of Vanguard, and the flags that hung from the ceiling like banners were at odds with the simple apparel they both wore, but that was the way they liked it.
They were simple, violent men who led nations struggling against the steel grip wrapped around the throat of every human on their world.
The apocalypse had never left either of them.
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“-that we get a look at them? Our intentions are benign, and surely there is no harm in a simple conversation. It is difficult to understand why the Hussars refuse to allow us to express our gratitude as nation to the person who has done such a tremendous service to our reality.”
“They are a national hero of the Stratocracy.”
“You will not even reveal the gender of the Endslayer.”
Jennifer paused, the silk draped around her shoulders hugging her torso before it curled around her legs.
So far, the night had been a disaster, not a word she used lightly. It had begun in the art gallery where one of the parahumans the Hussars called ‘einherjar’ had complimented the majesty of a painting depicting Leviathan in Newfoundland, and continued when Cezary Płowiec, a military representative in the Hussar delegation, had experienced a violent allergic reaction to shell-fish. Had the allergy been on the list provided by the Hussar delegation, sea food would never have been served to begin with but that had not mattered.
Weapons had been drawn. Fingers had been tight on triggers. Only some quick talking had averted a firefight.
Now, the murmur of chatter, polite laughter, and giggling filled the air. It was still a disaster. Two of the Hussar Parahumans had left the gala minutes after arriving, and that was not a good sign. Due to an appalling lack of information, Jennifer was certain they had violated some form of cultural taboo, and the Hussars who remained were too polite to say anything.
A throat cleared behind her.
Jennifer turned, and there was Wrona Ludomir, the nominal ‘head’ of the Hussar delegation, at least when he wasn’t deferring to one of the einherjar. A tall, black-haired man with a simple but earnest smile and a horrid scar on his cheek, he offered her one of the crystal wine glasses in his hand. She accepted it with murmured thanks.
Wrona lifted his own glass to his lips, and took a polite sip as he observed the dancers in the middle of the dance floor move to violin music. “The wine is good.”
“I am flattered to hear that,” Jennifer replied, adding another item on her mental to-do list. Even if someone from the State Department had to personally fly a crate or two from France, she would pull the strings needed to arrange it. The lack of history on all of the Hussar diplomats made it difficult to find suitable gifts for them. “I wish I could return the compliment. Perhaps one day, I will have the opportunity to visit your home.”
“It is a strange place we find ourselves.” Wrona traced the edge of the wine glass with the pad of his thumb. “A predicament neither of our nations ever conceived we would find ourselves in.”
It was true in a general sense, at least.
Jennifer was desperate.
It had been over a week since negotiations had begun, and the entire world was demanding results. The Russians, the Chinese, the United Kingdom- It was as if every nation that had an active embassy with the United States was demanding to be allowed to speak with the Hussar delegation, and that was just the beginning. Each day, the president personally called her, and each day, she was forced to report no progress had been made, to say nothing of her own bosses, and whatever senator or state representative vastly overestimated their own importance that day. Controlling the other end of the portal gave the United States considerable influence over who was allowed to talk to any of the Hussars, but there was always a chance a spy or foreign national would slip through the net they had erected, and make contact with the Hussar delegation.
It was time to take a risk. “Wrona, may we speak frankly?”
Wrona glanced at her, and arched a brow. “We may.”
“What is it the Hussars want?”
In the center of the dance floor, the dance ended, and those within thanked their partners and dispersed. The violins struck a new tune, a lively square dance performed to a quick beat. Wrona’s eyes slid over the new individuals who entered the middle, and to Jennifer’s surprise, one of the armored Hussar entered the dance floor with an American cape Jennifer didn’t recognize.
It was a first for the Hussar delegation, and eased at least some of her worries.
Wrona took another sip of his wine. “… We wish to survive, miss Kaufman, as all nations do. But the Hussar have yet to decide whether relations with your nation are conducive to that survival.”
“Any relationship between our nations would be of mutual benefit, Wrona. We are not in a position to be overbearing.”
A wry smile curled Wrona’s lips. “Politics are everything, Jennifer.”
There were. Jennifer took a deep breathe. “Wrona, there are strategic outcomes that the United States of America cannot tolerate.” The world was desperate for a solution to the Endbringers, and now that a solution had manifested, it would be used, one way or another. “I hope you understand that.”
“We do.”
Jennifer drained her cup. This short, five-minute conversation had resulted in more progress than the entire week which had preceded it. Samuel was a smart bugger, no doubt about it, but she was going to grill him over this. What had he seen that she hadn’t? What made this particular invitation to a less formal social event different enough that the Hussars had decided to accept the invitation?
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The V-shaped preening comb slid through my feathers, spreading the wax among the barbules of each quill. Keeping my wings clean took a lot of work, and some days I minded. Today, it was nice to lose myself in it, even if I couldn’t get most of the feathers near my back by myself.
Everything had gone crazy, and I was trying not to think about it.
Sitting on the edge of the cliff overlooking Emilton, below me, the city spread out with all it’s streets and cars that glinted when they caught the light. Reds, oranges, and yellows streaked the air, my breath steaming as the temperature plummeted. It was cold, and that sucked, but it was better than being around people who wanted to ask questions I didn’t know the answer to.
Curling my fingers, I stuck in them in my armpits, smearing more of the cold wash into the fur.
What was going to happen to me?
Most of my friends didn’t understand what it meant, killing the Simurgh. They’d lived on Atlas their entire life. Me? I knew. A little, at least. Up in Alaska, the Endbringers had been the sort of thing no one had to pay that much attention to, but who didn’t play hero on the playground, right? Then…
My heart ached.
A boot scuffed against wind-blown stone. “Figured I’d find you up here.” Dash. A big man, and one of Atlas’s capes who fought against the Atlas Defense Grid and all the war droids that were part of it, I didn’t trust him, but we’d talked on and off for about two years at this point. I knew him, and he knew me. “Aren’t you cold?”
Yeah. I was. But I didn’t say anything.
With a sigh, Dash sat down on the rock next to me. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”
“I keep telling them I don’t know what I did.” Hunching my shoulders, a hint of clear fluid on the tip of my nose wobbled. It had been dripping all day, but at least yesterday’s sneeze was gone. “They won’t listen.”
“Yeah, well that’s intel for you.”
“I don’t want to talk to them anymore.”
“You have to, kid.”
I didn’t say anything else, and neither did he. We just watched the sun set together in silence.