Recoil Pt 5-4 (Patreon)

Roberto winced as the handcuffs went on to his swollen wrists, but he did not struggle or protest, even when the deputy tightened them a little more than was absolutely necessary. I aligned myself with these people. I helped them with their cause. Whatever happens to me now, I deserve.

“ … the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have attorney present during any questioning. If you can't afford an attorney, one can be provided for you if you so choose. If you are not a United States citizen, you may contact your country's consulate prior to any questioning. Do you understand your rights as I have explained them to you?”

Roberto's head drooped. Papi, I have failed you. You would be ashamed to see me now. I am a bad person. “Si. Yes, I understand my rights.”

“We'll take it from here.” Two FBI agents had been standing by; one now stepped up. This one was a man; his partner didn't look any less forbidding for being a woman.

“I'm, uh, supposed to be taking him into custody,” the deputy objected.

“And we're taking over from here,” the agent said firmly. “Kidnapping is a federal matter. I've got this.”

The deputy sighed. “Fine. Knock yourself out.” Not without a backward glance, he moved off.

While the male agent pulled out his notepad, Roberto took a moment to look around at the compound. It was swarming with law enforcement agents of every stripe; the non-combatants were being led out under guard. He saw Kari speaking with some people, a little distance away. I hope she will be all right now.

“Okay now,” the man began, breaking into Roberto's thoughts. “My name is Keegan. I'm with the FBI. But you knew that bit.”

“Yes.” Roberto had already seen the agent's badge, though he hadn't known his name.

Keegan poised his pen over the pad. “And your name is?”

Roberto raised his chin slightly. “Aguijón.”

“Agwi … okay, how do you spell that?”

He obliged, spelling the name out slowly. “It means 'Stinger'.”

“No, kid.” Keegan shook his head. “I didn't mean your codename or whatever you call it. I meant your real name.”

“No.” It was Roberto's turn to shake his head.

“Kid.” Keegan's voice hardened. “It's an offence to withhold your name from the FBI when requested. Real name, now.”

“I did not have to give it when I fought el Gigante,” objected Roberto.

“Ell what?” asked Keegan, confused.

“El Gigante,” Roberto repeated. “The Behemoth. The monster that attacked New York.”

Keegan sighed. “Well, even if you were there, which I highly doubt, this is a whole different ball game. You're up for accessory to kidnapping, rape, deprivation of liberty … you get me? The list goes on. You play ball with me here and now, it'll go a lot easier than if you decide to hide behind some supervillain bullshit codename. Because we will fingerprint you, and we will identify you, and we will find every single tiny little crime you've committed, and one heaping great pile of shit's gonna come down on your head in very short order. Unless you feel like cooperating, of course. Do you understand?”

It will be no more than I deserve. “Yes. I understand. My name is Roberto Garcia.”

“Good. Glad you could see sense.” Keegan's tone moderated slightly. “Of course, if you're willing to waive your right to remain silent and talk to us right now, give us information about what was going on here, we might be willing to cut a deal, go easy on you. I mean, shit, you're just a kid. Twenty?”

“Eighteen,” Roberto mumbled. “I did not see all that went on here. They did not tell me everything. I did not know about -”

“Roberto!” It was Kari's voice. They both looked around; she was making her way over, accompanied by a man in a PRT uniform. She was still clad in the steel that she'd taken from Joanne's bed; the only reason he even knew it was her was because there were no other living metal statues tromping around.

Keegan's heretofore-silent partner stepped in their way, hand up to bar their progress. “You can stop right there,” she ordered them. “We're in the process of questioning a suspect.”

“Why is he even in handcuffs?” asked Kari. “He's done nothing wrong.”

“Incorrect, miss,” Keegan put in. “He's an accessory to several counts of kidnapping, as well as other, more serious, crimes. He is under arrest, and he will be charged with these crimes.”

“Not by you, he won't,” the PRT man stated. “Captain Lansing, Parahuman Response Teams. Aguijón is a parahuman, and thus falls under my jurisdiction.” He even pronounced the name correctly … well, almost.

“The FBI has federal jurisdiction -” began Keegan.

“The PRT has federal jurisdiction over parahumans,” Lansing snapped, overriding him. “No matter what crimes they've committed. We also know how to secure and transport them. Are you aware that he could have attacked and disabled both of you if he so chose?”

Keegan stared at him, then his head whipped around toward Roberto. “It is true,” Roberto admitted. He shrugged awkwardly, then regretted it as the movement sent a spike of pain up both arms. “But I was not going to.”

Lansing's mouth creased in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Which is good. Because from what this young lady's been telling me, you've got a good case for extenuating circumstances. And that would be extremely awkward if you then attacked a Federal agent.” He gestured to Keegan. “Get those cuffs off of him.”

“He's a dangerous parahuman -” began Keegan.

“- who needs medical attention. Which you were denying him in favour of badgering him with questions. I'm strongly considering reporting this dereliction of a prisoner's rights to your superior officers. It wasn't a request. Cuffs. Now.”

“Or, you know, I could take them off of him.” Kari's voice was casual. “But I'd be keeping them if that happened. Because trust me, you wouldn't want them back.” A metal tentacle extended from her shoulder in the general direction of Roberto's wrists. Keegan stared at it, then stepped back as it suddenly veered toward him. Spikes suddenly extended from the metal, all the way along its length.

“Christ,” the FBI man blurted. “Watch what you're doing with that thing.”

“As the senior PRT officer on the scene, I've deputised, uh, code name Metal Storm to act as an adjunct to the Parahuman Response Teams,” Lansing told the FBI agents with some relish. “She acts with my authority in this regard. Metal Storm, remove the prisoner's handcuffs.”

“Okay, Captain Lansing. Hold still, Roberto.” The spikes retracted, then the tentacle wrapped around Roberto's forearms; he heard the clink as metal met metal. For a moment, the chain linking the cuffs became more rigid, then they were gone, slithering off of his wrists.

“Thank you,” Roberto told her, bringing his arms around in front of him. He didn't rub his wrists, because he was pretty sure that his hands would not cooperate. “And thank you, Capitan.”

“Thank her,” Lansing advised him. “She's the one who insisted that you were one of the good guys. Me, I have yet to be convinced. But I'm willing to listen.” He nodded toward Roberto's hands. “That looks painful, son.”

“Si. It is. Smasher broke my hands.” Roberto avoided looking down at them, because somehow he knew that he wouldn't be able to ignore the dull throbbing pain any more if he did that.

“Yes, Miss Schultz told me how it went down. That was some kind of ballsy. Well, let's get you some medical attention. Those clowns Mirandize you yet?”

Roberto glanced over his shoulder at the two FBI agents staring impotently at them. “A policeman did, yes.”

“Good.” Lansing clasped his hands together behind his back as he walked. “So, you feel like talking to me without an attorney present? Fill in some of the blanks for me?”

Kari gave him an encouraging nod. Roberto took a deep breath. “Yes. I can do that.”

“Excellent. So, let's start from the top …”

-ooo-

Hey, no cheating.

Lisa grinned at me from the far end of the ice rink. “Cheating? Who's cheating?”

You know how these things work better than I do, I accused her. I was never very good at computer games.

“Well then, maybe you should have paid more attention.” She kicked her mech into high gear, sweeping down the rink at a breakneck pace. Clutched in the robotic hands, her oversized hockey stick batted the puck back and forth.

I pushed off as well, going to meet her. The visual display fed into my helmet HUD as I turned my head to follow her progress. The same HUD overlaid her face over the blank helmet of the mech, as hers did with mine. Around me, the fifteen-foot-tall humanoid robot responded to my every move, my own hockey stick swinging back and forth as I charged toward her.

Under us, the icy surface scored as the razor-sharp blades projecting from the feet of our mechs slid over the blue-white rink. I wondered if it really was water ice; we had to mass a ton or more in our mechs, and the rink showed no sign of cracking or breaking up under our weight.

Her footwork was better than mine; I could tell that she was going to get past me no matter how I manoeuvred.

So I had to change things up, take this out of the box. Up until now, I'd been playing hockey. Or rather, I'd been trying to play hockey, and instead I'd actually been playing catch-up. So I took my eye off the puck.

“Hey, if you're not even gonna try -”

Ignoring Lisa's attempt to distract me, I stepped to the side. As she came past, I swept my stick through her legs. The mechs were both heavy and strong, but the sticks were made to take punishment. There was a massive impact that nearly cost me my grip on the hockey stick, but she went down. A ton of human-controlled robot hit the ice with a tremendous crash, and began sliding across the slick surface.

“Hey!” she shouted, sounding winded. “I thought you said no cheating!”

Is there a rule against tripping? I retorted. Don't remember seeing one. Skating in a tight circle around her, I set out in pursuit of the puck. Fortunately, it wasn't heading straight for the goal, otherwise my ploy would have all been for nothing.

She was silent for a moment. “Darn it. No, there isn't. But I can write one in soon enough.”

Still won't apply retroactively.

“Unless I write that in too,” she pointed out.

Now, that would be cheating. I had caught up to the puck by now and fielded it with my stick. Lisa was still picking herself up off of the ice when I skated by, tapping the puck along as I went.

She gave chase, of course, but I had enough of a lead that the puck skittered into her goal while she was still seconds away from catching me. First goal I'd scored all game too; I allowed myself a victory fist-pump while the siren blared to announce the goal.

“Think you're smart, do you?” But her tone and expression belied her words; she was grinning widely, and I could hear the barely-suppressed laughter in her voice.

Kinda. I grinned back. You can focus on the puck or my stick, but not both at the same time.

“Really? Time to step this up, then.” She raised her hand; I would've thought it impossible to snap one's fingers in a mech-suit, but she managed it. Probably by cheating somehow. I wouldn't put it past her.

In response to the signal, doors on either side of the arena slid up, and we were joined by the other players. They were wearing team jerseys and carrying their own hockey sticks, but they were in no way human. I stared; despite all my experience with Lisa's bullshit world-building, I still couldn't believe my eyes.

Velociraptors? Playing hockey? Really? I had to admire the way they used their toe-claws to anchor themselves to the ice.

“Utahraptor, actually.” She waved at them as they formed up in front of us. “Bigger, a bit smarter.”

I watched as they fluffed their feathers out to deal with the chill. Still. Raptors. Really?

“And what's wrong with that?” Lisa was enjoying herself immensely. I could practically feel the level of smugness she was exuding.

If I have to tell you, you'd never understand it.

She poked her tongue out at me. “That's my line.”

Sure, sure. Uh, whose side are they on? I think there's only one pattern that they're wearing.

“Their side.” Lisa's grin widened. “Them versus us.”

Inside the mech's helmet, my eyes widened. Oh boy.

-beep-

I frowned. What was that?

“What was what?”

I heard a beep.

“I didn't hear -beep- ything.”

There it was again.

A look of realisation crossed her face. “Ah. Right. You're waking up. That's probably the heart monitor you're hearing.”

Oh. Right. I shouldn't have been surprised. Waking up had always been something that was going to happen at some point. However, I'd been enjoying myself so much that I'd been able to push the knowledge of this to the back of my mind.

-beep-

An unspoken agreement passed between us; together, we skated to the side of the rink. Behind us, the raptors divided their numbers into roughly equal sides and began to pass the puck back and forth. They were really quite good at it.

As the mech powered down, the helmet lifted off of my face and I found myself able to step down on to solid ground. Lisa climbed down out of her own mech and we stood side by side, watching the raptors darting over the ice. There was a lot of snarling and posturing, with the occasional scuffle that left feathers floating through the air.

-beep-

It's been fun, I mused. Thanks for letting me crash on your metaphorical couch while they've been working on me.

“Hey, you're welcome any time,” Lisa said. “It's your brain, after all. I'm the guest here.”

Hm. I suppose. I thought back over the adventures we had indulged in since I'd lost consciousness for good. Parasailing over Barsoom, sword and sorcery adventures with some decidedly odd companions, exploring a dead world containing exotic and sometimes deadly ultra-tech, laughing ourselves sick over those weird trade paperbacks on the Boardwalk … it could have been months or hours in the real world. I knew all too well how unreliable my sense of time was, when I was visiting Lisa. How long has it been? In real time, that is?

She shrugged. “A few days. Less than a week.”

-beep-

“You're almost awake.” Lisa hugged me, hard. “I've really enjoyed having you here.” She tilted her head back. “Kiss before you go?”

Her lips tasted of dust and blood. One of the raptors on the rink kicked off to get back into the fray, and a chip of ice almost got me in the eye. I blinked -

-ooo-

Tuesday, June 14, 1994

… and opened my eyes in a hospital room.

Just for a moment, it seemed to be almost identical to the one that Lisa had thrown together so that we could watch what was going on. So similar, in fact, that I briefly considered the idea that Lisa had pulled a double bluff on me, slotting me back into the dream. Why she would do that, I wasn't sure, unless it was part of a subtle practical joke on her part.

A nurse was fussing over something off to the side; I couldn't see her clearly, given that I wasn't wearing my glasses, but she did have blonde hair. “Lisa?” I husked.

Dry mouth. I hated hospital dry mouth.

The nurse turned toward me. “Captain Snow,” she said warmly. “It's good to meet you at last. I'm a big fan.” As she moved toward the bed, I began to make out details that I had previously missed. Such as a doctor's ID tag. “Doctor Goldstein, at your service.”

I blinked. “Uh, sorry. I thought you were a nurse.”

She chuckled in a somewhat conspiratorial manner. “Well, it's not like we're not both in a typically male-dominated profession, Captain. I'll forgive you, this time. How are you feeling?”

“Thirsty,” I rasped. “Water, please. And my glasses.”

“Certainly. Open wide.” She took a plastic squeeze bottle and squirted a little water into my mouth. I swallowed it; there wasn't quite enough to reach my stomach, but I felt my throat opening up. Next she handed me my glasses; a little clumsily, I fitted them into place. One of the lenses was cracked. “Now, do you feel up to talking?”

I hadn't had nearly enough water, but I nodded anyway. “Yes. Thank you.” My voice was almost back to normal, though I still sounded weaker than I liked. But when I took my first good look at the doctor, I got the impression that something was off. I couldn't figure out what – it was on the tip of my metaphorical tongue – but matters were definitely askew.

It wasn't anything in her demeanour; she was of average height for a woman, perhaps ten years older than me, with shoulder-length blonde hair and strong features. She wore a lab coat over scrubs and carried a clipboard in one hand, with a pen clipped to the top.

All of that was above board. So what was it about her? But before I could figure it out, she spoke again.

“Excellent.” Her smile softened the stern lines of her face, making her seem more approachable. “Now, do you know where you are?”

“I'm guessing a hospital, or a private clinic,” I said. “I don't know where, exactly, but I'm pretty sure that I've only been out for a few days.”

This time, it was her eyes that widened slightly with surprise. “Very good. Can you tell me your full name and rank?”

“Taylor Snow, Captain, Parahuman Response Teams.” I met her gaze with mine as I recited my service number. “Now that we've got that sorted out. In order of importance: how's Sergeant Kinsey and Lieutenant Piggot; where am I and how many more casualties did we take?”

Her blink showed that she wasn't used to having her patients react in such a forceful manner, especially after having just awoken from sedation. For my part, I'd spent a good deal of my cape (and post-cape) life in a series of less than advantageous positions. My instinctive reaction in that kind of situation was always to retake the initiative, just as fast as possible. Escalate and overcome. It had saved my life more than once.

“I – well, to answer your questions in reverse order, I don't know precisely how many casualties your side took, but I'm told that it could have been a lot worse.” As she spoke, she took a thermometer from her pocket and shook it briskly. “You're in the medical bay of the Austin PRT building, and your Sergeant Kinsey is alive and well, if a little banged about. Lieutenant Piggot was also alive and well, the last I saw her.”

As I opened my mouth to ask further questions, she popped the thermometer into it, effectively silencing me. “Sergeant Kinsey,” she went on, “has suffered injuries that, while temporarily disabling, should be in no way life-threatening. He is expected to make a full recovery. Just as you are, much to the surprise of basically everyone who saw the extent of your injuries after the battle.”

I relaxed somewhat, sagging back into the pillow. It was only then that I realised that I had been trying to sit up, and that the diagonal line of fire inside my torso was a good indication that maybe I shouldn't be doing that. But Kinsey was alive and probably out of danger. And I'd live too, which was somewhat of a relief as well.

Removing the thermometer, Dr Goldstein read it off before returning it to her pocket and making a note on the clipboard. “You've got the first stirrings of a fever,” she noted, “so we'll be dropping some antibiotics into your IV to ensure that no infections catch hold. I would advise you to do as little strenuous movement as possible over the next week or two, so that you can mend properly.” She paused. “Do you have any questions?”

“Yes.” I inhaled carefully. It was, as I had suspected, painful to breathe deeply. But I managed it twice more before looking at Dr Goldstein. “When can I see Kinsey? I need to debrief him on what happened after I passed out.”

Slowly, she shook her head; it took a moment before I realised that she was expressing disbelief rather than negation. “Captain Snow, you continue to surprise me. Most people in your situation would be just happy to be alive, rather than attempting to go straight back to work. I will notify the Sergeant that you are asking after him. I will also be letting your superiors know that you seem to be entirely lucid and in command of your faculties.”

“No,” I insisted, putting every ounce of command I possessed into my voice. “I want to talk to Kinsey, make sure he's all right.”

“And you will,” she replied, equally firmly. “Just as soon as you can lie there for five minutes without falling asleep.”

“I can do that,” I assured her. Fall asleep, hah. Relaxing some more, I prepared to enjoy five minutes of rest before I spoke to Kinsey. Doctor Goldstein put the clipboard down on the bedside table and began to check the IV bags. Obligingly, I moved my arms so as to make sure the lines weren't stretched or kinked. I hope the antibiotics do their job. Last thing I need is to be laid up for too long. I've got work to do.

As I did so, I glanced idly at the clipboard. None of the notations made sense, but off to the side, she'd doodled a shape. If looked at from the correct angle, it might even have looked a little like the New Wave logo. But that's stupid. New Wave won't be a going concern for years yet.

I began to go over in my mind what I wanted to say to Kinsey. From what I recalled, he'd saved my life at least once inside the compound, and I intended to make sure he got recognised for it. Good man, Kinsey. Loyal to a fault. Never regretted taking him on as my …

-ooo-

“George four, are you asleep? Get back in formation, you dozy sod!”

As the voice crackled in my headset, I realised that I had drifted out of the finger-four formation. Nudging my joystick and opening the throttle a hair, I slid back into position on the flank of my wingman's plane.

“Ah, Sleeping Beauty returns,” Lisa observed from behind me, where she manned the turret-mounted .75 calibre machine-guns. “You held out for two and a half minutes. Doctor Goldstein is most impressed.”

I frowned, switching my radio off. What? I was sedated again?

“Nope.” I could hear the grin in her voice. “But you've still got traces of it in your system, and your body is working hard to repair itself, so sleep wasn't exactly impossible to come by.”

My grin matched hers. As opposed to when you dragged me into sleep-state to warn me about the ambush back at the compound, yeah?

“Precisely. Now, you might want to make sure we don't get ambushed in this scenario too, huh?”

Yeah, yeah, got it. I switched my radio back on, then got back to the business of surviving as a fighter pilot.

Checking my wingman's position, I peered ahead of us, then behind. A visual scan of the sky above us gave me nothing but a few fluffy clouds. Rocking my wings slightly, I looked down at the rolling English countryside far below. Even though I was watching intently, I almost didn't spot them; three leather-winged shapes, a hundred feet from tip to tip, gliding stealthily over the farmland. Their camouflage was perfect; the only reason I saw them at all was when they passed over a stream, interrupting the glint of sunlight off of water.

George four, I reported over the radio. I have three Drachen, heading west-sou-west, three o'clock low, over!

The Germans had caught us napping at the beginning of the Second Great War. The ancient traditional dragon birthing grounds had fallen into disuse, so that the sabotage caused by their warcasters was not noticed until it was almost too late. We'd had to fall back on mundane technology to hold them off until our own draconic forces could take to the skies against the Drachenkraft.

To give Squadron Leader Hamilton his due, he didn't doubt my word for an instant. “George four, take lead. Bring us on to them, over.”

Roger, George leader. Over, I replied, heeling the plane over into a steep dive. Pushing the throttle forward, I forced the Myrddin engine into a throaty bellow, even as we stooped upon the prey from above.

Perhaps 'prey' wasn't the right word. The Drachen-riders had been undoubtedly aware of us, and the change in my engine note served warning that we now knew about them. Great wings flexed and flapped, pushing them around to face our attack. Unlike aircraft, Drachen were intelligent and could act independently of the rider's commands if the situation warranted it. They were also highly agile, and of course had their own built-in weaponry.

“George flight, George leader,” Hamilton radioed. “A single raking pass, then pick your partners and dance, over.”

“George two, roger.”

“George three, roger.”

George four, roger.

The Drachen were already beating their wings strongly for altitude. Correction; two of them were. The third had feinted the turn, but was now flying fast and strong toward what had to be their intended target; a dam set in a wooded valley, just up ahead. This dam supplied power to a factory that nestled in the valley beyond, as well as to the village where the factory workers dwelt. Demolishing the dam would destroy the factory and the village both, costing hundreds of lives and putting a not insignificant dent in Britain's war effort.

Hamilton had not missed the problem. “George four. The Drachen that's getting away – pursue and destroy, over.”

Pursue and destroy, roger. But it wouldn't be as easy as it seemed. The two Drachen and their riders were determined to run interference for their comrade. I didn't try to swing around them; that would have left the plane open to a strike from the side. Instead, I bored straight down the middle.

Distantly, I could hear Lisa's yelp as she hung on for dear life, and Hamilton yelling at me over the radio. I tuned both of them out, focusing on the Drachen before me. They were fast and agile, but they were slow in the climb, which was our only advantage over them. The one on the left was focusing on the other planes; the one I was aiming at had its eyes on me. I could see the Drachen-rider crouched over its neck, conveying instructions, as we closed at a frankly ill-advised speed.

The moment I was waiting for arrived; the Drachen opened its mouth to breathe a mass of superheated plasma at me. In doing so, it instinctively closed its eyes, as every Drachen did. Immune to their own breath they might be, but it still had to sting if it got in their delicate eyes.

Timing it to a nicety, I rolled the plane, corkscrewing away from the blast of flame that must have blistered the paint on the plane's underbelly. As I did so, I opened fire. The twin .75 calibre mounts on the wings let loose with their devastating firepower as my crosshairs tracked across the beast's body.

All draconic creatures – Drachen and dragons alike – were equipped with heavy scales that might well turn a lesser bullet. Their inhuman vitality had proven capable, time and again, of surviving wounds even from the heavy bullets devised to punch through their natural armour. But we were loaded with freezer rounds, product of the very best British alchemy, and guaranteed to chill even the superheated blood of a battle-crazy Drachen.

My bullets smashed into it, ice wreathing across its scaly hide from each impact point. The plane was still rolling as I streaked past my target, unmasking Lisa's turret so that she could have her turn. I could literally feel the hammering through the airframe as her quad-seventy-fives opened up, delivering a whole new meaning of pain to the Drachen before we were past it and gone.

Ahead of us, the last of the three was beating its wings frantically, trying to get away. But we had a massive advantage in speed due to the dive; we would overhaul it long before it reached its target. Grimly, I settled the reticule on to it.

They weren't paying me to bring any ammunition back, after all …

-ooo-

Wednesday, June 15, 1994

It was a lovely morning in Brockton Bay; seagulls wheeled and screeched over the ocean. I sighed as I took a deep lungful of the brisk morning breeze. Lisa and I had enjoyed some more interesting scenarios since I had fallen asleep, but I had to admit that shooting down hostile dragons had topped everything out for sheer fun. Now we were just relaxing, waiting for my wake-up call.

Holding two ice cream cones, I strolled back to where Lisa sat on the bench. Here you are.

Lisa looked up from her trade paperback. “Oh, thanks. This one just came in. Have you seen it yet?”

I looked at the back cover of the book; it featured … me, but with fur on my face and wolf-type ears, leading a pack of … Is that you and the Undersiders?

“Uh huh. It's pretty good, actually.” She tapped another one. “In this one, you get all explodey.”

Explodey. I raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. You beat the crap out of Glory Girl. Then you steal her dress.”

Why would I do that?

“Because your clothes are all exploded, duh.”

I thought about that as I climbed over the back of the bench and settled down alongside her. Okay, that sounds logical.

Smirking, she took the choc chip ice cream from me and made room on the bench. “Oh, and you gotta see the one with the anvils.”

Anvils?

I didn't get an answer, unless I counted snickering as she went back to reading the graphic novel. “Okay,” I sighed, picking up the one she'd tapped. Let's see how explodey I get.

Unfortunately, it seemed that the answer to that was going to have to wait, as a wave of dizziness swept over me. Whoops.

Lisa looked up at me, ice cream rimming her lips. “Waking up again, huh?”

Seems that way. I sighed. Being injured is a pain. Just get used to being asleep, and they wake you up again.

She seemed to be much more amused than the comment warranted, but before I could wonder about it, she put down the trade paperback. “Well, I'll be here when you get back. Kiss before you go?”

-ooo-

The taste of dust and blood and chocolate chip ice cream was just fading from my lips as I opened my eyes. My head was much more clear now, I realised. I'd been functional before, but nowhere near the top of my form. Now, everything seemed crystal clear to me.

In a manner of speaking, of course; I wasn't wearing my glasses, so everything beyond arms' reach was still fuzzy to my vision.

“Ah, Captain Snow, you're awake.” That sounded like Doctor Goldstein; my glasses were pushed into my hand. I put them on, noting that the cracked lens had been replaced, and looked around the room.

“I am,” I replied huskily. “I'm guessing that people want to talk to me?”

She smiled warmly; either she had one hell of a bedside manner, or she was a genuinely nice person. “You're tracking very well today, Captain. I have to admit that I'm impressed. Though I'm also curious.”

“Oh?” I asked, pushing myself up into a slightly more elevated position. There was a twinge from my midsection, but nowhere near as definitive as the last time I'd tried that. “If it's about classified matters, I'm afraid I won't be able to help you.” There was a paper cup full of water on the bedside table; reaching for it, I sipped, letting the cool liquid trickle down my throat.

She watched my every action keenly, her expression radiating pleased pride. It occurred to me that I was being tested, to see how much I reacted to my surroundings. This did not stop me from emptying the cup.

“No classified matters, Captain,” she assured me. “I'm just wondering about the other scars you carry. Your PRT medical records don't show you as being involved in any major combat actions before last week, and yet you bear the marks of older wounds, long healed. Including a most peculiar one on your shoulder.”

“Ah, right,” I replied, crumpling the paper cup and seeing if I could get it into the trash can that sat in the corner. My feeble throw fell a good two yards short, reminding me exactly how weak I still was. “Yeah, I know what you're talking about. Sorry, can't help you with that one.”

It was almost funny. The scars I had gotten during my previous life in Brockton Bay, I couldn't talk about. Their origins had to stay hidden behind a curtain of pretended amnesia. In the meantime, while I had participated in a couple of off-the-books 'combat actions' since joining the PRT, I couldn't talk about that either. Good thing I didn't pick up any scars from those times.

“Can't, or won't?” Had she picked up the slightest hesitation from my body language? I hated to deceive the woman; she was warm and caring and obviously wanted to do right by me.

Except that there was the oddity. I hadn't been able to pinpoint it on the last go-around, but this time I did. Somehow, I had the feeling that I knew her from somewhere. Or not her precisely, but her features were more than a little familiar. Her eyes were a deep hazel and there was something about the cheekbones, but I just couldn't place her.

Of course, this feeling wasn't exactly unusual for me since arriving in this time. Either a face or a surname or both would trigger an association; sometimes it would be false and sometimes it would actually lead somewhere. Most times, I tried to ignore it. But now, I was more than a thousand miles from home, and I was pretty sure I'd never met anyone with the last name of Goldstein. Maybe she's someone's mother?

“I'm sorry.” Shrugging hurt, but not all that much. “I'm pretty sure there's a dossier on me somewhere around the place. There's a lot of details that are probably classified, but my background before joining the PRT should be innocent enough.”

“There is, there are, and it is.” She smiled again, causing warm creases to form by her eyes. “I've already read it, as much of it as my clearance level will allow me to see, anyway. In fact, I probably know more about your background than you do.”

I fixed her with a level stare. “Either the sedative is still messing with my mind, or you're going to have to explain that statement.” I knew what she was referring to, of course.

“To put it simply, we backtracked your movements,” she explained. “An investigator found where you'd been hired on as a deckhand in Boca Raton, and traced your movements back from there. He even found out your parents' names.”

I let my jaw drop slightly. The surprise was faked, of course, given that I had painstakingly planted all the clues that she was referring to, in anticipation of just such an investigation. “Holy shit,” I breathed. “Are they still …”

“I'm sorry.” Oddly enough, despite her earlier compassionate demeanour, her next words were dry and matter-of-fact. “It was a traffic accident, when you were quite young. I can give you what details we have of them, if you want.”

I bit my lip, playing out indecision. “I … would I be a horrible person if I said not right now?”

Her chuckle was warm, forgiving. I felt bad about playing her like this. “Of course not. It's a really big thing. You're literally recovering from life-threatening injuries. It's a good idea to take things one revelation at a time, even for someone who's as good as you seem to be at data analysis.”

With a sigh, I forced myself to relax. “Well, okay then. I guess … it's in my dossier now, so all I have to do is go look, right?”

“Correct.” She pulled out her thermometer and shook it. “Well, you certainly seem to be lucid enough, apart from the memory blank. You honestly have no idea how that shoulder injury took place, or why there's a piece of aluminum lodged in the bone?”

“None whatsoever,” I assured her, lying through my teeth. “Doctor Veder, back in Brockton Bay, seemed to think that I'd led a really rough life.”

“All the evidence would seem to support that notion, yes,” she agreed dryly. “Open up, please.”

Dutifully, I let her put the thermometer in my mouth.

“And you can't recall your parents, or anywhere you lived before Brockton Bay?” she asked absently, taking my wrist and keeping her eyes on her watch. Her fingers were cool on my skin.

Lying was easier with a thermometer in my mouth; I mumbled something in the negative, and shook my head.

“Well, from all accounts, they tended to move around a bit. Almost skittering from place to place.”

Her relaxed tone caught me by surprise, that one word jumping out at me. I managed to control my reaction to some degree, but I still stiffened slightly.

“Are you all right, Captain?” she asked, her eyes intent on me.

“Yeah, sorry,” I mumbled around the thermometer. “Twinge.”

“Must have been a big one; your pulse rate jumped dramatically just then.” She let go of my wrist and retrieved her thermometer. “Temperature's excellent and your colour is looking good. Now all I have to do is dissuade you from doing jumping jacks or anything else strenuous for the next few weeks. It's a good thing we don't have any Endbringer battles coming up.”

This time, I was jolted hard. Even as I tried to explain it away – the term 'Endbringer' had been coined somewhere; I had just used it ahead of time – I knew full well that the way she was phrasing it meant that she was aware of more than one Endbringer.

Is she a precog? A mind reader? Have I been talking in my sleep? Blown everything wide open? Am I even where she said I was, or am I in some top-secret facility, preparing to have my every secret stripped from my head?

All of that went through my mind in an instant, my mouth going dry as I tried to formulate escape plans. Then I realised that she was watching me, observing my reaction to her words. Busted.

“Relax, Taylor,” she murmured, a smile curving her lips.

“Why?” If I come off the bed fast enough, if the IVs don't get in the way, if I don't just fall on my ass, I might be able to take her down …

“Because I'm on your side.” Reaching out, she placed a hand on my shoulder. Belatedly, I realised that I was half-sitting up, and the broad stroke of fire within my torso was objecting to this, rather strenuously. “Now lie back down before you hurt yourself. More than you're already hurt, that is.”

Wait. If this was a danger, then Lisa would have warned me. Allowing myself to relax by degrees, I eased back down on to the bed. I took a breath, as deep as I could allow myself without causing physical pain, and then another. “You know where I came from.”

“Yes.” Her gaze was direct.

“How? Who are you? What do you want?”

She smiled, clearly enjoying the situation. I found it far less humorous. “I want what you want. As for the rest of it, that's a discussion for another time.” Her head tilted toward the door. “You have visitors.”

Before I could respond, she stepped to the door and opened it. “She's awake,” she called out. “You can come in now.”

The door opened wider and three people entered. First in was Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown; not someone I really wanted to confront again, but the choice wasn't really in my hands any more. Next was Deputy Director Grantham of the Austin station. With Walsh's death, I assumed that he was stepping up to the Director spot, but I didn't know that for certain. Last was a mild surprise but a welcome one; Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, wearing undress fatigues.

With their presence, the likelihood that I had been spirited away to some undisclosed location seemed less and less. A study of their expressions confirmed it. Costa-Brown was impassive and I didn't know Grantham well enough to read him, but Hamilton wore the same half-proud, half-confounded expression that I had encountered every time I pulled yet another rabbit out of the hat. His 'you are in trouble, young lady' expression was absent; that one held less pride and more exasperation.

“Uh-” I began. “Chief Director Costa-Brown, ma'am.” I started to salute, then stopped as the IV lines pulled at my wrist.

“No need for the formalities, Captain Snow,” the Chief Director said briskly. “You're an invalid and we're uncovered.”

“Uh, thank you, ma'am,” I replied, letting my arm drop to my side.

“Captain Snow,” Grantham said next. “We need your verbal report on what happened. Your own words, in your own time.”

Ah. This was looking less and less like a crucifixion all the time. I nodded. “Certainly … uh, Director … ?”

Gravely, he nodded. “That's correct. I've been confirmed as Walsh's replacement. What happened to him? How did he die?”

Carefully, I hitched myself up a little in the bed. “I'm pretty sure they were tipped off. The Blaster, Sunstrike, shot us down on the first pass. The beam nearly cut the chopper in half. Walsh was right in its path. He never stood a chance. It did cut him in half. There was blood all over the inside of the chopper.”

“We have the recordings from the pilots just before the helicopter crashed,” the Chief Director supplied. “Who survived the crash?”

“Myself, Kinsey, Hanran and Rodriguez,” I reported concisely. “I was knocked out briefly. I don't remember being wounded, just being woken up and dragged out of the chopper by Kinsey. The pilots didn't make it. There was fire, and I could smell avgas. I warned them, I think. We only got behind cover just in time.”

“According to the medical report, Kinsey suffered a broken arm, while you had a broken leg and other, more serious, injuries.” Grantham tilted his head curiously. “How did you get behind cover fast enough?”

“Kinsey was carrying me,” I told him. “Once the chopper blew, we had three options, all bad. The first one was to try to get out. The second was to surrender and hope for merciful treatment. The third was to press on. I chose that option.”

“Bad options, indeed,” murmured Hamilton. “So we are to understand that you gave the order to continue to the objective, not Hanran or Rodriguez? I just want to be clear on that.”

I eyed him, wondering where he was going with that. “Yes, sir,” I confirmed. “Rodriguez suggested surrender and Hanran was indecisive. I made the call, and Kinsey backed me. No hesitation. Once they saw we were committed, Hanran and Rodriguez followed suit.”

“You do realise that they technically outranked you, Captain.” That was the Chief Director. “Making the call like that could have been construed as mutiny.”

I met her gaze unflinchingly. “Ma'am, neither of them had military training. Hanran had no idea what to do, and Rodriguez wanted to surrender. You know what they were doing to those girls in there. I was not going to give myself up to those people without a fight. So I made the call, and I will stand by it.”

Was that a slight smile on Costa-Brown's face? Had I just made her more determined to poach me for her think-tank?

“Surrender was certainly the wrong option,” agreed Hamilton. “With you four as hostages, it would have gotten very bad indeed. And unless they had a top-notch surgeon on hand, your injuries would have killed you in less than a day. In my professional opinion, you did precisely the right thing.”

“I don't have a military background,” Grantham offered, “but when you put it like that, I can't see that you had any other option.”

“Agreed,” the Chief Director said. “Now, as for Aguijón. What's your opinion of him?”

The sudden shift in direction caught me a little by surprise, but I did my best to answer quickly. “I didn't see him do much. But he got hurt defending the girl Kari. And he distracted Rodriguez when he was about to shoot Kinsey and me. Kari stood up for him. She said that he could've followed orders and raped her, but he chose to protect her instead. That makes him all right in my book.”

“Indeed,” Grantham agreed. “Now for the really tricky one. Rodriguez. You said he was about to shoot you?”

“Well, yes,” I said. “He had a rifle and he was pointing it at Kinsey and me. Finger on the trigger.”

Hamilton coughed, looking unhappy. “You understand, Snow, that we have to be certain that was a righteous kill. The ATF is very unhappy that the PRT shot one of theirs, and they want to nail someone's hide to the wall. They're calling for an inquiry, and all indications are that they're going to come at you with everything they've got.”

Costa-Brown took over. “Sergeant Kinsey says that you stated outright that Rodriguez was a mole. How did you know this?”

I was careful to look the Chief Director right in the eye. “It was a combination of factors. He had dragged his heels on the whole operation, done his best to sow doubt that it was the best thing to do. Once we were behind enemy lines, he tried to advocate surrender. And even when we were in cover, he was consistently defeatist. I was injured and drifting from the pain, when all the pieces dropped into place. Then, of course, once I actually said it, he was going to kill us. Hanran was down at that point, and Joanne and Kari were outside keeping the Fallen at bay. Aguijón gave me an opening, and I took it.”

“And Sergeant Kinsey?” asked Grantham. “What was he doing?”

“He'd handed over his weapon to Hanran,” I explained. “When the bomb went off, it threw us against the wall. He took the impact for me. I think he got hurt again, doing that. He didn't have any options for taking out Rodriguez. I did.” I took as deep a breath as I dared. “Sergeant Kinsey's actions throughout this whole thing were exemplary. He deserves the highest recognition that we can give him. And Hanran deserves something as well. He stepped up.”

Hamilton chuckled briefly. “The good Sergeant said almost exactly the same thing about you. And in case you're wondering, his account backs yours, almost word for word.”

“I wasn't actually wondering about that, sir,” I said. Kinsey's always had my back. “But now that you mention him, how is he? What sort of shape is he in? Can I talk to him?” He's alive. But I want to make sure he's all right.

“We can definitely arrange a visit,” Grantham agreed. “If you don't have a problem with that, Doctor Goldstein?”

We looked over at the doctor, who had managed to fade into the background during the debriefing. I did not miss that she hadn't been ordered from the room. I bet she's cleared for this and more.

“I can't see a problem with that,” Goldstein said. She managed to project almost a motherly air. “If the Captain can avoid becoming over-excited, that is.”

“I think I can manage that,” I responded dryly. I still had my questions about her, but she wasn't overtly working against me, so I decided to shelve them until I could answer them. In private, that is; those were not questions that I intended to ask with Alexandria in the room. But I wasn't going to trust her an inch until I had my answers.

“For that matter,” the doctor went on, “I've had the rescuees also asking if they could see Captain Snow. Something about a small matter of saying thank you. Will that be a problem for anyone?”

Grantham glanced at the Chief Director, who shook her head. “I have no issue with that,” she said.

“Neither do I,” Grantham agreed. “Go ahead, Doctor.” The Chief Director went to the door and opened it; Grantham followed her, but paused on the threshold. “Captain Snow.”

“Yes, Director?” I asked.

He looked me in the eye. “In case you didn't get the memo, we think you did a magnificent job. We're not going to let the ATF pin a goddamned thing on you.”

“Thank you, Director,” I replied. “Uh … one more thing?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Lieutenant Piggot. Emily. Is she all right?”

He grimaced. “Physically, yes. Legally, not so much.”

I blinked. “Legally?”

The lines on his face deepened. “After your chopper went down, she more or less held a tent-full of captains at gunpoint until they'd agreed to follow the PRT's lead on the rescue mission. She'll be facing a court-martial.”

“Oh. Shit.”

“That's an accurate summation of the situation, yes.” He tilted his hand. “There are extenuating circumstances; she volunteered to go in with the first wave, and she was the first one to fight her way through to you, but she's made a lot of people unhappy.”

I nodded soberly. “I can see that. Request permission to attend and provide a character witness for her.”

“Certainly, Captain.” He bestowed a look of grim approval on me. “I'll see that it's done.”

“Thank you, Director.”

He left; I sagged back into the pillows as the door closed behind him. Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton stepped forward. “How are you feeling, Snow? Really, I mean?”

I looked up into his concerned eyes. “Well, sir, I ache pretty well all over, and any time I try to move too fast, it feels like someone's trying to dig out my internal organs with a rusty spoon, but I feel a lot better than I figure I should, under the circumstances. Did you dig up a parahuman healer from somewhere?”

“I only wish,” he snorted. “I don't know if Eidolon can heal people, but he's doing something important at the other end of the country. No, we owe your continued existence to this lady here. She volunteered for the medical team when it was formed for this mission.”

He indicated Doctor Goldstein, who assumed an expression of mild attentiveness. I looked at her as well. Nobody spoke for a long moment.

“Okay, I'll bite,” I conceded. “If you're not a parahuman healer, then how did you save my sorry ass?”

Doctor Goldstein smiled. “Well, it's lucky that you're a universal recipient. We were pouring blood into you as soon as they got you out of the compound. Even your Sergeant Kinsey insisted on contributing, despite his own injuries. As did Lieutenant Piggot.”

I rolled my eyes. “Kinsey would.” I'm going to have to have words with that man.

“Hey, don't knock it,” she reproved me. “His blood may have been what kept you alive. As it was, we were touch and go. You had a titanium strut from the chopper all the way through your abdomen and into your chest, and by the time we got to you, you were losing blood faster than we could put it into you. We had no way to get it out of you and operate to fix the damage fast enough to save your life. Well, I had no way, anyway.”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “Titanium strut. Are you saying … Kari saved my life?”

This was the first time that I'd seen the doctor taken aback. She looked at Hamilton in some surprise, and he gave her a shrug and a smile. “I did warn you. She's very quick.”

“Evidently,” she agreed. “Short story: yes. Long story … well, I got her in to see if she could get the metal out of you quickly enough to let me operate, and she went one better. It appears that whatever metal she is controlling gives her tactile sensations. She could feel what was going on around the spar. So I put you under an X-ray machine, and coached her through closing off your blood vessels. Basically, she stitched you up from the inside. Pulled the metal back and fixed the damage as she went.”

“Using titanium?” I asked. “Is that a thing?”

“It's already used as a surgery-safe metal for implants,” she pointed out. “We're just lucky that it's also used in helicopters. So yes, she cleared out all the incidental pieces, and you've got hundreds of tiny – and not so tiny – titanium sutures holding you together on the inside. Weirdest surgical procedure I ever directed. Kid's got a great future as a surgeon, if she can find a medical school that'll accept her for what she is.”

I nodded slowly. “I'm alive, so I'll accept that. Thank you, doctor.”

“Hey, I just told her what to do,” Doctor Goldstein pointed out. “She's the one who did the heavy lifting.”

“Well, I'll be thanking her just as soon as I see her,” I said. “Right now, I'm thanking you.”

“You also have my thanks, doctor,” Hamilton added. “Captain Snow is one of my very best people, and I would have hated to lose her to a bunch of parahuman hillbilly cultists.” He directed a mock glare my way. “Do you hear me, Captain? No more leaping into danger for you. I don't think my heart could stand it.”

“But, sir, I didn't leap,” I protested. “I was shot down, remember?”

He waved a hand airily. “Excuses, excuses.”

Doctor Goldstein chuckled. “I can see you two have worked together for a while.”

“Trust me,” I told her, “I've had worse bosses.”

“And I've had less insubordinate … subordinates,” he growled, although there was a smile playing on his face. “But nobody who gets me the results that you do.”

“Thank you, sir.” I smiled at him. “But, uh, before we bring the visitors in, would I be able to have a word in private with Doctor Goldstein?”

He cleared his throat. “Of course, Captain. Let me know when you're ready for the onslaught.”

“Copy that, sir.” I gave him a firm nod in lieu of a salute.

Once the door had closed behind him, I turned to the doctor, who gazed back at me impassively. “Okay, time to clear the air,” I told her flatly.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, it is, is it?”

“You know it is.” I felt acutely hampered by the fact that I was flat on my back, with titanium stitches holding me together, and several IVs dribbling god-knew-what into my veins. “You don't just get to drop a bomb like that and then walk away. Who are you?”

“Let me tell you a story,” Doctor Goldstein replied, pulling a chair up to the side of the bed. “Once upon a time, there was a little girl. A good little girl, in a bad, bad world. She loved her mommy, and her mommy loved her back. She had a brother too, older than her. He used to take care of her. She loved him too.”

She paused, perhaps choosing her next words carefully. I let her take her time. So far, her words had not rung a bell with me. Is this why Lisa was smiling just before I woke up?

"But then Behemoth happened," she went on abruptly, dropping the storybook tone. "Mom wasn't attending, but my brother was. Everyone died, or so we thought. Behemoth was out of control. A living atomic explosion, blasting his way across the face of the earth. Heading for America. For Brockton Bay. For me. Mom joined the defenders, trying to hold him off while they evacuated the rest of us. When that went to hell, Miss Militia grabbed me and ran for it. We got away, but Behemoth just kept coming. Somewhere in that hell, in that chaos, I triggered. And then the man in the robes appeared."

"The man in the robes?" My mind went back five years. "An Indian man? Ornate robes?"

She nodded. "Yes. He said twenty-one words, and then sent me away. I appeared on the front seat of a police car in Seattle. They couldn't find my parents, which wasn't surprising. So I got adopted. The Goldsteins are lovely people, but I've never forgotten my mother. Or the words that the man said to me. I can't forget anything, you see."

"Your trigger."

"My trigger," she agreed. "And so I was baptised Ruth Goldstein. Grew up. Went to medical school. Became a surgeon. And now I'm here."

"Wait, wait," I protested. "What were the twenty-one words?"

She closed her eyes; when she spoke, her voice was flat. "Brockton Bay. Nineteen eighty-nine. Find Weaver. She knows how to save the world. Help her. Do not use your powers."

"Um." I paused. "That doesn't tell me how you know -"

"Your unmasking as Skitter and rebranding as Weaver were on TV," she pointed out. "I didn't understand it when I saw it, but I remembered. Years later, I made sense out of it. I knew your first name and what you looked like, what powers you had, everything. It wasn't hard to keep track of you, especially after you joined the PRT." She tilted her head. "Though you've been low-key with your powers. Did he tell you not to use them, as well?"

"No," I muttered. "I lost them when I came back here." I looked up at her. "I could've done with some assistance when I first arrived." My tone was sharp, but I didn't care. "Where the hell were you?"

"I knew that you'd show up," she replied, showing no sign of resentment. "But I couldn't get there. Unavoidable circumstances. So I sent word to a colleague of mine, to keep an eye out for you and take care of you if she could."

"Nina Veder," I guessed.

She grinned. "Got it in one. Did you tell her who you really are?"

"Mostly," I admitted. "Didn't tell her everything about everything. But she didn't pry. She's a good person. Though she never told me about you."

"She's good at keeping people's secrets," Doctor Goldstein noted.

"Okay," I said. "You've told me your story. But you haven't said how long you've been here and who the hell you are. Because your face is familiar. I just can't place it."

"I'm not surprised." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "We've never met before yesterday. I knew your face but you didn't know mine. You have, however, met my mother and father. I was sent back to the year nineteen sixty-one. I'm thirty-four years old.

"And my birth name is Aster Anders."

Part 5-5

[A/N: To skip the flashback, go to this post ]