Collateral Damage Pt 5 (Patreon)

Part Five: Accidentally (Danny)

[A/N 1: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: This chapter is part one of a two-parter, showing how power can destroy even without meaning to.]

[A/N 3: Trigger warning: this chapter references suicide.]

As a mushroom cloud began to rise over the ruins of Winslow High School and the somewhat traumatised survivors of same (nearly everyone had made it out, some through large holes in the walls which hadn’t been there at the beginning of the day) a smaller explosion echoed from the frontage of the Brockton Bay PRT building.

Cars swerved, horns honked and alarms went off. Standing in a small crater (hardly there at all, really, more of an extremely scorched and slightly depressed section of sidewalk) the armoured form of Ragnarok looked around to get his bearings, then uttered two phrases which have caused more worry and regret than nearly any other in the English language.

“All right, then,” he said briskly. “Let’s do this.”

<><>

Taylor

I looked dubiously up at the PRT building. “Big fish?” I asked. “Here?” I couldn’t think of anyone in the PRT who might have pissed Dad or me off. Well, there was whoever had been supposedly in charge of Sophia as a Ward. But she hadn’t attacked me as a Ward; she’d done it out of costume. Reluctantly, I decided to give them a pass on that.

“Oh, there’s nobody in there that I’d normally consider wasting a moment of time on.” Dad’s voice was definite. “But I want to see if Legend did what I told him to do. And they probably have information on people I do want to deal with.” Unspoken was the clear assumption that they’d share that information with him. I couldn’t see it going any other way.

Still, it sounded boring as batshit. I hadn’t had my powers for long, but already there was a fizzing sensation in my head. I wanted to get out and do shit. Break something. See if I could goad some suicidal fuckwit into mugging me. Being cooped up inside that building was not a good idea for new and improved Taylor. I’d probably end up launching the coffee machine into orbit through the roof or something. Which would be amazing, but Dad might get pissed if he didn’t get the information he was after.

“That sounds cool and all, but is it okay if I just wander for a bit?” I asked. I pointed east down the street. “I’ll be down at the Boardwalk. If you want to find me, just blow something up.”

“I’m sure I can manage something,” he said dryly. “Did you want to take the hammer with you? People might notice.” He tilted his head. “Or did you want people to notice?”

“Nah, I’ll be fine without it.” I handed the heavy implement over. “It’s too heavy to go on a serious walk with, anyway. I don’t know anyone else in Brockton Bay I want to kill right now, so I’ll probably be fine without it.”

He nodded, then gestured at my face. A moment later, I realised he was indicating my eyes. “You’ve got a glow going on there. Just so you know.”

“Ah.” That was a sucky detail I hadn’t known about. I thought about it, then relinquished control over the explosive bugs I still had hanging around. They stopped glowing, and a subtle coloured overlay on my vision went away. “Is it gone?”

Dad nodded. “It is.” He patted me on the shoulder just as the front doors to the PRT building opened, and armoured soldiers poured out. I had no doubt that more were emerging from other exits and spreading out to capture the culprit responsible for setting off the explosion. Well, that would be their intention, right up until they saw Dad.

“Have fun,” I said with a smirk. Turning, I headed off down the pavement. It was about three blocks to the waterfront, but I could definitely handle it. After getting my powers and destroying Winslow, I felt full of energy. It was a brand new day. And once Dad got the information he wanted, we could go and lay down some well-deserved smackdowns (the type that came with mushroom clouds and the occasional glowing crater) on the sort of people who wiped their asses with Santa’s Naughty list.

I couldn’t wait.

<><>

Deputy Director Renick, PRT ENE

“What’s the latest news from Winslow?” Paul Renick hated the desperate tone in his voice. He’d just been catapulted into the hot seat in the PRT building at the worst possible time; right when Ragnarok decided to emerge into the public scene once more. The fact that one event had everything to do with the other did amazingly little to either console him or amuse him with life’s little ironies.

So far, the body count was remarkably low. One of the surveillance teams at the Hebert house had failed to make it out in time, though the other five had gotten clear. Half a dozen people were injured, a couple critically, at Brockton General. He didn’t know if they’d pull through without cape assistance, but he’d issued a directive that Panacea be kept away from the hospital just in case Ragnarok and his daughter decided to return and level the place, as opposed to merely causing extensive damage to one wing. The last thing he wanted was for New Wave’s golden child—well, their other golden child—to be accidentally obliterated by the man who had managed to out-monster Behemoth. For the same reason, he’d given orders for her to be also kept away from Winslow until they knew more.

He had no reason to believe that Ragnarok would do anything of the sort, but he didn’t know that the man wouldn’t, either.

“Emergency services have confirmed that they’re gone,” Miss Militia reported, eyes unfocused as she concentrated on the radio earpiece. “They’re moving in now. Winslow is … Winslow is gone. Collapsed. It’s a pile of rubble. There’s … there’s students. Survivors. They’re saying that they’re seeing survivors.”

Renick let out a quiet sigh. “Thank God,” he murmured. Any survivors was a good thing, where Ragnarok was concerned. “Do they see Shadow Stalker?” He’d already listened to a recording of her last known phone call, including a scream that he would be hearing in his nightmares for some time to come, and he had a horrible presentiment that the answer would be in the negative.

“They’re not saying so,” Miss Militia said. “Still, she might not have had time to costume up.”

The translation was horribly easy: She’s dead and we both know it.

This time, Renick’s sigh was unhappy. “I suppose …”

Whatever he supposed was lost to posterity when the phone on his desk rang. He jumped violently and put it on speaker. “Dep-, uh Director Renick,” he said, stumbling over his brand-new promotion. “What is it?”

“Sir, it’s Stephenson down in the lobby.” He recognised the voice. Lieutenant Stephenson was a devoted family man, a health nut who maintained a rigorous fitness regime, a veteran of innumerable skirmishes against villainous capes, and as fearless a man as could be found in the ranks of the PRT. Right now, his voice was shaking. “Ragnarok’s here. Right here, right now. He wants to come up and talk to you.”

Renick froze, hand clenched around the receiver. A tiny whimper climbed out of his throat. With a heroic effort, he prevented his bladder from releasing its contents. Eyes wide, he met Miss Militia’s gaze over the desk. She had to be as terrified as him, but the bandanna concealed many of her facial tics and gave her an unfair advantage.

There was really only one answer to give. If Ragnarok wanted him dead, he would’ve already been part of yet another mushroom cloud decorating the Brockton Bay skyline. The man was as harsh and unforgiving as any other force of nature, but he didn’t lie and he didn’t prevaricate. If he said he wanted to talk with Renick, then they would talk.

What about, he had absolutely no idea. Topics favoured by people sporting an eight-figure body count and a Do Not Engage standing order were not his area of expertise.

“S—send him up,” he croaked. He didn’t even bother asking what Ragnarok wanted to talk about; the chance that the man would assume he was being delayed and simply obliterate Stephenson and the guard force was too great.

“Yes, sir.” Stephenson’s voice was still shaking, but he didn’t query the order, which probably saved his life. Renick barely heard him, as he was scrambling to his feet and heading for the tiny en-suite that was built on to the office.

“Where are you going?” asked Miss Militia curiously.

“If he gets here before I’m finished, tell him I’ll be right out!” Renick shut the bathroom door in her face, then faced up to the toilet. He unzipped just in time, did what he had to, then fixed his clothing and washed his hands as briefly as he dared. Hearing voices in the office beyond, he hastily dabbed his hands dry and opened the door.

Ragnarok stood there, looming over Miss Militia even though he was half the office away from her. She stood with her hands at her sides, empty. On his desk, several feet away from her, was her trademark weapon. Currently, it was a pump-action shotgun. Mentally, Renick commended her for her forethought.

“I apologise for the delay,” Renick said, as briskly as he could manage. “Call of nature. You know how it is. How can I help you?”

Ragnarok nodded briefly, though whether he was acknowledging the comment about the call of nature or Renick’s offer of assistance, Renick had no idea. “Shadow Stalker,” he said bluntly. “She’s one of the people who put my daughter in the hospital.”

Right then, Renick died a little inside. He was intensely thankful that he’d already drained his bladder; that news would have easily emptied it on the spot. We are so, very, intensely fucked.

“I—I’ll arrange for punishment, juvenile detention—” He was so eager to avert what he saw as an impending catastrophe that he would have happily sentenced that stupid fucking ignorant child to the Birdcage if the slightest hint to do so had been made.

“She’s dead.” Ragnarok’s voice cut him off at the knees. “So are her accomplices.” He took two steps forward and loomed over Renick’s desk at him. “What I want is your black file.”

Renick blinked. “My … what?” He knew what Ragnarok meant, of course. ‘Black file’ was informal PRT code for any collection of unactionable data about capes; usually villains, but it sometimes included heroes with a question mark over them. Potential identities, family members, cold cases that were suspected but not proven to be their work, all the hunches and half-assed guesses and speculations that could be gathered. These were focused on the big names, the ones that could do real damage if they stepped over the line and went rampant on the population. The black file was there for if they ever had to pull out all the stops on a particular cape. What he hadn’t been aware of was the fact that such an obscure part of PRT internal culture had made it out into the world.

“Black. File.” Ragnarok tapped the desk twice with his fingertip. Tiny cracks spread across the veneer from each impact point. “You know what I mean. There is no way you would not have one. Hand it over now.” The words ‘or else’ hung in the air in imaginary neon colours. Renick didn’t want to face the ‘else’.

The trouble was, he didn’t know if Piggot had kept one. If she had, he’d never seen it. Black files weren’t spoken about in any but the most roundabout of terms, and data was only shared between them in the most dire of circumstances. And if she had, he didn’t know if it included anything on Ragnarok.

There was only one way to find out. Reaching for the phone, he dialled a number from memory. It was the number of his old office.

“Deputy Director Emily Piggot. What do you want, sir?” No, she wasn’t bitter about the sudden demotion. At all.

He took a deep breath. “Emily, I need access to your black file. Effective immediately.”

Her breath hitched, audible even over the phone. “Sir, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. We have a dossier on the Blackwell woman from Winslow High School—”

Renick’s heart rate increased dramatically. “Cut the crap, Emily. I have Ragnarok standing in my office, demanding access to my black file. If you don’t have one, we’re the only facility our size anywhere that doesn’t. Besides, I know you. If you don’t have a file on every non-Protectorate cape in town, I will be greatly surprised.” And, knowing her, every Protectorate cape as well.

There was a long pause. “I used to have one. When I was demoted, I erased it. It’s gone.”

She almost sounded convincing, but Renick shook his head. “No. No, no, no. One more time, Emily. Ragnarok is standing in my office. If he chose to, he could snuff out every life in this building. You were the one who taught me to always keep an offsite backup. Is it worth dying, is it worth sacrificing the lives of everyone in this building, to keep that information from him?”

When Emily Piggot spoke next, she sounded defeated. “Is that a direct order, sir?”

This was going to rebound on him in so many ways. “Yes, Deputy Director Piggot. It is.”

“Very well, sir. I will be mailing the file to your inbox. Do with it what you will.”

He felt a huge flood of relief. “Thank you, Emily. There will be no repercussions for this, I guarantee you.”

“If you say so, sir. I, Emily Piggot, hereby tender my resignation from the Parahuman Response Teams, citing irreconcilable differences between my stated duties and the orders given to me by my superior officer. Effective immediately. That is all.” She hung up.

Oh, shit. That was a consequence that he hadn’t foreseen. But he couldn’t follow it up, couldn’t call her back and urge her to reconsider her position, not with Ragnarok in the room.

There was a musical note as his inbox registered a new message. He clicked it open, and found a PDF labelled ‘Accounting Backup 2008-2009’.” Double-clicking on that, he watched it unfold into something that certainly wasn’t an accounting backup. Facts, figures and pictures; they were all there. Emily had been busy.

Just as he hit the button to send the file to the printer, a distant shot sounded. He turned his head. “What was that?”

“I’ll go see.” Miss Militia was out the door in seconds; her weapon flickered and vanished a moment later.

Renick glanced at Ragnarok, but the armoured man didn’t seem concerned at her absence. He had other worries to deal with; mainly, that his previous office was in the direction he’d heard the shot from. A growing suspicion turned into a queasy certainty. Emily was an old warhorse, whose dislike for capes in general would have found a laser-focus in someone like Ragnarok. Being first demoted and then forced to hand over valuable data to someone she absolutely despised … he didn’t know how he would’ve taken it, and he didn’t have her issues.

But as much as he wanted to go to her office and check for himself, he couldn’t. He dared not. As Ragnarok looked on impassively, all he could do was watch and wait while the sheets of paper slid out of the printer.

In the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder if Emily had taken the easy way out or the hard way out.

 Part 6