A Darker Path Pt 39 (Patreon)

Decision Points

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

Bastard Son

The closest airfield run by Elite interests on the east coast, where he could land and deplane without anyone taking more notice than they should, was in New York State. He'd already ordered a limo, which was waiting for him when the jet touched down. It wasn't just for the luxuriously comfortable seating in the limousine that he was in a hurry to get out of the plane and into the car; the jet's accommodations were just as enjoyable. But he wanted to get started on the way to Brockton Bay and set up operations there. More to the point, he wanted to brag without being interrupted.

So he held his impatience in check until he and his baggage were in the limo, and the driver had it on the road out of the airport. Then, and only then, did he fire up the admittedly impressive communications array that was built into the luxury vehicle. The large screen that motored up out of the console subdivided itself into a dozen sections, then each of these sub-screens lit up with a different picture.

"Bastard Son," one of them said in an electronically modified voice, while a white frame appeared around the speaker's image. "I hope you did not contact us all merely to let us know that you've arrived in New York?"

"Hah, no." His sneer was just as vicious as the masks he usually wore. "I contacted you all to let you know the job's already done. Brockton Bay's wide open for the taking, thanks to yours truly, heh."

The ripple of shock that spread across those talking to him was subtle yet unmistakeable. "I find that … hard to believe."

"I find you hard to believe, heh." He took a bottle from the wet bar and poured himself a generous shot of bourbon. "The bitch was just too smart for her own damn good. I rigged a car with booby traps, a remote trigger and a timer, then I made the assholes driving it grab some hostages on the way. So she couldn't stop it and she couldn't not stop it, heh." Leaning back, he took a drink, luxuriating in the mellow taste of the liquor.

There was a long moment of silence in the car before another one of his interlocutors spoke up, albeit reluctantly. "So, what happened then? What makes you so sure she's dead?"

The feeling of triumph was amazing. "Well, she got around the booby traps some damn how, and she must've blocked the signal for the remote detonator, or just got lucky, but then she went and sat in the car so she could flex about how smart she was. And she was still there when the car exploded, heh."

Another few seconds of silence passed, before the first person spoke up. "You are aware, are you not, that she is strongly suspected to possess a teleportation device? And that she may well have simply teleported out before the timer ran out?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "No. Absolutely not. I watched her on the screen. I recorded that shit, heh. And she was right there, all the way until the camera cut out. The bitch is dead, heh."

"She has been observed to make impossibly accurate shots. If she can do that, then she may well have been able to time the teleport to coincide with the destruction of the camera."

He put the glass down before he would've succumbed to the temptation to hurl it through the screen. Those things were expensive, and the booze was too good to waste. "Are you fucking listening to me? Nobody has timing that good, except my people. Is she one of my people? No. She's just another dead wannabe, heh."

"A 'dead wannabe' who took down the Nine in forty-three minutes, and mopped up Butcher and the Teeth in less than two." The air quotes were audible, for all that they were only implied. "I feel it would be a grave mistake to underestimate her."

He rolled his eyes. "You're just salty because I fuckin' got her when all of you were pissing your pants about having to deal with one cape killer, heh."

There was a sigh from the speakers. "Very well. If you are so adamant that she is deceased, the PRT undoubtedly has her corpse in their morgue. Do what you said you'd do, and bring back her head, however charred it may be. Only then will we move on this situation."

"Fine, I'll do that! And when I drop it on your desk, I'm going to expect a full apology for doubting me, heh." He'd had enough of the call, so he hit the button to end it.

But he was still seething from the lack of accolades that had come his way, so he tapped in another number. Back-channel contacts were a universal constant, and his Gesellschaft opposite number had done him a solid or two over the last few years. It was time to repay those with interest.

"Hello?" The voice was grumpy, as befitted someone who was used to rising no earlier than ten in the morning, but had been woken up at five instead. "This had better be important."

"Gunther, old buddy!" There was no image on the screen, but he picked up the glass and toasted the distant man with it anyway. "I've got good news for you. Both of us, really, but something you'll be happy to hear, heh."

"I'm listening, but only because it's you."

His sneer had been replaced by a grin. "Atropos is dead. I got rid of her an hour ago, more or less. We've got a clear run at Brockton Bay again, heh."

"Was, wirklich?" Gunther paused for a moment. "Please tell me that this is not one of your jokes. I know how much you enjoy those. Now is not the time for one of them."

This was much, much better. "Swear to God, hand on heart. I got her with a car bomb. There is literally footage of her sitting in the front seat, until the timer hits zero. She is dead, man. You can't get much deader than she is right now, heh."

"Oh." He could literally hear the smile on Gunther's face. "Oh, this is very good news to hear. I owe you big-time for this. You have done us all a great service. She has cost us millions."

"I know, I know." He basked in the praise, as was only his due. "I know you want to get off the line so you can make some arrangements, so I'll talk to you later, heh."

"Yes. We will talk. I will want to hear all the details." The call ended, this time from the other end.

He relaxed in the comfortable seating and finished off the glass. Finally, someone appreciated just how damn good he was at this.

His plans had been put together with Atropos in mind and he couldn't have changed them now, even if he'd wanted to. Infiltrating Brockton Bay with his people required that they be trained up first, so he'd arranged to rendezvous with them in Boston and get them up to speed before moving on.

They weren't about to pull any jobs while they were there, so there was no real need to inform the locals of their presence. Besides, he'd heard a rumour that Accord was actually working with Atropos, even after she'd totalled one of his drug shipments. Fuckin' pussy.

Maybe half a day in Boston getting all his ducks in a row, then he'd make his move on Brockton Bay. In the absence of their local overhyped boogeyman, the local rogues wouldn't stand a chance. Then he'd kick in the door of the morgue, claim Atropos' head, and solidify his position as king of the Brockton Bay underworld.

Basking in the glow of his own genius, he poured himself another drink.

<><>

PRT Building ENE

Reave

"So she's definitely alive? Because I've seen no hint of it." Deputy Director Renick glanced at his laptop screen, which was currently showing a PHO feed. "Normally, she would've posted about this whole episode by now." This was true; the girl did like her midnight tell-alls.

"Absolutely, sir." He nodded, trying not to smile at the recollection. "The little smartass pulled a Bugs Bunny on us. Literally came out of nowhere and finished my sentence for me." Although he'd been certain she was still alive, the relief he'd felt at that moment had been unmistakeable.

Which raised a question in his mind: when had her status shifted from 'adversary' to 'ally'? Am I compromised? Instead of me recruiting her, has she recruited me?

Renick lifted his chin. "So, what's her plan? Do you know what her endgame is?"

"I believe I do, sir. She needs Bastard Son to think she's dead, so he'll let his guard down when he comes into the city. That's why I instructed everyone there to clam up about her. Not to say she's dead, but not to say she's not dead, either. Zero news. Hopefully, Bastard Son will think we're trying to keep her death quiet."

"So she can get the drop on him," Renick finished. "And kill him."

"That's the way I read it, sir."

This time, the Deputy Director raised an eyebrow. "You do recall that our job requires us to arrest villains, not turn them over to another villain to be murdered, yes?"

"Yes, sir, I do." He lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. "I've also read up on Bastard Son. He doesn't play by any ruleset except his own. Every time he's gone into a city, people have died. PRT and heroes can't get a handle on him, and rogues and villains are either co-opted into the Elite or they die. Also, as we saw tonight, he's got zero respect for innocent bystanders. Excuse my French, sir, but he's one hell of an elusive son of a bitch, and a mad dog into the bargain. I trust Atropos to be able to nail him down and do what should've been done years ago."

Renick shook his head dubiously. "This is a very slippery slope you're stepping on to. I'm not at all sure the Director will sign off on it, when she comes on in the morning. Going hands-off on Atropos is one thing, but actively assisting her in murdering someone is entirely another."

"With all due respect, sir, I don't see it that way." He took a deep breath. Arguing with one's boss was always a tricky prospect. "We're not forcing Bastard Son to come into the city, and I certainly won't be pulling the trigger myself. At most, we're doing nothing. If we did something now to queer her pitch, she'll probably still get the job done, but the best outcome aside from that is losing all chance of her ever actively cooperating with us. And the worst outcome …"

"… is that she decides we've betrayed her, and we go on her enemy list." Renick nodded. "Your point is well made. I don't want to be on that list any more than you do." He held up a finger. "However, if Bastard Son decides to hand himself over to us at any time, we're duty-bound to accept that surrender."

"Understood, sir." He knew damn well, as did Renick, that Bastard Son would be unlikely to even attempt any such surrender. The man was far too arrogant for that.

Fortunately, if he did, this was one of Atropos' self-appointed options for those who broke her rules.

"Good." Renick laced his fingers together. "Dismissed. Write up your report, then get some rest." A faint smile crossed his face. "And damn good work out there tonight."

"Thank you, sir."

<><>

Boston, Massachusetts; Later That Morning

Judge Peter Regan's Chambers

Leaning back in his comfortable leather-upholstered chair, Peter Regan gazed out the window at the freshly risen sun. Steepled before him, his fingers twitched as the only outward sign of the tension that had him in its inexorable grasp. Two paths lay before him, neither one at all to his taste.

On one side, there was the agreement—nothing official, nothing signed. It was merely understood that Masters needed a message sent to them. Paige Mcabee had stumbled at the wrong moment, and so she was to be both the subject and the body of the message. The prosecutor was aware, without ever having been directly told, that he was to go as hard as he could on her. Her funds had been frozen, and the court-appointed defence attorney knew his role in the matter. As such, he had yet to speak to her in lockup. Arrangements had been made to gag her and ensure that she looked as dangerous as possible to the jury.

The fix was in. Paige Mcabee would be Birdcaged, no matter what the public wanted. It was that simple.

On the other side, was the message Dragon had passed on to him. There was no subtlety, no delicately phrased observations that could easily be mistaken for innocent comments taken out of context. It was very simple: Atropos knows about the Mcabee case.

Very few capes had amassed a reputation as fearful as Atropos', and certainly not in such a short period of time. In fact, she'd killed several of the others who were as well-known as her, and many more besides. Worse, most of these kills had been performed on camera, and she'd made it look positively effortless. Skidmark had been literally smeared all over the road; Peter had exactly zero interest in finding out what sort of imaginative demise she would come up with for someone who sent an undeserving person to the Birdcage.

Mere human security, by definition, could not protect him. Being literally surrounded by capes had manifestly failed to save Kaiser from a sword through the eye. And if Dragon's observation about the Triumvirate was correct, even they might choose to look the other way if Atropos came calling.

He'd actually called Dragon back, to appeal to her for protection. The hero had told him quite bluntly that she wasn't getting in the middle of that, but if he ensured Ms Mcabee had a fair trial, he should be just fine.

Her advice hadn't been the slightest bit helpful, for all that it was glaringly self-evident.

He didn't know what penalties, if any, would fall his way if he threw the case. His career, he suspected, would be over. Not immediately, of course. That would be too blatant. But tiny whispers would eventually add up to suggestions that he retire. For his 'health', of course.

If he stayed the course and convicted Mcabee, he didn't know that Atropos would kill him, but he had absolutely no reason to believe that she wouldn't, either. Her every public action bespoke an exceedingly black and white morality; those who heeded her warnings lived, while those who didn't … died. The message Dragon had passed along had been just such a warning, no less dire for being second-hand in nature.

He'd heard of being stuck between a rock and a hard place, or the Devil and the deep blue sea, and many other hackneyed phrases about not having any good place to turn. Up until forty hours ago, he had never suspected that he himself might end up in such a position. It was, he'd found, a most unpleasant situation to be in.

On the one hand, he risked his career; on the other, his life.

He liked his career. Over the course of it, many accused had gone before his bench. As far as he was concerned, he had administered justice without fear or favour.

Paige Mcabee had been accused of a horrific crime: forcing a man to first mutilate and then violate himself. While he didn't necessarily think this was precisely Birdcage-worthy, especially on a first offence, it had been made clear to him on the quiet that unless this sort of thing was dealt with harshly from the outset, other Masters would see it as carte blanche to run rampant among the population. He saw their reasoning, and was fully on board with the need to send a message. It was a pity about the Mcabee girl, but eggs and omelettes. The greater good took precedence.

The thing was, he belatedly realised, while he liked his career, it wasn't his life. His life was his life.

And with that epiphany, his course of action became clear.

Screw the greater good, I want to live.

Turning back to the desk, he picked up his voice recorder and clicked it on. "To the editor, Boston Globe. Usual header. From the desk of Judge Peter Regan, et cetera. Letter begins. After much soul-searching, I have decided to recuse myself from the case of Massachusetts vs Paige Mcabee. Moreover, I am ordering a comprehensive review of the projected security precautions around Ms Mcabee, in light of the understanding that she is perfectly capable of typing her testimony from a soundproof booth and has no known Brute rating. Furthermore, I will be issuing an order to release her funds for use in her courtroom defence." He paused and stopped the recording while he went over in his mind what else he needed to say. Finally, he clicked it back on. "These are trying times for all of us, but we must not let fear make monsters of us. End letter, usual salutations. Have it on my desk for signing by the end of the day."

Getting up from his desk, he walked the recorder through to his personal assistant's office and dropped it in her in-tray. "Take your time with this one," he said. "I'm taking half a day. I'll be back this afternoon."

"Yes, Judge Regan." Her tone was professional, but he could feel her eyes following him out the door. He didn't care.

He'd just ended his own career, he could feel it. Word would get out that he didn't stick to agreements. And as much of an old boy's club as the judicial community was, someone like that just wasn't welcome.

Maybe he'd even retire before the doors all shut in his face. It didn't matter, not anymore.

He'd made his choice, and he'd stick with it.

Because despite the high-sounding tone of his letter, it did actually come down to fear.

<><>

Brockton Bay PRT Building, around the same time

Director Piggot's Office

Emily finished reading the after-action report and the scribbled addendum that Renick had added, then sat back in her chair, brow creased in thought. And irritation; mainly irritation.

For ten long years, she'd fought the good fight, keeping her city afloat against a seemingly endless tide of villain capes who seemed to think that Brockton Bay was the perfect place to kick-start (or restart) their careers. Along the way, she'd struggled against institutional apathy within both the PRT and the BBPD, and not a little corruption in both organisations. Even outside that, she had prodnose do-gooder institutions such as Youth Guard attempting to insert their grubby little fingers into the lives of the local Wards (and the non-Ward younger heroes as well), all in an attempt to justify their own existence.

And, of course, she had the Wards themselves, and the heroes of the Protectorate: capes, one and all. She didn't actually like capes, not since Ellisburg. They'd fled the battlefield then, leaving her people to die. Deep down, she didn't trust them not to do it again (especially given that Shadow Stalker had been edgier than a wood-chipper on steroids, and Assault was literally an ex-villain).

But still, she'd taken what she was given, and she'd made it work (for a given definition of 'work'). From day to day, the disparate organisation had staggered from crisis to crisis, held together through sheer stubborn refusal to quit. It had been a balancing act of epic proportions, and she liked to think she'd been fairly good at it.

And then Atropos came along.

In less than two weeks (and counting, because she surely was not done yet), that one irritating girl had achieved everything Emily had been striving to do for ten fucking years. Villains? Dead or gone. Hard drugs? Gone. Gangs? Keeping their heads way down. Even the corruption and apathy within the PRT had been mostly rooted out (and the BBPD was well on the way to compliance as well), but only because Atropos had said it had to be so.

During those two weeks, the craziness that was a normal part of life in Brockton Bay had just … died. Citizens were starting to feel safe to walk the streets of their own city once more. The PRT had gone from just barely holding their own to literally having excess time on their hands. With the heroes freed from having to focus on villain capes and gang violence, they were assisting the BBPD in going after normal criminals; in short, the change right across the board had been both fundamental and massive.

So why am I not happier about this?

She knew damn well why. Atropos represented three things Emily utterly despised. First, she was a cape. Second, she was a villain. Third, she didn't follow the rules; or rather, she made her own rules. She murdered people and boasted about it, and still got away with it.

Worst of all, people applauded her for it. She was a self-confessed serial killer, yet among the ordinary citizenry of Brockton Bay, she had an actual fan club, and more people on top of that who simply approved of what she was doing. (Well, in fairness, she had taken out the Nine … and Butcher and the Teeth … and several other capes who had been perennial thorns in Emily's side … but that shouldn't matter. Murder was still murder.)

Still, Emily wasn't stupid. She'd given orders for the Wards to stay well clear (because not one of them would stand a chance against her) and for the heroes to exercise caution (same reason). The PRT also had a hands-off policy, not least because she didn't feel like sending her men into a meat-grinder.

It didn't mean she had to like it.

This latest report was one more droplet of the water-torture that was life in the same city as Atropos. Bastard Son of the Elite was due to arrive in Brockton Bay shortly, if he wasn't already in the city. Atropos had made use of his car bomb to fake her death temporarily, at least in his eyes, so that when he showed up, he wouldn't be prepared for her particular brand of homicidal 'justice'.

If the PRT stood back and did nothing to hamper her, Atropos would end him, bringing yet another incursion into the city to an abrupt halt. A man would die; one who didn't have a kill order on his head, but who had signed his own death warrant merely by deciding to come to Brockton Bay.

The worst bit was, Emily knew damn well who she'd choose to have in her city if there was a gun to her head and she had to pick one or the other. Atropos was an unapologetic murderer, with a death toll that was now into the dozens, not even counting the unpowered mooks she'd executed along the way, but she was still preferable to Bastard Son.

If Mouse Protector was to be believed, the entire Ravager incident in New York had taken place because Atropos had turned down a million-dollar bounty on the hero's head, and instead contracted with her to destroy Ravager's credibility. Emily didn't know many ordinary people, much less capes, who would walk away from a million-dollar payday like that. From all indications, Bastard Son was not one of them.

And now, Atropos had saved two hostages and handed the mooks over to the PRT. The report held nothing but praise for her. Even Renick's note on the report strongly recommended that the PRT just stand back and let events take their course.

Emily Piggot despised capes, but she hated Bastard Son more than Atropos. Taking a deep breath, she opened a text file on her computer and started typing.

General Order: to be disseminated to all PRT personnel in ENE Department

For the next 24 hours, until 0900 hours on Sunday the 16th of January, no mention will be made of Atropos by any PRT personnel, on any media. Her existence will not be acknowledged to anyone outside the PRT until the 24 hour period is up or she is seen in public, at which point this order will be automatically rescinded.

Signed, E. Piggot, Director, PRT ENE

Sitting back in her chair, she read the words through and nodded to herself. That was absolutely as far as she was willing to go.

Beyond that, Atropos was on her own.

Part 40