A week is long enough for a city to drown.
The news from New Orleans is not a story; it's a city collectively drowning. The footage is all wind and water and official statements that use the word "unprecedented" as a shield.
The levees held in three places they shouldn't have, but a pumping station in the Ninth Ward, one that was rated for another decade, failed catastrophically.
People died.
A lot of them.
The Austin PRT building feels like it's holding its breath.
The failure of that pump—a simple, mechanical, preventable failure—hangs in the air like an accusation that begets a death sentence. (begets seems good right?)
Director Armstrong is not subtle. The pressure arrives not as a direct order, but as a series of bureaucratic shitpile of paper cuts. Memos about "budgetary re-evaluations." Audits on Austin's "non-standard asset utilization." Emails forwarded from national PR about the "public perception cost" of a parahuman refusing a disaster-relief request.
Armstrong is building a case.
He is laying a paper trail that will, sooner or later, give him the leverage he needs to override a single, inconvenient contract in the best way for him, and the worst way for the Austin branch.
Reeve's office is where the air is tightest.
"He just froze our discretionary fund," Reeve says, staring at a new email. Their voice is flat. "Cites 'over-allocation to non-critical personnel housing and support.' That's us. That's Deadman's bunk. That's Rae's commissary budget."
"He's starving us out," Lopez says from the window. She hasn't been sleeping well; the analytics on the New Orleans pump failure are all she's been reading. "He's making Deadman a liability, so that when he 'requests' him again, we'll be forced to say yes just to get the lights turned back on."
Hoyden, leaning against the doorframe, makes a sound of pure disgust. "It's a hostage situation. He's using the whole fucking branch to get his hands on one cape. So what's the move, boss? We can't just let that asshole win."
Reeve leans back, steepling their fingers. The silence in the room stretches. The answer, when it comes, is quiet and pragmatic. "We can't win a direct fight. Armstrong has more weight, and the Chief-Director wants results, not excuses. If we fight him here, he'll just replace me with someone who will give him Deadman."
They look at Lopez.
"So, we move the asset.."
Lopez turns, her expression grim. "Move him where? Armstrong's regional authority covers half the country. Anywhere we send him, he's still Armstrong's 'non-critical personnel.'"
"Not everywhere," Lopez says. She taps a key on her own terminal, bringing up a map of the United States, dotted with PRT branch offices. "There are a few... exceptions. Independent commands, political black holes. Places where a Director has enough on-the-ground problems that they can justifiably tell Regional to go pound sand."
She zooms in. The map resolves to the northeast coast.
"Oh, fuck no," Hoyden says, straightening up. "Absolutely not. You're not serious."
On the screen, in stark black and white, are the words: PRT DEPARTMENT ENE – BROCKTON BAY.
"Think about it," Lopez says, her voice picking up the analytical pace of someone who has run the numbers and hates the answer. "Director Piggot. She's notoriously territorial, under-funded, and overwhelmed. She despises outside interference. If we send Deadman there on a 'temporary transfer for cross-departmental field study,' he's under her command, not Armstrong's. Armstrong can't just reach into her city and pull one of her assets, not without starting a political war with a woman who has nothing to lose and gives zero shits."
"It's the worst fucking city in the country, Lopez!" Hoyden snaps. "It's a revolving door of gang wars, S-Class shitstorms, and dead capes. We're not protecting him. We're feeding him to the sharks just to keep our own boat from sinking."
"It's an experiment, Hoyden," Reeve says, their voice cutting in, calm and cold. "That's how we'll frame it. 'A provisional study on the effects of a passive Trump/Shaker field in a high-entropy, parahuman-dense environment.' Armstrong loves that kind of language. He can even present it to the Chief-Director as his idea—a way to gather data on a unique asset."
"It's bullshit," Hoyden says, quieter now.
"Yes," Reeve agrees. "But it's a bullshit lie that protects him. And us. And our ability to keep saying no."
Lopez looks at Hoyden, her gaze softening. "It's not all bad. He wouldn't be alone. Not really."
Hoyden's eyes flick to Reeve, and a silent understanding passes between them. The radio call.
"Miss Militia," Reeve says. "She's Protectorate ENE. She's...familiar with his file, in a matter os speaking. And Panacea is in Brockton Bay. He worked with her in Delhi. He'll have at least two people in the city who know what he is and aren't just seeing a tool."
"One person in a city of monsters, because I've heard rumours through the grapevine that MM isn't exactly...thrilled about Deadman working with the PRT." Hoyden mutters.
She paces a single step, then stops, her fists clenching. "We're sending him to his death, Reeve. Or worse. We're sending a man who wants to die to a place that will gleefully grant his wish, and his power will probably take half the fucking city with him when it rebounds."
"No," Reeve says. "We're sending him to the one place that's too chaotic for Armstrong to control. We're sending him somewhere his power might actually help on a scale we can manage. A city of small, constant failures. A city of stuck gurney wheels and jammed guns, and failing infrastructure. It's a target-rich environment for him."
The room falls silent again. They all know the truth. This isn't a good plan. It's not even a safe plan. It's a desperate, shit-scared gambit. It's a lateral move into a different kind of war, trading a political fight they are losing for a physical one he might.
"We're doing it," Reeve says, the decision final. "We're protecting our own. This is the only way."
"He'll say no," Hoyden warns. "His contract is jurisdictional. He'll tell us to go to hell."
"He might," Lopez concedes. "But we're not Armstrong. We're not going to give him an order. We're going to explain the alternative."
Reeve nods, their face a mask of grim resolve. "The alternative is that Armstrong breaks this branch in half, replaces me, and sends him to a new hurricane anyway. Or the next one. Or the one after that. This... this is the only choice we have that gives him any choice at all."
Hoyden looks at the floor, her jaw tight. "I'll prep the transfer file. But I'm putting in a formal objection, for all the fucking good it will do."
"I'll initial it myself," Reeve says. "But the file gets prepped. I'll… I'll be the one to tell him."
They all look at the monitor, at the blank screen where Armstrong's face was just a week earlier.
They'd won the battle, but the war had just changed venues. And the new venue was Brockton Bay.
A week after New Orleans drowns, the PRT building still stands.
It's an insult to everything it stands for apparently.
How would I know that? I checked, people have been lambasting the New Orleans PRT branch for the better part of a week, for not doing anything to help them, not aiding in the rescue efforts, not helping rebuild.
They've been trying, but it's just…not enough, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that it'd go a lot smoother if I was there.
I'm walking, which is what I do when I don't want to be in my own skull.
The Austin PRT building has become my cage, but it's a cage that's well-oiled.
My fault, like always.
I pass the comms room. A bank of monitors that's notorious for audio-desync suddenly finds its rhythm. A tech blinks, taps his headset, and mouths 'thank you' to the ceiling.
I pass the commissary. Rae's industrial dishwasher, a machine that's held together by spite and hope, stops making its high-pitched 'I'm-about-to-die' whine. It just... washes.
My halo does this. It leeches the random, spiteful chaos out of the immediate area. It makes things work like they're supposed to. (maybe? Does this work)
(Yeh)
And a week ago, a pumping station in New Orleans didn't.
The thought is a piece of glass in my gut.
I'd said no to Armstrong.
I'd stood on my contract and my principles. And people drowned. The news hasn't stopped playing it.
The pump failed.
A bearing seized.
A relay tripped.
A simple, stupid, fixable thing that my power probably would have smoothed over just by me standing there.
So now I walk. I'm a ghost haunting a building like a poltergheist, polishing the machinery with my guilt.
The little 'expedition' to the bank and the clothes store feels like a different lifetime at this point.
That was me pretending to be a person.
Now I'm back to being a function.
My pocket buzzes.
It's the new phone I got a while back.
The screen just says Reeve (Don't Hang Up).
Reeve: Debriefing Room C. Now.
It's not a request. My gut tightens. Reeve doesn't summon. They meet. They intercept. This is different. This is a sit-down.
This is bad.
The feeling is so strong, a janitor's cart I'm passing suddenly has a wheel-wobble corrected. The universe is already bracing for impact.
"On my way," I mutter, not bothering to type.
Debriefing Room C is one of the beige ones, the ones without windows, the ones they use for after-action reports that nobody wants to write.
Reeve is standing, not sitting. They're alone. No Lopez. No Hoyden. That's worse. This isn't a team decision. This is the boss falling on the sword.
"Sir," I say, because the formality feels appropriate.
"Deadman. Close the door."
The door clicks shut with a polite, final sound. The vent in the room, which usually rattles, purrs.
"You've seen the news from New Orleans," Reeve says. It's not a question.
"I have."
"Armstrong is... displeased."
"He can go fuck himself," I say. The words come out with more acid than I intended.
"He is," Reeve says, with no change in expression. "He's fucking us. He's frozen all discretionary funds for this branch. He's auditing our overtime, our commissary, even our utility bills. He's choking us."
I stand there. "Because of me."
"Because I wouldn't give you to him." Reeve looks me dead in the eye. "And he will win, Deadman. Not today, but soon. He'll keep squeezing until either I break, or National replaces me with someone who will. And the moment that happens, you will be on a helicopter to the next flood, or earthquake, or Endbringer, contract be damned."
I feel the floor under my feet. It's solid.
It's not going to fall.
My power won't let it.
"So what's the play?" I ask. "Do I just... walk out? Go rogue? See how long I last before a PRT sniper decides I'm a flight risk?"
"No," Reeve says. "We're transferring you."
The word hangs in the air.
Transferring.
"You're firing me."
"I'm saving you. And this branch. I'm moving you to the one place in the country Armstrong can't fucking touch."
Reeve turns to the monitor on the wall. They tap a key, and a map appears. A single red dot on the Northeast coast.
"You're sending me to New York?"
"Worse," Reeve says.
The map zooms in.
PRT DEPARTMENT ENE – BROCKTON BAY.
I laugh. It's a short, ugly, barking sound. "Brockton Bay. THE Brockton Bay?! The cape meat grinder? The city with three-and-a-half A-Class threats? You're not transferring me, Reeve, you're sending me to hell. Except you're not doing it yourself, you're just outsourcing the god damn paperwork."
"I'm giving you a fucking choice Deadman," Reeve snaps, their calm finally breaking. "The only one we have left. Stay here, and within a month Armstrong will own you. You'll be his personal disaster-response toy until your power rebounds and kills a city, or you just... break. That's Option A."
"And Option B is the shittiest city in America."
"Option B," Reeve says, leaning on the table, "is a political black hole run by a Director who hates outside interference more than she hates villains, she'll still hate you as well since she hates capes but Armstrong cannot reach you there. He cannot pull you. He cannot touch you. You'll be under Director Piggot's command, and she would rather burn her own office down and kill herself than follow an order from him."
I pace one step, then back. "So I'm just... a piece. You're trading me from one square to another."
"It's a good move," Reeve says. "A temporary transfer to study... to study how your field performs in a high-entropy urban environment. It's corporate bullshit language, but it's the right bullshit. Armstrong can't block it because it looks like we're using you. And it gets you out of his immediate reach."
I run a hand over my face. The bank. The clothes. The illusion of a choice. And now this. "You're sending me from a cage to an active warzone."
"I'm sending you somewhere your power might actually be suited for," Reeve argues. "It's not a hurricane. It's a million small-scale, low-stakes problems. A jammed gun in an alley fight. A faulty lock on a drug house. A pothole that's about to break an axle on a PRT cruiser. It's a target-rich environment for you, Deadman. It keeps you grounded in the small stuff, which is where you're safest."
Reeve sighs, the sound of a commander who has run out of good moves. "And... you won't be completely blind. You'll have contacts."
"Contacts? In Brockton Bay? Who?"
"Panacea is there." Reeve says, watching me. "You worked with her in Delhi. You have a baseline."
Amy.
The name hits me in the chest. A little bit of warmth and recognition.
Panacea. The girl who heals. The girl who told me to my face that my autonomic response was that of a man in a garage with the car running. The girl who looked just as tired as I felt and was still somehow... working. Still doing it.
The thought of being in the same city as her... it's not better. It's not fixed. But it's a sharp, sudden spike of something in the long, gray flatline.
It's a complication I find myself not immediately hating. It's louder. It's a known variable in a sea of unknown, pants-shittingly bad ones.
"So that's the choice," I say, the anger draining out, leaving the familiar, tired vacuum. "Armstrong's toy... or Director Piggot's new problem in a city full of Nazis and monsters."
"It's a shithole," Reeve says, agreeing with me. "But it's a shithole where Armstrong isn't. It's the only move we have left that isn't just... surrender."
I stare at the map. Brockton Bay.
"When?"
"Wheels up in forty-eight hours."
I walk out of Reeve's office in a daze.
I don't go back to my bunk.
I just walk.
The next forty-eight hours are a blur of passive-aggressive 'Time to fix everything since I'm going to be gone' fugue.
I'm a ghost in my own 'home' if you could call it that, a mechanic making his final rounds before his shift ends.
I don't tell anyone.
Not Hoyden, not Lopez, not even Rae. Reeve said forty-eight hours, and I'm going to use them to make sure the cage is in perfect working order before I leave.
It's a stupid, sentimental impulse, and I hate it, I hate all of it, I hate that I like them, I hate that I care, I hate that I care enough to do this.
I find myself in the Wards' common room. It's empty, save for a flickering monitor on Hotfix's workbench. The drone he's soldering has a bad power joint. He's been complaining about it for a week. I stand there for a minute, just looking at it. The red power light, which had been stuttering, suddenly turns solid and bright. The drone's rotors twitch once, then settle.
I move on.
The gym. The treadmill Hoyden uses always sticks on incline. I stand on it. I press the 'up' arrow. The belt moves, smooth as silk. I press 'down'. It obeys. I step off it and leave.
Lopez's desk. She's in a meeting with Reeve, probably finalizing the paperwork for my exile. Her chair has a wobble. I know it does. I've seen her adjust her weight a dozen times a day. I walk over, kick one of the legs. It feels... loose.
I crouch down, tighten the bolt with my fingers. It spins easily, seating itself deep in the groove. It won't wobble again.
The commissary. Rae is in the back, arguing with a supplier on the phone.
The big mixer, the one she uses for the banana bread, has a switch that only works if you hit it twice and then hit the machine on the side. I flip it. On. Off. On. The motor hums to life, rich and even.
I'm making the cage comfortable. I'm polishing the bars. It's all I know how to do.
My internal monologue is a screaming match.
You're running away.
No, I'm being moved. It's a tactical retreat.
You're running away to the worst city in America because you're a-a-a coward, you couldn't just stand there and let Armstrong take you.
I'd be a tool. I'd be his magic wand until the rebound killed someone. This is... less bad.
Is it?
I stop in the hallway.
Is it less bad? You're taking your power, your problem, to a city that is already a lit fuse. You're a walking, talking can of gasoline, and you're heading for a wildfire. What happens, Ali? What happens when you're standing in an alley and some neo-nazi shitbag is on one side and mongoloid druggie is on the other? What happens when the world tries to save you? Who gets the ricochet? What building collapses, who fucking dies in your stead?
I lean my head against the cool drywall. The drywall is smooth. The paint isn't peeling. Of course it isn't. Not right here at least.
And then, quieter: Amy.
I wonder if she'll be there. If I'll see her. She'll probably be at the hospital, surrounded by the city's... output. She'll be tired. She'll still have that raccoon-eyed, "don't-fuck-with-me" look. I wonder if she'll still call me out on my bullshit.
The thought of seeing her again, of just... it's a spike of static in the white noise. It's the only thing about this entire god-forsaken plan that doesn't feel like swallowing glass.
I don't know if she knows I'm coming.
I almost hope not.
Time passes by quick.
Forty-eight hours later, I'm staring at the ass-end of a PRT armored transport.
It's not a plane. It's not even a nice bus. It's a surplus Lenco BearCat, painted matte black, with a scarred windshield and tires that have seen better decades. Armstrong's budget cuts are real, and they are vindictive. This is the best Austin can spare for a cross-country transfer.
"Thirty hours, give or take," the driver says. He's a big guy in a standard blue uniform, name-tag says 'MILLER'. He looks like he'd rather be doing anything else. "Me and Chen are rotating. There's a crash seat in the back. Don't touch the comms, don't touch the locks, and try not to... you know."
"Be interesting?" I offer.
"Yeah. That."
The goodbyes are fast, which I'm grateful for. They happen right in the sally port, away from the main floor.
Hoyden is there. She doesn't say anything. She just punches me in the shoulder, hard enough to make my teeth click and then hugs me. "Don't die, dumbass," she mutters, her voice thick. "It's a shitload of new paperwork." she says into my shoulder
"I'll do my best." I say.
Lopez hands me a datapad. "Piggot's regs. Read them. Then read them again. She's not Reeve. She doesn't do... nuance. And she hates capes. All of them. You're walking into the lion's den. Try not to get eaten on day one."
"Got it. Be boring."
"Be invisible," she corrects.
Rae shoves a heavy paper bag into my hands. "Sandwiches," she says. "And banana bread. And don't you dare give any of this to anyone. It's for you. You're too god-damned thin."
Reeve is last. They just stand there, hands clasped behind their back. "You have your phone. You have my number. When you get there... just..." They sigh, the first time I've ever heard them sound truly defeated. "Stay boring, Deadman. That's an order."
"Yes, sir, oorah."
I climb in the back. The door slams with the sound of a vault. A heavy thunk, and then the hiss of the seals. Miller and Chen get up front. The engine turns over.
It should rattle. This truck is old. It should cough and complain.
It purrs. A deep, steady, healthy vroom.
Miller, in the driver's seat, blinks. He looks at his dash. "Well, I'll be damned..."
We pull out of the sally port. I watch the Austin base disappear. I'm an exile.
The first twenty hours are a blur of concrete.
I'm in the back, strapped into a hard-plastic "containment seat." It's not comfortable. I sleep, or I try to. I eat one of Rae's sandwiches (roast beef, cheddar, cheese and just enough mayo to give it a twang). The bread is still fresh. Of course it is.
Up front, Miller and Chen swap out every four hours. They keep the radio chatter low.
"This is... weird," Miller says, somewhere in Tennessee.
"What?" Chen asks.
"The engine. It hasn't... you know. It hasn't done the thing."
"The thing? You mean the rattle at 65?"
"Yeah. Or the pull to the left. Or the squeal from the A/C. It's just... driving. Like a new truck."
"Don't jinx it, man."
"I'm not. And look at this." A pause. "We're averaging thirty miles to the gallon."
"Bullshit," Chen says. "This pig averages ten. On a good day. Going downhill."
"The gauge must be stuck," Miller mutters. "It's barely moved since Arkansas."
"It's not stuck," I say, my voice raspy from disuse.
They both go silent. They look at each other, then Miller glances at me in the rearview mirror.
"That's you, isn't it?" Miller asks. "The... the thing you do."
"Yeah, think of me as the uh...fuckin'...whatcha m'call it, the 'make shit go right' guy," I say. "The truck is... compliant cause my power is telling it to be."
"Huh."
Another hour of silence.
"Hey, Deadman?" Chen says.
"Yeah."
"Can you... can you make the radio get better reception? I'm trying to find the game."
"I can't aim it."
"Damn."
The attack happens in Pennsylvania.
We're on a stretch of lonely highway, wedged between gray, wooded hills. The sky is the color of an old bruise. We're getting close. The air feels different. Heavier.
A sudden, violent THUMP slams the truck from the side, sending us screaming across two lanes.
I'm thrown against my straps, my head smacking the padded wall.
"CONTACT!" Miller bellows.
The truck should flip. It weighs twelve tons and it just got hit by something big enough to shove it sideways. It wants to roll.
It doesn't.
The tires find a patch of "perfectly dry" asphalt in the middle of a damp road. The truck skids, a perfect, controlled four-wheel drift, and slams to a stop, facing the wrong way.
"Jesus!" Chen yells, pulling his sidearm.
Blocking the road is a monstrosity. It looks like a scrapyard learned how to walk. A huge, vaguely humanoid shape made of rusted cars, stop signs, and barbed wire. A junk-golem.
"Tinker-tech!" Miller yells, hitting the distress beacon. "We've got hostiles! We've got—"
A figure in a bright orange hoodie is standing on the golem's shoulder. They're holding something that looks like a rebar-crossbow. They fire.
A three-foot piece of steel screams toward our windshield.
It should hit. The windshield is reinforced, but that rebar is moving fast.
A bird—a fucking pidgeon—appears from nowhere, intersectssss the bolt's path.
There's a THWACK and a puff of feathers. The rebar is deflected just enough. It glances off the "weirdly strong" reinforced corner of the window frame, spins wildly, and plunges into the junk-golem's own shoulder joint.
The golem's arm seizes.
"Holy shit," Chen breathes.
"Drive! Drive!" Miller screams, slamming the truck into reverse, then yanking the wheel.
A second figure, this one built like a refrigerator with patches of dull, metallic skin, charges us. He's swinging a lamppost.
He's fast for a Brute. He hefts the post, aims for the engine block.
He swings.
His foot, clad in a heavy boot, lands on a "conveniently located" piece of shredded tire on the asphalt.
His ankle doesn't just twist. ever seen that one meme of 'Our table! It's broken!'? yeah, that happens to his leg, second fucking time it's happened to someone in my vicinity, at this point I'm thinking my power's got a thing against people's legs, what's next? Someone takes an arrow to the knee?.
(Should I plug Skeleton's Guide here?)
(No you retard)
He goes down with a howl, the lamppost crashing harmlessly onto the highway, ten feet short.
"GO! GO! GO!"
Miller floors it. The engine, which should be protesting this kind of abuse, doesn't redline. It pulls. It finds torque that it never knew it had. The truck spins in a perfect J-turn and rockets past the roadblock.
The Tinker in the orange hoodie is still trying to get their golem's arm to work. The Brute is clutching his ankle.
Silence in the cab for a solid minute as we hit ninety.
Finally, Miller looks in the mirror. I'm just sitting there, hands gripping the seat, heart trying to hammer its way out of my chest. I didn't do any of that. I just... wanted it. I wanted us to get away.
"...Huh," Miller says, his voice shaky. "They told us you were logistics."
I let my head fall back against the seat. "Welcome to the compliance department, sole employee? Yours truly."
We drive the rest of the way in silence.
As we cross the state line, the air changes. It gets heavier. It smells like salt, rust, and old-world failure.
"We're here," Chen says, and his voice is tight. "Brockton Bay."
I look out the armored slit. The skyline is a jagged mess, a broken tooth in the mouth of the bay. I can see the ships, rusted and half-sunk. The Boat Graveyard.
This city is a tomb. And I'm its newest fucking corpse.
My phone buzzes.
It's not Reeve. It's not Lopez.
It's an unknown number. A text.
Reeve told me you were coming. Don't be an idiot. The doctors here aren't as good as me.
My thumb hovers over the screen. Amy. She knows.
(IT'S OVER, SHE KNOWS.)
(are you really putting in a fucking doakes meme in your fic?????)
(Yeh lmao)
The truck pulls into the ENE sally port. The main door is a single slab of reinforced steel, covered in rust and graffiti. It looks like it hasn't opened properly since 2005.
It shrieks, it groans... and it slides open, perfectly, on the first try.
Miller and Chen just look at each other.
The truck stops. The engine idles, purring.
"He's here," a voice says from outside.
The rear door hisses open. The light is gray and unkind.
I step out of the truck. The air is cold.
The sally port is a gray, concrete box that smells of salt, old rust, and diesel fumes. The air is cold and damp, a stark contrast to the dry, oppressive heat of Austin. It seeps into my clothes immediately.
Well, home sweet home I guess.
The thought lands with a dull, wet thud.
Miller and Chen are already out of the cab, handing a datapad to a waiting PRT trooper. This one is older than the Austin standard, with a face like a worn-down boot heel and eyes that have seen too much. His name tag reads 'GRUNDY'. He doesn't look at me. He's focused on the datapad.
"Package is secure," Miller says, his voice echoing slightly in the concrete box. "No incidents, aside from a minor... detour in Pennsylvania."
"We read the report," Grundy grunts, still not looking up. "Tinker and a Brute. You got lucky."
Miller and Chen share a look. "Yeah," Miller says. "Lucky. The transport... she ran like a top. Best she's ever run. You might want to have your mechanics check the fuel consumption. Seemed low."
"It's a twelve-ton armored truck, not a-," Grundy starts, then finally looks up, his eyes landing on me. He takes in the civilian clothes, the PRT-issued backpack, the bulletproof vest, the blue M/S band on my wrist. His expression doesn't soften. It gets pensive. "Right. You're the package. 'Deadman.'"
A second figure detaches itself from the shadows by the inner-bay door.
It's Miss Militia.
She's exactly like the pictures I saw after I looked her up, right after her little shitfit on the radio, full uniform, shitty american flag bandana covering her moutha nd nose. and her eyes are unreadable. She radiates a calm, professional lethality, the kind you'd see on...me, if I wasn't too keen on trying to blow my brains out, contrary to popular belief I can defend myself, I served for years.
"Trooper," she says to Grundy. Her voice is crisp and clear even through the wack ass scarf.
"Ma'am," Grundy nods.
Miller and Chen, sensing the transfer of custody is complete, edge back toward their truck. "He's all yours, ma'am. We're wheels-up back to Austin in thirty."
"Acknowledged, troopers. Safe travels."
"Travels with him," Miller says, nodding at me, "are apparently always safe. That's the one perk they didn't tell us but I sure as shit ain't complaining."
He chuckles as he says it, slapping the BearCat on the hood. The BearCat's engine, which had been purring, coughs once, sputters, and then settles back into its steady, impossible hum. My halo, reminding them what they're leaving behind.
Miller just shakes his head and climbs in.
Miss Militia turns to me. The sally port door, the one that shrieked open, begins to groan its way shut.
"Deadman. Welcome to Brockton Bay. I'm Miss Militia, Protectorate ENE."
I just nod. Her eyes give nothing away. She either doesn't remember or, more likely, she's a professional.
"This way," she says. "The Director is expecting you."
She turns and walks. I follow. Grundy, my new shadow, falls in a step behind me. We are a three-person parade of misery.
The ENE building is not like Austin.
Austin was a modern, functional office that just happened to have armor. It was beige, yes, but it was clean.
This place... this place is sick.
The paint is peeling. The concrete is stained. There's a smell of mold and old coffee that no amount of industrial bleach can hide. And the lights... they don't just flicker. They stutter. They fight a losing war against the darkness of the hallway.
My halo, my passive aura of 'things-working', flares out. It tries to do its job.
A fluorescent panel above us buzzes, flickers harder, and then dies with an audible pop.
I stop.
That's... new.
In Austin, the light would have stabilized. It would have shone brightly.
Miss Militia pauses, looks up at the dead panel, and then back at me. Her expression is hidden, but I can feel the questions.
"God damn it," Grundy mutters, pulling a small flashlight from his belt. "That's the third one this week."
We keep walking.
I pass a vending machine, a truly ancient model with a faded picture of a soda can. A piece of paper is taped to it: BROKEN - DO NOT USE. As I walk by, I wait for the click. For the hum of the condenser. For the little green light to suddenly remember it has a job.
Nothing.
The machine just sits there, a monument to failure.
My power isn't gone. I can feel it. It's... pushing. But the building is pushing back. The sheer, accumulated weight of this city's decay, its entropy, its... its despair. It's too much. My power fixes accidents, small-scale failures. This place isn't an accident. It's a terminal diagnosis. It's a decade of systemic neglect and failure, baked into the rebar.
A cold knot forms in my stomach. The truck. The bird. The Brute's ankle. Those were isolated incidents.
This... on the othjer hand is a hostile enviroment.
My one passive defense, my "get out of jail free" card, is struggling against the sheer, crushing weight of Brockton Bay. What happens if the pigeon doesn't show up next time?
"The Director's office is this way," Miss Militia says, her voice cutting through my internal spiral. "You will be briefed, assigned quarters, and then you'll meet the local M/S protocols officer."
"You have a dedicated one?" I ask, my voice sounding hollow.
"We have protocols for everything here, Deadman," she says, not looking back. "It's how we survive."
We pass a briefing room. The glass is smudged. Inside, four PRT troopers are slumped around a table, cleaning weapons. They all look exhausted. They look up as I pass, their eyes lingering on me. There's no curiosity. No 'welcome to the team' vibe. Just a flat, weary suspicion. Great. Another mouth to feed. Another body to lose.
We arrive at a heavy steel door, painted the same depressing gray as everything else. It looks like a bulkhead on one of the ships in the Graveyard. Miss Militia knocks twice, a sharp, precise rap-rap.
"Enter."
The voice is gravel. It's irritation. It's the sound of someone who has been interrupted from a state of permanent, low-grade fury.
Miss Militia pushes the door open. It squeaks. Loudly.
My power tries to stop it. I feel my halo push, trying to... I don't know, oil the hinge with sheer-fucking-willpower?
The hinge squeaks louder, a defiant screech of tortured metal, as if mocking me.
This is hell.
The office is a bunker. There are no windows. The walls are cinderblock, painted the same gray. The only light comes from a desk lamp and the glow of three monitors.
Behind a desk cluttered with paper stacks and three-ring binders sits Director Emily Piggot.
She is exactly what her voice promised. a cold hard bitch, she was short, a little stubby and a bit chubby, her hair was done in a ponytail, next to her a machine beeped.
She doesn't look up.
Miss Militia and I stand there. Grundy waits outside.
Ten seconds pass. Fifteen. The only sound is the click-click-click of Piggot scrolling.
She leans back. Her chair lets out a long, agonized squeal. My power tries to kill the sound. The chair squeals again.
Fuckass power-play bullshit, reminds me of the Military, at least with Reeve, Lopez and the others I could like...we could bounce off ach other, now it's just...feels lik I got caught trying to sneak cigs by my commanding officer or something.
This building is actively trying to piss me off.
Finally, she looks up. Her eyes are chips of ice. They scan me, from my boots to my hair, and find nothing worthy of interest.
"Deadman," she says. It's not a name. sounds like it's the name of a housepet she's sick of and wants it to geet put down.
"Ma'am."
"I've read your file. All of it." Her voice is a low rasp. She pushes the datapad away. "I am not Director Reeve. This is not Austin. We are not 'fond' of you, I sure as shit don't like you one bit. We are not your 'work family.' We are shithouse filled with explosives primed to explode, and to me? You look just about the right size of fuse to set it all off" (DOES THIS WORK???
She leans forward. The chair screams in relief.
"Your power, as I understand it from Austin's glowing report, is 'passive probability manipulation.' You make things... work."
"Something like that," I say.
"Good." She gives a thin, bitter smile that doesn't touch her eyes. "Because nothing works here. You are a walking, talking experiment, Deadman. A 'cross-departmental field study.' You are a number sent by Austin to solve a political problem. You are not a hero. You are not, as far as I'm concerned, even an asset. You are a variable. An uncontrolled, unquantifiable variable in an equation that is already killing me and to me? You're just here to speed it up."
She picks up a piece of paper. A printed, hard-copy of my contract.
"I've read this, too. 'No media.' 'No direct disaster intervention unless requested.' 'Jurisdictional to Austin.' It's a beautiful piece of legal fiction. And it means nothing to me."
She slams the paper back onto the desk.
My blood, which was already cold, turns to slush. "Ma'am, my transfer is—"
"—A temporary reassignment," she cuts in, her voice sharp as a razor. "Which puts you under my command. And my command has one rule: you do what I say. Your Austin contract is null and void here, consider it down the shitter. You will not be on the front lines, not because of your contract, but because your power is a high-risk, unquantifiable fucking mess."
She points a single, rigid finger at me. "You will be assigned to Logistics. You will have a bunk in the sub-basement. You will be on-call 24/7. You will not leave this building without an armed escort and my personal sign-off. You will not engage any local capes. You will not speak to the local Wards. You will especially not speak to New Wave. Is that clear?"
The "New Wave" bit... that's Amy. She's walling me off. She knows.
"And Panacea?" I ask, the word tasting like a mistake.
Piggot's eyes narrow to slits. "Panacea is a civilian asset who operates under a truce, and is, as I'm sure you're aware, part of New Wave. You will have no contact with her unless I explicitly sanction it for a medical emergency. Your... 'rapport' in Delhi is a liability I will not tolerate. She has enough problems without a walking luck-bomb complicating her life. Understood?"
This is worse than I thought. This isn't a transfer. It's a prison.
"Understood," I say, my voice flat.
"Good." She looks past me to Miss Militia. "Get him processed. I want him on the floor, fixing my god-damned copiers in an hour."
Miss Militia nods. "Yes, ma'am."
As we turn to leave, Piggot's voice stops us.
"One more thing, Deadman."
I turn back.
"Austin may see you as some kind of... lucky charm. A morale boost." Her face is pure stone. "Here? From where I'm standing? You look like tomorrow's headline of 'Who got murdered this week' try to stay alive."
The door clicks shut behind us.
Miss Militia and I stand in the hallway. The dead fluorescent light makes the shadows long and deep.
"She's... charming," I say.
"The Director is... focused," Miss Militia says, her voice still neutral. But I see her hand, the one not holding her weapon, clench once into a fist, then relax.
"This way to Intake," she says. "Let's get you processed."
We walk down another, darker hallway.
"Your file mentioned a stabilizing effect," Miss Militia says, her voice low. "The lights in Austin, compared to the lights here. The truck. What happened back there?" She gestures with her chin at the dead panel.
"It's... different here," I say. "The building. It feels... heavy. Like it's pushing back. In Austin, my power just... happened. Here... I think it's fighting me."
"This city fights everyone," she says dryly. "Get used to it."
Intake is a small, windowless room with a trooper named 'ARMITAGE' who looks like he's ninety percent caffeine and one hundred percent regret on signing up for this job.
"Datapad," he says, shoving a beat-up piece of tech at me, a mix between a kindle and an ipad more...shittily designed. "Sign the transfer waiver, the ENE M/S protocol sheet, and the NDA."
I take the stylus. The datapad screen is black.
"It's dead," I say.
"Fuck," Armitage sighs. "Of course it is. It's Tuesday. The backup..." He turns to get a paper form, muttering about the god-damned budget.
"Wait," I say.
I look at the datapad. I hold it in both hands. I remember the drone on Hotfix's bench. The mixer. I focus. I don't just want it to work. I will it to. I stare at the black screen and push.
A single pixel flickers.
Miss Militia, who had been watching the hallway, turns her head.
A line of green static flashes across the screen.
"I said wait," I repeat, my teeth gritted. I can feel a weird, sticky pressure behind my eyes. It's the "forcing it" feeling from Austin, but now it feels like the only option.
The screen flickers, flashes white, and then, with agonizing slowness, the PRT logo boots up. The screen is covered in artifacts, and a black line runs through the center, but it's on.
Armitage stares, his mouth open. "How in the..."
"Small miracles am I right?" I ask Miss Militia, not looking at her. I take the stylus. The signature line is flickering, but it's there. I sign my name. The signature takes.
"That wasn't passive," Miss Militia says. It's not a question.
"No," I say, handing the datapad back to the stunned trooper. "It wasn't, don't expect something like this again."
My new bunk is in the sub-basement. Piggot wasn't kidding. It's a concrete tomb, sectioned off with chain-link fencing. It smells like damp earth and bleach. Grundy leads me to a metal cot, hands me a keycard, and leaves. "Don't leave the sub-basement without an escort. That's a direct order."
He locks the chain-link gate behind him.
I'm alone.
There's a single, bare bulb on a long wire hanging from the concrete ceiling. It's not just flickering. It's dead.
I sit on the cot. The mattress is maybe two inches thick. I stare at the dead bulb.
I'm tired. I'm cold. And I'm in prison.
I close my eyes. I focus on the bulb. I picture the filament inside. I picture the switch on the wall, the wires in the conduit. I picture the flow of electricity, and I argue with every atom of rust and decay that's stopping it.
Work.
A long minute passes. Just me and the smell of mold.
God damn it, work.
A low, orange glow.
I open my eyes. The filament in the bulb is humming, a pathetic, weak light, barely brighter than a candle. It's not fixed. It's not right. But it's light. It's a tiny, hard-won piece of compliance in a city that's built on failure.
I'm exhausted. That one bulb took more effort than fixing Rae's entire kitchen.
I lie back on the cot, under the weak, dying-ember glow. I pull out my phone.
One bar. It's flickering, just like the signal.
I look at Amy's text. Don't be an idiot.
I type a reply. My fingers feel heavy.
Me: Here. It's a shithole. Director of this branch told me I wasn't to speak to you-or anyone for that matter, try not to miss me.
I hit send.
The "sending" icon spins. And spins. The single bar of signal vanishes. Then returns. Then vanishes.
I stare at the icon. I push. "Go, you piece of shit. Go."
The wheel spins faster.
And then... Message Sent.
I drop the phone on my chest and close my eyes. I'm not in Austin. I'm not a passive aura of good luck.
I'm in a city that's actively trying to kill itself, and I've just been handed a very, very small spoon.
I don't sleep.
I can't.
I lie on the cot in my concrete box, staring at the pathetic, flickering orange glow of the single lightbulb I'd managed to bully into submission.
This city is sick and it's fucking awful.
It's a passive, grinding entropy that actively resists my powers, actively trying or otherwise.
In Austin, my power was a gentle, passive aura. Here, it's like trying to hold a door shut against a hurricane.
The building wants to fail.
I sit up. The cot leg lets out a high-pitched screech against the concrete.
"No, I am fucking done." I mutter.
I stare at the joint where the metal leg meets the frame. It's rusted. It's loose. I push with my mind. That sticky, high-pressure feeling builds behind my eyes.
The headache is immediate.
The screech stops.
I move again. Silence.
Okay, that worked...again, which is...Good.
Lets try that again.
I look at the lightbulb. It's still a weak orange. I push again, harder. I picture the filament, clean and bright. I picture the electricity flowing, unimpeded.
The bulb flashes, buzzes angrily... and settles into a clear, steady, yellow-white.
It's still ugly. It's still weak. But it's better.
Progress!
I get up and walk to the chain-link gate. The lock is a heavy, old-fashioned padlock. Grundy's key probably sticks in it. I put my hand on it. It's cold and gritty.
"Behave," I whisper.
I feel the tumblers inside, stiff with rust and old oil. I push. I don't feel anything change, but the feeling of resistance in the air... it lessens. It's like the lock just sighed and gave up.
You can not convince me that I am not made of fucking MAGIC because I am on fucking fire today.
Guess the motivating force for my power is either depression or spite, huh...
This is my new reality I guess, I'm an active-duty janitor, and my only tool is a psychic hammer that I have to use to nail shit down with.
Upstairs, the building wakes up.
Trooper Armitage, the intake grunt, sits down at his desk with a sigh. He eyes the datapad he used for my intake. It's been on the charger all night. He picks it up, fully expecting the "BATTERY FAILURE" warning and the charge to be at 1%.
The screen lights up. Battery: 62%.
Armitage blinks. He unplugs it. The screen stays on.
"...Huh," he says to the empty room. He runs a diagnostic. The battery health, which was 14%, now reads 48%. He doesn't file a report, he's not paid to.
He just... starts his work. For the first time in a month, he doesn't have to keep his datapad tethered to the wall.
In the mess hall, Trooper Grundy stares at the industrial coffee machine. The "Shit is stuck, stick your hand in the coffee grinder." light, which has been on since 2009, is off.
He warily presses 'Espresso'.
He's expecting the familiar sound of grinding gears and a pathetic dribble of muddy brown water that tastes like piss.
The machine whirs, a high-pitched vroom he's never heard before. It grinds. It tamps. A steady, dark, krema-topped shot of espresso pours into his cup.
He sips it. It's still the worst coffee he's ever tasted, but it's hot, and it exists and most importantly, doesn't taste like piss.
He makes a noise of pure, unadulterated shock.
Director Piggot, in her office, slams her fist on the intercom. "Armitage, what the hell is wrong with the comms this morning?"
"Ma'am?" Armitage's voice comes back, perfectly clear. There is no static. No high-pitched whine.
Piggot stares at the intercom speaker. She presses the button again. "Where is the static?"
"...Gone, ma'am? I think Maintenance must have fixed the—"
"Maintenance hasn't fixed anything in six FUCKING YEARS," Piggot snarls. She cuts the connection. She leans back, and her chair lets out its customary, agonizing shriek of protest.
She looks at her speaker. She looks at the flickering light panel above her desk—which is still flickering. And she looks at the door to the sub-basement one her security cameras (One can never be too careful in Brockton Bay).
"Grundy," she barks into the now-clear intercom. "Get the new asswipe into my office. Now."
The walk back to Piggot's office is the same, but different. The lights aren't fixed. They still flicker. But they aren't actively dying. The air of constant, impending failure has been... pushed back.
It's like the building is holding its breath.
Grundy opens Piggot's door. The hinge squeaks. But it's a short, clipped sound, not the long, dying-animal wail of yesterday.
I'm making progress.
"Sit," Piggot says. She's not looking at a datapad. She's looking at me.
I sit in the visitor's chair. It does not squeak. My small halo of compliance is protecting my own ass, at least. Piggot's chair, however, lets out a groan as she leans forward.
"The comms are clear," she says. "The mess hall coffeepot has not, as of 0800, attempted to self-destruct. Armitage's datapad is holding a charge. That's you."
It's not a question.
"I'm... practicing," I say. "It's not passive here. I have to force it."
"You're forcing it." She nods, as if this makes more sense than the Austin report. "It's work."
"It is. This city... this building... it doesn't want to be fixed. It's fighting me."
"Good." Piggot almost smiles. "It fights everyone. You're the first parahuman who's walked in here and actually improved my building, even by accident, instead of just adding to my list of problems."
"I'm just the handyman that solves things, ma'am."
"You're a tool," she corrects, but without the venom of yesterday. "And I'm deciding if you're a useful one or just a different kind of bomb. I was an agent, Deadman. A long time ago, on the ground, before... this." She gestures at her desk, the office, herself and the weird little machine that beeps next to her desk. (I deadass could not find like any solid years when Piggot was an active agent so, I gotta be ambiguous)
"Makes sense," I say, shrugging. "You'd have to be an agent first, to become a Director."
To my absolute shock, Piggot lets out a short, sharp, barking laugh. It's a sound that's as rusty and unused as the lock on my cell gate.
"God, no," she scoffs, the laugh vanishing. "You think that's how this organization works? You think this is a meritocracy? This organization runs on politics, just like every other bureaucracy. Nepotism. Back-room deals. Ass-kissers who've never even seen a parahuman outside of a containment cell. I'd wager eighty percent of the current Directors couldn't clear a room if their life depended on it. They got their posts by not making waves, by filing the right forms in triplicate, and by ensuring they were never, ever in the same area as a real fight."
She leans forward, her eyes hard. "I got this post because no one else wanted it, and I was too stubborn to let the city die. This is punishment, Deadman, not a promotion. It's an exile made all the worse by being surrounded by shitheads, crackheads and neo-nazi scumsuckers."
The word 'exile' hits me. I look at her, really look at her. The anger. The resentment. The sheer, grinding stubbornness.
"I know the type," I say, my voice quiet. "The 'form-filers'."
Piggot's eyes narrow. "Oh?"
"I was... before this. I was in the army. Turkish Land Forces."
I watch her process this. The Turkish spoken on the radio, my file, my background, it suddenly clicks.
"Conscript, they still do the whole...mandatory service thing there, soon as you're 18, if you're not useful to the country by way of jobs or education? You get sent to the army, I was unlucky enough that my Dad's cancer treatments and us not being able to afford to keep him under care meant I had to quit my education and help him myself, and when he died I was promptly called over and told to serve my country." I pause to take a breath, looking up at the ceiling for a moment.
And then I continue like I'd never stopped, "then NCO. We spent eighteen months in the southeast. Counter-insurgency. I was a...'Topçu' a...fuck what do you call them again? An Artilleryman, fighting the PKK, bunch of bumfuck insurgents out in the middle of nowhere."
Her posture changes. It's subtle, but she's not looking at a parahuman anymore. She's looking at a grunt.
"The officers who stayed at the FOB... they all got promoted," I say, the memory tasting like ash. "They filed their reports, managed their budgets, and never got their boots dirty. The ones who went on patrol... they got blown up. Or they got this." I gesture at her desk. "A new post in a place so shitty no one else will take it."
Piggot stares at me. The silence in the room is heavy. Her chair squeaks, and this time, I don't even flinch.
"You've seen actual combat," she states.
"I've seen...enough -enough to know what stray brain matter tastes like when the head of your best friend is blown off by an Anti-Material rifle as you're carrying him to safety." I say. "Enough to know that things break. And someone has to be there to hold them together, even if it's just with spit and duct tape."
She looks at me for a long time. She still hates what I am. I can see it. I'm a cape. I'm a walking, talking generator of chaos, a problem she didn't ask for.
But...
"You're still a variable, Deadman, I still don't like you and I most likely never will." she says, her voice flat, but the raw hatred is gone, replaced by a grudging, professional assessment. "You're still a powder keg. But you're not... a moron. You're not one of these children in masks, playing cops and robbers."
She taps a key on her console. "I'm upgrading your status. You're no longer 'cargo.' You're 'Logistics Personnel.' You're still in the sub-basement —I can't have you wandering around—but you're going to be useful."
"Useful how?"
"Grundy will give you a list of non-critical systems. The comms array. The backup generators. The motor pool's maintenance logs. The fucking coffee machines."
She gives that same thin, bitter smile.
"Make yourself useful, Deadman. Fix my building. And try not to blow it up while you do it."
"Yes, ma'am."
"One more thing," she says as I stand. "You're still on a leash. You don't go near Panacea. You don't go near the Wards. You're a mechanic now. Go fix my engines."
"Yes ma'am, oorah." I say as I pull up a mock salute.
I walk to the door. I pause, my hand on the handle.
"And Director?"
"What."
"My cot still squeaks a little. I'd like to add it to the list."
She stares at me.
Then she actually, genuinely, snorts.
"Get the hell out of my office, Deadman."
I walk out. The door hinge gives a short, polite shreep.
Fuck me, that was...certaintly something.
But what though...
It's a start.
I nod to myself.
And then I'm promptly escorted back to my cell.
The word "cell" is both innacurate and accurate. It's a cage. But the weak, yellow-white light I'd bullied into existence is still holding steady. My cot doesn't squeak. It's a slightly less shitty cell because of that.
I don't get to rest. I sit on the cot for maybe ten minutes, just long enough for the headache from the datapad incident and the conversation with the Director to fade to a dull throb, before Grundy is back at the chain-link gate.
He unhooks the padlock. I hear the tumblers click open smoothly. He doesn't have to jiggle the key.
He looks at the lock for a half-second, then at me. His expression is, as always, carved from granite.
"Director's orders," he grunts. He shoves a battered clipboard through the gate. "Your list. You're with me."
I take it. The list is written in a heavy, angry-looking block script. It's a catalogue of the building's failures.
Mess Hall - Coffee Machine (Unit 2) - ERROR 5 (PERMANENT)Mess Hall - Toaster (ALL) - FIRE HAZARD (DO NOT USE)Sally Port (Main) - Sticking (10-sec delay)Elevator 2 - Stuck (Floor 3)Comms Room - Console 4 (DEAD)Motor Pool - Transport 7 (Engine Seized - WRITE OFF)This isn't a repair list. It's a god-damned autopsy report of shit that's been consistently and constantly dying left and right for a while now.
"Right," I say, grabbing my jacket and my vest, and check to make sure my blue band is still on my arm. "Let's go to work."
Our first stop is the mess hall. It's 0830. A few off-duty troopers are slumped at the tables, nursing mugs of what looks like hot water with brown food coloring. They all watch as Grundy leads me to the "Wall of Failure."
The coffee machine in question—Unit 2—is dark. The screen is blank. The "ERROR 5" is so permanent they've just written it on a piece of tape stuck to the panel.
"It's a brick, man," one of the troopers calls out. "Maintenance said the board is fried."
"The Director wants him to look at it, so he's going to look at it." Grundy says, his voice daring anyone to comment further.
I stand in front of the machine. I can feel the decay, the simple, grinding wrongness of it. The rust in the water line, the short in the power supply.
"Okay," I mutter. I place a hand on the machine's side.
I close my eyes and push.
It's not gentle. It's not a passive aura. I feel that sticky, high-pressure headache build.
I'm not asking the machine. I'm telling it. I picture the circuits, clean. The water heater, hot. The grinder, clear. I force the idea of 'WORK YOU PIECE OF SHIT' into its dead wiring.
The headache spikes—a sharp stab behind my right eye.
The machine shudders.
It lets out a loud CLUNK, followed by a high-pitched VREEEEE.
The troopers at the tables flinch.
The screen flickers, flashes BOOTING..., and then, in bright green letters: PLEASE SELECT BEVERAGE.
A collective, sharp intake of breath.
"Holy shit," someone whispers.
Grundy just grunts. "Toasters."
I move down the line. The toasters are easier. A simple push at each one. The levers, which were designed to pop up, stay down.
The coils, which were threatening to short, glow a healthy, even orange. No smoke. No smell of burning.
I'm sweating. My headache is already a 3/10.
"Next," I say.
We go to the main sally port. The massive, twelve-ton steel door that had greeted me.
"It sticks," Grundy says, hitting the 'OPEN' button.
The door groans, shrieks, and judders to a halt, half-open.
"See?"
"I see." I walk over to the massive hydraulic motor. It's caked in rust and old grease. I put my hands on it. The metal is cold. I push. I force the image of clean pistons, of free-flowing hydraulic fluid, of gears that mesh.
It costs me. The headache throbs, dark and heavy. I feel a wave of nausea.
"Hit it again," I say, stepping back.
Grundy hits 'CLOSE'.
With a sound like a sigh, the door slides shut. Silently. He hits 'OPEN'. It slides open. No rattle. No shriek.
Grundy stares at the door. Then at me. "...Huh."
The comms room is next. A techie with the name 'HARRIS' on his vest is waiting. He looks annoyed.
"Director said you had to sign off on this," he says. "Console 4 is a brick. The motherboard is cracked. We're stripping it for—"
"Just let me look at it," I snap. The headache is making me irritable, gotta love overstimulation am I right?
I put my hands on the console. It's dead. Cold. I push, harder than I did for the coffee machine. I'm not just fixing a short; I'm ignoring a physical break. I'm telling the electrons to jump the gap.
The console fans whir to life. The screen flickers, and the PRT BOOT V.8.03 logo appears.
Harris's jaw drops. "That's... that's not possible. I saw the crack. I physically... it's not..."
"It works," I say, rubbing my temples. "Next."
The elevator is a bitch. It's been dead for a year. I have to stand inside the dark, stale-smelling box for three solid minutes, forcing it, before the cables groan and the car slowly, painfully, descends to the lobby.
By the time we get to the motor pool, I'm pale and my hands are shaking. The headache is a solid 7/10. This active, "forced" compliance drains me in a way the passive aura never, ever did.
The motor pool is vast, cold, and smells of diesel and failure. A mechanic in grease-stained coveralls is leaning against a PRT transport—a heavy-duty cruiser, not a BearCat.
"Director's lost her mind," the mechanic mutters to Grundy. "This is T-7 we're talking about G, you know it won't work, I know it won't work, fuck even the Director knows it won't work! It's a write-off. Engine block's practically split in half! We're stripping it for parts."
"The Director wants it off the write-off list," Grundy says.
"The Director can kiss my ass. It's broken."
I stumble past him. "Open the door."
"What? It's—"
"Open the fucking door."
The mechanic, seeing the look on my face, just shrugs and pops the lock.
I slide into the driver's seat. The cab smells like vinyl and old coffee. I put my hands on the wheel. The headache is a spike, a railroad tie trying to split my skull. I'm sick to my stomach.
This... this is the biggest 'fix' yet.
I close my eyes. I picture the engine. The crack in the block. I don't try to fix the crack. I picture the metal holding. I picture the pressure ignoring the weakness. I picture the pistons, the fuel line, the spark. I'm not repairing it. I'm bullying it into submission like a wild honse. I'm telling it to work, just for now, just to prove it can.
I take a deep, shuddering breath.
I turn the key.
There's a click. A whirr.
And the engine roars to life.
A perfect, healthy, VROOOOM.
The mechanic drops his wrench. It clatters loudly on the concrete floor.
Grundy, for the first time, looks visibly shocked. His eyes are wide.
I kill the engine and stumble out of the cab, leaning against the door. I'm drenched in sweat.
"It runs," I gasp.
Grundy is already on his radio. "Ma'am. Transport 7 is... operational. ...Yes, ma'am. ...He's... tired."
A new voice cuts across the motor pool. A synthesized monotone.
"The diagnostic for this vehicle showed a 12-inch, non-viable fracture in the engine block. The fuel line registered zero pressure. The pistons were seized."
I look up.
Armsmaster is here.
He's in full armor, visor down. He wasn't called. His systems must have alerted him. He walks straight to the running transport, a scanner in his hand. He scans the engine block, his head tilted.
"And yet," he continues, "the engine is running at optimal RPM."
He turns, his blue-black visor reflecting my pale, exhausted face.
"Explain the methodology."
"I... I told it to," I say. It's the only answer I have as...as...what the fuck is running down my nose?
"That is not a methodology," Armsmaster states. He taps his scanner. "You are an unquantified variable. A 'Thinker/Trump.' You are overriding fundamental laws of physics and engineering."
"I'm the make shit work guy," I gasp, the headache making me want to vomit.
"Compliance is not a physical law," Armsmaster says. "You are not fixing these systems. You are forcing them. The potential for catastrophic failure and energy rebound is... incalculable." He looks at the engine, then at me.
"You are inefficient, Deadman. And you are dangerous."
He doesn't wait for a reply. He just turns and strides out of the motor pool, already dictating a report into his comms.
"Yeah well...fu-hck you too..." I stumble over my words as I finally wipe my nose.
It's blood.
Shit.
The mechanic is just staring at the engine, then at me, like I'm a god.
Grundy just looks... thoughtful.
"Back to your cell...Deadman" he mutters.
I just nod, too tired to argue, but hey at least he called me Deadman this time.
And I'm starting to think Piggot's cage is the one she's building around me, not the one she put me in.