Interlude: CoilProbability Bravo
Thomas Calvert opened his eyes. He sat in his chair at his desk in his office at the PRT. Probability line Alpha had just terminated with his death. Well... it wasn't the first time he'd died in other probabilities. Not the first, and judging by everything—not the last. And this death was no better or worse than other deaths. In the end, one person has very few ways to torturously kill another person within five to ten minutes. In that time, he would either drop the timeline or die in that reality. And after a certain threshold, pain ceased to be a factor—a person simply went into shock, after which reality would reset again. And everything before shock couldn't break him as a person.
Those girls wanted to break him? Thomas Calvert had been an when the PRT believed it could change something through force. He'd been in Johannesburg in '96 when Behemoth left only burning ruins of the city. He'd gathered with his own hands what remained of his squad—pieces no bigger than a handkerchief. Charred human flesh. He'd evacuated among the second-to-last squads in '99 from Kyushu when Leviathan and Lung practically destroyed the island. Nine and a half million deaths. Japan no longer existed as a nation. He remembered how he'd gripped in his armored gauntlet a small child's hand—a girl he'd saved from the ruins of a shopping center, with big frightened eyes, tears streaming down dirty cheeks... The whole time he ran to the helicopter, praying they'd let her on, swearing that if they wouldn't take her, he'd stay too—all that time he felt the child's hand in his. Heard her breathing behind him. He burst through the door, dragging the girl after him, ready to defend her before the commander, but... the commander didn't even look at him. Only inside did he realize the child's hand was no longer in his grasp. Of course, no one let him go back—it was too late to search. Too late to scream. Everything was too late.
Looking through the armored glass of the heavy military helicopter, he watched Kyushu flood with water, and it seemed he could see somewhere out there, among the chaos, fire, and water—a lonely child's figure with arms raised to the sky.
Then... then everything became pure hell. 2002—Bogotá, Behemoth. 2003—Seattle, Leviathan. 2003—London, the Simurgh, the most terrible of the Endbringer Trinity. 2005—Leviathan sinks Newfoundland. But Thomas Calvert didn't trigger in 2003, or 2004, not in London, Seattle, Bogotá, or even Madison, which became a quarantine zone. No. He triggered on that very day when outside the window of a heavy military helicopter, the island of Kyushu drowned with nine million inhabitants, while he still felt in his hand—a small child's palm.
That's when he stopped being simply Thomas Calvert and became Coil. Gained the ability to split probability lines and collapse them. After that, he began returning alive from any mission. He knew how to act to stay alive, and preferably—complete the mission and get everyone out. Again and again his unit was sent where no one returned from, assigned the impossible, but they managed and came back. Again and again. And then they were sent to Ellisburg.
Thomas Calvert stood and approached the table, poured water into a glass, and brought it to his mouth. Water spilled on the floor. He set the glass on the table and stared at his hand. It trembled with a fine tremor.
Ellisburg, he thought. That's what this is about. Damn memories. Emily. By then he was already a veteran, unit commander, with the best mission completion record, they called him "Invincible K." He always completed missions and always got everyone out alive. Not always whole, but always alive. And one of those who ended up in his unit was Emily Piggot—then still young, with wide-open eyes full of admiration devouring her commander. Of course—a legend, that same Calvert who pulled his group from a sinking ship during Leviathan's attack on Newfoundland. That same "Invincible K" who single-handedly held back the Meat Puppets' advance, standing behind a heavy machine gun covering his group's retreat, then escaped himself.
Young people like to create legends from nothing and believe in them. Emily and her friend Margo from the 102nd were just like that. They should have been dancing with boys in clubs and kissing in secluded places, not being soldiers. But... Emily Piggot chose an assault rifle and heavy armor of a PRT assault team operative. She was always more than just an operative, always ready to go the extra mile, put in more effort, always demanding of herself. And she adored her commander.
Thomas Calvert wasn't planning to start a workplace romance. And Emily Piggot herself, then a junior assault team operative operating heavy backpack flamethrower equipment, also didn't allow herself liberties. It's just that Thomas Calvert knew what she felt toward him, and she knew that he knew. He could have changed probability lines and tried what it was like... but he wasn't going to do that. His abilities weren't for indulgence or personal matters. His abilities were for saving people, changing this world for the better. That's what he'd always believed, what he believes now.
He exhaled and took the glass in his hand again. His hand stopped trembling. He took a sip, not tasting the Perrier mineral water at all. Ellisburg. Those two girls—Sarah Livsey and Taylor Hebert, Tattletale and Butcher Fifteen—couldn't break him, no. But Ellisburg...
He could have lied to himself, could have said he had no choice, but there was a choice. He habitually split realities before the assault and only then realized he'd done it too late. He was assault group leader with authority to order the start of an assault or postpone it, and they valued him for his intuition, his ability to avoid casualties among personnel. And of course, he would have postponed the assault, explained it with objective reasons—they would have believed him, but... it was too late. Ellisburg began its own assault. Birnam Wood came to Dunsinane Castle—so it seemed to him. He ran his probability lines—shooting, retreating, helping comrades retreat, throwing grenades, screaming with a hoarse throat... and both probability lines were the worst. In one, everyone died except two people. In the other—everyone also died except two people. Just in each reality, they were different people. In one case, it was Thomas Calvert and Emily Piggot. In the other—Ricardo Santiago, his deputy for combat operations, calm and confident, always reliable and supporting any commander's orders. And Sandra Rosinski, the unit's best sniper. Did he have a choice? Of course he did.
From a rational standpoint, making a choice based on logic—he did everything right. Two people and two people—the numbers were equal. Two lives either way. That left quality. Quality of people. In one case—his deputy Ricardo, a man who actually surpassed Calvert himself in everything except his famous "intuition," which was actually an ability. And Sandra Rosinski, the best marksman, cold-blooded and brave, a real spec ops fighter known as "Snake Rosinski." On the other hand—this Piggot, a rookie, junior operative, brave yes, but incompetent. Without experience, proper education and training. And of course—himself. And his ability to split probabilities. Anyone would say there was no choice—pick the cape. A cape would bring more benefit later, a cape of that level could outweigh a hundred ordinary people on the scales, right?
Thomas Calvert didn't think so. He didn't think he'd made the right decision that time. As he'd already said, people rarely choose with their minds. And that time he was simply afraid. Collapsed the line where he clutched his torn throat, writhing on the ground watching his people try to save him while a helicopter descended from the sky, and he knew for certain—they wouldn't make it. He'd bleed out in seconds and... he collapsed reality Bravo.
He set the glass on the table. Loosened his tie that was choking him, unbuttoned a couple shirt buttons. Calm down, Thomas, calm down. What was, was, he thought. That's when you decided you'd had enough, that damn command knew nothing and simply sent good boys and girls to slaughter, and if you want something done right—do it yourself! And he does. He became Coil, began assembling his own PRT, his own special service, his own assault teams from the best. Former assault troops who, like him, realized the PRT was sending them to slaughter, mercenaries from other countries, everyone with sufficient qualification and courage. His own cape teams—not just the Travelers and Undersiders. His own Thinker Tank. That Sarah Livsey couldn't understand—she just wanted to live her quiet life, enjoying existence. With her abilities—that was criminal. Damn Ragnarok was coming, the end of the world, Endbringers tearing the planet apart, Thinkers from government classified lab Thinker Tanks gave the world five to ten years before changes became irreversible. Humanity needed saving, and Tattletale dreamed of her suburban house and orange juice with breakfast eggs!
And this one, Hebert... clearly Tattletale was manipulating her, offering herself as reward. And she fell for it, drooling over her. Saving Tattletale to earn her attention, not understanding she was being manipulated, led like a donkey with a carrot dangled in front. The world was in danger, the PRT was run by a bunch of incompetent idiots, and Miss Hebert wanted only one thing—to get into Lisa Wilbourn's panties, who was actually Sarah Livsey.
And yes, the bunch of idiots running the PRT was being sabotaged by Director Costa-Brown, who couldn't empty a chamber pot at night without spilling everything. Not because she was stupid—she wasn't stupid at all—but because she did it deliberately. The PRT leadership actually undermined cape control effectiveness, disrupting villain capture and elimination operations, arranging escapes from detention facilities, refusing Kill Orders or Birdcage commitments.
Behind all this stood a mysterious organization—some Cauldron. Trading Powers in Vials. But Thomas Calvert wasn't an idiot and understood perfectly that those with access to Powers in Vials didn't need money. If they gave abilities for free, questions would arise, but this way... simpletons sincerely believed that those who could give any person Alexandria's or Legend's power wanted money. No, they had another goal. What? Whose side were they on? These questions couldn't even be asked in the PRT. A couple times Calvert had been forced to collapse reality when from nowhere a pistol barrel with a silencer pressed against his neck. The woman in the wide-brimmed hat didn't hesitate, didn't pause—she just pulled the trigger. Pop.
Cauldron's assassin always appeared when Thomas wanted to share his research with the world, but made no effort to stop him when he researched alone.
So, he thinks, we have Endbringers killing humanity, cape villains helping them, the PRT sabotaging the fight against both, and mysterious Cauldron somehow increasing the number of capes, most of whom become villains again. And at this moment Tattletale thinks only of herself and her quiet life. Idiot—she doesn't understand you can't hide from the world at such a moment, that if the world collapses, her quiet life will definitely collapse too. You can't hide from the apocalypse, pull a blanket over your head, close your eyes, and think it'll pass by.
Tattletale... you're still a girl, he thinks. You have complete information but make wrong decisions. That's your Thinker ability, not you. You're just an ordinary idiot. And this friend of yours, Butcher Fifteen, is also a fool. What do you think—kill me and your life will begin like a fairy tale? Endbringers will disappear, the Slaughterhouse Nine will cut themselves up, the PRT will start doing real work, and Cauldron will come forward with a penitent speech and guilty confession? Not likely! Without me you'll only attract unwanted attention, and while I can understand Fifteen's arrogance and overconfidence—she is a Butcher after all—what are you getting into, Tattletale?!
He sighs and presses the earpiece in his right ear.
"This is Victor Bravo. All teams. Sierra Delta. Alpha Oscar. Repeat, Alpha Oscar."
"Copy. Sierra Delta. Alpha Oscar. Lima Kilo confirms," crackles a voice in the earpiece.
Thomas Calvert approached his chair and collapsed into it. His legs trembled unusually. Still, it's not every day you get killed, he thinks, especially so... inventively. The girl's a sadist—she'll be simple to handle. This Hebert is completely single-button, predictable and straight as a stick. Bringing her to his side will be easy as pie. The difficulties will be with Tattletale. He'll have to work. But Thomas Calvert never shied away from work. Like any spec ops fighter, he was always ready to go the extra mile. And as a commander—he always knew exactly which direction to go that mile.
As for his people... they were the best of the best and wouldn't ask questions. Sierra Delta—stay down, keep your asses down, do nothing. Alpha Oscar—complete operation termination. No one would burst into Sarah Livsey's cozy apartment and bring her here with a bag over her head. That would be stupid. Fifteen showed zero tolerance for threats to her loved ones. The girl was a psychopath—she valued human life like trash underfoot. This world was full of monsters and horrors, and only he, Thomas Calvert, senior PRT assault team operative of "K's Daredevils," crime boss Coil, and PRT contract consultant—stood against chaos and lawlessness. Yes, he couldn't fix the whole world, but he could do his part, go his mile, make Brockton Bay a safe city. Safety meant control. Brockton Bay under his control would be safe, but first he needed to deal with these two brats putting sticks in his spokes.
"Will have to change the plan," he says aloud. He smirks—wickedly, with the corner of his mouth. Brats, he thinks, decided they could torture me. Me! If my mouth hadn't been full of insects I would have spat in their faces. I've seen things that would make your hair stand on end and turn gray. I've experienced deaths you never dreamed of. What do you know about pain, little fools? Unlike this Hebert, I'm not a sadist. I know how to cause pain, real pain, but I don't enjoy it. Sadists get too carried away—they don't know how to torture properly, it's too personal for them. That's why I died too quickly. The only thing that still pisses me off is the rustling of little wings, the buzzing-rustling, bzzzz, scr-scr-scr... That's annoying. Everything else... in one reality line you managed to outplay me. Rather—simply overcome with brute force. Butcher is Butcher—a human-shaped tank, fast, practically invulnerable, instantly regenerating, always hitting targets, and now with the taste of insects on her tongue too... she's dangerous. But only with brute force. Mentally this girl is the same as Tattletale—also thinks she knows everything and can make judgments and decisions independently. She doesn't know a tenth of what's happening.
"Young idiots," Thomas Calvert grumbles. "Weren't beaten enough as children." He stands, buttons his shirt, tightens his tie to his throat, and throws his jacket over his shoulders.
"Scr-scr-scr!" sounds in the air, and from surprise he flinches and jumps, pushing the table and dropping the glass. A cricket, he thinks, looking around. Just a cricket...