"Yeah..." I say, looking around. This isn't what I expected, honestly. Coil—a cape who plays with probability lines, slides through probability streams, able to choose the reality he needs. Plus he's a supervillain with his own Empire and a millionaire, if not billionaire. After such an introduction, especially after Lisa's grand entrance at my house in an armored Rolls-Royce, I expected to see an underground city, a ten-meter-high platform where I'd stand while below, stormtroopers in black armor would march in neat columns to Star Wars music. And I'd bark phrases into a microphone about Taylor's greatness and the need to bring order to Brockton Bay, then the whole world.
But in reality, Lisa, Coil, and I are standing in some fairly large underground hangar. Large, but not so much that a ten-meter platform would fit—only about three or four meters to the ceiling. Besides, the hangar is clearly a mess, with equipment and boxes lying or standing everywhere. From the equipment I only recognize a gas cutter and welding machine—the rest is unclear what it's even for. Cables snake underfoot, there's a wheeled forklift, and I see an overhead crane under the ceiling. Overall, the space looks more like a production workshop than the main hangar of a supervillain's base.
And the people standing and sitting before us—well, they don't look at all like stormtroopers in black armor. They look like ordinary people, not standing at attention, some sitting on boxes, some leaning against walls with arms crossed, generally behaving relaxed. In my opinion—maybe too relaxed.
They don't have a uniform, dressed however they want—ordinary black or white t-shirts with unit designations unknown to me or just numbers like 5.11, wide military-cut pants and boots. The boots are all the same. And they're all athletic builds. Some are mountains of muscle, some lean, but not one has a beer belly. And their looks. Calm and serious looks. Even makes me uncomfortable.
This scene doesn't look like "Supervillain reviews his legions," rather the opposite. The legions are reviewing the next successor to the dictator's post...
"Don't let them see your fear," says a voice inside me. "They shouldn't see a human in you, much less just a girl. You must become their leader. Must earn their respect, trust, and loyalty."
"Haven't heard from you in a while, Fifth," I mentally address him. "And what do you suggest? Strike the fear of God into their hearts, devour a couple with my Swarm in front of everyone? I'm not afraid of them, not all together, not one by one. Any day of the week... I just need to think, and they'll all die within five minutes."
"But they don't know that," Fifth points out. "These are hardened guys, veterans. I've seen their type. You have only one chance to make a first impression. Don't let Coil introduce you—introduce yourself. Otherwise they'll think he's still in charge here."
"Ladies and gentlemen, I've gathered you here..." Coil begins dryly, hands behind his back, and I raise my hand, cutting him off mid-sentence.
"I gathered you here," I say, looking around at the present mercenaries. Indeed, "ladies and gentlemen"—among them I see several women, some I wouldn't distinguish from men if not for their tight t-shirts. Short haircuts, no makeup, muscular arms, shoulder tattoos, sharp looks from under brows.
"From this moment you no longer report to Coil. From this moment I'm your new boss," I say. A murmur runs through the mercenary ranks, they exchange glances, shake their heads. I wait for the buzz to pass and silence to return.
"Those of you who don't want to work with me are free to go. You'll receive severance pay according to contract, plus payments for force majeure contract closure," I continue after a pause. "Those who want to continue working—all contract conditions you previously agreed to remain in effect. Is everything clear to everyone? Now about me. I'm Taylor Hebert. I'm a cape. The PRT assigned me threat rating eight and the name 'Poison Ivy.' Mr. Coil and I came to a mutual agreement whereby our assets were... merged. Mr. Coil remains my deputy and assistant, however you receive direct orders only from me or from Tattletale, whom you already know." I switch to "military" presentation style—short, to the point, maximum information in compressed time. Military people don't have time to ramble.
"Questions?"
"Permission?" raises her hand a short-haired mulatto woman and I nod, allowing her. She could be called lean compared to those around her, but even from here I can see her musculature is like steel cables rippling under dark skin. It's just that everyone here is quite muscular—occupational hazard.
"Why the hell should we obey some young girl?" she says, standing and putting her hands in her pockets. "Now if there were some monetary bonuses with the power transition..." Approving shouts came from the crowd, someone clapped, someone laughed.
"There it is," says the voice in my head. "There. Money—don't you dare pay them money. Don't you dare raise the contract amount. They're just testing your strength. If you take the bait now—they'll never get off your back."
"Clarify your question," I say, crossing my arms. "You were satisfied with the previous contract conditions and your previous boss. What's the difference?"
"With all due respect to you, ma'am," says the mulatto woman, her voice sounding slightly mocking, especially when she emphasizes "respect" and "ma'am." Of course, I'm just a sixteen-year-old brat to them—that's what they see.
"With all due respect, the difference is precisely you," the mulatto continues. "Thomas is one of us. He knows when force is needed and when it's not. And he won't send people on suicidal missions, hopeless attacks. He knows what's possible and what isn't. You though..." she shrugs. "I find it hard to imagine you know exactly what you're planning to do. And when a commander doesn't know what to do, things usually end in blood."
"She has a point," says the voice in my head. "Give control to the First—he'll strike the fear of God into them. Or... or to me. I can do it differently."
"Buzz off, Fifth," I mentally tell him. "Here's a cockroach, go get some air. I know what to do."
"Well, well..."
"Please introduce yourself," my voice sounds dry and emotionless.
"Rodriguez. Jane Rodriguez. Second Lieutenant," the girl answers. I need her name. Why? For several reasons. First, everyone loves their name, likes being addressed by name. And second, when a military person introduces themselves—they always straighten up a bit. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of times they've introduced themselves and reported their name and rank to superiors—this reflex is beaten into their subconscious. Even now Jane could have just said her name. Or just surname. Saying rank wasn't necessary. But she introduced herself fully, already falling into the "subordinate before leadership" pattern. And that works for me. Plus I need to be very, very official and formal, because informal communication with subordinates a leader can only allow if they're already sufficiently authoritative. If I were a four-star general of sixty-five with combat experience and a chest full of medals—they'd listen to me even "without rank" and informal. If the leader is a greenhorn, the only way not to become a laughingstock is extremely formal address.
"Miss Rodriguez. Two steps forward." My order sounds short, like a whip crack. The girl takes two steps without even understanding what she's doing. The Fifth Butcher's ability—voice control. At short distance, caught off guard—a person doesn't have time to think and obeys orders...
I also take two steps forward. Demonstratively show everyone my open palms. Slowly, looking the mulatto in the eyes, I put both hands behind my back and clasp one hand with the other. Take another step forward. "Wild geese" standoff—such a cruel game mercenaries have. Known only among their own... when two people solve problems between themselves with hands behind backs, exchanging kicks. Hands are needed for work, fights aren't encouraged, and bruises on legs aren't visible and quite painful, considering heavy military boots.
A murmur rolls through the mercenary ranks, they talk among themselves. I tilt my head as if inviting my opponent. She looks at me for some time, then her eyes narrow.
"Against a cape?" she says mockingly. "I'm not an idiot, ma'am. Poison Ivy, threat rating eight. What's the point?"
"You leave your assault rifle outside the circle, and I leave my abilities," I say. "However, if you don't want to—no one's forcing you. You're free, Miss Rodriguez. It's your choice. Besides... on the battlefield you'll also say: 'My God, it's a cape, what's the point? Better I surrender immediately.'" I did what I planned. Established that I'm stronger than each of them. First—need to establish simple authority of strength, then earn respect. None of them will dare face the Butcher. Everyone knows Poison Ivy is now Butcher Fifteen. They're experienced mercenaries, special forces veterans, guys and girls who've seen shit, but even they can't do anything against the Butcher. And they know it. The main trait of any experienced veteran—knowing their limits.
"Dragonfly step aside," sounds a voice with a slight accent and from the mercenary ranks steps a tall man with a beard and musculature that would make Apollo blush with shame. What the hell does he want? Doesn't he understand I could simply break him in half?
"Would my candidacy suit you, ma'am?" he asks, demonstratively putting his hands behind his back. "I won't complain that you're a cape."
"Completely," I nod. I have no choice, I can't back down now—in front of everyone. Rodriguez takes two steps back, standing by the wall.
"Kovalev Dmitry. Major. Spetsnaz," he introduces himself briefly. "Shall we begin?"
"Of course." And this big guy turns out to move quite fast! Combat precognition made me raise my leg—a heavy army boot swept through that exact spot with the speed and power of a passenger express train! Ah, so that's how it is... I catch him when he puts his foot down and can't react for some time! Kick to the shin. I deliberately weaken myself—if I kicked with full Butcher strength, putting everything into the blow—I would have torn off his leg. At least an open fracture would be guaranteed.
He endured the blow and delivered his own—just when I lowered my leg and couldn't dodge or block! I deliver my blow to his thigh, low kick! He delivers his! I began to understand what this game was about... impossible to dodge, no one hits the head or above the belt. This is somewhat like the famous "Irish standoff," when each side just stands in place and waits for the opponent to strike to strike back. To endure pain and strike back. There's no place for cunning feints or tactical tricks here. Just two people standing opposite each other exchanging blows... and why does he need this? He can't not know I could end this farce with one blow. I just need to stop holding back, and I'll break both his legs with one strike. Besides... I practically don't feel pain. He can't damage me, and I moved my leg at the beginning instinctively. That blow wouldn't have hurt me, like any other blow he could deliver.
Maybe just stand? Show that he can't do anything to me? No, can't do that—this is also a test. They're testing me right now. If I just stand here with a mocking smile, showing his blows are no more than tickling to me—I'll humiliate him. I'll show I don't respect them as people and fighters. That knowledge of their customs is just superficial, theoretical naturalist knowledge, not understanding. And I could end the duel with one blow, breaking his leg... but that would also mean I failed the test. They're testing me. For patience. For how much I understand these people. But... I can't surrender either.
After another blow from Dmitry, I raise my leg and with one push to the chest—send him to the floor. He flies aside, falls, gets to his feet, rubbing his chest. Looks at me.
"That was a good hit... boss," he says. I bow my head toward him, acknowledging his strength. Look around at the others.
"You'll receive the same as you were getting. No one will be shortchanged, no one will have salary or bonuses cut. You won't get more just because I'm a young girl. Those who want to test themselves against me—please do. And... you can even take your assault rifles and grenades. You can all attack at once. But then don't complain. Is everything clear?"
I look around at the mercenaries. They exchange glances.
"I can't hear you!" I press with my voice. "Is everything clear to you?"
"Yes, boss!" sounds a unanimous roar. Three from the general mass step aside. We leave the hangar and go to the briefing room. I look at Coil.
"Those who decided to leave—pay double severance," I say. "And no accidents."
"You wound me, Miss Hebert," he says dryly. "These are my colleagues."
"Of course," I don't believe him for a second. Probably that's how evil genius assistants should be—treacherous, whom you don't believe a single word. Not one oath.
"As my father said, if you give a person opportunity to steal, you make them a thief. If you give a person opportunity to betray—you make them a traitor. According to Dante Alighieri, traitors languish in the ninth circle of hell... just don't give him such opportunity, Taylor, don't make him more of a traitor than necessary."
"Yes, I've heard this song before," I say to myself. "And for that I just need to give you control? You're repeating yourself, Fifth."
"If you're done playing pirate queen, we have more meetings, Tay-Tay," Tattletale reminds me. "Confirming contracts with the Travelers and Undersiders. I already talked to mine, they're generally in the loop. But I assume you'll still want to meet them and dominate them personally. Testosterone and growling, all that. You and Bitch will get along easily. Hope you won't play 'Irish standoff' with Grue. But I don't feel sorry for Regent at all."
"Two more contract teams arrive next week. One's completing a mission in Boston, the second is on leave," Coil reports. "I'll arrange personal meetings Wednesday and Thursday respectively."
"But we still need a name. If we have a team now, and you Taylor categorically don't want to choose a name for yourself... we still need a group name," Tattletale reminds. "I suggest discussing this now. The name is very important for creating and managing public image."
"I have an idea," I say. Tattletale gives me a quick look and winces.
"No," she says. "Please. It sounds like a bad joke. No, it IS a bad, flat joke. They'll laugh at us."
"I like it," Coil interjects. "Good name. Just what's needed—laconic and at the same time reflects the essence of our goals and objectives."
"So boring," I say. "You always know everything in advance. Coil, you dropped the probability line again. What did you do in the other one? Did I kill you again?"
"I only dropped it to learn the name Miss Hebert came up with for our team. And I find this name suitable," he answers.
"Don't believe him, Tay-Tay," Tattletale smirks. "He screwed up again. Okay, okay, he just made a bad joke in that probability."
"Seriously? He drops probabilities just because of a bad joke?"
"I can't allow myself to be imperfect," Coil straightens. "And... it wasn't such a bad joke."
"Fine. Since you know anyway, you know I won't give up this idea!" I say, entering the briefing room. "Administration! So what! Like, for example, an announcement: 'Villainy is prohibited in Docks territory. Administration.' Or there—'Disturbing peace and order in city territory is punishable by insect consumption. Administration.' Oh! Or here's another: 'Attractive blondes subject to registration as weapons of mass destruction. Administration.' Cool, right? Like we already run everything! And here, I also thought up—'Endbringers are prohibited on this planet. Administration.' Lisa!"
"What did I do to deserve this," Tattletale rolls her eyes. "Let's better deal with the S-class threat sitting in our shelter. Everything's safer than testing your sense of humor. And know—I'm against this name! What kind of name for a cape team is Administration?!"
"That's exactly where I joked in the previous probability line," Coil says.