The Girl

"Good afternoon, Miss Wilbourne." "You can just call me Ann." "My name is Zachariah Stein. Call me Zach. I'd love to attend in person, but I'm afraid with the nature of your abilities..." "It's all right, Zack. I... understand," Taylor allowed herself a smile as she stared at the screen of the laptop she had brought into the room. Her interlocutor was relatively close, just two floors away, in one of the empty offices. Her heroic and grim spy decided to stay in his own room this time, watching her through the wall. Two days had passed since the first... interview. It was more akin to an interrogation, but Taylor didn't mind. Nothing... Particularly significant had happened in that time. Of course, there had been a lot of changes. Like the fact that she hadn't seen either Sard or Black Noir lately. Certainly, both were within her swarm's radius, but neither was willing to come near her. They stationed a couple of guards on her floor. Not special forces, but certainly not pushovers. Even the nurses had changed. Those who had worked with her before had apparently been allowed into the maternity ward below as well, which was apparently the reason for the change of personnel. It was even somewhat funny because the newly arrived nurses were clearly younger, inexperienced, and much more talkative. They did not seem to know anything secret, but general information, and gossip of varying degrees of credibility, were a dime a dozen. One of the nurses even asked for her autograph, arguing that her son collected them and that surely no one else would have this one. She couldn't refuse. Certainly, there was a chance that all this was a Vought's plan to get a sample of her handwriting for handwriting expertise, but the probability of it was firstly small, and secondly, all traces of Taylor's former handwriting were destroyed along with her right hand, and such drawing was quite useful from the recreational aspect of the process. After a couple of minutes and a dozen ruined sheets, Taylor was able to draw something resembling a signature. This was somewhat surprising since she had expected to spend at least half an hour on the act, but her newfound coordination helped a lot with recreation. However, that wasn't the only "new" acquisition. A local variation of the Vials, called "Compound V," according to the inscriptions in the hospital's underground vault, was indeed making wonders. In addition to general healing, Compound clearly gave her some additional abilities. From what Taylor has been able to notice so far: Improved coordination, she had been readjusting to being left-handed quickly. Brute rating - the nurses needed to change needles a few times to draw blood for analysis. But those weren't the main changes. She didn't notice it right away, but the already simple and familiar control of her swarm was even easier. Conditionally speaking, the quality of the "signal" had improved; now she could easily make out sounds at the very edge of her sensor network. Also, the bugs were... responding faster now? She didn't understand exactly what had happened yet, but the number of orders she gave per unit of time had increased considerably. From this, it was obvious that her potential fighting ability had increased considerably. Certainly, the loss of her main arm was... an unpleasant outcome, but given the whole situation, she was incredibly lucky. All in all, her recovery was progressing by leaps and bounds, Taylor was even beginning to suspect she acquired some sort of healing factor but had no clear evidence of that yet. Despite her weakness, her muscles hadn't had time to atrophy, which was why yesterday Taylor was able to sit up on the bed with enough confidence. She didn't venture to stand up yet, but she didn't feel too uncomfortable. At the same time, she continued her search for information about Earth-V and Vought in particular. Some of the information was gathered through the nurses, who showed a certain tenderness towards the "young superheroine who already sacrificed so much", but most of it was gathered through her Swarm. Over the course of last night, Taylor managed to find another reasonably comfortable place to gather information. In one of the standard townhouses at the very edge of her perception, she found an empty second-floor room with a working computer, apparently belonging to a child who had moved out. The landlady worked late and slept on the ground floor, so there was little fear of detection, but Taylor opted to reassure herself and kept a few insects along her route to the first floor. The results of the search were quite interesting. The statistics of crimes committed within the US were monstrous. In terms of criminality, the US was in the top twenty, only slightly behind the perennial leaders from Africa and South America. In terms of attempted armed robberies, it ranked first. One would wonder how this is possible, given the small fact that all two hundred and forty-two registered superhumans* reside within the United States? The Internet had no concrete answer to that question, but to her, the answer seemed obvious. An appropriate level of crime was required to maintain constant superhero activity. It was trivial to do otherwise. From this followed another question - how real those numbers were. Yes, action begat opposition. She had no doubt that there were tens of thousands of hot-blooded fanatics with a violent temper, capable of snapping out of their seats and going to the other side of the world just to challenge creatures that stood above humans by birth, but none of it looked natural. She knew all too well what natural cities and countries with similar crime rates looked like. America Earth-V was nothing like its twin with Beth. It was stronger as a state, it was stronger as a System. All the big guns were still in Uncle Sam's pocket and not given over to mentally unstable people lucky enough to win the shittiest lottery in the known universe. She could feel someone's hand pulling the strings of an invisible criminal machine. She saw an endless string of advertising banners with the faces of Seven. She looked at the impossibly huge numbers of views under YouTube videos praising the supers. She glanced through hundreds of faceted eyes at the endless strings of comments ranging from almost earnest prayer to outright envy. Vought created a cult. A cult that had very real gods, capable of both horrifying and inspirational deeds. And to keep that cult alive, they were willing to do a lot. It was all familiar. Too familiar. However, Taylor did not know the reasons why Vought or those behind them did so. As horrific as Cauldron's crimes were, Taylor could not deny the reasonableness of their motives. But was there something behind Vought's ideas? Was there some noble purpose of their chosen path? That she did not know. And somehow, she did not want to know. Because at the moment she had no desire at all to make it her problem. In those miserable two days, she had woken up from nightmares six times, ready to attack, ready to kill. Every time she forced the swarm to lay low. Every time she allowed herself to be distracted from absorbing information to comprehend it, she had to constantly yank herself back to stay focused. Now she couldn't allow herself to lose control. Even when it was over. Especially when it was over. As paradoxical as it was, even after Taylor was ready to meet death at the hands of the Contessa, she still wanted to live. To live as someone, not something. To live as a person. She was tired of being... "Miss Wilbourn? Can you hear me? Are we having some sort of networking problem?" The voice of her polite interlocutor snapped Taylor out of her mental coiling. From the looks of it, it was long enough. And quite conspicuous. "Excuse me, I was a little preoccupied. Did you ask for something?" Stane looked rather young for a seasoned professional, but she had long since become accustomed to not trusting appearances. Social media didn't give her any comprehensive information about the person she was talking to, either. "I'd like to know your opinion of Vought International." Taylor thought for a moment. " I don't remember much about what happened before... my hospitalization, so I'm afraid there's not much I can tell you. Certainly, I am extremely grateful to you for your treatment - your doctors performed a miracle in relieving me of complete paralysis. Dr. Sard says I'll be back on my feet in just a few days! However, all I know about Vought is what they say on television about you..." she paused awkwardly, implying media bias. Zacharia smiled. "I can understand your confusion. Our PR department sometimes goes crazy, to tell you the truth. But in any case, our company is really interested in your speedy recovery, Ann. After all, the more superheroes we have, the safer our streets are. However, Ann, I have some unpleasant news for you. - Employee's face took on a much more serious expression. Taylor frowned. "What's wrong?" "When we tried to get your medical records, we couldn't find anything. There is not, nor has there ever been, a girl named Ann Wilbourne born on the date you mentioned. Neither is there in the UK, although your accent is completely different." As expected. Given this kind of media coverage, it's a piece of cake for them to access a national database. "B-but how is that possible? I, I..." She didn't think she was a great actress, that was more Emma's... or Lisa's shtick. But she had to try. All she had to do was try to resurrect in her memory the Taylor that had existed until she had run into Lung. Apparently, it was successful enough because Zachariah was very quick to interrupt her. "Anne, are you alright? Please, please calm down! We have every reason to suspect that this is not your fault!" "Y-yes?" - It was rather difficult to imitate a timid voice. Zachariah shook his head vigorously in response. "Absolutely, Ann. We do not know all the details, but we have reason to believe that the case involved politics and the CIA." "CIA?" That was new. Apparently, it's the result of her pathetic attempts to simulate amnesia. The Intelligence Agency, on the other hand... The Protectorate was full of tales of all sorts of Feds and their secret projects. Tecton had once told her a story about the Machine Army being the result of one of the CIA's failed experiments to recreate Tinkertech. And that was on Bet, where there was very, very little left of the Authority's former strength. Here... Taylor was even willing to believe that something like this was probably possible, in one form or another. "Yes. It is quite possible that you were somehow connected with our valiant intelligence, but something happened, and you were..." "Disposed..." Quite an interesting manipulation, she'd say. If they believed that she really has lost most of her memory, it would be easy to tell her story about the terrible system that grinded and spat out the poor girl. On the other hand, isn't the scheme too simple? After all, the government is much stronger here than it is on Bet and such accusations could backfire on Vought as well. Especially if her memories magically "come back". But then again, she'd probably be the one to blame, and she couldn't prove it. "There is no proof, only circumstantial evidence, so it is essential that we learn everything we can from you in order to say something for sure..." "O-okay, b-but what about the fact that I don't exist? W-well, then I won't be able to do anything..." "Don't worry, Ms. Wilbourn. Vought has a very wide range of connections and capabilities. Once we get a handle on what happened, helping us recover the documents won't be a problem." Here comes the carrot and the stick. Provided a return to Bet had become impossible, Taylor needed some papers to prove her existence. Given political and government specifics she very doubted that she could live a decent life without having any. And being homeless… was not for her. In a way, it was even tempting. To help Vought build some beautiful legend, convince them that they were chasing the ghost of an all-powerful agency, get her papers, go to college, get a job. But that would be a naive decision. There was too much chance of getting caught in an ill-conceived lie. Besides... regardless of the outcome, choosing to cooperate meant putting herself in Vought's mercy. No. It won't work. She needed to find a way out, a way out of Vought's field of vision, preferably without escalating the conflict. Preferably without confronting members of the Seven directly. Given the fact that Black Noir practically lived beside her these days, any escape plan seemed highly impractical and very dangerous. Even with the element of surprise in the form of a swarm, that was already past some stages of forming. With all this thinking, there's no telling what would have happened to Taylor Hebert if, at that very moment, there hadn't been a loud, joyous shriek in an inconspicuous apartment building across from the hospital.

***

At that very moment. Special Agent Ashley Davidson. Almost all CIA desk agents dream of fieldwork in one way or another. Foreign assignments, surveillance, evidence retrieval, investigations, chases, shootings. As a rule of thumb, the understanding of the word "field operation" is overly romanticized by desk officers. Agent Davidson lost her rosy glasses about fieldwork almost as soon as she was assigned... here. She had little idea what the hell had gotten into Hodgson's head that he'd assigned her to this operation. Yes, she gave them the idea to monitor their Wi-Fi activity, but why her? And if it was just surveillance of Internet traffic, why was she assigned to babysit other Agents? Agent... Leon, as he preferred to call himself, didn't look like an agent at all. Skinny, with huge dark circles under his eyes, and sparse hair. She guessed that was the whole point, but he did look like a drunkard junkie from Queens. Shit, he smelled weed! Also, Leon had a disgusting taste in music. Agent Marvin, on the other hand, was more professional, but he, too, bore little resemblance to a field agent. A powerful-looking black man who wore leather jackets, he was more like a middle-class rapper, than an agent. And in principle, it wasn't anything special if both Agents didn't quarrel with each other on every possible occasion and even without it being a textbook definition of "unprofessional". Leon didn't like Marvin blocking out the sun, Marvin didn't like the smell of weed, saying that it is impossible to breathe in the room. And even if the two weren't bickering, the atmosphere at the observation post was disgusting. As for the assignment itself, there was nothing super complicated about it. There was an unknown super in the hospital, which was of great interest to Deputy Director Mallory. However, the usual surveillance yielded no visible results, and getting inside was very difficult. To her misfortune, Ashley suggested trying to hack into their wireless network and see what interesting things could be found there. Hodgson was more than happy about the idea... so here she was, spending her days near the laptop, monitoring meaningless data streams. For the first week after her arrival, nothing happened, but in the last couple of days, activity at the hospital had picked up. According to intercepted reports, as a result of... something, several young nurses had been reassigned to work with the wounded super, something the girls had happily shared on social media with their boyfriends or husbands. But even that wasn't a significant advance in the case. The breakthrough came this morning when two new devices simultaneously registered on the hospital network, one of which turned out to be a work laptop from some guy in Vought's PR department. The second laptop was an ordinary one. Half an hour ago, the flow of data passing between the two devices had increased dramatically, indicating some sort of video call. It took her nearly twenty minutes to beg the guys at Langley for video capture software and a few more minutes to set it up. "We're in!" - The agent couldn't resist a cheerful exclamation. "Is this it?" - Marvin asked incredulously, "She doesn't look too bad." "She's super, le sot. One in three of them heals faster than a bloody lizard." "But she didn't grow an arm." Ashley couldn't take it anymore and turned to them and hissed. "Shut up, both of you. Now! Or I swear to God, I'll report you to Mallory!" "I... I'll try to tell you, Zack. But you know I don't remember very well what happened..." "Ma cherie, the Deputy is the one who sent us here. To keep an eye on her," Leon nodded towards the young girl on the screen, but still decided to be silent, listening to the conversation "Don't worry, Ann. Vought can protect you even from the CIA." At this point, Davidson couldn't resist commenting. "What the hell is he talking about? What's he got to do with us?" "Fucking Vought's, I'll tell you that. One thing I don't get is, why are they messing with her head if they're supposed to have her on the hook anyway?" "With everything that's going on, it looks like there's some messy shit I tell ya. And we've just stepped in it" No one was paying attention to the lone fly on the ceiling. Nor the spiders that were hiding in the corners.  

***

Grace Mallory. Langley. The vice-director rubbed her temples tiredly as she finished reading the report Davidson had compiled on her surveillance of the clinic. The whole thing was beginning to smell more and more evil by the day. And the puppy dog stare from the head of Analytics wasn't making her feel any better. "Hodgson, to answer your unspoken question, no, the CIA has no secret superhero breeding projects. Neither does the NSA or the FBI. The White House is scared shitless at the prospect of such "smart" weapons." "Ma'am, is that a "we don't have" or a "we'll deny it"?" "Derek..." said Mallory through gritted teeth. The man immediately backed away. "Roger that, ma'am. It means that Miss Wilbourne is not connected to us. That complicates things somewhat. If Vought took our nonexistent connection as a working theory, they must have had some reason to do so. It might have something to do with the whole Assange thing, but it seems to me a very... unlikely decision." "And yet, that's Vought's go-to theory. Or they want Wilbourn to think so. Either way, I don't like this whole story very much. Especially the fact that the Vought think they have a right to implicate us. We'll continue to observe them. But we need access to Wilbourn. Direct, via third-party, doesn't matter. We need that access. I can't have Vought turning the only non-corporate-affiliated super against us." Hodgson raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Ma'am, you know that recruiting…" "I know, Derek. But think about it, what an opportunity! Congress forbids the recruitment of known supers. But legally, Wilbourn doesn't exist. Which means there's no documentation of her being a super. Therefore, I have a chance to get this case through Petraeus. Of course, I'd have to try to convince Holder's office that it was worth the gamble." - Grace uttered this tirade with as confident a look as possible, though she herself was unsure whether she could persuade anyone from the Attorney-General's office. The Boys' initiative, though de facto approved at the top, did not yet exist de jure in the CIA itself. Never mind the interaction with the Department of Justice. Especially in these turbulent times. Hodgson nodded. "Roger that, ma'am. I'll pass on your assignment to the task force. But let me ask you... do you really believe it's worth it? You've said all along that supers are a time bomb. Aren't we going against the very principle of the initiative? If something goes wrong, the risks are enormous." Grace sighed and put her elbows on the table and rested her forehead on her palms. "It's no more risky than recruiting Castro's mistress. We got through it then, we'll get through it now. Derek, we both know we don't have much time. Two years, at worst. We need results now. This whole Vought thing has been stinking since the late '70s and we're just now starting to do something! I can find and recruit some bastards willing to shoot Mesmer in the head on occasion. There's a whole prison for these guys. But recruit a super whose ass doesn't belong to Vought? A chance to get, if not an agent, at least an informant among these assholes? Yeah, it's a risky move, but it's a hell of a chance." That was the end of the conversation, leaving the two people, boss and subordinate, pondering the immediate future.

***

Taylor Hebert In retrospect, the idea that the Intelligence Agency would be interested in her humble persona was self-evident. She's a superhero who falls out of a portal, and the megacorps have no idea who she is. Like it or not, the government would probably wonder where she might have come from on American soil. But this begged another important question. Why was the CIA in this case? As far as she understood the structure of the state apparatus, such investigations should have been handled by the FBI, but not by foreign intelligence. She was sure that there was some kind of an explanation for this, but ultimately that was really strange. Had the CIA had something to do with creating a local cape community? It was an open question. On the one hand, given the much more stable and most importantly strong central government, it would be logical to assume that such research projects could exist. But in this case, however, the surprising persistence of Congress and the higher ranks of the Army in opposing a bill allowing supers to serve in Army units sounds illogical. Not that Taylor thought it was any good idea, since the example of Red Hand and Yangban was more than fresh in her mind, but then again, different circumstances, different rules. All in all, the Feds' interest was both expected in terms of the fact itself and incomprehensible in the face of the particular service involved and the incomprehensible motives behind it. The company of CIA observers was also of some interest because of the resulting dissonance of expectation and reality. Instead of a well-coordinated group of agents, in the observation point there were two very shady looking men led apparently by a novice agent. At any rate, Agent Davidson gave the impression of being new to this kind of business. Meanwhile, at the hospital, business went on as usual. Stein's ever-benevolent face greeted her the next day as well. Four hours of gentle but rather exacting interrogation was quite tedious, especially in view of her not yet fully recovered health. Stein, or his superiors, took her amnesia at face value and were now busy playing around with this theory, asking just a myriad of leading questions about her alleged past as a secret CIA project. She had managed so far to fight off the questions by mixing perfectly truthful stories from her childhood and adolescence with outright fiction like her working as a waitress at a roadside diner somewhere in Indianapolis, but Taylor was well aware that this cat-and-mouse game could not go on much longer. Given her current situation, there were three main outcomes to the current situation. Four, taking into account the unlikely options. The first, and easiest, was to go with Vought. It would not be her first deal with the devil in her life, nor would it be the most reckless one. She could fake a sudden memory comeback and tell the local Cauldron who she is and where she came from. They might call her crazy, but given the existence of at least one open Thinker with the ability to read memory, it's a pretty unlikely situation. After that, rehab will probably follow, then rebranding... well, nothing that she wasn't inexperienced with. Plain and simple. But she didn't like that kind of way out. Though comfortable and simple, it required more compromises than she was willing to make. Especially since the prospect of choosing Vought's side promised her nothing but a lot of tiring publicity, charity events, and a dozen things she'd had enough of during her enforced time in the Wards. On the other hand, there was the very vague possibility of cooperating with the feds. Again, a choice between two evils, but in the case of a choice between a mysterious transnational corporation that was absolutely drugging newborn babies with suspicious-looking serums (not that she had any moral authority to speak of the cynicism of such treatment of children) and a federal agency reporting to a democratically elected central government, the choice was somewhat obvious. Of course, it was always possible to be a proponent of a worldwide conspiracy theory--in her case such paranoia was even justified--but she wanted to believe that the global conspiracy of the capes was not a universal rule for all parallel Earths. What would happen if she made contact with the CIA? There would be a lot of questions. A lot of questions. And not all of them she would be able to answer. But let's say she succeeds in convincing the Agency that she is a reasonably mentally healthy alien from a parallel reality. What happens after that? Taylor had no satisfactory answer to that question. But perhaps it was for the best. However, cooperating with the government carried some dividends that Vought could doubt with a fair degree of certainty. In particular, the Administration could solve the problem of her legalization on this Earth. Even on Earth Bet the process of naturalization of aliens from parallel dimensions from the legal point of view was very, very vaguely outlined and most likely solved in individual order, let alone such a legal procedure here, when the general public is not even aware about the existence of parallel worlds. The third and most... peculiar way out for her was a banal escape. Both parties interested in her fate have no idea of the true nature of her powers. She is in the most ordinary, albeit guarded, ward. A reconnaissance of the area had long since been made, so she knew the shortest routes to the exit, the necessary passwords to the doors and the locations of people with the necessary passes, should the need arise. She even managed to find a small supply of change clothes just right for her, in one of the nearby staff lounges. She had already tracked down and placed groups of insects in the main and backup electrical panels, being able to de-energize the building in a fairly short period of time. Given her clearly increased strength and speed, her escape should be a simple if not elementary task. But despite its apparent simplicity, there were a number of flaws in such a plan. For example, in the form of a member of the Seven on 24/7 duty who didn't seem capable of sleep. At any rate, it was very difficult to judge his waking periods, in consequence of which, Taylor decided to consider him a noctis-cape. Such an opponent, dressed in full armor, with an unknown range of abilities, was a very bad sign. And even in the event of a successful escape, it meant that Taylor would end up on a strange Earth without money or documents, which in itself is a far below average pleasure . So all in all, there were three outcomes to choose from, none of which seemed attractive. But she had to choose. She had given up the option of cooperating with Vougth a long time ago. There was no sense to change her mind after she had started to bullshit them, and blatantly lied about the facts of her biography. Cooperation with the CIA and escape... It took her two days of observing a not-so-professional team of agents to come to the conclusion that both options could be prepared simultaneously. In the case of her own escape, pretty much everything was already prepared except herself. Even though the treatment was moving by leaps and bounds, she was still too weak for such a feat. Right now her strength was only enough to sit with a straight back for ten minutes and take her own food. A timid attempt to stand up turned into a revelation about the strength of the Black Noir watching her. If before Taylor could simply assume that a member of the Seven had enhanced senses, now she could safely conclude that either those senses were really good or that Noir was capable of seeing through walls. Both were pretty bad news, not to mention the humiliating care shown by the nurses who burst into her room on Noir's signal. And now, lying in her bunk, aloof, watching the nurses swarming around her, she could only wait for the right opportunity to make up her mind.

***

Homelander In truth, John's attitude toward the meetings of the Seven has always been rather ambivalent. On the one hand, it was a sign of prestige, of control, of importance to sit at the head of the table like Jesus, surrounded by apostles of other heroes, but at the same time, the vast majority of these meetings were impossibly boring. What did he, Homelander, Shield of America, care about marketers' lack of ideas about what Translucent figures should be? Or listening to another Deep whine about the cruelty to dolphins, somewhere in New Orleans. Hell, he didn't even know there was a dolphinarium in New Orleans! Perhaps it was Maeve's presence that brightened up the long hours of waiting. The heroine's chiseled, athletically built figure was pleasing to the superhero's eye. It would have been even more so had the heroine not ordered special zinc plating for her armor a couple of years ago. Maybe it would have been worth it to take her out to some of the more expensive restaurants. All he has to do is write to the manager, and then everything will arrange itself. No one would miss out on an advertisement like that. And he might even strike some bases.. Madelyn certainly won't be too happy, after all, the relationship within the team in the current agenda is not forbidden, but giving the tabloids too much reason to gossip has never been a good idea. At least, that's what the PR director, whose name John kept forgetting for lack of use, kept saying. Truth be told, as such, he had no relationship experience. The five years that had passed since his inclusion in the Seven had been very stressful. There was so much new around that John was even afraid of freedom at first. But now, with the world calmer than ever and the future looking only promising, it might be time for a relationship. Besides, who else but Maeve? In his case... there wasn't much of a choice, really. Not if he wanted his mate to experience intimacy. There was still, of course, the question of pretext. Maeve had always played the independent prude with the ability to maintain that status. Perhaps we should tell her he'd thought about it and was ready to make her his deputy in Seven? No, that wouldn't work. If Madeline can still be persuaded, Mr. Edgar obviously wouldn't miss such a decision. Black Noir is too important a figure for Waugh to change his position in any way. "Homelander?" - John was distracted from thinking about possible personnel changes in the Seven's command structure by the man who'd been partly responsible for his headaches for the past couple of months. Marathon was a real old-timer of the superhero scene. Almost a decade under the spotlight and the sights of TV cameras. One of the first registered speedsters in the roster of Vought. Pulled people out of the rubble back in 9/11, which earned him quite a reputation in the public eye, securing him a place in the Seven. But in recent years Marathon had clearly begun to give up. John didn't go into much detail, but it was his metabolism, which had accelerated to a point where it began to slow down over time. Given that Peter's lifestyle was far from ideal, judging by Madeline's reservations, the result was that yesterday's star looked frankly miserable now. The disproportionately large, pale blue eyes on the gaunt, slightly flabby face that called for a shot of Botox, if you didn't know it would wear off in a few days at best, were now staring at John, lusting for his attention. "Yes, Marathon?" - John put on his polite smile, the one he'd spent hours practicing. " I'd like to ask you a favor, if I may?" - After waiting for a permissible nod, the speedster continued. " Well, anyway, could you ask Miss Stillwell when Black Noir is free? My last patrol was supposed to happen to him a week ago, and the handover ceremony is a week away." John scratched his chin thoughtfully. The situation was actually shaping up to be somewhat interesting. He had not seen Noir himself for almost two weeks and, more importantly, had not heard from him. And if the first was almost unsurprising, almost as much as Translucent had, the second was already surprising. Madelyn was usually very open when it came to discussing the antics of the Seven. "Sure thing, Marathon. I'll let you know as soon as I find out." - Homelander patted his comrade-in-arms on the shoulder, looking at his relieved face. It was no secret to anyone in the Seven that Marathon was seriously afraid of his superiors and the vice president in particular. If there was a reason for that, John never bothered about it. Marathon was really old for a super, and there was no telling what might have happened in the meantime. Even his Homelander's career had its black spots, albeit few. Let alone lesser heroes. Soon after that, after a few nods and well-placed smiles, the meeting of the Seven ended, as usual without any tangible benefit to the common cause. After the meeting was over, John found nothing better to do than head toward Madelyne's office. Not that he was interested in the Marathon request, but it was a convenient excuse to satisfy his curiosity and just talk to a beautiful woman. The walk was not too long for the average man and very long for someone like him. Sometimes John wished that the Vought Tower had been built with ordinary people in mind, but not with super people in mind. The long waits for elevators, the endless doors, stairs, and corridors. Everything is so fragile, so insignificant, so… human. As he approached the door, his superhuman hearing heard Madelyne's voice, speaking in raised tones. "I want results, Stain! Results! I don't care about potential psychological trauma, that's a problem for another department, not yours! Or are you suggesting that I should get Mesmer for him to do your job? So what if she doesn't make contact? Have you even tried threatening her? Damn it, Zachariah, show her the treatment bill and then slip her the contract. Show her a bad cop, Stane. You got a week. Otherwise, we got nothing left but Sage Grove. Do you understand me?" John gently knocked on the door. "Come in". - Madeline's irritated voice sounded. But the frown on her face brightened as soon as he opened the door. "John! It's good to see you. I suppose your meeting is over already?" He nodded, smiling benignly. "Yes, Deep was talking about his dolphins again, while Transparent swore at the producers of his merch. The usual. I take it you've got..." John pretended to sound a little guilty. Stillwell sighed, massaging her temples. "You heard everything... and why I'm not surprised" "Is this about that video from Springfield a couple of weeks ago?" - It was a shot in the sky, but there haven't been many moments lately that could have caused Madelyn that kind of stress. Besides, this was far from the first time his ears had picked up discussions of some incident in Washington. The deputy director was almost surprised. "Can't the analysts keep their mouths shut again? "They have a smoker on the roof. " - Hero merely shrugged his shoulders. Madelyn nodded, admitting defeat. "Yes, it was about a girl from Springfield. She barely survived and lost her memory. We managed to get her back on her feet, but it cost some... resources." " I thought we had a lot of Compound." " We have the Compound. But at this level of purity? Not really". "How pure?" - John inquired with quite a bit of interest for himself. He knew rather little about the specifics of V, but he knew firsthand about the correlation between the purity of the formula and the potential of the super. "Seventy-one." Homelander whistled. "All this for some girl? Doesn't sound like the Director." "The Director was against it, but the Doctor insisted. It's... it's complicated, John. I can't tell you everything, but we really need this girl. We need her like air." "Well, if you like I could..." he began, but Madeline interrupted him abruptly. "Don't even think about it, John! Don't even think about going near Springfield until I tell you!" It was the first time he'd seen her so emotional in a long time. Surprised by this, however, Homelander backtracked. "All right, all right. I promise. But I need to know why." The vice principal fixed her hair and took a deep breath, calming herself down. Half a minute later she started talking again. " Like I said, it's complicated with this girl. We know she's super, but we don't know what kind. And if her own words are to be believed, we are faced with something completely new. New and dangerous. Right now, Noir is providing security and surveillance, but in light of the circumstances that are opening up... it could be dangerous." "Is she that strong?" Madelyn grinned wryly. "If her danger lay in sheer strength, we would have solved this problem long ago. No, John. That power could be dangerous to Seven's image. And that's what I fear most."

***

Special Agent Ashley Davidson. Today didn't promise any breakthroughs in the tracking and potential recruitment of Ann Wilbourn. Orders from above had only come in yesterday, and it was extremely difficult to arrange a day's penetration into a heavily guarded private hospital, so as to gain access to a particular high-profile patient. Especially when your partners were a dumb-ass Navy SEAL and a sly-ass Frenchman. Ashley couldn't think of more useless partners on a mission, not to mention the fact that she herself was hardly suited for the role of agent-recruiter. Today, Stane again tried to ask Wilbourne all she could know about the circumstances that had preceded her arrival in Washington. Wilbourn, in turn, continued to refer to her amnesia, occasionally inserting fragments of irrelevant memory from which it was difficult to determine anything specific. But the impossible happened. Around 5 p.m., Ashley, absorbed in writing her progress report, suddenly noticed that both of her colleagues were strangely frozen, staring at one point, somewhere beyond her field of vision. Intrigued, the agent turned around, only to immediately, squeal with fear. Ants. Countless ants, somehow the hell had ended up in this relatively clean and well-kept house, were crawling up the wall. But if only it were that easy. The paths these little insects took weren't random. Not at all. Before her eyes, a string of insects formed letters on the wall. Letters that formed into words. "My name is Skitter. I'm the one you're following. Vought lies to me. You didn't have time and resources to do so. I'm ready to negotiate." "Fuck..." was the only word that came to Ashley's mind before her hands reached for the phone.  

***

Taylor Hebert The reaction to the attempted contact with the CIA representatives was… quite predictable. The agents did not get cold feet, but merely cursed foully before calling the higher-ups, who also did not lose face and were quick enough to understand the situation. Agent Leon went to the nearest electronics shop to get at least a decent webcam, while Taylor herself dragged enough insects into the building as inconspicuously as possible to perceive an image from a projector. The webcam she bought was placed against a white wall, with live "pixels" already arranged on the floor in front of it. The projector found just at the right time had a beam directed at the opposite wall projecting the image of the Skype main screen. If someone else were in the building right now, the picture of what was happening would be... somewhat surprising. It might even have been a little too much and a phone call would have sufficed, but Taylor was somewhat dubious about the quality of communication, and working through the sign language interpreter in Davidson didn't seem like a good idea to her. Finally, after an hour and a half of getting the equipment ready and trying to get Skype up and running properly so that everyone could see and hear, the talks began. The surveillance team withdrew themselves from the negotiation process, preferring to monitor the hospital and guard the entrance from possible intruders. The Deputy Director of the CIA looked exactly as Taylor had expected to see a woman in such an important and responsible position. Tired, but cold and collected, with a piercing gaze and an aura of authority permeating even through the imperfect video link. In that, Mallory was similar to Alexandria, if you took the superpowers and differences in appearance out of the equation. At least, that's how it seemed to her. In a way, it was even a positive impression, given her slight bias towards role models. Given that Taylor herself couldn't be physically present on the screen, she decided to start a dialogue to show her presence. "Good evening, Deputy Director." "Good evening... Miss Anne. My name is Grace Mallory." - A woman introduced herself. "Call me Skitter. Ann Wilburn is not my real name. No, my real name won't do you any good either. " - she'd decided to start with that kind of approach also because, for herself, communicating as "Skitter" in that way was much easier psychologically than communicating in the guise of Ann Wilbourn. She was Skitter, unlike Ann Wilbourn. Mallory's face creased slightly, but she continued: "I don't think you're in the mood to talk pleasantries. In that case, the CIA has some questions for you. Particularly about the fact of your background." An expected question. And a very difficult one at that. Taylor was now faced with a choice - whether to tell the feds the truth, or hold on to this invaluable, in a global sense, and useless in a practical sense, information until better times. She had already tried to simulate a similar situation for herself, but had never come to any satisfactory outcome. "I can answer your question, Deputy Director. I can answer many of your questions. Even the ones you didn't intend to ask in the course of this conversation. However, I can guarantee you that you will not believe me." Mallory frowned. It was quite obvious that she didn't like the answer. "Skitter, let me decide for myself what to believe and what not to believe." Sighing, Taylor ordered her swarm to form the following inscription. "I am an alien, Deputy Director. An alien from an alternate version of Earth." Mallory nodded not too confidently. "'Okay, let's say for a second that I believe you. In that case, could you please provide proof of your words?" "Apart from an abnormal tumour in my brain, characteristic of the supes of my home world, and a very slender and elaborate theory of the world order, which is hard to make up on the fly? Just the things and objects with which I arrived here. However, I am quite reliably aware that these things are now in the possession of Vought International." - At any rate, that was something Zachariah had mentioned in his phone conversations. However, even that was already pretty disgusting news for a number of reasons. Even though her equipment was in a pretty lousy state, judging by her vague recollection of Gold Morning events, she definitely could find a way to use Defiant's nanothorn knife. " That's unfortunate." - Mellory remarked, apparently imagining how unimaginably difficult it would be for Vought and the CIA to collaborate on something like this, "I admit, I find it very difficult to believe in something like that. But supposing that you are telling the truth and you have come to us from a parallel version of Earth. What for? For what purpose?" "I think you already know the state in which I have arrived, Deputy Director. As for the answer to your question... I can't say for sure, but I think that's my retirement option" - At least, that's what Contessa's last words sounded like. However, "retirement" in her case was only a euphemism hiding a banal ostracism. She suspected that she was unlikely to find a quiet place in the worlds where her legions had passed and to live long enough to tell the tale. "Retired? What do you mean by that?" A whole host of painful memories flashed through her mind at the mere thought of trying to explain herself to Mellory. She... she wasn't well. She wouldn't be able to tell her story now, especially not in that way. Strictly speaking... Taylor wasn't sure she'd ever be able to tell the story at all, especially if she took as a fact that she was now chained to this Earth forever. "It's not the sort of thing I'd want to talk about at the moment, but let's say that I… solved one very important problem, but my methods were not to the liking of almost anyone. Even people who understood my motivation, who were in principle in agreement with my methods shot me in the head twice and sent me here." Taylor realised that this was a frankly shitty answer. Disgustingly veiled and even worse worded. She couldn't even imagine what the Deputy Director might think of her. But at the moment she didn't care. She just didn't want to answer that question. Mallory was silent for a long time, staring unblinking into the void. "Skitter, how old are you really?" "Will be nineteen, ma'am." - She remembered her last birthday. The day she had returned to her hometown, intending to be just Taylor Hebert for one fucking day. But the world itself seemed to be against it. It was then, on this very day, that the Slaughterhouse Nine Thousand decided to attack the US, not giving her even this one fucking day of respite. Such was her world. "When did you become a super?" - That question, from Taylor's point of view, was a good one. No, she didn't like not being taken seriously because of her age, but sometimes appealing to age could be... useful. Now, she thought, was just such a case. "When did I hit the streets, or found out my power? Either way... I was fifteen." Mallory sighed. "Was it that bad?" "I wish I could say no, ma'am." - Especially after Golden Morning. Even despite defeating Scion, for Earth Bet, that victory was Pyrrhic at best. Too much had been destroyed, too many had died. She did not know what would happen to those who survived, but there was a blind hope in her that the Contessa and the Glaistig Uaine could resolve the most difficult conflicts. Mallory was silent for quite some time, staring unblinking at the screen. "Okay, Skitter. You 've managed to convince me that you are either insane or an alien. And mind that I despise every word in the previous sentence. We'll postpone this conversation until later. All I'm interested in right now is your connection to Vought and your future plans" "Other than Vought trying to convince me that your organization is responsible for my condition - there is no connection between us. They picked me up and cured me, for that I am grateful. But their methods... make me feel uncomfortable." "What would you know about Vought methods, girl?. According to our records, you only regained consciousness a couple of days ago." - Taylor did know rather little, but what was known was more than enough for a final verdict "Don't make me doubt your discernment, Deputy Director. If I am capable of having a meaningful conversation with you using insects alone, how easy do you think it is for me to listen to the cell phone conversations in the hospital itself or peep on the staff? Besides, I had to deal with the likes of them. As a result, I ended up here." - Of course, comparing the Cauldron and the Vought was a bad idea.The Cauldron was far less public, but many times more influential, not to mention the number and quality of tools available to influence the world at large. These words of Taylor's clearly interested Mallory. "What do they want from you?" "The very same. Answers. My treatment has cost them quite a bit, and they are very keen to recoup the full amount spent. So much so that they've got Black Noir watching me 24/7, and in about a week, if I don't crack, they're planning to move me to a place called Sage Groove. I suspect nothing good will come of it." At the mention of Black Noir, Mallory pursed her lips. Taylor could surmise that either the CIA had firsthand knowledge of Black Noir or there was some personal history involved. But this was neither the place nor the time to speculate about such things. "We assumed something like that. In the sixties, Congress, to de-escalate tensions with the Russians, had signed a law forbidding supers to serve in the military in peacetime, as well as to hold any position in federal institutions. Since then, Vought Industries have been trying unsuccessfully to overturn this decree. And now they are closer than ever to their goal. A couple more years and they will be able to get enough members of the House of Representatives in their pocket to lobby for the repeal. And that cannot be allowed to happen. "This is certainly an interesting excursion into history and politics, but what has it got to do with me, the Deputy Director?" - No, she certainly understood what Mallory was getting at. She was rather curious as to where exactly they were trying to recruit her. As for the Anti-Super law - she had read Wikipedia, after all. "Sometimes fighting forest fires requires starting your own. Statistically, there are at least one and a half thousand incidents every year caused by supers, seventeen percent of which have civilian casualties. But only one and a half percent of these incidents end in criminal proceedings. There have only been twelve convictions. I want to change that. I want to expose Vought for what it is. That's why I'm assembling a team." - Now, that's information that Taylor didn't know. But the stats were pretty interesting. If she got the subtext right, Vought was actively covering everything connected with their super assets. The only question was how exactly Mallory was going to proceed. From the context of the meeting it appeared that the methods the CIA, represented by the Deputy Director, was going to use were clearly not entirely legal. "Do I understand correctly that you're trying to recruit me to circumvent a congressional decree?" "Not having you in our databases has its own pros and cons. No one can prove you're super if there's no paper trail behind you. Anticipating your question about loyalty and an unknown past - this is a black-ops operation, the Agency will deny everything." - As, in fact, Taylor assumed they would. Not that she was an expert on government organizations, but the methods were more than familiar and clear to her. Congressional edicts, covert CIA operations - same as always, same as everywhere else. "Suppose I agree to your recruitment. How do you plan to get me out of here? What role do you see me in on this team of yours? What about my status?" Mallory tapped her fingers on the tabletop and then spoke slowly, clearly choosing her expressions. "We have not yet worked out the details of the operation to free you. We assumed it would take some time to gather intelligence and make direct contact with you. Especially since what you said about Black Noir makes it... complicated. Regarding your status, if you agree, I'll get the Attorney General's office to place you in Witness Protection. That'll get you all the paperwork you need. As for your role on the team... It depends a lot on your own skills. But personally, I'd like to see you as a scout and consultant on the psychology of supers." "I barely passed my GED, Deputy Director. What's to talk about a psychology degree" - Last couple of years were really… eventful, so Taylor had a very broad range of different experiences. And psychology was one of the worst ones . Especially from her interactions with Yamada, she had no desire to become one. But Mallory had an opinion on the matter. "You're a super, Skitter. A super with experience, as far as I can tell from your own words. Your task will be rather to exploit the usual weaknesses and psychology of supers to the desired effect. Something tells me you have some experience in this." - Taylor didn't have much to fall back on. Even if the Deputy Director was pointing her finger in the sky, she was incredibly accurate in her predictions. There was an awkward pause. Both interlocutors realized that the discussion had come to its logical conclusion. Next it was purely up to Taylor. Given how little information she had revealed about herself, such an offer seemed more than generous, given Taylor's own initially much weaker position. As for agreeing to work for an Agency... her feelings on the matter were… irrelevant. Not agreeing and trying the loner route? In the context of what Taylor was learning about Vought and this world in general, it was more than a fool's errand, even by her standards. No, she wasn't at all eager to escalate things so shortly after arriving here, but at least this world didn't look doomed to destruction within a couple of decades. All in all, Taylor could only hope that a new deal with the devil wouldn't make the situation even worse than it was. It would be quite difficult to outdo Golden Morning, though. "I agree, Deputy Director." Mallory's face brightened. The not-so-young woman allowed herself a faint smile. "Very well. I think we should get my agents inside..." but before she could finish, another inscription formed in front of her "But I have conditions."

***

Grace Mallory. Langley. Disconnected from the video call, Grace leaned back in her ergonomic chair with a groan and covered her eyes. After sitting like that for a few minutes, Grace opened the Ann Wilbourn file folder and unfolded a photograph taken the day Skitter had arrived in Springfield. Preparing to talk to the girl, Grace was prepared to hear a lot of things. From the Russians' secret projects to assassinate Homelander, to the secret Vought labs breeding new supers in test tubes. But in no way was she prepared to hear about aliens from parallel universes. No, on the one hand, given the general insanity of this world, to suggest such a scenario was entirely doable, given all the circumstances. However, it was still "aliens from a parallel universe" - you cannot prepare for such a scenario. No, believing Skitter would be a frankly stupid idea, too secretive this girl was, too little the CIA knew about her. Especially given the impossibility of getting to her equipment, which was definitely stashed away in the deepest and most secure labs of Vout. Looking at the broken, frail figure lying in a pool of her own blood, Grace suddenly remembered Nicaragua. Somehow, in her mind's eye, a lot of the details came together. Whatever problems Skitter had solved and whatever methods she had chosen, she had ended up on the hot pavement in a pool of her own blood with two bullets in her head. And if Skitter really was so inconvenient to those in power that she was not just killed but also left to die in a parallel world/foreign country, then Grace legitimately had questions as to what had to be done and who this Girl had to be for such a decision. Based on her demonstrated masterful insect control, Skitter could have been an incredible information threat, on the level of Mindstorms or Mesmer, if not more important. How many cabinet warriors like her pay attention to an inconspicuous fly? Considering that Skitter had shown the ability to perceive sound with her insects from a good hundred yards away, Mallory was even glad that someone like that would be on their side. However, there was one thing in the whole story that embarrassed Grace to the extreme. Skitter's age. Unfortunately, Grace knew all too well what child soldiers were like, and was well aware of the effects on a child's psyche when faced with the horrors of war and violence. One could argue about the mental stability of fifteen-year-old girls. But Grace still remembered her daughter well as a fifteen-year-old, which only deepened the misgivings about Skitter's mental stability. Nor was the general paranoia about her own past, which was echoing in Skitter's communication style, adding to the theory of a child soldier in the service of some Vought equivalent. And that the girl worked for a similar organization, Grace had no doubt whatsoever. The methods seemed too familiar to her. But it seemed that Skitter had enough self-awareness and self-control to make an informed decision. Grace could quite confidently assume her future agent's 'adult' trust issues to not question the gravity of such a decision for a teenager. The conditions laid out by the girl weren't anything out of the ordinary and lent themselves very well to Grace's theory. College of choice, a rented flat, an official bank account. But above all, the girl was clearly looking for a way out. There was no other way to explain her desperate battle for a chance to retire in the event that the Boys' initiative proved no longer necessary. With a sigh, Grace closed the image file, and opened an unfinished draft email to the Attorney General's office. They'd scheduled the operation to free Skitter for this Friday, right after the procedure of handing over the post to Train-A from Marathon. She left the details to Marvin and Serge, with a promise to help with collateral and information within acceptable limits. Glancing at her watch, Grace sighed, realizing that she still had a sea of work to do in those three days, and she wouldn't be getting a hot dinner this week. But the game had to be worth playing. At least she had a good feeling about it.

***

Martin "Marathon" Thornton There were only three things in the world that Marathon truly hated. Madeline Stillwell, midges hitting him in the face at high speeds, and hangovers. The latter was new to Martin, for previously his superhuman metabolism had handled alcohol almost instantly, making it necessary for Martin to drink truly heroic volumes of the strongest booze in order to get his hangover. But over time his damned metabolism slowed, but his habit of inebriation remained. So this morning was firmly in the top five of his hated days. Because he'd been plucked out of a heavy hangover by a call from Stilwell. Barely restraining himself from moaning with a headache, the hero picked up the phone, studiously imitating pep. "Good morning, ma'am!" "It's half past three in the afternoon, Martin. You forgot to pay yesterday's bar tab." Marathon swallowed. He had only a vague recollection of last night. "I-I'm sorry, ma'am. I-I couldn't help myself…" "It's one of the reasons we can't keep you in Seven anymore. Three more days and we'll be gone for good, and you can go on drowning your life in alcohol. But that's not what this is about. John gave me your request. Unfortunately, Noir is busy at the moment. So your joint patrol has been cancelled. The change is already on the official website along with your statement about how sorry you are for this missed opportunity." "U-understood, ma'am." - The canceled patrol only meant that Marathon's severance package was a couple thousand dollars less. No, not so much that he was seriously worried, of course, but it was still a shame. "However, I do have a proposition for you. I'm even willing to increase your severance pay by, say... seven percent." Seven percent? Marathon felt himself sobering up. So that Madeline Stillwell in her bitchmongering glory also known as "the money-hungry bitch," would offer him a thirty-five grand increase in his severance pay? " What am I supposed to do, ma'am?" - For that amount of money Marathon could kill some people without any remorse. Thirty five grand was a lifetime worth of money to some kids from his ghetto. "After your farewell autograph session, you'll go to a place in Washington while the rest of the Seven congratulate the A-Train and do the interviews. There, you'll need to escort a shipment to its destination. Details are in the e-mail I sent you three hours ago. You will escort the shipment to its destination, after which you will forget all about what you saw. Do you understand me?" "Yes, ma'am." Martin swallowed hard. And it wasn't even a dry throat. "You better not let me down, Martin." That was the end of the call, leaving Marathon in complete confusion and a kind of strange anticipation. Still, he needed the money more than the prestige.