"And that's essentially everything," I finished, turning to my lawyer. "Did I get it all right, Mr. McCallister?"
"Mr. McCallister is my father. Please, call me Henry," he gently chided. "But overall, you handled this completely correctly, Taylor."
"I'd like to clarify some details," Miss Militia spoke up from across the table. I had to admit, the PRT's interrogation rooms were much more comfortable than those at the Brockton Bay Police Department. At the police station, even the paint was peeling from the walls, there was gray concrete flooring, chairs and a table bolted down, and a single window with mirrored, one-way coating. Everything was painted in shades of gray or blue.
The PRT interrogation room was much more civilized. First, there was no window on the wall through which we could be observed from another room. No, of course they were watching us, just through cameras. The single camera under the ceiling with its blinking red light was more of a reminder that everything happening here was being recorded. I was certain this room was monitored and observed by more than just one or even two cameras. I'd be genuinely surprised if there wasn't some tinkertech here—lie detectors, X-rays, scent analyzers, DNA sampling straight from the air, and so on.
When Henry McCallister and I had driven up to the PRT through the back entrance (he'd called ahead to warn them of our arrival), Mr. McCallister's car had been allowed into the service underground parking garage. There, wary people in PRT uniforms, armor, and weapons were already waiting for us. Looking at the glances they gave us, as well as the stress levels and pulse rates of these people, it was clear that if I'd been alone, no conversation would have taken place.
They quickly took the still-unconscious Sophia from the car, and escorted us to this very room where Miss Militia was already waiting. She wore her usual khaki-colored costume with her face covered by a scarf in the colors of the Stars and Stripes.
And here I'd been for half an hour now, explaining how I'd essentially gotten to this point in my life. Incidentally, the PRT building was full of insects, and in the adjacent room there were suspiciously many people in a relatively small space. Rapid response team?
I'd spent all this time searching for headquarters, briefing rooms, conference halls, but had been unsuccessful. It turned out that the large halls upstairs in the building were empty, as was the director's office. Strange. They couldn't not be monitoring me—Tattletale had said that the PRT had long ago established my civilian identity and that I didn't need to announce "I am Butcher Fifteen!" It was enough to simply knock on the door and show my face. The entire PRT would immediately go into high alert and sound the alarm.
"Excuse me, Miss... Taylor...?"
"Hebert. Taylor Hebert," I reminded her of my surname. Nice trick, Miss Militia, nice trick. If she already knew I was Butcher Fifteen, then she surely knew who I was—they would have been obligated to compile a dossier on one Taylor Hebert. However, this kind of attitude suggested that Miss Militia supposedly didn't know who I was and was only sitting here because I'd brought them a beaten-up Sophia Hess. Well, not in the trunk—in the passenger seat, and I'd even put a little pillow under her head to make it more comfortable.
"Miss Hebert. You claim there were no hostile relations between you and Sophia Hess?"
"I wouldn't say that. More like we were, you know—frienemies. It's high school. Sophia's a brilliant. The PRT knew perfectly well about the vulnerabilities of their Wards' abilities, so I wasn't revealing any secrets. Embellishing events like "he lunged at my chest, but I managed to stick it in him and twist my weapon twice, he howled, struggled with his last strength..." was for fiction. For some "Saga of how clever Taylor defeated mighty Sophia." My task here was completely different. I needed to inspire trust among those in the PRT who made decisions. I understand it sounds unrealistic, but everything starts with the first step, right? And therefore, lying to my future allies from this very first step wasn't the best idea. I would be crystal clear and completely honest. Perhaps I'd emphasize certain points appropriately, but I wouldn't stoop to outright lies. So to speak—turning Tattletale to full power. If anyone could drive the entire PRT crazy, it was her. I was eagerly awaiting the day when these guys would finally be able to catch her... they were going to have their hands full.
"And you decided that—"
"My client decided that in such a situation, one should consult with one's lawyer. For my part, I remember that revealing a parahuman's civilian identity is a federal crime. Therefore, Miss Hebert and I found ourselves in quite a delicate situation, Miss Militia. Look, she can't even share this information with her father. At the same time, any information transmitted within the framework of attorney-client privilege cannot serve as the basis for lawsuits, as it is confidential. So she called me, I drove to the Ship Graveyard in my old Buick, and we came to you together. Because Miss Hess's injuries required medical attention, and we couldn't take her to a regular hospital. After all, she's a Ward, a parahuman. Maybe she needs special care."
"You understand that you've essentially confessed to deliberately inflicting injuries on a Ward?" Miss Militia crossed her arms. "That's also a federal crime."
"We'd be happy to meet with your lawyers in court," Henry replied. "We have plenty to present in response. Furthermore, I draw your attention to an important and significant fact—my client didn't know she was entering into conflict with a Ward. And this is not even mentioning that your Ward used her abilities in a school fight! As far as I could tell, Miss Hess suffered no damage—only light bruises. This doesn't even qualify as 'battery' because they specifically fought. But... one of them had the abilities of Shadow Stalker, scourge of street crime, with PRT training behind her, tactical and strategic instruction, the ability to neutralize suspects and, when necessary, use force. And the other was an ordinary schoolgirl."
"So ordinary..." Miss Militia grumbled. "An ordinary schoolgirl couldn't have taken down Shadow Stalker."
"So you're admitting that Miss Hess's attack on Miss Hebert is like a grown man attacking a baby? And by the way—the backpack we found nearby contained an old Stalker costume and a crossbow with bolts. And I don't see any rubber tips on them. No pepper spray. These bolts are designed to kill. Oh, I'm not accusing Miss Hess, not at all. Just... mental exercise, right? Miss Hess is following Miss Hebert, and in her backpack she has an old Stalker costume and a crossbow with combat bolts. Why? You don't need a crossbow to suggest a fistfight. Or do you? Doesn't this raise more questions about Miss Hess?"
"I assure you, all questions will be asked," Miss Militia replied. "But right now we're talking to you."
"Allow me not to believe you, esteemed Miss Militia. Your Ward's behavior raises many questions not only about her personally, but about the organization of the entire PRT ENE branch's operations. Shadow Stalker is known for her temperament and harshness during arrests, if not outright cruelty. Of course, the PRT and BBPD cover up police brutality and abuse of power, but there are rumors around the city. I could walk out of here and post an announcement that I'm ready to support lawsuits from everyone who suffered violence during arrests by her specifically, free of charge. I assure you that the PRT will have hundreds of subpoenas by the end of the week."
"Are you threatening us, Mr. McCallister?" Miss Militia asked dryly.
"Absolutely. This isn't just a threat, it's inevitable. If you don't get your own organization in order, I'll organize not only lawsuits from those who suffered during arrests. Violation of the Unwritten Rules regarding my client sitting right here. If this becomes known to the general public, I'm even afraid to imagine what will happen to all of you. For Miss Hebert, what happened was just another Tuesday. Your Ward tried to beat her up. And before that—repeatedly insulted her at school, subjected her to physical violence and humiliation. It's just that Miss Hebert sitting here is capable of controlling herself. I wouldn't be able to."
"Wait, violation of the Unwritten Rules? We didn't—"
"Please, don't. As if you don't know who Taylor Hebert is. Don't insult my faith in your intelligence, and you're not good at lying," Mr. McCallister frowned. "The entire building is under emergency status, your leadership evacuated to the backup command post, but if you want to play dumb—okay. Then we leave Sophia Hess with you and go, and whatever you want to present can be filed in court." He made as if to stand up.
"Wait. Please, sit down," Miss Militia sighed. "Don't be like that. Please. I need to step out. Wait for me."
"But not for long. I know you people," Henry grumbled, crossing his arms. "I don't have that much time. And Miss Hebert needs to do her homework, right? There you go."
"I won't be long." Miss Militia went out into the corridor, and I tracked how she took her phone from her pocket and called somewhere. Henry McCallister sat next to me, bouncing his leg and thoughtfully studying the opposite wall.
"You know, Taylor," he said, "Einstein once said there are only two infinite things—the Universe and human stupidity. And he wasn't sure about the Universe."
"Hm." I had nothing to say to that, so I remained silent, only making an understanding sound. I hoped my lawyer, Mr. Henry McCallister, wasn't referring to my specific stupidity. I could have acted in a hundred different ways, including simply leaving the scene of my fight with Sophia. However, I wanted the PRT to form a certain opinion of me—not that they trusted me. They'd probably never be able to do that. I wanted the PRT to form a specific opinion of me. That I could play by the rules. That I was capable of negotiating and subsequently honoring reached agreements. Why did I need this? Because we're all human and always choose the easy path. If you could negotiate with the Slaughterhouse Nine—people would negotiate with them. If the Slaughterhouse Nine, the Ash Beast, the Blasphemies were capable of negotiating and then honoring agreements, they'd be left alone. No, the Ash Beast is left alone now, the Slaughterhouse Nine roam across the country, and the Blasphemies... hell knows what they're doing at all. However, the existence of these capes could hardly be called a full life. The Slaughterhouse Nine, apparently, is entirely Jack Slash's personal project. But I needed the PRT, along with its resources, to leave me alone. Not attempt to put me in a drug-induced coma or stop time, or throw me beyond the atmosphere, find some exotic ability. For example—some girl from Nebraska with the catchy name Lobotomy. Lobotomy Ray—once and done. No willpower. Same Butcher, same skills and memories, everything in place, but I can't even move. Because the will component is absent. Does such an ability exist? Hell knows, maybe it does. In any case, fighting the PRT wasn't convenient for me. Even Jack Slash with his Slaughterhouse Nine mostly hides from them and prefers to attack unexpectedly, and even then—civilians. And I didn't want to hide across the country, live in the ruins of abandoned houses or cheap motels along the highway. Of course, my body was enhanced and even a night on broken bricks wouldn't leave bruises or bedsores on me, but I loved comfort. A soft bed, the smell of coffee in the morning, the quiet "Taylor, breakfast is ready!" on weekends when Dad got up earlier... no, it turned out I loved not even comfort, but my father, my home, my city. My way of life. And starting a war, hiding and striking from the shadows, leaving my city—that meant admitting defeat. Starting to play by their rules of "if you're not a hero, then you're a villain." No way. No. I wasn't going to play by those rules. I was going to establish my own. And right now, Henry and I were breaking stereotypes and templates, pushing through the system. For PRT operatives thinking in "us versus them" categories, this was unusual.
From their point of view, the Butcher was the enemy. Enemy. Poison Ivy was the enemy. Enemy. Killer. However, they couldn't arrest me because I wasn't masked, not in costume. If they arrested me—goodbye Unwritten Rules, and in a normal situation they'd want to spit on those rules, but now there was a lawyer next to me. They couldn't force Henry McCallister to sign a non-disclosure agreement. They couldn't lock him up without trial either. Sooner or later he'd get out and then problems would begin. But even that wouldn't be so difficult—big deal, the words of some lawyer from BB. The most important thing here was the Butcher's reputation. He couldn't be killed, couldn't be locked up, couldn't be isolated. Sending him to the Birdcage was also impossible—it would end very badly. In the end, there'd be one Butcher Five Thousand, or however many capes they had imprisoned there. Thus, PRT operatives were at an impasse.
And here another factor was added. My behavior. I was acting reasonably, calmly, not shouting, not attacking people, not shooting with a machine gun, and generally my modus operandi categorically diverged from the Butcher's psychological profile. And here PRT operatives saw their chance. Never before had the Butcher come to the PRT with his lawyer. Having a lawyer meant one thing—that the person was ready to play by the rules. Because if I didn't want to play by the rules, I would have already pulled out a machine gun—Grue knew how to build another one to replace the lost one.
So today I was here not simply because I was asking the PRT to deal with Sophia. Not because I wanted to intimidate someone. Today I was showing the PRT and the people behind it who made decisions that they had two options. First—continue escalating violence, and the Butcher was always up for that. And second—negotiate.
The door opened and Miss Militia returned to our room. Behind her entered a middle-aged woman with a grim, focused, and puffy face.
"Director of PRT ENE, Emily Piggot," the newcomer introduced herself. "I know who you are, you don't need to introduce yourselves. Miss Militia brought me up to speed."
"Very pleased to meet you," Henry McCallister nodded, but the director didn't favor him with a glance. She looked straight into my eyes.
"Taylor Hebert," she said. "Or should I call you Fifteen?"