Fifteen. It sounded almost insulting. Not a person, but a number. If I were here alone, I could have looked the Director of PRT ENE in the eyes and recited melodiously—"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Whether Capulet or Montague, what difference did it really make? Fifteen, Butcher, Poison Ivy, Taylor Hebert—right now they were all synonymous. Just like "PRT ENE Director like this—harmless, in a worn tweed jacket with a comical receding hairline. With his reputation, he wouldn't fool anyone anymore. Those who'd ever dealt with him knew that Henry McCallister was a wolf in sheep's clothing with a bulldog's grip, the cold blood of a boa constrictor, the patience of a scorpion, and a shark's instinct for blood in the water. But he continued to look like a shabby intellectual teaching for pennies at the local college. Habit? It didn't matter. Today, here, Henry McCallister was helping me. Setting me off to advantage. I needed to appear reasonable. I needed to look like someone capable of negotiating. And Henry was my bad cop. Today I was like that supervillain from the movies who shouts, "You think I'm evil? You haven't seen my lawyers yet!" And yes, another quote from Billy—"My plainness shall serve as foil to your skill, that like a star in darkest night shall shine more bright..."
"A false choice is when you don't give a choice, Madam Director," Henry continued. "And right now you're leaving us no choice but to walk out of here. I'm not going to conduct any negotiations in a situation where my client is being blanket-accused of every mortal sin. Miss Hebert, we're leaving."
"But—" I threw him another glance, trying to look uncertain, then nodded. "Yes, of course, Mr. McCallister. Sorry for the trouble, Madam Director, Miss Militia." I stood up from my seat, ready to follow Henry.
"Wait!" Miss Militia called after us. "Taylor! Mr. McCallister! Be reasonable!"
"Oh, I'm being reasonable. I'm reasonable enough to see exactly how Madam Director intends to treat Miss Hebert, and I say—enough! She was insulted and humiliated at school, suspected at the police station, and now being mocked at the PRT. If we stay, it will only be if Madam Director apologizes for her insinuations and promises to refrain from such cheap provocations in the future."
"Everyone present here knows it's true," Director Piggot crossed her arms. "Your ward didn't try very hard to protect the secret of her identity."
"So now it's the cape's own responsibility to guard the secret of their identity? Interesting, when did the Supreme Court adopt this new practice? Last I checked, revealing a parahuman's identity was a federal crime, and it's the responsibility of third parties who... how does it go... 'accidentally or intentionally, through official duties or other circumstances, learned the true identity of a parahuman who conceals it under a pseudonym.' In the unlikely event that my client truly is a cape, you're committing a federal crime, Madam Director. But beyond that, you're violating other laws..."
"Do you have other laws up your sleeve besides those adopted in our country? Maybe laws of criminal organizations? Yakuza? Triads? Teeth?" Director's voice rose. We were all still standing, all four of us, in the middle of the windowless room. It was a bit awkward, as if we'd already prepared to leave a party, but these two had locked horns, and Miss Militia and I felt like extras in this passionate conversation. Everything was going as I'd wanted. Henry McCallister was a specialist and master of his craft. He'd shifted the focus of attention from me to himself. Now he was the main aggressor here, and despite the fact that both the Director and Miss Militia knew who I was and that I could turn half the city into a branch of hell, despite the fact that I had roughly four dozen corpses behind me—he was the bad guy here.
"Oh yes. Laws of hospitality and common sense," Henry spread his hands. "Miss Hebert and I brought you your Ward, though apparently Miss Hebert had every reason to leave her lying on the ground after everything she did. We're here as your guests voluntarily. Specifically as guests, because I don't see arrest warrants for either me or my client, Miss Hebert."
"That can be arranged," Piggot grumbled. "In any case, we have reason to believe your client is Butcher Fifteen, and we don't have much time to help her. And you, Mr. McCallister, are throwing sticks in our wheels."
"So now the local PRT branch wants to help us after all? Well, you chose the wrong tone, Madam Director! Hopefully we won't have to help you later! And by the way, do you know exactly where you violated the laws of common sense? If what you accuse Miss Hebert of is true, then right now you're insulting a mentally unstable cape to her face. A cape who killed Lung, the Butcher, subdued Bakuda... whom the Triumvirate has been unable to handle for years. Do you really think that's a wise decision, Madam Director? Miss Hebert, get ready, we're leaving immediately!" He reached out, took my hand, and pulled me toward the door like I was a kindergarten girl who'd been playing with friends but urgently needed to go home.
"Yes, Mr. McCallister," I nodded as he dragged me toward the exit. Of course, if I'd wanted, Mr. McCallister couldn't have budged me from my spot, but today I was playing second fiddle—he was leading the main part.
"Listen, Mr. McCallister," Miss Militia called after us. "You understand that by walking out that door, you're depriving your client of any chance to settle this peacefully."
"Don't ask the impossible of me, Miss Militia," Henry shook his head. "I've done everything I could. We took a step toward you, but you can only go the whole way if the other side also takes a step forward."
"We took a step forward too!" Director Piggot raised her voice. "We're talking to you. Though we could have already arrested you."
"That's exactly what I'm talking about—you're just violating the laws of common sense. Miss Hebert, we're leaving."
"Think the PRT has no way to deal with the Butcher?" the Director squinted. "We do. But..." She shook her head, sighed, and sat down at the table.
"Fine," she said. "Let's admit we all got a bit heated. I... apologize to you, Miss Hebert. Until it's officially established that you are Butcher Fifteen, formerly Poison Ivy."
"Uh... thank you," I said. "I wasn't offended, but..."
"Hm. In that case, I apologize as well. I got heated too," Henry released my hand. "I'm glad Madam Director is capable of admitting her mistakes. That's worth a lot. Few people are capable of that."
"That's the first thing you learn in government service," Piggot sighed. "Well then, Mr. McCallister..."
"Mr. McCallister is my father. Please, call me Henry." We sat down at the table on the other side. The foundation was laid—both sides had shown their teeth, growled at each other, demonstrating strength and independence, but also a desire to negotiate. Henry was using an old trick—attack and retreat. First escalate the conflict, nearly bringing it to its peak, then soften. This creates trust and a desire to cooperate, and it's beyond logic—just feelings inherited from our primate ancestors. Right after a fight, monkeys typically "make up" and show each other signs of attention—searching for parasites, grooming fur. You know which one tries harder? The one that won.
It was important for Henry not just to escalate the conflict, but to leave Piggot with a slight feeling of victory—then she'd become softer. Though... looking at the Madam Director's face, I somewhat doubted the effectiveness of such tricks. She'd seen a lot in this service—a tough cookie and a seasoned veteran. However, Henry was no slouch either. Let's see how the situation develops.
"Henry," Piggot easily agreed to transition to a less official tone. "We have a problem on our hands."
"That's exactly why we came to you. To resolve it," he nodded. "But I'm ready to hear your opinion on the current situation."
"Well then. Miss Militia, would you share your view of our problem?" Piggot said, addressing the heroine. She sat down at the table next to the Director and placed her forearms on the table, clasping her hands in front of her.
"In short, it's FUBAR. And in detail, we understand what you're experiencing right now, Taylor," she said. "As Mr. McCallister says, this is just a supposition, but if we suppose you are Butcher Fifteen, then we have problems. The personalities in the Butcher's head never calm down and will eventually drive the new host insane. Then people close to you might suffer. We're offering you help in fighting the voices that are driving you crazy."
"We have equipment and specialists," the Director added. "There are capes who can help you overcome the madness. One of the heroes who subsequently became the Butcher came to us and gave the PRT the opportunity to study the phenomenon of consciousness and ability transfer. We don't guarantee we'll succeed, but we're ready to try. Of course, you can get up and walk out that door right now, and no one will detain you. If you're just Taylor Hebert, a schoolgirl and her father's daughter—then there's nothing to detain you for. And if you're Fifteen, then detaining you is useless. Among the Butcher's powers is teleportation." She didn't finish. The Butcher's teleportation worked within line of sight, at least that's what was believed before. In theory, I couldn't teleport from a closed room or over open water, like in the bay. But as one old German said, theory is dry, my friend, while the tree of life is ever green. I could teleport much farther—because the radius of my direct sight was the radius within which I could see through the eyes of the last cricket, cockroach, or wasp. That's why I was confident in my abilities, why I decided to risk coming to the PRT in person rather than arranging a meeting through anonymous phone calls or private messages on Parahumans Online forums.
"Before we start talking about... theoretical possibilities, we should agree on Miss Hebert's status," Henry said firmly.
"What should we agree on?" Director Piggot pretended not to understand the essence of the question. "Miss Hebert showed high civic consciousness and personal courage by bringing us a Ward who... let's say, exceeded her official authority. You may not know, but Shadow Stalker was suspended from patrolling and serving in the Rig. She was under house arrest, violated its conditions, and escaped to try to attack Miss Hebert. You're right, Henry—we have no grounds to suppose that Butcher Fifteen or Poison Ivy, or for that matter, Jack Slash, is your ward. How should we treat citizens who show such high consciousness? Miss Militia?"
"Taylor," Miss Militia sighed. "I can call you that, right? Taylor, on behalf of the PRT, I offer deep and sincere apologies for what happened at Winslow High School. Sophia Hess will be punished according to the law. However, not just her. Her handler, as well as the school administration, will also face punishment. The handler has already been suspended and is also under house arrest. Sophia... as practice has shown, she doesn't intend to observe the conditions of house arrest, so the conditions of her detention will be... reconsidered. Unfortunately, we missed her, didn't watch carefully enough. What happened at school is entirely our fault. The PRT is ready to pay the appropriate compensation for moral damages in such cases. Your lawyer... Mr. McCallister will explain what amount you can expect. And of course, the PRT will issue official apologies."
"Written apologies, entered in the register and reflected on the agency's website?" Henry clarified, and Miss Militia nodded. I couldn't care less about written apologies from the agency, but Henry had explained everything to me. Every action we took here left traces. Primarily on paper. This conversation was being recorded, every word, there was video, there was audio, but it would be judged primarily by the papers. Reports, files, protocols, analysts' notes... everything remained on paper. Those who made decisions never watched videos or listened to audio recordings. So what mattered was what left its trace on paper. Written evidence. And apologies from the agency were what would remain on paper. Henry's statement, signed by me, about bringing Sophia to the PRT would also remain on paper. All this began working for my image, for the New Butcher who wasn't a Butcher at all. The girl who defeated the Butcher... hmm, not quite—The Girl Who Lived! People loved legends and myths, people desperately wanted to believe in better things, and if this legend was launched to the masses, then in a short time they'd start treating me not as Fifteen, another Butcher puppet, but as The Girl Who Defeated the Butcher. And then I could choose a pseudonym. Unfortunately, quietly living with Dad on an apiary and growing "The Best Honey from the Heberts!" was unlikely to work out, so I'd have to play all these PR games.
But even here the "hero-villain" system, the "mask-cape" system gave me the opportunity to use public opinion. Henry had a couple of ideas, and Tattletale had a whole campaign ready for manipulating public consciousness. A campaign after which, if anyone from the PRT touched me, the entire PRT ENE leadership would be lynched on the street immediately. My most powerful ally was people. That very people who remain silent.
"Excuse me," I interrupted the adults' conversation. "Miss Militia? I wouldn't want Sophia Hess to be punished and kept under arrest. After all, we're friends."
"What? But... everyone says they bully you at school. And now you two fought and..."
"If every time girls quarrel someone had to be put in prison, we wouldn't have any people left free," I said. "Even at school, they didn't try to beat me up. I was the first to hit Emma..."
"Miss Hebert!" Henry threw up his hands.
"Mr. McCallister, there's nothing to hide here," I shrugged. "Yes, I hit Emma Barnes at school. I'm guilty. If we're punishing people, then everyone, including me. And yes—I hit Sophia Hess in the knee with a pipe. They got on my nerves, so I responded."
"We appreciate your honesty, Taylor," Miss Militia said. "However, Sophia committed a crime and must answer according to the law."
"I think I understand what my client is talking about," Henry scratched his chin. "What if we all just turn a blind eye to this? How about this? We'll turn a blind eye to the PRT's negligence regarding Shadow Stalker, and you—to her behavior? My client has no complaints against Sophia Hess or the PRT. Do you?"
"The PRT has no complaints against Miss Taylor Hebert," the Director said firmly. "None whatsoever."
"Excellent," Henry smiled. "Now we can start talking seriously."