"That's all for today" - my lawyer, Mr. Henry McCallister, sighed as he pulled his old Buick out of the PRT building's underground parking garage.
"I'm very grateful to you, Mr. McCallister," I said, watching as the striped barrier lifted in front of us and the sergeant standing nearby in tactical gear with a chevron depicting a crossed-out and cracked skull saluted—bringing his hand to where the brim of his service cap should be. However, his head was protected by a heavy Level IV helmet with a ballistic visor, so the gesture came off as jaunty rather than formal. The sergeant seemed to be telling us "this isn't goodbye, Miss Hebert," and I smiled in response.
"I assure you, Taylor, there's no need for thanks. I'm just doing my job," Mr. McCallister replied. We'd immediately switched to first names as soon as we left the office where we'd spent almost two hours.
"I think everything went successfully," I said, voicing my impressions and wanting to "sync up" with Henry. After all, he'd been working within this system for a long time and knew much more.
"This is just the beginning," he replied, turning right at the intersection. "Are you hungry? I have to admit, I could eat a whale right now. Well, not a whale, but definitely some trout. How about that Italian place?"
"The one with cockroaches in the kitchen and a dead woman buried in the foundation?" I clarified.
"Right. Looks like I'll have to change my favorite restaurant," Henry glanced in the rearview mirror, caught my eye, and shook his head. "Seriously? A corpse in the foundation? How do you... ah, yes, of course. Insects."
"Exactly. I don't think Luigi or whatever your chef friend's name is did it. Nobody would bury a body at their workplace, though criminal behavior patterns are more for profiling specialists. I just know she hasn't been lying there very long. It's not exactly ruining my appetite, but I can feel everything the insects feel, and they're eating constantly and..."
"Don't continue. Let's go somewhere else. With your... hypothetical abilities, you could give advice to the city's health department. So, Miss Hebert, is there a single dining establishment in this godforsaken city that meets your high standards?"
"There's a café on the Boardwalk. It's decent, and while it's not completely free of cockroaches, there are fewer than other places and it's fairly clean. The owner has some kind of phobia or mania—I don't know what you call people obsessed with cleanliness," I said.
"Perfect. Lead the way." And we drove to that very café on the Boardwalk.
Some time later, when we were already seated in the café and the friendly waitress had left with our order, Henry adjusted his shirt cuffs and leaned back in his chair.
"Taylor," he said seriously, "this isn't my first rodeo. You're in a unique situation. Don't harbor illusions and assume that just because Emily said 'the PRT has no complaints against Taylor Hebert,' it means immediate indulgence and forgiveness from the President and Senate. It's just playing by the rules. The PRT has complaints against Butcher Fifteen, against Poison Ivy, and as long as you're not these undoubtedly terrible capes, they have no complaints against you. Of course, if it's established that one Taylor Hebert is one of the capes who committed crimes in the state, they'll pursue the cape, not Taylor Hebert. So Emily didn't lie—the PRT has no complaints against Taylor Hebert, as long as she's a schoolgirl whose biggest sin is finally standing up to her tormentors at school."
"Does that mean the negotiations accomplished nothing? Are we back where we started?"
"No. Today's negotiations were, in my view, a success. We achieved the most important thing—they can now talk to you. Moreover, they'll prefer to talk first. We established that you're capable of negotiating and can be dealt with. Believe me, that's already a lot, considering the reputation of the Butcher and this Poison Ivy. The PRT and Emily somehow assume you're that very cape, but they're willing to turn a blind eye to this connection... as long as the Butcher keeps himself... within bounds."
"And what exactly are the bounds set for the Butcher?" I asked. "I'm asking this purely out of idle curiosity."
"Purely," Henry nodded and sighed. "Purely to satisfy your curiosity, Taylor, I can say that these bounds can only be found empirically. I can't predict which straw will break the camel's back or what drop will overflow the cup of patience. However, in the unlikely event that I were now talking to these capes, I'd recommend the simplest and most understandable things—for example, kill fewer people. Or at least hide the bodies better. If possible, stop killing people altogether. People get nervous when they're being killed. And yes, thirty-seven corpses in one evening is excessive, even if they were all very bad people. I'd recommend no more than one corpse per week. I understand it will be difficult, but who has it easy these days?"
"In the unlikely event that I were that very cape, I would listen to you," I replied. "I can't promise I'd comply, because lately something's always happening to me. And I seriously consider all these cases to be exceeding the limits of self-defense... uh... preemptive strikes? I assure you, Henry, that these hypothetical capes don't enjoy killing people at all. They'd rather live peacefully on an apiary. Make honey."
"When you decide to open your apiary, consider me your first customer. The bee population in North America has dropped twenty percent in the last ten years. Farmers are seriously considering artificial pollination. What times we live in," Henry sighed and leaned forward, clasping his hands together and resting his chin on them. "Now let's be serious. Taylor, if you want to fight the system using only laws and going down the beaten path, you'll lose. These laws were made by them and for them. They can circumvent any of them in the blink of an eye. Think we won today? We just showed that we're also playing the game, that's all. If you want to win, you need a lot of money, strength, and patience, and also knowledge that you can't play by their rules."
"What do you suggest?" I asked.
"Look, the PRT and Emily are asking you with all their actions to stay in the shadows and attract as little attention as possible. Lie low and let them conduct experiments on you. About the experiments—decide for yourself, but I'd never trust the PRT to even carry out a chamber pot in broad daylight—they'd definitely spill it, drop it, get themselves dirty, and mess everyone else up. As for the second part... absolutely not! You need to establish your narrative, win public opinion to your side, impose your point of view on events. Show the picture, seduce everyone with a tasty story—then you'll be on top. This whole cape business is show business. With producers behind the scenes, stars in colorful costumes, staged fights, role-playing... it's all a game. Theater, performance... and you should be the star. Nobody's interested in the guys in the background, 'third from the right.' But if you become the star of this whole circus with cloaks and masks, if you can sell your story, if they believe in it—then you'll beat the system. You'll be able to impose your rules."
"So you're not just a lawyer, Henry, you're also an analyst. And a PR manager," I said, looking at the unremarkable man in the tweed jacket across from me.
"Any good lawyer should be an analyst and specialist in public opinion," he replied, folding a swan from a napkin. "Actually, this goes beyond my duties, which Miss Wilbourn so kindly paid for. But I like you, Taylor. If this interests you, of course..."
"Very interesting, Henry. Please, continue," I leaned forward and put my chin on my palm, resting my elbow on the table between us. "Very interesting."
"Well... since you're so kind. Why do you think that in China or Russia, the capes there don't wear tight spandex and don't even choose flashy pseudonyms? Legend, Eidolon, Kaiser, Butcher... these aren't just names, not just nicknames. These are stage names. And where capes don't perform on a theatrical stage, there's no need for colorful costumes, masks, or flashy pseudonyms. Do you know what they call the highest capes leading the Yangban in China? First, Second, Third... and so on down the list. Do you know what capes in Russia's Elite Army call themselves? By so-called call signs used for radio communications—they're more like nicknames, usually abbreviations or associations from first and last names. But in countries where the impact of public opinion is direct and immediate, where it quickly becomes law—there capes very quickly turn into actors on the stage of this theater."
"All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players," I quoted old Billy.
"Exactly," Henry nodded. "Let's forget about China and Russia. In our country, image is very important. It's even more important than your abilities. People don't understand nuances and mixed messages—they have stereotypes in their heads. Images hammered into them from birth by movies, comics, newspaper headlines. Hero. Villain. Traitor. Friend. Repentant villain. Former hero who went over to the dark side. Hooker with a heart of gold. Lone cop fighting the system for justice—these are all stereotypes. When something doesn't fit into the familiar world scheme, people prefer not to see it. So all you need now is to fit into a stereotype. Choose the most suitable one and then people will start thinking about you exactly as you need them to. And you now fit perfectly into the 'Mary Magdalene' stereotype. The repentant sinner. The villainess who understood her mistakes, accepted them, repented, and wholeheartedly joined the side of Light and Good. It's a kind and bright fairy tale, people will gladly believe in it, but you need to act quickly. People can't think about something for long—they prefer to quickly slap on a label and not bother. Bam!" He snapped his fingers. "And that's it. You're already branded. And whatever label public opinion hangs on you the first time—erasing it from your forehead later will be much harder. Right now you're in a convenient position—nobody has heard these stories from your point of view yet, and you only get one debut."
"That's... very valuable advice, Henry, thank you," I said, mentally calculating what exactly needed to be done. One thing was clear—I would owe Tattletale big time. Who did she need me to kill? Coil? Great, I'd just practically promised to minimize killings... or as Mr. McCallister said—if it's unbearable, then at least one corpse per week. So Coil would be my corpse for this week. Because without Tattletale I'd never manage, even if I had money to burn, since this required connections, knowing this game from the inside, adjusting public opinion wasn't like playing the accordion.
And besides, Coil was a villain. I'd find out what sins he had, and if he'd crossed the red line, then that's where he belonged. No point in hurting my Tattletale—she was a valuable asset, absolutely irreplaceable in a PR campaign, and he was standing in her way. Recruited her under threats, treated her badly... though regarding the latter, I wouldn't judge him too harshly. Lisa made anyone want to give her a smack after five minutes of conversation. And he'd been suffering with her for how long—six months? Alright, let's think. Killing Coil just because wasn't our way. But finding a reason to kill him—that was definitely our way. You're still a hypocrite, Taylor, I thought. You need a reason to kill. These are just crutches for conscience, justifications. "You're guilty of making me hungry"—and grab Coil by the scruff and into the woods. Dark, deep, and without a hat.
But no. I couldn't do that because I hadn't yet reached Superman status—conscience still gnawed at me, what could I do. So we'd settle it this way—I'd learn more about Coil from Tattletale, and then I'd start acting. But I needed Tattletale herself yesterday.
"You have time, Taylor," Henry said. "You have resources and allies. Now's the time to use both."
"Tell me, Henry, would you be able to continue cooperating with me if I decided to follow your advice?" I asked.
"I'm afraid I'm not such a specialist in public opinion and influencing it. I'm just a lawyer," he shrugged. "However, I'd like to remind you that I'm your lawyer and haven't stopped being one. We've only just started working with the PRT, and we still have the case from your classmate's statement at the police station. So don't worry, Taylor, I'm with you for the long haul."
"That's good," I nodded and immediately fell silent—a waitress approached our table with a tray. While she was laying out our order on the table, I felt something unusual and scanned the surrounding area. Everything was normal, my insects showed me pictures and transmitted sensations within a block radius around me and... wait! The unusual feeling wasn't so unusual after all. Just a beacon. Designated in memory as Glory Girl's beacon. Nothing unusual... except for the fact that I could feel this beacon from across half the city! Like a lighthouse burning in the night, short signal flashes—I'm here, I'm here.
How was this possible?! My power worked at a block's distance, cut off immediately after reaching the boundary—that was about six hundred feet or two hundred yards in diameter. Not that much, though in urban conditions it was quite a lot. But this beacon... it was giving a steady signal from the other end of the city! How many miles to it? If I had such a range, billions, trillions of insects would be under my command!
I concentrated on the beacon. It was alive, feeling great, had no eyes, but was somewhere warm, soft, and full of food. And it had noticeably gained weight! Mass, size, new organs... some bulges on the body, growths, somewhat resembling antennae. Mutation? Ah yes, hearing! It had hearing—the beacons could not only track location but also transmit sound to me.
I delved into the sensations of my beacon that had so miraculously changed. I felt what it felt, heard what it heard. It was lying and enjoying food and light touches... someone was petting it! And... sound vibrations that the sensitive membrane inside its body reacted to... what did these sounds resemble?
"You can hear me, can't you?" a quiet voice made the membrane vibrate. "I know you can hear me. Want to get your creation back? Let's meet, talk. We have things to discuss, Fifteen. You hurt my sister. I want to look you in the eyes. Or are you chicken?"
I heard this voice and involuntarily felt chills run down my spine. Calm down, I thought, you're the Butcher, Taylor, nothing should scare you—the worst has already happened to you. But this voice... what was happening? How could my beacon work from such a distance?! And... how could I answer her? It had no organs for me to imitate speech and...
I felt how there, at the other end of our strange connection, someone's hand touched my creation and... I gasped, leaning back and spilling tea on the tablecloth. The little beacon worm had just grown another membrane! And... muscles attached to it—the overall construction resembled... of course—vocal cords.
"Taylor? Are you alright?" Henry asked worriedly, but I had no time for him now. I reached out with my power to the vocal cords grown in seconds on the other end of the city and cleared my throat.
"Who is this?" I asked.