#1,925
A masked girl stood in front of a podium, surrounded by flashing lights and microphones. She wore an amused smile on her face and her words were laced with confidence.
"I'm happy to announce that, as of today, parahuman crime is no longer welcome in Brockton Bay. Vanguard is instituting a zero tolerance policy towards any cape who uses their power to break the law within the city. Villains will no longer be given a free pass to act as they will. If you make trouble in my city, you will be hunted," she proclaimed, speaking quickly and forcefully. The brief pause allowed all present to process what was said, but the girl's voice interrupted the brewing chaos. "For years, this city's honest hard-working citizens have been forced to deal with costumed strangers interrupting their lives. I say no longer! We are not the Protectorate! Vanguard does not recognize a difference between common criminal and villain. If you use your powers to terrorize the people of my city, expect your mask to be removed, your life to be upturned, your freedom to be seized."
Click.
Rebecca paused the recording and turned to her companion with an expectant look.
Number Man met her gaze with a raised eyebrow. "I thought it was a nice speech," he said with a shrug.
"Is that all you have to say?" Rebecca demanded. "Catalyst just declared what is essentially martial law for Brockton Bay! Why am I the only one even mildly concerned about this?"
"Well, it will provide some remarkably useful data. She crowned herself queen of the city, and the masses are thanking her for it," Number Man mused, tapping a finger on his chin.
"That's what the Doctor told me," Rebecca groused. She had thought the idea of parahuman feudalism had vanished with Calvert. To see the idea implemented so suddenly, by someone completely out of their control, it grated on her. "You can't possibly think this will work." she said, more of a comment than a question.
"The odds are not in her favor, no," Number Man admitted. "That said, while I expect the whole thing to go up in flames, I am prepared to be pleasantly surprised."
Rebecca crossed her arms stubbornly. "I don't trust her."
"Would the situation be more palatable to you were she a villain?" Number Man asked, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone.
Rebecca chose to ignore him, instead glaring fiercely at Catalyst's frozen face.
"Come now, Rebecca. Cheer up," Number Man said brightly, patting his hand on her shoulder. "This is a good thing! With any luck, Catalyst will weed out the more disruptive villains once they come after her. She can thin the herd, so to speak, by culling the uncooperative and the stupid. It will save us time, in the long run."
Rebecca slapped his hand aside and fixed him with a glare. "And what happens when the Teeth take her announcement as a challenge and Catalyst is forced to kill Butcher?" she asked incredulously. "What happens when the Nine take a trip to the Bay and the Siberian rips her in half? What happens if she meets your old friend and gets turned like so many others? This is too overt. It introduces too much chaos."
"All of those scenarios are rather improbable," Number Man replied. His eyes glazed over for the smallest fraction of a second as his power ran the numbers. "My current estimate of her range, based on Armsmaster's recording and Eidolon's little sparring video, is somewhere around twelve-hundred meters. It's extremely unlikely Butcher could ever threaten her enough to force lethal retaliation and the accompanying consequences, with that kind of range. That being said, Eidolon has already asked Contessa to task a Path towards preventing such a thing." He eyed her dubiously. "You in particular should be happy about this. It will speed our negotiation will Accord. He will need vials to consolidate his power while the Teeth are away. It should move up the timetable on your particular brand of madness."
"Fair enough. And the Nine? What are the odds of Catalyst being able to damage the Siberian? How likely is it that she'll notice Manton, just another person in a city full of people?" Rebecca demanded, steam-rolling past the barely hidden skepticism in Number Man's voice. He still barely approved of her plans for Hive, and now was not the time for that argument.
"Low on both counts," Number Man admitted, graciously allowing Rebecca's deflection, "but as I said, she should see them coming from nearly a mile away. I need more data to be certain, but I the odds of her dying to any of the Nine are effectively zero at present. As for Jacob,"—He met her eyes, all traces of amusement gone—"it's singularly unlikely he will turn Catalyst. All data points towards her killing Jacob long before he opens his mouth. Besides, I doubt he will be as eager to face her as you imagine. I knew him well, once upon a time, and even as a child he knew how to pick his battles."
————
"I know that there will be villains who watch this broadcast. Men and women who can't help but see this as a challenge. To them I say this: It took me ten minutes to kill Leviathan. He spent nine of those minutes fleeing. If you think you can do better, I'll be waiting."
"Well, that's interesting." Jack said as the speech ended. Catalyst's slight figure, so small yet brimming with power, walked off the stage, and another girl took the stage to answer questions.
Jack had heard of the girl, of course. The girl who killed an Endbringer; she was known around the world by now, but the details had been kept quiet. There were no videos of the fight available, not even after Mannequin's best efforts, and the first-person accounts were all tainted by fear and awe.
Jack considered her the ultimate trophy. She was now, whether she knew it or not, a keystone of the world. Without ever knowing her, without ever seeing her, people pinned their hopes upon the girl. She was a brilliant candle in a dark and dying planet.
Jack would have loved to extinguish her. Eventually. Once he was prepared, once plans had been made and goals set. She was to be the crown jewel of his collection, the largest feather in his cap, the pinnacle of his long and storied career. Just imagining the game they'd play would have kept him entertained for months.
Not now, though. Not after this. There would be no time for a grand scheme, nor emotional theatrics. Jack looked behind him, towards the striped woman hovering over the couch, watching the television. Siberian would hunt soon. The broadcast had aroused her. The thrill of a worthy target would make her restless. She would not wait another week for them to arrive in Boston. Jack would have to direct her, and soon, if he didn't want to wait a few days for her to depopulate the nearest town. She, at least, would be simple to manage. Bloodshed was bloodshed in her mind. Catalyst would linger in her thoughts, but only until the next bout of violence.
Mannequin was beside her, the smooth plate representing his face angled towards the screen, transfixed. Alan always did despise hope. The man was nothing if not predictable. Jack expected a demand to visit the Bay within minutes. Jack could work around him easily enough. Mannequin could be delayed with a little convincing and a sufficiently tempting target, though only temporarily. His mind would always return to his mission, eventually, but Jack was certain he could stall for a very long time.
Crawler was the real problem. It was fortunate he could not fit in the house the Nine were using. He was sleeping in the woods somewhere, eagerly awaiting the next fight, the next opportunity to evolve. He would not be so easily deterred. There were few targets in the world who could hurt him, at this point. He would leap at the opportunity to face something new and powerful. Jack had already restrained him once, assuring the brute that Catalyst had merely dealt the final blow. Promising that she would only get stronger in time, that it would be worth it to wait. How could Jack make him wait again, after Catalyst's speech, her bragging, her challenge?
Jack briefly considered hiding the broadcast from him, but dismissed the thought as it arrived. That was not the play, here. There was no way to hide it long-term, and he wasn't quite ready to lose the force Crawler brought. A lie on this would lose him the brute's loyalty forever. Besides, he'd always favored the truth, or rather, his own little twist of such.
He could see the conversation now. Crawler's excited raving, his own calming words. He would make promises for the future, the same things he would tell Alan, give it time, let the girl season herself on the chattel who would come calling. Let the enemies build, he would tell Crawler, let them accumulate, let quantity hurt you where quality might not. They should take her at the height of her power, he would tell Alan, when she was the focus of the country, when the hope she inspired was a pillar that the future rested on.
They should pluck her when she was ripe, he would tell his Nine, and not a moment before.
It would work. He could stall his unruly members, direct them to other targets, but only for a time. Eventually he would have to face the music. He dearly hoped she would live up to his expectations. He craved a true challenge, after all these years, but only on his terms. It would be a game of tightrope to get the girl to cooperate. Plans would have to be rushed, his ideas designed and tested as soon as possible. Bonesaw would be delighted to help. He could practically feel her glee. He certainly felt his own. This great game, this impossible balancing act, this is what he lived for.
But those were thoughts for the future. For now, a new target was needed. Boston was entirely too close to Brockton Bay. Crawler might get impatient and run off with his target so close at hand. Reigning him in while dealing with Accord would be less challenge than irritation. Jack didn't need to deal with such nonsense at his age. He preferred his Nine to act like killers, not unruly children.
"Alan," Jack said, snapping the faceless man out of his reverie more violently than a slap, "what was the name of that tinker you wanted to recruit? The one that transferred out of Brockton in shame?" He remembered the name, of course. That wasn't the point of the question.
Mannequin's faux face jerked towards Jack, and sinuous fingers made shapes in the air.
"Armsmaster, yes! I remember now," Jack crowed approvingly. "You told me he was placed in Omaha?"
A slow nod.
"That's only a day or two from here, if we make good time," Jack remarked casually. "Murder Rat has been losing her edge lately. It's about time for her to retire in a blaze of glory. I'm thinking a recruiting run might do us some good."
Siberian stirred at his side, licking her lips with a slow motion. Mannequin turned away, but Jack could sense he approved.
Excellent.
He could convince Crawler in the morning. The argument shouldn't be too difficult to frame properly. The rest of the Nine would follow him without question. Hatchet Face would not care, so long as there were brutes to kill. Shatterbird would be happy for the chance to sing. Bonesaw would follow him anywhere, his own little lost puppy. Burnscar would be thrilled, once she set a few fires. Murder Rat never had a choice in the matter.
Everyone would be happy.
Except for Armsmaster, of course. Then again, Jack might just bring him around. He liked that idea. It had a nice symmetry to it. A great man, a great hero, shamed by his own and cast out, only to return as a monster. It made for a good story.
Jack would gladly see it told