37

Chapter 35

"Here, that's about it," I finished and turned to my lawyer. "I said everything correctly, Mr. McCallister?"

"Mr. McCallister is my father. Please call me Henry," he gently corrected. "But overall, you did everything right, Taylor."

"I'd like to clarify some details," Miss Militia chimed in from across the table. I must say, the interrogation room in the PRT is much cozier than the one at the Brockton Bay police station. At the police station, even the paint on the walls is peeling, the floor is grey concrete, the chairs and table are bolted to the floor, and there's only one window with mirrored, one-way glass. And all the colours are either gray or blue.

The PRT interrogation room is much more civilized. Firstly, there's no window on the wall where someone from another room could watch us. No, of course, they're watching us, just through cameras. The only camera is mounted on the ceiling, with a flashing red light—more of a reminder that everything that happens here is recorded. I'm sure this room is being monitored and viewed not by one or even two cameras. I'll be sincerely surprised if there's no high-tech stuff here, like a lie detector or an X-ray machine, odor analyzer, DNA sampling from the air, and so on and so forth.

When Henry McCallister and I arrived at the PRT through the black entrance (he called ahead to warn of our arrival), Mr. McCallister's car was allowed into the service underground parking. There we were met by alert PRT personnel in uniform, armored and armed. Judging by the looks they gave us, as well as their levels of pressure and pulse, it was clear that if I were alone, there would be no conversation.

They quickly took the still-unconscious Sophia out of the car, and we were escorted to this very room where Miss Militia was already waiting. She was in her usual khaki suit with a scarf covering her face in the colors of the star-spangled banner.

And here I've been talking for half an hour about how I ended up like this. By the way, there are a lot of insects in the PRT building, and in the adjacent room, there are suspiciously many people in a relatively small space. Rapid Response Team?

All this time, I've been looking for the headquarters, briefing room, conference hall, but to no avail. It turned out that the large halls upstairs in the building were vacant, as was the director's office. Strange. They can't not keep an eye on me. That's what the Tattletale said; they've long established my civilian identity in the PRT and I don't need to declare "I'm Butcher Fifteen!" It's enough to just knock on the door and show my face. Then all of PRT would stand at attention and sound the alarm. "Excuse me, Miss... Taylor?"

"Hebert, Taylor Hebert," I reminded them of my last name. Good trick, Miss Militia, good trick. If she already knows I'm Butcher XV, then she surely knows who I am; they must have compiled a dossier on a certain Taylor Hebert. However, this attitude shows that Miss Militia allegedly doesn't know who I am and she is sitting here only because I brought the beaten-up Sophia Hess in the trunk. Okay, not in the trunk, in the back seat, I even put a cushion under her head to make it softer.

"Miss Hebert, you are claiming that there were no hostile relations between you and Sophia Hess?"

"I wouldn't say that. It's more like we were, you know, friends-enemies. It's school. Sophia is a brilliant athlete, well-regarded by the teachers, beautiful, and all that. And I'm plain and skinny. Honestly, she teased me a bit at school. But nothing serious, no one crossed the line," I said, watching as Miss Militia eyebrows shift towards her nose, frowning. "And then this. She ambushed me and suggested a fight."

"She didn't attack, just suggested?" Miss Militia clarified. "So, you could have refused, Miss Hebert?"

"I object," Henry McCallister almost cheerfully interjected. "Miss Militia, this is an official investigation, am I correct? You informed us in advance that you would be recording the conversation. And if so, then the rules of conducting the conversation are subject to the state laws on interrogation by official persons."

"That's correct," Miss Militia nodded. "However, I..."

"You're asking a question that falls into the category of evaluative judgments. Here, we establish facts. Miss Hebert, of course, can answer your question if she deems it necessary," he looked at me, "but such questions can be asked in court, not during interrogation. Asking 'what if?' or 'what do you think?' implies a level of expertise on the part of my client sufficient to answer that question. How can she do that? She's a schoolgirl, for heaven's sake. I think she overestimates her abilities in any case."

"Um..." I spoke. "Well... yeah, Sophia suggested a friendly spar."

"Friendly?" Miss Militia raised her left eyelid twitches.

"I didn't hit her with full force," I replied, noticing Miss Militia's left eyelid twitching. "And I assisted her after she got knocked out."

"Please elaborate on that moment," she said, intertwining her fingers in front of her. "How exactly did she 'get knocked out'?"

"At some point, she transitioned into a ghostly state, and I realized she was a cape. Known as the Shadow Stalker. Instinctively, I threw my cell phone at her, it instantly drained its battery, and she received an electric shock. And she passed out," I said, not trying to hide anything. The PRT knows perfectly well about the vulnerabilities of their Ward's abilities, so I'm not revealing any secrets. Embellishing events like "he charged at me, but I managed to stab him in the chest and twist my weapon twice, he - howled, struggled with his last strength..." - that's for fiction. For something like "The Saga of how cunning Taylor defeated mighty Sophia." My task here is completely different. I need to build trust with those who make decisions in the PRT. I know it sounds unrealistic, but everything starts with the first step, right? So, if anyone can drive all of PRT crazy, it's her, the Tattletale. I look forward to the day when these guys can finally catch her... they'll have a tough time.

"And you decided that..."

"My client decided that in such a situation, she should consult with her lawyer. In turn, I remember that revealing a civilian identity of a parahuman is a federal crime. So, Miss Hebert and I found ourselves in a rather delicate situation, Miss Militia. Look, she can't even share this information with her father. At the same time, any information transmitted within the attorney-client agreement cannot be used as the basis for lawsuits because it's confidential. So, she called me, I drove to the Shipyard on my old Buick, and we went 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 intentionally inflicting injuries on a Ward?" Miss Militia folded her arms across her chest. "That's also a federal crime."

"We'd be happy to meet your lawyers in court," Henry replied. "We have something to counter with. Moreover, I am drawing your attention to an important but significant fact - my client didn't know she was in conflict with a Ward. And not to mention that your Ward used her abilities in a school fight! As far as I saw, Miss Hess wasn't harmed at all, she only has minor bruises. It doesn't even qualify as 'assault' because they just had a fight. But... one of them had Shadow Stalker abilities, training in the PRT, tactical and strategic training, the ability to neutralize suspects, and if necessary - to use force. And the other - just a regular schoolgirl."

"So, she's just a regular..." Miss Militia grumbled. "A regular schoolgirl wouldn't be able to fend off the Shadow Stalker."

"So, you're admitting that Miss Hess attacking Miss Hebert is like a healthy adult attacking an infant? And, by the way - the backpack we found nearby - it contains an old Shadow Stalker costume and a crossbow with arrows. And I don't see any rubber tips on them. No pepper sprays. These arrows are meant to kill. Oh, I'm not accusing Miss Hess, not at all. It's just... mental gymnastics, right? Miss Hess keeps an eye on Miss Hebert, and in her backpack, there's an old Shadow Stalker costume and a crossbow with combat arrows. Why? To offer a fistfight, you don't need a crossbow. 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 behaviour raises a lot of questions not only about her but also about the organization of the entire PRT branch in Brockton Bay. The Shadow Stalker is known for her temperament and brutality during apprehensions, not to say cruelty. Of course, PRT and BBPD cover up police brutality and abuse of power, but rumors are circulating around the city. I can leave here and post an announcement that I'm ready to support lawsuits of all those who suffered from violence during apprehension by her. I assure you, PRT will have hundreds of subpoenas by the end of the week."

"Are you threatening us, Mr. McCallister?" Miss Militia asked dryly.

"Indeed. It's not just a threat; it's inevitability. If you don't straighten things out in your own organization, I'll organize not only lawsuits from those who suffered during apprehensions. Violation of the Unwritten Rules regarding my client sitting right here. If this becomes public knowledge, I shudder to think what will happen to all of you. For Miss Hebert, what happened is just a regular Tuesday. Your Ward tried to beat her up. And before that - insulted her repeatedly at school, subjected her to physical violence and humiliations. Simply put, Miss Hebert, sitting here, is able to control herself. I wouldn't be able to."

"Wait, violation of the Unwritten Rules? We..."

"Please, spare me. As if you don't know who Taylor Hebert is. Don't insult my faith in your intellect, and you're not good at lying," Mr. McCallister grimaced. "The entire building is under a state of emergency, your leadership has been evacuated to the backup command post, but if you want to play dumb - okay. Then we'll leave Sophia Hess here and go, and anything you want to present - you can take it to court," he pretended to stand up.

"Wait. Please, sit down," Miss Militia sighed. "Don't do this. Please. I need to step out. Wait for me."

"But not for long. I know you," Henry grumbles, folding his arms across his chest. "I don't have much time. And Miss Hebert, it's time to do your homework, right?

"Well then." Miss Militia left the room, and I watched as she took out her phone from her pocket and made a call. Henry McCallister is sitting next to me, rocking his leg back and forth, studying the opposite wall thoughtfully.

"You know, Taylor," he said, "Einstein once said that there are only two infinite things - the universe and human stupidity. And he wasn't sure about the universe."

"Hmm," I had nothing to say in response to that, so I remained silent, just chuckling in understanding. I hope my lawyer, Mr. Henry McCallister, isn't referring to my specific stupidity. I could have handled things a hundred different ways, including just walking away from the scene of our fight with Sophia. However, I want the PRT, not necessarily to trust me. They're unlikely to ever do that. I want them to form a certain opinion about me. That I can play by the rules. That I can negotiate and then uphold agreements. Why do I need this? Because we're all human, and we always choose the easy way out. If the Endbringers could be negotiated with, we'd negotiate with them. If the Slaughterhouse Nine, the Ash Beast, or the Three Blasphemies were capable of negotiating and then keeping agreements, they'd be left alone. But the existence of these capes can hardly be called a full life. The Slaughterhouse Nine seems to be Jack Slash's personal project. I, however, want the PRT, along with their resources, to leave me alone.

Not to attempt to induce a coma, or stop time, or throw me into space, find some exotic ability. Like some girl from Nebraska with the catchy name Lobotomy. Lobotomy's Beam - once and for all. No willpower. All the same Butcher, all the same skills and memories, all in place, but can't even move from the spot. Because there's no will component.

Is there such an ability? Hell, if I know, maybe there is. In any case, fighting the PRT is not something I want to do. Even Jack Slash with his Slaughterhouse Nine seems to be hiding from them and prefers to attack unexpectedly, and even then - civilians. And I don't want to hide across the country, live in the ruins of abandoned houses or cheap motels along the highway.

Sure, my body is enhanced, and even a night on broken bricks won't leave bruises or bedsores on me, but I love comfort. A soft bed, the smell of coffee in the mornings, a quiet "Taylor, breakfast is ready!" on weekends when Dad gets up early... No, it turns out I don't just love comfort, I love my father, my home, my city. My way of life.

And starting a war, hiding and striking from the shadows, leaving my city - that means admitting defeat. Starting to play by their rules of "if you're not a hero, you're a villain." No way. I'm not going to play by those rules. I'm going to set my own. And right now, together with Mr. McCallister, with Henry - we're breaking stereotypes and templates, pushing the system. For PRT operatives, thinking in terms of "us-them" was unusual.

From their point of view, Butcher is "them." An enemy. Toxic Ivy is "them." An assassin. However, they can't arrest me, because I'm not wearing a mask, not in costume. If they arrest me - goodbye Unwritten Rules, and in a regular situation, they couldn't care less about those rules, but right now, I have a lawyer by my side.

They can't force Henry McCallister to sign a non-disclosure agreement. They can't lock him up without trial or investigation. Sooner or later, he'll be released, and then the problems will start. But even this wouldn't be so difficult, just think, the words of some lawyer from BB. The most important thing here is Butcher's reputation. He can't be killed, he can't be locked up, he can't be isolated. Sending him to the Cage is also impossible, it will all end very badly, eventually, there will be only one Butcher in there, or however many capes they have in custody. So, the PRT operatives are at a standstill.

And here comes another factor. My behaviour. I act reasonably, calmly, I don't shout, I don't attack people, I don't shoot a machine gun, and in general, my modus operandi is diametrically opposed to the psychological profile of Butcher. And now the PRT operatives see their chance. Butcher has never come to the PRT with his lawyer before. Having a lawyer means one thing - that the person is willing 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. The Tinker knows how to assemble another one, to replace the lost one.

So today I'm not here just because I'm asking the PRT to find a solution for Sophia. Not because I want to intimidate anyone. Today I'm showing the PRT and the people behind them, the decision-makers, that they have two options. The first one is to continue escalating violence, and who's more than willing to do that? Butcher always is. And the second one - to negotiate.

The door opened, and Miss Militia returned to the room followed by a middle-aged woman with a somber, focused, and somewhat bloated face.

"I'm Emily Piggot, director of the PRT branch in Brockton Bay," she introduced herself. "I know who you are, no need for introductions. Miss Militia briefed me on the situation."

"Pleasure," Henry McCallister nodded his head, but the director doesn't acknowledge him with her gaze. Instead, she looked directly into my eyes.

"Taylor Hebert," she said. "Or should I call you Fifteen?"

Chapter 36

"Fifteenth. It sounds almost insulting. Not a name, but a number. If I were here alone, I could, looking into the eyes of the director of the BB branch of the PRT in Brockton Bay, sing-songingly quote, 'What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.' And if I were a Capulet or a Montague, what difference would it make? Fifteenth, Butcher, Toxic Ivy, Taylor Hebert – right now, they're all synonymous. Just like 'PRT BB director' and 'Emily Piggot'. And I could even go ahead and respond to the question 'who do you want to talk to, Ms. Director?' with a question, escalating the situation and showing teeth.

But I did neither. I didn't need to. I just turned my head and looked questioningly at my lawyer.

"Do you know what a false choice is, Ms. Director?" Henry McCallister responded with a question, a funny little man with bald spots on his head and a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. I've long figured Henry out; he wears expensive watches, charges a five-figure sum per hour of work, he's the lead partner of the firm ' McCallister, Brown & Partners.' He could afford the best suits, hair transplants, a new Cadillac, and everything young lawyers dream of. But he chooses to look like this – harmless, in a worn tweed jacket and with funny bald spots on his head. His reputation won't deceive anyone anymore; those who've ever dealt with him know that Henry McCallister is a wolf in sheep's clothing with a bulldog's grip and the cold-bloodedness of a boa constrictor, the patience of a scorpion, and the bloodhound's nose for blood in the water. But he keeps looking like a shabby intellectual, teaching for pennies at the local college. Habit? Irrelevant. Today, here, Henry McCallister is helping me. He's backing me up. I need to look reasonable. I need to look like someone who can negotiate. And Henry is my bad cop. Today, I'm like that supervillain from the movies who shouts, 'You think I'm evil? You haven't seen my lawyers yet!' And another quote from Billy – 'My awkwardness will serve as a foil for you, So that mastery, like a star in twilight, Shines brighter…'

"False choice – that's when you don't give a choice, Ms. Director," Henry continued. "And right now, you're not giving us any choice but to leave. I won't engage in any negotiations when my client is openly accused of all mortal sins. Miss Hebert, we're leaving."

"But..." I glanced at him again, trying to look indecisive, then nodded. "Yes, of course, Mr. McCallister. Sorry for the inconvenience, Ms. Director, Miss Militia." I stood up from my seat, ready to follow Henry.

"Wait!" Miss Militia called out to us. "Taylor! Mr. McCallister! Be reasonable!"

"Oh, I'm reasonable. I'm reasonable enough to see how exactly Ms. Director plans to treat Miss Hebert, and I'll say – enough! She's been insulted and humiliated in school, suspected at the police station, and now she's being ridiculed in the PRT. If we stay, it's only on the condition that the director apologizes for her insinuations and promises to refrain from such cheap provocations in the future."

"Everyone here knows that's true," Director Piggot folded her arms across her chest. "Your defendant hasn't exactly tried to keep her identity a secret."

"So now it's the cape's duty to keep her identity a secret? Interesting, when was the new practice adopted in the Supreme Court? Last time I checked, revealing a parahuman's identity was a federal crime, and it's the duty of third parties who… 'accidentally or intentionally, by virtue of official duties or other circumstances, became aware of the true identity of a parahuman hiding it under a pseudonym.' In that unlikely event that my client is indeed a cape, you, Ms. Director, are committing a federal crime. But moreover, you're violating other laws...

"Do you have laws up your sleeve other than those adopted in our country? Perhaps these are laws of criminal communities? Yakuza? Triads? Teeth?" The director raised her voice. We're still standing, all four of us, standing in the middle of the windowless room. A bit awkward, as if we were about to leave the guests, but these two got into a heated debate, and Miss Militia and I feel unnecessary in this passionate conversation. Everything is going as I wanted. Henry McCallister is a specialist and a master of his craft. He shifted the focus from me to himself. Now he's the main aggressor here, and despite the fact that both the director and Miss Militia know who I am and that I could turn half the city into a branch of hell, despite the fact that I have about four dozen corpses behind me – he's the bad guy here.

"Oh, yes. The laws of hospitality and common sense," Henry gestured with his hands. "Miss Hebert and I brought you your Protectorate member, although, judging by everything, Miss Hebert had every reason to leave her lying on the ground after all she's done. We're here voluntarily. Specifically, as guests, because I don't see any arrest warrant for either me or my client, Miss Hebert."

"This won't help your case," Piggot grumbled. "In any case, we have reason to believe that your client is Butcher XV, and we don't have much time to help her. And you, Mr. McCallister, are throwing sticks in our wheels."

"So, it turned out that the local PRT branch does want to help us after all? Well, you've chosen the wrong tone, Ms. Director! How we might have to help you later! And, by the way, do you know where exactly you violated the laws of common sense? If what you're accusing Miss Hebert of is true, then right now you're insulting a mentally unstable cape to her face. A cape who killed Lung, Butcher, subdued Bakuda… with whom the Triumvirate has struggled for years. Do you really think this is a wise decision, Ms. Director? Miss Hebert, let's go, we're leaving immediately!" he reached out and took my hand, pulling me towards the door as if I were a little girl from kindergarten who's played too long with her friends and urgently needs to go home.

"Yes, Mr. McCallister," I am nodding as he dragging me towards the exit. Of course, if I wanted to, Mr. McCallister wouldn't budge me from the spot, but today I'm playing second fiddle; he's leading the main part.

"Listen, Mr. McCallister," Miss Militia called out to us, "you understand that by walking out that door, you're depriving your defendant of any chance to settle this peacefully."

"Don't demand the impossible from me, Miss Militia," Henry shook his head. "I've done all I can. We've taken a step towards you, but the whole way can only be traversed if the other side also takes a step towards us."

"We've also taken a step towards you!" Director Piggot raised her voice. "Although we could have already arrested you."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about; you're simply violating the laws of common sense. Miss Hebert, we're leaving."

"Do you think the PRT has no jurisdiction over Butcher?" the director squinted. "It does. But…" She shook her head, sighed, and sat down at the table.

"Alright," she said, "let's acknowledge that we all got a bit heated. I... apologize to you, Miss Hebert. Until it's officially established that you are Butcher Fifteen, formerly known as Toxic Ivy."

"Um... thank you," I said, "I'm not offended, but…"

"Hm. In that case, I also apologize. I got carried away too," Henry released my hand. "I'm glad that the director is able to admit her mistakes. Not many can do that."

"That's the first thing you learn in public service," Piggot sighed. "Well, Mr. McCallister..."

"Mr. McCallister is my father. Please, call me Henry," we sat down at the table on the opposite side. The groundwork is laid; both sides have shown their teeth, growled at each other, demonstrating strength and independence, but also a desire to negotiate. Henry is using an old trick – push-pull. First, he exacerbates the conflict, almost bringing it to a climax, and then he softens. This instills trust and a willingness to cooperate, and it's above logic, just instincts inherited from primates. Immediately after a fight, monkeys usually "make up" and show signs of attention to each other – they search for parasites, combing through each other's fur. You know who tries harder? The one who won.

It was important for Henry not just to escalate the conflict but also to leave Piggot with a slight sense of victory; then she'll become more lenient. Although... looking at the director's face, I doubt the effectiveness of such tricks. She's seen a lot in this job, "the beaten path and the shot sparrow". However, Henry didn't find himself in a dumpster either; let's see how the situation develops.

"Henry," Piggot easily agreed to switch to a less formal tone, "we have a problem on our hands."

"That's why we came to you. To resolve it," he nodded. "But I'm ready to hear your opinion on the situation at hand."

"Well then. Miss Militia, perhaps you'll express your view on our problem?" Piggot said, addressing the heroine. She sat down at the table next to the director and rested her forearms on the table, clasping her hands in front of her.

"If we put it briefly, it's a mess. But if we elaborate, we understand what you're going through, Taylor," she said. "As Mr. McCallister said, it's just an assumption, but if we assume that you're Butcher Fifteen, then we have problems. The personalities in Butcher's head never settle down, and sooner or later they drive the new host insane. Then the people close to you may suffer. We offer you help in dealing with 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 later became Butcher came to us and provided the PRT with the opportunity to study the phenomenon of consciousness transfer and abilities. We can't guarantee that everything will work out, but we're willing to try. Of course, you can get up and walk out that door, and no one will stop you. If you're just Taylor Hebert, a schoolgirl and her father's daughter, then there's no reason to detain you. But if you're Fifteen, then detaining you is pointless. Among Butcher's powers is teleportation." She stopped short.

Butcher's teleportation works within line of sight, or at least it used to be thought so. In theory, I can't teleport out of a closed room or over open water, like a bay. But, as an old German once dryly said, theory is dry, my friend, but the tree of life is evergreen. I can teleport much further because the radius of my line of sight is the radius within which I can see through the eyes of the last cricket, cockroach, or wasp. That's why I'm confident in my abilities, that's why I decided to take the risk and come to the PRT in person, rather than arrange a meeting through anonymous phone calls or personal messages on Parahumans Online forums.

"Before we start discussing... theoretical possibilities, we need to agree on Miss Hebert's status," Henry said firmly.

"What do we need to agree on?" Director Piggot pretended not to understand the essence of the question. "Miss Hebert showed a high level of civic awareness and personal courage by bringing us the Wards, who... let's say, exceeded their authority. You may not know, but Shadow Stalker has been suspended from patrolling and serving in the Tower. She was under house arrest, which she violated and escaped to attempt an attack on Miss Hebert. You're right, Henry, we have no grounds to assume that Butcher Fifteen or Toxic Ivy, or Jack Slash for that matter, is your defendant. How can 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 am offering deep and sincere apologies for what happened at Winslow High School. Sophia Hess will be punished according to the law. However, she's not alone. Her handler, as well as the school administration, will also be punished. The handler has already been suspended from work and is also under house arrest. Since Sophia... as practice has shown, she doesn't intend to comply with the terms of her house arrest, the conditions of her detention will be... revised. Unfortunately, we missed her, overlooked. What happened at the school is entirely our fault. The PRT is ready to pay the compensation for moral damages that is due in such cases. Your lawyer... Mr. McCallister will explain to you the amount you can expect. And of course, the PRT will offer official apologies.

"Written apologies, entered into the registry and reflected on the department's website?" Henry clarified, and Miss Militia nodded.

Written apologies from the department will mean nothing to me personally, but Henry explained it all to me. Every action we take here leaves traces. First and foremost, on paper. This conversation is being recorded, every word of it, there's video footage, there's audio, but decisions about it will primarily be based on paperwork. Reports, logs, protocols, analysts' notes... it all remains on paper.

Those who make decisions never watch videos or listen to audio recordings. That's why what leaves its mark on paper is important. Written evidence. And apologies from the department will be what remains on paper. A statement from Henry, signed by me, that we brought Sophia to the PRT will also remain on paper. All this starts working for my image, for the New Butcher, who is not the Butcher at all. The girl who defeated the Butcher... hmm, not even that – the Girl Who Survived!

People love legends and myths, people passionately want to believe in the best, and if you launch this legend into the masses, then after a short time, they will start to treat me not as Fifteen, just another puppet of the Butcher, but as the Girl Who Defeated the Butcher. And then I can choose a pseudonym for myself. Unfortunately, quietly living with my father on a bee farm and growing 'The Best Honey from the Heberts!' probably won't work out, so I'll have to play all these PR games.

But even in this "hero-villain" system, the "mask-cape" system gives me the opportunity to use public opinion. Henry has a couple of ideas, and the Tattletale has a whole campaign ready to manipulate public consciousness. A campaign that, if anyone from the PRT touches me, will immediately lynch the entire top of the PRT in Brockton Bay on the streets. My most powerful ally is the people. The same people who remain silent.

"Excuse me," I interrupted the conversation of the adults. "Miss Militia? I wouldn't want Sophia Hess to be punished and put under home arrest. After all, we're friends."

"What? But... everyone said they bully you at school. And now you fought with her, and..." Miss Militia is perplexed.

"If every time girls fight, someone had to be put in prison, we wouldn't have anyone left free," I said. "Even at school, they didn't try to beat me up. I was the one who hit Emma first..."

"Miss Hebert!" Henry interjected with a hand gesture.

"There's nothing to hide here, Mr. McCallister," I shrugged. "Yes, I hit Emma Barnes at school. I'm guilty. If we're going to punish someone, then punish everyone, including me. And yes – I hit Sophia Hess on the knee with a pipe. They pushed me too far, so I responded."

"We appreciate your honesty, Taylor," Miss Militia said. "However, Sophia committed a crime and must be held accountable by 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 that? We'll turn a blind eye to the PRT's indulgence towards Shadow Stalker, and you'll turn a blind eye 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."

"Excellent," Henry smiled. "Now we can start talking seriously."Chapter 37

"That's it for today," sighed my lawyer, Mr. Henry McCallister, as he starting up his old Buick from the underground parking lot of the PRT building.

"I'm very grateful to you, Mr. McCallister," I said, watching as the striped barrier is rising before us and a sergeant in riot gear, with a chevron depicting a crossed and cracked skull, is touching the spot where the visor of his uniform cap should be. However, he wears a heavy fourth-degree ballistic helmet with a visor, so the gesture came across as more casual than formal. The sergeant is seeming to say to us, "We're not saying goodbye, Miss Hebert," and I am smiling in response.

"I assure you, Taylor, it's no trouble. I'm just doing my job," replied Mr. McCallister, with whom we immediately switched to a first-name basis as soon as we left the office, where we spent nearly two hours.

"I think everything went well," I said, sharing my impressions and wanting to 'compare notes' with Henry. After all, he's been simmering inside this system for a long time and knows much more.

"It's only the beginning," he replied, turning right at the intersection. "Are you hungry? I could go for a whale right now. Okay, maybe not a whale, but definitely trout. How about that Italian joint?"

"The one where there are cockroaches in the kitchen, and a dead woman is embedded in the foundation?" I clarified.

"Right. Looks like I'll have to change my favorite joint," Henry glanced in the mirror, catched my eye, and shook his head. "Seriously? A crop in the foundation? Where did you... oh, right. Insects."

"Exactly. I don't think it's Luigi or whatever your friend chef's name is. It's unlikely someone would wall up a body at their workplace, although offender behavior patterns are more for profiling specialists. I just know she hasn't been there for long. Not that it ruins my appetite directly, but I can feel everything bugs feel, and it is constantly eating and..."

"Don't go on. Let's go somewhere else. With your... presumed abilities, you could give advice to the city's health department. So, Miss Hebert, is there any eatery in this godforsaken town that meets your high standards?"

"There's a café on the Waterfront. It's decent, and not completely devoid of roaches, but fewer than in other places and pretty clean. The owner has some sort of phobia or mania, I don't know what people obsessed with cleanliness are called," I said.

"Great. Show me the way," and we are heading to that café on the Waterfront.

After some time, when we were already seated in the café, and the friendly waitress left with our order, Henry rolled up 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, 'PRT has no claims against Taylor Hebert,' it means immediate absolution and pardon from the president and senate. It's just playing by the rules. PRT has claims against Butcher XV, against Toxic Ivy, and as long as you – undoubtedly terrible capes – are not them, there are no claims against you. Of course, if it's established that a certain Taylor Hebert – one of the capes committing a crime in the state – they'll pursue the cape, not Taylor Hebert. So, Emily didn't lie; PRT has no claims against Taylor Hebert, as long as she's a student, the worst of her sins being that she finally stood up to her bullies at school."

"Does this mean that the negotiations yielded nothing? Are we back to square one?"

"No. Today's negotiations, in my opinion, were a success. We achieved the most important thing - now they can talk to you. Moreover, they prefer to talk to you first. We've indicated that you're capable of negotiation and can be dealt with. Trust me, that's a lot, considering the Butcher's reputation and this Toxic Ivy. For some reason, PRT and Emily assume that you are this cape, but are willing to turn a blind eye to this connection... as long as the Butcher keeps... within bounds."

"And what exactly are the bounds set for the Butcher?" I asked. "I'm curious about this solely out of idle curiosity."

"Solely," nodded Henry and sighed. "Solely to satisfy your curiosity, Taylor, I can say that these bounds can only be felt empirically. Predicting which straw will break the camel's back and on which drop the patience will overflow - I can't. However, in the unlikely event that I were talking to these capes right now, I would recommend the simplest and most understandable things, such as - killing fewer people. Or at least hiding the crops better. If possible, stop killing people altogether. People get nervous when they're being killed. And yes, thirty-seven crops in one night are excessive, even if they were all very bad people. I would recommend no more than one crop per week. I understand that it will be difficult, but who has it easy nowadays?"

"In the unlikely event that I were this very cape, I would heed your advice," I replied. "I can't promise I'd follow it, because lately, something always happens to me. And I seriously consider all these instances exceeding the limits of self-defense... umm... preemptive strikes? I assure you, Henry, that these hypothetical capes don't actually like killing people. They'd live peacefully on a farm, making honey."

"When you decide to open your own farm, consider me your first client. Bee populations in North America have declined by twenty percent in the last ten years. Farmers are seriously considering artificial pollination. What a time we live in," sighed Henry, leaning forward and folding his hands together, resting his chin on them. "And now let's get serious. Taylor, if you want to fight the system using only laws and following the beaten path, you'll lose. These laws are made by them and for them. They can circumvent any of them in the blink of an eye. Do you think we won today? We just showed that we also play the game, and that's it. If you want to win, you need a lot of money, power, and patience, and also - the knowledge that you can't play by their rules."

"What do you suggest?" I asked.

"Look, PRT and Emily, through all their actions, are asking you to stay in the shadows and attract as little attention as possible. Lay low and allow them to experiment on you. About the experiments - decide for yourself, but I wouldn't trust PRT to even take out the trash at night in broad daylight - they'll spill it, drop it, smear themselves, and then smear everyone else. And as for the second... absolutely not! You need to establish your own narrative, attract public opinion to your side, impose your viewpoint on events. Show the picture, seduce everyone with a tasty story - then you'll be on top. All this cape business is showing business. With producers behind the scenes, stars in colorful costumes, staged fights, role-playing... it's all a game. Theater, performance... and you have to be the star. No one is interested in the guys in the background, 'third from the right.' But if you become the star of this circus with capes 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 opposite.

"Any good lawyer should be an analyst and a public opinion specialist," he replied, folding a napkin into a swan. "Actually, this goes beyond my duties, which Miss Wilborn so kindly paid for. But I like you, Taylor. If you're interested, of course..."

"Very interested, Henry. Please, continue," I leaned forward and rested my chin on the palm of my hand, which I propped up on the table between us. "Very interested."

"Since you're so kind. What do you think, why don't capes in China or Russia wear tight tights or even choose flashy pseudonyms? Legend, Eidolon, Kaiser, Butcher... these are not just names, not just nicknames. These are stage pseudonyms. And where capes don't play on the theatrical stage - there's no need for colorful costumes, masks, or flashy pseudonyms. Do you know what they call the top capes in China, those who lead the Yangban? First, Second, Third... and so on. Do you know what capes in the Elite Army of Russia call themselves? By the so-called call signs used for radio communications, it's more like nicknames, usually abbreviations or associations from the name and surname. But in countries where the influence of public opinion is direct and immediate, where it quickly turns into law - there capes 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.

"That's right," Henry nodded. "Let's forget about China and Russia. Image is very important in our country. It's even more important than your abilities. People don't understand nuances and mixed messages, they have stereotypes in their heads. Images that have been hammered into them since birth, through movies, comics, newspaper headlines. Hero. Villain. Traitor. Friend. Repentant villain. Former hero who turned to the side of evil. Whore with a heart of gold. The lone cop fighting for justice against the system - these are all stereotypes. When something doesn't fit into the familiar scheme of the world, people prefer not to see it. So, all you need to do now is to fit into the stereotype. Choose the most suitable one for yourself, and then people will start thinking of you exactly as you need them to. And right now, you fit perfectly into the 'Mary Magdalene' stereotype. The repentant sinner. The villainess who realized her mistakes, acknowledged them, repented, and wholeheartedly sided with Light and Good. It's a good and bright fairy tale, people will gladly believe in it, but you need to act fast. People can't think about something for long, they prefer to quickly label and move on. Bam!" He snapped his fingers. "And that's it. You're already branded. And no matter what label public opinion puts on you the first time - erasing it from your forehead later will be much harder. You're in a convenient position now, no one has heard these stories from your point of view yet, and a debut only happens once."

"That's... very valuable advice, Henry, thank you," I said, mentally planning what exactly needs to be done. One thing is clear - I will owe the Tattletale a lot. Who does she need me to kill? Coil? Just promised practically to minimize killings... or as Mr. McCallister said - if unable, at least limit it to one body per week. So, Coil will be my crop for this week. Because without the Tattletale, I won't be able to handle it, even if I have plenty of money, because you need connections for this, you need to know this game from the inside, adjusting public opinion is not like playing the harmonica.

And then, Coil is a villain. I'll find out what sins are behind him, and if he's crossed the line, then that's where he belongs. No need to offend my Tattletale, she's a valuable asset to me, especially in a PR campaign, and he got in her way. Recruited under threats, treated her badly... although about the latter, I wouldn't judge him too harshly. Lisa makes anyone after five minutes of conversation feel an irresistible desire to slap her and give her a kick in the butt. And how long has he been suffering with her? Okay, I'll think about it. Killing Coil just like that is not our way. But finding a reason to take him down is definitely our way. You're still hypocritical, Taylor, I think, to kill, you need a reason. These are crutches for conscience, justifications. You're guilty of wanting to eat and - grab Coil by the scruff of the neck and into the woods. Dark, deaf, and without a hat.

But no. I can't do it like that, because I haven't reached the status of a Superhuman yet, conscience gnaws at me, where to put it. So, let's solve it like this - I'll learn more about Coil from the Tattletale, and then I'll start acting. But I need the Tattletale herself straight away.

"You have time, Taylor," Henry said. "You have resources and allies. Now is the time to use both."

"Tell me, Henry, will you be able to continue working with me if I decide to follow your advice?" I asked.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a specialist in public opinion and influencing it. I'm just a lawyer," he shrugged. "However, I would like to remind you that I'm your lawyer and I haven't stopped being one. We've only just started working with PRT, and we still have your classmate's case lying with the police. So don't worry, Taylor, I'm with you for the long haul."

"That's good to hear," I nodded, and then fell silent - a waitress approached our table with a tray. While she was placing our order on the table, I felt something unusual and scanned the territory around me. Everything seemed normal, my insects showed me pictures and transmitted sensations within a radius of the quarter around me and... stop! The unusual feeling wasn't that unusual after all. Just a beacon. Marked in memory as the beacon of Glorious Girl. Nothing unusual... except for the fact that I feel this beacon halfway across the city! Like a beacon burning in the night, short flashes of signals - I'm here, I'm here.

How is this possible?! My power works within a block radius, cutting off immediately after reaching the boundary, which is about six hundred feet or two hundred yards in diameter. Not that much, though in urban conditions, it's quite a lot. But this beacon... it was emitting a steady signal from the other end of the city! How many miles is it to there? If I had such a radius, billions, trillions of insects would be under my command!

I focused on the beacon. It's alive, feeling fine, it doesn't have eyes, but it's somewhere warm, soft, and full of food. And it has noticeably gained weight! Weight, size, new organs... some protrusions on its body, growths, somewhat resembling antennas. Mutation? Oh, yes, hearing! It has hearing, beacons can not only track location but also transmit sound to me.

I am delving into the feelings of my beacon, which has miraculously changed. I feel what it feels, I hear what it hears. It's lying there, enjoying food and light touches... someone is petting it! And... sound vibrations, to which the sensitive membrane inside its body reacts... what do these sounds resemble?

"You can hear me, can't you?" - a quiet voice is making the membrane vibrate: "I know you can hear. Want to get your creation back? Let's meet, talk. We have things to discuss, Fifteenth. You maimed my sister. I want to look you in the eye. Or are you chickening out?"

I hear this voice, and shivers are running down my spine involuntarily. Stay calm, I think to myself, you're the Butcher, Taylor, nothing should scare you, everything worst has already happened to you. But this voice... what's going on, anyway? How can my beacon work from such a distance?! And... how can I respond to her? It doesn't have any organs for me to mimic speech, and...

I feel it there, at the other end of our strange connection - someone's hand is touching my creation, and... I am gasping, recoiling and spilling tea on the tablecloth. Another membrane has just grown on the beacon! And... the muscles attached to it; the overall structure is reminding me of... of course - vocal cords.

"Taylor? Are you okay?" - Henry asked worriedly, but I'm not focused on him right now. I reached out with my power to the vocal cords grown in seconds at the other end of the city and am clearing my throat.

"Who is this?" - I asked.