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I've been left in my room to get ready for dinner. Although calling it a room is kind of an understatement; this place is more of a private condo. There's no windows, of course-- all indications are that I'm underground, probably very deep. Still, the lighting looks almost natural and the place is fully furnished despite the fact that the only things I've made any use of are the bed, the bathroom, and whatever selection of clothes the Boss dictated I should have to choose from. There's always several types of outfits for working in the shop, and I'm going to exercise what freedom of choice I've been given for as long as I can manage.

The selection of clothes is far more than the coveralls, labor clothes and the like which were here when I left for the workshop. Instead, I have a selection now more in keeping with what I associate with Emma. Stylishly faded denim, half a dozen cuts and colors of blouse, a short cocktail dress that looks like it cost several hundred dollars, a red one that's long and low cut, another in black that's long, sleeveless, and high cut, and an assortment of shoes that's as varied as it is shallow. I hate it all. Still, it's pretty apparent that I'm not to go to dinner in my work kit, and to be fair I'm not really interested in doing so. I can smell me, and I don't like that.

I peel off my outfit and walk into the shower, grabbing a pumice pad and some Epsom salts, noting that a full array of cosmetics is sitting on the bathroom sink along with one of those magnifying mirrors.

By the time I've finished my shower I feel much better. It's amazing how good you feel just getting clean. I look over at the bed a moment, considering whether to try and sneak in a nap. I shrug after a moment, and lay down on the cover sheet in my underwear.

I've only just closed my eyes when several armed mooks walk into the room without so much as knocking. So much for nap time. "Finish dressing and come with us."

Ah, yes. This seems familiar. In a way, the vague hostility is comforting. "And if I don't feel like coming with you? Or getting dressed?" I counter.

"Coming with us is mandatory. Being dressed is optional. Sixty seconds."

Bastards. I chose the jeans and the baggiest dark blouse in the selection and pull them on quickly. I don't bother with socks, picking out a pair of open toe sandals. Since the Boss isn't here, I leave the shiv hidden.

They calmly and uncaringly walk me down the hallway. Neither of them puts his hands on me, for which I'm glad, because I'm in a fighting mood. Short term, it'd be cathartic, but long term it'll do me no good at all to tip my hand this early.

Lull him into a sense of complacency.

The hallway takes several turns. We walk past doors both refined and otherwise. A few are open; almost all of those are followed with workmen who are building up or tearing down, and the remainder are empty. Tabula rasa. I try to envision what I could do with those open spaces, but I come up-- ha ha-- blank.

God, I could use some sleep. The shower felt wonderful, but it didn't take away the real problem, which is the creeping exhaustion that's suffusing every fiber of my being. The recharge it gave me has already worn off, and right now all I want is to lay my head on a pillow and sleep.

It's right about now that the guards stop at a closed pair of double doors, and my reflexes are slow enough that I'm a few steps past them before I catch on. One of them opens the left door smoothly, revealing an honest to God, fancy dining room, with a chandelier, candelabras, and what has to be a fifteen foot table of some dark stained, polished wood.

At the head of the table, flanked by wait staff, sits the Boss. He's leaning back, relaxed, the chair he's sitting in probably closer in theme and opulence to being a throne. Several other chairs line either side of the table, but the chair at the opposite end from him is almost as decorative as his. More wait staff are standing by that seat, one of whom pulls out the chair as I look in his direction and gestures for me to have a seat.

Well, as long as I'm here, I'll play along with it. I take the offered seat, allowing him to lay the napkin across his arm in my lap. I find it interesting that all of the decorative pieces, candelabras, and sundry on the table are arranged to give me a clear line of sight to the Boss.

"So, what's the surprise?" I ask.

"Patience, Livewire. Or perhaps I should call you Taylor?" He replies.

I frown. "Thought you said that wasn't going to be my name."

"Oh, that was simply to get you motivated. Get you angry. Get you FOCUSED." He folds his hands in front of himself. "And it worked. But please, enjoy your meal. The surprise comes with dessert. Well, one of the surprises, at any rate." He looks up as another of the guards enters the room, carrying... Oh, shit. He carefully sets the shiv on the table.

"Surprise," the Boss says. There's a note of satisfaction in his voice that makes my palm itch for the weapon. I glance at the steak knife on the table.

"See, I like that spirit in you," he continues calmly. I notice a slight twitch in his hand. "But it's alright." His fingers twitch again, before he folds his hands. "I actually sympathize with you, in a lot of ways." The fingers tense slightly. "You've had a great many tragic things happen to you." Twitch. "Still, a demonstration. Give her the knife."

The guard passes the shiv across the table. I take my shiv, snapping it up and flinging it across the open space of the table between us. Without any sort of surprise or alarm he sweeps his hand out, catching the weapon by the handle before its edge can touch him.

He makes a show of examining it. "For an improvised weapon, this is a fine blade. Better than a standard combat knife, I think."

"Monomolecular edge," I reply, shaken by the act but trying very hard not to show it. "One or two solid strikes will ruin the edge but you only need one hit."

"Fancy. How would you maintain it for more permanent use?" He asks, setting it down.

I don't answer, but I'm already envisioning it. A housing on the handle, hooked to a mono utility construction emitter with remote access to a matter storage unit. Blade created on the spot, and disassembled immediately after.

"No matter," he says after a moment.

I eat in silence. The food is good, but the low sleep, long day, and fading adrenaline rush leaves me too tired to appreciate it. I almost fall asleep twice, but the Boss manages to keep me awake with one comment or another. What rattles me the most, is that the Boss seems completely unconcerned that I just tried to kill him. The mooks watch, the wait staff serve, and he sits back, calm as a Hindu cow.

Finally, as I am so full that I can't eat or drink another bit, the Boss says, "Now, Livewire, it is time to discuss the reason for all of this."

"Reason?" I parrot awkwardly.

"Of course," he replies. I never noticed how smooth his voice is before. Soothing, really...

"Now isn't the time to fall asleep on me. I need you to focus for me. Can you do that?"

I nod listlessly. I feel... comfortable. Relaxed.

"The city, the Bay, is decaying. Dying." I nod again, thinking of the ferry, the gangs. "Everywhere you go, people walk in fear, the few safe places that remain being safe not because the people need it or deserve it but because they're the places where the money is, where the power is." Images crop up in my sleepy mind, more than envisioned but not quite dreamed, somewhere between memory and hallucination. The Boardwalk. Captain's Hill. The West End. Money, power, and influence. "I'm not going to stand for it," he says, and his voice wakes me enough to see the intensity in his posture. "The Protectorate is ineffective, the PRT weak and rule bound, the police helpless, and the heroes in general too tied to public relations to make a difference. The gangs are winning. But not for much longer. Not now that I've got you."

Is that what this was all about? I try to sort out my thoughts but my lack of sleep and my bodily fatigue doesn't let me form more than semi coherent ideas devoid of definition and-

I shake myself; I was almost asleep there. "You think you have me..."

He chuckles. Dammit, I said that out loud. He doesn't seem upset though. "Oh, trust me. You don't realize it but of anyone in the continental United States, I am the one you not only work best with, but WANT to work with. I have the resources, I have the connections, and most of all? I have the goals. Look at the country. Look at the world. Petty thugs with pretentions of ideologies are running the criminal underground and hastening the fall of civilization, while conmen in three piece suits run for office so they can be first in line for the last cities standing before everything falls. Law and order and prosperity decaying everywhere while the good men and women who could hold everything together are trampled in the name of PR or law or just to get a few more dollars."

He leans forward, and despite myself I'm listening, I'm really listening to him. "After all, look what happened to you. Trampled and shoved around, bullied and harassed, and all of it both blatantly public and consistently ignored."

"... What do you mean?" I ask.

"... Oh. You don't know." He sits back in his seat. "Livewire... Taylor... Sophia Hess is a Ward."

It's like a fire is lit behind my eyes, burning through the fog of fatigue and fullness. It's the missing piece that turns the scattered and disjointed facts into a complete picture. And much as I want to say he's lying, it fits too cleanly, explains everything, how they could get away with it all. After all, what's one bullied school girl compared to the image of the Wards and Protectorate?

And it could only be Shadow Stalker. The Ward who gets things done. The only girl on the team besides Vista.

"That's why I need you, Taylor. You're the one who can bring it all together." He steeples his fingers; as I look around the room I notice that I'm not the only one hanging on his every word. I could probably take another shot at him, with everyone's attention on him, but the memory of my knife flying at his face, effortlessly snatched out of the air, is still fresh, and besides... Do I even want to anymore? "See, it all has to go. But I'm not equipped to bring the corruption down, not alone. That's where you come in. I'm going to lance the boils and clean out the puss. Then, when it's gone, what's left can be rebuilt, can heal." He picks up my shiv, head inclined as though looking at it. "So tell me, Taylor. Is that a worthwhile goal? Is that something you can get behind?"

He lays the makeshift weapon on the table and slides it at me, the weapon sliding to a stop a foot from my water glass. I stare at it for long seconds, my earlier fatigue set aside as I consider it. In the silence I hear the faint creak of leather on leather as one of the guards shifts his stance. After a moment, I look at him. "And if I say no?"

"Then you go home. I've already made my point; if you cannot commit to cleaning up the scum who are tearing everything down, then you're no good to me no matter how good your power is."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. "Go home?"

"Yes. Everything up to now was to shock you out of your self image, break your self imposed limits, show you why I would bother with you before I told you what I wanted to do with you. Brutal? Frightening? I'm a hard man. I don't apologize for it. But life is hard, and be honest with yourself. Was it really any worse than a week with the girls who were bullying you? Was it? And wasn't it for a better cause than a bored hero's amusement?"

"So after all this... You'd let me go home?"

He nods. "You'd be blindfolded, sedated, but yes. You'd go home. I can't afford for the powers that be, or the gang lords, to learn where my headquarters are. I'm going to fix this city, and more, with or without you. I can't let the anchors dragging everyone down stop me before I've properly gotten started. The question is... WILL it be with you, or without you? Who are you... Taylor Hebert, or Livewire?"

I feel the weight of the words bearing down on me. The room's silence presses inwards, everyone's attention focused on me. I can still taste the traces of dessert on my lips as I lick them trying to buy myself time.

"... Livewire," I mumble, barely believing it as I hear myself answer.

The Boss's steeples fingers snap together as he clasps his hands. "Then get some rest. We have work to do."