Chapter 23: Chapter 23: Official Business Only, Please
Guardian
a Worm/Destiny Crossover
Chapter 23: Official Business Only, Please
The days following the Mini-Golf Revelation were exactly what Taylor had intended them to be: vast amounts of lazing around, a few short trips to the mall, catching up on movies, and even an impromptu late night Street Fighter tournament. Her dad won, for the record, narrowly beating Lisa, who had been cheating copiously since the beginning. Among Taylor's circle of friends, 'if you aren't cheating, you aren't trying' seemed to be the rule rather than the exception. Also, the corollary to this rule would appear to be that it wouldn't help anyway, because the cheater then usually lost.
Anyway.
The day soon came for their trip out to the Rig to meet with Director Piggot. Kenneth, turning in a remarkable second performance, had indeed called to set up the details of the trip, and they were as follows. She and Lisa were to be in costume at Pier 5 twenty minutes before the time of the appointment. If they had any weapons, they were kindly requested to leave them at home. Taylor didn't have the heart to tell him that she couldn't do that with her bow, and so she didn't, promising to leave her knife and get Lisa to do the same with her gun. At the end of the talk he'd added, as a piece of personal advice, to try and not pick a fight. Taylor's first impression of the Director had been of someone you didn't annoy if you could help it, so that advice was something she felt she could happily follow.
Pier 5 was the only one of the original seventeen still in use, and therefore the cleanest. Between the rest of the world and the pier was a gated guard station, but one obviously done up by a Tinker. Instead of a chain link fence and metal...rising-arm-thing...it was a visibly blue force field, humming gently and wavering in the air. Behind the field was the station, inside which Taylor could hear – not see, there were no windows – at least three people moving around. Maybe there were more, the field's hum made it hard to tell. Behind the station was the pier itself, and the only normal construction in the whole ensemble. Just a length of concrete, wood, and metal jutting out into the gently chopped waters of the Bay.
She and Lisa rocked up twenty five minutes before their appointment and just sort of stood around in front of the field for a moment before, with a strange click, it lowered exactly long enough for them to cross and approach the station. From a speaker set at Taylor's eye level a clear, crisp voice emitted. " Name and business, please. "
She was about to answer when she remembered which one of them was the 'official' spokesperson for their team, and then nudged Lisa. She glared at Taylor, mouthed hate you so much , and stepped up to the speaker, which was oriented somewhere at her forehead. "Tattletale and Guardian, here to see Director Piggot."
"If you'll proceed to the end of the pier, your transport will arrive shortly. Please comply with all safety regulations and have a pleasant visit."
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In the distance, roughly in the middle of the bay – or rather, above the middle – was the Rig. It didn't have a special or overly remarkable name, and Taylor suspected that was by design. What that design was, she couldn't say, but nobody picked a name that unassuming unless they were doing it on purpose or wretchedly unimaginative. It had begun life as an oil rig, the kind that exploded or caught fire or fell over every twenty years or so before Leviathan ate all but one or two. Having been spared this fate, the Rig then caught the attention of an ambitious group of Tinkers, who wanted to proclaim their ability and show off at the same time. They proceeded to add a mountain's worth of tweaks and upgrades that were largely if not entirely classified. Well. Apart from the fact that it floated. That was common knowledge. How, on the other hand, wasn't.
It was a definite spectacle. Which was also probably by design. At any rate, as they approached Taylor scanned the waters beneath it for their transport and saw nothing. Maybe they were early, or the transport guy was late? Or, as the sound of spinning rotors made their way to her ears, she was simply looking in the wrong place. It was somewhat jarring to see what was for all intents and purposes an ordinary helicopter take off from such a futuristic place.
Lisa tugged at her elbow. She turned, to see her partner point at the ground they stood on. Apparently, Lisa still wasn't over the whole spokesperson thing. She followed the finger to see the paint on the ground denoting that the pair of them were in fact standing smack in the middle of the helicopter's landing area. Fixing the issue proved easy, and she then looked to see how much closer their transport was. In doing so she was forced to revise her earlier assessment. It was only ordinary from afar. As it drew closer Taylor could see armored body panels, some strange sort of reflective material as a windscreen, and a total lack of rotors. It looked, sounded, and acted like a helicopter, but was missing its most iconic part. The doors had no windows, so she couldn't see who was inside, but the warped windscreen provided a blurry image of a single pilot.
Air rushed past them, pushing her cape out behind her and doing its best to destroy Lisa's artful ponytail. The helicopter landed smoothly, barely settling before the door slid open and, after a moment's hesitation, they hunched over – though there were no rotors for them to be hit by – and hurried to enter the vehicle. The interior had nothing in common with the last helicopter Taylor had been in, resembling a luxury car more than a rough n' ready troop transport. After she and Lisa had piled in, the door slid shut behind them, cutting all exterior noise. There was also, she noted, a solid wall between them and the pilot. For an organization as security conscious as the PRT, it made sense.
That wall didn't stop Taylor from hearing the pilot speak moments before some hidden speaker conveyed her voice to them. The odd, layered talk made it a little hard to understand, but not enough to render what was said unintelligible. "Goooood afternoon ladies! My name is Lara Frame and I will be your pilot for this brief trip. Security regs mandate that I remind you that this is a non-smoking Tinkered helicopter, and that there will be no in flight meal. Budget cuts. Our flight time today will be about...one minute, and looking out my window I see a beautiful, sunny day. Should be smooth flying. If you'll buckle in, we'll get going."
After a moment's fumbling, Taylor managed to work out the harness. Lisa had it sorted in a heartbeat. That instant, the helicopter's engine whined into higher revs and they lifted off, rising into the air with stomach dropping speed. Last time, she'd been too distracted, tired, and/or wounded to give it any thought, but as they arced out over the shrinking waters of the bay, Taylor reflected that this...this was pretty cool.
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Lara Frame left their life in the same way she entered it; a helicopter. Off to refuel or pick up some other visitor or just to fly in great, huge circles around the Rig. Taylor didn't know, but waved to the vehicle shrinking into the sky before turning to take stock of where they now stood. The helipad jutted out over the waters, no railings, just a big rectangle of metal and concrete. The door inside was unguarded and beneath an alcove, about which something tugged at her, bothered her. But what? She narrowed her eyes, peering close, and saw –
Lisa nudged her in the side. "It's hinged." she didn't whisper, the wind would have taken the words away, but was quiet enough to be called such. "Opens up and shoots foam, bullets, missiles, whatever they think is necessary. Also, this whole platform is laced with explosives. Any unauthorized landings and, well...boom."
Well. That certainly cemented her impression of the PRT's general mindset. It also made her step somewhat more carefully as they crossed the helipad to the door, which hissed open at their approach. Inside the wind died out, and so Taylor could hear the muted thunder of dozens of conversations and footsteps. The corridors were a bland, off-white color that was probably proven by science to be soothing and promote productivity. The floors were cheap carpet, and it generally gave off the impression of an ordinary office building. Apart from the armed guards and security checkpoint in front of them. Another one, that is. So they got to introduce themselves again, have their meeting confirmed again, and be told to follow the security regulations again. It was like the PRT was expecting them to go insane and try to kill everyone.
That aside, after making their assurances (again), they were led by a passing trooper through what had to be purposely labyrinthine corridors to the Director's office which again contained a strange mix of Tinker tech, military organization, and an office waiting room. To begin with, the furniture in the room was all made of some sleek black material that seemed to flex and flow under the cheap, fluorescent overhead lights. The door to the director's office was wood, but only superficially. Stuck between two layers of board, Lisa would later tell her, was a thick metal plate. Perfectly balanced, perfectly bulletproof. Sitting at the desk out front, a curiously vibrant potted plant next to his computer, was a Young Business Man.
The Young Business Man could be distinguished by his hair, and his acceptance-yet-contempt of dress code, and he was no different. A short mohawk of dark red hair crowned an otherwise shaven head. His tie was loosened, his suit jacket missing, and his sleeves rolled up to the reveal the intricate tribal tattoos weaving and winding their way up his arms. He looked up from his computer, flashed a set of very white teeth in what was probably intended to be a smile but didn't quite make it, and spoke. In speaking, this Young Business Man sort of broke Taylor's world for a second. "Ah, Guardian, Tattletale! Excellent! You're right on time!"
…
Kenneth?
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The Director's office was a study in sheer sparsity. The wall behind the desk was a window, showing the sunny day outside, puffy white clouds drifting whimsically by. That was it, as far as decorations went. No, wait, hang on, there was a framed photograph on the filing cabinet within arm's reach of the desk. It was angled away, so Taylor couldn't see what the photo was of. Neither, she noticed, could the person sitting behind the desk. Why would someone have a photo framed they didn't want to look at? The desk was made of the same material as Kenneth's desk, with a boxy, outdated computer chugging away atop it. Sitting at that desk, watching them enter with hard, hooded eyes the color of ice, was Director Emily Piggot herself.
Taylor had – briefly – met the Director some two, three months back, and had come away from that momentary encounter with an impression of a woman not to be crossed. A woman of diamond will, formidable intellect, and indomitable determination at whatever purpose she set herself to. A soldier. A leader. A warrior willing and able to carry an entire city's woes on her shoulders and not shirk the weight. All in a woman's slowly failing body. For the Director was dying. Visibly. Her once tall, muscular frame had stooped and gone to fat. Skin once healthy pink, though knotted in some places by scars, had sickened to a cement-gray. Though less obvious, a mind suited to command of soldiers and battlefields had been relegated to office workers and wading through the inanity of bureaucracy.
Director Emily Piggot was a woman whose body had failed her and knew it. A titan brought low. Now that was poetic, and not in a good way. "You're here," her voice was rough and hoarse, in the way of someone under a great deal of pain and hiding it. "right on time. Please, have a seat."
Taylor settled almost timidly into her chair, somewhat awed by what she'd seen and inferred. Lisa, on the other hand, flopped into her chair so hard it slid six inches backwards. Taylor couldn't help but wince at the stuttering, guttural grunting sound the chair made as it moved. It sounded unnaturally loud. Then, some strange remnant of the dozen or so meetings she sat in on her dad having when he or her mom hadn't been able to find a babysitter bubbled up from the depths of her memory and informed her what to do next. "Thank you for seeing us."
"Yeah," Lisa's bright green eyes were narrowed somewhat, focused. There was a slight cant to her head that told Taylor she was thinking fast and hard. "thanks. Though I am curious as to why."
The Director folded her hands, lacing her fingers together and placing them on her desk. There was a pause, as if weighing which word to use and how to use it. Then, "I asked you and your teammate to come because of your actions in Florida."
"You'll have to be more specific," Lisa again. "a lot of things happened."
"Fair enough. Specifically, how you managed to track, lure, fight, and kill an A-Class, kill-order threat without getting killed."
Why, Taylor wondered, would the Director of the PRT here, in Brockton Bay, want to know that?
Oh. Right.
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Taylor freed one of her hands, having wrung them together at some point, to give it a little, awkward lift. Drawing attention to herself, she then asked, "Do you – is this because you think we're going to..." the words didn't come for a moment. "run around, shooting people willy nilly?" Her dignity crawled into a blanketed corner to die at that. She then blurted, "Because we're not."
Lisa, having somehow avoided dropping her face into her palms so hard it left an imprint, stepped in. "What my partner is trying to say is – "
The Director interrupted her. "I understood perfectly and, as reassuring as a good number of my peers – Director Jones among them – would find such a promise, there are some who prefer more...visible...commitment."
Visible commitment ? There was something about how that phrase was put to her that made Taylor's hackles raise. Not out of anger, but concern. Concern, and a small amount of claustrophobia. This strange combination of emotions more or less overrode her nervousness and timidity to let her eyes narrow and lock gazes with the Director. "You'll have to be more specific. That could mean a lot of things."
The Director sighed. "All right. Fine. Can we agree to be as frank with each other as politeness allows?" At her and Lisa's nods, she continued. "Excellent. Now, what I'm supposed to do here is try and get both of you into the Wards program. You, Guardian, make my superiors especially nervous."
Taylor's entire face showed her shock. "Me? Why?!"
Lisa was the one who answered. "Because you're an able, driven, dangerous unknown whose proven herself perfectly willing to kill." She didn't sound happy at revealing that. Taylor certainly wasn't happy hearing it.
The Director nodded. "And you, Tattletale, have shown yourself to have a worrying ability to ferret out information most would prefer to stay hidden."
"So...what?" Taylor asked, biting off her words a tad more forcefully than she had not five minutes ago. "What's the point of this meeting, then? If I'm so dangerous, and Tails is so worrisome, why aren't you..."
"Threatening, browbeating, or otherwise trying to strong-arm you into the program?"
"Yes."
The Director shrugged. "Because I don't think it will work. I think trying to pressure the two of you into anything will only accomplish the opposite of what we intend. In addition, Guardian's donation of her half of the bounty garnered a not inconsiderable amount of goodwill that even the wariest of directors have had to acknowledge." She reached into a folder and produced what appeared to be a printed e-mail. "This is an e-mail sent by the Wards both here in Brockton Bay and under Director Jones' supervision. It says, in no uncertain terms, that they feel you and your team would do more good without the regulations and requirements of the Protectorate. Frankly, I agree."
"You do?" Lisa, looking no less intently at the Director than she had at the meeting's start. "That's...you know we're going to do this again, right? Swamp Thing was only the first."
"I do. I'm going to tell you girls something. I've never told this to anyone else, and I want your word it will never leave this room." Once they'd given them, she continued. "I do not believe that anyone deserves to die. Through their actions, they may earn their death, but deserve it? No. It frustrates me to no end that there are those out there who have earned their death and not had it given to them. What your team is doing, Guardian, is something I believe to be a good thing. My greatest frustration is that, thus far, it's two underage girls doing it. This is nothing to do with your age, or a question of your ability. You need..." A hand clenched in a fist, then relaxed. "you need support. You need supplies. You need help. And it galls me that I cannot give it to you."
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That was...
It...
Huh.
Taylor didn't know what to think. Her mind was actually, genuinely blank. Surprise was the least, meanest word she could give to the feeling rendering her without her ability to speak. Or, indeed, make sounds at all. This woman, Director Emily Piggot, had just delivered the most confusing declaration possible. This woman was a member of the Protectorate, an organization whose sole purpose was the organization and policing of capes. Here was a highly place member, a Director, telling them that not only did she not want to organize or police them, she wanted to break the rules of her own organization.
It – it didn't make any sense. This woman should have done anything short of actual, physical violence to get them to join the Wards or at least extract some kind of promise to stop. Stop killing, stop traveling, stop being Guardian and Tattletale, knights errant. But she didn't, and Taylor didn't have the foggiest fucking idea why. Unless...
She proceeded to make a series of leaps in logic and assumptions that would have dizzied the most jaded stunt performer. Once upon a time, Emily Piggot had been a soldier. Not just a soldier. No, she was a soldier with enough grit to be the only survivor of a doomed raid against a murderous, super-powered psychopath. She and she alone walked out of Ellisburg before the walls went up. She alone stood toe with the Goblin King's misshapen hordes long enough to escape. A woman like that would want...retribution. For the townspeople who died, for the soldiers and capes who died, for the injuries that crippled her body. A woman like that would not want anyone else to experience the horrors she had, would want to see it done herself, and no longer could.
What kind of bitterness would that helplessness create, in a woman like Emily Piggot? A woman of action, relegated to a chair by the failings of her own body and the organization she belonged to. Taylor imagined how frustrated she must be. How angry. How full of an impotent desire to do something, anything. Such a woman would take any advantage she could, to see the right thing done.
Such a woman might be the Director. Who might send them back home with a promise to keep an ear out for anyone looking to do good without joining the Protectorate.
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