Wake-up Call – Chapter 104

"So. Armsmaster's back in the roster," Tagg says, leaning forward over his desk and bulldozing over my frantic blinking at how to tactfully inquire precisely [why] he thought my lateness would relate to a pool boy—[

Tagg's concern with chlorination—]

… I'm [pretty damn sure] this isn't about the sanctity of his precious bodily fluids.

I [hope].

[Lisa Wilbourn's unfounded optimism—]

You goddamn troll—Hey! Wait, wait, wait—

"Colin is [not] on the roster," I firmly state, crossing my arms and leaning back on the plush chair reserved for the visitors of a regional PRT Director who aren't being held in Brute restraints.

"I was led to believe—"

"He just got out of a [goddamn coma]."

"He's a Tinker instrumental in our only win against an Endbringer," he says, eyes distastefully going to the computer screen set to his left for a moment. "The only reason you got so much leeway dealing with the situation is because I've got enough screaming emails in languages that should've gone extinct in a sane world as to make the complaints about unchecked vigilantism marginally less annoying. He's going back to work as soon as a medic—"

"As soon as a [therapist] decides that he's gotten enough rest and recreation to make up for his past decade of overwork. Also, that was racist," I say, just because that's my duty and privilege to point out as the younger participant in the conversation.

"I've got nothing against darker or paler people. I've got a lot against lack or excess of consonants."

"… You're talking about Welsh, aren't you?"

"Those sheep-fuckers—"

"Okay. Okay. I'm going to stop you right there before you end up insulting me because I'm Jewish—"

"You're [what]?"

I pause for a moment to take his almost alarmed body language in, and then I studiously tilt my own head.

And I remember one of the reasons why I [never] even think about this in this city.

"Genetically Jewish. From my father's side, which wouldn't count except for my mother's forced conversion before their shotgun wedding. Secular as can be and more than a bit blasphemous. Is [this] going to be an issue?"

"Oh, secular? Okay. I was just wondering how the circumcision works for girls."

I blink at him.

The man behind the imposing glass desk that Piggot picked because it was broad enough to make visitors feel uncomfortably distant and talked down to leans back and placidly smiles.

"… I honestly have no clue," I end up saying, referring to [a lot of things].

[Abrahamic law's requirement only affect male—]

I [know]!

[Lisa Wilbourn's misleading statements of ignorance—]

You're ganging up on me. You and Tagg are ganging up on me. And both of you shall suffer a reckoning.

"It's a sad state of affairs when the youth of today forgets about the traditions that have made this country great," Tagg points out with a sage nod.

"You mean murdering every single person who so much as looks at you funny? Because there's a case to be made for Brockton Bay being the most American city in this country," I counter while still trying to get at whatever the point of this meeting may be.

"I'm proud to be a Brocktonian," Tagg says with what, by any and all micro-expressions catalogues I could care to number, looks like actual pride.

"You are from [Jacksonville]."

"I am from wherever I lay roots in, like a good American."

"You… I'm afraid to ask, but what's your stance on… walls?"

"We should build one and have the Simurgh pay for it."

"The Simurgh."

"I assume she's the one with better access to the financial system out of the damn lot. I'd settle for setting the IRS on Jack Slash, though."

"… Please don't tell me you want to transfer me to the IRS."

"I don't want to transfer you to the IRS."

"Okay, now say it and [mean it]."

"Well, you're a Ward, so I can technically transfer you to wherever I want to," he says, leaning back on his own chair, his sparsely-haired head sinking into plush black leather as a slow grin spreads on his face when he tents his fingers in front of a belly that is there only to disguise the rotund wall of muscle.

And [there] it is!

"Fuck you," I immediately say.

"I could get you fined for insubordination to a superior officer—"

"The Wards are [not] the military; I could get the Youth Guard to be orders of magnitude more annoying [and] effective than they've ever been if you force my hand, and, most importantly, [we had a deal."]

"Well, yes, but the terms of that deal were that you would solve an exclusion zone in ten days. And you didn't."

His smile slowly spreads across his broad face, and his eyes narrow in sincere enjoyment.

Mine?

Mine also narrow.

"You're fucking with me," I say.

"Is that what you're going to tell the Youth Guard? Because my wife can attest that—"

"You're [not] impotent, which leads me to my next two points. The first one? Fuck you for making me waste Power on finding out that you were lying about that right now, and, as a second, totally unrelated point, consider how likely it is that a motivated Thinker seven could find out enough facts that [would] make you psychologically unable to keep an erection until your wife had no resort other than a pool boy."

His smile slowly turns into an utterly insincere pout.

I [try] not to grind my teeth.

"You're mean," he says.

"Will that be going on Watchdog's evaluation, [sir?]"

"I think it's been there for ages," he comments with a shrug.

Which is, basically, a succinct way to tell me that the top government-employed Thinkers in the country have provided him with a script for this conversation.

It's a pity that the government pays so poorly compared to being a [freelancer].

"As a sign of how much I've appreciated you giving me the precious gift that is the 'Deadbeatmaster' appellative, I'm going to instruct you on where, precisely, you fucked up with this conversation," I say, finally letting a smile show.

"Oh?" he prods me, the pout giving way to polite interest.

"You assumed you had more cards up your sleeve than you did. You thought you were in a position of power or, if you didn't, thought you could make me think you did. You believed that a committee of low-powered [goons] is enough to bring down an individually powerful cape—"

"Isn't precisely this last point the lesson I should've learned from your defeat of Behemoth?"

"No. What you should have learned is that having enough resources and knowing how to apply them can allow you to surpass a tactical disadvantage. In this particular case? This is a war of [brains], and I'm disappointed to inform you that you haven't brought in enough ammo."

"You don't sound disappointed."

"My pedagogical style is founded on positive reinforcement and encouragement. I always smile when imparting important lessons."

His lips quiver for a single moment, and…

Yeah.

Of course.

He [laughs].

[Guffawing—]

That's a synonym! Don't get prissy at me over a matter of nuance, you recalcitrant—wait, are you mad at Tagg?

[… Anthropomorphizing of parahuman abilities interfaces—]

…

"You're making my power sulk," I say. "Please, stop."

He has the nerve to hold up a finger in the universal 'Just give me a minute' gesture while he [laughs at me].

… He shall [rue the day—]

['They laughed at me' usually heard in villainous monologues regarding motivations for—]

"Ah, I really needed that…" he says before a sudden hiccup makes him look both surprised and flustered.

… I will take it.

"So, at last, you've come to taste the bitter fruit of my dastardly plan, and now you'll be plagued by a minor yet maddening annoyance through the rest of the day, each new hiccup catching you at the worst possible moment and just right as you thought you had been rid of them. Did you know, [sir], that the longest streak of hiccupping on record belongs to Charles Osborne, a farmer who spent [68 years] plagued by uncontrollable bouts of what you just started experiencing? How long will you endure, sir? How long until madness, [true] madness claims you—"

"Ah, it looks like it already went away."

"… Was it because of the mortal terror you just experienced? Because, in that case, you owe me one."

"I wouldn't say [mortal]—ghk! God blast it!"

"Yes! You thought you had defeated the hiccup, but, in truth, it was all along a plot to catch you by surprise at your moment of triumph! You'll live in perpetual terror of when and where the next attack will come! No rest, no peace, [no surrender]! Mwa! Ha! Ha!"

… For reasons I'd rather not inquire on, there's a regional PRT director staring at me like I've finally lost my mind.

Given [who] that particular director is, I'm feeling justifiably offended.

[Lisa Wilbourn's perfectly sensible sense of retribution—]

Your approval fills me with shame. But I'll take it.

"Are you done?" he asks as if this whole conversation didn't warrant both a villain monologue and clearly enunciated faux laughter.

"Depends. How's the hiccup?"

"It's a [minor] annoyance," he says before closing his mouth tightly as his shoulders violently bounce up and down.

"I'll take your word for it, sir."

"Just for the record, I'm certain that you can't inflict a bout of hiccupping on command."

"Of course. There are no recorded instances of me doing so on any file the PRT has access to," I say, agreeing with a calm, polite nod that is not at all designed to trigger any and all paranoid reactions on this side of wearing a feathered boa to a gala for the treatment of traumatized opera singers.

"… I'm going to update your file."

"I see no reason to do so, but I'm sure you know best, sir," I say, not at all responsible for the alarmed rise of his eyebrows.

"You still haven't solved—"

"I'll solve the Machine Army by the end of the week, but I'll just do it to rub it in your face because we both know that defeating Behemoth is much stronger proof of how little you should hamstring me when I design an operation."

And… well, that should be it, shouldn't it?

Because we're having this meeting, the one I have been putting off since Colin came back from China, and we both know what the outcome should be. We both know that if I refuse his terms, I can walk into any country in the world, and they'll give me whatever I ask of them just to have the privilege of being ordered around by the ever-reasonable yours truly. In a world where extraordinary talent goes further than it ever has in recorded history, where exceptionalism is a fact of life, I'm living proof of what can be achieved when that is [properly] applied.

Not to mention that Dragon-Mom-Sis would get me in the Guild faster than she can say, 'Brian is going to be a very well-paid lab assistant.'

So. There's that.

And…

And then there's me staring at a man who weighs about twice what I do, and most of that is pure muscle, so any meeting with him will be intimidating both by design and circumstance, no matter how much we can resort to slightly deranged back-and-forths to lessen the perceived impact of life-changing decisions that will forever shape my future.

Speaking of…

"I [do] have a request," I finally say.

"Oh?" he asks right before making a very enjoyable, frustrated, angry-baby face when the next hiccup assaults him.

I try not to show my utter satisfaction as I rummage through my handbag before taking out a few printed pages of something that I didn't feel like leaving electronic traces of, and I slide them across a glass desk that has as few writing implements and computer parts on it as he can get away with.

"You get a meeting with Piggot, hear her out. And warn me of the date and hour in advance," I say.

His eyebrows rise.

He looks at the documents. Starts reading.

And, sadly enough, as his face changes color, his hiccups stop.

See? This is why I never was a supervillain. I'm merciful like that.

[Lisa Wilbourn's idiosyncratic definition of mercy—]

***

Thankfully, the rest of the meeting with Tagg goes by without any concerning mention of the Welsh or any other ethnic or linguistic group in particular. It mostly consists of the dreadful realities of paperwork and a tentative date for when I'll sign the final form of the deal that Colin first worked out for me, and then I thoroughly wrecked with the careless, loving disregard that all daughters should afford a father's plans.

…

I'm not mushy. The bastard joked about it right after declaring it. He's gonna have to make it up to me.

And me making that crack about 'Daddy' is only about… let's say… ten percent of it? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Anyway! The thing is that I'm free to walk out of the PRT's office building and walk toward where I parked my baby, the ocean breeze somewhat invigorating at this early hour, and… And I've got a free day ahead of me, with Tay living in my apartment and needing my help to prepare for her GED, so, maybe, and this is just a maybe, I should make a quick stop to buy proper attire for Miss Wilbourn, personal tutor extraordinaire who just got a reckless pupil that she can't quite manage to discipline.

I wonder if I should buy one of those retractable pointer sticks. I [really] like the way they sound when snapping closed, and I bet Tay could come up with a few ways for a reckless pupil to turn the tables on her strict tutor…

Aaaaaand my phone's ringing, because of course I can't even enjoy a slight bout of depraved fantasy after a stressful work meeting. I'm tempted to ignore it, but, in the end, I take a deep breath and reach for my leather jacket's pocket to—

It's Dinah.

…

Fuck.

Power! Power, what do I do, Power?!

[Anthropo—]

Fuck you!

Also, the phone's still ringing, and the precog's calling, so hanging up on her is not an option, and… Damn it.

"Yes?" I ask, as sweetly as I'm able and only slightly elongating the syllable.

"Hey," a weak voice says from the other end of the line. "It's just… I think I'm finally recovered, and, well, if you could use my help with healing Colin…" the girl who was paralyzed with pain the last few times I saw her says.

Which has obviously nothing to do with me wetting my lips.

"I… kind of already solved it?" I offer.

"You [what?"] she says before hissing out in what clearly doesn't sound like the tone of somebody who has completely recovered from the worst Thinker headache I've ever seen.

I look at my baby right in front of me, then at the direction of the little shop where I would've gone to buy the most delightful, [tightest], lycra black pencil skirt before giving Taylor a very helpful and productive tutoring session.

Then I mentally curse at myself and make a mental list of which comics I've bought for Dinah already.

"Meet you for hot chocolate in about an hour? There's quite a bit to explain," I say.

And my adoptive little sister, who has been sidelined from some of the recent drama because I'm about as much of a moron as I've ever been, grumbles in not quite appeasement.

Which, I guess, means it's time for me to [also] buy her Lucky Luke.

Maybe some Calvin and Hobbes, as well, but I don't fancy the ensuing philosophical debates.

===================

[So.

Tagg.

You'd think I'd have had enough of writing him, wouldn't you? Well, about that…

…

Why do I hate myself so much?

Anyway, yes, Tagg will make a reappearance soon enough. By which I mean next week, unless I'm even more sleep-deprived than usual. See you then, unless I'm even more sleep-deprived than usual.

(Yes, I'm going to bed now; how did you guess?)

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