Chapter 8: 1-7-5 Amelia Lyons

Interlude 1.7.5: Amelia Lyons

2000, May 20: Phoenix, AZ, USA

Some days just weren't worth getting up for. Then again, there were days like this that made my life a little brighter. Rubedo, Andy, was an extraordinary child. Pryce, my dear brother, used to say back when we were kids, "No matter how good you are, there's always an Asian somewhere in the world that does it better."

Was it racist to think that? Probably.

Racially insensitive it may be, but interacting with my newest Ward made me think of that little nugget of wisdom. By all rights, he should be a traumatized, closed off wreck with zero to minimal communication skills. Hell, he shouldn't even speak goddamn English. A handful of months was nowhere near the time needed to develop fluency, especially not to the degree of eloquence he so casually displayed, and especially especially not while learning braille and grieving for his dead father.

And yet, I'd just watched him debut with a performance that wouldn't have been amiss coming from actors thrice his age. Could a tinker also be a social thinker? Did powers grant supernatural maturity in young children? I didn't know, but I knew for a fact that more than one researcher in my employ wanted to make Rubedo the subject of a paper.

Even putting his prodigious maturity and intelligence aside, he was a godsend for the Phoenix PRT.

The truth was, this branch wasn't the most well-funded branch out there. The entire Southwest could use a bit more federal love, really. Being relatively sparsely populated and sandwiched next to two districts overseen by Alexandria and Eidolon meant federal auditors assumed we could handle it. Backup was only a quick hop away; how bad could it be?

'Idiots,' I scoffed.

I tried to shelter the Wards, and thankfully, I had two full Protectorate teams to help, but Arizona and New Mexico were dangerous places to be a cape. The southwestern United States have always had a problem with gangs, both homebrew and from down south. The entire area is practically a revolving door in which drugs, arms, and men cycle back and forth.

Alexandria? Eidolon? They were rocks, massive boulders dropped into an ever-flowing river that diverted the water around them. No one wanted to fuck with them so the gangs, cartels, and other ne'er-do-wells inevitably looked for greener pastures. My pastures. No, being sandwiched between two demigods wasn't a good thing, I'd found.

Rubedo was my ticket. Healing? Brute powers in a bottle? Hysterical strength? His lab was only now being installed and I already had people clamoring for my newest Ward's attention. What more could he make in the next ten years as my Ward?

X

Hours later, I was reminded that the world didn't like seeing me happy. I was dragged away from dinner to an emergency briefing called by Levi Silva, one of my two deputy directors.

I was the last to arrive. As I sat, I took stock of the room. To my left was Royalle, that arrogant prick. He was competent and dedicated, that I didn't doubt, but he was also condescending and dismissive of anything that wasn't either his image or a major cape. He had his thick, blue cape folded over one shoulder as he lounged carelessly in his chair.

To his left was Oathkeeper, leader of Protectorate Team Two, in her mock-samurai armor. It was scaled, with lamellar wood coated in black varnish. The threading and accents were done in green, giving her a distinguished but menacing look. The outfit characterized her well. She was a distinct contrast to her fellow team leader, a disciplined warrior compared with the irreverent king. Her monstrous nodachi, far heavier than even a greatsword had any business being, leaned against the table.

To my right was Deputy Director Caleb Irish, the second of my two deputies. He was a balding man with a permanent deep tan that settled somewhere between healthy bronze and lobster-red. He hadn't started his career in the PRT. Once upon a time, he was a park ranger. When he retired to become a desk jockey, the national office decided he'd be a good liaison between me and the National Parks Service. As such, he managed the northern section of the Phoenix Metropolitan Area and handled many rescue and disaster response requests on my behalf. Not very knowledgeable about capes, but very useful to have around nonetheless.

Up front was the man who called the meeting: Levi Silva. He was a hard man, short, but with noticeable muscles that stretched out his office shirt. He kept his hair in a close military crop and did not deviate in the least from the professional dress code. He too did not begin his career with the PRT. He was once a military enlistee. When his service ended, he joined the DEA, the Drug Enforcement Administration, where he rose up the local branch dealing with trafficking attempts from South American cartels. Because of his experience, I'd handed off much of the southern districts to him.

"Apologies if I'm late," I said as I pulled out a notepad and pen.

"You're just in time, director," Silva nodded and pushed something on the laptop in front of him, bringing up a series of slides. "We're all busy people so I'll jump right into things. As of fourteen hundred yesterday, Halloween is dead."

He did not raise his voice or slam the table, but the words echoed with tangible gravitas.

"Halloween. Peckerwood's Halloween?" Royalle asked. He leaned forward with interest. "How the fuck did he die?"

"We don't know the details, only that Dos Caras now has his face." He flipped the slide, showing photos of a cadaver dressed in white robes. Whatever he looked like in life, his face had been completely flayed off.

"How sure are we that that's him?" I asked.

"Positive. I've had forensics go over the body twice already. They're sure. The Peckerwoods are going through a succession crisis. It won't be long before they reorganize and start a gang war against the Southside Mesas."

"Projected timeframe?"

"A few days at most."

I sighed. And today was going great, too. "Lovely. What are the Mesas doing?"

"Two hours ago, four of my squads responded to various firefights, arson, and other violent crimes against suspected Peckerwood holdings. Arrested members have SSM tattoos so the Mesas are fully on the move."

"And the Crips?"

"La Torcha has been completely silent."

"Who cares about the skank?" Royalle scoffed. "She's just leading around whatever's left after Lexi ripped them a new one and kicked them out of Cali."

"As distasteful as he is," Oathkeeper glared at her peer, "he's not wrong. The Westside Crips were almost wiped to the last after they tried to contest Alexandria and the Los Angeles Protectorate. They shouldn't have any force worth mentioning."

"You'd think so, but no. They're still the most numerous gang in terms of unpowered members," I pointed out. "Last I checked, most capes aren't bulletproof."

"That sounds like someone else's problem."

"Must you be so callous, Royalle? They're your men."

"And I draw fire so they keep breathing, yeah?"

"Enough," I snapped. "La Torcha is silent while SSM and the Peckerwoods are going to war. Do we know who's going to be leading the Peckerwoods?"

Silva shrugged. "If I had to guess? Freeform. He's the most charismatic. I'm sure Bull Rush or Gatling would make a play if they had the support, but they have bigger things to worry about at the moment. So, what's our play?"

"What we always do," I smiled sardonically, "keep the city from burning down. Show me a heatmap." Silva brought up a map covering all known gang territories: Crips spread all over, Peckerwoods around Chandler and Gilbert, and Southside Mesa in Mesa and spreading to Tempe. "Our first priority is to keep Dos Caras in check."

"Agreed," Oathkeeper nodded. "He's a mad dog who makes up for his lack of numbers with brutality. With Halloween's power, he just got even deadlier."

"Do we know what face he's replaced?" Irish asked. His face had gone a little pale at the image of Halloween's corpse, still not fully used to the brutality of our local gang leader. "He can only have two of them at a time, right?"

"We don't know. For all we know, he decided that Halloween wasn't worth keeping," Silva grunted. "For now, we should assume he's got three until we can verify which one he threw away: La Llorona, Condor, and Halloween."

"Che," Royalle clicked his tongue in annoyance. "All cowardly powers. Widespread depression, silent flight, and invisibility."

"This does mean we can't send you in, Royalle," I said. "Oathkeeper, you'll be taking point in Tempe with your team. Royalle will remain north. I might reassign some members of Team One to Team Two for the duration of this crisis."

"What? Director, I can take Dos Caras!"

"I'm sure you could," I placated the idiot's bruised ego. "But we need you to keep La Torcha in check. She's got the most men and I'm sure she'll try making a claim when her rivals are weak. You'll be there to put a stop to that."

He grumbled but settled down. Oathkeeper said nothing, but I could practically tan myself off the raw smug radiating from her.

"And the Wards?"

I turned back to Silva. "What about them?"

"We have three Wards teams. Thirteen capes. Can we really afford to keep them benched?"

"We're not putting them against Dos Caras," I growled out. "They're children."

"Maybe so, director, but there are several who are ready to graduate to the Protectorate. Stingray? Ranchero? Diamondback? Wildshot? They're all good kids and they could be a lot of help."

"Exactly. Kids. I'm not ready to explain to their parents why they're coming home in a box." This, this was why I hated military types. Silva wasn't the worst I'd seen, but he tended to see the capes as assets first and people second.

"Hold on, director," Irish said.

He often played mediator between the two of us. I started my career fifteen years ago as a parahuman researcher. Silva as an enlisted soldier. As the one with neither the knowledge of capes nor experience with organized crime, Irish usually had little expertise to contribute to these meetings, but his outside perspective struck a happy medium between me and Silva. He reminded Silva that morality wasn't something to shrug off and me that sometimes, hard decisions had to be made.

"Maybe we can come to a compromise. Now, I don't feel comfortable putting the Wards up against hardened gangbangers, but that doesn't mean they don't have anything to contribute here. What if we expanded their patrols in the central Phoenix area? You know, let them take a bit more off the Protectorate's shoulders so the adults can head to the outskirts."

"Tier it by age maybe?" Royalle shrugged. "Hey, I've been saying the kids need more experience punching faces and less smiling for the cameras."

"We would need to mix the Wards team roster. Stingray and Ranchero work well together, but Wildshot's rivalry with Diamondback is getting troublesome," Oathkeeper pointed out. She'd always been the more invested in the Wards compared to Royalle. "I recommend Diamondback be paired with Stingray so he has some ranged support. Ranchero with Wildshot for the same."

We fell into deep discussion about patrols, placements, and the best way to present this to both parents and the general public. Eventually, we came to the eight hundred pound elephant in the room.

"What about Rubedo?" Irish asked. "He's the only underage tinker we've got, but he might really be able to make a difference. I don't know much about sting ops, but I can't imagine a dozen officers with those fancy iron elixirs would be useless."

"Heh, yeah, kid's a goldmine," Silva agreed. "We're using him, right?"

I nodded reluctantly. I'd set his weekly potions quota to only twenty-four potions. I knew he could make more, but I wanted him to have time to himself. Our problems shouldn't burden an eight year old. Still, given the gang war on the horizon, I couldn't justify not using such a vital power. "I'll have him increase his potions production," I told them. "Anything else you wanted to talk about, Silva?"

"No, this is good. This gives us a plan moving forward."

"Good. Let's clear out."