The Operator's consciousness was settled into Khora Prime, the Warframe's sensory input merging seamlessly with his own. On the heads-up display, a digital receipt for a substantial pizza order for Saturday faded from his vision, minimized for later reference. It was replaced by a recording he had been watching intermittently for the last few minutes: the POV of Trinity Prime, surrounded by a group of laughing children.
Their skin was clear, their hair thick, their eyes bright. The cancer that had once ravaged their bodies was gone, erased by the Warframe's restorative abilities.
It made him smile. He was happy to give those children a future that wasn't cut short and wished they lived long healthy lives.
He shifted his attention to his left. Umbra was kneeling, waiting for the flight to be over. To the right, Trinity Prime's Specter from the video also knelt in silent readiness. But until they arrived in the bay, there was nothing to do but wait.
"Ordis," the Operator called out. "Is the other prep for Saturday finished?"
Ordis' voice chimed from the ship's speakers. "Yes, Operator! All preparations for the celebration are complete or are underway to be completed soon."
"Good," the Operator said. "Looks like we're ahead of schedule."
"Well, you did leave the task in Ordis's capable hands," the Cephalon chirped. "Oh, and you have a new message from Ms. Hebert. It just came in."
"Is it for Isaac or Tenno?" the Operator asked, distinguishing between his civilian and 'cape' personas.
"There is a message for both, actually," Ordis replied. "Ms. Hebert wishes to skip the after-school training session today. She also says she wishes to speak to Isaac in person."
The Operator hummed in thought. On one hand, he wanted to visit her as Tenno to heal her injuries immediately. On the other, he had promised, as Isaac, to check on her later.
"Tell her yes to both," he decided.
Healing her now would be suspicious considering the damage she had taken. Plus, he could count her fight against Sophia as field training. No need to overcomplicate things.
"Message sent, Operator!" Ordis chirped. "Though, I must ask… why did we bring Trinity Prime's Specter along? If I recall, the plan was for her to rotate to Utah in four days."
"The plan changed because we're going public in Brockton Bay," the Operator explained. "Since we're no longer hiding, I want to begin making tangible improvements to this city, starting with its people. Healing is a good place to start."
He paused, glancing at the image of the cured children again.
"And…" A picture of a mousy, brown-haired girl with freckles overlaid the recording. "I want to get close to the local healer. Panacea. Riley's memories suggest that Panacea isn't just a healer. She's a biokinetic. I believe the intel."
Ordis' voice glitched slightly, a hint of static entering his tone. "Panacea? But Operator, getting close to a biokinetic is dangerous! If she touches a Warframe, she might realize they are biological technology. That could expose—"
"Precisely," the Operator cut in smoothly. "That is exactly why I need to meet her. I need to ascertain how much of a threat her ability poses to our security. If she can decipher the secrets of the Specters at a touch, or worse, manipulate Warframe biology, I need to know now so I can plan around it."
"A… a pre-emptive threat assessment!" Ordis realized, his tone brightening. "Ordis understands! Very wise, Operator."
The Tenno smirked slightly at the compliment just as the Liset banked, the view outside the viewport shifting.
"Arriving at destination," Ordis announced. "The Brockton Bay Boardwalk and the Protectorate Headquarters are coming up. Shall I drop the void cloak?"
The Brockton Bay Boardwalk stretched out before them, and looming in the water closer ahead was the Protectorate ENE Headquarters—a shining oil rig that looked like a cross between a Corpus fortress and an ocean derrick. It was one of the largest reminders that this world's tech level was all over the place.
"Yes," the Operator commanded. "We're trying to make an entrance, after all."
"Dropping cloak now!"
The air shimmered, and the Liset materialized out of thin air, slowing its approach to a stately glide.
Almost immediately, alarms began to blare.
"Alert!" Ordis announced, his voice calm but urgent. "The rig's missile defense systems have locked onto us."
That was fast, the Tenno thought as a gruff, modulated voice cut through the comms channel. He recognized it as Armsmaster because of Shade's recording of the Lung fight.
"Unidentified aircraft," Armsmaster barked through the emergency frequencies. "You have entered restricted airspace. We have missile lock. Identify yourself immediately or you will be shot down."
The Operator didn't even tense. He watched the missile tracking warnings flash on his HUD with an almost detached amusement. The missiles on this base couldn't catch the Liset even if it was only using one thruster. That wasn't even taking into account the obvious solution of just re-cloaking. They'd have better luck mailing a warhead—at least then it might reach him with something resembling accuracy.
"Ordis," the Operator said with mirth. "Inform our kind Protectorate hosts not to waste their missiles. They know who we are."
Ordis opened the channel. "Attention, Protectorate Rig. This is Ordis of Ten-Zero. We request you power down your weapons systems. We are here for the scheduled meeting."
"Ten-Zero or not," Armsmaster replied, his voice hard and unyielding. "This is an unregistered vessel entering a secure PRT facility airspace. Protocol dictates it must be cataloged and inspected for safety compliance. Land on the main platform and power down."
The Operator narrowed his eyes behind Khora Prime's helmet, all mirth gone. He had no intention of letting PRT technicians poke around the Liset. Not only did he not appreciate the Protectorate leader trying to strong-arm him, but he couldn't allow them to discover it wasn't Tinkertech. That would ruin his cover.
However, he couldn't just blow them off. Ten-Zero was trying to create an amicable relationship, after all. A middle ground needed to be reached.
"Tell them we will land," the Operator instructed Ordis. "But inspection is off-limits."
Ordis relayed the message. "We will land as requested, Armsmaster. However, the vessel is proprietary technology. Inspection is denied."
"Denied?" Armsmaster grit out. "That is not a request. All Tinkertech in PRT jurisdiction must be registered for public safety. Land and open the hatch, or we will ground you."
The Operator considered ignoring Armsmaster entirely. He could just cloak again, land at the PRT building, claim he turned the ship around, conduct the meeting, and leave. Making an enemy of the local Protectorate branch this early would be troublesome, especially since they were expected to work together, but letting them inspect the ship was not an option.
"Ordis—" the Tenno started.
Before he could finish, another voice cut into the channel. It was a woman's voice—clipped, severe, and utterly unamused.
"Stand down, Armsmaster," Director Piggot ordered.
"Director," Armsmaster began, "the protocol—"
"I am aware of the protocol, Armsmaster," Piggot interrupted sharply. "I am also aware that Ten-Zero are allies of the Protectorate and PRT and that a gang war is brewing. We don't have time to stroke your ego over flight permits."
There was a heavy, static-filled silence on the line. It appeared there was tension between the two branch leaders.
"Ten-Zero," Piggot's voice came through, addressing them directly. "You're very early. Land on the helipad of the PRT building on the mainland. I'll meet you in Conference Room B."
"Thank you, Director," Ordis answered.
----------------------
The Liset hovered over the PRT building's helipad, engines winding down with a low, resonant hum. Before the ramp had even fully touched the concrete, a squad of PRT troopers in full gear was already approaching, their movements tight and disciplined.
Khora strode down the ramp first, the sharp clack-clack-clack of her heels echoing against the metal. She moved with a fluid, predatory grace, her posture imperious. Behind her, Umbra and Trinity followed in perfect lockstep.
A trooper with a lieutenant's insignia stepped forward, his visor polarized. "This way. The Director is finishing up other business. We'll escort you to the conference room."
Khora tilted her head, the metallic veil swaying gently. Her voice, projected through the Warframe's speakers, was smooth, velvety, and dripping with a feminine authority that bordered on the regal. "Lead the way, then, Lieutenant."
The lieutenant turned without comment, leading them into the building.
As they moved through the sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors, the Operator's mind drifted behind Khora's eyes. The turns, the fire exits, the placement of the security cameras—it was all familiar. After all, the last time he was here it was as Ivara so he could break into their server room.
Back then, he had been a ghost in the machine. Now, he walked the halls like he owned them.
The corridor opened up into a large administrative hub. It was packed with analysts, secretaries, and junior officers, all buzzing with the frantic energy of a workday. The moment the elevator doors slid open and the trio of Warframes stepped out, the noise died.
It was as if a vacuum had sucked the sound out of the room.
Heads turned. Pens dropped. Coffee cups froze halfway to mouths.
The Operator scanned the crowd through Khora's sensors. He saw faces he recognized from that infiltration—interns who had since become junior analysts, a security guard who had been posted by a door. None of them knew they were looking at the same person who had bypassed their security months ago. Not that any of them were even remotely aware that he had been here before.
Whispers erupted like a brushfire, low and urgent.
"Is that... is that Umbra?"
"Trinity... wow, she's even taller than on TV."
"Think all that gold is real?"
"Who's the one in the middle?"
"I don't know... never seen her before."
Khora's design was ostentatious, even by Warframe standards. The gold filigree, the clinging metallic mesh, the high heels. She was a masterpiece of lethal elegance.
Pieces of Kubrow shit the Orokin may have been, the Operator mused internally, but they didn't go wrong with style.
"Check out the one in the heels," one analyst whispered to a colleague, not quietly enough. "And the hips... god, I bet she's gorgeous under that armour."
"I'd let her step on me," another murmured to the amusement of his coworkers.
Khora didn't react to the comments outwardly. She kept her chin high, gliding forward as if the adoration was simply her due.
But Umbra did.
The former Dax snapped his head to the side, his movement a blur of sudden, almost robotic precision. His gaze locked onto the two analysts who had been whispering. He didn't make a sound. He just stared, his posture radiating a silent threat.
The two analysts flinched violently, nearly knocking over a stack of papers. They turned a shade of pale and immediately ducked their heads, suddenly fascinated by their computer screens.
Khora reached out without breaking stride, placing a hand on Umbra's arm. She gave a light, patronizing pat.
"Now, now, Squad Leader," she purred, her voice carrying through the silent room. "There is no need for such... aggression. Let the commoners gaze. It is only natural for them to be captivated by my radiance. We shouldn't deprive them of the highlight of their dreary day."
She treated him with a deference that suggested he was the leader, the senior partner, but her tone was that of a queen pacifying a loyal knight. Umbra held her gaze for a fraction of a second, then gave a quick nod. He turned back forward, the tension in his shoulders relaxing.
They continued on, leaving a trail of stunned silence and stolen smartphone photos in their wake.
Finally, the trooper stopped before a heavy reinforced door. "Conference Room B. Miss Militia is inside. The Director will join you shortly."
"Thank you, darling," Khora said dismissively, waving a hand. "You may go."
The trooper hesitated, looking like he wanted to object to being dismissed so casually, but something crackled in his ear. He nodded, then turned and marched away with his squad.
Khora pushed the door open.
The room was sleek and modern, dominated by a long glass table. Standing by the window, looking out over the city, was Miss Militia. Her American flag bandana was tied around her lower face, and her eyes were sharp. She turned as they entered, her posture formal and slightly apologetic.
"Welcome, Ten-Zero," she greeted them, her voice carrying a slight accent. "I heard about what Armsmaster pulled. I'm truly sorry."
Khora stepped into the room, the heels clicking on the polished floor. She didn't sit immediately. Instead, she walked to the table and ran a metal finger along the surface, inspecting it for dust, before turning her attention to the heroine.
"Think nothing of it," Khora replied, her voice smooth and velvety. "His threat was as meaningless as it was ineffective. But enough about us. I trust our... early arrival hasn't disrupted your schedule too terribly?"
Miss Militia's eyes crinkled slightly—perhaps a frown, perhaps just observation. "The Director is finishing a call. She'll be here in a few minutes, along with Armsmaster. Please, take a seat."
Umbra moved to the head of the table, pulling out the chair with a scrape of metal. He sat, his posture rigid, hands folding on the table. Khora and Trinity took their places on either side of him.
A few minutes later, the door opened again.
Director Piggot walked in, the rotund woman's expression like carved granite. Armsmaster followed behind her, his jaw set tight. He didn't look at the Tenno, instead taking a position standing behind the Director.
Piggot sat down heavily, opening a manila folder and slapping it onto the table.
"Let's skip the pleasantries," Piggot said, her voice clipped. "The ABB is crumbling. Lung is in custody, and Bakuda is no doubt planning something dangerous to break him out. We are planning a coordinated sweep to dismantle what's left before they can rally. Thanks to your intel, we know the important locations to hit. In the next few days, we will be raiding them."
"An excellent initiative," Khora purred, leaning forward slightly. "We assume you require our assistance in pacifying the remnants? Perhaps dealing with Oni Lee or the tinker, Bakuda?"
Piggot's eyes narrowed. "No."
The Operator paused internally, confused. No?
"We don't need your combat support," Piggot continued flatly. "We have the manpower to handle what's left of the ABB. What we need from Ten-Zero is a joint PR venture."
The Operator stared at her through Khora's sensors, not understanding why things were going this way.
"I beg your pardon?" Khora said aloud, her tone losing a fraction of its playful lilt.
"Our advisor," Piggot gestured vaguely, "has suggested that a public endorsement from Ten-Zero regarding the PRT's cleanup efforts would be more valuable than direct intervention. It would stabilize the city. It would show the public that the legitimate authorities are in control and prevent the Empire or other outside elements from filling the vacuum out of fear of reprisal from both our organizations."
She leaned forward, her hostility barely veiled beneath the professionalism.
"And frankly, I don't trust you." Her eyes locked onto the veiled face of Khora. "The footage of Lung's capture showed excessive force that borders on sadism. Lung could barely be called a man when you brought him in. I will not let people like you loose in my city."
The Operator felt a flicker of genuine offense. He may have played up his role as Khora a bit strongly, but it was never out of any sick desire to inflict suffering. Lung simply would not go down without the measures he and Umbra took to subdue him.
But he swallowed the anger. Getting into a shouting match with the Director of the PRT wasn't why he was here. His goal was to get home, and for that, he could swallow this indignity. But he wouldn't do so submissively.
"A... fascinating perspective," Khora said haughtily, her voice dangerously flippant. She tilted her head, the metallic veil swaying. "You call it sadism. I call it... housebreaking."
Piggot's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"You see, I did some research on the mutt after bringing him to heel," she purred, her voice dripping with mock sweetness and concern. "I found out he had such a dreadful humping problem before I came along—no sense of boundaries, no self-control. Just a beast trying to mount anything that caught his eye because he had no one to properly discipline him."
Piggot's jaw clenched, while Miss Militia stiffened.
"Now? He might actually learn to sit and stay. You should be thanking me for putting him in a kennel, Director."
Silence reigned in the room. The tension spiked, thick enough to choke a lesser being.
But this was fine. In fact, it was exactly what the Operator wanted. He had played the part of the arrogant Executor, insulting and dismissive. Now, it was time for Umbra to play the Archimedean—the rational, diplomatic counterweight to Khora's theatrical arrogance.
Umbra moved.
He shifted in his seat and placed a heavy, armored hand on Khora's shoulder. It was a simple silent command.
Khora stiffened, the haughty tilt of her chin lowering a fraction. She turned her head slightly, as if listening to a reprimand only she could hear.
"My apologies, Squad Leader," she murmured, her voice losing its venomous edge, replaced by a smooth, professional deference. "I got... carried away."
She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap, the picture of a chastised subordinate.
Umbra withdrew his hand. He turned his attention back to the table, raising his right palm until it faced upward.
A holographic projector embedded in his gauntlet flickered to life. A stream of text scrolled into the air above his palm, glowing a soft, diplomatic blue.
My apologies for Khora's words. She is... passionate about her work, but she speaks for herself, not the organization.
Ten-Zero acknowledges the PRT's jurisdiction. We agree to show more restraint with future non-kill order targets, provided the situation allows for it.
Piggot stared at the floating text, her expression unreadable. Miss Militia relaxed slightly, her hand moving away from the weapon at her hip.
Furthermore, the text continued to scroll, we accept the proposal for a joint PR venture. Stability in the region is mutually beneficial.
Umbra paused, the text dissolving before being replaced by a new line.
I would also like to speak with Armsmaster personally. I wish to apologize for inadvertently catching him in my ability during the Lung engagement. It was not my intention to cause distress to an ally.
Armsmaster stiffened. His visor hid his expression well, but his body language screamed surprise.
"I appreciate the sentiment," Armsmaster said. "But it is not necessary."
It is, the text scrolled insistently. Discipline is the foundation of the Tenno. A mistake was made. It will be acknowledged.
Umbra lowered his hand, the hologram fading.
He turned his helmeted head toward Piggot, waiting.
Piggot regarded him for a long moment. The hostility in her gaze remained, but it was tempered now—cautious respect, perhaps, for the ability to rein in a wild card like Khora.
"Very well," Piggot said, closing the manila folder with a snap. "We have a deal. Miss Militia will inform you of the schedule and the press release details." She glanced at Khora. "I expect full cooperation."
"Of course, Director. I will be the picture of perfection," Khora bragged, her voice smooth once more.
Piggot rolled her eyes, gathering her papers to leave.
Trinity Prime raised her hand, the movement sudden but hesitant, like a student afraid to speak out of turn in a strict classroom.
Piggot paused, her hands still resting on the closed folder. She looked at the healer with suspicion. "Yes?"
Trinity didn't speak. Instead, she turned her helmet toward Umbra. The movement was exaggerated, almost nervous, the Warframe's posture shrinking slightly as she fidgeted with her hands, clasping them together in front of her chest.
Umbra turned his head toward Khora.
The chain of command was clear, if theatrical.
Khora let out a soft, melodramatic sigh, waving a hand gracefully. "Our dear Trinity is a bit shy, Director. She wishes to make a request."
Khora tilted her head, looking at Trinity, then back at Piggot. "She wishes to operate as a healer within your city. She finds the idea of sitting idle while people suffer... distasteful."
Piggot's eyes narrowed, shifting from Khora to the silent, fidgeting Trinity. "We have Panacea for that. She handles the hospitals."
"Panacea is one girl," Khora countered smoothly. "And she is overworked. Trinity wishes to alleviate that burden. Think of the goodwill it would bring—Ten-Zero healing the citizens of Brockton Bay."
Piggot's frown deepened. She looked like she wanted to refuse outright, her bureaucratic instincts warring with the obvious strategic value. Before she could speak, Trinity took a small step forward.
She raised a hand, pointing a single finger tentatively toward the Director.
Khora's voice dropped, taking on a softer, more serious tone. "She also notices... irregularities in your bio-signs, Director. Ailments that have settled deep. She asks if you would permit her to heal you. A gesture of good faith."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Piggot's face went rigid. Her hands, previously resting on the table, clenched into white-knuckled fists. A flicker of genuine anxiety passed through her eyes—a flash of old, deep-seated terror. For a woman who faced down monsters and gangs, the prospect of someone altering her biology clearly touched a nerve far more sensitive than any physical pain.
"No," Piggot said sharply. The word was like a hammer blow. "That won't be necessary. I am quite capable of managing my own health."
Trinity didn't press. She simply lowered her hand and took a small step back, ducking her head slightly in a gesture of apology.
Piggot exhaled, forcing her hands to flatten against the table, though the tension in her shoulders didn't leave. She cleared her throat. "However... the offer to heal in the city is acceptable. Within reason. You will coordinate with the PRT. No unapproved interventions."
She paused, eyeing Trinity calculatingly. "In fact, if you are serious about your abilities... I have a list of former PRT agents. Good men and women who were forced to retire due to injuries. Traumatic brain injuries, nerve damage. Things that Panacea couldn't fix or was too exhausted to get to."
Piggot's voice hardened. "If you can help them, I'll arrange transport. Can you have them seen by the end of the week?"
Trinity nodded politely, a slow, demure dip of her helmet.
Piggot nodded briskly, regaining her composure. "Then we have an accord. Thank you... Trinity."
The Operator smirked, the tension breaking as he reached out and grabbed Trinity by the arm, linking them together like girlfriends heading out for the day.
"Well then! Now that the boring business is settled," Khora announced brightly, turning her gaze to Umbra. "Squad Leader, surely you can shadow our dear Armsmaster for the afternoon? Discuss... tactics?"
Umbra turned his head slowly. He looked at Khora, then at Trinity, who was standing passively in Khora's grip, and finally at Piggot.
He gave a single, sharp nod.
"Thank you." Khora chirped. "Now come along, Trinity. We have a city to see. I simply must meet the locals."
Piggot looked like she wanted to object. The idea of two powerful capes wandering her city unsupervised clearly did not sit well with her. But she glanced at Umbra, then back at Khora, and seemed to calculate the odds of stopping them.
She came up short.
They weren't PRT employees. They weren't Wards. They were independent operators who had just agreed to heal her retired agents. She had no legal grounds to detain them, and politically, it would be a disaster to try.
Piggot let out a frustrated breath. "Miss Militia. Accompany Khora and Trinity. Keep them out of trouble." She turned to the Tinker. "Armsmaster. Show Umbra the Rig. Discuss... whatever it is you two find productive."
Miss Militia nodded. "Yes, Director."
Armsmaster inclined his head stiffly, clearly not liking getting stuck with this duty but agreeing to it nonetheless. "Understood."
Khora clapped her hands together, the metal gauntlets clacking loudly. "Wonderful! A girls' day out and a boys' field trip. Try not to bore Squad Leader to death, Armsmaster. He's not much for small talk."
Khora practically dragged Trinity toward Piggot, her heels clicking a happy rhythm. As she got close to Miss Militia she snagged the heroine by the arm, her grip firm but playful.
"Come, darling! Let us see what this Boardwalk has to offer. I hear the seafood is passable, but I'm more looking forward to all the rabble showering me with praise."
As they filed out, Umbra paused by Armsmaster, waiting for him to lead the way.
The leader of the Protectorate let out a low, almost imperceptible sigh. "This way."
The meeting was over. The PR campaign had begun.
-------------
Thomas Calvert sat in his sterile office within the PRT ENE Headquarters, methodically massaging his temple with one hand. A persistent, throbbing headache had taken up residence behind his eyes—one of many he had suffered since Ten-Zero first darkened Brockton Bay's doorstep.
At first, he hadn't understood why his timelines kept collapsing.
He would split the world, safe in his secure base, only for the new reality to dissolve into static and agony seconds later. He had thought his power was failing him, that Cauldron had sold him a faulty vial, or perhaps this was a targeted attack. The paranoia had been crippling. For days, he had been unable to maintain his supervillain persona, relegating his doppelgänger to managing his criminal empire via proxy while he frantically searched for the cause.
Then, Director Piggot had called him in for a consult on the ABB situation. It was there, listening to the briefing on their new "allies," that the pieces clicked into place.
Ten-Zero.
An entire organization of blind spots. Running wild in his city. Operating with impunity just as he was on the cusp of securing what was probably the second most powerful precognitive asset in the world—Dinah Alcott.
If he had been able to split timelines without passing out from the backlash, he would have shot Piggot right then and there, just for the catharsis of it.
It was frustrating. Almost maddening.
But even stripped of his greatest advantage, Coil was nothing if not resourceful. He was a survivor. If he couldn't predict Ten-Zero, he would manipulate the variables he could control.
He pulled up the surveillance files on Ten-Zero's activity—or rather, their curious inactivity. For a group with enough firepower to rival the Triumvirate, they were strangely passive. They crushed Lung, yes, but they hadn't swept through the city and decapitated the Empire or the ABB remnants. Why?
The answer was simple: Politics.
Ten-Zero was holding back. They were pulling their punches, restricting themselves to high-profile interventions while leaving the day-to-day grind to the PRT. Calvert theorized that they didn't want to make the PRT look incompetent. They wanted to be seen as partners, not replacements. They were playing a political game, trying to maintain a delicate balance of power to avoid a total collapse of faith in the authorities.
It was a noble sentiment. It was also a glaring weakness.
Calvert intended to exploit it.
The bank robbery was approaching. He needed the city in chaos, the Wards distracted, and the Protectorate gone. But Ten-Zero was the variable he couldn't account for. If they decided to intervene in a simple bank heist, his plan to secure Dinah Alcott could crumble.
He wasn't foolish enough to send them on a wild goose chase with an anonymous tip. Ten-Zero had technological capabilities that rivaled or exceeded Dragon. If he pointed a finger at a target, Ordis would verify it instantly, exposing the lie and putting himself in their crosshairs. No, he needed social pressure. He needed to manipulate their image against them.
He opened a separate file, one containing surveillance photos and weeping testimonials from families across the northern states and Canada.
Heartbreaker.
Nikos Vasil. A monster the PRT had been agonizingly unable to catch for decades. A Master of terrifying power who collected women like trophies, breaking their minds and using them as broodmares.
Coil began to type. He wasn't sending a tip to Ten-Zero. Oh no, he was sending invitations.
To the desperate fathers. To the grieving brothers. To weeping mothers. To the families of the women stolen by Heartbreaker.
He had the location of the PR event. He would leak it to these broken people. He would tell them that the greatest heroes in the world would be there, that Ten-Zero had the power to save their daughters where the PRT had failed.
Let them beg. Let them plead. Let them throw themselves at the heroes' feet in front of the cameras.
Ten-Zero, with their white-knight complex and their obsession with public perception, wouldn't be able to refuse. They would see the weeping fathers and the stolen lives, and they would feel compelled to act. They would march straight into Canada to deal with Heartbreaker, removing a problem the PRT had ignored for years while simultaneously clearing the board in Brockton Bay for days or weeks, if he was lucky.
Coil allowed himself a thin, cold smile.
He hit send.
Let the desperate do his work for him. By the time Ten-Zero returned, Dinah Alcott would be his, and Brockton Bay would be well on its way to being his.
All he had to do was point the laser pointer at the right spot and watch the cats pounce.
On a whim, his thoughts drifted to Regent. The boy—Alec, or Jean-Paul Vasil as he was born—had been living in fear of his father's reach for years. Taking Heartbreaker out of the picture entirely would not only remove a potential threat to his assets but would likely earn him a rare moment of genuine gratitude from the usually detached teenager, should Calvert ever choose to reveal his hand in the matter.
Calvert chuckled darkly to himself.
He really was too generous a boss.