Chapter Text
Lisa strolled down the streets of Captain’s Hill in her civilian identity, the afternoon sun sitting near perfectly above her, beating down with the temperate warmth common to Brockton Bay in all but the most extreme leanings. She didn’t worry about traffic when stepping off of the pristine sidewalk, even with the world muffled behind earbuds; the main city-goers didn’t tend to peruse Captain’s Hill, and there were few enough residents of the high-end neighborhood anyway, let alone driving.
She enjoyed visiting the Hill, because, if she really lost herself, she could almost forget the gangs’ influence over the rest of the city; the houses were resplendent and the yards immaculate, with the parked or passing vehicle never older than the owner’s latest spending spree.
The operative word there was almost. She had long ago set Captain’s Hill in her sights and long ago subsumed the Protectorate and PRT’s control of the region. They still thought they controlled it; they monitored it and patrolled it and favored it all the same. But she knew, her and Coil both, they knew who 933 fenced for, they knew who 501 got her fix from, and they knew Captain’s Hill wasn’t giving the heroes a fucking cent, the PRT oblivious all the while.
As she turned down onto one of the many courts dotting the Hill, her destination revealed itself from its hiding place of like-designed structures: the Alcott’s house, the parents at work and the child home with headaches.
She stopped walking well before any home security cameras would notice her, and after pulling out the earbuds, classical music sounding weakly from the low quality speakers, drew a burner phone and dialed her teammate.
“Convolute. You are at her residence?” Coil’s voice came through only a moment after she hit send.
“Right-o. You ready to Split?”
“...Split has commenced. Do not proceed.”
She proceeded over to a nearby tree and collapsed against it, enjoying the area’s cool breeze in contrast to the sun on her face as she pulled out her non-burner and browsed the internet, piggybacking off of the nearest house’s wifi.
She wondered what gift she should get for Thomas this time around; their enterprise’s eighth anniversary was only a month away. Maybe scotch, he liked scotch. She found wine superior; scotch just burned. But to each their own. Or maybe he’d appreciate a boost to their organization: there was talk of some new cape—literally—skating around downtown. No, she did that two years back when she arranged to sponsor Shadow Stalker: scotch it was.
… Did she really sponsor her two years ago? Well. How the time flies.
Eight years. It had been eight years since she had spent day after day in a variety of public libraries, tracking down the local Thinker gaming the market—gaming it well, just not enough to hide from her—and offering some pointers and potential conspiration.
It took three years for them to meet face-to-face, due to like-minded paranoia, and another after that to reveal their identities—even though she had already discovered his by then, and she’d be damned if he hadn’t known hers.
She still remembered that first meeting, like it was… nearly half a decade ago, but important memories stand starkly and all that.
There was hardly a person in the bay that would consider Somer’s Rock a well kept establishment; its façade was decayed, its surfaces were rotten and grimy, and you were equally likely to get food poisoning as not. Most who knew of the bar would, if suitably inquisitive, privately and possibly publicly inquire why it had yet to be erased from current existence by a dozen government agencies, and most misfortunate enough to continue to publicly inquire would find, one way or another, that the reason took to roost in the fact that Somer’s Rock was neutral ground for every villainous parahuman in the city.
Established by the Marquis back in the mid-nineties and upheld by others after his departure, the place was respected enough that only the stupid or arrogant—and wasn’t that conjunctive a redundant one—would dare to even stretch the neutrality, for fear of damaging their standing amongst other villains.
All of which amounted to neither Convolute or Coil even entertaining the idea that the other might enter the building’s premises prematurely, instead encountering their co-conspirator on the sidewalk opposite the shady venue, undoubtedly with a Split running and Convolute anticipating a violent migraine shortly in her future.
With the sky dark enough for working streetlights to cast reaching shadows and each eyeing the other down the streetside length, Convolute half expected jazz or Spanish guitar to fill the emptiness of the derelict block.
Their costumes kind of ruined the effect though, being conglomerations of random articles chosen for the sole function of masking any identifying features—really features in general. They both wore reflective sunglasses over black balaclavas over ski masks, a variety of winter gear covering the rest of their bodies; it was quite effective at concealing their features and forms. It was also quite effective at making them look stupid as shit.
“Greetings, Convolute.” Coil’s smooth baritone softly resonated down the street as he stood straight, arms folded behind him, accentuating his height—which was, just, damn was he tall.
Figure tense, voice calm; expects deception, fears a trap, unworried of physical harm.
Has a gun holstered on his left side; is right hand dominant, body language not acknowledging of gun: prepared for the possibility of using it but not the eventuality, not prepared for use in self-defense: has Split running.
Spoke first; gave control of dialogue to you, is extending a good faith offer, wants the meeting to go well, awareness of Split means meeting went well.
Alright, so it didn’t seem like he planned any malintent. Of course, he also knew her power, just as she knew his—a necessary component in a cooperative, multi-year partnership between people who lauded information as misers did wealth.
“Coil. Something’s got you tense. I wonder what.” The masks stretched over her face threw her voice, almost making her lackadaisical tone sound strange and off—that was going to take a bit to get used to.
Coil shifted in response, his back somehow straightening even more than currently, his arms stiffening even as they remained static, and his legs gaining that slight looseness that indicated a readiness to move. And through it all, he still lacked that layer of caution intrinsic in any being concerned over their own mortality.
She smiled impishly—her parents had said that it was more vulpine, but fuck her parents, she was a fiend, not a fucking fox—and cackled in a good-natured manner, attempting to prevent unnecessary and potentially irreversible escalation.
“Relax, I’m just messing with you. Got to keep you on your toes, y’know?” She could feel—and see—his disapproval and annoyance radiating through his mask as he relaxed to a more comfortable state, still ruler-straight.
“Your juvenile mockery is unappreciated, as my caution is warranted for the reason of this meeting.” He paused, letting the silence settle back over the darkening street.
She frowned in mild annoyance at his dramatics, realizing his intention for the conversation. “Alright, fine, you overdramatic prune. What is it? ” She finished with what should have been a mocking falsetto, but instead just sounded off—because of the damn masks!
“We should not discuss it in the purview of any interloper or wannabe James Bond with a microphone.” He inclined his head towards Somer’s. “Such venue would protect us via its neutrality, while also being manageable in observation.”
She dragged a hand down her face with a groan, already up the wall at his excessive theatrics. “You’re worse than most soap operas, you know that?”
She crossed the street in tandem with Coil, their shared paranoia keeping the other within sight but out of arm’s reach, only nearing and trusting the other when they neared the entrance.
She leaned forward minutely, her arm exaggeratingly sweeping before her towards the door, ‘begrudging’ him first entry. It was not especially subtle; a pointed accusation of his Splitting’s near immortality, underneath her normal mockery.
She could feel him gazing down from his high horse of middle-aged maturity—really, it was more of a pony, maybe a foal.
“If you insist on such juvenility, I shall enter first.” And he did, probably in an attempt to “prevent anymore of your signature puerility,” as he had once written in their discussions.
As the door wailed one way then the other on hinges due for euthanization, the bar’s exterior proved quite adept at capturing the nature of its linguistic inverse; the twin bartenders didn’t even feign glances their way, simply continuing to clean up after the two Blue-collars trying to reach lala land through an inch wide opening, and the waitress sat beside them didn’t even notice their entrance, fixated on the doodles and ramblings she was scratching into a small notepad.
Body unresponsive to audial cues; is deaf, notepad for customers to write orders.
Good call of the Marquis’ part; people would be more likely to frequent the place if they could trust that they weren’t being eavesdropped on—though lip-reading was obvious, and the bartenders and patrons were bribable, and who knew how many morons had decided to tap the walls.
They found a table a sufficient distance away from the five at the bartop and the suspicious bore-hole at the far corner of the left wall, and watched and waited in silence as the twin closer to the waitress nudged her and gestured in their direction with a nod.
She frowned, annoyed at their intrusion, before tearing off the top sheet from the notepad and shoving it in her pocket, grabbing the writing tools and heading towards them, footsteps sounding loudly in the quiet building.
She reached their table and held the notepad, the pen carelessly shoved into the bindings, towards Coil, her expression one of apathetic antipathy. They both shook their heads in declination, the waitress staring at them a moment longer before shrugging and returning to her seat, neither her nor the bartenders caring about their now loitering; Somer’s Rock was a villain meeting ground first and an establishment second.
“Alright Coil,” she said with her elbow on the table, her chin resting in her palm so as to block line-of-sight to her mouth, her voice a murmur; she had an idea of what his reason was, they’d discussed enough times about how they hated the current state of the city, how they could do better than the heroes if they were in their position, how there were no other thinkers of their caliber in the city, and how easy most parahumans were to manipulate by playing off of their trigger event, and she wasn’t taking any chance with potential eavesdroppers. “If you’re done with the dramatics, tell me what’s important enough to warrant you wanting to meet in person.”
Coil leaned in on his elbows and entwined his fingers, the gesture working to shield his lower face from the eyes of the astute. They were being excessive; there were only five other people in the building, two of them were wasted, and they were still wearing masks. But the sky was blue, the grass was green, and the paranoid took unnecessary precautions.
“You and I both understand that this city is doomed; the Protectorate is nepotic, New Wave is facile and inept, the BBPD is corrupt at every level, and the PRT has long ago been thrown to the wolves by its supposed compatriots: They are all incapable of reversing the gangs’ influence over the city—not while they still choose to maintain their intransigence.”
Coil paused for a few seconds, giving her a chance to chew on his words. He was right; they both knew that Brockton Bay was in a downward spiral, with the gangs running rampant and the legal factions too incompetent, corrupt, or bound within their own rules to be able to adequately manage the city’s criminal elements.
He continued. “The only true victories against the gangs have resulted from either other villainous organizations, or the heroes being willing to ignore the rules which inhibit them so: the death of Iron Rain at the hands of the Marquis; the eradication of the Teeth by the Slaughterhouse Nine; the Marquis’ arrest, when the Brockton Bay Brigade chose to break the unwritten rules; the death of Allfather, undoubtedly orchestrated by Kaiser; and Lung’s breaking of the Empire’s monopoly over the greater Brockton Bay gang scene. The Protectorate, and New Wave following the death of Fleur, have been a stopgap, their constant skirmishes and half-hearted reparations turning Brockton Bay’s death into a long, slow bleed-out.
I intend to undermine and redirect each organization with influence in the city, manipulating, allying, jailing, Birdcaging, and killing where need be, until I could command absolutely through figureheads, undisputed by any other major power. I am rendering you the opportunity to aid me in this endeavor, and benefit in turn.”
He moved his still entwined hands to under his chin, letting his head rest against them; he had said his piece, and was now awaiting her response.
“Tell me, Coil,” she spoke, her voice removed from all its regular gaiety. “What do you want to do, in this scheme of yours? Don’t tell me what will occur, or give me any political bullshit like working to make the city better for the people. Tell me, from the depths of your rotten, blackened heart. What do you truly, truly wish to do?”
He untangled his fingers, and pressed his palms against the table. He leaned forward in his chair, going further, further, until his face was practically touching hers. Then he spoke.
“I wish to rule this city, and I wish to rule it well.”
She smiled a small, faint smile, unnoticeable through her mask. “Then I will aid you. However, I would ask for a compromise.”
“State your proposal.”
She smiled wider, her visage turning impish under her mask. “I will aid you, have no doubt in that. What I ask as a compromise is that I would aid you, not as a subordinate or an affiliate, but as a partner in this conspiracy, so that when you emerge as the puppet lord of Brockton Bay, I would emerge and lord in parallel.”
He leaned back, inch by inch, until he settled into his chair. “A fair enough stipulation.” He laced his fingers again, slightly differently than before, but in the same manner, with the same intent. “But let me ask you, Convolute: Why do you wish for conspiration, when subordination or affiliation would be equally beneficial, and far less risky regarding your personal safety?”
A good question, and a vital one; whether or not the Split was dropped depended on what he managed to read from her answer.
Now she was the one leaning forward, her shorter stature making it far less impressive of a stance. “I don’t trust in any one person’s moral virtue, and I want this city to be ruled well.”
He stared at her, silent, mulling over her words. Again and again, he would seem to come to a conclusion, his body tensing, before relaxing, non-committal with his answer. After minutes of deliberation, when the silence had grown and suffused and enraptured their table to the point of nausea, he chose.
“I can agree to those terms.”