Port City, USA

The basement of an upscale house in the suburbs

At a retrospective moment

The Arctic Angel lies on her back on the padded floor, comfortable. Dozing. Staring at the ceiling. Flamehammer is elsewhere at the moment, things are moving quickly after the confirmation of the death of Gerald Bright, and she is a distraction to him.

She had joined the Bright Society to harness her power, to focus her drive and her ability. Vigilantism could only take her so far, and there wasn't a lot of good that could be done on that route—the petty crime she was handling on her own wasn't the sort of thing that affected the course of the society. It is the symptom, not the disease, and she... well...

Chelsea went into nursing for a reason. And the Arctic Angel wants to treat and care for society the same way that her alter ego wants to treat and care for the ill. And the Bright Society was the answer for both those needs. The training, the culture, the camaraderie. Meeting other superpowered people, being tested, taught how to refine her power, trained for controlling crowds, for fighting off villains. It was a lot for a college student, and yet, it was perfect for Chelsea. It kept her busy, kept her in touch, kept her from boredom, and kept her from thoughts about...

Powers run in families. This is a known fact. It is rare, but not surprising, to find a superpowered parent without superpowered children. But the Arctic Angel hadn't manifested until Chelsea was in high school, long after Warren had made his disappointment in his daughter's mundane nature known, after his obsession with chasing and mirroring more and more powered people had driven him to abandon his family, his career, his work... Eventually he'd run off, hunting the ghosts of Lawman and Silver Tongue.

Chelsea hasn't heard from her father since her power appeared. Nearly half her life. And good riddance to him. The Bright Society quickly made up the necessary peripherals of a professional life, college gave her a social life, and Tanya and Sharon were more than enough of a family.

A father isn't necessary. That father even less necessary.

Sharon's mama bear act isn't the same thing as being motherly. And the men in her life—Sterling, Flamehammer—do not strike her as parental figures. Flamehammer is a colleague, more than anything, despite their sharing a bed. And Sterling reminds Chelsea of how some seniors seemed in her first year of college: refined, distinguished, confident, certain, but without the arrogance that marked some of the older members of Bayside. Or perhaps the arrogance is there, but it hardly seems like smugness when it's followed up on.

After all, when the twenty-one-year-old math student promised her the night of her life, it hadn't quite been the same experience as when Sterling Grey had promised it.

The Angel smiles into the empty room. Flamehammer was a lot more like that student, usually preoccupied with his own business. It doesn't bother her, she lives to serve the Society, and that means service to Flamehammer, before yesterday just her senior colleague and now the de facto leader of the organization. If her body could be useful to the cause of defeating the riots, then she would gladly place it on the battle lines; what difference is it to lie down and let Flamehammer fuck her instead, if it serves the cause?

Something seems fundamentally incorrect about that thought. What would Sharon think about it, if Chelsea shared it with her? But the Angel pushes that idea down. It's not important. As good a protector, a friend, and a lover as she is, her opinion isn't to be considered on this matter. Until she comes around, Sharon is to be counted among the enemy. 

As is Sterling. Perhaps Chelsea's connection to him might be leveraged for information or other advantages against the riots. That might be something to propose to Flamehammer. Although he might be less than pleased to know that Chelsea is on good terms with the man who stood up to them on the first night of rioting.

The Angel reconsiders, realizing that that information may reflect badly on her in Flamehammer's eyes. She was, after all, the one to stop him from continuing his assault on the riot organizer. She doesn't need him to be wondering about her loyalty, which is absolute; she needs him to be focused on finding his father's murderer and breaking the back of the riots on the docks. Her purpose is not helped by giving him that information; it might well be hindered. She'll keep that secret for now.

She hears Flamehammer coming down the stairs, and she sits up and stretches out her wings, both because it feels good after lying on them and because she knows Flamehammer likes the display.

"I think that's enough work for the day," Flamehammer says, walking into the room. He's wearing a plain t-shirt and boxer shorts.

"I'm sure there will be more," the Angel replies evenly.

"Certainly." He nods. "I have a meeting later tonight."

"And what is needed until then?"

"Dinner," he says. "Would you like to dine out, or to eat in?"

The Arctic Angel pauses a moment, thinking. "If you were seen eating out with a young woman on the day after a fire killed your father and destroyed your childhood home, it might reflect poorly on your character and your claims on leadership of the Bright Society."

Reggie hums a bit. "That is a valuable opinion." He nods. "We should order in."

"Then I should return to my less-impressive form, and receive the order, so that you're not seen celebrating." She gathers herself and climbs to her feet.

"There's no need to rush that. Hell, I can just order online and have them leave it on the doorstep. Pizza? I'm starved."

Chelsea thinks about the fantastic burger she'd had about a week ago at Catelli's. "Pizza will do fine," the Angel replies.

A two-bedroom bungalow in the university district

The workshop in the garage in the heavily-treed back yard

4:10 PM

There's a ring on the doorbell, and another, and a third, which Peter can hear from his garage. It's set up that way.

He walks out around the side of the house to the front door as the small redheaded woman on his stoop presses the doorbell button a fourth time.

"Lindsay," he says, and she jumps.

Lindsay clutches dramatically at her chest. "Peter, I'm twenty, I'm too young to have a heart attack. Stop doing that."

"Stop drinking those caffeine bombs and you won't have a problem," he replies as she walks down the three steps to the sidewalk. "I'm in the workshop, tuning things up."

"Heh, yeah, tuning," the redhead says like it's a joke. "Because of the music stuff. What's this garbage Flamey wants us around for?"

"If I had to guess, and I don't, so you should feel privileged that I will, I would bet that it's something to do with Gerry's death yesterday."

Lindsay sighs loudly. "So we're a fuckin' hit squad now?"

"Flamehammer's a hit squad all to himself. I suspect we're crowd control."

"What crowd?"

"What crowd's been in the news for a week?"

Lindsay gives a low whistle. "You know, I've always wanted to never actually go down to the docks."

Peter snickers. "Well you're gonna get your chance."

The girl sighs again. "What's on the workbench, then?"

"Everything," he replies. "We're likely going to meet mobs of civilians, so I'm gearing up protectively and with a lot more suppressive tech than offensive. Won't need my thundermakers."

She runs a hand over a piece of his chest plating, made of some lightweight alloy with copper wiring running through it. Macrocircuitry. Lindsay scoffs a bit, internally; it's definitely an older, outdated piece of equipment. There's no question as to its effectiveness, but it's still technology from before she was born. Her own nanobots could easily jam its workings, and perhaps even strip out the wiring and disable it permanently.

"How are you planning to gear up?" Peter asks. "Gonna swap in a new loadout?"

Lindsay shrugs. "Nanos are nanos. I'll just make what changes I need to to the programming tonight."

Peter lets out a low sigh. "Arrogance isn't going to get us through this. Arrogance got us into it. We need to approach the docks and the people there with respect." He examines the metal mask he's been working on. "Gerald forgot that a long time ago."

Lindsay catches his tone. "Still dealing with—"

"Yeah, and I will be for a while." He grabs a buffer. "Gerald was a good man with a big blind spot. Not a... not a friend, not exactly, but a supporter. Bit of a mentor."

Lindsay shrugs. "Never met the guy."

"You can still thank him for your scholarships and your equipment allowance."

"Hm," she says as he starts polishing the mask with the tool. It's not painfully loud, but it's enough to disrupt conversation. She raises her voice to compensate. "Well I guess I'm glad he was around, then."

"Yeah," Peter says, working out a spot and not looking up. "Me too."

Peter had been closer to Gerald than most people in the Society were; on some days, it seemed that Peter was closer even than Gerald's own son. Reggie is something like family to the bachelor, too. The Mechanician had also been a mentor and father figure to the younger hero, guiding him, directing him, trying to instill a sense of respect and responsibility. In that, he hadn't done badly, he feels; aside from that same blind spot for the PCDCC that his father has, Reggie has a solid understanding of the value of proper order and a good peace.

He's doing considerably less well than that with Lindsay. Maybe he's getting less patient as he gets older. Maybe it's just not having spent enough time with her. Maybe he's just having trouble connecting with a younger generation, though there's only eight years between the two young heroes. Of course, he's known Reggie since childhood, and Lindsay only since she came into her powers in her senior year of high school. Reggie had spent dozens of hours on weekend visits while Gerald was otherwise occupied, sitting on a stool right where Lindsay is now standing, just watching The Mechanician work on his projects. Reggie had been there as the Mechanician had built Flamehammer's armor, piece by piece, fitting and adapting and adjusting, learning how the younger man's power could be channeled and directed with a proper construction.

He puts the buffer down and takes a second look at the mask, aware that Lindsay has moved closer to see what he's doing, gratified when she does.

"Why don't you upgrade?" she asks. It's an old question.

It has an equally old answer. "Because my heart and soul went into making this armor the first time, and there's not a lot that can be done to improve it."

"And if I replaced your speaker system with microcontrollers, you could modify the sound with a gesture or a thought, and have all kinds of programs ready. You wouldn't have to switch out thundermakers for subsonics. You could target the sounds tightly, down to just one person in a crowd. It would make you a thousand times more flexible."

"And would introduce new vulnerabilities and new troubles," he adds, picking up the mask and examining it closely. "I've been working with this stuff for longer'n you've been alive, kid. I know every chink in this armor, and every chance for mechanical failure." He puts the mask down and raps on it with his knuckles, making a silvery ringing tone. "Nothing wrong with your nanos, kid, they work wonders for you, but this is my gear."

Lindsay nods. "Yeah, I get I'd get a bit pissed off if someone messed with my shit."

Peter chuckles. "Most of us that make stuff would feel the same. So you keep your fingers and your bots out of my mechanics."

"Got it. So you've spent hours on this today alone, huh?" Lindsay grins. "It'll take me about twenty minutes to rewrite the nanobot programming."

"You sometimes have a good point," Peter laughs. "Come on, let's go inside and talk tactics, and then you should probably get home, yeah?"

"Sounds good, you cooking?"

"Like every night."

The two of them head cheerfully to the back door of Peter's home, and inside. Eyebrows might rise at the fifty-four-year-old confirmed bachelor spending time alone with a twenty-two-year-old university student, but he's never been anything but a colleague and a mentor to her. His love is the work, and so nearly every day is spent inventing and creating and building and testing.

They move to the kitchen, and Lindsay gets two cans of beer from the fridge without asking or being asked. Peter puts a pan on the stove and turns the heat on low. "Eggs I think tonight," he says as he takes the offered drink.

"Sounds great. What're you having?"

"You gotta make that joke every time I'm cooking you supper?" he asks as he puts a bit of butter in the pan.

Lindsay sits at the small dining table. "Wouldn't want you to think I'm ungrateful." She takes a sip of her drink. "Since you won't let me show you my gratitude in other ways..."

They both have a short laugh at the thought. In truth, he's happy she feels comfortable enough around him to joke about it. "What loadout are you planning?" he asks, changing the subject as he grabs an onion from the bin by the sink. He feels her eyes on him as he tosses it in an automatic peeler and slicer he'd created decades ago.

"Well if we're talking groups of civs, then I'm not gonna need much in the way of harmful programming," she says, thinking. "All crowd control, but also the possibility of criminals with an arsenal or even some unlicensed powers..."

Peter gathers the chopped onion and tosses it in the frying pan. "What are your thoughts on Silver Tongue?"

Lindsay scoffs. "Think he's still around?"

"The card they found in Gerry's mailbox was signed 'S.T.', I don't think we can count him out." He grabs two bell peppers from the fridge and proceeds to wash them by hand in the sink.

"Could be a copycat."

"Could be the real deal." Both peppers go into the slicer together, accompanied by a whirring noise.

Lindsay takes a slow drink, waiting for the machine to stop before she asks, "Was he ever the real deal?"

Peter stops, and nods. "Silver Tongue was absolutely real, and a force to be reckoned with. And if he's still around and, like the note suggested, protecting the Dockworks..." He takes the chopped peppers and tosses them in with the onion. "That just means that in the past, what, ten, fifteen years he's got more subtle, more controlled, and therefore more dangerous. The fact that no one in the Bright Society can prove that he's still active is just evidence that if he is, he's a powerhouse." He goes to get a carton of eggs from the fridge. "The fact that a younger generation of heroes doesn't even believe he ever existed is... well, worse."

Lindsay watches as he cracks six eggs into a bowl and starts whisking. "You know, electric mixers have been a thing for a long time."

"And if I don't need to use one, why should I?"

"What about the veggie slicer?"

"Hate chopping onions," he replies with a grin. "You didn't finish answering."

"Huh?"

"About your loadout. What are you programming your bots to do?" He pours the beaten eggs over the cooking vegetables.

"Oh! yeah, right. Um. I think I'll set 'em up to trigger continual mindless euphoria." Lindsay grins. "Anyone in the cloud'll be a nice, happy, pliant pile of mush for a few hours."

"You make sure to hand out those protective badges, then. You don't want the force being a pile of mush."

"Yeah, yeah. Always take the proper precautions, no collateral damage." Lindsay pulls a round, gold-plated medallion about the size of her palm from the pocket of her jeans. "Always got mine on me, I have enough of the prime ones for any team I'm on, and it's easy enough to make secondary IDs with a quick software update."

"Well maybe just to be safe you ought to stay away from anyone who doesn't have a gold one, right?"

Lindsay rolls her eyes, "Yeah, yeah," she says again. "I'll travel with you I guess, and not with a cop detachment, and we can be mistaken for a father and daughter team again."

"I could do worse for a daughter, you know."

"I have two functional parents, thanks, but you'd make a pretty cool dad."

"Thanks, I guess." He checks the edge of the eggs to see if it's time to turn them. "I suspect we're going to get sent to disrupt communications, anyway. Seems to suit us."

"Yes-fucking-please," Lindsay chuckles. "Get me at them computers, we'll see how we can mess everything up."

"More or less what I figured we'd do with you."

"Then I guess I'll set up some electronics-disabling routines into the mix."

"Good plan. Just make sure you don't catch someone with a pacemaker or an insulin pump and make it go haywire. No bodies."

"Yeah, yeah." Lindsay drained her drink. "Brights don't kill, if we don't have to."

Peter's face wrinkled into a frown. "Who added that 'if we don't have to' nonsense?"

She shrugged. "Hasn't it always been that way?"

It had not, but Peter decides to turn his attention to dinner instead of argument. He starts to slip a spatula under the developing omelette, deep in thought.

An unassuming three-story office building near the docks

The large central room, blocked off from the rest of the floor by heavy, reinforced metal walls

6:01 PM, Thursday evening

Callum rises from his couch to check his doorbell. He pauses a moment to put his lab coat on, and to stop, and then on reflection, to minimize, the video of Elena that he was watching. Just because she'd sent it to him doesn't mean that she wants it known that he has it. A quick look at the monitor shows that it's Thomas Holfers, and not the police. Callum relaxes a bit and puts in the code to unlock the door. One condition of he'd placed on his employment is that only a limited number of people would be allowed to unlock the door, preferably only two, but he consented to allow the head of security and one other person (he chose Elena) to also have the code. To the best of his knowledge Sterling has kept to his end of the deal, which is something he expects from his friend, even if his friend is a wanted supervillain.

The security doors slide open, and Thomas stands there. He looks Callum over and lets out a sigh. "He didn't tell you I was coming."

"Who, Sterling?"

"Who else?" Thomas walks into the lab. "He was supposed to message you before I got here."

"Well he didn't." Callum shrugs and closes the door. "Twenty to one says his phone battery is dead. What can I do for you?"

"Some shorts would be nice," Thomas mutters. His voice rises to a more conversational level. "What I'm here for is a different phone. Sterling gave you one he took from Courier the other day."

"Oh yeah. I got some traces of things off it, I've been working on duplicating them." Callum moves to one of the tables and opens a drawer. He pulls out a large plastic bag with a flip phone inside. "I wouldn't touch that without gloves. It's probably safe, but you know."

"Yeah, I don't have to handle it." Thomas sighs, taking the bag carefully. It was something like a commercial freezer bag, with a bit more thickness to it, and instead of being sealed tight it was folded over a few times and held together with a heavy alligator clip.

"That's what you got subordinates for?"

"Teammates," Thomas corrects with a smirk. "But yeah, we'll make sure not to touch the thing directly."

Callum nods. "For the best." He sits up on a stool, arranging the lab coat awkwardly to cover himself. "What's going on?"

Thomas lets out a slow breath. "Where to begin? You know Gerald Bright was murdered last night?"

"Nope. Couldn't'a happened to a bigger asshole, though."

"Right, well, Sterling's convinced that it's going to lead to police and Bright raids this weekend."

"Sure, makes sense." Callum nods. "We got need to be worried?"

"Is your will up to date?"

"Ouch. That bad, huh."

"Could be."

"Awesome." Callum's unchangeable expression doesn't change. "What are we worried about?"

Thomas shrugs. "Everything. Legal, of course, and I suspect Sandy's on that, I've been beefing up comms, but I think at least we can expect Brights with police backup. An emergency court order can put an end to some of it, but the Brights are a bigger issue."

"Should I burn the sensitive files?"

"Not yet. But I've got the trigger ready to go for the comms, and I'm ready to fall on that sword. Normally it takes all three of us to wipe the files and shut it down, but Anna and Tom and I had a chat and..."

"Yeah, sure, I get it." Callum hops to his feet, holding the coat closed. "I'm gonna miss this place, if it comes to that."

Thomas runs a hand through his hair. "Sterling's feeling a bit of despair on this one. You might have to prepare yourself for missing this place."

Callum tilts his head. "Sterling's feeling a bit of despair?"

Thomas nods.

"That's a new one."

"Yes, I don't much like it either."

"What do we do about that?"

Thomas moves towards the door. "We do what we've done for a decade and more. We press on. We're kind of in a corner on that front, though, the Brights are going to force our hand."

"Nothing new, then."

"Just in degree." Thomas hesitates before leaving. "Callum, if Sterling's worried..."

The chemist nods. Nothing more is said between them.

"Distract me, would you?"

A few minutes before Thomas reaches the security center

The workspace of Dockworks Telecomm

"How?" Sterling asks.

"The fuck do I care?" Tanya doesn't stop typing or look up from the screen. "I just don't wanna think about my equipment fucking burning. Oh and I already know they're going to find the same shit they found at the cafe, right?"

"Probably," Sterling replies. "That's a reasonable assessment. They're going to frame you as an arsonist and a bomb-maker, and the fire as a careless accident."

"This is not distracting me. I don't want to be thinking about that."

"Right, sorry." He takes a breath. "I'm sure you have better things to—"

Tanya's right hand snapped up, middle finger extended, while the left continued to work the keyboard. "None of that weird voice shit. I've had enough of your superpower garbage." She continued to work at whatever she was working at.

Sterling frowns. "Alright, so—"

"Project Sunset."

"What?"

"Tell me about Project Sunset, or do I have to dig my way through the hidden files?"

"That's one of the highest—"

"I will find out if you don't tell me." There's a brief pause as she continues typing. "Fuckface," Tanya adds without fire, as though the insult is a missing-but-necessary formality.

Sterling sighs, rocking a bit in his office chair. "Okay. Project Sunset. The short answer is that it's a piece of subliminal programming in the heads of everyone in security and a few people in other important positions that might put them into contact with police or Brights that pops out whenever they see an opportunity to subvert them. It doesn't come up much, but—"

"Okay, how does this... one sec..." Tanya types furiously for a moment. "Right. How does this apply to Crystal?"

"Crystal's been feeding information to the Brights through Reggie for months. When there was an opportunity to step up her involvement, she took it, and then came to us under Project Sunset because she was having second thoughts."

Tanya nods. "So what, she just tells you she doesn't like what she's doing?"

"If she was comfortable in her situation," Sterling explains, "she wouldn't have triggered the subliminal programming." He gets up from the chair. "We've known for a long time that the Brights have been looking for ways to undermine the Confederation, since its inception. It's only because I could get into some of the negotiations that we even managed to build it in the first place, and it's something that Gerald absolutely despised. It took a lot of work to get the owners to sell to the strikers, and beyond that it's been an ongoing fight for survival and growth, and we know the Bright Society doesn't play by the rules. Project Sunset has been our way of turning double-agents into ... triple-agents, I suppose?"

"Worked before?"

It takes Sterling a moment to realize that Tanya's perfunctory utterance is a question. "Uh, honestly? Crystal is somewhat... unique."

Tanya looks up from the screen in disbelief. "You've never had to use it before."

"That's right." Sterling starts to pace a bit. "Crystal has a sister that she's trying to bring here to Port City, to get away from their abusive and controlling parents. That made her ... vulnerable. She needed more money than her job was providing, to save up for—"

"Yep. I know the story. She's got a huge nest-egg." Her attention's on whatever's happening on the screen.

"Okay. So she met with her handler, and he wanted her to step up her involvement for more money. She agreed because of that, and because of a not-unreasonable fear for her safety, but she wasn't happy with it, so she decided to tell someone. That's what Project Sunset is for. She's executing the Brights' plan in a way that's as safe as possible."

"Why bother?" Tanya says. "You can get her out, right?"

Sterling nods. "Sure, we could make her disappear. Put her where the Brights can't reach her. We've made people go away before. Witness protection's got nothing on— well, never mind." He stops in his walking. "The thing is, she doesn't want to vanish. She has plans, friends, a life. You. And with that in mind, we could—"

"You could."

"Fine. I could use her position as a double-agent to undermine the Bright Society plans."

"So you decided to fuck with her mind."

"She and I worked out the best way to—"

Tanya pushes her seat back from the computer. "Okay, I got my stuff back online from some old versions and shit. Hosted locally because apparently my equipment at home is on fucking fire." She looks up at Sterling. "Is this my fucking life, now? Just coldly reporting a fucking arson in my fucking apartment?" She frowns. "Are you doing or did you do some magic voice bullshit in my head?"

Sterling shook his head. "Not presently. Not since—"

"Don't finish that. I really don't want to know."

The War Room door opens, and Thomas walks in. "Guess who wasn't dressed when I got there."

Sterling sighs. "Because—"

"Your phone battery is dead, right?" Thomas produces a plastic bag from his pocket. "There are charging cables in the closet."

"My way's more awesome," Tanya says, folding her hands behind her head.

"Your way got me more of a look at mad scientist genitalia than I generally like."

"Figured you'd be into that."

"With Callum? No, thanks." The IT specialist puts the bag with Courier's phone on the main desk. "Besides, it's not like Callum's 'into that' either. It's not exhibitionism, it's just laziness."

"Elena wasn't there, too?" Sterling asks.

"Not that I saw. Anyway, there's the treasure, Cal suggested not touching it with bare hands. What have you two been up to for the last twenty minutes?"

Tanya stands up and slides the chair back towards the desk. "Well. I was going to tap into your system to let Sterling access his messages but my utility server at home is apparently burning to a fucking crisp as we speak so I grabbed an old copy of the source files from an old cloud account and made the necessary modifications and updates while Silver Tongue here told me about your brilliant plan to brainwash my girlfriend into a fucking double agent."

There's a moment that passes between them. Thomas turns to Sterling. "Project Sunset?"

Sterling nods.

"Also what have you done to my computer?"

Tanya shrugs. "You ever wanted to read someone's private text messages? All you need is a decryption key. And both people's phone numbers of course."

Thomas blinks. "You're just a little bit frightening."

"Well shit, I was aiming for 'fucking terrifying,'" she replies with a satisfied smile and the hint of a satisfied blush. "I developed some of these tools a while ago and never really had the chance to apply them. Turns out the Brights don't have the same access to the communications array that you guys do."

"Helps when we built it ourselves."

Sterling chuckles. "Brights don't build, they buy."

Tanya rolls her eyes. "You know there are people like the Mechanician who actually make things, right?"

"A critical difference in philosophy, though."

Thomas cuts in. "We can discuss the finer points of problematic capitalism when we're not under this sort of time pressure. Awesome or not, we've got a tight deadline." He moves to the closet as he's speaking, opens it, and tosses a charging cable to Sterling, who catches it awkwardly. "I know I'm not the take-charge sort, but if no one's running the show, we're gonna be the most interesting inmates at Portside Pen."

"On the flip side," Tanya says, "You've got Courier's phone and it had to be hooked into your network for a bit at least, and now we have the tools to get into the system and see what bullshit he was up to."

Thomas frowns. "I'm not sure I'm entirely happy we have those tools."

"You said it yourself, Thomas," Sterling says, moving towards the exit. "Tight deadline."

"Where are you going?"

"Somewhere that I can answer my messages while you two decide what to do with your fancy new toys. I'm not contributing here and you won't be bothering me." He opens the door and pauses. "I won't leave the building. Scout's honor."

Thomas looks at Tanya, who throws up her arms. "Hey, you're the one who stuck with him all through fucking high school, don't look at me like I have a goddamn clue. He's just sleeping with my two best friends, that's all."

Thomas sighs, walking to the other side of the desk. "Alright, let's see what you've built here..."