2006/May. 8 Brockton Bay central
The streets lay quiet, an unexpected silence in a place where one would anticipate various noises. Buildings, once sturdy and intact, now crumbled into ruins. The air carried a calm breeze that chilled the remaining inhabitants. People wept openly—parents comforting their children, others mourning over fallen companions. Some even prayed.
Amidst this desolation, a figure emerged. Its feminine qualities evident in sultry curves, a robust chest, and long, silky hair that swayed in the wind. The eyes, a malicious black, stared emotionlessly at the grieving crowd. Lips, tightly pressed, revealed the person's sour mood. Arms, once resting behind the figure, now gracefully hung at her sides.
Footsteps echoed, accompanied by the distinct click of heels against the floor. Another figure, more masculine, halted behind the woman. Broader shoulders, thick arms, and a muscular build added to his rugged appearance.
"This is your doing, I presume?" The masculine figure's deep voice held a questioning tone. The woman, still facing away, turned her head slightly to acknowledge his presence. "Why would it matter if I did this? It doesn't disrupt the plans already set in motion," she replied, her voice devoid of emotion. The male figure knew better, of course.
Despite the woman's seemingly emotionless voice, the man understood that her words carried far more power than most realized. Her abilities remained shrouded in mystery, known only to a select few. Her reputation as a master precedes her. Typically, she operated within the blaster/trump rating of her power.
Her influence extended beyond mere speech. When she spoke, people's thoughts shifted, altering their perceptions of reality. But it was the trump aspect of her abilities that truly set her apart. Within a 5-meter radius, anything or anyone lost certain powers in her presence. Even the man, standing just a few meters away, felt the effects. His once formidable ability to see past, present, and future actions had diminished, leaving him with only the ability to perceive the present—an unsettling adjustment for someone unaccustomed to the woman's presence.
"Don't you think this was…" he paused, searching for the right word. "Extreme?"
The woman, still glancing back at him, gazed forward without answering immediately.
Their clothes swayed casually in the wind, the biting chill tingeing their cheeks red. The distant sounds of sobbing people filled the silence.
"It was necessary," she spoke, her voice carrying an unsettling conviction. She continued, "The inhabitants would have discovered us, Marcus! They would have thwarted the accession plans. They had to be… culled." Finally, the woman turned to face Marcus, her lips—usually frozen in a permanent expression of frustration—smiled.
...
2010/October. 4
Within the closed doors of Brockton Bay PRT headquarters, an imposing figure sat—an obese woman known to many. Emily Piggot, renowned for her unwavering determination and direct approach. The table before her overflowed with documents, files, and various recording clips. "This is a disaster, and the fallout could be catastrophic," she spoke, her brass voice barely masking her frustration.
Her hands sifted through the papers, searching for something specific.
"I can't even fathom the amount of work required to cover this up," she mumbled, fingers rummaging through the scattered files. After a moment's pause, she found her target: the documented photos of the scene.
The vivid images depicted a grim reality that had become all too common in Brockton Bay. Crime surged, with little effective resistance. The bodies, once vibrant and whole, now lay as butchered remnants of their former selves—limbs severed, heads detached from torsos, and other horrifying scenes.
Evidence pointed to detonations of some kind. Buildings stood partially destroyed or crumbled, leaving the city's infrastructure in disarray and requiring extensive repairs before resettlement could occur.
Piggot had reached her limit. She set down the photos and turned her attention to the other occupant in the room: Armsmaster.
Armsmaster, a renowned Tinkerer specializing in miniaturization and efficiency, was known for his no-nonsense approach. As team leader, his abilities were amplified by his unwavering commitment to getting the job done.
"How are the suppression efforts going? And don't you tell me we were too late? This could not get any worse," Piggot moaned, her voice level but tinged with exasperation.
"The efforts to suppress news of the incident to the public have been progressing well, Director. There have been no significant delays, but it's likely that information could leak out in the coming days, especially with the Die Hards always prowling around on PHO," Armsmaster replied. He leaned against a nearby wall, arms crossed, his voice muffled by his helmet.
Still holding the photo, the director gazed back at the images, seemingly lost in thought. The sense of familiarity gnawed at her, a persistent thought she couldn't shake. Where had she seen this before?
...
2006/May. 10
Marcus, despite his conflicting ethics and flexible moral code, couldn't deny that Selena's actions had crossed a line. He had known Selena for about a year and a half now. Their first encounter had been somber—a rainy day at the cemetery, just the two of them. The visit was painful for Marcus; they were there for his father, a sore point in his life. How Selena knew his father remained a mystery until the next day when she visited him at the family estate.
During that visit, Selena remained quiet, answering questions but rarely asking any of her own.
Navigating Selena's responses proved tricky for Marcus. She always spoke in a manner that hinted at a deeply personal connection with his father, as if they'd known each other for years. Yet Marcus knew this wasn't the case; Selena had mentioned working for his father for only three years at that time.
Their initial meeting had occurred during an errand to Europe, of all places—a chance encounter in a bar. His father, ever the convivial host, had apparently befriended her over a bottle of 30-year-old scotch. Which he found hilarious.
It was then revealed that she was a work associate his father had entrusted with Marcus's well-being after his passing—odd, considering his father had been gone for five months already.
Marcus didn't press further. Selena left abruptly, mentioning something about collecting debts owed to his father. It was a cryptic statement, but it hinted at the shady business dealings Marcus had always suspected his father was involved in. Now, with Selena's words echoing in his mind, the truth became painfully visible.
...