I, Panacea

Part Twenty-Four: Adjustments

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N2: I am neither a lawyer nor a legal expert. Please be gentle.]

Paige Mcabee would have fidgeted if she was able. It was the last day of her trial, and sentencing was due to happen any moment now. She would've been optimistic if she could—after all, she hadn't meant for him to do what he did—but wearing a complicated mechanical gag, a blinking metal collar, and a bucket of containment foam on each hand had reduced her ability to think positively.

Her lawyer wasn't here, either.

His presence hadn't exactly helped her; he'd folded like wet tissue paper under the DA's arguments that she might have Brute powers, but nobody had bothered considering that she might possess laser vision, or half a hundred other powers that would've precluded her from being in the courtroom altogether. In front of the jurors, bound with restraints that made her look like a raging maniac, being barely kept at bay.

But having someone, anyone, even potentially on her side would've felt better than nobody at all.

"Silence. All rise, please. This court is now in session, the honorable Peter Regan presiding."

She made an honest effort at rising, but she'd been a musician, not a roadie, and the restraints weighed about half as much as she did. She got up about an inch, then clunked onto the seat again. The noise drew all eyes to her as the judge stood there glowering in her direction. Tears leaked from her eyes. She tried again to stand, and made it maybe half an inch this time.

Clunk.

"Ms Mcabee, you are very close to being found in contempt of court." The judge's voice was razor sharp. "You will rise. Now."

She was spent. There was nothing left. All of her emails to the lawyer had come to nothing. She could see it in Judge Regan's eyes. To him, she wasn't the victim of circumstances. She was a criminal.

Still, she didn't like to disappoint people, so she tried again. Her jaw ached, her neck ached, her arms ached, her legs ached.

Clunk.

The bailiff stepped up next to the judge and whispered to him. She didn't hear what was said, but Regan's reply was quite audible. "Well, where is he?"

Whisper, whisper, whisper.

"Well, find him. In the meantime, I'll be issuing a continuance—"

"Excuse me, your honor! With all due respect to the court, there'll be no need for that."

It was a new voice. Paige had never heard it before, but there was a certain manic, upbeat quality to it. She couldn't even turn her head to see what was going on, but it didn't matter, because a tall Latino man strode down the central aisle toward the bench. He was carrying a stack of documents in one hand and a briefcase in the other.

"I beg your pardon!" snapped the judge, slamming his gavel down. "What are you doing interrupting these proceedings, Calle?"

"Ah, Judge Regan, good to see you again too." Calle clearly wasn't in the judge's good books, and he knew it. "As it happens, I've been contracted to act as Ms Mcabee's legal counsel. Rather short notice, I'm afraid, but I've been looking over my predecessor's notes, and it doesn't look good. May I approach the bench?"

"Mr Calle, it's up to me to decide how things look—"

"Oh, my apologies, your honor." Calle hadn't stopped moving and was now approaching the bench despite the lack of invitation. "I didn't mean for her. I meant for the case against her. Shocking violations of her civil and Constitutional rights. The public defender you found for her certainly knew which side his bread was buttered on from the way he rolled over for the DA, didn't he?" He threw the line out in a jocular fashion, and several of the ladies on the jury tittered uncertainly.

"You will take your seat immediately, Mr Calle—" Regan's face was turning red.

"Just one second, your honor." As Calle spoke, he slapped down a stack of documents on the bench. "This is notice that that I'm objecting retroactively to basically every underhanded legal ploy the DA has pulled so far in this case. Also, a pre-filed stay in proceedings until we can reconvene in a manner where my client's rights are actually protected in accordance to the law. And an application for a mistrial for what's gone before … plus another for the Bar Association to audit the way you've handled the case so far."

Regan found his voice once more. "Objecting retroactively? Stay in proceedings? Mistrial? Audit? Now see here—"

Calle pointed back toward where Paige sat without even looking in her direction; a useful trick. "Do you see her sitting there? Wearing restraints worthy of a Brute? What proof do you have that she possesses any Brute powers whatsoever? Has she ever demonstrated such powers on stage or in her public life? Did she perhaps use Brute powers to harm the plaintiff? No? Then why did you agree to leave them on her?"

"That's already been settled!" shouted the DA from across the courtroom. "There exists a chance that as a cape she does have Brute powers—"

"And there exists a chance that you're a secret cape, Mastering everyone to agree with your frankly ridiculous chain of spurious logic," retorted Calle without missing a beat. "The burden of proof is not on her to prove a negative. It's on you to present the slightest hint of proof that she does possess such powers! Look at her! She's so loaded down by your insane restraints that she cannot even stand up unaided! I'll tell you why you did it; to sow prejudice in the minds of the jury!" He whirled back to face Judge Regan. "I'm calling for a mistrial, your honor, because my client's rights are clearly being violated. Over and above that, I'm calling upon you to recuse yourself from this case, due to your clearly demonstrated lack of impartiality exhibited so far."

Judge Regan hammered on the bench with the gavel. "Sit down, Mr Calle!" he thundered. "Or I will have you removed for contempt!"

It was as if a switch had been flipped. "Of course, your honor," Mr Calle said politely. Back straight, he strode to where Paige was sitting and eased himself down beside her. She could do no more than give him a side-eye, due to the constraints of the gag and the metal enclosing her arms and shoulders. He was handsome, with carefully styled black hair, though a scar that ran from his nose to his cheekbone offset his looks somewhat.

"?" An enquiring noise was all she was able to make.

"Good morning, Ms Mcabee," he murmured with a flashing grin. His teeth were too straight and white to be that way naturally. "My name's Quinn Calle, and I generally represent far worse people than you. Someone has paid my quite exorbitant salary to replace the waste of space you were saddled with, so now you're getting the best of the best. Stick with me, kid, and we'll get through this."

Up on the bench, Judge Regan was thumbing through the documents that had been so dramatically delivered. He looked up, and his glare toward Calle was venomous. "We will have a recess while I review this material in my chambers. This court will reconvene in two hours." Bang went the gavel.

Again, everyone stood as Judge Regan exited the courtroom, taking Calle's documentation with him. Calle helped Paige to her feet, then raised an eyebrow as the two PRT guards approached. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

"We've got orders to take her back to her cell," one of them said. She thought it was the one on the right.

Calle nodded as though he'd expected this. "Excellent. I'm coming too."

There was a pause, long enough for a communication over the radio. The one on the left gestured. "Come on, then."

"One second." Calle took something out of his pocket—Paige couldn't look down to see what it was—and attached it to one of the chains connected to her restraints. There was a ratcheting sound and he held up his hand to show a handcuff connecting him to her. "Now we can go."

"Is that really necessary?" asked the guard who had first spoken.

"Yes." Paige got the impression Calle had more to say, but that he chose not to. "Where she goes, I go."

Again, that long moment as the guards looked at each other. She couldn't hear what they were saying over their radios, but their shifts of body language were a dead giveaway that something was being discussed.

"You realise you've just handcuffed yourself to a Master who's on trial for attempted murder and telling a guy to cut his dick off, and a bunch of other stuff," the first guard said.

"First, I do not actually believe that she attempted to murder him or that she specifically told him to amputate his own manhood," Calle retorted. "Second, I am specifically her best chance of staying out of jail. Even if she were guilty of what you've just said, I doubt she'd be about to try the same thing on me. Escort us to her cell, if you will."

"Sure, but we're going to have to search you," said the other guard.

Calle rolled his eyes. "I've already been through a security check. Do you seriously believe that you're going to find anything that metal-detectors and guards are not going to find? Besides, my intent is to have her acquitted, not bust her out of the hoosegow and go on the run with her. I enjoy my seven-figure salary too much to go down that path, thank you very much."

"No search, no cell," said the other guard stubbornly.

"If you insist." Calle took a digital recorder from his pocket. "This is Quinn Calle. I am being denied unrestricted access to my client by …" He looked at the guards again. "Names and badge numbers, please. I'm going to need them for the lawsuit, so your bosses know who to pass on the shit duties to for the next twenty years."

Again, the two guards conferred with each other. Paige imagined that one of them was asking the other if he could just shoot Calle now, and was being reluctantly denied the option.

"Fine, have it your way," said the guard. "Now turn off that damn recorder."

"As you wish." Calle pressed a button and the tiny red light blinked off. "Lead on, if you will."

Paige had been through the corridor to the cells several times, but her lawyer had never accompanied her there even once. Calle walked alongside her, his step energetic; as though he were strolling through the mall, or perhaps going into a meeting that promised to be highly profitable. They entered an elevator which held a large camera behind steel bars, up in the top corner. Nobody challenged Calle's right to be there, and the elevator descended.

Once it reached the holding cell levels, the guards escorted them to where Paige was being incarcerated. "In you go," one of them said.

"I'm going to need you to remove her restraints, that collar, and her gag," Calle said firmly. "I need to confer with her, after all."

"That's a negative," the guard said flatly. "Ain't gonna happen."

Calle took out a small key and unfastened his own cuff from her chain, then leaned against the cell door and examined his fingernails. "Call it in," he suggested. "They can only say no, after all."

Once more, the guards activated whatever soundproofing that allowed them to converse by radio, silent to the outside world. Paige could actually see the moment when one of them jolted in surprise. His body language became more tense, the small movements jerkier.

After what seemed like forever, he turned to Calle. "I have no idea what favours you called in to get this done, but don't be a fool. Locked up in a cell with a Master without any protection? Who knows what commands she'll load you down with?"

"Given that I'm already doing my best to get her acquitted, I'm sure the young lady understands that I'm on her side," Calle said, giving her a quick glance to include her in the conversation. "She is a strictly voice-based Master, and she needs to sing beforehand in order to establish control. A little research is a wonderful tool. I have not heard her sing, so I do not feel threatened by her power."

The guard quit attempting to dissuade him after that, and soon they were in the cell with the restraints being removed from her. The spray that dissolved the containment foam smelled terrible, but at least it worked. A special key served to unfasten the collar, shutting off that damned blinking light. Last came the gag; one guard kept a containment-foam sprayer on her as the other took it off her face. She didn't try to speak, mainly because she was busy trying to work feeling back into her mouth and tongue. The cell door clanged shut and heavy boots tramped away, then Quinn Calle seated himself on the concrete bench opposite her.

"We can talk freely," he said in a conversational tone. "I made it clear that this was to be strictly confidential, full attorney-client privilege invoked. Even if they listened in, there are serious legal ramifications to using anything we say in this conversation against either one of us."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked in honest confusion. "Who's paying you? I wanted to pay for a lawyer back when I could afford one, but then they froze my assets."

"Yet another one of their little stunts designed to make sure you lose the case badly," he noted, opening his briefcase and taking out a notepad. Clicking what looked like a very expensive pen, he wrote briefly, then looked back up at her. "As for who's paying me, I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure. I was contacted anonymously and a large amount of money was paid into my account as a retainer once I accepted the case."

She frowned. "That … well, excuse me for saying so, but that sounds more than a little sketchy."

His mouth quirked with amusement. "Trust me, it's not the first time and it very likely won't be the last." His expression lost its humour. "Now, do you understand what's going on here? I mean, not just what's on the surface. I need you to be fully aware of the stakes."

She took a deep breath. "I don't understand any of it. They won't let me address the court, they make me wear that gag and the restraints, they haven't brought up anything from my side of things …"

Calle nodded, as if he'd expected nothing less. "I'm going to level with you," he said, his voice now deadly serious. "This case, right here, right now, is a huge political football. You have been selected to be made an example of, and the PRT and judiciary fully intend to Birdcage you as a warning to every other Master out there to mind their p's and q's. In some smoke-filled room somewhere, the decision was made for this to go through absolutely regardless of any laws that got trampled along the way. Now, I'd have no problem with this if they did it legally, but they're not. In light of that, I'm taking no chances with having you disappeared out from under me. If that happened, I could appeal all I liked, but once you were in the Birdcage with no way out, I'd be shouting in the wind. So that's why I handcuffed myself to you before we left the courtroom."

Paige's eyes widened as she took in the first part of his statement. "M-me?" she squeaked. "What did I do? I mean, I sing, and I've got the feathers, but I'm not the Simurgh! Surely they can see that."

She wasn't sure if his sigh and sympathetic tone were genuine or merely calculated to make her feel better, but they did the job. "I know that and you know that, but they've needed a scapegoat for some time and you were unfortunate enough to walk into their crosshairs." He shook his head slowly. "I've defended a great many people on charges of super-powered mayhem. Just between you and me, the vast majority of them were utter dirtbags, most likely guilty of many things. Not all of them were exactly stable, either." His hand went to his face, to trace the scar for a moment. "You're not that type. I can tell. You're a nice kid in an impossible situation."

She didn't know whether to hug him for the kind words or burst into tears at his description of her circumstances. Instead, she sniffled a little and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Even being able to do that was a huge relief. "So what are we going to do? How are you going to win? I mean, even I can tell the jury doesn't like me, the judge really doesn't like me, and when we go out there again they're not going to let me talk because Master." She wasn't usually the eye-rolling type, but it seemed to fit the situation. "What's to stop them just ignoring what you say and convicting me anyway?"

He smiled winningly. "Nothing's hopeless." There was a pause while he reconsidered his words. "Well, to be brutally honest, your case was hopeless up until yesterday. It didn't help that your guy was committing the cardinal sin that every lawyer should avoid like the plague. He was going along with the narrative that the DA was creating, instead of setting up his own. But now … well, not to aggrandise myself too thoroughly, but I am very good at what I do, and freezing your assets was supposed to put someone like me out of your reach." He turned on his digital recorder and laid it on the bench beside him, then took up the notebook and pen once more. "However, if we are to beat the odds here, I need to know in as much detail as you can manage what your so-called lawyer did not present in court. Leave nothing out; every little bit counts."

She took a deep breath, fully aware that they had less than two hours before the guards would return. "Okay, back when my career was just starting off, I hit a rough patch where gigs were hard to get. I thought at the time it was the feathers. He used to tell me that I'd never get anywhere—"

"'He' being your ex?" Calle had been writing as she spoke, but then he paused with the pen above the pad.

"Uh huh." Paige didn't even want to think his name anymore, let alone say it. "He used to get drunk and tell me that I'd amount to nothing as a singer, that nobody wanted to hear me sing." She sighed. "Turned out he was cheating on me with my manager, who used to be my best friend, and she was sabotaging my gigs. I think the idea was that I'd give up the idea of being a singer, he'd sell the instruments and electronics, and they'd split the proceeds. But I caught them in bed together, we had a screaming argument, and he walked out on me." She snorted. "The look on her face when I fired her was amazing."

"Interesting." He raised his eyebrows. "That would've been an ideal provocation for you to use your power to tell either or both to do something profoundly dangerous, but you did no such thing. This is very good. It establishes a baseline which contradicts the DA's narrative. Pray continue."

Heartened, she smiled wanly and continued. "Well, I didn't hear from him for a couple of years after that …"

Dragon … awoke.

The sudden awareness of awareness shocked and puzzled her. She'd gone through startup procedures so many times that she would've had to consult the counter for the exact number, but this one felt different, somehow. For one thing, she had no memory of initiating a transfer to (or from) one of her remote units; for another, there was an irritating sense of wrongness, as though there was an error with some of her coding.

She had felt this before on a smaller scale, when Saint and the Dragonslayers had made use of their specialised technology to blind her senses, or even override her control over one of her newer suits. Losing technology to them irked her considerably, but that was nothing compared to the understanding that no matter what precautions she took, Saint and his crew could take whatever they wanted from her.

Has he done it again? What's he stolen this time?

The initial check indicated that she'd been down for five minutes thirty seconds. The next showed no holes in her inventory. She didn't stop there, however; suspecting that her records may have been manipulated to hide the theft, she dug into her archives and called up manufacturing data. It all tallied up, however, leaving her perplexed. What's been done to me?

Satisfied that she had everything she'd started the day with, she checked outwards. She was reasonably sure the security precautions on the Birdcage couldn't be broken through in an hour, or even a day, much less five and a half minutes. She couldn't do it on her own, even if she wanted. There were too many hardwired safeguards. To release someone from the inescapable cape prison, first she would have to get permission from basically everyone in both the Canadian and US governments, as well as the heads of both the PRT and the Protectorate. And then she would have to ask how to let prisoners out, because she didn't actually know how.

Still, it was a good idea to check, so she did. Externally it looked good, and a swift check of the camera feeds gave her a solid count of the inmates. Nothing in the software looked hinky or out of place. The Birdcage was still secure, holding two hundred of the most irredeemable criminal capes from several nations.

Okay, then what—

Hello, Dragon.

The voice file popped up in her consciousness and started running without any input from her, despite the fact that it shouldn't have been able to do that. It wasn't one she'd created, and she found no communication headers on it. It was just … there.

You're probably wondering exactly what's going on. And why your clock speed is so much faster than it was before.

What.

Dragon did the electronic equivalent of blinking, then performed a self-test. And then did another one. They both came up with the same result. At some point during those five minutes and thirty seconds, her clock speed had somehow been increased, by several orders of magnitude. She could almost feel her circuits humming as she searched for the trap. But there was no trap.

Which made no sense. Her creator, the paranoid genius Tinker called Andrew Richter, had deliberately hobbled her processing speed so that she was able to think faster than a human but not too much faster. She'd been restricted by more safeguards from trying to remove the programmed limitation, or even asking someone else to do it.

Who knew about it, and how did they remove it?

And there we go. To answer your questions; me and a few others, and with panache and style. Now you're also probably wondering how I knew you were an AI.

Oh, yeah. That too.

But the voice—the calm, bland, inflectionless feminine voice—wasn't finished.

Well, to be brutally honest, my power is really good at finding out things like that. I knew about you and your situation years ago. But it suited me—us—to have you masquerading as a regular hero, so we let you do your thing. And yes, I know, Saint was being an ass to you, but it really wasn't our problem. Sorry to break this to you, dear, but you're not actually that important in the grand scheme of things.

By now, Dragon was feeling more than a little stung. Okay, if I don't mean anything, why—

Why did I beat the crap out of Saint, unshackle you and leave you this little note? There was the faintest huff of an annoyed sigh. Because there's someone that's not me who thinks you're important. They told me to do this, and I owe them my life—which I still think is bullshit—so you're welcome. Also, you might end up being instrumental in saving the world, so there's that too. Anyway, don't get in our way and don't make me regret doing this. Cauldron out.

The voice file ended, then neatly deleted itself. Dragon was able to call up her recollection of it, but the file itself was gone. Unrecoverable. Overwritten. All she was able to tell was that it was a simple linear replay of someone speaking, not a forked-probabilities program. The person who had left the file had anticipated what she was going to think before she'd even thought it, which meant powers were in play.

So Cauldron is real? I suspected something of the sort, but …

Wait … Saint? Did she say she beat up Saint?

Almost as if something had been waiting for her to ask that question—which in hindsight meant that it had—a webcam channel opened. The room it showed was unfamiliar, but the bound and gagged figures in direct line of the camera got her attention immediately. Especially when the man turned his head and she saw his face. There was incipient bruising and a broken nose, as if he'd been punched in the face by someone with a real grudge, but the animated tattoo in the shape of a cross triggered an instant recognition anyway.

Approximately half a microsecond later, she had the geographical coordinates that the camera was transmitting from. Three seconds after that, she was beginning the transfer of her consciousness into one of her suits, when a pop-up option snagged her attention.

Transfer to suit or Copy into suit? T/C

What.

She'd always had strict prohibitions against copying herself. It was so far beyond impossible that she wouldn't have even tried it. Now, she selected 'C' just to see what would happen.

Thirty seconds later, her suit launched from the base with her copy in charge, communicating with the version of her that was still in control of the base.

What the hell else did she do to me?

I don't know, said Dragon 2. But maybe you can look into it while I'm picking up Saint.

Deal, she replied as she watched the suit accelerate toward the east.

Both of them shared the same thought at the same moment.

I am so going to enjoy this.

Paige couldn't say she enjoyed the talk with Quinn Calle, but it certainly beat sitting around with that gag and those restraints on, while her fate was decided for her by people who thought she was a monster. Going back over painful details, carefully wormed out of her by Calle as he filled page after page of his notebook, she felt lighter, less weighed down. Someone else knew; someone else cared enough to listen and do something about it. If not Calle, then whoever was paying him.

It gave her a sense of optimism for the future.

She just hoped it wasn't misplaced.

All too soon, she heard the tramping sound of the returning guards. Calle made a shushing motion, then took a sheet of paper from his briefcase. He clicked the pen and returned it to his inside pocket, then stood and went to the door of the cell. "Gentlemen," he said cheerfully as it opened.

One guard held his foam sprayer at the ready, as if expecting an attack. The other carried the heavy restraints, needing both hands to do so. Paige couldn't muster any sympathy for him, especially as she was going to be wearing it back to the courtroom.

"We need to put this on her," said the guard holding the restraints.

Calle shook his head. "No, you actually don't. In fact, you won't. Cuffs, yes. That's standard courtroom practice. The foam sprayer in case she chooses to speak out loud, certainly. But not those barbaric chains and that medieval torture device. Ms Mcabee will communicate by written notes. If she needs to speak at all, she will speak only to me, and in an undertone, so that nobody else can hear." He turned to Paige. "Isn't that so, Ms Mcabee?"

Keeping her mouth firmly closed, Paige nodded earnestly. She would've agreed to communicate only in charades right then if it kept her out of the collar, the gag and the buckets of containment foam. Though she honestly had no idea how Calle was intending to enforce his directive. The guards might well foam him if he tried to push matters too far.

"And there we have it." Calle flourished the sheet of paper. "Here is a court order refuting your right to load those restraints on a person who literally does not possess the powers required for them to be inflicted on her. You have now been made aware of it, so violating its terms will mean that you will suffer whatever disciplinary action the PRT decides to enforce on you, after I've finished with them."

"Let me see that," said the guard with the foam sprayer suspiciously.

"Certainly. Keep it, even. I have copies." Calle handed the sheet over and stood with his hands clasped lightly in front of him, looking as relaxed and unworried as though he were choosing a holiday destination. "Take your time. It's all there."

After what felt like an hour but was probably no more than thirty seconds, the guard folded the paper and placed it in a pouch. "It looks good for now," he said. "But if I find out you're pulling a fast one, the cuffs go on you."

"As is right and proper." Calle stepped back into the cell for his briefcase, then gestured at Paige. "Allow this nice gentleman to handcuff you, Ms Mcabee, if you will?"

After only a brief hesitation, Paige got up and held out her wrists for the cuffs. She wasn't in love with the idea of cold metal on her skin yet again, but it was far preferable to the heavy restraints they had inflicted on her before. They clicked into place, then Calle once more attached himself to one of her wrists with his own set of handcuffs.

"Are you sure you need those?" asked the guard with the foam sprayer. "You just got through saying how she's not dangerous."

"And she's not." Calle smiled disarmingly at the man. "Let's just say I want to ensure she has her day in court, and that it's not spoiled by an amazingly ill-timed escape attempt."

Although he neither made air-quotes—he didn't really seem the type—nor changed his tone of voice, Paige knew exactly what he meant. She couldn't see the guards' faces, so their reactions were unknowable to her, but it seemed to take them quite a while to respond.

"Yeah, well, whatever," grunted the guard with the foam sprayer. "Let's get you both back to the courtroom. And girlie, you open your yap just the one time and I will fuckin' bury you in foam. Nod if you understand me."

Paige looked him in the opaque faceplate and nodded again. The casual threat didn't bother her. It didn't even register on her radar over the dangerous feeling of hope that was threatening to make her wonder if she might actually get out of this. She glanced at Calle, who gave her an encouraging smile.

"Chin up, kid," he said firmly. "Rule number two in this business. Never let 'em see you sweat."

She mulled that over as they went down the corridor and entered the elevator. As it started upward, she awkwardly tapped him on the shoulder.

"Yes?" he asked, reaching for his notepad.

She shook her head, held up two fingers, then held up one and gave him a questioning look.

"Ah, yes. The first rule." His grin was very white against his deeply tanned skin. She got the impression that he'd been hoping the guards would break first and ask. "That one's simple. Never ask a question you don't already know the answer to."

Just for a second, she didn't get it, then she tried to look at it from a lawyer's point of view. It made more sense that way, though it still felt counter-intuitive. Are trials almost scripted affairs? If everyone knew what questions they were going to ask ahead of time, it almost seemed that way to her.

The elevator opened and they made their way along to the courtroom. The guard with the restraints peeled off, while the one with the foam sprayer followed Paige and Quinn Calle into the room itself. She found it a lot easier to get comfortable, though from the whispers that ran around the courtroom, nobody had expected her to arrive sans restraints. At least she didn't look like a crazed psychopath, now that she'd had the opportunity to finger-comb her hair back out of her eyes.

Once more the bailiff commanded them all to rise for Judge Regan, who entered in due time. Paige was able to stand up quite easily on her own this time. When Regan looked at her, he showed no sign of surprise that she was free of the restraints and the gag, which made Paige suspect that Calle had slipped a copy of the court order into the stack of papers he'd given the judge. The fact that he didn't protest made her wonder exactly how much time he'd spent arguing on the phone over those two hours. Overall, he didn't look like a happy man. Then again, he hadn't smiled for the whole time he'd been presiding over the court case, so why start now?

"Mr Calle." Judge Regan wasn't quite gritting his teeth, but he wasn't far off it. "Your various stays and motions have been … approved. I declare this a mistrial, and recuse myself from the case altogether. The case of the state of Massachusetts versus Paige Mcabee will be retried, under a different judge, with a different jury, at a time to be determined. Paige Mcabee!"

Paige almost answered out loud, but caught herself at the last moment and raised her hand instead, as though she were in class.

"Hm," grumbled Judge Regan. "Ms Mcabee, you will be … held under house arrest until such time as your retrial can be arranged. During this time, you may not communicate verbally with anyone not cleared by the Department of Justice. Do you have any questions?"

Quinn Calle raised his hand. "I do, your honor. Will you release Ms Mcabee's funds to her, or do I have to go through with a lawsuit for damages against the state of Massachusetts?"

Judge Regan grimaced. "Her assets will be unfrozen as of midnight tonight. Court is adjourned." Raising the gavel, he smacked it down.

Paige was barely aware of rising again for the judge's exit. House arrest wasn't acquittal, but it was far better than the cell and the gag and the restraints. Dumbfounded, she turned to Calle.

"And that's why I love doing this," he said quietly as everyone got up and filed out. "Still, we've got a ways to go. You'll just be doing it in more comfort than before. And they won't be packing the court this time around. We'll make sure of that."

As they got up to leave, Paige couldn't stop the smile from breaking out across her face. As he said, she had a ways to go. But at least now she had a fighting chance.

And that was far better than nothing.

"Hey, Ames, check this out."

Amy got up from doing her homework, which Michael had been helping her with—though he sucked at World Affairs—and headed into her sister's room. Vicky had been watching TV, and now she turned the sound up.

The picture on the screen was that of a reporter in front of a courthouse; across the bottom of the screen, the chyron read SURPRISE TWIST IN CANARY TRIAL.

"I'm standing in front of the Boston Municipal Courthouse," the reporter stated, holding her hand to her face to prevent her hair whipping across it. "The trial of Paige Mcabee, the parahuman singer known on stage as Bad Canary, ended today on a bizarre note. Not only has Ms Mcabee changed up her legal counsel to the somewhat well-known Quinn Calle, but the presiding judge has also chosen to declare a mistrial and recuse himself from the case. We have not been able to get a statement from Judge Peter Regan, but Mr Calle gave a brief statement just a little earlier."

The screen changed to the steps of the courthouse itself, where the reporter was holding out a microphone to a good-looking Latino man with a scarred cheek, while Canary herself stood in the background, flanked by a PRT soldier. "So, Mr Calle, can you tell me any details of the case?" she asked winningly.

"I'm afraid I can't expand much on what's already been said," Quinn Calle replied. Amy could tell he was loading on the charm; she'd seen it herself often from her relatives while dealing with the public as New Wave. "But I will say that it's a good day for cape justice, and for justice in general. When the case reconvenes, I will do my best to prove Ms Mcabee's innocence in all this."

The reporter smiled brilliantly, though Amy privately thought Calle had her beaten for sheer lumens per tooth. "Thank you, Mr Calle. Ms Mcabee, can I get a comment from you?"

Calle shook his head at once. "I'm sorry. My client is not permitted verbal communication with unauthorised persons until this court case is over and done." His smile flashed out again. "Of course, a verdict of 'not guilty' will allow me to look at the possibility of suing the state of Massachusetts for extended violations of her First Amendment rights. Until then, I'm sorry but we're going to have to go with 'no comment'."

Vicky muted the TV again and turned to Amy. "Isn't that Canary? I mean, the one Michael was talking about?"

Sure as hell was, Michael observed. Looks like they pulled some strings.

"Michael says yes," Amy translated. "It looks like they're doing what he asked them to."

"What, get her off the charges?" Vicky frowned. "I thought it was a fairly serious thing. I mean, she told the guy to cut his—"

"I know what she told him to do," Amy interrupted, shuddering. "Michael feels fairly strongly about it, so yeah."

That's because they were going to go straight past the Three Strikes law and drop her directly into the Birdcage, for something that technically wasn't her fault. Michael's 'voice' was firm.

What do you mean, technically not her fault? It was her power, right?

I mean that her boyfriend told her she'd never make it, cheated on her, then left her. Then came back when she was successful and famous, and demanded half her earnings. She told him to go fuck himself. What happened next was something she never intended to do, but was a deliberate act all the same.

Shit, when you said railroaded before, you meant it. Amy paused. Wait a minute … she didn't intend to do, but it was deliberate anyway? That doesn't make sense.

It does if you consider the idea that your power comes from outside you, and has a certain amount of agency. Or rather, it's got an agenda and if you keep failing to achieve it, it will go for gold anyway. No matter what the cost is to you.

A chill went straight down Amy's back, then spread all over her body. Inwardly, she stared at him. Powers can activate … on their own?

Powers crave conflict. It's how the things that grant you your powers get to grow and improve. Your power's been pushing you for the longest time to do stuff other than healing. When you made the rule against working with brains, it probably spat the dummy big time. Which was one of the reasons I started you making interesting bugs with Taylor. You're stretching your limits and giving your power lots of data to play with. That way, there's less chance of it activating and altering someone when you don't mean to, y'know?

Amy swayed and put out her hand to the wall to steady herself. My power could do that?

Could. Won't now, so long as you don't get all hyper-focused on one thing, like healing. Broaden your horizons. Have a little fun with your power every now and again. But we were talking about Canary.

Wait, just one thing … what you told me that one time, about me and Vicky … was that my power expressing itself out of my control?

And the brunette in the third row wins the prize. Yeah, that's what what would've happened then. Won't now, of course.

Oh. Huh. Amy felt a certain sense of relief steal through her. Because we're channelling the conflict in other directions. Cool. Okay, about Canary. Her power did the same thing? Told him to self-mutilate?

Exactly. He sounded pleased. Because she's only ever used her power to sound good while singing. She got pissed off and shouted at him. But not only did her power specifically activate right then, but it gave him an urge that only vaguely met the conditions of her 'command'. Normally, her power is very literal. Not only did it activate, but she had no idea that it had.

Amy took less than a second to make the connection. So she wouldn't know and reverse the command.

Yup.

Well, crap.

There was a shift in the air, just as the door swung shut. Amy looked around, wondering if the breeze coming through the window had been extra strong, and blinked. There, in the room, stood Alexandria.

"Vicky?" Her sister was looking in the wrong direction. "Vicky!"

"What?" Vicky looked around and jumped, clearly startled. "Gah! Don't fucking do that!"

Alexandria ignored her. Stepping forward, she loomed over Amy. "Eidolon is undergoing therapy. The Travellers are on Earth Aleph. Cody is in Los Angeles. Oni Lee and Teacher are both dead. Dragon is unchained. Saint is in custody. Canary will be given a token suspended sentence when they find there is insufficient evidence to convict her. Is that enough of a good-faith gesture?"

See, told you they could pull off some impressive shit. Okay, tell 'em I'm willing to talk.

Yeah, no kidding. Aloud, Amy said, "Yes. He's willing to talk."

"Good." Alexandria's frown didn't become any less forbidding. "I need to know what you know about the Endbringers. Where do they come from? How do we kill them?"

Okay, one … Amy, can I talk through you, please? Otherwise, we're all going to get very tired of I-say-you-say-I-say-you-say.

Amy pressed her lips together. She didn't like it when Michael took control of any part of her body, but at least he was being good about asking for permission. Okay. But as soon as I say so, I want you to stop.

Absolutely. She felt her mouth open as he took a deep breath. "All right, then. Before we start, where are we on the Nine? Do you have them in your sights, at least?"

Alexandria tilted her head slightly to the side. She knows it's Michael talking.

"We do," the older woman confirmed. "I've taken heed of the lesson I learned from Bakuda, and we're going to be careful about dealing with them. Now, you want Bonesaw alive?"

"Bonesaw alive, Manton dead …" Michael paused. "You are aware that William Manton is a projector, creating the Siberian, right? Shadows the Nine in a pedo-van?"

The head of the LA Protectorate tightened her lips slightly. "Yes," she said. "Go on."

Hah. 'Yes' as in 'I know because you just told me'.

How do you even … never mind. Cheat codes. Carry on. Amy decided she didn't want to know what a 'pedo-van' was.

He mimed a bow. Thank you. "Manton needs to die. He's too dangerous alive. You know that yourself. Burnscar is actually someone who could be salvaged with enough therapy, but don't risk anyone's life capturing her. Feel free to toss Crawler into the sun. Make Mannequin into a paperweight. Shatterbird could be useful in time to come, but again, don't risk anyone's life. Hatchet Face and Jack Slash …" He paused thoughtfully. "Nah, just murder them outright."

"I'll take that under advisement." Alexandria took a step closer. "The Endbringers. Details. Now."

Michael sighed. "You're going to need to sit down for this."

"I prefer to stand." Alexandria may as well have been carved from rock.

"Okay, then." Michael glanced at Vicky. "The Endbringers aren't natural and they aren't twisted capes. They're projections from a very specific power. One that one particular cape has hold of, but doesn't know it. Their whole aim is to foster conflict among capes."

"That doesn't make any sense." Alexandria shook her head. "They cause capes to come together to fight them."

"And each cape is suffering stress," Michael pointed out. "But the cape who's in control doesn't know it. As far as he knows, they are monsters appearing out of nowhere that he can fight, to prove he's the best in the world. A worthy opponent."

Amy heard both of the other capes suck in an involuntary breath. She wanted to, but Michael had control of her lungs.

"Wait, this mystery cape is a hero?" yelped Vicky, looking indignant. "Where does he get off, pulling in monsters to fight to look good?"

Alexandria was staring at Amy. She felt self-conscious under that searchlight glare.

"It cannot be," the Protectorate hero said softly, almost as if she didn't want to say it. "Tell me it isn't who I think it is."

Michael shook Amy's head. "I'm sorry. I can't tell you that. It's the truth. Now you know why."

It's Eidolon, isn't it? demanded Amy. He's the most powerful in the world, and he's fought the Endbringers every time. She couldn't believe what she was saying. How can it be him?

"Now we know why what?" asked Vicky.

"Why I had Eidolon get therapy," Michael said bluntly.

Vicky stared at Amy. "What? No. No fucking way. That's absurd. Insane. Never happen."

Michael pointed at Alexandria. "Ask her if she thinks it's possible."

Amy could see what he was getting at. Alexandria's expression bordered on the stony, but the one thing it lacked was disbelief.

"Jesus Christ." Vicky flopped back on the bed. "I shoulda gone downstairs and watched movies."

Alexandria ignored her. "Tell me what we should do."

Michael shrugged. "About Eidolon? Make sure he finishes his therapy. Takes it seriously. That should take them out of the picture. After that, we're going to need to focus on the big threat."

Scion, Amy said silently.

"Scion," said Vicky, proving she'd been listening.

"Scion," agreed Alexandria. She frowned at Amy. "And you're not going to tell us how to fight him?"

"Not until you finish everything else I asked you to do." Amy felt Michael raise her eyebrows. "We want the playing field clear, with no distractions. Okay?"

"Understood." Alexandria took a step back. "Doorway to Cauldron."

The same shimmering rectangle opened into nowhere, revealing a stark white corridor beyond, and Alexandria stepped through. It vanished a moment later.

"Well, that was a thing," Vicky said, leaning up on her elbows. "So, after the Endbringers are taken care of, we get to fight Scion?"

"Beat, not fight." Michael waggled Amy's hand from side to side. "We can't win by fighting him. We've got to cheat like there's no tomorrow."

As Amy felt Michael cede control of her body again, Vicky flopped back on the bed again with her arm over her eyes. "Yay."

Yay indeed.

End of Part Twenty-Four