Chapter Text
When the dust had settled, the authorities' lapdog—Chief of MBCC—declared he'll stay with Legion until negotiations are over. Which is an unusual decision for a non-combatant, though not entirely unexpected. His Sinner companions wouldn't leave his side.
The helicopter that arrived an hour early had no choice but to leave with a red vial in a sealed bag, a blueprint reconstructing the burnt rubble where the inheritance was, and a silver-tongued persuasion to strike when the iron's hot. Witnessing the success of what was apparently his first mission, it couldn't be argued against.
Who is he? Not civilian. Not military academy alumni. Before the riot, there wasn't a single whisper of his existence, and Whitestone Industries had shrugged in a what-can-you-do, way-above-my-pay-grade way. Earl knows that Bai Yi shared a certain solidarity with Zoya in their childhood, despite having not met until many years later, but her personality... the less said, the better.
At least Che is straightforward and K.K. has a good head on her shoulders. One-third of their company had been shackled, yet they haven't threatened him outside of a friendly overture flying at his face. K.K. immediately intercepted the flashy advertisement and Chief didn't pry. Not that this is the type of intel Earl would have preferred, per se, but he'd never turn down a freebie from an ally, no matter how annoying. Interrogating Hecate and Hella had been informative, if intensely frustrating... And worst of all, Zoya is fond of them. Of him.
If only Earl could lure him out or lock him up, but the fucking bastard has fascinated half of Legion, and the other half isn't far behind. Don't go gray, Advisor, he's a good guy! If he's bad, we can beat him up without breaking a sweat. It's fine to be fools, because who else would fight for Syndicate, but there has to be limits! Why are they so stupid?!
Then again, the biggest fool is Earl, who failed his little sister in ways he hadn't even realized.
Horo risked her life to deliver this information to Legion. Imprisoned in MBCC for months, in the midst of danger, she was alone. Unable to call for backup, battling enemies until she could barely move, she would've died, if someone didn't bring her to SALVA. And here she is. A clipboard hanging from the hospital bed.
No information is worth more than your life.
The past few days have finally caught up with Earl, as his left leg prosthetic clanks against cold tiles.
When he wakes up, the blanket beneath his face, the rail between his ribs, the warmth of Horo's hand—
"You slept through the transfer to room 152."
Not even afforded the courtesy to comprehend the absence, he unceremoniously crashes through the bed that isn't there. Halfway to the ground, it's more of a crouch. Carelessness is the currency of dead men walking into a trap.
Earl appreciates the update on Horo's relocation, though he doesn't understand how it happened. Did someone shoot him with a tranquilizer? No, that's a waste of resources, and while the shackles may have soothing effects, he doesn't feel restrained. His combat ability hasn't been enhanced, his senses haven't been augmented, and there's no trace of the Forbidden Force.
The only red within his line of sight is a little illuminated dot.
He stands up and stares at that artificially ageless face. It could be anywhere from early 20s to late 30s.
Instead of lowering the camera, Chief lifts his fingers in hello, as if playing the flute. It's cute. Countless plans were scrapped because of a single word from Commander.
Above the lens, a SALVA sticker summarizes the cause and effect. One of the nurses must've requested Chief to record Horo, having heard horror stories of medical professionals being scammed by patients' relatives in Eastside. Earl considers this as a conversation starter.
What do you know of current events? Were you passing time with surface-level questions, or have you never studied Syndicate's history? How restricted is the information flow between you and your superiors?
To his knowledge, the Bureau has been headless for a long time. As a student, Adjutant Nightingale had no shortage of sponsorship offers, including Bernadette Cavendish. She settled for FAC, slowly working her way up until she was suddenly shuttled off to MBCC. Having no agenda of her own is suspicious. She has hidden too deeply, yet not deep enough to leave a smokescreen. Chief's motives are obvious. Maybe he could be a little less so.
"At least try to be subtle with your surveillance, this..." Cheeky insistence on incompetence, when you're clearly not. "...Casualness. Is offensive."
While avoiding the oncoming camera, Earl is ambushed by the lens cap, stamping his forehead like a crinkled four-day-old document. Forced to accept these terms, he sits to his left, opposite of the hand that shackled Zoya. The contract has been signed in blood.
Barely noticeable, Party A blushes, despite being the one who boldly attacked Party B. The only tell is a slighter longer blink to banish the pink in his cheeks. Not that it's necessary to look so closely at Chief.
"When you said your power was precise explosion, I think you meant delayed reaction."
"Were you going to do something that requires quick reflexes? Withholding information on the 24-hour limit was... poor hospitality." Off the top of his head, Earl can list five Legionnaires who would duel for the honor of training fresh meat how to draw first blood. Too bad they can't turn that misunderstanding to truth. Poaching talent is improbable when Chief has proven he can secure the loyalty of Sinners like Hella and Hecate. "You can hit me, but don't hurt yourself in the process."
Startled into laughter, Chief staggers as the front legs of his chair rises and falls. After stopping the video, his laughter starts again. The Bureau must be lacking in enrichment, if he's this easily entertained.
"Sorry, sorry, it's just so striking. The similarities." He coughs, the corners of his lips convulsing before calming down. "Horo said I could hit her a thousand times, though she thought I was Ninety-Nine... Thank you for your sincerity. I can't accept it with a clear conscience."
"You don't believe in eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, do you, Chief?"
"Controversial, I know, but I think body parts do their best where they belong."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"OK."
So his little sister was tricked by this slick-talker. Chief remembered the name of a mercenary he heard once, relying on many reputations without revealing any flaws. If he hadn't ran back to rip the inheritance away from Zoya, he would've successfully escaped from the gang fight that had nothing to do with him.
Horo—a mere mouthpiece of the creature that crawled from the crypt—could've been the dying breath that blew out Legion's beacon. She would've never forgiven herself, and Earl would've never been able to replace the reason for getting stronger and further from her big brother.
Their reliable yet unreliable boss has to stay alive, not be satisfied with living in memories like Leggett.
Still, does it have to be a thoughtless airhead who can't tuck in his wolf tail?
To prevent a potential rift in Legion's relationship with SALVA, Earl won't go to room 152. He has to process the documents on which people in the Public Security Bureau provided Mania weapons to Red Falcon, Yagyu, Carnivore, and Thou Voodoos. Pick apart the political landscape. Pretend to see soil where there's gravel. Plant the seeds and pray it will be enough.
"Let's discuss our partnership during the after-battle party."
"Rest well, Earl." As if he didn't record him sleeping where he shouldn't have been. "I'll buy you a drink... after I find Hella and whatever's left of my wallet. She'd better have brought Hecate something nice. I'm not above borrowing a suture needle and unstitching her beanie..."
The face—for the lack of a better descriptor—transforms. Into an ugly contortion that is certainly a face. That is. Is.
It takes everything Earl has to expressionlessly evacuate the hospital.
Don't. Don't. Don't.
In an unspecified place in Syndicate, a man bites his fist to muffle his surprisingly boyish mirth.