RWD: NO_ROLLBACK: 6.10 

NO_ROLLBACK: 6.10 

(Tattletale)

The headache was a familiar companion, a dull, persistent throb behind her eyes that had become the background noise to her life. Three days. It had been three solid days since Greg killed Leviathan, and Lisa hadn’t stopped working. While the others were scattered across the palatial, secluded estate—their current gilded cage—finding moments of peace and quiet triumph, she was here. Drowning in data, coordinating a dizzying array of tasks that Greg had dropped in her lap like a sack of anvils before striding off to reshape the world.

Overworked. The word was a bitter taste in her mouth. She was the one who had to make the impossible happen, to connect the dots and grease the wheels of his grand designs.

It was still hard to wrap her head around. He’d done it. He’d looked at an Endbringer, a force of nature that had humbled the greatest heroes for decades, and decided he would end it. The sheer audacity of it was one thing; the perfect execution was another entirely. It was impressive, deeply so. And that was what worried her. Every contingency accounted for, every variable bent to his will.

He hasn’t been wrong yet. Taylor’s words from earlier echoed in her mind.

No, he hasn’t.

Terrifying, isn’t it?

On a secondary screen, she had a replay of yesterday’s press conference paused. She’d watched it live, of course, feeding Greg real-time analysis of the public’s reaction through a micro-earpiece. Now, she was dissecting it. Greg stood at a podium, a spectre in his signature charcoal suit and balaclava, the ‘Omen’ persona now cemented in the global consciousness. To his left, on a matching podium, stood Chief Director Rebecca Costa-Brown. Together, they announced the birth of the Brockton Bay Special Administrative Zone, a territory under the joint protection of the Peacekeepers and the United States government. A new precedent. A new world order, starting with their blighted little city.

Costa-Brown’s voice, tinny through the laptop speakers, was firm as she granted full amnesty to all members of the Peacekeepers.  The Kill Order issued by Tagg was officially memory-holed, dismissed as a mistake made under duress, based on incomplete information. A summary of Operation Hammerdown was presented to the public—a model for future cooperation, a vital partnership. The reporters, a sea of microphones and flashing cameras, took turns asking questions, their queries fielded by the unflappable man in the mask and the most powerful woman in the country.

Lisa watched, her expression a careful blank. She’d known about this deal the day it was struck. The replay wasn’t for information. It was for confirmation. Greg had sent her a simple text after returning from the conference: Costa-Brown is Alexandria.

And just like that, her power had flared to life, a cascade of connections flooding her mind.

Posture match. Cadence of speech, slight, almost imperceptible shift in weight when challenged. Facial micro-expressions, suppressed but present. Shared mannerisms, the way they both tilted their heads slightly when listening. The calculated, almost surgical precision in their language.

The connections solidified into certainty. He was right. Of course, he was right. He usually saw things, well before she did. Unsure what to do with this new, dangerous piece of the puzzle, she pushed it aside, turning her attention back to the mountain of work he’d left her.

Greg’s rebranding efforts were in overdrive. He wasn’t just content with being the man who killed an Endbringer; he wanted to be the hero in the minds of the people the PRT wished they were. In the span of a day, leveraging his newfound political capital and a seemingly bottomless well of resources, he had launched a blitz of public works projects across Brockton Bay and the still-reeling New York City.

The list was staggering, a testament to his ambition and her impending migraine.

First came the social foundation: Addiction and Rehabilitation Centres to handle the Merchants' legacy, alongside Youth Engagement Centres offering everything from sports leagues to technical training—something to occupy the city's youth besides joining gangs. He was even funding mental health clinics specialising in parahuman-related PTSD, healing the very trauma his presence exacerbated.

Then came the economic overhaul. Infrastructure funds were earmarked to rebuild parts of New York, but the lion's share was a massive capital injection meant to resurrect Brockton Bay’s dying industries. This was paired with job training and tech initiatives, a synergistic move designed to transform the Bay into a hub of innovation under his control. To fill the new commercial landscape, small business grants offered low-interest loans to entrepreneurs willing to set up shop in the former territories of the Empire and ABB, literally overwriting the city's violent past with a prosperous, dependent future.

Finally, the masterstroke was in security. The "Brockton Bay Public Safety Initiative" would fund and equip the local police, integrating them with his intelligence network until they were little more than a public-facing arm of his own forces. Below them, a Community Watch Liaison Program would create a network of paid, professional loyalists—the Peacekeepers' eyes and ears on the local level. And for the final public relations coup, a Missing Persons Bureau was being established to solve cold cases; a move Lisa knew would be profoundly popular, bringing closure to families while serving as a direct, brutal jab at the PRT's long history of failure.

And that was just the civilian side. He also had a cape outreach program in the works, offering grants, resources, and protection to independent heroes and rogue groups who are invited to relocate to Brockton Bay, provided they played by local rules and regulation. It was a smarter, more attractive version of the government’s failed MIRIS initiatives. Offers had already gone out. Parian had a lucrative contract to become the official fashion designer for the local neighbourhood watch groups. Similarly, a deal concerning the Toybox was pending, aimed at positioning them as the R&D arm for the Peacekeeper’s more export-focused tech.

And who was at the centre of this whirlwind of activity, managing, coordinating, supervising, and even running their new social media accounts? Lisa. Always Lisa. While Greg was off negotiating with governments and changing the world, she was here, buried in the details, making it all happen.

The door to her office opened without a knock.

Lisa looked up, a retort dying on her lips. It was Greg. He wasn't in costume, just simple slacks and a dark sweater. He looked… normal. A college student home for the weekend. The dissonance between his appearance and the monstrous weight of his presence was more jarring than any mask.

“Everyone in the main living room. Five minutes,” he said, his voice quiet. He met her eyes, and for a second, she felt like a bug under a microscope. He knew she was exhausted, but, as always, there was work that needed doing.

“On my way,” she sighed, closing the laptops one by one.

###

The team was assembled in the cavernous living room, lounging on cream-colored leather sofas that probably cost more than her childhood home. Everyone was here as ordered: Taylor, Brian, Alec, Rachel, Paige, Aisha, Keiko, Agnes, and Tammi.

Greg stood before the marble fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. He waited for a few moments of silence before he spoke.

“Operation Hammerdown was a success,” he began, his tone disarmingly mild. “Leviathan is dead. The Kill Order is gone. The government has capitulated to our terms. Each of you played a role, and for that, you have my thanks.”

A murmur of something like relief went through the room. It was short-lived.

“However,” Greg continued, the single word sucking the warmth from the air, “success requires perfect execution. It requires absolute loyalty. We had a failure on that front.”

His eyes, that placid blue gaze, settled on Agnes. The healer flinched as if struck.

“Ambrosia. During the final phase of the operation, you were asked to grant me a specific power. Invincibility. Instead, you provided enhanced strength. An act of deliberate sabotage. An attempt at assassination.”

Agnes went pale, her face a mask of terror. “No, I—I was scared! I panicked, my power—I made a mistake!”

“A mistake,” Greg stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I can feel the lie taking shape in your mind before you even speak the words.” He gestured to the large television screen mounted above the fireplace. It flickered to life, showing a live video feed of a comfortable-looking suburban living room. An older woman with Agnes’s features sat knitting, a cup of tea on a table beside her.

“Your mother,” Greg said softly. “She seems comfortable. Safe. As you can see, I held up my end of the bargain, in the hopes that you would be willing to change for the better. It seems I was wrong…”

Agnes began to tremble, tears welling in her eyes. “Please… don’t. Don’t hurt her. I’m sorry. I was stupid.”

“You were,” Greg agreed. He took a step forward. “I could kill her. A simple phone call. It would be… tidy. A clean lesson in consequences.” He paused, letting the horror of the threat sink in. Lisa felt her stomach clench slightly. “But I find myself in a merciful mood. Her life is yours to bargain for. But your treachery cannot go unpunished. An example must be made.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of pruning shears. He held it out to Agnes, handles-first.

“In certain cultures,” Greg explained, his voice taking on the quality of a lecturer, “atonement for a failure that brings shame to one’s organisation is demonstrated through a ritual called yubitsume. Finger shortening. A symbolic act. A payment in flesh, usually the tip of a finger, to demonstrate remorse and reaffirm loyalty.”

The room was utterly silent. Agnes stared at the shears, then at Greg, her breathing ragged.

“I… I can’t,” she whispered.

Greg’s gaze flickered to the screen, where Agnes’s mother had just picked up her tea again. That was all it took.

With a choked sob, Agnes snatched the tool. Her hand shook violently. She placed the little finger of her left hand in between the metal blades, tears streaming down her face. She looked at Greg, a silent, desperate plea in her eyes. He just watched, his expression unreadable.

Steeling herself, she squeezed.

There was a wet, sickening crack of cartilage and bone. Agnes screamed, a raw, piercing sound of agony as she collapsed back, clutching her maimed hand. On the floor, the severed fingertip lay in a rapidly spreading pool of blood.

Shakily, through her sobs, Agnes picked up the grisly offering and held it out to Greg.

Lisa watched, a knot of ice forming in her stomach. It wasn’t the punishment that alarmed her, as brutal as it was. It was the reaction of the others. Or rather, the lack of it.

Tammi, who shared a history with Agnes, looked away, her face pale with a mixture of pity and fear. But the others…

Rachel’s and Brian’s expressions were unreadable, masks of stoic indifference. Neither particularly cared. Aisha watched with a grim sort of satisfaction. The traitor got what she deserved. Taylor was seemingly unflinching; Agnes was a liability who endangered the mission. The punishment is logical. Necessary even. Alec was… bored. Contempt flavoured his mood; She was stupid to try it, he thought. Stupider to get caught. This is just the price of failure. Keiko… She was amused. Watching a fascinating bit of theatre… aroused.

Lisa’s gaze shifted to Greg, who was calmly wrapping Agnes’s bleeding hand with a handkerchief. Even as he gathered the grisly offering and stored it away in his pocket, he did so without a flicker of emotion. And she knew then, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that this wasn’t just about punishment. It was about control. It was a demonstration.

She already knew that Keiko was mastered, her mind a fortress of loyalty built by Greg. But now, looking at the faces around her, at the cold acceptance of this brutal act, she began to suspect something far more insidious…