RWD - NO_ROLLBACK: 6.02 

Mercifully outside the smog-choked confines of Brockton Bay, the estate sprawled across thirty acres of manicured New England countryside, all rolling hills, manicured lawns and artfully placed copses of trees. A winding driveway hid the gate from the house, and the house, in turn, hid its occupants from the road.

NO_ROLLBACK: 6.02 

(Regent)

Mercifully outside the smog-choked confines of Brockton Bay, the estate sprawled across thirty acres of manicured New England countryside, all rolling hills, manicured lawns and artfully placed copses of trees. A winding driveway hid the gate from the house, and the house, in turn, hid its occupants from the road.

The villa was a structure of long decks, large windows, and a slate roof, all framed in tasteful wood that wouldn't splinter under your hand. An infinity pool glittered in the late afternoon sun, its placid surface reflecting a sky scraped clean of clouds. In the distance, below it all lay a cold, slate-green lake, with an ornate dinghy moored to a narrow dock. 

Alec was draped over a deck chair by the pool, a crystal tumbler of something amber and expensive sweating in his hand. He’d found the liquor cabinet within five minutes of arriving. It was a matter of principle. If the boss was going to provide a safehouse that looked like it had been ripped from an architectural magazine, it was Alec’s solemn duty to sample the amenities.

It was a reward, he supposed. A treat for the dogs after a particularly stressful week of training. Good boy, you didn’t bolt when the feds placed a bounty on your head. Here’s a biscuit and some top-shelf scotch.

He took a slow sip, the smoky peat of the whiskey a welcome burn in his throat. Across the patio, the rest of the team was scattered in various states of forced relaxation, all trying to pretend they weren't quietly losing their minds over the fact that their suicidal leader had essentially declared war on the United States government and somehow won.

…Well, "won" was a strong word. More like achieved a temporary ceasefire through the liberal application of threats that would make a Bond villain blush.

"Cannonball!"

Aisha's shout gave Alec just enough warning to pull his phone away before she crashed into the pool, sending a wave of chlorinated water across the deck. She surfaced with a grin that reminded Alec uncomfortably of his own siblings—the ones who'd enjoyed their father's games a little too much.

"Real mature," Brian called from his spot under an umbrella, though there was fondness in his voice. The big guy apparently still disapproved of his sister joining the team, but after Greg had accomplished the seemingly impossible and gotten their Kill Orders rescinded, his arguments had seemed to lose their conviction.

Alec studied the girl as she backstroked lazily across the pool. Imp. Appropriate alias for someone whose power made you forget she existed the moment you looked away. She was most likely the culprit who pickpocketed him earlier yesterday, only to return his wallet a few hours later with a crude drawing of a dick tucked inside where his cash used to be.

It was unsurprising, then, that Alec liked her already.

"Pass the chips," he said to no one in particular, wiggling his fingers in the general direction of the coffee table. When neither Lisa, Agnes, nor Taylor immediately jumped to serve him, he sighed dramatically and leaned forward to grab them himself. The things he suffered.

"Would you stop that?" Lisa snapped at him from her perch on a lounge to his left. "You're getting crumbs everywhere."

"It's called living, Lise. You should try it sometime." He crunched another chip deliberately loudly. "Besides, pretty sure our fearless leader can afford the cleaning bill."

Their fearless leader, as it happened, was currently out on the other deck overlooking the lawn, a mug of what was probably tea in one hand and a phone held to his ear. He was speaking softly, and Alec wasn't sure to whom or about what. But given the recent chain of events, Greg's lack of transparency, and his generally leisurely approach to high-stakes scenarios, Alec wouldn't be the least bit surprised if he was plotting some ludicrous, world-altering scheme right at this very moment.

Alec swirled the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly. The Kill Order. He could still feel the cold dread that had settled in his gut when the news broke. His first instinct, his only instinct, had been to run. Pack a bag, drain his accounts, and disappear. Find a quiet corner of the country, change his name, and never think about Brockton Bay again. It was the smart play. The sane play.

The only thing that had stopped him was the cold, logical certainty of what would happen next. He knew too much. He’d seen the inside of the operation, the new base, the mercenaries, the sheer scale of Greg’s resources. Greg wasn’t just a cape with a gang. In terms of temperament, he reminded Alec more of his father than he would like to admit. And people like that didn’t tolerate loose ends. Running would have been signing his own death warrant. He’d have made it a few states over, maybe even a week or two, before he’d be found. A quiet accident. Cyanide in his drink. A mugging gone wrong. No fuss, no mess. Greg was nothing if not efficient.

So he’d stayed. He’d put on a brave face, cracked jokes, and waited for the hammer to fall.

And then it hadn’t.

The Kill Order was rescinded. Tagg, the blustering fool who’d issued it, resigned in disgrace. Piggot was back in charge. The entire federal apparatus, which had been gearing up to wipe them off the map, had just… stood down.

Alec remembered the news feeds, the speculation swirling after Tagg's resignation. Director Piggot back in the hot seat, looking like she'd swallowed a lemon on every broadcast. The public was eating it up—conspiracy theories about internal PRT corruption, whispers of a shadow cabal pulling strings. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, Pouty Spice?”

Alec didn’t jump, but it was a near thing. Aisha was floating in the pool, appearing suddenly from nowhere right in front of him. She wasn’t looking at him; instead peering up at his bottle of alcohol with intense curiosity. He hadn’t seen or heard her approach. Bullshit power.

“World domination,” Alec said, deadpan. “Pondering the logistics of eternal life. You know, the usual.”

She snorted, a little puff of sound. “Boring… You gonna finish that?” 

Alec glanced down at the glass of alcohol he was holding, his gaze flicking from it to Aisha to her brother, who had obviously given up on trying to restrain her. 

"Alcohol is off-limits for the minors."

"Bullshit," Aisha protested, hauling herself out of the pool. "You're gonna lot gonna start a blood feud with the feds but won't let me have rum?"

"Those two things have nothing to do with each other," Alec replied mildly, though he didn’t make any moves to stop her from reaching for the bottle. He watched as she pulled out the cork and tipped the liquid into her mouth before immediately spitting it out.

“Ugh, what’s this?” Aisha hissed, pulling away to glare at the bottle. “It tastes like shit.”  

“You get used to it,” Alec said in between sips from his tumbler. “It’s artisanal. You’re supposed to pretend it doesn’t taste like shit.”

“That’s dumb.”

“It helps build character and instil valuable traits vital to youths such as yourself.”

“You’re a youth.”

“Wow,” he said. “Ageism. We just rescued you from a childhood of good influences, and this is how you repay us.”

Aisha snorted again, then dropped back into the pool, bottle still in hand. “What do you think of him?”

“Greg?”

She nodded.

Alec considered the easy lie and decided not to waste it. “He’s impressive,” he said, and watched her reaction out of habit. “He scares me… I’m not sure which one of those is supposed to be the point.”

Aisha took another swing of the whiskey, this time actually swallowing it. “Brian hates him,” she said, matter-of-fact. “He keeps saying the bastard's probably going to get us all killed sooner or later.”

Alec smiled at that. The thing was, Brian wasn't wrong. The smart money said they were all fucked six ways from Sunday. Greg had pissed off the federal government, made enemies of every major player from here to Alabama, and oh yeah, apparently had plans to fight a fucking Endbringer. Even by cape standards, that was weapons-grade insane.

And yet…

Alec emptied the rest of his tumbler in a single gulp. "Probably," he agreed faux-cheerfully. "But what a way to go, right?”

Lisa shot him a look that could have curdled milk. "This isn't a joke, Alec."

"So," He announced to the others, ignoring her, "who wants to take bets on how spectacularly this all goes wrong?"

"Ten bucks says we all die," Aisha said, her tone upbeat.

Brain scoffed. “Twenty says we all die horribly.”

"...Fifty says we live but wish we hadn't," Lisa countered with a sigh.

"Hundred says Greg actually pulls it off," Taylor said quietly, and everyone turned to stare at her.

"You serious?" Alec asked.

Taylor shrugged. "He hasn't been wrong yet."

And that, Alec reflected, was not untrue. Greg hadn't been wrong. At least, not yet. Every insane plan, every impossible gambit, every calculated risk—they'd all paid off. The man was either the greatest strategic mind of their generation or the luckiest son of a bitch alive.

Either way, Alec was along for the ride.

He grabbed another handful of chips, settled back into the deck chair, and watched the sun set over the estate grounds. In three days, they'd supposedly face Leviathan. In three days, they'd either make history or become it.

But that was three days away. Today, he had expensive snacks, comfortable furniture, and front-row seats to the most interesting show on Earth Bet.

There were worse ways to spend an afternoon.

Even if they were all probably going to die.