RWD: 4.x (Interlude)(Accord)

4.x (Interlude)(Accord)

Boston. Noon.

He had instructed the staff to keep the blinds half-open. Slats precisely angled—thirty-three degrees, not a fraction more—so that the sunlight fell in measured bands across the walnut conference table. No glare, no shadow, just even illumination and the subtle warmth of the spring sun. The cleaning staff had missed a streak on the window. He would have to reprimand them. Later.

He could feel his mind spinning, cataloguing each imperfection, the little frays and chips and dust motes that didn’t belong. The sound of a ticking clock, just perceptible beneath the soft hum of the air system. The echo of hurried footsteps in the hallway outside, two steps faster than the established protocol. It all grated.

It was always like this. Disorder was recursive; one act of incompetence bred another, and so on, fractal and spreading, until the whole tapestry of his work threatened to unravel. The man across the table did not help. Vincent Moretti, by birth. Vincenzo, as he preferred to be called in this room, self-styled “Don of the South End,” as though affectation might lend him a weight he did not possess. A mobster, though Accord disdained the word. He was a man of business, he told himself, a problem solver, a supplier of order. He could almost believe it.

Vincenzo was talking. Something about supply routes, about increased risk from “the peacekeepers,” about needing more manpower if the operation in the Docks was to go ahead. Every fifth word was “you see,” as if he hoped Accord would fill in the blanks of his stunted vocabulary.

Accord’s power supplied a hundred ways to resolve the situation. Seventy-three required no violence. He dismissed those as impractical, then dismissed the remainder in turn as inefficient. Vincenzo suit, once a crisp charcoal, had dampened from his perspiration. His combed hair had ruffled in the afternoon draft. When he smiled, there was spinach in his teeth.

“—so you see, Accord, if I just have another week—”

“A week.” Accord’s voice was mild. The syllables emerged clipped, smooth, unhurried. The mask’s articulated lips drew back into a polite, geometric smile. “Vin, do you know what can be accomplished in a week?”

Moretti hesitated. “A lot, I guess. If—”

“—Order can be established. A city block repurposed. A failing network corrected. A man replaced.”

The last words hung in the air, sinking, as if drawn down by gravity alone.

He watched the effect. The tightening around the eyes, the involuntary swallow. It should have been satisfying, but it wasn’t. Satisfying would have been never needing to have the conversation in the first place.

But this was not a world for the satisfied.

He had already decided on a solution: reroute the distribution through the Chinatown corridor, replace Vincent with Francesca, split her off from the Sullivan group, repurpose assets from the Ashmont safehouse—no, eliminate Ashmont, consolidate. The solution unfolded with machine efficiency, step by inevitable step.

Vincent misread the silence. “Look, boss, I can make it right. It was the Peacekeepers, you see. Those assholes in Brockton Bay. Word is, they’re—”

There it was. The name.

Something in Accord’s grip on the cane flexed, so minutely it was imperceptible even to himself. He became aware, in a sudden flood, of the imperfections in the room. The way the laces on Vincenzo’s right shoe was coming undone, the incomplete sweep of dust beneath the radiator, the every so slightly mismatched levels of the man’s shoulders. He could have spent the rest of the hour noting the flaws.

Instead, he stood. The movement was smooth, measured. Vincent started to rise, too, uncertain, deferential. Accord’s left hand flicked once—a razor-precise gesture. The tip of his cane traced a line across the desk.

“I have heard,” Accord said, “enough.”

Vincent’s mouth opened, closed. “Mr. Accord, please, if there’s a problem—”

One motion. Simple. Efficient. The cane’s concealed blade slid free, passing through silk, bone, flesh. Accord was aware, acutely, of the exact angle, the ideal speed, the way the blood arced from the carotid to splatter against the conference room’s frosted glass. There was no satisfaction in it. No pleasure. Only a brief, cooling relief, like stepping into the shade on a summer day. Order restored, if only for a moment.

He waited two seconds—one, two—enough for the last gasps, the spasm, the slackening of limbs. Then he pressed the intercom. “Sanitation, conference room B. Priority.”

He would have to replace the carpet.

He stood over the body for a long moment, cataloguing the scene. The angle of the chair, the slow trickle of blood pooling on the tile, the man’s phone—now buzzing, unbelievably, shrill and insistent. All of it a mosaic of failure.

His mind circled back to Brockton Bay. To Hollowpoint.

He could not—would not—allow himself to spiral, not now. But the name thudded through his thoughts, returning each time he tried to dismiss it. It was not even a proper name, but it had all the hallmarks of one of those self-important American monikers, chosen for the intimidation value. No sense of grace, no flair.

It would have been easier to hate him if Hollowpoint were merely crude. But the man was effective. So much so that Accord could almost respect his actions, if it hadn’t been done outside his own system.

That was the offense. Not the mess, not the chaos he brought, but that he had made a mockery of Accord’s own efforts. He had derailed the rescue, had killed Coil. A name with no origin, no face, no pattern. Just efficiency, brutality, a facade of normalcy imposed through violence and threat. And there was nothing, nothing in Accord’s vast, carefully maintained network of contingency plans that could account for him.

That was disorder in its purest form.

Accord left the conference room, cane tapping on the floor. The sound echoed down the corridor, perfect, rhythmic, three-quarter time. The hallway was immaculate, the floors polished to a mirror sheen, the walls hung with landscapes—ordered, symmetrical, pleasing to the eye. Yet his thoughts grew only more chaotic.

The Peacekeepers.

His power spun possible solutions, possibilities. Send an assassin. Send a team. Poison, bomb, betrayal, economic sabotage. Each scenario played out with ruthless clarity, then withered: Hollowpoint had contingencies. Hollowpoint had countermeasures. Hollowpoint’s organization did not function like any other criminal network Accord had ever encountered. It was so strange.

It was infuriating.

He reached his office, shut the door behind him with a click. The world stilled, but the pressure in his head remained. He sat, folded his hands atop his desk. He considered the stacks of files, the neat rows of pencils, the immaculate computer screen.

He could not plan around Hollowpoint, not completely. Not with the available information.

This was unacceptable.

He needed more. More data, more leverage, more… something.

The phone was already in his hand, unbidden. He dialed the number. Sixteen digits, no hesitation.

A moment later, a doorway opened at one end of his office. His hair stirred as air pressure equalized between the two planes.

The Number Man stood on the other side, hands clasped behind his back. The picture of serenity, of control.

“Accord,” Number Man said. “How can we help?”

###

Number Man waited in the threshold, the thin line of the portal precisely perpendicular to Accord’s desk—an accidental symmetry, but one Accord appreciated in spite of himself. White hallway, white walls, Number Man in black suit, polished shoes, wire-frame glasses. No tie. Accord catalogued the detail, filed it away. Sloppy? No—intentional. A message, if he could only discern it.

“I require assistance,” Accord said. He spoke with deliberation, letting the syllables settle. “The destabilizing element in Brockton Bay—the one they call Hollowpoint. I want him removed.”

Number Man inclined his head. “Regrettable. I understand Coil was… an friend?”

“More than that,” Accord said, each word clipped. “He was a valuable component. I had plans that required him following his arrest. This… variable—” He didn’t spit the word, but wanted to. “—has upended them. If Cauldron has actionable intelligence, now would be the time to share.”

Number Man regarded him for a long moment. He had a way of looking at people that suggested he could see through them, strip them down to value and motive. Accord was not easily unsettled, but he disliked being the subject of such scrutiny.

“I’m afraid,” Number Man said, “we’re encountering the same difficulties as you.”

Accord’s hand tightened on the cane. “Elaborate.”

A tilt of the head. “We have not been able to pin down the individual, or his associates. He expends resources efficiently, erases his tracks, and anticipates countermeasures. There is also a Precog-Thinker blindspot surrounding Hollowpoint and his core network. A persistent null. Our sources suggest a Thinker or Stranger of significant potency—possibly a precog, possibly something more exotic. We cannot say. But given the group’s excessive restraint we suspect the parahuman responsible is generating it unintentionally. Regardless, most of our methods have been rendered inoperative as a result. It is… unusual.”

Accord let the words settle. His mind spun through possibilities. 

“A Thinker, most likely then,” Accord said. “One capable of radiating paranormal-grade obsfucation on par with the Endbringers, perhaps. Or Eidolon, if he so chose.”

Number Man inclined his head again, noncommittal. “A possibility.”

“You’re being intentionally vague.”

“It’s prudent. Our conclusions are… tentative. When outcomes are unclear, it is best not to overcommit.”

The answers were unsatisfying, but they did explain certain irregularities.

“Cauldron’s position?” Accord asked, keeping his tone cool.

Number Man shrugged, the movement precise. “We are observing. At present, Hollowpoint’s long-term impact is uncertain. He is an outlier, but not incompatible with our larger objectives. For now, we are content to wait and see.”

A pause, measured.

“You wish to use me as a test case.” Accord’s tone was flat. “If I succeed, the problem is resolved. If I fail, you gain data.”

Number Man smiled, almost genuinely. “Precisely.”

Annoyance warred with understanding. The logic was sound; he would have done the same.

“Very well,” Accord said. “You will support me, should I require it?”

“Within reason. As before.” Number Man’s gaze flickered, not quite expectant. “Specify.”

“Three vials. Data. Equipment. Whatever you can give without compromising your neutrality. But I want first refusal on any intelligence you glean. If a Thinker asset emerges, I want access.”

Number Man scribbled a neat column of notes. “We can arrange that. And in return?”

“Same price for the three vials, and five additional vials worth in reciprocal favours.”

There was a moment’s silence. Number Man clicked his pen closed, a tiny, precise sound. “Agreed.”

“That is settled then,” Accord nodded. “Notify me if your position changes.”

“Of course. Good luck, Accord.”

The portal closed, air whistling as it snapped shut.

Alone once more, Accord sat. His hands shook, just perceptibly, as he stared at his own reflection in the glossy desk. The mask glared back, carved silver and hardwood.