RWD: 3.x (Interlude)(Coil)

3.x (Interlude)(Coil)

The muzzle was the worst. Not the elaborate, Hannibal Lecter-esque steel-and-leather contraption they’d strapped over the lower half of my face – that was just theatre, PRT overkill for the cameras. No, it was the internal framework, the damn wires and struts that forced my jaw slightly open, pressing my tongue down like a misbehaving pet. My jaw ached with a dull, insistent throb, a constant reminder of my current… inconvenience. An animal. That’s how they were treating me. Thomas Calvert, muzzled. The irony wasn’t lost on me, though the humour was decidedly absent.

The rest of the restraints were an exercise in paranoid thoroughness. My hands weren’t just cuffed; they were encased in thick, reinforced gauntlets, the kind they used for heavy Brutes, linked by a short, heavy chain that was currently hooked to a steel loop on the back of this ridiculously overbuilt chair. More chains crisscrossed my torso, pinning me tight, anchoring me to the floor. A heavy collar encircled my neck. They were taking no chances. Or, more accurately, they were putting on a damn good show of taking no chances.

It was all part of the game, of course. The PRT needed their pound of flesh, their public villain, especially after the recent… embarrassments. Lung. Purity. Hookwolf. And then my own rather spectacular unmasking. They needed a win, and I, Thomas Calvert, was it. I’d played my part. Given them enough. Just enough. The mercenaries, most of them expendable. The Travellers, a volatile asset I was almost glad to be rid of. A few carefully selected names within the local government, the police force – enough to show cooperation, to demonstrate my value, but nothing that would truly cripple my long-term… prospects.

Because there would be long-term prospects. That had been the implicit agreement. The interrogators, with their carefully neutral tones and their oh-so-reasonable propositions. “Help us, Mr. Calvert, and we can help you. Cooperation will be noted. We understand men in your position often have… contingencies. Arrangements.” Idiots. They thought they were playing me. I was playing them. Giving them enough rope to hang a few scapegoats, enough to make themselves look good, while I kept the real aces up my sleeve. Lisa. My little Tattletale. Her identity, her connection to me, remained sacrosanct. A useful, if unruly, tool. She knew too much to be sacrificed. Aside from her were the deeper networks, the names that could really shake things up if they ever saw the light of day – those remained mine. Secure. Ready for when this farce was over and I could begin rebuilding. A few years in a comfortable, minimum-security facility, the kind reserved for cooperative white-collar criminals and politically inconvenient capes. Time to plan. To strategise. Then, a quiet release, a new identity, and back to the real game.

My lawyer, a nervous, balding man named Peterson who smelled faintly of desperation and cheap coffee, fidgeted beside me. PRT-recommended, of course. Part of the package deal. He’d assured me the prosecution’s case, while noisy, was built on circumstantial evidence and the testimony of unreliable witnesses. “We’ll focus on your cooperation, Mr. Calvert. Your willingness to assist the authorities. Mitigating circumstances. They want a conviction, yes, but they also want this… mess… to go away quietly.” He’d been convincing. I’d wanted to be convinced.

The courtroom was a circus. Reporters crammed into the gallery, their faces a mixture of ghoulish curiosity and predatory hunger. The jury, carefully selected, looked suitably grave, suitably malleable. The judge, a stern-faced woman named Davies, had a reputation for being tough but fair. Or so Peterson had assured me.

"All rise." The bailiff’s voice, amplified, boomed through the courtroom.

Getting to my feet was a clumsy, humiliating affair, the chains clanking, Peterson offering a token, unhelpful tug on my arm. I stumbled, nearly pitching forward. Grace was not an option when you were trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey about to meet its maker. The sheer weight of the restraints was oppressive. They were clearly designed more for psychological effect than actual necessity. I didn’t have super strength. I wasn’t a physical threat. My power was my mind, to choose the optimal path. A power they couldn’t see, couldn’t chain, but one that was, for the moment, rendered useless by the sheer, overwhelming reality of this single, disastrous reality.  

The preliminaries droned on. Legal boilerplate. Names. Dates. Then, the prosecutor, a sharp-featured woman with eyes like a shark, rose to address the court. Her name was Chen. She had a reputation for being a bulldog. This was where the performance truly began. I settled back, as much as the restraints would allow, preparing to weather the storm of accusations, confident that Peterson, for all his apparent inadequacies, would follow the script we – or rather, I – had laid out.

"The State will demonstrate," Chen began, her voice crisp, cutting through the courtroom’s expectant hush, "that the defendant, Thomas Calvert, also known as the parahuman criminal mastermind ‘Coil’, did knowingly and with malicious aforethought, engage in a pattern of criminal activity spanning years, resulting in widespread harm to the citizens of Brockton Bay and the undermining of legitimate governmental authority."

Standard opening. Bluster. Hyperbole. I almost managed a smirk beneath the damn muzzle.

Then she started listing the charges.

And the world began to tilt.

Chen’s voice was a scalpel, dissecting my life, my operations, laying them bare for the vultures in the gallery. The initial charge – masterminding a criminal enterprise – was expected. Annoying, but manageable. Peterson would argue I was a victim of circumstance, a consultant who got in too deep, manipulated by the very capes I was trying to understand for the PRT. Plausible deniability. That was the plan.

But Chen didn’t stop there. The charges kept coming, a relentless barrage, each one another nail in a coffin I hadn’t realised was being built around me.

"Conspiracy to commit armed robbery, multiple counts," she announced, her gaze sweeping over the jury, then landing on me like a physical weight. She detailed dates, locations – operations my mercenaries had undertaken. Operations I’d selectively mentioned, framing them as rogue actions I’d been investigating. She presented them as direct orders.

"Extortion, racketeering," she continued, her voice crisp, devoid of emotion. Business names I’d leaned on, deals I’d brokered in the shadows. Things I’d only hinted at in my “cooperation.”

Then, the one that made the blood freeze in my veins. "Kidnapping of a minor, Dinah Alcott. Unlawful imprisonment of a parahuman. Illegal administration of controlled substances to a minor. Coercion and exploitation of a parahuman ability."

Dinah. They knew. The bastard had set her free. Why? Why didn’t he keep her? Surely, he must know how useful she was. This… this was monstrous. This painted me as a monster. And the evidence she began to present – CCTv footage, redacted observation notes (mine!), anonymized but chillingly accurate medical reports on Dinah’s condition post-rescue – it was damning. 

My gaze flicked to Peterson. His face was ashen, his eyes fixed on his notepad, refusing to meet mine. The nervous fidgeting had stopped. He was still. Too still. He knew. He’d known this was coming. The realisation hit me with the force of a physical blow. The “cooperation,” the “mitigating circumstances” – it had all been a lie. A carefully constructed trap, and I’d walked right into it, baited by my own arrogance, my belief in the system. They weren't trying to make this go away quietly. They were building a pyre.

Chen wasn’t finished. "Misuse of classified PRT intelligence and resources for criminal enterprise." She listed projects I’d consulted on, cross-referencing them with dates of my organisation’s most successful, intel-heavy operations. The implication was clear: Thomas Calvert, PRT insider, had been Coil’s greatest asset.

"Domestic terrorism," she stated, and a murmur went through the courtroom. "Through the funding and direction of parahuman operatives engaged in acts designed to incite public fear and destabilise civic order. Obstruction of justice. Witness tampering. Multiple counts of accessory to aggravated assault, accessory to attempted murder…" The list went on, a suffocating avalanche of charges. Illegal surveillance. Financial crimes – money laundering, fraudulent shell corporations. On, and on, and on.

With every charge, the walls of the courtroom seemed to press closer. The air grew thin. My mind raced, simulating timelines, searching for an escape, a counter-move. But every path led back here, to this chair, these chains, this muzzle. The data I still held – Lisa’s identity, the truly damaging secrets about the PRT’s upper echelons, the politicians who really pulled the strings – it was my only leverage left. But how could I use it? Gagged. Restrained. My lawyer a Judas in a cheap suit.

A cold rage began to build, an inferno in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t the hot, explosive anger of a common thug. It was the glacial fury of a precise, ordered mind seeing its meticulous calculations, its carefully constructed world, brought to ruin by fools who should have been mere pawns.

Chen finally concluded her litany of accusations, her voice ringing with righteous conviction. She turned to Judge Davies. "The State will prove, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Thomas Calvert is not merely a criminal, but a profound and ongoing threat to the safety and security of this city and its citizens. A threat that must be permanently neutralised."

Permanently neutralised. The words echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of the courtroom. Not a plea bargain. Not a comfortable retirement in a minimum-security facility. This was something else entirely. This was annihilation.

My gaze shot to Peterson. He finally looked up, his eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second. There was no reassurance there. Only a kind of weary indifference. The kind you give to a dead man walking.

The game was over. I had lost. Utterly.

Peterson didn’t even attempt a defence. A few perfunctory motions, some mumbled objections that Judge Davies swatted down with unconcealed impatience. It was a sham, the whole damn thing. The jury, when they returned – after a deliberation so short it was an insult – looked like they’d collectively decided to attend a public execution. Their foreman, a portly man with nervous eyes, didn’t even look at me when he read the litany of "guilty" verdicts. 

Then it was Davies’s turn. She adjusted the microphone, her gaze sweeping over me, cold and appraising, like a butcher eyeing a prize hog. The courtroom was dead silent, the air thick with anticipation.

"Thomas Calvert," she began, her voice resonating with the full, grim authority of the State. "The evidence presented in this court paints a disturbing portrait. Not of a common criminal, nor even of a typical parahuman opportunist, but of a calculating, insidious intelligence that sought to systematically corrupt and control this city from the shadows, exploiting its vulnerabilities, its people, and even the very institutions sworn to protect it."

She paused, letting her words sink in. My jaw ached, the muscles screaming in protest against the unyielding pressure of the muzzle. If I could have spoken, if I could have unleashed even a fraction of the information I still held, the secrets that could topple half the PRT ENE directorate and a few city council members for good measure… but the gag held firm, a physical manifestation of my utter impotence.

"Your actions," Davies continued, "particularly the calculated, prolonged exploitation of the child Dinah Alcott, demonstrate a profound moral depravity and a chilling disregard for human decency. Your use of PRT resources, your position of trust, to further your criminal enterprise, represents a betrayal of the highest order."

She wasn't wrong. Not entirely. But her self-righteous pronouncements, her black-and-white morality, it was all a farce. They were all hypocrites, every last one of them. They talked about justice, about order, but they were just as power-hungry, just as manipulative as I had ever been. They just hadn’t had the power to take it as far as he did, content to simply hide behind badges and bureaucratic bullshit. 

"The question of sentencing in cases involving parahumans of your… unique capabilities and demonstrated ruthlessness is always complex," Davies said, her gaze unwavering. "Standard incarceration facilities are insufficient to condemn an individual of your flavour of depravity. You represent an ongoing, unacceptable risk of escape, of continued manipulation, of further harm to the public."

My mind, even now, even facing this abyss, was still working, still analyzing. She was building a case. Not for justice. For something else. Something final. The PRT’s deception had been perfect. They hadn't just wanted a conviction; they'd wanted an excuse.

"The financial cost of containing you within a conventional maximum-security facility, with the necessary parahuman countermeasures, would be exorbitant, a drain on public resources that could be better utilised elsewhere," she went on. "Furthermore, the potential for you to continue your criminal activities, even from behind bars, through intermediaries or exploitation of your intellectual assets, cannot be dismissed."

"Therefore," Judge Davies said, her voice dropping, acquiring a tone of grim finality that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, "considering the severity of your crimes, the profound threat you continue to pose, and the manifest inadequacy of traditional punitive measures, this court finds it necessary to invoke provisions outside the standard sentencing guidelines, provisions designed for parahuman threats deemed… intractable."

My blood ran cold. I knew what was coming. Even before she said the words.

"Thomas Calvert, on all counts for which you have been found guilty, this court sentences you to indefinite incarceration within the Baumann Parahuman Containment Centre."

The Birdcage.