The burner phone felt cool against my ear, a cheap piece of plastic that nonetheless connected me to a voice that had, in the span of perhaps forty-eight hours, redrawn a not-insignificant portion of Brockton Bay's power dynamics. The line was clear, digitally scrubbed of any identifying noise, leaving only the calm, measured cadence of the man on the other end. He didn't use a name, and I hadn't offered mine, though the fact he'd reached this specific, firewalled number meant he knew exactly who he was talking to.
He'd already laid out the broad strokes. Coil, Thomas Calvert, PRT consultant – a snake with three heads, now headless. And this voice, this unseen presence, was the one holding the axe. Now, he was talking business. My kind of language, usually.
"…a fixed monthly stipend of twenty-five thousand," the voice continued, smooth as polished steel, "Payable in whichever currency or untraceable asset class you prefer. Consider it a retainer."
I leaned back in my worn office chair, the springs groaning a faint protest. Palanquin was quiet at this hour, the thumping bass and manufactured cheer still hours away. One-third of last month's gross, just to be on call? That was… substantial. We did good work, specialised work, and we charged accordingly, but a guaranteed baseline like that, before even lifting a finger? It was the kind of stability most mercenary outfits only dreamed of.
"In addition," the voice went on, entirely unhurried, as if he were discussing the weather, "each task undertaken at my request will carry a flexible bonus payment. This will be negotiated on a case-by-case basis, commensurate with the difficulty, discretion required, and associated risk."
I did a quick, rough calculation. He was… rather generous. If the jobs were even semi-regular, and the bonuses scaled as he implied, we'd be looking at a financial windfall that would dwarf anything we'd pulled in as independent contractors. Enough to make a lot of problems simply… disappear.
"Furthermore," he added, "ancillary benefits will become available. Logistics, discreet medicals, the like. The details can be negotiated at a later time."
It was tempting. Gods, it was tempting. The kind of offer that could set my crew up for years, give them a level of security and comfort they deserved after all the shit we'd waded through. No more chasing down flaky clients, no more undercutting scumbag brokers for a slice of a job. Just… stability. Backed by someone who had, apparently, just neutered one of the city's most connected scumbags. A part of me, the pragmatic part that was responsible for keeping my team alive and functional, screamed to take it.
But. There's always a but.
"It's a generous offer," I said, keeping my own voice level, betraying none of the calculations whirring in my head. "More than generous."
"It is an offer reflecting the value I place on your team's unique capabilities, Ms.…" He paused, and for a fraction of a second, I tensed, irrationally expecting him to use my civilian name. Instead, he finished, "…Faultline. Your reputation for professionalism and discretion precedes you."
"The thing is," I said slowly, choosing my words with care, "my team and I, we've built our reputation on being independent. We choose our jobs. We set our terms. We answer to ourselves. A retainer, especially one of this magnitude, comes with strings. Expectations. A loss of that autonomy." I swiveled my chair slightly, looking out the narrow window at the grey Brockton Bay sky. "We're not entirely comfortable with having the direction our team takes dictated by… an unknown entity, however capable." Or however well-funded.
There was also the simple, undeniable prickle of pride. I'd clawed my way up from nothing, built this crew from scratch, made Faultline's Crew a name that meant something in the shadowy corners of the parahuman world. To become, essentially, a salaried employee for someone else, taking orders, even if the pay was phenomenal… it chafed. It felt like a step back, a diminishment, regardless of the practical benefits.
"I appreciate the candor," the voice replied, and damn if he didn't sound entirely unperturbed. No annoyance, no attempt to pressure or persuade. If he was surprised or annoyed by my hesitation, his voice gave no indication. "The benefits of freelancing are understood. The freedom to choose; I can understand."
"We're still open for business, of course," I clarified. "If you have specific, temporary contracts, discrete operations where our particular skill sets would be advantageous, we're always willing to discuss terms. On a case-by-case basis. Standard rates would apply, naturally, adjusted for complexity and risk."
A beat of silence on the line. I wondered if I'd overplayed it, if his offer was an all-or-nothing proposition. Some of these mastermind types had egos as fragile as spun glass.
Then, that calm voice again. "That is also an acceptable arrangement. I anticipate requiring services such as yours in the near future. I will be in contact." Another slight pause. "The retainer offer remains open, Faultline. Should your circumstances or inclinations change, you know how to signal your reconsideration."
And then, the click. He was gone. Just like that.
I held the burner to my ear for another second, listening to the dead air, then slowly lowered it. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The tension in my shoulders eased a fraction. He hadn't pushed. He hadn't threatened. He'd simply… adapted. Like water flowing around a rock. That, in itself, was unsettling. People with that much power, that much control, usually didn't yield so easily.
I popped out the battery and tossed the burner into the trash. It was probably as untraceable as these things got, but using it again felt like tempting fate.
Rising, I crossed the small office to the equally small minifridge tucked in the corner. The hum of it was a familiar background noise. I pulled out a can of cheap orange soda, the condensation cool against my palm. The pop of the tab was loud in the sudden quiet. I took a long sip, the artificial sweetness doing little to wash away the strange taste the conversation had left in my mouth. Stability and riches, traded for freedom. Had I made the right call? For the crew? For myself?
The door to my office creaked open. Gregor leaned in, his bulk filling the doorway. His face, usually a mask of stoic calm, held a flicker of something I couldn't quite place. Concern, maybe. He was good at reading me, sometimes too good.
"Boss?" he said, his voice a low rumble.
I waved a hand dismissively, taking another sip of soda. "No worries. Just business."
Gregor nodded slowly, but his eyes lingered on me. "Alright. Some guy at the main entrance, though. Told Pierce he wants to see you. Says he's looking for work."
I raised an eyebrow. Walk-ins were rare. Palanquin didn't exactly advertise when it had an opening, and Pierce, our primary bouncer on nights we weren't running a public front, wasn't known for his welcoming demeanour to unsolicited guests. "Civvie? Or just some riff-raff looking for a handout?"
"Neither, looks like," Gregor said, shifting his weight. "Civilian clothes. But he gave Pierce a name. Said to tell you… 'Circus' is here."
Circus. The name clicked. Some independent villain, a mid-tier Striker. Usually worked solo. Not someone I'd ever had direct dealings with, but I knew the file.
"Huh?" I mused, setting my soda down. "He? I thought they were a 'she'? No matter, tell Pierce to send him up in ten minutes and inform the others that we have a guest. I need to change into my costume."