The air in the bunker tasted of recycled oxygen and the faint, metallic tang of humming server banks. Not a hum, precisely, more a vibration in the bones, the silent thrum of power coursing through the earth, through the walls, through me. Six in the morning, by the chronometer. Twenty-seven hours since I'd last allowed myself the vulnerability of sleep. Sleep was a period of uncontrolled variables. I minimised it.
My fingers ghosted over the cool, seamless obsidian of the command console. Twenty monitors painted the dim room with their flickering light, a mosaic of global minutiae. The Hang Seng Index was up. A minor cape brawl in Berlin had been contained by the Meisters. Eidolon continued his ponderous, symbolic tour of Brockton Bay, two days more until he departed. I tracked his movements, of course. One tracked all significant pieces on the board, especially those that imagined themselves players. His presence was an irritant, a disruption to the city's usual squalor, but a predictable one. Predictability could be managed. Hookwolf's Kill Order was a more interesting variable, sowing a more useful brand of chaos.
Beneath three hundred feet of reinforced concrete, engineered rock, and layered shell companies, I was untouchable. Twenty men, my Praetorians, guarded the approaches. Handpicked. Psychologically profiled until their loyalties were as transparent to me as the schematics of this bunker. Their contracts were generous. Loyalty, I'd found, was a remarkably straightforward equation when sufficient currency was applied.
This reality, this Coil, was the fulcrum. My other self, Thomas Calvert, PRT consultant, was at this moment a mere performative process, preparing another day of tedious but necessary masquerade. A puppet. A tool. Here, I was… whole.
08:37 AM.
A flicker. Not on the global feeds, but on my internal security loop. Corridor Four, primary access to this sanctum. Two of the guards—Gabriel and Aleandro—were arguing. About what, I couldn't tell. Sergeant Miller, the group's team lead, a man whose file indicated unwavering resolve and a laudable lack of imagination, shifted his weight as he watched them passively. Left foot to right. Standard. Except… his head. It turned, a subtle, almost reptilian movement, towards Corporal Janssen. Just a glance. Half a second, perhaps. Janssen, in turn, offered a nod so minute I might have dismissed it as a muscle twitch if I hadn't been paying attention. My fingers stilled on the console. Every synapse fired. This wasn't in their parameters. This was… an unscripted interaction. I magnified the feed. Miller's mouth was moving, a low murmur lost to the corridor's ambient sound dampeners. Janssen's hand, the one gripping his customised DR-7 assault rifle, was tight. Knuckles showing white. Smoothly, all three except Aleandro walked to the door. I looked up as the biometric lock beeped, and it slid open. Miller, Janssen, and Gabriel, his eyes too wide, a strange fervour in them.
Something was wrong.
The rifles rose, their barrels pointed directly at me.
No time for an inquiry. No time for analysis. No time for anything but the instinct, the tearing, wrenching sensation in my mind as I collapsed the timeline. That iteration of me, that sanctuary, consigned to oblivion. The sound of their guns firing, already an echo—
—And I was inhaling the scent of stale coffee and cheap plastic air freshener. The steering wheel of the grey city sedan vibrated faintly under my hands. Calvert. I was Calvert. Driving. Mid-morning traffic on Archer Avenue, five blocks from the PRT ENE Headquarters. Sunlight, weak and grey as dishwater, filtered through the windshield. My heart felt like a trapped bird trying to beat its way through my ribs. A cold sweat prickled my skin. Instinctively, I split the timelines again.
"What the fuck was that?" This me asked as the other did a U-Turn and began driving west to leave the city.
The bunker. My men. Turned. How? The question was a physical pain, a vice around my skull. Who had the intel? Who had the leverage? This wasn't a few disgruntled mercs making a play. This was coordinated. Precise. My most secure location, my most loyal assets… compromised utterly. The PRT building. It was the only variable I could control in this instant. Calvert was expected there. Calvert had access. If I could get inside, use their systems, I could begin to unravel this. See who pulled the strings. My other self was dead, or would be in moments. This self, this bland bureaucratic shell, was all that remained. I pressed the accelerator, the sedan lurching slightly. Must maintain appearances. Control. Always control.
The garage attendant barely glanced as I swiped my card. B-37. My assigned spot. I walked, forcing a steady pace, through the echoing concrete, towards the elevators. Nodded at Trooper Henderson, whose patrol route intersected here at this time. Predictable. He nodded back, incurious. My office. Fourth floor. Windowless. Perfect for Calvert's unassuming role. I sat, the standard-issue chair, groaning under my weight, a sound that suddenly seemed amplified, accusatory. My hands, I noted with a detached sort of disapproval, were not entirely steady as I keyed in my access codes. My private network. Encrypted tunnels within encrypted tunnels. I ran diagnostics. Financials: all green. Shell corporations: solvent, balances as expected. Mercenary payroll accounts: untouched, automated disbursements scheduled as normal. Secure comms: operational, no breaches detected. Nothing.
The absolute lack of any discernible anomaly was the most terrifying thing of all. It meant the attack vector was invisible to my current systems. It meant the enemy was sophisticated. Enough to act without ever leaving a trace. The thought was a sliver of ice down my spine. "Mr. Calvert?" I flinched. Actually flinched. Henderson. The PR analyst. Standing in my doorway, holding a flimsy report. His brow was furrowed with that earnest, irritating concern young idealists always seemed to affect. "Sir? You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost." I forced a smile. It felt like stretching dried leather across my teeth. "Just a long night, Henderson. Too much coffee, not enough sleep. You know how it is. Deadlines." A plausible lie. Calvert was known for his dedication. He didn't look convinced. "Right. Well, Director Piggot needs these preliminary findings on our progress with the ABB before the eleven hundred briefing…" He placed the report on my desk, his eyes lingering on me for a moment too long. Then he was gone. Why was he looking at me like that? What was wrong? Was he watching me? Was Piggot? Was this entire building a carefully constructed trap, and I'd just walked into its jaws? Paranoia was a useful tool, but this was… excessive. Unproductive. I needed data. I turned my attention back to the computer and resumed searching.
09:13 AM.
My burner phone, the one I kept for untraceable calls and curated news alerts, vibrated against the faux wood of the desk. A single, stark notification from a custom crawler I'd set up to monitor local media for keywords. Subject: URGENT – Brockton Bay Herald – Possible PRT Data Breach – High Profile Personnel Implicated. My blood felt like it was turning to sludge. I tapped the link. The screen filled with my own face. Calvert's face. My official PRT consultant ID photo. Stark. Accusatory. Beside it, a digitally rendered silhouette of Coil's mask, disturbingly accurate. PRT CONSULTANT THOMAS CALVERT ACCUSED OF MASTERMINDING VILLAIN ORGANISATION 'COIL' – Leaked Documents Allege Years of Criminal Activity, Parahuman Exploitation. The article was a meticulously crafted demolition. Names of my shell companies. Dates of suspected operations. Even a description of my power, in stark, vivid terms: "sources suggest a unique precognitive or timeline-manipulating ability that allowed for unparalleled success in high-risk ventures." I stabbed at the screen, fingers slick with sudden sweat. PHO. The Protectorate's public site. National news feeds. International. It was everywhere. The same story. The same data. Released simultaneously. A perfectly coordinated information blitz. This wasn't just an attack on my operations. This was an unmasking. A public execution. The air in the small office suddenly felt thin, unbreathable. I stood, my chair clattering against the cheap filing cabinet. I had to get out. Get to ground. But where was ground, when your deepest foundations were exposed to the world? The door. It didn't open. It was kicked open. Captain Powers, head of PRT Site Security. His face was a granite mask. Flanked by two troopers in heavy, faceless armour. They weren't holding rifles. They were holding containment foam dispensers and heavy-duty zip-cuffs. "Thomas Calvert," Powers' voice was like gravel grinding. No pretence of civility now. "You are under arrest by federal warrant. Do not resist."
Fuck! The enemy, whoever they were, had thought of everything. I made a sound. A choked gasp. Maybe I tensed to run. I don't remember. The world became a blur of black armour and sudden, brutal pressure. A shoulder slammed into my chest, driving me back, the edge of my own desk a sharp line of agony against my spine. Then I was on the floor, the rough carpet scraping my cheek, hands wrenching my arms behind me, the plastic of the zip-cuffs biting into my wrists. They hauled me up. Through the bullpen. Every head turned. Every PRT employee, from the lowest data clerk to the section supervisors. Staring. Their faces were a gallery of shock, confusion, and in some, a dawning, ugly satisfaction. Calvert, the quiet, reliable consultant. Coil, the meticulous, unseen puppeteer. Both dragged out into the harsh, unforgiving light, my meticulously constructed world collapsing around me in a ruin of public disgrace. Control had been an illusion. And the truth was a cage.
No. No.
Even as the heavy hands grabbed me, wrenching my arms, I reached for it. Not a conscious thought, not a plan. A primal, desperate assertion of will against a world that had suddenly, catastrophically, tilted off its axis. The power. My power. It tore through me, a searing, ragged rip, not the clean, controlled severance I preferred, but a panicked shattering. The office, the troopers, Powers' stone face – it all dissolved into a grey, screaming static—
—And I was behind the wheel of my sedan again, hurtling north on the I-95, already ten miles outside Brockton Bay's grimy city limits. The transition was brutal, leaving me gasping, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My hands clenched the leather of the steering wheel, slick with a cold sweat. That Calvert, that Coil. The other timeline… gone. Good riddance. But the news alerts. The articles. The exposure. That hadn't been confined to one reality. That was real. That was everywhere. Thomas Calvert was as radioactive as Coil now. My meticulously maintained civilian identity, years of careful preservation, incinerated in a global media firestorm. This escape, then, wasn't just Coil fleeing. This was Calvert fleeing, too. And they would be looking for both. The I-95. Too obvious. Standard procedure for any fleeing parahuman with a vehicle. They'd have roadblocks, aerial surveillance. My mind raced, sifting through contingency plans, escape routes mapped and memorised years ago. The situation was fluid, compromised. I needed options. I split the timeline again. A familiar mental effort, smoother this time, the initial shock receding, replaced by a cold, focused urgency. Timeline Prime: Continue north on I-95. High speed, direct. High risk, high reward if I could outpace their response. Timeline Secondary: Take the next exit, Route 1A. Slower, coastal roads, more opportunities to switch vehicles, to disappear into smaller towns. More variables, but also more chances for them to lose the scent.
I drove both realities simultaneously in my mind's eye, monitoring traffic patterns, news updates on the car radio (static-laced reports, already confirming a city-wide APB for Thomas Calvert, suspected associate of the villain Coil – they were being cautious with the direct accusation, but the implication was clear). The sheer speed and coordination of the public unmasking still staggered me. Ten minutes down Route 1A in Timeline Secondary, my rearview mirror filled with a flash of metallic blue and silver. Low-slung, impossibly fast. Armsmaster. On his ridiculous, over-engineered motorcycle. How? I hadn't even used this route in my primary escape plans. Had they anticipated this specific deviation? Or was he simply that good, that fast, his city-wide sensor network already flagging my vehicle? No time to analyse.
He was gaining, weaving through the sparse morning traffic with inhuman precision. He pulled alongside, his helmeted face an impassive, reflective visor. Then, with a surge of speed, he was in front of me, bike angling sharply, cutting me off, forcing me towards the shoulder. Collapse Secondary. The world lurched again, the mental whiplash less severe this time. I was back on the I-95, the Audi roaring at ninety miles an hour, Brockton Bay a rapidly shrinking smear in my rearview. The Route 1A timeline was a ghost, a discarded possibility where Armsmaster had me. But how had he found me there so quickly? A shiver of true fear, something I hadn't felt since the Nilbog incident, traced its way down my spine. My control, my ability to dictate reality, felt… fragile. Contested. I needed another option. I couldn't outrun their system if they had this kind of predictive or tracking capability. I needed to get off the major highways, go to ground. New plan: head west, into the dense, less populated forests of inland Massachusetts. Different car. No electronics.
I focused, preparing to split again, to create a new set of possibilities— A blue-silver gleam in the rearview mirror. Here. On the I-95. Armsmaster. Impossible. He'd been on Route 1A. I'd collapsed that timeline. He couldn't be in two places, couldn't have transitioned between my realities. Unless… unless the information leading him to me was independent of the timeline I chose. Unless he was reacting to something I was still doing, something common to both realities I had just been running. He was closer now, the distinctive whine of his bike's engine cutting through the roar of the Audi. He wasn't flanking this time. He was coming straight up the centre, a missile locked onto its target. He zipped past me, a streak of motion, then cut sharply in front, his bike's tires screaming as he braked, forcing me to swerve violently to avoid collision. The sedan fishtailed, hit the gravel shoulder, and spun, thankfully staying upright. Trapped. Panic, raw and unfiltered, flooded my senses. I threw the door open, scrambling out, not even bothering to shut off the engine. The noise of the highway traffic was a deafening roar. I had to lose him. On foot. Disappear into the chaos.
I vaulted the guardrail, stumbled down the embankment, and ran towards the trees that lined the interstate. Behind me, I heard the solid thunk of Armsmaster dismounting, the hiss of some pneumatic system. He was faster. Of course, he was faster. I was a man in a suit, fueled by adrenaline and terror. He was a machine of combat efficiency, encased in power armour. A containment foam grenade arced over my head, exploding against a tree trunk and showering the road ahead of me with sticky, rapidly hardening yellow-grey material. I dodged, slipped on the wet leaves, felt a hand like a vice clamp down on my shoulder, spinning me around. Armsmaster's faceplate was inches from mine. Impassive. Unreadable. His other hand held a taser, its prongs crackling with blue energy.
This was it. No more splits. No more escapes. My carefully constructed empire, my years of planning, my very identity, all reduced to this ignominious roadside capture. How? How had they tracked me so perfectly, across timelines, across different vehicles, different routes? It defied all logic, all my understanding of their capabilities. As the cape stuck the taser in my side and cuffed me, as the world began to grey at the edges from hyperventilation or incipient shock, my hand brushed against the inside pocket of my suit jacket. A hard, rectangular shape. My PRT-issued cellphone.
The realisation hit me with the force of a physical blow, knocking the last vestiges of defiance out of me. The phone. Standard issue. GPS enabled. Secure comms, yes, but also… trackable. By the very organisation I'd sought to infiltrate and control. I'd been running their scenarios, planning against their tactics, anticipating their responses. And all the while, I'd carried their leash in my own pocket. My last coherent thought, as Armsmaster's impassive visor filled my vision before everything went dark, was a wave of crushing, bitter self-loathing. All that planning. All that power. Undone by such a small, stupid, perfectly Calvert-like oversight. The ultimate irony. And it wasn't amusing in the slightest.