Orb Weaver Plague: Chapter 21

Dad hadn’t been thrilled when I brought the documents to him. But I’d pointed out that first of all, I’d be nowhere near Leviathan, and secondly, what if someone else was having this conversation regarding the Bay? His approval was… reluctant, but real. Besides, the Investigator was a thinker, no one who would seek out Leviathan-and in this case, nor was Orb Weaver. Leviathan would ignore anything I could do, so I wouldn’t seek him out for some ridiculous confrontation that would only end in my death. I could promise Dad I wouldn’t try to get into a fight without crossing my fingers, human or bug.

Unfortunately, Leviathan  was also not as stupid as many thought he was.

I had documentation, and warnings that the Endbringers were nothing if not unpredictable, which was why the method the Protectecorate and PRT hoped to use to predict an attack was deeply secret. Nor could they be certain we’d get warning—the only point on that was if the attack warning was thirty minutes or less, we would not be called up, as there wouldn’t be enough time for evacuation teams to do anything before the Endbringer made landfall. .

Evidently, from over heard conversations among the Wards at Arcadia, Vista wasn’t happy. The policy stated that any ward under 15 would not attend the initial fight, nor would they be permitted into the region for S&R, save to provide transport.

I had read much about burnout and PTSD among rescue workers and I had a feeling that policy may have been drawn up at least partially with the Shaker 9 in mind. For that matter, having her well outside the zone, where the PRT could clear lanes for her power, was probably the best idea.

My gun range time had also been useful. Armsmaster had agreed to verify the guns and certify them as “tinker safe” which essentially meant “unlikely to explode or kill everyone in the area.” One of the horror stories I’d had to sit through during a safety lecture had been a tinker who had built an sniper rifle that converted the bullets to polonium as they came out of the barrel. He was also noted as an example of the “expedited kill order” process.

The more exotic bullets were likely irreplaceable, although Armsmaster said he might assist me in trying for a reaload,  depending on what reason I could give for expending my current load. The explosive bullets had several ratings. I’d only used two at the firing range, and that had proven the loads were still good—and the ‘boom rounds’ produced the same yield as roughly 20 pounds of C4. I was advised to not use that under anything less than a class S scenario.

The tangle rounds were a variant of confoam, not used by the PRT due to expense. The tinker who had built them, was a chemical Tinker known to Armsmaster, although he’d died a few years ago. They would, Armsmaster told me, hold individuals who were strong, likely with an upper limit of Brute 4.

The short range stunners would be effective on people, and possibly brutes, but Armsmaster warned me to be very careful about multiple shots, as it could cause heart attacks—even in Brutes who might seem to shake the rounds off. That resulted in another forty page paper given to me about the danger of “less than lethal” designs.

The rest were more normal, though the acceleration system built into the guns fired the tungsten armor piercing rounds at a maximum velocity of  5200 FPS, though I could dial them down. I was also reminded that firing at that speed, unless there was a hill behind my target, meant that “backstop” was a bad joke.

I gave the explosive rounds to Armsmaster for safe keeping. He looked surprised.

Why? There was literally no place in the Bay where I could use such a weapon without unacceptable risk to others. The tungsten rounds were as capable of killing most parahumans as the explosive round.

And it provided yet another little bit of influence over the PRT reminding them that the Investigator was a cooperative cape.

I would stick with the non-lethal loadouts for the guns, when I was armed with them, that is. I did not expect to carry them commonly. A gun was a threat after all, and the Investigator was no threat. Just a minor thinker with a bit of luck who would never dream of using such a dangerous round and would be happy to show her trust in the PRT by handing them over. 

And Orb Weaver? Orb Weaver didn’t need guns.

But it was time for Orb Weaver to get to work.

*****

Hookwolf’s dog rings were hard to find—for police. Not so hard for me. After all, Orb Weaver didn’t concern himself with things like search warrants, and my compromised cameras let me see much.

Men were talking about the show. About the prospects they found.

The reason for their endurance was simple. The PRT did not tend to go after dog rings because they weren’t, in general, parahuman related for every one with Hookwolf in attendence there were five held in back alleys. The BBPD didn’t, because of the  chance of encountering one or more capes, and a one in five chance of an angry Hookwolf was not one most police wanted to court.

So the games, which in some places would be immediately suppressed by law enforcement, existed in a strange mid-zone. Bitch—or Hellhound if you used the PRT name, had attacked them, but her actions were worse than useless. Often she was chased off, or injured civilians, and the freed dogs, many of them traumatized to the point where they had to be euthanized. I didn’t mind her actions, but her planning was…

Well, what you would expect from someone accused of murder, who evidently likes dogs more than people. There was a reason few pet stores sold any kind of disciplinary tool—the same reason that Bitch had an attempted murder charge hanging over her head from an encounter with a late-night dog walker from right after she appeared in the Bay.

But wrecking a dog fight was easy.

And useless. They priced in the danger of some random cape, or bad luck from the police. No, to have a proper impact, I had to make this a fiasco. Something that would make Hookwolf and the others look silly.

As I passed by the Boar’s head, Iron Eagle, and other eateries, I saw the racks of food that had been prepared. This was a big deal, showing that the Empire was not weak. They had even designated specific refrigerators for the show, dividing them from others.

How helpful of them.

As I passed, bugs went into the system, Tugging, pulling changing a few settings. The clerks would check the temperature, and the gauges  would read correct. It had taken some time, but getting a spider into the works to web a certain spring closed had done it. Meanwhile, the actual cooling system was off, and some of my bugs had chewed through the insulation, the metal cover removed by a bug deployed application of acid. By the time I was finished, it’d just look  like a rusted out place—at least unless you were really checking things out. And if they did… well. Orb Weaver controlled all the vermin of the city, perhaps was all the vermin of the city.

Like the bugs who were contributing to the meal. The meat wouldn’t go bad quickly enough,which was why legions of bugs were moving in through the hole they’d chewed in the insulation, tightly compacted to keep from freezing to death and lovingly depositing bacteria and other sources of food poisoning over all the food.

There would be much regret about thirty minutes after the meals were consumed, I thought.

But I had other things to do.

Like the meat, finding the dogs hadn’t been difficult. A single bus ride through E88 territory had marked likely zones, and a late night walk, my bugs keeping me aware of any possible observers had confirmed the site, maggots and worms letting me know of the terrible condition they were in.

Here were cages, full of howling dogs, hissing cats. The Empire might have got their bait animals from the humane society, but they also captured strays and unwary pets. Here a cat that had never been in a worse fight than a battle with a laser dot softly yowled  in terror.

On the other side were the fighting dogs. Growling and snarling—and likely to be put down if ever they were captured. They were too broken to be safe pets, too vicious for any trained role.

Victims. I reminded myself that what I was about to do was not good—in a better world, I wouldn’t have to do it.

While the men guarding the location partied and told vulgar stories, my bugs entered the room. Swarms, buzzing lower and higher. The Fighting dogs  barked—then whimpered and backed away. Animals were vulnerable to the strange, seeking to flee it. But the fighting dogs couldn’t flee it. The bait animals saw nothing, just a curtain of bugs. It was frightening, but not going after them.

The fighting dogs were different. Bugs wove around them, looking like some terrible form, bodies combining to form the shapes of snakes and other things, while some other bugs had rolled in the dead bodies of the slaughtered bait dogs, making them smell like something that was long dead, but still moving. From the drainage grates, centipedes, scorpions, and other creatures emerged. They weren’t insects, not scientifically, but mine wasn’t the first ability to play fast and loose with what we knew. A pitbull, scarred and growling, darted forward, only to yip in terror, as its teeth went through the “snake” and other insects swarmed into its ears, their high pitched whine  of wings likely agonizing.

The rest took time, with a few pauses as men came back to check on the animals. But they were no animal lovers. They were monsters who enjoyed pain.

I worked very hard to restrain my first impulse.

But finally, I looked down at them,  the big, scarred animals cowering in their cages. The bait animals were actually more aggressive than before, picking up on the terror of the fighting dogs.

“I am sorry,” my bugs hummed out.

This was necessary. It did not make it good.

****

“Detective Harding.”

“Je—warn a guy!”

I paused while Harding dabbed at the coffee stain on his shirt.

“Forgive me,” I said. “But we have an opportunity.”

“What, testing my heart?”

“No. Making the E88 another laughing stock.”

“Really?”

“A man can survive danger—it gives him bragging rights. But ridicule?” I chuckled, and Harding shivered. “"The best way to drive out the devil, if he will not yield to texts of Scripture, is to jeer and flout him, for he cannot bear scorn."  Luther said that. We will raid a fighting ring and make them truly regret their actions.”

“And if Hookwolf is there?”

“I will be ensuring the PRT and Protectorate are at hand. And if not, I am well prepared to handle Hookwolf.”

“Great. How are you gonna make them look silly?”

“Ah, that is my surprise. You would not have me spoil it, would you? But make certain you have prepared your cars for those who have ah, suffered intestinal problems.”

“What, a demon tearing itself out of them?”

“Hmmm…. No. At least not this time.”

“Okay…”

As I left the region, the bugs in the walls that had spoken to Harding in his house removing themselves.  I had one more thing to do before the game began. I had to start moving some of my rats into the region.

After all, what was a celebration without roughly five thousand angry rats?