CHAPTER 38: THE SWITCH — PART 1
Heroes and villains stood in the same room without killing each other.
The neutral ground was a converted warehouse near the industrial district—far enough from any faction's territory to be acceptable, close enough to ABB's perimeter to be useful. Folding tables covered in tactical maps. Emergency lighting casting everything in harsh white. The smell of coffee and tension.
Armsmaster ran the briefing with the efficiency I'd expected from meta-knowledge.
"Bakuda's dead man's switch is confirmed active," he said, gesturing at a schematic projected on the warehouse wall. "Heartbeat monitor. If her heart stops, or if the signal is jammed, detonators throughout her territory activate simultaneously. Conservative estimates suggest thirty to forty buildings would be destroyed."
"And liberal estimates?" The question came from a cape I didn't recognize—independent, judging by the costume.
"The entire Docks district." Armsmaster's voice was flat. "Potentially triggering secondary detonations in her stockpile."
The room absorbed this in silence.
I studied Armsmaster while he continued the briefing. The man in person matched my meta-knowledge: brilliant, obsessive, already calculating how to use this crisis for personal advancement. His armor gleamed with the precision of someone who maintained every system personally. His voice carried the clipped cadence of someone who'd rather be working than talking.
Miss Militia stood at his right shoulder—the moral anchor in the room. She watched everyone with a soldier's assessment, her power-generated weapon cycling through forms at her hip: pistol, knife, baton, back to pistol. When her eyes found mine, they lingered.
She's cataloging, I realized. Figuring out which of us can be trusted.
"The assault plan has three phases," Armsmaster continued. "Perimeter suppression, inner penetration, and switch neutralization. Phase one handles Bakuda's outer defenses—ABB soldiers, conventional traps, standard explosive devices. Phase two breaches her inner compound. Phase three..."
He paused.
"Phase three requires someone to physically reach Bakuda and sever the dead man's switch connection. The heartbeat monitor must be disabled without triggering the failsafe."
"That's a suicide run," Brian said. He stood with the Undersiders near the back of the room, his mask hiding everything but his eyes.
"That's why we're asking for volunteers."
No one spoke. The room's silence had weight.
The briefing broke for coffee and tactical discussion. Miss Militia found me at the map table, studying the assault routes.
"Revenant." Her voice was calm, professional. "I don't believe we've worked together before."
"We haven't."
She offered me a paper cup. "Coffee?"
"Thanks." I took it, noting how her eyes tracked my movements—the assessment of someone who'd seen combat and recognized it in others.
"You're young for this kind of fight," she said.
"Everyone's young until they're not."
The answer seemed to satisfy something in her. She studied the map alongside me, her weapon cycling at her hip.
"The kill zone," she said, pointing to the inner compound approach. "Bakuda's packed it with exotic devices. Temperature bombs, spatial distortions, sensory overloads. Anyone who tries to push straight through—"
"Gets shredded." I traced the approach route with my finger. "The direct path is suicide. But if someone could navigate around the trigger zones instead of through them..."
"That would require knowing where the triggers are. In real-time. Without triggering the sensors that activate them."
"Yes."
Miss Militia's eyes met mine. "You have an idea."
"Maybe." I didn't elaborate. Couldn't explain that my echolocation could map structures through walls, that my metal-sense could detect bomb components before visual confirmation. Couldn't explain that the fragments I'd harvested through six deaths might be exactly what this assault needed.
But I could show them.
Lisa appeared at my shoulder, tablet in hand. "Can I borrow Revenant for a moment?"
Miss Militia nodded, and Lisa pulled me toward a quieter corner.
"I'm feeding the intel now," she murmured. "Bakuda's switch frequency range, probable workshop location, bomb chain topology. It's going through as Thinker analysis."
"Armsmaster's buying it?"
"His prediction software flagged it as high confidence. He's incorporating it into the assault plan." Lisa's expression was sharp. "But there's a gap. The kill zone approach—no one can navigate it safely."
"I might be able to."
Lisa's eyes narrowed. "Your fragments?"
"Echolocation maps structural geometry. Metal-sense detects bomb components. Combined, I might be able to navigate around the trigger zones instead of through them."
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then I die and resurrect in twelve hours." I paused. "The team would lose, but I'd survive."
"That's not—" Lisa stopped herself. Took a breath. "That's not what I meant. If you die during the assault, the switch stays active. The bombs go off. Thousands of people."
"I know."
"Do you? Because volunteering for the kill zone isn't just risking yourself. It's risking everyone."
She was right. The calculation wasn't just about my death—it was about what happened if I failed. In canon, Taylor's bugs had solved this problem. Thousands of insects, each carrying a piece of the solution, overwhelming Bakuda's defenses through sheer numbers.
But Taylor hadn't triggered. The swarm didn't exist.
All I had was echolocation, metal-sense, and steady hands.
"Someone has to do it," I said. "And my fragments give me the best chance."
Lisa held my gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded—once, sharp.
"I'll run support from the perimeter. If you need tactical updates, I'll feed them through comms."
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet." Her expression was grim. "Thank me when Bakuda's in custody and you're not dead."
Dawn came fast.
The assault positions formed in the predawn darkness—Protectorate capes taking the perimeter, independents filling the gaps, Undersiders holding a secondary approach. Brian found me at the staging area before I moved to the kill zone entrance.
"You volunteered," he said. Not a question.
"Yes."
His jaw tightened—the look of a man watching someone step onto a ledge. "You don't have to do this."
"Someone does. And my power set gives me the best odds."
"Your power set gives you the best odds of surviving. Not succeeding."
"I know the difference."
Brian stepped closer. The predawn light caught his face, and I saw something there I hadn't seen before—fear, naked and unguarded.
"Come back," he said. "Whatever happens in there—come back."
"I always do."
"That's not—" He stopped. Tried again. "I mean come back you. Not just your body. Not just your resurrection. You."
I didn't have an answer for that. Wasn't sure if anyone did.
"I'll try," I said.
It was the most honest thing I could offer.
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