When someone comes home after forty years trapped in another dimension, you might expect them to react in a suitably dramatic fashion. Breaking down, sobbing, kissing the ground, et cetera. At least, that’s what we’ve been conditioned by popular media to expect. But that’s not how the Vitruvian reacts. He simply looks around with a vaguely curious expression on his face, as if he can’t quite place why this location is familiar. Then it comes to him.

“Ah, this is the lab where your father built his gateway device.” He turns around to observe the dimensional tunneler, now cycling down after we’ve passed through. “It wasn’t quite as sophisticated as your design, I must say.”

Hearing that from him is what I imagine getting a compliment from Tesla on your latest blueprint must have been like. I’m grateful for the fact that the environment suit masks my expression. I can’t take it off quite yet, either- the protective shielding is still up, and we’re being scanned thoroughly for any sort of foreign bacteria or other nasty hitchhikers that might have made the return trip with us.

Finally, Ulysses seems satisfied, and the shield ascends. I waste no time in exiting the bulky armor, which two of Network’s drones rush over to collect. Once he realizes I’ve divested myself of it, the Vitruvian turns a critical eye to me, which I do my best to ignore as I pull off my mask and wipe my brow. I must look strange to him, a younger version of his nemesis. In the back of the room, Ishtar is watching us silently. I meet her eyes for a moment, and give her what I hope is a reassuring look.

“The Vitruvian, I take it?”

Ulysses wastes no time in approaching the hero, hand outstretched to shake. The Vitruvian wastes no time in accepting the gesture.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he replies genially. I don’t fail to notice that his tone is instantly warmer when he’s speaking to someone whose surname isn’t Winters.

“Quite so. I am Ulysses. Before I go any further, might I ask how much my associate informed you about the nature of this project?”

I interject before the Vitruvian can respond, not looking directly in their direction. The exhaustion is only now beginning to set in.

“Not much. Feel free to do the honors.”

“Very well,” the quantum savant says, casting a caustic look in my direction. “Mister Winters and I are representatives of a group known as the Council. We are the protectors of this world, just as you and your Vanguard once were. However, our very existence is a closely-guarded secret. As such, we’d like to debrief you in a secure location, to ensure that our operations are not compromised by your return.”

That’s probably the best way to frame the Council to someone like the Vitruvian. Telling him outright that we ‘run the world’ would probably set off ‘secret evil cabal’ alarms in his head, and the last thing we need is to alienate someone as powerful, and popular, as him. He’s still got that golden-age sheen to him, the way even his contemporaries like Atlas don’t. Partially because he’s a martyr, and never had to operate in the eighties, much less the present day, where perfect moral righteousness isn’t really an option.

“That seems eminently reasonable,” the Vitruvian says. I breathe a sigh of relief. “Before that, though, is there anything I ought to do with the elder Winters’ body?”

Before I can answer, one of Network’s bodies speaks up. The clones he uses don’t all have the same face, but he does tend to dress them similarly, with close-cut hair and nondescript, logoless uniforms.

“We’ll take care of it.”

The body in question, and one of its companions, approaches with a stretcher. Once they’re near enough, the Vitruvian removes the disc keeping Father’s body afloat, and it drops down onto the stretcher, prompting Network to carry it away. They’ll transport it to my personal lab, where I’ll have all the time I need to recover his equipment and perform whatever operations prove necessary. Perhaps a dissection would prove cathartic.

“Wonderful,” the hero says, seemingly unfazed. “Will the debriefing be conducted here?”

Ulysses shakes his head.

“I’m afraid not. We’ll be traveling via translocation to a more secure site.” He retrieves a one-time translocator unit from a pocket and passes it to the Vitruvian, who eyes it with interest. A golden light washes over the device for a moment, which I suspect means he’s copied the schematics. Not necessarily a good sign, but the debriefing site will have translocation blockers in place, so it’s not a major concern at the moment.

“Very well. Will Mister Winters be joining us?”

Rather than answer, Ulysses turns to me and raises an eyebrow. If he’s suggesting I answer one way or the other, it’s not obvious to me.

“Feel free to begin without me, I need a few moments’ rest. You’ve contacted Hawkshaw already?”

“Of course,” Ulysses responds, acting as if it’s somehow an unreasonable question. That does reassure me somewhat, though. I’d be uncomfortable leaving this entirely in the Q-brain’s hands, but with Kellan in the room, I’m sure it’ll be fine.

“Good.”

The mathematical sage activates his implant with a whisper, and both he and the Vitruvian disappear in an instant. Network bodies continue to bustle around, but I tune them out and approach Ishtar, who observed the entire interaction without a word.

We’re both silent. I don’t know whether it would be appropriate to embrace her, or begin explaining what the situation with the Vitruvian is. Eventually, I settle on something that feels safe.

“I told you I wouldn’t die.”

She doesn’t exactly break into tears- just nods grimly and says “I’m glad.” I suppose there’s a time and place for both humor and sentimentality, and this isn’t it for either.

“Did Ulysses fill you in on who my guest was?”

“No.”

I wasn’t sure at first, but she’s definitely acting cold towards me. Maybe she just doesn’t want to give anyone a hint that we’re becoming closer, but I can’t shake the fear that I somehow offended her in some invisible way. I’ll have to ask Kellan for advice- he and Olivia never seem to have problems like that.

“He was Father’s enemy, the one I told you about. The Vitruvian.”

“And what are we going to do with him?”

The fact that she’s using ‘we’ instead of ‘you’ is a good sign, at least. An indicator that she’s starting to think of herself as an actual part of the Council, and not just an outside observer.

“That’s to be determined. He’s supposed to be powerful, and I wouldn’t object to having him on our side, but I don’t know if he’s got the stomach for it.”

“If he doesn’t?”

“Then we may have a problem on our hands.”

Ishtar mulls that over for a few moments, but says nothing. Eventually, I feel compelled to break the silence.

“Shall we go find out what it’s going to be?”

That provokes a slight frown.

“You can tell me how it goes afterwards.” Then she whispers a phrase in the language of Vanaheim that activates her implant. Before she can translocate away, I speak up.

“Have I done something to upset you? You’re acting strange, and I’d rather not let it fester, if there’s an issue.”

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, looking slightly guilty.

“I’m not upset. It’s just- I’m new to whatever this is.” She gestures vaguely to the space between us, and I know she isn’t talking about the Council. “I need some time to figure it out on my own.”

Maybe she figured I wasn’t going to come back, and never considered what it would mean if I did. To be fair to her, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead in the moment either.

“That’s understandable. I don’t have much experience with real relationships either. But we can work it out together.”

Ishtar gives me a faint smile.

“I hope so.”

Then she’s gone. I linger for a moment, staring at the space that once contained her, and then whisper the words that will take me to a black site where we can debrief the man who used to be the world’s greatest hero.

I’m not stranger to interrogation rooms. Not that I was into habit of getting caught, when I lived on the wrong side of the law, but it did happen occasionally. More than once, I engineered my own capture as part of some larger scheme, and it was always gratifying to see the look on the face of my interrogator as they figured out that I had outplayed them, just a moment too late.

This black site isn’t very different from any of those interrogation rooms, save for the fact that I’m on the other side of the two-way mirror for once. The observation room is dimly lit, while the room on the other side of the mirror is bathed in a warm glow from a lamp in the corner. There’s a harsher halogen light overhead, but that’s reserved for an actual interrogation. We’re just debriefing the Vitruvian, and this site happens to be the best one for our purposes. It’s hardened against virtually all forms of surveillance, and the interrogation room itself is equipped with translocation jammers to prevent anyone from getting in or out. It doesn’t seem likely that the Vitruvian will try to run, but if he does, we’ll be prepared.

The one major difference between this place and the other interrogation rooms I’ve been in is the setting. It’s not a police precinct, or even an underground bunker. There are only so many of those in the world, after all, and constructing new ones is time-intensive and expensive. Instead, we set this site up in an office building in Busan. Renting out the space isn’t cheap, but it costs less than having an entire bunker built under heavy secrecy would. I’m fairly certain the offices of a small-time video game developer are a few floors below us.

Inside the interrogation room itself, the Vitruvian sits across an empty table from Hawkshaw and Ulysses. There’s no audio feed inside the room, so I can’t hear what they’re saying. Instead, Ulysses is acting as our stenographer, recording the entire conversation on paper. Digital storage is far more easily compromised than hard copies, so we rely on the latter whenever possible.

After a few moments of observation, I send a ping from my implant to Kellan’s, informing him that I’ve arrived. He gives no indication of having received it, but a few seconds later, he stands up and leaves the room. I see the Vitruvian’s eyes shift to the glass, and wonder for a moment if he’s capable of seeing behind it. Fortunately, I’m wearing my mask, so even if he can, there’s very little he’ll be able to figure out just by looking at me.

“Conrad,” the protector of Pax says, as he closes the door to the interrogation room behind him. “You really have the worst timing, you know that?”

“Did I drag you away from a case?”

“Worse. It was date night.”

“Ah,” I wince. “I’ll apologize to Olivia the next time I see her.”

Kellan chuckles. Considering Ulysses could only have contacted him about fifteen minutes ago, it seems likely that he was already in his armor when the call came in. ‘Date night’ for Hawkshaw and Atalanta can alternately mean a traditional evening outing, or a high-stakes raid on some horrid den of crime and iniquity.

“Don’t worry about it. She doesn’t mind. Asked me to tell her if the Vitruvian is as hot in real life as he is in the pictures.”

“And the verdict?”

“Hotter, I think. The beard just works for him.”

It’s so easy to slip into casual banter with Kellan, I almost forget that we’re dealing with something serious at the moment. In the corner of my eye, I can see that the Vitruvian is saying something to Ulysses. Probably best not to leave them alone together for too long.

“Agreed. How far along are you?”

“Not very,” Kellan answers, folding his arms and glancing at the mirror. Seems like he’s feeling some of the same discomfort as me. “We’ve just been establishing the facts. What happened to him, how he’s still alive, all that.”

Sounds like we’re more or less on the same page, then. That’s good.

“I see. And how much do you intend to tell him?”

Hawkshaw sighs, the sound filtered through his mask so it comes out like a harsh rasp.

“The way I see it, full disclosure is our only option. He’s already seen too much. If we cut him loose, I’m sure he’d continue looking into us. Considering who he is, that would pose a serious risk.”

That was the very same conclusion I’d come to. I pinch the bridge of my nose, frustrated.

“Sometimes I really wish we still had Geas around.”

“Mhm. He would make this kind of thing a lot easier, that’s for sure. If we can convince him that we’re the good guys, everything should be fine. Ideal scenario, he joins up. It could be useful to have someone like him on our side. But if not, we come up with a cover story and let him go back to his life as best he can.”

“I concur. Shall we?”

“Yeah, let’s.”

Kellan leads the way back into the interrogation room. At his gesture, I take the seat at the table where he was sitting, while he looms behind us, in the shadows. Definitely where he feels most comfortable. And frankly, he looks slightly ridiculous sitting down like a normal person while wearing his armor.

“Mister Winters,” the Vitruvian says, extending a hand for me to shake. “Good to see you again. And I must offer you my sincere gratitude for rescuing me from that… place. It may have been your father’s fault that I ended up there to begin with, but I assure you, I harbor no ill will towards you because of it.”

If that was entirely true, he wouldn’t have brought up Father’s involvement at all. But I tamp down my annoyance and shake his hand. He’s still armored- I suppose he can’t remove it without risking the instant-aging that we discussed earlier. For my part, I put ordinary clothes on over my bodysuit, which makes me feel like more of a human than I did before. Hopefully it helps differentiate me from Father in his eyes, since my fashion sense is decidedly more modern than the old man’s.

“It was my pleasure. Now, I think we owe you an explanation as to exactly who we are, and what we do.”

“That would be very much appreciated.”

I realize for the first time that the Vitruvian’s eyes are golden, just as his armor is. Not solid, it’s just the pupils, which must be how I failed to notice. It could just be contacts- without a helmet, he would need some sort of visual augmentation, the same way my mask’s lenses work. But it makes looking directly at him slightly disconcerting. He’s larger than life in so many ways. I feel like I should be used to it, considering the kinds of people I spend my days with, but he’s got a quality to him that even they lack.

“I’m going to abbreviate the story somewhat in the interest of time, but we’ll cover the important parts. About twenty years ago, the Council was founded by three individuals. Two heroes, leaders of the largest American and European hero teams at the time. And a man called Gilgamesh, who claimed to be immortal. Not in the conventional sense, but rather through a time loop. According to his account, he’d experienced countless variations of the same stretch of time, granting him knowledge that—”

The Vitruvian clears his throat, interrupting me.

“Pardon me. This Gilgamesh, was he a tall man, broad-shouldered, with a thousand-yard stare? Unbreakable armor? Ancient sword?”

“Yes. You’re familiar with him?”

“Indeed. We encountered one another once or twice over the years. You say he was in a time loop? I suppose that explains a few things…”

It shouldn’t surprise me that the Vitruvian knows who Gilgamesh was. If he hadn’t disappeared, I don’t doubt he would have been on the short-list of people to recruit for the Council’s original lineup.

“Interesting. In any case, he and the other two formed the Council with the intent of protecting the planet from threats that ordinary heroes were unequipped to handle. Over time, as new members were recruited, the Council’s influence grew, and they began taking steps to covertly improve the world, rather than just defending the status quo. However, the founding members became corrupt, and eventually it became necessary to oust them. After that happened, we restructured the organization somewhat, with an increased focus on global optimization projects. Obviously, safeguarding the world is still a high priority, but when we aren’t doing that, we do our best to make the Earth a place worth saving.”

That’s my part of the sales pitch down. As soon as I’ve finished speaking, Kellan continues where I left off.

“In order to do all of this, however, it’s imperative that our existence remains a secret. To that end, we need your guarantee that, whatever we decide regarding your future, you’ll keep quiet about what we’ve just told you.”

The Vitruvian leans forward and tents his fingers, eyes still locked on me.

“These ‘global optimization projects’ you’ve described. Give me an example.”

“Well, after you disappeared, it became clear that over-reliance on fossil fuels would cause massive, irreparable damage to the environment, rendering large parts of the planet effectively uninhabitable within a few hundred years. The political response was, as you might expect, insufficient. At best, half-measures were taken, while at worst, the problem was ignored, or its existence was outright denied. We’ve taken action to correct that, and successfully reduced global carbon emissions by the necessary levels. The conversion to renewable energy isn’t complete yet, but before the Council got involved, there was virtually no hope of it happening within our lifetimes.”

As soon as I’ve finished speaking, I wish I’d chosen a better example. While our efforts to halt climate change are important, that probably isn’t quite as obvious to someone who’s only now learning that it exists in the first place.

“That’s undeniably impressive,” he says coolly. “Now, if you’ll indulge me… exactly how did you accomplish all this? If the incentives were so strongly aligned against you, I can’t imagine it was easy.”

Something about his tone makes me feel like I’m being baited. He’s treating me like a supervillain, someone who’s arrogant enough to explain every last detail of his master plan just to prove how clever he is. I’m not sure what offends me more- the fact that he’s using such tactics on me just because of who my father was, or that he thinks it could actually work.

“We employ a variety of methods. As many of our members are technologically inclined, we’ve been able to provide cheap, cost-effective renewable energy replacements to help incentivize transitioning. Of course, when dealing with politicians, it’s hardly realistic to expect them to act with the best interests of humanity in mind. As such, subversion is sometimes necessary.”

I see Ulysses bristle slightly. He’s been silent so far, faithfully recording everything, but the hint towards Network’s activities seems to bother him. There’s no point in trying to tiptoe around it forever, though. Axel is integral to our operations, and there’s no way we could explain what the Council does without eventually bringing him up. Better to bite the bullet now than get called on it later.

“Subversion,” the Vitruvian repeats flatly. “In what sense? Brainwashing? Telepathy?”

“We once counted a telepath among our number, but they were removed during the transition of power. Most of the subversion is done by another member, who uses the alias Network. His power allows him to copy his personality into the body of another, overwriting them entirely.”

The Vitruvian doesn’t slam his fists on the table or faint in horror. He just looks disappointed.

“I see.”

“Rest assured,” Ulysses interjects, continuing to write as he looks up to address the hero, “we go to great lengths to ensure that only deserving individuals are targeted. War criminals, corrupt politicians, and the like.”

That utterly fails to impress the Vitruvian. If anything, he looks even more disappointed.

“Of course. No due process, no trial, just you and your ‘Council’ choosing who lives and who dies.”

This time, it’s Kellan who answers, sounding incensed.

“And where would you propose we put these people on trial? The Hague? America has standing plans to invade the Netherlands if that ever happens.”

That seems to catch the Vitruvian off-guard.

“As far as I’m aware, no such plans existed in my era.”

“Obviously, the world has changed since then,” I interject swiftly, trying to use the opportunity to diffuse tensions. “Our methods may sound extreme, but we wouldn’t employ them if they weren’t necessary.”

The Vitruvian’s expression hardens, and I sigh internally. The downside of him retaining his old-fashioned morals is that he’s clearly incredibly self-righteous.

“I can’t accept that. You people have taken the law into your own hands.”

“Like you and your friends didn’t,” Kellan replies coldly.

“We were all registered—”

“Sure, after the government made it mandatory in ‘71. But before that, you, Atlas, Dryad, and all the rest were vigilantes. You decided you knew what was best for everyone, so you took the law into your own hands. We’re just more effective than you were.”

Pointing an accusatory finger in Kellan’s direction, the Vitruvian stands, shoving his chair backwards.

“We protected people. You’re controlling them. Taking away their freedom to choose for themselves.”

The detective doesn’t stir from his position as he fires back.

“If what they’re choosing is to allow a small handful of people to start wars and boil the oceans in the name of profit? Absolutely.”

Under the surface of the Vitruvian’s golden armor, I can see the machinery turning faster. It’s hard to tell whether it’s simply responding to his emotions or if he’s gearing up for an attack, but I rest my hand on my sidearm just in case.

“If people are making the wrong choice, it’s your duty to help convince them to make the right one. Not to decide for them.”

His condescending moralism is really starting to bother me. I even catch stoic Ulysses roll his eyes, but neither of us is about to jump into the middle of this argument. Besides, Kellan is really at his best when he’s being passionate about something he believes in.

“Newsflash- that’s exactly what your friend Dryad did for years, and she didn’t accomplish a damn thing. Our way may not be pretty, but we get results.”

For a few moments, the room is silent, save for the sound of Ulysses writing and the Vitruvian breathing heavily. Then he sits back down, glaring at all of us. He clearly isn’t about to accept that we’re right, but there’s not much point in arguing the issue further. It’s a fundamental ideological divide, and those can’t be solved with debate.

“I take it you’re not willing to work with us going forward, then?”

The Vitruvian doesn’t react particularly well to my glib attempt at lowering the tension in the room. Instead, he gives me a look that tells me his every suspicion about me has been validated. Earlier, I might have actually let that get to me, but by now, I’m fully convinced that Father was right about him. All of that talent is completely wasted on someone whose moral code was already outdated forty years ago.

“I’m afraid not,” he says, shaking his head. “Unless you’re willing to face justice for your crimes.”

I hear Kellan scoff behind me. That notion isn’t even worth rebutting, it’s so patently ridiculous. Either it would be a sham trial that we controlled, which I doubt he’d accept, or it would have to involve us deliberately relinquishing every scrap of power we’ve obtained over the Council’s twenty-year existence. And if we did that, the consequences would be nothing short of apocalyptic. Like it or not, we’re indispensable at this point. There’s no other organization capable of doing what we do, and if we tried to turn the reins of the world over to more conventional authorities, their incompetence and greed would see millions dead within the first year.

“That’s not really an option. And I suppose you wouldn’t be content to ignore our existence if we left you alone?”

“I couldn’t very well call myself a hero if I did that, could I?”

Once more, I regret that we weren’t able to co-opt Geas when we had the chance. Having his powers on hand would make all this so much easier- we could just excise the offending memories and send the Vitruvian on his way. I have half a mind to contact Ishtar and ask her to attempt the same thing, but her psychosurgery techniques aren’t quite as precise, and it would be a genuine shame if we accidentally rendered such a brilliant mind vegetative, even if his sanctimony is insufferable.

“Well, that doesn’t leave us with very many alternatives. Unless you’re willing to reconsider, or until we can find another solution, we’ll have to detain you in our holding facility.”

Strictly speaking, that’s Kellan’s decision to make, but there’s no way he hasn’t come to the same conclusion already. Besides, he’s playing the bad cop right now, which I suppose makes me the reasonable one, if not necessarily ‘good.’

“You have a secret prison. Of course you do.”

It would be unbecoming of me to punch the Vitruvian in the face, but his condescending mock-exhaustion really makes me want to.

“Believe me, I have no desire to hold you against your will. You simply aren’t giving us any other choice.”

The look that he gives me indicates that he’s heard that line plenty of times before.

“I’m sure. Don’t worry, I won’t make this difficult. Clearly, there would be little point in resisting.”

Well, that does simplify things somewhat. I wasn’t looking forward to the possibility of fighting him. But there is the problem of his armor, and the fact that we probably can’t remove it without killing him. Not that he’d let us, either.

“Appreciated,” I reply dryly. “We’ll try to keep you as comfortable as possible.”

Unfortunately, the level of comfort we can offer at Avernus is limited, especially for someone like the Vitruvian. He’s clever enough to use virtually anything we give him to escape, especially if he still has access to the armor. An anti-tech cell will be necessary, meaning he’ll have to deal with a low-level electromagnetic pulse triggering once every minute, powerful enough to fry anything he might build. Continuing to write with one hand, Ulysses is already contacting Network to prep a cell with the other.

“How kind.”

Ulysses stands, putting his pen down and retrieving another one-time translocation beacon, which he swiftly programs a destination into.

“I think that concludes this debrief,” he says neutrally. “Thank you all for your time. I can take things from here.”

As I’m getting up to leave, the Vitruvian meets my eyes.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t hold your father’s sins against you, Mister Winters. Sadly, it seems you’ve accumulated quite a few of your own.”

The Vitruvian’s words are still ringing in my ears when I get home. Which isn’t that impressive, considering the trip takes less than a minute via translocation, but it’s still irksome. I don’t subscribe to his ridiculous moral paradigm, but the condemnation of Father’s greatest rival still stings.

Pulling off my mask, I toss it onto a nearby table. The lab underneath Winters House is the same as I left it, save for the presence of Father’s moldering corpse. The lack of external stimulus kept it relatively preserved until now, but I have a limited window to study it before it begins to fall apart before my eyes. I suppose it’ll have to go in the family crypt after I’m done, though that’s really just a formality. I didn’t bring him back for the burial, I brought him back because there were things on him when he died that I wanted. And now they’re within my grasp.

First thing’s first, though, I have to get rid of the wires that still infest his body. The process of removing them is slow, painstaking, and more than a little stomach-turning. It reminds me of when I would absentmindedly pick at the stitching on a garment when I was bored, except that clothes don’t tend to bleed when you pull them apart. Luckily, there isn’t much blood left in Father’s body, but what little remains now adorns the surgical table in my lab’s medical center.

Once I’ve gotten the wires out, I ball them up and bring them to the incinerator. My first instinct was to study them, but they seem to be inert now that they’ve been severed from the data tree they grew out of, and I’d rather not have them come alive inside the lab while I’m not looking. There’ll be plenty of opportunities to go back through the gate and collect more samples. Best to err on the side of caution for the moment.

After that’s done, I strip Father’s synth-fluid suit off his body. Were I younger, and possessed of less mental fortitude, I’m sure this would cause deep psychosexual trauma, but luckily neither of those is the case. Instead, I simply load his body into the CT scanner, to check for any nasty surprises hiding under the skin. Since I’m checking his whole body, it’ll take about an hour, which gives me some time to sort through his equipment. First up is the ‘death ray.’ Not quite his crowning achievement, but certainly one of the most easily recognizable. It uses a unique radioactive isotope with a hundred-year half-life to generate an energy beam capable of disintegrating any organic matter it strikes. Useless against inorganics, and necessarily lethal, which limits its usefulness, but it makes a powerful deterrent if nothing else. When I pick it up, there’s a soft chime, indicating that my DNA has been accepted, and the gene-lock deactivated. I’m not foolish enough to start firing it off randomly, even with nobody else around, but I do test the weight in my hand, and allow myself to imagine for a moment what the Vitruvian would look like with it leveled at his head.

The viciousness of that thought surprises me a little, and I put the gun down gingerly. Maybe the hero got deeper under my skin than I thought. Next up, I detach a device from the left hip of Father’s utility belt, opposite the death ray’s position. It’s a slightly irregularly-shaped metal slab, about fifty percent larger than the average smartphone, with an old-fashioned LCD screen that resembles that of a calculator. Surprisingly, the screen blinks to life when I pick the device up. I suppose the nuclear battery still hasn’t burnt out. The screen isn’t quite as high-definition as a modern phone, but it’s better than what ordinary computers in Father’s era were capable of. A small satellite dish extends from the top of the gadget, and starts rotating around slowly, searching for a signal. This is a Terror-phone, one of five such communicator devices Father built for the members of his crew. It features an early version of a GPS, as well as long-range radio capabilities over an encrypted channel. As far as I’m aware, the surviving members of the Terrors still have theirs, which makes me glad the lab is hardened against remote transmissions. Otherwise they might have noticed Father’s communicator coming back online.

Contacting them might not be a bad idea, for that matter. I’ve only met one before- Thresher, the mob enforcer turned boss. He was more interested in making money than the various outlandish schemes that the rest of the Terrors perpetrated. That’s probably why he ended up the best-off out of all of them, ‘retiring’ from crime while keeping abreast of various goings-on in the metahuman underworld. When he heard that someone was going around in one of Father’s old uniforms, he decided to arrange a meeting, and had a few of his stronger hirelings deliver me to his mansion. Once we established that I was Father’s legitimate heir, and not some misguided pretender, we got along well enough, though I refused his offer of aid in my quest to reclaim my family’s honor.

Meta-criminals aren’t known for being especially sentimental, but I suppose some of them might appreciate closure with regards to Father’s disappearance. Not to mention, they might be able to offer some insight when it comes to dealing with the Vitruvian. Besides Thresher, I’m fairly certain that Reverb and Buckshot are both still alive, while Manowar was killed some time after the group disbanded. The details are fuzzy, but if I remember correctly, it was a member of the Vanguard who killed him. Much as Father and the Vitruvian had a personal rivalry that went beyond the usual relationship of villain and hero, Manowar had a similar nemesis in Kentarch, the hero who patterned himself after a Roman centurion. Each group blamed the other for their leader’s death, and tensions escalated to the point that Manowar killed someone close to Kentarch- perhaps a parent or child. After that, Kentarch carved a bloody trail through the underworld until he found Manowar, and killed him in broad daylight. The Vanguard was forced to disavow their friend, who in turn lost his status as a registered hero, and became the face of the mid-eighties vigilante boom, forming his own team of younger anti-hero types who were disillusioned with the methods of the Vitruvian and his ilk.

Precisely what happened to Kentarch after that, I can’t recall, but he’s no longer active. Nor are Neutrino or Dryad. The former, I can’t remember anything about at all, so I take a break from going through Father’s gear and look him up. Apparently, after the Vanguard split up, he tried the solo-hero thing for a while, but suffered a mental break and caused a high-profile tragedy when his molecular-rearrangement powers got out of hand. Following that, he was involuntarily committed to a psychiatric ward, where he was treated with various untested medications, both for his disorders, and to suppress his powers. As of the present day, he’s still on those power-suppressants, and shies away from the spotlight, though there was a movie a few years ago that focused on his story from the angle of the medical abuses perpetrated against him. I can’t imagine the Vitruvian will be especially pleased to discover that.

Dryad, on the other hand, had a celebrated career. Once the original members of the Vanguard left, she tried to recruit a new generation of heroes, among which a young Nicholas O’Connor was apparently numbered, to my surprise. When that failed, she decided to abandon heroics for the most part, and go into activism. First it was anti-war, then pro-environment, including a number of major publicity stunts involving her florakinetic abilities, like causing all the plant life on the White House grounds to wither and die during the spring, to represent the President’s complicity in some scandal or another. After that, she went into politics, becoming a multiple-term Senator from California. She was even the Vice Presidential nominee in 2000, but proved more of a detriment to her ticket than a boon, as the opposition smeared her as a hippie, and they lost by a hair. After that, she faded into relative obscurity, until she was appointed ambassador to Arcadia the same year it got a spot on the Security Council. They made it clear that they’d only accept a metahuman ambassador, and her relatively clean record made her an easy pick. Fortunately, she’s also quite old, so there’s very little risk of her becoming a threat, even if the Vitruvian did somehow find a way to contact her.

The real concern is Atlas. He’s the only member of the Vanguard who’s been active as a hero consistently since the group disbanded. He also doesn’t seem to age at all, which probably makes it easy. The name might seem a little self-aggrandizing to most people, but if anyone could carry the weight of the world on their shoulders, it would be him. What the Vitruvian is to meta-geniuses, Atlas is to powerhouses. Unparalleled strength, seeming invulnerability, and flight. It’s a classic package, to be sure, but the cliche doesn’t make him any less dangerous. He worked with the government directly for years after the Vanguard disbanded, but eventually left over some unspecified disagreement. Now he spends most of his time dealing with natural disasters, rather than fighting crime, as there are more than enough heroes to handle that sort of thing. He did, however, get involved during the Andromedan invasion, as well as a handful of other global crises, and proved that he’s still just as strong as he ever was.

Inside of Father’s utility belt, I find a number of items that seem specifically designed to counter each member of the Vanguard. He put this kit together long before the advent of Koppel bullets, which must have made dealing with Atlas difficult, but the superadhesive pellets would at least slow him down, if not stop him permanently. There’s a hyper-herbicide for killing Dryad’s floral weapons, a ‘neural disruptor’ that’s presumably designed to prevent Neutrino from focusing long enough to use his power effectively, and even a collapsible sword and shield that can fit inside two pouches, which seem sturdy enough to let him go toe-to-toe with Kentarch. Even though he was the Vitruvian’s designated opposite number, it makes sense he’d want to be prepared to deal with any member of the Vanguard he might go up against.

Besides the Vitruvian and Father or Kentarch and Manowar, each member of the Vanguard had their own specific nemesis among the Terrors, though for them it was largely not as personal as those two rivalries. Buckshot, the ‘shotgun telekinetic,’ usually went up against Atlas, because he was the only one who could hope to trade blows with the flying brick. Reverb, the soundwave savant, could disrupt Neutrino’s equilibrium and neutralize him effectively. And Thresher, the self-described carnivore, would act as the red counterpart to Dryad’s green sensibilities, even though their abilities weren’t particularly complimentary the same way the others were. Ironic that their rivalry was the least significant to the two of them, and they both went on to have the most successful careers of their fellows. Maybe I ought to contact Dryad too, though I doubt she’d be particularly eager to speak to any member of the Winters family, particularly about the Vitruvian.

Apparently I wasted more time than I thought reading up on what happened to the various members of the Vanguard, because the CT machine informs me that it’s finished scanning Father’s body while I’m still going through the first few pouches of the utility belt. I’ll have plenty of time to continue my inventory of Father’s equipment, though. Investigating his corpse takes priority.

Looking over the scan results, I find nothing amiss within his body itself. No foreign agents he picked up on the computer-world, no tracking devices that the Vitruvian might have planted, nothing. There is, however, something irregular in his skull, besides the various miniature holes left by the wires I removed. It’s one of his teeth. According to the scanner, it’s hollow, and there’s some sort of small object inside. I waste no time in dragging the body out of the scanner and putting it back on the table, before fetching a pair of pliers. It’s fortunate that this false tooth is still there, when a number of the others rotted out, but then I suppose an artificial one would be more likely not to deteriorate.

Removing the tooth proves quite easy, though I’m careful not to apply too much force, lest I risk shattering it entirely. Once it’s out, I tap it against the nearest hard surface a few times, and it begins to crack. A moment later, it comes apart in my hands, revealing a miniature data-stick concealed within. Disposing of the shards, I examine the device closely. It doesn’t appear to have been designed for any standard port, but the shape of the interface sparks a memory, and a recent one at that. It’s designed to connect with the Terror-phone. I swiftly fetch the device and plug the drive in. A reactive soundwave graphic appears on the screen, and Father’s voice comes through the speakers, the audio quality surprisingly crisp.

“Greetings.”

The single word sends a chill down my spine. I know what Father’s voice sounds like, of course. I heard it often enough in my ‘youth,’ through the recordings he used to program me, and occasionally after that in archival footage and the like. But it’s been quite a long time since then, and combined with the fact that I have his body resting not far from me, the effect is somewhat more pronounced.

“If the Vitruvian is listening to this, I congratulate you. It seems you’ve finally mustered the courage to kill me. Frankly, it’s about time. To you, I leave a porcelain chess set, legally purchased, so you needn’t bother trying to return it to anyone. It’s located in a bank vault, in the city where we first fought, under the name December. I know this won’t dissuade you from searching, but I assure you, there are no traps. You have my word, and once more, my sincerest congratulations on finally growing a pair.”

While Father is laughing haughtily in the recording, I jot that information down. There may not be any traps in that chess set, but I wouldn’t be shocked if there’s some hidden information. If not, I may just take it for myself regardless.

“Moving on. If my Terrors are listening to this, one of two things has happened. Either you all have stabbed me in the back, or someone else has killed me, but you’ve retained my body. If the first is true, and you’re all still alive, congratulations. I’ve thought long and hard about how to kill all of you if you betrayed me, and successfully outfoxing me is no small achievement. If you all allowed me to die, however, I’m rather disappointed. I fully expect you to exact revenge upon my killer. In any case, I leave to you all four statues in your various likenesses, made from four of the gold bars we pilfered from Fort Knox. I hope you all will remember me fondly by them, even if you did conspire to murder me. They should be in the care of the proprietor of the bar where we all met to plan our first heist. If he sold them off, feel free to teach him a lesson about breaking his word.”

Something about the perverse sentimentality in that message is almost heartwarming. I make a note to follow up on that information, and provide the surviving members of the crew with their statues if I can. Maybe I’ll keep Manowar’s for myself, since I somehow doubt he left behind any loved ones who would particularly appreciate it.

“Finally, Conrad. Since my plans call for you to be born quite some time after I pass, it seems unlikely that you’d be the first one to find this recording. However, I wouldn’t put it past my allies or my enemies to miss this hidden message entirely, while someone with my own intellect would obviously locate it within minutes of getting their hands on my body. Whether that’s the case, or someone is playing this for you, I simply don’t have very much to say. Obviously, we’ve never met, so I can hardly reminisce about the time we spent together, good or bad. However, I do know that you’ll do a fine job of carrying on my legacy, and lifting up the Winters family name to ever-greater heights. You are me, after all. As for your inheritance, I’m loath to give you any unfair advantages. I’m sure you’re already aware that my notes self-destructed before you were born. Nevertheless, I’ve prepared a surprise for you. Return to Winters House, if it has not yet been razed by one of my many enemies, and look behind the portrait of your great-grandfather, Aloysius.”

I know the painting he’s referring to, but before I can go see what he’s talking about, the recording continues.

“I prefer to be defined by my actions, not by my words,” he says with grandiosity. I can picture him spreading his arms wide as he said it, encompassing the breadth of his domain. “As such, I won’t belabor this message any further, save to say one thing. I may be dead and gone, but the name Winters will live on in infamy for millennia to come.”

When the recording is finished, I take a seat, resting my chin on my hand. Of all the things to recover from Father’s body, I wasn’t expecting the closest thing he left to a will. It’s not like anything in there was particularly earth-shattering, but it does feel final in a certain sense. On the other hand, it opened up a few more areas of investigation, including one right here in my home. But before I can investigate that, I have one more thing to attend to. I take the corpse off of the surgical table, and wheel it over to the far wall of the lab’s medical facility. Opening up one of the cabinets, I place Father’s body inside, and turn on the refrigeration. The miniature morgue doesn’t see much use, but it is useful to have available for the occasional instance where I need to store a body. Once I’ve determined that there’s nothing more I can learn from the corpse, I’ll lay it to rest in the crypt properly.

Once I’ve washed my hands, I gather all of the equipment I took off of the body and stick it in a secure locker. The inventory is far from complete, but I’ll return to it another time. Whatever is hiding behind my ancestor’s portrait is far more interesting.

On my way up the stairs, I wonder for the first time since I got back from the interrogation where Ishtar is. Accessing the house’s security system confirms that I’m the only person present at the moment, so she isn’t here. Maybe she went back to Abyss, or just picked a destination at random. We’ve got translocation hubs all over the world, so it wouldn’t be hard to find a good spot for some self-reflection. Hopefully she hasn’t spoiled our plans for a Venice trip by heading there without me.

The question that perplexes me as I make my way through the halls of Winters House, towards the portrait in question, is what possessed Father to choose my great-grandfather in particular. Aloysius Winters was the black sheep of the family in his day, ever in the shadow of his older brother Ichabod. The younger sibling traveled the world, squandering his inheritance while Ichabod strove to grow the family fortune. Eventually, Aloysius disappeared on an expedition to Africa, with no known descendants. That is, until many years later, when it came out that Ichabod’s wife had conducted an affair with Aloysius prior to his disappearance, and that Ichabod’s children had actually been begat by the younger brother. Consumed with his own financial failings, as much of the family fortune was lost in the Depression around the same time, Ichabod killed his wife and himself, leaving Father’s mother, my grandmother, with next to nothing. She was forced to marry a new-money aristocrat who hoped to ingratiate himself with high society by association with the prestige of the Winters family name, which he even went so far to exchange his own for.

If there’s some hidden message in Father’s choice of portraits behind which to hide my inheritance, I don’t have it figured out by the time I get there. The location of this particular portrait stuck out in my mind, because Aloysius looks rather different from the rest of the family whose portraits he resides beside. He had striking, fiery red hair, a recessive trait which he seems to have completely failed to pass down to any of his descendants, bastard or otherwise. And compared to the haughty, cold sneers of Ichabod to his left and Josephine to his right, he’s got a devil-may-care grin that manages to exude raw charisma even through an artistic likeness. Taking care not to damage the painting, I lift the frame and place it down, leaning against the opposite wall. This reveals a small metal safe, with no visible lock, just a hand scanner. I pull off a glove and place my palm to it, feeling a slight warmth as the device scans my DNA to verify my identity. A moment after I pull away, the safe swings open.

Inside rests a jewel, roughly the size of a pigeon egg, with an eye-catching dark blue hue. The precise cut sparks a memory, but my brain refuses to make the connection initially. Then I hear Father’s voice again, this time from a speaker hidden in the back of the safe.

“Conrad, this is the Hope diamond. One of the most famous, recognizable precious gems on the planet. And yet, utterly worthless. Why? Simple. After I stole the genuine article, I replaced it with a synthesized copy that’s completely indistinguishable from this one. No hidden imperfections whatsoever. If you held both up in front of you, or examined them with a jeweler’s loupe, it would be impossible to tell which one was ‘real’ and which was fake. And if you tried to sell this one, nobody would buy it. They’d assume this was the fake, and the one in the museum real.”

As the recording continues, I reach into the safe and pick up the diamond. A casual examination gives no indication whether it’s real or not, but I suppose that’s exactly the point Father was trying to make.

“Stealing the diamond was extraordinarily difficult, of course. But ultimately, the act was insignificant. Nobody but you knows that it even happened, and if you told them, not a soul would believe you. It’s not the challenge of a heist, or the value of what you’re stealing, that matters. If you execute the theft perfectly, and leave no trace behind, not even the absence of whatever it is you’ve stolen, the act may as well not have happened. What matters is that you’re remembered. A successful heist that nobody knows took place is meaningless. A failed heist that they’ll tell stories about for the next century is far more worthwhile. If I’ve done things right, they’ll still remember me long after I’m gone. Make sure you can say the same thing.”